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Duex|Two
There was a fog, heady and neverending. He inhaled deeply in the darkness; his nostrils flared, opening. Cedar, musk… his musk… There was a softness under him, cradling him; his bed. He blinked his eyes, unconsciously moving them to focus, to see; he couldn't.
He exhaled; it was choked, erratic and strained. His chest was heavy with coagulated liquid… blood. He placed his hand flat next to him, pushing into the crumpled sheet… no, comforter; it was thicker than the thin cotton he was accustomed to. It covered him; the bed had been made, he noted, feeling around as he sat up.
"Let me help you…" he heard to his left; he snapped his head in that direction, lids opening, blinking, in the darkness as they tried to focus in vain. There was a hand on his back and he jerked, jaw tight.
His memory returned as the haze of slumber left him.
He'd sensed the chakra the moment she'd stepped into the home; bright, enveloping, calming. He didn't want to call it soothing, but, that's all he could manage to compare it to; it was fact more than opinion. They'd sent a shinobi; Tsunade had. He shouldn't have been surprised, but, he didn't imagine there was anyone who could do the job Tsunade would expect of a medical professional combined with the power a shinobi was expected to execute as well… no one other than herself; they both knew that wasn't happening.
He'd come at her then, not knowing she was a woman until he was right on top of her. He hadn't thought much of her when he attacked; there were a handful of medics who had shinobi skills and a handful of shinobi who had medic skills, but, he didn't calculate the possibility of there being anyone aside from Tsunade who was a bit of both.
The girl was familiar, but, he couldn't place it.
Her hand was still on his back; he could feel her to his left; he heard the scrape of a something against the floor. The angle of her breathing… she was sitting down. He turned his head away from her.
"Ok, look," he heard, "You've got quite a bit of blood in your lungs." Her voice was soft, but direct. He could smell… cinnamon… on her breath. "I need to get it out. We can do this one of two ways, but, I would prefer it to be the easy, less painful way. Right now you can't speak because of it, am I right, Itachi-san?"
His eyes closed; his jaw flexed again. He wasn't fond of having it pointed out.
"I'm going to assume your silence is answer enough." Did she roll her eyes? "I need you to turn around and face me. I'm going to hand you a bucket; you are to hold onto it between your legs. I will move behind you and section off the blood in your lungs with my chakra. Stop breathing when I tell you to; start only when I tell you to.
"Alright?"
He chose not to react to her instructions.
She sighed and cinnamon wafted past him once again.
"When I tell you to cough you are to start coughing right then and as hard as you can manage. This will get all of the blood out of your lungs; that's what the bucket is for." He heard the scarping along the floor again; she was standing. The warmth of her body heat hovered over him. "Do you need help tuning around to face me?"
A moment passed. His head drew down as he breathed in and out slowly, wheezing ever present.
"Itachi-san—."
He pulled the sheet and the comforter back jerkily and twisted his body a little too quickly. His legs hung over the bed and he remained still. He heard more scraping and then something round, hard, and plastic was shoved between his thighs. "Hold this and bend over it. You want your face angled over it.
He wanted to snap that he'd heard her the first time; the words were in his throat. He couched in reaction, forgetting in his haste, and heaved a short burst of air and blood from his mouth. It coated the inside of his mouth, his lips and the inside of the bucket. He heard it spray; a dribble of liquid rolled down his bottom lip and chin as he shuddered.
"Don't speak."
There was a pressure on the bed; it creaked under what he could only assume was her weight. His right side dipped towards her as she shifted behind him. He tensed as her hands settled on his back, her thighs—slightly spread—around his lower back and upper buttocks.
"Relax," he heard her say. "I'm going to start, so, I need you to hold your breath. I will make this as quick as possible. Do not cough until I tell you to."
Once he felt the chakra warm along his back he did as she asked; he did not breathe. He felt it penetrate his skin and seep in through his pours, his muscle fiber; it tickled a sensitive path deeper in and beyond the cage of his ribs before finally reaching his lungs. He couldn't feel much beyond that point, but, he could feel a tug and a relief; it ached at him to take a breath in, but, he held fast.
