Chapter Text
"Right here is good," each word if not each syllable was broken up by a hot, breathy pant. Desperation seeped out of her pores. Her sunscreen burned from where it dripped as a collective mess gathered in her pink brows. She squeezed her eyes together tightly which only exacerbated the sting. Sakura inhaled a sharp breath through her teeth as she lowered herself onto a patch of grass that seemed large enough to accommodate her needs. Salvation. It was not as lush as those around it which meant less chance of a creepy-crawly biting at her legs while she lay between her flannel sheets, scratching the sleepless night way. The rains had done a number to Yuma's public parks. Her palms met the ground first and the rest of her frame was quick to follow. She stared up at the gray sky, flat on her back, marveling just how close it seemed.
The clouds look close enough to touch…that one looks like whipped cream.
A grumble of anger was a loud reminder that the organ was very much neglected because she was one of those people who could only run on an empty stomach—or close enough to it that food did not want to travel up her esophagus and escape out of her mouth to splatter on the asphalt.
Today seems like a ramen kind of day. Maybe I can get dango after. It's been forever since I had hanami. Oh but mitarashi….
She had options.
It wouldn't be so bad to have a marginally lighter wallet and a heavy belly.
Baby-blue entered her field of view. "The least you could do is not act like a dog if you're gonna pant like one. Have some shame," Ino scowled down at her as she rocked back and forth with her hands on her hips. Pale fingers sat on periwinkle-colored lycra that came all the way to her belly button just giving a preview of her toned abs. She arched backward with her hands crossed over her back, groaning softly right after a quiet popping sound. Her white unzipped windbreaker crinkled when a gust slapped against it.
"Exaggeration," Sakura grumbled without much effort because her priority was to catch her breath which was determined to remain sovereign.
Everything feels so heavy.
The lactic acid was making itself known to her. The high never lasted long enough and the sourness never seemed to completely go away.
One day bleeds into the next, the monotony of it all. Muscle mass so hard to build and maintain slips away like particles of air in a clenched fist…too many syllables.
Way too many.
"Forehead," Ino kicked the sole of her shoe before she leaned forward with her hands on her knees. The ends of her platinum ponytail brushed against Sakura's gray-athletic-wear-covered shoulder. Ino donned an expression of urgency, none more so than what was contained in her narrowed eyes. "Seriously, get up. The creep on the scooter is back again," Ino said through barely moving lips. She glanced over her shoulder quickly with clear unease.
With a groan, Sakura pushed into a situp. Her hood came up with her, obscuring her vision not nearly enough. She circled her wrist with her hand, resting her arms on her bent knees. Lazily, she scanned the surroundings until she found the said creep on an electric scooter blinking back slowly at her. Every time Ino glanced over at him, he awarded her with the biggest leery smile that either of them had the displeasure of receiving—completely and utterly shameless.
That creep in a black skull cap and a black hoodie under his acid-wash jean jacket, I know him. He's harmless…if you don't count fuel for night terrors.
Sasori drew the short straw of being the detail today but judging from how much fun he was having maybe he did not see it that way.
He didn't have to get out of the car. He's acting like a kid on Christmas morning.
Sakura held out her arms. The dark square on her wrist came to life, showing all kinds of metrics including her still elevated heart rate.
"Help me up," Sakura commanded, wiggling her fingers to highlight their emptiness.
Ino moved to do so but not without an exaggerated sigh that let it be known, she found the whole thing to be one major inconvenience. Sakura grunted when all her weight was back on her feet, she slid one of her hands down to Ino's wrist to press her fingers against the blonde's pulse.
Nothing. Not even a deviation.
She leaned forward until she was looking right over Ino's shoulder. They stood ear to ear. Sakura turned her head.
"What is it, Sakura?" Ino asked in a whisper with skepticism bleeding into the question.
"If you're a cyborg or an alien from another planet, like Goku, you can tell me," Sakura whispered in just as low tones with believable levels of seriousness. There was not a drop of sweat on the blonde. No frizz in her hair. They finished three complete miles. It was simply inhuman. "I'll take it to the grave," she flattened her palm over her chest.
"God, you're such a freak," Ino shoved her away and freed her wrist to tug at the ends of the gray drawstrings, narrowing Sakura's worldview.
"Mean," the pinkette huffed, working to undo what the blonde harpy had done to her.
"The cross-fit classes have my cardio at unreal levels," Ino did not miss a beat. There was no guilt within her person. "You're more than welcome to join me," she extended the invite breezily.
"Our friendship would not survive that much 1-on-1 time," Sakura bent down to pick up her water bottle that she had thrown on the grass with zero regard. She drank greedily, not careful enough to avoid a trail down her chin to her jugular notch which was immediately soaked up by the warm fleece. She sighed in satisfaction, feeling decidedly more human and less like someone on their way to becoming a corpse. "Want some?" She held out the metal bottle, shaking it to make the offer more enticing. The ice rattled.
Ease the burden of having to carry it back to the hospital for me.
"You know drinking cold water cuts into the post-run caloric burn boost," Ino batted her hand away. She clicked her tongue with plentiful annoyance, turning back around to glare at Sasori with every intention of causing him to spontaneously combust through the determination of her disdain alone. "I hope you choke on that thing!" She shouted with a petulant challenge in her narrowed-into-slits eyes. He wiggled his fingers, his grin grew feral to reveal a bright purple tongue courtesy of the lollipop in his hand. "What the hell is his deal?" Ino huffed, muttering under her breath. She pulled the bottom of her sports bra down trying to no avail to get it to connect with the top of her matching leggings.
You don't want to know, trust me.
"Don't interact with the local wildlife, Pig," Sakura tutted with thick admonishment. She shook her head, her braid moved with her. "It's disruptive."
"I'll show him disruptive alright," Ino shook her wrist, loosening it before she did the same to Sasori's teeth.
"He's probably just memorized by your beauty," the pinkette hummed absentmindedly, interlinking her arm with Ino's, catching her off guard. "This morning's gorgeous sunrise paled in comparison."
"Go on," Ino's mouth pulled into a smile. She fell in step with Sakura easily. Sneakers displaced more and more of the concrete behind them.
"Like you of all people need an even bigger ego?" Sakura asked rhetorically with a snort. She rolled her green eyes for good measure. "No one will put up with you…no one else, I mean," Sakura laughed freely as she watched her breath dissipate into the chilly air.
Turns out there is something as too much confidence.
"Funny and here I was thinking just what did I do to get stuck with you." Ino leaned backward with both her hands on the small of her back. Her discomfort prevented her words from really carrying any weight that lingered.
"Your back is still bothering you?" Sakura asked. Without thought, she rolled the cold water bottle along Ino's spine trying to correct the places left impacted by overcompensating for something else. "The before-bed yoga didn't make a difference?"
Are you even doing it right? You know it's not a competition…right?
"Not really," Ino frowned. "I'm actually thinking of doing it," she let out a frustrated sigh. "Breast reduction surgery."
"Are you sure your choice in footwear has nothing to do with it?" Sakura inquired, giving her friend a side-long glance as she adjusted her hood. It blocked her peripherals but it was fine, she could still feel Sasori's eyes boring holes in the back of her skull. The sidewalk was wide enough to accommodate the two women walking side-by-side without disturbing anyone else. The park was nearly empty anyway. The hospital was a few blocks away. The deciduous trees had shed their leaves. The pine needles brushed to the side of the path were burnt orange underfoot.
"Forehead you can choose to be an ally both to me and to fashion," Ino flicked Sakura's forehead just because she could. In a display of maturity, Ino forwent pulling Sakura's hood to cover her eyes. Or maybe Ino was just looking out for herself because knowing Sakura, she would have tripped and taken the blonde down with her. She was vindictive like that.
"Well," Sakura paused to sigh because this morning's sunset had filled her with tranquility so she leaned in, "it would give you a justifiable excuse to buy a whole new wardrobe."
I've had my eyes on that rainbow sequin wrap dress hanging in that wardrobe but that's completely unrelated of course.
"No, I'm only doing that when I get on Konan's list. Slowly. One piece at a time," Ino carried as if it were a done deal. "It's gonna happen, Forehead."
"I believe you Pig," Sakura smiled. She squeezed Ino's arm. Their feet came to a stop at a crosswalk. They waited for the light.
"I wouldn't have to wear two sports bras," Ino sighed as she stretched her arm behind her head. She nodded in thanks when Sakura wordlessly extended her dangling water bottle from her fingers. Ino pressured the bottom metal against the small of her back and let out a sharp hiss of relief.
"But think of the mini-post-workout workout that you'd be missing out on," Sakura, the optimist, pointed out helpfully.
"I could finally understand what those hacks out in Mizu are going on about."
"Tell me you're jealous without telling me you're jealous," Sakura antagonized playfully, moving her eyebrows up and down.
"And I'm the one with a big ego? Right," sarcasm dripped off of every word.
"You said it, not me," Sakura's smile was mischievous. "We can get you some patches from the pharmacy, Granny."
"I would rather die," Ino spat, shoving the water bottle—a weapon for all intents and purposes given the way Ino was handling it—into Sakura's chest.
Ow…so she's mad.
"Easy," Sakura's tone was meant to disarm, not to escalate things further. "Maybe not put the thought of your untimely demise into the universe, huh Pig?"
"You're so ridiculous with your old-fashioned superstitions," Ino rolled her eyes heavenward as if to ask "This is what you gave me to work with?"
"So I shouldn't tell you about my wara ningyo named 'Little Piggy'?" Sakura asked, grinning like a cat who finally caught the damn canary. "She has the most beautiful straw hair."
"Stop that!" Ino slapped her hand away before it could arrive at its intended destination: Ino's head so that Sakura could pat it patronizingly. "And before you ask, yes, I made a pros and cons list. I'm becoming as neurotic as you the more time we spend together," Ino operated as if Sakura's words were nothing more than ambient air: just there—not good or bad.
"So you're probably not going to go with Dr. C?" Sakura asked because it showed interest and she wanted to know.
Might make things weird with Amaya and just in general to be honest.
"No way," Ino shook her head. Her answer would remain the same even if Amaya was not scheduled to go on a blind date with him on Tuesday evening. "Probably not even in Konoha. There's a private hospital out in Kiri that has the most gorgeous, breathtaking views. It's basically a resort. I wouldn't have to lift a finger. They'd even cut up my food for me if I asked."
"So you won't even need me?" Sakura pouted but her sparkling eyes spoke to a very different truth.
"Someone has to listen to me complain," Ino grinned as she pulled her into the street. They crossed the crosswalk. "And lug around my luggage."
Get to lug your luggage, you mean, Queen Ino?
"Don't forget fanning you by the pool while you sip mai-tais," Sakura tacked on dryly. "Kiri's always hot right? I forget how the weather near the equator works."
"Sakura, I'll be on antibiotics!" Ino's mock outrage caused Sakura to giggle.
"Like that's stopped you before," the pinkette reminded her not so subtly. She lost track of Sasori which she supposed was just as well. No doubt he was clomping behind them in his chunky, buckled, leather boots. "They don't give you the good stuff at this resort?"
Ino's smirk was sly. "We'll see…they have so many amenities." She fiddled with the delicate gold necklace around her neck, her gaze was far away from the gray-gray-gray that was Konoha this morning.
She's more nervous than she's letting on. It's a good thing, it means she's still undecided.
"Just tell me the time and place. I'll be there," Sakura was quick to provide her assurances as often as needed. "This might actually really be great for me. It levels the playing field, that's for sure." Sakura tapped her chin deep in thought with her eyes focused on the objects behind this line of conversation. "If you end up missing the heft, I have the perfect bra you can borrow. It's magic."
Magic how they allow the sale of a bonafide torture device in places that claim to be legitimate businesses.
"I hate you," Ino glared at her. "What happened to it's what's on the inside that counts?" She asked, throwing Sakura words uttered many a time over the years right back in her face with compound venom.
"Maybe," Sakura shrugged in accompaniment to her noncommittal tone. "I'll guess you'll see if that's truly the case, up close and personal." Sakura snapped her fingers, her eyes were bright with epiphany. "This could be the perfect topic for securing a grant for your study! It's so you."
"Sakura!" Ino glowered at her. "Can you just be supportive for once in your life?" She demanded, pointedly, before focusing her attention to glare at the ground. She even kicked a rock away with her white running shoe. Pitiful.
Time to reel her back in.
"I am, Pig," Sakura smiled at her, squeezing her hand with her sweaty fingers. "I support you," she said with an earnestness that she held in her bones. "What's the name of this place?" Sakura suddenly remembered that she did not ask perhaps the most important question.
I need to do my own research before I let you run off and you end up missing a kidney and part of your liver.
"I'll send it to you later when you have time to obsess over it," Ino was smiling, she even looked a little relieved if Sakura had to place the softened set of her features. "You'll really be the last and first friendly face I see when I wake up?"
"Bare-faced, clear-eyed, and completely overbearing," Sakura promised in a fierce whisper because Ino would want to be the prettiest one in the room loopy from anesthesia, hospital gown, bed-head, and all. Sakura's lips fell into a stern frown. "But, Ino, promise me you'll try the shoe thing before going under the knife? You don't have to go cold turkey all at once. Just cut back a couple of inches."
Surgery is still surgery.
Ino feigned deep contemplation, the bruising her pride took not at the forefront of her mind. "Are you worried I'm going to become addicted to it? And become one of those people who spend thousands and thousands of dollars to either look like a doll or a celebrity?" She hollowed out her cheeks, pulling her lips forward in moving them not all that differently than a fish, exaggerating the sharpness of her cheekbones.
"Not a chance, you're too self-absorbed for that," Sakura laughed. "And your self-control is unmatched."
You gave up sugar for six months just to spite me…so I wouldn't have anyone to go to the dessert buffet with, all because I had a lapse in judgment and commented that you looked tired after a double shift.
She did not even mean anything by it other than concern for Ino's well-being.
"Just what I needed to hear from my best friend," Ino kissed her teeth more than a little moodily.
"We could do a two-for-one, I'll donate everything they take out to someone in need," Ino eyed her top to bottom with trace amounts of kindness in juxtaposition to the generosity of her offer. Haughty.
"Who's the universal donor amongst us? Oh yeah, that would be me," Sakura pointed to herself, quite proud despite having no control over the fact. Maybe her blood was good for something after all. "So you can keep your tissue, fatty and otherwise, to yourself, thank you very much."
You just wait until I have kids, Pig. Mom said she went up a cup size with each pregnancy…three kids should put me in contention.
Totally doable if she put logic and semblance of reason behind her for just a second so she could focus with a clear head on what was of the utmost priority: besting Ino.
