Disclaimer: see the first chapter

AN: Sorry for the long wait, but I recently arrived in China and am now living at my grandparents' house. Apparently they don't have internet (how do they live??), so even though I finished this chapter a few days ago, I had to wait until today to post it. But the good news is that since I had so much time I made this chapter longer than usual! (though still not long compared to some other people).

Chapter Three: Homecoming

The boy poured the water, painstakingly gathered in a large leaf and carefully carried from the river, onto the burned side. When the water met charred flesh, the stranger made a small, pained sound that was half whimper, half gasp, and he stirred as if trying to move away, but did not wake. Startled, the boy froze, standing wide-eyed and motionless for almost half a minute, the panic inside his stomach growing (whatshouldIdo!?).

When there was no further response from the stranger (though the boy no longer considered him to be that foreign anymore), the boy calmed down, waiting for his heartbeat to stop fluttering in his chest and his breath to return. But the wound was still not clean, and, when he had gathered his wits, the boy braced himself to finish the job. Slowly, he allowed another few drops to fall onto the wound, glancing anxiously at the stranger's masked face in hopes of gleaning any sign of discomfort. The stranger did not move.

Heartened, the boy quickly washed the wound the best he could, trying to get all the dirt out. While he did this, the stranger lay pale and unmoving besides the rapid rise and fall of his chest. The boy stared concerned at the masked face, searching for some sign that he would be okay (dark, mask, nothing). He debated removing the mask, but did not dare to touch the still form of the stranger, half-afraid of what he might find (a mask of cloth was always better than one of hate).

But his curiosity was not to be denied. The boy's eyes were drawn to the second mask resting on the stranger's head. It was not the silvery white of moonlight, as the stranger's hair, but a stark white (like snow and unknown years) interrupted only by the crimson and purple lines outlining the snarling face of a wolf.

Glancing half-fearfully towards the stranger, he slowly touched the mask, feeling its cool, scratched surface under his fingers with fascination. After another glance to make sure the stranger had not noticed, the boy lifted the mask, ruffling the stranger's hair a bit as the string came loose. A slight tug of guilt was quickly squashed by the insistent curiosity, and besides, the boy reasoned, he had lent his teddy bear to the stranger(which he still held in the crook of his arm), so it was only fair if he got something back in return.

Once he had it in his hands, the boy studied it carefully in the waning light of day. It brought back snatches of remembrance: a street of children laughing, wearing white clay masks, playing, the adults celebrating, smiling at the children, a small boy standing in a dark corner watching enviously, the loneliness, the dark looks that kept him from coming out…

The mask fell from his slack fingers, falling to the ground with a small bump. The small thump startled him back from the place in his mind, and he came thankfully, carefully locking that door of his memory tightly, behind a heavy door. Curiosity withdrawn, he left the mask where it lay, not daring to pick it up again (some things were better left undisturbed). Instead, he sat down a few feet away, watching over the stranger.

Night was falling, and the forest was silent, all animals steering clear of the boy and his charge. The only sounds to be heard were the rustling of the wind's breath in the trees, as well as the breathing of two humans, one shallow but rhythmic, and the other growing steadily deeper.

Lulled by the silence, the boy's eyes drooped, and his head nodded forward. Within minutes, he was fast asleep.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

What woke him was not the natural sounds of the forest-dwelling creatures, but instead the voices of people, raised and shouting indistinctly. His blue eyes snapped open quickly, filling with alarm and the sight of the early morning light breaking through a thin crack in the thick canopy. The voices, coming from somewhere in the trees, were urgent, worried (angry?), and drawing steadily closer.

Unlike the silver-haired stranger, these other voices were intimidating, invasive (intruders!). The near-forgotten distrust and panic welled up in him and, trembling, the boy scrambled away towards his refuge in the bushes.

And his retreat was not a minute too soon, for as soon as he stilled in the bushes (upwind, motionless, hidden), two figures—tall and imposing, faceless, white with masks and armor—landed in the small clearing where the silver-haired stranger lay, still unconscious. The boy was gripped with a moment of anxiety when the two masked figures bent over the stranger.

"Damnit, Kakashi," one of them muttered, "Why do you always get yourself into these kinds of messes?"

The other figure checked his vitals, "He's alive." The figure announced with relief, "But…one broken arm and several third degree burns…if we don't get him a medic soon…" he left the second part unsaid.

"He'll live." The first figure said, matter-of-factly but with a hint of exasperation, "He always does. Stubborn bastard."

"True," the other figure sighed, "Let's get him back." He slipped an arm underneath the stranger's body, lifting him slowly into a half-sitting position.

The boy was frozen with indecision that was almost a fear: they were going to leave with the stranger! He wanted to do something, but the small part of himself that shouted beware! (They want to hurt you, all of them) kept him from moving, stayed his hand and his voice. He could only watch as his body betrayed him and he did nothing as the two figures—along with the stranger—disappeared in a puff of smoke.

Finally, when the clearing was empty of people, the boy slowly crawled out of his hiding place, looking around dejectedly in the futile hope that there was still some way to follow. But the stranger was gone, and, again, he was alone in the forest.

Alone…hot liquid welled up in his eyes, filling the blue orbs. Not even his white teddy bear was left—it had been with the stranger when they had taken him away. The tears spilled out onto his face in a torrent, burning as he released his heartache into the cool air of morning.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He could tell that there was sunlight falling on his face from the warmth and radiance that threatened to break through the protective darkness of his eyelids. Sunlight?

