Was that comment on her rarity value supposed to be praise or censure? She couldn't read anything but disappointment into his sigh or twisted grin, and yet there was nothing but warmth in the gentle caress of his thumb over her cheek. Any of the other girls he mentioned probably wouldn't have stopped him. Natsumi almost wished she hadn't.

Moving on to sensible shinobi was probably a far better idea. So was moving, period. Natsumi slithered awkwardly sideways, but Asuma caught her wrist again before she was quite clear. The grin had faded, a little; his eyes were just a shade too bright. Natsumi reached defensively for the collar of her yukata and tugged it closed. His braceleting fingers loosened, but he didn't let go.

It was--almost reassuring, in a way that it really shouldn't have been. He wasn't trying to tug her close again; she could break his grip just by twisting her wrist. He'd stopped when she told him to, even without words. And now he asked for nothing but her silent promise not to pull away.

She smoothed the crumpled skirts of her yukata one-handed, and took refuge in formality. "We arrived at the monastery just before dawn. The monks took you to their infirmary immediately. I delivered the sword and the target's head to the abbot, who promised to send them to the client in Heijo, along with a messenger to Konoha." Sudden doubt shook her. "I--thought that would be all right. I wasn't sure when we would be able to travel; I would have gone myself, but I...couldn't walk very well, at that point. I thought if we could trust the monks with our lives, we could probably trust them with our mission. And some of them were Konoha ninja, though I didn't know it then." She looked anxiously at Asuma. "They have treated us well."

Better than well, really. Konoha's hospital staff would have half-healed the major gashes, set the ninja on IVs, and scurried off to tend the next set of incoming mortal injuries. The monks who'd tended Natsumi had worked with an almost religious devotion, rubbing balm into her bruises, cleaning and bandaging her gashed thigh, resetting her jostled fingers. They'd even pulled in their retired medic-nin, a pair of saintly old men already tired from working on Asuma, to sear out her incipient fever and heal her feet enough to let her limp down the hall to her new room.

"And they gave me a bath," she added, remembering. That alone was better than all the rest.