Forever and always. Getting her to rethink this comes second. I'll get to it.
"And besides if we're both taped up like mummies who would fan you poolside and lug our luggage?" She asked instead because she dared not jinx herself, even if it was as long of a shot as the question was rhetorical.
"Oh," Ino waved her hand without a care. "We'd find someone. Don't you worry about that," she tossed her hair over her shoulders. "My face will still be perfection," she declared, matter-of-fact.
That's my girl.
"You're the most beautiful person I've ever seen," Sakura smiled softly at her with fondness suspended in matching jade mirrors, cutting through Ino's armor-like bravado.
Inside and out, Ino.
"You'll turn heads everywhere we go. No matter what."
That won't change, Ino. Being as loud as you certainly helps in that regard.
"Forehead, I should make you run every morning, you're spilling your guts left and right," Ino joked but the way her face lit up was genuine.
I've had practice lately.
Sakura tugged at the hem of her pink running shorts. "Therapy is going well. I think. It's early. It's only been two sessions if you don't count the first meet and greet. But I was able to talk a little bit about Kizashi without either being a ball of rage or a sobbing, hysterical mess."
You know baby steps.
"That's big." So much so that Ino stopped walking and half-turned to face Sakura with her undivided attention. "I'm proud of you, Sakura," Ino's voice was gentle, just as the warmth behind her eyes. Light.
"Such a weird thing to say," she scratched at her neck, not feeling brave enough to hold Ino's gaze. It was too tender and kind and it was simply too early in the morning and she had not even eaten anything.
"Regardless, I am."
"Thanks, Ino," Sakura patted her on the back, leaning into the sudden hug. "You smell nice."
"You're sweaty," Ino scrunched her nose. She moved her feet. She brought Sakura along with her. "It's about damn time that you stop letting that man hold your future hostage. Taking your power back!"
"You're right, Ino," she found herself saying just to fill the silence.
I just want to be happy.
"And that Sakura," Ino spoke slowly so there were no excuses for something being missed, "is how you be supportive."
"You don't say," Sakura rolled her eyes. "I'm learning so much."
That was the intention, that was the goal: to learn how to be.
Stuck with back and in,
Missing all nows, tomorrows—
Free from yesterday.
Maybe if she learned to let go of her anger for the one, she could completely do for the other: let go.
If he had doubts before—and lately he was plagued by them—they were all but cleared away at the crushed beer cans sterned about. It was damp. It smelled of water and piss—sometimes the stench of stale, cheap alcohol cut the cologne of the earth. A cave for all intents and purposes but with a touch of modernity. His black loafers were coated with mud along with something he refused to spend too much time identifying. They were ruined, he was sure but in the end, it was a bargain.
Minato moved down the stone steps. The thin line of square light connected by an even thinner wire gave him just enough to work with. His hands were still caked with the dirt of the rusty, cast-iron grate he had lifted. It had been hidden away under the mess of leaves. But the crude map—the indirect result of his winnings from the poker game—that had been drawn had not been so far off that it was a struggle to locate it. He searched—all without breaking his stride—for wires that were unaccounted for. Cameras, sensors, speakers, mics, he searched for it all.
Just because it's old doesn't mean the traps can't be triggered. Actually, they might be more unstable if anything.
His feet came to a complete stop at a door. Metal. Reinforced. Soundproof. He did not need to pull his phone from his pocket to know that there was no signal. The jammers were working hard to ensure that. It was a dead site. A bunker that was designed and used during the warring period—back when the Clans were vying for power. It had not been in use for over forty years. Jiraiya told stories of places like this. Places that he only knew through rumors from his old drinking buddies. The old heads still pulled their weight. They came through for him. Minato doubted that even Shikaku knew about its existence down to the exact location. The Clans left them behind right around the time the police let them operate unbothered to an extent.
The unwritten rule was it could not be too flashy—too out in the open. The corruption had to be hideable behind the thick doors of city hall, the governor's office, all the way up to the president. It was all still there just easier for the general population—civilians—to stomach. He struck his fist to the metal. Once. Solid.
"Inuzuka," Minato said loudly over the echoes and the creaking left behind, the barrier was very much still an obstacle. "It's Namikaze," he added for clarity just in case the man had forgotten the sound of his voice in the nearly two months he had been hiding away. "Inuzuka." Minato pounded the door three more times. One right after the other.
He waited. His patience had been sucked dry in the days that led up to this. He brought his hand to the handle of the door. He pulled without expectation. His brows furrowed when it and the door moved with him. He waited a beat to give himself time to at the very least register the thoughts that sped by in his head faster than a bullet train. All of them seemed to be connected by one sentiment: sloppy.
A collection of contradictions in the form of a man.
Confounding.
He slipped through the door, very much aware that it closed behind him; hinges creaked and groaned. The stuffiness in the room was on another level from what he had the displeasure of smelling before. It was downright uninhabitable.
Should have dabbed some menthol under my nose when I had the chance.
The oldest trick in the book for cops and CSI. His eyes were not watering so that was something. It meant a bloated corpse would not be what he stumbled on. What exactly was there to greet him, he had yet to classify. The light was so dim that even his eyes, which had grown accustomed to less-than-ample glow, had a hard time adjusting. He moved his hand along the wall blindly. Finding the light switch.
The exposed light bulbs flickered on for a moment before pulsing. Light flooded just in time for him to make sense of what he was seeing. Minato's eyes widened a fraction before they narrowed. He ducked down, making himself smaller all the while protecting what was absolutely vital: brain, lungs, heart. The bullet sped by where his head was, lodging itself in the door behind him with a vibrating force that more than threatened to shatter his eardrum.
Boom. Boom. Boom. His heart smacked against his ribcage, the very thing that protected it, in an aggressive response. He fought every instinct. He pushed away every flashback of memories until they were nothing more than a faint buzz, blurring what was from what is.
Move!
His shoulder rose to his ear. He complied with the command resounding in his head. Echoing. The next bullet was fired with more clumsiness than the first. It shot right into the ground. Boom. The dirt rose. Dust unsettled and floated up. He breathed it in. The air filled his whole lungs, clean. The third bullet shot into the ceiling, hitting a light fixture as its ultimate target. Boomboom. The fourth did not get a chance to fire off.
Stay down.
Blue stripped of nearly all color in frigid lividness narrowed in clear communication that compliance was the only path forward. He breathed in once more, willing the next breath that came in to be less choppy than the one that went out. A dance of duality. The adrenaline that was coursing in him—the very thing that kept him alive was no longer welcome as it served its purpose—was being pulled back, centimeter by centimeter of vein. With each blink, more control returned—more of himself came back.
The threat was neutralized.
Minato stood over the man with untamed, matted brown hair. He was on his ass. A hand—with dirt caked under his overgrown nails—curled over his nose. There was water in his eyes. Brown irises stared up at him with fear peeking through the stubborn pride. Rivulets of crimson pushed through the gaps of his fingers. Minato did not flex his throbbing hand. Instead, he released the magazine from the gun that had been pointed right at him not too long ago. It fell to the ground with a hapless thump. He pulled back the slide. The bullet that was in the chamber clicked to the ground. The copper shone like the smallest unit of currency against the dirt. A hundredth of a ryo. Minato stepped over it with the same level of insignificance. He crouched down so that he was closer to being at eye-level with the man. The man flinched but he did not cower.
"Can you talk?" Minato asked calmly, without so much as blinking.
A shaky breath was his answer. Slowly, painfully slowly, the hand covering the nose lowered but not by much. It hovered in the air ready to resume its position if the stinging turned overwhelming. Even the ambient air—stale and stagnant—brought pain. He tested out the state of this. He lowered his arm to the ground, palms flat and elbows extended behind him. He nodded his head. The motion was curt. His jaw was set in defiance.
"Good," Minato dusted off his hands slowly, paying special attention to the webbing between his fingers. He pulled the ends of his sleeves to straighten them. "I have some questions to ask you. You will answer them. Truthfully. Do you understand, Inuzuka?"
Kiba's fingers strained against the earth, dirtying themselves even further. His black pants and shirt were brown with dust. Ragged. The man looked even more harried than today, Minato did not think that was possible. This was rock bottom.
"Do you understand, Inuzuka?" Minato repeated the question with a touch more sharpness born from urgency. This was his one and only allocation of grace.
Kiba nodded his head. Blood continued to seep from his nostrils, dripping down his chin. His nose was out of place—off to the left somewhere.
"Get those damn things off your face," Minato half commanded, half criticized with annoyance. The promise of doing it for him was left unsaid.
Kiba sat upright. He brought a hand to the night-vision goggles covering his eyes. He pushed them up his head. He was glaring at Minato. His eyes were rimmed red and still filled with tears he was too stubborn to shed completely so they lingered.
"Why did you shoot me?" Minato asked with the same level of calm as his initial question. He readjusted the cufflink on his right wrist. It had been jostled slightly when he threw his punch. If he did not get ice on his knuckles soon, they would start to swell.
"Are you shitting me right now?" Kiba hissed out in half pain and half exasperation. His voice was beyond recognition. It took effort to translate what he was trying to say from what he actually said on account of the heavy slurring. The man gestured to himself vaguely. Minato's narrowed eyes had Kiba lowering his gaze. "I thought you came to kill me," he mumbled under his breath, almost embarrassed.
"What?" Minato could not make sense of either his words or his lips. "Speak up, Inuzuka." He never thought he would have to say those words. Today was full of a lot of firsts.
"It hurts," Kiba complained gruffly.
In a moment of weakness, Minato rose to his feet. His body was already in motion so he did not dwell too much on it. His brain was preoccupied with other potentially just as futile endeavors. Minato found himself walking to the white fridge in the corner of the room. He ignored the takeout containers, the abandoned crusts of pizzas left on the coffee table, and the cushions of the beat-up navy couch that was lumpy and probably bug-infested. His search came to an end. He touched the bare minimum he could get away with. He pulled the cold aluminum from the top shelf and walked it over to Kiba who was still on the ground.
"Don't drink. Use it as an ice pack," Minato advised as he held out the can of beer. His fingers were being chilled even more quickly than the underground air. The distrust was palpable behind Kiba's dark eyes. "It will help."
Kiba scoffed but the grunt that left him spoke to why that was a bad idea. He snatched the can, reclaiming ownership of what his to begin with. A hiss of relief when the cold pressed against the fire of a thousand sharp needles. His brown eyes moved up the impassive face of the lieutenant. He was waiting. The idea of lying—blaming it all on defunct goggles—did not even cross his mind.
"I messed up," Kiba swallowed audibly.
"More than once, according to my math," Minato crossed his arms, not at all amused that he was starting to get used to hearing that. He stood far enough away that Kiba did not have to tilt his head too far back. The man did not need neck strain added to his injury report.
Kiba turned his head—can still affixed to his face—and spat on the ground. It was mostly blood. By the time he was facing Minato again, he was glaring.
"I would have run through a brick wall for you if you asked me to."
Probably without thinking twice too.
Minato knew that was more than just empty words. Kiba believed them and so did he. Minato did not dwell on the choice of tense. "So help me understand how we got here," he focused instead. Forward. They needed to move forward and that could only happen by peeling back what happened.
Kiba clenched his jaw. He eyed the man from head to toe. "Look," he said slowly. "The way I see it is I'm cooked either way." He sighed deeply in the resignation of his fate. "So I might as well go on my terms." He held out a hand. Without hesitation, Minato pulled him to his feet. Kiba dipped his head in silent thanks. "Did you bring any food?" He asked; voice lacking color.
Minato raised a brow.
"Last meal?" Kiba smiled crookedly. Blood stained his teeth pink.
xXx
"Stop moving," Minato said with sternness as he smoothed a white bandage over the bridge of Kiba's crooked nose.
"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" Kiba batted at his hand. He was practically being digested by the couch. His knees were almost parallel to his ribs. "Why are you sitting on the coffee table anyway? There's plenty of room."
And bedbugs.
"It's under control." Minato untwisted the cap of the white pill bottle he had fished out of the white plastic bag he kept in the glove department of his car. A makeshift first-aid kit that Tsunade drilled into him to keep handy at all times—ever since the day he learned how to drive.
Never thought I would actually end up using it.
With a quick glance at the best-by date, Minato shook two capsules into the inside of the red cap.
Expired two months ago. Should be fine. Still strong enough to take the edge off.
He deposited them into Kiba's awaiting palm which had been cleaned with sanitizing wipes. The faint distinctive smell of sterile alcohol remained in the air like wisps of clear smoke. Minato handed him a water bottle next. Kiba stuck out his tongue to show him he had eaten them, to which Minato rolled his eyes.
"I was promised steak."
"You can barely pronounce steak right now." Minato leaned forward with the weight of his arms resting across his thighs. "Your sister will be more than happy to treat you to a steak dinner."
Try to be more grateful to her. You put her through hell.
Kiba blanched—losing all color in his face at the mention of his sister. "You told her."
"You were unreachable," Minato pointed out without remorse. What was done was done. "You were in crisis. I thought you would go to her first." He was careful to use past tense. Kiba's ego was one of his greatest drawbacks and strengths. Minato had to walk the fine line of placating it just enough to keep the man cooperative.
"Shit," Kiba let out a sigh. He eyed the warmed can of beer with longing. "You sure I can't drink?"
If I can't, you definitely shouldn't.
"Not until after Hana sees you." Minato ran a hand through his hair. "Are you ready to try this again?"
Kiba grabbed the top of the couch and pulled himself up—out of the bottomless pit. The arm supported his back. He stretched out his legs. "It was a setup," he uttered with complete seriousness.
Minato circled his wrist with a hand. He stared at the space between his shoes and the furniture; listening intently with his head slightly bowed. He eliminated most distractions.
"I showed up to the yard like Puppet Boy asked me to with the key to the cargo container. Right on time. I checked twice because when I got there, there wasn't the usual cat I'd seen you or him deal with. He was seedier. Different."
"Different how?" Minato raised his head to look Kiba in the eyes. A hand slipped into the inner pocket of his black suit jacket. He reached for his phone.
Kiba shrugged. "Different-different. More dangerous. Unhinged. He smelled like powder and booze. He threw the bag at my feet. It was open. I could tell right away it was half—if that—of what we agreed on. He told me to hand over the key."
"Half?" Minato's brow was furrowed. It was a concerted effort to keep his back teeth from crushing into each other. "Are you sure he didn't mean he would show you half now and the other half when you opened the container?"
Even that would be a deviation from the established pattern—from the routine.
"There was no transport."
No transport?
"It could have been parked outside the yard," Minato scrambled to explain; he was thinking out loud as his intuition and reasoning were failing him. He was at a loss, left grasping at what felt to be thin and bendable enough to be straws.
