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.

7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto

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Chapter 7

"Wow, that's crazy," she murmured in a voice much softer than her typical volume when speaking on the phone. Absent-mindedly, she inspected her nails. They needed attention, so she gave it to them, if even only partially. Her head was nestled against a pile of pillows. Soft pink tresses were thrown haphazardly against white silk - because both her hair and her skin never looked better so it was one thing she could not move away from. The hand she was studying moments prior ran through the strands, pulling at them to separate. She felt a hangnail being agitated on a downward tug. She rolled her eyes up and glued them to the ceiling. She counted the cracks for the second time. Time was moving abnormally slowly.

Or it could be that I'm just restless.

Because her heartbeat was far out of resting parameters.

"Are you even listening to me, Forehead?" Ino huffed on the line, breathing with annoyance right in her ear. "Because it feels like you're brushing me off."

Does every-every-other word count?

"I am. You were saying how Hikari has been dating Hyuuga the paramedic for six months and she didn't tell any of us," she summarized in a monotone, intentionally leaving out the part where they were discovered in the back of an ambulance going at it like a pair of bunnies - Ino's words, not hers - all because an attending with a group of interns misheard the charge nurse thus pulling open the doors to ambulance seven and not eleven as he was supposed to, giving everyone more than they had bargained for. Sakura could not help but think - hope - they sanitized the ambulance box thoroughly before some poor person hanging on for dear life was back there. Sakura grimaced at the snare of tangles that she came across, having no one to blame but herself and her own actions. Again.

Wonder what you would say about me. What would they say about me if they knew?

"What a crypt," Ino pouted. Sakura did not have to work hard to imagine it. "She could have told me at my birthday party. It would have been a better - more interesting at least - birthday present than what she settled on."

It's the thought that counts not.

"Maybe she thought it was too early or that it would take the spotlight off of you," Sakura offered the possibility without much forethought. Ino was more radiant than the sun itself in the silver number she had worn. She commanded the room and everyone's eyes - the center of attention was where she was comfortable most. "And the bracelet is nice."

"Maybe, if you're blind. It would turn my skin green. I don't buy her eighteen-karat nonsense. I'll just regift it during the annual work white elephant exchange," Ino commented offhandedly. "Did you get your present for that yet?"

"Hm, not yet," Sakura answered, noncommittal, she was not that far gone that she missed what this was: a not-so-subtle trap. Ino was picking away - peeling away - trying to get to the root of the matter: when Sakura would be back at work - all without using such words.

She would make a good interrogator, no one stands a chance when she's properly motivated. She's going easy on me.

"Forehead if you wait until the last minute you'll be miserable bumming it with the rest of the non-planners. And don't get me started on the degenerate porch pirates that follow delivery trucks. You'll never see that money again. It pays to plan ahead."

You're right.

"I'll figure something out."

One way or the other.

"Let me know when you do?" Ino asked her with more than imagined exasperation. "On the bright side, the gossips have moved on from you. Last week I almost punched an intern for telling everyone you had leprosy, the punk."

Sakura smiled despite herself at Ino's outrage on her behalf. "You showed a lot of self-control. Gai Sensei would be proud of your display of restrained youth."

"God, I haven't thought about him in years. He probably hasn't changed his haircut or his signature color since," Ino let out a giggle.

"Forest green," they said together, a little laugh to accompany their shared words.

Ino sighed on the wind-down. "I'm still getting asked about you. Everyday. People are concerned. Perhaps none more than Dr. Strange. He asked me three times yesterday. I almost-"

"Punched him?" Sakura attempted to fill in the blank with a smirk that she knew Ino could very well hear. "You may want to look into working on that. Maybe talk to a professional?" She suggested innocently.

"I almost told him to get a clue before he got lost, because you haven't," Ino sighed dramatically. "It's rude to interrupt people."

But you're not people, Ino.

"Can we grab lunch this week? I miss you." There was a pause right before a soft sigh that the receiver picked up. "And you know that's not easy for me to admit."

I know.

She smiled so it would carry in her voice despite her stomach dropping. "Not yet Ino. I'm not there. But every day it's moving in the right direction, slowly." She played with the hem of the dark shirt she wore. Bunching it up and releasing it. Over and over, adding to the collection of wrinkles. Just to give herself something to do. An outlet of sorts.

"You know what Forehead, you're starting to hurt my feelings."

"I'll let you know when I'm ready. Soon," Sakura assured her in a voice that scared her a little bit of how genuine it sounded.

"Hatake also asked about you. He wants your number."

Sakura could just about hear the judgment from three subway stops over. Kakashi made it a point to avoid the hospital when he could - to the point that he rather self-treat with gauze and a bottle of sake when a bullet grazed his arm only for Sakura to hunt him down livid after her 18-hour shift completed to patch him up properly - the fact that he went for a social visit - because he was all business at work - said all that needed to be said. Out of character and on Ino's fine-tuned radar.

"What did you say?" She asked her slowly, lowering her voice just a margin so it was still in the realm of normal - unalarming and definitely not worth listening intently to if that was not already the case.

Nothing of interest here.

"I told him I would check with you. Or that I would just give you his," Ino supplied with unconvincing levels of disinterest.

"I have it," she rubbed the gap between her brows, playing with a hair that had sprouted up there. She had saved them - her contacts - to her account. The same account she used for her laptop. The silence on the other end of the line was as accusatory as it was prolonged.

So much for it being unhealthy and gross as you "professionally" framed it.

"You have an opinion?" She asked in a deadpan, making the rhetorical nature of her inquisition painfully obvious. Her patience was always the first thing to bend.

"Sakura," Ino sighed for the umpteenth time. If she kept it up, Ino would book a spa day and blame Sakura for new frown lines. "Maybe," Ino began slowly, measuring her words and that should have set alarm bells off in Sakura's head. Because when Ino thought out what she was going to say…it was bad. Nine times out of ten. "It's not the worst thing in the world. Maybe some comfort would do you some good."

Comfort…how innocent of a notion when you put it that way.

A sanitization.

Comfort. When did Kakashi become that? Was he ever that? After years of listening to Ino berate her for being what Ino deemed a "love avoidant" and Kakashi being her enabler - or familiar zone - it was strange to have the shoe on the other foot. Even stranger that it seemed to fit fairly well.

"Maybe," Sakura uttered, thinking back to her not-so-distant decisions. If only Ino could see her now. Sakura did not know if she would be proud or horrified or both and that in and of itself was concerning. There was some commotion on the line. Someone was calling Ino's name, the voice faint barely picked up by the line.

"Oh, Forehead. A teenager took mommy dearest's expensive car for a joy ride while plastered, flipping it over on some poor granny's front lawn, screaming all kinds of things at the firefighters who cut him out of it. It's going to be one of those days. I have to go," she said with reluctance. "I'll call you tomorrow. And it's going to be a video call. You've been warned. I need to see what I'm working with here."

She laughed soundlessly, air pushing through her nose. "Bye, Ino. Good luck and talk soon." She lowered the phone onto the end table, face down.

I miss you too.

She stared at the wall a bit, blinking at the framed photograph a warm calloused hand on her navel competed for attention. It had been waiting so patiently. Its grip was more timid and cautious than it had been just hours before dawn's soft reset; unsure of where the resting place belonged if it had any to begin with. Its movements hiked up her shirt, introducing the cooler air to her skin. An introduction she did not care to be making. With a soft sigh, she sank further into the pillows, turning her head to face him, more than happy to grant it - attention - to him. Fully.

How much of that did you hear?

She searched his face for an answer to the query she could not pose.

"Hi," he smiled in greeting, voice groggy and a little rough. He kept his chin angled down so she did not get a nose-full of morning breath.

"Hi," she smiled back. She thanked her forethought - laziness - for keeping mints in her nightstand top drawer. She had managed to pop a couple in before the vibrations from Ino's second call woke him. She traced the contours of his cheeks before her fingers settled in his soft hair, nails scraping against his scalp. For a moment his eyes fluttered closed in pure bliss. She used it to her advantage. She stared shamelessly, aiming to gain her fill.

You're so beautiful.

With his sunshine yellow hair, sharp features, soft smile, golden skin, and dark ink. A striking balance between comfort and chaos. The known and the unknown. Foreign and familiar.

Veil lifts at daybreak,

Shadows of self scatter wide—

Truth grows toward light.

She was so far in her head that she was pulling words from the archives. Thoughts of just how well she could trust her own judgment rang in her ears. Things were murky at best before and now, now, they were downright opaque.

"Did you have a nice talk with Ino?" He asked playfully, catching her in the act when golden lashes parted.

Her stomach fluttered at the familiarity of it all. "I did," she moved closer, as she was the one who could lie on her side. She kissed the corner of his mouth, dissipating the last of the uncertainty. His hand could stay, roam, and continue to discover. She did not mind. A sound of contentment rumbled in his throat. Her toes curled when that very hand moved up and down the length of her back, fingertips dragging along the path of her spine without dispute or interruption all the way to where her head met her neck. Only to reverse direction, leaving her to wonder where the new end would be. "I had a good talk."

"Maybe we should talk next?" He suggested gently as his palm ran up and down her arm, from her elbow to her wrist. Repeatedly. A new route of torture.

Talk?

She froze. A split second of being immobilized by indecision. A second that if she were at work would be a second too long. She fell back into her training. Sakura reapplied her smile to the exact level it had been. She recovered before he had a chance to even question if he saw what he thought he did.

"What's there to talk about?" She tapped her finger on his Cupid's Bow, twice, some kind of significance was lost to him. "Other than what to do for breakfast?"

