big thank you to carol and em. i owe you guys!

Chapter Ten

When school starts up again, Shikamaru isn't prepared for the amount of work he's given. Neither of them, and apparently no one in his program, are expecting an onslaught of assignments so early in the semester. So during the first few weeks, she goes on every job Hinoto assigns by herself because he is so busy.

The beginning of the school semester is easier for Temari. She goes to work, finishes at five, and then is completely done until the next morning. Shikamaru is rarely home — he seems to spend most of his time in the library with some classmates, though she isn't sure about that — and when he is at the house, he's usually either sleeping or locked in the office. So Temari spends many of those early weeks on her own.

She finally starts to clean out the second office on the second floor, which they otherwise never go into because it's mostly just filled with empty boxes and little things she doesn't know what to do with, and that's her only project. She cuts her hair (it's gotten much too long). She watches tv. She plays shogi on her own.

Usually, she prefers to be busier. It's best when she is a little stressed, best when she has something to worry about and something, other than her home life, to occupy her thoughts. She'd prefer more work now, but it definitely hasn't been as bad as it could be — with the office and the labs, there are still some things to keep her busy. It's always much, much worse when she has nothing to do and then she begins to think. So she occupies herself now; finds projects and completes them on her own.

Eventually, Shikamaru's back heals (though the scab comes off a few times prematurely — enough that the scar will be worse than it would have been). She drinks too much hot chocolate. He still doesn't sleep enough.

They do spend more time together though, in a way. Maybe less temporally, but more substantively. He's in the house much, much less, sure, but when he is there, and he doesn't have other pressing obligations, instead of staying in separate rooms, often even separate floors, they'll spend time in each other's company. It didn't used to be that way. Now, if she is watching tv, he will come sit with her on the couch or on the floor beside it. She likes to stay in the kitchen if he is cooking, and sometimes, even when she is downstairs doing something, he'll purposefully come and do his work on the dining table instead of in the office.

He's mostly gone though. Work, for her, is perfunctory right now, so there isn't anything particularly interesting going on in her life. All in all, it isn't good, but it definitely isn't bad either.

She can hear his knees knocking against the center console as he slides forward, the sound of fabric shifting with the press of his elbow into the top of the passenger seat, right above her shoulder.

"That's not going to work," he argues, sharply. He speaks to Hinoto sharper than he talks to anyone else, even to her. "It's much too close to Temari."

Temari bites the leather around her hand, elbow against the window and gaze out at the edge of the water. It's not snowing and it's not going to, but the wind is harsh. She can hear the ocean, even over the hum of the car's radiator, as the waves beat against the docks they're parked near. It's so cold out that, at this point, she wishes it would snow. Then at least there would be something to show for the temperature. Instead it's been mostly sunny during the days, like it is only in the peaks of summer, but at the same time, it has been horrifically, almost violently, cold. Going outside, even in the simple walk from the car to the front door, is exhausting.

She's thinking about this, tuning into the sound of the water, instead of concentrating on the conversation. She knows everything Shikamaru is going to say. She knows what Hinoto will say. She knows the conclusion of this, and knows that if she is aware of it, then Shikamaru, who is always steps ahead, is as well. She isn't sure why he is even rallying to argue in the first place. He so rarely rallies for anything.

She hears the noise of the engine turning off and Hinoto shifting, probably to ease her foot off the break, as though she is settling in to discuss further.

It's not as though Temari is content in not arguing it further. She is furious. So furious, she has to choke down on the words lest she say something she doesn't mean. And that's right now, after she'd already yelled about it for ten minutes.

This is stupid. Stupid.

She is biting hard enough at her glove that she is bruising the knuckle beneath.

"You're in the perfect position for it," Hinoto says, faux-patiently, knowing it's unsatisfactory. "Her coworkers know who you are and they trust Temari's work and intentions as a legitimate employee. They trust her. We don't want to arouse her suspicions or draw attention to you in any way."

"That will arouse suspicion. Send someone else. Someone who fits the category and whose cover will not be broken."

Hinoto sighs, long, exasperated. "Shikamaru," she tries, as if hoping he'll let it go.

In such close quarters, especially now that the engine is turned off and there is no air coming in or out, she can smell Shikamaru's soap and the scent of what she assumes is detergent from Hinoto.

"It's too close," Temari says, turning, repeating what she has already been saying. "My team is small. We don't talk, but she knows who I am. She sees me every day. How can I be respected, or move up, if she is carrying on with my husband? We've hardly been married. And by the end, they'll probably all know. My colleagues, my bosses. And when will it end? She's too valuable."

