The Yin and the Yang

by lilac haze

AU. Non-canon. Modern setting. ER Doctor Sakura Haruno. Subjectively speaking, Minato Namikaze is bad at his mystery job. Age gap less than five years. MinaSaku. In which two strangers learn to find balance not only within themselves but each other and all the struggles that come along the way give one major event that was lead up by thousands of tiny decisions and steps.

4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto

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Hi, welcome back! Thanks for supporting this story. Some more light hearted moments in this chapter as we move on along. Let's get into it!

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Minato smoothed his blond brow with uniform directional strokes of his thumbnail. He ran his tongue along the top row of his teeth, tasting the lingering minty freshness of the toothpaste. His teeth were cleaned and his face was washed. His lightweight, scentless moisturizer was applied. His nighttime routine was completed more than a couple of minutes ago. His day was ending with a snag. A major one.

"I can't do that," he said, breaking his silence after some time. "I can't give you what you're asking."

There was a sigh in his ear. "Then you understand my predicament," the low voice said.

"I do," Minato's teeth pressed together in the punctuation of his sentence. He breathed through his nose. The carbon dioxide contained his disappointment. He could not provide the man - Kiba - so he would not be given what he sought. Quid pro quo.

"Contact me if there is a change."

Minato ended the call. He understood. He would not be the one to initiate contact again unless Minato had something of interest. He slipped his phone into his pocket. He turned off the tap, counted to three, and opened the bathroom door, clicking the light off on his way out.

xXx

The metal doors with thick, see-through, scuffed plastic panels opened. Rubber pulled apart from rubber with a restrained bemoan of temporary estrangement. He registered a pair of dark eyes on a blurry face. That was it. That was all the time he had. His hand went to his waistband. Slower than he needed it too. Much slower. The liquid that spilled from his hands coated his thigh. Everything was so slow. He saw the tea spheres seep into the dyed silk that was darker than any color found in nature. A black void. A steady build-up of pain. A flash of light. The smell of smoke and gunpowder. Then another.

Bang. Bang.

Minato blinked his eyes open. He stared at the ceiling, breathing shallowly. The back of his hand was pressed against his damp forehead, fingers curled in a loose fist. The line between reality and memory ran. He was not sure if he had seen the small scar on his assailant's face or if he had imagined it. It all happened so fast. Too fast. They knew exactly where he was. They planned it perfectly. All to catch him when his guard was down. And they had succeeded.

He had gotten careless. He had deviated from the plan. And now everything, everything, was up in the air. It had all gone to shit. He was not blind - on the contrary, he saw it all - the hesitation, the way she forced herself to interact with him. Guarded. Everything about her was guarded. She did not trust him because she wanted to but she had to. It was a reluctant - begrudging - alliance. That was all that it was. She was scared. She was in danger. And he put her there. It was unforgivable what he did. And yet, he found himself hopeful - looking to her to grant him some form of elusive forgiveness.

A shard. A fragment. A glimmer. Something. Anything other than nothing.

The soft clicking of metal against ceramic pricked his ears. A single canned light was on. It was far enough away that if his eyes were closed it would not have impacted the quality of his sleep. - had he been asleep. He turned his head. There she was, under the light with her head bowed and a foot resting on top of the other with her leg slightly bent; stirring away at the liquid in a blue mug.

A sweet dream.

Her eyes - the one thing, the first thing he had noticed about her after the shock of her unusual hair color, that kept pulling him back for more and more and more - were focused on nothing in particular. She was ruminating. She did it often. He had learned that about her before all this. Without warning she could disappear off to her own world, leaving everything behind. He wondered where she went. What she thought about; what she saw, what she heard, and what she deemed worthy of her attention and time.

Why would she tell me?

It was a small miracle - or an act of cruelty if all this ended up being nothing but false hope - that she did not hate him but that also meant that he could never be fully honest with her. Because if he was…she would hate him. There was little doubt in his mind of that scenario.

But that was always the plan…wasn't it?

He closed his eyes. He lowered his hand. He moved his body slightly. Just enough to rustle the blankets but not aggravate his shoulder which was taking a rest from its near-constant reminder that it hurt. The spoon stopped clicking against the inside of the mug like he had hoped it would. This time, when he opened his eyes, hers were waiting for him.

"I didn't wake you, did I?" She asked in a soft voice to give him some cushion as he acclimated to the land of the conscious. From the tone, she had already accepted the burden of guilt.

"No," he cleared his throat to push the grogginess from his voice away. "I was just resting my eyes."

"Hm," she regarded the ceramic in her hands as it sat on the countertop; steady and stable on the solid surface. "Do you want some hot chocolate?" She was already reaching for the silver handle of the white cabinet. "And before you get too excited, I'm just going to microwave it."

"That seems to be a theme," he sat up slowly, blinking away the lingering images in his head, the small of his back pressed against the curved side of the armrest. He had yet to see her eat a vegetable that did not come out of the plastic heating box.

"I'll take that as a yes," she kissed her teeth and spoke into the open cabinet. "We're outside of the no-dairy window," she paused momentarily. "Unless you want it with water? Just seems kind of sad."

"With milk is fine."

He watched her pull an identical mug from the cupboard, and move to the fridge to fill it with milk. It was placed in the microwave as she promised. Uncovered. She stood in front of it monitoring the rotation, keeping an eye out for splatters. She was still holding the spoon she had used in her hand. Her arms were crossed over her chest. All that was missing was the tapping of her foot up and down to complete the picture. The heat of her gaze did not, in fact, speed up the process. He was too tired and too unaware to know if her impatience said more about her as a person or more about his presence and her avoidance of it.

But she was the one to offer…unless she's just trying not to be rude.

Because that could be as good a reason as any, she was confounding. A conundrum of contradictions. The microwave dinged and she was the only one to react - to change their current state. A white packet was torn open from the top and the contents dumped into the glass. The spoon moved around in circles until there were no more lumps. He assumed.

"Sakura's way?" She asked him, distractedly.

His brow furrowed. "Hm?" He blinked in confusion.

"Do you want it Sakura's way?" She asked him for slightly more context. "That usually means with marshmallows, whipped cream, chocolate sauce, and sprinkles. I'm out of chocolate sauce."

Oh.

"No thank you," he declined politely because even just one of those things sounded like way too much. It was then that he noticed the pack of mini marshmallows - rainbow - on the countertop, which was held together with a large, plastic, blue chip clip, as well as a small red container which he assumed had to be the sprinkles. He could not read the label from where he sat.

It's already bad enough that I'm having sugar after five and before seven.

Five in the evening and seven in the morning that was.

"Your loss," she said with an unbothered shrug. She walked to the fridge - her side profile visible to him for just the time the door was closed. The black door completely swallowed her whole - shielding her from his sight. She popped her head out, pulling back to close it with her hip. It was the movement and settling of the fabric of her long oversized nightshirt that made him realize she was not wearing a bra. He lowered his gaze, feeling every bit of a creep that he knew he was. The distinctive pressured hissing of the whipped cream being forced out of the canister went only longer than he anticipated. The silence that replaced it was thick. Loud. In yet another contradiction between what he believed to know and what was being experienced on the contrary. The creak he had come to associate with the fridge door opening was followed by the seal of the door with its counterpart. Everything was as it once was. Slippers moved across the kitchen floor until they were muffled by the carpet.

"Here you go," a blue mug appeared in his line of sight - nearly under his nose.

"Thank you," he wrapped his fingers around the top as hers were on the handle. It was hot but he did not drop it. He used his knee to stabilize it while he transferred his hand placement to where her fingers had been.

Sakura sat down on the accent chair, carefully. She pulled the decorative pillow across her torso deeming eye contact with her - any part of her - decent once more. And he was never one to waste an opportunity. One foot found the rug first as he repositioned himself. He faced the blank TV, cup - filled nearly to the brim with too-hot liquid to drink - in hand.

"Growing up when I couldn't sleep my mom would give me warm milk. It worked every time," Sakura's lips moved against the edge of her mug. The stubborn steam was felt against the tip of her nose.

He listened intently, his gaze fixed on the brown liquid. She had turned on the table lamp in addition to leaving the lone canned light on. The edges of the darkness did not touch the couch or the chair, at least not the parts that he could see.

"It stopped working somewhere along the way. So I improvise." Her bottom lip was subjected to torment by her top teeth.

"Sakura's way?" He asked in a voice too tentative for him to claim as his own.

"Hm," she chuckled hollowly. "During school's winter break, my family would go to the 'Skate in the Park' temporary ice rink they set up near the tree lot. When I got too tired or grumpy or cold to continue we would swing by this shabby stall. A classic. All they sold was hot chocolate. With marshmallows, whipped cream, sprinkles, and chocolate sauce. 'Happiness in a cup' they advertised. I always insisted on getting the large. It was as big as my head. I could never finish it. But they would get it for me anyway knowing that." The whipped cream dusted with pink and red heart-shaped sprinkles she had piled high on her mug was starting to droop, dripping off the edges, leaving a traceable trail. "I guess I'm just trying to replicate some of that happiness. That childhood magic."

Those feelings of wholeness.

He added in his head. He wondered if she knew that she was wearing the remnants of her tears. She sniffled before lapping up the tip of the melting hill with her pink tongue. Not carefully enough as some of it remained on the corner of her pink mouth. A pink so different from both the neon hearts and her pastel hair.

He eyed the remote because it seemed safer than where his thoughts were headed. He grabbed it. The space filled with a cool light before the pictures started to move. With a sigh, Sakura settled further into the embrace of her chair.

"I like this episode," she commented as the cop tackled the perp into a pile of trash bags on the sidewalk.

"Me too," he brought the mug to his mouth. The liquid did not scald his mouth despite him not testing the temperature beforehand in uncharacteristic hastiness.

---

"I don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing that Mutt's such a lousy shot. All three are expected to survive," Sasori said through barely moving lips curled with his disdain. Almost as if he did not have a hand in it all.

That explains why three came after me.

Minato ran his hand along the lines of his brow. The slight squinting of his eyes made the fine lines noticeable.

"No word yet on the ones you saw," the redhead's nose wrinkled in the early stages of a snarl.

"They'll live." He had not beaten the first two all that badly. Just enough to make sure they would be out cold and out of the way. And the one that had opened fire would have to be an idiot if he died of a bullet wound through the hand. As far as Minato was concerned, if it came to pass, the idiot would have no one but himself to blame.

The Uchiha have more than competent medics.

The beaten silence signaled that there were no other updates to be shared. "Tell Hoshigaki I need those rushed."

Sasori turned his torso, jaw pushed all the way to the right as he regarded the garbage bags Minato had thrown back there haphazardly. "I'm not an errand boy," he grumbled under his breath.

You're whatever I need you to be.

"My ears must be ringing," Minato tilted his head and used his index finger to press against his ear. Sasori rolled his eyes. "Because that sounded like a complaint."

Sasori's jaw loosened. The scowl on his face, at the sight of the bloodied laundry that would be furnace food, corrected itself before he turned back to face the front of the car. He stared past the length of the long, glittery silver hood.

"Bring a less flashy car next time." Covert. All of this was to be covert. And Sasori was too old, too experienced to be making these rookie mistakes despite the most recent evidence. Minato reached for the door.

"It's over ten years old," Sasori gripped as he was unable to help himself. "You need to relax."

"What I need," Minato's lips pressed together to the extent of his displeasure. "Is no more mistakes."

"It's on me," Sasori pressed his hand to his chest. "All of this is on me. I'll clean it up."

"Hora," he said his name sternly in a scolding tone. Sasori immediately ducked his head out of habit, he tried to play off the action by scratching the back of his head.

Do what you're told, as you're told, and do no more.

The mantra that his handler - his boss - drilled into him did not need to be said. Minato had passed it along to Sasori and even Kiba. Maybe he had unrealistic expectations that all of that effort was not wasted - that it did not fall on deaf ears.

"Fine," Sasori relented with a sigh, not willing to push his luck. At least Minato was back to communicating through sentences with him - well, mostly. "I'll tell Hoshigaki." He started to feel around the inner pockets of his dark-washed jean jacket. "Before you go."

Minato's eyes migrated from Sasori's face - the man was stubbornly avoiding his gaze - all the way down to the girthy rectangular box he held out. A box he recognized immediately. Air left Minato's nostrils audibly. He took the pack of smokes and tucked them into his hoodie pocket. He pushed open the door and left without another word or glance back.

Sasori lingered longer than he should have in the alleyway; filling the cabin of the vehicle with a sigh in time of the engine sputtering to life.

---

She was warm. She was surrounded. Her limbs felt heavy. Sakura let out a sigh of indecision. She did not know what to be or what to feel. She did not consult the neon numbers on the clock on her nightstand. What was the point of time when she had nowhere to be? When there were no expectations of her. Without lifting her head, she felt around - groping blindly - for something that was very much still foreign. She flopped onto her back bringing the phone to her face. She frowned.

