The last time Kakashi had snapped out of black, dreamless sleep, it had been on the receiving end of a shot of chakra directly to his brain. This time, with six more hours of empty nothingness under his belt, a grip like a weak brand was enough to register. Slender eyebrows drew together. Steady, quiet breaths broke their rhythm. He shifted, achingly slow for a half-healthy jounin, and groped for the source of heat bleeding into his forearm.

His fingers touched something that felt like skin on fire. Instinct snapped awake, yanking his right arm away from the threat, pulling his chidori-burned palm free before anything touched it. His left hand tightened, catching and pinning whatever it was to sweat-soaked sheets.

Somewhere in the movement, he sat up straight, and almost overbalanced. His free hand slapped against the floor, bringing bandaged, blistered scars directly into contact with well-sanded wood.

Then he woke up.

A yelp broke off between teeth that snapped it in half. He yanked his hand off the floor, steadied a bandaged shoulder against the nearest solid object--the bed-frame--and twisted to sweep a wide-eyed (one-eyed) glance around the room. Bright sunlight, rumpled bedclothes, tangled IV's--

Ginta's hand crushed beneath his own.

If he'd let go any faster, Kakashi would have broken his own fingers. He stared up the bed, trying to kick thoughts into moving, and felt his heart sink. Sweat-drenched blond hair caught his gaze first, then skin turned waxen and pale around flushed cheeks. The bright, wild glitter in cornflower blue eyes. The air stank of acid and sweet grapes, sickly pus.

Infection.

"Oh, shit," he said softly.