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 3: Warmongering


And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

The Second Coming / W.B. Yeats


Tsunade is finishing her check-up on the copy ninja when the outraged shouts arise. Her first thought—before she can quell it, because she knows it isn't anything personal, really (and it's her job and she's being quite unfair, but still …)—is; why can't I get a fucking break?

Jaw tightening, nostrils flaring (because she is not happy. Because Kakashi is the worst fucking person to have as a patient, bar none; never staying in bed, never listening to her. Because she has slept maybe a total of a dozen hours in the past four days—not counting, of course, the night of the wake and the drinking and the alcohol-induced near-coma she eventually ended it in), she dumps her scrolls in Kakashi's nonchalant lap and wheels in time to see the door being kicked unceremoniously in.

She is going to rip the head off of whomever—

The Sannin freezes, something slightly crystalline fracturing in her chest as she sees a familiar golden form limp across one of the Sand-brat's narrow shoulders, dark earth caught in clumps of blonde hair reminding her of sin staining the soul. For a long moment, she isn't sure whether it's Dan or Nawaki or Naruto slung like a dirty sack over the youth's back; there is a terrible rushing in her ears and a sour taste in her mouth.

She sees the slightly distasteful look creasing Gaara of the Sand's face, and she sees a smudge of mud on his cheek, just by his chin. She sees her medics and her black-clad ANBU trying to crowd though the slim doorframe after the boy, and unable to due to simple spatial physics and the sand arisen in its master's defense. She hears Kakashi's sharp intake of breath, feels him start to move, rage and injury making his movements less than subtle.

She takes it all in, but not quick enough because before a word can be spoken or a blow exchanged, Gaara and his sands tumble the body at her feet. Naruto's chest heaves frantically under his abused coat, and there is a fevered flush to his cheeks. She sees raw knuckles, torn palms and broken nails.

With a grimace on his thin lips and a glare in his stone-green eyes, he bites out two hard words: "Fix him."


A devil sits on the head of a forgotten god.

It's fetching imagery, Yakushi Kabuto muses; whimsical and not entirely inaccurate. The dark man listing negligently atop the ear of a half-sunken statue can certainly be called a wicked person. Murdering one's entire clan does that to a reputation. With a sudden smirk, he chuckles to himself and considers that—were this any other person—it could be said that the man was sunbathing; the afternoon sun having seeped into the smooth green-speckled stone of the head making it delightfully warm, as he knows from personal experience.

He doesn't pretend to be silent. Not only does it serve no purpose for him, he also knows that he runs an unhealthy risk of getting a senbon or a kunai in the throat, or some other vital place. Without his approach masked Uchiha lazily tilts his head to glance at the older youth, acknowledging him with cool red eyes (and hell, he tells himself, even if he had tried to sneak up on him, the dark-haired shinobi would have known somehow, anyway).

"What do you want?" Kabuto shivers pleasantly, humming a little to himself. Itachi's voice makes him thinks of smoke and fires, of blades sharp and dull. He thinks that having that pinwheeling scarlet gaze directed at oneself, solely at oneself, is just as exciting as it is terrifying. He has always found power to be a bit of an aphrodisiac.

"An exchange," he says easily, shrugging off the voluminous cloak he'd brought to conceal him from the desert sun and prying eyes. Folding it with surgical precision Kabuto flops down on the fallen god's temple, right foot braced on a jutting brow. He sighs happily as the heat from the sunkissed stone sinks though his breeches and into his skin.

He ignores Itachi's detached curiosity, choosing instead to stretch out (as well as he is able, trussed up like a pig to slaughter in all his belts and needles and blades; he is still rather disgruntled that Orochimaru-sama had wished him to go and find the brother of his new vessel, though he can certainly understand his master's wish to curry favor—it wouldn't do, after all, to have him killed over a family feud he had nothing to do with) and bask in the waning daylight. Glasses a little askew, he traces the younger man's features—still fine and aristocratic for all the blood spilt on them.

"Ah, I love the desert in winter," he enthuses, narrowing his eyes to slits (almost closed but not, because that truly would be foolish) and relaxing, near boneless, on the stone. He sees faint annoyance flicker briefly across Itachi's handsome face. Blithely, he continues on, playing the genial fool. "I'm not much one for snow; far too wet, too cold; makes me want to sleep the winter away. Give me sun any day.

"Though," he chuckles, still watching cannily from behind his lashes. "The sun makes me sleepy as well."

