sequel to my one-shot Coming Up Tails

Dependence

Puzzle pieces don't always connect, do they?

—Ellen Hopkins

1.

It is the second time he has ever been in the Hokage's office by himself. Last time, years ago, his presence was requested, and when he'd arrived, not a single guard or resident had been in sight, save Tsunade. This time, Shikamaru has come on his on volition, and, before she'd dismissed them all, there had been others mingling about.

He finds it vaguely ironic that the reason he is here now is both directly and indirectly connected to the last time. He doesn't say this aloud though, knowing it will only anger Tsunade to be even slightly lighthearted about such a dark and painful past.

"And you suppose this is a good idea?" She asks, resting her chin in her hand and looking at him with a distrusting air.

"I do."

"And you won't do anything rash or…" she stares at him a moment, "stupid, will you?"

Shikamaru doesn't miss a beat. "No."

"Good." There is a shuffling somewhere out in the hall and the Hokage waves her hand to dismiss him. "You are only running some errands, Shikamaru. You needn't spend more than a few hours there."

He gives a hard nod, making clear he understands and that he won't take the action she is warning him against. There is a pause as he waits for a stricter warning (after all, both of them know he shouldn't be trusted now), but none comes. Finally, after an extended silence, Shikamaru turns around and opens the door to leave.

"How long has it been?"

That isn't what he'd been expecting. He glances back, hands lame by his side. "A little over three years." Three years and three months.

She gives him a long look. "You are signing your team up for the Chunin exams this year, right?"

He frowns. "I am still considering."

Tsunade reaches for one of the papers on her desk and looks down at it, as though the conversation is over and she is presently returning to her work. It makes the follow-up comment appear much more casual than it possibly could be. "You should consider introducing your team to the Kazekage, then."

Shikamaru doesn't smile or give any inclination that he understands her sympathy (it's pity, isn't it?).

He shuts the door on his way out.

The mission was offered to Tenten's team first. She was busy though, and Shikamaru took up the opportunity quickly.

It is a half-hearted decision, both in that he doesn't fully want to go and that he has decided to impulsively.

As much as he wants to go to Suna (as he has always, always wanted to go), the idea also frightens him. It's not arbitrary or mindless. His nervousness, his terror… it cripples him. He's as scared as he has ever been. Even the basic consideration of it, the minor rumination on the possibility of going to the city, feels like a death-grip on his gut, like a blackness substance is furrowing inside of him, forming a hole so deep and dark and pitiful that nothing, no decadence or other pleasure, will ever fill it. He sometimes feels like, if he goes to that city, he will never find any fulfillment again.

But can he also stay here? Does he feel differently here?

He isn't sure, really, if he does feel happiness. He isn't sure that he has felt it in a long time; so long, perhaps, that he may not even recognize it. It's as possible as anything that he is happy. It's equally as possible that he isn't. He doesn't know.

Will it do any good to go? Will it do any good to stay?

He can go see her — he knows where they stand, he's always known, even before, what he wants and how that differs from what he is allowed to have. But he doesn't know if he can go see him. And to see him — what would that help? Would it do any good?

Is it pointless, in the end, that Shikamaru would have to leave? He has no choice, no say, no legal or even moral claim… or perhaps that is the point?

He doesn't know what he is doing. He doesn't know what is right.

(he knew this though — he was always aware (when he proposed, when they conceived, when she left) that he had absolutely no answers for the future)

But he doesn't think he has another choice.

Honestly, what else can he do?

2.

He doesn't sleep most of the trip. An hour or two here and there, but that is all.

His team is excited. He has never taken them to Suna. It is odd, they tell him, as pretty much every other team has gone to visit. He knows. Their foreign relations are tight-knit. He tells them that once, a long time ago (is it too long, so long, that he has forgotten?), he was an ambassador for the Leaf in Suna. That was before the position became a full-time one. He had only been a kid back then. Now there is a Konoha shinobi whom lives in the Sand year-round. There is an entire staff there, an entire building and enterprise made solely of citizens from his country. They have been for over a decade. It's been long enough that his team can't even imagine a teenage-Shikamaru working on the budging relations between Konoha and what is now their closest-ally. "It was Naruto and the Kazekage," they tell him, as they've been taught. "They're the ones that made us allies." Shikamaru thinks, maybe, that they're right.

After all, in the end, what had he ever really done for Suna?

When he is able to sleep, his dreams are vivid enough to wake him up, panting and drenched in sweat.

He has had dreams of her, of them, on and off for years. But now, he only dreams of himself and the warped sense of duty he continues to enact. When he wakes up, it's always in a fit.

But the night before they arrive, he sleeps well and long until Tomi and the rest of his team wake him up.

3.

