this chapter comes so quickly because of the amazing efforts of my betas, so join me in thanking them and sending lots of love to em and carol
Chapter Thirteen
She doesn't think on it actively. She doesn't sit down and try to come to a solution. She tries not to work on it too hard when she knows the conclusion she must come to. All does is spend time, in passing, mulling over the possibilities. She does so over weeks, slowly, carefully, and only to herself. She never says anything.
After all, what can she really say? Mostly, she thinks that there is nothing for her to say to him. In the end, not even she knows what she feels, and, more importantly, it doesn't really matter. It would change nothing. It would only make her weaker.
Possession is humiliating.
But she also thinks about him all the time. And she wants the opportunity to choose him solely because she knows she would… except she wouldn't. Over other men, maybe, but not over her job.
As much as she struggles, even as she loathes Kiri and enjoys parts of her life in turn, she isn't doubting Suna. She doesn't. She did choose, once — she chose this.
Still, sometimes, usually when Shikamaru is out and she is home alone, or when she takes the bus to work and has time to daydream, she fantasizes about what she might say, what she might do; what might happen if she acts.
Stupid things, mostly… things that could never happen. That would never happen.
Sometimes she imagines that Suna and Konoha will break their alliance and then they will be forced to actually choose the other and they would. She is scared, sometimes, that the peace and common objectives between their two countries will shatter and that she and Shikamaru will bear the cost. After all, Suna is Suna. It isn't Konoha. Both places have similarities, both have fought together before, but they have also been enemies. And when it comes down to it, if an alternative deal exists, their alliance will sever. Both countries will always choose their own prosperity and well-being over an international loyalty. Likewise, she represents one side and he represents another.
But what if they ask her to kill him? Ask him to kill her?
She knows the answer, of course.
She will always choose Suna over Shikamaru.
But she fantasizes (waywardly and with no genuine desire, the way one fantasizes about their own funeral or their reaction in an apocalypse) about choosing him solely at her own discretion, solely because she wants to. And always, in these hypotheticals, he wants her to too. She doesn't want this to happen, but if it does, then at least she could make a choice — and when she is imagining it, when she is playing it out in her head while looking out the bus window, she does pretend she would choose him just because she had the option to.
But then, when he is before her, she has nothing to say. Or perhaps too much to.
Most things are too far. Things she can't mean, promises she can never make. Most things she has no idea how to express. Mostly, she thinks they shouldn't be said.
It's no bother, really, in the end. It's easy to contemplate things on the bus ride or while alone on the couch, but those things are meaningless in the scheme of everything else. She will never choose him and, despite what she finds herself hoping, he will never choose her. He can't, even if he might want to.
His side of the bed is empty when she wakes up.
She hadn't realized that she'd fallen asleep in the first place, so it's actually a surprise to not find him there when she looks over. She's been tossing all night, stuck in a perpetual half-sleep, eyes heavy but heart pounding and mind racing. She's too hot under the covers, her thighs sticking together, and too cold when she kicks them off.
Finally, when she does purposefully give up the fight and fully open her eyes, rolling onto her back, there is no sign of Shikamaru.
He must have been silent. She must have actually nodded off for at least a few seconds at some point.
Temari stares up at the ceiling. She hasn't been sleeping well all week.
The clock by Shikamaru's side gives the time at three am.
Slowly, careful to press up without twisting her side too much — she's mobile, but still weak —, she sits and slides out of bed, stretching her legs, shaking her head, and rubbing her eyes.
The office door isn't closed and the light emitted brightens the hall, making every floorboard visible.
Shikamaru is sitting on the floor inside, legs crossed as he taps his index finger on top of whatever notes he is making. He's wearing a sweater, but is otherwise in his pajamas, hair pulled back half-heartedly.
There is a creak when she stops in the doorway and leans against the frame, arms crossed over her chest.
He glances up for a second, surprised, and then goes back to writing something on his notepad. "Couldn't sleep?"
Temari looks at him. He doesn't look tired at all. He looks boyish and handsome and reliable. There are papers spread before him. His bare toes catch her eye.
Her breath catches.
"I hate when you go there." She says shortly. She isn't sure where it comes from. She hadn't meant to say it. It's hardly even been on her mind until she looked at him.
