Quotidian
By: firefly
Note: Thank you to everyone for being so patient, and thanks again for the lovely, encouraging reviews! You have no idea how much I appreciate the feedback. (loves)
A couple of reviewers asked me what the word quotidian means. Well, to borrow dictionary dot com's definition:
-adjective
1. daily
2. usual or customary
3. ordinary: commonplace
-noun
4. something recurring daily
Anyway, hope you guys enjoy this installment! And to those who are wondering—yes, this fic is going somewhere plot-wise, trust me. There are probably two chapters left to go. Also, I'll reiterate: this fic is NOT a romance, so really, don't expect/ask for lemons when it's obvious there'll be none. XD
Anger and jealousy can no more bear to lose sight of their objects than love.
- George Eliot
Harmony in Discord
Her sleep was almost comatose, eyes still beneath her heavy lids, mind silent and lost in a drug-induced oblivion.
She sat (lay? stood?) in something black and oppressively warm, feeling instead of seeing her surroundings. Her thoughts ran slowly, muddled and distorted by the narcotics. It felt like days elapsed in the effort for her to clench her fists.
Beneath her, she could feel something gritty and cold, rough against what felt like her bare flesh. Above her, around her, she heard the familiar, faint roaring of torch fire flapping in the wind. Something that felt like hot oil splattered against her cheek when she heard the torch go out, her mind registering only a pleasant heat instead of scalding oil.
She didn't realize she was moving in the oppressive darkness until her arm connected with the base of the torch, its wooden surface scraping beneath the skin of her forearm.
This was her post.
"You'll try to kill me the second I give you a chance."
Her fingers curved inwards, digging into the cool grit as she turned her head towards the sound of the voice. Her lips parted with the jarring realization that she'd heard this before.
"I will…but you'd like that, wouldn't you?"
That was her voice, so calm and restrained, pseudo-placidity masking the tremor in her undertone.
"I'd love it, seriously."
Something curled in the pit of her stomach, the sensation stemming from desire or nausea, she couldn't tell. The oppressive darkness pressed down on her throat till she reached up to touch her lips, to pry them open and gasp, to let loose the flood of venom and the words she'd held back.
Between the black phases of delirium and her heaving pants, she let them out, dark thoughts she couldn't voice otherwise, desires she kept in the murk, lusts born of hate that had her arching wantonly for the chance to hurt him.
I'd love it, too, she whispered voicelessly, eyes closing as a grin pulled at the corners of her lips, eyeteeth scoring the skin.
I want it like nothing else. I want to see it. I want to see you against a backdrop of sand, silver hair soaking up the red in the sun. I want to see the look in your eyes when I touch you and make it hurt.
I want to use everything.
My nails, my fists, my teeth.
I want to hear you say it, because that's how I love to give it. I want to feel the softness peel, the wetness run. I want to hear it from your mouth. Say it.
I like it rough.
I want to hit you till you crack, till the prettiness disappears like rain on bleached bone, evaporating in the heat. I want to hear it, the sounds of stop and please.
I want it without restraint. Nails in your back and sand in your mouth, my teeth in your neck and your hair in my fist.
I want you to say it.
Say it.
I like it rough.
And watch as I give you what you want. Watch and take it. Watch and love it.
As I kiss my fists.
And break your face.
Temari's eyes flew open.
Daylight filtered through the window, and she found herself gazing into the obscene brightness unblinkingly, bloodshot sclera hardly registering the sharp, stabbing pain in her eyes.
She was drenched in sweat.
Swallowing, she found her throat parched, lips cracked and tongue heavy. Her head felt like it was weighed down with lead. Taking a slow breath, she pushed her hand into the soft, worn seat of the sofa, pushing herself to sit up.
A wave of anxiety coursed through her when her arm quaked with the effort, muscles straining beneath her weight.
Biting her lip, she squinted around at her surroundings, finding herself draped in a blanket. The television had been turned off.
Kankuro, she realized, pushing the blanket to the other end of the sofa. How long was I…
Her heart nearly jumped into her throat when her eyes caught the time, the clock's numbers slightly blurred on the opposite wall.
7:12 PM.
She'd slept thirteen hours.
Clenching her fingers into fists, she forced herself to swallow the lump in her throat, tearing her eyes away from the clock.
Her next shift was in less than five hours.
Taking a deep breath, she crawled off the sofa and stood, only to stumble towards the wall to keep her balance when her vision dissolved into a white haze. Reeling from the sudden rush of blood to her head, she closed her eyes as an intense pressure pounded in her temples, receding with agonizing slowness.
No more, she thought inwardly, thinking back to Gaara's bottle of sleeping pills. At least not more than one.
