Dear Dad,

Are all your soldiers this suspicious?

P.S. Tell Sayomi I really need my dogtags back. I don't care how mad she is.

He planted a hand on chilled wood, now edging closer to body temperature, and slid up to his feet. Fingers tried to catch automatically in pockets his armour didn't have, then fell loosely at his sides, bracelets slipping down to catch at his wrists.

On the other side of the woven metal, half hidden in shadow and gloom, Tsume was a slim streak of wiry muscle and hard bone. Dressed in clothes that fit her, now, she looked like a smaller, softer mirror image of his own reflection; black pants, white, skin-tight sleeveless shirt.

Nice arms, still bandaged. Nicer curves.

Funky looking socks.

He pulled a scroll out of his rucksack and stepped closer, lifting his hands to lace them through the bars. The scroll dangled loosely from his fingers.

"Hokage-signed contract ought to do it, right?" A runner had delivered it mid-way through his tattoo session. "S'got my name on and everything."

His full name, actually. But maybe she wouldn't notice that.