So this one time a guy and a girl walk into a bar. And then they get drunk, although one's too carefully casual and the other's too damn perky and both of them probably think nursing a drink is fucking boring.
The girl's a jounin now, for whatever that's worth. Just passed her exam yesterday – at seventeen no less, a year younger than her dad did – and now she's cranky in her overblown sort of way. Beats being depressed. She doesn't do depressed.
But she does do drunk, and she's sloppy and angry and loud, because if there's any fairness to the universe she'd have old friends to get drunk with. But all she's got is Asuma who – sorry Sensei – doesn't count like that. Because he's not Shikamaru. Or Chouji. Or Sakura, for that matter.
And clearly six shots of this shit isn't nearly enough. Keep 'em coming already.
So the guy sits with her and gets just as drunk as she does, only quieter, and if he keeps telling himself that it's just to keep his last student company, maybe he'll even start to believe it. Or maybe he'll just sit and stub out his cigarette while he steals the girl's drink.
Then the girl starts thinking, if by "thinking" she means "hazy internal monologue about how Sensei looks like Shikamaru if she squints" – which, of course, is better than thinking about anything upsetting. So she slams her last glass down and leans over the table to mash her lips against his, because with her there's never been much of a step between thought and action, even when she's nice and sober.
And the guy considers and thinks that this is fucked. up. and so's she and so's he. But he doesn't push her away – he does the exact opposite, in fact – and he doesn't bother to think that there's going to be hell to pay in the morning.