It's surprisingly lightweight for its size.

She had seen burners in all her procedural and true crime shows but when seeing one for the first time in real life, she could not help but be surprised. Sure the burners on TV looked no different than the everyday smartphone but a part of her thought was just artistic license taken by the directors and producers because in honesty were flip phones still around? It just made sense from a practical standpoint for shows to use regular phones and call them burners.

But I guess it makes sense…if someone pulled out a bulky flip phone it would be a dead giveaway. It's suspicious.

She ran her hands along the smoothed edges. Her fingers tapped the middle of the screen to reveal a black background with a few apps. It was not all that different from the phone she bought her mother. It was simple. It had the necessities. GPS, call, text, notes, and contacts. What set it apart from her mother's phone was a lack of VideoTube or any streaming service app. It was beyond basic. It was practically prehistorical. A part of her felt cheated if she could be honest with herself for a moment. There was something that would have added to the whole thing with having the nostalgia of flipping a phone closed to end a conversation.

Maybe it's not the things but a simpler time that I miss.

She inhaled through her nose deeply. An unfamiliar scent filled her passageways. Sakura turned her head. She reached for the pillow next to her. She brought it closer. She gave it a cursory sniff.

Ino was right. He has a scent.

Even despite only having her cleaning products available to him, the aroma on the pillowcase was distinctive. Clean. He smelled clean. Naturey. Like mint. And something more. Maybe pine? What he did not smell like was just as enlightening: smoke. She held the pillow to her, hugging it as she blinked at her ceiling.

I can't believe I entertained smothering him…or that I thought I could pull it off without drugging him.

Her bottom lip was held hostage by her teeth as she thought.

That reminds me…he never stepped outside for a smoke break. Smokers need smoke breaks. It's compulsive. Smokers need nicotine. His hands….

His hands were clean. There was no discoloration on his nails. She had not found a lighter anywhere in his jacket pockets. She had not seen one in her home. There was a distinctive lack of nicotine patches on his torso too from what she remembered, if he was on the road to quitting. Nothing was adding up with the picture - the facade - he presented to the world.

If he doesn't smoke, why does he carry a cigarette behind his ear?

Surely it was more than just a bizarre fashion statement that she did not know about. She was not that out of the loop with the youths. Vaping was king amongst them - much to her dismay that big tobacco had managed to rebrand itself and make a comeback.

Ugh. I need a drink.

She pretended not to notice the irony. Or was it hypocrisy?

What time it was meant next to nothing to her now but she could not pretend to be completely indifferent to the construct. She was in limbo - she was in a near-constant state of waiting for time to pass. Waiting for the police or the Uchiha to come to her door to finish what they started on the subway platform in the Tani Station. Waiting for her old life back. Waiting for Minato to walk out of her life forever. Waiting for the other shoe to drop, so to speak. She was constantly waiting. Worse than limbo. She was in purgatory - left to the discretion of her own twisted thoughts.

"I should get up." She should face the day. Despite knowing what she should do, she remained with her back against the soft mattress, plucking away at the corner of the pillow that did not smell like her as if she was de-feathering a chicken.

"Shit."

She set the pillow down in frustration, vaguely in the direction where she had uprooted it from. She swung her legs off the bed with a scowl fixed on her face as she padded over to the bathroom without stopping to shove her feet into her slippers. She slammed the door not caring - hoping - that he would hear her. She set about brushing her teeth aggressively enough to make her gums bleed, glaring at her reflection as if she were the one who was at fault for all of this.

It was only when she completed the 'at-home' portion of her morning routine, that she emerged from her room, fresh-faced in a different set of home clothes and with hair brushed and braided over her shoulder. Sakura peeled the purple sticky note from her door.

Out. Will be back soon.

Sakura's closed-mouth growl sounded before she crumpled the paper in her palm. It was terribly unsatisfying. She shoved it into the pockets of her velvety periwinkle shorts and pulled the hood of the matching hoodie over her head. She cranked up the heat a couple more degrees. Her slippers dragged across the hardwood floors. With a dramatic sigh only designated for her ears and her ears alone, she threw herself on the couch, muttering under her breath at the neatly folded blankets and stacked pillow that rested on the accent chair.

Why did he have to be so considerate?

It would make it so much easier to see him for what he was if he was more of a jerk. Even if only a modicum more. Because what kind of heartless criminal folded up a blanket and set it aside?

He's not heartless.

Sakura pulled on the drawstrings of her hoodie, closing it around her face. She kicked her legs up, back and forth, back and forth. Back-there was a buzzing against her thigh, coming from the inside of her pocket. Not even a second later the sound of a key sliding into a lock filled her ears. Sakura hastily pulled off her hood. She smoothed the top of her hair, trying her best to appear as a normal - mentally stable - person who was lounging casually, as a normal person did when in their perfectly normal home on a perfectly normal day.

It's me.

The text she was peering at read.

A head with shaggy but also spiky yellow hair poked through the door. But it was the pungent aroma that had her interest. She was up and on her feet before the door closed. She stared straight ahead, eye level, making her way to her target. She did not even wait for him to take off his shoes - his fancy, expensive loafers looked ridiculous with his casual garbs, especially his navy sweats - before she picked the cup closest to her from the cupholder in his hand. She poured it down her throat, eyes closed, immediately. Not caring if she burned everything in her mouth.

I needed that.

"Coffee," she said with a breathy sigh, shuffling away and toward the small table. She ignored his chuckle from the doorway along with all the accompanying sounds - the crinkling of a brown bag filled with sugary goodies, or maybe even a bagel sandwich if she was lucky, the clinking of her keys as they found their place in the decorative bowl on the table by the door - just like she ignored his amused utterance of "Good morning to you, too."

Keep your greetings to yourself, punk. I'm not here for your entertainment.

She tapped her fingers against the table impatiently. Only she was. She was stuck here. More so than him - a fact that she was painfully aware of. The turning of the deadbolt pierced her ears.

xXx

"Hello?" She knocked on the door, face nearly pressed against it. "Minato?" She called out after only the sound of running water reached her ears. She was bored. She had left her laptop in her room. On her bed. She figured listening to some music or watching cat videos while she painted her nails would help rectify some of the dourness of her self-inflicted mood. She wanted to keep the use of her burner to a minimum - like only for emergencies and phone calls minimum.

Why couldn't I think of this sooner? Like before he went in for a shower.

It would have been helpful. But reruns of her show were on, and she had yet to learn that there was such a thing as 'too much of a good thing' - the show and the sleeve of saltines she had mindlessly consumed. She was still wearing some of the crumbs and salt, she was sure - because she was now over it. For a little while at least. Maybe a small break would help. It was not like she could go for a walk or something. Her options were severely limited especially when she did not feel like cleaning. Her stomach was too queasy for that.

Just go. Be in and out before he notices.

"I'm coming in," she announced before she could talk herself out of it. Sakura turned the doorknob, hearing the latch disengage, but she did not pull it toward her. She waited for a second or two, for what exactly she was not sure enough to label. She slipped into the room. Her hand found the light switch. She blinked to let her eyes adjust to the change.

With quiet steps, she made her way to the bed. She could see the silver corner of her laptop on a bed she had not bothered making - which in hindsight she should have because it meant that he saw the lumpy comforter and the wrinkles in her sheets. The wrinkles that ratted her out if the sounds of her tossing and turning muffled through the door had not already done so. With her back turned to the bathroom, she reached for her computer. She almost had it secured in her grasp when the opening of the door pulled her attention.

An immediate and sheepish apology was ready at her lips before she even started turning around. "Sorry I was just-"

Oh my god!

"S-sorry!" She stammered, going straight to red-faced - jumping the cute pink stage that she did not mind all that much altogether - as she snapped her head back in front of her and covered the left side of her face with her hand.

Oh my god! Kill me now, please.

"Why are you apologizing?" Minato's cobalt eyes peeked through the towel thrown over his head.

Are you serious?

"I-I-I." Her ability to form coherent sentences was gone in the sparks of her short-circuiting brain. She cleared her throat and took a deep breath all the while she stared at the picture on the wall - the one of Ino and her after the first year of their residencies. "I should have waited until you were done."

I should have knocked louder. And because…because….

"It's your room. It's your home," the blond said in a bored tone, very matter-of-factly.

Why didn't you lock the door?! Why did I turn on the light?

If she had not, he would be backlit and she had yet to determine if that would make things worse or not. Like a freaking angel in a painting. All that was missing was a liar of large, white wings.

Wouldn't that be something?

"Yes," she dragged out the word as she was not sure how to proceed really. She stood still when all she wanted to do was bolt and then maybe drink enough until she overwhelmed her brain cells into forgetting. "I didn't see anything." It might have been more convincing if her voice did not squeak. It was pitiful. "Um," she cleared her throat again. Roughly. It was left feeling so dry. All good decision-making had been left on the other side of the door that she breached with reckless abandon. She kept with the pattern. "Why are you naked?" She asked because what more could it possibly hurt to ask, as curious as she was mortified. In her defense, she had knocked.

"I was in the shower," he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

And it was.

You're not even in the shower anymore! Towels! And there's something called towels.

She bit her bottom lip - clamped down on it - before her mortification could be translated into sound. A whimper. A whine. A groan. It did not matter all that much.

Minato lowered the white towel to around his neck, his eyes on the back of her shoulders. "I only had one towel. My hair is still wet," he elaborated calmly. Unfazed. Unbothered by his nudeness as if it were perfectly normal to have a conversation while being as naked as the day he was born.

Not that he has anything to be self-conscious about. Like. Anything. At. All.

"You could have asked for more towels," she willed herself to breathe - to not let the erratic nature of her insides be betrayed by any of her outward characteristics. "I have plenty of clean towels. There are so many towels in the hallway bathroom cabinet."

She had white ones, red ones, blue ones, green ones, plush ones, thin ones, big ones, small ones. She had all the towels because she took her mother's stance that you can never have too many towels to heart. That was why she got permission to install the extra storage in the bathroom at her own expense. For her towels. Towels she had.

Too many towels to be in this situation.

"I didn't want to be a bother."

I have bad news for you then. I'm bothered! I'm very bothered.

She closed her eyes to aid in the ignoring of the intrusive thought - a notion she refused to acknowledge. If she was any less worked up, she would have detected the teasing note in his voice. She would have. Maybe.

"No bother," she was impressed with herself that her voice did not immediately spike up a couple of octaves. And the fact that she did not start to fan herself.

When did it get so hot?

She could not even blame steam from the bathroom for disrupting the ecosystem because there was none.

"Just let me know in the future. Or take what you need." The latter part of her statement slipped out before she could parse it through several filters.

Why don't you ever think before you open your big, fat, stupid mouth, you idiot?!

She could hear him dripping onto the floor. Or maybe that was just her overactive imagination again. She could not verify with her own eyes what her ears thought they were hearing. The thought she was ignoring had brought friends. Like-minded, loud friends. She was outnumbered.

Is this what it's like? Losing your damn mind?

Why am I still just standing here? Why haven't I left?

"Okay," he said agreeably, pulling her back from the beginnings of grappling with existentialism. Because none of this was feeling like free will. At least on her part.

"Great." She blinked at the smiling faces. So young. So naive. So free.

Everything is just great. You're fine. You're really fine.

"Sakura?" His voice did something to her insides - on top of everything else. The way he said her name…it was not good for her. It was the opposite of good for her.

"Hm?"

"Did you need something?" He was facing her. She could tell by the audio quality of this voice. There were no obstructions between him and her back.

Does one really need all that much? What do I need?

She stared blankly. For a moment. For two.

"From the room?" Minato elaborated, addressing her tense, tense spine.

"Oh!" Sakura chuckled. She reached for the laptop - nearly falling onto the bed on her stomach - snatching it. She pulled it to her chest. "Just this," she said as if he could see what she was clutching.

"Okay." He was rather open with his amusement this time. Not shy at all. "I'm going to get dressed now. Unless there's something else?"

"N-Nope! All good here," she said quickly, laughing. High-pitched and airheaded. Oh-so annoying. And unable to stop. "Everything is great." Her laptop groaned from the pressure of her grip. "Super great." She bit down on her tongue until the pain of the act reflected on her burning face. "Just great," she drawled on and on. "Great." This time the utterance was punctuated with a head nod.

So, so, so great.

"Great." Minato's hand came to grip the door jamb. He leaned slightly forward so he was further in the room without ever moving his feet. "Oh and Sakura?"

The sudden increase in intensity had her skin pricking to the point that it would either crawl away or simply melt off her skeleton. Whichever was more convenient.

"Hm?" She asked, weakly, lips pressed together in a bloodless line; a seal of containment.

"It wouldn't have been a problem if you had," he smiled at her as a parting gesture before the door closed softly behind her, finally giving her permission to breathe. Or pass out. Whichever was more obtainable.

What. The. Actual. Hell.

