Daughter of the Sand

by DaugterOfTheNile (CrownedQueenOfNonsense)

Summary:

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A mysterious poisoning in Suna sends the Hokage’s trusted advisor and his wife on their way to save a life.

Or…

Shikamaru is forced to watch Temari relive her traumatic upbringing under Rasa’s thumb due to a hallucinogenic poison that wreaks both her body and mind.
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Chapter 1: 1

A knock echoed through the otherwise quiet office of Lord Sixth, soft and almost apologetic for interrupting the early morning calm. Hatake Asuna, the Head of the Medical Corps, paused for a moment before pushing the door open. The ever-present cigarette smoke that clung to the air like a stubborn ghost, ever since late Nara Shikaku was introduced to the office, rushed to meet her upon entering. Asuna stepped into the room, her eyes darting between two men, none too happy to be up and about at this hour.

However, one look at her husband was enough for Asuna to deduce something was bothering him. Kakashi’s one visible eye held a grave expression, his shoulders drawn up and tense. He looked up from the scrolls scattered, the early morning light playing across the planes of his face, deepening the lines that the age has carved there. Despite his sour mood that she got a read on instantly, his gaze softened slightly upon seeing her.

“Asuna,” he greeted. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

Asuna nodded to Shikamaru in greeting, before stepping further into the room, her weapon pouch thumping gently against her leg as she moved.

“What happened?” she asked, her tone measured, the years of experience in her voice.

Shikamaru who was practically slouched over his desk, his cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, straightened up at her question. His eyes darted from her to Kakashi and back again, a silent question in his gaze. The cigarette hovered precariously, his hand paused mid-air as if frozen by the sudden tension.

Kakashi exhaled loudly through his mask, his hand reaching for another scroll, which he unfurled with a snap. “We’ve received a message from Suna,” he began, his voice even and steady. “Temari’s been poisoned.”

Shikamaru’s cigarette finally fell from in between his fingers, shock freezing his body in place. His eyes widened, the cigarette smouldering on the floor as it rolled away from him. He stared at Kakakshi, his mind racing through the possible implications. Asuna’s eyes never left her husband’s, her expression unchanging, the calm surface of a well-trained kunoichi.

Shikamaru’s thoughts whirled. Temari was poisoned? When? And why didn’t Kakashi say anything to him? He recalled every second since he stepped into the office, sorting through each unaccounted moment that he spent daydreaming. Kakashi had stepped out a while ago, being called by a kunoichi from the Decipher Corps… The Decipher Corps… He cursed internally, angry at himself for missing something like that in favor of dozing off a few times, his only thoughts those of his bed.

Asuna’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of something unrecognisable crossing her features as she took in Shikamaru’s dropped cigarette. She stepped over it, approaching Kakashi’s desk with purpose. “What do we know?” she asked, her voice tightly controlled.

Kakashi’s gaze flicked to Shikamaru for a brief moment before he cleared his throat and redirected his attention to Asuna. “The message was vague. The Sunan medics are at a loss. They’ve never encountered such a wide array of symptoms, and they can’t tie them to any poison known to them.”

The walls seemed to shrink in as Asuna leaned over the scroll, her eyes flying across it with practised ease. Her forehead creased as she digested the information, and Shikamaru could practically see the gears turning in her head. The mask of calmness he usually bore, the one that many had admired and occasionally resented, must be gone from his face if Kakashi’s expression as he carefully studied him was any indicator.

“I would have sent Sakura,” Kakashi said, his voice low and careful, “but we need someone with more experience with exotic poisons. And we need someone to be there fast…” His voice trailed off as he looked at his wife pointedly.

Asuna allowed herself a small smile that she dropped just as quickly. “Suna is my birthplace,” she said. “I can make the journey in just under two days, Kakashi. You know that.”
Kakashi nodded. “Right, I know that. It made me crazy in our years of dating when you had to make the journey between the lands often, but it could mean the difference between life and death for Temari now.”

He sat straighter, clearing his voice to make it sound stronger as he readied himself to give the official order. “Asuna, you’ll need backup for this mission.” His gaze flicked to Shikamaru. “I’m ordering you both to go. Asuna, for her medical expertise, and Shikamaru… for support.”

Shikamaru blinked slowly, dazedly. He looked from Kakashi to Asuna, reading the understanding in his eyes. It was a subtle gesture, but it spoke volumes. The Hokage knew about them, about the feelings he had been trying to hide from the world. He gave a small nod of acknowledgement, a silent apology for not sharing the news with him first.

“I understand,” Asuna said, her voice still calm and steady. “We leave immediately. Shikamaru, how much time do you need to get ready?”

Shikamaru’s eyes snapped back to hers, the question jolting him from his thoughts. “I’ll be ready,” he said, his voice gruff, trying to mask the fear that had taken root in his chest with an air of indifference.
The door closed behind the Hokage’s advisor and his wife with a soft click. The hallways of the Hokage Tower were empty at this hour, the only sounds those of their footsteps as they walked down the corridor. Asuna’s medical kit was slung over her shoulder, the weight of its contents feeling heavier than usual, although she packed lightly to ensure the full range of motion. The lack of information was unnerving; she didn’t know if they would arrive there in time or if there was any time left at all.

The chilly morning air greeted them as they stepped outside, the sun just beginning to peel over the horizon. Shikamaru fought off a shiver as he felt the cold seep into his bones. He took one last drag from his cigarette, flicking it away as they moved in the direction of the Konohagakure’s gates. The silence between them was thick, but not uncomfortable. They had known each other for years, and besides, words felt unnecessary in this scenario.

The silence stretched out, punctuated only by the occasional birdcall and the crunch of their footsteps on the gravel. The sun climbed higher, the light casting its long fingers across the sleepy village. Asuna knew the steps of the dance well, knew how to dodge death and sneak up on it while it stood unsuspecting. But today, death was at the ready, watching her rush to intercept it.

They had been travelling for hours, the landscape around them morphing from the lush green of the Leaf Village to the more arid ones. The sun was high in the sky, their shadows growing shorter as it continued its ascent. Asuna’s eyes narrowed against the glare as she scanned the horizon, looking for any sign of life, or more importantly, shade.

“Shikamaru,” she called out, her voice cutting through the stillness. “We need to stop for a moment.”

She cut his musings short, and he slowed to a stop, his eyes searching hers for some clue to her intentions. “What is it?”

Asuna fought the urge to roll her eyes. She almost pulled a rank on him, and eventually decided against it, biting her tongue. “We need to save our energy,” Asuna replied instead, her voice firm but not unkind. “We still have a way to go, and I can feel the heat taking its toll.”

Shikamaru grunted his reluctance, his eyes darting to hers, before moving back to the horizon. He knew she was right, but the urgency to get to Temari gnawed at him like a persistent itch that he couldn’t quite get.

“Fine,” Shikamaru said. He slumped down onto a nearby rock, his eyes still scanning the barren landscape. Asuna sat beside him, her own eyes taking in their surroundings, noting the subtle changes in the terrain that suggested they were nearing the boarder of Suna.

“Asuna,” Shikamaru called out suddenly, breaking the silence. “I didn’t know you were born in Suna.”

Surprise flickered in the older woman’s eyes, but she didn’t look at him. Instead, she continued her visual survey of their surroundings. “It’s not something I go around shouting about,” she replied evenly, her eyes misting with what he perceived as longing. “But yes, I was born there. My family was part of the medical clan that served the Kazekage bloodline.”

Shikamaru mulled over this new information, his mind racing to tie the stoic, composed woman in front of him to the fiery lands of Sunagakure. “Why did you leave?”
Asuna squinted against the glare, still not meeting his eye. He saw her bite her lower lip before soothing the sting with her tongue. “It’s a long story,” she replied. “One that doesn’t really matter right now. What’s important is that we get to Temari as quickly as possible.”

Shikamaru didn’t press the matter further, inhaling deeply and allowing the dry air to fill his lungs, successfully pushing his curiosity aside at the mention of Temari.

“Asuna,” he called after a long moment of quietude. “You said you could make it to Suna in under two days. That… that should be impossible.”

Her gaze flicked to him, a hint of amusement dancing across her lips. “You doubt me?”

Shikamaru held up his hands in a placating gesture. “No, no. Ah, this is troublesome.”

Asuna chuckled, her smile reassuring. “I know it seems impossible, but I’m asking you to trust me. We’re about to take a shortcut.”

Shikamaru was sure his eyebrows touched his hairline. “A shortcut? In this wasteland? You must be out of your mind, senpai.”

Asuna’s smile only grew at that. “It’s not on the maps, but it’s something worth remembering. I won’t get you killed, kid. We have a job to do.”

Without another word, she stood, her medical kit colliding with her side with a clunk as she began to move again. Shikamaru followed suit wordlessly. The path ahead was steeper, the rocks jagged and unforgiving as they awaited the first misstep. He watched as Asuna moved with an ease that spoke of familiarity, her steps swift and sure as he struggled to replicate them.

 

The hospital was bustling with activity even in the early morning darkness. The medics, alerted to their impending arrival, rushed to meet them. As Shikamaru and Asuna were ushered through the narrow corridors, he struggled to discern the state of the unfortunate kunoichi. He listened to the conversations between Asuna and the med-nins, moving swiftly behind them, their words just a blur of medical jargon that he couldn’t comprehend even if he tried.

When they paused in front of the door to Temari’s hospital room, Shikamaru felt his heart clench. Asuna pushed it open, hurrying inside first, and Shikamaru didn’t have much time for analysis. His eyes swept over the listless figure on the bed, but before he could follow his impulse and rush to her, two figures intercepted him, and he got dragged into a brief exchange. The sight of the two Konoha nins brought Temari’s brothers to their feet, and they exchanged a quick, wordless glance before they finally turned to the newcomers. Kankuro took a step towards them, his usual boisterousness replaced with a solemn expression. “Asuna, Shikamaru,” he greeted, his voice strained as he struggled to speak around the lump that had formed in his throat.

The older woman offered a comforting smile, her eyes moving past the two brothers, focusing on the woman on the bed. “How is she?”

When Gaara spoke, his voice was tight, a rare crack in his stoic façade. “This is the first time she’s been so still since we brought her in. This,” he gestured to her unresponsive state, “this is no better alternative.”

Asuna approached her patient almost reverently. Temari was restrained on the bed, her wrists and ankles held in place by the leather bounds that pinned them away from her body and face. Her body was lying at an awkward angle that suggested she had tried to turn over but hadn’t managed due to the restraints. The young kunoichi’s eyes were glazed over, hollow, and her chest rattled with stuttering breaths that didn’t fill them with enough air.

One of the medics hovered nearby, his gaze flicking nervously between the two women. Asuna heard him swallow before speaking. “We tried to sedate her,” he admitted, his voice quiet as if he didn’t want to be heard. “She was in agony, and she was trying to harm herself. But we didn’t know the full extent of the poison’s effects. It almost stopped her heart.”

The room was suffused with anger, a silent rage that no one dared to express. The recklessness of such a mistake was infuriating, and it could’ve cost Temari her life. But now wasn’t the time for recrimination and accusations. Knowing that, Asuna stepped forward, her eyes darting towards the three men for a split second, as if trying to gauge their reactions. “Well, that was a stupid decision,” she said calmly, filling the heavy silence.

Shikamaru felt his heart clench for the umpteenth time, and the onslaught of emotions that followed was so strong that he barely managed to hold them in. Anger, fear, and a deep-seated protectiveness all warred within him, taking his breath away. He knew Asuna was right, her reaction measured on purpose; she. idn’t want to add fuel to the fire. A hospital room was no place for a fight, especially not the one that held a patient in such a fragile emotional state. But he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of irritation at her calmness. Didn’t she feel the same urgency? The same fear that he felt?

Shikamaru watched as Asuna approached Temari’s bedside, letting his irritation melt away. Her hand reached out tentatively, and she stroked Temari’s hair, the movement so gentle it was almost imperceptible. Temari flinched harshly at the touch, but remained otherwise still, her eyes glazed over and staring at the ceiling. If she knew they were here, she didn’t let it show.

