[FIC] The Silent Blade: Hunter 5/11
The Silent Blade: Hunter [LJ version]
Glossary at the end of the chapter. Author's notes before the prologue.
LJ version table of contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
[Chapter 4]
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
***
Chapter 4: Careful where you stand
Never look down on anybody unless you helping him up.
-- Jesse Jackson
Iruka wavered in and out of consciousness during most of the night, alternately shaking with chills and burning with fever. He cried out if his arm was so much as grazed. The flesh around the wound was swollen and inflamed, its glaring red hue contrasting with the Chuunin's otherwise smooth dark skin.
He was mostly delirious, mumbling and trashing in his restless sleep. Vaguely, from times to times, he found some relief in the cool wet cloth that was placed on his forehead. The heavenly feeling soon faded however as fever dried and warmed the rough fabric, and Iruka's torment started all over again.
Kakashi, with untiring patience, freshened the cloth regularly, and replaced it whenever the younger man's hectic moves knocked it off. Memories washed over him regularly -- recollections of his younger self nursing his often sick or wounded childhood friend -- and he had a hard time keeping them at bay. Obito had been everything to him -- brother, friend, comrade, lover. But he was dead -- a pile of dust in a cold wooden coffin six feet under the ground.
Kakashi, for all his free-spirited attitude, was nothing if a realist -- life had seen to that. He saw no point in indulging himself in wishful regrets that would bring him nothing but a painful, intense yearning to see Obito's impish grin one last time.
With a sigh, the Jounin forced himself to focus on his patient. He had managed to remove the shard with painstaking efforts, but the damage had already been done. It had been lodged so deep he had actually toyed with the idea of calling a healer-nin. The location of the wound, however, right below Iruka's Hunter tattoo, had promptly dissuaded him. Kakashi had blessed gods he didn't really believe in for his medic training -- a compulsory part of the ANBU instruction whose relevance he was only beginning to appreciate.
He had cleaned the wound, disinfected thoroughly -- wincing slightly as Iruka moaned in pain and tried to escape his ministrations - and bandaged it tightly with crisp, clean dressings. Then, he had dosed him with strong antipyretics and antibiotics.
Iruka's fever reached its peak around two in the morning. He was drenched in sweat, his unbound hair sticking to his clammy face. The Jounin felt slightly relieved -- sweat not only would cool the body temperature down, but could also be a sign that Iruka was slowly overcoming the infection. By three, the Chuunin's breathing had evened progressively, and, lulled by the rhythmic motions of wet cloth against his brow, Iruka had sunk into an exhausted slumber.
Kakashi felt utterly drained, physically, for obvious reasons, but also mentally. He did not want to think - that would mean processing, accepting what had transpired a few hours earlier -- but his mind just would not shut down. His single eye drifted back to the prone for huddled under his heavy blankets, dark hair in disarray, looking small and young and for all the world like a drowsy feline -- cute and unthreatening until it ripped your eyes out.
Kakashi resisted the sudden, silly urge to tuck one stray lock behind the Chuunin's slightly pointed ear. Damn that man, he thought tartly, snatching his hand back hastily. One moment I'd like nothing more than to feed him his own forehead protector, and the next ... The Jounin cut short his train of thought, flinching as he remembered vividly Iruka's less than pleased reaction to his tentative kiss.
Well, he would just have to be more careful next time. Because, somewhere between fighting and nursing the Chuunin, he had decided there would be a next time, and many more if he had a say in the matter. Provided he lived long enough for that, of course.
But then, Hatake Kakashi was nothing if a survivor.
He settled as comfortably as he could against the hard headboard of the bed, and drew out his infamous book from a pocket of his one of his back pockets. It wouldn't be the first time he pulled off an all-nighter at a friend's bedside -- that the 'friend' in question had tried to turn him into Jounin-pickles but a few hours ago and had also all but emasculated him, merely made matters a little weirder.
... So maybe a lot weirder.
Not that Kakashi was complaining. His life, as far as he could remember, had never held one shred of normalcy -- genius ninja, six-year-old Chuunin, youngest ANBU in the history of Konoha, only non-Uchiha Sharingan user -- and obviously Iruka's unexpected but not unwanted barging into his existence was not going to help any. The Jounin had stopped trying to make sense of his life a long time ago - he accepted things, friends, foes, events as they came, and dealt with them the best he could.
