Coushander
コウシャンデル

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Chapter 49
To the End of Night

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There was a waiting room. And in that waiting room sat two individuals daily. He observed it most curiously like in fact this was their homely dungeon, and they were the prime keepers. Perhaps one the headmaster with collections of dark art while he wrote finances and scribbled notices, and the other the nervous key-keeper, always dropping the keys, fumbling them in his hands to unlock the doors to the musty chambers where others came in and out regularly without hazard. The ones outside this waiting room had no wait with clean and dry arms folded, and together they talked about these two strangers with self-important egotism. "Oh look, there he is again," the leader would whisper. For he had to whisper: the headmaster was a classified and qualified jounin for God's sake. Not many men held that rank. So the egotist was not ignorant of that fact, but nor did he parade it before his company. An unpicked ninja was an unpicked ninja, like in a child's game of tag. There were many reasons for it. "He comes from the west side, just north of that little River country," Saru-Shin heard them say. "I heard the police there weren't kind to the leaf ninja—in fact the whole area hated them and beat them down. It was Suna's land."

"And he's loyal…to Konoha…?" interrupted one in a curious murmur.

"Probably a Suna spy," the leader whispered. "Sent in to infiltrate…"

"Excuse me," Saru interrupted from behind, all this far and away from any chance of overhearing. The walls of that dungeon were thick enough to block out the screams of those ill-forgotten. "But are those statements based in fact young man, or are you simply taking the liberty to judge a book by it's cover? If so, I will tell you I am a jounin, and I am a Monkey, and across my forehead underneath this white mane and headband of mine reads the phrase in less than ten seconds I will strip you naked in search of bananas. Would you prefer to go naked out the door or shall I simply throw you out face first? Hm? What shall it be?"

The three, with eyes as wide as melons, backed away, and they continued walking backward, and out the front door themselves. Maybe they had a mission to get to. The picked ones usually did.

"Thank you," Monkey muttered approvingly. He craned his head and looked in again on the twenty-one year old fellow with the black hair, the incredibly tall frame with dark eyes like gloom. He was a scary looking headmaster at that. Saru wondered what it would be like to see the young man smile. It would be a wonderful, even charming sight, transforming that stoic Buddha to something more genuine, real, and congenial. Then, Saru looked on at the other, even younger man across the way, fidgeting, tapping his fingers nervously and anxiously, with more than a bitter dose of uncertainty frowning over his remarkably young face. A smile out of him, too, would do him well. For those same narcissus men called the seventeen year old, simply, a useless loser.

Saru remembered being chastised by another pompous self-important aide over looking at the files of those two. ("Shinobi! What in the world are you doing in here!") But Saru had handwritten permission from Shodaime himself, which quickly and efficiently put end to it. Once finding the files, Saru's curiosity, however was not so quickly put to rest. It was true Morino Dalzen came from the land they spoke of, but both his parents had been ardent patriots (and martyrs) for the cause of returning the little place to the land of fire's control. They were opposed to the harsh rule put in place by the Suna government. That was at least known, and when he was younger than this, the child left the land rather than face discrimination and then certain persecution. No longer did the people care to which side they belonged. They appreciated the strong arm of authority which was once instilled to them by the old wind regime, and so they clung to harsh Suna, in their hour of decision. Or at least the local lord had made the decision for them. Saru did not know if there were truly any men left like Dalzen's parents who might want it otherwise, through Saru was sure the young man now wanted no more to speak of it or to do with it. Being a son of such a situation was difficult, at best. One the one hand, there must exist a dislike for ardent revolutionaries, and yet the revolutionaries were the only ones who could hope to overturn such harsh rule. It was a precarious thing, but yet it was nothing new. Histories such as this played out in every corner of the known world, and perhaps even in the unknown parts. But such a child deserved not to be so emotionally isolated as he was now. Love could cure such a thing. And basic human kindness. Just by the fact that the young man chose to be with the Senju was enough to grant Saru that hope the man was not purposefully wandering into despair and stoicism, though it seemed to have great hold over his emotions.

Kindness could in fact solve both their problems. The seventeen year old across the way was completely alone in the world, startlingly much like Dalzen was. There were no connections, no family Shodai could speak of, and nothing on his file other than where he came from. The young man was like any other young man joining the Senju's little village hidden by leaves. Ridiculed by those unforgiving peers, Saru did not know what the boy's problem was other than a difficult case in speech: seeming to stutter and pause as if he was too nervous to speak, and too easy to go along. Saru only knew he was in search of a purpose, a role, and by Jove, Saru was going to love to hand it to him. So he did. Saru-Shin walked into the dungeon where the young key-holder looked up nervously as the head master behind was perfectly calm and unmoved.

"Hello," Saru-Shin smiled down at the young man. He produced the mission information paper; there were three in his right hand, and he offered Ichida one. "My name is Saru-Shin, and I'd really like it if you might consider this mission I'm leading. I noticed your natural element is water, I really hope you might consider it."

Surprised beyond all known bewilderment, Takato looked like he dropped something before he even took the page. Once he did, he nervously read the first few important lines. "You needn't have to say anything right away," continued Saru. "I'll wait one day, then come back on Wednesday, for your answer."

