Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto


Hello Reader,

Welcome back. :) Here is chapter 3. More introspective, more drama, more dialog. More of the onion being peeled back. More Minato and Sakura being their hopeless selves. Hope you like! And thank you for your support!

~L.H.


Chapter 3

"I shot an Uchiha," she murmured, rocking slightly back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth on the edge of her seat on the couch; legs folded under her. Swaddled in a blanket so thoroughly that only her face showed. A giant blob of pink so ridiculous that he found himself wondering if any of this was real. Her mindless utterances - a gasp, a sigh, a groan, consonant sounds strung together in an intelligible mess - pulled him back each and every time before he wadded in too deep into entertaining that particular notion. "The Uchihas are in the Akatsuki," she switched it up with zero traces of acceptance in her tone.

The Uchiha run the Akatsuki. A large enough faction of it.

He nodded his head in a gesture not registered by her in too forgone state.

She's handling it better than I thought she would.

There was a distinct lack of tears which was a plus. A major one.

She's coherent. She's reacting to verbal stimuli. She's still engaged to some extent with her environment.

An environment he was becoming more accustomed to - practically fused to the furniture or the past couple of hours. He was hunched over - in what could not be good for either his posture or his injury - in her beige accent chair with a yellow and mint floral print. The yellow decorative pillow was placed over his lap so his hand connected to his injured shoulder could rest on it. He had found a pack of frozen peas as well as some off-the-counter painkillers in the hallway bathroom medicine cabinet that numbed the constant stinging.

A fraction.

"Drink your water," he reminded her, flipping the side of his makeshift ice pack against the bandages.

Sakura reached for the glass without really seeing it, almost pushing it off the table with her initial grab. The edge of the meniscus rocked back and forth drawing his gaze and focus momentarily. Her reflection was distorted on the bottom of the round glass when she brought it to her lips to drink slowly. Her hand shook when she set it back down. She did not bother with the marble coaster which was right there for her to use.

Maybe I judged too soon.

He wet his lips and cleared his throat. He chose not to engage with the errant thought of a water ring developing on her dark wood table. "The Akatsuki," he began noticing the way the name seemed to snap her out of the trance she was in. Her eyes were sharp and her mouth was closed. She listened with everything she had. Sanity was slowly coming back to her, within reach. Her hand was clenched around the edge of the blanket.

"Is the overall umbrella term for the crime syndicate. It's all encapsulating. It means the same thing in Konoha, in the countryside of Fire, and everything between the dunes of Sand and the islands of Water."

Akatsuki is a standard. It's the standard.

"To be a member of Akatsuki certain requirements need to be met. As the organization grew, more and more clans started to buy in. They saw the profit that was there. They developed their own traditions, customs, and procedures. Limitations and expectations on top of the base Akatsuki by-laws," he explained at a more granular level than he ought to. She was shot at. The least he could do was to try to explain why. Just enough to drive the seriousness across so she would not question the lengths that were being taken. But maybe he was just lying to himself. Maybe there was an ulterior motive he was not ready to admit.

They are almost always more stringent…more restrictive. The clans demand more.

No matter what clan or faction they come from, one thing stays the same: loyalty. Loyalty to your clan. Loyalty to your brethren. Loyalty to your boss. Loyalty to the father - the head of the clan. Loyalty above all else. Nothing else mattered.

Everything else is just excuses.

"Out of those one hundred thirty-four clans, really only five of them hold ninety-nine percent of the power. The five royal clans of Konoha or the five royal families depending on preference."

The Senju, Aburame, Hyuuga, Uchiha, and Nara.

The five houses. Skill. Humility. Discipline. Pride. Intelligence. Each clan was noteworthy for a specific reason - a defining characteristic. The five families that ran Konoha and by extension the Land of Fire.

Meanwhile, the remaining one hundred twenty-nine keep themselves busy fighting for scraps, chasing the pipedream that they can move up. The myth of upward mobility in this line of business.

The divide was simply too great to bridge. It was a fissure that could hold the depths of the East Ocean that sustained Wave, Whirlpool, Mist, and Water - the nations that led the fish, seaweed, sugar cane, netting, fishing supplies, opium, and coconut trade. A simplified list that was collected from what was top of mind.

Minato took a moment to pause to assess just how much she was retaining. Her eyes were not glazed over. Her expression was not blank. She was staring at him and not through him. All visual cues pointed to continue.

"Coincidentally - or perhaps not - they are the five oldest clans in Konoha. They have a substantial foothold on all Akatuski operations within Konoha and all the way to the borders of Fire. Of those five, two are tiers about the rest - in a gridlock at the top." Tied for first. They each controlled half. Exactly half. The other three were in control by name only. They were kept in the conversation out of both respect for their historical achievements - they were in steady, predictable decline and that was not even considering the numerous splinters of dissent within them - and to give the illusion of stability. Balance maintained by the two clans that rivaled each other down to the hair - even with near-even numbers. Minato brought his hand to cover the clan symbol on his chest. Under the palm, under the bandages, he felt it burn.

"The Uchiha and the Nara," he said, the names rolling off his tongue like water. Smooth and unbothered. Tranquil. A simple fact. He waited. He watched. He assessed. All without saying another word. He wanted to know what that meant to her - if anything.

Her brow furrowed automatically while the rest of her face pulled into a frown. "The Uchihas run the police force," she pulled the dusty pink blanket closer to her. The shiny gold pineapples winked at him in minor distraction. "And the Nara's breed deer. For medicine, for their pelt, skin, and meat. I've worked with a couple of pharmaceutical reps that are Naras for my clinic in the past…in the earlier years but then I got priced out," she added with a start. The calculation occurring in her brain was hinted at by the way her eyes moved from left to right. She shook her head, clearing herself of the doubt. "There's some mistake," she searched his face desperately. "There has to be a mistake."

Denial. The first stage.

"Amongst other things," he did not outright deny what was the truth. The truth that the Clan's public relations rep worked so hard to cultivate and propagate. "The Nara work in City Hall too. They manage the books of the city. They have the sharpest brains." They were known for their pragmatism and level-headedness. Shrewd and calculating. Attractive qualities by all means - on either side of the law.

"Oh my God," she covered her mouth. Her face drained of color as it froze wearing a mask of petrification. "He saw me." Her voice reached shrill levels. "I have pink hair!"

"I know," he countered with calm. He had more experience. It was not all that hard falling back into it. Problem solving. It was what he did day in and day out on a fundamental level. "They would have used your phone to track you." He could not bring himself to finish the sentiment. Not when she was staring at him so scared - terrified.

Then there's your driver's license.

They would not need a warrant. Just like it would not take that much work to find her. Her identifiers - namely her hair - were unique. With a few clicks and several moments - maybe at most half an hour - they could have her address across a screen. A minute detail that did not need to be brought up now. No, it would not help matters in the slightest.

Quite the opposite. It would be detrimental. Because Sakura started to shake. Like the last leaf left on a barren tree branch during a fall rainstorm. It was happening, the moment he had been preparing for but hoping to not encounter. He inhaled as deep as the bindings that contained him and the weight of his culpability would allow.

Too much. Too fast. Too soon.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Unforgiving as the gunshots had been.

"They'll find me! They'll kill me!" Tears filled her eyes quickly, contained by her eyelids. Her lower lip was held captive by her teeth but not before a heavy pant of fear left her lungs. An emotion translated the second it hit the open air before filling his lungs. It burned him in accusation she did say out loud.

"No," he said firmly. His voice was tight. There was no room for doubt. He left no possibility for what she just realized. Truly. "No, they won't."

The heavy tears spilled from her eyes, hanging from her chin. Waiting. "They'll kill me," she stifled a sob with her hands. The blanket slipped from her shoulders. Shoulders that were shaking as much as the rest of her.

No. No one will touch a hair on your head.

"Sakura," he pushed up from the seat, indifferent to any pain or discomfort that was not tied to what was pouring out in front of him. He approached her, lowering onto the space. Everything about him was intentional. Controlled. In control. "I'll protect you. I won't let them hurt you," he promised her with everything he was worth, ignoring the fact that in her eyes that could mean next to nothing.

