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Chapter Text

Sansa knows the end is coming long before it arrives. The moment she gets word that the gates of Winterfell have been breached, she knows. So do the other women and the older children, huddled with her in the depths of the keep. And yet they do not weep, scream, or rage. 

Instead, they sing. Because the younger children and the babes are still sweetly naive, and that innocence must be preserved, even when everything else is lost.

It is both like and unlike the Siege of King’s Landing. Then, she had sung to distract herself from the fear. She’d sung hymns from the Seven, things her mother and Septa Mordane had taught her as a child. 

Now, though, she sings as an act of defiance. She sings folk songs and lullabies she’d learned from her father, songs of the North, of the winter that rages outside, of the wolf that burns in her blood just as fiercely as it burns in all Starks.

Because she is Sansa Stark of Winterfell. And she refuses to cower again, even in the face of death.

And so when the white walkers breach the doors, when the bodies start falling around her, she keeps singing. She sings until the blood from her slit throat bubbles up and trails down her mouth. She sings until her vocal cords are cut clean through, until her lifesblood drains from her, until her voice fades for the last time. Through it all, she sings.

~

Her eyes open. Which, in and of itself, is strange. She hadn’t thought her eyes would open ever again. Her vision is blurry for the briefest of moments, and she blinks to clear it, automatically, instinctively. 

Her vision focuses. So do her other senses. 

It’s warm. Bright. That’s the first thing she registers. So different from the cold darkness of the winter she’d just died in. 

The warmth is oppressive in its unfamiliarity. Her skin, so soft it scarcely feels real, tingles with the heat of summer light. The air smells faintly of milk and clean linen, but the scent makes her stomach twist - because it is not woodsmoke or pine or snow. It is not home.

There are no howling winds here, no rattling windows or the heavy weight of furs. Just a hush, too gentle. Too kind. Like the world is trying to soothe her, and she refuses to be soothed.

She blinks, slowly, trying to make sense of things. She feels - small. Clumsy. She’s being cradled in a way she’s never been small enough to be held before, and - 

The only conclusion she comes to is impossible. Absurd, even. Completely, utterly unheard of. 

Because who ever heard of reincarnation in reality?

~

In the beginning, she tries to pretend it’s a dream. Some feverish conjuring of her mind in her dying moments. But Sansa’s never been in the habit of lying to herself, not anymore anyway, and she knows she’d never willingly conjure up this. How could she? Why would she? If she were dreaming, it’d be a sweet dream - her parents, alive and well. Robb, hale and healthy. Bran, walking. Rickon, clinging to her skirts. And Arya and even Jon, smiling and still warm. 

Not - not whatever this is. This strange, bright, warm world with an unfamiliar language and foreign clothing. Where she’s small and helpless and - and a baby, of all things.

Sometimes, in the lull between sleep and waking, she hears their voices. Arya’s laugh, reckless and wild. Her mother, calling her sweetling. Robb whispering goodbye at Winterfell’s gates.

But the moment she opens her eyes, they vanish. Like snowflakes caught in a flame.

And she is left behind, alone in a world that does not know their names.

~

But eventually, there comes a day when she can’t lie to herself anymore. She stares at the ceiling, and her fingers twitch. The truth settles over her like falling snow: 

She’s been reborn. In a different world. She guesses, from the acuity of her senses, that she’s a few months old already. Maybe even a year old.

She lets out a slow, controlled exhale. Blinks once, twice. Reaches chubby fingers up to her throat and traces the uncut skin. 

There’s a hollowness in her chest. Like someone had taken a dagger and cut through every stitch holding her together. She’d felt this way before, when she’d been a hostage first of Cersei and Joffrey, and than of Ramsay, but - 

She’d thought those days were behind her. 

Sansa - Sansa had been ready to die. Prepared for it, even. She’d come to terms with it unflinchingly, and she had died - 

But she hadn’t stayed dead. And now she’s alone in the world in a way she has never, ever been before. Because Sansa Stark does not, has never existed in this world, and she has memories of an entire lifetime crammed into her infant brain, and - 

She has never once been so alone. 

Her breath catches, and her eyes burn, but no tears fall. She’d stopped crying years ago, after she’d seen how much joy Joffrey had taken from her tears, and it seems that has carried over to her new body. 

Instead, she closes her eyes. And tries to breathe through the unbearable ache.

~

In Westeros, grief had been a shared language. Everyone had lost something. Here, no one grieves. No one knows.

When the other children cry at night, they are crying for things they still hope to gain. She cries for a world already gone. For a father whose honor cost him his head, for a mother thrown into a red river, for brothers burned and buried and lost.

And no one here will ever understand.

~

She is in an orphanage. That much is clear, from the uniforms the adults wear to the multitude of children crammed into the building. She guesses she’s maybe a year old. 

There’s a part of her that’s grateful for the absence of parents in this life. Because her true parents will always be Eddard and Catelyn Stark, and the idea of others trying to replace them is - abhorrent. She wouldn’t be able to stand it, for a new set of people to look at her and claim her theirs. 

She doesn’t know what happened to this body’s set of parents. Perhaps they gave her up. Perhaps they both died. Either way, it doesn’t particularly matter to her - she’s not attached to them in the way she might’ve been, if she hadn’t been Sansa first and always. And maybe that’s cruel, maybe that’s heartless, but she can’t bring herself to care. If she is cruel, then so be it. She thinks she’s allowed to be, after everything she’s lost. 

~

She learns the language of this world in pieces. Learns her new name first - Hikari. Just Hikari. No surname, because her mother had been a traveller, a visitor, and had died in childbirth before giving Sansa more than a new name.

She knows she should accustom herself to Hikari. Should familiarize herself with it, so as not to stand out. But she is so, so tired. She has spent so long cutting away parts of herself to please others, and the thought of letting go of her name, of the name her family had known and loved her as - 

She can’t. She can’t do it. Not after losing her home, her family, her entire world - 

She cannot give up her name, too. It and her memories are all she has left. 

She is Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and nothing has ever - will ever - change that. The Lannisters had tried and failed. Littlefinger had tried and failed. The Boltons had tried and failed. This world - this new life - it will fail, too. 

The other children pick up words faster than she does. Their mouths shape the sounds easily, laughter and questions and whining chatter spilling out in this strange, lilting language. Sansa is slower. Not because she can’t learn - it’s not that. But because every word feels like a betrayal. Every new phrase is a severing. 

She understands before she speaks. Listens. Watches. Catalogues. That much, at least, hasn’t changed. She learns the rhythm of the language from the caretakers and the older children, from overheard conversations and shouted commands. From lullabies sung to the youngest ones - tunes that should bring comfort, but twist sharp in her chest, because they are not the ones she remembers.

Her own voice, when she finally begins to use it, sounds foreign to her ears. Not highborn. Not Northern. Not hers.

But she adapts, because she has to. Just enough. Enough to survive.

Still, she refuses to speak her name aloud. Not the one they gave her. Not the one they think belongs to her now.

She mouths it sometimes, in the dark, when no one is watching.

Sansa. A name like a prayer. A name like a promise.

There’s no point in grieving who she was - because Sansa Stark is not dead. Not really. She’s just buried. Hidden behind a child’s face and soft limbs and a voice that doesn’t sound like her own. But she’s still here. She still remembers.

And one day, when she is stronger, when she learns the shape of this new world and the rules it plays by, she will make sure that this world remembers her, too.

~ ~ ~ 

The village is mid-sized, a few hours east of the Fire Capital, near the border of Fire Country. It wouldn’t even warrant a mission scroll under normal circumstances. But the man holed up inside the soncho’s house - the village leader’s home - isn’t normal.

Missing-nin. B-rank, formerly of Kusa. Known for erratic behavior and a kill count so high that Genma whistled low when they’d gotten the file. He’d taken the soncho hostage twenty-four hours ago and demanded supplies, rations, coin - enough to disappear with.

Team Ro had been dispatched with one directive: eliminate the threat. Clean. Quiet. No witnesses, if possible.

Kakashi crouches in the branches above the square, masked, motionless. Below, the soncho’s house stands half-collapsed. The soncho himself is still alive - barely. There’s blood on the doorframe.

The square’s deserted, as it should be. The villagers are all holed up in their homes, or hiding in the woods. They’re all anywhere but where the action will go down, so as to avoid becoming collateral.

What surprises him, therefore, isn’t the state of the hostage or the absence of others - it’s the child standing at the threshold.

She can’t be more than five. Thin, underfed but not starved. Red hair braided neatly down her back, unnaturally vivid even on a cloudy day. She’s barefoot. Blue eyes like glacier runoff - bright, uncanny. 

Kakashi goes perfectly still. Tenzo shifts slightly on the far roof. Yuugao and Genma are already flanking, waiting for the command. But he lifts two fingers. Wait.

Because what the hell is this?

The missing-nin is pacing inside the main room, his chakra flickering erratically. Volatile. Unpredictable. But the girl - she’s calm, ridiculously so. Her hands are clasped behind her back, like she’s reciting poetry to a crowd, not staring down a man who could end her life in seconds.

The missing-nin notices her. Kakashi’s ready to intervene in a heartbeat, but then she speaks. 

“What’s your name?”

Her voice is soft. Inquisitive. Curious. 

The missing-nin freezes. The man’s chakra doesn’t spike - it flattens, thins out into something taut and strange, like a wire pulled too tight. His head turns slowly toward the girl, expression unreadable. A beat of silence stretches out. Then - 

“What?”

The girl tilts her head, unfazed. “I asked your name.”

The man blinks. He looks stunned. Kakashi can relate. “You - you think this is a game, little brat?”

“No,” she says simply. “But you looked like you needed someone to ask.”

His laugh is harsh, too loud in the wreckage of the house. But it’s not the kind of laugh Kakashi associates with a killing intent spike. It’s ragged. Splintering. Like he doesn’t know what to do with what he’s just been handed.

“I’ve killed fifty people on record,” he rasps. “More, if you count the ones they never found.”

“I believe you,” the girl replies, who somehow sounds neither impressed nor frightened. “But I don’t think that’s all you are.”

Genma’s voice crackles in Kakashi’s comm. “She’s going to get herself killed.”

“Wait,” Kakashi murmurs, out loud this time, eyes narrowed. Because the girl still hasn’t moved. Still hasn’t flinched. Her small body is square to the man, posture neither confrontational nor submissive. It’s... open. Intentional. Controlled.

“Why did you come here?” she asks gently. “To this village. You could’ve gone anywhere.”

The man scowls. “I needed supplies.”

“There are closer towns to the Kusa border,” she replies, almost kindly. “And no offense, but you don’t look like you’ve eaten in days. You wouldn’t have made it this far unless you were desperate before you crossed.”

Silence.

Kakashi can feel it, sharp and brittle. The man’s chakra lurches - then steadies.

“You some kind of spy?” the man growls. “A T&I interrogator in a child’s body?”

“No.” A small shrug. “I live here. In the orphanage. I read a lot.”

The answer is so absurdly earnest it makes Tenzo exhale a disbelieving laugh into the comm line.

The girl takes a step closer. Closer, for fuck’s sake. Kakashi nearly breaks cover. 

But the man doesn’t strike. He doesn’t even move.

“What’s your name?” she asks again, softer this time. “Not the name others gave you - the one your parents knew you as.”

He stares at her.

“You remember it, don’t you?”

His chakra shudders.

Then, like an avalanche cracking just slightly off its fall line, he exhales. A long, shaking breath that sounds like a body unraveling.

“Hozuki,” he mutters. “My name was Hozuki Ren.”

The girl nods, like this is a perfectly normal conversation to have while ankle-deep in blood and a shattered home.

“They call me Hikari,” the girl says, and somewhere in the back of Kakashi’s mind, he notes the strangeness of the phrasing - not my name is. No, she’d said they call me, like that’s not what she calls herself.

Silence again. And then - 

“... I didn’t mean to hurt the soncho,” he says hoarsely. “I just - he wouldn’t stop yelling, and I - my head - ”

“He’s not dead,” Hikari says gently. “Not yet.”

That lands like a pebble in a still pond. Kakashi sees it: the slight tremble in the man’s hands. The sag in his shoulders. The flicker of grief, real grief, in the twitch of his brow.

“I don’t think you want to kill anyone today,” Hikari says. “And I don’t think you came here to die, either.”

He looks at her, trembling. “There’s no way out.”

“There might be,” she says. “But not if you keep acting like you’ve already lost.”

Kakashi’s earpiece crackles again - Yuugao, low: “He’s going to stand down. I think she - she actually got through to him.”

“Team Ro,” Kakashi says quietly, “hold position. We go nonlethal.”

And for the first time since arriving, he lets himself breathe.

Who the hell is this girl?

The missing-nin - Ren, he corrects himself, absently - sinks to the floor like someone has cut his strings. He’s still armed. Still dangerous. But the fight has drained out of him, leaving something ragged and hollow in its place. Not submission. Not quite surrender. Something closer to… collapse.

And the girl, Hikari, steps forward again. Only one pace, careful. Respectful. Not reckless. Not afraid. She crouches beside him - not too close - and peers at the man’s face with a kind of solemn curiosity that makes her look older than five.

“We should get you out of here,” she says. “Before you make a mistake you can’t undo.”

Ren laughs again. This time, it’s almost broken. “Little girl, I made that mistake years ago.”

She doesn’t argue. Just says, “That doesn’t mean you have to keep making it.”

Kakashi feels something twist in his chest.

It’s the way she says it. Not like a child reciting a phrase she’s heard. Not like someone offering false comfort. But like she knows. Like someone who’s been surrounded by the aftermath of choices they never got to make - and survived it anyway. There’s too much gravity in her voice for someone so small. And that unsettles him more than anything.

Ren rubs his hands over his face. There’s blood crusted under his nails. “They’ll kill me,” he mumbles. “Whoever comes.”

“Maybe,” Hikari says, and her honesty is startling. “But if you don’t fight, they might hesitate.”

She holds his gaze. Calm. Steady. And then - Kakashi nearly misses it - she shifts her stance. Barely perceptible. Her feet slide just a fraction, angled subtly to shield the man from the door.

She’s protecting him.

Kakashi feels his gut jolt. Not because she’s wrong - Ren is disarmed, subdued, not a threat right now. But because she doesn’t know what’s coming. Doesn’t know that there are four ANBU crouched in the shadows, waiting for a hand signal. Doesn’t know how close she came to watching blood spill across the floor.

She doesn’t know they’re here at all.

And she’s still choosing to place herself between a killer and whatever she thinks might hurt him next.

“Yuugao,” Kakashi murmurs. “Get the medkit ready. Tenzo, secure the m- secure Ren. Genma, cover the hostage. He’s alive, barely. I want him stabilized. No mistakes.”

“Copy,” comes Genma’s voice, steady now. “Moving in two.”

“Wait for my signal,” Kakashi says. His gaze doesn’t leave the girl.

She’s turned slightly now, profile lit by the dappled light through the shattered roof. There’s a streak of dirt across her cheek. A bruise forming just beneath her collarbone. Her braid’s come slightly loose at the end.

She’s still barefoot. Still calm. Kakashi’s seen elite diplomats flinch harder under pressure than this child has.

She’s talking again. Softly. Coaxing the man to his feet.

He sways but lets her help. And Kakashi watches as the girl loops one thin arm under Ren’s and starts guiding him toward the door.

Not the back exit. The front. The one facing the square. Right into the open.

Right toward them.

Kakashi’s hands move automatically. Two sharp gestures. Yuugao melts from the shadows and is by the hostage in a blink. Tenzo drops down silently to intercept their path, hood up, blade still sheathed. A presence, not a threat.

The girl stops when she sees him. Freezes. Any other child would scream at the sudden appearance of figures in porcelain masks, but it’s not fear on her face. It’s calculation.

Her gaze narrows. Flicks once to the side - toward Genma emerging with the wounded soncho in his arms - then to the front, where Tenzo is creating wooden chakra-suppressing cuffs.

And then - only then - her eyes lift to the trees. To him.

Kakashi doesn’t hide. He lets her see. Lets her understand.

Their gazes lock. Her chin lifts.

She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. She knows exactly what just happened.

And the only thing she says - quiet, direct, as if she’s simply choosing to make peace with whatever’s next - is:

“Please don’t kill him.”

Kakashi drops from the branches in a single silent movement, landing light as a cat in front of her. Ren flinches, but Kakashi doesn’t draw a weapon, doesn’t reach for a jutsu.

He just… looks at her.

This strange little slip of a girl with frost-colored eyes and unnerving calm. Who disarmed a killer without laying a single finger. Who dared to stand in front of ANBU, barefoot and bruised, and ask for mercy.

“Hozuki Ren is in custody,” Kakashi says, voice low but firm. “No execution. You have my word.”

She exhales slowly. Nods. And then - nothing else. No sob of relief. No smile. No collapse into trembling limbs, the way a child should, when adrenaline fades and the danger is past.

She just stays still. Steady. Unshaken.

Kakashi finds himself watching her too closely. Trying to find the crack. There’s always a crack. Some sign of the cost. Of how deep the fear went. Of what had to be sacrificed, inside, to stay standing.

But there’s nothing.

Just her eyes, still locked on him. Like she’s weighing him in return.

She’s five, maybe six at most. She should be crying for her caretaker. Or asking why they’re all wearing masks. Or panicking that she might be taken too.

Instead - 

Instead she steps slightly aside, releasing her hold on Ren’s arm. She doesn’t push him forward. Doesn’t flee. Just… moves. So there’s no ambiguity.

So Kakashi can do his job.

Ren wavers in the space she leaves, as if her absence unmoors him. His knees buckle, and Kakashi is there in an instant, catching him under the arm and easing him down to his knees. The man doesn’t resist.

“Hands behind your back,” Kakashi says.

Ren complies. Too exhausted to fight. Too broken to try.

Tenzo appears beside them with the cuffs. They lock into place with a soft metallic snick.

Hikari watches the whole time in silence.

Kakashi looks at her again. “You knew we were there.”

“I suspected,” she says simply.

“How?”

“I don’t think the wind stops moving unless something tells it to,” she replies. “And it got quiet. Too quiet.” A beat. “And because he stopped looking over his shoulder, and that’s always when people strike.”

Kakashi blinks behind his mask. That… wasn’t a bad deduction. It wasn’t a child’s answer, either.

He stands. The cuffs are secure. Ren is no longer a threat.

And still, it’s the girl his eyes return to. The bruise under her collarbone is deepening by the second.

“You should sit,” he says finally. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine,” she replies. Not stubbornly. Not defiantly. Just... like a fact.

A learned behavior.

He’s heard medics talk that way. Jonin, too. ANBU, mostly. The ones who’ve been on too many missions. The ones who know that pain is just something you account for. Something you set aside until the task is over.

You’re five, he wants to say. You’re not supposed to know that yet.

Instead, he crouches. Not close enough to crowd her. Just enough to bring them eye-level.

“What you did back there,” he says, quietly. “That was dangerous.”

She nods. Doesn’t look away.

“You could’ve been killed.”

“I know.”

There’s no fear in her voice. But something flickers, briefly, behind her eyes. A tightness. A thread of something old.

“Why did you do it?”

She’s quiet for a long moment. Then:

“Because I think sometimes people just need someone to see them,” she murmurs. “Even if they’re terrible. Even if they’ve done awful things. Because if no one does... it’s easier to keep being terrible. It stops mattering. And I think that’s worse.”

Kakashi doesn’t answer. Can’t. Because the thing in his chest - that careful distance he’s spent years mastering - feels just a little too thin, suddenly. Like a wall he forgot was load-bearing, now riddled with fault lines.

He rises instead. Glances toward Genma, who’s already coordinating the hostage’s med-evac..

A beat passes.

Then she shifts slightly. Just slightly. Enough to let him know she’s going to ask something, but only once.

“Will you make sure he’s not… hurt more?”

He looks at her.

At the quiet grief beneath her stillness. At the strange grace with which she’s carried something no child should have had to.

“I said he’s in custody,” Kakashi says. “No execution. And I meant it.”

She nods once. Doesn’t say thank you or try to follow. She just turns on bare feet and walks back toward the orphanage. Not fast or stumbling, but rather, like the scene behind her is over. Like she’s already stepping into the next one.

And Kakashi watches her go, wind tugging at her loosened braid, frost-pale eyes steady even as her shoulders tighten ever so slightly the moment she crosses the threshold alone.

He doesn’t realize he’s still watching until Genma murmurs at his side:

“That wasn’t normal.”

“No,” Kakashi agrees. “It wasn’t.”

And he doesn’t know what that means yet. Only that he’s going to find out.

~

Kakashi watches her until she vanishes behind the crooked frame of the orphanage door.

She shouldn’t fade so easily into the background, he thinks. Not after what just happened. But she does - like someone used to being overlooked the moment the crisis ends.

He stays still a moment longer. Listening to the wind shift, the distant murmur of Genma’s update over the comm. Then he speaks, low and certain.

“Change of plans.”

Yuugao turns. “What kind of change?”

“I’m taking the girl to the Hokage.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Tenzo’s voice crackles in: “You’re sure?”

Kakashi’s gaze lingers on the doorway. “He’ll want to speak with her. You know he will.”

Because this isn’t just a child who happened to survive a hostage situation.

She defused it. She redirected a missing-nin’s kill intent with nothing but words. De-escalated a target slated for elimination without flinching, without training, without backup. She got through to him.

And she did it at five years old, completely untrained, and entirely unarmed.

It’s unprecedented. Unheard of. It’s also a liability, if they don’t understand how it happened. If they don’t ask.

“I’ll handle the briefing,” Kakashi adds. “You three - once the soncho’s stabilized, take Ren back to Konoha and file the preliminary report with Commander Bear. Tenzo’s in charge while I’m gone, as usual. I’ll give my account to the Hokage directly.”

Yuugao hesitates. “Will the orphanage let her go with you?”

He’s already moving toward the door. “They won’t have a choice.”

~

They let him take her without a fight. The head matron takes one look at him and pales dramatically. 

“The soncho’s alive,” Kakashi says, without waiting for her to say something. “He’s being stabilized. But I need to take one of your charges back to Konoha - Hikari.”

Something flickers across her face at the name. There’s surprise there, but not as much as there should be. 

He tilts his head. “Tell me about her.”

She exhales slowly. “There’s not much to tell.”

“Try.”

Her eyes flick to the side. “She’s… strange. Her mother wasn’t from here. Arrived in our village half-dead and bleeding, already in labour. Only lived long enough to give Hikari her first name before she died.”

“No last name?” Kakashi presses. “What did she look like?”

“Looked like her daughter,” the matron mutters. “Unnatural red hair. Blue eyes. Never gave us a last name, even though we asked.”

“And the father?”

The matron scowls. “Never mentioned a father. Probably born out of wedlock.”

Kakashi lets out a thoughtful hum. “I see. And Hikari?”

“Strange,” the matron repeats. “Like I said. Quiet. She’s never acted like a child should.” Her eyes lock with Kakashi’s. “She’s unnatural,” the matron says quietly, like a verdict. “Take her away if you want, but don’t bring her back.”

~

Hikari opens the door before he knocks, as if she knew he would return.

Her face is clean now, and her braid’s been redone, neat and deliberate. There’s still a bruise on her collarbone, but she doesn’t seem to notice it.

“I thought you might come back,” she says quietly.

Kakashi studies her a moment. “You’re not in trouble.”

“Alright,” she says easily, but something about her eyes tells him she doesn’t believe him.

He nods toward the road. “The Hokage will want to speak with you.”

She doesn’t even blink. “Okay.”

Kakashi isn’t sure what he expects - resistance, questions, even the startled silence of someone too young to understand the weight of such a summons.

But Hikari just steps forward, closes the door behind her, and waits.

“Do you need shoes?” he asks after a beat.

She shakes her head. “There’s a pair by the garden. I’ll get them.”

And she does. Sandals, mismatched and worn, tugged on with the same methodical calm she’s carried since the beginning.

When she straightens again, she looks at him - not waiting for permission, but simply ready.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s go.”

And the two of them - silver-haired ANBU captain and orphan girl with glacier eyes - walk down the dirt road toward the village edge.

Kakashi says nothing as they move. But in the back of his mind, a thousand questions form, cold and slow and persistent.

Because whoever - or whatever - this girl is…

The world just changed the moment she opened her mouth.

~

They travel slowly.

Kakashi doesn’t say anything about it at first - just shortens his stride to match hers without comment, lets her set the pace. They’re only half a day from a Fire Capital outpost, and another day past that from Konoha’s gates. With Team Ro handling cleanup and Ren secured, he doesn’t have to rush.

Still, it’s telling.

Hikari walks without complaint, but there’s a stiffness to her movements as time passes. A faint limp that gets more noticeable by the hour. By midday, sweat beads at her temple and her breath comes shorter than it should for a shinobi child. Which, of course, she isn’t.

She’s just... used to pushing through it.

They stop just past a riverside grove when the sun begins to lower. The light slants gold through the trees, catching on low brush and leaf-slicked rock. Kakashi crouches by the bank to refill his canteen, keeping one ear turned toward her.

She doesn’t ask to rest. Doesn’t sit. But she takes her shoes off - carefully, wincing as she peels them from raw, abraded heels - and then begins gathering dry kindling.

He watches, silent, as she makes a small stack near the flattest patch of ground. Not enough for a full fire, but just enough for warmth. A traveler's fire. Precise. Efficient.

She doesn’t fumble once.

“You’ve done this before,” he says, finally.

She looks up. “I’ve read about it.”

Kakashi blinks. “Read about it.”

She nods, kneeling to arrange the kindling into a tight cone. “There’s a book in the village library. Nomad’s Guide to Safe Travel. It said to find dry wood, avoid river moss, and always clear away brush before lighting anything.”

Kakashi steps closer, brows raised behind his mask. “You memorized it?”

“I liked it.” She shrugs, not looking at him. “It was practical.”

He watches as she pulls a flint from the side pocket of the traveling pack he handed her earlier. It takes her three strikes to get a spark. On the fourth, the fire catches.

Small. Clean. Controlled.

She doesn’t grin. Doesn’t celebrate. Just stares into the flame with a kind of quiet satisfaction.

“You’ll make someone’s logistics corps very proud one day,” he murmurs.

“I don’t want to be in logistics,” she says, and there’s a hint of something firm underneath her calm. “I want to help stop things before they happen.”

Kakashi lowers himself to the ground opposite her. The fire flickers between them, casting her face in uneven orange-gold light.

“Like you did today?”

She meets his eyes. “I didn’t stop it.”

“You did. You also could’ve made it worse. Could’ve been killed. You weren’t trained for that.”

“No,” she agrees. “But I think sometimes… people just need to be listened to. Really listened to. Or reminded that they used to be someone else. Someone better.”

Her voice tightens, just slightly.

“And I think if you wait for the trained people to always be the ones to speak up, it’s already too late.”

Kakashi’s silent for a long moment. The fire crackles softly between them.

“Most people don’t figure that out until they’re much older,” he says at last.

Hikari shrugs again and says nothing.

He could press. Could probe the edges of her silence. But something about the way she looks tells him she’s not ready. So instead, he unfolds his bedroll and tosses her a spare blanket from his pack. She catches it reflexively, blinking.

“Get some sleep,” he says. “We’ll leave at first light.”

Hikari hesitates. “Aren’t you going to ask more questions?”

“I will,” he replies, gaze steady. “But not tonight.”

She nods slowly.

Then curls up beside the fire, pulling the blanket around her like she’s done it a hundred times.

Within minutes, her breath evens out.

She sleeps easily. Too easily.

And Kakashi, still seated beside the fire, doesn’t move for a long time.

Because most five-year-olds don’t know how to set camp. Most five-year-olds don’t talk like diplomats. Or stand down killers. Or sleep beside masked strangers with a kind of practiced trust that isn’t really trust at all.

Something happened to this girl. Something that gave her a spine of steel and a voice like a knife in silk.

And he intends to find out what.

~

The fire’s down to glowing embers when dawn begins to break - soft gray light bleeding into the forest floor.

Kakashi doesn’t move.

He’s sat in the same position since Hikari drifted off, unmoving but alert. Not because he expects danger - there won’t be any, not this close to Fire Capital patrol routes - but because sleep isn’t something he allows himself on short escort runs.

Not when he’s responsible for someone else. Not when the person in question is a child who stares down missing-nin like she’s done it before.

She stirs with the light, breath hitching once before her eyes flutter open. No stretch. No yawn. She wakes like a soldier - quick, silent, aware. And then she sees him. Still seated. Still masked. Still watching.

She tilts her head, birdlike. “You didn’t sleep, did you?”

He doesn’t bother lying.

“I don’t usually sleep on short escort missions.”

She studies him for a beat. Eyes narrow. Thinking, measuring. Then she nods once, accepting it.  But something flickers across her face. Just briefly. The first crack. The first uncertainty. A hesitation so slight it barely registers, like a breath held too long.

“Say it,” Kakashi says, low but not unkind. “Whatever it is you want to say.”

She hesitates again - but not out of fear. Then - 

“I’ve seen shinobi before,” she says carefully, “from a distance. Or in the marketplace.”

He waits.

“You…” Her voice is slower now. Measured. “You’re not like them.”

He knows what she means. The mask. The lack of forehead protector.

“I’m ANBU,” he says, watching her face.

She doesn’t flinch. Just blinks.

“What’s ANBU?” she asks, quiet.

Kakashi tilts his head toward the embers, the sliver of smoke curling into the sky.

“It stands for Ansatsu Senjutsu Tokushu Butai. Special Assassination and Tactical Squad.”

Her eyes widen slightly - but she doesn’t interrupt.

“We do missions others can’t. Assassinations. Interrogations. High-risk recon. Most of the time, we operate under direct orders from the Hokage.”

A beat.

“We’re not meant to be seen.”

She nods slowly. “That’s why you wear the masks.”

“Yes.”

He taps one gloved finger against his own. A wolf. Muzzle painted in crimson, fangs slashed across the edge of the snout. 

“My codename is Wolf.”

And something flickers in her again. Something he wasn’t expecting. Not fear - grief. Sharp, quick, like a splinter under the skin. Her gaze drops - only for a moment - but in it is something too heavy for a child her age to be carrying. Like she’s just remembered something she thought she could forget.

Like the word wolf meant something to her long before he said it.

Kakashi’s mouth is dry beneath the mask. He says nothing at first. Gives her the silence to either speak - or not.

She pulls her knees to her chest and looks out toward the woods, the firelight brushing across her braid and casting her profile in gold and ash. Then, almost inaudible - 

“I used to have a wolf,” she whispers, her eyes distant.

Kakashi turns slightly toward her. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t shift the air between them. Just listens.

Something curls at the edge of her mouth - not quite a smile. Not quite grief, either. Something quieter. Something bone-deep and weary.

“Well, more dog than wolf, really,” she amends softly. “I named her Lady.”

There’s a reverence in the way she says it. Not dramatic. Not exaggerated. Like the name itself is a memory she’s holding carefully in both hands.

“She was the first thing I ever had that chose me.” Her voice thins. “Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

That, more than anything, makes Kakashi’s chest tighten. Because children don’t think like that. Not unless someone’s taught them - through words, through action, through neglect - that love is something conditional. That loyalty has a limit. That protection is a gift that can be revoked.

And yet - this girl believes it.

“She died because of me,” Hikari whispers. “And I never even got to say goodbye.”

The woods go still. The morning birds haven’t started singing yet. The embers of their fire are all but ash. Even the wind seems to pause, just long enough to mark the weight of it.

Kakashi’s breath is quiet. Measured. But his throat burns beneath the mask.

There are things he could say. Ritual comforts. Even truths - it wasn’t your fault, you were just a child, you did what you could.

But all of those feel hollow. Because he’s seen the way she carries herself. The precision. The caution. The grief she wears like an old cloak she’s already grown into. He sees all of it, because that’s how he carries himself.

And so he knows - instinctively - that platitudes would only make it worse. So instead, he speaks plainly.

“Tell me about her.”

Hikari blinks. Slowly. Like the request catches her off guard. Then - 

“She was beautiful,” she whispers, her voice like a prayer. “Gray and silver and soft as snow. She used to sleep curled behind my knees. Quiet, always. But she knew things. Before I did, most of the time.”

Kakashi nods, silently.

“She didn’t bark much. But she’d growl, sometimes, when people got too close. She only ever bit one person.” A pause. “He deserved it.”

There’s steel in that last sentence. Kakashi doesn’t question it.

“She trusted me,” Hikari continues. “And I - ”

Her voice catches. Just for a second.

“I failed her. I didn’t fight hard enough. And she paid the price.”

It’s not said with drama. Or theatrics. Just quiet, merciless self-reproach.

Kakashi knows that voice.

He’s heard it echo inside his own skull. In the moments just before sleep, or after a mission goes sideways, or when he sees a face that should’ve been saved and wasn’t. When he thinks of Obito, of Rin, of Minato, and a voice tells him - 

You failed them.

He watches the girl across from him, small and solemn and splintered in ways no child should be. And he speaks before he thinks, telling her the thing he’s always wanted to believe but never quite let himself - 

“You didn’t fail her.”

His voice is soft. Low. But it cuts through the stillness like steel.

Hikari looks up. Not startled - but searching again. Like she’s waiting to see what he means. What he really means. Whether it’s a kindness, or a lie, or something he believes deep enough to be true.

Kakashi keeps his gaze steady. He’s the biggest fucking hypocrite in the entire world, but there’s something about this girl, her quiet grief, her self-recrimination that makes him want to - 

He doesn’t know. The emotions are tangled up in his chest, more feelings than he’s had in years, and he doesn’t know what to do with any of it. So he just - talks. Tells her what Minato told him, once upon a time, after Obito, after Rin. Before Kakashi failed him, too.

“You were a child,” he says. “And even if you weren’t - there are things we can’t stop. No matter how much we want to. No matter how much we try.”

A breath.

“I’ve seen shinobi lose comrades in war. Leaders lose whole teams. Parents lose children. And every one of them thinks the same thing: I should’ve done more.”

His hands are still. Resting loosely on his knees. Controlled, despite everything inside him coming apart at the seams. It feels like he’s just ripped his own heart out of his chest. He’s never felt so exposed in his life, so - raw.

“But sometimes, more doesn’t exist. Sometimes the choice is already gone by the time you realize you need it.”

Hikari’s fingers tighten slightly around her sleeves.

“You didn’t fail her,” Kakashi says again. His voice is hoarse around the edges. “The world did. And it wasn’t your job to fix that.”

She swallows. The motion small. Fragile. But she doesn’t look away.

“I wish I could believe that,” she whispers.

Kakashi tilts his head slightly. “Then let me believe it for you.”

And something in her goes still. Not with fear. Not with shock. But with the quiet, aching stillness of someone who has spent a very long time holding grief by herself - only to realize, for the first time, that someone else is willing to carry it too. Because even though she doesn’t cry, doesn’t collapse - her eyes shine just faintly in the dawn light.

Something in him unravels. He’s never been good with words. Never been good with people. Least of all with children. But just now - it’d been almost easy. Because he understood, because Minato had told him those things once and Kakashi hadn’t believed him, either, because when Kakashi had looked at Minato with flat, disbelieving eyes, Minato had just smiled and said - 

You don’t need to believe me right now. I’ll believe it for you.

- and that phrase had burrowed its way into Kakashi’s soul and refused to leave.

~

For a long time, neither of them says anything. The woods remain hushed. The sky begins to pale. Eventually, Hikari speaks again, her voice thin but steady.

“Thank you.”

Kakashi only nods. Then stands. Stretches one arm to the sky, easing the stiffness from his back. Douses the last of the fire with a careful handful of dirt. And tries not to shake off his tension too obviously.

“We should go,” he says. “If we keep a good pace, we’ll be at the gates before sunset.”

Hikari stands too. Her motions slower now, but deliberate. And when they step onto the trail again, Kakashi notices - 

She’s walking a little closer than before. Not clinging. Not crowding. Just... beside him. Half a step behind.

And this time, he doesn’t walk ahead.

Chapter Text

They arrive in Konoha by early afternoon - several hours ahead of schedule. Kakashi forgoes the usual ANBU entrance he’d take while in uniform; with a child in tow - a civilian child, at least by technicality - that would definitely earn him a citation from Commander Bear.

As the gates come into view, he feels the tension he always carries beyond Konoha’s walls begin to ease. Slowly. Habitually. Like muscles unclenching out of muscle memory.

The gate guards do their best not to gawk at the sight of an ANBU escorting a small girl. Kakashi doesn’t bother hiding the faint, smug satisfaction that curls behind his mask. He’s a man of simple pleasures: naps, quality literature, and mildly bewildering his colleagues.

He rattles off his ANBU identification number and fills out the standard civilian-entry form on Hikari’s behalf. When he glances down at her, he expects some mix of awe or nerves - Konoha’s scale is leagues beyond the village she came from, and shinobi here don’t exactly hide their chakra use. But aside from a slight head tilt at a pair of chuunin leaping across rooftops, her expression remains unreadably calm. Unbothered.

They walk to the Hokage Tower in companionable silence. At the front desk, the receptionist clocks Kakashi’s mask, checks the appointment book, and waves them through without question.

The entire time, Hikari remains composed - eerily so. She doesn’t fidget, doesn’t glance around, doesn’t slow. She moves like this is an ordinary stroll, not her first audience with the most powerful shinobi in Fire Country.

Kakashi knocks on the Hokage’s office door. Normally, he’d drop in through the window - tradition, after all - but hauling a kid through the frame seemed a bit undignified.

“Enter,” comes the Sandaime’s voice.

Kakashi pushes the door open. He steps inside, mask in place, and Hikari follows with soundless steps. The Sandaime looks up from a stack of mission reports, pipe unlit in his hand, brows already raised.

“Wolf,” he says, nodding once. Then his gaze shifts to the small figure at Kakashi’s side. “And this is?”

Kakashi inclines his head. “This is the girl who deescalated the situation in Yuzumura.”

That earns the Hokage’s full attention. He sets the pipe aside and folds his hands atop the desk.

“Report,” he says simply.

Kakashi delivers it in crisp detail - the mission parameters, the state of the situation when they arrived, the erratic behaviour of the missing-nin, and most importantly, the unexpected variable: the five-year-old girl who walked into a hostage situation and dismantled it without a single jutsu.

He keeps his tone neutral, but even in his most clinical retelling, the story sounds impossible. When he finishes, there’s a pause.

The Sandaime exhales slowly. Then leans back in his chair and turns his gaze on Hikari again, more focused now. Sharper.

“And what’s your name?”

Hikari meets his gaze without flinching. But Kakashi sees it - the smallest hesitation. Barely a flicker of silence. A breath held just a fraction longer than it should be. 

Then - 

“Hikari.”

The Hokage nods once. “And your family name?”

“I don’t have one,” she answers, tone casual, like she’s discussing the weather. “The matrons at the orphanage told me my mother was a traveler who never gave them a family name. She just named me and died.”

Kakashi doesn’t miss the way she says it - no emotion. No catch in her voice, no sorrow. Just a fact. A line from a record, not a memory. Kakashi feels it then, deep in his gut - the quiet wrongness of it.

Because normally, orphans cling to the stories they’re given. They ask questions, they grieve, they imagine a parent who loved them. Even the hardest cases, the most hardened kids - there’s always something. A flicker of want. Of longing.

But Hikari doesn’t want anything from that memory. It’s not suppressed trauma. It’s just... cleanly severed. Too clean.

Hiruzen’s eyes narrow slightly. Not in suspicion - just thought. He studies her like a puzzle he doesn’t have all the pieces for yet. Kakashi’s sure he’s noticed it, too - the strange hesitation where there should be none. The absence of emotion where it should be present. And the quiet stillness she holds herself with - not just calm, but control.

“How long have you lived in Yuzumura?”

“My whole life.”

“And the others in the village - did they care for you well?”

“They fed me. Sometimes gave me chores. But I didn’t belong to anyone.”

Not an ounce of self-pity. Not even detachment, really. Just… default. As if that kind of life was simply normal.

The Hokage steeples his fingers beneath his chin. “And when the missing-nin took the soncho hostage, you chose to intervene.”

“I didn’t think anyone else would.”

Kakashi speaks for the first time since his report. “She kept her head the entire time, Hokage-sama. She got the man’s name. Talked him down. When we made our presence known, she positioned herself in front of him.”

Hiruzen’s eyebrows lift again, slowly. 

“I see.”

Kakashi doesn’t say what he’s thinking. That this child didn’t just act without fear - she acted with purpose. Like someone trained. Or someone who’s had to learn how to take control of dangerous men.

The Hokage studies her a moment longer.

Then he says, “Hikari... would you excuse us for a moment? There’s a seating area just outside the door.”

She looks at Kakashi once - just a glance. And at that small, instinctive act, something inside him clenches. Because it’s not just a look - it’s a show of trust. A silent, unasked question - is this okay? - and gods, the implications of it almost break him. Because the last time someone looked at him like that, like he was safe, like he was reliable, like he was someone they trusted - 

He doesn’t remember the last time. But he can’t fall to pieces here, so he does what he always does with overwhelming emotion: he pushes it down. Suppresses it so tightly it’d take a miracle for them to see the light of day. And he gives her a curt nod, like that one look didn’t just almost unmake him.

She turns, silent as mist, and slips outside, door clicking shut behind her. As soon as she’s gone, Hiruzen leans forward.

“There’s more to her than you’ve told me.”

Kakashi doesn’t answer immediately.

Then, quietly: “Yes. I’m sure you’ve noticed the irregularities as well.”

“Mm. Do you think she’s a danger?”

Kakashi thinks of the way she stood between a killer and an ANBU squad. The way she speaks like she’s older than her five years. The look in her eyes when she’d whispered, voice filled with old grief, she was the first thing I ever had that chose me, even when I didn’t deserve it.

“No,” he says. “But she’s not an ordinary child.”

A long silence follows.

Then the Sandaime says, “We’ll need to keep an eye on her.”

Kakashi nods once. They both know what he means - monitoring. Maybe guidance, to make sure she turns into an asset and not a liability. Because that kind of diplomatic talent is not just rare, it’s invaluable - as long as she’s on their side.

“I want her placed somewhere stable,” Hiruzen continues. “Preferably with someone she already trusts. Someone capable.”

Kakashi’s eyes lift slightly. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to.

Hiruzen meets his gaze. Then - 

“Would you be willing?”

He hesitates, just for a moment. He’s not opposed to the idea - it’s logical, he knows that - but something in him recoils at the idea of being responsible in such a complete way for another human - a child, no less. 

He’s not built for raising children. There’s a reason he didn’t take in Naruto, despite the extreme guilt it had and still does cause him. He’s Friend-Killer Kakashi. Cold-blooded Kakashi. The closest he’s ever come to caring for another being is training his summons - and they don’t cry at the drop of a hat. He has broken every good thing he’s ever held, so it follows that he’d ruin Minato and Kushina’s son, too. Naruto’s too - pure. Innocent. Untouched by darkness. Kakashi wouldn’t be able to touch him without staining the child with his bloodied hands.

But Hikari - there’s something distinctly unchildlike about her. Something old, something… tired. And maybe it’s terrible of him to think this way, maybe he’s just projecting, but there’s a part of him that can’t help but see pieces of himself in her. Someone who’s seen the cruelty of this world and endured - not whole, not undamaged, not untouched, but alive nonetheless.

Kakashi inhales slowly.

The Hokage waits. Still, calm, patient in that way only the truly dangerous can be. He’s not pushing, not coercing. Just offering. But they both know this isn’t really a request.

Not when the girl outside the door has already passed the silent test. Not when Kakashi’s already made the report and stayed close enough to be considered something more than a temporary escort. Not when Hikari had glanced at him, not the Hokage, not anything or anyone else, before stepping out of the room.

Would you be willing?

He rolls the question over in his mind again, letting it settle. It’s not fear that holds him back. It’s not even doubt in her. It’s doubt in himself.

Kakashi’s been a weapon his entire life. A knife honed so finely that even his reflections have cut him. He’s failed everyone he’s ever tried to protect - his father, Obito, Rin, his sensei.

The thought of taking responsibility for someone else again feels like a game of weighted dice. A trap laid by fate.

But she looked at me, he thinks.

Not because she was scared. But because she was checking. Confirming.

Not will I be safe? but is this okay?

Not help me but I’ll go if you say it’s fine.

Like she’s already learned how to trust selectively. And he, somehow, had already made the cut.

There’s something terrifying in that.

He doesn’t want her to look at him the way he’s seen Naruto look at the gates of the orphanage, waiting for people who will never come. He doesn’t want her to wait for someone to choose her and be disappointed.

He already knows she’ll survive whatever happens. She’s the kind that always does. He gets the impression that they’re similar in that way, too - always the last ones left standing, but always standing alone. 

But maybe… maybe she shouldn’t have to do it on her own. And maybe, if he keeps her close, if he watches carefully, if he gives her a stable centre without trying to mold her into something she’s not…

Maybe she’ll become something extraordinary.

Not a weapon. Not a soldier, either, but something more.

He lifts his eyes to meet the Sandaime’s. And says, without hesitation this time:

“Yes.”

Hiruzen nods once. There’s no surprise in his expression, only quiet approval.

“We’ll start the paperwork. It’ll take a few days to arrange for new housing. In the meantime, she can stay with you.”

Kakashi doesn’t ask why the Hokage isn’t suggesting Konoha’s orphanage. He already knows. Some children don’t fit into systems. Some are too sharp for soft edges. Too strange for structure. Too dangerous - or too important - to be left unsupervised.

He’s halfway to the door before the Hokage speaks again.

“And Kakashi.”

He pauses.

“Whatever she is,” Hiruzen says, “don’t try to fix it.”

Kakashi turns his head slightly.

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good,” the old man says. “Just try not to break it either.”

Kakashi doesn’t answer. But quietly, in his mind, he thinks - 

I’ll do my best. 

~

He opens the door. Hikari is in the sitting area, cup of tea balanced in her hands, her back straight, her eyes steady.

Kakashi pauses in the doorway for a breath - just long enough to take in the sight of her.

She sits perfectly still in the waiting room chair. She hasn’t touched the tea in her hands. Not a single drop spilled, not a wrinkle in her posture. Just a small, silent figure with a stare like frost and a spine made of wire.

There’s no anxiety in her expression. No impatience, either. Just… readiness.

She looks up when she senses him there. Meets his eyes beneath the mask like she already knows the answer to the question she hasn’t asked.

Kakashi steps inside. The door clicks softly shut behind him. He hesitates, then takes off the porcelain mask. She blinks exactly once when she sees the fabric mask underneath, his one closed eye that hides his Sharingan, and if he weren’t so damn tense, he’d probably snicker.

He doesn’t crouch. Doesn’t sit. Just stands across from her and speaks in a tone that’s even but not impersonal.

“You’ll be staying with me. I’m Hatake Kakashi, by the way. I’m allowed to tell you that now.”

A beat. She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t ask why she’ll be staying with him. Doesn’t react the way most children would - no surprise, no relief, no gratitude. Just gives a slow, quiet nod.

“Okay.”

That’s all she says. Not thank you or are you sure? Just okay, like it’s a decision she’d already accepted hours ago, like his answer only confirmed what she already expected. 

Kakashi watches her a moment longer.

She doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t squirm in her seat. Her fingers remain wrapped gently around the teacup, as if she’s not really holding it for warmth or comfort, but for something steadier - something ritual.

Somehow, the stillness makes her look even tinier than she is.

Kakashi watches her for a moment longer before speaking again, voice flat but not unkind.

“Did you leave anything behind in Yuzumura’s orphanage that can’t be replaced?”

Hikari’s gaze flickers to the floor for half a second - like she’s taking stock, doing a full mental inventory before answering.

“No,” she says quietly. “But I don’t have any money.”

Kakashi blinks at her.

Then gives her a flat look, deadpan enough that it might almost be teasing - if he did things like tease.

“You’re five,” he says. “No one expects you to have money.”

She doesn’t flinch, but her fingers tighten slightly on the ceramic cup, just enough to make the shift noticeable.

He sighs.

“Anything you need, I’ll cover,” he adds. “There’s a fund I can draw from for dependents, as an ANBU. I’ll get reimbursed.”

He doesn’t say that he doubts he’ll ever actually file for reimbursement. Doesn’t mention that she doesn’t seem like the kind of child who’ll suddenly demand scrolls of rare jutsu or custom-tailored yukata. She seems like the kind of child who won’t ask for anything unless it’s life or death. And even then, only if death looks more inconvenient.

Hikari nods, still quiet. Still unreadable. But there’s something in the way her shoulders shift - just a little less tight. A half-ounce of tension released.

“I won’t waste it,” she says, almost like a vow.

Kakashi shakes his head. “That’s not the point.”

He doesn’t say what the point is. That children shouldn’t have to earn the basics. That being protected doesn’t have to be transactional. That she’s allowed to have things without repaying them in worth, skill, or usefulness.

But he thinks, maybe, hopefully, she’ll learn that in time.

He glances toward the hallway. “Come on. We’ll stop by the Quartermaster first. Then the market.”

She rises, smooth and silent as ever, and falls into step beside him.

~

He’s right - she gets herself the bare minimum. The plainest sandals, the cheapest pack. When the Quartermaster asks what color she wants for her clothing issue, she tilts her head and says, “Whatever’s standard.” Not in a way that’s stubborn or even disinterested - just practical. Preemptively grateful. Like it would be greedy to ask for anything more.

That changes when they’re in the market. He sees it - how her gaze lingers on the stall with a flicker of something almost like longing. A moment. Less than a heartbeat. But he’s trained to catch flickers, and hers is too precise to be a coincidence.

The stall is modest. Wooden slats and sun-faded cloth, cradling a neat arrangement of instruments: small drums, shamisen, koto strings wound taut with care, and flutes. Dozens of flutes, their polished surfaces glinting faintly in the afternoon light.

She doesn't stop walking. Doesn’t slow. Just a glance at the flutes - sharp and gone.

He matches her pace for three more steps before saying, offhand, “Do you know how to play?”

Hikari hesitates. That alone tells him enough.

She turns her face toward him slowly, like it costs her. “I used to,” she says. And then, even softer, “I don’t… I don’t know if I’d still remember how.”

There’s a flicker of something under the words. Not nostalgia. Not quite sadness. Something quieter. Guarded.

He doesn't press. Just tilts his head toward the stall and murmurs something to the vendor. The old man lights up with the eager weariness of someone who doesn’t get many customers and gestures toward the display.

Kakashi turns back toward Hikari. “Go ahead,” he says. “Try one.”

She stops short. Her hands clench at her sides. “I - I shouldn’t,” she blurts, voice pitched higher than usual. “I didn’t mean to imply - ”

Her eyes dart to his face, and the panic there catches him off guard. It’s not the wide-eyed fear of being scolded. It’s the deeper kind. A look he’s seen on ANBU recruits too used to punishment. On children who’ve learned that desire is dangerous.

She looks at him like it’s a test. Like if she wants something, she’ll fail. Like if she accepts, she’ll be punished.

It’s the rawest he’s ever seen her. The least controlled she’s ever been since meeting him. A part of him is relieved that she’s not picture-perfect control all the time, but the rest of him - a much larger part - is chilled. Because what the hell happened to her to teach her this? There hadn't been any indication of this depth of emotion when the Hokage had asked her about Yuzumura, or even when she'd stood in front of a goddamn missing-nin and talked him down. When the head of the orphanage had told him about Hikari, the orphanage had seemed cold, neglectful but not abusive. Nothing that would turn her into this panicked, wide-eyed creature at the mere hint of kindness.

But he can’t dwell on that right now. 

Kakashi doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak right away. Then, quietly, he says, “You weren’t implying anything.”

Her lips part. But no sound comes out.

“I asked,” he continues. “You answered. That’s all.”

She’s still looking at him like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He lets out a soft breath through his mask, then turns fully toward the stall. Picks up one of the smaller flutes - dark wood, smooth finish, worn around the mouthpiece like it’s been played often but kept with care - and holds it out to her.

Her eyes lock on the flute like it’s a knife. Not because it’s dangerous. But because it’s sharp. Beautiful. And - in her eyes - not meant for her.

He doesn’t lower his hand.

“Try it,” he says, tone light but deliberate. “If you remember how, great. If you don’t, then you’ll remember later.”

A beat.

She reaches out slowly, fingers trembling just slightly at the tips. Takes the flute as though it might vanish if she holds it too tightly.

And then - she lifts it to her lips.

Kakashi doesn’t expect what comes next.

The sound is soft at first. A hesitant breath of melody, shaped by memory more than muscle. But then it deepens. Gathers. The tune isn’t anything he recognizes - no lullaby or Fire Country anthem. It’s winding. Minor-keyed. There’s the sense of sorrow in it, and the kind of strength that comes from endurance.

People pause around them. A few shopkeepers glance up. A shinobi walking past slows his step.

She plays for only a minute. Maybe less. Then stops, fingers going still on the wood. She doesn’t look up.

Kakashi watches her in the silence that follows. No praise. No analysis. Just a quiet assessment.

“That didn’t sound like forgetting,” he says.

She smiles, faint and fleeting. The kind of smile that doesn’t reach the eyes, but somehow still makes them ache.

“I suppose not,” she murmurs.

It’s not pride in her voice. Not pleasure. Just... acknowledgment.

Kakashi watches her a moment longer, then turns to the vendor without a word and gestures toward the flute.

“This one.”

The man nods and begins wrapping it in a soft cloth.

Hikari’s head snaps up. “Wait - no, you don’t have to - ” She steps forward, one hand half-raised as if to stop the transaction. “I didn’t mean for you to buy it, I just - ”

He holds up a hand, cutting her off. His voice is dry, a little gruff. “Don’t start.”

“But I - ”

“You’re not talking me out of it.”

Her mouth opens, then closes again. Her fingers twist in the hem of her sleeve, caught somewhere between guilt and disbelief. She looks vaguely horrified, like she’s tricked him into doing something terrible.

It’s ridiculous. It’s a damn used musical instrument, not his firstborn.

He clears his throat, awkward now. “It’s not a big deal,” he mutters. “You didn’t ask for it. I offered. That’s different.”

The vendor hands him the wrapped flute. Kakashi takes it, then passes it to her. She takes it like it’s made of glass.

“I already have a bag,” she says, almost defensively, like she thinks he might offer her a carrying case too and that would just be too much.

“Good,” he says. “Less to carry.”

They resume walking.

It’s quiet again, but not the brittle kind from earlier. The flute is tucked under her arm, and she keeps glancing down at it like she doesn’t trust it to still be there. Like it might evaporate if she gets used to it.

He doesn’t say anything. Just walks beside her, hands in his pockets. Now, flute in hand, she looks even smaller. Like she doesn’t know what to do with softness.

“You can play it at home,” he says after a while, like it’s a casual suggestion.

Her eyes flick up to him, wary. “Won’t it be a bother?”

“No.”

A pause.

“You won’t mind the noise?”

“It’s music,” he says. “Not noise.”

That earns him another flicker of a look. This one harder to name.

Not hope. Not quite. But… maybe the echo of it.

~

The door creaks a little when he pushes it open. He makes a mental note to fix that - not because it’s a security risk, but because it sounds tired. Like the apartment itself is exhaling after too many days alone.

He steps inside, toeing off his sandals with the ease of habit, then glances back.

Hikari stands just outside the threshold. Silent. Unmoving. Like she’s waiting for something. Permission, maybe. Or judgment.

He nods once, small and unobtrusive. “Come in.”

She does, stepping carefully over the wooden lip of the door like she’s afraid of tracking in something that can’t be cleaned.

The door clicks shut behind them.

It’s not a big place. A single bedroom, a small kitchen tucked into the wall, a low table with one floor cushion he forgets to wash as often as he probably should, a scattering of scrolls and books in a bookcase, and the faint smell of dust and old steel. The window’s cracked open, enough to let in the breeze and the sound of the wind brushing through leaves.

He watches her eyes flick across the room. One sweep. Quick and precise. Taking inventory, like she’s evaluating a mission site.

“You’ll have the bedroom,” he says.

Her head snaps up. “What?”

“I don’t use it.”

Not entirely true. He does sleep in it sometimes. But the futon in the main room is easier, closer to the front door. Less space to defend. Easier to get to when nightmares come.

“I’m fine here,” he adds. “It’s quiet.”

She doesn’t move. Just stares at him like she’s waiting for the catch.

There isn’t one.

Eventually, she steps forward, cradling the flute to her chest. Her bag swings lightly at her side. When she passes him, he notices again how quiet she is - like someone trained to move without being noticed. It’s not natural for a five-year-old.

He follows her to the bedroom, gestures at the plain futon already laid out, the shelf with a few blankets folded neatly on top.

“You can change anything you want,” he says. “Sheets. Furniture. Paint.”

She stares at him like it’s another test. “I don’t need to.”

“That’s not what I said.”

A pause. Then a small nod, tight and awkward, like she’s unused to conceding.

He leaves her to settle in and heads back to the kitchen. Fills the kettle. Puts it on the stove. There’s a comfort in the rhythm of it - water, fire, steam. The quiet hiss as heat builds.

By the time he brings a second cup of tea into the bedroom, she’s sitting on the edge of the futon, flute still in her lap. Her bag is unpacked - barely. She’s put the jacket in the corner. That’s it.

He sets the cup beside her without comment. She blinks at it, picks it up with both hands, slow and careful, and takes a sip.

He watches her from the doorway. There’s no smile. No visible shift. Just a slight loosening of her shoulders. Her hands stay steady.

She looks… not quite at peace. But not braced for impact anymore, either.

That’s enough for now.

“I’ll be in the other room,” he says, and turns to go.

He hears her voice before he reaches the door.

“Thank you.”

He pauses. Looks back.

She doesn’t look at him when she says it. Just stares down into the tea like it’s an answer she’s still working out.

But it’s quiet. Honest.

He nods once. And leaves, something loosening in his chest.

~

He doesn’t sleep. Not really. Not deeply. Never has, not since he woke up one morning to his father's cooling corpse.

Tonight is no different. He lies on the futon in the main room, eyes open to the ceiling, the blanket barely disturbed. The moonlight filters through the window in faint silver bars, catching on the old scars along his hands. The air is still.

His mind isn’t.

He counts the cracks in the ceiling. Measures his breath. Listens to the wind as it whispers through the still-cracked window.

Then - 

A sound.

Soft. So soft most people wouldn’t notice. But his hearing is sharp, trained to catch the shift of a kunai in flight, the tension in a wire trap.

This sound is smaller. More fragile.

A breath that hitches. A muffled sniff. The kind of cry that someone tries to smother, like they don’t believe they’re allowed to make noise.

Hikari.

He doesn’t move at first. Just stares into the dark, heart stalled in his chest like it doesn’t know what to do.

It’s not the sound itself that paralyzes him. It’s the familiarity.

He’s heard it before. Not from her. But from himself, alone. At five. At seven. At ten. Always in the dark. Always muffled.

He wants to - 

He doesn’t know. There’s too much happening in his chest for him to figure it out. The easiest way to proceed would be to do nothing. Feign sleep. Stretch the next morning and pretend he never heard her quiet crying in the middle of the night. 

But he remembers, with a kind of vivid clarity that feels like a stab to the chest, what it was like to be five, alone, and crying. What it was like to want comfort and get none. To wish, desperately, absurdly, ridiculously, that someone would come for him - 

And for no one to do so. 

He doesn’t want to go to her, per-se. In fact, every cell in his body rebells against it. Children are complicated. Emotions are complicated. Emotional children sounds like his own personal hellscape. To willingly subject himself to that - he must be insane. 

But. 

She’d looked at him. Once in the Hokage’s office, for reassurance. And again in the marketplace, with disbelief that anyone would show her kindness just because. And to let her cry alone now would feel like a betrayal. He doesn’t know that he’d be able to look her in the eye afterwards if he doesn’t go to her now.

So, even though it goes against every single goddamn instinct he has, even though it’s probably going to go down as one of his worst ever mistakes, even though it’s a stupid idea and he's probably going to mess it up beyond all recognition - 

He goes to her.

~

He pads down the short hall, stops just outside the door he left cracked open.

She’s curled on top of the covers, not under them, still dressed. The flute is beside her, wrapped again, untouched. Her shoulders are trembling. Her fingers are clenched in the fabric of the futon like she’s holding herself in place.

She doesn’t hear him until he shifts his weight, purposefully, just enough for the floorboard to creak.

She startles, stiffens - then turns. Her blue eyes are wide and bright with tears.

He freezes again.

She looks - tiny. Small and curled into herself and terrified.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “Did I wake you?”

Kakashi shifts his weight, careful not to let the hesitation show, though it thrums in his chest like a second heartbeat.

“No,” he says, quiet. “Wasn’t asleep.”

He doesn’t step closer. Doesn’t crouch beside her or try to reach out. That feels… invasive. Instead, he crosses the threshold just enough to ease himself down with a soft grunt, settling against the wall across from her futon. One leg drawn up, the other stretched out. His arms drape loosely over his knees, like he’s just tired. Just passing the time. Nothing serious.

But his eyes never leave her.

She’s still watching him - no, not watching. Bracing. Her spine’s too straight, her fingers white-knuckled in the bedding. She doesn’t look like a child caught crying. She looks like someone awaiting judgment.

That thought makes something twist in his chest.

He scratches absently at the back of his neck, suddenly hyper-aware of the silence between them.

"You, uh…” His voice comes out low, a little rough. “Need anything?”

A pause. She shakes her head, slow. Careful. The tip of her braid brushes the blanket. Her eyes dart down.

He nods, even though she isn’t looking. “Okay.”

Silence again. The kind that stretches. It’s not comfortable, but he doesn’t try to fill it. He’s learned that sometimes, when you’re hurting, words just make it worse. Still, the weight of her stare clings to him. Not in expectation - he could handle that. No, this is something colder. Like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like she expects him to snap, to scold, to leave.

He remembers what it was like to wait for a reprimand with your stomach in knots. So he stays where he is. Not demanding, not asking - just… there.

A minute passes. Then another.

He shifts just enough to reach into a hidden pocket up his sleeve. Pulls out a senbon - habit more than anything - and rolls it between his fingers. Something to do with his hands. He feels a brief, fleeting moment of understanding as to why Genma is so damn obsessed with the things.

“You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong,” he says finally. “But if you don’t want to be alone… I can sit here awhile.”

She tries to protest.

He can see it in the way her lips part, the way her body tightens like she’s reaching for a script she used to know by heart. The denial appears to rise instinctively: I’m fine. You don’t have to. Please go.

But the words don’t come out. She hesitates before speaking, and that’s how he knows she doesn’t mean it. That if he left now, she’d curl up again, smaller than before, and pretend to the walls that she didn’t care.

He exhales through his nose, low and steady, and lets the senbon click gently between his fingers.

“… Right,” he says, voice softer now. Like they’re in on a secret. “That’s what I figured.”

He doesn’t smile - he doesn’t think he knows how to, not genuinely - but he lets some of the sharpness ease out of his posture. Shoulders loose. Head tilted against the wall behind him.

“You don’t have to talk,” he says, after a pause. “We can just… exist. For a bit.”

She blinks at him.

The moonlight cuts across her face in a pale slash, catching the sheen of her tears, the salt-trail down her cheeks. She’s breathing a little easier now. Slower. Not steady, but not spiralling.

She shifts, finally, curling onto her side. Her hands relax - just barely - and she tucks them under her chin. Her braid spills across the pillow. She still doesn’t speak, but her eyes stay on him.

Not bracing now. Just watching.

Kakashi doesn’t move. He stays exactly where he is, one leg up, one stretched out, back to the wall, senbon glinting faintly in his hand.

He doesn’t know how to fix it. Doesn’t know what hurt she’s carrying. Doesn’t even know what kind of person she really is, beneath the quiet and the careful masks.

But he remembers what it’s like to hurt in silence.

And so he stays.

The minutes slip by, unspoken and unmeasured. At some point, her eyes begin to drift. At some point, her breathing deepens. The tension drains from her frame like a slow exhale.

And Kakashi, still wide awake, lets his head tip back against the wall and counts the cracks in the ceiling again.

He doesn’t sleep. Not really.

But for once, the quiet isn’t unbearable.

~

Morning comes in pieces.

Gray light. A wind through the leaves. The soft clatter of something shifting in the kitchen - the kettle lid settling as it cools.

Kakashi stands in front of the stove, unmoving, staring down at two cups of tea like they’ve personally offended him.

It hadn’t fully sunk in yet until now, the entire situation. The fact that he’s now responsible for another human being, a small child, no less, who diffused a B-rank missing-nin with nothing but words, has eyes that look far older than they have any right to be, and who looked at him yesterday in the market like kindness couldn’t be anything other than a trap. 

… He’s gone insane. That’s the only reasonable explanation. He’s going to need to apply for a medical leave of absence until he gets his head on straight again. Because - what the fuck? What the fuck??

He doesn’t do things like this. He’s not good at it. Emotions. Interpersonal relations. People.

In the back of his head, he’s aware on some level that he’s spiralling. Severely. Probably because nothing in any handbook has ever told him how to act and what to say the morning after the strangest kid he’s ever met and kind-of-maybe accepted responsibility for cries in a way that suggests she’s terrified of being overheard. 

He stays there longer than he should, staring the tea down like it owes him money.

The kettle’s cooled. The steam’s gone. One of the cups is probably too bitter by now. He doesn’t move to fix it. Just keeps standing there, hands curled loose on the counter, brain pacing in frantic, muffled loops.

He’s had worse mornings. Technically. The kind that started with blood and ended with funerals. The kind where a mistake meant someone didn’t come home. Those were the mornings he knew how to survive. Knew how to brace for.

This?

This is worse.

Because this is gentle. This is quiet. And he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Kakashi exhales through his nose, sharp and silent, and finally picks up the cups. He turns toward the hallway and pauses. The bedroom door is still ajar.

Inside, she’s awake. Of course she is. She’s sitting up now, legs tucked under her, hands resting on the wrapped flute beside her. Her hair’s a little mussed from sleep, and her eyes are rimmed with the remnants of tears, but her spine is straight and her face is composed in that way that no child should know how to manage.

She looks up when she sees him.

Kakashi halts. Then, with all the grace of someone deeply unsure if tea is the correct offering for post-emotional-spiral comfort, he holds out the cup nearest her.

She blinks at it. Then at him. Then reaches out and takes it with the same cautious care she gave the flute.

She doesn’t drink it. Just holds it.

That’s fine. He hadn’t really expected her to.

He sits down against the doorframe with his own cup, staring into the tea like it might spontaneously solve the situation for him.

Silence stretches. But it’s not heavy.

It’s… tentative.

Eventually, Hikari speaks, voice soft, barely above a whisper. 

“I’m sorry.”

Kakashi blinks into his tea like it just insulted him.

“…What for?” he asks after a beat, voice still scratchy with tiredness - or possibly disbelief.

Hikari doesn’t look up. Her fingers are wrapped tight around the cup, knuckles pale.

“For… crying,” she says. “Last night. For bothering you.”

He nearly chokes. Not on tea, but on the absurdity of it.

“Bothering me,” he repeats flatly.

She nods, still not meeting his eyes.

“You didn’t - ” he begins, then cuts himself off. Rubs a hand over the back of his neck like it might restart his brain. “You didn’t bother me.”

This earns him a glance, uncertain and brief. “Oh.”

They lapse into silence again. Kakashi tries to drink his tea. It’s gone lukewarm and bitter, just as he suspected. Perfect.

He clears his throat. “Look. You didn’t do anything wrong. People cry. It’s… normal.”

That sounds like a lie, even to him. He doesn’t cry. Not anymore. Not since - 

He shoves the thought aside.

Hikari says nothing. But she’s frowning into her cup now, brow pinched, like she’s doing mental math and the numbers aren’t adding up.

Kakashi shifts, uncomfortable. Words feel like foreign weapons in his mouth - too sharp, too heavy, poorly balanced. He can take down a rogue shinobi in his sleep, but comforting a child? Impossible mission. He’s going to need backup. Or sedation. Or - just - assistance, from literally anyone else. 

“Look,” he tries again. “I don’t really know what I’m doing either.”

That gets her attention. She looks up, surprised.

“I mean,” he continues, now trapped by the momentum of his own confession, “there’s no manual for this kind of thing. No book titled ‘How to House Small Mysterious Child Who Negotiated With a Murderer and Thinks Kindness is a Death Trap.’”

Her mouth opens. Then closes again. She looks stunned, maybe vaguely offended by his summation of her.

“I’m not wrong,” he says, a little defensively, before letting out a sigh. “What I’m saying is… I don’t expect you to be perfect. Or quiet. Or know how to act. You just… you’re here. That’s enough.”

She blinks at him. Her fingers shift slightly on the cup.

“Okay,” she says quietly, but something about the way she says it tells him she doesn’t believe him, not really - that she’s just agreeing to appease him.

Kakashi exhales slowly through his nose. Not frustrated - with her, at least - but frustrated all the same. With the situation. With himself. With the fact that she’s five years old and already better at dodging sincerity than half of ANBU.

He watches her cradle the cup like it’s a shield, her shoulders still tight with the kind of restraint that doesn’t belong on a child. She doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t twitch. Just sits, perfectly composed. Like a porcelain doll.

It makes something ache in him.

“You don’t have to believe me,” he says eventually, voice low, not unkind. “Not yet.”

That gets her attention. Her eyes flick up, sharp and searching.

“I wouldn’t,” he adds, with a shrug that’s almost self-deprecating. “If I were you.”

Hikari stares. The quiet between them shifts again. Loosens.

“Do you still mean it?” she asks.

The question comes out so soft he almost misses it. But he hears it. And he knows what she’s asking - what she’s really asking.

Do you still want me here? Do you still care, now that you’ve seen the ugly parts?

