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cherrynojutsu · 3 years

Text

Title: Like Gold

Summary: Sasuke grapples with love and intimacy regarding his developing relationship with Sakura after returning to the village from his journey of redemption. Kind of a character study on Sasuke handling an intimate relationship after dealing with PTSD and survivor’s guilt in solitude for so long. Blank period, canon-compliant, Sasuke-centric, lots of fluff and pining, slowly becomes a smut fest with feelings.

Disclaimer: I did not write Naruto. This is a fan-made piece solely created for entertainment purposes.

Rating: M (eventual nsfw-ness)

AO3 Link - FF.net Link - includes beginning/ending author's notes

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Chapter 3/?: Focalize

It is a tranquil spring evening by the time Sakura appears within view behind the hospital's glass entryway, a blur of carnation and sage and ivory. It is just a few minutes past seven; it seems she is waving goodbye to what he assumes is the receptionist further into the building, out of sight. Then she’s pushing one of the doors open with her shoulder and coming into focus, pastel colors subdued in dusk.

Sasuke notices she’s carrying a plain tote bag, and that there are also two large books and what looks like something reminiscent of a magazine in her hands, neatly stacked and held to her chest. She is wearing a sweater that is slightly oversized, a desaturated green.

Her face lights up when she sees him standing there, leaning against one of the blue columns situated a few steps away, closer to the road; her expression belays something like a mixture of ardor and avidity, and as she approaches, he also observes her cheeks match her hair.

His heart swells pleasantly in his chest; any shred of loneliness he felt in the past few hours dissolves.

“Sasuke-kun,” she chimes in affectionate greeting as she ambles over to him, all lenity and upturned lips.

“Sakura.” Her eyes flash lighter, more vibrant, as she gets closer; they are reflecting glow from a nearby streetlight that flipped on promptly at seven, an electrified yellow-green.

There is a short moment in time where they just gaze at each other, scant amount of steps between them, an oblivion of chartreuse and charcoal in spring twilight.

“How was your first day back?” She finally asks, smiling up at him.

He thinks it over for a second as he studies her, a gentle breeze of springtide. “...Fine. I saw Kakashi and the dobe.”

Her smile shifts into a knowing one. “I’m going to guess paperwork and Ichiraku’s.”

He pulls the health screening forms out of his pocket in answer, and her dimple makes an appearance.

“You can come by tomorrow just after eight in the morning, if that works for you; I’ll be here.” Different hours than today, then, he presumes.

He feels he should clarify that she’s not coming in early just for his sake. “...Shouldn’t I make an appointment?”

Sakura shakes her head. “Thursdays and Fridays I don’t have appointments or surgeries until a little later in the day. The majority of those mornings are set aside for medical research and correspondence with some of the clinics. As long as it’s before eleven, I can step away from things for a bit.”

Research. Interesting. She hadn't mentioned much about that in her letters; he hadn't realized it was something she did regularly. “What kind of research?”

She blinks in surprise, and he thinks she looks a little sheepish. “...It depends. Right now we’re doing some longitudinal studies on mice; behavioral assessment in accordance with certain stimuli, neurobiological response, brain scans, that sort of thing... I’ve also got some poisons I’m looking at for antidote development, but they’re pretty rare, so it’s not super pressing.”

His eyes flick to the books in her arms, a silent question. Her lips quirk upwards even more, then; he tries not to focus on them for too long, because she’s shifting the texts so he can read the titles. The thin magazine-like one is labeled Progress in Neuro-Psychopharmacology and Biological Psychiatry; it must be a research journal. The top book reads Neuroanatomy Through Clinical Cases, and the other reads Molecular Mechanisms of Neurotransmitter Release.

“...Some light reading,” he comments dryly, his version of a joke, and he revels in her soft exhale of breath, a shy version of a laugh. He has missed it.

“I suppose. I actually need to return these; they’re almost due. I meant to do it yesterday, but...” She’s blushing again. Vivid eyes meet his hesitantly before sweeping away. “...I forgot.”

Heat edges up his neck.

“I… wasn’t sure what you wanted to do this evening,” she continues, pursing her lips a little as her fingers clutch the books closer to her again. “I thought maybe we could swing by the library? I’d like to take a quick look to see if they have some new things in yet; it shouldn’t take very long.”

Sasuke muses that Sakura absolutely is the type to visit the library regularly. He used to go often, when he was younger. He wasn’t checking out books of that caliber, though; he wonders how long she’s had them. He also ponders momentarily if rogue ninja status is enough for the powers that be to revoke your library card from the system. Probably.

He hasn’t been able to read regularly for awhile, being away; books have been unnecessary weight, something extra to carry, and also a distraction from what he was trying to accomplish. Though he would accompany her wherever regardless, he realizes he would like to start reading again. It would be something to occupy his free time, when she is busy.

He nods his assent.

“Okay,” she breathes, looking a little relieved and meeting his eyes again, luminescent jade. "They close at eight today, so we should probably get going."

He nods again, glancing down at the books still in her arms. He considers for a second, then holds his hand out. Sakura blinks in confusion, long lashes skimming her cheekbones.

“...I’ll carry them,” he offers, neck heating up again as she stares. “...If you’d like.”

Her skin blooms with color, darker than earlier. “Oh. Thank you.” She hands them to him carefully, soft fingers brushing his. Her touch is delicate, incredibly distracting; her glowing cheeks, even moreso.

She adjusts her bag over her shoulder and then turns; he falls into step next to her as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

They walk just east of the hospital, which tells him the library is likely still in the same location, despite Konoha’s changing landscape. Some of the buildings they pass along the way are under construction. That seems to be a recurring theme in the village right now; much of what he saw earlier today passing through with Naruto was the same. Sasuke wonders if the library will have expanded, too. He doesn’t think he’s passed by it, yet.

There are a few people milling about, but not nearly as many as earlier. He supposes the majority of residents must be retired for the evening, inside their homes with family. There are a few restaurants they pass that smell fairly appetizing, but Sakura doesn’t say anything, so he concludes he was right in thinking that she has eaten already.

“So, how were things with Kakashi-sensei and Naruto?” Sakura asks conversationally, peering up at him from his right. “Anything other than paperwork?”

Sasuke contemplates before responding. “...Naruto and I went apartment hunting.”

Pink brows furrow a little bit as she grins. “Did you invite him?” She asks, though he suspects by her expression she already knows the answer.

He shakes his head. “Kakashi mentioned it as I was leaving and he invited himself.”

She laughs, then, glancing in the direction of the mountain of faces at their old sensei. “Yeah, that sounds like him. He probably appreciated a morning with Naruto out of his hair. He’s been helping there a lot, when he’s not on missions.” She pauses, then adds, “I imagine apartment hunting with Naruto would be pretty draining, though. He’s gotten a little better at cooling it with the nonstop chatter since Hinata, but not by a ton.” She stops again, thinking, before inquiring, “Did you end up finding a place?”

Sasuke nods. “It’s north of here.”

She smiles again, then purses her lips as if she’s considering whether to say something more or not. Finally she adds, green eyes darting to his and then looking away shyly, “...Not too far away, then.”

His gaze softens. “...Not too far.”

They amble by a few street vendors selling gardening supplies, closing up carts for the evening; they must be doing fairly well, as all that’s left over from the day's plantable wares are saplings here and there, and a few starters, small labels detailing their required care poking up from the dirt containers they’re sitting in. There are several taller displays interspersed between carts, stocked with watering cans, spades, gloves, and the like. Sasuke thinks it is quite trusting of the merchants to leave their goods out overnight, evidently without fear that they will be stolen or damaged; many of them are walking away holding only money boxes. It speaks to the relative security of Konoha, in comparison to most of the places he's been.

“Did you get everything you needed for your apartment today?” Sakura asks him after they meander a few more steps.

He blinks. “...Mostly."

“Was there something in particular you wanted to do, after the library? We could stop by a store, if they’re open, and get what you're missing.”

He shakes his head, then admits, “I… didn’t have anything planned.” He worries, then, that maybe he was supposed to plan something. They’re together now, or at least he hopes they are; he'd kissed her, and he would like to, again, if they're alone. Maybe this should have been more formal. He then thinks he should answer the second part of her inquiry: a box and a drying rack would probably be easy to find at a general store, but the majority of places in Konoha that are open past seven only sell food. “...I think the store I went to closed at seven,” he adds.

Sakura looks as if she’s deliberating again. “What are you missing, still?” He notices she doesn’t seem upset that he didn’t plan anything; maybe it’s okay.

It takes him a moment to respond, carefully. “...A small storage box, and a laundry rack.”

She brightens. “I actually have a spare drying rack that I'm not using, if you want it. The washing machine in my unit broke in February, and when my landlady replaced it, she got a washer/dryer combo.” She thinks, then adds, “...And I think I have an empty shoebox in my closet; would that be big enough?”

Something like serendipity unfolds in Sasuke’s chest and begins to vine between his ribs. He thinks unbidden of the blooming cherry blossom tree he can see from his window, just within reach, if he only goes beyond the glass.

He nods. “...Thank you.”

Multifaceted eyes peer up at him warmly. “No problem.” Her cheeks darken again. “We could… walk for a while, and then swing by there at the end. If you want.” Her fingers are gripping the strap of her bag a little tighter. “I wouldn’t mind walking by your building at some point before that, so I… so I know where it is.”

