Title: House of Leaves, Part 1: a Semblance of Steel

Rating: PG-R

Warnings: Spoilers upto chapter 244, and then it travels to AU country, baby. Also, there is creepiness and violence (though not necessarily in that order, or, you know, right now).

Summary: The mission to retrieve Sasuke goes horribly, horribly right.


Part 1: a Semblance of Steel


Chapter 2: Platitudes


Shikamaru leans his forehead against the thick cool window facing into Chouji's room. His eyes are closed and his mouth is a grim line. Chouji is out of danger now (thanks to Godaime and a book on poisons and antidotes from the Nara family personal library; his father had been on hand the moment they stepped through the gates with blankets and gentle hands and help) but still not conscious. Shikamaru wants to be there when his friend wakes up to reassure himself that at least one of them is alright.

Because right now he isn't. He has never been less alright in his life. And he wants nothing more to do with the shinobi way of life, if this is to be the result every time.

The creaking sound of someone shifting on the plastic chairs lining the wall behind him redirects his attention from his morose thoughts and he peels his eyes open to focus on the pale gold face of the Sand kunoichi reflected to him in the glass. Seeing her face reminds him of time and place, and that there are two others from her team wandering around. Kankurou, he thinks, is asleep in their suite at the Hokage's (having mentioned something of the sort after unsuccessfully attempting to convince his sister to help him relocate their younger brother). It's the other one he's concerned about.

"He still out there?" Shikamaru grates out. She cocks her head to one side, curious.

"Gaara, you mean?" Temari shrugs. "I think so. He was still there a few hours ago."

This is something that has been bothering the young Chuunin since Naruto's burial the day prior, because—first off—he thinks it's just a little creepy that the Sand gennin hasn't left the gravesite since Naruto was laid to rest, and second, when the hell did Gaara of the frigging Sand suddenly give a fuck? Unable to understand (something that hasn't happened in … forever), Shikamaru pushes away from the pane and lets his face show the uncharacteristic anger he's feeling about the whole situation.

Even though Sand is now Leaf's ally and he is grateful to them for pulling his team out of the fire and for saving Chouji, because he knows that if they hadn't shown up—well. He doesn't need to say what would have happened. But, even though he knows this, and he knows that a good shinobi would be properly reticent and formal and all 'I owe you one now; keep safe in battle; blah, blah, blah,' it doesn't stop his face from turning a little ugly or from snarling like Kiba had when (delirious from blood loss and fatigue and not at all aware of where or who he was with anymore) a medic nin had tried to remove Akumaru from his death grip.

"Why can't he just leave it alone?" Shikamaru demands, voice thick and very young. His fingers press against the glass, try to press through the glass, eyes focusing on something beyond the room and its occupant. "Naruto is dead already," he mutters helplessly. "Why can't he just be left alone?"

Temari's eyes, he notes not for the first time, are a blue so dark they're nearly violet even when reflected in glass. In the right light he thinks they might look black, slick as an oil-spill. Right now she blinks, long sooty lashes sweeping over cool indigo eyes and shrugs a second time.

"Tch," she sniffs, unimpressed with his semi-histrionics. "I don't know why Gaara is still out there; I don't know why he does anything. Ask him yourself."

The girl's blunt derision is enough to make Shikamaru re-schools his features and take a deep, calming breath. Under the green flak vest his chest is still unbearably tight with a feeling of fault and guilt. When the normally slothful Chuunin straightens, very aware of the probing gaze directed at his back, he is back to his normal self. Mostly.

"It's a bother," he grumbles hoarsely, superciliously rubbing salt from his eyes (stupid, really, because crying doesn't do anyone any good, and, anyway, people die every day, and it wasn't Chouji; at least, this is what he tells himself). "But I think I just will."

He turns to the door, not surprised (well, maybe a little, but it's troublesome to muster up the energy for a response right now) when the Sand kunoichi falls into step with him, shoulder to shoulder, stride for stride, the look on her face partly amused and partly apprehensive. Shikamaru thinks that the amusement has to do with him—though what, exactly, he's done that is remotely amusing he doesn't know—and the apprehension more to do with her younger brother, Gaara of the Sand.

