Title: House of Leaves, Part 1: a Semblance of Steel
Rating: PG-R
Warnings: Spoilers upto chapter 244, and then it travels to AU country, baby. Also, there is creepiness and violence (though not necessarily in that order, or, you know, right now).
Summary: The mission to retrieve Sasuke goes horribly, horribly right.
Part 1: a Semblance of Steel
Chapter 4: Nesting Dolls
"... for there was no darkness for him and, no doubt La dragonne / Alfred Jerry (1)
like Adam before the fall, he could see in the dark."
Kakashi stands outside the room, because (Godaime says) they don't want to agitate Sasuke.
Which is probably just as well, he finds himself agreeing reluctantly. Because, really, he knows that he would do something to upset the boy, like thumping him over the head. He still can't believe just how fucking stupid the boy was, is, because even though Naruto is alive again (thank God or Satan or whatever, because he really doesn't need much more blood on his hands. They are already red enough, thank you very much) the boy still struck a killing blow, still followed through. Kakashi wants to beat him to a pulp (again; because he doesn't think once was enough, and he's tried talking, and he's tried guilting and he's tried force and nothing works). Kakashi wants to shake him and ask him if he really wants to end up like—
Him. If Sasuke wants to end up like him.
Kakashi scowls. Tsunade and her minions have stolen his mask (among other personal effects, for the time being) because—she claims, and he's just not quite confident enough to call the Fifth Hokage and Sannin a liar to her face—it makes it easier for her to treat his eye. He feels rather naked without his mask and, if given the choice, would be hiding away in the darkest corner of the hospital awaiting its return.
But, because he can move around now (no matter what Tsunade says), he tends to lurk near the Quiet Ward where his most troubled student is incarcerated, waiting to spring out all very stealthily and ninja-like (despite being wrapped in a hospital robe and numerous bandages) at the Godaime or Shizune to find out about Naruto (who he can see, and does very, very regularly) and about Sasuke (who he can't see and isn't sure he really wants too).
"He's psychotic," Tsunade had briskly confided earlier, bone-tired of his, what did she call it? Ah, that's right; insistent harassment. "But it's just a trauma, and that's something I think will calm down, after a while. And possibly the right combination of psychotropic drugs."
Well, that doesn't do me much good, he said. Or he'd wanted to say. What came out was more of a lax, "Mm."
He needs Sasuke to be coherent because, well, he wants to make sure that the boy isn't so far gone yet.
Or maybe, the voice in his head Kakashi usually ignores says; you want to find out just how far gone he already is—so you can take care of it.
Kakashi has always been good at cleaning up other people's messes. He might not particularly like it, but he knows how to do it. He'd done it for his father. He's done it for his mother. He'd done it for himself, on occasions where he'd fucked up spectacularly (Rin, Obito …) and he knows he can do it again, if he has to.
He wonders if this profound … disappointment, this feeling of abject failure, is something that Yondaime had grappled with in the wake of Obito's death, and then Rin's in turn. Kakashi knows logically, there is not really anything he could do differently than what he's already done. He knows, but he still remembers the heavy dead meat of Naruto's body in his arms, and the stinging rake of Sasuke's nails across his eye as the boy wailed, and the feeling of his own blade parting his student's flesh and thinking, I will kill him. It hadn't even been angry, the thought, just dreary and accepting and certain; I will kill him.
Though he has been praised for his skill by merely incapacitating the youth (a few broken bones here, a weeping stab there; what are a few wounds between friends, eh?) instead of decapitating him, Kakashi knows better.
Kakashi knows that his grip had slipped due to a gash on his palm making the grip of his kunai red and slick. He knows that he was having trouble seeing, and that because he was having trouble seeing, he'd guessed and misjudged. He knows that he had hesitated, thinking this could have been me this should have been me but I escaped it and maybe he can too, and that hesitation nearly cost him a second eye, with no Rin or Obito to look to for a replacement.
He isn't sure whether Yondaime would be proud or disappointed.
Always follow through; never strike a blow you aren't willing to kill with, Yondaime'd lectured time and again (that one was meant mostly for Obito because he was Obito and not a killer). Economy of motion, you don't need fancy (that one was for him, and so was the thump on the head that accompanied it). Survive by any means (directed mostly at Rin, weakest of the three, but meant for all of them). And he had. But he missed and Sasuke survived and—somehow—Naruto did too. He had aimed a killing blow, restricted his movements to necessity and survived, just like he'd been taught. But Kakashi is fairly sure those ideologies had been meant for the enemy, and not one's own comrades.
"You should be in bed," the dark-haired medic murmurs fretfully, appearing from seemingly thin air and coming to a stop beside him. Kakashi twitches in surprise, annoyed by his lack of attention. They are both facing the door to Sasuke's room, because—and it only makes sense—there are no windows. Just long smooth expanses of white walls on either side occasionally broken by triple-reinforced steel doors. Shizune is clutching reams of files and assorted scrolls to her chest. She's wearing the white robe of a medic-nin which causes Kakashi to reminisce wistfully of a chapter in his beloved Ichi Ichi Paradise because that's easier than thinking about anything else.
"Not tired," he says instead of, can't sleep, which is far more accurate and much less manly. He looks straight ahead, not beside, not behind. It's not his way, but he has to remind himself. "And my reading material has been lacking of late."
Shizune frowns; he can feel displeasure radiating from her like heat from the sun. Or that just may be her weariness calling out to his. Kakashi is sure that the young woman has lost just as much sleep as he has, if not more. "Doesn't matter. We can give you a sleeping drought if you need help sleeping, but bed rest—"
"Has never been my thing," he interrupts, slouching against the wall, idly watching the ANBU changing guard and wishing it was him.
"Doesn't matter." She huffs, rounding on him with a gimlet glare. "You need to listen to what you're being told."
Kakashi gives her an indolent grin. "Never have, and look at me now."
"Yes, look at you."