They should have known the designated spot. They should have been cleared to come in. We have a system, one that works.
"No," Kiba shook his head, adamant that as he recalled was exactly how it went. "He made it clear that was all we were getting from them and he implied that we were lucky to be getting that much at all. Like he was doing us a favor," Kiba gnashed his teeth together. "Scum."
That makes no sense.
It was a good deal. It was a done deal. It actually benefited the Uchiha Clan a little bit more than it did in the past. They had no reason to escalate things—to go behind the backs of both him and Itachi (the Uchiha he personally dealt with to outline the terms and conditions, just like the dozens of other negotiations he had done in the past decade) in an ill-fated attempt to gain a handful of ryo more. But as he searched the face—the very angry face—of Kiba Inuzuka, Minato came up short for reasons why he would lie just like he could not figure out why Hora had let Kiba handle such a thing on his own.
Not that Hora would have done anything differently.
Hell, even Minato might not have done anything differently in these circumstances. This level of disrespect being described by Kiba would not stand. It could not stand. He would have had to uproot it quickly. Violently. Efficiently. So it did not have a chance to fester and grow to corrupt any others to even think such a thing was allowed.
"It happened so fast I couldn't even call you or Puppet Boy. I barely got out of there with the skin of my teeth," he bared his canines to punctuate the claim.
"Who shot first?" Minato asked, voice curt.
"Me," Kiba lowered his eyes to his hand that was curled around the armrest. "They pinned me in. I had no choice. I thought they were going to kill me."
And make off with both the money and the container.
A container that rested on a yard controlled by the Naras. Just where they got the audacity to do what they wanted to accomplish was beyond him. But it was more than that. They waited for Kiba to fire the first shot. They waited for justification so that Fugaku did not cut them down where they prostrated with their heads bowed low, noses brushing the hard wooden floors, begging for a chance to explain why they returned empty-handed.
Why? Why wait if they went through all this trouble?
"Who was the gatekeeper that day?" Minato asked the question out loud to himself. He closed his eyes and visualized the book.
Hagane.
The face materialized in his mind after some time in tense silence. He was known for falling asleep on the job—more than once. Security was purposely light. It was the only way to get these deals done. The fewer people that knew the better, the easier it was to keep everything under wraps. Loose gums yapped.
A perfect storm of chaos.
Minato pinched the bridge of his nose. All these finally planned details had betrayed him in the worst ways possible.
"I thought you set me up," Kiba admitted with regret. He was disgusted with himself for questioning it—for even thinking about it much less committing to it. That was clear to Minato. "I panicked. I took my go bag and got the hell out. Without a plan or anything. But once the adrenaline and panic died down a little, I eventually remembered old man Jiraiya talking about these bunkers all over, every time he went on one of his long-winded tales after his third cup of sake. I hotwired the first car without GPS and the bells and whistles I came across and went looking. This kind of stuff always fascinated me. I had theories—some locations were shortlisted for potential bases. He—Hora—always gave me crap for it but one of my hunches was right. I burned my phone just like you taught me. I only came up for food. I remembered," he insisted. "I remembered everything." Miles and miles away from Yuma and the mess. He was barely even in Fire anymore.
"I believe you," Minato maintained eye contact even when the tension bled down Kiba's spine no longer cast in unforgiving rigidness. The blond turned his phone, facing it to the brunette. "Was this one of them?"
Kiba narrowed his eyes. His canines stood elongated against the rest of his teeth. He tapped the screen. Twice. "Yeah. That's the bastard. The leader."
Minato stared at the image on his phone. One Masanori Uchiha. The screen darkened to black. Minato saw his own face; one criminal to replace another. Minato rose to his feet. He was halfway to the door when Kiba's sputtering had him pausing. Minato turned to look over his shoulder at the hesitation. Assurance was needed. It was earned.
"Stay hidden. Nara—"
"Nephew?!" Kiba shot up to his feet, cutting Minato off. The swelling in his face was even more noticeable from this angle. "You're turning me in?! After all that! After everything?!"
Minato's sharp, curt gaze had Kiba quieting down just as quickly as he had rattled off. "I would sooner snap your neck," he informed matter of fact.
It would be the only merciful outcome.
"Sorry," Kiba dropped his head into a bow. Low and pronounced.
"Nara," Minato began again, not happy in the slightest to lose even more precious time. "Will bring you to your sister. You're gone, stay gone."
I'll handle Shikaku and Fugaku. I'll handle the rest.
Minato did not give Kiba a chance to lift his head much less formulate a response. The door closed with a resounding thud. The bullet expanded onto the otherside.
Deafening.
xXx
She moved from the balcony, lifting her fleece-lined forearms from the weathered wood that desperately needed sanding and a coat of finish, the wind was cold against her scalp. Once she had stepped back inside, a shiver ran down her frame at the change in temperature. The warmth made the cold that much more stark. Sakura pulled the handle of the sliding door until it met the frame.
"You there?" She asked into her phone, moving further and further into her room. The plush carpet was replaced by cool tile. Sakura turned on the shower, shaking her hand to dry before patting it against the fluff of her soft, ultra-plush bathrobe.
"I just...I'm kind of shocked but also not. I guess I'm processing," Ino said with a sigh, her voice as tentative as the words she spoke. "It's kind of sudden."
Sakura sat at the edge of her bathtub. Cold porcelain against warm skin. Smooth and rough. "Not really. I mean I have been toying with the idea for a while now. I got comfortable, I am comfortable, so I became complacent. But if I really want to do what I set out to do, I need the legitimacy."
I need more from my life—from my future.
"Sounds like you already made up your mind."
"Hm," Sakura's eyes wandered to her reflection in the mirror. Resilience blinked, holding pace with her.
"Book-worm Sakura," Ino laughed, light and with more than a hint of pride. "You think you can pull it off without me shaping you up this time?"
Sakura raised a brow. Her grin was betrayed in her voice when she spoke in response. "I distinctly remember being the one to make sure your ass got to class on time even on test days."
Especially on test days.
"I'm going to do it, Ino. My experience in the ER helps. It really does." Shizuen had said it herself, and committed to writing, that in her ten-plus years, she had yet to see someone with as clean sutures as Sakura or a more steady hand. "It will cut the overall time down. And the program itself is already accelerated. Things might be hectic and crazy for a while but I think it will be worth it. I think I can do it."
I will do it.
"Of course you can do it," Ino huffed with incredulity at how it could even be a question. It warmed Sakura's heart. "I don't go around making just anyone my rival." She sighed. "Surgeon Sakura, has a ring to it doesn't it?" The smile on her face was audible in the gentle lilt of her voice.
Sakura giggled, feeling lighter than she had in weeks, daring for the first time to have hope. "It does. It really does."
It's…this is not just a distraction. It's different.
It was a purpose. A purpose she needed to ground herself until she found herself again. She was her mother's daughter. She would be fine.
Be patient with yourself, Haruno. These things take time.
"Before you ask," Sakura bit down on the underside of her thumbnail. "Plastics aren't my thing. I'm a general surgery girl."
Even if for a fact I know no one would fight for you harder than me. The clinic needs this. The clinic needs me.
"As if you were ever even a consideration," Ino declared with an undignified snort; the likes of which she would forever deny came out of her. "I don't want you. I don't need you. The old lady heels have been helping."
"I'm right once every seven years," Sakura laughed with a touch of relief. Kitten heels, what Ino so affectionately dubbed as "old-lady heels" has been the compromise they reached—Sakura wore Ino down with her persistence and because the blond was not at one hundred percent, she caved.
"I'll keep an eye open for other signs of the apocalypse," Ino's deadpan filled Sakura's right ear.
"Look who's being the superstitious one now," Sakura teased lightly. She tilted her head and regarded the state of her nails; woefully jagged and uneven.
God, they need help. Professional help.
"Oh Forehead, you better not burn yourself out again. You can stay with me when classes get more demanding. Saving time on your commute will help ease the strain. We'll keep up with the running. You'll need the energy boost and the routine. When will you find out if you make the cut?"
"Three weeks after the deadline," Sakura peeled back at a hangnail not thinking she could make anything worse. "Applications are due in a little under a month. I have mine filled out on my desk. Shizune wrote me a recommendation letter. It's good. Really good." She made Sakura sound amazing all while insisting she wrote nothing but the truth which was a fact she was willing to attest to in court. Dr. Haruno had been a little choked up in the face of Shizune's resolve, in her belief in her. Sakura really lucked out when paired with a mentor during her residency. "All that's left is mailing it out. They still do paper applications, can you believe it?"
Where did I leave my nail file?
She could address one of the issues before she found time to entrust them to capable hands.
"We'll send it out together. And get tacos and tequila after. My treat."
"I would love that," she smiled, lowering her gaze because it did not reach the jade eyes that stared back at her. "Actually can we do sushi and sake instead?"
Less chance of being triggered with flashbacks brought on by association.
"You're going to get my money's worth?" Ino half-asked, half-accused in a bone-dry voice that left very little up to the imagination.
"You know me so well," Sakura shook her head softly in amusement. "I will have to cut back on work hours. Gotta start tightening the belt now," she was only half joking. How quickly money saved over years and years, was spent was more than a little alarming and completely unfair.
Bye-bye spa treatments, manicures, and pedicures, and going out.
"You're gonna get so many grays and wrinkles," Ino groaned with detectable levels of concern. "I need to revamp your skin-care routine before someone mistakes you for my aunt. Expect boxes at your door."
"Thanks, Pig." Sakura smiled into her phone. "You're kind of amazing, you know that?"
I might manage not to look like I belong in that school. I wonder if I will be the oldest in the classes.
Ino sighed with a little patience, some haughtiness, and completely open. "I know. Don't get a big head about it, Forehead. You're nothing special."
Sakura laughed, clamping down on her bottom lip with her top teeth to keep from sounding giddy. It made her more nervous than she thought—her palms were perspiring—to tell Ino her intentions. Ino was never one to say what she wanted to hear at the expense of what she needed to hear.
"You always say the sweetest things, Pig. If I don't get in the shower within the next three minutes I won't have enough time to shave, wash my hair, and moisturize before Mom calls, and as you extensively got into it, I need to squeeze every last drop out of my fading youth," she drawled with her heart not fully set in the complaint.
Speaking of youth, I wonder how Lee's doing. I should swing by his center.
She could even try out those protein bars she found a recipe for online.
"It's good to see you excited about something again, Forehead. Talk later. Bye!" Ino signed off with a loud smooching sound.
Sakura hummed in agreement. "It is good to be excited again." She walked over to the vanity, tapping on her phone. She set it down. Her music streaming app was open. A soulful voice filled the bathroom through the Bluetooth speaker, drowning out the sound of the water. She undid the belt of her white bathrobe, hanging it on a hook before she stepped under the warmed waters of the shower.
xXx
He picked up on the fourth ring—just when Minato was about to hang up to try his second number. The Namikaze had just reached the edge of cell service.
"Where the hell are you man?"
"What's wrong?" Minato asked, pulling onto the highway from the dirt road between a narrow split of trees, picking up instantly on the urgency in Sasori's question. Frantic, the man sounded as close to frantic as Minato ever heard him. Rattled. Rubber squealed as the car accelerated a little too quickly onto the asphalt, losing traction just long enough for it to add to the rapid climb of his heartbeat.
"You don't know?" Sasori, just short of shouting, spoke loudly into the phone. He was out of breath, cursing dark and low in what he believed to be just to himself.
"Are you with her?" Minato moved to the fast lane. He sped by a car. Then another. And another. Yet he was still without an answer. "Are you with Sakura?" His voice did not betray the way his knuckles had gone white around the wheel to the point that they coerced confessions from the dyed leather.
Answer me!
"Boss," Sasori paused and it was as if days were shaved off of Minato's life. His stomach had sunk to his toes. The speedometer jumped up by ten. The RPMs were moving toward the red. "There's a Level Zero alert that came in. I'm an hour out from Doc."
He blacked out for a second. He must have. Because he did not register anything—not even the open stretch of one-way road in front of him.
"Boss—"
Minato disconnected the call. With a hand on the wheel and the other holding his phone just at dash level, Minato punched in the numbers he could only responsibly commit to memory. His pulse was racing nearly as fast as the engine of his car thanks to his lead foot, he licked his lips when the dial tone ended.
"Who is this?"
"I need you to listen carefully. I don't have time to repeat myself," he spoke with as much control as he could into the phone at his ear. Slow and deliberate. He enunciated every syllable. Minato scanned the surroundings. Trees and trees and more trees. He could see the Hokage Monument—with the faces of an obsolete time thousands of years ago—just off in the distance calling to him; in taunt or concern, he did not have time with nuances. "I'll give you everything. Anything you want. I'll turn myself in. I'll cooperate." Minato would be Sasuke's smoking gun against the syndicate. And seal his fate to be forever branded with the mark of a traitor. "I need you to do just one thing in return." His eyes never stopped moving. Searching, searching, searching for some direction on where everything went so damn wrong. "Is Sakura's car at her apartment?"
There was silence on the other end. He pulled it away from his ear with building panic that the call had disconnected or that he simply hung up. Minato had been on the line long enough to be tracked. The numbers climbing up reflected that was not the case. Yet. He heard clicking. A keyboard. Loud but quick.
"Her plates were tagged in the system. The tracker went offline about a week ago."
Hatake!
Minato inwardly cursed. "Ping her phone!"
"Listen Namikaze, I am not your—"
"Uchiha!" Minato snapped, cutting him off with an outburst of uncontainable emotion. A spark that burned too hot, burned just as quickly. Cooling. "Ping her phone." He did not wait for confirmation. He read out the numbers. Twice. He read them out loud twice. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. He exhaled sharply at the sound of more keys being pressed down. He waited in limbo for much too long.
"She's at home."
"I'll be there. Bring backup that you trust." He disconnected the line, slamming the phone into the cupholder. He lowered his foot on the accelerator even more. The car lurched in a rough jolt before increasing in speed. With half a mind he prayed that between him and Sasuke one of them would make it in time, with the other, he prayed that despite what his gut was telling him he was overreacting.
Please.
xXx
She moved her hands in clockwise circles along her warm cheeks, spreading the moisturizer that smelled of grapefruit. She was trying something new. Refreshing. Her skin was soft and rejuvenated—gaining back the lost luster from a day of being at work—from her extended shower. Her hair was coiled in a white microfibre that sat high on her head. Sakura reached for a dry hand towel. With sweeping, large circles she wiped away the steam that clouded the mirror. She hummed along to the music playing out the speaker. There had been a minor blip in the song she was belting along to a few minutes ago. But it had corrected itself thankfully because her eyes had been closed and her hair in a lather. She occasionally sang the hook when it suited her wayward mood. With deft hands, she undid the temporary structure that contained her hair. Pink locks tumbled down her shoulders; darkening the faded burnt-orange pullover she wore everywhere they sat.
