a/n LMFAO, this is my fav chapter so far. You're going to love it:)
Thanks for being fantastic, all ye readers and reviewers! Here's more Shikamaru trauma, for your enjoyment:)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~published to "The Spice" by Random Rab
Chapter Eight: Hidden In The Winds
Oh gods! Oh sweet, sweet gods! She has a meeting with the Konoha delegation—may they burn in sixty thousand hells!—and she feels like complete ass.
She hadn't slept well the night before, not after that encounter with Shikamaru-no-asshole. She'd had strange dreams of giving birth to a real live—or rather, undead—zombie, coming out of her womb, all oozing flesh and trying to kill her with its bare, putrescent hands. It had been like a horror movie, but worse, because she'd always enjoyed horror movies—at least, up until now.
Temari puts on her uniform with a groan. "Oh gods, I'm going to puke." She is half-way into her dress when she bolts for the bathroom; her legs twist in the garment, tripping her. She falls on her side with a grunt, then pulls herself into the bathroom with the strength of her arms, heaving herself up over the toilet rim just in time.
She spits out the bile with a grimace. "Damn you, Shikamaru!" she yells into the vomit swirling in the toilet bowl. "If they put your brain in a chicken, it would run straight to the butcher!" This insult, however, has taken too much effort and disrupts her stomach once again; she heaves the contents of her stomach with a groan.
She's not sure how long she is sprawled there, slumped against the toilet bowl and hurling insults into her own vomit, her legs tangled and trapped in her uniform. One moment, she's whispering into her refuse how Shikamaru is the son of a thousand prostitutes; the next, Kankuro is lifting her off the floor and wiping the bile from her face.
"Little sister, you look like shit. Are you sure you're up to this meeting?"
"Kankuro," she rasps, "please free me from the adversary that is my dress; I will be fine." Plus, Gaara has promised her his famous 'Zombie Plague Cure'—an alteration on Kankuro's hangover cure—if she can make it to the meeting. "And don't call me your little sister," she adds with a snarl. She clutches the edge of the bed railings with white hands and tries not to vomit on her brother while he helps her to get dressed.
By the time they reach the conference room, Temari feels like she's been dragged through the desert by a sand cat and stung by six thousand scorpions. Before Kankuro opens the door, she forces herself to stop leaning on her brother and stand on her own, even though it makes the room sway and her gorge rise. Kankuro settles for taking her arm, as if he were escorting her to a royal event, and guides her to her seat on Gaara's right, while he sits on Gaara's left.
"Good morning, honored guests of the Sand," Kankuro intones. "Please excuse our rudeness for being late; my sister has been unwell, as of late."
Temari wants to die. It is bad enough that she had to upchuck the bowl of bland oatmeal that she had for dinner last night; she doesn't want to look like some wilting hothouse flower in front of the delegation.
"I am fine, niisan. It was nothing but my own inattentiveness that caused us to be late; please forgive me for the insult," she whispers. It's hard to get the words out, because her tongue wants to stick to the roof of her mouth.
And although she had been looking forward to it, it does not help her shame when a servant comes in and offers her a cup of Gaara's special tea, an infusion of ginger and peppermint with just a hint of cardamon and honey. Temari sips it delicately and wishes she could bury herself in sand, away from all these people.
"Temari-sama," Ino calls, genuinely concern, "please let me examine you. I'm a medical nin—"
"That won't be necessary, Ino-san," Temari mutters, discretely clutching the seat of her chair so that she does not fall over. "I will be seeing my own physician later this morning. Thank you for your concern."
Ino shoots her a worried glance, but Gaara takes over in the proceedings, and she has no more time to pry into Temari's fucked-up personal life. Temari sits there, mute and swaying like sage brush in a low breeze. Towards the end of the conference—and Temari has absolutely no idea what agreements have just transpired—Shikamaru stands with a polite cough.
He gives her a slanted look, as if he's not quite sure how to proceed; at Ino's jabbing, he clears his throat again and begins.
"Temari-sama—if I may call you Temari-sama?" Temari offers him a slight nod and he continues, "I am deeply sorry about my slight towards you yesterday—"
"Which one?" Temari rasps.
Shikamaru laughs nervously. "Er…I…"
Ino rolls her eyes and whispers, loud enough for all to hear, "Man up and spit it out, shit-for-brains!"
Shikamaru flushes the color of the desert sunset, red spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. Despite herself, Temari smiles, albeit wanly.
"What would you like to say, Shikamaru-san?" she mutters, her voice raw, but not completely unkind. "I haven't all day to watch the clouds as you form your sentence."
Shikamaru's eyes flash with annoyance, and secretly, Temari is pleased. However, he masters himself quickly and pushes a small box towards her over the surface of the table.
"If it pleases you," he intones in the formal words of the court, "I wish to offer you this token of my remorse."
