Chapter Five

Sasuke wakes to sunlight and the smell of apples.

He sits up, and his recently regenerated flesh stings with latent soreness. But this is nothing compared to the pain he carried across half of the Fire Country, and Sasuke ignores it. His mouth is dry, tongue like sandpaper, his stomach empty. He takes a cup of water from the bedside table, drinks it all without breaking for breath, and when he's done he is still thirsty.

Two apples sit beside the water pitcher. The first is ruddy but flushed with gold. The other crimson, skin shining as if polished, perfect as fruit from a fairy tale. Sasuke picks up the red one and takes a bite. Crisp and sweet, a ripe summer taste, but it's the color that sparks a memory. He recalls, suddenly, how his brother used to eat every bit of an apple. Even the core and seeds. Like all things, large and small, that he remembers about Itachi, this hurts to dwell on.

Sasuke knows where the fruit came from, though he isn't sure what its presence means.

He doesn't regret attacking Sakura the day she tried to poison him—they were enemies, skilled shinobi facing off as equals, and she had every intention of killing him—but when he thinks about knocking a plate of sliced apples out of her hands, he feels something between uneasiness and remorse. A dull shame for acting so childishly, for hurting a girl who deserved better.

Sasuke gets out of bed and dresses in the clean clothes someone brought him—no doubt one of his teammates (probably Sakura; Naruto isn't that thoughtful). He gingerly steps into his undershorts and pants, pulls the shirt over his head.

"What are you doing?" It's Sakura, standing in the doorway, hand on one hip. "You can't be out of bed yet," she says.

"Obviously I can." Sasuke makes to walk past her, but she stretches out her arm, blocking the exit.

He notices that she isn't wearing her medic uniform. This is her time off, but she came back to her workplace to visit him.

"Please," Sakura says. "At least let me check you over before you go." There's something in the way she's looking at him—soft, honest, supplicating—that makes it difficult for him to leave.

"Fine."

Sasuke takes off his shirt and allows her to listen to his heart and lungs. She presses firm fingers against his stomach and chest and asks if it hurts. It does, but so mildly that he just says, "No."

Then she puts a thermometer in his mouth, and Sasuke sits there, feeling stupid and ill-humored. "We gave you medicines to prevent infection," Sakura says. "But I want to make sure you don't have a fever."

His temperature is slightly elevated, but Sasuke tells her not to worry about this. "It's always like that. Has been since I was a child." When he was little his mother used to say that he had fire in his blood, like all Uchiha.

"Well, you're free to go if you want," Sakura says. "Though I wish you would stay another night."

Sasuke hates hospitals. They reek of death and sickness, human vulnerability on display, and so often within these walls dignity is traded for survival. He won't linger any longer than he has to.

"How did you get hurt so badly?" Sakura asks.

The fight comes back to him easily. Injuring Chinatsu and killing Haruki, because the man wouldn't stay out of the way. Then facing Fujimoto. The old missing-nin was a formidable shinobi, skilled with his blade, and he turned out to possess a wind-fire kekkei genkai that set the dry grass around them aflame.

It is not easy for Sasuke to admit when he's wrong. "I did exactly what you told me not to. I underestimated Fujimoto." He could have used Susanoo. Its protection would have shielded him from any jutsu his opponent was capable of performing. But Sasuke deemed it an unnecessary use of chakra and chose not to summon the guardian. If he had been less presumptuous—less arrogant—he never would have been harmed.

And he ended up half-dead, as Sakura warned against weeks ago.

She does not chastise him, and she does not gloat, as the dobe would have. Instead, Sakura asks, "How did you kill him?"

She gives no consideration to the possibility that Sasuke failed his mission, and he feels an odd surge of pride at that. "Chidori through the throat."

She flinches and says, "That couldn't have been pretty."

No, it wasn't. By the end, Fujimoto's head was only hanging from the rest of his body by a narrow strip of skin and sinew.

Blood loss dulls his memory of entering the hospital, but Sasuke knows he saw Sakura before he passed out. "You healed me, didn't you?" He says it like a question, even though it isn't, not really.

"Yes," Sakura says. "You were pretty torn up, Sasuke-kun. It—" She pauses, bites her bottom lip, even teeth white against the plump pinkness of her mouth. Then she says, quickly, like she's rushing to get the words out before she changes her mind, "It scared me."

Why this is hard for her to voice, when she freely admitted she loved him, Sasuke isn't sure.

She saved his life, quickly and skillfully, and now there isn't a hint of a mark to commemorate the wound he took. So he says, "Thank you."