When they enter the gates of Suna, it's less than five seconds before he sees her. The ruse of meeting the Kazekage was unnecessary after all.

She is standing by a cart in the street, talking with another man.

Everything about her is the same. She's been exactly the same since she was sixteen, for all he can tell (even though logically he recognizes the impossibility). It's in the ways she stands, the way her dress falls, the way she tilts her head and smiles and responds to the world around her.

She seems happier.

That's the most different, maybe.

And maybe that is what hurts the most.

Shikamaru is just standing, staring after her, ignoring the tug of his sleeve from his team. His throat hurts. He feels an impetus to do something — to scream or cry or yell in jealousy and joy and relief and fear — but more than that he cannot move; his spine rigid, heels locked into the ground, knees buckled. His stomach is tight and he can feel a quickening of his heart, his heavy pulse throbbing in his ears, drowning out all other noise.

He knew this was going to happen. He'd come here specifically for it to happen.

But dreams and reality and two entirely different things with little-to-no liaison between the two and he just feels... lost. Always and never; here and gone, everywhere and nowhere at once. It doesn't make sense. He feels sick.

Gazes, at least when she's looked at him, are fire and it does occur to him that at some point, probably, she will feel it burning into her profile. A moment later and her head moves, slight and graceful and pinpointed in his exact direction.

There is a sharp, quick intake of breath and slight widening of eyes, and besides the now furious pounding of his heart, he notices nothing else.

They stand as such, over ten yards between them.

He last saw her the day she handed him the confirmation of her conception, touched a hand to his jaw, and then turned away.

She left and he didn't see her again.

But now she is here. And so is he. And the moment is taking much more than it is giving.

But, for the briefest second, there is no weight on his shoulders, no hole in his being that continues to gnaw on his flesh.

There is just him. And just her. And it was happening much too quickly for any proper reaction to take place.

But then it is over. Her eyes have left his and her head has moved away and it takes him a moment to gather himself and follow. This time, his reaction is completely different. There is no shortage of oxygen, no weighted legs or shaking hands.

For Shikamaru, there is no mistaking who he is. He looks just like one would expect him to. Perhaps his eyes are darker, and his face much rounder, not to mention the tufts of light hair — but it's obvious. It is so obvious. They all must know! Everyone must know!

How had Shikamaru missed it before?!

Temari listens to what her son has to say before responding with a very tight smile and crouching down to respond. A moment later, the boy looks vaguely in Shikamaru's general direction and then Temari straightens and grabs the child's hand, leading him over to where Shikamaru is standing.

He's going to be sick. He's going to topple over. It's too much. Why is he here?

Temari, seemingly understanding, always somehow knowing, stops before him and nods her head in permission for something he didn't even know he wanted to request. But she's always known him. She has always known everything about him — it's what brought them into this situation in the first place.

They are only a foot away and Shikamaru is able to reach out his hands when he kneels, brushing his fingers through the boy's hair. It is dry and thick. It's exactly like Temari's always felt.

The boy turns his head to the side and looks at the ground, clearly uncomfortable. He hasn't made any noise, he hasn't refused the touch (as Shikamaru, at three, probably would have), but he clearly dislikes it. Finding his footing — to some extent at least — Shikamaru smiles, although the lump in his throat is still contracting and the back of his eyes feel heavy and weighted.

"Sorry." he says. He doesn't sound good. His voice is dry and cuts off on syllables incorrectly. He hears the brokenness, and Temari, in the way she shifts, does too. He can also hear the relief of it, the exhale, the entire weight of it, he hadn't even known he'd been bearing. "You are very beautiful," he continues, pulling his hand away to rest on his knees. "I got carried away."

Temari clears her throat and he glances up at her.

"Shikamaru," she says. Her voice is hard too, but it always was, wasn't it? He holds his breath. "This is Tayori."

He's grinning without meaning to. "Hello, Tayori." The name comes in one heavy breath, exhaled through his smile. He feels it, over his tongue, in emerging from his throat, its sound reverberating in his fingertips. "I am…" he trails off, though the tone is still light. He's so overjoyed, for the first time, he can think of nothing else except to intake the image of the child before him… "a friend of your mother's."

Tayori glances at Shikamaru now, eyes careful, looking at him fully before looking back up at Temari.

"Sorry." She says, bending down and picking him up. She rests him on her hip, comfortable, easy, like she does this a lot. "He's shy around strangers."

Shikamaru also straightens, nodding.

Why? Neither of them were.

He isn't sure why he thinks it. He isn't sure what, if anything, he is looking for (recognition? apology? love?).

They stand like that for a while, together in silence, and neither of them really mind (he can tell — if she is annoyed with him, she's always let him know it. He doesn't suppose things are too different now). Then, after a long minute, his genin team is back and they are pulling on his vest and the moment is swept away.