The Uchiha snorts. A faint moue of distaste curving his lips, he stands and swings his red cloud-covered cloak across his shoulders. As Itachi looms warningly over him (a novel experience, he finds, because he's fairly certain that he's actually the taller of the two), Kabuto allows a idle smile to charm his lips upward; he finds it amusing that though his head knows Itachi is walking death incarnate and Someone Not To Be Messed With, his dick just doesn't remember.

"Sit, sit," he sighs, raising himself on his forearms. Straightening his spectacles, he props his chin on a fist, facing the dying light. The sun has reached the zenith of the horizon, casting long tawny shadows though the dunes and gilding the surrounding cliffs, the broken face of the half-submerged god, and its current occupants, all in molten gold. Kabuto likes the desert, likes the heat and the dryness, but he could never live here. Far too much open space.

The Uchiha remains standing. Kabuto feels were it anyone else, there would be a tick of some sort starting to flex in his jaw. Ah, might as well get right down to it. "As I said, Orochimaru-sama wishes for an exchange."

"Of?"

Not a man of words, the pale-haired man wants to jib but resists. He continues evasively. "The Akatsuki wishes to attain the Kyuubi. Orochimaru wishes to procure your younger brother. Surely, a man of your nature can see the benefit of … sharing."

"Information then."

Kabuto sits up, an arm braced on his knee, pretending (well, mostly pretending) distraction as a flying thing of some sort (disgusting insect; he represses a very real shudder) buzzes near his face. He snakes out a hand to snatch from the air. "Hmm? Oh, yes. Information; you scratch our back, we scratch yours, and so on."

In all honesty, this has been his idea from the beginning. Orochimaru-sama can be quite near-sighted at times, while Kabuto has always been one to think ahead. When Sasuke failed to arrive and Orochimaru slipped into his new skin, he'd already been spinning plans to widen their pool of influence during this weakened time. Especially once it was learned that all five of his master's pets had met a rather untimely demise. Really, he mourns, Orochimaru does not appreciate all that I do for him.

Itachi has perfected the blank face; Kabuto admires the view—skimming his eyes over what he can see of the other man's form, looking at both the physique and the weaponry—and cocks his head to one side.

"I highly doubt that you can offer us anything that we cannot get ourselves," he replies in a cool murmur.

"Oh I disagree." Kabuto's smile is sharp now, sharper than the edge of his scalpel, and full of dark things. "For instance, were you aware that the scion was killed by your own brother?"

The Uchiha's mouth flattens; dare he say, troubled? "We were … not yet aware of that information."

Kabuto's grin is sharp and rakish; smug. He knows that this is not something that the Akatsuki will want to hear, that this is enough to derail many key plans. They will need information, and that is not free; Itachi knows this. And by having information that the Akatsuki did not, he is in a position of power. But, by being magnanimous with his information, he gains favor, trust. Or at least the reputation of a fool, which is just as useful—loose lips and so forth.

"Then you also would be unaware, I assume, that he has made quite a, hmm, miraculous recovery." He hums; eyes wide and anything but innocent as Itachi watches him with that unfathomable stillness he possesses.

The sun dips lower and shadows increase; the departure of the daytime star signaled by a palpable drop in air temperature. Kabuto likes the desert when the sun is out well enough, but the nighttime is a bit of a different matter. It's becoming cool, and he is getting hungry; for food now, as well as other things. Complex power struggles always do that to him.

Standing, he clasps his cape in place. Opening his hand he picks a crushed wing from the insect he caught and contemplates it as it rest on his fingertip for a moment, admiring the way the bent membranes refract in the little light left, before blowing it away with a puff of breath. Briskly, he brushes the rest of the bug's remnants from palms and gives Itachi a brilliant smile.

"Let us sojourn," he says, his bow mocking and flourished. "We have much to discuss, I believe."


"So, are you lurking there for any particular reason?"

Because he actually is lurking (and he thinks with a sniff that he was doing quite well at it too), he immediately lies. After all, it would be far too bothersome to explain why he has been waiting for the Sand girl and her (creepy) brothers outside the village gates.

"Course not," Shikamaru denies, chomping on a long blade grass. He's picked a choice spot, right in the center of a sunny thatch free of roots and rocks, and lies stretched out on his back, head pillowed in his arms as he glares contemplatively at the tiny scrap of blue sky visible through the trees. This is slightly irritating because he really prefers an unobstructed view of the sky. "And I don't lurk. I wait, I watch, I laze, but I never lurk. Too troublesome."

