Word Count: 6,220

Dedicated to Zhang Sizheng: Darling, you bring the best out of me. This is by far the most taxing writing has ever been for me. I worked on this for a long time and you know that, for all the times I've harrassed you because I was stumped. :D Some of these prompts came really easy for me, I whipped some out in about half and hour or more. Others, it took me days, I worried over every word and I'm still not completely happy with some. However, I wrote all of this for you, and I really hope you enjoy it. You are wonderful.

To my readers: These prompts are not in chronological order, but they all occur within the same universe and in some prompts I made little references to others. This basically keeps to canon, but I added bits and pieces of my own history in. I see Kakashi in many different ways, and this fic is just one of them; even if you don't necessarily agree, I hope you enjoy.

Thanks to CollaneR who allowed me to bounce ideas off her and really worked with me on this. She stayed up with me into ridiculous hours of the a.m. and humored me while I frequently fiddled away my time with bullshit. She is invaluable to me and with her my writing has improved in so many ways. Thank you.

Blind

The hospital room was chilly; the hum and the breeze from the air conditioner monotonous and soothing as the sole conscious occupant of the room shifted in his seat. Outside, the world was buzzing with life, fireflies blinked on and off in the distance, and cicadas whirred their mating song as they made their home in the trees. Crickets chirped and frogs croaked, hopping happily in the man made pond out in the courtyard. At any other time, the sheer abundance of life would have teased a smile from the lips of the young blond man that now sat, unmoving, in the hard plastic chair by the bed of a child. He wasn't a morose person by nature, not at all. This man had no shortage of jokes and jibes and funny little stories to tell any who wanted to listen.

Tonight, however, there was no smile on his face and the tension in the lines of his body spoke only of a burden equal parts guilt and pity. The knuckles that clutched the sheets were white and trembling slightly, his hands were clammy and stiff from being stationary for so long. His shoulders were hunched and his body language was defensive; he curled slightly around the body of the prone white-haired boy, protecting him from invisible monsters and shielding from the looks of hatred that were not meant for him.

The man had been sitting there for hours, weeks, years; long enough for time to run together and stop making sense, for his figure to start to look haggard and for the stubble on his chin to start to grow into a scruffy little beard. He couldn't remember the last time he actually ate. Friends and family had made their rounds, bringing by homecooked meals and his favorite foods, trying to cajole and bribe and threaten him to eat. None of it had worked until one male nurse had pointed out that he would be no good to his charge if he were half dead upon his awakening. After that day, he had started to choke down portions of his meals, his throat rough and tight, guilt forcing the food back up, and duty forcing it back down.

He was a capable shinobi, one of the best, some say. He had lived through many battles and had come out of many of them physically unscathed. He was assassin, he excelled at espionage and reconnaissance, his speed was unmatched, and his intelligence was something of legend. It was eating him alive that he couldn't see the deterioration of a boy that had been by his side nearly everyday for the past five years. It killed him that even now he could not remember when it had started, or even if it always was. He didn't know the cause or what it would take to make it abate. He knew nothing.

The man lifted his head from where it had been resting on the mattress and looked towards the door, eyes half-lidded and slightly glazed. The male nurse had eased his head through the doorway and was looking at him, expression blank and assuming nothing. He walked and moved quickly across the room, stooping to pick up the half-eaten food tray from the floor next to the distraught man. He left the room with a quick glance at the boy's vitals, checking his heart rate monitor and leaving once he was satisfied.

The man next to the bed laid his head down once more; the antiseptic smell of the hospital wafting in and settling in the slightly stale air of the room. He watched the shadows on the walls dance and move, running his hand down the too-pale arm of the other, listening to the boy's shallow breathing and allowing himself to take comfort in it.

The man exhaled a tired breath, leaning forward on an impulse and pressing his chapped lips to a clammy forehead. He settled himself down in the chair and wondered if the boy would wake in time for his father's funeral.

A cicada settled itself on the outside of the window glass and buzzed.