Ouch; a little close to the mark, that one. Though Kakashi hasn't known Tsunade's disciple for very long, he recognizes her mortified blush when he sees it. She fidgets with the tie of one of her scrolls.
"I'm sorry, Hatake-san," she apologizes when there really isn't anything to apologize for.
Uncomfortable, he nods instead at the door. "Any change?" Not that he's expecting much change from when he asked about an hour ago.
"No."
"Ah."
Silence reigns supreme and Kakashi feels restless. He doesn't remember ever having been so inactive. It's … eerie.
"You really do need to get to bed, Hatake-san," Shizune reminds him gently. "Sasuke isn't going anywhere. And you can't do anything if you yourself aren't in good health."
Damn women and their stupid logical logic. "If you give me back my books I'll consider it."
"Hatake-san …"
Kakashi becomes a bit lightheaded; it's so odd to be … flippant, because he knows that, a week ago (less!), he thought that he'd never be able to be so cheerful again. A week ago he had carried the body of a boy he was suppose to take care of back home, failed responsibility heavy on his shoulders (again, again, again). Five days ago, he was waking up numb with drugs and pain and failure.
Death is expected, certainly, but there's always something a bit more tragic when a student goes before a teacher, or a child before an adult. If Kakashi didn't know any better, he'd say that things were back to normal. Almost.
(Except, and he knows this better, best, of anyone; things never go back to normal, not ever.)
"He's comfortable," Shizune tells him, apparently having given up on getting him back to his empty room. Because Konoha is so shorthanded, anyone who would have sent him anything remotely get-well-ish is away. It's slightly depressing. And the thought make him wonder, briefly, how Sakura's holding up. He puts his thoughts of her away because Genma is watching her, and he's pretty sure the other man will tell him if there is anything amiss. It's gotta be hell for her, though, he thinks. No being able to see anyone. Not important enough to be told anything. "Well, comfortable enough for his injuries."
Kakashi sends her a questioning glance. Tsunade will always tell him what he needs to know, but only what he needs to know. She doesn't know how to embellish.
"Because of how thin-stretched the hospital is," Shizune explains. "Tsunade-sama passed along a notice that all non-fatal injuries are to heal naturally. It conserves chakra."
"I see."
"And Naruto-kun is doing better every time I see him," she marvels. "His breathing has smoothed out, and his hands are nearly completely healed; though I've never seen such chakra burns before."
Kakashi wants to be surly and point out that anything above death is better, but he doesn't because she's right. Since Gaara had dumped the lad at their feet three days ago, he'd done nothing but improve. It's only because Kakashi had been there that he actually believes Naruto had died, was dead; despite now, well, being not.
It hurts him to think on it.
"Tsunade-sama thinks it's due to the Kyuubi's presence in him," Shizune says quietly, then pulls a face. "Well, she knows it's the Kyuubi's presence because his heart had stopped—"
Beside his abruptly silent companion, Kakashi stares languidly at the junction of the ceiling and the floor, and wonders how many times a day the maintenance crew has to scrub it to get it so blisteringly white. "You can say it you know."
"What?"
"That he was dead."
That he was failed, that voice in his head mutters (he thinks it might be Yondaime's, or maybe even his father's), but isn't ever spoken aloud. Go on, say it.
Blame me.
"Oh," Shizune flushes rather becomingly (he can just make it out from the corner of his eye; Kakashi has excellent peripheral vision). "Well, yes. But he's not now, and that's what matters."
Kakashi shrugs, never having really been one for arguing (though, he supposes, there are some who would care to argue that) and slouches down against the wall a little harder. His chin dips and comes to rest on his chest. Shizune sighs.
"You're not going back to your room, are you Hatake-san?"
"Mm."
Shizune snorts and shakes her head. He knows she has too much to do to waste time fighting a losing battle with him. He waits until her footsteps have retreated before he relaxes, loosens his joints and very nearly his tongue. Bones aching, head aching, mouth aching with bitter unsaid things, he slides down the wall like the spider down the spout, but he does not go up again.
Minutes later—or maybe hours, he doesn't try to keep track—he sleeps.
Sakura awakes to the vestiges of phantom earth clogging her throat.
She jerks upright, eyes stinging, mouth raw, and gasps. She's heard of sympathy pains before, but part of her thinks that sympathetic nightmares are going just a little too far. Sakura hasn't gotten a decent night's sleep in … forever; certainly not since Naruto and Sasuke left and returned, both in pieces. Maybe you can ask Godaime-sama for something to knock you out for a while, Inner Sakura suggests as she yawns. The worst she can say is no.
True. But sometimes no is the worst word in the world.
However, Sakura has not spent the afternoon camped outside the Hokage's offices for codeine filled pills or potions. Huffing, she stands and stretches and wishes absently for a change of clothes and a drink. Like coffee. Except not, because she's always found coffee to be far too bitter and not so good for her nerves and she gets jittery so easily—
Now you're just getting nervous, Inner Sakura interrupts firmly. Stop that.
"Hello there, what do we have here?"
Sakura's head whips around so hard she thinks she hears something crack. Inner Sakura squeals and tumbles, and dizzily points out that despite the slightly wicked tone Anko is almost certainly not a danger. Maybe. Possibly.
(Except she's the crazy woman, remember? Naruto but female and slightly less than steady.)
Her once-examiner eyes her curiously, running a hand through spiky almost-violet hair. "You waiting for somebody girl?"
"Uh," Sakura stares dumbly, mind blanking for an instant in that infuriating way that one loses words and sentences and whole theories due to inactivity. Hokage, remember? Inner Sakura disparages. Help, advice; remember?
"Well?"
"Ah, yes." She blushes. "Right. Um, do you know—ah, the Godaime; I'm looking to talk with her—"
"Well she's not here," the older woman replies frankly, looking a little amused. More than a little, Inner Sakura grumbles petulantly. "Spending most of her time at the hospital; think they prepared a room for her temporarily."
