Dawn broke beautiful.
Purple almost-light caught on untouched snow, reflected and radiated, keeping the black of pre-dawn away. Next came deep-deep blue, then orange, and the retreating clouds stained red. Umino Iruka gave up on his toes and cracked open his sixth set of hand warmers and felt, in the chill-beyond-wind prickling at his neck, the attention of his watchers.
He was starting to think he'd see the sun itself. Had stopped praying his final prayers with every other thought. If they were going to shoot him or club him or whatever murder method was currently in vogue, they would have already. Maybe they held because it would be hard to hide blood on this pristine sheet of snow. Maybe they'd believed him.
The west half of Konoha stretched out before him, bits of sunrise catching in small bursts on dark windows as streetlights winked out.
The unmarked bump of Haku's grave turned pink and gold; the sun cleared the horizon.
And what's special about this place, Naruto? Humoring. He'd been humoring his newly favorite student. Enjoying the beauty of this hidden bit of Memorial park, despite the sweat soaking his collar. It's a grave, Naruto had (maybe) said. Had looked sideways at him. I killed my friend and hid him here. They were going to throw him away but I begged— Something like that. He couldn't remember the exact words, just that they were words that had made all of Iruka's small hairs stand on end, his heart speed up, the fear he'd worked so hard to replace with love crawl back up his throat—Ahaa! Got you sensei! You know I didn't kill anyone! and he'd been so grateful to have an excuse to laugh. To pretend he didn't see the tears Naruto scrubbed from his eyes. The blood he licked from a bitten-through lip.
When Iruka read Uchiha Sasuke's post, this was what caught him, choked him: not the allegations of political blackmail or money laundering or child trafficking, but the link on the satellite map of the hill a boy name Haku lay buried on.
He knew that hill.
He came before the roads were cleared. Posted selfies of himself on his skis with peppy captions about #epicsnowday and #skikonoha and a GPS check-in on all of his social media accounts in case he didn't come back and someone needed to find him. Because he'd fallen asleep, after clicking that link, and dreamed that he watched as shadowy figures with scarred faces dug up a bony body with long black hair and filled the grave with another boy instead, and when Iruka down to see who they'd put there, Naruto's dead eyes stared up at him.
All of Iruka's friends were right. He was an idiot. An overly reactive, overly emotional, overly attached idiot, but he would—was a little surprised, actually, to find out how willingly—rather die than let evidence that could help free Naruto be destroyed, the grave of a child desecrated. There was something sacred here, something that helped an heir of terror choose to be human, and he wasn't going to let that crumble to more secrets and empty rubble.
Iruka's friends were right, but Iruka wasn't wrong. The others turned up not quite an hour after he did, boots squeaking through fresh snow, swearing and smoking, metal tools for breaking frozen earth clinking. Iruka didn't wait until he could see them. Hopefully, this meant they couldn't see him, either.
He made good use of his take-no-crap teacher voice, asked flat and dry and clear if they had come to join Haku. "Dig your own graves if you like," he said. "You're not touching this one."
More swearing; a startled laugh. A note of uncertainty. Iruka smiled to himself.
"You some kind of ghost?" Mocking. Like an insecure middle-school bully mocked.
"One with nine tails," agreed Iruka. Breathed, disbelieving, as they paused, went still, backed off.
They didn't retreat all the way; he saw the smoke from their cigarettes rising from the bottom of the hill. Had been waiting for the regroup, the reinforcements, the renewed orders that would send three thugs charging up to the hill to kill him. The threat of the Kyuubi was only a threat. And while he wasn't defenseless, he wasn't stupid; his chances of survival went up the faster he ran.
Iruka didn't run. He watched the sun rise, and prayed not to die, and to have a not-terrible afterlife if he did die and for the soul of the boy for whom he kept vigil—the one in the ground; the one in his heart.
Someone new was coming. He heard the car, then saw it, an SUV worth more than he could make in five years.
Please don't make me a cockroach in my next life, Iruka prayed. Maybe something wild and free, like a stingray, or a dolphin—but most animals are fine by me, better than people anyway—
He started a live video on his phone. If he was going to die defending the kids screwed over by the rich and corrupt, he was going to make sure there were witnesses to finish what he couldn't.