Kankurou snorts, muttering something rude and amused under his breath that Shikamaru can't make out, though he thinks it might be something along the lines of 'bullshit.' Temari shoots a venomous look at her younger brother. Shikamaru just stands, brushing dust and roughage off his trousers, and tries to look innocent (or as innocent as a Nara man can, which—according to his mother—isn't very).

"Uh huh, well," the Sand kunoichi cocks her head to the side, making him think of a raven, only blonde with a crooked smile. "What are you doing out here then, if not lurking?"

Shikamaru evades the question neatly, grinning (what he hopes is) a dashing smirk. "So, leaving are you?"

Temari crosses her arms across her chest, matching smirk for smirk. Irritating girl. "For now."

It's on the tip of his tongue to ask if that means that they will be coming back—or wish them safe journey, whichever slips out first, though he doubts that any of the three would appreciate it; insufferably smug in their ability, all three siblings are—but he resists, running hands over his dark hair and lacing them together at the back of his neck. He really hadn't come out here for that. "Because of what happened with Uzumaki."

She holds his gaze for a minute before nodding. "Yeah."

"Not every day someone comes back from the grave," Kankurou adds from where he leans on his encased karasu. Much to Shikamaru's lax curiosity, he seems about to add more, but his eyes flicker from Gaara to Temari and then back, and he remains quiet.

"We have to report this to the Kazekage," Temari continues, tone brisk. "Otherwise we might have stayed a bit longer; creating good will between villages, etcetera."

"And checking up on Konoha's manpower," Shikamaru counters softly.

She smiles brilliantly. "And that."

He thought as much, because though he is grateful that Sand had assisted Leaf against the Sound, he still remembers the Chuunin exams and Sand's part in it. It only makes sense that they would be checking up on Konoha; positions of strength and so on. But—and this is what is really puzzling him—though Naruto's recovery is by every standard incredible (the idea of being dead and then not dead had caused Shikamaru to be a little nauseous for a moment, from both relief and fear. Ino had fainted. But then, his blue-eyed teammate is prone to melodramatics), but not something useful. The number of ANBU away on missions is useful intelligence. The number of missions still being serviced is useful; the death then resurrection of a leaf gennin is not. It's interesting. It's surprising. It's frightening. It's a puzzle worth looking at, but it is not useful. Not unless it can be applied to something.

Which, as far as he is aware, it can't.

Hence; conundrum.

"I see." Not. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, mentally stowing this information away for a later date. In the process, he pulls his Chuunin vest a little tighter, reminding him of his new rank. The flack vest still feels slightly awkward, like he is playing dress-up in his father's gear (not that he ever did that, or anything). Kankurou looks like he wants to say something to get them moving. Gaara looks a mixture of bored out of his mind, and faintly pissed off. But he always looks a bit like that, so Shikamaru feels it's safe to ignore him—to an extent of course. Would not do at all to be crushed to death by a fist of sand because he isn't paying attention now that he's a Chuunin. Temari just looks like she always does—trouble.

The (formerly) psychotic Gaara of the Sand gives what could almost be considered an impatient sniff and pins his sister (and Shikamaru, but that's just because he's in Gaara's immediate line of sight) with a stony stare. "I'm leaving."

He sees a nearly imperceptible tightening to her shoulders under the lavender (such a girly color, Shikamaru sneers—though not to her face, because he did that once with Ino and then there was much bleeding and pain) cloth of her tunic, but she nods and leaves a small smile on her face. "Okay. Be right there."

As Temari turns back towards Shikamaru, Gaara meets his eyes with an icy smirk and a hot green glare; it sends chills through his chest and a natural urge to reach for a kunai. He doesn't, but only because Gaara is gone in the next instant. Kankurou stays, but (Shikamaru suspects, because he would do the same with such a troublesome brother) only because he doesn't want to be in range if Gaara's in the mood to wreak havoc.

"Make sure you don't get yourself killed while we're gone," Temari grins, mostly mockingly. "I still need to find those gold teeth."

"Right, so you might want to watch for trouble yourself. 'Cause dead girls don't knock out many teeth to my knowledge," he rejoins dryly. Temari laughs aloud, and Kankurou just looks confused and a little long suffering.

Shikamaru watches the two remaining Sand gennin vanish into the murk of the forest, wondering briefly (because it really doesn't matter to him if they come back or not. He thinks) when they might return, and under what circumstances.

