theres not enough good kabuto fic so i decided im gonna Get What I Want nd now this exists

The warning comes in three parts. By the time the third arrives, it is too late for him.

Kabuto's new client lives at the east end of the city, beyond the failing railway lines and the slums that eat at the edges. The house juts out of the barren landscape like a bone through the skin, walls disgustingly pale and bloated between layers of flaking paint. He counts six gables and three chimneys as he walks up the hill, and stops after that, because for all its antiquity the house is as pleasant to look at as a canker sore. Curious that a man wealthy enough to hire a personal physician cannot spare the money to tend to his home. It may be, he decides as he slips through the front gate, that there is no point in repairing the outside of a house you never leave. (He'd been asked if he knew anyone who ran market errands. He did, but did not recommend them.)

The drive is dense with wilted magnolia petals and empty of any sort of vehicle. The home of a true hermit, then—or some sort of luddite, unless he's missed a car tucked away behind the relentless overgrowth of hydrangeas and maple.

The door is old; the knocker is new, or simply well cared-for: a twining silver serpent with its jaws clenched around the ring. He knocks once, twice, three times—and waits.

Movement behind the dusty windows. The boy who opens the door is pale and gaunt, the lines of his cheekbones uncomfortably clear. Practically translucent. "You're late," he mumbles, ushering Kabuto inside and staring at a point just past his head. His knuckles are mottled with bruises. Kabuto frowns, and files the boy's appearance away for later comparison against a list of symptoms.

"Your master doesn't exactly make himself easy to find." He had to endure three bus rides to get here, the last of which stopped halfway through the lower districts and declared that anyone going further would have to walk. The mud caked on Kabuto's boots will take at least an hour to slough off. "Why live here when there are better accommodations inside the city?" The answers are obvious: dislike of city air, of city people, of city gossip; catering to a personal aesthetic of solitude; something to hide. But Kabuto has found that sometimes, the measure of a man lies in what he tells his servants, or at least what he lets them believe. How much trust he places in those closest to him.

The boy shrugs, and lets out several watery coughs as he shuts the door. (Noted. Filed.)

Grey sunlight filters in through a pair of dusty skylights, but Kabuto still finds himself squinting through the gloom to make out the edges of things. The signs of casual wealth are scattered through this room, and the next—intricate rugs with tasseled edges; velvet drapes, blocking out the light of ceiling-high windows; enough books to fill his personal library ten times over. And everywhere, serpents, or something like them. Carved into the banister, woven into the edges of carpets in writhing knots..

"What's your name?" Kabuto asks as they move through the foyer, down a wide hall. The walls are lined with zoological oddities. A preserved turtle with two heads peers at him from between jars of oil, their contents hidden behind the yellowing glass. He'd almost be disturbed, if he weren't used to similar sights in the basement of the medical university—and his own offices.

"Kimimaro."

"And you're Orochimaru's—"

"My ward," says a voice, and Kimimaro shuffles to a halt.

Orochimaru stands at the head of a staircase that might be considered grand, if it were not, like the rest of the house, coated with a layer of silvery grime. He is a tall man; statuesque. Pale, almost fittingly, as marble, with a face too perfect not to have been partially painted on. Kabuto thinks of the mud on his boots—mud he's inevitably tracked across this man's fine carpets—and about the fact that he hasn't had time to bathe today; files the insecurity away to contemplate later. He doesn't have the time to waste comparing his lifestyle to his patients', especially when they're paying him such substantial sums.

Kimimaro stutters up the steps, and Orochimaru bends to receive a mumbled word; responds in kind, so softly that Kabuto would have to make an unfortunately conspicuous eavesdropper of himself to catch the content. A comforting brush of the shoulder, and the boy is ushered off to parts unknown.

"Is he ill?" asks Kabuto, nodding after him. "I can have a look, if you'd like. Make sure it's nothing serious."

"Oh, it's rather serious," says Orochimaru, descending. Silk trails down the steps behind him, disgustingly opulent. "But there's nothing you'd be able to do for him, I'm afraid. Something in the bones. I've been treating him regularly, but I doubt he has much longer." He says it casually, like a grocer contemplating the tail end of his stock of meat.

Kabuto raises an eyebrow. "You practice?"

"I dabble." Orochimaru gestures at the collection against the walls, and sighs almost wistfully. "Kimimaro was such an interesting case, I couldn't help myself. It's an experimental treatment—a little outside your field."