Shikamaru frowns slightly and turns his head more fully to face her.
"I hate it." She repeats, the words rough on her tongue. "I hate seeing her, speaking with her, being kind to her, when I know your cock was just inside her."
There is a pause. It's tight. She can feel it in the air, can see it in his shoulders. Then he exhales, annoyed, probably more at the vulgarity than anything else.
There is no reason for her to be saying this now. He's been working Kazue Haishi for weeks now, for multiple months. Nothing has changed. Except that Haishi has taken long lunches multiple times this week. And every time she comes back, somehow, Temari finds herself having to go speak with the woman about something work-related.
"Easy for you." She continues. "You just do the work. I have to see her and pretend like you just didn't."
Shikamaru looks down, but doesn't speak right away. His hand is gripping his pen and his knuckles are growing white. She doesn't know what she wants him to say, but it is something. She wants him to respond.
When it comes, the words are short and staccato. He's angry. He's still looking down. "I don't like it either, Temari. It's too dangerous for us." He takes a deep breath. "And it's not easy. It's hard. It's hard. And when you're listening — it's harder than it's ever been. I don't know why."
Oh.
She shouldn't be here, commenting on anything about what he is doing. But he shouldn't have said that either. It was too far.
"Shikamaru, you—"
"I know." He snaps, all rage beneath his still demeanor. "But it was harder to do when I knew you could hear. That's all." He takes another breath. "I shouldn't have said anything."
Temari watches.
She doesn't know why she is baiting him, why she is pushing it. She doesn't know why she is speaking so dangerously after he had just articulated the extent of their conversation (and he had put a boundary on it, hadn't he? he'd put himself too far and pulled back, showing her the extent he was willing to go).
But she likes when he gets angry. She likes when he gives her something to work against. That's it, maybe. Or it is just too late and she is just too tired. Or maybe she is angry herself. Or maybe, possibly, she means it. Maybe, she just wants to know too much to stop herself.
"What do you think about?"
It's different right away. Even the way she has said it, and she can feel the rise in the cut of her mouth, the danger resting on the edge of it, waiting, impatient, precarious, on the answer itself.
Shikamaru turns his head slowly to look at her, unamused.
She shouldn't have said anything at all — not since the moment she got out bed and went to find him, not since she saw him sitting here with bare feet. Not one word should have ever come out of her mouth. None of it. But, more than all that before, she certainly should not have said this.
Still, the anticipation of it, the challenge she's posed, the annoyance in his gaze… it makes her stomach tight; sends electricity down to her fingertips and locks her knees.
He's silent for a long time, long enough that in any other situation, she would have followed up or long assumed he wasn't going to answer. But now she stays, waiting, just in case. Hoping. Not backing down.
Finally, after minutes, he relents, shoulders dropping.
It's gentle, the way he looks at her now, honest, his form looser.
"Her," he says carefully, hardly breathing. "Sometimes. But, Temari." He smiles then, looking down, mouth sheepish and vaguely reluctant. "I've never been so turned on — scared, but turned on — as I was that first night we moved in when you yelled at me all the way across the kitchen." He laughs, softly, to himself. "I think about that too."
Temari feels the weight of it, of what he's said and the way it makes her want to smile, of the memory of hatred and desire and interest and the way he'd pushed back.
She knows that he's saying this now mostly just to back down, to stop the fight before it's begun, to keep the conversation from going where she was daring it to, but it doesn't make it any less potent.
"That's embarrassing," she says, acquiescing to his unspoken request, but she feels like she's choking on it. "You probably shouldn't tell people that story."
Shikamaru smirks and sighs, letting his shoulders drop further, turning his attention back to the page before him. He's always been good at compartmentalizing like that. He taps his pen against the paper in a rhythm she doesn't recognize.
She probably never should have interrupted him in the first place.
"If I had to choose a favorite piece," Hinoto says, "this would be it."
"A piece?"
"Of machinery."
Temari steps away. "I understood."
They're in the aviation museum on a Saturday morning in early May. Temari has never understood why Hinoto proposes they meet at museums. Perhaps she too is interested in learning about the history of Kiri. Or perhaps she simply thinks Temari is.