Kakashi sets his cup down with deliberate care. Doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he looks at her. Really looks. Takes in the fear and calculation behind her too-blank expression, the quiet bracing of someone who expects the world to change its mind.

“I meant it,” he says simply. “Still do.”

Hikari’s hands tighten slightly on the cup.

“I’m not great at this,” he adds, gesturing vaguely. “Life. People. Tea. But I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

A breath. Then another. She lowers her gaze again, staring into her tea like it might hold answers.

“… Okay,” she says again, but this time it’s different.

Not total trust. Not yet. But something cracks - just a little - in her posture. A thread of tension unwinding from her spine. A softness, barely perceptible, settles at the corners of her mouth.

It’s not a smile. But it’s not a mask, either.

Kakashi lets the moment sit. No need to fill it. No need to push.

He picks up his tea again, takes another sip, grimaces, and mutters, “This is awful.”

Hikari blinks, startled. Then - soft, almost inaudible - a quiet breath of amusement escapes her. Not quite a laugh. But close enough.

Kakashi counts it as a win.

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, she would’ve known what to do with kindness. Before King Robert had come to Winterfell and started the beginning of the end, she would’ve accepted kindness gracefully, as her due, just as her mother had taught her. But now - after Joffrey, after Cersei, after Littlefinger, after Ramsay - she knows there’s always, always an ulterior motive. Always a hidden knife. 

She shouldn’t trust Kakashi. She knows she shouldn’t. She’s known him for all of two and a half days. To trust him is absurd. Ridiculous. Comes with a high likelihood of getting her killed, or worse.

And yet.

And yet, he’d asked her about Lady. He’d bought her a flute. He’d heard her crying and hadn’t let her be alone.

She shouldn’t trust him. She shouldn’t. But - she thinks it might already be a little late for that. Because some part of her does trust him, at least a little bit. Has done ever since she’d stared into the middle distance and whispered she died because of me and he’d told her it wasn’t her fault, not with the manner of someone saying what they think they should, but like he understood. Like he already knew, long before he met Sansa, what it was like to hold something precious and then be the reason it broke. Like maybe he understands what it’s like to be not-quite-whole. 

And maybe - maybe that’s what did it. Not just the words, not just the unspoken understanding, but the way he carries himself - like someone used to being left behind. He hides it behind a flat tone and an expressionless eye, but Sansa’s always been good at reading people, and grief clings to him like a second skin.

So maybe that’s why she trusts him. Because he’s broken in the same way she is, and isn’t quite able to hide it. 

~

“I’m gonna head to the market.”

Sansa looks up from her tea. “Again?”

He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding her gaze. “Yeah. I don’t really… have vegetables. Or fruit. Or - much of anything with actual nutrients.”

She huffs. It’s barely anything, like a shadow of laughter, but it still surprises her. And him, if the way he stills is any indication. 

Sansa hesitates. If she were her old self, before everything, she might’ve said something teasing. Something like, Gods know how you’ve survived this long. But she’s different now, and she doesn’t know if she’s allowed to tease.

“Say it,” Kakashi says flatly. “Whatever it is you want to say.”

Sansa eyes him over the rim of her tea cup.

He’s avoiding her gaze, half-heartedly scratching at the back of his neck. He’s so tall it’s almost absurd, and yet somehow he manages to look distinctly sheepish - like a boy caught sneaking sweets from the kitchens. Which would be funny, if not for the fact that the boy in question is also an elite shinobi capable of killing a man with a chopstick.

She glances down at her tea. Then back up at him. Tilts her head, just slightly.

“How old are you, again?”

He blinks, thrown. “Nineteen,” he says slowly, like he’s trying to remember whether that’s classified information.

Sansa raises an eyebrow. “Nineteen,” she repeats. “And you don’t eat vegetables.”

Kakashi narrows his eye at her. “I’m an adult in the eyes of the law.”

She sets her cup down with exaggerated care. “Interesting decision on the law’s part.”

His eye narrows further. “Are you judging me?”

“Yes.”

There’s a pause.

Then, slowly, Kakashi leans against the wall, folds his arms across his chest, and lets out a long, put-upon sigh. “This is the thanks I get,” he says solemnly, “for offering you shelter, safety, and fine woodwind instruments.”

She fights a smile. She really does. But it creeps out anyway - soft and sly, like a secret. It surprises her with how easy it feels, how natural. She doesn’t remember the last time teasing someone felt like this - like play, not a gamble.

He notices. Of course he notices. He’s far too sharp not to.

But he doesn’t call it out. Just watches her for a moment, the corners of his eye crinkling a little beneath the mask.

Then, almost casually, he asks, “Do you want to come with me?”

She blinks. “To the market?”

“Mm.” He shrugs. “Could use a second opinion. You know. On fruit.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Part of her hesitates - not because she doesn’t want to go, but because it feels strange to be asked. To be considered.

But she nods. “Alright.”

He gives another lazy shrug, like it doesn’t matter either way - but she sees the flicker of relief in his posture.

She looks down at her tea. It’s gone lukewarm. The cup is solid in her hands, warm only where her fingers hold it.

She’s still not sure what this is between them - this careful orbit, this almost-trust - but it’s enough to get her to her feet.

“Let me get dressed,” she says.

And for once, she doesn’t brace for something awful when she walks out the door.

~

The market is busier today.

People bustle between stalls, arms full of leeks and taro and tightly bundled greens. Somewhere nearby, a vendor is shouting about smoked fish. The air smells like charcoal and herbs and something sweet Sansa can’t name. She walks beside Kakashi, small feet matching his long strides with practiced precision.

He could walk faster, ahead of her. But he doesn’t.

He also doesn’t talk much, but she’s grown used to that. She reads him instead.

Today, he’s tense. Not in the subtle, shinobi-way he usually is - where every muscle is alert beneath his lazy posture - but visibly, palpably tense. His shoulders are tight. His pace too brisk. He keeps glancing over his shoulder like he expects to be ambushed.

Sansa narrows her eyes.

“Kakashi.”

“Mm?” he says, too casual.

“You’re acting strange.”

He doesn’t respond. But his eye flicks toward the far end of the market, and then - very pointedly - he turns and starts speed-walking in the opposite direction.

She follows. But not five steps later - 

“HA-HAH!!”

The shout splits the air like a battle cry. Birds take flight from a nearby awning.

Sansa jumps. Kakashi physically flinches.

Too late.

A blur of green and determination launches over the vendor stalls like a human cyclone and lands directly in their path with a thud that rattles the vegetable crates.

There stands a man in a forest-green jumpsuit, orange leg warmers, and the brightest, most blinding grin Sansa has ever seen.

“KAKASHI!” he booms, striking a pose so dramatic it belongs on a stage. “I knew I would find you eventually!”

Kakashi looks like he’s reconsidering all of his life choices.

“Gai,” he says. Flat. Despondent.

Gai claps a fist over his chest. “You tried to evade me, but the power of youth is unstoppable!” He jabs a finger toward Kakashi’s face, eyes glittering with challenge. “I heard a rumor yesterday! A most intriguing whisper across the wind!”

Sansa watches this unfold in mild awe and no small amount of trepidation.

Kakashi sighs. “I don’t want to know.”

Gai barrels on. “They said Hatake Kakashi - notorious lone wolf of the Leaf, genius, devastatingly cool - was spotted right here in this very market…”

He pauses. Dramatically. Loudly, somehow.

“…With a child.”

Sansa blinks.

Kakashi rubs a hand over his masked face and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a prayer.

“And now - ” Gai’s eyes gleam as he turns to her, hands on his hips like a victorious hero. “ - I find you again, not alone, but accompanied by a youth of rare and radiant presence!”

He drops into a squat with shocking grace and offers her a thumbs-up. “Hello, small wonder! I am Maito Gai, Konoha’s noble green beast and Kakashi’s eternal rival in all things!”

Sansa stares at him. Then, without meaning to, she smiles. It’s quick. Bare. A flash. But it’s there.

Kakashi notices. He shoots her a suspicious look, like why are you encouraging him.

She ignores it.

“I’m Hikari,” she says softly.

Gai beams. “A beautiful name! Fierce and bright! It suits you! Tell me, Hikari - have you ever practiced drop-kicks? Or boulder lifting? Or the thousand-step plank of eternal flame?!”

Sansa shakes her head, wide-eyed.

“Marvellous!” Gai cries. “Then today, should you agree, shall be your first step into a lifetime of glorious exertion!”

She opens her mouth to respond, but Gai’s already dropped into a low stance beside her, one knee planted in the dirt like he’s about to to be knighted.

“Hikari!” he booms, eyes sparkling with intensity. “If your youthful soul wishes to train in the fires of perseverance - to master the ancient art of the Leaf’s Power Training Circuit, forged in sweat and tears and triumphant push-ups - I would be honored to guide you!”

Sansa blinks. She has no idea what a Power Training Circuit is, but she’s almost certain it involves collapsing in the mud and regretting life choices. Still… she doesn’t hate the idea. Gai radiates such ridiculous enthusiasm that part of her wants to say yes just to see what happens next.

(and Sansa swore a long time ago to never, ever let herself be powerless again)

(she knows where her strengths lie, but she’s not naive enough to think that words will always be enough to protect her)

She opens her mouth. But before a single syllable escapes, Kakashi cuts in.

“She’s not doing that,” he says, flat and immediate.

Both Sansa and Gai turn to him.

“If anyone’s training her,” Kakashi continues, arms crossed, voice firm in a way she hasn’t heard before, “it’ll be me.”

Gai freezes. The air goes very still. Sansa stares at Kakashi. So does Gai.

Then - 

A gasp erupts from him. A loud, heartfelt, dramatic gasp that sounds like it came from the depths of his eternal soul.

“I did not expect,” he breathes, one hand to his chest like he’s been struck by lightning, “the PASSION OF PATERNAL LOVE to burn so brightly in you already, my eternal rival!”

Kakashi looks like he’s considering whether death is still a viable option.

“I’m not - ” he starts, clearly trying to find a way to fix this before it spirals, but Gai’s already gone.

“Truly, the fires of youth blaze in the most unexpected hearts!” Gai cries. “You conceal it well beneath your steely coolness, but I see it now! The protectiveness! The guidance! The flutter of the fledgling father!”

“I’m nineteen,” Kakashi mutters.

“A mere detail!” Gai declares, pointing skyward like he’s delivering a monologue to the gods. “Age is but a number! The spirit of fatherhood knows no bounds!”

Sansa is trying not to laugh. She really is. But the image of Kakashi - stoic, brooding, awkward Kakashi - as a flustered teenage father with no idea what to do with his small ward is too much. A small snort escapes her before she can stop it.

Kakashi shoots her a betrayed look. She grins, completely unapologetic. He groans again, as if his soul is slowly exiting his body through sheer social discomfort.

Gai, undeterred, slaps Kakashi on the back so hard he stumbles a step forward. “Don’t worry, rival! I shall not interfere! I now see that you, too, are walking the path of mentorship, of devotion, of care!”

“I’m walking the path of trying to buy some damn broccoli,” Kakashi grumbles.

Sansa, still smiling, watches the two of them with something she hasn’t felt in a long time - fondness. Genuine and whole.

She looks at Kakashi - who is currently pretending to browse broccoli heads like they might save him from further emotional entanglement - and feels a little warmth flicker behind her ribs.

She shouldn’t trust him. Not fully. Not yet.

But watching him try to protect her from absurd training circuits and unsolicited declarations of fatherhood?

It makes her want to.

Even just a little more.

~

The walk home is quiet.

Not uncomfortable - just the kind of silence that settles after too much absurdity. The market’s noise fades behind them, replaced by the rustle of wind through trees and the occasional creak of the wooden path beneath their feet. Sansa walks half a step behind Kakashi, carrying the bag of produce he’d tried to take from her twice. She didn’t let him.

The sky’s turned a pale blue, clouds stretched thin like pulled cotton. Somewhere, a hawk cries.

She keeps sneaking glances at him.

He hasn’t said much since they left. Probably still recovering from Gai’s enthusiastic diagnosis of “paternal passion.” Sansa hadn’t realized it was possible to watch someone die of secondhand embarrassment, but Kakashi’s silence now feels less like brooding and more like recovery.

She considers staying quiet. Letting the silence stretch all the way back to the apartment.

But the question’s been building in her throat ever since they left the fruit stall, and it won’t go away.

She hesitates. Then, softly -  

“Did you mean it?”

Kakashi doesn’t look back. “Mean what?”

She stops walking. He does too, a half-second later, turning to look at her over his shoulder.

“When you said you’d train me,” she clarifies.

He studies her for a moment - expression unreadable, but not cold. “Depends. You want to be a shinobi?”

She looks at him. Remembers clutching her torn clothes to her chest in front of Joffrey and his court. Remembers hiding, always hiding, while others fought and bled and died. Remembers what it felt like to be helpless, alone, with no one coming for her and no way to get herself out, because she’d already tried and failed using the one strength she had - words, and how, in the end - 

She’d died anyway.

“I do,” she says quietly. Firmly. 

Kakashi watches her for a breath longer than is comfortable, and she wonders—briefly—if he can see through her. If he somehow knows she’s remembering an entire life that never existed in this world.

But he just nods once, slow and thoughtful. “Alright.”

Then he starts walking again. She falls into step beside him, heart still beating hard from saying it out loud.

“I meant it,” he says after a pause, voice quieter now. “If you’re serious about it, I’ll train you.”

He doesn’t say anything flowery. No promise of greatness. No declarations. Just fact, offered like a steady hand.

Sansa glances sideways at him. “You think I’ll be good at it?”

Kakashi gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Doesn’t really matter. What matters is whether you’re willing to do the work.”

She considers that. It’s not the kind of answer she would’ve gotten in the Red Keep. There, everything was about who you were, not what you did.

It’s the kind of answer Eddard Stark would’ve given her, though, and suddenly, she doesn’t know what to think about that.

“I am,” she says.

“Good,” he replies, and she swears she can hear the ghost of approval behind the word.

They fall quiet again as the path narrows, the trees pressing close around them.

When they reach the edge of the apartment steps, he stops and looks down at her, eye unreadable.

“I’m not going to go easy on you,” he says.

“I don’t want you to,” she answers.

He nods once, sharp and final, like a contract has just been signed. Then he takes the grocery bag from her without asking this time and walks up the steps.

She follows a moment later, the beginnings of something solid and electric moving under her skin.

Resolve.

It’s strange. She thought learning to fight would make her feel stronger. But what surprises her most is that it makes her feel safe. Maybe for the first time since she’d gotten Lady killed.

And it’s not because she trusts Kakashi. Not completely. Not yet. It’s because, if he’s willing to teach her, then she won’t have to trust anyone to protect her ever again.

~

When they get back, they set the grocery bags on the kitchen counter. Sansa’s looking forward to home-cooked food, to her faint surprise. They’ve been eating takeout every meal so far. She checks the clock in Kakashi’s living room. 

“It’s noon,” she notes quietly. “Can I help with lunch?”

Kakashi, in the middle of taking out a head of broccoli, goes perfectly still.

“Lunch,” he repeats slowly, like the word is unfamiliar.

Her brow furrows. “You know… the second meal of the day?”

“Right, right.” He nods absently. His back is to her, but she’s quite certain he hasn’t moved a single muscle. “I’ll, uh, make something?”

Her confusion is mounting. Why did he say that like a question? Then, something clicks. She’d assumed that they’d been eating takeout because of a lack of time, but what if - 

“… You don’t know how to cook, do you,” she realizes. 

There’s a beat of silence. He’s still holding a broccoli vaguely like an explosive. 

“I can make instant ramen,” he says at last, defensively. 

Sansa exhales, something that’s not quite a laugh but also not far from it, either. 

“You’re nineteen.”

He turns, finally, giving her a narrow-eyed look. “I don’t like what you’re implying.”

She doesn’t smirk. Not quite. But the look she gives him is the diplomatic equivalent—equal parts arch and unimpressed, with just enough amusement to keep it from being rude.

“I’m implying,” she says primly, stepping past him to unload the rest of the groceries, “that a grown man who cannot make anything beyond instant noodles probably shouldn’t be trusted with a kitchen unsupervised.”

“I can make tea,” he adds, as if that’s somehow relevant.

She pulls out the carrots, sets them neatly beside the daikon, and arches an eyebrow. “You stare at the kettle like it’s personally betrayed you.”

“That’s a gross exaggeration.”

“You flinched when it whistled.”

Kakashi looks genuinely wounded. “It was very loud.”

She snorts. There it is—that’s definitely a laugh, even if she muffles it behind her hand.

He leans back against the counter, arms crossed, eye narrowed. “Fine,” he says. “You cook. I’ll supervise.”

She gives him a sidelong glance. “You mean hover and offer unhelpful commentary?”

“I’m excellent at hovering,” he says, not even a little ashamed. “And some of my commentary is… marginally helpful.”

Sansa huffs out another almost-laugh and rolls up the sleeves of her shirt. She washes her hands, finds a chopping board, and surveys the ingredients like a battlefield.

It’s… a strange collection. A fusion of worlds. The rice is easy enough—she’ll rinse and soak it, let it steam gently. The vegetables are a mix of familiar and foreign: carrots and onions she knows, daikon and shiitake mushrooms she’s grown used to, ginger and soy sauce still slightly mysterious but no longer intimidating.

She starts mincing the ginger first. Her fingers, smaller than they used to be, fumble with the knife at first. Her initial cuts are slow as she learns the shape of this new body and new knife. 

This isn’t Winterfell, where she’d learned to cook after the Boltons had been driven out. Then, she’d cooked for the first time out of necessity - many of the staff had either been killed or left, so it’d been all-hands-on-deck for a moment there. Sansa’s hands, that had never held a blade, had been faltering at first. But she’d learned quickly, as she always had when necessity had demanded it of her, and soon, she’d been pronounced adequate. 

The first time Arya had tried something that Sansa’d made, she’d stared at Sansa in complete disbelief. Who are you and what’ve you done to my sister? Arya had demanded, and Sansa, who might’ve once been offended, had only laughed.

The knife falters, just for a moment, before it resumes. She pushes away the memory of her sister before it can overwhelm her, but the bitter taste of grief refuses to leave her tongue.

Kakashi watches her with arms crossed, the broccoli still forgotten in one hand.

“What are you making?” he asks after a beat.

“I’m not sure yet,” she says, her voice a little quieter than she’d meant it to be. “Something simple.”

Simple is safe. Simple is home.

She sautés onions in a little sesame oil—less than what Westerosi stews would call for, but the scent that rises is warm and nutty, and somehow that helps. She adds ginger, finely minced, then carrots and mushrooms, a splash of soy sauce, and finally the broccoli Kakashi hands over like it might bite him.

He doesn’t speak, but she can feel him watching. Closely.

She doesn't mind. It’s grounding, in a way - both the cooking, and his gaze. It keeps thoughts of her sister at bay.

Finally, when the rice is fluffy and the vegetables are glazed and tender, she plates two bowls and sets them at the table.

Kakashi sits slowly, eyeing the food like it might be a genjutsu. She waits, hands in her lap, suddenly nervous. What if it tastes strange? What if it’s too Westerosi? Too not-here?

He takes a bite. Chews. Then blinks.

“This is good.”

She exhales. “Of course it is.”

He takes another bite, slower this time. Thoughtful.

“Why does a five-year-old know how to cook?”

“Necessity,” she says simply.

Kakashi nods, gaze steady. He doesn’t press. Just eats.

They eat together in silence. But it’s a good silence - not heavy, not hollow.

Just full.

Chapter Text

Kakashi doesn’t waste time. The very next day, after Sansa teaches him how to make a simple fry-up for breakfast, he takes her to one of Konoha’s many training fields and sets her to work on physical exercises - running laps, push-ups, sit-ups, all things she’s never heard of.

She does terribly at all of them, of course. She hasn’t exercised on purpose a day in either of her lives. But she pushes through the pain, the exhaustion, the trembling - pushes to the point where Kakashi tells her to stop before she hurts herself. 

She listens to him. Injuring herself would be counterintuitive. 

At midday, after they’ve returned to Kakashi’s apartment and she’s showered and changed, Kakashi gets notice that they’ve been assigned new housing - a two-bedroom apartment in the same complex. She packs her things, not that she ever really unpacked them to begin with, and they go up two flights of stairs to the seventh floor to their new apartment. It’s got exactly the same layout as Kakashi’s old one except there’s another bedroom on the other side of the living room. 

He lets her pick her room first. She wonders, briefly, if this is some kind of test, and picks the smallest bedroom just in case. Besides, it isn’t like she needs much space, anyway. 

There’s already basic furniture in the room when she steps inside. Just a dresser and a bed. Nothing fancy. 

She doesn’t dare call it home. Not yet. Maybe not ever. And it’s not hers, either, not really. She’s not paying for any of it, has no claim of ownership to anything, not even the clothes on her back, so the only thing she can call hers is herself. 

Which is how it’s been for a long time. So - well. She’s used to it. 

~

After unpacking her meagre belongings, she wanders into the living room, where Kakashi’s arranging his books and scrolls on the bookshelf. There’s some brightly-coloured garishly orange ones at the top that she ignores, not that she could read the spines anyway, they’re too far up, but still. She focuses on the ones she can see, the ones that look like educational texts of some sort.

One book in particular catches her eye. Fuuinjustu Fundamentals, the title reads. 

Fuuinjustu. Sealing?

Her head tilts, just a little. Kakashi notices - of course he does. 

“Got a question?”

She hesitates out of habit, but then decides, based on Kakashi’s previous behaviour, that she’ll ask. Just this once - to test how he responds. 

“What’s fuuinjutsu?” she asks quietly. Her face is still, painted in gentle curiosity, masking the rapid pounding of her heart beneath her ribs. 

He blinks at her, just once. Something flickers across his eye - grief, maybe. Or memory. Or both. 

“Fuuinjutsu,” he repeats, like a prayer. “It’s the art of sealing. A branch of chakra manipulation. It binds chakra into symbols - ink, paper, blood, words. It’s how we make jutsu last. How we store chakra, seal weapons, lock away things that can’t be destroyed.”

He doesn’t look at her.

“It’s complicated,” he adds. “Not something most shinobi bother with unless they’re good with precision.”

A pause. Then, quieter: “Or unless they were taught.”

That last part carries a different weight. Something quieter, like the press of an old bruise. He doesn’t name anyone, but Sansa hears it anyway - the echo of someone lost.

She studies him for a long moment. He doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t fill the silence. Just lets it stretch between them like something sacred. And that, more than anything, makes her feel like she’s stumbled across something private. Not a secret. But the outline of something he’s not quite ready to hand over.

She nods, thoughtful. “Can anyone learn it?”

That gets another reaction. He glances at her again, eye sharpening.

“It’s not impossible,” he says. “But most give up. It’s slow. Rigid. One wrong stroke, and the whole thing unravels. Or worse.”

Sansa thinks of embroidery. Of the way one misplaced thread used to unravel hours of effort. Of how Septa Mordane would purse her lips and say, again, my lady, until her fingers bled. 

She doesn’t flinch.

Instead, she asks, quiet and clear: “Could you teach me?”

Kakashi studies her. Really studies her. Like he’s weighing something more than just aptitude. He’s weighing intention. Endurance. The shape of whatever she’s asking without saying.

Eventually, he says, “Maybe. If you’re serious.”

“I’m serious.”

He nods once. Final. Accepting. But then, almost gently: “It’s not a fast path.”

Sansa just lifts her chin. “Neither is surviving.”

And Kakashi… doesn’t smile. Not exactly. But something in his gaze softens. Almost imperceptibly. Like he sees her a little more clearly now.

“Alright,” he says. “We’ll start with theory.”

And just like that, without ceremony, he pulls the book down. Hands it to her without flourish.

Sansa holds it in both hands, weight solid and real.

Her first jutsu, perhaps, won’t be flashy. Won’t explode or pierce or impress.

But it will be deliberate. Precise. And carved in ink.

She can work with that.

~

Introduction

There is power in containment.

That is the first lesson of fuuinjutsu. Not fire, not force, not speed - containment.

To seal is to define. To shape. To limit. To bind. Where ninjutsu sculpts the world with motion, and genjutsu bends perception through illusion, fuuinjutsu imposes stillness. It is the art of absolute intent. There is no improvisation. No margin for error. Every stroke is a decision. Every decision is a consequence.

To practice sealing is to understand that chakra can be not only moved or molded, but housed. It can be written. It can be spoken into silence. A name erased, a door locked, a curse held at bay.

Some seals contain objects. Others bind chakra, bind memory, bind flesh. The most dangerous bind will itself. The most subtle are never seen at all.

But understand this: fuuinjutsu is not merely a tool . It is not a weapon to be waved, nor a convenience to be summoned. It is language - older than spoken word, heavier than steel. To use it is to converse with the unseen forces that govern chakra itself. The moment ink meets paper, or blood meets skin, you are not just writing. You are negotiating.

And the symbols do not forget.

Mistakes in fuuinjutsu are not loud. They do not explode like failed jutsu. They rot. They linger. A misplaced curve can open a gate that does not close. An overcharged stroke can unravel a mind. To study this art is to accept the cost of precision - and to live with the burden of what happens when precision fails.

Still. For those who endure, the rewards are great. To seal is to safeguard. To sharpen. To delay devastation. To turn a moment into a weapon, a word into a wall, a breath into a legacy.

If you wish to begin, then begin. But do not do so lightly.

You are not just learning technique.

You are taking ink and asking it to remember you.

~

Sansa reads the introduction once. Then twice. Then a third time. There’s something happening in the pit of her stomach - an opening, a yawning, a yearning of sorts. 

Her eyes linger on the last few lines.

To seal is to safeguard.

To turn a moment into a weapon, a word into a wall, a breath into a legacy.

They feel like scripture. Not a commandment, but an offering - a whisper of something she hadn’t known she needed until now.

Because isn’t that what she’s always longed for? Even in Westeros? Even before the lies and the leashes, before the thrones and the thorns? A way to protect. Not through brute strength, not through sword or flame, but through thought. Through care. Through cleverness.

A way to make her voice matter again. A way to keep what she loves safe.

And now - here - there is an art that says your mind is enough. That reveres silence. That demands precision. That doesn’t ask her to be louder or faster or stronger, but only sharper. Smarter. More patient.

She can do that. She was that. Before the world broke her. Before they tried to carve softness out of her and punish her for every time she’d kept it.

Her heart aches. Her fingers ache. Every part of her aches with pure, unfiltered longing.

Because this… this feels like a promise.

Not of power - but of agency.

She runs her fingertips over the edge of the page - slowly, reverently, like it might vanish beneath her touch. Then, after a long breath, she flips to the next chapter.

She’s ready.

~

Chapter 1: What is Fuuinjutsu?

Fuuinjutsu is the art of sealing. But more than that - it is the act of defining.

All chakra is motion. A pulse, a current, a tide. Chakra flows. It surges, burns, heals, blinds, breaks. Most shinobi are taught to direct that motion, to shape it into blades or fire or shadow. They build force upon force. Power upon power. Jutsu upon jutsu.

Fuuinjutsu is the opposite.

Where others build chaos, the sealing master draws a single, perfect line. Where others let chakra loose, the sealing master tells it: Stop here. Go no further.

At its most basic, fuuinjutsu is a system of symbols that alter the behaviour of chakra. With ink, intention, and controlled flow, chakra can be suspended, bound, stored, suppressed, or triggered. But the surface-level functions - storage scrolls, barrier tags, explosive notes - are only the beginning.

A seal is not just a tool. It is a command. And like all commands, its strength lies not in noise, but in clarity. A well-formed seal speaks clearly to chakra. It tells chakra what it must do. It tells it how to behave. Where to stay. When to release. When to sleep. When to shatter.

Each seal is a sentence. Each stroke is a word. Each brush pressure, pause, and punctuation mark determines whether the seal will obey, hesitate, or backfire. And it will backfire, if you are careless. A seal does not listen to intentions. Only precision.

This is why fuuinjutsu is rarely taught. Why it is feared, forgotten, or dismissed. It demands too much. Too much control. Too much discipline. Too much understanding. Because to truly seal something, you must first understand it. You must study its nature. You must know what it wants to do, what it could do, and what will happen if you try to stop it.

You do not command fire without knowing how it burns. You do not bind chakra without respecting how it resists. And if you do - if you wield this art without reverence - then the seal will consume you first.

This is not a threat. It is a promise.

So: what is fuuinjutsu?

It is patience, sharpened. It is thought, inked. It is stillness made sovereign.

And for those who walk its path - not for power, but for purpose - it is the closest thing to control this chaotic world will ever offer.

~

Sansa closes the book.

Not slams it shut, not even snaps the cover with finality. Just - closes it. Carefully. Precisely. Like she’s sealing something away already.

Her hands remain on the cover, still as glass. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe, for a moment.

Because that chapter didn’t feel like reading.

It felt like being seen. Like someone had peeled back her ribs and taken stock of the way she’s always moved through the world - quietly, precisely, cautiously. And instead of telling her to harden or break or burn, they’d simply said: you were right.

You were right to wait. You were right to watch. You were right to plan in silence while others shouted.

Her mind thrums with it. A low, bright pulse. Not excitement - something deeper. Recognition. A matching frequency, like the first true note struck on a long-forgotten string.

Fuuinjutsu is stillness made sovereign.

It resonates with something buried so deep she hadn’t even known to name it. Not in King’s Landing, where stillness was mistaken for stupidity. Not in the North, where only swords seemed to matter. Not in this world, either - not yet. Here, too, strength is measured in flash and force, in jutsu cast and enemies felled.

But here is a book that says otherwise.

Here is a book that says think. That says wait. That says: you can carve the world with silence, if you do it carefully enough.

Sansa exhales slowly. Her fingers tremble - but only once. Not with sorrow. With something else.

Resolve.

She opens the book again. Not to read, this time, but to begin. Her fingers trace the edge of the page like it’s something sacred. Like it might vanish if she’s not careful.

This is hers now. 

She’s found it - the art that speaks her name, not Hikari’s. Hers. And she will learn it, no matter how long it takes.

~

Chapter 2: The Language of Seals

To seal is to speak.

But the language is older than you. Older than words. It is carved into stone, whispered in chakra, passed through bloodlines and burned into the bones of the dead. It is not forgiving. It does not simplify itself for the impatient.

To learn the language of seals is to begin again as a child. Humble. Illiterate. A student of silence.

You will not start with full seals. That would be like trying to recite poetry without knowing the alphabet. Instead, you will learn strokes, structures, and syntax.

These are the foundations.

I. Strokes - The Alphabet of Power

Each stroke has function. Each stroke has weight. They are not chosen for beauty. They are chosen for what they do to chakra.

• Anchor Strokes: These are the grounding lines. They set the shape of the seal and dictate its territory. Without anchors, a seal floats and disperses.
• Conduit Strokes: These guide chakra. They build the pathways between characters, determining how chakra flows within the seal. A crooked conduit fractures meaning.
• Bind Strokes: These are the force of will. They close the circuit. They hold what is meant to be held. These are the most dangerous - where most failures begin.

All strokes are written with chakra, even if ink is used. Your control must be steady. If your hand shakes, your will shakes. If your chakra falters, the seal does too.

Practice each stroke a hundred times.

Then do it again.

II. Structures - The Grammar of Meaning

A seal is not a single character. It is an arrangement. A sentence, sometimes a paragraph. A good seal speaks clearly and immediately to chakra.

Common structural patterns include:

• Circle Seals: Most common. The circular frame represents containment. Safe. Predictable. Stable. Most storage and suppression seals use this format.
• Square Seals: Represent territory. Often used for barrier-based or proximity-triggered seals. Sharp and unmoving.
• Spiral Seals: Rare. Complex. Used by the Uzumaki for high-capacity seals. Difficult to execute. Easy to corrupt.
• Layered Seals: Multiple seals nested within one another. Each layer activates under different conditions. Used for traps, time delays, or conditional storage. Only attempt once you have mastered the single-layer form.

Each seal is written from the center outward. Do not reverse this. Doing so invites corruption.

III. Syntax - The Soul of Precision

Symbols - known as glyphs - carry meaning. But their order, orientation, and space between them determine how that meaning is interpreted.

Water → Flame is not the same as Flame → Water.

A one-stroke gap may mean delay. A half-character shift can invert the function entirely.

Never copy seals without understanding them. Never rush the spacing.

The glyphs do not forgive arrogance.

IV. Of Blood, Ink, and Intention

A seal written in chakra ink will fade. A seal written in blood will not.

This is not metaphor. It is lineage. The deeper the cost, the deeper the seal holds.

Blood carries memory. Chakra carries intent. Together, they create permanence. This is why certain seals pass from parent to child, inked into the flesh. Why some artifacts from the Warring States still hum with unspent chakra - they were sealed not with technique, but with purpose.

To learn the language of seals is not to memorize symbols.

It is to learn how to listen.

Listen to what the chakra is doing. Listen to what the space between glyphs is saying. Listen to the resistance in your brush, in your skin, in your own heart.

When the seal resists you, ask why. When it warps, do not force it. When it hums - faint and clean and whole - you have written it well.

Practice Prompt - Glyph Familiarity Drill

Trace the anchor stroke 50 times. Write the base containment glyph: 停 (halt). Observe how the chakra settles when the stroke is shallow versus when it is deep.

Do not proceed until you can feel the difference with your eyes closed.

~

The brush is heavier than she expected.

Not in weight - Kakashi had handed her a perfectly balanced calligraphy brush, slender and fine - but in what it means.

Sansa sits at the low table in their new apartment, legs folded neatly beneath her, the fuuinjutsu book open to Chapter Two. A practice scroll is laid out in front of her, anchored at the corners. The chakra ink gleams darkly in the well beside her, strange and iridescent, not quite black.

She dips the brush, just as the book instructed. Then holds it above the scroll, poised, still.

Her hand doesn’t shake.

But her heart does.

The first stroke is supposed to be an anchor stroke. Just a line. A beginning. A claim.

She exhales slowly and lowers the brush to the paper.

The ink bites. There’s a brief resistance, as if the scroll is testing her, questioning her right to make a mark at all.

The line she draws is clean, but not perfect. The chakra infused into it feels unbalanced - just a touch too sharp at the end, like a thought that cuts off mid-sentence.

She sets the brush down. Stares at the stroke.

It looks fine.

But she can feel it’s wrong.

The book had warned her about this. That the language of seals is as much about feeling as form. That the seal knows when you falter, even if your hand doesn’t show it.

So she tries again.

Dip. Breath. Stroke.

Again.

Dip. Breath. Stroke.

Again.

By the twentieth repetition, there’s ink smudged on her fingertips. Kakashi had passed through the living room once, glanced at her, and said nothing. She’s grateful for that. For the quiet. For the space to fail.

Because she is failing.

Not dramatically. Not messily. Just… imperfectly.

Every line she draws is slightly off. Too soft. Too fast. Too forced.

But she doesn’t stop.

Because each one is a conversation. Each one is a question: Am I enough? Is this right? Can you hear me?

She draws the twenty-first line, and for the first time, the ink settles smoothly. The chakra hums - not loud, not proud, just aligned. Like it’s nodding.

She blinks at it.

Then sits back.

It’s one stroke. One success.

But it’s hers.

And as she stares down at the scroll, at the fifty glyphs she still has to learn, and the hundreds of failures still ahead, she feels something dangerous and soft curl in her chest.

Hope.

Not the naive kind. Not the blind, reckless kind that dies easily.

But the quiet, clawing kind. The kind that comes from work. From ink-stained fingers and aching wrists and a single, stubborn spark that refuses to go out.

She dips her brush again.

And begins the next stroke.

~

She remembers learning to embroider for the first time. It had never come easily to her, despite what Arya had complained at the time. Perhaps, to her, Sansa’s slow, steady improvement had seemed like talent - but it’d never been talent. 

It had been work. Quiet, painstaking work. Hours upon hours whiled away at her desk in her room in Winterfell, spine straight, fingers learning the shape of a needle and thread and how to bend both to create the image in her mind. 

Dancing had been the same. So had singing, and the flute, and the harp. 

Every single thing she’d done well had been earned. And so this - sitting at a table with quiet focus and repetitive, deliberate practice - is familiar. Comforting, in a way. She hasn’t studied something with this kind of focus since she’d been a child in her past life. 

She falls into a rhythm, a kind of meditative trance. It wraps around her like a hug from an old, half-forgotten friend - familiar, gentle, kind. 

~

The hours pass unnoticed.

Outside the window, the sun sinks lower, casting long amber shadows across the floorboards. Inside, the only sounds are the faint scratch of brush on paper, the soft hush of her breath, and the occasional creak of the ink well settling as it cools.

Sansa doesn’t look up.

She’s long since stopped counting strokes. The motion has become instinctive: dip, breathe, press, lift. Dip, breathe, press, lift. The same cadence as threading a needle. As striking the right note on a harp. As stepping in time to a song without thinking.

The language is foreign - but the learning is not.

She remembers, suddenly and vividly, the feel of Winterfell’s cold stone under her slippers during dance lessons. The strict tilt of Septa Mordane’s head when her stitches wavered. The ache in her wrists after an hour of practicing scales on the harp. None of it had come easily. None of it had come without effort. But she’d loved the discipline of it. The craft. The refinement.

She’d loved becoming good at something no one could take from her.

And that’s what this feels like. It’s not flashy. It’s not dramatic. There’s no explosion of chakra, no applause waiting at the end. Just ink. Just silence. Just her. But for the first time in years - maybe across lives - she feels steady. Not safe, exactly. But anchored.

Like she’s reclaiming something.

Something no one ever praised her for in her old life because it wasn’t flashy enough. Because it didn’t win tournaments or battles or court intrigues. But this - this steady, quiet mastery - was always who she was underneath the silk and the songs.

She leans forward again, hands smudged with dried ink, back straight, eyes clear.

The next stroke settles on the page without resistance. The chakra runs true.

And Sansa Stark smiles faintly as she writes the next one.

Because this is hers.

And she is not done.

~

She’s five.

Five, and smaller than the average child. Narrow shoulders, knobby knees, limbs still softened by baby fat, though that’s beginning to fade under the weight of routine. She’s not strong. Not fast. Not gifted in any way that a traditional instructor would recognize. If he were anyone else, if he were the kind of man who measured potential by muscle or chakra reserves, he might have written her off weeks ago.

But Hatake Kakashi has been alive long enough to know better.

Talent is a coin toss. Discipline - that’s the currency that buys survival. And she has it.

Every morning, without fail, she’s awake before he calls her. Dressed. Ready. She doesn’t complain when he has her run laps through the morning mist, doesn’t whine when her arms tremble during push-ups, doesn’t cry when her knees scrape against bark and stone. She stumbles. She falls. But she never stops. She gets back up every single time.

She listens. She adapts. She learns.

Her body isn’t built for this. Not yet. She’s small, underfed, more bones than muscle - but she pushes past her limits with a kind of quiet fury that startles him. Not loud. Not reckless. Just… relentless.

And when the morning drills end, when most children her age would be collapsing into naps or tears, she goes inside, washes her face, eats the food he puts in front of her without comment - and then sits at the low table and studies sealing for hours.

Hours.

No one told her to do that. He hadn’t assigned her a schedule, hadn’t hovered or tested or prompted. She simply opened the book he’d given her and never closed it again.

He watches her sometimes, from the kitchen or from the couch, pretending to read while she copies glyphs and diagrams in practiced, measured strokes. Her chakra infusion is still clumsy - imprecise - but it’s improving. He’s watched her draw the same line fifty times without flinching. Watched her set aside and redo entire pages because the angle of one character was wrong.

No frustration. No tantrums. Just a quiet, consuming focus.

She surprises him. More than he’ll admit aloud.

At first, he’d thought she was just smart. Sharp, careful, strange - but smart. And he’d thought that might be enough, if he could protect her long enough for it to matter.

But now he’s starting to realize - 

She’s more than that.

She’s dangerous in the way a glacier is dangerous. Not because of speed or size, but because once she starts moving, she will not stop. Because she reshapes everything in her path without ever raising her voice.

And Kakashi - Kakashi, who has known brilliance and burned beside it, who has buried more prodigies than he cares to remember - knows this truth as well as he knows his own heartbeat:

Mind matters more than anything else. More than jutsu. More than bloodline. More than raw chakra or inherited strength.

Because strength fades. Discipline doesn’t. And Hikari - small, stubborn, steel-spined Hikari - has the kind of discipline that turns quiet girls into legends.

He doesn’t say any of this.

But when she looks up from her scrolls, when her ink-streaked fingers brush hair from her forehead and she meets his gaze with those strange, too-old eyes, he nods once.

Approving. Silent. Steady.

She nods back.

And goes right back to work.

Chapter Text

Genma’s never been ashamed to admit he’s a shameless gossip. Most shinobi are - it comes with the territory. Only they call it something pretty, like information gathering or reconnaissance, whereas he tells it like it is - it’s gossip. Plain and simple. 

That doesn’t mean he believes what just anyone tells him, though. He’s still a shinobi, after all. So when Haruko, a baker who makes the best damn taiyaki he’s ever tasted, tells him that Hatake Kakashi had a child with him the other day in the marketplace and does Genma know anything about that, Genma’s first reaction isn’t confusion or glee - it’s laughter. 

Because let’s be real for a moment. This is Kakashi. The most emotionally-repressed, socially awkward, infuriating sonofabitch that Genma’s ever had the displeasure of knowing. Not that he doesn’t consider Kakashi a friend, as much as one can consider Kakashi a friend, but - well. Let’s just say Genma’s not blind or deaf, either. 

So when Haruko tells him that, he straight-up laughs in her face, thinking it’s a joke. He laughs all the way out of the shop, and is still snorting to himself a few days later, when Gai shows up at his door at - 

Genma squints at his watch, then at Gai, then at his watch again. 

“Gai,” he says flatly. “It’s five in the morning.”

Gai’s eyebrows furrow. “This is of the utmost importance!”

“Gai,” Genma says again, this time with the slow, deliberate patience one usually reserves for particularly stubborn civilians or drunken chuunin. “It’s five. In the morning.”

“I know,” Gai replies, grave and serious and far too awake. “Time waits for no man, Genma! Now hurry up!”

Genma opens his mouth. Closes it. Stares.

Then sighs. Long, aggrieved, and soul-weary. Because Gai only gets like this when it’s about Kakashi.

Ten minutes later, he’s dressed, teeth brushed, senbon clamped loosely between his lips, and trailing after Gai through the quiet, mist-drenched streets of early morning Konoha. The sky is still the pale gray of just-before-dawn, and even the birds haven’t bothered waking up yet.

“This better be about something truly earth-shattering,” Genma mutters, rubbing sleep from his eyes as they approach Training Field Ten. “Like Kakashi getting married. Or growing a personality. Or spontaneously combusting.”

“Better,” Gai says solemnly.

Genma arches a brow but doesn’t reply. He follows Gai up a sloped hill and into the dense edge of trees that ring the field. Gai stops just short of the treeline, crouching low. Genma squints at him, then at the field beyond.

And freezes.

Because there - under the rising blush of dawnlight - is Kakashi, training. Which, in and of itself, is not unusual, but - there’s a kid. A tiny kid. Small enough to trip over her own feet, but somehow doesn’t. She’s got long red hair pulled back in a braid and a shirt clinging to her with sweat. She’s doing push-ups in the dirt, her arms trembling, her face set with grim determination.

And Kakashi - emotionally-repressed, terminally-disengaged, death-in-a-mask Kakashi - is crouched beside her, one hand extended like he’s ready to catch her if she falls, murmuring something Genma can’t hear.

They’re not sparring. They’re not training for war. They’re just… working. Slowly. Carefully. Like it’s routine. Like it’s normal. Like this happens often.

Genma’s jaw goes slack.

“You see it, don’t you?” Gai whispers reverently, eyes wide with something that might be awe or spiritual transformation. “He’s teaching her. Guiding her. With patience. With care. Like a sensei. Like - like a father figure!” He clasps his hands to his heart, eyes shining. “I was right - the fire of paternal passion truly does burn brightly in him!”

“… Holy shit,” Genma mutters.

They both duck a little lower when Kakashi looks up briefly, but he doesn’t notice them. His attention is on the girl and her form as she transitions from push-ups to sprints, staggering slightly, catching herself. She’s all gangly limbs and stubborn grit, clearly no prodigy, but she doesn’t stop. Neither does Kakashi.

Genma squints. Watches. And watches. And watches.

“Is this,” he says slowly, “some kind of… genjutsu? Are we dead? Hallucinating?”

“No,” Gai breathes. “This is real.” A pause. Then, solemnly - “This is a miracle.”

Genma glances at him. Then back at the field. Then exhales low through his teeth.

“Well, shit,” he says around his senbon. “Looks like I owe Haruko an apology.”

~

Genma squints again, leaning forward slightly to get a better look. There’s something familiar about the kid. Not just the hair, or the posture - though that stubborn, chin-up, spine-straight kind of defiance is ringing some alarm bells - but her eyes. He can’t see them clearly from this distance, not with the shadows and the early light, but there’s something about the way she watches Kakashi, the way she moves, that hits him sideways.

Then she turns her head, just briefly, to catch her breath. And Genma goes still.

“… Holy shit,” he whispers.

Beside him, Gai tilts his head. “What is it?”

“That’s the kid,” Genma says, stunned. “That’s the kid. From Yuzumura.”

Gai blinks. “Yuzumura?”

“Two months ago,” Genma mutters, mouth gone dry, thoughts racing. He probably shouldn’t be saying this, but - ah, fuck it. Gai needs to understand how insane this is. He’ll take the citation from Commander Bear if he finds out. “B-rank missing-nin. Kusa. Took the village head hostage, barricaded himself in the soncho’s house. We were sent in to eliminate the threat - quiet, no witnesses. But when we got there…” He trails off, eyes wide. “There was a kid. Standing on the front step. That kid. Didn’t even flinch when we dropped in.”

Gai frowns. “She was another hostage?”

“No,” Genma says. “She was talking to the missing-nin. And get this - she talked him down.”

Gai’s mouth opens. No words come out.

Genma barrels on, voice low, rapid-fire now, like the realization’s breaking over him in waves. “And it worked. He came quietly.”

Gai looks like he’s witnessing a divine revelation.

“And Kakashi?” Genma continues, incredulous. “He could’ve ended it right there. Could’ve put a kunai through the guy’s throat at any time. But he waited. Watched. Let her finish it. Then he swept in and took the kid straight to the Hokage.”

“And then?” Gai breathes.

“He hasn’t taken a mission since,” Genma says, almost dazed. “We heard he was on sabbatical. And no one knew why.”

Until now.

Gai exhales like he’s just been told the world is flat. Genma just shakes his head, stunned.

“Hatake Kakashi,” he mutters. “Cold-blooded, emotionally unavailable, chronic ghoster of social gatherings. And he’s been spending the last two months training a five-year-old girl who de-escalated a hostage crisis with nothing but her voice.”

“She’s remarkable,” Gai says solemnly.

“She’s a diplomatic nuke with a braid,” Genma mutters. “And he’s training her.”

They both go quiet again as the girl - Hikari, he thinks is her name - pushes herself through another lap, legs trembling, face flushed, jaw set. Kakashi jogs beside her now, offering no praise, no softness - just presence. Steady. Silent. Patient.

A match made in heaven, Genma thinks, half in awe, half in disbelief.

He sits back on his heels, blows a low whistle through his teeth, and mutters, “Well, shit.”

Gai just nods, eyes shining.

“A most youthful partnership,” he murmurs reverently.

Genma rolls his eyes.

“Gai, if you start crying, I swear to god I’m pushing you down this hill.”

~

Genma doesn’t end up pushing Gai down the hill. Mostly because he’s too focused on what’s unfolding below.

Kakashi has stopped jogging. He’s crouched in front of the girl now with one knee in the dirt, eye-level with her. She’s panting hard, hands on her knees, braid sticking to the back of her neck. She’s exhausted. It’s clear in the tremble of her arms, the way her legs keep trying to give out from under her. She can barely stay upright.

Genma expects her to collapse.

She doesn’t. She just straightens, slowly, breath hitching in her throat - and looks Kakashi dead in the eye.

There’s no fear in it. No defiance, either. Just… trust.

Subtle. Cautious. Like a candle cupped between her hands, fragile and new. But it’s there. And Genma, who’s known Kakashi since they were both too young to drink and too old to be children, recognizes the weight of it immediately.

Because people don’t trust Kakashi. Not really. They respect him. Fear him. Admire him, in that awestruck, distant way most people admire thunderstorms and sharp knives.

But trust? That’s rarer.

Yet here she is. Five years old. Skin scraped, legs shaking, body running on fumes - and she’s looking at Kakashi like he’s a fixed star in a spinning sky.

Kakashi says something - too soft for Genma to hear. Whatever it is, it makes the girl’s shoulders relax by a fraction. She nods, just once, and he stands, offering her a water bottle. She takes it without hesitation. No flinch. No pause.

That, Genma thinks, is new.

Because he’s seen kids trained by shinobi before. Kids who obey. Kids who fear. Kids who idolize.

But this isn’t that.

This is quieter. Older, somehow. Like this girl has already learned that most adults aren’t safe - and decided Kakashi might be the exception.

He watches her sip the water slowly, carefully, and then pass the bottle back. Kakashi says something else. She nods again, then moves toward the shade of a tree and sits, legs folded neatly beneath her, posture still as glass.

Kakashi stands guard nearby - not hovering, not mothering. Just there.

Genma shakes his head, low and slow. “I don’t believe it.”

Gai beams, positively glowing. “It is a beautiful thing, to witness trust blooming in the soil of perseverance!”

Genma casts him a sidelong look. “You really don’t turn it off, do you?”

But there’s no heat in it. Not today. Because he’s watching something impossible happen.

Kakashi - Kakashi - has found someone who trusts him. Someone small and silent and smart enough to be cautious, but brave enough to believe.

And Kakashi - damned, broken, brilliant Kakashi - is trusting her right back.

Not with words or praise.

But with time, and patience, and presence.

Genma exhales, long and low, and mutters, “Goddamn.”

Then, more quietly, almost to himself: “He really is raising her.”

~

The bar’s dim and quiet, the kind of place ANBU frequent because it doesn’t ask questions and pours generously. Genma’s three drinks in by the time the rest of Team Ro shows up.

Yuugao spots him first and veers toward the corner booth without waiting for the others. Tenzo follows with a bottle of sake and an eyebrow raised high enough to qualify as a question. 

Yuugao eyes the half-empty glass in front of Genma. “You start drinking early, or did you never stop?”

Genma tips the glass toward her in lazy salute. “I’ve seen the future, my friends,” he says solemnly. “And it’s five years old and currently being raised by Kakashi.”

There’s a long, baffled pause.

“Pardon?” Tenzo blinks. “That almost sounds like Kakashi’s raising a - ”

“A kid,” Genma finishes. “He is.”

Yuugao snorts. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

“No, no,” Genma says, setting his glass on the table, “I’m serious. You remember the kid, two months ago, in Yuzumura? Tiny thing, talked down the Kusa missing-nin like it was nothing? Didn’t you ever wonder what happened to her after Kakashi brought her to the Hokage?”

“Of course I remember her,” Yuugao says, her eyes wide. “You’re not saying - ”

“He’s training her now,” Genma says. 

They all stare at him.

“Like… willingly?” Tenzo clarifies weakly.

“Willingly.”

There’s another pause. Then -

Tenzo exhales seriously. “Do we need to stage a rescue?” 

“Of the kid or Kakashi?” Yuugao asks. 

“Both,” Tenzo says instantly.

Genma shakes his head and interrupts. “You’re not getting it,” he says insistently. “He actually - and I can’t believe I’m saying this - wants to be there. And so does she.”

Yuugao squints at him. “Just to clarify - this is Hatake Kakashi we’re talking about, right? The one who once tied up and left a four-year-old hanging from a tree branch because - and I quote - ‘it was existing too close to me’?”

Tenzo groans. “Don’t remind me. I was there. I had to take the kid down while Kakashi read a book under the tree and pretended we weren’t there.”

Yuugao nods. “Exactly. That guy - that guy - is training a kid? Is she a prodigy?”

Genma makes a face. “Maybe?”

Tenzo whistles low. “Kakashi must be in hell.”

“No,” Genma says slowly, “that’s the part I don’t get. He’s not. He’s… accepting it. Not, like, smiling and skipping into town with matching outfits or anything - ”

“Thank gods,” Tenzo mutters.

“ - but I saw them training this morning. He was jogging beside her. No eye-rolls, no sighing, no muttering under his breath. Just - there. Like a real, human person.”

Now everyone stares.

“Kakashi,” Yuugao says slowly, “was existing. Peacefully. With a child. On purpose.”

“I know,” Genma says. “I almost had an aneurysm.”

They all look at each other.

“So,” Tenzo says, saying what’s on everyone’s mind, “what do we do now?”

Yuugao clicks her tongue thoughtfully. “We can’t ask him directly. He’ll shut down.”

“Obviously,” Tenzo mutters. “Senpai wouldn’t admit he was on fire if it meant having to describe the symptoms.”

Tenzo hums. “We could spar him. Force a check-in through fists.”

Genma raises an eyebrow. “You trying to die?”

Tenzo pauses. "Point."

“No sparring,” Yuugao says firmly. “Not if he’s actually managing to function without spiralling for once. We don’t want to give him an excuse to revert.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Genma asks dryly, “When did we become his emotional support team?”

“When he became someone else’s,” Yuugao says, and they all fall quiet again.

“… Shit,” Genma mutters. He tosses back the rest of his drink, then taps the rim against the table. “Okay. So how do we check in without actually checking in?”

“We could run into him ‘accidentally,’” Tenzo suggests. “Find a training field he uses. Bring lunch. Pretend it’s a coincidence.”

“Too obvious,” Yuugao says. “He’ll smell a setup and vanish.”

Genma perks up. “What about a favor? Something casual. We ask him to cover a patrol shift with one of us, just a couple hours. Not because we need him, but because we’re rotating schedules.”

Yuugao tilts her head. "That's not bad."

“Gives us a window to talk, but keeps the focus off Hikari,” Tenzo agrees.

“Cool,” Genma says, leaning back. “Team Ro: now playing Konoha’s least subtle emotional intervention squad.”

Yuugao grins. “We’ve done worse.”

~

t’s a crisp morning when they spring the trap.

Technically speaking, it isn’t a trap. It’s a favour. A casual ask. Just a few hours on a standard patrol route. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that would raise suspicion - if it weren’t for the fact that Hatake Kakashi hasn’t agreed to anything resembling a shift in two months.

Which is why Genma’s the one asking.

He draws the short straw, naturally. Seniority, he tells them. Truth is, he’s known Kakashi the longest. If anyone’s going to convince the bastard to play nice without bolting for the rooftops, it’s him.

He finds Kakashi outside Hokage Tower, leaning against the rail of the mission desk landing like he’s got nowhere to be. One eye on the street, the other probably on some higher plane of existence. He’s got that far-off look again - the one Genma’s come to associate with either emotional crisis or suppressed feelings of affection, both of which are roughly equal in Kakashi’s head.

“Hey,” Genma says, casual, hands stuffed in his pockets.

Kakashi glances over, nods once. “Genma.”

“You busy this afternoon?”

There’s the faintest flicker of suspicion in his eye. “Why?”

Genma shrugs. “Just need someone to cover patrol with me. Yuugao’s on courier duty, and Tenzo pulled a double last night.”

Kakashi tilts his head. “… You’re asking me?”

Genma smiles thinly. “I’d ask Dragonfly from Team Fu, but I like having a soul.”

Kakashi doesn’t laugh, but his posture loosens slightly. “I’m on sabbatical.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Genma waves a hand. “It's not a mission, just a walk. Nothing dangerous. Come on - please?”

A beat passes. Then another.

Kakashi sighs. “Fine.”

Genma doesn’t let himself look too relieved.

~

They head out after lunch, keeping to the shaded edge of the village outskirts, gear in place, masks off. The forest is quiet. It should feel like old times - like when they were just fresh out of the Academy, killing time between assignments, waiting for their lives to start.

But it doesn’t - because Kakashi walks differently now.

Not in gait, exactly. Still silent. Still composed. But there's a subtle shift, like he's listening for more than just enemies. Like he's thinking about someone who might be waiting. Someone small, maybe. Someone who matters.

They don’t talk much at first. Genma lets the silence stretch, knowing Kakashi won’t fill it. Not unless prompted.

“So,” Genma says eventually, “how’s the sabbatical treating you?”

Kakashi hums noncommittally.

“You know,” Genma continues, “you’re the first person I’ve met who took time off and didn’t use it to sleep with questionable individuals or drink questionable sake.”

Kakashi gives him a sidelong glance. “You have a very low bar.”

“Don’t dodge the compliment.”

“I’m not. I’m just questioning your taste in friends.”

Genma snorts. “That's fair.”

They fall silent again. A hawk circles overhead. The wind shifts.

Finally, Genma ventures, “You seeing anyone?”

Kakashi snorts, soft and derisive. “No.”

“Didn’t think so. Just figured I’d check. Yuugao has money on you eloping with an emotionally distant librarian.”

“Too much competition.”

Genma laughs. Then, quieter, “And the kid?”

There’s a flicker - not on Kakashi’s face, but in his body. A pause mid-step, so brief most people wouldn’t catch it. But Genma’s not most people.

Kakashi exhales. “You’ve been speaking to Gai.”

Genma shrugs. “Not just Gai. Even the civvies have noticed - you’re not exactly trying to hide her.”

Silence stretches again. Long. Taut. The wind shifts in the trees above them.

Kakashi’s hands are in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched. His eye stays forward. Doesn’t even flick toward Genma. “She needed somewhere to stay,” he says finally, voice flat.

“Right,” Genma says mildly. “And of all the somewheres in the village, she ended up with you.”

“She diffused a B-rank missing-nin,” Kakashi says, like that explains everything. “She’s not normal.”

“Sure,” Genma agrees. “And you’re known for your tender love of small, precocious children.”

No response.

They walk another few meters before Genma says, “You could’ve dropped her with the Nara. Or with the Sarutobi. Hell, even the Yamanaka - she talks like one of theirs already. But you didn’t.”

Kakashi doesn’t answer.

Genma sighs. “Look, I’m not trying to push. We’re just - concerned, okay? You’ve gone full ghost before, but never for this long. And now you’re showing up in the market with a five-year-old and buying oranges and soba noodles like you don’t usually live off caffeine and depression.”

Still no answer. The only sound is the crunch of gravel under their boots and the high keening of cicadas in the trees. Genma doesn’t press - yet. He just glances sideways, slow and measured.

Kakashi’s expression is unreadable. It always is. But the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers twitch in his pockets, the subtle, almost imperceptible tick of a muscle beneath his eye - Genma sees it all.

He sighs. “You know we’re not gonna stop asking, right?”

Kakashi doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t even blink. “Then you’re going to get used to being disappointed.”

Genma snorts, but there’s no real humour in it. “You sound like my father.”

A beat. Then, as dry as dead leaves - “I doubt that.”

They walk in silence again. Genma lets it stretch for another few minutes, lets the quiet do what it does best - make people fill it. But Kakashi doesn’t bite. He never does. If anything, he folds tighter into himself, like a knot cinching just a little more taut.

Eventually, Genma gives in. Sort of.

“Alright, fine,” he mutters. “Let’s pretend I’m not trying to be your friend for a second. Let’s pretend I’m a nosy bastard with no emotional intelligence and a knack for getting under your skin.”

“You don’t have to pretend.”

Genma shoots him a glare. Kakashi doesn’t even twitch.

“Listen,” Genma says, tone shifting, flattening out. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation. Not me, not Gai, not Yuugao, not even Tenzo, who’s been mentally drafting adoption papers in your name.”

Kakashi gives the barest flicker of an eye-roll.

“But we’ve all seen how you look at her,” Genma continues, more quietly. “We’ve seen how she looks at you.”

Kakashi’s jaw tightens again. His gaze stays fixed ahead.

Genma sighs, softer this time. “We’re not asking because we’re worried she’s in danger. We’re asking because we know you are.”

Still nothing.

So Genma shrugs, like it doesn’t matter, like he didn’t mean it to land so deep. “But sure. Play it your way. Pretend it’s nothing. Pretend I didn’t see you teaching her push-ups with your hand under her shoulder like you were waiting to catch her.”

He doesn’t look at Kakashi after that. Doesn’t need to. He can feel the tension radiating off him like heat.

They keep walking.

It takes several minutes before Kakashi finally says, voice thin and frayed at the edges, “She asked me to teach her.”

Genma glances over. Doesn’t say anything.

“She didn’t ask for anything else,” Kakashi adds. “Not food. Not clothes. Not a place to stay.”

Genma waits.

“She just… wanted to learn,” Kakashi finishes.

Another silence.

Genma exhales, long and low. “And you didn’t want to say no.”

Kakashi’s shoulders shift. Not a nod. Not a shake. Just movement, like his skin doesn’t fit quite right.

“You’re doing good, you know.”

Kakashi flinches, subtle but sharp, like the words physically hit him. “Don’t,” he mutters.

“I mean it.”

“Don’t,” Kakashi says again, more clipped this time. “She deserves better than good enough.”

Genma doesn’t argue. Just tilts his head and watches him.

“She trusts you.”

Kakashi closes his eye. Just for a moment.

“She shouldn’t,” he whispers.

But she does. And they both know it.

They finish the patrol without speaking again, not even when they part ways near the market. Kakashi doesn’t say goodbye. Just disappears into the crowd, hands still shoved in his pockets like they might hold him together.

Genma watches him go, then turns back toward the Tower with a slow, shaking breath.

So much for emotional support, he thinks wryly.

But deep down, he knows: Kakashi’s still in it. Still trying. Still fighting the part of himself that believes he can’t be trusted with fragile things.

And for now - that’s enough.

Chapter Text

It happens in pieces.

Not all at once. Not suddenly. But slowly, over time, in incremental steps, Sansa finds herself starting to relax around Kakashi.

There’s no pivotal moment, no dramatic shift. Just him, showing her over and over in quiet, unspoken ways, that he’s safe.

~

The first time she breaks something, it’s an accident.

She’s helping put dishes away, standing on her tiptoes to reach the upper cupboard. It’s one of the blue-glazed bowls - the ones that don’t match the rest of Kakashi’s kitchen, that sit slightly off-kilter when stacked, like they were handmade. She doesn’t know where they came from. She’s never asked.

The bowl slips from her fingers. Hits the counter, bounces, and lands on the floor. Shatters. The sound is sharp - too sharp. Like ice cracking underfoot.

She goes still.

Then she’s moving fast, too fast, dropping to her knees, hands scrambling for the broken pieces with a breathless, “I’m sorry - I’m so sorry - ”

“Hikari - ”

“I didn’t mean to, I’ll fix it - please, I didn’t - ”

“Hey.” His voice is calm. Not stern or raised. Just… calm. “It’s fine.”

She’s still trying to gather the shards, fingertips trembling. One glances across her skin, a thin red line starting to bloom, and before she can blink, Kakashi is crouched beside her, hand on her wrist.

“Stop,” he says, gentle but firm. “You’re hurting yourself.”

“I - ” Her throat closes. Her eyes are wide. Too wide. She’s waiting for something - for anger, for coldness, for punishment wrapped in silence.

But all he does is ease the sharp ceramic out of her hands, setting it carefully aside. Then he stands. Gets the broom. Sweeps the mess like it means nothing at all.

“Bowl’s broken,” he says casually over his shoulder. “Not the end of the world. I’ve broken worse. One time, I shattered a plate trying to kill a cockroach.”

She blinks at him, uncertain.

“I missed,” he adds with a shrug. “The cockroach lived.”

A breath hitches in her chest. Not quite a laugh. But something close.

He glances at her then, one eye warm and unbothered. “You okay?”

She nods slowly. The cut on her hand stings, but he doesn't scold her for it. Just disappears into the bathroom, returns with a small bandage, and kneels again.

“Can I?”

She offers her hand. He cleans the cut, careful and quiet, then wraps it neatly.

Neither of them speaks again. He tosses the last of the shards into the bin, puts the broom away, and offers her a cup of tea without ceremony.

And just like that, it passes.

No sharpness. No judgment. Just quiet care.

Later, alone in her room, Sansa traces the bandage with her thumb and breathes in the truth of it:

He didn’t yell. He didn’t glare. He didn’t make her feel small.

He just… helped.

And somehow, that’s the part that matters most.

~

She’s curled in the corner of the living room, legs folded neatly beneath her, a book open across her lap. One of the more advanced texts from his stash - Fuuinjutsu: Intermediate Constructs and Chakra Lattice Theory. It’s dense, complicated, and clearly written by someone who thought clarity was a weakness.

She has a notebook open next to her, covered in neatly written bullet points.

Kakashi’s seated nearby, back against the wall, a book in hand. Not one of his orange ones today. Something thinner, darker. He doesn’t look up, but she knows he’s aware of her. He always is.

She’s been stuck on the same sentence for nearly seventy minutes.

Her fingers drum against the edge of the scroll. She reads the line again: Binding strokes must follow directional flow unless stabilized by a grounded anchor glyph - 

She knows what that means. At least, she thinks she does.

But then it continues: - except in recursive layering, where bypass thresholds may override spatial tethering via compression logic. And that part - 

That part she doesn’t understand. She hates not knowing. Hates the taste of it - sour and familiar and jagged in her chest. 

She should ask. She knows she should - it’s the only way to advance. And once upon a time, she would’ve, easily, without a second thought. But now - 

Now, asking for help feels like exposure. It reminds her too much of the Red Keep, of disdainful, condescending mockery from the courtiers whenever she’d admitted to a lack of knowledge in any area. Better to keep silent than to admit to ignorance. Better to stay quiet, stay unnoticed, and figure it out on your own, in private, than ask and have someone use it against you. 

But she’s tried that already. She’s tried to puzzle this sentence out for the past hour. She’s tried every trick she knows - reading ahead, context clues, even taking a break and hoping for a breakthrough. 

None of it’s worked. And now, she has a choice: 

She can stay quiet and stagnate in ignorance, or she can ask, risk mockery, and - potentially, maybe, if he indulges her - learn. 

Slowly, so slowly, Sansa exhales. In the end, it isn’t a choice at all. 

“Kakashi,” she says, so quiet it barely registers as speech, “I - ”

The words catch in her throat. He looks up, waits, watches her as she swallows and tries again. 

“I don’t understand this sentence,” she whispers. 

He blinks at her. “Which one?”

She shows him. He studies it, eye skimming the page, then - 

“Ah,” he says. “Yeah. I know why this part’s giving you trouble.”

Sansa stays still. Silent. Waiting. She doesn’t know if she’s allowed to speak yet.

“This sentence,” Kakashi begins, tapping the line in question, “is the author’s attempt at referencing two competing sealing theories in one clause. That’s why it doesn’t make sense - it’s not meant to, unless you already know the frameworks he’s talking about.”

He shifts the book slightly, gesturing with two fingers. “See - here. The part about ‘recursive layering’ refers to the Uzumaki style of spiral containment. In their method, seals can be nested within one another like concentric coils. The inner glyphs inherit the function of the outer ones, unless you deliberately override that. That’s what he means by ‘bypass thresholds.’”

He glances at her. “You following so far?”

Hikari nods once. Careful. Watching.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Now the bit about ‘compression logic’ - that’s a different model entirely. It’s from the Tobirama school of sealing - layered seals - and it’s all about minimizing glyph length and optimizing chakra flow by folding pathways inward, like an origami crease. Efficient, but brittle if done wrong. That part only makes sense if you realize he’s contrasting two philosophies without saying so.”

Another pause. Kakashi tilts his head. “So when he says ‘bypass thresholds may override spatial tethering,’ what he means is: if you’re using recursive layering, and you’ve placed a compression logic glyph inside a nested structure, then it might cancel the need for directional tethering - but only if you’ve grounded the outer layer first.”

He leans back against the wall again, eye half-lidded. “It’s a garbage sentence. Don’t feel bad for not getting it. I had to read this book four times. And I still set a chair on fire during my first attempt at nesting compression glyphs.”

Her eyes widen slightly.

Kakashi lifts a hand, vaguely gesturing toward the ceiling. “Don’t ask.”

Silence stretches between them for a few beats. Then - 

“Try rephrasing it,” he suggests. “Like this: ‘Nested seals using Uzumaki-style recursive layering can forego anchor glyphs only if compression logic is applied within the innermost coil and outer seal grounding is stable.’ Makes more sense, right?”

Slowly, she nods. And for the first time in over an hour, the tension in her shoulders eases. Not all the way - but enough.

She shifts the book slightly. Reaches for a pen. Kakashi doesn’t say anything else. Just watches, quiet and steady, as she jots down a sentence in her notebook, then goes back to his own book.

And for the first time since she opened the book, she doesn’t feel like she’s drowning. She feels like she might - just might - understand.

He didn’t mock. Didn’t gloat. Didn’t even smile. He’d just - helped.

She nods once, to herself. Then again. And under her breath, almost inaudible, she says - 

“Thank you.”

Kakashi doesn’t look at her, doesn’t speak. He just nods back, like of course. Like it was obvious, like he’d never even considered anything except helping her.

And it’s like something crumbles inside her, just a little.

~

It happens gradually.

Not in any way he can name. Not in a way that makes sense.

But somewhere between the moment they’d met and now, Kakashi realizes Hikari’s beginning to look at him differently.

Not with fear. Not quite with trust, either. But something quieter. Something that makes his chest ache.

He watches her now, sitting cross-legged on the floor, brow furrowed over a scroll she borrowed from his stash. Her braid’s slipping loose and she keeps brushing strands of red hair behind her ear without noticing.

