Title: The Man
Theme: #9 - Dash
Rating: PG-13/T for language (because I seem incapable of writing without the use of certain four-letter words)

Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed in this story are the sole property of Kishimoto-sensei and the assorted corporate types who've bought the rights. I've merely borrowed them for a brief time.

The pervy old hermit was, I suppose, kind of good for me. And while I'd never bother to call Jiraiya a father figure exactly (Iruka comes closer than anyone else, I think), Jiraiya was key in imparting a certain set of . . . skills, I guess you could call them.

At the age of fifteen, I know at least three dozen excuses to toss out should I ever happen to be caught peeping at the ladies' side of a bathhouse.

I've seen dozens of naked women in my life, most of them beautiful. It's had a sort of desensitizing affect, I think. After a while, the breasts and thighs and swirls of long hair begin to blend together into a kind of bland, unremarkable archetype. I've never understood Jiraiya's obsession with peeping at random girls. I mean, sure, I like naked chicks as much as the next man, but geez, after a while you just need a break!

But this, well, desensitization is as good a word as any . . . it means that despite little actual experience with girls, I don't tend to trip over my words when I have to deal with them.

I am smooth.

I am the man.

Anyway, let me set the scene for you. It was a Saturday night, and I had somehow managed the impossible: Sakura had finally agreed to go out with me. And not for some stupid "just-friends" thing either. It was a date. A real one. Not the kind that I had to trick her into or bribe her with free food from a fancy restaurant.

We did go to a fancy restaurant, however. And the restaurant didn't carry ramen, so I kind of sulked my way through a couple orders of some spicy beef while Sakura delicately picked at the salad she'd ordered.

What's up with girls and salads anyway? Does Sakura really think she needs to lose weight? Or is she trying to prove something to me? I mean, I've seen her down a bowl of ramen nearly as fast as me, so what's the point of ordering a salad on our date?

Once dinner was over and Sakura finished sneaking breadsticks when she thought I wasn't watching, we headed out to walk around a bit. I knew this would be my chance. Sakura was in a good mood after her tiny salad and all those fancy breadsticks. And when she's in a good mood, she lets me get away with a lot more.

I wanted a kiss tonight.

I was determined to get a kiss.

I just kept repeating to myself: I am smooth. I am the man. And I felt my confidence rise as we lingered on a small, red-painted bridge.

"I had a lot of fun tonight," Sakura said suddenly, breaking nearly a minute of vaguely-awkward silence.

"You don't have to sound so surprised, Sakura," I told her, feeling a little injured.

"That didn't quite come out right, I don't think," Sakura added quickly. "It's just that you're usually in my face the whole time and you've been acting like, well, an adult, all evening."

Score!

"Well, I am an adult, Sakura," I noted with what I hoped was a suavely raised eyebrow. I'd seen Shikamaru use that particular maneuver on girls with great success. And I'm not above stealing techniques from my friends.

Sakura looked me over, eyes lingering for some reason on my shoulders. "Yes, you certainly are, Naruto," she murmured.

I took that as a good sign and sidled a little closer to lean on the railing next to her. I absently picked flakes of red paint off the railing to keep my hands busy.

"So," I said.

"Yes?" replied Sakura, giving me one of those half-lidded stares that always make my blood pressure rise.

You see, while I'm pretty desensitized when it comes to random naked girls, Sakura always affects me like this, and I've still never quite figured out why. I mean, she's not the prettiest girl I know. That'd probably be Ino, or maybe Tenten. And Hinata definitely has a better figure, all curvy and hourglass-shaped. But for some reason it's always been Sakura for me. Sakura and none other.

"Well, I'm just glad that you had a good time tonight," I replied stupidly.

So much for suave.

"I might even consider doing something like this again." Sakura smiled and I momentarily fumbled a chip of red paint, lodging it painfully beneath my fingernail.

Fuck.

"How about tomorrow night?" I immediately replied, trying to ignore the excruciating pain of the paint-splinter.

"Tomorrow's Sunday," Sakura replied, vaguely taken-aback.

I shrugged. "Does it matter?" My finger throbbed and I thought it might be bleeding, though I didn't want to distract Sakura from her good mood by looking down at my war-wound.

Sakura shrugged back. "I don't know. It's just kind of a non-traditional day for a date. Unless you want to do lunch or something."

I perked up. "I could go for that . . ."

Sakura opened her mouth to respond then glanced down at my hand. "You want me to fix that for you or are you just going to suffer it stoically?"

I jumped. "Er . . . It's not that bad," I said.

Sakura rolled her eyes and grabbed the injured hand. "Hush," she murmured before focusing her chakra and getting to work.

After the initial spike of agony when Sakura pried the paint shard out with her fingernail, her chakra soothed the pain and gently knit the flesh back together. Tsunade may be a crazy, superficial old bag, but she certainly is the master of her field and she's taught Sakura well.

"There," Sakura announced once she finished tying off her handkerchief around my finger.

"Thanks," I said, distracted somewhat by the fact that she wasn't letting go of my hand.

This time she was the one to sidle closer.

I am smooth. I am the man.

I gave her one of my patented shit-eating grins, the kind that all the younger kunoichi think is so sexy.

She eyed me through her eyelashes. "So?" she said.

"What?" I asked.

She leaned in and I felt her breath on my chin. "You gonna kiss me or what?"

I grinned wider.

I am so the man.

Then I caught a whiff of her perfume. It was . . . different from whatever stuff she usually wears. She's usually a citrus girl, and my well-honed sense of smell can generally pick out the lemon from the sweet orange from the pink grapefruit. Tonight it was something irresistibly floral, violets or lilacs or lavender or something purple. Something different and exotic and new. It made my whole body tremble and all I could think of was: Do something you jackass before she thinks you're retarded you half-wit!

Do I kiss her? Do I make a suave comment? Do I try Shikamaru's eyebrow trick again? Fuck . . .

This time Sakura was the one to raise the single eyebrow and give me a measuring look.

Do something!

So I ran.

I bolted from Sakura like a frightened rabbit. I didn't even stammer out an excuse, like any normal idiot. I just ran as fast as I could into the woods.

I am so not the man.

And I will never live this down.