Sasuke nods again, heart skipping a little. He had hoped she would show him where her apartment is tonight, too; he would like to walk her home. He also hopes ‘walk for a while’ means he gets to spend more time with her between the library and going by his building, before they go to hers.

He thinks maybe he should voice that. It comes out as a question. “...We could walk around a bit after the library?”

She’s gazing up at him with red cheeks and smiling with a gentle light in her eyes. “...I’d like that,” she murmurs.

His ears feel warm again.

They turn a corner, and then they are at the library. There is a small expanded portion of the building on the south side now, and it is painted a slightly different mauve-leaning gray than it used to be, but otherwise it appears the same. When they near the entrance, Sakura pulls open the door for him, since his hand is occupied.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, before they head inside, bell on the door jingling.

The librarian working at the front desk nods at Sakura in recognition as they enter, a fairly young woman with chestnut hair. The librarian Sasuke remembers was quite a bit older, elderly now that he’s thinking about it. He briefly wonders if she passed away in his absence. The thought makes him morose; he hopes she just retired. She had always been kind to him.

“Finished with those already, Sakura?” The woman asks, friendly and motioning to the books in Sasuke’s arm as he makes his way to the desk to set them down, Sakura beside him. She must know her well.

“Yes; the journal was interesting, this time. Very relevant to the experiments we're running, and much more substantial than the last edition.” There is something somewhat critical in her voice regarding the referenced last edition, as if something in it wasn’t up to her academic standards. She’s well within reason to be captious; she has become an expert in her field in a rapid amount of time, and if she’s doing research regularly, he’s sure she has the data to back up her assessment. He wonders just what kind of experiments she’s running that have to do with neuro-psychopharmacology; whatever they are, he imagines they must be complex.

The woman is wearing a name tag that reads Ichika, Sasuke can see now that they’re closer. Sakura pulls out what must be her library card from her tote bag; it’s connected to a lanyard with several keys and what he presumes is an ID badge for the hospital.

“Thank you," the librarian says as Sakura hands her card over. As she does so, the woman glances at Sasuke with brown eyes, and then back to Sakura, as if waiting for an introduction. “And this is?”

“This is Sasuke,” she answers, smiling, then adds, “Uchiha.”

“Welcome,” the woman named Ichika greets him, without any malice. Sasuke wonders if she just doesn’t know who he is, or if she’s being friendly because of Sakura’s presence. Maybe it’s because she’s a civilian.

“...Thank you,” he offers sincerely after a moment.

“It was nice of you to carry those books. I know from experience they’re quite heavy. My name’s Ichika.” She gestures to her name tag. “I don’t suppose you like to read as much as Sakura does?” Ichika laughs as she hands Sakura’s card back and starts scanning the books as returned. “I think by now there are more books in the library that she’s read than ones she hasn’t.”

Sasuke glances at Sakura knowingly, and she looks downwards bashfully for a second.

“...I like to, but I don't think I’d understand half of what’s in these,” Sasuke answers honestly, turning his gaze back to the librarian. He sees Sakura flush out of the corner of his eye.

Ichika laughs. Sasuke thinks then that she really must not know of his prior rogue ninja status. “I usually have her write down the titles of the books she’d like us to add, because I don’t know that I can even spell some of the words.” She squints at the last book. “ Molecular Mechanisms of Neurotransmitter Release. I haven’t the faintest idea what a neurotransmitter is, or what it would be releasing.”

Sakura smiles. “Neurotransmitters are the body’s chemical messengers. A release is when the neurotransmitter causes a response in the receiving neuron; they can be disrupted in diseases and biological toxins. Tetanus is a good example; it goes up synaptic terminals of interneurons where it blocks the release of inhibitory neurotransmitters. The result of the block is that motorneurons become overactive, and then cause muscle contractions and spastic paralysis, like lockjaw.”

Ichika blinks blankly. “I don’t know where you keep that information in your head, Sakura, because it certainly wouldn’t fit in mine. Guess I’ll try not to step on any nails in the meantime.” She’s shaking her head, but her tone is amicable. “Well, they’re all checked in, with a few days to spare. I left out the new journals and that other book you asked about in the usual spot, back in the Medicine section.”

Sakura nods, and the librarian’s gaze turns back to him.

"Would you like a library card?”

Sasuke is glad he won’t have to ask. “...I used to have one. I’m not sure if it’s still on file.”

“I can check our records, if you want to browse in the meantime. If it’s not still on file, we can set you up with a new one; you can take books today either way, if you find some you’re interested in.”

Sasuke nods; that was easier than he thought it would be. “...Thank you.” Ichika turns to approach a row of filing cabinets a bit further back behind the main desk area, he assumes to check for his name in their database; he turns to Sakura.

She’s smiling at him as if she wants to ask him a question, but she doesn’t say anything. When she turns to journey further back into the library, he follows. They pass through two interior rooms, organized by genre and alphabet just the same as they had been years ago. The shelves are a little fuller than they used to be; with the population expanding, it makes sense that they now have a wider selection available.

They turn a corner to another interior room, and suddenly he sees a familiar face. His replacement is hunched over in a corner, nose buried in a book that appears from its cover to be about painting. When Sasuke inspects the rest of the room, he sees that the majority of the books in this section have titles related to art.

“Oh, hey, Sai,” Sakura greets casually, heading over to him. Dark eyes glance up at her from his book. Seeing him here must be a regular occurrence, given her lack of surprise.

"Hello, Ugly,” he responds, somehow both cheerful and monotone all at once. Sasuke frowns. He’d been around Sai a few times following the war, before he left for his travels. He never liked his nickname for Sakura.

Sai then looks to him, still standing at the threshold of the room, keeping his distance. He knows him, but not well.

“Welcome back, Traitor," he adds, tone friendly enough. Sasuke supposes that one’s fair. He inclines his head minutely, hand in his pocket.

Sai twists his gaze back to Sakura. "Have you recovered from your birthday extravaganza?"

Sakura blanches and stiffens a little in surprise as Sasuke eyes her with great interest; clearly this was not something she’d expected to be asked about. "Uh… Yeah. It doesn't take long; I eat during and can heal my headache the morning after."

Sai nods. “Yes, Beautiful said you didn’t get nearly as plastered as she wanted you to.” The way he says it is with way too positive of an inflection, as if he’s talking about it being great weather outside instead of crude wording for getting drunk.

Sakura rolls her eyes, then. “She would think that.” She pauses, then looks at Sai carefully. "Ino should be back tonight, right?"

"Yes. I am excited. I'm feeling quite amorous."

Sasuke twitches and his frown sinks deeper, but Sakura rolls her eyes as if she is used to this lack of filter, and gently pushes his book into his face, firmly but carefully so as not to damage it.

"Too much information. Just say you miss her."

Sai smiles as he moves the book away. "It is less information than Beautiful gives."

"That's because she's not normal," Sakura replies, sighing. Sai nods almost mechanically, as if he is cataloging this tidbit on human social interaction away in a filing cabinet for future reference.

There is a pause that is just a bit too long, before Sai offers, “I am researching for an upcoming painting.” Sasuke doesn’t know Sai well enough to understand, but Sakura does; apparently this is his way of telling her that he is busy with his book.

"I won’t keep you, then. Don't let her forget about our plans, though, and tell her I missed our spar this week."

Sai smiles. "She was preparing a new playlist prior to her mission." This also interests Sasuke, but not as much as Ino trying to get her ‘plastered’. He is for some reason having great difficulty imagining Sakura even a little drunk.

Sakura sighs deeply through her nose this time, and says flatly, with no enthusiasm, "Great.” After a beat, she adds, “Well anyways, tell her I say hi. See you. Good luck with your painting.”

Sai nods, and Sakura then turns to go a different direction, Sasuke following close behind. They pass through four more interior rooms before they finally make it to the Medicine section towards the back of the building, where one book and two more medical journals are sectioned neatly away in an empty portion of shelf. The book is just as thick as the one she’d just returned.

“I didn’t know you liked to read, still,” Sakura mentions as she carefully picks up the stack. She’s smiling at him again; that must be what she wanted to say earlier. Maybe she’d expected Sai would be there, that they would pass through the room he was sitting in, and that’s why she’d held off.

Sasuke nods. “...I haven’t read much in a while.”

Jade eyes are soft on his. “Well, if you want to look for a bit, I could look, too.”

He nods again.

XXX

Roughly twenty minutes later, Sasuke leaves the library with Sakura, comparing what they’ve checked out underneath the streetlight just outside; the light has faded enough that it is a bit difficult to read without it.

They still had his information on file after all, though the woman, Ichika, had him fill out a renewal slip and updated his contact information to his new address before giving him a new card. It is a strangely comforting and nostalgic feeling, to know that he was still present in the archives of Konoha in ways he had been unaware of.

He had picked out two books: one about the history of kenjutsu in Fire Country, and another historical text documenting the overthrow of the daimyo in the Land of Silence. He has never been there, given it is beyond the reach of Shinobi authority; he figured it would be interesting to read about. With it being a samurai-led country, it made sense to read at the same time as the book on kenjutsu.

“These sound like you,” Sakura says after scanning the titles of what he’s picked, glancing up at him kindly as she rotates so he can read the information of her own. Cradled in her arms are the Journal of Cognitive Neuroscience, the other scholarly journal, Human Brain Mapping, the book from the Medicine section titled Translational Research in Traumatic Brain Injury, and what appears to be a fiction book, an addition to the others, titled Spoiled Suitopi.

