The Space Between, a naruto fanfic

This story was largely an experiment. A big one. I've never written Kurenai before or grief fic of any kind and I have certainly never written a teacher-student relationship. Things are a little vague in the story for a reason. Largely so one can use his/her imagination! I hope this experiment turns out to be a success. As a note this is a one-shot and I consider it very much complete.

DISCLAIMER: Naruto and its characters belong to Masashi Kishimoto. No profit is made from this and no harm intended.

The Space Between

I have kept everything
you whispered to me then.
I can remember it now as I see you
again, how much tenderness we could
wedge between a stairwell
and a police lock, or as it was,
as it still is, in the voice
of a woman singing of a man
who could make her do anything.

Reunion, Carolyn Forche

Shikamaru stands in her doorway, a bag of groceries in one arm. He doesn't wait to be invited inside, shoving his way in and kicking his shoes off at the entryway. He sets the bag on the table, pulls out apples and milk and a hunk of cheese.

"You need to take better care of yourself," he says, tossing a tangerine in her direction. "You have more than yourself to think about." His eyes dip toward her middle, toward the still-flat stomach that she rubs her hand over absently. "You're not sleeping enough either." He pulls out boxes of tea; the herbal kind that Asuma offered to guests when he thought liquor was inappropriate.

She wants to tell him that she's an adult, that she can take care of herself; but right now the outline of Shikamaru's vest as he stands at her table is achingly familiar.

She nods at him silently and wipes her eye with the palm of one hand.

There are some days better than others. Some days she can keep her mind busy, concentrating on the dishes, the words in the paper, or the number of days left until the milk spoils. Some days she picks up a shoe, a shirt, a child's toy Asuma would like and for a brief moment, it's like he's still there. There is a pause then, an awful moment of remembering while she replaces the item calmly and silently chokes on the ache in her throat.

Some days she can't make it out of bed. On others she can and her hand runs over the undisturbed comforter on his side. Sometimes she fluffs the pillows; will stand before them for minutes, or quarters of an hour, and give in to a need for order that Asuma once teased her for.

Some days she wakes up, views the emptiness beside her and tosses his pillow onto the ground. Her teeth clenched and her fists balled she will punch his pillows, his side of the bed til her arms ache and the strength has left her. It bothers her, this order, this tidiness, everything that he was not.

She throws the coverlet over, pulls the sheet so far down it's nearly falling off the bed.

The colors blur and she doesn't bother wiping the tears rushing down her cheeks. It's all a mess, she thinks, crossing her arms tight across her chest.

Some nights she sleeps on the couch.

The first time Hinata shows up on her doorstep there is a basket of food in her hand; a collection of homemade goods she claims to have tried making for the first time. She asks her former teacher to taste it, to help her fix what she has done wrong. She sits at Kurenai's table, watches anxiously to make sure she consumes one, two, multiple bites. She waits for a verdict though the anxiousness is all but gone with the last crumb.

It is delicious and perfectly made. Kurenai suspects it was made by the Hyuuga family cook, or bought and wrapped like something made; but Kurenai points out a spice or a texture that might receive more attention in the future and Hinata nods as though it will be different next time.

Shino sometimes drops by with a plant or a tidbit of news about the shinobi world. His conversations are dull, normal everyday things she would discuss with him had she still led their team. One day he asks if it bothers her, his stopping by to visit. She shakes her head because it doesn't. She doesn't look forward to it either.

Some things simply remain numb.

Kiba sits at her kitchen table, hunched over with his elbows on the polished wood. He watches her stir the eggs in the bowl, his tongue slipping out and wetting his lips unconsciously. Akamaru rests his giant head on his paws and Kurenai worries that she will have to vacuum twice to clean up all that fur.

"What happened next?" she prompts, turning on the stove to heat up the flat, iron pan.

Kiba taps his foot against the floor like he is all energy and anticipation even though he's simply sitting in her kitchen waiting for pancakes. "Yeah, so this civilian from out of town tries to hit on my mother. He had a little too much to drink of course and when my mom ignores him he thinks he's going to be smooth by slipping an arm around her shoulder."