"So I'm here at one of the spots Uchiha Sasuke posted coordinates to," he said. Two people were watching already; he was surprised, it was so early—"beautiful sunrise, yeah? But I'm here because he said a dead kid is buried here. I think he's probably right. The guys who showed up with shovels also seem think he was right." Iruka took his eyes off the the figures getting out of the SUV—too far away, too muffled in heavy winter clothes, way down there at the base of the hill, to make out—he didn't see any guns, though. Not yet. "So I've been standing here, and they've been skulking over behind the trees down there—yeah, we can't see them from here, hopefully won't see them at all. But those might be reinforcements coming." Ten viewers. Iruka switched cameras.
"I mean, I don't want to jump to any conclusions here, but that's not the press. Where is the press, by the way? You'd think they'd be all over these tips. So I don't know—but how many reasons are there to be here? If there's nothing—no one—hidden here, well, I've seen a great last sunrise. But, uh, if there is something—I can think of a few people who would be very, very, very interested in keeping it—keeping it—hidden, sorry, guys, they're getting close, I'm nervous and I know why I'm here but I'm still—Sarutobi-sama?"
Forty-six viewers. It was beyond his immediate friends list now. And, yes, that did seem to be the Honorable (honorable? Please—please be the hero I believed of you—) Sarutobi Hiruzen climbing the hill. With his son, whom Iruka had met once, at one of Naruto's hockey games. And four other young men, each looking as dangerously fisticuffs-ready as the hulking Asuma.
Iruka stuffed his phone in his pocket, camera peaking out. Didn't stop recording.
"Iruka-kun," said the elder Sarutobi, not looking nearly as surprised to see Iruka as Iruka was to see him. "Still stretching beyond your reach on behalf of your students, I see."
Iruka didn't have anything to say to that. He'd been a bit…forward, in badgering his way up the chain of command until he got to someone everyone else had to listen to. He had made that man—celebrated judge, former PM, current Mayor, revered elder of the Sarutobi clan—listen to why Naruto needed WoF, and WoF needed Naruto.
That didn't explain why Sarutobi was here.
The revered elder turned watering eyes from the untouched snow near Iruka's feet, passed with cold wind over Iruka, lingered on the waking streets of Konoha spread below.
"One of the bodies was said to be on my property," he said, low and distant, and Iruka wondered if his phone was picking up the words or not. Wondered if he wanted it to.
He should have kept his mouth shut. Should have listened with his eyes cast respectfully aside. Instead, he stared his best unimpressed waiting-for-you-to-be-done-with-your-lies teacher stare into the side of Sarutobi's head. Ignored the way the younger Sarutobi shifted protectively closer. "And is it? Is he. Or she. Buried there. Under your fountain—that's what Sasuke said."
The sky was fading white-blue now, the last bits of sunrise glowing from a thousand windows.
"Yes," said Iruka's maybe-ex hero. "Yes, there is a body there. Obviously we have not identified it yet. Nor have we disturbed the site more than was necessary to confirm. The police have been notified, of course, and the rest of the investigation is up to them."
"The police—the KPD," said Iruka, disgust so bitter on his tongue that his words came out twisted in it.
Sarutobi sighed. "It does seem…that Konoha is broken. More broken than we—than I—wished to believe. Here is a schoolteacher, standing guard over a child's secret grave.
"Here is a schoolteacher, standing guard over a secret grave," he repeated—without the self-condemnation, the second time. "Preventing further dishonor. Thank you, Iruka-sensei, for letting light through the cracks of all we have broken. Sunlight is, after all, the best disinfectant."
"His name was Haku," said Iruka, after enough silence for the last blush of sunrise to wash white. The snow was blinding."I don't—I don't know anything else about him. I just—I just—I know someone who loved him. He was loved. He was loved. He—"
"We'll watch over him," said Sarutobi-sama, smiling a little, knowing and sad, the same benevolent patriarch who had first held Iruka's shattered world steady.
If only Iruka could ever trust again.
Sarutobi studied him. On the other side of the hill, the sounds of Sarutobi's men confronting Iruka's grave-digging stalkers drifted into bluer-and-bluer sky. And—engines, more cars coming, press symbols emblazoned big enough to recognize even from the top of the hill.
Suddenly, Iruka wasn't brave enough to be there. He had courage for thugs and guns and powerful old men. Was brazen enough to impersonate a Nine-tails. But cameras and microphones and blatant agendas—he couldn't. The cold had him numb from the knee down, his nose was red and running from long hours in the cold, he couldn't feel his chin—and they'd see his broken heart all over his face. And then it would be: how do we use this?
