A little ficlet of an idea I liked enough to write down, even though I doubt I'll continue it. Badass grandpas tho.
(Also, time travel? Time travel. No regrets there.)
They were somewhat wary of him at first, but as an 'old, travel-weary sixty years old man' (he wouldn't tell them yet that he looked much younger than really he was; maybe he never would), they'd lost that edge quite quickly. He would have found it troubling, and would have even gone to the point of scolding them for underestimating possible enemies, if he hadn't been so amused at the waving off, even more given who exactly they had as their current leader.
Honestly, ANBU these days. When he was Hokage...
Settling down hadn't been too difficult, if a bit troublesome at first. He'd found little Naruto quickly, the same day he'd entered the village in fact, and with a warm bowl of ramen to sanctify the reunion it had been easy to learn his name. Of course, that had been after meeting with the Sandaime.
Ah, the Sandaime. That had been an amusing, if slightly bewildering meeting, all things considered. To think that the man he'd called Jiji once was younger than him...well, he'd almost burst out laughing at some points of the meeting. Bless shinobi training for that.
But alas, he'd understood the kind of strain that came with wearing the hat in an age better spent enjoying one's retirement, so he'd made it quite easy for the man when telling his story. The added plus of sounding more truthful helped.
Of course, he hadn't told much of the truth at all. He'd admitted to having been a shinobi during his early life, a genin, but having forgone the profession when his village had fell (truth, all things considered, if not at all). He'd affiliated himself with Uzushio, painted himself as a freshly minted genin who'd escaped the massacre by being taken away from the battle, thrust into one of the hiding places where other survivors had stayed until the battle was long over, under orders of his Kage. He knew it was what he would've done in such a circumstance, put civilians and genin to safety while higher ranked shinobi fought on the battlefield, and he'd known for a long time that it had been what the Yondaime had done during the Kyuubi attack.
He had been believed, both in that account and in his retelling of wandering the lands after Uzushio's fall, with a little group of civilian survivors and a young Chunnin who'd taken care of him like a brother.
He'd made sure of being vague while precise enough, to answer the Hokage's questions to the man's satisfaction, and wipe out as much doubt as he could about how he'd managed to live to such old age ("Luck. It's a weird one at times, but it follows me like a lost child") or about his still present, if hidden as best as he could, shinobi mannerisms (No home, nowhere to be really safe...was it that strange he'd never lost what he'd learned in his short career, and then with his Chunnin companion/foster brother?).
And he'd been let through.
Now, his meeting with his younger self had surely sparked some suspicion. Hard not to do, when dealing with paranoid shinobi, even if it had been a honest coincidence.
A little present of luck, maybe.
('Fate', he remembered a faraway voice once saying, with the conviction that came with overzealousness on a higher entity or those who clung with teeth and nail to an ideal, an excuse, a reason about why the world would create such pain, would be so filled with hate and blood. Ah, Neji, he'd long forgotten about the boy's face, if never the echo of that sad, convinced voice of a child who tried to reason his condemnation. And then the great man he'd become.)
And oh, had it been amusing to feign shock, surprise, and explain with a kind voice that he, too, shared the Uzumaki surname. And the way young child had looked at him-
He'd been reminded of the faces of little orphans after telling them he'd like to adopt them, take them under his wing and as his own, and that had clenched his heart in a way he'd been entirely unprepared for.
He'd really been such a sad child.
After that, it had been a blurry of visiting the Hokage, the six years old child clinging to his pants all the way, and a terse conversation that had flown completely over the kid's head, though he wouldn't have been surprised if Naruto had managed to gleam more out of it than any six years old should rationally be able to.
He'd always been a peculiar child, and sharper than expected by anyone in some areas.
(Though he wouldn't deny that his enemies thoroughly underestimating him had been a huge help in that field. He was old enough to accept his flaws and not let arrogance cloud his head anymore.)
At the end, the conclusion had been the same anyway. The boy had been invited to his newly acquired house (he'd been quick like that, forbidding himself of a warm cup of ramen until he found a place to stay, a safe place where to put his wards first thing and then leave his traveling sack), invitation which the six years old had taken to with a big smile and an excited and hopeful glint in his eyes.
Naruto had helped unpack his things before nightfall.
And Arashi, his bones slightly achy from the prolonged work and movement but satisfied and happy all the same, had laughed when the blond child had tried to pin a piece of parchment with some kanji to the wall, just to lose balance and almost fall off the chair.
(Arashi was happy that he still could do the shunshin quickly and effortlessly enough to get there and catch the child under the armpits before he fell head-first, and in a much smaller scale relieved that the little tumble hadn't torn the paper in Naruto's hand and rendered the seal painted behind with a mix of chakra and invisible ink unusable. It had been a present from Kakashi before his death, after all, and he'd always cherished it.)
All in all, it had been a good day.
