Kakashi, as it has been established, is a genius. Which is the only reason he managed to register Ryouma's fall, react to it, and force himself to drop fast enough to catch his mission partner before Ryouma smashed his face open on the tile.

Pain happened. It went on for a while.

When Kakashi could see again, blinking around the black spots filling his vision, he realized a few things. Firstly, he might be a genius, but getting underneath a falling body that is bigger then you to catch it because neither one of your hands can currently make a fist is just not smart. Secondly, there was no way he was going to be able to lift Ryouma back onto his feet without doing one of them significant damage. And thirdly, he couldn't seem to feel his legs.

Ryouma lying on them probably had something to do with that.

Kakashi allowed himself a very tiny groan and rolled over, shoving Ryouma off with his forearms. The floor beneath him was reassuringly solid, even if it was swaying a bit. He knew the tile was cold, but they were both so damn frozen it didn't seem to be registering. He didn't know if Ryouma was conscious. He could hear harsh breathing, but he thought it might be his own. It felt like his own. His lungs were burning.

The temptation to just lie down and sleep was strong enough he could taste it. Kakashi wavered.

Mission partner. Focus, dammit.

He got his elbows underneath him, took a strained breath, and forced himself up. There was blood all over the floor. Ryouma wasn't moving. "Rookie, f'you're dead, m'gonna h'rt you so bad."

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"'m not dead," Ryouma said. Or thought he said. His mouth moved against the tile, with little shreds of agony at each twitch of his broken lips, but he wasn't sure if any sound actually made it through. His ears were ringing, and a tap-dancing elephant seemed to have taken up residence inside his skull. He blinked muzzily against the vagueness that kept trying to eat away at his vision, and decided, "Kind of wish I were."

But his brief experiences with dead, mostly in the form of unconscious, had convinced him that death was probably totally boring. Living hurt like hell, but it was infinitely more interesting, and where was a certain prospect of change. He could look forward to that. At the moment, he could very much look forward to getting warm and clean and possibly doing a little less bleeding.

"'f I were dead," he said, shoving himself up to his knees in what was possibly the most painful push-up he'd ever done--the cut beneath his armpit ripped a little more, and oozed red warmth down his side--"wouldn't hurt this bad. Or smell this bad." He reeked of corpse-rot and Kakashi stank of charred meat, and together they were probably enough to put the entire village off its feed.

He clutched at the bench and somehow forced himself to his feet. His head did interesting things and his stomach tried to climb out his throat, but he was vertical.

"Hot water," he said. "You look t'r--terrible." And he probably looked worse, and he was babbling.

At least he was still awake. As long as he kept talking, he was fairly sure he'd be awake. And as he stayed awake, he was fairly sure he'd stay alive.

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Standing up without setting either hand flat on the tile shouldn't have been much of a challenge for an elite ninja. It still managed to prove enough of a--quite literal--pain that Kakashi had to set his jaw and forbid his vocal chords to shiver into anything near a whimper. Elite ninja didn't whine. Not even when their hands burned and blistered and bled because they got stupid and blocked kunai with their stupid palms rather then their stupid faces--

Standing. Not whining. That's what you're doing, stupid dog.

Kakashi gathered his legs underneath him, locked his muscles, and dragged himself upright like a puppet rediscovering strings. He weaved and caught his balance, wincing as the room tried to flip itself sideways. Stupid room. "Looked fine until you landed on me," he told the air very slightly to Ryouma's left. He blinked, readjusted, and looked at his mission partner.

In the distant part of his brain that kept track of such things, Kakashi knew Ryouma was an attractive man. Currently 'shredded' suited his look much better. He knew Ryouma had taken a head wound at some point, and a kunai strike, and some damn justu to his chestplate that Kakashi hadn't even seen to copy. Probably others. He'd been busy with his own enemies. They'd been split up. He should've moved faster--

Moving. Not whining. That's what you're doing, stupid dog.