Shikamaru watched with bated breath as Asuna reached for a pair of gloves that sat near Temari’s bedside. She was so focused, so intent, that the room could have been on fire, and she wouldn’t have noticed. Her eyes searched every inch of Temari’s body, looking for anything that might seem out of place to her trained eye. Shikamaru had seen that look before, not necessarily on Asuna, but on every shinobi who ever had to make a split-second decision that could make a difference between life and death.

He saw Asuna’s gaze settle on a shallow cut on Temari’s forearm, a small wound that looked almost insignificant in comparison to her rapidly-worsening state. Asuna reached for a long, thin instrument and used it to pinch a swab of gauze. She hovered it over the cut, her eyes reflecting her hesitance. The three men held their breaths, their hearts hammering in unison.

Asuna brought the swab down and rubbed it across the wound, her hand steady and sure, suggesting that she’d done it a thousand times before. Temari’s body tensed immediately, and she let out a soft whimper. Shikamaru let his fist clench at his side, the urge to rush over and comfort her almost overwhelming.

With the swab secured in the clutches of the instrument, Asuna brought it to her nose, inhaling deeply. Her eyes narrowed, her jaw tensing almost imperceptibly. Shikamaru probably wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been watching her so carefully.

“I know what this might be,” Asuna murmured, her eyes darting between the three men.

Chapter 2: 2

Shikamaru felt his heart leap into his throat, hope blooming in his chest. His eyes darted from Asuna to Temari and back again, wide and suddenly alert. “What is it?” he demanded.

If Asuna heard him, she didn’t react. She was already speaking, her gaze on the Sunan medic who hovered next to her anxiously. “Do you keep old medical records?” she inquired.

The medic looked surprised but nodded quickly. “Yes, of course. We have archives of medical records dating back generations.”

“I need to see the records from August fifteen years ago,” Asuna said, her voice firm.

The medic’s eyes widened just a fraction before he nodded, the urgency in her voice leaving no room for any unnecessary questions. “Right away,” he murmured, turning on his heel to leave the room.
Asuna took this as her cue to follow him to the door. He pulled it open a crack, and as she attempted to follow him into the corridor, stark and utilitarian just like she remembered Sunan architecture to be, she felt a strange sense of longing wash over her. Before she had any time to dwell on it though, she was suddenly pushed backwards, staggering to regain her balance. The door burst open with a force that sent a gust of wind into the room. A masked shinobi stood in the doorway, dressed in the traditional uniform, his nose and mouth covered by a white cloth as if he had just come in from the sand-covered streets of Suna. He was regal, his posture rigid, one of his arms pressing into the small of his back.

“Lord Kazekage,” he addressed him, promptly ignoring the two people whom he nearly knocked over, and the other two who stood next to the writhing patient on the bed.

Gaara stiffened, his gaze darting between his sister and the newcomer. His hand hovered over Temari’s forehead for a split second before he withdrew it hesitantly. “What is it?” his voice was low, resembling a growl as he forced his annoyance down.

“The council requests your presence immediately.”

Gaara’s eyes narrowed, his gaze once again dancing between Temari and the messenger. For a moment, it looked as if he might refuse, the air around them cracking with tension. His eyes were still tight with reluctance even when he stood up straighter. “Very well,” he said.

Gaara headed for the door before he paused to look over his shoulder at Asuna. “Find out what this is, please. Don’t let her die,” he forced out, his voice something between a command and a plea.

Asuna nodded firmly, before moving aside to let the Kazekage and the messenger pass through. She waited until the sound of their footsteps faded away, before she turned to leave. Shikamaru looked after her with a look of utter desperation, suddenly aware that he and Kankuro were being left alone with Temari. The thought terrified him more than he cared to admit, the fact that she was lost in a haze of delirium and completely unaware of his presence making him feel useless.

“Kankuro, Shikamaru,” Asuna called over her shoulder as she finally disappeared into the corridor, effectively cutting Shikamaru’s dwellings short before he could plummet. “Make sure she’s comfortable. Remove her restraints, please. We don’t want to add to her distress.”

Whatever he felt didn’t even matter in this moment, because he came along to support Temari and be there for her. He could deal with her emotions later, he rationalised. The two men looked at each other and approached the bed with careful, hesitant steps. Shikamaru searched Temari’s face, his heart clenching in his chest when he saw it contort in pain and distress. He reached out, his hand hovering over her hair hesitantly, silently contemplating if touching her would bring her some relief or only add to her distress. He wasn’t sure what the right course of action was, but he felt compelled to offer her comfort. As his fingers made contact, she flinched away, body tensing under his touch immediately, her chest stuttering with quickening breaths. Temari’s delirious state lowered her tolerance to physical touch, although it was never too great to begin with, not allowing her to differentiate between threatening and safe ones.

Kankuro’s entire posture gave away his awkwardness around emotions and having to deal with so many—both his own and those of his elder sister, during the last few days. He moved slowly, reaching out to unbuckle the restraint around her right wrist. He was known to be brash and loud, yet showed great patience, each touch careful and almost reverent. Shikamaru mirrored his actions on the other side, struggling to keep his hands steady despite the slight tremor that had taken over them. The leather straps that held her wrists loosened with a soft click, tension growing as they approached her ankles, expecting another reaction. But even though her hands were free, Temari remained still, her eyes vacant and unseeing.

As the last strap fell away, they stepped back, watching her for any signs of movement. Yet the only indication of life remained the shallow rise and fall of her chest, but she made no move to show she was aware of their presence. Shikamaru felt a stab of fear pierce his chest, eyes darting to her brother, watching his face for any indication of how he felt.

“We should move her,” Kankuro murmured, swallowing hard. “To a more comfortable position, I mean.”

Shikamaru didn’t let him know about his fears that moving Temari could bring her a new onslaught of pain that he couldn’t bear to watch. The alternative was watching her so still like this, her body stuck in an awkward position that couldn’t be comfortable, which was even worse. They returned to their previous positions with the same cautiousness, shifting her onto her side. Shikamaru noticed, and was sure Kankuro did too, that Temari’s body felt lighter than it should, as if all her life and strength had been leached from it. Her head lolled back, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat, and Shikamaru had to swallow a lump that had formed in his own.

On the other side of the bed, Kankuro sighed heavily, his shoulders drooping as he took in the sight of his sister. He reached out, gently stroking Temari’s cheek. The simple act was so tender that for a moment, Shikamaru couldn’t believe it belonged to the boisterous puppeteer.

“She’s been like this for two days,” Kankuro said, “I thought it would get better when she finally fell still, but it’s even harder to watch her like this.” His eyes searched Shikamaru’s, seeking understanding, and finding a reflection of his own weariness instead. Then, in a way that Shikamaru could really tie to his character, he added. “If someone really did this to her, I’m going to incinerate them.”

Encouraged that Kankuro’s touch didn’t make her react, but hoping that it did bring her some comfort, Shikamaru tried to mimic it. But as soon as his fingertips grazed her skin, she jerked away, a pained whimper escaping her lips. The sound sliced through his heart, and he immediately pulled back, unable to contain his own wince. His hand hovered in the air precariously before he dropped it to his side dejectedly. Shikamaru looked over to Kankuro, seeing the confusion and fear in his eyes. “It’s okay,” he murmured, trying to reassure them both. “Asuna will figure this out.”

But the doubt remained, feeling like a dark cloud that hovered over them as they waited in agonising silence. The minutes stretched into hours, but neither of them could tell with certainty just how much time had passed. The sun was moving across the sky, and the clouds that Shikamaru usually found comfort in, absent. Shikamaru and Kankuro didn’t speak; the silence broken only by the occasional whimper from Temari and the rustle of fabric as one of them moved.

Finally, the door swung open and in strode Asuna, her eyes alight with a fierce determination. She held a set of dusty, yellowed scrollsin her arms. “I know what the poison is,” she announced, her voice clear and firm, but not too hopeful like Shikamaru thought it would be after such a revelation.

Shikamaru’s heart skipped a beat as she approached the bed, laying the scrolls on the chair beside it. He looked from the scrolls to Asuna, his eyes wide with a mix of hope and fear. “Those records, they are…”

“Mine,” Asuna said simply, taking one scroll into her hands and letting it unfurl.

“What does it mean exactly?” he asked.

Without looking up from the scroll, Asuna began to read out loud. “The patient showed signs of severe agitation. Between very few and rare lucid intervals, she experienced hallucinations accompanied by involuntary muscle spasm. Patient was unable to communicate and think coherently, was aggressive to the medical staff and intent on causing harm to herself. Due to the aforementioned, she was restrained to ensure her safety.”

The look Shikamaru and Kankuro exchanged was something between silent horror and apparent confusion. It was as if Asuna had described Temari’s condition to the letter, only… These records were written fifteen years ago. “Does this sound familiar?” Asuna asked, her eyes finally lifting from the scrolls to meet theirs.

Kankuro nodded, his throat working as he tried to form words. “Down to the letter.”

Temari’s sudden, pained moan tore through the room, cutting off any further conversation. She arched her back, her body contorting in agony as she buried her face in the sweat-soaked pillow. As she curled in on herself, her hands clutched at her stomach, her nails catching across her forearms and the small patch of skin that the hospital gown had exposed, drawing blood immediately.

The three of them stared in horror, the scrolls forgotten as they rushed to her side. Kankuro’s eyes widened with fear, his hands reaching out to grab hers, trying to still her movements. “Temari, stop,” he pleaded, his voice thick with desperation. But she was beyond reason, his words not registering and not enough to pull her from the pain her body believed to be real.

The strategist’s mind went into overdrive, trying to come up with a solution, any solution, to ease her pain. He knew that physical restraint would only make her fight more, but what was the alternative? Allow her to trash about wildly and injure herself further? He assumed that since Asuna knew what the poison was, she also knew what the antidote was. He just had no idea how much time she needed to get it ready, and how much longer they could contain Temari safely.

Temari’s eyes snapped open, and she looked around wildly, her pupils blown wide, her face a mask of fear and pain. “Get… away… from me,” she managed to gasp out, voice hoarse and strained. Shikamaru felt his heart drop into the pit of his stomach, his mind racing to find a way to help. But every time he tried to move closer, Temari’s movements grew more erratic, as if she could sense the presence she wasn’t comfortable with, and was fighting to escape it. “Asuna,” Shikamaru pleaded.

The medic was already by her side, her eyes flying from the wailing monitors that displayed her heart rate to the writhing woman on the bed. “Try to keep her still. She’s going to hurt herself,” Asuna ordered, moving in to help.

Well, they knew that much. But what were they supposed to do?

The two men moved in closer, hands reaching to gently restrain her flailing limbs. “It’s okay.”

But it was far from okay, and they all knew that. With a keening cry, Temari’s eyes rolled back in her head, her body arching off the mattress. Shikamaru felt a cold sweat break across his forehead, his eyes tightening on her arms, using the necessary force to keep her on the bed, but not enough to bruise. Kankuro had moved to the other side, his eyes just as frantic as he mirrored Shikamaru’s efforts.
Temari buckled wildly, her legs kicking out. One connected with the chair holding the scrolls and sent them flying into the air. Some of them unfurled as they fell, the dust from the pages catching in the light.

“Please, no more. Don’t let him take me back. I can’t go back.”

This was the most Shikamaru had heard from Temari since his arrival, but it didn’t ease his anxiety. If anything, hearing her pleading and begging redoubled it.

Kankuro’s hold on Temari’s limbs wavered, and he unconsciously allowed himself to let go. His hands clutched the bed railing, eyes misting with tears and filling with a potent cocktail of emotions—worry for his sister, guilt for not being able to protect her from their father’s rage, and hope that Asuna would find a way to make this stop.

“Kankuro!” Shikamaru shouted, prompting the other man to help them detain her. Despite her weakened state, Temari’s state was not to be underestimated in any way.

“Tem, you’re safe. Please, you’re going to hurt yourself,” Shikamau tried, even though he was certain his efforts were futile at best.