Temari takes the box cautiously, as if it might contain a sand viper. She hopes it's not food. If she sees food right now, she might barf, and that would ruin what little standing she has this morning. She is the Breath-of-the-Desert, the Blades-of-Wind; it is shameful to have to sit here, white-lipped and sipping at hangover tea, when she should be hale and strong like the true warrior she is.
She runs her fingers around the side of the box; she won't admit it to herself, but she is afraid of what she will find inside. Temari, the heroic Zombie-Slayer, is afraid of a little velvet box.
"You didn't have to get me anything, Shikamaru-san; you are my guest," Temari mumbles, stalling for time.
"Even so," is his cryptic reply.
Silence descends; everyone is watching her. Inhaling sharply, and wishing for the moment to be over as quickly as possible, she opens the box with nerveless fingers.
What is inside nearly makes her fall over. She braces her hands on the edges of the table and turns green in the face. She knows it's terrible manners to act this way when given a gift, but she can't quite help it.
"T-thanks," she stutters, one hand clutching the table while the other holds her roiling stomach.
Kankuro, curious bastard that he is, grabs the box before she can stow it away; he whistles lowly.
"Oi, Shikamaru, you got her a desert cat pendant? Carved out of amber?"
May you die a thousand deaths, Kankuro! May scorpions sting your dick until it falls off! May sand cats maul your testicles! Temari curses inwardly, her stomach churning even more wildly.
"Shut up, Kankuro," Temari hisses. She can feel her face burning like the desert sun at noon.
But the torture is not over, for Gaara now inspects the pendant, taking it out of the box and holding it up so it gleams in the sunlight.
"They didn't tell you what the sand cat symbol means, did they, Shikamaru-san?" Gaara says quietly.
Temari is not looking at Shikamaru; she is staring down at the table, as if the polished grains of wood are the most fascinating things she has ever seen. If she looks up, she is going to puke; if she pukes, she's going to ruin her honor. So instead, she stares resolutely at the table. Please, brothers, please just—stop. Oh gods, sweet gods, I think I'm going to be sick…
"Eh, they told me it protected against plague," Shikamaru mumbles, a bit petulant.
Temari glowers down at the swirling wood grains and thinks of colorful curses she wishes she could hurl at her oppressor: If stupidity were grains of sand, you would be a desert! Perform a head-stand on your roof and point your dick towards the moon! This does not help her stomach, which is lurching from side-to-side, like a drunk man walking home from the bar.
She can hear the barely suppressed mirth in Gaara's voice as he replies, all susurrant and smug, "Indeed; it is a powerful protection amulet… It is also a fertility charm."
She can hear Shikamaru sitting back down in his chair with a thud; she can hear the unvoiced laughter in the air. Abruptly, she stands; her chair clatters to the floor and breaks the leaden silence. "Pardon me!" Temari mumbles, as she makes a mad dash for the bathroom.
Thank the gods, it's not far, she makes it in time; she only hopes that they can't hear her, back in the conference room, as she empties her stomach of yesterday's lunch and breakfast.
"May you be dragged through the desert by your dick in the mouth of a dog!" she mutters in between stomach spasms. "May you be ass-fucked by a scorpion! Your mother dropped you on your head as a child and scrambled your brains, like an egg!"
At that last, ill-placed curse—one that mentions food—she retches even harder. She knows nothing but the violent pain of her stomach hijacking her body and trying to escape via her mouth.
At some point, she gets a hold of herself, pulls the chain to empty the toilet, and splashes water over her face. This is infinitely worse than facing her death in the form of insane zombies on the battlefield; this is much, much worse. Temari can lead an entire legion and vanquish undead foes, but when it comes to getting a piece of jewelry as a gift?
"If my soul was put into a bird, I would fly backwards," Temari curses at herself, toweling off her face. She takes a deep breath and opens the bathroom door, keeping her face as stony as a craggy, unmoving mountain. She strides down the small hallway and into the conference room where everyone is sitting in shocked silence.
Temari doesn't care if they have heard her caustic curses; they should all be struck down with Zombie Plague, and know how it feels to loose your stomach on a daily basis. She takes her seat with forced aplomb.
"Excuse me," Temari murmurs, her voice hoarse. Without further ado, she reaches over to the treacherous box, takes out the pendant, and eyes it. It's a beautiful piece; Temari may not be much of a jewelry connoisseur, but she knows the flawless piece of amber must have cost a small fortune out here in Suna.
Keeping her face free of expression, she slips the chain over her head and tucks the pendant in under the neckline of her dress.
"Thank you for your gift," Temari states into the silence, her voice even and without inflection. "It is very beautiful." And ill-placed, she muses inwardly, but she does not show her feelings. She knows Shikamaru is an idiot, especially when it comes to girly frou-frou things. It must have taken a lot of prompting from Ino for him to have attempted this token.
"In the desert," Gaara explains, his voice betraying none of his emotions, "things are often not what they seem, or are two things at once. We have a saying: 'Many things are hidden in the winds.' You have a similar saying in Konoha, do you not?"
