Work Text:
The rain pattered against the office window, painting streaks on the glass that looked like old scars. In Sasori's line of work, the clients were mostly the desperate sort: husbands looking to catch their wives in the act, or vice versa. Maybe a parent with more money than good sense, tracking down a runaway daughter only to find she’d skipped town with some wannabe gangster on a tank of gas and a handful of half-baked dreams.
Those jobs usually ended with a “thank you” card, the kind that spelled out a polite regret, like the embers of passion had fizzled as soon as the cash dried up.
Then there were the regular suspects: business partners hoping to get dirt on each other, a nudge from the cops when a case had gone colder than a January sidewalk, or even the opportunistic nephews hoping to strike it rich by uncovering anything that might prove their wealthy uncle had left them everything in his will. Yeah, Sasori thought he’d seen it all—until tonight.
The man across the desk leaned forward, hands clasped, eyes blank but intense. Sasori frowned as he repeated the request, just to be sure he wasn’t hearing things wrong.
“So, you want me to convince your wife you’re cheating on her?”
The man—a tall brunette with a grim, humorless face—nodded solemnly. No trace of irony, no flicker of amusement. Sasori’s brow furrowed — a voyeurism kink perhaps? Rich people do love their eccentricities. But this? It felt... off.
“Why not just tell her outright?”
Sasori asked, fishing a cigarette from his coat pocket. He offered one to the man, who politely declined. Sasori shrugged and rolled the cigarette between his lips, realizing too late he was missing a lighter. His client leaned forward, a silver zippo flashing out from his coat, the flame flickering just long enough for Sasori to take a drag. Nice lighter, he thought — maybe an act to get in the detective’s good graces to accept this strange case.
“I tried,” the man said, leaning back into the leather, his voice flat as a dead heartbeat. “Hell, I’ve told her more than once. ‘Sakura, I’m having an affair,’ or ‘Sakura, I’m a homosexual.’ But she just laughs like I’m some kind of joker, pulling her leg.”
Sasori maintains his face neutral, though he is admittedly surprised by the readiness (bordering eagerness) of Mr. Uchiha to come out in front of a complete stranger - one who could easily report him for immorality and indecency to the police. That is, if he cared. However, Sasori did not.
Sasori’s eyes narrowed, not out of judgment but genuine interest. There were men who would sell each other out to the cops for less, especially for ‘morality’ crimes, but Sasori wasn’t one of them. He didn’t care about a man’s preferences or what people did behind closed doors—unless they paid him to care. But this one? This was a puzzle he couldn’t quite put down.
The briefcase full of cash that Mr. Uchiha had flashed earlier as an incentive to accept the job seemed light in comparison to the depth of this mystery. What truly intrigued Sasori were the secrets, the grime hidden beneath Konoha's polished surfaces. And this Uchiha couple appeared to have a story worth unraveling.
“And may I ask,” Sasori exhaled, smoke curling from his lips as he tapped the ash into a ceramic tray, a gift from one of his informants. “Why’d you marry the lady in the first place?”
For the first time, he saw the client’s face cloud, his jaw tightening as if the thought alone soured his mouth. Most peculia r, Sasori decides, studying the man’s scowl at the mere thought of his wife and their miserable marriages.
“This is strictly confidential, detective,” he said, his voice smooth but edged with something unbreakable. His gaze held Sasori’s, steady and unflinching. “In my family, things like this are… unthinkable.”
Mr. Uchiha shook his head, hesitating for a moment. His brother—well, he wasn’t exactly invisible in certain circles. And if Detective Akasuna was half as sharp as they said, he might already know that much. But family reputation meant little to him now; all he wanted was a way out of this sham of a marriage.
“Sakura’s an old friend,” he went on. “My mother adores her, has always treated her like the daughter she never had. To her, this marriage is a real, thriving partnership. But Sakura—she’s deluded herself into believing the whole act. Thinks we’re living some grand love story, like we’re just another happy couple playing house.”
Sasori took another drag, letting the smoky silence settle between them. He could practically feel the story—the web of lies, the stale love, the empty house with its silent rooms. Konoha’s shiny surface was all mirrors and illusions, but beneath it lay the kind of rot that Sasori lived to uncover. And he had a feeling this Uchiha couple’s little charade might just have enough skeletons in the closet to make it worth his while.