“You read fiction, too,” he observes as he reads the title of the last one, and she takes this as her cue to shift them back together neatly into one stack, largest to smallest.

She laughs a little. “I try to. It’s a good mental reset after reading medical texts; everything starts to blur together after a while. This was actually a recommendation from Ino; she’s into the dramatic stuff, clearly. Sometimes they’re decent.”

Curiosity gets the better of him, and he decides to ask. “...A birthday extravaganza?”

She smiles timidly, expression shifting to something a little embarrassed. “I wouldn’t call it that; she showed up at my apartment last weekend with ingredients for drinks, and then we watched terrible movies in my living room.”

Sasuke is learning all kinds of things about Sakura this evening. “No Sai?”

She shakes her head. “No, that’s a me and Ino thing; he doesn’t really pick up on the nuance of them being terrible, and we figure we don’t want to give him poor examples to follow… he’s got enough of those already, dating her.” She grins a little, then. “Also, he can’t really handle his liquor.”

Sasuke thinks Sakura must be able to hold hers fairly well; she had seemed pretty confident earlier, regarding the morning after. He knows her mentor Tsunade has quite a reputation. He himself has never drank much.

“He’s... interesting.”

Sakura shrugs nonchalantly. "He's better than he used to be, regarding the oversharing. Ino is worse, honestly.”

He considers her words, then decides to drop the subject, because he doesn’t want to think about that. Sakura had said in her letters that Ino and Sai were together; he can only imagine what she knows about them, likely most of it against her will and learned in the manner he's just witnessed.

He shifts his attention upwards; a few stars are starting to peek their way into the night sky. He follows their path north, to the barest hints of lavender sinking below the horizon. It has become even more silent outside, fewer people and slightly cooler temperatures. There is still a breeze. They spent longer in the library than he'd anticipated.

He’s not sure what time she usually goes to sleep; if she works at eight, it’s probably early. He wonders if he should ask.

“Thank you for going with me. I’m sorry it took a little longer than I thought,” she says, before the question comes to him. He shifts his eyes back towards her; he’s about to tell her not to apologize because he clearly spent time browsing, too, but she’s already speaking again. “You said your apartment is on the north side, right?”

He inclines his head in an affirmative.

“We could walk that direction, if you want; there are a few newer things on that side of town I could point out that are kind of interesting. If…” She pauses, as if considering her wording. “If you haven’t seen them already, I mean.” She gestures to his selection from the library, gripped in his hand. “We could drop off your books, too. Not as much to carry back, then, with the box and the laundry rack.”

“...I’d like that.”

She smiles up at him again, tender effervescence. He realizes as they start making their way north that they both have been talking in more hushed voices, as if the blanket of nighttime shifting atop the village has quieted them in addition to their surroundings.

There is something soothing about treading around at nightfall with her. The village is well-lit enough that it’s fairly easy wandering, and lights emanating from windows cast everything softer, more inviting phosphorescence sifting onto the pathway beneath their feet. Earlier today, trekking back and forth between businesses and his apartment, it had felt more unfamiliar, like there was a disconnect and he was just passing through, despite the knowledge that he was transporting things to a permanent living space. It feels decidedly less transient next to Sakura, a hint of sweetness in tart recollections. He watches their shadows for a fleeting moment, cast close together to the right of them, near touching, and occasionally faded by windowpane glow.

There is a casino she points out a few blocks down where Tsunade apparently used to lose money fairly regularly. She explains it was her mentor’s favorite because it was somewhat close to the residence typically taken up by the Hokage; she used to call it lucky, even though she never won. Sasuke finds out through this story that the Hokage residence is still sitting empty; Kakashi has apparently still not moved there, preferring instead to stay where he has been residing for years. Sakura mentions in a softer tone that she thinks it’s because of his apartment’s proximity to the graveyard where his old teammate, the Nohara girl, is buried.

There is a long stretch of silence in which Sasuke considers just how Kakashi has always seemed able to see straight through him. He’s fairly certain the girl had been a medic, too.

“...Naruto’s house isn’t far from the Hokage’s office, either,” Sasuke observes finally, changing the subject. He’s with her right now; he doesn’t want to ruminate too long. He thinks that's improvement.

Jade eyes sparkle up at him. “No, it’s not. I’m pretty sure that was on purpose; I don’t think they intend to move again. I’m sure he’ll give you the tour eventually - he’s pretty proud of their place; Hinata keeps it pretty nice - but it has some extra rooms.”

He tries not to think about the implications of that for too long. Naruto being in charge of a tiny human is not a very reassuring thought, even with his apparent strides in social awareness.

They pass a yakitori place she mentions is good, a few more blocks down. It seems pretty calm for such a restaurant, not as busy as Ichiraku’s usually is, though it’s later now and they’re likely getting ready to close. “I’ve been there with Naruto and Hinata a few times,” she tells him. “At least, when we can convince him to go eat something other than ramen.”

Sasuke hadn’t realized Sakura was that close with Naruto’s wife, though it makes sense instantaneously; she has known her for years. He thinks for a second before questioning, “Is she still as quiet?”

Sakura purses her lips in thought. “She talks more, now, for sure, but she’s still pretty shy around people she doesn’t know well.” She smiles, then. “I think Naruto has been really good for her, actually. Her for him, too; they balance each other out well.”

He supposes that’s true; perhaps Hinata is the reason for Naruto’s continued emotional growth. He ponders momentarily whether he and Sakura will balance each other out well.

She’s looking at him as if he should say something, so he does. “...He had vegetables in his ramen today.”

Sakura laughs. “Yes, she does force vegetables into his food every once in a while, now, so he's more used to them. I think she might have slipped Teuchi some money to start throwing them in his orders, to be honest."

Sasuke snorts, because of course that would be how that came about.

"It’s for the best," Sakura continues, lips quirking upwards still. He tears his eyes away from her mouth after a second. "He was eating pretty much all noodles and junk for so long. Hopefully it’ll start to cancel out with a few more years.”

As they walk farther, he starts to recognize things from earlier today; a bed of alabaster azaleas surrounding a residential building painted green, and a rather large street sign on a corner, right next to an ornate bench. They are getting fairly close to his apartment building. He holds off on saying something for a little longer, though, because he wants to spend more time with her. He hopes that's not too selfish; he has missed her. A lot.

“There’s an interesting place over there,” Sakura notes, pointing out a clearly aged building that he thinks he walked by on his return trip from the market earlier in the afternoon. “They’re only open two or three days a week, but it’s antiques now. I don’t usually buy anything other than books, but it’s fun to look through; they get rare ones in, from time to time. The owner is really nice.”

He nods. That would be a good way to spend an afternoon. He suspects she must have a collection of books at her apartment, then. He wonders how many.

She is mute for a moment, as if in thought, as they pass through another intersection. He wonders if he should be adding more to the conversation, but it doesn’t feel like an awkward silence; just an easy one.

He spies another familiar sign, this one advertising the market hours. “...My building is a few blocks this way,” he mentions quietly, loath as he is for this evening spent with her to come to an end. She looks up at him for a moment, then nods, and he subtly starts leading her in the general direction of his apartment complex.

His building comes into view a short time later. He points it out right before they pass beneath the cherry blossom tree, and Sakura nods in recognition. “Sai used to live somewhere over in this area, before he moved in with Ino. I’m not sure where, exactly. I know he liked how quiet it was, though.”

Sasuke nods as he pulls his key from his pocket, and they cross the street. He had been right about the light pollution; there is little enough of it that one can see the stars rather clearly, more so than one could from the library.

He wonders if he should perhaps invite her in. He thinks of the letters, still sitting on the small end table in the living room.

She saves him from making the decision. “I’ll wait here,” she tells him politely, leaning up against the old brick. He nods.

He goes up the stairway, down to the last door on the right. Once he unlocks his door, he places the two books on the kitchen table inside, and locks the door again behind him. It only takes him a minute before he is coming down the stairs again.

She smiles at him, then blinks when he holds out his hand. She colors, he thinks, when she realizes he’s offering to carry her books for her again; it’s harder to tell with the lack of light.

As she hands them to him carefully, she says, voice soft, “My place is a little south of the library; not by too much.” Her eyes flit to his, then dart away; there is a careful smile on her lips. “Maybe a little over ten minutes from here.”

They wander together in an easy silence, her leading the way more now. There are a few crickets chirping. It was fairly warm out today, so it makes sense that insects are starting to make their return. A gentle breeze continues to waft through from time to time.

He walks close enough to her that he can faintly smell raspberries, each time the wind blows just right. There are even fewer people out and about now, it being closer to nine in the evening; the road is fairly deserted. They go by the library again, lights turned off, and more closed businesses. It soon transitions into older construction that he assumes must be residential.

She was right; it doesn’t take long, around twelve minutes at a leisurely pace, before she points out a building further down the street. “That’s the one.”

As they get closer, he notes that hers is also an older building, built out of cream brick; there is something nice about that realization, that she also apparently chose something older with a bit of history over something brand new. There are few enough street lights that one can see the stars overhead well at night here, too.

“There’s a patio or balcony attached to each unit,” Sakura remarks once they’re closer, pointing at one on the northernmost part of the second story that is brimming with potted plants, much more than any of her neighbors’. “That one’s mine.”