Her hands moved up his back, along his spine; the pressure was hard, but, not too hard. Her thumbs rolled up his neck and he dropped his head as she pushed up towards the base of just past his hairline. Her hands stayed for a while.
"Now. Cough."
He took a breath in, deeply and coughed; he expelled mucus, blood, and a coagulated mess of shit into the bucket. Somewhere in the process she'd lifted her hands and he found himself throwing up the contents of his stomach, heaving, shaking, but, feeling immensely better.
He could breathe.
The bucket slipped from his grasp, clattering to the floor; it didn't fall over as he heaved into it further, almost unable to stop himself as another bout of nausea hit him. There was a hand on his shoulder, steadying him; another held his hair away from his face.
He exhaled deeply as he tried to still the shaking of his body, the beating of his heart and the jerking of his lungs. The woman next to him said nothing as she waited, as he pinched the bridge of his nose and released a shaky groan; his body was bent over and his sides pressed into his thighs. A moment passed on as he breathed in silence and his body gradually calmed down. He felt her shift next to him; the bucket scraped the floor away from him. He lifted his head slowly, lethargically as he felt her presence in front of him, below him… He pulled back slightly, inhaling deeply.
There was a coolness on his lips, his chin.
He jerked; his hand snapped over her wrist; her body tensed under his grip. His jaw tightened.
"I'm just cleaning—."
"I don't need you to." His voice was cool, cutting.
There was quiet.
"Very well. Clean it yourself."
He let go of her, satisfied, and snapped the rag out of her hand. With it he cleaned his mouth as he listened to her stand.
"I'm going to go clean this bucket and dispose of the contents. Then I'm going to prepare a meal for you. In the meantime, you may come with me… or you can stay here and rest. What do you want to do?"
He sat there, considering what she said, thinking about how to rid himself of her presence—mostly. He wanted her out of his home, out of here. He wanted Tsunade to quit sending him babysitters. He was not a child, he did not need coddling and it was a disgrace for anyone to think otherwise.
He recognized, in the process of his thoughts, that sitting up in his room would not do anything to alleviate him of her.
"I'll go," he replied evenly.
"Very well." She came forward again; he could feel her reaching out with something. "Stand and give me your hand. I'll help you—." His arm swung out and he slapped her hand away. He sensed her chakra flare, change from soothing to aggressive in less than a second.
"I can move of my own volition," he snapped.
He listened to her breath; it was quick and fierce. She did so through her nose, indicated to him only by the sound of it escaping and the lack of cinnamon in the air. He heard her shift; the material of her shirt dragged along her skin. It was loose fitting.
"Then get up," she bit back before he heard her turn, footsteps light and short. She had stopped by the door at his estimation in consideration with her height.
He did so, placing one hand on his knee as he lifted himself to his full height rather slowly. When she turned to go he followed. His hand lifted and felt for the doorframe after he counted his steps, the distance. He turned left, counting again as the bottom of his feet slid partially across the floor. His right hand trailed along the wall.
She was perhaps two feet in front of him and he held that distance until the stairs. He felt around for the railing, digits fumbling a moment until a pronounced wood surface made itself known. He took hold of it and continued downward, counting.
He stopped and turned his head back and forth at the bottom of the stairs. He inhaled deeply through his nose, sharply with each change in direction. His eyes shifted, trying to focus in a manner that appeared almost unnatural to the outsider.
"I cleaned," he heard her say, perhaps ten feet in front of him. "Everything was while you slept. The conditions you were sustaining yourself in were deplorable, at best." He heard a pause as she stopped moving; she was in the kitchen… maybe. He heard glass scrape along glass. The kitchen.
"I didn't move any furniture or rearrange your setup."
There was a pang of relief he hadn't expected from those words. He wouldn't admit the fear of someone moving the placement of his home had been distinct, and, more than likely the reason behind his initial reaction at the bottom of the stairs where he now stood.
"You can come over and sit down at the table while I cook if you like." He heard some movement from her direction; metal scraped along metal, some things tapped on the counter, there was the chink of silverware.
He took a slow step at first, hesitant; eventually however, he made his way across the space between the stairs and the dining room table directly in front of him. He felt around for the chairs and ran his hand along the wood surface. There was the one at the end of the table with its back to the stairs. He moved to the left, past it and tapped along the two chairs there. He stopped at the other end of the table and pulled the chair out. His hands fumbled across the wood surface of the back again before he seated himself.