The blue hair dryer was the next thing she lifted from the counter. She turned it on. She began to dry her hair. The volume of the upbeat song increased to remain audible over the drier due to the noise adaption feature that she did not think she needed but was so glad she splurged for. Hiro had the best recommendation for these kinds of things. It was not the first time that Sakura mused if the boy had a VideoTube channel that was tech-inclined it would do quite well for itself. He had been so excited to unbox it that it brought a huge smile to her face and left it there for three whole days. Bamboo bristles moved through her hair in as uniform and even strokes as she could manage in her laziness. She gave extra care to the hair that framed her face and the ends of it for all that it mattered. The more work she puts in those areas now would translate to better cooperation tomorrow.
Thank God I didn't do bangs. The upkeep would have killed me.
Her phone let out a single high-pitched chime. She glanced at it, hair held between the brush and the dryer. It was from Ino.
Should I tell him yes or no to coffee? He's stable. And cute!
Bubbles appeared at the bottom left of the screen. Sakura could not help but think their constant movement was an accurate representation of Ino's state. Frantic with excitement. Another chime.
Did I mention that he's an oral surgeon? Perfect for you and the clinic.
"How perfect," she mused with disinterest, it was a reflex. Sakura pressed her lips together. Ever since Amaya texted Ino about seeing the back of Kakashi's head leaving not in the dead of the night, the blonde had been on her case about getting back on the horse. Sakura's questions of how she could get back on something she never ever got on to fall off, fell on deaf ears. Ino was an idea woman, she was not to be bogged down by semantics.
"Details, details," Ino had said dismissively as she tossed her hair over her shoulder. And that was when the barrage of random pictures of just as random guys started to flood her phone. It was all the nightmare of a dating app with the added horror of not being able to delete or even unsubscribe from the source of evil. Ino was motivated.
She'll get bored eventually.
That was the lie that Sakura told herself to keep the pit of dread from growing to the point that it consumed her.
Sorry. Focusing on only surgeon-related goals atm. Mine. Just mine. The program is very selective.
She typed back, barely glancing at the keyboard. She set the phone back down.
"She thinks she's helping," she told her reflection in the mirror. It was hardly Ino's fault—entirely—Sakura only gave her half the story and that was being generous in Sakura's favor. The phone chimed again. Sakura exhaled—not without agitation—through her nose, torn between being amused and exasperated.
I knew you would use that as an excuse! You can do both!
"Ino," Sakura said her name, committing to exasperation. She left the message on read. It would give Ino time to think about what she had done. Maybe.
He's fine…maybe even decent-looking. Symmetrical face, straight teeth, kind eyes…if you're into that kind of thing.
She was. She was very much into that thing but her gauge was broken; shattered by one such symmetrical face with straight teeth and kind eyes. It would take her a while to fix it. Besides, she knew the definition of insanity. She learned her lesson the hard way. Sakura slapped her cheeks hard enough to turn them pink.
"Stay strong, Haruno."
Self-sabotage is your go-to when you're overwhelmed.
She need not look further than her actions from a couple of months ago, she had a whole plethora of options to not talk to her therapist about. The upbeat song changed. The cadence slowed down. Sakura changed the song before the vocals could come in. A song about unrequited love. She did not need to feel those emotions right now. Not when she worked so hard to shove them anywhere but at the forefront of her mind. She did not care where they ended up—in what nook and dark cranny—as long as they stayed away. For good. She clicked the red button before she unplugged the dryer. Sakura gathered the loose hair from the brush, sink, on and around the discarded, used towels, and countertop. She rolled the strands into a small sphere and tossed it in the trash. She shoved her feet into the slippers at the edge of the sage-colored quick-dry bath mat. She turned the handle of her door.
Maybe I should order dim sum style tonight.
Dumplings sounded really good and the steam from her shower was leaving her inspired. The warmed air that was gathered in the bathroom met the noticeably less heated air of her bedroom. It dissipated without fuss and distinction. She furrowed her brow. Her head moved to the left. It was much too cold. A sliver of white—not yellow—light trickled in and split her face in half. Right down the middle. The thick curtains were parted. Caught on the handle of the slide door.
"Did I not close it properly?" Her face sank into a frown, she shook her head at her carelessness. She had half a functioning brain cell when multitasking when off-duty. "Honestly, Haruno. You'd lose your head if it wasn't attached to your shoulders."
I'm working too hard again. Falling back into my bad habits.
Her phone chimed from the bathroom in yet another reminder of what she had forgotten. She registered that in the back of her mind. Sakura pulled her sleeves past her hands. The depictions of visages of the Hokage Monument were just barely recognizable. Yuma had the best views down to every last crack. The ends of her fingertips brushed her mostly bare thighs. The soft cotton of her dark blue shorts with a bold vibrant flower pattern only covered so much.
"Or maybe I should just do ramen." She had a packet in her pantry still. She was not too tired to boil an egg or cut up some green onions. There were even black sesame seeds also in the pantry if she wanted to go the extra mile and wow herself. The wait time would be substantially less this way. Her stomach growled in what she took as agreement with the amended plan.
"I think I have a frozen packet of egg rolls too from forever ago."
Sakura raised an arm—her feet were still in movement—to smooth away the part. The white sensor plastic sensor did not draw in her eye to any part of it. The sharp, crisp white of the moon was gone. She followed the line of the curtain to the floor. It draped strangely. There was a lump. She lowered into a crouch. She felt the obstruction through the fabric. Solid. Rectangular.
What is this?
Her eyes widened when the answer came to her just as she finished the question.
The wedge!
For the sliding door. The backup contingency to the lock not being latched. The song changed. Drums were being pounded. A guitar riff filled the quiet. Her heart stammered in her ears. She had wedged the stick into the frame of the door so it would not fall and lock her out while she was on the balcony. The threat of walking down the fire escape, around the building to Amaya's apartment for her spare key and the talking to she would receive was more than enough to ensure that Sakura would never make that mistake; no matter how exhausted she was. She did live in Tani after all.
Something's wrong.
Something was really wrong. Her gut was screaming at her to move, move, move! Sakura whirled around with every intention of moving to her phone. Her hands were beginning to sweat, along with her brow and upper lip. Her arms dropped to her side. Limp. She inhaled sharply, breath not venturing past her uvula. She moved back until her heels hit the hard, hard, glass. Muffled. The round curve of the door poked into the middle of her back.
No. No. Nono.
"Hi," he smiled at her. Eyes darker than the night, with raven's wings for hair. Pale features and an asymmetrical cut. The face of her terrors was right there under the yellow artificial light. Crystal clear. She could see every last pore.
He's never said anything before.
In all her nightmares that came before, never once did he utter a word. She did not hear him speak and it was beyond her limited imagination to give him a voice that suited the face she remembered so vividly.
Healing isn't always linear, Haruno. You know that.
Her nightmares were adapting. She was anxious about the program, about the major decision she had made that could completely change the trajectory of her life. She wanted something badly again. She was putting herself in a position to receive and accept rejection. It was her anxiety that was acting up. That had to be it. She was overwhelmed.
You have a big day tomorrow at work. You need sleep. So wake up already. Wake up!
Sakura curled her index finger toward her palm, not tearing her eyes away from the face that was seemingly content to just observe her with an unchanging smile on his face. The blunt nail bit in. She felt it. There was no waking from this. There was nothing to wake from. She was awake. Sakura was frozen with her lips parted and eyes wide. Mind blank.
"You have no idea how long I have been waiting to see you again, Doctor Haruno." Something flashed, pulling her eyes from his. She blinked rapidly, not quite sure what she was looking at. She did not have to struggle for much longer. "It's a metal plate," the man explained without a changing expression. He moved the index and thumb of his right hand in what had to be a modified wave. "I lost all feeling in three of my fingers. The doctors say it's a lost cause. I figured I would get a second opinion." He extended her arm toward her with expectation. Sakura let out a whimper as she flattened herself against the glass as much as she could—clinging to the notion of a barrier.
"Relax, Dr. Haruno," he said in a playful voice as if he were riling up an old friend. He knew where all the buttons and pressure points were. His grin was from ear to ear. Sinister. "I won't bite. I just want you to look at my hand," he assured her with an earnestness that did not inspire ease. Her stomach revolted to the point that she had to swallow back bile and acid. His hand—the hand she shot a clean hole through—in question, raised some of her own. She tore her eyes away from the brace around his palm and the too-stiff fingers to the right of his index. She did that. That was all her.
"Take a look at my hand!" He barked, face twisting in anger at her hesitation—at her personified uselessness that took over her form.
Sakura jumped in the air, unable to hold back a fearful yelp. Her legs were shaky when she connected back to the unforgiving ground. A harsh reconnect with a reality she wanted no part of. She stared at him, frozen, with wide-wide eyes. Unable to even string together two words to form a fragment of a thought. Her heart thundered in her ears.
Frantic.
"Do I need to slap you?" He asked her calmly with a mask devoid of anything that was not detached indifference. Cold. Emotionless. In control.
He's calm.
The voice in her head, so different from her own, informed her of what she was too terrified to see.
He's not reacting to anyone. He's making everyone react to him.
His voice—her memories—coached her. Her mind was presenting what it could, anything it could, that might save her life. An act of desperation that she embraced wholeheartedly.
Just like the man who won the cooking competition: Masashiko Morimoto.
Calm. She shook her head. Calm. "No," she responded with shakiness just in case the gesture was not enough to make up for the fact she kept him waiting. Again.
The man sighed. He seemed disappointed. The outburst had subsided. He smoothed the hair on his face, tucking it behind his ear.
"Sorry about that," he smiled disarmingly. Her skin was crawling—she longed to crawl out of her skin or into it, whichever was more feasible—at the sight of it. He pulled at the ends of the black down jacket. Fanning himself. "You like it hot in here don't you, Dr. Haruno?"
Calm.
She did not answer. She merely watched him shrug out of his outer layer. He draped it on her bed behind him, revealing his heavily tattooed arms visible through the cut of his half-sleeved v-neck t-shirt. Black. Shades of crimson and black covered his ivory skin. Eyes. She counted at least seven pairs of eyes. Blood red irises with black tomoe in various configurations. One was completely purple with spirals.
Hypnotic.
The Uchiha held out his arms as if putting himself on display. He spun in a circle slowly. Menacingly fueling the terror inside of her. Everything threatened to lock up once more. The first was her jaw. Her teeth were pressed together so tight, that she heard them strain. The silver chain that connected his black leather belt to his pocket almost sounded like a wind chime.
Calm. Stay calm.
She swallowed audibly. Her right hand moved from her thigh slowly backward. She kept her eyes on him. He seemed content to just study her like she was some kind of animal. At the very least, she was a source of entertainment from the amusement that danced in his eyes. Cruel. They were so cruel despite the rather large smile he donned. Nearly all his teeth were out in the dominant display.
Think.
"I don't think I caught your name," she rattled like an old, sputtering engine in much need of service. Maybe humanizing herself would get her something. Anything.
"You like what you see that much?" He taunted thoroughly with a teasing grin, reducing the aggressiveness of the pullback of his lips just enough. He turned his body so his arm was at the forefront. He pivoted on his foot, not unlike bodybuilders who flexed at different angles so that muscles could graded honestly. "This probably doesn't come as that big of a shock given who you've been living with." He laughed—it was nothing more than a rasp of breath. Fleeting and temporary. Finite. "Sorry, lived with," he corrected with his palms pressed together as if apologizing with more than just his words. All that was missing was a bow to top off the exceedingly disingenuous display.
Breathe. In. Out.
Her hand was almost completely behind her back now. Sakura cleared her throat. She felt for the latch on the handle that was eating into her. The rock song had transitioned into an upbeat pop melody that was less forgiving.
"Very silly of you to turn him away like that," Masanori Uchiha, the man whom she had failed to identify with that same identification, ran a hand through his hair. It was between Sasuke's and Shisui's in terms of texture. Not straight. Not curly. Wavey. The same hand dipped into his back pocket, momentarily leaving her field of view. The weapon at his hip—a gun—was prominent. He wanted her to know it was there. A bullet with her name on it to adorn the center of her larger-than-average forehead; the perfect target.
Calm down.
A bead of sweat migrated down the curve of her spine. She shivered. Her teeth would start clattering soon. There was very little she could do about it. Her brain was not having its need met for air through just her nose anymore.
"I will say, if someone told me a doctor educated fromtheKonoha University and working intheKonoha Medical would be okay shacking up with a member oftheAkatsuki, you could knock me over with a feather." He laughed again, finding himself more amusing than his captive audience did. "You may have a type, Doctor," his tongue clicked in disapproval, a solemn shake of his head.
Keep talking.
She curled her fingers around the metal. Her hand was shaking.
"And then again, you did go on a date with my cousin," Masanori frowned deeply. All traces of mirth were let out of his person to accommodate the disdain that replaced it. Open disgust. She waited for him to spit out onto the carpet, overcome with it. "He's a major disappointment to the family you see. We don't like talking about Sasuke." His hand was pressed against his face in mock concern. Her blood ran cold at the recognition of the metal he held between his hand and his cheek.
Shit.
A knife. A switchblade. For her. It was worse than any bullet. It was slower. It would take longer for her to die. She would suffer. For hours—he could make her suffer for hours if he wanted to. Bleeding her dry, slowly. For days if he did it just right. Something inside of her screamed that he knew what that just right was. She cleared her throat, it escalated to a cough. The latch pulled away a sliver. A window. She continued to hack. Her eyes blurred from her tears. He only grew more delighted.
"Don't worry Dr. Haruno. I am not interested in you in that way. You're not my type." He traced the shape of his right hand with the sharp, sharp, sharp blade. His expression was thoughtful. If she did not know any better she would have called it merciful. "I just need your opinion. You have a clinic, yes?" His dark eyes flickered to her sweaty face.
Don't close your eyes, RaRa! Keep it right in your focus. Locked on.
She nodded her head, dumbly.
"You don't look so good, Doc," Masanori clicked his tongue. "It's the heat. You really should lower it."
"I can," she said with more bravery than she could gather in ten lifetimes. Her voice shook but it did not catch or break. "It's behind you." She pointed over his shoulder at the thermostat on the wall, arm dancing in a tremble.