After all, he knows that he'd be bloody well apprehensive if it were him with the (formerly) psychotic, demon-possessed, somniphobic, anti-social boy were his brother.

On the other side of the Intensive Care Unit's doors, he sees his father heading towards them with two Styrofoam cups in hand, and his book of crosswords folded and tucked under one arm, pencil tucked behind his ear. Shikamaru feels a bit of a smile ghost over his face as his father stops and sighs at the sight of them.

"Leaving?"

"For now," he shrugs; makes a face to show what he thinks of the whole situation. His father (who is, despite his appearance to the contrary, quite uncanny) leaves it at that and just nods.

"Whatever. Just don't expect your coffee to be either hot or here when you come back," the bearded man warns, lying through his teeth, as he wanders past them. The lazy genius feels something suspiciously like a lump re-form in his throat—something that is completely not possible as he has already vented his, umm, frustrations when Godaime came personally to tell him that Chouji would be okay and that, for a horribly out-classed under-manned near-suicide mission he'd done very well, all things considering. The dull thud of the ICU doors shutting echoes after Temari and he, and Shikamaru is surprised at how much effort it takes not to turn around and run back to Chouji's window.

"Your Dad looks like a pirate." The non sequitor pulls a sharp bark of laughter from him; catching him unaware he chokes and nearly stumbles. Temari is looking at him with a faint smile crinkling her mouth and nose, blueblack eyes dark and slick.

Troublesome, this one. He has a feeling.

He blurts out, mouth agape; "A pirate?"

"Yeah, I think it's the little gold hoops. And the beard." Her head tilts speculatively. "You know, given a three 'o clock shadow I think you could give him a run for his money."

Recovering a little, he smirks with a flash of white teeth. Ignores the faint heat that wants to gather in his cheeks. "Really."

She stretches her hands, fingers interlocked, behind her back. "Mm-hmm, I would need to get you some gold teeth though. All real pirates have gold teeth."

"How generous of you," he deadpans dryly, slanting a glance at her. "But I already have all my teeth."

Temari grins then, blonde and fierce and eerily like Ino when Ino is cooking up a particularly bothersome plot to involve him in, and full of promise. "Not after our next fight you won't."


Hinata can see all the way to the hill from Kiba's window. She presses lightly on his windowpane, releasing the latch and throwing it wide open. A soft wind drags at her face, her hair, and she can almost pretend that the tears leaking out of her eyes are from the sting of the wind and not bonedeep sorrow. She might have even been successful at it, had she not been visiting the boy from the dog clan of Konoha.

"Ah," Kiba grumbles, drawing her attention. She tries on a smile (something that she's perfected over the years; minute and vague, a deft curl of her lip and a soft tilt of her eyes and she can mask having her Neji-nii-san paint her worth on her in bruises, or having seen her father training her younger sister, or watching the back of the only boy who really mattered for one last time—and knowing it somehow) and turns back to her teammate.

"Be careful Kiba-san," she cautions, seeing idle hands picking at his bandages.

Kiba makes a rude noise and a face; it's really quite grotesque—violetbruised, red-striped, and white-taped, and scrunched up in a manner resembling a pug. He has complained—quite vocally—about being cooped up in bed while the rest of the world isn't, and about how Akumaru still hasn't woken-up yet (his sister had whacked him upside the head—gently, of course—and told him not to be loud and obnoxious and to let them both get the rest they needed) and about how he wanted to (and was going to, just as soon as he was able) kick the Uchiha's genius ass. Hinata was so relieved when she had heard his strident voice for the first time since he left, that she thought she might faint dead-away. But that just might have been a lack of sleep speaking.

"Hate this," he rumbles (out of all of the boys she knows, his voice is the deepest; even deeper than Neji-nii-san's. It makes her think of fur and rockslides and tumbling, and it's nothing like Naruto's—something she's sort of glad for right now). "Stinks of—" An abashed sideways glance skitters in her direction. "—Sickness; medicine."

Hinata watches him for a moment, watches the little things that she is already so familiar with, and thinks of all the other little things that she never got a chance to get familiar with. Grasping her elbows tightly to her chest, she ducks her head. She will never ask what she really wants to because it isn't her place.