He could hear something cracking in the background and sizzle; a pop rang out in the kitchen behind him. There were herbs in the air… basil… thyme… He heard her sigh, the shuffle of her feet as she moved around; cabinets opened and shut in her wake as she made no attempt to be quiet.
As he sat there, waiting, with his forearms resting on the table, he wondered who she was. She was familiar, her chakra was familiar. He'd spent so much of his life encountering one shinobi after another… all nameless echoes in his subconscious; it was hard to know them all—especially the ones he only encountered briefly.
It unsettled him that he couldn't figure it out, and yet, he was undecided as to whether he wanted to ask. And so he sat there… thinking, mulling, and contemplating the familiarity of her.
"Are you thirsty?"
He ignored her inquiry. "Who are you." It was a statement.
He heard her stop and presumed she was staring at him across the distance of the kitchen and the dining room. He wondered what she was thinking; if he could see her face then… the thought trailed, empty.
"Sakura," she murmured quietly at first, then, strongly, "Haruno Sakura."
His unfocusing eyes narrowed as a distinct pang hit him again; he knew the name, the voice, the chakra, but… he could not find the memory attached to any of it. "You're a medical shinobi."
"I am," she agreed, resuming her work.
He waited for her say more, to provide more information, but, she did not. The lack of action offset him. He wanted to understand what was nagging at him about her.
Then she gave another sigh; it was after the passing of a long moment, which was spent in silent counsel with his thoughts. He heard a scraping again, a plop and then the clang of what he assumed was a piece of silverware against a glass plate. His fridge opened next, from what he could tell. Liquid sloshed into a container and then there were a few more repetitive sounds before it stopped altogether.
He felt her close the distance between them; he moved back as she set a plate in front of him and a glass to his right. The scent of thyme, basil and…. egg, rolled over his nose strongly.
"It's an omelet. Your fork is to the right of the plate. Your drink is—."
"I know."
He could almost feel her frown. "It's water; unfortunately, you have nothing else." Her tone was clipped, but, not directed at him. "I will see to it you have food tomorrow… until then… this is it." He heard her sit down to his right.
He didn't move; her eyes were on him.
He turned his head to face her, blinking once or twice slowly; he couldn't fool himself into thinking just by looking in her direction he could see what he wanted to. But, he could smell her, feel her chakra at its resting level, he could detect the warmth of another human body less than fifteen or so inches away from him.
"I'm not surprised you don't recognize me," he heard her say, finally. "When we last saw each other…" she paused, appearing to him to think her words carefully; he could hear it in her voice. "Well," she sighed out, "when you could last see me I was sixteen and you were still a member of Akatsuki. It's been over two years since then.
"But…" she dragged the word out, "if it helps… I'm the only kunoichi in Konoha with pink hair… at least since my great-grandmother…" There was a tang of annoyance in her tone, but, it was almost funny.
"Tsunade's apprentice," he murmured more to himself than her, as the dots connected and fell into place. She was Uzumaki's teammate, his brother's teammate, and the sole female member of Team Kakashi, formerly known as team seven. He wanted to smack himself in the face; one, for not figuring it out—it felt so obvious now, and two, for not considering the possibility that Tsunade would send her. He'd forgotten about the slip of a girl; he'd gotten so use to base level medics.
"Don't feel too badly," she said, voice dead with sarcasm, "I'm fairly easy to forget. It's not something that bothers me anymore."
No, he imagined, it wouldn't; the job tended to require it, he could recall.
"You should eat," she continued after a bite.
"No thank you," he muttered.
He heard her fork clattered softly on her plate as she set it down. "You need to eat, Itachi-san." He could hear her picking something up, material moved between… her hands… her face; she was wiping her face with a towel. "You're body will suffer if you don't; it's already begun to."
He closed his eyes. "No, thank you."
A tension rose; he could feel it. He wondered if her hands were clenching, if she was taking advantage of the fact that he couldn't see her to glare at him, or, if she would glare regardless of his vision or not. For some reason, he liked to think she would glare anyway, even if he wasn't sure why.