I'll keep you safe.

"You're just saying that," she shook her head, face still hidden in her hands. She inhaled wetly. A shattered breath.

"Shh," he held the back of her head, guiding it to his uninjured shoulder - the part of him that was still structurally sound. He ran his cumbersome swollen fingers through her hair. The fine strands like spider silk cut and clung to his skin. The glide was far from smooth so he changed tactics. The sweetness of vanilla and the warmth of amber wood entered the air - permeating it - with each whirlpool of his fingertips against her scalp.

Sweet. Warm. Earthy.

It suited her every bit as much as her name did; if he was allowed a moment to think such things.

"Nothing will happen to you." He would not let it. He would make this right. No matter the personal cost. Out of principle of the matter.

I won't let it.

"You're injured," she murmured into his neck, her damp lips tickling, voice muffled. Salt was trapped and captured by his skin from each tear shed. Heavy they sank.

"It doesn't matter," he said simply because it was neither here nor there. It was nothing more than an insignificant detail. "It's going to be okay."

It will be.

A green eye shiny and surrounded by red peeked up at him. Timid and meek. Everything he knew her not to be. Everything the circumstances made her become.

I'll fix it.

"You saved my life. Let me save yours," he said with the gentleness of his hand lowering to brush the hair from her face. His thumb grazed over her cheekbones, wicking away moisture as it went before it had a chance to dry out her soft skin. "You're going to be okay, Sakura."

She turned her head to hide in the crook of his shoulder, breathing shakily, in response. A response he dare not read into.

xXx

The lazy sun, indecisive on whether or not it wanted to warm in addition to brightening, could not touch him in the shadows of the alleyway. He was amongst the darkness. He had spotted the black car the moment he had rounded the corner. The round fog lights flashed three times to signal it was safe to approach; momentarily illuminating red hair that was shrouded in a black hood. Minato crossed the rest of the way. He opened the door and gingerly settled into the tan leather seats. It took much too much time.

"You don't look that messed up," Sasori said with a gruffness that masked his unease. "Even with your high tolerance."

For pain. For alcohol. For bullshit. Minato did not care to know what Sasori was referring to, specifically regarding the low-effort attempt to break the ice - the ice that surrounded him like a thick shell. His blue eyes noticed the black duffle stern over the backseats.

"Clothes, burner, half a stack, and refills," Sasori did not mince his words once he followed Minato's gaze. His grip was white-knuckle on the metal steering wheel. "Namikaze, look I-"

"Save it," Minato grunted in response to half-turning his body. His right arm moved across his torso before reaching back for the bag. Five thousand dollars in cash, Sasori was shaken. Minato glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Ten minutes. He had been away for ten minutes already.

This is taking too much time.

He did not want her to wake up and find him not there. That would surely break whatever extent, level, or shade of rapport he had built up. Maybe he was just kidding himself.

He always did call me an optimist.

From the moment the two of them were old enough to know what that word meant. Accurate or not, his desire of not wanting her to greet the world alone had him moving the black strap to his right hand.

"It was fool-proof!" The redhead insisted in anger at himself and the situation, sensing that his time to make his case was running out. Quickly. "It was a done deal," he spoke with his hands, enunciating his confusion. It was a done deal. Just as the less than a handful of the previous ones had been.

"So naturally you sent Inuzuka," Minato countered without color, voice drier than ice of the same name and just as cold. The king of the fools. It was supposed to be clean. Easy. Money was supposed to exchange hands for goods. Money that was supposed to be counted. Goods inspected. That was it. How the dog-crazed man managed to screw that up was beyond the blond. Although it was not surprising, he had the de-escalation skills of a raging bull with its balls tied.

In other words, none. He had no skills in that department. That's why he shouldn't have been anywhere near that deal.

"I couldn't get a hold of Mutt," Sasori said, knowing that there was no understanding or mercy to be allocated to him.

So you know nothing.

Minato summarized the too many words that Sasori was saying which meant nothing because he had nothing. Nothing new to share; nothing that could be used or leveraged to fix this.

"He's either dark or dead. That's why I couldn't warn you sooner."

He's better off dead for his sake.

He had two clans hunting him now. Neither would show him mercy. Death was the most merciful of the options even if it meant more uncomfortable conversations in Minato's future. A familiar face flashed in his mind. Kind brown eyes, long brown hair held back in a low ponytail, red lipstick, and large red triangular earrings. Yet another person he would have to apologize for his shortcomings - for his mistakes. There were a plethora of them.

I should make a list to keep track of them all.

"Keep an ear out. Tell no one where I am." Minato pulled the handle to open the door with the same hand holding the nylon strap of the duffle. He had one foot out of the car and on the crumbled asphalt when Sasori spoke again, halting his movements. Minato closed his eyes and took advantage of the brief break in motion.

"I trusted the wrong man, Namikaze," his brown eyes contained regret. Identifiable.

You're not the only one, Hora.

Minato did not catch the car door as it closed.

"Damn it!" Sasori struck his steering wheel in frustration. The blond had slowly disappeared around the corner from where he had come. Minutes of face-to-face time, as many as the number of days missed, burned through just like that and with no real change.

xXx

"I have vacation days," she said coherently. Her leg moved up and down on the floor. Her foot was balanced over her slipper. The nap - or more accurately, the extreme exhaustion that followed her mental breakdown - helped. Considerably. She tugged at her hair, working out the knots she herself created with hands that would not rest. "About two months."

"Good," Minato said as he inspected the room yet again, mapping out all the potential points of entry. He had finished locking all the single-pane windows. She did not have stoppers for any of them. Something he would need to rectify. It was added to the list on his phone to send to Sasori for the next supply run. "Use them."

"Will that be enough time?" She asked, pulling at the cupped sleeves of her oversized hoodie, hiding her hands.

"Things will blow over," he answered cryptically. Most of his attention was allocated to studying the deadbolt of the door that separated her kitchen from the stairwell. The latching mechanism was slightly suspect. The whole lock moved anytime he grabbed at the handle.

I need a screwdriver.

"What does that mean…exactly?" She asked with hesitation.

"It's better you don't know." In truth, he was not fully aware himself what it meant. But that was something best kept to himself. Again. He pulled on the locked doorknob, testing its give. It rattled. He turned it again. The door did not open.

I need to get a hold of him. Find out the extent of it all.

But things were hardly ever that easy. His counterpart was probably facing a similar level of heat. Well, maybe slightly less intense. Only slightly.

He'll reach out when he's ready.

He always did. Minato could rely on him ironically enough given how they were on opposite sides of the divide - on opposite sides of this.

The door can wait. The lock latches. It doesn't have to be perfect.

He frowned all the same when he pushed it against the frame.

"So I just wait?" Sakura asked with impatience cropping up from being ignored in favor of his spinning thoughts. "Indefinitely? For some man to show up to kill me? Or the whole damn police force? I look around over my shoulder for the rest of my life?" With each successive question-statement, her voice grew more and more uncontrolled. She was pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

"One thing at a time," Minato said with a sigh. While he could not fault - or even blame - her for wanting to know the so-called plan - a generous term for the odd ends he had - it was rather inconvenient, not to mention not the best use of her time. Something she did not know what to do with.

And you only have an excess of it for the foreseeable future.

"Are you sure you don't have a piece of wood or metal pipe to put in the track for your sliding door?" The only opening he could not secure. He tugged on the knob one more time of the door he had been inspecting. There was no change in its state.

"I'm sure," she answered without missing a beat or breaking her stride. She flailed her too-long sleeves that resembled the arms of one of those air-dancer things at car dealerships. "And what, you just move in?"

For now, yes.

"It's temporary," he glanced at the black duffle at the end of the couch. "Two months is plenty of time. It's excessive."

You'll be out of harm's way sooner than that.

She did not have to endure this level of stress - living like this - for that long. Not if he had anything to say about it.

"Okay," she did not sound convinced but it was progress that she did not openly argue or debate. "Okay." Sakura clapped her hands. She wheeled around.

That was fast.

"Where are you going?" He asked her, stopping her movements by stepping in front of the very door that was to his back.