"Sakura," his smile dipped until it was a neutral line. His slightly furrowed brow painted a picture. He searched for the words, the ones he had been rehearsing while she spoke on the phone. And now as the time came to speak them, they hardly seemed adequate. The words that communicated that this was not a one-time deal for him. That he cared for her.

"Minato," she countered, matching his foregone playfulness - dissipating in one utterance any chance for sincerity. "So what are you ordering for breakfast for me? Maybe blueberry pancakes?" She offered up helpfully with a bright smile. "Oh! And hash browns. Can't go wrong with carbs."

Was it just grief? Was it just too many emotions?

Did he mess this up? Yet again with his inability to be patient when it came to her. Was it a mistake to kiss her that third time? The fourth? The fifth? The thirtieth? Even if it felt like anything but in the heat of the moment. Was the right of last night the wrong of today?

Was he simply just as her friend, Ino, had put it, comfort? Convenient but fleeting - no hope of longevity. Was that all she sought? Was that all she needed? Did he still have to steel his heart, fortify it? Was he wrong to open up so soon?

Was I wrong for reading into it?

"Don't look at me like that," she kissed the tip of his nose, further blurring the lines on where either of them stood. Her breath was minty but well short of refreshing. But that could have been the muddle of his head diluting the signals. "And don't tell me that I have to start off my day like I finished my last, by doing all the work," she teased with a less-than-innocent wink, falling back into a comfort zone that should have been anything but. Because if they teased, if they were playful, they could pretend it was not serious. A coward's shield - one big enough for the both of them to hide behind, if he was so inclined to join her.

"Well," he pushed away the questions and down the uncertainty, to speak with gravel in his voice. He smiled without it ever reaching his eyes. There was no light for them to catch - to reflect - to soften their hue, to glow. "I am injured," he reminded her patiently, smirking at the way her stomach moved under his palm. A spasm. He migrated it to the small of her back. She was so warm. The kind of heat he did not mind in the slightest. Soft. "And I don't remember you complaining," his voice came out muffled in her hair.

"You're really going to milk that, huh?" She asked with a raised brow, tracing the outline of a jumping koi tattoo on his right shoulder.

"There're blueberries in the freezer. And potatoes in the pantry, I'll make you breakfast." She had boxed - unopened - pancake mix in the back of one of her drawers that he had recognized - with her blessing - out of boredom one day.

"Oh, big talk first thing in the morning-," a grunt left her lips, punctuating the incomplete jest. She should have kept her mouth shut, she realized much too soon. Breathlessly she stared up at him, wondering just how that happened. The glint in his eye had her heart racing. All she could do was gasp unabashedly to her surprise when he found her dancing pulse with his teeth. She closed her eyes, fingers tethered themselves in his hair when he sucked - easing the sting away.

xXx

Sakura stared past the stocked shelves of her clinic. The lights were bright. The room was empty beyond her. Minato had drifted off to sleep in the middle of the page with his mouth slightly open and arm slung over his forehead. She had left a note of his whereabouts in case he rose and found her nowhere. She figured sparing him some unrest was the least she could do.

That and a trek up and down the stairs.

With heavy limbs, she moved to the far wall. She sank into the first available chair. She turned her head, blinking at the wall a bit. Her eyes wandered to the framed photograph. The flat eyes of her brother were the focus of her unfocused gaze. Minutes were lost in this cycle of observance, maybe even tens of minutes. She kept her expression neutral - blank. The confidence - the brokenness - that she wore around her like armor was nowhere to be found.

She had made the first move. She had kissed him. He kissed her back, thoroughly - willingly - enough that even she could not question if he was attracted to her…if he wanted it or not. It was not out of pity - she had been more than pitiful enough. She hated crying in front of an audience; it was the sad cherry on the top of a depression sundae - she knew that. He wanted it as much as she had even if her mind was in no state to make such decisions. He had tried to cool things down before they really ignited. He had said he did not want regret for her or for himself. She did not quite know where she was on the line.

Regret, it was such a strange thing. It held no form but the weight it could gather could be crushing. Debilitating. Maddening. From the moment she laid eyes on him all those months ago a part of her wanted to know - it had grown increasingly larger as the days went on, as things continued to build (the pining, the daydreams, the escapism) - what it felt like to kiss him, to be held by him. She knew that now. Just like she knew how easily he could wrap his arms around her waist. She had details - memories - to take the place of hypotheticals. It was real now.

It really happened. That really happened.

Under the unforgiving fluorescent lights during mid-day hours, she was left to take stock of it all. The consequences of her actions. His actions. Their actions. She had made the first move. She made things complicated - even more complicated which was a feat she did not consider even possible. She picked at the skin around her thumb's nail bed with her index finger. It caught on something.

She did not have a contingency. She did not have a backup plan. She barely had a plan. She was without direction. Floundering. A kite with its string cut. She was at the mercy of the wind. Or her whims. It did not matter all that much. She had made the first move. She had opened the door quite literally last night. The one they both spilled into as a tangle of limbs and pants, just managing to be mindful enough to carefully peel off his shirt instead of ripping it off like she had done to her own clothes in her pursuit of feeling something other than despair. She had made the first move. But that was yesterday. That was last night. She was not the same person as she was yesterday.

Everything's different now.

But did it have to be? Did she want it to be? Did he want it to be?

He was still there in the morning. He had nowhere to go. She realized that. He was not like Kakashi who uttered the first excuse he could, ranging from a half-baked 'I have to take this call' to 'I promised to help my elderly neighbor rearrange her extensive mug collection'. She had quickly learned not to take it personally. It made things easier. Clean. Clear cut. Kakashi was more emotionally stunted than her. Maybe just maybe she was beginning to see Ino's point. She never had to question it before and for good reason. Kakashi never stayed.

Minato never left.

"I don't know what I'm doing," she breathed the words, admitting just how lost she was. Sakuto's smile did not change even as the shame began to fill her. Shame that she did not feel shame. It did not feel wrong. So was it? Was it really wrong? Was it terrible?

Foolish yes…terrible, I don't know.

Minato had been a child. It was about survival for him. He had to do what he had to do. She could not fault Minato for any of that. She could not judge him for that. She played with the hem of her red sweater - fidgety.

"He wanted to talk. He wants to talk." She covered her face with her hands. She pitched forward in her seat, biting back a groan. "I don't know if I'm ready." Her skin swallowed her words. Her breath was hot and smelled vaguely of the salami sandwiches they had for lunch. Spicy. Vinegary from the pickles to offset the sugar overload from the pancakes. The really good pancakes. She did not even need to drown them in syrup or top them with whipped cream.

He knows what he's doing.

"Minato doesn't like pickles," she chuckled, lowering her hands to her lap. "I know that automatically puts him at odds with you. You always had a side of hotdog with your relish. I have a secret," fingers moved to tuck her hair behind her ears. "I didn't like pickles growing up either. I just pretended to because you loved them so much and you were very adamant that you would never trust anyone who doesn't like them. But jokes on me because I got used to them." Her eyes softened in a manner Sakuto's likeness could never replicate. "I think of you every time I eat them." She tugged at her sleeves and crossed her ankles. She toyed absentmindedly with a loose yarn that rose from all her agitating. "I think he's a good person who was dealt a bad hand. I think he's…," she pulled on her fingers until her knuckles popped. "It's complicated."

Incredibly. And that was why she had stopped him before he could start. She did not know what to make of any of this. It was too overwhelming. She was unsteady and she could not look to him to stabilize her, not any more than he could hold expectations for her.

Talking was the line, I guess.

Because talking would remove all doubt and ambiguity. Talking would force reflection, introspection, and other words that end in "tion" that she had not thought of - that she was not mentally or emotionally prepared for.

"And I know this is weird, beyond weird. If you were here-here, I would be dead…of mortification. I never would have worked out the words. I would be a sputtering mess as red as my sweater." She closed her eyes. She could almost picture it. Almost. "But I have no one else I can talk to." It was her fault. Ino would love to talk to her about this. Amaya and Karin too. Heck, even Ms. Honda - the neighbor she shared a wall with - would not shy away from offering her guidance if Sakura asked - probably over a plateful of homemade Snickerdoodle cookies and coffee.

"Don't look at me like that," she huffed, avoiding eye contact all of a sudden. "The yoga pants thing wasn't even anything," she crossed her arms and turned her head trying not to think about the rather interesting advice - unsolicited - from Ino about showing off assets - tasteful of course - because she was worried that wherever Sakuto was he would somehow manage to read her mind and that would be unfortunate. "I was actually doing yoga!" She insisted - nevermind the fact that she spent twenty minutes one night (she could not sleep) to locate her pants (the ones that made her legs look like they stretched on for miles and miles) from a random storage bin in her closet like a woman possessed or in the middle of a manic episode. "Fine," she griped with agitation. "I was just trying to tease him," she continued the very one-sided defense. "To get him back for walking out of my bathroom na-" she shook her head rapidly. "Why am I telling you this?" She asked herself as much as she asked him, cheeks starting to warm. "It wasn't supposed to be anything. It was supposed to be harmless."

…Right?

"I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I should be doing," Sakura sighed, applying pressure onto her fingers to prevent them from going numb with cold. "It would be really nice if you had some more magic candy or beans or something you could give me. Ones that would let me see into the future. Or even to help me figure out what I want. Honestly big brother," she leaned back until the back of her head pressed against the wall. "I would give just about anything to remember what your voice sounded like without having to watch old home videos."

