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Shikamaru’s struggling with a half assed attempt at curry and rice for dinner when the faintest wave of chakra bearing her signature flutters into his consciousness.
He’s had a very long day of filing piles upon piles of documents, had spent the evening bored out of his mind and mentally drained in a way only menial, repetitive work can achieve. Had gone home tired, feeling grungy and hungry and had been met with his mom ruffling through his fridge, pulling containers full of takeout and bento boxes with leftovers old enough to have grown a fuzzy layer on top - had heroically endured in silence her nagging about a proper diet and eating vegetables, and working too much - if only because talking back would just bring on more nagging.
She’d finally left an hour later after throwing out his moldy food and forcing him into washing the growing pile of dishes in the sink, but her voice still rang in his ears for long enough that he’d decided to attempt making dinner instead of eating out for the fourth time that week. So he’d gone and started on the curry - which very much counted as homemade, mom, it has real carrots and potatoes, he shouldn’t be shamed for using store-bought curry mix. He’d been contemplating cracking open a beer when he’d felt the first stirrings of a familiar chakra signature drawing closer - couldn’t help the flutter of excitement at finally getting to see her after the last couple weeks apart, had gone so far as to feel thankful his mom had shown up just in time to turn the house back from bachelor pigsty into an acceptable state.
He’d gone ahead and gotten the rice started on the cooker - and sure enough, soon there was the now familiar shiver of awareness from an outsider crossing the property line. Distracts himself by leaving the kitchen to give the bedroom and the living room a quick once over, picking up dirty clothes from the floor and hanging damp towels as he went - it’s not until the rice cooker beeps, signaling the end of the cooking cycle, that he realizes it's taking Temari a bit too long to cross the distance from the property line to his home.
She’s walked the path to the main house for long enough now to not need directions - the engagement ring marking her as Nara enough to not need surveillance while on it. She’s not one to linger - to ring doorbells, to knock politely. She’ll walk around to the side porch, kick off her shoes outside and unceremoniously burst into the sitting area like she already owns the place. She’s not one to linger outside, but when her presence finally feels close enough that she could be at the front door - that’s exactly what she does. She very much just… lingers. He doesn't hear the sliding doors, or the sound of her feet scuffling by the entrance as she takes off her boots, or... any noise at all. If it hadn't been for the comforting buzzing of her chakra in the back of his mind he wouldn't have known she'd arrived at all.
It’s unusual at best, but he chooses to give her the benefit of the doubt, keeps busy by turning off the burner on the curry, scooping rice into two bowls. But when she still chooses to remain concealed he finally gives up.
He makes his way to her, away from the kitchen and into the living room, goes even further than that - across the sitting area and the sliding doors that give way to the porch - gets to the point of holding onto the frame to slide them open when something stops him.
A spike in the buzzing - a warning of sorts, a cat's hissing, do not approach any further or else. It puts him on edge, but he knows her well enough by now to proceed with caution. She's flighty, his woman, and never more so than on moments like this when she feels fragile like a bomb. One misstep and she'll go off.
He lets go of the door, calls out to the empty room, loud enough for it to carry outside, "Are you going to stay out there all night?"
The silence lasts a moment too long, enough that he starts backpedaling, perhaps even that little bit was too much, but before he can fully settle into his panic she calls back, “Might do."
It’s a hoarse, brittle thing, and it makes his heart ache, but it’s a start. "Ah... I would rather you come in, though?” he tries to sound soothing, but it comes across as a question. He’s met with even more silence, so he tries again. “I made curry. It's not very spicy, but I bought that hot sauce you like."
Once again there's a long pause before he finally hears her shuffle - and there it is, the scuffling of her feet as she kicks off her boots, her shadow finally creeping over to show against the screen walls.
"There's blood," she says evenly, and he can’t tell if it’s a threat or a warning - might have thought it her attempt at reassurance had the tone not been so flat.
He tries to tamp down on the quickening of his heart. Tries to keep his voice equally flat. "Yours?"
"Some," she admits.
She's not a quiet woman, his Temari. She's not a woman of monosyllabics and monotone affirmations. Half the reason he's fallen ass over tits in love was exactly just how clearly she could express her opinions, how bright she could shine, how incredibly loud her presence could be - how good she was at overwhelming his darkness with her innate sunlight. She’s usually teasing smiles and gruff laughter; frequently irritable, sometimes cruel. But very rarely she’s been so… dispassionate. It stomps his heart into the ground to hear her so.
"I'll open the door. Alright?"
She doesn't answer, but there’s no angry spike in her chakra to keep him from doing so, and that’s all the answer he needs right now, so he finally reaches for the sliding door to push it open.
And it's a little more than just some blood. He can see she’s tried to wash it off at some point, because her arms and legs are mostly clean, but her clothes are still stained with the brown of old blood, still bear the tears where enemy blades slashed cloth and skin. She's bruised too, which is not the norm for a wind user that specializes in long distance attacks, it's very difficult to get close enough to cause such blunt damage as to cause the array of angry purple blotches marring her skin.