Revelation

It was a lazy late summer day; the air outside was stifling, and the humidity caused his mask to cling to the contours of his lean face, suffocating him and forcing him inside. Sweat dripped down from underneath his forehead protector and his thick hair made him feel as if he were wearing a polyester wig. His thin cotton shorts stuck to his thighs and his legs, in turn, stuck to the bed; and although bare chested, the heat was so great that skin was sticking to skin, and if he were one to romanticize, he would say that even the air took form and draped itself over his body.

Idealistically, today was the type of day to laze about with friends, telling jokes that weren't funny, but in the magic that was youth and a hot summer day, everything seemed better than it really was. It was a day to brave the heat and go to the famous ice cream parlor in the civilian section of town; to get a double scoop of vanilla and rush to eat it before it melted down the sides of the cone and ended up a sticky sweet mess on the heated sidewalk. It was a day for watching clouds underneath the shadows of trees in the large park by the outskirts of town; to go skinny-dipping in the quiet little lake by the nature trail.

Days like these were supposed to burn the weight off his shoulders and stir up the mischievous boy inside of him that liked to play with his dogs and pull his father's hair. Or so someone once said.

But this man—the man sitting on the bed maskless and with heavy limbs—had never had such memories, and didn't concern himself with missing them. Even as a child, duty and honor always came before frivolities and leisure. At the time, the taste of victory and strength and the scent of another man's fear were sweeter than candy on the tip of his tongue. He didn't see the chicken or the elephant or the Hokage Monument in the clouds; he saw a visible mass of water droplets moving and contorting with the wind.

His sensei had told him once that shinobi like him would no longer be necessary in the future; he had scoffed and continued to train. He looks back and thinks it might be ironic that the one quality of youth he allowed himself to retain was the attitude that time stood still.

The man rolled over on his bed, peeling his skin from the sheets and settling on his back with a grunt of effort. He can hear the screaming children from down the block and across the road, untouchable in the heat and invincible in the season. If he listens hard enough, he can hear the enraged screaming of his students; two of them yelling and the other trying not to look as annoyed as he felt. He can remember their spats and how incredibly inept they were. How hopeless they were at chakra control and teamwork, how they moaned and whined when they had to go back to the basics.

They were young then, wide-eyed and inexperienced, eager to see the world and naïve to all it had to offer that they would never want. They wore their emotions on their sleeves at that time, they smiled when they were happy, pouted when they were upset, cried when they were sad. His team had hated each other at first, because they hadn't been taught that they didn't matter, and that the mission was everything. His team grew up slowly and awkwardly, thrust into horrible situations and always finding their way out.

They were great, now; two of them being able to decimate mountains and the other with pools of blood for eyes. He'd taken them out for ice cream once, on a day like today. They had bickered like senseless children, and still gotten angry when he was late. They haven't changed, not really; two are still boisterous and one is still reserved. They seem to grow less like him with each passing year.

Somewhere, someone very far away smiled.

Here, Kakashi leaned back against the head board and understood.

Hysteria

It was drizzling; not enough that it warranted an umbrella, but there were some women and children taking shelter underneath the awnings of the closed shops in the town center. As it was, it was only mildly uncomfortable for Kakashi. His mask hadn't yet begun to really cling to his face, and the tips of his hair only drooped slightly with clinging drops of spring rain. The sun was still visible behind some slowly moving clouds, and the sky looked like it was torn between being overcast or sunny.

All in all, it was an infuriatingly normal day. The birds that were perched on the tops of building and in the thick of the trees still chirped from time to time; utterly oblivious to the somber mass of villagers slowly following a polished oak coffin. Kakashi's hands were clenched tightly, shoved into his pockets to mask their trembling. He was all but invisible except to the most skilled of ninja, and he wouldn't have it any other way. He didn't need to be surrounded by grieving people who didn't even know the man, and he had had enough pity to last him a lifetime. Kakashi faded into the shadows cast by the T&I headquarters like he had been born in them, grinding his teeth at the merry animals that frolicked and played like the world didn't fall in on itself exactly one week ago.

