For the first time, Asuma watched her go in silence. There was a catch in her step, something that should have been a limp if she weren't so stubborn, but there was lingering grace, too. A ripple of lean muscle across archer's shoulders. She'd carried him. That arm-wrestling promise was no idle boast.

Even if the rest had made his heart lurch.

Chopsticks clicked quietly when he picked them back up, turning them over in his hands. He could feel the abbot's gaze on him, waiting quietly for him to say the first word. Only monks--and Hokages--had that kind of determined, silent patience.

Asuma looked at his hands.

"Guess I should remember not everyone bounces back so quick," he said finally, and lifted his head. The abbot gave him another one of those understanding looks, emanating a serene kind of calm. Asuma wondered how far he'd go, if his monks were in danger. If he'd ever even thought about taking a life. "Reckon I probably owe her an apology."

"Perhaps not while she's bathing," the abbot said, one corner of his mouth quirking.

Asuma laughed on a short breath. "Guess not. That'd definitely give her nightmares. And I'd wake up with an arrow in my skull." He put his chopsticks down, edging his mostly empty plates away with calloused, unshaking fingers. Another yawn itched at his throat. He let it crack his jaw, acknowledging a body that was only recently awake and probably still not recovered from a fever that had almost cooked his brain. "You sure you don't mind us staying another night? I think we're making your flock a bit nervous."

"It is character building," said the abbot contentedly. "Encourages inner strength, which is no small thing. And I believe you would fall over before you made it past our front gates."

"You may have a point," Asuma muttered, dragging a hand over his face. He sliced half a smile through his fingers. "Reckon I owe you a thank you, too."

The abbot waved a dismissive hand. "Just pass on my regards to your father. It has been far too long since I have had the pleasure of his company."

Asuma snorted softly, and staggered to his feet. "Don't push it, Shiga-sama."

The abbot beamed at him, teeth startlingly white in his weathered face. Then he clapped his hands again. Another acolyte appeared and took Asuma by the elbow.

"Don't suppose you could recommend a decent trader?" Asuma asked, as the little monk led him back to their room. "Weapon's smith, maybe. Or a fletcher... I bet you could get some great designs carved into arrows..."

Because pretty didn't necessarily mean tame.

And he owed that Intel-kunoichi a present, too, come to think of it. Along with keeping his promise to come home alive.