His stomach had already gone cold at the sight of her state, but when he realizes some of the purple blotches are finger shaped it just about drops to his feet.
He tries to swallow around what feels like a knot in his throat. Tries for the same flat tone she’s giving because if he doesn't give flat he might give panic.
"So... Bad." Is what he manages.
She nods.
"Worse than usual."
She nods once more.
He gathers enough courage to clarify, "Worse for you? Or for them?"
"Them," she's quick to answer, but then shifts on her feet like she's compensating for a bad leg, and for the first time that night she shows some kind of emotion - which is pain. She cannot help the flinch, "But close."
"Bath?" Is his offer.
She looks up at him from under dirty bangs, blinking slowly, the sort of look she'd give him back when they were still dancing around each other, when he'd (repeatedly) made the mistake to show her he cared a little too much and it was definitely not just a sex thing for him. A look that's piercing, evaluating, almost searching.
And then she nods.
He hesitates for a second, before questioning, "Hug?"
She shakes her head no quickly. "Bath," she repeats pointedly.
"Fair," he concedes, stepping back to let her walk inside, trailing after her towards the bathroom.
He's kneeling by the tub twisting knobs left and right to reach optimal water temperature when he realizes that her side of the bathroom is once again a bit too silent. He'd left her by the shower, expecting she'd make quick work of the grime so she could have a much deserved soak in the tub, but when he finally looks back at her, she's only managed to get her kimono shirt off, and had maybe been trying to take off the tight sports bra underneath it when she'd simply quit.
He'd been worried about her all night, but even in this seemingly dire moment and gloomy atmosphere, it takes all he has not to laugh, because his poor fiancée has managed to pull the top just enough to free her breasts, and then… quit. He can't even find it in himself to be turned on at the sight of her naked torso, there had clearly been no attempt at seduction in the action, just a very tired woman with a sports bra that's too sweaty to take off.
"I'm stuck," she deadpans, arms halfway up, shoulders scrunched.
And for the life of him he can't hold in the laugh. For what it's worth, it manages to rip a snort from her, as if even laughing would take up too much energy, but at least it finally seems like she's touching ground again.
"I got you."
He helps her rip off the disgustingly sweaty garment over her head, makes quick work of the rest of her clothes and encourages her into the shower. Once she's fully under - he tries not to notice the wince when the hot water runs over half healing cuts, gives her a once over to categorize the array of bruises, and then makes a motion to step away.
A hand surges forward to grab at the front of his shirt.
"What is it? Does it hurt? I was going to get the med kit."
"Get in," is her prompt explanation.
He hesitates a second. He'd already showered tonight. Plus, "It's a very small shower, love."
"Get in and do my hair," she insists, more demand than request.
"Your bad shoulder again?"
"Not really. Just... Exhausted," she admits.
At least she's not on monosyllabics anymore, that's probably a good sign.
There’s not much he won’t do for her even on good days, there’s even less on such a shitty day as this. He sighs, but steps back to start peeling off his clothes.
Together they work efficiently, but carefully, scrubbing off the grime while trying to avoid the worse off looking cuts and bruises. There would be time to check them over and ask for their origins. He hopes she’ll let him dress them once the bath is over. He washes her hair, doing his best to ignore the red tinge to the water that runs off the blonde strands, runs the tips of his fingers over her scalp gently, looking for any hidden gashes that could have tinged her hair with blood, thankfully finding none - which meant that percentage of blood hadn't been hers at least. Tries not to be too disturbed by the thought that she'd had to get close enough to the target as to get sprayed with their blood. Wonders for the millionth time tonight just what the fuck went wrong in this mission.
They emerge from the shower on time to catch the bathtub right before it overflows. He'd kind of forgotten all about it while laughing at her standing there, boobs out, stuck in a sports bra, pays for his distraction by going through the indignity of kneeling naked on the cold bathroom floor to pull at the plug and let some water drain, but takes heart in the snicker that comes from Temari.
"Nice view," she mocks - and that more than anything else is what finally sounds like her normal self.
"At your service"
"Gross."
Once the water has drained enough that submerging won’t make it overflow, he prompts her inside, turns away with the full intention of drying off and putting on his clothes to go reheat dinner, but once more she reaches for him before he can so much as reach for a towel.
"Get in?" and it sounds like a request this time.
"I was going to check on dinner"
"Later. Just... stay with me for a minute? I'm still... Not quite right."
And he already knew he was a whipped man who couldn't deny her anything most days, much less when she's here being this vulnerable, asking for his help to center herself and keep afloat. She'd been his lifeboat so many times, it's only fair he return the favor. So screw dinner.
He lets her scoot backwards against one end of the tub and steps into the other end, soaking into the almost too hot water, waits, while she relaxes against the wall and stretches her legs towards him to rest against each side of his hips. He grabs at one of her feet, tries what he thinks might pass at a massage and is rewarded for his troubles by a long hum of content and her shoulders sinking just a little deeper under the water, as if melting on the spot.
