Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.
Status: Incomplete.
A/N: Updated version.
[There were times when she felt like she was going insane. Times when the clockwork in her head didn't work quite how she wanted it to and the world lurched.]
She washed herself obsessively.
Her hands smoothed over her puckered flesh, and ruined skin, and rubbed away the dirt, the grime, the touch. Red lines appeared over pale skin, and she felt the burn of her nails but she didn't care. She must have used half a gallon of soap as she scored her fingers over her skin over, and over, and over, and over again. Her hair was neatly parted, and then scrubbed with so much viciousness, her scalp began to tingle.
In the bathroom, she reassembled herself. In the bathroom, she reinvented herself. In the bathroom, the thread of sanity laxed.
I'm an older sister here. She told herself, kind, gentle, understanding. I belong to someone here, and someone belongs to me.
She dragged her fingers through her hair and tied it loosely at the nape of her neck. The locks were dry and soft and smelt of apple shampoo. It was the only cheap one that kept her hair shiny and healthy. Her face had been wan, and waxy; withdrawn and too pale. Now, her cheeks were red from the shower, and there was a gleam of obsessive concentration in her eyes.
She spread the moisturizer over her face, and rubbed it in, carefully, slowly. Sometimes, when she felt like she was going mad, and her thoughts wandered dangerously, she sat herself down in front of the mirror, and rubbed the lotion into her skin. Her touch felt foreign to herself—even now.
Sakura didn't want to look at herself any longer, the disgust she felt at the sight of her own body made her throat close, like a noose around a guilty traitor.
But as her hands shook, and she thought of the man's mouth between her legs, and her own voice filtering out in the dark room, she knew she had to clean herself.
She dragged the razorblade over her skin, nicking any loose hairs, and running over her legs and thighs with soap and tweezers. She didn't have much hair on her body any more—the acid burns, the scars and remnants of old fights had taken care of that for her, but she had to be clean.
To be perfect.
Sakura pulled the pair of long, comfortable sweatpants over her waist and tied a neat bow around her middle. The soft, cotton-blue shirt came next, and she felt calmer as she stared at the long-haired, green-eyed girl in the mirror and breathed.
(I'm home. I'm home. I'm home.)
She looked over herself, top to bottom, and then bottom to top. Her toenails were neat, and clipped, and had a fresh sheen of clear polish on them. Her fingernails as well; clipped tight to the nailbed, with a glimmer of green polish that remained to this day her favorite. Her eyebrows were shapely once more, and the sparse hairs around her mouth were gleaned before they could fully form.
She was clean.
Of course, she could still feel the lingering touch. The brush of a ghost against the nape of her neck, the sting of a slap against her cheek. Rough, unguided fingers jabbing at her thighs.
She curled in on herself; her arms came around her slender waist, and her chin tucked into her chest. She could feel his hands on her breasts, stomach, thighs. She could feel the metal of the kunai on her throat, and the bitter fear that had filtered through her at the thought of never coming home.
"You're fine," she whispered to herself. "You're home now."
Even the reassurance of her whispered words—a luxury she wouldn't have allowed herself on the field—didn't manage to calm her.
There was a nervous anxiety that thrummed underneath her skin, and she could feel the nausea and dread building up in her stomach.
(There were days like these ones, days where she couldn't focus, and her concentration was shot and all she wanted to do was scream—)
She shook herself.
The chill of the night nipped at her skin as she made her way through the darkened hallways of her home. She stopped before she reached her room. Opening the door quietly, she peered into Ryu's dark room, blinking to adjust to the pitch blackness.
He was sound asleep in his little cot, a hand grasping the twisted sheets tightly, the other wrapped around a dinosaur plushie. His mouth was open, and she could hear his soft, measured breaths from the doorway. His hair was a mess of riotous curls and she knew it would only be worse when he woke the next morning.
As she gazed on him, she felt warm. She felt safe, like everything that had happened to her, everything she'd had to do this past month was okay now. It was okay because Ryu was happy, and safe, and alive, and she'd come back to him.
She dared not think of the boy whose sister would never see him again.
