When Kankurō returned home that night, Gaara had prudently opted not to be there. Temari was, however, and she had been busy. A row of cardboard boxes lined the wall of his living room, each bearing a neat label in Temari's solid, unfeminine hand: Old clothes, Spare parts, Books, Masks, Papers.

Hearing the door open, Temari emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dishtowel. "I cleared out that back room," she said with a nod at the boxes, "but I wasn't sure where you wanted all this stuff. I thought…" She shrugged. "Well, Kumi-chan is going to need a bedroom, eventually."

"Not 'eventually,'" he answered, stooping to remove his shoes, trying to ignore the way his body protested. "Immediately."

Temari's lips parted in a small O of surprise.

"Gaara pulled some strings to force the paperwork through," he explained dully, assuming his slippers. "According to the Hall of Records and the Adjudicator General, I am Kumi-chan's lawful guardian. She's supposed to be out of the barracks by the twenty-first."

"And that's all there is to it?" she asked, stunned.

He dropped onto the sofa with a weary groan, and, setting his elbows on his knees, he leaned forward to rest his forehead on his laced fingers. "Apparently."

"Bloody hell," she murmured, joining him on the sofa. "That was fast. Are you okay?"

"Fine. Tired."

"Kankurō," she chided reproachfully, shaking her head.

He flung himself back into the sofa cushions with an oath. "I'm used to responsibility, Temari. But this is, it's so…" He cursed, frustrated with his inability to define the crushing obligation that had been thrust upon him. Duty had never before seemed so daunting.

"Yes," she said simply. "It is."

"How the hell do you do it?"

The question was largely rhetorical, but true to form, Temari answered it anyway.

"When Shikamaru and I become parents," she answered, her gaze retreating into memory, "just keeping a baby alive was so overwhelming that there was no time, no energy left to consider the enormity of it. There was an endless onslaught of distracting fluids and firsts and fevers until he was about five or six years old, and by then…"

A fond smile turned up the corners of her mouth. "By then, it was as if he had always been there. The world shifted into place around him while I was too dazed by late night feedings and toilet training to notice."

Her slender fingers scrabbled lightly on his back in a sympathetic gesture. "You didn't have the mercy of a thousand tiny adjustments over months and years. You got a bloody earthquake."

He nodded bitterly.

"And I got the better end of the fucking bargain." He grimaced, thinking of Kumi's pale face and stiff shoulders while their caseworker explained the particulars of Kankurō's custody papers.

"Temi, you should have seen her face when it really hit her. This kid doesn't even know me. Suddenly she's reliant on me for everything – food, clothes, a roof over her head. Shikadai never –"

His voice abandoned him, and he shook his head irritably, scrambling for his composure.

"Depending on you was never an option for him," he went on, a bit surprised that his sister had permitted him to finish the thought without interrupting. "He never had to question whether or not he could trust you or wonder if you would reject him if he fucked up somehow or if you even gave a damn about him."

"But you do give a damn," she pointed out reasonably, "and you're not going to reject her. Kumi-chan will learn to trust you." Temari gently nudged his knee with her own.

"You have her respect. Trust is a pretty natural next step from there. You've got the discipline to be consistent with her and the integrity to do what you say you will. Believe me; I've worked with enough kids to know that credibility goes a long way toward trust. A lot further than affection, frankly."

He clicked his tongue with a dark scowl and pointed a finger at her. "That. That, I'm not so good at."

She shoved his finger away. "Oh, bah. We're none of us naturally affectionate people. We were just too isolated as kids – Gaara, especially, but all of us, to an extent. He and I manage, though, and when you get right down to it, we're both less socially adept than you are. You'll learn, too. Probably faster than we did."

She mussed his hair and gave him her best sister-smile.

"You've got more going for you than you realize, Otouto. Don't be a fatalist." Wrinkling her nose and withdrawing her hand as if she'd touched something unpleasant, she added, "You're gross, incidentally. Go take a shower, and then come back and have a beer with me. I want to hear more about my niece."

Kankurō stood up and eyed her suspiciously. "Stop being so nice, yeah? I'm bloody well confused enough as it is."

