"Game time," Asuma said softly, looking up at the grating. They'd been left almost entirely alone, other than the occasional curious head popping up to stare at them. Which was a good thing, mostly, but he would have killed for sandwich right about now. Neither one of them had eaten since those pies on the beach and, even with nausea still dancing in his stomach, he could have happily brought down a wildebeest.

Except not, because he had a code to stick to. But still, food.

"When we get home," he muttered, staggering up and listening to the faint gurgle from Tsume's concave belly, "I'm eating until my eyeballs fall out."

The medic hadn't bothered to bandage the sword cuts on his palms; they were thin and scabbed, barely deep enough to be worth paying attention to. He caught the corner of a scab and ripped it off. A thin trickle of blood slid down his wrist.

Tsume's eyebrows climbed up to her hairline.

"I'm a masochist," Asuma explained soberly, straight-faced. "Thought I'd get a moment in. And I think it'll make it easier to get chakra into your system. Pick your favourite leg injury, and let's go."

He crouched and offered both hands, fingers linked together to form a stirrup for her foot.