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.

14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto

Chapter 14

The wind did more than nip; it whipped his hair against his cheeks until they stung. His eyes were just starting to water but he could not isolate the wind for being the sole reason behind it. Each breath was determined to be more difficult than the one before. His brown leather lace-up boots rested over the rotted wood of the step. The moon provided enough light that he saw the sizable hole from where the termites ate through the plank, saving him from a nasty ankle twist. Minato moved mindfully over the gaps and thinning frame. He reached the door.

A repetitive creaking to his left of the weathered, empty rocking chair only added to the eeriness of it all. He felt light. Exposed. Even vulnerable if he allowed himself such consideration. An owl hooted off in the distance somewhere. He half expected bats to shoot out of one of the poorly boarded windows. The hardware was rusty and the latch was long gone. The door opened with just a press of his two fingers. The hinges groaned from the mistreatment. It was even worse inside. He did not need the edge of the moon's glow to extend far to see that much. The emptiness painted a picture for him. Minato's hand slipped into the inner pocket of his jacket. With three taps on the phone's screen, a narrow but bright light illuminated just enough for him to continue to make forward progress responsibly.

The smell of charred wood from a fire long ago lingered, permeating the air. It brought no semblance of comfort. The fire claimed the kitchen off to his right. Blacked and gutted a sad corpse of where love gathered. A staircase was all but six feet in front of him. With a sigh, Minato moved toward it. Every step caused the wood to complain. The rotting planks—spared the flame but suffering a slower death—and loose screws announced his arrival every bit as the soft jingle from his breast pocket did. A hollow sound that echoed the unease of the setting. There were no secrets here just as there was no future in what once was a home where families made cherished memories. Without people, it was nothing more than overpriced beams of wood.

His head was clear. There was no duality to it. There was no conflict. Only perhaps regret. He reached the top of the stairs, avoiding a sizable crater where he could see right into what had to be the living room. His heavy footfalls kept moving. The fire had not risen to the second floor. He did not know the layout. He did not know the home. But he did not pause on the first sets of doors he encountered. He moved down the hall. The light on his phone showed him the path.

All the way to the final door. It was already slightly ajar. He breathed in slowly, giving himself to gather his thoughts; not much but it would have to be enough. He was in full alignment. The gap grew of its own volition, and the only difference was this time. He noticed it happening, and that too in real-time. What remained of the curtains billowed in the cold howl. The door slammed against the wall, the hinges catapulting it back toward him. Not equal but opposite. His hand caught it from smashing his nose broken. He stood there in place. Rooted. The complete moon was fully framed in the open gridded windows. Silver light darkened his hair to a dark gray. Monochromatic and stripped of its usual vibrancy. It moved at the whims of the current presiding gust. He pulled his leg back slightly—lounged in the window seat—his black leather boots dragged against the scratched floorboards left stripped of any glossy layers; a relic of what they once were—a shell.

"You came," he said without emotion. He might as well have not been human at all. There were no signs of life behind his blank eyes. Flatflatflat.

"I did," he said. As he did not know where to start, it seemed as good a place as any.

"You're not dead," he sounded almost disappointed in the statement of the obvious. Almost.

Minato opted to observe rather than respond. It seemed that the man had achieved his goal—coming as close to it as a living, breathing being could—he was practically a hyper-realistic doll. Every detail, from the acid-wash jeans and matching jean jacket to the painted nails, was perfect. He could be anywhere—even inside her apartment, sitting on her accent chair. It was a convincing illusion—one Minato himself had fallen for—all because he refused to see it for what it was.

"My phone's not blowing up," Sasori gestured to the very thing on the floor right next to his foot. Screenside up. "And you're calm," his brown eyes settled on Minato's impassive face. "So Doc must be alright."

About as alright as she could be with a hole through her hand.

"She was good to you," Minato kept the emotion—the rage—from his voice but he could not keep his fingers from balling into a fist. "Kind."

She didn't deserve that, this, you.

"She was," Sasori pursed his lips and exhaled slowly. A column of smokey air shot forward. For a moment there was a trace of something adjacent to genuine across his face. It did not last long; still waters rarely remained when at the mercy of a restless mind. "How did you know I was here?"

Minato lowered his arm. The side of his boot took place as the new improvised doorstop. "You're burned. You could only turn to home."

Sasori scoffed sadly, in resignation. "I have no home."

It was true. The building—the condemned structure they were in—stopped being home when his grandmother died and his mother—much like she had with her only child—neglected the upkeep until the fateful day of the fire that was the final nail in the coffin for the building. If only the story ended there. But not. Sasori with his own actions burned the home that he had found. There was no pity held in Minato for the man before him. Sasori burned that too along with any goodwill. All that was left was the burn scars of what once was.

"When did you figure it out?" The redhead asked, unable to let go of his curiosity even if everything fell apart around him, conversationally dragging out the inevitable. Despite not being the most studious of pupils, even he tried not to repeat the same mistake twice. "What gave me away?"

"The level zero," Minato began the list with the most glaring of mistakes. It was much too late. "The tracker, you planted on her car after he gave it to you. A tracker that you didn't mention went missing either because you weren't checking her car like you said you would or because you didn't want me to know." Then there was the fact that Masanori knew about Amaya, Hiro, and the Hondas. Specifics that required time to notice. Rihito would have mentioned it right away if he spotted someone—especially Masanori or anyone sharing any characteristics with Uchiha—loitering. Even Sasori was not that unaware to miss it. Which only led to Sasori having told Masanori himself. Masanori capitalized on the smallest of windows of opportunity; an opportunity that did not happen upon by chance as it was created. "You sent Inuzuka to do your job for you. A job you've been asking for both directly and indirectly." That bothered Minato, a prick since the beginning that he pushed to the back of his mind because there was always something more pressing that needed his attention—both willing and begrudging—for him to dwell on too long. He would have seen the seams; they would have unraveled sooner if he tugged at it harder. "Your sudden chattiness and lack of awareness around Sakura."

It all clicked together much too late. I should have seen it sooner. Jiraiya was right, you're in my blind spot.

"Hm," Sasori was slow to close his eyes completely, and it was not all rooted in his forced nonchalance. He wanted to keep Minato in his sights as long as humanly possible. He was no fool. "All I wanted was more responsibility." He kissed his teeth, lips pulling into a vengeful grimace. "I just wanted you to see me for who I am."

"A coward?" Minato pressed the button he knew was more sensitive than the rest. "A little boy who throws a tantrum and runs away when it comes time to clean up his mess."

Sasori did not react. Initially. He let the words sink in. For a beat. Maybe even for two. The heat of repressed anger rose from underneath the surface of his skin, touching the detached air he projected. The image he tried to fake convincingly. But Minato now saw clearly; he was no longer disillusioned. The blond Nara waited for one or the other to win out.

Neither did. Something new was created from the unstable conditions. It was like watching a tornado form right in front of his blue eyes. Sasori shot to his feet. Hands moving and suddenly he was in Minato's face. Something rough, hard, and unforgiving was pressed into the underside of the jaw—right at the edge of his chin.

The barrel of Sasori's gun.

"Who's the little boy now?" Sasori spat out with venom, his voice low like the body of a serpent slithering over the dirt.

"Still you." The gun moved in accordance with his jaw.

Sasori's brown eyes narrowed. He threw his head back and laughed. "This," he shook it in disbelief. Affronted. "Is exactly the problem." The mirth—steeped in cruelty—vanished from his face, leaving a dark shadow of what had been. "This is your problem." Sasori gestured to Minato with his unoccupied hand, validated in what he believed to be the truth. His truth.

The Namikaze let out a small breath of air—annoyed—when the gun dug in even more as if it were nothing but a nuisance—a fly landing on his nose.

"You don't take me seriously!" Sasori put his grievance to words. "You've never taken me seriously! I have ideas. I have goals too! I could have helped you. We could have been a team. We could have run the Clan! All you had to do was listen. All you had to do was marry into it with Boss's blessing—make it official! All you had to do was pick him! Pick me! All you had to do was accept me as your equal." The dam had broken. Everything was coming out all at once. A wall of destructive pressure. His voice rose, fell, caught, and nearly broke. Nothing was predictable. "We could have been something. We could have been somebodies. We could have had everything! It was in our hands!" His pale white fist shook; a straight path down the line of Minato's nose.

He could not hold back his scoff. He was rewarded with bruising pressure. Sasori's finger moved from along the chamber to the trigger. Minato narrowed his eyes in either warning or reprimand—the line was thin, the light was low; there was no chance of visible differentiation.

No safety.

"We could have been partners—I would have been your right hand like now, like always. Instead, you had me babysitting your bitch," the puppet master spat with disdain and purpose, desperate to get a rile out of the calm man in front of him—to bring him down to the smoldering flames of his anger.

But Minato was a bucket of ice water. "You proved it time and time again, Hora. You're not ready. You were never ready."

The only bitch that needed babysitting was you.

And Minato had no more interest in fulfilling that role. He knew a lost cause when he saw one and now he was ready to admit it; no longer blinded by any fondness he once held for the boy the redhead used to be. Lost and alone in the world.

"You were going to walk away," he laughed in disbelief, eyes wide. He was high. Pupils blown. "Everything you built—that we built together—you were going to walk away from it! You were going to walk away from me!" His voice strained, forced into the pitch and volume it was not accustomed to. It almost cracked like a boy going through puberty. The boy Minato saw fewer and fewer glimmers of. "You were going to leave me."

Minato held back a sigh. Hora was not in his right mind. The situation was worse than he had anticipated.

"The life—the Clans—isn't everything, Hora," he said the redhead's name with some gentleness; with fragments of familiarity. "The life isn't something to aspire to."

"For you!" Sasori jerked the gun against his bone hard enough that it would spread purple stain. "It was my home! You took my home away from me the minute you decided! It was all I had," he screamed, spit flying. "For what? For her?" He asked, incredulous with his anger. "You were ready to throw away ten years after ten minutes?" He scratched the crown of his head. "Make that math make sense, Bro."

Sasori….

"How did they find me?" Minato asked the question that was burning a hole in his head—the one part of the puzzle he could not figure out. What did he do wrong? Specifically.

"The Nephew," Sasori answered with disinterest in contrast to Minato's growing one; revealing an angle that the Namikaze's mind had not measured. "He called you. His phone—his personal one—is being tracked. Has been for a while. When he called you, twice within twenty minutes because I gave him the details wrong, they were able to see the towers and figure out that you hadn't moved all that much." Telephone, Sasori was playing a literal game of telephone where Rihito and himself were unwitting participants. Rihito was always more lax with his personal phone. Lazy was the word. It was bogged down by content that he did not notice the additional slowness.

Nara.

Minato would have rubbed his face if he could—if he did not have a gun shoved under his jawline aiming to take out his head if he so much as breathed in a manner that Sasori did not deem acceptable.

"Uchiha wasn't supposed to make such a massive mess! He was just supposed to remind you that there is no retiring from Akatsuki. The brotherhood—the syndicate—is for life. You were supposed to give up on your rosy-rainbow bullshit daydreams. You were supposed to go after the Uchiha for targeting your head. But you were in Tani. She was there. She got to you before I did." His face twisted into a snarl. His words grew more frantic, his breathing erratic. He was stumbling over them, trying to get them out in the proper order. His mouth could not keep up with his unraveling brain.

"She was messing everything up! I had to, I had to get rid of her. It had to be an Uchiha," he was pleading now—as close as Sasori's pride would allow—for Minato to understand. "But then just like how she got in my way, she got out of it; all on her own. She just needed a little push. Her trust issues did the rest. She didn't have to…," Sasori sighed, expelling what shreds of regret he could gather all at once. "You didn't even ask about me once," he clamped his mouth closed, angered by the moment of weakness he carried with him all this time. Minato did not ask, not even once how Sasori supposedly got out of his own manufactured crisis.

So that was his plan all along.

Minato—a small part of him, the most deranged part—applauded Sasori for his commitment and ability to see so far ahead. He predicted Minato's thoughts and steps and when he could not, he did not panic but rather, he adapted. Minato would have killed Masanori, that was his plan. That was Minato's way out for her. Even if it meant either a declaration of war or Shikaku handing his hide to the Uchiha Head. The trade would not be equitable but Minato was the aggressor. The gift would have to be symbolic enough. A lieutenant for a lowly foot soldier. Maybe Sasori could have slithered his way into the vacancy—after all, the clan would be a little unstable at this point. Any major shake-ups could cause the whole thing to come down.

That was his contingency.

But it all went by the wayside. It all went to shit. All because of one small yet abrasive detail. A thorn in both of their sides. The near end circled back to the beginning.

"But Inuzuka, you couldn't find him," Minato pointed out without color, connecting the dots out loud for the first time. The biggest thorn in Sasori's side. "He was your loose end." All those phone calls and mysterious disappearances with little to no notice for Rihito to cover for him—only for that too to stop when Rihito started to ask questions and pay closer attention. It was all to track down Kiba. The man was collateral. He was not supposed to live. Then Masanori's word would have been the truth—a reason for the Uchiha Clan to go to war if they were so inclined to be waiting for one.

Inuzuka was always good at laying low after picking up heat. Much better than you, Hora.

"That bastard could only do one thing right: hide," Sasori's smirk was wry, seemingly reading Minato's mind. "You taught him well."

I taught you too and look how that turned out.

"I thought I had more time. But then you found him. Nephew confirmed when he picked up his phone when I called, it pinged on a weird part of town—right at the edges. I knew it was over," Sasori explained pedantically. Calm. If Minato closed his eyes he could pretend that Sasori was not out of his mind and there was not a weapon ready to blow his face off. What happened tonight—earlier—was not initially planned. It was in retaliation.

He blames Sakura, Inuzuka, for all this…for the decisions I made.

"I still held out hope that you would do the right thing," Sasori let out a wry chuckle—nothing more than a bitter musing. "I thought maybe once you heard Level-Zero your training, your instincts would kick in. I thought you would remember your vow," he spat on the ground in disgust. "You were supposed to go back to the Boss. It was there that you were supposed to learn the news about what happened to her…," his voice trailed off, ending the monotonous narration.

And the guilt, the guilt would have been enough to keep me ensnared.

For good. Giving Sasori what he wanted all along, for Minato to stay.

"But you picked her." His brown eyes held no light. They were flat in the monochromatic light. Gray and without luster—void of humanity. There was only defeat. "You ruined—she ruined—everything." He had never worked so hard for anything. Sasori had never fought that hard for anything—for anyone. And for what? Nothing.

"You pulled up your own roots, Hora," Minato said with harshness that cut him as it moved up his throat and into the air so it could sink into Sasori's thick skull just how wrong he was.

It wouldn't have been goodbye, me leaving.

Sasori held betrayal—ironically—on his face. The notion, the belief, that if anyone would understand it would be him. Minato was an outsider. He was a testament to what could be possible. Maybe he was the exception—a shining exception—and not the rule.

"You never would have recommended me," Sasori murmured with his barely blinking eyes boring into Minato's. Even leaving through tendering his resignation, Minato's opinions and words would hold weight. Shikaku—the man who never spared Sasori but two words since he entered the fold—would listen. Shikaku always listened to him—to his right hand.

"Like a dog, I worked every day for that clan, for that family. Like a dog! I got shot, I got spit on, I got addicted to Oxi all because of the Clan. A clan that saw me as nothing. Just like you. I would be nothing but 'Puppet Boy'. Who would take a lieutenant with that nickname seriously?" Sasori asked him, jamming the gun further against his jaw causing Minato's teeth to grit together.

Minato neither confirmed nor denied. He could not make Sasori what he was not. He could not make Sasori into him.

"I never wanted to be head," Minato reminded him perhaps unfairly—kicking him when he was down. He never wanted to further ensnare in this life.

"You never asked me what I wanted," Sasori's voice cracked, he was shaking his head over and over again. "Not once," his hands shook under the weight of his vulnerability. But a moment in time that was gone just as soon as it had come. "I was just expected to be your loyal dog, happy on your scraps. No better than that dirty, filthy Mutt."

That was where Sasori was wrong. But again that was neither here nor there. They could not go back. It was over. There was nothing salvageable left on either side.

I never would have put Inuzuka on Sakura's detail. And you reminded me that was a mistake.

Because Minato was still capable of making mistakes.