“Well,” he finally said, a wry smirk forming at the corner of his mouth, “you’re paying me to play this game of yours. So let’s see where it takes us.”
(╭ರ_•́) (╭ರ_•́) (╭ರ_•́)
As Sasori pulls up to the Uchiha family mansion, he finally realizes just how much wealth his client is sitting on. The name alone was a giveaway—the Uchihas were old money, founding fathers of Konoha, and practically owned half the town’s industry.
Calling it a ‘house’ doesn’t do it justice; this place is a full-blown manor, a testament to inherited youth chasing old elegance. Ornate pillars flank the arched entrance, and the garden is meticulously maintained, with sculpted shrubs and a lawn trimmed down to the last blade.
Nonetheless, Sasori isn’t here to gawk. He’s seen both finer and grittier in his line of work. In Konoha, his name might not hold much weight, but in Suna, his reputation could clear streets.
The sight of red hair alone could send criminals and cops scurrying, rumors spreading like wildfire the moment he stepped foot in town. He’s a feared man, as much as he is respected both for his own merits and for those of his ancestors, pillars of Suna’s high society themselves.
With a heavy briefcase in his hand, Sasori steps out of his car and tips on his gentleman’s hat. He is about to break a lady’s heart – one he hasn’t met and doesn’t care for at all – so he might as well deliver the news of her husband’s infidelity in style.
There are many things he expected when he rang the Uchiha doorbell. Some maid to open the door, first of all. Maybe a scrawny, unattractive wife, apathetic to her husband’s efforts to leave their marriage.
But he hasn’t expected her .
The soles of his shoes feel glued to the doorstep as the most stunning woman in Konoha opens the door with a warm, delicate smile. Her hair—a soft, powdery pink—curls in perfect tight loops, styled to fit the latest fashions. A string of pearls hugs her graceful neck, and diamonds hanging heavy from her ears. She wears a sheer red robe trimmed in feathers and lace, the kind that makes a man feel he’s intruded on something private, something intimate that wasn’t meant for his eyes.
Sasori takes a sharp breath. One detail his client failed to mention: Uchiha Sakura is jaw-dropping, show-stopping beautiful.
“May I help you, sir?” she asks, her warm smile wavering under his steady gaze, turning a bit strained as the silence stretches. Sasori realizes he’s been staring, but he doesn’t break his gaze. Is she waiting for her husband, he wonders, hoping he’s finally come home?
The portfolio of evidence feels heavier in his hand. But he’s here on a mission, a job he’s been well-paid to see through. Whatever shatters in her world after this—her illusions, her marriage—that’s her cross to bear. He’s just the messenger, nothing more.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, tipping his hat with a polite bow, careful not to let his eyes dip below hers. A faint flush creeps across his cheeks despite himself. “Mrs. Uchiha, I presume?”
At his words, she nods, a hint of pride flashing across her features, as if carrying that name is its own kind of accomplishment, an unspoken triumph. Sasori clears his throat, tightening his grip on the briefcase and stepping into the role he’s been paid to play. “My name is Akasuna Sasori. I’m a private investigator. If I could trouble you for just a few minutes — I’m afraid there are certain matters we need to discuss.”
A subtle crease appears between her brows as she frowns, drawing her robe tighter against her body. “And what exactly is this about, Mr. Detective?” Her fingers grip the fabric, unintentionally emphasizing the slender curve of her waist. Sasori feels his focus flicker, and he shuts his eyes briefly, grounding himself. He’s here to deliver heartbreak, cold and blunt—a messenger with nothing but catastrophic evidence in his hands.
“It concerns your husband, ma’am,” he says, voice steady as steel.
“My husband?” she repeats, her knuckles whitening as they clutch the door handle. “Did something happen to him?”
There’s a quiver in her voice, a single crack that might not seem like much to anyone else, but Sasori knows heartbreak when he hears it. For a second, he almost wavers, feeling the weight of her worry pressing in like a damp fog. But this is just another case—a story he’ll leave on her doorstep, like a forgotten package no one wants to claim.