Takato swallowed, and surprisingly, he stood, liberated from holding the keys: holding raw opportunity instead. "Yes—sir," he stammered out. "Th-Thank you sir."

Saru smiled, and after an awkward pause as if he might be dismissed by the third person, the young man exited the dungeon, liberated, to debate.

After a moment, Saru turned on his heel, with the attention of three or four other cell mates upon him. But he turned directly around. The headmaster was still gruff and unmoved. So Saru walked over, and said hello. "My name is Saru-Shin, and this—" he held out the second sheet, "—is a mission I am leading to the land of mist. I would really appreciated it if you might consider coming along," Eying him with a cold, uncommunicative stare, Dalzen accepted the paper, breaking the shape of his perfectly folded arms. "You do not have to answer right away," Saru continued. "I will be back here on Wednesday, for your answer," Saru watched the man read with a hidden smile under his striped eyes. "But I would really appreciate having someone of your skill."

The Morino looked up once, with his eyes only, and then down again to the page.

A moment passed until Saru heard the Morino say quite abruptly as if he did not even enjoy speaking, "Arigatou—I'll be there."

Surprised he was in such ready agreement, Saru nodded, "Thank you."

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Leaving the stuffy airs of that sad place for the light, he entered back into the sterile air of a taller, wider, and more white a building: it was the old Konohamaru hospital, being renovated and worked on once again with the village adding more and more young shinobi within it's walls, and a greater need for space. It was where yesterday, he observed by chance, a young girl leaving an operation room mid-session with a tiny spot of blood on her white apron. Another woman stopped at the door, "Hoseki, just go home," she said disapprovingly with arched brows that nearly reached her hairline. "You can't handle this." Saru watched the older girl shut the door without a second thought, and the young girl named Hoseki looked as if she were going to burst out in tears and cry—Saru slinked back into the other hall while watching furtively. Her cheeks were beat red enough for such an action, but it wasn't until the young woman retreated into a vacant room off to the side could Saru hear a short and sharp sob.

So he hung around the place, and a half an hour later that same day, Saru noticed a very tall man (at least six foot and over) approach the young woman who had collected herself (her cheeks were still flushed) on an uncomfortable wooden bench further along down the hall. "Dear Hoseki...what happened to you?" he asked her. He was very tall, but not very lean. In fact, he was almost stringy in appearance with a fine square head of black hair and an old, handsome face with small eyes. The woman was tall for her age: at once Saru understood they were father and daughter. But it seemed all her muscles were strong and sound, thin, but quick and agile, with only her youth separating her from acting more mature. Her eyes and hair were both black too, but very woman-like, and even handsome were she not so red and upset. She continued staring down at the tile in shame. "Hoseki?"

Just then, the door opened back down the hall, and simultaneously, Hoseki stood and walked briskly down the hall in the opposite direction.

The man walked toward Saru's position, stopping before the door, "What is wrong with that girl?" the man asked with a father's concern.

"Kano-san, come in…She was too squeamish to watch the rest of the procedure…" the same woman with the short forehead explained.

Saru felt as if she left out the addition, "She's utterly useless," with that deprecating tone of hers.

So Saru returned. And Hoseki would be brave to return too, after such an embarrassing performance. He recognized the name, too. Kano was one of the best leading doctors the hospital had at the moment. It seemed his daughter was following in his very tall and narrow shadow. Without knowing if she was truly an able medic or not, Saru wandered around the place with the last sheet in his hands. Her only surface fault so far it seemed was a fear of blood. It was something able to be cured—she was a woman for Lord's sake. For a half an hour he wandered before he finally noticed her leaving a room with a clipboard in her hands like she was checking something off. An older nurse exited behind her with another stern-faced expression like now she had the insipid duty of watching over the lead doctor's little girl. "Oh, miss," said Saru, "May I have a word?"

"Me…?"

"Yes."

The nurse took back the clipboard, proceeding on her way, and young Hoseki approached tentatively. He could see in her eyes some of the same nervousness and lack of confidence the Ichida had. Saru smiled. "Forgive me. My name is Saru-Shin, and I was wondering if you might consider this," He offered her the lone paper, and hesitantly, she took it. "It's a mission I'm leading, to the land of mist. You don't have to answer right away, I'll be coming back here again on Wednesday, same time. I'll wait in the main lobby, downstairs."

"Oh…" she said, still glancing up and down over the particulars, in general, it was extremely basic—"Um, me? Sir? Are you sure…?"

"Yes," he smiled kindly. "I'd be honored if you might accompany us."

"Oh…" she sounded, still in some bewilderment she would have even been considered: "Well, um, I'd like to say yes, but I'll have to check…"

"Of course. Thanks." He turned, but she said, "Thank you, sir," in a very heartfelt way that Saru could feel it. "You're welcome," he returned, and waited for evening to come.

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Once it did, rolling around past eleven-thirty, he went up the mountain side alone, and sat with Harou, who was already waiting and sitting there.

The two sat in silence for quite some time before Saru said, "So? Where have you been roaming? It's been a while."

Harou made a noise in agreement. "Here and there."