"Oh." Indeed. Sakura bows her head, feeling ashamed that she hadn't thought. So simple; of course she's at the hospital. Naruto's there and so is Kakashi, and Sasuke-kun; how could she be so stupid—
"Why're you waiting around for her?" There is nothing more than a sort of idle curiosity in her voice, bored and kind of whiskey-rough. Part of Sakura's mind not occupied with her blunder wonders what exactly happened to give Anko such a deep, almost broken voice. Girls don't get voices like that naturally, Inner Sakura mumbles, slightly intrigued by the thought as she eyes Anko's throat for scars, do they?
"Ah, I was hoping to get some advice on a sort of personal matter," Sakura explains with a small shrug. She clasps her hands behind her back to still the nervous fidgeting that they want to do. She remembers that Anko associates with Torture & Interrogation. She remembers that, if rumors where to be trusted, Anko is or was or has been at some point the only real student of Orochimaru. Sakura feels a shiver crawl up her spine.
Nerve wracking, I believe they call the feeling, Inner Sakura supplies from deep, deep in the back of her brain.
"Shoot."
Blank, blank as a slab of fresh blackboard her mind is. Inner Sakura squeaks and Sakura forgets to hold it in; "Excuse me?"
Anko cocks her head to the side and slides a hand to her hip. All in all makes Sakura think of someone standing on a listing ship, all her weight focused on one side of her body. "I'm excruciatingly bored and you, if I remember correctly, are in that team with that the Uchiha and that blond kid; the one that came back to life. So whatever it is, it's got to be more interesting than making sure these files get where they need to go."
"Oh."
"So …"
"Oh, yes." Sakura looks down, flushing. It is one thing to want to talk to the Hokage because that's what the Hokage is there for; advice, support and wisdom. All wrapped up in a completely confidential package. She remembers reading a book a while back that was about some country she can't remember and that may very well no longer exist but that had an order of priests, of Fathers (she thinks they were called, but isn't too sure), who that took confessions, of guilt and otherwise and dispensed. She remembers thinking how convenient a system it had seemed at the time.
Anko is waiting but not too patiently and Sakura is again struck by an image of Naruto sighing impatiently and tapping his foot overlaying the woman's visage (too alike they are, Inner Sakura mutters).
"Umm, I don't really think it's anything you can help me with," Sakura twines her fingers into a knot. She doesn't want to offend the older kunoichi(oh you definitely don't, Inner Sakura adds with a touch of horror. She'd probably string you up by your ankles or eviscerate you, or something), but it's one thing to discuss something with someone like the Hokage—someone so completely safe like the Hokage—and it's another to discuss it with someone like Anko; some unknown quantity with no safeguards, no guarantees.
Anko hums, blows out a gusting breath and actually does tap her foot. "You won't know until you try. And it could be days before you get Godaime free for a chat."
It's all true; Sakura wants to despair but the innately optimistic part of her nature, small though it is, has decided to throw a coup and set up a new regime. Energized, Inner Sakura cheers; it's not that personal anyway, and Anko's a Special Jounin so she might be able to help.
"You're right." Sakura releases her hands and then tangles them in the short ends of her pink hair. She sees a faintly annoyed look flit across Anko's and realizes, if somewhat belatedly, that she's stalling. "It's hard though."
Anko waits.
Sakura looks away, picking a spot on the wall to focus on while she struggles for the right words. Finally she just bursts, spilling out her discontent quickly like an over-full cup. "I can't do anything; I'm always helpless. Naruto made me a promise and he kept it. Everyone is always protecting me," she spits, disgust curdling her voice. "And I hate it."
Anko snorts. "So do something about it."
She very nearly wails in frustration; "I can't. I don't know how—"
"Rubbish." Anko's voice is suddenly hard. "Sounds like whining to me. Sounds like you haven't even tried anything. And you were going to bother the Godaime for this?" Inner Sakura bristles; what the fuck do you know? You don't know me. Sakura is slightly more diplomatic.
"Pardon me, but I think that you don't really understand the whole situation," Sakura feels a scowl inching across her face and forcibly pushes it back. "So you can't just make snap judgments—"
"Of course I can," the older kunoichi interrupts without preamble. Her gaze is glacier. "I've seen hundreds of little girls like you. Pretending to want to play with the big boys to get the attention of some pretty-faced shinobi—" (Sakura can quite literally feel the blood drain into her stomach, making her pale-faced and a little dizzy, before it surges back into her face with a sickening rush of fury. A little too close to home, maybe? Inner Sakura whispers treacherously in her skull.) "—trying to act all independent and strong but really just wanting to be pregnant and barefoot in a kitchen somewhere for your sweetheart."
Anko spits the last word out like its poison burning her mouth. Inner Sakura is incoherent with apocalyptic fury; she has no fucking idea—how dare she—not like that—
"You," Anko says with a sharp glitter in her eyes. "Are a dime-a-dozen, girl. So stop angsting and get over yourself. Go start working in a flower shop or something else more suited to you."
Bitch.
The air slams out of Sakura's lungs and for a split second she thinks she's either going to faint or attempt something very, very stupid like try to hit the older kunoichi. To her surprise and relief she does neither.
"I am not like that," Sakura hates the soft, slightly gravelly tone her voice has taken on; sounds entirely too close to tears.
Anko holds her hands out at her sides, palms up, not in a gesture of supplication but of challenge. "Then fucking try something before you start saying you can't do anything. Prove me wrong."
Just watch me.
Naruto refuses to sit patiently. It's been five days since he's been put here (from what he's gleaned from supposedly private conversations) and he's been absolutely fine for the past two. Sure, the first time he woke up he'd been headache-y and sore and hurt, but after a little sleep he'd been right as rain. Every one could see it, can still see it. His hands aren't burnt anymore, and his middle only aches if he lies on it the wrong way or for too long. And he wants to get out of this bloody room because at night the ceiling seems far too close and the meals during the day are so not up to par with his regular repasts that it isn't even funny. The Old Hag, however, refuses to believe that he's better and has confined him to his room until she sees it fit to release him.