Instead she asks: "Did it hurt?"

Kiba looks at her and then away, out the window. She wonders if he can see the hill Naruto is buried under.

"Yeah, it did," he says roughly.


Sometimes, Sakura thinks, the enormity of a situation doesn't impart itself right away.

She thinks that maybe, if she had been stronger or smarter or more intuitive, she could have done something. She thinks that when she had confronted Sasuke in the street she could have screamed, cried for help. She thinks that, when Naruto left she could have gone with them, helped them some way (even though Inner Sakura tells her bluntly that she would have slowed them down most likely and that she would surely have gotten someone killed).

Not that she hadn't anyway.

She thinks that she should have not made Naruto make her that promise. That goddamned promise. She knows that it's what got him killed. She got him killed.

She is a murderer.

This, Inner Sakura says firmly, is doing absolutely nothing for your self-image.

At this, Sakura breaks out into a watery laugh that very, very quickly disintegrates in to a sob. A sound she has become far too familiar with these past few days. A comforting hand is placed on her shoulder, and she resists the urge to shrug it away and be wonderfully miserable in her guilt. Rock Lee had stumbled across her secluded nook several hours ago (looking just as vaguely lost as you feel, Inner Sakura reminds her, because you aren't the only one) and decided to keep her company, something she is both extremely grateful for and resentful of.

"How can you—" Stand me, she wants to ask (except not really because she's so afraid of the answer), but instead clears her throat roughly and says; "How can you be so, so forgiving."

This is something Sakura has noticed about the green-clad youth. His capacity to forgive seems bottomless. It baffles her because she has never been so forgiving and because, because—

Part of her thinks that, maybe, some things are unforgivable.

("I'll bring him back, no matter what. Just wait.")

Like willingly, selfishly, exchanging one life for another.

Sniffling pathetically, Sakura wipes at her cheeks and twists a little to face the older boy. Lee has a little bit of a troubled look on his face, his fuzzy brows furrowed. They are sitting side-by-side, shoulders and thighs pressing lightly together (something that, at any other time—as both she and her inner voice concur, would have her in fits), and Lee is distantly focused at something on his sandal.

"I'm really not, you know," the taijutsu user mumbles, flexing his leg in an almost involuntary gesture. "You're more forgiving than I am—you've forgiven Sasuke, after all."

Sakura jerks, eyes wide in astonishment. You've forgiven Sasuke? Inner Sakura yelps, clawing into her psyche for a better look. My god you have, she hisses somewhere between disbelief and disgust. You're horrible, horrible. You never really blamed him to begin with, did you? Not perfect Sasuke-kun.

And that is the problem. She has Lee's hand on her shoulder, Naruto's blood on her hands, and Sasuke's are still blemish-free because he wouldn't do something like this.

"Lee-san, it's just—he can't, couldn't—and Naruto, and, and—" She is inarticulate; doesn't know what to say or how to apologize or, or anything. Sakura wants to explain that she's tried, she really has, but she can't hate him and that she doesn't really know how she feels about Sasuke and that all she really knows is she has this huge gaping hole in her chest where her heart should be—

A horrible person, Inner Sakura hisses.

"And that's okay," Lee interrupts softly, still looking at his feet and stilling the chaos in her head for a moment. He looks up and at her, and—daringly—slides his arm across her shoulders to give her a one-armed hug. "Because this isn't your fault."

Sakura takes a deep, shuddering breath and chokes a little. It's silly, but she feels like she's drowning in tears these day even when her eyes are dry. Lee squeezes her shoulders a little more, and Sakura folds softly into his side, grateful for such undemanding comfort, even if she is completely undeserving of it.

Horrible.


Ku, ku, ku; this village is in trouble.

Gaara ignores Shukaku's relish-filled voice insidiously snaking around inside his head and instead focuses on the freshly turned earth at his feet, stretching out his awareness via slender tendrils of chakra as he balances on toes and knees and fingertips. He can feel the cool autumn wind (so much wetter here; the air is weighted with it, swollen thick and low with water in every gust) glide across his unprotected back, against the leathery clay skin of his gourd at his side. He feels the thin sunlight filtering through branches and leaves, muted and pale green and just warm enough. He stretches out further; feels worms and bugs and creepy-crawly goes-bump-in-the-night things burrowing, burrowing down, deep through rich black earth.

