Disclaimer: NARUTO and its characters were created and are owned by Masashi Kishimoto. Original characters (Tsubasa Hibari © TA. RAYNE) and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement intended.
Title: Heaven Hold Us
Pairings: ShikaNeji, KakaGen, InoKiba
Rating: M / R (language, themes, violence, sexual scenes etc.)
Genre: Drama/Angst/General
Summary: The War is over. But the wounded remain. In a world struggling for hope amidst terrible loss, the Tailed-Beast chakra that saved Shikamaru's life on the battlefield may yet cost him his soul. As darkness encroaches upon the hard-won light, there's only one man Naruto can turn to for help. A man no more a stranger to the darkness than Shikamaru himself. Sasuke. [BtB Post-War]
Timeline: Post Fourth Shinobi World War. 4 months after the War.
HEAVEN HOLD US
VII
by Okami Rayne
Somewhere. Somehow. Between two blinks and the next, Genma lost time. Not an uncommon phenomenon in his rat-fuck crazy world…though some disjointed part of his fever-slapped brain rationalised that 1) this wasn't normal anymore because 2) he no longer lived in that crazy rat-fuck world of drink-inspired and drug-induced blackouts. No. That world, that man, felt lightyears away…no more tangible to him now than the false atlas of Uchiha Madara's skullfuck of a genjutsu: Mugen Tsukuyomi.
And yet…
As if by some genjutsu time warp…
Genma still lost time...
In one blink, he was standing – okay, swaying unsteadily – in the cloud-pruned topiary bushes outside the entrance to A&E, with Yugao poking and prodding the shit out of his busted arm, urging him to get that looked at before –
A blink later, he was kicking off rooftops on a fast but wobbling trajectory, propelled by an urgency to get the hell back to his apartment because Ino was probably still lying there naked and unconscious and—
Third blink was the kicker.
Because just like a projector jamming on the final disjointed slide, his world froze in a slow-motion warp as his apartment complex zoomed into view – eyes homing in with a kind of telescopic clarity on his destination and—
Then he hit.
And damn, did he hit.
Crashed through a mass of splintered wood and toothy glass, already bloodied from his and Kiba's prior tumble from the very same window.
Yeah, he hit alright. Rattling every fucking bone in his meatsuit sack of a body as he smashed and slid across the hardwood floor. Pain lighting up every nerve-ending until he slammed to a stop, and it all went dark…
Dark…
Blink.
Light…
A faint, faraway light…milky and blue across the bloody floorboards…and he was pretty sure he lay there for another untold, uncounted loss of time…as if caught in a breakbone fever…delirium ticking on and off as his body slaved to regulate…breathing, blood-pressure…basic-level brain function…a second at a time…an oh-so-steady crawl back to the surface of whatever planet he'd crash-landed onto…sense slowly orbiting back to him…the gravity of time and space drawing him out of his spinning head and back into his throbbing body…orienting him by degrees…until he remembered…specifically…why everything hurt like a rabid howling mother bitch…
Fuck the chakra sickness…
Fuck Inuzuka Kiba…
"And fuck me," Genma rasped against the floorboards.
Somewhere in the darkness, Waif heard this as, Honey, I'm home, and like the narcissistic little rat-shit that he was, slid out from under the bed and moseyed on over, easy as you please. Without so much as a sniff to determine signs of life, the cat hopped up onto Genma's prone body and proceeded to sashay his crooked-tail ass across the Tokujō's aching spine. Reaching the Shiranui's shoulderblades, the cat needled his tiny little claws into the Jōnin's back and prepared to settle in for the duration of the night.
Delirious, Genma cough-laughed in amazement…
The harsh, barking sound rattled the cat and Waif sprung off, mangled tail twitching with irritation before he rhino-smacked his furry head into Genma's torn cheek and mewled out some strangulated complaint, probably along the lines of 'feed me, asshole.'
"And fuck you too," Genma managed, though there was no venom in it.
After a final headbutt, Waif plonked down beside him and began to groom. And it was the cat's routine nonchalance that alerted Genma's slowly revving brain to the fact that Ino was gone…his door had been wedged back into place…and the worst of the broken glass from the ruptured window had been swept up into the corner…
Iwashi?
God, Genma hoped not. He'd rather go another round with a jealous apex beast-mode opponent than get run over by the Goei Shōtai third wheel.
You're a dick, Shiranui…
True enough. Because Iwashi cared. Like Shizune cared. And honestly, the problem wasn't that they cared – it was what they cared for in return. Things he couldn't give.
Way more important things to think about right now, asshole.
Like medical attention.
If he'd done the smart thing, he'd have signalled for a medic team for Kiba, then checked himself in at the hospital. Instead, he'd called in Yugao and watched her safely deposit Kiba and the big white mutt at A&E's doorstep before hightailing himself the hell out of her twenty-question round and accountability's noose. Although, come to think of it, the entire flaming shitshow was thanks to none other than a certain silver-haired ringmaster.
Kakashi.
Scoffing, Genma's lip curled in a self-derisive sneer.
Blame him all you want. But you're the idiot that jumped through his hoop like some masochistic circus monkey…
It didn't help that Asuma's ghost had hijacked his dream back at Raidō's, segueing into Genma's mind like Kakashi's otherworldly co-conspirator, looking to involve the Shiranui in the standing-ovation drama that was these kids' lives, like it was somehow his responsibility.
I have a job.
Protect the Hokage. There was no caveat about being a 'sensei-stand-in'. He wasn't made for that; and he'd proved it, hadn't he? He'd failed to retrieve Sasuke from the Sound Four – behold current batshit crazy Uchiha rotting in a cell. He'd failed to protect Shikamaru from Shuken – witness one Nara Shikamaru laid out with something worse than chakra sickness. Much worse – but what, exactly? Genma, despite all self-preserving sense given his past with the young Nara, had attempted to covertly sniff around that business because he was, as Ibiki had so judiciously pointed out upon finding him there, still a masochist.
Bravo.
And now he'd hospitalised Kiba. And, given his vacant apartment, he could certainly add Ino's crumbling mental health to the craptacular tally…
Ino…
It was bad enough with Shikamaru. But Ino? That failure hurt in ways he couldn't even begin to let himself feel…
"Guess I hit too close to home, don't I?"
She wasn't wrong. Because when he looked at her…he still saw…he…still remembered…
"Tsubomi, huh? Cute."
"I told you not to bring her into this."
"Oh, believe me, I don't want to bring her into anything. So do us both a favour and tell your little 'flower bud' to quit putting that tiny-shiny glittery shit all over you. It's driving me fucking insane."