"Itachi-san—."
"No." And there it came again; it was what it all boiled down to. Someone telling him what he needed to do, what he was supposed to do, what was required of him and no longer expected of him—useless. He never needed anyone to tell him when to eat after he became an adult, before he went blind; he certainly didn't need anyone telling him now.
"If you don't—."
He reached for the glass on the table; his wrist snapped. The liquid contents of his cup struck across her; he heard her distinct gasp as he set the cup down, click concise and satisfying. Ferocity mixed with some level of accomplishment filled him. He wanted her gone; he wanted them all gone. He—.
"Cold?" he heard her clipped reply while his mind tried to wrap around what she'd just done. "Look, I don't know what you think this is, but, I am not one of those medics who came to wipe your ass. Those medics take orders from me, Uchiha.
"We can do this the hard way, or, the easy way. Quite frankly I don't give a damn. If you want to fight me at every turn then so be it." She was standing over him as she finished, leaning onto the table; he'd heard it creak as he sat there… soaked in the liquid contents of her glass—stunned.
He listened as she walked away, heading the direction of his back door.
"Eat it, Uchiha!" And then the door slammed.
…
He was an ass, an absolute asshole, she surmised as stalked around in his back yard, trying to cool her head. She pulled the towel up she'd taken with her and wiped her face, grimacing in distaste. She wiped it further down her chest, dabbing at her red shirt. Some of it had gotten on her pink medic apron. At least it was water; maybe it was a good thing he didn't have anything else to drink tonight.
She flung it over her shoulder, smacking her back.
She was furious. Livid. Walking out of there had been the only thing that had saved him, she was convinced. Had he really done this to everyone else? This child-like, brattish, aggression? She exhaled, blowing air of her mouth in a fashion that could only be called exasperated; she stopped and placed her hands on her hips. She glared at a tree; her fist shot out. Her knuckles connected with the bite of the bark, splintering it; she hadn't given it enough to cause much damage, just to placate her rage.
A growl escaped her chest.
She felt like stomping her feet and screaming, but, she wouldn't. It wasn't worth it. He was just an angry, bitchy, asshole who couldn't see anymore.
She stilled.
He couldn't see anymore. She closed her eyes.
He couldn't see anymore.
Her hands tightened to fists and she hung her head; she sighed, hands uncoiling. Her body relaxed and anger, slowly, slowly, receded in the way she'd learned, the way she'd taught herself keep her emotion in check. She took a deep breath in, held it, counted to ten, and exhaled.
He was angry, she knew. She understood, in her own way. There was no way for her to know what it felt like, to not be with sight, but… she couldn't imagine it was good for him. He'd spent the better part of his career depending on the Sharingan, and then the Mangekyo. His techniques were well-known, genjutsu-based; almost all of his primary techniques he used were in junction with the Mangekyo.
She wiped a hand down her face and opened her eyes with a sigh; she tried, for a moment, to imagine what that feeling was like.
He was powerful; she'd already conceded this. He was shinobi, honed and primed for warfare, for protecting his important people. Much of his life had been wrapped in the ideal of being a martyr, in saving Konoha from the Uchiha, and saving Sasuke from himself—ultimately. Now… now he couldn't see, his body was backfiring on him; he needed help learning how to take care of himself. The word retirement must have held a bitter taste; it disgusted her. What would she have done… if this had happened to her?
This was when she sighed—again; mostly, in realization.
Sakura had a temper; anyone who knew her knew that. She was venomously independent, she refused to be left behind because of her past, and she didn't want to always be the one who needed saving (once in a while was alright). She didn't mind depending on people, or people doing things for her, but, ultimately doing things for yourself—knowing you could—was the point. What if she suddenly had to depend on someone to make her meals, buy her groceries, pick her up out of bed, bathe her...? Then there were the other things. She wouldn't be able to read anymore—something she loved to do and had since she was a child. Did he enjoy reading? She wouldn't be able to see her friends smile anymore; going to the movies would feel deflating… shaving, she realized would become a new trial in and of itself. How did he manage it? His face was baby-butt smooth.
But… most importantly… without your eyes… there wasn't much chance of you being on active duty anymore.