A growl—a sound of struggle—ripped through Sasori's throat. Raw. His finger curled around the trigger. His teeth were strained in togetherness; his overbite pronounced. Sasori's finger twitched once. Minato blinked. The black plastic was left without warmth. The appendage had moved back up to the chamber the rest of its brethren were accounted for—wrapped around the textured grip. Minato pushed the gun away from his chin with a torn-up hand. Bruised and tender. The downward sweeping motion continued. The gun was transferred from a limp wrist to a firm grip. Secured. Metal slid. A casing clattered onto the floor with a fraction of its potential impact. The safety clicked on. The handle poked out of Minato's beltless waistband.

"So what happens now?" Sasori asked because the silence was worse than any alternative he could think about. The hand that fed him—the hand that shielded him—he could not raise a hand against it. Perhaps because he knew that hand would not hesitate to put him down. And he did not trust his own hand to be faster. Maybe it was as simple as that.

"You tried to kill her," Minato's words were curt. They accompanied the ice in his eyes. An unforgivable offense.

"She did herself in when she didn't kick you out," Sasori said with a sigh, refusing accountability all the way to the end. Minato did not waste any more breath on explanation. Loyalty was not something in Sasori's lexicon. He was just very good at pretending it was. Sasori held up his wrists. He could not raise a hand just like he could not swallow a bullet he loaded himself. The thin restraint was pulled so there was a lack of room to operate but not so tight that it cut off his circulation. Sasori's lips pulled into a smirk as he followed behind the blond.

Even in this line of work—life—it was hard to change who you fundamentally were.

xXx

The knock was loud like the first clap of thunder. Unexpected and jarring.

Minato?

Her fingers stopped running over the hem of the dark scoop-neck shirt that smelled like dryer sheets that were pooled in her lap. A purple crane of paper and creases rested in the navy pool of cloth. It had been the focus of her distant gaze. Sakura twisted her torso, whipping her head to the door with her heart stammering in her ears. She closed her parted mouth.

Oh, it's just you.

Jade-colored irises registered and placed the face in the doorway, he was outside the threshold. Smiling politely pretending to not notice her disappointment. He laughed.

"I'll try not to take it personally."

Maybe not.

Sakura offered him a sheepish smile that she did not completely mean.

"May I?" Rihito asked as the perfect gentleman his mother and father raised him to be.

Sakura nodded her head. She scooted further back toward the wall, giving him more space but it was unnecessary it appeared, because he pulled a stool from the small desk and settled himself into it; hands folded in front of him and everything. Dangling in the air in perhaps suspense.

"How are you feeling?" He asked her, voice low but dragged out. He spoke slower and she supposed her state had something to do with it.

"I'm okay," she tried to smile with more intention. She even put effort into making it convincing but somehow the signals got crossed because she presented him with a grimace.

"You're a terrible liar," Rihito's eyes filled with strain even as his lips pulled into a smile that was far short of what she had come to expect from him.

Mirror, mirror.

"Did you make that?" He pointed, "with one hand?" His voice twinkled with marvel, leaping at the first distraction he came across.

"No," she shook her head. "Well, yes." Sakura let out a sound of frustration. Her mind was awfully sluggish.

"Which is it? Yes or no?" He asked gently, studying her closely.

"Did she ask you to spy on me?" She scratched at the circular bandages affixed to her bruised and tender neck, stopping at the presence of his frown of disapproval.

"Nah," he leaned back slightly, widening his seated stance. "I think she's jealous, to be honest. She's grumbling about how she must have gotten the math wrong based on your height and weight. She can't believe you're still coherent."

She didn't weigh me.

"I'm stubborn," it came out automatically, without thinking.

"Stubborn can be good," his smirk had softened into a smile. A real one. "Stubborn can be really good."

"What?" She asked him, covering her face with her hand out of instinct. His arms were crossed and his features were pinched together in concentration.

"Can I ask you something?"

Sakura nodded her head, stomach clenching at not knowing what to expect.

"Can you knit?"

She blinked and blinked again. And again. "Like a scarf?" She asked him, dumbfounded and not completely convinced she heard him right.

"Or a sweater, or gloves, but yeah, you get the idea," he declared much to her doubt of the validity of his statement.

"No," Sakura answered, frowning. "But," she regarded her hand—bandaged and fingers slightly curled. "I might have to learn," she kissed her teeth. "To regain mobility," Sakura explained at the twinkle of perplexion in his dark eyes. "Dexterity."

So I can hold a scalpel…do sutures.

"Will you make me something when you do?" He cocked his head to the side and asked with so much earnestness that Sakura could only nod. "Thanks, Doc," he flashed her his teeth.

"Rihito," she moistened her lips. They were starting to chap. She would drink more water if peeing was not such a production. Someone had to accompany her to the door to make sure she did not pass out. She thought it was entirely unnecessary but they seemed to not care what her opinion was. Surgeon Senju was not one to mince words particularly when they involved cracking a skull on porcelain. There were not many more embarrassing ways to go in Sakura's limited purview. "Is Minato going to be okay?" She asked him, heart in her throat. "He's all alone?" She half asked and half declared, not sure what was more accurate. "Is Sasori with him? Have you heard from him? Either of them?"

Anything? Anything at all?

The man paused and that only increased her anxiety ten-fold. For harrowing seconds she thought he would not answer. She sat up straighter, blinking to focus when his lips parted.

"He's with Hora." Sakura wondered for a second if she imagined the tightness of his voice. "Minato will be fine," Rihito smiled at her with traces of something she associated with positives. "He's Minato," he said. "No news is good news, Doc."

No. The only good news is good news.

Ambiguity was not good for her heart, her nerves, or anything. Her pink brow furrowed together. A chill overcame her. She rubbed her arm through the fleece sleeve with her right hand. She raised her eyes to his face at something being nudged into her line of sight.

"Call your mother," Rihito uttered gently, his face kind—full of patience.

She regarded the phone. It was not hers or Minato's. She reached for it slowly. Rihito held it steady. When she tapped the screen she found the number already dialed. She swallowed, it hurt to do so.

"I'm glad you're okay, Sis," he clapped his knees before standing with a soft grunt. "The phone is yours. Hang onto it. I'll be around if you need anything. Just shout okay? I may or may not be resting my eyes."

She nodded her head distractedly, not noticing when he left her alone in the room. Nor when the door closed quietly, giving her the illusion of privacy even if the walls were thinner than the ones back home. Sakura cleared her throat. She inhaled a breath every bit as shaky as her unaltered hand. She held the phone to her ear. The call was picked up mid-way through the first ring.

"Mom?" She said into the microphone. "M-mom," she breathed, tears springing from her eyes at the sobs on the other end. "I'm okay, Mom," she assured her. "I'm okay," she willed her voice not to crumble completely like the walls of a sunbeaten sandcastle. "I'm okay," Sakura whispered in a call back every time her mother let out a wail.

xXx

Resentment, brewing for years festered from misgivings both perceived and misconstrued, was the nexus. It connected the two bitter, wayward souls. Their extracurriculars were but a convenience. He was Sasori's dealer. He supplied Sasori with Oxi and then ultimately heroin. He—Minato—should have done more. The first time, he had driven Sasori to the clan-approved retired rehab director's home. He stayed in the estate where the internet was but a concept that the rolling, plush greens did not prescribe to. He had visited every third day on a schedule and when he was within an hour's drive of the remote area. Sasori had been clean, the color was back under his skin. He no longer seemed like a reanimated corpse. Fifteen months, Sasori maintained—and Minato believed him even now—that he was clean for fifteen months. He tweaked his knee. He landed on it wrong during a match of volleyball—of all things. And that caused the relapse. Minato should have seen it as a pitfall. That was where he and Masanori crossed paths beyond hanging off of Shisui's custom-tailored coattails trying to lure a bright, doe-eyed, naive soul from the herd. Whether Masanori talked a big game—a low-level earner that was not even a blip on the radar—about being able to take care of him—Minato—or Sasori's options were just that limited it did not matter all that much. All that mattered as two disgruntled Akatsuki found each other across clan lines and thought up this hair-brained scheme that they nearly pulled off. The Uchiha was even more unstable than Sasori which was something Minato did not think possible.

They were right. Every single one of them. I never should have trusted him. I should have listened….

To Jiraiya's wisdom that shaped his eyes. To Rihito's concern and discomfort. To Shikaku who reminded him every now and then to be mindful of who he chose to spend his time with, lest he start smelling like them—he had used the term "dumpster" to be specific. It was too late. Minato reeked of failure and betrayal.

His fingers longed to hold a thin white cylinder filled with chemicals and nicotine. The path from his nose to his lungs ached for the comforting scent. The road stretched before him. Long and narrow.

Dark.

Minato sighed. He turned off the thin stretch of road.

xXx

Sakura tugged at the blanket around her shoulders indecisive if it was helping to keep her warm thus marginally closer to soothed or sweating the will to live out of her. She blinked, counting each one. Once a second. That was how she kept track of both herself and time. Her knees were pulled to her chest as close as possible. The cot below her smelled like him. The pillow between her chest and legs was a poor substitute for the real thing. If she closed her eyes and just let herself pretend…his aroma would comfort her in her dreams. She knew that. But even then, she could not lay down her weary head to rest. The nagging feeling that it would all slip from her fingers would not let her.

"You're a stubborn one," he said with a snort. Agitated from his exhaustion. Down right crabby.

Sakura refrained from looking at him directly from where he sat next to the small table with his elbow poking the surface and his cheek pressed against his flat palm. He sat on the same stool Rihito had not too long ago. But somehow, he made it look ridiculous. It could just be his large stature and the small piece of furniture. Her skin had not stopped pricking because he had not stopped staring at her. The man took "watching over her" to a whole new level she had not experienced before. A katana rested not too far from the door and consequently his reach. The revolver on the table—facing away from her—was just another motivator to avoid his gaze.

I should have left him outside the door.

But that had been unnerving too. At least this way she would see him coming just as the thought of it occurred to him.

"Do you know when he'll be back?" She asked him facing the wall to her right, voice tried and meek. Because she was unable to bring herself to call or text him first. She had no idea what the split-second distraction might end up costing him. By checking on his well-being for her own sake, she did not want to put his well-being at risk for either of theirs.

"Kid," Jiraiya sighed deeply. He ran a hand over his face, forming more lines than there were prior. "He's fine. He'll be back before you know it if you just slept. You need it."

"How did you meet him?" She asked because the prospect of knowing—of learning—seemed less daunting than closing her eyes and entertaining notions her mind crafted. "The first time?" All she knew was Jiraiya was tied to Tsuande who was born a Senju. The Nara, while not at odds now with the Senju—not to the level they were with the Uchiha—surely were not on the most friendly of terms either. "You met him when he was still a boy, right?" The timeline was blurry for her, kind of like the man in the room with her. She was seeing one and a half of him.

"It's a long story, kid," Jiraiya was frowning openly at her, not bothering to hide his dismay.

"I have time," she quipped encouragingly. "Might as well," she added with a small shrug.

He laughed, it was humorless. "Nice try." He was not amused.

"You saved him." She turned her head in time just to catch the tail-end of his surprise at her abrupt change in tactics. "You taught him how to let go. That's why he calls you 'professor', isn't it?"

"Kid, you're giving me too much credit," Jiraya shook his head. His arms were crossed over his chest. A divet formed in his brows that elongated his silence. His expression melted into something akin to thoughtfulness. He sighed again. His dark eyes were sharp and his tone was no-nonsense. "We both did."

"What do you—"

She swallowed back the rest of her question. Both of the occupants in the room directed their full attention to the presence at the door. Her face fell just as her heart sank. It was not him. The build was much shorter and softer, and the hair was the wrong shade, style, and length.

"Tea," Tsunade announced, identifying the source of the steam that wafted up the ceramic cups painted in dark green. She stepped into the cramped room. Making the already warm air that much harder to breathe.

"Thank you," Sakura reached for the cup closest to her on the tray. She pretended to not notice the silent conversation that took place in the time between three blinks, between the husband and wife. She went back to counting her blinks. Willing him to find his way back all the quicker.

xXx

His thumbs were level with his ears. His arms bent as a pair of hands patted him down roughly. Minato did not take his eyes off the desk in the middle of the furthest wall of the room. Large tapestries were draped on either side of him in a rich, dark navy that was nearly back. They were identical with a large red and white fan hand embroidered on each one.

He must have the same interior designer that Shikaku does.

It was funny, had it not been for the icy and suspicious reception and the fans that seemed to adorn just about everything, he could have been at the Nara Complex. Everything was dark enough to fit right into that aesthetic, down to the suits and faces that were meant to intimidate. The only difference seemed to be the orientation of the dark ponytails. Nara hair was piled up high, and Uchiha hair was held low. Oversimplified generalizations.

"He's clean, boss," a loud, but high voice called from behind him. The pitch was surprising given how burly the man was.

A hand curled in a beckoning gesture from the desk.

Minato bit back a grunt at the rough shove he received from the heel of a palm. An involuntary sound that he voluntarily kept contained. Show no weakness. It would only encourage them. He kept his arms high as he walked slowly. Two round muzzles were trained to the small of his back. He could feel them. They were not being subtle.

Held at gunpoint three times in one day must be some kind of record.

He stopped within three feet of the edge of the desk closest to him. He dipped his head in a show of respect, just stopping short of bending at the hip as he would for his own head—his uncle.

"On your knees, scum," the high-pitched voice hissed, the butt of the gun pressed into his shoulder in a not-so-gentle accompaniment to the rough request. The same shoulder that had partially been skewered.

"I prefer to stand. If that's okay," Minato said easily, even going as far as to smile disarmingly at the face obscured by a shadow of the tall guard standing at the ready with a long gun in his hand.

"Why you, bas—"

"Enough," the voice finally spoke. The man behind Minato immediately froze. All eyes were on the desk. A hand flicked to the side. A ring with a red ruby at the center caught the light and gleamed. The keeper—no matter how momentary—of his fate.

The pressure was gone from his shoulder. The audible breathing was next. And soon there was a shuffle of feet. His person was liberated from physical acts of intimidation and taunts that he could feel. The same could not be said for the mental.

The charcoal leather on the wingback chair squeaked as the weight was adjusted, wheels creaked. Fugaku's stony visage finally came under the light. His suit was a dark maroon and the shirt he wore was navy silk. It was flashy for a random Thursday evening.

"Why are you here, Namikaze?" Fugaku asked him slowly. His dark eyes reserved judgment. The deep lines around his mouth formed over the years of holding grimaces of disapproval jumped out against his thinning skin. Dark, round sunglasses hung from his breast pocket. His thick tie was the same color as his suit. "Have you come to explain why you cost me two million dollars?"

Minato sighed, barely audible just as it barely took any time at all. His eyes were nearly as dark as Fugaku's pocket square flickered onto the two guards in front of him before settling back on the main head.

"I've come to tell you, Mr. Uchiha—" he caught the hands of the clock for just a second, "—that we're reaching a resolution. Today." His voice did not waver as it carried the weight of his words.

Fugaku's face pinched together before any of his men could react. The air immediately grew more hostile. Six barrels of guns were all trained on him. Seemingly all at once. He was just one trigger-happy finger away from returning to Sakura as a corpse in the final fulfillment of his promise that she surely would not appreciate. And it was because of that fact that Minato did not lower his arms. He did not move. Even the number of his blinks was cut in half.

"Give me one good reason to not blow your head off your shoulders right here and right now? Today. How's that for a resolution?" Fugaku demanded in a dangerously low voice that filled every empty nook and cranny; perfectly crafted and effective.

"I didn't come empty-handed," Minato answered without missing a beat in complete contrast to the thumping of his heart against his ribcage. It was his first time in their home after all. Yoshino taught him manners—ones he remembered. Fugaku's brow furrowed and his lips dipped into a deeper frown. The doors flew open.

Always with the dramatic entrances…like clockwork.

The air generated by the split gave him cover to exhale without notice. Fugaku's eyes moved over Minato's shoulder. He saw his guards' faces drop their masks. They fell into a bow. Nearly in unison, as if they had allocated considerable time to practice, once the initial shock receded just enough.

Fugaku rose to his feet. His narrowed eyes locked to those of his son's. "Leave us!" He ordered into the room. "Now!" He barked at the hesitation he was presented with. Six bodies hastily moved to bow as per decorum and filed out of the room quickly. The doors closed much quieter than they had been forced open.

