| [Oct. 5th, 2010|07:34 pm] |
Even distracted by the machine's rhythmic torments, Genma caught the way Haruichi's expression subtly shifted from an angry scowl to a worried one. The way his voice lost its hard edge and gained a ragged tint of something weary. A year or so ago, Genma might have made a joke, teased Haruichi back to anger, because the idea of the acerbic medic showing genuine concern would have been alarming. But not now. Things were different now.
A near death and a year's exile for Haruichi, and his return to ANBU not as basement medic but as field operative, was part of it. So was that night nearly a month ago in Genma's apartment, when Genma had mopped up the mess seeing Hyuuga Hiro had made of Haruichi.
So was a mission so terrible Genma wouldn't have had the words to tell Haruichi the story, if Haruichi had really asked. A partner lying in a burn ward, frantic with flashbacks and dread. A panicked wake from a coma with only one thing sure: his closest friend was dead because he'd failed. The miracle of finding he was wrong. Grief for three dead genin and one dead jounin he hadn't even begun to mourn.
A kiss.
Somehow everything had changed. He felt older. Tireder. Like this was far more real than it ever had been before.
"I'm getting better," he told Haruichi quietly. "It looks bad, I know, but it was a lot worse a few days ago." Pain made him grit his teeth, as the chakra stimulation kicked in. He waited for it to pass, eyes locked onto Haruichi's milky irises. "I've had worse." Four years ago, when it had been both hands, and there had been no best friend and partner by his side. "Rai's had worse." In the war, as alone as Genma had been, handsome face forever disfigured before he'd even grown a full beard. "We're getting better." |
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