'Experimental' could mean anything, from mutilative surgery to the herbal tinctures so commonly thrown together by Konoha housewives to clear the sinuses and soothe sore throats. There is merit in traditional remedies, certainly—in the hands of a qualified practitioner. Not, he thinks, some woman hoping rhubarb will cure her waistline because she read about it in the local rag. (Though it might, as it's rather difficult to put on weight when everything you eat now goes straight through to the other end.)

'Outside your field' implies it's none of his business, which means it most certainly is.

"He should be resting," says Kabuto.

"He does," says Orochimaru. "But given how little time he has left, it feels almost cruel to force him into it. So I let him wander as he pleases." He chuckles. "Keeps the place lively."

"Is he dying?"

"Near enough." Kabuto recognizes the sort of vagueness that means 'stop prying.' And he will stop. Being obvious about it, that is.

Orochimaru gestures for him to follow. "Come," he says. "I wouldn't want you to think me rude enough to keep a guest standing about."

The corridor they walk down is cramped and dim, and smells faintly of mold. It's a smell that only grows stronger the deeper into the house they go, until Kabuto is sure there must be some sort of infestation at hand—and then it vanishes, all too suddenly, as he crosses the doorway into the sitting room. As though it was sucked back into the walls. (The incense fogging the room would certainly help, too.)

It's as opulent as the rest of the house, decorated in shades of violet and grey. The serpents are here, too: embroidered into cushions and carved into the bricks above a fireplace blackened with soot. One of the far windows is thrown wide open to let in a breeze that stinks faintly of sewage and—unless Kabuto's mind is playing tricks on him—brine. The ocean is miles away behind the Wall, which consumes the distant landscape.

"Not a very pleasant view," he remarks. The Wall is a hundred feet high, a dark grey smear across the horizon.

"But it's unavoidable, isn't it?" says Orochimaru, settling into an armchair and gesturing for Kabuto to join him. "It lurks no matter where you look—and it's better," he adds, "than the alternative. It doesn't do you much good to watch the people crawling through their own filth day after day, except to remind you of where you'd rather be." He sniffs. "Still, I expect you hardly notice it by now, don't you?"

It takes Kabuto a moment to realize he means the Wall, not the people. "Oh?" he says, taking a seat. "Yes, it does tend to fade into the background." Hardly visible from the inner city, on particularly hazy days, and in some places the houses run right up against it, teetering upwards on wooden struts and pressing against the stone like rats attempting to crawl free of the sewer. Defiant in the face of God—or gods, or simply the city watch. "Do you know the history?"

"Built up by the Fourth before his death, wasn't it? Just before the tragedy in Suna. Expert timing." Orochimaru chuckles. "Some say he knew what was coming."

"Then he did what was best for the people, didn't he?"

"Didn't he?" echoes Orochimaru. "I wonder..."

"Surely you didn't call me all the way here to discuss outdated politics," says Kabuto, adjusting his glasses. He doesn't have much of an opinion, either way. He's inside the Wall, not out, and that's all that matters. "And if it's not for the boy—"

The clatter of fine china interrupts him, as a fiery-headed young woman all but storms into the room, setting the tea tray down on the table in front of him with a delicacy her demeanor does not suggest. The cups rattle anyways, and Orochimaru's lip curls, ever so slightly.

"Some tea for our guest, please, Karin," he says "And tell Suigetsu the flue needs cleaning."

"He knows," mutters Karin, pouring a steaming cup and setting it in front of Kabuto. "This is the third time this week you've had me remind him."

"What was that?"

"Oh, nothing!" She shoots a hard look at Kabuto, as though daring him to say otherwise.

"How do you take your tea?" asks Orochimaru.

"Black is fine." Karin promptly abandons his cup for Orochimaru's, ladling in a generous spoonful of honey, stirring once, then abandoning the spoon on the tray and bustling back out the door. Kabuto hears her bellow down the hall as soon as she assumes she's out of earshot, calling for Suigetsu.

"I apologize for her demeanor. Karin has little respect for strangers, guest in my home or no." Orochimaru sips his tea, and grimaces. "I'm sure she'll adjust to your presence."

"You make it sound as though I'll be spending quite a bit of time here." The tea is bitter, and bites at the back of Kabuto's throat like a stray dog. If he happens to catch the girl later, he'll ask after the mixture.

"If our negotiations proceed favorably." Several more spoonfuls of honey make their way into Orochimaru's cup, and after his third taste he sighs, satisfied. "I am entering," he says, leaning forward, "a new stage of my work. Highly experimental, and naturally quite private. I need someone capable of tending to me in an emergency, should I injure myself in the process." He narrows his eyes. "Preferably someone discreet."