Dark clothes and even darker hair against pale skin came into his peripherals. Minato did not turn his head to acknowledge Itachi. That would be far too disrespectful. Just like lowering his arms would be—his act of submission meant to curry favor. His left shoulder reminded him that it was still not on par with his right and no amount of feigned ignorance would change that fact.

"What is the meaning of this?" Fugaku practically roared as his son dropped the arm he was dragging. A bloody and limp arm attached to a bruised and battered frame. The man let out a breath of pure pain, repressed by the inability to expand his lungs fully for a number of hours now. His face was beyond recognition.

"Masanori," Itachi said the name that prior to two months and some odd weeks ago was nothing beyond an insignificant entry in the official earning ledger, all for his father's benefit—providing much-needed context as to why his office had become the venue for this circus. Itachi dusted his hands before shoving them into the pockets of his dark, fitted dress pants. He procured a handkerchief—embroidered with the clan symbol on one of its corners—and proceeded to wipe his hands at leisure. If the air was even slightly less charged, Minato would have rolled his eyes and told him to hurry it along. "A gift," his light voice said. "From Namikaze." Itachi dipped his head in acknowledgment of the slightly older blond. "Quite generous, Father."

Minato bit the inside of his cheeks to eliminate all possibility of his lips quirking in amusement at Itachi's deadpan. The man certainly knew how to work a room. The blond guest saw the way recognition flickered across Fugaku's enraged visage.

"Speak," dark, dark eyes were narrowed and nostrils flared in an expression that was not all that different from his son's—his youngest that was. Too much anger and not enough surface area to direct it to.

Minato lowered his arms, slowly, taking the initiative. The katana displayed at the edge of the desk in his black sheath and gold handle was more deadly in Fugaku's hand than a gun was in most others.

"As I was saying," Minato cleared his throat, gazing up and away from the weapon. He was mindful to not prolong eye contact in a way that could be construed as confrontational or disrespectful. The line was thin and blurry. "We're resolving matters. Today. Now."

"Oh?" Fugaku raised a mostly black brow with the occasional gray hair that escaped the brush of his hair dye. "Is that so?" He did not wait for an answer. "Enlighten me, Namikaze," the man said his name like a curse—an insult. He gestured with his hand for Minato to continue. An invitation and a sentence all in one. Speak clear, speak short, and speak wise otherwise, you may never speak again.

"Option one," Minato glanced at Masanori at his feet before tapping his breast pocket. The jingle of keys could be heard. Horseshoe provided her support in chime. "You accept half a million and the shipment container in exchange for dropping all plans—current and future—of retaliation against the Nara Clan and its members and declare Dr. Sakura Haruno off limits now and forever."

A bag dropped to the floor. Black. Heavy. The zip pulled open, and the top away. A bundle of ryo—a grand—fell out of it. Four hundred and ninety-nine more were still inside. "It's all here," Itachi corroborated the claims. He had counted personally but that went unsaid.

Fugaku scoffed. He nearly laughed because it was laughable what the man was proposing. "I must commend your audacity," Fugaku's tone did not align with his words. He was disgusted. "Every bit as I condemn it." The man rejected the proposal. It was not nearly enough because the girl knew too much. She had connections with the police, with the Yamanakas, and most importantly with Minato. She was a loose end that Fugaku could not leave to cause his whole tapestry to fray. The weakest link. She needed to be cut down before she did any more damage.

Minato sighed. He raked a hand through his hair, almost pulling hard enough to dislodge it from the roots. He knew his limit and he was rapidly approaching it. He did not have it in him for a long back-and-forth negotiation but he he did his best to not let his face say as much.

"Option two," he said with more control than he had. He detached himself from his emotions in preparation for what he knew was to come and what may come. "Detective Uchiha," he did not miss the slight flinch to Fugaku's rigid shoulders. A tell as clear as a bell. "Arrests Masanori Uchiha for breaking and entering and the attempted murder of Dr. Sakura Haruno. I turn myself in."

The skepticism contained in Fugaku's bottomless eyes was impossible to miss. The Uchiha Patriarch crossed his arms over his chest. He did not see where Minato was leading him. He did not see the path to the end. A pain of ruin.

"And I—" Minato paused in recognition that he would never be able to take back what he was about to say; pulling up his own roots. "—Tell him everything," Minato uttered without hesitation.

Everything.

The word—the promise—echoed in his head loudly as Fugaku's face lost color. "You kept records?" He hissed, beyond outraged. He did not believe Minato to be foolish enough to do so. He was an outsider. He was not owed the same consideration that blood was.

"Of sort," he answered, not tapping his fingers to his temples to reveal just where the records were.

"You'd burn yourself down in the process of setting this house a flame! You'd be a traitor!" Fugaku said in aghast what would happen to him. A brand—a label—that would most definitely be his end.

A walking deadman.

Minato knew. Even if he was granted a plea deal and accommodation in max security in some facility off in the mountains. He would die before he arrived in his solitary cell. Either through the hands of a guard or an inmate. Violent, sudden, vitriol and insults rained on him as it happened. He would bleed out, unable to even say a word to call out for help. If he somehow survived long enough to arrive at the infirmary, they would finish the job there. An air bubble in his vein.

Would you forgive me? If that is how I left you? Or would you hold onto your anger until you saw me again?

If his soul ended up through some miracle in the same place hers was.

"I could kill you right now," the man shared the thought out loud. The threat was bonafide enough. The head of the Nara Clan would have no choice but to agree with the course of action. His hand slipped down the edge of his desk. His middle finger felt the surface of the red button that would have a small army rush inside and make holes in the intruder with sickening efficiency and lack of hesitation.

Slaughtered. He would be slaughtered where he stood.

Not enough of me left intact for an open casket.

History would be repeating itself, Namikaze history.

"I would advise against that, Father," Itachi spoke, reminding Fugaku of his presence in the quarters. The impact of his words lingered, like wisps of smoke. Fugaku breathed them in through his nose to only exhale loudly through his mouth. His blood boiling so violently behind his eyes that they almost flashed red.

"You dare betray your family? Your blood for an outsider?" Fugaku's hands rested on the top of the desk. He leaned forward. The katana under the shroud of decoration was well within reach now of Fugaku's long arms. Minato could not help but entertain the thought of who the man would cut down first. Him or his own son. Itachi had just broken the cardinal rule. Fugaku's face was closed off from anything other than anger. So Minato could not read his thoughts so he was left to wonder if the Uchiha Head was just now realizing how well this partnership—that served both clans so well in the past—worked.

"I did not betray my blood or my word," Itachi said with the tightness of gritted teeth and curled fists. He did not voice the words of a reminder of the deal they had in place. An understanding that was unspoken and at the moment very fragile. He would be the dutiful son as long as Sasuke got what he wanted, to stay out of the shadow of the Clan's influence. Itachi would be the perfect heir so Sasuke could freely condemn his heritage to his heart's content. Itachi's sacrifice for the brother who would not even be in the same room much less speak to him.

No love is without cost.

"Option three," Minato broke the standoff between fire and ice of father and son. "War," he announced the prospect calmly with the same cadence one said it was going to rain after looking at a particularly heavy and dark cloud. "The choice is yours, Mr. Uchiha."

The heat, the disgust, and the contempt were all squarely directed at him when Fugaku tore his eyes from his son to glare at him. It required a sizable amount of intent and conviction to not shudder in his leather boots. He would not deny the slight perspiration down the back of his neck and across his shoulder blades on his inked back.

"Before I answer, tell me this," Fugaku's rage was contained by a hairpin. He was ready to fly off the handle and show them why his nickname was the Onyx Dragon. Legend had it that he could breathe fire. "I know the reasons behind my son's conviction for where he stands rooted today. What are yours?"

Freedom. Peace. Avoidance of war. No loss of life on either side.

The possibilities swirled in his head. Minato had an answer that was crafted months ago when he set about the plans for his liberation. It was the reason why he had finally given Sasori a chance to show Shikaku he could be trusted—much too late perhaps to make a difference on one hand while completely a mistake on the other. Distance. He needed the man to be used to the idea—comfortable with it—of him gone. The void he would leave had to be filled with quantity. They would learn to adapt and the quality would increase with time but none of that seemed to move his tongue now that he was here in front of the other head he had not factored in seeing. And he could not delve into why.

Fugaku's lips formed into a slow smirk. Something glittered in his eyes. A look of knowing greeting Minato's stoic mask.

"Leave the keys and the money. There will be no war." He paused and Minato's heart slammed against his ribs as it lurched. "Today," he finished in taunt and a grim reminder of just how fragile these things were, turning around in clear dismissal. Shoulders rigid.

Minato blinked. He heard Itachi sigh softly next to him in confirmation that his ears heard correctly. He saw the dark head bow in gratitude. It did not lift. The position was held. Prolonged and profound in a state of relief that was not betrayed in his prior words or actions. Even then, Minato did not move. The pulse that raced under his skin was not appeased. It was not placated. Not even close. He cleared his throat to ask for clarification on the terms of the amended prolonging-of-the-peace settlement.

"She'll be safe," Fugaku said harshly before Minato could contaminate the stalemate with his clumsy words and inexperienced perspective. "Get out."

Minato hesitated, wanting to press the issue for his own conviction. A shake of a head—so small it was barely even a motion—gave him the last push he needed. His hand trembled—made all that much worse by how Horseshoe betrayed him each and every time—as he pulled the key from the ring, leaving just the chattering keychain and one more key—the one to his dwelling—tucked into his palm. He did not move his feet, he reached over and deposited the silver key to the storage unit on the edge of the desk, sliding it so it would not fall by a careless grab.

The easy part is over.

Horseshoe returned to his breast pocket where she did not pick up the pace of his heartbeat. His swimming head lowered in a bow at the expanse of his back. He turned, nodding in Itachi's direction on his way out, pretending not to notice the sudden weakness in his legs.

May my luck hold.

xXx

A deft hand with painted maroon nails tucked in the ends of the blue blanket that had fallen from her narrow shoulders. The woman perched on the edge of the cot was mindful of the hand that lay flat across a cushion. Bandaged.

"She's out," Tsunade whispered, leaving the 'finally' off the end of her observation.

"You drugged the tea?" Jiraiya asked in an equally soft tone. His arms were held open for Tsuande to crash into. Which she did. She pressed her face against his chest.

"Melatonin," she said with a small, tired smile. "She never saw it coming." She turned her head. Her chin poked him in the sternum. "Your story helped, I'm sure," her smile transformed into a smirk. "You love hearing yourself talk."

"She was hanging off of every word," he countered without heat. "I'm an excellent storyteller," he reminded her with a scowl. "You said so yourself." His dark eyes were reflective in their glassiness.

"You should rest," she leaned into him. "It was the one time. I was young and naive. And very drunk."

"You said what you said," he claimed with a gruff voice that had her chuckling.

"I say a lot of things," she let her voice trail off, lips tugging into a frown. "Rest," she said with more force. "You're about to fall over." It bothered her how that was not far from the truth.

Jiraiya shook his large head, reluctantly. "The kid's sleeping. He needs it more than me right now." His support role did not require driving. If somehow Minato managed to survive everything only to die because Rihito could not keep his eyes open…what was even the point of all this struggle?

Tsunade pressed her lips together, her eyes were hard. She remembered the dead on his feet Nara who all but passed out in his bowl of congee. "Any word?" She asked him.

"He texted," Jiraiya brushed the long bangs from the side of her face with a surprising level of gentleness given the disparity of their sizes.

"That's new," she murmured not quite able to shake the ramifications of what that gleaned about his current state. "And?" She asked with anticipation in her voice and weight on her toes. Her hand curled around his shirt in a promise of retaliation if her patience was tested. The thick reading glasses tucked into his breast pocket made their presence known in a plea for careful handling.

"They accepted the terms," he said with palpable relief, smoothing down the lines of his face to the point that his vertical, maroon tattoos—faded with age—softened.

"Best case scenario?" She asked in a voice so small it had no chance of impacting the fragility of it all in any shape or form.

"Best case scenario," he confirmed with a definitive nod of his head.

"Thank God," she breathed out in relief, burying her face in his chest, picturing the face of two scared boys who were being chased by a pack of feral Akatsuki where their only crime was they decided to take a (wrong) shortcut home from school one day and ended up on the other side of the line. They had ducked into a small stall to hide, faces filled with relief only to realize they were trapped inside by a giant with white hair. Out of the pan and into the fire. The White Demon in the flesh, face stony and harsh. Jiraiya has disappeared into the back—Shikamaru wore the identifiers of his clan on his features—and came back with lemonade and sandwiches. It was that day that the boys learned a valuable lesson. Jiraiya's other nickname: the White Sage. As merciful as he was merciless. Two sides to the same coin depending on the need.

"Hm," he hummed in agreement, his arm strong and sturdy around her, every bit as lost to memory as her but slowly pulling himself back. "She's safe." Jiraiya's eyes captured the sleeping pinkette. He wondered if she would accept the price for her freedom if she would find it fair or steep. "Now for the true test."

Tsunade's voice had more urgency in it when she found it again. "You should go wake him. It won't take long."

"I'll give him five more minutes," Jiraiya sighed in resignation that it would be a long night and an even longer day. "You should check your supplies. Fire up the machines."

Her grip tightened before her hands ultimately flattened against the panels of his chest in quiet agreement. She would never admit to him being right. Or sensible.

"I'm glad we never had children," he grumbled for what ended up being a major blessing in hindsight.

Tsunade said nothing. She was too busy regulating her breathing, all she could do was minimize the risk of disassociating or worse, going back to the last time the machines needed to be used on someone she loved.

xXx

The backdrop had changed. The dark, dreary, neat office was traded for an open clearing. A white, round sphere in the dirt. The early-hours winter sun pounded on his back; not nearly hot enough to warm. The three sage warriors coiled in anticipation of the task that loomed. The sakura petals held wishes of mercy across his shoulder blades. The air caused his compromised skin to rise and texture. His clothes sat folded neatly in a pile on the first row of wooden bleachers. They were all filled. Three rows. They were without even standing room. The message had not been communicated by no other means than verbal but the complex was vast. Many had resorted to standing on balconies on higher floors just to get a glimpse. Even the ones around the tower were packed making him think about the weight limit on those things.

The dark green fabric he wore was tailored together in a traditional hakama and tied at his waist. Symbolic of their roots. A forest green in association with the Clan; with the deer they breed and care for. The skin around the insignia—the same on his pectoral muscle—pricked. He was unarmed but that was hardly a new development today.

But that was where the similarities ended. Abruptly. Starkly. Painfully.

His heart was in his throat as he watched his mentor, his father figure, his boss, roll up the long white sleeves. Shikaku was methodical and purposeful. He had listened to everything he had to say. His face did not betray what was going on in his head. Not even when he placed the final key—the last in Horseshoe's guard—on the desk between them. Despite his efforts, the click of metal against wood was deafening. His ears still rang—louder than the clamoring around him. Minato wished he could read him. He wished he learned to read him. In all these years. Even if it should not have been his job.

The man wrapped his hands with white tape. Slowly and that made it all the more menacing. The mental torture before the physical. Minato stood still. His arms were loose at his side, gleaming with sweat. The wind slapped his hair across his face. Preemptively, water pricked at the back of his eyes. He did not actively search the crowd. He did not need the faces of his colleagues to stare back at him with various expressions any more than the fear, concern, and pity on the ones he had come to cherish as his own.

"So your mind is made up?" Shikaku asked in a slow drawl. His gaze was piercing when it finally raised to Minato.

The blond nodded his head. It was quiet enough to hear a pin dropping to the dirt. Even the wind did not interrupt Shikaku. With taped hands, the man pulled at his ponytail to check if its integrity would hold given what was demanded of it. He dropped an arm between his shoulder blades. He stretched.

"Your reason behind it is respectable," the man continued. Minato blocked out the faces—the faces of his soldiers. The older and little brothers alike. Even the accountant was in the stands, watching with his nails between his teeth yet still right in the front row. "But that doesn't alter the tide of tradition."

He knew that. This was not just for show. Shikaku was not one to intimidate for the sake of it. Minato rolled his shoulders. Loosening away the tension. At least an attempt was made. It was the early hours of the morning. Dawn was upon them. The dinner and breakfast he did not have threatened to come up and adorn his bare feet. He felt every jagged bit of gravel underfoot.