"To clean," she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. It had escaped the messy bun that sat atop her head. A bun that came into fruition out of necessity. She would have pulled out all her hair otherwise if it was not out of the way. "Downstairs in the clinic," she pointed over his shoulder. "I'll go completely crazy if I sit around doing nothing. I might actually throw myself off my balcony if I watch the news." She wrung her hands while explaining in a clumsy manner that came from a lack of practice. "I need to be productive," she finished without looking directly into his eyes once.

Communication - such a small part of it was verbal and that was why he spent the majority of his time not just listening but observing for tells and other indicators of dishonesty; the inability to make eye contact, or eyes that darted, a glisten of sweat, shaking hands, fluctuating vocal cords, and generic jitteriness - he knew what to keep an eye out for. It was ingrained in him to the point he no longer had to think about it. But not everything was always applicable. There were always exceptions. So when he regarded her downcast eyes, restless foot, teeth that gnawed on her lip, and slightly shaking hands he did not attribute them to deceit. She was being honest in her own clumsy way.

She's not used to explaining herself.

"Okay," he stepped forward in her direction, closing the distance while granting her access to the passageway. The door opened in, after all. Relief momentarily flashed in her big, open, expressive eyes. Two green, clear, reflective pools that he could see down to the bottom. The depth of her soul. Pure and untainted. "I can help."

"I can manage," she spoke to the ground, kicking up invisible dust bunnies with her fuzzy slippers that imitated the fur of the real kind. "You should rest." An order in the form of a suggestion that in another setting she would have been more assertive in passing along. Her eyes found his shoulder, covered by the black hoodie that was partially zipped over his torso.

"You have a cot in there," he had closed the distance by more than a half. "I won't be in the way."

I need to help.

Or at least pretend to.

"I know how to clean up blood," she said defensively, her arms crossed over her chest. She seemingly took offense at her competency being questioned by no one other than herself. Glimmers of the woman peeked through the veil. "I'm not going to come completely undone. The clinic only has two entrances. They both lock. The window is too small for an adult to squeeze through. It will be fine."

"All the same," he measured out his words, meticulously. She was watching him warily. "It would help me rest easier." She was not moved by his words, her stony visage said as much. "I need to go get my gun, Sakura," he delivered the line gently knowing full well the impact the words would have. "Unless you prefer to walk it up to me?" He offered without missing a beat. His eyes were as flat as his face. Blank.

I'm a piece of shit.

And he felt every bit like it, especially when she flinched. The carefully crafted exterior she projected - she donned to protect herself - slipped to reveal a very raw nerve. She shook her head. Quickly. Once - a jerk more than anything - and then in a more contained fashion.

"No," she said to eliminate all doubt where there already was none.

She turned slowly, silently; shoulders hunched inwardly. She peeled her feet from the carpet and onto the linoleum past him. He followed behind her without a sound and a hand pressed against his padded stitches.

xXx

Finally, the last of it.

Sakura grabbed the large black trash bags filled with clothes and deposited them at the foot of the unoccupied cot. She tried not to think too deeply about her actions. It was a losing battle but she was stubborn. Some would even say to a fault - see Ino and Mebuki.

"What are you going to do with them?" She asked him. She was careful to not let her rubber gloves touch her person - mindful even - because that would mean another thing to hand over. To relinquish.

"Handle it," he answered, smiling at her in apology for his lack of openness. To which, she sighed in a frustrated huff. "Plausible deniability is a good thing."

So you keep saying.

"Assuming I make it to trial," she retorted with a snort. Her eyes scanned critically for anything missed just so she would not have to sit with the reality of her comment. She did not need the images of her imagination to take up additional space along with her memories.

"There won't be a trial," his lips settled into a frown. His brows were bunched together. He held a small glass vial in his gloved hand - a testament to their stretching capabilities. Short and stout. "You gave me vodka when you had Lidocaine?" He could not quite filter out all the traces of accusation from his question. Or maybe she was just reading too much into it.

There's a word for it and it's called projecting.

"Lidocaine is heavily regulated, vodka is not," she quipped without snark.

Not to mention it's much cheaper.

Sakura was on her hands and knees again scrubbing away at the floor. Her voice was muffled through the R95-certified blue face mask. The smell of bleach was pungent in the air. Even the cracked open window did not help. Nor did the small floor fan that was spinning at its fastest setting facing the window.

"I would have to report why I used Lidocaine," she continued to explain at the look he wore on his face. The one she did not need to see to feel. "And I don't think the police would buy that I dropped one on accident."

If they let me live long enough to finish a sentence.

"Probably not," he returned the liquid painkiller to the cabinet. He straightened it out so that the label was facing the same direction and the two vials behind it. "So your paperwork is in order?"

Those are fighting words, Blondie.

Sakura scoffed, rubbing the bristled brush aggressively against the tile, working out her frustrations on what she could - exerting control where she could. "It's completely legitimate," she said with a scowl that he could hear in her voice. "Above board."

Or it was.

"Why have it at all?" Minato asked her, locking the cabinet closed, leaving the keys where he had found them, tucked away in a desk drawer.

"There was - is - a need," she used her forearm to wipe away the sweat collecting on her brow. The yellow bristles of the brush moved in sweeping circles.

"Is money the issue?" He walked back over to the cot, leaning against the edge of it. He would need to retake some more painkillers. His shoulder was starting to be unbearable again. Talking was a welcomed distraction. "The government pays ER bills, doesn't it? Your tax dollars are hard at work."

Money is always an issue but it's only part of it.

"Not everyone trusts the government," she bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from adding more to it. And now, she knew why. "Or it's too inconvenient. I try to help where I can. Fill the gaps." It was sad just how wide the many gaps were. Working in a hospital taught her up close and personal just how many people were not being helped.

Even this clinic doesn't meet the demand.

"Why not do this full-time then?"

Wasn't he supposed to be resting? This does not feel or sound like resting.

"I'm not independently wealthy," she responded with more heat than what was warranted. The question was innocent enough. It was one she was used to answering. Her clinic was humble. Her clinic was not advertised. But despite this, through word of mouth and her less-than-flashy website that Hiro had set up for her, she had a stream of patients. Sometimes repeat. And of those repeat, a handful did not even live within walking distance.

"Clearly," Minato did not have to look further than the stretch of town she was in. "Is this why you live here? Still?"

You don't even know his name and he expects you to spill your life story to him…and you are. You should ask him how high the next time he opens his mouth.

"Partially," she admitted with less reluctance. Talking helped - even if she would only admit it to herself. It gave her some semblance of normalcy to talk about her clinic. It was a topic she knew well and did not mind engaging in. "I moved into this building during my residency, back before I knew better and definitely could not afford any better." She smiled fondly thinking of her neighbors. "It just became home." It was home.

He did not comment. She did not press. Sakura had more than enough thoughts swimming in her head to keep her occupied. Her home. He was in her home. A last line of defense against others who might want to do the same - albeit more violently. And maybe that was why she tolerated his questions, his attempts to engage, his prying - setting aside for a moment that she had no real choice in the matter - because somewhere deep down she believed him. As outrageous as it was to think about it for more than a split-second. She believed him to not hurt her. Or maybe it was just that he was the lesser of the evils. She prided herself in reading people, a skill she had to develop out of necessity, and maybe that was the root of it. Her ego. She trusted her abilities. So by extension, she trusted him. Just as far as she could throw him. She sniffled behind her mask, scrunching her nose, losing track of herself.

Lost.

He had not moved in some time. Fixated on his target. The face on the wall with magenta - not red - hair and blue eyes with flecks of green smiled at him openly and without discrimination. He read the name embroidered across his chest.

S. Haruno.

A husband. A brother. A cousin. An uncle. The options had not narrowed themselves. The picture quality was too clear for him to be her father. Even if she had been fathered young. Minato glanced down at the borrowed clothes he wore - the sweatpants and the hoodie (because he refused to wear another man's underwear) - making the connection that they belonged to this Haruno. Whoever he was.

Who is he to you?

