Asuma had damn near had his head in the hole when the dog had decided to spontaneously self-destruct. Or un-summon itself. Or whatever. Then Hatake screamed and attacked, and Ibiki attacked back, and Asuma only got to the tent in time to catch Pakkun as the little dog launched itself for Ibiki’s face.

Pakkun’s needle-sharp fangs clamped around his forearm, scraping the white-armoured gauntlet and puncturing skin.

Asuma yelped and grabbed the dog by the scruff, wrenching him off.

“What the hell?” he demanded, before focusing on Ibiki. “Did you just strangle him?”

"No." Ibiki’s careful composure was slightly ruined by the way he was panting and hoarse, and a little mauled looking. "He attacked me. And I subdued him so he wouldn't hurt me or himself or anyone else."

Asuma’s mouth dropped open.

Saiyuri got there first. “ANBU,” she snapped, like a curse. “That wasn’t subduing, that was reacting. You just choked a man with a head injury!” She was crouched near the sagging wall of the tent, shielding Ginta’s body with her own. Her gaze jumped to Asuma. “Check the boy. Make sure he’s still breathing.”

Boy, Asuma reflected, was not a word applied to scary, toothy killers very often. He gave Pakkun a warning shake, knocking the spitting-fury out of the dog, and dropped him, grabbing the bite on his arm as he went to Hatake.

“He’s breathing,” Ibiki said, before Asuma could even check. The words were raspy, but filled with the complete confidence of a man who often had to choke resistant subjects, and knew exactly how hard he could push without fatally injuring someone.

“You are the creepiest freakin’ robot ever,” Asuma said, while Pakkun snarled. Asuma gave him a look. “Knock it off, dog.”

“Check,” Saiyuri said again, pressing glowing-green hands to Ginta’s face. “And you, Ibiki, make yourself useful and build that fire.”

Silently, Ibiki lurched to his feet and left the tent.

He’d been right, though: Hatake was still breathing. Soft and rasping, eyes closed but mouth a little open, showing the points of sharp teeth through cracked, bloodied lips. He was thoroughly unconscious again, smashed down from whatever wakefulness the shock of his dog vanishing had jarred him into.

Saiyuri had been right, too. Maskless and half-dead, he did look young.

“He’s still breathing,” Asuma said. “What can I do to help?”

“Heat,” Saiyuri snapped again. “Fire, body-heat, jutsu — I don’t care what you do, just help me get them warm.”

From the nearby breaking sounds, Ibiki was ripping down part of the old wooden temple for fuel. He was more than capable of making a fire himself, but one source of naked heat would only go so far, and Asuma had fire in his blood. He dropped into a messy tailor-seat, forced half-numb fingers through seals — ox, rabbit, horse, horse, horse — and pulled on the violent half of his chakra nature. Instant warmth unfolded in the centre of his torso, welling up from the root of his chakra coils. It felt a lot like a sunrise inside skin.

He exhaled, breath clouding like steam in the frozen air, and pressed one hand to Kakashi’s throat. Kicked his foot out to rest against Ginta’s leg. Carefully, gradually, afraid of unleashing too much too fast, he let the warmth roll out, bleeding into cold bodies and the colder tent.

A wet canine tongue licked his bitten arm. He glanced aside. Pakkun had curled up next to Kakashi’s armour-bared shoulder, once more the tiny bedraggled guard.

“Y’wanna chew on Ibiki,” Asuma told him, “wait until we get home. Then you’ll have my blessing.”

Saiyuri snorted distantly. Beneath her hands, the bones in Ginta’s cheek cracked.