I do not own Naruto.
Funnily enough, it seems that her life, as crazy as it is, hold some sort of pattern to it. Ryuishi means this in the vaguest sense of the term, of course, but really it is a little intimidating. Once is a coincidence, twice is the beginnings of a pattern. She wonders if the God of her old world would be the sort to do this, or maybe perhaps some of the smaller pantheon dwellers. It seems like their kind of shenanigans, to take an unwary mortal and throw them into a new life with old memories and then consistently throw incredibly strange, shitty choices her way.
Perhaps it is karma, a roundabout punishment for all her insidious plotting. The payment for establishing bonds with children on foundations of misdirections, or betraying those who she would still give her life for. Maybe it's retribution for involving a countless number of people in a bloody and shady underground revolutionary movement that is slowly working its way around the world. Could it be that this is what she gets for imposing one culture over another? Hell if she knows, it's weird as fuck.
To be honest, it was her last night hanging around Konoha. Goodbyes with Naruto had already taken place, a safe house had been established, and Kagami would be expecting her soon. She just wanted to appreciate the night life of Konoha before she left.
(Okay, maybe she just didn't want to hang out in the Okiya while they serviced customers. The moaning and sighing cut right through the thin walls, and left her really fucking uncomfortable. Voyeurism is not a kink she has.)
So she's walking along, enjoying the night air and steadily working her way into the seedier bits of Konoha's red light district, and who does she spot? Why, that same young uptight ANBU that was after her dick last time, Hatake Kakashi. Really, she should have just left as soon as she figured out who it was. It would be for the best. Most definitely the anal bastard would eventually recognize her if she hovered around too much, even if she was all dolled up.
Only… the bastard looks incredibly pathetic, all alone in a stool by the bar. She can smell the liquor from here, and the fact that he hasn't reacted to her watching him means he's already pretty far gone. Not only that, it seems like he's just… she doesn't know, imploded? Like he's collapsed under the weight of something incredible to bear. A morose air hangs around him, his head planted firmly on the bar as he sways from his perfectly still seat.
The guy is fucking thrashed. She's seen it a hundred times before with narcotics addicts on the nod. It's the near overdose perfectly calculated to push you far, far away from reality that she saw opiate users constantly putting themselves in. He needs a trip sitter, or a friend, but when she looks around, nobody is there.
Hatake Kakashi is a glass away from alcohol poisoning, and it looks like nobody notices but her.
Which is sorta fucked up, really. Because if he's on a downward spiral, who is she to stop him? He's just another Konoha nin, the clandestine enemy of deserters like herself. He'd probably stab her if he were in shape enough to do anything but collapse and vomit on the ground.
It's just… the silver haired man walled in by empty bottles looks like a lost kid. He's what, seventeen? Eighteen? Drowning himself in some back alley bar seems like a bit too familiar to her. Like, say, an eleven year old fresh from the front lines and the betrayal of her comrades surrounded by moonshine jugs, all alone by a river, contemplating how much more she has to drink before drowning is less of a suicide and more of a happy accident.
Ryuishi bites her lip, briefly appreciates the taste of berry lip stain, and realizes she's projecting again. Knowing what she is doing doesn't help though, because in the end, all empathy can be explained as projecting. She knows broken pieces when she sees them, and if a world class criminal with a penchant for manipulation and science helped her, than maybe she can help out here. It doesn't even have to be much. Just get him home, watch him for cold skin and irregular breathing, and help him work it out of his system before leaving.
Dammit, she thinks, I'm going all fucking soft.
Why is it so hard to justify kindness, and so very easy to make reasons for murder? She gets nothing out of this shit deal, but she's walking up to the bar anyway. The woman behind the counter takes one look at her, and promptly ignores her again.
Smart woman, that bartender.