It will be years. Absolute years. Even if her boss takes other young men, even if she has many lovers, which she surely will, she surely does, it will still last as long as possible. She won't lose her status easily and Shikamaru will have to milk his proximity for as long as feasible.

"It'll break cover." He continues as soon as she stops talking. "Our cover is to have a happy relationship — to be boring, regular, middle-class civilians. We've created, cultivated, this appearance of a normal marriage. Hinoto," he presses his elbows deeper into the headrests of either front seat, leaning in. "Using that imagine to initiate this assignment will only hurt us in the long run."

Hinoto sighs like she wants to roll her eyes. Her hair is pulled back, her earrings match her lipstick. She keeps her face neutral though. "This is why Temari is there."

"If you put us here for this, you should have just sent him." Temari stops short. She's been thinking this since Hinoto broached the subject. She's always figured she was there for Kazue Wagarashi. She's known it since her first day of work. She's also been told — only once and in passing — that Wagarashi (now Kazue Haishi) was widowed, but liked to keep company with younger men. So, she's wondered, before this, why not place a young man here? If they want eyes on Haishi and she is partial to casual bed partners, why not assign one?

If they want someone like this — a subordinate colleague — then why not send an individual? A shorter-term assignment. Someone not married.

"She has a history of specifically going for married partners." Hinoto says, understanding Temari's suggestion. "It's been determined, over time, that the most favorable solution is to have an employee's spouse. At a distance, but present for long enough to not be a one-time thing."

"So Temari is meant to continue on for the next decade as a happy wife while I, as her husband, continue an affair with one woman who only knows me as a husband? Does Suna not see the flaws here?"

Temari's throat hurts, her head is spinning. This sort of job seems to defeat the purpose in maintaining a cover. There is a reason they wear disguises when they work, even when their entire lives in Kiri are fabricated.

"She won't fall in love with you." Hinoto replies. "It's not your job to make her."

There is a pause. No one speaks. Maybe there is nothing more to say. Hinoto has made it clear that this assignment hasn't been casually generated. It was in the making likely before Temari was ever chosen for the role of cuckqueaned wife.

Though the dossier had never explained this.

It's getting cooler in the car without the heat running. Her coat, and the layers beneath it, are enough, but she is bulky and uncomfortable and not at all warm against the February winds.

"It's too close to home." Shikamaru repeats, after a while, as though he simply wants to create a record of his objection. "We've been set up only to blow through the cover." He leans back then, sliding further into the back seat, knees no longer against the console. "It's the same thing as before — they can't keep their message consistent with what they're asking."

"You'll do well." Hinoto says. "It'll be long, but you can run her in your sleep."

As though that's it and the conversation has come to a natural end — perhaps it has — Shikamaru moves to one side and opens the door, closing it hard behind him.

Temari follows, not stopping to say anything in parting to Hinoto.

Shikamaru is walking away from Hinoto's car and across the street over to theirs by the time she even makes it out.

It's too cold to stay outside. Too cold to do much of anything, if there were anything she wanted to do. She wants to be home. Back at her house, where she can forget things. Back in Suna, where she can be happy. Back in Suna, where he isn't around.

"It's not our job to question them," he says, as she slips into the passenger seat of their car. "I know."

He says it as though he is imitating her, as though this is what he expects her to say.

"But this— there are so many ways it can go wrong. Come on, Temari, won't you agree with me for once?"

He doesn't look at her as he says it. He doesn't even start the car, even though she can see her breath in the dark, even though her cheeks are numb from the walk outside, even though Hinoto has driven away.

"I'm not going to disagree with you." She says, slowly. Does she really disagree with him that often? Sure, they don't see eye-to-eye on many minor things, but is it really frequent enough that her expressing a contrary opinion is his first instinct? She turns to look at him, though it's dark and his features are fuzzy. "This is minor in comparison to the dozens of jobs we won't be able to complete now while you're seeing her. I don't think we even know what she is doing, if anything. I know this is our purpose, but it makes it feels like the rest, like everything else we've done to get to this point, has been a waste."

She means it. She feels it in her gut, like she has been waiting to articulate it, but couldn't quite figure out what she was meaning to say.

Shikamaru doesn't respond, but she doesn't suppose she was looking for him to anyway.

"Mrs. Nara," the man says as soon as she steps off the elevator. "I was just about to call up. Your husband is waiting for you in the lobby."

"Oh." Temari blinks, frowns. "Huh."