Once the dizziness subsided, she moved away from the wall and up the stairs, craving the feel of hot water to beat away the loose ends of her dream and the intangible filth that accompanied it.
To her dismay, the shower did little to drive away the remaining drowsiness, and she found herself having to force her late breakfast down her throat, stomach churning at the mere sight of it. Nausea followed immediately after, and she slapped her hand to her mouth to keep the food down, squeezing her eyes shut.
She couldn't afford to be sick or weak. Not when he'd be there.
Clenching her jaw, she reached for the injections in her pack, whatever regrets she held vanishing once the needle bit into her skin.
Hours later, while sitting in the living room and making the futile effort to distract herself with reading, she slammed the book shut, unable to concentrate. Dropping it onto the coffee table, she reluctantly decided to get some air, craving the feel of sunlight.
When she stepped outside, the neighbourhood that greeted her was eerily silent, the sound of her sandaled feet scraping over the stone ground unusually loud as she turned to look at her surroundings.
Her brow furrowed when she realized there was no one outside. The doors were shut and the windows closed in the surrounding houses, unusual for Suna evenings when the sun was still bright. No children played on the street. No one loitered on the sidewalks.
Suddenly tense, she tightened her fists, narrowed eyes scouring the alleys between the houses for a sign until a muffled shout rang out.
Whipping around, she blinked when she found two jounin leaping over rooftops towards her direction, and two more running up the street towards her, kunai out by their sides.
Confused, she focused on the jounin in the front of the group, following the direction of his outstretched arm till she turned to face the opposite side of the street.
A figure in a dark cloak darted out from between two houses in front of her hardly a second later, ten feet from where she stood. They stared at each other for only a fraction of a second before he took off sprinting down the street.
Her fists went limp by her sides, heart skipping a beat.
What if I'm lying? Let's say I do cross the border…
The jounin's shouts fell deaf on her ears, senseless and dulled into a hollow blaring as the blood rushed to her face. Her legs took off without her realizing, mind oblivious to the warning cries behind her.
She caught up almost instantly, and the harsh, grating scream that sounded right before she slammed into the figure was a sound she never thought herself capable of making.
They fell to floor, skidding violently, and the shouts behind her increased in volume, high-pitched and alarmed as she pinned him to the ground. Her clenched fist collided with the side of his face so hard she felt the skin of her knuckles grate off, and the tendons in her right hand nearly snapped beneath the force of the second blow she landed against his jaw.
Then her throbbing hands were scrambling for her bag and a kunai was in her grip, knees digging into his ribs to keep him immobile. Without wasting a second, she drove it mercilessly into his chest, withdrawing it almost instantly to drive it again into his throat, and then once more across, completely oblivious to the hot blood spraying across her face.
She stabbed viciously and uncontrollably, aimlessly skewering every bit of exposed flesh she could see through the red haze, driving her knee into his gut to keep him pinned to the ground.
Between the sounds of her own nonsensical fury and the kunai scraping bone, she couldn't hear her subordinates telling her he was dead after the first strike.
Hands seized her wrists, trying to pull her back, but she tore away from them with a vicious snarl, straining towards the bloodied body lying motionless on the red-stained sand.
Faker. He's just faking.
Then she was on top of him again, about to drive the kunai once more into his throat when something gritty wrapped around her wrists, jerking her back.
"Temari!"
Arms snaked around her middle, yanking her away from the bloodied corpse. Infuriated, she turned to shove them off, kunai in hand, only to gasp and stop midway when the gritty grip on her wrist tightened till her arm was immobile.
Kankuro stared at her, wide-eyed and breathless, his arms loosening slightly around her waist as she blinked, a look of recognition dawning on her features. The kunai clattered to the stone ground as the sand around her wrist retracted, and she moved her wide-eyed gaze to see Gaara standing right next to Kankuro, staring at her with a surprised look on his face.
Gradually, Kankuro released her and she stepped back, ignoring the group of jounin who stared at her in disbelief as she turned slowly to look at the corpse. Kankuro moved to grab her wrist when she took a step towards it, but Gaara raised a hand to stop him as she moved closer to peer at his face.
Using her foot, she drew the drape of black cloth from over his head, her breath catching in her throat when it fell away.
Not him.
It took her a moment to realize him as one of Suna's traitorous missing nin, recently accused of spying for another village.
Her chest suddenly began to ache and it became harder to breathe, eyes narrowing in dismay when she lowered her gaze to the bloodied mess of his torso.
Suddenly sickened and alarmed, she turned away from it, unable to meet her brothers' gazes as the first of the flies settled on the corpse.
"What the hell was that, Temari?" Kankuro demanded, circling Gaara's desk to stand near her chair. "Have you lost your mind?"
