Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had started with an unassuming scroll from Suna.
A mission, formally ranked S-class – not for its danger, but for the political weight it carried.

Objective: stabilization of the Kazekage’s psychophysical health.
Specifically: insomnia.
It had plagued him for years, and no one in Suna had managed to break it.

When the request reached Konoha, it took less than three hours to land on Kakashi’s desk.
And he hadn’t hesitated.
She was the best.
And he knew she would go.

Sakura had nodded before he even finished speaking.

Gaara was a friend.
Since the Great Shinobi War, more than ever.

And if she was honest – truly honest – there was nothing left to hold her in Konoha.
Not after what had happened.

Not after him.
Again.

People didn’t say it outright.
But she saw it in their eyes.
In the short silences that fell when she entered a room.
In the faces turned just enough away, pretending nothing had passed.

And sometimes they did speak.
Not to her.
Never to her.
But close enough for the words to cut, like small, deliberate incisions beneath the skin.

“Did she really believe he’d stay this time?”

“Probably still naked in bed when he disappeared.”

“Everyone knew he’d leave again. Everyone but her.”

“That woman has no self-respect.”

Words like poison.
Not loud. Not raw.
Just casual. Balanced.
Designed to linger.

She had learned not to react.

Lifting her head, nodding, moving on.
But it made no difference.
The truth carved itself into her even in silence.

No self-respect.
Maybe.

Or maybe she was simply tired of piecing herself back together.
Of being strong when no one really noticed.
Of functioning.

Hopeless – she had been that for a long time.
But only now did she understand how deep that word could cut.

And so it had been easy to leave.
Easy not to see Kakashi’s request as escape.
Easy to disguise Suna as a mission, when in truth it was something else.
Something quiet.
A way of not breaking anymore – or at least of breaking somewhere no one could see.

The journey had cost her nothing.

Three days, dusty roads, no hesitation. By the morning of the third, she reached Suna’s walls – a little too soon, a little too eager.

She saw it in the guards’ faces: the quick lift of an eyebrow, the way one of them double-checked her name on the list.

No one had expected her. Not yet.

She hadn’t wasted time.
No words.
No farewells.
Not even to Naruto.

He would understand. Or maybe he wouldn’t.
He was busy – with Hinata, with the future, with the peace he had fought to claim for himself.
And she was glad for him. Truly.
But somewhere inside her, something felt unbearably lonely.

When she stood before Gaara, his greeting was polite, calm.
Considerate, as always.

His gaze lingered on her face a moment too long – but he didn’t ask.
He seemed to sense it.
That something was off.
But Gaara wasn’t the type to pry.

“Haruno-san,” he said. “Welcome to Suna.”

She smiled – polite, not too personal.
“Thank you, Kazekage-sama.”

“Gaara is fine,” he replied after a pause.

Sakura inclined her head.
“Then please – just Sakura. Not Haruno-san.”

He acknowledged it with the barest dip of his chin.

“A room has been prepared for you. You can rest. Settle in.”

Her shoulders drew back, just slightly.

“If you don’t mind… I’d like to do a first assessment tonight.”

The words sounded professional enough.
But she knew he would hear it anyway – the restlessness beneath.
That quiet urgency.
Not because she was in a hurry.
But because she couldn’t sit. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t feel.

She needed to do something. Anything.
That was why she was here.
Wasn’t it?

Gaara looked at her. Direct.
Like someone who didn’t need words to understand.

He had always been like that.
Reserved, controlled – but never indifferent.
She remembered the war.
How he had stood beside Naruto after the battle, silent yet unshakable.

“Tonight is fine,” was all he said.

He didn’t evade. Didn’t delay.
His answer was calm, direct.
Simple agreement – the kind people expected of him.

Sakura nodded.
Once. Brief.
And yet it felt like relief.
As if he had taken something from her she couldn’t name.

“Thank you,” she said. And meant it.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
His gaze was enough – watchful, restrained, almost… gentle.
As if he had already understood that she hadn’t really come here to rest.

She turned, following the chunin who would lead her to her room.
And when the door closed behind her, only one thought lingered in her mind:

Tonight.
Do something.
Not feel.

The day slipped past. She spent the hours in a strange half-sleep. Not awake enough to think, not tired enough to be spared the mocking fragments of dreams.

When she stepped into his house, it was quiet.

Not the tense kind of quiet that filled unfamiliar homes.
But the kind that suited someone like Gaara.
Dense. Subtle. Observant.

He was already waiting.
No formal robes like that morning.

Just simple trousers and a dark red vest, high-collared but relaxed – civilian enough that she blinked at the sight.

“Thank you for making time,” she said, professional.
Almost too clinical. But she was tired. Too empty for small talk.

He inclined his head, just slightly. “Of course.”