“Please,” she whimpered, her eyes glazed over with pure terror. “I don’t want to go back. I can’t bear it anymore.”

Shikamaru turned to Asuna, his desperation clear. “What’s the antidote?” he demanded, his voice laced with urgency. “You said you know what this was. Tell us what to do!”

Asuna’s expression was grim as she met his gaze, her eyes filled with a sadness that told him more than he wanted to hear. “There is no antidote,” she said softly, her voice heavy with regret.

Chapter 3: 3

Notes:

HI!!! Just a quick heads-up before you dive in. This chapter hasn’t been fully proofread, mostly because I really wanted to post it tonight while I had the time. Next week’s looking unpredictable, and I didn’t want to sit on this any longer. So please excuse any rough spots you come across. I hope the heart of the story still comes through. Thanks, as always, for reading and sticking with me.

The room grew silent as the two men allowed Asuna’s words to sink in, although neither of them loosened their grip on the trashing woman on the bed, knowing better than to trust her not to use the opportunity to dash away. Shikamaru watched as blood drained from Kankuro’s face, positive that his looked about the same.

“No antidote?” he repeated. “But you said…”

“It’s not lethal,” Asuna assured him, as if the fact that the poison couldn’t kill Temari would make him feel better about her current state. Well, maybe it should’ve been reassuring, knowing that she would eventually be over this and get to see another day, but it really wasn’t.

“It’s a rare toxin, derived from a plant that grows only in specific parts of the desert. For someone to be affected, its sap must come in contact with an open wound and enter the bloodstream.” Asuna paused, her gaze drifting to the gash on Temari’s forearm, which was surrounded by an angry, swollen area. “I would recognise the stench anywhere.”

“But why not make an antidote?” Kankuro forced out, ducking out of the way to avoid catching Temari’s elbow to the face. “There must be something to counteract it.”

Asuna took a deep breath, her eyes never leaving Temari’s distressed form. “Rarely does anyone ever get affected,” she said, her voice tinged with a hint of defeat. “And when they do, the plant’s venom reacts violently to almost any foreign substance introduced into the body, making it nearly impossible to create the antidote. No one is willing to gamble that much with someone’s life, especially not when they know that the venom would eventually just run its course. When they sedated her earlier, her heart almost stopped.” She paused, her gaze flicking to the heart monitor that beeped erratically beside the bed. She reached over to the other side, pressing a few buttons to silence it, leaving its orange lights flashing in warning instead. From the corner of her eye, she saw Shikamaru watching her every move, but he didn’t say anything.

Their attention was drawn back to Temari as she started to sob, exhausted and too tired to fight anymore. Her body went limp, and the sobs grew in intensity until they filled the room. It was a sound full of anguish, the one that seemed to carry the weight of all the pain and fear she had been holding back. The strong, put-together kunoichi was breaking down in front of their very eyes, and no one knew what to do. She resembled a caged animal—angry, afraid, and defeated altogether, and they danced around her, unsure how to approach.

When faced with such an intense outburst of emotions, the three people were none the wiser. In Suna, every shinobi underwent rigorous emotional training, which essentially involved learning to squash down all emotions and never, under any circumstances, analyse them. The Kazekage’s children probably had it worse than the rest, never being allowed to freely express themselves. Kankuro felt like he couldn’t breathe, and he relaxed his hold on Temari to step back. Seeing his sister feel something so intense, be undeniably overwhelmed by it, and beg for mercy, filled him with a sense of dread that he couldn’t contain. He had never seen Temari so vulnerable, and it brought some things to the surface that he’d rather not face—not now, not ever.

Shikamaru recalled Temari’s old nickname for him, and thought for a moment how it suited him quite well as his eyes filled with tears. He still held onto her wrists, feeling as her muscles lost their normal tone under his grip. Between gut-wrenching sobs and desperate gasps that failed to fill her lungs with air every time, she kept mumbling something over and over again, words slurred and barely understandable.

“Why can’t I ever escape?” she whimpered, her voice shaking with the force of her cries.

Shikamaru released her wrists slowly, hesitating, afraid that he was only adding to the feeling of being trapped, if that was what Temari was even referring to. Her breath hitched, and she began to fold in on herself, her arms wrapping around her middle as if she could somehow hold in the pain. Shikamaru moved closer almost imperceptibly, tentatively placing a hand over hers that was gripping her hospital gown, trying to give her the space she needed while still providing the comfort of his presence. He felt her body tense under his touch, but she didn’t try to pull away this time. Instead, she seemed to seek the contact, her fingers loosening their grip on the fabric, only to wrap around his. Her grip was desperate, somehow even clumsy, but he didn’t dare move to try to correct it.

Temari’s sobs grew quieter, but no less painful to hear. “I’m so tired of running,” she murmured, her voice hoarse and raw, and somehow broken. “Every time I think I left it behind, it catches up to me.”
“You’re safe, Tem. I promise.” Shikamaru swore as he smoothed her sweat-drenched hair away from her face with his free hand, his touch trying to convey all his love for her, and a promise that he would be here for her when she wanted to lean in.

Shikamaru watched her body curl in tighter, knees drawn up so that they were pressed against her chest, their joined hands squashed between her stomach and chest. He wouldn’t dare to say she was calmer, but her grip on his hand served as an acknowledgement of his presence, the first one he’d gotten out of her since his arrival. He really wanted to believe that she was getting more rooted in the present, but he didn’t let it fool him. Temari’s chest still rose and fell rapidly in the confined space she’d created with her body, the tremors still wracked her frame, and he felt her knee press harder against her belly as her muscles trembled under self-inflicted pressure. Shikamaru didn’t know if it was supposed to be a punishment or an attempt to bring herself some relief, but he just wanted her to stop.

“No, Tem. Don’t do that, please,” he murmured, his voice a soft reprimand, his hands gentle as they tried to pry hers away. He was careful not to startle her, painfully aware that any mistake on his end would send her spiralling out of control again.

She resisted his insistent pulling, her hand alternating between grabbing his and her hospital gown. “It hurts,” she said.

“I know, love,” he said softly. “But you have to let us help you. You’ll be okay.”

Kankuro stepped closer again, his hand stroking the curve of her spine she’d exposed to him in that position. “Is she in pain?” he asked Asuna. He wasn’t sure if he could handle the answer, but at the same time, he desperately needed to understand what was happening to his sister.

“The venom is attacking her nervous system,” Asuna replied, her voice measured when she spoke. “She might perceive whatever is happening to her as being in pain. It’s all very real in her head.”
The older woman moved to sit, legs aching from their fast-paced travel, but her eyes remained on the monitors, flicking over the numbers and patterns they displayed. No one said anything for a while.

Shikamaru returned to the hospital room feeling slightly more composed after a quick shower and a change of clothes. Technically, Asuna made him and Kankuro leave to get some sleep and pull themselves together, obviously wanting to dispel their nervous energy from the room. Kankuro gratefully took an out that Asuna had given him, overwhelmed and exhausted from days of battling something he couldn’t even comprehend. He left under the guise that he would stop by to update Gaara on Temari’s condition, and use the opportunity to sleep a little. Shikamaru knew that he probably hadn’t slept a wink in days; that much must’ve been true if the dark circles under his eyes were any indication. It took more convincing on Asuna’s end to get Shikamaru to leave, though. But he had to admit that the cold shower did wonders for his aching body and even served to calm his racing mind.

As he walked back to Temari’s hospital room, his mind zeroed in on something Kankuro said, or rather, didn’t say. They had thought someone had poisoned Temari on purpose. And while he had to admit Kankuro was a bit emotionally stunted, he did manage to follow his train of thought for a while. Kankuro could be vindictive sometimes, and he almost seemed disappointed when Asuna suggested that the poisoning was perhaps just an unfortunate set of events. Kankuro didn’t seem to be satisfied with that answer, and if he had to be honest with himself, neither was Shikamaru. He didn’t allow himself to dwell on it, though, trying to occupy himself with other things, all Temari-related.

As Shikamaru opened the door, he was met with a sight of the empty bed. Panic shot through him, blinding and all-consuming, and he almost didn’t hear the faint sound of running water coming from the bathroom. His mind was sent into overdrive as he started conjuring up the worst possible scenarios. He rushed to the side of the bed, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of Temari. The sheets were rumpled and damp with sweat, indicating that she must’ve been in the bed recently.

“Tem?” he called out softly, trying to keep the edge out of his voice.

A muffled thump sounded from the bathroom, followed by Asuna’s urgent cry for help. Shikamaru’s heart skipped a beat, and without a second thought, he dashed through the small space that separated them.

The bathroom was slick with water, running down the tiles in thick rivulets, pooling beneath Asuna’s knees as she crouched in the shallow flood, struggling to keep Temari’s limp form from slipping entirely to the floor.

Shikamaru’s eyes widened as he took in her naked form, feeling his face flush. He had seen Temari naked before, had done far more intimate things with her, but he wouldn’t even dare think of those moments now. The sight of her, so vulnerable and helpless, had paralysed him. He had never seen her like this, not even close. It wasn’t the nudity that unsettled him—it was the fragility. The gears in his head were turning, trying to come up with a plan, a strategy to fix this somehow; even though the situation required only one thing from him—to move. But he just couldn’t; his body remained frozen, his muscles refusing to respond to his desperate commands.

Asuna’s arms were locked around Temari, gripping her under the armpits, trembling with the effort. Her grey scrubs were dark and clinging to her like a second skin, saturated by the relentless stream overhead.

“Shikamaru!” Asuna snapped, breathless. “I can’t hold her! She’s slipping!”

Her words shook him out of his daze, and he rushed to close the distance between them. He dropped to one knee and reached for Temari with hands that shook. Carefully, he slipped one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back, letting Asuna guide the weight into his embrace. Temari’s body folded into him like waterlogged cloth—heavy, trembling, way too compliant.

“Shikamaru,” she murmured.

His chest tightened as it was flooded with emotion. He had felt a small satisfaction in her acknowledgement earlier when she finally accepted his touch. But this was different; this was a full awareness of his presence, the first sign of her presence since his arrival.

“I’m here,” he murmured, clutching her tight against his chest, bracing himself to stand with her deadweight secured in his arms. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

As they emerged from the bathroom, Shikamaru’s gaze fell on Asuna, who was already moving to grab a towel. “Thank you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. He didn’t know where that came from in that exact moment, but he felt like he had to let her know he valued her presence, despite knowing that there was nothing any of them could really do to make this right. But what Asuna was doing mattered; it was human, it was meant to preserve Temari’s sense of dignity, and he deeply valued it as well.

Asuna offered him a small smile, her eyes tired but her posture alert. It hit him that she hadn’t slept for more than three days, allowing him a few hours of rest instead. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, her voice a gentle reminder of her role as a healer. She quickly draped the towel around Temari’s trembling body, careful not to cause her any unnecessary discomfort.

“Hold her for a second,” she instructed, her eyes flicking to the soaked sheets. “I need to change the sheets.”

The time it took Asuna to finish her task spoke of familiarity, having done that a million times over. He watched her peel back the soiled sheets before returning his gaze to the woman in his arms. She’d grabbed a fistful of his shirt, her hand trembling from the strength of her grip. He didn’t show that he noticed it, just fixed his grip on her to gather her a bit closer to his chest, her head resting on his shoulder now.

Shikamaru placed her gently onto the clean, dry sheets, her hand shooting out to grab his arm when he loosened his hold on her. He squeezed her hand with his other, trying to convey that she was safe, before moving to pry it away. Asuna wordlessly handed him a towel, and he started with her shoulders, rubbing it over her skin, trying to coax the warmth back into her body.

When she was satisfied with the amount of moisture that they had collected from Temari’s skin, Asuna whipped out a clean hospital gown from one of the drawers next to the bed. She didn’t bother speaking, seeing that Temari was alert and oriented to a degree, and willingly participating in her care. She didn’t interact as they would’ve liked, but at least she no longer resisted. Shikamaru followed Asuna’s silent commands, manoeuvring Temari’s body around as she helped her into a fresh gown. They pulled the gown under, and Shikamaru tucked it around her, his eyes never leaving hers.

