The diner was small and fading and smelled vaguely of deep-fried grease and coffee beans. A bell attached to the door jangled cheerfully as the pair entered; an ancient waitress looked up from washing the counter with a rag that looked as old as she was. She brightened and waved. In the far corner, a wrinkled old man gnawed on a chicken leg and Sakura wondered if he knew that it was three in the morning. Kakashi responded to the woman's wave by raising two of his fingers in greeting.
"Just a pot of coffee, Rosalind, thanks."
The woman smiled, her face leathery and creased. "Sure thing!"
Sakura tried with some difficulty to not gape at this open display of friendliness on his part. Noticing her expression, and accurately interpreting it, Kakashi grabbed the crook of her elbow and chose a booth. A moment of silence passed, and Sakura wondered just what color silence would be if it was visible. As if reading her thoughts, Kakashi reached up and adjusted his headband. Hm. Silver, definitely, like his hair or his hitai-ate or the moon on late-night missions.
They sat on opposite sides of the table, an appropriate distance away from each other. The pink-haired kunoichi leaned on her elbows, chin on hands. The position always reminded her of Sasuke. Steeple-fingered. Blank eyes. Sakura licked her lips, and sat back in her seat, refusing to think of her old teammate. To clear her mind, she murmured the words that had been stewing around in her thoughts all night. "Do you believe in God, sensei?"
A silver eyebrow was raised, and a silver silence. Her former teacher ran a gloved hand through his hair and– was that remorse she saw clouding his lone eye?
From his side of the table, Kakashi observed the only female from Team 7 wordlessly. What were her motives for asking such a thing? Did she want a theological debate or an honest answer? This girl –this woman– was harder to predict than the Sasuke-obsessed genin he had once known.
"Are you asking if I believe there is a god, or if I trust in him?"
A wry smile. "I– hadn't really thought about it." She tossed her hand indifferently. "Whichever."
Either way, Kakashi wasn't sure. In the traditional sense, he wasn't a very pious person, but he did have to wonder. . . hadn't he formed some sort of religion out of his grief? In a sudden, dark moment, he imagined the memorial as his idol and Icha Icha Paradise as his priest.
Surely he wasn't the only one to resort to such tactics, if that's what you could call it. Genma worshiped women, for example. But then Genma was one perverted bastard. . . and he couldn't think of any of his other friends who found faith in the mind-numbing depths of their obsessions.
Perhaps that's what religion had once been, in its most primitive state. An obsession. Not necessarily with porno literature or the female form, but with survival– being resurrected or reincarnated; going to heaven or hell, or the afterlife. Was his grief an obsession?
Rosalind was humming when she came up to the table, coffeepot in hand. She poured black, steamy liquid into two mugs and threw a wink over her shoulder as she left. The swinging door of the kitchen swished open as the older woman entered, exposing the belly of the restaurant like a gaping mouth. Kakashi brought the hot coffee to his lips and sipped. This place was unlike a bar, where he could guzzle drinks with nary a care in the world. Here it was too bright to fake numbness.
Across the table, Sakura was waiting for an answer. He recognized a certain look on her face: the starry-eyed sensualism that the anonymity of clubs can bring. It was fading, just fast enough for her to muddle through her thoughts and express them, without really considering the consequences of such an action.
It would be so easy to tell her flatly that no, he didn't believe in God, don't be so ridiculous.
But that would be the cowardly way out. Kakashi wasn't a coward, or so he liked to believe. There were two feasible options: one, have a heart-to-heart, or two, have an intellectual discussion.
Sighing, Kakashi leaned forward and began to explain Anselm's ontological theory and the various off-shooting ideas that had been proposed.
-
"What did you mean– earlier?"
His voice seemed to float across the darkness. The pair of jounin walked along the roadside, in the direction of Sakura's home.
It was funny; even in the dark, Kakashi could swear she was subtly glowing, like a campfire no one had bothered to put out from the night before. When men fell for her, they fell hard, and he was beginning to understand why. A person would never feel cold in her presence.
Sakura prepared herself to respond to his previous question, mouth parted slightly and eyebrows raised guilelessly. "What are you talking about, sensei?"
Somehow, Kakashi's gaze could be felt, made all the more potent by the sharingan that wasn't uncovered. His eyes didn't waver, and hadn't wavered since they left the diner. Sakura admitted to being glad when he had paid the bill and headed for the door. The namelessness of the club had begun to wash away, leaving her to feel naked in the bright florescent lights. Kakashi had known her when she was weak– if anyone was able to sense her vulnerability, it would be her former teacher.
Still, that didn't change her current predicament. . . Maybe she'd overdone the innocent act. Sakura sighed tiredly, and rubbed the back of her neck. It was too early in the morning for this, and she could see no easy way out of answering. Kakashi was worse than his nin-dogs when he something caught his interest. She might as well comply and spare herself some grief.
"You're talking about the mask comment, right?" Her question received a swift nod from the copy-nin.
I don't think it would even matter if you ever showed me your face. The kunoichi sighed. What had possessed her to say such a thing?
Oh, yeah. Alcohol. Sakura made a mental note to get so plastered she wouldn't be able to form coherent sentences the next time she decided to drink anything more potent than a shot of apple juice.
"Well, when we were genin," the pink-haired girl began, "you always told us to look underneath the underneath." Another nod, slower this time. "Well, your face is the 'underneath,' right? It's just another layer that doesn't matter. The real reason we wanted to see under your mask was because we wanted to know your secrets. Your face, the idea of your face, is just another ruse to fool the opponent into a false sense of security."
Sakura shrugged softly and looked away, completely missing the widening of Kakashi's eye.
"I guess everyone is your opponent, right? Me and enemy shinobi and the little old lady who served us coffee." She laughed bitterly. "When I asked you about religion, you could've given me a personal answer, something with meaning. Instead we discussed the different theories of a 'divine creator,' and the statistical information man has gathered on the subject. Your soul wears a mask too, Kakashi-sensei, so your face is irrelevant to those who really want to know you."
A silence once again enveloped them, tempered only by the gravelly, pacing footsteps. The copy-nin was, not for the first time of the night, stunned; not to mention a little proud. The girl who had never been of much value as a genin had, more or less, figured out Kakashi's enigma. The only missing link was the original reason he had gone to such lengths to isolate himself: his father, and their disturbing resemblance. Kakashi was certain that if she knew of the circumstances surrounding his death, she would have figured that part out also.
How had Sakura been the only one to truly solve his riddle– not only of her teammates but of the entire village? He wondered if it was because she was the only one who gave it much thought. If so, why was she even interested?
Perhaps now was the time to show her underneath the mask. . .
The jounin let out a huff of air in irritation. She had just proved that his face was of no value; why give her something worthless after uncovering his greatest secret?
Later, Hatake, he told himself. Do it later.
They had finally reached her doorstep. Kakashi looked up at her narrow, two-story apartment. This place held the bed his student came home to every night, exhausted from a recent mission or her day at the hospital; the couch Naruto crashed on when he needed company; the porch Rock Lee left flowers on.
He smiled casually, and murmured goodnight.
This moth knew when to flee.
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A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Ariana-san, lilmisssushi, Chan-san and Statik. Thanks for the great reviews, everyone!
-Mere Anarchy