Masanori glanced over the very shoulder. His focus migrated from the thermostat to the picture on the wall. He whistled lowly. "Damn!" His exclamation was emphatic. "Dr. Haruno, your friend is gorgeous—"
Sakura pulled the sliding door to her left just enough. Just enough for her to realize freedom. She stepped backward, nearly stumbling as she ran into the screen. With haste, she pulled that to the side no longer caring about discretion. She kept him in her sights. No more surprises. The cold air wrapped around her person in an embrace that chilled her to the bone. She felt it go straight to her head. Icicles pricking her scalp.
"He—!" She screamed into the quiet night. She tasted the hand that clamped down on her mouth. An arm circled her waist. Pinning her arms down with its one. She ceased any and all struggle when the tip of the blade poked against her neck. Right against her leaping pulse. Hard enough that she felt a sharp pain and the all too familiar feeling of a blood trail. Sluggish. Lazy. The railing—the fire escape was too far away. Out of reach.
Tears filled her eyes in no time at all blurring what little she had control of. Bleak.
When faced with a knife, the best odds at survival are running.
The smooth voice of the voice actor for the self-defense documentary spoke unhelpfully in her head. The words of wisdom meant to educate became nothing more than a taunt. Running was no longer an option. She was too slow. Much too slow.
"Scream," he breathed in a low, throaty whisper against her ear. She felt the vibration along her spine before her brain made sense of it all. "And I will have my guys kill that nice little single mom and her weird kid, and the old people you love so much. Apartments 1F and 2D, right?" He asked, carrying his threat in a low volume.
Amaya. Hiro. Mr. and Ms. Honda.
She had to fight to get a breath out through the gaps between his fingers. Her chest was locking up on itself, ready to concave any second. One, maybe she could overpower one. She could put up a hell of a fight, propelled by her desperation—her desire to live. Maybe one, but she had no idea how many were in her kitchen, her living room, outside. Maybe Sasori was dead. Maybe Sasori was dead because of her. Or maybe he was on his way to being dead because of her.
I'm so sorry.
"Is that clear?" He asked, his breath burning the side of her neck. The knife poked her where her skin was still uncompromised—where damage awaited to be done.
She moved her head down slowly once. Sakura closed her eyes. She felt herself being pulled back toward the stifling heat. Her hair—damp and dark with sweat—clung to her neck, like a noose; her source security in the end was as useless as her. A liability. He had a rather firm grip on her because of it. He held her hostage with one hand and arm. The knife ensured her cooperation. He closed the door with just his index finger and thumb, it glided on the tracks so smoothly.
I'm going to die.
He used that hand—clunky and limited—to brush the hair from her face. The three fingers did not move across her skin. Her shudder could not be blamed on the coldness of the metal plate.
I don't want to die.
There were two knocks against the wall. Pink lashes fell together heavily in a plea for mercy she knew deep in her bones was not coming.
No, please. Please no.
She begged whoever was listening. Her phone was buzzing. Messages. Calls. She was supposed to call her mother.
Mom….
"Sakura dear?" Ms. Honda's voice called out through the separator that might as well have been just paper given how clear the quality was.
Sakura's heart sank. It was not a fragment of her imagination.
C-Ca-calm.
"Are you alright?" She asked with clear concern. Ms. Honda's face danced in front of Sakura's closed eyelids within the dark walls of her mind. A plate of homemade oatmeal raisin cookies and a steaming cup of tea were in front of her. The woman's sympathetic ear and gentle voice held promise that everything would be okay after she unburdened herself.
Ms. Honda….
The knife carved into her hard enough to draw blood. Jagged and thin.
"I'll be good," she whispered, hoarse and hollow. The pressure was reduced by a margin. Sakura opened her eyes. She licked her trembling lips. "I'm okay, Ms. Honda," she called out at the loudest volume she could manage without her voice breaking both the illusion and itself, over the soft music that played. Her favorites on shuffle.
"I thought I heard you scream, dear." Ms. Honda did not sound convinced. Not even remotely.
Please let it go.
"I stubbed my toe," Sakura said, tasting her tears on her tongue. Thick. Pathetic. Plentiful. "Pretty hard. But I'm okay. I'm okay now. I'm sorry," she breathed heavily, inadvertently inhaling a noseful of his cologne. It was awful. It made her nauseous. She was seconds away from dry-heaving with so much force that it could be heard in the clinic. "I'm sorry," she repeated, "for worrying you."
For everything.
She held her breath. She was actively sweaty. His warm, large body being pressed behind her certainly did not help anything. He was in complete control. Her phone continued to vibrate. Her battery would drain if this kept up.
I'm sorry Mom.
I'm sorry Sakuto.
I'm sorry…Minato.
She should have believed him.
I should have listened.
"Okay, dear," Ms. Honda finally spoke again which meant that Sakura could breathe; she could draw in another breath. They were quantifiable now. She only had so many so she counted them. Each and every one. "Good night."
"Good night," Sakura managed, mostly intact.
"Good girl," Masanori breathed, kissing the back of her head with an exaggerated smooch.
Sakura snapped her eyes closed. She started to shake, violently.
Just give him what he wants. Your chance of survival goes up.
She recited the advice from all the true crime shows she devoured. But he was not a stranger nor a spurned lover. He was not a robber. She did not know how to categorize him. She did not know what he wanted beyond revenge and that too was an assumption. So the advice that experts said could keep her alive might just end up killing her. Maybe. Was it better to fight and die? Or lose her autonomy and potentially live? Or lose it and die? Maybe the worst option was more clear than the others.
The butt of his gun poked her hip. Digging in. She moved with him. She traded one support for another. She was being shoved against the wall next to her bathroom door, her nightstand just to her left. The fleeting thought of grabbing the lamp and swinging it over his head crossed her mind. The base was marble. It could be enough to knock him out cold for hours—best-case scenario. If she missed, or if he caught her, she would be dead—worst case and quite frankly, most likely scenario. He had a temper. A bad one. She could see it simmering behind his eyes. She held up her hands next to her head, her thumbs pointed toward her ears. He moved away. But the knife remained trained on her. The edge remained in contact; grazing her nose.
Stay calm, Haruno. Calm. Be calm and control the room.
Her desperation spoke to her.
"Look at my hand." He all but shoved it where the blade had been.
She crossed her eyes to just bring it to focus. It was a mistake. It made the lightheadedness worse.
"I," she raised her eyes to his. "Can I sit down? Please?"
Her knees were knocking into each other. He pondered the question—the request; a plea. He must have either taken pity on her or realized it was not some kind of trick because he nodded his head. Sakura slid to the floor, down the length of the wall. She crossed her legs under her.
Deescalate.
She held out her hands, palm up. A beggar waiting to be blessed. "May I?"
Masanori did not hesitate. The blade was ever-present. Her fate danced in front of her. She focused all her attention on her diagnosis. It was just an exam. She fell back to her training. She leaned into her comfort. All she had to do to stay there was not think too hard. One question, one thing, one second at a time. She stretched out his fingers, asking if he felt anything when she traced up and down the length of the three stationary fingers. He shook his head. His eyes were focused on her with rapt attention.
"Do you have x-rays?" Sakura asked him, in her clinical voice. Something she trusted more than herself. She waited. Masanori's phone with black and white photos was handed to her. She studied them. Her stomach was in her toes.
Calm. Think. Control the room.
She had two options. She weighed them carefully all the while she pretended to study the bleak picture the black and gray photos painted.
xXx
"Ms. Haruno," he answered the phone, pressing it to his ear.
"Minato!" Mebuki was breathless in her distress. Her worry was palpable. "Sakura's sensors are down! She's not answering her phone. I kept calling and calling and calling."
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Minato tapped the phone on the wheel. His jaw was clenched. He unlocked it slowly. He raised the phone to his ear.
"Everything is fine, Ms. Haruno," he lied through his teeth. His lips were pulled back into what was intended to be a smile but ultimately classified as a snarl. It did not translate all too well vocally either.
"Are you with her?!" Mebuki's voice was shrill, hysterical. She was not one to fall for low-effort illusions. "Put her on the phone!"
"Ms. Haruno," he pinched the bridge of his nose, phone still in hand. He sighed away from the microphone. "She's in the shower. She'll call you later."
"You're lying," Mebuki accused immediately with adamance. "You're lying to me. You lied to me!"
"She'll call you back," he promised before ending the call, voice smooth and more definitive than it had any right to be. He was not in the correct frame of mind to listen to Sakura's mother sob her heart out. Tears and falling apart would do no one any good. Not now. Not when there was still ambiguity even if more and more indicators of worst-case scenarios piled up.
Hold on Sakura. Just hold on.
He pushed the car to move even faster. The leather of the steering wheel groaned.
xXx
Sakura handed his phone back to him with her dominant hand. He made no move to take it from her. He made no moves at all. His dark eyes were boring holes through her head. His patience had reached its limit. He had far less than he let on. She retracted her hands slowly. One came to grip her kneecap. The other held the object left in her unwitting charge. He played with the blade. Pulling it out and tucking it away. An idle threat. Casual almost. And she believed him. The terror racing through her veins was very real.
How wrong she had been about everything, it was laughable to think about. So much so, that she nearly did. A complete and utter break from reality and her sanity. A psychotic break. Instead, she forced herself to look into his dead eyes. The eyes of a killer—the eyes of her potential killer.
"Yes," she said calmly.
He raised a thin brow. The cold metal pressed against her chin, forcing it up; exposing even more of her neck to him—her vulnerability.
"Yes, what, Dr. Haruno?" He asked, tone bland and eyes flat. Calculating—not sure what to make of her.
"Yes, I can fix it," she lied—looking him dead in his flat eyes. "I can fix your hand, Mr. Uchiha."
His thin lips pulled into a smirk. "Are you right-handed, Doc?"
"What?" She asked him bewildered enough to slip out of her detached mask.
A phone rang. A different one from the one that she was still holding. Masanori glanced down at it with clear annoyance, having pulled it from his pocket.
"Give me a hand, will you?
It happened so fast. He tossed his ringing phone to her. She caught it with her left, securing it with a tight grip after the slight initial fumble. He grabbed that same wrist and threw it back against the wall. Hard. Her grip went limp. Involuntarily. The phone clattered to the floor. It landed screenside down on the carpet; sounding and vibrating.
"Don't scream," he warned just moments before he plunged the knife through her skin; pinning it to the wall above her head.
Sakura's mouth opened. Tears dripped from her chin. A silent scream ripped through her throat. The pitch of her voice was so high—it felt so high—that their ears could not pick up on it. Her ears rang. Pain. All she registered was pain. She gasped with shattered breaths at her hand, at the blood moving down her arm. Soaking her faded pullover. Her wide green eyes surrounded by pink stared at him, stunned.
"Now we would have been even," he grinned, catching her tear with his thumb, licking the pad clean with his tongue. "If you hadn't lied to me."
She whimpered.
"I'm going to have so much fun with you," Masanori promised her, tracing the side of her face. "I plan on taking my time with you," he smiled as if saying something worth celebration. "Do you think he would start a war?"
W-what….
She was in shock. She had to be. Nothing was working. She was without cognitive thought. Pain. Everything hurt. Even her toes. When did she hurt her toes?
…happened?
"Namikaze," Masanori cooed, petting her head. "Do you think he will become what the death of his brother couldn't make him when he sees you all cut up and broken? In pieces. Will he even recognize you? All the parts of you? Or will I have to tie off each piece with a lock of your hair? Like a bow on a present?" He asked, enthralled by the prospect, twisting his fingers in her hair; tangling it. "So soft," he murmured in awe. His dark eyes came to life. They nearly bulged out of his head.
C-cold. It's so cold.
"You did so good, Dr. Haruno. You didn't make a peep," his voice was gentle, coaxing as he petted her over and over. "Such a good girl."
She drew in rapid breaths through her mouth, expelling them just as quickly. Sakura brought her knees to her chest. The tears in her eyes blinded her. She could not see.
It hurts.
"You like the beach right?" He carried on, moving his hand up and down her hair with zero consideration at the tug on her scalp. "I'll leave your head there. So you'll always have a view. I'll do that for you since you were so good for me."
It hurts so much, Sakuto.
Masanori sighed, kissing his teeth. "You're out of it." He reached for his face-down phone. He pried the one she was still somehow holding from her limp fingers. He wiped the blood from it on her shorts. "Hello?" He rose to his feet. His back to the woman who was despondent. "The cameras?" He asked, his hand running through his hair, the phone with the X-rays tucked into his pockets somewhere. "Which ones caught him?" He glanced over his shoulder at her, eyes flickering away in dismissal. She was not going anywhere.
Why does it hurt so much? Sakuto?
Sakura had lowered her forehead to her knees and wrapped an arm around herself. Small and incomplete.
xXx
He heard voices—a voice that was separate from the flow of the music that bled through the gaps. Singular. Low. Masculine. Minato swung over the railing. He landed without making a sound on the wooden boards that creaked. The curtains were drawn. It was dark. The screen was pushed all the way to the side. He gripped the handle of the door. His heart pounded in his ears. He waited. He listened through the single-panel glass.
"You hear that Doc?" The man asked. "Namikaze is on his way."
Uchiha?
He furrowed his brow. He had not seen his car but his focus had been elsewhere.
"It means you and I are running out of time."
Minato's blood ran cold. The voice sounded evil. Demonic. It was not Sasuke.
"I know I promised I would take my sweet time with you, really do you justice," he sighed with regret. "But we have to adapt sometimes. So what do you say we get back to the fun, Doc?" He asked presumably rhetorically.
Crystal clarity.
Minato pulled the door, fully expecting it to not budge. He was already ready to crash through it with his elbow posed and his body weight shifted to his back foot. His movement pulled him into the room, through the barrier of the thick curtain that was more a nuisance in all sincerity. The rings cried out at being yanked harshly to the side. He had all but three seconds to make sense of the situation. Three seconds. He only needed one. He saw the blood. He saw the knife. He saw her hand pinned to the goddamn wall. He saw her shaking in as much of the fetal position as she could manage. That was it.
He saw only red next.
Masanori's eyes widened. He reached for his weapon out of pure instinct. Minato did not give him the opportunity to do anything with it. He tackled him. They crashed to the ground. The drums were aggressive. They blared in his ear almost in accordance with his adrenaline-powered heartbeat. Masanori was on his back. Minato slammed his wrist against the carpet. Once. Twice. Thrice. Muffled by the plush fibers. The gun landed with a soft thump. Hapless. Minato slapped it away, pinning only the Uchiha's left hand to do so. It ended up under the bed.
