Claymore, Miria/Galatea, ...you can keep the habit on
There were bound to be problems from the start. After seven years in the north, Miria and Tabitha were about as socialized as wild animals, and Galatea had to rein them in every once in a while. Tabitha didn't seem to mind so much, because Galatea was training her, but Miria--Miria, in her nun disguise, claymore in her cell, pretending to be devout--Miria had problems. She could project an aura of purpose and calm good enough to fool everyone else, but not Galatea--Galatea could hear her grinding her teeth, could sense how tense she was. Perhaps in the North Miria could have drowned her obsessive-compulsive need for vengeance in training, but now, back in the world, it was real.
That simply would not do. Galatea didn't need a breakdown on her hands. She already had Clarice and Miata to deal with, and the two of them were fucked-up (which was an inelegant way to put it, but was the most accurate way as well) enough for twenty Claymores.
So Galatea knocked on Miria's door at five in the morning and without waiting for an answer, she walked in, pulled the covers off, and said, "Let's go."
Miria had not been sleeping, and was embracing her sword in bed. In one sinuous movement she rolled over onto her back and pressed the tip to Galatea's throat.
"We're going to fight."
Miria lowered the sword and got out of bed. She was wearing her uniform from the north, and as she led the way out of the room, Galatea could not help but admire the back view. They slipped by the young monks who were up early sweeping the courtyard, slipped by the guards, and got outside the city.
She sensed Tabitha behind them at a respectful distance, and ignored her.
Ten long minutes later, Miria had her sword at Galatea's throat and both of them were breathing hard. Galatea's left arm was aching and she had not felt so glorious in seven years, and they wanted to tear each other's throats out and, yes, they were worthy opponents.
That's the adrenaline talking, something sensible in the back of her mind said (and Galatea prided herself on her common sense as much as she prided herself on her beauty), but Miria was thinking the exact same thing. Galatea didn't have time to make sure that assumption was backed up by Miria's youki before the other Claymore threw her sword down and took Galatea's mouth in a hot, hungry kiss, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd done anything like this.
Galatea started to pull up her habit--the one that she had started to think of as her combat habit, ripped to the thigh--and Miria's lips slid across her cheek to her earlobe and she whispered, "Keep it on."