He reaches.

He feels clay, sticky like tar against his sense. He feels, here and there (because the founders of Leaf had picked good land, rife with nutrients and oxygen and life, and far to wet to allow for much sand) granules of sediment shifting between layers. He feels icy stone. Not rock mind, not sun-heated pebbles or jagged chucks of mountainsides, but slick heavy slabs of dark stone jumbled against each other, pushing, pushing; searching for a way up, out—

He feels bone. Old and new, resting quietly, tangled with the earth and wood in various stages of decomposition. This is what he is looking for. Except—Gaara scowls, press fingers deeper in soil and out, chakra zinging between molecules in his quest for that familiar tickle of power that should be entwined with marrow and blood and chakra—

Keh, you're not going to find him that easily, Gaara has a sensation in his head like a beast licking its chops; dark amusement riding the words, he's known, hmm, for being rather foxy after all.

Gaara grunts, frustrated. It's here. He's here. He knows, logically, that two meters under the earth that yellow-haired boy, that boy like him only not, is resting, and he can't find him. Shukaku finds offense at this. Don't lie boy; we found him, only not the way you wanted to find him.

Because Naruto is there, flesh still solid, bones still thick, but not. There is no red, no yellow, no nothing; just a cold corpse in a pine box.

Even though he can feel it, can nearly see it (did, in fact, see it, him, his form small without his lively spirit to animate his body, in the hold of that Leaf Jounin who wouldn't give him up even though he himself was injured), he knows that there is something there, some spark that managed to hide itself and still remain lit. He knows because the boy is like him (blue eyes alight, a feral grin; I've got a monster too), and Shukaku is damned hard to hurt, let alone kill. So—

So—

He can't be dead. Not possible. Not with a demon housed in his body. Not with it so integrated that they share chakra.

Why do you care?

For the first time in a long while, Gaara replies to the voice in his head. I don't.

It's just, there is so much that he wants to understand. Because that silly stupid boy was the only one in forever to give him a real fight; the only one in his memory who kept his word. It baffles him. It—

Infuriates him. That's what it does he decides. He wants to pick at Uzumaki's resolve until it unravels in a pool of useless 'I'm sorry's like everyone else's does. Teeth bared and the beginnings of a headache pricking at his skull, Gaara pushes. Dark earth and bone and nothing, nothing

Something.

There, right there buried so deep that anyone who wasn't looking for it would miss it—a coal. Dark, like an unfinished piece of garnet, black and blood and—Hmm, he isn't sure whether it is seething or waiting but either way Shukaku is right. This village is in trouble—

A strange smile drifts across his face, and he stands feeling oddly peaceful (no, that's not it; never peaceful, never at ease, but passive, comforted; knowing—he knows ergo there is no unknown), waiting for his sister and that boy she picked up to reach him. The particles of sand in the earth have carried the sound of their feet to him and he can tell by their tempo that his sister, at least, is not all that eager to reach him.

Tch. And he's been on his best behavior for the last while too.

Smart girl.

Yes, he agrees crossing his arms over his chest not quite quelling a strange feeling (that is very nearly pride except it can't possibly be) that wants to bloom in his chest. He tilts his head slightly, watching their progress from the corner of his eye.

Once his sibling and the Chuunin are within hearing distance, he slings his sand gourd over his shoulders and turns to face them. Temari, most likely from years of knowledge, flinches ever so slightly, but Gaara ignores her and directs his attention to the dark-haired boy at her side.

"You buried him pretty deep," he states and without waiting for a reply he turns back to the grave with another considering look. "Not too deep, but still."

Shukaku cackles quietly; deep indeed.