Kurenai's lips tug up and she lowers her face, folding in the fresh blueberries.

Kiba pauses to look at her. His dark eyes follow her movements, face splitting into a grin. "What?" she asks, trying not to smile anymore than she already is. Kiba shakes his head and rests his shaggy brown head against one palm.

"So my mom was a little tipsy herself and she thought he was trying to attack her. She nearly put the guy's face through the wooden counter! It took me and my sister to get her off him!"

Though Kiba smiles Akamaru whines as though he too was pained by the memory of that fight.

In the morning she feels sick. She runs to the bathroom, doubles over until the contents of her last meal are suddenly staring back up at her. She pulls her hair back belatedly, dark strands sticky and damp. She swipes it and flicks the substance into the toilet.

Her stomach heaves again and she hates this feeling, willing herself to stop fighting if only to get it over with.

Kurenai lifts the cut yuzu to her nose and takes a deep breath. The sick feeling in her stomach eases a little and she sniffs again before squeezing the fruit and watches the juice spill into her cup.

"My mother says it saved her when she was pregnant with me," Shikamaru lifts his mug and takes a sip of his steaming tea.

Kurenai nods her thanks.

"I'll bring you some more from our tree."

Kiba looks worried as she opens the door. He shoulders his way in and drops a package on her table.

"How come you didn't tell me you've been sick?" he asks. Kurenai sighs and before she can close the door, Akakamaru whines and trails his master.

Kurenai rubs a hand through her hair. "I'm fine. I had morning sickness for awhile. Shikamaru brought me some yuzu from his trees," she says.

Kiba is already pulling out a bag of rice and vegetables. "But you can't gain weight if you keep throwing up, right? That's bad for the pup." He glances at her still slim waist. At ten weeks, she doesn't show. "I'm making you something to eat," he says stubbornly.

Kurenai is too tired to fight him. She recognizes the stubborn glint in his eye, the edge in his mouth. When Kiba is determined to see something through, he is difficult to dissuade. He bangs around her kitchen, spilling water and rice and cut cubes of carrot that roll to the floor when he chops them a little too roughly. Akamaru licks up the scraps falling off the counter until Kiba shoos him away and the big dog lowers his head and sulks like a giant puppy.

When Kiba is done he sets the rice porridge in front of her. The vegetables are cut unevenly and the porridge is a little too runny, but Kurenai takes a spoonful, blows on it carefully and makes a show of smiling after the first bite. He watches her eat until she can see the bottom of the bowl. She asks if he's hungry and he shakes his head, smiles quickly and tells her he ate at home. When she finishes, he guides her to the couch, tells her to rest while he cleans up the mess he made. She looks out the window and it is dark outside, only a string of lamps illuminating the neighborhood.

"It's late, Kiba. I can clean up in the morning." But he ignores her and the dishes clatter in the sink. She pulls her feet up onto the couch, pulls the blanket over her and smiles while she picks up her book. It is comfortable, this feeling, this sense of another body in the usually quiet apartment. She remembers the nights when Asuma would grumble while he did the dishes, when she refused to help him and would curl up with her books. Her eyes water and she rubs at them hastily, determined not to cry while Kiba is in the other room.

Akamaru lifts his big dark nose and she shakes her head at him.

She feels warm and weightless, like she is floating in a cocoon. She rolls her head and snuggles into the warmth pressed against her cheek. She murmurs something and a deep voice soothes her, tells her to sleep. The blankets rustle and she is lowered, her legs slipping against the cool sheets. She shudders a little, wraps her arms around the warm body next to hers and tries to hold on.

She buries her nose into the scent of earth, sweat and musk. She is reminded of long days in the sun and cold nights sweating against each other. She presses her lips against the warm skin and tries to hold on even as the body next to her grows silent and still.

"Asuma," she breathes, kissing him harder. "Stay with me," she whispers, trying to drag him into the bed. He releases her and she wants to fight it, but she is tired, so very tired and doesn't have the strength. The bed dips beside her and she reaches out for him, relieved when one hand entwines with hers.

