dedicated to the people who kept yelling at me on tumblr until i rallied and published. thank them.

and, as always, much appreciation to carol and emma for the slog.

Chapter Eleven

"Good timing."

Temari huffs. "Almost eight months before they wanted you to start moving in on her. And two months before being invited over. I wonder how they gauged that time frame?"

They must have known from the beginning that this party was happening. There are never company-wide events at her job. This one is to celebrate a retirement, the first big one since she began working there — one of the directors; which is why the event is so large and is being held at Kazue Haishi's home.

From the beginning, Temari has known there is someone else in her office working for Suna (or Konoha or another ally). There was always going to be someone: someone who gave enough information about the labs to incentivize the government putting her in. Kazue Haishi's name and position isn't readily public information. Somebody told them.

Temari's always wondered if this person knows about her. They might not. They may have provided information while having no knowledge that someone would ever be put in. Do they know she isn't really Temari Nara? Do they know she's an operative? It could be one of her friends. It could be someone on her team. It could be the man at the front desk who says hello to her every morning or the one who says goodnight when she leaves work late. Or they could have facilitated her entire hiring knowing exactly who she is…. It could go either way. She has no clue.

She does know that this person, whoever it is, provided the information on this director's retirement months in advance, so that, when Shikamaru was eventually told, the timeframe worked.

Shikamaru taps his fingers on the table as he studies the invitation, although there is nothing to see on it. They're in the dining room, sitting at the table, all set and ready to depart.

"Long game to keep you out of the loop on," Temari continues, leaning deeper into the chair, careful not to get the silk of her dress caught on the back of the chair (again), "when you're the one working it."

"It is our first one of real importance," he says, paying more attention to the card in his hands than to her musings. He says our even though it has very little to do with her.

Temari knows what will happen tonight. She knows how, if she were him, if the mark liked inexperienced and innocent girls, she would play it. She'd keep her hair down and her lipstick light and look uncomfortable in her low-cut dress, like she was beautiful but didn't quite know it, like her sexual appeal was an accident. She'd ask if the mark were married, ask like she was interested, but nervous, like she was trying to be subtle and failing.

She knows he will do the same thing, if he hasn't already.

They haven't slept together, but it will happen soon, it seems. Next week, perhaps, or the week after.

"Get her to come to you," Temari says after a moment.

She's seen him play things before. When he's working, he's always strong; he always understands what people want and how to give it to them to get what he needs. He's been well trained, well versed, well experienced in using sex to his advantage. And in the end, in some ways, he's better than her.

Women, generally, are desired faster, done with quicker. It's rarer for her to need to carry on relationships with marks. Men, just as generally, especially with heterosexual women, tend to have longer romances, longer seductions. Temari is sure she has slept with more people, but she is sure, without asking, that Shikamaru is much more versed in the art of the affair, in the romantic connotations of sex.

She knows how she would do it, but he's done it more. He probably knows better than her, as reluctant as she is to admit it.

Shikamaru glances up from the card. They've not discussed any part of this and he is surprised, or maybe offended, that she is giving him any advice at all. He's dressed except for his collar, which is unbuttoned and popped up, the shirt loose at his chest.

"I won't do anything in public, Temari," he says with a frown. "I won't embarrass you over this."

She doesn't want Haku or Ruka or anyone else to think differently of her. She wants them to think she is happily married. And she feels this in her gut, in the twinge in her spine. She wants them to believe it, not for the purposes of her cover, but because she likes them and she wants them to respect her.

It's stupid though. They're not her friends. They don't know her. They never will.

She doesn't say this to Shikamaru. She only shrugs. It's meaningless, in the end. It's likely (not impossible, but probable) that they'll find out her husband is having an affair with their boss, even if it's years later. Things like that, especially if they're so long-term, have a way of coming out.

It's going to be a long night. She doesn't like going to work events — organized things, like this one, or the ones Shikamaru's school has, are worse than going out to restaurants with friends. It's not simply because of the circumstances — she's always felt that way, even before Kiri. She'd never liked dressing up as much as others. She'd never liked smiling all night and sipping lightly on champagne. Though Shikamaru, she knows, hates it much more. He doesn't like wearing suits and hates the sort of charm required for these kinds of events.

"Okay," Shikamaru says, putting down the invitation. He exhales and closes his eyes, tipping his head back, sounding pained. "We should go." He makes no movement to get up though.

Temari sits up, balances her elbow on the table, chin in her hand, and waits.

He cracks an eye and looks at her watching him. Her wedding rings digs into her jaw.

He closes his eyes again, squeezing them shut, and sighs dramatically. "I could really go for a cigarette right now."

Then, as soon as he says it, he straightens and blinks, refocusing, and pushes away from the table to stand. He reaches for his tie, previously laid out on the table, and fits it around his neck, looking down to begin tying it.

"Maybe we can get out early," he says, fingers nimble on the black material. Temari watches. "If we play our cards right."

She's not paying attention to what he's saying though. She's watching. Just watching.

She's never seen anything like this. She's never seen him do something like put on a tie.

And there is no way to actually explain it, to articulate it with any logos or sensible coherency. She rarely sees him get dressed or change, but she has seen it happen before… and she has slept beside him for over half a year… she's seen him in his pajamas, emerging with wet hair from the shower; she's seen him wake up… but this, this is different. Somehow, watching him do his tie like this — it's the most intimate thing she has ever witnessed. You shouldn't be doing this, she wants to say, not in front of me! Don't you know you're not in private!?