Like they would use Haku. Like they had always used Naruto. Like they had used his parents, found dead in their KPD uniforms, three cuts on each cheek.
Iruka pulled his phone out his pocket. Didn't pause to read the number of views, but registered that it was in the thousands. "Real press is here," he said. "Guys, I'm out. No one's hiding this secret again. I hope. You'll help, yeah?"
Comments were flooding in. He cut the feed, clicked save before reason could tell him not too. Flushed red as the younger Sarutobi watched him collect his skis, eyebrows high, but all Asuma said was: "Roads've been plowed by now. Not great for skiing. Want a ride?"
He was so tired. Too tired to be as proud as he wanted to be. He took the ride. Gratefully locked every lock on every door and window he owned the moment he got home, filled the tub and soaked his feet and then filled it again and soaked the rest of him until all of his limbs were feeling again. Turned on the news, watched Sarutobi-sama intoning about regaining honor and the never-extinguished flame of the Will of Fire as behind him KPD officers cordoned off Haku's grave for all of forty seconds before shutting it off and throwing the remote.
So everything Iruka thought he stood for was a lie. So he hadn't slept last night, or much the night before, or the night before that. So school had been canceled three times in the past two months—because of bombings, because of publicly displayed Nine-tails victims, because a known and captured Nine-tails (Naruto! His Naruto) had broken free—
So. So. Iruka was still here, and there was really only one thing he knew how to do. Cared enough to do. Cared about more than anything. The kids—the kids needed someone. They weren't too picky about who it was. They'd settle for him, if he was the only one reaching. The kids in his class, the ones long since grown and graduated. The boy who'd come to him and sobbed on his couch the day his father found him. The forgotten child sleeping forever under snow.
He would show up for his kids.
.
VxYxV
.
After allowing Sasuke enough dignity to walk without being held, Itachi's hand kept reaching for him.
If you're reading this I'm dead was burned in bright negative to the backs of his eyelids, and the subtle flutter of heartbeat beneath the fingers he'd locked around his brother's wrist had been helping.
Sasuke's form seemed to vibrate a bit, around the edges, and Itachi watched him take steps that didn't always manage to pass as even and knew that his brother was reaching a limit.
"Well," said Kisame, "it's been fun being ignored by you, but I've been ordered to retreat." He looked disgusted by that last word.
Itachi took a long minute to watch him, drafting leading questions that might tempt the man into revealing more of what was coming next.
In the end, he said: "Do avoid being eaten by any foxes along your way," and watched for a moment as Kisame laughed, took careful stock of where they were walking, swore at his compass, and sauntered off, waving.
"Speaking of eating," he said, turning back to Sasuke, who was not running but was definitely calculating his chances of getting enough of a head start to make it count, "do you prefer dark-chocolate-sea-salt or honey-hazelnut?"
Sasuke curled his lip at the protein nut bars Itachi offered, grumbled about both being too sweet, took both.
Ate as they walked, watching Itachi, contention brewing behind bloodshot eyes, and Itachi spared less attention for monitoring their unsafe surroundings than he would like, because he couldn't look away. Both because he needed to see his brother breathing and, if his speculation based on Sasuke's ever-developing athleticism held true, there was a very good chance his little brother could outrun him.
Sasuke crumpled the protein bar wrappers. Pocketed them, eyes never leaving Itachi's.
"Everyone will have cleared out by now," he said. "You can't pretend your apartment is safer."
It was a valid point. Itachi hated it. "The Gates are never safe."
"Nowhere is safe for me, for now," Sasuke said, not so much challenging as—watchful. Weighing. "Even Father—"
He didn't finish. The word Father, it seemed, had closed up his throat.
"Father sent Akatsuki after you. Father's judgment is—"
"So he is the one paying them," said Sasuke. Looked away.
Itachi read the tug of small muscles writing pain with Sasuke's face: every day for far, far too many days, Sasuke's stubborn love of father and mother and brother and best friend racked him. Pulled until the edges of his psyche ripped and split. And Itachi...could neither prevent, halt, nor heal those wounds.
"...He does not work alone, if that helps." Itachi did not think it would help. "Everything he does is done on behalf of the clan."