In the morning she wakes, her mouth dry like cotton and her eyes crusted over with dried tears.

She stares at Kiba's back, his body curled up next to her, his shoulders rising with even breaths.

She makes it out with the women and the children, the early evacuees when the village is attacked. She watches from the hills as the dust settles, her eyes roaming the expanse of wreckage laid at her feet. She gasps and a whining sound escapes with the first sob. Somewhere, buried in there, is all that she had kept of him. She ignores the soothing voices, the hands reaching for hers. She clasps her fingers over her stomach and sinks to her knees, begging the gods not to take this too.

Shikamaru looks stern even with one leg wrapped up in bandages. He holds a cigarette to his lips, clasped between his middle and ring fingers, the way Asuma once did. She looks away and watches the smoke instead, rising like a cloud.

"It's going to be dangerous. Some of us might not come back." He lowers the cigarette and flicks the end so the ash topples onto the ground.

"Shino is coming with us. Kiba too." She feels his gaze, waiting for her reaction. She wraps one hand across herself, holds onto her arm.

"Be careful," she says.

It has become easier, she realizes, to hold back the tears. These days with so few reminders, she savors the few she finds. She lays in bed at night with her hand stretched toward the emptiness beside her. She tries to remember Asuma's warmth, his scent, the feel of his skin beneath her finger tips. She tries to remember his scars and how he got them, tracing them in her mind from his earlobe to the dips in his thighs.

"Asuma," she breathes into silence, not fighting the tears when she can remember how many scars, but not where they all belong.

In the morning she lays in bed and stares at the wooden ceiling of a foreign room. Her hand rubs in slow circles across the growing swell of her belly, the way Asuma did the first night after they heard the news. She reminds herself she isn't alone.

Shikamaru finds her on the school grounds. She tells the children to wait for her, to play nice while she talks to a guest. Shikamaru shakes his head to signal the mission failure. She feels her heart drop to her stomach.

"Did?" she begins, but she's afraid to voice her question.

"We didn't fight," he says and all her breath rushes out of her. "Kakashi stopped us before we could. Shino and Kiba are on their way to fetch Hinata. We're going back to war."

There is something terrible about not knowing. There is something terrible at being trapped in one's surroundings and not being allowed to know. She feels anxious, sick almost, when she thinks of her students on a battlefield somewhere and she not there to protect them.

She remembers Hinata's gentle hands, the ones she trained so hard to kill a man and wonders if she'll succeed. Or Shikamaru's long fingers holding a cigarette, or a shogi piece sliding across the board. She presses her palm against the cold glass and watches the rain fall outside. She remembers a warm hand entwined in hers the night she thought it was Asuma in her bed.

In the afternoons she returns to an apartment that is as plain outside as it is inside. She cannot bring herself to decorate. She cannot fight the urge to make it look just like the last. And so she leaves the paintings leaning against the wall and the iris still in it's pot by the door.

It is becoming more difficult to bend over these days. Her dresses pinch around her waist. She no longer feels sick in the mornings, but other symptoms have arrived. She soldiers through it and slowly watches as the village gets back onto its feet. The rubble is cleared, the soldiers slip in and out and so many civilians are left to pick up the pieces. She looks among their ranks for a familiar hood, for a familiar spike of dark hair.

Iruka stays at the academy and Kurenai finds herself wandering over there more often than not. He asks for her help with the younger children, and when she is tired she is allowed to rest. She finds a futon spread out in the teacher's room, Iruka's name scribbled across the tag of a pillow. The little ones are hard to keep up with and when she rests she sinks into the futon and falls sleeps. It is good to keep herself so busy.

She had nearly forgotten how much she loved to teach.

When she opens the door she pauses. Shikamaru leans his arm against the frame. He holds up a bouquet of flowers, his eyes dipping to her belly like he is trying to confirm something for himself. Kurenai smiles and allows him inside. She accepts the flowers and moves into the kitchen to place them in a vase. She realizes she has none, picks up a sake jar and places the stems inside.