Because it looks like it should be — looks like this should be an intimate act. Like he is doing something open and vulnerable before her. It's embarrassing. It's too much. Too immodest. Too arousing.

He must see it. He must, as he calls out her name. But she can't answer. She can't breathe. She's hungry. She's hungry for him. She wants to undo his tie and make him redo it. She wants to mess him up. She wants to watch him take off his clothes, she wants to see his fingers on his buttons as he pops them out and she wants to see his tie loosen around his neck. She wants to feel his hips on the backs of her fingers as she undoes the button of his pants, she wants to watch him pull down his socks, slip the fabric over his ankle, his arch, see the cracks in his heel and the hair on his leg.

Honestly, she is sure, even absently, in this moment, that she has seen him in a suit before. She recognizes it. She recognizes this tie. She's seen him wear it before! But he's never done it up before her.

It's too intimate. Too stimulating. Too exciting.

Her fingers are itching to touch him. Her mouth is dry.

"Are you okay?" He asks, and it's clearly not the first time he has asked it. "Temari?"

Temari has to bite her tongue to shake herself out of it. She has to take a deep breath and look away, pressing her palm flat against the table. She is heaving. She feels the desire to touch in her knees and throat.

It's all too much. It's just a tie. It's meaningless. It's all pointless.

"I'm fine," she says, too shortly, when his hand lifts to come to her shoulder. She stops him before he touches her. The strap of her dress is thin. The last thing she needs is for him to touch her skin. She never wants to touch him again.

He stops, pulls his hand, hovering in the air, back. In her periphery, he stands there, unmoving.

It's only a moment. Only a few seconds and then her breath is under control.

"We should go," he says again after another minute has passed. "If you're ready?"

Temari watches as he wanders near a room off the main parlor where most people are. He looks around, eyes not coming to Temari, and then he ducks into the room and disappears from view.

They spent the beginning of the night together, saying hello to some of her coworkers, before he went off to speak with one of the other spouses that also happens to work at the paper. She hasn't seen him since, except from afar.

It's only minutes before Temari turns her head again to look for Kazue Haishi, but the woman, tall and elegant and easily discoverable before, now is nowhere to be found. She's likely with Shikamaru, but Temari doesn't know for sure. The sooner the better. If she's followed him so quickly, things are on track. And the sooner it happens tonight, the sooner Temari can go home.

It's not champagne she's drinking, as expected, but a glass of red, and the heaviness of the grapes coats her tongue and the back of her throat. She is leaning against the mantle above a fireplace, careful not to press against it too strongly lest there be a red line on her back above the cut of her dress. She's keeping her eyes away from the room Shikamaru walked into, but she isn't listening too well to whatever Ruka and Zabuza, Haku's boyfriend, are discussing. It's mostly Ruka speaking about their work while the other two remain silent, but it's an easy cover from paying too much attention to Shikamaru.

It's nice, in a way, to see her coworkers out of the labs; to see them enjoy themselves and take pleasure in their environment. It's good to see her friends dress up like this. It's nice to be able to drink, and it eases her feelings about Haishi and the assignment.

She's not jealous. She has nothing to be jealous over. He doesn't want Haishi (though, even if they're closer, it's not like he wants Temari either).

But she is anxious. It's in her shoulders. In the tightness of her throat. And the alcohol, while certainly helpful, can only do so much. And she has to be more alert than usual. She can't drink nearly as much as she'd like to.

How long has it been? Ruka was saying something about the recent developments to the program and now she and Zabuza are talking about a controversial article in a scientific journal that has been making the rounds recently.

Deciding it's been long enough, Temari cranes her neck and looks around the room. She doesn't see either of the people she is looking for.

She settles back and takes another sip of her wine, holding it in the back of her throat for a moment before swallowing. She brings one hand to her lips, hoping they'd be numb, but knowing they aren't.

It's not long afterwards, five minutes or so, she thinks, before she catches Shikamaru in the corner of her sight coming toward her.

Good. She'll get them out of here quick.

She swallows, waits a moment until he is close enough, and then turns to see him, grinning and throwing herself forward so he'll catch her at the waist. Before he can say anything, she reaches up, hands on either side of his face and pushes her lips against his.

"Temari," he grunts as she pulls away, his hands hard on her torso.

She laughs, pointing at his mouth. "Sorry," she says, smiling as though thoroughly entertained. "You have lipstick now."

The imprint of her, slightly off his own lips, is clear with her bright red lipstick against him.

She covers her mouth, laughing, as Shikamaru lets her go to wipe at his face. He looks annoyed. He's annoyed at her for drinking so much, for kissing him so openly in a professional setting.

"Stop," he says under his breath, but clear enough for anyone paying attention to them to notice, clear enough in just his expression for Kazue Haishi to see from wherever she is (no doubt) watching. "How much have you had to drink?"

"I'm fine," she says, pouting, pushing at his chest lightly, playfully, "'missed you."

Shikamaru sighs and reaches for her shoulders. "Let's get you home." He holds his arm over her shoulders tightly, as though handling her as they turn back to Ruka and Zabuza. "We're going to head out."

Ruka smiles and Zabuza nods, looking the two of them over.

"You'll drive, right?" Ruka asks jokingly.

"Always do."

Temari smiles and tilts her head. "It was so good to see you, Zabuza," she says, reaching out a hand to touch his arm even though she knows he dislikes it. "Tell Haku I'll see him later."

"Have a good night," Ruka concludes, laughing, leaning forward to kiss Temari on the cheek in parting. "Drink some water."

"Believe me," Shikamaru adds, waving his free hand as he nudges Temari away, "she will." They don't speak to anyone else on their way out.