"It doesn't lessen the weight of the commitment or responsibility you took upon yourself on behalf of this Clan—this family." Shikaku moved to an armor stand constructed of black metal. It was five levels—nearly as tall as Shikaku himself. He seemed to contemplate the offerings. Minato held his breath. Shikaku disregarded the weapons with sharp points. He picked off a shinai.

"Do you have anything more to say?" Shikaku paused his inspection to ask, a dark brow raised in accordance with the query.

"Don't kill him," Minato made his request known, the silent please dangled off the end. He could not voice it out in the open. He was vulnerable—as vulnerable as he was inside his parent's home during their wake—and he could not have that association solidified. Not if his life outside of these walls had any hope. He might be soft but he did not want Sasori to be murdered. She would not want that either. He knew that in bones.

Shikaku smirked and it was then that the difference between him and the Onyx Dragon was minute.

"Worry about yourself," Shikaku told him easily. He rotated his wrist, testing the weight of the wooden practice sword. "Fifteen years of service," Shikaku ran his palm along the blunt edge of the weapon. "A minute per year seems fair," he glanced at the blond who did not react in any manner; show no weakness, grounded in that philosophy—the one of his survival. Shikaku moved to the center of the chalk-drawn sphere in the dirt. His hakama flowed like a dress. As graceful as it was deadly.

Minato let out a breath. He saw the blow coming—right across his left bicep. He bit back a scream. No amount of mental fortitude could prepare him for the impact of the strike. Everything had woken up screaming. Another struck his side, rattling just about all his bones. He closed his eyes. He pictured a face. Smiling and alive. Under the covers of a thin blue sheet with cartoon stars. Her eyes were brighter and more vibrant than any of them. She laughed. His ears rang. He lost himself under that fort in his mind even with the iron filling his mouth.

Your essence surrounds—

A divide pain left uncrossed.

Lips pull, a smile blooms.

The blows were coming too fast to count and from all directions from five different pairs of hands. He grunted. Sakura smiled at him. She kissed the corner of his mouth. Filling the immediate area with her warmth. Vanilla and amber wood filled his lungs. She mumbled his name into his ears along with words of encouragement. He smiled right before the wind was knocked out of him—sending him crashing to the ground on his hands and knees. Shaking arms prevented him from landing face down in the dirt. Eyes closed and teeth gritted. Sweat mingled with blood down the tip of his nose. A drop of crimson against terracotta; a downpour of ruby rain made for thick mud.

He continued to picture home. His home.

xXx

Everything still hurts.

He must have come back to consciousness because he felt the sharp jolt that led to all his pain receptors lighting up, enough to make him want to scream until his voice was hoarse. But that was too much effort so he settled for a groan. Weak.

"Sorry," Rihito apologized breathlessly from somewhere close by. To his right. "You're a mess," he added, which was not helpful in the slightest. "Thank God Reina can sleep through anything."

That would have been bad.

He grimaced at the thought. That was one way to break the news to her that he did not return her affections—a crush since childhood that she did not grow out of. He was marked now—ironically—which meant that if anyone from the clan wanted to be with him, as in marriage, they would bear the same fate: alienation. It was far from gentle but it was effective. She was loyal to a fault. She would never choose him over her clan. That could bring her solace and comfort.

She can move on with her life.

His memory would not hold her back anymore. It was not exactly what he had in mind when subscribing to the philosophy that "these things will work themselves out" but he supposed it was more than good enough. All his years of maintaining the barrier—what was his silence—of obliviousness were finally behind him. The Professor did say there was very little that women found more unattractive than men who did not take the initiative. Reina can and would do much better than him with someone who returned her affections. He wanted nothing more for the girl that would always be Shika's and Rihito's kid sister. Minato stumbled but a hand on his bruised chest caught him from falling. But the pain, the hand brought a fresh round of pain. His vision blurred.

Easy.

He did not have the wits about him to add outloud to accompany the gruff grunt.

"Uncle lost his damn mind," Rihito said with considerable strain as he lugged Minato further into the room, continuing to mutter to himself in an animated fashion. "I thought it was your back that broke. But nope, it was only his shinai. His favorite one because he's deranged enough to have a favorite."

Not so loud.

Minato closed his eyes in a low-effort attempt to ride out a wave of nausea. He remembered the blow. He screamed. For the first time since he called out Shika's name after he had been riddled with holes. Blood dripped from Minato's mouth. It landed on the floor, foamy from mixing with his saliva.

I can't feel my toes. Did something happen to them?

"No one is going to even think about leaving now," Rihito finished with a grunt, breathlessly. "Not even in their sleep." The Nara moved his neck as much as he could. "Where the hell is everyone?" He opened his mouth to call out for help—for something. The door opening cut him off.

Has it always been this bright in here?

"I thought the camera had a glare," Jiraiya said in disbelief, his eyes were wide and his face pale—and more than a little out of focus. He sounded strange. His voice was distorted like he was speaking past layers and layers of water or jelly.

Professor…I did it. Like you…I did it.

"You crazy bastard," he said, aghast.

"That bad?" Minato rasped out through a lopsided smile, his question was more breath and less concrete sound.

"You crazy bastard," Jiraiya repeated before he moved to the other side, barely remaining in view in his peripherals. He slung Minato's arm over his shoulder. The blond groaned. He was lifted off his feet. It was a good thing. They were dragging anyway. That was why he could not feel them. They were numb and he was in no place mentally to register the alarm it should have brought forth. He was too busy being thankful there was not additional pain to contend with. Minato's head hung toward his chest. His swollen eye was closed.

They weren't supposed to touch my face.

It was in the rules but it had been chaos. They had abandoned the weapons and devolved to punching and kicking when the timer ticked off more seconds than there were left. Some had to tap out because they grew tired. It was the younger ones, the little brothers, who were more eager than sensible, that left marks that could not be easily hidden away with clothing. They had busted his lip too before Shikaku pulled them off and shook them—enraged—using up the allocated time to set them straight. Minato had witnessed it himself, half his face in the dirt, flat on his stomach. Shikaku was a force. He was beside himself. Livid.

Terrifying.

"Fifteen minutes," Rihito spat in response to some context that Minato had missed. "Uncle and the four other punks went at him for fifteen minutes. It's like they were trying to kill him or at least bring him close enough that we can't tell the difference."

I can hear you.

"Damn," Jiraiya used a hand on the wall to steady himself. "He went old school. Really old school." He could not even begin to think just how hard it would have been for Rihito to witness.

I stopped feeling after a while.

Early enough into the process so it was not all that bad. That was then—that was during. But he was feeling it now. The numbness was starting to recede. An unhappy development.

"Is now a bad time to talk to you about getting reimbursed for detailing my car?" Rihito brought up with an arched brow. "It is clan property, as you know. Blood and leather don't mix."

"They do," Jiraiya put in his two cents. "And that's precisely why it's a problem. A big one."

"Piss off," Minato grimaced with a pant, holding back a laugh. The tension eased off the two men carrying his battered frame.

"Speaking of which," Jiraiya scrunched his nose. "Did he…you know?" He glanced at the stone face of the nephew.

"No," Minato answered tightly. He did not piss himself. "I have—"

"A high tolerance, we know," Rihito rolled his eyes, not impressed in the slightest. "If Shikamaru didn't hate his old man before…," Rihito curled his upper lip in contempt. "He would have now."

"Sh-shut up," Minato rasped to the ground, head bobbing haplessly. His fingers twitched but the back of Rihito's head was too far away and his own arms were too cumbersome. Minato's sigh was shallow.

Rihito pinched his face together and exchanged a look over Minato with Jiraiya, the man shook his head once, resulting in Rihito pressing his lips together in a firm line.

Heels clicked, followed by heavy steps. There was a sharp inhale of breath. Minato lifted his head. A pair of amber eyes stared at him, wide-eyed. Her mouth was covered with her veiny hands.

"M-M-Mi…na…to?"

He snapped his head to the right, his eyes wild. His heart sank right to those toes he was just starting to feel again.

Shit.

There she stood in a top much too large for her. And sleep pants that were rolled up twice at her hip. Her hair was disheveled from where it met a pillow. Green eyes bright with tears and a quivering bottom lip. The traces of sleep were long gone. Frozen in fear. Petrified by what she was seeing—by what she was not supposed to see.

Not again.

"S-Sakura," he said her name with an attempt of a smile on his busted lip. He regressed it instantly because tears filled her eyes even faster. They dropped to the ground, cleaning it. He lurched forward, trying to break away to make it up to her. His head lolled. His world faded to black. But not before his name was called out in alarm by four different voices.

He only registered hers.

---

It was hard to not go back in his head to transpose what passed with what was currently passing; to compare the last time to right now. It was not all that different. She was avoiding his eyes. Things were uncertain. He was in pain. Granted, it was not centralized to one spot where it shot out from. It was everywhere. In earnest, everything hurt. He hissed at the cold that brought forth new sharp pricks of burning.

"I'm fine," he breathed with labored breaths; forehead glistening with sweat. Everything spoke to the contrary.

Her green eyes were angry and unforgiving. "I explicitly told you to not talk," she snipped at him in harsh reminder. Quick and sharp like a whip. "Dr. Senju said your spleen's not bleeding internally, slowly killing you." The lack of color in her tone gave no inclination of what she thought of that fact, the fact that he was not actively dying any faster than the rest of them. It was troubling but just as quickly the anger had come and lash out, it melted away. "I should check you for a concussion," she made the note out loud, betraying the true nature of her soft heart. She frowned. "You're smiling." Green eyes narrowed in clinical scrutiny as her head tilted left. "Lopsidedly," she added the detail to her observation.

How could he not be?

I'm free.

If his arms—or anything really—were cooperating, he would have reached out and touched her face. Her beautiful, beautiful face.

"Sakura," his smile grew. The pain of his split lip moved to the forefront but he did not let up—like a damned fool. "I'm fine. You should rest."

She snorted at his suggestion or maybe it was his summary. She eyed the bandages wrapped around his torso. He was more gauze than ink and skin. It was too bad Halloween was already behind them. He made for a very convincing partially wrapped mummy. He even had the soft moaning and groaning down, as well as the very limited mobility.

"Is that your way of saying you'd rather have Dr. Senju examine you?" The question was meant to be deadpan but traces of her uncertainty bled through, resulting in a less-than-effective delivery.

I'm free Sakura…from Akatsuki…from the clan.

He shook his head. He remembered rather quickly why that was not a good idea. Everything swam. He blinked away the floaters in his vision. For a moment, there were two Sakuras staring at him with the same concerned expression. It only seemed to grow. He did not know which one to look at. She stabilized his head with her hands. Her right slipped into the open bag. She shone a light in his eyes, he did not follow the motion that was nothing more than a distraction. He only stared at her.

"So pretty," he carried with admiration.

Especially when you get serious. When you put your hair up and focus. Breathtaking.

Both Sakuras raised a brow. Her braid fell back over her shoulders when she stepped back. "So you do want her?" She asked, doing her best to appear unbothered and failing.

Do you know what this means?

"No," he blinked slowly.

I want you. Only you. Sakura, I'm free to be with you.

He smiled even bigger until his eyes crinkled and she sharpened in focus on account of his slight squint. He was not even certain if he said that out loud or in his head. It did not matter.

"Minato," she sighed. Her hand went back to his swollen eye. She prodded with gentle fingers. Touch every bit as apologetic as it was diagnostic. "You could have died," she whispered, breath fanning his face. His lashes fluttered closed.

"Uncle wouldn't have killed me." Her statement coupled with his response caused the smile to be wiped from his face. A damp towel tended to his lip. He huffed impatiently torn between wanting her to stay but also not caring for the exam. They seemed to go hand-in-hand so he tolerated it. For now. Not that he was in any position to be making demands. He could barely support the weight of his own head. Like a newborn, he was incapable.

"He wasn't your uncle then. He was in front of you as your clan head, as your boss." She was nowhere near as convinced as him. But she must have recognized a difference that they would never reconcile so she let it be. "Why didn't you tell me?" She asked him softly from above him as he lay on his back.

"I didn't want you to worry," he answered honestly. "I'm sorry I fainted." He was not proud of that. He just did not expect that profound level of panic so suddenly. She was supposedly sleeping, that was what Rihito had told him. That was what he was mentally and emotionally prepared for.

I thought I had more time.

"Are you serious right now?" She asked, settling back to frowning.

He blinked slowly in response. His eyes never opened more than half-lidded even the one that was not just about swollen shut. "Go to sleep, Sakura," he tried to redirect her gently. "I'm okay." He really wanted to avoid passing out on her again, it would really undermind his efforts.

Senju Sage has the best drugs.

She was not convinced. Even he knew that much. She sighed. "Minato," her warm hand moved to his forehead. It was so small and warm. "What were you doing at the station in Tani?"

He closed his eyes. He was in no particular rush to open them—to face what awaited.

Maybe if I stay still long enough she'll think I'm asleep.

"Minato," she brushed the hair from his face. Her touch was gentle and soft. Welcomed readily over what his body remembered—what it endured. "If you have enough energy to get on my nerves, you have the energy to answer."

The corner of his lips pulled upward.

"I want to listen. I'll just listen," she coaxed him with gentleness. "I'm asking to understand, not to fight."

His blond lashes parted. He held her eyes in his. He believed her. "I was there to surprise you with tea."

Lavender…or camomile…maybe earl gray?

She did not hide her surprise at the admission. "Tea?" She asked him, not quite believing what she was hearing.

"You gave me coffee that morning," he sighed shallowly. His cracked ribs discouraged him from breathing much deeper. "I wanted you to thank you and see you."

I wanted to talk to you. I had rehearsed the excuse I was going to give to explain why I was there at least ten times.

An excuse that escaped him now.

"You could have just called me and asked me out like a normal person," she huffed with put-on annoyance, all the while working diligently to ease the stings and pains from what he could not see. His back was filled with lashes that were already welting. Any movement brought forth more than just discomfort. "It's not like I waited around all day for that to happen or anything."

If only it had been that easy.

He did not explain—he did not find excuses. The look in her eyes when they had flitted up to meet his, said that she understood that fact. Things were not so simple for him. But that was then. It was much too early to tell if the now and tomorrow would be any less complicated.

We never did get those tacos.

"How did you know that was my station?" She asked at a volume that was not disruptive to his attempts to rest his mind. His eyes were closed as he lost himself in the sensation of her touch. It was a welcomed distraction from everything else.

"I followed you," Minato admitted, working to earn back trust. "Not on purpose…okay on purpose. I was driving by the area when I saw you walking toward the station. It was late. I pulled over. I parked. I got out of the car. I followed you. You were on the phone. You were distracted." He had not even bothered to be hard to see and she still did not notice him. So he stayed. All the way until she walked off the platform, up the stairs, and down the blocks until she turned the corner to her street. "I was worried about you making it home safe. When I realized you lived in Tani, I had to make sure. It's a rough neighborhood, Sakura."

"You followed me often?"

"In the beginning. It was reduced to a couple of times a week. When you left work really late," there was reprimand in there somewhere. He did not press and she feigned innocence. "Eventually, it became less about making sure you were okay and more about seeing you." He made a face. The light was bright behind his lid. A salmon-colored hue. "It became more equal. I can admit that to myself."

Now.

He heard her swallow.

"Minato."

The ends of her braided hair brushed his collarbones. His eyes fluttered open. His breath nearly caught in his throat. How badly he wanted to touch her, to reach out and assure himself this was not a dream or a part of his subconscious. She was so close. She was right there. If only he knew where they proverbially stood.

"Why did you have to do this today?" She held the side of his face. Her thumb pad glided against the curve of his bottom lip in a delicate dance that pulled his wayward attention. "Why couldn't you wait?"

I'm tired of waiting.

He hesitated. The metal legs of the stool dragged. She never left his side. Sakura was lower—closer—after sitting on top of it. Even in clothes that were not hers, she smelled familiar. Comforting.

"I," he steeled himself for what was to come. He was about to find out. One way or the other. The fear that pricked at the edges was not all that different in variety from the one that coiled around his muscles in the ring earlier today. "I didn't want to…I wanted the next time I was in front of you to be when I was free. I wanted to show you—with more than just words—that I am serious about this, about you. I wanted to prove to you I'm committed to you."