Saru began to grin when he said nothing else. The two sat again in complete silence for a few passing moments before Saru finally asked, "Will you say nothing tonight?"

Harou shifted.

Saru smiled. "Harou it is only six months."

"Indeed…why bother," he committed. "But just answer me this, why is it, Ryouma Saru-Shin, that I have such an odd feeling about all this all of a sudden? Hm?"

"I don't know," his friend answered all too innocently.

"Do not play with me," Harou muttered. "I'm not in the mood."

"Oh?" Saru continued.

"Yes 'oh'," he said, "I must away again in the morning, and I may not be back to see you leave. I don't know."

"That reminds me—I still need a journal."

"Go out and beg for one."

"Shodaime said he would have someone get me one."

"Shodaime is too magnanimous."

"He's the one that wants the record… And you wouldn't dare say that to his face Harou Nekai."

"No."

Saru grinned.

"Saru…" he continued after a moment. "I wish you would reconsider taking your brother…along…"

"He is ready."

"But is he prepared?"

"That too."

"Because there is a difference. You know as well as I."

"He wants to do this. He wanted something special for his twentieth birthday. So he will be in the land of mist for it. He's young, Harou."

"And he has recently lost his father."

At this, there was a small and cold silence until Saru resumed, "He is ready and very willing, and I think I have the team I want to do this. If he parts ways after, so be it. I've told him before I don't mind. But, life could not be better."

"Saru…" Harou said after a moment.

"I'm perfectly fine, Harou. Really."

"And…" Harou wisely decided no to ask him if Saru shared the same odd feeling about the mission, either. "So…that's it then, is it. Sayonara."

"Sayonara."

They sat for a moment longer.

"You're sure…?"

"Goodnight Harou."

"Yes. Goodnight Harou. I must sleep well for curriers' duty, again…"

"Well if I do not see you, the rest of the week, have a safe journey," Monkey wished.

"You too—I hope you're ship is big and impressive," Harou smiled.

"Thanks." Monkey grinned.

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Close to one in the morning, Saru returned to his and his brother's little apartment in the heart of town. Coincidence or not, the building (the address as told on the file) was also home to Morino Dalzen, though he'd never once passed the path of the gruff looking man. The Morino lived on the third floor while the brothers' Hatake lived on the second in the last room on the west end, with a wide window framing a perfect view of the mountain. Saru had lived in this room ever since he joined with the village. Saru entered in quietly, expecting everyone in that apartment house asleep, but he was surprised to find a small light on in their bedroom with that wide picture window. "Coushander—" he said when he saw him up, "Why aren't you asleep?"

"I couldn't," he answered simply, sitting Indian style on his bed. "So I figured I'd wait up for you. I thought you'd be home much later…" Coushander lowered his head back down to glance over the local paper.

"I don't believe you," Saru smiled oddly, coming into the room more, "You hate reading that stuff."

"Yeah…There was nothing else to look at—or do. I thought about writing to Matty, but I wouldn't know what to say…"

"Sometimes you may find you'll think of something as you go. It doesn't have to be perfect. But, I did write to Mihure-san just two days ago that we were leaving. They should get the letter today, or tomorrow."

"Oh—really?" Coushander perked.

Saru nodded. He took off his vest, and laid it on his bed—they had separate twin-side beds in the large room, at least four times as large as their closet bedroom back home. Saru then walked to the window, and sat on the ledge, to look out.

"Saru—About…father's will…was that what we were really going to do?"

"You're welcome to go home at anytime, Kousa. You never have to stay here for my sake. This is my calling. I can do nothing else."

Coushander folded the paper away, after having read the comics several times over. He'd just finished reading the editorial twice over, trying to makes sense of some man's opinion over something nearly irrelevant. "No—I want to do this. But maybe after this…I really don't know what to do, really," he said indecisively. "I mean, I really like it here, but maybe after this mission, I'll decide. I just want to go, first."

"It's up to you, Kousa," Saru glanced at him, "It's all up to you."

There was a wink of tiredness and a twinge of something in the words Coushander was unaccustomed to. So, the young brother asked him, "Were you talking to Harou again? Where has he been?"

"He didn't say," Saru said after a moment. "But he said he's leaving again in the morning."

"Oh. How is he…?"

"Well."

A moment passed.

"Is there something wrong?'

"No."

Coushander gazed at him from the corner of his eyes, trying not to stare, but it was very nearly impossible. His older brother was usually cheerful and unplagued by doubt, or at least if he was troubled by something, he hid it expertly. Coushander understood Saru's connection with Harou, but it seemed almost something more than that, at least something more than the reminiscing of old and good times with Senju Karada. "Is it—father? Coushander asked softly. "I'm sorry, Saru, I didn't mean to upset you."

"No. It's fine. I was just going to stay up a little longer."

And talk to yourself in your head? Coushander wondered. Even Ching Ling Soo never had crises of conscience that required sitting for great lengths in darkened rooms alone, and neither did Sun Wu Kong. Especially not the monkey king Sun WuKong. "Saru—"

"Don't call me that."

And just as quickly as the toneless infraction came did Saru-Shin retract it, giving spine for argument Kousa may have never heard it in the first place: "Sorry," he apologized, glancing downward to the weather stripping and grey caulk.