Because he was in them. Laughing and smiling. Talking loudly. Taking up space. Kizashi. She hated how her love for her brother did not completely transcend and eclipse her resentment for her father to the point that she was not left with only delight after watching Sakuto hit a home run while her mother and Sakura cheered him from the stands. Or when the two of them attempted to bake a cake for their mother's birthday while Kizashi held the camera and spoke instructions. The brown kitchen was covered in a gooey mixture of egg and flour. The real present was the cleanup they would inevitably do.

At least I have old family videos to neglect.

Some don't even have that much - a choice. Some are without a choice.

"Sorry," Sakura cleared her throat, wiping her tears away. "I'll be good. I'll be strong. I'll be okay." She rose to her feet. "I am your sister after all, Medic Haruno," she beamed, saluting his photograph.

Thank you, big brother. You always know how to cheer me up.

She kept her eyes trained on Sakuto as long as she could. Right up to the point that she turned off the lights of the clinic and clambered up the stairs slowly. With each step, she left more and more of the heaviness behind.

Maybe one day Minato can learn to tolerate pickles too.

The blond in her head was how she left him on her couch. His book was closed on the coffee table with a bookmark to hold his place. She lowered down onto her heels. She ran her finger down the book's spine before inching it closer. The orange hardback with yellowed pages.

It's well-read.

The Softness of a Spring Breeze by Takayuki Sumida, Volume One.

She read the simple cover with characters of black ink in her head, turning it over to see a black and white headshot of a middle-aged man in a black turtleneck. His salt and pepper hair swept to the side. He was smiling like he knew a secret.

Cocky.

Sakura flipped through the pages, careful to not lose his marker. Green eyes moved from right to left, top to bottom.

I didn't know that Sumida wrote sappy things, multiple volumes of them…must be his earlier work.

She turned to the inside pages - burnt orange. They were empty apart from a name scratched in graphite. The handwriting was atrocious. On par with some of her coworkers who could not be bothered to write out distinctive words, making their haste someone else's - usually a nurse's - headache and problem.

N. Namikaze.

Pink brows met in the middle.

His mom? His dad? She asked herself, staring at the slight smudge of the pencil.

What am I doing? This is his. This is his parents'.

She set the book down gently, moving it slightly as she tried to replicate exactly where she had placed it before with considerably less consideration. She had not known before. She was missing context before. She let out a soft sigh of contained relief that he did not budge. She reached across the coffee table between them, fingers plucking the purple sticky note from the surface. She folded it in half and then a half again. Her face was set in concentration as she tried to remember all the correct steps on how to make a tiny crane. A small offering of peace for her ignorance.

xXx

He did not move beyond the bare minimum motions needed to sustain life. His life. That was blinking and breathing. Occasionally there was the twitch of an appendage - maybe it was more accurate to call it a spasm. He did not move a muscle voluntarily for the past ten minutes even if he had to use the bathroom for the last seven. The reason was her temple was pressed against his shoulder. A head of pink hair stubbornly fighting the pull of sleep - she woke with a start every time she lurched forward. Until her head had slid down to his shoulder - his uninjured one thankfully - ten minutes ago.

The TV was on but the volume was not. It was so quiet that the groans of the fridge and pipes were noticeable. Loud. Not all that different than the inside of his head had been. It did not start off that way. No. The volume of innermost thoughts rose gradually in direct response to being ignored. They only became more determined.

He was following her lead. The lead - the precedent - that said any hints of a serious conversation about what was unfolding were not to be taken. Because he had tried. No less than three times today - the first being this morning in bed as it seemed like the right time - and the last had been somewhere before his nap. With one attempt in the middle when he dried the dishes she washed. Each and every time she smiled, cracked a joke, and pointed out some random piece of trivia that he feigned a disproportionate amount of interest in - the last one was about how slugs have anywhere from two to eight thousand teeth. The order was not always the same. So he decided after the third and final attempt to leave it to her: to bring up, to address, and to follow through. She was smart. He did not need to force it even if he needed to know. Hence the loud. It was so loud.

How do that many teeth even fit in their mouths? How does she even know these things? Does she do searches for "slug facts"? And why slugs? Do they have medicinal properties?

The questions he asked himself to distract from the fact that the need to relieve himself was growing in direct proportion to her sleep deepening. Her shoulders rose and fell at even intervals. Predictable. She would wake up with a stiff neck if she stayed like this. She had not brushed her teeth either. But that was less pressing. Minato sent a silent apology to his father, eyes rolling up to the ceiling in a plea for understanding. Cobalt irises lowered and moved to the left. As far left as they could. Something had to be done. The remote was on the armrest. He stretched out his arm. His fingertips made contact with hard plastic. He leaned slightly, ever so slightly. She was jostled all the same despite his efforts. He gathered the remote in his grip. Sakura rubbed her eyes.

"Isitmorning?" She mumbled, yawning into her hand, the "already?" part of her question dangled from the thin air.

"No," he said in a soft voice. He turned off the TV. "It's late. We should call it a night."

She nodded her head, eyes still not fully wide. "Okay." Her hand moved to grab his, searching blindly. "Let's go." She tried to rise to her feet only to fall back onto the couch as he did not move with a huff. "Minato?" She asked him sleepily.

"It's late," he repeated lamely, not sure how to make it more obvious without making it outright obvious. "You're tired. You didn't nap." Unlike him who had more of his wits about him, unfortunately.

Maybe we should have drank last night.

That way they could have blamed it - this uncertainty - on the vodka.

"I know," her face scrunched together as she whined.

"I have to pee," he blurted out without thinking or filtering.

"So hurry, please. Before I fall asleep again," was her annoyed answer in a nasal-sounding voice. With a groan, she rocked to her feet, tugging at his hand. This time he aided in her moment. Because he did not overthink, he followed her lead where it led; into her bedroom with the door ajar, bladder empty, and ultimately under her soft sheets next to her curled awaiting frame. Neither of them brushed their teeth. His father would understand. The scent of vanilla and warm amber wood filled his nose. He inhaled deeply. His lips pressed against her forehead. Her arm slung across his torso. There were benefits to not being so in his head. Ones that may even make the coming consequences worth it.

---

"I can see it," she squinted her eyes, hands on either side of her head blocking anything that was not him from her vision. "A quiet, wall-flower of a kid," she smiled, reaching for his cheek. She gave it a pinch for good measure. "Not amused by the ways of mere children."

You look too proud of yourself for that one, Sakura. Been holding in that one for a while?

"I am an only child," he noted with a small sigh. He eyed the groceries on the countertop. "Before I started school, the only people I had to interact with on a daily basis were adults." He added more ingredients to his text message draft.

Carrots. Potatoes. Leeks. Zucchini. Meat.

"Stop stalling," he said with a grin, not looking up from his phone. "It won't help."

"A real taskmaster type huh?" She asked him reproachfully, eyeing him up and down as if for the very first time.

"Of course, none other than yours truly," he punctuated with a wink.

Can't get to the top by half-assing and if you're not at the top, you will have other's will exerted on you by force.

"Had me fooled with the cool-as-a-cucumber demeanor," she extended her bottom lip past her top. "The only green thing not sitting on the countertops."

Minato made a face. "You can do better than that, Sakura. That was very refrigerator-bottom-shelf material."

"I thought it was punny," she said with an unbothered shrug. She clapped her hands together once before rubbing them. "So we're doing Amaya's delicious leftover enchiladas for dinner. Should be the last of them," she said with a forlorn sigh. "And we're doing exactly what for lunch?" She gestured to the ingredients. Her hair was held back in a bun. She was donning a yellow apron with a sunflower print because Minato was wearing her usual dark green one. At her insistence because the sunflower apron was her fancy, special occasion apron that she bought on a whim back when she was convinced she would host more dinner parties. Her friends - Ino - made it known they would rather contract tetanus than come all the way to the boonies.

"Beef stew," he answered as he tucked his phone into his pocket. "Hora will be here with the rest of the ingredients. But we can get started in the meantime." He rolled up his sleeves. "We should wash and prep the veggies." He held out green stalks tied together with bands. "This is celery," he explained with a straight face, looking her dead in the eyes.

"Cool," she deadpanned. "Does it grow on those big tall things with the brown column things?" She held out her arms as if they were branches just on the off chance he did not follow her muted genius.

"Close," his eyes twinkled with amusement. "Celery grows in the ground. Ants and slugs could easily mistake them for trees."

"You don't want slugs in your garden," she murmured offhandedly, watching him return the celery to the red plastic wash basket she did not even remember owning. "So," she plucked something off the counter to hold it between her hands. Purple. "What's this one called?" She asked innocently, fighting a grin that was adamant about disrupting the facade she put in place. "It's just so different and exotic looking."

"This," Minato's hand reached for the other end but did not stop there, curving around her wrist. "Is an eggplant," he said with a straight face. "Specifically a Fire Eggplant."

"Oh," she breathed, eyes widening with the fake marvel of newly gained enlightenment. "You mean there are different kinds?" Her smirk was a little mean. "Shapes? Sizes? Colors?"

"Sakura," he rolled his eyes. "This is a very serious domain. A kitchen is no place for fooling around."

"You're right. Safety first," she hummed, shrugging her shoulders with easy acceptance - a little too easy. She grinned at him, eyes glittering. "Leave the slicing and dicing to me. I'm good at dissecting things," her tone was serious, and her eyes focused.

He raised a blond brow. "If I didn't know what you did for a living, I would be a little unsettled."

She batted her lashes at him, slowly and with exaggeration. "Minato, warn a girl before you sweet talk her," she pushed him away playfully, still holding the eggplant.