Sasuke was quiet. Straightened tall, and still, steady as if his boots were sinking steel roots into the concrete floor. Dread felt cold, seeping through the locking muscles of Itachi's jaw, squeezing tight down his throat, pooling in the coiled muscles of legs-ready-to-spring.
"You can't be here," Itachi said. Begged. "You can't be here when the Fox comes. I won't let you—" but he'd never had to face Sasuke like this before, never had to prove what he would need to prove now, if he was going to save his brother—
"Then come with me," said Sasuke, almost pleading—but he wasn't. He wasn't asking. He was reaching out: one last chance. One last chance to choose between what Sasuke could accept for love and what Itachi needed to do because he loved.
Itachi had loved Sasuke by being everything Sasuke wanted. Had loved Sasuke by being everything he thought Sasuke needed. Had loved Sasuke by letting Sasuke hate him. Had tried to make things easier by creating an obvious choice. Had made himself the villain to allow Sasuke to hold on to his heroes. And: stupid, stubborn, saving Sasuke didn't choose. He did hate him—aggressively, venomously—almost as much as he loved him.
Almost.
"Look," said Sasuke. "Nii-san. Look: everyone else who might die today, down here or wherever, they—they fucking deserve it. Akatsuki, Father, Namikaze, fucking Danzo, the Fox. All of them had a part in making this. And me—I chose this. I chose the fights and the Gates and—Naruto tried—he tried—he didn't even know me? I—deserve it too. Even..." He swallowed, hard. Again. Again. "You. Even you. Naruto didn't choose this. I'm not leaving him alone, nii-san. I'm not leaving him down here alone."
"Otouto—" said Itachi, swallowing down be reasonable and no one is going to die. "I don't give a fuck for what anyone deserves," he said, and if only because he had never heard him swear before, Sasuke listened— "it can't be you. It can't be—it can't be you, Sasuke. Sasuke. I—need you. I need you to be okay. I need you."
His brother's eyes went wide, so so wide, and his lip trembled when he breathed in, and for a moment, a breathe-in-breathe-out-breathe-in, Itachi thought it would be okay.
"I love you, too," Sasuke said, slowly. "But...but, if you need me, if you need me, nii-san, you need Naruto."
"The Fox will kill you." Itachi's hands clawed into his jeans. If he let go, let go of fingernails pricking through denim to bruise skin, he would reach—Sasuke would run. "The Fox will kill me. The Fox will not kill Naruto."
"Let him," said Sasuke. If he'd put his knife between Itachi's ribs it wouldn't have hurt more, and the line of his mouth said that he knew it. "And you don't know what he will do to Naruto. I know what he's done—enough of what he's done. I told you: I'm not leaving Naruto alone."
"Naruto's parents will look after Naruto," said Itachi, knowing it wouldn't help. It wouldn't help, because he'd already used it. Sasuke did not forget. "Both Namikaze and Uzumaki have mobilized. Neither is to be underestimated. Trust them. Sasuke—if you think you care for Naruto, imagine how his parents—"
"No," said Sasuke. Took a step back. Whatever he'd been offering Itachi, whatever hope had bridged between them—it was gone. Another step back. Go on the offensive. Leap now, before he can gain speed, tie his hands and— but he didn't move, couldn't move, because if he hurt—if he hurt Sasuke—
"They had their chances," said Sasuke. He was so angry. Cold, focused angry, and Itachi missed the reckless rage he'd always been able to manipulate— "they weren't there. They weren't there when he needed him, so many times, so fucking many times."
"Not their fault," whispered Itachi.
"Yeah, maybe," said Sasuke, and there were two meters between them now, and every move Itachi made, Sasuke shifted to compensate. "Maybe 'cause it's our fault. 'Cause our clan. And the Fox's fault, and does it fucking matter? He was alone."
"I'll come with you," said Itachi, because he felt like he couldn't breathe, and he needed to speak with the air left in his lungs before it was gone and all of his words and choices and chances with it. "Wherever you go, whatever you choose, Otouto. I'll come with you."
Sasuke's mouth shut, and then his eyes shut, and breath shuddered in. His eyes opened, and his hand, and he tossed something small and shining to Itachi.
A 100 yen coin. No. It wasn't quite right-
"Payphone," said Sasuke. Which meant nothing—nothing applicable—to Itachi, but the sound of it let him breathe again. He walked forward, telegraphing each step as non-threateningly as possible. When he reached his brother, Sasuke walked too.