"Ahh," he mumbles aloud, rubbing the nape of his neck as he re-enters the village proper. Foolish, bothersome musings that he doesn't need to worry about. So he won't. At least, not for right now. Right now he needs to meet up with Ino near the Ichiraku Ramen because the stupid girl wants to bring a few bowls to Chouji, even though he already told her that their teammate is under strict instructions of no solid food for a few more days. Still, it will be funny to see the ensuing implosion.

A grin on his face, Shikamaru makes a leap for the rooftops as he heads back into the city.


Ino finds her in one of the hospital gardens. A handful of daffodils wrapped in white parchment rests at her side. She keeps her hands folded neatly in her lap, and smiles vaguely when she sees Ino. Miss her, Inner Sakura mumbles wistfully, wanting to slide her hand into Ino's, remembering the cool dryness of her skin, the slender iron of her grip, and the feel of absolute comfort.

Sakura wants to ask her who she's come to visit; Chouji, Sasuke or—just maybe—herself (not that she ever would, Inner Sakura reminds her, maybe just a touch bitterly, because you told her you didn't need her). She doesn't, and instead she says: "I think I'm beating you."

Ino flips a long whitegold strand out of her face, narrowing her eyes. Sakura remembers that expression from when they were smaller, remembers thinking, who is this girl? How does she do it? "Go ahead. I'm not sure he's worth it. And you won't beat me," she adds, pretty face haughty. "Because I don't want him."

When Ino says this, Sakura sees the surprise on the other girl's face that she thinks must be on her own. She believes Ino, and more importantly, Ino believes Ino, though she leaves out the anymore or the now. Sakura doesn't call her on it. Ino places hands on her hips and surveys her with something caught between a glare and something softer.

"Who're the flowers for?"

"Nobody," Sakura shrugs. At Ino's snort she elaborates: "I can't see either of them. Can't even get flowers to them; so … Nobody."

"What about Kakashi? Isn't he here too?" Ino asks, seemingly curious despite herself. She takes a seat to Sakura's right and Sakura sees that the other girl has a take-out bag of ramen at her side. Chouji then, Inner Sakura mutters deflating into a whisper in the back of her head. Some part of Sakura wilts a little, but only a little.

"He won't be able to eat that yet," she tips her head at the food. "And I can't find Kakashi. I think he took off, or something; he's never in his room."

"Ah," Ino replies.

"I'm scared." Sakura confides suddenly, though not looking at the other girl. She feels stupid and useless and helpless; out of the three, she isn't sure which is worse. "And happy. Because—Naruto isn't gone—so Sasuke didn't kill him. But—"

"Sasuke did kill him," Ino interrupts coolly, not looking at Sakura either. Sakura fiddles uneasily with the head of one of her daffodils. She wants to disagree, but somehow can't. Because Ino's right and you know it, Inner Sakura says sharply. Sasuke did kill Naruto. You saw him—stop pretending.

Even so, she still wants to explain how relieved she is that Naruto is alive again; how happy it makes her because he shouldn't ever die, because now (maybe) she can stop feeling so guilty. Because, maybe, it can go back to the way it was; her chasing Sasuke's back while Naruto pursues her and Sasuke tries to catch him, in a strange-sided sort of triangle.

Scalene triangle, Inner Sakura supplies with just a touch of acid. A triangle with three uneven sides, three unequal angles; fitting, isn't it?

I can't stand this.

She thrusts the bouquet into the blonde-girl's lap, standing abruptly. "Take them. For Chouji," she adds at Ino's surprised look. "Or Kiba, if you're going to see him, or whoever. Or for your self even, if it's too weird. I just … I've got to go."

Ino accepts the flowers with a queer look on her face and pale pink high in her cheeks and the tips of her ears (is she blushing? Inner Sakura goggles for a second before scoffing; never, not Ino). Before she gets too far away, Ino calls out after her.

"The weatherman said it's going to rain," Ino waves a parasol in the air that Sakura hadn't noticed she'd brought. Some ninja you are, Inner Sakura snipes. What if it had been a knife? "So, keep an eye out. Thunderstorms and stuff."

Sakura smiles faintly, waves goodbye, and sets out for the Hokage's office.

Finally.