She bolted from the room, not wanting to be there for another second to give the universe - or the warden - any further ideas. She completely forgot the nail polish. It was okay, her hand was too jittery for it anyway.

xXx

She chewed thoroughly through the last of the slightly sweet and unfortunately stale dinner roll. They had maybe one more day before they turned as hard as rocks. Her throat was parched. She tugged at a strand of hair from the top of her head, playing with it. Sometimes she got a little too careless and ended up ripping it from the root. It was not all that bad. The pain grounded her. The little jolts of it. Even if it was fleeting. She could hear him breathing. And that in and of itself was too much at times. It was rather pathetic. Almost as pathetic as the two main leads in the buddy-duo cop show they were watching - from opposite ends of the couch. They had their hundredth argument seemingly about the direction the case was taking but that was just an excuse. She ducked both her arms under the throw blanket. It was merely a coincidence that his right arm had moved to rest across the top of the couch not even seconds prior to her doing so.

I should join a monastery. Iron has great views.

Surely the Akatsuki did not have reach or plants there in the tall, snowy mountainsides. She hated being cold but even that was welcomed over this. Because Minato's proportions were ridiculous. His fingertips were practically grazing her earlobe. She did not know that people could have arms that long. She was exaggerating. Obviously. Today had been awkward. Incredibly. She jumped every time he was suddenly closer than she was expecting, stammering apologies. She had even bowed once in her fluster to his hand, finding the small of her back to nudge her out of the way of a drawer on his pursuit for a fork because apparently that was easier than just saying "Excuse me." And the worst part was, he was fine. He was totally fine! He was operating as if she did not see him naked - mostly naked - she had looked away before she really saw anything. Allegedly.

If she did not occupy herself for more than a couple of minutes, her mind took the liberty of thinking of backstories as to why his tattoos did not extend beyond his hips. Maybe it meant he did not reach a high enough rank or something. That he had more tests and tribulations to overcome. Maybe he had more to prove. Maybe he just did not know what to get. Because clearly, he did not mind being seen so modesty was out of the contention. She tapped her nail against the curve of the armrest.

It wouldn't have been a problem if you had.

He had said. Calmly. Confidently. Confusingly. Did he want her to see him naked? Did he do that on purpose? Did he want to see….

Get a grip, Haruno! It's not like he's the first partially - partially because you didn't even see-see anything - naked man you've seen! You're a doctor for crying out loud!

Some days - like today - she seriously doubted her competency. Who in their right mind would make her a doctor? Let her see patients? Just what were they thinking?

Sakura chewed on her tongue, irate, as Becca - the female lead - stormed off after accusing Becker - the male lead - of being blind.

She's just mad she saw him at the bar with a pretty redhead.

And Becker being the clueless idiot he was, ran after her. Like always.

What a doormat.

"Everything alright?" He asked in his low, smooth voice.

"Fine," Sakura answered in a huff. "Why?" She added when her curiosity got the better of her - it always did because she never learned. Ino believed she had an addictive personality and that she - Sakura - was more than a little bit of a masochist - in Ino's not-official-but-professional-all-the-same-opinion.

What does she know anyway?

"You're making faces at the TV. Like you're trying to burn it to a crisp," he noted with a smile on his face.

"This is just my TV-watching face," she retorted, not giving him the satisfaction of eye contact. "And it would stop being a problem if you stop looking."

"So there is a problem?" Blond brows pulled up. He tilted his head back at the sound of someone doing a burnout in the distance. He only returned his gaze to her face when it grew too faint to detect. "You alright?" He asked in a low voice. Gentle.

"Fine," she dare not wipe her suddenly clammy palms on the throw or her shorts. He would catch the action. Her heart was thumping in her chest. It sounded just like gunshots.

You're okay. You're okay. You're okay.

She swallowed; thankfully, Becca was screaming at the top of her lungs so the sound of her weakness was not audible. At least that was what she told herself.

"Okay," he turned back to the TV with something complex settled in his eyes.

Great and now they're kissing.

She lowered her face to her curled fist that was propped against the armrest. She admired the woman's skin, wondering how much was makeup and how much of it was just a solid skincare routine. The camera was right there on her face.

She's so pretty…wait…why are they taking off their clothes?

She stared at the screen, perturbed. How did they go from screaming at each other, calling each other all kinds of names…to this? In a matter of seconds? How did it go from being so heated to being so…so hot?

How does that work?!

She froze when Becker's hands trailed up Becca's back, they found the claps of her frilly black bra. A bra that was totally not realistic for an active detective to be wearing on the job. It provided next to no support. She had just been running not even an hour ago - full speed - while wearing a button-down top that she was practically spilling out of. He undid the first set of hooks. Her eyes widened.

They wouldn't.

Oh, but they did. They did dare. The bra slid to the floor. The camera panned to it. A close-up revealed the rose design in the dark lace. Becca's low, breathy moans filled the small living room. The camera panned back out.

"I have to pee!" She said much too loudly, shooting to her feet. She nearly impaled her knee with the corner of her coffee table in her desperation to get away from the box where the noises were coming from. She grabbed the doorknob and yanked open the door without a single thought in her mind other than getting the hell away. She stared at her deranged-looking reflection under the stark white light that flattered no one.

"Is that what they pass for TV-14 these days?!" She asked herself, scandalized. Never had she felt so betrayed by this show. Why did everything have to be edgy and steamy all of a sudden? What happened to just catching bad guys? Why did everything need a smattering of filth?

She closed her eyes only to snap them open. Because in the realm of her mind, a blond man tormented her. A very naked blond man.

Why is everyone naked?!

She groaned, grabbing her head in her hands. Her bent elbows balanced on the edge of the rectangular vanity. "What is wrong with me?" She asked the universe or whoever the hell was listening. Anyone but herself. Anyone but him. She cursed her body and the hormones that were all out of sorts. She cursed the stage of her cycle that made even a plank of wood seem attractive if it had nice enough googly eyes attached to it and a wig.

Where the hell did I leave my charger for the batteries?

The wayward thought asked in rebellion because they would need time to collect enough juice to be of any use.

"Kill me now," she complained dramatically - conveniently forgetting that just like the tap she forgot to turn on before her little episode, the blond sitting just feet away could hear every single word and sound she made.

---

The full weight of his focus was immediately on her when she emerged from the bedroom to stand out in the open. He noticed everything. From the faded blue jeans and black pullover she wore. To the two-toned, striped pink fuzzy socks on her feet. The red crossbody bag against her hip. Even the jacket folded over her bent arm. The question - the only question - was translatable from his expression alone.

"I'm going to see my mom," she spoke with totality. There was zero room for negotiation.

"No." So he did not negotiate, he outright denied.

"To hell with your no. I overrule your no with my no," Sakura shook her head. Her stance became more argumentative just as her tone had. Her feet were shoulder-width apart. She was bracing, he realized, for a back and forth. Emerald-colored eyes blazed with defiance; the promise of being unagreeable and unpleasant if it meant getting her way. "You can't stop me."

He could. He very easily could - it would disturb her how easily he could. It did not do well to test him. He did not rise from the couch as that would surely escalate things in the wrong direction. The direction she was trying to force.

"It's too dangerous," he said levelly - reminding her - trying to appeal to her sense of pragmatism because she had yet to display any self-preservation skills he could reliably count on.

"If I don't go, the only danger I run is my mom not having enough food," she countered without a centimeter of give. Zero. "I have been more than patient."

It's only been three days.

Not even. Was that all it took for her to forget the horrors of what she lived through? Of what she saw. Of what she had to do?

You almost threw up when I took the gun back.

Her face had turned green. Sickly. The same woman who had not batted an eye at seeing the amount of blood he displaced and gone weak in the knees at just one glance of the black plastic.

How could she forget that so easily?

The allure of freedom was truly great. The desire for it superseded the fear for one's life. That was why so many ended up leaving witness protection even when they understood that they would likely be killed by the very entity they requested protection from.

"If that is what you're worried about, send the groceries through one of the food order apps," he posed what he believed to be the logical solution.

Her eyes widened. She slapped her forehead. Her mouth hung open in shock. And it was then and there he realized he said something very stupid. But it was too late. He had sprung the trap. Now all he could do was sit back and hope she cut him loose. Or grew bored - or tired - of the idea and simply walked away.

"Gee," her voice dripped with marvel from biting sarcasm. "Why didn't I think of that? All those hours, miles, traffic, trouble, and time that could have been saved not just for me, but my car, and the environment! Thank you, Minato. Thank you for making my life so much easier," she gushed. Her hands were folded and her face much too bright with her contempt.

He was missing context. "I don't see the problem," he openly communicated the disconnect between his suggestion and her over-the-top reaction, especially after yesterday when she avoided him like the plague after his poor decision to emerge from the bathroom with nothing but a towel on his head. He had heard her knocking. But he could not hear what she was saying, so he asked her to speak up. Only to get no response, so he had turned down the water and listened - hastily drying himself before opening the door only to find her there in the room.

Maybe it's too soon for us to laugh about it.

He could tell she did not say the first thing that came to her mind. Maybe not even the third. She was seething in her indignation. That was harder for her to hide if an attempt was made at all.

"My mother," Sakura said with an eerie calm - completely manufactured. Or maybe she has cycled back to calm which was very, very bad. "My mother is paranoid. She thinks the man down the street who walks his Yorkie goes through her trash and spies on her. She thinks cars that make the wrong turn and double back and casing her house. She thinks the neighborhood children are trying to lure her cat away from her," she took in a deep breath. "She will never, ever accept groceries that show up on her doorstep. She'll give herself a heart attack, convinced that they were sent by someone to poison her." Sakura paused to stare him down with unforgiving eyes - angry for making her divulge this private information. "That is the problem," she stressed. "Do you understand now, Minato?"

He did not have an answer for her, not one that was satisfactory anyway. It was not his business. It should not have been his business.

"On Monday," Sakura's voice was noticeably softer, perhaps impacted by his stunned silence or out of longing for what she had taken for granted that she would give anything for - to have all the problems she had on Monday back. Problems that probably did not seem so big in hindsight. "I promised my mom I would stop by. She is expecting me. I need to go. If I don't, there's a real risk she has an episode that requires hospitalization. And maybe just maybe she'll manage to call the police and report me missing before that happens," she was pleading with him now. He saw the vulnerability under the layers of moxie and bravado. She was begging him to understand.

Are you trying to kill yourself?

Ino's question to her etched itself in his mind, for him to carry with him for the rest of his days indiscriminately of just how many or how few more there might be.

"I can send someone I trust," he could not bring himself to look her in the eyes. There was too much hurt there. More than enough to squeeze his throat noticeably tighter.

"No," she shook her head. "If you need to come with me to feel better about the situation, then so be it. I can wear a wig or hat or something. You could stay in the car."

"No." This was not an episode of Scooby-Doo. She did not understand the seriousness - the gravity - of the situation. "I'll go." The hesitation on her person was palpable. It was everywhere he looked. The words that wanted to tumble out of his mouth - the ones asking her to trust him - he held back. They meant nothing to her. "I'll make sure she gets the grocery. I'll shop for it myself."

The gears in her brain churned and in real time he could see the change in her. Her stance was becoming more receptive - malleable.

"I'm not asking for anything that I'm not willing to do. My colleague would be staying here with you."

Stop being stubborn. It's a good compromise. Neither of us is happy about it.

"I guess," Sakura began distractedly. "I could call her, tell her you're coming," she was biting the side of her thumbnail and her eyes were anywhere he was not. "I could tell her I got pulled into something at work," she thought out loud for his benefit. It saved her the trouble of having to tell him the story for them to keep straight. "It could work," she clarified with a frown. "There's still a chance she calls the cops on you and files a missing person on me."

From the way she said the words, he was unsure if she was joking or not. He simply did not know enough to make a call.

"You'd have to be in and out. You're just doing me a favor. Don't stay for dinner. She'll offer. The longer you stay, the more questions she will ask. She wanted to be a lawyer growing up. She would have been better suited to the interrogation department of the Konoha Police Force," Sakura eyed him up and down. "She'll eat you alive."

"In and out," he said with a curt nod - actively choosing to be productive and not focus on what felt like a dig. Normally it did not bother him - he might actually prefer it - to be underestimated. Other people's opinions of him were not his business and he did not care to make them his but Sakura doing the same caused a pit to form in his stomach. He did not care for this feeling of inadequacy. "No to dinner," he added with earnestness, without even a trace of reluctance.

I can and will do it,

"I'll get you the list," Sakura threw her hands up in the air in acceptance of defeat. She turned to face the fridge to rip off the top half-sheet of paper that was attached there via the magnetic backing.

"Okay." His hand was already moving to click the last number he had called. "Hora," he spoke into the receiver. The call was picked up between the first and second rings. "Get here. Now."

xXx

Getting in and out of the car was the hardest part - the most painful part. Driving he could manage without much noticeable change even if he usually led with his left arm when doing so in the past. Minato adjusted the dark sunglasses on his face. He tilted his head down. The bill of his black baseball cap covered his face from the cameras lining the street-front shops. He moved slowly down the ten or so steps that led to the basement of the brick building.