Asuna untangled the wires that sat in a jumbled mess on the bedside table, her gaze steady as she coaxed Temari to meet it. She approached, transferring all of the electrodes in her left hand and touched Temari gently to get her attention. She hesitantly picked up a corner of her hospital gown and moved it aside gently, exposing a part of her chest. “I need to reattach the sensors, okay? It won’t hurt, I promise.”

Shikamaru saw Temari’s breathing hitch almost imperceptibly as the first pad was pressed against her skin. Asuna was making quick work of setting them up, occasionally glancing at the monitor to check if they all sat in the correct places. Shikamaru watched the line curve as the sensors connected before leaning over Temari’s form. He hesitated for a moment, then moved to brush her damp hair out of her face. She seemed more present, almost coherent, and he silently contemplated how he should approach this, if talking would sap her of all her strength or perhaps even upset her.

“Talk to me, Tem. What happened in there?”

He saw her swallow a few times, her lips parched and dry. He looked around wildly before his eyes settled on a glass of water and a straw, the dots connecting in his head, and he dashed around the bed to reach for it. Shikamaru helped her drink, his hand supporting the back of her head as she took small, hesitant sips.

She licked her lips once, her eyes closing in what he perceived as relief. “I’m fine. It just hurts,” she said. The sound of her voice jolted him from the panic he’d been stuck in for the last three days. She sounded like herself, the quick dismissal of her condition letting him know she was more in control of her emotions. Her voice was weak, cracking slightly, but he felt an immense amount of relief flood his chest.

“Just a few more,” Asuna told her, to which Temari nodded.

“You’re doing so well, Tem. Just breathe.” Shikamaru instructed, seeing her stomach quiver slightly. His thumb traced circles on the inside of her wrist, his touch firm in an attempt to ground her, but still gentle. Her skin erupted in goosebumps, and she shivered slightly when Asuna opened the gown a bit more, sticking the last two pads just above her hipbones. Temari turned her hand around to grasp his, stilling his movements efficiently, clinging to the sanity he offered at the moment.

Asuna made sure the wires were tucked safely under Temari’s gown, not a single one left to snag or tangle. Temari’s eyes flickered over herself before she closed them again, her eyelids too heavy to remain open. Shikamaru slid the fabric of her gown over her chest, the sensation sending a shiver down her spine. The weight of the blankets settled over her, the welcoming warmth seeping into her bones. The shivering subsided, her breathing evening out as her fingers twitched, seeking Shikamaru’s warmth. He indulged her quickly, stroking over the length of her arms a few times before his hand fell to cover hers.

The exhaustion was seeping into her, a lethargy that demanded her surrender to the sweet promise of rest. It was so tempting that she allowed herself to let go, hoping that pain wouldn’t be able to follow where she went. But that thought seemed hollow even to her.

Shikamaru noticed the shift, her hand going slack under his. He tightened his grip on it, his eyes searching her face for any sign of panic or pain, but found none. “You can rest now, Tem,” he murmured, easing himself into the chair beside her bed.

Chapter 4: 4

Summary:

This chapter came surprisingly easily — the words just flowed on their own. But emotionally? It was heavy. Really heavy. Writing it took a lot out of me, but I also felt like I needed to get it out, like it couldn’t wait any longer. I’m really glad I was able to publish it this week, and I hope you connect with it even a fraction as much as I did while writing it. Oh, and you guessed it, I didn't proofread it :)

Thank you, as always, for reading :)

For the first time in days, Temari slept.

It wasn’t the restful kind of sleep—just the one that followed collapse. Nevertheless, she slept. There was no fight left in her; her body was too heavy to move, lacking the willfulness that was easily associated with her. Temari knew someone was sitting beside her; she felt warm all over—burrowed in warm blankets, constantly touched by even warmer hands. Maybe it was Shikamaru. Maybe Kankuro.

She couldn’t tell. Time was moving slowly; she couldn’t tell how much had passed, but she knew that it was real. Despite the sluggishness that she couldn’t shake herself out of, Temari knew she was safe. She wasn’t comfortable, but she knew that none of the people surrounding her bedside would ever hurt her.

So, she finally did what she wanted to do the most—she let go.

The dream found her easily, floating between fading awareness and hesitant exhaustion. But it didn’t feel like a dream. It wasn’t soft and fuzzy around the edges; it was made of strange distortions, too sharp and too real to be sold as a dream.

Her skin was blistering under the unforgiving sun, the heat and sweat clinging to her before she even opened her eyes. It was dry enough to pull moisture from her lungs, making her tongue feel thick; the fine dust carried by the wind easily got into her mouth, crunching under her teeth. She looked down at her feet, only to find them bare on the hot sand, tiny grains biting into the cuts that marred her soles.

This Temari was young—seven, maybe eight. She was old enough to know better than to cry, smart enough to pick up the pattern that followed her open display of emotion. But, she was young enough that she still wanted to cry—and desperately so.

But he was here, so she didn’t dare.

The Kazekage was standing with his arms crossed behind his back, dignified but also disdainful, his robes clean and seemingly untouched by the sand swirling around them. Now that she thought about it, her father always looked like that—untouchable, like even the harsh rules of the desert didn’t apply to him.

He didn’t even spare her a look when he spoke. “Stand up.”

She already was.

“You dropped your stance. Again.”

Her legs trembled, barely able to support her weight. The fan was taller than her, its metal construction too heavy for her to bear—but she did, and her arms hurt from holding it open for too long. The joints in her fingers popped from overextension, and her heart sank with dread when she realised her grip was failing fast.

His eyes flicked to her for just a second, but it was long enough for her to read what his gaze carried. Maybe it would’ve been easier to handle if she had seen anger there; maybe she would have dealt with his disappointment better, but she saw none of that. His eyes were filled with something colder, something Temari couldn’t quite name.

He was looking at her like she was someone he didn’t want to see, and it hurt. Maybe it hurt worse than the trembling muscles and cuts filled with sand.

Temari didn’t understand it at first, the way he would turn away whenever she spoke. She was always handed off to other shinobi for training, much like Gaara did. He’d always oversee Kankuro’s training himself, not trusting anyone to judge his son’s abilities better than he did. Kankuro had his temper, and Rasa didn’t like it one bit, so Temari didn’t understand why it was always her who was sent away. She always tried to listen, tried to obey. Maybe she was too weak, maybe she was too slow.

Years later from that failed training session with her father, she hid behind the tall pillar that looked onto the council chamber, her chest burning from the strain of holding her breath. She learned then what her father’s silence meant.

“She looks like Karura,” someone had said.

It was followed by her father’s voice, flat and uninterested. “Indeed.”

She was too young to know how to process that kind of rejection. Maybe she would never be able to, no matter the age. All she knew was that when she looked in the mirror from that day on, she would avoid her own eyes. Her gaze felt heavier; it only brought more questions, only brought her more pain. Somewhere deep down, maybe she even understood how her father felt when he looked at her. When she was five, she used to ask what colour her mother's hair had been, excited by the possibility that it resembled hers. By eight, she stopped asking.

In this memory, she felt the sting all over again.

Her fan hit the ground with a thud that felt too loud in the empty courtyard. It had always been like that—she had always been forced to carry something much too heavy for her.
Temari felt herself flinch, but willed her body to still before her hands could cover her ears. Her father didn’t react, and maybe she was grateful for it. Maybe she wasn’t.
He turned away and walked out of the courtyard without a word.

He left Temari standing there—all alone, arms shaking, lips trembling, but she didn’t call after him. She’d learned somewhere along the way that crying didn’t help. Not here anyway.
The memory blurred around the edges, yet the feeling lingered—the deep, bone-aching loneliness that came from being rejected by the one person who was supposed to love her unconditionally. Her chest tightened, her breath momentarily stolen. She curled inward in a futile attempt to hold the pain in. Somewhere in the waking world, a heart monitor beeped faster for a few seconds before it settled down again.

Without a warning or a preamble, the memory bled into the next.

This time, she was a little older—nine, maybe ten. Her bones and muscles still hadn’t caught up to her ambition, making her look like a child. She yearned to be taller, to be stronger. Temari tried to appear that way, her shoulders were already too square—burdened by the weight that didn’t belong to them. But something would always betray her—sometimes it was the way her voice cracked when she yelled, sometimes it was simply standing next to someone older, someone more capable, someone Rasa could look in the eye.

The evenings in Suna were cold; the temperature dropped significantly, the dry wasteland changing its face completely in the absence of the sun. The wind blew sharply through the courtyard, kicking up sand and settling it into the corners of the narrow corridors. It carried the smell of oil and steel, a sure sign that Kankuro had once again taken his puppet out where he wasn’t supposed to.

Temari’s stomach growled in warning—she hadn’t eaten all day. She’d been stuck at the gates with Baki, listening to him preaching about sandstorms and guards that were on the lookout, the messenger hawks, protocols that granted someone access to the village, and blah, blah, blah. She’d already known all of that. Now, as she was walking toward the kitchens, she hoped she could snag dinner before someone came looking for her.

As she was fluttering about the corridors, the sound of someone shooting was getting clearer. She was getting to the source. But, the source of what?

Temari could make out the two familiar voices—one loud, adolescent, all teeth and fury. The other could barely be heard, calm and dangerous. She rounded the corner too fast and nearly slipped on loose gravel, just barely catching herself against the wall before she could be seen.

She pressed herself against the wall, chest stuttering to hold in the gasp that almost tore free from her throat, and peered through the doorway carefully. Kankuro stood with his fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white from the effort of holding himself back, face red with something she recognised as rage. Only, it didn’t seem so threatening on Kankuro. It was more vulnerable, raw. There was a shallow cut on his cheek that ran all the way to the corner of his lip, dried blood already crusting and pulling the skin tight.

Rasa stood opposite him, arms folded, gaze calm and unbothered. Her skin crawled, the back of her brain itching in warning. She knew someone was about to get hurt.

Temari didn’t know what Kankuro had done this time—what rule he’d broken, what line he’d crossed, knowingly or unknowingly. But, she realised with sobering clarity that it didn’t even matter; it didn’t matter because the outcome was always the same.

Kankuro never knew how to keep quiet; he just ran his mouth until Rasa could no longer bear it. His warning would then ring out with finality that Kankuro was too careless to heed, and he would just keep talking. And then, someone would pay for it.

Temari saw it before it even happened, her body moving before the logic of it even made sense in her head, before she could fully grasp what she was doing. She stepped between the young boy and the man like it were instinct alone. Because it was.

She barely registered the shift in his weight when she felt the sting. His gold ring caught light as his hand moved, followed by a sound of wind catching something sharp. The back of his hand connected with her cheek, the force of it snapping her head to the side, her vision momentarily swimming. The pain followed swiftly, blooming hot beneath her skin, like all the sun that shone over Suna concentrated in a single point on her cheek.

The world tilted on its axis, but she locked her knees, willing herself to stand firmly on her feet. Temari just stood there, trembling from the sting and the effort it took not to look afraid, her chin lifting defiantly despite the black spots that suddenly overwhelmed her. Her mouth filled with blood from her teeth biting into the soft flesh on the inside of her cheek.
Rasa looked down at her, his expression unchanged. She awaited the second blow, but it never came. He turned on his heel and left, all his anger and whatever quarrel he had with Kankuro seemingly forgotten.

She felt a hand pulling at her shoulder, desperate to turn her around. She didn’t indulge it, looking after the retreating figure of her father. “Tema—what the hell—why?”

Later, she sat alone on the edge of the courtyard, ice wrapped in cloth pressed against the bruising swell of her cheekbone. Her cheek still thrummed with pain, a painful reminder but also a pleasant feeling that made her stay rooted in present. It prevented her mind from wandering, from going too far and revisiting the places locked away in its depths. Her entire being was overcome with shame—not for being slapped, but for what it meant. Her body learned to move fast before she could even register it, to intercept. She was ashamed because choosing everyone else meant never choosing herself. Everyone she’d ever loved betrayed her, and worst of all—she betrayed herself.