"We'll be a few minutes," one her coworkers tells her, "if you need to talk to him."

There's no offer of inviting Shikamaru, no consideration of letting her go off with him. This is a work lunch, one that had been scheduled after talk about how the pressures of confidentiality can affect people. It can be hard to keep the details of your work to yourself, to keep it quiet from your spouse and your children and your friends, but usually, there is some camaraderie in the workplace to fill the void of meaningful connection. There isn't much of that here. Temari has had one office-wide holiday party, but other than that, there has never been any real relationships formed within her team, much less on her floor or within her department.

Or so they say — she personally has grown close to Haku and Ruka, but she doesn't argue with the general sentiment. And the theory worked in her favor, as she needed to set up a meet.

It's been difficult to find a time for them to see each other when there is such a discrepancy between schedules and obligations and in hierarchies. But organizing this only took her a casual comment or two to the right people, and within three days, a team-wide memo was issued scheduling a group lunch. She was even surprised to see at least half a dozen names from people she hadn't even realized she was meant to be working with — that is the extent of the separation of parties before this.

Temari walks ahead of the group, turning the corner to find Shikamaru in the front entrance. He has no security clearance (even hers is only minor) to venture to the higher floors of the building.

He's idling by one of the windows, looking out on the late February day, hands shoved into his coat pockets and hair pulled back. He looks handsome, but younger than usual, with his hair up higher, his face freshly shaven, and in the way he holds his shoulders.

"You didn't tell me you were coming," she says, as soon as she approaches. "Is anything wrong?"

He turns, shifting his weight. "No," he says, smiling, like he is happy to see her, like he is happy to have surprised her. "Not at all." His gaze, for only a moment, moves past her.

"I'm so sorry. We have a work thing."

Kazue Haishi should be in the lobby. She and two others had gone down a few minutes before. They were all still waiting on the head of the labs to make his appearance so they could leave.

"Is she looking?" Temari whispers for only Shikamaru to hear.

He looks down and rubs a hand on the back of his neck, as though disappointed. "Most are."

"Interloper." Temari leans closer. "I'm sorry you came all this way," she says at a more normal volume. "Can we raincheck for later this week?"

Shikamaru steps in. "I'm free every day," he says, genuinely and with only a hint of flirtation. He looks past her, over her head again, but this is less than a glance. His dark eyes focus on something. He has found her. He smiles then, differently, like he is a little caught off-guard. Like he has caught someone staring at him. Like he knows he is being evaluated. "Um, I—" he shoves his hands back into his pockets and looks down at Temari sheepishly. "Sorry to miss you now though."

She raises her hands to his chest lightly as he, unsure, looks back up past Temari to meet, she guesses, Kazue Haishi's gaze. He's doing well. He always does well.

"Good," she says, but it's low, and said close to him, said to him only, her hands flat near his shoulders, almost leaning fully onto her toes, weight tipped to him. "Keep looking at her just like that."

Her words come as a surprise, though she has no clue why. She means them. She has often told him what to do (or told him what she thinks he should do… he rarely actually does it), but it's not usually like this. She knows she's said it incorrectly. Said it too intimately, too closely, too deeply. Her voice sounded like it should have been saying something else, something very different. It sounded like… like —

He's taken aback too, eyes shooting back to Temari, confusion stitching his brow.

She can feel the urge to push in, to push her hands harder against him until she can feel his heartbeat through the thick wool of his coat, but she pulls back, steps away.

Shikamaru swallows, eyes dark on hers, and she feels it in a dull ache at the base of her skull. And then he glances at Haishi again, as if just catching her eye. As if he can't stop.

"You're good," she says, hands down by her sides now.

"I know," he leans in, kisses her on the cheek in casual parting, and then straightens. "Hard to believe, isn't it?" He's smirking at her. And then, with a quick hello to Ruka and Haku — the only two coworkers of hers that he knows — Shikamaru steps away, through the dozen or so people waiting around the lobby to go to lunch, and leaves out the front doors.

Temari doesn't have to glance back to know Kazue Haishi is watching him.

She is staring out the window, standing against the wall, not quite fully hidden from view, but she won't be seen unless someone knows to look for her.

She's looking down at the pavement, watching for movement. It's grown more sporadic as time goes on, but the parking lot is never empty of exiting employees for more than five minutes. After all, it's only seven pm on a Thursday — plenty of cars remain parked in the cold, dark night as people continue whatever work they're doing inside the building.