Sakura's mother's house was an hour's drive one way from her apartment. Mebuki was not expecting him for another two. The address she had only said verbally and he has promised not to write it down or share with anyone. Anyone other than his GPS but that was out of necessity even if she had given him a rundown of what exit to take and what turns to make. She had assumed his point of origin incorrectly. But like him, she had a vague idea.

He ignored the faded sign that read "No loitering". He tapped the rust-colored door. It was reinforced with steel. No windows. No peepholes. His fingers tapped against the outside of his thighs. The lock disengaged. He heard something being slid before the hinges creaked. The door opened. He caught it with his right hand, its weight, and momentum vibrated throughout his body in a taunt of just how exposed and vulnerable he was.

It slammed closed behind him. The floor smelled of a citrus cleaner. Artificial and strong. His nose burned. Breathing through his mouth did not help. Minato walked to the nearest barstool. He pulled it away from the stainless steel table with his foot. He leaned against the edge of the table. He faced the stairs. And waited.

It was a short one as the sounds of a lumbering frame descending down the steps filled the still room. The low electrical hum and the ticking of the clock were drowned out by labored breathing. A rough face with bags under his eyes and a wild mane of long white hair glowered at him.

Nice to see you too.

"How are you, kid?" The man asked roughly, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Never better, Professor," Minato answered with a smile. It reached nowhere near his obscured eyes.

Jiraiya snorted. "We were taking bets on whether or not you died."

"It will take more than three Uchiha to do me in," Minato tipped his cap as if accepting great praise. "Thanks for your vote of confidence."

"You don't need it. I taught you everything you know," Jiraiya kissed his teeth as he leaned back against the wall of the entry. "Take those damn things off. How can you even see anything?"

Minato lowered the sunglasses from his face, tucking them into the front of his hoodie. JIraiya's eyes were on his immediately - checking them for bruises, swelling, traces of bloodshot, and signs of impending and determined death. The tall man relaxed marginally when he came up empty-handed.

"You look terrible," Jiraiya's voice carried with a gruffness that masked his relief. "I can't remember the last time that I saw you not in Konan's pants." It was probably the same as the last time Minato was down here in the bunker - the war room. His home away from home. A place he came to when he was in trouble. Minato did not get in trouble often.

"Getting shot in the shoulder has me reassessing my priorities," the blonde sighed, unfazed by Jiraiya's unique way of framing things with his lexicon.

"So you did get clipped," Jiraiya shook his head. "It's impossible to separate rumor from truth out there." The frown he wore was severe. It overpowered everything. "I'll keep it to myself."

Minato nodded his head in silent thanks. If his condition was confirmed, it would only invite more of the lesser clans or particularly motivated individuals to try their luck for notoriety - to make a name for themselves. The Killer of the Yellow Flash. Flash Container. The Slayer. There was no shortage of nicknames he could think of for the person who managed to reunite him with the departed. Something he would not mind so much - especially in the past - if he knew it would not cause them a great deal of sadness. And then there was the matter of his balance. If he was to see them again - and his heart ached every day, some days so badly that it took everything to leave his bed - he had more work to do. Work he could not do if he was dead. It was as simple as that. He had to stay alive. He had to stay untouchable - more legend than a man to discourage even the thought of a hit. A kill was a kill. It did not matter if he was "damaged goods" prior. His reputation was still intact which meant his circle of protection around her house was still unbreachable. For now. Because nothing was permanent or a guarantee.

"How are you really, Minato?" Jiraiya was the one to break the silence that had built and built with each second that was burned through by mental cycles that never stopped moving. Maybe that was why he was tired all the time.

Minato rubbed the back of his neck. His back was not happy with him - her sofa did not provide the support it needed - but there was little he could do. He added it to the growing list of grievances he could not address right now. It would take too long to try to get up from the floor in the event of an emergency. And that was putting aside the risk of Sakura tripping over him on her way to the kitchen in the middle of the night when her eyes were only partially open, because she was still half-asleep at best or sleepwalking at worst, to the jar of cookies she kept on the countertops. It did not matter if she was fully, partially, or minimally conscious she never forgot to lock the door. Maybe she did have some self-preservation skills after all. They told her to stay away from him.

"Pissed," he finally settled on the holistic self-contained summary. He kept it short and far from sweet.

"That seems to be going around." Jiraiya's dark eyes travel along the room. Past the pool table, the darts board, the beat-up but still comfortable leather recliner, the fridge stocked with booze, and the poker table shoved against the corner.

"I need information, Professor. On an Uchiha with a hole in his hand," Minato did not let his former teacher stroll long down memory lane, a double standard that he did not have the time to look into at the moment.

"Assuming that you didn't have enough time to ask him his name in all the excitement - how do you know it was an Uchiha?" He asked without looking at him, his tone was conversational - dangerously close to dismissive. Jiraiya's personal beliefs on revenge were simple: don't bother. It was a dark path that no one survived. Not in any meaningful way. Everyone lost.

"They were cocky and arrogant," his tone made it clear he did not believe he needed to say anymore.

Jiraiya scoffed. "That will do it." He walked over to the billiards table. He pulled a pole from the rack on the wall. "Getting you a burner so you could find your feet was one thing. Don't get it twisted. I'm out of the game, kid." He began to apply chalk to the end of the cue in repetitive, leisurely strokes. The balls were already prepped. The one good thing about Nawaki. He always left the table ready for a game. He lined the end of the cue to the white ball. "So stop trying to pull me back in," he retraced the faded line in the sand.

Minato picked up the ball with his bandaged hand just as Jiraiya was coiling back for his strike.

"Sakura was there."

Dark eyes snapped up to meet his. "What?" Jiraiya asked with more breath than voice, frozen in place. "Pink Sakura? Dr. Sakura? That Sakura?" The sharp set of Minato's jaw was all the confirmation he needed. "Minato!" Jiraiya rose to his full height. The tip of the cue dug into the palm of his hand. "I was wondering what you were doing all the way out in Tani," his eyes were narrowed. "She's a civilian. I taught you better!"

I know. Believe me, I know.

"I don't need a lecture right now, Professor," Minato's hand curled around the ball.

"You do. You absolutely do," Jiraiya disagreed vehemently. "What happened to waiting?" He asked. "What happened to the plan?"

"It went to shit," Minato matched his heat. Standing toe to toe with the taller man. "I can't go back. I can't change the choices I made - the ones I didn't make, Professor," he said with the calm he was known for. "I can't go back. I need information so I can move forward."

I need to get past this.

"You plan on killing him," Jiraiya did not mince his words or reserve his judgment.

"He saw her. She's marked." A vein in his neck became visible as he said the words. "I need to make it right."

Or die trying.

"Shit," Jiriaya rubbed his forehead, transferring chalk onto it unintentionally. The man pressed his lips together into a stern line. He stared at the picture on the wall - right above the entry, before the steps. "Who's with her now?"

"She's safe," he answered cryptically much to Jiraiay's brow's annoyance. His navy eyes continued to maintain a level of pressure that was best described as coercive.

"So Hora then," Jiraiya rolled his eyes to the ceiling, contemplating the cracks in the paint and whether they were a cause for concern or not.

"Please don't start," he said with a sigh. It was hardly a good use of time.

"Kid," Jiraiya's dark irises narrowed with the full weight of his disdain. "I've said it before and I'll say it again, something is off with that one."

"You've never liked him." He rolled his shoulders slowly. The repetitive nature of this discussion was grating away at him. There were only so many dead ends he could encounter with grace.

"I'm just telling you how I see it. He's unstable. Did he run off to chase a fix only to land you in one?" Jiraiya asked pointedly, voice gruff and his nostrils flared. He did not think he needed to ask Minato to open his eyes to the cost of Sasori's indiscretions.

"He's clean," Minato uttered with fitness that went beyond just lip service. "He made a mistake but he's solid. I trust him."

Jiraiya let out a snort. "You have a blind spot for him. You always have. Since the day he threw himself into the mix."

Minato could neither argue nor deny. Instead, he glanced up at the clock somewhere behind and over Jiraiya's head. The white hair man stood still for another moment, observing before he shook his head and sighed.

"When have I let you down, kid?" Jiraiya asked, lips pulling into a smile that was for show only. He was about as happy as Minato was.

"Thank you, Professor," he set the ball back on the table, lining it right where it had been. Not a hair too here nor there.

"You can thank me by cleaning up this mess quickly. Shikaku's pissed. Angry enough to skin and wear you to send a message of discouragement. Rihito has his hands full running interference," he bent over to move the cue for better angling. His dark eyes saw past the brightly colored balls.

"I'll be sure to send him flowers along with my regards." Minato had no sympathy. Especially not after "running interference" every time Rihito was in his uncle's crosshairs. It happened too often to count, especially when they were not quite children but not yet men. But what could he do? Rihito was Shika's favorite. So he had to look after his baby cousin for him.

"Basketball tickets," Jiraiya said with an eye roll, he struck the ball sending all the other scattering when they collided. "And sake for the hag. Expensive. She's been complaining that I'm unbearable to live with as of late."

Done and done.

"You're going to set back my timeline," Minato's lips tugged into a smirk despite his words and tone. It was automatic now, the habit of negotiating. Even if it was just for appearance's sake.

"What good are plans? Life is meant to be lived." Jiraiya moved to the other side of the table. "Now I know you have better things to do than stare at my beautiful face."

A chuckle left Minato's throat. "Only barely." His parting words hung in the air as did the hollow thud from when he tapped the wooden edge of the table with curled knuckles.

Jiraiya tried not to think about the path Minato's feet were leading him. Dark and twisted. He would never be the same. Perhaps Jiraiya had been a fool to think that Minato could go as long as he did at the rank he held without earning that particular label or achievement. A permanent mark that was carried on his soul, one that would be easier to hide and pretend did not exist but the recovery…the recovery was less predictable than the tattoos that lined his body.

"Be sure you know who is pulling whose strings, Minato. Without a lick of doubt," Jiraiya offered his advice into the space that was no longer occupied by the Nara's Blond. The door slammed closed. Locking itself. The somber man continued his game. Heels clicked down the stairs all the way until they came to a stop behind him. A small but warm hand settled onto his chest.

"Who was that?" Her sultry voice was music to his ears. The most beautiful sound even when she was producing not-so-pleasant frequencies - which was more often or not the case given his tendencies to put his foot in his mouth or leave his dirty, balled-up socks everywhere.

"Who else," Jiraiya grumbled, pausing to snake an arm around her waist, pulling her closer.

"Only one other person can get you this worked up," she trailed the tip of her painted nail from his jugular notch, his throat, over his lips, to flick his nose, earning herself a scowl. Her lips stained in a soft pink pulled into a self-satisfied smirk.

"He was being stubborn," Jiraiya grumbled with irateness; he did not need to dig too deep to dredge up. "You get old enough that the kids start thinking they know everything. I'm practically a talking fish mounted to a wooden board. A relic of long gone wisdom."

The woman patted his shoulder in a consoling gesture. The level of effort eroded with each pass of repetition of this very button being pushed. "Did he need to be seen by me?" She asked eager to change the subject, slipping a hand into the folds of his dark kimono-style top. Pressing her palm to the tattoo she knew was still there. Faded with both time and age - its and his own - but discernible all the same: a balanced vertical vajra contained in a perfect circle. The same one that rested between her shoulder blades.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Hime but assuming he doesn't completely mess this up, he won't be needing you again." His dark eyes glittered with something far from innocent. He had faith in his star pupil. He did teach him everything he knew, after all.

Tsunade's face scrunched in lines of offense. She scoffed in indignation at the prospect of being replaced. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" She asked, brow haughty.

"Exactly what I said." He bent down to kiss her on the lips, grabbing her face with his chalk-covered hands. He squeezed her cheeks together a little too roughly. While the other forewent the cue and tracked down the curve of her back to squeeze her butt.

"I'll shave your head bald if you call me hag again." She twisted his nipple in retaliation for the remark and the chalk. Because despite sharing a life with him, she did not share in his pacifist philosophy. At. All.

Jiraiya cursed himself for splurging for audio on the new CCTV cameras that were installed just last week. It would do him good to revisit his own advice, it seemed.

---

"Don't touch that!" Sakura snatched the small succulent in a round pot from his hands.

Sasori did not react, letting her have her plant back without a fuss. His purple-painted fingers found their next object to hold captive. He frowned. "Why do you have this?" He asked her in a bored tone, a small plastic trophy dangling from his index finger. "When you're not the 'World's Best Karaoke Singer'." His face barely changed as he started to spin the trophy around. "Unless you think you are?"

Just who raised you?

She wanted to ask him, pointedly. Instead, she glared as menacing as she could to no avail. "Give me that!" Sakura reached for the spinning memento that was never anything other than a joke.

