Not my characters, not my world, just my imagination.


Shikamaru

Shikamaru crouched on the roof, staring at nothing. The lit cigarette in his hand trembled; he was weary and hungry, but wide awake. His natural talent for observation beleaguered him, as every flicker of movement and every whisper of sound in the sleeping village screamed along nerves that had been tautly strung for far too long. He took a slow, deep drag off his cigarette, willing it all to stop, to be dark, to be quiet, for his brain to quit processing the fragrance of the sticky summer night and the breeze that ruffled every hair on his head. A vacuum, without distractions, without the thousand questions his mind composed in response to each new piece of information his extraordinarily alert senses offered it.

The apartment door swung open, and Shikamaru didn't have to look to know that Chouji stood there. This had become almost a ritual in the last couple of years, ever since Shikamaru had started to take all these damned A and S rank missions, one after the other. He came to the roof to spare Ino and Chouji his adrenaline highs and after ten or fifteen minutes, Chouji followed him out, silent, but decidedly present, a solid reminder that Shikamaru had come home. Whatever had happened out there, he was here now, with his bizarre little family. Chouji coming through their door was his cue to begin, for the millionth time, stitching together the slowly unraveling threads of his sanity. Lately it seemed pointless – he never had time enough between missions to tie off all the loose ends.

Chouji moved to his side, somehow graceful and sure-footed despite his bigness, each soundless step belying a minutely controlled, but formidable power. He sat down on the bench behind Shikamaru, straight-backed, somber. His eyes were tired, and Shikamaru remembered suddenly that Chouji had also been assigned an A-rank. He probably hadn't been home long himself.

Shikamaru finished his cigarette and joined Chouji on the bench. For several minutes, they watched the streets below, though nothing but moths and lightning bugs stirred in the lamplight.

"How did your mission go?" he asked finally, not willing to talk about his own botched S-rank just yet.

"Successful." Chouji shrugged, still looking at the village beyond their rooftop. "Pretty run-of-the-mill."

Shikamaru cast a surreptitious glance at his friend. Chouji had never been especially chatty, to Shikamaru's eternal gratification, but on nights like tonight, he could and often did carry a conversation single-handedly. It was out of character for him to be so reticent when Shikamaru needed so badly to hear his voice.

Whether he knew it definitively or acted from instinct, Chouji had long ago figured out that just by talking, he could ease Shikamaru off the adrenaline rush more quickly, and more gently, than nicotine or alcohol. Ino couldn't do it, anymore than Shikamaru could comfort her, when her emotions got the better of her; she always ran to Chouji with the demons she alone couldn't put to rest. When the blood and the grief and the danger of their lives became too overwhelming, Chouji was the light on the porch for both of them, and a promise that the real world – or at least the one that mattered – was inside their apartment, around their table, and in their bed.

Chouji's spicy, warm scent reminded Shikamaru of winter holidays, of cinnamon and deliciously bitter chocolate and fragrant wood crackling in the fireplace. It was a comforting smell, most nights, and he leaned a little closer to the big shinobi. Air whistled through Shikamaru's teeth on a sharp inhale as he caught the metallic tang of blood on the wind. Scanning the tall figure in the space between one heartbeat and the next, he noted the chagrin on Chouji's face as he realized he'd been caught, the careful way he sat and breathed, and the faint bulge of bandages around his ribs.

"What happened?" Shikamaru demanded, disgusted with himself. He'd been irritated with his heightened powers of perception, all the while overlooking something like this. It was ridiculous; it was unforgivable.

"It's minor," Chouji assured him, waving away his concern with his right hand. Chouji was left-handed, and his gestures invariably reflected it.

"How 'minor?'"

"Minor enough that I came home right after Sakura looked at it."

"But how long had you been in the hospital before Sakura 'looked at it?'" Shikamaru was used to these little tricks. Chouji did not generally out-and-out lie. He couldn't – he always sounded guilty. But omitting an unpleasant truth was his specialty.

Chouji winced, defeated. "A few days," he finally allowed. Shikamaru cursed, and reached across Chouji's lap to pull open his robe. Neatly tied white bandages stretched across the wide belly, and beneath his left breast, a fat square bulge marred the perfectly wrapped linen, positioned diagonally across his lower ribs.

