Heartbeat

by letmeannoyyoutoday

Sasu/Saku. From the beginning of their relationship, Sakura never failed to thank Sasuke for every little gesture that he made. It took a while for him to realize that the reason she did it was because, the moment she accepted to be his wife and give him all that she had left to give, she honestly never expected to receive anything in return.

4. IV

Gazing attentively at her reflection in the mirror, Sakura ran a hand over her lacy skirt, smoothing out the creases and ensuring that the two seams were running directly down her sides. She'd had to run all the way from the hospital to the opposite side of the village, where Ino seemed to have found the perfect dress, and the truth was that hopping from roof to roof in a tight skirt wasn't as graceful as she wished it would be.

Brushing a lock of wind-blown hair away from her face, she stopped for a second to finger the soft ends that now reached the top of her breasts. She wondered if she should cut them, but quickly dismissed the idea. Longer hair was easier to tie up in more than one creative way, even if it was prone to becoming annoying otherwise, and short hair, on her, had never been only about practicality. It had been about making a statement—one whose necessity she'd fought long and hard to leave behind; much too long and much too hard to openly invite it in her present once more.

Deciding she could do nothing about her dark circles or dry skin until she went home and got a full night of sleep, the pinkette deemed herself satisfied with her appearance, so she turned—just in time to see Ino walk out of the changing room, the most beautiful white dress adorning her tall body. It was the type of dress only a handful of women managed to completely pull off: a mermaid cut, with graceful lace detailing on top and soft tulle at the bottom, with a design just tight enough to outline every perfect curve of her body and with a low-cut, sweetheart neckline showing off the top of her full breasts.

It was a mixture of delicacy and extravagance that, Sakura was sure, would suit no one better than Ino and her beautiful, brilliant smile.

"You look gorgeous," she told her as soon as she regained her ability to speak. "Oh my God, Ino, you look amazing!"

Ino clapped her hands in excitement. "I know!" she squealed, having obviously expected her reaction. "I'm going to be the best bride ever!"

"You are," Sakura laughed, coming to stand behind her as the blonde turned around to face the large mirror pinned to the wall. "Look at you! You're going to kill! How are you going to do your hair?"

"A braid down my back, I think."

Sakura smiled. "That would look beautiful! Do you want me to try to do something with it so you can get an idea of how it would all tie together?"

"Yes, please!" she agreed.

The pinkette soon found that she had to stand on her tip-toes to reach the top of her friend's head. "Are you wearing heels?"

Ino snorted. "You bet I'm wearing heels! I'll be wearing heels at my wedding, how was I supposed to come to my final fitting without them?"

"Of course," she laughed, her fingers expertly starting to weave Ino's soft, blonde hair into a smooth fishtail braid. "Hey, maybe—"

"Sakura…" her friend interrupted, and the serious tone of her voice, such a stark contrast from the excited, cheerful tilt of only a moment before, made her hands pause and her green eyes snap up to meet blue, somber ones in the mirror.

The pinkette frowned, concerned. "What is it?"

Ino sighed. "Thank you."

Sakura blinked in surprise. "For what?"

"For this," was her best friend's simple answer. "For being here; helping me out, supporting me. You've been planning this wedding alongside me, despite your busy schedule, despite your own marriage, despite—everything. I…" Pausing, she looked down. "I didn't do the same when it was my turn."

Another second passed before Sakura resumed her earlier task. "Don't worry about it, Ino."

"No, I should worry about it," the blonde insisted. "You needed me then and I just…"

"It's fine." Taking out a small, clear elastic band from her purse, Sakura securely tied the end of the braid and stepped away. "You didn't agree with my decision and, in a way, I respect you for having had the courage to say it. You're my best friend; I've known you forever and you've always been your sincere, uncouth self." She smiled and placed her hands on her shoulders. "It's what makes you, you. And I love you just the way you are."

The blonde had tears in her eyes as she returned the wide, genuine smile, but simply because she was Ino, she averted her gaze and tried to hide them. "Thank you," she said.

Sakura grinned knowingly and stepped aside, allowing her a second to collect herself as well as space to turn and face her.

"And, you know what?" Ino added. "I'll even admit I was wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"About Sasuke," she clarified. "I thought he was going to hurt you, but… but I see you happier than ever before. And if it's thanks to him—which I'm inclined to believe it is… then I'm truly sorry. Because you are happy, right? You're not just pretending."

Sakura's eyes softened at the sound of Ino's soft, insecure tone. It didn't suit her in the slightest; Ino was the type of woman that yelled instead of whispered and demanded instead of asked, so the pinkette recognized the effort she was making—and didn't fail to realize that, most likely, the emotions interlaced in her voice, the worry and the fear, were very much real.

She sighed, discreetly hugging herself as she crossed her arms over her chest. It was clear that only she knew what was truly inside her heart, but her best friend wasn't completely off the mark. Marriage proved to be hard and painful, but she was also happy. She was happy every time she woke up to his face in the mornings. She was happy every time she heard him bickering with Naruto in their house. She was happy every time he brushed past her when he entered their wardrobe. She was happy every time he came home from a long mission and allowed her to heal him and cook for him and take care of him. She was happy every time he had a nightmare at night and she was able to comfort him, even if she wished she could do more, even if he had no idea she was doing it.

It was as if there had been a hole in her life that had only filled when he finally entered it. As if she'd had another purpose to fulfill, something completely different and entirely more powerful than her calling for medicine. Now, her existence was complete. And it was a wonderful feeling, and one that was much, much more intense than the pain.

"I am happy," she admitted, but felt the need to be completely honest with her childhood friend. "I mean, it always hurts… to know that… that Sasuke won't ever love me the way I love him." Shrugging, she stepped backwards and took a seat on one of the plush armchairs set out in front of the mirror.

Ino watched her from her spot in front of her, blue eyes wide at her confession.

But Sakura was unaffected. "Because he doesn't know how. Maybe he can't even learn. But… I wouldn't be this happy with anybody else. It's useless to even consider the possibility that I could have had even the smallest chance at being happier than I am with him, happier if I had said 'no' only because he doesn't return my feelings. That's… ridiculous. I love him for both of us."

Ino seemed to be speechless, and Sakura couldn't help but laugh.

"Don't give me that look," she told her, smiling. "You wanted honesty, and there you have it. Stop worrying about me—I'm more than alright."

She was alright. And she was happy.

Yes. Sasuke made her happy. Not in the standard way, perhaps; not in the way that people seemed to understand, not in the way they had come to expect—but in the one way that truly mattered. And that, for her, was more than enough.

---

The weeks leading up to the blonde's wedding, Sasuke saw very little of his wife.

To be honest, he was surprised by how willing and how involved she was in planning her best friend's big day when she hadn't even supported hers.

But that was an old story. It was only given a small element of novelty when he realized he was starting to experience annoyance in relation to the issue in question, feeling irritated and out of sorts every time he stepped over the threshold of their house and was unable to feel Sakura's chakra signature anywhere in the vicinity.

His own schedule hadn't changed; he didn't spend any more time at home than he'd had all along. The transition hadn't come from him. He was an active shinobi who sincerely didn't enjoy being confined within four walls—especially when said four walls belonged to the Uchiha Mansion.

He didn't like the place. It was brand new, all down to the very last brick; there were no more ghosts or bloodstains, but it was the exact recreation of his old, childhood home, where he'd built his best memories and lived his worst nightmare—the nightmare that still followed him in his dreams, night after night, without fail. Being his parents' house, he supposed rebuilding it and moving in had been a way of him showing his respect and re-pledging his alliance to the clan. He didn't know what else it could have been. He hadn't given it much thought. Save for the small period of time that he'd spent in an apartment, waiting for the construction work to be finalized, it had never occurred to him to live someplace else. His life had started there and, years that he'd wasted aside, it would continue there. It was what it was. He couldn't change his past and he doubted he could shape his destiny.

Still, he wouldn't hang around any more time than was strictly necessary. Besides, there were a million of things for him to do elsewhere. He had training, he had missions, and he'd always preferred to rest outside, in a peaceful, secluded place, filling his lungs with fresh air, rather than indoors.

For quite a while, though, he had been trying to be there, sometimes more than he was comfortable with, for his wife's sake—because he believed that was one of the few things that were easy for him to do, as her husband, to make her happy. So, when he wasn't out of the village, he tried to be there for every meal, and he had even gotten into the habit of taking short naps in their bedroom in the afternoon and coming home earlier than needed in the evening.