Fifty steps in, Sasuke started to cry. Itachi looked away carefully every time a hand darted up to blot out a tear. Wondered if crying was something his body could do.
Wondered if today was the day he found out.
.
VvIvV
.
It was impossible to do evil on a belly full of Ichiraku ramen, right? These kids may have set fire to a secret base in the tunnels under KPD central and they'd probably trained half their short lives to kill like she'd just seen Sai kill—but he and his four companions were all giving her the lost-puppy-dog look again, and they'd downed their noodles damn-near reverently, and Kushina couldn't exactly take them home, or take them with her, or leave them.
She took them to Naruto's old apartment. She had several half-good reasons for doing this: she wanted to check for evidence that Naruto had been there; it was a place they were unlikely to be found, questioned, or otherwise interfered with; Sai seemed to have some sort of connection to Naruto, and it seemed to be a positive one, so hopefully he wouldn't destroy Naruto's home—and as Minato had bought and paid to maintain the place as one of his dozen contingency plans, she might as well make use of it.
And she'd come up entirely blank when trying to produce a better plan.
"Pretty sure there's an extra futon under—yep. Looks like only one futon, but there's probably, like, twenty blankets in that closet—open it—hah. Good. And the heat seems to be working, and the water from the taps is potable, there's some long-shelf-life food in the cupboards if you get hungry...what else…"
No answers. Big eyes. Blank faces.
"So. Sai." She should not be as out of depth as she felt. She'd listened to so many haunted street kids. "You're responsible. I'll be back in touch within forty-eight hours—will send someone with my pass phrase if I'm unable to be here personally. Might send someone sooner. You can watch TV, sleep, eat, anyone got a phone? No phones. Okay, well, stay here until we figure out what comes next. Questions? Requests?"
One of the girls was looking at her with something close to emotion. Kushina met her eyes, cocked an eyebrow. The girl's lip trembled, just a little, before she spoke. "May we…make use of the shower?"
"For hours and hours, if you want," said Kushina. "Yes. Yes—use the shower. Use anything you can find in here, so long as you do so safely and non-destructively. This was Naruto's home—we kept it in case he needed to return to it—you are his guests. He'd want his friends to be safe and comfortable."
Sai's eyes filled up. Not with tears, or an emotion Kushina could read—but with something focused and intense and desperately, giddily human.
"Yes," he said. "I am Naruto's friend."
The ramen she'd managed to swallow settled, finally, and Kushina breathed deep enough to take another stab at taking on the world.
"Thank you, Sai," she said. "Thank you, all of you, for following me here. You will be okay."
She left.
At the big house, Genma was waiting for her.
"Nothing from Obito, sorry," he said. "We're all set up to start hacking, though. Have you eaten?"
"I ate. Here—I had literally seconds to decide what to take and what to leave, and I don't think anyone's going to get a peak at what was left—so go through these for everything you can find, no matter how innocuous, yeah? Have you heard from Minato?"
Genma's face was instant confirmation that he hadn't. "I thought he was staying in contact with you?"
She needed to find him. He must be too deep behind the Gates to have a way to call her. He could be trapped. If he'd followed Naruto to the Fox—
"Leaving?"
Genma's voice and mouth were casual, his stare anything but. She opened her mouth to tell him that she was going to track down Minato. And Naruto. She also needed to follow up on Sasuke's leads—she knew the press was following up, that interest was high, but there had doubtless been some level of sabotage—she needed to check up on Sasuke, and set up a back-up to deal with the kids she'd hidden in Naruto's apartment. She needed more time. She needed to be a dozen places at once. She needed Obito to be where she expected him to be, filling in the spots she forgot, making inappropriate jokes at inappropriate times so she could hiss in oxygen on a laugh or shout or a shut up, Obito . She needed to know that he was okay. That everyone was okay.
She needed to stop the Uchiha. She needed to stop her father.
"Hold the baby before you go."
A mind whirling with the dozen faces she fought for went sudden stark blank.
"Wha—the—what?"
"Baby," said Genma, very clearly. "Hinata's baby. Hinata had her baby."
Hinata. Hinata! She hadn't even thought—let herself forget— "Oh—oh," was all she managed, graceless and guilty, the panic she'd turned into the sort of fierce frenzied energy she'd been fighting on twisting into something sucking and sour.
