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Waiting for Silent Sunrise [Asuma, Ibiki, Kakashi, Ginta][Jan. 28th, 2012|04:12 pm]

[Takes place immediately following Somewhere a Clock is Ticking]

The medic was about as cheerful as a sack of wet mice, but at least she was good at her job—and she’d divested the landscape of Ibiki, which was no bad thing.

Asuma held his half-lidded trance, humming soft and tuneless in the back of his throat as he pushed heat into Hatake and Ginta, sweat prickling at his temples and down his spine. Ibiki’s fire was bright and healthy, making the shadows dance, another good source of warmth.

“Cracked skull,” Saiyuri muttered to herself, in the same low way she’d said broken orbital socket; broken nose for Ginta. Her glowing hands were still wrapped around Kakashi’s head, doing who-knew-what to whatever piece of damage was lurking under all that blood-matted hair.

“Is his brain bleeding?” Asuma asked quietly, because that was a career-ender right there, if it didn’t snuff Hatake’s life out completely.

She shushed him.

Asuma bit his tongue.

A little snow drifted down outside, hissing as it landed in the fire, but the sky was still clear and star-spangled, lit up silver by a sickle moon. Ginta’s breathing rasped, soft but even. Pakkun crawled into Asuma’s lap, banished from his master with a stern word and a sharp glare. Asuma rumpled his ears with a free hand, sparing a twist of heat for the little dog.

And waited.

Finally, Saiyuri drew back. “That might do it,” she said, dragging a weary hand across her forehead. “Keep holding that jutsu. I’m going to get them out of these clothes and set up IVs.”

“Want some clones?” Asuma asked.

She gave him a dry look. “I am a ninja. I think I can manage.”

“If you fall over from chakra exhaustion, I’ll laugh at you,” he said, uncowed. Chakra management was a medic’s biggest challenge, once they got past the grisly injuries and the likelihood of their patients attacking them. He knew that much.

“Fine, two clones,” she said, standing and returning to Ginta, summoning her own dopplegangers. Asuma added the requested pair, making sure neither one of them had any personality beyond follow orders, dammit. Now was not the time for arguing with himself.

He kept the heat up while Saiyuri and the constructs stripped Ginta and Hatake out of their armour, revealing dead white, bruise-hammered bodies. Both men looked like they’d been pummelled by a landslide. Ginta’s right leg was badly swollen, fresh purple scars standing out in sharp relief. Saiyuri hissed over it, running green-glowing hands over the ankle joint, while the clones hurried to dress both men in warm civilian clothes and blankets, re-covering them in silver emergency foil.

“What fool let him run on this leg?” Saiyuri demanded.

“Pretty sure you don’t get to ask questions if you won’t answer mine,” Asuma said.

The look she gave him would have carbonized a smaller man. “Hatake’s brain is bruised, but I couldn’t feel any major bleeds. This one is a little better off, which isn’t saying much. They may live if I can get them stabilized and back to the village without any further disasters.”

Asuma let out a breath. “Good.”

“Well?” she prompted, when he didn’t say anything else.

“Sorry,” he said unrepentantly, “I don’t know what your level of clearance is.”

He suspected she would have hit him, if she hadn’t had her hands full. He threw her a grin, sure Ginta would have approved, and felt a little tremble against his leg as Pakkun wheezed a laugh.

“Just heat the tent,” she snapped.

Asuma tapped his fist to his chest, hand over heart. “Yes, boss.”

He was sweat-lathed and breathing a little hard by the time Hatake and Ginta were both blood-warm, but the fleck of pink in hollow, bruised faces was more than worth it.

Worth it twice over when Ginta’s functional eyebrow drew down, and a living groan rattled out of his throat.
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