Since he'd started, Sakura had also been there—always. He didn't know how. He believed it had to be either chance or simple luck, because his wife was a very busy woman. She could have arranged her shifts so that they were more in-tune with his own schedule, he supposed, but even then, with the emergencies that were bound to pop up in a hospital—emergencies for which she almost always had to scrub in—and with the way he was sometimes given a mission on short notice, a grain of luck would definitely be needed for their encounters to be so many.

During the day, there had been times when he'd been alone in the house. But she was always there at night and she was always there to cook him dinner—and, on the very rare times that she wasn't, she was there earlier; she left him something in the fridge, and returned home before he was finished eating.

Somehow, Sakura had managed, since they'd been married, to be there for him in everything and anything that he let her.

She was never annoying—not in a more aggravating way than he had already become used to, at least. She never took advantage of the fact that he was there to talk his ear off. She never intruded on him and his personal space, knowing just how fond he was of it. She never stayed in the same room as him if she wasn't needed, if they weren't eating or engaged in a conversation—but she was somewhere in the mansion, busying herself with something, being herself, being there. She filled up the silence of the house by answering whatever few questions he happened to have, by washing the dishes when she had time, by disregarding the finesse ingrained in her body by her shinobi training as she walked across the hardwood floors loudly enough for her footsteps to be picked up by his keen ears. She made his life fuller with the scent she left in the bathroom after her morning showers, with the aroma that filled the kitchen when she was cooking, with the high-heels she left abandoned in the foyer, with the large assortment of hairpins and elastics he found around the house, in the strangest of places; with the way the bed dipped with her weight at night and the happy smile she greeted him with when she stepped through the front door and found him home, her green eyes bright and beautiful simply because he was there. She warmed his heart with the manner in which she gathered him in her arms in an effort to chase his nightmares away, holding him tight when she thought he was still sleeping; with the way her small hands slid a familiar path through his hair when he kissed her, her body trembling against his as if it were the first time he did it.

In the entire year that he'd been married to Sakura, Sasuke hadn't gone to sleep alone once. There were times when he woke up alone. There were occasions when her pager went off in the middle of the night, and she had to slide out of bed and leave. Yet she'd always been there during the night.

Until her best friend went and decided it was time to get married.

After that, Sasuke didn't see Sakura as often. He saw her on the street and he saw her at the hospital, when he returned from a mission or a spar with Naruto. But he hardly ever saw her at home.

There was always food for him in the fridge, though. Piles of freshly washed laundry popped up in the bedroom, in a white basket that she always set on the chair closest to the window. Clothes and shoes were rapidly being pulled out and replaced in the wardrobe. And, at one point in the time that he had been alone, perhaps one night, while he waited to fall asleep and her absence disconcerted him the most, Sasuke had to stop and wonder how in the world she did it all—being there for him, for her friend, and for all the patients she had at the hospital, a number that was constantly growing, every day.

But he never received an answer.

It never occurred to him that, perhaps, that was because he never asked.

---

A week before the nightmare that was bound to fire up in preparation for every wedding was finally over, Sakura found herself in the bathroom she shared with her husband, leaning with her hips against the white marble counter, carefully watching her reflection in the mirror as she skillfully lined her eyes in black.

Ino's bachelorette party was scheduled for that night, and if she remembered correctly, so was Shikamaru's equivalent. Ino had refused to have a traditional bachelorette party on the night before her wedding on the claim that she wanted to be able to drink as much as she desired, and she had been adamant about Shikamaru following her example. As Sakura suspected was usually the case in their relationship, the man had given in without much of a fight.

She was proved right when, having the door wide open, she caught sight of her husband as he strolled out of their walk-in closet, lazily buttoning up his casual white shirt. Unbeknownst to him, and even to herself, her eyes softened. Sasuke, out of his uniforms and training gear, was to die for. There was simply something about him in comfortable, casual clothes that always brought about a gentle flutter inside her chest. It was as if, by wearing a pair of sweatpants and a wife-beater around the house or by choosing a button down shirt instead of a simple T-shirt when they went out the door together, he showed her a part of him that he didn't show anybody else. It was a ridiculous thought, she was aware, but it was there, regardless, lingering and influencing everything, from emotions and thoughts, to the actions they fueled.

It didn't hurt that he was drop-dead gorgeous, either.

But, despite their marriage, despite her standing as his wife, as, essentially, his closest person aside from his best friend, there was a distance between them—a distance that was wide and obvious, and that Sakura, although she couldn't state she hadn't expected, quite honestly resented. He didn't feel hers. He was her husband, his signature was at the bottom of the certificate that bound them for life, next to her own, but she still felt no sense of entitlement whatsoever. When he came home after a long day, she didn't feel empowered to ask him where he'd spent it, even though, she couldn't deny, there were times when she was curious. When he left on a mission, she didn't feel as if she had the right to demand that he disclose at least part of its content—even though she knew such secrets didn't exist between other couples, and not even the Hokage herself could ensure that they did. And when she had a problem, or when she'd had a long day of her own, she had to find a way to leave it on the front porch; she didn't feel comfortable entering the house and dumping half of it on him. Most of the times, she didn't even feel comfortable enough to mention it at all. Perhaps it was all because she shouldn't feel entitled; he was his own person, a born leader with a dominant personality, so perhaps he shouldn't feel hers.

But the fact remained—the distance hurt. As confident as she was in the presence of anybody else, be that her intern at the hospital or the Kage of another country, there was something about Sasuke that disarmed her completely. There was something about him that, on the worst of days, made her feel as if she didn't even have the right to kiss him. She was reluctant to hug him, too, and when she accidentally touched him in bed while she fumbled to find a comfortable position and he was awake to register it, she felt compelled to apologize. Their relationship had nothing of the simple, comfortable intimacy she'd seen in other people and once hoped she could have for herself.

And it hurt. But, as was the case with everything connected to him, she dealt. The simple fact that she'd expected it made it a little easier to bear; an unexpected, kind gesture from his part one day rendered it altogether unimportant.

"Hey, Sasuke-kun," she greeted, smiling at him in the mirror. "You're going to Shika's party?"

"Aa," came his answer, while he buttoned up the last portion of his shirt. He wasn't fond of parties, but Shikamaru was one of the few people he could say he held in high regard, and with the dobe as a best friend, the truth was that he didn't actually have much of a choice.

"I'm glad," she declared.

Sasuke finished dressing and moved to his nightstand to strap on his weapons.

A moment passed before he heard her voice again. "Hey, Sasuke-kun?" she called—and he turned to see her still standing in front of the mirror, clad in a little red dress and black heels, firmly holding his gaze. "I'm sorry I haven't been home lately. It's just been crazy, with Ino's wedding and the hospital and… well, everything. I've missed you," she said, and then laughed at his lack of response and ensuing uncomfortable silence. "You must be growing tired of eating preheated food, huh?"

The Uchiha cleared his throat and—something that he found himself doing more and more often—pretended not to be affected by her confession, turning his gaze back to his shuriken instead. "I can cook, Sakura," he reminded her.

There was no immediate answer from her part, and Sasuke soon realized that he had said the wrong thing—again.

"You're right," she finally said, and he looked up, watching as she removed the cap from a lipstick and then brought it up to her lips, staining them red.

But her green eyes, no longer fixed on him, seemed to have lost most of their characteristic sparkle, and in that moment, Sasuke couldn't tell what he hated about himself more: his inability to say the right things or his inability to make them right after they were spoken wrong.

---

People had to stop doing him the favor of giving him exactly what he expected, Sasuke thought. Yamanaka Ino, however, didn't seem to have received the memo. Well, either that, or she'd chosen to obstinately ignore it.

Knowing her, the young Uchiha was rather quick to assume the latter was actually the most likely option.

Had he been the type of man that clearly had more time on his hands than he knew what to do with, the type of man that had both the will and the opportunity to ponder on useless thoughts and scenarios, he would have been able to say that the obnoxious blonde's wedding was exactly what he had imagined. As it was, though, his imagination hadn't quite stretched as much. Even so, he had to admit that, the moment he set foot into the designated venue, the large room already filled with milling guests, he wasn't the least bit surprised.

It was big. Pompous. Outstanding. Glamorous, as women seemed to enjoy putting it. It was modern and sophisticated, and bypassed traditions by such a wide berth that one could very easily come to the conclusion that the bride was downright scared of them.