"She's a child. What the hell am I supposed to do? She's into this sparkly stuff at the moment. She likes shiny things."
"So do I, but they're usually large and sharp and you shouldn't run with them."
"Genma."
"I'm serious, Naoki. I don't give a shit about the paint, the glue, the ink, and the other crap you do with her in Sayuri's 'ANBU afterhours Art Class'—"
"Careful."
"—but no more glitter. Every time we fuck, I come away looking like a glam rock kabuki reject."
"Like a…? Genma…what the hell kind of kabuki plays have you been watching?"
"Karibi. Don't ask. It's messed up. About as messed up as the fact that it's been two weeks and I'm still finding bits of this shit all over my— oh sure, right, laugh it up. Next time we're on a covert op, if I get nailed in the ass with a kunai because I'm sparkling in the dark like a fucking fairy light, I'll—"
"—as if I'd let anything or anyone else nail you in the ass, Shiranui."
"What a hero. Like I said, laugh it up."
And Naoki had. And Genma – exasperated as he was – had fallen even harder for him, because Naoki didn't laugh often or easy back then.
Like Kakashi now.
Fresh pain. A different kind. A worse kind. Because this wound, like the ones on his body presently, was still open. Still raw. Genma sucked a breath, his limp fingers clawing against the floorboards.
Get up.
He had every intention of doing so – until Waif curled up against his bruised side and pressed so close to his hurting body it felt like comfort.
That shouldn't have hurt.
But it did.
Sighing, Genma's fingers laxed. And so did the will to rise. At least for the moment. He wasn't sure how long that moment lasted. Only knew that he lost time as he lay there, part of him just wanting to spill into the floorboards as his injuries beat their pain like a drum. A rock and roll riot. Hell, he might've hospitalised the kid, but Kiba had gotten his licks in too…and then of course, there was the damned ninken. Akamaru's jaws had snapped the bones in Genma's forearm like toothpicks.
Shit.
He needed to fix that. Fast. He'd jabbed a couple of senbons into the meridian points to anesthetise the pain, but that short-term band-aid was peeling off fast. The swelling and bruising had started, and he couldn't rotate the limb even a quarter inch. If numbness set into his fingers, he'd be screwed. While bone hadn't pierced flesh, he had no idea if said bones were aligned or displaced. Alongside the issue of blood vessels, tissue and nerves, there was the delights of infection.
My luck? Rabies.
Waif twitched to sudden alertness, head coming up, staring across at the wall. Snagging a breath, Genma went abruptly still himself, listening out. A tense second later, Waif hissed a low note and darted under the bed.
Great.
"Whoever the hell you are," Genma growled into the too-still silence, "you picked the wrong night."
While the threat wasn't exactly all that convincing with him laid-out like a beached starfish on the floor, he was relying more on former reputation than the current reality. Current reality, as it so happened, decided to warp before his lidded eyes in a shiver of chakra. A hum of energy as an ebon figure phased through the wall sectioning off the kitchenette, melting from solid plaster into veiled shadow.
Eyes tracking up, it took Genma a second to register who…
And damn, how he wished it had taken longer…
For all the pathetic time it might've spared him to process it.
As his gaze lifted, his brain catalogued the long stretch of legs, the sensual flare of hips, the gentle dip of the once-swollen waist as it curved up and out into the soft and fulsome swell of breasts. Higher up, to the pale elegant throat, full ruby lips, and two large crimson eyes which gazed down at him with an unreadable stillness.
Shit.
Genma stiffened, fingers crabbing against the floorboards before he rolled onto his side, smacked his shoulder into the wall, and drew his busted arm against his chest, dragging his feet beneath him.
Kurenai watched, wordless, her lips pressed into a hard plush line.
The scrutiny of her stare peeled back layers, turning the silence into something sore and festering. His anger or hers, hard to tell. Thudding his skull to the wall, Genma rocked his head back and levelled her sidelong with a wry and lidded look, slivers of bronze like semi-drawn blades.
"Wanna get your kicks in? Now's your chance."
"Genma."
Damn the way that soft contralto caressed the air between them; textured with emotion, its feminine tones as rich as silk-velvet, cradling as many nuances and shades as the fabric itself. It stirred Genma in a way he didn't want or need. Certainly not tonight...with his resistance shot to shit.
"Yugao filled you in," he guessed, his raw throat protesting the words as well as the effort it took to speak them. "Don't worry. He'll live. The mutt too."
Kurenai's brows tugged together in a tight, angry pinch, but it was a fleeting look, whisked away just as fast. "And you?"
Genma flashed a smile too bright to be believed. "And me," he echoed, making it a statement, letting it hang before his expression flattened out, along with his voice. "That why you're here? Thought you'd be focused on the kid in the cradle, rather than the one in the ICU."
"Stop it," she cut in, not needing to raise her voice or alter her tone to translate it as an order. "I'd appreciate more than one adult in this room."
Ouch. Genma's lip quirked wryly. She'd gained bite. Maybe that came with becoming a mother. She'd always been protective of her brat-pack, but those instincts had only sharpened since the birth of her child. A daughter. Barely four weeks out the womb she'd been cut from. A tough labour, from what Genma had heard – or rather, from what he'd overheard, stealing into the hospital under the pretext of a chakra-sickness check-up. Easy enough. But sneaking into the maternity ward had required baser tactics – namely involving himself, a nurse, and a janitorial closet. Yeah. He wasn't above going low. Not that he needed to prove that to Kurenai. She knew what kind of man he could be.
The kind that puts kids in the infirmary.
Only Kiba wasn't a kid. Not anymore. Neither was Ino. But hey, try telling that hard truth to their empty-nest-syndrome sensei. Genma would sooner deep throat his senbon. Felt like he had already, and his voice husked out bloody, flecked with steel.
"If you're not here to bitch-slap the shit out of me for the Inuzuka whelp, what do you want, Kurenai?"
She had the gall to look surprised. Like she hadn't been playing peekaboo genjutsu in his damned wall. She didn't answer immediately, instead, looked to his arm. Genma followed her gaze, a slim sneer curving his bruised mouth. Avoiding whatever look she might've pinned him with next, he pushed off the wall and limped into the kitchenette, the oud-rich scent of her perfume following him into the shadowy recess.
He heard her shift behind.
Felt her eyes on him as he moved.
Moved to switch on the hood light above the cooker, the greasy bulb sputtering to life, casting a wan and soupy glow above the stove. By the dim illumination, he raided his cupboards one-handed for medical supplies, pointedly ignoring her presence and the uncomfortable tightness in his chest at the thought of why the hell she was even here. He hadn't seen her since before she'd given birth…well…his covert visit notwithstanding.