"They're okay," Genma added, looking a little guilty. "Really good, in fact. Just—go sit, and see them, and hold her a bit, before you go."
Kushina wondered if he knew her well enough to know what he was asking. If he had any idea how high, on the very short list of Kushina's True Fears, small helpless babies ranked.
"You said they're okay."
"They are."
"Good, that's—that's good. Keep them that way, understand? Like, if you have to choose between breaking into Danzo's most awful secret files or answering a possible security threat to this house, you'll do the latter. Of course you will. But I—I gotta go. After...maybe after."
Kushina fled.
Naruto's friends were at the door. Rin looked torn. "They came to see Hinata," she said. "Do I let them in?"
Kushina squinted at them. Two of them were on the hockey team—one of them was Shikaku's kid, she was sure—the girl she didn't know.
She did know: not one of these kids breathed a word a reporter could use against Naruto. Not one of these very young, very vulnerable people let the pressures of press or parents or fear or envy overcome loyalty.
"Let them in," she said. Yes, that kid was definitely a Nara. and The blonde girl—she looked so much like Inoichi—and the boy—he had a good face. A kind, warm, anxious face.
There was too much to do. They needed all the help they could get.
"Genma!" she yelled into the house. Turned back to the kids. "So, uh, um, Hinata and—the—b-baby—"
"Are they okay? We saw pictures, and she said she was up to visitors," said the boy with the good face.
"Uh, yes, yes, they are," she said. Genma said they were. "You can see them. Also. Who wants to help take down a web of corruption and evil?"
Shikaku's kid sighed, deep and heartfelt, but she saw the spark ignite behind those sleepy eyes. And the girl—she looked very much like a shark. A lovely, bloodthirsty shark.
Kushina approved.
"Genma," she said, as the man had finally appeared, looking even more stressed. "I found some minions for you."
"We do want to see the baby—"
"We can do both, Chouji," said the girl, grinning her shark grin.
"...Great," said Genma. But he was warming up to the idea, Kushina could tell. "Okay. Well. Iwashi's already overridden the security locks to two of the hard disks. We'll set up another couple of laptops. Once you're done with the baby, I'll put you to work."
The girl was already on her phone. "We'll get you even more help," she promised. "Sakura's grounded, but Shino's available, and I bet Kiba can get here—"
"We're letting them all in, then?" asked Rin.
"If the other kids vouch for them, yep," said Kushina. Something she should have thought of hours ago lit up in her mind. She pulled out Minato's phone, put in his password, was rewarded with the name she'd hoped to find in his contacts.
"You have a granddaughter," she said to Hyuuga Hiashi, before he could think about hanging up. "Congratulations. I have the headlines of the century for every newsrag you own. Double congratulations. You don't deserve any of this. We have to hack through Shimura Danzo's encryptions first. You'll come for tea."
That settled, she called the teacher who'd built Naruto's bridge from the Gates to freedom.
"I'm Naruto's mom," she told Umino Iruka. "Do you remember where he lived? Oh good. Do you remember what he was like before he got pretty good at pretending to be normal? Yes. Yes, of course. I'm sorry to impose on your time, I'm sure you have many important things to do, but if you go to where Naruto used to live, you'll find five kids who haven't started learning how to pretend to be normal... "
She couldn't face Hinata or Hinata's baby. Wasn't ready for her heart to open up like she knew it would. But she could face Madara. Eliminate Madara. One more threat out of the game, and then she'd take on the last.
Father and Fox. She would face him. She would win. She would.
And then: then she'd find Minato. And Minato would be with Naruto, and they'd be safe because they'd keep each other safe. She knew her boys. She could be brave enough to trust and believe and—and wait, a little while longer.
Hushed, happy noises drifted down from Hinata's open bedroom. Kushina listened, keeping her own bedroom door ajar as she changed clothes, re-armed herself, put together a mental grocery list for Obito to pick up so they'd have everything for the biggest Big Breakfast ever. After.
After everything, she would gather her loves and her loves' loves into her home. She would feed them, tease them, hug them. Feel solid warmth under her hand on a head or a shoulder and listen and listen and listen until hearing them swallow and breathe and speak through smiles wrapped all the way around her, bound up all the wounds she earned fighting for every single one of those breaths.