There were hundreds of things Sakura could do if she went blind; she would adapt. She had things she could excel at without consequence. It would hurt, but, she could see herself persevering. But, Itachi… it was entirely possible he considered himself utterly useless.
That was something she understood.
She knew that feeling, the creeping, aching, crawling feeling that you could nothing; the word was spat in her mind
You were breakable, disposable and ultimately, you would be. You could tag along with the big kids, but, in the end you were put to the sidelines.
It's too dangerous, Sakura; I've got this Sakura; I'll bring Sasuke back, Sakura, stay here; You're not powerful enough, Sakura; Stay back, Sakura.
She knew it all too well… Which is, probably why she was walking back towards the back door of the house, goal set, and mind in the right place. Her hand reached for the handle; she turned it and stepped in; the door shut behind her. She glanced towards where he had been sitting. She blinked, realizing his plate was empty; all that remained were crumbs.
"Ita—." A board creaked, interrupting her. She looked to her left and caught the tail end of his foot heading up the stairs. She headed in that direction and watched his bare back ascend upward, slowly.
She decided she would not say anything about the meal or apologize; nor would she expect him to apologize. She doubted he would anyway; some part of her thought he might respect her less if she did.
"Itachi-san," she called out. He stopped. "I'm going to be leaving a few hours, after I change your sheets. But, before that, you need to bathe. I'm going to draw you a bath and—."
"No."
Here it was again. She ignored it. "You probably haven't bathed in a few days; your hair is in knots and needs a comb. I'm going to assist you and you are going to take a bath. Any objections, physical or otherwise, will be dealt with. My word from earlier still holds. Do with that information what you will."
She could see the intensive flexing of his back muscle; it was beautiful in a way, she couldn't deny. It was that same lack of denial she'd felt earlier when she'd held him in her arms, scent of him wafting over her.
He said nothing as he continued his way upward; his steps were heavier and not at all unlike an errant child's going to him room because he didn't get what he wanted. She waited until he was clear of her vision before following after him. She caught his backside disappearing into his room. She stared but a second, listening, before going to the room on her left just beyond his.
The door was open and bathroom wasn't large, but, it was big enough for two people to maneuver in. His tub wasn't large either, but, it would suit his needs. The curtain was already pulled back. Like any other bathroom it was white with tile; like the outside of his home, there were mild navy blue colorings. The curtain was one these items; so were the soap dishes and toothbrush cup. Her eyes narrowed when she saw no razor.
His tub wasn't set into the wall like hers; rather, it had clawed feet and high back for relaxing back into. In truth, she was almost a little jealous. It looked comfortable to soak in.
She reached over and turned one of the knobs; water flushed out in a torrent. She adjusted the temperature by messing with the silver, cross-shaped knobs until it suited her. She stuck in the plug and waited for it to fill, eyeing it with her hands on her hips. Wait, where was his shampoo? Soap? Were there towels? She looked at the rack on the wall; it was vacant.
A sigh escaped her and she turned. A cabinet hung over the toilet; she opened and found towels—clean ones. At least something was working in her favor. She pulled two out and hung both on the rack, folded to fit side by side. Next, she looked for the shampoo, conditioner and soap. Under the sink she hunted, moving toiletries aside. She breathed in relief as she found two bottles and a packet of soap bars. None of the items had been opened. Why weren't they along the edge of the tub where he could get to them?
She grumbled, but, set everything up she needed. By the time she finished the tub was full to her liking; she shut it off. When she turned, intent on going to get him she jumped, heart shooting out of her chest.
There he was, leaning into the sink with one hand and dark flannel pajama pants still on. His face was in the direction of hers, his eyes almost locking on green hues. It was a little unnerving, but, not in the way that made her afraid; it wasn't the same heart cracking, gut stopping feeling that had her contemplating the end of her existence that she'd been given on the way to save Gaara with Naruto. She couldn't place it, but, she wasn't afraid.
She exhaled slowly through her nose. "Let's get your pants off." She took a step forward.
"I'll do it."
She stilled her movement. Her eyes narrowed on him, considering her every action. "…You're exhausted, Itachi-san," it was said softly. "I can see it in your eyes. Fighting me today took a lot out of you. I—."
"I'll do it," he repeated.