"You'd like me to keep my mouth shut," says Kabuto flatly. It's a request he's been given before, usually by clients involved in more unsavory activities. The gang members who'd be snapped up by law enforcement the moment they stepped foot inside a hospital; the addicts coming down from a near-fatal overdose who'd prefer to keep their families in the dark.

Orochimaru chuckles. "You do catch on quickly."

"I wouldn't still be alive if I didn't. What's the nature of the work?"

"Nothing illegal, I assure you."

"Oh," says Kabuto, "that wouldn't be a problem. I'm just curious to know what I'm getting into."

"As I said," says Orochimaru, shrugging, "I dabble. And there are many...volatile substances that do as they see fit no matter how many precautions are taken. As for the secrecy—well. You see where I choose to live. I prefer to keep myself and my work at a distance from the public."

"But you trust me."

"You have a reputation. And," Orochimaru continues, "as you operate independently, no obligation to report on my condition to higher-level medical staff, or temptation to gossip about it otherwise." He smiles thinly. "The nurses of the general ward are quite a talkative bunch."

"If they were hired for their discretion, the hospital would be short-staffed within the week." Only one of the reasons he no longer cares to associate with them. "How long have you lived here?" he asks. "If you don't mind the inquiry."

"A number of years," says Orochimaru blithely. "Since after the Wall."

Plenty of refugees fled to the cities to escape the calamity outside them—the bijuu, beasts that descended from beyond the world, rampaging unfettered, unsympathetic. And the things they carried with them: earthquake, plague, wells and rivers clogged with black algae. Children born rabid, biting the fingers of the midwives. But even now there's a look that sets them apart from the ones who grew up inside the walls. A certain hollowness to the eyes that accompanies the knowledge that your old home is lost, possibly forever.

Orochimaru isn't hollow. He has the air of someone who's settled, like silt at the bottom of a deep pond. Whatever he's left behind, it's now irrelevant—or never mattered in the first place.

Kabuto is hollow, but it's a different sort. There are empty spaces made by filling and then taking away. And there are those where it's impossible to say what was there to begin with. His memories begin and end with Konoha, and the Wall, and that's fine, isn't it?

And yet—he can't say he belongs here, because he doesn't know what brought him to Konoha to begin with. And he can't say he belongs with the refugees, because he doesn't know what it was he left behind.

(But that's fine.)

(Isn't it?)

"I wonder..." says Orochimaru. "What would it take, to buy exclusivity? For a month, say."

Kabuto chuckles, setting down his empty cup. "Really, now, you make me sound like a common harlot instead of a physician." But he gives a number—the combined amount his current regular clients pay, and then some. The amused smile on Orochimaru's face doesn't fade, as Kabuto has seen it do on countless other faces. "Would that be acceptable?"

"Not what I expected."

"Higher?"

"Lower. I was wondering why you looked practically starved, but that would certainly explain it." Kabuto doesn't correct him. It's not that he lacks the funds to eat well. Just the inclination.

"What did you have in mind, then?"

Orochimaru leans in and offers a number. It's substantial enough to make Kabuto's stomach curl at the thought of what he could do with that sort of money. Research grants don't come easy, and the directors at the university hospital are a curmudgeonly, watchdog-ish sort. The only time Kabuto appreciates someone peering over his shoulder is to compliment his work, and hardly even that.

"I'll need to think about it," he says. (He doesn't need to think about it.)

"Naturally," says Orochimaru. "It's quite a commitment. But I'd like an answer within the week, if possible."

"Of course."

Karin returns shortly, this time with cakes—which Kabuto politely declines—and another complaint about Suigetsu, which Orochimaru clicks his tongue at and promises to confront later.

Kabuto delves into the painful necessities of transaction: the timing of his payments; potential fees for extra services rendered, such as the treatment of Orochimaru's servants or the running of errands the household is unqualified to make; and suchlike. He learns, after the bare acceptable minimum of prying, that Orochimaru is a naturalist by study and by trade; a chemist, an alchemist, and a number of others by necessity and pure curiosity. To someone as singleminded as Kabuto, the number of interests is almost alarming, but it suggests a refreshing level of intelligence. No more clipping his explanations of tools and technique down to a few palty words because his client was incapable of comprehending the answer.

"What sort of injury are you expecting?" he asks.

"Nothing serious," says Orochimaru. "Only...a little strange, perhaps."

"I meant specifically," says Kabuto. "So I can better prepare in advance. Chemical burns? Inhalation of fumes?" He frowns. "Animal bites?" Rabies makes for frustrating and violent medicine; he prefers to avoid it entirely if he can.

"The way you talk, I'd say you've already made your decision to treat me."