"Tell Ino I said thanks," she says and Shikamaru nods once, taking a seat by the kitchen table.

"You look well," he says, his eyes dipping to her stomach again. "You're showing more."

"Since you gave me all that yuzu, I can't seem to stop," she smiles.

"You smile more too," he observes. Kurenai pauses. The stems are too long and she realizes she will have to cut them. "Did something good happen while I was gone?"

Kurenai thinks of the smiling faces at the academy and nods her head. She arranges the flowers in something resembling order and brings it to the table. She sits down and crosses her ankles, resting her arms on the surface.

"I started teaching again at the academy. Iruka lets me help with the beginning classes." She picks at a flower petal, shifts it back into place. "I didn't realize how much I loved it until now." Shikamaru looks thoughtful, his eyes lowering to the bouquet. "I feel like I have a purpose again."

She realizes she means it.

Her naked belly rises like a dome in front of her. The doctor smiles as he spreads an ointment and she shivers at his cold hands.

"Sorry," he says, smiling sympathetically. He pulls out a small instrument and turns it on, pressing it against her skin. The monitor flickers to life and she hears a sound, a small thrumming that doesn't match her pulse. A small shape, a head, she thinks and a spine curved against her womb. That is what she stares at on the screen, a small black and white infant curled up, nesting inside of her.

"That's your daughter," he says and Kurenai's breath shudders.

Asuma, we have a daughter, she thinks, wishing he could be here. Wishing he could exclaim how beautiful she is even though they can't even see her. A daughter, she thinks, trying to smile and fight the pinprick of tears.

Deep down, she had hoped for a son.

She receives a surprise visitor in the morning. When she opens her door the last thing she expects is a toothy grin and a long scarf trailing in the dirt. Konohamaru smiles at her, a white box cradled in his small hands.

"Mom sent this over to you," he pauses, mouth opening when he sees her stomach. "Wow," he says and she smiles at him, accepting the gift and ushering him inside. She puts on the kettle and starts up the stove, opening the cupboard to grab two tea cups.

"Let me get that!" he yells, rushing forward to retrieve the items. She smiles and thanks him and when the water is ready she prepares two piping hot glasses. The box contains two slices of cake, the kind with the strawberry on top. Kurenai smiles and she uses her fork to slice into the soft, spongy cake instead. She will leave the strawberry for last.

"Mom says this was his favorite. Uncle Asuma's," he said. "Only he would never admit to liking such girly stuff," Konohamaru laughed. "But I heard you're having a girl, so I bet she'll like it! Have you thought of a name yet?" Konohamaru paused long enough to stuff a large piece of cake into his mouth.

Kurenai's hands slid around her glass, absorbing the heat against her palms. She nodded slowly, looking at the strawberry, remembering the first time Asuma brought her this very cake. She had never been a big fan of pastries. She had always preferred dango or mochi instead.

"So what's it gonna be?" Konohamaru asked around a mouthful of pastry.

Kurenai smiled and leaned her cheek on her hand. "I was thinking of Asuka."

Konohamaru's eyes grew round, his face thoughtful as the name sunk in. His face split into a grin and he nodded as he stuffed another bite into his mouth. "I like it!" he declared.

Hinata is the first to return. She shows up on Kurenai's porch with a potted fern in her hands. Even as she accepts the gift, Kurenai's eyes are roaming over Hinata, looking for wounds, new scars or a tell-tale limp, though she discovers none.

"The baby must be due soon," she says excitedly, clasping her hands in front of her. Kurenai smiles and sets the pot down, giving it a little water before hanging it by the window.

"I had to stop teaching at the academy. My back aches if I stand too long." Hinata glances at the belly protruding from Kurenai's narrow hips and frowns. "I hear it's normal," she says and Hinata's expression eases, but not by much.

"How is the world outside?" she asks, and it feels strange to be so disconnected. She has not yet grown accustomed to being a civilian when she has been a shinobi for so long.