It's more crowded than she'd expected. After all, the aviation museum, in a city not known for its innovations in flight, is not where she would expect many people to come explore, especially as the weather is warming up, but it's busy now. She can't even hear her shoes click on the linoleum over the buzz of the crowd as she circles a plane, one made a few decades ago, that's on display. It's hot in here. Her cardigan is folded and hanging off her forearms in front of her.
"How's the rib?"
"Ribs." Temari clarifies. She's circled the plane now and is back before her handler. "They're healing well."
"I have something for you this week."
"You going to get me shot again?"
Hinoto looks over at her, eyes narrowed, but she doesn't say anything to it.
"There's an active source who has been a little too antsy. I need you to check in on him."
Temari nods, turning around and beginning to walk over to a wall displaying old photographs of military pilots in training. Some of these men probably killed her own. But, surely, some in these photo are no longer alive today because of Suna.
"How is it going at the labs?" Hinoto asks, following behind her, voice low and sexy, as always.
Temari takes in one photograph of two young men with their arms around each other in grainy sepia.
"You should be asking him." She says plainly, beginning to walk down the line, feeling her dress brush around her knees. "It's not my assignment."
"Isn't it?"
Temari shrugs, not turning back to look at Hinoto following her.
Hinoto is quiet for a while after that, stopping more often to look at pictures. Eventually Temari finds herself waiting for the older woman and then, once Hinoto decides to move into another, smaller room, following her there.
"Do you remember," Hinoto begins once they're in the next room, "when you asked why he was here with you instead of working the code desks?"
Temari, surprised, stops in her tracks, blinking as Hinoto turns and settles dark eyes on her.
"It's because he is stronger in the field than behind a desk. He sees the bigger picture, both sides. Fire has always liked him." Hinoto tilts her head, her entire body casual, but she is betrayed by her eyes as they pierce hard on Temari, calculating. "He was being geared for a much higher position. They wanted him in office, back in the homeland. He fought against it. He didn't want to theorize, he wanted to get his hands in."
Hinoto stops, but it's pointless, because she is solely waiting for Temari to ask the logical question they both know is coming.
She's always known Shikamaru would have been more use to Konoha if he'd stayed. He always seemed to prefer his cryptanalysis work over being in the field. And when they were in the field, it wasn't as though he were creating battle plans or large-scale operations. They went after small-fish. Easy assignments, generally no longer than a few days. Their draw was their cover, their entrenched history as Kiri citizens, and thus their accessibility to the country.
Almost anyone could perform a honeypot. He could be doing so much more.
And if Konoha wanted him to stay, it didn't matter what he wanted.
Temari won't ask it though — she knows Hinoto is waiting, but she holds her tongue.
Hinoto sighs, eventually, and looks away. Her gaze is so strong, Temari had inadvertently been holding her breath, waiting for Hinoto to break contact.
"They let him come, allowed him to stay in the field, because you were going to be here."
Temari frowns and looks down at Hinoto's shoulder, her neck. What is she saying? What does she mean? "If you're going to say something," she mutters, "just say it."
Hinoto makes a noise. "You were always going to be here. You were never going to be satisfied if you didn't give absolutely everything to your county." She looks back at Temari, looking older and powerful in the greater knowledge she is bestowing. "You're a soldier, Temari, through and through. You'd set yourself on fire to protect your home." Hinoto pauses and takes a step forward. "You want vengeance. You've been groomed for this your whole life. Suna has always wanted you for this. You wanted this. Shikamaru doesn't."
Temari blinks. Holds her breath. Straightens her shoulders.
Her mouth is dry.
"He wants peace," Hinoto continues without break. "He doesn't blame them. He doesn't hate them. Not like we do."
"We have nothing in common." Temari spits, low and under her breath.
Hinoto tilts her head again as though considering the comment, but she neither defends nor denies it.
"He was meant to balance you out, to strengthen the bond between our countries. He's meant to rein you in."
Temari takes one to step closer this time, resisting the urge to grab Hinoto by the collar of her jacket. She fists her hands in her own sweater, holding it tightly against her stomach. She's rigid, tight with fury, cramping in her calves.
"I'm not a wild horse to be tamed," she says sharply. "I'm not some psychopath. I don't want to hurt people."