She is slow to get out of the car, surprised to actually find herself tipsier than she'd expected even after the single glass of wine she'd had at the party. Did she eat anything tonight?

Shikamaru is waiting outside, hands in his coat pockets until she closes the door behind her. He locks the doors with a turn of the key and then leads the way down the flagstone to their front door. Inside, without a word (they haven't spoken since they left Haishi's house), he heads to the kitchen.

Temari leans against the wall in the entryway to slip off her shoes. Her heels are high. Her feet hurt. And by the time she has unbuckled the straps around her ankles and slipped them off, Shikamaru is back with a glass of water. He doesn't offer it to her, taking sips himself.

She ignores him and begins making her way upstairs. She can feel him watching though, she can feel his eyes on her, on the line of her spine and on her neck.

When she glances back, more than halfway up the stairs, he is leaning on the bottom of the bannister, his tie undone and his collar open, chin resting on his forearms, as though he is settling in to watch her walk up.

Temari rolls her eyes. She's not wearing a tight skirt tonight (or anything like it), but he's only making fun of her, and, if anything, it does make her feel better.

She turns, smirking to herself, and continues up.

She wakes up slowly, feeling him roll over again and again, knowing there is no danger, simply his own inability to sleep, that is rousing her. It happens, on occasion, especially when they were first put together, but still now, even though she is used to his inconsistent sleeping hours.

It's slow enough that she finds herself imagining him long before she is sufficiently awake enough to realize she is dreaming. They almost never touch in bed, but in her dream, with her eyes closed and her body only barely aware, she imagines a conversation where he reaches out for her arm.

By the time she does fully wake up, her heart is pounding.

She knows he's awake, but she isn't sure if it's reciprocal. Either way, she doesn't roll over or make any indication that she is also up.

Instead, Temari lays there, blankets pulled up high to her chest, and opens her eyes in the darkness, blinking at the table and the wall a few feet from her. She can imagine Shikamaru is laying on his back, looking at the ceiling.

She thinks back to her dream, back to him speaking, back to his palm on her elbow.

A part of her, right now, wants to reach out, to roll back and extend her hand, and touch him again. Just to see what it is like. Just to see what he will do.

She won't though.

But — perhaps… if she did, she wonders what he would do, how he would react. She imagines it now, pictures it unfolding. She imagines asking, like she did their third day. Would he still rebuff her? Would she want him to?

Yes. And no.

She has never actually wanted anyone for any real time in any real way. She's been attracted to people of course. And when she is attracted to them, in ways that transcend general sexual interest, in the times when she ruminates for periods and yearns for their attention, then she usually has them. She hasn't been with many people of her own choosing, but there have been some. Relationships, the minor ones she has had, always began with a similar sort of desire, usually from afar, or from a brief and enjoyable meeting. And then a date. And then, not much later, sex.

The pieces have a way of falling into place consistently, of always coming to the same result. Soon, she and the object of her interest will be seeing each other. And it will be enjoyable. But eventually, inevitably, things will begin to get in the way. It's work, usually, but also other things — obligations, and futures, and annoyances as trivial as how many peas to fit on the tine of a fork. And then, as easily as it once began, it ends.

Picturing that with Shikamaru, when she does it, is also easy. It's so easy, too easy.

She does it now, lying in bed, only feet from him, her back to him and her lips closed.

If things were different, this is how it would probably happen (and, she believes, it would happen): they would meet, they would argue, they'd fall into bed together, and eventually they would separate. They would never last, of course. He annoys her all the time. He doesn't dedicate himself to his work in the serious way she desires. They have different dreams and hopes for their futures (or they would, if they weren't doing this here in Kiri). He will never represent her interests, and they fight much too frequently… she even hates the way he folds his napkin in his lap and the way he blinks when he is tired and his eyelids are heavy. She hates the way, right now, he is keeping her up with his own inability to sleep on a regular human schedule.

But they'd have a good run. They'd meet and flirt easily, like they sometimes do now. Like they sometimes did, though more rarely, when they first met. They'd do it more, probably, if there were no other pressure or pretense. He likes someone that is hard to get ahead of and she likes the way he challenges her. They'd flirt in that argumentative sort of way and then, early on, she would seduce him (he would never seduce her, he is too patient… even when he wants to fight with her, it is rare that he doesn't wait for her to start it).

She can picture it: picture his kiss and his hands on either side of her face, the opening of his jaw, of his lips, of his tongue. They'd fuck in her apartment in Suna on the kitchen floor and it would be short and good (not amazing, not mind-blowing, not at first, but still so good in a different way) and she imagines how he'd kiss her (even though they've never kissed like that) and what it would feel like to have his weight pushing her down and his sweat on her skin. And then, if he were stationed in Suna or just visiting or whatever scenario she can concoct, they'd have sex everywhere and frequently, long before they actually began dating. Except the sex would always be slow, and always be easy, as though fitting a key into a lock (or something less clichéd and ribald, but equally as conclusive). Making love, he would probably say, mostly because she can't picture him having sex with her in any other way.

Her heart is pounding now, differently, not simply by virtue of being awake, but because she is thinking about it. Thinking of it, even though she isn't actually thinking of having sex with him. She is thinking of her life, her opportunity, if things were different.

He must hear it. It is pounding in her ears. It's still early March, still cold, but she is sweating at the back of her neck and under her arms.

She imagines, eyes closed now, that he would smoke afterwards, which she both has never found attractive until him and also knows is not something he does anymore. But she pictures the photograph downstairs of the unlit cigarette in his mouth and his hand on her thigh. She wants to breathe in the smoke he exhales. She wants to lick the nicotine out of his mouth. She wants to clean the tar from his fingers.

