A/N - Sorry for the long wait, guys. I feel like I've been hung up on this chapter forever, and I'm still not thrilled with it. Gaara's stream of consciousness is a bloody rabbit warren, and while I adore him, he has no respect for pacing or plot and is fascinated by the strangest things. If I keep letting him trip me up, though, I'll never get through this story. Thanks for your patience, with him and with me. Bons Baisers!

Gaara heaved a sigh and sat up in bed. Shinki was perfectly fine, according to his last text, but he was out of the country, and the Kazekage never slept well when his son was away.

Shinki had every advantage; he knew that. He was skilled and clever and supported by a brilliant team, and Gaara knew that, as well.

But.

But there was always someone better. But everyone made mistakes. But intel could be insufficient, or inaccurate altogether. But Shinki was the Kazekage's only child, and he wore an indelible target on his back because of it.

But, but, but. An endless litany of buts, any one of which could destroy everything that mattered.

Gaara picked up his phone and scrolled to Shinki's last message.

All good. Good night, Dad.

On his first few missions away from Suna, Shinki's nightly texts checking in with his father read something like: Not dead yet, or Still breathing, or Still not dead. Gaara had overlooked the passive aggressive sniping, wary of forfeiting the brief assurances that his son was okay. Kankurō had happened across one such message, though, and, being constitutionally disinclined toward lenience, had fired off a characteristic reply.

Grow up, asshole. You're not five years old anymore. Don't be such a little shit. – Uncle

Gaara frowned at the phone in the darkness, pensive and unhappy. Kankurō rarely criticized or disciplined his nephews, but when he did, the lessons stuck. He hadn't been entirely joking when he offered to speak with Shikadai for Temari; rough edges and foul words were inexplicably but undeniably attractive to little boys, and Kankurō's disapprobation had often been enough to get them in line.

But such feats of personality and profanity, though they might serve in the short term, were no replacement for actual parenting. And while Kankurō's daughter's ability to self-govern was admirable, it belied a troubling mistrustfulness that even a seasoned parent would find difficult to navigate.

Resourcefulness was a valuable quality, and one that Kumi shared with her father. And yet, Gaara had been a resource for her, and she had rejected him. The barracks admins had been resources. The military police – her teachers – there were many to whom she could have turned for help and hadn't, including adults with whom she shared a personal and apparently comfortable relationship, like Kawamura Mirei and Ajibana Ibuki. Instead, she chose to protect herself, suffering her hands to be broken in cold-blooded political gambits and hiding in dangerous places rather than reporting harassment, vandalism, and trespassing to the proper authorities. Grit and wit notwithstanding, it was not age-appropriate behavior. A healthy, well-adjusted ten-year-old child should have confided in an adult.

Though Kankurō wouldn't have, not at ten or fifteen or thirty-five.

So – what did that say about Kumi? And what did it say about Kankurō?

Gaara groaned to himself. This was another reason he slept so poorly. His brain refused to shut down at a reasonable time, conditioned by years of having too many hours in a day. Denied a useful occupation, he worried, rehashing old conversations, second-guessing decisions made long ago, and fretting over things he could not control.

A tinny whining interrupted his thoughts, and he threw off the covers with a muttered, "Thank goodness."

The doorbell was a recent addition to the Palace. Gaara's private study opened onto a balcony that looked out over the village, but the door was sealed by an electronic lock that granted access only after the entry of an absurdly long code known only to a handful of people. Outside his family, Baki and the heads of Internal Intelligence, Anbu, and Foreign Affairs had the code. If someone had used it, it was because they had information best shared privately.

He glanced down at his bare chest, then at his closet. He could number the people who had seen him shirtless on his fingers. There were prices to power, and while casual wear was among the less onerous, it was wearying to always be what Temari called "presentable."

The hell with it.

He did deign to throw on a thin grey robe that had been hanging by his bedroom door before hurrying downstairs, but his visitor had shown up on his time. They would just have to deal with his lounge pants and bathrobe.

When he entered the study, Moon Rabbit and Stalking Mantis stood near an uncomfortable leather sofa, speaking lowly with one another. The former's surprise was only communicated through a faint cock of her head; her companion was the head of Anbu and was therefore surprised by nothing.

"Good morning, Kazekage-sama," Stalking Mantis said, his sibilant voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm not sure most people would consider an hour past midnight to be morning," he replied drily.

"You weren't asleep."

"I'm not going to ask how you know that. I don't believe I care to know the answer."

"Mantis finds lots of things he isn't supposed to know," Moon Rabbit remarked. "That's what makes him so bloody useful."

Gaara made a noncommittal noise. "I guess it isn't world-threatening, if you two are willing to banter. Take a seat."

Moon Rabbit did, lounging unprofessionally across the sofa. The hell with it, Gaara thought again, and, backing into his desk, he hoisted himself up to sit on the edge, ignoring a vague uneasiness. There was a thin line between cavalier informality and awkwardness, and he sincerely hoped he wasn't crossing it.

"I prefer to stand, by your leave." There was just a trace of amusement in Mantis' voice, and he relaxed a bit.

"As you like." He turned to Moon Rabbit. "I rather expected Mantis. He's been looking into some things for me. You're something of a surprise, though."

"Well," she answered, shrugging, "given it's my old clan he's looking into, he thought I might have some insight – and he was right. Per usual."

"You're Nozara?" Gaara frowned. "That doesn't seem right. You're only – what, in your mid-twenties? I should have known you as an academy student."

Moon Rabbit laughed and pulled off her mask. "You did," she said, in unison with Stalking Mantis.

"It's good you don't recognize me," she continued. "Means the surgeons did their work well."

Gaara narrowed his eyes at her. Her features had a pleasing regularity but were otherwise unremarkable. Her fine, straight hair was a middling brown and a shade brighter than her eyes, which were a muddled hazel color, not really brown, but not quite green, either. No, he couldn't place her face. She was supposed to have been a refugee from Mizu, orphaned after the Fourth War, but if she had been Nozara –

"Mariko?" he exclaimed.

"Bravo, Kazekage-sama. You gave a lovely tribute at my memorial service."

"I recall that – but I'd like to know why I was eulogizing a living girl." He glared at her. "I really regretted your death, Mariko-chan."

"You're sweet. But my father wanted me to be a sealer, and I wanted to join Anbu. He insisted, I resisted – and here we are."

"You faked your death, only to join Anbu?" Gaara demanded.

"My father insists rather forcefully. My response was commensurate."

He turned his glower on Stalking Mantis. "I suppose I didn't need to know this?"

Mantis shrugged. "You're a bad liar, Kazekage-sama." There was a slight pause, and then he added, "That's not a criticism, incidentally. It's refreshing to serve an honest man, most of the time – but for someone in my position, it can be awfully inconvenient. Hiding a runaway from a pillar clan was difficult enough without trying to cover for you."

Gaara winced. "That's fair. Unflattering – but fair. I'm glad you aren't dead, Mari… Moon Rabbit."

She gave him a mocking little bow. "Thank you, sir. I'm pleased about that, myself."

Rubbing a hand over his face, Gaara gave Stalking Mantis a rueful look. "I'm not sure I can take any more shockers. Not uncaffeinated, at any rate."

"No shockers. Some suspicions. I do apologize for disturbing you so early, but I wanted to brief you on my initial findings before you left for Shiroiya. Rabbit's childhood memories may be relevant, as well, so I brought her along."

"Alright." He straightened his back and fixed the pair with a level, serious stare. "Tell me."

When Temari texted that Kankurō's migraine had subsided, the Kazekage was ruthlessly deadheading a potted violet, a plum-colored variety called Midnight Velvet. He didn't care for violets; outside the cactus family proper, he preferred the more muted colors and fleshy rosettes of echeveria and leather-petals to the delicate little flowers. But the obnoxiously fragile blooms went over well as gifts, so he always kept a few on hand. This one was for Temari, to remind her of Suna's water gardens, and he also had a Goldenrod that he meant to take to Shiroiya, as a present for the Daimyo's wife.

He set aside his gloves and stared thoughtfully at the newly pruned plants. He had planned to depart for the capital at nine in the morning; Temari thought he ought to take the afternoon train and let Kankurō rest a bit longer. Gaara didn't mind, but Kankurō would have a conniption if he altered their plans to accommodate a headache.

Ah, well. Doing the right thing rarely pleased everyone. He alerted his staff to the change and called Temari to let her know, as well.

Temari sounded weary when she answered the phone.

