In the week he'd been back in Konoha, Genma hadn't spent a lot of time awake. When he had been, the kaleidoscope of unfamiliar faces parading past his hospital bed had included one constant: Ito Rokusaburo, the hand specialist. With a ninja's livelihood dependent on his ability to not just use his hands as a civilian would, but to channel chakra through them for jutsu, the doctor's skills were much in demand. Genma's was, Ito-sensei had told him, a career-defining case, even for a specialist like himself already top in his field.

It was cold comfort.

Nurses came and went on shift, in a pattern Genma still hadn't quite understood. Doctors came at odd hours when things were going well, at a moment's notice when things weren't. They came at the crack of dawn or nearly midnight, trailing students and associates, to discuss Genma's treatment and apply new jutsu or different drugs. Psychiatrists and Intel debriefers came in hushed pairs, to discuss what had happened on his mission, what the Iwagakure prison had contained, what questions Genma had been asked, and how he hadn't answered. How Kamiyama Kobo and Hoashi Seijuro had died, and Genma nearly so, to protect Konoha's secrets.

Hospital personnel--orderlies, janitors, dietitians, clerks, guards--drifted in and out, some pausing curiously to stare at him, having heard the rumors about his mission. All four members of the ANBU squad that had rescued him had stopped by. One of them had been Kobo's lover, her eyes holding a mixture of fury and grief that felt like an accusation. The commander of the squad was a man almost twice Genma's age, who'd called him son and told him Kobo would have been proud.

When they'd left him in his quiet nest of beeping monitors and carefully placed pillows and splints, Genma had turned a blank face to the wall and prayed not to dream.

ANBU's director Arakaki, and even the Hokage himself had been by. The director had been efficient and a little distant, telling Genma he was receiving a special commendation for bravery. The Hokage had been simply himself, the man for whom Genma would have done it all over again. The visit had been brief, the old man's hands had brushed the hair from Genma's bruised face; his smile had held a benediction. "You did well, Genma," he'd said. He'd brought a gift of tea.

When Sandaime had gone, for the first time Genma'd quietly wept.

Ito-sensei was the constant, though, day after day, spending hours and hours conducting surgeries, painting seals, painstakingly restoring the splinters and fragments of bony scaffolding, the electric wire nerves, the hair-thin chakra conduits, that made up Genma's hands. He was there when Genma woke the first time, there to ease him back into sleep over and over. There for the worst of the pain, for the depths of Genma's terrors, for the moments of elation when his pain was controlled and Genma realized he'd survived.

In a week the man had aged months, hunched over his patient with magnifying lenses hiding his steely eyes. The first time Genma saw his serious face relax into a soft smile, when he'd said quietly, "You're going to make it," it had been like a blessing from the Bodhisattva herself.

If Ito-sensei had someone for him to meet, Genma was willing to meet them. He didn't sit up--he couldn't. Both hands were encased in cages of metal and bandage that looked far more like instruments of torture than the mallet that had actually done the damage. Both feet were immobilized in plaster painted with seals. Every move he might make required coordinated effort, aid from a nurse, and a willingness to ignore pain. It was easier to lie still and simply turn his head towards the door.

There behind Ito-sensei, stood another medic, dressed in white, carrying an armload of papers... Or not a medic? She didn't have the medic's hood, just a lab coat over what looked like a standard chuunin's uniform. Genma gave Ito a puzzled look.