Sakura seems surprised. He wonders, belatedly, if she even wants gratitude from the man who abandoned her. Who left her unconscious on a stone bench with nothing but the very words he just spoke.

She gives him a small smile. "You're welcome."

Silence falls between them, but it is a comfortable quiet. Full of shared experiences and mutual regard, none of the awkwardness that spells itself out between strangers' sentences.

Then he says, "I have to go. I gathered a lot of intel on my mission and I need to report my findings to Naruto."

Sakura nods. "He'll be glad to see you doing better. He was here most of last night, even though we don't usually let anyone stay that late besides family."

Sasuke does not point out that Naruto is the closest thing to family he has left. He doesn't need to; Sakura understands.

"Please take it easy for the next day or two. Sometimes, even if you feel fine, there's internal damage that was missed—"

"You didn't miss anything," Sasuke says.

"How can you possibly know that?" she asks.

The answer is as short as it is simple: "Because I know you."

Sakura blushes and tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I appreciate your confidence," she says. "But I'm not perfect and I do make mistakes. So no rough training or anything, okay?"

Sasuke says, "Hn." She can take that as a "Yes" or a "No" as she likes.

He notices for the first time how tired Sakura looks—purple shadows color the delicate skin beneath the fringe of her lower eyelashes—and he thinks maybe Naruto wasn't the only one who stayed with him last night. There was a time when such a thought would have bothered Sasuke. He hates anybody witnessing his weaknesses, and, for reasons he would rather not examine, this is especially true where Sakura is concerned (it is why a plate of apple slices ended up on another hospital floor all those years ago). But he finds that, just now, he doesn't mind.

"I'll see you later," Sakura says. "Please tell Naruto I said hello."

"Sure."

Sasuke leaves for the Hokage's tower. It's bright outside, and the sun seems over-large in the sky, white-gold, overbearing. And it's hot. Hot like Suna, except the air here swims with humidity. He begins to sweat as he heads toward the north end of town, and the soreness in his chest and stomach worsens the further he walks. He has been healed enough times to know that this residual tenderness is normal, but that doesn't mean he likes it any better.

Sasuke makes his way through the throng of villagers, thinking about Sakura.

She does not come from an old clan. She has not inherited dojutsu, or suffered the mixed blessing of the jinchuriki's life. She was not burdened with excessive strength and responsibility from birth, and she is not the great reincarnated child of a sage. She is not anything by virtue of destiny.

Everything she is, she made herself. Through hard work and talent and sheer determination she has become the fiercest kunoichi in Konoha, and possibly the best medic-nin in any hidden village. Sakura's power was not bequeathed to her by blood or fate. She earned every bit of it, drew it from within herself alone, and Sasuke can't help but respect this.

Despite Sasuke's requests to go back into the field, Naruto refuses to assign any new missions to him for a full two weeks.

"I'm perfectly fine," he says. "Sakura cleared me to leave the hospital days ago."

"She didn't clear you! She advised you to stay longer, and you left anyway."

Dammit, Sakura. Sometimes he thinks she tells Naruto everything. The two are absurdly close. Best friends and confidantes, their bond strengthened over the trial of bringing him back to Konoha. Perhaps because he spent so much time as the center of their attention—the object of Sakura's affection and the target for Naruto's rivalry—it still seems strange to Sasuke, how much his teammates trust and depend upon one another. Far more than they trust or depend upon him, but he knows that this is only fair. He did, after all, betray both his friends and the Leaf, many times and in many ways. That they manage to put any faith in him is a gift, not a thing owed.

He stands before the Hokage's desk, and he doesn't fail to realize that, while they are two friends having an argument, they're also a leader and a subordinate. Naruto retains the power and privilege of his office, which means that if he wants to keep Sasuke confined to the village, there's nothing to stop him.

"I left because there isn't anything wrong with me," he says, slowly and deliberately, like he's speaking to a child. Or an idiot.

Naruto huffs. "Maybe you're okay physically, but to be honest I'm worried about your, uh—what's the word Sakura-chan used? Oh yeah, your competence."

"My what?" Sasuke asks.

"Your competence," Naruto repeats helpfully. "It means—"

"I know what it means." The day he needs a vocabulary lesson from Uzumaki Naruto will be a sad day indeed.

He scratches the back of his head and says, "I read your report. It doesn't look so good, Sasuke."

"I finished the mission. I gathered valuable information and the target is dead. What else do you want?"

Naruto leans forward in his chair. Suddenly his easygoing body language is gone, and when he speaks there's a rough edge to his voice. A hint of red bleeds into the blue of his eyes. "You nearly died and you could have lost an important mission. All because you were sloppy and full of yourself. So take a little time off and figure out how not to fuck up so bad next time."