"Yes of course," Ino replies, a bit too quickly. "'Look underneath the underneath.'" She laughs nervously before continuing, "You must forgive any insult to your person, Temari-sama; it was I who picked out the piece of jewelry. If you wish, I could find another to fit the honor of a warrior? Perhaps something for strength?"
"No," Temari states, her voice a harsh whisper. She takes a deep breath and chooses her next words very, very carefully: "I like your gift very much, Ino-san. I will wear it for good luck until the Plague leaves my body." She raises her eyes from the table to meet Ino's smiling gaze; next to her, she can see that Shikamaru's face is dark. With a start, Temari realizes that she has excluded Shikamaru from her formal address and has thanked Ino alone.
The thanks she has already given is all that is required of her by the standards of etiquette. However, she feels something akin to mercy welling up in her heart, and words come out of her mouth, as if of their own accord: "Thank you, Shikamaru-san, for your thoughtfulness. I forgive you of any slight you may have caused me yesterday." Though don't think you're off the hook for anything that happened before yesterday, Temari adds to herself. Shikamaru picks up on her meaning though; his eyes meet hers for a brief moment, and she can see that he understands the words whispered in the wind.
"Very good," Gaara intones. "Ino-san, Choji-san, if you would accompany Lord Kankuro? The construction specialists have drawn up plans for Konoha, and I'd like you to see them. Shikamaru-san, stay here; I would like to speak with you."
Temari ghosts out of the room while Gaara is giving directives, ostensibly to go to her doctor's appointment. However, she is going to take a quick detour towards the genin training grounds.
There are a few training poles still left standing that she would like to disembowel and decapitate, in that order. And if her chakra is off again, it will be no problem—she's happy to kill them with her bare hands.
These people are going to be the death of me, Shikamaru muses as everyone leaves the room besides himself and Gaara. Shikamaru is certain that Gaara has detained him in order to dismember him and throw his innards to the desert dogs, or whatever it was that Temari had shouted in between bouts of puking from the bathroom.
I've really just dug myself an even bigger grave to lie in. What better way to insult Temari's honor than to give her a Kami-damned fertility charm? And on top of everything, Temari had looked genuinely ill, green to the gills and trembling like a wind-blown leaf. He winces at that.
"Gaara, did I really give Temari the Zombie Plague?" Shikamaru blurts out once they are alone. Gaara offers him a level stare and says nothing; the silence twists Shikamaru's guts.
"I'm afraid it's all too possible," Gaara rumbles at last. He spears Shikamaru with a hawkish stare.
"Oh Kami—Gaara, you've got to believe me, I never meant to—oh Kami," he breathes. It's true, it's really, really true—even worse than that, he has been a complete asshole to Temari, even though it is his fault that she is a plague victim. To compound matters further, when he had tried apologizing, he had ended up insulting her instead. Shikamaru blanches, and has to restrain himself from hitting his head on Gaara's expensive-looking desk.
"Calm down, Shikamaru-san. The plague isn't usually fatal."
"Isn't usually fatal! You mean—there's a chance she could die?"
Gaara spears him with that terrifying, unblinking stare, and nods slowly. "There is a chance. The gods know it has happened to other people."
Shikamaru is stupefied; he cannot speak, merely holds his head in his hands. Finally, he sputters, "Gaara, you have to believe me—"
"Of course I do, Shikamaru. But do you understand now why I insist that Sakura come here as soon as possible? I want her medical expertise for when the Plague…comes to fruition."
"Comes to fruition?" Shikamaru whispers. "Don't tell me—"
"Indeed," Gaara intones gravely. "The Zombie Plague only becomes more pronounced with time. Have you noticed, Shikamaru, that Temari's chakra nature is changing?"
Shikamaru narrows his eyes in thought. Yes! Last night, when Temari had used her wind-jutsu, something had felt off about it. "I did notice something…" he admits, unconsciously chewing the inside of his cheek.
"We're going to have to put her on leave soon; Plague is going to eat away at her normal chakra, and we can't have her going on missions in that condition."
"Eat away at her chakra—but that's—"
"If you'll just sign here, Shikamaru, you'll ensure that Temari will get the best medical care in all the shinobi nations. You can make sure that Temari won't die from Plague."
"Of course," Shikamaru replies without thinking. "I'll agree to whatever you want."
"Just sign here," Gaara states. "I've already signed in my blood on the right; it just needs your signature, as the representative of your Hokage, to ratify the agreement."
After Shikamaru has sliced open his finger with a kunai and dips a pen into his own blood; after he scrawls out his signature with an unsteady hand; only then does he have the faintest inkling that there is perhaps more going on here than meets the eye.
As he makes his way to his rooms at the inn, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he has been played; but he has no reason to think this way, so he quickly shoves his misgivings aside.
a/n Yes, "Do a handstand on your roof and point your dick at the moon" is a real Israeli curse. I am not sure what it means (probably something along the lines of "how useless can you be?") but it is my favorite thing ever. Trolololol;)
Please review friends! xoxoxo!