The Uchiha let out a grunt, his legs moved violently. He kicked blindly. Minatop drew his already bruised fist back. He punched him in the head. Once. Twice. Three times. He lost count. Masanori stopped struggling—moving—a long time ago. He still breathed. So he kept hitting. Wet sounds filled the room. His blood warmed his hands. But he did not let up. He punched and punched and punched. Not knowing where Masanori's blood began and his own ended.
Rage.
xXx
It was dark. The ringing in her ears was deafening. Something crunched. It cut through everything. It was familiar. Bone. Broken bones. Sakura lifted her head. She blinked slowly. Her vision came back even slower. She worked out the black blur she was facing. A head of sunshine yellow hair. She furrowed her brow. It was familiar. Really familiar. Achingly familiar.
Shallow breaths. Grunts of exertion. Wet. The collection of sounds was far from pleasant. She shook her head. Nothing cleared. Nothing changed. The image remained. Pain remained. Another crunch. Another swing.
Bone struck bone.
Stop.
Someone was hurt. She heard bone breaking. She knew what broken bones sounded like.
Stop fighting.
She wanted to call it out but she settled for screaming it in her head. Sakura pushed forward. A cry of sharp pain—unbridled and the most she ever felt—had her shifting focus. Her arm hurt. It was numb. The numbness extended all the way down to her shoulder. She tilted her head back. She blinked at what she saw. Her strangled exclaim left her mouth when she realized just what she was looking at.
stabbed…I was stabbed. I've been stabbed!
"Hel-p me," she whispered, voice hoarse. "P-please," she tried to reach out to him. But he was too far. For either her voice or reach to reach him.
Minato.
She begged in her head or was it her heart? Her throat was so dry, so raw. And yet her eyes did not stop seeping even more moisture from her only to rain it down her cheeks to fall on her knees.
Help me! Please.
He paid her no mind. He continued to punch. He continued to breathe heavily. He was shaking. Panting. His shoulders moved up and down with each heavy breath. Hunched over as he switched, alternating use of his arms when one got too tired. Sakura turned back to her hand. She raised her arm up slowly. She grabbed the smooth, sticky, wooden hilt of the knife. It was without warmth or forgiveness. She bit down on her cheek. She tasted blood; enough to finally wet her throat. She swallowed.
Please. Help me.
She thought of a face—the same one she always thought of when she was scared but wanted to be brave. He was smiling at her. Encouraging.
Don't give up, RaRa!
She closed her eyes. She inhaled, filling her lungs. Sakura pulled; a sharp inhale.
Shannaro!
She screamed internally, mouth open and eyes squeezed shut. Fire pins danced throughout her hand. The blood rolled down her arm even more now. Freely. Her sleeve was stiff. Sakura dropped the knife. She lurched forward onto all fours for stability. She held her hand to her chest. She crawled to him, slowly; her injured palm turned upwards, fingers curled—hovering over the soiled carpet.
Please.
She did not think. She wrapped her arms around him as tight as she could.
"S-stop," she whispered. The side of her face pressed against the space between his shoulder blades. "S-top," she pled as her blood stained the silk fibers of his dark suit jacket. With each departed drop, she grew more numb to pins of pain.
xXx
Minato froze. He slowly came back down into himself. He rocked back to sit on his heels. The pressure—the compression—around his chest moved with him. He could feel dampness growing in two places: on his back and the front of his chest. He looked down. He saw blood. A lot of blood seeped into his white shirt.
Blood that was different than the one that lined his hands. He did not know how he knew that but he did. There was even more on the floor in front of him. Shades of black, blue, red, and purple were all on the face lying on top of the floor. He did not recognize it.
"Please s-top," a small voice begged him. A woman begged him. A voice he knew but could not immediately place.
She's not a threat.
That much he knew. The bloodlust—the need for vengeance—subsided slowly. Just enough for him to think with more logic than raw emotion.
"Mi-na-to," she cried out more breath than sound. "Please," there was only one syllable so, nothing to be separated by a pant or sob. "Shi-k-ka," she pleaded with a broken name.
Shebegged him.
"Sakura," he said her name. Minato hung his head. He covered her bloody hand with both of his. "Sakura," he repeated the mantra needed to bring more of himself back from the edge. A silent wail rocked her whole frame, shaking him to his core.
xXx
He had yet to find his voice again after it had reunited with him for just a single word—name. Three syllables. Sakura. Minato's hand did not falter nor did his focus waver as he wrapped the last layer over her wound. His head was bowed. His bangs obscured her from his vision. The hair on the top of his head moved with every one of her loud exhales. He counted them. They grounded him.
Inhale of a beat,
Life's breath shared in quiet waves—
Together we rise.
His mind was at the feet of Takayuki Sumida's altar constructed of his words, out of necessity. Because if he did not preoccupy his mind with the words, thoughts, and feelings of another, he would succumb to the sting, sting, sting of his own. They had become an angry hornet's nest, swarming all around him, ready to consume him in a painful demise. If he did not fill his mind with words, he would think endlessly about how this was his fault. She was here, at this moment, in this state because of him. He did this to her. He was the one who brought all this destruction and pain to Sakura.
He hurt her.
I would endure with a smile on my face,
Of the brilliance of a thousand suns,
If you did not have to take on pain.
I would take yours away before it even came your way,
Washing your hands of it with my own tears.
If I could, I would.
I would but cut open with a thousand cuts, bled dry,
Only for it to repeat each and every time.
Just so you never have to know the prick of discomfort.
I would cry, happily,
For you to smile, indefinitely.
If I could, I would.
I would sit with the creator of you and me and everything else,
I would tell them my dream, my purpose.
I would tell them this.
I will endure with a smile on my face,
So suffering is a word you cannot relate.
If I could, I would.
The seconds did not go silently, each one was marked by a breath so heavy— a pant. She had not uttered a sound that could pass as a word either since he helped her to sit on the edge of her bed; her frame unresponsive and her eyes unfocused. The black jacket of the stranger—the instigator pushed to the floor without further consideration. Her feet were firmly on the ground yet she had been shaking—all of her. Her teeth had even chattered offbeat with the music that was still playing—interrupted every so then with the rings of calls that went unanswered. Just moments before he had dragged the unconscious Masanori by his ankle into the bathroom and closed the door. His wet labored breaths had said it all. Masanori was still alive, for now.
To be like water,
I desire nothing beyond—
Always flow to you.
Minato had nearly crossed the line. He lost himself. He lost himself in his rage, anger, fear, and anguish. He nearly killed the man with his bare hands. He did not even think. He would have kept going. He did keep going. Even when Masanori was incapacitated. He would have gone until all his remaining ribs were broken like the five he snapped. He would not have stopped. He was surrounded by darkness. She pulled him back. She reminded him of who he was—of who he wanted to be. She saved him. Both Masanori and Minato. She saved them both. And for that he was ashamed.
I'm the last person she wants to see.
And yet here he was. The thoughts—his own—poked through the flimsy barrier. The towel around the wound was already pink before he even wrapped the first of the bandages. Her pullover was soaked. The blood had turned brown. The worn fabric was stiff. Minato rocked back on his heels. He tilted his head up. He placed her hand on the top of the pillow, palm facing up.
"Keep it elevated," he advised gently, the softness of his motions carried into his voice, shattering the silence that was exhaustive in its consumption. She had lost a lot of blood. Not enough for it to be lethal but she could pass out. That was a very real risk. She needed medical attention.
He paid no mind to the burning and stinging of his knuckles. He rose to his feet. With blood-covered hands, he twisted the brushed-nickel door knob. Minato stepped over Masanori's legs. He washed his hands, drying them on his pants. Another small white towel was pulled from the counter. He turned off the tap for cold water. He ran the towel through the stream. It was scalding against the exposed layers of skin. Minato wrung it. He closed the door on his way out. She was exactly as he had left her: despondent. And that made it even more painful. Minato crouched down onto a knee in front of her. He was close but he did not break the barrier of air between them.
Life's tender whisper,
Once pure heart's heavy shadow,
Corrupt touch bleeds rot.
"Sakura," he said her name in a voice he barely recognized. It was so numb. Cold. Clinical. His emotions were locked away to an extreme he never reached before. Because if he allowed himself to feel anything at all, he would succumb under the weight of his capability alone. And she did not need that from him. She did not need to take care of him. Not when she could not take care of herself.
At arm's length I hold,
The world spins in tender hues—
Scarred tissue stands guard.
Her large green eyes—the very ones that had not stopped shedding tears—stared down at him. Past him. Her hair surrounded her face like a curtain or maybe a vice. It was suffocating.
"I need to clean the blood," his voice fluctuated, he paused to collect himself, "off of you." Irises that most closely resembled cobalt moved from her face to the cuts on her neck; one of which was still sluggishly bleeding. Sakura blinked slowly. He bit back a sigh. Surprise flitted across his eyes as he watched her raise one arm over her head, higher than the other.
"Okay," he said to himself out loud, mouth dry at the display of trust he did not warrant. He moved equally as slowly as she had. "I'm going to take your shirt off now," he narrated his intentions, the situation as precarious as a spider web being built on a pond's edge. One wrong move, one ripple, could undo all that was building up once more. Sakura did not react in any way outwardly, which validated his caution. He took that as a sign to proceed. Minato lowered the warm towel to her knee. His fingers gripped the worn fibers of the hem of her top. "Ready?" He asked for verbal confirmation that may not be coming.
Sakura nodded her head. Barely. But it was enough. The hem moved upward, folding back on itself, slowly and with consideration. He kept his gaze low until the shirt was past her collarbones. He focused on the protruding bones and her jugular notch, made up with crimson streaks. Her head got caught in the small opening of the neckline.
"Hold still," he rose partially into a standing position to coax the top past her neck, then her chin. Then over her head. "Easy," he told himself. He took extra care with her injured hand in freeing her of the blood-stained garment. His eyes scanned. He could see the bruising develop on her neck from where the knife cut into her. The dried blood down her arm and shoulder had his stomach heating until it burned. Crimson against ivory. A stark contrast.
Cold.
His eyes searched around her person with purpose. Her skin was beginning to pebble. The loss of blood was making itself known with her increased sensitivity to ambient temperatures. His eyes landed on his objective. It would have to do. He reached right, fingers latching onto the throw to wrap around her still shoulders. Sakura pulled it to cover herself with her fully functioning hand. Minato helped the soft fabric cross her pale torso; she could hold both ends with one hand all the while her left arm remained unobscured, open, and exposed.
The towel moved from her knee to his hand. He began to blot the dried stains. As he worked, he was rewarded with her skin becoming more and more visible and the brush strokes of crimson were nothing but pigment on the white towel. Small circles wiped away the blood that seeped from the puncture wound. He made a mental note to find circular bandages in her first aid kit that was in the bathroom.
Crimson rose….
His mind drew a momentary blank; joints creaked when he stood, the pink towel discarded on her nightstand. He turned his back to her— pretending to not see the red oval of blood where Masanori's body had been, just as he ignored the streaks of red on the wall. They reminded him of someone purposely letting paint fall against the surface. Like a morbid sample swatch. He moved to her dresser. The front of his shirt was tight and abrasive—hardened and an unsightly brown color—but he barely noticed. He began to pull drawers. He grabbed the first thing he could. He made his way back to her.
She was staring at him. Wordlessly. Blankly. He ignored that too. "I'm going to dress you now." He opened up the sweater, showing it to her as if she even remotely cared. The blanket pooled against her back all because of a release of a hand. Vulnerable. Exposed. His frame covered hers from the view of the closed curtains over the sliding door. Again, she held up her arms. He started with her left. He repeated soft apologies every time she winced or gasped—too scared to make any more sound than that but also unable to contain it inside. It did not matter how gentle he was being. Even the warm, heated air caused her discomfort. The over-the-counter painkillers were not enough. They were not nearly enough. And he did not trust himself to administer lidocaine—not with the slight tremor of his hand.
Nothing could justify this.
The words that raced in his head—the sentiment of giving her space to process right after he wedged a chair under the doorknob locking the bastard in the bathroom—were moving down to the tip of his tongue. It was his hesitation that kept them from tumbling out. He reached for the towel. A small wrist caught his hand instead. Guarded cobalt eyes met tearful emerald. Sakura's lips trembled before they parted.
One of yours is worth thousands of mine.
"I didn't listen," she apologized for the umteenth time—tears dripping onto her lap. Her lips moved in a broken song that did not reach his ears. Her blunt nails dug into his skin. "Please don't leave me," she begged in a wet whisper, unable to say it any louder.
A single tear.
He dropped the towel as if it grew molten enough to burn his flesh from his bones. Her arm wrapped around his torso. He cradled the back of her head, shielding her from it all; from what limited thing he could.
"I'm not leaving you," he said into her hair. Voice clear. His fingers circled her temple. Her eyes slipped closed. She leaned in, curling against him. Falling. "I'm sorry, Sakura," Minato repeated each and every time she repeated those same three words.
He lost count.
xXx
Either she was close to passing out or she had gotten used to the pain because it was not as noticeable. It was not at the forefront of her mind. No, what consumed her thoughts was the bizarreness of it all. She observed silently, wrapped in a dusty pink throw like a Matryoshka but instead of wood, she was of fleece. She did not even have the energy to point out that she was overheating. The arm secure around her shoulders ensured that the blanket would not slip and grant her a small respite. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes hazy. It was a struggle to keep them open. She blinked slowly. Her hand rested on two couch cushions stacked up on top of each other. Spidery tingles were felt all the way down to her elbow. She had lost feeling in more than half her arm. Intentional. He was ensuring it was kept elevated.
Like glue.
He was holding her together. He worried so she did not have to. About every detail. He was on her right side. A barrier between her and the faces that she was not entirely convinced were actually there. They could just as easily be figments of her reeling imagination. She sighed through her nose, leaning her head where his neck met his shoulder, an excuse to inhale her next breath even more deeply. His fingers moving through her scalp made it all that much harder to stay awake—to be at least somewhat aware of what was going on around her. If she closed her eyes and remained still enough, it was as if he had never left at all—like nothing had changed. But it had.
So much had.
It happened so fast. It was happening so fast. Minato had made some calls. Paced back and forth with his head bowed and his lips barely moving all the while he stayed in her view. It was a compromise. He needed to move. She needed to see. He had not spoken many words and she caught even less. Her brain was muddled. She blinked heavily.
Sasuke and his partner—the blond with the wedding ring whose name escaped her—had come crashing in through the same point of entry Minato had used. Sasuke's silence was surprising—or she would have found it surprising if she was in the right headspace—his eyes were wider than she remembered as he took in the scene—the crime scene. Detective Deidara—that was his name—was the first one to recover. He had begun to snap pictures on his phone. Of the blood on the floor, the walls, on the bandages that covered her hand, of the small circular ones on her neck. Minato had said nothing. He had not moved. But his eyes must have led the way because they moved to the bathroom next. Still in their outdoor shoes—clomping. Deidara took more pictures. Sasuke maintained his silence as he continued to survey. His face was pale and pinched together.
