NGL, it's getting trickier to write as we roll into the endgame.
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The clone walked into one of Gaara's traps, triggered it, and was obliterated. Gaara watched from nearby, sitting on his heels, his fingertips buried in the sand he'd scattered all over the academy's small arena.
Good, he thought. Good—but not fast enough.
"That one was . . . messy." Kankurou's voice echoed in the otherwise empty room as he approached.
"You were the one who told me to make an example."
"I just haven't seen you really try to splatter someone all over the place for a while. You've been more neat the past few years."
He couldn't argue. Before, Gaara'd delighted in the violence of his kills: all the better to revel in people's reactions, in his ability to make even seasoned jounin sick . . . And in forcing others to clean up after him, in forcing his father to acknowledge what he'd done.
Gaara shrugged, his unfocused gaze on the ground in front of him. Another sand clone, human-shaped but devoid of features, walked into the first trap, dodged its snap, got hit by the second, and was dragged underground by the third.
He looked up, almost challengingly; from beside him, Kankurou's mouth tightened but he didn't comment. After a few seconds, Gaara turned his attention back to the sand.
Maybe if he strung the traps together and lightened the triggers . . .
"This morning I told Sakura I'd have to kill him if he came after us," Gaara said. He'd worried that she hadn't fully faced the reality of their situation—and that at worst, she'd try to stop him.
"How'd that go?"
The next clone was snared, then flattened.
"She said she knew—then she brought up how Naruto's only a few hours behind him. If Sasuke attacks us and I kill him, I'll have to deal with Naruto next. But . . ."
The traps linked and interconnected, weblike; Gaara pushed this clone for agility. It made it through one. Kankurou imagined living flesh, and winced.
"Even if I caught Sasuke, or even if I held him off for however long it took for Naruto to get here . . . I think Naruto'd just forgive him again." And should the blond's particular brand of percussive therapy once more prove temporary, and should Sasuke eventually decide to finish what he'd started, Sand would get even less warning.
Gaara considered the spots where the traps had been. How long did it take to build and set them? Too long?
Kankurou sighed. "I get it. Naruto's idealistic—he's just strong enough to beat those ideals into other people." He looked down at his little brother and grinned. "Sometimes we're lucky and they stick."
Gaara smiled.
This time the clone ran.
Kankurou waited until this one had also met its end before speaking. "Was she trying to talk you out of fighting Sasuke?"
"No. She was . . . Worried for me. Then angry. She told me if I get myself killed she'd figure out how to resurrect me again just so she can kick my ass herself." And for all Gaara knew, the technique she needed was in the stacks of medical texts that'd started taking over his tables.
"She's definitely settled in, huh?"
Gaara snorted. Traps rippled into existence in an expanding circle of nearly-discernible patterns around them, as easily and subtly as a breath. Kankurou raised his eyebrows but remained silent. He'd seen Gaara use this approach when piqued by a number of attackers; the end result had been a bloodbath. And with today's polishing . . .
His little brother might not be outright spiraling, but was definitely circling some heavier, worrisome state of mind. Perhaps he and Temari had even exacerbated Gaara's state the previous night; maybe they'd wound him a little too tightly.
"So." The puppeteer started ticking off points on his fingers, trying to lighten the mood. "Maybe you'll have to fight Sasuke . . . Maybe you'll have to fight Sasuke, then Naruto . . . And maybe you'll have to fight all three of them, one after the other." He shrugged. "Better than simultaneously, I guess."
Gaara scowled and gestured; his traps reformed into a wall of sand and slapped the next clone hard enough to disintegrate it. "Yeah."
Kankurou shook his head. "Leaf's ninjas certainly don't like to leave us a dull moment, huh?"
"Sakura's not Leaf anymore." Saying it still warmed him, still brought a fierce sense of joy.
"Yeah. I noticed. So . . ." Kankurou watched him slyly. "Did she switch allegiances before, or after?"
Gaara paused, then looked away from the sand in front of him. ". . . After."
The older shinobi laughed out loud. "You dog."
"Tanuki," Gaara corrected, and met his brother's grin with one of his own.