It was ten minutes later that the coffin was finally set down, right in the middle of the busiest intersection in Konoha. It was unorthodox, yes. But there wasn't much left of Konoha, and the Hokage's tower had been felled like building blocks, one of the Kyuubi's mighty tails laying waste to nearly a quarter of Konoha with a off-handed flick. Kakashi leapt three stories to the ground, landing in a crouch and slightly favoring his injured left leg. He got up immediately, hands held behind a back that was ram-rod straight, and took his place next to Jiraiya.

The funeral went on for two hours, with every shinobi (the few that were left) walking by the Fourth's coffin and paying their respects, the villagers following their lead and staring in awe at the man that subdued the Great Fox. When Kakashi strode up after many of the crowd had dispersed, he froze. He stared down at the face of the man that had been his everything for the past nine years, and for once, Kakashi didn't know what to think.

How long he stood there for, Kakashi can never remember, but he was snapped out of his daze by a large hand settling on his shoulder, squeezing slightly and trying to gently lead him away. Kakashi resisted, reaching up one steady hand to remove the eyepatch from his left eye. It throbbed as he stared down at the Fourth, protesting as he willed it to work and remember. Kakashi's knees buckled and the hand on his shoulder held him up, more insistently trying to guide him away. Kakashi resisted one last time, stretching out his hand to lightly tap his sensei's forehead.

Jiraiya pulled down his eye patch and led him home.

His apartment was filthy; covered in dust and dog hair, the slightly open window letting in pollen and leaves. Kakashi's first thought was to clean, and as he made his way to his bathroom to get the cleaning supplies, it was truly the only thing on his mind. But as he walked through his living room and got a glimpse of himself in the mirror, his plans changed. He had only a few moments to fall to his knees and summon his dogs.

Within seconds, the world turned on its side.

Closet

The tension in the air was heady. He could smell the fear rippling off of his targets in waves; he could hear the choked sobs, and it delighted him. Here in the forest surrounding his village, there was a feeling of familiarity, an air of excitement as he hunted. There was silence all about as he whizzed through the trees, dancing past leaves that rustled as they would in the wind. He was a wraith that terrified and pursued, a shadow that most doubted existed—he was a flash of silver in a sea of black, the monster under the bed, the demon in the closet.

The moon was full, and the night hung over him like a velvet blanket, possessing him, his body thrumming with lust and hot chakra as he became one with the savage creatures that lived in the mountains. A drop of his own blood sealed their bond as his hands flew through seals; gloved hands precise and graceful as he summoned the hounds.

The forest dimmed in a haze of grey mist that compacted and then dispersed, parting to first expose the thick jowls and gnashing teeth of the alpha male. His pack surrounded him—five wild-eyed males that growled low in their throats, ripping up the bark of the trees with their claws. They were restless. The alpha circled about the pack, fangs glinting as he deferred to their master. The man with the image of a hound on his mask growled deep and low, digging the nails of his sable gloves deep into the trunk of an old oak.

In an instant, the hounds were loosed, howling balefully into the deep forest to signal the start of the hunt.

The animals of the forest erupted in a cacophony of sound. Howls and shrieks filled the air with discordance and fear. The faceless mask tasted apotheosis and reveled in it—he was drunk on it and willed it to settle in his bones.

He was on his prey in a flash of silver and a glint of red, he swallowed up his cries with a swift and deadly attack; shattering bone and ripping through flesh. He was in his element, driven by basest instinct and past failures that quickened every blow.

A sniveling mess of a man lay at his feet, broken and sobbing incoherent pleas. A samurai sword lay broken on the ground a few yards away. The target reached for it, hand inching closer and closer, clawing through the dirt and drawing blood that welled up under his fingernails as the masked man watched impassively, settling back on his haunches and cocking his head in a way that suggested curiosity.

In one smooth movement, he slit his throat with a kunai. The hunter listened to the blood gurgle in his throat and watched his hand spasm in short jerks, leaving ridges and little puddles of blood in the dirt as the light slowly faded from his eyes.

The ANBU stood as his pack returned with the corpse of a young man, their muzzles slick with blood and other fluids, one of the legs of their victim held tightly in the jaws of the smallest hound.

The pack dropped the body haphazardly at his feet and retreated, gazing at their master as they grouped together, their feral eyes asking permission—demanding more.

