Hello! This is a continuation of 'Loss for Words,' which was started with the intention of being completely stand alone. But I do like writing about these two, and sometimes inspiration strikes enough that I can bull through a full vignette. This is mostly some backstory for the two of them, and a (start of a) look at how the event of the miscarriage effects their relationship.

Itachi started smoking at the ripe young age of 12 years old. It was one of the few social activities that didn't require being good at small talk, and for a young boy who's early education in socialization was forgone completely, it served as an easy way to integrate himself into the circles of the older shinobi.

There was something remarkable that seemed to come over his teammates and colleagues when they'd step of out a bar and into the street of whatever town they were in. An openness and eagerness to share that none could hope to experience while on a mission. Something about the emptiness of the night and the stillness of the air, after the stuffy and raucous interior, begged for conversation, for grand confessions and meaningful conversations. There was a willingness to listen and a profound need to be listened to that always seemed to present itself.

Whenever he caught the signaling motion out of the corner of his eye, the raised pack or hand to lip motion, he followed out quickly to join. These people wouldn't want to talk to him otherwise. He was both too young and too intimidating to be approached as a friend.

It was Kakashi who had first gotten him started. Noticing his discomfort on one particularly drunken night (during which Itachi was the only sober officer out of seven), he gently pulled his colleague out under the pretense of a smoke break. The silverhaired nin hadn't intended to offer him one, but found himself holding the pack open to him, letting the young boy watch the ritual of lighting and inhaling carefully.

There was something tragically symbolic in seeing the 12-year-old light up regularly, he'd thrown himself into his responsibilities with as much cynicism and stoic acceptance as the oldest veteran. Memento mori-esque, any delusions he'd had of a normal life, a normal long life, up in smoke.

When he was 26 Haruno Sakura was assigned to his team as a temporary medic. Proposed by the Fifth, and often cited with some derision as a 'pet-project' of hers, she began requiring all ANBU teams to keep a medic in rotation for all field work. He knew precious little about the Haruno girl before that, outside of the context of her being his brother's teammate. He knew the reputation she had made for herself, but beyond feeling confident that she wouldn't get them all killed, and having to make the necessary adjustments to formations and strategies, he didn't spare much thought to her.

The first mission was an unremarkable success. She worked quickly, efficiently, and that was as much praise as he could offer her. When they returned the team went out for the customary celebratory drink, and at three in the morning, when most of his teammates were slumped against the bar, he felt the familiar longing building up in his chest. Standing with as much grace as a sober man, Sakura caught his eye with silent questioning. Holding up the pack by way of explanation he tilted his head towards the door in wordless invitation. She followed him out, and it struck him that she appeared was much sturdier than he would have expected. That said, she was 19, a medic, and apprenticed to the most eminent alcoholic of the village, it wasn't surprising that she'd learned to handle her alcohol by this point – he simply couldn't help contrasting her with Sasuke, who would have been passed out by now.

"No, thank you," she said, in response to the proffered cigarette. He nodded his compliance. They were both quiet, a comfortable silence. Him with his hips resting against the railing, her with her back against building, both letting the relative peace of the night wash over them. Contented though she was to simply look at him, it wasn't long before she started speaking. Her eyes were bright and engaged, the alcohol dulling her natural shyness but not her introspective thoughts, emboldening her and giving her carriage a lightness he hadn't seen on the mission.

"You really shouldn't smoke," she told him matter of factly.

"Hn," a noncommittal response.

"Really. I've seen what it does to your body, it's awful for you." Her insistence was endearing, earnestness in her expression and tension in her forehead. She looked down at the beer she'd brought out with them, swirling it around lightly.

He could recognize that pose and those mannerisms, the ones of someone to just wants to talk to anyone who'll listen. It was a quiet night, he had nothing better to do, and she seemed interesting enough to observe. Taking a long draw, he pulled the fag away, feeling the smoke swell in his mouth before letting it out in a gentle sigh.

"Is it?" He didn't need the answer, but she seemed eager to share it.

"It causes a whole myriad of health problems. Tar build up in the lungs, weakened immune system, heart disease, cancer…" she went on in that manner for several minutes, her medic training showing itself as she delved deeper and deeper into the dangers. "And it's disgusting."

Her abrupt shift of tone made him chuckle slightly. Just a slight shaking of his chest and rise and fall of his shoulders, but a chuckle none the less.

"What?"

He didn't answer, only responded with his own question.

"Do you give all your patients this lecture?"

"Of course," she said brusquely.

"I'm not your patient," he countered. The cig was burning low, filter burning, but he steadfastly drew in again.

"No," she said confusedly, unsure why that should signify. "But you are under my care. And my best friend's brother. And my friend. Why shouldn't I be concerned?"

"Do you think I don't know the health risks?" Why he wanted to keep her talking he couldn't say, and he chose to ignore her profession of friendship while supplying more leading questions.

"Of course you do," She said, finishing off the beer, "I'm sure you do. But I know how stubborn Shinobi can be. It's not like telling you you're killing yourself once is going to make much of an impact. Repetition has to be the key."