She reached up to slap his leg. "Go," she ordered, pointing imperiously to the stairwell.

Upstairs, as he soaped off the sweat of the day, he wondered whether he was being a fatalist, after all. He wasn't, ordinarily. Skeptical, always; he questioned everything, but most of the time he had no trouble acknowledging natural advantages or good fortune. Was he overlooking them now, too cowed by an unfamiliar role to see what ought to be clear?

I think I'm happy.

A reluctant smile crossed his face. It had scared the shit out of him at the time, realizing he had been personally and involuntarily responsible for Kumi's face-splitting grin and breathless laughter. It was one thing to see to her physical needs, to protect her from Nobu, even to nurture her creative talents and technical abilities, but making her happy was something else altogether. Surely that required a skill set he hadn't developed, assuming he possessed it at all.

But, possibly he was overthinking it. He had made her happy, entirely by accident. It required no machinations, no plans, nor any alteration of his usual gruff manner. He and Kumi had a natural rapport that had been clear long before Kawamura's DNA comparison identified a more concrete bond between them. His and Kumi's mutual passion for puppetry was also an advantage he shouldn't overlook, because he would never want for conversation or an excuse to spend time with the little girl. There would always draftsmanship and crafting techniques, combat practice, and new ideas to occupy them.

And Temari had noted a solid point in his favor: if he wasn't a demonstrative individual, still he read people well, intuitively able to perceive their needs, desires, and fears. He saw to Gaara's comfort and happiness without even thinking about it, and the Kazekage was far more challenging to read than Kumi. If picking up on her needs was no more difficult than looking out for Gaara, he might possibly manage without much difficulty.

Scowling at the shower floor, he pushed thoughts of his brother irritably aside, and by the time the meter shut off the showerhead, he felt calmer, persuaded that what he had achieved by accident could likely be reproduced with a bit of application. He would focus on earning Kumi's trust and getting to know her tastes and habits, small feats that he was confident he could accomplish. If Kumi needed the sort of tenderness he'd occasionally witnessed between his brothers and their sons – and she deserved to have it, whether she needed it or not – then he'd pick up the skills he lacked somewhere along the way.

He went to dress and discovered that he badly needed to do laundry. His only clean lounge pants were embarrassingly oversized. Rather than risk Temari's comments on his weight loss, he opted for the expedient of an old but barely-worn yukata. He surveyed himself briefly in the mirror, as he knotted a simple obi around it. The effect wasn't bad. The loose fabric concealed a good deal more than a tee and pants would have done. It might behoove him to purchase several more, he mused: it was comfortable, he was off-duty anyhow, and it was a relief, for a change, not to worry about the size of the waist.

Besides, it would give him an excuse to take Kumi clothes shopping. He had never seen her wear anything but the simple black keikogi she had worn when she brought Little Bird to him, and he doubted that she had much else.

When he came back downstairs, carrying his dirty laundry, he paused to glance in the spare bedroom where Temari had been at work. It was almost completely empty; his sister had gone to some lengths to make herself useful while he dealt with paperwork in the Records Hall. Aside from sorting through the miscellanies that had piled up in the unused room over the years, she had scrubbed the walls and floor until they shone, and only some neatly folded bed linens remained in what would soon be Kumi's bedroom.

It was a fair-sized room, easily twice as big as her dorm in the genin barracks, which he had seen for the first time that night when he walked her home. It had been even less inviting than his empty guest room, but Kumi had only chuckled at his chagrinned expression.

"It's really not that bad," she had assured him. "Most of us manage to make it feel a lot homier. I just never wanted to spend the money on posters or curtains. Besides," she added, "I'm usually in the workshop."

Other than a shrine she had cobbled together for her mother's spirit, the tiny room might have been a prison cell. There was a rickety table and a chair, an old chest, and a plain white futon folded in the corner. The walls were completely bare, excepting only the built-in bookshelf, on which her Academy texts and medical books rested, and some cabinets which presumably hid her toiletries.

Although Kumi had secreted a respectable array of puppetry tools, materials, and supplies in her makeshift studio, her other possessions were startlingly minimal. She had chosen drills over hairdryers, microphones over music albums, and varnish over makeup. Gohachiro had given her cash on occasion, Kankurō recalled, viewing the empty room with hallow feeling in his stomach, but often he simply gave her sweets, or hair accessories, or art supplies.