Temari remained silent, blank eyes focused on the hourglass resting atop Gaara's bookshelf. They'd been in here only twenty minutes and Kankuro was already hoarse from shouting at her, his tirade echoing through the empty hallways. She swallowed hard, willing herself to look composed, thoughts racing to find words and reasoning to elucidate her behaviour.
"Temari," Gaara said calmly, watching her from over his folded hands. "Why did you kill that man?"
She said nothing for a few seconds, closing her eyes tightly before lowering her gaze from the hourglass. The nin's face flashed in her mind's eye, pallid skin speckled with blood, eyes blank and dull.
"His name was Yuuto," Gaara said after a moment, watching her closely. "He was an accomplice to Hirai Dairou, an S-class missing nin we've been pursuing since last year. He was only avoiding arrest, Temari. Why did you kill him?"
"I thought…he was someone else," she said hollowly.
"Who?" Kankuro asked, a bewildered look on his face. "Even if you thought he was one of the S-rank missing nin from the village, the right protocol is to just incapacitate him, not rip his fucking guts out."
"Kankuro," Gaara said quietly. "Let her talk."
Reluctantly, the puppet master pressed his lips together, dropping into an armchair near the window.
Temari took a deep breath, pretending her hands weren't as sweaty as they were and praying her face wasn't betraying any of the thoughts plaguing her mind.
I can't tell them. They'll take me off my station. They don't know him like I do. They'll get themselves hurt again, they'll get themselves killed—
"Temari," Gaara prompted.
She lifted her head, forcing her features to relax into a blank expression.
"I overreacted," she said flatly.
Kankuro stood up, fists clenched by his sides.
"That's a load of bullshit," he snapped. "Temari, you've been acting weird ever since you were stationed at the border."
Silence blanketed the room following the outburst, and Temari found herself staring at him, frozen and wide-eyed as her fingernails dug into the armrests of her chair.
Gaara looked between the two, narrowing his eyes.
"What's been happening at the border?"
Kankuro's angry expression faded into one of dismay when her eyes narrowed into a withering glare, nails leaving crescent-shaped marks in her palms.
"Temari," Gaara said sharply when she didn't reply. "Answer me."
"There's something I need to do," she replied, voice wavering as she turned to look at him. "Gaara, it's something I can handle myself."
Her youngest brother slowly rose to his feet, eyes narrowing further.
"Who's at the border?"
"Nobody," she said, standing as well. "It's nothing I can't handle."
"Temari, you're making yourself sick," Kankuro interrupted, voice softer and edged with concern. "You haven't been yourself."
Gaara spared a glance at his brother, considering his words before shifting his gaze to his sister's face.
"Temari, I want you to take a—"
"No!" she shouted now, fury rendering her voice shrill as she took a step forward. "Gaara, don't take me off the border. There's something I have to do."
"Temari—"
"You don't know," she continued, voice breaking in her throat as she forced back the nausea and numbing panic. "It's for your own good."
Not again. I won't lose them again.
"Why won't you just tell us what the problem is?" Kankuro demanded heatedly. "Since when do you hide anything from us? We're your brothers!"
"Please," Temari said, quietly now, hiding the shaking of her fists behind her back. "Please, I'm asking you…just let me stay there till the barricades go up. Then I'll quit. Until then…"
She trailed off, pressing her lips into a thin line as Kankuro sank bank into his armchair in resignation.
Gaara considered her, eyes searching her face, a frown of concern marring his features.
"It'll be two months till they go up," he finally said, quietly.
"I can do that," she said immediately, not caring about the dreams, the insomnia, or the repercussions of either. "Just give me two months. Then I'll quit."
Gaara eyed her long and hard, his gaze intense as she returned the stare resolutely, adamant despite the paleness in her face and the harrowed look in her eyes.
"Two months," he said with finality. "That's it."
She nearly sank into the chair in relief, not giving herself the opportunity to feel regret when Kankuro stood up and stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him.
"I can do that," she said, forcing a small smile. "Thanks, Gaara."
He didn't reply, lowering his eyes as he slid open a drawer and browsed through the papers inside till he found what he was looking for, placing it on the desk and sliding it towards her.
"Hirai Dairou has been spotted recently around River country," he said gravely as she lowered her eyes to the picture. "Keep your guard up while at the border."
She nodded, folding the picture and tucking it into the front lapel of her shirt, feeling a renewed burst of resolution as she left his office, strides purposeful and eyes narrowed in determination.
This time, I'll protect the both of you, she thought vehemently, stashing her flares and weapons in her bag an hour later. I'll kill him along with anyone else to keep you two safe.
She touched her fingertip to the point of her kunai, a cynical smirk pulling at her lips as her eyes caught sight of the time.