"Shower," he rasped, and stumbled the three aching steps it took to reach Ryouma. His hand grated a red raw warning when he wrapped his fingers around the strap that ran over Ryouma's shoulder and tugged, pulling him towards the open fixtures. Water would get the smell off. Make the blood go away. Relax muscles. It'd fix everything. "C'mon."

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Ryouma did an awful lot of following around Kakashi, and most of the time it pissed him off. Trying to keep up with the guy's speed, with his sarcasm, with his moodswings. It was tiring as hell, and in the last three days he'd downed more soldier pills than was healthy for anyone, just trying to push himself to lead instead of follow.

For the past six hours or so, though, he hadn't quite managed to mind. When he stumbled and fell, because the spike-studded mace that had smashed his mask had also made a very good attempt to crack open the back of his head, Kakashi had been there to drag him back to his feet again. When he couldn't walk in a straight line anymore, couldn't track a thought for ten seconds before the mist fuzzed in, Kakashi'd hauled Ryouma's arm over his own shoulders and kept him moving. And he was still doing it.

They stopped just under one of the glinting fixtures, where several shower-heads commanded a range big enough for several men who didn't mind sharing. Well, Kakashi stopped; Ryouma didn't quite. He hit the wall again, this time with an outflung hand that only managed to collide with the shower controls by the purest of luck. Hot water hit him back, straight in his bruised and bloodied face.

Ryouma made an involuntary sound that might have been a whimper.

But his vision was clearing now, when he blinked the water out of it, and his balance was beginning to reassert himself. Ninja, dammit, he reminded himself, and somehow managed to stand straight and to fumble at his shoulder for the buckles of his armor. His chestplate was cracked and scorched; the tough fabric had melted in places, fusing itself to his shirt. He went for a kunai, and cut it off.

His chest was already blackening with bruises under the livid colors of the dragon tattoo. Wonderful.

"You surviving?" he rasped, glancing around at last.

The guy was just standing there, head tilted up to the water, blood-flecked porcelain mask beginning to wash clean. His hands, the blistered and the bandaged, hung limp at his sides. The beginnings of a laugh shriveled and died in Ryouma's throat.

"Need a hand?"

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Kakashi didn't move. If he stood here, if he stayed very still, then the water would do its job and he would be free to do his. To do... whatever he had to do next. There would be something. There always was.

"No," he said, letting his words lengthen out into a drawl. It was easier to speak that way; annoyed people more, hurt his throat less. "Got two already." And they would work as soon as he gathered the willpower to force them. They didn't hurt so much now, Kakashi decided, letting his eyes close. They were just heavy, hanging from his shoulders and dripping blood down the drain. He didn't mind that. He could fix that. He just needed to take a blood pill later.

Probably needed to drag Ryouma down to the medics, too. That head wound was nasty. He'd been surprised Ryouma had stayed on his feet as long as he had, and even more surprised when he'd gotten up once he'd fallen. When he'd done it again. Thick skull, whispered a nasty part of Kakashi, too dumb to know when to quit. His mouth quirked the faintest curve, hidden under both masks. Too good a shinobi to stop.

As rookies went, Ryouma was only half bad.

Water spilled down and rattled a war drum tattoo on the porcelain covering Kakashi's face. It soaked his hair, drenched his long gloves, and glued the sheer fabric of his shirt to him. Hot against the bare skin of his shoulders, growing colder when it got under straps and into seams and between his toes. Dirty silver-grey hair plastered flat, dripping down to cover the blue-black swirls that made up a hound that made up his face.

He was getting his armour wet. That was kind of stupid.

Kakashi blinked, opened his eyes, and jerked his hands up to unfasten the buckles of his chestplate.

There was more pain. It went on for a while.

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Kakashi didn't exactly make any noise when his fingers closed on the buckles of his armor, but he didn't need to. It was clear enough in the way his hands froze, trembled, locked around the buckles that a brief fumble of the fingers should have opened. Ryouma hissed in exasperation--and then in pain--and reeled back to him. The kunai was useless; it went skittering off into a corner, where he'd find it later if he felt like it. His hands closed, very carefully, around Kakashi's wrists, opening the pain-curled fingers with the gentle pressure of his thumbs. "You got a hole in one of 'em," he said. "An' you're a bad liar."