Which, by the way, is totally un-fucking-fair.
So he fidgets and he does so mostly on principle, because sitting still is boring and there has to be some recompense (like annoying the hell out of Tsunade) for being stuck in a place like this, but also because seeing exasperated affection light Tsunade's eyes is much better than the watery sort of relief that seems to have taken residence in them.
So he'd died, so what? He is obviously alive now. So … so there shouldn't be a need for her to look at him like that.
Naruto does feel some unease about the whole matter, after all, who wouldn't? (Especially since no one tells him outright, all walking on egg shells around him, breaths hushed in awe and fear. He is half-awake when he hears who he thinks are Kakashi and Tsunade hovering over him. "Will he be alright now?" This is Kakashi asking, he's fairly sure. Tsunade said; "I don't know anyone who's alright after death."). It's just that—and this is something he was loath to admit when he first awoke, first saw the old hag's face with an bolt of relief that left him a little choked—he doesn't really remember what happened all that well, so it's sort of surreal, like a dream or a joke or something happening to someone else.
Oh, he's pieced together the general picture, but it isn't complete. Not nearly. And no one seems to want to tell him anything. Like how they'd gotten Sasuke home (because, and he feels that he'd remember this even if nothing else ever again, he will always remember Sasuke, remember following him and trying to catch-up), and how their fight ended and how he'd died. And if he was dead, then how he ended up in a hospital bed.
But, to his annoyance, everyone (well, everyone that he is allowed to see which is surprisingly limited) just evades his questions, leaving him to crumbs of half-heard conversations and vaguely disturbing dreams.
Tsunade jabs at his stomach for his inattention to something she'd asked. Viciously.
"SHIT," he yelps, suddenly scrambling back from the older woman with wide eyes. "What was that for? I didn't do nothin' to you."
Tsunade ignores him with a faint twitch of lips, turning instead to Shizune-san. "Tenderness is going down, obviously; took more pressure to get a response this time."
Shizune nods and, smiling, marks the chart in her hands.
Naruto narrows his eyes. He should just go over there and—
"Oh, here," the Old Hag mutters with a start. She slides a hand to her neck and pulls his necklace from under her shirt. Naruto stares for a moment surprised that he hadn't already noticed its loss from his neck because since he got it he hasn't removed it, even for bathing. He must have been dead then, a part of him murmurs in wonder, grudgingly starting to believe.
Tsunade slips it over his head, gripping his shoulders tightly for moment and sighing. Naruto isn't sure what he's suppose to say in this matter, but before he can figure out what to say to get her to release her (painfully) firm grasp, she leans back and flicks him in the forehead.
"Don't make me take that back again," she mutters sternly, blonde hair sliding over her shoulder, brown eyes strangely bright; strangely amber. "You hear me?"
Naruto nods. He certainly has no campaigns in the near future that include his death. And he plans on keeping it that way. Shizune looks a little misty-eyed. Naruto resists the urge to snort; girls, always so bloody dramatic.
Girls; he wonders how Sakura is, because he hasn't seen her since before he left. And, obviously, because thinking of Sakura always leads to thinking of Sasuke, he wonders how Sasuke is, because the Uchiha is just the kind of idiot to not take care of himself, and just stubborn enough to resist when people are just acting in his best interest, so he wonders if Sasuke is holed up in a room down the hall or already free to be the utter bastard he is again.
First though, he needs to answer Tsunade and get rid of that look on her face. It's truly freaky.
"Right; will-do, so, yeah, ehrm," Naruto tries to keep a cheery, slightly bored look on his face because it wouldn't do to look overly eager, even anxious, to find out about the prick. Not cool at all. Casual; casual is the key he thinks. "How's the other guy looking?"
Jokes normally make people laugh, and Naruto's always thought of himself as a bit of a funny guy.
The look on Tsunade's face is anything but funny.
The bottom of Naruto's stomach starts feeling a little tingly; like that time he'd eaten thirty bowls of ramen in one sitting just before he'd been sick all over Iruka-sensei's shirt, and unconsciously his hands form into fists on his thighs. Anxiety starts tickling the back of his neck and it's all he can do to keep from launching at the blonde Sannin to get some actual answers for once.
"Sasuke's well," the Godaime reassures him, though her face still looks like, well, the Hokage's. Naruto doesn't dwell on that though, and leaps at the chance for something concrete.
"Okay," he grins, feeling relieved and ignoring that voice in his head telling him that he should be worried instead. "So, when can I see him? Or is he already out? Ah man, you didn't release him before me, did you?"
"You can't see him right now Naruto, he can't have visitors." Tsunade says, a different strange tone a in her voice now. If Naruto didn't know any better he'd say that it was—
"Umm," his nose scrunches as he twists his face in thought. "Okay. So … When can I see him then?"
"I don't know."
"Oh."
What the hell—?
Tsunade sighs heavily, and pulls a stool closer to the bed. She pinches the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger and looks like the start of a headache. For him, that is.
"See, what we haven't been able to talk to you about yet," she starts carefully. "Is how you ended up in here. What is the absolute last thing that you remember?" He eyes her, uncertain where the conversation is leading and whether or not he wants to go there.
"Sasuke charging his Chidori," he replies without hesitation, though he can still feel a bit of a sting at the fact that Kakashi had shared the technique with one of his students and not the other. "On top of a waterfall; him releasing his seal, I think. Or maybe not, but fighting with him definitely."
"Well, he killed you." Tsunade says bluntly, eyes steady on his face. Naruto blinks. Surely, he misheard …? "Kakashi came to find you and help you get Sasuke back to Konoha, but he says when he got there you were already dead and Sasuke was … Sasuke was not coherent."
What? Coherent? Thoroughly confused, Naruto pushes a thatch of sunny hair out of his eyes and finds that one of his hands has been subconsciously tracing the faint scar across his belly; his stomach lurches.
