Sarada has always been very aware of the strange tension around her name. The Hokage speaks well of the Uchiha when she's around him, and according to Chouchou her family is famous for succeeding without really trying, but… she can't help thinking that Chouchou's father only told her that because he knows Sarada is her friend. Most people don't say anything directly to her, but whatever inhibitions they'd had before seemed to come down now that he walks with her.

Maybe it's because of the divorce. Sarada's mom is… Well, she's popular. Of course, it makes sense that most of the adults Sarada knows are friends with her mother because she met them through her mother, but those adults are also in high up positions in the Leaf Village, and people look up to them. Her mom was highly instrumental in helping the Hokage bring peace to the Village. It makes sense that a lot of those people would be angry at Sarada's dad for hurting her like this.

But… what did that have to do with the idea that he'd hurt the village?

They return to his apartment two hours later in mostly silence, and he murmurs something about cooking before going into the kitchen. Sarada sits on the couch, occasionally looking up to watch him. It's different from her mother's method of cooking, with the hesitation and looking up and asking for Sarada's input, rummaging through cupboards and thinking of ideas for substitute ingredients they'd forgotten to buy. Sarada's father's cupboards are compartmentalized, his refrigerator groups food by type and then by colour. He reaches immediately for whatever ingredient he's looking for, hardly moving anything out of the way to access what he needs. His motions are fluid, his eyes focused on the task at hand and he seems so… absorbed, that she doesn't doubt if she attempted to speak to him he wouldn't even hear her.

The smell is making her mouth water.

Did he ever cook for Mom? Was it any good? Did she eat it because she liked it or did she labor through bland tastes made up for by the deceptive smell? Did he do it a lot? Her father's image began to blur as she thought of her mother, her mother and him, side-by-side…

Didn't he say that Sarada was the proof of their love?

Her mouth is dry, and she stands, a question burning at her lips and yet not defined enough into words to ask him. Her hands curl into fists. She wants to hurt him; to knock the knife he uses to chop the vegetables from his hand and send it clattering across the floor, to make his eyes widen and to see the glimmer in them fade when they meet hers, to make him see that she doesn't love him, that she'll never love him. No matter how much time he makes her spend with him. No matter how meticulously he works to make food for her.

He deserves it. She deserves it.

"Why even bother?" Sarada asks, and her father looks up right away, the knife halts. She presses her lips together, she hadn't fully expected him to hear her, let alone stop what he was doing.

It doesn't last. He starts moving again when he's met with her silence and she can feel her fingernails leaving marks in her palms.

"The only reason you ever cared about me is because you needed a reason to stay with Mom," she accuses, "Isn't that what you told me? You said I was your connection, one that you threw away—like it was nothing. Mom still loves you!"

She stops, but only for breath, and he's still, his eyes fixed on the counter, so motionless one might tip him over with the push of a finger.

"Did you think it was better to just—to just feed me lies?" she continues, using his lack of upset to fuel her own, her voice rising loud enough for the both of them. "To just use me so you could pretend everything was okay?"

He tilts his head up and seems to look behind her; she can see his teeth between his parted lips.

"Mom was—Mom was there for me," she says. "You weren't. I tried to forgive you for—for her sake, but I can't anymore!"

Her father's eyes shut, his eyelashes flutter and twitch.

"Say something!" she demands at last, her cheeks coloured and the room too hot for his coldness.

He opens his eyes and finally looks at her. Sarada feels she's being scrutinized, his eyes taking in too much from her face, and she wonders if she should've held her tongue. Beads of sweat roll across the side of her face under his studious gaze, and she wishes he'd turn it on anything else in the room.

Finally, he takes a breath, setting the knife neatly aside, before moving around the kitchen counter to take a seat on the couch across from her. His fingers quiver slightly, long and thin and laced loosely together.

She trembles too, not breaking eye contact.

"Anything else?"

Sarada wants to scream, her eyes stinging, rising to her feet. Her throat is tight, swallowing feels like a battle.

"Yes!" she exclaims. "I want to know why! I want to know why you ever pretended you loved her if you were just going to leave her alone! I want to know why you said that to me! Why does everyone in this village hate you so much except for Mom and the Seventh? Why are you such—such—"

Her father raises his eyebrows.

She raises her shaking fist, trying to contain herself, as if going through the motion of punching him in her head would relieve her of the need to actually do it.

"What use do you have for me anymore, if not to fake your love for my mother?" she demanded. "What point is there to pretending you want me for a daughter? I hate you, did you ever consider that? That maybe I don't want to go through these motions for you and help you live your fake life?"

His eyes have disappeared behind his hair, his head hanging slightly and she hopes he's ashamed, but he says nothing, and she wants to pull it all out of his head, every last strand, and she's never hated anyone so much before, has never wanted to make someone suffer like this before, and he says nothing, he doesn't even look at her—

"You don't even want a normal family."

His neck snaps up and he fixes her in a stare that shuts her mouth, and the room doesn't have enough air, and he opens his mouth—

"You don't know—"

He closes it firmly, he looks away again, he stands and he presses his fingers to his eyes and she wonders if he's trying to erase her existence from his consciousness, as if not seeing her will get rid of the problem that she's posed for him, he turns around and it looks like he's going to walk to his bedroom door—

"You're going to run away from me again?" Sarada asks, but it's not a question, and he freezes. She can feel the flush in her cheeks receding and becomes aware of the way the air leaves a coolness on her face, her eyes dry because her tears have all made their way to her chin. She rubs her eyes, inhales deeply, and faces her father's back steadily. "That's fine. I don't care what you do anymore."

His hand hovers above the doorknob, then falls to his side, shaking, fingers curling in and out, thumb twitching back and forth.

"No, you're right."

He turns again to face her, and he's trembling, and she's still. The lines under his eyes are dark, his eyebrows drawn together, and there's a smile on his lips that doesn't reflect the rest of his face. "You're right… the truth—I shouldn't have—well…"

Sarada watches him, silent, her muscles relaxed, a warmth filling her that isn't anger.

"I shouldn't have let you be hurt in the midst of all of this. No, I—" his smile drops, he shakes his head and walks over to her, kneeling to her level, so they're face to face. "Sarada… I'm sorry."

Her eyes drift to look at the floor. Is this it? An apology, so she can hold onto it and forget everything?

"Your questions…" he continues. "I want to answer them. But, listen."

She meets his eyes again.

"I don't know all the answers," her father says. "That's what makes it hard for me to tell you." He pauses. "You already know this well, but—I'm not perfect."

"Mhm," she manages.

He smiles at her. "You don't have to forgive me, and you don't have to listen to anything I say if you don't want to. If you want nothing to do with me, I'll accept that."

Sarada bites her lip and he stops smiling, fixing her in a serious stare.

"W—well," she stammers. "If… if you promise to tell the truth, then…"

She shakes her head to compose herself.

"I care more about knowing the truth than I do about hating you," she says decidedly.

He straightens. "I understand."

He moves back to the kitchen, picking the knife up again. "We'll talk while I cook."

Sarada nods, and realizes that he hasn't burned anything the entire time they were talking. … he probably is a better cook than Mom.

A/N: In which Sasuke realizes he made the same mistakes as Itachi how the hell—haha. This was fun to write. Probably gonna wrap it up soon. Thanks for reading, reviews are always appreciated!