MORNING BREATH
Shikamaru blinks awake, greeted by low light and an old ceiling with a familiar set of cracks in it. His mouth is dry and most of his body feels very cold, and as he shifts a little against the thin sheets, he finds that he is entirely naked and seems to have discarded his covers. He runs his fingers through his loose hair, pulling it back with one hand, and scratches his head. While his brain slowly catches up with his body, he deduces that he successfully made it back to his apartment the night before, and that it is now early morning, a little before seven.
The suggested course of action for a shinobi upon waking includes a systematic assessment of all body parts to check for injuries as well as an assessment of one's surroundings to be sure that one isn't caught in some elaborate genjutsu. However, Shikamaru prefers not to get out of bed too quickly and believes that unwarranted suspicion is a waste of energy, so a quick affirmation that his exposed chest hasn't been stabbed in his sleep is enough for him to conclude that he is safe.
The next thing he ought to do would be to get a drink of water to quench his thirst and quell his burgeoning headache, but that would require movement from the bed to the kitchen. Movement would require his brain to figure that the physical exertion is worth the reward, and the cost of physical exertion at the moment is very high. The effort might also wake the warm, breathing thing beside him and he is reluctant to sacrifice his only heat source. Wait. That's peculiar. He glances downward to get a better look at the mystery creature and, in a realization of his worst fears, finds that the object previously believed to be a personal furnace is actually a woman: tan and fit with frizzy blonde hair and nude.
The former are features he is well-acquainted with, fierce and hardened features he has known since he was twelve years old, but only began to admire at sixteen. By then, of course, there was a bit more to admire, but it would take a lot of alcohol for him to admit that he cared for anything more than her abrasive wit and pragmatic resilience. Presently, though, she seems much smaller than usual, her hair softer, her skin more delicate. In fact, she looks almost demure, and for a woman as unyielding as she is, it strikes Shikamaru as entirely bizarre. Now, is it because of her nakedness? Is it because they had sex? Or is it, he hopes, just an illusion brought on by the haze of dawn.
The blue light shining through the thin curtains above turns to yellow frighteningly fast. The events of the previous night most likely have greater and more extensive ramifications than the fact that the woman beside him is a little more womanly than he once thought, but he doesn't have enough time to think about them, and as he looks to the ceiling and finds no clouds there, he feels no desire to analyze anything.
He gets the feeling that this is one of those moments his father had talked about during that time Shikaku had literally been banished from the house into the clan forest. Shikamaru had asked why Shikaku would have married a woman who caused him such trouble and his father had spoken of days packing for missions, becoming suddenly thankful that Yoshino had forced him to do laundry two days before. He spoke of meals left in the fridge when he returned from late nights on the field and of quiet afternoons staring at the shogi board when Yoshino would alight at his shoulder and move a piece in a way he hadn't thought of. "It is a great feeling," he said, "to have a strong woman at your side, always reliable, and to whom you are entirely devoted." He spoke of times of these, together, moments in which he should simply be. The fact that he exists here beside her in this room is enough. No clutter, no excess. Just her.
She stirs. As she comes to, she tenses for a moment out of habit, eyes calculating, one hand darting to her bare thigh, where her shuriken holster would usually be strapped. Then, sensing no immediate danger, she relaxes, and then cautiously nuzzles her head into a more comfortable position against his armpit. Her fingers walk from her thigh to his abdomen, and then begin to glide upwards, slowly, in case he might protest. His heart beats with more force, but he doesn't otherwise react, so her hand makes its way to his chest where her palm settles steadily against his sternum. And then his heart rate slows again, as though right there, resting in Temari's hand is where it has always belonged.
She mumbles something as she begins to pick idly at the sparse hairs of his chest. Then more clearly, "You're a good man, Shikamaru."
Five heartbeats later, "Where did that come from?"
"You care about people. Even when they bring you trouble, you still care too much."
"Maybe."
She huffs. "Give yourself more credit. You aren't half as lazy as you pretend to be."