—For a horrifying moment, there is a flash of blue and yellow electricity, green where it melds together, and he feels water soaking his pant legs and blood his shirt and Sasuke is coming at him again, eyes wide red pinwheels—
Tsunade is faster than him. Within seconds she has a cool hand on his shoulderblade and his forehead, which is suddenly slick with sweat, and a stainless steel container next to him as he retches. There is a burning sensation all throughout his abdomen, partly from remembered pain, partly from healing muscles, and partly from the forcible upheaval of his breakfast.
Against his will, a low moan sounds from his throat. Fuck, fuck, fuck. That stupid idiot—
"Shhh, shhh," she murmurs, rubbing his back and threading a coolly comforting hand through his hair. Naruto heaves for a few more minutes before his body has nothing left to heave, and then Tsunade has him caught-up in her arms with a soothing rocking motion. "Shhh, it's alright. I've got you; I've got you this time."
Gaara leans against the stone railing of Sand's Main Palace, a placid scowl adorning his face. The Palace is no longer much of anything; a bad economy having striped the opulent rooms of their wealth for use in other areas, and numerous attacks from stronger hidden villages wearing away even the austere loveliness of the architecture. Gaara thinks that he can remember a time when the rooms had been thick with warm red light and incense, but he isn't sure if this is something that he remembers, or that Shukaku remembers.
Little difference now boy.
Gaara doesn't respond to the voice in his head; hasn't for a while (now that's not true, Shukaku corrects with unholy glee; I'm hurt, my boy, cut to the core). It's easier to keep a grip on his control if he ignores the little goads and taunts that the tanuki tosses at him. But even though he doesn't verbally respond to Shukaku, Gaara knows that the other is right. To an extent at least, he allows. He knows he never spent any time in the Palace during his youth except for when he was taken by the Research and Development teams for checkups and check-ins. He knows that Shukaku wasn't always trapped in a jar or his head. And then he wonders when he stopped being able to clearly separate Shukaku's voice from his own, and wonders if it isn't right when it whispers sibilantly in his ear that it was never separate, never anything less than his own.
"… Stupid fuck, that's what he is," Kankurou's petulant voice drifts out to Gaara, continuing a conversation that started without him.
Shukaku snorts; not like it would have started with you even if you had been there.
His siblings shut the door to their conjoined suite (his brother and sister's bedroom to the right, and his to the left, a sitting room hinging all three, and tiny, private water closets in each for a shower or shit), and Gaara can hear the soft rustle of Temari's tunic as she removes her gear.
"Regardless, he's still the Kazekage," she says, but Gaara can make out the sneer in her voice. Someone flings themselves bodily on the low moth-eaten settee closest to the balcony. Kankurou, he guesses (correctly, too) as it creaks. Temari is a lighter touch.
"Bullshit. Even Baki would have made a better choice. That man is no more Kazekage than I am."
"And you're an actual son of the Kazekage, how sad." A mutual snicker resounds.
Gaara wonders for a moment what the Kazekage had said to incite the conversation—ignoring the fact that the man is an idiot and deserving of any ridicule—because he'd taken off the moment Temari had finished with the initial mission report. He assumes it has something to do with the Leaf (fuck, everything has to do with Leaf these days, Shukaku grumbles discontent, all the better reason to get rid of them; that would be some fun) and wonders with some interest if they are going to be sent back to Konoha and the other boy, the one like-him-but-not.
"I still can't believe that idiot wants us to just sit here; we could be completing missions, we could be helping, gods know Sand needs it right now."
"Look Kankurou, it's not our place to question the Kazekage—" ("It should," his brother mutters sotto voce, and Gaara can't help but feel a stirring of agreement in his throat) "—and instead of complaining, why not just use this time to relax. Anyway, aren't you always muttering about there not being enough time to work on your karasu, right?"
Kankurou mumbles something unintelligible from where Gaara stands beyond the open windows.
"Whatever. His term will be up eventually; and remember, he's only the temporary Kazekage."
("Can they even do that?" Kankurou had demanded months before, in the wake of their father's death, when Gin had first taken the position. "Not really," Temari had shrugged, "But desperate times, you know? Sand needs a leader, and Gin is well received in the business community. And, anyway, they've limited the time he can serve as Kazekage; he's it for two years, or until they find the proper person.")
"Not like it's all that different from before," Kankurou mutters resentfully. "Not like there's been a real Kazekage since before Mom died."
Gaara knows that Temari is probably smothering Kankurou's mouth with a hand about now, eyes wide and fearful as they wait for the first trickle of sand to fill the room. He knows that they are thinking oh shit oh damn he's out there isn't he, he heard didn't he, oh hell what's he going to do now? He knows because this has happened before and it ended all rather messily.
We should rough them up a bit, Shukaku counsels. Teach them a lesson.
We should, he muses idly. Gaara glares up at the whiteblue sky tapering into the horizon beyond the city, feels the warm dry wind tug at his skin, and momentarily recalls the moist air of Leaf and how the fresh scent of earth was always thick in it. He wonders if that woman has fixed the fox yet, because the boy isn't any good to him the way he was.
Many minutes later he can hear his siblings moving around again. The door to Temari's room opens and shuts; seeing as nothing happened (and if nothing's happened yet it's fairly safe to assume that nothing will for a while if at all) she's retreated for the semi-sanctity of her bedroom.
You, Shukaku sneers; are getting soft.
Ignoring Shukaku (which is starting to cause a bit of a heavy throbbing behind his eyes, like the tanuki is pounding pounding POUNDING away with a sledgehammer in his attempt to get out), Gaara prowls back into the soft coolness of their quarters to escape from the High Noon sun and the start of his headache. Kankurou is belly down on a pile of thread-bare pillows, tinkering with his with one of his puppets, hood thrown back to reveal his own thatch of unruly auburn hair; something both he and his brother inherited from their father.
Their stupid fucking father.