With a prescience that forced Kankurō once again to rethink his assumptions concerning the boy, Gohachiro made Kumi gifts of small indulgences he had known she wouldn't buy for herself. It stung that her one-time tormentor should know her so well. The fact that he had felt obliged to support her materially stung even more fiercely.

The current Daimyo held his nation's shinobi in much higher regard than his predecessors had. Consequently, he kept a much looser hand on the purse strings. With fair pay restored, and Terashima committed to hiring Suna nin whenever possible, the Village had recovered much of its former prosperity. While no one in Suna was precisely wealthy, rank had its privileges and hazards their remunerations, and both ensured Kankurō had more than he needed.

His daughter never should have wanted for anything.

He shook his head darkly and went to do his laundry.

Temari was watching him as he came down the hall. She had changed into nightwear and was curled up on his sofa, looking entirely harmless and mellow with a big bowl of buttered popcorn in her lap and a pair of his favorite brews in her hands. It was a coldly premeditated move, but it touched him that she had gone to the effort. Harmless and mellow were as foreign to sister's hardnosed personality as they were to his own.

So, when she held out one of the beers and wordlessly patted the seat beside her, he allowed himself to be baited and joined her.

She handed him a beer, narrowing her eyes at him thoughtfully, revealing little furrows between them and creases at the corners which had not been there only a few years ago.

"Feeling better?" she asked mildly.

He pulled a face. "I was. Then I realized that, on top of packing, and getting Kumi-chan moved out of the barracks, and reviewing some reports for the Theater, and talking to Ryotsu about security, I also need to get some furniture for that room, or Kumi-chan's welcome is going to be pretty fucking cold." He sank into the cushions wearily.

"I can take care of that tomorrow," Temari offered, but he shook his head.

"Nah. I appreciate the offer, but I'd rather she pick it out herself." He squinted at her suspiciously. "What?" he demanded. "You've got your shit-how-do-I-say-this-tactfully face on."

Her mouth twitched with amusement at this description of her expression.

"Well, you did say she was a little uncomfortable with the idea of being financially dependent." At his fervent nod, she asked patiently, "Don't you think participating in such a big purchase might be awkward for her?"

He stared at her. Then he put his face in his hands with a groan.

"Sorry." Temari shrugged unapologetically. She poked him in the side. "Relax. If you think it's important, I'm sure we can figure something out."

He sat upright but fumbled with the words for a long minute. "I just want her to feel at home," he said finally, unwilling to describe her cheerless room in the barracks.

Temari munched on a few more handfuls of popcorn as she considered. "She's artistic, isn't she? Maybe we just pick up some unfinished pieces and let her paint them or stain them however she likes. She wouldn't have to deal with the money side of it, but it would still be personal. And then she can still pick out any smaller accents for herself."

He nodded slowly. "That's… actually, that's a good idea, Temari."

"It happens occasionally." She rolled her eyes but smiled anyway. "Do you want me to handle it?"

"Please."

She nodded, stretched, and handed him another beer to open for her. Taking a long pull off of it, she leaned back expansively against the arm of the sofa and said, "Now. Tell me everything."

Possibly it was the beer – he hadn't eaten much and didn't have quite the stomach for it that he used to, anyway – but he and Temari talked well into the night. Starting from the beginning, he told her about his first meeting with Kumi, how he first began to suspect they might be connected, and what he had uncovered in the Records Hall about her birthdate and blood type. He explained how he had used the apprenticeship contract and Kawamura's reluctant assistance to find the truth.

And then he told her everything else. The embarrassing scene in his office, when he had been forced to submit to the little puppeteer's medical inclinations. The box of toxins he had gifted her in her picturesque deathtrap of a workshop. Her snub of Nozara Nobu, and the old man's cruel riposte. Their sparring match, and how his heart leapt into his mouth when Kumi had screamed, when he thought for one terrible moment that he had carelessly injured her.