And she knows they'd eat in bed and then have sex again and then separate and do their work and then, when time allowed it, fall back together once more.

But, as things are, as they would be, they'd argue. And they'd choose their countries over each other. And eventually they'd break up. And she would marry someone who, albeit maybe a little more boring, would be more complementary to her. She shouldn't marry someone who always keeps her on her toes, she should marry someone she will never leave, someone she wants to have children with.

Shikamaru sighs and it prompts her to turn around, rolling onto her side to face him. He's on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

She doesn't make any noise or give any other hint that she is awake, though he probably knows.

He isn't looking at her though and he doesn't turn to see her when she turns to see him.

She wonders what he is thinking about. Probably work. Maybe school. Maybe Kazue Haishi or Hinoto or Konoha or maybe even her.

Temari doesn't know what this is. She doesn't know what she wants to actually happen. Sex is one thing. And that's easy to desire. But desiring him is different. Especially when sex is inevitable. It will happen. In a few years it will be time to have children. And, even though she thinks they would be together under different circumstances, that isn't the life they live.

She feels like sex, even if she thinks, often, that he looks at her like he wants her, will only be a further confirmation of his lack of choice in the matter. She doesn't want him to feel like he has to do something when he doesn't want to or to make him feel like he was robbed of his choice in her.

Still. Still.

She wants. She desires. She craves. She thinks about him all the time. She wishes, for the first time with such gravitas and rectitude, that she weren't here in Kiri but back home, as herself, beside him. She is sweating. Her ears are red. The thought of him, so close, so possible, is deep in her gut, her groin, in the tenseness of her knees and the ache in her ribs…. She wonders what this is. When did this happen?

Is it reciprocated? Does he desire this? Desire her? What if he does? And what if he doesn't?

She keeps her eyes on him, left cheek against her pillow, until she drifts back off. By the time she is asleep, he still hasn't closed his eyes.

"There's a speech at the university," Hinoto says the next week. "You should go."

"Shikamaru told me."

Hinoto crosses her legs and tightens her coat. "Don't let anyone recognize you." They're on a park bench Tuesday morning before work.

Temari nods. "There will be people from his program who I've met," she says. But she knows she can do it. She's not refusing. "Anything specific?"

The older woman shakes her head. "Anything of interest, anyone."

"Hm."

Hinoto brought coffee and muffins for Temari, and some for Shikamaru as well, which was unusually kind of her. Temari stays on the bench, content to watch people walk past with their dogs or on their way to work as she sips her drink. She's just been running and her legs are cold, but the coffee is helping.

"How often do you go home?" Temari asks when she thinks of it.

Hinoto turns her head, her perfect brows arching. Temari wonders, not for the first time, if she had been a spy before she handled them. She did something, sometime, to work with Neji, but was she ever under deep cover like this, being handled by someone else? Being a handler is a better position, a higher rank, technically, and Temari has always supposed they were trained for their purposes solely, but there is something in the way Hinoto moves and looks that piques Temari's interest. She looks like she knows how to handle herself. Like she has had to handle herself before.

"Between assignments," Hinoto says. "Once in the last decade."

Hinoto can't be more than thirty-five, and even that is a stretch.

Perhaps that means Hinoto would be with her for another ten years. Maybe not. Maybe Hinoto has it better. Maybe worse.

Temari wouldn't know.

"You should get going."

She takes the cups and muffins and walks away, leaving Hinoto sitting there looking tart.

It's windy out when Temari gets back. It's snowing, but nothing is sticking, it's just flying around in the air, hitting her face, and is gone before it hits the ground. Even if it were sticking, it's late enough in the season that everything would disappear within a few hours.

"How was it?" He asks as she walks in after hanging her coat and scarf.

Shikamaru is at the table, a school book open before him, but he seems to be paying little attention to it, writing things down as he eats what she assumes is his lunch even though it's well past two o'clock.

Temari pulls up the chair across the away and sits down. "Interesting. He's from here originally, but teaches now in Kumogakure."

Shikamaru puts down his sandwich. It's Sunday and he hasn't showered or shaved in a few days. His hair is tied back, but it's not brushed and he looks as though he has just rolled out of bed, though she knows he's been up since early this morning.

"He spoke a lot about Kumo's duty to the west. About how it meant Kumo, even being in talks with Kiri, was obligated to the west in a way that would mean it stays neutral. He says it's inevitable that the Cloud slip into a position of liaison between the two areas. It's only a matter of time."

He thinks on this. "Do you believe it?"

Temari shrugs. She believed that what the lecturer was saying had enough merit, and, most importantly, enough support, that she should begin integrating herself with this political division. A good group to keep an eye on and a foot in. "He was convincing."

"See anyone you knew?"

"Two people from your class, but I don't know their names. No one you're close with."

Shikamaru shifts the papers he's been writing notes on. "And how did you do?"

"Well, people are certainly interested. The youth, mainly, but there were a fair amount of older, wealthier people too. And the remarks were controversial, but fed on by the younger ones. I am sure there will be more groups popping up."

After she finishes, he belatedly pushes his plate to her, offering her the other half of his sandwich.

"No," she stops the plate's motion. "I went out with the boy sitting next to me and his friends."

Shikamaru looks down at the food and then back up at her, pulling his plate back.

"They're involved," she continues. "They'll know others."

"Radical?"

"Wrong kind of speech."