Not that she would know anything about that.
No one did.
Kurenai had been asleep when he'd slipped into the post-natal ward long after visiting hours were over. Having charmed the panties off the nurse without removing a single article of his own clothing, Genma had given the woman some hot toe-curling incentive to give him a free pass. Permission granted, he'd ghosted through the ward straight into Kurenai's private amenity room; a small, yellow-painted chamber dimly lit by a shaded lamp and festooned with congratulatory cards, flowers, a fruit basket, and a single pink balloon tied to the bassinette stationed by her bedside.
Genma had halted upon spying it, his entire frame drawing up short.
Like he'd come within range of an explosive.
His discomfort had made no sense, and he hadn't fancied walking his ass over to the psych ward a little further down for a diagnosis. Instead, with a nonchalance he hadn't truly felt, he'd cocked his hip against the bedrail and tilted his head just enough to catch a glimpse. One look at the small – god, so small – bundle of life, gumming away at a tiny pink fist and he'd—
Kurenai touched her palm between his shoulderblades.
It ripped him back to the present.
Blinking, Genma stiffened at the touch, his breath catching acid-hot in the back of his throat. Whatever he might've thought to snap or snarl never made it past his teeth, the words dying on a hiss as she stepped closer.
"Let me set your arm." Again, no modulation in tone, and yet her touch, unmoving as her presence, impressed it as an order. "I can help. For once in your life, allow it without being unconscious at my feet."
Snorting, Genma screwed his eyes shut on that memory. Listened to his own ragged breath and then, after a beat, to Kurenai's soft inhalation, trying to read something off her by the depth and rhythm of her breaths. Soft, steady – in no way affected by his closeness as he was by hers. And that pulled a tiredness through him too strong for words…though he dug deep to find them, edging his growl with just enough bite to warn her off.
"If I needed a nursemaid, I'd have called Shizune. Go home to your kid."
Kurenai's palm remained planted against his back, the heat emanating off her hand spreading like roots across his shoulderblades, cracking up the granite muscles and flowering tiny blossoms of pain that went way beyond the physical.
Fuck.
Something in him gave. He set the heel of his hand against the countertop as if to ward off dizziness, leaning into the brace until Kurenai's hand slipped up, curved around his rigid shoulder, and urged him to turn.
He did.
When she led him to the bed to sit, he didn't fight her – and for once, he kept his smart mouth shut. As she'd so pointedly reminded him, it wasn't the first time she'd tended to his injuries…though to be fair, the last time he'd been 'surrendered' into her care, he'd been tripping balls, whacked out on whatever psychoactive cocktail Ibiki had shot into his veins. A desperate bid to keep him from spilling his mental guts all over Inoichi at the time, sending Genma into a comatic stupor in the process.
Sometimes, he wondered if he ever really woke up.
The sobering pain in his arm disabused him of that notion pretty damn quick, though the glow of curative chakra immediately sheeted over the ache. It should've hurt more. Part of him wanted it to. But Kurenai's practiced hands worked with the surety and skill of a seasoned medic-nin. This kind of expertise should've been beyond her ken. Arching a brow, Genma cast her a questioning look out the corner of his bruised eye.
Sensing the look, Kurenai's lip twitched mirthlessly, her gaze centred on his arm as she focused her energies, the green-white light casting a soft patina glow across her downturned face. "Nine months. I wasn't going to waste it."
Genma considered this in silence, knowing his trademark sarcasm would only pitch the moment sideways – he felt unsteady enough as it was.
Nine months.
Time enough for her to polish up on medical ninjutsu. Benched on account of pregnancy, far be it from Kurenai to kick up her swollen heels and spend the time just sitting pretty, crocheting baby blankets, tending to the poppies on her windowsill.
Shit.
Genma's expression tightened, guilt hacking through him like a rusty blade. He tugged his arm back the second he could rotate it, gingerly curling his fingers against his bloodied palm, testing the nerves. Nothing but bruises remained, and a row of savage scars from Akamaru's fangs.
"Nice job," he husked, painfully aware of how tight his voice sounded – and how it had nothing to do with the chakra-sickness crippling his immune system. "I can take it from here."
"I know you can," she acknowledged, which didn't explain why she moved to retrieve the med-kit and bandages before returning to sit, twisting on the bed to face him more directly, those scarlet eyes tracing his profile for a long and searching second. "Don't be that man tonight, Genma."
Painful echoes…the past…lost in a different time…a different world…
That man.
Genma scoffed, a weak husk of a laugh, his lashes flickering to half-mast. "Which one?"
The misery crusting that question was a scab itching to be picked, prodded, peeled back across the raw wound festering beneath. A wound dealt too deep inside him to be sutured by anything short of the drugs and drink he'd have once used to anesthetize the pain. Too bad he was a reformed sonofabitch. Too bad he couldn't take the edge off with a hard fight and an easy lay. Inuzuka had already given him the hard fight – and Genma could've effortlessly stolen the easy lay if he'd walked into that hospital and straight into Shizune's willing arms.
But he wasn't that man.
That bastard.
Not tonight, at least. No. Tonight he risked being something worse. Because Kurenai was sitting too close, and her scent, her sensuality – so infuriatingly potent – was soaking into the parched fibres of Genma's being in a way few women ever managed. Before he'd fallen back into Kakashi, the last woman to turn his head had been the ebony-skinned, panther-eyed Nagu woman back in Kusa. Since then, he couldn't remember the last time he'd looked at, let alone touched, a woman that way…or rather, let a woman touch him. The nurse was a one-way transaction. She hadn't laid a finger on him. He'd given, she'd taken. Purely quid-pro-quo for getting into the ward undetected. A tactic. A trade-off.
But this?
Kurenai finished a neat row of butterfly stitches, then reached up to dab at the gash on his face. Unconditional. Tender. Expecting nothing in return. He flinched as if burned, jaw cinching on a growl. Snatching the cloth from her fingers, he shoved to his feet, took a broad step away from the bed and tossed the rag into a corner for Waif to shred or piss on.
"You need to leave."
"You need to talk to me. You've been avoiding me ever since you and Kakashi…" she let that fade off – a wise choice. "Talk to me. Tell me why."
Turning his head, Genma held her gaze for an interminable time. "I never took you for a stupid woman."
That seemed to register. Kurenai straightened where she sat, dark brows tugging together softly. "Genma…"
"Go home, Kurenai. Go home to Asuma's child."