Hinata worries her lips, her delicate brows knitting above her pale eyes.

"It's not over yet," she said. "I came back because the main house worried. Neji was ordered to take my place." Kurenai didn't comment. She knew Hinata felt this and her hand went out to cover the girl's. "Naruto-kun," she began and paused, lowering her face. "They're trying to capture Naruto-kun."

She recognizes the edge in Hinata's voice. She recognizes the worry twisting her face. There are so many things she could say right now, things to encourage her to be brave. She thinks of the last time she saw Asuma, and all of it slips away.

When she returns from the store, Shino is there. She carries a few items in two small bags held in her hands at either side. She nearly drops it when she sees him standing by her door, overcome with the urge to pull him into a hug. The reports piling in were not encouraging. It is a blessed relief to see him standing there.

Shino is quiet even as he greets her. He bows his head once, reaches for her bags and carries them beside her as she fishes out her keys.

"The alliance is making progress," he says, in that same even tone he always uses. He jumps into the conversation the way he always did even before the war began. She realizes how much she has missed these simple conversations, how much she has missed her team. She invites Shino inside, directs him to place the groceries on the table and asks him to tell her everything.

A nurse is yelling, asking someone to get this dog out of the way. Kurenai turns the corner and Akamaru is standing there, whining like he has done nothing wrong. He lifts his dark nose and when he turns he croons in recognition. Kurenai raises one hand and Akamaru pads toward her, lifting his fluffy white head into her palm.

"He belongs to an Inuzuka, he's perfectly trained," Kurenai says. The nurse calms, but she does not seem happy to have an animal wandering the hospital. "I'll watch him for now."

She resists the urge to ask about his master. She resists the urge to fill in the blanks that Shino's silence has created.

His mother drops in to check up on him. Kurenai tries not to eavesdrop, tries not to listen as the doctor discloses the situation. Her fingers rub Akamuaru's head absently, tightening a little when she realizes how close things really were. The doctor grows silent, no words of promise on his lips and he disappears down the hall.

"You look exhausted," Inuzuka's voice startles her. Kurenai shakes her head.

"I want to make sure he's okay," she says and Inuzuka says nothing, only smiles like she understands.

She waves to Akamaru, draws the dog to her side. "I'll be back when I can."

She knocks on the door gently, more a tap than the collision of knuckles against wood. He is staring outside the window, his bare chest wrapped in bandages from his neck down to his waist. Only a slim shoulder is uncovered, the tan flesh smooth save a few thin scars. His face is bruised beneath one eye and when he turns to look at her, his gaze widens, highlighting how purple the flesh has turned.

"How are you feeling?" she asks. She pulls the chair over to the bed and sits down in front of him. His eyes watch her, dark eyes dipping to the belly resting on her lap. His gaze lifts and stays there for a moment, and Kurenai tugs her dress up self-consciously until Kiba's eyes dart away.

"I'll live," he says and there is a bitterness in his words she find herself unaccustomed to. She suspects some failure, some plan gone wrong, but she cannot bring herself to press him for the truth just yet.

"You look well, sensei," he says, and this old title, this form of address brings a smile to her lips. She can't remember the last time he called her that.

"I'm doing my best," she says. He is silent as he stares out the window. She struggles for something to say, something to talk about, only to realize this is the first time they have been alone since that morning. Since the night she mistook him for someone else. She wonders if he hasn't forgotten; if this is why he acts so aloof.

"You seem tired," she says, rising slowly from the chair. "I should let you rest," she says, but Kiba's hand reaches for hers, his grip weak as it closes on her wrist. She wonders when his hands grew so large.

He looks at her, and she doesn't know what she's supposed to see there. "I'm sorry," he says, searching her face. "Thank you for visiting me, sensei." He attempts to smile, but it's obvious that this small effort costs him. He winces and the expression fades.

She nods at him, placing one hand over his and sliding his grip free. "Of course," she says, pulling away from his touch.