Unreasonably, a bolt of hatred darts through his chest, squeezing air from his lungs and anger onto his tongue. With Shukaku cackling quietly at the back of his head, Gaara strides to stand, to loom, at Kankurou's shoulder. His nostrils flare as he takes in the scent of fear emanating from the older boy as he goes … absolutely … still.
Fear and death and more fear; that's all it will ever be for you, for us, Shukaku murmurs dreamily, slinking heavy invisible arms around his soul. Death and more death; death until there is no more death then there will be nothing.
A slender thread of sand weaves its way across Kankurou's back to encircle his brother's neck, granules undulating in time with the pulse of Gaara's blood. His fingers twitch and the noose tightens, tightens inch by inch until the surrounding flesh is mottled purple and Kankurou's eyes are rolling white.
Until it's just you, you and me and the sand.
Abruptly, Gaara rocks back on his heels and the sand loosens and dissolves. Kankurou sputters and chokes as he tries to regain the air he lost, chest heaving frantically, and Gaara feels disgust creep up his throat at how fragile his brother is, how mortal.
It isn't fair.
Turning on his heel Gaara goes to his room, slams the door, and with a sharp motion throws open the valances he'd had transferred from the bed to hang over the latticework covering the window. It's a simple matter then for him to slip from his window to a neighboring rooftop. As he jumps, sand following his feet like misshapen wings, he hears Temari's door bang open, hears her worried questions; hears Kankurou's strangled answers.
Just you and me and the sand and nothing.
Ku, ku, ku; I can't wait.
"Kabuto!"
Kabuto removes his spectacles and pinches the bridge of his nose while the beginnings of a headache bloom behind his eyes. To reign in his temper, he counts the number of poisons that make a man die from the feet up (five and oh; he remembers that he needs to send someone, maybe Ito or Fuuma—though the boy is absolutely useless without Kaori at his side—to get more wormwood and cyanide because his stores are getting low), and the number of constellations in the southern hemisphere (more than he can remember—he should ask Kanaka, later, for a brush-up) and reminds himself that Orochimaru-dono is always a little impetuous (undone, neurotic; insane) for the first few weeks after a transfer. Something about grappling with the vessel's residual memories, personality, something, while making sure that his didn't get lost or diminished.
A loud crash echoes in the room he just left; the sound of glass and mortar and stone breaking into thousands of pieces while his Lord rants.
"Now, now, now; get him for me now."
Another mirror to be replaced, another monitor to be repaired; Kabuto has lost count of the damage Orochimaru has inflicted upon his rooms in the past two weeks. If he were any less of a patient man, he thinks he might have had a few fits of his own.
Instead, he readies a hypodermic syringe and a sedative.
"Kabuto."
"Yes, yes, I'm coming."
"Kabuto."
Clenching his teeth Kabuto thinks of the village, thinks of the Sound, his home, and how he is helping them. Kabuto relaxes a jaw slowly. "I'm here, sir, I'm coming."
"Kabuto!"
He winces as another (very) loud crash sounds, and hurriedly finishes loading the medical tray with a new packet of latex gloves and some sterile wipes. Pasting a soothing smile on his face (one birthed from years of pandering to the unwisely benevolent regime of the Third) he rolls his slender silver cart into Orochimaru's sitting room, carefully avoiding shatter bits of ceramics, and bows deeply.
"Sorry, sir, for the long wait; I was just preparing your painkillers."
The bandages had been gotten rid of several days into the coalescence of Orochimaru's mind and the vessel's body, though the skin still looks melted in some places, like around the ears and wrists. Kabuto has found that this is a side affect of the fusion that will pass in due time and he wonders what his master would ever do should it cause permanent damage to the body. Just change it again I suppose, he muses sliding his hands into thin blue rubber. What a waste.
For Orochimaru, as Kabuto has found in his years of service, the aesthetic is nearly just as important as the functionality of a body. And (he thinks privately) that's a large part why the Uchiha boy is so important to him; he has the whole lovely and deadly thing down pat. It must also help, he thinks, that the boy has the Sharingan. What with the whole wanting to learn every jutsu and all.
This is usually the most difficult part of Orochimaru's re-integration with the flesh; being as vain as he is, he will only allow Kabuto to see him, to deal with him, until he's whole again. Kabuto feels thankful that he had been far too busy in the past being a spy in Konoha for the most part to have been subjected to more than two or three of Orochimaru's changes.
"Now," he says briskly, only slightly disconcerted by the shockingly pale hair hanging over those familiar canted eyes (he supposes the old adage must be true that gentlemen prefer blondes, because Orochimaru is certainly not a gentleman. He doesn't think he's ever seen Orochimaru as anything other than a brunet), pulling back the sleeve of his robe. "This dose is a little stronger than usual because this host seems to have a bit of a tolerance for such things." And I need you to be as tranquil as possible until you've regained a bit of sanity, though he didn't add the last aloud.
Eyes burning hotter than coals, Orochimaru jerks his arm from Kabuto's grasp and paces jerkily, still somewhat unused to this new body's movement patterns.
"I want you to bring him to me now," he hisses. A fleck of spittle lands on the younger man's glasses. "You hear me? Now."
"Well, yes, I absolutely would," Kabuto says gently. "But first you need to heal. And the boy isn't going to be going anywhere right now; he's under lock and key."
"No! No, not him, not yet—no use for him yet. The other one."
Kabuto is a pragmatic man. Always has been. Taking off his spectacles to clean them, he hums a half-forgotten melody caught in his head (I need to speak with Matsudo about fixing the wireless, he thinks to himself absently). Orochimaru, obviously, is talking about Uzumaki-kun. It always surprises him how much the lad is overlooked only to be re-evaluated as something special after-the-fact; with a smug twinge of pride, he knows that he'd recognized the spark of something great from the beginning. Unlike the Uchiha boy, Uzumaki—like himself, to an extent—will outstrip whatever restrictions are placed upon him if only by sheer perversity.
A boy with a cursed seal, doomed to limited immortality, and a boy with a seal, doomed to live forever with a demon—
An idea dawns in Kabuto's mind that unsettles him. Disturbed, he pushes it into a pigeonhole deep in his mind and tries to redirect his master's attention.