“I’m afraid it’s… complicated,” he says, choosing his words carefully. He hesitates for a beat, measuring her reaction. “Perhaps we should discuss it somewhere more private?”
She swallows, her gaze drifting away from him, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Sasori realizes he’s standing on a fault line, ready to send her world splintering into pieces, and he steels himself for the impact.
“I was just about to serve some tea,” she says softly, her fingers lingering on the door as she hesitates, then steps aside to let him in. Sasori notices the flicker of hesitation in her gaze—a slight narrowing of her eyes, as if trying to gauge his intentions, to sense any hint of the storm he’s brought with him.
But he doubts she has any inkling of what he’s really here to tell her. How could she? The truth—that her husband hired him to shatter her illusions with proof of his secret life—is a hard pill to swallow, harder than anything she could dream up on her own.
Sakura leads him down a long hallway with floors of polished marble that seem almost luminous under the glow of crystal chandeliers above. Sasori’s eyes stay on her, his mind focused on the task, deliberately ignoring the grandeur around him.
She’s graceful in her movements, her vaporous robe giving the impression of a floating figure, almost gliding through the hall as she gestures him into the sitting room—a large space, tastefully adorned with lush furnishings and an air of quiet wealth.
He lowers himself into a velvet armchair, feeling restricted by the opulence pressing in around him. Sakura moves quietly to pour tea from a silver service on the low table, her hands steady as she prepares the cups. There’s a poised look about her, one that feels polished and rehearsed, almost too refined to be real. Sasuke had mentioned they were childhood friends, yet her elegance doesn’t come as effortlessly as his had when he sat across from Sasori in the office.
As he watches her, he steels himself for what comes next. Breaking the heart of a woman who sits across from him with such openness and grace feels like a particular cruelty, but Sasori reminds himself it’s just another job. Still, a part of him wonders how much she already knows—if she’s seen through the cracks, glimpsed the truth hiding behind the polished facade of her marriage.
She hands him a cup of tea, and he accepts it, nodding his thanks. He takes a slow breath, feeling the heat of the tea through the porcelain. It’s time to bring up the subject, to deliver the message he’s been paid to convey.
Sasori clears his throat and sets the cup down with a deliberate clink, the sound filling the silence between them. “Mrs. Uchiha,” he begins, his voice calm but unyielding, “what I’m about to tell you… may come as a shock.”
Sakura’s fingers tighten on her teacup, her pinky jutting out in a strained, unnatural way. “Please, detective, don’t toy with me,” she says, her voice a mix of curiosity and apprehension. “Just tell me what’s going on.”
He sighs, the weight of his next words pressing down on him. This conversation wasn’t meant to drag out. “There’s no easy way to say this, Mrs. Uchiha. Your husband…” He pauses, watching her closely, taking in every shift of her expression. “Your husband has been… unfaithful.”
She laughs, but the sound is brittle, like glass about to shatter. “Unfaithful? With whom, detective? Sasuke has no interest in other women. Believe me, many have tried to snag him away—he’s a very handsome man, after all.” Her laugh fades, and she glances down, almost wistful. “But he’s still married to me.”
Sasori holds her gaze, his expression unwavering. “You’re correct in assuming it’s not a woman who’s come between you.”
Her laughter fades completely, replaced by a puzzled silence.
“It’s a man, Mrs. Uchiha.” He reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a thin folder, withdrawing the damning photos one by one. He lays them on the coffee table, each image as unmistakable as the last. Sasuke, leaning over to kiss a man with bright blond hair, both of them wrapped up in each other on the bench of the family’s car. Sasori lets the images do the talking.
Sakura’s hand hovers over the photos, her lips parted in disbelief, her gaze fixed on the faces staring back at her. She knows them both. Uzumaki Naruto—a long-time friend, almost family, someone she’d trusted completely. For a moment, she simply stares, the realization flooding her face in waves.
Sasori feels a pang he hadn’t expected, a twinge of guilt as he watches the slow unraveling of her composure. But he’s done his job, and he’s done it thoroughly. It hadn’t taken long to identify Naruto. The two men’s connection was deeper than the average friendship, and the photographs revealed that the line between friend and lover had long since vanished.
