Chapter 350: Salt and Steam
The kitchen Malik chose was one of the larger ones in his sprawling mansion — a cathedral of polished copper, marble counters, and enchanted light.
Normally, the room thrummed with voices, sizzling pans, and the footsteps of his house staff. Tonight, it was quiet. The air held only the faint hiss of oil and the soft sounds of Isaribi's sandals on tile.
Malik worked at the stove with his usual rhythm — smooth, assured, almost musical. A ladle stirred a pot that released a fragrant trail of steam, smelling faintly of garlic, ocean herbs, and roasted sesame.
Across from him, Isaribi sat at the counter, stiff as a board, hands folded in her lap. The sheer emptiness of the kitchen made every sound sharp — the scrape of his spoon, the clink of glass, the little nervous breaths she took when she thought he wasn't listening.
Malik caught her reflection in the polished kettle — the uncertain way her eyes darted toward him, then away. He smiled gently.
"You know," he said without looking up, "I don't bite."
Her eyes widened slightly. "I… I didn't think you did."
"You did," Malik said softly, still stirring. "You're sitting like the stove's going to explode if I talk too loud." He finally turned, offering her an easy grin. "If it helps, I promise I'm not the exploding type."
"And that's not a joke, either. You'd be surprised how many times I have to clarify that."
She let out a small, awkward laugh, the sound catching in her throat. "Sorry… I just didn't expect you to cook for me."
"Well," he said, turning another pan with a flick of his wrist, "it's less about cooking for you and more about cooking with care. There's a difference. Food is just another form of healing."
That earned a tiny, reluctant smile from her. "Sorry. It's just… this house is big. And you're… well, you."
"Me?" he asked, pretending to be offended. "Do I seem that terrifying?"
She hesitated. "…A little."
Malik laughed quietly, setting the spoon down. "I could call Ino, if you want company. She'd love to talk your ear off while I finish this. Or maybe Shisui — but she's not great at small talk unless it involves tactical murder . . . Don't tell her I said that . . please."
That made Isaribi's shoulders shake with a nervous chuckle. "I've only seen her once. After she came back from training in the basement. I thought she was going to break the door with her eyes. She didn't even look at me, and I still felt like I'd done something wrong."
Malik raised an eyebrow. "Why does everyone think she's so scary?" His voice was all innocence.
Isaribi just gave him that look — the look that said she wasn't falling for it.
He cracked a grin. "Okay, fair. I know she's terrifying. She terrifies me sometimes. But in my defense—" he ladled soup into a bowl "—her being scary is one of the reasons I fell in love with her."
Now that got her attention. "You… fell in love because she was scary?"
He slid her bowl in front of her, steam rising like incense between them. "Partly," he admitted. "It's complicated."
"Complicated how?"
Malik leaned against the counter, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Well, simple first: she's beautiful, brilliant, strong, loyal, and she loves like she fights — completely. And complicated because… our story isn't one I can tell over a single meal."
"She's selfless in her own way, though she'd never admit it. And she's got that… possessive streak."
He gave a small grin. "Honestly, I find that adorable."
Isaribi smiled, faint but genuine. "If I asked her, would she tell me?"
"Oh, she'd definitely tell you." Malik laughed. "Probably with more gory detail than I'd like."
"Then I think I'll pass," Isaribi said, shaking her head. "She's scary."
Malik tilted his head, pretending to look wounded. "You're breaking my heart."
"Sorry," she said, giggling despite herself.
He winked. "Don't be. You're not wrong."
Isaribi frowned a little, unsure if he was serious, and Malik waved his hand as if brushing the air clear of worry.
"You know," he said, smiling at the memory, "it's funny—you'd think fear would push people apart, right? But the first time I met her, she grabbed me by the neck—one hand—and lifted me clean off the ground." He laughed, shaking his head. "She could've snapped my neck right then. And she looked like she was seriously considering it."
Isaribi's eyes widened. "And you married her?"
"Oh, absolutely," Malik said, laughing again. "A few months later, too. What can I say? I'm a simple man with complicated tastes."He turned back to the stove, tossing something in a pan that sizzled like applause. "Funny how that works, huh?"