"Handle with care," he shot her a look - not amused - before taking it from her. She would bruise it if she was not careful as she had some grip on her. "You'd make a good little butcher in a slasher movie. Unassuming and unsuspecting." His eyes flickered across her face with objectivity. "You're the perfect blend of pretty and deranged. It has all the makings for becoming a cult classic. I would watch the crap out of it," he finished decisively, shaking his head for emphasis.

"Aww," she gushed. "You think I'm pretty?" She felt her cheeks start to heat. She covered them with her hands which admittedly - if she would do such a thing - did not help matters in the slightest. The swoon was happening regardless if she welcomed it or not.

He only chuckled in response to her very selective hearing.

"So why beef stew?" She asked him, holding off on fanning herself. Her eyes darted over to the stovetops which were all off. "It sounds hard."

"The margin is more forgiving," he answered, resting his arms over her shoulders - catching her by surprise, she made the most adorable of sounds - they were the perfect height for that. "Trust carries softly. Have faith - Paths unwind steady. Step by step it clears," he dropped the big hammer. "I have faith in us, we'll survive," he said with meaning. Conviction.

"Is it?" She asked, wrinkling her nose, circling his waist loosely. "Is the margin more forgiving?" She tilted her head and peered into his eyes with seriousness. Green might just be his new favorite color - edging out blue. Jade, specifically.

Minato sighed. "Hora made a mistake. A big one," he pressed his lips together to keep from saying more. It would only make him more agitated and that was not not an emotion he wanted anywhere near their first joint cooking session.

"Everyone makes mistakes," she poked her chin to his sternum. "No one more than me," she tilted her head back even more to regard him with sparkling eyes without breaking contact with his chest. "And you always forgive me. No matter how awful I'm being."

You're not awful. Not even close.

"You were hurting," he tucked some strands of hair behind her ear for her as her hands were preoccupied. "You were just lashing out."

And I don't find him a quarter as endearing as I find you.

"Still doesn't make it any less awful what I said after you opened up about your parents," the guilt had not completely gone away just yet.

"I forgave you," he ducked down to press his lips against her forehead. She hummed happily. Her infraction was nothing compared to Sasori's.

"Maybe you can forgive him?" She asked with hopeful eyes and a sunny smile. Her hand found his heartbeat. She flattened her palm. "Because having your older brother be mad or disappointed in you is really painful, Minato."

He kissed her on the nose before tucking her under his chin. "I'll think about it," he said firmly because he felt himself already softening.

---

She folded her sweatpants and set them aside on the counter next to the neat pile of shorts. The laundromat was quiet again. She wondered if he called ahead and reserved it just to ensure that was the case. Or maybe it only stayed open this late when he asked them to.

Maybe we can get some takeout from that noodle place down the street.

She really was not in the mood to do dishes after all this laundry and their menu seemed expansive enough - not that Minato seemed like a picky eater or anything. Her wig itched but she did not complain. He was putting his last load in the dryer. The novelty of realizing he had non-dry-clean-only articles of clothing had worn off. In fact, his suits and shoes seemed to be the only things he was picky about.

He could have easily been a model or actor if he wanted to…if his parents hadn't….

She shook her head, brown synthetic fibers itched her neck. Her sheets were washed and folded. It had taken some creativity to manage that with three reliable hands. The opening and closing of his arms were too much to try to risk with the stitches, especially when recovery was right around the corner.

"None at all?" She spoke into the last of her unfolded laundry. "Not even one?" She found it hard - unpalatable - to believe. "Because I have so many. Too many."

I don't even know where to start. Scratch that, I know exactly where to start given the chance.

"I'm not as curious as you," he deflected, turning the dial so the quarters were counted. He changed the settings before pressing the start button.

"Try again," she said with a whinny pout, tired of hearing herself talk to a brick wall - a wall within a maze. "Asking questions shows interest."

That caused him to pause, the teasing smile slipped off his face. He had plenty of questions. Their amount nearly rivaled the level of his interest so maybe she was onto something. But it hardly seemed like the time or the place to delve deeper - further into what this was. What it could be; of what he wanted it to be. Not to mention that he was still waiting for her to open that window so he could slip through it - because he still had his dignity intact (mostly).

"I do have a question," he turned around to face her. His clothes spun behind him.

"Finally," she gave up folding a shirt, by bunching it and setting it aside.

His approach to her was smooth, flowing like water. Single-minded and without resistance. "What's the bra to underwear ratio?"

Three seconds - that was how long it took for her face to twist into a snarl. "Seriously?! That's what you go with?" She threw her shirt at him, not softened by his laughter as he moved to catch it before it landed on the dirty floor. It would be a waste of resources to do another load for just one shirt.

"What?" He asked, his smile undercutting the sincerity of the confusion that marred his features. "Is that taking an interest in the wrong thing? Because Konan has lines for-"

"Pervert," she accused loudly - voice echoing - with her face reaching concerning temperatures, cutting him off mid-sentence.

"You make it too easy," he could not help himself. Riling her up was good for his blood pressure.

"I'm not talking to you anymore," she huffed with red cheeks. "How's that for making it easy?" She asked mostly herself in a murmur, rolling her eyes and grabbing the next article of clothing she could. A lone red sock, fuzzy.

"Sakura," he broached, moving closer in a test of the waters. "I have another question."

She ignored him, back ramrod straight. The sock twisting in her hands left to face its fate.

Oh, so we're being serious now?

"Sakura."

"No." Her vow of silence did not last long just as he had suspected. He hid his smile.

"It's a good one," he toed the line with more caution than the lightness in his tone betrayed. "Not perverted. Not superficial. Full of interest."

I want to know. Really.

She half turned.

Progress.

Sakura eyed him up and down, standing perpendicular to the folding ledge, with her lips pressed together.

As close to an open invitation as I'm getting. Here goes nothing.

"Your work was really quick to give you time off," he did not know the details - he had never worked in a traditional setting so there was a lot that he did not experience first hand but even he knew it was unusual for a hospital to give her so much time off with next to no notice - something he had flagged the moment she had brought it up.

"Is there a question in there somewhere?" She asked him with hints of exasperation to cover for the guardedness of her body language. She grabbed at the shirt from him again in another attempt to settle it. Turned away. Shoulders tense.

He wrapped his arms around her. Dipping his head to plant a kiss on the top of one of those tightly held shoulders. "How?" He asked quietly, palm pressed flat against her navel.

She swayed slightly, not fully relaxing into his chest. She was mindful of her placement of herself against his person. Even when they slept. "The question is not how but why," she rested her hands over his arms. "A while back…over a year ago actually," she closed her eyes, "I kind of lost it."

"Some opener," he nuzzled the side of her neck, pushing away the brown synthetic fibers that poked at her skin enough to turn it pink, not letting the heavy air settle lest it cause her to clamp up.

She rolled her eyes. "Are you even interested?" She snipped.

"Incredibly," he smiled against her skin, eyes closed and pulse steady. "Tell me everything."

She inhaled deep and slow, a quiet acquiescence that was being coaxed into acceptance the longer they stood still unbothered by time or environment. "A patient came in," she began with her eyes closed and her voice strong despite the low volume. "Car crash. Overturned vehicle," she grasped his arms tighter. "They pulled him out just in time before it exploded." The images flashed in her mind.

"Broken bones from the impact of where the airbags deployed and the rollover, countless lacerations and contusions, second-degree burns, lungs collapsed, extensive smoke inhalation. He was basically DOA. I knew that. It wasn't looking good. He coded three times in the box - the ambulance - on the way to the hospital." Asuma the paramedic on call had told her that while the patient was being wheeled in over the clamors of everyone in the ER. She had listened as she shouted for tests to be done. Brain scans. Ultrasound of his lungs. X Rays. The works. Everything else melted away. It was just her, her team, and the patient. Nothing else existed for her.

"Breathe," he encouraged her to do just that.

She blinked open her eyes slowly. She was not standing over a cot. She was not elbows deep inside of a chest cavity. She was not covered in blood. It had already happened. It was over. There was nothing more to be done. She inhaled and exhaled. Twice before she continued.

"I knew all that. There were other patients coming in. Patients that had a chance - a damn good chance. But he was wearing a uniform. The same one Sakuto died in." It was still hard for her to believe that they had not changed it in all these years. In over a decade. She had lived with the memories of her brother longer than she had lived with him. She struggled to wrap her brain around that.

"He was wearing the Fire Army uniform. He was coming home from training. His family was waiting for him eagerly, anxiously. It's probably why he rushed back so late instead of just waiting for morning." He knew that he had people waiting for him - eager to see him. To hug him.

"I tried everything I could. I broke almost all his remaining ribs with CPR. They had to pull me off of him. They said I was screaming. I kept telling him he would be fine. That I would help him. That he wasn't going to die. Over and over. That he was going to see his family. I don't remember any of it - of that part. He had been gone for twenty minutes at that point. I could have gone for another twenty. All night if no one stopped me."

"It's okay," he held her tighter as she began to shake.

Her voice fluctuated. She licked her lips. "I didn't handle it well. I threw myself into work. Picked up extra shifts, worked long hours in the clinic, multiple ride-alongs with the paramedics, and volunteered to teach the residents beyond the ones I already had. I worked so that I could pretend that I wasn't lonely. I worked myself into the ground. I needed to be hospitalized for dehydration and exhaustion. And a procedural psych exam - hold."

Are you trying to be hospitalized again? Huh? Are you trying to kill yourself?