She’s muttering under her breath, eyes narrowed in concentration. Something about compression glyphs and misaligned binding strokes.

She's five. Five. And she’s teaching herself sealing theory like it’s a religion.

Kakashi leans against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely. His mask is pulled a little higher today - not out of habit, but defense. Because this - the apartment, her, the quiet sound of her voice - is starting to feel like something that could hurt him if he lets it in too far.

She looks up without meaning to. Catches him watching.

For a second, he braces for it - the recoil, the shutter, the small, careful girl remembering she shouldn’t be seen.

But she doesn’t shrink away.

She meets his eye. Holds it. And something flickers in her gaze. Not challenge. Not defiance.

Something… softer.

He’s seen people look at him with awe. With fear, suspicion, expectation.

But this? This is the look of someone beginning to wonder - tentatively, silently - if maybe he won’t leave. If maybe he’s not a danger. If maybe he’s safe. The kind of safe that comes not with promises or praise, but with presence.

And something inside him - something sealed off long ago - cracks.

It’s small. Just a line through frost.

But it’s there.

He swallows against the pressure in his throat, looks away before it can show. Wanders into the kitchen. Fills the kettle. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t draw attention to it, doesn’t let himself linger too long on the weight of that glance.

But he puts a second cup out beside his own.

And when she pads in a few minutes later, silent as always, and sits across from him without hesitation - he doesn’t say anything.

He just pours the tea.

And wonders how a child this small managed to get past every defence he thought he still had.

~

It’s late.

Later than it should be. The kind of late where the world feels hushed and hollowed out, where the glow from the lanterns is soft and golden, casting shadows that flicker gently against the walls of the apartment.

Kakashi isn’t sure why she’s still awake.

She’d claimed she wasn’t tired. Had said it with the quiet, imperious stubbornness he’s come to recognize as distinctly her - not loud, not petulant, just resolute. And when he raised a brow, she’d met his look without flinching, crossed her arms, and returned to the book in her lap with regal finality.

He didn’t argue. He doesn’t, not with her.

Instead, he let her sit beside him on the couch, a thin blanket tucked around her shoulders, her small frame curled slightly to one side. She’s not pressed up against him - she never does that - but she’s close. Closer than she used to sit.

He’s reading something - half-reading, really. His eyes skim the page, but his attention keeps sliding back to her. To the way her braid is fraying, loose strands escaping around her face. To the way her head keeps dipping lower. Jerking up. Dipping again.

She’s losing the battle.

He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t move.

Until, finally, her temple drops against his arm with the gentlest thump.

He stills.

Her breathing is slow. Deep. That slight tension that always coils around her spine - like a thread pulled too tight - has loosened. Just a little. Just enough.

Kakashi glances down.

She’s asleep. Just like that. Slumped against him, book slipping from her lap, lashes resting against pale skin, lips parted slightly in sleep.

He doesn’t breathe for a moment.

It’s not the weight of her head that makes his heart clench. It’s the trust. Because she wouldn’t fall asleep like this - couldn’t - if she didn’t believe, even just for tonight, that he’s safe.

And it shatters something in him. Not painfully. Not violently. Just - quietly. Like a pane of glass cracking under soft pressure. A wall giving way. A sheet of ice on a frozen lake, breaking apart at the seams.

She’s so small. So sharp, and guarded, and strange - and now asleep at his side like she belongs there.

He shifts just slightly to ease her weight. Carefully moves the book from her lap. Tucks the blanket higher around her shoulders so the draft from the window doesn’t reach her.

Then he leans back and lets his book rest on his chest, unread.

He doesn’t move again for a long time.

And when her fingers curl, just a little, into the fabric of his sleeve - 

He lets them stay.

~

She stays there for hours.

The lantern burns low. The shadows on the wall stretch longer, softer, until they blur into one another, until the only sound in the apartment is the quiet whisper of the wind through the cracked-open window and the barely-there sound of her breathing.

Hikari doesn’t shift. Doesn’t twitch. Just breathes - slow and even, the kind of sleep that doesn’t come easily to children like her.

And Kakashi - he doesn’t move.

He should, probably. His leg’s going numb, and the arm she’s using as a pillow is starting to tingle. His book is still open across his chest, unread for the better part of four hours. The room’s grown chillier, and his tea is long cold.

But he doesn’t shift, because she’s a light sleeper.

He knows this. Knows how she startles at the sound of a cupboard closing too firmly, how her eyes snap open in the middle of the night if the wind rattles the windows just right, how sometimes she jolts awake from sleep without making a sound, eyes wide and panicked.

And yet now, she’s still.

Because for once, she’s let herself fall deeply enough asleep that she didn’t wake when the blanket slid down her shoulder. Didn’t wake when her head lolled lower on his arm. Didn’t wake when her fingers, small and cold, curled into the sleeve of his shirt like they were trying to anchor her somewhere.

And Kakashi - 

He doesn’t dare move.

It’s not fear. Not really. Not even caution.

It’s… something else. Softer. Something that makes his chest ache, something that he doesn’t know what to do with. Something that tells him, wordlessly, instinctively, that he’d rather lose the circulation in his entire arm than risk taking this moment from her.

So he stays. Watches the shadows shift. Feels the weight of her against him - not heavy, not even warm, just there, and impossibly light. Like something he could lose if he breathes wrong.

And when she sighs in her sleep, soft and steady - 

He closes his eye.

Not to rest. Just… to hold the moment. Just to remember this.

The weight of a child who trusts him enough to sleep on him. The quiet of a room not haunted by absence. The feel of a small hand gripping his sleeve, like it means something.

And it does.

Gods help him - it does.

~

It’s just before dawn. The lantern’s burned low, a faint golden puddle of light at the far edge of the room. Outside, the village is still cloaked in grey. Even the birds haven’t started singing.

But she’s awake. He can tell, because she’s gone perfectly still.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at her - doesn’t need to. He can feel it, her breath caught in her chest, her body gone faintly stiff. Like a deer realizing it’s exposed in an open field. 

She’s assessing. Figuring out where she is, how long she slept, how close she’s drifted. Probably wondering if she’s overstepped.

Kakashi lets the silence stretch. Then, casually, deliberately - 

“Morning,” he says, voice light. “You drool in your sleep.”

There’s a beat. Then another.

And her head snaps around as she jerks upright. 

“I do not,” she says, scandalized.

She’s glaring at him, eyes wide with affront, cheeks pink and all puffed up like an indignant cat. Her braid is even more frayed now, and one side of her face is creased from his sleeve.

He looks down at her solemnly. “You do.”

She gapes at him, furious. “You’re lying.”

“I’ve seen puddles smaller than the one on my arm.”

“You - ! I don’t even - ! There is no puddle!”

“Because I wiped it,” he says smoothly.

Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. And then, with a strangled little noise of outrage, she shoves off him entirely, bolts upright on the couch, and crosses her arms with a dramatic huff.

He doesn’t even try to hide the amused curl of his eye.

The tension’s gone. Not all of it - but enough. Enough that her shoulders aren’t quite so tight. Enough that the guarded look hasn’t crept back fully into her eyes. Enough that she’s arguing with him instead of withdrawing.

She doesn’t even seem to realize it - but he does.

She trusts him enough to sleep beside him. And trusts him enough to believe it’s safe to wake up beside him, too.

Kakashi watches her pout at the far end of the couch, arms still crossed, nose in the air like the world has wronged her.

“You want tea?” he asks casually, stretching. 

She pauses. Her shoulders uncoil, just a little. She glances at him, then away again, and gives an imperious little sniff.

“… Yes, please.”

~

It happens on a whim.

They’re walking back from the market - bags in hand, sun high, breeze soft, and the dust rising warm from the path beneath their feet. It’s one of those rare afternoons where the world feels… gentle. Uncomplicated. Those kinds of afternoons have been happening more and more lately.

She’s beside him, steps light, humming some odd little tune under her breath that doesn’t quite match any melody he knows. They’d just finished bartering with a vendor who’d tried to overcharge them for a bundle of scallions. Hikari, all five years and four feet of her, had fixed him with a withering stare and informed him, in clipped, glacial tones, that if his prices rose any higher, she’d be forced to report him to the market commission for extortion.

The vendor had backed down. Kakashi hadn’t even needed to say a word.

Now, she’s recounting the moment with self-satisfaction that borders on smug.

“He looked so nervous,” she says, peering up at him sideways through sun-dappled lashes. “Did you see how his eye twitched? Like a cornered rat.”

“Mm,” Kakashi agrees. “You might’ve overdone it with the ‘crimes against trade civility’ line.”

“It was persuasive.”

“It was terrifying.”

She sniffs. “You’re just upset I did all the negotiating.”

He hums again, noncommittal. “You know, it’s possible to be persuasive without invoking imaginary bureaucratic charges.”

“They’re not imaginary,” she says with great dignity. “They’re just… aspirational.”

And something about the way she says it - chin lifted, eyes sparkling, proud and tiny and holding back a smile - makes something catch behind his ribs. Before he can think about it, before he has time to analyze or reconsider or pull his hand back - 

He ruffles her hair.

Light. Quick. Instinctive. 

She freezes. Stops mid-step, her whole body going still in that startled, stunned kind of silence.

Kakashi realizes what he’s done a half-second too late. He waits, not breathing.

She turns. Looks up at him, wide-eyed. Like she doesn’t know how to react. Like no one’s ever done that before. Or hasn’t in a long, long time.

Then, after a moment, she recovers and narrows her eyes at him with haughty offense.

“I am not a dog,” she informs him icily.

He raises a brow. “Didn’t say you were.”

“Then don’t pat me like one.”

“You’ll have to earn a less ruffleable hairstyle, then,” he says with mock gravitas. “That braid’s a menace. Full of static.”

She crosses her arms. “My braid is regal, thank you very much.”

“It’s lopsided.”

She gasps. “You take that back.”

He doesn’t. She throws a twig at him. He catches it between two fingers without looking.

She pouts the rest of the walk back - but she doesn’t step further away. And when he glances down as they reach the building, he sees her lift one hand - briefly, absently - to touch the crown of her head.

Right where he’d ruffled it.

Chapter Text

Kakashi knows the summons are coming long before the appointment notice arrives in his mailbox. It’s not a mission, not urgent, or else it would’ve come by messenger hawk, but it makes something coil inside him nonetheless. Because he knows why the Hokage is summoning him, what will be discussed at the meeting.

It’s been five months since Kakashi’s sabbatical started. Since the Hokage had given him six months’ leave for this smaller, quieter, unofficial mission that had never really been a mission.

Time is running out. And now - now the Hokage wants to know what Kakashi will do next. 

He looks at the appointment notice for a long time. Something tight and uneasy coils low in his abdomen. He knows what the village needs of him - a return to ANBU. A return to the porcelain wolf mask. But more than that - a return to Team Ro, to the team he’d handpicked, chosen, who has faith in him in a way that doesn’t really happen anymore. 

But. There’s another variable, now. Small, sharp, fragile in the way something is when it’s been broken and is only just beginning to mend. 

Kakashi exhales slowly, the appointment notice still held between two fingers. The paper feels heavier than it should. Too thin to carry this much weight, and yet, it does. The weight of expectation. Of obligation. Of a decision he doesn’t want to make.

Because six months ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated. Would’ve gone back to ANBU without flinching. It was the only place he knew how to exist. The only place where he didn’t have to explain himself, didn’t have to feel anything except the edge of a blade and the press of mission parameters.

But now…

Now there’s a girl who sleeps down the hall from him. Who wakes early, trains hard, studies harder. Who never complains, never asks for anything, and still somehow makes him feel like he’s been handed something breakable and sacred and utterly undeserved.

He doesn’t know what she’ll be yet. Doesn’t know what kind of shinobi she wants to become. But she looks at him like she’s already decided he’s someone worth trusting. Like he’s steady ground in a world that has never once offered her stability.

And that scares the hell out of him.

Because what if he fails her? What if he’s not enough? What if, by staying, he ruins her?

But if he goes…

He sets the appointment notice down. Runs a hand over his face.

The Hokage will ask for a decision. A definitive one. Return to ANBU, or step away. And Kakashi has no idea what he’s going to say.

But he knows this much: the moment he chooses ANBU, the moment he steps back into that porcelain mask full-time, he becomes a ghost again. A knife in the dark. 

And ghosts don’t raise children.

He stands slowly. Moves toward the window and stares out at the village beyond.

Hikari will be waking soon. She’ll train with him this morning. She’ll study sealing in the afternoon. She’ll take careful steps toward a future she’s building with ink and sweat and quiet resolve.

He still doesn’t know what he’ll say to the Hokage.

But whatever it is - he’ll need to say it with her in mind.

Because this time, the future he’s considering isn’t just his own.

~

The Hokage’s office is quiet when Kakashi enters. Not silent, but quiet in that way official rooms are - where every sound feels like a choice, and the hush says more than the words that follow it. The door closes behind him with a soft click. Ahead, the Sandaime is seated at his desk, pipe unlit, mission scrolls piled neatly to the side.

“Kakashi,” Hiruzen says, not unkindly, but with the kind of even tone that says he already knows. “Come in.”

Kakashi steps forward. His mask is in place. Not the porcelain ANBU one - he hasn’t worn that since Yuzumura - but the cloth one, the one that’s been with him since he was too young to remember anything else. He stops exactly three paces from the desk. Just like always.

Hiruzen doesn’t speak right away. Just studies him for a long moment, eyes sharp behind the lines of age.

Then: “I gave you six months.”

Kakashi nods once. “Yes, Hokage-sama.”

“Your sabbatical ends in three weeks. I assume you know why I called you here.”

Another nod. “You want to know if I’m returning to active duty.”

The Hokage leans back slightly, fingers folding beneath his chin. “Correct. Team Ro remains under ANBU Cat’s leadership in your absence. You handpicked them. They’ve waited longer than most would.”

Kakashi doesn’t look away. “I know.”

“And?”

Kakashi hesitates.

Only for a second - but that second is enough. Hiruzen’s gaze sharpens, and his next words come slower, more deliberate.

“Is your answer not as clear as it once would’ve been?”

Kakashi exhales through his nose. Not quite a sigh. “No, sir. It’s not.”

Silence stretches - not tense, not hostile. Just full. Measured. Like both men are choosing their words like they’d choose a weapon: carefully, deliberately, knowing there’ll be consequences.

“I see,” the Sandaime says at last. “Would this hesitation have anything to do with your recent... responsibility?”

Kakashi doesn’t bother deflecting. “Yes.”

Another pause.

“She’s extraordinary,” the Hokage says, almost to himself. “I’ve read the preliminary reports. And listened to Gai’s... very thorough recounting.”

Kakashi’s mouth twitches beneath the mask. He doesn’t comment.

Hiruzen’s gaze sharpens again. “She’s not just a civilian child.”

“No,” Kakashi agrees. “She’s not.”

“She’s dangerous.”

“Not in the way you think,” Kakashi replies. “She’s disciplined. Intelligent. Careful. She doesn’t want power for power’s sake - she wants control. Over herself. Her life.”

She wants to be safe, too, I think, he doesn’t say. Because that would feel too much like exposing her, like betrayal, and he’s been done with betrayal for a long, long time.

Hiruzen studies him. “And you believe you can guide her?”

Kakashi’s answer is quiet. “I’m trying.”

Another beat.

“Is that your answer, then?” the Hokage asks. “You won’t return to ANBU?”

Kakashi closes his eye. Just for a moment. Then opens it again.

“I’ll return to service,” he says. “But not to ANBU.”

The Hokage blinks. “You’re certain?”

“ANBU doesn’t allow for divided priorities,” Kakashi says. “You said it yourself. We’re not meant to be seen. We’re not meant to be anything beyond the mission.”

He swallows, slow and careful.

“I can’t be both. Not the way she needs.”

The Hokage nods slowly, tapping his pipe against the desk, though he doesn’t light it. “You’ve thought about this.”

“I haven’t stopped thinking about it,” Kakashi says, voice low. “She’s not just gifted. She’s fractured. Held together with silence and instinct. If I walk away now, she’ll survive - but she’ll turn into something none of us can control. She’ll learn to manipulate instead of trust. She’ll hide until no one sees her at all.”

A pause.

“And she deserves better than that.”

The Hokage breathes out a long, quiet sigh. “You’ve changed.”

Kakashi lifts a shoulder. “Maybe.”

Silence again.

Then Hiruzen gives a short, decisive nod. “Very well. I’ll authorize your transition back to the general corps. You’ll remain a jonin, on assignment rotation only when schedules allow. In the meantime, you’ll continue training the girl?”

“Yes,” Kakashi says. “She’s already begun intermediate-level fuuinjutsu theory. And she’s been doing physical conditioning for five months. I’m planning to have her start katas soon.”

The Hokage hums. “You understand what this means, don’t you? What people will think.”

“I’ve never cared much about what people think,” Kakashi says.

Hiruzen meets his eyes. “You’re certain about this.”

“I am.”

Another pause.

Then the Hokage reaches for a blank scroll, uncaps a pen, and begins to write. “Very well. Consider yourself reassigned. As of today, Hatake Kakashi is no longer active in the ANBU division.”

He finishes the scroll, signs it with an ink stamp, and looks up again.

“Don’t make me regret this.”

Kakashi inclines his head. “I won’t.”

And when he steps out of the Hokage’s office into the early afternoon sun, the wind stirs faintly at his side.

Like something shifting course.

Like a promise.

~

She’s on the couch with a sealing scroll unfurled across her knees, a small pot of ink beside her, brush balanced with practiced steadiness in her right hand. The window lets in slanted sunlight, gold and gentle. It lights her hair from behind like flame through autumn leaves.

She says nothing at first. Just studies him with that quiet, assessing gaze that reminds him too much of ANBU debriefs - too much of himself. He hates that she’s learned to look at people like that.

He closes the door behind him and shrugs out of his flak vest. Hangs it on the hook by the entryway. Doesn’t look at her yet.

“I met with the Hokage,” he says.

A beat of silence.

Then: “Are you going back?” Her voice is soft. Not small, not uncertain. Just… soft. Braced.

Kakashi turns toward her. She’s looking down at her scroll again, but her hand is perfectly still above the paper. Waiting.

“No,” he says simply. “Not to ANBU.”

Another pause. The brush lowers, just slightly.

“I’ll take some jonin assignments,” he adds, quieter. “But only ones that don’t interfere with your training. I cleared it with the Hokage.”

Finally, she looks up. Really looks at him. There’s no outward change in her expression - no burst of joy, no dramatic shift - but he sees the difference anyway. The breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The way her shoulders drop, barely, like a weight’s been set down.

“…Okay,” she says. Then, “Good.”

He walks over, crouches beside the couch, rests one arm casually along the back of it. He doesn’t reach for her - never does, not unless she initiates - but he lets the quiet linger, comfortable now. Familiar.

“Were you worried I’d leave?” he asks. It’s not accusatory. Just curious.

She doesn’t answer right away. Just dips her brush into the ink again. Then, without looking up, she says, “Not worried.” A pause. “Just preparing.”

And that… that aches more than it should.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t push. Just watches as she begins writing again, the precise strokes of her kanji flowing without pause.

But when she finishes the seal she’s working on and reaches for another scroll, she shifts. Only slightly. Just enough to lean her shoulder into his for a brief, deliberate second.

And then she keeps working.

Kakashi doesn’t move away.

He just sits there, sunlight warming the side of his face, and lets himself stay exactly where he is. Because maybe - just maybe - this is what it means to be enough.

~

The sun’s just starting to slip behind the rooftops by the time Kakashi makes it to the quiet side street where Team Ro always meets. The bar is tucked between two unassuming buildings, no name on the door, no signage. Just a weather-worn lantern and the faint scent of tobacco and sweat.

They’re already there.

Genma’s lounging in his usual corner booth, senbon between his teeth, one arm slung over the back of the seat like he owns the place. Yuugao sits across from him, upright, composed, her sword resting against the bench. Tenzo’s at the far end, hood down, one hand wrapped around a cup of sake, expression unreadable.

Kakashi steps inside. No fanfare, no ceremony.

They all look up.

“Back from the dead,” Genma drawls, raising an eyebrow. “Or just visiting?”

Kakashi doesn’t answer immediately. Just crosses the room and slides into the open seat beside Tenzo, movements smooth, deliberate.

“I’m not coming back,” he says.

The words hang in the air like a thrown kunai, silent and sharp. Yuugao doesn’t blink. Genma stills. Tenzo’s the first to speak. 

“Not to ANBU, you mean.”

Kakashi nods once.

Genma exhales, long and low. “Huh.” There’s no anger in his voice. No disbelief. Just - something quieter, heavier.

Yuugao sets her cup down carefully. “So that’s it?”

“I’ll still be a jonin,” Kakashi says. “I’ll still take missions. But I can’t do ANBU. Not anymore.”

A beat. Then Genma asks, “Because of the kid?”

Kakashi doesn’t answer right away. Then, quietly - 

“Ghosts don’t raise kids.”

Genma leans back, staring at the ceiling like it might explain the world to him.

“Well, shit,” he mutters. “You’re actually serious.”

“… Yeah.”

Silence settles again. Not heavy. Just… final.

Then Tenzo says, softly, “Good.”

Kakashi looks at him.

“I don’t mean I want you gone,” Tenzo clarifies. “But… I think you made the right choice, senpai.”

Yuugao nods once. “You’d be no good to us if you were half here.”

Genma snorts. “Speak for yourself. I was planning to coast off his genius for another five years at least.”

Kakashi huffs, just barely. “Find another genius.”

“Nah.” Genma’s grin is crooked. “We’ll settle for you as an awkward father figure instead.”

Kakashi looks away, but his eye crinkles faintly.

Another pause, this time warmer.

Then Genma says, slow and deliberate, “You know this means we’re going to have to meet her properly, right?”

Kakashi groans immediately. “Gods, please don’t - ”

“She’s basically one of us, now,” Yuugao says, voice absolutely not open to debate.

Tenzo crosses his arms. “We need to assess the child’s tactical potential.”

Genma smirks. “And social adjustment.”

“You’re all banned from speaking to her,” Kakashi says flatly.

“Too late,” Genma says cheerfully. “I’m gonna bring cookies.”

Yuugao leans toward him, eyes glinting. “Does she like cats or dogs?”

“Does she have a favourite colour?” Tenzo asks.

“Does she know what she’s gotten herself into?” Genma wonders aloud.

Kakashi stands up. “This was a mistake.”

“Too late,” Yuugao says sweetly.

Genma raises his glass like a toast. “To Hatake Kakashi, a changed man.”

Yuugao mirrors him. “To Kakashi’s emotional development.”

Tenzo grins. “To his unwilling fatherhood.”

“I’m leaving.”

“Don’t forget her to bring to game night.”

“She’s five.”

Genma shrugs. “Early training builds resilience.”

Kakashi doesn’t dignify any of it with a response. He turns on his heel and walks off - but something inside him has loosened, just a little. 

~ ~ ~

It slips out on a Thursday.

They’re walking back from the market, the early spring air still crisp enough to bite at her fingers where they curl around the string handles of a canvas bag. Kakashi carries the heavier one without comment - he hadn’t asked, hadn’t offered. Just took it.

The sun’s just starting to dip low, brushing the rooftops in gold. The village is quieter now. Children shouting in the distance. A kettle whistling through an open window. A dog barking once, then falling silent.

It’s peaceful. Not perfect, but peaceful.

Sansa doesn’t speak much during these walks. She listens. Observes. Catalogues. Kakashi doesn’t speak much either. He walks half a step in front of her, as he always does. A habit, maybe. Or a shield.

They stop near a small dango stand. He lets her choose the skewer she wants, pays for it without blinking, and hands it to her without fanfare. She accepts it with a small, quiet word of thanks. They start walking again.

And it’s somewhere between the dango stand and the old bookstore she always glances at but never enters that she says it.

“We should cook the mushrooms tonight, before they go bad. There’s still some rice left at home.”

It’s casual. Unthinking. She doesn’t realize she’s said it until the words are already in the air, already past her lips, already out.

Home, she’d said.

She freezes. Her foot halts mid-step. Her jaw tightens. Her breath catches. She doesn’t look at him.

Behind her, Kakashi stops walking too.

There’s a single heartbeat of silence.

Two.

Then he says, simply, “We’ve got miso, too.”

She glances up, startled.

He’s not looking at her. Just gazing ahead, calm as ever. Like she didn’t just hand him something fragile and unintentional and important. Like he understands exactly what it meant - and is giving her space to let it mean nothing.

Or everything.

She doesn’t speak again. Not for the rest of the walk.

But she doesn’t correct herself, either.

And that night, while the rice steams and the mushrooms simmer in butter and salt, she sets the table for two with quiet, deliberate hands.

No ceremony. No awkwardness.

Just routine. Familiar. Normal.

Like a home.

~

That night, she can’t sleep. The moment earlier keeps replaying over and over in her head. 

Home.

It hadn’t been on purpose. That’s the worst part. Because if it had, if she’d thought about it from every angle, analyzed, and still said it, she could’ve pretended that it’d been some sort of tactic, a kind of calculated maneuver. 

But it hadn’t. It’d just - slipped out. Which means she’d meant it. 

She turns the word over and over in her head. Home had always been Winterfell. The North. Not for the cold, or the keep, or anything like that, but for the people. Her people, her family, her heart and soul made physical. 

And now - 

Now, home is quiet. It’s silence made soft. Stillness in a way that isn’t born of fear, but of comfort. It’s sitting next to Kakashi in the living room; mincing ginger in a small kitchen; walking half a step behind him, knowing he won’t pull ahead. 

It’s - him. 

She exhales slowly. Swallows. Stares at the ceiling, and curls her fingers tighter into the blanket. 

It feels like a betrayal. Of what, she’s not quite sure. Maybe her father’s voice, low in her ear as he sung her Northern lullabies to sleep. Her mother’s hand, gentle as she tucked Sansa’s hair behind her ear. Robb’s laugh, Arya’s scowl, the light in Bran’s eyes, Rickon’s gap-toothed smile, Jon’s quiet steadiness. Maybe of herself - the girl she used to be, and the girl that world turned her into, and the girl she died as. Because that girl had survived too much, lost too much, to let go so easily.

And yet.

She lies there in the dark, still as stone, the blanket tucked around her shoulders. The apartment is silent - but not empty, and that’s the part that undoes her.

She’s not alone.

It should terrify her. It does, a little. Because to name a place home again is to risk losing it. To name a person safe is to risk them vanishing like smoke. To settle is to trust, and to trust is to bleed.

She knows this. She knows this.

But - Kakashi had only nodded. Hadn’t made it awkward, hadn’t even looked at her, just said we’ve got miso, too, like it was the most natural thing in the world to share a home with someone like her. Like he hadn’t even considered taking it away. Like he was letting her keep it, for as long as she wanted.

She turns onto her side. The ceiling shifts from view, replaced by the wall - plain and unadorned, no crests or heraldry, no carved wood or flickering braziers. Just a wall. Simple. Still.

And - safe.

Her eyes burn, but she doesn’t cry. Instead, she presses her palm flat against the blanket, the mattress, breathing in the air around her - 

And allows herself, for the first time, to think that maybe this, too, can be hers.

Not instead of Winterfell, or her family, or the person she used to be - but alongside them. A new branch on the same tree. Something gained, not something replaced.

She thinks, quietly, achingly, fleetingly, that maybe that’s what her family would’ve wanted for her. The thought is - strange. Startling, almost. She hasn’t thought of what her family would’ve wanted in… a while. Years, maybe. Since before she died and was born anew. 

Her limbs feel heavy with guilt as the thought settles. They never would’ve wanted this. They never would’ve asked for this - for her to carry them on her back like a sword, for her to drag the memory of their corpses along behind her wherever she went. 

She thinks of her father’s voice, telling her I have only ever wanted for you to be happy.

She thinks of her mother, her face alight with joy solely because Sansa was smiling. 

She thinks of her siblings. Of the way Arya’s eyes had softened when they’d reunited. Of the way Jon had fought for her. Of the way Bran had hugged her, carefully, gently.

And she aches. Because she’s been selfish, hasn’t she? She’d thought that the best way - the only way - to honour her family’s memory was to never forget them. 

But maybe she’d been mistaken. Maybe, instead, the best way to honour them is to live the way they would’ve wanted her to - wholly, completely, unapologetically.

She closes her eyes, and lets the word take root. This time, without hesitation, without guilt, without dishonour. 

Home.

Chapter Text

The day begins normally enough.

They’re halfway through morning conditioning when the first signs of doom arrive - birds scattering from the treetops like a herald of divine retribution, followed by a booming, jubilant war cry echoing through the woods:

“YOUTH!!”

Kakashi goes still mid-stretch.

Hikari blinks. “… Was that - ?”

“No,” Kakashi says immediately, already turning to leave.

But it’s too late. Leaves explode upward in a plume of green and enthusiasm as Gai somersaults into the clearing like the world’s most determined meteor.

“KAKASHI!” he bellows, fists aloft. “The time has come!”

“For what,” Kakashi mutters, exhausted already.

Gai strides forward, arms wide. “To reawaken the flames of youthful competition! To push ourselves beyond the bounds of mortal endurance! To show our shining ward the glory of - ”

He freezes mid-rant. His eyes lock on Hikari. His expression lights up like a star going supernova.

“Ah-HAH! The radiant lotus herself! The fierce spark of promise! The blossom of tomorrow’s youth!”

Hikari gives him a solemn nod, face smooth as porcelain. “Good morning.”

Gai drops into a lunge so deep it borders on subterranean. “Good morning, Hikari! I have come to issue a most noble invitation!”

Kakashi’s eye narrows. “Don’t - ”

“THE YOUTHFUL TRIAL OF TRIALS,” Gai roars, unbothered. “The Circuit of Will, the Gauntlet of Fire, the legendary Springtime of Endurance!”

Kakashi makes a sound of abject horror.

“It involves six hundred sit-ups, two hours of crab-walking, a wheelbarrow relay, and a culminating event known only as ‘The Leap of Flaming Justice,’” Gai declares with the solemnity of a monk.

“No,” Kakashi says flatly.

But Hikari tilts her head, thoughtful. “What do I get if I say yes?”

Kakashi turns to her, aghast. “No,” he repeats, with emphasis.

Gai, delighted, claps his hands. “A favour! Any favour within my mighty means, to be cashed at the hour of your choosing!”

Kakashi looks between them. “This is extortion.”

“It’s negotiation,” Hikari says mildly.

Gai gasps. “A tactical prodigy!”

Kakashi runs a hand down his face. “Please don’t encourage her.”

Hikari folds her arms, considering. “You’ll owe me one favour, verbal contract, witnessed by Kakashi.”

“I swear it upon my flames of youth!” Gai crows.

She nods. “Then I accept.”

Kakashi just stares at her. “Why.”

“Because,” she says sweetly, “he’s louder than a taiko drum, and I want to see what ‘The Leap of Flaming Justice’ even is.”

“Regret,” Kakashi says, “is what it is.”

~

One hour later, Hikari is crab-walking through a makeshift obstacle course involving tires, jump ropes, and at least one flaming hoop. She is sweating profusely, red-faced, and visibly contemplating several life decisions.

Kakashi sits beneath a tree, arms crossed, watching her with the resigned air of a man witnessing the consequences of free will.

“She’s doing magnificently!” Gai yells from the sidelines, sprinting alongside her. “Feel the burn of your blossoming potential!”

“I’m feeling something,” Hikari mutters. “It’s probably internal bleeding.”

“You’re fine,” Kakashi calls lazily. “Hydrate.”

“She’s got spirit!” Gai howls. “And dignity! And quads forged in the crucible of perseverance!”

Hikari wheezes. “I want my favour in writing.”

~

That evening, she’s on the couch with a damp towel around her neck and her legs stretched out stiffly like she’s ninety years old. Kakashi sets a cup of tea in front of her.

“So,” he says. “Worth it?”

“I have no regrets,” she says primly. Then, after a beat, “… Though I can’t feel my legs.”

He smirks beneath his mask. “I warned you.”

She sips her tea. “He owes me a favour now.”

“That’s awful.”

“Not for me.”

Kakashi exhales, long-suffering. “You’re terrifying.”

She smiles serenely. “I’m adorable.”

A pause.

Then, “KAKASHI!” comes distantly from the street.

He flinches. Violently. “I swear, if he starts doing lunges outside our window - ”

Hikari lifts her teacup like a toast. “Then I’ll ask for two favours.”

~

Kakashi knows something is wrong the moment they turn the corner onto their street.

It’s too quiet.

Not in the way that means danger - he knows those silences, could write entire field manuals on their exact timbre. No, this is something worse.

This is the silence of intent.

Hikari is walking beside him, a small bag of calligraphy supplies tucked under one arm. They’ve just come from the stationary shop - again - and she’s currently detailing, in mild, quiet tones, the linguistic differences between three regional fuuinjutsu notations and why Kumo’s system makes her physically ill.

He should be paying attention.

He is not. Because he recognizes that particular potted plant. And it does not belong on his neighbour’s porch.

He slows.

Hikari notices. “Something wrong?”

He stares at the plant. “The ficus of doom has returned.”

Hikari blinks. “… I’m sorry?”

He doesn’t answer, though the ficus has a storied history. Kakashi’s mind is already halfway to the battlefield the moment he sees it. Because that particular ficus has been missing since Tenzo’s last failed prank, when Genma launched it off Kakashi’s balcony in a rare fit of dramatic retaliation, shouting something about betrayal and the sanctity of houseplants.

That was six months ago. Kakashi had assumed it was dead. Or worse, repotted.

But no. There it is, squat and leafy and deceptively innocent, perched neatly on the porch railing of the old lady three doors down - who, Kakashi is fairly certain, has never owned a plant in her life. Which means - 

This is a message. A declaration. A trap.

He remembers the first time the ficus appeared, back when Team Ro was still new and still figuring out their boundaries (read: lack thereof). Tenzo had dropped it on Yuugao’s head during an ambush drill, mistaking her for a suspicious civilian target. Yuugao had taken this with the kind of calm, even-tempered grace that involved six kunai, a smoke bomb, and a long lecture on tactical misidentification. Genma, not to be outdone, once used it as cover for a smoke canister rigged to release pink dye when disturbed. Kakashi himself had, on occasion, moved the ficus in and out of his own apartment with the same careful precision he used on S-rank infiltration missions, just to mess with them.

The ficus means war. Because the ficus only shows up under two circumstances: 1) when an ambush is imminent, or 2) when Genma is feeling nostalgic and Tenzo has access to tear gas. 

Its presence now means one thing: Team Ro is nearby. Possibly all of them. Probably waiting for him. Definitely up to something.

He doesn’t tell her any of this, though, because there isn’t time. Instead, he grabs her by the shoulder and shoves her behind him a half-second before the door to their building explodes open.

“HATAKEEEE!”

Genma skips into the street, trailing streamers. Actual, multicoloured streamers. He’s holding a plate of cookies aloft in one hand like a battle standard. A party popper explodes in the air behind him.

Kakashi curses. Loudly. Considers running.

Too late.

Yuugao drops from the rooftop. Tenzo rises from the ground like a ghost. Together, they flank him with the practiced coordination of a strike team.

It is a strike team.

“Operation Cookie Intercept successful,” Tenzo says, deadpan.

“You’ve been avoiding us,” Yuugao adds, crossing her arms.

“I’ve been busy,” Kakashi replies, betrayal hot in his throat.

"Busy-schmusy,” Genma scoffs. “You retired from ANBU and refused to let us meet the kid. We were starting to think you were hiding her.”

“I told you - ”

“And so we had no choice but to launch a tactical ambush,” Tenzo says, entirely unapologetic.

Kakashi looks over his shoulder.

Hikari is peeking around him with the same deadpan serenity of a girl who once watched Gai attempt a triple backflip in public and lived to tell the tale. Her expression is a careful mask of mild curiosity and weary acceptance.

“I assume,” she says slowly, “these are people you’ve been pretending didn’t exist.”

Genma gasps. “She’s perfect.”

Kakashi sighs.

Yuugao steps forward, appraising. “Hikari, correct?”

Hikari inclines her head. “Yes.”

Tenzo gives a polite bow. “We’re Kakashi’s teammates. Well - former teammates. Current friends.”

“You have friends?” Hikari asks Kakashi, with genuine bafflement.

Genma wheezes. Yuugao snorts. Tenzo smiles.

“I like her already,” Genma announces. He holds out the cookie plate. “Truce?”

Hikari studies it. Then studies Kakashi. Then, primly, she asks, “Are they poisoned?”

Tenzo lifts a brow. “Only the ones with the smiley faces.”

Kakashi pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re all banned from my home.”

~

They pile into Kakashi’s apartment anyway like a coordinated breach - boots off, coats hung, Genma scattering streamers with each step. Kakashi stands in the entryway, rethinking every decision that’s led him to this exact moment. Yuugao relocates the ficus of doom into a corner of the living room, next to the couch.

“Shoes off,” Hikari says mildly as she slips hers off and nudges them into place with practiced precision. “The floor doesn’t clean itself.”

Genma obediently kicks off his sandals with a dramatic flourish. “A child of culture.”

Yuugao makes herself at home immediately, pulling a deck of cards from her flak vest. Tenzo, traitorous bastard that he is, heads straight for the kettle and starts rummaging through the cabinets for tea.

Hikari, composed and meticulous, places her calligraphy bag on its shelf, smooths her shirt, brushes her hair behind one ear. Then she turns toward the table, just in time for Genma to pat the cushion beside him. 

“Come sit, small child,” he says. “It’s time to introduce you to the world of poker.”

Kakashi’s head snaps up. “No. Absolutely not. You are not teaching a five-year-old how to gamble.”

“It’s not gambling,” Genma says, wounded. “It’s psychological warfare. With snacks.”

“She’s five,” Kakashi hisses, slamming teacups onto the tray with more force than strictly necessary. “Teach her Go. Shogi. Anything that doesn’t involve bluffing and currency.”

“We’re not playing for money,” Yuugao says, already shuffling the deck with the smoothness of a trained assassin. “We’re playing for bragging rights. Maybe matchsticks?”

“There are cookies,” Tenzo adds as he sets the plate of Genma’s offerings in the centre of the table.

Kakashi stares. “You’re all degenerates.”

Hikari peers at the cards, head tilted. “What’s poker?”

Genma lights up. “It’s a game. You get cards. You pretend you have better cards than you do. Sometimes you win because everyone thinks you’re lying. Sometimes you win because you’re not.”

She blinks. “So it’s like diplomacy, but with fewer hostages.”

Kakashi chokes on his tea.

Yuugao hums thoughtfully. “She’s not wrong.”

Genma grins wide. “You’re gonna love this.”

Kakashi opens his mouth to object again - but Hikari is already sliding onto the cushion beside Genma, back straight, expression serene, hands folded in her lap like she’s preparing to negotiate an international trade agreement.

This, Kakashi thinks grimly, will not end well.

~

Thirty-five minutes later, the battlefield is littered with the metaphorical corpses of ANBU pride.

Genma is down to two matchsticks and a crumbling sense of self. Yuugao has gone quiet in the way she only ever does when planning vengeance. Tenzo is staring into his tea like it might explain where it all went wrong.

Hikari, meanwhile, is calmly stacking her matchsticks into symmetrical towers. Her expression is serene. Regal. Utterly unreadable.

Kakashi watches from the kitchen with the same distant horror one reserves for witnessing a natural disaster, or perhaps divine retribution.

“Raise,” Hikari says, sliding a modest stack of matches forward. Her tone is polite. Almost shy. Like she’s not orchestrating their total psychological defeat.

“I fold,” Genma mutters, rubbing his eyes, completely exhausted. “I fold to the baby. Are you happy now, Kakashi? Your five-year-old just ran a confidence op on three ANBU.”

“She didn’t learn it from me,” Kakashi says.

“She baited me into a bluff,” Yuugao mutters. “I had a full house. She looked sad, and I folded. And then she laid down a pair of threes.”

Tenzo nods solemnly. “She played me with an eyebrow twitch. I still don’t know how.”

“She’s small,” Genma says. “That’s her advantage. She’s small, and she knows she’s small, and she weaponized it. I’ve seen warlords less terrifying.”

Hikari picks up a cookie and takes a dainty bite. “You’re all very kind.”

Kakashi pinches the bridge of his nose. “You don’t have to be polite after psychological warfare.”

“Of course I do,” she replies primly. “That’s when it matters most.”

Yuugao exhales sharply. “She’s going to run a diplomatic black ops division by the time she’s fifteen.”

“She already is,” Genma groans. “We’ve been compromised. Mentally, emotionally, spiritually.”

“She’s five,” Kakashi tries again, weakly, because someone has to.

“She’s five and better at poker than half the Fire Daimyo’s staff,” Tenzo says.

Genma flops sideways onto the floor like he’s been shot. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

“Would you like to play another round?” Hikari asks, the picture of innocence.

Yuugao lifts the deck. “Yes.”

“NO,” Genma says at the exact same time.

Kakashi watches the chaos swirl around her - his living room turned battlefield, his former teammates psychologically shattered, his teacups now strategically deployed as morale boosters - and then looks at Hikari again.

She’s smiling faintly. Calm. Untouched.

She catches him watching and raises an eyebrow. Not smug. Not coy. Just - inviting.

Like she’s offering him a seat at the table.

Kakashi sighs, slow and deep. Then walks over and sits down beside her.

“Alright,” he says. “Deal me in.”

~

The mood shifts.

Genma straightens slowly, eyes wide, like something ancient has stirred. Yuugao’s fingers pause on the deck. Tenzo exhales quietly, reverent.

Hikari, perfectly composed, meets Kakashi’s eye with the unshaken calm of a diplomat addressing a rival envoy. There’s no intimidation, no challenge - only curiosity. Measured and cool.

Yuugao begins to deal.

Kakashi lounges back against the wall, legs crossed, one hand resting idly on his knee. His visible eye is half-lidded, unreadable. The other’s behind his hitai-ate, of course - one more layer of advantage. His voice, when he speaks, is lazy.

“Let’s keep it simple,” he says. “Five-card draw. No wilds. One round.”

“One round?” Genma echoes, already tense. “We’re doing single-round sudden death?”

Yuugao nods once. “It’s the only way.”

Tenzo quietly passes Kakashi the tea he made earlier. It’s gone cold. Neither of them comment.

The cards hit the floor with soft, practiced precision.

Kakashi doesn’t even look at his hand right away. He lifts the edge with a slow, deliberate flick of his fingers, just enough to glimpse the corner of each card.

Three tens.

Good. Strong. But not perfect.

He discards two.

Yuugao deals him two more.

He doesn’t react. His expression doesn’t shift. His posture remains loose and unbothered. He knows he’s good at poker. He knows it. It’s not arrogance, it’s just a fact. He’s played shinobi lords and war criminals and one terrifying tea shop matron with a gambling ring in the back room.

He’s never lost.

He lifts his new cards. A ten and a queen.

Four of a kind.

He sets them back down. Carefully. Neatly. His eye flickers up - just once - to Hikari.

She’s already watching him.

Her face is the picture of politeness. Small hands folded, eyes wide and mild. But there’s a tension in her shoulders that doesn’t match her expression. She’s trying to match him. To read him.

She places a single matchstick into the centre of the table.

“Call,” she says, quiet but clear.

Kakashi lifts an eyebrow. Places two.

“Raise.”

Genma audibly inhales.

Yuugao touches her heart lightly. “Godspeed.”

Tenzo mutters, “I’m not emotionally prepared for this.”

Hikari eyes the bet. Thinks. Then nods and pushes three matchsticks forward.

“Match and raise.”

Kakashi lets the silence stretch for a beat. Then - four matchsticks.

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t need to. He knows this game. He is this game.

Hikari tilts her head. Her expression doesn’t change - but something sharpens, subtly. The corners of her lips twitch upward by a millimetre.

Then - five matchsticks.

Kakashi exhales, long and slow.

And folds.

The room erupts.

“WHAT,” Genma squawks. “YOU HAD HER.”

“You folded?” Tenzo gasps. “You?”

Yuugao’s hands go limp. “I’ve never seen him fold with that face.”

Kakashi just sips his cold tea.

Across from him, Hikari lays down her hand.

Two pair. Eights and fours.

Genma makes a noise like a dying animal. “She bluffed. You folded to a five-year-old’s bluff.”

Kakashi closes his eye. “She smiled on the last raise. That wasn’t bluffing confidence. That was real. It was too quick.”

Hikari blinks innocently. “It’s not logical to telegraph confidence.”

Kakashi’s head jerks up, incredulous, eye snapping open. “You did it on purpose?”

She smiles, demure as a temple maiden. “You're the one who assumed the smile was genuine.”

Yuugao actually clutches her chest. “She played him.”

Tenzo breathes, “Flawlessly.”

Genma falls backward again, arms out. “We are so, so doomed.”

Kakashi stares at Hikari across the table. She meets his gaze calmly. With poise. And the barest hint of quiet pride.

He lets the silence sit for one long beat.

Then he nods, just once.

“Well played,” he says.

Her smile, this time, is real.

~

The living room looks like a warzone.

Not in the physical sense - Hikari has quietly gathered the matchsticks into neat piles and stacked the empty teacups with practiced grace - but emotionally?

Emotionally, Kakashi’s living room is a smoking crater of shattered egos.

Genma is lying face-down on the floor, quietly muttering about betrayal into the wood. Yuugao has migrated to a corner with the deck of cards, shuffling them over and over with the slow, thousand-yard-stare of a soldier questioning the entire concept of strategy. Tenzo hasn’t moved in five full minutes and might be meditating or having an out-of-body experience.

Hikari is perched on her cushion like a serene little warlord at the end of a successful campaign. She is sipping tea.

Kakashi watches all of this unfold with the dull, distant exhaustion of a man who knows better than to ask questions he doesn’t want answers to.

Eventually, Genma groans into the floor. “Okay. Real question.”

Kakashi doesn’t even look up. “No.”

“I haven’t asked it yet.”

“I can feel the question radiating off your body. It’s going to be dumb. The answer is no.”

Genma lifts his head, hair askew. “Have you been secretly training her in psychological warfare? Like, when we weren’t looking?”

Kakashi gestures vaguely with his tea. “Does it look like I have the emotional bandwidth to teach a five-year-old how to fake microexpressions?”

Yuugao looks up, eyes narrowed. “So you’re telling us that this” - she waves a hand toward Hikari, who is currently delicately nibbling a cookie - “just walked into your life fully formed? No training? No instruction?”

Kakashi sighs. “Physical conditioning. That’s all I’ve been doing with her. She runs laps. Does sit-ups. I make her do push-ups on a timer.”

Genma rolls over and stares at the ceiling. “She didn’t read my bluff. She engineered it. She set a trap and I fell into it. I’ve seen jonin choke under less pressure.”

“She’s five,” Tenzo says distantly, for the tenth time that night. “I keep repeating it like it’s going to help.”

Kakashi leans back against the wall and finally looks at her.

She’s not gloating. She hasn’t gloated once. There’s no smugness, no self-congratulation. Just calm. Grace. Perfect posture. She finishes her tea, sets the cup down quietly, and folds her hands in her lap.

Like this is just... normal.

And that’s the part that gets him.

Because it is normal, for her. She didn’t scheme or plan or try to impress anyone. She just did what came naturally - and what came naturally was reading a room full of elite shinobi like a bedtime story and proceeding to dismantle their psyches with the deftness of a seasoned envoy.

“She hasn’t been trained,” Kakashi says slowly, almost to himself. “She’s just… like this.”

That silences everyone.

Hikari glances at him. “Is that bad?”

Kakashi opens his mouth. Closes it. Runs a hand through his hair.

“No,” he says finally. “Just... unexpected.”

Yuugao huffs. “You’ve been making her run stairs while she’s casually outmanoeuvring ANBU operatives with mind games?”

Kakashi doesn’t answer.

Genma sits up, squints at Hikari. “Kid. Be honest. Have you ever considered overthrowing a minor daimyo?”

Hikari tilts her head, looking mildly intrigued. “No. Should I?”

Kakashi shoots to his feet. “And on that note, game night is over. Everyone out.”

Yuugao sighs and gets to her feet. Tenzo mutters something about needing to “rebalance his chakra centers.” Genma salutes Hikari solemnly with the last cookie.

“You win this round, Tiny Shisho,” he intones. “But next time - ”

“There will be no next time,” Kakashi says, shoving him toward the door.

They file out with varying degrees of dignity. Hikari walks them all to the front door, bows politely, and thanks them for the games.

Kakashi watches her the whole time.

When the door finally closes behind Genma’s dramatic, parting lament about “being bested by a pocket-sized prodigy,” the apartment falls into a rare, blessed silence.

Hikari turns around, brushes her hair behind her ear, and says, “That was fun.”

Kakashi just stares at her.

Then he says, “You terrify me.”

She smiles. “Thank you.”

He mutters something about emotional instability, picks up the matchsticks, and wonders - not for the first time - if this is what Minato felt like trying to raise him.

… Probably.

Except Minato didn’t have to worry that his kid might talk the daimyo out of his own country by age ten.

He’s going to need more tea.

And probably a lock for the card deck.

~

The apartment is quiet again.

The matchsticks have been swept away. The tea cups are stacked in the sink. The last crumbs of cookie have been cleared from the table. It’s almost like nothing happened at all.

Almost.

Kakashi stands in the hallway outside Hikari’s door, listening.

She’d gone to bed without protest. Just changed into her pajamas, brushed her teeth, and slipped under the covers like it was any other night. She’d told him goodnight in that same measured tone that never quite matches her age.

Now she’s still. Breathing slow. The kind of stillness that means real sleep.

He turns away. Walks back into the living room. And slumps onto the couch like something unraveling.

The silence here is different than it was before. Not the aching quiet of solitude, not the heavy kind he used to sit in when ANBU nights stretched too long and sleep wouldn’t come. This silence is… full.

Not loud. But full. Of things unsaid. Of words he doesn’t know how to string together. Of questions.

Kakashi leans forward, elbows on his knees, and lets his hands hang between them.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says aloud. It’s not loud. Not desperate. But it’s true.

He drags a hand through his hair and exhales, low and tired.

“She’s five,” he says to no one. “She’s five and she looked at Yuugao like she was an opening paragraph. And read her.”

He scrubs a palm over his face.

“And won.”

She hadn’t even gloated. That was the worst part. She hadn’t gloated, or teased, or looked for praise. Just accepted her victory and set the table back to rights. Like it was routine. Like it was expected. Like it was normal.

And he doesn’t know what the hell to do with that.

He’s used to prodigies - hell, he was one. He knows what genius looks like when it’s shaped like a blade, when it cuts outward, slices through obstacle and enemy alike. But this? This isn’t a blade.

This is something else.

She’s not a kunai. She’s a chessboard.

She’s not waiting for orders. She’s thinking six steps ahead of the people giving them.

And she’s five.

Five.

He leans back, lets his head thump softly against the couch cushion, and closes his eye.

Minato-sensei would’ve known what to do.

The thought strikes sharp and sudden, like a kunai to the ribs. He doesn’t think it often anymore. It’s too painful. Too dangerous. But tonight, it rises without permission, and it stays.

Minato would’ve known how to see this - how to guide her without caging her, how to teach her without taming her. He’d know how to nurture this kind of brilliance without breaking it.

Kakashi presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, hard.

“I wish you were here,” he whispers.

There’s no answer. Of course there isn’t. Just the quiet of the apartment. The tick of the wall clock. The memory of a teacher’s hand on his shoulder and a voice that once said, you're not alone, you know.

He’s never missed him more.

Because this? This isn’t a mission. This isn’t assassination or sabotage or extraction. This is raising someone. This is parenting, in the strange, uneven way that happens when two people who aren’t related by blood decide to make something of each other. And he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.

He doesn’t even know where to start.

She’s sleeping now. Safe, at least for tonight. But Kakashi can’t help but wonder - what if he fails her? What if he teaches her all the wrong things? What if she trusts him, and he turns out to be the latest in a long, bitter line of people who couldn’t carry the weight of that trust?

The thought makes his stomach twist. Because the truth is - he wants to do this right.

He wants her to be safe. He wants her to be more than what the world expects. He wants her to have freedom - not just protection, but choice.

But he doesn’t know how to get her there.

He’s trying. Gods, he’s trying. But sometimes trying doesn’t feel like enough.

Kakashi opens his eye again. Stares at the ceiling. Not because it has answers - but because it’s all he’s got.

“I miss you,” he says. Soft. Barely more than a breath.

The silence holds.

And somewhere down the hall, a little girl sleeps.

Chapter Text

Eight months into physical conditioning, Kakashi deems Hikari ready to start learning katas.

She doesn’t argue, doesn’t question the shift in their routine. Just nods once, smooths her hair back with practiced efficiency, and stands at attention on the training field like she’s preparing to give a speech. There’s a seriousness to her stance - not tense, not stiff, but coiled, like she’s waiting to be released into movement.

He teaches her the standard Konoha Academy forms first. Basic, efficient, well-balanced. Designed for versatility. Every new Academy student learns them - sets built from decades of refinement, shaped to form a foundation under any future style. They’re meant to be adaptable, to blend seamlessly into both taijutsu and weapon training. They’re the obvious choice, the sensible choice. And she takes to them with the same quiet determination she’s applied to everything else - focused, unwavering, precise. But that’s not what stops him cold.

No, instead, it’s the way she moves - not just with discipline, but grace. Every transition is seamless. Every pivot is effortless. Her momentum never stutters, never jars. It’s like she’s dancing. Like her body is obeying a rhythm only she can hear, something older than drills, older than war. She doesn’t move like a soldier - she moves like water.

Kakashi watches from the edge of the field, arms folded loosely across his chest, eye narrowed beneath his brow. She’s halfway through the third set - twist, sweep, rising block, turn, strike - when the thought crystallizes.

This isn’t the Academy style. Not really. It’s built on those bones, but it doesn’t fit her the way it should. Too rigid, too linear. Like forcing a river into a box.

And it makes him remember something - or, rather, someone.

Kushina.

The way she’d moved when she fought - fluid, not wild, even if she’d seemed it at a glance. All coiled intention and flickering misdirection. Her style had never relied on brute force the way people assumed it would. Not once she was serious. She used her opponents’ weight against them, slipped past their guard, struck where they wouldn’t expect. 

Her movements had been a blend of evasion and control. Water, not flame. The Uzumaki style, ancient and smooth, like the whirlpool of their clan crest. Nagare no Mai - the Dance of the Current.

He’d seen it used only a handful of times. It was never widely taught, not even in Konoha. Most of its remaining scrolls are probably buried deep in the archives, sealed away under bloodline protections and decades of dust.

But watching Hikari now - watching the way she flows from form to form without hesitation - Kakashi feels a thread of something pull tight inside him.

Maybe...

Maybe she’d be better served learning something else.

Something that moves like she does.

~

He’d be an idiot of the highest order if he’d never considered the possibility of Hikari being an Uzumaki. There’s too many coincidences, too many things that add up - the hair, the sealing, and now, the grace. If he’d been given a profile of Hikari and her attributes and interests and asked which clan she belonged to, he’d probably tear the asker apart with zero mercy, because - isn’t it obvious? She’s clearly an Uzumaki. 

But the issue is, without a name, without something, he’s not sure. There’s no possible way for him to be sure. Her father’s a question mark and her mother’s in the ground - though the mother being an Uzumaki would be consistent with her refusal to give a surname.

But that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? There’s no trace. No last name, no clan crest tucked into the blankets, no paper trail to pull. Nothing but a single heartbeat of instinct - and Kakashi doesn’t trust instinct. Except, maybe, when it comes to her.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Because if her mother was an Uzumaki - if that red hair and sealing talent and graceful, fluid movement came from somewhere - it changes everything. Not just because of what it means politically, or historically, but because of what it means for her. For her future. For what she might become. For what others would see her as.

Because if she is an Uzumaki, and if the wrong people find out, it won’t just be curiosity she has to fend off. If Danzo or Kumo or Kiri got wind of a confirmed Uzumaki girl -

She’d be gone by morning. 

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. This shouldn’t matter. Clan or not, surname or not, she’s already proving who she is.

But the world doesn’t care about that. The world cares about blood.

And so the question of kata forms and taijutsu style remains. Because a red-haired orphan with a propensity for sealing can - maybe - be dismissed as coincidence without the last name, without concrete proof. But a red-haired orphan with a propensity for sealing who also uses the Nagare no Mai? That’s too many coincidences for it to just be happenstance. Add her diplomatic streak on top of all that, and Danzo wouldn’t be able to resist. It’d be like dangling candy in front of a baby.

Kakashi doesn’t move from his place at the edge of the training field.

Hikari is still going through the forms, methodical and steady, her breathing even, her balance so centred it makes his jaw tighten. She finishes the third set and shifts her feet to start the fourth without prompting, like she hasn’t even noticed his silence.

He watches her and thinks, it’s already too late.

Because he can’t unsee it. Can’t make himself believe it’s anything other than what it is. The grace, the control, the rhythm - that’s not something taught. That’s inherited. That’s memory in the blood, instinct carved into bone. Maybe she doesn’t even realize it. Maybe she just thinks this is simply how bodies move.

And maybe that’s the worst part.

He doesn’t breathe for a moment, doesn’t blink, just watches her arms arc in a tight, sweeping turn that would be perfect for a misdirection feint, for guiding a strike off-target, for slipping inside an enemy’s reach and striking at their core.

He knows what the answer is. Has known since she opened that first fuuinjutsu textbook and looked at it like scripture, like salvation. He just - doesn’t want to admit it. Because the moment he does, it means taking steps that can’t be undone.

If he teaches her Nagare no Mai, even in private, even under the radar, it’s a risk, not just because of who might notice, but because of what it will mean for her. Because if she’s seen using it - on a mission, in training, anywhere someone with a memory might recognize it - then it won’t matter that she doesn’t have a last name. In fact, it’d be easier if she doesn’t - she’d be a blank slate, an empty space, a question mark waiting for someone to come along and scribble Uzumaki on top of. 

She’d be a target.

But if he doesn’t teach her… then what?

Force her to keep wearing the skin of something she’s not? Let her build habits and muscle memory that will work against the way she’s built to move? Teach her to fight like someone else, when everything in her already knows how to move like herself?

No. That’s not protection - that’s erasure. And he won’t do that to her.

So. That leaves only one path.

He exhales slowly, his fingers tightening over his arms. In the training field, she finishes the fourth set and smoothly, gracefully starts the fifth, transitioning between katas like water flowing over river rock. 

He should adopt her. Not temporary guardianship. Not quiet mentorship. Not vague tutelage.

Real, documented, signed-in-blood adoption.

Because once she’s his family on paper, his heir, officially and irrevocably, she becomes his. Not just in practice, but in law. No one - not Danzo, not the elders, not Kumo, not even the Hokage himself - could take her without going through him. And if they try - 

They’ll learn just how deep the Hatake name still cuts.

It’s a gamble. Maybe even a foolish one. Because when the wrong people inevitably put the pieces together and decide she’s worth the risk anyway, even he might not be enough to stop them. But at least she’d have a name. A shield. A claim.

She deserves that much. And he - 

He wants to give her that. Not out of a sense of duty, or obligation, or because he thinks he should, but because slowly, quietly, without his noticing, she’s already become his family.

She’s not his daughter. Not his sister. Not his blood. But she’s still family in every way that matters. The way Minato had been, or Rin, or Obito. A way forged not in lineage, but in choice. 

 - And this time, it is his choice.

Not forced by tragedy, not something he’s clinging to after the fact. This isn’t grief masquerading as loyalty. It isn’t penance. It isn’t a debt.

It’s her.

It’s the way she drags the blanket off the couch each night and folds it carefully before bed. The way she files her sealing notes meticulously and colour-codes her corrections. The way she stares at things too long sometimes, eyes far away, like she’s remembering something older than she should know how to remember. The way she speaks - quiet, deliberate, measured - not like a child but like a diplomat.

She’s strange. Still. More wary than she lets on. Older than she has any right to be. But she’s family.

He doesn’t know when that happened. Maybe the day she met his gaze and didn’t flinch. Maybe the night she fell asleep against his side with a book half-open in her lap and one hand curled in the fabric of his vest.

Maybe it doesn’t matter.

He should be terrified out of his mind. Hells, a part of him is. The same part that knows that to care is to lose, the same part that whispers that he won’t ever be enough, the same part that tells him, with quiet, unwavering certainty, that every person he loves will die. 

But there’s another part to him, now. A part forged in comfortable silence and light banter, that pushes back and says maybe this time won’t be any different, but that doesn't mean it matters less.

Because she’s been alone her whole life, hasn’t she? And if he turns away now, he’ll just be one more person who leaves. 

So yeah, he’s afraid. It’s probably, maybe, absolutely a bad idea. He’s almost certainly going to get hurt. 

But this isn’t just about him, is it? It’s about her, too. She deserves someone who chooses her, and if no one else will, if no one else wants to - 

He will. 

And so, for her sake -

Maybe he can be brave. Just once more.

~

He swallows. The decision settles in his bones like a weight he’s finally willing to carry.

She finishes the set and turns toward him, sweat clinging to her brow, braid loosened at the temples. Her expression is unreadable, calm, expectant.

Kakashi doesn’t move at first. Just watches her. Then - slowly - he unfolds his arms. Steps forward. The grass rustles softly beneath his feet.

Hikari straightens unconsciously, pulling herself to attention as he approaches, but she doesn’t speak. She never does first - not in moments like these, when something hangs thick in the air between them, unsaid and heavy.

He stops a pace away from her. Looks down at her sweat-damp face, at the steady gaze that never shies away from his, not anymore.

“There’s something I want to offer you,” he says.

Her head tilts, just slightly. Curious. Kakashi lets the silence stretch for a beat, two, as he gathers what little courage he has left. Then - 

“What I’ve been teaching you - the katas - they’re good. Solid. Reliable. But they don’t suit you, not fully.”

A blink. Her brow furrows just enough to make him soften his voice.

“There’s another style. An older one. It's not in the Academy curriculum, and most shinobi alive today don’t even know it ever existed. But it might fit you better. The way you move - the way you fight - it's already leaning in that direction.”

Her lips part slightly, but she doesn’t interrupt.

“It’s called Nagare no Mai. The Dance of the Current.”

She blinks again. Then whispers, “Like water?”

“Exactly like water.” He studies her face carefully, searching for any flicker of recognition. There is none. He’s not sure why he even looked.

“I can teach it to you,” Kakashi continues. “I will, if you want. But there’s something you need to understand first.” He exhales. “This style - it's old clan work. It’s bloodline work. It was a signature of the Uzumaki clan, who were all but wiped out. Teaching it to someone who doesn’t have that name, who doesn’t have any name - it’s dangerous. Not because of what it is, but because of what it says about you. Because the Uzumaki were once hunted almost to extinction, and if I teach you their fighting style, you’d be hunted, too, without a name to shield you.”

He pauses. “It doesn’t help that you show other Uzumaki traits as well,” he says carefully. “The interest and proficiency in sealing. The red hair. Put all that together, and you’d be an obvious target.”

She stares at him. Her lips part, and when she speaks, it’s barely above a whisper. “You think I’m an Uzumaki?”

“You could be,” Kakashi says, almost gently. “But it doesn’t matter what I think. It doesn't even matter whether or not you truly are Uzumaki. What matters is what others will think - and how they’ll act on what they think. If I taught you the Nagare no Mai as you are now, you’d almost certainly be hunted without reservation. But - ”

He swallows.

“But if you had a name, a clan - it could protect you.” He exhales, feeling absurdly terrified. “I’m offering to adopt you. And if I do, then I can teach you, because you’d be my heir, and under my name, no one would be able to touch you. Not without going through me.”

The words land like stones in a pond - rippling outward. Her eyes widen, just a little. Even then, it’s the most shocked he’s ever seen her.

“Or,” he says more gently now, “we can continue as we are. You’ll keep learning the standard forms. I’ll keep training you. Nothing changes. You’ll stay safe, hidden. Fewer risks.”

Another long silence. She lowers her gaze, expression unreadable. Something flickers briefly in her eyes, something like grief, or pain. For a long time, there’s silence.

“I need to think about it,” she says at last, carefully, quietly.

“Of course,” Kakashi replies, without hesitation.

She nods once. Then, with a breath, she turns away to retrieve her water bottle from the edge of the field, movements a little less fluid now - less from hesitation and more from the weight of decision.

Kakashi watches her go.

And wonders if, deep down, she already knows the answer.

~

The walk home is silent, which isn’t unusual, but this time, the silence is heavy, and that part is unusual. 

Sansa’s still as she walks. She keeps her eyes on the ground, half-lidded with thought, barely paying attention to where she’s going, instead trusting Kakashi to lead them home.

The thought hits her with all the gentleness of a dagger to the abdomen. 

One - she trusts him to lead her. 

Two - home. 

And then another thought rises unbidden: he offered to adopt her. 

The dagger twists, spearing deeper. Her instinctual reaction is no. Absolutely not. She likes not having a last name, likes the mystery of her heritage in this world, because if she simply has a first name, she has no other roots. No other blood. No other heritage, no other family, no other clan or House of any kind. Because if she did - if the blood running through her veins came from somewhere - 

Then that means she’s not a Stark. Not by blood. Not anymore.

And that - 

That, Sansa cannot ever allow. 

… And yet. 

And yet, she casts her mind back to that Thursday evening, weeks ago. Where she’d resolved to live the way her family would’ve wanted her to. And she wonders - 

Would they have wanted this?

Would they have wanted her to deny herself an advantage for their sake? Would they have wanted her to keep pretending she’d simply transmigrated in both body and soul, and ignore any indications otherwise? And, most of all - 

Would they have wanted her to cling to the memory of what she once had, instead of letting herself have something new?

Because she knows Kakashi, now. She knows him by the softness in his eye when he looks at her, by the gentleness of his fingers when he adjusts her form, by the low tone of his voice when he offers her praise. And she knows, in her heart of hearts, that he would not have offered to adopt her if he didn’t already see her - at least partially - as family.

He’s not the type to offer this out of obligation. Not something as monumental as adoption. Which means a part of him wants this - wants to protect her; to help her live, not just survive; to take this strange arrangement they have and drag it out of the shadows and ink it on paper.

The thought is terrifying. She feels like she’s standing on the edge of a precipice, gazing down, down, down into the abyss below. Her stomach is twisting, her palms are clammy, and her heartbeat is jackrabbiting against her ribs. 

The worst part - the absolute worst part - is that she doesn’t mind. She even - 

Gods. She can barely think it, even in her own head.

She even - 

She even - 

She likes it.  

It’s - comforting. Like a warm hug, or a soft blanket, or a bowl of hot soup on a cold winter day. 

She hates herself for it. Deeply and irrevocably. Hates herself for feeling that way. Because a second home is one thing - that, she can come to terms with, for the sake of the love her family had once held for her. 

But a second name? That’s something else entirely. 

Maybe it shouldn’t be. Maybe the distinction is silly, or absurd, or stupid, even. But she has only ever been Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and she can accept the changing of one part, but to lose both - 

The mere thought is unbearable. 

And so - 

She has to say no. She has to. To agree would be to spit in the face of the person she’d been.

And yet - 

And yet, the idea of taking his offer and throwing it in his face, even gently, even kindly, makes everything inside her recoil. 

~

She doesn’t know what to do. Because on top of that - 

He doesn’t know. 

He doesn’t know about her past life. Doesn’t know that she still mouths I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell to herself at night sometimes. Doesn’t know she’s already lived an entire lifetime in a different world. Doesn’t know she remembers dying and then waking up in this one afterwards.

If he knew - 

If he knew, would he still have offered?

Kakashi walks beside her, silent as always, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed - but not inattentive. Never inattentive.

She wonders if he can feel it. The tension radiating off her like steam, the way her breath shudders a little too hard when she exhales, the way her steps are just slightly less sure than they usually are.

She doubts it. He’s observant - painfully so - but he’s also considerate. He doesn’t pry. Never has. That, more than anything, might be why she trusts him. And that trust - it’s what’s breaking her now. Because she doesn’t know what to do with it.

She glances at him. He doesn’t look back. Just keeps walking, letting her set the pace, like he knows she’s not quite ready. 

Would they have wanted her to tell him?

Her parents, her brothers, Arya.

Would they have told her to keep it close, to guard it with all the fierceness of a winter storm, the way she’s done for five long years?

Or would they have told her that secrets like this weigh heavier over time, that trust - real trust - means not just being protected, but known?

And Kakashi...

He doesn’t need to know. That’s the truth of it. He’s offered her everything - training, shelter, protection, even a name - without asking a single question about where she came from. Without questioning the inconsistencies she knows she hasn’t hidden well enough. But the offer of adoption has changed the equation. Because if she accepts - if she takes the name, lets herself be known to the world as his family - then it feels... wrong, somehow, for him not to know just who he’s adopting.

More than that - he deserves to know why she’s hesitating. And she - there’s a part of her that wants to tell him. 

She wonders, fleetingly, if it’s just to hear someone call her Sansa out loud again. But no - it’s more than that. She has been hiding for so, so long. Nearly six years. Longer, if she counts her time as Alayne Stone. Longer still, if she counts her concealment of the softness that King’s Landing would’ve torn her apart over. And, if she is really, truly honest with herself - 

Sansa is so tired of hiding. She wants to be known, not just as Sansa Stark of Winterfell, but as herself. It is all she has ever wanted - all anyone ever wants: to be seen, wholly and completely, and loved not despite it, but because of it. She wants Kakashi to know her with a ferocity that takes her breath away - 

But she doesn’t know how to tell him. Because once she says it - once she breaks the dam - it’s real. Not just in her head anymore. Not just a secret she carries like a knife under her ribs. Once she says it aloud, it exists.