"That's not what I meant."
"I follow orders, Hinoto." She huffs in disbelief of what she is hearing. "Just like you do. I do what you tell me to."
"You shouldn't always. That's why Shikamaru is here. But be careful, Temari. You're hard. You're so strong. If you're not careful, he'll soften you out."
Temari exhales sharply and turns her body around in a snap, walking away, back into the first, main room of the museum. There are enough people milling about that she has to dodge them as she stalks past, cleanly and with no thought except the containment of her rage against the woman. Against Shikamaru. Against everyone.
It's only seconds and then there is a hand on her shoulder, gently pulling her back.
"You know nothing about me," Temari spits before she has even turned around. "I read the dossier. I was chosen as a body. So was he. We were filling in roles already written."
Hinoto pulls her hand back, manicured nails sharp. The look she is giving Temari is unreadable.
What is this? Why had Hinoto spoken in the first place? To spur discontent? To keep Temari on her toes? To put a wedge between her and Suna? Her and Shikamaru?
After a moment, once Temari has raised her chin, head held high, Hinoto relents and steps away. She pulls a pair of sunglasses from her pocket and slides them on.
"Believe what you want," she says in that low voice of hers. "But always remember, the two of you: it's an arrangement. He is your cover. That's all."
Temari keeps her gaze harshly on Hinoto as her handler steps past her and walks out of the room. Temari turns to watch her walk all the way to the entrance, shoulders loose and stride long.
Shikamaru is right to hate her, he's right to not trust her. She's not their friend. She never was.
The nights are warmer now. They can leave windows open and let the rain-scented breeze blow in.
It's lighter out too. It's not dark by early evening anymore. Dawn doesn't break during her morning runs these days.
Shikamaru leans forward, legs crossed on the floor beneath him, and rests his chin in his hands, eyes intent on the pieces before him.
He takes a long breath, mouth tight, and moves the tile two spaces. Then, satisfied, he leans back, hands behind him, and watches her make her move.
Being tipsy doesn't help her understand the board better. Or maybe it does — maybe, with less awareness, she is able to be less nervous, less unsure about her pragmatic decisions in the game, which may just help.
Shikamaru hums as she moves the piece. Then he leans forward again.
It's nice — this. Being here, right now, like this, the glass of wine she'd managed, her stomach warm, the quiet evening with nothing but the shogi board between them and Shikamaru smiling to himself.
It's been three days since she'd met Hinoto in the aviation museum, but Temari hasn't brought up the conversation to Shikamaru. She isn't sure if she wants to. She doesn't know what she would say.
But she can picture Shikamaru back home, fighting his superiors, asking for more work. She can see him being assigned to her. She remembers their meeting and that night in Jiro when they had their first assignment and afterwards fell asleep on the beach. She thinks about the cigarette between his lips at Tenten's and the way his eyes narrow when he is angry.
Is this what they saw too? Is this what they wanted when they thought of him? Of her?
More likely, honestly, it's not true. She saw the dossier. She was always going to do this, but she sees absolutely no evidence toward the claim that she was to do this with him.
Either way, it's impossible to know how much of what Hinoto says is true, at least right now.
Still, Temari is on her toes. It's what Hinoto had wanted, probably. But who knows? Who knows. Perhaps those were Hinoto's orders. Perhaps not.
And in the end, she thinks, watching Shikamaru push at the tumbler of whiskey on the floor by his hip, nudging it absently as he pays attention to the board, before wrapping his fingers over the top of the glass and bringing it up to his lips, who cares?
It's quiet. Temari can imagine another scenario here, in another world, where they sit and play shogi together to appease him until she gets bored enough, and then she'll push the board aside and he won't protest because she'll crawl through its empty space and climb into his lap. That won't happen now, but it would, somewhere else, some other time.
He's your cover, that's all.
She's right, of course. In most ways.
"Temari," he reminds, in that knowing way of his, and she blinks, shakes her hair from her face, unaware she's stopped paying attention. "Your move."
She smiles and makes the move she'd been planning on, and when she looks back up, he is looking at her, intently, as though he hasn't even considered the tile she'd touched. His eyes are dark, considerate. She can feel it warming her face, turning up the corners of her mouth, and then they're sitting there like that, just looking at each other.
