Six
Itachi
The teahouse closed at sunset.
Disgruntled–but not exactly surprised–Itachi sighed, turned away from the closed storefront, and shuffled down the street to the bar. Kisame would no doubt be at a bar of his own; the two, while seasoned at working together, weren't exactly inclined to spend all their time joined at the hip. He wanted to drink tea. Kisame wanted sake. They'd separated at the street's start to replenish their fighting spirits in their respectively preferred ways.
Unfortunately, Itachi's intended designation was closed. The Uchiha prodigy blinked slowly, tired eyes desperate for reprieve. He'd pushed himself farther than he had any right to today. He'd sleep well this evening, at least, but until then…Itachi pushed through the door and made his way into the low light.
"What can I do for ya?"
The bartender set down a ceramic cup, staring at him expectantly. A brief sweep of the crowds was enough to show him that not only was Kisame nowhere to be found–no doubt at a different bar–but it was entirely too early in the evening for a serious crowd of drinkers. After a moment, he turned back to the bartender. "Green tea."
The man raised an eyebrow. "Only got gunpowder."
Internally he grimaced: not his favorite strand, by any length, but the strain was better than nothing. "That's fine. Thank you."
Itachi sat down in the corner with his steaming cup. He crossed his ankles, inhaling the rising aroma of the brew. An order of dango was on its way, but for the moment, he was content to sit and people-watch.
As he waited his thoughts wandered to his younger brother. He would always be young in his mind's eye, but whether he liked it or not, Itachi had to face that Sasuke was growing up right before his very eyes. And that sharp thirst for power, that hunger for vengeance–he felt it distinctly, emanating off Sasuke's every pore.
Today, though, Sasuke wasn't the only one that seemed to be thirsting for revenge. That woman from the river's words…he thought of the familiarity with which she spoke Izumi's name, and again he felt himself stiffen with disgust.
Then again–did he have any true right to scorn her? The man responsible for Izumi's death had no true right to choose who did and didn't speak her name. Sufficiently disgruntled, Itachi leaned back in his seat. The coarse wood bit roughly into the blades of his shoulders, not entirely unlike the woman's mokuton from earlier in the day.
That woman…to have a jutsu like that, and to wield it so poorly…
Itachi raised the cup to his lips, the warm rim of the ceramic container heating his skin as the steam rose and wetted the tip of his nose.
He nearly forgot to swallow when the door swung open and the very same woman from before shrugged her way in. Itachi moved with the superhuman speed of a practiced shinobi–Akatsuki robe off and draped on the back of the chair, genjutsu cast over his clothes and his appearance–so that by the time her head swiveled to scan the corner of the building in which he sat, he already looked like another man entirely. Nothing outrageously far off from his true bodily composition or complexion; but enough to prevent her from recognizing him.
Not that it mattered though. After the brisk sweep of her head, the kunoichi walked stiffly to the bar and ordered while standing. He watched without looking. Other senses remained firmly alert as he continued to sip calmly. It was a small bar, and decidedly quiet for being so early into the drinking hours of the day (or rather, the night) and so her voice rose clearly. It sounded like warm amber, crackling wood and the soft flicker of firelight.
"Just whatever gin's in your well," she murmured, idly running a hand along the wooden set of the bar. She rubbed the pads of her fingers together. "Double. Tall."
"Tonic?"
"Soda."
Order finished, her fingers dipped down to the weapons pouch fastened to her hip. The twist of her upper body resulted in a sharp hiss that he could hear decisively even from here. Itachi's eyes raised from his drink just in time to watch her mask the grimace that cleaved her face in two. She was clearly still suffering from injuries. Her clothes were different from before; he could see, when her wrist tilted just so, the smallest scrap of bandages peeking out from a gap between her shirt and skin. So she'd received medical attention since the fight earlier. It surprised him to see her hobbling around when she was clearly still in a sordid state.
The thought almost made him smile against the cup. When had shinobi of the Leaf ever seemed willing to stick around in a hospital for long?
A short woman burst through the back door behind the bar, a plate of dango held firmly in hand. They made eye contact and he saw the way she immediately crinkled her nose in distaste at the distance she'd have to traverse to get to him. So, instead–
"Dango's done," she barked, voice sharp and brittle and belaying her old age. She deposited it on the bar and then limped back into the kitchen.
Itachi sighed. He set the cup down and rose–
"I'll get it," the woman tossed back, accepting her drink from the bartender and grabbing the plate with her other hand. Itachi frowned and waited to see if she'd seen through his ruse. He was tired, and his eyes were tender where they melded with his skull, but he knew for a fact he would be at a distinct advantage if she decided to fight him here and now. And with Kisame nearby too, no matter how drunk he intended to get tonight, he would be here in an instant if he felt Itachi's killing intent spike sharply.
The woman set her drink down at the table next to his. Her brows twitched briefly–the movement setting her still-healing body off–and then her face was a mask, as she turned to deliver his plate. "…Thank you."
"Mhm."
She eased into her table's chair and took her first sip of the drink she ordered. Her eyes closed and Itachi could practically feel the tension drain from her figure, even if the blatant frustration in her face remained. A lesser man wouldn't notice. But Itachi had eyes blessed (cursed?) by the heavens, and so when he tilted his head in her direction, he caught the subtle shifting of the chair as it practically melded to better suit the shape of her back.