Temari is keeping her eye out for no reason. Seeing this is meaningless. She knows what will happen, what it will be like, what she will see.

Still, she watches, until, eventually, a familiar car pulls up to the curb, and she can spot, from ten stories above the ground, Shikamaru get out and start heading to her office. He must have seen Haishi through the lobby window, getting ready to leave for the day.

He is holding a small bag as he exits the car and, after a few seconds, she sees the top of Haishi's head as the woman leaves for the night. It's dark out, but the pavement is bathed in lamplight, well-lit for employees to walk in and out.

There is a pause as they come closer. It's a coincidence, a regular situation in which one person brings dinner to his spouse at her office and, during such an exchange, sees another employee of the office.

He won't stop. It's too soon for that. Instead, she sees them slow, and then, seemingly without a word, pass each other as one leaves and the other enters. They may have spoken, she can't tell. They may have looked at each other more than she assumes, or perhaps less, but she doesn't know from here.

Temari can't see much. It's too late. She wants to go home. Work has been slow enough recently that now, having stayed just the extra two hours, she has done enough that tomorrow she will have free time and an inability to fill her hours with substantive assignments.

It's only another ten seconds before a phone starts to ring. It's security calling up to let her know of Shikamaru's arrival. She waits a few rings before moving away from the window, eyes on the now still lot, to answer it.

Temari isn't sure exactly what the impetus is. It's not as though she is watching something in this vein or even thinking about anything related. There is no catalyst — specific or general — that she can pinpoint. But she tries. After the first moment (the realization, slow, deep inside her, that she wants something right now), she stops and tries to figure out why she wants this. What exactly is the harbinger of this arousal?

She is watching some old cop show on tv. It's one of those ones she hears mentioned a lot. A pop-culture darling that is popular enough to be universally accepted as an understood reference around Kiri, even though the show has long since ended. She's interested in the stories, partially, and also doing her due diligence in understanding the locals. She knows enough of the show (the lead characters, the general plot) to carry her through references made, but she thinks it best to watch it herself.

During the worst months of winter, she did a lot of this. She's been catching up (if that's the correct word) on beloved Kirigakure-media for the past few weeks and, if she is honest, she does feel like she understands some mentalities in a way she hadn't before.

It's during this time, while one corrupt police officer is bullying a rookie into keeping quiet about planted evidence, that Temari recognizes the heat between her legs for what it is: desire. Not for the cops (she's never been into handsome movie stars), but for something else.

Shikamaru is gone. He's out doing his second accidental-run-in with Kazue Haishi. She thinks it is at a coffee shop, but she isn't too sure. They hadn't spoken about it before he left.

Temari sits up on the couch. It's only mid-morning on a Saturday — not a traditionally arousing hour by any means.

Yet here she is, feeling like all she has to do is move one hand down and it'd be only seconds before she comes.

Temari swallows. Her mouth is dry. Her heart is pounding. Her breath is coming in quick.

She swings her legs over the couch, planting her socked feet flat onto the hardwood floor, back rigid. She isn't sure what she's doing. She isn't sure what she is really wanting to do, except that this, well, she kind of wants… this.

She swallows again, breathing hard enough that her entire body is starting to warm up. She can feel it in the tips of her fingers, itchy to move, and in the squeeze of her gut and the flush at her neck. She imagines Shikamaru, though she doesn't think it means much — after all, he's the most present person in her life, and he's attractive, and he's, well, he's… she bites her lips; takes a deep breath.

She doesn't mean this.

He sits on the couch like this, sits on the end, legs long and bent at the knee. She can practically feel the skin of his stomach beneath her fingers, the angle of his hip and the feeling of tugging up his shirt.

She can imagine it well enough, she pictures him, kneeling before her on the floor, using his hands, the strength in his wrists, at her hips to pull them forward, closer to his mouth. She slides forward now, to the edge of the couch, and then leans back, shoulder blades hitting the back rest, bent, so she can see. She would watch, after all. And she can picture it, she can imagine him: the way he'd look, the intensity that would be behind his eyes, the heaviness of his lashes casting shadow on his cheeks as he focuses in on his task.

Temari lifts her legs to bring her feet to the lip of the coffee table. She breathes through her mouth, pants, like she has been running. She imagines his hands on her knees. They're always so warm. They'd cover her knees, they'd burn right through her pants; he'd look at her, look down at her body, as he pushed her knees apart, opening her up, pressing her knees back until she is just pressing her toes to the coffee table, the lines sharp from her hip to her knee to the forced arch of her foot.