"Good morning, Nee-chan."

"Kankurō wanted to know if you had been able to retrieve Nozara Rira's things. I said I'd ask." Stifling a yawn, she added, "It's fine if you haven't. I'll see to it before I go home."

"No need. I picked them up on Sunday," Gaara assured her. "Luckily Nobu was out. The chuunin who answered the door offered to send the boxes over to the Palace, but I told him I was didn't mind waiting. I drove the point home by taking off my shoes and sitting down in the entryway. I had six guards with me, so he realized fairly quickly that the best way to get me and my entourage out of the family foyer was to give me what I wanted."

Temari huffed a surprised laugh. "That was pretty ballsy, Gaara-kun. You're usually so diplomatic. That sounds like something Dad would have done."

"I didn't want to give him time to alert Nobu. I was disinclined to tolerate equivocation. Or delays." He wrinkled his nose, recalling previous encounters with the old statesman, who was well-spoken, rational, and indefatigably argumentative.

"Ballsy," Temari repeated, with a distinct note of admiration. "The old man's going to be pissed."

"That isn't my concern," he replied dismissively. "I have no way of knowing whether the Nozara gave me everything, of course. The inventory from the Records Hall was vague, at best. A cursory glance would suggest I have most of it, though."

He paused. "Did Kankurō or Kumi want something in particular? I have the boxes here, and some unexpected free time to sort through them."

"I'm not sure Kumi even knows he sent you after them. Kankurō wants pictures." Heat crept into her voice. "He's just starting to realize how much he's missed. Cripes, Gaara. I could just kill that woman."

Trying to talk her down was pointless; it was an argument he couldn't win. And if he didn't quite condone her feelings, he certainly understood them.

"Please don't let Kumi-chan hear you say that."

"I'm not so crass as to insult my niece's deceased mother in front of her, Gaara," she retorted, grumpy. "I made up the bed in her room and she's sound asleep, downstairs." A heavy sigh huffed in his ear. "I wish I could help with Nozara-san's things, but I don't want to leave Kankurō."

"I'll manage."

Privately he was glad she didn't come; he welcomed any task that might excuse him from his restless bed. He finished tending the violets and repotted a large prickly pear before shuffling down the stairs in search of a box-cutter, and then Nozara Rira's worldly possessions.

The guards he had conscripted to serve as moving men had deposited Rira's belongings in an empty storage room. At first glance, the neatly stacked boxes recalled Kankurō's living room after Temari had cleared out the guest bedroom for Kumi. But where Temari had packed away assorted bits and bobs of Kankurō's old life to make room for a new one, these boxes were all that remained of Nozara Rira's.

These boxes, and a little girl with green eyes and probable trust issues.

It was quiet; the sun was still only a glimmer of grey light on the horizon, and the palace was empty save Gaara himself and the on-duty security team lurking around the perimeter. Like most of his chambers, the guest room had no windows; security concerns dictated minimal entry points. Deep in the heart of the Palace, even the locusts and the ever-present wind were silenced, and Gaara flinched involuntarily the first time the razorblade crunched through the brittle old packing tape.

He spared a brief prayer for the deceased, more for Kumi's sake than for any faith in spirits or deities, and went to work.

Rira's possessions painted an incomplete but intimate portrait of a life abruptly terminated. A skilled artist, she had applied her paintbrush to every available surface, including, heartbreakingly, a little wooden bassinet, dismantled to be stored in pieces. Her clothes were brightly colored and fashionable. One box was full of novels, and she had covered each in heavy paper, substituting her own artwork in place of the actual dust jackets. Her musical taste was wildly incoherent; Gaara found everything from EDM to traditional folk albums, sugar pop to grunge. And though she kept few mementos from her own childhood – telling, in itself – her left-behind boxes were filled with children's books and toys.

It felt eerie to be surrounded by her lonely artifacts. Gaara could almost hear the echoes of chatter and laughter and music that must once have enveloped the objects surrounding him, as if he had trespassed on what had been a happy moment, frozen in time. Each box of kitchen gadgets and bed linens and clothes was a new intrusion, and the moment was slowly crumbling away.

Shaking off his morbid thoughts, he came to a large box that had been disturbed at least once before. It was covered in a layer of dust comparable to that of the others, but although the upper flaps were closed, the tape had been stripped away.

Gaara pulled the flaps aside, curious. Large rolled canvases lay at the top of the box, and thick oil paints trekked in abstract, violent ridges and canyons at the few centimeters visible at the ends of the rolls. He carefully removed the dozen or so canvases, and found more artwork beneath, in a diverse range of styles and mediums. One thick folio contained quick pen-and-ink sketches, tucked in with careful anatomical studies in charcoal, and another was full of puppetry designs, many of which seemed to be more characterization than blueprint. Heavy watercolor paper filled a third folio, mostly landscapes and ink wash still life paintings.

Irrespective of medium, Rira's work was invariably moody and evocative, at times dark and obscure and morose, and at other times full of angry, jarring juxtapositions of form or color, where the lines lashed out at him in pain or fury. It was nothing like the cheerful decorative work she had done on her shelves and storage boxes, or the bassinet. Those belonged to a crafty, fun-loving mother. These belonged to another woman entirely.

Troubled, Gaara replaced the canvases he had removed, marked one side with an X to flag it, and rose, curious to see whether any of the other boxes had been opened.

Before he had quite gotten upright, though, the intercom buzzed at him.

Kazekage-sama? There is a medic from the hospital here to see you.

Gaara looked down at his dirt-smeared, dust-covered gardening smock and cotton pants with a stifled groan. It must be eight o'clock: the Palace was open for business. While his chambers were nearly as private as any other home would have been, they were all wired so that he could be reached from the outside at a moment's notice. It was efficient, but damned intrusive at times.

He glowered at the intercom, feeling uncharacteristically peevish. He hadn't slept, Kankurō was angry with him, and Rira's art left him with an oppressive sense of melancholy, as if the paintings themselves mourned the woman who had created them.

Any other day, he would have made his visitor wait while he cleaned himself up and dressed, but… The hell with it, he decided, for the third time since rising from his bed. Everybody else got to have a bad day, an off day, now and again.

He jabbed the recall button, probably more forcefully than was strictly necessary, and answered abruptly, "Send him up to my suite."

When he opened the door, however, he immediately regretted the decision not to change clothes – or at least wipe the dirt off his face.

Kawamura Mirei wasn't dressed for work either. She had traded in her neat, cropped white pants and lab coat for a long-sleeved, buff-colored dress that left her golden shoulders and much of her long legs bare. The heels of her stylish boots brought her eye-to-eye with Gaara, so that he could plainly see mascara feathering her eyelashes.

Clearly her business with him was not the primary item on her agenda today.

"Good morning." He flushed a bit and gestured at his attire. "I'm… well, I'm afraid you caught me at work."

"Color me unsurprised. Are you ever not at work?" she asked, apparently unoffended by his sloppy appearance.

He considered for a moment. "I had dinner with Temari and Kankurō last week," he answered after a moment. "I don't think we covered any official business."

Kawamura's mouth twitched with amusement. "I was being facetious, Kazekage-sama."

"Ah. Forgive me. I don't always pick up on humor."

"Well, it wasn't all that funny," she told him, shaking her head. "And beside the point, anyhow."

Reaching into an oversized bag on her shoulder, she withdrew a plastic case, roughly the size of a thick textbook, and held it out to him. "When your brother gets to Shiroiya and "discovers" that he's forgotten meds, lines, or needles, you can tell him that Kawamura Mirei has his number."

Gaara took the case with a frown.

"His number? Do you mean his cell phone number?" he asked, confused.

The smile that had been hovering on Kawamura's lips finally emerged, showing small, even white teeth. "It just means I know what he's like."

"I envy you, then," Gaara replied sincerely, "because I certainly can't figure him out."

"Probably no one really has him figured out," she said, shifting her bag. "Least of all Kuroisuna no Kankurō. But if it walks like a Corpsman and talks like a Corpsman, it's usually safest to treat it like a Corpsman. Which is surprisingly akin to handling a nest full of spider hornets, but I digress."

"That is a metaphor I appreciate all too well," Gaara said with a shudder. He still had a scar on his left shoulder, where he'd bumped a hidden nest of the stinging insects. He raised the case. "My thanks, Kawamura-hakase."

"Mirei. Please." Her brows drew together in curiosity. "You are very dusty, Gaara-sama, if you don't mind my saying so. Just what have you been working at?"