It was the mention of Asuma that did it. Something broke in Kurenai's eyes. The red depths cracking like magma. And Genma might've revelled in that reaction if it had been someone – anyone – else. Because the red mess in her eyes reflected his own pain right back at him…and he wished to hell she didn't understand his wound in the way she did. The way no one should ever have to. Holding her gaze, Genma wondered, in some bleak and bitter corner of his mind, whether Asuma had ever been brutal enough to tell her…warn her…caution her that—
"What you and I have comes at a cost in our world – and one of us will eventually pay it."
Kurenai's eyes held that cost. Carried that scar. And that scar had nothing to do with loss in itself – it had to do with understanding something very specific about that loss. Because for all his loss, what Kakashi failed to get, was that it wasn't the ones who died that paid the price of loving – it was the ones left behind.
Like him.
Like Kurenai.
Two kindred spirits, burning in the long and lonely night. That didn't bode well for either of them in this moment…not with his need…and how it was responding to her. Why the hell didn't he feel this way for Shizune? It would've made it all so much easier. Neater.
Really?
Shizune was a different creature. Risked getting attached. Wanted to give her heart, not just her body. Kurenai's heart wasn't in question. Even with Asuma gone. She wasn't ready to attach herself to anyone else – and suddenly the logic in that was more damning than reassuring…because a night with her didn't risk what it always had in the past with Shizune – strings, commitment, a quiet voice that whispered "stay".
No one stays.
And for once, maybe that hard truth could heal without having to hurt. It took a second to follow that dangerous thought to the age-old fortified chain-link fence Genma's mind had cordoned off around Yūhi Kurenai.
Sarutobi Kurenai.
Shit. Gazing out at her from behind the time-honoured barricade in his mind, it was apparent how shaky that cordon felt right now.
"I mean it, Kurenai," Genma rasped, his voice sawing in his throat. "Go home."
Kurenai watched him with unforgiving intensity, the hollow of her throat dipping with a sudden deepening of breath, drawing his eye to the flex and strain of delicate tendons as she swallowed. "He was my home," she said at length, her voice harsh and flat. "I need no reminding."
She wasn't the only one.
Genma's eyes narrowed on her, his expression flinching in a rictus of guilt before the longstanding sarcasm won out, biting out between his clenched teeth. "Then what do you need, Kurenai? What service can I render you? Because fuck knows, apparently I'm the go-to guy for peoples' needs right now."
Kurenai stood at that, slowly and inexorably, drawing her damning calm around her like a shield. "Stop it," she said – once again in the same low, level tone, squaring off against him with more grace and strength than any level-headed male Genma had ever locked horns with.
What Kurenai neglected to realise was that this stoic 'silk and steel' war-lady vibe, combined with the dulcet softness of her unavoidable femininity, only added to her allure. There was no Mitarashi Anko artifice living in the lines of this woman. No hesitance or shyness, as there was with Shizune. Just confident unadulterated strength. And that strength, albeit it a totally different kind, called to him in the same way Karibi's had years ago. Hell. Give him a crude woman with a ball-busting diva attitude, give him some annoying clingy emotionalism, some blushing fawn-eyed sentiment – a trio of certifiable buzzkills if ever he needed one.
And damn, he fucking needed one.
But Kurenai wasn't so merciful.
"You think I don't know this feeling?" she challenged, the dark cloud of her hair limned in the moonglow, firing a silver-white corona about her head, chillingly cold despite the fire in her eyes. "After Asuma. Even that night in my apartment. You think part of me didn't feel what you're feeling now? No, I'm not a stupid woman, Genma, but neither am I selfless. But you'd have stopped me. We've been here before, and our friendship has survived it."
"No," Genma countered, his gaze transfixed as if on a flame, watching her smoky eyes with the same wariness as an animal scenting fire. "We've never been here before. You'll find I'm not so noble as I was back then. And that? That night? That wasn't friendship."
"Of course not. That was your guilt, wasn't it? Is that still your motivating factor these days?"
Genma rarely went from 0 to 10. But she flipped a switch – or maybe she short-circuited him completely because something went dark behind his eyes. Nostrils flaring, he came forward so fast Kurenai had no time to react as he snared her jaw in a harsh vice, fingers flexing claw-like against her cheeks in a punishing bid to shut her mouth and silence her accusation, his own lips pulling back over his teeth in an animal snarl. But whatever venom he might've spat in response to her barbed words stuck violently in his throat, glassy and sharp, cutting into his eyes instead.
Most kunoichi would've struck him down.
And rightly so.
In reflex, if not in revulsion at his audacity – his aggression.
But Kurenai proved, once again, that she was not like most kunoichi. Because other than allow his grip, Kurenai did nothing. Just tilted her head back in his grasp to better stare up into his slitted gaze, searching his eyes in the milky semidarkness with an unnerving calm…like his fingers weren't digging into the hinge of her jaw hard enough to cause her lips to part from the pressure.
The soft wet pop sounded in the silence.
Freezing at the sound, Genma's eyes dropped to her ruby mouth, a quickening in his pulse, in his breathing. Anger. Adrenaline. Arousal. And probably beneath all that reactive chemical chaos, was whatever she kept searching for.
ANBU should have hardened him to this.
Life, the cruellest taskmaster, should have inured him utterly.
But Kurenai studied him with a heat that wasn't sexual or aggressive, catching a spark of lucidity inside him, smoking him out with her eyes alone until his chest heaved to a shuddering stop and he eased his grip, the violence drawing back into its cave.
Shit.
Swallowing roughly, Genma arced his thumb to smooth across her parted lips, a ghosting touch…that soon became too slow, too indulgent, to be construed as an apology. Asuma would've skinned him alive. Not that Kurenai couldn't have managed that…fuck, she was doing it already, just not with actions. Or even words. And he hadn't known such female sorcery since Mizugumo.
It chilled him as much as it enflamed him.
What had burned and throbbed with pain before, beat with a different kind of ache now, his injuries somehow detached from his body, like his mind from his motions. His grip, like his gaze, changed…but it didn't relent, and he didn't release her.
And she didn't reject him.
But neither did she respond.
An aggravating kind of stalemate, in which she held the power without making a play. Clever. But not contrived or calculated. An effortless command of her strength, her softness, and the skill it took to balance them.
Silk and steel.
Temptation, temperance.
And Genma understood now, with a far less shallow and far deeper comprehension, Asuma's moments of 'crawl-the-wall crazy' when it came to this woman. Re-tracing the lush swell of her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, Genma acknowledged, and not for the first time, that yes, Sarutobi Asuma had been one lucky sonofabitch.