With quiet steps, she approaches from the side, her hair billowing behind her. Up close and personal, Hatake looks even worse. His face is still firmly planted on the wooden surface in front of him, but his hair is a tangled mess and the clothes he is wearing are stained and ragged looking. He smells like wet earth, funeral incense, and an entire barrel of alcohol. He's probably been mixing booze, which is a horrible choice. Tomorrow is going to be hell for him.
"Hey man, time to go."
Her voice is soft and gentle, her hands reaching out to rest where he can see them. Slowly, his head turns to look at her, and his eye is glazed and foggy. Forget seeing double—at this point, he might be seeing right through her and into another dimension.
"I'mm nah lurking fer good time," he slurs out.
Well, maybe she was wrong. He obviously thinks she's a hooker, which is both good and bad. Great that he doesn't recognize her, bad that she's so forgettable. It hurts her pride.
"Not here to give one. Just here to get you home," she answers. Besides, whiskey dick is totally a thing.
"M' fine," he tells her.
"Well, you are being a real moodkiller. Nobody wants to party in a place with a half-dead guy sitting in the corner. C'mon." She doesn't hear whatever he's trying to tell her in response, because he's picking up his head, obviously trying to sit up and look intimidating. The only problem is that he's so wrecked, he can't. Instead, he is lurching forward, and her arms are rising up to steady him.
"Still fine, buddy?" she asks
His head hangs to his chest, and he might be blacking out. Which, really, that can't be a good sign. She sighs and casts a glance over to the bartender, who is still attempting to ignore them both. Ryuishi rolls her eyes and digs some cash out of her obi and slides it on to the counter, and suddenly, she has all the attention she could want.
"Help me get him on my back," she sighs.
The stocky woman shuffles around, and they arrange the unconscious male into some semblance of order. He feels clammy, but his breathing is alright at least. As soon as she wraps her arms under his thighs and hoists him up, she notices how wiry the man is. He feels like he's made of metal, thick cords of tangible strength beneath her fingertips. She tries not to think of how easy he could kill her right now.
The bartender helps her pull her hair to hang over her shoulder to one side, free from the danger of being vomited on, and directs her to the shinobi apartment complexes halfway across town. She adds that it would probably be better to take the back alleys to avoid suspicion. Which adds to that distance. Great, not like she had anything better planned tonight anyway.
Ryuishi huffs and sets out at a slow gait, trying to ignore the cloth covered nose dug into the crook of her neck and the moist breath against her skin. She doesn't know what to do about it, and so she tries to pretend the whole thing isn't happening.
He isn't heavy, she supposes. Not really, but then again, she's used to carrying heavier burdens than just one man. Strength is a core staple of her taijutsu style, right alongside flexibility, and it had only been growing throughout the years. From endurance training on the beach, to pack mule marches with weighted seals with Orochimaru, she's been steadily increasing the damage she can do.
Ryuishi sings softly to herself as they pass through a dirty alleyway, trying to fill the stifling quiet with her inherent need to babble. The darkness is encroaching around her, and she can hear the distant howling of nothingness.
"I walked across an empty land
I knew the pathway like the back of my hand
I felt the earth beneath my feet
Sat by a river and it made me complete."
It's weird what pop culture things she recalls from her past life. She, of course, still obsessively recalls her family every night, but songs and stories still linger in her head like a bad case of herpes. She supposes she always did have a good head for tales and myths, which is helpful to remember plot points. If only she had a sort of timeline memorized. That would have been helpful.
"You smell nice."
Ryuishi jumps out of her skin, jolting like a thief caught red handed. There hadn't been any indication of him waking, for Buddha's sake!
The man on her back groans as the movement jostles him, and she hears another few slurred words. She feels a hand tighten on her shoulder.
"Imma be sick."
Ryuishi shuffles over to a dumpster as quickly as she can, and feels his weight shift. She doesn't know if anybody else has ever noticed this, but it is completely weird to have somebody throw up in the trash while they are shill hanging on your back. Like, really weird.
She hears the wet slap of biological sludge hit the thin metal of the dumpster's side, and the sharp tang of bile wiggles itself into her nose. God damn, she hates this part.
