Pathways, and other dead ends
Author: Tallah
Rating: PG-13
Character(s)/pairing: Kakuzu/Tsunade
For: Senri 3
Notes: Cracky and dark. Enjoy!
We hide our hearts, he will tell her much later, and we hoard them away, you and I. She will shake her head and tell him that he is a sad man, and he has lost track of his heart already. Hearts, he will remind her, tapping her lips. She will frown. And he will continue, yes, we hoard them like gold, something we do not want to share. Something you do not want to share; she corrects him.
But that is later, in the hours between sleeping and waking.
It started with alcohol and money. It started with the thread that snaked out from his sleeve and caught her attention. It started with a man; hiding somewhere in that shadowy tavern, a man Kakuzu was going to kill. It started with her curiosity, lit over his hidden face and the thread she had caught and looped around her finger. It started with something nonsensical and intangible; a hard glint in her eye that scratched the surface of his cynicism. The way she lifted her finger to her wet pink lips and touched the thread to her mouth as if it was gossamer, as if it was oiled gold, as if it was beautiful.
"Have I trapped you?" She whispered, voice breathy and cryptic and harsh. He said nothing. "I've never seen this before." Her voice was curdled, unlovely, and he judged her quickly and cruelly. Her face was calculated and splintered. A beauty that was chipped at the edges, produced with brutal accuracy. A manufactured glow to her cheeks, meaning hidden a little too deep within her amber eyes. The tops of her breasts seemed to glow, white and smooth, over her neckline, and her waist looked cinched and artificial. She was all false sex appeal, he decided, with a dirty mouth that tripped over words, and old, tired eyes.
She tugged experimentally and he felt his whole body tighten, several threads looping around her wrist, winding tensely up her thin arm. Her half-smile was ravaged and empty. "You here for Iba, missing-nin-san?" The words were a rush, a choke. He nodded, eyes moving over the room, leaving the sadness of her face, the death rattle of her words.
"Everyone's here for Iba," she sighed as if she were soliloquizing, "He hides like a snake under a rock, too cowardly to face the sun and the parched sand. You want his bounty don't you? Everyone does. If he weren't hidden he would have been killed years ago. Don't suppose there's any use in me asking you for a coin?"
He ignored her questions and her terse similes. Her face was lit with sweaty lights from overhead, and he saw shred of knowledge in her eyes, that glitter that suggested that he had indeed judged too harshly-a glitter that suggested that he was wrong.
"You going to kill him?" She slid onto a stool, ankles crossing and fingernails tapping impatiently. A bartender rushed over, nearly nose-diving into her cleavage, pouring her another sake.
"Yes," he said, because he knew that she would do nothing to stop him.
"It would be easy, if you were to find him." She took a shot, colour blooming in her slanted cheeks, "But you won't." There were still threads snaked around her arm, pressing deeper into her pale skin, which he imaged to be soft and fragrant, perfumed and ornate. "He's weak. Fleshy and disgusting, his bounty is worth far more than he is."
"Where is he?" Kakuzu thought his voice sounded appropriately threatening; he tightened his hold on her, threads advancing to caress the sharpness of her collarbone, the alabaster glory of her throat, the hard tilt of her chin. She was unfazed, eyes dulled by the alcohol and lips parted.
"You kill people for a living?" She touched her bindings thoughtfully, and he stood still, thrown by the lack of fear, the understanding of what he was.
"So it would seem." He let the thread flick across her mouth and she smiled, lips pulled tight over white, even teeth. "Where is he?"
"I don't care where he is. I don't have any part in this," She surveyed the empty bar, eyes moving lazily across the room, "I just wanted to see how this worked," she tapped at her neck where threads slunk across her skin like sleek worms, shimmering and dipping under the hazy light.
She knew far too much, this strange woman, this ageless creature, sitting on a dirty barstool as if it were a throne. Kakuzu was thankful he wasn't wearing his Akatsuki cloak, because he had a feeling she would have known the organization well.
"Have a drink," she suggested, still not fighting against her spindly bonds, "Sit down. Relax. Iba's barely a legend anymore."
"I know he's here," Kakuzu scanned the counter, where the barman was cleaning glasses clumsily, making no attempt to hide his fear at the sleek tendrils winding around the woman, the man with the hidden face. Kakuzu could taste his alarm on the air, feel it as if it were a solid object in the room, taking up too much space. "You," he said to the young man and the bartender nodded tightly, eyes fixated on the woman's slick mouth, the threads teasing her cheekbones, "Do you know an Otsuka Iba?" The man shook his head fearfully, eyes widening as a thread slipped between the woman's lips.