Unlike Genma.
Because, as Genma's love life had so savagely illustrated over the years, he was not in Lady Luck's good graces…much less in the graces of any god in any heaven…or any hell at this point.
Kurenai touched his wrist, and his pulse tripped.
It was a gesture of such undemanding tenderness and kinship that Genma wanted to hurt her for bestowing it. He didn't need comfort. He needed a bottle or a body to lose himself in. And he'd sworn off the bottle.
"Genma."
Blinking slow to keep from clenching his eyes shut, he clawed his fingers up through her raven mane, fisting the rough silk strands as one might grasp an animal by the scruff. Fastening his grip, he drew her head back, calling on every nuance of his ANBU training to hold his face expressionless as he gazed down at her through lidded eyes once more.
"That night at your apartment, you were grieving," he said flatly, taking the past by the throat to keep the present from his own jugular. "Hurt people look for comfort. I don't have that excuse. I'm not hurt. And I'm not grieving." He paused for emphasis, hoped to hell she didn't sense those words for the lie they were before leaning in to murmur low and hoarse against her ear. "And you might not be a stupid woman, but you'd be naïve not to realise that your selfish and my selfish are worlds apart…and our friendship won't survive that distance if you let me cross it. And I will cross it, Kurenai…because that's the kind of man you've found tonight…assuming I'm something better." And then, so rough it scored the air between them, "Assuming I ever was…or wanted to be."
Kurenai sucked a breath at that.
Good.
She was supposed to recoil. Supposed to draw back and pin him with that fierce and incredulous disappointment which suggested that, just like her dead lover, she truly didn't know Genma at all. He knew the look. One that Raidō sometimes pinned on him. The very same look that had marred the stern and stricken lines of Asuma's face that fateful day in the archives when Genma had fed the Sarutobi the same lines, the same lies. Kurenai was supposed to believe it, every fucking word – because maybe, if he went hunting around in his fucked-up headspace, Genma might've found that some part of him believed it too.
Or wanted to.
Needed to.
What he didn't want, didn't need, was for Kurenai to turn her mouth against his torn cheek in a ghosting kiss. Genma stiffened at the contact, the chaste intimacy of its touch. Found himself taut and his expression frozen as her arms slowly lifted, came down about his rigid neck in an embrace that was at once loose yet locked; her questing fingers, nails gently scraping, sliding upwards from his prickling nape to twist in the dark strands hanging by his shoulders, cradling the back of his head, holding him against her as she whispered…
"What was it about Asuma's child – my baby girl – that frightened you so much when you saw her?"
Like a knife sliding under his ribs, Genma's entire body rocked on the spot, though the shock welded his expression into a stunned mask. How the fuck did she…? She'd been sleeping.
Clearly not, asshole.
How the hell did he neglect to notice her eyes on him? The thought of his transparency in that unguarded moment left him abruptly cold and nauseous.
He almost swayed back.
Kurenai steadied him, her touch gentle but grounding – an unrelenting hold. Raising on her toes, she set her lips against his lean and flexing cheek once more, breathing her words soft as a prayer, with twice the conviction of any zealot. "What I know, Genma – not believe, but know – is that just because Asuma never had the chance to understand you, or what you went through, doesn't mean he believed you were half the bastard you're trying to convince me that you are tonight. You assume far more about those who care for you, than we do about you, old friend."
Staring blindly over her shoulder, Genma felt his glazed eyes tighten against the emotion that threatened. The muscles in his jaw jumped at the second buss of a kiss, just as soft as the first, before she snaked her arms down and away, drawing back on her heels to gaze up at him through those sooty carmine eyes that'd seen too much. Understood too much. About his conflict, about his pain – and yet, for all her watchful understanding, Kurenai didn't comprehend a goddamn thing if she honestly believed he'd been joking about his restraint when it came to dealing with that pain.
Fuck it.
Snarling, Genma kissed her.
It wasn't soft. And it wasn't sweet. Savage, but not violent. He wasn't sure what the hell it was, only that his mouth swept down on hers without pause or permission. And to his shock, she opened for him like a bloody rose, soft dewy petals unfurling, inviting the slick thrust of his tongue past the barrier of smooth white teeth – only for him to encounter the thorns hidden therein.
Words, this time.
Dark and pointed as the brush of her tongue against the roof of his mouth, probably tasting blood from his earlier fight as she whispered up into his punishing kiss. "Guilt, Shiranui. Haven't you tasted enough of it?"
Another white-hot stab in his sternum.
Steeling himself, Genma drew back a fraction and looked down at her, the emotion wringing mercilessly in his chest, though he kept it from his face. "You know so much about me, Yūhi, you'll know I'm a glutton for punishment. What's your excuse? Domesticity not all it's cracked up to be?"
The hit missed by a mile, for all the reaction she gave. Kurenai just blinked slowly, almost sleepily. A hypnotic drift of her lashes, causing him to fixate upon the pupils – dilated, but not drunk on lust, even if there was a depth of longing as deep and despairing as his own. She wouldn't rise to his taunts or his jibes – and he envied her whatever shield she'd constructed to deflect them.
"You never answered me," was her non sequitur – until it registered.
Weighing his words, Genma slicked a tongue across his lips, the heat inside him flaring and shrinking, flaring and shrinking – as close to a 'red alert' klaxon as he was going to get, warning him off answering. But hey, he was on a reckless roll into full-blown masochism, wasn't he?
"Another thing you ought to know, if you're so clued in: I don't do kids," was his blunt response.
"No. You just steal into maternity wards and ANBU holding cells to spy on them."
This time the blow hit him centre-mass, punching his gut into a sickening roil. Disgusted, both at himself and the fact that his covert check-ins with Shikamaru were about as covert as a flashbang grenade, Genma thrust himself back from her, almost tripping over the stupid cat. Waif hissed annoyance and attached himself to Kurenai instead, twisting around her ankles as Genma turned a violent loop away from her, his arousal guttering out into raw and naked anger, barking a short dark laugh.
"What? Do you and Kakashi have some unholy alliance trying to covert me to handholding sessions with the next generation as they pick up their shattered hopes and dreams? Cry me a fucking river, Kurenai. No one did that for us."
"And that makes it okay, does it?" she shot back, expression tightly schooled, as if her lips weren't swollen and her throat wasn't crested in a flush. "Where did that world, that inherited neglect, leave us as kids, Genma? Ask yourself. Where did it leave you? Or Kakashi? Or Karibi? Gods, where did it leave Naoki?"
