“Thanks.” Genma held open a fire door that separated one wing of ANBU offices from another. He kicked himself for having let his thoughts get away from him like that in front of Ryouma. But hell, they were only human. “How are you feeling today? Recovering?” he asked, changing the subject with little finesse. Ryouma would see through it, but it didn’t really matter.

“I’m upright and walking and everything,” Ryouma said with an enthusiasm only faintly tinged with sarcasm. He waited for Genma on the other side of the door, then swung into step beside him, following easily when Genma turned down another of ANBU’s featureless corridors. “Slept about sixteen hours and ate three plates at the cafeteria when I woke up, which helped a lot. I'm at about seventy-five percent chakra capacity today.”

Seventy-five percent? For a man who’d needed chakra transfusions in the field to maintain basic body functions, that was impressive even with four days of recovery under his belt. Genma glanced over, studying Ryouma’s posture and color, feeling the steady russet warmth of his chakra.

Ryouma tucked his hands into his pockets, sauntering along with a casual grace that gave proof to his improved health. “Haven't coughed in two days," he said. “Thanks for that.”

“Thanks for putting up with the treatments,” Genma said. “I know they kind of suck. Maybe next time try not to breathe in quite so much slime? For my part I’ll see what I can do about not getting sliced up and paralyzed.” He held out his fist for a bump. “Agreed?”

Ryouma bumped back. “I've got it all planned out for next time,” he said. “We send Katsuko's clones in, and we sit back and sip cocktails.”

“Very civilized. I like it. Although taichou might frown at drinking on the job…” Genma shrugged and smiled. “I’ll just have to spike the sports drinks.”

“Alcoholic juice-boxes? You should sell them in the barracks. You'd make a fortune.” A mischievous gleam sparked in Ryouma’s eyes.

“Right until I got court-martialed,” Genma agreed. “Clearly what I’d need to do is find some patsy to be the front man.” He stopped at an unmarked door in the middle of the hall, pressed a coded sequence against the keypad lock, and pushed it open. Late afternoon sunshine and the scent of spent cigarettes filtered in. “We can cut through here,” he said, “and save ourselves some walking. Want to go into town or hit the cafeteria?”