Enjoying a glass of wine at the table where he had been seated—unfortunately alongside Naruto, who, typically, wouldn't stop rambling—Sasuke wondered, for the umpteenth time, what Shikamaru had seen in Ino and how intense his feelings could possibly be if he was so certain that he could stand her, without slitting his wrists, for the rest of his life. He quickly recognized he was being, perhaps, a bit too harsh, especially since it was none of his business, but he truly considered it to be a mystery. He wasn't in love with Sakura, but she'd still been his first and only choice; he may be the only one who knew it, but he'd never truly considered anyone else to share his life with. He supposed, to an extent, Ino may very well mean the same to Shikamaru. He also admitted, in the light of the fact that his encounters with his wife's best friend were mostly limited to her yelling at him and him glaring at her, that he didn't know her well enough to be passing on such judgments.

The fact remained, though. Sakura was easy to love—by anybody. She could make anybody happy, and appeal to anybody's tastes. Ino, on the other hand… not so much.

"Sakura-chan!" Naruto's voice broke through his heavy thought fortress, a clear sign of the fact that he had finally said something of consequence. "Wow, Sakura-chan, you look beautiful!"

Sasuke registered the awestruck expression on his best friend's face and turned in his seat just as his wife brushed past him and offered their old teammate a gentle smile.

"You think?" she asked, sounding and looking genuinely unsure.

Sasuke's brows furrowed as he took a long gulp of wine. She was stunning in a long, pale-blue dress, with delicate lace covering her slender collarbone and pale upper back. Her pink hair was a riot of curls skillfully tangled in a messy up-do, her brilliant green eyes having acquired a feline quality with the dark eye-shadow that complemented them. Her full, glossy lips were stretched into a small, insecure smile—and Sasuke couldn't help but wonder what in the world went on inside her mind.

"Of course, Sakura-chan! I don't lie!" came Naruto's loud proclamation.

Sakura gave a small giggle. "Thank you," she told him, taking a seat beside her husband, unknowingly giving him the chance to catch a whiff of her delicate perfume—and finish off the rest of his wine in one long swallow. "Blue isn't really my color. Ino made me wear it," she went on to explain, rolling her eyes. "Said we have to look good in pictures."

Naruto scoffed. "What are you talking about, Sakura-chan?! Blue is totally your color! Right, Sasuke-teme? Tell her!"

Sakura smiled, giving Sasuke a gentle, loving gaze before she returned her attention to their loud teammate. "Thanks, Naruto. She paid for it, so I don't mind that much."

"You're beautiful!" the blond insisted around a mouthful of entrées. "The bastard here can't take his eyes off you!"

With another giggle, the pinkette turned to fully face him. "How was your mission?" she asked.

He narrowed his eyes, pinning her under his careful, watchful gaze. "It was fine," he answered testily.

Had he not known any better, he doubted he would have noticed it. But he did. It was in the subtle way she tucked an errand lock of hair behind her delicate ear. The way she made herself busy by pouring a glass of wine of her own. The way she broke eye contact after only a couple of seconds, and yet always returned to repeat the cycle.

She hadn't expected him to rise up to Naruto's challenge and state his opinion about her appearance—no, she knew them and their antics far too well, and perhaps more importantly, she knew him; she would have been foolish to expect that. But she felt uncomfortable due to its presence, and even more so, perhaps, due to its lack of conclusion—and, subsequently, her husband's lack of answer.

Catching her errant gaze once again, he held it more firmly, and decided to do her a favor and tell her what she clearly wasn't waiting to hear—but then she smiled at him and, much like a teenager on his first date, he suddenly found himself tongue-tied.

When it came to his wife, Sasuke was unsure about a lot of different matters, but what he did know without a shadow of a doubt was that he hated himself for each and every moment of their lives in which he sat in front of her, silent and unmoving. But the truth was that, whenever he gazed into those beautiful, dangerous eyes, he forgot about everything. He forgot about his past, he forgot about his present; yet the future was strangely always brighter—brighter and brighter with every sparkle of the green depths.

He never used to lose his composure as such. Before her, he never used to forget the reasons behind his most current actions. Before her, he never used to be at a loss of words. What was true, he had never been a big fan of words, but expressing his feelings and expressing his purpose were two very different things. Sasuke could be diplomatic, and he could talk his way out of a lot of predicaments if he wanted; he was intelligent enough and he could convey that clearly, through actions because he preferred them, but through words when it was necessary, as well.

Yet Sakura disarmed him—that was the word. She disarmed him so completely it was unsettling. There he was, in the middle of a crowded room, staring at her in the eye, having intended to communicate one very short, very concise piece of information—a fact, rather than a personal belief; two minutes had already passed, and he was still as silent as a mute.

Gritting his teeth, he finally found the strength to avert his gaze, growling quietly under his breath. She was so stupid. She was so, so stupid, and so damn annoying on top of it. How could she not see herself the way he did—the way everybody else did? How could she not look into the mirror and realize she was a goddess? How could she walk into a room and not tell that everybody's eyes were on her, look around and not understand she was the most beautiful woman there?

When the circumstances were of such nature, when she was being so incredibly infuriating, Sasuke hated a lot of things about her. He hated her patience, her loving demeanor. He hated her perseverance, and the way she never seemed to become mad at him, no matter what he did, no matter what he said, no matter how much of an utter asshole he was. He hated how she put each and every single one of her needs aside in order to tend to his. He hated how she rearranged all of her priorities so that he was always at the top of the list. But, most of all, he could now see, he hated her insecurity. He hated that her confidence was confined to the OR and the battlefield. He hated that, caught under the weight of his—or someone else's—gaze, she transformed, and came to consider herself inferior. Less strong. Less intelligent. Less beautiful. And all that when, in reality, she was so frustratingly perfect. Everybody lucky enough to have her in their life should and would be thanking the gods for it daily. Hell, he, himself, was grateful—granted, on the few occasions when the guilt that he felt about having her, when it was clear that she could have been so much happier elsewhere, didn't overcome it. But just because it was masked, didn't mean the feeling wasn't there.

Yes, Uchiha Sasuke was grateful to have Haruno—Uchiha, he quickly reminded himself—Sakura in his life.

And she didn't see it. This blind, stupid woman didn't see it.

"I have to say, I didn't think you'd make it," she said, obviously trying to make conversation.

Sasuke raised a brow. "I told you I'd be here, didn't I?"

"I know you did," she answered, smiling, then laughed. "But with how much you dislike Ino, I half imagined you'd pretend to be caught up on your mission."

"…I said I'd come with you. She's your friend."

"I know. But she isn't yours."

Sasuke's brows furrowed at her rapid reply.

Sakura gave him a gentle smile and placed a warm hand on his shoulder. "Thank you for that, Sasuke-kun. I know you don't really want to be here. I asked you because, well, it was only natural. But, next time you don't want to do something I propose? Just say so. I'll find a way to make it right, for both of us. Alright?"

The Uchiha gave her no other answer, but it seemed as though she hadn't actually expected one, because it was almost immediately that she turned and engaged in a silly conversation with Naruto—one that, if he heard right, included the suggestion that maybe he could learn to chew with his mouth closed.

Had he been paying attention, perhaps he would have known how the discussion ended; but he wasn't.

For the rest of the night, a single question haunted him, preventing him from enjoying even the sight of his lovely wife beside him. Why couldn't she consider the idea that, for him, the definition of 'right' had altered? Why was she unable to see that, as of late, 'right' only translated to being by her side?

---

It happened without warning.

She was having a normal, busy day at the hospital. She'd made the decision of abandoning her ever-growing stack of paperwork in favor of doing her rounds on her post-op patients, something she usually had her residents handle, but also something that she thoroughly enjoyed—so much that it even took second place, perhaps, to the way she felt in the OR.

In the OR, Sakura felt powerful. Every time she scrubbed in—and, even more strongly, every time she was in too much of a hurry to scrub in—she felt a rush of adrenaline that rivaled even what she felt during battle. The knowledge that there was a life resting completely in her hands had her alert and on guard, made her want to be at her absolute best all throughout the entire procedure, to stretch her limits up to every possible length so she could do absolutely everything in her power to save the person lying on her operating table and to restore their quality of life to the maximum feasible level. It was a high that was hard to describe, yet it had been what Sakura had needed, from the very beginning.

In the OR, there was only her; there was only Haruno Sakura. There was no competition. There was no need to become better, no need to push herself—not for all the wrong reasons. In the OR, she had no one to catch up with; she competed with no one but herself. All the information she needed was in her memory. All the weapons she required were in her hands. There was her, there was her patient, and there was the need to save his life. It didn't matter how she did it. It didn't matter how long it took. The only pressure came from the demand to fulfill her goal.