He described the chaos in his guest room, and the medic winced in sympathy.

"I've had to do that a couple of times, once for Tokujin, and then again when his mother passed. It's a beating." She cocked her head to one side. "And damned depressing," she added thoughtfully, "if you have to do it alone. Perhaps I could be of some help?"

"It's kind of you to offer," Gaara answered, somewhat surprised, "but you look as if you already have plans. I can't imagine they involved moving a mountain of boxes that have been collecting dust for four years."

"Viscera and bodily fluids are my stock in trade, you know. You can't scare me off with a little grime." Smiling so that her dark eyes crinkled at the corners, she added, "My plans were rather less appealing, if you can believe that."

"If you're sure…" Gaara replied doubtfully.

She shoved the sleeves of the dress up to her elbows and walked inside, dropping her shoulder bag unceremoniously at the door.

"Emphatically."

Mirei's help proved invaluable. Where the Kazekage had lingered over Rira's curios, the doctor combed through the boxes with surgical efficiency, though she never appeared to be the least bit hurried. Dust clung to her dress and to her hair and was wholly disregarded. Her unsentimental and matter-of-fact industry drove off the pall the artifacts had collected; even Rira's artworks, which had struck him as so melancholy, became objects to be catalogued and inventoried.

Neither spoke much, but the silence was comfortable. The doctor was content to work without with idle chitchat, complaints, or observations, a proclivity that Gaara shared and appreciated deeply in others. Little grated on his nerves so badly as people who felt the need to speak when there was nothing of importance to be said. Conversation was a burden to a man so ill-versed in its secrets, and it was pleasant to work alongside someone who did not require it.

He glanced up at her briefly as she pulled another box toward her. Her eyes were large and languorous, tranquil pools as dark as ebony wood, revealing little of the sharp mind behind them. Despite the quickness of her hands and her judgements, she exuded a calmness that Gaara felt in the unfurrowing of his brow and the easing of tension in his back and shoulders that had been there for so long he'd learnt not to feel it. Although the world was at peace, or mostly, every report, every task seemed urgent, and the weight of his duties was a constant pressure.

He couldn't remember the last time someone outside his family had simply offered to help. And while he appreciated his brother's always competent assistance, as well as Shinki's well-meant-but-amateurish attempts to pitch in with office work, neither had Mirei's restful demeanor.

It didn't hurt that Mirei was also quite pretty.

Gaara paused, a bit taken aback by the thought, but before he could quite assign it any significance, Mirei's phone dinged at her. He rested his hands on the box he had been about to open and sat quietly, waiting for her to answer it, but either she hadn't heard it or was choosing to ignore it.

"Did you need to get that?" he asked, gesturing.

Mirei tugged at a stubborn box lid. "No."

The phone dinged twice more with messages, and then it started to ring. The doctor pursed her lips in annoyance and muted, then went back to work, cutting away a stubborn bit of packing tape from a box lid.

Taking his cue, Gaara also went back to work, though he was curious about the missed messages. Not two minutes passed before the muted cell began buzzing obnoxiously on the tile floor.

Mirei glared at it for a moment, then exhaled sharply and answered.

"Hello, Mother…. Yes, I know. I was on my way and got side-tracked at Command. I'm assisting the Kazekage with – yes, Mother, right now." She pulled an exasperated face. "No, I am not going to do that," she said firmly. "Please make my apologies and I will leave Ichika's gift at your house this afternoon."

Her obvious aggravation finally crept into her voice. "Well, you are free to believe what you like, and so is she, but just now I have a job to do. I should get back to it. Goodbye."

She didn't wait for a response but hung up quickly and bowed at once from the waist in Gaara's direction. "I am sorry about that."

He smiled faintly. "You have met my sister, I believe. I am never permitted to let messages go unanswered, either. I hope everything is alright."

A reluctant smiled pulled on the corner of her mouth. "It's fine. I apologize for the disruption."

"I hope I haven't taken you from something important, Mirei-san?" Gaara asked, concerned.

"Not at all. You rescued me from a gender-reveal party for my sister-in-law," Mirei told him. "For which I am deeply in your debt."

"A gender reveal party?" Gaara considered. "Is your sister-in-law… er…" He lowered his voice. "Transitioning?"

Mirei's eyes went wide. She snorted suddenly and clamped a hand to her mouth in embarrassment, although her shoulders shook with repressed mirth.

"I gather that's a 'no,'" Gaara surmised.

Mirei snorted again and dissolved into gales of helpless laughter. "Baby," she managed finally. "Having a baby. In June." She struggled to catch her breath before explaining further, "My brother and his wife are finding out today if their baby is a boy or a girl."

"I didn't realize they had parties for that," he said a little defensively. "Temari didn't. And they do have parties for the other, you know," he added. "Kankurō told me about one he attended in Shiroiya a few years ago. He said there was a pink cake and "It's a Girl" balloons."

"Well, yes, but that's not a gender reveal. I mean…" She wiped tears from her eyes, leaving a dusty streak smeared across her cheek. "Well, I suppose it is, actually, isn't it? Oh, gods. I needed a laugh this morning."

"Happy to oblige," Gaara told her, and was treated to an unexpectedly warm smile.

Very pretty.

Lord Fifth,

As requested, I have supplied Nozara Kumi with limited dispensary privileges that will enable her to withdraw any of Kankurō-dono's current scripts from pharmacies in Kaze and allied nations. I recommend she acquire them from a hospital dispensary, as the pharmacists there are more likely to have encountered young med-nin. Younger medics-in-training sometimes meet resistance in private establishments.

Additionally, I have granted her access to two injectable painkillers, one of which is a narcotic. Kankurō-dono has refused it repeatedly, but opportunity does not waste time with the unprepared. The other analgesic is significantly less effective. It is not habit-forming, however, and he has consented to use it on occasion.

Updates, when convenient, would be appreciated.

KAWAMURA MIREI

Senior Medic

Suna General Hospital

Gaara's phone blinked at him, urging him to answer the medic's e-mail, but he hesitated, unsure how to reply. Kankurō was staring out the curtained windows of their private train car, his eyes fixed on something beyond the desert scenery that sped past, mellow and golden in the afternoon sun. His mood was abstracted, subdued and clouded by an unfamiliar darkness. He ought to be irascible and irritable. He had been, until this last attack.

Now he lay against the faux leather backrest, dull and silent, as if his characteristic hot temper and bravado were terrible efforts, and he lacked the energy for such violent emotions. Beyond a vague sense of discontent or unhappiness, Gaara could pick up very little from his brother. Even more than the crippling headaches or the poor appetite, this lassitude troubled the Kazekage deeply, as an antithesis of everything he knew Kankurō to be. Mirei had warned him that exhaustion typically followed Kankurō's migraines, but this was something else, an insidious fatigue that slipped past nerve endings and synapses, penetrating the soul so that even breathing became wearisome.

As a genin, Kankurō had once broken his arm in such a way that the splintered ends of the bone had punctured the skin. He cried out when it happened but scrambled at once to his feet, ready to dispatch the man pursuing him. After splinting the broken arm – a bit of first aid he accomplished on his own, snarling at Temari that she would be a fool to disarm herself – he resumed the hasty retreat from the latest scene of his insane little brother's displeasure. He had escaped gray-faced and sweating, and he had occasionally paused to throw up, but had never been less than ambulatory. As pitiless a creature as he had been back then, even nine-year-old Gaara had acknowledged a grudging respect for his older brother's ability to function through pain.

These migraines tethered Kankurō in a way that even debilitating injuries could not. He had kept to his bed over thirty-six hours, save to piss or vomit. While it lasted, he'd eaten nothing, taken almost no water, and Temari didn't think he had ever really fallen asleep, only dozed through a haze of pain and useless painkillers. Then, when had wakened and realized their train was long gone, the explosion Gaara had believed inevitable failed to detonate. He managed a bitter grimace for his siblings' cosseting, and he had been sunk in this quiet stupor ever since.

Gaara closed his email and turned his screen off.

After a while, the Kazekage shifted his gaze to his newfound niece, who sat cross-legged in her seat with a sketchpad and a colored pencil worn down to a scant dozen centimeters. A pair of pink headphones with playful cat ears sat atop her curls; Gaara could hear the faint bassline of her music thumping across the way. She sketched swiftly, nodding her head along to the beat, with the deft certitude that was the fruit of endless practice. While she glanced up from time to time, gnawing her lip when her eyes lighted on her father, she feigned nonchalance as well as many adults might have done, seeming to know intuitively that her concern would be unwelcome.