Sasori set it back where he found it - instantly losing interest - to move on to the next thing. Sakura followed after him, huffing and puffing and red in the face.

This is who he would have sent to Mom's house?

If the answer was yes, Minato was a few bulbs short of bright. Maybe as many as five. Or he had horrible judgment. Or he was punishing her. Or some combination of.

He's probably cackling to himself. The jerk!

It made her feel better to know just what he was about to walk into. He deserved every minute of Mebuki Haruno being unleashed on him out of principle alone.

An eye for an eye punk.

"You're abrasive and argumentative," Sasori carried on his matter-of-fact deadpan, reminding her with his words that he was very much still there. Inside of her apartment. Touching all her things. Making stupid quips every now and then. Judging.

This is what Cheddar would be like if he were human.

"Nothing like you presented yourself to be," Sasori delivered the rest of his burn without color.

Sakura bristled, filling her cheeks with the air of her indignation. "You're one to talk, as in that's all you seem to be doing. Now." She missed the quiet, brooding persona. The persona she has associated him with. How wrong she was.

What I wouldn't give to be ignorant-Sakura again.

Sasori's lip twitched. The action was too brief for her to determine if it was in a grin or frown. He moved past the fireplace mantel where all these things had been housed.

"I don't see it," Sasori muttered to himself, running his fingers along a baseboard. He rubbed the minimal dust between his index finger and thumb.

What is he on about now?

"You don't see what?" Sakura asked as she straightened the orientation of the small gold trophy so all the lettering was facing out and easy to read.

"You weren't meant to hear that," he said with an annoyed sigh. Like he was annoyed that she was here in her home, specifically. His brown eyes swept the room for the umpteenth time. She was beginning to really get agitated. "I might just have to kill you if you continue to be so noisy."

She halted all movement. She could barely make out his silhouette in the glass of the picture frame in front of her. He was behind her, looking through the contents of the drawer on her end table. The one between the couch and the accent chair. Her fingers curled into a fist.

"Just make it quick."

Sasori blinked. He turned his head to look in her direction. A book was held in each of his hands. He did not even bother to straighten the curve of his hunched-over back. "Come again?" He asked and for the first time, boredom was nowhere to be found on his person.

That got your attention, huh?

"If you're going to kill me all that I ask is you make it quick," Sakura brushed the fine dust from the top of the mantle. She could see it gathered inside the painted white between the red bricks. "I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of jumping at every loud sound - a trash can being kicked over by kids on bikes, a car backfiring, a firework going off, a train horn, a bird hitting my window. I'm tired of seeing the same face every time I close my eyes, while I wait for him to find me. I'm tired of being stuck in these same walls. I'm tired of having no control over my life. I'm tired of being so scared that I'm nauseous which only makes me angry. Only to come right back to being scared. I'm tired of living like this. I'm tired. I'm done. So if you're going to kill me. Just kill me."

She looked at him, eyes bright with challenge while frustration rolled off of her, pooling at her stagnant feet. "Just do it already," she stopped short of begging him. The threat of death might just be worse than the real thing. It had to be.

Sasori threw his head back and laughed. Cackling. Deranged. If that was not bad enough, he started to clap. Slowly. Loudly. Mockingly.

She inhaled shakily, breath shattered. Blinking back the tears that her pride would not allow her to shed. Even if doing so would make her lighter. Not in front of him.

Show no weakness in front of the enemy.

So why did she say all that? Why did she choose now to be honest? Painfully honest. To a man who was laughing at her. Openly. All the while she hurt.

"You're such a princess," Sasori wiped the moisture from his eye. His smile was large and loose. It fit his face unnaturally. For the first time, she understood why some animals perceived smiling as an act of aggression. "Three days in the comfort of your own home and you have the privilege of saying all that while Namikaze is out there risking his actual life."

Namikaze? Is that his last name?

"I didn't send him. He wouldn't let me."

"You're an adult, Princess. You don't need to let anyone let you do anything," he scoffed in disgust. He lowered himself into the chair. He leaned forward, his forearms loose as they rested over his thighs. "You sent him. You can't simultaneously can't play the victim all the while forcing his hand. You can't have it both ways."

He's out there. Out in the open. While I'm….

Sasori twirled something thin and metallic - pointy - between his fingers. His eyes were glued to her posture; her bowed head and hunched shoulders. She was pitiful. Easy to read. Quick to break. His brows moved a fraction closer together at the roll of her shoulders. He tapped the metal instrument against the inside of his knee. He felt the cold against the skin poking through his ripped acid-wash jeans.

"How rude of me," Sakura was smiling at him with her eyes closed. "I didn't offer you any refreshments. You must be hungry. How does fruit sound?" She asked brightly. Artificial as the canned lights over their heads.

"Sure," he said with a disinterested shrug, watching her walk by him. He rose when he lost sightlines.

Keep her where you can see her.

Those were his orders. He would not be caught a second time defying them. He pulled a chair back, falling into it. The solid wood legs scraped against the linoleum flooring. He placed the senbon at the corner of his mouth. The back of it poked the tender flesh of his inner cheek. It was to his mild surprise that she practically pirouetted from the counter to the table with two apples, two plates, and a knife all stacked neatly between her two hands. She used her slippered foot to pull the legs of the chair just enough to slink into it.

She sat with her elbows on the table separating the bottom plate - a mint color - from the top. She picked up one of the apples and began to peel it.

"How long have you been using?" She did not look up from the fruit she was freeing of its outer shiny layer.

Sasori raised his eyes from her hands - he had been appraising the knife - to her face.

"You kept your socks on," Sakura explained with a sigh - feeling the gesture she did not see. "It's hot in here. Too hot for socks."

"But not slippers?" He drawled, blinking his eyes slowly.

"They don't have backs," she smiled. The apple was completely bare. She began to cut uniform pieces with a sure and steady hand. "And I'm not wearing socks with them."

"You're insane," Sasori concluded with a snort. "The prettier they are…," he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. His toes curled toward the wooden legs of the chair. They twitched.

You're deflecting.

"Your eyes are glassy. You can't focus. You're overly blunt. Probably because you're miserable. You haven't stopped sweating since you came in from outside but you won't shed your jacket. You're twitchy." She slid the plate of the cut apples toward him. She picked up the second one, bringing the knife to make first contact. "You haven't been itching your arms which means there's no active sites. Within the last few days at least."

"And I'm wearing socks," he pointed out with feigned levels of honesty, shaking his head. He pulled the plate the rest of the way until it was directly in front of him. He stabbed one end of the senbon into the apple. The plates clattered. He wiped away the splatter that landed on his face. He bit off a large chunk, chewing with his mouth open.

"How long have you been trying to get clean?" She asked, unbothered by the disproportionately violent display of aggression. Misplaced too probably.

"A while," he supplied in a monotone. "Third time trying."

That tracks.

"There are programs," she regarded his face with empathy. She was careful to not let it go too far and reveal pity. There was no faster way to get someone to shut down. "They don't ask any questions beyond if you're serious about it. I can help you connect with them if you want." Her good friend Lee ran a rehabilitation center. He had experience in helping addicts turn their lives around.

Getting people back on their feet and in control of their lives was his life's work after an accident that left him with less than a thirty percent chance of walking. Lee had just finished his fifth marathon on the seventh anniversary of the crash. He placed third. It took nearly a week for her voice to come back from cheering him on, loudly. He was hands down the most inspirational person she knew. Hands down. No contest.

Lee can help him. Lee would be good for him.

"I know what I'm doing. It's all under control," Sasori polished off the second of the apple slices.

"Good to know that something is," Sakura nibbled on her first. "Do you get assignments like this often from your colleague?" Her green eyes flickered over his shoulder where her plaid jacket was draped on the back of the sofa. Surrounded by plastic. "Picking up his dry cleaning?" She asked with a level of innocence that fooled no one.

"I wear many hats," Sasori was smirking. "I'm a real go-getter," he embellished the claim with the same dry voice. Bored. Listless. His fingers tapped the marble as his foot danced up and down, his whole leg shaking.

If I can find the right buttons….

"Does one of those hats include cleaning up after he's killed someone?" She held his gaze, fearlessly. Boldly. Foolishly. Sasori was a weaker nut to crack. His shell had a ways to go before it reached Minato's level. That much she knew.

Give me something.

Something that tilted the scales. One way or the other. She did not care. She just had to know what type of man was sleeping on her couch. Who was the real Minato? The one from the coffee shop or the one from the subway station?

Tell me.

Even if he ended up telling Minato too. If that was the cost, that was the cost.

The beads of perspiration on his upper lip glistened under the white light like he was wearing body glitter. Something sinister filled the depths of his earthy eyes as he peered at her. Devouring. His gaze was ready to eat her whole.

"You don't know the Lieutenant at all." The manner in which he shook his head left ambiguity in her impression. Was it amusement or disappointment? Or both.

"The Lieutenant?" She asked with more caution. Sasori's loose lips were moving and she did not know for how long he would be so magnanimous with his words. Her strategy was simple, to fill her cup with as much nectar of knowledge that was flowing out of him. She could drink later.

"The syndicate - the clans - operate as a family. You have the Big Boss at the top. He's the dad if you will," Sasori moved his wrist loosely, idly. The apple slice was hanging on for dear life. But neither of them was concerned about its hardships. "Untouchable. His word is written into stone. In the muscle part of the organization, you then have the Lieutenants. His right and left hands. The first Lieutenant and the Second Lieutenant. There is mobility here but turnover is relatively low. Unless someone gets capped - either internally or externally. It's happened in the past. Usually more often than not when a Lieutenant forgets the hand that feeds him and gets a little too greedy."

Lieutenants. They use ranks. Like the military.

The thought had never occurred to her before now. It should have. It damn well should have. They were disciplined. They were organized. They followed orders. They were well-funded. They ran the city, for crying out loud! There were more similarities between the ranks than differences she could think of in the split seconds that existed between Sasori's words.

"Namikaze was my older brother - the next step down from the Lieutenant. Making me," he pointed at himself with the apple spear. "His little brother - the lowest on the clan pole." He chuckled humorlessly. "Any questions?"

So many.

"You said 'the muscle part of the organization', is there more?" She folded her hands in her lap, where he could not see them. Her fingers were shaking slightly.

"There's always more, Pinkie," Sasori eyed her plate. "You gonna eat that?"

"Help yourself," she answered without hesitation.

The more he took, the more she had to hold on to. She hoped the formula continued to work out in her favor. He bared his teeth at her in what was not a grin. It was too feral. He walked his fingers - index and middle - until they touched the edge of the plate. He pulled it to him, slowly. Seemingly savoring the way her eyes followed his action.

"There's the money side - the bookkeepers, the accountants, the legal advisors, the desk jobs." He licked his fingers, sucking on them while maintaining eye contact. His smirk grew more haughty when she did not react to the instigation.

The lawyers, the government officials, the politicians, the cooks, the maids, the drivers, everyone else.

They all feel under this umbrella, this side. It was a whole ecosystem. One that thrived. It was complicated.

"You called," she hesitated in her duality of how to refer to him - to the man that was living in her home, "Namikaze a lieutenant but he was also your big brother, I'm assuming there was a gap between the two things." The fact that Sasori was still always around Minato, the bond was strong. In the odd bits and pieces of their interactions, she had never heard Minato so much as raise his voice with Sasori, and yet the man came. He fell in line. It spoke to the respect he had for the blond - for his Lieutenant. "When did you join? When did you meet him?"

"There are two types of people in the Akatsuki," he held out two fingers. "Those who have no choice but to be there," he lowered his index finger so only his middle was left extended out. From his grin, she knew it was intentional. He was so proud of himself. "And those who choose to be there. Guess which one I am, Princess."

Addicts always lie….

The first pamphlet for supporting someone through addiction had opened with that. The one she had read while in his office. She recalled what Lee said to her during her first training session before she could volunteer her time at his center.

Don't turn your back on them, Sakura.

She furrowed her brow. Maybe Lee's statement was not as hopeful and idealistic as she thought. Maybe he was trying to warn her without using as many words.

Which one is he?

Was he born into it? Or did he seek it?

It felt like a trick question. It really did. She had an answer immediately - the one her instincts believed to be true - but she also had an inkling that if she answered wrong she failed the test. Because it was a test. She had not seen Sasori so alert or engaged before. Granted the sample size was small but her claim stood on its own merit.

"Tick tock, Princess," he clicked his tongue as if it was the second hand of a clock. The friction of his jeans as his leg moved up and down, up and down, up and down slammed against her eardrum like tiny, persistent mallets.

You have a good head on your shoulders, Sakura. Trust your instincts. Go with your gut.

The memory of Lee's large, encouraging smile and gentle eyes accompanied his voice resounding in her head - guiding her where she was unsure which path to pursue.

"The latter," she said decisively, staring him dead in the eyes. "You're the latter."

