I do not own Naruto. Or Ali Baba, or Harry Potter, or The Secret of Kells.
A spherical prison of water and a familiar blue face covered in blood and bruises. "I guess in the end, I wasn't such a horrible human after all." Summons turning against their contractor, an open mouth full of serrated teeth going for her friend's head, a sad accepting smile.
Ryuishi wakes up in a cold sweat, tangled up in the thin hotel blanket. The hot desert sun is high and bright in the sky outside the hotel window, and its light shines down, warming her flushed skin.
"Fuck," she whispers breathlessly. "Dick balls, shitface, cunt truck, fuck fire." The cursing helps keep the images away and relieves some of the tension she can feel in her shoulders.
She hates dreaming those dreams, the ones where she witnesses her unit's death in flat, two-dimensional, animated scenes. They really should just stop. It's not like she's forgotten about them, it's only been a few years.
She sighs loudly and slowly gets up, pushing the slightly damp sheets off of her and grimacing at the feel of sweat soaked hair against her skin. It clings like inky tentacles to her neck and face, and when she sits up she can feel the loose strands near her hips. She must have forgotten to put it up in a braid last night.
The bed underneath her isn't the soft monstrosity she has at home, but the springs aren't sticking out and most of the firmness is still there. She savors the feeling of something other than hot sand or sunbaked furniture under her ass for a few seconds more. The seating options in Suna really aren't the best, she thinks to herself as she processes the real world instead of the dream. They should do something about the flaming hot surfaces around here. Her cheek meat is tender and burnt from all the bad options, even with the pants she wears. Groggily standing up at her own leisurely, lethargic pace, she stomps toward the shower. She doesn't have much to do other than explore and entertain an adorable four year old with attachment issues, so she can take all the time she wants. A benefit of not being affiliated with any villages and taking only the missions she wants, one could say, because no one can order her to do anything. No early morning wake ups or late night alarms, she gets to do whatever the hell she pleases, as she pleases.
It's not the same without internet and TV, but it's still pretty great.
She makes it to the shower, which is shoddy as hell. The water pressure sucks and it takes a while for it to permeate her thick hair, but she spends the time lathering up with some of her soap collection and cleaning herself off. She leaves the shaving and manscaping for when she has her conditioner in her hair, so it can soak in. So she kills twenty minutes in the water, preparing herself for the hot, dry terrain outside. Then she kills another twenty brushing her teeth and lounging around the place naked, enjoying the feel of blanket against skin and running her hands over her freshly shaved and lotioned legs. She wants to ask somebody to touch them. Even with the scars that stripe her skin and make it pucker and stretch in odd ways, they are so soft. Ridiculously soft. Then, finally, she wastes even more time putting on her liquid liner and fixing her hair.
She looks great, she thinks to herself, like always. Fuck anyone who says otherwise. Her opinion on the matter is all that mattered anyway, and she's glad that she can see that this time around.
Last time she went through puberty, it had been such a bitch. The influx of chemicals and hormones in her body had left her awkward and unsure, constantly doubting herself and her appearance. At the time she could remember being self conscious of the dusting of scars on her knuckles, and the way her legs looked like a patchwork of marks and bruises. She had felt her that breasts were too small and her ribs too wide. She hated the way fat gathered on her hips and thighs, the way her pores seemed too big and eyes too small. Her broad, muscular shoulders and heavy upper body strength seemed mannish and off putting to herself.
Now, she knows better. Every scar is a burst of color to help her remember the story behind it, and every bruise is a tale of something that she has overcome. Her breasts aren't the largest, but they are nice, and her wide ribs are better for taking strong hits anyways. The fat on her waist gives her body movement, a soft, inviting squish. Her eyes are narrow, yes, but they are vicious and nobody cares about the size of her pores anyway. Her muscular and broad build is a tribute to the strength she carries and is nothing to be ashamed of. She can kill a man with her thighs and knock a person out with a well aimed punch.
She is confident in herself, the way she always should have been. Finally comfortable in her own skin.
