He is all curves and swaddles of cloth, but his chakra - it is another thing of its own consciousness.
Many suffocate in his presence, and at night, reports have been made about the pervasive aura seeping from the wooden crib. Some have given it a shape, others have heard it calling out their name. Not many have withstood in the presence of the boy, his own siblings were housed in a separate building, far away from the creature sleeping under their brother's skin - but he could not be left alone
Moriko stood over the boy's bed. Gaara, they called him. Gaara of the Sand because the Kazekage would not pass down his name to his youngest son. Where loud Temari and clumsy Kankuro relentlessly used it to allow them special treatment and free food, Gaara would not be able to do the same. Although, why would he? His reputation precedes his father's name, and fear alone would make mountains move faster than names. Fire does not pick who it wants to burn, and likewise, Gaara's monster would not be privy on who it spared.
She did not know why she accepted the mission. Other than it being not something she could really deny, she couldn't see why they would have pulled her from the field to babysit a child. Motherless and the son of the kazekage he is, but she did not think her gender and ability to protect him factored into the decision. Maybe they just want to kill me, she stipulates as she lets down her pinky for the child to see. He lets out a chirp, a mix between what mayhaps be a laugh and some saliva as he latches onto her finger with all ten of his. For while Gaara's acclaimed monster had never really embodied itself into something tangible, many thought it able to reclaim an earthly form at night to satiate its need for blood. There had been enough bodies in the streets to lay fruition to that rumor. But Moriko and most shinobi knew better than to outright blame the boy for the murders.
The village had never really been cleansed of all its factions.
Sasori had tried his best to wipe out all dissenting unions, but when children came into the question, they both did the minimum; if the children were home, Sasori dealt them his puppets. If they weren't - they didn't look beyond the vicinity of the house. And word of screams and unexpected visitors during that night spread fast.
Looking at the baby and his tuft of red hair, she wonders briefly if this boy would grow up to be like her former friend and teammate. With his bright hair and bleary eyes, Moriko belatedly realizes that Gaara of the Sand needn't unleash the monster in his blood to kill her. Just the memories he reminds her of is enough.
She steps away from him, pulling her finger from the baby's grasp. "No one would blame you if you decide to drop the mission," a voice speaks from behind her. Save for the occasional guard standing on the rooftop, no one else is inside the house aside from Gaara and her - or so had been her assumption.
Moriko turns around and finds gentle, violet eyes smiling pitifully at her. Never in her whole life had she witnessed such emotions concerning a child. While she knows of the chaos and poor judgement made with Gaara's birth, she did not think him deserving of such hatred at such a young age.
"Yashamaru." she greets. They crossed paths every few occasions. Since his promotion to Sunagakure's elite shadows, he appeared more frequently in her life to receive her updates on their missing ninja, but otherwise - they kept separate lives from each other. Although, with the frequency of their meetings, she supposes he treads somewhere between the gray area of friend and acquaintance.
"I am to be his caretaker," Yashamaru walks past Moriko and resumes her previous position. Staring over the crib, he eyes the swaddle of clothes and fat cheeks with a disinterest that cooled the room. "I, his uncle, and to be quite honest, Moriko-chan, even I don't think I can stomach being in his presence for too long."
But he's just a baby, she thinks and says. Yet Yashamaru only shrugs at the fact as he clutches the front of his shirt. Long gone are his vest and mask, and in place, he becomes a comely young man with too much weight on his shoulders. "She died for Rasa." Not for her son - not for a monster.
Moriko blinks blearily at the weight behind his words.
He turns towards her, his ever-placating smile tugging across his face. "You should drop the mission, Moriko-chan. I know he looks like him, and he most likely won't live long anyway."
Moriko frowns. "He's a baby - he looks like every other baby with red hair out there, Yashamaru," she says, choosing to ignore the bit about his lifespan. Aside from those big eyes and red hair, she thought Gaara too young to be assumed of who he could remind people to be. There are echoes of her friend in him, but she would withhold further judgement - and emotions - until he grows up and decides on what kind of man he wants to be. "I would try, Yashamaru, if not for Gaara, then for your sister," she tries to reason with him. "He hasn't done anything but come into this earth. Give him a chance."
Yashamaru, who has been stoically looking past her, returns to their conversation with those last four words. There are words he wants to say in reply, she can feel them in the heaviness of the air, but he only shies away and looks back over at his nephew. A long moment of silence passes, and Moriko wonders if he has truly heard her plea. She had been removed from her mission to watch over a child that no one wants to see alive. She had already failed in more than ways on capturing his look-a-like in the eyes of many, she would not fail this too.
"So you will stay." There is no question in Yashamaru's diction. "For him." Moriko reads in between the lines and bequeaths her assent.
"For you both."
And so commences their mission in trying to preserve the child, Gaara's life. She had been forewarned about assassinations, but she had never thought to assume the worst of the village. Multiple times throughout the week, she would feel the inquisitor visit from a foreign shinobi prodding at the defenses of the house, and multiple times she would flare her chakra in response to ward them off. Although, such action only deterred the hesitant. Others persisted despite her warnings, and some nights she finds herself thankful for Yashamaru's assignment and prevailing adherence to routine. While practiced in medical ninjutsu himself, she finds most nights spent basking in the green glow of her own palms to care for his acquired wounds.
However, she would be a fool to fall for his false guiles. Having taken tenancy in the house, she is awarded more time to observe him; the dark bags under his eyes, the quivering in his words - all signs she wanted to ignore and would. For now.
"I have a mission?" Moriko finds herself saying. Nonplussed, Gaara waves a large colored spoon trapped in his pudgy hand. Yashamaru, tending to the day's lunch, hums as he stirs the boiling pot in front of him.
