Chapter Text
It took a week before Inojin woke up.
Shikadai and Chocho stayed anxiously at his bedside, hovering, fretting. For the first few days, they refused to leave. They took turns going home, unwilling to risk that he would wake up without one of them there.
When his eyes finally opened, he was confused and disoriented. He only stayed awake a few minutes at a time, but gradually those periods of lucidity increased in length, until he was finally recognizing them, talking to them, and Shikadai began to let himself believe that things could return to normal one day.
But Inojin still wasn’t himself. He couldn’t focus, barely stayed awake, forgot that he had seen his teammates earlier in the day. Although Ino assured them it was normal, and to be expected, Shikadai couldn’t help the gnawing anxiety in his stomach. There was a lingering feeling that something was wrong.
All he wanted was his friend back. This had been too close to a permanent loss, and Inojin still wasn’t back – not as he used to be. Conversations were broken and stilted, and Inojin rarely remembered them.
It took another week before he was staying awake for longer periods of time, talking, more like himself. But there was still a horrible rattle to his breathing, and every time Shikadai saw him, he was filled with a sense of dread. The future was still uncertain, and there were times that Inojin slept so deeply Shikadai was afraid he wouldn’t wake up.
Then one day he woke up, seemed alert, and Shikadai let a fraction of his worry melt away.
“Have you been here the entire time?” Inojin asked, blinking at him.
“No. I go home every now and then. And you’ve asked me that twice now,” Shikadai replied, lips twitching up in amusement.
Inojin took a moment to think. “Oh. Did I?”
“Yeah. But you sound more awake now, so that’s good. How are you feeling?”
Inojin paused, taking stock of himself. “Sore,” he concluded. “How long until I can go home?”
“I don’t know. You were pretty badly injured.” Shikadai hesitated. He didn’t want to add on, but the thought kept lurking in his mind, I think you died for a while.
Inojin studied his face, and Shikadai hoped his expression didn’t give away too much concern. But Inojin was focused on something else, and asked, in a very quiet voice, “Why can’t I move my legs?”
“W-what?” Shikadai tensed in place. He forced himself to remain calm. “I . . . let me call your mom.”
There was a subtle uptake in Inojin’s breathing, and he nodded, almost frantically.
Shikadai didn’t have to go far to find Ino – she had barely left the hospital since Inojin had been brought back to the village. He explained that Inojin was awake, and asking about his health, and then he followed her back to Inojin’s room.
“Hey, love,” Ino greeted softly, coming to stand at Inojin’s side.
Shikadai stood down on the other side of the bed, nudging the chair aside so he could be close. There were always two chairs in the room, and Shikadai had practically lived in one of them the past week.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Can’t move my legs,” Inojin murmured. “Is . . . is that normal?”
“Yes, it is,” Ino answered, and Shikadai let out a short sigh of relief. “There’s a lot of nerve damage, and issues with your chakra network. It may take a few days or even weeks for your muscles to start responding properly again.”
“But . . . but it will get better, right?” There was a tight coil of anxiety in Inojin’s voice, an uncertain shudder that was laced with fear.
Ino did not answer immediately. For a while, she stared at her son, tight lipped. The silence had dragged on for an agonizingly long time before she answered, “It should.”
For a tense heartbeat, Inojin remained frozen still. Then he looked down, towards the blankets on the bed. His hands closed into the soft fabric.
Shikadai edged closer to the side of bed, nearly leaning against it, a flare of protectiveness sparking within, a need to comfort his teammate, despite the helplessness he felt. There was nothing he could do that would have any meaning, any impact. All he could do was stand there, useless.
Just like he had stood when Inojin was hurt in the first place, equally useless.
Hesitantly, he laid a hand on Inojin’s shoulder. Inojin was cold beneath his grip, tense, and he shrugged Shikadai’s hand away.
“Can you go?” Inojin mumbled, still looking down.
Shikadai let his arm fall to his side.
“Yes,” he replied softly. “I’ll . . . come back later, okay?”
He received no reply. With effort, he took himself from the room, hesitating in the doorway and looking over his shoulder. Inojin did not look at him, and Shikadai lingered, before making the final steps away.
Himawari’s smiling face appeared in Inojin’s room later, and he gestured for her to come inside, before flopping down onto the pillows, easily tired and drained from conversations earlier in the day.
“Hi,” Himawari said. “Sorry it’s been a few days since I was here last.”
“S’fine,” Inojin said, shaking his head. “Not like I remember most of it.”
“I thought Shikadai was going to be here all day? He said he would.” She pulled the chair beside his bed back a bit, and sat down, leaning her elbows onto the mattress and peering at Inojin.
“Asked him to leave,” Inojin replied shortly, and swallowed hard as a firm lump began to form in his throat.
“Why?”
“Can’t walk, Hima,” Inojin muttered. He cleared his throat again, trying to keep his voice level.
“Oh.” She fell silent then. “For how long?”
“Don’t know. Could be a few weeks. Could be . . .” He stopped, fingers fiddling at the blanket.
Himawari let the silence stretch on, until he looked at her with hooded blue eyes.
“I would give you a hug but I don’t want to hurt you,” Himawari said, voice filled with apology.
Inojin managed a half smile. “I could use a hug.”
Her face brightened a bit, and she leaned forward eagerly.
“Just . . . be careful,” Inojin cautioned. “Everything still hurts.” He opened his arms, because he really did need the comfort and the closeness. Himawari was gentle, carefully closing her arms around his shoulders, whispering, “This okay?”
He nodded, because he didn’t trust his voice, and held onto her as tightly as he dared. It made his stomach pull uncomfortably, but that hardly seemed like an inconvenience when he was unsure what the future was going to hold.
When Himawari let go, and carefully sat back in her seat, Inojin adjusted himself in the bed. He took a moment to smooth his hair down as well, since the constant sitting and lying was causing it to stick up at all angles. He probably looked a mess, and he didn’t care.
“What happens now?” Himawari asked.
Inojin looked at her, then flicked his eyes away. He ran his fingers through his hair, thoughtfully, before letting his hands fall to his lap.
“You should have let me die,” Inojin murmured. “It would have been better.”
Himawari stared at him for a moment, too shocked to reply. She shook off her surprise, expression shutting down into a frown. “No. You’re wrong.”
“How is this any better than being dead?” Inojin asked.
“Because you’re alive,” Himawari replied, insistent.
“So? It’s not going to matter if I can’t do anything.”
“But it’s so soon afterwards – you said it yourself - it could take weeks.”
“And if it doesn’t? If – if this is it, and I’m stuck like this forever?” Inojin tamped down a flare of anger in his chest. “We’re shinobi. That’s all I’ve ever known. And if I can’t do that, then what am I meant to do with my life?”
“You live,” Himawari insisted.
“This isn’t living,” Inojin scoffed. “Death would be better.”
“You’ll never convince me of that,” she said, frowning. “I’d save you a thousand times more, if needed. So don’t say things like that – things like you’d be better off dead. Because it’s not true.”
Inojin turned his head away.
“You can’t change my mind,” Himawari said. “We all need you.”
“And exactly what do you need from me now? While I’m stuck in bed and might not get out of it again? How is that any good to anyone?”
Himawari frowned. “You have to wait. Things will get better.”
“You don’t know that,” Inojin muttered.
She shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe not. But I’m willing to hope.”
Inojin sighed, shoulders sagging. The world felt dark and hopeless, and filled with a never-ending pain that was Inojin’s constant companion. Each breath was a task, and each day dragged by agonizingly slow – all the same, all monotonous, all hurting. It was not what Inojin wanted. “That makes one of us.”