Giving the little girl a thoughtful look, Gaara scribbled a note on the inside cover of the manila folder he had been reviewing. Then he reached over to tap her shoulder.

She pulled off her cat-ears at once. "Kazekage-sama?"

Kankurō's eyes slid toward them.

Gaara handed the open folder across to her. "May I ask you to take this report to Ryotsu-san for me?"

And then entertain yourself elsewhere for about fifteen minutes, please?

"Yes, sir."

She closed the folder, her face betraying no sign she had even read his note. Unfolding her crossed legs, she set her headphones and sketchpad on the seat beside her.

Gaara smiled at her as she dipped into a brief bow before exiting the car. It faded quickly, though, and when the door had closed, he turned to Kankurō with a more serious mien.

"Aniki."

Kankurō's eyes fluttered closed, as if the moniker pained him. "I don't want to talk right now, Gaara-kun."

"I do. You need to know that I've opened a hole and corner investigation into Nozara Nobu," Gaara said, calmly and without preamble. "Stalking Mantis has completed a superficial dossier of mostly public knowledge and breakroom gossip, detailing Nobu's most recent political alliances, friendships, and clan affairs. Before he starts digging into the Nozara's finances, though, I'd like to know why I have men tailing the man's grandson."

For a moment, he didn't think Kankurō was going to respond.

Then, slowly, "I don't know… exactly… what kind of trouble he might be in. The words "criminal" and "treasonous" were bandied about, though. Kumi thinks he's in danger. He must agree, because he wouldn't tell her what he knew."

Kankurō turned from the window and rested his head on the back of the seat, staring at the ceiling.

"I followed her yesterday." His head rolled back and forth on the seat in a slow negation. "No. That was Sunday, dammit. Concealed. And I overheard them talking."

"Them."

"Gohachiro-kun. Kumi-chan. Under a silencing seal in the Vaults. They were careful."

"Not careful enough."

"Kids." Kankurō raised a shoulder. "Gimme a sec, here."

He closed his eyes, no doubt recalling the room in which he had been standing, the dusty odor of the Vaults, the expressions on the kids' faces, using time-honored memory tricks to recollect the information he had gathered. Gaara waited patiently for about a minute, and then Kankurō began to recite, word-for-word or very nearly, the children's conversation. He kept his eyes closed, reliving the memory to the best of his ability.

"So Gohachiro-kun has found something he believes to be pretty damning," he concluded, "and wants Kumi-chan well out of it, both for her safety and to keep your name out of it."

"It would be better if they came to us." Gaara stood and walked to the window, suddenly restless. "Mantis will probably have to cover the same ground Gohachiro-kun has, only to rehash the same questions."

"True, but if Mantis find something independently, it will keep the kids clear of any backlash." His tone became reproving. "When word gets out, though, you're likely to piss off the whole fucking conservative faction, and a bunch of the moderates, regardless of whether it was merited. They'll call a hole-and-corner inquiry executive overreach."

"He broke my niece's hands," Gaara replied flatly. "I've got precedent on my side, for once. Even in the declassified accounts, hole-and-corners have been opened by kages with Internal Investigations three times regarding potential threats to the Kazekage clan."

Despite his weariness and the tension between them, the retort prompted a crooked smile from Kankurō. "You did your homework," he approved.

He rolled his shoulders in what seemed like a painful stretch. "I did think it was interesting that Gohachiro-kun brought up clan rights," he remarked. "Most of the younger nin prefer your style of more centralized governance, so I was surprised that he'd gone that route. I suppose he is the future clan head, though, and Nobu's always been outspoken about clan autonomy."

"You would be, too," Gaara pointed out wryly, "if you weren't my brother. You're as much a political dinosaur as the old man."

"I prefer to keep my eggs in lots of baskets," Kankurō replied. "If all the power is in one place, corruption can do a lot more damage."

"It's easier to excise a self-contained cancer than one that has metastasized," Gaara countered.

"Not if it's managed to strangle a vital system. You can take out a corrupt clan – even one as powerful as the Uchiha, if it comes right down to it, yeah? Taking down Internal Investigations or Commerce and Finance or Anbu – that's a hell of a lot harder. We've had this argument, Gaara. You're not going to change my mind."

Sighing, Gaara conceded. "I know. I just wish you believed in what I'm trying to do."

"Why does it matter?" Kankurō asked irritably, cracking one eyelid. "I promised you that you would always have my support, back when I wasn't any older than Gohachiro-kun. Regardless of my opinions – or how badly you've pissed me off."

"You did, and gods know you've stood by that promise often enough. I don't doubt you, Aniki. I just don't understand you. I couldn't – at least, I don't think I could support something I didn't believe in."

"Oh." Kankurō's eyelid slid downward. "Well, you're proceeding from a false premise, little brother. I'm not supporting any particular political system. I'm supporting you."

"Regardless of how badly I've pissed you off," Gaara echoed, touched.

"Don't make it a thing, yeah? I'm still fucking pissed."

"I understand, but you didn't give me a chance to defend myself the other day."

"No, and I'm not going to now." He stretched wearily, and the bones of his neck cracked with painful-sounding pops. "You don't need to defend yourself. I get it, Gaara-kun. I just wish you had given me the chance to say, 'fuck off,' before you went behind my back."

"That's what you were angry about?" Gaara shook his head, confused. "That I didn't wait for you lie to me first?"

"I'm angry that you wasted time and resources on something I was already dealing with, yeah? I'm angry you didn't trust me to handle it. I'm angry that you took on a responsibility I was trying to spare you."

He didn't sound angry. Only tired.

"I think you're angry because you don't want to be seen as weak," Gaara ventured carefully.

"And I think now would be a good time for you to shut up." A little heat crept into Kankurō's voice, and he turned a warning glare on the Kazekage.

"I know you're not," Gaara continued, relieved to have finally provoked a reaction. "For whatever that's worth."

"If that were true," Kankurō replied through gritted teeth, "you wouldn't have been spying on me."

"That's a non-sequitur argument," Gaara pointed out, pleased he'd recollected the term. "You taught me that."

"Fine, try this one: if you trusted me, then you wouldn't have been spying on me."

"That's hasty generalization… I think." Unsure, and unwilling to ponder logical fallacies in further detail, he went on. "In any case, you've admitted you wouldn't have been honest, had I come to you. Still, if you had rather that I engage in futile efforts first, then –"

"Forget it. You win. Just stop talking."

"But you're still angry with me."

"I'll get over it."

His eyes fall closed again, as if even this small conversation had fatigued him. "I need some space to be pissed off, Gaara-kun – that's all. We don't need to talk through it, and neither of us needs to be vindicated. I'm not going to resent you forever or refuse to let it go, I just need to be angry for a little while, yeah? It'll heal on its own if you'll stop picking at it."

"Even injuries that heal cleanly can leave scars, Aniki."

Kankurō rested his head on the seat and faced the window, signaling an end to his willingness to talk. Gaara eyed the back of his head, troubled, and determined that he had made a significant miscalculation. That his brother would have done the same in his place, he felt certain. But Gaara would have readily accepted fraternal concern as a valid defense, and he had been rash to assume the same would be true for his brother. Kankurō had often sacrificed his desires for Gaara's sake, but the decision to do so had always been his own.

The distinction meant little to Gaara; apparently, it meant a great deal to Kankurō.

"I'm sorry, Aniki," he said, upon this realization. "I tried to do as I thought you would have done, were our positions reversed. I see now I should have taken your idiosyncrasies into account, and I didn't. I will try not to make that mistake again."

A faint smile of acknowledgement touched the lips of Kankurō's reflection in the window. "My idiosyncrasies and I would appreciate it," he answered drily.

Kumi returned a few minutes later, balancing a covered tray of onigiri and several bottled drinks in one arm as she opened the door to the car.

"Anybody hungry?" she asked, shifting her load. "It seemed rude to come back with only something for myself. I hope these are okay."

Biting his tongue to conceal a smile, Gaara glanced at Kankurō, whose eyelids had cracked open on Kumi's entrance, but who was now skillfully feigning sleep. Kumi was subtler than her aunt, but clearly she shared Temari's concerns regarding Kankurō's lack of appetite. In fact, she'd beaten Gaara to the punch; he had also intended to pick up some snacks before they stopped for dinner.

"You ought to have waited to let your elders treat you," he chided gently, ignoring his brother fake slumber. "Still, is that nikumaki? That's Kankurō's favorite."