Shikamaru huffs and leans back in his chair, pulling his book closer as though he is going to actually do his homework.

"I'll go next time," he says.

She thinks about the speech. The auditorium wasn't filled, but it was crowded. It is doable.

"Separately," she says. They shouldn't go in together, especially now that she knows some people, now that relationships are already forming. "Cover more ground."

"Awfully fast turn."

Shikamaru pauses on the corner, toes already over the edge of the curb, ready to cross the street. He glances back. "He moves to a new city, he gets a new handler."

Temari raises her brows. "This is our town. We should be the ones choosing the location."

It's not the first time she's said this — Shikamaru doesn't often acknowledge her complaints, so by now she is well used to repetition, if only because it bothers him more. And it does. Without a word, he sighs and moves away, continuing off the curb and across the street.

The bar she is meeting this informant in is two blocks south. She's passed it on her way over here, walking north up the street until she bumped into Shikamaru on this corner. They're switching now — she'll continue west around the block and back down, then around to the street the bar is on where she will wait at the bus stop directly across from the bar's entrance; Shikamaru, having entered the bar for a few minutes, scoping it out, will exit and meet her at the stop.

Her handwriting — her way of meeting the informants she'll run — is usually to meet in a crowded place, like a shopping mall or a metro hub, where lots of people are milling about. She prefers the anonymity of large crowds. The man had requested this though — a bar in midtown at eleven am — and so Shikamaru had come to help.

It's cold out, but the sun is high and she can only see her breath when she concentrates on it.

Wrapping her jacket tighter around her, Temari turns the last corner and comes to the bus stop. She buys a copy of the paper from a vending box by the bench and then goes to take a seat. Shikamaru should be out soon.

She crosses one leg over the other and opens the paper before her. She holds it up enough to cover her face, but also so that she can still keep an eye out for the man she is meeting. She has thirty minutes before his scheduled appearance. But if he has turned, they'll already be staking the place out, waiting to trap her. She is looking for cars parked along the block with exhaust blowing out of their tailpipes or any vans with antennas.

Nothing.

She flips the page.

A few minutes later, the door to the bar opens and she catches Shikamaru exit and jog over to her, coat thrown over his arm. He stops a few feet from the bench, not looking at her, and drops his briefcase to the ground to put on his coat, back to the bar in case anyone is watching.

"No drinkers not touching their pints," he informs. "More people than I expected, too, but you'll still be overheard. Best to confirm identities and find a new place."

He finishes with his coat and turns back, as though waiting for the bus.

Temari huffs. Stupid. They shouldn't have agreed to meet him here. What a waste of time.

"They used to tell us that once you're in the field, the agent is always in control." There's a hint of amusement under his breath. He shouldn't be talking to her right now, but she smiles at it anyway. It seems safe enough. Neither of them has spotted anyone.

"Not with Hinoto," Temari adds, knowing it's what he means. Hinoto always seems to be the one in control when it comes to their relationship.

"Troublesome, isn't it?"

Temari laughs.

Neither of them say anything more as a bus pulls up. Shikamaru will take it. Temari will wait here, carefully disguised, keeping an eye out in case anything changes, until her informer comes, and then she will follow him into the bar.

"Oh," Shikamaru says as the bus stops and someone gets off. "There's a bell above the door too. Lucky there."

Temari ignores him, turning a page of the paper again. She keeps her head down until the bus, and Shikamaru, are gone, and then she shifts positions to take in the street before her once more.

She's walked down the street. She's had some crackers. She's even had to drive north a mile to go to the bathroom after stupidly downing a whole bottle of water thirty minutes into it.

It's not like it has taken them long. Within minutes of Shikamaru going into the hotel, which she'd watched from the car, his legs taking him in long, easy steps up the stairs, Kazue Haishi is following him in, still wearing the suit she'd worn to work.

It's been only an hour since then, but they've already eaten and gone up to a hotel room.

Temari 's parked slightly up the block, too underneath a streetlight for comfort, but no one is paying her any attention and she has a good view of the hotel from here.

Most of the time has been boring. Shikamaru so rarely talks with her about this, so she hasn't heard much of what he discusses while working, but now, actually listening in, she is hearing him ask questions about Kazue Haishi's work and about her life — after all, Haishi is very accomplished — and then Shikamaru spends a lot of time mentioning his wife. He says they were really young when they got together, young to be married. He regrets it, he was just too young — they were too young to make such a decision.

He's worried.

"I've never been with anyone else," he says. It's all a little off through the mic, like the sound is coming through a wall or from some distance, but she can hear it well enough. She can hear everything they say.

Temari rolls her eyes and taps her fingers on her knee where it's pushed up to her chest, foot on the seat.

She keeps picturing it. She has no idea where they are in the room or what the scene looks like, but she imagines Shikamaru saying these words, imagines him awkward and aroused. She imagines what the scene must be, how the staging and props are playing out.

She's annoyed at the situation, and while she's contemplating, and chastising, herself for being annoyed at all, she misses a crucial moment, because now she doesn't hear anything. But then they're kissing, and she can hear that. It's real kissing, long kisses that aren't done in passing, kisses that are meant to lead to something else. They're kissing and kissing and she hears all of it.

"Sit down," the woman instructs.

She imagines he does; imagines him at the edge of a bed, like he sometimes sits at the edge of their bed.

Kazue Haishi is older, but not unattractive. Not at all. Honestly, it's no wonder so many young men fall all over her.

"Just be in the moment, darling." Temari hears her say, low. "Think of me."

Temari's mouth is dry. Her palms are sweaty.