Neji—as he has been told, several times, by Shizune-san, his uncle, and Godaime respectively—is recovering from a potential near-fatal injury, has only recently been allowed to get out of bed. And only then because his keepers kept finding him out of it, against their express wishes ("I give up," Tsunade-dono had roared, startling both him and Hiashi-sama, who had been visiting him at the time. "You are almost worse than Kakashi. Fine! Fine. See if I care if you cripple yourself."). Despite the context, Neji can't help but feel a twinge of pride being compared to the legendary Copy Ninja. So Neji sits by his window, peering out at the world he has been temporarily banished from.

The week of good weather has disintegrated. Swollen grey thunderheads lap at the tops of trees, edging quickly across a sky which seems a richer blue for it. The wind has picked up, though it's still fairly warm. If Neji closes his eyes it feels like an almost familiar hand, soft on his face; he thinks it might be his mother's hand, though he can't remember her too well, or—

It makes him uncomfortable to think about the only other person who's hand had so gently touched his face, even if it had been years ago. Hinata hasn't come to see him and he's glad of it. Hinata … Hinata makes him uncomfortable. She is weak, soft-spoken, and generous; sometimes, against all logic, she reminds him of his father.

He wonders, not for the first time, how she had taken the news of Naruto's death. He wonders even more how she'd taken his resurrection (he had felt … cheated on the former, and strangely relieved on the latter; it had been like someone had tied a cloth over his eyes, blinding him, only to remove it and try to pass it off as a poor joke).

A bonedeep rumble of thunder sounds; clouds flashing ominously. He has been told by his uncle, that—since his return in a near coma about four, five days ago—that it was all very macabre; shining platinum sunlight, clear blue sky, and him in the arms of a medic, all blue and black and red. Hiashi-sama says he had been … concerned.

Mostly Hiashi will just sit with him, reading, or using his Byakugan to study the building around him and its busy occupants (something that Neji can't do for a little while; the Godaime told him that he'd—for lack of a better term—sprained his trait. If it had been anyone but Tsunade-dono, he'd have bet his life that she had no idea what she was talking about). Though just a little after he'd awoken for the first time since returning (with a piercing headache and a feeling like steel wire pulled tight around his heart) Hiashi had said gruffly: "It will not do for you to die. Make sure this doesn't happen again."

It's a strange feeling, Neji muses, discovering you have a family.

He glances outside again, taking in the frothing storm clouds and wishes that he is anywhere but where he actually is. He wishes for his room (though it has only ever been a place for silence and sleep—both things that he misses because both are in short supply here) for while one can recover at a hospital, he has discovered, one cannot actually rest. He thinks it might have to do with the smell; surgical steel and chlorine, bleach and antiseptics (home has never smelt so rank, even on the worst of days, and that's why it is home). Every thing is just slightly familiar, but not enough to count. They do say that familiarity breeds comfort, and all that. Neji chuckles a little to himself—familiarity has nothing to do with comfort.

Comfort is something you have to make for yourself. This is something he had decided long ago, back when his father sat him in the dojo to watch his young cousin and told that his death was already determined; back when he was told that I'm sorry, your father is dead and the world had seemed that much clearer, colder, like a sheen of ice had glazed it.

Ice and sunlight. He thinks, though he will never admit to being a poetic person because—ah—poetry and things like that are weak, a weakness, or something. But he can't help but think sometimes that Naruto is the ray of sunlight that helped him thaw. Even now, he feels something far to close to a blush stain his pale face; normally he just doesn't react like this, but he's tired and emotional and recovering from a near-death experience so he gives himself some leniency.

However, he knows there is no excuse when he doesn't hear the door to his room whine open. It's only when the intruder clears his throat that Neji even realizes that someone else is in the room with him and glances up. I'm losing my touch, he mourns resolving that the minute he can leave this blasted room he will go to the Compound's training grounds and school himself.

"Ah, so you are awake."

Rock Lee has snuck up on him. Trying to hide his faint disbelief (and a large chuck of chagrin) Neji darts a quick look out the window, just to make sure the sky hasn't caved in. Worse yet, Lee sees this and laughs. Laughs. Grumbling, he gives the other boy a severe frown.

"It's not that funny, you know." His acerbic reply is ruined by the miniscule softening of his face, the almost-but-not-quite-yet smile lurking in his cheeks. Lee, to his credit, tries to sober up, though instead he absolutely dissolves into laughter. Watching him, Neji sees that the laughter is slightly closer to tears than either boy will admit and that the tone is far more relieved than it probably should be.