Red.
It washed through him.
Tore through him.
Reeling, Genma turned on her, the pain in his body, amplified both from the chakra-sickness and from his throw-down with Kiba, rising up like a leviathan from the lust-drunk depths he'd hoped to drown it in, eating into his muscles with unforgiving fury. It took everything to keep that pain from his face. He'd exhibited enough vulnerability to this woman – he wasn't about to lose his physical edge, his last line of defence in this dirty ambush.
Fortunately, the rage was stronger than the pain.
Unfortunately, unlike the pain, he wasn't so sure he could control it.
And if Kurenai hadn't phased through him in a genjutsu manoeuvre so seamlessly executed that even Kakashi's lost Sharingan might've hesitated to clock it, Genma might've grabbed hold of her shoulders and not cold thin air, his fingers clawing into two shaking fists before he twisted around to search for her.
Waif, equally confused, darted back under the bed.
Vision blurring on the room, Genma turned twice before Kurenai re-emerged with her back pressed to the opposite wall, arms neatly folded across her breasts, the soft rise and fall of her chest the only outward sign of her exertion. And Genma might've paused at that, might've stopped to consider the fact that she was still healing – that is, if his head wasn't full of punishment and his body full of pain.
"You want to go there with me, Kurenai?" he hissed, his voice an unstable whisper that rose in pitch and volume with each word. "You think you know me? You think you've got me in a fucking box? Mention the names of my dead again and I'll show you precisely where that world left me."
Or more accurately, precisely what it had left him with.
Nothing.
And that set everything inside him shaking. Because he was so fucking sick of the emptiness. The inevitability of it, lurking, always, like a black hole at the outer reaches of his world, ready to swallow up the lights that still orbited his life…and the lights that had long gone out. Ghost stars. Graveyard phantoms floating in the night.
Not unlike Genma himself.
His damning namesake as a Shiranui. A lost will-o'-the-wisp drifting aimlessly in the ruins, running on borrowed light from fires long gone cold. Hell…was that bereft glow in his bronze eyes what Kurenai's child had seen when she'd opened those soft strawberry orbs, looking up towards him, gaze not tracking, just drifting, floating, as a new-born's sight was wont to…probably seeing nothing more than the lamplight winking off his senbon – at least that's what he'd thought, until the child had settled those blush-red peepers directly on the knuckle that Genma had crooked when he moved to tug her fist from her mouth, muttering something sarcastic about the ills of oral fixation until that tiny hand had latched onto his finger with surprising strength for something so terribly small…
So terribly…
Vulnerable.
As Karibi had been, a parentless war-baby buried under smoking masonry and burning flesh, damaged.
As Naoki had been, an ostracised child raped and brutalised by his own father, damaged.
As Kakashi had been, an abandoned broken boy, violently orphaned and shunted into the ANBU, damaged.
As so, so many were, for so, so many sad and disparate reasons. Not just Genma's generation. But the former and the present. Damaged kids…damaged legacies…all of them dating back to hapless cradles where small fists once curved around bloody fingers with blind trust and unquestioning acceptance…reaching out…gripping…
The way Asuma's baby girl had gripped him…
The way Genma's dead had once gripped him…
The way the living still gripped him too…
Gripped him by his hurting heart…
Kakashi…
And as abruptly as it'd come, the anger left Genma.
Left him cold.
Left him…empty.
Emotions drained away like the blood from his face, leaving him dangerously open for what rose to fill that emptiness. The percolating sickness still inside him – and close behind, the pain. It knocked Genma breathless before the grief could, a great heaving sound tearing from his throat. Staggering, he turned to hack a ragged bloody cough into the crook of his arm, twisting away from Kurenai as she reached to—
The door dropped open.
Literally. Dropped. Open.
Popped from its mooring, the busted wood slammed into the floor with a resounding WHUMP of splinters and sawdust, leaving a shadowed figure to gawk in its vacant frame. Light from the hallway outside spilled in over the man's taut shoulders, his fist poised mid-air in a comical 'knock' where the door should have been.
"Shit," Yamato huffed in surprise, his eyes going between the door and the frame for a long moment of nervous indecision before he quirked his lips and offered a meek, "Knock, knock?"
So yeah, that happened.
Face still half-buried in the crook of his blood-flecked elbow, Genma stared across the short distance with a kind of detached incredulity, swallowing down the rancid coppery bile riding up his throat. Because yes. This was the series of fortuitous events that surely led to his incarceration in the psych ward. Screw it. He wasn't even surprised at this point. Didn't even possess the strength to get snarky. He was done for the night. This round of 'fuck my life'? He was tapping out.
Kurenai, however, didn't even bat a single pretty eye.
"Yamato," she greeted, all light velvet tones; serene and straight-faced, as if Yamato had happened upon a midnight tea party and not…whatever the hell he might've seen exploding in that room if he'd happened by any sooner – or later.
"Later."
Beating back another wave of misery, Genma pressed his eyes shut against a vision of regretful violet eyes and held himself rigid against the memory of that terminal word…and its tragic 'now-we'll-never-know' ache.
"Later."
His throat burned.
He convinced himself it was the infection.
"Genma…" Yamato's voice sounded closer, pitched somewhere between concern and caution, which alerted Genma to the fact that the ex-ANBU had stepped into the room, abandoning his embarrassment at the door – well, the doorframe, anyway.
Even without looking, Genma could feel those dark, rhombus eyes studying him; no doubt taking swift inventory of his cuts and bruises…and the suffocating tension layered between him and Kurenai, despite the kunoichi's commendable performance to turn this shit-brick of a moment into gold.
Her following silence, however, felt suddenly corroborative.
Frowning, Genma's eyes flickered open and his skin crawled at the thought of their combined efforts. He didn't want Kurenai's concern, and he sure as shit didn't want Yamato's commiseration. Yamato must've mistaken his shudder for fatigue or dizziness because the wood-user looked ready to lend a hand, an arm, and a freaking leg…and following the thought of disarticulated body parts, another unwanted notion entered in…because wasn't there some talk about Senju-cell prosthetics going around the upper-echelon rumour mill? Something to do with Uzumaki Naruto needing both hands to handle the shitwreck that was Uchiha Sasuke?
Why the fuck do I even know that?
Why indeed. For someone hellbent on keeping distance and detachment between himself and the next generation, Genma wasn't covering much mileage. Wasn't doing any better keeping his own peers at arms' length, if the conspiratorial glances between Yamato and Kurenai were any indication. Sensing the 'power of friendship' turn in the air, Genma moved fast to dispel it – grateful that Gai wasn't running point on this bizarre rendezvous.
