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Waiting for Silent Sunrise [Asuma, Ibiki, Kakashi, Ginta] [Jan. 28th, 2012|04:12 pm]
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[User Picture]From: [info]fallen_ginta
2012-01-29 12:19 am (UTC)

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Three things hit Ginta all at once: he was in a lot of pain, he was warm, and Kakashi wasn’t in contact with him any more. But someone else was — someone familiar, touching his left leg. Heat flowed into him, wrapped in a chakra-signature like dense, whisky-scented smoke. Nearby there were other flickers of life: someone like iced iron, the low-level shiver of Pakkun, and the higher-pitched pressure of an ozone-edged blade.

Kakashi was alive, then.

And so was he.

He felt the air catch and burble in his throat when he inhaled, and groaned again. His right eye wouldn’t open — when he tried he saw a shower of black and silver sparks — but the left worked. For a moment all he could see was yellow-lit canvas, and then the heat-filled touch on his leg broke away, and a dark-eyed face was leaning over his. Scruffy beard on a manly jaw, untamable hair, a nose built for strength rather than style. A hand came down on his shoulder, warm and massive, and full of that whisky-smoke presence.

“Asuma?”

“Hey, Jitterbug,” Asuma said, sounding equal parts wry and worried. “You really did it this time.”

Something had happened. Something terrible. Ginta tried to pull it together and got only as far as the cold and the dark and his face torn in pieces and his leg an aching ruin and Kakashi dying from a cracked open skull—

“Wha’ hap’n?” Ginta slurred. His jaw still felt unhinged, and Asuma didn’t look like he’d understood the question. Ginta put all his focus into forming the words. “What happened?”

"You got yourself squashed like a bug, is what,” Asuma said, sounding the same as he always did, faintly teasing, full of warmth. “And I got my ass dragged halfway around the world with an Intel ghoul to dig you out.” His voice turned more sober. “Hatake's still breathing. He's just over there. Did you guys pick up any sign of Tousaki?”

Ginta took a breath and blew it out, twitching his aching head up to try to see Kakashi. There was a foil-wrapped body with a shock of bloody silver hair showing above the blankets. A grim-looking medic bent over Kakashi, doing something with an IV. He let his head fall back down, wincing. “Nothing but an eight-month-old trap.” He looked flatly up at Asuma through his good eye. “He’s gone, Asuma. Ryouma’s just plain gone.”