RECOVERY
Note: I was shitface drunk when I wrote this. Forgive me.
"Did you always want to be a shinobi?"
It isn't the easiest question to answer, of course, and it's the kind of thing Oikawa is well aware of. But through sheer curiosity and a little bit of liquid courage (after all, they are loitering in a bar in the middle of nowhere), he decides to throw the question up in the air.
"No," Kuroo's reply is terse.
Oikawa can't help but press on, "So what did you want to be when you were little?"
The dark-haired shinobi cocks his head back and resists the urge to sigh. He lets himself settle his attention on one of the more obscure corners of the room, wondering how he wound up on this end of the conversation.
"A cop," he admits, finally.
Oikawa snorts.
"Oi. You have something to say?" Kuroo snaps, his tone torn between indifference and irritation.
"It's just," Oikawa taps his index finger against his lower lip, trying to come up with the right words without offending his partner, "I'm not surprised. That sounds like something you'd say."
It's scary how self-aware he's become.
Playing with his half-empty cup of whiskey, Kuroo acknowledges the sentiment with a slight hn. Oikawa isn't totally off the mark. But with the whole reckless abandon, scruffy, don't-give-a-shit attitude Kuroo wore like a badge of honor, anyone could've guessed he was born and bred to be a shinobi.
"So," Oikawa continues, crossing his arms over the countertop. He leans forward slightly and stares ahead at the myriad of spirits sitting on the shelves. "What happened to your dream?"
The first time they meet is in the Hokage's office. For whatever reason, Kuroo expected that he'd be assigned a female partner, only because that'd been the norm for his prior associates. He had hoped (and maybe it was the faint, embarrassing, hopeless romantic inside him talking) that it'd be someone he could fuck around with and forget about. The life of a shinobi was ripe with conflict and death, after all. He had to take his pleasures where he could.
But more realistically, he was just hoping his new partner wouldn't get in his way.
Oikawa saunters into the room, hands in his pockets, wearing a half-smile that might've fooled anyone. Kuroo's natural reaction is to sneer at him; he resists the urge to roll his eyes.
He gives him two weeks.
Three weeks, max.
"Nice to meet you," Oikawa's smile only widens, as he reaches forward to shake Kuroo's hand. "I look forward to working with you."
Before he can actually make contact, the darker-haired shinobi takes a single step towards the door, uttering an audible, "Try not to die," before vanishing into the hallway.
Four weeks in, Kuroo is beginning to familiarize with their partnership. It's difficult, like the beginning of any new relationship, but it's something that builds slowly over time. He figures it won't be long before the brunette actually acquiesces to his demands.
Usually, it's Kuroo taking the mantle of leadership. It's how the pieces fall, and it's how things worked before Oikawa entered the picture. At first, the brunette learns to observe from a distance away. Understand his partner's strengths and shortcomings. Make up for where he falls behind.
Kuroo is strong. Fast. Resilient. But he also has that headstrong stubbornness that earns him more than a few nicks and bruises.
Oikawa notices, of course, and he can practically count the scars on his back.
It's not until Kuroo has a kunai pressed against his neck that Oikawa actually steps in and cuts open the thread of tension sitting between them.
Before proceeding to cut open the opposing Wind shinobi's neck into ribbons.
"Try not to die," Oikawa tells him, the corners of his lips tipping up to form an irritatingly familiar half-smile.
Kuroo, despite his skepticism, can't help but return the smile, albeit reluctantly, "I guess I should say thanks." He's stubborn, after all, not stupid.
"Don't," Oikawa tells him, reaching a hand out. "That just seems weird and unlike you."
Shielding his eyes from the sun, Kuroo grabs Oikawa's hand, feeling weightless as he's lifted back up onto his two feet. He thinks, of course, that the brunette is just being cocky, and that this is probably just another stupid empty promise he's going to throw into the air. This line of work is unpredictable, and Kuroo's not stupid enough to forget that fact.
Oikawa could be wearing that half-smile today and be dead on the ground tomorrow.
But Kuroo lets himself dream, for the first time in a long time.
"Kuroo-chan."
Staring up at the sky, the dark-haired shinobi makes a grunt of acknowledgment, "What is it?"
Oikawa shifts onto his side, letting his palm hover over the grass beneath him, "You said you wanted to be a cop, right?"
Kuroo closes his eyes, "Yeah."
