A/N: Set at the end of the Sasuke-in-a-bucket story arc. Warning for Shukaku being a bastard. Done as a request (Write some "Shukaku/Neji.")

Gaara was the first to reach Neji. He dropped to the forest floor, nose wrinkling a little at the stench of death and the pungent odor of the spiders. He approached the slumped form, kneeling in the blood and ooze to check for a pulse he didn't expect to be there. He was surprised to find the faint flutter of a heartbeat, to note the blood still oozing sluggishly from the broken body. The sight of such a strong will to survive stirred something dark and primal in the back of his mind, but he ignored it, pushed it away and focused on the two shinobi that had joined him.

"Alive. Barely." Gaara reported, looking into the worried eyes of Shikamaru. "I'll see what I can do until the medical team arrives." He could tell that Nara didn't trust him, could see the hesitation before Lee placed a hand on Shikamaru's shoulder, nodding to Gaara, and the two leapt away to go confirm the state of their final teammate, the fat one, what was his name? Chouji, yes. Temari had already split off to search for Kankuro and the Inuzuka.

Gaara couldn't blame Shikamaru for the hesitation. He'd encountered the Nara when he'd been trying to kill the helpless hospitalized Lee, after all, and he was fairly sure he'd left an unfavorable impression. It didn't bother him, though his mission this time was to protect and aid, Shikamaru's reservations were valid. Could a monster really change his ways so easily? Gaara intended to prove he could. Still, there was that hunger—that insidious voice in the back of his mind that lusted for the life Gaara was attempting to save. Even as the sand shinobi applied the emergency field dressings to the pale Hyuuga's wounds, he could feel Shukaku's bloody intent, his whispers of sweet seduction, death, carnage—how worthy it would be to snuff out a life that struggled as valiantly as this one.

He ignored it.

It seemed to be a lifetime before the medical team arrived.

Gaara paced outside the observational ward. It was well past midnight, but he had nothing better to do at the moment. It had been three days since the medical staff had announced Neji would survive and had moved the Hyuuga from intensive care to observation. For some reason, Gaara hadn't been particularly surprised, though the other shinobi present had expressed amazement and relief. Gaara only felt a quiet rage at the news. He knew the emotion was Shukaku's. Logically he had no reason to be angry that the dark-haired shinobi had survived, it had been his mission to try and help that team, after all. No, the fury was from Shukaku, the demon hated those that lived, resented the will and strength of those that struggled. It was why he took such delight in killing them.

Gaara was tired, annoyed with the knot of constant rage in the pit of his stomach, the blinding fury that gave him a headache. So he waited outside the ward, listening to the nighttime sounds of the hospital, wandering the halls like a vengeful ghost until he returned again and again to the wing the Hyuuga was being kept in. Visitors were not supposed to be allowed, except family, but Gaara was past caring at this point. He needed to silence that voice of boiling rage in his head, even if it meant giving into the demon, just a little.

He entered the ward, slipping past the night staff unnoticed and unmarked. It was laughably easy. Slip past the dozing night guards, trace that weak chakra, vaguely familiar now, and enter the dark hospital room that smelled of antiseptic and medicine and pain. Something dark was guiding Gaara's actions, enhancing his night vision too much—Shukaku was close to the surface, Gaara could feel him struggling for control, and, perversely, he decided to let the demon play, just a little. To see what would happen. He wouldn't let Shukaku kill the Hyuuga, but if allowing the predatory beast of chakra and hate observe the older boy, interact with him, would help alleviate some of the stress that Shukaku was putting on Gaara, than the redhead would allow it. He was, after all, very tired.

Shukaku exalted as he took control of the brat's body. He could sense the consciousness of Gaara observing him, warning him, but he didn't care. There was fun he could have without killing the pale boy in the hospital bed. And he intended to have fun. He reached a hand down to touch the Hyuuga's cheek. Soft skin, like a girl's, warm with life. It pissed Shukaku off. The boy in the bed should be dead. The hole in his chest would have killed a shinobi twice his strength, with three times his skill, he and Gaara should have found a corpse. Instead, here was this kid, struggling to breathe, having the sheer gall to look pale and helpless after all that.