There is a pause. A moment, and then her voice again: take off your clothes.

Really, Temari shouldn't be listening to this.

Another pause. Then a sound that she can't readily identify.

"All of them." A moment, then, "that's it."

A few months ago, in another car in another country, Shikamaru sat confined in a driver's seat listening to Temari have sex with someone else. He listened to her, plotted her, having sex with another man. She wonders what he thought about then.

That was different though. It must have been. Here, Haishi is more explicit. Temari is sure that listening to her was quieter, though she actually doesn't really remember. But here, Haishi is being clear and articulate in each step. She's telling him what to do, she's putting words to his actions, as though it's a hotline service and they're not actually in a hotel room.

Shikamaru is naked now — he is sitting down, Temari knows, and is completely naked. She's never seen him like that. These are things being described to her, in detail, as Haishi says them aloud. He has an erection. His chest is flushed. He looks earnest. His hand is shaking when he touches Haishi — she keeps telling him to place it harder, to grab her here and there. She is telling him where to touch her, demonstrating or maybe guiding — up top. There. To the left. A little less. Yes. Like that. Good. Now keep going. And then this.

Temari hears it all. She listens to all of it. He asks too, and he keeps asking. He keeps talking, voice deep over the line; he keeps checking. He is seemingly making no moves without her direction. And she is directing.

Mostly, Temari tries not to visualize it. She's sitting there, leaning back against the front bench seat, casually dressed in blue jeans and a sweatshirt. Inconspicuous. Boring. Laid-back. Insouciant. A regular person just waiting in their car. A regular person doing a regular activity.

She is listening to it though. It's dark out, but there are still a handful of people in the street. It's a busy downtown neighborhood. Temari glances at the hotel. She wonders what room they're in. Is the window facing the street?

It's too much to listen to for long. Eventually it becomes too loud, too repetitive.

She wonders what Haishi sees in Shikamaru. He's good-looking, sure, but his most attractive qualities are all related to his intelligence and quick wit. None of the things he is bringing to the table now. He's stupid here, dumb, easily guided, and immature. What is attractive about that? Especially for someone of Kazue Haishi's standing. Can't she do better? She could find someone of real promise like Shikamaru. But she doesn't want that. She wants someone to control, someone to teach. Someone who wants to be taught.

Temari doesn't understand that.

She sighs. At one point they weren't having penetrative sex, but now it sounds like they are. Or maybe not. She doesn't know. She is trying not to pay too much attention, but then he makes a noise, loud over the radio, and it perks her to interest.

She imagines the position. She imagines what he might look like. She imagines how it would feel.

She's hot now. She sweating underneath her sweatshirt, even though it's cold out, the heat isn't on, and she has nothing underneath her sweater.

Did Shikamaru picture it? When he sat there, listening to her, did he imagine what she was doing? No. He was watching Gengo's men. Now, Temari has barely looked at the hotel.

She shouldn't be here. She doesn't want to hear this.

The threat of Haishi right now is very different than from a man like Minoichi. Shikamaru needed to be there, she doesn't need to be here.

Oh. They've definitely moved on from foreplay now. Haishi is describing him inside of her.

Shikamaru, mostly, is quiet except to ask if something is okay. He doesn't make much noise otherwise.

Temari, stupidly, she admits, knows what this is. It's jealousy. It was before, when Shikamaru and Haishi met, when he spoke with her alone and Temari was left out of it. It's Temari being jealous.

But there is no reason for it. No reason whatsoever. Temari has already slept with one person since being 'married' and she will sleep with many, many more. She flirted with the man she sat with at the lecture just last week. She will probably eventually sleep with him. Or one of his friends. Maybe both. Whatever will be the most valuable.

So there is no reason to be jealous. Not only does this not reflect Shikamaru's choices or desires at all, but there is nothing to be jealous of. He doesn't belong to her. He never has. He never will. It's not like he is having sex with her. It's not like he owes her anything as far as this is concerned.

Temari does understand some of it though. Even before this (before she ever wanted Shikamaru), back when she had other partners, back with Nejiri or anyone else she was ever paired with… when you left them, it hurt. When Nejiiri was assigned to work with someone else, even though it wasn't personal and was not of any consequence to her, she was jealous. And Nejiri was only a friend, whereas Shikamaru… isn't.

Temari turns down the volume. She needs to put a stop to this. She really shouldn't hear anything. She's only here as back-up for their first meeting. He's not even after anything tonight. He's just building a foundation. There isn't any information he is seeking. There is nothing for her to hear.

Jealousy. Simple. That is what this is.

As though, perhaps, despite him being ordered as her partner, he would have chosen her anyway. It had felt that way with Nejiri by the end. And even though every word out of Shikamaru's mouth in this hotel room isn't real, even though she knows it isn't (he never sounds that unsure or young, even when they first met and he seemed so fragile… and tonight he had been saying things about his marriage which in itself doesn't really exist, so seriously, she knows wholeheartedly the falsity of his words), she is jealous anyway. She still feels it. She feels it when this woman does something with Shikamaru that she has never done. And something that, except in its very utilitarian actions, she will never get to do.

It's louder now over the speaker, even with the volume lower. And, even though she knows she shouldn't do it (why, why is she doing this), she turns the volume back up.

It's Shikamaru this time.

He's louder. He's the one making noise.

It's eager and deep and she hears it go and go and go until he is done. And she hears that too. She hears it end.