She flashes herself a smile in the mirror and picks up her bag, making her way to a now familiar park. The day is exceedingly hot like always, and she can see visible warps in the air around the burnt beige sandstone buildings. A strong wind howls through the streets and tangles in the inky bangs of her hair, and she closes her eyes, appreciating the smell of it. It is not grimy and rotting, the stifling stink of Kiri. Instead it smells of dust and heat, triggering half-remembered nights spent camping in the desert in another world.
A pang shoots through her heart, and she does not shove it down and away like her instinctual reaction tells her to do. Yes, she misses them. No, she cannot have them. She must treasure the time they spent together and move on. There is a child who needs her and, and there are two men somewhere far away that she needs to protect, whether they know it or not.
She feels it in her heart, the love she has for her old unit. It hurts a lot, but she wouldn't trade it for the world. She misses them, and she says a quick prayer in her mind for them. She hopes they are smiling at a lame dick joke right now.
(Zabuza itches his ear, currently frustratedly teaching a small boy how to throw needles. It is agonizing, and the poor show makes him remember a girl who really sucked at throwing things. Thinking about it, they both have nice hair too.
Kisame sneezes and wonders who's thinking about him right now, because it is very inconvenient. If he gets caught by the enemy right now, this mission will be nowhere as near as subtle as it needs to be.)
She continues on her way, cutting through main streets and market squares, passing out candy to kids who have become regulars in the short span of a week. They shout for her with calls of 'Nee-san!' and beg for the more sour of her collection. There is something about desert inhabitants that makes them enjoy strong flavors.
She finishes and then heads toward the park, her loping, easy pace eating up the small distance. When she gets there, she hops on a swing for old times' sake and kicks her feet for a while, enjoying the swaying motion until she hears a familiar pattern of footsteps heading towards her.
Large, seafoam green eyes look up at her with a disapproving light to them, thin lips turned down in a frown. "You're too big for the swings, Aneue. They'll break."
"Are you calling me fat, Gaara-kun?" she asks, slowing down to raise a brow at him.
"Aneue isn't fat, she's just too old," he corrects, and she clutches her heart dramatically and stands at this accusation.
"You're right Gaara, I'm much too old," she states with flair, shuffling towards the small boy, "So old my bones can't even hold me up anymore. Oh, no! Gravity!"
She wilts over the small boy, intending to collapse on him like a limp noodle. Instead of a squalling child cushioning her though, a pillow of sand catches her sinking body. The shifting grains feel a bit too much like gritty bugs crawling across her skin for comfort, but at least the mass as a whole conforms to the shape of her body this time. Last time she fell on him, it was like slapping against a boulder.
She sighs and pats the sand like it is a living thing. "Gaara-kun," she says, "We talked about this."
He stares at her without saying a word, but his eyes tell another story. Something like, 'then don't fall so much, you weirdo.'
Thus begins their day of entertainment. Somehow, and she isn't entirely sure how, the end up making sandcastles. With a trowel and a bucket that she had somehow picked up along the way (she stole it from some other little kids when they weren't looking), they set out for the shadows of the bluffs, where the sand is loosest and easiest to mold.
"Why are we building lumps again?" Gaara asks, squeezing a clump of wet mud through his pudgy little hands as she smooths a corner of the wall.
"First of all, this is a castle, not a fucking lump."
"You said a bad word again," he chides.
She rolls her eyes and continues. She is ridiculously proud of getting the texture just right with gratuitous use of Suiton jutsu behind Gaara's turned back. He didn't question why the sand was suddenly wet, and accepted it with all the grace and nonchalance of a four year old.
"Secondly," she states, ignoring him completely, "Building sandcastles is fun. When I was a kid, my mom and dad…"
She trails off, the familiar pain shooting through her heart. No, she thinks, I need to talk about them. Even if it is with a four year old. She swallows in her suddenly dry throat, and she digs a turret in the wall.
"…my mom and dad would take my sibling and I to the beach a lot, and when we got tired of swimming, we would build castles." she finishes.
