WARNING: This fic contains mention of womanly bodily processes. If you wouldn't like to read about it, then this probably isn't for you. If you don't particularly care, please, do proceed. If you are rather picky about such things, and aren't sure whether or not you want to read, I'll say this much: there won't be any gory details – I'll be keeping it as vague as possible. But it will be there.
Okay. Now that I got that off my chest, it's time for a—
BA-DUM!
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Naruto. In fact, I don't even own this plot. It's something one of my reviewers (whose input I much appreciated) requested when I offered to write something for them as a gift. To my knowledge, said reviewer does not have a account, but their alias is xXxInuxXx. So. The basic storyline is not mine, but the finer details – as well as the story itself – is mine.
That be all.
xXxXx
"Back from the mission already?" The Hokage arched one fine, blond brow and settled her chin in her palm, regarding the recently returned kunoichi who stood before her with notable interest. In her other hand, a calligraphy brush hovered over a number of scattered documents, its black, ink-heavy tip a moment away from dripping. "That was fast...and messy, by the look of it."
"Very messy, Hokage-sama." The polite, female voice was muffled by a red-white mask, soft pink hair brushing over the sides of the hard, shaped surface when she bowed. She was, apparently, not completely oblivious to the dark, red-brown spots splattered over her pseudo-face. But she didn't seem to mind it at all. Nor did she pay much attention to the similarly colored stain that dyed her clothes, flaking off onto the tile every time she moved.
"Hm." The Hokage, feeling a quirk of nausea at the sight, glanced down at her papers. Oh. Lovely. An black splotch right where she was supposed to be signing the damn thing. "Necessarily, I hope. Those ANBU uniforms are a bitch to clean bloodstains out of."
"Have you ever known me to do something unnecessarily, Hokage-sama?"
"Not so far in my lifetime. And would you stop calling me that? It makes me feel like a stiff old hag. Take that mask off while you're at it – you're not on a mission right now."
"Mn." One gloved hand – similarly shedding tarnished copper – lifted to pluck off the painted rabbit mask she had worn for the past who-knows-how long; it came away reluctantly. The peeling of it from her face was a muted, sticky sound and feeling, as it had been all but fused to her with sweat and grime...but then it was only a weight in her palm, and the air of the office was pleasantly cool and fresh on her damp skin.
"That's better." The blonde Hokage observed the young kunoichi from the edge of her peripheral, her eyes flicking over the papers unseeingly as she tried without much success to ignore the metallic scent of old blood. "Now, if you would go file a mission report with Shizune, I need to be signing some things..."
"Of course." Sakura turned, mask tucked under her arm, and made to leave. However, she paused at the doorway, turning to look back at her old teacher over her shoulder. "When will you next have need of me?"
"Don't be so goddamn formal. I'll call you when I need you."
There was a smile in her tone when she spoke. "Yes, Hokage-sama." The door creaked shut behind her, latch clicking into place, before the woman seated at the hazard-zone desk could look up sharply enough to administer a successful glare.
"To think I've actually put up with her all these years..." Tsunade grumbled, her tone rough but her expression soft when she turned back to the more boring of her Hokage-ly labors, a faint smile on her painted lips.
She really was fond of that girl.
xXxXx
Sakura tilted her head back, rich turquoise eyes slipping shut against the warm spray that dampened her face, water and white suds streaming through her hair and down her back. The drain gurgled and swallowed. With the soap she rinsed from her body went the sweat and grime, as well as a few stains her clothes had failed to absorb during her bloody mission. Steam clouded the air, heating the small, tiled room.
Cleanliness. Oh, how she had missed it.
With one hand, she fumbled around the wall for the little dish that held the soap. It would be the third time she had scrubbed herself down, but she could care less – the more the better, really. Anything to erase whatever filth might be lingering. Besides...she had to make up for all of the showers she'd been unable to have while she was away.
It was while she was covering her arm in a thick layer of froth that she happened to glance down, having opened her eyes when the slippery white bar in her hand made a hearty attempt at escape.
She stilled. Blinked. Confusion played across her face.
What is...?
There was...something on the tile beneath her, dying the bubbly foam that pooled around her feet pink. It was a faint, diluted red in the rippling water, winding its way towards the drain. She jerked in surprise when a scarlet spot dripped from apparently nowhere, adding yet more color to the limited but confusing array.
Is...is that...?
...blood?
But she'd already washed away the residue of her assassination. And, so far as she knew, she hadn't sustained any injuries that would be bleeding at the moment. A few scratches, and one gash on her shoulder that was already half-healed and no longer spurting. So, where was this coming from?
Unless...
She stiffened, her jaw tight.
Oh, no.
No no no no no.
Sakura, having altogether forgotten about removing from her person all traces of dirtiness, shut off the water with a hard slam of her hand the cracked the tile around the faucet, lurching out of the shower stall and grabbing for her towel with a hand still slick and white with soap.
A trail of red droplets followed her out.
xXxXx
"Well, it's about time." The Hokage leant back in her chair, elbows settling comfortably on the arm rests while her fingers knit together. A smirk flitted over her face. "Took you, what, five years longer than Ino? I thought you'd be stuck as a pre-pubescent little girl forever."