("Do you promise?" gray eyes pleaded, "Do you promise to keep him safe?")
The bite of her teeth in her lip shook her from her thoughts.
Turning, she closed the door behind her, not letting it click shut. If Ryu needed her, he still wasn't exactly tall enough to reach the doorknob and she didn't want to waste any time in reaching him if there was an emergency.
Her room was a mess of chaos and Sakura breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped into her room. Piles of dirty clothes sat, stacked, on her desk chair and medical books had slumped over to the floor; her floor was worse. Dirty socks, and filthy nightshirts—smelling of musky sweat and fear—lined her bedside. Teacups sat on her bedside table and the smell of old tea permeated her room.
She made her way past the mess deftly, and reached her closet, dodging the tumbled clothes that came hurtling out. Sakura knocked over pencils and books and reports as she searched for what she was looking for.
Her fingers caught on a soft, heavy knitted sweater, and she smiled. The pinch of ruined flesh made her wince, but she didn't care. It was probably the only clean thing in her wardrobe at this point, and even though it had been sitting there for a month, it smelled like Kiba; freshly cut grass, dog, and sunshine earth.
She brought it to her nose, and breathed deep. Her shoulders fell, and she brought it closer to her, the tension in her frame relaxing. She stood there, in the half-formed moonlight, Kiba's scent around her, and the block in the back of her throat receded, if only a little.
Sakura brought it over her head, careful not to nick it on any protruding clothes hangers, or zippers. It settled over her like a warm blanket, in all the right places, and she felt the warmth of comfort filling her like a golden hum.
She was tempted to lay back, and close her eyes, to enjoy the calm that had threaded over her; a rarity. But her muscles screamed, and although her body was lax, her mind still thrummed with anxious malice.
The yearn for release, for a second of calm, of quiet nagged at her until she was already moving back to the living room, and settling in the familiar forms of her kata.
Her arms rose high above her, and she arched her spine, before letting herself drift into a relaxed pose.
She'd keep up the genjutsu, for practice, she told herself.
She ran through each and every Kata in the standard issue taijutsu course that she'd learned in the academy, and then began to stretch herself further. She did all the Dancing River, Dancing Stone katas. She completed Sands of Dune and then went on to try a stance she'd learned from Lee, when she heard a knock at her door.
Adrenaline exploded through her.
Her breath hitched, and the feeling over her hair brushed against the nape of her neck, and instantly, she was on guard. The senbon she'd slipped in her sleeve bit against her skin, and she moved quietly to the door. Anger, and fear, hammered through her as she saw that Toya had clogged the peephole again, and she swore to herself that she'd have words with the woman.
Every inch of her body was taught as she opened the door. One false move, one quick flash of metal would be all it took before the senbon would find its way into the soft skin of the intruder's throat.
Her teeth bared themselves at her snarl; a tall, muscled figure stood at her door, nearly reaching the top of her doorframe.
Relief, sharp and bitter as tears ran through her when she realized who it was.
A grimacing smile filled her face.
"You're back." Kiba breathed, brown eyes wide. He smelled of sweat and metal, and she could tell he hadn't washed. There was a rushing of fur and then Akamaru moved into the light of her home. He barked jovially at her and Sakura made a soothing hushing noise.
Kiba stepped inside, closing the door behind them.
Sakura felt oddly nervous, and so her mouth began to run. "Ryu's asleep, so be—"
Kiba's tight embrace and the trembling of his hands against her shoulder blades cut off her quiet words quickly. His face buried itself in the crook of her neck, and Sakura would have flinched and recoiled if this was anyone other than Kiba.
"I was worried, Sakura." He muttered gruffly, voice muffled by her hair and his sweater. He squeezed her closer to him until her ribs creaked. "A month. You were gone for a month when you told me a week at most—and when Tsunade said you were in the hospital—I—"
His voice cracked.
"I'm fine," Sakura whispered back, holding him back just as fiercely. She felt love, as fierce and warm as for Ryu rush through her, and as he whimpered, hot tears trailing down her neck, she finally lifted her hands to clutch at him. "I'm okay, Kiba. I…made it through. I got back."
