There is no evil angel but love. --William Shakespeare
The snatches of moments he had with her were few and far between; and in reality they weren't really moments at all. More like a quick glance of her walking the opposite way as he made his long and tiring journey back to the Akatsuki compound. He never spoke, and nor did she--that would be unsettling because she wasn't to know of his fixation or even see him.
Even so, he found himself holding these precious instances close and unwilling to let them go.
"I promise, I soaked it in alcohol just before you came in."
Still, he eyed her warily, nervous about the sharp needle she held in her hand. "Tobi doesn't like needles."
She smiled softly and nodded. "I know, but it's clean and it won't hurt."
He found himself wondering if that's how she was with everything she did, efficient and sterile. Right to the point with no beating around the bush and no unnecessary cooing. He liked the idea.
His pants were suffocatingly tight around his waist and he wanted nothing more than to rip them off. But he didn't, because she was panting beneath him and her fingers were doing something rather interesting as they descended to the offending, restraining piece of fabric. When she unbuttoned them, he felt more gratitude and love for her then than he had ever thought imaginable.
"Tobi, what are you doing?"
"Trying to swoon Sakura?"
He was never one to understand the dynamics of pure fluff and unabashed romanticism.
The more he studied her in her natural habitat, the more he realized that they were alike in so many ways. The Akatsuki was his home, his family, his brethren. Her village was her life, her need, and her way of reality. One simple and perfectly aimed hit to either illusion, and they would shatter, crumble--forced to face the brutal knowledge that nothing was as stable as they believed.
She had never really liked oranges, but for some reason, she started to find them rather succulent and sweet after many visits with a man hiding behind a swirled mask who was fond of the fruit.
"So? How do I look?"
His throat was suddenly dry as he looked at her exotic, radiant figure standing in front of him. His fingers tightened around the edge of the bed and he licked his lips from behind his mask.
"S-Sakura looks very...pretty," he managed, unable to find another word to describe her. She smiled and he couldn't even manage to swallow.
She once told him that she had a friend who loved flowers, and that every Sunday she would visit and buy one purple Primrose with the softest of petals. Just one. "I wanted to give the flower to someone back then," she would say, a sad smile curving her lips. "It represented young love. I hoped that if I gave it to them, they would finally realize they loved me, too."
"And they didn't?" he had guessed, but regretted it immediately when her vibrant emerald eyes darkened and her lips turned down in a grimace. "No," she would sigh. "No, they never did."
The next morning he went out and bought her a dazzlingly bright yellow Jonquil, hoping for her to understand his sympathy for her unrequited love, but his desire for her to return those feelings for him, also.
From the moment she had been kidnapped and forced under their guard, she had been nothing but realistic. Understanding that, even though her teammates might be on their way to rescue her, there was still the possibility that they weren't.
It was difficult to hurt herself like that, to make herself understand that not everything was joyful and sweet and full of happy endings. This was reality, and she had long since abandoned her childish illusions.
There was, however, one thing that contradicted her cold-hard reality in that grim room guarded by equally grim Akatsuki members. A man whom seemed detached and bouncy, who could make her laugh and smile even though she was his prisoner. She was also forced to face the fact that her reality could sometimes be flawed.
She could feel his eyes on her as she worked, polishing and sharpening her weapons on the manky old hotel bed. His partner sat across the room, staring wistfully out at the cloudy sky. After another hour of silence, broken only by her noises of weapon care, the blond stood to leave. "For food," he called over his shoulder before letting the door slam and disappearing.
Her fingers hesitated only a second in their work before continuing, but that was all it took. That one second of thought, one moment of distracted movement, and he was on her. She felt him hovering just at her shoulder, his eye staring.
"Never let your guard down," he said, voice deep and threatening (though holding a barely noticeable undertone of amusement); making her shudder as she felt the sharp point of her own kunai at the base of her neck. She found herself wishing to be more diligent. More than he, so she could hold a kunai to his throat for a change.