She holds a flower in her hand, a single red rose like the one he brought her on their first date. She bends her knee, hunching down the best that she can. She allows the stem to slip from her fingers and fall the rest of the distance.

She stands up straight and her fingers splay against her belly.

"Asuma," she says to the dark stone looming. "I'm sorry," she says. "I'm sorry she couldn't be a son."

In truth she feels she is sorry for something else. She remembers the dark look in Kiba's eyes, his pained look as her hand left his. She is sorry, she thinks, but cannot voice why.

The pain is not what she expected. She tries to remember the injuries, the knife wounds, or anything she suffered on the battlefield. She can't remember it hurting quite like this and she sucks in a harsh breath between her lips.

Shikamaru's fingers are cool against her sweaty grip. His face is tight, his jaw muscles clenched, but he makes no complaint and only pushes back a sweaty strand of hair off her forehead. "Push," he tells her again and she exhales, her muscles clenching and struggling against the pain.

Had Asuma been here she would have cursed him. She would have growled at his teasing encouragement between efforts. Shikamaru is calm, his voice steady at her ear. He is careful not to look beyond the blanket covering her legs. He is careful to focus on her, her breathing, on mopping up the sweat on her brow. His voice is a steady rhythm against the chaos of everything she feels inside.

Her daughter is quiet, face pink and scrunched in the white blanket. Kurenai tries not to cry at her exhaustion, her relief, or the fierce sense of pride swelling in her breast. She brushes her fingers across the thin dark hair sticking up in small tufts, wondering if it will grow straight like her father's or someday curl when it is long enough.

She has her father's eyes, large brown orbs trying to focus on the shadows around her. Kurenai remembers Asuma's searching gaze the first time she admitted she loved him. She remembers the surprise, the delight, and the resulting crush of his arms around her, squeezing so tight she could hardly breathe.

She feels it now like a tightness in her throat, the same sort of gasp; the same rush of air through her lungs. She remembers what it is like to feel that gaze.

Shikamaru enters quietly, a box of juice in one hand and tea in the other. He sets them both down on the table beside her, sticking his hands in his pockets like he's afraid to touch anything.

"I'll never be able to repay you for what you've done today," she says. He shakes his head at her and snorts like this is ridiculous. Like standing in this room with her for six hours, holding her hand is something to brush off.

"I promised him," Shikamaru said, plucking a shogi piece out of his pocket and flipping it in the air. He catches it neatly, before tossing it again. "I promised I would look out for you two."

Kurenai pauses and looks at this boy, a boy with still spiky hair and a baby smooth chin and shakes her head. "He would be proud, no matter what. You were always his favorite. But that doesn't mean you have to take care of us."

She frowns as she says this, because even though it's true she can't imagine what she would have done without him.

Shikamaru shakes his head, pocketing the shogi piece. He sighs as he lowers himself into the chair.

"At some point he stopped being my teacher. At some point he was just an adult, more like an older brother." He clasped his hands, resting his elbows on his spread knees. "You're family now, whether you want to be or not."

Kurenai finds herself nodding. She looks back on the past nine months and it is Shikamaru's presence, his cool words and reminders of Asuma that kept her from falling apart.

"You want to hold her?" she asks and Shikamaru looks stricken. He shakes his head and eyes Asuka with a terror she has never seen cross his face. Kurenai laughs and holds up the child. "Like this" she says, showing him the angle and bend of her elbows, the way she lifts the infant's head. "You should get used to it," she teases. Shikamaru gives up on the pose and crosses his arms. "As her godfather, it's your duty."

When she returns the door is opened for her before she can reach for the knob. Konohamaru looks excited as he throws the door open, his eyes bright as he views the small bundle in Kurenai's arms. Kurenai steps inside to discover the floors have been swept, the shelves dusted. The room smells of pine and lemon.

In her bedroom, a woman hums a familiar tune. She is settling navy blue blankets inside a crib. The woman pauses and looks up with Konohamaru's large brown eyes. "I've taken the liberty of setting up the cradle. Konohamaru helped," she smiled.

"Thank you, nee-san," Kurenai replies.