Akamaru circled her, nudging her sides with his big black nose, snuffling wetly at her flanks.
"I smelled your blood on her." He said, voice hushed and broken. "I smelled the infection—God, what happened—"
"I'm home, Kiba." She said. "I'm home, that's all that matters now."
He was quiet for a while and she let him. They stood, swaying slightly, in the entrance of her home, Kiba pressed up against her, tears wetting the collar of her sweater, hands trembling on her back. She was clutching him just as tightly, taking deep breaths, smelling the musk of sweat, fresh grass and sunshine earth that was Kiba seep through her bones, settling in her skin.
She had missed him, desperately. Missed his steady hands, and smart mouth, his twinkling brown eyes and rash, violent tongue.
There was a moment when she thought he wouldn't let go of her, but he pulled away, slowly, and blinked at her. She reached up, and he let her brush away the tears that made his brown eyes crusty and red. He sniffed a couple of times, standing still as she checked him over for bruises or injuries and once satisfied, he leaned down and scooped her up, cradling her in his arms.
"Kiba!" she hissed at his sly grin. "Put me down—I'm not an—an infant!"
"Naw. I kinda like it. Having you in my arms." He grinned, pretending like his grip wasn't tighter than usual, like Akamaru hadn't kept his hackles raised, watching the door and windows for any sudden movement.
Sakura rolled her eyes, but the warmth still coursed through her like a warm fire. "Those lines still working for you, Inuzuka?"
"Of course and maybe if you'd let them, they'd work on you." He chuckled, the sound reverberating deep in his chest, through her skin, reaching her bones.
God, how she'd missed him.
He took her to the kitchen and then glanced down at her, laughing quietly (a feat for him) at her scowling expression. "I've got nothing but time to woo you, Sakura-hime."
"Oh shove it," She rolled her eyes, smacking his rib with a flick of her elbow.
He wheezed and Sakura giggled at his exaggerated choking.
"You wound me, hime."
"I saw you use those lines on that Suna chunnin literally last month, Kiba-kun." Sakura said, wiggling out of his arms, making sure not to go too fast or too far away.
The Inuzuka Clan were, unsurprisingly, overprotective of their partners—both animal and human. She'd learned the hard way that if she didn't want Kiba hovering over her shoulder at her shifts at the hospital or to sleep in her home for the next six months, she'd let him touch and smell her at any time necessary.
So she didn't particularly mind that his hands followed her, latching onto her tiny waist, his warm chest not much behind.
Akamaru yipped at her and she cooed, leaning down to press a kiss against his head.
"Were you a good boy?" She giggled, ignoring Kiba's eye roll. Akamaru yipped only a little louder (Sakura had been pissed when they'd woken up a one-year old Ryu and she'd had to deal with a colicky baby for the entire night and they dared not go louder than a shout when he slept) and bussed against her cheek. "I bet you were, sweet boy."
She was the only one who the ninken let baby him. Kiba claimed it was that he loved the attention from a pretty lady and Sakura elbowed him in the gut.
"Curry? I made it before, but Ryu-chan fell asleep on me again." She shook her head, smiling and Kiba hummed an affirmative and settled his chin on her shoulder, the bone digging into her soft flesh.
They stood like that for a while; Kiba pressed up against her and Sakura humming softly as she stirred the curry to warm up and heated the rice cooker once again, this time setting it to 'warm up' instead of 'cook.' There was something about Kiba that reduced her to a child again, an innocent, happy girl that only felt simple things instead of the darkness inside her head.
"How was your—"
"You smell of someone else." He said quietly.
Sakura stilled. The curry sizzled in the pan and Akamaru began to whine as the smell of the meat wafted through the air and reached his sensitive nose. The rice cooker beeped but no one made any move to open it.
"Is that so?" She hummed.
"Don't play stupid with me." His lips brushed her neck and Sakura sighed, turning off the pan and reaching over to grab that plates she'd put out before.
Opening the rice cooker, she began to speak. "You know they call me every now and then, you know this Kiba."
He muttered something in her shoulder.
"What was that?" She asked sharply, spooning curry and steaming rice onto their plates, quickly and efficiently.