There's a moment of silence that fills between them. It's not the kind of detail Kuroo wants to divulge willingly, but it's also the same sort of thing that Oikawa probably won't let go of until he gets an answer. The brunette always gets what he want and Kuroo chalks that up to years and years of positive reinforcement.
It's hard to say no to a face like that.
"I think you would've made a good cop," Oikawa says, plucking the grass underneath him.
"Yeah?" Kuroo opens his eyes, glances only briefly at the boy lying next to him, and shifts his gaze back to the sky above. "Why's that?"
He's not actually interested in what Oikawa has to say. He throws out the question halfheartedly because he thinks it'll distract the brunette long enough for Kuroo to take a cat nap.
Wishful thinking, of course.
"You seem like the type," Oikawa says. "Maybe something happened. I don't know."
He plucks a couple strands of grass from the ground and litters them through the gaps between his fingers, "I really do think you would've made a good cop, though. You're a good shinobi."
"Those two things aren't mutually exclusive," Kuroo states plainly.
Oikawa opens his mouth to reply but decides to clamp it shut, ruminating on the reply for only a brief moment before saying, "Maybe you're right."
Silence.
And then.
"I still think you would've made a good cop," Oikawa continues.
"What can I do to make you shut up about this?" Kuroo resists the urge to groan, and only slowly realizes that he's unconsciously turned onto his side to face his partner.
"You could kiss me."
The dark-haired shinobi snorts, "You're ridiculous."
Oikawa pouts, "You're cruel, Kuroo-chan."
Cruel is one way of putting it, of course.
There are some nights Kuroo can't sleep. When he runs through the pale, gaping faces of the lives he's taken. The blood on his hands. There are men, but there are also innocent women and children who couldn't escape the edge of his kunai. He runs through their screams, the sheer look of terror on their face, the glaze in their eyes as the last bit of coagulated blood escapes the ripples in their throats.
Careless.
Countless.
It's a stupid form of self-inflicted torture. He knows that better than any shinobi.
Some drink. Others smoke. Some fuck around.
Everyone has a coping mechanism. It's only natural, in this line of work.
Kuroo only wishes he could find his own.
He'd wanted to be a cop to protect people within the village. It's a different story when you're wearing a blue uniform; it's a different kind of vigilance.
I still think you would've made a good cop.
Grabbing the nearest object nearby, which happened to be a mug, Kuroo chucks it halfway across the room until it slams against the wall and cracks into a dozen pieces on the hardwood floor.
Their first mission together is on the outskirts of Konohagakure, somewhere not too far along the border.
It's a rescue mission. A girl. Kidnapped.
When they find the child, Kuroo is the first to act. With the kunai in his hand, he tears open a laceration into the kidnapper's neck that renders him dead within minutes.
But Oikawa is the first to reach out.
Kuroo had almost forgotten about the girl.
The brunette takes her underneath his wing and holds her. Reassures her that she'd be okay. A sort of maternal instinct that Kuroo didn't expect. They're shinobi, in the end, not angels.
"This is Kuroo-chan," Oikawa says, motioning to the dark-haired shinobi with his free hand while he hoists up the little girl up onto his waist with his other hand.
Kuroo echoes vaguely, "Kuroo-chan?"
The little girl rubs her eye with a clenched fist. When she meets Kuroo's gaze, a fierce blush forms on her cheeks and she buries her face into Oikawa's shoulder.
The brunette grins, patting the little girl on the back, "Let's go home, Kuroo-chan."
Kuroo stares at the gravestone in the ground. Wonders.
Somewhere out there, he must be watching. Looming. Observing Kuroo's every move, every decision. Somewhere out there, he's mapping out the constellations from his throne in the sky. Planning and curating his next steps.
Somewhere out there, the stars are blooming in his eyes. Amber, like gold. Somewhere out there, there's a scream in the distance that fades away when Kuroo manages to recall the sound of his voice.
To him, he'll always be Kuro, not Kuroo.
There are, of course, the nights when Kuroo recounts the open lacerations in his legs. The broken bones, the shallow pools of blood littered all over his body. The open tear where his femoral artery is. Every pulse that spurts out blood like a goddamn geyser. The moment when his pulse becomes sporadic enough to come to a halt.
His last few breaths before the life in his eyes fade.
"Was he important to you?" Oikawa asks, taking a seat next to him.
"Yeah," Kuroo replies.
The brunette contemplates this for a moment but is cut off mid-thought when he realizes that Kuroo is tilting his head against his shoulder.
"I'm tired, Tooru," the dark-haired shinobi admits.
Oikawa leans back, "Me too."