.

.

The first thing he was aware of was the pain. Pain in his chest, in his throat and his arms and legs. His lungs burned. Slowly, his eyes blinked open, and he saw a blank white space, blurry images, something beeping in the background. He was on his back; he jerked his arm upward only to find his wrists were restrained. There was something hard and stiff shoved deep in the back of his throat, air being forced into his lungs, making him cough and gag.

He tried to move his sluggish body, disoriented and pulling against the restraints. In the distance he thought he could hear someone talking. A soft, warm hand on his forearm. It startled him. The beeping in the background grew faster.

What the hell was this? What the hell was going on? His last memory was of lying on his back and talking to Hashirama. He was dying. He thought he actually died...

One forceful thrust of his arm, and the restraints snapped. Someone tried to hold his arm but he pushed them back. He could hear footsteps running toward him as he wrapped his hands around the tube sticking down his throat and yanked. There was the sound of air sputtering, vent alarms going off wildly. The tube slid out of his mouth with a sickening pop, and Madara gasped, struggling to breathe.

"Madara. Madara!" Someone smacked him on the back, helping him as he coughed violently. "Easy, easy. You were in the hospital. You were on a breathing machine."

Madara's eyes slid upward, his Sharingan active. And soon he was able to focus on Hashirama's face.

xXx

.

He walked around in a daze. The hospital confused him. It was different from the convalescent wards where injured shinobi would gather, the healers rubbing herbs and plying chakra to their wounds. He never dreamed that one day the medical arts would be augmented by machines.

"They called it cardiogenic shock. You were bleeding internally from your wounds."

Madara sat at the edge of the bed, palming the incision on his abdomen, listening listlessly while Hashi explained everything to him. He had been unconscious but his heart was still beating. She kept him tethered by her chakra, keeping him from dying.

The kage debated whether or not they should kill him. There wasn't a prison that could hold him. He'd be too dangerous to leave alive.

"Let me have him," Hashi said. The other kages looked on as Hashi knelt over Madara's body, one hand pressed flat on his chest. "I'm stronger than him. I will take responsibility for him."

The Raikage pulled out his sword from his back. "This isn't your decision," the Raikage said. He held the sword above Madara's chest.

Hashi grabbed the blade with her hand.

"If you wish to kill him," Hashi said, and her voice dropped, menacingly, "you will have to go through me."

The kages' eyes widened. Hashi stood quietly.

Now she was in his room, arranging a vase of flowers by the window. The sunlight from the window outside filtered through the glass, which refracted like a prism; Madara could see the rainbow-tinged shadows moving on the wall.

"Now that you're awake, you'll probably be discharged soon, and I can take you back to my apartment," Hashi said. She turned the vase to one side, then the other.

Madara looked up. Hashi was standing at the window, her body blocking the sun so that all he could see was a soft orb around her.

"We're officially war buddies! I can't wait to do actual missions with you," she said.

And she smiled at him, sunlight running through her hair.