Sakura lived to be a surgeon. She had truly been born to be a healer. She lived for the moment in which she realized that she'd done it, that her patient was alive, that he was warm and breathing, and that he was ready to leave the OR. She lived for the moment in which she could scrub out and face his family and tell them that he was going to be fine, that she'd saved his life, that there were going to be many more occasions in the future when they could tell him how much they loved him. That there were going to be many events they would attend and enjoy, dozens of milestones they would reach with their hands intertwined. That her patient could continue to be a son, or a parent, or a nephew, a husband or a lover. And, to a certain measure, it was only normal that she also lived for the rare opportunities that she had to check up on these patients, to see them again, to talk to them, to monitor their progress and watch as they slowly, but surely, improved—and to realize, every time, that they owned it all to her.

Sakura wasn't arrogant, and she wasn't the least bit narcissistic. But she had so much to give, and seeing that she was needed, that she had made a difference—a good one—in someone's life, was a wonderful feeling that never, ever grew old.

Up until that point, her day had been going well. Up until that point, she'd managed to wake up before her alarm went off, something she always appreciated—but almost never experienced—because being startled awake by a high-pitched sound was brutal and any other form of awakening was heaven in her eyes. Up until that point, she'd arrived at the hospital on time and with a full stomach, having even had the rare opportunity to eat breakfast, and started her day of work with a successful surgery. Up until that point, she'd completed half a towering stack of paperwork, been assigned a mission from the Hokage—something that hadn't happened in quite a long time, and, therefore, something that she very much looked forward to—assisted in another surgery, supervising a promising resident that had pulled off a complicated procedure without a hitch, and completed yet another one, by herself, yet again successfully. She had finished the remaining half of the paperwork, being left with only one more, significantly smaller pile, and had decided to go ahead and do her rounds, where she discovered that almost all of her patients were doing even better than expected.

Up until that point, every current aspect of her life had been great. Her best friend was soon coming back from her honeymoon. Her cooking was improving. Her husband was due home from a mission any time now. The weather was perfect—not too hot and not too cold. And she was feeling quite optimistic about convincing the young, aloof Uchiha to spend Christmas with her. In September, that was still a long way to go, but she was armed with patience and understanding. He hadn't wanted to celebrate anything at all the year before, but, she reasoned, maybe this year would be different.

Up until that point, she'd had all the reasons to look forward to the future.

Up until that point. When she walked into the ER to a commotion. To shouts and agitation and blood—so much blood.

"What's going on?" she demanded, checking her pager to ensure that she'd read it right and hadn't missed any calls. She frowned. She'd been paged for a simple consult on a little boy whose family was, apparently, very intent on receiving the best care from the best medic in the hospital; she hadn't been paged for the emergency that was unfolding only a couple of feet away.

Three heads turned at the unexpected sound of her voice, eyes wide and breathing erratic. Sakura wasn't fazed. It was the exact expression most people wore when there was a bad trauma case in the hospital, and she couldn't blame them. She knew from experience that, as much as one practiced, as cold-blooded, calm and collected as they may be, one simply never became fully equipped to working under such a great deal of pressure until they were in a war.

Then, nothing rattled you anymore.

"Yuki?" the pinkette prompted as she pocketed her pager, addressing the blonde-haired intern that stood still while the others wheeled the patient into the nearest empty trauma room. Confidently making her way towards her, she held out her hand. "Show me the chart."

"Dr. H-Haruno—" she stammered, taking a step back. Sakura frowned at her odd behavior and deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression, but didn't hesitate to grab the binder from her shaking hands.

"Walk with me," she commanded as she flipped it open, green eyes quickly skimming over the neatly printed words, and started to walk in the direction where the patient had been wheeled, following the trail of blood left behind. "Talk me through his condition. Come on, Yuki."

"U-Um, he… he has a possible concussion, a head wound—that's partially responsible for all of this blood—multiple stab wounds and open gashes, some second degree burns on his right arm, a-and his abdomen is rigid, which c-could indicate internal bleeding—and which wouldn't r-really be much of a surprise—but we—"

"Alright," Sakura interrupted, "I see here that his type is AB—get me three reserves of blood and one of plasma. We need to take him into surgery right away, although infection is clearly a major concern… How did he get into this state? Is he ANBU?" Frowning, she started to leaf through the chart in search of a name, but before she could find it, Yuki surprised her by snatching it right out of her hands.

They both came to a stop in front of the trauma room, and Sakura stared, shocked, into her intern's panicked eyes.

"What—"

"Yes, he's ANBU. He's beaten up—really, really badly, it's true—but I've paged Dr. Hitori and she should be here any minute now, and we've got this covered, just—"

"What's the matter with you today, Yuki?" Sakura demanded, roughly taking the binder back. "Dr. Hitori isn't here yet, but I am. Please tell me you haven't forgotten protocol." Gaze once again sliding down, looking for information, she grabbed the doorknob and twisted it, swinging the door open and marching forward with no hesitation. "You know you can always come to me if you have issues—any at all—but you can't let that interfere—"

"Dr. Haruno—"

"What's—" She looked up, and the words died in her throat. The binder clattered to the floor, narrowly avoiding the pool of blood that was steadily growing despite the heavy bandages that had already been applied and the chakra that had been pumped and the medics that were crowded around his body in an effort to do as much damage control as possible.

His body. Sakura choked on the last breath she was able to take before her lungs quit functioning and went into shock along with the rest of her being. His body. Sasuke's body. Her husband's body. Her husband… who was supposed to return from his mission safe and sound and only in a couple of days.

"Sasuke," she whispered.

For a long moment, she couldn't move. She couldn't think. She couldn't breathe. All she could do was see—see his black hair, slick and tinted red, spread across the white pillowcase. See his closed eyes. See his skin, marred with gashes, with puncture wounds, with burns and bruises. See his unresponsive body. See the quickly darkening bandages. See the steady drops of his blood splashing on the tiled floor.

It was her worst nightmare come true.

"Dr. Haruno—" Yuki's voice barely registered. It was as if she was submerged deep into an ocean of freezing water. "Dr. Haruno, you need to leave!" Small hands grasped her upper arms and pulled, just as a rapid, familiar beeping sound filled the room and hauled her out of the darkness.

"BP's dropping!" one of the interns announced.

"Dr. Haruno, you need to leave!" Yuki stressed.

It was in that moment that Sakura realized she had two options. She could leave that room to have a panic attack in silence, worry herself to death, and hate herself for the rest of her life. Or she could step up and comply to her duty as a medic and as his wife and save his life.

A second passed. Sakura looked down at her trembling fingers, took in a deep breath, steadied them—and made her choice.

"No, I'm staying," she announced, pushing her way forward, hands already enveloped in green chakra that she immediately placed over Sasuke's bloody chest. "I've got this. Yuki, do as I said. Daisuke, book me an OR—right now." Raising her head, she was met with four identical, surprised faces. "What are you standing around for?" she yelled, retaking control. "Move! Time's running out! MOVE!"

Her hands were steady. Her mind was sharp and clear. As long as she didn't as much as glance at his face, she could fool herself into thinking that this was just another patient that deserved the very best she could offer. She could repress her emotions. She could control her judgment. She'd mastered that on the battlefield.

But everybody could hear the panic and desperation in her voice—and its existence wasn't a secret to herself, either.

---

The first thing that Sakura did after leaving the OR was run, up the stairs and down the hallway, to her office.

She locked the door, paced the room twice, and threw up in her trashcan. Falling to her knees, it crossed her mind that she regretted breakfast. She regretted lunch. And, most of all, she regretted this dangerous complacency that she'd appeared to have fallen into, this complacency in her life and marriage that had her believing that he would always, always come back safe and sound from his missions. She didn't know exactly when it had happened—perhaps long before they were even married, and simply because he was never in the hospital for more than a concussion or a nasty gash or a broken bone. He was powerful. He was so incredibly powerful. He'd stopped a war, for God's sake.

But he was only human, and, somewhere along the way, she'd forgotten that. She'd stopped anxiously waiting for news about him and instead started looking forward to his certain, safe return. She was always worried, of course. She was Sakura, and her main job was to worry about Sasuke in any and all circumstances, after all. But she'd stopped entertaining the thought that he might not return or that he might be hurt worse than before… She'd stopped waking up in a cold sweat, shaking and crying due to a nightmare produced by her own anxiety.