Her jaw tightened, but, she said nothing. She waited. She watched as his free hand lifted and tugged on the string holding them around his narrow hips and cut abdomen.
Sakura considered herself every bit a professional as there was; she did. However, she was still a woman, and, there was always a part of her that couldn't look a fine, honed, bred, shinobi male and not think all those things Kakashi read about in IchaIcha. Tsunade never voiced her opinion in front of nurses or in public, but, even she would occasionally gossip with her—only Sakura and Shizune—about the half naked men that came through her exam room. Sakura had seen Naruto, Sasuke and even her sensei naked on more than one occasion. She'd gotten good at her game face even when the temperamental blonde was blushing like a tomato about her looking him over; these days Naruto wasn't half bad, but, that was just his body. Ultimately, Sakura could admire what that body represented as much as what the smell of it represented, the effort that went into it and effect of it.
She was a woman, again, it couldn't be helped that she admired what that male body represented more than, say, Ino's. Not voicing it was the important part; there was no remaining impartial. And she was just too mature to try and deny it to herself.
So, there was no real surprise on her part when the thin cotton slipped away from his hips in a whisper and she stared, examining every inch. His legs were just as taunt and hard as his arms, his chest. He wasn't bulky, he was lean, like any nin who relied on movement and quick action. She couldn't really stop her eyes from going lower, to that area above his mid thigh and below his abdomen. She wondered, briefly, if he had any body hair aside from the thick, thready mess of black silk on his head that fell over his shoulders like sin.
There was no blush crossing her cheeks, no heat in her face, but, Sakura couldn't quite stop the hum that trailed down her spine, her lower back to eventually pool in her belly… and lower. Who would have been? He was older than any of her other teammates and closer in age to her than Kakashi; she couldn't deny the aggressive, purely male aura that radiated off of him even when he was like this. Like this it was almost poetic and even more catching, constraining.
That heat expanded from below her abdomen and traveled down her legs, up her chest and to her arms. She kind of just stood there, inadvertently accepting it and the way looking at him made her skin, her pours, the hair along her legs and arms raise; her body let her know under no uncertain terms what it was feeling and she made no real attempt to fight it.
"Get an eyeful?"
She blinked, snapping back to attention. His voice had not been as aggravated or frustrated as she imagined it would have been. In the end she was a little upset with herself for being caught woolgathering, at the fact that she'd been doing so in regards to him. Or, maybe it was that he'd caught her.
She didn't comment on it. "Come on then," she sighed out.
He took a step forward, slowly, paying attention to almost everything as he reached out and trailed his fingers over the sink to the end of the counter. His calve brushed the toilet as he moved past her. His thigh gently bumped the edge of the tub.
"Do you need a hand?"
"No." He reached down and grabbed onto the porcelain-metal of the tub's edge.
She stood by, watching him, and ready to move if he had any trouble while he slowly slid into the water. He settled down, knees bent slightly, arms over the sides with his hands gently gripping; his eyes were shut as he exhaled.
She took a step back and turned towards the counter. The bar of soap was gathered, as well as, the rag she'd procured from the cabinet. She came to sit on the little stool that had been left in the bathroom; she settled across from him, facing his left side. He still hadn't moved, his eyes were still shut, and his breathing shallow; she wasn't naïve enough to think he was asleep.
She dipped the rag and the bar of soap into the water; she rubbed them together, lathering. Once she was satisfied she hesitated; her gaze went to his face. Breaths left him slowly and his face was relaxed. She wondered if she should try—again—to just go on and help him. Would he stop her? She hadn't been candy coating her words when she'd told him he looked tired. The after effect of him fighting her combined with the attention she'd given his lungs was probably a bit more than he was use to.
She set the soap aside and reached out; she set the rag on his chest and moved it—.
His eyes flashed open.
She stilled, waiting—not in fear, but, in what he action would be. Her chest rested on the edge of the tub where she bent over, it cut between her two breasts because she'd twisted in the seat towards him and at an angle.
His eyes were penetrating even if he had no idea he was staring right into hers. His face was impassive, chilled. He cut through her, tore at her in a way that was just fascinating to watch. It wasn't like when Sasuke looked at her… this was different; there was so much more there, so much more that went unsaid. Was he trying to figure out if it was ok?