The hunter lifted up his porcelain mask and took a few steps away from the body, his sandals squelching in the bloody mud. Kakashi then ran a gloved hand through his hair and stopped on an afterthought, turning on his heel and walking back to the bodies. He reached into what was left of the vest of the second and pulled out a scroll. With an off-handed flick of his wrist, his dogs descended, ripping into the torso and neck of the man Kakashi left behind.

The euphoria of the kill lingered in the air, sending shivers down Kakashi's spine and dislodging stray droplets of blood from the tips of his slate grey hair.

In a flurry of motion and a quick burst of blinding chakra, Kakashi was tearing through the forest—twisting and reaching and somersaulting—, leaves whipping against his face and branches ripping bloody tracks through his skin. His passage through the woods was undeniably sinful; he writhed and growled and panted. He ached, and it excited him.

Kakashi's eyes slid closed and he fitted his mask back over his face. In that instant, the world slowed, the darkness melding against his body. He reveled in it, and in return, the forest swallowed him whole.

Past

Kakashi started reading Icha Icha when he was just fourteen, mindless and not yet grown into his limbs. Jiraiya had thrown it on his hospital bed the night after his sensei sacrificed himself to the Great Fox, the night after Kakashi had to be dragged, kicking and screaming, from the battlefield. He'd been half out of his mind, then; there had been poison flowing through his veins and he hadn't been able to breathe. Kakashi had lain face-first in a puddle of his own vomit and blood, convulsing and shivering, eyes glossy, until Asuma had come for him, tearing down his mask and shoving a meaty finger in his mouth to scrape out the gunk, pounding his back so hard that his eyes watered. It had been about ten more minutes before he realized what had happened—and then Kakashi had no more memories of anything past wanting to kill kill kill everyone in sight.

When Kakashi awoke, his wrists were broken and his mouth felt like cotton; Jiraiya was standing by the door, face grim and unrepentant. He'd tossed a stack of wrinkled papers bound with unraveling twine on the bed and told him to shut up and lay back, because he was going to hear a goddamned story whether he wanted to or not.

That night, Jiraiya told him a bedtime story. He wedged himself up by the head of the bed and tucked Kakashi under his arm, telling him about love and life and a happy ending so unreal that Kakashi couldn't help but believe it. He sat by him as his wrists were set and repaired; he looked the other way when Kakashi scratched at his own thighs until they bled.

The next night, Jiraiya snuck Kakashi out of the hospital and into a bar, and bought him what seemed like enough beer to intoxicate half the village. Kakashi drank like he'd been doing it his whole life, knocking down shots and draining mugs until the world blurred together and he forgot why he wore a mask in the first place. The bar was loud, Jiraiya was off carousing, and Kakashi seethed, grinding his teeth together, clenching his fists until his nails dug half-moon shapes into the leather of his gloves. He wasn't thinking—he couldn't think—he was foggy and fucked in all the ways that would kill him out in the battlefield and dammit he was better than that. He laid his cheek against the cooling wood of the bar, clinking ice cubes against the side of his glass, barely stopping himself from sinking down to the floor.

Kakashi didn't remember it, but he had sex that evening. Not long after giving up for the night, a pretty woman approached him, sidling up to his barstool and appraising him, using the tip of her red lacquered nails to trace the curves of his face. His mask was down and his lips were a bitten red, standing out against his pale skin and shock of grey hair. Kakashi sat almost still, unable to keep himself from leaning into her touch, her hands hot against the cool of his face.

He was drawn to her, and she allowed it, beckoning him to a back room. Kakashi followed her, dazed and unsure, stumbling once and standing as straight as his body would permit. He wanted her with an intensity that unnerved him, and as he watched the sway of her hips in her skin-tight black dress, he shuddered and lusted.

The room where they fucked was dusty and dingy, the mattress thin and the walls even thinner—nothing more than a glorified broom closet with a bed and a battered lowboy with three wobbly legs. The sex wasn't fantastic—it wasn't even good. Kakashi didn't see fireworks and the earth didn't shake even once. It was sloppy and awkward, and Kakashi's knees and elbows just didn't seem to fit anywhere, and he missed. It was over almost before it began and Kakashi collapsed, his head resting on the swell of the woman's breasts as she held him, no doubt unsatisfied as she looked at him—all long limbs and rounded face.

