It was two months before I would see you again. You came into the hospital after a mission, severely wounded and when spoken to, you would only give one word; Sakura. I walked in the room, ready to tear you to shreds for being stubborn and refusing treatment, but there I stood, mouth agape. A young nurse, older than my age of 18 at the time, was sitting on the floor, her back to the wall and eyes wide, glued to you; Her frail body trembled and she shook with trepidation when I ordered her to stand up at once. Once my eyes drifted over to your form, the form that was supposed to be laying immobile on the bed, I understood the look of utter shock and disgust marring her young, porcelain skin.
One of your arms, the one where the I.V. was placed, was hanging limply off the side of the bed. From your unmoving fingertips, blood trickled down to the once pristine white floor, settling in a crimson puddle that was certainly not miniscule. My emerald orbs traced the trail of blood to the source, I knew already from where it originated but the medic in me forced my eyes to move, there in your arm, was a ruptured vein. A red, angry splotch of skin surrounded the little hole in your arm, a mighty bruise was forming from where you ripped the I.V. out and caused your vein to burst, blood coming out of your arm in a way that reminded me of a faucet that had yet to be turned off all the way.
My eyes trailed over the rest of your form, it was hard due to the fact that you were still wearing your jonin attire; I guess you really did refuse treatment. My once forgotten temper flared to life when my eyes finally settled upon your face; Well what was supposed to be your face, but it was blocked by that damned book. Bright orange greeted me and I snapped, yelling at you and insulting your intelligence; I shrieked about how you were so stubborn and questioned your request, well demand, that only I treat you. I continued on until you spoke, calm and collected, you replied that you trusted me. My mouth hit the floor and I stayed that way until you cleared your throat, then I went back to acting as if I was still upset about how stubborn you were. Inside, I was honored and happy beyond belief that you, the great Kakashi, had selected me to handle your body when you were hurt.
I berated you about how reckless you were; I scolded you for ripping out the I.V. because that was your good arm and how I shouldn't heal it, but I did; I growled, you quirked a silver brow at me when I did this, when you asked if I would fluff your pillow; I laughed when I walked in the room only to find you giggling like an idiotic pervert while reading your favorite novel; I cringed when you gripped my arm so tight your knuckles turned white when I tried to finish healing the gash above your eye; I felt like a failure when I could not fix the rest of the gash, leaving a little chip in the bone of your brow.
You could tell, I know, that I felt insecure about not being able to heal the rest of the wound, even though you looked no different; I could tell and that's the point. Your hand reached out to lock my wrist between your fingers when I turned to walk away from your bed. Your long, thin fingers were ice cold and what started as a shiver caused a chain reaction of little bumps to arise across my skin, all over my body. I did not move, in fear of you being angry with me, but I was forced to when you tightened those icy fingers and placed me in a wrist lock, making the bones of my wrist touch oh so painfully. Anger and fear tripled inside me as my eyes locked on your lone, charcoal orb.
Suddenly your eye creased, I was confused, signaling your smile; I questioned why were you smiling if you were mad at me. You let go of my wrist and replied "Well how else was I going to get you to look at me" at this I snorted and thought to myself that of course you would use that method instead of simply telling me to turn around. Your second answer blew me out of the water, for it was the first time I would hear something like this from you; Directed towards me. "You are my savior, the savior of my second eye...the bone is nothing" Your statement came out light at first, hinting towards a joke, but it grew more serious towards the end. I understood what you were telling me; You were telling me that I should not worry over something as trivial as a chip in a bone that you can't even see under the tissue; I understood that you were also thanking me for healing the gash that entered part of your charcoal eye.
That day I found new things; I found that you have quite the collection of romance novels, as you would call them; I found that your charcoal eye was beautiful; I found that your eye color was not just charcoal, black outlined your iris, fading into a dark gray which lightened until it reached almost a silver color surrounding your pupil; I found myself drawn to you, drawn to just staring into your eye; I involuntarily found myself a steady patient, from that day on you would let no one else treat you.
Months rolled by as seasons changed, one thing always staying the same, as if carved into stone. Your visits to the hospital seemed to become more frequent, you always requested me, until one day you no longer needed to do so, the nurses had come to the realization that only my hands were to glow green around you. Your mood was always light and your tone lazy, sometimes you would make jokes about your injuries, in return I would smack you and complain that you were wreckless or got injured on purpose just to see me. One day your response was unusual and out of character, albeit you're quite aloof so anything next to normal is out of character; You questioned what if you had been injured just to come see me, I replied with a raised, angry tone and flushed cheeks that you were incredibly stupid if you did, in fact, get injured on purpose.
I remember you slipping down from the exam table and walking away with a raised hand, two fingers in the air. As you were opening the door you called out, telling me that you wished to see if I had grown rusty since beginning my hospital shifts and to meet you at our old training grounds for a spar; I smiled as the door close without an audible click.