"Sorry," he wheezes out. He runs a hand over his face; takes a calming breath. "Sorry. Just—well—stuff has happened, ah, hell."

For a slightly terrifying moment, Neji thinks that his teammate is going to break into one of his patented spastic Gai-sensei approved speeches on eternal rivalry, or friendship, or some such nonsense, or maybe even just tears (which would be the worst, Neji decides, the absolute worst). To his relief Lee doesn't do any thing like that, and instead merely breaks into a blinding white (and slightly watery) grin.

"TenTen has been worried about you," Lee says, coughing to even-out his voice which is—strangely—and octave higher than normal. "Gai-sensei too. They would have come, but, well, the village is still a little shorthanded so … Mission." He shrugs, still smiling and the motion causes Neji to notice for the first time that the other boy has a book clutched in one hand.

Neji makes a noncommittal grunt, unsure what to feel. Relieved (sort of) to not be subject to his rather … enthusiastic teacher's ranting. And maybe a little disappointed that the rest of his team didn't come see him (except, he tells himself sternly, he isn't because their village, because their duty, comes first and it should. Really).

"You look terrible," Lee adds, flopping down in a chair he's pulled up from somewhere.

"Thanks," is his dry reply.

Lee smirks cheekily. "Thought for a while there that you were a goner. Scared me, 'cause I still have to beat you into the dirt, if you recall."

Neji snorts rudely to show just what he thinks of the idea, but doesn't comment beyond that. Perhaps because—even without his Byakugan—he sees something exposed in Lee's dark gaze that he isn't entirely comfortable with. It reminds him entirely too much of electric-blue eyes and a disarming smile/snarl (Loser, Winner; which is which now?).

Maybe his fight has done something to him, softened him or opened his face up or something, because Lee leans forward after a minute, licking his lips and just looking dizzysick as he speaks the thoughts circling the Hyuuga's brain.

"He was dead, Neji." Lee drops the honorifics as unabashed horror roughens his voice. "I saw him. There was this hole in his stomach—" The world tilts for a second before righting itself. Neji shudders, but he attributes that to the open window and the now-cool breeze. "—I saw him get put in the ground. He was dead."

But he's not now, Neji wants to reaffirm. He'd overheard the Godaime when she'd informed his uncle of the development and how she would be busy for the next while. This was three days ago. He doesn't because, well, he just doesn't. Casting about for a change of topic he picks the book forgotten in Lee's white-knuckled grip.

"What's that?" At the taijutsu-user's blank gaze Neji gestures at the narrow book in his hands. Lee stares for a minor eternity—obviously having forgotten that the book even existed—before tossing it on the bed.

"I figured you'd be bored in here," he says with another shrug. He leans on a fist and put his feet up on the windowsill. "I know I was, when I was here."

"…What's it about?" He is loath to ask because this feels too much like pity for his comfort, and a Hyuuga should never be pitied. Feared, certainly; glorified, absolutely—but pitied? Never.

"Birds." Lee answers promptly. There is absolutely no trace of irony or teasing in his countenance. "Got all different kinds in there. Would have brought you binoculars, but thought since you have your blood limit and all …"

Neji doesn't tell him that he can't use the Byakugan at the moment. He doesn't bring up the mark on his forehead or his place in his family or his hastily spoken words during the Chuunin exam. He doesn't say anything at all. Had this gesture, this book, come from anyone else (well, not anyone, maybe; he thinks he would have believed Naruto because Lee and Naruto are cut from the same cloth in this respect), he would have thought that they were making fun of him, trying to hurt him. Lee wants to defeat him. Wants to show him, like Naruto had, that birth and position and promise are separate entities. There is no malice in Lee.

The dark-haired youth stands, leans against the window, peering out at the dim sky. He leans so close that Neji can smell the dust from the training grounds on his skin; he inhales it greedily. "Storm's coming. Quickly too."

"Hmm."

Lee pulls the window shut, scolding him in a manner than Neji wavers between being amused by and annoyed with. "You need to rest. Rest's the great healer, Gai-sensei always says."

Neji chokes back a rude noise (because even if his teacher is a bit of a crack-pot, he is still a Jounin and his superior and he has to have done something to get where he is today and … he isn't entirely sure that Lee wouldn't thump him for it), and hobbles from his seat by the window to his bed. He joints are stiff, muscles clamping up periodically. Shizune-san has told him that it will fade with time, so all he has to do is be patient.