She seemed to be finished talking, but he wasn't done listening to her. He lit another cigarette, not willing to go back into the bar and share her company.

"You could consider going on missions like todays suicidal. Is that not the same thing?"

She looked up at him, momentarily distracted with examining a weed by her foot. She thought long and hard, probably longer than she actually needed to, before answering with less confidence.

"No…"

He silently invited her to continue, blowing the smoke from his mouth in a long exhale.

"No." She seemed to regain whatever confidence she had lost. "Because a mission like that has a reason, has a justification. Losing your life on a mission can at least have a greater purpose. And I don't see why, after everything you've survived, you'd want to just die from some disease eating away at you. There's so much to live for, that you would throw it away on anything besides the village doesn't make sense to me."

She held his eyes with hers, though he wasn't sure if it was for intensities sake or merely because her mind had begun to wander while she remained fixed on him. His lips almost turned up, and he took a last drag before throwing his cigarette to the ground, stamping it out gently. He took her empty bottle from her hands, and she seemed to come back to reality as she followed him inside.

He didn't quit smoking that night, or even that year. It wasn't until he was 27, and approaching his three month anniversary of dating her, that he smoked his last cigarette.

Now, 32, leaning against that same railing, he catches the eye of the girl across from him, beer in hand, leaning against the wall of the building. She's average height, average build, average everything. He doesn't notice a single thing about her, but he does bum a cigarette off her. He smokes it down to the filter, not bothering to listen to whatever conversations are happening around him. Just reigniting old, bad habits, from when the village was all he had to live for.

What's the fucking point, he asks himself.

Not for the first time is she grateful that Itachi is a genius. It saves her the trouble and the heartbreak of explaining exactly why she's handing him back the diamond solitaire. It only takes one sentence for him to fully grasp what took her weeks to accept.

A week later and she's secluded herself in her office; seemingly the only well-lit room in the entire ANBU headquarters. She's buried herself in paper work, pouring over the lab results of an operative's blood test. It's just a nasty virus, nothing a good round of antibiotics can't cure, but devoting all her attention to that is easier than thinking of anything else.

She should try to accept it at some point. Denial can only last so long. But she'd rather die from overwork than heartbreak, she's better than that. It's at least healthier than swinging back half a bottle of vodka, which she'd considered on more than one lonely night. There are some habits she didn't manage to pick up from Tsunade.

She's reading through the results of another patient's physical for the third time, looking for any inconsistency to take up her time. She's looking at the blood pressure again when someone knocks on her door.

"I'm working, Akira," She yells to her assistant. That's the only person who ever knocked on her door here.

"We need to talk, Sakura." Definitely not Akira. She closes her eyes for a moment, trying to find it in herself to send him away. He's one of her closest friends, but he's an Uchiha, and that bitter reminder is the last thing she needs right now. Or maybe it isn't. Maybe that's exactly what she needs.

"Come in, Sasuke," She says with a final sigh.

He comes in without a sound, closing the door behind him and sliding into the chair across from her. She heaves the file in front of her shut and gently dumps it into a filing cabinet in her desk, sealing it with chakra as she locks it. They sit in silence for what feels like an hour. He breaks it in forty seconds.

"Naruto and I've missed you at training." A safe enough topic.

"Yeah, sorry" She says, clinging to the subject like a lifeline, "I know you've got the exams coming up. I've just been so swamped here. With the promotion-"

"Shut up," he interrupts. His gaze catches hers and holds her. "What did you do?" It's cold and brash and drenched in accusation.

The now familiar feeling of guilt wells up like bile in her throat, and she swallows hard before she answers.

"I didn't do anything," she tries to keep her voice firm.

"Bullshit," he says, his cool detachment giving way to real anger. "People don't just break off engagements. I know he never would have left you, the clan didn't even know about you two until you'd ended it, so it wasn't either of them. It must have been something you did."

In any other scenario, she would have been enraged. Enraged and a bit amused. Even now, at 25 years old, his hero worship hasn't lessened. It never occurs to him that Itachi could have done something wrong. He's right, in that.

Now, though, there's just a calm acceptance, and she can't quite bring herself to contradict him. Because she didn't do anything wrong but it is her fault.

"I didn't do anything, Sasuke," she surprises herself with how calm she sounds. She doesn't feel calm. She doesn't know how she feels. Just a jumble of anger and guilt and grief. Something in her face or voice must convince him, because for a long time he doesn't say anything. He just looks at her hard, scanning her face for more answers. None come. Finally, after a good five minutes of silence, he deflates slightly, the tension leaving his body as he sinks into the chair, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

"So what the hell?"

She meets his eyes for a moment, and tries to fight the tears welling.

"I can't have children, Sasuke."

I may keep going with this, I may not, but I do have a lot I want to do with these two. It may end up being a full length story, but for now I'm keeping it marked as 'complete,' I know that probably doesn't seem like a coherent end, and I know it isn't, it just comes down to how and when I can write.

As always, critique is more than welcome, so long as it's kindly meant.