"Are you asking me?" Moriko rolls her eyes at his mirth as she further unrolls the scroll. Written in the fashion of Rasa's secretary, are the orders for her undoubtedly, newest assignment. She quickly rolls it up just as Gaara lodges a decent amount of his porridge into his spoon to launch at her.
Yashamaru's laughter is unhindered as he offers a napkin to wipe her face. Frowning at both of them, Moriko wipes the food off of her cheek as she leans over to remove the bowl from Gaara's reach; he hiccups at the disrupted fun. "I'll be gone for a week at most," she surmises at Yashamaru's fading smile.
He shrugs. "At least you're finally leaving this house, Moriko-chan," he says, turning back to his cooking. "A few more days here and I wouldn't be surprised to find you've swapped faces with Gaara-kun."
"Ha ha," Moriko replies sardonically, but just as she is about to stand up, a plate is placed in front of her. She looks up. "Eat first and I'll help you pack later." In reaction to the simplicity of his actions and words, a warmth blossoms from somewhere within her - and this too, she chooses to ignore for now.
Waiting for Yashamaru to join them at the table, she spends her time feeding Gaara and dodging his food. And if her eyes burn with something akin to feeling at peace, she does not acknowledge that as well. Better for her to pretend versus become complacent. Yes, she smiles and bows her head in unison with Yashamaru's.
"Itadakimasu."
Time away would do her good.
Although, upon her return - exactly a week later, she finds her actions harried. Quietly stepping into the house, she smothers her chakra into a ball to avoid awakening Yashamaru's slumber, and slithers into the bathroom. Once in, she quickly trades off her soiled uniform for a yukata sealed within one of her scrolls as she turns on the bath. Wrapped in a towel, she facilitates the heating of the water with a small jutsu before submerging herself into its warmth. An unabashed sigh escapes her lips as she tilts her head back against the tub. She could sleep here, she thinks, and she almost does if not for someone clearing their throat.
Having the mind to remember that nothing but bathtub suds and steam cover her, she manages to buy a pretense of calm as she cracks her eyes open. Yashamaru.
"Tired?" by the deep lines under his eyes, Moriko can only assume that he feels the same. "Lean forward." he instructs, settling down on the edge of the tub. Too fatigued to protest, Moriko does as ordered and sighs again as she feels Yashamaru's hands undo the tight knot on her head. Her hair falls like a contained waterfall, and soon, Yashamaru's lithe fingers tangle themselves within her braid-induced waves as he helps her wash off the mission's sweat and grime. "Close your eyes," his voice is soft, and again she does as told. Warm water quickly washes over her head and as soon as the rinsing is over, Moriko reaches up and traps one of her companion's wrist in a hold.
"Thank you," she meets his drowsy dark gaze. Yashamaru smiles back in response.
With his hand freed, he turns his palm and holds her hand. Giving it a quick squeeze, he lets go and stands up. "He was searching for you," he softly says as he makes his way to the door.
With a hand on the frame, he adds, "He'll be happy to hear you're back home."
She should have walked out then at the mention of those words, but having pretended for so long - one tends to replace pretenses for reality.
She thought that very same sentiment the following morning, when her aching feet follow the trail of incoherent babble and soft laughter. Leaning against the entrance of the room, she stood sentient over the scene: Gaara sans clothes tangled in bundles of bandages.
"He found my first-aid kit," Yashamaru lamely greets, his own hands tangled in the mess. For having been a premature baby, the redhead took to growing up quite well. At only ten months old, he is already leaps and bounds ahead when compared to the normal babe. For a while, Moriko wonders if this could be attributed to either the intelligence that seemed inherent in Rasa's lineage, or if it is the Ichibi's influence supporting his premature accomplishments.
Moriko kneels beside the two, taking care to untangle Yashamaru first before unraveling the gauze around Gaara. If she lets herself dwell on it, she would be able to feel her heart break at the unbridled joy in the child's eyes.
"Gotcha," as soon as Moriko frees Gaara, Yashamaru's hands replace her own and quickly wrap the toddler in his own dark poncho and robes. And just as easily as the garment slips on him, Gaara is back on his hands and feet, crawling towards some new, unfortunate target. The two of them share a laugh that is both half-amused and wary of Gaara's next conquest. "I was wrong, Moriko-chan…" she hears Yashamaru quietly admit.
The playroom is one of the few rooms within the house that is most vulnerable to leering eyes. But with the morning warmth just rising everyone from their bed, Moriko allows her guard to drop as the two of them observe Gaara. "I don't think I could ever hate him," the admission isn't spoken with regret. She smiles and reaches down to hold one of Yashamaru's hands. And like the night before, she gives it a tight squeeze.
"And…" Yashamaru adds, turning towards her.
Gentle. Moriko always attributes that word to Yashamaru. Having only heard stories of his efficiency in the field, Moriko had never been exposed to the shinobi that lay behind Yashamaru's violet eyes. So meeting his gaze, she wonders what could possibly force the young man to look so haunted. With his hand in hers, she gives it another squeeze, silently asking him what is wrong. At this, Yashamaru gives her a broken smile.
"No - nothing," he replies quickly. "Nothing to worry about," he pulls his hand out of hers. "Keep watching Gaara for me, Moriko?" He leans towards her and presses a fleeting kiss on her forehead. "I'll go make us some breakfast."
Moriko realizes she should have recognized the underlying admission for what it truly was, but how could she have?
No, instead, Moriko compartmentalizes the tender moment into the far recesses of her brain; protected and forgotten. She sequesters Gaara into her arms just as he comes close to tugging down the medical books from the table. He lets out a startled shout, and Moriko replaces it with his laughter as she peppers his face with multiple kisses.
Rather than invest her time pondering on the levity behind Yashamaru's words and actions, she would focus on this moment and on how, for once in her life, she realizes how much wants to protect it.