If he stood very straight and moved very slowly, his head seemed willing to pretend it would stay on his shoulders, and the mist only greyed the very edges of his vision. He focused on Kakashi's armor with the single-minded intensity with which he created jutsu, seduced women, didn't die, and he made it through the buckles without pulling out another kunai. The wonderful thing about ANBU armor, with its buckles at the shoulder and at the side, was that you could pull it off without ever moving your arms. Of course, the shirt was another matter altogether.

Ryouma contemplated his senpai, standing there soaked to the skin with bloody water running down his shoulders, with his arm-guards and masks and shirt and pants and sandals all slicking themselves to the worn and weary lines of his body, and he felt the sort of hysterical tickle at the back of his throat that warned him of tears if he didn't laugh instead.

"There's a lotta people'd like to be standing where you are right now," he said. "Maybe even some wanna be where I am. So how come none of 'em are here to help?"

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There are shades of exhaustion, lines of weariness, thin stages that separate a missed night's sleep from three days of nothing but running and fighting and falling and getting back up again. Different degrees of what the body can deal with and how much the mind can cope. Soldier pills helped. So did not stopping.

Except they had.

Kakashi's hands shook as Ryouma pulled them away and stripped his chestplate off, dropping it to lay crumpled and bleeding against the wall. He wasn't sure whose blood it was. Some had to be his. More was probably Ryouma's. How many enemies between them had they put down? He remembered one chidori. Remembered following it with another. Remembered the crack-crunch-break as he'd shoved his hand into two different people and ripped them up on the inside. Remembered being pleased they'd died quickly because he had others to take care of.

He wanted his armour back. He felt naked without it.

Kakashi leaned himself sideways, catching himself on the wall with his hip and shoulder. All of his bones ached. Muscles trembled. Vision shivered and blurred. He could feel his hands again, and almost wished they were still frozen. Ryouma looked worse. Cut narrow and outlined in black through the visor-slit in his mask.

There are shades of exhaustion, at some point you reach one that curves you over the lip of insanity. Kakashi tilted his head back slightly to look at his mission partner, and misunderstood the question. He closed his eyes, let his head lean against the wall with a clink of white-bone mask on white-bone tile. A lift and a decent guess moved his right hand--the less painful one--and let his fingers spread to catch Ryouma's wrist and slide around, holding it for a nerve-burning moment before he let go. "Gotta headache right now," his voice rasped, edged with bitter humour. "Ask me next time. Might get lucky."

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Kakashi tilted his head slightly, moving enough for Ryouma to see the only slice of face he ever let anyone see. His smile was hidden, but it still curved his eye into a cheerful lying crescent. "Scars are cool," he echoed. He had enough, he should know.

Very cool copy-nin. Definitely.

I think I need to sleep, Kakashi realized wearily, letting himself lean a little harder for a moment. It wasn't a new thought, the echo of it had been chasing him for three days. He moved slightly, adjusting his weight before he slipped, and let his head rest against the wall. The tiles were cold against his bare shoulder, stained with fresh blood smears the water had yet to mist away. There was a cut on his arm, just skimming the rim of his ANBU tattoo. Kakashi winced faintly at the slight sting registered for the first time, and shifted.

No sleeping. He still had a job to do.

Ryouma looked a little cleaner, at least. Maybe a little warmer. His skin had picked up an artificial pink tinge from the water, shading darker where bruises were starting to show. The jutsu-mark on his chest was already an ugly black. Kakashi frowned in momentary incomprehension when it swirled into red and blue and... green? before he realized he was worrying about a tattoo.

Very smart copy-nin. Definitely.

He cocked his head slightly, studying the slightly abstract design as he planned his next move. He knew Ryouma had an apartment somewhere on the third floor, hopefully he still remembered the number. If he didn't, Kakashi would have to drag him back to his own place, which was something he really didn't want to do. He didn't particularly want to spend the night on the floor in Ryouma's room either, but you had to take care of your teammates. The sharingan spiked a nasty little pain as it reminded him of the lesson. He winced again and shoved himself away from the wall, leaning down to hook up his chestplate by shoving his wrist through a shoulder strap. He hadn't taken anything else off.