Coushander got chills. It began at the base of his spine, up to his neck, the kind where he straightened and became aware something was amiss. Luckily, after an icy moment, his older brother continued. "I have been thinking of father," he said quietly, in case by some freak chance Dalzen or anyone else could hear him. Coushander heard, and one more time the loss grew out of his young emotion, and he blinked back large mournful tears in his eyes. Since Takeshi had scorned his brother in youth, giving him that name, Coushander knew all of this was not easy for Saru, since Coushander was not aware if either of the two had truly reconciled. There was that moment Saru came back in uniform and Takeshi seemed impressed, even civil, but Kousa did not know if their father had ever apologized—or was that even necessary? Coushander did not know these things, and he dared not ask what he didn't understand. Ever since he could remember Saru hid his true feelings—even now, like Harou, and a few others. There always seemed two sides to their personalities, and to their memories. If there were only some way to know, Coushander thought, until Saru began speaking, not singing,

"My father's house, stands hard and bright. It stands like a beacon, calling me in the night…Calling and calling, so cold and alone. Shining 'cross this dark highway where all our sins lie unatoned."

Silence pounded in Coushander's ears after those words, those verses spoken: Coushander suffered another chill, and it crawled behind his ears, "Where's that from…?" he asked shyly.

Without moving his head, Saru responded, "The brown leather book. It's in my pack, at the bottom."

Hesitantly, Coushander uncurled his legs, stood, walked a few paces, and then reached into the blue duffle bag on the other side of Saru's bed. Sure enough, there was a brown book under the crumpled mess of papers—mainly old mission slips he needed to throw away, and Coushander tentatively resumed his position on his own bed.

"Read it, I don't mind."

Coushander glanced at him, and still his niisan stared along the clear and glassy mado. With a pause, and with care, Kousa opened the inside, his attention diverting to the unique inscription. And then, to the pages themselves.

Every one of them a song.

Kousa flipped though them all, in growing bewilderment. Every page was filled with verse, even that little ditty their father invented. It was all there. A short, surprised laugh escaped Coushander, and he looked at his brother in disbelief, "You wrote all these…?" When Saru said nothing, Coushander realized what he was holding. Regardless of their father's attitude, Saru loved song. And he loved the legends and stories they had been told growing up in their small home.

After a while, Coushander found the guts to ask him, "Did father…ever…apologize? Did you two ever truly reconcile… …niisan?"

Saru considered the question. Perhaps Harou was rubbing off on him too much, for Saru held the inclination to tell him nothing. He glanced at his younger brother's form for a brief second who sat there, unassuming as ever. Saru considered longer. He took a deep breath and sighed, hoping to rid the debate with the first answer that entered into his mind. It was a yes. "Yes. We did."

The words were spoken softly—there was more to it than that Coushander reasoned, but he did not know if his brother might continue. Maybe someday. In his own time. Coushander closed the book gently, with a small smile, reading the inscription one more time before he did so. After a moment, Kousa tried to levitate: "Maybe…we'll learn something new in water country. A new song."

Surprised, Coushander saw he succeeded in making his older brother smile.

"There are many legends in the land of mist," said Saru-Shin. "Care to hear about the mist men? They don't include stuff like that on all those brochures…"

"Saru! It's like two o'clock in the morning!" Kousa (quietly) exclaimed, stealing a look at the clock that read about fifteen to.

"The night is young. It will augment your anticipation," he grinned, and Saru got off the windowsill and closed the panel curtains to within two inches. He took the journal and replaced it to a drawer on a side table with a lamp. But Coushander instantaneously collapsed on his bed, pulling the pillow over the back of his head. Seeing Saru was not going to pursue the (gruesome) tale, Coushander lifted the soft white block and he glanced at the two katana in the corner, near Saru's side. "Saru—were you going to take that white katana with you?"

"Where—to mist country?"

"Yeah."

Saru shook his head.

"Why not?"

Saru smiled at him warmly, it was the first of one of those smiles his younger brother had not seen in quite some time; "I am not a swordsman."

His brother's infectious, genuine smile produced one on Kousa's mouth. "Yeah," he agreed. "Only I need that crutch. You're a real shinobi."

"That's nonsense Kousa."

"But I still suck at ninjutsu. You know it. I know it."

"Kousa…" Saru continued to grin at him. "You may…" he meant to say, he may grow more powerful in that respect than he, but Saru-Shin finished, "…surprise yourself, someday."

Slightly cryptic, Saru's smile turned over with his backside, and Coushander stared at his back as he often did when they were just two ordinary farm boys stuck in a tiny box room back home. "Arigatou," Coushander said. "…For what?" Saru-Shin's head turned.

"For letting me tag along," Kousa replied. He watched Saru smile and turn over again. And Coushander lied there, restless with thought before the sleep came.

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Sharingan no Kakashi—Kakashi of the Sharingan; that's what they called him. Enemies and allies alike, which was strange since he did not last long in battle because of the special red eye—or so he thought it was strange. Jiraiya, too considered the praise rather quirky, believing, "I could kick your ass in two minutes." But Jiraiya never tested him, and neither did Kakashi put the verbs to work. The two did not see each other often, and when they did, it produced rather snarky comments like that from the sage which Kakashi, as instructed by Jiraiya, never really listened to.