9:32 PM.
Her smirk widened into a grim smile.
"I'm done being afraid," she said under her breath, teal eyes narrowed as she stashed the kunai in her bag. "Let's see how long we can make this game last."
10:40 PM.
Luminous green eyes glanced askance at the doorway, reflecting the dim light of the bedside lamp. They trailed after the figure that entered the room, furtively examining the state of his garments as they were tossed to the bed.
Wordlessly, he watched him disappear into the bathroom, eyes reverting back to his work as the pipes groaned and the shower started up with a dull hiss behind the door.
The past seven nights had been like this. He anticipated another departure as he listened to the hiss of the shower, taking note of the time. His partner's behaviour had been rather unusual lately.
The bedside clock displayed the time in luminous, red numbers, the glow eerily bright in the midnight blue darkness infiltrating the room. Furtively, he glanced at the garments again.
The bathroom door opened twenty minutes later, and his eyes shifted once more towards the other side of the room, watching the wet trail emerging from the bathroom, staring at the discarded cloak as drops of wayward water embedded themselves into the spotless fabric.
Hidan was going out again.
"You're aware that the Leader isn't keen on anyone leaving the headquarters after midnight," Kakuzu stated flatly.
"Yeah," came the careless response, muffled by a towel. "Your point?"
"Where have you been going the last seven nights?"
"You worried about me, Kakuzu? I'm touched."
"Don't play games, Hidan," he said calmly, eyes following him across the room. "The Leader isn't blind. He'll notice sooner or later."
"Let him notice. I don't give a shit."
"You should be careful," Kakuzu said slowly, smirking behind his mask. "You could die."
Hidan paused, raising his head to give him a withering glare.
"How many times…" he muttered in response. "How many fucking times have I told you…"
Kakuzu merely made a soft sound of amusement in his throat, lowering his eyes to the hem of the cloak as Hidan pulled it on. A barely audible sprinkle of sound broke the silence, and Kakuzu lowered his eyes to the floor, blinking momentarily in surprise at the sight of sand speckling the ground.
"I'm going out," Hidan said brusquely over his shoulder, turning towards the door.
"Wait."
Hidan paused, turning his head to glance over at him impatiently.
Kakuzu raised his eyes to stare at him, more curious now than anything else.
"Why are you going there?"
Hidan stared at him, momentarily silent as a wry grin slowly curved his lips, violet eyes reflecting amusement as he turned his gaze back towards the door.
"I've got a date," he replied, his smirk widening slightly before he stepped through, disappearing into the darkness.
The effects of the injection lingered into the night, supplying nervous energy and strength in the form of tension, making the tendons in her hands flex spasmodically at odd intervals.
Taking a deep breath, Temari slowly exhaled, watching her breath fog in the frigid air, diffusing into the inky blackness of the desert. Her shadow flickered on the sand in front of her, firelight illuminating the grains of sand till they shone like diamonds.
There was silence save for the quiet flapping of torch fire in the whispering breeze, and goose bumps broke out against her skin as the wind blew tufts of wayward hair across her face.
She took a fistful of the grains in her hand, squeezing and feeling her pulse throb before she let them drain through her parted fingers, eyes focused intently on the circles of red light near the oasis.
He sat there, head bowed towards the rosary in his hand, fingertips gradually making their way to the last of the beads.
She watched him through partially closed eyes, her mind blissfully quiet, serene with the situation and the fact that she had him pinned beneath her gaze. Something almost like tranquility replaced the uncertainty, an eerie calmness stemming from a lack of paranoid thoughts.
He was there where she could see him, there where she could stop him. She found it strange that this was the most relaxed she'd been since the night before, vaguely unsettled by how she could be so calm in front of him after what she'd done to Yuuto a few hours earlier.
She blinked, startled when his voice interrupted her thoughts.
"I had a dream about you last night."
Temari stiffened at the sudden, offhand comment, fingers tightening unconsciously around the fistful of sand as he placed his rosary back around his neck, glancing up at her. She stared at him, suddenly encompassed with a maddening feeling of discomfort. His smile was practically tangible in the dark.
"Oh?" she managed to get out after a moment, keeping her voice carefully detached.
He nodded, the motion barely perceptible in the crimson light of the flares.
"...fucking good dream, too."
The fistful of sand abruptly fell back to the ground.
Steeling herself, she furiously willed away the blush that erupted over her face, glad that the shawl obscured her mortified grimace.
He snickered at her silence, finally glancing up from the blades of his scythe.
"Don't get excited, Blondie. It's not what you think, seriously."
Temari closed her eyes momentarily, taking a deep breath to dispel the burning in her cheeks.