For a few quiet moments, they both ate — the silence now comfortable, filled only with the soft clink of spoons. The stew was thick and fragrant, and Isaribi's first taste made her eyes widen.
"This is… incredible," she said, surprised at herself. "It tastes like home."
Malik smiled at that, his tone softening. "That's the goal. Healing doesn't start on the table or in a seal. It starts with something familiar. Something warm."
Isaribi looked down into her bowl, her reflection trembling in the broth. "No one's cooked for me since I was a kid," she said quietly. "Not since before the experiments."
Malik didn't say anything right away. He didn't fill the silence with sympathy. Instead, he reached over, refilled her water glass, and said simply, "Then we'll start there."
They ate a while longer before she asked her next question. "So… how did you and Ino meet?"
Malik nearly dropped the ladle. "Oh, my sweet Ino?" He chuckled, leaning back on the counter. "That's a fun story, but one for another time."
"Why?" she asked, smiling now. "You've told me this much, you can't stop now."
"Because," he said, giving her a pointed look, "if I tell you that story, we'll be here all night, and I still need to talk to you about your treatment."
The mention of her condition sobered the air instantly. Isaribi set down her spoon, her expression tightening.
Malik noticed. He gentled his tone. "You've read Tsunade's report, right? She and I have been preparing something. A way to undo what Amachi did to you."
Her eyes flickered with uncertainty. "Undo…?"
He nodded. "Not destroy what you are, just free you from what he forced you to be. The necklace I made will anchor your body — stabilize your chakra, stop the sea's pull from twisting your cells. Tsunade will monitor the biological part, and I'll handle the magic side."
She stared at him, stunned. "So I'll… look human again?"
Malik's smile softened. "You'll be human again. Fully. Unless you decide otherwise later. It's your body, Isaribi. I won't lock you into something you don't choose."
Her hands trembled slightly. "How soon?"
"As soon as you're ready," he said. "Later today, if you want. Everything's prepared. We've got a room in the basement — quiet, warded, safe. Tsunade calls it an operation. I call it a healing."
Her breath caught. "You really think it'll work?"
Malik leaned forward, eyes steady, voice low and certain. "I know it will. Because I don't fail people who still have something to fight for."
That hit her hard enough that she had to look away. "I'm not… strong like you or Tsunade."
"Who told you that?" Malik asked gently.
"I've just… done bad things," she said. "I hurt people because I thought I had to."
He shook his head. "You survived. That's not the same thing."
He picked up a rag, wiping his hands on it. "I've seen people do worse with less reason. You still care. That means there's something left to save."
For a long moment, she couldn't find words. The only sound in the kitchen was the simmering of the stove, still on low flame.
Finally, she whispered, "You talk like… like you've done this before."
Malik chuckled softly. "You'd be surprised how many lost people find their way to my doorstep."
"Do you heal them all?" she asked.
"Not all," he admitted. "Some don't want healing. But the ones who do…" he smiled, "I make sure they leave with a full stomach, at least."
Isaribi's lips curved into a small, trembling smile. "Then maybe that's enough for me too. For now."
He nodded. "Good. Then eat. Rest. And when you're ready, come downstairs. We'll start fresh."
When she finished her meal, Malik cleaned up without calling for help. He liked the quiet, the simple rhythm of washing plates and drying them with a flick of magic.
Isaribi lingered at the doorway, hesitant.
"Malik?"
He looked up.
"Thank you," she said. "For not treating me like a project."
He smiled, the corners of his eyes softening. "You're not a project, Isaribi. You're a person who's about to get her life back."
She hesitated again, then added quietly, "And… I think I'm ready. For the healing."
Malik nodded once, serious now. "Then it's settled. I'll tell Tsunade to prepare the chamber. Rest a few hours. We'll begin when you wake."
As she turned to leave, he called after her, "Oh — and Isaribi?"
She stopped at the door.
"When this is over," Malik said, "we're having dinner again. No magic, no surgery talk. Just two people sharing good food."
She smiled back at him, eyes bright with something new — hope, fragile but real. "Deal."
When she was gone, Malik leaned on the counter, exhaling through a slow smile.
The kitchen felt big and quiet again, but no longer empty.