Gaara looks at their mundane creation and begins to shape a truly impressive sandcastle of his own, focusing on the particles in his hands when he speaks again.
"What's a mom like?"
She thinks about it for a moment, and the ache is tinged with warmth. Ah, well, he probably won't even remember this when he's older, anyways. It's okay to speak the truth.
"Well I don't know what it's like for everyone, but my mom, she was awesome. When I was your age, she would make me breakfast every morning and carry me on her hip. She taught me how to read and cook. She played my favorite games with me. At night, she read me stories and taught me about all the myths from around the world," she says, letting some of the dryer sand run through her hands.
"Moms sound nice," he comments, and she can see something strange in his eyes as he looks down. What she doesn't know is that he is thinking about the way she carries him on her hip, and the way she plays games with him. Sometimes she feeds him lunch too, and just three days ago she told him the story of a shinobi boy named Ali Baba and the forty thieves he tricked.
"Moms are… they are something special. They teach you how to be a person, and stand by your side when you're all alone. They show you how powerful love can be. At least, that's what mine did."
She closes her eyes, and she remembers a plump woman with short black hair and the same snaggle-toothed smile she sees in the mirror each morning. It is a bittersweet image.
When she opens them again, a pair of light, pupiless eyes are looking at her in a particular way, open and yearning. Pale skin, unmarked by the heavy sun and untouched by the elements, is mimicked perfectly by an ultimate defense that acts like a shell. Keeping him safe, but alone.
"I think you'd be a good mom," he tells her earnestly.
She snorts, and a flash of confusion crosses his features. "Naw, I'd suck. Sometimes, I forget to feed myself or even what day it is. Can you imagine? My kids would curse like sailors and probably act just like me and my brothers did. Little monsters, the whole lot of them."
He looks down. Oh, he thinks, she doesn't like monsters. Moms don't like monsters. Gaara clenches his palms into fists, and something inside his chest feels funny again, but not in the good way. This is bad, he thinks. This is…
He thinks that this might be what pain feels like.
"But," he hears, and when he looks up, Aneue is looking at far away. The line where the sky meets sand, and it looks like she can see something there. What she sees makes her smile, and it's not her silly ones like when they play or when she makes a joke. Not the ones she uses when selling candy or talking to other people. This one is special, he thinks. This one is happy and warm, like the wind.
"But… even if they were monsters or demons, I would love them," she says, turning back to face him. "That's a mom's job, Gaara. To love her children, and make sure they're happy and healthy. To provide and support and guide them from the moment they are born, no matter what."
His chest doesn't feel bad anymore, and his stomach does a little wiggle when he looks at her. He doesn't say it out loud this time, but he still thinks she would be a good mom.
Then, she catches sight of the castle he has been working on. Her eyes widen, and she makes a funny face. She wonders how she could have missed the split second this piece of art was born in, because good god this thing is awesome.
"Holy shit, Gaara, did you just fucking make this?" she asks, and the ambience of the moment slips away, unnoticed by them both. Another heartwarming scene slaughtered by her big mouth.
"Bad words."
"Yes, I know. Bad fucking words. How long did this take?" , this time cursing just to be obstinate.
The redheaded child looks up at the fort-sized building that has to be at least six times his height. It's the size of the playground jungle gym and intricately done, a definite improvement on her bastardized western monstrosity.
"I don't know," he answers, looking back at it.
"It's fucking amazing," she states, running her hands over the perfectly flat and smooth walls, "You think it's safe enough to play inside?"
He squints his eyes and looks at it for a moment, really considering the thought. It takes him a few seconds, but he nods.
"Awesome. I call being the guard!"
They waste the rest of that afternoon protecting the castle from imaginary enemy shinobi who want to breach the walls of their fort. Ryuishi takes a blow from a fake sword, but manages to warn the kingdom of an incoming army, and the magnificent and taciturn Gaara saves her life and defeats them all with the awesome power of weaponized rubber balls.