This was the part where Itachi finishes his tea, downed the dango, and left. He didn't want to get mixed up in another fight. And he certainly didn't care to stick around and learn more about the woman near him, or why she decided to fight him over Izumi, or how she knew where he was. None of it mattered.
Or at least it shouldn't have.
"Tea at a bar? That's a funny choice."
Itachi blinked. "I don't drink."
"Mm. Didn't feel like trying a teahouse, either?"
"Closed."
"Ah."
He kept his gaze focused in front of him, picking up the first stick of dango and biting into it. The sweetness was a subtle compliment to the bitterness of the tea; he appreciated the balance, and for a while, he was lulled into peaceful quiet.
…Until the dull tapping of the kunoichi's finger against the table pulled him out of it.
Itachi set his cup down. He'd take care of the remaining two sticks and then leave. This was becoming more irksome even than being around Kisame. At least that shark had a sense for when he craved quiet, and when he could tolerate its absence. It would've been one thing, if that tapping of hers was at least semi-regulated. And yet she was constantly switching the rhythm, two taps and a third, or one and two, two and two and one and none. Just when he had half a mind to leave–food unfinished and all–she finally stopped.
"Something's off," she huffed. Itachi bristled. The girl took a large sip, ice shifting as her straw slid to the opposite end of the cup's bottom. "Your breathing. Something's off."
At that, he paused. His breathing? Had she been listening to the way his lungs moved? "Hn."
The woman turned to face him more fully. "Like you're having a hard time getting a full breath," she explained. "It–I mean, your lungs, mostly your left–hitches every now and then." The cup clinked as she set it down and leaned (wincing, again) to prop her elbow on the table. "Probably got something bad, don't you?"
Itachi, perhaps wisely, decided to stay quiet.
By the time the woman had gone up for a refill and come back he'd finished the second stick. He expected her to do the decent thing and sit back down at her table, but this time, she selected the chair opposite from his. "Got you another cup."
Against his better judgment, Itachi took it. He'd already finished his tea, anyway. When he lifted the brew to his nostrils, he sensed nothing to suggest it'd been tampered with. His genjutsu wavered for a fraction of a second when the woman closed her eyes–his Sharingan, tired as it may be, noted the beverage to be in the clear.
Itachi took a sip.
"I know someone that could take a look at that," she continued. Itachi got the sense that she couldn't stand silence the way that he could. Her lips turned down at the corners, soft pink pinched into a fine white line when she pressed them together. "Getting her to actually help is the real problem, though."
"That won't be necessary." He can't help it; a skeptical glance at her own condition and she was already realizing what he wouldn't explicitly state.
The woman scoffed. "She's good at what she does…when she can be compelled to do it. This wasn't her work."
"Hn."
Finally, she stopped talking altogether. Her eyes were clouded, mouth trapped in that firm line as her mind wandered from the man seated across from her. Whoever the woman she mentioned was, there was clearly enough there to distract her from bothering him further. Itachi nibbled away.
He thought he wanted the silence. He really did. But the tea was a pleasant surprise–albeit an unwarranted one–and his inability to thank her properly grated at the nerves he'd tried to long-since bury.
"…Your name?"
"Hm?" she blinked owlishly, coming back to the present. Those warm eyes of hers gazed at him like she suddenly realized where she was, and how she'd ended up there. If he wasn't mistaken, the table itself seemed to shiver just then. Two glasses down between the both of them and she was finally hesitating, finally picking her words. The woman opened her mouth.
She didn't have to answer.
"Hanae?" The bar's entrance split in two. Sunlight filtered inside in thick gashes of light, framing the new customer. It was another woman; one he wasn't entirely sure he'd seen before. She stood frozen in the entryway, one hand fixed to the door handle. When her eyes leveled on the blonde, her shoulders sunk fractionally. "Goodness…I swear, you're just as bad as her. It's too early for you to be running around! You should be resting."
The woman–Hanae, he realized–groaned. "Guess I'm caught," she grumbled, rising to stand with animatedly excessive irritation. "Today's just full of irritating losses."
She pauses to regard him one final time. Itachi pretends not to notice, and a moment later, his unsolicited conversationalist is already on her way out.
Itachi only bothers to glance her way once he's absolutely sure she won't be looking back. He's too far away to hear what's said now that the kunoichi and the other woman are conversing at a reasonable volume, but the shadows lurking just beyond the door are unmistakable. He went rigid in his seat–
The door started to close, the patron and her apparent chaperone filing out–
But not before he caught a glimpse of a third woman. Slightly taller. Same blonde hair. Same warm eyes.
And a diamond on her forehead more distinctive than any shinobi headband could ever be.
That woman, Hanae–he almost chuckled.
She might just prove to be of interest, after all.
A/N:
HI, hi, back again! After this I'm going to most likely do the big jump to Shippuden time. They've met, there's a clear gap in skill that Hanae needs to work on remedying, and Itachi doesn't even make another noteworthy appearance until Shippuden anyways. So! Next time you see them, it'll be Hanae's POV, and the good stuff will be starting to get underway. Maybe? Or maybe I'll have them dosey doe in the gap between series. Who knows. Mwuah, much love! Thank you for all the kudos and comments.