"C'mon, rookie. Let's get that head sorted before the damage becomes permanent." Kakashi glanced up from underneath soaked hair and dug up a little bit of a drawl. "Ah, too late. That's a shame. Let's do it anyway."

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"Could share the damage," Ryouma muttered rebelliously. He tipped his head back slightly to rinse the soap away, which turned out to be a very bad idea. Fireworks went off behind his eyes. Possibly explosion tags, since they hurt.

He didn't realize his knees had buckled until they'd already hit the floor, and then the fireworks in his head became an artillery barrage. He might've made a sound; he didn't hear. He was too busy channeling all his remaining shreds of strength into his arms, because if his elbows gave out and his head hit the floor then he probably wouldn't need to worry about fireworks or anything else ever again. Somewhere off in the misty fields of consciousness, he was dimly aware of a new warmth running down his side, mingling with the water.

Bleeding to death in the ANBU showers was not, perhaps, the best way to achieve lasting fame, but at the moment it seemed pretty likely.

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Kakashi didn't have time to blink, he didn't even have time to swear. Ryouma dropped and Kakashi dropped with him, armour clattering against the wet tile as it slipped from his grip. He hit his knees and wedged himself up and under Ryouma's chest before the bigger ninja could introduce himself to the floor via forehead. Kakashi's left hand smacked the floor, elbow locking automatically, and made his vision dance red. His right caught Ryouma under the arm, smearing blood.

For a moment everything went still. Kakashi took the opportunity to suck in a choked breath and swear. It was time well spent.
"You're a pain in the ass," he muttered, sacrificing scathing wit to devote his attention to other things. "I'm never running a mission with you again if you die in the showers. You listening to me, rookie? I will put the black mark on your record myself. In ink. It will never come off. Don't you dare pass out." He heaved up, letting the muscles in his back and thighs do most of the work, pushing up on his hand--ohgodsthat hurts--and tightening his grip around Ryouma's ribs, forcing him to lift up and then back. A bit of manoeuvring and a lot of pain got his mission partner leaned against the wall and Kakashi contemplated passing out himself for a bit.

"And then I'm going to go out and learn how to dance just so I can damn well do a jig on your grave, you hear? So don't damn die." It was Ryouma's head, it had to be his head. Or that wound under his arm. Kakashi steeled himself and pressed his right hand hard over the gash, feeling warm-wet slip through his fingers. "You better not have any blood diseases I need to know about, or I'll do a fucking waltz. I'll even get a partner. That's how pissed I'll be." If it was Ryouma's head Kakashi couldn't do much about it, if it was the cut... blood pills. Ryouma had taken one and dropped his other two, but Kakashi had some in his belt.

Other hand, then. Breathe. Don't think. Just do it. Kakashi bit the inside of his cheek and forced his left hand to move, fumbling until he could dig his med-kit out of his belt pouch. It smacked down on the tile between them, splashing up pink water. He ripped the zip open and pulled out the little vial of dark pills, popping the cap off with his thumb. The shower was still on, dousing them both. Kakashi smacked his wrist against the control to switch it off--he couldn't afford another blood pill to melt before Ryouma got them. Then he dug one out, managed to get a grip on it, and held his hand over Ryouma's mouth. "Blood pill. Swallow it."

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Somewhere along the way Ryouma's weight came off his arms. He was pretty sure this meant he was falling, but he never hit the floor. And the fireworks were dying away with a crackle of sparklers, which presumably meant either that he was going to find out exactly how boring death could be, or his head had decided not to explode.

Judging by the furious, babbling stream of orders beating at his ears, life would remain interesting for a while longer.

"I c'n dance," he murmured, in a voice that didn't go much further than his lips. "Jig. T'ch you."

Kakashi ignored him and gave another order. He did that a lot.