The next day, the duo find themselves on the swings again. The little boy seems to enjoy the wind ruffling his hair as he arcs even higher.
Hot damn, she really needs to get a camera. If everybody in this world was as adorable as Gaara on a swing set, nothing much would be better, but sweet merciful Buddha would she be happier in general.
The creaking of the chains against the metal pole fills the play yard with a sound one might find in a horror movie, but it is oddly calming all the same. The children usually here vacated pretty soon after the little boy showed up, but not before mugging her for gifts of candy and sweets. She really is a sucker for kids.
Ha… sucker, she thinks. Then she mentally facepalms at her own bad pun.
The wind sweeps through, and she sings quietly, unashamed of her husky voice. It's a bad habit she picked up recuperating in Orochimaru's base, something she used to do to fill up the oppressive silence caused by constant isolation. Mostly she sang half remembered punk ballads, or shittily tried to beatbox some techno songs. Even old rock songs found themselves sung side by side with top-of-the-charts pop music and heavy metal choruses. It was kind of hard to sing the classical or instrumental things, and most of it didn't translate all that well, but it helped to keep her mind off the hallucinations that were running rampant at the time. Besides, Gaara doesn't seem to mind.
"Fergalicious, So delicious
My body stayin vicious
I be up in the gym just workin on my fitness
He's my witness, Oh WEE—"
She breathes out, humming the beat.
"Aneue?" the small human interrupts.
"Yeah?"
"Do you have to leave soon?"
She pauses for a second, observing the keen insight from the little boy who seems to be more astute than she knew. It's true that she can't stay here forever, but for him to be the one that brought it up… well, it's just unexpected.
"Yes, I have to leave soon," she answers honestly, trying it out for once. He visibly wilts at the news, turning in the swing to give her the most downtrodden eyes she has ever seen on anyone, ever. Shit, she should have stuck with lying. Dear god, why did Gaara need sand to protect him anyway? Who cares if he is a weapon of mass destruction? That injured baby animal look is fucking lethal weapon that she has no defense against.
Once more, she curses Zabuza and Kisame for being so uncute. If they had been, she might be better prepared to protect against this assault.
"Aneue shouldn't leave. Aneue should stay here with me forever," he tells her a little bit frantically, and the sand moves in agitated ways, swirling around their feet.
"Ugh, kid, don't. Stop it with that look," she begs.
"If Aneue goes, no one will play with me anymore."
"Oh child, please, those eyes are too cute—"
He continues pressing his advantage, big bright eyes boring into her. For a woman grown who has seen war and killed countless people, she is surprisingly susceptible to this sort of thing.
"Gaara, I can't stay here forever. My merchant visa runs out in a week," she begins, casting her eyes to the side. Maybe if she can't see him it will be less effective.
The silence is astounding. It weighs down heavy on her shoulders, adding to the oppressive presence of hot desert sun and merciless wind. She can feel the sweat on her brow slide down her cheek, a reaction to both the heat and the nervousness she feels. Something inside her hates disappointing people on principle. Well that's a lie, more like disappointing small children. The sand makes that telltale rustling, scraping noise but she knows she can turn it to mud and run if need be. The crying has her more worried. Dick buckets, this is why she should stay away from children. They make her act all weird.
A sniffling sound fill the air, and oh god, oh god oh god oh god, nononono. Shit, fuck. She can't deal with this.
She peeks at him from the corner of her eyes, and fuck, yes, he is totally crying. The sweat on her brow increases in volume, and her dark orbs look away again. His little hands covering his eyes are just too much. Good lord, he's even adorable when he cries. His cute levels are stupid high, and she wants simultaneously coo and him and squeeze his hands probably a little too hard. The violence and affection inside her all fucked up.
What if… what if she just walks away right now? If she just lets this happen, it will run its course. He'll get tired soon enough, right?
Mentally, she scolds herself. Way to be a huge dick.
