"Drill."
She says it without emotion, as though she were checking an item off a shopping list. Her nimble fingertips circle around the nub of scar tissue before moving to the next.
"Drill."
He felt her walk her fingers across his head, a slow marching rhythm. She rubs at a mottled patch of scars, her callouses scraping against his bald head. She begins to tap and drum her fingers, the smirk audible in her voice.
"Needle, needle, nails...these ones are hot needles..."
He doesn't know when she began making a habit of this. Once, years ago, he had relented to her incessant questioning and took the time to explain every wound. The memories were carved deep after all. He had suspected that she could already guess the instruments that inflicted most of the damage. But she had taken a fascination to the ravaged canvass and liked to take the time to recall, perfectly he might add, every moment of his torturous imprisonment.
"Ooooh, this has to be acid..." There was a ghost of a giggle in her voice.
Deep down, he had always suspected that she wasn't half the sadist that she made herself out to be. Sometimes, though, she made him rethink his position.
"Razor."
She had asked him once, years ago, why he covered his scars. Why he hid them from the world. She had asked if he felt ashamed of them. He had simply told her that his scars weren't for the world. They belonged to him, and him alone.
"Wires...hot wires? Huh, I haven't tried that one..."
And to her, of course.
"Lightning burns...damn!"
That day had probably been the worst of them. He gave an involuntary swallow, his throat raw with the memory of his screams. Sobs, curses, even a peal or two of mad laughter had passed his lips on that day. But no secrets, no positions, no Intel whatsoever.
"Hammer and chisel."
Each cut, each tear, every burn and break and puncture, every cauterised wound and swiftly repaired injury was a record of his resilience. Of his pride and strength as a Konoha shinobi. And she was the only one who he would fully share that with.
"Damn Ibiki, your head is messed up man! You really should get something done about that, you'll scare away any new recruits that get a sight of it."
He grins and reaches up for her slender wrists, snaking his rough hands around them. She tries to resist him as he pulls her around from behind his back, but she doesn't fight hard. He pulls her down and brings his lips to her shoulder, a single kiss on the inky-black mark that stains her pale skin. She bristles under his grip, and he grins to himself. Her hand clips him around the back of the head, and he considers himself lucky. Other men have died for less.
"You fucker!"
His scars are visible for all to see, though he chooses to hide them. A permanent record of what he has been through. Anko's scars are buried deep, deeper than any of his. Deeper than most will ever be allowed to know. And while he hides his with cloth, hers are hidden behind a menacing grin that, at times, becomes all too real.