"Let's go," Tomi says, dragging him backwards.

"Hey!" He protests without thinking, without knowing what is next. "I'm in the middle of something."

"We have to go to the Kazekage's building." Tomi snaps. "Hokage-sama said we shouldn't be late."

"I should go too," Temari says, and though Tomi has dragged him a good yard further away from her and Tayori before letting go, Shikamaru makes no effort to re-close the distance. He's never pursued her. Not once (was that the problem? before this, would that have changed things?).

"Right," he replies, still in shock. He isn't thinking coherently. He can't figure out what to articulate, what to make sense of.

Temari gives him a long look before nodding in finality. "It was good to see you, Shikamaru."

He waits a moment and then nods in return, unsure what to otherwise do and, consequently, utterly incapable of doing anything else. "You too."

He doesn't sleep much on the way home.

4.

"How are you?" He asks the first time they are left alone. They are in the Kazkage's offices waiting for the rest of their party to come back from lunch. They are not friends. But they share mutual acquaintances, and Shikamaru has found himself out with her on more than one occasion, but this is the first time it has ever been just the two of them.

Temari blinks slowly, as though thinking through her answer, and looks up at him. Neither of them have had any direct communication since the first time they saw one another in the streets, over a year before. But neither of them shies away when they meet in these groups now. There are no hidden looks or ersatz ignorance; nor any light-stepped flirtation.

He is not ashamed to look at her though, openly and naked. When she knows she is being watched, she doesn't challenge, as she once would; she only ignores it — accepts it. He does the same when he knows her eyes have traced his movement.

Now, though, this — it's the first time her eyes have finally met his and it's like lightning to his system.

She looks forlorn. Unhappy.

"Well," she answers though, tilting her head to the side, as if it's a casual question. "You?"

Shikamaru waits a beat and then nods. "Fine." He doesn't say anything else, but both know that she is well aware of all of it. She always has been. But there are some things that can't — that shouldn't — be said.

"Good," she replies. Her mouth is slightly open, her lips parted. It hurts, having her eyes so readily on his. "That's good."

He nods again. That is the extent of their conversation.

It happens like this more often over the next two years. Perhaps a dozen times total (he isn't counting). Their interaction never deviates from this script; maybe a few more, or less, words, but in the end it all means the same thing.

There is always so much more he could say and, at the same time, nothing to say at all. She tries though, once, at a work meeting when they are left alone in a conference room.

"I am finding it harder and harder to look away from you," she says, voice quiet and bare, not denying anything and implying everything.

She also means it to not mean anything at all.

Shikamaru understands. The only reason he ever looks away is because it so much easier than seeing.

The next time they are alone together, the night of Gaara's twenty-sixth birthday, she says more. He wonders, for a very long period, how she can do it. Perhaps she holds the cards, though he supposes neither of them do. And yet, she says things that shouldn't be said. Things that he wants to say, painfully, and that she has no right to say.

She is standing on the second floor balcony, looking down at the party-goers on the floor below. He is talking to the Konoha Ambassador when he passes her. He excuses himself and goes to stand with her.

He has done this before, though nothing is really meant by it. He doesn't feel comfortable around her. He doesn't feel safe. It hurts, even after all this time, even though he does it every few weeks, to be beside her at all. But it is worse to stand away from her.

"How are you?" He asks, nothing unusual or otherwise different from the other times he's asked, nothing that would point to any wayward intention other than the common suffering.

"Fine," she responds. "And you?"

"Okay." He leans his forearms on the bannister to mimic her position. "Good party."

"Yes."

There is silence between them for a long time. That's not unusual either, when neither of them can speak.

There are a dozen couples dancing, and a handful of songs begin and finish before she finally opens her mouth, her gaze tilted down to them, her shoulders loose and relaxed, but her hands, the flex of her wrists, are stiff.

"He asks about you, you know." She says it quietly, as though sharing a secret, though there is no one around them. It's so softly, so offhandedly, it seems more to herself than anything — a throwaway comment not meant to be overheard and considered.

There's no hesitancy in his understanding though. It's like a slap in the face, a sharp tug on his hair — it's horror, plain and simple. She's wounded him without meaning to, though knowing the impact.

Shikamaru chokes. He holds his breath. Stars swim in his gaze. Lines, somewhere, blur.

Her fingers wander vaguely over the edge of the almost empty glass in her hand and he wonders, trying to hone in on one trajectory of coherent thought, just how much she has had to drink.

They have never once talked about Tayori. Apart from the few times Shikamaru has seen him around Suna and waved, he hasn't even interacted with the boy in three years.

"He asks if you're dead." Temari continues, still looking away from him. "Or if you're a bad man." She smiles, softly, as though there is humor somewhere here. "He doesn't understand why I'm not married."