Don't tempt fate.
Because despite being confined to a wheelchair, Might Gai was no less a force to be reckoned with – or run over with – when it came to bromantic acts of service. Sighing, Genma took a broad step back, both from that thought and from the two shinobi watching him, until his knees hit the mattress and he sank down slowly, cradling his healing arm to his chest.
"What do you want, Yamato?" Genma seethed through tightly smiling teeth, asking in as mild a tone as he could manage, given the sheer unwantedness of this moment.
Considering the question for a long second, Yamato fixed him with an odd look which somehow managed to combine quiet deliberation with distinct boredom at the avoidance tactic. "This isn't about me. It's about the Hokage…" he let that hang.
And yes, Genma would take the bait because he – along with Raidō and Iwashi – was one of the great whites circling the waters when it came to his Hokage.
This was his job.
Yamato seemed to be waiting for him to confirm that fact. Or maybe he was waiting for Kurenai to leave. Ever quick on the uptake, Kurenai tipped her head in concession when the wood-user glanced her way, though her gaze brushed Genma as tangibly as a touch before she turned towards the door, taking their unfinished argument with her.
Genma watched her go, throat tight, her taste still lingering.
It took him a long awkward second to re-calibrate.
Yamato was patient, up until the silence became expectant and uncomfortable. It was clear he didn't wish to remain in this moment any longer than Genma wanted him to – which was not at all.
Get his over with…
Grunting, Genma transferred his gaze to the other man and arched a brow in nonverbal query before he straightened from his resigned slouch, already folding away the wreckage of the past few moments to make way for whatever unwanted package fate had lined up next.
"Lay it on me," he said.
Yamato did, but not with words. He plucked out a thin scroll slotted in his flak-jacket and handed it over without preamble – which was odd, because Yamato was no one's errand boy. Tsunade could sooner have sent her pig.
"He comes bearing gifts," the Shiranui muttered, trying for lightness.
Yamato didn't even scoff. Just waited.
Sighing, Genma broke the seal with a blunt thumbnail and unfurled the length of parchment across his thighs, glancing down with an unreadable expression as he scanned the text...and went cold all over.
He read it again, to the same effect.
Then he glanced up, straight into Yamato's black-diamond eyes. Cold eyes. ANBU eyes. Eyes meant for the mission scrawled on the parchment sitting in Genma's lap.
"What the hell, Yamato?" Genma said, his voice low, uncertain.
A faint skein of amusement, if such it was, briefly cut into the flat surface of Yamato's expression before it smoothed out again. "My thoughts exactly, but then, you know how I feel about The Snake."
"You're not alone in that." Only of course, he was. Because Yamato knew more, had suffered more, than anyone else Genma knew who'd ever come under Orochimaru's knife. "This is bullshit. Why is she sending you to babysit Orochimaru?"
"These are my orders."
"Alright. Then why the hell are you sharing them with me?"
"Because you were there when Hiruzen fell."
Minutes crawled by as those words sank in…subtle as a blood stain on Genma's conscience.
"Guilt, Shiranui. Haven't you tasted enough of it?"
Apparently not, if Yamato was pulling out that rusty blade to shank him with. If Yamato had in any way laid this crap on Raidō, Genma would fucking rip the wood-user's tongue outta his head for daring to utter it.
Working his jaw for a tense beat, Genma stared hard at the younger man from beneath his lashes, his voice chillingly soft. "You bring this to Raidō?"
"No. He wouldn't answer his door."
Concern whiplashed through Genma before the anger could. Slamming Yamato with the full weight of his glare, he better contained the threat in his voice to another low murmur. "Don't go knocking again."
Yamato did smile then, a weak twitch of his lips before he sobered and gave a single slow nod. "Noted."
"Why is the Godaime sending you there? And don't tell me 'those are my orders'."
"Because I know The Snake about as well as you know the Hokage. He's my mission. Tsunade-sama is yours. I'm entrusting you with this knowledge because she's not impartial when it comes to dealing with Orochimaru."
"What? And you think I am?"
A grim smile, then back to blankness. "No. Which is why you'll balance her judgement perfectly if it comes to that. She thinks she hates him. She doesn't. But I know you and Raidō do."
Hell, who didn't?
But Genma caught on, following the logic quicker than he wanted to. Too bad. It would've been nice to play stupid and get a pass-go in Yamato's estimation of Genma's intelligence – and his integrity, when it came to safeguarding his Hokage. But clearly, Yamato was asking for more than that.
Frowning, Genma considered his next words carefully. "I'm hired muscle, Yamato. I protect the Hokage. I don't tell her what to think or feel about the tough calls. Shikamaru. Sasuke. Even The Snake. You want me to manage her expectations? If Ibiki couldn't accomplish that, what hope in hell do you think I have?"
"What makes you think Ibiki hasn't accomplished that?"
Talk about a 'wait, what?' narrative twist. Only there were several narratives Yamato might've been referring to – though given the three Genma had mentioned, Tsunade's most recent state of obsession and priority was undoubtedly the first he'd cited.
Shikamaru…
Easing back, Genma chewed on that for bit…then reached for a senbon instead, extracting it from the small beside table, wincing at the stretch in his ribs as he leaned over. Waif took that moment to leap up onto the bed. The cat turned an elegant circle and wedged himself against Genma's thigh, crooked tail twitching. Unthinkingly, the Shiranui scratched behind a pointed feline ear, barely cognizant of the act, or the throb in his bandaged forearm – his mind on Yamato's big fat spoiler alert…and the standing ovation Ibiki probably deserved for finally making some headway with the Hokage.
Hn. The wheels are finally in motion then…
Which meant one thing. Get on the bandwagon or get mowed under its passage. It wasn't as if Ibiki hadn't warned him this was coming – which, he supposed, mitigated some of his irritation towards the sadist since their last encounter outside of Shikamaru's ANBU holding cell. Genma hadn't intended to be there. Blamed it on another 'watch your step' tumble into territory better left alone...because gods knew his last brain-wreck with the whole Nara business had almost cost him his mind entirely. He knew to stay the hell away…and yet…
"Yet here you are. I'd say you were still masochistic, but I'd only be stating the obvious."
"Well you know what they say. Takes one to know one, asshole."
"If you say so...but then, you prefer action over words, isn't that right, Shiranui?"
"Depends. I do love when you talk dirty to me."
"Then you'll love this. Be ready. The wheels are soon to be in motion regarding this situation. And as much as it pains me to admit it, you're one of the steadiest amongst the Jōnin right now. And I need 'steady' on my team for what comes next."