You picked this for yourself.

"Right you are," he leaned back in the chair again with a smug expression. "And that should tell you everything you need to know."

It told her nothing she did not already derive about him. He was crazy. He was unstable. He was unpredictable. That was true. She figured that out in all of ten minutes after Minato had left. But what did that say about Minato - the man who trusted him? What did it say about her? That she was not ready to think about.

"Tell me," she pressed her weight on her bent arms, hunched forward. "Tell me anyway."

"It's going to cost you," he lifted up one end of the plate high before he let it go without warning, leaving it to clatter.

You just keep yapping and leave the rest to me.

"No problem," she did not even blink. "Do you like lasagna?"

Sasori grinned.

xXx

He was not early. He was not late. At exactly the top of the hour, he was standing in front of the black metal door. The house was small. On a comparatively large lot. The front was lush and green even in the winter months. Native plants - mature - and allowed to do their own thing. All without it being an eyesore so that the neighbors with the lush, well-maintained lawns could not grumble too much. In the five minutes that he had been sitting in the car - timing his precise arrival at the door - he had seen no shortage of three faces pressed against glass or standing in a doorway watching him. A man in a bathrobe - it was in the afternoon - had come out to check his mailbox at the end of his yard twice in that time, missing no opportunity to peer at his car. Not even remotely subtly despite all the effort he was putting into appearing that way.

Minato's hand - the one still wrapped in bandages for more aesthetic reasons than anything at this point - was outside of the pocket of his jeans. It felt strange not to be in a suit. He almost felt naked - more naked than actually being naked - without it. But his shoulder was throbbing - forcing it through two sleeves was one too many.

Did people wear suits to other people's homes?

Flowers in the house. Big bouquets of peonies, lilies, and camellias. All of them were white. And despite their big, dark, bountiful leaves, depressing. It had not stopped raining for six days after the service - the wake. A canopy of black umbrellas hid the gray and dreary sky. It was like a scene out of a movie. Only he could not turn it off or walk away. The sniffling noses. The stifling embraces. The smell of death wrapped around him in a vice. Patting him on the back. Muttering words that meant nothing then or now. Completely meaningless. The show, the pomp, the woman wailing so loudly that he almost ran out of there. He wanted to. He had been eyeing the door - counting the number of people he would have to blur by. He was not worried. He was fast. He was numb. But as if reading his mind - he had an uncanny track record - he scooted closer to him. A shuffle of small feet in black socks. A gesture so muted and subdued that it was missed by nearly everyone. Nearly. Its impact was profound. He had straightened his back even if his head had lowered into a bow. The tops of his gray socks started to dampen. Sporadically. Gradually. Suddenly. His small hand was warm on his shoulder - through his gray collared shirt because he was the only one not in a full suit. He had grown out of his last one and his parents had not gotten the chance to take him shopping to buy a new one.

It did not take long for another hand to reach out for his. Warm and soft. Bigger than the one on his shoulder. His clammy fingers twitched but the owner of the hand did not seem to mind. She did not look at him as she blotted at his tears. She just seemed to know. Their hands did not feel like the one on his head. Large and heavy. The one that kept his head bowed even if his neck hurt from the prolonged position. Thankfully the hand that was last to arrive was the first to leave. The hand holding his stayed a little while longer. Until his tears dried and his shoulder stopped shaking. Water. Black liner sock-clad feet pulled away with the promise of relief for his dry, itchy throat.

The hand on his shoulder remained. Constant and steady. Even when he must have lost feeling in his fingers from all the blood collecting at his elbow. He stood by his side. Even when the bodies left, the flowers withered, and the contents of his family home were boxed up and sold. He was there. Always there.

Until he was not.

Because Minato had left his side fist. And for what? To train? For a pipe dream. For running circles around the complex trying to shave seconds off of his qualifying time. For something he had been working so diligently on for months - his whole life - at that point. On that day, he did manage to lose those seconds but what he remembered was losing a whole lot more. A couple of lost seconds did not help him in any way. He had been too slow. Much too slow. That was what stuck with him. An absence he would always feel. All because he had opted to go for a run. He wore a suit for his wake - remembering every detail down to the white chrysanthemums - and nearly every day not lost to grief after that.

If only I could turn back. If only I could run back to that time. To that day. To that place.

Minato shook his head, freeing himself of memories he did not expect to invoke with a simple question. A simple question that he did not have an answer to as he did not know what normal people did. To keep from ruminating on something that would not bring him closer to anything but sadness, he told himself this: if jeans were good enough for Sakura, it would have to be good enough for him. And it helped with the restlessness somewhat. His fist was poised to make contact with the security door but the red door behind it opened first. His expression did not change in all the time he was standing there - less than fifteen seconds was all that was needed to get lost. Minato smiled at the woman through the black grates. A flash of green was the first thing he noticed.

Again.

"Hello, Ms. Haruno," he did not make any sudden movements. "I'm Minato. We spoke on the video call earlier," his voice was pleasant and agreeable. Low and soft. He still could not get over the lengths Sakura had gone to make it believable. She had put up her hair and donned her scrubs and her white coat. Even clipped her badge to the breast pocket of said coat. They had found a blank wall not lined with photos or peeling paint, with an earphone each in one of their ears - because there was no way that they could do a video call on speaker in the hospital where they supposedly were. In hindsight the exercise served two purposes, he was going with his eyes wide open. He knew exactly what to expect. Maybe.

She looked at me like that too…back at the Tani Station.

Distrusting was Mebuki's gaze as she continued to eye him silently. He interpreted that as a prompt to continue speaking - to explain his presence.

"I'm here with your groceries." He tilted his head in the direction of his hand. The hand that was holding two canvas tote bags. The ones he was pretending were not heavy. Just like he was pretending his shoulder did not hurt. The damn seat belt had been eating into his injury the whole drive down. Not to mention the wear and tear from gathering the items on the list. He thought he was doing a good enough job masking it until an old lady shaking with age and nearly blind with cataracts offered to open up the produce bags he was struggling with. That had been humbling, to say the least. The red door started to move closer to the frame, to slam on his face. The window - the door - was closing.

"Ms. Haruno," he kept his growing frustration off his face and his voice. "The milk and eggs are going to go bad." He conveniently ignored the ill-timed wind that slapped against him. It would take hours for that to be the case in these cool temperatures. His arm and his patience would give out long before his words became true.

"I don't believe you," Mebuki spat out. Voice as sharp as a whip.

I'm beginning to see the problem.

First hand. Up close and personal.

"Are you a doctor?" Mebuki narrowed her eyes at him, mostly hidden behind the door. Her grip around the edge was white-knuckled.

"No," he shook his head slowly - non-threateningly. His eyes crinkled as he doubled the charm. It got the old lady at the store to blush when coupled with the bouquet of roses he bought her as a token of his appreciation. "I am part of the hospital admin. In shipping and receiving," he lied smoothly. Believably.

"Then how did you meet Sakura?" Mebuki's lips were set in a harsh line. "How did you meet my Sakura?" Her voice reached an octave that was firmly in the shrill category. Again, vaguely familiar. Just enough to cause him to trip up.

"At a coffee shop, Naruto's Gutsy Cafe. I'm sure you heard Sakura mention it." His arm was beginning to tremble slightly. He paid it no mind.

"What a horrible name," Mebuki noted with disdain, still not moved.

The chuckle that left his throat this time was genuine. Jiraiya would bristle at what he deemed fighting words. He named it after the main character of his first book. But unlike the book, his cafe was not a failed venture. So maybe the name was not the problem after all, not that Minato would know as he rather liked the book and found the coffee to be only average.

"I agree." A gust of wind picked up curled leaves. He was protected from the elements under the covered wrap-around porch. The wooden swing bench, painted white creaked slightly as it rocked back and forth. It was either the movement or the sound that had a round, gray roll starting to loosen up on the blue seating cushion.

"Sakura has worked for the hospital for five years. Three as a resident, two years full-time in the ER," Mebuki stated matter-of-factly. "In all those years I have only met one friend."

The word she chose to emphasize left a certain impression on him. One that had him holding back a sigh. The tightness of his stitches was not the most troublesome thing he was dealing with at the moment. Not even remotely.

Yet another similarity.

"Something came up at the last minute, Ms. Haruno. Like Sakura explained in the video call." A call that was entirely too long - ten minutes - and seemingly a waste of time from where he stood. "Someone called in sick. It couldn't be helped. She wanted to be here."

She had planned on being here.

"And I am supposed to believe she lost her phone?" Mebuki asked with a dismissive attitude. "Sakura isn't careless."

Maybe not. But she is reckless. It's in the same family.

"It stopped working," he corrected without calling out in surprise. "It was on the older side. She had been meaning to get an upgrade for a while now." He did not waver - did not show his surprise - when the gray, bunched-up roll, moved through his legs, brushing against them.

"Cheddar!" Mebuki admonished the fat gray tabby. "I've been looking everywhere for you! When did you get outside?!" She demanded with the utmost seriousness leaving him to wonder if she actually expected a response from the cat.

Did Sakura mention anything about medication?

She did not and Minato could not help but feel like she should have.

The cat responded by sitting on his shoe, tilting his head up, and mewling. And then he promptly began to groom himself. Minato raised his eyes from the cat to the blonde-haired woman for direction on how to proceed.

I've only had deer around growing up.

For what it was worth, Mebuki seemed every bit as unsure as Minato felt.

So far all I am is out.

"Ms. Haruno?" He asked her when the weight of her blank stare became too much for him to endure more of. He regretted uttering a sound because the stare did not improve, it worsened as it became more shrewd in its calculating nature.

"Who are you?" Mebuki asked in a voice that did not suffer fools. "Who are you really?"

Even the cat - Cheddar - paused grooming himself to peer up at him with amber eyes. Waiting much like the woman behind the dark, metal security door.

Waiting. They were waiting for an answer. His unofficial last chance. He would not go back to Sakura's apartment with anything but a successful mission.

Minato inhaled a breath only halfway, speaking before it made its way past his nose or throat. "I'm Sakura's boyfriend."

A beat. He held his breath for a beat. Because for a moment he was genuinely concerned he did the exact wrong thing. It was a good thing his hand was full and the other was basically non-responsive because he had no way of fidgeting. The need to fidget was great. His nose itched.

It was when Mebuki's face chanced that he finally granted himself a breath. It was as if a light switch had been turned on behind her green eyes. She lit up. "My Lovebug's love?" She exclaimed, already halfway to pushing open the black door. It swung out. Minato took a step back which earned him a huff of displeasure from the cat that had become a gargoyle of sorts on the top of his foot. "Come in! Come in!" Mebuki beamed at him. "Before the cold gets you." She waved him in, fussing over seemingly everything. "You too Cheddar. Get inside."

The cat sauntered between the open doors first, his long tail which was bald at the tip

was nearly vertical as its back paws stepped in the vacancies left by his front paws. Minato followed after him, wondering just how much closer to being dead he had made himself just now.

Maybe I should have let her call the police.

xXx

"Slow down, you'll choke," she grumbled as she watched him scarf down a portion and a half.

"Then you'll just have to give me the Heimlich," his brows disappeared under his red bangs. "Where was I?" He splattered red sauce on her white marble tabletop, pushing it off the plate's edge with the hard, dry bread he was using to sop it up.

Then I would just have to accidentally break a few of your ribs in the process, creep.

Sakura's eye twitched as she quickly wiped it away with a napkin before the stone could stain. "You were just saying how after running away from your abusive step-dad and your enabling mother, you landed at your grandmother's," her face held traces of pity despite her best efforts to not let it show. "Things were good but then she passed two years later."

"Right," he sighed. "Granny never got around to updating her will - writing her daughter out of it - so they got the house. I was too young for it to matter anyway. I was eleven and I decided I would rather live on the streets than go back to them." Back to being a punching bag. "So I approached the first clan that would take me. I had a classmate who was a Nara. Toshi. He was less annoying than everyone else. I hated him the least. He made me want to pummel his face in the least. I loitered around their compound for weeks before I threw myself in front of the Big Boss's car. I told him I would die for him. He just had to tell me when and where."

Damn. It's like the Series of Unfortunate Events without the disguises and the baby for comedic relief.

"At eleven?" She asked in disbelief, her stomach clenching as she pictured it in her head; Sasori, covered head to toe in grime, clothes in tatters. Pouring rain. A long black town car with tinted windows. A faceless, larger-than-life man stepped out of the car and under an open umbrella that waited for him, carried by a blurry-faced bodyguard. Everyone with either a gun or katana. Maybe even both. Listening as Sasori made his case as best as he could.

"I stopped being a kid long before then, Princess. So you can fix that face of yours, it's starting to piss me off." As if to illustrate the extent of his building anger, he stabbed what was left of the lasagna on his plate, metal clanking with ceramic. It screeched when he dragged it from one end to the other.

She lowered her eyes but dared not apologize. It would be her hand or some other fleshy part of her that he stabbed next, her sense of self-preservation told her that much.

