Interlude to Chapter 98. It adds nothing, really.
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"She fought well," Kakashi Hatake says, leaning on a tree next to the road, head tilted so his gaze lands on the house spilling friendly light into the dark night air. He's far enough away that it isn't particularly threatening – far enough away to escape Shikako's preternatural sensing ability.
Shikaku gazes at his home, pictures his wife and children inside, happy and safe, and nearly keeps walking. He rubs the back of his neck instead, where the ache collects after a long day at his desk. "Tsunade said," he says. The Hokage is not an easy woman to impress, so it meant something that she had been.
"Really well," Hatake continues, voice subdued. "She pushed herself right to the limit, but it was well judged. She walked off the field. She would have been fine."
Shikaku will go over the recordings of the fight later and will probably agree with him. But it hadn't been the fight that was the problem. It was always, always, all the things you didn't plan for.
"She was exhausted," Hatake continues. "She trusted us to keep her safe. And we failed."
And Hatake isn't just subdued. He's miserably agonised. It's clear in every line of his body now, singing tension. We failed her. We were too late.
It's a feeling more familiar to Shikaku than it should be.
"Tsunade said," Shikaku says, and almost can't manage the next words. "That a lesser medic…"
"I don't think she knows how bad it was," Hatake says, lifting his chin towards the house. "But she had nothing left. She rescued herself, and then she had nothing left..."
And would have died anyway.
Shikaku breathes slowly, tastes the cold clarity of the night. It isn't really calming.
They stand there, side by side, for a long moment.
Then laughter spills from the house, the brightness seeming more and more attractive, and Shikaku steps forward.
"Come on," he says. His daughter would have invited her sensei. If not… well. If not, he was welcome anyway.
Hatake hesitates, but falls into step with him.
"Tadaima," Shikaku says, pushing open the front door, and toeing off his sandals.
"Okaeri!" Three voices chorus in reply. And then he has an armful of laughing daughter, alive and well, chakra bubbling against his own with happiness. Her hair is wet and she smells like ink and paper and her face is mobile and eyes vibrant.
There is nothing of the soul deep melancholy that he sometimes sees in her. It does not ease his heart as much as it could, knowing how deeply she hides things now. There has never been cause or reason for it, but some of the clan are so afflicted – the darkness eats at them, even when the events of their lives should invite only happiness.
"Kakashi-sensei!" she says over his shoulder. "You're late!"
And she reaches out and, with a single finger, taps him on the nose in admonishment.
Kakashi Hatake, Sharingan no Kakashi, a legend of coldness and steel and danger, looks like he can't decide if he should be offended, amused or admonished.
Shikaku really, really does not laugh. "Trouble," he says, fondly.