Terrible poker face.
That was a number of minutes ago. Minato had shifted them. He had carried her to the couch; a decision made for her. She did not complain. She could only comply. Everything else was too much effort. The men—the detectives—had stayed in the room longer. Sakura sighed softly. His thumb was drawing circles on her cheek. Rough. Comforting. She turned her face into his chest. She closed her eyes and herself off from the world. She felt herself start to drift and this time she did not resist its embrace.
xXx
"You need to get cleaned up," Deidara said in a low voice with a frown on his face as he addressed the other blond in the room. "Wash your face. Fix your hands," he stopped short of uttering a list.
Later.
It was not important. It was not pressing— the need for such things. Minato crossed his arms over his chest. His angry knuckles were at the forefront. He gazed over his shoulder at Sakura. He watched her breathe. Shallow and predictable. Her arm with the bandaged hand dangled from the edge of the sofa.
She might need surgery. It might never be the same again.
"Namikaze," Deidara vied for his attention. "You can't be here."
An incredulous snort of the likes he had not experienced before was just asking to be released. Officially he could not. That was not missed on him. It was never missed on him. Unofficially it could not be further from the truth. There was simply no choice in the matter.
"What the hell happened?" Sasuke demanded, finally getting over his shock and working overtime to compensate for it. "What the hell is going on?" He posed that particular question to his partner, the very partner that he was eyeing full of wary suspicion as if seeing him for the first time.
"He cut her internet. The sensors went down. He came in through the sliding door. He caught her by surprise. He stabbed her hand to the wall," Minato spoke low, clear, and fast of the sequence of events—more or less—that addressed the first query. He did not use her name. He stuck to the facts. He tried not to picture the words as he gave his best guess. It was the only way to ensure he did not go through the two sets of doors to finish the job. Minato's eyes sharped to a hard edge just as he remembered something that had been overlooked in all this.
"What the hell took you so long to get here?" He asked the detective, directing his ire for the Uchiha unconscious on the white tile toward the one standing in front of him in the same tone Sasuke had posed his questions. The Uchiha could have prevented this. If only Sasuke had been faster. He could have prevented all of this from happening to her.
You could have saved her!
Sasuke's eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. He stepped closer to the blond, tilting his chin up slightly. Minute. "I was in the middle of processing a criminal," he hissed, breath hot with resentment of the implications. "I got here as fast as I could. Don't blame me for the mess you dragged her into!"
Not nearly fast enough! You weren't fast enough when it mattered! Again!
His control that was clad in iron was bending. He could feel it becoming brittle enough to break. Minato's navy eyes were as restless as the sea during a hurricane. Dark. Twisted. Uncontrollable. Unpredictable. Both fear and awe-inspiring. It did not matter if what Sasuke shot at him was the truth, Minato's blood lust was not satisfied in the slightest.
A sigh—a huff of exasperation—filled the air. Neither man broke their heated glare. "I can't believe I'm the one saying this," the pony-tailed blond pushed himself between the two as a literal wedge. "Namikaze," he snapped at Minato, tone irate and blue eye filled with condemnation. "Dr. Haruno's just been through the scariest moment of her life, the last thing she needs is for you to get into a pissing contest. She needs help!"
Minato blinked back to his senses at the vitriol being spewed in his direction. A slap across the face; that was the effect of the man's words. He was already lowering his shoulders and the coiled tension of his back was relaxing.
"And you, Uchiha!" Deidara wheeled on a heel, pushing him back with a two-handed shove to the chest. "Put aside your monumental daddy issues for one second and do your damn job! Assuming you got into this line of work because some part of you wants to actually help people and not just piss daddy dearest off."
Sasuke's usually handsome face twisted into a snarl. He opened his mouth but Deidara was not having it.
"There is a reason why no one—Uchiha or not—else could stand being your partner, asshole. A very good reason. Believe me, I tried to switch," Deidara spat without the slightest signs of backing down or off. He tried to switch every year—he filed the paperwork with a prayer and a belly filled with optimism—only to be denied. Year after year after year. "Get your damn head on straight!"
"This isn't over," Sasuke vowed, in a tone that was harsh as he stared down his partner. Deidara shook his head in either resignation or disbelief. Minato watched wordlessly as the emotions moved through Sasuke; from rage all the way down to begrudging acceptance. All in a span of a matter of seconds. His clenched jaw was loose enough for him to push words out of.
"I didn't order the tracker," Sasuke informed them without so much as acknowledging their presence with anything beyond his words. Minato stiffened. "It was being checked frequently. A couple of times a day before it went dead." He paused, dark eyes darting between the two faces: one of that of an Akatsuki and the other that was not as far removed from them as he had once believed. "I couldn't call it in," he got to the crux of the issue.
"He only told me," Deidara added solemnly, corroborating the statement. "I was scanning the radios. No calls came through dispatch for this address."
Backup. He could be waiting on backup.
Minato suddenly felt the distance was too great. He moved to close it in two and a half strides. He crouched down, the coffee table pushed out of the way like what it was: nothing. He felt her breath on the back of his hand. He brushed the hair from her face. She did not stir.
"I need to get her out of here."
Now.
"Leave Masanori to me," Sasuke said with disdain like the words were bitter-tasting.
Minato shook his head, shoulder tensing, his eyes never leaving Sakura's slumbering face. She looked so relaxed; peaceful even. Looks were deceiving. He smoothed the lines of unrest from her forehead and like wet clay they obeyed.
"He's mine." He avoided the bandage on her hand. The image was etched in his mind.
"Namikaze," Sasuke dragged out the sound of his name.
"I won't kill him," Minato cut him off before he could build—before he could waste more precious time. He kept her at the forefront of his focus so his voice remained light.
"Your father already bailed him out once. What's to say he won't again?" Deidara was the one to point out that fact.
Sasuke pinched his face together, thinking hard. Masanori would not be the same. He had experience with mangled, beaten bodies in both his past and his line of work. He had reached the point where he could just eyeball it. He would be lucky if he walked without an instrument to aid him.
"He's leverage." Minato need not say more to end the discussion. Sasuke understood the power of such a thing.
"If you go back on your word," the Uchiha's hand went for his holster. "You won't live long to regret it."
"Give me a break," Deidara rolled his eye. "We get it Sasuke. You love the law. Truth and justice." The blond turned to Minato. "Go. I'll set out the trash."
Minato nodded his head. Without losing any more time, he gathered Sakura into his arms; still swaddled in her pink blanket. Without so much as a glance back, he walked down the steps to the clinic where the side exit would have the least amount of eyes.
Sasuke glared at his partner. "What happened to loyalty?"
Deidara shrugged dismissively. "He slept with my wife."
The Uchiha furrowed his brow. "And that makes you want to make him help him over me how?" He asked with incredulity.
Deidara flashed his teeth in an ear-to-ear grin. "If he didn't sleep with her, she never would have been my wife. And I don't like the way your face looks, Pretty Boy."
The Uchiha grumbled darkly under his breath, stalking his way back to the bedroom—back to where evidence could be connected to form a progression of events that ultimately made sense.
xXx
She trailed behind him, stepping into where his feet vacated. Close enough to practically be running into his heels. His fingers were warm around hers. She had woken in the car, just as he had opened the door, with a slight start. They were parked in a garage of some kind. She did not recognize it. She was still carrying traces of disorientedness. It was cold. The warmth of the blanket did not reach her legs. Her feet were surrounded by her fuzzy, pink house slippers. The backs of her heels were exposed to the elements. Thankfully the walk-up was short.
Minato knocked—that was after he called—the rust-red metal door opened. There was a loud buzzing sound. She stepped carefully because he told her to. He was patient with her even though she could see the restlessness across his shoulders. They were out in the open. He did not care to be. She was slowing them down. Again, he would never admit it. The concrete steps were plentiful. She was slightly out of breath. She had to lean into him. He debated just carrying her. She could see the indecision mar his features for just a second. He did not because if he did, they would be even more vulnerable as it would take him longer to see and thus respond to a potential threat vector.
"Careful," he said under his breath. He guided her closer to him. He followed his own advice. He did not let himself touch the hand wrapped in gauze that was soaked with red; saturated. She felt his arms around her. She lifted her feet. She turned her face when a wall of wind hit her. Wisps of her hair—braided—slapped across her face. It was cold but only for a moment.
The door closed behind them. His chest was behind her and a brick wall was to her left. He kept coaxing her to move forward. The warmth and support shifted to her front. She was tucked in closer to the wall. She was not sure if he was protecting her from the wind—the cold—or something else entirely, but she did not question it. The object of her entire focus was on one task: to not trip. That was it. She had no other thought: don't fall. Even if she knew he would not let her. She knew that now. She believed it. He was everywhere. She stopped right behind him—his head was on a swivel—his hand moved from his pocket to the door. She did not see the key nor the lock but she heard it. Something slid. Loud and demanding. He held open the door. With her hand still connected to his, she stepped inside. He wasted no time in following her.
The room was dimly lit but the colors and shapes were overwhelming. She focused on him. The only constant in the ever-changing scenes. His hand was warm. He was right there. He was a little more relaxed now. Marginally. It smelled vaguely of feet. Or maybe it was just the old carpet.
Lemons?
"Come on." He moved through the rec room without deviating his attention. His strides were clipped, perfectly calibrated for her to keep up without much strain all the while still maintaining a pace he found acceptable. His fingers pulsed around hers. A tell that his adrenaline was coursing through him—a betrayal of the illusion maintained by his calm exterior.
They moved to the opposite end of the room. A door on the left opened. Sakura faltered when a new face was registered. She came to a complete standstill. Her arm extended out fully, Minato half-turned back to her. Amber eyes moved from her face to the man in front of her. Minato turned around fully and moved closer.
"It's okay," he said gently, his thumb brushing the tops of her cheekbone. Reassuring. "You're safe."
Sakura furrowed her brow. She tore her eyes from the stranger. She found his cobalt irises watching her. Concern bled through them—dominating everything about him.
"Sakura," he pulled her back from the toroids of her mind with her name. So familiar and comforting with his voice. "Meet Dr. Senju," he glanced over his shoulder. She followed his gaze. The woman was staring at her with a neutral expression. "Dr. Senju," he addressed the woman. "Meet Dr. Haruno."
Sakura lifted her hand out of the protection of the blanket cloak. She waved. A knee-jerk reaction. The beautiful blonde's eyes softened. She beckoned them inside with a tilt of her head. Minato walked in with Sakura tucked under his arm, entering half a second before her.
xXx
"How is she?" Jiraiya's deep voice filled the small room in excess. The windows just held back from rattling.
"She's with the Senju Sage now," Minato answered levelly. "These are all live right?" He returned his attention to the monitors around the shop and garage, eyes comparing for differences even the most mundane.
"No one is sneaking up on this place," Jiraiya gave his gruff assurance. He came to stand just behind Minato with his arms crossed, glaring at the black and white screens. There were a total of eight of them. "Shouldn't you be in there with them?"
Minato shook his head.
Jiraiya did not push. It was one thing when there was no choice in the matter. Minato had done what he had to. Two pairs of eyes focused on the screen in the right-most corner, on the bottom. A black ponytail at the back of a head came into the frame seconds after the car had parked. Tracking his movements, they tilted their heads up.
"The guns are loaded. We're a fortress," the taller of the two men said tightly.
So much for being retired.
A bitter voice in his head rang out. It was vaguely familiar. A relic of his past. All that was missing was his signature "troublesome" which more times than not was preceded by a sigh—long-suffering. They saw the key enter the lock before their ears detected the loud creak of the door opening. Minato straightened his posture before he turned his head. His expression was grave. His teeth were flush together.
The face entered the room—the command center—with parted lips, breathless. "Her mother's fine. I told you had her. I had to show her the video to get her to believe me." The proof of life of Sakura breathing while she slept. It also served to explain the slight delay in his arrival.
Minato's eyes slipped closed and for a second he relished in his relief doubled with the knowledge that Mebuki could finally allow herself to breathe again. Just for a second because time was of the essence. Rihito's mouth was already moving.
"Mutt's is in a safe house. His sister is with him. They're good." Rihito's hand smoothed his hair back. The baby hairs stuck to the sweat that was spread with his palm. "How is she?"
"She's shaken up," Jiraiya answered when it became apparent that Minato would not. His jaw had clenched even more to the point they could hear his teeth eek with strain. "But Tsunade has her. She'll be fine."
Rihito leaned back heavily against the doorframe. His chest heaved in heavy breaths. His chin tilted up toward the ceiling. "Thank God," he breathed out in unadulterated relief. A hand was pressed over his heart. "Today took years off my life."
"It's not over yet," Minato found the ability to speak again just in time to reprimand the younger man.
The Nara straightened before he nodded his head. His wrist flicked. Minato snatched the keys from the air.
"It's all gassed up. The location hasn't changed since the last ping."
The blond nodded his head in understanding and thanks. He maneuvered around the immobile force that was Jiraiya. Two pairs of dark eyes collided. A look of understanding passed between them in tense silence.
"Coffee?" Jiraiya asked.
"I thought you'd never ask," Rihito slumped all the way to the floor, resting his arms over his bent knees. "All the sugar." He slapped his cheeks. "Actually just hold the coffee," he uttered without any hints of a joke.
"You'll crash," Jiraiya grumbled the warning all the while knowing full well he would give the man all the sugary syrup in the shop if it came down to it. Hell, he would have Tsunade inject it straight into his veins if push came to shove. He hoped push did not come to shove.
Badly.
xXx
"You're very good," Sakura noted absentmindedly, observing how her skin was being knitted back together with black surgical thread. Silk. It would barely scar.
Tsunade's pink lips pulled into a humorless smile. She peered at Sakura over the magnification glasses she wore. There was a bright white light attached to the contraption on her forehead. The needle in her hand did not move in the slightest. Steady.
"I better be, after more than thirty years of this stuff," Tsunade sighed, turning her attention back to the hand. "You got lucky, girl. The knife missed anything vital. You'll make a full recovery."
Sakura hummed noncommittally. She would never go as far as to make claims—a guarantee—like that without consulting at least an X-ray. But yet, she did not find herself skeptical of the prognosis. Maybe she was delirious.