He could not help but wonder, left to ruminate because he had no right to ask. He had no right to inquire whose clothes were on his back. Whose loved one he had endangered. Just whose world he had thrown out of orbit when he crashed into it - into her.

She didn't ask to use the phone.

In her own home. In her own life such was the absurdity of it. She had to ask him - every bit as much of a stranger to her as the man behind the glass was to him - to make a call.

Minato pulled the latex off his hand with some difficulty, tossing the glove into the garbage bag. His hand felt grainy. It smelled even more egregious than it felt. His attention returned to her. She cleaned, scrubbing away at the tile and grout thoroughly for any traces of him. It was as if he was seeing her with new eyes - a new perspective.

She had given him her number. He was not that ill-versed on how these things worked. She did not seem like the type to cheat - to two-time someone. The conflict had troops as far east as the narrowest stretch of the East Ocean that separated Fire from the edges of the islands that made up the Land of Mist. It had been that way for the past couple of years. The soldier, S. Haruno could be stationed there while she was here.

Are you waiting for him?

He did not acknowledge the way his stomach clenched at the possibility. It was an assumption. And assumptions were dangerous. They lulled you into a false sense of security. He got complacent. And that was how he ended up in this mess, dragging her down into it with him. He had assumed it was safe. Incorrectly.

Are you divorced?

That seemed more likely from what little he without a doubt knew of her and what he thought he did.

Widowed?

The thought never occurred to him in nearly a year. He had not wanted to think about it. She was a doctor. She had been a doctor for some years. That put her in her early thirties. It was not beyond the realm of normality that she had been married prior. That too could be the case. Tragic and unfortunate. To be left alone in the world so young. The phantom pangs originating from his heart spoke to a softness that only he knew existed. Solitude. Loneliness. So profound and encompassing that it was hard to describe and explain to those who knew not of it.

Are you lonely? Is that why your eyes always contain sadness…even when you smile?

"Um..sir?"

He blinked out of her reverie. He furrowed his brow as she snapped off her gloves to toss them with the other towels and things she had used, all of them settled into the black garbage bag.

"I'm done." She stared at him expectantly for him to weigh in, to give his appraisal.

"It looks good," Minato said after his eyes came up empty. "I'll take care of the bags. You can leave them here."

"Okay." She moved them to the top of the chairs. She tied the opening close and dusted her hands. "Lunch?"

"Sure," he brought a hand to his stomach, bunching the fabric there as if it would engage his appetite somehow.

"Okay." She walked toward the door that led to the stairs that opened up to her kitchen. She clicked a button on the remote that was attached to the wall. There was a sharp beep.

"Starting to clean," a robotic voice spoke before the sound of two spinning motors of the brush drifted to their ears. The vacuum and mop combo pulled back from the dock and started to do just that.

Minato closed the door behind him, mentally making a note to remind himself to ask her to empty out the dustbin and mop pad into a bag before he handed the rest off for safe disposal.

"Do you like lasagna?" She asked him, facing the opposite direction.

"I do," his voice bounced off the narrow stairwell. His fingers were pressed against the wall with peeling paint to stabilize himself. If she noticed the heaviness in his voice, she did not comment. Just like she did not comment on his unwillingness to use the railing - verbally that was as her frown contained enough judgment. "Minato," he said barely above a whisper after not much deliberation.

"What?" She turned around to stare at him, confused.

"My name is Minato," he held her gaze, palms suddenly breaking out into a sweat.

This is not how I wanted to introduce myself to you.

Not even close. But seldom did reality line up with fantasy. What did they say about expectations and happiness? If one wanted to be happy, one needed to keep their expectations low. That was the only way to avoid being constantly disappointed.

"Oh," she said, turning back around. Her shoulders were stiffer than when she started cleaning.

He kept moving forward pretending to be indifferent to the sinking of his stomach.


She held a book in her hands. Her eyes were not on the two open pages in front of her. No. They were too busy following the rise and fall of his chest. His fever had not come back after breaking sometime around 5 AM. He was finally resting. After taking the antibiotic capsules with a peanut butter sandwich. She had checked his bandages and they were still clean so she opted not to re-wrap them. The less she did, the better it was. That had been two hours ago. Two hours ago he had fallen asleep, and she had settled into her accent chair with a book she did not read a word of. Her life was a mess and no amount of escapism would take her far enough to forget that.

Trust.

She was forced to trust him. A man from a verifiably seedy background. A criminal. A man tied to the Nara Clan - because why would someone in the Uchiha Clan shoot at their own and that too openly? It all clicked when he enlightened her on how his - and her - world truly worked. The Akatsuki controlled the money flow. The Akatsuki controlled law enforcement. It was not that big of a stretch to think they had lawyers - plants - in the DA's office. The mayor's office. Maybe even the Governor's. She had no idea how far this thing stretched out. Konoha was huge. Massive. Since the fall of the feudal era it was the one consistent city - metropolitan - that kept incorporating towns and small villages that neighbored it. Expanding like a virus. It spanned more than six hundred square miles, with land that was the furthest from the epicenter being sparser and sparser of buildings. It was the largest city in all the Five Great Nations. Was this how they got this way?

Did the five most notable and noble samurai families - the Nara, the Hyuugas, the Uchihas, the Aburame, and the Senju - retain their influence, wealth, and power by grabbing onto the underbelly of a society that no longer needed them? Meat shields. That was what they were. Historically since the conception of Konoha and even further back. Glorified meat shields to protect the public from atrocities that were a mix of myth and consequence. Did they catch on to reality and take what was once given to them freely?

They kept themselves relevant. They adapted. They refused to be pushed to the outskirts once they were cast aside.

Her lower lip was chewed raw in a too-visual representation of her unease. How foolish had she been? To end up in the situation she was in? She was not from a clan. As far as she knew, no one had the same shade of hair she did. No one. The Uchiha has the whole brass of the police force. How long would it be for them to put two and two together? She was the only pink-haired doctor in any of the five major hospitals on this side of the subway tracks. Surely they were going around interviewing all major clinics and establishments checking to see if anyone injured with a gunshot wound ended up there.

I made an emergency call.

And it had been more than long enough for them to trace her call down to a triangulation of towers - maybe even down to half a block.

I gave them my immediate location.

She had made their jobs easier for them. She had seen him destroy not only the body of her phone but he shredded her SIM card with the help of her shredder. It was grating the sound the poor motor made when the card fell through its teeth. It had complained the entirety of the time. She would not forget that sound soon.

Her heart was racing. She had missed work. Of her own volition and that too without notice. That never happened before. It was suspicious. It was no secret she took the subway - even if her exact stop was more or less well-known. If Blon-Minato, if Minato was to be believed, the man she had shot had access to police resources and a whole lot more as the nephew of the main boss. Did she just make it easier for them to find her by not going to work? What was the alternative? Being shot outside the place she worked? Or worse.

Have I aged out of the sex trade?

Who would even want a thirty-something doctor with stretch marks on the back of her knees and thighs and virtually non-existent assets on her chest? With a smart mouth with fine laugh lines on top of it. Her fingers curled around the dusty pink throw pooled at her feet.

What if for protection they force me to treat them?

Her eyes widened. She took in the stock of yellow hair. He was not a Nara. Even if he had the intelligence to rival them. They did not come in his coloring. Maybe he too had been forced to work with them.

Maybe he's a smuggler. A sex trafficker. Women. Children!

She did not know the sins he had attributed to his hands. He could be anything. He could be anyone. She did not know him. At all. He was handsome. He was charming. He was the type of person that women wrote love letters to, while he was serving out his days awaiting the death penalty for unspeakable crimes that she had years of treating under her belt. She knew the details of the long and hard road to recovery. Ino and her had lived the statistics. The disheartening truth of the lasting and sometimes irreversible damage that men like him caused.

Oh my God. I'm one of those crazies!

The ones that went on documentaries and stated without a shadow of a doubt in their brain-dead minds how they were the only ones who knew the true heart of the horrible criminal who was just misunderstood or even incarcerated wrongly. The plethora of excuses they had lying in wait to dump them all in the five-minute segment given to them to corroborate the claims made by the narrator that the killers were "charismatic" and "personable".