Between her younger brother, who couldn’t keep quiet and her youngest brother, who might lose control at the drop of a pin, Temari had decided to be the buffer somewhere along the way. To act like a sponge for those she loved, to drink it all up until she overflowed, to shield—even if it meant using her own body as a shield. She took the blow because she could bear it in silence, and no one else had to get hurt. Maybe Karura would do the same if she were there.

Rasa never apologised. Not to her, not to any of them.

And Kankuro didn’t either, at least not directly. But later that week, she found a salve sitting on her bed, probably stolen from the med wing. It had a pungent smell, but one look at its colour and texture was enough to know that it was strong, strong enough to dull the pain and speed up the healing process. Kankuro didn’t say a word about it, and neither did she. This is how they worke,d and this is how they survived.

The dream let up, drawing back from her consciousness like a tide gliding across the shore. Temari stirred faintly, her face twisting as the light attacked her senses. Her fingers twitched beneath the blanket, eyelids fluttering in a desperate attempt to stay open. She saw someone sitting there, a hand moving up. She almost flinched, still pondering how much of her dreams she carried into the waking world. The touch wasn’t cruel; it brushed gently against her forehead, sweeping her damp hair out of her face and clearing her vision a bit more.

A hand touched her cheek, unknowingly soothing the sting, and she shivered. Then she knew—she was safe.

Chapter 5: 5

Temari was exhausted.

If it was up to her, she’d choose to fight this on her feet, face this monster head-on, since she couldn’t outrun it, but it was no longer for her to decide. Her body already had, and she could feel her eyes closing of their own accord. It felt like free-falling, the cloud she was lying on suddenly dispersing and sending her down towards the ground. It felt like sailing through the wind—sailing—sailing—until something hard met her back and knocked the breath out of her lungs.

When she looked down at herself, Temari realised she was not a day over ten years old. It must’ve been the first time she saw it clearly—the moment when her little brother, the one she used to sneak biscuits for, the one she used to play with despite Rasa’s best efforts to keep her away, the one who used to fall asleep next to her when Karura still lived in her image—looked at her with eyes that didn’t seem to recognize her anymore.

Like everyone else in Suna, she’d known fear before. Some would say it came with the landscape—where food was sparse despite all the money and gold they had, where the desert changed its face every time one blinked, where one could only read about the lush green colours. Children around here were taught young not to cry too loud in the presence of the shinobi or spill secrets where the wind would carry them.

But that day, Temari learned what it meant to be paralysed with fear.

It had started small—a careless shove followed by a grunt of apology. Then came a sound, the one she’d never forget—like something being crushed and ground at the same time, wet and sickening.
Sand shot out of Gaara’s gourd in a blur, like a swarm of bees flying at their target. Before any of them could so much as twitch, before their screams formed in their throats, the sand pierced the shinobi’s body, causing his body to fold into itself and splatter around like water after breaking its container.

Temari had been five steps away—close enough to smell the iron of fresh blood in the air, close enough to see Gaara’s mouth twitch into something between a smile and a scowl.

That night, she didn’t sleep.

She sat on the floor of her room, blanket around her shoulders, staring at the crack beneath her door like she expected sand to begin pouring through it. Gaara never came into her room, and she didn’t expect him to start now. Despite his young age, Gaara was wise enough to know how to stay away from things he wanted to keep. But that didn’t stop the fear from sprouting, sinking its tendrils into her chest and tightening until she felt like she’d never breathe fully again.

Kankuro had knocked once, asked if she was okay. She’d say yes, because lying came easier than explaining the truth.

Temari was afraid of her baby brother. And maybe she’d be able to deal with fear eventually, but she didn’t know what to do with this grief that was constantly hovering over her head precariously.
Because before Gaara became a weapon, before he stopped sleeping and started whispering to the sand—calling it his mother, he had been just a boy.

A quiet, insecure boy. And they had all allowed his silence to eat him alive, to turn him cruel.

Temari remembered him in flashes—smaller, softer, swaddled in a blue cloth with soft tufts of red hair peeking out, refusing to lie flat. She remembered him cooing, gurgling a laugh, reaching for her finger and squeezing with all the strength his tiny fist could manage.

He had been so small and innocent. And Rasa turned him into something cursed and wretched.

He needed love, and she knew he wasn’t going to get it.

That was the day Temari had decided that she’d stop flinching. She taught herself how to hold eye contact with him, even when her skin crawled. She made her voice even when she spoke to him—never too soft, and never too harsh. She learned to read the room, to predict his silences, and identify what they meant. She learned to withdraw when she felt her brain itch in warning, and to reach out when he needed help but didn’t know how to ask. Because in the end, Temari was no stranger to self-silencing; she’d been doing it all her life, and she decided that she could allow herself to become a bit smaller, for Gaara’s sake.

Sometimes she hated him for it, and sometimes she hated herself for not hating him.

Because even at his worst, especially at his worst, she saw the boy he used to be—that no one else remembered or didn’t care to remember. Even in her dreams, she still chased after him in the empty corridors, barefoot and sickened by the stench of blood that followed him around like a dark cloud. And she held her breath and bore it, chasing after him anyway.

 

The world around her was slow to return.

This time, it felt like being dragged to the shore after inhaling too much water, lungs burning, and her body lagging behind her racing thoughts. She had too many for someone who was just only coming to. Even before her eyes opened, she was aware of the smell—clean linens and antiseptic. The light above her was too soft to be natural, the air too cool and light for it to belong to the desert.
Temari stirred, just barely. She felt like a stranger in her body, her limbs felt laden, too heavy to move and refusing to listen. She gritted her teeth and forced her fingers to twitch, the movement taking more out of her than it had any right to. She felt something warm sitting close to her cold hand, and she moved to brush her fingers against it.

It was a hand, calloused and familiar.
Shikamaru.

Her throat ached before she even tried to speak, and her eyes remained closed, her lashes damp with what she believed to be tears. Her dreams were like that sometimes—jagged edges, stitched from too much memory and not enough forgetting. She felt heavy, but at the same time, she felt undeniably lighter than she had in a long time. Like someone was taking the load off of her, allowing her lungs to expand to their full capacity without the weight of fear and grief.

Someone was here for her. And it had to be enough for now.

She wasn’t sure how long Shikamaru had been there. It could be hours or days, really. Her perception of time was warped, certainly not to be believed. She didn’t have the strength to ask, but she was grateful. He must’ve fallen asleep there, sitting beside her, like he was afraid she might disappear the moment he looked away.

Temari blinked slowly, the air still felt like it was moving through a paper bag instead of her lungs—thin, ready to rupture if she took any more in. But it came easier than before, and she was grateful for that small mercy. The ceiling above her came into focus—the clay plaster with faint cracks spidering across it. Her lips parted, but her voice didn’t come.

Her hand inched closer to his, her fingertips just barely stretching to reach his.

He stirred with a soft grunt, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as his head jerked up slightly, the tension still present in his posture. He looked at her, searching her face like he expected her to vanish, like he couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Hey,” he said, his voice still thick with sleep. “You’re awake.”

Temari swallowed, trying to work around the lump that had formed there, her vocal cords aching with disuse. The corners of her mouth twitched slightly—barely a smile, but enough to be recognised for what it was.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he admitted, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. His thumb rubbed lightly over the back of her hand, serving to ground them both.

“How long?” she rasped.

“Three days,” he said softly, then added as an afterthought. “Give or take.”

“You’re okay,” he said, even though the words didn’t feel like they were supposed to reassure her. “You’re safe.”

Her eyes fluttered closed again, just for a moment. Three days—that felt like both too long and not long enough.

A flicker of unease made itself known deep in her stomach. The kind that felt like falling, though she hadn’t moved from her spot in days. The room tilted a few degrees, subtle enough to be overlooked, but she couldn’t. Her skin prickled, goose bumps erupting all over her skin like wind swiping across a dune. Something just felt wrong, though she couldn’t tell what it was.

Her breath caught again, different this time—not the thick exhaustion that seemed to extend all the way to her chest, but sharp and tight as if her lungs unexpectedly failed to expand. She blinked rapidly, suddenly too aware of the weight of the blanket, the sheets clinging to her legs like a damp cloth. Her heart stuttered once in warning. Twice.

And then she saw it, the faint red beneath her fingernails, scratch lines and blood pooling in them until it overflowed.

Her hand, still curled around Shikamaru’s, trembled. She tried to lift it, to examine it closer, but her body wouldn’t cooperate fast enough. The sensation bloomed violently, travelling across her forearms, around her ribs, under her fingernails—making her skin crawl.

She was covered in it. She was—

Temari gasped. It came out of nowhere—a breath sharp like a cracked rib, and suddenly her entire body lit up in panic. Her other hand, the one that didn’t hold Shikamaru’s, gripped the blanket, shoving it away harshly. Once she was free of it, her hand clamped down on her other arm, clawing, searching the skin with her touch.

“Temari?” Shikamaru’s voice cut in, alarmed, as she twisted, trying to sit up. “Whoa—hey, wait—what are you?”

“I need—“ Her voice broke, harsh and cracked and terrified. “Get it off—Shikamaru, I need—I need to get it off—!”

“What? Get what off?” He was already on his feet, hands hovering over her like he was unsure where to touch. “Temari—look at me—what are you seeing?”

Her hands trembled violently, fingers gripping onto the fabric of her hospital gown. She was staring at her arms now, pupils dilated, breaths stuttering.

“Blood,” she hissed, like she was annoyed that he didn’t see it. “There’s blood—I can feel it everywhere—Shikamaru—“

She tried to move, to swing her legs off the side of the bed, but they gave out almost instantly. Her knees buckled beneath her as she nearly collapsed, but Shikamaru caught her in one fluid motion, arms curling protectively around her body.

“Okay—okay, I’ve got you,” he said quickly, holding her upright. “There’s no blood, Temari—just breathe, you’re okay—“

“No, I’m not—!” Her voice broke off, filled with terror he hadn’t heard from her before. Her hands bunched up his shirt and gripped onto it like she was trying to climb out of her skin. “Shikamaru, please—just get me to the sink—I need to wash it off—please—“

“I’ve got you,” he said again, more firmly this time. He swept one arm under her knees, the other behind her back, lifting her as if she weighed nothing at all. Her head lolled against his shoulder, skin clammy, breath coming quicker.

As he crossed the room toward the bathroom, her body was practically buzzing in his arms, her legs twitching, her hands pressed against her thighs as if she could feel the blood seeping through.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, softer this time.

He reached the sink.

Temari was already fumbling at the faucet before he could lower her fully, her hands unsteady but desperate. The water was freezing, but Temari was beyond caring at this point, didn’t even flinch at the shock of it against her skin. She shoved her hands beneath the stream, eyes swimming with relief, scrubbing her arms raw with trembling fingers, watching the water swirl down the drain in whirlpools she could swear were tinged red. The water splattered around them, pooling on the tiles beneath their feet, and Shikamaru tightened his hold on Temari, afraid she’d slip. From where he held her around her waist, he could feel her gown getting soaked in her clumsy attempt at chasing away the panic.

But it still wasn’t enough.

“Temari,” he said again, firmer this time. “Hey—Temari—look at me.”

She didn’t—didn’t even hear him or just didn’t react. She kept scrubbing.

Shikamaru curled his body around her tighter, stepping out to the side to try and appear in her line of vision. “You’re not bleeding,” he said, softer now, trying to push calm into every word. “It’s not real, Tem. Would I be so calm if you were bleeding?”

Nothing. The words went right through her.

“Temari.” His voice dropped to a whisper, gentler than it had been all night.

For a moment, she did. Barely, but it was enough to slow the incessant stream of thoughts in her head.

“That’s it,” he praised quickly, moving a bit more to the side to make sure she could see him fully, hand coming to rest gently against her damp wrist. He didn’t try to stop her movement just yet, letting her do what she needed to, but hoping to ground her. “You’re doing good. Now, I need you to breathe with me, okay?”

She didn’t respond with words, but her hand stilled just enough to let him know she was listening.