And she’s afraid.

Not of rejection, not exactly. She doesn’t think Kakashi would mock her, or call her mad, or turn away. But she’s afraid of what it will mean - for her, for the identity she’s spent years building like armour over the raw, wounded core of who she really is. If she says it, if she tells him she’s not just no-last-name Hikari, but Sansa Stark of Winterfell, who died in the snow with blood in her mouth and a song on her lips, who awoke in a cradle of unfamiliar stars - then there’s no going back.

Maybe it’s also a sort of test, in a way. To see exactly how much he means it. Because even though she doesn’t think he’ll turn away, she isn’t certain he’ll accept her, either. And if he doesn’t - 

If he doesn’t - 

Then she’ll take that lesson as the ultimate, final reason why she shouldn’t trust anyone but herself.

They reach their front door. He pushes it open first, steps aside to let her pass. She does. Inside, the air is warm, scented faintly of old paper, cooling rice, and the green softness of jasmine tea. 

It smells like home.

Sansa takes a breath. Then another. Then, without really knowing she’s going to do it, she says:

“Kakashi.”

He turns, pausing mid-step as he moves toward the kitchen. “Mm?”

She swallows. “If I tell you something - something strange - will you believe me?”

He stills completely. Then he turns, and meets her eyes, steady and unflinching. His voice is quiet.

“You’ve never given me a reason not to.”

And just like that - just like that - she feels the walls inside her begin to crack. Her throat tightens. Not from fear - not quite - but from the weight of it, the sheer magnitude of what she’s about to say. She hasn’t spoken her truth aloud in nearly six years. Not to anyone. Not once.

But Kakashi is still watching her, quiet and steady and sure in the way only he can be. And something inside her - something brittle and aching - finally yields.

“My name,” she says softly, “is Sansa.”

Kakashi doesn’t react. Not visibly. His eye stays on hers, unreadable, patient.

She exhales shakily. “Sansa Stark. Of House Stark. From a place called Winterfell.”

She watches his brow crease, just a fraction. Not confusion, not disbelief. Just careful thought. Consideration.

“I’m not... from here,” she continues. “Not just in the sense of being from another village or land. I mean - not from this world. Not from this life.” Her fingers curl slightly at her sides. She doesn’t look away. “I was born in a castle made of stone, where the summers are long and the winters never end. My father was the Warden of the North. My mother taught me how to stitch and dance. I had brothers. A sister. A family.”

Her voice breaks on that, soft and sudden, and she presses her lips together until the tremble passes.

“I remember dying,” she says at last. “And then... I woke up. In this world. In a new body, a baby again. No name, no family, nothing.”

She finally looks down, ashamed despite herself. “I didn’t want to believe it at first. I thought I was dreaming. Mad, cursed, deranged. But the memories never faded. They’re a part of me. I am called Hikari - but I’m Sansa. I don’t know why I was brought here, or how, or if I’m meant to do something, but - ” She stops herself. Swallows. “I needed you to know.”

She raises her eyes again, and they shine with something raw and bare. “If you’re going to offer to adopt me... if you’re going to offer me a name... you deserve to know the one I was born with.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room is the soft hum of the kettle still warm on the stove.

Then Kakashi walks forward. Slowly. Gently. No sharp movements, no sudden questions.

He crouches a little in front of her, bringing himself to her height - not to diminish, but to meet. And then, in the softest voice she’s ever heard from him, he says:

“Hello, Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

Her breath catches. Something fragile in her chest quivers.

It has been so long since someone has called her that. So, so long. She feels something expand in her chest, like her heart’s suddenly grown too large for her ribcage. It’s so much. It’s so much, all happening inside her chest, like something long-empty has finally, finally been filled.

“I’m glad you told me,” Kakashi continues. “I don’t pretend to understand all of it - but I believe you.”

He reaches up - pauses - then rests a hand gently on her shoulder. “If you choose to be a Hatake, it doesn’t erase Sansa Stark. Nothing ever could. It just means… both lives get to be real.”

Her vision blurs. Not from shame this time, but from relief.

He’s not turning away. 

He’s not retracting his offer. 

He’s just - 

There.

The sob escapes her before she can stop it - a small, broken thing. And then he pulls her in, slow and careful, and holds her as if she’s something precious.

She doesn’t cry often. But she does now. Not because she’s afraid, not because she’s grieving. But because, for the first time since she woke in this strange, unfamiliar world - 

She feels seen.

And safe.

And home, in every sense of the word.

~

She cries for a long time. Her arms are stiff at her sides, but the moment he folds her into him like she’s small and fragile and breakable, something in her collapses, and suddenly her fingers are curled into the back of his flak vest with no memory of movement. 

She buries her face into the crook of his neck, and sobs.

~

Eventually, the tears stop. She doesn’t move away, and neither does he. His knee is probably aching from being pressed into the wooden floor, but he doesn’t complain. 

She sniffles quietly. Speaks without lifting her head, her voice barely above a whisper - 

“I don’t know what they would’ve wanted,” she admits. Her voice is scratchy and hoarse from crying, trembling with the force of the emotion spilling out of her lungs. “I don’t know if they would’ve wanted me to stay Sansa Stark, or let myself be someone else, or - ” 

She swallows. “I don’t know,” she finishes lamely. 

She feels him breathe against her hair, slow and steady. His chin brushes the top of her head as he tilts his head, even though she can’t see it. Then - 

“What do you want?” 

Her breath stutters.

It’s such a simple question. Four words. Softly spoken. No pressure, no demand - just an offering, gentle and steady as the man holding her. And yet, it splits her wide open.

What do you want?

No one’s ever asked her that, not really. Not when it mattered. Not in a way that meant she could answer freely, without consequence or expectation. Not in King’s Landing, where wanting anything was dangerous. Not in the Vale, where wanting was irrelevant. Not even in Winterfell, where wanting was twined with duty, and duty meant everything.

But here - now - with Kakashi’s arms around her and his voice quiet and calm in her ear - 

She’s allowed to want.

The thought makes her chest ache all over again.

She pulls in a trembling breath. Her grip on his vest loosens, not because she wants to let go, but because the desperation is softening. Turning into something steadier. Something almost like peace.

“I want…” she starts, then hesitates. It’s hard to find words for something so big, so layered, so buried.

She shifts slightly in his hold, but still doesn’t lift her head. Her voice is clearer this time. “I want to be safe. I want to be strong. I want to be free.”

Another breath.

“I want to stop hiding.”

He doesn’t say anything, not right away. But she feels it - the way his arms tighten around her just a little. The way his thumb brushes once, lightly, against her shoulder.

And she realizes she’s still crying, just barely - silent tears, warm and slow. But these aren’t the same as before. These ones feel… like relief.

“I want to be your family,” she says. The words slip out before she can stop them, hushed and unsteady. “But I want to be myself, too.”

There’s a pause. A long one. Then Kakashi’s voice, low and firm and impossibly kind - 

“Then we’ll do both.”

She lets out a sound - half laugh, half sob - and finally lifts her face. Her cheeks are red and puffy, and her nose is running, and her eyes are swollen and blotchy.

Kakashi just looks at her. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t avert his gaze.

He lifts a hand - slowly - and brushes the tear tracks from her cheek with the side of his thumb.

“You don’t have to choose between who you were and who you are,” he says quietly. “You’ve already survived both.”

She doesn’t answer. Just stares at him, wide-eyed, raw and shaken and so full of something she doesn’t know how to name.

And when he finally asks, “Will you let me put it in writing?” - not do you want to be adopted, not are you sure - but will you let me, like it’s a privilege he’s asking for - 

She nods. Just once.

And for the first time since her world cracked open, she feels something new blooming inside her, quiet and bright and fiercely, terrifyingly alive.

Hope.

Chapter Text

They settle on the couch with cups of freshly-made tea. Neither of them speak at first. The room feels too full - not with tension, but with something quieter. Something that hums in the silence between sips. It’s not awkward, just… new. A new kind of quiet. The kind that comes after a storm, when everything is still standing, but nothing is quite the same.

Kakashi sits beside her, legs slightly splayed, one arm slung over the back of the couch. His other hand cradles his cup loosely. He hasn’t said much since she nodded. Just guided her gently to sit, poured the tea, and stayed.

Sansa cups her tea with both hands, fingers tight around the ceramic. The warmth grounds her. Her chest still aches a little, but the worst of the storm has passed. She doesn’t feel better, not really, but she feels… lighter. A little less alone.

Finally, it’s Kakashi who speaks.

“We don’t have to talk about any of it,” he says. “Your past life, I mean. Not unless you want to.”

Sansa blinks. “You don’t want to know?”

“I do,” he admits, without hesitation. “But only if you want to tell me. I meant what I said - I believe you. And I’m not going to demand more proof.”

Her throat tightens again, but this time, it’s softer. Grateful.

“There’s a lot,” she says eventually. “It’s... not a story I can tell all at once.”

He nods. “That’s fine. One piece at a time. Or none at all.”

She smiles faintly. “Thank you.”

They sip their tea in silence for a while after that. The sky outside is beginning to shift toward dusk, soft blue deepening into lavender.

Then, almost absently, Kakashi asks, “Do you know what it would mean? Becoming my heir.”

Sansa tilts her head.

He elaborates. “It’s more than just a name. You’d be officially listed as the future head of the Hatake clan, small as it is. You’d inherit the compound - what’s left of it, anyway, it’s been abandoned for years - any holdings, whatever clan assets are still held in trust.” He pauses. “You’d also be expected to represent the family, eventually. Formally, in the Shinobi Council. Informally, in public. It comes with weight.”

She considers that. “Would I be able to refuse those parts, if I didn’t want them?”

“You’d always have a choice.” His voice is quiet. “But I think you’d be good at it.”

She looks at her tea. Remembers sitting in Winterfell’s Great Hall, surrounded by what little of her family remained, and sentencing Littlefinger to die. Remembers watching and listening as the pieces on the board shifted. Remembers learning the flow of power - who held it, who wanted it, who could take it away. 

She doesn’t know shinobi politics. Isn’t familiar with the political landscape of Konoha. But she has a feeling that the lessons she’d learned in Westeros would apply just as well here, too.

“I think so, too,” she whispers. 

The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable or comfortable, just - present. Then - 

“You’re really okay with that?” she asks quietly, gazing into the depths of her cup. Just in case. Just to check. “With - giving me all that?”

From her peripheral vision, she sees him tilt his head. She half-expects him to say something dismissive, something trite - he’s not the type to admit to emotional attachment, out loud anyway. She’s well aware of that.

But then - 

“Yeah,” he says, his voice low but certain. “I’m okay with that.”

Her fingers tighten around her cup involuntarily. It’s not dramatic or verbose, but it’s painfully, starkly, undeniably honest. And that’s what matters. 

“Okay,” she whispers. 

Another silence, this time softer. 

She taps her finger against the side of her cup, just once. Desperately tries to think logically. “Would I be expected to marry? Produce heirs?”

Kakashi chokes on air. The somberness of the moment shatters like glass, and is swiftly replaced with something lighter and more absurd. He splutters for a moment, then clears his throat and says, “No. Gods, no. You’re - it’d just be the two of us, and I’d never - you’re five,” he says weakly. It’s the most discomfited she’s ever seen him, and it makes her lips twitch. 

“Technically,” she corrects, just to see him squirm, “I’m twenty-five. If we include my past life, since I died at twenty.”

He stares at her, absolutely horrified. “You’re - no. You’re not older than me. That’s impossible.”

She raises an eyebrow over the rim of her cup. “Physically, no. But experientially? I could probably offer you tips on running a household, hosting a feast, and navigating arranged marriages.”

He makes a strangled sound. “Please don’t.”

She lets her smirk soften. “Fine.”

There’s another beat of silence, but this one is warmer, almost amused. She can feel something settling between them - like snow falling in slow, deliberate flakes. Not cold, not sharp. Just quiet.

“I was the eldest daughter of a noble house,” she offers after a pause, voice quiet again. “I knew from a young age that I’d be married off for alliances. It was always expected of me. Marriage. Heirs. Duty.” Her fingers flex slightly around the cup. “I didn’t think it strange, then. Just… inevitable.”

Kakashi’s voice is low when he replies. “That’s not inevitable here.”

She looks at him. “No?”

He shakes his head. “No. Not for kunoichi. Not unless they choose it.” A pause. “Not for Hatake either. We don’t do arranged marriages. Never have, not even in the old days.”

Something in her shoulders loosens. It’s not relief - not exactly - but something adjacent. A bit of pressure she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“I don’t mind the idea,” she murmurs. “Marriage. Children. I just… want the choice to be mine.”

“It will be,” Kakashi says. Quiet. Certain.

She believes him.

They sit in silence again, the kind that feels like it could stretch into forever if they let it. Her fingers have stopped shaking. Her tea has gone cold. She takes a sip. It tastes like memory. 

“My father always promised me he wouldn’t marry me to someone I didn’t love,” she whispers suddenly, on impulse, the words spilling out before she can stop them. “I think he meant it, too. He never said anything he didn’t mean.” She swallows, grief welling up in her throat. “That’s what got him killed.”

She has never told anyone this, not since the Tyrells, that time in King’s Landing so many years and a lifetime ago. But for the first time, she wants to. Just so he sees her. Just so he knows this part of her, too.

“I watched him die,” she whispers hoarsely. “I watched as he knelt in front of a boy-king who’d promised mercy and lose his head anyway. They stuck his head on a pike and made me watch as it rot.”

The words sit heavy between them, too sharp for the soft room they’re in. Too bloody for the way the tea still lingers in the air.

She expects pity. Or horror. Or quiet condolences, murmured without conviction.

But Kakashi is still. Utterly still. When he speaks, his voice is barely more than a breath.

“My father died on his knees, too.”

Her head snaps up. He’s not looking at her. He’s staring into his cup like - like if he looks too long, he’ll see it again - whatever it is.

She doesn’t breathe.

He doesn’t elaborate at first. Doesn’t explain. Just sets his cup down with a deliberate, careful quiet. Then leans forward, forearms braced on his knees, gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the walls.

“He was a hero,” he says, after a while. “And they treated him like a traitor for it.”

Sansa’s breath catches.

Kakashi’s voice doesn’t shake. If anything, it’s too steady - the steadiness of something pressed under ice.

“He failed the mission in order to save his comrades. And the village… couldn’t forgive that.”

Silence laps at the edges of his words like surf against stone.

Sansa watches him, tea forgotten in her hands. Her heart beats too loudly in her chest. She doesn’t interrupt. She doesn’t ask for more.

She just waits.

“He came back alive,” Kakashi continues, his voice low and flat, like it’s not a story but a report. “But they looked at him like he was already dead. And in the end…” He trails off, mouth twisting slightly behind the mask. “I think he agreed with them.”

Sansa’s fingers tighten around her cup.

“And so he…” Kakashi exhales, slow and brittle. “He made a decision.”

There’s no need to say it aloud. The air says it for him.

Suicide.

The word echoes between them, unspoken but understood.

She swallows around the lump rising in her throat. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t acknowledge the words. Not with a nod. Not with a shrug. Just lets them settle, undisturbed, like snowfall.

But the fact that he told her - that he said anything at all - is answer enough. He isn’t telling her to garner sympathy - he’s telling her because he understands. And that, more than anything, is what makes her brave enough to tell him something she’s never said out loud, not to anyone, in either life. 

“I hated him for it,” she whispers. Her voice is soft, like a confession - because it is one. “For the longest time. I hated him for believing in mercy, in second chances, in - in honour. I hated him for being good in a world that punished goodness.”

She swallows again, the ache sharp in her chest. “I think I still do, sometimes.”

Kakashi doesn’t respond right away. The silence stretches, and then, eventually, he shifts. Just a little. His shoulders lower, his hand curls around the edge of his knee. And then - softly, like the words have been worn down from use - he says:

“I hated mine for a long time, too.”

Sansa doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

“I hated him for leaving me,” Kakashi continues, voice calm in that too-quiet way that feels more like a mask than any cloth could ever be. “For making a choice I couldn’t understand. For not being strong enough to survive it - for me.”

Her heart stutters.

“He raised me to be strong,” he says. “To be a shinobi. To follow the rules. And then he broke all of them. And I - I didn’t know what to do with that. With him falling apart. With what came after.”

She turns her head slightly, just enough to see him. He’s not looking at her. His eye is fixed on the floor, the middle distance, the past.

“I kept thinking - if he really loved me, wouldn’t he have stayed?” He huffs something that isn’t quite a laugh. “I was seven.”

There's a long pause. Then - 

Kakashi exhales, slow and quiet. “I thought hating him would make it easier. It didn’t.”

Sansa swallows. “No. It doesn’t.”

He finally looks at her. The moment stretches, and there’s no pity in his gaze. Just something stripped bare. Something that mirrors what she knows is in her own eyes.

“I don’t hate him anymore,” he says. “But sometimes, I still get angry. At him. At the world. At myself.”

“I know,” she whispers. “Me too.”

They fall into silence again, but it feels different now - not empty, not heavy. Just shared.

It’s strange, she thinks. How grief can feel so isolating - and yet, in this room, in this moment, she feels less alone than she has in years. There’s no grand revelation. No healing epiphany. Just two people who carry too many ghosts, sitting side by side, saying the quiet parts out loud.

And somehow, that’s enough.

Kakashi shifts beside her, not closer, not away - just enough that her shoulder brushes his arm. It’s a small thing. Barely even contact. But it feels like a question and a promise all at once.

Sansa doesn’t pull back.

She lets the moment settle around them, the weight of old grief woven through the quiet like a thread of silver - fine, but unbreakable. They’re both still holding it. But not alone.

“I used to think,” she says after a long while, “that if I were stronger, I could’ve stopped it. Warned him. Done something.”

Kakashi’s voice is low. “Me too.”

“I imagined it a thousand different ways. If I’d spoken sooner. If I’d run. If I’d begged harder. Like there was some version of the world where I was enough.”

She doesn’t say that sometimes, even now, she dreams of changing it. That sometimes she still sees the swing of the sword in her sleep and wakes with her father’s name on her lips.

She doesn’t need to.

Because Kakashi says, “There’s no fixing it. No going back. But it doesn’t mean you have to forgive the world for breaking you.”

She turns her head, slowly, and meets his gaze.

“And it doesn’t mean you stay broken,” he adds. “Not forever.”

Something in her chest wavers - like glass beneath a candle flame. Not cracking. Just softening. Beginning to bend.

She closes her eyes.

“I don’t want to hate him anymore,” she says quietly. “I want to remember the good things. I want to miss him without hurting so much I can’t breathe.”

Kakashi is quiet, but not in the way that means nothing. He’s listening. Fully. Deeply. Like there’s nowhere else he could possibly be.

“That takes time,” he says. “Longer than it should. Longer than anyone tells you it will.”

She nods.

They lapse back into silence, but this time it’s not sad. It’s soft. Something that stretches gently, like dusk between lanterns, like breath between verses.

Eventually, Kakashi stands - fluid, quiet, unhurried. He moves to the kitchen without a word, then returns with a reheated cup and a fresh one. Offers the latter to her without ceremony.

She takes it. They sit again, this time closer. And when she curls her legs beneath her and leans ever so slightly toward his side, he doesn’t shift away.

She doesn’t thank him. She doesn’t need to. He wouldn’t want her to.

Instead, she lifts her cup, sips, and says, softly, “Tell me about him. Your father.”

Kakashi glances at her - surprised, maybe. But he doesn’t say no.

He settles back against the couch, one arm resting along the back, the other cradling his tea. And then - carefully, slowly - he begins to speak.

“He was loud,” Kakashi says after a while, a touch of dry fondness threading through the quiet. “Not in volume. Just… presence. You knew when he entered a room.”

Sansa tilts her head, listening.

“He used to whistle when he cooked. Terrible at it. Couldn’t carry a tune to save his life. But he did it anyway. Said silence made food taste lonely.”

A breath of air escapes her - not quite a laugh, but close.

“I was quiet, even then. He said I was too young to be brooding like an old war general.” Kakashi pauses. “He was probably right.”

She doesn’t interrupt. Just sips her tea and lets him speak, the warmth of the cup seeping into her palms the way his voice is seeping into her bones.

“He used to wear his hair down. People forget that.” A ghost of a smile flickers behind the mask. “He looked like a mess. But when he fought -” Kakashi shakes his head slightly. “He was beautiful. Terrifying. Precise.”

Sansa closes her eyes for a moment, imagining it: a man with a wild mane of silver hair, fierce and noble, defiant to the end. She can almost see where Kakashi gets it - not just his face, but the quiet fire underneath, the way his presence can fill a room without needing to speak a word.

“What was his name?” she asks softly.

“Sakumo,” Kakashi says. “Hatake Sakumo.”

Sansa nods, committing it to memory. She knows what it is to fear your past, and still want it remembered.

“I wish I’d met him,” she says.

Kakashi glances at her, surprised. His gaze lingers a beat longer than usual. “He would’ve liked you.”

Her chest aches at the sincerity in his voice. There’s no hesitation in it. No disclaimer.

She looks down into her cup again. “My father would’ve liked you, too. You remind me of him.”

Kakashi tilts his head. “Stern and brooding?”

She smiles, small and sad. “Honourable. Quiet. Loyal.”

The silence that follows is easy. Languid. Full of the weight of what’s been shared, but not crushed by it.

Eventually, Kakashi speaks again. “Do you think he’d be proud of you?”

The question is soft. Careful.

Sansa doesn’t answer right away. She thinks of the things she’s done. The choices she’s made. The girl she used to be, all softness and silk, and the girl she became - steel hidden beneath a courteous smile.

And then she thinks of the way her father looked at her when she stitched her first sigil. The way he pulled her onto his horse when she tired. The way he believed in doing the right thing, even when it cost him everything.

“I think,” she says slowly, “he wouldn’t understand all of it. But… yes. I think he’d be proud I’m still standing.”

Kakashi doesn’t smile, but his eye softens.

“Then he’d be right.”

She looks at him, then. Studies the sharp line of his jaw, the weariness tucked into the corners of his eye, the gentleness that always lingers beneath his bluntness. She feels her throat tighten again - not with sorrow, this time, but with something harder to name.

Gratitude. Kinship. Maybe even love, the kind that forms between people who have suffered and survived and chosen each other anyway.

She leans her head against his arm.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, but she feels it - the shift in his breath, the quiet way he accepts it. The warmth of it, steady and unspoken.

The clock ticks softly on the wall. The tea cools again. Outside, the stars blink in and out between passing clouds.

And in a small apartment filled with grief, memory, and second chances, two souls rest beside each other - not healed, but healing.

Together.

~

He makes an appointment with the Hokage in a week’s time. In between then and now, their routine tilts on its axis. Instead of morning training and afternoons studying fuuinjutsu, he takes her to the Konoha Public Library and gets her books on etiquette, at her insistence. She tears through them with a ferocity that startles them both - she’s missed it, she finds. The structure of it, the elegance. It’s almost comforting to return to. 

When she’s not reading, they sit down together, sometimes on the couch, sometimes over meals, and they… talk. They’re not lectures, not really - Kakashi’s not the type for long-winded monologues. They’re more conversations, she thinks. 

He tells her about the Hatake clan. How they’d come from the Land of Iron, a place of long, bitter winters and snow and ice. How they’d once been samurai. How little pieces of their past had stuck - the sense of honour, of duty; the style of kenjutsu; but most of all, the canine summoning contract.

The more Kakashi tells her, the more something inside her settles, the more certain she feels. Because the Land of Iron sounds so much like the North that still runs through her veins, because that sense of duty and honour sounds so much like the Starks, because the canines the Hatake are known for is only a step away from the direwolf that’d been her House’s sigil. 

She can’t hide the way something inside her catches at the similarities. Well, no - she could hide it, but… she doesn’t want to. She wants him to learn her the same way she’s learning him, and so, in the lulls between sentences, she shares, too. 

“In Westeros, there were no clans,” she says quietly, her eyes distant, remembering. “We had Houses instead. I was the eldest daughter of House Stark. My father was the Warden of the North - he governed the entire Northern region of the Seven Kingdoms. Our House sigil was the direwolf.” 

She pauses, heart clenching in old pain. 

“I don’t… know if they exist here,” she says softly. “I don’t think they do. Direwolves, I mean. They were similar to regular wolves, but twice as clever and three times the size.” 

Sansa swallows. Her fingers tighten slightly in her lap. “Lady was a direwolf,” she whispers. “She was taller than I was. I might’ve been frightened of her if I hadn’t raised her.”

Kakashi doesn’t interrupt. Just listens - still, steady - the kind of silence that invites rather than stifles.

“She was… gentle,” Sansa murmurs, her eyes distant. “The others - her littermates - they were wilder. Fierce, like the North itself. But not Lady. She was always calm. Watchful. She never snapped or growled without cause. She stayed close. She understood things. Or maybe I just needed her to.”

Her fingers flex slightly around her cup. The warmth has faded, but she doesn’t let go.

“I named her ‘Lady’ because I thought that was who I was supposed to be. Elegant. Composed. Polished. She was that, too. In her own way.” Her voice falters, then finds itself again, quieter. “She died because of a lie. My sister’s wolf bit a prince. Arya ran. Hid hers. So the queen demanded retribution.”

She looks down. “Lady wasn’t even there.”

The silence between them holds. Not cold, not awkward - just a stillness carved gently into the air, shaped like mourning.

“They made my father do it,” Sansa says, her voice like glass. “They said it had to be him, or the butchers. So he did it himself. Said it was mercy.” A long pause. “And I… I believed him. I still do. But it didn’t stop the grief.”

Her throat tightens. “She was mine. The first creature who was ever truly mine. She would’ve followed me anywhere.”

Kakashi exhales slowly. Not a sigh, not quite - more like a breath passed through memory. When he speaks, his voice is low, careful.

“She sounds like she was more than just a companion.”

Sansa nods. “She was family.”

The word settles, soft and absolute.

A few heartbeats pass in quiet. Then - gently, without shifting the weight of the moment - Kakashi says, “I’ve never seen a direwolf. We don’t have anything like that here. Not in this world.”

“Yes,” she says, just as quietly. “I thought so.”

He hesitates for a moment, then adds, “But… we do have ninken.”

Sansa lifts her gaze, curious.

“Canine summons,” he explains, tilting his head slightly. “Like I mentioned earlier. They’re… not quite pets. Not weapons, either. More like partners. Some families have them. The Hatake have had ours for generations.”

She blinks, absorbing that. “You have… wolves?”

“Dogs,” he says. “Some are large enough to be mistaken for wolves. Pakkun, my oldest, would be offended if I said so.”

That draws a faint, reluctant smile from her - a soft flicker, but real. “Pakkun?”

“Small. Talks a lot. Smarter than most people I know.” He takes a sip from his tea, then glances over at her. “You’d like him. He’s patient. And stubborn.”

There’s a beat. Then, with something like quiet invitation -  

“Would you like to meet them?”

The question lingers, gentle and without pressure.

Sansa’s lips part slightly. She doesn’t answer right away - doesn’t trust her voice not to break. Because something in her chest aches at the thought of it - not a replacement, never that - but a bridge. A piece of something familiar. Something that might help her breathe a little easier.

She swallows.

“I think I would,” she says, barely above a whisper.

Kakashi nods once. No smile, no flourish - just a simple, steady promise.

“I’ll introduce you tomorrow.”

The words settle around her like a blanket. Not warm, exactly - but solid. Present.

And for the first time in a long while, the grief in her chest feels a little less like drowning.

Just enough to hope.

~

The morning light filters in slowly through the window, pale gold and soft. It slips across the floorboards, brushes the curve of the table, warms the folds of the blanket curled around her knees.

Sansa sits on the edge of the couch, tea in hand again. This one’s fresh. She hadn’t said much upon waking, and Kakashi hadn’t expected her to. There’s a stillness to grief that lingers, even after the storm has passed.

He’s seated next to her, half-wrapped in the quiet himself. The air between them isn’t heavy - just subdued. Like the hush of a page waiting to be turned.

“Still want to meet them?” he asks, eventually. His voice is low, casual, but not careless.

Sansa glances up from her cup. Then she nods. Once. Small, but certain.

Kakashi doesn’t rise. Doesn’t shift his posture. Sansa watches as he bites his thumb, goes through a rapid series of seals, and murmurs a word under his breath. There’s a faint shimmer of chakra, a quiet puff of smoke - no dramatic flash, no loud crack.

And then there’s a dog.

Small, stout, and unmistakably unimpressed.

He appears in the centre of the room, paws square beneath him, eyes half-lidded like he’s just been pulled out of bed and is not particularly pleased about it. But he sniffs once, gives the apartment a lazy once-over, and turns his attention to Sansa.

Then he pads over, calm as anything, and sits neatly in front of her.

Sansa blinks.

The dog blinks back.

“… Hello,” she says.

“Morning,” Pakkun replies. His voice is gravelly, but not unfriendly. “You’re the kid, huh.”

Sansa’s eyebrows lift slightly. “I suppose I am.”

Pakkun snorts. “You don’t sound like one.”

Kakashi doesn’t comment. Just sips his tea, eye half-lidded, content to let the two of them measure each other in their own way.

“I’ve been told that before,” Sansa says dryly.

Pakkun eyes her for a long moment. Then huffs - not quite a laugh, but close. “Alright. You’ll do.”

Sansa glances at Kakashi, mildly startled.

He raises an eyebrow. “That’s high praise, coming from him.”

Pakkun ambles over to the edge of the couch and hops up beside her without asking. He’s surprisingly light. His fur is coarse, but warm. He settles in with a sigh like he’s been doing this his whole life.

Sansa freezes, then relaxes - slowly - as he leans against her side.

Pakkun gives a small, noncommittal grunt. “If you want to meet the others later,” he says, “I’ll introduce you. They’re louder than me. Dumber too.”

“I’d like that,” she says softly. Her hand, still tentative, lifts - and when she lays it on his fur, he doesn’t move away.

Kakashi watches the scene unfold with something unreadable in his gaze. Not surprise. Not satisfaction. Just a quiet kind of knowing.

Sansa sits with her hand buried gently in the scruff of a dog who isn’t Lady, but doesn’t need to be.

And for the first time in years, the ache in her chest begins to settle - not gone, but not hollow, either. Just… quiet. 

Pakkun shifts beside her - not away, but forward, just enough to lean in and sniff deliberately near her shoulder. His nose brushes against the sleeve of her tunic. The gesture isn’t rude, exactly. Just blunt. Unceremonious. Honest in a way that most people aren’t.

Sansa stills, uncertain.

Then he leans back and makes a low, thoughtful sound in the back of his throat. “You smell like the Hatake used to,” he says gruffly. “Back when they lived in the Land of Iron. Like wind and water. Steel, too. Salt.”

Across the room, Kakashi’s brow lifts - not much, just enough to suggest surprise. “Wind and water,” he echoes. “Are those her chakra natures?”

Pakkun huffs. “Obviously.”

Sansa blinks, her fingers tightening slightly around the teacup in her lap. She doesn’t know what it means - not really. She understands chakra in theory. Has read enough now to grasp the broad strokes, to know that elemental affinities shape the way a shinobi moves, how they fight, how they channel power.

But she hadn’t known hers. Not until now.

And something in her chest clenches at the sound of it - wind and water. Wild and yielding. Sharp and soft, at once. It feels… right, somehow. Familiar in a way she can’t quite name.

Kakashi is quiet. Then: “The Uzumaki were predominantly water-natured,” he says, low and thoughtful. “I’m… not sure where the wind would’ve come from, though.”

There’s something careful in his voice. Measured. As if he’s testing a theory he doesn’t quite want to believe in yet.

Pakkun’s eyes narrow. Sharp now. Appraising. “You think she’s Uzumaki?” He tilts his head, sniffs again - more deliberately this time - and then sits back with a low rumble. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I could see it.”

Sansa doesn’t speak. Not yet. She looks down at her tea, then past it - to the light streaming across the floor, to the faded woodgrain, to the small space that’s been her home for a while now.

She doesn’t know if she’s Uzumaki. Doesn’t know what it would mean if she were.

But she remembers the girl she used to be - Sansa Stark of House Stark, born into a name that came with expectations. With weight. She remembers what it was to live in a world where bloodlines were everything.

And now she’s here. In a world where chakra natures carry echoes of ancestors long gone. Where a hound with a voice like gravel can name her wind and water with nothing more than instinct.

She looks up. Meets Kakashi’s gaze across the room.

He’s watching her. Not with suspicion. Not with certainty. Just quiet thoughtfulness, the way he always does - like she’s a puzzle that doesn’t need solving all at once.

She sets her tea down slowly. Breathes in. Hears the echo of Kakashi’s voice saying, the Uzumaki were once hunted almost to extinction, and, you’d be hunted, too, without a name to shield you.

He’d told her about the traits she shares with the Uzumaki as a whole - the hair, the sealing, the fluidity of movement. And now, the chakra nature, too. 

All signs seem to be pointing to Uzumaki. 

She turns the idea over in her head quietly, with trepidation. The idea that she came from somewhere in this new life. That someone in this world had given her her blood and bones and chakra, someone who wasn’t Catelyn or Eddard Stark. 

She braces for anger, for rejection. For the wave of no, absolutely not that’d crashed over her when Kakashi had first suggested she could be Uzumaki. 

She braces. She waits. She steels herself. 

And the anger… doesn’t come. 

There’s no tug in her abdomen. No tightening in her chest. No feel of a blade at her neck, like the girl she’d been had just been sentenced to die in truth. 

Sansa… doesn’t mind. She’s not - happy, per-se. But she’s not unhappy, either. Instead of rejection, there’s just a mild curiosity. Because her being Uzumaki doesn’t make her less of a Stark - it just means there’s more to her, now. And… she’d like to know more about this clan whose bloodline she might carry.

She breathes out. Meets Kakashi’s eyes, solemn and steady.

“Will you tell me more about them?” she asks softly. 

Kakashi doesn't answer right away.

He leans back in his chair a little, one arm draped loosely over the side, his tea cooling in his other hand. His gaze doesn’t leave hers. There’s a stillness in him, but not the kind that precedes silence. This one feels like consideration - like weighing memory and grief in the same breath.

Eventually, he nods. Just once.

“There’s not as much left as there should be,” he says. “Their village, Uzushio, was destroyed in the Second Shinobi War. Scattered survivors. Some were absorbed into other nations. Others vanished.” His voice is quiet. Careful. Not clinical, but tempered by time.

Sansa listens, hands folded in her lap now, her tea cooling beside her, forgotten. There’s something in her - not urgency, but gravity. Like each word he offers settles somewhere in her chest.

“They were seal masters,” Kakashi continues. “Beyond anything Konoha’s ever matched. They specialized in fuuinjutsu, but not just combat seals. Preservation, communication, containment. I’ve seen scrolls with active stasis fields strong enough to hold an entire lake in suspension. They could do things no one else could even theorize.”

Sansa’s brows lift slightly. “That sounds… impossible.”

Kakashi huffs faintly. “It was. Until they did it.”

Pakkun snorts beside her, still curled against her side. “Stubborn clan,” he mutters. “Uzumaki chakra was so dense they could survive things that would kill other people outright.”

Kakashi nods. “Long lifespans. Strong chakra coils. And they were resilient. Everything about them - their nature, their techniques, their politics - it all came back to endurance.”

Sansa’s eyes drop to her hands. Long lifespans. Endurance. Seals.

Salt, Pakkun had said. Wind and water and steel.

She thinks of the way she’d taken to fuuinjutsu instinctively. She’d thought she’d liked the logic of it. The philosophy. The fact that she could improve steadily, diligently, the way she’d always improved at things. 

But maybe it runs deeper than that. Maybe that feeling she’d gotten when she’d read that first fuuinjutsu book - like something had clicked into place - meant more than what she’d thought at the time. 

She thinks, too, of how she’s always known how to carry grief, how to keep going even when everything in her screamed to stop. Thinks of Cersei and Joffrey, of Littlefinger, of Ramsay. Of how the world had tried, so many endless times, to break her. 

And how she’d endured. Not whole, not unbroken, but still standing. Still there. 

Kakashi watches her. Then adds, more gently, “They were also known for their hair.”

That makes her glance up, startled.

“Red,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “Or auburn. Like yours. Most of the old bloodlines have strong traits, even if they don’t necessarily tie into their jutsu - the Nara usually have spiky hair, the Yamanaka are typically blond, the Uchiha normally have black hair. For the Uzumaki, their signature was the red.”

Sansa lifts a lock of her hair between her fingers and studies it in the morning light - auburn, streaked with gold and copper in the sun. She’d once hated it, in King’s Landing, where every lady seemed to have golden curls or dark, sleek braids. Her hair had never been fashionable, exactly. Just… Tully. 

And maybe, now, something else.

She lets the lock fall, her fingers loosening.

“What happened to them?” she asks quietly.

Kakashi exhales, slow. “Kiri and Kumo happened. They were the ones who attacked, but none of the other nations provided aid. Everyone was afraid of them. Of what they could do. Of what they might do, if provoked. So they were wiped out. Targeted. Systematically.”

There’s no anger in his voice, just a quiet kind of mourning. The kind that comes from a loss too long past to rage at - the kind you carry like a scar.

Sansa swallows. “No one helped? No one rebuilt it?”

“No one helped,” Kakashi confirms, his voice low. “Konoha sent reinforcements, but by the time they got there, they were too late. There weren’t enough survivors to rebuild,” he says. “And the ones who lived… they scattered. Hid. Changed their names.” A pause. “Most of the world thinks they’re gone.”

She studies him. “But you think I could be one of them.”

“I think,” Kakashi says slowly, “that blood doesn’t lie. And neither does chakra.”

Pakkun shifts again beside her, tucking his chin against her thigh. “You smell like you came from the sea,” he mutters. “But you carry winter, too.”

Sansa doesn’t know what to say to that.

So she just sits with it - the words, the weight, the warmth of the hound beside her and the quiet presence of the man next to her on the couch.

It doesn’t feel like losing something. It feels like the opposite, like uncovering a layer of herself that had always been there, just buried beneath too many lifetimes.

“I’d like to learn more,” she says eventually. “If you’ll teach me.”

Kakashi’s eye softens. “I will.”

She nods once. Then leans a little more into Pakkun’s side. He doesn’t protest.

Outside, the sun has risen higher. The light through the windows is stronger now, less delicate. More certain.

And so is she.

Chapter Text

The Hokage’s office smells like parchment and polished wood, like ink and iron, like power, written and sealed. Afternoon light filters in through the tall windows, casting sharp shadows across the floor. Everything is quiet, save for the soft rustle of paper and the creak of the leather chair as the Sandaime leans forward.

Kakashi stands to her right, silent, steady. His hands are loose at his sides, posture relaxed in the way only seasoned shinobi can be - like a wolf standing still because it chooses to, not because it must.

Sansa stands just in front of the desk. She’s small in the room, a child in size if not in gaze. Her back is straight, chin lifted, expression measured. But her fingers tremble slightly at her sides.

The Hokage studies her for a long moment. His eyes are not unkind.

“This is an unusual request,” he says gently. “But not unprecedented.”

Sansa doesn’t reply. She just watches him, gaze calm, waiting.

“She understands what it means,” Kakashi says from beside her, voice quiet but certain. “We’ve discussed it.”

The Hokage’s gaze shifts between them. Something in his expression softens.

“Very well,” he murmurs, and turns to the scroll on the desk before him. The adoption decree is short, formal. Her name is already printed at the top in careful calligraphy: Hikari, first name only, no surname. Beneath it, an empty line.

Waiting.

Her chest tightens.

The Sandaime dips the brush in ink. Signs his own name with the practiced ease of decades. Then he turns the scroll around and sets the brush down beside it, motioning toward her.

“You may sign when you’re ready,” he says.

When you’re ready.

It echoes in her chest.

She doesn't know if she's ready. Not really. She's still afraid - of what it means, of what it implies.

But her father always said that bravery wasn't acting without fear - it was acting despite it. And she - 

She wants this. Even if she isn't ready. Even if she'll never be ready.

She steps forward slowly. The room feels too quiet. Even the birds outside seem to pause.

The brush is light in her hand. Balanced.

Her fingers do not shake.

She looks down at the blank line, at the space that has waited what feels like years to be filled. Her mouth is dry.

She thinks of her family. She thinks of Winterfell.

She thinks of quiet mornings and cold tea and Kakashi’s hand on her shoulder, steady as a mountain.

And then she lowers the brush.

The first character is smooth. Hesitation burns away with the curve of the Ha.

The second is steadier.

The third - final, absolute - is bold.

When she finishes, the name sits dark and deliberate on the page, the ink still glistening faintly.

Hatake Hikari.

The brush clinks gently as she sets it down.

She’d had trouble deciding whether she wanted to keep Hikari or return to Sansa. In the end, though, it’d felt… wrong, somehow, to dub herself Hatake Sansa. It would’ve felt too messy, too much like smashing both her lives together and hoping they fit, like she was trading in the Stark for the Hatake.

No, better to create a clean delineation. A clear separation between past and present. A fresh start, in a way, even if it's actually a continuation.

Hikari exhales slowly, feeling something shift inside her. For a moment, no one speaks.

Then - 

“Welcome to the clan,” Kakashi says.

His voice is quiet, but not unreadable. There’s a depth in it, a resonance. A gravity.

She turns toward him.

He’s not smiling. Not fully. But there’s something in his eye. Something warm. Something - maybe - proud.

She doesn't say anything. She just looks up at him - and for the first time in years, she feels what it is to belong without earning it. Without fighting for it. Without bleeding for it.

Just… belonging.

The Hokage rolls the scroll carefully, seals it with practiced hands, and sets it aside.

“It’s done,” he says.

It is.

And as they walk out into the sunlit corridor, side by side, Kakashi resting a hand gently on her head - 

Sansa Stark of Winterfell lets herself become Hatake Hikari.

Not instead.

But also.

~

They walk down the corridor together, the Hokage’s door closing quietly behind them. The air outside the office feels lighter somehow - less laden with ceremony, more like air again.

Kakashi doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks beside her with one hand in his pocket, the other still resting loosely on her head, posture easy. But she knows him now - knows how to read the subtle shifts in his breathing, the faint tension that lingers behind his relaxed gait.

He’s watching her. Waiting.

She lets him.

They make it almost halfway down the hall before he finally speaks.

“You okay?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just glances down at her newly signed name on the official scroll tucked carefully into her hands.

Hatake Hikari.

The ink was barely dry when she rolled it up, but it’s real now. Tangible. Something she chose.

“Yes,” she says, soft but sure. “I am.”

Kakashi nods once, like he’d already known, but wanted her to say it for herself. His thumb brushes over the crown of her head gently, briefly, before his hand withdraws.

They step out into the warm afternoon light. The sun slants golden across the rooftops, catching in the silver of Kakashi’s hair and casting long shadows at their feet.

Neither of them speaks as they make their way home. But the silence is companionable, quiet in the way running water is quiet - present, steady, alive.

Hikari doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t rush. She walks with her shoulders square and her gaze forward. But every few steps, her fingers tighten slightly around the scroll in her hands, like she’s making sure it’s still real.

Kakashi doesn’t comment. He just glances down once - brief, subtle - then tilts his head toward the market stalls as they pass. “Want to stop for something?”

She considers it. Then shakes her head. “No. I just want to… go home.”

It’s the first time she’s said it like that. Deliberately, with intention.

He doesn’t react outwardly. Doesn’t smile, doesn’t pause. Just nods once, and adjusts his pace to match hers exactly.

~

They reach the apartment in silence. It’s cooler inside, dimmer. Familiar.

She steps out of her shoes, sets the scroll down carefully on the low table, and stands there for a moment. Just… breathing.

Kakashi disappears into the kitchen, reemerges a moment later with two cups of jasmine tea, still faintly steaming.

He offers one without a word. She accepts it with both hands.

They settle onto the couch. She pulls her legs up beneath her, cup cradled in her lap, and stares down at the scroll, remembering the words she’d inked on the paper. 

Hatake Hikari.

Kakashi leans back with a quiet sigh. Not tired, exactly. Just... still.

She exhales. “It’s strange,” she admits softly. “I wondered if it would feel like a betrayal.”

He says nothing. Just waits.

“But it doesn’t,” she continues. “Not really. It feels… like opening a second door, not closing the first.”

For a moment, there’s only the low creak of the couch beneath Kakashi’s weight as he shifts slightly, thoughtful.

“You’re not replacing anyone,” he says at last. “You’re just becoming more of yourself.”

The words slip into her like water into parched ground.

She swallows. Looks up at him.

“Did it ever feel like that for you?” she asks quietly. “When you joined ANBU? When you put on the other mask?”

A long pause. Then - 

“No,” he says. “That felt like less.”

He meets her gaze, unflinching. “This - ” He nods toward the scroll, toward her. “ - this is more.”

She doesn’t say anything.

She just nods, and for the first time since she signed her name, she smiles. It’s not wide. Not bright. But it’s genuine. She takes another sip of tea, the steam fogging the edges of her vision for a moment. The warmth of it settles low in her belly. Everything is quiet.

Then - 

“You know,” Kakashi says, perfectly even, “you’re contractually obligated to start brooding now. At least a little. Preferably on rooftops. It’s part of the Hatake brand.”

Hikari lifts her teacup with deliberate grace, one brow arching ever so slightly, and picks up where he left off without hesitation. “I’ll schedule some rooftop sulking for tomorrow,” she says, tone mild as spring rain. “Shall I bring a dramatic cape? Or does the brooding work better if one’s clothes billow naturally in the wind?”

Kakashi makes a sound that might be a laugh - quiet, short, the sort that slips out before he can catch it. “The cape is an advanced technique. Start small, and work your way up.”

She nods solemnly. “I understand. What about monologues?”

He blinks. “Monologues?”

She sips her tea with serene dignity. “Yes.”

Then, after a beat, she clears her throat and begins - voice smooth and distant.

“I was born beneath the shadow of a broken tower,
Where roses grew in stone and silence reigned.
The wind there does not whisper - it remembers.
And it sings of what the walls will never say.”

Kakashi stares at her.

She takes another sip, unbothered by the silence stretching between them.

“Did you come up with that on the spot?” he asks, voice hovering somewhere between horrified and impressed.

Hikari snorts delicately into her teacup. “Of course not. That was from The Lay of the Silent Keep, volume two, by Maester Jonel of Lannisport. It was one of Septa Mordane’s favourites, so she made me memorize a few pages.”

She smiles, smug. “I, of course, memorized the entire thing.”

He just looks at her for a moment longer. Then, gravely, he says, “I’m beginning to suspect you were a terrifying child.”

Her smile widens just slightly, the barest curl of mischief at the corner of her lips. “I was very well-mannered.”

Kakashi leans back, tilting his head thoughtfully. “Somehow, that makes it worse.”

She hums, content. “That was the general consensus.”

They lapse into silence again, but it’s lighter now, softened by steam and laughter and the faint, absurd memory of windblown cloaks and tragic poetry. The scroll with her new name rests on the table beside them, the ink dry, the future unwritten.

And outside, somewhere beyond the quiet walls of the apartment, the wind rustles gently across the rooftops - like it, too, is waiting for the next act.

~

Kakashi sits on the couch long after Hikari’s gone to bed. He holds his long-cold tea in one hand, the other resting loosely on the armrest, and feels something quiet but monumental shift inside him. 

He’s not the last Hatake anymore. 

He turns that thought over in his mind, again and again, trying to make sense of the emotion tangled in his chest. It’s… strange. Not in a bad way, he doesn’t think. Just… strange. 

He’d resigned himself long ago to the fact that the Hatake clan would die with him. He’s never been particularly interested in romance, not off the pages of books anyway, and the idea of having a kid has always terrified him to the bone in a way nothing else ever has. Because he’s seen too many war orphans, too many children abandoned by their parents, whether through death or neglect or good old-fashioned emotional illiteracy. He knows all too well what it feels like to think you were abandoned, and he’d long ago vowed to never do that to anyone, least of all his hypothetical kid. 

And yet - 

And yet. 

He exhales slowly, and sets the tea on the coffee table, propping his chin in his freed hand. Outside, the moon shines bright and full against the dark night sky. 

Kakashi thinks of the way Hikari had written her new name - hesitant at first, then with certainty. He knows how much it means to her, now, in a way he hadn’t anticipated when he’d made the offer. He doesn’t know all of it, obviously - she hasn’t spoken much of her past life since she’d told him for the first time, but he’s heard enough to know it was hard. Hard and bloody and full of death, which honestly explains a lot about the way she is now. 

He’s grateful he won’t need to file those papers he’d filled out requesting an investigation into Yuzumura’s orphanage now. That would’ve been… difficult to explain. 

He huffs, half in amusement, half in… something else. Maybe shock at the absurdity of the situation. If someone had told him a year ago that he’d be in this position now, with a kid who’s his in every way but blood, he’d check for genjutsu and maybe drag them into T&I because they’ve clearly been compromised. 

There’s still a part of him - a very large part - that’s quietly certain that this will end terribly. One of them will die. He’ll break her trust in him. He’ll abandon her, voluntarily or not, the way everyone he’s ever cared for has abandoned him. And no matter how it ends, he knows he’ll be shattered afterwards, if he’s still alive to feel it. Because she’s the first person he’s ever chosen who’s chosen him back, and losing her - 

He thinks he’d die from it. 

That should scare him. It used to, until he saw her write Hatake Hikari on that scroll and it was like something in him, something long-broken, had clumsily put itself back together. 

It doesn’t scare him anymore, the thought of dying. Because he thinks he’d happily die a thousand deaths, if it meant she’d live even one life where she felt safe. Where she knew she belonged.

Because she’s family. His family.

That thought roots itself in him with quiet finality, deeper than anything has in years. Maybe ever. He’s been loyal before. Dutiful. He’s loved, in the stunted, aching ways a child soldier learns to. But this - this is something else. It’s not obligation. It’s not guilt. It’s not even redemption, though gods know he’s chased that too long already.

It’s just her.

He leans back, the couch creaking faintly beneath him, and tilts his head to the ceiling. The shadows shift softly across the room. Everything is still.

There’s a part of him that wants to wake her up right now - just to check. Just to make sure she’s real, that this isn’t some cruel dream conjured by grief and longing and exhaustion. But he doesn’t.

He’s not that selfish. Not anymore.

Instead, he closes his eyes. Breathes in.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, he doesn’t brace for the next loss. Doesn’t plan for the next funeral.

He just lets himself exist in the space between moments, in the fragile, flickering heartbeat of something like peace.

Somewhere down the hall, a blanket rustles. He doesn’t move, but his hand curls faintly on the armrest. Protective. Steady.

He’s not the last Hatake anymore.

And maybe - just maybe - he was never really meant to be.

~

The next morning dawns soft and silver, all pearl-gray skies and the hush of dew on the training grounds.

Kakashi stands at the edge of the field, hands in his pockets, watching as Hikari finishes her stretches with silent precision. The grass is damp beneath her feet, but she doesn’t complain. Just rises, breath even, posture poised, the same way she always does - like the world is watching and she intends to be equal to its gaze.

He studies her for a moment. Watches how she shifts her weight, the subtle turn of her wrists, the length of her spine - how there’s no wasted motion, no erratic edge. Just grace. Purpose. That strange, seamless flow that never belonged to the rigid frames of Konoha’s Academy forms.

It’s time.

“Come here,” he says.

She approaches immediately, expectant. 

He exhales slowly, and casts his mind back to Kushina. She’d asked him once, not long after she’d announced her pregnancy, her voice uncharacteristically hesitant, if he could capture the Nagare no Mai with his Sharingan. 

I don’t know what’ll happen, she’d said quietly. Whether or not I’ll survive. She’d glanced away briefly. And if I don’t - I don’t want the Nagare no Mai to die with me.

She’d smiled briefly, a quick, passing thing that hadn’t reached her eyes. 

I’m asking Mikoto, too, but - just in case - could you - ?

He’d agreed. Of course he had. How could he not? And so she’d danced for him and Uchiha Mikoto, and all three of them had hoped they wouldn’t need it.

And then Kushina had died, and Minato had died, and the Hokage had forbidden the adults from telling Naruto about his heritage on the basis that it’d make him a target for their enemies. Uchiha Mikoto and her clan had fallen under suspicion for being behind the Kyuubi attack, and Kakashi had vanished into ANBU, and Kakashi had refused to look at the memories of the Nagare no Mai except when it reappeared in his nightmares. Because remembering would’ve been a reminder of how much they’d all failed Naruto, and Kakashi’s always been good at compartmentalization. 

But now - 

Now, there’s another Uzumaki. Unconfirmed, sure, but still. Kakashi knows, with quiet, unwavering certainty, that if Kushina were still alive, she’d have taken Hikari under her wing immediately. Kushina had always had a soft spot for lost things - she’d been one herself, after all, after Uzushio had fallen and Mito-sama had died and she’d been all alone. 

He tries not to think about how Kushina would’ve looked at him, though, after how badly he’s failed her son. She’d always looked at him gently, like he was more than the ghosts he carried, more than the blood on his hands, more than what he was. But now - 

He pushes the thought away. Hikari’s standing in front of him, now, poised and ready. He can dwell on his failures later. 

Kakashi exhales again. Then, finally, he moves.

“The Nagare no Mai,” he says, “isn’t about power. It’s about momentum. About transition. It’s not something you fight with - it’s something you move with.”

Hikari’s brow furrows faintly - not confusion, but concentration. She doesn’t nod, doesn’t parrot it back. Just listens. Absorbs.

Kakashi steps forward, into the field’s centre. The pale light of morning glints off the moisture clinging to the grass. He slides his sandals off with one smooth motion, grounding himself.

“You can’t brute force your way through this style,” he murmurs. “It breaks the moment you try to dominate it. You have to follow it. Let it guide you.”

He closes his eyes. Breathes in.

And then he begins.

It’s not a kata. Not really. Not in the way Konoha teaches them. There are no rigid stances, no militarized rhythm. No sharp edges or fixed positions. Just movement - circular, fluid, continuous. Like a current that turns in on itself, again and again, never ending, never hesitating.

Kakashi’s body flows from motion to motion, turning with a dancer’s control and a shinobi’s precision. His arms sweep, gather, redirect. His feet whisper across the grass. Every pivot is effortless. Every fall of weight is deliberate. There’s no impact, no stillness - only the quiet grace of motion unbroken.

It’s beautiful. And it’s jarring, because it’s not Kakashi. Not the one the world sees, at least. Not the ghost of ANBU or the Hatake who killed without blinking. This is the part of him no one knows still exists - the student who once learned from Minato and watched Kushina whirl like wildfire, unstoppable and alive.

He finishes in a low, crouched sweep, hand brushing the earth, back bowed - not in submission, but in reverence. The air is still around him. Even the birds have gone quiet.

Hikari is silent. Wide-eyed. And then - slowly, deliberately - she moves to stand beside him.

“Show me again,” she says.

Kakashi watches her carefully. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just straightens. Nods.

They start slowly. A single sequence at a time. He demonstrates - fluid turn, pivot, release - and she mimics, graceful and coiled, her small frame built not for brute force but for this. For flow. For momentum.

She stumbles only once - when her centre shifts too far, too suddenly. But she catches herself. Resets. Tries again.

And when it clicks - when the movement lands - Kakashi sees it.

He sees her.

Not Kushina. Not some echo of the past. But Hikari, sharp-eyed and stubborn and aching with old ghosts - but herself. Entirely.

It feels right, somehow. Like a ripple in the world smoothing into place.

They continue until the sun rises fully, until the dew has burned away, until Hikari’s breath comes fast and her movements slow - not from sloppiness, but from fatigue.

Still, she bows at the end, proper and precise. Kakashi returns it.

“Well done,” he says softly.

Hikari straightens. Her eyes flick to his - bright, flushed with effort, but calm.

“What’s next?”

Kakashi huffs a laugh, almost fond.

“Now,” he says, “you learn how to make it yours.”

~

They stay, long after the morning dew has vanished, after the pearl-gray skies warm into pale gold, after the rhythm of the village picks up and the distant hum of life begins to swell beyond the trees.

The training field grows warmer, shadows shortening, cicadas beginning their steady drone in the underbrush. Kakashi sits cross-legged now, half in shade, watching as Hikari moves through the sequence again. She’s not practicing it mechanically - no, she’s testing it. Turning it over. Stretching the form like silk between her fingers, feeling where it holds and where it strains.

She’s good. Better than she should be. Not just precise, but intuitive. Her body adapts, refines, rewrites. She doesn’t cling to demonstration; she translates it. That’s rare.

That’s so rare.

Kakashi leans his forearms on his knees. A faint breeze stirs his hair, and he watches her spin through a slow pivot, arms sweeping low then high, weight carried with the easy grace of someone who understands the current, not just follows it.

He exhales slowly. Lets his gaze drift skyward.

What would Kushina have thought?

He imagines her laugh - bright and wild, half a shout and half a storm. Imagines her barreling across the field, shouting praise, giving corrections mid-spin, grabbing Hikari’s hands to guide her hips, her weight, her stance. He imagines the fierce pride in her eyes, the stubborn tenderness in her voice.

He imagines Kushina looking at this quiet girl - prim, precise, heartbreakingly earnest - and loving her immediately. Not despite the differences, but because of them. Because Kushina knew what it was to carry silence, or the absence of it, like armour. To be all alone in a village that only saw your hair and your chakra and never you. She would’ve seen it in Hikari right away. Would’ve pulled her close and never let go.

And she would’ve known, in that way only Kushina could know, that Hikari wasn’t just another orphan or another talent to cultivate.

She would’ve known she was one of theirs.

Kakashi feels something shift in his chest. Not a sharp pain, but a slow, aching kind of weight. The kind that settles in the bones when something long buried rises up to be counted.

He drops his gaze back to the girl still dancing through the wind.

She doesn’t look like Kushina. Not beyond the superficial similarities in colouring.

But she moves like her. Not the steps - they’re different. Softer. More refined. Less wildfire, more snowfall. But the spirit behind it - the resilience, the refusal to be broken, the way her presence fills the field without ever asking for permission - that’s the same.

That’s hers.

And he thinks - no, knows - that Kushina would’ve taken one look at Hikari and declared her family.

Blood or not. Name or not.

Because some things, in the end, don’t need to be said to be true.

~

That night, he can’t sleep. Which isn’t unusual in and of itself, but this time, the child on his mind isn’t the girl in the other room - it’s Naruto. 

Kakashi sees him, sometimes, around the village. In the corner of the orphanage grounds, or roaming the market - but alone. Always, always alone. And every time, he looks away - because it hurts to look at Naruto, because it hurts to think of Naruto. 

But now…

Now, with the memory of Naruto’s mother freshly imprinted across the darkness of his mind, he thinks of him. Of how unfair it is for the village to hate him for something he can’t control. Of how unfair it is for the Sandaime to have barred everyone from telling Naruto about his heritage. Of how unfair it is that Kakashi can barely look at him, an innocent child, without seeing the ghost of people he’s lost.

Of how unfair it is that Kakashi’s doing his best for one child, and leaving another in the dust. 

He closes his eye and exhales slowly. He knows what the right thing to do is. He’s always known, from the moment he learned Naruto was living in an orphanage. He’s just… never been brave enough. He still isn’t - the idea of interacting with Naruto in any way is physically painful - but… 

But Naruto deserves more than the nothing Kakashi’s given him. 

He turns the thought over in his head. It sinks into his bones, crystallizing with certainty. 

He’ll discuss it with Hikari tomorrow. He’ll be upfront, honest. Because she deserves to know, too. And he wants to get her permission, in a way, since his decision will affect more than just himself and Naruto, now. 

Kakashi exhales again. The breath leaves him slow and rough, like it’s been torn from something deeper than lungs.

Kakashi doesn’t open his eye. Just lies still, arms folded behind his head, staring at the inside of his eyelid as if it might offer him clarity. The room is quiet around him - soft hum of wind against the glass, the distant creak of floorboards cooling, the faintest rustle from the other room where Hikari is fast asleep.

He can feel her presence now, in the way he’s learned to track silence. It’s oddly comforting. The apartment used to echo in a way he couldn’t quite describe - like something unfinished. But now, her books fill the shelves. Her slippers are tucked beside the door. Her scent - paper and tea and something faintly floral - lingers in the air.

He’d thought, when he agreed to take her in, that he might be offering her stability. He hadn’t realized how much she’d ground him. And now - now he’s considering shaking that foundation again. Not in a bad way. Not intentionally. But still.

Another child.

Another orphan. Another bundle of sharp edges and hidden hurts and too-wide eyes who’s never been told he’s loved.

And this time - it’s Naruto.

Kushina’s son. Minato’s son.

Their legacy. Their boy.

His responsibility.

He rolls onto his side, facing the window. The moon is out - dim and round, wreathed in wisps of cloud. Pale enough to look at directly.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs aloud. To the night. To the ghosts. “I should’ve done more.”

The moon doesn’t answer, but he hadn’t expected it to.

He lies awake a long time after that, thoughts churning slow and steady. No panic. No guilt he hasn’t already weathered. Just... decision. A quiet one. Heavy and unshakable.

~

The next morning, Hikari is already in the kitchen when he wakes, kneeling on a chair, carefully cutting the crusts off a piece of toast like it’s a ceremonial duty.

Kakashi watches her from the doorway for a beat. She’s humming under her breath. Not a song he knows - something low and lilting, almost melodic.

He clears his throat lightly.

She glances up. “You’re late.”

“I’m old,” he counters dryly, stepping in and snagging a piece of fruit from the counter.

“You’re twenty.”

“Exactly.”

She makes a noise of polite judgment and returns to her toast.

He lets the silence stretch for a moment before he speaks again.

“I want to talk to you about something,” he says.

She pauses. Looks up again. This time, more serious. “All right.”

He leans against the edge of the counter. Crosses his arms.

“It’s about… a kid. He’s around your age. His name’s Uzumaki Naruto.”

Her eyes sharpen. “Uzumaki,” she repeats. “Like - ”

“The clan I think you may be part of,” he finishes quietly. “Yeah. I knew his parents - his mother is the reason why I know the Nagare no Mai - but they died the night he was born. He’s been living in an orphanage his whole life. I’ve been…” 

He hesitates, just for a moment, because this is going to hurt, then decides to peel back the layers of his truth anyway. 

“I’ve been avoiding him,” Kakashi says, his voice low and honest. “Since the day his parents died.”

She studies him. Her eyes are unreadable. 

Kakashi lets out a slow breath. “I don’t… want to do that anymore.”

He holds her gaze unflinchingly, waiting for judgement, for scorn, for disdain. But Hikari just tilts her head and says, thoughtfully, “Okay. What would it look like?”

Kakashi huffs, half out of surprise, half out of relief. “Don’t know. It’d be slow. I’m not going to - ” he waves a hand in the air, “ - invite him to live with us immediately or anything. I just… want to be present. There for him, if he needs anyone.”

She nods consideringly. “Alright.”

He blinks. “Alright?”

“Yes.” She looks at him quizzically. “Did you think I’d object? Or scorn you?”

He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "I mean… it’s a pretty shitty thing to do.”

“It is,” she agrees without hesitation. Kakashi winces, but she continues, “But you’re trying to fix things. I don’t think that counts for nothing.”

Some part of him relaxes involuntarily. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

~

They find him that afternoon.

The sun is high by the time they reach the orphanage - a squat, tired-looking building nestled on the edge of the district, half-shrouded in the shade of older trees. The windows are narrow, the paint is flaking, and the garden out front is more weeds than flowers, but it’s tidy. Maintained.

Kakashi stands still for a long moment at the gate, one hand tucked deep in his pocket, the other resting lightly on Hikari’s shoulder. She’s holding a small basket carefully balanced in her arms, the linen tucked over the top still faintly warm. The scent of lemon and sugar curls upward like memory.

She’d insisted on baking the moment he mentioned visiting. No fuss. No argument. Just squared her shoulders, tied her hair back, and started pulling ingredients from the shelves with quiet, efficient determination. He’d recognized the set of her jaw - it was the same expression she wore when cooking. Half present, half lost in memory. 

Now, she’s staring at the building with steady eyes. Calm. Composed. Kakashi thinks, not for the first time, that she was never really meant to be five.

They don’t knock. The staff know Kakashi, or at least know of him. They usher him in without question, though their eyes flick toward Hikari with polite curiosity. She follows him without a word, basket clutched close, footsteps quiet as ever.

They find Naruto in the back courtyard, alone. He’s crouched by a patch of dirt, poking at something with a stick - mud or ants or just the ground, it’s hard to tell. His clothes are worn, but clean. His hair is wild and gold-bright in the sun, sticking up in every direction like a rebellion. There’s a smear of something across his cheek. His back is to them.

Kakashi stops just short of the threshold. For a moment, he can’t breathe. Because it’s Minato’s hair, and Kushina’s posture, and something wild and unguarded and heartbreakingly familiar in the curve of his shoulders.

But Hikari steps past him without hesitation. She walks into the sunlight, quiet but deliberate, until she’s a few feet away.

Naruto doesn’t notice her at first. Then - he does. He looks up sharply, blue eyes wide and wary, like he’s ready to be yelled at. Like he expects it.

But Hikari doesn’t yell. She kneels down instead, carefully setting the basket between them. Then, without a word, she lifts the linen cover and reveals the contents - three small lemon cakes, golden and soft, the sugar on top still glistening faintly.

Naruto stares.

“I made these,” she says simply. Her voice is soft but clear. “They were my favourite. They still are, actually.”

She doesn’t say I thought you might like them. Doesn’t offer pity. Doesn’t offer kindness with strings.

She just adds, “Sweets taste better when they’re shared.”

There’s a long pause. Naruto doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

Then, slowly, like he’s not sure it’s allowed, he reaches out. Takes one. Takes a bite.

His eyes go wide.

“Oh,” he says, mouth full. “That’s really good.”

Hikari nods once, primly. “Yes. I know.”

He grins, sugar clinging to his cheek, bright and sudden and open. “You’re weird.”

She tilts her head, considering. “Probably.”

Naruto laughs.

And Kakashi, still standing in the shadow of the doorway, feels something loosen inside his chest.

“What’s your name?” Naruto asks, voice muffled around a mouthful of lemon cake, crumbs spraying like shrapnel.

Kakashi winces instinctively. Hikari, meanwhile, doesn’t flinch. She just lifts an eyebrow in faint disapproval and says, with all the poise of a princess correcting a courtier, “It’s impolite to speak with your mouth full.”

Naruto blinks, caught mid-chew.

“But,” she adds, a moment later, “to answer your question - my name is Hatake Hikari.”

Kakashi stills.

It’s quiet, her voice. Not loud or dramatic. Just… sure. Clear as sunlight, soft as breath.

Hatake Hikari.

She says it like it’s nothing. Like it’s always been true.

And maybe it has, in some quiet, invisible way.

But it’s the first time she’s said it out loud. The first time she’s claimed it - not on paper, not to the Hokage, not in the privacy of training grounds or over tea and quiet mornings, but here. In the open. To someone new. A stranger.

And she didn’t even hesitate.

Something catches low in Kakashi’s throat. He doesn’t know what to do with it - this sharp, bright ache that settles behind his ribs, too deep for words.

He looks at her - kneeling there in the sun beside the boy with sugar on his face, hands folded neatly in her lap, chin lifted like she’s addressing a court - and he thinks:

She chose it.

She chose me.

Not for the first time, he wishes Minato were here. Wishes Kushina could see this - see her. See them.

And not for the first time, he hopes - prays, in the way shinobi never admit to doing - that he can be enough. That he can carry it. That he won’t fail this too.

He steps forward at last, into the sun.

Naruto looks up at him, still chewing, eyebrows raised.

“You want one?” he asks, pointing to the last lemon cake.

Kakashi’s eye crinkles.

“No, thanks,” he says. “That one’s yours.”

Naruto beams. And for the first time in a long time, Kakashi doesn’t look away.

“This is Hatake Kakashi,” Hikari says, prim as ever, gesturing toward him without looking up from her now perfectly folded napkin.

Kakashi quirks a brow but says nothing.

Naruto squints up at him, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with far too many pieces. “I’m Uzumaki Naruto. Is he your dad or something?”

There’s a pause.

Then Hikari, still composed, still not quite looking at either of them, says evenly, “Or something.”

Kakashi coughs into his fist to hide the startled breath that escapes him.

Naruto grins, wide and conspiratorial. “That means yes, but weird.”

Hikari turns just enough to glance at Kakashi, gaze dry. “He is weird.”

“Hey,” Kakashi protests, only half-hearted.

Naruto cackles, delighted.

And Kakashi finds himself smiling behind the mask, quietly undone by the absurd, ordinary magic of this moment.

Or something, she’d said.

And it’s not a title, not a label, but it’s hers. Theirs.

It’s enough.

~

“So…” Naruto says, squinting again, still curious. He brushes crumbs off his shirt with a messy swipe of his sleeve. “Why’re you guys here?” There’s no malice in his tone, no suspicion. Just blunt honesty, the kind that only comes from being too young to know how to mask the shape of your loneliness. “No one ever talks to me.”

Kakashi feels it like a blade to the gut.

Hikari doesn’t flinch. She just tilts her head, considering.

“We’re here,” she says evenly, “because it was wrong that no one was.”

Naruto blinks.

Hikari smooths her shirt with deliberate care, then adds, “And because I wanted to share lemon cakes.”

There’s something deeply matter-of-fact about the way she says it. Like it’s the most obvious conclusion in the world - that someone, eventually, would want to be here. That Naruto’s isolation is a mistake to be corrected, not a condition to be accepted.

Kakashi watches Naruto’s face shift - confusion giving way to something softer. Something small and unguarded.