It goes on for a while before she feels his clenching stomach stop randomly seizing against her spine. Then, once again, a cloth covered face is pressed against the barred line of her throat.
"Sing more," he tells her, and she wrinkles her nose at the stench of vomit lingering on his breath. Also, that's real demanding for some drunk asshole. Isn't he some sort of super soldier? Like, why hasn't he stabbed her in the kidney yet? Or snapped her neck? Or pulled out her spine through her throat?
Then Ryuishi realizes that she almost forgot—for all his coldness and pomp, Hatake Kakashi is still human. He's just a guy who thinks he lost one teammate, definitely stabbed another, and had his sensei die. Not to mention ANBU, and generally shitty coping mechanisms. The guy is so socially awkward it makes her hurt. Forget grief counseling, the copy-nin chose to encourage violent and ruthless espionage tendencies in a shadowy secret police organization while also ignoring how to interact with everyday people. If she were the gambling kind, she'd bet money on him not being to hold a conversation about anything other than his job, and even then a short one.
"Help me get to your house and I'll keep going," she bargains.
He manages to rattle some numbers directly into her pulse point, which isn't weird at all, and she picks the song back up.
"Oh simple thing, where have you gone?
I'm getting tired and I need someone to rely on."
Her steps are carefully timed to be in the same cadence of the song, her wooden geta lifting her over the puddles and grit of the pathways. Wooden flip flops, she had decided long ago, were weirdly instrumental footwear.
She is once again startled out of her thoughts when she feels the hand on her shoulder reach over and begin to tangle in her hair, rough fingers combing through the dark locks. It's official. Blind drunk Kakashi is weird.
"You smell familiar," he whisper-shouts, like it's some big secret.
"I smell like the brothel."
"Like flowers and blood and the sea—" here he takes another inhale, and she tries to focus on pop culture in her head. Wasn't Game Grumps crazy? How about that Game of Thrones?
"—and indecision and loneliness."
"You must be a real riot at parties," she remarks, changing the subject. Fucking dog-nosed bastard.
"I don' want sex," he slurs out again.
"Like you even could, whiskey dick. I'm only here to make sure some random guy doesn't die in some seedy bar."
The man nods, and his hair tickles under her chin. God save her from dealing with drunk people when sober. This is a fucking hassle. Why the hell is she here again?
"Why are you even this drunk?" she asks, taking a right.
"Anniversary."
Anniversary of what? As far as she knows the man isn't married, but things could have—Oh. Wrong kind. More than likely it's the anniversary of someone's death. With him, that could be a lot of people.
Well that's shitty.
"Why 'r you alone?"
A spark of defensiveness rises and she bites her lip. Seriously, fuck this asshole. He can't even recognize her, and he's still being a pushy little shit. What right does a friend killer like him have to ask her that?
Ryuishi breathes out, letting that thought go. He's not a friend killer, not really.
"I fucked up, and I failed some people," she answers, more than a little honest.
The grip on her shoulders tightens, and she can feel his whole body shiver against her. Apparently, that was the right thing to say, as weird as it seems.
"Failed," he tells her, and she can't tell if it's a question for her, a simple statement, or a damnation for them both.
"Yah," she says, "Failed, you gigantic, depressing dick."
The rest of the walk is done in silence, and she can feel Hatake slipping in and out of consciousness on her back, his head lolling to in time with her steps. Turns out the man lives on the top floor of some swanky ass apartment complex. Well, swanky compared to what she remembers from her old world and Naruto's place. Admittedly, her own house dwarfs his condo, and she lives in the sprawling expanse of it just fine.
Ryuishi digs around in his pocket for the familiar feel of metal, and he squirms a bit before procuring keys from a hidden pocket in his vest. Which is fine with her, because it would have felt a little molester-y to dig them out from there.