"Sir, Orochimaru-dono, you must take it easy. We will get you want ever you want, whoever you want, but first you must be in full health." He coaxes the man back to a chair, murmuring platitudes.
It then takes Kabuto little less than an hour to finish his exam and pump Orochimaru full of sedatives. Once certain he's asleep, Kabuto releases a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding in. The promise of a headache he'd felt earlier has been fulfilled and all Kabuto wants is to is retreat to a dark, quiet room with a flask of brandy (even though he knows that it is hell on his liver, a man must be allowed some vices).
He makes sure, of course, that Orochimaru never learns of this. Kabuto knows it's his cool chrome façade that keeps him alive; should Orochimaru learn of a too glaring flaw in his coating then, well, everyone is expendable.
Instead, however, Kabuto tidies his workroom before heading down to the aptly titled War Room, nodding genially to the young man organizing the assorted maps covering the large table dominating the center of the room. The boy nods his head, but doesn't move. Kabuto watches him for a moment, trying to place the boy's face. He's sure Kanaka would have told him if she were assigning a new aide—especially since all of his seem to be dying of late. Yes, Kabuto needs to have a chat with the woman.
"I don't think I've seen you before," Kabuto muses, eyeing the long stretch of the lad's neck. He's a pretty little thing, but far too frail-looking for a proper shinobi
"No."
Well then; blunt and dismissive, and entirely too rude. He will definitely need to have a chat with Kanaka; her rod seems to be softening if her staff can get away with this sort of insubordination. Frowning he taps three fingers along his jaw. "Name boy?"
"Tate." He looks up, gracing Kabuto with a pretty, surly, blue gaze (not near as nice as Uzumaki-kun's, though, he appraises silently) set in a face too narrow for true loveliness. Doesn't look too bright either, he considers. Like a cow; healthy and dumb, and no loss to anyone should something untoward happen. And he is working on some new poisons; he needs to try out those new senbons on something …
"Hmm."
"Was there something else?" Tate asks brusquely after several minutes of silence pass, seemingly annoyed at having his attention diverted from his task. Kabuto commends him on his focus, though entirely misplaced.
"Have you seen Ito-san around, or better yet, Kanaka-san?"
"No."
"Ah, I see. Very enlightening." Unfortunately, Kabuto feels his sarcasm missed its mark. Oh well. "In any case, should you see either please let them know that Kabuto is looking for them?"
Tate pales a little; "Of course sir."
Maybe not quite so stupid then, Kabuto thinks with a small grin. He's at the door when he turns abruptly, smiling widely.
"Oh and Tate, was it? Head to my labs in, oh, about an hour or so; I have some … things I'll need your assistance with."
Kabuto leaves without waiting for a reply, breaking into a cheery whistle. The promise of a little torture does wonders for one's spirit, Kabuto hums happily. Quickly making his way to the other end of the hall, he pokes his head inside the Library. It's one of his favorite places in all of Sound, because despite being maybe only a fifth of the size of the one in Leaf, it holds more rare contraband tomes then the entirety of the Fire Country. He scans the room quickly, looking for the dark head of hair of his Chief of Staff and not finding her.
Drat that woman. Kabuto scowls, pulling himself back to lean against the doorframe. It figures that when he actually needs something from someone, they're no where too be found. And after all he does for his village, too.
"You are going to single-handedly divest Sound of able-bodied workers, you know that?"
Kabuto laughs, twisting his head round to look back at the dour face of Kanaka. "Why there you are! I was just looking for you."
"I know. You've scared Tate out of his mind. I imagine with good reason as well."
"You have absolutely no sense of humor."
"Was there a particular reason you were looking for me?"
Kabuto pouts; "Why, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to get rid of me Kanaka-chan. I'm hurt."
Kanaka's face, if possible, becomes even darker. Her thick mop of dark hair has been tugged back into a tight knot low on her nape; a look Kabuto has always felt makes her darkly tanned features appear harsher than they actually are. "I'm busy. Unlike some people, I can't take off for days at a time. Fuck man, where were you?"
"Oh, so you're saying you missed me. Ah, I'm touched—"
"In the fucking head; what do you want Kabuto?"
His earlier good cheer dissolving, Kabuto straightens as his earlier headache reminds him of its presence. He always forgets just how thorny dealing with Kanaka is until he's actually speaking with her again. If she weren't so very good at her job he would look for someone else.
"Now that's not a very nice way to speak to a superior, is it Kanaka-chan?" He rebukes gently, letting his voice drip with all the soft menace he's capable of. To her credit, Kanaka blanches and executes a shallow bow.
"Of course, Kabuto-sama. I … forgot myself for a moment. Is Orochimaru-dono resting more soundly?"
"Yes, yes. He's sleeping."
"Good. He had trouble … resting the few days you were gone."
"That was certainly unfortunate timing, but necessary." Kanaka gives a derisive snort. Kabuto knows from experience that Orochimaru can certainly be unreasonable when he feels he is not getting what he wants, when he wants. Speaking of which …
"Kanaka-chan," Kabuto begins, not bothering to hide his slightly troubled look. "While he was under your care, he did talk about bringing both boys here? Both the Uchiha vessel and his teammate?"
If the woman is surprised, she hides it well and simply shrugs. "Yes. I didn't rightly understand all of it, but he seemed to be talking about some kind of possession, or something. I passed it off as hallucinations."
"Hmm."
"But it wasn't, was it?"
"Hmm."
Kanaka growls, dragging claw-like fingers across her fierce face. "Damnit; he's going to do something dangerous, isn't he? He's going to put Sound at risk again, isn't he? What is he looking for?"
"Immortality."
"But he's got that already—"
"No, no. He's figured out how to not die, not how to become immortal." Kabuto rubs a thumb over his chin. "He told me once that he thought maybe the Fourth had succeeded, but he didn't elaborate much."