Sakura’s face hardens, her gaze slicing right through him as she hisses, “What sort of dirty trick is this?” Her voice, low and bitter, drips with disdain. “How dare you come into my home and insult my marriage like this? You think I don’t know Sasuke and Naruto are close friends? They served together in the navy, for goodness’ sake.”
Sasori takes a slow breath, his face calm, voice steady. “Ma’am, no friendship between gentlemen looks like this,” he says, tapping one of the photos of Sasuke and Naruto locked in an embrace, their lips meeting with a tenderness that tells a whole story on its own.
Her eyes narrow. “So, you admit it then. You’re just a voyeur, a cheap thrill-seeker trying to ruin my husband’s name. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”
Now Sasori can see why Sasuke had grown exasperated, telling him his wife had a certain blindness, a stubborn refusal to see anything outside the script she’d written in her head. He glances back at the photos he’d so carefully selected, each frame capturing a moment too close to be mistaken for friendship. Sasuke, smiling gently in a way that softened his usually steely eyes; Naruto, arm possessively draped around Sasuke’s waist as they leaned against his car; and, of course, the kiss—proof no words could twist.
But Sasori has his orders, and he’s prepared. Sasuke had warned him, told him she’d fight to believe the illusion. More than that, his partner—Uzumaki—had begged him to spare her. Naruto, in his own way, cared for Sakura, saw her like a sister. The whole affair was a dance between love and loyalty, and Sasori knew Sasuke was desperate to break free, to end this charade before it unraveled in ways even he couldn’t control.
“Mrs. Uchiha, you’re mistaken,” Sasori says firmly, feeling the tension coil in the room as he reaches for the folder once more, ready to show her the final pieces.
But Sakura rises abruptly, feathers from her robe catching the air as she straightens herself, her expression icy. “I believe it’s better if you left, detective,” she says, her tone as cold as the marble floors beneath them.
Sasori meets her gaze steadily, unyielding. "Mrs. Uchiha," he says, his voice calm but pressing, "I understand this isn’t easy to hear, and I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to shut the door on all of it. But if you’re willing to give me ten more minutes, I can take you somewhere, show you that none of this is fabricated."
Sakura crosses her arms, her posture stiff and defensive. “You’re wasting your breath, detective,” she snaps, though there’s a slight tremor to her words. “Why should I go anywhere with you?”
“Because, Mrs. Uchiha,” Sasori replies smoothly, “I’m here to do a job, and I don’t get paid to lie to anyone. Come with me, and I’ll prove it to you. We can talk somewhere more neutral—a diner, somewhere quiet.” He hesitates, softening his tone just a little. “I think, when you see what I have to show you, it’ll be easier to… understand.”
Sakura’s glare doesn’t fade, but he can see her resolve wavering, her fingers clutching the edge of her robe tighter. After a tense pause, she relents, her voice clipped. “Fine. Wait for me outside. I’ll need a few minutes to change.”
Sasori nods, not pushing her further, and steps back out into the brisk evening air. He waits on the porch, pulling out a cigarette but pausing before he lights it, feeling the weight of what he’s about to reveal settle over him.
A few minutes later, the front door opens, and Sakura steps out, transformed. Gone is the soft, feathered robe; instead, she’s draped in a sleek, fitted trench coat, cinched at the waist with a narrow belt that accentuates her silhouette. Her lips, freshly painted a dark red, curve into a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
A wide-brimmed hat, angled just so, casts a shadow over her face, leaving only a hint of those striking eyes visible beneath it. Black gloves run smoothly up her arms, and her heels click sharply against the porch as she strides toward him, every inch the woman in control, or trying to be.
Without a word, she brushes past him, her perfume lingering, leaving a subtle trail of tension in the air as she makes her way to his car. Sasori follows, feeling the weight of this moment—the thin veneer of poise she wears, the way her gaze stays fixed ahead, betraying nothing. Whatever illusions she’s wrapped herself in tonight, he knows the truth they’re heading toward will tear them right open.