"Trust me, I am."
"Do you mean it when you say you'd rather sleep and play shogi than anything else?"
"Yeah."
"Do you mean it when you say you want a plain wife who's a good cook and doesn't argue?"
He almost says yes, but remembers the reason his father was banished to the woods that one time. One very long heartbeat later he responds, "What's that supposed to mean?"
She gives only a soft hum as an answer. Her hand leaves his chest as she rolls on to her back and casually spreads her arms across the bed, a blossom freshly blooming beside him, wilting just as quickly as her body sinks into itself.
"What are you going to do when your dad hands down clan leadership to you?"
"I guess I'll have to take it. It'll be a pain in the ass, though."
"What are you going to do when the elders ask you to take political office?"
"They won't."
"One day, when you're the only man for the job, they will."
"Fine, if it's best for the village."
"See? Too responsible."
"Man, people expect too much. Just let me be."
Temari lets out a deep sigh and Shikamaru isn't sure if he detects a hint of exasperation, or is it resignation? "May I use your shower?" she asks.
"Sure."
She slides off the bed and picks her undergarments off the floor. Her movements are indifferent, neither hurried nor languid, neither purposeful nor carefree. When she speaks, her face is impassive, her tone entirely businesslike.
"Do you have a spare towel?"
"Cabinet."
"Could I get a glass of water?"
"Help yourself."
"Are you going to get up?"
"Nah."
"Move at all?"
"Nah."
She picks a towel from the cabinet and heads to the bathroom. A few moments later, the toilet flushes. He hears the rumble of the pipes through the walls as she starts the water, and he hears her slam the sliding door as she enters the shower without waiting for the water to heat up. The water stops. He hears her tap three times on the shampoo bottle to coax the stuff out from the bottom of the container. What follows is the fluctuating thrum of shower spray, a break for soap, back to the thrum, and then it is over. She is finished showering in what must be less than three minutes. Shikamaru still hasn't moved when Temari returns, fully dressed, damp hair draped over one shoulder. She raises an eyebrow at his exposed genitalia, but there isn't a shameful bone in his body.
"The Elders have offered me a position on the council. If I accept, I won't be able to come to Konoha much anymore."
"Will you accept?"
"Wouldn't you?" She grabs her pack and turns to the door. "See you, then."
Some instinct tells Shikamaru to say something. He doesn't know what it is he should say, but he knows that he needs to say something or he won't get the chance again. Her hand is on the door handle now. She turns around and scans the room from one side to the other, returning to the center to meet his eyes. She smiles, but it is somehow melancholic. The door opens. She is halfway out. Gently, she shuts the bedroom door and she is walking down the hallway and passing the kitchen. It's only a few steps so she must have reached the front door by now. He hears the heavy lock click open and at the last possible moment, the cost of what he is losing overcomes the cost of his pride.
"Wait!" he screams, catapulting off the mattress and stumbling out to face her. When he exits the bedroom, Temari is nowhere in sight and the front door is ajar. He stands unclothed and unable to move as an elderly neighbor shuffles past the doorframe on her daily venture to the farmer's market. This is why he doesn't get out of bed. Since the door is open, though, she must be around.
So he begins slowly. "Temari. I… Okay. All I ever wanted was to play shogi and grow old with and marry an ordinary woman. In my dreams she wasn't too pretty and wasn't too ugly. I wanted a stable life with no surprises. But then… because of you my fantasy started to change."
Finally, Temari appears before him, stepping into the doorway, the same melancholic look on her face.
"Will you stay?" he asks.
"Sure."
"I mean… for a long time."
"Do you know what you're asking?"
He grimaces. "Yeah. I know. It's not fair. I'm sorry."
Her eyes are stormy, but her face relaxes as if to quell his guilt. She puts her pack down. "I'll stay."
"Okay."
This fic exists because I sometimes can't believe that Temari must have loved Shikamaru more than she loved Suna.