She exhales, closes her eyes. He so rarely dedicates time to his work, but when he does, he knows how to focus with intention. He puts in his attention. And can see that now, can see the sweep of his fingers cradling her knees, the rise and fall of his chest as he leans down, leans in. He'd breathe, hot, right there. And she knows what she looks like, what she'd look like naked with her legs spread and her vagina wet. She knows what it feels like, what it would feel like, to feel his breath against her.

Temari isn't actually touching herself. She is still fully clothed.

Carefully, she brings one hand to her hip and the other to the middle of her stomach. She blinks, looks down, and still finds herself picturing him on his knees before her.

She wants to know how Shikamaru would feel, wants to know how he'd taste her, how he'd approach her, and how quickly, it feels like, with simply with a press of his lips, it would take her to finish. She wants to watch him, wants to feel his fingers on her bare thigh, on her hips, on her pelvis, spreading her open, feeling nimbly inside her.

Temari arches back, makes a noise deep in the back of her throat, and squeezes her eyes closed. She is so wet and warm, and absently she realizes she isn't wearing underwear and can actually easily slip off her pants right here on the living room couch. Her mind flits, picturing him eating her out to him touching himself down here on this very couch — she doesn't know if he does (he must, right?) or when he does, considering they live and sleep together every night — but she imagines it now. What is he thinking of? Does he like doing this? Does he like the feeling of people quivering beneath him?

She keeps one hand on her hip and moves the other over her breast to her neck. She is sweating and she hasn't even touched anywhere meaningful. She pushes her hips closer to the edge of the couch. If he were here, if he were kneeling before her, she'd press her heel into the muscle of his back, she'd touch his hair, his neck, the rim of his ears. She'd say his name.

She's never really wanted anything like this. She's pictured men before, she's masturbated before, but she's never had such an easily visceral image. She's never gotten wet just from a momentary imagination in the middle of the day.

Temari groans again, touches her jaw, nudging her head back like she imagines he might, pushes down into her hip just to bruise. She knows what it is like, vaguely, to kiss him. She's done it once or twice. She imagines his lips, his tongue, his teeth, his exhale on her.

The door closes.

Temari snaps her whole body up, slamming her feet onto the ground and turning her head wildly to the entryway. She hadn't heard the car drive up, hadn't heard the latch on the door.

Shikamaru is standing there, in the flesh, his height and hair and the shape of his brow all exactly like she'd imagined, exactly like she knows.

He is frowning at her as he takes off his scarf with one hand and hangs it on the hook by the door.

She knows she is sweating, knows her face must be flushed, knows her shoulders are heaving and she is sitting there looking like she just got caught doing something she shouldn't have been doing. She was.

"You good?" He asks. It's absent though, his concentration focused on taking off his coat, and in one hand he has a bag that advertises pastries.

Temari swallows, throat tight, and straightens even more, crossing her legs. Her cop show is still on.

"Fine," she says, and so Shikamaru turns, not paying much attention, and goes to the kitchen.

She lets out her breath as soon as he is out of the entryway. She hadn't even been aware she was holding it to begin with.

What was that?

She turns back to the tv, keeping her body tight, her spine rigid, every molecule at attention.

What was that? What was she thinking? She feels stupid, she feels wrong. She feels dirty. She feels unfair. She is unfair. He's not hers to want. She has to remember that. If she needs someone to satisfy this facet of life, she can find them. She doesn't need to do this. She needs to stop it before she takes it too far.

"I was surprised actually," Kahyo says one evening while they're at her house. "That you were advocating for no moves toward intervention."

"Why?" It seems a popular view, especially among many of Shikamaru's classmates, allegedly.

"I thought the youth were always the most progressive."

Shikamaru does his best to look interested. Beside him, Temari holds her breath. She's known, surely, that Shikamaru has these conversations all the time (he must, at school and at work, right?) and is quite used to lying (they both are), but she also knows that he doesn't want to push this with Kahyo, whom he quite likes.

"I don't think it's unprogressive." He twists the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. "I don't like war. I don't agree with it at all."

"So you're a pacifist?"

"Wanting peace isn't necessarily pacifism," he clarifies. "But, yes. I don't think war is the answer. I dislike conflict."

Kahyo doesn't relent. It's not cruel or rising in debate. She asks each question calmly, as though they're just discussing inconsequential theories and not decisions that directly impact others.

"There are people who need our help and we have the ability to help them. Why should we not?"