Has he always looked at her like that? Did he, in the kitchen that night they moved in? Did he when he was pretending around others? Did he look at her like that when she kissed him in the parking garage? It feels, now, like he always has — like maybe it has never been anything different. And maybe it hasn't. Maybe it isn't.
Wow, Hinoto really doesn't know anything. Does she?
She has no inclination that anything is wrong at first. She comes home from work on the bus. It's almost six when she walks through the front door and it's apparent right away from the lack of car in the driveway and the lack of keys on the counter that Shikamaru isn't here.
On the outset, she doesn't think too much about it. His classes have already ended and he's in exams right now, so it's not difficult to imagine he got caught up. He has spent other nights in the study groups he's been, allegedly, "dragged into," and sometimes he falls asleep in the library, or so some of his classmates have told her. So when he's not there, she doesn't think on it any more than to notice it and only consider it in terms of dinner.
He's not back by the time she has food ready an hour or so later, which still isn't worrisome, but she does debate whether she should hold some food for him in the oven or put it all back in the fridge.
She goes for the latter.
Around nine, she begins to grow suspicious. He's not usually out this late without calling the house. She'd think he was out with Kazue Haishi, but neither of them would let him stay through the night without calling his wife: they want neither the pressure nor scrutiny. Perhaps he is really caught up in studying or is actually passed out in the library and isn't aware of the time.
It's ten when she actually feels it gnawing in her gut. It begins as an itch. A hesitant question, a fear, of something looming.
They have friends, but not really. There is no one he would go out with without telling her first.
Temari is ready for bed by the time she decides to be worried. She hasn't called the library, not wanting to plant any seeds in the mind of anyone that she and Shikamaru are at all out of the ordinary. A missing husband, a husband who doesn't call: that's noteworthy. She doesn't want that, so she hasn't called the list of numbers of his classmates he keeps or the library or the bar his classmates patronize.
She's in her pajamas, but changes again, puts on a baseball cap and a darker wig and blue jeans and heads out. It's fifteen minutes from here to the library on the bus, which goes slow, but there's no traffic now so close to midnight. She takes the most direct route, something she doesn't usually do when she is in disguise and going somewhere surreptitiously, but it's no matter now. It's a different driver than the few she knows. He won't recognize her even though she is the only rider.
She's antsy. He could call the house while she's out, but it won't mean much. She doesn't mind missing him. As long as he is okay, he'll leave a message. If she doesn't find him now, best case, he will be back at the house when she returns. Worst case… worst case, maybe, is she doesn't find him, or maybe it's that she does find him, and then they find her.
No — she's getting ahead of herself.
It's not unlikely that he is just too caught up to be mindful of the time; after all, it is the end of his first year, and he has certain grades he must maintain. As easily as this kind of knowledge does come to him, she knows he will put in some effort for an impending exam with real consequences.
But still. Still. She recognizes it as an excuse, as a justification for an action she doesn't understand.
It's too early to act though. There are safety measures in place, training they've both undergone and rules they've both memorized.
The bus gets to the library. It's open all night and it's easy for her to slip in, avoiding the tired undergrad working the front desk, and walk to the area she knows Shikamaru frequents. She hadn't seen their car on her cursory glance at the lot, but that doesn't mean much.
He's not there. No one is. She keeps walking, not breaking to even glance around, sure she'll see him in the corner of her eye if he's around. She keeps her head ducked to avoid any off-chance recognition.
It's not a thorough search by any means, but with one loop around the structure, she is confident enough that he isn't on the premises.
She doubts he's at the bar, but she passes there and takes the bus from the stop down the street when she doesn't see him.
Temari knows Kazue Haishi's address from the retirement party a few months back, and so she takes the bus there next. It's most unlikely Shikamaru is there, but it is on the list of places he does go from time to time.
It's here, she sees as the bus takes her past, that she finds the car. It's parked right before the house. He's certainly not taking any steps to be hidden.
The lights are off in the house and the car looks untouched.
Temari stops, pausing before their car and looking in the window. Then she turns to the house. It's in a much nicer neighborhood, naturally, than theirs, and there are many rooms where the lights could be on and she would never know from the outside. But she doubts it.
