Sometimes Asuma hated being right.

“Well, that sucks,” he said, dropping into a cross-legged seat by Ginta’s head, pulling his hand back. Ginta wasn’t a fan of being touched, he remembered. “How’d Hatake take it? He already tried to throttle my mission partner.”

Though that had been more about the shock of his dog vanishing and waking up to Ibiki’s ugly face, Asuma guessed.

“He what?” Ginta demanded, rusty voiced cracking. “He was awake?”

“For a sneeze, yeah,” Asuma said, leaving out all the throttling. Hatake’s throat had been bruised visibly red, but he was all over blood-coloured and the blankets covered it. “Medic reckons he’s got a cracked skull, but no bleeding. Says you smashed your eye-socket up. Cheekbone, too, looks like.”

Saiyuri gave a curt nod.

“And your nose,” Asuma added. “Didn’t do a bad job on setting it, though. You’re both hypothermic as all hell, but we’re warming you up. Don’t get squirrelly on me.”

Ginta’s eye closed for a long moment, then opened again. “Blood,” he said at random. “There was a lot of blood. I think a lot from my face. Kakashi’s head was bleeding, too.” He focused on Asuma, blue iris picking up a flicker of gold light from the torches; the only alive-looking thing in a face of chewed meat. “Don’t think I could get squirrelly if I tried. I’d probably pass out if I tried to sit up.”

That last was surprisingly linear for Ginta. Which made a nasty kind of sense, seeing as he looked like he’d had all the screwy fun beaten right out of him.

“Don’t worry about the bleeding; Saiyuri-san’s getting you patched up. She’s the medic,” Asuma explained patiently. “Do we need to worry about a break with Hatake, or is he holding it together?”

“He's…” Ginta trailed off, swallowing thickly, and started again. “I don't know. He's pretty raw. I think he wouldn't have cared a whole lot if you guys hadn't found us.”

The dead-level, hangman’s look in Ginta’s one eye made Asuma think he wouldn’t have cared a whole lot, either.

Asuma wet his lips and helped Pakkun climb back into his lap. The little pug huddled close, a mess of damp fur and blood-streaked, loosening bandages. Asuma cupped both hands around the narrow ribcage, siphoning heat into him.

“Start at the beginning,” he told Ginta.