"Man, would you look at that. You learning to play well with others, Morino?"
"Desperate times. And that's rich, coming from you."
"Like I said, takes one to know one."
"Hn. Obviously. It's why we're both here, albeit for different reasons. To a degree, at least. It's not exactly the first time you've stood outside a Nara's cell."
"Speak for yourself. Staying apprised of my Hokage's mental health when it comes to these kids? All in the fine print. Less thrilling part of my job, I'll admit."
"If that's true, then you're standing outside the wrong holding cell."
"Tch. The Godaime isn't losing sleep over Uchiha."
"No. But Uchiha may have a pivotal role to play in resolving this situation. Being public enemy number one makes that infinitely easier to implement."
"…Oh yeah? Found another cog for your machine, Morino?"
"I prefer to think of him more as grist for the mill."
"Nice. Good luck with that. You know that 'public enemy number one' has two wide-eyed groupies still fighting his corner. Well…three, if you count Kakashi."
"Precisely. Why do you think I've come to you?"
"Nice try. But months too late to play that card. Lucky for you, or I might get pissy."
"It's not a play, Shiranui. It's a precaution. And you know better than anyone the complications of personal ties. After all, it's why you're standing here right now."
"Maybe you misheard me, so just so we're clear, Morino. I'm here to ascertain the level of threat to the Hokage – and by extension, the village. I don't wear the Council's leash anymore."
"Oh, just so we're clear, Shiranui – you aren't any better a liar now than you were the last time you involved yourself with Nara Shikamaru. Leash or not."
"Orders, Ibiki. I took them."
"And you'll take them again."
"Not from you."
"What part of 'team' escaped your notice?"
"The part where you assumed I'd be on it. We've danced before, Ibiki. Let me be the first to tell you, you've got two left feet. Oh, yeah, and you spiked my drink. Sorry. Fooled me once."
"Still sore about that debacle, hmn?"
"Debacle? How about we strap you to a T&I gurney and shoot you full of psychoactive toad poison – or whatever the bleeding hell you juiced me with back then – and see how nice you play after the headfuck."
"As if that playing field hasn't already been levelled for all of us."
"In war, Ibiki."
"Exactly. Madara was your enemy."
"And what? I'm supposed to believe you were acting as my friend?"
The way Ibiki had looked at him then. Genma would never forget it. Even if he couldn't place exactly what it was that faltered behind those cold iron eyes. Ibiki's infamous and pitiless mechanics misfiring in his machine mind as the sadist struggled to both cover and process his abnormal response. No, reaction. His scarred face closing down like a monitor gone dark as he rebooted his system from its damning stall.
No, Genma couldn't forget that.
Much as he'd tried to.
Pulling himself back to the present, the Tokujō took a long deep breath and let it out by degrees, stroking his tongue along the cool steel between his lips before speaking into the silence. "So that's why they're sending you in. Paving the way for Uchiha, hn? Credit where it's due. Never thought Ibiki would convince her to allow it."
Yamato gave a curt shrug. "He's good at what he does. So are you."
"Tch. Go team," Genma muttered beneath his breath, shaking his head. "So why are you telling me this and not him?"
"He's busy implementing the next step. What's involved is…complicated."
"No shit. And what's involved exactly?"
"Not what," Yamato corrected, his tone catching on the next word. "Who."
When nothing further followed that statement, Genma cocked an eyebrow, annoyance plain on his face. He was in no mood for twenty guesses. But Yamato's returning look gave him pause. The ex-ANBU seemed to struggle for a second, sucking air against some invisible stricture.
It was obvious, after that.
Ah.
"Naruto," Genma breathed.
Yamato said nothing.
He didn't have to.
Sighing, Genma turned his face away and closed his eyes for a moment, scrubbing a hand along his torn cheek, then around to the back of his neck, rubbing at the tension gathering there. It's not as if he hadn't suspected this might play out – he just didn't think Ibiki would actually go there without exhausting further avenues...
Who's to say he hasn't?
"Desperate times," the sadist had said.
Which spoke volumes about Shikamaru's worsening condition and what it might mean. And the feeling that left Genma with?
Don't go there.
In the silence that followed, the two ex-ANBU regarded each other for a bleak and heavy spell, sharing without words the gross and terrible implications of this very bold and very dangerous move. No wonder Ibiki was recruiting. Shit. Morino didn't need a team. He'd need a fucking army. Especially if this backfired. And especially if he was planning on throwing Uchiha Sasuke under the wheels of the system with Naruto as the catalyst.
Wouldn't be the first time a village had pulled this shit…
For the sake of the greater good…
Whatever the hell that meant anymore…
"And round and round we go," Genma murmured at last. "It never stops."
Grunting his approval of that assessment, Yamato contrived to look apologetic, but truth to tell, Genma knew the younger man had drawn the shorter straw. Yamato was heading directly into the snake pit of his childhood torturer to see just how many twisted heads and treacherous tails that Snake might've grown in his gilded prison…if it could really be called that. On all accounts, Orochimaru should've been rotting in a cell right next to Sasuke.
Harsh.
Give a shit. Genma was at capacity. He had no room in his conscience for Uchiha…which Ibiki was probably counting on when he'd sought Genma for support. But then, there were others to consider. Like Naruto. Sakura.
Kakashi.
And that, in itself, was a hell all its own.
Because was that his choice now?
Save Shikamaru from the darkness, the kid that Naoki had died to protect, by sacrificing Sasuke, the kid that Kakashi was still trying to pull into the light. The irony in relation to his lovers – and the choices their actions left him with – never ceased to crucify him. It was as bitter and tragic as it had always been.
Because just like all the choices that had come before…
It was no choice at all.
A/N: This scene was originally planned as an extension to the previous chapter…but it felt wrong to place it there. Half-written and rough-drafted, I hadn't intended to continue or finish it, but I soldiered on by the grace of the chakra granted to me by those amazing and supportive reviewers who so kindly took the time to leave me feedback for the last chapter (here and at my other haunts). THANK YOU, my lovelies. My muses and magic stokers. This one's for you. For your empathy and understanding about my burnout. For your awesomeness in sharing with me what you enjoyed and what you engaged with. You return so much to me with your reviews. There's no chance in hell that I'd have been able to finish this part without you. Thank you. Always.
A/N 2: Questions? Write me here or hit me up on Tumblr under okamirayne and drop me an ASK; I'll do my best to answer! Feedback always hungrily welcomed and warmly appreciated.