A muscle jumped in Kankurō's jaw.

"Yes," Kumi affirmed, taking her seat on the banquette, "and these have egg, and I think these were salmon. What do you like, Kazekage-sama?"

"I'm not picky," he demurred.

"He likes unagi, ikura, and tarako," Kankurō answered flatly, giving up on pretending to sleep. "Not that he'd ever say so."

"I don't mind going back," Kumi offered, rising quickly to her feet. "I know they had unagi."

"That is not necessary, thank you. I'll have salmon." He helped himself to one of the rice balls and handed one of nikumaki to his brother with a pointed smile. Kankurō took it with a sour look, but he nodded at Kumi.

"This was thoughtful of you, kid. Thanks."

She glowed; she always did when he spoke to her.

Gaara noted a twinge of guilt and promised himself that he would investigate the quality of life of Suna's orphans more closely when he returned. It was yet another project for which he had no time, but one which might be easily delegated to one of the Academy teachers – Ruru, or Mikazuki, perhaps. Both had children of their own and might identify flaws in the current system.

The flaws that allowed a ten-year-old to prowl about the Old Theatre, unnoticed, for example.

He suppressed a shiver, thankful that whatever ghosts inhabited the decrepit building had been kindly inclined toward the young puppeteer. Three teenagers had been seriously hurt only last year, hiding out in one of the old corridors and drinking sake that none of them had been old enough to purchase. He meant to have had it demolished already, but there simply was not enough spare manpower for such an undertaking, and there were never enough hours in the day.

"Kazekage-sama?"

He blinked. "I'm afraid I missed that, Kumi-chan. What did you say?"

"I asked if you would like something to drink."

She proffered her choices, and he promptly took the single bottle of water with thanks, leaving Kankurō with either orange juice or a sugary coffee drink.

Kankurō took the bottle of orange juice, conceding without comment to his bright-eyed and overly observant daughter. Though he resumed staring dully out the window, he did occasionally sip at the juice. Deciding he had pushed the limits of his brother's patience as far as was advisable, Gaara let him be.

Kumi offered her father three more rice balls. The first he accepted with a grimace. The second provoked a glare that Kumi answered with a silent challenge, raising her chin and arching her brows. Kankurō scowled, but bit into the onigiri with a vengeance before turning huffily away. She took the victory and ate the last rice ball herself, when Gaara refused it.

After that, they spent several hours in mostly companionable silence. Gaara thumbed through and signed off on reports that had fallen by the wayside over the last few months, preempted by more pressing concerns. Kumi set her sketchbook aside in favor of examining a few of Kankurō's puppetry drafts, gnawing on the knuckle of her index finger as she worked her way through the mechanics. Every now and again a puzzled crease appeared between her slim black brows, smoothing when she had resolved whatever question had popped into her head. If the diagramming proved particularly tricky, her mouth twisted up in a self-satisfied smirk when she reasoned it out.

Her obvious pleasure in the drafts gradually wore at Kankurō's grim disposition, and he noticed when she finally ran into a figure she couldn't understand.

"What're you stuck on?"

His voice was raspy with disuse, but she pretended not to notice as she held up the paper and pointed.

Kankurō glanced at the schematic. "That indicates that the axis is turned by a tacky string," he told her. "The idea's pretty simple. Execution's a bitch."

"Turned…" Kumi frowned. "It's an internal mechanism," she objected. "How would you wrap the string?"

"You can make tacky string?" he asked by way of reply.

She gave him a withering look and flicked her index finger at him. He caught her chakra string in one palm and wriggled his fingers experimentally in the thread, which, had she formed it properly, ought to be a sticky substance similar to spider webbing.

"Not bad," Kankurō conceded. "For a kid. Now lose the adhesion."

Kumi narrowed her eyes in concentration. The thread wobbled uncertainly as she struggled to preserve the structure of her chakra, even as she altered its fundamental nature.

Kankurō attempted a smile. "Now add the adhesion back – except for the first quarter meter of string."

Kumi stared at him helplessly for a minute before dissolving her string with a muttered oath. She fell back in her seat, defeated. He did smile then and even managed a breath of a laugh. Gaara, who had laid his reports aside to watch the lesson, smiled tolerantly.

Kankurō held out an open hand to Gaara. "Can I borrow your pen?"

Pen supplied, he barked, "Hands up, thumbs up, palms facing each other, ten centimeters apart."

Kumi responded instantly to the order, and Gaara suppressed a smile. The Academy might have taken some cues from Konoha, but the Puppeteer Corps still functioned on drills, drills, drills.

Kankurō set the pen across her hands, so that it lay nestled in the crooks of her thumbs. Then he sat back and, with a twitch of his nimble fingers, cast a string to it.

"Okay. This," he gestured to the half-meter or so of string between his fingertip and the pen, "is non-adhesive. Stays that way as I extend the thread."

He began to feed more chakra into the string. "The trick is to extend the thread from the terminal end, rather than from the fingertip, creating tacky string as you go – and a little thrust will start the axis spinning, yeah?" The pen began to roll in Kumi's hand, and the sticky end wrapped once around the barrel of the pen. He glanced up at her, but her eyes were glued to his chakra string. A larger surge of chakra caused the axis to spin faster, and the tacky string clung to itself, winding it over and over around the pen. Kumi's eyes widened.

"Oooh," she breathed. "Oooh, that's awesome. So, so," she shifted the pen to sit across the thumb and pinkie finger of her left hand and dragged the schematic into her lap with the right, "so you lose the adhesion and retract the string – damn, you'd have to retract fast – but then it rotates the axis which turns these gears here, and-"

"Sprockets," Kankurō corrected with a pained expression, "they're sprockets –"

Gaara burst out laughing, causing both his brother and his niece to stare at him in surprise. "I'm sorry," he said, passing a hand over his mouth. "I got that same reproof about sprockets and gears, when I was only a little older than you, Kumi-chan. He was just as offended back then."

Kumi grinned. "Well, of course this really is a sprocket-wheel," she said dismissively, "but they're both cogwheels – a gear is a sprocket if you add a chain, and a sprocket could just as easily be a pulley – it's all semantics."

"It's not, either!" Kankurō protested furiously, roused at last. "Their functionality is entirely different!"

"If you came across a toothed wheel," Kumi jabbed at the paper, "lying in the street all by itself, you would have no idea whether it had been a gear or a sprocket or part of a pulley. It's the same thing!"

The Kazekage allowed himself an amused smile while they had a pleasant little discussion. Ten years ago – even five years ago, Gaara would have been deeply troubled by their contention. It was still a strange thing to him, that anyone could take pleasure in an argument, but Kankurō had assured him many times that he, for one, could enjoy it immensely.

He watched them, relieved and not a little grateful that the little girl had managed to draw off some of the clouds that had gathered around his brother. She made a good case for herself, though privately he agreed with Kankurō that the use of thing must define it. Even so, he was pleased with her willingness to think for herself and to defend her conclusions, even to a superior.

No cog in the wheel, this one, he thought, and smiled to himself at the bad joke.

In the end, Kumi refused to concede. Kuroisuna no Kankurō certainly wasn't going to. By the time they agreed to disagree, the train had arrived in the bustling little town where they meant to eat and stretch their legs, and Kankurō's mood had improved considerably. In an open space, a little ways removed from the station, he pulled out one of his puppets to demonstrate the mechanism he had shown her on the train, unbending so far as to allow her to try her hand with it.

As Gaara watched his brother gesticulate with the little girl, coaching her through the difficult technique, one of his guards drew up beside him. An expert in several forms of hand-to-hand combat, Saya stood several centimeters taller than the Kazekage. Her brown, bared arms rippled with cleanly defined muscle as she crossed them, raising her brows in a frank, appraising look.

"So that's our new princess," she remarked. "Cute kid."

It would be Saya, he thought ruefully. No one else would be so bold.

He boasted few friendships within the Village, always aware he might be accused of playing favorites, but he was only human, and he did have some preferences. Saya had been with him a long time. While never disrespectful or even overly familiar, she knew him well, liked him despite his social deficiencies, and on occasion, she took a few small liberties with that intimacy. Gaara eyed her with resignation, as several of the other guards moved a little closer, hoping to overhear her unsubtle prying.