Kankurou excused himself, having hopefully shifted Gaara's mood. Gaara watched him go, then stood alone in the center of the arena, thinking. Traps were typically effective enough, especially in conjunction with an overt attack of grasping sand—but he'd lose control of all of it if he were knocked unconscious or taken down. And since the Uchiha had broken the stupid worthless seals on his Sharingan, something as simple as eye contact could be Gaara's undoing. Fear, he knew, would make him sloppy . . . And yet he needed to be acutely aware of the consequences of failure.
Gaara knelt again, set his palms against the ground, and contemplated his own limitations.
This time he gave the clone Sasuke's face.
ooo
Unsatisfied by the bloodless destruction, he drifted from the arena to the academy hallway. Waiting gave him far too much time to second-guess himself. He knew he was entrenched in his own best weapon and defense; he knew he could also use the stuff to help give himself peace of mind. He'd left tiny amounts of chakra-charged sand in his siblings' pouches and clothing, to help keep track of their locations and let him call them in if he needed them. Sakura'd hesitated when he'd offered her the same, then aquesized after making him promise to not pull on or otherwise startle her while she was in the middle of an intensive technique—or to keep track of her without her knowing.
She'd only gone in to work a little while before; if he paid attention, he could feel the cadence of her pacing around the hospital room she'd started affectionately referring to as her office.
Gaara leaned against the wall, his eyes closed, and tested his connections with all of them—spiderlike, only with the hope that none of this small web's threads suddenly stopped moving.
When he opened his eyes he found three academy students leaning against the wall around him, mimicking his posture and scowl with a particular kind of deep gravity. He turned from one to the other to the next, perturbed. "Do I really look like that?"
One said yes; another said no; the third giggled, and they all bolted.
Gaara sighed. The world went on around him, it seemed—and at some point he'd become a source of entertainment for the academy children.
Children.
He looked down the hall, listening for small voices. Sakura'd said she might want children someday. She might want children with him. Killing people was easy, but raising them?
What an absolutely terrifying prospect.
He chuckled and pushed off from the wall. It was still early; he could squeeze in one last visit to the hospital.
He stayed in the doorway of Sakura's room, his arms against either side of the frame—subconsciously blocking her from anyone outside, she realized—and reassured her he was just checking in; she smiled and got up from the table to greet him anyway, glad he appeared to have decompressed a little. Neither of them really had news: Leaf's elders had refused to respond to him, and Shizune'd only been able to tell Sakura that Tsunade appeared to be slowly stabilizing if still fragile.
The hurt inflicted on Sakura's friend and mentor had embittered her further against Sasuke. "If he shows up," she told Gaara, "I want you to tell me, so I can be there. I know him; I can help."
"Temari and Kankurou told me to not fight him alone, too."
Sakura frowned, aware he'd avoided her request. "I mean it."
Troubled green eyes met hers. There were some things, he told her, that he didn't want her to have to see.
"I've seen you fight before," she said with a bravery she didn't really feel, and tried to not think about how Lee'd screamed, how she'd screamed when his sand had caught her.
He frowned as well, unconvinced. "You know him. It would stay with you." It'd change things, drastically so, he thought, but didn't say it. It'd make it easier for him to target you, he thought, but held that back as well.
"Yeah, it probably would." She exhaled resignedly, taking small comfort in his self-awareness, then set her jaw. "But like I told you, there's some things I can choose to accept. So if being there means I can help—maybe you, maybe anyone else here? I'll do it." Framing her involvement as a way for her to help defend Sand was probably cheap, but as Gaara's expression softened she knew he'd warmed to the idea. Sakura reached for one of his hands, pulled it away from the doorframe, and linked her fingers with his. Her next words weren't quite an entreaty, weren't quite to convince herself: "I know you, too. I've seen how you've changed. I know you wouldn't just kill him for the fun of it."
Anymore, he thought.
"I'm worried, yeah," she continued, "but I can't be scared. I won't be. I knew what I was getting into with you; I knew it wasn't gonna be all dinner dates and long walks and sunrises, just like how I knew your first obligation would always be to Sand." Sakura also knew it was miraculous that he was remotely functional, in much the same way she knew the man who shared her meals and quiet moments and bed would never quite be normal . . . and having weighed these things against the hundred little facets of his good acts and intentions, she'd still let herself fall for him.