“One breath in,” he said, slow and steady, letting his lungs fill with air like he was teaching her how to do it. “Count with me—one… two… three…”

Temari tried to mimic it, focusing on what Shikamaru wanted her to do instead of what a desperate brain forced upon her.

“Good,” he murmured. “Now out. Nice and slow. Four seconds.”

Her chest twitched with the effort, like the air caught on the way out.

“That’s it. Do it again.”

Temari stared into his eyes, more present than she’d been in days, meeting his gaze with a mixture of gratitude and lingering fragility. For a moment, she simply stared, as if trying to memorise the steadiness of his presence, to lock it away safe within herself, where the persisting horrors couldn’t reach it.

“I—I thought—“ Her voice was barely a whisper, uncertain.

Shikamaru nodded, understanding in his eyes, no need to ask for more. “Let yourself breathe. You don’t need to explain.”

She swallowed hard, the lump of unspoken fears and memories heavy in her throat. The silence stretched between them, full and thick—but not uncomfortable. The words weren’t enough to carry this pain, and they both knew that—didn’t try to waste them on feeble attempts at explaining.

Temari’s hand reached out on its own, resting lightly against his. The touch was tentative, fragile—a quiet plea for connection and grounding. He held her steady, his fingers curling around hers, firm and gentle at the same time.

“Thank you,” she whispered, voice raw and sincere. “For not letting me fall.”

He gave a small, tired smile. “You don’t have to thank me. I’ve said it before, we’re in this together.”

Her gaze dropped to their hands, the lingering sense of panic softening into something quieter, something akin to hope. “I don’t know if I’ll ever stop feeling like this,” she admitted, a tear slipping free and tracing a silent path down her cheek. “For so long, I thought I had to be strong for everybody else; that I had to carry their pain, and anger, and fear.”

Shikamaru’s eyes held hers, calm and unwavering, his hand squeezing hers gently. “Never again, I promise. Let yourself feel, Temari. I’m here.”

Temari closed her eyes, as if his permission was all it took to let everything sink in. The weight on her chest felt lighter, still present, but somehow more bearable. She leaned her head back against his chest, the barest flicker of peace finally daring to spark.

Chapter 6: 6

Summary:

I'm beat... Enjoy :)

The morning sun filtered in through the half-shut blinds, painting long, uneven stripes across the hospital floor. The world outside the room had moved on—Shikamaru could hear it in the faint shuffle of clogs in the hallways and the distant murmurs coming from the bustling market on the streets of Suna. But here, inside these four walls, time had slowed.

Temari sat propped up against the pillows, her face turned slightly towards the window, the light playing across it, accentuating the dark area below her eyes and giving her a gaunt appearance. She looked better than she had last night—more colour to her skin, less tension in her posture—but Shikamaru could still see that she was far from okay. He didn’t speak unless she did, and she hadn’t said much—just enough to reassure him that she was present.

The knock, soft and almost reverent, indicated the arrival of someone who seemed to know how to read the room even before stepping into it. Shikamaru turned just as the door opened.

“Asuna,” he said, standing out of reflex.

She didn’t wear a jonin vest—never had, not even when she technically outranked most people in this building. Asuna entered, her expression unreadable, but her eyes flicked immediately to Temari.

“She’s awake,” Asuna said softly, as if confirming it for herself.

She stepped closer, and Shikamaru watched the brief, unspoken moment between the two women. It wasn’t exactly affection—Temari wasn’t built for soft, but it was something adjacent. Mutual respect, perhaps an acknowledgement of silent pain.

Shikamaru cleared his throat, glancing at Temari before stepping towards Asuna. “I know this isn’t really the time, but there’s something I need to ask you.”

Asuna arched a brow, already sensing where this was going. “You’re not one for small talk, are you?”

“Not when things don’t add up.”

She smiled faintly. “Go on, then.”

Shikamaru lowered his voice just slightly, trying to keep Temari out of the conversation. “Back then, when you were poisoned. Just—uh, this is such a drag—I refuse to believe that it was a stupid mistake on your part… Was it?”

His eyes darted to Temari again, seeing that she was already looking at them. She didn’t try to keep up, though; her eyes were too tired and the conversation too much for her sluggish mind to grasp onto.
Meanwhile, Asuna’s expression shifted subtly. An untrained eye would probably miss her jaw muscle twitching, her shoulders drawing up. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she stepped closer to Temari’s bedside, letting her fingers brush lightly against the edge of the blanket—thoughtful, careful. Like she needed to see Temari here, real and breathing, before she let herself revisit the past.

Shikamaru waited patiently for her thoughts to rearrange, to start talking. And then—

Before Asuna could open her mouth, the door slammed open.

“You’re back,” came a voice, rough around the edges, loud enough to startle even the heart monitor into producing a few warning sounds.

Shikamaru turned, immediately on edge.

Baki stepped into the room with a subtlety that indicated he was part of the shinobi world for far too long, but his expression remained sharp, his posture tight, his green vest streaked with fine dust.
Asuna didn’t flinch. She turned her head slightly but kept her eyes cast downward, acknowledging him with a calmness that was almost dismissive. Her expression changed, however, when her eyes met his. Her eyes crinkled at the edges, an affection expertly hidden under a mask of almost indifference.

“I heard you were back,” his eyes darted to Temari—assessing, maybe even worried, but his focus returned quickly to Asuna. “I need to talk to you.”

Asuna looked at Shikamaru, the unspoken lingering between them.

“Hold that thought. I’ll be back,” she said, and then she was gone, following after Baki into the hallway.

Shikamaru stared at the now-shut door, a knot forming in his stomach. The air felt heavy, constantly shifting, and he didn’t like it one bit. It meant that there was something he hadn’t been told.

Temari let out a soft breath behind him. “He looked worse than usual.”

Shikamaru turned to her, the edge of his worry still visible. “You think this has to do with what happened to you?”

Temari didn’t answer, but the slight movement of her brow, accompanied by an almost imperceptible shrug, said enough. Her eyes met his before she dropped them to her hands, which were resting in her lap. Shikamaru came to a startling realisation that it somehow made her look small and hesitant. Something that just couldn’t be said about Temari.

They knew something; that much was obvious. And whatever it was, he hadn’t been told. Something stirred in his belly, something that he didn’t want to name just yet. It wasn’t just irritation. It wasn’t even about pride, not really. It was fear, he realised—because she had nearly died. And he’d stood beside her bed like a fool with too few answers and far too many questions. And he was supposed to wait and come to terms that he was being kept in the dark.

 

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.

 

And this time, when the door finally opened again, it wasn’t just Asuna and Baki. Kankuro entered first, his shoulders set in a way that meant he was trying to be calm, trying not to break something. His mouth was pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t look toward the bed.

Gaara followed behind.

Gaara didn’t move like most. He was silent, smooth, but not in the way the two older shinobi were. His persona had its own gravity, his presence shifting something fundamental in the room. Even asleep, Temari stirred faintly as he passed, as if she could sense him.

She didn’t wake.

Shikamaru looked at them, all of them, and felt something cold unspool in his chest. They hadn’t come to visit—not all at once, not like this.

“What the hell is going on?”

His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut clean through the room, stopping Kankuro mid-step.

The silence that followed was long and clumsy.

Finally, it was Asuna who moved forward first, facing Shikamaru with calmness that he’d learned to expect from her by now.
“You’re right to be upset,” she said. “But if you want the full picture, you’ll need to let us lay it out.”

Shikamaru crossed his arms. “Fine. I’m listening.”

Baki stepped forward, his arms also folded, eyes flicking to Temari as though checking if she was still breathing. “The Sand Council has been… concerned for a while now. About Temari.”

Shikamaru’s brows drew low, the word tasting foul on his tongue. “Concerned?”

Kankuro scoffed. “Paranoid’s more like it.”

Baki didn’t deny it. “They’ve kept an eye on her since the alliance was first formalised. Even more so in recent years. She’s spent a lot of time in Konoha. They’ve taken notice.”

Shikamaru blinked slowly, the pieces beginning to fit—they were jagged, ill-formed, cut from implications. “You’re saying they don’t want her to marry into another village.”

Gaara finally spoke, his voice level and quiet, but resolute.

“I’m saying they don’t want her to have children with someone from another village.”

Shikamaru’s mouth went dry.

There it was—not subtle and not a mere speculation. They didn’t care about Temari’s life. They cared about succession, about bloodline. About who had a claim to the Kazekage seat, should the time come. And with Gaara being who he was—feared, respected, but still young; and Kankuro uninterested in politics and too improper to carry on the legacy, Temari stood closer to the line of power than anyone else.

He let out a slow breath. “So, the poisoning…”

“Was not an accident,” Asuna confirmed.

She pulled something from the pocket of her uniform—a small scroll, sealed in wax, and handed it over. “The poison used on her has not been on public record for over two decades. Used only during high-level interrogation.”

Shikamaru took the scroll from her outstretched hand but didn’t open it.

“It wasn’t even listed in standard medicinal texts. Only shinobi who were part of that era’s inner operations would recognise it. And even fewer would know how to obtain or deploy it.”

Baki spoke next. “I’ve had my suspicions. But Asuna was the only one who could confirm it. The only one we could trust, that is.”

“They tried to kill her,” he said flatly.

“They tried to keep her from moving on,” Gaara corrected. “There is a difference.”

No one spoke for a moment.

Temari shifted slightly in her sleep, exhaling softly, unaware of the unravelling that was taking place just a few steps in front of her.

Shikamaru looked at each of them—at Baki’s stiff stance, Asuna’s quiet intensity, Kankuro’s twitching fingers, Gaara’s unreadable calm—and felt something coil tighter in his gut.

“All right,” he said. “So, what’s the plan?”

Asuna took one more step in his direction. “We have to make the mole act again.”

He blinked. “What?”

“We don’t know who it is,” she said. “But they are close, and they are watching. We let them believe they’ve failed, that Temari’s recovering. That she’s… moving forward.”

Shikamaru narrowed his eyes. “Forward, how?”

And this time it was Gaara who answered. “We are going to make the council believe that the two of you are engaged.”

The words didn’t land softly—they were sharp and deliberate and disorienting, and Shikamaru felt his brain seize for a moment—not out of confusion, but sheer disbelief.

“You want to what?”

Gaara’s expression didn’t change. “It’s the most logical solution.”

Shikamaru blinked, and for once, his mind didn’t leap ahead with tactical projections. For a heartbeat, it simply stalled, and he came up empty.

“This isn’t a joke, Nara,” Kankuro added, his voice lower now, almost cautious. “We’re serious.”

Shikamaru rubbed a hand over his jaw. “You want to use our relationship to bait a would-be assassin.”

“You said it yourself—this wasn’t an accident,” Asuna said. “And we all agree there’s someone inside the council who feels threatened by her ties to the Leaf, the moment they think she’s about to permanently align herself with another village—“

“—they’ll try again,” Baki finished, quiet but certain.

The silence that followed was thick, heavy enough to compress the air in his lungs. Shikamaru looked at them—at all of them, and something bitter twisted inside his chest.

It wasn’t that the plan didn’t make sense.

It did.

It made too much sense, and that was the problem.

“This is insane,” he muttered. “You want to stage an engagement in a village that sees me as a threat to their bloodline, and the just… what? Wait around with a net until someone tries to finish the job?”

“We won’t be passive,” Gaara replied. “We’ll control the conditions, all the variables. But yes—essentially, that’s the plan.”

Shikamaru started to pace. “You should have told me sooner.”

His voice wasn’t loud, but the tone pulled every eye in the room. He didn’t often raise his voice because he didn’t have to. Shikamaru’s anger was quieter than most, but somehow denser. It was thick, and cloying, and simply unbearable.

“You’ve all been talking about this, planning it. And I’ve been sitting here next to her bed, wondering if she’s going to open her eyes while you’re drawing up plays without me.”

No one answered right away.

Kankuro shifted on his feet, Baki’s mouth pressed into a thin line, and even Gaara looked toward Temari, trying to gauge if she was still asleep.