Someday Ryouma really would refuse to follow him. Might shake the kid up, give him a view of how the world was when it didn't run According to the Will of Hatake Kakashi. Someday when he couldn't feel his life slipping out hot and sweet beneath his arm, when his head wasn't settling into an unpleasant beat of blood and pain, when he could open his eyes. When he wasn't so damn cold.

He swallowed obediently. Thick and viscous, the dissolving blood pill slid down the back of his throat. Ryouma would've really liked to jolt his eyes open like some not-quite-dead guy in a film, but the best he could manage was a slow fluttering, and the world took a long time to slide into focus.

It should be impossible to read anxiety from just one eye and a sodden scrap of mask. Maybe Ryouma'd picked up some new psychic powers along with that crack on the head. Maybe Kakashi just wasn't so good at hiding it.

He tried a smile. It was nearly as bad as Kakashi's attempt at hiding concern, and it hurt like hell to stretch his split and swollen lips into anything approximating normality, but it worked. "Might be worth dyin' just t'see you dance. Not sure I could, though... Guess I'll pass."

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Kakashi let out a relieved breath that hissed through his mask and chilled his lips. He resisted the urge to rest against the wall, instead letting his hand drop from Ryouma's bloody mouth--bloodier now with the mark left from Kakashi's palm--to his bare shoulder, trying to work up the will it would take to get both of them to their feet. "Last time I danced I got slapped," he said, talking for the sake of filling the silence. "Not because of my dancing, though. It was part of the mission." Whoever said Intel agents couldn't hit really needed to meet Murakami on a bad day. Or a good day. Any day really.

Focusing would be a good thing. Kakashi made a weak fist and used the sick rush of agony to pull himself back.

Standing up would be a better thing. And getting Ryouma warm and dry and to his room--which was hopefully close--then finding a medic to look at his head. And take care of that cut under his arm. That was the plan. It was a good plan. Very logical. Kakashi looked at Ryouma's fractured smile and thought logic had nothing to do with anything. He should've moved faster. If he'd gotten there in time to block that hit--both those hits; skull and chest plate--they'd be fine and Ryouma would be fine and he would be sleeping in his own room by now...

Enough, thought Kakashi wearily. There would be time to kick himself later. Teammates came first.

"C'mon, rookie. On your feet. Let's see if you remember where you live." He braced himself, got his legs fairly steady underneath him, and slipped his arms under Ryouma's. Getting both of them stood up felt vaguely akin to having his bones roasted inside his skin. Kakashi did it anyway.

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With the very small part of his mind not dedicated to holding himself together, Ryouma wondered if he should try to rescue the ruins of his gear. Shirt and chest-plate were ruined beyond repair, but the arm-guards and belt were salvageable, and--

And if he bent over, he would fall. And this time, he knew, he wouldn't get up.

"Next t'--Namiashi," he panted, as soon as he could manage breath around the terrible imperative of not whimpering. "Three... Damn." He could feel Kakashi's hand slipping against his side, and he knew it wasn't just soap and water slicking his skin. "Sixteen." And Kakashi's hand was burned, he'd seen that terrible puckered blister, and the other hand, rough and dripping with its bandages, pressed firm and flat against his back, and when had it become more important that Ryouma could stand than that Kakashi could use his hands?

He tried to say it, but his vision was fuzzing again, little grey creepers feeling their way across the corners of his eyes. He clenched his teeth and focused, fighting to stay conscious, to stay upright, to pull away from the hands that were ruining themselves to hold him upright...

When he could see clearly, the tarnished numbers of his own door were glimmering dully in front of his nose, and Kakashi's hands were still fever-hot on his skin.

"Key," he said. He could think, dammit, and he could move; he was shinobi and he was ANBU and he was Ryouma, and none of this was going to take him down. His fingers fumbled at his throat, found the door key strung with the dogtags around his neck, and broke the chain with one sharp jerk. It was far easier to slam a kunai through a man's chest than to fit a key in a hole, but he managed it at last, and left red streaks clawed on the handle as he stumbled through.

Kakashi was still behind him, still supporting him, still refusing to let him fall. That knowledge, and those wrecked hands, were the only things that kept Ryouma moving until his thighs bumped the edge of his bed. He pulled away then, nearly fell, caught himself with his fists planted on the blankets. Damn, and he'd washed his sheets just before he left...