"Enlighten me, why don't you," she said through gritted teeth.
He tilted his head slightly to the side, tone whimsical.
"You killed me in it."
She stared at him, blinking in the bleak silence that followed. He said nothing for a few moments, but took her enduring silence as an incentive to describe it.
"Wasn't anything special. You cut my throat with a kunai and that was it."
"That's all?" Temari inquired, sneering now. "A kunai? I would've decapitated you with your own weapon."
His smirk widened.
"You're a girl after my own heart, seriously."
"But I'd torture you first," Temari continued, smirking now. "Then I'd decapitate you with your own weapon. And then I'd bury you alive."
"Jeez, watch what you say," he groaned, clutching dramatically at his heart. "Anymore and I seriously might fall in love with you."
Temari gave him an appalled look, saying the first thing that came to mind.
"You're insane."
"Look who's talking."
She ignored the remark, settling for playing with the sand again, the grains cool against the hot skin of her palm. The oasis was eerily still next to him, giving the illusion of untainted, pristine water. She imagined she could still see the bits of blood-saturated sand floating on the surface.
"How many of our kunoichi?" she asked suddenly, tone impassive.
It took him a moment to understand what she was referring to, realization settling in when he noticed her staring at the oasis.
"I don't use kunoichi unless I have to," he replied, moving to lie on his side, propping his head up on his hand. "Two reasons. One, because they're so fucking paranoid and always put up a fight. Last time I went after one, the bitch nearly took my head off."
Temari couldn't help but smirk at that.
"And the second reason?"
"They're whores," he said calmly. "They'll fuck a leper to get a mission done."
She moved her gaze from the water, staring down at his reclined form.
"Whores," Temari repeated expressionlessly.
"Yeah. And don't tell me it isn't true. They'll put out if it'll get something done, seriously."
"So what you're implying," Temari said slowly. "Is that all kunoichi use their bodies to their advantage."
"Pretty much, yeah."
"So you're calling me a whore."
"Oh, did I offend you?" he asked, sounding amused. "Gonna go all feminist on me?"
"No," Temari said calmly, dusting off her hands. "Because you're right about most kunoichi. They'll employ seduction techniques to get names, information, or an opportunity for assassination. But then…"
She stared down at him haughtily, eyes narrowed.
"I'm not like most kunoichi."
"That so?" he inquired, raising a brow, a grin slowly curving his lips.
Temari allowed herself a small smirk as she stared down at him, sensing his expectation for her to continue.
Good, get comfortable, she thought inwardly. You have no idea what I'm capable of doing to you. I'll humour you. I'll talk. I'll be a good sport. It'll be all the more worth it to see your expression when I break your face.
She lifted her gaze, staring thoughtfully at the crescent moon.
"It all comes down to technique," she finally said, seemingly to herself. "It's up to the kunoichi. She can use her body and meet her objectives. Few people would suspect a whore of having any motives besides sex and the payment afterwards, so in a way, it's safer. You put on an act, and if you're good at it, no one thinks twice about questioning you."
"Fucking low, if you ask me."
"Nobody ever said being a shinobi was clean, honest work," Temari said wryly, gazing contemplatively into the distance. "You of all people should know that."
She heard him chuckle softly and continued.
"Then there's stealth. You can let it all ride on your ability as a shinobi. Hiding, following, eavesdropping, blending in—never giving a sign that you're there. You can cut someone's throat from behind and be gone within three seconds, and you can get information without being seen." She paused. "But it's the most dangerous way to get things done. You put yourself at risk of getting caught, and getting caught almost always means death. Stealth is effective, but only if you've got the skill."
"So what you're saying is it's just easier to act like a whore."
"More or less."
"And I'm guessing you're good enough for stealth?"
"Good enough," she affirmed, almost whimsically. "But that's not my way of getting things done."
"Now you're just being a fucking tease."
Temari lowered her eyes and almost laughed at the look of impatience on his face. Smirking slightly, she moved her gaze to her gloved fingers, flexing them slowly into a fist and feeling an intense rush at the strength in her hand.
"I use force," she said calmly, removing the glove to gaze at the flexing tendons. "Good old-fashioned brutality."
"Are you serious?"
She raised her eyes and caught him staring at her, looking almost impressed.
"A promise of pleasure will get you a few whispered tidbits of information," she intoned. "But a promise of pain will get you what you need and more, screamed at you, with nothing left out."
He looked intrigued, remaining silent as she raised her eyes to the horizon again, sounding complacent.
"Few kunoichi can get away with the stealth approach," she explained. "And anyone can sleep around. But only a small handful of shinobi can use force as an incentive and be successful."
She gripped an empty flare canister by her side, feeling a thrill of excitement creep up her spine as the metal gave slightly under the pressure.
