Work Text:
Mikoto’s hands tremble in the aftermath.
When the sirens began, she’d thrust Sasuke at Itachi, promising him to find him after. His black eyes had blinked up at her, unquestioningly loyal, steady, solemn, and Mikoto pressed a kiss to his brow, smoothing his hair back with a palm slick with sweat.
“I’ll find you,” she’d repeated.
Her husband had taken her hand, and they ran. They ran towards the terrifying maw of the Fox, demonic claws and eyes and teeth. When Fugaku had paused, she ripped her hand out of his grip, ripped through him, racing for the wall, racing past the sweltering paw of the beast crashing down.
Her last thought, before she’d been slammed to the wall, was, Kushina.
And her first thought after she’d awoken was Kushina.
She’s the closest. Other than the Sandaime, she’s the closest to Minato, the boy—Naruto—her, sees the swooping red hair curled, the streaks of red from her lips. She doesn’t look like any other body Mikoto has seen.
Green skirt stained with blood, her bosom stained with blood, the blood out of her mouth, brows scrunched as if in pain—she doesn’t look dead. She looks hurt.
“Kushina!”
Someone catches her, arm around her waist. Her vision swims, and she struggles, weak, like she’s never fought someone before. She should-
She knows-
She’s dragged back, screaming. “Kushina!”
Her Kushina. Her Kushina.
A voice shushes her, soft, and a hand wraps around her mouth, firm but gentle, and a hand smoothes over her hair even as she screams into the slim palm, scrabbling away, towards Kushina, Kushina—her Kushina-
“Mikoto—please,” a familiar voice, and a hiss, like pain. “Mikoto-chan, you’re hurting me.” And at that, Mikoto stops. The fight drains out of her, and she just watches. Watches as a medic’s cold hands hover over Kushina, Minato, and the baby, watches as the hand slips away from her mouth, watches as the ANBU take away her Kushina’s baby in nothing but mute horror.
Her Kushina.
“Kushina.” It rips out of her a broken whisper.
The voice says, clear as day, trembling. “Mikoto-chan, it’s me.” It’s a voice Mikoto knows as well as her own, older from the Academy but familiar nonetheless.
“Yoshino.” She can’t stop looking at Kushina. A soft cry leaves her. “Oh, Kushina, what have they done to you?”
“Oh, Mikoto-chan,” Yoshino murmurs. It’s like a cresting melody, a crooning hum, and Mikoto finally, finally, finally pulls her eyes away from Kushina, from the pooled hair tangled with her cooling blood, and Yoshino flinches from her, taking a step back. “I-”
Mikoto is cold. Like a hand thrust through her chest and ripped her heart out. Like a claw through her gut, “She’s dead.” Her voice comes out steady. Her hands tremble. Everything is so bright, so crisp, and her eyes slide over to Kushina, her love, her best friend, her sister-in-arms, her love, at her sickeningly prone body, the pain written into every line of her face. Lines that were there too early. Life that was lost too early.
Distantly, she hears Fugaku. “Yoshino-san, please. Allow me.” A hand on her shoulder, and she flinches. Hard. But the hand tightens, gripping until she is staring up into her husband’s face. “Mikoto.” His voice is like a rock. Rough, steady. “Your eyes.”
“My eyes see everything, Fugaku,” she states, lips numb. She sees through him. She sees him. Every streak of blood he couldn’t wipe away fully—it’s seen by her eyes. She wants to look at Kushina again, to really check because Kushina cannot-
Kushina can’t-
Her head is spinning, and Fugaku’s hand squeezes her shoulder again, reminds her of him, and she turns to him and cries, “She’s dead, Fugaku.”
Sees the clench between his brows, minute. Muscles that want to squeeze together.
“Mikoto, your eyes.” His voice is gentler. His free hand coasts to her face, fingers brushing against her cheek, and they’re smeared with blood. He shows her the blood-stained pads. “Your eyes.”
She doesn’t want to. She knows. She knows, when she puts away her eyes, these will linger in her mind forever, these images. So long as she has a vision, Kushina’s blood will haunt her. She’ll taste it at the back of her throat, feel the sharp pains in her pelvis like a phantom, and she will see the lines of Kushina’s face, creased in agony, because she was hurt when she died. She was hurting. Kushina was in pain.
Clarity returns to her mind all at once. Hands dart up, clutching Fugaku’s blood-stained hand, and she says, as calmly as she can, “You need to take my eyes.”
And he-
He flinches. She sees it.
He shouldn’t falter. She knows what will happen, tightens her grip over his hand when he tries to pry himself. “Fugaku, I’m telling you-”
“Mikoto, no,” he snarls. “Listen to yourself.” Like a snap in the cold air, fire blazing beneath her fingertips, but she tightens her grip. “Deactivate your eyes now.”
“You have to take them,” she repeats. Feverish. But if he takes her eyes, if he takes her eyes, she won’t see Kushina again.
She-
She won’t see Kushina again.
A low moan leaves her lips. It builds in her chest, a yawning sensation, and it curves like a sunrise out of her, guttural. “Kushina.” Is it a wail? “Kushina, no-” They lift her. ANBU. Masks. And she lunges to her feet, restrained only by Fugaku’s forearm, a clamp holding her down, holding her back, holding her back- “Kushina!” She sobs as Kushina is whirled away. “Kushina, no, no, no, come back-”
Fugaku curses a low, furious string of words, his whole being on fire like he’s screaming from within, and Mikoto screams in return, screams until her head is dizzy, lungs chafing for air, her eyes bug out, seeing the world, seeing the horror, seeing the death, the death, her friend, sees the future in one moment, a hellscape of blood and doom and her son, red, swathes of red, Kushina, one last time her arms wrap around her, and she sees nothing at all.
In the mirror, Mikoto's eyes see again: the phantom blood-stains on the back of her tunic.
She sees her sons, safe. Her husband, safe.
The next time she sees Kushina is in death.