Temari's hands are squeezing her legs, nails digging into the skin of her thigh beneath the denim. There is sweat on her temples now. She is turned on. Even from just the sounds. Even from the sounds of someone else. She is wet. She is warm. She wants to slide her hips forward as though they might hit something. She wants to touch herself. But she also hates herself for this. For wanting this. For thinking about it like this.

It goes on, of course. They talk after, though not for long. They'll have an affair but they won't be lovers. It's not what Haishi wants.

Temari is biding her time, waiting for him to come back, waiting to drive home so she can shower, waiting to be far away from his voice in her ear. And then, eventually, when he leaves the hotel room, Temari turns the key in the ignition and pulls out of her spot, driving around the hotel and back two blocks into a parking garage where he will find her.

She wants to get out of here. Her heart is pounding, even though he isn't talking anymore. There is nothing but static on the line. He must be walking.

And then, minutes later, he is opening the unlocked passenger side.

She doesn't look at him. Her hands are tight on the wheel.

The second he closes the door, she smells it though. He smells like it — sex. He smells like sweat. It's too hot. She's too angry.

It's your fault, she wants to say, even though she has no reason to say it. She can hear how heavily she is breathing, how, since the moment he got in the car, the only sound has been the huffs of her exhale.

It's only a moment, and then Shikamaru reaches out to the dashboard, hand on the dash as he turns to face her, frowning. He is going to ask why they haven't left, why she hasn't turned the car back on and backed out of the spot to drive them home, but he stops.

"I don't want this, Temari." He says, short and hard, as though she is making some face at him that makes her feelings obvious. Or maybe not obvious, because, even though she is still only looking ahead, knuckles white on the wheel, he suddenly leans forward, concerned. "Are you okay?"

Her throat hurts. Her eyes are dry no matter how much she blinks. She feels tense, like she is moments away from snapping, like the anticipation of restraint paired with the adrenaline of hearing him are binding together, ready to react with only the tap of a finger or the bat of a lash.

"I'm fine," she snaps, rolling her eyes. But she is taut, because then, for no reason, with no inclination from him that he even wants this, so far removed from any real moment (like the ones that two people might share that lend themselves towards desire, like such moments, though few, that they have shared where she felt inclined to lean in), she throws herself at him.

That's what she does, across the long seat, throwing her hands out and reaching for his face, his neck, his chest, and pulling him into her, pulling his mouth against hers.

It's a serious kiss. A hard one, that is unrelenting and doesn't allow him to move back or to give in. She's holding them there, holding herself. And she isn't thinking. She feels dizzy. Everything feels hot. And then she is opening her mouth and moving against him and catching his lips between hers for a moment and then moving again.

Her heart is going miles a minute. She feels like she is dripping in sweat, like if she doesn't start losing clothes now, if she doesn't open a window, she will start to melt.

And then it stops. Shikamaru pushes her back hard — it has to be hard, she is holding onto him so tightly — but it's only a few inches because of the car and the grip of his hands on her shoulders. It's not enough, not quite, for her to get him into focus. Which is good — good, she thinks, because she doesn't want to. She only wants one thing. She only wants this.

"What are you doing?" He asks, words rushing out the second they are free to.

And that's all it is, because then, to her greatest relief, he is kissing her back. Kissing her, really kissing her, for the first time. His tongue, his teeth, his skin beneath her — it's all there. A kiss, one that speaks of real desire, of real interest. There's no show here, no camera, no friends, no image nor résumé to maintain. It's just them. And he is kissing her, hands coming into her hair, mouthing at her like it, like everything right now, is irresistible.

"Wait," he breathes. "Wait." But he keeps kissing her. He pulls her closer, tugs on her body, pulls her across to him, tugging her closer until she is on his lap, legs on either side of his. And then, once she is straddling him, he pushes her back with more vigor, far enough this time to meet her eye.

She's panting. So is he. Temari looks down at his mouth. It's red. She's done that. She wants that, wants more of it. She wants to consume him.

Shikamaru pulls her chin up, focusing her attention to his words, assuring her comprehension. "Are you sure?" He asks, more seriously, voice low and eyes blown.

It takes half a second more than it should to register, but it makes her want to laugh. Is she sure? She's the one who wants this. She is the one who has wanted him for months. She is the one who first asked, and he is the one who turned her down. He is the one, who despite where he just came from, has still never actually been with someone. And maybe, she thinks, for only a split-second and in a way that isn't fully thought out, he wants to be with her.

His expression makes her want to laugh. She's atop him, body flush against his, mouth wet with his saliva.

"Are you?" She asks, and he answers by grabbing the back of her head and pulling her back down to him, mouth already open. They're in the parking garage — they're paying for this parking — and she's blocking him from the light as they make out, but still, anyone walking by would see them.

Temari threads her hands around his neck, at the base of his skull, under his collar. There is sweat at his roots. She's wanted to do this for so long, she can hardly concentrate enough now to recognize it is happening.

All she knows is Shikamaru's tongue is in her mouth. And she's greedy. It's greedy. She wants this and so much more.

His hands are on her hips, pushing under her sweatshirt, fingers against her stomach, her back, pressing into her skin, and she is pushing closer, pushing her hips into his, feeling the hardness there, harder the longer they kiss, the hungrier she is. And he is making all sorts of noises. His breath is loud, painful against her face, his hands are sure, touching her belly, her ribcage, flat against the clasp of her bra and then down again. And she keeps pushing down, keeps pressing herself on him, as though this is it, as though there are no clothes constraining or withholding anything between them.

It's not enough — though it could be, this could be it, if she let it go on longer — but he is making noises in the back of his throat and she wants to swallow them, she wants to swallow more. She reaches for his pants. He has no belt, so all she has to do is get under his sweater to get at the top of his pants and pop the button.