"Thanks," he rasped. The fireworks were back, slightly muted, in a jangling display behind his eyes. He stayed very still and tried to remember what it had been like to move without dying.

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Kakashi flinched. Then he shied away from the clone, wrenching his hands up. "I'm fine," he snapped, anger and something that was a little too close to panic lending his words some clarity. "Call it off before I do it for you!" Kakashi might not have been in spectacular fighting form, but he was still more than capable of ending a clone. It only took one blow.

He didn't need to explain himself to Genma--even if Genma had a point, he should've moved faster, stupid dog--because Genma was an asshole. Kakashi was definitely remembering that now. He was a medic, which was why he was here, but he was also a bastard and Kakashi didn't need to tell him anything more then he needed to hear. Definitely didn't need to tell him about three days of living on nothing more then soldier pills and doing nothing more then running. Six hours straight of keeping Ryouma on his feet because they had to get home, and home was here. And then showers because... because that had been important, even if he couldn't remember why, and then Ryouma had fallen and Kakashi couldn't think--

Focus on what you know, stupid dog. Genma's an asshole.

Kakashi kept his visible eye on the clone, glaring through soaked hair, and tried to remember what else was important. "He's had two blood pills in the last half hour. And... no painkillers. He took some before we set off, but they'll have worn off. He... got hit twice before I could get there. Head and chest. The chest was a jutsu, and... they smashed his mask." That was important. Losing your mask always was. "Call your clone off!"

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"Then sit!" barked Genma. "Sit and I'll leave you alone." The clone backed off a pace, giving Kakashi room to obey, should he choose. After that Genma ignored him.

Two blood pills and Ryouma still looked this bad? Pain could be contributing, but the kid probably needed whole blood. A blood pill was a great crutch to keep you going in the field but it was no substitute for the real thing. There was a reason pretty much every healthy, able-bodied adult in any hidden village was a regular blood donor. Genma got out a syringe and injected Ryouma with enough pain killer to at least keep him from screaming while he stitched up his side. That had to come next. He'd get the active bleeding stopped or slowed, and ten they were booking it for the hospital and no argument. Ryouma needed blood and a hospital, not a field medic with blueballs and a bad temper.

Starting work on the wound, he could feel Kakashi's eye on him, and it made his shoulders twitch. Damn, Kakashi really just got right under his skin.

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Kakashi didn't want to sit. He had a very logical reason for that. If he sat down he probably wasn't going to get back up again, and he needed to be up because... because. Just because. You didn't get to lie down and do nothing when a teammate was hurt and it was your fault. You stayed up and you got help and when you'd done that you stayed out of the help's way--he watched the clone warily--until you were needed to do something else. Which was what he was doing. You got to rest again when everyone was safe and fine and okay, then you could sleep. That was how it worked.

Some things were constant. Like Genma being an asshole.

Kakashi pushed himself away from the wall, skirting the clone, and moved back to the door again. He leaned against the frame, carefully making sure he could watch the entrance and get a better view of what Genma was doing. Both both wounded hands hung down by his sides, palms hidden from view. He'd deal with them later, once Ryouma was okay.

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The gentle touch of hands on his head and side weren't quite enough to pull Ryouma from the nightmarish fog that dragged him down, but the sharp prick of a syringe in his shoulder certainly helped. At least it beat back the sharp red-and-white edges of pain far enough that he could breathe, and move, and begin to think.

Hands on his head, poking gently through the water-softened mat of blood and hair, pressing against the broken lump where a spiked mace had nearly staved his skull in. Hands on his side, pinching the edges of torn skin and muscle together, jabbing a kunai through his ribs--

"Ouch," Ryouma said, very distinctly. He turned his head on the pillow, ignoring the hands that tried to hold him still, and glared up at the tall pillar of fuzz standing over him. "Tryin' t'...not die here. You're...not helpin'."