Wholly shit. Look in the mirror, Sakura. It's the pot calling the kettle black.

"You're spiraling," she spoke out loud to herself without realizing. It was when his breathing changed, that she realized at all. Sakura held her breath. She counted to thirty. That was when he finally settled back down into a deeper state of slumber.

Shit.

She regarded him. Really regarded him. He looked so fragile. Vulnerable. He was injured. She tugged on her bottom lip. At full strength, hell at mostly full strength, it was no contest. He would overpower her. He was taller, stronger. His body was packed with lean muscle. Not the kind that was purely for aesthetics. Something inside of her told her he was fast. Much faster than her. And there was the gun. The one she had given to him. Foolishly. Just as she had given her trust to him. Much too freely.

You idiot.

That was a grave mistake. One she could only hope did not come to bite her back in her ass - or pierce her between her brows. It did not matter how much she had come to abhor guns from her years working in the ER. It was the great equalizer. It would have kept her safe - the very thing he claimed to be doing.

He's behaving.

He was more than that, he was the perfect house guest - circumstances notwithstanding. But what happened when he had the mobility of his arm back? What happened then? Or when the swelling in his right hand reduced enough for him to pull the trigger - or wring her neck when he undoubtedly got tired of mouthing off to him? What then? What happened when he was no longer reliant on her? How did his hand end up so messed up in the first place? What good did knuckles do in a gunfight?

He took her phone and a dark part of her mind could not let that go. No matter how much the explanation made sense and was backed by reality. He had a burner. He mentioned a burner.

How did he get the burner?

She still did not know. But she knew this much, no decent, honest person had a burner phone. They had no reason to. She believed that in her bones. She lowered the book onto the table without a sound. Her movements were slow. She leaned forward, reaching behind her for the pillow. She held it between her hands, sinking her nails into it.

Ten or so minutes. That was all it took to smother someone to death. He would pass out well after five - where he would not pose any resistance. She chewed on her bottom lip. Five minutes. Just five minutes. She had to hang on and fight for just five minutes.

Three hundred seconds.

A reasonable enough number to count to. He only had one usable arm. If she was decisive and quick, she could incapacitate him and run. To where? She did not know. She had cash on her. Not a lot. A couple hundred ryo. Enough if she was smart. She had gas in her car. She could dye her hair. Hell, she could shave it all off. She had a blonde wig from her Halloween costume last year if dying and shaving took too much time. She could go home. She could pack up her mother and Cheddar and start over.

Mom and I have done it before, we can do it again.

She could get them out of Konoha and out of the Land of Fire. She always liked the ocean. Maybe they would start over in the Land of Water. She could open a clinic or a bookshop. Surely the Fire-associated Akatsuki would not bother with her there. Surely.

Wait…do they have a burn book or something…what did the documentary I watched a few months back call it? A b..bingo book?

She racked her brain to try to remember anything of use from the documentary of the low-level member who got out of the organization. His voice was distorted and his face hidden away. She was too worked up to remember what he said.

The guy didn't know anything! It was all useless.

Unless Minato was lying to her.

Harbor. His name literally translates to harbor. But then there was the connotation of his name, of what it implied. Safety. Shelter. A hub where people gathered for growth and exchange of ideas and goods. A harbor of safety. A facilitator of growth. All good things, objectively speaking.

But was he anything like his name? Objectively asking.

Is Minato even his real name?

She did not try to search him all because he seemed to know computers better than her. What if that VPN he installed was just the beginning? What if there was spyware that told him where she clicked and what content she viewed?

How could I be so naive?

She knew better. At least she thought she did. But clearly not. All those hours of research on how to stay safe in a major city as a woman living alone had gone to waste. She retained and utilized nothing. The large, dirty, pair of men's work boots outside her door could not help her with this.

She stared down at the rectangular, yellow, cotton pillow with white tassels, one on each corner. It matched his hair. Images of him covering her - shielding her with his own body - filled her mind. She had felt his heartbeat against her back. It had been keeping pace with hers. He was scared but even then, he thought of her first. He kept her alive. He did not let her die.

He could have. He could have used her as a distraction - a decoy - and made a run for it. He could have taken her phone from her and called for help - the same help that delivered clothes for him and God knows what else. She could have been an opportunity for him to save himself. But instead, he protected her.

Why? Was it just because I had a hand that could do what his couldn't?

She closed her eyes. His bloodied hand was on her head, his voice was telling her to stay down. The way his voice had cracked with emotion. The gentleness of which his bandaged hand had moved through her hair when he tried and succeeded in comforting her. How he held her…like he was scared he would shatter her if it was any more forceful than a gale of wind. How could she reconcile that man with the one she was constructing in her head?

What is wrong with me?

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Sakura let out a yelp. The pillow shot out of her hands, landing on the floor haplessly. She covered her mouth with her hands. She could not take back the sound. Her heart froze in her chest. Her wide eyes - with panic - darted to the door. She started to shake. She barely noticed Minato sitting up quickly. Awoken by the second strike of bone and flesh to wood.

Bang. Bang-bang.

The knocks were more impatient now. She looked at him, lost as he brought his finger to his lips.

A little late for that.

She curled her knees to her chest watching him move toward the door. Silently. His bandaged hand was around the gun. She covered her mouth to contain a whimper when the safety clicked off.

"Forehead!" A voice shrieked from the other side of the door. "I heard you in there! Open up!" The order was followed by three more pounds. And a kick for variety's sake.

Minato was looking at her. Sakura lowered her hands. "I-Ino?" She hated how weak her voice sounded. So pitiful.

"Who else calls you 'forehead', Forehead?!" Ino asked in exasperation, voice as clear as if there were not inches of solid matter and feet of space between them. "Don't think because I'm wearing Nobu's I won't kick in your door. I'll do it. You have until five. One," she started her countdown, not even pausing to breathe.

Sakura slowly got up, recognizing the threat as bonafide. Ino was a black belt in Judo. A belt she earned when she was sixteen years old. Minato moved from the door. The gun was hidden away again. She approached the door.

"Three," Ino called out irately. The tapping of her very expensive shoes was easily evident.

Sakura swallowed thickly. She glanced at Minato. He nodded his head. She turned the doorknob but not before plastering a smile on her face. "Ino," she greeted her red-faced friend.

"Don't Ino me," the blonde spat, her blue eyes never stopped moving. She took in Sakura's state of disarray from her messy, unbrushed hair, to her oversized sweatshirt and lack of pants, finished off with her pink, fuzzy, house slippers. "Your phone's been going straight to voicemail all day! You don't show up to work! And you have the audacity to 'Ino' me?"

"I'm sorr-hey!" She cried out at being pushed back into her house. She barely caught herself from falling on her butt. Sakura blinked in panic. "What are you doing?!"

"What's it look like?" Ino shot over her shoulder strolling in as if she owned the place. That was not new. Sakura should not have been half as surprised as she was. "Lock the door, Sakura. You live in the slums." The blonde set down the canvas bags she was holding in her hands on the countertop. She had made it all the way to the kitchen before Sakura could formulate half a coherent thought.

You need to leave, Ino. You need to get out here!

Sakura looked around the room like a crazy person for any flashes of bright yellow blond. For any traces of a male over six feet and on the other side of a hundred and sixty pounds - she was guessing.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

"Sakura," Ino peered at her with annoyance, hands on her hips and frown on her lips. "Why are you being so jumpy?" Ino reached for the door - the door that was much too close to the clinic where their bloody clothes and the smell of bleach lingered.

Do something! Stop her!

"I was there," Sakura blurted, flustered and completely overwhelmed and unable to think of anything on the spot. Nothing was hidden on her face. It was all laid out bare.

Ino's hands fell to her side. Her eyes went wide. "What?" She asked, shaky.

"The subway," Sakura blinked back the tears, her voice shaking not that different from the way Ino's had. "I was there."

"For…Sakura," Ino crossed the kitchen and the room. She wrapped her arms around the trembling woman. "Honey."

"I was so scared," she burned her face into Ino's coat. She breathed through her mouth. She could taste the lavender and orange from Ino's day-to-day perfume in the back of her throat.