From the moment they received their forehead protector, to say nothing of their Academy years, ninjas held approximately as much control over his existence as newborn babies -- their lives rested in their commanding officers' hands from birth to grave, first teachers, then team leaders. The Hunters and the Hokage, who answered to almost no one, were paradoxically even more bound than their subordinates. The more skilled and experienced one grew, the less free one became, weighted down by the responsibilities steadily added upon one's shoulders -- and even more so by the faith shining in the eyes of the people one was supposed to protect.
Iruka knew that feeling well, he realized suddenly. He understood. The Jounin's gaze settled once again on the slumbering form curled up under the covers next to him, an odd sense of kinship washing over him. Kakashi acknowledged and hated and accepted the darkness in himself, the blood on his hands, as an integral part of his being. ANBU members and Hunters shouldered the darkness of the village, staining their blades and souls so others would not have to.
Iruka, too, was a killer. Kill so others could live -- that was the way of the Hunters. They shared the same darkness, and perhaps that was what had unconsciously drawn Kakashi to him in the first place. How else to explain his disturbing fascination and attraction for the dark-haired, fair-hearted Chuunin, which had led him to keep a nearly constant watch on Iruka's every moves?
The first time he had laid his single eye on Iruka, Kakashi had not thought much of him. It had been his first summon as a teacher, and he had been slightly irked, of course, to see that Sandaime had convoked a mere Chuunin to a meeting traditionally reserved to Jounins. Later, he had learnt to his surprise that Iruka was systematically invited to Jounin reunions - most people believed it was because of the Hokage's well-known fondness for him, and shrugged it off as another of the old man's whims. He had done the same, and had mostly forgotten all about the dark-haired Chuunin as the meeting progressed -- that was, until Iruka's heated, overly-emotional intervention.
What had caught Kakashi's attention, more than the interference in itself, was the ease with which Iruka seemed to blend in the background when he wished to. Unthreatening, inconspicuous, he had this uncanny ability of making himself forgotten on the sidelines, allowing people to talk more freely they would have otherwise. Kakashi, however, had not disregarded him - more out of habit than anything else -- and had watched in puzzled fascination as his colleagues utterly forgot Iruka's presence.
This level of skill in discretion was mastered by few -- himself included -- and Kakashi had certainly not expected a simple Academy teacher to be one of them.
From that day on, the Jounin had kept a tight surveillance on the young teacher. Being observant was part of a ninja's job, and the Sharingan had conditioned his mind to catalogue every detail, however insignificant, it could register. He had felt a little silly and even bordering on the voyeuristic at first, but, knowing better than to bypass his instincts' warning signs, he had persevered.
Those months had been terribly frustrating. The Chuunin was good, he had been forced to admit -- he had lost count of the times Iruka had simply seemed to vanish into thin air, or sent him on a wrong track -- voluntarily or not, Kakashi couldn't tell. Curiously enough, the teacher had never given any indication he knew Kakashi was stalking him. And so the Jounin had began slowly figuring out the complex puzzle that was Iruka, piece by piece, patiently - all the while feeling he was missing something essential, the key to Iruka's mystery.
Kurohyou.
Kakashi knew he would have found out sooner or later - he had been on the verge of discovering already. That scene at Ichiraku had simply helped him put two and two together. But he had paid the price of his curiosity -- Iruka had almost killed him as a result.
The Jounin sighed lightly, unable to focus on his reading. He glowered enviously at the object of his musings who slept on, oblivious.
***
About three hours later, Iruka awoke.
Training took over almost instantly, stifling his body's instinctive reaction at finding himself in a foreign bed -- namely leap out of said furniture and hurl a kunai at anything that moved. Instead, he forced himself to stay still in an almost flawless imitation of sleep. He was in no condition to fight, he knew, and whoever his opponent was, he had yet to kill him -- better to wait and see.
Kakashi, however, had followed his train of thought easily -- such methods were so ingrained in high-level ninjas they almost became a second nature with time. One minute hitch in Iruka's otherwise even breathing had alerted him the moment the Chuunin had awoken.
"Good morning," he offered jovially -- as if greeting a fevered, half-naked man in his bed at six in the morning was a perfectly natural occurrence. Kakashi watched with no small amount of amusement as the younger man promptly opened his eyes, looking rather disgruntled, and discreetly assessed his situation in a matter of seconds. A perfectly trained warrior indeed, he thought wryly.
The Hunter sat up slowly, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He then gingerly flexed his biceps, jaw clenched against the pain.
"Did you do that?" he asked tersely after a while, fingering gingerly the clean bandages.