Lee is moving to the door at a somewhat jaunty pace. Bastard, Neji thinks without too much venom. At the door the dark-haired youth pauses, turning.

"Oh, and Hinata says to get better," Lee looks … curious, possibly. Maybe a little puzzled. Maybe a little surprised. Neji isn't sure because he is suddenly focused on the crease of the ceiling above his head. He counts the number of fractures in the plaster (five) and tries to figure out the size of their angles in relation to one another with (slightly) rusty geometry skills.

"She says that she'll try to come see you later; says every time she's been by you've been out of it." He continues, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. "She's a nice girl. What time she didn't spend with Kiba she spent with you; I even heard that Tsunade-dono had to send her home a couple times because she just wouldn't leave."

Hinata; dark-haired and white-eyed, with the perfect Hyuuga features but not the strength.

Hinata who he'd first seen before he knew the difference between being of the Head Family and being of the Branch, and who he'd wanted to protect despite that.

Hinata who he hates because she has everything that he never will, and who he protects because of it.

Hinata who he had beaten to unconsciousness and almost death, and who he had believed—had been so absolutely sure—would finally hate him back.

Hinata who, like Naruto, just doesn't give up.

God damn her.


Outside the sky has blackened; lightning splices bloated charcoal clouds releasing a deluge of rain on to the city.

Naruto smells rain and blood and something cold, and it drags him from sleep's warm embrace and back into the waking world.

With an aching head.

Shit—he keeps his lids lowered, trying futilely to block out some of the harsh yellow of the neon light. Pulling his lips back from his teeth, he snarls and a voice emerges through the pounding in his ears.

"Relax. You're in the hospital. I'm turning down the lights."

Of course Naruto thinks; who the hell would relax after that, and promptly struggles to sit upright with strangely weak limbs. His mouth tastes stale. After a moment—and quite against his will—he falls back on the bed. If he was any less tired, he is sure his face would be red with humiliation. Thankfully, at that moment the lights dimmed to a faint golden glow towards his right (a lamp, or something, he thinks) and he finds it's safe to crack his eyes open.

Ugh … Or not so safe; even the low light of the bedside fixture hurts like needles sewing away his thoughts, as he finds out. A low groan escapes him and a deep laugh replies to him.

"Don' laugh at me," Naruto moans, twisting away from the lamp. The light is doused. Thank god; he wants to weep as the pain recedes to something slightly manageable.

Okay, he thinks pragmatically. Let's work on opening the eyes and go from there.

He slits his eyes open, and when he doesn't keel over dead or unconscious (because, for a while there, both seemed like viable options), he widens them and finds himself staring at a shapeless blob of grey. Naruto blinks rapidly and the object slowly comes in focus. Oh; it's just Kakashi, he thinks in relief.

Kakashi?

The boy bolts upright, and regrets it instantly. His head swims and his middle twists horrifyingly; he thinks if there were anything in it, it wouldn't be there for much longer. Large hands steady him, and he leans into them gratefully.

"I said relax."

Well then. If Kakashi said relax, then he probably should. Gradually, Naruto unclenches his muscles and as he does he feels his bones turn to jelly. Fuck, he thinks, sliding back down on the (rather uncomfortable, he now notices) hospital bed. So not a smart move on his part, the whole sitting up thing, a (annoyingly) helpful voice in his head tells him; he tells it to shut the hell up.

Finding himself able to move his head (slightly), Naruto turns and rolls his eyes at his teacher. The grey-haired man grins in … relief? No, no, Naruto looks speculatively at the older man, trying to gauge his reaction. Kakashi only does relief when his team catches him doing something … not so kosher and then escapes their wrath by divine miracle. Not relief, definitely not, but maybe amusement?

Bastard.

"What're you grinnin' at?" He mumbles, and is surprised by the faint slurring of the words.

"Nothing in particular," his teacher drawls. Then a slightly more serious look crosses the masked face, and the smile fades. "But you do need to rest. You're still healing inside, and Godaime says you need sleep for that."

"Ol' hag here?" Naruto frowns, trying to remember just what he was doing before, well; before he ended up prone and head-achy in the hospital. There is definitely something he's missing because there is a gaze patch under Kakashi's forehead protector, over his Sharingan, and he looks older somehow.

"Not at the moment, but she's going to be check on you in a bit."

Oh.