She doesn't think about how he has just done this. She doesn't think about how she isn't seeing him naked like he just was, about how she is hardly seeing him at all. All she knows (which coherently isn't much) is that his hands are on her butt now and are pulling her closer, which at the moment makes it harder to undo his pants.

She pulls away to undo his fly, to look down at her hands, precise and quick despite what feels like a lack of control. Shikamaru starts mouthing at her neck and shoulder, his teeth, his grip, at her back now, holding her close, pulling at her ear, licking at her skin.

Temari pays attention though, watches as she pulls him out of his jeans, looks at the head of his cock, wanting to see more, to touch more, wanting, almost, in a way, to stop and lean closer and study and lift his shirt to watch the muscles on his stomach as they engage when she touches him, wants to feel the flex in his thighs and hear the things he says to her when it's slower. What will he say? Will he speak? Will he let her do whatever she wants?

When she does touch him in a real way, more than just releasing him from the bindings of his pants, he pulls his mouth off her shoulder to groan, guttural in her ear. It's deep and desperate and sounds like it was pulled from him, like she reached down inside him to find that noise, like its release was ineluctable. She's never heard anything like it. And on instinct she tugs on him, once, twice, hands slick with sweat and pre-come and she is fascinated to watch it, fascinated to look up and watch him. He's not kissing her anymore. His head is tipped back, his throat exposed, the veins and hollows of his neck are long and defined and she wants to touch them.

And then, in moments, the hands on her waist are tightening. His fingers are flexing and releasing in shudders in time with his hips. His whole body is vibrating against her. His eyelids are fluttering and he's making noise like he can't quite get enough air. His shoulders, long and always of interest to her, shake. It's only a moment, only four swipes of her hand, lacking any sort of finesse, any sort of intention, and he is coming underneath her, into her hand, further, against her wrist and forearm.

They've both stopped moving.

Temari lets go. She flexes her hand. She looks down, but does nothing.

It's only a moment, a suspension in time between the frenzy and the aftermath, a transition, and then it ends. He pushes her back by her elbows and she pulls her leg away, sliding off his lap and back to her side of the bench seat.

It's hot in the car, but not like it was before. It's stuffy. It smells of sex. Smells like him.

Temari wipes her hand off on her jeans, not wanting to find something else, not minding if it does stain her one pair of blue jeans. Beside her, Shikamaru is straightening his legs and pushing up to fix his clothes and redo his pants.

It's quiet. She doesn't have much to say.

He doesn't offer to do anything else. Neither of them wants to. It's as though she's had a cold bucket of water dropped on her head. She'd kissed him with no conscious intention, without considering the consequences. It was only right for it to end before it went too far. It was an accident. She never meant to put him in this sort of position. She had always intended to keep this to herself.

Still, after she turns on the car and backs out of the parking lot, after she pays the booth on the way out, she keeps thinking of his face and his hands and his semen on her and it makes her want to touch him again, to explore further ways in which he could kiss her, further ways she could make him come. She wants to see how good it will be.

But it's just desire. Nothing more. It can be reined in.

An assignment, Hinoto said. Just an assignment.

They drive home in silence. They change cars in silence. It's uncomfortable and jilted, but it's been worse. She isn't desperate to get out of the car. She isn't wanting to leave his company.

The commute isn't long at night and they get home within fifteen minutes, pulling carefully into the driveway.

She can see the conclusion of the day easily. They will go upstairs with no words exchanged, they will read and go to sleep and tomorrow everything will be back to normal and they will never speak of this again.

When she turns off the engine though, Shikamaru moves, enough for her to understand he intends to speak.

Temari pauses, hand hovering near the key.

"I'm sorry," he says, voice raw, as though he hasn't spoken for a long time, as though his throat hurts. And when she turns to look at him, to see the collar she'd pulled at, the hair out of its tie, and the scratches at his neck that she's mostly sure are from her, she is only looking at his profile, his eyes focused straight ahead, though there is nothing but the wall of the guest bedroom to see. "That I couldn't before."

An image of her hand on his knee and his rebuff, of salt-crusted hair and tan skin, of blame and cruelty and silence.

That's not why, she wants to say. Back then, what that was — they both knew, at the time. It was her trying to do the assignment, trying to be with him the way she was told to. That's not this. Tonight — that wasn't like before, she wasn't doing it because she had to. She wasn't reminding him of their cover. She wasn't trying to finish the job.

She didn't throw herself at him because it's nice being touched. Because she hasn't been touched in so long (not sex, but any touch, any real touch from anyone, in so long), but that's not it. Not because she needs to get pregnant. Not because she is jealous.

It's because she wants him. Because she finds herself wondering these days, if given the choice, would she stay with him. Wondering if she actually wants him, wondering if this isn't a product of something else, wondering if he is a choice she would have always made, wondering why she is so irrational when it comes to him.

It's because, over everything, she adores him. But she doesn't say this. To adore someone is to be possessed by them, and to be possessed by someone else is not without humiliation, and they both know it.

The job isn't why she kissed him. Though perhaps, he already knows this too.

a/n: thank you ALL for reading and a quick shoutout to everyone who i've become friends with bc they're fans of this and come talk to me about it. that encouragement is really the saving grace of this story. ty!

wetwithemotions on tumblr made a beautiful piece of art for this chapter from the car scene AND miinah13 on tumblr has a flawless drawing of shikamaru putting on his tie. these pieces can be found on the aibg tag on my tumblr (thanks for no links ff) or on the ao3 version