But he continued listening to commands, keeping in service with ANBU for the allotted time period of six years. Beyond that, they figured it would have wearied any man with that level of danger and darkness… Forced then to quit, Kakashi left, taking break, but not leave. He was shinobi to the core. His father had given him that chance. He wasn't going to squander it. Twenty years old, and four years past the first orange book, there was still no sequel in sight…yet. Kakashi learned Jiraiya had written several other books and short stories, with diminishing success. His light (or popularity) as an author had been slowly fading anyway, as the only request he received nowadays was still the sequel to the Gutsy Shinobi tale. He declined these requests with a fiery and furtive attitude. The young man learned these facts at the village bookstore rather than visit Jiraiya's mother which Kakashi was still very shy of doing. It's not that he felt he was not welcome, it was that he did not want to intrude upon such welcome he was aware he had. His solitude still over-powered any connections he might form, or might exist, but he preferred it. And with youth, he was very resilient in his decisions. It was true ANBU was a brotherhood of sorts, and with the larger wars over there was time enough to loll around in the village with absolutely nothing to do, and people, rivals who recognized you. But family? The entire village was nearly so, but still. Kakashi clung to his reserve like it were the only thing left he owned to his name.

No less than a week home (and in that same apartment house he so liked) the twenty-year old was summoned—to Sandaime hokage himself. Kakashi would reticently agree Sarutobi had the most unfailing sense of duty of them all, taking back the position after Yondaime sacrificed himself, and still, here he was in that lonely hokage tower beneath the mountain, and all the worries and concerns that came back with the job…and the precariousness of local politics. Half-expecting some important assignment, Kakashi entered in expectantly, though with weariness of heart if it was such a case. Granted, he barely knew what free-time was, let alone what to do with it (father's trait…), but right now, he needed the rest (and the blessed silence).

"Kakashi," the sixty-two year old smiled. "It's good to see you. I'm sure you're wondered why I wished to see you, but honestly…I only wanted to welcome you back, and say hello. You have grown so much," Hizuren smiled. "Your father would be proud."

After a moment, Kakashi knew he had to respond. So he swallowed and he said, "I think he would be prouder, though, if I had become a farmer…sir."

The words were light and even a little lackadaisical sounding—Kakashi spoke like his father, and sounded like him too, and it caused the older man to hide a grin fruitlessly—"Still," he smiled. "As long as you are happy, in your present course, with no regrets—or as few as possible," Briefly, the older man glanced downward in solemnity, remember the young man's father; "As long as you are happy," he said again, "I believe he would be proud."

Kakashi accepted his word emotionally, and kept silent.

He looked up, "Have you seen Kano-san lately?"

"No sir."

"I believe you should go and see her, Kakashi," he said, "In all the times I have seen her in the village, she always ask about you, and always must tell her I do not know. She cares about you very much. Please take my hint and pay a visit. She is getting older."

"Yes sir," Kakashi nodded.

"And…one last thing," Sarutobi smiled. "I think now…you may be a prime candidate."

"Candidate—For what?"

"Being a sensei."

Kakashi stared—awestruck and utterly dumbfounded.

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"He asked me to consider it."

"Oh that's wonderful! Oh do! Do consider it!" Keiko smiled warmly. "It would keep you in the village!"

Which he precisely did not particularly care for. "Maybe—off and on," he granted. "But missions…"

"Ah, but now, you could take some green genin with you," she said. "Wouldn't that be fun," she smiled knowingly.

He shrugged smally. He could not put into worlds how uncomfortable the whole idea made him feel. Being an only child, had had no brothers or sisters; he was never charged with care of someone until he made jounin that long week in Kusa, and then his duties latter in ANBU. He hardly thought even now he could not teach the younger generation anything useful… Still, he sighed. If Sarutobi himself asked him to consider it, dutifully, Kakashi would.

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"Here you are, sir."

Jiraiya stared at the platter before him. "…What the hell is this?"

"It's your usual sir—in the shape of a kunai."

"A kunai."

"Yes sir—don't you see it?"

"Oh I see it all right—but answer me: why in the five great nations is my dinner in the shape of a kunai?"

"Er, we have a little…promotion going—since we donate to the ninja academy, our manager came up with this…idea for more donations from our customers…"

"Oh did he? Well…" Jiraiya eyed the steward closely, "Well next time, just bring me the usual, will you? It's bad enough to fall on my knife, but to eat it…Well, let's just say there's only so much I would do for the village…"

"Forgive us sir," the man said, and promptly left him a little shame faced. Once he was gone, Jiraiya let out a heavy sigh. Five short skewers of yakitori were knit and pointed on one end cleverly, and the hilt was composed of a rectangular block of rice on top a sliced cucumber with a dash of red pepper and the ring on the end was a fortune cookie. "What a block-head…" the forty-four year old murmured and started eating.

