Work Text:
The water is what saves them. Without it, their desperate leap off a cliff would have ended in a swift death—far swifter than Konoha's ANBU would have provided. Still, survival does not equate to comfort. Kisame takes the brunt of the impact, his arm wrapped around Miru's waist, her back pulled tight against his chest. It's a foolish thing to do: if he ends up severely injured, their chances of survival drop to nothing. But then again, fleeing with Miru instead of killing her was foolish, too.
Things grow fuzzy after they hit the water, the world reducing itself to mere snapshots. The sensation of breathing water through his gills; Miru's small hand gripping his wrist as she swims for shore; running through the woods, desperate to reach the relative safety of the border. Sometimes, Kisame finds himself in the lead, carving the way through rugged terrain. But most of the time, he tails Miru, his hand held tight in hers.
Perhaps the unreal quality of their flight stems from lingering pain, his mind blocking out as much of it as possible. Or perhaps the sheer stupidity of saving Miru has triggered some sort of mental break, his sanity slipping through his fingers alongside his consciousness. Either way, it isn't until Kisame spots the safe house that the world jolts back into place.
"There," he murmurs, stepping into the lead. The safe house appears no more than a rundown shack, its moss-covered roof sagging, its single window broken long ago. But when they step inside and climb through a well-concealed trapdoor, they find the real safe house below. It's nothing fancy, little more than a place to sleep, eat, and resupply. However, it's beyond Konoha's border and as secure as anything outside Kirigakure can be; that makes it downright beautiful.
"Hoshigaki-san," Miru starts. Then she stops, her grip on his hand tightening, fingers trembling for the first time.
Kisame averts his eyes, pretending to take stock of the safe house's supplies. What was he thinking, saving Miru? How could he have taken such a risk?
Beside him, Miru takes a breath. "Hoshigaki-san," she begins again. "Why did you kill them?"
"It was my mission." Kisame's words sound hollow and flat, a recitation without feeling. "I was ordered to protect the code. Your lives were secondary."
"Then…" Her grip tightens more, fingernails pressing against Kisame's skin. "Why am I alive?"
Why, indeed?
Frowning, Kisame tugs his hand, trying to escape her grip. "Please let go."
Miru releases him. Kisame ignores the immediate chill that creeps over his skin, his palm achingly empty, his balance strangely thrown. Clenching his jaw, he strides over to the supplies, rifling through rations in the hopes of finding something vaguely appetizing.
"Hoshigaki-san."
Kisame stills, his hands curling into fists. "There were too many of you to protect. I had to prioritize the code."
A hand brushes the small of his back. Startled, Kisame spins on his heel, finding Miru standing far too close. Her dark eyes stare up at him, face pale and pinched, long hair still damp from their plunge into the water. And when she raises her hand, fingers trembling but purpose true, Kisame finds himself frozen, mesmerized by her eyes.
Why is there no hatred in them? Why is there no disgust? Why doesn't she recoil from him?
Gently, Miru lays her hand on Kisame's cheek. A small, pained smile pulls at her lips. "What a terrible life."
Kisame says nothing. Really, what is there to say?
⁂
They sit on opposite ends of the safe house's single sofa, making do with the rations, choking down dry, utterly unappetizing nutrition bars with no complaints. It could be worse, after all: Miru could be dead. Kisame watches her from the corner of his eye, waiting for her shock to give way to anger. (It must be shock; she must not yet see him as her comrades' murderer.) He waits, anticipating horror and fury, bracing himself for a retaliatory attack.
But the moment doesn't come. Miru eats quietly, her brow slightly furrowed, her dark eyes clouded with thought. And when she finishes, she rests her hands on her lap, apparently placid.
Kisame knows what to do with people's fear and hatred. He does not know what to do with this apparent acceptance of his crimes. (Is it a crime if it's an order? Not a legal one, perhaps, but certainly a moral one.) So he continues to wait, his body growing increasingly tense, his fingers clenching the fabric of his trousers.
"Hoshigaki-san."
Kisame meets Miru's eyes, his lips pressed into a thin line, dread coiling in his gut.
Miru offers a tremulous smile. "May I hold your hand again?"
Kisame blinks. "Excuse me?"
"May I hold your hand again?" she repeats, as though the question makes perfect sense; as though it doesn't send Kisame's mind spiraling into utter confusion, the request somehow even more inexplicable than the way she reached up and touched his cheek.
Why would she want to hold his hand? Does she want to examine it for bloodstains? Slice it off so he can never again raise it against a comrade?
Several seconds tick by in silence. Then Kisame unclenches his fists and offers a hand, palm up, ready to retract it at the first glimpse of a blade.
But Miru doesn't attack, nor does she examine his palm for traces of dried blood. Instead, she merely takes his hand in hers—warm and small, so small—and gives a gentle squeeze. "How can you bear it?"
Kisame breaks eye contact, unable to stomach the steadiness of her gaze. "I was born into the lowest caste."
"Ah," Miru says, an utterance of perfect understanding. Of course she would know about their graduation exam—the slaughter of classmates that only the lowest caste has to endure. She is in the intelligence division, after all. She knows those he killed today are not the first comrades to die by his hand.
Miru shifts in his peripheral vision, scooting slightly closer. "Thank you," she adds, sounding like she means it.
Startled, Kisame looks back at her. "For what?"
"For letting me hold your hand." She gives him another small smile. "You have a very comforting grip, Hoshigaki-san."
Kisame's eyes drop to their joined hands, suddenly hyperaware of how he's holding hers. How has he managed to be comforting?
"You're still trying to be nice to me," he says, less accusingly than he feels.
"I'm still hoping you'll let me take you to dinner." Miru inclines her head toward the remnants of their rations. "This doesn't really count, does it?"
Swallowing, Kisame raises his gaze. "We're not home yet… I may still have to kill you."
"Let's assume you don't." She squeezes his fingers. "Will you let me take you out?"
"We'll have to go through a debriefing first…"
"And then?"
Kisame falls silent, studying her face, searching for any trace of resentment. She is tired and pale, her features still showing signs of strain. But her eyes are clear, her gaze determined.
If they're caught a second time, he'll have to kill her. And then he'll probably die in turn; he doubts he would be able to escape. But…
"… If we both survive," he says, his words halting, "then … yes. If you'd like."
Miru smiles. "I'd like it very much, Hoshigaki-san."
"Kisame, please."
Miru shifts her hand, threading her slender fingers through his. "Kisame."
Kisame ducks his head, unable to keep a sliver of hope from shining in his eyes.