"You need the ability to be cruel," she said, dropping the dented canister to the sand. "And your cruelty needs to be authentic. It's not the threat of pain that persuades a person to talk—it's the way the threat is delivered. If your target can look you in the eye and see that you mean every word, he'll break easily."
She sensed his gaze on her, unwavering and intense, and felt a strange sort of pride she couldn't explain, prompting her to keep talking.
"And there are two ways to deliver the threat, two ways to get the message across," she continued, tracing circles on the frame of her fan, a wry smirk pulling at her lips. "Without an expression...or with a smile."
"How the hell does that work?"
Temari thought of Gaara, recalling the days in which they carried out missions together, remembering his face, devoid of emotion, blank as a slate, even as his victims screamed and the blood sprayed across his face.
"When you deliver a threat without an expression," she said slowly, recalling snatches of hysterical confessions and sobbed admissions. "It tells the target that you're serious—that you're emotionless. It tells him that if he doesn't talk, you'll hurt him without reprieve. It tells him you're incapable of granting mercy—that you won't go back on your word."
Gaara and his blank expression faded from her mind, replaced with herself and Kankuro, replaced with memories of her other brother grinning through smudged paint in satisfaction when people screamed what he needed to know.
"But when you say it with a smile…" Temari paused, feeling the corners of her lips rise slightly. "It tells the target that you're going to enjoy hurting him. It tells him that not only are you going to ignore his begging, but you'll get a laugh out of it—that you might continue the torture even after he gives you what you want—just for the hell of it. When you say it with a smile…that's when they answer fastest."
Temari glanced down and caught him staring at her, the unspoken question written all over his face.
"Do I smile?" she asked, feeling herself do just that, eyes glittering. "Sometimes."
He didn't reply, watching her with an unreadable look on his face.
"Either way," she continued, leaning back on her hands. "You need to make the threat sound believable. Telling him you'll string him up by his intestines makes you sound like an amateur."
"Really," he said, sounding amused.
"Like I said, it has to sound believable—like it's within your power to make it happen."
"And what's your take?"
Temari stared at him, idly twirling the empty flare canister between her fingers. When it dropped to the sand, she sat up again, unsure of whether she should feel ashamed or proud to share her techniques.
Issues involving morality were topics shinobi hardly touched upon with each other, keeping the pride, pleasure and subsequent guilt over their techniques to themselves, suffering and reveling in silence. Murder and torture came with the job description, and morality leaked definition through the years, remaining as nothing but an obscure idea amidst the red haze and lifeless bodies.
Looking back, she found that it was on more accounts than one she treaded the line between necessity and sadism.
A shiver coursed through her at the thought of her last dream and the satisfaction she'd derived from it, and she wasn't sure whether the burning in her cheeks was a result of hot shame or a flush of pleasure.
But right now, fretting over morals is irrelevant, she realized with a wry smirk, staring at him. At least, it is when you're talking to the devil in disguise.
"Physiopathology," Temari finally replied, tone impassive. "Explaining the effects of injury."
"Give me a sample. I gotta hear this."
She paused again, gazing at him in bemusement.
Rarely did the topic of torture techniques arise in casual conversation between normal people. Rarely did she get to explain the full extent of her methods. Never did she have the opportunity to be acknowledged for what she knew was a brilliant technique.
She almost felt ashamed, then, for being glad to have someone eager to listen, especially someone like him. Somehow, the idea of receiving approval from the person she despised most instilled her with a sense of accomplishment she would never feel anywhere else.
It was something twisted and morbid, but fed her pride like no other form of approval could, providing encouragement to voice the dark thoughts everyone has but never speaks of, stroking the part of her ego she kept strictly to herself.
Biting her lip, she made up her mind, leaning back on her hands again.
"I needed information from a brothel owner," she started, clearly recalling the mission. "About the clientele he had. We'd gotten a tip that a missing nin was coming and going there often. But he had a confidentiality policy. Wouldn't talk. So I asked him if we could chat in his office, in private.
"He thought I was offering myself as a method of persuasion, so he agreed. I went in first. He locked the door behind him. He came at me…" she trailed off, blinking as the memory arose in her mind's eye, as clear as if it had happened yesterday.
"He came at me," she repeated slowly. "And I pinned him to the wall. By his hands…with kunai. And he screamed and struggled until I pinned his feet to the floor. Then he started crying. But he wouldn't talk."
Again, something resembling both pride and shame festered within her as she recalled the scene, relaying it to another person now for the first time.