She let Akamaru have a little of the leftover meat and he guzzled it down quickly, before nudging her side gratefully.
"You know they don't really ever let you leave that division, Sakura."
"We are not discussing this now." Her voice was hard but it still wavered as she turned to face Kiba's angry brown. "I did what I had to do to complete the mission. You know that it's one of my talents—"
"It didn't have to be!" He suddenly shouted.
Sakura's eyes narrowed and Kiba swallowed, not paying attention to her darkening mood.
"If that fucker you call your sensei—"
"Language, Kiba!"
"—Would have even for a fucking second, trained you then—"
Sakura gripped his shoulder tight, tighter than she'd ever let herself on anyone who hadn't been an enemy and his dark, angry eyes snapped down to hers.
He towered over her now, she realized. At thirteen he'd been scrawny, with knobby knees and knocking elbows, but now, at seventeen, he was a good two heads taller than her and quite a bit wider. His shaggy hair licked the base of his neck and the red tattoos on his cheeks seemed to make his scowl all the more feral.
"Kiba." His eyes only darkened further and she knew that this was going to be one of those nights, where he spent the time cussing out her 'excuse-for-a-team' and threatening to go over to the Hatake residence to 'pay-a-fucking-visit-to-the-friend-killer'.
She'd ignored him for a week the first time he'd shouted that nasty name at her. Her sensei was a private man and she didn't want him to be exposed, unless he himself wanted it. Even if a niggling part of her was burning with curiosity—why did they call him the friend-killer?
"Kiba, listen to me." Sakura shook him. She took a deep breath as he trailed a large hand down her spine, pressing his thick fingers against her vertebrae, as if checking she was all there, all intact. "It happened."
His eyes flared.
"I had to do it. It was the only way. You know why. We've talked about this Kiba." And suddenly all the fight had gone out of her and Sakura was tired.
Tired from her mission and tired from recounting thousands of stories about her dead parents to an eager three year-old, tired from watching one of her teammates torn apart in the gruesome ways in her memories. Tired from remembering the yakuza's sticky hands and his hot breath drifting over her collarbone, between her legs, her chest.
"I know." Kiba spoke roughly now, as if preventing himself from tearing something apart. "I know, Sakura. I just get—I just get so angry when—"
He seemed to struggle with words until he finally gave up and tugged her onto his lap, sitting them both down. He grabbed a fork and jabbed it into the curry, lifting it to her mouth.
Sakura raised an eyebrow, bottle-green eyes glinting in the moonlight.
"Did you eat when you got home?" His eyes were dark on hers.
Her silence was answer enough.
"You need to stop forgetting, Sakura." He whispered.
She looked away from him, ashamed.
"Eat." The fork nudged her lips, "I'll feel better if I'm taking care of you."
They—well she—ate in silence, the only conversation passing through eye contact and the soft touches Kiba pressed against her silky skin.
After she was done, he picked her up (again, with the infant thing—but Sakura knew when to push and this was not one of those times) and trudged towards her room. Kiba undid the drawstring of her sweatpants, pushed her sweater over her head and tugged her socks away from her ankles.
He let her undo her bra quickly, but then his hands were back on her skin, slipping underneath her tank top, checking, roving, for any injuries.
Sakura was glad that she didn't lift the genjutsu because Kiba would have gone on a murdering rampage and frankly, Sakura didn't feel like losing her partner to the Yakuza again. One teammate had been enough for her, thank you very much.
Once satisfied, he tucked her into bed, Akamaru following behind them and settling at the base of the wooden structure, a growl telling her he was watching, waiting, for anything that could happen.
Kiba unlaced his shoes, undid his pants and slid out of his shirt until he stood in his loose boxers, toeing off socks and undoing his hit-ate, before slipping into bed.
"Sorry." He whispered against her skin, before lifting her up and sending her sprawling across his chest with a light oomph.
He grinned when she sighed.
"I know how it is, Kiba. Just let your instincts do their thing." She mumbled drowsily into his bare chest.
She fell asleep to his caressing hands and his muttered sleep talk.
She was home.
This is the updated version!