bilious (adjective) – sickly; cranky, ill-humored
[Sakura's not well. And Sasuke commits high treason. Fluff. No really.]
—
"Oi, bastard, what's been crawling up your ass lately?"
Sasuke spares Naruto a quiet glare, setting the teapot down on the table mat, and returns to the omelet on the stove. That was literally their first interaction since the bastard grunted (and also glared) at Naruto after opening the door for him.
He sighs and reaches over the table to pour himself a cup.
Naruto may not be the brightest minds around, but he knows this isn't just the usual early morning mood. The bastard has been a stick in the mud for days now, the few times Naruto has run into him, and not even the offer of a spar managed to clear that up.
Tch, ungrateful bastard.
Sakura is in the throes of another coughing fit in a different room. Naruto rests his chin over knitted fingers and watches as Sasuke flips the omelet one last time before turning off the fire. He's come straight over without breakfast, and the delicious fragrance of burnt egg and oil is making his stomach grumble.
But he's sure the bastard hasn't bothered to make extras for him.
Seriously ungrateful.
After packing the food into a bentō and cleaning up (it's amazing, in a sense, to see the bastard be all domestic), Sasuke returns to the table with a plate of sliced tomatoes and sits down across from him, pulling out a scroll to read.
Naruto raps prosthetic fingers on the table as he nurses his tea.
"Oi, you."
Sasuke offers no indication of acknowledgement. Out of sight, Sakura is coughing again.
"You didn't argue with Sakura-chan or anything, did you?" he says and sees the beginnings of an even fouler mood whirling in mismatched eyes.
"It's so rare that you're home." That stumps whatever anger that was there, and Sasuke glances away (and Naruto feels bad for hitting where it hurts but-). "You better not be showing that sourpuss mug to Sakura-chan every day, bastard."
"You're noisy."
Naruto swears, sometimes it's like he never grew a day over twelve. "Now look here-"
Bare feet patter along the hardwood floor, and Sarada appears in the doorway, fully geared—for a mission, he believes. "Lord Seventh! Good morning!" A grin breaks over her face that Naruto can't help reciprocating.
"Morning, Sarada-chan!"
"What are you doing here? Boruto said you were super busy with something."
"Just thought I'd drop by and check up on your Mama."
"Oh, you shouldn't have-"
He puts the teacup down with a decisive clink and waves a dismissive hand. "Is she better?"
She giggles. "Much! Mama's been raring to go back to work."
"Uh-uh!" He wags a finger. "I said two weeks and I meant it."
"Yes! She's coming so please remind her."
Sarada comes into the kitchen. "Oh, morning, Papa!" Sasuke hn's back and tells her breakfast is on the stove, but Naruto doesn't miss the sharp glare briefly directed his way. Seriously…
"Just what is your problem these days, bastard?"
Sasuke stares back at him for a length, before succinctly answering: "You."
"Why I oughta-"
"Don't mind Papa, Lord Seventh. He hasn't been sleeping well."
He looks over to Sarada popping a couple of bread slices into the toaster and notching it. She leans against the bar with a look that says, I have dirt, and Naruto smirks conspiratorially at the juicy notion.
"Oh, and why is that?"
"You see, Mama's been-" is all he manages to hear before a fist unceremoniously crashes against the side of his face with a force strong enough to dislocate his jaw.
The bastard doesn't hold back at all, he thinks; and disperses.
.
.
.
"Nuwhyo!" He jolts upright in his seat, gaining Shikamaru's immediate look of concern.
"What's wrong, Hokage-sama?"
Naruto blinks a few times, the ugly crunch of a broken jaw still ringing in his ears, and he can only be glad physical sensations do not get transferred back as well. Once the shock wears off, a great sense of unjust washes over him. (He wanted that dirt, and he's about 99% sure he's entitled to it as Hokage and only best friend to Uchiha Sasuke!).
He slams a hand over the documents on his desk and bares his teeth, ignoring the slightly spooked Shikamaru before him.
"That bastard!"
.
.
.
"What happened!?" Her voice is still a little hoarse and probably shouldn't be used for shouting.
Sakura rushes to the kitchen following the sounds of skirmish to see her husband standing over a chair ajar on its back. His shoulders are tense and the muscles in his back coiled for battle.
"A-anata?"
"Aa, Sakura." He relaxes his stance and goes to pick up the chair. "I made breakfast."
She glances over to the bar to find Sarada with hands still covering her mouth in muted horror. Independent of the atmosphere, the toaster beside her emits a cheery ding and ejects two nicely browned slices, filling the kitchen with the mellow scent of fresh toasts.
"Papa!"
"Hn."
"How could you!?"
"Eat your breakfast, Sarada. You'll be late." He sits back down where Sakura assumes he's been sitting before, if the plate of tomatoes is any indication.
"Papa is seriously shannaro sometimes!" Sarada shakes her head and begins spreading jam on the toasts. "Mama, do you want toast?"
She coughs from a sudden itch in her throat. "Just, one please, sweetie."
She looks at the half-empty teacup across from her husband, then back to him as he lazily munches on a slice of tomato while reading his scroll.
.
.
It's only him and her by the end of breakfast, and after cleaning up, they move to the living room. Or more accurately, he drags her over to the couch as soon as she is done drying her hands.
"W-what is it?" She tries to catch his gaze for clues to no avail as he sits her down on one end.
"Stay there." He imparts and leaves the room. When he returns, he simply hands her a scroll, much to her growing confusion.
It's the medical scroll she's been reading to kill time since Naruto practically grounded her. She's not surprised Sasuke knew which one it was amongst the hundreds in her study, followed her as he did the past few days, but that doesn't explain much.
He sits down next to her and Sakura nearly jumps off the couch when she feels his hand on her thigh. "A-anata!?" His head is already on her lap, a warm, pleasant weight, and it hits her again how much she misses him, even after spending nearly a week joined at the hip with him.
He shuffles around for a comfortable position and settles for lying on his side.
"Anata, I don't think-"
"It's the fifth day," he says, eyes resolutely closed; and everything makes sense.
She smiles, putting the scroll down, and brushes his bangs away from his face. "Honestly, Sasuke-kun…I told you I didn't want to get you sick."
"And I told you it wasn't your problem."
For that, she pulls hard at his cheek. "It is, too!" He tenses from the pain. His eyes snap open and a purple marble stubbornly glares up at her. She holds that glare, waiting to hear his comeback.
He doesn't have one. His gaze drops away, and he closes his eyes again.
"I don't care if I get sick," said in an almost petulant mutter, and she releases him.
"But I do, Sasuke-kun." She smooths over the red on his cheek, fingertips glowing green. "I do."
"Hn."
She can't help a small, wry grin then. "So you've been sulking and decided to take it out on Naruto." When she felt Naruto's chakra signature abruptly disappear from their home, she's had her suspicions, but really…
Sasuke shrugs against her, but she can tell he's a lot less nonchalant than he tries to appear. "He was being nosy."
She raises an eyebrow at him. "You punched the Hokage because he was being nosy?"
In a quick motion, he rolls over to his other side and buries his face against her, his nose nuzzling her bare skin and sending a flush of colors to her cheeks. His arm wraps around her back in a firm hug. "Stop squirming. My head hurts."
That was his cue for her to heal him, and the finality in his voice means her schedule for at least the rest of the morning is set. Running her hand through his hair, she sends weak chakra pulses into his scalp and discovers what she already knows: he doesn't have a headache.
She shakes her head but continues to massage his scalp. She supposes she will spoil him today. And if he catches her cold, well that's on him.
As his gradually steadying breaths warm her stomach, she smiles to herself.
Her husband really is so shannaro sometimes.