She exhales into a short laugh. It's not happy, but the noise is enough to shake him out of it.

Shikamaru swallows. It hurts.

"Five year olds are too curious." His voice is strained.

Not hearing it — no, she's heard him, she just doesn't care — Temari goes on. "He asks how I feel about his father."

His hands are gripping the bannister, wrapped so tightly, it pains his forearms, hurts in his elbows.

It has been six years now.

He's grown accustomed to it. He'd thought this, whatever they're doing, would be forever. This is the rest of their lives. They've accepted it, haven't they?

"What do you say?" It's a whisper.

Temari closes her eyes. "I lie."

She sounds exhausted. She looks older an wearier than he's ever seen her.

Shikamaru, having to put effort into remove his hands from the bannister, straightens his spine. His shoulder ache. He rubs a hand over his face. "What do want to say?"

"That I'm in love with him."

There's no hesitancy to it. He shouldn't be surprised. She's never hesitated. She's never been scared. She's always been more, so much more, than he has.

Temari isn't looking at him when she opens her eyes again, and Shikamaru isn't looking at her.

She's never said anything like it, though he's never not known.

There is nothing else to say. And they stand there until someone interrupts them.

5.

There is only one light on and he assumes it is Temari's, though he has no reason to. There are other apartments in this building and he has never once walked her home or heard anything that would propel him to guess which place is hers.

Still, he presses on, knocking at the door with the light in the window.

He shouldn't do this. He knows it as he does it.

It's why he's never done this before. He's considered it, sure, dozens of times. But he's never even considered going through with it.

The last time he showed up at her door, he was drunk. That was years ago. Almost a whole decade.

A lifetime, for some. For Tayori.

This time, tonight, now, as his fist pounds against the door, he is sober. But, regardless, like then, he's not in control.

He's been trained for so much. But they never trained him for this.

When she opens the door, she is as surprised as he is by the action.

"Shikamaru," she frowns, tone harsh. "What are you doing here?"

He hesitates, unsure himself. It feels, before her, like he's never been sure of anything.

"Can I come in?"

Temari pauses a moment, but then she relents and steps back, pulling the door wider for his entry. He licks his lips, watching her, and then steps through.

"Sit." She says shortly, leading him into a living room. "I'll make us some tea." He nods and silently takes a seat on a blue couch. He places his weight forward and leans his elbows on his knees.

"Is everything okay?" She asks when she comes back a while later, handing him a steaming mug. He sips it, disregarding the potential burn of his tongue. It doesn't burn though, and so he takes another sip.

He looks down at the coffee table she is now sitting on, facing him. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know why he is here.

Well, he knows why. They both know why. But he doesn't know what he can take because he knows there is almost nothing she can give.

He's come with no plan. Uncontrollable.

He doesn't know what he is going to say until he says it. "I needed to be with someone who would understand me." Temari inhales, but doesn't interrupt him. "And you came to mind."

Temari gives that smile she has been practicing for the last ten years, sad and kind and knowing and denying.

"I don't think I've ever understood you." She responds.

He glances up. "You've always known how I felt about you, haven't you? Even then, you knew. When you agreed to it, when you knew I'd agree to, you knew back then. When we were kids. When we met. You always knew."

It's a conversation years (and at least one lifetime) too late.

Temari sighs. "What do you want, Shikamaru?"

She is dressed for the night; wearing a long sweater that covers almost all of her thighs, but the muscles beneath her skin are familiar and his heart is pumping too quickly and his mouth is too dry. "I want you."

"Shikamaru," she says slowly, faintly patronizing. "You should go."

Without thinking his hand darts out and touches her knee. "Tonight," he says, fingers digging into her skin. "Please."

Temari waits, back straight and eyes tight. "And tomorrow?" she asks eventually without any questioning lilt, full well aware of the answer. "I know, Shikamaru." She says, before he can respond (though what could he have said anyway?) "I know. But we can't. There were rules."

He can feel tears threatening behind his eyes. He's not sad. He doesn't know what to feel. He doesn't know how he feels. But it hurts. It's too much. He feels too much of everything.

He reaches higher and takes her hand, holding squeezing until she grimaces. In response, she stands, but she makes no move to pull her hand away.

"Temari," he whispers, leaning forward, head below her knees. "I—" but his words are taken as she finally jerks her hand from his and, in one motion, leans down to grab his head and pull, bringing her lips to his.

"Tonight," she says against his mouth, the word broken by each syllable. But he doesn't hear her, or perhaps just chooses to ignore her, using his legs to propel him up and closer to her, arms weaving over and around, fingers scratching everywhere and head swimming with quite unacknowledged and unwelcome warnings.

a/n: stole a line/set from city hunter. thanks to carol for the help!

Thank you for reading!