| I Don't Want to Remember Falling [Natsumi] |
[Jun. 2nd, 2009|11:04 pm] |
[[Set 2 days after Fall from Grace.]]
The family was at dinner when Natsumi came home. A low murmur of conversation caught her ears as she stooped to slide her sandals off in the doorway; Takeo's laugh rang like brilliant bells. Natsumi's lips thinned. Well, with any luck he'd have brought his newest conquest home, and she would be easily forgotten in the thrill of the chase.
In a houseful of ninja, it was hard to hide. She'd barely finished setting her shoes perfectly straight in their little alcove when the paper door above her slid back and a slim, straight shadow obscured the light. "Nacchan!" Takeo's honey-rich tenor deepened with delight. He ran down the steps, threw an arm around her shoulders, and kissed her swiftly.
Natsumi's stiffness melted, just a little. If Takeo was in a good mood, she had nothing to worry about; he was only really a problem when he was bored. She hugged him back, careful of her still-bandaged right hand. "It's good to see you again, oniisan. Did you bring company tonight?"
"What, jealous?" He tweaked her nose and stepped back, grinning broadly. The light from the inner house haloed in his black hair, limned the perfectly sculpted edge of high cheekbones and deceptively delicate chin. Their mother had once been the most beautiful woman in three provinces; Takeo had inherited all her celebrated beauty and added a wild insouciance of his own. "I was going to, but she had the gall to get herself assigned an extra shift at the hospital. That's all right, though; you're here instead." He set a hand at the small of her back and propelled her firmly up the steps. Natsumi's heart sank. He was bored.
But their parents were there, at least: Shiota Kimiko rising to set another place at the low wooden table, Takahiro leaning back with his dark eyes alight and his smile bright as the sun. "Little Bird!" he said, reaching out. "You look well."
Breathing a silent thanks to the monks at the Enryaku-ji monastery, Natsumi sank down at her father's side. Her bruises were almost gone; her cut feet merely twinged at every step, instead of searing. The only obvious injuries were her broken fingers, and they were well on their way to healing already.
"I was lucky," she said quietly, resting her shoulder against her father's. "I had a very good mission partner."
"Makes all the difference in the world," Takahiro agreed. He bumped his shoulder lightly against hers, wordless reminder of their sleeve-hidden tattoos and the new bond they shared. Natsumi smiled up at him, and then looked to her mother.
"Okaasan, I'm sorry I came without notice. I hope I'm not a burden."
"You never are," Kimiko said, setting bowls and chopsticks out at Natsumi's old place, on the left side of the rectangular table. "I was planning on Takeo's guest tonight anyway, so there's enough." She rose gracefully to return to her own seat, her hand trailing lightly over Natsumi's hair. "I'm glad to see you safe."
"Not so safe," Takeo observed. "What happened to your arrow-hand?"
"I broke two fingers," Natsumi said, as casually as she could. "They've been set and re-set, so they should heal straight." She stood before her father could stop her, and stepped around the side of the table to her place. "After dinner, Tousan, could you show me those finger-strengthening exercises?"
"I could," her father said slowly. "Who was your mission partner?"
"Another rookie," Natsumi said. "Asuma-san. I don't know his family name." He saved my life, she wanted to add, or, Tousan, I think you'd like him. But her mother had paused in dishing up rice to listen, and across the table Takeo was waiting bright-eyed for her to slip. "He took me to the monastery at Enryaku-ji on the way back. It was extremely educational."
"A monastery?" Takeo's finely shaped mouth twisted in amusement. "You know what they say about those fellows who're hot on religion, Nacchan. You'd better watch out." The barest sliver of an edge sharpened his tone. "He didn't try anything, did he?"
And if I told you I kissed him? Natsumi sighed, and accepted the rice bowl from her mother. "He was a gentleman. I don't think you run in the same social circles, oniisan."
"With an ANBU?" Takeo grinned. "Gods, I hope not. Gentleman, right. So I'm betting he's about six inches shorter than you, muscled like an ox, one of those close-combat types who do all their thinking with their fists. Although he had to be smart enough to realize you're out of his league. Or did you just flex and scare him off the first time you met?"
"Takeo," Kimiko said sharply.
He looked up, surprised. "Well--present company excepted from all comments about ANBU, of course. But they've changed since your day, haven't they, Tousan?"
"Not so very much," Takahiro said. He was still watching Natsumi, his brow creased thoughtfully. "Although we were better then at winning beautiful ladies. But then, the young never can quite measure up to their elders. Why did you say your friend couldn't come tonight?"