"We finished the mission early," Chouji went on, "but were ambushed on the way back. I was able to make it on my own two feet for awhile. Akamaru carried me the rest of the way home." He smiled ruefully. "Poor guy got a couple of really nice steaks out of it, at least."

"What happened?" Shikamaru asked again, through gritted teeth.

"Almost ate a sword," Chouji admitted sheepishly, candid now that the truth was out. "I got lucky and the blade stuck in my ribs."

Shikamaru couldn't contain the shudder that wracked him, and he only barely kept the terrified, furious voice in his head from becoming the voice on his lips. "What about the guy who was holding the sword?" The words sounded dead, flat and mechanical.

"Dead," Chouji replied matter-of-factly, shrugging his right shoulder. "He only managed this because I thought he was already dead and turned my back on him. He threw the blade with the last of his strength." He turned his face up to the sky. "Injured my pride more than anything. I ought to know dead from not dead by now." Unspoken was the body count, and Shikamaru could see the flicker of pain in Chouji's eyes as each treasured and loathed face traversed his memory.

Shikamaru shuddered again. "Chouji…" He didn't know what to say, and he could taste the irony. Chouji would know exactly what to tell someone in his position, and make them feel better about the whole ordeal. The fear and the adrenaline and the shock were wearing on him; his throat was tight and he couldn't quite draw a good breath.

"It's fine," Chouji said calmly, flashing a reassuring smile. "It stung a little, and the ribs are nicked – broken, actually, but the bleeding has mostly stopped. So it's fine. Quit worrying about it; it's nothing."

Shikamaru's tightly wound nerves started to groan with the strain. "You might have been killed," he said, forcing words over the lump in his throat, "that…" he faked a cough and tried again, "that's not nothing." He couldn't put any heat in the words. It took everything he had to keep his voice steady.

"A flesh wound and some broken ribs are nothing, so relax." He pulled a face. "Ino's been bad enough – I don't need you fussing at me, too. If she tries to follow me into the bath one more time, or shoves one more glass of water in my face, I refuse to be held accountable for my actions."

Shikamaru stared at him for a minute, inhaling a last breath of smoke, and then he did something he hadn't done since they were teenagers: he lay down and rested his cheek on Chouji's lap. He flicked the cigarette butt away and reaching up over his head, found the bandages around Chouji's waist and followed them to the diamond shape that padded the wound in his ribs. "This," he said, the ache in his throat compressing his voice into a pathetically plaintive groan, "Don't let it happen again." It was an irrational plea, but fear clawed at his belly, making him nauseous, and he didn't care that he sounded like a stubborn child.

"I'll do my best," Chouji promised, chuckling, never surprised at anything Shikamaru said or did anymore. Big hands carefully untied the cord that bound Shikamaru's hair, and then combed the ragged lengths out with gentle fingers. Shikamaru sighed and closed his eyes, trying to block out the light and the noise and the smells of the summer night, concentrating on the feel of Chouji's hands in his hair. It was a pleasure he didn't often allow himself; of the three of them, Shikamaru was themost guarded. He knew he came across as aloof, that others didn't always understand how people as warm and vibrant as Chouji and Ino could live with such a cold fish. He wondered himself, sometimes, what the two of them got in exchange for loving him. It seemed they were forever giving of themselves, their time, their energy, their love, and he rarely responded in kind. He did love them, and loved them deeply, so much so that it hurt to think that they might not understand the depth of his affection, simply because he didn't have the resources to express it.

Shikamaru had furrowed his brows, disconsolate; a calloused thumb touched his face to rub them smooth. "Relax," Chouji murmured. He reached down to lay a hand across Shikamaru's upper belly and ribs, and tapped the hollow space beneath his sternum twice with his index finger. "Breathe," he reminded him. Shikamaru realized his breath had been shallow, his abdomen braced against a threat that no longer existed. He forced the tension out of his back, belly and shoulders as best he could, and tried to obey Chouji's gentle direction.

"Kiba came by the hospital this morning." Chouji's voice was quiet, restful. "Hinata was with him. She and Lee are teaching at the Academy this year, you know. The kids are all complaining about Lee's taijutsu classes. They bellyache about being sore and exhausted, but physically, they're as well-conditioned as most of the genin. Hinata's teaching chakra control, and thinks being so aware of their bodies has made a real difference their ability to manage their chakra."