Restlessly, Naruto twists his head to look and see if he can make out anything on the other side of the bed, and hears a crack of thunder for his efforts. A few seconds later a flash of lightning illuminates the room. He sees long blank walls, and in the halflight they take on the shade of wet river stones—

Dirt in his mouth and above him eyes—green and black and a flash of white; a red kanji stark on skin the color of sand and a hand firm on his wrist, hauling him up and over—

Ugh.

"Your head hurt?" Naruto nods pitifully, and he feels tears leak from his eyes. It just hurts so fucking much; it feels like he died, except when you're dead you're dead so no one knows what that feels like, and it's a stupid analogy anyway. Embarrassed, he turns his cheek in the direction of the window. Another rumble of thunder recedes and a flicker of lightning manifests.

"Here," a glass is held to his lips, blessedly cool, but he finds that he can only drink a little. Even so, he feels markedly better for it. "Most likely a dehydration headache; drink lots of water. Don't want to risk giving you something that might make you worse."

Or you want to torture me to death, Naruto is tempted to snipe, but his eyes feel far too heavy and he starts to wonder vaguely if the water really was just water and not actually laced with a sedative after all.

"Sleep Naruto," Kakashi murmurs, or that's what he thinks the other man is saying. A crack of distant thunder drowns out his voice. Naruto struggles to stay awake by counting the seconds between the sound and the light but somewhere after five he finds himself drifting off; the crackle of blue light troubling his dreams.


"Huh," Kisame grunts around a mouthful of food. "A bold move for someone so sly. Do ya think Orochimaru knows about it?"

Itachi taps the side of his bowl with a long finger, a thoughtful frown on his face. "He'll know about most of it, one would think."

"Cheeky bastard, that Kabuto is," Kisame grins viciously, alien eyes flashing. "Wouldn't mind having a bit of fun with 'em; sure he'd appreciate my sense of humor."

Itachi makes a noncommittal noise. His plate sits half-eaten and forgotten in front of him. Kisame is moving on to his third helping. Abruptly, Itachi stands, red-clouded cloak swirling around his ankles. "We need to get back."

"Hey, hey, hey; I'm not finished yet," Kisame protests slurping back the rest of the broth of his soup. He grumbles, retying his own cloak with nimble fingers and adjusting the round reed hat to his liking. "Besides, I thought we were supposed to wait here to check-up on the Sand brat. Especially after you left the nine-tails behind that time."

Kisame chuckles; "I thought you were gonna be skinned that time." The glint in his eyes lets Itachi know that he would have been more than happy to assist with the suggestion, had it been carried through. He represses a grimace of disgust (as if that idiot would get anywhere near me, he thinks disdainfully) and drops enough coins on the table to cover the meal. No more, no less. Kisame stretches leisurely, eyeing the smooth skin and plump flesh of one of the servers at the bar with a different kind of hunger.

"Hurry up."

"Tch, impatient are we? What did that white rat give up that would cause you so much anxiety, hmm?" Itachi can only see Kisame's strange white-on-black eyes glittering madly from underneath his the brim of his hat.

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with."

"Whatever. The data better be good this time though. Don't fancy missing another paycheck."

Itachi does not reply, striding swiftly through the crowds that part unconsciously before him. Kisame follows without a word and soon they have reached the city limits. Itachi checks his gear, making sure his blades are stowed effectively and his senbon and summoning scrolls accessible, as he passes through the large stone gates. The chill night wind of the desert plucks at his face where exposed, shifting sand made stark white by moonlight.

Once, a long time ago, Itachi remembers thinking the first time he crossed the desert at night, with its sculpted waves of silver and pale, that it is like walking across clouds. With this thought lingering strangely in the back of his skull, Itachi moves towards the opaque darkness lying beyond the city lamps until it swallows him whole.


Note:

1) First off, Neji is a bitch to write. He was by far the hardest of all the characters that I've tackled. Again, Shikamaru was the easiest. Huh, guess that says something, no?

2) Forgot to mention this in Chapter 2, but the whole coffin scene was inspired by Kill Bill, Part 2. Didn't like it as much as the first one, but there were parts that were just brilliant. So, again, credit where it's due.

3) Kabuto is evil. I hope that I got him somewhat close to right, because he was interesting to write and I'm going to try to do him again. Now we are getting into that whole plot thing that I mentioned eariler.

4) Plot is hard. My writing wants to disintergrate into character dribble and angst. Plot wants snark and action. Which I don't write. But I love Plot, so am trying to make plot happy. Whether or not it's a sucessful attempt or not ... only time will tell. I guess.