“… Really?” Naruto asks. “You just - wanted to?”

“Yes.” Hikari looks up at him with calm, steady eyes. “You’re a person. You matter. That’s reason enough.”

Naruto’s mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.

Kakashi half-expects a joke, or another blunt question, or for the boy to brush it off with bravado. But instead - 

Instead, Naruto just looks down at the empty cake wrapper in his hand.

And says, quietly, “Okay.”

Then, a beat later - “Thanks.”

Hikari inclines her head, as if he’s offered her a formal bow instead of a few scraped words through the cracks in his armour.

Kakashi exhales. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath again.

Naruto suddenly scrambles to his feet with the wild, uncoordinated energy of someone who never really sits still. “Hey! Do you wanna see my frog collection? I caught, like, eight of ‘em. One tried to bite me.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” Hikari says, rising with the slow grace of someone who definitely believes it.

“It did!” Naruto insists. “It had murder in its eyes.”

Kakashi follows as they vanish around the corner. Naruto bounds across the courtyard to a battered little shed tucked under a gnarled tree. He swings the door open with the dramatic flourish of a stage magician.

“Ta-da! Frog fortress!”

Inside, there are three cracked buckets, two glass jars filled with questionable pond water, and what appears to be a shoebox with holes punched in the lid.

Hikari blinks. “That’s… a lot of frogs.”

“I told you!” Naruto beams, hands on his hips. “I’m training them for battle.”

There’s a long, measured pause.

“Amphibian combat readiness,” Hikari says slowly, “was not a skill I expected to encounter today.”

Kakashi covers his mouth over the mask, pretending to cough.

Naruto plops down next to one of the jars and lifts it proudly. Inside, a large toad blinks at them with the weary resignation of a creature that has seen things.

“This one’s Captain Guts. He tried to escape twice.”

“And you rewarded him by putting him in a jar?” Hikari asks, one brow delicately raised.

Naruto hesitates. “… He’s under high-security watch?”

Hikari kneels beside the jar and peers in. “He looks deeply unimpressed.”

Naruto frowns at the toad. “He doesn’t get my vision.”

“I think he’s meditating,” Hikari says solemnly.

“Yeah?” Naruto brightens. “Yeah. That makes sense. He’s like - he’s strategizing.”

Kakashi steps forward then, quiet but present, and crouches beside them. “You caught all of these yourself?”

Naruto nods enthusiastically. “Yup! Took me three days. The old lady who runs the orphanage says I can’t keep ‘em in the kitchen anymore, though. Something about hygiene.”

Kakashi glances at the array of frogs. “She has a point.”

“I’ve created an ecosystem,” Naruto argues.

“A terrorist cell,” Hikari corrects.

Naruto laughs so hard he nearly knocks over a bucket.

Kakashi watches them both - the quiet girl with a mouth full of pointed observations, the loud boy with sunlight in his hair and too much heart for his body - and feels something unfamiliar twist low in his chest.

Hope, maybe. Or the beginning of something like it.

He rises slowly. “Alright, Captain Guts and his army have been inspected. Time to let them go.”

Naruto groans. “Five more minutes!”

Kakashi tilts his head. “I don’t think Captain Guts appreciates being stared at. He might revolt.”

Naruto gasps. “Do you think he’s planning something?”

“Almost definitely,” Hikari says gravely. “He seems the type.”

They clean up together, Naruto giving each frog a fond farewell as he releases them back into the tall grass. Hikari watches with regal detachment, only occasionally offering naming suggestions - most of which Naruto ignores in favour of increasingly absurd monikers.

By the time they return to the orphanage steps, the sun is low and gold, slanting long across the field.

Naruto slows at the threshold. Looks up at Kakashi.

“Hey,” he says.

Kakashi meets his gaze.

Naruto hesitates. Then: “You’ll come back, right?”

It’s not a question, not really. It’s too small. Too careful. It’s hope, hidden in a child’s voice, disguised as nonchalance.

Kakashi nods. “Yeah. We will.”

Naruto grins, quick and bright.

Hikari gives a small nod beside him. “I’ll bring more lemon cakes.”

Naruto beams.

And Kakashi, walking away with Hikari at his side and the shadows stretching long behind them, thinks - 

So this is what healing looks like.  

Not grand. Not dramatic. Just quiet choices. One after another. One child at a time.

~

They return the next day.

Afternoon sun dapples through the trees as they cross the orphanage courtyard - Kakashi with a book tucked under his arm, Hikari carrying a small lacquered bento box carefully wrapped in a cloth printed with plum blossoms. She’s dressed neatly, as always, a ribbon tucked into her hair, chin lifted with quiet composure.

Naruto’s already waiting by the frog shed, kicking at a rock. He perks up the moment he sees them and comes running, wild blond hair catching the light like a flare.

“You came back!” he shouts, grinning wide.

“Obviously,” Hikari says, setting the box down carefully. “I made food. I don’t do that for just anyone.”

Naruto skids to a stop, practically vibrating. “Is it more lemon cakes?!”

“Among other things,” she replies, serene. She opens the box with a practiced flick - inside are neat, glistening compartments: grilled fish, onigiri dusted with sesame seeds, steamed greens with ginger, tamagoyaki, and yes, lemon cakes tucked gently in the corner like treasure.

Naruto stares. Then, reverently, he picks up an onigiri - 

- and immediately shoves the entire thing in his mouth. Chews exactly four times. Swallows, with considerable difficulty, and slowly declares, in complete and utter disbelief, “This… might be better than ramen.”

Hikari sniffs. “Might?”

Naruto blinks, caught. “Okay, okay! It’s definitely better than ramen! Just don’t tell the ramen guy!”

Kakashi hides his smile behind his mask.

They eat together on the steps. Naruto devours his food with the desperate enthusiasm of someone who’s used to hunger. Hikari eats more slowly, prim and precise, occasionally nudging extra portions toward Naruto’s side of the box when she thinks he isn’t looking.

When the meal is over and Naruto’s licking crumbs from his fingers, Kakashi pulls the book from under his arm and holds it out. “Thought you might like this.”

Naruto brightens - until he sees the cover. Then his face falls. His shoulders curl inward just slightly. The shift is subtle, but Kakashi notices it instantly.

“I have trouble reading,” he mumbles. “I mess up the kana. Sometimes the lines move. Or I think I know a word, but it’s wrong. Or I skip stuff and don’t mean to.”

He says it fast, tumbling over his own words like if he doesn’t get them out quick enough, someone will interrupt. Will laugh.

“I’m not lying,” he adds defensively, glancing up at them. “I’m not.”

Kakashi opens his mouth, but Hikari’s already moved. She blinks - once, slow. Something flickers in her gaze - recognition, not pity.

“I knew someone like that,” she says quietly.

Naruto’s mouth snaps shut.

She shifts, pulling her legs beneath her, hands resting in her lap. “Have you tried tracing the characters with your finger as you read? It helps some people. You follow the shape, make it real in your head. Almost like drawing it. Or saying it out loud while you trace - it helps your brain connect the meaning and the movement.”

Naruto stares at her. Then tilts his head. “Like… pretending the word is a picture?”

“Yes,” she says, tone approving. “Exactly that.”

Naruto thinks. His brow furrows with the intensity of someone trying to understand a new jutsu. “I could do that,” he mutters. “That’s not cheating?”

“No,” Hikari says firmly. “It’s adapting.”

Kakashi watches the tension ease from Naruto’s shoulders. Watches the slow, dawning possibility in his eyes. The same look he’s seen on Hikari’s face when she solves a seal. When she understands.

Hikari nudges the book toward him gently. “We can try it together, if you want.”

Naruto picks it up - hesitant, still - but he’s smiling now. A little crooked. A little hopeful.

“Okay,” he says. “Yeah. I wanna try.”

They settle on the porch steps, the book cradled carefully between them like something sacred.

Naruto squints down at the page, mouth moving silently as he tries to make sense of the hiragana. His lips twist with concentration. He reaches a finger out - hesitates - then glances sideways at Hikari.

She doesn’t say anything. Just nudges his hand gently forward, nodding once.

Naruto exhales, long and slow, and touches the first character. His fingertip moves across the page in a wobbly arc, tracing every stroke.

“く… ま…”

“Kuma,” Hikari supplies softly. “Bear.”

Naruto blinks. “Bear?”

“Yes. The story is about a bear who makes friends with a crane. It’s a fable. The kind that has a moral at the end.”

Naruto nods slowly, his eyes flicking back to the page. “Okay. Bear.” He traces again, slower this time. “Bear.”

Kakashi stays nearby, sitting a little ways off beneath the low branches of the garden’s one decent tree, pretending to read a book. He doesn’t look at them directly, but he listens. He hears Naruto stumble over the next word, hears Hikari correct him - not harsh, not impatient, just calm, precise, and unfazed. 

Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like this boy who’s been alone his whole life is not strange or broken for needing help. Like being cared for is ordinary.

Naruto laughs at one point - loud and rough, but bright, when he accidentally calls the bear a cabbage. Hikari lets out a long-suffering sigh but her eyes are sparkling, and Kakashi swears she smiles just a little, even if she hides it behind her hand.

They make it three pages in before Naruto’s focus begins to fray.

“Too many squiggly lines,” he mumbles, scrubbing at his eyes. “I’m gonna punch the kana.”

“Don’t punch the kana,” Hikari says dryly. “It won’t help. They’ll just multiply.”

Naruto groans and flops dramatically onto his back, book clutched to his chest. “This is so hard.”

“Yes,” Hikari says primly. “That doesn’t mean it’s not worth doing.”

Naruto peeks at her from under his arm. “You’re bossy.”

She nods serenely. “But I’m also correct.”

Kakashi finally speaks, folding his report. “Learning something new always feels hard, especially when you’ve been told you can’t do it.”

Naruto doesn’t respond right away. But then he rolls onto his side, eyes fixed on the clouds. “People don’t really tell me I can’t. They just… don’t say anything at all.”

Silence follows. Soft. Heavy.

Hikari’s hand shifts, almost hesitant - but then she reaches out and presses the last lemon cake into his hand. The sugar clings to her fingers like frost.

“Well,” she says, matter-of-fact. “You can.”

Naruto stares at the cake. Then at her. Then he takes a bite and grins again, lemon crumbs flaking across his shirt.

“Thanks,” he says around a mouthful. “You’re weird. But I like you.”

Hikari sniffs. “Obviously. And don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Naruto swallows, nodding hurriedly, eyes wide.

And behind them, Kakashi leans back against the tree, eye half-closed, and thinks - 

Minato. Kushina. He’s going to be alright.

Maybe not perfect. Maybe not unscarred.

But alright.

And for today, that’s enough.

~

That evening, the apartment is quiet.

The sky outside the window is painted in soft lavender and fading gold, the kind of twilight that feels suspended, like the world is holding its breath. The lamp casts a warm, amber glow over the room, catching in the steam rising from their teacups.

Kakashi sits at one end of the couch, one arm draped along the back, his posture loose but attentive. Hikari sits beside him, her legs tucked neatly beneath her, her cup cradled carefully in both hands. She’s quiet, more so than usual - not withdrawn, just thoughtful.

He lets the silence linger. Doesn’t press. Then - 

“Rickon had trouble reading, too,” she says, voice quiet, faraway.

Kakashi turns his head slightly, but doesn’t interrupt.

She’s not looking at him. Her gaze is fixed somewhere beyond the room - on a place that no longer exists.

“He was my youngest brother,” she continues. “Wild as anything. Always running, climbing, shouting. He didn’t sit still for books. Septa Mordane thought he was slow. But Maester Luwin said our aunt Lyanna had the same trouble with letters, and he didn’t think that made her foolish, just… different. He taught Rickon tricks - how to trace the words, how to use rhythm to remember them. And Rickon…”

She pauses, lips curving faintly.

“Rickon would come find me afterward. Proud, mostly, and somehow covered in dirt. He’d demand I listen while he read me something from the lessons. And he’d get it all wrong, but he’d still try. And I’d pretend not to notice, and I’d help him fix the parts he missed. We’d read together. Every night, when we could.”

Her fingers tighten slightly around the cup. She’s still smiling, but it’s the kind that sits on the edge of grief.

“I think he liked it more because we were together,” she murmurs. “He didn’t care about stories. He cared about being seen.”

Kakashi exhales slowly. “That sounds familiar.”

She glances at him then, eyes sharp and knowing beneath the softness. “Yes.”

The silence returns, but it’s changed - heavier, and warmer. Shared.

Kakashi watches the way her hands steady on the cup. The way her shoulders shift just slightly, relaxing - not all the way, never that, but enough. Enough to let him know this memory wasn’t pried out. That it was offered.

“I think Naruto would’ve liked Rickon,” she says after a while, with a ghost of a smile. “They both think rules are suggestions.”

Kakashi chuckles under his breath. “Sounds like you were outnumbered.”

“I always am,” she says lightly, and takes a sip of her tea.

And Kakashi - who has lost more than he lets himself name - just sits beside her, lets the silence settle again, and keeps her company.

Because she is remembering.

And because she is not remembering alone.

~

The first time Naruto comes over for dinner, Kakashi spends the better part of an hour pretending it doesn’t make him nervous.

Which is absurd.

He’s faced down S-rank nukenin without blinking, survived warzones, command, ANBU, and adolescence. He has no business being apprehensive about a five-year-old visiting his apartment.

And yet - he finds himself double-checking the rice. Rechecking the seasoning on the miso. Standing in the doorway to the kitchen like a man assessing a tactical map rather than a meal.

Hikari notices, of course. She doesn’t say anything, just watches him from where she’s setting the table, her expression faintly amused. She places the dishes exactly aligned - miso bowls to the left, chopsticks level, pickled vegetables in a small glass dish between the two main plates.

“You don’t need to be nervous,” she says, tone diplomatic but dry.

“I’m not nervous,” Kakashi replies, which is - objectively - a lie.

“You’ve wiped the counter four times.”

Kakashi gives her a look. “That’s just good hygiene.”

She arches a brow.

But before she can press further, there’s a loud knock at the door. Not a polite tap. Not the cautious rattle of a guest. No, this is a Naruto knock - enthusiastic and uneven, like he’s trying to punch joy through the wood.

Kakashi sighs and goes to answer it.

Naruto bursts in like a gust of wind, barefoot, hair a golden halo, already mid-sentence. “I saw a cat on the roof and it was fighting a crow and the crow won, can you believe that - ”

He stops mid-spin when he sees the table.

“You made food?”

“Usually how dinner works,” Hikari says mildly.

Naruto stares at the spread like it’s a feast prepared for royalty.

Kakashi watches him with careful eyes. Because Naruto isn’t just excited - he’s cautious underneath it. Like it’s all too good to be real. Like he’s waiting for someone to laugh and tell him it’s a joke.

Kakashi gestures toward Naruto’s sandals. “Shoes off.”

Naruto kicks them off in a practiced arc. They hit the wall and slide down in opposite directions. Hikari sighs, but she doesn’t complain.

~

Dinner is loud, because Naruto is loud, and Hikari is not - but she’s quick-witted, and her dry commentary only encourages him. He talks with his hands and his mouth full, interrupts himself, asks a thousand questions, none of which he finishes.

Kakashi lets them chatter, interjects only when Naruto nearly elbows his soup into his lap. He mostly listens.

It’s… nice.

It’s strange, but it’s nice.

When dinner’s cleared and Hikari is teaching Naruto how to fold the linen napkins into cranes - because of course she is - Kakashi catches himself watching them both.

He remembers Kushina laughing in a kitchen like this one. Remembers Minato burning rice because he was reading seal texts while cooking. Remembers the quiet dreams they’d carried for their child. For this child.

And the question rises in his throat, sudden and sharp - 

Should I tell him?

That he knew them. That he watched them be so disgustingly in love it'd made him acutely nauseous. That he was there the day they died. That he held Kushina’s last dance in his Sharingan. That he’s tried, and failed, a thousand times to be anything but a ghost trailing in the wake of their absence.

He opens his mouth. Then closes it again.

Because Naruto is laughing. Because Hikari is teaching him how to crease paper wings, and he’s actually listening. Because - for this moment - Naruto is just a boy, happy and safe and accepted.

And maybe that’s enough. For now.

Kakashi doesn’t lie to him. He just... doesn’t speak the whole truth.

Not yet.

He’ll know when the time is right.

Until then - he’ll keep making dinner. Keep listening. Keep showing up.

Because Naruto deserves that, too.

Chapter Text

Shikaku’s expectations for the Shinobi Council meeting had been lower than low. It’s always the same thing, every single time - Fugaku wants to increase funding to the police force; Hisashi opposes on principle; Inoichi tries to mediate; and everyone pretends they haven’t had this exact argument, word-for-word, at least twice a month since the Third War ended.

It’s stupid. It’s ridiculous. It’s - worst of all - politics.

He slouches back in his seat and tries not to sigh too obviously. Inoichi, on his left, sends him a tired, commiserating look. Choza, on his other side, pats his back. 

The door to the council room opens, and Hatake Kakashi walks in. Which, in and of itself, would be deeply unusual - Kakashi hasn’t shown up to one of these things in… ever, Shikaku thinks. Not one single time. But that’s not all. Behind him, half a step behind, there’s - 

Shikaku blinks. Slowly straightens.

There’s a child.

What the fuck?

The room goes quiet in the way rooms full of people do when something unexpected happens - not with alarm, but with a slow-dawning stillness, like a glass teetering on the edge of a table.

Kakashi doesn’t flinch under the weight of their attention. Just keeps walking, unhurried, absurdly calm. Shikaku watches as he makes it all the way to the centre of the council chamber and turns to face them, one hand resting lightly on the child’s shoulder.

A child. A goddamn child.

He’s heard the rumours, of course. Everyone has. Hatake Kakashi, seen with a small girl - at the training grounds, in the library, walking back from the market. But no one who actually knows Kakashi has taken them seriously. Kakashi? Raising a kid? Come on. The man is clinically allergic to emotions and probably owns a single fork. It’s not just unlikely - it’s laughable.

And yet, there she is.

She can’t be older than Shikamaru - six, maybe. Small, solemn-faced, and sharp-eyed in a way that makes Shikaku’s instincts prickle. She wears a formal grey yukata - well-made, but not showy - and the dark blue Hatake sigil stitched into the back stands out like a declaration.

Uzumaki red hair. Vivid blue eyes. Perfect posture.

What the hell. How had this happened?

Kakashi lifts his visible eye to the council. “This is Hatake Hikari,” he says, as if he’s announcing the weather.

The silence doesn’t deepen so much as congeal. Because - Hatake Hikari???

“My heir.”

Shikaku’s brain short-circuits for a full second.

Inoichi actually makes a choking sound. Hisashi’s eyebrows shoot up. Danzo doesn't react - never does - but his fingers twitch faintly against the armrest of his chair.

Shikaku’s eyes flick back to the girl - Hikari. Her posture is perfect, composed, her chin lifted just a fraction higher than it needs to be. A child, yes. But one who’s been trained. Or… one who’s learned, fast.

“You’re serious,” Shikaku says finally, voice disbelieving.

Kakashi eye-smiles. “Yep.”

“She doesn’t look anything like you,” Koharu says suspiciously.

“She takes after her mother,” Kakashi says easily.

“Her mother,” Danzo repeats slowly. “Who is…?”

“She was a traveller,” Kakashi answers, smooth as silk. “Unfortunately, she’s since passed. I didn’t find out about Hikari here until around a year ago.”

“You didn’t think this might merit a mention before now?” Hisashi says sharply.

“I didn’t think I needed your permission,” Kakashi replies, and now there’s steel under the nonchalance.

Hikari’s gaze sweeps the room, landing for a moment on each clan head in turn. Her expression doesn’t change, but there’s something in her eyes - quiet and unsettling - that makes Shikaku sit up straighter. It’s not arrogance. It’s awareness.

“Is there a reason you’ve brought her here?” Fugaku asks coolly, folding his hands in his lap. “Or is this just a dramatic entrance?”

“She’s my heir,” Kakashi repeats. “She should meet the council she’ll be dealing with in the future.”

“‘Dealing with,’” Inoichi murmurs under his breath. “Gods, that’s ominous.”

Choza’s hand is still on Shikaku’s back, having stilled mid-pat. Shikaku doesn't look at him. He doesn’t need to. He can feel it - the same calculating shift that’s happening behind every face in the room.

Hisashi looks like he’s smelled something foul. Which, to be fair, is probably his default expression - but there’s a distinct note of sour disapproval now, sharper than usual, like the very idea of Kakashi having an heir offends him on some deep, personal level. Especially considering the age Kakashi must’ve been when he’d fathered her - what, fifteen? Sixteen? Of course Hisashi would disapprove.

Across the table, Fugaku is stone-faced. No surprise there. But Shikaku’s spent years reading the faint microexpressions of Konoha’s most famously unreadable clan head, and that tight pull between his brows? That’s a frown. A small one, but there. Which basically means he’s internally screaming.

Danzo still hasn’t moved.

“Be that as it may,” Hisashi says, stiff, “this is a council meeting. Not a stage for posturing.”

Hikari doesn’t bristle. Doesn’t blink. Just looks at him for a long moment, tilting her head ever so slightly, as though he’s said something interesting, rather than offensive. She’s not smirking, but the room tilts, perceptibly, in her favour.

“I understand,” she says finally, voice quiet and even. “I’m not here to interfere. Merely observe.”

The phrasing is deliberate. Careful. And Shikaku - Shikaku wants to laugh. Or maybe cry.

Because she’s a kid, but she speaks like a diplomat. Because she just disarmed one of the sharpest tongues in the village without ever raising her voice.

And Kakashi is watching her like he’s the only one in the room who expected this. Like he knew exactly what kind of explosive tag he was carrying into the meeting.

Shikaku scrubs a hand over his face.

Hiruzen clears his throat. The bastard looks like he's trying not to smile. “If that’s all, may we begin?”

~

The meeting begins, because it must.

Fugaku clears his throat and resumes his usual opening salvo about the budget - specifically, the consistent underfunding of the Konoha Military Police. His tone is clipped, practiced, and slightly more pointed than usual, as though daring someone to contradict him.

Hisashi takes the bait instantly, of course.

“As I’ve said before, additional funding for the police must come from somewhere. If you intend to redirect it from the medic-nin corps, then say so plainly.”

Inoichi sighs - already. “No one’s proposing cuts to medical,” he mutters, thumbing through the stack of documents in front of him. “Let’s just - look at the proposed allocations before we start bleeding over them.”

The ritual has begun.

Shikaku leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing as he lets the words wash over him. He’s not listening so much as tracking patterns - who interrupts whom, who’s biting their tongue, who’s pushing an agenda and who’s just tired. He doesn’t even need to look to know when Danzo shifts slightly, when Choza’s fingers tap twice against the wood, when Tsume snorts derisively.

But he does look at one person - the girl.

Hikari sits in the seat Kakashi pulled out for her, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her expression is impassive, unreadable. She makes no move to fidget, no attempt to interject. She doesn’t even turn her head to follow the voices as they speak. She simply watches.

Unnervingly still. Distinctly alert.

She’s not pretending to be interested. She is interested. And not in the idle way children are when they’re curious about grown-up things. No, this is sharper than that. This is the attention of someone studying a room full of enemies and allies alike, cataloguing weaknesses.

Kakashi doesn’t look at her. Not once. But he knows. Shikaku can tell he knows. He’s angled his body just slightly toward her, not enough to be obvious, but enough to respond should something shift.

Fugaku and Hisashi are still going at it. It’s the same argument they’ve had for years - Shikaku could recite it in his sleep - but Hikari’s gaze doesn’t drift. She tracks them both, unblinking, as though she's wondering why no one’s solved it yet.

~

She doesn’t speak for that meeting. Or the next one. Or the one after that.

Eight consecutive weekly meetings come and go. Eight rounds of the same political ritual: Fugaku opens with a thinly veiled complaint about budget constraints, Hisashi counters with surgical disdain, and the rest of the council wearily tries to drag the conversation somewhere productive.

And through it all, Hikari is a constant.

She arrives early, each time, her red hair always braided back in a precise plait that never frays, her formal grey yukata unwrinkled and immaculate. She sits quietly, always in the same seat, always still. Her hands rest in her lap, her back straight, her eyes sharp.

She never fidgets, never whispers. Never so much as shifts her weight.

She just… watches. Like a student. Or a strategist. Or someone laying groundwork no one else can see.

The first few meetings, the Ino-Shika-Cho trio watch her warily. Old instincts, perhaps. But she does nothing. Says nothing. And slowly, subtly, their tension fades. Not into ease - never that - but into something more like tolerance. Curiosity. Inoichi starts passing her extra copies of the budget breakdowns, which she doesn’t look at during meetings but always tucks under her arm when she leaves. Choza once leans back and hands her a wrapped hard candy without even looking.

By the sixth meeting, Shikaku catches himself scanning the room to gauge her reaction before his own. It’s always the same unreadable expression, mildly interested, whether she’s watching Fugaku and Hisashi go at it again or a discussion on shinobi and civilian taxation.

And then - 

The ninth meeting.

The ritual begins as usual. Fugaku clears his throat and launches into his opening monologue about the Konoha Military Police’s outdated equipment, and how the latest requisition order was delayed - again - due to “unjustifiable budget restrictions.”

Hisashi interrupts before he finishes the sentence. “There is no justification for redundancy. The Uchiha police already operate independently. Additional spending only duplicates what existing security forces are already tasked with.”

Shikaku tunes it out. It’s nothing new. Except - this time - Hikari’s fingers move. Just slightly. She lifts one hand, not quite enough to call attention, just enough to uncross her fingers. Her posture shifts. Barely.

And then, she speaks.

“I apologize for the interruption,” she says, clear and even.

Silence crashes over the room like a dropped blade.

Her voice is soft, but it carries. There’s no uncertainty in it. No hesitation. Just quiet, faultless control.

All eyes turn.

She bows her head briefly. “If I may,” she continues, “I reviewed the budgetary breakdown provided three weeks ago, as well as the revised infrastructure reports submitted last meeting. I noticed that the proposed funding for the police force primarily concerns equipment and facility upgrades, yes?”

Fugaku narrows his eyes. “… Yes,” he says slowly, looking deeply suspicious. His expression screams why are you talking?

“And the hesitation from the rest of the council stems from concern over overlapping jurisdiction,” she says, then looks to Hisashi. “Particularly with regard to medical budget reallocations and the standardization of emergency response coordination?”

Hisashi gives a curt nod. He looks suspicious and extremely skeptical, but he can’t exactly tell her to shut up without breaking protocol - heirs are technically allowed to speak - so, for now, he stays silent.

“In that case,” she says, “might I propose a compromise?”

She doesn’t stand. Doesn’t raise her voice. She just speaks, calm and precise.

“The Uchiha Police Headquarters sits along the western corridor of the village, adjacent to District Nine. That district currently lacks an auxiliary emergency dispatch point, yes? If a portion of the funding were redirected to co-develop a shared operations centre - one that houses both police upgrades and a medical emergency triage hub - then both departments receive what they need. The infrastructure costs would be pooled, not doubled. And the result would improve both village safety and interdepartmental efficiency.”

Silence. A long one.

Shikaku blinks slowly. Inoichi’s pen has stopped moving. Hisashi looks like he’s chewing glass.

And Fugaku… is frowning. But not at her. At the numbers he’s already beginning to run in his head.

They try, of course. They try to tear the idea apart.

Hisashi questions the feasibility of medical staff relocating. Fugaku challenges the chain-of-command implications. Danzo, infuriatingly, says nothing - but everyone feels the weight of his scrutiny.

But then - 

“Actually,” Tsume says, leaning forward, a wicked grin tugging at her mouth, “that’s damn clever.”

All heads turn.

“I’ve been saying for years we need better west-end medical coverage,” she continues. “And I like the sound of two birds, one kunai. Besides, she’s not wrong - the emergency routes over there are a nightmare. I nearly lost a chuunin last month because the med-nin team hit construction traffic. This fixes that.”

She throws a look at Fugaku. “Unless you’re saying your police can’t share a hallway?”

Fugaku’s eyes narrow. But - he exhales. Slowly.

“It would require revisions to the command structure,” he says stiffly. “And specific guarantees on police autonomy.”

Hisashi makes a deeply displeased face, like the words he’s about to say taste worse than licking rotten garbage. But then - 

“We can... negotiate terms,” he forces out.

There’s a beat of stunned silence. And in that time, Shikaku realizes - 

They just agreed.

Fugaku and Hisashi agreed.

For the first time in literal fucking years.

They don’t want to. Oh, they very obviously do not want to. But they are agreeing anyway, because the idea is beneficial enough on the surface that they can’t disagree without losing face. 

He has no doubt they’ll nitpick the proposal to hell and back. No doubt they’ll squabble and bicker and oppose each other on principle at every possible opportunity. But for the first time since the Third War ended, they have a stated interest in a shared goal again.

And that… that’s insane.

Shikaku leans back slowly in his chair, watching Hikari, who has gone still once more. Her face is calm, expression unchanged, hands folded in her lap again.

She says nothing else. She doesn’t need to.

Kakashi, meanwhile, doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t so much as tilt his head.

But he radiates smug.

It’s in the relaxed set of his shoulders, the way he leans back ever so slightly in his chair - like he’s watching a stage play unfold exactly as he scripted it. Like he knew this would happen. Like he expected it. Which is almost certainly worse.

The bastard looks proud. Not just satisfied, but proud, in that subtle, infuriating way only Hatake Kakashi can manage, like he’s silently congratulating himself for being a genius while pretending it’s no big deal. His eye slides lazily to Shikaku, all faux-innocence, like oh dear, what a surprise, my pint-sized kid just solved your half-decade-long political stalemate, how very unexpected.

Shikaku resists the urge to throw his pen at him. Barely.

Across the table, Hisashi looks like he’s been forced to chew through granite. Fugaku is glaring into the middle distance with the intensity of someone recalculating his entire strategic worldview. Inoichi has his forehead in one hand. Choza is blinking in astonishment.

And Hikari just sits there. Perfectly composed, perfectly still. As if she hasn’t just waltzed into a den of jaded war veterans and outmaneuvered half of them in under five minutes.

Shikaku glances at her again. She’s watching the table. Not preening. Not triumphant. Just - aware. Not of her own brilliance, but of the reaction. The ripple effect.

She’s not trying to impress anyone - she’s just… watching them adjust.

Gods.

He lets out a long, slow exhale through his nose. Leans over slightly and mutters, just loud enough for Kakashi to hear:

“You’re insufferable.”

Kakashi’s eye curves up in that maddening smile.

“I try,” he murmurs.

Tsume lets out a short bark of laughter that startles everyone. She slaps the table with an open palm. “That’s it. I’m calling it now. If she’s not running this whole damn place in twenty years, I’ll eat my ninken’s collar.”

Hikari blinks. Then, with impeccable politeness, she says, “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

Tsume howls.

And Kakashi - Kakashi just leans back a little further in his chair, arms loosely crossed, and positively glows with quiet satisfaction.

Shikaku glares at him.

“You taught her this,” he hisses.

Kakashi raises a brow. “No,” he says, almost lazily. “I just brought her here.”

Which is, Shikaku thinks grimly, infinitely worse.

~

Shikaku isn’t entirely sure why he sends the invitation.

No - that’s a lie. He knows exactly why. Yoshino’s been side-eyeing him for three days straight, every time he so much as breathes near a council report. She wants to meet Hikari. Badly. Keeps muttering things like finally, someone who might be able to rein in that disaster of a council, and if you don’t bring her over, there will be consequences.

So really, it’s either invite them to dinner, or face the wrath of a woman who once dragged him out of a strategy meeting by the ear. And with whom he lives with. And who has access to his food and drink. So.

Besides… he’s curious. Morbidly so. He wants to see what Hikari’s like outside the council room.

So he writes the note himself. Doesn’t bother with formal summons or an elaborately-dressed messenger. Just a simple scroll, direct and to the point:

Dinner. My home. Thursday. Bring the kid.
 - Nara Shikaku

Kakashi replies with a drawing of a pug smiling politely and the words We’ll be there.

… Because of course he does.

 - 

The evening air is mild when they arrive. Hikari steps through the gate first, her grey yukata replaced by a soft green kimono patterned with pale leaf motifs. Her hair is braided again, but looser now, a little less severe. She bows politely at the threshold, just deep enough to show respect, not deep enough to suggest submission.

Kakashi trails behind, hands in his pockets, eye curving in that infuriatingly pleasant way that says I know exactly what I’m doing and you can’t stop me.

Yoshino greets them at the door.

She beams at Hikari like she’s just won the jackpot in a very obscure, high-stakes game of chess. Within three minutes, Hikari’s seated at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, answering questions about seasonal vegetable preferences with impeccable manners. Kakashi disappears into the shadows of the house like a socially avoidant cat.

And Shikamaru wanders in from the back porch, yawning, his hair a mess, one pant leg still half tucked into his sock.

He stops dead in the doorway. Squints. Then looks at Shikaku, like, seriously?

Then back at Hikari.

“…You’re the council girl,” he says bluntly.

Hikari tilts her head. “I suppose I am.”

Shikamaru narrows his eyes. Steps closer. Studies her the way he studies puzzle boxes and unfamiliar cloud formations.

“You play shogi?”

“I’m afraid I’ve never learned,” Hikari replies, entirely unbothered.

There’s a beat. Shikamaru looks affronted. Shikaku turns an incredulous stare onto Kakashi, because this girl solved a political deadlock as old as Shikamaru, but she doesn’t know how to play shogi, the single most important game for a tactician?

“Wanna learn?” Shikamaru asks.

Shikaku watches her eyebrows lift, just slightly.

“Yes,” she says. “I would.”

Shikamaru nods once, as if this confirms something important. Then turns and walks into the sitting room without another word. Hikari follows.

The moment they’re out of earshot, Shikaku whirls on Kakashi. “She doesn’t know shogi?!”

Kakashi blinks lazily. “She knows poker,” he offers, which - 

What?

What the fuck??

That is worse. That is so, so much worse.

“You taught a child how to gamble?”

“In my defence, Genma was the one who taught her,” Kakashi says, like that somehow makes it better. 

“You allowed a child to interact with Shiranui Genma?!”

Kakashi snorts. “Also in my defence, there was an ambush. A coordinated strike, one might say.”

Shikaku stares at him for a long moment, then has to physically leave the room before he does something stupid, like try to strangle him. He follows the kids and leans against the doorway to the sitting room, desperately trying to calm himself.

Shikamaru drops onto the tatami floor with the grace of a small, perpetually tired cat, pulling the shogi board toward him. He gestures for Hikari to sit across from him without looking up.

She does, folding her legs neatly beneath her. Hands in her lap. Back straight. Watching him.

Shikamaru sighs like this is so much work, then begins setting up the pieces. “Okay,” he says. “So - there’s forty pieces. Twenty each. You’ve got generals, knights, pawns, that kind of thing. The king’s the most important. You lose if they get checkmated.”

Hikari nods, quiet, focused.

“You move different pieces different ways. Like - these guys, the gold generals? They can go in any direction except diagonal backwards. These guys - silver generals - they can go diagonally backwards, but not sideways.”

Shikaku keeps watching from the hallway, arms loosely crossed. His blood pressure has lowered. Marginally. 

She doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t ask questions. Just listens - closely. Watching the pieces, not Shikamaru, her gaze flicking to each one as he names it. Memorizing.

“And pawns just go one square forward. But if they reach the end of the board, they can promote. Turn into a gold general.”

There’s a small pause.

“… You can promote?” she asks, tilting her head.

Shikamaru shrugs. “Yeah. But only certain pieces. Most of ‘em just turn into golds. Except the rook and bishop. They get to fly around and do diagonal or straight lines once promoted.”

Hikari’s brows draw slightly together, her lips parting in thought.

“So the board is symmetrical,” she murmurs, more to herself than to him. “But asymmetry arises from piece movement and promotion potential. Strategy relies on both initial balance and shifting momentum.”

Shikamaru blinks.

“Uh. Yeah,” he says, clearly unsure whether to be impressed or annoyed.

He finishes setting up the board and leans back on his palms. “You wanna try?”

“Yes,” Hikari says.

Shikaku, watching from the doorway, feels something coil in his gut. Not relief - dread. It’s a familiar feeling - like spotting a thundercloud on the horizon and realizing, too late, that it’s already above you.

He’s seen that look in Shikamaru’s eyes only twice before. Once during a border tactics exercise with jonin-level simulation constraints. Once when he solved a mission debrief cipher in record time because he was bored and the paperwork was in his way.

And now he’s seeing it again.

Except this time, the cipher is a six-year-old girl with a knife-sharp mind, a diplomatic spine of steel, and Kakashi’s quiet, unbearable smugness ghosting behind her like a curse.

Yoshino appears at his side, arms folded, watching the match begin.

“Think they’ll get along?” she asks.

Shikaku doesn’t answer immediately. On the board, Hikari’s first move is hesitant but measured. Shikamaru immediately responds with a two-step feint to test her understanding.

She doesn’t fall for it.

She adapts.

Shikaku exhales through his nose. “No,” he says finally. “They’ll get attached.”

Yoshino grins. “Good.”

Shikaku closes his eyes. We are so fucked, he thinks, and prays to every god still listening that the Academy instructors are paid enough for this.

~

The game unfolds in fits and starts, punctuated by quiet thought and the occasional scrape of a shogi tile against the board. It’s clumsy at first - Hikari’s learning the rules, testing moves, glancing at the pieces with narrowed eyes and deliberate stillness.

But she’s quick. Too quick.

Shikaku watches as her hesitation shrinks with each move, curiosity sharpening into calculation. She doesn’t get everything right - she loses a knight early, misjudges a silver general’s range - but she adjusts. Learns on the fly. Starts laying down defences she hadn’t known existed ten minutes earlier.

Shikamaru, to his credit, doesn’t go easy on her. He plays like he always does: lazy posture, half-hearted sighs, and traps disguised as mistakes.

She sidesteps one of them.

Then another.

By the twelfth turn, he’s leaning forward. Not far. Not obviously. But enough for Shikaku to notice. Enough to confirm what he already suspects: she’s under his skin.

Shikamaru taps a finger against the edge of a pawn. “You’re weird.”

Hikari tilts her head. “So are you.”

“Yeah, but I know I’m weird.”

“So do I,” she says, perfectly serious.

Shikamaru stares at her. Then huffs. “Troublesome.”

“You’ve said that three times.”

“You are three times troublesome.”

From the hallway, Shikaku groans softly.

Yoshino leans over and whispers, “Oh, they’re perfect.”

“No,” Shikaku mutters. “They’re a problem.”

He watches as Hikari makes a move that doesn’t look like much - just a single step of a lance. But it shifts her whole formation. It’s not aggressive, it’s structural. Like she’s reinforcing the shape of the board around an idea she hasn’t revealed yet.

Shikamaru notices. Shikaku sees the exact moment it clicks in his son's mind. His brows lift a fraction. His eyes narrow.

She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t need to.

They’re the same age. They’ll start at the Academy together in two years. They’ll grow up side by side, and one of them is a prodigy with a mind like a snare trap, and the other one is… Hikari. Whatever the hell she is.

Shikamaru shifts his rook into a stronger position - an excellent move, by all accounts. Clean. Clever. Defensive in a way that baits overconfidence, a classic maneuver that had rattled plenty of seasoned chuunin in training matches.

He sits back, fingers laced behind his head, a self-satisfied sigh halfway to forming.

Hikari pauses. Her brows knit, just slightly, the tiniest crease of dissatisfaction appearing between them. Then, with quiet certainty, she moves her silver general forward.

And leaves it wide open.

Shikaku blinks. Shikamaru blinks.

It’s a sacrifice - bold, deliberate, and devastating. It shifts the balance of the entire board. It draws the rook in, pulls it just far enough away that when her next two moves follow, fast and precise - 

His king is cornered.

Two turns ahead of schedule.

Shikamaru stares at the board. Then at her. Then at the board again.

“… That was mean,” he says finally, awe thick in his voice.

Hikari tilts her head. “Should I apologize?”

Shikamaru looks horrified. “No.”

He leans forward, eyes glittering with a kind of focused reverence, like a child presented with a riddle box that just opened to reveal a second, even better puzzle inside.

“Do it again,” he breathes.

Next to him, Yoshino makes a sound suspiciously like a delighted sigh, the kind she usually reserves for elegant dinner parties and unusually well-organized pantry shelves.

Shikaku groans into his palm.

“She’s six,” he mutters.

“So is he,” Yoshino says brightly.

“Yes. Exactly.”

On the floor, the two children start resetting the board. Shikamaru is explaining a hypothetical counter-move with more enthusiasm than he's ever seen from him. Hikari’s expression is still, but there’s a spark of something in her eyes now - engagement, interest, perhaps even amusement.

Shikaku watches her quietly.

That same formal poise, that same deadly calm. But here, it bends a little. Loosens. She’s not smiling, but she’s present in a way he hasn’t seen before.

Not just observing. Playing.

And that, more than anything, is what makes his stomach drop.

Because this - this is what war strategists look like before they learn to kill.

And gods help them all, they’re going to be best friends.

~

Dinner is, technically speaking, flawless.

The rice is perfectly steamed, the miso light but flavourful, and the seasonal vegetables are sautéed with just enough sesame to bring out their natural sweetness. Shikaku, of course, notices none of this.

He’s too busy watching her, half in awe, half in horror.

Hikari sits with the poise of a court ambassador. Back straight. Elbows tucked. Chopsticks held in perfect form. She waits until everyone else is served. She thanks Yoshino before taking a single bite. And when she eats, it’s slow and deliberate - every motion practiced, every gesture restrained.

It’s terrifying.

Shikaku’s been to more diplomatic banquets than he can count. He’s seen kage and daimyo and nobles from all five great nations try to impress each other with elegance and poise, only to crack the second someone sneezes out of turn.

But this child? This six-year-old?

She eats like she was trained by court tutors with knives behind their fans.

Yoshino shoots Shikaku a look so sharp it might as well be a kunai.

Did you see that?? it says.

Yes, he grimaces back. I’m right here.

Across the table, Shikamaru is shovelling rice into his mouth like he’s got a quota to meet before sundown. He hasn’t spilled anything - yet - but he’s making a valiant effort to test the structural integrity of the napkin tucked into his collar.

Hikari, meanwhile, lifts her bowl with both hands. Sips the miso with quiet, reverent grace. Places it back down with the soundless precision of someone who’s been taught that noise is a weakness.

“Kakashi,” Yoshino says sweetly, “she’s an angel.”

Kakashi, who has been watching this entire exchange with barely veiled amusement and missed exactly none of it, blinks innocently. “Is she? I hadn’t noticed.”

Shikaku nearly chokes on his sautéed vegetables.

Yoshino beams. “Such lovely manners. Do you have any idea how long it took this one - ” she jerks a thumb toward Shikamaru, who is currently chewing with both cheeks puffed like a squirrel’s panic stash - “to stop slouching at the table?”

“I’m still slouching,” Shikamaru says helpfully, around a mouthful of food.

“You will not be if you’d like seconds,” she snaps. “And don’t talk with your mouth full.”

He straightens like he’s been electrocuted. Swallows, with visible difficulty. His cheeks deflate like punctured balloons.

Hikari glances at him sidelong. “You may have my tofu, if you’d like. You seem to enjoy it.”

“Thanks,” Shikamaru says, already reaching with rice-covered fingers. Shikaku wonders, distantly disturbed, how Shikamaru even got rice on his hands when he’d been using chopsticks the entire time.

“Use your chopsticks,” Yoshino hisses, appalled.

“It’s faster with hands,” he mutters, but obeys.

Shikaku sinks further into his chair.

It’s surreal.

There’s Kakashi, leaning back like this is a casual brunch with friends and not some kind of manners-based intimidation ring disguised as a dinner. There’s Yoshino, halfway between swooning and sharpening metaphorical knives for her inevitable fight with Kakashi over custody. There’s Shikamaru, eating like a war orphan, though, honestly, that’s the only thing not unusual about this whole absurd situation. And then there’s Hikari - still, composed, hands folded as she waits for everyone to finish before taking another bite.

Shikaku watches as she quietly refills Shikamaru’s teacup when he’s not looking, and groans. Low. In the back of his throat.

Kakashi lifts his own teacup in toast. Doesn’t say a word; he doesn’t have to.

Shikaku drinks deeply. If he has to survive this timeline, he’s going to need stronger tea.

~

They’re finishing up the main course when Yoshino smoothly changes the focus of the conversation to the entire reason this meal exists.

“So, Hikari,” she smiles innocently, “tell me about yourself. What do you like to do for fun?”

Hikari’s expression turns thoughtful. She considers this question with all the gravitas of a mission report. 

“I enjoy reading,” she says. 

Yoshino brightens. “Oh? What kinds of things do you read?”

Shikaku’s not sure what he expects her to say. Meeting minutes, maybe. Or treaties. Or tax reform proposals. Something within the realm of possibility for a terrifyingly diplomatic six-year-old.

Instead, what comes out of her mouth is - 

“Fuuinjutsu texts,” Hikari says, completely casually, like that’s a perfectly normal thing for small child to say. 

Shikaku almost - almost - chokes on his tea. Yoshino stares, her chopsticks frozen halfway to her bowl. Shikamaru turns his head to her so sharply he almost gives himself whiplash.

“For fun?” Shikamaru says, aghast. 

Hikari blinks. “Of course.”

There’s another beat of stunned silence. Then - 

“Why?” Shikamaru asks, his voice strangled. 

“It’s interesting,” Hikari says mildly. “There’s a structure to it, like language, or poetry. It’s limitless, in a way. Where ninjutsu and genjutsu are bound by a shinobi’s chakra control and reserves, where taijutsu is constrained by physical limitations, fuuinjutsu has theoretically infinite outputs as long as it’s done correctly. It also just - makes sense,” she finishes.

Shikamaru stares at her. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. And then, grudgingly, like the words physically hurt to say, he goes, “That sounds… fine. I guess.”

The ghost of amusement flits across Hikari’s face. “I appreciate your resounding approval.”

“What kind of seals are you interested in?” Yoshino asks, her tone warm but wary, like she’s still not over the ‘for fun’ part.

Hikari straightens a little. Not primly, but with the careful precision of someone sorting through internal filing cabinets before speaking.

“I’m interested in recovering and expanding non-combat applications,” she says. “Particularly those lost after Uzushio’s fall. Most modern fuuinjutsu focuses on containment, suppression, or explosive output, but historically, there were agricultural seals used to stabilize microclimates, regulate water flow, and prevent soil depletion.”

Shikaku chokes slightly on his tea. Yoshino’s brows lift.

Hikari continues, calm and methodical. “There were also healing and stabilization seals, based on medical ninjutsu. For use in the field, when there wasn’t a medic-nin available, which is often. It doesn’t replace a trained med-nin, of course,” she adds, “just - augments their work. Saves them from expending chakra on simple things, or buys them time.”

Shikamaru is staring at her like she’s sprouted a second head.

“That’s… that’s real?” he says. “You can use seals on dirt? And to heal people?”

“You can use them on anything,” Hikari says simply. “The challenge is that most of the schematics were lost after the war. It’s not a matter of invention. It’s recovery. Reverse-engineering what was buried.” She pauses. “Though the few medical seals we now have were never updated to reflect Senju Tsunade’s major breakthroughs in medicine, so extensive reworking will need to be done of those to improve efficiency.”

There’s a long pause.

“… I thought you said you did this for fun,” Shikamaru says faintly.

“I do.”

Yoshino, wide-eyed, turns slowly toward Kakashi, who is very obviously not helping. He lifts his tea with the air of someone who has no idea where his tiny terrifying daughter could possibly have gotten such ideas. His visible eye curves faintly over the rim of his cup.

Shikaku, meanwhile, puts his forehead in his hand.

“She’s going to reengineer the entire economy,” he mutters. “And maybe the medical system.”

~

After dinner, the kids drift back toward the sitting room, the shogi board calling them like a siren song.

Shikamaru sets it up without a word. Hikari watches him, hands folded neatly in her lap, until he gestures silently for her to take the first move.

This time, she doesn’t hesitate.

Back in the kitchen, Shikaku opens the sake cabinet with the solemnity of a man preparing for his own funeral. He pours himself a generous measure, downs it in one, then refills the cup, and only belatedly remembers to grab a second cup before glancing over his shoulder.

Kakashi’s already leaning against the doorframe. Of course he is.

“I hate you,” Shikaku mutters, handing him the cup.

Kakashi accepts it with a polite nod, like it’s an award for services rendered. “That’s fair.”

Shikaku drains half his sake in one go. “You brought her to the council. You made her my problem.”

“I didn’t make her do anything,” Kakashi says, faintly smug. “She just observed. Spoke once.”

“She spoke once,” Shikaku hisses, “and managed to broker peace between two men who would rather kill each other than agree on breathing.”

Kakashi takes a sip, unbothered. “She’s efficient.”

“She’s six.”

“And?”

Shikaku stares at him. “You’re not even sorry.”

Kakashi hums. “Not especially.”

There’s a pause as they both watch the children in the other room. Hikari has her brow slightly furrowed, deep in thought. Shikamaru is chewing his lip, already four moves ahead and trying to guess where she’ll go next.

“She refilled his tea,” Shikaku says quietly, more to himself than anything. “And offered him her tofu.”

Kakashi tilts his head. “Yes. She’s considerate.”

“She eats like a daimyo’s niece. She reads fuuinjutsu texts for fun. She’s trying to resurrect pre-war agricultural fuuinjutsu, on purpose, and she cornered my son’s king in fourteen turns during her very first game.”

“She’s multitalented,” Kakashi agrees.

Shikaku closes his eyes. “You created her.”

Kakashi squints. “Debatable.”

Shikaku ignores him. “And then you brought her into my life.”

His eye curves. “That, I did.”

Shikaku refills his sake. “I repeat: I hate you.”

Kakashi clinks his cup against Shikaku’s. “Cheers.”

Out in the other room, Shikamaru groans softly.

“You trapped me again.”

“No,” Hikari says, tone deceptively mild. “You trapped yourself. I just let you.”

Shikaku downs the rest of his sake.

Everything about this dinner was a mistake.

~

Eventually, thankfully, finally, the visit ends.

The dishes are done - mostly by Yoshino, despite Shikaku’s token protest and Hikari’s genuine one - and the teapot’s been refilled twice. Kakashi offers a pleasant farewell, and begins gently herding Hikari toward the door.

But Shikamaru lingers. He loiters near the threshold with a suspicious amount of casualness for a child who usually treats movement like an optional burden. His arms are folded, but the pose is wrong - too tight across the chest, too still at the elbows. Calculated, not relaxed.

Hikari slips her sandals on with graceful efficiency, smoothing the hem of her kimono. Shikamaru shifts his weight from one foot to the other, then stops, then shifts again.

And then, finally, he blurts it out.

“So, uh,” he says, very clearly trying to sound nonchalant and failing miserably, “are you coming back next week?”

Shikaku watches the words hang there in the air like a badly thrown kunai.

Hikari glances up, serene as ever. “Would you like me to?”

Shikamaru goes very still.

“… Yeah,” he says eventually. “I mean - if you want.”

“I would,” she says simply.

Then she turns to look at the adults - at Kakashi first, then Shikaku and Yoshino. She doesn’t plead. Doesn’t wheedle. Just inclines her head the slightest amount, a silent request folded in formality.

“May I?” she asks.

And Shikaku - Shikaku, who has survived two war fronts, eight assassination attempts, and two-hundred-fifty-seven consecutive Shinobi Council meetings - feels the weight of inevitability settle like a lead blanket across his shoulders.

Yoshino beams, already reaching for the family planner. Kakashi’s eye curves in what can only be described as polite malevolence. Shikaku sighs, long and slow.

“Yes,” he mutters. It sounds like a death knell.  “You may.”

Shikamaru tries not to look pleased. Fails completely.

And Shikaku watches his son - his sullen, brilliant, too-smart-for-his-own-good son - look at this small, terrifying child like she’s both a rival and a riddle and a friend.

Gods help them all.

They’re going to be inseparable.

Chapter Text

Two weeks after Hikari speaks in the Shinobi Council for the first time, a week and a half since that first dinner at Shikaku and Yoshino’s house, Kakashi gets called away for a mission. It’s not unusual in and of itself, but he’ll be gone for a week, which is.

Kakashi fusses.

Not overtly - he’s far too trained for that, his movements smooth and measured, his tone deceptively casual - but Hikari’s known him long enough now to read the tells. The third check of the perimeter seals. The way his eye keeps darting to the window like it’s a threat. The sharp crease between his brows when he thinks she isn’t looking.

And she is looking.

She’s curled on the couch with a book in her lap, legs tucked under her like a cat, pretending to read and not keep count. He’s paced past the entryway three times already. He checks the perimeter seals for the fourth time. She resists the urge to sigh.

“You’ve checked that already,” she says, turning a page she hasn’t actually read.

Kakashi pauses mid-motion. “Just being thorough.”

“You’re fussing.”

“I’m not.”

She gives him a flat look over the rim of her book. “You’re fussing,” she repeats firmly, then closes the book with a soft thump. “You don’t normally do this. You just vanish and show up again with a bag of rice crackers and a bloodstain or two.”

He has the decency to look sheepish. “It’s a longer mission this time.”

“Yes. A week.” She swings her legs down and hops off the couch. “You’ve been gone longer, haven’t you?”

“Not since you moved in.”

Ah. So that’s what this is.

Hikari crosses the room, stands in front of him with her arms folded and her expression very serious. “I’m not going to combust in your absence, Kakashi.”

“You’re six,” he says.

She blinks. “Experientially speaking - ”

He holds up a hand, grimacing. “No. You’re six. End of story.”

She falls silent, lips twitching. Something in his face flickers - amusement, she thinks, and fondness too, though he tries to mask it with a sigh. He reaches out and tugs lightly at the end of her braid.

“Just… humour me.”

“I am humouring you. I haven’t sealed your sandals to the ground yet.”

“You can do that?”

She smiles. It’s all teeth and innocence. “Not yet.”

He groans. “I’m never going to know peace again, am I?”

“Not if you keep hovering like a mother hen with separation anxiety,” she says matter-of-factly.

He still hesitates in the doorway.

And that - that - makes something twist low in her chest. Because she remembers, with cold clarity, what it was like to be left behind in another life. Remembered goodbyes that were lies, partings that became permanent.

So she walks over, reaches up, and tugs gently on the hem of his flak jacket.

“I’ll be here,” she says. “When you come back. You don’t have to check five times. I’ll still be here.”

Kakashi’s breath catches. Just a little. Then he crouches down, until they’re eye-level, and ruffles her hair with a hand that’s steadier than it was a moment ago.

“I know,” he says, quiet.

Then he stands, slings the pack over his shoulder, and steps out the door.

She waits three seconds before locking it behind him. Then sighs, turns on her heel, and heads for the couch again.

~

The knock comes exactly twenty minutes later. Hikari frowns. There’s no way it’s Kakashi - he wouldn’t bother knocking, since he lives here. But it’s too well-timed, which means either the knocker was watching the apartment - unlikely, Kakashi would’ve noticed - or Kakashi had dropped off a message on his way out. Or left one in advance, which is just as likely. 

She doesn’t sigh, but it’s a close thing. She gets up, setting the book aside carefully, and pads over to the front door. Opens it. And stares.

Genma beams at her over the towering three-tier pink cake he’s holding with both hands. Yuugao’s clutching a dog plushie. Tenzo lingers over her shoulder, a party horn in his mouth. All three are wearing pointed cone-shaped neon pink party hats. 

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” Genma and Yuugao yell in unison. Tenzo blows his party horn enthusiastically. 

Hikari stares. Tries very, very hard not to sigh. 

“I’m afraid my birthday was three weeks ago,” she informs them apologetically.

Genma’s face falls. Yuugao’s eyes widen. Tenzo blows his party horn again, though it sounds more like an accident this time. 

“But - but - Kakashi - ”

“Just left on a week-long mission,” Hikari finishes. “Approximately twenty minutes ago. He likely timed this so I wouldn’t be unsupervised.”

Genma sighs deeply. “That… does sound like the kind of underhanded, dastardly thing he’d do.”

Yuugao smacks him with the dog plushie. “Language!”

“I’ve heard worse,” Hikari reassures her. 

Yuugao turns to her with murder in her eyes. “From whom? Kakashi?”

She pauses. Is very tempted to say yes, for revenge purposes. Then decides to be honest. 

“At the market, mostly,” she says. “There’s a very… colourful produce vendor. Kakashi tries to shield me, but I’m better at bargaining than he is, and that particular vendor sells the best lemons.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” a new voice pipes up. A tall teenager with big dark doe eyes and curly black hair pops into view, also wearing a party hat, holding a box in one hand and - for some reason - cradling a large potted plant in the other arm. “Hatake Kakashi’s bad at bargaining? Tell me more.”

Hikari blinks at him. “He’s not bad, exactly,” she says. “I’m just… better.”

Genma laughs and claps the newcomer on the back. “Remember, Shisui, this is the kiddo who beat all of us - including Kakashi - at poker the same day she learned the game.”

The newcomer - Shisui, presumably - stares at Genma. “I thought that was a joke.”

“It was very real,” Yuugao says, looking haunted. “Too real.”

Hikari clears her throat delicately. Silence snaps into place. 

“Would you like to come in?” she offers. “The neighbours may file a noise complaint otherwise.”  

Genma brightens. “Don’t mind if we do!”

They file past her, taking off their shoes as they pass. Genma sets the cake on the dining table. Yuugao hands Hikari the plushie, which Hikari takes solemnly. Tenzo passes her a practice kunai set. Shisui sets the plant in the corner - it looks vaguely familiar, but Hikari can’t place why - and  puts the box of dango on the table next to the cake, catches her inquisitive look, and grins sheepishly. 

“Sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “I never introduced myself, did I? I’m Uchiha Shisui. Newest member of Team Ro.”

Hikari bows politely. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Hatake Hikari.”

Genma shakes his head. “Still can’t believe Kakashi actually did it.”

“Decide to raise a kid?” Yuugao asks. 

“No. Express - ” Genma shudders. “Emotional attachment.”

“Didn’t think senpai had it in him,” Tenzo agrees, his tone faintly admiring. 

“That’s fair,” Yuugao says easily. 

Hikari takes this in stride and turns toward the kitchen, her movements precise. “Would anyone like tea?”

There’s a brief silence - one of those baffled, breathless moments that always seems to follow whenever she opens her mouth and says something excessively civilized while surrounded by shinobi who have clearly mistaken her for someone normal.

“I have jasmine, sencha, houjicha, and sakura kukicha,” she adds, glancing over her shoulder. “And some lemon ice cubes, if you’d prefer something cold.”

Shisui makes a strangled noise.

Hikari blinks at him, then at the others. “Was that a no?”

Genma is clutching the edge of the dining table like he might keel over. Tenzo looks half-convinced he’s walked into a genjutsu. Yuugao is mouthing ‘lemon ice cubes?’ like the phrase personally offends her.

But it’s Shisui who breaks first. He leans back against the wall, one hand pressed dramatically to his chest, the other flailing midair.

“Okay,” he says breathlessly. “Okay. Have you ever met a guy - about this tall - ” he gestures to his chin, “with long black hair, and a face like someone just told him smiles are illegal?”

Hikari pauses, deeply intrigued. “No,” she says slowly, “but I’d very much like to.”

“Perfect,” Shisui says, sounding relieved. “I’m introducing you. I have to. Because I think - no, I’m certain - you might actually have better manners than him. Which I didn’t think was possible.”

“He sounds lovely,” Hikari says.

Genma’s head drops to the table with a thud. “Don’t encourage him.”

Yuugao narrows her eyes. “You’re talking about Itachi, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am!” Shisui looks personally offended. “Who else fits that description? And look at her! She just offered us tea like we were visiting nobles. I promise Itachi would explode from the sheer etiquette overload.”

“I wouldn’t want to inconvenience anyone,” Hikari says, walking back in with a tray already balanced with five cups and an elegant porcelain teapot. “You’ve brought gifts. It’s only polite to offer refreshments.”

Yuugao mutters something under her breath. Tenzo whispers reverently, “She made the lemon ice cubes in the shape of leaves.”

Hikari sets the tray down. “Would you prefer hot or cold, Shisui?”

Shisui looks helplessly delighted. “Surprise me.”

She pours him the houjicha. Drops in a few ice cubes.

“Okay,” he says after a sip, voice low and awed. “You’re going to give the entire Uchiha clan an inferiority complex.”

Hikari considers that. “That seems unlikely,” she says. “I’m not very good with throwing weapons.”

Shisui starts laughing so hard he nearly drops his tea.

Yuugao leans toward her and says very seriously, “You are now legally required to meet Itachi. For science.”

“For science,” Genma echoes solemnly.

Hikari hums, entirely noncommittal. “Alright. Shall I cut the cake?”

~

The cake is absurd.

It’s pink and tiered and aggressively frosted, topped with a sparkly kunai-shaped candle and more edible glitter than should legally be allowed. Genma insists on cutting it with unnecessary flourish and plates it with surgical precision. Tenzo carefully adds the dango to every plate. Yuugao insists everyone take pictures. Shisui somehow ends up with frosting on his nose before taking a single bite.

Hikari sips her tea with great dignity and tries not to judge them. It’s difficult.

“Alright,” Shisui says eventually, leaning back in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself. “So tell me the truth. Did you really beat everyone at poker?”

Genma groans. “Don’t.”

Yuugao buries her face in her hands. “We have a ban.”

“I folded to an eyebrow twitch,” Tenzo mutters, haunted.

“I only played twice,” Hikari says mildly, setting down her fork. “Kakashi said I wasn’t allowed again.”

“Cowardice,” Shisui declares. “Let her play.”

Yuugao lifts her head. “Shisui - ”

“No, no. I need to see this.”

Hikari folds her hands in her lap. “Are you quite sure? Genma nearly cried last time.”

“One tear,” Genma says, scowling. “It doesn’t count.”

They clear the table.

Cards are shuffled. Seats re-arranged. Dango skewers are repurposed as makeshift betting chips. Genma warns Shisui not to bet anything he isn’t willing to lose.

Five minutes in, Hikari has had two full sets and a flush. Tenzo has folded twice. Genma has begun narrating his downfall in dramatic prose. Yuugao looks like she’s developing a migraine. Shisui is staring at her with narrowed eyes.

Fifteen minutes in, she has the entire makeshift pot, Shisui is staring at her with what might be distant horror, and Yuugao has started reorganizing her weapons pouch just to feel something.

“I rescind everything,” Shisui says faintly. “You’re a menace.”

Hikari inclines her head. “Thank you.”

Genma puts his head on the table. “She said that like it was a compliment.”

They take a break after that. Tea is refilled. Cake crumbs are swept away. Hikari reclaims her book briefly, though she doesn’t read it - just listens to the quiet rhythm of their voices as they argue over card strategy and whether Genma should be banned from using metaphors ever again.

Eventually, Shisui wanders over to the side table, where the shogi board - borrowed from Shikamaru a few days ago - sits folded and pristine.

“Oooh,” he says. “Anyone up for a game?” He eyes Hikari speculatively.

Yuugao groans. “You’re not going to try to redeem your dignity by beating a six-year-old, are you?”

“I just want to see where I stand,” Shisui says innocently. “I’ll be gentle.”

He is not gentle.

Hikari, for her part, starts cautiously. She’s still learning the pieces, after all, and Shisui isn’t exactly a novice.

But something about it clicks. It’s not just the logic of the game, the rules and the movement - it’s the rhythm. The dance. She sees it the same way she sees battle plans. Power shifts. Court intrigue.

Six turns in, she corners his bishop. Nine turns in, she trades pawns for control of the centre. Eleven turns in, Shisui leans forward, frowning. Twelve turns in, she captures his rook. Thirteen turns in - 

He stares at the board. Then at her. Then at the board again. He sits back, utterly defeated. “Do you have any flaws?”

“I’m not very good at aiming,” she offers. “And I still have to stand on the counter to reach the top shelf of the cabinets.”

Genma wheezes. Yuugao starts laughing and doesn’t stop. Tenzo solemnly starts clearing the shogi pieces like a man dragging bodies off a battlefield.

~

Later, when the moon is high and the last of the tea has gone cold, they gather on the rooftop. No one suggests it - it just… happens, like water running downhill.

The village is quiet beneath them, shadows and lantern-glow stretching long across the streets. Tenzo leans against the railing. Genma sprawls across a crate like it’s a throne. Yuugao is perched on the ledge, face turned toward the breeze. Shisui sits beside Hikari, cross-legged, arms resting on his knees.

“Thanks for letting us invade,” he says softly.

“You brought cake,” Hikari replies. “It seemed a fair trade.”

He laughs under his breath.

They sit in companionable silence for a while.

Eventually, Yuugao says, “You okay?”

Hikari blinks. Looks up. Everyone’s looking at her now - casually, but not lightly.

She considers it.

“I miss him already,” she admits. “But I’m glad he trusts me enough to go.”

Shisui hums. “That’s a good answer.”

She glances at him. “Is there a wrong one?”

He smiles, lopsided. “Not with you.”

~

They drop by periodically throughout the week, after that. Hikari suspects they’d assigned shifts.

Genma appears at the door precisely twenty-two hours after Kakashi’s departure, dressed like a man on a mission and holding a box of taiyaki with both hands like it contains sacred relics. He knocks with his foot - three times, rhythmically - and when Hikari opens the door, he strikes a theatrical pose that should be illegal before noon. 

“I,” he announces, “have made a grave error in judgment.” 

Hikari stares at him. He is, she notes, wearing sunglasses. Indoors. While holding fish-shaped pastry. 

“Too much taiyaki,” he laments. “An insurmountable amount. Truly, a tragic oversupply. I fear my stomach alone cannot handle the burden.” 

She raises a single brow. “And naturally, you thought of me.” 

“Who else could I trust with such a sacred duty?” he says, wounded. 

“You’re deflecting.” 

“Always.” 

She steps aside. “You may enter.” 

He grins and sweeps past her with the grandiosity of a theatre actor two acts deep into a comedy. She shuts the door behind him, locks it out of habit, then turns to find that he’s already made himself at home. He sets the taiyaki on the table with all the solemnity of a shrine offering and flops onto the couch like it’s his birthright. 

“You’re not allergic to sweet bean paste, right?” he asks, already unboxing. 

“No,” she says, sitting primly across from him. “But I am allergic to nonsense.” 

“That’s unfortunate,” he replies, mouth already full. “Because I come with a buffet.”

She sighs. Accepts a pastry. It's still warm, flaky at the edges and soft in the middle. She takes a small, dignified bite.

Genma watches her chew with an expression of reverent satisfaction, like a monk witnessing enlightenment. Then he lounges deeper into the cushions, stretches his legs out until they nearly reach the low table, and says, “Did Kakashi ever tell you about the Time of the Orange Jumpsuit?”

Hikari blinks. “I’m afraid he hasn’t.”

“Of course he hasn’t,” Genma says, deeply aggrieved. “Coward. He’s trying to preserve the last scraps of his dignity. Tragic.”

She takes another bite of taiyaki. “Go on.”

Genma lights up like someone gave him permission to commit treason. “So. Picture this. Kakashi, mid-teens. Full glory. That stupid mask, that dumb hair, those horrible brooding silences that make civilians cross the street.”

She gives him a flat look. “You’re describing the present day.”

“Exactly,” Genma agrees. “Now. Enter Gai. Green beast of Konoha. Eternal rival. Show-off. Loud. Terrifyingly fast. Obsessed with - brace yourself - youth.”

“I’ve met him,” she says, delicately.

“Then you understand,” Genma says, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “Gai challenged Kakashi to a full week of youth-based contests. Running laps. Pushups. Inspirational speeches. Hugging civilians.”

She frowns. “That last one doesn’t sound very shinobi-like.”

“Exactly,” Genma says darkly. “It was terrifying.”

She sips her tea.

“But the highlight,” he says, pointing at her with a taiyaki like it’s a sword, “the true gem, was Day Three. Gai dares Kakashi to wear something youthful. Something bold. Something that screams passion and vitality.”

“No.”

“Oh yes.”

“He didn’t.”

“He did,” Genma says, beaming. “He showed up in an orange jumpsuit. Bright as the sun. Zipped up to the neck. With matching leg warmers.”

Hikari chokes on a bite of pastry.

“And sunglasses,” Genma adds cheerfully. “Just like mine.”

She stares at him in mute horror. “I need photographic evidence.”

“There are sketches,” Genma assures her. “Tenzo had a breakdown. Yuugao refused to be seen in public with him. ANBU morale spiked for weeks. Everyone thought he’d been possessed.”

Hikari presses her fingers to her lips, trying very hard not to laugh and almost succeeding. “Did Gai win?”

“Oh, Kakashi always loses,” Genma says, waving a hand. “But that’s not the point. The point is that he tries. Which is even more embarrassing.”

She nods solemnly. “A true tragedy.”

“He once ate an entire watermelon in ninety seconds just to beat Gai’s time,” Genma continues. “Didn’t even like watermelon. Turned green. Yuugao had to carry him home. He vomited pink for twelve hours.”

“And yet,” Hikari says, “he can’t make a market vendor lower the price of a lemon.”

Genma throws his head back and howls with laughter. “You are his kid.”

She says nothing. Just takes another bite of taiyaki and hums quietly to herself. It tastes better somehow, knowing it came with stories like this.

When Genma finally collects himself, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, he says, “He misses you, you know.”

She looks up, startled.

“Mission’s barely started, but I could tell,” Genma says, softer now. “Man was twitchier than a genin in a genjutsu trap.”

“I figured,” she says quietly. “It’s alright. I miss him too.”

