Natsumi glanced down, dismayed, at her loosely belted yukata and little wooden bathing bucket. Well... Better his room than the hall. And he'd seen her in much less, anyway.

And he was distracting her again. How did he do that?

"Nineteen months," she echoed, as he stood back to hold the door for her. "Recruited." At least he hadn't softened that blow. Recruited for ANBU at nineteen, back when people were telling her she'd never make special jounin and shouldn't wear herself out trying... She shed her geta, leaned against the gleaming formica surface of the kitchen counter, and stared blindly at the worktable where Ibiki built his model ships. The little drawers of tools and parts were all carefully labeled, and there was a half-finished boat on a stand, with a neat array of spars spread out around it. Ibiki's room was one she'd never had to tidy while visiting, even when they were children. He appreciated the importance of well-ordered surroundings and a well-ordered mind as much as she did.

The spider plant on his windowsill was beginning to wilt. She focused on that instead.

"That's the Intel uniform, isn't it? Takeo's is the same, except he doesn't have the coat or the gloves. And his generally isn't ironed." Her brother turned artfully dishevelled into a fashion statement. Half the time she was convinced he did it solely to drive her mad.

"I didn't know ANBU Intelligence agents wore the same uniforms as regular village Intel. Should I have guessed? I wondered why you and Takeo never mentioned running into each other, but I thought you were both just busy. And you and he never got along very well, did you? Still."

Nineteen months. And he'd never said anything, even when she babbled about how close she was to finally receiving her promotion to special jounin, even when he sipped green tea and listened to her plot out her assault on her dreams.

"Did you really not believe I could do it?"