That I love you.

Her startled features gaped back at him. Her hand rested over his chest.

A barrier? Resistance? Support? He was not sure what it meant.

"That's why I didn't approach you first, even if I really wanted to," he closed his eyes. His brow knitted together in perhaps regret. Regret that he did not start the process sooner. But he supposed he was being unfair to himself. He did not have a good enough reason to leave his life, the longest family he knew before.

It was complicated. It was messy. He was not without fear—of rejection, of being lonely even more than he was if he left them and she did not want him. The unknown was scary. He wanted all sides to be happy—or at least content—but he knew now that was a major undertaking.

"I didn't want to drag you into all of this. I wanted to be unaffiliated with Akaktuski and the Clan before I introduced myself." He asked wordlessly for some mercy—for some understanding. He knew how it sounded. He knew how it looked. She dealt with the consequences of it. "I just needed a little more money to buy my freedom. I was saving up for it, working my way toward it." He smiled at her, playing indifferent to the pricks, stings, and blurring of the edges of consciousness. "And gathering my courage to follow through."

I didn't want to mess it up. I wanted it to be perfect.

She was his light at the end of a very long tunnel. He had to do the work to get to her—to be able to bask in the warmth and joy she offered. That was his job. Not hers.

There was no such thing as perfect, timing or otherwise.

"Then I gave you coffee," Sakura asked more than she stated.

He barely moved his head in what improvised as a nod. "But then you gave me coffee and your number," he traced her face with his eyes because that was the best he could manage. "And I gave in," he said apologetically. "Sakura, I'm sorr—"

"You got beat up for me?" She interrupted with a question that caught him off guard just long enough that he had to regather his thoughts. "After all those things I said to you? After what I made you listen to?" She pressed down on her lip, gnawing it with regret. "I ruined your suit with marinara sauce."

I don't care about the sauce, about the suit.

"Sakura." If he could, he would have sat up and held her close; so close that there would not be room for her insecurity between him and her— nor her guilt. He willingly subjected himself to it just for the possibility of the two of them. He would have done it without her ever knowing if his first plan had panned out. "This is the consequence of my actions. Mine," he countered firmly, unaccepting of her willingness to take this burden on. "What were you supposed to think? I wasn't fully honest with you. Not before."

"You idiot," her shaky voice said. A tear pelted his cheek. She breathed heavily. He did not have time to feel the negative effect of her words. His eyes slipped closed at the feeling of something warm and soft pressed against his mouth.

"Ow," he grimaced, tasting the salt on her lips, instead of melting into her touch like he badly wanted to.

"Sorry," she pulled back quickly. "Sorry," she apologized again with avoidant eyes. "I didn't mean to hurt you," she harassed her bottom lip between her teeth with real concern on her features. Even more guilt was being reflected. He watched as it became something else when she no doubt identified the nature of the crinkle in his eyes.

"You could kiss it better," he offered innocently, undermining his face.

Sakura huffed. "Don't think we're done talking about the stalking thing," she chided him without basis. "Or your abysmal communication that leaves much to be desired."

"Okay." He could live with that. He could live with anything as long as they never stopped talking. Maybe they could even talk about her tendency to come to a conclusion and only listen to back it up. He would have to go by gut feel on that one.

"Does it hurt to breathe?" She asked with seriousness, seamlessly slipping back into her clinical persona but the light did not leave her eyes entirely.

"Only every other time," he admitted—not happy one bit.

"You're impossible when you're like this," she rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "Just what did I get myself into?" She asked, lips quirked upwards.

Don't think too hard there, Love.

"The ultrasound came back clean. Maybe we should do an X-ray," she thought out loud, worriedly, eyeing him with apprehension. She glanced over her shoulder at the door.

"Things worked out," he assured her with sincerity, vying for her attention. "I'm fine, Sakura." He inhaled a deep breath to illustrate, the corners of his eyes pinching together. He exhaled loudly. "See?" He asked, looking beside himself with pride.

Green eyes rolled with annoyance but not before she outed herself with a push of air out of her nose. A scoff of amusement.

"You being black, blue, and sore all over is your definition of things working out?"

"It is," he maintained adamantly. "This way, I saved most of the money I had planned on burning through." Because Shikaku was not going to beat him to a pulp and take his money. He was not a bully and neither were the Nara principles.

"Minato," she said her name with sternness. "I don't care about the money. I would much rather have you be okay. If I had a choice, no contest. You. I will always pick you."

"Really?" He teased, feeling delirious in his giddiness. He was definitely under the influence. "You haven't even heard the amount yet."

"I resent the implication, Namikaze," she scoffed in real offense. "I make plenty of money," she shot back at him. "I can't even kiss you properly." Her lips pulled into a pout. "You're a mess!" She gestured in his general direction. "How much is that worth by your math?"

"A temporary problem," he assured her in a placating tone. "And you tell me," he winked with his only non-swollen eye. "The bidding can start at around ten ryo? Does that sound fair?"

"Idiot, am I supposed to outbid myself?" She asked rhetorically with fondness. It was strange, no one had called him that really before. He did not mind it out of her mouth all that much. She chuckled wetly before she sniffled. "Go to sleep," she moved his hand over his eyes. "You owe me a kiss in the morning. But I don't even have ten ryo."

"It's okay, I don't mix business and pleasure anyway," he reminded her with an uneven grin. He did not feel the need to point out that if his internal clock was to be trusted, it was very much the morning. Her bandaged hand was warm in his. The other moved through his hair, massaging his scalp, luring him to finally sleep easy.

xXx

Tsunade sighed at the sight before her. Minato passed out with his mouth slightly open. Sakura hunched over in her stool, her head next to his. Hand in hand.

"She's going to wake up as sore as him," she tutted under her breath as she placed a blanket around the woman's shoulders for the second time this morning. "She did a good job," she admitted begrudgingly. "Even with one hand."

"Brings back memories doesn't it?" Jiraiya asked her with a certain nostalgic twinkle in his eye from his perch in the doorway. The cramped room was warm enough as it was with the number of bodies occupying it.

"We were never this stupid," Tsunade denied all allegations to the contrary. She began to unfold another blanket.

"Leave it," Jiraiya advised. "He runs hot." He yawned into his hand. He scratched his jaw. "And time had a way of sanitizing a lot of memories."

Tsunade rolled her eyes, not that he could see with her back to him. She refolded the blanket and draped it in her arms. She moved out of the room, toward the man. Her hand reached out to flip the light switch. She glanced over her shoulder at the sleeping pair, knowing in her bones that despite the circumstances it was the best sleep either of them had in a long time. The old man spoke the truth; she knew that from experience. She slapped away the hand that reached for hers.

"Don't get any funny ideas," she made it crystal clear because it had just come to her attention that he was confused. She poked the bags under her eyes with a rounded, painted maroon nail. "I need my beauty rest."

"Whatever you say, princess," he kissed the crown of her head as she walked by. He was in no hurry to follow after her. He appreciated the view as long as he could before he peeled himself off the wall to test the boundaries of what other view he could talk his way into seeing—for nostalgia's sake.

---

"Sakura?"

She blinked her eyes open. Disoriented. Her teeth were pressed together. Her jaw was a little sore and more than a little strained. She turned her head to the left. It was dark in the room. Only a small white, circular nightlight had the tall task of preventing a total blackout in the event she needed to rise throughout the night. All she saw was the bottom half of the frame of the bed from her vantage.

"Minato?" She called out his name soft enough not to disturb her exhausted mother who was in the living room but loud enough for him to hear; a balance found through practice. "Did you need something?" She only asked outright because it was hard for him to do the same and she had not, despite her wishing, gained the ability to read minds—or even just his. She would happily accept being able to read just his.

"No," he spoke from the bed. His voice was tired. "You were talking in your sleep."

"Oh," she ran her tongue along the bottom of her mouth guard. "Sorry."

"You were having a nightmare." There was less uncertainty now in the manner the words had flowed through her ears.

She sighed, turning to her side. She could not see him but at least she was facing him. She closed her eyes, relying on her memory to fill in the gaps. "I was," she admitted because lying to him would not be fair. Her cast rested heavily under her head.

"Was it the same one?" His tone was soft and vulnerable with regret he felt for his culpability. There was still work to be done in this regard. Much work.

"No." She shrugged under the covers a bit more until only everything above her nose remained exposed to the ambient air. "I dreamed that all my teeth fell out while I was trying to explain to a patient their prognosis while I had a gaggle of interns and first-year residents observing." An anxiety dream she had from time to time.

"That would be one way to be memorable," he let out a pant of air. "But I suppose with the pink hair it would be excessive."

She crinkled her nose. "Yeah. I'm just glad all your teeth are still intact."

"Because dentures aren't sexy?"

"Exactly." There was silence. She knew he had not drifted off to sleep. His tone was light but there was a lot on his mind. He was ruminating. Borderline brooding. Wallowing in his guilt—unable to ask the questions that were racing in his mind. So he worked twice as hard to be more vigilant and answer them himself. Right or wrong.

Are you alright? Is it okay being back here? Does your hand hurt? Are you crying when you think no one is watching? Are you scared? Are you holding onto the memory of me attacking that man? Do you see me differently? Are you scared…of me?

"Would you have told me? Ever?" She knew that hypotheticals were just that, hypothetical, just like she knew the human brain was wired to think the path not taken was somehow better—more green. It was actually a phenomenon, that if presented with two options the second a decision was committed to, the brain found the other more desirable. She could not go back any more than he could but that did not stop the cycles—her brain was moving in circles.

"No," came his answer, proceeding a soft sigh. "I didn't want you to see that side of me, who I had adapted to become. I never wanted you to have to see that."

A decade and a half. He wanted to keep a decade and a half of his life unknown to her. She understood—sympathized with his reasoning but she could not go as far as to say she agreed with it.

His entire adulthood.

She picked at a thread from the sheet absentmindedly, green eyes blinked slowly in the dark.

"Sakura?"

"I'm here," the corner of her mouth twitched slightly in indecision.

"Rihito can set something up for me. There's a short list of caregivers—"

"Darling," she followed with a sigh, willing herself to remain calm. The use of the still very new moniker was just another reminder to be a little more understanding, caring, and affectionate—a little less impatient, abrasive, and argumentative. "When I look at you," her eyes fluttered open. Wide and clear. "I don't think of the subway. I don't think of the bullets. I don't think about the knife." She raised a hand and smoothed the lines that were no doubt on his face through the air, willing her tenderness—something—to get through the wall they kept colliding into; stranded on opposite sides. The lines that formed out of concern for her. Regret on her behalf. "I just see you. I see the man, the one my mornings didn't feel complete until I saw him. I see the man who walked into this room from the bathroom naked and had the audacity to be nonchalant about it. I see the man who ate his weight in Cayenne all because I was the one to make it for him. I see the man who built me a fort," she smiled softly at the memory—fondly. "You're not a bad memory for me, Minato. You're not a bad association for me, Minato." She waited, holding her breath for something she was not sure of. "I promise. Okay?"

"Okay," he answered. She could hear the smile in his voice.

That was it. That was what she was waiting for. She exhaled.

"Okay," she nodded her head. "We should give it a rest before we wake my mom."

"I'm still waiting for her to slap me," his low chuckle was breathy but she was not distracted by the facade.

"Get in line," Sakura whispered, unable to do so dryly at that volume. "This cast is the only thing keeping her from wringing my neck." Her ears, though, rang enough with Mebuki's harsh, harsh words on just how careless Sakura had been. Zero self-preservation and bull-headedness had been thrown around as enraged accusations that Sakura just had to accept.

She doesn't blame you. Neither do I for the record.

If only he was receptive enough to hear it, really hear it.

"So we have some time," he mused distractedly.

She hummed in light agreement. "Good night, sweet dreams." The time projected on the ceiling read it was past two in the morning.

"Sweet dreams," he murmured, still smiling.

She buried her face—and smile into her pillow—drifting off to sleep free of falling teeth and lingering questions.

---

Sakura moved through the living room, humming along to a song she had stuck in her head for the past three days. She picked up a white shirt from the back of the couch to deposit it into the white, plastic laundry basket balanced on her hip. Her toes nudged at something. She used them to grab a black ankle sock. That too found a temporary home in the basket. She set the whole thing on top of the console table by the door where a green and blue bottle of detergent and softener—respectively—sat patiently. Waiting. And below that, another basket—beige and collapsible—was filled to the brim. It would be a delight hauling all of this up and down the stairs.

At least I'm only on the second floor.

With a sigh, she brushed the hair that escaped her loose bun from her temples with the back of a cumbersome, clunky cast. Black because Tsunade did not bother with colors no matter how many times she had asked—nicely even. Rihito had insisted on signing it and she did not have the heart to tell him no beyond the first. He even brought his own silver permanent marker, grinning like a child on Christmas morning all the while he wrote the words: Stay strong, Sis! And signed his name even larger, taking up all the space on that side.

She blew a raspberry when she caught her reflection in the mirror. She ignored her judgemental eyes as she began to smooth down some of the frizz. She tugged on her scarlet knit long sleeve in a losing battle against the hundreds of wrinkles that formed over an undisclosed period of time that the shirt was wedged in the back of a dresser drawer. She pinched her cheeks to bring some more color to them, feeling both silly and annoyed that she did not sneak some makeup products into either one of the end table drawers or the small hallway bathroom. She made a note to correct this oversight at the next chance she had. Sakura ran her tongue along her teeth, inspecting them for any remnants of her microwaveable breakfast burrito she had scarfed down—as her first meal of the day—somewhere on the other side of 2 PM. Her mother would be horrified and Minato…would not be too far off either. She tilted her head to the side and gave a tentative sniff under her slightly raised arm.

At least I still smell good.

Running around from chore to chore had left her feeling well short of refreshed. She glanced over her shoulder. Her front teeth pressed down on her chapsticked lips. Before she could think too deeply, she was moving back in the direction she had come. Her orientation changed. Her toes were pointed in the direction of the door on the left. She curled her first and knocked tentatively, gently. She pulled it open a moment later, sticking her head into the room that was filled with the afternoon sun.

"Hi," he greeted her with a smile against the white silk pillows. His attention was no longer focused on the book of poems in front of him.

"Hi," she did not fight the natural inclination of her lips whenever he was in the vicinity. Her eyes landed on the bamboo stand on her side of the bed. The disposable bowls—because washing dishes with effectively only one usable hand was neither time nor energy-efficient—were empty. "Mom called while you were sleeping. Cheddar was screaming in the background," she let out a chuckle. "She says he misses you and he's being very loud about it."

"I was his personal heater," he said with a smile. They both knew that he snuck the cat a few samples that he "accidentally" dropped. Using chopsticks efficiently was not within his realm of possibility as of right now. "Is she doing okay?"

Sakura thought about it. Mebuki showing up at her doorstep without warning four days ago had been shocking, to say the least, especially when considering she had needed to get on a bus, train, and cab to do so; all with a small duffle bag and a cat carrier. Even Cheddar did not give her a hard time. He must have sensed it was serious given just how out of character it was for the woman. She had been shaken up but she was determined to wear a brave face in front of them.

Minato had offered up the bed for her and Sakura—graciously and to his detriment. It had taken excessive convincing—and some choice words of varying severity from both Haruno women—that would not be the case under any circumstances as he desperately needed his rest. Minato sensing that he was outnumbered and outmatched in every which way, had begrudgingly accepted the terms and conditions. It was not like the time he had been shot where the injury was centralized, it was all over. Sakura was a cuddler so she had planned on sleeping on the couch regardless of whether or not Mebuki was there. Mebuki got the couch while Sakura dug out her sleeping bag and slept on the floor of her room. The carpet underfoot made it not as bad. The layers of blankets helped considerably. The bag in question was rolled up and tucked under the bed where it was waiting for her to pull out and utilize for the night.

"She's fine," Sakura said with a firm nod. "She'll be back to visit in a couple of days. I'll book tickets for a round trip on the bullet train, she said she kind of found it relaxing on the way back. She liked the snacks that came with the tea." She smoothed the blanket by his feet absentmindedly. "When she calls again, because she will, and talks to you, you can cut it short. Just tell her you're tired or say I need to talk to her about something. You'll wear yourself out if you try to keep up."

"Okay," he corroborated with a nod, making it clear he understood.