“Don’t fall asleep yet, people still drown in puddles.”
“That’s what you’re here for, to fish me out of the water before I do.”
“Suppose that’s what I promised you with that ring.”
Her eyes open at that. She stares at him in contemplating silence, head tilted back against the side of the tub, submerged up to the shoulders in warm water, blonde hair brushed back and still dripping water from the shower. He follows one of the droplets down her nose and chin back into the water, lets her foot sink back down as he reaches further into the hard muscle of her calf to give it a similar treatment.
“You’re so…” she starts, trails off, stares at him with that same inscrutable look, head tilting in what almost looks like puzzlement.
“We’re having a moment here, if you go calling me crybaby again-”
She cuts him off. “Dependable.”
He’s the puzzled one this time. “Alright?”
She shakes her head, laughs a little. Rubs at her forehead, distracted - no. Embarrassed? “I mean it. I…” when she looks at him this time there’s still puzzlement, but there’s also something undeniably tender about it. “Never mind.”
He’s been called lazy most of his life. Genius very frequently. She’s called him a strange boy, a crybaby at one point, long ago. Then ‘crazy’, ‘depressed’, ‘out-of-sorts’ for that one awful year after the war, when he’d been a wreck of anxiety and grief coping very poorly with the loss of his father and friends and the crushing responsibility of being advisor, alliance councilor and clan head all rolled into one. He supposes, after all that, he’s managed to walk away from that internal scuffle with an air of responsibility, and yes, dependable might fit. It’s not very romantic, all things considered, but it fits.
“I get it.”
“You don’t,” she insists.
“I do.”
She chuckles. “You really don’t.”
“Then explain.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Bites at her lips. Then holds out a hand towards him - when he takes it, she uses it as leverage to scuttle closer, slides into his lap, legs wrapping around his hips to cross behind his back and suddenly he’s got an armful of warm fiancée, the scent of soap and her shampoo on his nose - the same scent that’s embedded in her pillow and the collars of her shirts - both of which he’d found himself burying his face against this whole week she’d been away because he’d missed her half to death. She’s got one hand scratching at his nape, while the other is brushing against his cheek and it’s so gentle, so tender, so sudden after this long damn week apart and how messed up she’d first shown up tonight that if this had been a couple years ago he might have even cried.
“I’ve never had this,” she breathes out, almost timid in the quiet of the room, “I’ve never had… dinner, and a bath and a med kit waiting… Not even… Not even my brothers. We’re fine now. But it came too late. And I… I didn’t trust it. Never did. Others tried, but I ran.”
He knows. He knows it, painfully, acutely. Somewhere in the past there’s a young Shikamaru waking up alone once again, because he’d forgotten himself - kissed her too sweetly, loved her too gently, and she’d run from him too.
“But you… I look at you… And I’m so certain. I’m so… secure. In who you are, and what we have. I look at you. Every time. And I just know. That’s my man, right there. He won’t waver, he won’t lie, he won’t cheat. He'll have my back, he'll raise our kids to be good people, he’s gonna stick this out through whatever, because that’s who you are. As a partner. As a person. My steady, dependable man.”
She’s never told him anything even close to that. Her love is shown in little ways he’s learned to pick up over the years - protein bars slipped into his vest before he was even awake, inside jokes she’d slip into serious conversation at union meetings knowing it’d make him laugh, listening to his rambling about construction projects and mission rosters and doing her best to offer input. It was in the way she’d tease him half to death, but wouldn’t let anyone else talk shit about him, how proud she was at his accomplishments, how quick she was to pull him into her arms when everything went wrong and he felt like shit.
She’d hardly ever say it, but at the end of the day she’d never really needed to, because he’d known. He’d known from the moment she’d last run out on him - because she’d come back the next day with a suitcase and a visa, took his ring and his house and whatever was left of his dumb heart - and that… That had been enough.
He doesn’t know what to say. She’s rendered him speechless.
She’s solemn as she continues, “I don’t wanna talk about the mission. You’re gonna read the debriefing anyway.”
He swallows around a dry throat, nods, because he doesn't know how to even begin to answer. Chooses to lay his forehead against her neck, hiding his expression, he's not even sure what his face is doing right now, but if his emotions are written all over it, he's sure it doesn't look any good. It might be embarrassingly close to utterly lovesick train wreck.
“I won’t ask. Just let me dress your cuts after this.”
“That’s… That can be arranged.”
“Good.”
“But let’s stay a little bit longer.”
“Alright.”
She’s home. She’s finally home. She’s here in his arms, the comforting weight of her in his lap - banged up but wonderfully warm, safe, alive. He’ll find out what the hell went wrong in her mission tomorrow, when he reads the debriefing documents in Kakashi’s office, and he’s sure he’ll get to be plenty appalled then. But right now she’s his priority. Caring for her, drying her hair, giving her food and a nice bed to sleep on until she feels fully human again. Because that’s who he is, that’s who he represents for her.
Dependable hadn’t seemed like a romantic word before she’d called him that tonight. But it might just have become his favorite.