I am writing this strictly for myself. I hope that everyone enjoys it. But, truly, it is for me so that I can blow off steam.

I am just going to admit this up front: There are a lot of things that are going to happen in this fic that I just won't explain how they happen. I have been finding a lot of hard and heavy fanfic stuff that I think is beautiful writing but just makes me sad and heavy. I need great recommendations of light-hearted fics. I don't want to worry so much about the Akatsuki and Pain, etc. I don't know that I will even address them in this fic. I might just make it so that they don't exist and there's still Orochimaru and other evil in the world. Who knows.

I do know that I just want to see some light-hearted slice of life type stuff happening here.

Jiraiya leaned over the crib for a moment, trailing his index finger across the pale abdomen before him. The chakra in his fingertip caused the seal array to glow faintly through the infant's skin. His own stomach churned a bit at the thought of leaving behind yet another life, but there was work to be done and the ill-will of an enemy would not be way-layed by sheer sentiment.

"It's a shame, Jiraiya. You know neither of us were prepared for this. "

He turned from the crib, his gaze hardening as he looked at the broken man before him. Sarutobi was slumped on a stool, leaning against the wall with his pipe dangling from his lips like a broken limb. All Jiraiya could do was nod and shift his attention to the child who was oddly quiet, gazing off into a corner. "He should be held. Babies get strange when they aren't held enough, sensei."

"Aa."

There was a rustling of fabric as the old man stood and his lower back cracked as the joints settled into place again. Sarutobi lifted the bundle and nestled him into his robes. The child cooed ever so quietly.

Jiraiya rested his hip against the crib, reaching behind him to retrieve the kunai pouch he kept underneath his long red jacket. He purposefully avoided making eye contact as he counted the weapons. "What is your plan?"

Sarutobi was silent for a moment. He chewed on the wood of the pipe, contemplating. "I am afraid I do not have one."

"Well, sensei, I'm afraid that's not good enough." Jiraiya glared at him and Sarutobi sighed. His frustration was appropriate. "Are you that advanced in years that your ability to lead the nation has expired as well? Or shall I assume the hat in your stead?"

His teacher pretended to grimace in reproach, a wry smile curling his lips. "Do you really think so little of me, my son? Give me a few days to come up with a solution and we'll go from there. I can't promise that it will be perfect. But I can promise to try. This wounds me, too. Do not forget what I have already sacrificed. What we have all sacrificed."

Jiraiya harrumphed and tucked the pouch back onto his belt. "When I come back, you had better have found a solution. I'll do what I can to prevent any of the other villages from viewing this attack as an opportunity to crush us while we're down. Find a wet nurse for the boy or at the very least someone to house him. If you can't find anyone else do it yourself."

"Cheeky words from a subordinate," the old man said ruefully. He laid the now sleeping infant down in the crib again. When he rose back up to his full height, the Sannin was gone.

— —

The years had trickled by gratingly. Sarutobi did not take long to shift out of the bliss of retirement and back into the life of an active duty shinobi, no less a hokage. The startling loss of his successor had hurt him and the village in a myriad of ways. The power that Minato had brought to a battlefield he also carried with him as a light in the village. He had powerfully carried the Will of Fire for the village, to the point of igniting the torches of others.

Now, as though at the end of a relay race, instead of passing the baton on to someone else it seemed that Minato had turned and run backward to the already exhausted member of the already-run leg of the race and asked him to carry on instead. It was a sacrifice that Sarutobi had been unable to avoid. What was the margin between murder and sacrifice? Was Sarutobi really a martyr if he had no desire to keep going ? Minato's martyrdom had been swift and enduring. Sarutobi was struggling to stay dead.

It took a lot of will power to stay in office and continue with the duties of Hokage over the years. As luck would have it, there was not a wet nurse to be found who take care of Naruto. Sarutobi did the best that he could, cornering his son Asuma and occasionally Kakashi into take care of the child when he was too tired to do it himself. He had spent many a night hovering crib-side with the infant, rocking him with a bottle and praying for sleep.

Kakashi was still hurt by the death of his teacher to do much good other than hold the baby and cry. After a while, when the child was sleeping through the night, Sarutobi took to caring for the child on his own. It was no secret to those close to him that he enjoyed taking care of the child, despite his growing responsibilities within the village.

Jiraiya had tried to be involved, but the demands of his job kept him out of the village for long bouts of time. Poor Tsunade was still heartbroken over her own war-casualties and there was no solace to be found for the little boy. The Uzumaki had faded with time and the Namikaze's had never been in prominence to begin with. As the boy aged, Sarutobi found himself feeling older and older. Each year revealed his inability to care for the child.

The orphanage had been the only option he could think of.

Naruto had spent two nights there one summer and when Kakashi had found out, he snuck in and liberated the boy. Unsure of what to do with the child, he went to the park and sat with him. It was an awkward sight. The young man looked completely out of his element as he sat stiffly on the bench and the toddler sat quietly on his lap for a long time before twisting around to look at him.

Underneath the mask, Kakashi Hatake's lips twitched ever so lightly into a genuine smile. Maybe this living thing wasn't so terrible.

-- --

That's all for now. I genuinely don't know what I'm doing. Maybe this is it. Maybe it's not. Good to be back, though. I have no plan for where this will go. I love each of you. I think my writing style has changed. Is that true? Let me know!