"I'm so sorry," Ino held her while Sakura cried. "I'm so sorry."

xXx

"I damaged my phone," Sakura threaded her fingers with Ino's. A leg was curled in toward her, revealing the end of her black biker shorts. "It stopped working this morning."

"You told me you stopped picking up overtime," Ino's voice was torn between hurt and anger. "You should know better! Take your damn car if you're going to be working late!" She let out a frustrated growl. "Sakura!"

I'm sorry!

"I know," she pressed her face against the back cushions. Her eyes moved subtly to the door on the left. Her bedroom. He had to be there because there was no trace of him anywhere out here. Zero. Her eyes came back to the indignant blonde in front of her.

I need to get her out of here and fast.

But not too fast that Ino sniffed out the breadcrumbed deception. She had to be methodical in her manipulation. Subtle. And that took time to do well.

"God! How could I be so stupid to believe you?" Ino asked her point blank, face twisted in anger as it finally committed. "Are you trying to be hospitalized again? Huh? Are you trying to kill yourself?"

Sakura winched but ultimately remained silent. There was no winning or hopes of survival when Ino got like this.

It is my fault she's like this.

"Do I need to go downstairs to the clinic? Do I even want to know?" Ino looked over at the kitchen, only to look back when Sakura's fingers clamped around hers.

"It was just Hiro. He needed his splint to be taken off. Promise," Sakura smiled in what she hoped could curry her favor. Ino liked her… allegedly. "I'm being good. Amaya made lasagna. And she gave me bread. I'm eating."

"You're placating me," Ino huffed, settling on the couch in resignation.

"Yes," Sakura smiled again with a touch more warmth.

"Sakura," Ino's eyes glittered with concern. "Why didn't you call me? From Amaya's phone? Hiro's? Or that old bat next door?"

"I just needed to process," Sakura said with a sigh. She pushed down her guilt. "I still am."

"God," Ino rubbed her face. "You could have died."

"I know," Sakura bit the corner of her lip, pressing her canine tooth down nearly hard enough to draw blood. It was much closer than anything Ino could imagine.

"Your mom called me thirteen times. She was totally freaking out," Ino sighed heavily, her blue eyes critical. Sakura did not point out that Ino had no right to judge anyone for the same because Sakura was not an idiot - sometimes. "You'll need to talk to her."

"I know," she repeated, defeated.

Proof of life.

Ino pressed her soft pink lips together in something other than disapproval. "Later," she determined with a curt shake of her head. Her blonde hair swayed gently after the action had been completed.

Sakura offered her a timid smile in thanks, knowing full well she was just pushing the can down the very short road.

"And you didn't see anything?" Ino pressed, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"After helping that lady, I waited a bit to see if anyone else was hurt," her throat was tight in guilt but what was interpreted as fear. It bolstered the legitimacy of her woven half-truths and lies.

"Idiot," Ino grumbled, refraining from flicking Sakura on the forehead in a familiar communicative gesture that always got her annoyance across clearly. Insult to injury.

Must be really bad if Ino is going easy on me.

"But then I ran out and straight home," Sakura finished quickly as she did not want to push her luck.

"No one saw you? Like the shooters right? They're not going to ship you away to witness protection are they?" Ino squeezed her fingers. "Sakura," she pleaded for a respite from her overactive imagination.

"Nothing like that."

It could be exactly like that. Except it's the government and its goons that I need protection from.

"You need to stop watching so much true crime," Sakura admonished in a non-committal tone that undermined everything she had set out to accomplish.

"Rich coming from the woman who got me hooked on it," Ino said with an eye roll that could be mistaken for playful by the Ino-illiterate. She was still steeping in her anger. "Did you sleep out here?" She scrunched her nose as she patted the bunched-up blankets. "They smell funny. Did you change detergents?"

Leave it to Ino to rival a pig's sense of smell.

"I didn't sleep much last night," Sakura said the first fully honest thing to her friend. "I was napping when you came. That's why it took a while to answer the door."

"Hm," Ino sighed, pushing away the book from the coffee table without a second thought. "I'm staying with you. Until you feel better."

Why can't something - anything - be easy? Is that too much to ask for?

"Ino, don't take this the wrong way," Sakura began gently with a preemptive apologetic smile on her face.

"Here we go," Ino crossed her arms in preparation for becoming defensive - the level of which would be determined by what Sakura said next.

"I just need some time. This whole thing brought some things to light that I need to figure out. On my own. I'm visiting my mom in a few days. I'll get a new phone. We can call every day. I just need a little bit of a break. Things can't go on the way they were. I can't go on the way I was." She brought their hands to her heart. "Please, Ino. I need you to understand that I need this."

Please don't fight me on this.

"Fine," Ino said after some time had passed in ambiguity. Sakura had been convincing enough that Ino did not jump into a rapid-fire Q&A session that almost always ended up with Sakura being so tired and disoriented that she just gave in to whatever got Ino so worked up in the first place. Something about Sakura's hyper-independence and inability to ask or accept help gracefully. Apparently, that was bad.

"And to think I just thought you were just licking your wounds because you were rejected for the first time in your thirty-one years of life." She did not sound remotely guilty about that assumption or even airing it out in the open. It made Sakura feel marginally less bad about lying to her.

God, Ino. Keep that up and the person with a bullet wound is going to feel sorry for me.

"Thank you, Pig," Sakura smiled with gratitude despite her inward grumblings. "My request for time off was accepted. I'm not sure how long it's gonna take. Maybe a couple of months. Maybe much shorter. I'll keep you posted."

"You do that," Ino scoffed. "And find yourself and all that bullshit."

"So supportive, just like always," Sakura yawned, stretching her hands over her head - only to pull her arms back down quickly because she could not risk Ino seeing the friction burns around her elbows and the underside of her forearms.

"You better not get into micro-dosing or shrooms," Ino said with narrowed eyes, not thinking anything of Sakura's sudden squirrelly behavior. Ino paused, seemingly to consider her words. "Or actually do. I've always wanted to host an intervention. It would look amazing on my resume and I have the perfect outfit."

Sakura pushed air out of her nose loudly. "Thanks, Pig," Sakura drawled out sarcastically, complete with an eye-roll. Her eyes softened. "Thank you for coming all this way. But if you don't mind, I'd like to resume my nap now."

"Raised by wolves. The least you could do is let me stay until after dinner since I, you know, brought the food." She smacked her hand to her forehead. "Crap! The ice cream!" Ino bolted from the couch and moved with the speed a wildebeest would have trouble replicating - even if it was being chased by a predator - she let out a pained groan at the sight of the now-open container. "It's soup!"

"Did it leak on the counter?" Sakura sat up trying to see from where she was.

"No." Ino opened the freezer and shoved the two pints inside. "You owe me for this," she shot daggers at Sakura over her shoulder.

"Yes."

For this and so much more, Pig.

xXx

I wonder how much of that he heard. Probably all of it.

Ino was not exactly quiet and she had no filter. Or tact. Or decorum. Sakura pressed her ear against the door. She could not make out any sound that was not always there. Sakura curled her fist and knocked. The soft fabric of her pullover muffled the sound.

"Minato?" She called out tentatively, "she's gone," she added after a beat of silence. "You can come out now," she did not know what possessed her to add that adlib. She waited and waited. It was on mental second twenty-one that she lost patience. Sakura twisted the doorknob, caught by surprise it was unlocked. The door creaked open. She hesitated in the doorway. The room was dark. The curtains were drawn. Her eyes needed additional time to adjust. Her brain needed even more to make sense of it all.

From the doorway, she could see blond hair sprawled on her pillows. His face was without emotion as he slept peacefully over her covers. She debated, with her hand still around the doorknob between taking as many steps back as she had forward but the neon letters on her clock said it was late and it was cold. With a sigh, Sakura walked into the room - feeling every bit of the imposition it was - she stepped around the black duffle at the foot of the bedpost that he must have grabbed on his way into hiding. Sakura grabbed the maroon throw from the edge of the very same foot of the bed, pulling it up over his long frame. It stopped well short of his chin, at his navel. She stopped herself from soothing the creases out of the plush fabric. Sakura slipped out of the room - leaving the door ajar - only to reappear several minutes later with a large tray in her hands. It was covered with a cloth. She set it down on the nightstand closest to him as quietly as she could. She stepped further away from the bed by one step.