As they round the corner of the building, he assumes to reach the front entrance, she tells him it was one of the reasons she selected this apartment, aside from its proximity to the hospital and her family's residence. "My parents' house has balconies for both bedrooms. It was strange to imagine not having one. This one’s attached to the bedroom, too; it’s nice to sit out there, if the weather’s not too extreme."

It’s a smaller complex, only two stories high. He thinks there must be six units, given its size and the trio of balconies they passed beneath, three small patios in their shadows on the ground level. It is somewhat close to the hospital, as she’d said, but far enough away that it's not necessarily an area that would bustle with activity, even during the day’s busiest hours; it is very still right now, peaceful. They pass through a glass door that is not locked, leading into a common area with six doors, three on the main level, and then three on the second level, with a metal stairway leading upwards. A huge, two-story high bay window sprawls by the main door, overlaid in a diamond pattern, which must allow light to stream in the majority of the day.

Each of the doors to individual units has at least one or two plants framing it, but he knows which one is hers right away. An array of thriving potted plants surround the upper northernmost side door, spilling out to surround the entire right side of the banister that frames the edges of the building. Hers is also the unit furthest on the upper right, like his; another nice realization. A few of her plants are flowering, but for the most part they are varying shades of green, with accents of paler colors. Desaturated and calming, just as he’d guessed she would like, rather than intensities of marigold and cobalt and fuchsia. It's hard to tell in the dim lighting, but as they get closer, he thinks that the few blooms are pistachio and lavender and blush in color, like her hair.

Or her cheeks. Jade eyes are on him again as he finishes walking up the stairway behind her.

He follows her to her door and leans a little against the railing behind him while she grabs her keys from her bag; he doesn’t think she’d mind if he came in for a few minutes, but she didn’t explicitly invite him, and he wants to be polite.

Once she’s unlocked it, she turns back to him to take her books. Her hand brushes his, and it’s incredibly distracting, again. “I’ll be right back.” She smiles at him before disappearing inside her apartment.

She leaves the door slightly ajar behind her, and he tries not to look. He busies himself with observing what appears by her neighbors’ doorways instead. No light emanates from beneath the doors of any of them; he wonders, this being older construction, if more of the tenants here are older, and are perhaps in bed already. The upper units probably aren’t occupied by extremely elderly people, given the stairs, but the ground level units’ decorations appear more classic and refined, less youthful. He notes the pots surrounding the other doors are very matchy, but Sakura’s are less so; hers are various shades of neutral terracotta colors, soft and inviting, some with unique shapes.

She’s back quickly, foldable drying rack and shoebox in tow, closing her door mostly behind her. She also must have set her tote bag aside; it's no longer situated on her shoulder.

He realizes all at once as she meets his eyes, handing him the items she’s gifting him, that he does not want this evening to end.

“Thank you,” he says, voice husky.

“You’re welcome,” she murmurs, just as hushed.

Sasuke studies her eyes for a long moment, trying to commit the life in them to memory, though he already has, he thinks.

“...May I see you tomorrow after you work?” He finally asks quietly, trying to keep the hope out of his tone. He knows he’ll see her for his medical clearance in the morning, but he would still like to spend time with her outside of that, if she doesn't have plans already.

She looks crestfallen, smile slipping a little before coming back. “I would love to see you, but I have dinner with my parents every other Thursday, since I get off at four. They stopped by for a visit on my actual birthday, but they wanted to do cake and a gift tomorrow night after our usual supper time.” She pauses, searches his expression for a moment. “Maybe the day after tomorrow, if you’re not busy? I get off around four on Fridays, too.”

He nods, committing this part of her schedule to memory. “...I’ll meet you at the hospital, then.”

Her smile gets wider. “Okay. I can show you around the other newer parts of the village, if you’d like. The southwest side has really expanded.”

He nods his head in agreement, thinking. He would like to ask for more time with her, before he starts taking mission assignments again, but he also doesn’t want to monopolize all of it; she has years worth of life here, roots other than him that need tending. He hopes she’s saying yes because she actually wants to, and not simply for his sake.

He takes a deep breath, forcing down nervous vulnerability at his next question. “...And Saturday?”

She blinks, then blushes darker, smile growing wider still. She casts her glance downwards to her feet out of shyness, shifting a bit. “Saturdays I work seven to three; I’m going to stop by the market after for some gardening supplies with Ino, but other than that, I didn’t have anything set in stone.” But then jade eyes flick back up at him, and they are slightly apologetic.

His heart sinks for a second, rejection stinging a little behind his eyes. She doesn’t want to see me that often. He’s been absent for too long. She's probably tired of him already, though she hasn’t said anything. He has enjoyed tonight, but he's aware he doesn't make the best company.

“Naruto sent a clone by this afternoon that was going on about an original Team Seven reunion dinner, though. He mentioned Saturday night as a possibility,” she reveals, and his world comes back into focus, heart reversing upwards back into his chest cavity.

Sasuke huffs amusedly, then, relieved. “...Of course he did.”

She sighs wistfully, shaking her head. “Ichiraku’s, I’m sure. I’m pretty sure I’ve tried everything on the menu in triplicate, at this point.”

He eyes her carefully, trying to dry swallow his fear of rejection like a pill. Corrosion, he thinks. “...After dinner?”

Shimmering seafoam again. Happy, transparently pleased, and he’s glad he asked, shoved away the nerves; he’d do it again in a heartbeat, if it’s going to make her eyes look like that. “Of course. We could… hang out here, if you want. Or was there something you had in mind?”

His gaze softens. “Here is fine,” he answers. It is more than fine, actually. He’d go anywhere, if it meant he could soak in her presence longer, but he’s more than a little curious about what her apartment looks like on the inside. His own is pretty sterile, even now mostly put together after the afternoon, devoid of most anything other than necessities. He has an inkling that Sakura is the type to truly make wherever she's living feel like a home, though, given the pleasant spread of life he’s seen spilling out here on her doorstep.

“Okay,” she confirms, dimple reappearing. “I’ll look forward to it.”

There is something in her eyes after a second, gears turning, a question she must want to ask him.

"Would you…" She's talking even more softly, now, hushed as if she's going to scare him away. Her eyes meet his apprehensively as she shifts her weight from one side to the other. "Would you want to maybe... have tea tomorrow morning? I'm… not sure if you have plans or not, but I have a little time, before I work. There's a good place near the hospital, and then after we could get your exam done at eight like we planned."

The vines between his ribs twist pleasurably. She does want to see him, after all. She's not too busy. She's looking at him nervously, as if he would say no, as if he hasn’t spent the last twenty-four hours longing for her company again.

"...I'll look forward to it," he answers quietly, because he will; he likes tea, occasionally. He thinks he will like it better with her.

Her entire countenance brightens somehow, even as she flushes darker. "Oh. Good." She sounds relieved.

"...I can meet you here," he finds himself saying, and her eyes are sparkling at him, now, at what's implied - longer with her, another walk together. "What time?"

She purses her lips now, apparently still nervous. "Would… seven be too early?" Her voice trails off a little, as if in hesitance, as she finishes the question.

He chooses his next words carefully, meaningfully, so there is no uncertainty. "Not at all."

She regards him then like he has done something wholly wonderful, cheeks a rich red in dim light and expression heart-wrenchingly elated.

There is an expectant pause as the oblivion happens again, dimmer now but just as powerful. He really wants to kiss her; he’s been thinking about it the entire evening. He wonders if she has, too, and if maybe she wants him to. There’s no one around, in this little entry area of her small complex, in front of her door and her plants in faded hues.

He decides to go with his gut.

It’s somehow even better, this time, anticipation and lips meeting and a barely audible exhale of breath through the nose on her part, almost like she’s suddenly at ease; he thinks, pleased, that she must have wanted him to. Her hands gently meet his chest, tentatively pressing against him. He would like to do something with his, but it's still occupied, holding what she's supplied him with. He settles for pressing his lips to hers with a little more confidence than yesterday. It’s tender and over much too quickly, much like the evening they have spent together; all soft light settling, lambent and beguiling.

She is crimson when they part for a breath, before shyly directing her gaze away and shifting back down; he realizes that she must have been standing on the tips of her toes to reach him.

Her hands linger on his chest, and then her gaze comes back up to his, almost determinedly.

“I’m… really happy you’re back.” Her face is still flushed, but she doesn’t look away. Her pupils are dilated, bottomless black dwarfing green.

Heat creeps up his neck. His pulse pounds just below her fingertips, as if she’s tugging at his heartstrings with them.

“...I am, too,” he whispers, before he leans down again.

He thinks that he could stay here forever, clutching all that she’s given him, enveloped in a sweet ambrosia of tart berry and newly unfurling plants and soft lips that he’s thought of all day, now against his again.

She gently drops her hands from his chest when they finally part. She’s smiling; she is so pretty.

“Good night, Sasuke-kun.” Her voice is near a whisper. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“...Good night, Sakura,” he murmurs in response.

XXX

The journey from her place to his really is quite quick; he doesn’t see anyone on his way back. Stars are visible almost the entire way, Leo and Ursa Major and Cassiopeia. The moon is a thin sliver amongst them, raised high in the sky.

Once he's inside, he carefully folds out the drying rack she’s given him in the small laundry closet and lays out damp clothes to allow the air to finish the job. He's glad he didn't need to make another trip to the store. A trip with her was better, and she somehow had just what he needed. He thinks perhaps she always has, and his vision has simply been too blurry, obscured by smudged glass, to see it.

