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The red-haired boy flinched as the sterilised needle cut through his upper arm. Scowling, Sakura shifted her hold on the tool and pulled away, unable to continue threading it through his open wound. Whipping her head up, she met the red-haired boy’s cold, half-lidded brown eyes.
“Will you hold still?” she hissed. “I can’t do anything if you keep fidgeting like that.”
The foreign shinobi stilled and looked at her with a frigid, apathetic stare. He hadn’t wanted to have it treated at first, and it was obvious that he was still unhappy with her one-sided decision to have stitched it closed. Ignoring him, Sakura manoeuvred the tissue forceps so that she had a clear view of the puncture site and, breathing in deeply, pushed the needle through with her needle holder.
“This is entirely unnecessary,” the red-haired boy said dryly. He hadn’t flinched this time. “It’s not poisoned. It will heal on its own in a few days.”
Sakura pressed her lips into a thin line. He was right, of course, to a degree, but that didn’t mean she was going to go ahead and admit it. It had been a long day, and her patience was starting to wear thin.
She breathed in slowly. “It will take less time if I suture it,” she stated. “There’s less risk of an infection. Plus, it will inhibit you less in combat that way.”
The red-haired boy huffed, but otherwise didn’t move or protest in any way. Sighing, Sakura shook her head and continued threading the needle across the long gash on his upper arm, slowly closing it.
It was hard to believe that she had found eerie boy intimidating at first. They had run into the Sunagakure team soon after their disastrous arrival at the Land of Waves. Though the Suna-Konoha collaboration had been entirely unplanned, the surprise attack of the Kirigakure missing-nin had forced their hand. As it had turned out, their mission objectives, through technically different, were similar enough that Kakashi had agreed to partner up with them over the coming days.
Sakura’s eyes darted back to the red-haired boy’s face.
He had barely uttered a single word in the few hours their two teams had been together. He barely emoted anything that wasn’t akin to disdain, both at them and at his own team, and he hadn’t even deigned to introduce himself even after Naruto’s insistent prompting. On top of that, the leader of his team—a Jounin around Kakashi’s own age—seemed to be more scared of him than he had of the demon of the hidden mist.
If the glares Sasuke and Naruto had directed at him after she had declared her intention of stitching his wound were an indication, travelling in a group was going to be a nightmare. Worst of all was the disbelieving stares his own team had directed at her when he had complied and followed her to an edge of their camp.
She sighed. At least they had been able to provide information on the Gato Company’s involvement with what Tazuna had been going through, if nothing else. “What’s your name?” she asked quietly.
The red-haired boy frowned. He remained silent for a few seconds, as if trying to decide whether to reply or not. “Sasori,” he finally said.
Sakura nodded. “I’m sorry I can’t heal it outright,” she said reticently. She pointedly avoided glancing at her two teammates as she focused on the wound again. “I’ve been practicing on fish, but I’m not allowed to heal people without a supervisor yet. I can only disinfect and suture.”
His expression shifted minutely. “You’re training to be a medic?”
“I am,” Sakura answered. A smile found its way to her lips as she threaded the needle through the wound again. She had only started to train soon after becoming a Genin, but the medic-nin at the hospital had been quite pleased with her progress so far. “I can already form a chakra scalpel, but I’m still learning to control the mystic palm technique.”
Sasori didn’t say anything. Instead, his eyes flicked to the somewhat distant forms of Naruto and Sasuke, who were still glaring in their direction.
Sakura sighed. Honestly, she thought, feeling exasperated. You’d think he was about to attack me.
Shaking her head, she threaded the needle through the last remaining open point of the long gash on his upper arm, closing it completely. Once she had verified that the row of stitches was perfect, she reached for one of the rolls of bandages she kept within her medical kit and began to secure it around the foreign shinobi’s upper arm.
“There,” she said with a smile, shifting away. “That should be fine now. Don’t stress the area too much if you can avoid it, or I’ll have re-do these again.”
Sasori nodded and looked down at the neatly wrapped bandages. Slowly, he moved his arm in a circle, as if testing his mobility, only to have his lips curl up in disgust.
He’s not used to this, Sakura realised. He couldn’t be, not with the odd way in which he had been looking at his own wound. It was normal to get injured in combat in some way or another, but it was almost as if he didn’t think that the open wound was his own.
“It shouldn’t hinder you in combat too much, though it may scar slightly” Sakura said. “It’s not too bad, but if you feel it beginning to hurt more than normal make sure to tell me so I can take another look at it.”
Sasori’s brown eyes flicked to her own. He regarded her coolly, visibly dissatisfied with the situation. Still, he didn’t say a single word in complaint. Feeling slightly awkward, Sakura forced herself to continue speaking. She didn’t want to return to her team just yet—not with the way they were sure to act the minute they realised she was done.
She eyed the bandages she had wrapped around his arm. “You’re not used to this, are you?” she said hesitantly. His attitude didn’t seem to be entirely healthy, but it spoke volumes about his abilities in combat if it was due to rarely getting injured. “It says a lot if you aren’t. We’ve only been Genin for a few months, but I’ve had to heal both my teammates a few times already.”
The red-haired boy grimaced. “Chunin,” he said. “I’m a Chunin, not a Genin.”
Sakura’s eyes widened. “Chunin?” she crowed. Her eyebrows rose as the boy gave her a slow, regal nod in response. He didn’t seem to be any older than her, Naruto, or Sasuke. It was hard to believe it was possible. “That’s amazing!” she exclaimed, forgetting some of her earlier reticence. “How long have you been one?”
Sasori’s lips curled up at the compliment. Slowly, his posture lost some of its earlier tension. “A few years,” he answered. He looked at her up and down. “How long have you been a Genin for?”
“A few months. We only just graduated,” she said. Grimacing, she glanced at her two teammates. At first she had been delighted to be placed in Sasuke’s team, but the reality had turned out to be quite different. “We’re still learning to work together.”
“You should fix the way you hold kunai, then,” Sasori stated plainly. “You won’t hit anything otherwise.”
Sakura felt herself bristle. “I know that!” she exclaimed.
He ignored her. “You shouldn’t try to imitate your teammates either. You were trying to earlier,” he continued saying. “If you’re good enough to learn medical ninjutsu you have good chakra control.” He focused on her for a few seconds, studying her intently enough that a faint blush rose to her cheeks. “It’s a rare gift. You should take advantage of that. They have much less finesse and skill than you.”
He didn’t wait for her to reply. Brushing his fingers over the bandages she had wrapped, he pulled the sleeve of his black shirt over them, covering them completely. Sneering at her two teammates, he began to walk away, directing himself towards the Jounin who officially led his team. The Jounin—a tall, tanned man who wore Sunagakure’s beige uniform—visibly blanched at the sight, and only barely managed to stutter a reply. Kakashi, who had been sitting close to a side of the camp, followed his movements openly, not bothering to make a show of reading his book.
Still feeling flustered, Sakura stared at the space the foreign shinobi had just occupied, not quite sure of how to interpret or react to the advice he had just given her. It was only when Sasori began to berate the older Jounin that she shifted and clenched her fists, feeling a familiar sense of annoyance start to build up.
He hadn’t even bothered to say so much as thanks.