Hinata visits her more often. She loves to hold Asuka, to rock her to sleep. She fusses over her like a new mother and Kurenai is grateful for these small breaks. It's no longer a surprise when the young Hyuuga heiress arrives on her doorstep, a meal in her hand that is ready to heat and serve. Other days she brings teas or fruit, items Kurenai sometimes forgets to pick up for herself.

Sitting on the couch Kurenai watches Hinata hold Asuka against her shoulder, patting the child's back. She notes the serene expression on the girl's face.

"You'll be a wonderful mother someday," Kurenai smiles. Hinata looks startled, but her face relaxes and a familiar pink tinge lines her cheeks. She shakes her head lightly.

"There's so much I still have to learn, to be able to take care of someone..."

Kurenai laughs into her cup. The green tea Hinata brewed for her not ten minutes ago.

"You're taking care of me, aren't you?"

She does not cry on the anniversary of his death. Asuka is quiet against her, a small dark head nestled against Kurenai's breast and she tries not to jostle the child too much as she sets down the flowers. She sets her roses in the center, her fingers lingering long enough to brush his name. She feels a familiar ache and this time she can stand it. This time she can hold it in her heart and smile.

Chouji's hand is solid beneath hers as he helps her back onto her feet. Ino's touch is brief, flitting, a mere brush of fingers against her shoulder. The young kunoichi sets down an arrangement of carnations wrapped in white paper. White for remembrance, pink for gratitude. She settles them neatly beside a bottle of sake and a pack of cigarettes propped up on one side. Shikamaru shifts his weight to one leg. He lifts a cigarette from his mouth, tips his head to the clouds and exhales in a long sigh of white smoke. Kurenai glares at him and he places the stub between his teeth. He smiles around it the way Asuma so often did.

I am not alone, she thinks, looking down at the assortment of offerings. At the bottles of sake, the flowers, the bags of barbecue flavored chips testifying to the many lives Asuma had touched while he was living.

She doesn't protest when Konohamaru clings to her dress. He is fighting back the water in his eyes and Kurenai reaches with one hand to smooth his hair.

"It's okay," she tells him, turning her gaze back to the stone. "It's okay."

She expects Shino when she returns, but it is Kiba standing there, leaning against the wooden fence beside her apartment building in his leather jacket. The bruises have faded since she last saw him and if there are bandages, she cannot see them now.

He meets her eyes and flicks his gaze to the bundle resting against her chest. He holds a bouquet of flowers in one hand, a simple collection of white and yellow daisies tied together with a piece of twine.

"You could have taken them to the memorial stone," she says, but he shakes his head. He holds the flowers up so close she can smell them.

"These are for you."

"Were you worried about me, sensei?" he asks. There is a slight drawl in that last word, a hesitation she can interpret as flirtation or genuine curiosity. She meets the dark gaze watching her from across the kitchen table. Her cheeks grow warm when she understands that maybe she hasn't imagined it.

"I worry for all my students," she says evenly. He rises quietly from his chair and joins her on this side of the table. His fingers brush hers as he takes a flower from her hands, slips the stem into the vase clumsily. The arrangement is off and she resists the urge to correct it, scolding herself for not teaching him better.

"Would you have put flowers on my grave?"

Her eyelids lower, her fingers held in suspension before tucking the remaining flowers into the vase. In the time she has paused he has taken another step, gathered himself so close she can smell leather and the faintest whiff of pine. He is staring so hard she can feel it.

She shakes her head more at herself than him. She picks up the vase, moves away smoothly and walks into the living room to set it on the coffee table. "I'd plant a tree," she calls out over her shoulder. "A dogwood, I think. Akamaru would enjoy that." Her lips curve up at her own joke.

Kiba snorts and collapses onto the couch, but when she looks at him, he is smiling. "What about Shino, huh?"

"A garden perhaps. Something the insects would thrive in. Maybe medicinal herbs for Hinata." He laughs and it's a relief to hear that sound. The tension eases from her shoulders.