She takes care to not set off any potential traps in the joint as she walks through the obsessively neat area. It seems almost neurotic, but she can relate. When her life was out of control, she must have rearranged her room four times a day. Her care is rewarded when she isn't impaled by kunai when stepping into his room.
"Alright buddy, you're going to have to stay awake now. I need you to drink some water and maybe eat something. Stay under the blankets, though."
He's as cold as her, and that can't be good.
Ryuishi rummages around, somehow finds a glass to use without triggering an explosive seal, and fills it from a purifier in the fridge. Internally, she scoffs. What is he, too good for tap water like the rest of them? Whatever the reason is, she ends up bringing the liquid to him, dragging the empty kitchen trash can behind her. It's only a matter of time before he begins to get sick again.
In the whole two fucking second it took her, he's passed out on his shuriken-patterned blankets, face down on a pillow. Which also isn't good. She slaps his calf muscle, darting out of the way when he goes to put his fist through her torso on reflex.
"Nut up, pretty boy. You're going to drink a fucking whole shit ton of water before the night is through. Nobody's dying tonight," she tells him, setting the trash can down and thrusting the glass in his face as he blinks lazily.
"Water?"
"Water first, then after you can keep that down, we'll try tea and maybe some starches. You've probably never had Kaya toast, but let me tell you it is a miracle worker."
"Ka… ya… toast?"
She snorts and thrusts the water at him again, and then rolls her eyes when he fumbles with the glass. She sets it on the side table for a second before bodily forcing him into an upright sitting position, his back braced by pillows. Then, she sits down by his legs and looks him in the eye.
"I'm going to hold the glass for you, so you don't spill it all over like an asshole, and you are going to drink. If you want, I can shut my eyes or you can cover them."
Hatake stares uncomprehendingly, and she picks up the glass in one hand, his wrist in the other. The glass she holds up, level to his face. His wrist she brings up to her own, until he can cover her eyes with the palm of his hand. Strangely enough, it reminds her of the time she stuck her fingers in Kisame's mouth to prove she didn't care about what he looked like.
She doesn't quite know when he finally gets it, but at some point she can feel another clammy hand over hers, tilting the glass up. The one over her eyes presses tighter against her face, and she momentarily submits herself to blindness and silence. It would be simple enough for him the kill her of a manner of ways like this. He could tear out her trachea, the way she did to that man in the alley, or he could smother her like she has done to so many sentries before. If he wanted to, he could choke the life from her, or slit her open, navel to neck, with a shard of glass or kunai. The are endless possibilities of death in this moment, but she feels strangely apathetic about it.
She hears the sound of him swallowing and feels the soft exhale of breath against her fingers, and then she can see again. Without words, she gets back up and fills the cup, leaving it at his bedside.
There isn't the ingredients to make Kaya toast, it turns out. Mostly because there isn't Kaya, a sweet coconut jam, in this whole fucking world. Which is total bullshit. Neither can she make her next go-to, Menudo. This is mostly due to the fact that there is no hominy, tripe, chiles, or beef in Hatake's pantry or fridge. What he does have is some eggs, rice and poultry. Congee it is, she supposes.
From the other room, she hears the beginnings of some truly awful hurling session. Soft gagging and dry heaving emanates from the room, the lightning before the thunder.
"Holler if you need help!" she calls out, setting up the porridge in a pot after disabling the incendiary device connected to the stove. Honestly, this whole apartment is rigged beyond measure. What if he was a little tired and wanted a fucking cup of tea? She'd blow herself to hell and back if she had half the shit he did. Luckily, her house is hidden and the land is sort of a trap of it's own. She'd choose poisonous snakes, sweaty bogs, treacherous predators, and just nature in general over stove bombs anyday.
A muffled cry claims her attention, and she turns the heat down to simmer, pulling the pitcher from the fridge with a sigh. He's going to be one of those unpredictable drunks, isn't he?
Hatake Kakashi wordlessly opens his mouth as a his body cramps painfully tight and burning fire makes its way up his throat. His stomach is rebelling against him, and his abdomen is screaming out as hot bile coats his tongue, and the world spins like he is flipping through the trees. Liquid splashes into the trash.