She hurled again at the mere thought of her foolishness.

Her husband had nearly died today, in her own OR, with her own chakra in his body, with her own hands buried deep inside his chest. He'd coded twice, and reciting procedures in her head, word by word, from two different medical textbooks, had been all she could do to stop herself from breaking down crying all over him and his bloodied body while knitting flesh and bones and delicate arteries back together. He'd nearly died today… and she'd been having a good day; she hadn't had even the smallest of feelings that something—anything—might have been wrong at all.

She retched again, but nothing came up. There was nothing left.

Tumbling to the side, she buried both of her hands in her hair, took in a deep breath, and tried to settle her stomach.

She managed.

But then she had a whole new problem on her hands. Because the tears started falling, and there was no stopping them. Within seconds, she was sobbing and gasping, fighting for breath, her entire body shaking and hurting alongside her heavy heart.

Standing up, she stumbled into her private bathroom, turning the shower on to its hottest setting. She looked down at her scrubs, sobbing harder, because it was easier to see it in the fluorescent lights—they were stained with blood. His blood. All the blood that shouldn't have been spilled.

Breathing heavily, she ripped them off and threw them in a corner, feeling as if she was suffocating in them, before she wobbled into the shower cabin and let herself fall in a boneless heap on the floor. The scalding water burned her skin, but she barely felt it.

It didn't rival the pain in her heart.

Nothing did anymore.

---

The dimly lit hallway was silent, echoing only with the sound of her hurried footsteps.

She'd changed into a long-sleeved, cashmere top and the most comfortable pair of jeans that she owned, clothes that she always kept in the closet at the hospital. After a bad lab result, a failed surgery, or a painful loss, it helped; it made her feel better—being out of scrubs; being clean; smelling nice; having something soft and comfortable brushing against her skin. They were little things; little things that she needed to ground herself with, little things that chanted, with every piece of her heart that broke off, that life went on, and that, as long as she was still breathing, her only option was to go along with it.

She wasn't surprised when, this time, they made absolutely no difference. Nothing did, and, frankly, how could it? Nothing, except, perhaps, leaving the hospital.

Yes, she thought. Fresh air had eased the strength of the fist squeezing her heart—if only for one precious second.

Coming to a stop in front of her destination, she reached into the back pocket of her bag and pulled out her ID, sweeping it through the designated slot, the door automatically sliding open as the computer recognized her authority, and then closing swiftly behind her. Setting both items on the wooden table in the middle of the spacious room, she moved with a purpose, directly to the last row of cabinets, where she knew she would find the letter 'U' and all its corresponding records. Squatting down, she unlocked the last drawer and opened it, hands immediately working on finding the right file.

Standing up, she hesitated for the first time since she left the confines of the hospital. In her hands, she held the thickest folder in the batch; the name 'Uchiha Sasuke' was emblazoned in thick, black letters on the cover.

All medics had the right to require, if they deemed it necessary, their patient's file, containing all the missions they had been assigned over a period of six months. It was a way to ensure that shinobi received the best treatment possible—information was, after all, power. As a civilian doctor, knowing the injuries that had been sustained, as well as your patient's medical history, was essential. When you operated on ninja, however, a new, yet equally important detail was added to the story: circumstances. A good shinobi medic could never rely solely on what could be easily—or even with more difficulty—seen. Entire pieces could be missing—crucial, indispensable pieces—from the moment the mission started, to when it ended; anything could happen in that time-frame, and when the shinobi in question had been alone all along, the responsibility of deciphering the puzzle, using imagination and experience, and starting only from the mission brief enclosed in files similar to the one she held in her hands, fell on the doctor's shoulders.

That was standard protocol.

But Sakura was the head medic of the hospital, which meant she had direct access to the archive room in the Hokage Tower. Not only could she secure the files containing all paid work undertaken by her patients over the last six months, but their entire record, from the moment they graduated from the Academy, to the present day, when they ended up on her operating table. She had access not only to mission briefs, but to confidential, detailed reports.

Briefly, she wondered if that was truly good protocol. There was a reason why such information was classified, why, under normal circumstances, only the Hokage's ears could hear it. Medics should, after all, remain completely impartial, and some facts included in these files were highly sensitive. The breach of confidentiality was even more significant in the current situation, considering Sasuke was ANBU and she was his wife. It simply wasn't right, for her to know all that she was about to find out. But, she told herself, being his doctor was just as unethical, and no one could have been able to stop her in that.

Shaking her head to clear away the doubts, she walked to the table, stopped, and opened the bursting file. The first page had already been updated with his latest mission—a mission he'd left on barely a week before. It was an S-rank assassination, and she already knew how it had ended; she could already imagine how his report would look; she had all but been able to map out the entire fight on his mangled body.

She flipped the page to be met with another similar assignment, followed by an impeccably written report. She skipped it. She didn't have the time to read the entire file. It was a violation of privacy to read it all. She only wanted the specifics, she told herself.

She flipped the page again, and a small furrow appeared in between her brows. She flipped it again. Her hands started to tremble. Again. And again. The folder clattered to the table, pages spilling out and falling to the floor. Sakura took a step back and struggled to breathe.

There was no need for her to go any further; she already knew what she would find. The file was packed—packed full of long, high-risk S-rank missions. Sakura had enough first-hand experience and had done enough administrative work under Tsunade to be able to tell the difference between a dangerous ANBU assignment and a suicidal mission. Save for the occasional patrol duty, Sasuke's file was bursting only with the latter.

"Oh my God," she whispered, turning away as tears started to leak from her eyes.

Until now, Sakura had been in clear distress. Everybody who had a good, working set of eyes could have seen that. There had been tearstains on her cheeks, her eyes had been red and bloodshot, she'd been shaking from her every joint and she'd ran like a maniac all the way from the hospital to the Hokage Tower without stopping for anything or anybody. It was as if every fear she'd had during the surgery, every powerful wave of emotion she'd repressed, suddenly tumbled onto her, overwhelming her. She'd stayed in the shower for nearly an hour, trying—so hard, and yet failing so miserably—to pull herself together. She'd thought her heart was breaking in so many tiny pieces that every small bump in the road would cause them to fall to the ground and scatter, unable to ever be retrieved again. Now, though, she realized… It hadn't. How could it have, when it currently hurt a thousand times worse?

She'd known it was bad, known there weren't many people who could bring Sasuke into that state, and that was part of the reason why she'd wanted to see his file, see the assigned mission with her own eyes, but this… She'd known he accepted dangerous missions, but she hadn't thought that a good part of them were suicidal. She'd known he was away a lot of the time, perhaps a lot longer than any man, ninja or otherwise, that was satisfied with his life should and would be, but she hadn't imagined that he didn't want to return home. She'd known he didn't consider her to be the best wife, but she hadn't known it was so bad he wanted to abandon her.

She felt as if a hand had reached into her chest and was slowly, painfully trying to pull out every single fragment of her shattered heart. She found it hard to breathe, let alone process the fact that all the efforts she'd made until then to keep their relationship afloat, to make their marriage work, to turn the space between them into a place where he could, maybe, just maybe, be content, were empty, and useless. All the little steps she'd felt they had taken forward were suddenly reversed, leaving them back to where they'd started… perhaps even further away. Because, if Sasuke still wanted to die as much as he had when they came back from the war… then what had she been doing?

Wasting time on a lost cause, apparently. Trying to force-feed love to someone who just didn't need it. Trying to build a life around someone who just… didn't want her in it. Someone who already had a life… in his missions and his training, his one best friend and his painful past.

A life where there was no place for her; never had been, and never would be.

---

Sasuke woke up to the gentle sound of a door closing and quiet footsteps on the linoleum floor. The strong smell of antiseptic mixed with that of powerful drugs invaded his nose at exactly the same time pain shot through every inch of his being, but if he flinched or cringed, he had no way of knowing. His head felt light, and he felt dizzy; even as he was lying down, the room was spinning with him. His body was mostly numb, but, unfortunately, not to the discomfort. He recognized the combined effects of general and local anesthesia.

Despite being largely disorientated, the Uchiha knew where he was. The smell was a dead giveaway, but even more than that, was the fact that he was alive.

Soon, little pieces of memories started to return to him, hitting him with full force; had he been in control of his body, he would have groaned.

His mission had been doomed from the very start, and if he had been any smarter and any less arrogant, he would have known not to accept it, or ditch it as soon as he had. But since he wasn't any of those, he'd ploughed on, undeterred by the many subtle signs that should have set off more than one warning alarm in his head. It was no surprise, in retrospective, that he had nearly ended up killed in action.