It'd been his only desire to bring Tsunade to this place for a quiet evening alone—ever since he was sixteen…or thereabouts… But the only places she preferred were the small ones scattered about here and there, nothing enclosed or confined. She wanted to stumble out on her own after she got drunk, and not have to worry about bumping in to anything, nor anyone. She did not like tight spaces in general, and Jiraiya was too large and too tall and filled up too much room for her liking. It'd been about seven years since she left. Rather, it'd been so many years since she went AWOL and took her pessimism with her.

Jiraiya hadn't seen it coming. She hid it well. Far better than he could ever hide something such as that. At least when Sakumo left the village, it was official…Jiraiya could not exactly say Tsunade wanted to quit and join a tea house: she just up and left, without any mention of what she was planning to do. Still. Whatever her mood was, Jiraiya still missed her company. Lately, it began to feel to him as if he were the last man standing on the battlefield, like back in Kusa somewhere. No matter where he looked over the hills and mountains and grasslands, he couldn't help but wonder where in the hell everyone was going.

He searched and kept tabs as best he could with contacts—Orochi had left the shady organization he attached himself to, like a parasite to a host, or was that a host to a parasite…? The organization, the 'Akatsuki' bothered him still. The majority of their dealings were ones to the type of cloak and dagger, amassing large sums of money, stealing; thief work. And Tsunade—Tsunade as far as he knew had not attached anything to herself other than the name of a legendary 'loser'. The sums of money she lost were enough to make her own grandfather faint and roll over in his grave if he hadn't done so already. Jiraiya shook his head just thinking about it: stay away from the dice…he moaned inside his mind.

True, Jiraiya admitted. Hope was a very small and singular word these days, but at least it still remained in his mind: no one he met could ever kill such an arbitrary thing, so why not hold out for it? The little thing had not let him down in some time—not since Sakumo died, and that was twelve years ago—twelve years! His nephew must be…twenty!

By the time Jiraiya finished, he felt positively ancient. He washed the cares down with some drink, and felt thankful his mother was still alive.

.

"Oh Jiraiya!" she exclaimed happily, "Did you return, today?"

"Yeah," he followed her after she released him from a tight hug, and he walked up two steps and into the kitchen where he sat down at the kitchen table, letting her take the seat faced toward the little window of her front yard. "Kakashi came to visit me today," she said, "He's finally quit the ANBU—or the ANBU quit him—did you know they're only allowed to serve so many years?"

Jiraiya was aware of a measure proposed to cut the service to four. "Oh—yeah."

"Can I fix you something? I just finished watering those flowers out front, I bought them yesterday—Easter lilies—did you see?"

Jiraiya nodded, "Very pretty. I just had dinner," he explained with a faint smile. "I got back at two…I think."

"Where did you go?"

"Oh, here and there. North and south—I just came from Taki," he said without much interest in his trip. "I saw my book in the window though," he smiled after a moment. He remembered a bright orange something catching his eye that he stopped to look. It was about the only thing that did. The Taki bars and taverns were not quite what they once were; there was a genuine shortage of pretty women. And Tsunade wasn't among any of them.

"Have you been writing anything?" she pursued with a warm smile.

He shrugged. "It's slowing down," he admitted truthfully.

"Well, I have an idea," she announced, "Just the other day I was thinking—How about…a book about two brothers back when the village was just starting," she said with a smile.

"Aw, I can't do that…"

"Why not?"

"I'm not into historical…I know, I know…" Jiraiya said after he saw that stern look of hers.

"What about two sisters then?"

"I don't want to write about girls, either."

"Well, you sure know their anatomy very well…" she got up and filled her own cup of coffee on the counter.

He rolled his eyes, perturbed his own mother said something like that. He could actually anticipate, verbatim, as she continued on, "Why can't you settle down, Jiraiya…There's still time!"

"I don't think marriage is really for me…" he stated a little plainly, hoping one more time saying it might put end to it. That hope was not in his future however.

"Nonsense…If Dalzen got married, anybody could get married," she smiled faintly to herself, "Have you seen Tsunade?" she asked him, suddenly reminded of her, "Do you know where she is…?"

"Last I heard she was up north somewhere, near Rice country—lost quite a sum of money…"

Kano frowned.

"Yeah..." Jiraiya concurred in his tone that matched the sorrowful look on her face, "I still don't get it either."

"Reach out to her—you two have always been so close."

Jiraiya's smile twisted. Almost forty years experience, if he dared so much as look at her the wrong way, he could be the one sent flying into high orbit. "I've tried, mom, but it never works."

"Then try again," she offered. "Sometimes it takes too many tries before a person comes around. After all…I thought I heard Sarutobi talking like he really wanted one of you two to take the seat of the hokage when he's gone."

Jiraiya smiled, "Then it should be her…So long as they don't trust her with the village funds…or evict me…" He said with a feeling she would have that advantage to her if he ever ticked her off again.

"Oh!" His mother said suddenly, "Did I tell you Kakashi might consider the role of a sensei…?"

"Huh?" Jiraiya exclaimed in bewilderment.

"Sarutobi offered it to him," she smiled.

"Whoa," he said disbelievingly, "I go away for three weeks and the whole world turns upside down…"

"Why is that so silly? If I remember, you were not so much older when you looked after those young children in Rain…"

"Yeah, but Kakashi? He can't honestly want to do that…"

She smiled, "He is no longer a child."