She took in his face. He appeared so normal. Innocent almost. Like a nice guy. No more menacing or threatening or dangerous than the man she got her bagels, coffee, or ice cream from. Trust. He had a face that someone could trust. She was staring. She knew how creepy it was. Somewhere in the corners of her mind. Sakura sighed. She walked out the door, not letting it make a sound in her consideration.

Minato counted to thirty. He blinked open his eyes. He turned his head to his right. He could smell the aromas of food. The pungent spices that were toasted and the oil that coated spoke to its deliciousness. Take out. Noodles. Beef.

Are you trying to kill yourself?

The question blared in his mind on a loop essentially the moment Ino had left - not before Ino begrudgingly promised to honor Sakura's plea that she not tell anyone at work or otherwise that Sakura was there at the time and scene of the shooting. Which also included Sakura's mother apparently. As in, the woman was alive. And Ino said that she would tell her that Sakura got pulled into a double shift and that was why she was not responding to her phone calls, to which, Sakura thanked and assured her that she would call her mother soon.

Are you trying to be hospitalized again?

His lips pressed into a bloodless line. He had lost any and all remaining appetite.

xXx

She punched the round couch cushion trying to coax it into a shape that was comfortable, or at the very least cooperative. She had been at it for ten minutes. Maybe it was too much of an ask. The pillows were not new but it had been a while since she had lounged on them for more than five minutes at a time. Sakura exhaled air through her nose, cheek pressed against cotton dyed in a marigold yellow. The TV backlight covered her face. She stretched out her legs that did not touch the other armrest, she yawned out of boredom and not tiredness - no more than usual anyway. She pushed onto her palms, elbows straight at the sound of the door opening. He stopped in his tracks when his eyes met hers.

Frozen. The both of them were for seconds that neither chose to actively notice. Nothing that would deter their focus from the other was given any chance of consideration. She watched him, watching her, wordlessly.

"Are you okay?" She asked him, slipping into a persona that she understood. One that she could rely on.

Do you need something?

She stopped short of asking because the question felt too open-ended and even more ridiculous than asking a man who had been shot if he was okay.

"I'm fine," Minato answered with a smile that was too small and too short to mean much beyond politeness.

Sakura retracted her legs, sitting fully upright, she ran a hand to smooth the back of her head. A jolt of static had her pulling her fingers away. Her attention was nowhere near the commercial on the screen about full-body deodorant.

"Are you hungry?" She tried not to think about how much she sounded like her mother with one simple sentence.

"No, the food was plenty. Thank you." He lingered in the space between the hallway and the living room. In neither space. Essentially hovering.

Why are you being so wishy-washy?

Where was all that confidence he was projecting up until his nap was interrupted? It was making her nervous. It was making her uneasy - even more uneasy to see him so hesitant.

"I should check your bandages," she removed the decision from his hands all the while not offering him outright to join her. She pushed up to her feet. Her joints creaked. She gestured to the other end of the couch. The blankets he had used were bunched up on the accent chair. Still unfolded.

She stood at a distance - not having moved from the other end of the piece of furniture - as she waited for him to get situated without what she hoped was the pressure of time. His movements were slow and ginger. They were a far cry from just hours earlier when he moved to the door to inspect what they had believed at the time to be a threat. She remembered just how quickly the air had left her lungs while her heart went haywire. Her palms had gone clammy. Her thoughts were sporadic. Her flight, fight, and freeze was triggered. She did not know how much longer she could do this before something shut off for good.

He cleared his throat. She blinked back the thoughts that were swimming in her eyes. He was staring at her. And she supposed that she had been doing the same on a surface level, even if she was looking past him.

"I'm going to take your bandages off now," she took the necessary three steps to cross over to his side of the couch. The coffee table dug into her caves. She used those muscles to push back the table. It rolled a few inches, giving her more room to operate within.

She found the joint - where the bandages had been taped together - without much work as it was more or less right where she had left it. She clicked her tongue touching the lamp on the end table; it filled with light. A naked Raiden light bulb. Warm yellow light that was intended to come off as inviting.

Should have gone with daylight. Why did I try so hard to reinvent the wheel?

"I'm sorry about you having to lie to your friend," Minato's voice was soft as he leaned off the back of the couch so she could undo the bandages without having to contort herself into various configurations. Neither pretended to notice the way he went out of his way to not touch her in any way as he did so. Even if it meant prolonging his discomfort.

"It had to be done," she answered without color or much thought. "I can't have her getting sucked into this." Her eyes were on the rolls of bandages that she was working to gather so she missed the flicker of something across his eyes. Nothing much was lost. She would not be able to read him anyway. He was a book that she did not know the dialect of. Right in front of her but completely indiscernible.

"You're right," he said the words that no one was hanging on to hear. "She'll be safer this way."

"We'll see," she paused to regard him openly. Without a mask. Without prejudice. "Is this really safe?" She asked in light of his reflective silence. His eyes were darker than she had ever noticed before. "Is this really safe?" She asked him again, preparing herself to ask him as many times as necessary to get answers. Anything that could pass as an answer. "Is it, Minato?"

Did I just mark my best friend? Did I condemn her?

Ino referred to hotels below four stars as motels. She was not designed to rough it out in the conditions.

His hesitation was palpable. She was suspended in it. Her stomach floated up where it had no business being.

"She'll be fine," he answered, staring her dead in the eye, and for a long moment, she wondered if she had accidentally asked her questions out loud. "You did the right thing telling her not to come back. You did enough."

It doesn't feel like it.

She could not bring herself to present her counterclaim. Opposite but not equal to his conviction or confidence.

"I'll keep you safe," he said the words that resonated more with him than they did her for she did not know him. "I need you to tru-"

"Trust?" She asked with a scoff, she shook her head in bitterness. "How can I trust you when I don't know you? You won't tell me anything. Anything at all!"

You gave me history. What good is what happened when something, something I don't understand, is happening to me right now? How could you ask me with a straight face to trust you?! How?

From where did he get his audacity because she was in sore need of some.

"Sakura," he leaned back into the cushions, his tongue held back by his lips. A vault. She bit back her frustration. "The other option is a Nara safe house," he presented in a monotone, with a blank expression.

Safe house?

She stopped short as her brain considered the option that just came to light - in the warm, yellow, light of the Raiden bulb.

"There will be guards there around the clock. There is less chance of your loved ones getting caught in the crossfire," he spoke professionally, detached from any emotion that strayed from impassiveness.

"What does that mean?" She asked, leaning forward. "Exactly."

"You'll be safe," Minato met her in the eye. "But you would owe the clan. And that is not a good situation to be in."

She paused thinking of what came next to let his words - his statement - settle in. She believed him. She believed him completely. In this, at least.

Trust. A fragile trust that could be broken by a gust of wind - like a singular silk shot in a spider's web.

"Is that what happened?" She asked, the bandages felt heavy in her hand, making it a challenge to stand on her own two feet. She set them aside on the end table over the white marble base of the brass table lamp. "Did you owe the clan?" She searched his face. Over and over. For anything: benefit of the doubt, confirmation of guilt, indifference. Instead, she found nothing. No change. She lowered her eyes. Her jaw was set in the line of frustration. She pressed her teeth together to form a cage around the pink muscle that was quick to craft words that cut. Words that she usually ended up regretting, from past experiences at least.

She leaned closer still, inspecting the synthetic sutures. "There's no puss. No discharge. No tearing," she narrated what she saw more out of habit than anything. She tried to separate Minato the patient from Minato the criminal in her mind. "Your skin," she prodded the swollen puffy mess. "Is no more discolored than it was yesterday. I'll keep an eye on it as it's early but I don't think we have to worry about necrotic tissue at this time." It had not been twenty-four hours yet. She could not flush the site with water or cover it with Vaseline. Both things would help with the tightness. "As it heals you'll find it growing more and more itchy. Don't scratch."