"And Sakura, what exactly does she have to say about all this?"

The scarlet tinge fades from Naruto's irises as quickly as it appeared. "Sakura-chan agrees with me. She called you careless."

Careless and incompetent. This is what his friends have been discussing behind his back.

It irritates Sasuke, how they occasionally talk around him and about him instead of to him. How they rely so completely on each other. He has always had a jealous nature, borne from living in the shadow of his prodigy brother, then strengthened by losing at such a young age the things that most children take for granted. He knows it's envy he feels, and he has even had the unworthy thought that maybe something happened between Naruto and Sakura during those years he was away from the village.

There is little that makes him angrier faster than considering this possibility, so he tries not to.

Now he bows to the Hokage, and if it is a little too exaggerated to be meant respectfully, Naruto does not comment on it.

Sasuke walks out of the office, then the building, and heads for Sakura's apartment. If she has concerns about his abilities she can express them to his face.

"There's someone knocking," Okaasan says. "Do you want me to get it?"

"No. You watch the stove." Sakura leaves lunch in her mother's hands, goes to the living room, and answers the door.

Sasuke stands on her front step. He doesn't look angry, but she can tell from the rigid way he holds himself that something is wrong. "You told Naruto I'm too incompetent to do my job?" he asks.

"No!" Sakura walks outside and closes the door behind her. Anybody strolling by could witness this conversation, but she'd rather a stranger overhear than her parents. "I said I was concerned because you were careless on your mission with Fujimoto and you're usually much more capable than that."

"Well, I'm suspended for two weeks," he says, somewhat mulishly.

Sakura crosses her arms over her chest. "That isn't my fault."

"You didn't have any right to go complaining about me to the damn Hokage—"

"Don't talk to me about what I have the right to do. Not when you stumble into my hospital bleeding to death."

Sasuke laughs, but it's a curt, rough sound. "You don't report on the other injured shinobi you treat."

"No," Sakura says, clearly and precisely, so he can't misunderstand. "But I don't love them."

That shuts him up, as she thought it might.

The door opens behind her and she turns to see Otousan. He smiles and says, "Sasuke! Why didn't you invite him in, Sakura?"

"He isn't staying."

Otousan frowns at her. "Don't be rude, your mother and I raised you better than that. Of course he's staying. Come on in, both of you, the food is almost ready."

Sasuke's eyes widen, and he looks more unnerved by a family lunch than he did when he was bleeding out under her hands. "That's all right, Haruno-san, I'm not really hungry."

Haruno-san? When does Sasuke ever grant anyone the respect of an honorific?

Her father waves his hand and says, "Nonsense. You'll join us."

And this is how Sakura, Sasuke, and her parents end up framing the four sides of her cheap kitchen table. She sits and eats and reflects on the simple fact that her mother and father will never stop involving themselves in her business.

"How are you feeling, Sasuke?" Okaasan asks. "Sakura told us you were hurt pretty badly on your last mission."

"I'm fine," Sasuke says, and she's thankful that at least he answers politely, keeps his tone civil. "Sakura healed me very thoroughly." Then his mouth curves into a sharp, little smile and he adds, "I'm even already prepared to get back to work."

Smartass. Sakura smiles back at him. "You're always in such a rush to get out of Konoha, Sasuke-kun."

The table talk ceases, but Sakura just sips a spoonful of suimono soup and pretends not to notice this. The look Sasuke gives her would intimidate a lesser woman, but she has never been afraid of him—even when perhaps she should have been—and she doesn't intend to start today.

Otousan clears his throat and says, "So, anything new going on at the hospital?"

"Not really. Same old, same old." Except that she had to save one of her teammates' lives. Again.

Conversation turns to the political. Okaasan criticizes the old daimyo, who, according to her, continues to spite the Fire Country by refusing to die. Otousan pokes fun at his wife's strong views: "Why don't you just assassinate him, Mebuki?"

"I might if he raises our taxes again," her mother says darkly.

Sakura smiles into her teacup, and even Sasuke looks mildly amused.

It is, surprisingly, a pleasant meal. Her parents refrain from asking Sasuke personal questions or telling embarrassing childhood stories. Sakura sits there, half afraid that her mother will reveal how, during her genin days, she had little to say besides "Sasuke-kun" this and "Sasuke-kun" that. His favorite color (blue) and favorite food (tomatoes) and how Ino told her that he likes girls with long hair. As if hoarding such hollow information would add up to a meaningful understanding of the boy she so admired. But Okaasan does not announce anything of the sort, and Sakura is relieved.

