Asuma reflected briefly on a sword scraping over his ribs, breaking Natsumi's fingers back into shape, dragging a needle and thread through his own flesh, losing his mind to fever... "I've taken my stripes," he said, dry as desert sand. "And--snapping teeth? You expecting me to punch you in the face?"

A sharp snort answered him. He seriously needed to get a Tsume-translator.

He also needed to get over the mental stumble of running into someone who didn't think he could fight. Civilians took one look at him and thought brawler. Most ninja fell between taijutsu guy or, for the last three years, Guardian Twelve bastard. He hadn't run into rookie for years.

And he'd never been judged by someone whose ass he'd saved.

"So what's wrong with you?" Tsume's head jerked around to give him a masked glare. He flicked his fingers towards his face, marking where he remembered that white bandage. "The medical leave thing. What's your issue?"