ooo

He seemed distracted during their walk later that night; Sakura prodded him for it until he showed her Tsunade's letters. Years of working with the Hokage meant Sakura could pick up on nuance just as well as Gaara—but didn't mean the messages went over any better.

Sakura didn't want to admit it for fear of sounding like she was wasting everyone's time, but she'd been busy thinking of everything but Sasuke. "I don't know. I'm closer than I was—I mean, I've got a better idea of what I want for myself, and . . . well, what I really want right now is to tell our council to bug off, and tell Sasuke to start over from scratch if he wants even the slightest chance in hell. But I don't think that'll fix things either." She sighed. "I doubt you can tell them to just take it all back and make it like it never happened."

"Not really."

"Tell her you'll let her know if I think of something? And . . ." She hated to say it. "To let us know if she thinks it'll be safe for me to come back?"

"Okay."

She hooked her arm through his and squeezed it briefly. She didn't mean to cause such a bother, she told him—she was sure enough people were out to give him gray hair without her helping.

He already had gray hair, though. He'd found the first few at his temples almost eight years ago; he ducked his head to show her.

Sakura giggled and patted him on the shoulder; then, conspiratorially, she admitted the same. She'd found white hairs in her bangs as well. Maybe, possibly, it was their coloring rather than their lives.

"Maybe," he agreed dubiously.

They were both getting old, it seemed. Sakura laughed, then leaned a little closer; next, she told him, he'd have wrinkles from scowling so much.

He looked so offended at the suggestion that she had to laugh at him some more. Then he relaxed at her amusement, his features softening into something close to a smile, and she found herself smiling back without meaning to.

He wasn't handsome in any classical way, she decided, or at least not in an immediately recognizable way. His chin was too small, his features strangely delicate, and he had the bad habit of looking down his nose at people—or up at them from under hairless brow ridges. But somehow . . .

Years of interest, harassment, and outright stalking by interested kunoichi had given Gaara what was nearly a sixth sense concerning women. Something would change in their expressions, in their eyes, in the way they watched him—and he'd know it was time to begin evasive maneuvers. Some he could shut down, some he could ignore . . . but their attention invariably made him uncomfortable, and he wasn't the type of person to tolerate discomfort. But then that something shifted in Sakura's eyes, and he realized she looked at him as a man instead of as a companion . . . about three seconds before she realized it herself.

Sakura blinked suddenly, the soft, distracted smile fading from her face—and as he watched, her cheeks colored and her hand raised to cover her mouth. She hadn't meant it; she'd just noticed the way his lips curved, the length of his fingers and strength of his hands, the raspy hint of stone and blood and metal in his voice . . . all at once. She was attracted to him—and now that she knew it, she didn't know what to say.

Gaara watched her blush deepen, watched her shrink back as if distance would act as cover, and weighed his options. He didn't want to ignore her . . . but did he want to shut her down? Tell her to forget about it, or simply tell her he wasn't interested?

If using himself as a bargaining chip was what Temari'd been implying when she told him to make Sakura a better offer, he might have to disown her.

There was one thing Sakura knew amidst all of this, one thing she would hold on to—she would not apologize to him for it. And if he, with all his aloofness and the way he'd reacted to so many other girls' attention, even dared to ask it of her—

Sakura set her jaw, preparing for the worst. Then he smiled at her, and her blush intensified as her eyes widened.

He brought her back to his place to give himself time to think; he set her to chopping dates as he mixed grains and nuts into a serviceable cereal.

The girl at his side watched the distance between them and wondered what it meant. The medic watched the specifically-sized scoops in multiple jars, noted the nutritional balance of their meal, and wondered how much of a non-sleeper's health would depend on his diet. She realized he'd been watching her just as closely when she finished chopping and, without looking, he handed her two bowls.

They sat, as he searched for words and she waited for the letdown.