Shukaku reached further, hand twisting in the dark strands of the sleeping kid's hair, pulling cruelly, yanking the injured shinobi upright by his own hair. Long hair was such a stupid vanity, but Shukaku enjoyed that. It meant arrogance, and he so hated arrogance. He hated it so much that he loved it. Pale eyes snapped open, cast around until they were caught and held by the yellow, leering gaze of Shukaku.

"Good morning." Shukaku grinned into the dazed eyes. Neji was looking at him with a sort of drugged non-comprehension. Even through the painkillers Shukaku could see the pain in the hitched, difficult breathing, the tight downturn of pale lips. It excited him.

"Gaara… Of the Sand?" Hyuuga's voice was ragged, barely a wheeze. Shukaku could practically see him struggling against the treacherous fog of medication, trying to come to some sort of understanding of his situation.

It was funny as hell.

Shukaku laughed, low and evil and delighted. "Oh no, just using his body for the moment, kid. Since he wouldn't let me kill you—something about being on a mission to help save you." Neji looked blank at that, Shukaku wasn't surprised. Probably no one had filled him in yet. "But he's tired. Can't keep me in check all the time, and he hasn't been letting me play." Shukaku shoved Neji back, watched in pleasure as the composed face crumpled in pain at the movement and pressure, and then the sluggishly acknowledged alarm as Shukaku climbed onto the bed with him, straddling his hips, fingers digging into Neji's shoulders—pinning the dark-haired boy like the prey he was.

"You failed." Shukaku leaned forward, whispering the words into Neji's ear, intimate as a lover, lips brushing skin. "The mission was a failure. The Uchiha escaped, and now he's lost to your village. A traitor. And you were too weak to save him, for all your struggling. How pathetic." Shukaku shifted his weight, smirking as he heard the groan of pain beneath him, followed by the strangled gasp as he nibbled the pale neck just below Neji's ear, teeth biting too hard, followed by lips caressing in a parody of tender apology.

The Hyuuga's breathing was ragged, gasping. Shukaku knew it was the pain of having Gaara's weight leaning on his chest, but the close resemblance it bore to the panting of a lover exhilarated him. It was all too fucking funny.

"Naughty boy." Shukaku rumbled, blowing softly against Neji's skin, raising himself enough to look down into the eyes glazed with pain and drugs. "I wonder what punishment is fitting for such an utter failure like you?"

Neji met his eyes, unflinching, though Shukaku could see, could practically taste his agony. "What do you want?" That voice was too calm, even with the pain and exhaustion coloring the edges. It pissed Shukaku off.

Shukaku backhanded him, reveled in the satisfying sound of flesh striking flesh. He leaned in quickly, sucking at the blood on Neji's lips, tongue trailing up the Hyuuga's chin, lapping at Neji's lips and clenched teeth in an obscene mockery of intimacy. "Don't sass me, little boy." Neji might be older then Gaara, but Shukaku was ageless and merciless as the desert.

Neji didn't reply, just watched Shukaku with that impassive face, struggling to control the pain in his breathing. The drugs were little use against the way Shukaku's fingers dug at his sides and chest, expertly, cruelly, just enough to be incredibly painful without aggravating the injury. And the way Shukaku touched Neji was in that twisted way, imitating tenderness with a sick precision that made Neji feel like throwing up. Neji focused on the ceiling, letting his consciousness float above the pain, drift in a state of half awareness until the monster above him grew tired of him.

Shukaku hissed as Neji started to drift into half-consciousness. The little brat had the guts, the GALL to ignore him. He stopped his pawing, reaching his hands up to lock around Neji's throat and squeeze. That brought the Hyuuga's attention back, but it also brought Gaara's.

For a moment the two men were frozen, Gaara's hands locked around the pale throat, Neji's eyes glazed and fascinated as he watched gold fade to blue in the red-head's eyes.

The hands around Neji's throat abruptly loosened, and the weight on his chest disappeared. Gaara stood beside the bed, arms crossed over his chest, eyes not quite meeting Neji's.

"I apologize." The voice was cold and controlled, with no hint of emotion. And then Neji was alone in the hospital room again, struggling to breathe, to think past the drug haze and the pain.

Neji never spoke of that night to anyone.