Sakura's face was turning an unladylike shade of scarlet, and she was biting down on a snide retort as well as her cheek. When the coppery taste of blood touched the side of her tongue, she grimaced – as if she didn't have enough of the stuff around. "It's not funny, Tsunade!" She growled. "It's- it's—"
"Completely unprecedented?" She offered, quirking a brow. Her ex-student only ever called her by her proper name when she was very, very upset. The imprudence of it never failed to mildly irritate and amuse. "It always is. For everyone. Nobody ever marks a date on their calendar for getting their first p—"
"I know." Sakura hissed between her teeth, tucking her hair behind her ear absently. A breath huffed past her lips. "I know. That doesn't make it any easier."
"Of course not. I didn't think it would. Do you have any products?"
Sakura glanced at her Hokage, confused. "Do I have what?"
"Products. Things to use."
"For what?"
Tsunade stared at the kunoichi, her expression flat.
It took a moment longer for the blankness to leave Sakura's face. When it did, it was quickly replaced with sputtering, disbelieving embarrassment. Her face was turning deeply red again. Had her teacher really just asked her...?
"I- You—" She looked as though she wanted to say something more, but once again she found the will to suppress her sharp comments. "N-No, I don't! Why would I? It's not as though I've never needed to use—"
"I thought as much. Go get some. You might want a change of clothes, too."
Confused again, Sakura frowned. "Why?" What's wrong with my clothes?
Tsunade, with a rather dry stare, pointed at her student's nether regions. As blunt in her behaviors as ever.
"Wha-?" A brief glance down was all it took. Horror-stricken, Sakura turned on her heel without further ado and fled the office, leaving the unfinished question to hang in the air between them.
Tsunade, returning to her previous activity of shuffling about stacks of legal papers, chuckled at the words she heard snarled in the hallway: "Damned useless tissues!"
xXxXx
Lying in bed in the state of constant discomfort that had followed her all day, Sakura scowled up at the ceiling. Sure, it would probably give her wrinkles to frown so much, but who honestly gave a damn? She certainly didn't. Not right now, anyways. She was uncomfortable, and she was irritated, she was bleeding, and she felt like being pissed off at the empty air above her.
So bite me.
Turning over and punching her pillow into a slightly puffier shape, she tucked one arm against her chest and the other beneath her head, sandwiching the feather-stuffed envelope of cloth between her hand and ear.
It had been a long, trying day after returning from a long, trying mission. All she'd seen and all she'd thought about for that past week was blood. Blood and her aching body. And how much she wanted it all to end so she could go back to her nice, clean apartment and rest in un-bloody, un-achey peace. But here she was, still bloody and still achey. All she wanted at this point was to go to sleep. She would dream pleasant dreams, wake up rested and happy – well, perhaps not happy, but close – and she would have a wonderful breakfast and maybe, just maybe, she'd go over to visit with Naruto and—
Her eyes snapped wide and her breath hitched.
Air filled her lungs.
A scream was torn from her throat, somewhere between moan and whimper and a hurting, animal howl.
White-hot fire leapt through her arm (her left, she thought on some entirely automatic level of consciousness) and seared away her thoughts, her rationality. Her own voice pierced her ears in its shrillness. But the throbbing of her ears was nothing. Nothing. Because her skin was burning, and her muscles were turning to ash, and the bones around which her flesh was wrapped were filling with living, hungry embers that were devouring her alive.
She tumbled off of the mattress in a tangle of sheets. The sound of tearing cloth cut through the air as she struggled loose, clutching at her arm, her rough fingers pressing against an old triplet scar, tears she did not feel streaming from eyes that could not see. Her shoulder thudded against a wall as she stumbled. Her voice cracked open.
She didn't hear the sound of footsteps pounding over the floor above. There was no room for hearing, no room for thoughts. No room. No room for anything but screaming.
And scream she did.
Another wall, another scream. Another wall, another broken, breaking cry that seemed to tug her soul out through her mouth. Another wall. The stumbling, blind cycle went on.
She wasn't sure where, exactly, she was going. All she knew was that she was running, fleeing, escaping from the fire that had consumed her bed and her arm. She ran, fled, escaped to the bathroom, slamming shut and locking the door behind her. Locking out the agony. But it hadn't worked, because the agony had followed her in, attached to her, feeding on her, inside of her, and suddenly she wished she were in the kitchen so she could cut it all out with a knife or something, anything, everything because it was inside – inside – and oh god she just wanted to cut it out, rip it out, tear it out, freeze it out—
Fists beat against the door of her home unheard. Outside, one shouted to another, "Call someone! Anyone! Get help! Go! Now!"
Some still-thinking part of her tugged open the frosted panel that sealed away the shower. There was a screech and a crack (too much force, somehow, but she wasn't even trying to use her chakra) of glass but she pulled herself inside just the same, fumbling for the handle and turning it – almost shattering it – towards the small blue dot that she distantly thought on some screaming, instinctual level would help her.
Water.
Cold.
It tumbled down on her shoulders like ice, soaking through her clothing, and she shivered and trembled and cried...but the fire raged on. Burning, burning, oh god she was burning alive...
Her shuddering legs buckled. She fell hard on the tile, the showerhead pouring winter-chilled water down on her as the slumped to the floor. Her skin broke on the sharp edge of the drain, but the hurt was so small, so unimportant, she didn't notice it, didn't feel it. She was too busy screaming. Screaming. Screaming. Conscious but not, her throat convulsing and the pain spreading to her shoulder, her chest. She was there but she was just not quite there. She was awake, but her mind was absent.
The flame, however, the agony – it was there. It was there.
Sakura, curled on the cold tile stained with dry blood, listened to her voice beat against the bleeding walls.
xXxXx
AN: This is gonna be a longun', folks. Buckle down for the ride.