This is what Ino had been referring to with her pointed questions. This is what Mebuki alluded to with her comments. She pushed - punished - herself to the brink.

"He had red hair. He was just a kid barely out of high school. Yuto Uzumaki. He was an Uzumaki." she explained without having to spell it out. She cleared her throat. "I missed five weeks of work in total between the hospitalization and the mandated time off. I made the switch from the night to the morning shift. Less pressure supposedly with the morning shift. More work-life balance. I actually got to experience the sun on my skin. And go to Naruto's," she smiled at him. "I got to see you for the first time."

"And you kept coming back for the coffee?" He asked, trying to soften the impact of what she had built, dissipating it before it could settle back between her bones. It was expelled - she worked hard to expel it - so it would remain away. As long as he was here to keep it away. A barrier. He would be her barrier.

Sakura rolled her eyes. "You forgot the cheese danishes."

"Right. My mistake. The real underlying reason," he smiled, eyes straining only slightly.

"I think they wanted to avoid that happening again," she admitted with bashfulness. "That's why they didn't push." The seconds moved slower than the minutes at that moment. "What are you thinking?" She murmured.

"I'm thinking of," he sighed deeply, trying to find the right words. "Heavy is the head, hands carry burdens of hearts, there's strength in struggle."

"Sumida again?" She asked him - voice softer than the falling laundry in gathered waning patience.

"Hm. That's what came to mind because when I look at you, I can't help but think how strong you are. But that's not what you asked." He smoothed hair behind her ears, expression earnest. "I think that you've been taking care of everyone and everything all by yourself for so long. And how that must be so hard."

"It is," she nodded her head absentmindedly, settling against him - fully relaxed. Relief. She melted with relief at being understood. Seen. That she was more than just her cracks - that she was whole. Still whole. "I'm tired of being strong. I'm tired of having to be strong."

He dipped his head and kissed her slowly right in the open view of the lens of the decoy cameras and wall of parking-lot-facing windows.

---

There was a loud crash. Sudden. Unexpected. Deafening. The paper-thin walls with no insulation between them did not pad the sound at all. There was a shout followed by a thump. Then just silence. Terrifying silence. Sakura peeled her ear from the shared divider. She knocked loudly.

"Ms. Honda?" She called out, heart in her throat. She was already working to secure her hair up and away from her face. "Ms. Honda?" She asked in a louder volume, voice remaining whole.

"Sakura!" The anguished exclamation came from the bathroom of the other apartment unit. There was no time to register the relief at hearing the woman's voice because she was speaking again, frantically. "Come quickly! My husband fell!"

She was moving. Running. She grabbed the full medical bag from the top corner of her closet. She was a blur of pink and red. She was out the door - slamming it closed - before he was even turned around from facing the bookshelf he was reorganizing alphabetically by genre, with soft music playing in his ears. No one was going to stop her.

Ms. Honda had the door open and she was standing just behind the doorway, wringing her hands and with tears in her eyes with open distraughtness. "Sakura!" She cried, her hand was over her heart.

"What happened?" Sakura asked, not stopping to take off her house slippers that had been contained by the dirt from outside. She moved through the unit that was a mirror of her own, with strides longer that should not have been possible for someone of her smaller stature.

"I don't know what happened," she exclaimed. "Everything was fine! Edo was in the shower," she shook her head in stunned disbelief.

"Mr. Honda fell?" Sakura asked, trying to get the woman to focus.

Ms. Honda nodded her head. "I covered him. He's decent."

Sakura grabbed a throw and a pillow from the couch, tucking both under her arm. "Was Mr. Honda moved?" Sakura asked, just able to keep the sharp edge off her words.

"No!" Ms. Honda insisted. "I remembered what you taught us." Her expression became more broken and painstaking. "There's so much blood!"

"Call an ambulance, Ms. Honda. Tell them I'm on the scene." She spared the shaking woman a glance before knocking on the partially ajar door. "Mr. Honda?" She called out. "It's Sakura, I'm coming in." She slowly pushed open the door with caution so that she did not accidentally hit him with it. She was going in practically blind. Ms. Honda had left in a fluster to do as she was curtly instructed.

Sakura placed the pillow on the floor before she sank onto her knees, thankful that she was wearing pants because the vinyl flooring was covered in fine powder-like glass dust. Mr. Honda was sprawled on the floor on his back. She opened up her bag, pulling her stethoscope around her neck. Mr. Honda - a man in his seventies with more wrinkles and liver spots than teeth or hair - moaned. He blinked his eyes, his arms were bent, fingers curled.

"Don't try to move, Mr. Honda. I need to make sure your spine is okay." She moved her hands to either side of his neck. "Blink once for yes and twice for no. Do not try to talk. Are you having difficulty breathing?" She asked calmly, her eyes flickered to the man's dark irises. They were dilated. He was terrified. He blinked once. Slowly. Then once more.

"Good," she moved down a vertebrae. One by one.

C1 to C4 look good.

She moved lower and lower. There were more feet on the other side of the door. "Don't come in! There's glass," she warned loudly, she never stopped progressing lower. "Can you move your hands for me, Mr. Honda?" She flexed her index finger. "Let's try the left hand first." She waited for him to process and execute the request, testing two things at once. His mobility and mental facilities. She held her breath.

The man's arm shook. He blinked rapidly. His breathing was in puffs. But his finger twitched and ultimately curled.

"Good," she breathed out in encouragement. "Now the right index finger, Mr. Honda. You're doing great."

"Sakura, what's going on?" Ms Honda asked, tearfully.

"Everything is fine, Ms. Honda. Can you get us some towels please?" She looked around the room, quickly - catching his finger moving. "Good, Mr. Honda." She reached for his hand. She ran her finger up and down his palm. "Blink once for yes. Twice for no. Can you feel this?"

He blinked once. She repeated the motions and questions for his right side. He blinked once again. She moved all the way up to his shoulder and asked the same question. He blinked once. The process was repeated for the other arm. It was when she had asked about his legs - through the layer of towel that preserved his modesty lying across his hips and thighs when she reached his hips - that she put her stethoscope in her ears.

"Can you breathe in for me?"

His spine is stable. No loss of sensation.

He did. She instructed him to breathe out. Everything sounded clear. She hung the scope around her neck. Sakura reached into her bag for a small thin, white light. She flickered it across his eyes. "Follow the light, Mr. Honda," she instructed him. He did after some initial hesitation. She repeated the exam. She breathed.

He's not concussed.

"Sakura."

Sakura turned her head to the door where Ms. Honda stood, distressed. Her eyes landed on Amaya's face. The woman was standing really close to Ms. Honda with alertness. "Mr. Honda is fine. I'll get him stitched up," her smile did not reach her eyes. She exchanged a look with the woman. Amaya nodded.

"Come on, Ms. Honda. Let's get you some water," Amaya started to gently turn the woman by her shoulders. "Mr. Honda is going to be just fine. Sakura has him. Remember she taught us that head wounds can bleed a lot sometimes?" Amaya spoke in a soothing cadence.

The woman nodded brokenly. "The t-tt-towels," she stammered, her face red and eyes watering.

Sakura held out her arm. "Thank you for the towels," she set them aside on top of the blanket.

Amaya and Ms. Honda shuffled away from the bathroom. Sakura turned back to the man who was blinking slowly. "Okay, Mr. Honda. I'm going to clean the gash on your head okay? Right after I take a look at your ankle. It's early but I don't think it's broken. That's very good news." Her fingers pressed against the joint tenderly, prodding and observing.

xXx

She held Ms. Honda around the shoulders, guiding her down the concrete stairs carefully. Ms. Honda gripped the metal railing. They moved slowly. The other occupants of the apartment units stood either on the sidewalk or outside their doors. They all wore looks of concern.

"Just a little more," Sakura encouraged her. Their feet were now firmly on the concrete. An ambulance - blue with yellow stripes - had its doors open. Mr. Honda had an oxygen mask on his mouth and nose. A monitor was on his index finger. He was covered in the yellow throw blanket. A jacket was pulled on top of it to cover his shoulders. He seemed so frail.

"You can sit inside with him, Ms. Honda," she said gently as they arrived at the doors. "They'll take really good care of you. I promise." She raised her head and eyes to see the medic in the back of the ambulance. "Anko," she smiled.

"Hiya Doc," she grinned, all teeth. "I didn't believe my ears when we got the call and then said you'd be here. You live in Tani?" She shook her head, chuckling. "You're full of surprises. Guess I'm out a hundred ryo." She chirped brightly, her purple eyes landed on the fearful face of the elderly woman. "You're in excellent hands, Ms. Honda."

"You really are, don't mind Anko, she was raised in a pit of snakes. Don't worry they weren't venomous," her partner chuckled heartily at his own sense of humor.

"If only," Anko winked at the poor woman, her canine teeth gleaming with hints of sinisterness.

"See Ms. Honda?" Sakura squeezed her arm in reassurance. "There's no need to worry when they're joking around like this," she informed the woman who was losing what color remained on her face before the biting wind put it back with aggression. "Mr. Honda is going to be just fine."

Shit's really hitting the fan if they stop talking. Especially Anko.

"Up, up, Mr. Honda," Asuma pulled the gurney up and Anko pulled it into the metal crevice. Asuma turned around and smiled charmingly at Ms. Honda. He held out his hand. "Ma'am?"

The woman looked at her. Sakura nodded her head. "It's okay." With a hand squarely on Ms. Honda's back, Sakura helped the woman up into the ambulance.