The mist cleared a little from his vision, but his sight still seemed to be wobbling erratically. Were there two versions of his neighbor Genma standing over him? Why was (were?) Genma there at all? Where was Kakashi? And where was the kunai with which someone had been stabbing him?

When he forced his bloody mouth open again to try asking some of those questions, all that came out was, "You stink like sex."

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"And you reek of death," Genma answered, looking up sharply. His clone held Ryouma steadily enough, but Genma left off his suturing to check anyway. Relieved the rookie was coherent enough to make jokes, even lame ones. "And you bet your damn ass I'm not helping you die. Stupid rookie," Genma said, and pulled the towel the clone had been holding against his head away. It was wet and spotted with blood, but at least the wound looked clotted. In fact it had probably been clotted before whatever had gotten them so wet. Without rain. Sweet Amida's left testicle they were idiots.

"Did you fools try to take a shower instead of just going to the damn hospital straight off and that's why Mari-whatever-her-name-is is now sleeping alone in her own bed and I'm here to play nursemaid?" Genma laughed. "OK, you're excused for not knowing any better, Ryouma. But damn," he glanced at Kakashi and away again, with a cold shouldered reproach that said far more than words could.

Ryouma was concussed. Badly. And chakra-drained. Shaking with that too-fast heart rate that said he'd bled too much, taken too many soldier pills, or both. And he was bruised. Maybe bleeding internally. His heart beat was steady, at least for now, but if that bruising on his sternum hid damage to the heart itself beneath.... even a tiny bruise to the pericardium could kill a man. Drop him dead before the medics could repair it. "Soon as I finish stitching up your side, I'm taking you over to the hospital. You and your partner there, who should have had the good sense to do it himself in the first place."

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Kakashi was ready for it this time, he didn't flinch. Genma's look was nothing new, and his words were already inside Kakashi's head. Already in Kakashi's own voice. Hearing the echo of them snarled by the man putting Ryouma back together was probably a fair price, even if it twisted a kunai up and under his ribcage. He knew he'd fucked up. He'd known since he'd seen Ryouma take that blow and hit the ground on his knees. He was a genius, of course he knew.

Hell if he was going to tell Genma that, though.

"Just him," Kakashi said, and canted his weight, shifting his balance to pull himself back upright again. "Ryouma can go--" should've taken him there already, stupid dog, "--but I don't need to do anything but sleep." He managed to bring his voice back to almost-normal, tone flattening out into drawl. "And then you can get back to your Mari-whoever. I'm sure she'll appreciate the nurse-maiding just as much, Sensei-sama." Sometimes sarcasm was the only weapon you had left.

Of course, sometimes you had reflexes, too. Kakashi caught a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision, and realized he'd been hearing footsteps without taking any notice. Footsteps meant enemy getting close. Pure adrenaline gave him the system shock he needed to wrench away from the doorframe and shift into a strike, aiming up at a throat--

A hand caught his fist and squeezed. Pain happened. This time it didn't stop.

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One good thing about a life spent mostly on your feet was that you built up some damn hard soles. Even with that, both Genma and Raidou were leaving a blood-stained trail by the time the hospital loomed into view. Running on chakra helped a little, but both of them were moving too fast for that to make a huge difference. It did stop them slipping, though. Which was a damn good thing, considering with everyone's current state that would probably have killed someone.

Raidou didn't miss Ryouma's stuttered reply. He scowled as he moved; glowering at the air molecules in front of his face as if they'd personally insulted him. It was a piss-poor mistake to send a rookie out with someone like Hatake-damn-Kakashi. Some older agents were built for solo missions, and Raidou had worked with the veteran in question enough times--twice was more than enough--to know Kakashi was one of them. He definitely wasn't someone you wanted to hand off a rookie, a raw rookie, to. Not if you wanted both of them coming back in one piece, anyway.

Which they hadn't. Which proved the point.

Kakashi shifted and groaned faintly in Raidou's arms, spurring him to move quicker. He didn't particularly want another fight on his hands until there were medics standing around to pick up the pieces.