The room he led her into was spacious, warm with the soft glow of a single hanging lamp. Books lined open shelves, neatly ordered. On a low table of dark wood lay an open notebook beside a calligraphy brush, and a small hourglass – almost too symbolic.

A few plants rested in ceramic pots near the window.
A room to live in, not merely to endure.

No guards. No protocol.

He lowered himself onto one of the flat cushions without another word.
And waited.
For her.

Sakura drew in a breath, then stepped closer.

“I need to look at your chakra flow,” she said evenly.
“For that, I’ll have to touch you.”

He nodded. His face didn’t change, but she noticed the faintest tension in his shoulders.

She sat across from him, slipped off her gloves. Her fingers were cold but steady.
Routine.
She had done hundreds of these examinations.
Just never on him.

When she took his wrists, his skin was warmer than she expected.
The pulse beneath steady – almost too steady.

“When was your last full night of sleep?”
“I don’t remember.”
“And dreams?”
“Not every night. Some stay. Some fade.”
His voice was low, quiet.

She pressed her thumbs and forefingers gently to his forehead, tracing for blockages in the chakra stream.
Not deep – just the surface, only where the first signs might appear.

He didn’t flinch.
But she felt it anyway – the faint, restless flicker beneath his skin.
Not chaos. But not calm either.
Like a body refusing to surrender to rest. Functioning as long as demanded – but never letting go.

After several minutes she let her hands fall, slow and unforced, so the contact dissolved as though on its own.

“It isn’t purely somatic,” she murmured, almost more to herself.
“Your body is exhausted, but stable. You’re holding yourself in a state where you never truly collapse… but you never release, either.”

He looked at her.
Without expression. Without objection.
But she knew that look – silent, absorbing. Nothing slipped past it.

Leaning back slightly, she brushed stray hair from her face.
“Your melatonin levels are unusually low. And your cortisol is far too high.”

A pause.

“How long has it been since you slept properly?”
She hesitated, glanced at him again.
Then, almost offhandedly:
“Ah – and do you happen to have your medical records here?”

Wordlessly, he reached to the side and drew out a slim, neatly kept folder from beneath a stack of scrolls.
She hadn’t noticed it. Too focused on him.

Sakura accepted it, leafing through the few pages inside. Carefully maintained – like everything about him.
She listened as he spoke while her eyes traced the lines.

“Before the war, it was better,” he said. His voice calm. No regret, but something else – an absence that weighed heavier than emotion.
“I’ve never slept well. But there were nights when it was enough. Two, three hours straight.”
He paused.
“After the war… it worsened again.”

She glanced up at him briefly, said nothing.
Turned another page. And another.
Until, on the last one, her brows drew together.

The file was thinner than she had expected. And emptier.
No thorough diagnostics, no continuous records – just superficial examinations, pale phrases that avoided more than they explained.

A single paragraph mentioned chronic sleep deprivation.
Beneath it: a general recommendation for sedatives.
No details, no trials, no notes on response.
Nothing that resembled long-term treatment.

Sakura closed the file slowly.

“That’s all?” she asked – not accusing, but with a voice that wasn’t mere curiosity either.

Gaara met her gaze evenly. “That’s all they deemed necessary.”

She held his eyes.
A moment longer than she should have.
She wanted to understand. The silence. The gaps in the record. The things no one wanted to see.

“Why?”
Her voice was soft, measured.
Not accusing.
Just a question, reaching for some thread that would explain what exactly she was facing.

Something shifted in his eyes –
a flicker of amusement.
Almost like a smile that never reached his lips.

His eyes were so clear, so bright – like melted glacier water.

“They’re still afraid,” he said at last, his voice calm.
The truth spoken lightly, as if it had long since grown old.
“I don’t blame them.”

Sakura blinked, letting her gaze drop to the pages in her hands.
She could have asked why again.

It had been years since Shukaku was inside him.
Even longer since he had allowed the beast to control him.

And yet – nothing.
Only a few half-hearted lines.
Recommendations better suited for an overworked chunin, not the Kazekage. Not him – the one who gave so much to the very people of this village.

Anger rose in her. Slow, but insistent.
Her fingers twitched.
The file, a neutral object seconds ago, felt like an insult.
Silent. Indifference pressed into paper.

Her breath left her shallow through her nose.
She tried to catch the moment before it slipped from her grasp.

“Ridiculous,” she muttered – too low to be a declaration, too clear to be hidden.
With a sharp, too-quick movement, she pushed the folder back onto the table.

“I need access to the hospital,” she said.
“And clearance to use the laboratories. Tomorrow I’ll begin designing a targeted therapy. And while I’m at it – ”
She met his eyes directly.
“ – I’ll rewrite your medical file. The way someone should have done long ago.”

Gaara looked at her. A beat of silence. Then a slow nod.

“Very well.”