There’s a pause. The kind that stretches, not awkward, but full.

Then Genma pats the box of pastries. “Alright, Tiny Hatake. We’ve got six more of these and zero sense of portion control. Let’s do some damage.”

She doesn’t smile - not quite - but her eyes crinkle just a little as she reaches for another one.

~

They make it through four more taiyaki before Genma starts groaning about "bean paste betrayal" and declaring the couch his final resting place.

“Tell Kakashi I died bravely,” he mutters, sprawled out dramatically with a pastry crumb on his collar and one arm flung over his eyes. “Tell him I went out fighting the good fight.”

“I’ll tell him you were defeated by your own gluttony and expired tragically on our upholstery,” Hikari says dryly.

“Make it sound noble.”

“I’ll add a thunderstorm.”

He peeks at her from under his arm. “With lightning?”

“Only if you stop shedding taiyaki crumbs on the floor.”

He sighs like it’s a real sacrifice, then sits up, brushing off the worst of the sugar with something resembling regret.

“Alright,” he says, stretching until his spine pops. “I’ve terrorized you enough for one visit. I’ll leave you to your terrifying competence.”

She stands as he does, smoothing her shirt. “Do you want to take the last one with you?”

Genma pauses at the door, glancing over his shoulder. “I would be honoured,” he says, deeply sincere.

She reaches for the taiyaki box and tucks the last one into a waxed paper wrap, offering it to him. He takes it with a little flourish and tucks it into a side pouch like it’s a scroll of vital intel.

Then he sobers - just a little - as he opens the door. His sunglasses are still perched absurdly on his face, but when he speaks, his voice is gentler.

“If you need anything - anything at all - send a flare. Or a note. Or just shout into the wind. I’ll hear you.”

Hikari meets his gaze, and for a moment, the sarcasm peels back to reveal something solid underneath.

“I know,” she says simply.

Genma nods once. Then, just before he steps through the threshold, he glances back.

“And Hikari?”

“Yes?”

“Next time I visit, I expect you to be able to match my dramatic entrance energy.”

She tilts her head. “Does that mean I need sunglasses?”

He grins. “It’s a start.”

And then he’s gone, vanishing down the hall with a spin that borders on excessive and a whistle that trails long after his footsteps fade.

She locks the door behind him. Then pads back to the couch, sits, and takes the last sip of tea still warm in her cup.

There’s a smile tucked at the corner of her mouth, small and soft and real.

The apartment feels quieter now - but not empty. Not quite.

She picks up her book again.

And begins to read.

~

On day two, there’s another knock. But this knock is soft - measured, precise. Not Genma.

Hikari glances up from the dining table, where she’s halfway through cataloguing a report on riverway supply lines, and makes her way to the door with a practiced calm. She unlocks it, opens it, and raises a brow.

Yuugao stands on the other side, still in uniform, hair pinned back with surgical precision. She’s holding a scroll in one hand and a paper bag that smells distinctly of hijiki rice and simmered vegetables in the other.

“I brought lunch,” she says by way of greeting. “And a scroll Kakashi asked me to give you.”

She holds up the scroll.

Hikari eyes her. “Did Kakashi actually ask you to bring that?”

Yuugao doesn’t flinch. “Yes.”

She pauses. “Really?”

A beat.

Yuugao clears her throat. “It was implied.”

Hikari steps aside, expression unchanging. “You may enter.”

Yuugao walks in like a shinobi entering enemy territory - graceful, silent, alert. She sets the food down on the table and hands over the scroll with the same care one might use to deliver a volatile explosive.

It’s unlabelled. Hikari suspects it may be blank.

She opens it anyway. Looks down.

… It is, indeed, blank.

She closes it. She does not comment.

Yuugao, meanwhile, has already moved toward the windows, inspecting the seals with the same ruthless attention to detail that Hikari’s seen her apply to both blade maintenance and mission debriefs.

“Have you been adjusting these?” she asks, crouching to examine the bottom corner of the frame.

“I re-inscribed the northern quadrant,” Hikari replies. “The chakra weave was fraying.”

Yuugao makes an approving noise. “They’ll hold better now. Good work.”

She continues her sweep, methodical and silent. Hikari lets her. There's something oddly comforting about the way she moves - like every corner she checks is another quiet affirmation that everything is still safe.

Eventually, Yuugao returns to the table, removes two neat containers from the paper bag, and begins unpacking them with military precision. Hijiki rice. Steamed eggplant. Rolled omelette with grated daikon. A small container of cut fruit. It is, Hikari thinks admiringly, extremely well-balanced.

“I’m starting to think Kakashi bribed you all into shifts,” she says as Yuugao pushes one of the trays toward her.

“No bribery,” Yuugao replies. “Just threats of poetic retaliation if we let you subsist on tea and municipal corruption.”

Hikari blinks. “I wasn’t aware he knew poetry.”

“He doesn’t,” Yuugao says. “That’s why it’s a threat.”

Hikari takes up her chopsticks. “Noted.”

They eat in silence for a few minutes. It’s a companionable quiet - no need to fill the space with talk. Hikari chews, swallows, and takes note of the way Yuugao’s eyes keep scanning the room even between bites.

“You’ve swept the apartment,” Hikari says eventually. “Triple-checked the seals. Examined the ventilation. Do you plan on checking under the floorboards?”

Yuugao pauses mid-chew. “I already did.”

Hikari hums. “Of course.”

They eat a little more. The food is, admittedly, excellent. She says nothing about that, but Yuugao seems to know anyway, because her mouth twitches just slightly in a not-smile.

When they’re finished, Yuugao gathers the empty containers into the bag, glances once more around the apartment, and then moves to the door. Before she opens it, she looks back.

“He left you alone because he trusts you,” she says, voice quiet. “But that doesn’t mean you have to be alone.”

Hikari meets her gaze. “I know.”

Yuugao nods once. Then she’s gone, like a shadow that never raised its voice.

Hikari waits until the click of the lock slides back into place, then returns to the table. The scroll still sits where she left it - empty, unnecessary, and yet somehow perfectly on time.

She sets it aside, picks up her report again.

There’s a sense of stillness now. Of order, reasserted.

She takes a breath.

And gets back to work.

~

The knock on day three is quiet. Almost shy.

Which is why Hikari knows it’s Tenzo before she even opens the door.

She turns the lock, eases it open, and blinks up at him.

He’s standing very still, cradling a small, immaculately pruned bonsai tree in both hands like it’s made of glass. The expression on his face is the exact mix of hopeful and apprehensive she’s seen on civilians approaching the mission desk for the first time.

“I brought a gift,” he says.

She tilts her head. “Am I being bribed?”

He frowns, just a little. “No. You’re being bonsai’d.”

She pauses. “That sounds vaguely illegal.”

Tenzo coughs. “May I come in?”

She steps aside.

He walks in gently, reverently, and sets the bonsai down on the windowsill with all the ceremony of a religious offering. Then he folds his hands in front of him like he’s not quite sure what to do next.

“I came to check on the ficus,” he says.

Hikari blinks. “The plant Shisui brought?”

Tenzo’s entire posture shifts - an almost imperceptible drop in his shoulders, the flattening of his mouth into something halfway between horror and grudging awe.

“The ficus of doom,” he says gravely. “It’s returned.”

She stares at him, getting a distinct sense of deja vu. “… I’m sorry?”

He doesn't answer right away. Just glances sideways at the corner of the room where the offending plant sits in its pot, looking perfectly benign.

“Has anyone told you its story?” he asks, tone now hushed, reverent.

“No,” she replies slowly. “Should I be worried?”

“Possibly.” He walks over to the ficus and eyes it with the wary caution of a man who once fell victim to its foliage. “That thing’s seen more covert operations than some genin teams.”

Hikari folds her arms. “It’s a plant.”

Tenzo turns toward her, expression grim. “That’s what it wants you to think.”

She waits.

And then, in a voice that suggests he’s recounting a great battle, he says:

“It started four years ago. Midwinter. Team Ro was new. Green. Innocent. Kakashi had just been promoted. Genma still had cartilage in both knees. Yuugao hadn’t yet developed the ability to murder with her eyes.”

“I don’t believe Genma was ever innocent,” Hikari says dubiously.

“Fair,” Tenzo allows. “But none of us saw it coming. I brought the ficus as a test plant - good chakra absorption, non-toxic, aesthetically pleasing. I dropped it during a drill. Directly onto Yuugao’s head.”

“Oh no.”

“There were six kunai. A smoke bomb. And a very, very long safety lecture.”

“Was she bleeding?”

“Only a little,” he says fondly.

Hikari sighs. “And then?”

“Then Genma stole it and turned it into a decoy trap. He filled the pot with a rigged smoke canister. Pink dye. Targeted for motion. Took down three chuunin and a passing cat.”

She blinks. “Was the cat okay?”

“The cat’s fine. The genin who had to clean it, less so.”

“And Kakashi?”

Tenzo’s expression turns haunted. “He started moving it around. Stealth-style. Shadow clones. Substitution. Every time you opened a closet - ficus. Under your bed - ficus. Once, I turned around during a debrief and it was just there. On the desk. With a tiny paper hitai-ate.”

Hikari places her hands behind her back. “So this is psychological warfare.”

Tenzo nods solemnly. “And now it’s back.”

They both look at the ficus, which remains resolutely leafy and unbothered.

“I assumed it was a gift,” she says slowly.

“Oh, it is,” Tenzo says cheerfully. “From Shisui. Which means someone’s getting ambushed before the week’s out. Or pranked. Possibly both.”

She considers this. “Kakashi’s going to be furious.”

“That’s why I brought the bonsai,” Tenzo says. “So when he finds the ficus, he’ll think this is the real trap. It’ll disorient him.”

She blinks. “You’re trying to confuse a seasoned jonin and ex-ANBU operative with houseplants.”

Tenzo beams. “Exactly.”

Hikari sighs, walks over to the kitchen, and pulls down a teacup. “Would you like some jasmine tea while you assess the battlefield?”

“That,” he says, sinking down into a seat with a grin, “would be lovely.”

~

Tenzo accepts the tea with the same solemnity he’d shown the bonsai, wrapping his hands around the cup like it’s a sacred relic. They sit in companionable silence for a few minutes - Hikari quietly sipping, Tenzo eyeing the ficus like it might spontaneously combust if he looks away for too long.

Then, very casually, he says, “Do you have any copper wire?”

Hikari lowers her cup. “I might. Depends on whether you’re about to commit horticultural sabotage or repair the kettle.”

Tenzo tilts his head. “Both?”

She narrows her eyes at him.

He smiles - just faintly. Not Genma’s grin or Shisui’s smirk. Tenzo’s smiles are rare and quiet, like moss creeping up old stone. “Sabotage it is.”

She disappears into her bedroom and returns three minutes later with a tidy coil of copper wire and a small toolkit. Tenzo’s expression turns reverent.

“You’re terrifying,” he says admiringly.

“I like to be prepared.”

He sets the tea aside and rolls up his sleeves with the unhurried precision of a man about to commit a felony. Then, gently, reverently, he moves to the ficus.

“Now,” he murmurs, eyes gleaming, “we begin.”

Hikari takes her seat at the table again and watches, fascinated, as he begins the process. He doesn’t dismantle the plant - not exactly. He just... adjusts it. Slips a thin wire under the soil and wraps it around the inner rim of the pot. Tucks a tiny, pressure-sensitive seal into the base. Adjusts the weight distribution of the branches with carefully wound threads that are virtually invisible unless you already know where to look.

He’s humming, softly. Off-key. Something cheerful and ominous.

“What’s the trap?” she asks eventually.

He doesn’t look up. “Mild dye dispersal. Lavender, this time. More elegant. Subtle. Doesn’t stain. Looks suspiciously like nerve powder at first glance.”

“You want Kakashi to believe he’s been poisoned.”

“Just a little,” Tenzo says. “Not enough to raise an alarm. Just enough to make him think about his life choices.”

“And how does the trap activate?”

He beams. “That’s the best part. Only when he touches it. Not proximity-triggered. Physical contact only, linked to his chakra signature. Anyone else? Nothing.”

“Impressive.”

“Genma helped me calibrate it,” he says proudly. “He wanted glitter. I said no. We compromised on shimmer.”

“You’re very lucky I don’t report war crimes.”

He nods solemnly. “You have my eternal gratitude.”

She sips her tea. Watches as he ties the final knot of wire with a surgeon’s delicacy, then adjusts one last leaf to make the whole thing look just slightly askew - just wrong enough to invite interference.

Then he stands back, dusts his hands off, and surveys his handiwork with satisfaction.

“There,” he says. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s evil,” Hikari corrects.

“Evil with intention,” he says, placing a reverent hand over his heart.

They both regard the ficus in silence for a moment. It sits there, squat and leafy and vaguely smug.

Tenzo picks up his bonsai again.

“You’ll take care of this one?” he asks, a bit quieter.

She nods. “Of course.”

“It’s not rigged,” he adds, unnecessarily.

“I didn’t assume.”

A beat.

“… This one does absorb chakra, though,” he says. “Slowly. From ambient air. It’s stabilizing. Grounding. Good for people with... a lot inside.”

She doesn’t speak for a moment. Then, quietly, she says, “Thank you.”

Tenzo nods, just once, and slings his bag over one shoulder.

He steps toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the knob.

“Be sure to stand clear when Kakashi comes back,” he says. “I’d give it a three-meter blast radius. Four if he screams.”

“Understood,” she says. “I’ll prep tea.”

He gives her a rare, soft smile.

Then he’s gone.

Hikari locks the door behind him, walks back to the ficus, and stares.

It stares back.

She sighs. Picks up her brush.

And begins sketching a diagram labeled Known Houseplant Threats - Category A.

~

Day four begins with a knock too impatient to be Yuugao and too chaotic to be Tenzo. Hikari doesn’t even look up from her book before she calls, “The door’s unlocked.”

It swings open with far too much enthusiasm.

“Hikari,” Shisui says, breathless and dramatic, clutching a bag of chips, “get your shoes. We're going on a diplomatic mission.”

She closes her book with a snap. “That sounds suspiciously like kidnapping.”

“Semantics,” he says cheerfully. “It’s a matter of science. Also, I made a promise. Come on.”

She eyes him warily. “What kind of promise?”

“I told Itachi he had to meet you. And I told you you had to meet him. Now, I need to follow through on both.”

A pause.

“I see,” she says. “And where are we going?”

“The Uchiha compound.” He grins. “Don’t worry. Just him. No audience. I already bribed the guards with dumplings.”

“You bribed your own clan’s guards?”

“I prefer the term diplomatic overture.”

She narrows her eyes. “Is there any part of this that doesn’t sound like a terrible idea?”

“Yes,” he says, already ushering her toward the door. “The part where you meet Itachi and blow his mind with your tea etiquette and your shogi prowess. Come on, diplomat mode. Be charming.”

“I’m always charming,” she says, slipping into her shoes with a sigh. “You just have no frame of reference.”

~

They find Itachi in the garden behind the main house. He’s kneeling beside a small koi pond, feeding the fish one pellet at a time with surgical precision. His hair is tied back. His yukata is a crisp navy blue. He looks up when they approach, and his face is expressionless.

Until he sees her.

Hikari offers a shallow bow. “Hatake Hikari. It’s a pleasure.”

Itachi returns it. “Uchiha Itachi. Likewise.”

There is a moment of perfectly matched, perfectly neutral silence.

Then Shisui blurts, “Oh no. There are two of you now.” He sits down on a nearby bench and opens the chips like he’s watching theatre. “This was the best idea I’ve ever had,” he mumbles around a mouthful of crumbs.

“Would you like some tea?” Itachi asks her. His voice is calm. Measured.

“I brought my own,” Hikari replies, pulling a thermos out of her bag. “I pre-infused it with lemon balm.”

Itachi blinks once. “… Impressive.”

Shisui stares. “… Nevermind. I take it back. I’m afraid.”

Hikari sits across from Itachi, careful not to disturb the garden stones. “Do you play shogi?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” she says, opening her notebook. “May you review the positions with me? Shikamaru’s system involves a lot of hand-waving.”

Itachi nods. “Of course.”

They fall into discussion with quiet ease. Shisui watches them for about five minutes before slumping backward with a groan.

“They’re already speaking in code,” he says to the koi fish. “I’ve been replaced. This is how it ends. I regret everything.”

One of the fish makes a bubble. Hikari and Itachi ignore him.

~

Itachi is explaining the Knight’s Fork.

His tone is precise but not condescending, and he’s just begun illustrating the position with koi pellets on the garden stones when Hikari senses it - an ever-so-familiar ripple in the air. The tightening of atmosphere. The brief hush of leaves shifting in warning.

She turns her head, just slightly.

And there - just past the entry archway, frozen like a man caught between dimensions - is Uchiha Fugaku.

The clan head. The man whose presence during council meetings makes even seasoned jonin sit straighter. The man whose voice carries like a blade and whose disapproval is legendary. The man who, two weeks ago, narrowed his eyes at her across the council room with the weight of suspicion honed by years of political and actual warfare - 

 - and then agreed to her proposal.

He is now standing absolutely still. On a garden path. Staring at her.

Not at Itachi. Not at Shisui. Her.

His expression is blank. Dangerously blank. Hikari has seen nobility wear that exact look at court - right before something shatters.

“… Uchiha-sama. Is something amiss?” she asks, polite as ever.

Itachi turns, notices his father, and straightens almost imperceptibly. “Father.”

Shisui, ever helpful, raises a hand in greeting. “Hi, Uncle.”

Fugaku does not acknowledge him. He does not move. It is unclear if he is still breathing.

Hikari waits.

Eventually - after what feels like several calendar years - he speaks.

“You,” he says. Not hostile. Not confused.

Just: You.

Hikari inclines her head. “Me,” she agrees.

A beat passes.

“You proposed the co-development dispatch plan.”

“Yes.”

“The one with pooled infrastructure funding and revised emergency response coordination.”

“That’s correct.”

“You are six.”

“I am.”

Fugaku’s eye twitches. Just barely.

Shisui makes a noise like a dying goose and buries his face in the chip bag.

Fugaku exhales. Slowly. Precisely. Then steps into the garden, gaze never leaving hers. “How did you come up with it?”

Hikari sits a little straighter. “I studied the budgetary records from the past three years. I cross-referenced infrastructure patterns with civilian emergency response times and extrapolated traffic density and reroute frequency from open construction permits and merchant route reports. The west corridor was the most strategically viable.”

Fugaku is silent.

“Also,” she adds delicately, “it seemed like it would stop you and Hyuuga-sama from yelling the same argument for the third time in two weeks.”

Itachi coughs, very quietly. Shisui wheezes louder.

Something fractures across Fugaku’s face. Not anger. Not exactly dismay. Just - confusion. Profound and slightly betrayed confusion.

“… You play shogi?” he asks eventually, like that might explain something.

“I’ve just started.”

He stares at her notebook. At the koi-pellet positions. At Itachi.

Then he stares at her.

“I see,” he says grimly.

Hikari resists the urge to sip her tea like a smug courtier. She wishes Kakashi were here to see this - he always loves when she confuses and/or mildly distresses adults. 

“Shisui,” Fugaku says finally, turning just enough to include his nephew in the blast radius. “You brought her here?”

“She wanted to meet Itachi,” Shisui lies shamelessly.

Fugaku looks like he’s aged ten years in ten minutes.

“She’s a Hatake,” he mutters, as though he’s still trying to reconcile the fabric of reality. “A Hatake… diplomat.”

Shisui beams. “Welcome to the future.”

Fugaku stares upward, presumably begging the heavens for strength, then looks at Hikari one last time. His gaze is sharp again - calculating, cold.

But… not unkind.

“We’ll speak again,” he says.

Hikari nods. “Of course.”

And with that, Uchiha Fugaku, Commander of the Military Police, turns and walks away like a man who has just witnessed the arrival of the apocalypse - and has the sinking suspicion it drinks lemon balm tea and wins at shogi.

~

Afterwards, Itachi sips his tea and glances at her.

“I think you’ve frightened him,” Itachi says calmly.

She doesn’t look up. “That wasn’t my intent.”

“You did it anyway.”

A quiet pause.

“Do you always speak that precisely?” he asks.

She finally meets his gaze. Her expression doesn’t shift. “Do you?”

He allows himself the barest curl of his mouth. “Touché.”

Shisui groans from the bench. “Oh no. You like her.”

Itachi doesn’t reply. But his smile widens, just a little.

~

They leave through the side gate again.

Shisui insists on walking two paces ahead, arms folded, posture dramatic. He hasn’t spoken since they said goodbye to Itachi, which is deeply unnatural for him. The silence is loud. Operatic. Painfully self-important.

Hikari doesn’t rush to break it.

She walks at her own pace, notebook tucked under one arm, thermos carefully sealed in her bag. The late afternoon sun filters through the trees, dappling the road with light.

Eventually, Shisui exhales through his nose. Loudly.

She says nothing.

He speeds up. Slows down. Loops behind her. Sighs again.

Still nothing.

Finally, with all the exaggerated agony of a man betrayed by fate, he stops dead in the middle of the road, spins on his heel, and stabs a finger in her direction.

“You defected,” he accuses.

She blinks. “Pardon?”

“You defected to the Uchiha clan. Emotionally. Spiritually. Strategically.”

“I had tea with your cousin.”

“You had lemon balm tea with him,” Shisui hisses. “Do you know how intimate that is? That’s trusted adviser tea. That’s secret-keeper tea. He offered you koi pellets.”

“I brought my own tea, actually,” she corrects. “And Itachi did not offer me koi pellets. He used them to illustrate a forking strategy.”

“Which is even worse,” Shisui declares, flinging an arm skyward. “He taught you things.”

“I asked,” she points out.

“He said ‘touché.’” Shisui presses the back of one hand to his forehead, like a dying noblewoman in a kabuki play. “Do you know how rare that is? Itachi doesn’t say touché. He says things like ‘affirmative’ and ‘I understand.’ You broke him.”

Hikari sighs. “Shisui - ”

“He smiled, Hikari.”

“… You’re being dramatic.”

“He didn’t even smile at the baby fox I rescued last month! I gave it soup!”

She tries not to laugh. It’s difficult. “Perhaps your fox lacked etiquette.”

“You’re lucky I like you,” he mutters, resuming their pace. “Because that was borderline treason.”

They walk in silence for a moment. Then, a little quieter:

“… Did you have fun?”

She nods. “Yes.”

Shisui kicks a pebble down the road. “Good.”

Another pause.

“He liked you, you know,” he says. “Itachi. That was him liking someone.”

“I liked him, too.”

Shisui glances sideways. “Seriously?”

She hums. “He’s sharp. Courteous. Calm under pressure. Polite. Reserved, but not unfriendly. Excellent tactical sense. I can see why you’re fond of him.”

He stares. Then groans. “Oh no.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “What?”

“You’re both going to forget I’m here when you talk about battle formations, aren’t you?”

“Undoubtedly.”

He groans louder. “This is my worst nightmare.”

She offers a tiny, innocent smile. “Would you like some lemon balm tea to cope?”

Shisui points a finger at her. “Hatake Hikari,” he says with great solemnity, “you’re a menace.”

She gives a tiny bow. “Understood.”

He howls into the sky.

~

It hits her quietly on the fifth day.

Not all at once, not like a storm or a scream. Just - soft. Creeping. Like dusk slipping into the room before she realizes the sun’s gone.

She’s sitting on the windowsill when it happens. Legs tucked up, book open on her knees, one hand absently tracing the grain of the page. She’s been reading the same sentence for nearly fifteen minutes. Something about irrigation routes and channel maintenance. Nothing urgent. Nothing heavy.

But she hasn’t turned the page.

And when she finally lifts her gaze from the text, she sees it - the empty spot by the door where Kakashi always drops his sandals. The coat hook with nothing hanging from it. The faint, lingering smell of sage and steel and quiet.

And it hits her.

That he’s not here. That he hasn’t been here for five days.

And that there’s no guarantee he’ll come back.

The thought slides in like a knife beneath the ribs. Not sharp. Not dramatic. Just present. Cold and clinical and true.

She closes the book.

Not slowly. Not carefully. Just enough to let the pages shut with a soft thump.

She doesn't cry. It’s not that kind of fear.

It’s the older kind. The kind she remembers from firelit nights in Winterfell. From black letters sealed in wax. From the long silence between bells and the words that always came after - I’m sorry.

The kind of fear you learn to live with. The kind you fold up and tuck beneath your tongue because you have to.

Because the world doesn't stop for girls who lost fathers.

Or brothers.

Or mothers.

Or wolves.

She exhales, slow and shallow, and slides off the sill. Her feet hit the floor with a whisper. The room is too quiet.

She moves automatically - places the book on the shelf, folds the blanket, adjusts the tea tray. None of it helps.

Because no matter how neat the apartment is, no matter how tightly she weaves the day around herself, there’s still that ache.

What if he doesn’t come back.

She sits at the table. Opens a random ledger. Writes something in the margin, just to hear the scratch of ink.

It doesn’t help.

Because she knows. Knows exactly how it feels when someone doesn’t return. When goodbyes become rituals instead of reassurances.

And Kakashi - 

Kakashi, for all his quiet warmth and dry humour and careful walls - is human. Mortal.

Fallible.

Breakable.

She presses her hand flat against the table, breath shallow.

She doesn’t need him to be invincible.

She just needs him to come home.

Please, she thinks, in a voice she doesn’t speak aloud. Please don’t be another name I carry.

She doesn't realize how long she sits there until the sun rises, then begins to set. Until the light in the room changes again. Until the front door creaks softly - 

Not open.

Just in her memory.

And she breathes.

And waits.

~

The knock is soft.

Barely there.

Hikari doesn’t move at first. She blinks slowly at the untouched tea in front of her, hand still resting on the edge of the ledger like it might keep her grounded. The knock comes again - gentle, unhurried, undeniably Tenzo.

She stands. Not quickly. Not with her usual composure. Just… stands. Walks to the door. Opens it.

Tenzo is there, cradling a projector scroll and a tin of popcorn like they’re made of porcelain. Behind him: Genma, already halfway through a bag of rice crackers. Yuugao, hands full of blankets and barley tea. Shisui, trailing behind with the solemnity of a mourner and the giant frog pillow tucked under one arm like a child’s offering.

No one says anything at first.

Then Genma lifts a hand in a half-hearted wave. “Movie night.”

Yuugao nudges past him and sets the tea on the counter without asking.

Tenzo steps inside carefully, already moving to the wall to start setting up the scroll.

And Shisui - 

Shisui sees her face.

He doesn’t say anything clever.

Just drops the pillow by the couch and says, voice too even, “Is it today?”

She doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t have to.

They settle in like they always do. As if nothing’s wrong. As if they haven’t noticed the stiffness in her posture, the way she hasn’t offered tea, the way her eyes are just a little too dull around the edges.

Tenzo dims the lights.

Genma puts on a bad comedy.

Yuugao drapes the extra blanket across Hikari’s lap without a word, then sits beside her without touching, without crowding, just there.

Shisui hands her a rice cracker.

She takes it. Doesn’t eat it. Just holds it.

Halfway through the movie, someone makes a bad pun. Genma groans. Tenzo snorts. Yuugao threatens violence.

Hikari stares at the screen.

“I’ve been trying not to think about it,” she says suddenly, voice very quiet.

No one responds immediately.

Then Tenzo, without looking away from the projector, says, “We know.”

“I just - ” She swallows. “He always comes back. But I know better than to count on that. And I don’t want to think about it. But today it just… stayed.”

Silence again.

Then Shisui, softly: “That’s the fifth-day feeling.”

Yuugao nods. “It’s the worst.”

Genma says nothing. Just shifts a little closer, leans back against the couch with a sigh like he’s settling in for a long watch.

Hikari curls tighter under the blanket.

“I don’t want him to be a name,” she whispers. “Not like - ”

She stops.

They don’t push.

Yuugao reaches for her hand. Not to hold it.

Just to let it be there. Close.

Hikari doesn’t take it. But she doesn’t pull away either.

They watch the rest of the movie like that. Wrapped in silence and blankets and quiet understanding.

And when the credits roll, and the tea is gone, and the room is dim and safe and soft - 

Hikari breathes in.

Lets the ache settle.

Lets the silence hold her.

And doesn’t feel so alone.

~

The projector scroll fades to black, the final flicker of light dying on the wall like a held breath released.

No one moves.

The room is warm. Dim. Blanketed in quiet that isn’t awkward or empty - it just is.

Hikari sits with her knees drawn up under the blanket, arms wrapped around them, her face tucked half against the fabric. She isn’t crying. Not quite. But her throat is tight, and her eyes sting, and there’s a hollow under her ribs that feels too old for six.

And still - no one speaks.

Not right away.

It’s Genma who shifts first, cracking his neck and resting his arm over the back of the couch. “I used to count the days,” he says quietly. “Every time Raido left. First few missions, it was fine. Then one day it hit me. The fifth day. The what-if day.”

Yuugao nods, her gaze unfocused. “Mine was the third. Gekko left for patrol during the first winter after we graduated. Three days in, I tore apart my apartment looking for something to do with my hands.”

Tenzo doesn’t say anything. But Hikari can see the way his fingers tighten on the edge of the blanket.

She speaks without looking at any of them. “I hate that it doesn’t get easier.”

“It doesn’t,” Shisui says, quietly. “You just learn how to carry it better.”

Hikari nods, just once. That tracks. It’s the kind of grief that doesn’t soften, only settles - like snow, like silence.

She thinks of the way Kakashi checked the perimeter seals three times. Four. The way his fingers brushed her braid like he didn’t want to leave. Like maybe some part of him was afraid, too.

It helps. Somehow.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this,” she admits. “I thought - I knew he could die. I know everyone can. But knowing doesn’t stop the shape it carves in you.”

“No,” Yuugao agrees. “It doesn’t.”

They don’t fill the silence after that. They just let it breathe.

Hikari pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders. It smells like genmaicha and popcorn and Genma’s terrible laundry detergent. The frog pillow has migrated to her side. Shisui doesn’t say anything about it.

She looks around, slowly.

Yuugao’s watching the dark screen. Tenzo is staring at the tea tray like it holds the secrets of the universe. Genma’s legs are stretched out like he owns the place. Shisui has his arms tucked behind his head, eyes on the ceiling.

None of them tell her it’ll be okay.

None of them lie.

And she realizes, suddenly, deeply - 

They know.

They’ve lived this. Not just once. Not in theory. In truth.

They’ve all watched someone leave and wondered if they’d come back.

They’ve all felt the fifth-day feeling.

They’re here because of it.

Because they remember.

Because they understand.

Hikari’s throat tightens. But for the first time all day, she feels like she can breathe again. Not fully. Not yet.

But it’s a start.

“… Thanks,” she says.

It’s soft.

But they all hear it.

Yuugao squeezes her shoulder. Just once. Then lets go.

Tenzo rises to put the kettle back on.

Genma starts rummaging for another bag of rice crackers.

And Shisui - without looking at her - says, “We’ll do this again tomorrow.”

It isn’t a question.

It’s a promise.

And somehow, that’s enough.

~

On day six, the summons arrives midmorning, handwritten and sealed with the Hokage’s crest. Delivered by a very polite chuunin who looks mildly afraid of her. Hikari accepts it with a bow, reads it twice, then sighs softly and folds it into her sleeve.

She arrives at the tower just after lunch, hair brushed, clothing neat, hands tucked politely behind her back as she waits for the guards to wave her through. She knows the route by now - past the secretary’s desk, up the narrow stairs, turns left at the portrait of the Nidaime that always seems to be judging her. 

When she knocks on the Hokage’s door, it creaks open immediately.

“Hikari,” the Sandaime says warmly. “Please, come in.”

She steps inside.

The room smells faintly of sandalwood and ink. Sunlight filters in through the high windows, casting long shadows across the floor. And across the desk - 

Her eyes narrow.

- that absolute disaster of a desk - 

- is the Sandaime. When she enters, he rises to his feet.

She doesn’t comment. Yet.

The Hokage gestures her toward the small table near the window, where a porcelain teapot sits steaming next to two cups. He’s already seated himself cross-legged on a cushion, pipe left conspicuously unlit nearby.

“I thought we might have tea,” he says.

She nods. “Thank you for the invitation.”

They drink quietly for a moment. The tea is jasmine, good quality, slightly over-steeped. She doesn’t mind.

Eventually, he sets his cup down and says gently, “Kakashi asked me to check in on you today.”

She exhales through her nose. “Of course he did.”

“It’s not a lack of trust,” the Hokage assures her. “Just concern. He didn’t want you to feel abandoned.”

“I don’t.” She takes another sip. Chooses her words delicately. “I’m… not unfamiliar with solitude. But it’s not lonely, this time.”

He studies her for a moment. “I’m glad to hear it.”

She nods. Leaves it at that.

The silence that follows is companionable. The breeze from the window rustles a stack of papers on his desk.

Hikari’s gaze drifts back to it. She frowns.

“May I ask a question?” she says carefully.

“Of course.”

“… Is there a system?”

He follows her gaze. Blinks once. “System?”

She gestures - politely, almost apologetically - at the mountains of scrolls and paper bundles. Some are labeled. Most are not. One appears to be holding up a leg of the desk. There’s a sandwich plate under another.

“For the paperwork.”

The Hokage looks at the desk like it has personally betrayed him. “Ah. Well. System might be a generous term.”

She sets her teacup down. “May I?”

He arches a brow. “You want to… organize it?”

“I need to,” she says, rising. “That’s a cry for help if I’ve ever seen one.”

He chuckles, amused, and waves a hand in permission.

She walks over, hands clasped behind her back, surveying the wreckage like a field commander before a siege.

“Alright,” she murmurs. “We’ll need to start by identifying the categories.”

She picks up a stack at random. Civilian incident reports, half-signed.

Another: budget proposals.

Another: land use requests, fire country border.

“Do you use colour coding?” she asks.

“No.”

“Filing cabinets?”

“Technically.”

“Spatial organization?”

“… Well.”

She turns to him, very serious. “How do you find anything?”

“I usually send for someone who remembers the general area where they put it,” he says, vaguely sheepish.

She exhales. “Unacceptable.”

And she gets to work.

She asks him questions. Do you refer to budget files by department or project code? Do you sign requests in the order received or by priority? How do you track field ops that cross departmental purview? Do you prefer paperweights or labeled folders?

At first, the Hokage humours her. Indulges her curiosity. Offers short, grandfatherly answers in his kindest voice.

But five minutes in, he leans forward.

Ten minutes in, he stops smiling and starts watching.

Fifteen minutes in, he sets his tea aside completely.

Because she’s not just reorganizing - she’s restructuring. Building an actual operational framework. Sorting by urgency and origin, categorizing by outcome type and intended recipients, establishing colour bands for immediate triage and sub-labeling for cross-referencing.

She builds a priority ladder. A duplicate log. Suggests a shared stamp ledger to keep signature records transparent.

He gives her a list of the most common bottlenecks. She begins plotting a weekly review protocol. Asks what times of day he feels sharpest. Designs the sorting pattern around his natural attention rhythm.

It relaxes something in her that’d been clenched tight since the moment Kakashi had closed the door behind him. 

Order. Plans. Efficiency. 

It’s soothing. 

Because she has no control over whether Kakashi lives or dies. Whether he comes back tomorrow or never. But this - this mess of a desk, this insult to efficiency - this, she can control. 

And maybe - maybe Kakashi had known that. Maybe that’s why he’d asked both the Hokage and Team Ro to check in on her - Team Ro so she wouldn’t be alone; and the Hokage so she’d have something to do.

Her fingers still, just for a moment, before she resumes her work.

When she finishes setting up the first drawer of documents, everything labeled, cross-referenced, and stacked according to relevance and temporal sensitivity, she turns back to him.

“Would you like a reference key?” she asks.

The Hokage just stares at her.

Hikari blinks. “Hokage-sama?”

He clears his throat. Sits back in his chair. Then, with utmost seriousness, asks, “Are you certain you’re six?”

She considers that.

“Physically, yes.”

He takes a long sip of now-cold tea. “Remind me to thank Kakashi when he returns.”

“Please don’t,” she mutters, returning to the second drawer. “He’ll never let me live it down.”

The Hokage smiles, just a little.

And watches as, for the first time in a decade, his desk begins to look less like a war zone - 

 - and more like something resembling order.

~

The second knock of the day is louder. Less polite. Definitely Genma.

Hikari doesn’t bother getting up - she’s still putting away the last of her council notes, tucking a copy of her reorganized Hokage flowchart into a folder marked Pending Follow-Up - Civilian Affairs. She just calls, “It’s open.”

The door creaks.

Then slams.

Then creaks again, less dramatically, as Tenzo reopens it with a disapproving sigh and a gentle, “Genma.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Genma says, already halfway inside, arms full of suspiciously grease-stained paper parcels. “My hands were full. Also, I bring dumplings.”

“Bribes,” Yuugao mutters, stepping neatly around him with a cooler bag and three clean mugs.

“They’re called peace offerings,” Genma corrects.

Shisui strolls in last, swinging a bag of lemon mochi and carrying what appears to be a second projector scroll. “Tonight’s theme,” he says, “is classic cinematic disasters.”

“Disasters?” Hikari echoes.

“Love triangles, war crimes, and absolutely no plot structure,” he says cheerfully. “Genma’s choosing.”

“Don’t blame me if someone dies of secondhand embarrassment.”

“Again,” Yuugao adds.

They fall into their now-familiar rhythm with practiced ease. Tenzo dims the lights and repositions the bonsai. Genma clears the coffee table, leaving behind only dumplings and a suspiciously unlabeled thermos. Yuugao sets up the drink tray. Shisui rigs the projector to partially bounce off a mirror this time, claiming it’s “for ambiance.”

Hikari curls into the same spot on the couch as the night before, tucks her legs under herself, and watches it all with a quiet calmness that feels… earned.

Less ache. More breath.

She takes the tea Tenzo offers and holds it between her palms.

“Today was productive,” she says, when the movie starts and no one’s quite paying attention to it yet.

Genma tilts his head. “Productive how?”

“I reorganized the Hokage’s paperwork.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then - 

“I’m sorry,” Shisui says slowly. “What.”

Yuugao turns to stare at her, cup frozen halfway to her mouth.

Tenzo’s expression is... not surprise, exactly. Just the particular brand of quiet dread that comes with realizing someone else’s competence dwarfs your own.

Hikari, calmly sipping her tea, says, “There was no system. I made one.”

Genma blinks. “You reorganized the Hokage’s office.”

“His desk, specifically.”

Yuugao leans forward slightly, like she’s staring at an extremely elegant bomb. “You touched the desk?”

“Relabeled three drawers,” Hikari replies. “Adjusted his priority intake to match his natural work cycle. Introduced colour bands for triage categories.”

Another beat.

Shisui presses his hands together like he’s praying. “Did you ask permission?”

“Of course.”

“And he let you?”

“He seemed relieved,” she says mildly. “Eventually he stopped humouring me and started taking notes.”

Genma exhales. “I’m torn between horror and awe.”

“I’m choosing awe,” Tenzo says.

“I’m choosing ‘run,’” Shisui mutters. “Because if she ever turns that brain on us, we’re doomed.”

Hikari smiles slightly into her cup.

Yuugao groans and throws a dumpling at Shisui, who deflects it with the frog pillow.

The movie begins to devolve into its first romantic monologue, but no one really watches it. They’re too busy arguing about which of them has the worst paperwork habits (Tenzo wins, somehow, because of his tendency to alphabetize by mood). Genma claims his desk is organized by “vibe hierarchy.” Yuugao, glaring at Genma, insists hers was tidy until someone started using it as a nap surface.

Hikari doesn’t weigh in.

Just listens. Just breathes. And when Genma nudges the mochi plate toward her and Shisui sets the frog pillow between them without comment, she leans back - 

And thinks, This. This is what coming home feels like.

~

The sun is low by the time he makes it to the edge of the apartment - long gold slanting through the trees, the wind warm and dry in the way that always precedes a summer storm.

He’s tired.

More than tired, really. His body aches in that quiet, bone-deep way that doesn’t speak of injury, just effort. There’s a scuff on his left bracer, blood dried beneath one glove, and the scent of iron still faint on his vest. He hasn’t eaten since last night. He doesn’t remember if he drank anything today.

None of that matters.

Because the seals on the perimeter are still in place.

Not just holding. They’ve been reinforced.

He pauses, one foot on the porch step, and lays a hand against the edge of the doorframe, feeling the hum of chakra signatures braided through the wood like embroidery.

His.

And hers.

He closes his eye.

Exhales.

And steps inside.

~

The entryway is clean. There’s a faint scent of lemon balm in the air. It also smells vaguely like popcorn, for some reason.

His boots are off before he realizes he’s even moving.

The apartment is warm. Lived in. Safe.

He rounds the corner into the living room and stops.

She’s curled on the couch, barefoot, her braid half-undone and trailing over her shoulder. A half-empty cup of tea rests on the table beside her. She’s flipping slowly through a ledger, one leg tucked beneath her, face framed in the soft glow of the late-day light.

She doesn’t look up.

“You’re late,” she says evenly.

His throat tightens.

“Got caught in a conversation with a border official who had opinions about shinobi etiquette,” he replies.

“That explains the limp.”

“Does it?” he deadpans.

She closes the ledger. Sets it aside. Then rises to her feet and crosses the room in five deliberate steps.

And stops in front of him.

She looks up. He looks down.

Neither of them says anything.

Then - 

“Your sandals are soaked,” she murmurs.

He exhales a breath that trembles more than it should. “There was a stream.”

She tilts her head. “You didn’t cross it. You stood in it.”

Kakashi closes his eye. “Maybe.”

A beat.

And then she moves. Not dramatically. Not fast.

Just steps forward and wraps her arms around him. Tucks her head against his chest, fingers curling lightly into the back of his vest. The fabric is damp, coarse with travel. She doesn’t seem to care.

He doesn’t move. Not right away.

Because the world shifts beneath him.

Not violently. Not like a quake or a break. Just - settles. Into something still and unbearable and whole.

He wraps an arm around her shoulders. Presses his cheek to the top of her head.

“I’m sorry I made you wait,” he says quietly.

She doesn’t answer. Not directly.

But her hand fists a little tighter in his cloak.

And that’s answer enough.

~

Later, after he’s showered and changed and eaten something hot (she had soup ready, gods help him), they sit on the couch with their tea and the room is quiet again. She clasps her hands neatly in her lap. Her expression is perfectly neutral. Her eyes, however, gleam with quiet mischief.

“I thought you might appreciate a debrief.”

He suppresses a wince. “How bad was it?”

She tilts her head. “That depends on your definition of ‘bad.’”

“… Go on.”

She clears her throat politely. “It began exactly twenty minutes after you left.”

“Team Ro?”

“Team Ro. They were under the mistaken impression that it was my birthday.”

Kakashi doesn’t blink. “How interesting,” he says mildly. “However could they have come to that conclusion?”

She gives him a Look. He curves his eye innocently. 

She exhales. “Genma brought a cake; Yuugao brought a dog plushie; Tenzo brought a practice kunai set; Shisui brought dango and the ficus.”

He exhales slowly. Eyes the plant in question in the corner. “The ficus of doom has returned.”

She nods gravely. “Indeed it has.”

There’s a long, solemn pause. 

“Very well. Continue.” He waves a hand in the air regally.

She nods again, more crisply this time. “Of course. We played poker.”

He narrows his eye. “You were banned.”

“Shisui insisted.”

“Of course he did.”

“He regretted it later.”

“… Of course he did.” He shakes his head. “Alright. Is that all?”

“For day zero. There are six more.”

He feels a distinct sense of impending doom. 

“Day one, Genma arrived with a box of taiyaki and stories.”

He stills. “… What kind of stories?”

She smiles. Innocently. His sense of impending doom mounts. 

Hikari takes a long, slow sip of her tea, then sets it down precisely. “An orange jumpsuit,” she says, with quiet, intense judgement, the syllables clipped. “Really?”

He closes his eye. “… He challenged me.”

“You lost both the challenge and what was left of your dignity.”

Kakashi gives a long, slow exhale. “I’m aware.”

“He also told me about the watermelon incident.”

“… I’m going to kill him.”

“That’s fair.”

There’s another pause. 

“On day two,” Hikari continues, “Yuugao arrived with a blank scroll she said you wanted her to give me. She also came with the healthiest takeout I’ve ever had.”

“Were there vegetables?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

She gives him another Look. “I’m not the one whose vegetable intake you should be concerned about.”

He pretends not to hear her. 

“Day three,” Hikari says. “Tenzo engaged in light horticultural-based warfare. He also brought a bonsai.” 

“… He rigged the ficus again.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny.”

He braces himself. “Alright. Hit me with day four.”

“Shisui kidnapped me.”

“He what?” 

“It was productive.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It wasn’t meant to be. I met Itachi. Spoke with Fugaku-sama.”

He blinks and leans forwards. “Did you terrify him?”

She smiles, pleased. “Of course I did.”

He exhales, proud beyond words. “Excellent. I’ll expect a full reenactment later. Day five?”

“Movie night with Team Ro. We watched a comedy. It was terrible.”

“Alright,” Kakashi nods. “Day six?”

“The Hokage invited me for tea at your instruction.”

“… He said he’d be subtle about it.”

“He wasn’t.”

“Ugh. Did you terrify the Hokage at all, at least?” Kakashi asks with unconcealed hopefulness. 

She smiles. Politely. Terrifyingly. “I reorganized his desk.”

“… You what.”

“It was a disaster,” she says mildly. “I had no choice.”

He stares at her for a long moment. 

“What did he look like, at the end?”

“Like he’d just discovered fire.”

He stares at her, then covers his face with his palm. And then, quietly, ruefully, almost helplessly, he laughs. 

“Gods,” he says through the laughter, “I leave you alone for a week, and in that time, you collect blackmail material on me, meet Itachi, and terrify two separate adults in positions of power.” 

Kakashi shakes his head again, laughter fading into something softer. The kind of sound that doesn’t echo, just settles. His hand drops from his face, and he exhales - slow, quiet, like tension bleeding from his bones.

“… Gods,” he says again, voice lower now. Not amused. Not exasperated. Just… honest. “I missed you.”

It’s not a grand declaration. It’s not dramatic. But it lands with weight.

Hikari’s hands still where they rest around her teacup. Her eyes lift to meet his, steady and blue and clear. No sarcasm. No mischief.

Just her.

“I missed you too,” she says simply.

The moment hangs, just long enough to feel like something settled into place. Something right.

Then, almost absently, Kakashi reaches forward and ruffles her hair. Her braid’s come slightly undone - he smooths it back with one hand, gentle. Careful. His thumb brushes the top of her ear as he pulls away.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t roll her eyes or swat his hand like she sometimes does.

She just leans, ever so slightly, into the contact.

His heart gives a traitorous little twist.

He clears his throat, sits back, and takes another sip of tea. It’s cooled by now. He doesn’t mind.

“You know,” he says after a beat, “I left for a week thinking you’d spend the time reorganizing the bookshelves and maybe getting ahead on your council prep.”

“I did reorganize the bookshelves,” she says primly. “On day seven. This morning.”

He stares.

“You colour-coded them by genre and national origin again, didn’t you?”

“Genre, origin, subfield, and approximate time period.”

He groans into his cup. “You’re awful.”

“I prefer the term ‘efficient.’”

“Uh-huh.”

A beat.

“I also re-aligned the spice cabinet,” she adds, like she’s confessing a war crime.

He looks at her, scandalized. “Not the shichimi blend.”

“Top shelf. Centered. Properly labeled.”

He slumps dramatically into the back of his chair. “I can’t believe I raised a monster.”

“You didn’t raise one,” she says lightly. “You simply adopted one.”

He laughs again - really laughs this time, not the rueful chuckle of earlier but something genuine, warm, just as helpless.

And when she smiles back, quiet and pleased and just a little soft, he thinks - 

Yes.

Home.

~

The apartment is quiet.

Not the silence of absence, or the strained hush of waiting - but the kind that comes after. After laughter. After tea. After the door has closed behind well-meaning friends and the last cup has been washed and set gently to dry.

The kind of quiet that feels earned.

Kakashi leans against the kitchen counter, half-shadowed by the dim lamplight, hands braced on either side of the sink. His hair is damp, shirt rumpled from where she’d pressed her head against it. His mask is still on - out of habit more than anything - but his shoulders have lowered. His posture’s gone loose around the edges, like the tension has finally started to bleed out.

He watches her from the corner of his eye.

She’s crouched in front of the bonsai, adjusting a crooked branch with delicate precision. Barefoot, braid trailing, sleeves rolled back. Focused. Still. Her touch is careful, almost reverent.

Like she’s grounding herself.

Like he’s real again, and she’s checking anyway - just in case.

Kakashi swallows. He doesn't say anything. Doesn’t move. Because there’s something in her silence that stops him. Something just a shade off from normal. Not guarded. Not afraid. Just... worn.

He’s seen that look before. Worn it, once or twice.

After Minato. After Obito. After Rin. After his father.

After every time someone didn’t come back.

His hands tighten slightly against the edge of the sink.

He should have left a message. Should have asked for more frequent check-ins. Should have - 

“Stop,” she says quietly, without looking up.

He blinks. “Stop what?”

“Blaming yourself.”

He exhales, slow. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

She finishes adjusting the branch and straightens, turning to face him. Her face is still calm. Still composed. But her eyes - her eyes are tired.

“I know what this feels like,” she says softly. “Waiting. Wondering. Counting breaths between nothing and silence.”

He doesn’t interrupt.

“I’ve done it before. I’ve survived it before.” Her voice wavers, just a little. “But I don’t want to survive it again.”

He looks at her. Really looks at her.

She’s not asking him to promise he’ll come back. She knows better than that. But she’s asking for something. Trust, maybe. Honesty. A thread between them.

Kakashi steps forward. Not quickly. Just enough to stand in front of her, close enough to reach.

“I won’t promise I’ll always come back,” he says, low. “That’s not the kind of life we lead.”

She doesn’t flinch.

“But I’ll promise this.” He lifts a hand - slow, steady - and rests it against her shoulder. “I’ll never leave without making sure you have what you need to outlast me.”

She looks up at him. Quiet. Unmoving.

“What if all I need is you?” she asks, almost inaudible.

His hand stills. The breath leaves his lungs in a single, silent exhale.

And then, gently, he kneels.

So they’re eye-level again. Like that day when she’d told him the truth of who she’d been.

He doesn’t hug her this time. Just meets her eyes.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not if I can help it.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then another.

And finally, she leans forward. Not much. Just enough to rest her forehead against his shoulder, barely touching. Her hands curl loosely against his vest. Not clinging. Just holding.

It’s not a hug, not really.

But it feels like one.

Kakashi stays very, very still. Not because he’s afraid of startling her, but because he’s afraid of how much this matters.

And she - silent, small, quietly cracked open in a way that aches to look at - lets herself rest there for a long, long moment. Because she trusts him to hold the weight.

When she pulls back, her expression is quieter. Softer. Her eyes are still tired, but they’re clearer now. More anchored.

“I’m glad you’re home,” she says.

He nods.

“Me too.”

Chapter Text

Hiruzen leans back in his chair, fingers itching for the warmth of his pipe. But smoking is strictly forbidden in the Council chambers and in the Hokage’s office, even for him. Minato had implemented that rule during his brief tenure as Hokage, mostly because he’d never liked the smell, and Hiruzen’s too sentimental to overwrite it. 

His gaze drifts, as it always does during these things. He’s mostly here because he’s obligated to be, as are all of the other people in this chamber. 

His eyes catch on one small figure. 

Not all, he corrects himself absently, just most.

Hatake Hikari sits with perfect posture, hands folded over each other in her lap just so. Her eyes are bright, sharp, unerring in their attentiveness as the council debates the logistics of the west-end medic-police expansion - the very idea she herself had proposed last week.

Fugaku is speaking now, clipped and concise, his arms crossed over his chest as he counters Hisashi’s concerns about jurisdictional overlap. Hisashi, in turn, is pushing back with the same rigid politeness he always wears like armour, arguing that medical oversight should remain strictly within the purview of the hospital and not be “entangled” with the policing branch. Their voices are calm. Measured. But the tension beneath is unmistakable.

Hiruzen watches them go back and forth, the same way they have in every meeting for the past half-decade, and wonders how long this particular back-and-forth will drag on.

Then - 

“If I may,” Hikari says.

Her voice is soft, clear. Just loud enough to draw attention, just quiet enough to command it.

The silence that follows is immediate. Even Fugaku stills.

She doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t glance nervously toward Kakashi, seated a little behind her with an unreadable expression. She simply continues, “The idea was designed to serve an underserved quadrant of the village - one with high response times and low access to emergency care. The shared facility solves both problems. But jurisdiction does not need to be binary.”

She tilts her head slightly, just enough to catch Hisashi’s gaze.

“My recommendation is a co-lead model with rotating oversight. Alternating medical and policing administration monthly, with fixed reporting chains to both branches and a unified ledger for expenditures. That should resolve command concerns without undermining autonomy.”

Then, to Fugaku, she adds, “And it sidesteps the need for a merged operational hierarchy, which you expressed hesitancy about last week.”

She doesn’t smile, but the air in the room shifts. Hisashi blinks, caught mid-breath. Fugaku’s fingers tap once against the table, then stop.

Someone coughs. It might be Choza, who looks vaguely impressed and also halfway through a rice cracker.

“Well,” he mutters. “That solves it, then.”

Someone else stifles a laugh. Hiruzen doesn’t, but the corner of his mouth twitches before he schools it again. Instead, he watches the flicker of pride cross Kakashi’s eye. It’s fleeting. A ghost of a thing. But it’s there.

The council continues.

And Hatake Hikari folds her hands once more in her lap and says nothing else for the rest of the meeting.

Gods, Hiruzen thinks, not for the first time. She’s six.

~

If he’s being entirely honest, he hadn’t known what to make of her at first. She’d looked too small sitting there in his office - all thin, birdlike bones and quiet solemnity. He’d never seen anything less intimidating in his life.

He’d placed her in Kakashi’s care almost on impulse. A passing hope that maybe - just maybe - she’ll be good for him. That having someone to look after might ground Kakashi again, might pull him back toward something steady. Biwako would’ve scolded him for it. She’s a child, not a mission, not a broken blade you can repurpose, she might’ve said, lips pressed in that familiar, disapproving line. She was always the softer one, despite the steel.

But she’s gone. Has been for years now.

And there’s no one left to scold him.

So he hands the girl off. Just like that. Half out of hope, half out of guilt. Because Minato died with regrets, and one of them was Kakashi, the way he never managed to draw him back out from behind the walls that war built.

Hiruzen’s already failed Minato’s son. He doesn’t want to fail Minato’s last student too.

He knows it’s a gamble. It could go brilliantly, or it could break them both. There’s no middle ground here. She’ll either mend something in Kakashi… or she’ll shatter what’s left.

But he’s always been a gambling man.

So he rolls the dice. And hopes.

~

The door clicks shut behind Danzo with the soft finality of old hinges and older friendships. Hiruzen doesn’t rise to greet him - just gestures toward the second chair with two fingers and exhales through his nose.

Danzo doesn’t sit. Of course he doesn’t.

He stands before the desk like a statue carved of shadow and discontent, the deep fold of his brow furrowed further by the late sun slanting through the window. His hands remain behind his back, one gloved, one ruined, and his voice is clipped as ever.

“You’re removing Hatake from ANBU.”

Hiruzen allows the silence to stretch a little longer than necessary. He finishes signing the mission scroll in front of him, sets the brush down neatly, and folds his hands.

“Yes,” he says simply.

Danzo’s jaw ticks. “Why?”

“He’s earned the right to choose a quieter life.”

“And you believe that’s all this is. Choice.” The words are almost spat. “Forgive me, Hiruzen, but I thought we were at war.”

Hiruzen lifts a brow. “Peace was declared six years ago.”

Danzo steps closer, one measured pace. “Peace is a lull. A pause. And we are wasting our sharpest blade.”

“Kakashi is no longer a blade, Danzo,” Hiruzen replies, tone still mild. “He’s a man. A good one. I won’t hold him in ANBU like a prisoner just because it’s convenient.”

“Convenient?” Danzo’s voice dips, quiet and laced with disdain. “He’s efficient. Unflinching. Fearless. He was made for that work. He chose it.”

Hiruzen narrows his eyes. “Perhaps. But that doesn’t mean he can’t choose something different.”

Danzo says nothing for a moment. Then - 

“I see.”

But Hiruzen knows him too well. Knows that when Danzo says those two words like that - flat, dismissive - it means he’s holding his tongue. That something deeper, darker, is coiling behind his eyes.

“Speak your mind,” Hiruzen says.

Danzo does. Of course he does.

“I think,” he says slowly, “you’ve grown soft. Since Minato’s death. Since the Kyuubi. Since your wife passed.”

The air chills.

“I think,” Danzo continues, “you are making decisions with your heart, not your mind. And I think you are about to gamble this village’s safety on sentiment.”

Hiruzen holds his gaze. “You mean Kakashi.”

“I mean whatever is coming,” Danzo replies. “Whatever you see in that man. In the wounded and the broken and the quiet ones you’re gathering like fallen leaves. You’re trying to make a spring out of winter.”

His voice dips again.

“But winter never ends, Hiruzen. Not really. And Hatake was the only weapon you still had that wasn’t rusted with kindness.”

A long silence.

Outside, a wind stirs the branches. Hiruzen can hear the murmur of genin being drilled on the training fields below - shouts, the crack of wood on wood, the steady rhythm of practice.

He closes his eyes for a moment.

Then opens them again.

“Leave,” he says quietly.

Danzo doesn’t move.

“You forget yourself,” Hiruzen adds, voice low and steady. “Kakashi was never yours. And neither is this village.”

Finally, Danzo inclines his head. Just barely, and leaves without another word.

The door clicks shut behind him. The silence that follows is somehow louder.

And though Hiruzen doesn’t know it yet, something shifts in that moment. Imperceptibly. Like a faultline deep beneath the surface of the earth. A future cracking, quietly.

He doesn’t reach for his pipe.

But his fingers ache for it.

~

The sun spills across his desk in long golden bands, catching the edges of the papers stacked in uneven piles. Outside, the village hums with the low murmur of the hour - too late for lunch, too early for dinner. The lull between.

Hiruzen doesn’t look up when the door opens without a knock. Only one person moves that silently, and only one is expected.

He finishes signing the mission order in front of him, sets the brush aside, and gestures toward the second cushion.

“Kakashi.”

“Hokage-sama.” The reply is automatic, but there’s a hesitation in it. Barely perceptible. The kind Hiruzen wouldn’t have caught, years ago, when the boy was still half-shadow.

He looks up, finally. Kakashi is standing stiff-backed by the window, shoulders drawn tight like he’s bracing for something. Not fear, no. Kakashi doesn’t fear Hiruzen - not like that. But there’s something else beneath the surface.

Hiruzen laces his fingers together and leans back. “Well?”

There’s a pause. Then:

“I’d like to adopt Hikari.”

He pauses. Hiruzen’s brows lift slightly. “You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

A beat. Two.

Then, mildly, Hiruzen says, “You do remember children require three meals a day and should not be exposed to Icha Icha?”

Kakashi’s eye narrows. “Yes. I’ve put all my… recreational reading on the topmost shelf. She’s not tall enough to read the spines yet.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You really have changed.”

Kakashi snorts. Then, more seriously, he says, “I don’t just want to adopt her, though. I’d like her known as my daughter by blood.”

Now that earns Hiruzen’s full attention. His smile fades, and he studies Kakashi for a long moment. The younger man doesn’t flinch under the scrutiny. His face is neutral, but his eye is steady. Focused. This is no passing whim.

“She doesn’t look like you,” Hiruzen says.

“I know.” A breath. “But she looks like someone. And that’s the problem.”

Hiruzen exhales slowly. “The Uzumaki.”

“Too much,” Kakashi says quietly. “The hair, the grace. The fuuinjutsu instincts. If anyone with the wrong intentions starts digging - ”

“They’ll assume she’s a hidden survivor,” Hiruzen murmurs. “A vulnerability.”

“And they’ll go for her throat.”

It’s not dramatics. It’s truth. The Uzumaki name still carries weight, and weight attracts vultures. Kakashi knows it. Hiruzen knows it. It’s why he hasn’t told Danzo about her. 

“And you think the Hatake name will shield her.”

“I think,” Kakashi says, “that if she’s mine - truly mine - then people will think twice. They won’t look too closely. Not if it means questioning the Hatake line. Not with what’s left of it already so thin.”

The silence between them stretches.

Then Kakashi adds, more quietly, “She’s agreed. She thinks it’s smart.”

Hiruzen - hadn’t expected that. That’s unexpectedly strategic for a child.

“She understands what it means?” he checks.

“She understands more than she should,” Kakashi replies.

A sigh escapes before Hiruzen can stop it. He looks out the window, lets his gaze drift across the rooftops toward the distant trees. The wind stirs the leaves. The village endures.

“Very well,” he says at last. “I’ll go along with your story. But you’ll need to be careful. If anyone questions it - ”

“They won’t.”

Kakashi’s voice is quiet steel.

Hiruzen believes him.

Still, something tugs at the back of his mind. A flicker of unease, old and familiar. “You’re building something,” he says softly.

“I’m protecting my family,” Kakashi answers.

And that’s the end of it.

~

The door clicks shut behind Hikari.

Hiruzen doesn’t move at first. Just sits there, hands folded atop the cleanest desk he’s had in over a decade, staring at the now-neatly labeled folders like they’ve personally performed a genjutsu on him.

Then he leans back in his chair, spine creaking in time with the wood, and exhales a long, slow breath.

It’s the same office. Same walls, same scrolls, same faint scent of ink and green tea.

But the air feels… different now. Lighter.

He glances down at the reference chart she’d drafted in under five minutes - colour-coded, annotated, and tailored to his own habits as if she’d known them her whole life. She’d asked him questions, rapid-fire and impossibly precise, each one distilling the chaos of his system - or lack thereof - into something navigable. Something manageable.

He’d watched her think. Not just process or deduce, but think - with the same eerie precision and quiet confidence he’d seen in war strategists six times her age.

It wasn’t precocious. It wasn’t even genius.

It was clinical brilliance.

And what unsettles him more than anything… is how easy it had been for her.

He reaches absently for his pipe, forgetting for a moment that he doesn't smoke here anymore. His fingers hover above the stand, then fall away.

She hadn’t made fun of the chaos. Hadn’t flinched at the mess or been awed by the title on his desk. She’d seen a problem and solved it, without ego, without expectation of praise.

Just… clarity.

And she's six.

No. He closes his eyes briefly. She’s not six. Not really. Not inside.

He’s seen that look before - on orphans grown too fast, on shinobi who’ve carried too much, too young. But even they showed signs - tics, tells, temper. Traces of the child they once were.

Hikari doesn’t.

There’s something ancient behind her eyes. Something quiet, like ice. Like steel.

And for all his admiration, for all his hopes - for all his belief that she might truly be the key to bringing Kakashi back to the light and for all the confirmation that his gamble had paid off - there’s still a part of him, now, that wonders…

What have I done?

Because it’s one thing to see a bright child with too many thoughts and not enough places to put them. It’s another thing entirely to realize you’ve handed that child the keys to your office and watched her, in the space of an afternoon, reorganize an entire segment of the Hokage’s infrastructure like it was a schoolyard puzzle.

There are brilliant children. And then there are weapons that look like them.

He doesn’t want to believe she’s the latter. He doesn’t.

But when he thinks of Danzo’s words - not the venom, not the fear, but the warning - he feels the weight of them settle low in his ribs.

You’re trying to make a spring out of winter.

Hiruzen sighs again, softer this time.

Then he reaches for the top drawer - the one she labeled Immediate Action - Hokage Only - and pulls out the first scroll. It glides smoothly into his hand. It’s the first time in months he hasn’t had to sift through rubble to find what he needs.

He opens it. Reads. Gets to work.

Because winter must end eventually.

And if Hatake Hikari is the herald of spring…

Then gods help them all, they must be ready.

~

The summons comes two days later.

The timing doesn’t surprise Hiruzen. The only surprising part is that it took that long.

ROOT’s meeting chamber is as cold and impersonal as ever. The walls are bare stone, the floor smooth concrete, and the air smells faintly of steel and antiseptic. A single shaft of daylight filters through the slit window high above, catching the edge of Danzo’s shadow as he turns.

He doesn’t greet Hiruzen. Doesn’t offer tea, or pleasantries, or even a seat.

“Hatake Hikari,” Danzo says instead. Flat. Direct.

Hiruzen steps into the room and closes the door behind him. “Yes.”

“She’s his blood.”

A statement, not a question.

Hiruzen lets the silence settle for half a breath before replying. “She is.”

Danzo’s mouth thins. “You kept her hidden.”

“I protected her.”

“You hid her,” Danzo says again, quieter this time. “No records, no registration, no trace until she appeared on the council floor two weeks ago with a proposal too precise for her age and a manner too deliberate for chance. She speaks like a seasoned jonin diplomat. She’s six.”

Hiruzen doesn’t answer.

Danzo steps forward, out of the shadow. His face is unreadable, but the hunger in his eyes is not. “I want her.”

Now Hiruzen does speak. “She’s not a weapon,” he says automatically, not sure if he believes himself.

“She’s a mind,” Danzo counters. “A sharp one. Untrained, still too quick to compromise, still too soft - ”

“Softness is not weakness,” Hiruzen cuts in, voice quiet but firm.

Danzo ignores the interruption. “ - but the instincts are there. The clarity. The restraint. The ability to listen. To say exactly what needs to be said. That proposal? Brilliant. A clean bypass of institutional rivalry. She left Fugaku and Hisashi both without recourse.”

“She de-escalated a fight before it began,” Hiruzen says mildly. “We could use more of that.”

Danzo studies him. “That’s what makes her dangerous. And you know it.”

Hiruzen folds his hands behind his back. “She’s not for you.”

“She could be more than you’ve made her. With the right instruction - ”

“You mean your instruction.”

Danzo’s silence is telling.

Hiruzen exhales slowly through his nose. “She’s already receiving guidance.”

“Kakashi isn’t enough.”

Hiruzen meets his eye. “Kakashi is precisely enough.”

“She has the potential to lead,” Danzo presses. “To truly lead. Not the way Kakashi hides behind shadows and blades, but here. In these halls. On that floor. She’s six, and already the clan heads listen when she speaks. Let me shape her.”

“No.”

“She could be my successor.”

“No,” Hiruzen says again, voice like stone. “She is not yours to shape.”

Danzo tilts his head. “You gave Kakashi the chance to build a family. Why not give me the chance to build a legacy?”

“Because Kakashi never wanted power,” Hiruzen replies. “He wanted peace. You’ve never understood the difference.”

That lands. Barely. But it lands.

The air stretches, cold and thick with silence.

Then Danzo speaks again, his voice low and almost reflective. “You think you’re building something with this new generation. With your softened edges and council games and protection. But winter doesn’t melt just because you pretend spring has come, Hiruzen.”

Hiruzen lets the words pass.

Danzo steps back into the shadows. “You’ll regret keeping her from me.”

“I’ve regretted worse.”

He turns to go.

“And, my old friend,” Hiruzen adds, just before the man disappears into the dark, “If you even think of touching her - if I sense even the possibility of it - I will burn what remains of ROOT to ash.”

A beat.

Danzo doesn’t turn back. “Understood.”

He vanishes.

Hiruzen stays where he is for a long moment, letting the silence stretch.

Then he turns and walks out, each step measured.

He doesn’t let himself shake until he’s out beneath the open sky.

~

The sunlight hits him like absolution. Not warmth - no, the wind is still sharp with winter’s tail - but clarity. Sharp. Bracing. Unforgiving.

He exhales once, long and slow. Then tilts his face to the sky.

He had meant the threat. Every word of it.

But even so, he knows Danzo. Knows the way the man thinks. Knows that the word “understood” is not surrender. It’s calculation. A ledger quietly opened. A weight added. A timeline begun.

Danzo has no children. No heirs. No legacy but what he builds in silence and shadow. He will not let Hikari go.

And Hiruzen - old fool that he is - has just drawn a line in the dirt with shaking hands.

Spring doesn’t come by wish alone, he thinks, not without bitterness.

~

He sits in his office, afterwards, a cold cup of tea cradled in his hands. It’s long bitter now. Biwako would’ve thrown it out. Chided him for it. 

She still would’ve made him a fresh cup. 

Hiruzen exhales, slowly, and wonders where it all went wrong. He remembers the day he’d first met Danzo. Remembers their shared dreams, their shared hopes for the future. How they’d whispered and planned together in the Academy hallways, in the training grounds, in the newly-built Konoha Public Library. 

They’d been idealists once. Not that anyone would believe it now.

He and Danzo - young, fierce, foolish - had believed they could shape the village with their hands, mold it into something strong enough to weather any storm. They’d been so sure the scars of the Warring States could be erased. That peace could be built like a wall - stone by stone, mission by mission, child by child.

He remembers Danzo quoting the Records of the Elders, voice low and fervent. 

A shinobi endures, not for glory, but to shield the dream of those who cannot.

Back then, he’d thought Danzo understood what that meant. Back then, they hadn’t buried so many children.

When did you change? he wonders now. Or when did I?

The tea burns cold against his palms. He doesn’t drink it. Just stares into the cup like it might offer answers he already knows.

Biwako would have said it wasn’t one moment, but hundreds. Tiny shifts. A paper not filed. A child sent to ANBU too early. A threat left unanswered. A compromise made.

And still, he had let Danzo stay.

Because he’d hoped. Because he’d needed him. Because the village - his village - had required the work no one else would do. Because a shadow sometimes protects better than a blade.