Okay, um, what would her mother have done? Probably just stare at her until she noticed how much of a fool she looked like, but he can't see her with his tiny little hands over his eyes. That's another option down the drain. Her little sister only cried when she hit her too hard or fucked something up, and usually she made soft promises to make sure her parents didn't find out. He wasn't in physical pain either.
Wing it, she thinks, like you do literally everything else.
Before she can think too hard about it, she follows that train of thought and turns back around to kneel at his side, her arms outstretched to wrap around him slowly. If she goes too fast then it's more sand in the face, and that shit hurts.
"Gaara," she says, rubbing circles on his back, "Staaahp."
The child continues crying in her arms, hiding his face away and dripping a suspiciously viscous liquid from one of his face holes. She's betting it's his nose, and that kinda disgusts her.
"Gaara, seriously, what am I supposed to do?" she asks.
He grumbles out something but it is too muffled by whatever liquid is coming from him to understand. Where is he getting all the hydration for this, anyway? She knows they give out water rations here, but there is no way they take into account how tearful a four year old can get. Or do they? Is that something you can even calculate?
"We have one week left, and I'm going to come back. I just have things that need to be done outside of here."
Like making emotional attachments with other jinchuuriki because not only are they cute, but it is always super useful to have a weapon of mass destruction on your side. She decides it's best to not tell him that though, because he might not understand. Actually, most people might not understand, which is weird. She wouldn't seek them out if they were giant assholes, and usually she comes to genuinely care for them, so what is wrong if they use each other sometimes?
Orochimaru got it, she thinks sullenly to herself.
She feels a growing stain on her shirt and wants to cringe, but she bucks up and deals with it, continuing to comfort the little boy.
"Come… come back?" he asks her after a few minutes, looking up at her with such an innocent, open face that it causes her shame.
"Yah, of course I'm coming back," she assures him, trying to put a warm smile on her face. "I still have to teach you how to catch lizards, and show you the wonders of spitting seeds."
His teary face looks confused at the idea of spitting. She can hear his thought process stuttering to a halt. But Uncle Yashamaru says spitting is rude, or some shit like that. Well, Uncle fucking Yashamaru can suck a fat one, because spitting properly is an essential part of growing up. How else is one going to express both disgust and derision at once?
"I still have so many stories to tell you too. I mean, you have no idea who Harry Potter is, do you? How about Brendan and Aisling, and the Secret of Kells?"
He shakes his head no and she sighs, brushing crimson hair away from his forehead tenderly. She can't see how gritty his shield is, even this close up it looks like skin, but the gesture must mean something nonetheless, because he leans into her touch.
"As long as I am able to, I will continue to visit. I know waiting will be hard, and you might get lonely, but I'm not going to leave forever. Not by choice," she soothes.
He seems to accept this in his own quiet way, but he doesn't look any happier when he leans into her embrace, still sniffling slightly. She sighs and accepts her place as his snot rag and cushion for the moment, glad that she can hold weird positions for so long. If not, her knees would be screaming at her by now.
She hates to make kids cry, but this time she has to. He is not the only lonely child in need of affection in this world, and she has plans. Plans so that no child has to end up like this, afraid of a stranger's departure, reliant on other people's kindness and afraid of who they are. They won't wake up from dreams of teammates from their past and heart wrenching failures.
No, not when she's done.
AN: SO! Ryuishi likes fergie (Who I also don't have any ties to) and reveals her big plan for the time! Befriending weapons of mass destruction when possible! YAY! SHe also probably wants them because they are huge dots with 'main plot' written all over them. Also a sneak peek into what Kisame and Zabuza are doing, hint, they are probably still in Kiri doing this stuff.
I LOVE REVIEWERS. I ALSO LOVE FAVORITERS, FOLLOWERS, AND LURKERS.
I also very much appreciate my beta, enbi, who helps me out so much.
Now, for a different twist on the Authors notes...What would you guys like to see Ryuishi doing? I'm making no promises, and they have to be sorta reasonable, but I am open for input. Just fuck me up man, send your thoughts in and they might make it in the fic. Maybe, no promises, again.