This is how he saw it: they were never meant to meet, but they did. They were never meant to talk, but they did. They were never meant to desire the other, but they have. They were never meant to give into that desire, but they had. They were never, under any circumstances, meant to love the other, but they do.
He came to the conclusion that their was only one way to describe their relationship, and it was Paradox. What was not meant to happen came to be, anyway.
His sanity was questionable, understanding that he was possessed by a decade old and bitter spirit seeking vengeance. His psyche was like a pendulum swinging precariously back and forth in an unchanging motion while she acted as the gravity, gradually trying to persuade him to even back out.
They both knew that Madara felt white-hot rage when he couldn't gain full control, but his anger had no comparison on the relief they shared when they managed to keep him at bay if only for a moment.
The first time he came back to the compound, soaked, bloody and bedraggled, she had to fight back the urge to scream. It was difficult to differentiate between her pulse-racing worry and her anger for feeling worried in the first place.
It was getting harder and harder to convince herself that they were enemies.
"Get off me, you pervert!"
"Tobi's sorry! He didn't mean to fall on Miss Sakura! Tobi only tripped over her boots and couldn't--"
"You felt my--you touched my chest and--mph!"
It was hard to extenuate her temper once blown, and truth be told it made him extremely nervous once she got into one her tantrums because he would most likely come out with a broken rib or two if he wasn't careful. Any other time he would have fled on the spot, but he didn't this time and he wasn't all too sure why.
Instead, he had thrown himself forward--throwing caution to the wind--and smashed his lips onto hers.
She stood for all that was right and, in her mind, he was everything that was wrong.
On numerous occasions she had tried to force him to see reason, to understand that everything he was doing was bad. He, of course, couldn't understand were she was coming from and told her so. His amorality was born from spending his entire life under the influence of Madara, and it stunned her.
She felt sorry for him.
In the end, after realizing she was stuck in the clutches of her one mortal enemy, she relented to the knowledge that it would be relatively easy to coexist with him. It wasn't much of a feat, really, considering that on more than one occasion she found herself enjoying his company.
Being around Deidara had educated Tobi in the knowledge of explosions. To him, she was everything Deidara had spoken off. The bang or the magnificent blast of artwork crashing down on him as if he were Ground Zero.
He liked the idea.
She hated him with a passion because he was trying to kill her home. Her friends. Hell, even her. She hated that he laughed at the wrong moments, joked about her weakness, hid behind a mask, killed without preamble or even reason. He was the very foundation of war and she despised his very skin for it.
But what she hated most was the way her breath would hitch when he removed his mask because how could someone so evil and wrong look so boyish and innocent.
His sense of smell would be heavily imbued any time she was around, completely and helplessly flooded by her scent to the point that he had to swallow the gathering saliva coating his tongue. She smelled so good and delicious in such a way that he felt a hunger he hadn't experienced in a very long time.
"This was never part of plan," he said, head cradled in his hands. "I was supposed to kill you."
She swallowed from her place across from him, hating the way her heart stuttered and beat loudly against her ribs. "Then why don't you kill me?" she asked, her voice breaking as her eyes glittered with unshed tears.
He peeked at her through the gap of his fingers. His black eyes were alight with an emotion she never dreamed of seeing on his face. "Because," he whispered hoarsely. "...because I can't. It's too painful to even...even think about."
She felt the same.
To be honest, I have no idea what prompted me to write this. I was reading through some Harry Potter fics, and I found a 50 theme challenge that someone did. It looked like fun, so I grabbed a dictionary, opened to a random page, closed my eyes and pointed. That's how it started. But then it wasn't very fun finding words by myself, so I had my brother do it too. We came up with these! And I had a recent fascination with TobiMadaSaku, so there ya have it. Oh, and in case anyone was confused, in some of the themes I had it seem like Madara was just a spirit that resided in Tobi. Don't get pissy, I like the idea. In others though, Madara is definately Tobi and Tobi, Madara.
I hope you liked! Please review!!
Also, these have no connection whatsoever with each other. They are all different little drabbles thrown onto the same page! Um, Happy (late?) New Year!