Sasuke retrieves the stack of her letters and places them in the box gingerly so as not to further bend them. He stares at the picture for a long time before also stowing it away, sliding the container onto the shelf in the closet for safekeeping.

He doesn’t feel tired yet, and it's not too cold, so he goes to visit the memorial stone, after, as he’d planned. He feels it is the right thing to do, after having been gone so long.

He confronts many things as he sits there, the bevy of crickets and soft swishing of grass the only sounds on this quiet spring evening, a long list of engravings barely legible in the shadows.

Melancholy is one of them, seeping in slowly, as he’d known it would. Grief and acrimony and betrayal, too. A little bit of anger, still. He also experiences sillage, the aroma of his mother’s flower garden and the scent of his aunt and uncle’s baked goods and the smell of an empty house, all blending together in his olfactory senses like it was yesterday, a bitter incense of nostalgia that is hard on the inhale.

This time, though, semisweet berry and antiseptic are also among them, memory fresh in his nostrils, and he experiences a little bit of comfort, too.

Sasuke doesn’t sleep well, after, but when the nightmare comes, gruesome, and he’s awake for the remainder of the night, he has some books to help steady him until seven comes.

#naruto #sasusaku #ssfanfiction #cherry writes #slow burn indeed we doing a snail's pace out here #like gold #fanfiction

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theaggresivepacifist · 6 years

Text

and you, my oldest friend

For the lovely @thegoldensoundtwice, based on this amazing post.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Since I moved home from college in May, I’ve kind of lost contact with a lot of good friends and colleagues, and your amazing blog has been a little bit like having a friend to chat with – especially about the wonderful world of Redwall. Even though we don’t really know each other, your kindness, sense of humor, and incredible eloquence (I will NEVER be over the fic you wrote for me!!!) has been such a gift, and so instead of studying for the GRE I wanted to write you this tale as an early Christmas present and a heartfelt thank-you. Surprise!!!

It is un-beta’d, massive af (I think almost 7K words, so let me know if you’d like a .pdf!), and a tad bit angstier than I was going for at first, but hopefully still an entertaining yarn.

Cheers!!!

It was a glorious midsummer’s evening when she saw Redwall Abbey for the first time.

Her grandfather, a silver-furred old badger named Buckthorn, had told her stories about it, of course, promising to take her there the next time they held one of their fabled feastdays. He was a good storyteller, perhaps the best in Mossflower. But even he couldn’t do it justice.

The Abbey stood tall and proud and majestic at the border of the woodlands, battlements and belltower of ruddy sandstone soaring to the sky. The setting sun gilded the myriad ivy leaves that crept across the stone, turned the climbing roses to an incandescent shade of ruby red. The broad main gates stood open to all comers, and inside she could see colored lanterns glowing in the branches of the trees, reflecting in swirls of red and yellow on the surface of a tranquil pond.

Constance had never before seen anything quite so beautiful.

A motely group of squirrels, mice, hedgehogs, otters and moles welcomed them to table at once, as if they were old friends, and loaded their plates with the most delicious-looking foods a creature could imagine: breads and cheeses, salads and pasties, puddings and berries and flans. All of them were talking at the same time.

“Welcome, both of you! You look famished! Here, this plum cake goes perfect with clotted cream.”

“How about some of this hotroot soup?”

“Don’t be shy, take a few more of these nunnymolers.”

They were given places of honor at a table of Abbey Brothers and Sisters, pleasant mice in cowled brown robes. Being rather solitary by nature, Constance spoke with them only when spoken to, preferring to let her grandfather hold the conversation. She devoted the rest of her attention to eating serving after serving of the scrumptious food and watching the other jolly creatures with interest.

As supper was winding down, with everyone sipping their favorite drinks and nibbling at their favorite sweets, some of the woodland guests, the two badgers included, took it upon themselves to provide entertainment for their kindly hosts. A troupe of voles played reels and jigs on a battered bodhran and sweet-toned reed flutes; a family of harvest mice performed several comedic skits. But Constance and Buckthorn’s act was the most anticipated of the evening. Many Redwallers had never even seen a badger in the fur before, as old Mara, Redwall’s last badger mother, had gone to her rest many seasons ago. The pair of them performed feats of marksmanship with yew longbows, and Constance obligingly wrestled stout waterhogs and burly otter champions, shaking them off like raindrops as the Redwallers shouted words of advice and encouragement.

“That’s the stuff, missie!”

“Hohoho, ole Skip’ll be sore for a full season!”

“Hurr, moind the choild don’t toss ’im into yon pudden!”

She enjoyed the competition, the adrenaline, the feeling of her own strength. The attention was slightly overwhelming. Having humored her hosts, she left her grandfather deep in conversation with old Abbot Cedric and slunk off to the orchards with a pawful of mushroom and leek turnovers, throwing herself down on the cool grass to eat. The night air was velvety-soft, sweet with the perfume of rose and blackberry and late blossoms, and she snuffed appreciatively at it between bites of savory pastry.

“Peaceful, isn’t it?” said a quiet voice, surprisingly close at paw.

Constance bristled slightly, but then relaxed when she spotted the creature, resting against the trunk of a neighboring plum tree. He was just a young mouse, dusky brown, wearing the sandals and sage-green habit of a novice. His eyes were wise and kind.

“I always like to come here in the evenings,” he continued. “It’s nice to sit and watch the sun set over the Abbey. And it’s especially nice to be surrounded by all these good creatures, and hear them laughing and enjoying the feast.”

“I live with my grandfather in Mossflower. I’ve never seen so many creatures all at once,” Constance said. It was unlike her to admit something like that to a strangebeast, but the mouse’s gentle manner somehow put her at ease.

“Do you have many friends in Mossflower?”

“Not really.”

“Well, now you’ve got lots of them here.”

Constance had to smile at that. She extended a broad black paw and gave his a gingerly shake.

“I’m Constance. Pleased to make your acquaintance, friend.”

The mouse made a grave gesture in return, bowing his head over his own folded paws.

“My name is Mortimer,” he said.

By the end of the feast Mortimer and Constance were inseparable; the one’s serious nature perfectly complemented the other’s slight shyness. When she and her grandfather returned for the autumn harvest he showed her around the interior of the Abbey: the dizzying height of the belltower, the best places to sit in Great Hall, the labyrinthine aisles of the cellars where their resident Cellarhog kept special firkins of mulled wine and flowery mead.

Of course, they were both still young creatures, so these sights were soon followed by a tour of the spookiest corners of the attic, the hallways with the best curtains to shelter behind during games of hide-and-seek, and the kitchen larders that held the best snacks. They played in the crisp autumn leaves and dared each other to step paw in the icy pond. He also introduced her to Martin the Warrior, explaining the legend to her as she gazed, transfixed, at the richly embroidered tapestry.

“A mouse fighting a wildcat,” she marveled aloud. “I can’t wait to tell my granddad about this.”

“I thought you’d like to know about Martin,” said Mortimer. “He was brave and strong like you.”

“And then a mouse of peace, like you,” she replied thoughtfully.

Buckthorn was growing too old to make the journey to Redwall as often as Constance would have liked, and so in the springtide she argued and pleaded with him until, finally, he gave her permission to make the trip on her own. She woke well before dawn, packed a generous haversack of supplies, and set out through the woodlands at a steady pace, already full of excitement for the day she had planned. The miles passed swiftly. She arrived at the Abbey by midmorning, just as the Redwallers were finishing their breakfast, and stealthily motioned for Mortimer to leave Great Hall and join her in the orchard. He was thrilled by the surprise, but also full of questions.

“Why are you being so secretive? Where’s your grandfather? How in the name of seasons did you get here so early?”

“I’m here to take you on an adventure,” she told him in a stage whisper. “Think you can sneak out to Mossflower for the day?”

“I’m not sure I’m allowed,” said Mortimer. “I have to help with the washing for the dormitories and –”

“Come on! I’ve been to Redwall lots of times, now you should see where I live. Just tell them you can’t do it! Make something up!”

“I’ll try. Wait here.”

He disappeared for several minutes, leaving Constance to sample some of the early gooseberries. Finally he returned with a subdued expression and a heavy green travelling cloak draped over his Redwall habit.

“I told Brother Oswin I was gathering herbs for the infirmary,” he said, already self-reproachful.

“Don’t worry, it won’t be a fib. We can find some on the way back.”

He cheered up as soon as they set paw in the emerald forest, where new leaves were budding and a kaleidoscope of varicolored wildflowers were blooming. He had never been so far into Mossflower Wood before. Constance named the many birds for him by their plumage and their dulcet voices, and Mortimer paused often to admire fuzzy bumblebees and jewel-toned dragonflies, or flitting butterflies with wings like stained glass.

After a few hours’ march they sat down on the riverbank to rest, shaded by the boughs of an ancient willow. Mortimer said a simple grace over their midday meal. Constance watched the way his eyes closed, his shoulders relaxed, his paws steepled.

“What is it like, being in the Order?” she asked him, around a mouthful of strawberry preserves.

“Well, there’s a lot of book learning.” He brushed oatcake crumbs from his lap and cut a wedge of yellow cheese studded with hazelnuts, whiskers twitching thoughtfully. “Lots of history. We learn about the founders of Redwall and where they came from, and about the rules and vows that all Abbeymice live by. But our most important duty is to provide help and healing and charity to any creature in need of our assistance. Just a few days ago there was a poor weasel with a racking cough –”

“You mean you let vermin into the Abbey?” Constance interrupted.

