Work Text:
Zabuza had been accustomed to binding his wounds quickly, preferring efficiency to thoroughness. He was injured rarely, but Haku remembered the first time he saw Zabuza dress his own injuries - a quick wash with cold water, bandages tied roughly, and if Zabuza had felt any pain, he did not show it.
Zabuza's dreams were Haku's own - and to some extent, that meant that responsibility for the care of Zabuza's body was also Haku's, and he took that responsibility very seriously.
On their travels, Haku sought out the midwives, women on the edges of communities but connected by every child they'd helped birth. They showed him which herbs to pick - what a dear, sweet boy - they showed him how to stitch wounds. The midwives introduced him to the acupuncturists, the acupuncturists to the apothecaries. It was very important to Haku to be prepared, and he thought that, in another life, maybe he could have done this - he could have wandered the countryside and cured sick children, eased the aches of the elderly. But he was Zabuza's, and there was no point in wondering what might have been, not when he was so grateful for there to be a here right now with Zabuza.
When Zabuza came in the door after a job with a length of cloth tied over his arm, Haku said, "Would you allow me to see to your wounds?"
Zabuza said, "It's fine."
Haku lowered his eyes, because he didn't want to press. But he found himself saying, "Please, Zabuza-san."
Zabuza made no noise, but he sat down on their bedroll, and Haku retrieved the medicine box he'd worked so hard to prepare.
The wound wasn't bad - Haku had seen worse in his studies. So he washed it carefully, applied ointment that would stave off infection, and wrapped it a length of cloth, scavenged from clothing Haku had long since outgrown.
Zabuza did not say, "Thank you," nor did Haku expect him to do so. But he did raise one hand to cup Haku's cheek, and Haku knew he'd done well.