"Hi, Sasuke-kun," he heard a soft voice greet in the silence of the hospital room. He recognized it in an instant, and he had no idea why or how, but his entire body seemed to relax at the sound of it. His wife was there.

Then he had another realization, and his heart experienced a sharp pang of pain alongside it. She was there. He was in the hospital—he was in her hospital. And, if his condition was reflected even the slightest bit in the horrible way he was feeling at the moment, he could easily conclude he had nothing short of just returned from the dead.

And he knew perfectly well there was only one person capable of reviving him.

He was proved right when he heard her voice, thick with tears, once again start to whisper, "You're looking better." A soft, shuddering sigh escaped her lips, and he imagined her taking a seat in the chair that was always provided next to the bed.

Her small hand reached for his own, much larger one, covering it and enveloping it in her warmth.

"God…" she whispered. "I'm so glad you're alright, Sasuke-kun… I don't have the words to explain how relieved I feel…" Delicate fingers ran gently through his thick, black hair, tenderly pushing away the strands resting upon his forehead. "I'm crying now," she confessed, giving a small laugh. "It's alright, because you can't hear me. But I'll say I'm sorry, anyway. It's just… your mission… and your injuries… I just… I know, and I understand, that your happiness is in the past… somewhere in your past… someplace that you can't reach again. And I always knew that… I wouldn't be enough to bring it to the present. I want to. I hope to. I told you so a million times. But… I'm not foolish enough to actually believe that I'll ever be able." She paused, taking in a shuddering breath. "…But why would you accept such a mission, Sasuke? I'd give my life for you. Sometimes, I wonder if you understand that. I know you'd do it, too, for me; for Naruto. It's in us, isn't it? On the battlefield, we protect each other. But I'd do so much more for you… I'd give my life to be able to bring your mother or your father or your brother back so you can be happy, Sasuke, but I can't… Oh my God, I'd do it in a heartbeat. I try, every day, to make your life as easy and as peaceful as I can… And yet, you choose to go on a suicidal mission, Sasuke!" she sobbed. "Every day, we grow further and further apart… You probably think I can't feel it—or maybe you don't notice it at all—but I do… What am I doing wrong?" Picking up his hand, she brought it to her lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it.

Sasuke could feel her hot tears against his skin, and his heart clenched in his chest.

"I love you," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I love you. I've loved you all my life. So, why… why is it that I don't mean anything at all to you? Why, Sasuke? All I want is… is to make your life easier. All I want is… to make you feel good about us, good enough that you'd want to come home, that you'd miss, maybe, the comfort of it. When I married you, I wanted… I wanted to make you feel less alone, to open your eyes and make you see there's more to life than missions and power and adrenaline, but that's fine, that doesn't have to happen, but… Sasuke-kun, I gave you everything, and when I didn't have what you wanted, I made sure to get it, become it—and I'd do it a million times over and again. And it's still not enough for you, and I wish you would tell me what would be, because I'd get it. I would. I love you. You are my life, my everything… I don't think I ever told you that, but you are. And you have no idea how it feels to realize that, after everything, after an entire year of marriage and a lifetime of loving you… I am still nothing to you. You have no idea how it feels to realize that you wouldn't care… if you came home… dead, once… that you wouldn't care that you'd take my entire world to the grave with you." She sobbed, the type of sob that clawed its way out of your throat when every inch of your being was throbbing with pain, and, as she pressed his hand to her forehead, he felt more relentless tears soaking into his skin.

A minute passed before she composed herself, letting go of his hand and taking deep, shuddering breaths. He could almost see her straightening her back and doing her best to wipe her tears away.

The chair scraped lightly against the floor as she stood.

"I'm going to leave now," she murmured, and her touch was suddenly back, fingers running through his hair, brushing lightly against his forehead, and lips pressing to his temple. "I'll be in the hospital, for whatever you might need me. Let's just hope you won't, right?"

The negative thoughts he'd had during Ino's wedding reception suddenly returned with a vengeance. And, he realized then… it wasn't Sakura's fault. Not entirely, at least. It wasn't her fault that she'd come to think of herself as less of a woman, that she'd come to think of herself as not beautiful enough, as not powerful enough, as not intelligent enough… as not enough, period. It wasn't her fault that she'd come to offer him way after way out of events—big or small, ordinary or extraordinary—towards which he'd never shown even a bit of interest or enjoyment. It was just as she had said. She'd done everything. She'd given him everything. And yet, despite it all, he'd always ended up abandoning her in one way or the other.

It was more of a delayed realization than it was a surprise—that he was the guilty one, also in this situation.

The thought haunted him, circling his pained head over and over, twisting and turning, taunting him with its every angle, before his exhaustion and the medication kicked in and he fell into a restless sleep.

---

The following time consciousness claimed him, it was already morning, and the fuzziness in his head had cleared. He opened his eyes, pleased to notice that the curtains had been drawn, leaving the room bathed in a calm, blue-tinted light that agreed infinitely more with his sore vision than the harsh sunlight would.

Turning his head to the side, he was immediately met with the sight of his wife, standing a few feet away from his bed, quietly scribbling on what he could only assume was his chart.

"Sakura," he called out, groggily, almost unconsciously, his dry throat aching with the action.

Having not been aware that he had awakened, she startled in surprise, but instantly turned to face him with a wide smile on her red-tinted lips. "Sasuke-kun, hi," she spoke softly, a gentle look in her green eyes as she approached him. "How are you feeling?"

The Uchiha tried to swallow, and rasped, "Fine."

Folding the chart shut and sliding it inside the designated pocket at the foot of the bed, Sakura approached him and retrieved a small, plastic cup of water from the nightstand, carefully bringing it to his lips. "Here," she encouraged, holding the straw steady, "It will help."

Accepting, he took a few small sips, feeling instant relief as the cold liquid ran down his throat, soothing the soreness away.

"Are you in any pain?" she asked, setting the cup away before turning her full attention upon him.

"No…" he answered, pleased to notice that he no longer sounded as if he smoked two packs of cigarettes a day. "I'm fine."

"Good," she stated. Placing her hand over his forehead, she sent a gentle stream of chakra through his body, quickly searching his system for any irregularities. Try as he might, the Uchiha couldn't help but close his eyes at the action.

Because he was so particular, Sasuke couldn't say that he'd been healed by a lot of medics in his young life; still, he'd experienced more than his fair share of injuries in disadvantageous situations, where he'd had no other option but to accept treatment from the closest persons that could offer it. Drawling the line, he supposed he had been exposed to different chakras and different ways of manipulating them. Some felt electrifying, burning through his pathways uncomfortably, while others felt thick and slimy, crawling beneath his skin awkwardly. Most felt overly hot and intrusive. But not Sakura's. Sakura's felt cool, calm, and soothing.

The healing process was probably one of the most compromising and dangerous positions a shinobi could ever find himself in. Any wrong movement, intentional or not, as minuscule as it was, could hurt, disable, and even kill. There was no other moment in which one was more vulnerable than when someone's chakra, sharp as a scalpel, had access to every inch of your body.

Sakura was the only one who made him feel as if he could easily fall asleep in the middle of a healing session.

It didn't escape him, how that reflected just as well on how much he trusted her.

"Everything looks good," she announced.

With a slight pang of disappointment that, he resolved, he was too tired to ignore, Sasuke opened his eyes, following her movements as she pulled away and walked to the end of the bed to grab his chart, scribbling one more line in it before setting it aside and coming back to stand beside him, hands settling neatly at the edge of the mattress.

"You're healing nicely. I know you're not a fan of hospitals—I know you loathe them, in fact—so I'm considering discharging you earlier. But you'd need to promise me to avoid effort, avoid Naruto, and actually listen to my indications. This isn't a game, and it's not something I'm willing to compromise on. You'll still need plenty of rest and antibiotics and healing sessions. So, if you think you can't handle being at home and taking it easy, then you need to say so."

It was only a moment before he conceded, "Aa."

"Alright." She smiled, and opened her mouth to add something else, but didn't have the chance, as she was immediately interrupted by the slam of a door and a painfully familiar shout.

"Sasuke-teme!"

While she turned to face the intruder in surprise, Sasuke groaned and instantly made the decision to look the other way.

"I heard you were hurt!" he continued, just as loudly. "What the hell, bastard? Did you forget how to fight?!"

Trying to hide from the idiot soon prove to be useless, since he stormed inside the room and planted himself right at the foot of his bed, glaringly orange and annoyingly loud.