He glanced at the pot still simmering, the scent of salt and herbs still hanging in the air. "She's going to be fine," he murmured. "The sea's had her long enough."
The last pan came clean with a soft, satisfying squeak. Malik set it upside down on the drying rack, then folded the linen towel over his forearm like a maître d' who'd lost track of time. He could have snapped his fingers and made the copper gleam, the tiles sparkle, the counters shine. But there was a different kind of quiet in doing it by hand—the small circles, the warm water, the rhythm that made thoughts line up instead of scatter.
He didn't look toward the shadow tucked in the archway.
"Going to keep hiding," he said lightly, "or do I compliment the wall for its outstanding posture?"
A ripple moved along the far counter like heat above a road. Space bent, then settled. Shisui flickered into view beside the spice shelves, hair loose around her shoulders, bare feet ghosting on tile. She wore one of her at-home ensembles—the kind no guest would ever see and no assassin would live long enough to describe: an oversized, off-shoulder sleep top that slouched into a scandal of neckline, and soft drawstring shorts made for napping, stretching, and ignoring the outside world. The Uchiha fan was stitched small near her hip, more secret than badge.
She didn't meet his eyes at first. She inspected the copper bowls as if the bowls had offended her.
"You knew I was there," she said, voice calm, mouth a little pout that only showed up when she was mildly annoyed and very tired.
"I always know when my house grows a second heartbeat," Malik replied, turning back to the stove to wipe one last arc of oil. He lifted his gaze, gentle but direct. "And, my love—please don't eavesdrop on conversations like that. Not with Isaribi."
Shisui's head tilted. "In my own house?"
"In our own house," he corrected softly. "And I'm not scolding. I'm drawing a line. She's skittish. She needs to believe the walls here don't have ears."
Shisui exhaled through her nose, a little huff—more a sign of reflection than defiance. "You fed her," she said instead. "I could smell the seaweed from the corridor. Garlic, sesame, that fisherman broth you used on Anko once when she was pretending she 'wasn't hungry.'"
Malik's mouth tugged. "Guilty."
A pause. She reached up to the highest shelf for nothing in particular, and the motion turned that slouched neckline into a canyon. Malik caught the glimpse—deep, warm, unfair—and rolled his eyes at the ceiling like a man petitioning heaven for patience.
"You're doing that on purpose," he accused, amused.
"I'm existing," she countered, glancing down just long enough to clock his reaction. A small, victorious quirk touched one corner of her mouth. "And I was not eavesdropping. I was assessing. There's a difference."
"Semantic genjutsu," he said. "Very advanced."
She finally faced him, irritation faded to bare candor. "You bring strays home, and I lock the doors. That's our balance." Her gaze softened a breath. "But… I heard her thank you. Not performative. The small, real kind." A beat. "I won't ghost the halls around her again."
He nodded, accepting, not gloating. "That's all I wanted."
Shisui crossed the kitchen in three quiet steps, fingertips grazing the marble as she went, like a swimmer's hand finding the edge of the pool. Up close, the details of her not-for-company outfit did their treasonous work—soft cotton clinging where it shouldn't, sleeves forever slipping off one shoulder, the kind of comfort that made leaving the house a theoretical problem for future Shisui. Her hair smelled faintly of tea tree and the winter soap Sakura liked to gift everyone.
"You used your hands," she noted, chin jerking toward the sink. "No magic."
"Felt right," Malik said. "Doing a thing the slow way reminds my brain that not everything needs a shortcut."
"Mm." She looked past him, toward the empty doorway Isaribi had left through. "Tsunade's report said her body remembers the ocean more than her mind does. That line stuck."
"It stuck with me too," he said.
Shisui's eyes lowered, the briefest admission of vulnerability. "I'm protective. You know this." A sigh. "Sometimes it sounds like possessive. I don't like the sound."
Malik leaned his hips against the counter, towel still looped on his forearm. "Protective built this home. Possessive would lock the doors." He tipped his head. "You didn't lock them."
That got him a small noise—half scoff, half laugh. "I considered it."
"I'd expect nothing less."