"We'll have the house cleaned for you by the time you get back. Don't worry about a thing!" She assured the woman, her hands cupped over her mouth so that the woman would hear her over the sounds of the monitors, paramedics, radios, and her own hearing aid.

"I'll bring over food," Amaya called out from next to Sakura's shoulder. "Just focus on getting better, Mr. Honda."

The two women waved as the door closed. Ms. Honda was framed in a small window. Terrified. The poor woman was so scared. Asuma dusted his gloved hands.

"What's the word, Haruno?" He asked her, hand moving to shorter hairs on the back of his head.

"He needs the docket of brain scans. Get an ultrasound of his ankle. I think there might be some fractures. Have them check for bleeding in his stomach too. He was unable to break his fall. Make sure they know he's on blood thinners and is in the early stages of dementia," she listed off clearly and clinically, not worried that he would miss anything even if he was not writing it down. Asuma was capable like that. "Tell them I sent him and I will email over his medical records."

"You got it." He dipped his head with an open palm. "I'll tell Ruby I saw you. It'll put a smile on her face."

"Must be getting close to time," Sakura suddenly remembered with a start, eyes wide.

"The paperwork is all filed. Any day now," he grinned, nodding his head.

"Good luck," she offered him a hollow smile, just lofty words.

I need to send them flowers. Ino can arrange something really nice. And an apology note to Kurenai for disappearing like that.

A box of sugar-free cookies too from that bakery in Yuma on account of Kuenai's gestational diabetes; they were the only ones that did not taste and feel like dry sand.

"Thanks, Haruno." Asuma slapped the back of the ambulance out of habit. He jogged to the driver-side door, yanked it open, and slipped inside. The lights lit up first as he pulled into the street. Then the siren shrieked.

Piercingly loud.

Sakura and Amaya sighed in unison.

"I'll vacuum and you mop?" Sakura asked tiredly.

"The hard part is over Sakura. Chin up," Amaya carried on nodding her head, she slung her arm around Sakura's shoulders. They caught the hazel-colored eyes of the boy in the window.

"There's something I need to tell you," Sakura murmured, rubbing her elbow. She did not look forward to weaving half-truths in with her lies. But it had been long enough that Hiro was keeping her secret. A secret that was probably stewing in his anger right now.

"Oh?" Amaya raised a brown brow. "Is this something that should wait for Hiro to fall asleep before being shared?"

Most definitely. The kid has no poker face. Or a surprise face.

Sakura rolled her eyes. "If you're gonna make a big deal about it, I'm not going to tell you." They walked leisurely toward the foot of the stairs. The door directly behind them opened. Hiro came out with a lanyard with his keys around his neck. He was wearing his red sneakers. His headphones over his ears.

"Oh," Amaya grinned, beckoning her son over. "It's gonna be good isn't it?"

"I hope so," Sakura said, trying and failing to not look at her window. The curtains were drawn tight, untouched, and unmoved.

I hope so.

xXx

She pressed her fingers to the back of her neck, groaning. Her head was hung low and her back was displeased. The baby hairs around her forehead and the back of her neck had filled with sweat and had dried. The apartment next door was cleaned. Top to bottom. No more blood. No more glass. No more shower doors. Her belly was filled with food that Aayma had made. Both mother and son were back in their apartment on the first floor. Tucked in, safe, and accounted for, their days were officially over.

I still need to send over the records.

Sakura had managed to get a hold of Mr. and Mrs. Honda's adult son. He had arrived at the hospital just ten minutes ago, with enough of Amaya's food to feed a hospital wing. Sakura had promised to collect some more tomorrow. She claimed she did not have the strength to carry it up the steps and it seemed to appease Amaya long enough until she completely forgot about the notion. Sakura's medical bag felt so heavy in her hand. She stood in front of her door. She turned the knob. It was locked. She did not bring her key. Nor her phone. Both things she had left behind. Her feet were clad in borrowed socks. Her slippers were gone. They had been coated in blood and embedded with glass. She stood on her mat, feeling the dirt and grim from weeks of being out in the elements.

My head hurts.

She gnawed on her lip. He could be sleeping. It was unlikely but it was not out of the realm of possibility. It was late. Amaya was in the mood for a couple of drinks and she would not take no for an answer not that Sakura tried all that hard. Three shots of tequila - Amaya's poison of choice that Sakura normally did not mess with as it messed a little too much with her head - later and she felt like the dead. Stiff. Cold. Drained of both hope and life.

I could go downstairs and use Amaya's spare key.

But that would require going down a flight of stairs after snagging a pair of flip-flops from the front of the Hondas' doorstep and waking up her friend. And worse, going back up those very same stairs. She pressed her forehead against the door. The knob jostled in her hand. She leaned back. The door creaked, pulling from the frame a sliver. She could only see darkness.

Just rip off the bandage.

She stepped over the threshold. She inhaled sharply. She felt herself being pulled. She crashed into something hard, warm, and encompassing. Alive. Her back pressed against the sealed door.

"Don't do that again," he ordered barely above a whisper. Low and clear.

She nodded her head, dumbly. The hair on the back of her neck and her arms stood on end. Her eyes closed when his lips crashed onto hers. She could not get out so much as a squeak of surprise. Her head was spinning in earnest now.

---

You may have fallen,

But my heart raced like the wind,

I fell deeper still.

Sakura clamped down on her lower lip out of necessity to keep the sound he elicited out of her contained. She would die of embarrassment if he caught on to just what his fingers were doing to her - the impact they had. He would probably tease her about it incessantly. Her eyes fluttered closed in an involuntary response.

"I," she hummed, leaning forward slightly, her legs folded under her. The coffee table was pushed out of the way. A bamboo comb glided through her hair. Caressing her scalp lovingly. "I didn't know Sumida wrote anything other than angst. You opened up a whole world to me. I don't know if I like it," she concluded with a frown.

Minato chuckled from somewhere behind her. "While it's true that his divorce is what got Sumida into writing and gaining his notoriety, he said it himself, it was the cries of his broken heart slathered on ink and paper that brought him his greatest gift."

"The Nobel Prize in Literature?"

"His second wife."

"What asap," Sakura concluded not for the first time without fanfare. She was careful in placing the book behind her, turning her body which earned her a glare without heat from Minato who had to halt his attention on her hair.

"So you only read his depressive works?"

"Not depressive," she tapped her fingers against her thigh. "Well depressive, yes." She let out a sigh. "I happened to stumble on One Heart Only Knows my Plight, My Own on an end-cap at the library one day. Just sitting there under a canned light. Dust floating above it. The cover was black. The characters were red. It was simple but striking. It captured my interest enough to pluck it from the display stand, crack the worn spine and read the first poem. It wasn't even a Haiku - what he's known for."

Sakura cleared her throat, she closed her eyes and pictured the brown page with black ink. Her lips moved slowly with purpose. She enunciated with clarity.

"Secrets conferred in the dark,

you turned away from my fall-

silence cut too deep.

Again and again, I reached for you,

but shadows swallowed my call;

now you gaze at me.

A hollow echo,

what remains of shattered trust?

Just a vacant look."

"It felt like that poem was written just for me," She admitted, opening her eyes with her head bowed toward her lap. Gentle caresses were repetitive and consistent. She had cried in the bathroom stall, holding the book in her tight-tight fists. Balling. "The next one I read felt the same. The next one too. Over and over. He helped me through the whole abandoning thing. I didn't have the words. Sumida did. I didn't know he was writing about his wife leaving him. All I knew was that he could describe what I was going through. It fit."

"Hm." Minato split her hair into three equal sections, carefully.

"So your dad? He was the romantic?"

Minato nodded his head. "Yes," he said when he realized she could not see him. He brought one hand over the other. "They both were. But my dad was a hopeless romantic. He read Sumida and wrote poems for my mom. He filled up diaries. One for each year they were together."

"That's sweet," she said with a soft smile. "Did you read them?" She asked with open curiosity.

Minato made a face. "That would make me very uncomfortable."

"Yeah," Sakura nodded her head. "I can see that."

"How was Mr. Honda?" He asked her at the end of a beat of silence.

"I didn't get to talk to him. It was Jun, his son, who called. He just wanted to make sure the medication they were giving him wouldn't cause problems. It's good that he's there. It would have been too much for Ms. Honda."

"You're worried."

Her shoulder dipped. "Yeah." She scratched her neck, turning her skin first pink and then red when she did not let up. Minato tutted her into resignation. "Jun can't stay forever. He's burning through his paid vacation days. I think he gets paid hourly based on what Ms. Honda described."

"Mr. Honda is getting better," Minato reminded her, patiently. "He'll be back home and Jun will be back at work." He secured the end of her braid with a black hair-tie.

"You're right," she agreed much more readily than he was expecting. "They'll be fine."

Minato slid her braid over her shoulders. Her hands were there immediately to inspect the work.

"Not bad," she grinned up at him. "Thank you!"

"You're welcome," he said with a chuckle. "You have really beautiful hair, Sakura. It made braiding foolproof."

"You're no fool, Namikaze," she rolled her eyes to accompany the immediate denial. The pink that dusted her cheeks gave away her inner delight. She rose to her feet. She caught herself from falling by grabbing the back couch on either side of his head. He leaned back just in time to avoid a forehead to his nose. "Foot fell asleep," she hissed with her face contorted in pain.

"You weren't down that long," Minato frowned at her, grabbing her by the waist to keep her balanced as she stood on one foot. Her other leg was being held out so she could attempt to wiggle her toes. She breathed through the cramp. "You have bad circulation."