"So I grabbed him by the throat," she continued calmly. "And I told him he had five minutes to answer before I started squeezing. He swore at me, wasted time threatening me, so I cut off one of his fingers. He still didn't talk—trying to use the excuse that his life would be in danger. I told him he should worry more about what I'd do to him. At least his clientele would make his death quick."
Temari grinned at the memory of the brothel owner's face when she told him what her plans were, a faint tingle of excitement creeping up her spine.
"Strangulation," she said. "I said I was going to choke him to death. Slowly. And told him what would happen to his body, where it would hurt, bit by bit until he stopped breathing. He thought I didn't have it in me, so I started squeezing and outlining the consequences."
The words fell from her lips with an ease that would've alarmed her otherwise, eerily calm considering the nature of their implications. But she couldn't stop now, not when she finally had someone to hear her out.
"Venous obstruction—a stall in blood flow to the brain. Cerebral stagnation. Hypoxia. Airway obstruction—a feeling like his lungs would explode. Carotid pressure—first step to arterial spasms and collapse. Burst capillaries. Swollen tongue. Cardiac arrest. Thendeath."
Temari paused, recalling the look of intensifying horror on the man's face as she outlined the effects, perfectly serious and never relenting in her grip around his neck.
"So I squeezed until he screamed what I needed to know," she said complacently, with a faint hint of triumph. "He told me that and more. My reward to him was to leave him alive. My punishment for him wasting my time was to leave him pinned to the wall. And to give his finger to his dog for calling me a whore."
She smiled faintly at the memory of petting the dog while it gnawed on the finger and the man screamed himself hoarse in the background.
"In comparison, sleeping with him would have been easier," Temari said thoughtfully, watching thin streaks of cloud drift across the crescent moon. "I could have taken the easier, sleazier route. I could have been like most kunoichi…"
She lowered her eyes to him, a humourless smile gracing her face.
"But I'll strangle a thousand more men and cut off a thousand more fingers before I sink to that level."
He stared at her wordlessly, face expressionless.
Temari stared back unwaveringly, waiting for him to judge, waiting with her fists clenched in the sand beside her, breaths short and pulse racing.
Gradually, his expression changed. A slow, carnal smile lifted the corners of his lips, eyes wide and bright with something akin to admiration. Silently, instantly, she gained his respect whether she wanted it or not.
And simultaneously, her pride burst forth with an intensity that elicited an uncontrollable smile from her own lips—one born of accomplishment and acknowledgment for something never meant to leave the cluster of dark, victorious memories in the back of her mind.
It felt both good and bad, euphoria and guilt blending to form an emotion that made her face burn and her breathing shallow. She was proud and mortified, pleased and ashamed, though the euphoria out-weighed everything else.
"You know," he finally spoke after the prolonged silence, tone mild. "We're not as different as you think we are."
"You're wrong," she said calmly, complacent as she watched him, anticipating his response. "You're a bad person."
His smile widened into a grin.
"And what does that make you?"
She stared down at him, a smirk curving her lips as she tapped her finger against the tip of a kunai.
You hide a black nature behind a pretty face. I want to peel it away, break it till you resemble the filth you truly are.
"What does that make me?" she repeated inquiringly, tone deliberately whimsical.
I still want you to say it. I still want it to hurt. I want to be like you, if only for a little while, and revel in someone else's pain. I want you to say it.
She lowered the kunai towards the ground, smirking.
"I'm just a good person who likes bad things."
He was still grinning, obviously enjoying himself, still playing the game.
"Really? Then you must miss me when I'm gone."
She tasted blood while smiling back, humourless and full of spite.
"I miss all the opportunities I've had to hurt you."
He was standing, suddenly, taking an inviting step forward.
"I can give you one."
Her breaths came faster, fingers smearing sweat on the frame of her fan.
"As much as I want to, I can't break protocol."
Another step forward, and the scythe's shadow stretched long and sharp in the circle of light, curved and beak-like.
"I'm willing to take the blame for you."
The scent of metal assaulted her senses as she tightened her sweaty grip on the fan.
"You know I'm not alone."
His voice was teasing now, and he took another step closer.
"I could come back during the day."
A moment later she was standing as well, breath fogging in the dark, eyes wide and mouth dry.
"You wouldn't know where to look."
He smiled secretively, maliciously.
"I'd find you, don't worry."
She took a step forward, hearing the transmitter buzz threateningly, unable to bring herself to care.
"I won't hold back."
He was standing at the edge of the lit circle, a mere step away from leaving her line of sight and touching the border.
"I wouldn't want it any other way, seriously."
Breathless, panicked, and euphoric all at once, she waited, wanting this, wanting to put the rage to use, wanting him to take that last step.
She couldn't bring herself to speak or move.
One step. Just one more. Please, just one more.