"Well, then, it seems that you already have company," Sakura remarked, causing Sasuke to stop glaring at his best friend and look up at her instead. "I'll come by to see you later."

Watching her leave, it suddenly occurred to Sasuke that she hadn't shed a single tear. That her voice hadn't trembled. That her smile hadn't wobbled. That there hadn't been a single, stray lock of hair out of her beautifully, perfectly executed braid. That her face had been clean and flawless, and her eyes had shown no hint of redness. That she'd been dressed impeccably in tight jeans and high heels, and had walked with a straight posture, with dignity and grace and, most of all, confidence.

Today, she wasn't sad; she wasn't upset; she wasn't broken. Today, she wasn't the woman who'd cried her heart out in the middle of the night, asking him what she'd done wrong and receiving no answer that could soothe her. Today, she wasn't the wife who'd had to bring her husband back from the dead.

No.

Today, she was Sakura. The world-renown medic able to heal even the most critically injured of patients. The calm, confident professional whose composure hardly ever wavered. The implacable woman who never appeared to be reached by any of his remarks or actions, good or bad, gentle or harsh. His kind, highly independent wife who never showed him any weakness.

Everything about her contrasted so sharply with the woman that had visited him the night before, that, if he hadn't been one hundred percent sure he'd been awake, if he hadn't known the little details that he did about her and whose existence he just couldn't reject, as rare as they were in showing themselves, if he hadn't felt the wetness of her hot tears upon his skin, perhaps he could have been fooled into believing that it had all been only a dream.

But it hadn't.

And it sat completely wrong with him, how easily he could have dismissed it as such.

Not surprisingly, he found himself wondering how many times she'd done that before—how many times she'd fooled him so, so easily, when the sight or sound of her pain hadn't been as obvious or as tangible, and he hadn't been conscious or interested enough to witness it.

---

As promised, Sakura discharged him that same night, after another quick chakra scan and a rather impersonal physical check-up. They made their way home together, with him walking at a slow, even pace only half because of the soreness he still felt in his muscles, the other half of the reason an attempt to appease her worried glances.

No words were exchanged between them.

Under any other circumstances, the silence would have been welcome. The impatient Uchiha had, after all, spent almost an entire day listening to his loudmouthed best friend ramble without stop and without reason, and with absolutely no way to kick him out of the room or knock his teeth out so he could be quiet at least while he tried to figure out how many of them were missing. His ears were sore along with the rest of his tired and battered body, and it wasn't as if he had a lot to contribute to a conversation with, in the first place.

Sakura did, though. She did have a lot to say. She had a lot to say constantly, every single minute of every single day. And, amplified, possibly, by a thousand times, she had a lot to say now. He knew. He knew, because he'd heard her say it. He knew, because he'd heard her cry. But she didn't seem to have even the smallest intention to speak any of the words that were now so deeply engrained in his mind and the very core of his heart out loud, to his face, while he was fully conscious and able to retaliate.

Part of him wanted to be angry at her for that. Who was she to hide things from him, after all? Who was she to pretend she didn't feel anything when, in reality, she felt so much? Who was she to conceal her thoughts and emotions, especially when they concerned him? He was Uchiha Sasuke. It was much more important to him than to most to be completely aware of every aspect of his life. Surely, if she knew him at least half as well as she pretended to, she must be equally conscious of that.

Another part of him, however—a larger, overall more dominant part—admitted that it couldn't be angry. It watched her slowly walk beside him, gaze set unsurely on the road ahead. It registered the furtive glances she stole at him only when she seemed to be certain he wasn't paying attention. It recognized the way she played with her hands, played with her hair and with the hem of her shirt, the strap of her bag—all nervous gestures that he couldn't help but wonder had been caused by him.

When they arrived home, she set about putting together a light dinner while he enjoyed a hot shower that soothed his aching muscles and washed away the smell of antiseptic. Once he was done and returned downstairs, she set a steaming plate in front of him and smiled, before quietly retreating to their bedroom, leaving him to eat his meal in silence and loneliness. He found her asleep in their bed by the time he made his own way upstairs and, as he carefully settled in beside her, mindful of all the painful bruises that had yet to heal, his mind couldn't resist but entertain the idea that, perhaps, the reason why she'd left him alone was because she couldn't stand to look at him anymore.

The following days continued in a similar fashion. Without being asked, she took time off to look after him, most likely to fully ensure that he respected all of her instructions, but it was almost as if she was never there at all. She made him food and gave him regular chakra scans, changed his bandages and ensured that he took his medicine on time—all things that he could have done by himself, things that he'd been doing by himself for ages, and yet things that seemed to gain a completely new connotation when they were done by someone else; someone who, he knew all too well, loved him with all her heart.

Still, in terms of interacting with him, that was all she did.

She set up camp in the living room, working on mountains of paperwork or reading thick textbooks. She left the house only occasionally, to go to the grocery story to fetch missing ingredients or to the hospital to gather even more incomplete patient files; she was always back within an hour, or at the very most, two.

At the dinner table, the absence of her lively chatter bore heavily on his mind. She gave him small smiles from across the table and occasionally told him little stories, mainly of what she thought would interest him. How Tsunade had scared off an entire team of ANBU one day. How Naruto had no idea where to take Hinata other than Ichiraku's and had barged into her office demanding that she put together a list of places that 'girls enjoyed'. If she received no answer, she fell completely silent. If he smirked or grunted at her amusing recollections, she smiled and returned to her food with seemingly more enjoyment.

Meals were the only three times of the day when they were together for a long enough amount of time for her to feel the need to speak more than two words to him.

Sasuke, quite honestly, was becoming slightly unnerved with the silence of the house.

Briefly, but more than once, he wondered if she was mad at him. But she never outright even hinted at it, so he didn't push, even though he wasn't so stupid as to believe that the circumstances hadn't taken their toll on her—he wouldn't have believed that even if he hadn't heard her cry that night.

Everything seemed to have changed. Everything felt different. She felt different. A million miles away. She didn't meet his gaze as much. Her smiles were no longer as happy or as genuine. The sparkle in her green eyes appeared to have been extinguished.

Yet she was patient and loving and every single one of her rare words and precious, fleeting touches oozed affection and tenderness. Sasuke was a difficult patient, he would readily admit to that, especially when he was mostly confined to bed rest and a house and after a certain amount of time had passed, but it seemed as if, the more of a prick he started to be, the more patient and understanding she became in return, the more eager to heed to every one of his silly requests and brush off every one of his snappy comments.

Gradually, as the days crawled by and he became more and more stir crazy, more and more itchy to leave the house, to run, to train, to feel a sharp weapon in his hand, her mealtime stories began to double in size. She would bring up subjects she hadn't approached in a long, long time, trivial matters that, he supposed, she'd figured out, in the course of their marriage, that he didn't care much about. It didn't surprise him—she'd always been a nervous rambler, after all—but it didn't please him as much as he'd thought it would.

Slowly, but surely, and not for the first time, Sasuke reached the conclusion that Sakura was only trying to keep onto her promise: make his life into what he wanted it to be. Make herself into what he wanted her to be. Never forcing him to do or say anything he didn't want. Always trying to improve his disposition. Always on the edge when he, himself, was. Always pushing herself to do better next time. Never being mad, or childish, or stubborn, or demanding, not even when he knew—he knew—he was hurting her. Always smiling and calmly brushing off his insults.

It didn't exactly come as a surprise when, for the first time since the realization had, at regular intervals, been manifesting itself inside his mind, it came not with a wave of remorse, but with one of strong irritation that, coupled with the circumstances, was impossible for him to ignore.

She entered the kitchen that day in a cloud of delicate perfume mixed with the crisp scent of autumn, her hair windswept and her cheeks red, while he sat brooding at the table, sipping quietly from a glass of water.

Dressed in a pink sweater and blue jeans, she gave him a careful glance as she set the two bags of groceries she had been carrying onto the counter.

A moment passed before she extended him a hesitant offer, together with a cautious smile. "Do you want to help me cook?" He wouldn't have had to be a genius to recognize the attempt to pull him out of his obvious misery. "You don't really have to actually know how to cook this dish, it's just chopping some vegetables and mixing some ingredients that you could do. You don't have to help me, of course. Not if you don't want to. We can have dinner together instead—which we usually do." She gave a small, nervous laugh. "But then we can watch a movie. It doesn't have to be anything that I particularly like. It can be bloody and action-filled, like the movies you and Naruto love so much. Actually, we can ask Naruto to come over, if you want! Would you like that? He's been keeping out because I told him so, I know how easily you two provoke each other, but you're almost completely healed and there's no harm in having your best friend over. I can send for him right now. Is that alright? Or would you rather… is there anything else you'd rather do? Tell me, and I can—"

"Sakura," he suddenly growled, just to have her stop—just to see her green eyes widening with emotion. Just to get a reaction—positive or negative, it wasn't quite as important at this point; a genuine reaction was what he was looking for.