Natsumi smothered a giggle. Her father grinned. Kimiko seized the moment and turned the conversation to talk of the upcoming chuunin exams, Takahiro's genin team's prospects, and why he still hadn't purchased tickets for the stadium seats. Natsumi ate quietly, conceding the conversation to her parents and the last piece of fish to Takeo. He was watching her now, as if he'd finally noticed something that had eluded him before. Once he nearly spoke, and then thought better of it. When their father finally set his chopsticks down and bowed his head to murmur thanks, Takeo dropped his own chopsticks on his plate and leapt up to circle the table and catch Natsumi's wrist.
"Thanks for the meal," he said. "Come on, Nacchan. I need to talk to you."
His fingers were long, thin, almost delicate-looking; but his hands were an archer's, and the strength in his grip would be hard to break. Natsumi scrambled to her feet, bowed to her mother, and let her brother tow her up the stairs. The door to her bedroom, cleaned and empty since she left for ANBU, was closed; his stood invitingly half-open. He kicked it shut behind them, tugged her through the untidy room to the tall window looking out onto the back garden and the porch roof, and threw the window open. At last he released her wrist, but only to clamber out onto the roof and turn to offer her a hand.
"I'm fine, thanks," Natsumi said coldly.
"You were limping all the way up the stairs," Takeo said. "Maybe Okaasan didn't see, and Tousan doesn't care, but I'm not blind. Come on. Right hand."
Relectantly, she let him catch her wrist again and help her scramble through. "Tousan does care," she corrected as she settled down on the slanting roof next to him. "But he knows what this is like. What I'm doing isn't--"
"Isn't anything like what you thought you'd be doing," Takeo said. "I know. I--asked around. Somebody'd managed to put a hold on the records from your first mission. Doesn't take a cryptology expert to figure out what that means, little sister."
Natsumi blinked. Ibiki. "I didn't ask him to," she said stiffly. I'll have to thank him anyway.
Takeo waved it away. "You came home after you got back the first time--two days late, may I add?--and Tousan said you were all right then, even if you were hiding something. Doesn't work so well when you can't hide all the evidence, though." He tapped the bruised back of her right hand with a gentle finger. "And especially if you can't hide the bald monk coming up to the Hokage Palace three days ago and reassuring everyone in sight that the Hokage's two very precious ninja are safe, that someone else is delivering the corpse-head and the sword, and that his brother-monks will make sure you're not leaking your guts out on the road when they send you off again."
"Oh, gods," Natsumi said in a small voice. "You didn't--you didn't tell Okaasan, did you?"
He snorted. "What kind of a son do you think I am? No, don't answer that. I didn't know it was you, anyway, until you mentioned the monastery tonight. He shut up once he'd delivered his message to the ANBU liaison, but half the staff in the Hokage's Palace heard the story by then. You wouldn't believe the gossip going around trying to decide who botched up this time. Mostly it's getting pinned on some Shiriashi guy and his partner. Were you really that badly hurt?"
"Not me," Natsumi said. "Asuma had a bad cut, though. It got infected." She drew her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, catching her right wrist in her left hand. "He made it nine miles, running mostly on delirium. I had to carry him for the tenth."
Takeo whistled softly. "And is he six inches shorter than you and muscled like an ox?"
"Seven inches taller, I think." Natsumi smiled against her knees. "The muscles bit is fairly accurate."
"Huh." Takeo sat a moment in silence. "Will you introduce me?"
"Tak--!" Natsumi jerked upright before she could catch herself. "No. I don't think you'd get along very well." Or they'd get along too well, oh gods. The redoubled teasing would be bad enough. But Asuma was just the right side of handsome enough to catch Takeo's eye; and Takeo caught everyone's eye, male or female. Asuma had said she was pretty, but she knew well enough that she barely held a candle to her brother. If Takeo were interested enough to do something about it...
Why do you care? You know nothing will ever happen anyway. She'd had her chance in the monastery, and she'd passed it up. Opportunities like that didn't come around again.
"Asuma," Takeo said thoughtfully. His warm golden voice caressed the name. Natsumi shivered, and Takeo's eyes danced. "Six foot three and gorgeous, did you say? No, no, my mistake, you didn't say. No wonder you won't introduce me. I'll have to look him up on my own. Although you seem to believe he doesn't swing my way, which makes me wonder just what kind of gentleman--"
"Everyone swings your way," Natsumi said quietly.
"Mm," Takeo said, not disagreeing. "Is he bald?"