Because war carves cowards out of the kind and tyrants out of the brave.

And because I was afraid, he thinks, bitterly. Afraid that if I cast him out, I’d become the thing I was terrified he himself was becoming - cold, cruel, and calculating.

He lifts the cup again. Doesn't drink.

Instead, he sets it down gently on Biwako’s old coaster. One she embroidered herself, a thousand years ago, when they still had time for such things.

He misses her, quietly, with the dull ache of someone who’s grown used to it. Not just the woman who’d scold him and make him food and lecture him about his macronutrient intake - though gods knows he misses that, too - but the mundane moments. Her, going over hospital reports with sharp eyes while he sighed over his own paperwork. Getting ready for bed together. Waking up to her already awake and at her desk, sitting with perfect posture and her lips pressed together thinly. 

The house feels so empty without her now. 

It’s been six years. Six long, painful, aching years. And still, he looks for her with the ease of habit before he remembers she’s gone. 

She would’ve liked Hikari, he thinks. Would’ve liked the way she outmaneuvers shinobi several times her age. Would’ve liked the way her mind worked - logically, with unerring perception. Probably would’ve strong-armed her into improving the hospital’s efficiency, which had been a regular complaint of hers. 

She wouldn’t have let Danzo touch her, either. 

The sky outside is pale with cloud, the kind of white that blurs the edges of rooftops and makes the world feel smaller. Quieter.

He wonders if Hikari feels the change. Wonders if she knows that an old war has started to breathe again, low and patient beneath her feet.

She wouldn’t flinch, he thinks. She doesn’t strike him as the type.

But she’s still a child.

(Isn’t she?)

He doesn’t know. And that’s what unsettles him most.

Not her mind. Not her ambition. Not even her composure.

But the deep, inescapable sense that the girl walking through his hallways and restructuring his ledgers is not new to this world.

She moves like memory. Speaks like someone who has already learned every lesson, and is only waiting to apply them.

And when he looks into her eyes - 

You’re trying to make a spring out of winter, Danzo had said.

No, he thinks now. She is winter and spring both.

He only hopes the world doesn’t crush her for it.

~

He watches the steam curl up from the fresh cup of tea. It rises like smoke from a pyre - thin, ephemeral, vanishing before it ever reaches the ceiling.

This time, he doesn’t let it go cold.

The silence of the office feels heavier than it should. Not oppressive - just old. Like dust gathered in the corners of things not yet spoken.

He’s lived too long in rooms like this. War rooms. Council chambers. Funeral halls disguised as paperwork.

He takes a sip.

Then leans back, the cup warm in his hands, and lets his eyes fall half-lidded as the question unfurls itself across his mind for the hundredth time - 

Should he tell Kakashi?

There’s a part of him that recoils from the thought - reflexive, instinctive. Because once, not so long ago, Danzo was his friend. His brother-in-arms. His shadow. He had trusted him with the ugliest parts of peace.

And for all that’s happened since… for all Danzo has become… there’s a loyalty there that hasn’t fully died. Something he’s buried, but not severed. Something with roots.

But Kakashi - 

Kakashi is his last promise.

The boy Minato left behind. The prodigy turned ghost. The survivor of too many funerals. The one who never asked for more, but still took in a girl with a storm in her blood and ice in her eyes and called her family.

Hiruzen knows what that word means to him. What it costs him to say it.

And he knows, too, what Kakashi would do to anyone who tried to hurt her. Anyone who so much as thought about it.

Especially Danzo.

If I tell him, Hiruzen thinks, Danzo will not survive it.

Not that he’d deserve to. Not that there would be any justice in sparing him. But the fallout - 

The council would fracture. ANBU would split. ROOT, as hollowed as it is, would rise from the ashes before he could fully stamp it out.

And Kakashi would never come back from it.

Not this time.

Not after everything.

He’s failed before. Three students, three disasters, each forged in a space he left hollow.

Orochimaru, whose brilliance became hunger, and whose hunger festered under too much indulgence, too little oversight.

Tsunade, who shattered under loss, and left because Hiruzen never found the words that might have held her.

Jiraiya, who ran, and kept running, because no one ever told him he was being a coward.

He lost them all. And they weren’t children anymore when they left, but they’d once trusted him like he mattered.

He doesn’t want to fail again. Not Kakashi. Not the girl. Not this time.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. Closes his eyes.

There is no clean solution. No perfect answer. Just a choice between betrayals.

He has always prided himself on protecting the next generation - on making the hard calls so they wouldn’t have to.

And yet here he sits. An old man with tea in his hands and war in his heart, and no one left to ask what the right answer is.

Biwako would have known. She would’ve said, Tell the boy. Trust his strength. Let him decide what to do with it.

But Biwako is gone. And the boy is no longer a boy. And trust, in this village, is a currency more fragile than peace.

He exhales slowly.

Not yet, he thinks. But soon.

He’ll tell him when the time is right.

When the danger passes. When Hikari is safe. When Danzo no longer holds the power to burn the forest to cinders just to spite the wind.

Or - 

When there’s no other choice left.

He sets the cup down gently.

The steam still curls.

~

That night, he dreams.

Not of fire, or war, or Danzo’s shadow leering from the edge of the Foundation’s chambers.

He dreams of the hospital.

The lights are low. The walls echo with that same too-clean silence they always did after hours - every footstep swallowed, every breath somehow too loud. He stands in the hallway, hand braced against the edge of the doorframe, watching her.

She’s alone in her office. The lamplight is soft, golden, glinting off the silver strands in her hair. Her sleeves are pushed up to her elbows. Her hands move quickly, confidently - scribbling notes, adjusting charts, tapping one slender finger against a stack of forms as if daring them to argue.

She doesn’t see him yet. Or maybe she does.

“You’re stalling again,” Biwako says without looking up.

His throat tightens.

She turns a page, efficient, exact. “You’ve always done that. When you don’t want to make a decision. When you already have, but don’t want to admit it.”

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move.

The ache in his chest is unbearable.

She glances at him then. Just a flick of her eyes. Enough to undo him.

“You’re afraid,” she says softly.

He wants to argue. He wants to say it’s strategy. That it’s about timing. About protecting what’s left. But the words won’t come - not here. Not in front of her.

She sets her pen down, folds her hands over the edge of the desk. Her gaze is steady. Not angry. Not disappointed.

Just… tired. Sad, in that way only she ever allowed herself to be - with him, and no one else.

“She’s a child,” she says, and this time her voice breaks a little. “And you’re asking her to carry too much.”

He looks down. At his hands. At the floor. Anywhere but her.

Biwako doesn’t let him.

“She reminds me of you,” she says quietly. “The way she watches. The way she already knows that people will fail her. The way she’s trying not to be angry about it.”

He clenches his jaw. Tries to steady himself.

“She would’ve trusted you,” Biwako murmurs. “And him. If you’d just told the truth.”

He shakes his head, finally. “Not yet,” he whispers. His voice works here, barely. It scrapes out like a blade dulled on too many regrets.

“I know,” she says. And somehow that hurts most of all.

A long silence.

Then - softly, as she leans back in her chair and looks at him the way she used to, when the world wasn’t quite so sharp - 

“I wish I could stay,” she says. “But you’ll have to do this part without me.”

He nods once, a broken, helpless thing.

“I’ll be here,” she adds, “just not where you can see me.”

And when he looks again, the lamp is still lit, the papers still stacked, the teacup still warm. But the chair is empty.

He wakes with the weight of her hand still resting on his.

Chapter Text

It takes him a week to act.

Not because he's inattentive - Kakashi notices everything - but because the ficus doesn’t move. Doesn’t whisper its threat like it used to. It just sits. Smug. Unassuming. Innocent.

Too innocent.

Which is why, one quiet afternoon, while Hikari is out and the apartment is otherwise still, Kakashi crouches in front of the ficus with all the caution of a man disarming a landmine.

He studies it in silence. The pot. The leaves. The exact tilt of the smallest branch - slightly off-centre, like it’s daring him to fix it. His visible eye narrows.

He doesn’t touch it. Not yet.

Instead, he circles it once. Then again. He kneels, makes a slow hand sign, and releases a gentle chakra pulse across the soil’s surface. Nothing reacts.

He frowns.

Another hand sign follows - a diagnostic this time. Still nothing.

“Cute,” he murmurs, voice dry.

He reaches for a scroll, unseals a slender silver probe, and begins lifting the branches one by one, using the tool instead of his fingers. Still nothing.

But the hairs on the back of his neck are prickling now.

He pulls back. Taps his fingers against his knee.

Then he does what ANBU teaches you not to do. What they drill out of you after your first trap disarms you back. What he absolutely knows better than to do.

He touches the pot.

Nothing happens for half a second.

Then there’s a soft pop and a faint fizz.

Lavender mist explodes upward in a gentle cloud, shimmering faintly in the light. It smells pleasant - soothing, even - but the shimmer?

The shimmer is what gets him.

He inhales.

Pauses.

Then, very softly - 

“Oh, come on.”

He stands abruptly and stalks to the bathroom. Leaves a faint trail of sparkle in his wake.

In the mirror, he glares at his own reflection. His silver hair is now lightly dusted with an iridescent sheen. It glimmers faintly when he moves. Like he’s been kissed by a chakra fairy.

There’s no glitter - only shimmer. Subtle. Elegant. Infuriating.

He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, “Ro is feral,” and slams the door shut.

From the kitchen, the ficus sits silently in its corner, triumphant.

~

The mist’s mostly settled by the time he emerges from the bathroom, damp towel around his neck, expression blank. Dignity: shredded. Pride: compromised. Hair: still glowing faintly like he’s been kissed by the concept of moonlight.

He rounds the corner into the kitchen - and stops dead.

Hikari’s already there.

She’s standing in the doorway, scroll case in one hand, expression frozen halfway between disbelief and delight. Her eyes flick over him - hair, cheekbones, the faint shimmer clinging to his mask like dew - and she lets out a sound he’s never heard from her before.

A laugh.

A real one.

Not a polite chuckle or that dry, wry hum she sometimes gives when amused. This is different. Bright. Sudden. Uncontained. It bubbles out of her like spring water hitting sunlight, wild and a little breathless, and he feels it like a warm breeze across something frozen.

She sets the scroll down and covers her mouth, but it’s no use. She’s laughing too hard now - her shoulders shaking, breath hitching. She leans back against the wall for support, one hand clutching her side like it physically hurts.

Kakashi stares at her.

Betrayal, he thinks, but not with any real heat. It’s mostly performative at this point.

“I see you’ve returned,” he says blandly.

Another laugh escapes her. “You touched it, didn’t you.”

“I disarmed it,” he lies.

She doubles over. “You shimmer.”

He deadpans, “It’s a tactical advantage.”

That only makes it worse. She’s laughing so hard now she has to sit down. She drops into the chair nearest the table, still wheezing, eyes bright and cheeks pink. It’s like something has cracked open inside her - something soft and very old - and he doesn’t know what to do with the fact that it’s his humiliation that got her there.

He exhales slowly.

Watches her laugh herself breathless.

And something in his chest twists - not unpleasantly.

He’d planned to scold her. Or at least sigh meaningfully. Maybe even make her scrub the shimmer out of his gear. But that laugh - light and sharp and utterly unguarded - has robbed him of every single one of those intentions.

“You’re evil,” he mutters instead.

She wipes her eyes. “You trained them.”

“That was my mistake.”

“You taught them subterfuge.”

“I didn’t mean horticultural subterfuge,” he says, gesturing at the ficus like it personally betrayed him.

She smiles at him now - less wild, more quiet. There’s warmth in it. A kind of soft triumph. And something else, too - something closer to affection than amusement.

“You’re very sparkly,” she says.

Kakashi gives her a long, wounded look.

She tries - she does - to bite back another laugh. She fails spectacularly.

And despite himself, despite everything - he smiles.

Just a little.

He walks to the kettle, sets it to boil on the stove, and says, “Jasmine?”

Still catching her breath, she nods.

“Good,” he says, settling in across from her, eye narrowed. “You’re making it.”

She beams at him, wicked and smug.

He’ll be finding shimmer in his hair for a week.

And honestly? He’s not even mad.

~

She falls into a routine. Saturday morning Shinobi Council meetings, with shogi and lunch at the Nara household afterwards. Sunday and Wednesday afternoons at the orphanage with Naruto. The occasional shogi game with Itachi, usually arranged by Shisui since he somehow knows both their schedules. Biweekly game nights with Team Ro and Kakashi, the exact day of which varies based on mission schedules. Otherwise, she spends her mornings learning the Nagare no Mai with Kakashi and her afternoons studying fuuinjutsu or reading documents in the archives. 

It’s… nice. Hikari’s always enjoyed the structure of a routine, but it’s more than that. It’s peaceful, if she’s being honest. She’s making slow, steady improvement in every area she applies herself to, whether it’s the Nagare no Mai or shogi or fuuinjutsu. She hasn’t had that since she was a child in her first life, learning etiquette, dance, and music. 

There aren’t battles to fight, not more than the petty squabbles of the council. There’s no existential threat looming on the horizon. No war to prepare for.

She feels… settled. At peace, for the first time in a long, long time.

One day, she finds herself pulling out the flute Kakashi had gotten her, that first day in Konoha, and she realizes, with a start, how far she’s come. 

She doesn’t flinch at kindness anymore. Doesn’t watch people like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. She’s still watchful, but there’s less… tension to it now. Less ever-present readiness. 

She’s - relaxed. 

Hikari exhales, slowly. Kakashi’s in the living room, reading. She turns the flute over in her hands, running her fingers over the smooth wood. 

She hasn’t played it since that first day in the marketplace. She hadn’t been ready. To bring Westerosi music into this world had felt - wrong. Like outing herself as someone who didn’t belong. She’d been worried that it’d draw suspicion, unwanted attention. 

More than that, though, the wound had felt too raw. Not fresh, but still bleeding nonetheless. Something that’d never quite scabbed over, never quite begun healing.

But now, Kakashi knows the truth of her. Not everything - she’s been sharing in bits and pieces, when it feels right - but enough. And now, now that she finally, finally feels settled in her own skin - 

There’s nothing holding her back anymore. 

She raises the flute to her lips. The wood is cool against her lips. She takes a breath, a deep one, the kind meant to carry music, and lets the silence of her bedroom wrap around her. Afternoon light streams in golden slants across her desk. Her window is cracked open, and the breeze carries the scent of summer rain and earth.

The first note is quiet, tremulous. Almost shy.

It’s a Northern tune. The first she ever learned - when she was barely tall enough to hold the flute properly, when her fingers fumbled over the holes and Septa Mordane’s stern corrections made her bite the inside of her cheek in frustration. A song not meant for court, nor even for the godswood, but for home. For hearth fires and thick cloaks, for snow in the lashes and warm bread cooling on stone sills. For safety.

Her father had smiled the first time she played it through without faltering. A small, proud smile, soft at the edges. He’d looked at her like she was something fine and steady and good.

She clings to that now, as her fingers move without thought, muscle memory from another body drawing each note from the wood with aching clarity. The melody rises and dips like the winds that danced through Winterfell’s towers - melancholy, but not mournful. It’s a lullaby in the language of cold and stone and love unspoken but deeply felt.

She plays it slowly, savouring the shape of it, letting it say what words never quite could.

And when the final note fades, she doesn’t open her eyes right away.

The room is quiet.

Hikari lets the silence settle, still holding the flute lightly in her lap. Her fingers are curved, not quite ready to let go, though the music is long gone. There’s a peculiar ache in her chest - not pain, exactly, but something old and full and almost tender. Like the echo of a memory you’d forgotten you missed.

She opens her eyes.

Kakashi is standing in the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, one shoulder propped casually, a small paperback forgotten in one hand. His visible eye is unreadable - quiet, steady - but there’s something in his posture that’s not quite the usual ease. Something careful.

He doesn’t speak, not at first. Neither does she.

The flute rests against her leg. Her fingers shift slightly, like they’re still trying to hold the last note in place.

Finally, Kakashi says, softly, “You haven’t played in a long time.”

She swallows. Nods once. “Not since the marketplace.”

A beat.

“I remember,” he says.

Of course he does.

She looks down at the flute again. Runs her thumb along the grain of the wood. “It used to hurt. Too much. I was afraid it’d… tear something open, if I tried.” Her voice is quiet, not quite shaky, but close. “But today, I wanted to remember. And it didn’t hurt. Not in the same way.”

Kakashi steps into the room then, slow and deliberate. He doesn’t sit, but he crouches down beside her, close enough for comfort but not so close as to press. Just there.

“Was it a song from before?” he asks gently.

She nods. “My father liked it. It was the first one I ever played all the way through.”

Kakashi studies her face for a moment - long enough that she almost wants to look away, but not quite. Then he says, “He must’ve been proud.”

A breath catches in her throat.

She nods again, smaller this time. Her voice is thinner than she means it to be. “He was.”

Kakashi doesn’t say anything to that. Just offers her the quiet, solid kind of presence she’s come to associate with safety. With him. With home.

She leans slightly toward him, the flute still in her lap, and he reaches out - not to touch, not quite, but to rest a hand lightly on the edge of her desk beside her. A silent tether.

After a moment, she murmurs, “I really do think he would’ve liked you.”

Kakashi huffs a soft sound - wry and fond all at once. “I’ll take that as high praise.”

“It is.”

He glances down at the flute. “Will you play it again sometime?”

She hesitates. Then - 

“Yes. I think… I think I will.”

Kakashi’s hand shifts slightly on the desk, his fingers brushing against a folded piece of paper, one of her half-finished seal designs. He doesn’t disturb it - just rests his fingers there, like a quiet anchor in the present.

Neither of them says anything for a while.

The silence isn’t awkward. It’s familiar now, worn in like soft cloth or old stone. Hikari leans back slightly, the flute still in her lap, her eyes drifting to the window. The breeze has stilled. Outside, the sun is beginning its descent, slanting golden across the rooftops, turning Konoha’s walls to burnished amber.

Then Kakashi tilts his head at her. “I’m gonna make dinner. You want to help?”

She gives him a flat look, one brow delicately arched. “You mean rescue it?”

He makes a wounded noise, all offence and no heat. “I’ll have you know I’ve only burned three things this month.”

“That we know of,” she counters, standing and carefully setting the flute back in its bag.

She’s smiling as she follows him out of the room, and she doesn’t miss the way his posture eases when she does. Not that he was worried. Not exactly. Just…watching.

The way he always does.

~

The shogi board rests between them, low on the table in the Nara living room, polished and familiar. Hikari studies the pieces with quiet focus, knees tucked beneath her, hands folded primly in her lap. Shikamaru’s already moved - his rook shifted two spaces right in an opening she knows is bait - and he’s watching her with barely concealed anticipation, as if she’s a puzzle he hasn’t quite cracked yet.

Yoshino’s at the marketplace. Shikaku’s at his office, likely against his will. It’s quiet. Peaceful.

She narrows her eyes slightly, studying the board.

It’s a trap. She steps around it.

“Mean,” Shikamaru mutters under his breath as she slides her bishop into position. “So mean.”

She offers him a mild look. “You taught me how to play.”

He sighs, dramatically. “I didn’t think you’d get better.”

Hikari blinks, all innocence. “Should I apologize?”

He scowls, but she catches the flicker of a grin he’s trying to hide.

The front door slams open with the force of a small hurricane.

“I knew you were hiding someone!”

Shikamaru startles so hard he nearly knocks over the board. Hikari freezes.

Footsteps thunder down the hall, too fast, too loud. A blur of blonde comes into view first, arms crossed, blue eyes blazing with the righteous indignation of someone who’s been personally wronged.

“You’ve been talking to someone without us?” the girl demands.

Behind her, a round-faced boy lumbers in at a more leisurely pace, holding a bag of chips. “We weren’t even sure you liked people.”

“I don’t,” Shikamaru groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Not most of the time.”

“You like her,” the girl shoots back. Then turns to Hikari, clearly expecting answers.

Hikari blinks again. Slowly straightens. Her manners slide into place like armour - polished and practiced. She rises to her feet and smooths her shirt, bowing with quiet, measured poise.

“Good afternoon,” she says evenly. “I’m Hatake Hikari. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

There is a brief, stunned silence.

The blonde stares. “You talk like an adult.”

The boy crunches a chip thoughtfully. “She’s polite. That’s weird.”

Hikari, baffled, folds her hands neatly in front of her. “I wasn’t aware Shikamaru had other friends.”

“I don’t,” Shikamaru mutters, from where he’s half-collapsed across the arm of the couch in utter defeat. “They keep showing up anyway.”

“Rude,” the girl snaps, then rounds on Hikari again. “I’m Yamanaka Ino, and that’s Akimichi Choji. We’ve known this loser since we were babies. You’ve been hoarding him.”

“I was not aware he was a communal resource,” Hikari says delicately. “My apologies.”

Choji nods. “It’s okay. You didn’t know.”

Ino flops down beside the shogi board without asking and immediately starts pointing at pieces. “Okay, explain what this does. And how badly were you beating him?”

“Very,” Hikari replies, without even blinking.

Shikamaru groans into the couch cushions. “This was a terrible idea.”

But the thing is - Hikari’s not annoyed.

She’s... confused. A little overwhelmed. But there’s something about the way they squabble, the way they sit too close and talk too loud and share the chips without being asked, that reminds her - strangely, achingly - of siblings.

She looks down at the shogi board. Then up at Shikamaru’s martyred expression.

And she smiles. Just a little.

~

“We’re not playing this anymore,” Ino declares, after listening to Hikari’s explanation of the pieces for all of two minutes.

Hikari blinks. “But the game isn’t finished.”

“Yeah, and it never will be,” Ino groans, flopping backwards until her spine arcs off the floor, arms spread in dramatic defeat. “Shogi is for old men with back problems and no hobbies.”

Shikamaru, who very much enjoys shogi and absolutely has back problems for a six-year-old, makes an offended noise from the couch.

Choji munches on another chip and shrugs. “She’s not wrong.”

Hikari hesitates. “We could… finish the game later?”

Ino springs up with terrifying speed. “Yes. Shogi later. Something fun now.” She turns to Shikamaru and points accusingly. “Get the cards.”

Shikamaru groans into the cushions. “This is my house. Why do I always lose?”

“Because you’re lazy and you don’t resist us,” Ino says sweetly. “Cards. Now.”

Eventually, after much complaining and the reluctant surrender of the living room floor, they end up in a loose circle with a well-worn deck of playing cards spread out between them. Ino insists on a game called “Slap” which Hikari has never heard of and absolutely does not trust. Shikamaru calls it “a war crime disguised as a game.” Choji grins and starts shuffling.

Hikari sits cross-legged, hands folded in her lap, and listens carefully to the explanation. The rules are simple. Mostly. But the key mechanic seems to be slamming your hand down on the pile as fast as possible when two cards match suites.

“It’s barbaric,” she says, after the first round.

“You’ll love it,” Ino promises, and promptly slaps down hard enough to make the cards jump.

The next few minutes are chaos.

Cards fly. Hands slam. Ino shrieks every time she wins a pile. Choji giggles so hard he snorts. Shikamaru plays with the detached resignation of a man who has accepted his fate. And Hikari - Hikari, who has never played anything like this, who has never been in anything like this - gets thoroughly steamrolled for three rounds straight before her instincts catch up and she begins to win.

Not often. But enough that Ino side-eyes her with suspicious respect.

“You’re fast,” she mutters.

“I was taught to anticipate betrayal,” Hikari replies without thinking.

There’s a beat of silence.

“… Cool,” Choji says, awed.

Ino just beams. “We’re keeping you.”

Shikamaru, still face-down on the couch, mumbles something that might be "told you she’s weird,” but none of them pay him any mind.

Hikari smiles again. It’s small, but not uncertain.

She doesn’t quite understand this - this messy, loud, haphazard affection - but she thinks, maybe, she likes it.

~

Kakashi knows where to find her.

He always does, these days, considering it’s a Saturday and she’s very much a creature of habit. The Nara household is quiet from the outside, shadows stretching long across the porch as the sun dips lower into evening. There’s still light in the windows, the soft golden kind that makes everything inside look warmer than it is. He can hear them before he sees them - raised voices, thumps, a shriek of laughter so unrestrained it makes him pause on the threshold.

That voice - 

That laugh - 

It’s… hers?

He blinks. Then opens the door.

The living room is chaos.

Cards are scattered across the floor like leaves in a storm. Inoichi’s daughter is mid-pounce, her ponytail flying behind her like a banner of war, while Choza’s son clutches his stomach from laughing too hard. Shikamaru is sprawled out like a corpse in the middle of the floor, making absolutely no effort to participate.

And there, at the centre of it all, is Hikari.

She’s kneeling upright, her hands still half-lifted from a slap, eyes bright, mouth open in laughter. Not a polite smile. Not the precise, deliberate expressions she wears like court jewelry. No.

She’s laughing. Unrestrained, delighted, full-body laughter, like the sound itself is spilling out of her and there’s no space for fear or caution or calculation.

Kakashi stops in the doorway and just… stares.

Something tight in his chest goes still.

He’s seen her composed. He’s seen her sharp, clever, wary. He’s seen her sad, and tired, and vulnerable in a way most grown shinobi - most people - never manage. But this?

He thinks he's only ever seen her like this once. And even then - it hadn't been the same. Hadn't been this carefree.

Her hair’s a little mussed, and there’s a faint smudge of something on her cheek - maybe chocolate - and her sleeves are pushed up inelegantly past her elbows. And she’s radiant. She’s six years old and glowing like she has no idea what the word guarded even means.

Kakashi’s never wanted to destroy a single moment less in his life.

“Who’re you?” Inoichi’s daughter - he thinks her name might be Ino - asks bluntly, catching sight of him.

Hikari whips around, still breathless, and when her eyes meet his, her face lights up.

“Hi!” she says brightly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And for a second, all he can think is: I hope she always looks at me like that.

He nods once. Casual. Calm. Hands in pockets. “Ready to go?”

She glances back at the chaos, the cards, the way Ino’s already reaching to swipe the last pile like a bandit. She hesitates just a second. Then - 

“Yes.”

She stands, brushes her skirt off with delicate dignity - somehow managing to look composed despite the warzone of snacks and giggles - and crosses the room toward him.

“Did you win?” he asks mildly, stepping aside as she slips on her sandals.

“I won three times,” she says primly. “Ino won seven, but I suspect she cheats.”

“I do not - !” Ino yells from the floor.

He hums. “Then we’ll have to practice your reflexes more.”

She nods seriously, as if this is a real strategy meeting and not a conversation about slapping cards.

Kakashi opens the door for her.

And for just a moment, as she steps past him into the falling dusk, he looks back into the Nara house. At the mess. The kids. The glow.

And he thinks - 

She’s going to be okay.

She’s going to be more than okay.

He follows her out into the evening, and lets the door shut quietly behind him.

~

The bell over the door jingles cheerily as they step into the bookshop.

It’s tucked just off the main road, the kind of place you have to know about to find. Hikari had discovered it weeks ago - well-lit, quiet, crammed with leaning towers of secondhand scrolls and worn-spined books. The air smells like old paper and dry wood and a hint of sandalwood from the incense the owner likes to burn in the afternoons.

Naruto stops just inside the doorway, eyes wide. “Whoa.”

Hikari allows herself a small smile. “You can pick one. Something with pictures, if you like. But words too - we’re still practicing sound blends.”

Naruto blinks at her. “Can we get one with a frog in it?”

“If there’s one available,” she allows.

He whoops and barrels off between the aisles, nearly knocking over a stack of almanacs. Hikari follows at a slower pace, hands clasped neatly behind her back. She likes this shop. It’s quiet. Predictable. Safe.

Naruto returns after only a few minutes, clutching a slim picture book with a creased orange cover, because of course. The Jumping Frog and the Bamboo Grove. His face is lit up like the sun.

Hikari takes it from him carefully and flips through the pages. “It’s written in kana, not kanji. That’ll help.”

They bring it to the front.

The shopkeeper - an older man with silver-streaked hair and ink stains on his fingertips - smiles when he sees her. “Ah, little Hatake-chan. You’re early today. Looking for another book on fuuinjutsu?”

She sets the frog book down and gestures primly to her right. “No. This one’s for Naruto.”

The man’s eyes follow her gesture. Then narrow. The change is subtle but unmistakable - like a chill slipping under the collar of a winter cloak. The man’s smile fades. His gaze hardens, flicking back to her like she must not understand what she’s doing.

Hikari’s spine straightens.

The man doesn’t address Naruto. Doesn’t even look at him again. He speaks only to her. “You don’t want that one, sweetheart.”

She blinks. “Why not?”

His voice lowers, but not enough. “They say it bites.”

Beside her, Naruto shifts his weight. He’s not confused. Not angry. Just resigned. Like he’s heard it before. Like he hears it every day.

Hikari’s stomach twists.

She looks at the man. Carefully. Calmly. “I wasn’t asking for a recommendation. I’d like to buy it.”

The man doesn’t move.

So she reaches into her pouch, counts out the coins with exacting precision, and sets them on the counter without breaking eye contact.

The man takes the money slowly. Bags the book even slower. He does not thank her.

Hikari takes it with both hands.

She turns and walks out. Naruto trails after her, too quiet.

They walk two full blocks before he speaks.

“… You don’t have to - y’know. Hang out with me. If people are gonna say stuff.”

Hikari stops.

She turns to face him. Naruto doesn’t quite meet her eyes. He’s scuffing one foot against the dirt road, one hand shoved deep in his pocket like he’s trying to disappear into it.

She thinks about the man’s face. The way he looked through Naruto, not at him. The tone people use with stray dogs they want to kick but don’t want the neighbours to see.

She holds out the book.

“I didn’t buy this for people,” she says. “I bought it for you.”

Naruto looks up.

She waits until he takes it - slowly, like it might vanish - then starts walking again.

When they reach the edge of the orphanage garden, she sits on the step and pats the spot beside her.

“Let’s read it together,” she says.

Naruto hesitates.

Then he grins - bright and gap-toothed and wholly himself - and sits down so close their shoulders touch.

They begin on page one.

~

That evening, when Kakashi gets back from a mission, she waits until he’s had a shower and sitting down to eat before springing the question on him. 

“Why do the adults dislike Naruto?” 

Kakashi doesn’t still, but something flickers in his eye. He sets his chopsticks down carefully. 

“I’m not allowed to tell you,” he says, slowly, carefully. 

Hikari pauses. She hadn’t expected that particular non-answer - hadn’t expected a non-answer at all, really. Kakashi’s never dodged one of her questions before, not the ones that mean something, anyway. 

She taps her finger on the side of the table, just once. If he’s not allowed to tell her, not unwilling but unable, then that means there’s some kind of rule staying his tongue. Some kind of authority who’s laid down a decree. That narrows down her options - there aren’t many with authority over Kakashi. Really, it’s just the Hokage, Shikaku - in his role as the Jonin Commander - and potentially the ANBU Commander, too, if Kakashi’s feeling nostalgic. 

The Hokage is the one who makes the most sense. Which begs the question of why - why would the adults dislike Naruto, and why would the Hokage lay down a decree that prevents anyone from talking about it? 

She goes through the facts logically, systematically. 

Fact: almost every single adult dislikes Naruto. That means whatever secret they aren’t telling is well-known amongst them. 

Fact: the children don’t seem to know, but they follow the adults’ lead, for the most part. 

Conclusion: something happened, years ago. Something that couldn’t be hidden, something big. The adults hate Naruto as a result. 

She starts listing big events in her mind that span Naruto’s lifetime and the few years preceding it, recalling what she knows of Konoha’s history in reverse chronological order. 

The Hyuuga Affair? Unlikely. The antagonist of that event had very obviously been Kumo. Naruto had not been involved in any way. 

The Kyuubi Attack? 

She pauses. Remembers Naruto telling her his birthday, once. October tenth - the same day as the attack. And he’s six, and as the attack was six years ago, that means he was born the same day the Kyuubi attacked Konoha. 

Her brows furrow, just a little. Why, though, would the villagers blame Naruto for the attack? It wasn’t like he’d released the Kyuubi or anything, considering all he’d done was be born. 

Then something occurs to her, a sentence from a book she’d read. It’d been offhand, not elaborated on, and she hadn’t paid it much attention at the time. 

The Yondaime defeated the Nine-Tails.

There’s something… off about that sentence. She knows enough about chakra theory and fuuinjutsu to know that tailed beasts don’t just crumble into dust or die - they are made of pure chakra, and for the Kyuubi to have vanished and never be seen again means - 

It’d been sealed away. 

She follows that line of thought to its logical conclusion.

The Nine-Tails had been sealed away - not just in something, but in someone. Specifically, Naruto. And the adults knew. 

She lifts her eyes to Kakashi’s, and he must see something of her realization in them, because he exhales, just once, sharply. 

“You’ve figured it out,” he says quietly. 

“I think so.”

“It’s an S-class secret,” he warns her. “You can’t tell anyone - least of all him.”

Hikari frowns. “He deserves to know.”

The room is quiet - dangerously so. Not because anyone’s about to attack, but because the air feels suddenly fragile, like it’s holding its breath. The tea on the table is still steaming, the food untouched.

“He does,” Kakashi agrees quietly. “But that’s not our call to make.”

She looks down. Smooths the fabric of her skirt. Thinks carefully.

This is injustice.

Not neglect. Not cruelty born of ignorance.

This is policy.

A law crafted with intention. With forethought. The Hokage sat down and decided that Uzumaki Naruto, six years old, orphaned on the day of his birth, would live surrounded by hatred. That he would be fed scraps of affection while the truth was kept from him like poison. That he would walk these streets marked not by anything he did, but by what was done to him.

He’s a child. He laughs with his whole body, throws himself into everything he tries, cries without shame when he’s frustrated, grins like the sun rises just for him.

And they look at him like he’s vermin.

She lifts her gaze slowly.

“I won’t tell him,” she says at last. “You have my word.”

Kakashi’s shoulders ease - not relax, not entirely, but the tension recedes just enough.

She waits a beat. Then adds, voice low and sharp as a needle, “But I won’t leave it like this, either.”

He tilts his head. “Hikari - ”

“I won’t tell him,” she repeats. “But I can show him. That he’s valued. That he’s wanted. That he is not alone.” Her voice doesn’t rise, but it hardens, her spine straightening inch by inch. “If the village insists on telling him he’s nothing, I will make it so every piece of evidence in his life says otherwise.”

Kakashi studies her in silence.

And then he nods. Just once.

“That,” he says quietly, “you can do.”

Hikari finishes her tea in one smooth motion.

Her mind is already moving, strategy unfurling in delicate layers like a fan.

She’ll begin dragging Naruto to more public places - not just the bookshop, but the training fields, the library, the dango stalls. Make him visible, make his goodness visible. Force the village to see not the demon they fear, but the boy they’re starving.

She’ll reach out to Shikamaru, to Ino and Choji. Children can unlearn cruelty, if they’re shown a better way early enough. She’ll build him a network. A safety net. Friends.

She doesn’t have power yet. Not like the Hokage. Not like the clan heads. But she has influence, a little of it. She has Kakashi. And she has time.

Two years until the Academy.

She’s going to make sure that when Naruto walks into that classroom, he does it not as a boy the village discarded - 

 - but as a boy backed by someone who would burn the world before she let them hurt him again.

~

She lies in the quiet of her room that night, the darkness soft and undemanding, the sheets drawn to her chin in neat lines she doesn't disturb. The village is hushed outside her window, the distant sound of wind through the trees the only lullaby offered.

The knot in her chest - tight and bitter all evening - has loosened slightly. Action always helps. Plans soothe her. Order is a comfort, a balm she learned young and never quite unlearned, even after the wars and the betrayals and the blood.

But now, lying here, the anger doesn’t churn.

It coils. Quiet, shameful. Because it isn’t just about Naruto.

Not really.

She turns her face into the pillow. Breathes in, slow and steady.

She wants to help him. That much is true. He’s kind, and lonely, and so terribly eager for affection it breaks something in her when he beams just because she ruffles his hair or says his name with warmth. No child should have to earn kindness.

But that’s not the whole truth.

The truth - the part she wouldn’t say aloud, not even to Kakashi, not yet - is that some of this is penance.

Because there was another boy, once. Another outcast. Another child scorned for something he couldn’t help. Another who bore the weight of shame that wasn’t his to carry.

And she hadn’t stood by him, not at first. She hadn’t protected him from whispers or from her mother’s disdain. She’d believed the things said about him, because they were said with confidence and with repetition, and because he was different, and different had always meant lesser in the halls she grew up in.

Jon.

Jon with his brooding silences and clenched jaw. Jon with his open wounds hidden beneath layers of ice. Jon, who had stood at her side at the end, and never once asked for an apology she never gave.

She’d meant to. Truly, she had.

But then there was the Red Keep, and the Night’s Watch, and the Battle of the Bastards, and Rickon dead, and the North rising, and the dead walking, and - 

And then they were both gone.

Her hands curl against the blankets.

Naruto isn’t Jon. She knows that. He’s louder, messier, more prone to bursts of joy that leave his limbs flung in every direction. He wears his heart in his voice and his dreams in his fists.

But still. Still, there’s something.

Maybe it’s the look he gets sometimes, when he thinks no one’s watching. The way he hesitates, just briefly, before accepting praise. As though some part of him doesn’t quite believe it’s real.

Maybe it’s the way he asks, so casually, so carefully, if she’ll come back. As though the answer might be no.

Maybe it’s the part of her that looks at him and sees a child, still malleable and hopeful and full of possibility - and thinks, not this time.

She will not fail him the way she failed Jon. She will not be too quiet, or too passive, or too late. She doesn’t owe Naruto the things she never said to her brother. But she can still do right by him.

She closes her eyes. And this time, she dreams not of thrones or direwolves or frozen ramparts - 

 - but of a boy with sun-yellow hair, standing tall at the edge of the Academy steps, beaming like the world might finally want him back.

Chapter Text

The air in the chamber is still. Not quiet - still. It doesn't breathe, doesn't stir. There are no windows in the sublevels of the Foundation. No light but what Danzo permits.

Kageri kneels.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t shift. The concrete floor digs into his knees, but he’s long since trained that sensation into irrelevance. Pain is data. Weakness is noise.

Danzo speaks, eventually.

“Hatake Hikari.”

A pause. The name feels misplaced in this space - like glass in stone.

“Six years old. Untrained, but clever. Disciplined. Quiet. She watches everything.”

Kageri nods once. It’s not a question.

“The daughter of Hatake Kakashi,” Danzo continues, voice even. “She lives with him. Studies with him. The Council believes she’s another weapon for their future. But weapons left unsharpened turn soft.”

Danzo’s lone eye narrows.

“And she is soft. Too gentle. Too kind. It’s not a flaw - not yet. But it will become one.”

Another pause. Measured, not dramatic. Danzo does not indulge in drama - only results.

“The Hokage watches her. The Council shields her. Even Kakashi rarely leaves her side. I cannot… intervene.”

He says it like a distasteful concession.

“But you can.”

Kageri absorbs the meaning instantly.

“Gain her trust,” Danzo instructs. “Redirect her. Isolate the softness. Replace it.”

A rustle of fabric as he shifts - barely perceptible.

“Do not mention me. Do not mention ROOT. As far as she knows, you are no one.”

“Yes, Danzo-sama,” Kageri says.

Danzo studies him a moment longer.

“She is clever. More than I expected. You may not succeed.”

Kageri feels no insult in the words. Only a statement of probability.

“If I do?”

“Then she becomes what the next generation of Konoha will require in a leader: precise. Loyal. Unsentimental.”

And if he fails?

Danzo doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to.

Failure is not a possibility to be acknowledged. Only an outcome to be corrected.

Kageri bows again, hands braced to the floor.

“I will begin observation tomorrow.”

Danzo nods once. A dismissal.

Kageri rises. Silent. Composed. The mission clear in his mind, down to its calculus of words and timings.

He does not wonder who she is. Only what she could be, if sculpted properly.

And whether he’ll be the one to shape her.

~

Hikari starts small.

A dango shop near the market district, tucked beside a tailor’s stall and a shop that sells calligraphy brushes. It’s quiet in the mornings, the tables mostly empty, the owner one of the few adults who treats her with that specific blend of curiosity and politeness reserved for people associated with Hatake Kakashi.

She brings Naruto there first on a Wednesday.

They sit outside, sharing a plate of skewers. Naruto talks with his mouth full - something she gently, persistently corrects - and laughs at his own jokes, and stares wide-eyed at a passing ninja like the man’s forehead protector is the coolest thing he’s ever seen. Which, for Naruto, it might be.

The shopkeeper watches them from the door.

Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t frown. Just… watches.

Hikari meets his gaze and lifts her teacup in a perfectly polite gesture.

He blinks. Then nods.

The next week, she brings Naruto again. This time, she hands him the money and has him place the order.

He stumbles over the syllables, blushes bright red when the vendor corrects his pronunciation, but he does it. She beams at him when he returns to the table.

“You handled that very well,” she says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to praise him in public.

People look. She lets them.

And then she does it again.

And again.

She takes him to the park by the river next. There are children there - clan children, mostly - and the mothers who watch them from the shade. When they see Naruto, there’s a subtle shift in the air. A pull of shoulders, a narrowing of eyes. One woman gathers her daughter and leads her away with a tight smile.

Naruto pretends not to notice. Hikari does not.

She sits with him in the grass. Helps him practice writing kana with a stick in the dirt. She praises his effort, corrects his form, and when he finally gets it right, she claps softly and says, “See? I told you your brain was sharp. You just needed the right kind of tool.”

He beams.

They pass by a vegetable stall on the way back, and she lets him carry the basket. The woman behind the counter eyes him warily, but Hikari hands Naruto the list and says, very clearly, “Let’s get carrots. Remember, we say please before, and thank you after.”

They make a show of it. Not a performance - she’s careful never to be disingenuous - but deliberate. Intentional.

She lets the village see him.

See the boy who says please and thank you and laughs at silly jokes and offers her the last piece of mochi. See the boy who frowns when he forgets a character but keeps trying anyway. See the child.

Because if they are going to hate him, they will have to do it in full view of his humanity.

If they’re going to whisper behind his back, they’ll do it knowing he offered to carry groceries for an old woman who glared at him. That he told a crying toddler not to be scared of thunder, because it was just clouds arguing. That he asked Hikari, seriously, whether frogs could be trained to wear hats.

They’ll see all of that.

And maybe - just maybe - it will start to unravel something.

Because she doesn’t need the entire village to love him.

She just needs the right few to pause. To hesitate. To wonder.

She can work with that.

~

“ - he ran past the shrine again this morning. Filthy thing. Nearly knocked over the priest’s incense stand.”

“Always shouting,” the other woman mutters. “Little demon doesn’t even try to act normal.”

Hikari turns slightly. Not all the way - just enough to let them see the bright curve of her cheek, the soft parting of her lips. She doesn’t look upset. Doesn’t glare. Just blinks, wide-eyed, as though she’s not quite sure she’s heard them correctly.

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice as light and mild as spring water. “Are you talking about Naruto?”

The women glance at each other - caught, but not yet ashamed. Their backs straighten.

“We are,” says the first, lifting her chin. “That boy’s always underfoot.”

Hikari nods thoughtfully, as if absorbing a lesson. Then, with the smallest crease in her brow - just a hint of confusion - she asks, “But… he helped me carry my basket last week.”

Her voice is soft. Earnest. Like she’s trying to make sense of something puzzling. “I dropped all my scrolls outside the academy, and he picked them up so fast I didn’t even have time to thank him properly. He said it was no trouble.”

She tilts her head. Just a little.

“He even gave his last taiyaki to the little girl in line behind us, once.”

Silence falls. The women don’t respond.

Hikari doesn’t push. Doesn’t scold. She just looks back down at the cabbage in her hand. Her voice drifts out like an afterthought:

“He’s always kind to me.”

A pause.

“Maybe he’s just loud because he wants someone to hear him.”

She places the cabbage gently in her bag, dips her head politely to the vendor, and turns to go.

One of the women shifts awkwardly, suddenly interested in adjusting the ties on her satchel. The other pretends to examine a carrot with unnecessary intensity.

Hikari walks on without looking back.

Her eyes are calm. Her posture impeccable.

She doesn’t smile.

She doesn’t need to.

~

The hesitation starts small.

A merchant who used to look through Naruto like he wasn’t there now hands over a bag of fruit without scowling. A librarian who once refused to let him past the threshold glances at Hikari - then, grudgingly, opens the door.

She notes each shift like tally marks in a ledger.

They’re insignificant on their own. Barely perceptible, and certainly not apology. But they are change. And change, as she well knows, often begins with discomfort. With a crack in the mask. With a question unspoken: What if I was wrong?

She makes sure they see.

She takes Naruto to the training grounds on days when the genin teams have already cleared out, when the light is soft and slanting and the air smells like dry grass. She drills basic, standard Konoha kata with him - not because she expects him to master them yet, but because she wants him to feel capable. To feel earnestness rewarded.

He trips. He whines. He laughs. He tries again.

She praises him every time he gets back up.

Once, a chuunin walking past slows. Watches them. Doesn’t say anything. But he doesn’t leave.

The next day, Naruto is nearly vibrating with joy.

“I think I got the third form right!” he yells, nearly knocking over a civilian on their way to the bathhouse.

“Try saying that again,” Hikari says mildly, “without endangering bystanders.”

He pulls a sheepish face, then mimes the kata right there on the street, and the bathhouse attendant laughs instead of frowning.

It’s a win. She files it away.

She starts bringing two books when they go out now - one for Naruto, one for her. They sit on benches in public squares, reading silently beside each other. Naruto stumbles over the words sometimes, but he asks her for help more easily now. She always answers softly, without judgment, and when he gets it right, she taps her knuckle gently against his in celebration.

It becomes a ritual.

People start to notice. Not just Naruto, but her.

The Hatake girl, the one who speaks at council meetings and debates budget allocations with men five times her age. The one who walks through the village like a ghost of someone older, like a child carved out of steel and etiquette.

And yet here she is. Sitting in the sun with him.

They start wondering.

Hikari hears it, sometimes. The questions, whispered behind fans or muttered behind stalls.

“Why does she spend time with him?”

“Do you think he’s…?”

“She sits on the council, right? Maybe he’s not as bad as they say…”

She never comments.

Just smiles gently when Naruto offers to carry a basket. Just smooths his hair down when it spikes from training. Just says, loud enough to be heard, “Thank you, Naruto. I couldn’t have done that without you.”

Let them whisper. Let them doubt.

Let the story shift.

Because she’s not looking for their approval - she’s building a counterweight, and with every smile she coaxes from him, every decent adult who falters before looking away, every child who lingers instead of fleeing - 

She knows she’s winning.

Slowly. Strategically.

Just like everything else that ever mattered.

~

She realizes he’s noticed on a Wednesday.

It’s one of their reading days, the kind where the sun filters soft and drowsy through the orphanage garden and the scent of crushed mint hangs faintly in the air from where the younger children were roughhousing earlier. Naruto’s sprawled out beside her in the grass, stomach down, chin propped on his hands, book open beneath him. He’s reading haltingly, eyebrows scrunched, tongue poking slightly from the corner of his mouth in concentration.

He’s halfway through Tanuki and the Trick-Stairs when he stops mid-sentence and squints at her.

“You’re doing something,” he says.

She blinks. Looks up from her own book. “What do you mean?”

“With the shopkeepers. And the old lady with the daifuku. And the guy with the sword tattoo who used to spit when I walked past but didn’t this time.” He rolls onto his side, propping his cheek into the grass, watching her with bright, too-sharp eyes. “They’re acting different. Usually when you’re around, but sometimes when you’re not.”

Hikari closes her book.

She considers lying. Not maliciously - just softening it, wrapping it in silk and politeness the way she learned to do when things were too big, too sharp. But Naruto isn’t like the people at court. He doesn’t trust silk. He trusts truth - even when it hurts.

So she nods.

“I’m helping them see you,” she says quietly.

“They already see me.”

“Not properly.”

Naruto is silent for a long moment. His eyes are on the sky, but she doesn’t think he’s seeing it.

“They don’t like me,” he says, and it’s not a question.

She wants to scream. Wants to drag the whole village to its knees and make them listen. Instead, she steadies her breath.

“No,” she says, “they don’t. But that isn’t your fault.”

He glances at her. There’s no anger in his face, no betrayal, just a tired, familiar kind of acceptance.

“I thought maybe there was something wrong with me,” he says softly. “Like, something I just couldn’t fix. But then you and Kakashi… you two didn’t run away.”

She looks at him then - really looks at him. At the faint scar beneath his eye from some childhood fall, at the tangle of hair he always forgets to brush properly, at the sun-gold brightness that clings to him like it doesn’t want to let go.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Naruto.”

His eyes flick to her again, and this time there’s a question behind them. Not spoken. Just waiting.

“Why are you doing all this?” he asks. “For me?”

She opens her mouth. Closes it again.

Because I see you.

Because you remind me of someone I loved.

Because I didn’t protect him, and I will not fail again.

Because it’s not just kindness. It’s justice.

But instead she says, simply, “Because you deserve it.”

He blinks. And blinks again.

Then, in the softest voice she’s ever heard from him, he whispers, “… Okay.”

And that’s it.

He doesn’t cry. Doesn’t throw his arms around her. He just turns back to his book and picks up where he left off, stumbling through syllables with a new sort of focus.

But Hikari can feel it.

Something has shifted between them. Something settled.

She looks back down at her own book and pretends not to notice when, halfway through the next page, Naruto inches just a little closer, until their elbows touch in the grass.

~

The following three weeks are spent watching.

He doesn’t approach. Doesn’t speak. Just shadows her movements from rooftops, alleyways, the hush of canopy above training fields. The mission requires subtlety, and Kageri has been trained in that above all.

Hikari moves through the village like she belongs in every space she occupies - but never disappears into it. She draws the eye, not by force or intention, but by precision.

Her hair is always braided neatly down her back. A practical style. Unwavering. Red like blood at first glance - rich and dark - and it shouldn’t suit her, but it does. Like she decided it would.

Her eyes are startling: bright, clear blue, and watchful in a way that unnerves him. She doesn’t just see people. She categorizes them. Assigns weight.

He notices the way her spine never slouches. Not even when she’s laughing - rare, but it happens. Even in games of tag with Nara Shikamaru and the Yamanaka heir and Akimichi Choji, she moves with the awareness of someone used to being watched.

That, more than anything, unsettles him.

~

Saturday mornings, she sits in the upper rows of the Council chamber beside her father, back straight, expression politely attentive. She never fidgets. Never whispers. Just sits with her hands folded neatly in her lap and listens to grown men argue about border patrols and resource allocations like she understands it all.

And maybe she does. Danzo hadn’t exaggerated her aptitude.

Afterward, she’s a child again - or something close to it. The Nara compound becomes her midday haven: the lazy swing of Shikamaru’s gait, Ino’s shrill delight, Choji’s quiet steadiness. She plays. Eats dango. Once, he spots her barefoot on the porch steps of the Nara clan head’s home, rice cracker in one hand and a pinecone in the other like some sort of field marshal evaluating troop supplies.

Kageri marks it all.

~

Sundays and Wednesdays: Uzumaki Naruto. 

She takes him to the village. Stays by his side. Coaches him through manners and common courtesy beneath watchful, distrustful eyes.

She is endearing him to them. Slowly. It is unclear if this is purposeful or accidental. 

He does not draw conclusions from this observation. It is not required of him.

~

Sometimes, she plays shogi with Uchiha Itachi and Uchiha Shisui.

It’s unclear how that arrangement came to be. No adult ever drops her off. No formal schedule. But they make space for her - Itachi in particular. The boards are brutal. Long games, slow and precise. She wins most of the time. Kageri can tell, despite never having played shogi, because Itachi’s mouth curves slightly when she does.

~

She trains with Kakashi at dawn.

The style is unfamiliar - some flowing, predatory kata that doesn’t belong to any known Konoha school or clan. She moves like water around stone.

Kakashi corrects her rarely. But when he does, it’s quiet: a nudge to the elbow, a guiding palm, a tilt of her chin. She never questions him. Never hesitates. Just absorbs, adjusts, repeats.

Their apartment is sparse, but not cold. She leaves her sandals neatly at the door. Tends to the bonsai on the windowsill. Folds laundry with military precision. And reads. Endlessly.

The Hatake child is never idle.

~

By the fifteenth day, Kageri’s notes are extensive.

Her schedule is rigid, but not compulsive. Her manners are flawless, but not performative. She does not seek power. She does not avoid it, either. She engages with the village like someone testing the boundaries of a new home, probing it for rot.

Danzo had called her soft.

Kageri isn’t sure that’s accurate.

She’s not weak or sentimental. She’s… methodical.

He doesn’t follow that train of thought to its conclusion. Danzo does not require conclusions from him.

He is a tool. And tools do not make decisions. Nor do they question them.

~

It starts at Shikamaru’s house, over a game of cards and a bowl of senbei.

Ino is ranting about her cousin’s terrible handwriting - again - and Choji is too busy chewing to offer commentary. Shikamaru looks half-asleep. It’s an ordinary afternoon, filled with low-stakes squabbling and the rhythmic hum of familiarity.

Which is exactly why she chooses now.

“You know,” Hikari says, adjusting her cards just slightly, “I’ve been spending a lot of time with one of the boys at the orphanage. He’s funny. Terrible at sitting still. Eats like a vacuum.”

Shikamaru’s gaze flicks to her. 

Ino snorts. “So... a gremlin.”

“A very loyal gremlin,” Hikari says calmly, laying down a winning set.

Choji whistles. “Wow. That was mean and strategic.”

“He’s kind,” Hikari adds, like it’s an afterthought. “Loud, yes, and a bit of a disaster, but… kind. And he never gives up.”

There’s a pause. Small. Measured.

Then Ino narrows her eyes. “Wait. Are you talking about Naruto?”

Hikari lifts an eyebrow, just slightly. “Yes.”

Ino looks mildly horrified. “He… you hang out with him?”

“He’s my friend.”

Shikamaru hums under his breath, studying the cards in his hand. “That explains a few things.”

“What few things?” Ino demands.

Shikamaru shrugs. “Like why you’ve been going into town more. And why people have been talking about the Hatake girl feeding the demon brat dango.”

Ino recoils like she’s been slapped. “Don’t call him that.”

Hikari’s hand stills.

Choji blinks. “You okay?”

Ino crosses her arms, cheeks flushed. “I mean - I don’t like him. I don’t know him. But that’s just… mean.”

Hikari tilts her head slightly. “What have you heard about him?”

Ino shrugs. “Not much. Just that my cousins don’t like him. That he’s trouble.”

“He’s six,” Hikari says, voice smooth and quiet. “Our age. And he’s never even had a birthday party.”

That lands harder than she expects.

Shikamaru frowns.

Choji looks down at his lap.

“… That sucks,” he mumbles.

Ino’s mouth twists, like she’s chewing on something bitter. “Are you saying he’s not weird?”

“I’m saying,” Hikari replies, “that he deserves a chance.”

They don’t answer right away. But no one changes the subject.

And that, she thinks, is the beginning.

~

The next time she brings Naruto up, it’s while they’re walking home from a game day in the Nara compound park. Shikamaru’s dragging his feet, Ino is humming some off-key song, and Choji is still clutching the leftovers from lunch like he’s guarding treasure.

“You’d like him,” she says idly, as though she isn’t watching them out of the corner of her eye.

“Is this the ramen boy again?” Choji asks through a mouthful of rice ball.

Hikari nods. “He built a slingshot last week to knock pickles off the roof. Said it was a mission of national importance.”

Shikamaru snorts. “Pickles?”

“Tragedy struck at lunch,” she deadpans. “A slice landed on his shoe. It escalated quickly.”

That makes Ino laugh. A real laugh. Bright and sharp.

“You’re making him sound fun,” she accuses.

“He is.”

There’s no pushback this time. Just thoughtful silence.

She doesn’t press. She doesn’t need to.

They’re thinking about him now. Not as a name, or a warning, or a shadow in the village’s margins.

But as a person.

A boy who wants friends. A boy who hates pickles and loves attention and throws himself into affection like he might drown in it otherwise.

And next time - soon, but not yet - she’ll suggest inviting him along.

Just once.

Just to see.

~

It happens the following week.

Shikamaru’s sprawled under a tree, trying to nap, and Ino and Choji are arguing over which snacks to bring to their next meet-up. The sun is sharp and clear overhead, and the hum of cicadas is thick in the air.

Hikari waits until the lull - until the space between arguments, when everyone is quiet in that companionable way that speaks of childhood bonds and shared summers. Then she says, “Would it be alright if Naruto came next time?”

The silence is different this time.

Not tense. Not angry.

Just surprised.

Choji blinks. “To hang out?”

Hikari nods. “He’s never had a picnic with friends before.”

Shikamaru cracks one eye open. Studies her for a long beat. “Tch. Troublesome,” he mutters. Then, after a pause, “But fine.”

Ino looks uncertain, but not unwilling. “He better not be annoying.”

“He’ll try not to be,” Hikari says, with the faintest glimmer of a smile. “But I make no promises about his volume.”

Choji snorts.

~

They meet at the edge of the river park the next Saturday.

Naruto is bouncing on his toes beside her, jittery with nerves and excitement, fists clenched tight around the cloth-wrapped bento she helped him pack. His hair is a mess. His smile is brighter than the sun.

When the others arrive, he goes still.

Ino crosses her arms. Shikamaru slouches into place with a grunt. Choji waves, friendly but unsure.

There’s a beat of pause.

Then Hikari gently nudges Naruto forward. “This is Naruto,” she says.

Naruto gives a short, stiff bow. “Hi,” he says, loud and awkward. “Um. I brought onigiri. They might be squished.”

Shikamaru raises an eyebrow. “You made them?”

“Mostly,” Naruto says, then adds, “Hikari says I shouldn’t use that much wasabi next time.”

“That much?” Choji asks, intrigued.

Naruto looks horrified. “It was an accident!”

Ino laughs, despite herself. “Okay, gremlin. Let’s see if they’re edible.”

And just like that, the spell is broken.

~

They play cards. Naruto cheats, badly. Shikamaru catches him, of course, and scolds him like an exasperated old man. Ino makes fun of his laugh. Choji shares his senbei without hesitation.

When Naruto blurts, “This is the best day ever!” no one even rolls their eyes.

He ends up in the river by accident. Ino dares him to jump, and he does without thinking. There’s a lot of splashing. Shikamaru yells about his clothes. Choji joins in. Hikari watches them from the bank, bare feet in the water, expression soft.

Later, as they dry out on the grass, Naruto leans against her side and sighs like he’s never been this content in his life.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Do you think they’ll let me come again?”

She glances up.

Shikamaru is dozing beside Choji. Ino is humming while she braids a few blades of grass together. The sun is setting behind the rooftops in long slashes of gold.

She smiles. “I think they’re already planning it.”

And he beams.

~

It is not perfect. It never is.

There are still stares. Still whispers. Some of the mothers at the park no longer greet Hikari when they see her with Naruto. One even mutters something sharp and cruel in passing.

But Hikari sees what matters.

She sees how Naruto holds his head a little higher now. How he starts offering help before being asked. How he laughs more - louder, wilder, unafraid.

She sees how Ino, when Naruto stumbles over a tricky word, doesn’t tease him this time. How Shikamaru quietly corrects his kata form during practice, then shrugs like it’s no big deal. How Choji brings an extra rice ball without being told.

She sees the beginnings of change.

And she knows what that means.

It means the story is shifting. It means the cracks are widening.

It means hope.

Because she doesn’t need the village to love him.

She just needs them to see him.

And they do.

They are starting to.

~

The training field is quiet when Kakashi arrives.

He doesn’t announce himself. Just shifts his weight atop the fence and watches.

From a distance, it looks like they’re just playing. A cluster of children sprawled in the grass, a mess of sandals and bent cards and mismatched bento boxes. But Kakashi’s spent years reading battlefields, and this - this is something else entirely.

Hikari is seated slightly apart, book in her lap, one hand idly stroking the grass beside her where Naruto leans, talking a mile a minute. Across from them, Shikamaru is dozing in the shade, Ino is braiding wildflowers into Naruto’s hair with excessive focus, and Choji is offering around the last of the snacks like it’s an official duty.

And none of them flinch when Naruto laughs. None of them pull away.

Kakashi exhales slowly.

He’d seen the shift begin, weeks ago. Had watched the quiet way Hikari started bringing Naruto into the public eye. Always deliberate, always polite. She never argued. Never defended him outright. She just… let him be seen. Made them uncomfortable. Made them question themselves. Again and again. Until the edges began to fray.

Until the whispers started to change.

He hadn’t stopped her. Not because it was harmless - nothing in this village is ever harmless - but because it was working. Because Naruto was standing taller. Because Hikari, six years old and carrying the weight of a world she never speaks of, was making them see him.

And now - 

Now here they are.

A boy who used to eat alone now surrounded by friends. A girl who shouldn’t have had to carry this burden at all quietly building a new story with her bare hands.

It isn’t a battlefield.

But it is a war. And she’s winning.

Kakashi drops down from the fence. Walks slowly toward the group, letting the crunch of grass under his sandals announce his presence.

Naruto sees him first. He lights up instantly. “Kakashi! Did you know frogs can’t wear hats? I tried! But they just sit there!”

Kakashi blinks. “You tested this?”

“Several times,” Hikari says dryly, without looking up from her book.

Ino squints at Kakashi. “You again?”

“Me again,” he agrees.

Shikamaru grumbles awake. Choji waves, cheerful as ever.

Kakashi watches them for a moment. Watches how they cluster loosely around Naruto now, not avoiding him, not just tolerating him, but including him.

Hikari closes her book, finally looking up. Her eyes meet Kakashi’s across the grass.

There’s no smile. Just a nod.

He nods back. No praise, no congratulations. She doesn’t need them, and he won’t cheapen this by pretending he had anything to do with it.

But when she turns back to the group, something eases in her shoulders.

And Kakashi, for all his ghosts and all his caution, lets himself feel something small and sharp and good.

Hope.

They’ll hurt him again. Kakashi knows that. The world is not kind. But next time, Naruto won’t be alone. He’ll have her. He’ll have Kakashi. He’ll have them.

And maybe, just maybe - 

That will be enough.

~

The light is dim. It always is. A single candle on Danzo’s desk casts long, sharp shadows against stone. Kageri kneels, head bowed, posture perfect.

Danzo does not look up.

“Report.”

Kageri’s voice is calm, clinical. At the end, when Kageri is done, Danzo hums, barely audible.

A silence stretches, taut and sharp-edged.

“You will initiate contact,” Danzo says eventually. “Integrate slowly. No blatant ideological push. Begin with questions. Frame in logic. Observe reactions. Record resistance.”

“Yes, Danzo-sama.”

“She is not to be coerced. Not yet. A direct approach will be noticed.”

“Understood.”

Danzo’s eye lingers on the candle’s flame. It flickers once.

“She will not be controlled by force. If she is to be used, she must choose to be used.”

“Yes, Danzo-sama.”

“Go.”

Kageri rises. Silent as breath.

And vanishes back into the dark.

Chapter Text

The training field is quiet, still damp with morning dew. Pale light filters through the leaves, silvering the grass. The only sounds are birdsong and the soft, rhythmic swish of Hikari’s footwork as she moves through the final sequence of Nagare no Mai’s third kata - fluid, low, precise. Her hands cut the air with sharp control, her feet whisper across the ground like a dancer skimming water.

Kakashi watches from a few paces away. Arms folded. Posture relaxed. But his gaze never leaves her.

She finishes the form with a final sweep of her heel and sinks into stillness, one arm extended in soft guard, the other poised. Her breath is steady. She doesn’t shake.

Kakashi hums low in his throat. “Better,” he says. “Your heel’s not dragging anymore.”

She nods without looking at him, still focused inward, still breathing in the last echoes of the kata. He sees the tightness in her shoulders, the way she holds stillness like it’s something fragile she’s learned to protect.

Quietly, he continues, “That’s enough drills for today.”

Hikari straightens. Her head tilts, braid falling over her shoulder. “… It is?”

“You’ve been doing kata work for months. Conditioning for longer. Your stamina’s improved. Balance is stable. Control is consistent.”

A pause. Then, almost gently, he says, “You’re ready.”

She blinks. The effect is subtle. There’s no beaming grin, no gasp of excitement. Just the faintest ripple of surprise across her carefully held composure.

“… For sparring?” she asks.

“No,” he says flatly. Then adds, deadpan, “For dancing. Obviously sparring.”

She gives him an unimpressed look. He’s proud of her for not sighing.

He steps forward, loose and easy, hands in his pockets. “No chakra. No weapons. No pressure points. We’re working basic taijutsu - control, application, restraint. You land a clean hit, I call it. I land one, same deal.”

She nods. She’s already adjusting her stance.

He watches her shift - Nagare form adapted to fight, not flow. Hips squared. Guard lifted. To anyone else, it might still look like a child mimicking grown-ups.

But he sees the subtle control. The calculation. The way she waits.

Good.

He slides into a relaxed stance. Not his typical stance - not yet. This is foundation work. Low threat. Open-handed.

He lifts his fingers slightly. “Begin.”

She doesn’t charge. She circles. Measured. Light on her feet. She’s studying him, the way she always does - calculating distance, gauging his balance, waiting for something she can use.

He lets her.

The first strike comes from her left - a palm aimed for his ribs. Swift, close-in. Clean. Not desperate. Not hesitant.

He deflects it easily with a turn of his wrist. “Too light,” he says, just loud enough for her to hear. “Commit.”

She doesn’t retreat. She pivots with the miss, flows low, sweeps his ankle.

Better.

He lifts his foot, steps over it. Doesn’t strike.

She adjusts, guards again. Reassesses.

He steps forward - once. Testing.

Her breath stutters, but she doesn’t flinch.

She moves.

Faster this time. Three blows - palm, elbow, palm again. The second nearly connects. He redirects it with a flick of his shoulder, but she’s already following through.

She’s not trying to overpower him. She knows better.

She’s trying to outpace him.

He’s impressed. He doesn’t say so.

They move like that for another minute. She attacks. He deflects. He attacks - gently - and she redirects. She’s breathing harder now, sweat at her temples, feet scuffed with dust. But her stance doesn’t break.

He feints high.

She bites.

He taps her shoulder with two fingers - soft, controlled, a whisper of contact.

“Hit,” he says.

She exhales.

“What did I miss?” she asks, already steady again.

“You read the high feint, but forgot my weight was on my back foot,” he replies. “Means I could pivot off-centre. You committed too early.”

She nods once. “Again?”

He smiles faintly. “Again.”

~

They go eight more rounds.

She lands a hit by the seventh. Barely - a palm against his hip, glancing, but clean.

He calls it immediately. “Hit.”

She stares at him, blinking. “Really?”

“You’re not a hammer. You’re a needle,” he says. “Don’t wait for power. Look for the gap.”

He sees it then - the way her posture changes. Not pride, exactly. More… understanding.

She’s not here to win. She’s here to learn how not to lose.

The sun’s higher when he finally calls it. Her legs are trembling. Her strikes are still sharp, but the lag is setting in - shoulders tight, breath uneven. He lifts a hand.

“Enough.”

She stops immediately. Doesn’t protest. Just straightens, slow and careful, and bows once.

Kakashi steps forward and presses a canteen into her hand. She takes it gratefully. Drinks in slow, measured sips. He watches her, silent, as she sets it down again.

“… Did I do well?” she asks eventually, voice quiet.

He considers her. The streak of dust across her cheek. The bruise forming near her wrist. The composure she holds like armour, and the fire underneath it.

“You’re not fast enough to win,” he says. “Not strong enough yet, either.”

A pause.

“But the instincts are there. And you’re only getting sharper.”

She blinks. Her fingers tighten around the canteen.

He nods once, definitive. “Yeah. You did well.”

She doesn’t smile. But her eyes go bright, and the next time she straightens her back, it’s taller than before.

~

The apartment is quiet that evening.

Hikari is curled on the couch, knees tucked under her, a blanket around her shoulders and a scroll open in her lap. She’s not reading it - he can tell. Her eyes keep drifting, unfocused, her fingers tracing the edge of the paper like she’s grounding herself with texture.

She hasn’t said much since training. She’d eaten dinner, thanked him, showered, settled in with her usual precision - but she hasn’t spoken.

Kakashi doesn’t ask why; he already knows.

She’s turning it over in her mind. The whole thing. Every mistake, every movement, every breath out of rhythm. She’ll replay it until she can map it in thought and ink. It’s what she does.

He stands in the doorway, one shoulder against the frame, arms crossed, watching her in silence.

Her braid is still damp. A bruise is blossoming faintly along the ridge of her forearm where she’d blocked too slow and absorbed the blow. It’s not serious. He’d checked, barely able to keep his horror concealed, just in case. 

It’s just a bruise. He knows that. Just a bruise.

But still - it stands out against her pale skin. Ugly. Marked.

He hates it.

Not just because he hurt her, but because she didn’t flinch from it. That she expected it. That she didn't even think to ask if it was too much. Like she believes pain is just the price of being good enough.

He looks away. Runs a hand through his hair. The kettle on the stove steams faintly - boiled and long forgotten. He doesn’t move to pour it.

How old was he, when he’d learned that? He doesn’t remember. Young, he thinks. Too young.

How old was she, in her past life, when she’d gotten that lesson? 

He doesn’t know. Doesn’t even know if he wants to. And suddenly, he’s terrified - because what if he’s going about this all wrong? What if he’s teaching her the wrong things? What if he’s just - carrying over lessons from her past life, just teaching her how to survive, how to endure, instead of how to live?