"I've had stitches before." His hand went to his abdomen; a thin jagged scar hidden behind his large palm.

Of course, you have. Just another day…just a standard occupational hazard huh?

"Hm," she hummed to herself in what was agreement. But she had committed to being difficult - within reason. Her eyes tracked each and every scar she saw. The open and visible like the one across the first of his abs. To the ones hidden underneath dark ink.

She was not one to get a tattoo - she was too indecisive for that and had an aversion to needles - but after years of working as a doctor she had seen all kinds; from tattoos done by a novice with a cheap gun bought online to really talented artists. And it was art. The tattoos that lined his arms and upper chest were breathtaking. Intricate. There was so much to look at. She could spend hours and still find new strokes, lines, and shading. The linework was fine. Precise. Clean. Whoever covered him was probably the best she had seen. The scars coated in ink were hard to find. She had to really look for them. The scarred skin did not detract from the cleanliness - the sharpness - of the image; from the story being told. The ones her eyes kept coming back to were the bright, vibrant orange koi that was over his shoulder. A break in all the black. Stark. Detailed with yellow scales that became golden under the light. It was as if it shimmered. A waterfall - denoted with swirls that it climbed only to emerge on the other side as a full-fledged dragon whose whiskered snout ended just half a centimeter before the line that no ink crossed. Dark and coiled around his muscles so that every time he flexed them, it rippled. She found herself wondering if they brought him what they claimed to represent: good fortune. Because all she saw was the dips, valleys, and erosion of a very hard life.

"My fate was sealed long before."

Her eyes found his and lingered. Sapphire collided with emerald and it was as if time had stopped. She did not pry. She did not dare to pry. Not when he was looking at her like that; like no one had ever looked at her before. She stood over him feeling completely exposed. Because it felt like he - his intensity - was boring into her soul, seeing her for what she was. Seeing her in a way she herself did not even know. That innate.

This is crazy. You're being crazy. Get a hold of yourself, Haruno.

"I'm going to bandage you now. It's aired out enough," she said abruptly. She cleared her throat, opening the drawer on the end table. She found the sterile pack of bandages she had stowed away there.

"Do you need to call anyone?" His voice was missing the same grit it had moments prior. How many moments exactly that she knew not of for she was hesitant to consult a clock, lest she find yet another reason to question herself.

"My mom," Sakura held one end of the tape as close to his neck as she could. "Hold this please." His hand was already moving to cover it before she finished her request.

"My colleague brought a burner. I have it set up for you," Minato watched her extend the bandage down his chest on a diagonal. He grimaced when she tucked it under his arm.

"Sorry," she murmured out of habit. "A burner?"

"Hm," Minato nodded his head slightly. "Don't pick up any numbers you don't recognize. I've already entered mine in your contacts. It's just a precaution. Better prepared than sorry, right?" He asked dryly, lips pulling into his half-smile that did not hold meaning.

"Okay," she was almost done. "It's not too tight?" She asked not knowing exactly why.

"No."

She taped it sealed. "I'll go get you some ice. Is the heat pad inside?" Her eyes drifted to the door of her room.

"Yes."

"Okay," she patted his hand out of habit. "Let me see," she wiggled her fingers in a 'give me' gesture. He did not pose resistance. She undid the bandages. She eyed the split skin and bruised knuckles. She kept the question that burned in her mind to herself. It was not her business. "Does it itch?"

"No."

"Are you lying?" She lowered his hand to the pillow that covered his lap.

"Just a little," he answered.

"Don't go anywhere," a careless slip of her tongue. She did not linger to gauge his reaction. She padded over to her room. The drawn curtains caught her eye. She missed the sun. But he had asked her to keep her windows closed and herself out of sight. Especially the balcony. She made her way to the bathroom. She opened the medicine cabinet, finding the small container of Vaseline. She caught her gaze in her reflection. She paused. Her fingers traced the dark lines under her eyes, the circles. Her face was sullen but she was not sure how much of it was real and how much of it was all in her head. She looked terrible. Awful. So bad she wondered if she had actually died on that platform, while huddled behind an overturned vending machine. And only her corpse had been reanimated - being pulled by some faceless, heartless puppeteer - while she somehow retained enough of herself to be aware.

God. I'm insufferable.

Sakura sighed, she closed the door of the medicine cabinet. She filed out of the bathroom, her eyes moving around the dark room. She turned on the table lamp. It did not take long to find the long white cord attached to a light blue mat. She unplugged it from the socket, nearly bent in half trying to get the three prongs to disconnect. She let out a grunt of triumph. She rolled the mat and pressed it to her stomach.

His side profile was exposed to her as he peered at the screen. He tilted his head in her direction. She deposited the mat and the Vaseline on the end table. Sakura pulled the coffee table closer. She sat at the edge, accidentally brushing her knee with his. His hand was where she had left it. She opened the container and began to coat the cuts and holes with the jelly. Using one hand to scope and the other to apply.

"What's that?" Her eyes moved to the white rectangular device in his hand just long enough for him to gain context.

"A phone," he answered cheekily.

She huffed, shooting him a look. "You know what I mean."

"A burner," Minato explained, his smile still there.

A rather new development.

"Really?" She leaned back, straightening her spine as she corrected her posture. "No way."

"Were you expecting a flip phone like it's 2005?" He asked, teasing.

"No!" She looked away, hiding her flushed cheeks. She finished wrapping his hand. She gave it back to him without fuss.

"I, um," Minato chuckled only to grimace when reminded of his very new injury. "I set it up for you. Don't install apps on it if you can avoid it. The more you do, the more chance you run of it no longer being secure. If you notice it getting slower, dump it immediately and let me know. I'll get you a new one." His expression was serious - commanding. Forceful. Assertive. In control. "Burners are like cattle, not pets. Don't get attached." He held it out for her.

Sakura lifted both hands and she wiggled her fingers showing him the greasy residue. The slick sheen against milky skin. "How about I trade you a bag of peas for it?"

"Deal." Minato smiled.

Sakura sat up and turned around before she could do something stupid - like smile back. It would only encourage him to be even more charming. Because it was effortless for him when he was not in his own head.

xXx

She sat back on the couch with a sigh. She pushed her lips to the side, head swimming and thoughts whirling.

"Did your mom pick up?" Minato asked her as he munched on a freeze pop. Blue. the kind that would leave his teeth blue and tongue purple. He did not insist but she saw him eyeing it. On his shoulder rested an ice pack. He was back to twenty minutes of ice for every thirty minutes of heat.

"She did," she was slightly less wound up now after hearing her mother talk even if she received an earful for the ages. "Thank you for the phone."

"It was the least I could do. I did break your first one," he bit off a chunk of the blue sugary ice.

Like a sociopath.

"When you put it that way," she sighed. Her show - reruns - was still on. "We can watch something else." As long as it was not the news. She was not ready to commit to that level of reality just yet.

"It's okay," he stated without distinction to what it was. "I didn't see this season. I stopped watching after Spencer left."

"Hm," her brows shot up in surprise. Sakura lifted her legs to the couch, tucking them to the side. "It's really not the same without him. Shame too, Liza and him would have been happy together."

And so freaking hot. Six seasons of all that tension gone in a cliffhanger of a season finale. He didn't even say bye to her. The would-be-goodbye-kiss would have been scorching.

"Liza's better off with Chase," Minato stated as if it were etched in stone - fact.

Sakura made a face. "You're delusional," she smoothed the lines of her brow with a tired hand. "Next you'll tell me that Maya is actually a friend, not a frenemy."

Minato snorted. "No. Maya is batshit crazy."

Sakura pressed her teeth together to hold back a laugh. She brought her arms to wrap around herself, not willing to pull the throw that was in the neutral zone - the cushion between them - toward her.

"I'll figure it out, Sakura," Minato's low voice filled the gaps left by the commercial break. "This is not forever."

I want to believe you.

She blinked slowly. She did not know what to believe anymore. They watched the episode in a silence that was too thick to even attempt shattering without serious preparation for the potential fallout.


A/N: Please review.