Tsunade is not a fool (well, that may be up for debate because she has had problems with gambling and betting on the wrong horse, as it were), but she knows people. Even when she doesn't want to, she knows what drives a man. She knows that dreams can be just as solid and real as a glass in the hand, and just as warm as old whiskey. She knows that Orochimaru wants immortality, wants infamy (which, really—she thinks with critical derision—is the same bloody thing). He wants knowledge, the strongest and worst of all poisons. She knows that Jiraiya wants family, wants comfort; wants tactile, fleeting things. She knows he wants a warm body at night (because he's asked. More than once) and she knows he wants to serve, to protect; to be acknowledged.

She knows that a man will kill for money, or for love, or more (because right now love is not worth very much in her book), or for a cause. She knows that the sun will rise regardless of how the day before it ends. She knows that men kill for power, for revenge, for debt.

Tsunade knows, but, looking at the black and white face of the second-to-last Uchiha, she doesn't understand.

The boy is haggard; eyes dark-ringed and red, hair lank and stringy. Her ANBU (huh, she thinks: not even a month in and they're already mine?) have done their jobs admirably, making sure that the boy will not be able to inflict harm on himself, clipping his nails to nubs and removing anything on his person that could be used for fatal activities ("As if he would," Jiraiya had snorted the other night during the wake, red-faced with drink but not drunk, not yet. "He's a selfish fuck—like Orochimaru, the shit—and the selfish ones never do harm to themselves, just everyone else." Tsunade was drunk enough to think that the dark brooding carved into his face looked somewhat good on him).

A clawless dragon in a padded room; that is what Sasuke has been reduced to. The Godaime struggles with herself, torn between pity and—

Satisfaction. Glee.

No emotion suitable for the Fifth Hokage of Konoha.

And anyway, even if Sasuke is clawless, it doesn't mean he's not a threat. She reminds herself—rather forcefully—of this. Reminds herself of the Third and his mistake and how he paid, and lets her ego tell her id that she needs to be cautious.

Her id has a habit of not listening.

She grinds out, not for the first time: "Why were you going to Orochimaru?" She already knows the answer, or thinks she does, but she can't ask her real questions. Not yet anyway, not when the dark genius hasn't spoken a word of sense for three days. And she does need confirmation.

Sasuke is a small dark figure against the white of the walls. It's a big room, high ceilinged and windowless. The walls are covered in tufted white cotton, all edges covered, all corners blunted. The lights are embedded in the ceiling, deepset, and slicked over with shatterproof glass, and they cast sharp blue shadows across his temple, his cheeks, and the hollow of his throat. His hospital gown is pale green paper and ties in the back with more paper. It rustles like feathers when he moves.

"I'm not my brother," he tells her while he sits quietly, long thin legs crossed delicately at the ankle. Tsunade thinks that she can see a glimpse of scarlet flecking his dark fever-bright irises. "And he should know that. Stupid. Would you make those birds shut up? They're too loud; driving me insane."

Too late bucko, she thinks.

"And he's so stupid. Making a mess like that. Shouldn't, he knows he shouldn't. Always going on about it, always taking all the attention. Never listening to me; tomorrow, tomorrow, he says, and tomorrow comes but he doesn't."

"Godaime," one of her medics murmurs, gaining her attention with a light, differential touch on her arm. "From observation, once he starts … rambling, like this, he'll only degenerate further."

As if in response, the Uchiha struggles to his feet (lacking his usual grace because—and this was something that Tsunade had not been hesitant to enforce at all—all injuries non-life-threatening have been left to heal at a more natural pace) and narrows his eyes.

"You know that. So where is he?" Sasuke pushes his hair off his forehead and paces the length of the wall with bare feet and fingertips. "It's the red, I'm sure of it," he adds with quiet wonderment. "There is always red around him, in his eyes, in his fist."

"Orochimaru, boy," Tsunade reminds gruffly. The youth twitches, a hand going to his neck while the other worries the padding on the wall.

"It's like snakes." He announces after a moment. "Snakeskin; shedding a small skin for a bigger one. Growth. Little deaths. Not dead, just small deaths."

The Sannin watches him for a moment longer, watches the boy picking a hole in the wall as if looking for his lost mind, and can't help but feel cheated.


Hmph. The things I do for you, boy.

Let me sleep; I'm bored of you now. You're on your own.