"Some opportunities are worth the trouble. Some aren't. Can you blame me for wanting to know what sort this is?" Kabuto smiles thinly. "But I do enjoy a challenge." Provided its the right sort. There are challenging patients, the treatment of which is like pulling teeth—to use a cross-disciplinary metaphor—and then there are patients who present a challenge; a puzzle. The sort it's practically impossible to turn down. Hippocratic oath demands the doctor do no harm, but in cases like these even death is too much of a fascination to cause him any sort of grief.

"And that," says Orochimaru, standing, "is the sort of mindset that encouraged me to seek you out. You have a taste for the..." He pauses. "Experimental."

"So it would seem."

"In a week, then," says Orochimaru. "Your answer."

"In a week," agrees Kabuto.

On his way out, Kabuto pauses in the foyer to investigate the mazelike curves of a serpentine vase, hosting a clump of drooping violets.

"I see you admiring my choice in decor," says Orochimaru, peering over his shoulder. "It is odd, isn't it?"

"Nothing wrong with snakes," says Kabuto, instinctively wiping a smear of dust from the rim with his thumb. He's seen stranger.

"Oh, no. Not snakes." Orochimaru pulls a slim volume from a nearby bookcase and flips through the pages, settling on an illustrated spread with lines so dense the pages are nearly black. "Not quite." He holds out the book and Kabuto takes it, Orochimaru's fingers brushing against his with the delicacy of a spider's web—and the clinginess. Something about the skin. Kabuto grimaces, and peers at the image: a massive serpent (black, he assumes, though the artist was clearly more concerned with form than accuracy), or something like it. Rows of scales coiling in on themselves, parting to reveal an intimate flash of eye, of tooth, of gaping maw. The inscription below it reads—

"Manda?"

"A lesser bijuu. Tied to the cycle of consumption and rebirth, if the various texts are to be believed—this included, of course."

Kabuto flips idly through the rest of the pages, each illustration somehow more chaotic than the last. "Consumption hardly seems the sort of thing to lead to rebirth." In the masses of ink he makes out earthly forms: toad, slug, serpent again. The bijuu imitate the shapes of the natural world, as though trying to force their way into a puzzle they know they are not a part of. "In my line of work," he adds, almost snidely, "it tends to lead to fits, fever, and suffocation."

"What luck, then" says Orochimaru, "that you have someone outside of it to educate you. You've heard of the concept of the Ouroboros?"

He clicks his tongue."Of course. The serpent that devours its own tail."

Orochimaru plucks the books from his hands and opens it, almost automatically, to another page peppered with diagrams—among them, of course, the Ouroborus. "An infinite cycle. The serpent devours and destroys himself, and gives birth to himself. Consumption and rebirth," he repeats.

Kabuto nods in a semblance of appreciation. He's toiled through his fair share of philosophy and religious courses—university requirements; not out of much personal interest—and while he has the head for the stuff, there seems little point to wasting his time on what he can't see. The hypothetical and speculative are only much use when you're given a way to physically test them. "Seems rather uncharacteristic for a naturalist to have such a fixation on the otherworldly," he notes.

"Well," says Orochimaru, "they walk the earth, so they certainly seem to be a part of it now, don't they. It would be more uncharacteristic of me to not pay attention to them." He snaps the book shut and tucks it back in place on the shelf with a practiced motion. "Surely you aren't without your odd little hobbies, doctor?"

Kabuto shrugs. "I have my work."

"That's all?"

"I don't need anything else." And it's true—when he's not treating patients, there are tools to clean and supplies to acquire; medicines to make and research to do. An outside observer might call him obsessive; a workaholic—and they'd be right. But it isn't like he has any alternative.

"Such a singleminded life you lead, doctor," says Orochimaru, and little else, as he escorts Kabuto to the door.

"I'll inform you of my decision within the next few days," says Kabuto.

"Oh, do," says Orochimaru. "Do."

Kabuto doesn't look back as he starts down the drive, but he never hears a lock click, and knows Orochimaru must be watching him go. It's an unsettling feeling. Were the circumstances any different, he might reject the job on principal. Criminals are all very predictable in their tendencies; strange men in houses on the hill are another sort of breed entirely. Naturalists or not.

But the money...

It's not just the money, if he's honest. Something about the house, about Orochimaru himself, has a curious draw—as much as they fill him with a curious revulsion. Like sinking down into a deep pond, hoping to find the bottom with your feet. The sensation of silt and water weeds brushing against your ankles is unsettling, certainly, but not as unsettling as the thought that the pond might not have a bottom at all.

He has to touch the bottom, now that he's started the descent.

Something else to ponder on the slog home through three bus rides and a slum.