Only Asuna met his anger head-on.

“I understand you’re angry,” she said, voice even. “But you’re also emotionally compromised.”

That really stung, more than it should have.

“I’m not—“

“Yes, you are.” she said flatly. “And I’m not saying that’s a weakness. That’s why this works. It has to look real because the mole is already watching, and it could be just about anyone. And what’s worse, they could have ears everywhere. No one will believe it if it’s all theatre. But if they think you’re invested—truly invested…”

“I am invested,” he snapped, before he could really process what was coming out of his mouth.

And just like that, the silence changed again.

Kankuro’s brows shot up. Baki tilted his head slightly. Gaara didn’t so much as blink. Only Asuna looked unsurprised; she had the gall to almost smile.

Shikamaru swore under his breath and scrubbed a hand down his face. “This is such a drag.”

The rustle of sheets was small, barely audible, but to Shikamaru, it was like a fire alarm ringing a warning. His head whipped around just as she shifted again, her lips parting in a soft exhale, her brows drawing together faintly.

He moved before thinking about it really, instinct alone pulling him to her bedside, while the others took a step back as if by some silent agreement.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice low now, nearly reverent. “You’re all right.”

“Shika?”

It was a breath of a word, but it meant more than anything else he’d heard all day.

“I’m here,” he said, one hand brushing lightly against her wrist.

Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, eyelids heavy with sleep. She blinked slowly—once, twice, and then her gaze found his, tired but clear. She blinked again, and her gaze slipped past him, scanning the room slowly.

Her voice was hoarse when she spoke. “What’s going on?”

Shikamaru hesitated. “We were just… talking through next steps.”

Temari’s eyes shifted to Gaara, who had stepped back into her line of sight, his face unreadable but not unkind. Then to Kankuro. Then Asuna. Baki, at last.

“All of you,” she said slowly. “In the same room. That can’t be good.”

Kankuro cracked a smile. “It’s not that bad.”

Asuna cleared her throat, drawing everyone’s attention back to her. “Let’s give them a minute.”

No one argued.

One by one, they began to file out, Gaara the last to go, his gaze lingering on Temari for a moment longer than the rest.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, Temari turned back to Shikamaru. “What are they not telling me?”

Shikamaru hesitated.

For a moment, he didn’t know how to begin. He felt like whatever he said would potentially upset her, sending her back spiralling.

“They think someone inside the council did this to you.”

Temari didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

“And… they think they might try again.”

Still no reaction. Only a small shift in the way her fingers curled into the blanket.

“I see,” she said finally, voice softer than usual. “And what’s the plan?”

Shikamaru sighed and pulled the chair closer to the bed. He sat down beside her, close enough that his knee brushed the edge of the mattress, close enough to touch if she wanted him to.

“They want to bait the mole,” he said. “Make them think their first attempt failed, which would eventually push them into acting again.”

Her gaze grew sharper. “Push them how?”

Shikamaru scratched the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at her face. “By making it look like you and I are… engaged.”

There was a long pause.

Temari tilted her head slightly, watching him. “…Engaged.”

“Yeah.”

She said nothing for a long moment.

“Well, then. That’s going to piss off a lot of people.”

Shikamaru blinked, surprised. “That’s your reaction?”

She gave a small shrug, barely a movement. “I’m too tired to panic. Besides, it makes tactical sense.”

He looked at her—really looked at her, and felt something shift in his chest.

“You okay with that?” he asked, quieter now.

Temari’s eyes were tired, but they didn’t waver. “I trust you.”

It hit harder than he expected. And it stuck with him until the door opened again.

Asuna stepped back into the room, followed by the others.

This right here marked the end of silence, all unspoken truths. There was no more room for stalling, miscalculations or uncertainty.

This was the beginning of something that could be life-altering for all of them.

A plan.

A lie.

And maybe, it wasn’t completely a lie.

Chapter 7: 7

Summary:

Okay, I actually do think that people are getting fed up with the slow burn. But it IS a character study, so here you go :)
As always, thank you for reading :)

The clay walls of her living room breathed warmth, the faint scent of dust and dried herbs clinging to their surface. A chipped jug stood on the low table, now filled to the brim with water, one she had never bothered to replace. The surface-deep crack was a flaw she used to ignore, brushing her finger over its jagged edge without a thought. Now, as it was directly in her line of sight, the crack seemed to almost taunt her with what it meant—worn from use, mishandled so many times that it had to crack under pressure. It didn’t belong here. She didn’t belong here.

The blanket thrown over the backrest of the couch she was currently occupying smelled faintly of smoke from when she would return from her missions, too tired to be bothered to shower before collapsing onto it. The shutters filtered morning light into narrow bands, laying it across the room as though dividing it into separate worlds—the corner where her sandals lay abandoned, the small stack of scrolls that she hadn’t touched in weeks occupying a chair, a map draped over the back of it with barely visible notes in its right corner scribbled in her handwriting. All of it was hers, familiar, intimate.

And yet it all felt distant.

Her exhaustion ran bone-deep, her skin felt like a dress she used to wear—too tight, like an outgrown fabric, and she could barely draw a full breath without her lungs stuttering in a reminder of the poison that still lingered in her body in traces. Her eyes drifted over the room with the dull detachment of someone who had lived here for years, but could no longer claim to belong.

Shikamaru’s presence was very palpable in the room—something that she was always faintly aware of, sometimes steady enough to soothe her, and sometimes taking up so much of her personal space that she felt like she couldn’t breathe with him there. The worst of it had passed, leaving behind that bitter knowledge that she allowed someone to see her lose her composure. She cracked under that unbearable pressure, and now all that had been hidden away from plain sight and prying eyes suddenly wanted out. It no longer needed her permission. She knew she should have been grateful for his unwavering presence, perhaps even comforted, but gratitude felt far away, buried under the fatigue, the agitation, the simple act of being done—done with this sudden weakness that she was forced to confront, with fear, with the constant need to prove she could still stand.
Her fingers brushed the blanket absently, catching on a loose thread. The memory struck fast—blood under her fingernails, soaking her entire hands, so thick and stubborn that it stained everything she touched. Her stomach turned, her breath lodged in her throat, and she pressed her hand hard into the cushion as though the rough fabric could absorb what she now knew wasn’t really there.

“You’re awake,” Shikamaru’s voice came out soft.

Her eyes flickered towards him, then away again. “I am,” she rasped, though her throat protested her attempt at speaking.

He leaned forward slightly, the chair he was perched upon groaning under his weight, but he didn’t rise. She imagined him watching her with that careful, unreadable expression, always considering. His silences were heavy things, Temari concluded, full of thoughts he never spoke.

“You should drink something,” he said after a pause, nodding toward the jug on the table.

Her mouth was dry, but the thought of swallowing anything made her stomach clench. She said nothing.

The silence that settled over them again was dense, not necessarily uncomfortable, but still filled with things they’d silently agreed not to discuss yet. Temari wanted to close her eyes, but her gaze caught on the mirror and the face staring back at her. In its reflection, she looked pale and hollow, like someone she might have passed in a corridor without recognising. For a split second, the faintest smear of red glistened at the corner of her mouth.

Temari pushed herself up too quickly, and the room spun.

Shikamaru was already on his feet, hand hovering at her elbow, careful not to startle her.

Her breath came short, sharp. The image clung, sending tremors through her entire body, the sensations of something wet and sticky clinging to her palms only feeding the illusion. She staggered toward the desk in the far corner, needing something solid to brace against.

“Temari. Breathe,” Shikamaru said, keeping his voice low as if trying to force calm into the very fabric of her being. He steadied her gently against the wood. “It’s not real. Look at me. It’s not real.”

The words cut through the rushing panic, registering somewhere in her overwhelmed mind. She clutched the desk until her knuckles turned white, tracing the rough surface as she willed at least one of her senses to pick up on something real. Her palms no longer felt slippery, no longer coated in red—all senses dulling until all that remained was the sound of her ragged breathing and the edge of the desk pressing into her lower back.

Shikamaru didn’t let go, but he didn’t press either. And she was grateful.

 

The quiet scrape of wood against wood as the door slid open signalled an arrival. Temari didn’t look up at first, too used to the rotations and the sound of footsteps entering and leaving her home. Always someone nearby, always a presence in the room, as though she were a lit-up candle that might flicker out if left unattended.

“Asuna,” Shikamaru’s voice said from somewhere near the window, relief and fatigue colouring it both in equal measure. “You’re early.”

“Kankuro had something to do. We traded shifts,” came the voice, calm and unhurried.

Temari let her eyes drift towards the door, just long enough to see the familiar outline of the older woman. Asuna filled the doorway with the same composed presence she easily demonstrated in her hospital room only days prior, neither sharp nor soft. Like most Sunan women did, Asuna had curly hair, streaked with silver that probably had little to do with age and more to do with survival. She never wore a vest, not even when she was younger, and Temari sometimes wondered if it was a refusal—a rebellion, or simply practicality.
Shikamaru pushed himself up, stretching his limbs in that languid, reluctant way of his. He glanced at Temari, letting his eyes linger on her for just a moment too long—a silent check-in, she realised, before moving toward the door.

“I’ll get some air,” he murmured. Shikamaru didn’t need prompting anymore. Anyone who’d spent several consecutive days with a person they love, witnessing their slow descent into madness, would be just as desperate for a breather. It’d been hard, and just like everyone else, Shikamaru pushed his emotions aside for as long as he could, putting up a convincing front for Temari’s sake. She was to be under constant watch, arguably so she could be protected if anyone dared to make another attempt at her life. And they had all agreed Temari needed different presences, different kinds of anchors.

When the door shut behind him, the room seemed to breathe differently.

For a while, neither woman spoke. Asuna crossed the room without fuss, setting down a small cloth bundle on the table. The smell of herbs seeped into the air, faint but still sharper than the warm clay smell of the house. She unwrapped it, revealing neat strips of dried root, a small tin of balm and a folded square of clean linen.

“You’re still pale,” Asuna said eventually, her eyes flicking towards Temari but not lingering. “But at least you’re upright.”

Temari snorted. “Barely.”

“That counts.”

Asuna took the chipped jug, the one Temari never replaced despite the crack that ran down its side, and disappeared into the kitchen to fetch fresh water. When she returned just as quickly as she had left, she set the herbs in, letting them steep. Temari watched as the light hit the surface at just the right angle for the narrow rainbow-colored strips to become visible as the herbs released their oils into the water.

Temari followed the movement, caught in its simplicity. It felt so ordinary and natural, the way Asuna cared for her in such an effortless way. For a moment, something unnamed coiled in her belly—maybe longing, and she indulged the urge to look away. Her body still felt heavy, every movement still required negotiation.

“You don’t have to fuss,” she said.

“Of course I do,” Asuna replied evenly. She sat down opposite, her back straight, her hands folded loosely in her lap. “If I don’t, you’ll sit here convincing yourself that you don’t deserve care. I know the trick. I invented it.”

Temari stiffened, even though the words held no accusation.

Her fingers worried at the edge of the blanket draped across her lap. She wanted to argue, but the fight drained out of her before she could summon it. “It’s not that,” she muttered.

“It’s exactly that.”

Silence hung heavy between them, broken only by the faint tick of cooling clay in the walls. Temari’s eyes wandered across the room, catching on the uneven shelf where one of her brothers—Kankuro, probably- had set her fan down after she’d been brought to the hospital, on the worn rug near the door, on the jug again—still cracked but somehow still whole. All these things rooted her to herself, yet they felt removed, like she was seeing them through fog.

Finally, Asuna leaned forward, elbows on her knees, voice low but steady. “You’re not that girl anymore, Temari.”

The words landed heavily. It didn’t feel like comfort, more like a weight set carefully into her hands. Temari’s throat tightened almost instantly.

“The one who had to walk on eggshells. The one who thought her worth was measured in how much she could endure. She’s gone. You lived her pain, but you outlived it too. You can look her in the eye now and tell her the truth—it wasn’t hers to carry.”