His gaze flicked to the file on the table. As if weighing whether to add something. Then:

“It was never complete.”
No regret. No reproach. Just the acknowledgment of a known lack.

Sakura opened her mouth, but he spoke first.

“Whatever you need – you’ll have it. Just say the word.”

She nodded, slowly, almost contemplative.
“Thank you,” she said softly. More than politeness. Less than what she meant.

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, hesitated for a moment, then said:
“I could do something tonight. Not permanent – just for one night.”
She lifted her gaze, held his.
“I can trigger your sleep hormones – raise melatonin, calm serotonin. A focused chakra impulse to the brainstem, and your sleep center will respond.”

Gaara leaned back, arms crossing for a moment as he weighed her words, fingers tapping lightly against the fabric of his sleeve.
Sakura didn’t press. She waited.
Finally, he exhaled softly.

“If you believe it’s worthwhile – here?”

She gave a small smile. “Best where you intend to fall asleep. It won’t take long before your mind shuts down.”

He inclined his head, rose to his feet.
“Then come.”

She followed – silent, barefoot against the cool stone tiles.
The corridors were hushed. No staff, no guards. Only the faint whisper of wind slipping through the narrow slits of the windows.

The Kazekage’s residence was large. Old. Solid – like everything in Suna: built of stone.
Sakura’s eyes traced the long, unyielding halls ahead of her, austere and almost forbidding. She wondered if he lived here alone.

“Temari and Kankurō used to live here,” he said without turning – as though he had plucked the thought directly from her head.
Then, with a faint crease of his brow, he corrected himself:
“Kankurō still does sometimes. When he’s too drunk to find his way back to his own place. Or when his food’s run out.”

A laugh escaped her – quiet, startled.
“Yes… I can imagine.”

Something in her voice must have carried over to him. The faint line on his forehead smoothed, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in the smallest twitch.

His bedroom lay at the end of the hall. A heavy door of pale wood, standing out against the darker stone walls.
He opened it without a word, holding it for her.

Sakura stepped inside – and felt it at once.
The coolness. The order. The absence of life.

A bed, neatly made. No excess furniture. No trace of disarray.
A small desk. Two books. A water bottle on the nightstand.
No colors. No plants. No fabrics that did more than serve a function.

She let her gaze wander for a silent moment.
Then turned to him.
“Sit,” she said quietly. “Or lie down, if you prefer.”

Gaara nodded, unfastened the belt of his cloak, slid it off and draped it neatly over the back of a plain wooden chair. Then he lowered himself to the edge of the bed, eyes calm on her.

Sakura stepped closer, let her hands brush together lightly to focus her chakra. It glowed faintly – pale green, almost transparent in the dimness.

“It won’t be uncomfortable,” she murmured – more out of habit than to reassure him.
“Maybe a pressure behind your eyes. And… heaviness.”
She looked at him. “If it feels too sudden, tell me.”

The softest breath of air escaped him – a flicker of amusement.

“And what if I fall asleep before I can tell you?”

There was no mockery in his tone. More dry. Almost… cautiously amused.

“Then you’d better blink quickly beforehand.”
She smiled faintly. “I’ll take that as consent.”

Sakura raised her hands, pressing her fingertips gently to his temples. The skin beneath her touch was warm, taut – not restless, but monitored, as if his body never truly released. Never truly trusted.

She began slowly, channeling chakra into his skin. Not deep – just at the surface, where the signals seeped into the nervous system.
One impulse, then another. Repeating.
Stimulation of the ventral brainstem.
Dulling vigilance.
Gentle, precise, controlled.

Gaara’s breath came shallow, his lids lowering without fully closing. His shoulders sank, barely perceptible.
Sakura shifted the chakra flow, adjusted it. Encouraged melatonin production. Damped serotonin.
The transitions were fragile, but she knew exactly what she was doing.

He blinked.
Once.

Then his lids slid shut.

One breath. Then another.
His body grew heavy. His posture loosened – so subtle, yet impossible to fake.

Sakura held the connection a moment longer than necessary. Then she lowered her hands slowly, letting them rest on his shoulders to steady him.

Gently, she eased his body back onto the bed.

She had barely brushed the edge of the blanket when the sand stirred.

A sharp breath escaped her, instinct tightening her muscles – yet the attack never came.

Instead, a stream of fine grains surged from the jar, wrapped briefly around her wrists, then slid beneath Gaara, lifting him with uncanny precision, settling him deeper against the pillow.

Gaara slept soundly – more deeply than his system had allowed in years. And still, his body remained vigilant, in its own way. Just as her chakra sometimes began to heal before she even willed it.

Sakura watched as the lattice of sand withdrew, noiseless, leaving nothing behind.

An involuntary smile flickered across her face.

Undeniable.

He was an outstanding shinobi.