Kakashi woke up in his own bed, head pounding and spit crusted on the left side of his face. He ached, his limbs were stiff and he felt far older than he had in a very long time. The Icha Icha book that Jiraiya had given him was on his bedside table, disorderly and scattered. He felt like shit, and wanted to do nothing more than roll over and die in his place; his sensei was still dead and most of Konoha was toppled like a child's building blocks. The funeral was next week and Kakashi wasn't ready. The young man turned onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillow.

Later, he would wake again and pick up the manuscript lying on his nightstand. He would read it and forget to eat.

Kakashi started reading Icha Icha from fourteen years old and he doesn't know why, but it always reminded him of safe.

Children

It was a sunny day; the grass was green, birds were singing and Kakashi was relatively pleased that no one was trying to kill him as he read through the climax of his special edition Icha Icha Violence. It could be overlooked that the bark of the old oak tree he was resting against was rough and uncomfortable, and that he was pretty sure that a group of about four or five red ants were trying to make a new colony in the heel of his right sandal.

Kakashi tilted his head to the left to avoid a wayward kunai that embedded itself in the the trunk of the tree with a heavy thunk.

Ah, yes. He should have known that Sasuke wouldn't have taken kindly to being strung up in a tree by his ankles, but in Kakashi's defense, Sasuke was being a bit of a brat again. Which, to be completely fair, was a normal occurrence in the lives of Team Seven; it just so happened that Kakashi was the only one who noticed, what with Sakura worshipping the ground Sasuke walked on, and Naruto being utterly clueless.

Besides, wasn't that a part of his job as a sensei? To guide and mentor his cute little students, hammering out weird personality traits (completely disregarding his own in the process) and forcing them to work together?

Kakashi leapt up, attaching his feet to the tree and walking up to the highest branch where he proceeded to sit cross-legged and continue reading—upside-down. He flipped through his book, blushing lightly and giggling through pages thirty-two through forty-five, looking up only once to make sure Sakura was still breathing. She'd screamed quite loudly for the first ten minutes; quite frankly, Kakashi hadn't thought it was possible. Besides, Sakura would forgive him eventually. It really was her fault for falling for the same genjutsu twice, and the mud would do her skin wonders.

A shuriken was hurled towards his head and Kakashi caught it and twirled it around his finger without batting an eye, utterly dismayed. He'd told Naruto time and time again to put some chakra behind it; Kakashi couldn't decide if Naruto was trying to build up muscle, or if he was just dense. He was leaning towards the latter, however; one couldn't forget that just two weeks prior, Naruto had thought it a good idea to capture kittens by throwing kunai with rope tied to the handle.

Kakashi—he was in the innocent one in this whole mess, see. He took time out of his busy schedule to take on a group of genin and train them to become elite killers. He sat and devised brilliant and intricate lessons and mock-missions to stimulate their young and impressionable minds. And it's wasn't like he didn't learn from their experiences either—to be frank, he's learned an awful lot.

Like to not let Naruto lead missions (even in practice), that exploding tags can be used till fields, and, perhaps most importantly, that most people do not like being trussed up and kidnapped from their rooms at five in the morning. All of his efforts were for the betterment of his students, one hundred percent of the time, and what did he get out of it? Poorly-aimed kunai and threats on his life.

Screw the council—his bloodline be damned—Kakashi didn't need any(more) kids.

Illness

A small young medic walked at a brisk pace through the winding halls of the Special Ops Infirmary, looking the very picture of a haggard intern as she balanced a stack of medical charts and manila folders in her arms, wisps of hair falling away from her orderly bun. In her head, she counted the doors as she passed them, nervously shifting her bundle as she drew near to the most classified wing in the hospital. The medic fumbled through the pockets of her scrubs, reaching for her clearance to show the two guards stationed by the entrance of the fifth wing.