He thinks, not for the first time, that maybe she'd have done better with someone else. Someone who’s more than ghosts and blood and jagged, broken pieces. Maybe, with them, she'd have learned how to laugh fully by now, with her whole heart, the way all children once do, the way he's sure she once did, the way he’s only seen her do twice and twice only. Maybe she'd have learned the shape of joy, not just how it looks in others, but how it feels in herself. Maybe... maybe she'd be happier. Not just surviving, not just improving - but happy.

He breathes out, low. Controlled. Crosses the room.

Hikari doesn’t look up when he sits beside her. Doesn’t startle when he shifts the blanket to share it, doesn’t flinch when he reaches - gently, slowly - and runs a fingertip just above the edge of the bruise on her forearm.

“It’s not bad,” she murmurs.

“I know.” His voice is soft. He keeps his hand there a moment longer before pulling away. “Still matters.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes have gone distant again, tracing invisible lines through memory and silence. She’s always quietest when she’s sorting through the past - through both of them, the old and the new, stacking one life against the other to see where the edges bleed together.

“… I don’t mind it,” she says finally, so quiet it’s almost a whisper. “I liked it, actually. Not the bruise - the sparring. It reminded me - ” she hesitates, just for a breath, before continuing, “of my sister.”

Kakashi doesn’t say anything. Just keeps his eye on her, steady and open.

“Her name was Arya,” Hikari whispers. “She was younger than me. One of my father’s only children who looked like him, not like our mother. Northern. Wild.”

She exhales, a puff of breath.

“She loved fighting,” Hikari murmurs. “Rode horses astride, not sidesaddle. When you first told me about the Nagare no Mai - I thought it sounded like her stupid Water Dancing.” She huffs a laugh, just barely. “Our father got her a Braavosi instructor to teach her the sword, when we were in King’s Landing. She wouldn’t shut up about it. She was so smug. Had this ridiculous thin sword she named Needle. What was it you said today - you’re not a hammer, you’re a needle?” She smiles. “I couldn’t think of anything other than that silly-looking sword.” 

Hikari hesitates. The smile fades slowly. Then, softly, like a confession - 

“I used to act like I hated her.” She swallows. “But I didn’t. I never did. I was just… jealous.” Her eyes flick to his, then away again, old, remembered shame curling in their depths. “I think… I think she was our father’s favourite. She was so very Stark. So very Northern. They said she had the wolfsblood in her.”

Hikari exhales again, slower this time. “And I… I was just… there. The daughter he’d never expected, who enjoyed courtly dances more than horseback riding, who wielded a flute instead of a sword. He never quite knew what to do with me, I don’t think.”

There’s a pause. Kakashi doesn’t break it. Just waits.

“… He didn’t love me less,” she says at last, quietly, eyes on the scroll in her lap. “I know that. But it wasn’t the same. Not the way he looked at her. Arya was fire and steel and instinct. I was… diplomacy and flourishes. Pretty things. Quiet things. The pieces that fit in a court, not on a battlefield.” Her voice wavers, just slightly. “I didn’t resent her for it. I just - wanted to be seen, too.”

Kakashi listens. He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t offer hollow comfort. Just lets her speak, lets her name the ache. That’s always the hardest part - putting shape to the things that never had one before.

“I used to practice swordwork in secret,” she admits. “Behind the godswood, sometimes. After she’d gone, I’d pick up her old wooden practice blade and try to copy what I’d seen. I was never good. I always preferred words to weapons. But I tried.”

Her fingers tighten on the edge of the scroll, just slightly. “I think I wanted to be like her. Or at least… to be someone she could admire. Someone they could both be proud of.”

Kakashi exhales slowly. His gaze flicks to the faint bruise on her arm again. A reminder of her effort. Of what she’s become. His fingers twitch faintly where they rest against the shared blanket. His gaze lingers on the mark along her forearm, the quiet gravity in her words, the sharp clarity of memory carried too long and too alone.

He doesn’t touch her again - not quite. But his hand shifts just slightly, fingers brushing the edge of the blanket where it drapes across her lap. A quiet offering. Not a reach. Not a fix. Just presence.

“You remind me of your sister,” he says at last. His voice is soft.

She blinks. Turns toward him, slow and cautious, like she’s not sure she wants to believe it.

“You said she was fire and steel,” he continues. “That she moved with instinct. That she made her own way.”

A breath. He meets her eyes.

“So do you.”

She swallows.

“You say you preferred courts and words, but I’ve seen you use them like weapons. You take in a room the way most shinobi take in terrain - measure the people, mark their weaknesses, draw them in or cut them down with nothing but your voice.”

He pauses. Then, quieter, “That’s not a lesser strength.”

Hikari’s lips part like she wants to argue - but the words catch. Her throat works once. Then twice.

Kakashi doesn’t press. Just says, evenly, “You don’t have to be like her to be worthy. Or loved. Or dangerous.”

Something trembles in her. Just a flicker - but it’s there. A crack.

“She would’ve been proud of you,” he says. “For learning how to fight. For surviving. For fighting anyway.”

A beat.

“I’m proud of you.”

That does it.

She turns her head, eyes wide and wet and quickly averted. Her shoulders curl inward like she’s trying to fold in on herself.

He doesn’t let her.

He shifts under the blanket, slow and deliberate, and pulls her close - not rough, not tight. Just… steady. Warm. A hand cupped behind her head, palm braced over the nape of her neck.

She trembles. Not crying. Not yet. But her fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt like she’s afraid he’ll vanish if she blinks.

He doesn’t say anything else. Just holds her there, steady and sure, his chin resting lightly against her temple.

For a long moment, the only sound is the quiet tick of the kitchen clock and the faint hiss of the forgotten kettle still steaming on the stove.

Then - 

“Do you think,” she asks, voice muffled in his shoulder, “that if she were here too, we’d still be sisters?”

He breathes out, slow. “I think she’d have loved you the second she saw you punch someone.”

Hikari lets out a breath that turns into a laugh - wet and quiet and startled. It escapes her like something held too long.

“She’d have called me insufferable.”

“She would’ve been right,” Kakashi says mildly.

That earns a faint snort against his shoulder. Her grip on his shirt loosens a little.

“I used to envy her so much,” she murmurs.

“I know.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“Do you think I have it too?” she asks quietly.

“What?”

“The wolfsblood.”

He tilts his head, just slightly. Thinks about the look in her eyes when she fights. Thinks about the way she moves through the world - graceful, poised, and still made of something sharp and defiant beneath.

“Yes,” he says, with quiet certainty. “I do.”

She breathes in, then out, slow and steady. And this time, when she leans into him, it’s not like a girl curling away from grief - it’s like someone letting herself rest.

He adjusts the blanket around her shoulders. Reaches out with one hand, and gently tugs the scroll from her fingers.

The apartment settles around them again. Quiet. Steady.

Safe.

~

The archives are quiet.

Not dead-silent - not in the way ROOT chambers are - but filtered. Tamped down. Sound softens here, filtered through paper and dust and the weight of history. Kageri prefers it.

He moves without hurry, without drawing attention. He’s dressed plainly: slate-grey vest, nondescript shinobi sandals, a leather satchel slung over one shoulder, clipboard in one hand and pen in the other. Nothing threatening. Nothing memorable. Just another junior archivist completing a case-study rotation, or so the record says.

He watches her first.

She sits at a low table in the civilian records wing. One knee tucked beneath her, a scroll unrolled across the surface, her left hand bracing the end while her right moves across a notebook with fluid precision. Read. Annotation. Pause. Read again.

Her posture is perfect. Back straight. Head level. No unnecessary motion. She’s six, but already devoid of the twitching, fidgeting inelegance of most children. Her braid curves down her spine like a seam stitched into a war banner.

He approaches without sound.

She doesn’t flinch when he stops beside her table. She doesn’t look up right away either. Just finishes the line she’s writing, wipes the brush clean with quiet precision, then lifts her gaze.

“You’re not a librarian,” she says.

He notes the lack of question. “No.”

She tilts her head, faintly. “Then you’re not supposed to be in this section.”

A test. Subtle. Small. But deliberate.

He answers without pause.

“I’m a records apprentice,” he says. “Assigned under the civilian review program. I’m studying the ethics of war and and shinobi decision-making as part of a civilian-accessible records project. May I ask you a question?”

She watches him. “I’m not a shinobi yet.”

He nods. “You’d be a control.”

There’s a pause. Then, slowly, she says, “Alright.”

He sits across from her. The scroll between them details grain distribution in Sector 2. Civilian logistics. He ignores it.

“I have a question,” he says.

“Only one?”

“For now.”

She leans back, fingers still loosely resting on the parchment.

He studies her. Glances down briefly at his clipboard, as if to review something. 

“There’s a village in the Land of Rivers,” he begins. “Small. Poor. The local lord hoards food and water, while the villagers starve. One day, a shinobi kills the lord. The village survives.”

Pause. He watches her face.

“Was it right?”

Most children would ask why. Or who the shinobi was. Or if they were punished. Based on Danzo’s assessment of her, he expects her to be torn between yes and no - yes, because the village survives; and no, because murder is wrong. That’s when he’ll gently, carefully lead her to the former - what is one life weighed against the many? One lord versus an entire village? 

Slowly, though. So she thinks it’s her idea.

That’s what he expects. That’s how the script goes.

She doesn’t follow it.

Instead, she says, “That’s not the real question.”

He stills.

“The real question is why the villagers didn’t rise up sooner. Or why no one noticed they were starving. Or why the system protected the lord long enough for it to get that bad.”

A beat.

“If you make it about one shinobi and one dead noble, you’re already too late.”

He doesn’t speak. Not because he’s stunned - ROOT doesn’t get stunned - but because the script doesn’t account for this.

She continues, unbothered by his silence, “If you want to justify the assassination, you’re asking the wrong person. If you want to prevent the famine next time, I’ll need better data.”

He says, before he can stop himself, “You think it was preventable.”

“Everything is, if you start early enough.”

She says it like it’s fact. Not arrogance - certainty.

Kageri feels something flicker behind his ribs. Curiosity. He extinguishes it immediately. Feelings are distractions. Curiosity breeds attachment. Attachment kills.

He stands. Fluid.

“Thank you,” he says, expression neutral.

She blinks at him once.

“You’re welcome,” she replies.

“Do you come here often?”

“Yes,” she says simply. “You’ll find me.”

She turns back to her scroll like a queen dismissing a visiting diplomat.

Kageri walks away.

His mind logs every detail. Her cadence. Her phrasing. The refusal to engage with binaries.

Danzo had said she was soft. Kageri… is still not sure if he agrees. 

He excises that thought with surgical precision. Danzo is not wrong. Danzo is never wrong. Kageri is simply misguided. He does not see the full picture, and is not meant to.

All that matters is the mission. Cut away the softness.

~

Kakashi watches her balance on a single foot atop the wooden post, arms spread, eyes closed. A leaf is pressed flat against her forehead. Another trembles between her fingers.

Her chakra is steady. Barely flickering.

He’s been increasing the difficulty every day. One leaf. Then two. Then with movement. Then mid-kata. Today: fine motor control while balancing on a surface thinner than her foot.

She hasn’t dropped a leaf in ten minutes.

It’s not just talent. She’s been channelling chakra into seals for a year and a half now, but still. It’s one thing to channel chakra into ink, and another thing entirely to hold that same chakra like a thread pulled tight, humming just below the skin.

“Don’t hold your breath,” he says mildly.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

A steady exhale. Then - 

“Better?”

He tilts his head. “Your left toe’s twitching.”

The leaf wobbles slightly. She scowls.

Kakashi gives it another few moments. Then, satisfied, calls, “Down.”

She releases the chakra slowly, steps off the post with fluid care, and lands light. No stumble. No misstep. She’s sweating, but not shaking.

“Good,” he says simply. “You’ve already got the foundation. More than most genin.”

She frowns, towelling her face. “Because of the seals?”

He nods. “It’s a different application, but the principle’s the same. Control, modulation, steady flow. You’ve already trained yourself to monitor output.”

She looks pleased - but not smug. Just quiet satisfaction, folded neatly inside her like always.

He eyes her for a moment, then adds, casually, “You’ve been using your chakra for over a year now. It’s far past time we check your baseline.”

She blinks. “What baseline?”

“Chakra reserves,” he says. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

Her eyes widen. “You detest the hospital.”

“I do,” he says cheerfully. “But you’re more interesting than my paperwork.”

~

Kakashi hates hospitals.

Always has. The smell of antiseptic and filtered air and blood. The soft rubber hush of soles on tile. The fluorescent lights that buzz faintly, always on the edge of perception.

He hates the way it smells like waiting. Like memory. Like Rin, when she’d been alive, and then again, after he’d punched a hole through her chest and desperately, futilely tried to drag a corpse back into the land of the living, his hands soaked with her blood. 

But he brings Hikari anyway.

It’s midmorning when they check in. The nurse at the desk blinks when she sees who it is. Her gaze flicks to the girl at his side, then back again. She doesn’t ask questions. Just fills out the preliminary information and waves them through.

It’s standard protocol, technically - chakra control training this early requires a full baseline assessment. But most people wait until the Academy starts. Hikari, naturally, is several paces ahead.

She walks beside him without fidgeting, arms loose at her sides, eyes quietly cataloguing every hallway and junction. She doesn't ask why he insisted. She trusts him.

That’s a different kind of weight.

The exam room is clean and bland. Pale blue walls. A few anatomy charts. A bed with rustling, thin paper stretched over faux leather.

She climbs up without being told, tucks her feet under her like she’s settling in to read a scroll. When the medic-nin enters - mid-thirties, ponytail, lightly worn uniform - Hikari greets her with a polite, “Good morning.”

The medic gives a startled smile. “You must be Hatake Hikari.”

Kakashi settles into the chair in the corner and says nothing.

The exam begins simply: height, weight, reflexes, muscle tone. The medic checks her vision, listens to her breathing, palpates her abdomen, checks her balance and joints.

All normal. More than normal, really. The medic’s brows start to climb a little as she scribbles in the chart.

“She’s in excellent shape,” she says aloud, almost surprised. “Better muscle symmetry than most Academy graduates. Reflexes are sharp.”

Kakashi hums. “She’s been working at it.”

Hikari doesn’t respond. She’s studying the spine chart on the wall like it holds answers.

“Last part’s chakra assessment,” the medic says. “I’ll be using a diagnostic technique to check for any blockages or abnormalities in the coil network. It’s painless.”

Hikari nods once. “I’m ready.”

She says it like she’s preparing for a mission, not a scan.

The medic steps forward and presses two fingers to Hikari’s shoulders. Closes her eyes. Begins the jutsu.

Kakashi watches her face. It takes about three seconds. Then her eyes snap open.

There’s a pause - a beat too long, sharp with suppressed reaction.

“… Interesting,” she says, voice light, like she’s not recalibrating everything she expected.

Kakashi raises a brow. “That bad?”

The medic glances at him, startled again. “No. Not bad. Just… unusual.”

She adjusts her hands. Runs the jutsu again, slower. This time she murmurs to herself: “Spinal flow’s clean… no stagnation in the thoracic loops… coil symmetry is textbook…”

Her chakra flares a little brighter. Diagnostic sensitivity, then. Deeper scan.

Then she freezes.

Kakashi sits up slightly.

The medic doesn’t speak for a full five seconds. When she finally steps back, it’s with a frown - not of concern, but of calculation.

“She’s six?” she asks.

“Six and nine months,” Kakashi says blandly. “Why?”

The medic exhales through her nose. “Her reserves are already larger than the average genin. Possibly chuunin-tier. And growing fast.”

Hikari shifts slightly on the table. Doesn’t speak.

The medic’s eyes narrow. “Has she shown signs of fatigue collapse? Chakra vertigo? Trouble sleeping after channeling?”

Kakashi shakes his head. “She self-regulates well. Better than I did, at her age.”

The medic snorts. “That’s not a high bar.” Then, more seriously, “It’s rare to see this kind of reserve growth without Uzumaki lineage. Any known bloodline?”

“No,” Kakashi says, not exactly lying, because nothing’s known, technically. 

“Mm.” The medic turns back to Hikari, gaze softer now. “You’ll need to be careful. Big reserves feel like a gift, but they burn hotter than most realize. And early control is everything. Don’t force output. Respect thresholds. If you don’t know what that means yet, ask your dad. Or come back. Chakra exhaustion in children can be dangerous.”

“I understand,” Hikari says quietly, perfectly serious.

The medic nods. “I’ll write a recommendation for guided control drills, but it sounds like you’ve already started.”

“She has,” Kakashi says. “And she’s doing fine.”

The medic gives him a look - half fond, half dry. “I don’t doubt it. You’ve got a small storm on your hands.”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at Hikari.

She’s silent again, hands folded in her lap, feet swinging slightly above the tile. Not anxious. Just… processing. He can see it in the way her shoulders have shifted - thoughtful, grounded, and turning this over in her mind like a new blade, weighing balance and edge.

She doesn’t seem proud.

She seems… responsible. Like she already knows what it means to carry power that others fear.

He folds the report when the medic hands it over. Thanks her, nods once, and leads Hikari back into the whitewashed corridors of the hospital.

They walk quietly for a while.

Then, as they pass a row of waiting chairs - 

“… Was that good?” she asks.

Kakashi glances sideways. “It was accurate.”

She makes a face. “That’s not an answer.”

He shrugs. “You’ve got more chakra than you should. You handle it better than most adults. Yes. That’s good.”

A pause.

“… It’s not just chakra, though,” she says softly. “It’s responsibility, isn’t it?”

He nods once. “You’re not a civilian child. You never were. Power comes with expectations. But the burden’s lighter if you train to carry it.”

She’s quiet for a long moment. Then:

“… Then teach me to carry it better.”

“I will.”

~

She’s already reading when Kageri arrives.

Not surprised. Not wary. Just aware.

She doesn’t acknowledge him right away, but she shifts her scroll slightly to the left, leaving space on the table. An invitation - or an inevitability.

He sits.

She has the same posture, same braid. Today, she wears pale grey. Fitted sleeves. Practical and neat.

She doesn’t look at him.

He poses the second question without preamble.

“A medic-nin is ordered to falsify a report. Their team leader - well-respected - accidentally harmed a civilian during a mission. If the truth comes out, the mission fails, and a larger conflict begins. If they lie, the peace holds. What should the medic do?”

She looks up slowly.

“Is the civilian dead?”

He blinks. “Yes.”

“Then the truth won’t stay buried.”

He frowns. “That’s not the point.”

“It should be.”

Her voice is soft. Thoughtful, not smug.

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing slightly - not at him, but at the logic of the question itself.

“If the lie fails, they lose the mission and the trust. If it succeeds, it teaches everyone watching that justice is optional when peace is more convenient.”

He opens his mouth - she cuts in, gently.

“Peace built on lies doesn’t last. It fractures from within.”

Kageri’s jaw tightens. He says, carefully, “Sometimes it’s necessary. Sometimes it buys time.”

She considers that.

“Then why not tell the truth after the peace holds? Why leave the lie in place?”

That stills him.

“Because that isn’t the order.”

“Then the order was short-sighted,” she replies.

She doesn’t say it like an accusation. More like a fact.

“I’d fix the structure that made that order seem like the best option,” she says. “The medic-nin shouldn’t have to choose between truth and duty in the first place.”

Kageri feels the flicker again. Not admiration. Not quite. 

Something older. Less defined.

She’s not dismantling the dilemmas out of rebellion. She’s just… not limited by them.

His throat is dry when he speaks again, “You’re very good at dodging the question.”

She tilts her head, her blue eyes vivid and unblinking. “I answer the part that matters.”

He watches her.

She returns to her scroll, murmuring without looking at him, “You’ll need better questions.”

~

Kakashi watches as Hikari balances a spinning coin on her fingertip - one she’s keeping aloft with chakra alone.

It’s not a trick of sleight or sleight of hand. He’d checked, just in case. It’s chakra flow - precise, measured, and unbelievably fine. She’s maintaining rotation, spin, and lift through a thin line of blue just wide enough to cover the edge of the coin.

He sits across from her, one leg folded, arms resting over his knees. There’s no movement in the clearing except the twitch of her fingertip and the slow, steady glint of the spinning coin catching late afternoon light.

And still, somehow, it’s easy to forget.

That she’s lived twenty years before this lifetime. That she remembers court intrigue, manipulation, war. That she’s not, strictly speaking, a child.

Because right now - she looks like one. A small girl in tiny sandals and training clothes two sizes too big, brow furrowed in concentration, lower lip caught lightly between her teeth.

No one would look at her and think dangerous.

No one but him.

The coin wobbles. Hikari’s chakra pulse flutters - too much, too fast - and the coin clatters to the ground.

She exhales, sharp. Not frustrated. Just correcting.

“You overloaded it,” Kakashi says mildly. “Again.”

“I know.”

“You’re using too much chakra.”

“I know that too.”

He tilts his head. “Then why are you doing it?”

She glances up. Her eyes are flat. “Because I need to know what happens when I break the limit.”

There’s steel in her voice. Not childish defiance, but calculation.

Kakashi exhales through his nose. “You’re going to fracture your tenketsu if you keep flooding them like that.”

“I won’t.” She resets the coin. Balances it again. “I’m modulating through the shoulder instead of the wrist. The shoulder tenketsu have more give to them.”

He studies her in silence.

Six years old.

Six.

And speaking like someone who knows exactly where her limits are, how to find them, and how to work around them.

He rises and steps closer. Without a word, he pulls another coin from his pouch and places it gently on the back of her other hand.

“Try both,” he says.

She blinks at him.

He lifts a shoulder. “You want precision? Symmetry control drills will show you where your blind spots are. You’ll have to modulate flow through each coil branch at once.”

Her face lights up - not with a smile, but with the sharp gleam of someone handed a new puzzle.

He watches her recalibrate. Eyes narrowing. Shoulders settling. He can see her already working it through, shifting the chakra weight, adjusting her breathing.

It’s a kind of genius, really. Not the loud, showy kind - no explosions or flashy jutsu. Just quiet, relentless refinement.

Like a knife being honed, over and over again, until it stops looking like anything dangerous at all.

And he has to remind himself again - she’s lived another life before this one. It had sounded like fiction. Still does, sometimes.

But then she picks up a coin with her chakra and balances it on the tip of her nose - just to test if she can - and he’s forced to remember: this girl is no ordinary child.

She’s a survivor wearing a six-year-old’s skin.

And sometimes… he forgets. Because she’s so small. Because her arms are still soft with baby fat and her steps still scuff when she’s tired. Because she sleeps with a blanket tucked up to her chin and once asked if chakra could be polite.

He forgets.

Until he sees this - her sitting cross-legged in the dirt, two coins spinning in perfect unison, sweat trickling down her temples, and not flinching once.

Not even when her chakra begins to tremble again under the strain.

“Slow it down,” he says quietly. “You’re overcorrecting.”

She adjusts. Instantly. With no complaint.

He lets her hold it for another five minutes before calling the drill.

When she finally lets the chakra fade, both coins drop at once. Her hands shake slightly. Her breath is thin.

But she’s smiling now, small and fierce and satisfied.

“You held both for twenty-seven seconds,” he tells her. “That’s a new record.”

“I want thirty,” she says.

“You’ll get thirty,” he says. “But not today.”

She leans back in the grass, arms outspread, chest rising with steady breaths. She’s completely still. The kind of still that only comes from earned exhaustion.

Kakashi watches the light catch in her hair. Watches the gentle rise and fall of her ribs. Watches the coin marks begin to fade.

And wonders - for the thousandth time - what it means for the village, for the world, that a girl like this has been born again.

~

She’s already watching him when he arrives. She doesn’t say hello. Doesn’t smile. Just waits, like she knew he’d come.

He sits. His breath feels louder than it should.

“A clan is planning a revolt,” he says without preamble. “They’ve been stockpiling weapons. Spreading dissent. The Hokage is hesitant to act without proof. But their uprising will cost hundreds of lives.”

Her eyes don’t flicker. “So?”

“You have the chance to end it early. Quietly. You’re ordered to assassinate the clan head. No trial. No exposure. No war.”

A pause.

“Do you do it?”

She doesn’t look at him right away. She leans back, expression unreadable, arms folding lightly in her lap.

“Is he guilty?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

Her voice is sharper than before. Still low. Still even. But something in it has teeth.

“You said dissent. Not treason. If he hasn’t acted yet, then all you have is fear.”

Kageri studies her. “Fear saves lives.”

She nods once. “Sometimes. But it also kills the wrong people.”

A beat.

“What if he’s planning peace? What if the weapons are a bluff, to gain leverage at the next negotiation? What if the Hokage is wrong?”

Kageri tenses. He’s not sure why.

“You’d let the threat grow?”

“I’d cut off the reason for the threat,” she says.

Still that same maddening calm.

“You kill the head, and you martyr him. You prove the village doesn’t need evidence, just suspicion. Then the next clan arms itself sooner. And the next. And the next. And one day there’s a child who watches his father die for a crime he never committed - ”

Her voice catches. Only for a second.

“ - and he grows up waiting for the day it’s his turn to burn the system down.”

Kageri feels it again. The flicker.

Not admiration. Not anger. Something… colder. Deeper.

He says, quieter, “You’re very quick to defend traitors.”

She doesn’t blink.

“No. I just know what it looks like when power doesn’t question itself.”

And then, gently, she asks, “Do you?”

The table between them is narrow, but suddenly feels vast.

Kageri doesn’t respond. He stands instead.

“Next time,” he says, voice flat, “there will be no right answer.”

She tilts her head.

“There hasn’t been one yet.”

She doesn’t look away until he does.

Chapter Text

The apartment is quiet.

Outside, the sun’s starting its slow descent, casting long bars of amber light across the floor. The windows are open. Cicadas drone somewhere distant. A breeze ruffles the curtains and the corner of a map Hikari’s been annotating for the last hour.

She sits cross-legged at the low table, brush stilled in her hand, thoughtful.

Kakashi glances over from where he’s perched on the couch, a book in hand, though he hasn’t turned the page in a while.

She speaks without looking at him.

“Do you have any books about the Hatake clan?”

He freezes.

The pause is brief - half a second, maybe less - but she notices. Of course she notices. Her gaze lifts slowly to meet his. She doesn’t take the question back, doesn’t fidget, doesn’t rush to explain. Just waits, quiet and still.

Kakashi lowers the book.

“There might be a few in the public library,” he says, tone deliberately casual. “But most of it… is probably in the clan compound.”

Hikari nods. “That makes sense.”

Another beat of silence. His fingers tighten slightly around the cover of his book.

“I haven’t been back there in a while,” he says, voice low. “Not since I was seven.”

Her expression shifts, softens. Not with pity - never that - but something gentler. Understanding. An ache he knows she recognizes too well.

“You can say no,” she says quietly. “It’s not important.”

But it is. She wouldn’t have asked otherwise. They both know that.

Kakashi exhales slowly, steadying. He doesn’t look at her, not directly. Just out the window, as if the answer might be carried on the wind.

“I’m not saying no.”

Hikari says nothing. Just nods once, solemn and certain, and returns to her map.

~

It makes sense. He knows that. She wants to know what legacy she’s taken on. Not just in this life - his name, this village - but the lineage behind it. The shape of the people who came before. More details than the brief summary he’d given her, months ago now.

And Kakashi... doesn’t know how to give that to her.

Because the truth is, he’s spent years not looking.

The Hatake clan doesn’t have a compound in the usual sense. No bustling courtyard, no extended family loitering in sun-warmed hallways, no grandchildren tumbling through paper doors. Just one house - big, quiet, tucked away on the edge of Konoha’s northern sector. A house built for a father and his son, and then only a son, and then no one at all.

He hasn’t set foot there since the day they carried Sakumo out.

Not for the memorial. Not for the will. Not for anything.

He’d been seven. Too young to understand legacy, too old not to feel the jagged shape of betrayal twist beneath his skin. The walls had felt like they were watching him. The air had tasted like ash.

And after - after everything - he hadn’t needed to go back.

He became ANBU. Lived in barracks. His old apartment. Anywhere but there. He hadn’t had a reason to return - had looked for reasons not to, actually.

Until Hikari.

Until the girl with ice in her posture and steel in her gaze, who makes her bed with impeccable neatness and chooses every word she says with impossible care.

He’s not sure when it started - this feeling like he’s watching over something sacred. Not fragile, exactly, but precious in a way he doesn’t know how to protect except by staying close. Offering steadiness. Silence. Safety.

And now she’s asked about the Hatake clan.

Not to pry. Not to stir old ghosts.

Just… to know.

So that evening, after she’s asleep in her bed, curled small and soft beneath her blanket, Kakashi sits on the couch with a mug of tea gone cold and thinks about what it means to go back.

He pictures the house. Dust on the floor. The walls still painted with blueish-grey, probably faded by now. The nicks in the doorframe where Sakumo had once measured his height. The study with the books - dozens of them - scrolls, journals, even a half-written treatise on chakra dynamics his father had been compiling the year he - 

Kakashi closes his eye.

It’s not about him anymore.

It hasn’t been, not since the moment he’d agreed to take her on and realized she was already holding herself together with white-knuckled resolve. He’d seen it. Understood it.

He’d lived it.

And maybe - just maybe - this is the moment he stops holding his history like a wound, and starts offering it like a gift.

He finishes the tea, cold and bitter.

Then, without fanfare, without drama, he gets up, opens the drawer where the keys are, pulls out the one marked with a faint scratch near the top, and places it in his pocket.

He’ll go tomorrow.

Not for himself, but for her.

For the girl who bears his name like it’s something worth reclaiming.

~

The key sticks a little in the lock.

Not from rust - it’s well-made, oiled, still sharp at the teeth - but from time. From absence. Like even the door isn’t sure it should open.

Kakashi turns it anyway.

The mechanism clicks.

Behind him, Hikari says nothing. Just waits, hands tucked neatly in the sleeves of her jacket, her silence a steady sort of presence. She hadn’t asked to come, just accepted his offer with a quiet nod and followed him without question.

He pushes the door open.

The house breathes.

Not literally, of course, but it feels like it - the way the air shifts around them, disturbed for the first time in years. Dust hangs in soft beams where sunlight filters through the tall windows. The scent of wood and old tatami rushes up to meet him. It smells like silence. Like memory.

He doesn’t step forward right away.

His hand rests against the frame, steady. Not clenched. Not shaking. Just… present.

Minato had helped him scrub the floors.

He remembers that, suddenly. Vividly. The quiet scrape of the rag in his sensei’s hands. The way he hadn’t spoken, not once, as they wiped away bloodstains that had dried in long, accusing strokes across the polished floorboards.

They’d never talked about it. Not once. Not in all the years that followed.

But he remembers the way Minato had rinsed the cloths in silence, his jaw tight, his knuckles white.

There are no stains now. But Kakashi sees them anyway.

He takes a breath. Then another. And steps inside.

The floor creaks beneath his weight, familiar in a way that tugs something taut in his chest. He walks slowly - each footfall careful, like he’s testing the strength of a bridge he built himself and never trusted. Hikari follows one pace behind, quiet as a shadow.

The house is intact. Spare. Clean, in the way all neglected places are - no mess, but no warmth either. The furniture is still in place. The cushions. The low table. Even the little shelf by the entryway where Sakumo used to leave his gloves.

Everything is just as he left it.

Except it isn’t.

In the hallway, Kakashi’s gaze flicks to the second door on the right. The study.

His steps falter for the first time.

Hikari glances up at him, and her eyes are solemn. Not probing. Just aware.

He opens the door.

The room is filled with books. Scrolls. Journals. Loose papers yellowed at the edges. A map still pinned to the wall, corners curling from age. A small inkstone sits on the desk, dried and dusty. A single pen lies beside it, uncapped, as if someone had only just stepped away.

He walks in like he’s crossing a memory.

Hikari doesn’t follow him all the way in. She stands in the doorway, giving him space, hands folded, gaze resting lightly on the room’s contents. Respectful. Waiting.

Kakashi kneels beside the lowest shelf. Runs his fingers along the spines of the books there - some labeled in neat handwriting, others marked only with a clan seal or date.

He pulls one out. Opens it.

The handwriting is his father’s.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just sits there, quiet, with the weight of paper in his lap and the echo of old grief in his lungs, and lets himself remember.

When he finally looks up, Hikari is watching him. She says nothing. She doesn’t need to.

He closes the book gently and sets it aside. Then he reaches for another, and another, until a small stack forms by his side.

“These are the clearest,” he says, voice steady but low. “You can take them. Just - handle them carefully.”

Hikari nods. Steps forward at last. She doesn’t touch the books yet. Just kneels beside him, close but not crowding, her presence solid and calm.

They sit in silence, surrounded by dust and memory, two Hatake - one old, one new - gathering the fragments of a history Kakashi had once thought too broken to pass on.

And for the first time, he thinks - maybe it wasn’t.

Not entirely.

Not if she’s here to carry it forward.

~

The silence folds in around them again, soft and heavy.

Kakashi’s gaze drifts - not to the shelves this time, or the desk, or the old scrolls resting like brittle bones in the far corner - but to the frame of the door behind Hikari.

And there it is, just visible in the slant of afternoon light, half-caught in dust motes and shadow.

Tiny marks carved into the wood.

He rises slowly, brushing his fingers absently against his thigh to clear the dust, and steps toward them. Hikari doesn’t move. She follows his gaze, but doesn’t speak.

There are six notches in total.

Each one perfectly measured. Aligned. Labeled in elegant, deliberate script. A date. A number. A name.

Kakashi, 6, 01/08/44

Kakashi runs his fingertips across the topmost one, where the edge is still faintly sharp. He remembers the feel of the pencil against his scalp. His father’s warm hand guiding his posture - Stand up straight, kiddo. Chin high.

Six notches. Every six months, like clockwork, from when he was four onwards.

Until the last one.

Age seven.

He stares at it for a long moment. There’s no seventh mark. Because after that, there was no one left to make it.

His throat tightens, slow and steady. Not like choking. More like something folding inwards, quiet and inevitable. He doesn’t move. Just stands there, fingers brushing the last carved line like it might make the next one appear.

But it won’t.

It never will.

Hikari speaks for the first time in nearly ten minutes.

“… They’re very precise,” she says softly. “He must’ve taken care with them.”

Kakashi exhales.

“He did,” he says.

His voice is quiet. Not broken. Just worn.

“He always double-checked the line. Would fuss over it with a ruler. Said a shinobi’s growth shouldn’t be left to guesswork.”

He huffs, faintly - something like a laugh, if he squints. But it doesn’t quite make it that far.

There’s still dust in the grooves. A little cobweb up in the corner. But the marks are clear. Clean. Like they’ve been waiting all this time.

He imagines a seventh line.

Just for a moment.

Then exhales, and lets it go.

Behind him, Hikari doesn’t speak. Doesn’t reach out. Just stands there, steady and still. She understands. Somehow, she always does.

Kakashi draws in a breath. Slow. Deep.

Then he turns, steps away from the doorframe, and says, “Let’s pack the rest.”

Not because he’s finished grieving, but because she’s here, and because she asked - and that means maybe it’s time to start remembering something other than the silence.

~

They pack the books carefully.

Kakashi handles the oldest volumes himself, slipping them into a bag they’d brought with them. Hikari gathers the labeled scrolls, her fingers delicate, reverent.

They don’t speak much.

The house is quieter now. Not just from dust and age - but in its stillness, there’s something new. Something like… breath.

Like it’s remembered them.

Kakashi slides the door shut behind him with a soft click. They move together through the hallway - past the unused kitchen, the blank walls, the place where the old koto used to rest before he snapped one of the strings by accident and Sakumo packed it away with a fond, exasperated sigh.

The entryway is just ahead.

And then - he stops.

Hikari halts beside him, confused at first. Then she follows his gaze.

There, still hanging just to the left of the door, is a photograph.

He hadn’t noticed it when they first came in. Or maybe he had, but hadn’t let himself see it.

It’s old. Yellowed at the edges, the frame a little crooked. The glass has a fine spiderweb crack running across one corner. But the image beneath is untouched.

Kakashi, five years old. Neatly dressed. His hitai-ate sits proudly on his forehead, slightly askew. He’s trying to look serious - stoic, reserved, grown.

It doesn’t quite work.

Because beside him, Sakumo is laughing. One arm slung around his shoulder, hand mid-motion, caught in the act of ruffling Kakashi’s silver hair.

The Kakashi in the photo looks like he’s trying not to smile, and failing. Miserably.

Kakashi stares at it.

Something cold and warm and sharp all at once coils behind his ribs.

He remembers that day. Not all of it - just flashes. The way the sun hit the porch. The weight of the hitai-ate, too heavy for how small his head had been. The feel of his father’s arm around him - solid, steady, proud.

He’d hated the photo, back then. Said it made him look like a child.

Sakumo had framed it anyway. Said it made them both look happy. 

Kakashi exhales, long and quiet. The breath shakes, but only a little.

He steps forward. Brushes the dust from the frame with the edge of his sleeve. Carefully rights it, just a few millimetres. Enough.

Behind him, Hikari doesn’t speak. But when he glances back, she’s looking at the photo. Not with curiosity - but with quiet recognition. Like she’s memorizing it. Tucking it away.

A piece of history. A piece of him.

Kakashi nods once, to no one in particular. Then turns. And this time, when the door shuts behind them, it doesn’t feel like an ending.

Just… a breath between chapters.

~

They step into the light.

The sun’s sunk lower now, casting long shadows across the path that leads away from the Hatake house. The satchel hangs from Kakashi’s shoulder, heavy with old words and older silences.

Neither of them speak. Not at first.

The cicadas have quieted. A breeze picks up, rustling through the trees like something gentle, like something watching. The village isn’t far, but out here, it feels distant. Removed. The world reduced to just two figures walking side by side - one tall, one small, both quiet in the way that only comes from shared reverence.

Kakashi doesn’t look back, but the photo is burned into his mind - clearer now than it ever was when he lived there. The curve of his father's smile. The laugh lines at the corner of his eyes. The weight of that hand in his hair.

It feels different now, to think about him. Not like it used to - not with shame, or bitterness, or that sharp twist of grief that tasted like betrayal and felt like failure.

But something slower. Sadder. Deeper.

He had been loved.

For all the years he spent pretending otherwise, for all the silence he buried it beneath, for all the coldness he wrapped around himself like armour - he had been loved.

And not just in quiet ways. Not distantly. Not out of duty.

No.

He remembers the laughter. The way Sakumo had sung while cooking, off-key and shameless. The way he’d held Kakashi up by the waist to reach the top shelf. The way he’d paused before every mission to say, Back soon, kiddo. Try not to grow without me.

Kakashi draws in a slow breath.

Beside him, Hikari’s steps are light, precise, measured to match his pace. She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t break the quiet.

But her presence is a tether. Not demanding. Not clinging. Just… steady.

And he realizes, in that moment, that she’s not just walking with him.

She’s bearing witness. To the house. To the photo. To the boy he had been and the man he’s still trying to become. Not by asking him to explain it. Not by digging or pressing.

Just by being there.

And that…

That’s something he didn’t know he needed.

They reach the edge of the path where the trees thin out and the rooftops of Konoha begin to reappear.

Kakashi stops. Hikari stops, too.

The sun is bleeding gold across the sky, painting everything in the soft glow of near-dusk. The kind of light that makes even old things seem beautiful.

He turns, just a little. Looks back.

The house stands quiet in the distance. A little weather-worn. A little forgotten.

But not forsaken.

Not anymore.

“… He would’ve liked you,” Kakashi says suddenly.

His voice is soft. Rough at the edges. Not meant to comfort, just offer truth, laid bare like an open palm.

Hikari doesn’t answer right away. Then, just as softly, she says, “I think I would’ve liked him too.”

Kakashi nods.

And for the first time in years - no, over a decade - he doesn’t feel like he’s walking away from his past.

He feels like he’s carrying it with him.

And it’s lighter than he expected.

~

Evening settles like mist.

The apartment is warm. Still. The windows are cracked open to the last of the summer breeze, and the air smells faintly of old paper and simmering rice. Somewhere in the distance, wind chimes stir - a soft, melodic reminder that the world keeps turning, even when the past holds fast.

Kakashi sits on the couch.

One leg folded beneath him, a hand wrapped around a cup of tea gone lukewarm long ago. He hasn’t drunk from it. Doesn’t remember pouring it. It had just… appeared, the way habits do when grief is quiet rather than sharp.

The bag rests on the low table in front of the couch.

Hikari is curled beside him, a blanket pooled over her knees, a thick book balanced across her lap. One of Sakumo’s, from the stack they'd carried home. She hasn’t said much since they returned. Just unpacked the volumes with quiet reverence and chosen the first with deliberate care.

Now she reads.

Not aloud. Not performative.

Just… reads.

Her brow is furrowed in concentration. One finger traces a line of kanji across the aged page. The paper is thin, yellowing, soft at the edges. But she handles it like it’s something living.

Kakashi watches her.

He doesn’t mean to - not at first - but his gaze keeps drifting. Caught by the way she tucks her feet under herself, by the wrinkle that forms between her brows when she finds a sentence that requires decoding. By the softness in her expression when she finds something interesting.

She hasn’t asked him to explain anything yet. He knows she will, eventually.

But for now - this is hers. A conversation between her and a man she’ll never meet, whose handwriting curls like smoke across the page. A man who’d once pressed a ruler to his son’s scalp and said, No growing up without me.

Kakashi exhales slowly.

He can still feel the weight of that doorframe under his fingertips. Still see the crooked picture frame, still smell the old ink and tatami.

But it’s not suffocating. Not now. Not anymore.

Hikari shifts slightly, pulling the blanket tighter, and glances up at him. Just once. A flicker of eye contact. A silent question - not are you alright, because she wouldn’t ask that. But something gentler. Something like: Still with me?

He nods. That’s all it takes. She looks back down, satisfied, and turns the page.

And Kakashi, without realizing it, relaxes deeper into the cushions. The weight in his chest eases, just a fraction. Not gone. It never will be. But quiet now. Manageable.

The house on the hill still waits. The photo still hangs. But tonight, in the gentle hush of shared space, in the flickering lamplight and the whisper of pages turning, he doesn’t feel like a boy standing alone in an empty doorway, staring at his father’s corpse.

He feels like he’s part of a family again.

And somehow, impossibly, like a son again, too.

~

Two weeks pass.

The council chamber is unusually tense.

Something about the way the wind shifted that morning. Or maybe it’s just the argument unraveling between Inoichi and Fugaku over the situation in the western border settlements - where reports of armed resistance are growing harder to ignore.

“Instability breeds hesitation,” Fugaku says coldly. “If we do not assert control now, we lose our claim entirely.”

“Control requires legitimacy,” Inoichi counters. “If we strike first, we provoke escalation.”

Kakashi doesn’t sigh, but it’s a near thing. Shikaku rubs his temples. Beside Kakashi, Hikari sits perfectly straight, hands folded in her lap. She hasn’t spoken all meeting. Not yet. She listens like a blade - still, but not idle.

And then, softly - 

“There is precedent.”

The room stills.

Fugaku looks at her sharply. Inoichi blinks. Danzo’s fingers twitch once, then still. Even Tsume quiets.

Hikari speaks into the hush.

“In Year 19 Post-Konoha Founding, during the Great Clan Fragmentation along the Rain border, there was a report filed jointly by Hatake Sakumo and Senju Itama - Senju Tsunade-sama’s father.”

That gets a reaction.

Inoichi leans forward slightly. Tsume tilts her head. Shikaku, ever attuned, goes perfectly still.

“They were assigned to investigate growing unrest in three minor territories technically within Fire jurisdiction but aligned with neutral clans. There was concern they would defect - or worse, strike preemptively. Many on the council at the time advised a first-strike strategy.”

She pauses. Not for effect. Just to breathe.

“They didn’t follow it.”

Another breath.

“Instead, they embedded negotiation anchors,” she says, voice calm. “Local shinobi trained in diplomacy and backed by clan sponsorship. They opened controlled communication lines. Shared limited intel, selectively. Not full transparency - just enough to signal trust without giving advantage.”

She meets Fugaku’s gaze, unflinching.

“It worked. Two of the three territories accepted provisional alliance within the year. The third withdrew peacefully. No casualties. No occupation.”

Silence.

Not stunned. Not hostile.

Just… processing.

Tsume whistles low under her breath. “You found that in the archives?”

“The Hatake clan archives, yes.” Hikari’s voice doesn’t waver. 

Fugaku is quiet. Then - 

“And you believe the situation on the western border is comparable.”

“I believe we are treating it as identical to past rebellions when it may be more akin to fragmentation. Which means coercion will cement opposition. Strategic anchoring, on the other hand, could restore allegiance.”

She pauses.

“And precedent helps.”

The room is quiet again.

Then Shikaku speaks. “We’ll review the report. Make copies.”

Danzo’s jaw tightens, just slightly. But he says nothing.

And the tide shifts - just a little, but it does.

Kakashi lets his shoulders ease, fractionally. He doesn’t look at Hikari. Not directly. Just studies the neat line of her shoulders, the steady way she folds her hands again, from the corner of his eye.

She doesn’t smile, but there’s a stillness in her, deep and resolute. And in that moment, watching her reforge the past into a tool sharp enough to carve policy, Kakashi understands - 

She doesn’t just wear the Hatake name.

She’s wielding it.

He exhales slowly. Not enough to draw attention, just enough to feel it. Because this - this is why they went back. Not to linger in grief, but to reclaim a lineage, to turn legacy into something living.

She made it mean something again.

Just like it used to.

~

The meeting dissolves slowly. They always do. Clan heads filing out one by one, voices low, footsteps echoing down the stone hallway. The last of the daylight filters through the high windows, casting long golden shadows across the room. Dust drifts in the quiet.

Kakashi lingers.

So does Hikari.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at him. She’s carefully organizing her notes, straightening the edges, tucking loose papers back into her folder. It’s the same precision she always moves with - deliberate, practiced, calm.

But there’s something new in it, too. Not nervousness. Not pride. Just… steadiness.

She’s used to carrying weight.

He knows what that feels like.

Kakashi lets his gaze drift to the now-empty council seats. Thinks of the way they’d looked at her - when she spoke, when she cited Hatake records, when she shifted the shape of the conversation with a few sentences and a level tone.

They listened.

They listened.

He’s not sure why it strikes him the way it does.

She’s done this before. Dozens of times. Shifted power with a question, cracked egos with a single pointed observation. But this time - 

This time, she spoke from his history. Their name. 

And they listened like it mattered.

Something stirs low in his chest. Not pride - not exactly. Or maybe not only. It’s something older than that. Quieter. Something like grief, reshaped. The kind that’s been hollowed out and filled again with light.

For years, the name Hatake had been his burden. A quiet curse. A remnant of failure and whispers and silence. People spoke it like it was a footnote. A shadow. A warning.

But she - she wields it like a hammer. Not to flaunt or provoke or intimidate, but to build. As tool, as foundation, as scaffold. The way it should have always been used. The way Sakumo wanted it to be.

And Kakashi - 

He’s just watching it happen.

The name that broke him, stitched into the fabric of something new.

The house on the hill. The photo in the frame. The last notch in the doorframe. They’re still there. They always will be.

But now… they’re not the end of anything.

They’re the beginning.

Kakashi shifts his weight. Straightens. And says, quietly, as Hikari tucks the last of her papers away - 

“You did well today.”

She blinks. Looks up. There’s a flicker in her eyes - surprise, maybe. Or maybe something gentler. She doesn’t smile, but he sees the subtle lift in her posture.

“Thank you,” she says.

That’s all.

They leave the chamber together. And this time, when their footsteps echo down the hall, Kakashi doesn’t feel like a man walking away from a battlefield.

He feels like a Hatake.

Walking beside a legacy that finally - finally - has a future.

~

The cemetery is quiet.

Konoha stretches below in the distance, rooftops glinting with afternoon light. The wind is soft here - higher up, cleaner somehow, threaded with the scent of grass and pine. The paths are well-worn, maintained. The grounds are tidy.

He hasn’t been here since the funeral. 

In the beginning, he’d avoided it out of self-preservation. Coming here would’ve felt like too much - like salting a wound, like drowning. There’d been too much of everything - anger, blame, loneliness, all coiled up inside his chest. To visit the cemetery would’ve brought it all to the surface.

Then, as time passed, as the anger turned to grief and the blame softened into understanding, he told himself there was no point. That Sakumo wouldn’t be here. That memory was enough. That grief was private and didn’t need a place to root. He told himself all kinds of things.

But now…

Now he stands before the simple stone marker, hands in his pockets, head bowed slightly.

He hadn’t brought flowers. That would’ve felt false. Not today.

So it’s just him. Just him, and the name etched cleanly into the stone.

Hatake Sakumo

Beloved Father. Feared Blade. Unyielding Heart.

Minato had come up with the words. Kakashi had never thanked him for that, not really.

He lets the silence sit for a while.

Then, he speaks.

“… Hey, Dad.”

His voice is low. Rough, but steady.

“It’s been a while.”

He shifts, thumbs brushing the edge of his pockets, gaze still on the grave.

“I didn’t really know how to do this. Or maybe I did and just didn’t want to. Not sure it matters.”

A beat.

“I went back to the house.”

Another pause.

“Hikari wanted to read about the clan. And I couldn’t… I couldn’t ask her to carry the name without letting her know where it came from. Not just from me.”

He exhales, slow.

“The place looked the same. You’d probably be annoyed that I didn’t dust anything. But the study was intact. Your notes. Your maps. Your old report copies. She read every damn one.”

A faint smile, barely there. Almost invisible under the mask.

“She quoted one in the council meeting last week. That report you wrote with Senju Itama in Year 19? She used it to rewrite the entire room.”

He glances down at the stone.

“They listened.”

His voice tightens, softens.

“They listened to you, Dad.”

The wind picks up, brushing through the tall grass.

He stands in it, eye half-closed.

“She’s as stubborn as you were. As stubborn as I am, really. But she’s smarter than both of us. Scary-smart. She doesn’t talk much, but when she does… it’s sharp. Thoughtful. She doesn’t waste words.”

He pauses. A longer silence this time.

“I think… I think you would’ve liked her.”

His throat works once, and he clears it, quietly.

“I kept thinking about the doorframe,” he says, after a long moment. “The marks. You always made me stand still, even when I rolled my eyes. Six little notches, perfect handwriting. You never missed one.”

He exhales. 

“I used to think it was a waste of time. That I was too old to be measured like a kid.”

Kakashi breathes out a soft laugh, almost inaudible.

“But you were trying to make it matter, weren’t you? Every inch. Every half-year. Proof that I was still growing. Still here.”

He presses the heel of his hand against his eye. Not hard. Just… there. His eye burns, not just because of the pressure. 

“I wish you’d made one more. Just one.”

A long breath. And then, quieter - 

“I wish I’d told you that back then.”

The wind rustles the leaves overhead.

He doesn’t speak again for a while. Just stands there, the silence full of things that don’t need saying. Grief and memory and the impossible shape of love that was always there, even when he couldn’t carry it.

Eventually, Kakashi shifts. Straightens. Looks at the grave one last time.

“I’ll come back,” he says quietly. “I won’t wait so long next time.”

A beat. Then, very softly - 

“Thanks. For everything. Even the parts I didn’t understand until now.”

And he turns.

And walks away.

Not lighter, not healed - but whole, in a way he hadn’t been before.

Because finally - finally - he’d spoken.

And been heard.

Chapter Text

She’s already waiting again.

Same table, different scroll - this one about conflict resolution after the Second War. She has a way of reading like she’s excavating, not absorbing. As if history has secrets buried between the lines, and she intends to exhume them all.

Kageri sits across from her without speaking.

She doesn’t look up. She doesn’t need to.

Today’s objective is escalation. Variance testing. Pressure under moral ambiguity.

He waits until she finishes annotating a line, then says, “A genin is captured during a mission. Their squad escapes. The genin is held for four days. When they return, they’re different - quieter. The jonin commander believes the genin may have been compromised.”

She glances up.

He continues. “You’re in charge. You’re ordered to execute the genin. No interrogation. No investigation. Prevent risk.”

She sets her brush down. Not with defiance - deliberately. Careful placement, like everything she does.

"Who gave the order?" she asks.

“The Hokage."

"Then the Hokage is afraid."

That catches him off guard. Not the answer - just the swiftness of it. The certainty.

"Fear of what?"

"Fear of what the child might reveal. Or what they might become. Or maybe just fear of being wrong. Fear's never clean. It bleeds into everything."

He studies her face. Her tone isn’t sharp, but the words are scalpel-fine.

“You think the Hokage is fallible?”

“I think everyone is.”

She doesn’t blink.

He watches her, still.

"You wouldn’t follow the order."

“I’d ask who the genin was first.”

Her eyes flick toward the scroll again.

“Some people break under pain. Others don’t. But if you kill someone just because they came back different… maybe you’re the one who changed.”

Kageri logs the words. Catalogs them. But somewhere in the back of his chest, something shifts - quietly.

She meets his gaze again. Her blue eyes are calm. Unafraid.

"Would you follow the order?" she asks, like she’s asking about the weather.

He doesn’t answer, not because he doesn’t know, but because the certainty with which he’d once answered now feels unsteady. 

Instead, he says, “You’re afraid of execution orders.”

“I’m not,” she replies. “I’m afraid of the kind of system that gives them too easily.”

That flicker again.

He represses it. Stamps it down like a threat. It isn’t useful. It isn’t part of the mission.

She’s a variable. A target for recalibration. A subject to test and realign.

But still - something about her answer - 

He stands. Logs the tone of her voice. The slight tightening of her shoulders. The way she keeps her gaze even and unflinching.

The question wasn’t supposed to be a mirror.

And yet.

He leaves without a word.

Behind him, she returns to her scroll. Like she already knows he’ll be back.

~

Hikari’s seventh birthday passes quietly, with little fanfare. Mostly because the only people who know when her birthday is are Kakashi and Team Ro, and Team Ro had been sent out on a mission.

It’s a Friday. She wakes before dawn, as usual. Spars with Kakashi in one of the lesser-used training fields, and lands exactly three hits over the course of three hours, precisely her average. They walk back without speaking. Kakashi doesn’t say “Happy birthday,” and she doesn’t expect him to. There’s something almost kind in that omission. He remembers, but he doesn’t press.

At the apartment, she showers, changes into clean clothes, and makes a late breakfast. Rice, egg, pickled radish. She eats slowly, skimming through the latest quarterly budget reports while she chews, a pen in her free hand. Saturday’s council meeting looms like a storm on the edge of her horizon. She wants to be ready.

It’s not a bad day. Just… quiet.

She doesn’t notice the shift in his posture until much later, when the sun’s begun to set and the apartment glows gold through the windows. She’s curled in the armchair, rereading a report on patrol restructuring from the eastern quadrant. Kakashi’s at the low table, leafing through papers with all the focus of someone very deliberately not doing something else.

She glances up. He’s watching her.

“Your chakra control’s good,” he says, tone neutral. “Better than most genin. Even some chuunin. You’ve got sizeable reserves, too.”

She raises an eyebrow. “… Thank you?”

He hums, then reaches into his vest. Pulls out a sealed scroll.

“I thought - ” he begins, then pauses, rephrases. “If you want, you’re ready. For the summoning contract. The Hatake one.”

Her breath catches.

It’s not that she hadn’t thought of it. She has. Many times. But it always felt like something distant. Something she didn’t have the right to hope for. 

He’s already given her so much. His name, his clan, his history. She hadn’t dared to hope he’d offer her this, too.

She looks at him carefully. “Why?”

Kakashi holds her gaze. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something careful and gentle and hard all at once.

“Because it’s your birthday,” he says simply. “And because you deserve it. And because - ” he hesitates, just briefly. “And because I want to.”

Something aches in her chest. Just a little. Her thoughts flicker, involuntarily, painfully, to silver fur and gentle nuzzles and quiet grace.

He must see it, because his voice softens. “You’re not replacing her,” he adds quietly. “No one ever could.”

Her throat tightens. Just for a moment.

“You’re just getting another family member,” he says gently. “If you want.”

She looks down at her hands. They’re small. Callused. Steady.

Then back at him.

And nods.

“Okay,” she says.

~

The parchment is old. Older than it should be. The ink is dark, iron-scented, pulsing faintly under the weight of chakra embedded in every stroke of its coiling script. The summoning scroll lies open on the living room floor. Hikari kneels in front of it, posture straight, brush steady. Her hand does not tremble.

Kakashi stands a short distance behind her, silent and watchful, his presence as steady as always.

She dips the brush into ink. Pauses. The parchment stretches before her like a timeline. A long, long list of names, but the ones her eyes catch on are the two at the bottom. 

Hatake Sakumo.  

It’s written in neat script, every stroke of the brush done with a steady, careful, meticulous hand. And right underneath it, the writing messier, slightly lopsided, a little clumsy - 

Hatake Kakashi.

And beneath that - 

There’s nothing. Just empty space, waiting to be filled. 

Waiting for her to fill it. 

She exhales slowly. It feels not unlike standing in the Hokage’s office that day, in the breath before she’d inked her new name for the first time. 

Like standing at the edge of a precipice. Like standing at a fork in the road. Like gazing at two diverging paths, wondering which one to walk down.

Because the name she’s chosen is not the only name she’s ever had.

Two names. Two lives. One she was born into, the other she built from ashes.

Her hand moves. Smooth, deliberate.

Hatake Hikari.

The strokes are fluid. Confident. Permanent.

She pauses, just for a moment - not to hesitate, but to ground herself.

And beneath it, in smaller script but no less steady, she adds the name only two people in this world have ever spoken aloud, in a language only she can read:

Sansa Stark.

The brush leaves a faint trail of chakra as she pulls away. The ink hums, quietly, almost unnoticeably. The air feels heavier, somehow. Like it, too, is waiting.

She draws her kunai next.

There is no ceremony to it. No fear. Just motion.

A quick slice across the pad of her thumb. Blood wells to the surface. She presses her thumb to the paper. Her chakra floods the scroll.

For a moment - nothing.

The ink stays dark. The air stays still. She thinks, for one frozen breath, that perhaps it didn’t work. That she was wrong. That it was foolish, arrogant, desperate, to think something like this would obey her. That some creature from the realm of the summons would look at her and go - 

Yes. I want that one. 

And then - 

The world tears.

It doesn’t crack. It doesn’t shatter. It rips.

The air before her splits open with a sound like paper wrenched apart. A rift blooms into being - bright at the edges, but dark at its core. Time folds around it. Space fractures. Wind roars through the opening as if the world itself is inhaling - 

And out of the dark, she steps. 

Hikari’s breath hitches. The memory of fur and fire hit her like a hammer to the throat. The smell of pine sap and smoke. Singed hair. Blood burning in summer air.

~

And suddenly, she’s thirteen again, on her knees, begging for Lady’s life. She’s thirteen and terrified and her world is coming apart at the seams, because queens are meant to be good and kind and gentle and Cersei - 

Cersei has just sentenced Lady to die. 

Sansa begs. She bargains. She pleads. Please, she whispers, her voice breaking. Please, have mercy. Lady is innocent. She hasn’t done anything wrong.

The sword falls anyway. Her father’s blade, her father’s hand. Mercy, he says. Better him than the butcher. 

He tries to send Lady’s body back to Winterfell. Sansa argues. She remembers the stories Old Nan had told her, how the Kings and Queens of the North had burned their dead instead of buried, way back before Aegon’s Conquest. She’d never put much stock in Old Nan’s stories, but Lady was of the North, and she’d been royalty, in soul if not in birth, and Sansa - Sansa, at her core, couldn’t stand the idea of leaving her to rot in the ground.

She was mine, she says through her tears. I will burn her myself.

She builds the pyre under her father’s guidance. Scrapes her hands raw in process. Doesn’t care. Presses one last kiss to Lady’s cold, cold fur, and closes her wolf’s sightless eyes - and sets the whole thing ablaze. 

She watches it burn. Watches her direwolf turn to ash. Until the roaring flames die down to embers, and the scent of burning fur and flesh and pine sap clings to her skin, to her clothes, to her memory.

She doesn't cry after that. Not for days. Not when Arya screams at her later, furious and grieving in equal measure, spitting blame and sorrow in ragged breaths. Not when her father touches her face so gently it almost breaks her. Not even when someone, she forgets whom, asks where Lady’s gone.

She just… carries on. Smooths her skirts. Brushes her hair. Keeps her hands busy with stitches that never quite come out straight.

And somewhere inside her, something hardens. Cracks, then freezes.

The next time Cersei smiles, Sansa smiles back. The next time Joffrey taunts her, she curtsies lower. The next time someone tells her what to do, she does it - and memorizes every word they say, every look they cast when they think she’s too soft or stupid to notice.

Because queens are meant to be good and kind and gentle, yes - but queens of the North are something else too. Something colder. Something carved from grief and ash and the bones of wolves.

She does not forget.

She cannot forget.

Lady burns, and Sansa Stark is reborn in the smoke.

~ 

And now - 

And now - 

She’s here. Alive. Changed. But here. The ashes Sansa scattered to the wind in another world have returned, stitched together with blood and chakra and something older still. She had called, and Lady had answered. Had torn through death and time and an entire world to get to her.

As if she’s always been there. Just waiting for her to call.

And Sansa - Hikari - doesn’t know how to breathe around that kind of weight.

She stares.

And stares. 

Until her heart forgets how to beat.

Lady’s large - not as large as she once was, when Sansa had been thirteen, but still as tall as Hikari is. Her fur is thick and wild and just as silver as she remembers, but along her neck and down her chest is something new: a slash of deep, blood-red fur, like fire carved through winter. She glows faintly in the light. Her eyes are gold, ancient and knowing and sharp with recognition.

But it’s her.

The weight of her, the scent of frost and winter wind, the way the world goes quiet around her - gods. Hikari would know her anywhere, in every life, every world, every time. She feels the bond snaps into place like a drawn bow loosed toward the heart.

Finally, she swallows. Her throat seizes. Her voice, when she speaks, is the smallest she’s ever heard it. 

“… Lady?” 

The direwolf flicks her ear, takes a step forward, bends, and pushes her muzzle into Hikari’s chest.

It almost knocks her over, but she doesn’t care about that, she doesn’t care about anything except the fact that that’s exactly what her Lady had used to do, it’d been a show of affection, of tenderness and care and love and - 

She doesn’t move at first. Doesn’t breathe, doesn’t blink - barely thinks at all. Just stands there with Lady’s muzzle pressed to her chest and her hands curled tight in the wolf’s thick ruff, clinging like she’ll vanish if Hikari lets go.

She doesn’t.

The blood from her thumb smears into Lady’s fur, red against the silver. The world has narrowed down to this single point of contact - this impossible, sacred moment.

Lady is warm. Alive. Real.

And she chose her. Again.

Something inside her buckles. Not pain - just the sudden, overwhelming relief of something lost returning when she’d stopped believing in returns at all. A dam she hadn’t realized she’d built begins to strain.

Her fingers tighten, and a noise escapes her throat - small and rough, like something ancient and broken cracking open after too long underground. It’s not quite a sob. Not yet. But it threatens.

She’s seven years old. And thirteen. And older than both.

She’s a girl in a war-torn land who once believed in stories. Who watched everything she loved die. Who buried her own heart in fire and silence and moved forward anyway. Who became clever and careful and cold when she had to be.

And now - now she is none of those things. Or all of them at once.

She presses her forehead to Lady’s and closes her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice shattered. “I didn’t know how to find you. I didn’t know - if I could. If you’d still want me. Not after I failed you.”

Lady exhales, low and steady, and shifts just enough to tuck her massive head around Hikari’s shoulders, as if to shield her from the world.

Hikari thinks she might cry after all.

There’s a quiet shuffle of movement behind her - soft, deliberate steps across floorboards. Kakashi doesn’t speak. Doesn’t interrupt. He just comes to stand beside her, presence calm and unwavering. She feels him there, like a lighthouse at her back.

Eventually, she turns - not fully, just enough to look up at him. Her eyes are too bright, but she blinks once and keeps them steady.

He meets her gaze, one visible eye soft beneath the edge of his hitai-ate. He doesn’t look surprised. Not really.

“I knew she meant everything to you,” he says gently. “But I didn’t expect… this.”

Hikari swallows. “Neither did I.”

His gaze shifts to Lady, taking her in with quiet, professional assessment, the way shinobi do - but there’s something else beneath it. Something older. Contemplative.

“Animals don’t usually come back from the dead,” he says after a moment. “Especially not if they’ve died in another world.”

“They don’t,” she agrees.

Kakashi tilts his head. “Then what is she?”

Hikari doesn’t answer right away.

She brushes her fingers through the red streak of fur along Lady’s chest - soft and warm and humming faintly with chakra. There’s something more in her now. Something wilder. Older. She doesn’t move like a normal animal. Doesn’t feel like one, either.

Not quite a summon. Not quite a wolf. Not quite a memory.

Hikari looks down at her hand - bloodstained, trembling slightly. Then back at Lady, who hasn’t moved except to lean just a little closer.

“She’s mine,” Hikari says quietly, like a vow.

Kakashi is silent for a long time.

Lady growls then - not in threat, but something low and steady and protective. The kind of sound that warns the world not to try anything.

And Kakashi - Kakashi has the audacity to smile beneath his mask.

“Well,” he murmurs, “I suppose we’ll have to update the summoning registry.”

Hikari lets out a tiny, strangled noise that might almost be a laugh.

She leans into Lady again, presses her cheek to warm fur, and whispers, “Thank you.”

Thank you for coming back to me.

Thank you for forgiving me. 

Thank you for choosing me - again. Just like you always have.

~

The door to her room is open a crack.

Kakashi doesn’t push it wider. Just stands there, one shoulder braced against the frame, arms loosely folded, gaze caught in the quiet within.

Hikari is curled beneath her blanket, one arm draped loosely across Lady’s back. The wolf takes up half the futon, silver fur rippling gently with each breath. Her head rests just beside Hikari’s - not quite touching, but close. Protective. Present.

Kakashi watches the rise and fall of them both.

There’s something about it that tugs at him. Not sharply, but softly. Like pressure applied to an old bruise. A dull reminder of a wound he doesn’t flinch from anymore, but still feels.

They look like they’ve always belonged like this. Like they found their way back to something inevitable.

Hikari’s breathing deepens. She’s asleep now. Her fingers are still tangled in Lady’s ruff, small and certain.

Kakashi exhales slowly. Quietly.

And turns away.

~

The balcony door slides open with a soft click. He steps outside into the cooling air.

It’s quiet out here. The village has settled. The moon hangs low above the rooftops, casting everything in pale silver. The scent of dust and old wood clings to the air, still touched faintly by the ozone-sharp residue of summoning chakra. He feels it in his bones. His skin.

He braces his hands on the railing. Leans forward.

The night doesn’t press in on him. It just… is. Neutral and unmoved.

And Kakashi doesn’t try to fill the silence. He lets it rest over him like a blanket that doesn’t quite fit.

He’d meant the gift to be a tether. A welcome. A mark of trust - the Hatake summoning contract, passed down, inked in blood and choice. A way of saying you belong here. That she could call on something ancient, and it would answer, because of the name she now bore.

But she hadn’t needed it.

She’d summoned her own history instead. Something older than Konoha. Older than chakra. Bound not by clan or scroll, but by memory and myth.

And he hadn’t given it to her.

She had called it on her own.

Part of him is still grappling with that. Still sorting the shape of it - the awe, the disquiet, the fragile ache of standing just outside a circle that’s sacred but not his.

Because he’s not part of that story. Not the first one. And even now, after everything - after her name in the scroll, after she’d taken his history into her hands and wielded it like something living - even now, he wonders if part of her will always belong to something else.

To another time. Another version of herself. Another life.

He doesn’t resent it, not really. But he feels it. Like standing in the doorway of a home you built, watching a ghost come back and sit at the hearth - and knowing it has more right to be there than you do.

He doesn’t move for a long time.

Just stands there, arms braced on the railing, head bowed slightly as the breeze pulls at the edges of his shirt. The metal is cool beneath his fingers. Familiar. Unyielding.

And still, the thought coils in his mind, unshakable:

Someone came back for her.

He doesn't begrudge her that. Of course he doesn’t. It’s good, what happened. It's right. He saw it in her face - the stillness, the wonder, the grief cracking open to make space for something softer. He saw what it gave her.

But it sharpens the contrast in him, all the same.

Because no one ever came back for him.

Not Minato. Not Obito. Not Rin. Not his father. Not even in dreams. No whispered voices through the smoke, no impossible resurrections. Just memory. Just silence. Just the act of waking up every morning and choosing to go on, because no one ever reached out a hand and said, I missed you.

But Lady had.

Lady had come back.

And not as a reflection, or an echo. Not summoned from some far-off forest to answer the pull of a name on a scroll.

No.

She had torn open the world to return.

For her. For Hikari.

And Kakashi doesn’t know what to do with that.

He tips his head back. The moon’s still hanging there - full, silver, too bright to look at directly. The kind of moon that makes shadows sharper. That makes you remember things best left buried.

She found her way back.

His hands tighten on the railing.

And I couldn’t even find my way forward.

That’s the thing of it. The jagged truth he’s been circling all night.

She has a past that reached out and pulled her home.

He has a past that swallowed everyone he ever loved and left him behind to sweep up the pieces.

It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t really. She’s here. She’s safe. She’s still that little girl with steel in her spine and secrets in her eyes, who makes rice with precision and argues like a politician many times her age. She’s the reason he comes home. The reason the silence in the apartment doesn’t echo anymore.

But still -

He wishes, in a way that hurts more than he expects, that he had been enough.

Just him.

Just Kakashi.

Not as a teacher or shield or prodigy, not as someone who can offer her something, but as something stripped bare and aching and broken - but still enough. Still wanted.