His impulse control is far from refined.

"He accepted. They paired me with Namikaze because he was an outsider too. He took me under his wing. Taught me everything - well the parts I could be bothered with learning. How to handle a weapon. How to survive. What not to say to who and when; he taught me all that. He's still teaching me. Even fourteen years later."

He gained a family. The Clan gave him what he had for only a short time.

"Earlier you made a comment," she was the first one to find her voice between them after what was far from a comfortable silence. "That I don't know him at all." It was the truth but it bothered her more than it should have. "What did you mean by that?" She prepared herself for whatever may come. Ridicule, candor, sarcasm.

The truth.

"You're a doctor right?" His eyes moved up from his empty plate - a mess - to her face which in all honesty was not much better. There was so much expression - emotion. Confusing. "So you're smart. Presumably."

"Presumably."

"So you tell me, Doc, why in a clan full of geniuses an outsider is the Big Boss's right hand - his first lieutenant? And that too when he was just twenty-seven, becoming the youngest First Lieutenant in clan history." He waited for an answer.

How the hell am I supposed to know that?

She furrowed her brow. "I-," she bit her lip to contain her tongue. Saying "I don't know," was not acceptable. It was the easy way out. "He must…," she sighed. There were too many unknowns and thus too many possibilities of what could be the truth. "He must bring a value that no one else does," she concluded with less than ample confidence.

"No shit," Sasori was far from impressed at her cop-out of an answer. "Let's try again, Doc. Keep in mind this would be your second strike." He frowned at her. "You know anything about baseball?"

"Enough to know what that means."

He's warning me. Two more and I'm out.

If only Sakuto could see her now. He would know that she was paying attention when he explained the rules. He would also come to know that she just found the sport boring which probably never entered his baseball-obsessed mind.

It's a good thing Sakuto can't see me now. He'd be horrified. Disappointed.

Distraught. He would be distraught that she was sitting across from this man who had threatened her so casually and that too in her own home. Not only that, she was feeding him.

"Have you ever paused to think why he's able to go outside? To go do whatever errand you have him doing while you're holed up in here like a naked mole rat?"

Rude!

Sakura actively worked against her initial knee-jerk reaction which was to get defensive, immediately. He was leading her somewhere. But she was no closer to where. "You said he was out there risking his life."She furrowed her brow. Her large forehead filled with lines.

"Did I?" Sasori picked at his nails, unbothered. "Well, I suppose he could off himself in a car accident. Or out of boredom," he let out a sigh that could be classified as longing. "Don't think I'll forget," he flashed her a grin. "What's that head of yours telling you, huh?"

He's a lieutenant - the right hand. The clan would welcome him back. The clan would protect him. He's here…he's here for me?

"He's feared," Sakura's shock carried into her voice. "He's respected. He's capable."

"He's like nothing anyone's seen before," Sasori smirked. "He's too valuable to die in a shootout in the streets. What happened in the subway - that shitshow - is probably the first time he fired his weapon outside of the range in over a decade."

No way. That can't be true…can it?

"He's a lousy shot," she blurted out, alarmed. Aiming was like riding a bike. It did not matter how much time had passed between the last two points, the line connected would be mostly smooth. She herself knew. She had shot a man in the hand after essentially two decades between the previous and current last times and that too under duress.

Sasori giggled. With glee. Sakura sat back, chin turning into two given how far she was pushing herself back into her seat when his fist collided with her table. A howl of laughter was what he had reached. Sasori downed his glass of water. He was grinning from ear to ear. His eyes sparkled with something almost sinister.

"The disrespect," Sasori's shoulders trembled with the last of his fit. "Namikaze never misses unintentionally. Three guys came after him, Princess. If Namikaze was as lousy with a gun as you said…why would they send three?" He did not give her a moment to think it over. "Because if you ever find yourself 1-v-1 with Minato Namikaze and you're the one with the gun, you're," he moved his index finger across his throat horizontally while maintaining aggressive eye contact. "Toast," he emphasized the last consonant sound.

He missed on purpose? Why?

"Namikaze," he cleared his throat, tugging at the collar of his shirt. "Is the best of the best. No one is faster than him at the draw. If he were a samurai or one of 'em cowboys they had in Suna, he would have lived to be old enough to die of something boring." He scoffed, frowning at her. Disgusted with what he saw - with what he was forced to endure. "A Lieutenant that can't shoot. Have you been day drinking, Doc?"

Sakura ignored the jeer at her preposterous statement. She deserved it. Maybe. It did not matter to her what Sasori thought of her. No, what mattered was what Sasori thought of Minato. Sasori was talking him up. Putting Minato almost on a pedestal. And she wondered for a brief moment - a split second - if Minato asked him to. To say all this. To make himself look more dangerous? Sympathetic? She was not sure what but something.

No. No that's not it. You don't strike me as the type to kiss ass.

She closed her mouth, not fully aware of her own actions. It was too much, all at once, all over the place. She was smoking like a server that had water spilled inside of it. Fritzing. Short-circuiting as she tried to differentiate between the truth - the actual and the perceived.

Addicts always lie…but why would he lie about this? Unless he's trying to get in Minato's good graces again?

Cold. Minato was noticeably colder toward Sasori. He had barely looked at him long enough to say three words. Even the conversations on the phone were kept short. She had thought it was because of a lack of privacy in the cramped quarters. But what if something else was the reason behind it?

What if he's telling the truth?

How would that fit into what she was struggling with? Would that make it easier or harder to reconcile the two Minato? What if there was a third option? One she had not even considered. That would break the math.

What if Minato was neither completely innocent nor entirely guilty? Somewhere between a saint and a sinner?

What if….

If he did not use his weapon - if the head muscle did not use his brawn…what was left that brought value?

His brain.

"He does both," Sakura said with growing conviction, flattening her palms on the cold table. "He does something that neither faction of the clan does." The money and the muscle.

He's the bridge between them.

Sasori snorted. "Took you long enough." He lowered his chin into his palm, his fingers were curled toward his slightly chapped lips. "You got anything sweet?"

She nodded her head, standing mutely. She moved with legs that felt as structural sound as jello toward the countertop. Her hands were moving to the mint-colored jar where she kept cookies. A late-night guilty pleasure for when she could not sleep and did not feel like hot chocolate - because the peeing was annoying. A pleasure she did not indulge in since her life was turned upside down. She held the jar to her navel, turning around slowly.

You earned it.

She found his eyes on her. Something was dancing behind them, powered by the half-smirk on his lips. "Ever wonder, Doc, why he never approached you first? In all these months." He posed the question with nonchalance. It was not received in the same manner.

No.

He had given her more than enough to sit with. She was at capacity. She placed the jar on the center of the table, just making it before it slipped from her hands. She did not entertain the thought as she started to gather the dirtied dishes - scrubbing them free of their filth before she washed it down the drain.

xXx

So much for in and out.

The couch was firm. The air in the home smelled a little stale as a place where the windows were seldom open wound up smelling. He could smell the cat but not in an invasive way. The litter boxes were tucked away, hidden in what appeared to be just a standard end table. No offensive scent came from them. The living room was small but cozy. The rug under his feet - none of the slippers came close to fitting - was plush and free of mess. There were hand-crocheted doilies on the backs of the brown couch cushions. Everything was a shade of brown or ventured into reddish-brown. The mantle was lined with pictures, the display case filled with medals and frames of certifications - accomplishments. The largest photo in the room was of three faces. A younger Mebuki was on the last steps of the stairs, smiling. A little girl with pink hair standing a step above her beaming proudly to show off the missing front teeth, with her hands folded over her mother's shoulder. A young man was standing next to the banister wearing the full-teeth edition of the smile the girl donned.

All three of them were smiling with their whole faces. Happy. Exuding the emotion in excess. The way they smiled had him thinking that the picture was not planned. Their clothing was a step up from loungewear. Sakura's hair was messy like she had been running around, letting the wing caress her locks. Her cheeks were flushed red. Mebuki was without makeup and wearing an apron that had flour on it. The picture was real. A natural snapshot of their past. A time capsule that they could always look back to.

Normal. Carefree. Together.

S. Haruno, the younger version of the photographed man displayed in Sakura's basement clinic. He smiled the same all those years and a major life decision apart. The picture was not taken in this house. The house he was in was a single story - there were no stairs for them to stand on and pose for the photo. Just like the stairs were missing in the house, the photo was missing another face - a person. A father. The picture was missing the man of the house.

She never talks about her father.

In all fairness, he acknowledged that she brought up her mother because she had to. So maybe it was not an anomaly that she never mentioned the man. Or her brother for that matter.

"Are you comfortable?" Mebuki asked him as she held a tray containing two steaming mugs of apple cider and a plate of small donuts dusted with cinnamon sugar. "Do you need a blanket?"

"I'm fine, thank you," he assured her with a smile that seemed to please her. Minato carefully hooked his fingers around the long handle of the green mug. He set it down on the coaster on the coffee table before he picked a donut from the plate.

Mebuki was all smiles when she set the plate down on the table and sat on the recliner across from him with the mug placed under her chin. "Let me look at you," she said with a content sigh.

The corner of his mouth twitched in a nervous tick but she hardly seemed to notice. She was much too focused on her overall appraisal of him.

"You're tall," her eyes flitted over him like he was a fabric she was contemplating making a high-end garment out of it. "You have a full head of hair. No noticeable grays. You have good skin. Some lines. How old are you?"

"I turn thirty-five in January."

Mebuki smacked her lips. "Sakura is turning thirty-two in March." The age gap was inconsequential. "Have you been married before?"

"No." The sugar felt coarse against his skin. It was sticking to the thin layer of perspiration. He did not know what to do with the miniature donut he held. Just like he had no idea as to why he had even taken it. He could not put it back on the plate - he had contaminated it with his touch - and whatever appetite he had worked up to polish it off was lost somewhere along the path of her questioning. He eyed the too-hot-to-drink cider.

It would dissolve it.

But his net total of problems would still be one.

"Have you been close?" Her lips were pursed in a display of her more than infrequent line. Tiny fissures appeared around her mouth. She must spend a lot of time scowling or frowning to have developed them in that formation.

"No."

"Any children?" She quirked a brow. "There used to be a time when the marriage question would answer this question. But nowadays it is not safe to assume anything."

"No children," he shook his head in what was a forced steadiness. He did not want to come across as disingenuous - like he had that particular thing to hide.

"Hm," she swallowed back a sip of her cider after blowing on it. "Do you want children?"

"Maybe," he answered with more honesty than he was used to. "Some day." He had not really thought about it. He never needed to think about it before because he knew what his answer was by default given his circumstances. No. In the darkness that was his life - his world - he believed it to be irresponsible to bring more life into it. It would be incredibly selfish. But maybe it did not have to be that way forever. "It would be nice."

If I'm lucky. If my actions leave something of me behind when I'm done answering for my sins.

"Men," Mebuki rolled her eyes and sighed long-suffering. "You have the luxury of being indecisive and waiting. You have all the time in the world! My daughter does not. Sakura wants kids," Mebuki shook her head. "She's just too stubborn and set in her ways to admit it out loud. What am I telling you for?" Mebuki asked him a variation of the question he was thinking. "You probably know all about her stubbornness," she tutted, now shaking her head in earnest. "That girl," she finished with a sigh.

He tried not to squirm or think too deeply about the predicament he led himself in. Staying silent seemed like the play to make.

I should have left the groceries at her door.

As if that was ever an option. He had given her his word and that meant everything to him even if it was next to nothing for her. Sensing his growing dread - which was still kept off his carefully crafted mask - Cheddar deemed it fitting to wander over from the other edge of the sofa arm to clamber into his lap. His long thin tail flicked just as he finished curling himself up. His tiny paws inflicted pain disproportionate to their size where he had stepped.

"I can't believe she thought I wouldn't sniff out the truth. Just who does she take me for? I'm her mother!" Mebuki chewed on a donut with irateness on the tail-end of maintaining a one-sided inquisition. "The two of you are much too old to be doing something like this." She frowned deeply.

He lowered his eyes, thoroughly admonished. "She wanted to do it herself."

"Figures." The woman let out a long-suffering sigh. "She's been that way since she learned to crawl." Mebuki's eyes lit up. "Pictures! Sakura was the most darling baby!" Mebuki clapped her hands. Her mug sat on the coaster on the table. "Where did I leave my album?" She asked herself out loud on her way out of both the recliner and ultimately the room, leaving Minato with a cat that sounded like a motor engine vibrating in his lap.

Is that normal?

He could not help the concern that bled into his internal thought process. Nothing felt normal. Not in the slightest.

xXx

"And that is from when Sakura was in preschool. She finally stopped crying every morning at drop off after she made her first friend during the second week," Mebuki smiled fondly, smoothing a hand over the plastic film that protected the pictures from fingerprints and other damage.

