After so long in tunnels, the deep-honey sunlight hit like a blow. Ryouma winced, watching through lowered lashes as Kakashi re-sealed the final door. Each barrier used a different handseal. Kakashi's memory must be better than Ryouma's, or perhaps he'd used the passageway since Sagara's initial introduction a month ago.

Only a month. Hell. Ryouma felt like he'd aged three years.

They struck out more slowly towards the barracks, skirting Training Field 2 and the ANBU team sparring there. Ryouma's brief rest on the lift had cooled the sweat, but his brace seemed to have filled with lead. He banged his foot again, tripping on a rock, and this time he didn't quite manage to bite back the grunt.

Kakashi didn't comment, but he kicked the next rock out of Ryouma's path.

They passed through the grove of trees, following a meandering little path that offered better footing than the straight line cutting across churned training grounds. The HQ and T&I buildings loomed up, but Kakashi didn't detour for the cafeteria, either.

"Are you planning to drop me in bed with a rat bar?" Ryouma asked as they neared the north wing of the barracks.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Kakashi said witheringly. He unlocked the door to the stairwell and held it open.

The only elevator was located in the veterans' wing, on the south. Ryouma steeled himself for the slow, awkward hop up two flights of stairs. Kakashi followed behind him, holding back, as if he thought any moment Ryouma might slip and come tumbling down. Which was — not unlikely, Ryouma had to admit.

But they reached the second floor without misadventure, and Ryouma didn't drop his crutch when he dug out his key. He even made it across the threshold without falling over, and leaned against the wall to take off his shoes.

"Don't kill yourself getting changed," Kakashi advised, and vanished back into the hall.

Ryouma hadn't actually been considering changing clothes. The shirt would have to come off, or else he'd inevitably end up strangling in his sleep, but he had no desire to sacrifice another pair of pants to the kunai just yet.

Kuroda would probably object if he spent the next two weeks in briefs and a brace. Ryouma gave himself a single blissful moment to savor the mental image. Then he dropped his shoes in the entryway, his crutches by the window, Katsuko's folded drawing on the windowsill, and himself — carefully — on the bed.

There were juice boxes and snacks in the kitchenette. He'd get up for them again in a second.

Maybe.