.

Gaara sent his letter with the returning Leaf team as a bid for time. He told Sakura her status as one of Leaf's shinobi wouldn't be questioned or endangered, and that she would have as much time as she needed to come to her decision. She thanked him and didn't press for any more details.

They had three days until it'd arrive.

She offered to keep working at the hospital to cover her room and board, in order to not be a burden. When he asked the medics there about her—he was observing, he told himself, not stalking—they told him what he already knew: that she was a hard worker, smart, good with patients and easy to get along with. So if she wanted to take a couple hours' nap in the middle of her shift, they didn't mind at all.

The team's return was a weight off her shoulders. Sakura wasn't sure if the lifted deadline helped her fall asleep easier that night . . . or if she was aided in part by how she folded Gaara's wrap into a square and used it as a pillow. She just knew she went to sleep that night with her lungs full of his scent, only to wake a few hours later without remembering any nightmares she might've had.

They refined their habits without conscious intent. She'd nap for a little while at the hospital, then sleep for a few more hours at Temari's before waking up on her own and heading out to find him. He always left his door open for her; together they wandered Sand until dawn, then sat to watch the sun come up.

Kankurou told the curious that Sakura was Gaara's friend. After all, he'd known her for years—plus she was friends with Naruto and had been integral to Gaara's rescue that time before. And if she hung around for a little while, she hung around for a little while—and Sand's hospital would be better off for it.

And if, against all odds, Gaara managed to coax the gutsy medic back out of the frightened, confused young woman who'd arrived at Sand a week before . . .

Kankurou watched them one night: her going into Gaara's building, then the two emerging minutes later, already deep in conversation. He didn't want to speculate on where this closeness would lead, but couldn't keep himself from wondering.

Sakura told Gaara how Sasuke's proposal had turned her entire world on end, how her doubting his motives had led to her doubting him, Leaf, herself. If Sasuke would approach their union as a business proposition, what did that say about his feelings for her let alone his understanding of her? If Leaf would encourage this . . . perversion of a relationship, what did that say about them? As for her . . . She'd always thought love was supposed to be all-accepting, but she was starting to feel there were some things, some people's wishes she shouldn't have to accept—and she couldn't make herself see romance in the very real prospect of physical or emotional martyrdom.

Gaara told her how Sand's acceptance of his father's choices had left scars on all of his remaining family—not in a bid for sympathy, but to show her how far-ranging his father's actions had been. He told her how Temari had equated marriage with death and could only manage a long-distance relationship with a man who knew to handle her affection as delicately and carefully as a wild deer; how Kankurou seduced and left one woman after another in a hedonistic search for a connection even he couldn't define.

She told Gaara she might have to rethink going out to lunch with Kankurou, and he made a little whuffly noise that might have been a chuckle.

The sentries grew used to them; the early morning merchants began to greet them with the ease of familiarity rather than the consideration of businesspersons. And after the second night where she woke without nightmares, Sakura started to wonder if she might have reached the point in sleep deprivation where she'd simply stopped dreaming.

They climbed rooftops, walked ledges. Gaara told her about the first time one of his teams of genin didn't return. His sense of responsibility to Sand's residents had been new, and he found it first tested by the knowledge that he'd been the one to send them, still children, on a fatal mission.

He told her how Temari and Kankurou had covered for him on the days it'd taken him to hunt the perpetrators down. He told her how his siblings had tried to comfort him afterward, telling him he'd match teams to missions that much more carefully because of this loss. But it hadn't helped. He'd still made an error in judgment, and that team had died for it.

He'd learned to compartmentalize; he had to be able to send his shinobi, even his brother and sister, out on missions knowing they might die as well. But he had learned—about the human cost, about the families and friends who would be hurt or otherwise impacted if something should go wrong. He kept a picture of the three genin in his desk, as a reminder.

Sakura sat beside him on a rooftop ledge, biting her lip, as he came to the point of his story: that maybe some of the people at Leaf had lost sight of the human cost. Because there was a point where leaders had to stop compartmentalizing and face the natures of the people they were directing, face the ugliest of possibilities.

She asked Gaara what kind of person he thought he would've been if he'd been born a few years later, if he'd grown up with a mother instead of a bijuu, with a father who tried to guide and nurture him instead of targeting him with assassins.

He thought about it for so long she wondered if he'd forgotten the question—then said, "Not me."

"Do you think you would still be Kazekage?"

You can be a good person without experiencing the worst life has to offer, he told her. You can be strong without having developed that strength for all the wrong reasons. He pointed to her as an example, and was amused by the hint of color that came to her cheeks.

Time's passage moved easily for them, flowed as smoothly and incessantly as the wind-blown sand around their ankles, leaving them wondering where the night had gone as they greeted yet another morning.

She mentioned a technique she'd been developing for correcting impaired vision, one that'd reshape a disfigured or malformed eye, and they spent hours sketching and examining and picking over what might work versus what'd cause irreparable damage. Gaara's field of excellence wasn't exactly putting people back together, but he still knew enough about the human body to put her theory through its paces. He approved of her exactness and caution; she approved of how quickly he picked up on her explanations. By the time curious sentries came to see what they were up to, they had covered the eastern wall's walkway with diagrams drawn on equal parts paper and sand.

Gaara caught himself talking about finding her the space and subjects for long-term tests and studies that, if implemented, would keep her there for months—but if she noticed, she didn't argue against the idea.

Once she was at work he sat and replicated their notes from memory, down to every last detail. If she decided to leave, Sand would retain this bit of knowledge to work with. But he still rolled the scrolls up, wrapped them in oilcloth, and buried the bundle where it wouldn't be found—deep below the wall where they sat every morning. She'd trusted him with her idea in the same way she'd trusted his letter to her mentor wouldn't result in her being branded a deserter, and Gaara, ever-increasingly loath to let her down, wanted to feel her trust was well-placed.

ooo

Leaf's teams arrived home three days later without Sakura, but with a scroll addressed to the Hokage. Tsunade read it standing—then sat to read it again. "Here," she finally said, and handed it to Shizune. "Tell me if I should laugh or be offended."

Shizune arched an eyebrow but accepted the scroll.

You've trained your student well. I can't help but wonder if she would be better suited to remain here than at Leaf. I will consider returning her if I feel your need for her there is greater than ours. You need not worry. I will keep her safe. I suspect you knew that when you sent her.

The younger medic gave a low whistle. "He's an arrogant one, isn't he?"

Tsunade sighed. "He's exactly the kind of man he needs to be." The letter'd even put the blame for Sakura's absence squarely on his shoulders; that way, there could be no reprisals against Sakura for her reticence. As long as Gaara really was doing this at Sakura's behest (instead of holding her hostage), Tsunade could breathe a bit easier. "Though if he were any less subtle . . ."

"He needs to worry less about subtlety and more about politeness," Shizune glowered.

"Not in this case." His message was couched in doublespeak to keep Sakura safe, wrapped in antagonism to thinly mask his intentions. Any more open and everyone involved would be at risk.

Shizune glanced over the scroll again—then jerked as Tsunade's relative calmness registered. "Wait. You knew this would happen?"

"Suspected," Tsunade said in a low voice. Unfettered, the Uchiha could be anywhere.

"How?" pressed Shizune, and Tsuande turned to her, smiling bitterly.

"Because the Kazekage has never made a secret of his past, and because his brother and sister have been around enough that I've learned all their birthdays. And because I can count." Tsunade sighed again—in relief as much as anything else, however much she'd expected this end, or hoped for it—and then went to personally inform the last Uchiha that his nuptials were indefinitely postponed.