Minato's lips pulled into a smile at the sight of a little girl on top of a red tricycle. Her red shoes with bows on them matched the color perfectly. She was entirely pleased with herself. So proud.

She still has that same face.

The smug Sakura face. Mebuki was right. Sakura was a cute baby. A pudgy little thing who wore her whole heart on her face. That same baby aged through the pages into a darling toddler - even when she had an overturned flower pot over her head, beaming without a care in the world as dirt fell to her shoulders. She held out the small yellow flower to the camera, eyes crinkled with delight. That same toddler was waving with a pink cartoon backpack as she stood with her arm linked around a little girl with twin buns on either side of her head. She too was grinning until her eyes were barely visible. All teeth. Both of their smiles were toothy.

"Sakuto - the apple of her eye - gave her some candy to share with a girl with brown hair, Tenten," Mebuki tapped her finger against the photo of the two girls. "Yeah, that was her name. He convinced Sakura that they were magic and they would make anyone like her. She was so nervous you see. Shy. His words - no one gets through Sakura like Sakuto - gave her the confidence to try. She was so determined. The candies broke the ice and the rest was history. They became attached at the hip. Inseparable. Sakura didn't have enough hair to do twin buns like Tenten's mom did hers. She was so upset. She cried at the drop of the hat. Incredibly sensitive from the start. It was only when Sakuto told her she looked cute in her bunny ears - because some bunnies have droopy ears - that she finally got over it. RaRa's bunny ears. Naturally, she went through the rest of the year in that hairstyle. First grade too. Until some brat tried to cut one of them off during nap time. Her teacher stopped him just in time. Caught the boy red-handed. The same boy who picked on Sakura. I think he had a crush on her. She was such a darling little thing." Mebuki let out a dreamy sigh, reliving the past in her present. She held on a moment longer just relishing in it all; remembering the smell of finger paint, the brightly colored classroom adorned with butterflies cut out of neon construction paper, and the tiny plastic desks. Her brow furrowed causing her forehead to erupt in lines. They peeked through her dark blonde bangs.

"Oh, Sakuto was livid. Told the boy and his parents off and then some when the parents downplayed it as a prank. My husband had to smooth things over to keep Sakura from getting kicked out after they raised a fuss. They even threatened to lodge a letter against Sakuto's superior. My husband promised them free oil changes for all their cars for a year. He was a mechanic at the time. Always covered in grease no matter how much he washed his hands. It was a part of him. It took ages for Sakura to stop avoiding his reach when she wore white. She always hated getting dirty. A peculiar little girl she was."

Mebuki tapped the picture with a far-off look in her eyes. "Sakura was a mess when Tenten and her family moved away. She was in the second…no third grade. Couldn't be helped. Tenten's mother was in the military." Mebuki sighed deeply. "Sakuto took Sakura to the park every day for a whole month after school and that was after he walked her to school in the mornings - the month he was on leave. Neither one of them told us what they talked about during those walks. Sometimes it was as if they had their own language, one me and my husband never could learn. I was worried about the age gap. I obsessed over it. The age gap. My husband thought I was crazy. He was right - he usually is. They never fought. I worried for nothing. Sakuto offered her more magic candy but Sakura never took it."

Minato straightened at the sudden heat from her eyes directed right at him with a clear focus.

"How long have you been seeing my daughter?"

"Ten months." It was not a complete lie. Ten months ago was when he first saw her and he had been "seeing" her every morning when she had a shift at the hospital. Ten months ago she suddenly appeared in his life and his morning stopped feeling complete if he did not catch a glimpse of her.

"Ten months?" Mebuki asked, taken aback.

Two months. I should have said two months.

But would that have been enough time for Sakura to send someone to her home?

Why does it feel like I just earned her a lecture? And myself too.

He inwardly apologized to the smiling pinkette who was dressed as a bumble bee for Halloween in the pink and red photobook.

"And she didn't tell me in all this time," Mebuki shook her head, clicking her tongue in disapproval. "Do you live together?"

He took a beat. Honesty here did not seem like the best policy as per the reaction to his previous response. "No."

"Good," she said with finality. "Do you plan on marrying her?" Her eyes had narrowed. "Or are you wasting her time?"

Minato swallowed. "The last thing I want to do is waste her time," he lied without malice. It was the second to last thing he wanted to do. He could not tell Mebuki the first thing.

"Hm." Mebuki turned the page to reveal six more photos - three on either side. "This is at Sakuto's high school graduation. Such a handsome boy." She smoothed her hand to the photograph of the teen in a dark blue cap and gown. He was beaming - a Haruno family signature. A white tassel hung from the cap that sat upon his magenta hair. In this picture, his eyes looked more blue than green but that could have just been the reflection of the gown. Or that fact that his sister's - Sakura's - jade irises were right there as a litmus for purity in both vibrancy and hue. Sakura - no older than five - was grinning from ear to ear in his arms as he held her. It seemed her smile knew no bounds when around her brother.

You're smiling with your whole face here too Sakura…when did you stop?

Minato watched as Mebuki carefully peeled back the plastic film. She used her blunt fingernails to pull the picture from the photo album page. She was successful after some time, the area the photo had covered was a stark white compared to the rest of the yellowed-with-time page. She pressed her lips to the photo before crushing it to her chest. He looked away from the tender moment that was best left private - or at the very least among loved ones.

"Sakura doesn't bring up Sakuto on her own anymore," Mebuki's voice sounded haunting when she spoke again. Her eyes were dry but there was a sniffle in her nose. "You're injured," she noted with a frown. "You took forever putting the groceries away."

And you Ms. Haruno are all over the place. It makes it hard to follow.

"I hurt my shoulder playing basketball." He did not fight the accusation. Her claims had bases. He was too polite to point out that cleaning the food that had gone bad - left out on the counter too long - had taken more time than unloading the groceries to their place. Not to mention his being unfamiliar with everything only added to the end time for the result. Mebuki was more than happy to help and point out all the ways he was doing it wrong.

"That's not where the eggs go," she would say and not provide further instruction. "You refrigerate your ketchup?" She had asked with so much judgment one would think she caught him kicking her cat.

"Hooligan," Mebuki grunted. "Sakuto played baseball. He was very good. He could have gotten a scholarship if he wanted." She crossed her ankles. She adjusted the high neckline of her beige sweater. "He spent hours in the backyard teaching her the rules. He even made his own bases. RaRa keep your eyes on the ball. RaRa tuck in your elbows. RaRa the ball isn't scary, I promise. RaRa this and RaRa that. He said her name with every breath when they were together. He was just so happy to have a sibling. Smitten. She could get away with anything because he covered for her. Spoiled her rotten. I couldn't even discipline the girl. Not even when she broke his heart by not signing up for softball. She would have made a great pitcher. She has really good aim."

She does. Accurate.

Again, he could not share so he kept the agreement to himself.

"Why Sakura? What about her?" Mebuki asked, not allowing him to process much less reflect on what he was learning.

Cheddar moved in his lap - he learned from Mebuki's frowns that it was discouraged to move when a cat was sitting on him, it was some kind of unspoken rule. Minato ran his fingers along the gray silky hair, much to its delight. He rolled onto his belly, flopping almost. He moved his hand up and down the newly exposed turf.

What now?

"She's kind," he stated what he noticed first about her beyond the physical traits. "She's smart. She's funny. She's not afraid to speak her mind; when she chooses her battles." She did not cower or fold. "She has a good heart." He need not look further than her clinic. But it was more than that. It was the cake pop she bought a child who was eyeing it from outside the store window. Or the stickers she always had on hand for children. Or how she stopped to smile and say good morning to people no matter how much of a rush she was in. How she picked up litter that she came across, shoving it into her pockets after wrapping it in napkins if she could not find a trashcan nearby. The way she squealed in delight anytime she came across a friendly dog that she was allowed to pet - after she asked for permission. It was all those things. It was a culmination.

She's good. She's a good person.

Everything he was not.

"She's brave," he concluded. She had run toward the sounds of gunfire. He would not be here if she had not.

"Sakura's scared of everything," Mebuki waved her hand dismissively of his claims with one blunt statement of contradiction. "No one is more afraid than Sakura," she made a sound of remorse with her mouth. "She's just very good at hiding it."

Minato's brow furrowed. He was too perplexed to open his mouth to argue the contrary or request further clarification. His teeth pressed together at the picture of Mebuki rising to stand from her seat that was next to him.

"I hope you like chicken katsu. I made a lot of it."

The sentiment she left him with was even heavier than the photo album resting on the couch had become. Minato glanced down to stare at the cat who arched his back to stretch. He was no help. He jumped off the armrest of the couch and onto the floor. Cheddar chattered softly to Mebuki in what felt like a pointed discourse regarding him.

xXx

"You're awfully comfortable with having a junkie in your home," Sasori picked at his teeth with the senbon, practically until his gums bled. He was draped in her accent chair, his arm thrown off the back of it while a leg dangled from the armrest.

"Soon to be a former junkie," she corrected distractedly as she brushed her hair from her face. She could not sit still. Her guilt and nerves would not let her.

Should I text him…or call him? Would that be weird? Or would it be more weird not to check in on him? Maybe he ran into car trouble? He should have been back by now…unless…Mom got to him. Poor bastard.

"Say Doc," Sasori lowered the small picture frame that he was considering - and using as a mirror because he was gross - to find her staring at him openly. "Is Barbie into redheads?"

Sakura paused. It was not out of the realm of normal when people approached her for inquiries about Ino. her best friend was gorgeous. As in, getting cards just walking down the street from modeling agencies encouraging her to have them represent her gorgeous. She was also intimidating as hell. So they came to her - small in stature, less brass and abrasive or so they assumed - to ask some rendition of that very question. But never had she been asked that question in her home before. It seemed to up the stakes a little even if it was all in her head.

You and Ino would be a major disaster, I'm not sure for who it would be worse but it would be all-around bad, for me especially.

"She's seeing someone," she lied with what she hoped was conviction. "It's getting serious."

"So?" Sasori drawled. Eyes nearly glazing over with boredom. "That's not what I asked."

"Um," she cleared her throat. "I don't think she's ever dated someone with red hair."

"You're a horrible listener," Sasori lowered the picture to the side of the seat where the armrest began. "No one said anything about dating. I hate repeating myself."

"I'm sorry," she was - for ever engaging in this back and forth. She stared at the ground. "I don't know."

"No help," Sasori sighed. He closed his eyes, leaning back nearly doubled over the armrest in what could not be good for his neck.

"You should-," she stopped midthought at the buzzing of her phone in her pocket. "It's my mom," she announced with her face toward the bedroom. "Do not follow me," she said in warning just before she slipped inside the door. The lock clicked audibly.

Sasori pressed his thumbpad to his forehead. "I don't get paid enough for this shit," he complained to the universe because Sakura was too preoccupied to listen.

"Mom?" She asked, pacing in her room. "Is everything alright?" She did not know what she was expecting, truthfully. So maybe that was why her heart was palpitating almost frantically.

"Everything is most certainly not okay!" Mebuki's voice screeched so loudly that Sakura was forced to hold her phone inches from her ear. If she did not know any better, she would have questioned herself if she accidentally hit the speakerphone button.

I knew it was a mistake! What did he do?

"What's wrong?" Sakura moved to her door with hurried movements. She was already three steps ahead mentally - grabbing her keys, and tugging on her shoes before she ran out the door to her car parked under the carport. She fumbled with the lock on her door. "Are you okay?"

"What's wrong is that you don't tell me anything!" Mebuki continued to shout angry grievances at her daughter. "And no, I am not okay. I am so disappointed in you. I'm hurt!"

What?

Sakura froze. "What?" She asked out loud.

"I know everything now, Sakura. Everything."

Everything? He told you?! Why…how…what?!

She did not have time to think just how ominous it sounded. "What do you know Mom?" She found herself asking. Assumptions were dangerous. Assumptions could cost lives. She needed to know. Everything. And Mebuki told her everything. And she had no choice but to listen; head bowed and murmuring apologies when her mother paused long enough for Sakura to get a word in.

The clock ticked away thirty minutes. Her neck protested. She was no closer to finding a way to crawl into her skin and stay there, in a protective husk. Three times. On three separate occasions, Sakura thought it was over - the dressing down she received - only to have her rapidly dwindling hopes dashed every time.

She stared at her phone, tightening her grip on it to overcompensate for the sudden urge to throw it at a wall. She pushed the air from her nostrils - roughly. Sakura yanked open her door, jostling Sasori from his nap. The man rubbed the lingering drowsiness from his face with zero traces of shame of being caught sleeping on the job - literally.

Her hands landed on her hips, she glowered at him before asking him a very pointed question. "Can you move a body discreetly?" There was zero mirth or jovialness in her tone or person.

Big, brown eyes blinked slowly at her in what she accepted as wordless confirmation. Because if she was going down, she was going to be damn sure that she took him with her.

---

A/N: Please review! Thank you!