Chouji lightly tapped Shikamaru's belly again with two thick fingers; his whole body had steadily gone rigid once more. He struggled to force his muscles to relax, while Chouji continued, without breaking stride, "Kiba told me he threatened his genin team with training sessions with Lee if they didn't pass their chuunin exams this autumn. Two of them have younger siblings still in Academy, so they know all about the green monster." He chuckled softly. "He's expecting a lot of out of them their first go-round, considering that no one in our year, except you, made chuunin on the first attempt."

Chouji went on like that for a long while, one hand stroking Shikamaru's hair and one regularly drumming between his ribs, urging him to relax, all the while relating the day-to-day village trivia that had interested, amused, or surprised him. Shikamaru caught maybe a quarter of what Chouji had to say; the rest was white noise, but it helped to drown out the night. It was soothing, and coupled with the constant reminders to keep his body slack and the soporific caressing of his scalp, it finally began to numb his hypersensitive nerves.

"Shiori nearly died." He interrupted Chouji mid-sentence. "Sakura doesn't know whether she'll survive or not." He closed his eyes, surprised at how painfully the words stuck in his throat. "They came out of nowhere, no hitai-ate. Masks. Three dropped down in front of me, and two by Roku, and while we were busy with them, a kunai flew out of the shadows and nailed Shiori in the chest. Then they ran, just disappeared. Roku wanted to follow them – so did I – but…" Shikamaru pulled a ragged breath through his teeth. "But I had to get Shiori home if I could. And so I lost any fucking chance I had at catching the bastards."

Chouji's hands had stilled. "It's what I would have done," he said after a moment. "I think it's what most of us would have done. And the Inozuka may still be able to pick up a scent from the kunai that hit Shiori, or from the site of the ambush. Maybe some of the allied villages have run into your masked shinobi, too, and have more information. It's not hopeless, Shikamaru. We could still catch them."

"Hana is already on the trail," Shikamaru told him, in a weary voice. "And Naruto has sent messages to Sand, Artisan, Lightning, and Rain asking about unusual attacks like this one. But," he sat up, rubbing at his temples, "but it was Shiori they wanted. It was obvious from the beginning."

He grimaced. "I've been through her file a dozen times, read all her mission reports. She's a good kunoichi, but killing her doesn't deal any especially damaging blow to Leaf. I can't see that she ever offended anybody high enough up in any of the kingdoms or villages to merit this kind of attack against her. And she doesn't have a single kill to her name, so I doubt that it could be a personal vendetta. I can't make heads or tails of it."

He drew his knees up to his chest and rested his forehead on them. "I'm missing something."

"Is that what has you so wound up tonight?" Chouji asked softly.

"There is a reason for this," Shikamaru answered, not looking up, and not answering. "There were things that happened that led us all to that place; that attack didn't come out of nowhere."

He ground his teeth in frustration. "There had to be a way to predict this, somehow. I missed it. And even with the advantage of hindsight, I still can't see it. I can't think how I could have better prepared for this mission, or what I could have done differently, that would have alerted me to this possibility. I fucked up somewhere, and I can't even figure out what I did wrong."

"Because you didn't do anything wrong." Chouji's voice was infinitely gentle, but the simple answer was almost as maddening as the problem, and Shikamaru shot an irritated look at his friend. "You didn't," Chouji repeated, "do anything wrong."

"If that were true, Shiori wouldn't be fighting for her life right now," Shikamaru replied harshly. The adrenaline rush had passed, leaving anxiety and guilt in its wake.

"You are not a god, Shikamaru." Chouji shook his mane of wild hair; his eyes fixed on Shikamaru's. "You may be ten, or twenty, or a hundred steps ahead of the rest of us, but even you can only work with what you know. You researched, or reasoned, everything you had any grounds to suspect you might need to know about your team and your mission. But you're never going to know everything. Sometimes you're going to get blindsided, and all you can do is move forward."

Chouji's gaze was steady and calm, full of authority and indomitable convictions, and Shikamaru looked away. It was extremely rare for the big shinobi to stand his ground against Shikamaru; on the handful of occasions he had done so, Shikamaru had backed down each time. He backed down now.