Shikamaru straightens in his chair as he thinks it over. "There are a few reasons," he acknowledges. "For one, shouldn't countries determine their own courses? It is not up to the Water to intervene in the conflicts of other nations."

Kahyo glances over to Temari. "What do you think?"

"That we should protect our own country," she says easily, as though she believes it. "Kiri should be concerned with Kiri. It's imperialistic to think we should impart our views to the world."

"That doesn't mean we shouldn't offer aid," Shikamaru adds. He takes a sip of his glass.

Kahyo leans back in her chair, looking at them fondly. "You two weren't born yet when the wars in the west broke out." The wind howls outside, but it's warm inside the house. "We were all allies before that. We had these partnerships, these agreements with the Wind and the Earth, and so when the fighting broke out, we kept out of it. But we agreed with the Wind. The Fire and the rest. Their cause. We wanted them to win, but we did nothing about it. And places like Suna were decimated."

Temari frowns. She knows the narrative. She knows the argument. She knows her role.

"I know. But it's complicated. I don't know if staying neutral was the right idea. I'm not saying that. But now the war is over. These are civil disputes in other countries. It's horrible what is happening, but maybe we should let them be? After all, our citizens, our country, our economy — they're all strong, and safe, because we didn't intervene in the first place."

"Maybe," Kahyo muses, "it is arrogant to think we should have a say?" She sighs, looking introspective. "I really don't know the answer. But I think that, having the privilege we do, to prioritize our nationalism at the cost of humanitarian issues isn't right."

"I do think there needs to be more discussion about what aid we can send without sending Water citizens on the ground," Shikamaru repeats. "At the root of it all, we really want peace. That's why the Water Lands Alliance began: peace." That's the narrative here, she knows. That's what they say. It's how they justify their choices. "And if we can bring the power of that alliance to individuals in need, then we should."

Kahyo smiles. "You didn't put that in your article."

"I was asked to only put down 750 words."

Their host leans forward. "I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't mean to get into a discussion about politics." She runs her fingers along her table. "When I was your age, we were always marching. People were dying around the world. It was such a different time. I don't know what the youth are doing. I work for a community organization that doesn't operate outside of one neighborhood, so I'm not one to talk."

There is a pause. Then Shikamaru also leans forward, palms on the table. "We should talk about it more. We all have a voice. It's something that makes this city great." Beside him, Temari crosses her legs, making noise when the heel of her shoes hits the chair leg, and listens to him act. "Next time that I'm assigned an op-ed to fill space during a slow cycle, I'll discuss it with you before publishing. For your take."

Temari bites her tongue. She hates this the most.

Later that night, like she does sometimes before bed, or when she can't sleep, or when she wakes up too early and the sun isn't out yet, Temari sits on the kitchen counter near the sink where the window overlooks the front lawn.

She sits here and leans her head back, cheekbone rested against the cabinets as she looks out at the sky, looking for something that will never be there.

It's not too late right now. A little past ten, and there is shuffling above her as Shikamaru meanders around the second floor.

She squints, as though she might see a different sky before her.

Lying, always, is the hardest. Pretending to be someone you're not. Pretending to be funny or flirty or ditzy or whatever the situation calls for. It can be a thrill, but not for long, not when you're pretending for the rest of your life. This — Temari Nara… it's for so long. So long that she worries she may eventually, without even realizing it, become this person she is pretending to be.

Still, despite all this, it's not the lying about her name or her spouse or her career that is the hardest. It's not the work of manipulation, of finding people at their most vulnerable and hurting them even more for her own cause, the corruption of looking at each person she meets and determining how they may or may not help her — no, it's not that. It's speaking legitimately about deep beliefs that she does not hold.

It follows, of course: everything she does is for Suna, so to speak against her homeland in any way, even when it's for a job — to vehemently articulate negative opinions toward an institution she has given her life to… that — it's the worst. She hates it the most.

At least she's only a scientist. She isn't out there voicing hard opinions or advocating against Suna. She's meant to keep middle-ground thoughts, Shikamaru is meant to make arguments with feet on either side of the not-quite-definable line, in every sense and direction. They're not very steadfast opinions, just considerations, really, and are not particularly controversial in their nature. Shikamaru's op-eds, she thinks, are informative, but they're not interested in influencing people except in the realm of reinforcing already-held beliefs, taking people from multiple sides and propping up opinions that are persuasive but never really new. He is a nice writer with a smart background who works to bolster the opinions that people in power already hold.