"I wanted to let you know that I was going to go do the laundry now," she prayed that the lameness she felt did not come across. She was closer to him now. But still more than an arm's reach away. "Is there anything I can get you before I go downstairs?" His phone was right next to his hip. She was looking right at it, verifying its presence in a convenient location.

Minato shook his head. His fingers kept his place in the closed book on his lap. The swelling in his right eye was not as bad. But the color had turned a grotesque purple. She could see the edges starting to yellow which was promising even if it appeared unsightly.

"I'm sorry that I can't go with you to help," he apologized, with remorse.

Sakura lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, mindful of his legs with a palm flat on the sheets on the other side of both his calves. She leaned to rest her weight on it slowly so as to not jostle the bed and by extension him.

"You're sorry for a lot aren't you?" The question slipped out before she could do her due diligence. His grimace had her instantly regretting her loose tongue.

"I'm sorry," he murmured probably without thinking.

"Minato," she sighed his name. She felt all the lingering frustration start to build up again. "It's just laundry. The machines do all the work. The up and down is good for my legs and heart." She would not be able to go on a run in ages. She missed the post-exertion clarity.

"It's not just the laundry," he ran a hand through his hair. She knew exactly how many pain patches, bandages, and bruises there were on just that one arm: four. "It's everything," he said heavily. "This is a lot. It's too fast. It's too much. Taking care of me, I know it's not easy."

"I offered," she reminded him as patiently as I could. "I want to take care of you." Her eyes softened slightly.

"I know," his smile was timid—testing the waters. "I just want to show you that I'm appreciative of everything you're doing."

"And I," she scratched her neck, glancing away from his earnest eyes for just a second to collect her thoughts. "And I am appreciative of you being appreciative, but I would appreciate it if you didn't apologize for every little thing," she said gently but her posture held a firmness to it. "You're not a burden. I don't see you as a burden," she said the words she knew he found hard to verbalize even if his actions spoke to it at length. "So can you please try? Can you please try to let me take care of you?" She waited, holding her breath for him to say something that she did not have to spend hours dissecting from various angles because she was exhausted—not just from the physical requirements of helping do anything—because there was very little he could do on his own—but from the mental load of having to fight tooth and nail for him to accept it.

"Okay," he said with a sigh of resignation. "I can try."

"Thank you," she reached over to squeeze his hand. She laid her smaller one on top of it.

"Before I try to stop saying sorry…can I say one thing?" Minato asked her, smiling unevenly in a way that never failed to make her heart flutter. Bruised and all.

"Sure," she chuckled, feeling light again.

"I'm sorry you got hurt, Sakura," his voice nearly caught on his words. "It's my biggest regret in all this. I promised you—I promised your mother—and I broke it."

She closed her eyes. The skin around her sutures pricked as if it had ears and knew it was being talked about. "Minato," she willed every molecule of patience she contained in her frame to come to her. "It's not your fault," she said emphatically. "I came to you. Both times. I came with the coffee and to the platform. I made my choices. You saved me." She paused. He was not convinced so she kept going. "I went down there not knowing it was you. It could have been anyone. And my actions would have been the same. But can we honestly say that the person in your place would have done half of what you did for me? I threw you out. I assumed the worst. I didn't give you a chance to explain. And you still came back." She stared him dead in the eye without wavering once—not even for half a moment. "You saved me," she stressed with all the conviction she could gather from her person. She needed him to hear it; to hear her.

"I don't blame you," he interjected in the space it took for her to draw in a breath. "I'm not interested in dwelling on it." On dragging out what she perceived her faults to be.

"So then don't blame yourself either," she was close to pleading. "And neither am I. What happened, happened. And if that's what was needed for us to be here," she felt her stomach churn because the level of honesty she had just imparted was not something she was planning on just yet. "Then that was what was needed for us to be here."

"Here?" He asked, after a beat of silence. His face was captured in a stunned stupor. "Sakura, it's all so sudden," he bit back a sigh, grounding himself once more in preparation for what he believed to be a disappointment.

"Well, it's really not if we take into account the year-long build-up. Happy one-year anniversary by the way. Today's the day I noticed you noticing me, well Ino noticed you noticing me. She bruised my ribs with her elbow. I almost burned my hand with the coffee I was holding. I'm sure you remember that morning. You were trying so hard not to laugh," she attempted to lighten the atmosphere in the room with a joke on perspective. Yet if the stern downturn of his lip and the lines on his forehead were anything to go off of, it did not work. Not even a little. He was serious-serious.

"I just don't want you to feel pressured. I'm sorry that I put it on you when I did. I don't regret that it slipped out when it did. I just want you to go at your own pace, be sure. I can wait."

"Minato," she closed her eyes, growing tired of running in the same circles. "Darling," she barely brushed her forehead against his. The gesture was more symbolic than physical. "I don't need a huge, massive, paradigm-shifting reason. It's been some time," she ran her thumb along his scabbed-over knuckles, a little over a week. It had been a little over a week. "Maybe you thought it was the emotion talking or the adrenaline or whatever, hell, there were moments when I thought that was the case. But I've sat with it. I've thought about it; why I was so angry, why I was so reactionary, why I was so conflicted," she inhaled deeply. She blinked her eyes open, reading his. She saw the hesitation in them. The fear of what she was about to say and where this could end up. Torn. He was tearing himself up inside and she was all too familiar with that. "I didn't say it out of fear or adrenaline. I don't know exactly when it happened. Or how. All I know is that once I stopped fighting it, it all became so much clearer."

She was flustered and only growing more and more in that state. She held onto coherency. The conversation she had countless times in her head was happening.

Don't fumble this now, Haruno.

She breathed in slowly, filling her lungs and holding her breath, only to let it out even slower, forcing her nervous system to slow down. Just like Dr. Okamoto taught her.

Shattered hearts mend slow,

Tender exchanges woven—

Trust like glass, held soft.

She breathed. He waited; patient and understanding. Her eyes softened with gratitude.

"I like you. I like talking to you. I like listening to you. I want to listen to you talk more about things. I like spending time with you. I want to spend more time with you. Whatever you'll give me. I feel safe with you. Comfortable. At peace. And," she chuckled with embarrassment, cheeks dusted with pink that was darkening to red. "I find you so attractive. So, so, so attractive. Like it's more than a little ridiculous how much. What more is there, Mianto?" She asked him rhetorically. "What more is needed?" She did not give him a chance to string together fragments of thought. For her silence and slowness were good, for him it amplified the echo of his loneliness; it would awaken the hurt inside of him. That vulnerable little boy; the little boy she wanted to protect more than anything. It was her turn to drive away any lingering traces of doubt.

"I meant every word, Minato," she smiled. There was no doubt in her now. There was no place for it, not when it came to him. She knew who he was. She knew his heart. "I love you. I had nothing to compare it against because I never loved anyone—I'd never been in love before. So it took me some time to figure it out. I love you. I'm in love with you. I have been for a while now."

And I wish I could just kiss you senseless right now. Over and over. Until you believed it.

She really did. The hope on his face—it was pure and childlike. He was so open. It flowered to joy. His eyes lit up and it caused her heart to swell so much that it could burst in her chest without warning.

"I started falling for you before we even slept together for the first time," she kissed her teeth. "Yeah. All the way back then."

"You didn't say anything, then," he simply pointed out without accusation.

"I was waiting for you to—," she began the explanation with a laugh, "—to make the first move, to bring up the topic. To use your own damn words and not Sumida's. Because I like your words better. I like your words best."

"I was following your lead," he shook his head. He gasped his brain which was on a delay deciphered and translated the rest of her words, affronted. "Sacrilege. That is a national treasure that you're dismissing so cavalierly." His face held mock scandal.

"I said what I said," she huffed, smiling at him with delight in her eyes.

"I love you. I'm in love with you too," he used his words. Nothing fancy but all heart and all truth. "I love you so much." He gave freely and without fear of consequence.

She laughed because things—her emotions—were building and she had no place to put them. So she expelled them the only way she could.

"Yeah, I got that." Her eyes moved from bandage, scratch, bruise, and bust that was not tucked under the navy sheet. She held his hand. "I want this to work, Minato. I want us to work."

It has to work. Because you've ruined me.

But she was okay with that. She was more than okay with that.

"I want us to work too," he beamed at her, his eyes held so much affection that she felt moisture collect behind her own.

She cleared her throat roughly. Her gaze wandered around the room. She took her time. "Next time Rihito calls you, can you ask him who he hired to clean up the apartment? It looks better than it did when I moved in," she said in a light tone to mitigate the need to hold him close. A need he could not meet right now and she really did not want him to realize that—if on the off chance he did not already.

Minato's chuckle was cut short with a hiss. "They don't take new business," he uttered with traces of strain. "But you can double-check when he calls you to complain about me."

"That's too bad," Sakura adjusted so that her spine was holding her upright and not her arm. "He doesn't always complain. Sometimes he tells me embarrassing stories that truth be told, he takes a lot of artist license with," because she found them very hard to believe. She peeled her palm from the bed to bring it to his covered thigh. "How are you doing with all this?" She asked him with concern. "With all this change?" She elaborated so that he could not make light of the topic with a joke somewhere in the vicinity.

You don't regret it, do you?

Because while he would never voice it, she was putting a lot of pressure on herself. It would devastate her if he thought—even for a fleeting moment—that it and by extension she was not worth it.

"I'm alright," he answered with, what she believed to be, honestly. "It's strange. But I don't think it's hit me yet given how Rihito is still calling me every hour it seems."

"Hm," she clicked her tongue. "Well, you are the one who told him to call if he has any questions."

And you kind of left him without an instruction manual.

Minato flattened his palm against his ribcage. "I'm okay," he said quickly at the way her eyes sharpened. "Really, Sakura," he assured her—halting her movement to get up to inspect more closely. "You're going out of your way to make me laugh. And it hurts."

"You're unbelievable," she tutted a reprimand half-heartedly.

Seriously. How are you real?

"He's doing well, as well as he can given how I threw him in the deep end. Some suppliers are a little jumpy. It's the least I can do to give him some reassurances here and there."

"You're a good man, Minato," she caught him by surprise judging from his owlish blink. He really was adorable. "I'm sorry it took me so long to see that." Something her mother saw in one meeting and Cheddar determined from a sniff. Although she had her reservations on the validity of the latter's process.

Maybe Minato had cheese in his pocket or something.

"Sakura," his lips pulled into a frown.

"It was your whole world," she reminded him unnecessarily, not giving him the opportunity to jump into reassuring her. He was very good at it. He was very good at taking care of things. "You must be feeling a little lost, I know I would," she pressed because that was the only way to get him to address it. She had to keep poking. She had to poke when it came to him and himself. He was not used to being doted on—cared for. It was all very foreign.

I promise you Minato, that won't be the case forever. Receiving love will be familiar one day. One day soon, I hope.

"I'm not excommunicated," Minato blinked his eyes closed. "I have people. The Professor, Senju Sage, Nara," his lashes parted to reveal clear cobalt eyes. "I have you."

Yes. Now and always.

She dare not voice it outloud lest she jinx it.

"You have me," she agreed with a nod. She brought his hand to her lips. She kissed his scabbed-over knuckles. "You have me." She pressed the back of his hand against her cheek.

"It's going to take some time, Sakura," Minato's fingers opened up to expand the places where they touched. He smiled at the feel of her soft skin. "I'm going to be alright. I'm not alone. I'm not lonely."

"You won't ever have to be alone or lonely again," she promised him with a voice scratchy with emotion. "Me either."

"I have everything I need," he gazed upon her softly. "I'm home," he said with adoration. With devotion. She nearly melted into a vat of warm goo.

"Welcome, home," she leaned forward to brush her lips against his. She closed her eyes. "Welcome, home." Something both soft and rough in places along with wet caught the tear that slid down her cheeks. "They're injured," she chided. He really ought not to be using his lips to catch her displaced tears.

"Worth it," he breathed against her skin.

With ample reluctance, she pulled away because if she stayed a sweet and tender moment would be swallowed by mutual frustration. And she did not want that. She did not want to tarnish this memory.

"Remind me again how this was going easy on you?" She asked him with ire directed at someone she never met and did not care to meet.

"I'm here," he leaned back into the pillows even more, eyes holding a sparkle that filled her with a smug satisfaction because she knew she was the reason behind it. "With you. That's how."

She huffed which she had a feeling only added to his amusement. "Do you have any requests for dinner?"

He stared at her with alarm. "We went through that mountain of food your mom cooked already?" He asked in disbelief. The sheer amount of containers that were packed together in canvas bags had barely fit in her fridge and freezer—she had to repurpose some space from the fridge she kept in her clinic for the medication. It took Sakura no less than six trips up and down the stairs to bring up all the groceries. He knew because she had complained about it at length. Apparently, Mebuki cooked when she was stressed or bored, or in a good mood. Mebuki cooked often and a lot. Enough to feed the whole building. She had walked over to Ms. Honda's, Amaya's and Hiro's, without prompting. Thanking them for taking such good care of her daughter before roughly shoving the containers into their unsuspecting grip, leaving them gaping and confused before they realized just who her daughter was—from her eyes alone. "Have people been over while I was sleeping?"

Sakura giggled at this disgruntledness at the prospect of being caught that unaware because even being heavily injured was not a valid excuse in his book. "Relax, Darling," she resisted the urge to pinch his cheeks. "No one has been over that you don't already know about," she smoothed down the lines on his forehead. "I just wanted to make you something fresh—something special with my own two hands. Well, you know what I mean," she held up her cast with a blank expression.

She felt his scrutiny increase as he studied her face. "Anything," he said after a short silence. "I'll eat anything."

She rolled her eyes. "Helpful." She stopped herself from flicking his nose. "Would it kill you to answer a question normally so that I could actually learn something about you?"

Minato's grin had her stomach dropping to her toes. "You remember when you asked me earlier how this was the Clan taking it easy on me?"

"I remember," she furrowed her brow. "I'm not the one with a concussion. Or short-term memory loss."

"Had a concussion," he corrected, unbothered by her suspicions. "You never asked me why."

"Why what?" She asked without thinking.

"Why he went easy on me," Minato's hands were wrapped around her wrists in a development she was not quite sure of when it developed.

"You were like a son to him," she answered with a furrowed brow and a frown. "Isn't that obvious?"

"Ask me," he commanded in a low voice, textured with grit. Navy irises accepted the silent challenge of swallowing her whole.

"Why…," Sakura licked her lips to moisten them in response to her throat going dry, "why did he go easy on you?"

"He took mercy on me, on our situation," he said in a manner that she could not quite tell if he was being serious or not. But she listened intently anyway. Actively.

"Our situation?" Curiosity bled into her voice.

"Hm," his eyes migrated lower, landing on her navel. "I may have alluded to the fact that I needed to take care of my woman and child. Because family comes before anything."

Blood rushed to her cheeks and the tips of her ears. Burning. She felt the burn. Sakura sputtered unintelligibly. "What child?" She finally stammered out.

Minato's brow moved up and down. "We better get to it."

Are you serious?

Sakura rolled her eyes and shook her head, playing indifferent to her growing embarrassment at his open teasing. A side of him she was not used to in the slightest.

"The only thing we need to get to is you finding a job," she poked him in the chest which resulted in a grunt.

"What do you mean?" Minato furrowed his brow, looking beyond put out. "Why else would I go through all this effort of snagging myself a doctor if I had to get a job anyway?"

"Excuse me?" She raised a pink brow, unable to think of anything wittier at the moment at his sheer audacity.

"Think about it Sakura," he grinned at her shamelessly. "A piping hot cup of coffee in bed every morning. Breakfast on the table before you go to work. Homemade bento lunches every day with something cute like a sandwich shaped like a teddy bear and a sweet little note. Dinner when you come through the door. The smell of freshly cooked rice. Your clothes laundered, ironed, and arranged by color. A bath ready and drawn. A back and foot rub…."

"Hm," she hummed because somewhere along the way she had closed her eyes. "That does sound nice." She could picture it. Minato in an apron. "A house husband." She could work with that. "That just means I need to work harder to support us. Because no child of ours will have two unemployed parents!" She crossed her arms and looked away in a huffy manner because she was not one to concede defeat with grace. A work in progress.

His grin grew at the fact that she did not outright say no but it started to slip when the reality of now overtook the prospect of tomorrow.