Standing up, he deliberately placed his hands flat on the table and glared, steadily holding her surprised gaze, as he spoke slowly, enunciating every word clearly, "I can't stand to be one more minute in this fucking house."

His wish was granted. She drew back as if he'd physically slapped her.

For a moment, that was her only reaction. Then her eyes filled with tears, and she immediately turned around to hide them.

Sasuke deflated in an instant. Her mask had fallen, and it was only too late that he realized that, if he didn't know how to deal with it on, he had absolutely no clue how to deal with it on the floor—and the second situation was a million times worse.

"You… can go out if you want," she said, slowly, as she turned back around. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize how confining this must have felt to you… I'm sorry. I… This was my fault." Clearing her throat, she attempted a smile, once again hiding her pain expertly. "I… You would have been discharged from the hospital in three days, anyway. There was no reason for me to keep you inside the house for an entire week just because I signed your papers early. I… I don't know, I guess I just wanted to make sure that…" She shook her head. "It was selfish of me. I'm sorry. I just… clearly got the balance between medic and wife wrong this time," she laughed, but there was no humor in it, and he doubted she thought she'd fooled him about that.

His eyes softened—but she wasn't looking at him to see it. "Sakura…" he started. As usual, though, the words would simply not leave his mouth.

"Um… I have to head back to the hospital today… tonight," she languidly corrected.

He knew perfectly well how much of a lie that was, and he wondered how she didn't realize it, when, just a minute before, she was making him offers, planning an evening together. He wondered if it was possible that she simply didn't care anymore. If her need to leave the house rivaled his and was so big that it was bumped to the very top of her priority list—above, seemingly, even maintaining a content façade for her husband. "I'll just finish this, and… you'll have to heat it up when you return."

"You don't have to do that," he told her, and then grimaced.

He couldn't voice so many of his thoughts, and every single one that he could came out completely wrong. One way or another, he always ended up hurting her.

"It's alright, I have some time. It'll be nice to have something to eat when I get home, anyway. Plus, I'm curious… if it will, you know, taste as it should. So, do let me know, alright?"

She gave him a fleeting, gentle smile before turning around to tend to her still intact grocery bags.

But Sasuke knew he'd never open his mouth to speak. He knew she knew that, as well. And he knew he'd never defy her expectations. He knew he'd never give her what she needed.

He wondered if he would ever prove himself capable of that.

At that point, he was almost certain that he never would.

---

Sasuke returned home that evening to find her warm, soft, and smelling of flowers, her hair wet from her recent bath and her eyes swollen and bloodshot from what he instinctively knew had been tears spilled, yet again, because of him.

He found her standing in the middle of the bedroom they had been sharing for a year and a half, bundled up in her oversized red robe, arms wrapped around her middle in a manner that screamed to him that she was barely holding herself together, looking up at him with large green orbs and the expression of someone who could only brace themselves for what he would say next.

It was a type of vulnerability that he almost never saw in her, and something made him doubt the idea that she might know that she was now freely showing it to him.

And he simply couldn't help himself. He couldn't help but cross the room and gather her small form into his arms, couldn't help but bend down and kiss her soft, full lips, couldn't help but hold her as close as he possibly could and hope with all his might that it was enough. Hope with all his might that she understood. Hope with all his might that, when she'd stopped expecting words, she hadn't also stopped expecting actions. Hope with all his might that there was still an open door for him to step through when it came to proving his feelings to the one woman that, he'd always secretly known and only recently actually realized, would ever matter to him.

He couldn't say the words. He didn't know how to name or explain the conflicting ball of emotions that his analytical mind had labeled simply 'Sakura'. He didn't even know where to begin. All he could do was try to show her—show her all of it; the good and the bad, the parts that he'd made sense of and those that were still a mess.

But there were a million miles in between them as they lay beside one another that night.

…And it wasn't long until he realized that he hadn't stepped through any door at all. While he'd been busy figuring out his own life, one by one, they'd all closed.

"Sasuke-kun…" she whispered as she gazed up at the ceiling, hands fidgeting nervously upon her stomach.

He turned his head to the side, offering her his full attention.

"You… you said you wanted to marry me because you wanted to restore your clan, but… you don't seem very keen on making that happen." She gave a small, nervous laugh. "Don't get me wrong… It's just that… I'm willing to do this, but… you're not?"

The Uchiha remained silent, watching her profile carefully in the low moonlight streaming in at different angles through the large bay windows. He knew what was truly on her mind. A child would mean a family, and perhaps a family, or at least the idea of it, would give him enough happiness and elicit enough commitment for him to never leave on such a dangerous mission again. He was one hundred percent sure of that, because, even half drugged and the other half unconscious, he'd recognized the pain in her sweet voice as she spoke to him that fateful night in the hospital.

In all reality, him accepting that particular mission had had absolutely nothing to do with her or their marriage—but, then again, perhaps that was the real problem.

But why did she lack the courage to say it, then? Why did she lack the courage to open up to him and show him what she was truly feeling? How could a person as hot-tempered as Sakura not graced him with as much or as little as a sliver of anger or annoyance at the fact that he'd lied broken and bleeding on her operating table? Sakura loved him, he was well-aware of that, and it dominated every single one of her other emotions, but the fact that they were subdued did not mean they were not there. She did feel them, and only she knew how strongly, and yet, she only chose to show one facet to him; she didn't feel free to show him any others—because she knew how much he needed someone in his life to love him, unconditionally, without judging him, without pressuring him, without ever hurting him in any way, shape, or form.

But perhaps she'd underestimated—alongside him, together—how much he needed her, in all of her entirety, as well.

"I don't think it's the right time for that," he answered, reiterating the reason he'd given her so much time ago, on their wedding night.

Sakura swallowed and nodded.

Sasuke continued to watch her, an expectant look in his eyes.

Say something, Sakura, he wanted to shout. Say something! Say what you really mean, say what's really on your mind! Don't be afraid of me, Sakura…

But she never did. Instead, she gave him a tight smile, whispered a goodnight, and turned her back to him, curling up as she usually did, in a tight ball that allowed him to clearly see the curved line of her spine and wordlessly taunt him with the reminder that he couldn't touch it, couldn't reach out and drag his fingertips across the soft expanse of her naked skin. Couldn't reach out and wrap his arms around her waist, couldn't bring her close to him and hold her so, so tightly, until she had no other option but to abandon her defensive position and melt into him. Couldn't run his fingers through her hair and whisper soothing words in her ears, promises upon promises that he made her every second of every day in his mind, regardless, until she learned to trust him with her heart again.

Couldn't even draw closer and press a kiss to her temple, whispering a well deserved 'I'm sorry for what I've put you through'.

Soon enough, the same feeling of helplessness mixed with annoyance that he had felt only earlier that day invaded him—and, not finding himself to be any more prepared to deal with it, he flung off the covers and rose out of bed. Pulling on his sweatpants, he stormed out of the room and into the cold, empty hallway.

It was only when he felt the walls rattle and the floor tremble beneath his feet that he realized he'd slammed the door behind him.

And, as he had learned it was usually the case, the realization came too late for him to be able to do anything at all about it.

---

A/N: Hi, everybody! I am so, so sorry for the long wait, but unfortunately, life is life—you don't always get to do only what you'd want (like write stories all day long)! Anyway, here is a chapter that I hope you've enjoyed! We're really close to the end now!

I don't know what will end up happening, if there will be only one more chapter or if there will be two. I feel that I don't have enough action for two chapters, but that at the same time, what I have might be too much for only one. We'll see. In any case, look forward to the resolution next time! I've been working quite a lot on it while writing this chapter because a lot of things will connect—also, I just really needed them to be happy with all the angst that's been packed here, so I had to make that possible!

Thank you all very much for your kind comments and your messages, it means a lot to me to know that you're enjoying this story so much and that you're putting up with my nonexistent updating schedule!

Please leave me a review telling me what you thought! Reading your opinions makes me really happy and any feedback can help make what's left of this story better! :)