Chouji was right, he told himself, praying it was true, that he had done everything he possibly could have done, desperate to believe that he really was holding himself to an impossible standard. Wrapping his arms around his legs, he put his chin on his knees like a child and watched the moths dancing in the streetlamps. "I'm tired," he realized, the ache in his throat worse than before. "I'm just so fucking tired."

Chouji sighed. "Of course you're tired. You volunteered for five of the last dozen S rank missions the village has been offered," he reminded him quietly, "two of which you accomplished solo. Your last ten missions included a kunai in the back and a mangled leg, the death of a teammate, two seriously injured teammates, and brought you up against a Leaf traitor, two would-be assassins, slavers, and a serial rapist and murderer." Shikamaru shuddered inadvertently. The horrors of the past year had left their marks on his soul; he'd known it, but hearing those awful memories one after the other from Chouji's mouth, it was astonishing that he had any grip left on his sanity.

"There are seventy-eight talented, experienced jounin in this village. There is no good reason for you to take the most traumatizing, most difficult missions every single time."

"My teams have the highest survival rate," Shikamaru mumbled into his kneecaps. "And I've never failed a mission – other than bringing Sasuke back after the Chuunin exams when we were kids."

Chouji nodded. "You're the best there is." Shikamaru managed a disdainful snort, earning a faint smile from Chouji. A questioning hand touched his elbow, and Shikamaru lay back down with his head on Chouji's thigh. "You are the best there is," Chouji murmured. "But you still aren't a god. And you're not an infinite resource, either."

Chouji laid his hand on Shikamaru's waist, slipping his fingers under the thin black shirt to stroke the flesh beneath. "You're using yourself up, Shikamaru," he said, palming Shikamaru's lower ribs. "You drink too much and you smoke too much and you haven't managed to sleep through the night without Ino's help since this past winter. You brood for hours on end, and you hardly ever play shogi any more." The big hand slid down a little and squeezed Shikamaru's side. "You never eat enough."

This last was said with such a bizarre combination of plaintive accusation and bewildered disbelief that Shikamaru laughed, and was, in the space between one heartbeat and the next, wholly and definitively home. The sharp dissonance of numbed emotions and oversensitive nerves faded into a familiar sense of vaguely discontent – but comfortable – weariness. It was the fussiness of a sick child in his mother's arms, the nagging throb of a burn slathered with cold butter, the frayed temper knotted together again by a lover's embrace. The discomfort remained, but it was manageable, more frustrating than painful. Shikamaru tugged Chouji's hand out from under his shirt, and pressed a grateful kiss into the palm.

"I'll do better," Shikamaru promised, wondering if perhaps he really meant it this time. He held Chouji's hand in both of his, marveling at the versatility of it. Chouji could braid Ino's hair more neatly than she herself could manage, and hold the most fragile butterfly in his hands without damaging its delicate wings; he could also crush whole human skeletons if provoked. How such raw power could be so complimented by the cheerful, chubby hands that routinely washed clothes and dishes and lovers, hands that cooked mouthwatering dishes and moved shougi pieces into absurdly precarious positions, Shikamaru could not fathom.

And he was glad of it, he realized, tracing lines in Chouji's palm with his fingertips, glad that there were things he didn't understand, because it proved Chouji's point. He wasn't a god. He didn't know everything, so maybe he could screw up and not somehow be guiltier than anyone else who screwed up, because he should have known better. He couldn't always know better, could he?

He kissed Chouji's palm again, and as he did, a wave of cool, sweetly floral air washed over his face; Ino was here, the breeze from the door as she stepped onto the roof was a welcome relief from the stagnant summer mugginess. Shikamaru shifted just enough to be able to see her, to watch the thin white satin of her robe cling to her pale skin. The robe itself was almost indecently short at the hem, and she wore nothing beneath it, but Shikamaru had never been the jealous type, and Ino had never been modest. If someone else did happen to glance their way from another rooftop, Ino wouldn't care, and neither would he. Chouji would be the only one who minded at all, and both his lovers would tease him as his swirls disappeared into his embarrassed flush.

