Tsunade's weary voice came, exhaustion bleeding into the words, "I cannot tell you that, Shikaku."
A glass of sake fitted between the space of her fingers, breath heavy in the familiar taint of rice wine. The weight of a migraine sat in the precipice, spooled together in a knot of worn nerves that threatened to untangle.
"We've been over this," she muttered bitterly. Knocking knuckles against the wooden structure of her desk, she let the dull echo fill the four walls.
Too well, she knew that this wouldn't be the last time the Nara clan head would storm her office to demand information on where his daughter had been stationed.
Just the same, he would be denied every chance he took. Tsunade smothered her frustration, leaning to balance her elbows on the oak surface.
Her gaze was met with unwavering lidded onyx. Obsidian stone hard in stern perseverance and racing thoughts she had no chance to decipher.
(Those same eyes stared back at her, an immeasurable chasm, held in place by a younger face.
Weasel and the heft that bunched her shoulders.
That slip of a girl and the fringe of her— who she used to be. Blistered and tucked in the yawning cosmic distance.)
"She's my daughter." His voice was low, plea and threat diving off his tongue so close to proximity that they pooled together in an absurd stain. Shikaku's stance shifted, different in the method he carried his bulk and suddenly his shadow morphed.
Tsunade knew then that the man who stood there was no longer her Jounin Commander.
It was the shadow of him, sharing only his outline yet nothing more. A false pretense, lie in everything but silhouette and shape.
Simply, a father. Willing to be drenched and sullied by blood.
He would fill canyons with red and the rolling landscapes with ink-lined shadows if it meant a family of four.
She couldn't fault him for his loyalties.
Perhaps she should, she thought, gaze sliding over the tense valley of his shoulders. Secure the pieces on her board, mend reality to follow the flow of her marrow, take her Hokage duties seriously.
There was a sense of understanding, though. Sheared and jagged and bothersome, Weasel had built fond affection in her with nary the intention.
The blunt and unapologetic truth cut deeper.
Hidden behind murky water, it laid bare: there were always people who made shouldering a betrayal more than a fleeting thought.
(A name split her chest with ache, a dull simmer that spelt Dan)
Tsunade blinked, vision clearing to the visage of liquid black. Her head tilted. The words slowly leaked to the tip of her tongue, rippling geysers tearing through the pond with each ripple.
"An oath has been sworn."
Something shuddered in his expression, frustration plunged under the surface of her honesty. The lines of his back clung to the ledge of mistrust.
"An.. oath for an oath, if you will." The static of the office broke at the sight of an earring.
The ebb and flow shattered, fragments of its delicate glass spilled over.
Shikaku's spine unfurled, hesitation dislodged from the knobs of his spine. His teeth were bared in quick succession, splintered tendrils of ink pools veiling the sun. "Where did you get that?"
"Peace, Shikaku."
His responding growl was a muted scratch.
"Your daughter told me you'd understand if I showed you," she murmured, kin of a smirk curling her lips as she eased into a goad. "Don't tell me you don't?"
There was a long moment of thoughtful silence, a stretch of an absence neither of them could seek to fill.
Shikaku's brow twitched and for the quickest of seconds Tsunade glimpsed at the small window of defeat that defined him.
His head tipped, a well-hidden grimace painting him after a sharp wince of comprehension. "I see."