Kakashi cracked open his right eye, blinking in the bright sunlight. The first thing he saw was a cream-colored ceiling, a very familiar cream-colored ceiling. The hospital? He wondered, mind still clouded with anesthetic-induced sleep. The initial moment of confusion passed, and with the resurfacing clarity came the memories of the previous night: the successful assassination, the not-so-successful retreat, the pursuit by the target's subordinates. He remembered staggering through the forest, and then…his eye went wide, the boy!

He sat up—or at least tried to. . As soon as he braced his right arm against the bed to rise, the movement was thwarted by a jolt of pain, dulled by the painkillers but not completely gone. He bit his lip to keep back a pained curse, broken and it'll take at least three weeks to fully heal. He allowed his head to fall back onto the pillow. I'll just have to find another way to escape…

"Don't even think about it." A disapproving voice admonished from somewhere to the left. Kakashi turned his head slightly, glancing towards the source of the voice. A familiar face appeared in the periphery of his vision, he inclined his head as best as he could in greeting, "Sarutobi-san."

Asuma frowned, chewing on his cigarette, which remained unlit, much to his irritation (because the medics would carry out their threat to kick him out if he actually smoked in the hospital). Still, the feel of the stick in his mouth and the distinctive taste of nicotine soothed his nerves, "Drop the honorifics, Kakashi." He grumbled, "We've known each other long enough."

Though his tone was casual, there was an air of concern that he could not completely hide. The worry was reflected in his eyes, which stared at the silver-haired boy intently. The two of them had been together in ANBU for the past three years—with Asuma actually serving under Kakashi's leadership for the first year—yet he still did not fully understand his silver-haired sempai.

The boy was a genius, younger than Asuma by one year, yet chunin at the age of six and ANBU by thirteen. But the brilliance also came with problems of its own. The responsibility and the loneliness caused by his reputation (unnatural genius, White Fang's son) took its toll on him at such a young age, and Asuma could sometimes see Kakashi cracking under the weight. It was evident in the slowly dimming light in his eyes after every mission, the slump of his shoulders when he thought no one was looking, as if he were slowly being crushed under a heavy burden, his tendency to take more and more dangerous missions, no matter the stress on his own body (in the end, he was just a vulnerable boy, pretending to be invincible).

The older teen saw these signs and wished he could help. But Kakashi was a loner, fending for himself, letting on one come close after the loss of his few precious people (his chunin team, Asuma remembered, Obito, Rin, and the late Yondaime). So Asuma could only watch with growing anxiety as Kakashi was slowly buried under the demands, his solitude, leaving a shell of a shinobi that was ruthlessly efficient.

"Asuma, then." Kakashi corrected himself, "Why are you here?" Though the ANBU captain's bared face was expressionless, unfathomable; he might as well have been wearing his wolf mask.

"Can't I visit a friend?" Asuma asked, trying to sound lighthearted. It didn't come out as he had hoped; instead, his voice came out strained and anxious.

Kakashi blinked, giving no sign that he had noticed the tone, "A friend?" he repeated, sounding slightly puzzled. A slightly awkward silence descended as the melancholy in Asuma's eyes deepened; was it so unbelievable that he considered Kakashi to be a friend?

"So, how have you been doing lately?" the older teenager asked, grasping for something to say to breath the silence. As soon as the words left his mouth, he felt like slapping himself, He's in the hospital with a broken arm and third-degree burns, how well do you think he's doing?

But Kakashi merely glanced nonchalantly at Asuma, "Fine." He answered curtly.

No, you're not. Asuma's face fell into a frown, "I meant, how have you been feeling?"

Kakashi, arched a silver eyebrow, "I said," his voice a was carefully neutral, "I'm-"

The frustration born of concern that had been mounting ever since Asuma had discovered the silver-haired ANBU captain, injured and unconscious in the forest the morning before, finally boiled over, "Don't give me that crap, Kakashi. You're not fine, and we all know it! Damnit, why do you have to cut yourself away from everyone? You pretend that everything's okay, but we aren't blind, we can see that you're suffering! Can't you see that what you're doing is going to kill you one day?" Can't you see that we care?

When he finished, Asuma could feel his heart pounding from the sheer emotion, and his eyes riveted on Kakashi's face, waiting intently for his reaction. The ANBU captain's eyes were wide, staring at Asuma with surprise, yet the older teen could (or thought he could) discern something else, an emotion that had been hidden deep, unearthed and not yet ready for the light.

Suddenly, Asuma realized that he was watching Kakashi's seamless façade break, sending spiderweb-cracks from where the loneliness and hurt and heartache peeped out. He held his breath, wishing, hoping that this time the silver-haired genius (or idiot, depending on how you looked at it) would finally open up, finally understand…

And then the emotions were gone, replaced by the inky, mirror-like surface of Kakashi's dark eye. The mask was back on, and the face once more indecipherable. "I'm fine." He repeated pointedly. It was almost a snap, and Asuma knew that this conversation was over. He wanted to groan in frustration, but settled with a quiet sigh of defeat. He knew Kakashi too well to think that he could do anything to change his mind.

The dark-haired teen rose to leave, absentmindedly tossing his cigarette into a nearby trash bin. As he put one foot over the threshold of the door, he paused. "Oh yeah," he said, turning around to face Kakashi, "I almost forgot."

He reached into one of his pockets and pulled out something, "You were carrying this when we found you." He tossed the object to Kakashi, who caught it reflexively with his left hand.

"Never knew you were into these things." Asuma said, slightly teasingly. And then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

Now alone in the sun-drenched hospital room, Kakashi stared at the object in his hands, blinking in confusion. The one-eyed face of the once-white and now faded-gray teddy bear smiled back at him, doing nothing to answer his bewilderment.

TBC