She reached them quickly, keeping her head down as she presented her ID, shuffling in swiftly when they opened the intimidating metal doors. They inclined their head after her but she didn't dare look, the dark eyeholes in their otherwise pristine masks were unnerving—even more terrifying than being in charge of monitoring one of the most dangerous men in the village.

The hallway was quiet and her footsteps echoed loudly on the tiles, every step seeming to reverberate and crack off the beige walls, ricocheting towards her and making her flinch. The ceiling was beige as well, and every door was colored a uniform shade of steel blue. The medic focused hard, willing herself not to get lost in the monotony as she came to a stop in front of a door in the middle of the hall. She hefted her load onto one arm as she placed her hand above the doorknob, forcing chakra out through her palm and releasing the seal placed there.

The door swung open and she tip-toed in, placing her materials on a small plastic table to the side of the bed. The medic's hands shook and she fumbled the pen that she had taken from behind her ear until it clattered to the floor and rolled to a stop underneath the bed. She was nervous, and understandably so—Hatake Kakashi was staring at her, both of his eyes open and piercing as his Sharingan whirled lazily. Time seemed to slow as she held her breath, unable to tear her gaze away from his, her mouth dry and her mind blank.

It was impossible to forget that this ex-ANBU was the only one ever to have been involuntarily "removed" from the ranks without being disposed of or killed in action. The higher-ups didn't want him dead, see—he was still useful, he was still the golden child that killed thousands and split lightening before it touched the ground. Kakashi was perfect. He was impassive and efficient and ruthless, he killed without asking questions and returned to do it again. He was a hunter, and it felt like he was sizing her up.

The medic let out a soft puff of air and the gaze broke. Kakashi snorted softly and closed his eyes, turning his head away from her and flexing his arms against his restraints. The nurse bustled about the room, fiddling with machines and taking notes, nudging her glasses back up her nose every few steps and trying to make conversation. She told Kakashi how he'd be released soon enough and that the council had been debating his case almost non-stop for the last few days. Kakashi never answered—not that she'd been expecting him to—his head was lolled back and he seemed almost vacant, completely at odds with the sharp-eyed hunter she had witnessed mere minutes ago.

The young woman lingered in the middle of the room, shifting slightly from foot to foot, her preliminary check completed. She was uncomfortable and it was distressing that despite being a medic for more than a decade, shivers still ran down her spine. Kakashi was just a man—a facsimile of a man prone to violent fits when agitated, that shifted from alert to unaware with frightening irregularity.

She felt dirty, and the Konoha leaf stitched into the breast of her uniform seemed to burn, taking form and singeing itself onto her skin. Konoha broke this man, molding a monster from thin bones and chubby cheeks, existing inside his head and planting seeds of discipline and duty and village. They made him and they discarded him, tucking him away until their mistake was forgotten, summoning him when he was needed to kill.

The medic yearned, but she would never be able to save him. She was nothing more than an emissary of the council; a little finger on the hand on the arm of a village with secrets larger than life. The only thing she could do was pray, and hope beyond hope that Kakashi's liver did fail, or that the break in his leg was irreparable. But it never—her heart twisted for every obstacle he survived.

There was nothing wrong with him, really, Kakashi was just a little bit crazy.

The medic signed the papers approving Kakashi's release, snatching her folders from the tabletop and sweeping out of the room without a backwards glance, closing the door with a firm click and sealing Kakashi inside. She rested her back against the doorway and slid to the ground.

Naked/Nude

Some days, Kakashi watches people, and he likes it, because it's not necessary and his life doesn't depend on it.

Usually, he watches them from the corner of his eye and his porn, counting their steps and watching the sway of hips down the street and around the corner. They never notice, because he's good at what he does, and he blends into the crowd in a way he shouldn't be able to, not with a bright orange book and mess of silver-grey hair. He does it often and unconciously, focusing and unfocusing on the mundane and blandly normal, counting the glossy black hairs on Kurenai's head, numbering the scars that crawl up Shikaku's face and into his hair.