Most of the troubled tension faded from around his eyes and mouth as he reminded her that she was part of Sand now, and she squeezed his hand and smiled at him—knowing the corollary to his statement was that he would give no quarter to anything or anyone that threatened her.
He leaned back and checked the hallway for people—he'd made enough of a public scene when she'd declared fealty and didn't want to squander the other medics' goodwill by bogarting their newest addition—then stepped further into the doorway and pulled her to him. Only a few kisses, he told himself; just a minute to be fully aware of the warmth and certainty of her . . .
Sakura relaxed at his touch, her breath against his face and her hands against his arms, his sides, and he realized she'd needed the physical comfort as much as he did.
If they just had more time, he murmured against her temple—because now he looked at her and saw the hint of a future expanded beyond fighting and killing and eventually dying, and desperately wanted to experience that without having the damned Uchiha roll through in the next few hours to try and wreak havoc.
Sakura followed the direction of his thoughts and agreed. Maybe it would all be for naught, she suggested; maybe they'd see the best case scenario, where Sasuke was out somewhere seeking enlightenment, Naruto would turn up without him in a little while, and they'd all have a laugh about getting worked up for nothing.
He smiled a little and offered an extension of her optimistic daydream: "Naruto can stay on the couch this time."
"Naruto can stay in a different building," she muttered—then, at Gaara's quizzical expression, she colored. "In case you've forgotten, your friend is a pervert," she told him, very primly—all while fighting to not giggle.
"My friend?"
A giggle escaped despite her best efforts. "Okay, our friend."
He grinned back, closed his eyes, and rested his cheek against hers. Her, he thought, and let it smooth the edges of his worries. One of her hands settled against his chest and he reached for it without conscious intent; he felt her nod against the side of his face, understanding.
Maybe they were still on the same page.
"We're gonna be okay," she whispered, and he almost believed her.
In the end, he managed to leave without her realizing he hadn't given her the same promise he'd given his siblings.
Once outside, he paused, his eyes closed. He let himself cycle through his feelings: warmth, comfort, contentment, low-level arousal; he let himself acknowledge them, their status in his mind and his mental well-being. Then he crushed them down and out of the way, ruthlessly compartmentalizing in order to not distract himself. Gaara looked up towards the hospital once, then turned his back on it. He loved her, but he needed to be able to exist beyond that for what was to come.
Gaara wandered through the streets, led by instinct, bareheaded and conspicuous in white. He knew he couldn't be everywhere at once and so would settle for being easily found. His sentries and safeguards weren't likely to deter or slow a missing-nin of high enough level—and with this game they were more for show, because Gaara was expected to have placed them and not because he expected Sasuke to bullrush his walls. Should the Uchiha circumvent Sand's immediate line of defenses in search of a target, Sakura wouldn't be the immediately visible one—he would.
Naruto had told him Sasuke wasn't evil, just stupid; Gaara felt like he could accept half of that. The redhead believed what drove Sasuke wasn't evil or inhumanity, but a response that was inarguably human . . . just some of the worst parts: hurt and anger and jealousy and resentment, looped together, amplifying each other. Gaara knew the mix well—and suspected it'd help him understand the Uchiha's motives better than the man's own teammates. Six years before he'd walked into a hospital in Leaf, intent of murdering Lee where he lay because it'd been unbearable to know Lee still had people care for him despite being so obviously lesser, unbearable that Lee continued to exist as proof of Gaara's failure. Lee still breathed only because Gaara'd been caught and had walked away from that confrontation rather than spoil the release he'd been promised, the chance to fully unleash himself against all of Leaf. Sasuke, though . . . Any chance of stealth or subtlety had been destroyed when he'd run from Leaf again, leaving the Hokage alive to point a finger directly at him. The Uchiha was supposed to be good—so why the loose ends?
Maybe Sasuke wasn't stupid either, but calculating. They'd all certainly seen enough madmen with unjustifiable ideas and bloated senses of self-importance; for a while, Gaara'd even been one of them. Maybe Kankurou had been more on point when he called Naruto idealistic . . . And maybe idealism untempered by caution would only let the unrepentant maneuver themselves to places where they could do irreparable damage.
And how could anyone, blinded by the presence or absence of a person they'd cared for, gauge another's repentance with any semblance of accuracy?