"Yeah—well, he'll always be thirteen to me," And crazy, Jiraiya added to himself.

"Well now that's how I look at you," his mother returned. "The wheel turns, Jiraiya."

"Well…sometimes, it feels like it's broken. Mom—did you ever have a midlife crises? What are the signs?"

She laughed, "Um…yes…try your father," she smiled, "Not that I regret it. But I suppose, for a second time…you learn who you are and need to be…I became a mother. And I wouldn't have traded those days for anything. Everything that has happened," she said wisely, "Happened for a reason. Your father told me that," she added after a moment.

Jiraiya smiled a little, remembered what his old man had said in his letter. He wasn't a mistake: he was unexpected, at least on Coushander's part, but he was wanted. "Was there anything else, dad left behind?" Jiraiya wondered aloud.

"What do you mean?"

"Like, a letter…or diary…"

"Well, there was your brother's letter, and then the one he wrote to me…and then yours…I believe that's about it unless you want to go looking through what all Sakumo saved; letters, bills, receipts…Oh but there is one thing," she said, and turned around, reaching for a stack of paper on her counter. Kano turned it over, "I saw this today, and I couldn't believe it," She handed her son the Konohagakure paper, and pointed at a photo on the right hand side. "Did you know that man?" she asked.

Jiraiya shook his head. "Why—did you?"

"Well, no, not really. Rion and I would see him frequently at auctions, but I had no idea he was a realtor," she smiled oddly. "I can't believe I didn't. I wish I had—and I just wonder if maybe he could have been the one Coushander—your father saw. That man was always collecting blades. The next time I see his son at an auction, I'm going to ask him. I made a note to myself not to forget," she smiled, "Jiraiya if my mind ever goes, please put me down."

"Maaaaaa!" Jiraiya moaned.

She grinned, "Please?"

Jiraiya shuddered, shaking his head. She was eighty-eight. Jiraiya suddenly could feel Tsunade smiling at him, from somewhere, but he didn't sneeze. She must have kept her mouth shut. Instead, he focused on the article, explaining the man's life, his family, and his hobby. "Hm," Jiraiya found something to remark on, "D'you think they'll part with that extensive a collection? I mean, there are other blade collectors out there that would probably pay big money for what he had."

"I don't know," she shrugged, re-taking her seat. "I'll have to ask him that too. I think the nephew might want it. He seems like he's an avid collector too."

"Oh?" Jiraiya uttered inquisitively for the sake of taking about something other than her age and his martial prospects.

She nodded. "He buys furniture mainly," She laughed softly, remembering the little Senju table Rion nearly ran away with.

"Oh," Jiraiya said. "I just wondered," He continued scanning the article, but he noticed something. "He had no children…?"

"Just his nieces and nephews apparently," Kano said. "Never said he married or settled down. Seems strange."

"Yeah," Jiraiya agreed.

Stein was ninety-three.

"He would have been Coushander's age," Keiko added.

"Oh…" said Jiraiya.

.

Long after her son left, she was left again alone to herself in her new home, with her saved memorabilia of Coushander, Kiri, Dalzen, Saru, Takato, Rion, and the rest. She happened to see her small silver pentagon tucked away in her jewelry box: she smiled, remembering; Jiraiya was three or four yeas old, and she'd just put the boy down for a nap. He screamed and fitted at the very word every time, but it had to be done. Surprisingly that day she was able to sing and read him asleep (Jiraiya was always susceptible to the 'Akira's Magic Garden' story). So she quietly left his room as he slept, careful not to squeak the floorboards, and she made her way to her room, but she stopped suddenly when she saw Coushander through the six inch gap of the open door. He was seated quite tentatively at her small wooden desk where she could see him fingering something extraordinarily small but reflective: it was her pentagon medal.

From the angle, he could not see her unless she might clear her throat or open the door the rest of the way, and she dared not do either of those things, for he looked so distantly curious, sitting there like his legs had merely gotten tired from standing, and by happenstance, the chair was there, and again by happenstance, the medal had been laying against a picture of some medical diploma issued to her some time after Kiri. He fingered it in his scarred left hand like it were a thumb tack that was forged by a samurai of the north west: something intriguing, even mysterious, but all the same, an ordinary, plain object. She actually fought back the urge to laugh at his idleness. He did not like being so. Being with him again for this long prompted that reaction. No longer was she fiery and indignant over the way he threw out his medal, or the way he buried that past to the point he could not bear having Saru's name mentioned in front of him or elsewhere. This moment proved he had come a long, long way. She had never seen him take a passing interest in any of her things, except herself of course.

She watched him purse his lips and pretend to sigh over the object like he was not really that interested by it as he fingered the thing nearly at arms length—he did not bring it close to his face for examination like Jiraiya would do with a big crawling brown June bug under her flowerbed. Coushander knew what it was. He knew what it stood for. And she felt a little pride for him, he was recognizing it…in his own way.

