AN: More futurefic, with war. Ahh, back to my roots. Shikamaru-centric, mostly, with a little Tenten. Warning for...er...blood, mostly. Watch out for low-flying Shikamaru/Ino subtext.
(is bricked)
EDITed approx. two seconds after uploading for typoage. Go me.
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God, but he's tired of the smell of blood.
He doesn't know how Kiba stands it, with his sharper nose. It's all too apparent even to his duller senses, inundating his skin, his clothing, his hair. His flak vest is a uniform rust-colored smudge, souvenir of his last kill (explosive note to the neck, extremely messy) and he undoes the clasps with his one good hand, flinging it to the side.
He glares at the mangled mess that is his hand. Torn scraps of glove are dark against paler skin. And blood everywhere, of course.
With a put-upon sigh, he gingerly grabs the ragged cuff of the shredded glove and peels it carefully off, swearing quietly between clenched teeth the whole way. There are many ways to catch a flung kunai without involving blood. Shikamaru just isn't quite good enough with taijutsu to know any of them.
He drops the bloody rag on the ground and makes a mental note to harass someone for another pair. He catches the cuff of his remaining glove between his teeth and yanks it off as well.
Having undressed himself as much as he ever does, these days, he collapses bonelessly onto his bedroll.
This whole war thing, he concludes, is for the birds.
His hand throbs painfully, and he contemplates hauling himself back to his feet to clean and bandage it. It would be the smart thing to do—avoid infection and other nasty and potentially life-threatening things.
He's tired of being smart.
Fuck it. He's just tired.
Deep, even breaths. He flings a forearm carelessly across his eyes, shutting out the dim light from the next tent over, feeling mesh dig into the bridge of his nose. He cradles his injured hand to his chest.
Still with the iron tang of blood. It's at the back of his throat, coating his tongue, teasing his nose, making his skin crawl. He throws his good arm off to the side, squeezing his eyes shut and promising himself he's not developing a neurosis.
His fingers brush up against something. It's cool and soft and he almost flinches away—lately, the cool, soft things he's touched haven't been anything pleasant.
But his tired brain registers the texture of silk on abused fingertips and he frowns. He hadn't thought he was stupid enough to bring silk onto a battlefield. He reaches out, wrapping his fingers around the…thing. A small bag, smaller than the palm of his hand. He drags it over to his face and goes slightly cross-eyed trying to bring it into focus.
Lavender.
The smell is suddenly everywhere, and he takes in a deep breath of it, closing his eyes.
"Flowers don't belong on a battlefield," he'd told her, and she'd smacked him, like it was something offensive. He doesn't know what she thought he was trying to say—he'd just been talking about the flowers.
The little herb-filled sachet had found its way into his bag somehow, anyway.
"You know, if you don't get that hand cleaned up, we're going to have to ask Sakura-chan to amputate."
He starts violently, biting his tongue and jerking upright. The little silk pillow goes flying as he reaches for a weapon.
But it's just Tenten.
Slowly, he forces himself to relax, ignoring her startled expression. "Sorry," he mutters. "Jumpy."
"I'll say," she replies, an eyebrow raised. "Just what did they have you doing out there?"
He shakes his head. There are some things you don't talk about to women. Hell, to anyone.
"Huh," she says, unimpressed, folding easily down into a cross-legged position next to him. "You look like shit," she observes, after a moment, dragging his pack over without so much as a by-your-leave and rummaging through it.
"Thanks," he says dryly. "What—"
She comes up with a canteen, shakes it experimentally. It sloshes and she smiles. "Water. So we don't have to amputate. May I?"
He rolls his eyes, but suffers her to manhandle his injured extremity. She digs a fair wad of bandages out of one of her vest pockets, cutting a length off with a kunai and dampening it with his canteen.
"So, Kiba-kun got back just after you did," she says, carefully straightening his fingers and wiping crusted blood from the skin. He looks away, groping blindly after the little sachet of lavender. "He was scouting out past the northern bluffs, you know."
He makes a noncommittal noise and grits his teeth as she hits a particularly painful spot.
"Don't be such a baby," she admonishes him, tugging gently on his thumb.
"Don't jab at it," he retorts.
She rolls her eyes. "Anyway, Kiba hit three drop-points for the crew behind the lines—looks like Shino's ahead of schedule."
"Mm?"
"Ino-chan's gone to ground—her last job went a little haywire, but she's all right."
"Ah. Owfuck, would you watch what you're doing?"
She smiles, tugging the offending knot a little tighter around his hand. "Done!" she says brightly.
Almost in spite of himself, a reluctant smile worms its way onto his face. "No amputation necessary?" he drawls.
"Not this time, genius," she replies, ruffling his hair. "And you really do look like shit. Can I get you some food before you pass out?"
He's not really hungry. Killing tends to murder his appetite (ha ha, very funny). He's just so very tired. He shakes his head. "Tomorrow," he mumbles, examining the neat bandage wound around his hand.
She frowns and pokes him experimentally in the ribs, ignoring his glare. "You're getting skinny. Skinnier, that is."
"Tomorrow," he says again, more firmly.
Tenten has apparently taken it upon herself to become the Rookie Nine's unofficial big sister. He would like to think that it's annoying and unnecessary, but truth is, it's more than a little nice to have someone who'll look out for them. And not just on the battlefield.
"Tomorrow," she says resignedly. "All three meals, or I go to Chouji-kun."
"Fine," he says, though his stomach roils uncertainly at the thought of that much food. He's been functioning on a bite here and there, usually between missions. Sleep's more important anyway. Speaking of which… "Now go away, I'm exhausted," he snaps.
"Right you are, Mr. Subtlety," Tenten says, getting smoothly to her feet. "Remember to bring that hand by the hospital tent in the morning or Sakura-chan will hit me."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," he grumbles. "Go away."
"Sweet dreams, Shikamaru-kun."
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Endnotes: Ehh, not much to say about this one. Pretty self-explanatory.
(what the hell, brain? I don't even like Shikamaru/Ino...)