"You sound like my mother," she clicked her tongue and shook out the appendage for any lingering pins and needles. "Your turn," she grinned down at him, both feet firmly on the rug.

"You're going to braid my hair?" Minato asked with a raised brow.

Sakura grinned, leaning forward and kissing the tip of his nose to his mild annoyance. "Just listen for once will you?" She asked him with sparkling eyes.

"Fine." He blew air at her neck - causing her to scrunch up her shoulders in a delayed effort to hide it. Minato got up only to sink down to the floor, Sakura took his spot on the couch.

She wiggled in the cushions, her feet coming to tap against his ribs on either side. "You're like a furnace."

"I'm hot," he grinned, tilting back to see the sour look on her face.

"What are you twelve?" She asked, cheeks puffing out in the effort it took to hold back a laugh.

"That would put you in a lot of trouble if that were the case."

Sakura dug her fingers into his hair with more force than necessary, relishing in the small breath of surprise. "Sorry," she said disingenuously. Minato relaxed back when they started their massage. "Where did you learn to braid? VideoTube?" She teased. "Did you have luscious, long locks during your teenage years? They were all the rage during mine." Everyone was rocking the boyband look.

"Not quite," he closed his eyes, losing himself to the ministrations of her hands. "I can't tolerate my hair being much longer than this. It gets too shaggy." It could snap combs in half. He felt his hair being lifted only for it to be dropped. A few times as she drove her point home silently.

"Shagger than this?" She asked incredulously and not-so-silently.

He nodded his head. "Believe me. So much shaggier."

"Yikes," She frowned. "You have enough for pigtails. Interested?" She asked conversationally, gathering what she could to the side of his head.

"Surprise me," he answered easily.

"Too bad I don't have tiny bands, maybe you can add them to Sasori's list for next time." Sakura's nails raked across his scalp. It was over much too soon but before he could really feel the loss, her fingertips were at his temples and moving soothingly. "Did you learn to braid to impress your future girlfriend?" She asked innocently.

"I learned from watching my aunt, Aunt Yoshi - the woman who took me in when my mother died," he admitted in a low volume, distractedly. He pictured the woman with raven hair and sharp eyes. "She braided her hair every morning and again before she tucked me and her son in for the night. When she got sick," he inhaled deeply. "She had lost so much hair, it really upset her. She would just stare in the mirror, not moving and losing track of time. So I offered to braid it for her before I had to go to school. She let me."

Her hands stopped moving. She was frozen behind him. Stunned. "Minato," she said his name with uncertainty. Her voice sounded so far away. "That's so incredibly sweet," Sakura added not without disbelief.

"It was nothing," he was quick to minimize. "It was the least I could do. She fed me, she bought, washed, and folded my clothes, she bathed me, she brushed my hair, she got me ready for school, she sat up with me when I had nightmares - I had them a lot in the beginning, I would wake up distraught still not used to my new room -, she told me stories, she looked out for me. I was just trying to show my gratitude by helping in any way I could. Uncle never would have been able to take me in if my aunt had said no. It's because of her that I had a place to call home."

Her hands moved to either side of his face. Her fingers held his cheeks. "Minato, you were a young child. Your only job was to grow. That's it. She did all those things because she wanted to, not because she felt obligated to. Trust me," she said with haughty adamance as if she would refuse to entertain any other points of the contrary. "Something tells me you were a very easy kid to love," she huffed very matter-of-fact.

He smiled against her fingers. His heart warmed. The right corner of his mouth pulled too high, the grin was teasing. "Are you only saying that because you feel bad?"

She tugged on his hair in a warning she did not mean. "Maybe."

He chuckled at the put on air around her. She was strange. She was protective just now of the little boy he was but also protective of maintaining her facade of who she claimed to be to the world. Putty in his hands that stubbornly referred to herself as stone.

You had to be. To survive. To protect yourself from crumbling from the inside out.

"It's not impressive when it should be expected. Knowing how to braid hair is a requirement," he carried on in the same light tone despite his irises being as dark as sapphire.

"A requirement?" She asked, ending up where he led.

"For being a father to a daughter," Minato punctuated with a sigh; his smile softening to something much more sincere.

Sakura found herself playing with her braid, training down the length of it with a feather-light touch. She stretched her lips apart. "A daughter? Don't men usually dream of a son to throw a ball in the backyard with?" The question was meant to be light but her tone contained too much bitterness for it to translate into reality. Because she wondered - not just once - if her father would have left if he still had a son. She wondered if things would be different - any different - if he did not have only a wife and daughter to leave behind. Would he have thought twice? Would he have looked back? Even once?

"Maybe," Minato noted noncommittally. "Putting aside that men are not a monolith for just the sake of discussion, it would be nice to have a son. I can't deny that. We wouldn't play catch, though." He found baseball much too slow - boring. He found baseball boring. "We could shoot hoops instead at the park. His sister can play too. If she wants. Yeah, a son would be good - great. The firstborn. I would want my daughter second."

So I can spoil her. So she can have a brother to look after her in the world after I'm gone.

"You have it all thought out huh?" She asked, feeling herself begin to retreat.

"Just the big things - the main things," he stared at the blank TV screen. Just able to make out the colors of their persons. His yellow hair, his blue long-sleeved shirt, his gray sweats. Her pink, orange, and black. "Every father should have a daughter. They should experience that kind of love, the love only a daughter can have for her family."

You're not the reason why he left, Sakura. It wasn't your job to make him stay. It was never your job.

"The grass isn't always greener," she added after some time, always the contrarian. Or maybe she just liked to debate him. It could just be a byproduct of having Mebuki's blood. And that was why he held his tongue. He could not call Kizashi a coward because his blood was running through Sakura's veins too. Equally. Fingers moving in lazy circles. "It sounds like you were the ideal kid - as a son - between the two of us. You were attentive, kind, patient, thoughtful, and selfless. I was just a loud brat. Spoiled rotten."

"Sakura," he tried and failed to meet the gaze of her eyes reflected a couple of yards away on a hazy screen. "If I had a daughter even remotely like you, I would never complain again. About anything."

Ever.

He saw a flash of white teeth. "You know how to complain?" The teasing was back in her voice, raising his stomach back up where it belonged. "Be careful what you wish for Minato. You might just get a screaming, opinionated, brat with boundless energy and a sassy streak."

"Whose hair I'm going to braid before school and bedtime every day," he countered happily.

"I'll pray for her," her voice was grave. She felt warm around the bottom of her feet. She furrowed her brow. "Just what do you think you're do-ing?" She asked, indignation melting into a gasp.

"Fixing your circulation," Minato said without missing a beat. Her foot was between his hands, his thumbs pressed against her arch. She nearly let out a moan.

"Minato," she sighed in resignation, closing her eyes. "You don't have to give back all the time. You know it's okay to just receive right?" She asked him with a frown that he could only hear.

"I don't mind. It's actually efficient. It gives me a chance to do my stretches for the day too." He continued to work diligently.

"Don't overdo it," she murmured half-heartedly, at a loss for anything more meaningful. "You're still injured," she reminded him.

"You grind your teeth at night," he brought up suddenly remembering.

"I know," she answered back, voice unchanging in its steadiness.

That got him to pause both mentally and physically. "You know?"

"Hm. I have a night guard," she explained, playing with his hair absentmindedly. "My dentist told me. And I resent the implication."

"I didn't imply anything," he pointed out carefully. "Why don't you use it?"

She laughed, embarrassed, she ceased parting his hair on the right for a moment. "Because it's not the sexiest thing in the world." There was drool involved - usually - when she took it off. It left a film on her teeth. It smelled like morning breath and not to mention it made her look like a chipmunk.

"You know what's really not sexy? Dentures," he answered his own question flatly, unamused at her priorities. "Take better care of your teeth."

"Minato," she pulled on some hair, tone warning for him to proceed with caution.

"Thank you, Sakura." His hands dug into her foot, he had switched them some time ago back when he talked about his hypothetical daughter.

"Hm? For what?" She asked, completely missing his tone barreling into a trap at full speed.

"I used to think that you were so nice when I first saw you. You reminded me that I can be wrong. I am quite humbled." His disgruntled exclamation of a pained "Hey!" was music to her deranged ears.

"You're welcome," she sang, beaming brightly.

"Sakura," he had the audacity to look back and up at her, hurt.

"Whose is at fault here, when I warned you time before, of boundary then." She waited with expectation.

"Sumida pre-second-marriage? He asked her, coming up well short after a search of his mental archives. He did not know his earlier work as well as she did.

"Sakura," she answered smugly, basking in the glow of catching him off guard twice with one spoken off-the-cuff Haiku. She was smart-smart and well-rounded. "Pre-kiss-attack," she warned, leaning forward, easing away the sting of roots left bare with apologetic fingers and a soothing mouth. "You're going to have to braid my hair again," she whispered the demand against him, sealing her lips against his before he could work out a retort. It was okay. She had reasons to believe he would not mind the practice at least for a little while as he waited for this daughter to become more than just hypothetical.

---

"Why do you carry a cigarette?" She asked him with her head on his chest. Her feet pointed toward her headboard. A compromise. He did not want to sleep on her side of the bed any more than she wanted to accidentally smack him across his injured shoulder. Sides were kept but the pillow placement changed. "You don't smoke," she stated.

"My best friend smoked. He was a genius. The smartest person I knew." His fingertips moved up and down the length of her upper arm. She moved closer. Pressing her ear and the side of her head against his chest. Legs tangled together. Arm hugging him tight across his abdomen. "He thought of everything on such a granular level that he often gave himself migraines. Chronic migraines the Clan doctor called it. The medication didn't help. If anything, it added to his anxiety. Made him jumpy. He claimed tobacco - cigarettes - were the only thing that worked. He started smoking at fourteen. Never looked back."