Suddenly, his eyes glazed over the small medallion and within the second it took to idly glance at the door, his half-closed eyes opened wide with shock as he saw her frame and face behind the door—dropping the medal and standing upright so fast that he nearly knocked the small chair over (and luckily not himself), he swallowed as she gently opened the door wide wider with a smile growing on her face:

"I swear to God—" he burst quickly, "I wasn't touching it."

Her laugh was soft, inside her throat.

"I swear I didn't touch anything," Since she was blocking the only means of escape, he was forced to stand there like an idiot and a snoop he knew he looked to be. However, after a moment, she walked over to him with her tall, womanly figure and she took him in her arms and kissed his cheek: Coushander did not enjoy being rewarded this way. He managed to break free with a gruff clearing of his throat like he wanted to go about his idle business. "I did not touch anything," he said again firmly. He was proud he still knew how to lie…even if it did not mean anything.

"Are you staying this evening?" she asked.

He pursed his lip again, debating the pros and cons. He wised to hell it was Thursday he thought when he glanced at her calendar hanging on the wall, under a wooden shelf. Since it was not, Kosaka could not give him the excuse he needed. "I don't know," he answered simply. The answer gave him no obligation.

Still holding his hands, she moved them up a ways to his arms beneath his elbows. He was wearing his old light blue kimono, patched and patched again from constant wear. The smell of it reminded her of rain and open country, with the warm day going on outside. "I love you," she smiled softly, enthralled by his presence.

A wave of tiredness hit him after her sentiment like he'd been running for miles, and her home was the only shelter he'd found along the way. So he swallowed down a little reluctance and said, "I love you, too," in return, in a quiet tone, more from inner gratitude, than anything else. She pulled him in closer and kissed him again. He pretended she was about to mention Saru-Shin, and so he kissed her back.

To heck with Kosaka and his meetings of utter importance… …

He might even skip another tomorrow, one more time.

.

After an early lunch, Jiraiya waltzed around town, looking around at the sights, looking around for his one and only nephew. He expected to find the boy—the young man—at the bookstore, but instead he viewed the newest bestsellers through the colorful window showing navy covers about demons, vultures, oni, and acupuncture. Jiraiya chuckled. He stood there for a moment, so tempted to go inside and read all those novels and formulate his own reviews. That's when the idea hit him: why didn't he become…a book reviewer? Well for one he was seldom in the village these days to keep up on all the latest releases. Still. The idea appealed to him in the downtime. There wasn't much else to do anymore. Jiraiya went in and browsed around at length, coming out pleased at least one young man recognized him. Even if it was the manager.

.

"I'll confess to you young man—" The twenty-year old jumped slightly, "—I did not think you'd be here, of all places."

"Ji-Jiraiya-sama."

"I thought we agreed on Jiraiya-sama."

"F-Forgive me…" Kakashi continued to stutter in his father's bedroom. "How did you get in…?"

"The front door. Why. How did you get in?" When Kakashi couldn't produce an answer, Jiraiya smiled, "You sure aren't your father's son when it comes to that sensory thing. Granted. He did lose his sense when he feel off that mountain in tsuchi…" Jiraiya trailed painfully.

"…I remember that," Kakashi said quietly after a moment.

"Do you? You were what, five?"

Kakashi nodded.

"You dusting?"

"Yeah."

Jiraiya looked around for any noticeable signs of his work with the taupe rag in hand and a small bucket with brown-gray water inside: the tops of the cabinets were all clear and dust free, but the air felt clingy. All of the personal items, the picture frames, the papers and pens had all long since been boxed away, and nothing remained here now but those boxes. Some were out, but most were inside the lower cabinets for storage. Jiraiya could not tell if the boy had worked at all in the garden save for the view of the empty paddock on the left hand side, so Jiraiya inquired.

"No," Kakashi answered. "I was going to get to that after I did the house…No sense getting dirty and then doing all this…" he trailed almost in the same fashion as his uncle, but with more languor, like his father.

"Oh," Jiraiya nodded. "…You go through any of his stuff?'

"No."

"Oh. Well. You should."

"…Why?"

"Well…because it's fun going through other people's stuff—God, don't you people have any fun anymore?"

Jiraiya then got the faint sense his nephew wanted to say something smart back at the white and grey-haired sage, but he bit his masked tongue and refrained. "Which reminds me," that tall sage said after a pause as he leaned against the doorframe, "You going to have fun with some genin?"

"…How did…"

"The how is not important Kakashi. An ANBU—sorry, a former ANBU should know that. It's the why, and for what reason. You going to consider it?"

"Well—yes, but—"

"But what?"

"Jiraiya-sama…I am not qualified to do something like that. I barely get by on my own, without having to watch over some ten year old child."

"Minato was once a child. And so were you. And you were taught just as well. Never forget, Kakashi, a shinobi also exists to train the younger generation to carry the torch for when we are gone."

The two silver-haired men stood in silence for a moment until Jiraiya said, "You missed a spot," pointing to no where in particular and left him with that.

Kakashi could not find the spot he was referring to, until he remembered Jiraiya once told him not to listen to a word he said.

.

Six years later, Kakashi met Naruto. In person.

One more year later, Tsunade finally returned to the village soon after Sarutobi's death from Orochimaru's devastating attack upon the shinobi village. She became Godaime hokage.

.