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Genma didn't waste time with the formalities of the admitting desk, and fortunately the chuunin guards posted there had more than enough sense to recognize that a trio of sleep-mussed-looking men bring in bringing in a pair of bloodied, unconscious or nearly-so ANBU were not men to be barred at the door. Through the double doors into the casualty department, and Genma barked at the first medic to look his way, "He's on a massive soldier pill overdose, blood-loss, concussed, and I'm not sure if there are internals. My buddy has his partner, don't know his condition at all." That caused a flurry of activity, medics and nurses rushing up, taking Ryouma off Genma's back and putting him on a gurney. More medics took Kakashi off Raidou's hands, and after a moment Genma fell back, dismissing his clone with a pop and flare of chakra, and sagging against the wall.

He looked at Raidou, reached out to pull him back a little, and glanced down when Raidou's step was off. Only then did he notice the bloody footprints, the burn in his own feet, and the blooming ache in his bruised, chair-smashed knees.

"Fuck, Rai. Fuck fuck fuck." It was succinct and more than thoroughly expressive.

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Ryouma would've agreed with that assessment, if he heard it. At the moment he was a little too busy fighting past the dizziness and the fuzziness and the built-in alarm towards too many people, too much noise...

They were medics. Konoha medics, with that familiar red kanji over their hearts, and those weird caps and huge collars. It looked like cap and collar were fighting over which would get to eat the medic's face first. Ryouma wondered who'd win. He'd put his money on the collar. The Uchiha wore crazy shirts like those and claimed they were fashionable, and presumably anything that could delude the Uchiha like that could eat a medic's face without a problem.

He tried telling one of them his theory. The words were coming out sideways again--probably something to do with the giant-ass needle they'd stuck in his hand and the blissful surge of painkillers now invading his system. The medic didn't look convinced. "Where're your dogtags?" she demanded. "What's your blood type?"

"B positive," Ryouma told her. "Aries. Like long walks. Onna beach." He tried grinning at her, but his split and swollen lips hurt, and his smile went sideways too. "An' soldier pills. Crashing. Need one."

The medic ignored him, just as Genma had. "B positive!" she hollered to someone. And then, "Stay with me, ANBU-san. We've got you. Just hang on."

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Raidou stepped--limped--away from Genma long enough to corner one of the medics fluttering after the wounded pair and muttered a short word about Kakashi's hands before he made his way back. After a full day of training and a few hours interrupted sleep, the effort of that mad dash was starting to tell a little. His still-healing shoulder ached with the strain of carrying a fully grown person, even if Kakashi had been stupidly light for his height. Raidou stretched, twisting from side to side to work out the kinks in his spine. Then he slouched against the wall next to Genma, trading a wry look for his friend's angry one.

"So... think they'll lend us some shoes to get home? Or are we proving ourselves the noble veterans and sticking around until they wake back up?" They'd damn well better wake up, or some corpsified ass was going to get kicked. Provided the hospital loaned them shoes, anyway.

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"Staying," Genma said with a weary sigh. He wasn't mad anymore. A glance at the clock told him Mariko--if that was her name--had given him up for lost over half an hour ago already. In another four hours the sun would rise and it would be time to get up and start a new day. "I was gonna see if you wanted to go running in the morning, but..." He gestured at their feet. "You want me to look at those? I'm gonna sit down and clean mine up a little. Think we can at least steal some of those little rubber-bottomed bed socks like they give the patients."

They limped into the nurses' break room, currently deserted, and Raidou plopped himself on a battered vinyl couch. A table held a partially eaten birthday cake. "Happy Thir- Aya-," Genma read, and cut them each a generous slice. He grabbed coffee, too, setting plates of cake and paper cups full of dubiously steaming brew down for himself and his partner, then grabbed gauze and peroxide, and a couple pairs of the aforementioned socks from the supply cart near the door.

The groan as he forced bruised knees to bend when he sat was deep and mournful. "Stupid idiots," he said. "We'll stay til we hear they're okay. And then we're making them pay for it. I had company."

The not-quite-sympathetic punch that got him in the shoulder, and the not-quite-humorless smile, made up for the rest of it, just a little.

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