He remembers that today was the day he got his eye, the day that—
His thought is cut off as he wonders why the room is so blazingly hot, and why the trashcan is in the room again. Lucky that it is though, he doesn't think he can stand, let alone walk to the bathroom. Somebody steps into the room behind him, and he hears water filling up a cup. Distantly, he is grateful that he had that to throw up instead of the nothingness inside from before.
How'd he get home again?
A strangely familiar rounded face peeks into view, curtained by a waterfall of inky black. She walks forward and sets something down on the nightstand—a bottle of acid reducer and some simple pain medication. Somehow, he knows he should know her, but for some reason he can't recall her name. Which is rude of him.
Is she one of the working girls that sometimes visits Genma? Has he… has he visited her before? Kakashi can't remember, not when his head is flooded with liquor and his brain is sloshing around inside his skull. All he knows is that she smells nice, and her hair is soft. Also, she is giving him water, which is nice, because his mouth tastes like something crawled inside of it and exploded in a horrible fiery death.
"Man, you are a mess," she tells him.
For a second he gets angry. Who does she think she is? "You're a hooker," he spits, only it doesn't come out like that. Instead, it sounds more like 'Ur ah whookar.'
She smirks, and he can see it in her eyes how unaffected she is. Some little civilian girl, who never seen anything. What does she know? She's never seen her friends die. She's never had to make the choice between comrade and mission. She just lies on her back all day. She wouldn't even been here if it weren't for people like him.
Her dark eyes narrow and the smirk turns into a frown. He realizes belatedly that he said all of that out loud, then leans over the trashcan to vomit again. He makes sure to pull down his mask only when the sides of the can will cover his face.
She doesn't say anything, but he can feel the dip in the bed as she sits beside him, and feels her cool hands rubbing soothing circles on his back. He regrets his words almost immediately as the anger rushes out of him, replaced by nausea and melancholy. She's just a hooker, she doesn't have to know what it's like.
He ignores the niggling sensation in that back of his head telling him that no, that's not it, and he knows what she really does. He's too drunk to care.
"You're right," she murmurs softly, and he thinks she might smoke. He voice sounds like she does, but his nose is telling him she doesn't.
"I wouldn't be here if it weren't for shinobi," she says, and he can hear faint traces of bitterness. "Then again, we wouldn't be here if it weren't for farmers, or doctors, or teachers. Stall owners, merchants, and maids and everything else. Lots of jobs are important, so don't badmouth those in the sex trade. It's the oldest profession in the world."
He makes a gurgling noise in the back of his throat and washes saliva around his mouth before spitting into the trash. "Water," he croaks.
A glass is placed in his hand and she to leave the room again. He takes a moment to appreciate the autumn leaves swirling around on the bottom hem of her kimono crawling up to her hip, then finally notices the embroidered dragon spiraling up her spine before she leaves through the door. It is an intricately detailed piece that settles nicely on the black background fabric. It must have been expensive.
He hears the stove click off, and the clinking of bowls and silverware. He ignores it in favor of drinking even more water, and then swallowing the chalky, minty sludge that is bismuth-type medication. Who put that on his nightstand again?
He can feel the effects almost immediately, the cooling sensation trickling down his scratchy throat and burning stomach. It gives him the relief he needs to walk (re: crawl) into the bathroom to relieve himself and brush his teeth. He ends up splattering toothpaste everywhere, and he tears down the shower curtain when he tries to balance himself on it when peeing, but he figures that everything can be fixed. Tommorrow. Now he can sleep, right here on the cool tile.
Then the pushy hooker is poking her head through the bathroom door, sighing when she takes in the wreckage. She picks him up, and he wants to laugh or maybe throw up again, because bridal style is not exactly the best way to carry him right now. He can walk just fine, honest.