"So the hospital called?" He asked her, his hand coming to rest against her knee. Supportive. Bracing for what was to come.

"Hm," she collected lint that was not there from the sheets across his lap distractedly. "I can't work with my hand the way it is. Shizune tried to do what she could. But her hands are tied." Her sharp gaze collided with his. She could see the apology rising in his throat. "Darling, if you apologize I will break something," she said sweetly, smiling prettily. His fingers were closest.

Minato pressed his lips together in a temporarily impermeable line. "We'll figure something out," he said finally.

"You're not opening a club," she shook her head. "Absolutely not."

Those places are a breeding ground for all things unsavory…and your face is way too pretty to resist.

"You could at least pretend to be remorseful while you crush my dreams," he pouted.

"It would be a nightmare with our schedules. We would never get to see each other." She patted the back of his hand in consolation, pleased with her formulation of a respectable response. "I'm going to be a surgeon." She glared at her hand. "Shannaro! I'm going to do it, damn it."

He nodded his head without hesitation. "Yes." He already self-appointed himself as the point person for her well-being, which was making sure she slept, ate, drank enough water, and had clean clothes to wear. "I can find a part-time job—a couple of them—to support us while you're in the program. The money I have saved up should be enough to keep the clinic afloat for a while."

How did you get to be so sweet?

"Minato, it means the world that you offered," she smiled, cheeks flushing at his conviction—his belief in her. It pushed up her stomach in the best way possible. "But you don't have to. It's your earnings from your hard work. Use it for your dreams. The clinic will be fine."

One way or the other.

"What dream is better than helping you realize yours?" Was his quiet response that resonated profoundly within her, felt all the way to her core. "It will be put to good use."

"We'll figure it out," she insisted, finding her voice along with the words that still felt much too small and insignificant against what he offered. Her smile darkened, coloring with mischief. "We could try selling your suits first, while we find our footing."

"Sakura," he admonished, perturbed at the prospect of the reality she offered. "You fight dirty," he grumbled out.

"Is there any other way?" She asked, eyes twinkling and stomach fluttering. She did not know what to do with herself.

"We'll work on it," he resided with a playful sigh.

"I can help you write a resume. We'll just have to be creative with some of the verbiage when describing your experience." She tapped her chin presumably deep in thought. "There's always Naruto's."

You'd get to wear a hair net.

"Absolutely not," Minato shook his head with adamance. "I don't put it past the Professor to try to pay me with coffee and pastries."

"We do like both," Sakura pointed out with a small laugh. "But yeah, you can't really barter for electricity with sugar."

"So a kid?" He redirected, shyly, endearing himself to her even more.

"Kids," she confirmed with a definitive nod. "One of each. You'll do both of their hair in the mornings, before school," she elaborated, bringing color to the memories that were waiting to be made. "But you'll have to marry me first. Non-negotiable." Her stern frown matched her tone.

Mom will never let us hear the end of it otherwise.

"As soon as I can walk on my own again," he promised, flashing her a grin. He vowed then and there to not tell her about Horseshoe, she would never consider his candidates for names if she knew. "Actually that's not a hard requirement for me."

"Slow down," she shot down the playful suggestion with exasperation. "People usually start with a first date."

"Is that how that works?" He cocked his head to the side, eyes dancing with mirth. "Does the coffee count as our first?" There was genuine consideration on his part for the idea, not just lip service.

"We'll figure it out," she said with heightened solemnity. "And no."

You're not getting off that easy, Blondie.

"You look beautiful even when you're being a little mean."

Oh, you like it. Maybe a little too much, Darling.

"You said that yesterday," she clicked her tongue, failing to mask her delight. "And the day before. And the day before that."

"It was true yesterday too. And the day before. And the day before that," he listed easily. "And all the days before dating back to when I saw you for the first time."

"Careful now, Darling. I might just think this is love bombing," she teased without real substance.

"Love bombing?" He asked with pure innocence, ever eager to learn.

"I'll tell you when you're older," she promised disingenuously. Older. She was getting older and this year was shaping up to be one with a lot of change. "Starting over in our thirties," she sighed heavily. "Life hasn't turned out how I thought it would." Her fingers found his. She smiled softly trying to coax one out of him. She saw the trepidation set back in his eyes, replacing the playfulness that had been there. "And that's okay. I have a feeling it's going to be pretty great."

Her heart fluttered in her chest at the bright, bright smile he directed at her. He held her bandaged hand in his.

"I think so too."

"Is Kiba okay?" She tilted her head to the side, gazing at him languidly.

"He's fine. Hana has him. He can do what he wants with his life," he said with ample confidence that she immediately let it go. One less thing to worry about. "Which is breeding dogs apparently."

Sakura laughed, holding off a snort. "We all have our things. It should keep him out of trouble." She tapped his knee, reluctantly inching her fingers free from his. "I should go do the laundry." She made no move to get up despite her words.

His eyes darted to the sliding door. There were not many daylight hours left. Even if she was safe, it was still Tani. He worried. She could see it on his face. She nodded her head in understanding of the gentle push of encouragement. She leaned forward to press a light kiss on the corner of his mouth.

"See you soon." She reached across him for the bamboo tray with the used bowls but not before tapping her pocket, knuckles against her phone screen, the ring of keys with a red cylinder filled with pepper spray. He nodded in understanding.

"See you soon, Love." He did not pick up the forgotten-about book until the front door was closed and the lock slid into place.

---

He counted to five. Three times. Cobalt eyes rolled to the ceiling. He stared at the spots between the canned lights. He felt his hair being adjusted. The collar of his black shirt was straightened—unnecessarily but he was not going to point that out. Her breath fanned his neck. His nose picked up traces of the artificial mintiness of it. Her teeth crunched through yet another breath mint in a barbaric act of impatience. She smoothed the silk around his shoulders. In her haste and nervousness, she was not as gentle as he had grown accustomed to when she took inventory of his recovery.

He lowered his eyes. She was right there. So close that he could not even see the entirety of her face. Her very flustered face.

"Love," he began with a sigh.

"Just a second," she brought her palm to the top of his head. Her hand moved down. "It won't cooperate," she whined, frustrated.

"It's fine," he reached out and caught her wrist before she either licked her palm and tried again or suggested that he get an impromptu haircut. He did not like the way she was eyeing his head.

"You think?" Sakura asked him with a frown, unconvinced. She stepped back and went as far as to hold her chin between her thumb and index finger. Her eyes swept the entirety of his person that was sitting in her accent chair. She half turned so she could inspect the coffee table adorned with finger sandwiches, a fruit and cheese platter, and small handheld desserts. There was barely space for the plates and napkins. And zero space for the supposed tea that she planned on serving—the whole projected purpose for the gathering.

"It's going to be fine," he held her gaze and smiled reassuringly.

"Just enough detail," she reminded herself of what they had agreed on. "Just enough detail," she repeated under her breath. "Stick to the script. You'll be fine, Haruno."

Magic beans why can't you be real?

"They love you," he reminded and assured her helpfully all at once.

There was a knock on the door. Loud and impatient. Sakura let out a whimper. She looked at him with unabashed fear in her eyes.

"Breathe," he suggested, his smile faltering just slightly.

"Breathe," she repeated with an absentminded nod. Sakura smoothed her high-waisted brown ankle-grazing wool skirt with a shaky hand—the same hand that then went to ensure her black turtleneck was tucked in properly. She moved away from him, shoulders stiff, toward the even more impatient knocks. One right after the other. Her arms were bent, no doubt that she was fidgeting with her cast. He could see a red ribbon in her hair, the one he had tied into a large bow right underneath a bun at the top of her head—after studying a VideoTube tutorial for thirty minutes. He wondered, not for the first time if she purposely played up the cuteness to perhaps sow seeds of mercy. She—they—needed it. He believed that despite the calm he was projecting. Her shoulders rose and fell as she inhaled and exhaled deeply. The doorknob turned. His grip on the armrest tightened. A loud voice was quick to fill the space in the room much before her body took up any.

"Forehead you better have a damn good reason this time because I am up to my eyeballs in your bullsh—What the hell is he doing here?!" Ino pointed to him in outrage. Livid. Ino was livid.

Sakura smiled sweetly. So sweet in fact that he could never speak harshly to that face of hers. How Ino managed it was a secret he did not care to learn.

"Ino, Amaya," her voice was pleasant, lilted to perfection. "Please come in," she opened the door wider and stepped to the side. "I'm sure you remember Minato."

"Hello," he held up his hand from his seat. His smile was friendly.

Ino's snot was loud. Her hands were on her hips over her pure cashmere knee-length coat. The ice of her baby-blue glare was entirely directed at him.

"You better have a damn good reason," she repeated in a seethe. "Otherwise I'm declaring you," Ino threatened with a promise of follow through. "And I'm going to kill you," she stared him down as she promised.

Off to a promising start.

His eyes crinkled with increased strain.

"Sakura?" Amaya stepped in behind the blonde woman who was towering over both of them in her half-a-foot stilettos boots—crocodile leather. Amaya's hazel eyes darted between his face and Sakura's with clear unease.

"Take off your coats. Make yourselves comfortable," Sakura said with a too-bright, too-large smile for it to be anything but artificial. "Here let me help you." She did not give them a choice. He watched as she turned Ino around and yanked the garment off of her.

"Watch it, Forehead!" Ino hissed. "It costs more than your rent."

Three months of rent easily.

He corrected the understatement in his head.

Amaya's eyes bulged out of her head. She started to undo the buttons on her knitted sweater. She hung it from the rack just after Sakura placed Ino's. Amaya toed off her sneakers. Ino begrudgingly and with excess attitude placed a hand on the wall and unzipped the first of her boots—loudly. She was rather committed to being difficult it seemed.

"Sit, sit," Sakura ushered them to the sofa. She lowered onto the armrest—legs slanted and proper—after the two women took their sweet time—again, the primary culprit was Ino—to settle into the cushions of the couch.

Minato felt her fidget next to him. He brushed his shoulder against her arm subtly. Her fingers stopped moving within her folded hands.

"Can I get you anything to drink?" Sakura asked, indifferent to Ino's glare and Amaya's curiosity. "Mimosas maybe? Tea? Coffee? Vodka?" She provided the latter option with more enthusiasm than the rest.

Ino crossed her arms over her purple dress. "Explain." Her eyes narrowed. "What the hell happened to your hand?!" She shrieked loud enough for the Hondas to hear, noticing the cast for the first time.

"About that," Sakura uttered after a nervous laugh, sheepish.

"Are you alright, Sakura?" Amaya asked with concern laced between every word.

Ino's eyes narrowed even further into slits as Sakura's hand—the one not with a plaster—located Minato's all without either one of them so much as glancing at each other in a gesture born out of repetition that should not have existed. A development she knew next to nothing about.

"It's a long story," Sakura warned reluctantly.

"Then you better get talking," Ino worked out through clenched teeth. Amaya nodded her head in agreement.

Sitting right next to him, Sakura sighed. He squeezed her fingers. She opened her mouth to do just that. And she did. She told them just about everything. Everything they had agreed to share. Never once did she slip and say names—the Nara, the Uchiha, Sasori, Jiraiya, Tsunade, or the like. Just enough detail that the vagueness was missed. While she spoke, he did not take his eyes off the two women. Amaya looked like she was about to be sick on more than one occasion. Her face was nearly white as a sheet.

Sakura slapped her hand against her cast once. "So, any questions?" She asked with a slightly scratchy throat. She glanced at him as if to check if he were still there. His palm might not have warmed through the thick layers of wool at her knee.

Ino blinked rapidly. "So Minato and I are related?" She asked, flabbergasted.

"We are," Minato confirmed with a curt nod.

"Oh my God," Ino held her head in her hands.

"Ino?" Sakura asked with more suspicion than concern at this point.

"Nothing," the blonde's eyes were pinched together, closed. "I just can't believe I thought about it with my own cousin," she punctuated with a gag.

"You what?" Sakura leaned forward, squinting in incredulity.

Amaya shrunk back into the couch but not before giving Ino a massive side-eye, a side-eye Minato found himself agreeing with.

"Calm down. It was just a fleeting thought of a revenge screw for breaking your heart, he's freaking gorgeous!" Ino groaned as she peaked through her fingers. She lowered her hands and rolled her shoulders, carrying the motion into a shake of her head. "And I guess now we know why," she recovered quickly, finding her stride. "Excellent genes."

"I'm uncomfortable," Amaya announced before promptly shoving a cucumber sandwich into her mouth in its entirety. Her cheeks swelled up like a squirrel's.

Me too.

Minato rubbed the back of his neck.

"I did not need to know that, Pig," Sakura crossed her arms over her chest.

"It would have been for you," Ino rolled her eyes. She reached for the square glass on the table. She swirled the orange mixed drink in it thoughtfully. "So I guess you do have a damn good reason. A. Damn. Good. One." She knocked the drink back, eyes closing as the gilded down her throat. She was still in the process of processing.

"Amaya," Sakura shifted from her perch. "Are you alright?" She asked gently, voice filled with guilt. "I'm sorry."

"Honestly," Amaya's anger was not so under the surface. He could see it behind her eyes. "I'm pissed. My kid, Sakura, he's my everything."

"I know."

"You endangered him."

Sakura flinched as if she had been physically struck. "I'm so sorry," she apologized in a small voice. A voice so small he felt something stir in him. Protective and defensive.

"It's my fault," Minato interjected. "Sakura had no choice."

"I wasn't talking to you. I'll get to you later, don't you worry," Amaya snapped at him for but a second before she turned her attention back to Sakura. Her glower was intimidating. The term mama-bear made sense to him now.

"Amaya," Sakura leaned forward. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry Hiro was in that situation. I'm sorry that I waited so long to tell you. I'm sorry I lied to you," her voice caught but she just managed to get the words out audibly and intelligibly. "I'm sorry."

"What good is your sorry?" She asked, throwing her indignation for them to all feel.

"I don't want to lose you," Sakura spoke quickly and a little disjointedly in her panic. "Either of you," she stressed with emotion, throat catching.

"Amaya," Ino turned to the silent woman next to her. "Sakura would never willingly put Hiro in harm's way," she defended gently. "It was a bad situation."

The brunette shook her head. "You don't have a kid, Ino. You don't understand what it's like," she looked up to keep her angry tears in her eyes. "Now I have to think about what to tell my kid to explain why he can't come up here and see her."

Her.

Minato turned his head. "Sakura," he said her name gently, "hey."

She just shook her head. Her teeth pressed into her lip hard enough to leave bruises. It was a small wonder how the skin managed to hold together and not break. She was devastated.

"I need to go," Amaya pushed up to her feet. Ino and Sakura were on theirs not even a moment later. Amaya held up her arms. "Don't try to stop me. I need to go before I say something that I may regret. I just…," she abandoned her words mid-thought. A burst of air and sound somewhere between a grunt and a consonant came from her.

"Amaya," Sakura's voice was weak. She did not move to impede Amaya's intent.

"Amaya," Ino called after the woman who had roughly grabbed her sweater from the coat rack, nearly sending it toppling over. "We can just sit and talk about this. There's no reason for you to go back home this upset! Hiro will pick up on it."

Amaya ignored the blonde. Her plum sweater was crushed against her side. Her shoes had the heels of them pressed down as she did not bother to put them on properly. She tore open the door to reveal one Detective Sasuke Uchiha standing with a curled fist poised to strike the solid slab of the door that was no longer there.

"Who the hell are you?" Amaya asked him with flashing eyes, not placing his face at all from the night she had lost to expensive vodka.

Sasuke cocked up a brow. He flashed a gold badge in response. Amaya stammered out a quick apology, anger melting from her face, along with the red color of her anger.

"Bad time?" He called out over the woman's shoulder, his dark eyes found Minato's blue ones immediately.

"Shit," he heard Sakura whisper.

Indeed.

In the time it took for him to slowly—painstakingly—push up to his feet, Sakura was at the very door Amaya had backed away from and subsequently into the waiting hold of Ino's hands around her shoulders.

"You," Ino frowned. She was not that drunk—she had a higher tolerance. "You're a detective?"

"Detective Uchiha," Sakura said brightly ignoring Ino and Amaya, her lips straining at the extreme edge of her smile. "What a surprise!"