"Are youtheDr. Senju?" Sakura asked in a dry voice. "World-renowned surgeon, Tsunade Senju?" Part of her could not believe any of this. Her throat was parched. Even after the two water bottles she had drained. Tsunade had cut her off before Minato could go grab her another. He was antsy to be useful even if it was only in feeling. Or maybe he was jumping at every chance to get away from her. Either option was equally viable in her current state. Probably. Excessive thirst was a symptom of blood loss. A loss she could only recuperate with rest and food, not more water. But her stomach was much too turbulent for her to stomach the thought of stomaching anything.
"I don't know about the world-renowned part," Tsunade tsked distractedly, her thin lips pushed down into a frown that drew out fine lines that were not visible before. She placed Sakura's stitched hand on the tabletop. The harsh light that focused down on it eased up in intensity. It pricked her skin less.
"You disappeared," Sakura continued to speak mostly to herself—born out of the need for a distraction. Her eyes kept moving to the door behind Tsunade, which was something the blonde woman surely noticed but did not comment on.
"Hm," Tsunade humored her. She absentmindedly scratched at her upper arm, pushing up the edge of her slate-gray sleeveless kimono top.
"Your papers," Sakura's unfocused green eyes witnessed gaze being layered over where the sutures had been. "In various medical journals were what got me through a lot of tough times. I borrowed them from the library. Read them by flashlight after work." Back when she and her mom were living in a car for a bit. A beat-up rusty sedan both on and under the body that was gifted to them by an elderly woman who would have parked it on some random street corner to avoid having to pay for it to be hauled away, was their safe haven. It was the bubble that protected them. It was a roof over their heads while they waited for the application for housing to go through. The sound of rain pattering against the roof kept her up during the winters. "They gave me hope." It was strange what brought her comfort then. "Your research on cancer cells and the potential for stem cells is still unparalleled. Labs in Konoha Med still reference them. There are three different research projects trying to expand on the premise." Including Dr. Yakushi's. "It's the best medicine I've read. Hands down."
"It's been over two decades," Tsunade leaned forward to extend her reach. She stared through the lens of her glasses that were perched on the tip of her button nose. "Those pages are probably more dust than paper and ink."
"They're holding up," Sakura breathed evenly through her nose. Talking kept her mind off of it. Off the fact that someone had stabbed her through her hand. It could have been her dominant one if her quick thinking and reflexes had bailed her out yet again. Or Sakuto's constant vigilance. "With the leftover part of my first paycheck, I bought out all the journals that you were featured in from the library. Cleaned them out. They're on my bookshelf back home."
Tsunade's hand froze. She glanced up at the very quiet pinkette. The one who had retreated back into her head all because of carelessly uttered words.
"I made some decisions in my life," Tsunade began with a heavy sigh. She turned Sakura's hand with both of her own. She wrapped her palm, dutifully. "Some down-right bad ones. I had to face the consequences, live with them."
The words rang like a bleak warming. One that came much too late, Sakura could not help but think. Her green eyes migrated to the purple mark on the woman's forehead. Just the most visible of the tattoos. She could see the floral vines that curled around her collarbones. They seemed to end up wrapped around her ankles—ankles that were visible on account of her dark blue capri pants. Dainty but with no less burden than Minato's. Maybe even more as hers extended below her hips, which Sakura knew did not hold true for the blond male counterpart.
"The Akatsuki," Tsunade eyed her reproachfully, with much too much understanding for it to be just on account of empathy. "They were a demon, one I had to exorcize," she paused as the faces of her family flooded her mind. The same faces she had not willingly thought about in many years.
Sakura, if she were braver, would have asked how. She would have asked for advice. But her eyes were heavy and her conviction was weak. She could only listen. She only had the capacity to follow. Green eyes flickered to the gray door in a silent plea for it to hold familiarity.
"It might not feel like it now, but this does not have to define you. This does not have to be the end."
You don't have to be like me. You don't have to end up like me.
Sakura did not know if she was projecting or if she had gained the ability to read minds. It did not matter all that much because the way Tsunade had both her eyes trained on her, Sakura traced a shiver migrating down her spine. She reacted accordingly.
Tsunade leaned back in her chair and pushed up her glasses. Her arms crossed over her chest. "I'll get you pants," Tsunade tutted in disapproval at Sakura's exposed knees and lack of socks. "They won't fit right but they'll do."
"I'm fine," she lied without creativity, it was the best she could do given the circumstances.
Tsunade's eyes landed on the raised, bumpy skin of her thighs but she said nothing. She did not need to as her face said it all.
I shouldn't have shaved.
"I gave you enough medication to knock out a horse."
"I have a high tolerance," she murmured with self-consciousness at the accusation. She brought her bandaged hand to her lap. Her heel continued to move up and down against the metal leg of the stool. It aided in keeping her awake. She could not go to sleep without seeing him—without talking to him.
I need to explain…everything.
"What's your poison?" Tsunade asked with a brow raised. She plucked the glasses from her head and folded the clear, plastic temples before setting them lens-side up on the table. The light was turned off.
"Vodka."
Sakura's eyes widened. She looked over Tsunade's shoulder to find him there, leaning in the doorway of the slightly ajar door. For how long exactly, she had no unit of measure.
Minato.
Her raised shoulders relaxed. She drank him in. He had changed. Maybe even showered. Her brow furrowed. He was wearing a suit. A dark, rich brown. The color of tree trunks, earth, and chocolate. Warm and comforting. His shirt was a crisp white. She tried to stand up—to go to him—but her legs locked in an uncooperative state. He would have to come to her. She hoped he would come to her.
A chair scraped against the floor but Sakura was not concerned. She did not look away from him. She could not look away from him. She was afraid that if she did, he would vanish. Another blonde head joined his. Her back was to her.
"Keep her seated. She can fall over any second," Tsunade spoke to him about her. "She's still in shock, don't believe a word she says about sleeping it off."
Some part of Sakura's brain wanted to protest—to defend herself as she was no stranger to trauma and trauma response, and while she did not have thirty years, her experience counted for something—but it was small and far away. She licked her lips. She remembered just how thirsty she was. Minato nodded his head. He said a soft thank you as he stepped back—becoming smaller and harder to see. Sakura's heart clenched. She opened her mouth to complain but Tsunade was faster. She slipped past him. Minato stepped forward. The door closed. And Sakura was left feeling foolish—and oh so clingy.
Deja vu.
She did not need to prick herself with a nail or a pinch, her hand hurt enough to tell her everything. She was not hallucinating this nor was any of this a dream. He was here.
Finally. It did not take. Her pushing him away did not stick.
You came back.
"Minato," she breathed his name. Both her hands were flat on the table. She would not be throwing anything at him, that much she wanted to make clear without explicitly putting it into words. "Where are we going?" She asked him, immediately, willing her body to align with her mind. She needed to focus.
He crossed the room quickly but yet she felt it was too long—it took him much too long. He crouched down—creasing his pristine pants. She wondered when was the last time the floors were cleaned. The top of his head was level with her shoulder. Her hand moved just as his did, their fingers found each other. She leaned into the warmth of his palm on her cheek. Pink lashes fluttered halfway.
You're here. You're really here.
"Sakura," his eyes crinkled with softness. "How are you feeling?"
"It doesn't hurt," she said with a shake of her head. "It's a soft cast. I'll get a hard one—a proper one—after X-rays confirm I don't need surgery. Dr. Senju said it could wait since it doesn't hurt that bad. It's better even, the swelling will have a chance to go down for a better exam and hopefully a smaller, less clunky cast," she spoke quickly as if it gave her more credibility. Or maybe because it gave him less chance to dwell on her words to think about all the various ways to pick apart her claims. "I'm okay." She had never broken a bone before but she would be fine. She could be brave. She knew how to be brave.
Sometimes.
She raised their connected hands. She reluctantly broke gaze with him to scan her eyes over his knuckles. Torn, red, and turning blue. "Are you okay?" She traced the same path up with her eyes.
A sound left his throat. She wondered if it was involuntary. Her lashes fluttered closed. He kissed her forehead before placing a kiss on each lid—on a whim perhaps. His fingerprints pressed against the back of her neck.
"I'm fine," he breathed against her left eyelid. His breath and skin tickled the delicate layer.
Without opening her eyes or moving her head, she pulled his hand to her lips which ghosted over his knuckles to place the softest of kisses. "I'll take a look." Just as soon as she opened her eyes. She was in no major rush to do so. "You'll need to take antibiotics again so you don't get an infection."
"You should try to eat something," his breath warmed her whole face. "Your stomach will be less mad at you for it."
"No," she inhaled, shaky but deep. "Are you mad?" She asked, small and trepid. "...At me?"
You have every reason to be.
"No," he was quick to deny, to put that reservation to bed.
"I didn't put the wedge in the door," she carried on, reminding him of all her faults. "I didn't notice my phone wasn't using wifi."
I made mistake after mistake. I can keep going all night.
"Sakura," he exhaled warily, eyes darting to the door.
Are you not interested in hearing….
Something clicked. "My neighbors!" Her eyes went wide, she moved to get up, erratic. "Minato, he knew about Hiro, Amaya, and the Hondas too!" Her voice went shrill, rising in volume along with her panic.
"Sakura, breathe," Minato reminded her in a low voice but with a stern tone. He waited for her to do just that. "Sasuke and Deidara checked," he repeated not for the first time tonight with patience. "No sudden movements. I shouldn't have to tell you," he stepped more firmly in the realm of reprimand. Sakura sank further into her stool, crestfallen. "He came alone."
He lied to me.
"I didn't fight him," Sakura murmured. "I just gave up."
I was a coward.
"You had a knife to your throat," Minato rubbed the back of her neck, mindful of the pressure points he encountered where she housed the stress she carried. A thumb ghosted over a circular bandage on purple skin. "Even the best fighters—trained fighters—tell you to run away from a knife. There's no winning against a knife. You did what you had to."
I didn't listen.
"I believe him," tears filled her eyes, quickly and completely in her many misgivings at her failure to prevent this. Her mind and mouth reentered the cyclical loop of hours prior. "I didn't believe you," she lowered her eyes in shame. "Minato, I left the door open! I didn't listen. Minato, I'm—"
"No," he shook his head, tucking her against his shoulder. "You survived." His eyes were closed. He held her, keeping himself still in the moment, ignorant of the loud ticking of the clock. "That's all that matters." He had his own broken promises he needed to answer for. To her. To her mother.
"Is Sasori…?" She asked; voice muffled and wet sounding. Fearfully, she asked the partial question completely with concern about what could have happened to the redhead.
"Everything is going to be fine."
Okay.
"Why are you dressed up?" She asked, sniffling as she pulled back to look him in the eyes. She was not yet so consumed with him that she forgot. Her fingers played with the square metal on his sleeve. Despite herself, a small smile pulled at her lips. She was losing her mind. Slowly. If it did not happen yet. She sank back into him, losing herself in the sensation of his presence.
Warm. Safe.
Minato sighed and that had her opening her eyes. She tilted her head back just enough to see his face in its entirety. She did not want to miss a thing now that they were together again and talking. Her stomach was burning her insides with the acid that churned in its emptiness.
We can figure it out. I'll listen this time. Promise.
"Sakura, I need to go."
She let go of his hand. Instantly, without even thinking about it. The dark corner she always ran back to called to her. She answered. Her eyes started to glaze over.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.
"Sakura," he held her face with both his hands. "Sakura," he said her name firmly, forcing her to abandon avoidance. Minato completely removed the option from the equation. He let out a small breath, gathering what was slipping from his fingers. He would not allow this—another—root of misunderstanding to grow strong enough to force them apart. "Steady in place, strong. Soil rich, fertile, tended too—heart's home in your roots," he recited, holding her steady in his unwavering hands, waiting for something other than dejection.
"I don't understand," she mumbled into the ground akin to something unintelligible. Soft pink lashes grow darker with the heavy tears ready to fall.
You're not being clear.
"I love you," he simplified beyond a point of doubt. "I love you, Sakura," he said again so she could not misunderstand or convince herself she misheard.
She blinked. Shell-shocked. Mouth agape and eyes wide.
"I'll come back to you." Like water, the words flowed from his tongue. Smooth and natural. Clear and unaffected by her silence. "You'll be safe here in the meantime. Believe me, Sakura. It won't be like before." He pressed his mouth against hers. She watched his eyes slide closed. He kissed her. Thoroughly. Even if she did not participate. He finally released her; Sakura's head was spinning. Minato smiled gently at her, catching a tear she did not know she shed. She gaped at him in a complete and utter loss. The warmth and the pressure were gone. He stood to his full height—towering over her. His shadow cast on her person. "Get some rest." He traced the side of her face, eyes lingering as if he was committing her to memory. He squeezed her shoulder.
Maybe it was her imagination, maybe it was his hesitation, maybe she was out of her mind but he dragged his feet in turning around. His strides were slow—heavy. His limbs seemed to not cooperate on his way to the door. His hand curled around the knob. He turned.
She stood up abruptly. The stool rattled, rocking on its legs before clattering to the floor loudly—still not as loud as her heartbeat. She barely registered the pain of the corner of the table hitting her in the hip. A new bruise to discover during her next shower. She kept moving. She was in motion to his stagnant state. Every part of her was unsteady—her head most of all. She was unstable. Before he could open the door and walk away or turn around and scold her for being reckless—neither option was acceptable—Sakura launched herself at him with abandon. She wrapped her arms around his front. She squeezed—trying to press herself into him. She wanted to be like the Sakura tree on his back. She wanted to be with him. Now and forever. Always.
Always.
She wanted to feel each and every breath of his as if it were her own and when she could not, she wanted to be the reason he looked forward to a new day—the rise of dawn. Fancy words and flowery sentiment abandoned her. They were not in her purview. They served her with no purpose now. She was not collected, calm, unshakable, she was none of those things. They were all his strengths and her weaknesses. Words, he was good at remembering words. She only could remember three. She pushed them out before she forgot even that much in the all-consuming ways of Minato Namikaze.
"I love you," she breathed, whispered, and dryly sobbed all at once—a swell that reached its crest. She crashed into him at full force. He never stood a chance. Just like her. A goner the moment blue overtook red as her favorite color, completely unbeknownst to Sakura.
So you better come back. Because I'll be waiting for you.
He did not move. She held him tighter. Hard enough to imprint on his soul. She was his. She was his to deal with however he liked. Her heart danced against his spine. She closed her eyes. She willed time to stand still. Tears slipped past her eyes. He bent down. His lips kissed her bandaged hand.
Come back to me.
"I promise," he said in a voice that sounded off, translating what she could not fight the clenching of her throat to say out loud.
She did not care. She clung to the words just as tightly as she did to him. The longer she did, the steadier she became. She remembered now.
Turbulent, tranquil—
Many given names and homes,
Lone safe harbor—you.
She had been like a wavering boat. Until now. He was her harbor.