"Haven't you two been brooding up here long enough?" Ino demanded, feigning a sulk. Her sultry voice stirred even as Chouji's soothed, pitched to taunt, to arouse, to incite to action, always urgent, always demanding. Ino forever wanted something – though thankfully, these days, she recognized that Shikamaru couldn't always give her what she wanted when she wanted it. Chouji did; his greatest pleasures were derived from service, and his generous spirit compelled him to fulfill needs and desires and demands with unfailing good humor. But Shikamaru needed, on occasion, to be apart, to be separate, and Ino never had understood this quirk. She'd learnt to respect it over the years, and kept a safe distance when his cigarette was lit, when his eyes were glazed over and he was deep in thought, but she didn't understand it. She and Chouji gave their whole hearts to their conversations, to lovemaking, to the little characters Ino traced on her boys' backs in the dark, and Ino wanted nothing less from Shikamaru. It was fair – but it wasn't possible.

Shikamaru cherished those moments when he felt fully engaged, but they wearied him. Intense focus on a single person or act went against his disposition; he naturally observed a great deal and pursued many paths of thought upon each observation. It was partially this gift that made him such a great strategist – but it made paying attention to chores or Ino's tales from the flower shop very trying when he was preoccupied with pictures in the clouds, analyzing his last mission, spying on the neighborhood kids beyond their window to decide which of them were going to end up in genin teams together, and even, sometimes, mentally composing bad poetry about all the other things he was thinking about. He could be lazy when he chose, but he was neither aloof nor apathetic, like most people believed. It was just that his mind was continually pulled in so many different directions that very few people could tell the difference between indolence and distraction.

Shikamaru was grateful beyond measure that Chouji was and always had been content with his partial attention. Ino tried to be, and he was grateful for that, too. It was contrary to her nature to be content without being fully satisfied as it was against Chouji's to stop eating before he was filled to the brim. They were hedonists, the both of them, thrilling in the pleasure and gratification of a moment. Shikamaru was always ten steps ahead of the passion.

Chouji was apologizing. "We lost track of the time, Ino. Sorry." Contrite. Accommodating. As always. Shikamaru allowed himself a small, personal smile.

Ino had her hands on her hips, in a pose frighteningly reminiscent of Shikamaru's mother. "You were due for another dose of antibiotics over an hour ago. And I know those stitches hurt – Sakura's a terrible seamstress; do you want another painkiller?"

"I'm fine, Ino," Chouji replied sheepishly. "Don't worry so much."

"A punctured lung is fine?" she demanded. "I suppose a severed head would be a minor inconvenience for you?"

"Punctured lung?" Shikamaru sat up so quickly that he smacked the top of his skull against Chouji's jaw. "You lied?" Honestly, he couldn't have said whether the injury or the deceit – or his seeming powerlessness to detect either – upset him more.

"Just a little!" One of Chouji's big hands cupped his injured chin, the other waved frantically in front of him. "I didn't want you to worry!" A deep crease appeared between his brows, and an anxious frown pulled at his mouth.

"Dammit, Chouji…" Shikamaru pulled a steadying breath through his teeth. "Ino," he asked, in a tightly controlled tone, "why is he even here, if he has such a serious injury?"

"Because he insisted," Ino replied coolly, a warning in her eyes, "and because he's too light of a sleeper to get any rest in that damn noisy hospital. I brought him home this morning when he was too exhausted to eat breakfast, and I let him come up to the roof tonight because otherwise he would have lain awake the whole night worried about you. Letting him talk to you was the simplest way to get you both to sleep." Her voice had dropped to a lower register, to a matter-of-fact tone that was ironically comforting in its righteous indignation. She felt that the situation was under control; he could leave it in her hands.

Shikamaru rubbed the bridge of his nose, suddenly weary. "You're really okay?" he asked, without looking up.

"I'm tired and sore," Chouji admitted, still looking upset. "And Sakura says it'll be a month or more before I can even return to full training, two months before I'll be on active duty. But I don't feel too bad, and eight weeks of leave is nothing to sneeze at. I'm good, Shikamaru, really."

Shikamaru counted his breaths, and when he got to ten, all was forgiven. "You're getting too good at hiding things from me," he groused, reaching up to squeeze Chouji's shoulder. "Quit." Chouji's stiff frame relaxed under his hand. Shikamaru wasn't at all content with being lied to, but they would have that discussion – you could hardly call it a fight when Chouji wouldn't even argue – some other time. Right now, he just wanted Ino to do whatever she meant to do to make Chouji better.