And to get there, she—Uzumaki Kushina, pacifist—would fight.
Would win.
.
mUlUm
.
Sometimes, when everything went to shit, shifting-shattering-scattering into unfixable ends, Minato's brain did a frightening, helpful thing: it stopped feeling. Whatever firing of synapses and flooding of hormones made emotions, Minato's brain had a secret subconscious executive kill button that overrode them all. No pain, no fear, no sympathy.
Problems and solutions and a ticking clock.
Naruto, wavering, bleeding, locked the door. It was not a simple procedure, but Naruto didn't hesitate, and the whir of multiple bolts fixing inches-thick bullet-proof metal to impenetrable wall echoed, reassuring and threatening: no one was getting in. No one was getting out.
Minato reached out for him, flicking on the flashlight he'd finally freed, but Naruto lurched away—again. Moved across the room like he was sleep-walking. Left little splatters of blood behind him.
Minato's light passed over two chairs, two tables, one lamp. One chair was big: tall, winged back, wide armrests, thick shadow. Naruto moved into that shadow, Minato's light followed—and there was a—a nook, or—hiding spot (sniper corner?), cut into the wall, hidden by the chair, and Naruto crumpling into it.
"This is where I was," said Naruto. Sucked in a not-good sounding breath, sighed out.
And—sank. Knees-elbows-head-fingers met bare floor, and didn't move again.
Minato's world went white, pushed-back panic flooding fingertips, freezing lungs, setting his ears ringing. Fear overwhelmed.
And stopped: so he could breathe again. Think again. (Look at his child bleeding out and feel (almost) nothing — .)
Problem: Lacerations to head and hands, increasing blood loss, blunt force trauma, possible internal injuries and bleeding, loss of consciousness.
Problem: No access to medical care. Even if Minato had a safe way to move Naruto—and he didn't—he couldn't open the door Naruto locked them behind.
Problem: Naruto did not want Minato to touch him. If he regained consciousness and acted to keep distance between himself and his father, he could further injure himself—
tick tick tick tick
Problem: He had no reception on his phone. There were very few people who might be able to help, and he couldn't contact any of them.
He checked Naruto's breathing and heart rate, opened his mouth to make sure he hadn't swallowed his tongue. Still couldn't tell where the blood was coming from.
This place was fortified like a military bunker. Maybe it was supplied like one.
The beam of his flashlight showed polished floor and bare brick and he catalogued the fabric and frames of both chairs for possible uses and then he swept over a light switch and, feeling an utter fool, turned on the light. Four doors: the one they came through, two less-fortified but very locked, one unlocked. Toilet, sink, showerhead, drain hole. Cabinet he couldn't open. On top of the cabinet: medical kit.
Naruto was still breathing, still not moving. Blood was drying in his eyebrows and clotting his eyelashes. Active bleeding seemed to be slowing: small mercies. Minato couldn't fairly estimate how much Naruto had bled. How much blood he could afford to lose.
Had no way to help, if he'd already lost too much.
Not now. He examined the lacerations on the hands and wrists, probed carefully along shoulders and arms, shifted in too-small space to tug off boots. Naruto hadn't been walking well, though Minato found no evidence of foot or leg injury. Warm toes, welted ankles, but mobility was there and swelling was minimal; thankful for every good sign, Minato wrestled off his own coat, propped his son's feet onto it, tucked toes into the fur-lined hood. Pulled off his sweater while he was at it: made a pillow.
He was halfway through the buttons of Naruto's coat before he realized it was his coat, and nearly started feeling again.
tick tick tick tick
Instead, he tugged carefully at the layers of sweatshirt, shirt, undershirt that came next; allowed half a breath to weigh options. Used the butterfly knife he'd found in Naruto's right boot to slice open the sweatshirt. Gently, as slowly as he dared, lifted the shirts beneath.
Swelling red-blooming-purple radiated a sluggishly-bleeding half-circle cut. Minato thought: broken ribs, and: collapsed/pierced lung, pierced liver/spleen/kidney, infection, pneumonia and then had to stop thinking.
There was nothing he could do for the ribs. Or for the internal damage they may be causing. There was so very, very little he could do.
