...all right, so there's one death. But it's canon!
"Congratulations."
Asuma looks up, startled. There really aren't all that many people who are capable of sneaking up on him like that, and he sure hopes that's not Kakashi's voice.
But no, those are Kurenai's elegantly manicured fingers resting gently on his shoulder as she speaks across the table to Shikamaru. Who blinks and looks vaguely wary.
"You did very well," Kurenai says, enigmatically.
"Thanks?" he says, and Asuma grins around his cigarette.
"Hold down the fort for me, kids," he says. "I'll be back in a bit."
Ino squawks and Shikamaru rolls his eyes, but Chouji just makes a vague noise of glee. Asuma suspects him of having designs on Asuma's portion of lunch. Ehh, nothing out of the ordinary then.
Cool night air hits his face as they step outside. He takes a drag on the cigarette, enjoying the warm air in his lungs.
"So," he says. "Your kids all right, then?"
"They are…well enough," Kurenai replies. "Hinata has recovered from her relapse, and Shino is back on active duty. And yours?"
Asuma snorts. "They're tough," he says. "Ino's still enraged that no one woke her up for the fight, and Shikamaru's still a bit shook up from his little brush with certain death, but they'll get over it."
She smiles and doesn't ask if he is well, himself. She knows better.
He's never made a real secret of his parentage, although it's a fact that tends to get lost in the shuffle, most days. And it's not like he's been real close to the old man, these last few years. There's a funny backlash, though, all the missed opportunities and regrets.
There's a lot of stuff he never told his dad. A lot of stuff he probably should have at least taken a stab at explaining. Now the opportunity's lost forever.
Asuma's not used to regrets, and he finds he doesn't like the feeling in the least.
So maybe that's why, when Kurenai sits down on a bench and pats the worn wood beside her invitingly, he stubs out the cigarette and accepts the invitation, swinging an arm around those elegant shoulders as easy as breathing.
It doesn't feel new or strange when she leans into him, tentatively, her wild hair soft against his beard. It feels right.
"So," she says after a few minutes, voice low and warm, "are we going to talk about this?"
"Nope," Asuma says firmly, breathing in the smell of her hair and closing his eyes.
She lets out a sigh and shifts a little, making herself comfortable. "Good," he thinks he hears her mutter.
Endnotes: Asuma is made of awesome. 'Nuff said.