Natsumi stared at him.
"So, not a monk. And not gay. And you really want me to believe he didn't make a move on you?"
His voice snapped like ice breaking. Solid footing dropped out underneath her. Natsumi grabbed wildly for her shield of calm and drew its cold shreds around her again. "As you've often observed, oniisan, I'm not like you. People don't--"
"Screw people," Takeo snorted. "I'm asking about your mission partner. Asuma. You smile when you think about him. You bridle when I ask about him. You've got some weird idea you need to defend him from me--I'm deeply hurt, by the way--and you still won't look me in the eye and tell me nothing happened. How hard are you falling, Nacchan?"
She couldn't pretend to misunderstand. Takeo was in Village Intel only because he had absolutely no desire to follow his father into the dirty and dangerous work of ANBU; he was an elite code-breaker and analyst in the Hokage's Palace, and he took the same sort of visceral pleasure in picking apart half-truths and evasions as she did in shooting a single starling out of a whirling flock. He wouldn't give up until he was satisfied. And he wouldn't be satisfied with anything less than the truth.
"He saved my life," she said. "No--just listen to me, oniisan. He saved my life, and I saved his, and while I was giving him rescue breathing after I dragged him out of the river, he woke up and kissed me. I thought... We were alive. We were hurt and frozen and on the run; I had a broken hand and he was bleeding out, but we'd survived. We kept surviving. He set my fingers. I stitched his side. And he held me when I cried."
Takeo made a sharp movement, caught himself, and sat listening. The rising moon silvered his pale profile into a cold and distant beauty. Somehow it was easier to talk to that remote stranger than to the brother she'd known all her life.
"We finished the mission. We'd lost all our gear and most of our chakra; he'd lost a lot of blood and picked up a fever. He said we could rest at the monastery, but he was delirious before I realized it and I had to keep him going. I promised, if he made it to the monastery, I'd kiss him properly."
"And he made it," Takeo murmured, "because you carried him. Has it been that long since you've been kissed, little sister?"
"It wasn't that," Natsumi said. She ducked her head again, pressing her mouth against her knees. "I think it was him."
"Was he good?" Takeo asked, in a tone of pure scientific inquiry.
Natsumi choked on a laugh. "You are so--! Yes, he was good." A momentary flush heated her cheeks at the memory of his laughter against her lips, the flick of his tongue against hers, the heat of his mouth on her throat... She lifted her face to the cool night breeze. "He was very good."
Still in the same tone of polite analytical interest, Takeo asked, "Did he wear a condom?"
Her cheeks flamed scarlet. "Takeo!"
"If every ANBU on a mission played it safe, neither of us would be here," he reminded her. "You should know the risks better than anyone. Okaasan was lucky, with Tousan. You probably won't be."
"I know the risks," Natsumi agreed tightly. She clamped down on her voice, strangling the anger, the humiliation, the treacherous hurt. She was a fool to have looked for understanding. He couldn't resist an easy target, and he knew better than anyone else where to aim. If he was pushing for a reaction, all she could do was deny him one.
She rose to her feet. "Thank you for a pleasant conversation, oniisan. Please enjoy the night air." She gripped the frame of the open window with her good hand and threw her leg over the sill.
Takeo caught her wrist. "Look, Nacchan. If you are falling for him--"
"Clean your room, oniisan," she said, and broke his grip.
She locked the door of her own bedroom behind her before she let herself breathe again. Of course Takeo would never follow; he was probably dropping off the roof and sauntering off whistling to amuse himself with someone else. But enforced solitude had meant safety since she was too young to do anything but burst into tears when Takeo teased, and it was a habit she couldn't break. She sat on the edge of her bed and stared for a few minutes at the ancient long-bow mounted on the wall over her Academy graduation certificate and the photograph of her genin team. Ibiki, she thought distantly, probably couldn't have done much better.
Ibiki was an ANBU interrogator now. Of course he could have.
There was a little dust gathering on the top of the picture frame and on the mounting plaque. Natsumi found a soft cloth folded in the cabinet beside her bed and dusted every flat surface in the room. The coverlet was wrinkled where she'd sat; she stripped the bed and remade it. She re-organized by season and color all the clothes she'd left hanging in the closet, pulled all her books off their shelves and replaced them alphabetically by author, and then stood empty-handed in the center of her room and considered breaking something just so she could clean it up.
"I cannot," she whispered to the silence, "afford to fall."
The silence had no answers.
Natsumi unlocked the door, and went downstairs to help her father make arrows. |
|
|
