31_days // cold and dead // Naruto
Title: cold and dead
Series: Naruto
Rating: R
Type: Drabble
Genre: general
Character/Pairing: Kabuto, Sakura, Sasuke [implied KabuSaku, KabuSasu]
Word Count: 250
Notes: This drabble is x-posted at 31 days.
Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.
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It’s early in the morning when you nip into me like the prick of a needle. To be fair, it’s not just you in this memory; Tsunade’s there, too. Your hands are cold and dead on her body-cold and dead as they drag their fingertips through blood that flows through her like warm, aged wine. Perhaps you trade the life in your hands for life in the people you treat, but I doubt it. For all you call yourself a medic, you are more a killer than a healer, prone to rip out a hundred sutures for every ten you stitch. You deal with death, with stiff cadavers and glassy eyes, the slick slice of your knife over hardened skin, the stunned silence of a poisoned heart.
The only people you love are those who are dead.
Maybe that’s why you remind me of Kakashi-a Kakashi gone horribly, horribly wrong. There’s nothing behind your glasses; your eyes are as glassy as the death you touch. Seeing you with Sasuke-the way you slide your hands over his skin like frostbite-is unbearable. You extract something from him each time, and with each precise extraction, he becomes something you can love-cold and dead.
Now your hands are a gentle pressure on my neck; you’re checking for a pulse. There is none. Your hands move to my chest; the pressure grows. No beat.
You sit back up, satisfied and madly in love with the newest death in your collection.
Series: Naruto
Rating: R
Type: Drabble
Genre: general
Character/Pairing: Kabuto, Sakura, Sasuke [implied KabuSaku, KabuSasu]
Word Count: 250
Notes: This drabble is x-posted at 31 days.
Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.
-----
It’s early in the morning when you nip into me like the prick of a needle. To be fair, it’s not just you in this memory; Tsunade’s there, too. Your hands are cold and dead on her body-cold and dead as they drag their fingertips through blood that flows through her like warm, aged wine. Perhaps you trade the life in your hands for life in the people you treat, but I doubt it. For all you call yourself a medic, you are more a killer than a healer, prone to rip out a hundred sutures for every ten you stitch. You deal with death, with stiff cadavers and glassy eyes, the slick slice of your knife over hardened skin, the stunned silence of a poisoned heart.
The only people you love are those who are dead.
Maybe that’s why you remind me of Kakashi-a Kakashi gone horribly, horribly wrong. There’s nothing behind your glasses; your eyes are as glassy as the death you touch. Seeing you with Sasuke-the way you slide your hands over his skin like frostbite-is unbearable. You extract something from him each time, and with each precise extraction, he becomes something you can love-cold and dead.
Now your hands are a gentle pressure on my neck; you’re checking for a pulse. There is none. Your hands move to my chest; the pressure grows. No beat.
You sit back up, satisfied and madly in love with the newest death in your collection.