Sometimes, when he's sick or just too tired of the world, Kakashi watches from out of his apartment window, from between Mr. Ukki and another nameless plant, where the leaves give the little people walking the street hats of living green, and it's funny, in a way, because Ibiki doesn't wear hats. He makes a game out of it, and wonders who will jump over the gaping hole in the middle of the road, and who will walk around it. Iruka always walks around it on his way from the academy, messenger bag stuffed full of red-marked papers and purple pens, hair disorderly and frazzled—Kakashi finds it ironic.

Kakashi likes watching civilians best because he doesn't know them, and doesn't understand them; he makes stories about them, intricate and real ones. The little boy who walks by his house every Tuesday, Thursday, and sometimes Saturday is a delivery boy. He always carries a big brown box, and his stubby little arms can't quite wrap around it, and Kakashi imagines that it's a great box of curry, and the little boy works because he has to. He could have a little brother or a little sister or a sick mother just like Kakashi did.

There's a red-head, a pretty young woman with soft curves and ruby red lips. She goes into the apartment across the street from Kakashi every Monday and Friday. She never stays very long, maybe a hour or two, and when she comes out, she always limps. Once, when Kakashi was in the middle of chapter twenty-two and Junko was about to go there, the red-head came out after three hours, with a shoulder that hung rather funny, and angry red handprint on the side of her face—she was smiling faintly and the way she walked evenly, one foot after the other, suggested to Kakashi that it burned, and she liked it.

Kakashi likes her best, even more than the little boy and the old man with the hickory cane and the box full of pastries that goes to visit his not-quite grandchildren every Wednesday without fail. Kakashi thinks that she's the type of woman who would have a birthmark behind her left knee and prefer her coffee black.

Kakashi dissects them almost like he did when he was still in ANBU, probing and discovering; he strips them until they're nothing but skin on muscle on bone. He understands people better than way, when they have nothing to hide and he can imagine nothing but an expanse of skin and history lurking beneath the surface.

Kakashi knows everyone he sees, and that makes him a good ninja—he won't become great until he fully understands himself.

(He thinks that he might like his coffee black, too.)

Belated

Kakashi died in his sleep on a frosty winter night, tucked into bed with his favorite Icha Icha book on his chest and his remaining nin-dogs curled up on the floor. Nobody could have predicted it, and that made his team smile, because Kakashi was so unpredictable; with an ace up his right sleeve and a kunai up his left, Naruto would fondly say. Brilliant and hardy even in his old age, out-living Gai by scant months—a fact he both boasted and mourned.

Kakashi aged like a fine wine; growing better and sweeter and stronger, leaving a lingering aftertaste wherever he went, as feared in his retirement as he was in his youth. He didn't read porn so much in public anymore, his good eye was failing, although Obito's eye still spun with the same intensity as in his twenties—the irony was not lost on Kakashi.

Death had never been something Kakashi feared; he'd seen so much of it in his lifetime, had reveled in it in his worst days. He was a shinobi through and through, it was ingrained in every cell and it ran in his veins. He lived his life for the village and because of the village, serving with every bit of the heart that he had left. Kakashi had seen many, many things in his life, and he wasn't proud of most of them—up until his very last breath, he was convinced that the single most defining moment of his life was when Sasuke returned and called him sensei.

Team Seven made him proud, and he'd never tell, but he considered them family, and loved them like he would his children. He saw them grow and his heart ached in his chest when he remembered what they used to be, his Sharingan throbbed when Naruto became Hokage. He looked just like his father and Kakashi nearly cried.

Most of his nin-dogs fell in battle and Kakashi wept for every one, locking himself in his apartment and trying the pick up the scents that they left behind. Pakkun died when Kakashi was thirty-five and his world got a little darker, Sakura bought him a plush dog and sat it on his window sill. Kakashi named it Junta-kun and talked to him every once in a while. Losing Pakkun still hurt, but Sakura thought of him.

Kakashi still visited the memorial stone daily, tracing the growing list of names with his scarred fingers, remembering until it hurt. Death was a very real thing for Kakashi, and he never expected (never deserved) to live as long as he did. His team would understand that it was a relief, in a way, to die.

He had a score to settle with Gai, afterall. Like he'd let the big oaf win at anything.