“He was an honest creature. Sister Teazle and I made him a draught of strong herbs. He was as good as new by the next morning, and gave us some beautiful mussel shells in token of his thanks.”

“He probably came by those while he was off pirating at sea,” she replied dryly. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you can’t trust just anyone. There are a lot of dishonest creatures who would try to take advantage, even here in Mossflower. We’ve had quite a few brushes with robber foxes and ferrets.”

“Trust them or not, my duty is to help them if they require it,” Mortimer said patiently. “But I suppose it’s safer living at Redwall than out here in the forest.”

“I don’t know. It’s not so bad.”

“Oh dear, I didn’t mean it that way at all, truly. Mossflower is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. I think I could stay here by the riverside forever.”

“Well, I think Redwall’s got to be the best place I’ve ever seen,” said Constance, pleased by her friend’s compliment.

“Who knows! Maybe you could come and live there someday.”

After luncheon they crossed the stream, picking a careful path over the slippery stones, and made their way at last to at the badgers’ cottage. It was a snug little house of smooth clay, built back against a rock shelf so that the soft-mossed surface served as the fourth and largest wall. Trailing nasturtiums wove over the doorway and windowsills, their flowers like bright medallions of orange and sun gold. Inside were tables and chairs of Buckthorn’s making, carved out of honey-colored wood, and little trinkets from his many travels: pressed mountain flowers, many-colored stones, bits of seaglass worn smooth as silk.

“It reminds me of our Cavern Hole at Redwall,” said Mortimer, his eyes aglow.

“A neighbor helped me to build this place, a clever old beaver, when I first came to this part of the woods.” Buckthorn straightened from stoking up the hearthfire. “That were when young Constance here was but a tiny badgermaid. Her gran was still with us then.”

“She must have planted that wonderful herb garden of yours.”

“Aye, that’s right. She was a healer like you are, y’know. There’s some rare plants growing there that might interest you.”

The old badger and the young mouse were kindred spirits. Over the course of the afternoon Buckthorn swapped stories with Mortimer and shared with him some of the badger lore that Constance had known since she was a cub, the workings of the tide and the secret phases of the moon, the way to sense the first changings of the season – even old fireside tales, like that of the great snow badger who brought deep winter to Mossflower Wood. Constance was just about to remind them that they needed to get back to the Abbey before nightfall when a sudden spring rain began to lash through the trees, obscuring the woodlands with a heavy sheet of silver.

“Not travelin’ weather, I’m afraid, young ’un,” said Buckthorn, shaking his grizzled head. “You’ll have to stay here for the night.”

“Oh, no,” Mortimer groaned. “I’m going to be in a lot of trouble when I get home.”

“Don’t worry. We can leave as soon as the sun rises,” said Constance, secretly ecstatic that the elements had intervened. “Let’s have a cup of tea, and then I’ll show you how to make a seafaring dish my granddad taught me. Skilly and duff!”

In the morning, as promised, they set out at a run with the first rays of dawn, slipping and squelching on the muddy road. Though they made it to the Abbey in record time, Mortimer’s prediction was soon proved correct. Brother Oswin was waiting for them at the gate with a face like yesterday’s thunder. Without hesitation he took hold of Mortimer’s habit sleeve and began lecturing the young mouse severely.

“We were up all night worrying about you. Abbot Cedric was about to send out a search party! And where in the fur is the sanicle and valerian you were supposed to be gathering?”

Constance blushed at the Brother’s righteous fury, beginning to feel sorry for the part she had played in the whole affair. But Mortimer, recalling the sleepless night they had spent telling tales and playing games while the rain drummed on the cottage roof, could only smile.

For many happy seasons they visited back and forth in this way, growing up and growing ever closer, Constance trekking to the Abbey for feastdays and bringing Mortimer back to the cottage to enjoy languid spring and summer evenings by the riverside. She eventually taught him how to find his way through the woodlands unaccompanied by reading the signs of moss and leaves, and after much effort prevailed upon him to carry a stout ash staff with him on the road (“Someday I won’t be there, and you might have to defend yourself!”), though only because he decided he could use it as a walking stick.

Mortimer made his way to the den often in the winter days when Buckthorn’s health began to fail him, brewing soothing teas and medicines, keeping him company while Constance slept. When the old badger went to his final rest it was Mortimer who said the funeral service, tenderly placing a bundle of early quince on the grave Constance had hacked from frozen ground.

Several days had passed since then, and the two of them sat at table together, sharing a jug of blackcurrant wine to drive off the icy chill. Constance was red-eyed but composed.

“I was thinking of taking some time to myself. Travelling someplace new, like my granddad liked to do.”

“Outside of Mossflower?”

“Perhaps.” She drained the last dregs of her cup, set it carefully back down on the tabletop. “He told me a lot of stories about Salamandastron, the mountain of the fire lizard, where his father and brothers ruled. Maybe it’s time for me to pay a visit there.”

“But surely not until the springtide, friend.”

“No. No, I’ll wait until the snow melts.” Seeking to reassure him, she gave Mortimer a tired smile. He had taken his final vows and now wore the wide-sleeved brown robe of an Abbey Brother, which made him look, if possible, more solemn than ever. “But the sooner the better. I don’t think I’m meant to spend the rest of my life as a farmer. You’ve already found your path, you old fogey, and I’m glad for you. I don’t have that yet.”

For a moment silence fell. It was an end and a beginning. They always had known it might come to this, but hoped it never would.

“You’ll come back to us, won’t you?” Mortimer asked her.

“Of course I will.”

***

It had been a long struggle across shifting sands, chilled and buffeted by the wind. Her mouth was full of grit and her paws stinging from the many tiny cuts left by jagged rocks and sharp blades of spiky sea grass. She was hungry and thirsty and weary to the bone.

But at last, after weeks of travel, the great mountain was in her sights.

A military hare in a buff-colored coat was waiting her at its base; curiously, he seemed to have been expecting her for some time. He swept off his jaunty feathered hat and made a low bow, to which she responded in kind.

“Is this Salamandastron, the mountain of the fire lizard?”

“The very place! And surely you must be the charming Lady Constance, daughter of Iris and Birchstripe, grand-niece to Lord Oakpaw the Valiant, eh wot! By the left! My pater’s pater served under your great uncle!”

“Just Constance, thank you,” she replied firmly, shaking his paw with a grip that made him wince.

“Just Constance, what an odd moniker! Right-o, I’ll give you the full tour. Please to jolly well follow me, madam!”

He led her upwards through a warren of stone corridors, grey and bleak, but fresh with bracing sea air and the tangy smell of salt and seaweed. He was chattering all the way.

“This, dear gel, is the ancestral home of badgers such as your good self, although it’s a few seasons since our valiant Lord went off questing after some wicked corsairs to the south—vile creatures, nasty tatty rats, all of ’em, need a lesson in cold steel. And so but a few of us gallant and handsome hares, such as myself, the humble Corporal Merriwether, remain here, guardin’ his domicile while he’s away, keep the home fires lit, so to speak. I’ll show you the common areas, dormitories and kitchens of course, the forge room, the terrace gardens, perchance even the entrance to the sacred jolly hall of badgers itself…but here’s the ticket, just the place to start. The mess hall!”

As they approached Constance could hear a commotion – at first what she thought was the sound of several creatures shouting, but then recognized as one creature doing three or four different voices, as the mood suited him. Corporal Merriwether sighed.

“That’ll be one of our new recruits. My apologies for the disturbance, marm.”

They rounded the corner and found themselves abruptly in the Salamandastron dining hall: brightly lit by westward-facing windows, with a crackling fire along one wall and long wooden tables and benches arranged in the center of the room. A slightly bucktoothed grey hare in regimental red was leaping and bounding from table to table, his long ears flopping comically about as he berated his lunching comrades, each of whom ignored him steadfastly. Constance had never in her life seen a creature behaving in such an outrageous manner.

“Cowards! Bounders! Fiends! Yah boo, ya rotters, I can outscoff any three of you with my paws behind me back, so there!”

“Steady in the ranks there! What’s all this about, you young terror?” barked the Corporal. The mad hare came smartly to attention and threw him a swift salute.

“Sah! Was simply interested in a little pie-scoffin’ competition, sah! First beast to finish their pie jolly well wins, sah!”

“You ’orrible animal, what on earth for?”

“Simply a spirit-raisin’ game, sah, fun for the troops, good for the morale, eh wot!”

“I could eat,” said Constance mildly, to general surprise. Several of the Long Patrol hares instinctively stood upon seeing the badger in their midst, and the red-coated hare made an elegant leg.

“By Jove! Honored to have such a worthy opponent, I’m sure! May we commence with the challenge, sah?”

The Corporal looked doubtful, but turned on his heel to shout in the direction of the kitchens.

“Oh, dash it all, if the badger Lady wants to humor the lower orders…Cook! A mushroom ’n’ tater pie for the young badgermiss, wot!”

Constance took a seat on a comfortable bench across from her challenger, who sat poised with wooden fork and knife hovering over a massive golden-crusted pie. In a twinkling a stout hare came hurrying over to place before her a pie of similar size, tugging respectfully at one of his ears.