"Dr. Haruno," his greeting was borderline clipping. There was a distinctive lack of bright yellow sunshine over his shoulder. No Deidara. He held out a slip of folded-up paper between his index and middle fingers. "This is for you."

The alarm bells—which had been giving off a couple of test rings before were now blaring in his head. He brought a hand to his tender side, palm wide and flat. The makeshift compress fell well short of providing any relief as he stepped forward. He used the back of the couch for support.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" Sasuke asked her all the while his dark, dark eyes—so smug and victorious.

Minato was standing behind her now. Sakura's fingers crinkled the paper that she had yet to smooth out. He could just about feel her heartbeat through her back against the front of his chest. He rested a hand on her shoulder. He squeezed exactly once.

"Come in," she said with a level of calm that had pride filling him.

They watched, wordlessly as Sasuke moved past them to slip out of his shoes and take a spot on the lone accent chair—perching himself on it. All eyes were on the Uchiha but he hardly seemed to be bothered by it.

The door closing snapped them both out of their stupor. Sakura peeled away from him, moving across the room in confident strides even if her ankles felt like they were about to give out. No one else moved as two chairs from the dining table were brought across the couch with the coffee table in between. Sakura sat in the seat closest to Sasuke, leaving one of her left open for him to occupy. Which he did. Shortly after, Ino and Amaya refilled their vacancies on the couch, unsure of decorum in a situation that was still developing.

Minato glanced at the even more crumpled-up paper that was resting across Sakura's lap. He felt nothing for what it could mean for himself.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Sakura asked politely but not without undertones of tightness. "Tea?"

Sasuke shook his head. "I won't be long." He rubbed his hands together slowly. "If you may, Dr. Haruno," he stared at her expectantly.

"Sakura," Minato said her name gently. She had not moved for a number of seconds.

"Hm," she tugged a corner closer to her. With a sigh, she opened it. Her eyes moved from left to right, picking up speed. Minato was just halfway—reading over her shoulder—when she crumbled the bottom half in her hand. "Are you shitting me?" She asked—jaw clenched.

Minato closed his eyes for a second. It was just as he had thought. "Sakura," he tried to lend her some of his calm.

"You're arresting him?!" She threw the paper toward him in anger. It fell way short, slowly moving toward the area rug. "For speeding?!"

Sasuke straightened out his cuffs, nonplussed but the anger and gasps of surprise from the blonde and brunette. "He broke the law," Sasuke pointed out matter-of-factly. "He was going fifty over the speed limit on the bridge. Well past the parameters for reckless driving. He was clocked by the radars."

The bridge he had to cross because it was the shortest path to get to her.

"I would have died if he was even a minute slower!" Sakura hissed out, too angry to feel the fear that Masanori's words still dealt her.

Minato was reaching for her now—for her coiled fist that he had real concerns about. Sakura shrugged him off, turning her body toward the Uchiha so she could scream at him from a more acceptable angle.

"Which could have been taken into consideration if a crime was reported," the detective countered without hesitation. "He missed the notices and his court-appointed date to appeal the ticket, He also did not pay the fine."

Sakura's jaw went slack. Her eyes were the color of emerald as the heat in her rose enough to eviscerate him. But it was another voice that beat her to it.

"All this because he missed a couple of letters? That's bullshit!" Ino crossed her arms over her chest, filling in for Sakura's stunned silence. "You can't be serious right now!"

Sasuke ignored her. "Come quietly, Namikaze. We've had enough drama. And I wasted enough time trying to find a judge that would sign the warrant," he said in an annoyed tone that conveyed just how much extra work he had to go through.

"You bastard!" Sakura shot to her feet much faster than Minato could keep up with. "I can't believe that you would be this petty!"

"Sakura," Minato brought an arm to wrap around her waist, tethering her to him. "Let it go," he said next to the shell of her ear.

But she was too far gone in her tirade against Uchihas with daddy issues to pay him any mind. A tirade that was hitting some buttons given the way Sasuke's face was twisted. Ino's digs joined the fray and the whole thing was one big mess.

"Maybe you wouldn't have this problem if you didn't have a thing for criminals," Sasuke's voice rose over the squabble. He too was on his feet and well within range. He opened the right side of his suit jacket to reveal the handcuffs on his belt. "Trust me, they'll suit you," he taunted Minato openly, turning his attention away from the shaking pinkette.

A mistake in hindsight. Just like a glaring oversight on Minato's part. Because while he held Sakura to him, thus preventing her from moving forward, he did nothing to prevent her arms from doing the same. Cobalt eyes widened as they witnessed the detective stumble backward reaching for his nose, lips parted in shock—unable to utter a warning in time or an apology after the fact. He could only watch wordlessly as the detective fell backward into the chair he had risen from.

The echoes of "Shannaro!" rang in all of their ears like a gunshot. His brain worked sluggishly to connect the pieces.

"Sakura," he said her name aghast, his grip almost going slack around her. "Do you know what you just did?" He asked, shellshocked.

"Brought an asshole down a peg?" She asked over her shoulder, shaking her hand once. Her knuckles were already turning pink.

No. Not even close.

"You just assaulted an officer!" Sasuke glared at her, still holding his nose which made it hard to take his animosity and authority seriously—if Minato could admit such a thing. "Do you have any idea how much jail time you bought yourself?" He hissed out with tears shimmering in his dark eyes as he gingerly got to his feet. Out of pure stubbornness. Judging from the sickening crunch, she had broken his nose.

"Is it more or less than the jail time for assaulting a detective?" She asked him snootily. "Detective," she jeered, crossing her arms over her chest.

Sakura.

Minato pinched the bridge of his nose and bit back a long sigh.

"I'm contacting my cousin," Amaya said in a squeaky high-pitched voice. Her phone was already in her hand. "She's a lawyer. A good one!" She insisted quickly. Her fingers were moving rapidly as her head bobbed up and down between their faces and her phone. "She's on billboards and bus benches! Don't worry Sakura."

Sakura was too far gone to worry about anything. She held out her wrists. One noticeably thicker than the other.

"Will your cuffs fit me?"

This woman would be the death of him. And that was precisely why he turned her around, pushing her behind his back as he inserted himself literally between them. "Detective Uchiha," he began in his most diplomatic voice.

"You can't talk her way out of this one, Namikaze," Sasuke hissed. In fact, Minato was now convinced that Sasuke's nose was broken given the way he lisped his words. "We had a deal!"

"Screw you and screw your deals!" Sakura shouted from over his shoulder. Even in her anger—it was the greatest he had seen—she had control, Minato realized—because she never moved to push past him or break free from his holds. Because that would cause him pain. She was kind and thoughtful even in this. Well, he supposed it depended heavily on perspective. Sasuke probably did not think either of those things about her. "Deal?" The word carried more awareness.

Shit.

"What deal?" Sakura spoke up before Minato could spin anything. She was staring up at him with expectation on her face. "What deal, Minato?"

It had completely slipped his mind. In his defense, he did have a concussion and some memory loss.

"What deal Minato?" Her fingers curled around his shirt, green eyes were sharp with clarity. "What deal?" She asked again with a hoarse whisper.

He lowered his forehead against hers. "To get him here, to get him to you, I promised I would turn myself in."

"Minato," she exhaled quick and loud; anguished. "No," Sakura's head moved from side to side in denial.

It's not your fault.

"So you do remember," Sasuke spat into an embroidered handkerchief, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

"You didn't even get here in time!" Sakura whirled back around to snarl.

"Love," Minato turned, his hands were on her shoulders, holding her steady. "Please," he pleaded with her. "Let me handle this." He held his breath as her eyes tore away from Sasuke's face. The contempt and hatred—or strong dislike if he was being optimistic—were drowned out with concern when the matching green eyes landed on him.

"Minato," she frowned, her voice a whine.

"Trust me," he held her face, placing a quick placating kiss on her forehead. "Please."

Sakura sighed in acquiescence that she would behave at least for a little while. She did not look even remotely happy about it.

Sasuke was waiting with a withering glare by the time he turned around again. Minato offered him a disarming smile that did nothing to achieve what was intended. "Detective Uchiha, she had a few drinks. She's not in the right state of mind," he played up the truth. "Can you overlook this?"

"I'm not even buzzed!" Sakura grumbled more than loud enough for Sasuke to hear.

Now is not the time to be honest, Sakura.

Minato's eyelashes pressed together. He was being tested today.

"No," Sasuke shook his head. His hands were at his side and his nose's angle was off. Definitely broken. He narrowed his eyes, they flickered over his shoulder. Minato shuffled to obscure Sakura from his gaze but he should not have bothered because Sakura pushed up to her toes to glower back.

Children. He was dealing with children.

"Not even if I cooperate?" The words came out before he could think of their ramifications.

"Like I would fall for the same trick twice." His teeth were pressed up together. "You played me. You're going to jail. And she's going with you."

Minato narrowed his eyes. "All because your ego is hurt?" He found himself asking. "You'd go this far?"

"Don't try me, Namikaze," the lower half of Sasuke's face contorted with his rage. "I have proof. You got caught. It's that simple."

"He saved my life!" Sakura groaned in exasperation. "What is wrong with you?"

Circles. They were teetering on the edge of looping back to the beginning. He cleared his throat.

"Just take me. You're getting what you came here for," he held out his hands in a similar gesture Sakura had just moments prior. "Leave Sakura out of this."

He heard her inhale sharply to protest. Her fingernails dug into his bicep.

"A little late for that Namikaze. You brought her into it. When you started this mess and now when you couldn't control her."

Minato cursed under his breath. He did not know if Sasuke was genuinely stupid or if he was trying to escalate things beyond what they already were. All he knew was that this time, he wrapped himself around the entirety of her—grunting from the effort.

Sakura scoffed deep from the recesses of her soul. "What the hell did you just say?!" She shrieked too close to his ear, her arms flailing. She had every intention of using her hard cast on a thick skull to see which had more structural integrity.

"You heard me," Sasuke threw back at her. His dark eyes flickered to the blonde who was suddenly in his face. "What?" He asked.

Ino smiled sweetly. Minato's stomach dropped to his toes. Even Sakura stilled in his arms. Her eyes had gone wide.

"Not good," she whispered, seemingly coming to her senses.

He nodded in agreement, tucking her under his chin.

"Detective Uchiha was it?" Ino cocked her head to the side, eyeing him up and down. She turned the gold ring on her index finger so the butterfly was pointed toward her thumb, perpendicular to her finger.

Sasuke eyed her warily. He paused to assess the intent in which she stood before him in a matter of seconds. His eyes flickered away. Dismissive.

"Ino," Sakura tried to reach her friend—not all that hard as she never left Minato's embrace—in a feeble attempt to de-escalate. Half-heartedly at best. She turned her head away. Burying her face in his chest. Minato lowered his face into her hair. Amaya covered her face with both hands in what had to be a particularly big sneeze.

"Namikaze hands behind your—"

The rest of Sasuke's order dissolved into a string of curses. Deja vu. His head hit the back of the chair. The legs groaned and creaked as it was pushed back a couple of inches.

Ino dusted off her hands. Her face was impassive. "If you're going to arrest Sakura, you'll have to arrest me too," she informed him casually. She made a show of fixing the positioning of her ring. She flexed her hand. There was hardly any red. She knew how to throw a punch. Even if Sakura did technically hit harder.

Sasuke blinked back the stars he had to be seeing. His tears obscured just about everything as he was reacquainted with all the pain receptors Sakura had woken up when she broke his nose.

"I'll get the ice," Amaya rose from the couch eager to busy herself with anything other than what just transpired.

"Did something happen?" Sakura asked innocently, turning her head just enough to face the room again. She tilted her head back and looked at Minato confused. "Why is Detective Uchiha on his back? Did you see anything?"

Minato shook his head. "I must have missed it." He vowed then and there that he would give Ino Konan's contact card, the one that would give her access to her boutiques along with a consultation. She had more than earned it today.

"Me too," Amaya called out from behind the open freezer door. She pulled a bag of peas from it.

"Do you think you'll have enough room in the back of your squad car for us all, Detective Uchiha?" Ino asked with mock concern. "Or do we need to wait for backup?" She batted her lashes.

The Uchiha let out a sound somewhere between a grunt and a groan. Suffering. He was put on this earth to suffer. Maybe to pain for the sins of his father.

xXx

She could not lower her eyes from his face. His face that was still recovering just like the rest of him. She could not lower her eyes from his recovering face because then she would have to follow the trail down to his arms, and ultimately to where a blue jacket rested over his hands. Hands she could not see because they were covered by that blue jacket. A jacket that covered not just his hands but the silver cuffs on them as well. Handcuffs that were slapped on him by a man who would take him away from her. The other man leaning against the car—blond—was purposely avoiding all forms of contact. He looked less than thrilled to be in this situation.

"I'll get you a lawyer," she insisted, releasing her lip between her teeth just long enough to get the words out. "The best lawyer."

Minato shook his head. He pressed his forehead against hers. "It's okay. It's up to a year. I'll behave," he said with copious honesty.

"A year?" Her voice fluctuated but he did not point that out.

"Visit me," he offered with a small smile. "You're unemployed. Read your surgery textbooks to me over the phone when the weather or your schedule doesn't cooperate."

She pushed out air from her nose. It was as close as he could come to coaxing a laugh from her.

"Every day, I have nothing better to do. And they're just medical textbooks," she corrected because could not help herself. "And the weather never gets that bad, it's Konoha, Minato."

He nuzzled the side of her face. "I'll write."

She nodded her head and pushed to her toes. "I'm sorry." She breathed the air between his neck and shoulder. "This is happening because of me."

"Sakura," he kissed her forehead. Her tears wet his skin. "A fresh start," he reminded her. "It's okay."

It was not but she did not have it in her to argue.

"Send it in." He pressed his nose between her jaw and ear, inhaling deeply. "Promise me," the words came out in a whisper.

She nodded her head. "Today," she sniffled. "Ino and I'll walk it over today." Her application for the accelerated surgeon program was still sitting at home, upstairs, waiting to be mailed. "I just got you back."

"You have me," he breathed as much conviction as he could into the words—their parting words. "You have me until forever. This is nothing."

"I love you." She held onto him tightly with both arms. Not caring who was watching or listening. "Please be careful. Please don't get hurt anymore."

"I love you too," he said moments before ducking down to kiss her lips to reinforce the words with tangible action. Like he always made a point of doing. "Take care of yourself. Remember to eat. Sleep."

She nodded her head, miserable.

"I'm sorry I have to leave."

"A fresh start," she said breathlessly, pecking his lips. Once. Twice. And once more for good measure. "I'll be waiting," she breathed against them with her long lashes closed over her eyes.

"I know."

A throat cleared. Her blood simmered but she behaved, not once taking her eyes off of Minato.

"Watch your head," Sasuke said out of habit as Minato lowered into the back of the unmarked car.

Sakura clenched her hands to her chest. The door closed.

"He'll be alright, Dr. Haruno," Detective Domeki's grimace was registered in her peripherals somewhere. "He'll be safe, you have my word."

Sakura swallowed thickly. The lump in her throat did not move. Stationary, just like her eyes—fixated in place. Deidara dipped his head in farewell. A door opened. A door closed. Deidara started the car. The engine sputtered to life. The first of the third wave of tears slipped down her chin. Hands were suddenly around her shoulders. Arms wrapped around her neck and waist. She felt warmth pressing into her from both sides.

"It will be okay, Sakura," Ino said gently, resting her head against Sakura's.

The pinkette continued to maintain her silence. Minato smiled at her through the tinted window. She saw only the flash of white through the metal grid. He held up a hand in a wave; hers moved up on its own. Silver bracelets glistened.

"I'm sorry, Sakura," Amaya hugged her around the middle.

"He's injured," Sakura's voice was held together tightly, coiled like a spring. Her chin jutted out in defiance.

"He won't be with Gen Pop," Sasuke—whose swollen nose was corrected back into place at Minato's request by white metal tape. She had not gone to great lengths to do a proper job because she was petty like that. "When he recovers enough, he will be in solitary." It was the only way to ensure he stayed safe. "You'll be granted visitation assuming he doesn't cause trouble."

Her glare hardened and her fingers grew white thanks to her punishing grip. "He won't."

Sasuke seemed to think better of engaging. He stalked back and opened the passenger's side door.

Sakura watched the car drive off. A shudder left her throat. She waved her hand until her arm hurt.