She blinked when all he did was close his eyes, shutting away his cloudy black hues. She stared for only a moment longer before silently continuing. She moved the rag across his shoulders, standing to move around him. She brushed it across the back of his neck and he tilted forward, surprising her by accommodating her. His arms came next, under them and across his biceps and forearms. When she was as satisfied as she could be with her job she rinsed the rag, soaked it again and rinsed him off.
Again, he opened his eyes, staring at her, watching her in quiet contemplation as if he could see her. She didn't comment on it and continued her work. She took a cup from the counter and dipped it into the water. She soaked his hair, drenching it to the scalp. Next, she settled herself behind him and reached for the bottle of shampoo. Once in her palm she rewet his hair fresh and went to work.
She piled his hair up, thick long mess that it was. She couldn't recall it ever having been this long. Didn't it use to fall just above his mid back? She found herself using more shampoo before she was satisfied with the amount of froth in his hair. She dug her fingers into his scalp, scrubbing and trying to rid him of any oil and residual dirt clinging there. As she did so he leaned forward again… her eyes narrowed on him as she worked, confused. She could only assume he was far more tired than she'd surmised. The man that had greeted her in the kitchen today would not have submitted to her so easily.
That had to be it.
She rinsed him again and ran the conditioner through. When she was done she pulled the plug. He stood without a word and stepped out of the tub, carefully; he didn't fight her even as she draped a towel around him, drying him and warming him.
She tossed his pants in what she assumed was a laundry basket; next, she placed a towel over his hair. "Come on." She stepped out of the bathroom and turned, looking to see if he would follow her. She blinked and jolted back to him once he started to teeter. She caught him, releasing a breath.
"You are tired. I told you. Idiot," she snapped under her breath. He didn't reply to her insult as she led him out, one hand on his back and the other in his hand. His grip was lethargic, at best.
She sat him on the edge of his bed. It dawned on her she still needed to change his sheets, but… ah well. She could do it tomorrow morning when he ate breakfast—if he ate breakfast. She moved the towel through his hair, drying it as best as she could. Satisfied, she tossed the towel on the floor. The disarrayed mess curled around his face and stuck with residual moisture. "Let's get you on the bed. I still need to run a comb through this…" It didn't take too much effort on her part; with a little chakra she had him settled, sitting cross-legged and leaning forward; he had enough energy to do that.
She took the brush she'd brought in from the bathroom off his nightstand and exhaled a sigh as she settled herself behind him. It would have been better to sit him in chair, she supposed, but, it was a little too late for that.
And so, without much else, she went to work on his hair. She combed his long strands beyond the base of his lower back. Knots were minimal because of the conditioner she'd used. Really, she was done in a few moments. She could have just moved, but, she didn't. Something stopped her, made her keep combing a while longer, until the tips of his hair became dry and his breaths came in quiet, rhythmic beats. She told herself it was girlish vanity; his hair was sinfully beautiful even after all the hell he'd left it in, that everyone else had.
Eventually, though, she stopped. "Itachi…"
Silence.
"Itachi-san…?" she said as she tried to peer around him.
Nothing.
She smiled softly and set the brush down on the nightstand. Quietly, with all the grace that had been instilled in her, she got out of his bed. She took his head and one shoulder in her hand; his head was cupped in her palm, hair pouring out over it as she laid him into the softness of his pillow.
She took a step back after she pulled the blankets over him just as quietly. Green hues traced over his closed, lashes eyes, his angular cheeks and sharp nose; they stilled on his parted lips, pinkened and allowing breath to escape in a whisper.
"Goodnight, Itachi…"
AN:: Thanks for the reviews. A lot of you had it right—this story title is based on Florence Nightingale, more specifically the syndrome named after her because of how many men fell for her while under her care. Believe it not, she was very manish in nature and supposedly a lesbian. Go figure.
I probably won't update this for a bit longer, but I do have a plan in mind for the first half of chapter three. I need to get back to work on No Good Deed first (my SasuSaku fic with an Itachi element). Hopefully, though, in the next week or two I will have chapter 3 up; no guarantees, but, there you have it.
—Blade