"Ts-Tsunade-san…" He stammered, "Are you…do you…" He trailed off, stained glass clenched in his shaking hand.
"I'm fine," She said roughly, in the ravaged voice, words empty and muted, "Leave it, Hekiro." She stood, tilting her chin upwards.
"A bounty hunter, eh?" She murmured, stepping closer, "And you hide your face. Settling an air of intrigue around you? Or are you just ugly?" She stood on tiptoes, fingers brushing the fabric of his mask.
"Get away," He said, a rush of adrenaline coursing through his limbs. He felt a heartbeat throb through his body, as heavy and loud as the rusty fan whirring overhead. He pulled the threads away and she stiffened and gasped as they slid back over her skin, along her breasts, through her fingers, "It's over," he said, stepping back from where she stood, hands still raised to his face, "I'm leaving."
She fixed a reeling gaze on him as though she were a magnificent, drunken hawk, tawny eyes sliding over the creases in his mask as though his was a face to savour. Up close he could see the lines around her mouth, the thinness of her skin, veins faint and blue in her porcelain complexion. She was like an aged doll up close-a beautiful doll with a tarnished face.
"Oh don't go," her voice sunk, almost disappeared in the pound of his hearts, the thrum of the fan, "I want to see what you're hiding,"
Kakuzu, impatience racking his throat, reached out in one motion and closed his hand around her neck, pulling his fingers tight over her windpipe. Her neck was surprisingly thin, and she let out a choked gasp as he pulled her closer to him.
"Tell me where Iba is," he snarled, her eyes inches from his-wide and frightened for the most part, but still a glimmer of some sort of hidden knowledge. A suggestion that she still had the upper hand, "Or you die."
"Original," she choked, and he hissed with rage, thick black threads shot out of his sleeve and she jerked away from him as they wound up her body.
"Tsunade!" The man behind the counter cried, staggering forward and then catching himself, fear binding him still.
The cords had bound her now, and Kakuzu let go of her neck. Her breaths were jagged and sudden, as if she did not fully expect each one. He had her rooted to the spot, her body nearly obscured by the mass of glistening black.
"Tell me where he is."
She looked up at him, face insolent with splotches of colour spread unevenly over her cheeks, "Show me what you are," she whispered, lips wet with saliva, "And then I will take you to him."
There was hunger in her eyes now, buried beneath the fortress of anger and fear-some sort of terrible lust, and a power that looked like it could be fearsome, at least, if he were not himself.
"What is the knowledge to you?" He kept his voice even, enjoying the purple bruises that had bloomed on her collarbone, the flushed fingerprints on the sides of her neck. She looked delicious now he thought, with her eyes full of hate and her face full of colour. Her hair had spilled over her shoulders now, tips of gold grazing the swell of her breasts.
"I used to be a medic," she said simply, "You intrigue me, that's all. I want to see what you have become."
Kakuzu tore his eyes from her face and looked over her shoulder; the bartender had fled.
"A monster," he whispered to her, "Nothing special."
"Show me," she purred, eyes narrowing, "I promise, I will take you to him. Hold him down, if you need."
"I don't," Kakuzu laughed humorlessly, and the cords tightened around her.
"Very well," She was staring into his eyes now, as if trying to probe the very secrets of his being through them, something that was making him distinctly uncomfortable. He loosened his hold. She stumbled forward, all hot, sour alcohol and antique perfume. She pressed her hand to his chest, and he felt her touch sharply, even through the layers of clothing.
"What are you doing?" He gasped hoarsely as a sudden heat reared through his body; as if a flare had started where she was touching him.
"Calm down," she muttered, drunken face sharp and awake suddenly, eyes widening at the discoveries she was making, "Wh-how…why did you do this?" And she looked up into his eyes and the fire stopped. Kakuzu took a deep breath and realized far too late that she had slid her warm fingers under his mask, against his lacerated skin and pulled down.
She said nothing when she saw him, only narrowed her eyes slightly and brushed her thumb against the side of his mouth, the taut stitches. An oh slid out between her lips, and he felt her breath damp and hot under his chin.