There's little chance Shikamaru is here. Haishi wouldn't want him to stay the night.
No. She swallows. He's not here. Something must have happened. If they were getting rid of him — if Haishi knew it — they would have been after Temari by now. She hasn't spotted a tail, but it doesn't mean one isn't there. Though, if there were hoping she'd lead them somewhere, they probably would have seized his car.
She knows nothing more. Where would he have gone? Did someone contact him? They must have.
If she knew what had happened, she'd be able to take steps. She knew the form: call, pack, run.
But she doesn't know what has happened. And she doesn't know how long he's been missing as a gauge to determine her standing. There is no knowing how long it's been. Did he come here during lunch? No, surely she saw Haishi during lunch that afternoon. So after classes then. For how long? An hour? Two? When did he leave here and what stopped him from coming back?
With quick hands, she takes out her keys, which carry a spare for the car, and opens the door, starting the engine before she can think better of it.
Temari is three blocks down before she sighs, pulls off her cap and the wig and runs a hand through her own hair. She's trained for this, and she moves deliberately and sure of the next move, but she is in a state of panic. Her stomach aches, her chest is heavy, and her legs antsy.
It could all be a mistake or it could all be so much worse.
When she comes into the busier parts of the city, she stops at a payphone and leaves Hinoto a message.
Her mouth is dry. She can't stop licking her lips. It's good, she thinks, to have the car. She would have had to jack one otherwise. She is much too stressed to get back on the bus.
It's five hours of no communication when she should begin to worry. Assuming he left Haishi's at seven, which is a little late but offers some legroom, then by midnight is when she starts contacting others. It's eleven forty-five when she calls.
It's still possible he is home. She calls, after she calls the number for Hinoto (which she knows wires through multiple places before the instruction, not the message, is ever even given to Hinoto), but no one picks up. That doesn't mean much — he could be in the hospital or could still be otherwise preoccupied. But now that the five hour-mark has passed, now that she has found where he last used the car, she must operate as though he's been taken.
Five hours, in the worst case, the worst outcome, is the beginning of when people like him start to break. It depends what they're doing, of course, and what they want, but the general rule is that she has five hours before he talks (and depending on how good they are, he'll talk eventually (everyone does) it's just a matter of when).
If they had wanted him dead, he'd be dead. He may be dead, but she can't act under that assumption.
And if he's alive, they'll keep him alive for much longer. They'll want him alive. Either to get something on someone else or to get something about him — those are the two scenarios. If it's the former, she has a minimum of forty-eight hours before he breaks (he'll protect Temari's identity and the structure of the operation over his own life), probably much longer. If it's the latter, she has a minimum of five hours and, unfortunately, probably not much longer. If they don't know who he is exactly, there is no incentive to keep him alive; he'll only have a dozen or so more hours before they give up on him.
Temari gets back in the car and drives straight home, not bothering to check out any more places or to call up any hospitals. She checks the glove compartment as she drives. Nothing. Nothing unusual in the middle console either. Nothing out of the ordinary.
When she pulls into the driveway, she takes out the smallest flashlight, of the two that they carry in the glove compartment, and looks over the outside of the car. She doesn't look long — she doesn't want to draw any attention from her neighbors, but it is no matter, she didn't expect to see anything anyway. No new scratches, no markings he may have left on this, the only thing to tie her to his last location, for her to find.
He's not in the house when she gets there. He hasn't been. No one has.
There is only so much she can do now. They won't have her leave until more has been confirmed, but if she stays here, she'll feel like a sitting duck.
Temari runs upstairs first, grabs her bag and goes into the back of the closet in the compartment in the wall Shikamaru made almost a year ago and takes out the box filled with IDs. She takes one for her and one for him. They're unused, civilian cards. She packs two weapons and some money. If she does get the call, she'll most likely head to the embassy. Or if they're close, she'll head north and over the border. Back downstairs, in the storage room, she finds other IDs, ones they've used before as civil servants, in case there is a need. She takes another weapon from here and some ammo. No need for a codebook if she's on the run.