He had introduced Kumi to his guards before boarding the train, informing them matter-of-factly that the child accompanying them to Shiroiya was his niece. Kankurō and his daughter was still sorting things out, he'd told them, and would appreciate some privacy while they did so. Although he had tried to be tactful, and he hadn't explicitly forbidden them to discuss it amongst themselves, he had tried to discourage both speculation and inquiry.

He hadn't really expected them to listen. Silently, he waited, neither inviting questions nor forestalling them.

"May I ask," Saya began carefully, "who knows about her – other than us, Kazekage-sama? The way you asked us to mind our own business earlier this afternoon sort of suggested it was still under wraps."

Gaara relaxed a bit. "Everyone will know about her tomorrow," he told her. "My office will be releasing a public statement. I hoped to avoid the whole of Suna descending en masse on Kumi-chan before she had an opportunity to process such…" he paused, "such an unexpected development," he finished delicately.

"Unexpected," Saya echoed. "Unexpected for her, or…"

"For everyone involved," Gaara allowed, cautiously.

"Her mother…?"

"Deceased." He kept his tone curt, hoping she would take the hint.

The tall kunoichi waited a moment before venturing another question, as curiosity overcame her better judgement.

"So… Kumi-chan's mother never told Kankurō he was a father? I mean," she added with a note of cynicism, "assuming she knew who Kumi-chan's father was, in the first place."

Gaara clenched his teeth as he weighed his response. This was exactly the sort of judgmental prattle he had been hoping to avoid. Unfortunately, if his own guards wouldn't be put off, there was likely very little he could do to protect Kumi from crude chinwagging. Not that probabilities and likelihoods would keep him from trying.

"I would not presume to speculate as to why a mother might choose not to identify the father of her child," Gaara said finally, raising his voice so that the rest of his escort could listen in – though not so loudly that the two puppeteers training in the distance would overhear. "What I do know is that Nozara Kumi's courage, good nature, and resourcefulness are a credit to her mother's influence, that Kumi-chan herself is a very welcome addition to the Kazekage clan, and that my niece has enough on her mind without being exposed to unfounded and uncharitable rumors about her parents."

Saya's eyes were as round as saucers. "I… of course, Kazekage-sama. I… I only –"

"So," he interrupted, "I would appreciate it if those I rely on most would refrain from mean-spirted speculation."

The young woman stared at the ground, shamefaced. "I apologize, Kazekage-sama. I'm only upset for Kankurō's sake. It doesn't seem fair."

Her anger on Kankurō's behalf softened his displeasure at once. If he were honest, he would have to admit some resentment toward Nozara Rira himself. Unlike Saya, he had overheard Kumi's comment to her father regarding plum wine. The woman had known perfectly well who sired her daughter.

"I wouldn't reproach you or anyone for mere curiosity, Saya-san," Gaara answered, more gently, "And I appreciate your indignation. But I will not tolerate hurtful gossip."

He strode away to retrieve the puppeteers practicing on the far end of the train yard, determined to get one full meal into his brother before the day was out. Even if he had to immobilize him with Sand Coffin and force the food down his stubborn throat, bite by bite.

When they returned to the train station, the sun was sunken low on the horizon, a red ball of flame half-buried in a cozy hearth of coral and amber. Their delayed start meant they wouldn't arrive in Shiroiya until after midnight. All to the good, as far as Gaara was concerned. A private man, he was content to avoid encounters with inquisitive civilians when possible, but the Kazekage's appearance in any of the major cities invariably drew crowds and media attention. Besides which, his press release regarding Kumi and Kankurō would spread like wildfire. He could not protect her for long, but at least the little girl's first impression of the Kaze no Kuni's capital wouldn't be a barrage of impertinent questions.

By the time full dark descended, she looked too tired to care what might await her in Shiroiya. A bitter sweetness constricted his heart as he noted the delicate blue shadows pooling beneath her drooping eyes.

Several months after he had formally adopted Shinki, he had taken his new son to Konoha to meet his cousin. The boys had come in from playing outside, and Gaara had seen at once that both were completely exhausted. Although the Kazekage was a frequent visitor of the Naras and must have seen his nephew awake past his bedtime many times, before that moment, he had never consciously registered the minute alterations of feature and character that indicated a child's fatigue.

Now an experienced father, the signs were blatantly obvious to him, regardless of which child happened to be exhibiting them. He regretted Kumi's weariness, certainly, but felt oddly gratified to have recognized it.

Kankurō, contrariwise, seemed as unreceptive to Kumi's unanimated mouth, heavy eyelids, and slow, even breathing as Gaara once would have been. Accustomed himself to the necessity of sleeping under multifarious and often anxious conditions, it would not occur to the veteran jounin that she would sleep poorly once they reached Night Heron House, if she were to fell asleep here.

That was alright, though. Kankurō learned quickly, and he wasn't without assistance in the interim.

"Kumi-chan," Gaara said quietly, "don't doze off, alright? We'll be there soon."

She blinked her great green eyes at him slowly, like a cat very nearly secure enough in its surroundings to sleep. The wheels turned in her head, sluggish with drowsiness, but she nodded, straightening in her seat and rolling her shoulders back in a slow stretch.

"Sorry, kid," Kankurō said, sounding more than a little tired himself. "It's been the hell of a week."

She nodded wordlessly and glanced out the window at the unclouded night sky and its brilliant spray of stars, unobscured by the ambient light that would have dulled them in Suna. A comical grimace crossed her small, fine features as she heroically suppressed a yawn, and she stretched again before settling into a cross-legged position on the banquette.

Gaara bit the end of his tongue, considering. Conversation had never been his forte, but surely he could distract a sleepy child for half an hour. The Kazekage cast his eyes about the car for a suitable subject and was mildly surprised to find that one presented itself.

"Will you show me some of your sketches?" he asked, nodding at the spiral-bound pad that lay beside her. "Kankurō said your drafts were beautiful."

"Really?" Kumi peered suspiciously across the way at her father. "He told me they were terrible."

"I said your drafting skills were terrible," Kankurō corrected, "not your drawing."

Kumi flipped open the drawing pad and passed it to Gaara, who laughed with surprised pleasure.

"I told you she was good," Kankurō drawled.

Gaara ignored him, but Kumi's cheeks reddened with the praise.

Tiny Kamata Yui perched on a signpost in the foreground, hands on her hips and lips pursed, watching Team Kamata practice with their throwing stars. Her boys were both taller than she was, and she had the fine, sweet face of a porcelain doll, but for all that, she was an exacting master, grudging with praise and quick to pounce on errors. Her kids were easily the most advanced among the genin teams, all three well-adjusted, ambitious kids who profited from her constructive criticism and demanding drills.

"Shizumi-chan looks like she's about to murder Kamata-san," he observed, pointing at a glaring child. "And you did a nice job with Ryōji -kun's eyes."

Kankurō leaned over, suddenly curious, and Gaara lay the sketchbook open on his lap so he could better see.

Kumi's smile dissolved in another yawn. "Well, Ryoji-kun is a friend, so his expressions are easy to draw from memory."

"Just a friend?" Kankurō asked, arching a brow significantly at his daughter.

Kumi crinkled her nose. "Is that hard to believe?"

"No, not for genin," he allowed. "Usually though, when you get older, it ends up with the guy wanting more. Especially if he's single."

Gaara gave him a warning look, which Kankurō dismissed with a roll of his eyes before leveling a mockingly severe glare on his daughter.

"Don't make friends with guys," he instructed firmly, "unless they're your teammates. And even then, you just have to hope they're smart enough not to carry a torch for someone they work with."

Kumi laughed. A mischievous light leaped into her eyes, and although the bluish shadows beneath remained, she didn't look quite so sleepy anymore.

"Gay guys are safe, then, right?"

"If they're really gay," Kankurō returned without missing a beat. "You'd be surprised what guys will say to get into a girl's pants, though."

"Kankurō!" Gaara chided, shocked.

Kumi grinned at him. "I think Gaara-sama might be surprised by the conversations that occur in the girls' locker-room," she teased, making him flush with embarrassment.

A smile, crooked but genuine, cracked Kankurō's too-thin face. He nudged Gaara's ribs with an elbow. "Probably. Nice guys, pfft."

Gaara fixed him with a stern glare of his own, but Kankurō only chuckled.

"Seriously, though," he said to Kumi, "be honest, if you're not interested. Anything short of "not gonna happen," and teenage guys will hear a maybe."

He considered a moment. "Lot of grown men will too, come to think of it."

"Isn't it better to let them down gently, though?" Her little round mouth screwed up doubtfully.