“With the compliments of me goodself, Cook an’ Colonel Puffscut, marm. Rules for a Long Patrol scoffin’ competition are simple: on the count of three, start eatin’. First beast to finish their plate’s the winnah. One…two…three!”

Without further ado the hare across the table began shoveling down forkfuls of pie, gravy dripping from the corners of his mouth. All eyes were on Constance, who in turn was watching her challenger with great amusement. She waited until he had almost finished his portion before locking eyes with him, opening her massive jaws, and wedging the entire pie into her mouth. After three leisurely chews and a draught of nettle beer she swallowed and shrugged at him, wiping her paws fastidiously on a napkin.

“What was that you were saying about outscoffing three creatures at once?”

There was a smattering of applause from the Long Patrol hares, most of whom were glad to see their eccentric comrade taken down a peg.

“Good show, marm!” the strange creature cried sportingly, still covered in mushroom gravy, as he extended a paw for her to shake. “The name’s Basil Stag Hare, doncha know. I think we two fellow faminechops would make awfully good pals!”

“I certainly ’ope not,” the Corporal remarked despairingly to the Colonel. Constance had to hide a sudden grin.

She soon fit in at the mountain fortress: she was a badger in her prime. The hares kitted her up with a runner’s pack and sling, and she took to galloping alongside the patrols in daylight, telling jokes and gulping nutbrown ale by firesides at night. She spent hours in the forge room, smashing metal into arrowheads and sword blades, although she still preferred a simple javelin or the strength of her own limbs above all else. Basil, the renowned, if ridiculous, fur ’n’ foot fighter, taught her to box, a pursuit in which she excelled. A single right cross from one of her massive paws was enough to lay low a ferret or stoat (or once, by accident, an unprepared Lieutenant Swiftscut) for half a season.

A few of her most impressive feats became the stuff of legends in later days, such as the time when Basil convinced her to skip kitchen duty for an unauthorized day of leisure on the shore. It was a baking-hot summer’s morn, and they had unbelted their weapons so that they could swim in the cool green sea. They then sat wolfing down purloined fruit salad and honeyed damson tartlets, using a massive chunk of driftwood – perhaps the wreckage of a lost corsair ship – as a table. It was the badger who heard the approaching pawsteps first, and turned to see two weasels and a fox trying to sneak towards them, toying with their bladehilts.

“I say, chaps,” Basil said, feigning indignance. “This is a private party, d’you mind?”

“Shaddup, rabbit!” snarled the fox. “Don’t try to go fer yer weapons, they’re too far. Wot kind of vittles have ye got there?”

“Oh, a smidgen of this, a smidgen of that. ’Fraid there’s not enough left to share.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. Hand ’em over, or I’ll gut ye!”

With eye-blurring speed the fox drew his rusted cutlass and slashed at the air a hairsbreadth in front of Basil. The hare sidestepped and moved swiftly to stop him, but Constance was faster. With a mighty heave and a sky-shattering roar she levered their picnic table out of the sand, sending food flying and swinging the heavy spar in one fluid motion in the direction of their assailants.

“Blood ’n’ vinegarrrrr!”

CRACK!

All three vermin were knocked poleaxed to the ground, stricken completely senseless. Constance tossed the spar aside with a snort of satisfaction, only to see Basil dancing about on the sand about like a madbeast.

“What’s the matter? Are you wounded?” she demanded, but the hare was merely overcome with awe.

“Absoballylutely spiffin’, wot! Strewth, I’ve never seen anything like it!”

“Well, I thought I heard him ask you to pass the damson tartlet,” she said modestly.

Then there was another incident that aroused much mess-hall gossip later, not all of it friendly. Corporal Merriwether, driven half mad after several seasons’ of Basil and the badger’s endless capacity for trouble, had allowed the pair of them out on a weeklong patrol, accompanied by two companions. They were a few days’ journey from Salamandastron, in the last hours of their assigned mission, when a runner named Gurdee spotted a shabby lean-to built precariously against the cliffs. A mangy grey and white rat was crouched outside at a feeble fire. He did not appear to be armed, but Gurdee’s fellow runner, a hare named Bayberry, was taking no chances.

“Paws where we can see ’em, laddie buck! Just what d’ye think you’re doing on these shores?”

“Tryin’ to keep warm,” the rat said dully.

“Wouldn’t happen to be one of Zivka Bluesnout’s scummy corsairs, would you?”

“A deserter, probably,” Basil suggested, in a voice that seemed to propose moderation, but the rat made no reply, and Bayberry ground his teeth together at the slight. With a nod to Gurdee the pair of them drew their rapiers, perhaps seeking to intimidate him into an answer. Bayberry cut the ropes holding together the rat’s dilapidated tent, and Gurdee stirred up the seacoal with the point of his sword, extinguishing the last frail sparks of the fire.

“Stay mum if you wish, but we can’t have questionable characters campin’ out on our Badgerlord’s territory. You’ll need to clear out by nightfall.”

The rat had not made one move to stop this destruction, but instead sat watching listlessly from the sand, one grubby paw splayed protectively over a deep wound in his foreleg. When she saw it Constance barked out a sharp order, her voice echoing off of the cliff walls like a thunderclap.

“Hares, leave that creature alone!”

Obediently they froze, but there was surprise and perhaps even slight resentment in their eyes. Constance ignored them and turned her attention back to the rat.

“How did you injure your leg?”

“Slipped,” he said hollowly. “On the sea rocks, foragin’ the tide pools.”

“When?”

“Few days ago.”

Constance tugged her haversack from her shoulders and began rummaging through it, coming up with a clean strip of bandage and pawful of pungent leaves and mosses.

“Clean the wound in sea water, and then bind it with these herbs. It may sting, but it’ll heal. In the meantime, you’ll want to stay off it as much as you can. Do you have enough food here to last you a day or two?”

The rat shook his head. Constance dug through the haversack again and then set the last of her field rations, a strong wheat loaf and some good mountain cheese, atop the empty cask that served him as a table.

“Take these and move once when you’ve had time to rest. We’re sorry to have bothered you.”

Then without waiting for a word of thanks she turned on her heel and marched away from the scene, accompanied swiftly by Basil. Gurdee and Bayberry sheathed their blades with a last warning look at the rat before jogging to the badger’s side. They disapproved and did not try to disguise it.

“Not entirely sure I understand you, marm, givin’ away healing medsuns like that to a rat, of all creatures.”

“Rather, wot! An’ beggin’ your pardon, but it sticks in my gizzard to see proper gentlebeasts’ tucker wasted on a villain like that!”

Basil, seeing the strange look in her eyes, was the only one who remained silent. Constance continued to stride ahead at a purposeful double-march.

On the journey back to Salamandastron she seemed somehow a changed creature, moody and withdrawn. She no longer hungered after battle and danger the way the young hares did. Even the ballads and marching songs, rousing tales of glory and peril and heroism, had lost their charm. She trusted only Basil for counsel, sitting up to talk with him late into the night.

She missed the new green of oak leaves in the woodlands, the ruddy rose of sandstone in the setting sun, the stillness and sweet fragrance of the Abbey orchards. She missed a gentle, kindly mouse in the habit of his Order, cooling his footpaws with her on the banks of the River Moss.

One morning she left the mountain behind and went home to Mossflower Country.

***

She could hear the ringing of the Joseph Bell even from a distance, clear and strong and exultant, and almost in spite of herself began to run, paws churning up the pathsoil. Through the lacework of budding beech and elm leaves she soon saw flashes of pink stone, and then she found herself before the gate. She had to pause for a moment to catch her breath and calm her emotions. She had dreamed of this moment every evening of her journey back; perhaps she would wake up to find that this too had been nothing but her imagination.

Then she stepped forward and rapped at the door.

After a few moments a chubby little dormouse heaved the doors open, peeking cautiously around the corner. At the sight of her his mouth fell open, and he nearly dropped his bunch of gatekeys in surprise.

“May a weary traveler enter?”

“Heavens above!” the dormouse said breathlessly. “You must be that badger our Abbot talks about so much! Come inside, come inside and rest yourself. My name is Brother Abel. I think I remember you from a midsummer’s feast.”

No sooner had the gatekeeper let her into the Abbey grounds than another mouse materialized as if from thin air. Before she could say a word he flung his paws around her, laughing and weeping all at once.

“Constance! Constance!”

“Mortimer!”

“Constance, my dear, dear friend!”

Mortimer was a young mouse still, but his fur was already taking on a tinge of silvery grey. His face was alight with joy. He stepped back to get a better look at her, awed by her obvious strength and size.

“You’re as tall as an oak! Where have you been all these long seasons?”

“You’re the same height as you always were. I’ve been traveling, like I said I would.”

“You must tell me all about it! Let’s go for a walk in the cloister gardens. Thank you, Brother Abel, you can close the gate.”

Brother Abel made a respectful bow, a gesture which surprised Constance. But she soon forgot about it as she related to Mortimer the story of her travels. For what felt like hours she told him of the mountain and the great gray-green sea, the hares she had befriended and the dangers she had faced. With every step they took through the familiar gardens, every time Mortimer laughed at a funny story or gasped at a tale of a narrow victory over vicious foebeasts, her heart felt a little lighter.

“Well, that’s about it,” she finished at last, wanting to hear about what he’d been doing all this time. “I’ve had plenty of adventure, like I wanted to. And now I don’t know what to do.”