"It's like you said," he told her. "Where it was something you always wanted for yourself, and then when the offer came, it wasn't right. So you ran. But for me it was something that was never right, and I ran." Or snapped and snarled and ignored and blew off and snubbed and made his own breathing room with sandy, impenetrable walls. He stirred his bowl absently and weighed his hesitation against their nights of conversations and how they'd gone from stepping on each other's feet to relaxing into each other's company.

She'd found words before; he could do as much.

"They hated me," he said, "and scorned me and ran from me and left me alone, and now they say they want to be with me. I don't think it's me they want. It's what you said—it's a fantasy, but it's theirs, and I'm not actually a part of it." He couldn't be a part of a relationship based on illusions and sanitized daydreams—but though he knew Sakura held any number of illusions, he was fairly certain none of them were about him.

"They want to fix me. They think I need them to repair me." He straightened, his chin tilting arrogantly. "I'm not like you . . . but I'm not broken, either."

"Have you told any of them that?"

"One. It didn't work. She told me she'd be whatever I needed; she was willing to erase herself to do that." His upper lip pulled back from his teeth in disgust. "She would've been the kind of good little wife my father would've wanted."

His knuckles whitened as his grip tightened on his bowl, and Sakura realized he was laying it all out. Any kind of relationship with him would be hard: he was still emotionally scarred and undeniably rough around the edges, would have any number of health problems because of the insomnia and would likely die—again—in defense of Sand.

The implications of him laying it all out caught up with her a second later.

Her eyes widened. "But you're still willing to try."

He looked her in the eye. "I won't make any promises."

"I— But I don't even know if this is something I want."

"Me either." He looked at her untouched bowl, then back up at her. "Eat."

She'd been ready for a letdown, for him to metaphorically kick her out onto Sand's cold night streets. Instead she was faced with an acceptance that felt more like being let into her building after a late-night false fire alarm: noise and fuss and worry, then staggering back inside to try and pick up where she'd left off. "I almost feel like we're supposed to shake on it," she muttered.

"I don't think that's how it's supposed to work."

"You're really not good at this."

"It wasn't part of the job description."

"Keep that up and I'm gonna start to think you have a sense of humor." Sakura grinned a little, despite herself. She offered him her hand, half-joking; half-seriously, he squeezed it. "To things not getting weird," she said.

"Yeah," he said, and went back to his breakfast.

ooo

He walked her back to Temari's, the same way he did every morning. "How does this change things?" he asked.

"I don't know. Should it?"

"I don't know."

She told him neither of them were good at this, and he had to agree.

They stalled at the entrance to Temari's building, her shuffling her feet, him watching the people on the street. "Well," Sakura said as she started to turn away—and on impulse he caught her wrist, pulling her back to him for a brief embrace. She stiffened at first, surprised; then her hands were at his sides and she went pliant against him.

She was acutely aware that this was the first time he'd touched her since that first night on the rooftop; he was acutely aware that this was a public gesture, a hair's breadth from outright laying claim to her. Both figured this was as good a start as any.

"Gaara?" she whispered, her breath tickling the side of his neck. "People are watching us."

She jumped a little as a tiny, sandy eye swirled into shape in a sheltered fold of his collar. Gaara counted their observers' expressions—quizzical looks, cocked eyebrows—and shrugged.

Sakura rolled her eyes but smiled as he released her—he might not say much, but she was getting used to it. "See you tonight?"

"Yeah."

Gaara left her there and immediately went searching for his brother. He found Kankurou in bed—alone, thankfully—and launched into his morning's timeline before the older shinobi'd even finished blinking sleep out of his eyes. But it wasn't advice Gaara wanted. He needed Kankurou to wash up, then go out and tell a story to whoever would listen.

"Does Temari need filled in?" Kankurou asked. A seamless front from all three siblings had been integral in preventing outright revolt during the early days of Gaara's rise to power.

Gaara shook his head. "I'll tell her what I just told you, but she knows the rest."

"So what am I telling them?"

"Everything."