Then, she unplugs the phone from the bedroom and takes it downstairs, bringing it into the storage room where a window leads up the side of the house. There is a outlet for the line nearby. If she gets the call, she'll exit from here. If she's lucky, it'll be a waste and she can easily make it to the car, and if she's not, exiting as far from the front and back door is her best chance.
She crouches there, all the lights off, back pressed against the cement wall, as she waits for something else to happen, as she waits for him to come home.
When the phone does ring, Temari's hand is wrapped around the top of it, the phone still in the dock. She's awake. It's been hours sitting on the storage room floor, stationed as close to beneath the window as she can be while keeping the phone plugged in, but she's hardly blinked, though her adrenaline has long ebbed and she's been holding one position in the darkness.
"Are you there?" He is asking before the phone is even to her ear.
"Are you okay?" She asks in answer, words tumbling out, phone pressed tightly against her face with both hands.
Shikamaru hangs up. She hears the click of the line and then the dial tone. Her watch reads three fifty-two.
Hinoto hasn't called. No one has.
Temari puts the phone down. He's alive. Whatever happened tonight, he's alive. He's okay. If he were going dark, he would have told her to run. If he's escaped something, he'd have warned her. If they had to go to ground, Hinoto would have told them already.
She assumes he's coming back. He must be. He surely would have said otherwise.
All he'd asked though was whether she was home, whether it was her answering the call. She isn't sure what to make of that — why would he do that? It doesn't fit with any scenario she can imagine. Why was it good for her to stay home? Why did he want her home? What did his knowledge of her location help?
She's still there waiting when she hears a car pull up. It's not long past four am now. Only one car has passed through since she's been here, hours ago, but it had simply driven past. This one stops. She hears it pull up outside before the house.
Temari stops moving. She reaches for the gun she hadn't put in the go-bag, and clicks off the safety, loading a bullet in the chamber to cock it, and goes into the entryway, carrying the bag and leaving it beneath the window. She waits. A car door closes. The engine, which had never turned off, gets louder and then the car drives away. She's ready, in case. It's probably him, but in case….
From her limited view, she doesn't see anyone out the window. She leans against the wall right near the door. There's silence for long moments and then the sound of the lock opening and then the handle starts to turn.
Temari has already leaned back in preparation. She takes a deep breath, bag near her feet, easily in arm's reach if she needs to run, and then, with both hands wrapped around the grip, she extends her arms, steps further back, and aims around average-head height.
But there is nothing hesitant in the turn of the knob, no waiting or attempt at silence. She knows it's him only a second before he walks in and her gun, still raised, is to his temple.
Better safe than sorry.
It is him. She can tell in the dark, the moment his form is visible, the moment she hears his inhale at her weapon poised by his head.
"Fuck," the breath rushes out of her and she lowers her gun, stepping further back. "Shikamaru." It comes out in an exhale, quickly. She releases one hand from the grip of her gun and steps closer.
But Shikamaru pulls back. He steps away, further into the house, and closes the door behind him in one motion, bolting the lock.
"Are you —" she steps forward again, heart pounding. Where has he been? She can't get the words out fast enough, and she's adjusting — she can see it now: the way his hair is half-pulled from the tie, the swell of his eye, the cuts on his cheekbone and the splits, multiple, on his lips.
"Temari," he says shortly, gruffly under his breath, stepping away from her, pushing her hand back as it comes up to his face.
"What the fuck," she starts, reaching for his shoulders, not knowing what to do except to come closer and closer. It makes no sense — who would do this? They would never do this and then let him off. Had he been mugged, maybe? In some circumstance where he actually lost? Street gang? It couldn't have been Kiri. It couldn't have been. He wouldn't be here if… if—
Without touching her, Shikamaru steps further back, further so he's by the entrance of the kitchen, further so he is too far to reach.
"What did you do?" He asks sharply. And it's cold. Bitter. "Why did they come after me?"
"What are you—"
"You're here, aren't you?" He spits, stepping back so he is in the kitchen now. "They didn't come for you. They didn't question you!"
She frowns. Shakes her head
"What are you talking about?"
Shikamaru turns on the light in the kitchen now, the bright overhead one, and it hurts her eyes. He walks deeper in to open the fridge and makes a noise, low in his throat, when he bends down to look inside it.