She watched him in silence for a few heartbeats—the kind of observing only a Sharingan master could do without activating anything at all. Finally, she spoke again, low and even. "Isaribi is staying."
"Only if she wants to," Malik said. "Tonight she eats and sleeps without fear. Tomorrow we offer the sea-shell and the choice."
Shisui nodded once, decision accepted, calculus updated. "Then I'll set a perimeter—quiet, outside the doors, no visible Root. If she wakes and wanders, she'll find flowers instead of shadows."
"That still feels a little crazy, but thank you," he said, meaning it.
She moved to the stove, picked up the empty pot with two fingers, weighed it like a kunai, then set it down again with care. "You're tired."
"So are you."
"Mine's the fight kind," she said. "Yours is the give kind. People forget how heavy give gets."
Something eased in his face. "Come here," he said.
She obliged, stepping into his space until the smell of steam and sesame turned into the warmth of skin and cotton. He wrapped the towel around her shoulders like a cape; she made a face, then accepted it because it smelled like him.
"For the record," she murmured into his collarbone, "if you forbid me from any corner of my own house, I will put you in a genjutsu where you alphabetize every spice in every pantry in every nation."
He smiled into her hair. "Joke's on you. That sounds soothing."
"Monster."
"Menace."
Her hand found his, fingers threading—callus to callus, familiar as a mantra. The quiet stretched, comfortable again. The mansion's sigils breathed their slow, tidal hum. Somewhere far below, the old geothermal pipes exhaled like a sleeping dragon.
Shisui leaned back just enough to look him over properly. "Bed."
"A radical proposition," Malik said solemnly with the hint of a spicy smile.
"Sleep bed," she clarified, pinching his side. "We both have early war councils disguised as normal days tomorrow."
"War council for me is Tsunade with a ledger," he said. "Arguably worse."
"Exactly. Come on."
He glanced around the kitchen as if to ask the room's permission, then wiped the stove once more for the road. Shisui caught the gesture and shook her head, fond and exasperated.
As they crossed the threshold, she snagged an apple from a fruit bowl and bit in. The crunch echoed under the high ceiling.
"By the way," she said around a mouthful, "Ino will ask me in the morning whether Isaribi should accept your offer to stay."
"And what will you say?"
"I'll say staying here is not safe," Shisui answered, blunt. He arched a brow. She added, "—but it is safer than out there. And safer than anywhere that pretends safety without doing the work. This place does the work. We do the work."
"I like that answer," Malik said.
"You like me," she said, as if diagnosing a condition.
"A terminal case," he conceded.
They took the long corridor—the one with the tall windows and the winter garden beyond. Snow feathered down in the lantern light, each flake a brief spark before it joined the white. The house dimmed its sconces as they passed, recognizing its masters were done for the night.
At the bedroom door, Shisui paused and looked back toward the dark heart of the mansion—the kitchens, the warded basements, the rooms where strays learned to sleep without flinching.
"You make them believe," she said softly, more observation than compliment.
"We make them believe," he corrected. "You, me, all of us."
She considered that, then nodded. "Then sleep. We'll need belief tomorrow."
He opened the door. She tugged him in by the towel-cape.
In the hush that followed, gloves thumped onto a chair, the soft top was traded for one of his oversized shirts, and the bed—wide enough for two warriors and their ghosts—accepted their weight with a sigh. Shisui pillowed her head on his shoulder; he tucked an arm around her waist. No battle plans. No magic. Just the quiet work of breath syncing to breath.
"I'll set the alarms," she murmured, already drifting.
"I already did," he whispered. "You always check them anyway."
"Mm." A pause. "You're insufferable."
"You're luminous."
A small, sleepy scoff. "Go to—"
He kissed her hair. "Already there."
The house listened to their breathing, matched it, and settled. Far below, in the sea-blue room prepared for a girl who'd once been a monster by someone else's hand, a gentle ward pulsed in time with the tide. In the kitchen, the stove's metal cooled, holding the faintest memory of garlic and salt.
Malik's last thought before sleep: Tomorrow, the shell. Tomorrow, the choice.
Shisui's last thought before the dark: Doors unlocked, eyes open, blades sheathed.
Then the mansion exhaled, and winter night folded itself neatly over all of them.