"That's enough," he stepped back from her dizzying presence, the rusted angel who has planted herself in front of him, "Take me to Iba." He pulled his mask up and although he saw a glint of disappointment cross her face she nodded and took his hand, pulling him towards the back rooms.
As if we were lovers, Kakuzu thought laughingly, her small hand strong around his.
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Someone (perhaps Iba, although Kakuzu seriously doubted he had the ingenuity) had designed a clever passage in the back of the bar; a sort of winding catacomb, all dark corridors and dim torchlight. It was atmospheric and pretentious. His hands twitched, eager for the kill, the satisfaction of tearing Otsuka Iba's feeble heart in half and hearing the clink of gold, feeling its weight.
"Almost here," her whisper was sparse and incongruous in the tight halls and he followed her down an intricate staircase, through another maze of cobbled corridors and finally to an ornate door, the knocker shaped like a goldfish.
Kakuzu studied her face for a moment, checking her eyes for honesty. But they reflected nothing but the claustrophobic orange glow from the knocker. Her mouth was set in a tense line, guilt etched into her lips. She knocked on the door twice, slow and steady. There was no answer. She knocked three more times, now in rapid succession.
The door creaked open to reveal a paunchy man with a lined and scarred face-a familiar face. "Tsunade-hime," he said in a grotesque purr, slanted eyes leering and cruel beneath his thick brows.
"Sorry, Iba," she murmured, a surprisingly gentle smile crossing her face. She glanced at Kakuzu who stood to the side, obscured by the heavy door. He looked at her and smiled, although she couldn't see it.
"You're not sleeping with this guy, are you?" Kakuzu laughed, a single, harsh syllable and Iba's tiny eyes widened in fear. He was dead in a second, blood trailing from his mouth, thick cords dragging out of his chest. Tsunade swallowed, a sick look of anticipation still etched onto her face. She shook her head.
"Of course not." She murmured, "Don't say that." And her voice was the rasp of fine jade. She knelt next to the dead man, fingers probing his chest, lit by a frail blue light.
"What are you doing?" Kakuzu asked, frowning at her delicacy.
"Preserving the body." She whispered, eyes half-shut in concentration, a shimmering gold reflected in them. They were still for a moment, or two and then she stood, turning evenly to face him.
"Thank you," the words were unfamiliar and stiff on his tongue. He faltered and she only smiled and reached out slowly, as if he were an animal she was trying to frighten away. She pulled down his mask and paused with her lips an inch away from his, their noses almost touching.
"May I?" She whispered tremulously and he nodded because really, it couldn't hurt. So she kissed him, lips wet and pliant against his mutilated mouth. He kissed back, fingers weaving roughly through the flaxen strands of hair that fell and looped down her back. She pulled away suddenly and took his hand, leading him down back out the way they came.
"Why?" He asked as she tripped down the corridors, away from the dead man, "You don't have to."
"I know," she whispered, her grip tightening on his hand, "I know, but I think you are beautiful and interesting." She turned and grinned, teeth flashing in the dim light.
"I've never heard that before," he said and she pulled him into a room, hands slipping beneath his robe and lips alighting on his jaw line, soft and sweet, something he would never have imagined.
You don't have to; she says later on, in the darkness and the haze of sex, you don't have to hide it.
But he replies stoically, meeting her eyes and says only yes, or else people will break it. You know that, don't you?
Oh, yes they have done it again. Tsunade allows herself a smile as her heroes stride in, and after them the medics with a corpse, obscured by a thick black sheet. Akatsuki, they say, yes we got another one. She feels a rush of pride, a thrill, small and inauspicious.
He's a strange one, wait'll you see this! And all the medics are abuzz, poking and prodding the dead man. Tsunade looks and her gasp falls upon deaf ears.
He was terrifying and ruined in his death, threads spilling from between the lips she had once kissed, more symbols of his inhumanity. Blood darkened his neck, dripped down his chin.
She bent her head over him, let it have been swift, she thought, but she knew that it had not been. He had been dying all those years, and in a more painful manner than any. But still, still she prayed over him, even as her hands moved mechanically over his body and the medics chattered and exclaimed around her. Let it have been painless. Let it have been beautiful and perfect. He was torn and empty beneath her hands and she remembered the steady beat of his hearts, so whole and safe.
Yes, or else people will break it. You know that, don't you?
Hide, she whispers to the stillness. Hide.
(end)