But still. It's a struggle. It's worse than the rest. And it's harder with Kahyo too. She likes Kahyo. She can imagine Kahyo fifteen years ago as a student, protesting, fighting for the same causes Temari believes in. Except now, Temari is meant to say otherwise, to think differently, to not engage in politics and leave the intent political thinking to her husband.

She's lying back, eyes outside, when Shikamaru approaches. She hears him on the stairs, but is still surprised when he comes into the kitchen and waits for her attention.

He never really comes down when she is by herself at night. He rarely interrupts her in the house, and usually, when she is down here on the counter, eyes out the window, he leaves her be. But he waits now, and she can tell he has leaned against the opposite counter, settling in to say something.

"I'd never really seen the sky," he says, "until I came to Suna. The sunset, that first night… it was unlike anything I'd ever seen."

Temari turns her head. He is in his pajamas and has a toothbrush in one hand.

He's saying it, gaze soft, like he knows what she is looking at (what she is always looking for out this window and never seeing).

She exhales. She isn't sure why he is here. She never comes to the office when he is there.

But she is also picturing his first night in Suna, picturing that night, as she'd waited outside her ex-boyfriend's apartment, the air cool on her skin. She doesn't remember what it feels like, really, except to remember the words she'd memorized at the time. She'd known it'd be her last night. And when she was thinking about that, looking at her own sky, he was looking at it too.

"I read your column," she says as he goes back to brushing his teeth. She doesn't often read what he writes (what's the point, when she knows it will only infuriate her, and when she knows he doesn't care to write it either).

"You did?" He says, jumbled around his toothbrush.

"I do." Temari blinks and rolls her shoulders back against the cabinet. "Sometimes."

Shikamaru huffs and steps forward to the sink right beside her and spits out the toothpaste that has foamed in his mouth, then he steps back.

She watches. She's still wearing a dress, the buckle tight at her waist, but he looks comfortable and cool in his pajamas, and looking at him makes her feel overdressed.

Temari has never had to lie to someone like that before. It's a part of the job, she knows. But Kahyo is her friend. And this lie she finds more significant than others. It's fine to lie about a pretend relationship or a made-up background, about a job or an interest, but this is different. It's a deep thing. A personal thing. Something she cares about.

"You're more manipulative than assertive," Temari continues, watching him continue to brush his teeth. "You write so that people from multiple sides who don't have strong opinions can see your reason, support your foundation, and agree with you."

Shikamaru blinks, head tilting as he considers what she's said. After a moment, he steps forward again to spit. Then he turns on the tap to wash out his mouth and the toothpaste in the sink. His hair is down against his shoulders, and he pushes it behind his ears as he steps back, toothbrush between his fingers.

"Things can always be seen from different sides," he says, slowly, as though gauging her reaction in real time, even though he often seems to know what she is going to say before she does.

"You don't think one is wrong and one is right?"

He doesn't say this slowly. He obviously knows his answer.

"I think you make a choice," he says, eyes looking down at her feet, still in stockings, her heels knocking against the cabinets below the counter. Then he looks up to meet her gaze, eyes dark. "You choose a country, yours or another one… or you choose a person, someone you care for, or something else. You choose one thing and you decide to make that thing more important than yourself, and that's where your loyalty will lie. It's not about right or wrong."

Too soft, she thinks, even though the words he is saying are logical and sterile on the outset. A weak justification. She thinks of his hands and his shoulders and the way his eyes are piercing hers. She thinks of how strong he is, and yet, how weak he is when his logical explanations are underlaid by his emotion, his willingness to be sympathetic to those who don't deserve it.

"One hurts people."

Shikamaru exhales and turns his gaze away from her again. She wonders, when he looks at her here, what is he seeing — his partner? His friend? His comrade?

"Every decision hurts people," he says, and from the way he is looking past her, she can tell he is looking up at the sky and imagining Suna. Or maybe he isn't. "For one to win, another must lose."

"Being amoral is overly-philosophical and not realistic. There is a tangible right and wrong."

"Short-sighted," he says, and she bristles against the cabinet, eyeing him even as he looks away from her.

There is a pause when she doesn't respond — she won't rise up to it, even though it is clear he wants her to. It's unusual for him to bait her, but she won't give into it. She doesn't want to engage him.

"We can use Kahyo." She says instead when he doesn't make any move to go upstairs.

Shikamaru sighs and looks back to her. She remembers, once, when he held her in this position in anger, boxing her in one night against the cabinets until she pushed away. "You're just saying that because you want her to think you're a good person."

"You play it too safe. She is in a good position in the community."

