I do not own Naruto.

The room is small, with hardly enough breathing space for the two of them. The curtains are drawn tight, gray enough they nearly blend with the walls. She doesn't bother to switch the lights on, or offer a cup of tea, but he decides it's better that she doesn't. She hardly looks him in the eye and every word is clipped at the ends, short and curt and cold against his skin. The bed is unmade but all of her things are neatly put away where they should be. She takes great care to remove her boots at the door and fold her coat over the chair on her way in and offhandedly gestures he take a seat.

That is as far as she allows by way of propriety. He does not deserve any more than this and she has finally given way to that.

Perhaps she's come to her senses. Or, more realistically, she has grown tired of his telling her to.

She has not grown any taller but her jawline is sharper, the pinch of her waist and the swell of her bust more defined. There is a new hardness behind her gaze that was not there before, no longer just a mistaken shadow. Her hair has grown, tumbles less like a waterfall and more like hungry flame down the curve of her back, and at one side her scalp is almost cleanly shaved. There is less skin to draw his eyes, she has taken to a more modest outfit; that which did not cling to her or hang loose, that which was practical and conservative and flattering all in one.

When he stares too long, she adjust her glasses by the rim and turns to peel at the edges of a plastic bag on the desk.

"Been working odd jobs mostly," she answers his unspoken question. "Keep myself afloat while I figure things out."

"You won't settle?" he asks, pulling his gaze away to trace the age spots on the ceiling. "There's still—"

"The world got quiet all of a sudden," she interrupts; what she never would have done before. "There's a ringing left behind, you know? It's terribly loud and I can't keep my head straight all the time. If I keep moving, don't gotta think about it too much."

On the nightstand, there is a case for her glasses, a small hardcover novel, and an even smaller sewing kit.

"Gives me an excuse to go sight-seeing. I don't stay longer than I need to and it all works itself out."

.x.

She doesn't bat a lash, doesn't even offer a hand when she sees him struggling with the chopsticks. She watches with placid eyes, leans forward to blow the steam from her bowl and ignores the whispers from the other table. She lifts her chin and slurps her noodles and does not spare a single nicety.

When she glances up, he taps his wrist against the table edge and corrects his hold.

"It's not much," she tells him, pausing to dab at her mouth delicately. The way she would have done before. "But it is the cleanest place to eat in this village."

There is a spider weaving above the entrance, and a line of small ants crawling past the leg of their table. A fine layer of dust coats his knuckle when he pauses long enough to check, but he chooses to believe her.

In one sense of the word, he is sitting for dinner with a stranger and he's in no place to think her a liar at this point.

"If you would," she says, waving a hand toward his cooling cup of tea. "It would be a waste to let anything here go untasted."

He takes a sip.

"It's not much," she reiterates, folding her napkin. "But one learns to adapt."

"And so you have," he replies.

A ghost of a smile softens her lips, no longer painted in her favorite gloss.

It does not reach her eyes.

.x.

"I'll get back to the labs as soon as I have my wits about me again," she assures, reaching up absentmindedly to run her fingers over the tiny bristly hairs above her ear. "I just need some…peace of mind right now."

"I don't mean to hurry you," he says, pulling his cloak more securely about him. "But I've gotten quite a few messages expressing concern over you."

"I'd imagine that'd be cause for annoyance. I apologize, on his behalf. He means well, I'm sure." The dirt skitters under her boots and she tucks her hair behind her other ear. "Tell him… Just tell him I'll be back soon."

The questions die on his lips. What silence stretches between them is no longer comfortable, no longer familiar. He cannot read her face the way he could have before, the inward curve of her shoulders and the thin line her mouth forms are as much a mystery as the way her fingers now graze and scratch and prod along the prickling red hairs—and that, too, remains a question he cannot possibly ask.

Her fingers drift and then curl into the longer hair behind her head and she heaves a sigh.

"I just need time alone."

This, he understands all too well.

.x.

"I'm trying to make it up to her," he says as they near the motel. This is a lesser side of the village, one he might have cautioned to avoid had he been any other man.

She doesn't ask who he means. There's a flicker behind her eyes, a mere flash of who she once was that is gone too fast for him to catch, and she allows only the slightest nod in understanding. "I wish you luck in that endeavor," she says as brusquely as she has the entire night.

The moon is but a sliver and it hardly illuminates her pale face, hardly casts her closed expression in light enough to see, but he knows what she's thinking and he almost wants her to say it aloud.

"I want to make things right," he insists, more to himself than her at this point.

Her head tilts to the side only a little and it is now he realizes they have stopped walking. They stand in the middle of the road facing one another, both tense and guarded and nothing at all like he thinks they might have been at one time.

It reminds him of the first night he attempted, with clumsy hand, to pull his fingers through pink hair. It makes his jaw ache with the memory of a hard fist and his chest tug; how hard and distrustful those green eyes had been.

These eyes are much the same, but there's something so cold and so dignified and so very sharp about them he almost tastes blood rising at the back of his throat. They sink into him like ice and he has to drag his gaze away before he can lose his footing.

No you don't, they say to him, but her brow only furrows and she drops her hand to her side.

Aloud she says, "Whether you can or not is entirely up to her."

And perhaps it's just that.

Under the moonlight her hair looks like blood and her eyes gleam just like a blade. She cannot crush him underneath her fists and she cannot burn her way into him but the same feelings of guilt and longing and despair boil inside of him and it drives him forward, cracks against his spine and his ribs and up his throat and clutches the back of her neck.

Her skin is colder and smoother and the harsh contrast of crescent shaped scars on her skin is a terrible shock but he doesn't pause to think about it for a second. Her lips don't taste sweet or forgiving or even just a little bit remorseful but she grits her teeth just the same and she balls her hands and shoves against his chest and in this way he can almost pretend they're the same person.

"I am not her," she hisses, and it's just like steel against his nerves. He shivers and it is not from pleasure.

"No," he relents, and drops his gaze when she drags the back of her hand across her mouth spitefully. "No."

.x.

They are unsurprisingly back to square one by the time they reach her room. She will not look him in the eye and she does not welcome him inside. She leaves the door open behind her and kicks her boots off at the door, crosses the room to her packs and begins to rifle through them purposefully.

"You can stay or you can go," she tells him, folding a fresh pair of pajamas over her arm. She disappears into the bathroom without another word, and a moment later the shower switches on.

He shuts the door behind him.

.x.

When he wakes, her side of the bed has long grown cold.

There is no parting note or heartfelt keepsake left behind for him to mull over, but the message is crystal clear.

He washes his face in the sink and stops on his way out to squint back at the room for a second. There was a time she would have thrown a small fit if they'd chosen a place like this to stay in, and a time she would have demanded to share a bed with him regardless. She had not forced a wall of pillows between them last night but she had scooted as far into the edge as she could without falling off, had cast a glance over her shoulder in warning before tugging the sheets up to her ear and settled down for sleep.

He hadn't heard the telltale snoring but had found himself so suddenly overcome with exhaustion he couldn't bother with staying up long enough to figure out if she'd actually passed out or not.

Had he chosen to, he might have been able to catch her on the way out.

But what he would have said, he didn't know.

His tongue was still too heavy for apologies, and there lied the guarantee that she would not accept them to begin with.

Reality is slow to catch up, but his hand clenches tightly at the memory.

There is perhaps a new scar on her body that had not been put there by choice, one she shielded from sight with as much devotion as she had once gazed upon him.

Another shiver runs down his spine, and it has nothing to do with the chill of approaching rain.

.x.