"It would have been a lot worse if the sword hadn't stuck in his ribcage," Ino allowed. "I don't think the sword actually perforated the lung, anyway – probably just grazed it. It looked more like a tear than a thrust wound. He probably ripped open the lacerated tissue during the run back to Konoha. The lung had only collapsed about fifteen percent before Sakura got hold of him." Pursing her pink lips at Chouji, she added, "Regardless, you need rest."

The glittering aquamarine jewels that served as Ino's eyes slid toward Shikamaru. "And you, my ridiculous love, you've been short on sleep for months. One more cigarette, Shikamaru, I mean it. If you're not in bed by the time I've got Chouji settled in for the night, I will put you there, and you'll stay there until I say otherwise."

Shikamaru raised his hands in mock surrender as Ino strode purposefully across the rooftop and gave Chouji her hand. The big shinobi accepted it with a sheepish look at Shikamaru, and a grimace when he found he actually required her assistance to rise. Ino slid one shapely, white arm around Chouji's broad back and walked with him back to the door, and together, they disappeared inside the apartment.

Shikamaru stared at the lighted doorway for several long minutes, puffing thoughtfully on his last permitted cigarette. The bossy little brat from his childhood had become a bossy grown-up – and it was just as well that that she had. He hadn't the temperament or the presence of mind to deal with the ins and outs of real life. And although Chouji had proven in their early days together, before Ino, that he could be quite level-headed when it came to things like leaky roofs and paying bills and cleaning out closets, he also consistently denigrated his own needs to an unacceptable degree, inexplicably and acutely fearful of becoming a burden to the people he loved. He'd done everything, and he'd done it so quietly and so well that Shikamaru hadn't even realized just how much work was involved in maintaining a household.

Since Ino moved in, it never became an issue anymore. She took and she gave with equal vigor; but she also made Shikamaru give and forced Chouji to take, and it was healthier for all of them that she did. The pendulum never swung too far to altruism or egotism for her, while Chouji remained frozen at the peak of the selfless upswing, and Shikamaru had to fight every moment not to lose himself at the other end of the spectrum. It was easier, with Ino there to remind him, to tug him back to earth when his mind had escaped too far into the clouds.

Not that he was deliberately selfish, he protested against himself silently, watching his smoky breath evaporate into the muggy night. He never consciously ignored the needs of others – certainly not Ino's or Chouji's, and he knew with a blinding and humbling and soul-swelling clarity that he would gladly suffer any grievance or injury if it meant preserving them from like fates. On the battlefield, his life held no value for him but that it might serve to protect their lives; he was not, in essence, selfish. But beyond that ultimate sacrifice, Shikamaru often felt that he had little to give. He wasn't domestically inclined, his conversation – when he had the presence of mind to converse at all – tended to esotericism, and he was as emotionally awkward as any naïve, anxious teenager. Even Chouji's private, gentle affections occasionally left him flustered and nervous, to say nothing of Ino's determination to display Team Ten's unique rapport as publicly and as blatantly as she possibly could.

Shikamaru was not passionate, was neither demonstrative nor particularly forthcoming. Chouji and Ino deserved all the expressions of love and terms of endearment they shared with each other, every embrace, every kiss, every loving glance – but none of these things were in Shikamaru's nature, and he considered many of them beyond his ability. When it was dark, when no one spoke, he could sometimes drown his overactive mind in the act of love, could substitute animal lust for the passion his lovers summoned from the secret places in their souls, the place Shikamaru had yet to locate within his own heart, if it existed; he could pretend that he possessed the wherewithal to love them as violently and as madly as they loved each other and him.

He would say it tonight, he promised himself, dashing his cigarette against the rooftop. Despite it being the single truth Shikamaru ascribed to, it was only with the greatest difficulty he managed to say it; still they ought to hear it once in awhile, even if he couldn't voice it with Chouji's rumbling, heartfelt sincerity or Ino's possessive, gleeful, jealous fervor. Regardless of how poorly he conveyed the depth of its reality, it was true. Tonight he would tell them he loved them, Shikamaru swore a second time, before following his lovers in out of the stale, oppressive night.