"Too close."

"Is anything?" She means Kazue Haishi.

Shikamaru doesn't like her name being brought up. Temari has noticed this in the times she's asked on it. She isn't sure why — mostly, she guesses, because he hates the idea of working a mark so close to Temari's cover identity, but she isn't sure. She doesn't know what the two have discussed away from her. She doesn't know how Shikamaru feels about Haishi. The woman is accomplished and attractive, maybe he actually likes her. Temari wouldn't know.

He looks annoyed. Temari likes it.

"If you want to," he responds after a moment, short. "Talk to Hinoto."

Temari doesn't look out the window of her office this time. It's been three weeks to the day since Shikamaru brought her dinner under the guise of seeing Kazue Haishi and he is trying again tonight.

All she knows is that it's going well; that Shikamaru isn't worried about the job itself, only the associated risks and consequences.

She swivels around in the chair at her desk in her little cubicle in a long line of desks down the room. He will be waiting outside right now. Perhaps he has brought her food again, or he is just going to take her home. She doesn't want to see him though. She's not in the mood tonight. She would rather take the bus.

The overhead lights are off, but her desk light remains on, illuminating charts that she is too distracted to begin to make sense of.

Temari can imagine it. She knows what she would do, if she were him.

I actually was hoping to see you. I've been coming on Thursdays, at this time, he may say when he bumped into Haishi outside on the curb. He will be shy, uncomfortable, will be saying something he knows he shouldn't.

I was out of town for a few weeks, Haishi will say, didn't your wife tell you?

Well, he will rub his hand against his neck, I, um, he will stutter, his eyes downcast and cheeks flushed, I didn't ask her. She doesn't know I'm here.

Or maybe they won't say any of that. Maybe they won't speak. Maybe they have spoken and he has already made his intentions clear. Maybe she has made hers clear as well. Temari doesn't know. He hasn't told her.

It could be happening right now — he could be seducing another woman a few floors down while she waits patiently at work.

It's not seducing another woman — it's not as though he has ever seduced Temari. It's not as though either of them, her or Haishi, if they knew of the other, had anything to be jealous of. They're both part of the job, neither one is a choice Shikamaru has made.

Temari looks at the clock on the wall, squinting in the low light. It's been a while, hasn't it? They must be talking. They're probably saying what she expects them to say. People are always predictable.

The pages of his book are thin. It's older, she can tell, by the color of the pages and their vulnerability. They feel like they would easily tear under her fingers as she flips through them.

The tap shuts off and she can hear Shikamaru exhale as though exasperated. A moment later, she hears the shower curtain close over the tub.

"It'll get moldy," he says, but it's not sharp in a way that sounds like he is working hard not to be chastising.

Temari ignores him as he walks out of the bathroom, continuing to look through his book. It's on some old runes or something. It'd be ideal if he read something more interesting. Something they could both read and discuss at least.

"I'm almost done," he offers when he sees her, drying his face on a towel. "If you want to read it?"

Temari shifts, placing the book back down on his bedside table and going back to her side. "Absolutely not."

Shikamaru doesn't respond, replacing the towel in the bathroom and pulling the tie out of his hair.

"When we were in Jiro," she continues, leaning back against the headboard, blankets at her hips, "I thought that paying attention to what you were reading — trying to figure out what you cared about — would help me get to know you. Help me understand you. I went through your book once, trying to see what was important to you."

He keeps walking around the room, hanging up his clothes and putting away the towel she'd left on the foot of the bed after showering.

"Did you?" He says, so casually that, if she didn't know he paid attention to everything, she would think he was ignoring her.

He definitely did ignore her often, but that was more of him choosing not to acknowledge what she was saying, never him actually not hearing her. It was probably worse that way.

"What?"

"Get to know me?"

She thinks about this. She thinks about how, in the beginning, she never knew what was real and what wasn't, what he was choosing to show her and what he was contriving for her.

"Yes." Temari says, believing it, and he stops walking to look at her, eyes dark. She did get to know him. Eventually. She doesn't know much about him. She doesn't always know what he wants or what his looks mean. But she does know him. She could identify it — identify him, his voice, his smell, the feeling of his form beside her and the length of his step on the sidewalk, anywhere. "I do."

"Mm," Shikamaru considers, breaking eye contact to turn off the main light before getting into bed. "Still don't know how to close the shower curtain though, do you?" And he doesn't say anything else on the matter, but she knows enough not to expect him to.

a/n: thank you all so much for continuing to read and review! it means so much!