"You're female, Kumi," he said, suddenly serious. "For a certain subset of men, that means you can only be a potential shag, a frigid bitch, or unfuckable."

"Kankurō," Gaara said sharply, "You cannot talk to a ten-year-old like this!"

"Eleven," Kankurō and Kumi replied together.

"Someone's going to talk to her about it, and sooner rather than later," Kankurō said flatly. "I'd rather she get the facts from me before some blue-balled asshole gaslights her into feeling like she's led him on or owes him something."

"Oh, gods." Gaara groaned and pointedly flipped the page of the sketchbook.

"That's only the assholes, kid," Kankurō went on. "A decent guy will be disappointed if you shut him down, but he'll appreciate honesty. We're simple like that, yeah? The really good ones will still manage to be your friends."

"If you say so," Kumi said, looking skeptical. "But what makes a girl un…"

Gaara's glanced up with narrowed eyes and Kumi coughed. "Ah – that last category you mentioned."

"Depends who you ask," Kankurō answered with a shrug.

"Say I'm asking that subset of men you mentioned."

"Ah. If you're not dead, grotesquely ugly, or insanely powerful, you're fair game to that sort."

"Oh. Well, then." Kumi sat back on the banquette and smiled contentedly. "Insanely powerful it is."

That made Kankurō snort with laughter, and even Gaara couldn't help a reluctant chuckle.

"Indubitably," he agreed firmly. "But moving on – what is this?"

A loose sketch had been tucked into the back of the book; he pulled it free and held it up for her.

Kumi smile trembled and fled. She straightened slowly, fixated on the paper he held.

"I didn't…" She reached out for the drawing. "I'm sorry, Gaara-sama. I didn't know that was there. I must have stuck it in my sketchbook while I was packing up in the Theatre."

Gaara wordlessly handed her the paper. As was her wont when troubled, she worried a pale pink lip between her teeth as she stared at it, gnawing with such agitation that a bright spot of blood began to well around her incisor. The taste of blood roused her, though, and she exhaled slowly.

"This is Jorōgumo," she said. "Mom's combat puppet. How I remember her, anyway."

The puppet in Kumi's sketch had been delicately rendered in colored pencil, clearly inspired by the mythological creature for which it was named. Folklore described the jorōgumo as a monstrous spider, which could take the form of a beautiful young woman to attract its favorite prey: beautiful young men. Once caught in the demon spider's web, the hapless victim would suffer a painful and lingering death by poison.

From the puppet's waist up, Kumi had drawn a courtly lady not unlike her own Naruki, but the resemblance ended with the puppet's stylish hair and kimono. Where Naruki's tidy junihitoe secreted her murder of crows, this puppet disdained concealment. Her kimono hung in careless disarray, revealing most of one realistically modeled white breast. All eight of her segmented, spear-tipped lower limbs clawed at the foreground of the drawing, dripping with naked menace and insatiable greed. Naruki's lips were forever pursed in silent contemplation; the spider-woman's mouth stretched wide, needle-sharp fangs bared, in a mad and terrible grin of ecstatic anticipation.

Gaara reached to touch a red fang, admiring. Evocative, like Rira's art. "She's terrifying."

"Mom called her a sadist." Kumi's green eyes slanted thoughtfully. Her lip disappeared between her teeth again. Her small white fingers touched the puppet's grinning maw.

"She specialized in catch-and-retrieves, so Jorō-chan was supposed to neutralize enemy combatants without killing them. She had harpoon guns concealed in her arms, to impale and drag an escapee back to the field or to pin down an especially mobile target, and her mouth ejected weighted nets and bolas that had been modified with Mom's paralysis trap fuinjutsus.

"She didn't… she didn't damage opponents badly, or often, unless she had to use the harpoons. But she enjoyed frightening them." Kumi eyes grew darker. "All her blades were coated in a fear-inducing hallucinogen. She wanted her victims frightened and helpless. Too afraid to fight back."

Gaara didn't know whether she was talking about Jorōgumo or Nozara Rira anymore, and, thinking back to Rira's dark, provocative art, he realized with a sudden wrench of intuition that Kumi didn't know, either. Her eyes had wandered beyond the drawing, seeing the puppet as it had been, rather than her two-dimensional interpretation of it.

When her gaze cleared, her mouth was drawn up in a tight, unhappy bow, but her fragile jaw thrust stubbornly forward as she looked up to find Kankurō's eyes.

"Do you remember what Mom told me, about a puppet's most important piece?" she asked.

Kankurō nodded silently, and, sensing the significance of the question, Gaara didn't interrupt to ask for clarification.

"Mom was a genin when she built Jorō-chan's prototype." Kumi jerked her shoulders upward in a brief shrug. "She came before the Fourth War. Before Mom ever killed anyone. Before she even had her first B-rank mission. Before any of that, the most powerful, most terrifying thing mom had to give her puppet was the ability to take pleasure in someone else's fear and pain."

She finally tore her eyes from Kankurō's and cradled the paper in her hands, as if it were terribly delicate – or terribly volatile.

"That's why I refused to rejoin the Nozara clan," she said softly. "Because I figured Mom got Joro-chan's most important piece from someone in her family."

For a moment, the only answer was the rumble of the train on the tracks, a jarringly arrhythmic, metallic thumping and dinging.

Then Kankurō nodded grimly, tight-lipped, and gently retrieved Jorōgumo's portrait from his daughter before sliding it back into her sketchbook.

In view of the eager, gaping jaws and the bloodstains on Jorōgumo's jagged teeth, Gaara sincerely hoped Kumi was wrong about the inspiration behind its persona. Puppets were meant to intimidate, and ordinarily, he wouldn't think anything of a puppet with a disturbing face-plate. Possibly it was only Rira or Kumi's natural artistic talents that infused the weapon with such malicious glee, but Gaara had demons of his own. And he had an eerie suspicion that they recognized their kin in Nozara Rira's combat puppet.

"I'm sorry, Kumi-chan," Gaara apologized. "I didn't mean to bring up painful memories."

"Nah. It's nice to talk about Jorō-chan, actually." Kumi exhaled and gave him a rueful smile. "She was a monster, but she was our monster. She was family."

He nodded, still troubled, and tried to give the sketchpad back to her.

"You can keep it, for now. I have some decent pictures of the other genin teams in there." She gave him a shy smile. "Or I can draw formal ones, if you'd rather."

He promised to look through the sketchbook, and the last leg of the trip passed quietly. Neither Kumi nor Kankurō seemed quite as lethargic as they had. Kumi was distant and reflective, lost in memory. Kankurō's storm-grey eyes glittered like cold steel; his mood had slipped again, driven to sullenness by Kumi's depiction of Jorōgumo – or by the specter of Nozara Rira, raised by the portrait of her cruel puppet.

Kankurō knew even less than Gaara regarding the mother of his child. As Kazekage, Gaara was at least familiar with Rira's service record and her professional history. He had presided over the ceremony that had posthumously bestowed Suna's second most distinguished award upon her; he had personally presented a Silver Star for valorous service to her silent, dry-eyed child.

Kankurō must be anxious to learn something of the woman, if only to comprehend her reasoning in excluding him from Kumi's life.

His brother was a good man. He had honor and conviction and strength, and if he was irascible and impatient, those faults were well-tempered by humor and perspicacity and a loyalty that superseded all else. He would have been a great father – and would be a great father – and yet Rira had denied him the opportunity. On that point, Kankurō remained perversely and stubbornly silent. He had nothing to say of the woman, negative or otherwise. His reticence may have stemmed from a disinclination to speak with Gaara, who had, of course, been out of favor himself, but the Kazekage suspected he simply didn't trust himself to speak.

It must chafe, terribly, to wonder what Nozara Rira had seen in him, or what she hadn't seen in him, that precipitated her decision to keep Kumi's paternity a secret.

And despite his words to Saya, Gaara couldn't help but wonder himself.

They finally debarked at a station near the estate where Gaara and his escort stayed when he was obliged to visit the capital. Night Heron House had quartered Kazekages and other foreign dignitaries since before his father's time, and Gaara had passed many hours secluded in its meticulously maintained water gardens, mulling over Terashima's latest schemes. Gaara appreciated the architecture and the painted screens; Kankurō liked that the beautiful old palace nestled snugly against the city's inner wall. The ring of enormous sandstone blocks divided the city proper from the White Palace and the elegant homes of the capital's upper echelons, and it was continually manned, providing an extra layer of protection for high profile guests.