"Did you ever smoke with him?"

"No," he blinked slowly.

"Not even once?" She did not mean to sound so skeptical. If it was true, it spoke to his will. Iron-clad.

"At the time, I had hoped I would join the major leagues as a sprinter. It's not uncommon for the Akatuski and clans, in general, to endorse athletes or children with promise and talent. I needed my lungs so I never tried."

The room was dark. He could hear her soft breaths. He could feel the rise and fall of her chest. With his added heat in the bed, she opted to sleep in a camisole and no pants but the latter part was hardly new.

"Shikamaru," she said his name. "Aunt Yoshino's and Uncle Shikaku's son," she filled the silence with her voice just because she could. Like a pry almost. She did not want the door to slam shut. The door that was giving her more than a glimpse of his suspended world - like the inside of a snowglobe.

"Shika," he breathed through the tightness of his chest. "He was my first friend. We were born knowing each other back then - back when my parents were still alive, Uncle was very much hands-off with clan business. His father ran it. Uncle wanted to be the mayor's advisor. He had a lot of ideas on how to legitimately improve the city. For everyone. He used to say he was a Konohoan first and a Nara second."

"What happened?"

"His wife - Aunt Yoshi - died. The cancer did her in. She used to say she would be there for our big milestones: our graduations, our wedding days, the birth of our first kids if we didn't make her wait unreasonably long. She said twenty-five was a good age to be a first-time father." He blinked back the mist in his eyes, clearing his throat. "She fought as long as she could. It happened within three years of his best friend - my dad - and his best friend's wife dying. Car fire." The words cut still even after all this time. But they stung less. The pain lingered for less time. With each kiss, caress, hug, and soft utterance from her, it hurt less.

"I'm so sorry," she froze against him, hitching back her breath in her throat with a sharp whistle. "That day…at the laundry, I-"

"You didn't know." He cupped her cheek, ending her hurried explanation. "It was a long time ago, Sakura."

She turned her head to kiss his palm. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"They were out celebrating their anniversary. Dad was taking Mom to see her favorite play. A musical. He couldn't stand them. Uncle said he got through them by watching it reflect off of Mom's eyes."

"That's sweet," the corner of her lips pulled into a small smile under his hand. "They sound very much in love."

"They were. They are." He brushed her cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. His brain worked hard to try to remember their moving faces. Anything.

"What happened to Shika?" Her heel stroked up the length of his shinbone, in a reminder that she was there.

His hand around her shoulder twitched. "Drive by execution."

She froze for a second time, stiffening like a corpse.

"He was out smoking, outside the jurisdiction of the Clan. Something Shikaku always gave him crap over. He was in the wrong place and at the wrong time. A car pulled up. All six bullets connected. He was dead before he hit the sidewalk." He closed his eyes. He could see it happening. He spotted Shikamaru at the edge of the white stone wall, standing under the shade of the large mulberry tree whose branches stretched outside the courtyard. He had been grinning in triumph, waving his shirt over his head like a flag. It had been so hot that day. Much hotter than the days before. He raised his hand to call Shika's attention when in the corner of his eye, he saw the black town car.

He remembered thinking it was strange that plates started with 'CXT' none of the cars to the Clan used that prefix. It was when the window rolled down, he understood why. He saw the barrel. Glittering. He shouted at Shikamaru who was much too far away still. He broke into a sprint. Pushing his spent frame faster. Faster than it ever managed before. His hand stretched outward. The Nara turned to look at him, already moving to grind his cigarette in the gravel. The first bullet hit his shoulder, turning him. The next five hit him in the chest. Center mass. Shika fell. Like a ragdoll. His knees did not even buckle. Flat on half of his face. The car peeled away. He made eye contact - tears down his face - with the shooter. The man had smirked, winking at him behind the dark shades perched on the tip of his nose. They left him alive intentionally as a witness.

"Minato?" She cupped the side of his face. Skin warm and breath hot. "Minato," she called out to him softly.

"I'm here," he cleared his throat, blinking back the moisture in his eyes. He was not completely successful. "I was there."

"Oh God," she curled against him. Lips pressed against his cheek.

"We were nineteen and twenty," he breathed out a column of air. "I was the last familiar face he saw."

"I'm sorry." She held him tight.

"Shikaku took up the mantle the same day he buried his son," his voice raised an octave - cracking. "He was angry. He was ready to go to war. So was I."

He heard her inhale sharply.

"I gave up everything for revenge. I dropped out of school. Nothing was the same. My old life…the barrier - the one my parents wished for and Aunt Yoshino kept up - between me and the Clan was gone," he ran his fingers through her hair. His nose tickled at the warm sweet notes. The touch and scent reminded him - grounded him - that it was in the past. Painful yes, but in the past.

"It would have eaten me whole and I was ready to let it," he continued to narrate, pausing only every now and then to press a kiss to her temple or forehead. Tenderness to break up the monotony of tragedy. He had been very apathetic toward life - even if own, maybe especially his own - during that dark period.

"What saved you?" She asked, her lashes tickling the underside of his jaw.

"The Professor," he smiled, it was without mirth. "He saw my anger. He saw the road I was walking down. I was ready to mow the whole Yuki clan indiscriminately. They were all guilty in my mind. Even the children. I came close more than once to crossing the line. My gun jammed the first time I had it lined up against someone. Someone innocent. Someone terrified. Someone who tried to bargain for his life with the sixty-three ryo he had in his wallet. He spent most of it buying a hand-held gaming console for his kids. He even tried to show me pictures of them he had in there. I pulled the trigger anyway. He whimpered. My gun jammed. It saved me from having to live with the fact that I killed someone. I would have had it not been for dumb luck." He breathed, collected and calm but not without shame. Shame as he remembered that boy who thought he was a man.

"Your parents," she smiled sadly with damp eyes. "They looked out for you."

"They saved me from killing Masa Yuki." He nodded his head, closing his eyes and trying so hard to bring sharpness to their fuzzy faces. There was no reason for the gun to jam. He had cleaned it. He had loaded it. He had fired a test round. All him. It was all him. "The Professor - he shielded me, he took me in. Gave a place to go to to purge the anger from my heart."

"He let you mourn," she realized. "He let you grieve without shoving a gun in your hand."

"He told me something that I still carry. He asked me what would happen if I managed to kill the man who killed Shika. He asked me what would happen if I managed to kill all the men who were in the car that drove off. He asked me what would be different. He asked me if Shika would come back if I did all that. He got me to think about me, for the first time in weeks. He got me to realize that the only thing that would be different was I would be like them, like the men who killed Shika. I would be a killer. A stranger killer. The very thing Shika abhorred. His migraines, part of the reason he thought so much, was to find ways to do all this without killing. He never wanted to be in this life. He was jealous of me. Of the life I had. I was the son of a school teacher and dentist. He wanted a boring life. He never wanted to be the Clan heir. He didn't ask for it."

"Minato."

"He just wanted to be a normal guy," he breathed in shakily. "He just wanted to smoke in peace."

"It's okay," she held him. He buried his face into her chest. Her hands wrapped around his head. "It's okay," she said over and over. Until his breathing evened out. Until her own tears subsided, long after her camisole had dried.

---

"You are so over the top," she laughed, talking loudly. Her headphones in her ears were playing a light melody.

"I'm just speaking the truth," he grinned easily at her, lying across the couch lazily.

"A medical textbook really?" She cocked a judgemental brow. "That's a turn-on for you?"

"What I said was," Minato's tone was quick to admonish her as he corrected. Volume barely above the low murmur of the TV. "If you read a medical textbook to me, I would find it sexy. Want to teach me about the powerhouse of the cell?"

"Don't you mock me," she tsked playfully, cheeks pulled wide into a smile she could not fight. "I really do need to study. Just to make sure my brain doesn't rot in all this time away," she crinkled her nose at the thick book open across her lap. "This is taking me back to med school." Her face brightened. "Vodka?" She asked him with excitement laced in her eyes and tone.

"I'm alright," he furrowed his brow. "Now you make me question every doctor I've come across."

"Come across doctors often, sir?" She teased.

"None like you," he grinned back.

Her stomach fluttered. It was practically jumping up and down as she watched him rise to his feet. He stooped down, holding the back of her head, and kissed her deeply. She closed her eyes and melted into the kiss. Her ears rang so much she did not even hear her music. Her lips curled into a smile at his forehead resting against hers. He pecked them twice.

"To be continued," he promised, straightening. "After you study," he added in a stern tone.

"Dork," she said fondly watching him over her shoulder as he disappeared into the hallway bath. She scanned the page trying to remember where she had left off. She skimmed the words, refreshing her memory with clear visions of the diagrams that had grown fuzzy with time.

The toilet flushed. She could hear the sound of the tap. She lost total focus on what she had been reading. In her defense, she was very much interested in continuing where they had left off. It was a lot more interactive.

I deserve a break.

Breaks always helped her be productive - at least that was how she was choosing to remember the grueling four years of cramming thousands and thousands of dense pages. A loud knock - banging really - had her snapping her attention to the door.

Ino?

Who else could it be? It was not Wednesday and Amaya did not ask her to watch Hiro a second day this week. Ino would announce herself soon enough.

I knew it was too good to be true for her to listen.

"Konoha PD. Open up, Dr. Haruno," a voice called out over the unsteady still. "We know you're in there."

Her heart stopped in her chest.