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After the Tornado [Sep. 7th, 2013|12:33 am]
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[User Picture]From: [info]namiashi_raidou
2013-09-07 03:02 am (UTC)

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“I can and do,” Raidou said, draining the last of the water from the sink. “It's a dumb-ass ninja who doesn't see the talent in front of him because he's too busy looking at someone else's. This is a good team. Might even be a great one when Hatake realizes we're worth working with.”

He turned to see Ryouma rubbing the back of his neck, dark eyes glittering with badly concealed delight.

Did no one ever compliment him? That hadn’t even been been a good one.

“Y’think so?” Ryouma said. “I figured Kakashi and me could be great all on our own, and Katsuko's been pretty impressive so far in training, but s'good to hear you think you and the lieutenant will keep up.”

Then again, he did sort of inspire the desire to smack him upside the head.

"Y'know, you're right,” Raidou said. “I guess we'll just have to push ourselves harder. Maybe double the training sessions.”

Ryouma just looked thoughtful. “Longer training sessions wouldn't be a bad idea if they're scaling us back on guard rotations. I think most of us are spending the afternoon in individual training, anyway. Well,” he corrected, “I know Katsuko and I are. Maybe Kakashi's just reading.”

Raidou felt his mouth quirk. Not right now, he isn’t.

“I should go change,” he said, running a thumb under one armored shoulder-strap. “Alarms the civilians when they see spooks doing regular things, like eating. I’ll meet you at—” He paused, searching for a decent place.

“There's a good noodle house by the main gate," Ryouma offered. "I think I've just about filled up my Buy Ten Get One Free card. If we eat at the tables outdoors, Kakashi should spot you on his way back in.”

“Soba Yatai? That works. Tackle Hatake for me if you see him first?”

"Sure," Ryouma said easily, like that was a perfectly normal request. “Meet you in ten?”

Raidou nodded, picked his way through the minor maze of boxes, and let himself out. It was barely a two-minute jog to get down the hall, across the courtyard, up the veteran’s hall, and into his own apartment, where he leaned against the wall and let out a long breath.

“That actually went better than I pictured,” he told the spider-fern on the window ledge.

If it had an opinion on the matter, it kept quiet.

No time to dance about it. He hung up his sword, shucked his armor, and tossed the black underpinnings into the laundry basket. Took the necessary four seconds to wash his face and drag a palmful of water through his hair. His hair stood up in wet, offended spikes; he needed to get it cut.

Going for the emphatically-not-a-date route, he left it to its own devices and found his most battered pair of jeans, with the hole split across one knee. A black tee-shirt and a regular pair of boots was about as non-suggestive as he could get without resorting to a uniform or a burlap sack. He grabbed wallet, keys, weapons, and left.