"You gave him roses, didn't you," he states more than asks. "You must really love him," his voice sounds gruff.

She looks at him and nods, hoping this is enough. She is not yet ready to trust her voice with that answer. Kiba's brow slopes as he looks away. He nods like this is a given, like this is the answer he has come to expect.

"Don't you ever get angry at him? For leaving you?" he asks.

Kurenai fiddles with the flowers though there is nothing left to be done. She takes a deep breath and exhales slowly.

"How can I be angry with someone who loved me enough to give me Asuka? Who loved his team and his village so much he gave his life to protect them?" she says, meeting Kiba's pained expression.

"But didn't you want revenge?" he asked.

She rises from her knees and sits on the couch, placing her hands in her lap. Shaking her head, she remembers the fierce pain they all had felt upon losing him and the determination with which Shikamaru set out to avenge him. "It wasn't my battle," she says. "It would have been selfish of me to endanger our child, to endanger everything he died to protect. I have other people to live for."

Kurenai pauses and contemplates her own words. She could never be angry because she would have done the same.

"For a long time I felt like a piece of me had died with him that day." She feels the familiar tightness in her throat and forces herself to fight it. Kiba is silent beside her, his face scrunched up in more anger than she had ever felt over her loss. "But I've come to realize that he's still with me." She reaches for Kiba's hand and squeezes it gently.

"He's still with me," she says, thinking of the many times she has found him in the rhythm of Shikamaru's words; the taste of cigarette smoke, or the scent of wet earth after the rain.

Kiba snorts in frustration. "How the hell do I compete with that?"

Kurenai smiles and pushes Kiba away with one hand. "You're a hundred years too early," she says, and Kiba has the decency to look embarrassed. He glances down at his hands, thumbs twiddling slowly in his lap and doesn't resist when she ruffles his messy brown hair.

"But are you happy?" he asks, his brow furrowed as the words leave his mouth.

Kurenai tilts her head and thinks about how she feels now. Touched by his concern, she smiles and thinks that yes, this makes her happy. She leans into the couch cushions, tipping her head back and stares up at the ceiling. She thinks of the many small gestures, the acts of kindness, and the sheer generosity Asuma's death has inspired. They have always been there, lending her strength whether she wanted to acknowledge it or not.

There is joy in it, she realizes, a small happiness if she will reach for it; if she will allow herself, as Asuma so often said.

"He would want me to be," she says, remembering the times he would tease her for being too cold, for keeping herself lonely when she could have him. She had lost count of the many times she had turned him down, or ignored his flirtations. Like a weed he refused to go away; fought beside her, tried to protect her, and showed her how much he could love. And like a weed he had rooted himself in her heart and slowly taken over.

"Part of me will always miss him," she acknowledges. "Like a scar or an old wound that will never go away. But I have you," she says and he smiles. "And Hinata and Shino and Asuka," she adds. Kiba groans but his lips curve upward, high enough to reveal the tips of canines in an ill-concealed grin.

"I can be happy," she says, and she wonders what Asuma would say had he seen how deeply she felt losing him. She is grateful he cannot answer her and imagines him chiding her now for allowing herself to become so overwhelmed; for not cherishing the life all around her. He had taught her how hard she could laugh and how fiercely she could love. Even on bad days he had taught her how important it was to smile.

"On the day he lost his father, I was unable to console him," she starts. "I didn't know what to say." Kiba looks at her curiously and she turns away, looks out the window as though that scene will play itself on the streets outside. "Instead he smiled at me and said he would be okay. That when bad things happened sometimes we forget the good things. But even when our hearts seem filled with heartache and grief, there is an immeasurable space between where the good things are still thriving, waiting to be remembered." Kurenai laughs at her own words. "At the time, I thought it was complete nonsense, that he must have been mad with grief. But I understand it now, I think."

Kiba looks contemplative before a familiar mischievous look slides across his face. "Can I be one of the good things?" he asks.

Kurenai laughs and rises from the couch. She pats his head like she does with Akamaru. "I'll tell you when you're older."