Temari pressed her lips together. The words hit home, and she didn’t expect the blow. Her chest ached, an old bruise struck anew. “It doesn’t feel like that,” she said, her voice raw.

“I know.”

The two words carried weight, layered with history Temari only half-knew. Asuna’s voice didn’t falter, but something in her expression softened—subtly, she probably wouldn’t have noticed if she wasn’t looking at her with such keen attention.

“You don’t forget, not ever really,” Asuna went on. “But you sit with it until you learn the shape of what you’ve carried. And then—then you put it down, piece by piece if you have to. No one else can do it for you, but you don’t have to do it alone either.”

Temari’s hand twitched against the blanket. She wanted to scoff, to meet tough love with defiance. But her body betrayed her before she could have a say, her throat closed up, and the sting at the corners of her eyes told her she was dangerously close to her unravelling. She’d argue that she was more sensitive these days, that her composure slipped more often and with no warning beforehand. But she desperately wanted to break down.

Asuna didn’t press. She let the silence breathe until Temari exhaled in something between a sigh and a laugh. “You make it sound simple.”

“It isn’t,” Asuna said plainly. “But you’re capable.”

Temari turned away sharply, toward the shuttered window. Outside, the faint market noises bled into one another. Life outside of her abode went on, and it didn’t wait around for her to join—traders calling out prices, children chasing one another through the narrow alleys, eliciting an occasional disdainful grunt from the adults. She observed the fast-moving shapes, feeling somehow misplaced here.

She swallowed hard. “I don’t want to go back there.”

“You won’t,” Asuna said. She sounded so sure of herself, not giving a promise—but rather, making a statement.

Something in Temari’s chest gave, just a fraction. The knot that had been twisting tighter for days loosened a bit, allowing for a full breath.

Asuna rose, slow and unhurried, and brought water to her. She set it on the low table within Temari’s reach—the sharp, cleansing scent of herbs tickling her nose. “Drink. You’ll hate the taste.”

Temari arched a brow “Encouraging.”

Asuna almost smiled. “It works.”

Temari watched the cup for a moment before reaching for it, her fingers brushing the chipped rim. Just like it—most things in Suna were made of clay. Most things were chipped. Most people were as well. But they were defiant too, their cracks were proof of the endurance—still broken but somehow still whole.

And so she drank.

Chapter 8: 8

Summary:

I've been blessed with time today :)
Enjoy!

The council chamber released its occupants like a lung expelling air, the double doors creaking open into the corridor beyond. A line of advisors filed out first, their robes rustling as they brushed against the wooden doorframe, heads bent toward one another, words clipped low but carrying all the same. In Suna, news moved faster than feet.

Gaara stepped out after them, regal as always—shoulders straight, gaze fixed ahead, expression carefully set and unreadable, the act mastered over the years. Baki walked beside him, older, broader, his stride purposeful but not rushed.

They didn’t speak right away.

Despite the blistering heat outside, the sun-dried earth the walls were made of kept the inside of the compound cool. The sand carried in on the hems of their robes fell loose with every step, crunching under their feet as they moved down the corridors slowly. Light filtered down in thin shafts from high, narrow windows, painting the walls with the colour of late afternoon.

“It worked,” Baki said at last, his tone so level it could’ve been mistaken for a question.

“It worked,” Gaara confirmed, though he had yet to look at Baki. It felt unnecessary to repeat the statement, but still, it seemed important to reaffirm.

The councillors ahead were still close enough to overhear fragments of their conversation, but Baki didn’t lower his voice. He kept his gaze forward, strides evenly matched to Gaara’s. “All it took was a slip. Let them wonder if it was meant to be heard.”

“They already are,” Gaara said. His eyes darted sideways, not towards Baki but the shadow of a column where two junior aides lingered, pretending to shuffle with their scrolls more than necessary. Garra let them feel the weight of his gaze until they flushed, bowed hurriedly and moved along with the rest of the entourage.

Baki’s mouth twitched in what could be a smirk, though it vanished too quickly to be named. “Good.”

They continued down the corridor, their pace not hurried nor meandering, rather steady and calculated. Baki’s sandals scuffed faintly against the sandstone floor; Gaara’s did not. The boy had lived in silence and was yet to unlearn it.

“You think they’ll carry it back to the elders?” Baki asked.

“They already have. We’ve given them a perfect opportunity to gain favour with them,” Gaara replied, his tone merely factual. He was not prideful nor weary, didn’t need to explain that the words had been left behind intentionally, in a similar fashion one would throw bread crumbs, expecting the pigeons to follow the movement. An engagement, not specified or detailed, only suggested. That was all it took.

The two men passed a torch bracket where the wall bore a faint chip from some old scuffle. Baki’s eyes flicked to it briefly, then back ahead. In Suna, fire was still mostly used as a light source, because other natural blessings were far and few, and they tried to use what they could. Suna was doing better under Gaara, but admittedly, they still couldn’t afford to be reckless with their resources.

“Some will resist openly, call it reckless.”

“They will,” Gaara agreed. “But they will not say it loudly. Not yet. And I’ll be more concerned with the ones who take it silently.”

Baki seemed to consider this, then inclined his head. He had worked alongside many shinobi over the years, but few had ever absorbed the mechanics of strategy like the young man walking next to him had. The man who had once been unpredictable, volatile and straight-out terrifying even to his allies. Over the years, he’d been honed into a more controlled version of himself, power hidden behind patience. The councillors hadn’t yet decided which version they preferred.

A group of scribes approached from the opposite end of the corridor, scrolls clutched to their chests. They bowed quickly as they passed, eyes lowered and never meeting his, though one couldn’t help but flick a glance upward at Gaara’s face. The moment stretched thin, the scribes moved on.

Only when the hall was empty again did Baki speak. “The story will spread by sundown.”

“That’s the point,” Gaara said simply.

“And Temari?”

Gaara slowed down almost imperceptibly, the first true pause in their stride since leaving the chamber. His gaze didn’t shift from the path ahead, but his hands, which hung at his sides, curled ever so slightly.

“She knows,” he said. But from the way he did, Baki understood that knowledge and acceptance were not the same thing. Not in this case, anyway.

Baki didn’t press either. He understood what Gaara’s silences meant, too. The engagement was a strategy, yes. But it was also a thread knotted through his family, a thread that could hold or it could tangle. Time and circumstance would decide that for them.

They resumed walking. The council doors had closed behind them by now, muffling the last of the discussions still bleeding out. Ahead, the hallway widened into an arch that opened toward the inner courtyard.

The sun caught Gaara’s hair as they stepped into it, turning it copper for a fleeting moment. Baki squinted, his brow furrowing against the glare, unflinching otherwise.

“They’ll expect a formal announcement,” Baki said, as if testing the thought aloud.

“In time.”

“In time,” Baki agreed, nodding along. “Until then, let them speculate.”

 

The house smelled faintly of cumin and roasted meat by the time the sun began to set. The scent softened the heaviness that was still very much present in the air itself, lacing it with something almost tender. Asuna moved around the kitchen with practised grace, her sleeves drawn up, and her hands steady even when the knife met resistance against the root. The pan hissed when she tilted oil across its surface. It was a simple meal—roasted vegetables, some meat, and rice that had only recently been introduced to the Sunan market—courtesy of their friends from Konoha. Even though it was nothing grand at all, it was enough. In her years, Asuna had learned that enough was sometimes the best one could offer.

At the table, Kankuro leaned on his elbows, chin in his hand, watching her every move with impatience of a child who falsely claimed not to be hungry. “You’re spoiling us,” he muttered, though the corners of his mouth stretched into a crooked grin.

Asuna’s reply was dry, despite the grin that split her face in two. “You call this spoiling?”

Kankuro chuckled under his breath, pushing away from the table and leaning back a little. Across from him, Shikamaru slouched in his chair, gaze drifting towards the open window where the evening light filtered in, slanted and gold. Evenings were breathtaking in Suna, but he just wouldn’t allow himself to relax and enjoy them, despite his posture that suggested otherwise. His expression remained unreadable—though with him, it often meant deliberate.

Gaara and Baki entered together, and every pair of eyes fixed on them. Kankuro straightened immediately, his previous levity dimming.

“Council?” he asked, his tone uncharacteristically careful.

Baki gave a small nod. “Progress.”

That was all, and it had to be enough for now.

The table creaked as the two men took their places. Gaararested his hands on the wood, fingers stretched long across the surface, but still. For a few moments, the steady scrape of Asuna’s spoon against the pan was the only noise. Neither of them spoke.

Asuna broke the quiet. “She’s resting.”

Gaara’s head tilted slightly, almost imperceptibly. Shikamaru’s eyes flicked towards her, more openly.

“She wouldn’t eat,” she added as if placing the fact on the table alongside the bowls and cups she was beginning to arrange. “I tried to get her to, unsuccessfully.”

Kankuro’s jaw worked, but he said nothing. His fingers tapped against the wood—once, twice, before falling still.

“She spoke to you?” Shikamaru asked softly.

A smile flitted across her lips, disappearing just as quickly. “She listened. That’s enough.”

Silence settled over them again, this time with a different quality—less heavy, less stifling, and more natural. The men mulled over her words, each in their own way. Baki with a measured breath through his nose, Kankuro with restless fingers, and Gaara quietly. Shikamaru leaned back further in his chair, eyes half-lidded, though anyone mistaking it for disinterest would’ve been wrong.

The table was almost packed with food, Asuna setting down bowls of rice, platters of vegetables slick with oil and spice, bread still warm enough to steam when torn. Asuna finally lowered herself onto a chair, exhaling slowly. “Eat,” she ordered, her voice softened only by fatigue.

Kankuro was the first to reach for bread, tearing a piece and passing the rest along. The ritual of sharing was automatic, almost unconscious, as each of them grappled with their own thoughts. Shikamaru searched the table with his eyes for any sign of chopsticks—or even cutlery if that was what they used, and found none. As per custom, people in Suna ate with their hands, he remembered, as he watched the four people scoop up food to form bite-sized balls. For the next few minutes, there was only the quiet clatter of serving utensils and the muted sound of chewing.

But absence took a seat at the table as well. And it was very noticeable.

Gaara’s gaze drifted once toward the closed door down the hall. He didn’t let his eyes linger, didn’t let them betray what his silence already did, but the glance was enough. Kankuro noticed. Shikamaru did, too. Even Baki, though he didn’t move, let his posture harden slightly, as if bracing to push through something uncomfortable.

“She’ll come around,” Asuna said finally, her tone even. She had not looked up from her food—maybe because it was easier not to face any of them or acknowledge what was silently being communicated across the table. Maybe it was because she was exhausted, or simply wise enough not to worry about something like that. “Not on your terms… or mine.”

Kankuro let his fist collide with the table with more force than he intended. “She has to eat something.”

“She will,” Asuna said with so much certainty that Kankuro almost took her word for it, no questions asked. She raised her eyes then, meeting his with steady weight. “Saying no is the most beneficial thing for her at the moment. Even to food.”

Kankuro swallowed hard against the lump that had formed in his throat, but he said nothing. He looked away instead, taking another piece of bread with more force than necessary.

It was Baki who spoke next, though he didn’t look up. “She’s a tough kid. Always has been.”

No one said anything. They all knew that.

Asuna only inclined her head once, then returned to her meal. This statement was meant to be encouraging, though she knew it to be dangerous in its own way. It meant that there was suffering that made her like that, and usually, that it was being carried in silence. And silence was stifling and suffocating for those who lived inside it, a crushing force with infinite killing potential. But with those people, this family, it felt different. An acknowledgement of strength, a reminder that it took a lot to knock them off her feet. Perhaps. Time would tell.

When the bowls were cleared and only the faint scent of cumin lingered in the air, Shikamaru leaned back again, folding his arms loosely across his chest. His gaze traced the cracks in the clay plaster that covered the walls, made over time and again, never erased. “Troublesome,” he muttered, though there was no real complaint in it.

Baki’s eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth, only to close it again. He wanted to reprimand the young man, but in the end, he didn’t really know what he would be chastising him for. The others didn’t reply, didn’t need to.