He awakens with a wet, startled rattle.

Choking, at first he thinks (when he is able to think because for a moment all he can do is try to breathe) that he has gone blind. His eyes are open, stretched as wide as they can go, and all he can see is thick, cool dark. He clamps down on his initial panic: there has got to be a reason for this, he thinks. Or he tries to. His thoughts are more like: oh my god I can't see I can't fucking see fuck fuck what the hell did Sasuke-fuck do oh god oh god amIblindwhereamIwhatdidhedo?

Breath catching raggedly, he tries to rub his eyes, thinking wildly that—maybe—there is something covering them, but when he goes to lift his hands he can't.

He can't move his arms.

What the f—

The sparks of rage flicker to life underneath the rushing horror constricting his chest and focuses. He will not be crippled. He can feel his shoulders and elbows, hands limp at his side; he can feel lungs expanding frantically in his chest and an ache in his belly. He can feel thighs and knees and feet. He can feel toes and fingers; with gritted teeth he wriggles them, sighing in relief when they move.

Okay, he thinks. Okay. Not paralyzed and okay. The air smells strangely damp, loamy, and black, if something can smell like a color. There is also the sharp scent of pine undercutting everything else; the smell feels like it should mean something, but right now he thinks that there are other things to be focused on.

Circulations returns slowly. Pins and needles attack his limbs with fierce vengeance, but they moved, which is the important thing. Taking several quick, shallow breaths, he flexes his hands, lifting them up—waist high now—up—just above his chest (almost to his face and once he gets rid of whatever's in his eyes …)—up—

His knuckles hit something.

Tentatively, he moves his fingertips across a rough, granular surface. The part of his brain that is able to form a coherent thought supplies: wood.

Wood?

Palms flat, he presses—the panel is unyielding and rewards him with splinters. God, he thinks throat tight with sudden claustrophobia, fuck. Boxed in, that helpful little voice in his head tells him. Trapped, he snaps back, scrabbling across the panel with his hands, looking for a lock, or a hatch or a handle and finding nothing goddamnit.

Slightly frantic now, he pulls a spurt of red chakra into his hands and thrusts upward, easily breaking apart the planks (or whatever they were) centimeters from his nose, and there is a muted rumble. Thick damp earth is abruptly pouring into his face, his eyes (this is why I can't see, he thinks, surprised that he can even form a thought); his ears—

He opens his mouth to scream, but only manages to swallow dirt. He claws upward with his hands, searching for air, or purchase, or something to block the soil drowning him. There is nothing—everything is too soft.

I will die here.

No.

He howls in his head because his mouth is full of clay. He will not let this happen. One thought resolves itself in his head, one sentence that rings clarion-bright, piercing through his terror like the shaft of an arrow: I will not die here.

With this centering him, he shuts his eyes and he digs.


Night air, cool against his skin, and a flash of eyes.

Earth clutches at him like a dying lover, attempting to drag him down with it. His nails are split open; blood and dirt streaking dark trails across his palms. He struggles, kicking and pulling against a solid current, and fisting tufts of grass for leverage. His lungs burn, feeling too large for his chest; he opens his mouth to scream and ends up vomiting earth and acid.

Halfway in the grave (but also halfway out), he collapses on his aching belly. But this hurts too, and he expends the energy to roll over on his back, which is a little better but not by much. The rushing of his heart in his ears precludes all other sounds and the grime in his lashes blurs his vision. A watery slice of light he thinks is the moon waxes overhead though the shivering of leaves and encroaching darkness.

The last thing he sees is eyes, with the hardness and color of river stones.


Notes:

1) I bet people are thinking, man; she copped out. And they're right. I kinda did. But there will be actually character death. Actual honest-to-god deader-than-a-doornail death. Just not right away 'cause, you know, plot and I have thirty chapters to fill up.

2) Credit needs to be given where credit is due. I was deeply influenced by randomsome1's characterization of Sakura's inner voice. Also, credit to Asuka Kureru, who really influenced the voice of Kyuubi, and-rather strangely-Shukaku. Upcoming chapters will get into that in more detail.

3) The next chapter has plot. Oooo.