Title: Rush Hour
Summary: They can only spare ten minutes. Today, during that time, and among the bustle of the crowd, Shikamaru wonders where they went wrong.
Pairing: ShikaIno

"Hey."

A tired sigh is the initial response, then: "Hey."

They sit on opposite ends of the stone bench, a whole three feet between them. She sits with her right leg swung over her left thigh. Her palms rest on the edge of the bench on either side of her. Her hair, that unbelievably long hair of hers, spills over her shoulders as she hunches over. She looks haggard.

Less than thirty seconds of observing and already his lips begin to twitch. His cigarette is in his mouth again, and he sighs around the thin cylinder. "Busy today, huh."

She doesn't look at him. "Yeah."

They remain like that: silent, watching shinobi and civilians alike, in a hurry to get to places they needed to be, wanted to be.

He thinks he's where he needs to be, wants to be.

Ino shifts beside him. "Shikadai, how is he?"

"He's fine." A soft smirk settles onto Shikamaru's face. "Hasn't seen his auntie in some time," he chides playfully.

"And Inojin hasn't seen his uncle," Ino huffs, a swift punch landing on his left arm. "And get that cancer stick outta your mouth." She attempts to snatch it from his lips, and fails to do so, not to his surprise.

"Troublesome, as always."

She wants to smile, he can see, but she's quick to set her lips into a mock-pout. Her next statement, said quietly under her breath, throws him off: "I miss hearing you say that."

Shikamaru takes a long drag, her shy, honest admission still lingering in the air, just as the smoke that escapes his lips. "Miss you," he inhales, then exhales, "Ino."

"Yeah."

She says that a lot, he thinks. It's in a mundane tone, one that doesn't suit her. A lot doesn't suit Ino, now.

Still, it must sound weird, saying that to her. He sees her every week, on this very day, at this very time. It's the only day in which their schedules don't overlap and they the time to sit down and talk. But it's not the same.

They don't talk about much. Casual conversation consists of the following questions: "How have you been?" and "How's your son?" The answers provided are typical, stale—just like their current friendship.

She doesn't ask about Temari. He doesn't ask about Sai.

"Ino," he says, after some thought.

"Hm?"

He turns to face her fully, and she does the same. Visible, yet very subtle, lines have formed under her eyes, around her lips. Back in their teenage years, Ino boasted that such smooth, flawless, porcelain skin of hers would never be tainted with wrinkles or blemishes. He's sure that if he were to point out such flaws now, he'll be on the receiving end of some form of physical, or mental, pain.

Oddly enough, he's also sure that once she's old, graying, and wrinkled—much to her ever growing chagrin, he bets—he'll still find her beautiful.

"Ino." He's struggling, and he feels foolish. "Are you happy?"

(It's a stupid question. He wishes he could've worded it differently.)

Moments pass. Ino stares, but doesn't speak. Shikamaru thinks she'll never answer, and after some time, he supposes she doesn't need to provide him with one. It's a personal question. Ino's reticent, withdrawn into her own thoughts, and he wonders when's the last time she's pried into another's. She used to be nosy and meddling, probing into his or Chouji's thoughts without any consent given on their part.

He smiles a little in the inside. Bossy, arrogant, meddling, and, most importantly, troublesome—that sums up Ino in a nutshell, or his first impression of her, anyway. However, she was still bossy, arrogant, meddling, and troublesome, he thinks, as he grew to know her. Such is Ino, though.

They were in the same team; they fought alongside each other, watched their sensei (their second father) take his last breath, and further lost their actual fathers in battle. They've lost and gained so much, together. They grew, together.

Then, there's this. This is them, now.

He's the first to turn away. He spits out the remainder of his cigarette and reaches into his pocket to pull out another.

Five minutes left. Maybe less. Enough time to finish this cigarette. Enough time to make it back to Naruto's office before the young woman in the archives department goes on break and catches him on his way in. She's very open about wanting to screw him. Maybe he should bring that up next week. Something to laugh about with Ino. He hasn't heard it in a while.

He raises his lighter to the cigarette between his lips, and so lost in his thoughts, it takes a few more seconds than needed to register that the cigarette is no longer in his mouth.

It's in Ino's. She looks at him, expectedly. Shikamaru wants to reprimand her, but there's three minutes left and there's not enough time. There'll never be enough time with Ino.

He lights her cigarette, and she closes her eyes; she inhales and releases the smoke once, before taking it between her index and middle finger. His heart aches at the sight of her.

"I could be."

There it is—the answer to his question. Two minutes.

"Yeah? How so?"

The cigarette is back in her lips again. "You."

Ino continues smoking and says no more. He doesn't speak, either.

Eventually, she stands first. "See you next week," he hears her say before turning on her heel.

"Oi. Ino," he calls out to her from his sitting position.

She glances over her shoulder, an eyebrow arched. "Yeah?"

He stands, stretches, and takes a few steps forward. "I could be, too."

She looks like she wants to cry. "How?"

Shikamaru only takes the cigarette from her lips and puts it in his. He takes a long drag, takes note of the cherry-flavored lip gloss she's left around the filter, before returning it to her lips.

Ino laughs, brokenly, around the cigarette. It's almost done. She takes it and throws it onto the ground, crushing it underneath her sandal.

Time's up.