“So does this mean you’re here to stay?” he asked hopefully. Constance let out a sigh.

“Oh, I don’t know. Does Abbot Cedric have a use for a large, grouchy badger like me?”

“Good old Abbot Cedric. I’m sure he would have, but he went to his rest two seasons ago, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry, Mortimer. I know you were close to him.”

“He was a wise and compassionate soul. I hope I am serving well in his stead.”

“What do you mean?” asked Constance. Then, suddenly, she understood Brother Abel’s bow. Mortimer seemed to draw himself up a little, a creature fulfilled and fully at peace.

“Just before Abbot Cedric passed on, he told me that he’d decided to leave Redwall Abbey and all its creatures in my care. I am Abbot Mortimer now.”

Constance was still grappling with this news when she felt somebeast step on her footpaw. A mousebabe and a small squirrel, both clad in the linen smocks of Abbey young ones, had attached themselves to the hem of her tunic, tugging and pushing. They were addressing her in what they imagined was their best imitation of a badgers’ voice, trying to make themselves sound gruff and fearsome.

“I’mma bigga strong badger, make you falla down!”

“We’re not scareded of anybeast!”

Constance was not used to little ones, but she felt her heart soften. With a wink to Mortimer she scooped the pair of them up single-pawed, tumbling dramatically into a patch of clover and coming to rest with a bump.

“Phew, what fierce warriors! You’ve slain me, you little rogues!”

“Yee hee! Again! Again again again!”

“These little scallawags are Holly and Jessamine, two of our most ferocious Dibbuns,” Mortimer said, smiling. Constance looked aghast.

“Dibbuns? What in the world is that?”

“It’s what we call the young ones here at Redwall.”

“Nonsense. I’ve never heard something so ridiculous.”

“Again again again!” interrupted the squirrelbabe Jessamine, trying to clamber up onto Constance’s head. Constance struggled to her feet in mock exhaustion and bent to take each of them by the paw.

“How about you two ruffians show me and Mor – the Father Abbot to the kitchens first? I’m famished!”

“What does badgers likes to eat?” Holly demanded.

“Naughty little mice and squirrels!” Constance said, raising her eyebrows and showing off her shining canine teeth.

“No!” shrieked Holly in terrified delight, while Jessamine giggled. “They likes chesknutters an’ strawbee cordial!”

“Oh, that’s right! I forgot. I bet you like chestnuts and strawberry cordial too. Here, let’s wash our paws off in the pond first.”

“I think we may have a use for a large, grouchy badger after all,” said Mortimer, with proper Father Abbot-like sobriety.

She did not go back to the cottage where she had grown up. Mortimer had tended it for her while she was away, but she felt that with a new chapter of her life should come new lodgings, and had him find a family of poor fieldmice to live there instead. Nights she slept out on the soft grass of the Abbey lawn, waking up drenched in dew. In the early mornings, recalling her Salamandastron routine, she let herself out through the side gate and took long rambles through Mossflower Wood, running, swimming, testing her strength against heavy boulders, practicing with spears, javelins and her grandfather’s longbow, which she kept stored in a mossy log, away from Mortimer’s slightly rueful glances and the peaceful Redwallers’ fearful ones.

But she was always back at the Abbey before luncheon, helping with chores and, mostly, keeping a weather eye on the mischievous young ones, who soon began to call her “Muvver Constance,” just as the grown-ups respectfully referred to her as “the Badgermum.” She had an unexpected gift for caring for the Abbeybabes, and eventually she knew she wouldn’t dream of doing anything else. She traded her woodland homespun for an apron and stout gown, with deep pockets to hold clean handkerchiefs and found toys and coltsfoot pastilles. At mealtimes she could often be found sitting at the young ones’ table, spoon-feeding the smallest of the babes, convincing middle-aged ones to eat their turnips and rutabagas, cuddling and rocking fractious infants to sleep while their older siblings perched on her shoulders. At bedtime she tucked the little ones in, one by one, and hummed old badgerwives’ lullabies or related Martin-the-Warrior legends until the dormitories echoed with the sound of gentle snoring.

Mortimer’s heart gladdened the first time she spoke of Redwall as home.

***

Constance was several seasons his elder, but it was Mortimer who grew old and fragile first. His eyesight grew blurry, necessitating a pair of crystal spectacles. In the winters, when the orchard trees were brown and brittle, and the Abbey grounds sparkled white with snow, his joints sometimes grew stiff and painful. But untiringly he watched over his beloved Redwall, through many peaceful years, as any good Father should: patient, wise, just, kind, with the badger as his strong right paw.

Then came the seasons of Cluny the Scourge.

In the seconds before she picked up the Cavern Hall table and threatened to smash it over the warlord’s head, she chanced a glance at her friend and saw on his face an expression she’d never seen there before: rage.

In the days afterwards, as Martin was lost to the enemy, as creatures were wounded and killed, this was soon followed by another first, one that startled her even more: uncertainty.

Constance was bleeding freely from some half a dozen gashes along her flanks and on her paws, wounds earned during a vicious skirmish with several of Cluny’s scouts. Abbot Mortimer worked by candlelight to clean the deep cuts and treat them with herbs. He was unusually silent, not speaking until his work was finished.

“Please try to take better care of yourself, Constance,” he said at last, rather shortly. “You put yourself in danger far too often.”

“I only do what I must, Father Abbot.”

“But if something were to happen to you –”

“You have Matthias and Basil, Jess and Winifred. Redwall would survive.”

“I am asking you as a friend,” said Abbot Mortimer. “My dearest and wisest friend. If we win this war tomorrow it will already have been at too great a price. Do not ask me to suffer your loss on top of everything that has already come to pass.”

Constance was stunned by the emotion in his voice. After a moment she laid a heavy paw on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry to have upset you, Abbot. I’ll try my best.”

It would never have occurred to her to ask him the same. He was as ever the careful, noncombatant Mortimer, a healer and a stretcher-bearer, a creature of peace, and the battle would never breach the Abbey walls to reach him. She would see to it.

The Father Abbot was awakened by a sword-point at his throat.

The poison barb on Cluny’s tail had done its deadly work. The Father Abbot was dying.

***

There was much work to be done, after the war ended, but for a while she thought again of flight. Of sandy windswept shores and austere halls of mountain stone. Of the borderlands, of the northlands. Even of the sea. Anywhere but here, where the crimson laterose was still in fragrant bloom, and the big carved chair at the head of Great Hall sat empty, and the verdant gardens were full of mice in wide-sleeved brown robes gathering berries and talking with the Sparra, but none of them was Mortimer.

Yet every time she decided that the wound was just too deep, that she’d go mad with grief if she didn’t get away from here, something – or someone – changed her mind.

Matthias, still victory-stunned: “Constance, what should we do about the Joseph Bell?”

Mordalfus, solemn and deferential: “Constance, where do you think we should house the Guosim warriors who’d like to stay here till the springtide?”

The Redwallers at large, surprising her in Cavern Hole one day with a badger-sized marchpane cake: “Hurrah for Constance! We’d have been lost without you.”

And the young ones, clinging to her apron: “Muvver Constance, don’t be sad.”

*****************************************

Slowly summer gave way to autumn, autumn to winter, and winter to a spring whose beauty was beyond compare. John Churchmouse had suggested a season-name upon which they had all agreed.

It was the Springtide of the Warriors’ Wedding!

Constance had spent the preceding week tugging a hay cart far and wide through Mossflower Wood, ferrying creatures to the Abbey for the ceremony that would take place today. Now the Sisters of the order and all her woodland friends had spirited Cornflower away to the dormitories to dress her in cream-colored gown and veil, and Matthias was waiting anxiously in the gatehouse that would become their home, with Log-a-Log and Basil fussing over his tunic, to which he had tied a certain flowered headband that a certain maiden had bestowed upon him, what felt like years ago.

Therefore, Constance was enjoying a rare moment of rest out on the sunwarmed steps overlooking the orchards, as the blossoms danced and the pond rippled gently in a playful breeze. It reminded her of something Mortimer had said.

I have seen it all before, many times, and yet I never cease to wonder. Life is good, my friends. I leave it to you...

In the kitchens Friar Hugo was making a trifle as tall as two mice, heaping with raspberries, meadowcream, and honey-soaked sponge. Foremole and his crew were filling Great Hall and Cavern Hole with bunches of purple irises, butter-colored daffodils and, of course, cerulean-blue cornflower, while Winifred and her otters lined the cloisters and outside corridors with sweet alyssum and pale pink and white water lilies. Ambrose Spike was shepherding a herd of little ones as they rolled barrels of strawberry fizz, October ale and dandelion-burdock cup to the tables out under the shade. Jess Squirrel and Silent Sam were leaping bough to bough amongst the fruit trees, affixing colored lanterns to the branches.

The friends I know and love are all about me.

Constance remembered another feastday many seasons ago, and a wise young mouse marveling with her at the splendor of the Abbey and the goodness of its creatures, and she felt, for the first time in long memory, entirely at peace.

“Today is a good day, my old friend,” the badger said.

#Redwall #Constance #Abbot Mortimer #Redwall fic #Redwall fanfiction #the ending is kinda maximum cheese #BUT I REALLY HOPE YOU LIKE IT AAA #it was so hard trying to keep this a secret while writing it!#fluff #angst #whatever you would call this #with a title shamelessly stolen from Mr. Jacques himself

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