Ryouma nodded. For a moment he couldn't speak; his lips shaped words his throat failed to deliver. When Kakashi pulled Tsume away, slipping his other hand under her hips and lifting her into the air, Ryouma finally found his senses and his voice.

"My drugs're no good. I want whatever she's got."

He pushed himself to his feet and stood wavering between the bed and the wall. His feet were cold on the bare tile, and his pajama pants were absurdly thin and cut a little too short. He shivered, and edged a little closer to the bed.

Tsume was so small. Sharp-edged, with delicate bones stretching the thin skin at wrists and cheekbones and chin. She smiled dreamily up at him, and the white flash of a long canine caught his eye.

"You're wrong," he told her quietly. "I'm not safe. None of us are."

They were shinobi, and that meant strength itself. It meant blood and pain and terror and surviving through all of it. It didn't have to mean not-feeling; Shinobi Rule 25 could drown in a ditch as long as the job got done.

He was a killer, and so were they. Something more than a weapon, less than human, and still together. When he'd given up, they kept going, pushing him on, dragging him past his limits. They were stronger than he was. Smarter. Faster. Better.

Maybe safe was the right word after all.

Ryouma leaned the very edge of his shoulder against Kakashi's, and sighed. "You're both dangerous as hell. Probably kill me before the nurse does."

He didn't have to work terribly hard to manage a smile.