He's hurt, badly. She can see it in how he walks. His ribs, probably. Certainly his torso, somewhere in his gut or lower back. He's stripped down to the tee shirt he'd worn under his button-down this morning. There is no sign of that shirt. There are rope burns on his wrists and higher. And his face is worse in the light when he turns, his left eye swollen shut, dark all the way down his face, lips cracked with dried blood. Whatever happened had happened hours ago. And whoever did it wasn't working smartly. It had been brusque; quick. They seemingly hit him anywhere with no strategy that she could easily make out.
Shikamaru straightens and closes the fridge without taking anything out of it.
"Shikamaru—"
"I've been trying to work through it all night." He says, closing his one good eye for a long moment before he exhales and then looks thoughtfully at the door of the refrigerator. "I know the inflections," he says, as though on the verge of amusement. "The accent, Temari." Then he turns to look at her. "I know the way you throw your punches."
"What," she breathes, not understanding anything he is saying.
He huffs, half a laugh. "They were from Suna."
It takes a moment for her to understand what he is saying. To understand what he means. To understand what happened.
It takes longer than he wants. He's furious. He's looking at her crueler than he ever has before.
But she does understand. She understands why Suna would go after him. They wouldn't unless Konoha okay-ed it. They didn't touch her because there was no reason to, because there had never been any reason to doubt her loyalty.
She struggles to say it, to find the words. It's caught in her throat. She feels the word repeating, ringing, in the back of her skull.
It's so trivial. So oversimplified.
"It was months ago," she finds herself starting with, the plea clear in her voice, her intention coming from her chest. "Months." Her jaw aches. She can't look at him, can't look at his face and see what, in the end, is her handiwork. "Hinoto. She, she keeps saying…."
"What did you tell them?" He asks again, controlled. He's always so emotional, but he's always controlled about it. It's why he's so cold, why he's always seemed so cold.
"That you're soft." She swallows. "That when you look at Kiri, you're too soft."
He laughs again, exasperated, and turns around, spreading his hands out on the counter, hanging his head as his shoulders move with the harsh chuckle he's giving.
"'Soft.'" He repeats, as though not quite believing it, as though he has to work to understand the word himself. Temari's hands are shaking. She's never seen him so angry, so hurt. "I trusted you." He exhales and drops his shoulders, hunches over more, knuckles white against the lip of the counter. "I thought we were here together."
She steps forward and then comes to a short stop.
"I never — Shikamaru, I." She's not getting enough breath in. "That's never been—"
"What, Temari?" He arches and looks up at the ceiling. "Even when you hated me," he sighs in disbelief, shaking his head, "I never… I never would have."
I never hated you, she wants to say, I never actually hated you. Not you. But she can't.
And she wants to say more too.
So? She wants to ask. She wants to keep talking, to admit and stand behind it. He is soft. He is! He was when she said it and he is now.
Shikamaru turns to look at her and she finds she can't look away from the mess of his face, from the intensity in his gaze. She hates him. She hates this. But she never wants him to look away from her.
"You don't think they asked me too?" He says, sharp and clear in his enunciation. "You think I had nothing to say? Nothing about how angry you are, how hateful toward them —" he stops short, but his gaze doesn't leave hers.
"That was before," she tries, she believes. "I never would now, now that I…." She stops and there is a pause. She doesn't know what she wants to say. She doesn't know what she would say, if Hinoto asked again.
"What?" He asks, shrugging his shoulders even though it is clearly painful for him to do so. "I'm your husband, aren't I?" He exhales, angry in the purse of his lips, in the confident set of his brow. "Nothing has changed," he finishes sharply, looking away from her. He swallows. She shakes her head, desperate to get across something, desperate to apologize, to cover his wounds, to grab his shoulders and shake more sense into him. "A good cover," he runs his tongue over his teeth, "isn't it?"
He walks away after that, quick though labored, past her, and she can do nothing more than move aside. She isn't sure what else she can say to that. She can hardly form any words on her tongue, except to deny it, or maybe, to confirm it.
a/n: thank you all so so so much for reading and reviewing! let's be happy for the record breaking two house impeachments (a congratulations in order i guess) and keep our fingers crossed for the rest