After everyone finishes lunch, her father claps Sasuke on the shoulder and says, "It was good to see you. You should come around for dinner one of these nights."

"Maybe," he says. Which probably means "Never."

Her parents return to their own house, leaving Sasuke and Sakura alone in her apartment. She gathers the dirty dishes, puts them in the sink, and turns on the water. She washes a bowl, mostly to give herself something to do.

"Are you still mad?" Sakura asks.

"Yes," he says, though he sounds more tired than anything. "But not at you."

Sasuke picks up a towel and takes the freshly rinsed bowl from the right side of the sink.

"You don't have to do that," she says. "You're a guest."

"I don't mind it." He dries the bowl as methodically as he does everything else. "I used to help my mother with the dishes. It was nice, spending time with her that way."

Sasuke rarely speaks about his past, about the family he lost so violently, and it always catches her off-guard when he mentions his parents or his brother. "Was your mother a kunoichi?"

"Yes, but she stopped taking missions after she had Itachi and me. I don't know if that was her choice or my father's. I never thought to ask."

"I think I wouldn't do that, if I ever have kids," Sakura says. She scrubs the pot she cooked the soup in, rinses it beneath the jet of hot water, and hands it to Sasuke.

"No?" he asks. "Then who would watch the children when you and your husband are both on missions?"

Sakura smiles and says, "Maybe I'll marry a handsome civilian and have a nice house-husband."

Sasuke scowls. "I doubt it," he says. "Doesn't seem to be your type."

That's true enough. Kenji, Hideki, Taro, Sasuke. The only thing those four men have in common is that they are all shinobi.

"What about you?" she asks. "I can't picture you staying home with kids. Would you want your wife to do that?"

He shakes his head and says, "Not really my choice. But no, I wouldn't want my wife to give up the kunoichi's life. Maybe that worked for my parents, but I'm very different from my father."

This doesn't much surprise her. Although Sasuke is traditional in many ways, he's also drawn to power. And while the women who keep homes for their families do have a particular sort of strength about them, Sakura can't imagine him married to anyone who couldn't also support him on the battlefield.

She turns off the water and gives the last spoon to Sasuke. He dries it quickly and sets it on the counter with the rest of the clean dishes. He has stacked the plates and bowls and turned all of the cups upside down. It's such a neat, characteristically fastidious thing to do that Sakura smiles. She thinks, before she can stop herself, that if she ever lived with Sasuke, it would be a remarkably tidy house they shared.

Sakura looks at the clock and says, "I have a shift at the hospital in thirty minutes. I should start getting ready—"

"Did anything happen between you and Naruto while I was away from Konoha?" he asks. Sasuke leans against the counter, hands in his pockets, expression blank. He looks like he doesn't care one way or the other, but if that was true, why would he have even brought this up? And there's something odd in his tone, a tightness of speech that betrays an undercurrent of feeling.

Sakura abandons any thoughts of politely kicking him out. She takes a deep breath, runs a hand through her hair. "A lot happened while you were gone, Sasuke-kun. It was hard, searching for you and always failing to bring you home. Especially after you joined the Akatsuki." She looks down, studies the linoleum beneath her feet. "Naruto and I got really close, but there was nothing physical between us, if that's what you mean."

But this isn't the whole of it, and Sakura forces herself to face him as she admits the rest.

"I did tell him I loved him, once," she says. Sasuke's eyes narrow and the corners of his fine mouth turn down. "I was lying to myself, lying to him, even though I didn't mean to. It was after we found out you were a criminal, and I was planning to—to attack you." To kill him, she means, and they both know it, but Sakura doesn't want to say that out loud. "I was trying to convince myself that my feelings for you were gone, and I thought, maybe, if I tried, I could have something with him. Because I do love Naruto, just not the way he used to want me to."

"It wasn't very fair of you, to jerk him around that way," Sasuke says, but he doesn't sound sanctimonious. If anything, it's relief she hears in his voice.

"No, it wasn't, and I'm not proud of that." Sakura takes a hesitant step closer to him and says, "Why do you ask?"

"I was curious." He shrugs, but it's too disinterested, conspicuously casual. Something about it seems false.

Sakura suspects, the same way she can tell when patients lie about their smoking, that Sasuke is not telling her the truth.

After he leaves, she gets ready for work, then takes the long route to the hospital. She passes civilians and off-duty shinobi. Restaurants, grocers, and houses. And as Sakura walks, the village suddenly appears bright and full of new possibility. Because she's almost certain that Sasuke was jealous.

Author's Note: Many thanks to my lovely beta, small-girl-in-a-tall-world, for her help with this chapter.