He seemed to sense what she was thinking, lingering there at the edge of the circle for an unbearably long time, just staring at her, his smile tangible in the dark.
She stared back, shallow breaths fogging the air, eyes unblinking despite the sting of chilled wind.
The fan nearly fell from her fingers when he abruptly turned his head away, turning his back to her as he walked back towards the flares.
He paused near the first one as it began to flicker, turning his body slightly to look back at her, sounding amused.
"Next time, Blondie. Until then, try not to miss me too much."
Then he was gone, swallowed up by the inky blackness of the desert as the flare sputtered and died in his wake, flickering into darkness.
The ache in her chilled limbs went unnoticed when the sun rose and the other patrollers came to take her place, her eyes focused blankly in the direction he'd departed in.
She left without a word, eyes blank as she dragged her numb feet through the sand, paying no attention to the concerned looks her subordinates gave her.
The anxiety and uncertainty re-emerged the instant he'd left her sight, coiling in the pit of her stomach, inciting the familiar feel of nausea as she'd stood there, staring after him. Now, as she pushed open the door to her house and was greeted by silence, it grew worse.
Unthinkingly, Temari headed towards the kitchen, searching through the cabinets till she found the sleeping pills, taking the entire bottle with her to her room.
Setting it down on her nightstand, she unzipped her coat, letting it fall to the floor and listening to the sound of sand sprinkling the floor. Her boots went next, and she didn't bother changing out of her clothes, crawling into her bed wearily.
She shivered beneath the blankets, screwing her eyes shut in an effort to sleep and block out the dim light that blanketed her room. Outside the dark blinds the sun crept higher over the horizon, casting the faint, pale blue light of dawn over the desert.
Temari clenched her jaw, bringing her hand up to feebly cover her ear as his taunting words found refuge in the darkness, resurfacing at the absence of noise.
You miss me when I'm gone.
I don't, she thought inwardly, almost despairingly. I don't.
I could come back during the day.
"You left," Temari whispered aloud, the sound of her hoarse, weak voice making her feel all the more sick. "I saw you leave."
She let her eyes open partially, blinking blearily in the dark at where her nightstand was, at where the sleeping pills were. She wanted oblivion, now more than ever. But the side effects of the narcotics were ones she couldn't afford. She couldn't afford to have her senses dulled, her strength diminished, not when she had him to deal with.
Shuddering again, Temari burrowed deeper beneath her blanket, forcing her eyes shut, attempting and failing to block out the thought of him turning around, the thought of him easily making his way into her village without her there to stop him.
It was only then she truly began to understand how far she'd fallen.
Closure only came when she got to see him, the blissful cave-in of anxiety occurring once she had him pinned beneath her gaze. When he was there, there were no what-ifs or second thoughts. He was there where she could see him, there where she could stop him.
Then all too soon he'd be gone, disappearing into the dark desert, forcing her back into a realm of maddening uncertainty, eliciting dark thoughts and a plague of paranoia that lasted the remainder of the day, following her to the shower, to the store, to the office, to her bed.
You miss me when I'm gone.
In some twisted, depraved way, she did.
She missed the lack of uncertainty that existed when he was there. She missed the reassurance of having him before her and not near her loved ones. She missed the relief of not having to worry and agonize like how she was doing now.
She missed him for the sheer sake of not having to wonder and die a little inside each time she pictured him taking away the only two people in the world that mattered to her.
Temari knew she was fighting a losing battle once the bile started rising in the back of her throat, her shivering worsening as an hour wrapped in dark thoughts expired with agonizing slowness.
At 6:17 AM, she succumbed to resignation and numbly reached for the bottle of sleeping pills.
At 6:20 AM, she sank back into the blankets, curling up on her side and staring through partially closed eyes at the adjacent wall.
At 6:30 AM, as her thoughts gave away to delirium and her exhaustion to numbing drowsiness, she suddenly felt him there. Her eyes slowly opened, numbness overtaking her body as she felt the tangible, reassuring illusion of warm, bodily weight beside her supine form.
Frozen, she stared blankly into the darkness, knowing she was hallucinating, knowing that the warmth was a figment, a fever, not real. And still, she was afraid of what her fingertips might encounter should she reach back and touch.
Eventually, delusional relief overpowered fear, and she gave herself up to the hallucination with abandon, elated at the thought of a dreamless sleep untroubled by paranoid wonderings.
Stay there, she thought hazily, her eyes only a teal gleam through the crack in her eyelids. Stay where I can feel you. Stay where I can find you. Stay…
Her eyes slid closed, and Temari found it difficult to fight the faint shudder that coursed through her frame when the hallucination leaned forward, its warm, whispered words caressing the shell of her ear as she let oblivion swallow her.
Knew you'd miss me.
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