The dark-haired kunoichi stares at him for a moment, and Kabuto can see the gears spinning behind her dark gaze. "Everything's got to do with the fucking Leaf in the end, doesn't it?"
"And Sand, to an extent."
"The Sand?"
"Kanaka-chan, where did you think I had gone? You know I've always got the best interests of Sound at heart."
"An alliance then? I thought the new Kazekage was straight, clean."
"He is, but the Akatsuki stationed there aren't."
While they talked, Kabuto had slowly maneuvered the woman down the corridor and towards the one of the offices on the floor for a bit of privacy. The offices are serving as a storage room for their odds and ends while Sound was being re-organized lately though, Kabuto considers with a faint grimace, Orochimaru's machinations have nearly stripped the village of all the meager wealth it'd managed to accumulate over the several years of its brief existence. For a moment, Kabuto feels a twist of anger in his gut; how dare the man risk everything he'd created, everything they'd all worked so hard to make, simply for his mad quest?
Once in the shabby room, Kanaka crosses her arms across her chest and leans her hip on the desk piled with boxes in the middle of the floor. In the thin afternoon sunlight streaming through the window her heritage as a child of the Earth country really shows. While Kanaka is not pretty, not even remotely so (pretty implying something soft and curved and gentle), her face is highboned—long straight nose, deep wideset eyes, high cheeked, even-browed; darkly aristocratic.
It's a pity—Kabuto thinks—that she hasn't the physical force to back up her will. If she did, she'd surely be someone to reckon with.
"So you were talking to the Akatsuki," she mutters, sounding a like she'd bitten into something sour. "Again."
Kabuto leans against the door and waves his hand dismissively. "Now, now; just because we left them on an unpleasant note doesn't mean that they can't be of help to us on occasion."
"Both of you are going to decimate Sound," Kanaka snaps before adding (clearly as an after thought), "Sir."
"Don't say it if you don't mean it Kanaka-chan," Kabuto drawls mildly. "Besides, Itachi—beloved little psychopath that he is—isn't the type of man to hold a grudge. He'll either kill you for something, or he won't. He clearly hasn't killed me yet, so unless something unforeseen happens in the next little while, I think we'll be fine."
"You're talking to Itachi? Fuck, Kabuto, don't you remember that Orochimaru tried to possess him? Don't you remember why Orochimaru-dono left them in the first place?" She buries her face in her hands, groaning. "He'll destroy us. He will."
"He tried, but he didn't—"
"Only because the little brother showed up—"
Kabuto frowns. "Because he realized that meshing with someone so unstable was asking for trouble. Really, Kanaka-chan, you talk like you don't trust Orochimaru-dono anymore."
Kanaka's hesitation is answer enough. Kabuto quickly schools his features into something neutral. While he may not … entirely … agree, Orochimaru is the man who gave him a life, a home, a family, when he had none and deserves his loyalty, deserves all of Sound's loyalty.
Kanaka stands, letting her arms fall limply to her sides, palms open. "Look, Kabuto, he's getting worse. He's losing all his sense of reason in this search for something that shouldn't exist. He's not the same man who founded Sound. Even you have to see it."
Kabuto moves quickly, more quickly than he knows Kanaka can follow. In an instant he has her forced on her knees, on arm twisted and pinned high on her back, crushing her wrist, while he wraps the other firmly in her hair. The texture is courser than it looks. Kanaka holds completely still; Kabuto can hear her biting back a shriek. Part of him feels a little shamed that he's hurting her—he's known her for so long and he's never lain a hand on her before—but the larger part of him is directing him to nip this budding insurrection at the source with no remorse.
Using her hair as leverage, he pulls her head back. He pulls it back so far that her spine bows like the soft curve of a bow; tears dot the corners of her lashes.
"Orochimaru-dono is the leader of this village," he murmurs genially. His grip on her wrist tightens; he can feel the fragile bones of her hand stiffening from the tension and applies a bit more pressure on the space between the pisiform bone and the slight hook of the hamulus, effectively blocking the flow of her artery and her ulnar nerve. Kanaka gives a small whimper. "I follow Orochimaru-dono; I am his aide and his red right hand. It would be best to remember that."
Kabuto releases her suddenly and, lacking the support that had kept her upright, she collapses, cradling her hand to her chest. Scraps of her dark hair have fallen loose around her face; Kanaka looks more undone than Kabuto can ever remember seeing her. A twinge of something—possibly guilt, though he highly doubts it because guilt is one of those things reserved for those with a conscience—darts through his chest and he resists the urge to help her up. He pretends not to see the somewhat betrayed look in her eyes.
At the door, though, he pauses. "Everything I do is for Sound. Everything. And you may want someone to take a look at that hand; I think I fractured your metacarpal."
It's only when he's at the door to his lab that he remembers he forgot to ask Kanaka to send Ito on a shopping trip, and he chuckles a little. Judging by the light, about an hour has passed. Deciding he'll just have to send someone later, he smiles indulgently; he has a bit of lab work to do.
"Ah, Tate-kun, you're already here; good, good. Now, if you'd just have a seat …"
Notes:
(1) First off, I found the quote in an old textbook of mine and the foot note goes as this:
'...from "Descendit ad infernos" (He Descends to the Underworld), a chapter for Alfred Jarry's La Dragonne (1943), quoted in Roger Shattuck's The Banqueet Years: The Arts in France, 1885-1918 (1955). The clause is immediately preceeding the section quoted is; "But soon he could drink no more ..."'
So, for anyone looking for the direct source of the lines, there you go.
(2) For a more acurate idea of the bones Kabuto mentions, check out (http:www . dartmouth . edu/ anatomy/w rist-hand /bones /bones5. html) because my knowledge of human bonestructure is limited to my dusty Bio12 and the internet.
(3) I'm going to say this right up front, I am not happy with the chapter overall. However, because I just need to get this damned thing done, I'm letting this one go. I'll maybe, probably, be coming back to it to revamp it, just not right away.