(╭ರ_•́) (╭ರ_•́) (╭ರ_•́)
The diner hums with chatter and clinking silverware, the air thick with the scent of coffee and grilled sandwiches. Sasori and Sakura sit in the shadowed corner of a red leather booth, blending into the bustling crowd of tired, hungry men unwinding after a long day’s grind.
Most of them aren’t the type with wives waiting at home—they’re the kind who come here night after night, searching for a warm meal and a distraction from whatever waits in the dark. Sakura, elegantly out of place among the lot, swirls her fizzy pop, the smear of red lipstick on the straw drawing Sasori’s gaze before he pulls his thoughts back to the task at hand.
“Why are we here?” she asks, her voice a blend of annoyance and curiosity, her gaze flickering across the diner as if the answer might reveal itself from some dark corner.
Sasori ignores her question, choosing instead to prod at a different angle. “Earlier today, your husband called to let you know he wouldn’t be home for dinner, didn’t he?”
Her eyes narrow, fingers stilling on the glass. “Yes… he did,” she says softly, almost reflexively. It’s the same call she’s received countless times—a polite excuse, as routine as clockwork. She’d even stopped wondering about his whereabouts long ago. But now, something about Sasori’s question unsettles her.
The bells over the diner door jingle as new patrons walk in, and Sasori instinctively angles his face away, hiding in the shadows. Sakura turns, following the sound, her face going pale as she spots her husband stepping inside.
Sasuke’s unmistakable figure strides across the diner with a natural ease, his polished shoes contrasting sharply with the scuffed boots around him. And beside him, Naruto—hands in his pockets, casting a casual glance around before following Sasuke to an empty booth directly across from theirs.
Sakura’s breath catches, her hand reaching up to adjust the brim of her hat, pulling it low to shield her face. Sasuke doesn’t look her way; his focus remains on Naruto as they slide into their seats.
He loosens his red tie, the color of it startling against the monochrome interior, and leans across the table to speak in a low, intimate tone that Sakura can’t quite hear but feels right down to her bones. Every gesture, every lean of their shoulders, speaks a language she’d never dared imagine her husband knew.
Sakura holds onto the glass in front of her for support, as Sasuke’s voice threads through the hum of diner conversation, his words sharp as a knife but wrapped in a low, almost confidential tone. “I think I’m going through with it,” he says gravely, the weight of his words cutting through the noise for her, though they’re meant only for Naruto.
“The merging?” Naruto asks, his voice light, though Sakura can sense the tension beneath it. She pictures Sasuke’s answering glare before his correction. “The promotion to Karin? Told ‘ya she’s the best secretary to have around, once you get over her sticky fingers.”
“No, idiot—the divorce,” Sasuke hisses, his voice laced with irritation. "Sakura."
Her pulse skips at the sound of her name. It hangs in the air, solid and undeniable, marking her as the unknowing target of this covert exchange.
Naruto lets out a resigned sigh. “You’re such a bastard, you know that?” There’s bitterness in his voice, the sound of a friend at his limit. “Why do you want to make her suffer?”
Sasuke shakes his head, the movement clipped. “It’s not about making her suffer. It’s about ending the suffering. The more she refuses to see what’s right in front of her, the more she’ll hurt.”
Sakura can’t help but steal a glance at them, her gaze shifting to the intertwined hands on the table, a brief but intimate gesture that drives his words deeper. They aren’t just two old friends leaning in for a serious conversation; they’re two men grappling with truths they’d tried to bury. Her heart clenches painfully, the ridiculous ideas detective Akasuna presented made flesh before her very eyes.
Sasuke’s voice breaks her thoughts, calm but filled with weariness. “And what about us, Naruto? We survived hell in the war. Why should we drag that misery into the rest of our lives?”
At that, Naruto’s hand shifts to a scar on his right elbow —one that mirrors Sasuke’s own on his left arm, a reminder of the last battle they fought side by side before returning home. There’s a fleeting look of shared grief in Naruto’s eyes as he rubs the faded scar, their shared history marked in more than words.
“Your marriage,” Naruto says quietly, his voice laced with a hint of regret.
“Father’s lost his control over me,” Sasuke replies, his tone steady, the certainty of his decision clear. “He can’t interfere with the divorce now that I’ve secured the company under my name. Mother…” His voice trails, a hint of conflict surfacing, perhaps his only hesitation.