The streets were nearly empty, the evening cool and pleasant, despite the interminable, machine-like hum of the city. Only a few blocks from the station, Gaara caught sight of Night Heron House's elegantly rounded central tower with its narrow windows and terra cotta shingles. Tall, leafy palms whispered over the stone privacy fence as they approached the adobe manor. Gaara nodded a greeting to the Sentinel manning the gate; the uniformed guard grinned in recognition, and the gate swung open for them.

Kankurō waved an acknowledgement to the Sentinel, but failed to return the smile. His hand fell to Kumi's shoulder, the one not occupied by her large puppet, and he murmured a brief goodnight to Gaara before steering her firmly toward the house and the long hall of guest quarters where they would be staying.

Gaara waved them on, along with his guards. Sleep was no more likely to find him tonight than the night before, so he didn't bother seeking his bed.

Instead, he retreated to the oasis pools in the courtyard and squinted hopefully at the black water. The herons for which the manor was named nested in the pools during the cooler months of the year. Gaara hoped he might see them again before he left Shiroiya, though winter was barely arrived.

He had seen silvery blue birds once, three years prior. The experience left an indelible imprint on his memory. Sleepless and bored of the recessed ceiling above his bed, he had abandoned his chamber for more interesting views in the gardens, where he spied a pair of the long-necked birds feeding in the water. Captivated by their grace and the shine of moonlight on their wings, he had taken a seat on one of the garden's ornamental benches and remained there until morning. He left them only when Kankurō had wakened to grouse at him for not sleeping.

Even more than the prospect of the herons, though, he keenly anticipated a few hours' solitude. Gaara was a natural introvert, and the strained ride in the thunder train left him frazzled and self-conscious. Although Kankurō often seemed preternaturally sensitive to Gaara's distress, he had been understandably preoccupied today, and unable to ease the tension. The Kazekage had been relieved when the train rolled into the station, where the hurry and bustle of unloading had started to unwind his taut nerves.

The late-night quiet was welcome, and the garden lovely as always, even though the herons, if they had returned, were nowhere to be seen. Gaara found a comfortable seat on the porch and pulled out his phone.

He had over a dozen e-mails to answer, one of which was Kawamura's. He set that one aside to deal with last and began to tap out responses to the others. Shinobi didn't transfer sensitive information via e-mail, so there wasn't anything especially pressing in his inbox. Meanwhile, several things had reached him which probably ought to have been dealt with long before requiring his notice, a circumstance which normally might have annoyed him. Tonight, he was content to set aside his familial duties in favor of the less emotionally fraught responsibilities of his office.

When anyone with any sense was asleep and had stopped emailing their Kazekage with trivial matters, Gaara finally returned to Mirei's request for an update.

Thank you, Mirei. Kankurō was not himself today. He was certainly fatigued by the migraine, and could not be persuaded to eat much, despite the combined efforts of Kumi and myself. He is still angry that I made inquiries of you without his knowledge, and I'm sure being taken off active duty must have come as a blow, even though he was expecting it. He and Kumi seem to be getting on well, but I am convinced he resents having been excluded from her life in the first place.

He hesitated over his next words. Had it been anyone but his cantankerous brother, he would have suspected the person in the train car with him to be suffering from depression. But it had been only the one day, and Kankurō had been badly exhausted by the migraine and weakened by the lack of food, and it was probably premature to ask the medic's opinion on his brother's mental state.

I'm worried.

Unable to form a more cogent explanation for his suspicions, Gaara sent the e-mail without further details. Almost immediately, his phone dinged at him, alerting him to a text message.

I suppose I don't have to ask for an update re yourself. Seeing as it is 3:30 in the morning.

You are also awake, he pointed out, smiling to himself, unexpectedly pleased to have garnered an instant reply.

I have a 3 ½ year old with a fever. What's your excuse?

I have 13,000 shinobi who would like to eat this winter, so I should probably figure out why Mizu is charging us 16% more for rice this year.

Sounds to me like you should probably figure out why someone in Trade and Commerce hasn't already investigated that and come to you with solutions.

Despite himself, Gaara smiled ruefully down at the screen.

You sound like my sister. I hope Naoki feels better soon. Shinki was a holy terror when he was ill. Worse than Kankurō, if you can believe it.

I find that very hard to believe. And Naoki will be fine. When the fever-reducer kicks in, it's as if he isn't even sick. Twenty percent of my job is holding him when he feels badly, and the other eighty is begging him to calm down, rest up, and go to sleep.

Shinki never would stop. He just fell asleep in strange places when he was too tired to go on. One time, I found him asleep on the toilet, and once in an empty bathtub. Once he had his legs propped up on the sofa and his head on the ground, with a blanket over only his face. And then there was the time he had found his way into Kankurō's workshop and was sleeping inside the cavity of one of his trap-style puppets.

Gaara leaned back against the wall, allowing the tension to bleed away from his shoulders. Recalling Shinki's few silly moments had put him in a much better frame of mind. His son was a serious-minded young chuunin who would be devastated at the thought anyone had ever considered him 'silly.'

Gaara smiled to himself as he forwarded an old picture of Shinki.

I saved this for blackmail purposes.

Shinki had been about seven years old and sick with a particularly nasty sinus infection. After climbing up on the bathroom counter, trying to fend for himself by retrieving a decongestant from of the medicine cabinet, he had taken a swig of the medicine straight from the bottle before falling asleep directly afterward. Gaara found him a few minutes later, curled up on the counter next to the sink and lying in a puddle of medicine-green drool.

For a long moment, there was no reply, and Gaara began to wonder uneasily if he had crossed one of those social boundaries he generally struggled to avoid. The doctor was a reserved sort of person, not unlike himself. Perhaps he had been too familiar in sharing his son's embarrassing picture?

Then his phone dinged again, and he had two images, side-by-side, in his messages. One was Naoki in nothing but his underwear, dangling precariously from a ceiling light fixture by his ankle. The other was the same little boy, lying on a sofa under a blanket with two red spots on his cheeks, looking sleepy and completely miserable.

I took these not half an hour apart. Kids! Kankurō really doesn't have a clue what he's in for.

How did he get up there? And I think they'll be alright. Kumi-chan is mature and he's adaptable.

Kumi-chan is VERY mature. And I don't doubt she is coping better than many children would. But she's also a lot like her father. They are both good at pretending nothing is wrong, until suddenly her friend is dragging her in with multiple fractures, or he's half-blind with pain and hasn't kept anything down in three days. Looking back, I'm surprised I didn't make a connection between them before. Except that she doesn't look much like him, I suppose. And I wish I knew how Naoki got anywhere, believe me.

Anything I should be on the lookout for?

With Kumi? She isn't naturally serious or introverted. She's cultivated that image, but she's really pretty damn playful when you get to know her. She's got a smart mouth and a good awareness of when it's appropriate and when it's not. If she's willing to be a little irreverent or silly, that's probably a fair indication that she's comfortable. If she's trying not to rock the boat, staying out of everyone's way and keeping to herself, she might need a little coaxing to come out of her shell.

As far as your brother goes…?

I don't know. He's a difficult man to read on a good day, and he's dealing with a lot of changes, so he's probably going to be even harder to read than usual. But he has always tested as highly stable and resilient, psychologically. I really believe the most important thing with him is to make sure he gets those fluids and to figure out what's causing the migraines. No one is going to be at their best on starvation rations, sleep-deprived, and subjected to severe and recurrent pain. Treating his physical symptoms properly will go a long way toward restoring his spirits.

Gaara snorted as he texted a reply.

Keep him fed and watered and get him to the hospital. You wouldn't think that should be such a tall order.

Well *I* would, but I know Kankurō. Even so, you'll likely manage it better if you get some rest yourself, Kazekage-sama. Go to bed! Doctor's orders.

You, too. CO's orders.

Yes, sir. I think Naoki is out for good, anyway. FINALLY. Goodnight.

Sleep well.

Gaara rose, conscious of a curious and uncommon sense of pleasure. He rarely texted casually with anyone outside his family. Even when his occasional conversations with Naruto led to personal matters, they almost always began with business. It was… nice, he decided, scrolling up to smile at the pictures of Shinki and Naoki again. It was gratifying, for once, to be a man with a problem and to be offered a sympathetic ear and solutions, rather than to be looked to as the problem-solver. It was satisfying to be a person instead of a public figure, a fellow parent with funny stories and headaches to share.

He scrolled back down to send one last text message before going to bed.

Thank you for listening, Mirei.