He could clean his son's head, and so he did; rinsing the sleeve he cut from his shirt and used as a washcloth again and again, smoothing warm water over damp skin and matted hair until Naruto's colors started to show again. Found the place skin had split across the scalp, wide and long as his finger. What makes a wound like that? He didn't know. Didn't want to. Flushed it with peroxide, winced as he pinched the edges together and more blood welled. To tape them together, he'd have to find a way to shave Naruto's head, and—and he couldn't. He was being irrational, he was feeling too much again, he was so bloody useless. Namikaze Minato was not who Naruto needed.
He was who Naruto had. So he packed the wound with hemostatic gauze, globbed antibacterial ointment all around, bound everything tight with his son's head lolling limp on one hand, juggling bandages with the other.
It wasn't that he had no idea what he was doing; he'd started first aid courses as a pre-teen. Signed up three (scary) days after befriending Kushina. He'd cleaned countless scrapes, picked shattered glass from forearms and knees, bound a badly sprained ankle. Once used a pressure bandage on a bullet wound to keep Kushina from bleeding out while he wore down her (hissing, spitting) resistance enough to call in Tsunade.
He'd learned all he could. Memorized fat sections of medical text. And that taught him what he needed to learn most: how much he couldn't do.
If his political career hadn't become its own beast, had he not needed all his strength just to hold on and not be trampled underneath, he'd have quit everything.
Gone to medical school.
He could help Naruto, as a surgeon.
Never would have lost Naruto, as a surgeon.
This was a game his self-loathing liked to play: what if what if what if spooling out, thoughts dancing down a dozen-dozen threads of possibility, wrapping all their faster smarter stronger wiser ifs around his throat until he choked.
He was drying Naruto's hair now, piling it damp under his own warm dry winter hat, and he had to stop choking. Had to breathe if he wanted to do anything at all to help his son breathe.
tick tick tick tick
Minato's hands fell empty. There was nothing left to do. Nothing he could do.
He sat back, arms wrapped around lungs to ward off the cold, to remind himself to breathe so he could maybe help Naruto breathe. Everything he couldn't afford to feel came up bit by bit, squeezing past the psychosomatic swelling of his throat.
Naruto breathed.
Minato breathed. Without tears: sobbed.
Where was Kushina?
Was Naruto's breathing getting wetter?
How many times, how many times in the weeks months years his child was hidden here had he been within a kilometer—500 meters—maybe even in the building above—hadn't Kushina come here, hadn't she begged her father's help—
Breathe. Breathe.
Naruto breathed. Minato breathed.
Something lifted inside, defied the rippling sick of guilt and terror, and he was humming it before he recognized it: a melody from the soundtrack of a favorite childhood anime, sung to Kushina's pregnant belly when she'd told him their baby was getting developed enough to hear his voice. To know him. To recognize him.
Then: Naruto in his arms, tiny and perfect and perfectly miserable, because he was teething and teething is terrible. Bright red cheeks and a bib sopping with drool and a little nose too congested to breathe through, so any time Minato laid him down he'd wake and scream and—and Minato would give up and just hold him, hold him and hum. Naruto would squirm across his chest until he was nestled just where he wanted to be, head tucked into the curve of his father's throat, and Minato would rest his chin on the downy-soft-hiccuping head. And hum.
He hadn't known any lulllabyes. No one sang very-young-Minato to sleep. He'd tried learning some, searched to find the ones with lyrics he liked and melodies he could sight-read; Naruto cried through all of them.
But Naruto was pretty okay with melancholy melodies from anime soundtracks if they came with steady movement, so Minato had walked and rocked and hummed the length and breadth of their combined living-dining room in spiraling exhaustion, whimpering baby pressed just left of his heart, and every single second was precious.
Because Naruto needed him. Because he could love Kushina by letting her sleep. Because he could be what she and Naruto needed.
Because Naruto loved him.
Because he didn't know any lullabyes—but his son would grow up with a song to soothe the dark, dark nights.
He would have given up, maybe, sunk to his knees and never walked again if he'd known—if he'd known how dark those nights would be—how many, how dark—
"We'll make it," Minato whispered, laid next to a grown-up boy in a half-hidden hole in a Fox's lair. The cold of the tiled floor seeped up-up-up into him, but Naruto faced him, mouth a little open, cheeks warm.
There'd been darker nights than this one. They'd made it through them.
It was only noon (pitch black noon, all the hours of night still before them) but—they'd make it through this one.
Naruto breathed.
Minato breathed.
And hummed.
.
.
.