Sakura feels the ache settle into something heavier, a slow dawning that presses against her ribs. For all the years she’d spent clinging to her marriage, convinced that endurance alone could mend what felt fractured, she’d ignored the signs, refused to acknowledge her husband’s unspoken truth.
She’d persisted, always telling herself that love wasn’t always easy, that real relationships demanded work, patience, resilience. But now, watching Sasuke with Naruto—his expression softened, warmth radiating in a way she’d never seen directed at herself—the truth stung.
Across from her, Sasori remains silent, letting her absorb the scene at her own pace. He watches as her manicured fingers tighten around her glass, a strained mask of composure slipping over her face. But he can see the betrayal there, the barely concealed pain in her emerald eyes as she whispers, “How long?”
Sasori leans forward, his voice a low murmur. “Long enough, Mrs. Uchiha. Long enough that he’s stopped trying to hide it.”
The weight of his words wraps around her like a shroud. Her expression stays carefully blank, but her hands betray her, the knuckles white as they grip her drink. Her eyes begin to shine in the dim diner lights, tears glistening like jewels on the brink of falling. Sasori, who had always prided himself on being detached, finds himself unexpectedly moved, a small fracture opening in the armor he thought impenetrable.
Her voice is barely a whisper when she finally speaks. “Why… why did he tell you to show me this?” Her words are searching, laced with disbelief. Sasori hadn’t expected this question. Truthfully, his client had no idea Sasori would bring her here, that he’d orchestrate this moment of revelation. It wasn’t part of the job he was hired to do, but Sasori was efficient. He preferred results over formalities.
“Perhaps he felt you needed to know the truth,” Sasori says, his tone level, though he isn’t entirely certain himself. Maybe Sasuke had left it to him because he couldn’t bring himself to speak it aloud. He could have been hoping that a stranger might manage what he could not. Regardless, Sasori had been hired to expose the affair, to strip away the lies.
“And yet…” Sakura’s voice is soft, almost as if speaking to herself. She lifts the straw to her lips, finishing the last of her drink. “He couldn’t say it to my face.”
Sasori raises an eyebrow, weighing his next words. “Not for lack of attempts on his part,” he adds, crossing an invisible line in his contract. The confidentiality clause was in shambles now, anyway; Sakura had already pieced together who had set him on this trail.
Her eyes narrow, her gaze far away as she looks past Sasori and through the diner’s buzzing crowd. She watches Sasuke and Naruto in the corner, sees the silent language between them, the comfort in every shared glance. And for the first time, she feels herself letting go, recognizing that her husband’s warmth, his loyalty, had never belonged to her. It had been devoted to someone else all along.
Sakura chuckles, though the laughter never quite reaches her eyes. "You must think I’m a real piece of work," she says, voice tinged with bitterness. "The old ball and chain, shackling a poor man down, keeping him from the love of his life."
"It’s not my place to judge," Sasori replies, his tone smooth and impassive.
She scoffs softly, glancing over her shoulder at Sasuke and Naruto, their heads close, their connection undeniable. "They’re so obvious, I almost feel foolish for not seeing it sooner. Streamlined from socialite to divorcee—someone may as well hang me back on the shelf."
Sasori nods. "They are obvious, yes," he agrees. "And it became even clearer to me after meeting you."
Sakura raises a brow. "Oh? And what exactly does that mean, Detective?"
"Please, call me Sasori," he says, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "I mean that any man who’d dream of divorcing someone as lovely as you… well, it only made sense to assume that women weren’t his line of interest."
A flicker of surprise crosses her face before softening into something gentler. "Sakura," she says at last, her voice almost shy. "You may call me Sakura."
She looks down at her drink, swirling the remains of the melting ice. "And since I’ll have no choice but to sign those divorce papers because of you, Sasori… I think it’s only fair you buy me the next round."
The detective can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. He knows Sasuke’s fee more than covers the cost, but something about the invitation feels personal, like a hint of something lingering between them. And if he’s reading her right, this won’t be the last drink he buys for the soon-to-be-former Uchiha lady.