On one side of the dilemma was a dangerous degree of optimism; on the other, the spectre of the person Gaara might've been, insisting he kill everyone before they had a chance to try to hurt or disappoint him.
The sun bore down on him, oppressive, comforting, and Gaara turned his face up to it. Perhaps this was a dilemma best saved for late night walks, for some time in the future when he and Sakura could discuss the nuances of humanity without an overly-personal and overhanging threat—one bearing the face and name of someone she'd loved.
And that easily, she'd snuck back underneath his mental walls. He'd done a miserable job of compartmentalizing, he told himself, smiled, and wandered on.
Eventually he became aware that he was being hunted.
Gaara knew the feeling, having been stalked by would-be assassins more times than he could count. It wasn't a rush of alarm so much as a prickling at the edge of his awareness: similar to being aware of someone watching him, but bearing the weight of his observer's intent.
He didn't call in his gourd or his armor of sand, opting instead to keep a light mental grip on the sand at his feet. He knew this wouldn't be resolved by something as impersonal as a kunai thrown at his back. Gaara closed his eyes, mentally braced, and reached for his siblings and Sakura next.
Kankurou shifted from foot to foot on Sand's wall. Temari was six blocks away, walking. Sakura moved around a small, rectangular space; presumably a patient's bed.
All of them still alive, then. Good.
Slowly, slowly, with infinite casualness, he led his observer on a meandering path that nonetheless tracked away from the hospital. The attention at the edge of his awareness prickled, faded, returned—as was expected from someone who didn't intend to be seen too soon, or to startle his quarry. Which meant to some extent, Sasuke was in control of himself.
Tsunade'd said Sasuke'd been almost incoherently angry days ago, in Leaf. Then, Sasuke'd needed to spit accusations at her rather than just lash out or just leave; now, he'd had time to organize his thoughts, form a plan, invade Gaara's home, and decide to stalk rather than immediately attack.
Definitely calculating, then.
He knew the Uchiha was there; the Uchiha probably knew he knew . . . But searching for him would display fear, uncertainty, a rush to the end. Instead Gaara walked.
He found Temari with her team and immediately, quietly told her, "He's here."
She blinked, bit back a half a dozen questions, then gripped his shoulder in an unexpected show of affection. "Call us in when it's time."
He nodded and moved on.
If Sasuke's control was tight, his needed to be flawless. If Sasuke was driven by anger . . . Gaara obviously needed to anger him further.
He went grocery shopping in an open air market, smiling at people, taking his time with things as mundane as produce, answering the questions of a curious Sand-nin who wanted to know if he'd really managed to flip the allegiance of the Hokage's apprentice. He even asked the guy if they thought it'd be too early for Sakura to officially move in.
The attention felt nearly steady now; his follower's patience must be waning. Gaara picked empty streets in an attempt to bait a confrontation, to no avail.
Interesting, he thought. And concerning. It meant there was a larger game afoot.
He headed home.
The nagging feeling abruptly cut off in the meters before the main door to his building, and Gaara paused before reaching for the handle. Was this where they'd make a stand, then? How patently histrionic. Tsunade'd said Sasuke'd taken her desk as a statement, a show of disrespect. To Gaara, though, it was more of an insult that Sasuke had brought his grudges across days and borders, and the invasion of Sand and implicit threats to his people had set off exponentially more territorial impulses than an invasion of this one building.
Gaara's room had smelled like sex that morning; he hoped it still did. Anger, like fear, would make a foe sloppy.
Slowly, to not trip or alarm anyone, he pulled the nearby blocks' worth of sand to him. Gaara dragged it all along behind him as he entered the building, spreading it through hallways and along stairs like a thick and heavy blanket. More packed along the outer walls, awaiting his call.
He stopped outside his door, a bag of food still under his arm, and mentally reached out again. Kankurou and Temari were together, probably conferring. Sakura was back in her room, seated, writing.
All the better that they weren't converging on him yet. If the Uchiha had some grand plan or some morbid game to play—which seemed more and more likely—then Gaara might need to derail it before anyone attempted an actual physical strike.
He opened the door, nodded greeting to Sasuke where he stood in the center of the main room, and walked past him to the kitchen to start putting groceries away.