"Take some aspirin before you go under, the congee is in the fridge for breakfast," she tells him as she moves the blankets for him, laying him on the bed. Her skin is cold, like the tiles on the bathroom floor, and he likes the feel of it.
Wordlessly, he takes her hand as she reaches out to remove his hitai-ate for his, his fingers tracing the ice-like digits, seeping the heat from his hands and putting it in hers. He hears her snort, and then laugh. He decides she makes a lot of happy sounds for somebody who smells so conflicted.
"Take the medicine already, and give me my hand back."
"You feel nice," he tells her seriously.
"And you sound like a serial killer when you say that."
His hand clasps tight over hers and he tugs, sending her off balance. She stumbles with a curse and falls onto him. Kakashi sighs, because her body is so cold, so soothing through the heat of liquor and drunkenness. She wiggles as he wraps his arms around her shoulders, trapping her arms by her sides, and she huffs out a laugh against his chest.
"You are going to hate yourself come morning," she tells him seriously, but he doesn't listen. The world is spinning and sliding sideways in front of him, and he feels like he might actually get a good night's sleep tonight, sprawled out in his bed holding an ice pack.
He closes his eye and leans back into the comfort of his mattress, playing idly with the strands of her hair, letting it slip between his fingertips as it fans out around them. She shifts a little, and he can feel the weight of her moving from his chest to his side, her own hands respectfully on herself, while his remain around her.
"Oh," she whispers, and it is a strangely sad sound. "I forgot how nice it was to have heater."
He doesn't know what she is talking about, but he hums anyway, oblivion calling his name. In the darkness of his home and the comfort of his sheets, he falls asleep.
The next morning, he wakes up with the world's driest mouth and the faint scent of blossoms and sea water clinging to his sheets. The trash can is back in its place, and everything is neat and orderly. The only thing odd is the glass of water by his bed, and the soft stink of vomit and alcohol hanging heavy on his clothes. Which is distinctly strange and unsettling, because he can recall something different.
He washes up, and notes that he can remember only snippets from last night. He knows he was drunk, it was Obito's death day. He always got drunk. Usually he ends up and Gai's house, or sprawled out on the bathroom floor, but the shower curtain is hanging just fine, and he doesn't feel as violently ill as usual, as if some one had a med-nin help him out.
There is a sensation of uneasiness in his gut as he settles down for breakfast, pulling some cooling congee out of his fridge that he can't remember ordering. Or making. Usually, he wouldn't eat it at all, but he is trained to be the best of the best and he detects no poisons. That, and the ingredients to it are missing from his larder.
Kakashi squints his eyes as he slips his mask down and tries to recall what happened a little bit harder.
He remembers flashes of alleyways and the burning scarlet lamps of the red light district, the burn of cheap liquor in his throat and his stomach. There is the faint recollection of someone carrying him, and the image of bronze leaves on a black kimono. A round face with coal eyes and long black hair.
A familiar face.
He spoons the savory meal into his mouth, and take a moment to appreciate the flavor of it for a second, thinking about the features for a moment.
He freezes and chokes, spitting the rice gruel everywhere. His heart hammers in his chest, and his eyes go wide. The cursing, the teasing, the bronze skin.
"Fuck. Fuck," he whispers.
The Kiri no Ningyo had hauled him home, had been inside his house, inside the village. The A-rank missing-nin girl had seen him and picked him out. She had… rubbed his back while he puked?
He remembers singing, and forceful demands from her to drink water, a conversation about failure. Countless time she could have killed him, an easy thing to do when he was in such a state. Only, here he was, better than most mornings after.
The murderess from the Mist, the girl known for being a ruthless monster had let him cover her eyes so she wouldn't see his face and carried him on her back halfway across town. She had slept beside him and let him drunkenly invade her space, consistently caring for him. She had bared her throat to him without consequence.
Suddenly, the congee on the table top makes him confused.
His apartment smells faintly of pear blossoms and seaside breezes, and he doesn't know what to think of it.