The admission that he had thumped the little genin for her smart mouth drew a surprised snort of laughter, and she exclaimed in horror when he related Kumi's ruthlessly calculated decision to allow Gohachiro to break her hands. For the most part, though, his sister simply listened. He hadn't realized how much he'd needed to talk about it until the popcorn was gone, and the clock on his wall had long since announced a new day had begun.

He had known she was waiting for something, but she still managed to take him off-guard.

Kankurō picked up the empty beer bottles – there were four of them now, and he'd only had the one – and went to put them in the recycling bin. Temari rose and followed him into the kitchen, and as soon as he'd dropped the bottles into the plastic tub, she moved suddenly behind him and wrapped her arms around his middle.

"Temari…"

"I can't imagine what you're going through," she said lowly, "and gods know I'm doing my best not to make it more difficult. But you –!"

She tangled her fingers in the folds of his yukata, clinging to him even more fiercely.

"You are the only one I never had worry about, dumbass."

Her breath caught in her throat, and he turned around to enfold her in a proper embrace.

"You don't need to worry about me, dumbass," he said firmly. "Got it? I take care of myself, yeah?"

She laughed suddenly, a choked, unhappy sound. "I take care of me," she corrected with a sniffle, resting her cheek on his shoulder. An uncomfortable wetness soaked through his shirt where her tear-streaked face pressed against it.

Unwilling to argue the case for a reflexive pronoun, he sighed and waited for her to have her say.

"My men," she said after a long moment, in a voice rough with emotion, "they're all smart. They're all powerful. But they …their feelings get the better of their judgement, sometimes. Naruto's fault, I think."

Her arms tightened around him and her breath caught in an angry sob. "Except you. You're like me, damn you. A pragmatist. You wear that harum-scarum Corpsman persona like a second skin, but you don't fool me, not for a second." Her words tumbled out, quick and fierce and raw.

"Harum-scarum?" he asked, looking down at her in amusement. She didn't look up, and his good humor faded.

"Everything is a calculated decision with you," she said bitterly. "Do you not understand how I count on that? I trusted you, you idiot – trusted you to be smart, to be practical, to take care of things. How could you not fucking tell me, Kankurō?"

The betrayal in her voice roused, at last, a small sense of guilt. Irritating Temari was an engaging pastime – angering her was playing with fire, dangerous but entertaining. Hurting her was detestable, and far more dangerous than pissing her off.

Discretion being the better part of valor, at least when Temari was drunk, he patted her back and rested his cheek on the top of her head, noting a few stray silvery threads woven through her blonde hair. He touched one, thinking ruefully that he was probably responsible for at least a couple of them.

"I did mean to tell you once I had a diagnosis," he admitted, smoothing her hair back down.

She jerked in his arms angrily, ready to fight, but he held firm and spoke quickly.

"I didn't want to make a big deal of headaches, yeah? But it dragged on and on. The pain got worse. The nausea hit me sooner and lasted longer, and after a while I just didn't have an appetite at all. And I got tired, Temari. I couldn't cope with being sick and with you two being worried about me, too."

"I can't," he corrected, with a self-derisive scoff. "I don't have the energy. I'd like to tell you to leave me alone and fuck off, and I can't do that either, because then we'll fight, and I'm too goddamned tired to argue with you."

Temari had been standing rigidly in his arms, but with this confession, she hugged him tightly, clinging to him like she thought he might disappear if she let go. They stood there in the darkened kitchen for a long while, not saying anything. He didn't have much comfort to give her, but he was willing to stand there and hold her as long as she wanted to be held.

"Damn you," she said finally, sniffling. "I was mostly angry, before. Now you've really got me scared."

"Sorry."

Stepping back away from him, she wiped at her eyes, no longer crying. "Kankurō…" She fixed him with a serious, candid green stare. "I know you're angry with Gaara, but please go see the neurologist, anyway."

He scowled and turned away from her.

Temari's hand, slim and long-fingered like his own, like Kumi's, like their mother's, came from behind to rest on his shoulder. "Please, Otouto. If you won't do it for me or Gaara, you've got a child you have to think of –"

And that was absolutely all he could take. He shrugged off her hand with a jerk and crossed the room quickly to the stairwell. Temari didn't follow him, and he didn't look back.