"Why, I feel perfectly fine, thanks for your concern," the Jounin replied smoothly, still smiling.
He cursed inwardly to have forgotten to set his cloth mask back into its place -- he felt oddly naked without it. Though, to be perfectly honest, it was only fair that he stayed uncovered when in Iruka's presence -- he had, after all, forcefully stripped the man of his own secret. He had thought to replace his forehead protector over his left eye, however. Only a true Uchiha could fully control the Sharingan, and the Jounin risked both his health and sanity each time he used it. Covering it was the only way Kakashi had to prevent that from actually happening, and he knew better than to disregard that, even in his exhausted state.
A dark blush crept up Iruka's cheeks.
"I'm sorry," he breathed, looking up to meet Kakashi's eye. For everything, he couldn't bring himself to add.
Kakashi said nothing. He merely eyed the younger man, a pensive expression gracing his pale features. Iruka flushed even harder under the Jounin's patient, curious scrutiny, noticing for the first time in the whole exchange that Kakashi's visage was exposed. He had not really paid attention to it during their fight, for obvious reasons, but now the Chuunin found himself staring unreservedly at Kakashi's face.
It was rather square, with a well-defined jaw, high-cheekbones and a long, pale neck. His nose was straight and finely-chiseled, his lips soft and rosy -- maybe a little too thin. His chin had the hint of a cleft. One direct, appraising blue eye stared right into his own dark orbs, sparkling with impish wit and shrewdness and at the same time deep enough for Iruka to drown in - full of memories probably as somber as his own painful experiences. The Konoha sigil rested sagely across Kakashi's straight, high forehead, effectively concealing the eerie Sharingan eye.
Suddenly extremely embarrassed, Iruka moved abruptly to get off the bed, springing up to his feet. His legs, as was to be expected, gave way under him and he landed unceremonially on the wooden floor.
"Oh, my," murmured Kakashi, knowing better than to rush to his side.
Sprawled on the parquet, the hunter bit his lips in helpless frustration. In another time, in another place, he would probably have found his whole ordeal quite funny and laughed it off, but at that moment, eyes downcast in utter humiliation, he could only shake with exhausted rage at his own weakness.
After a moment, Kakashi crouched down next to Iruka's shivering prone form. The Chuunin looked up slowly. Their eyes met, curious, calm blue pupil against dark, troubled ones.
Kakashi stretched out one hand. He had scars on the tip of his fingers, Iruka noticed idly. He stared at it with all the enthusiasm of someone who had just found Jiraya-sama in his bath. Then, very slowly, he took it. Before he had a chance to change his mind, the Jounin had sneaked an arm around his waist and hauled him up, their body suddenly pressed flush against each other.
Iruka shivered at the disturbing intimacy of such a contact. Kakashi, magnanimous, pretended not to notice, and promptly put on hold his own reaction at their closeness.
"You really need a bath," he informed the Chuunin, almost gleefully teasing. "You stink like a wet cat."
Iruka looked vaguely affronted at that, but couldn't quite bring himself to care at this point. Besides, it was probably true. He slumped against Kakashi bonelessly, and allowed the other man to steer him out of the room without much resistance.
Kakashi's small apartment, he discovered, was rather similar to his bedroom -- plain, practical, and appallingly messy. He glimpsed a tiny, functional kitchen on his right. It opened on a surprisingly spacious living room, whose pinewood furniture had been dusted recently. The pale morning sun filtered through one ajar window, and bathed the room with the soft, typical light of spring mornings. It would have been a very decent flat, at least in Iruka's opinion, had it been but a little less ill-kempt. Dog-eared, worn books of all kinds littered the wooden floor, a silver saltcellar throned on a nearby bookshelf, various weapons were embedded in the kitchen counter ... Iruka shut his eyes resolutely to block the nightmarish vision.
The bathroom was no better. Wet bundled towels, half-empty shampoo bottles and discarded dirty clothes lay scattered almost everywhere on the white and blue tiling.
Iruka had thought, candidly, that he had hit the rock bottom of untidiness with Naruto. Obviously, he had been wrong -- rock bottom had just hit him. It was like being trapped in a nightmare filled with grown-up versions of the hyperactive Genin. Without any possible escape.
The Jounin, heedless of Iruka's horrified reticence, maneuvered the younger man inside without ever releasing his firm grip on his waist. He settled him on the toilet seat, and pivoted to turn on the shower taps. He then removed his gloves, carelessly dropping them on the floor. His clothes followed suit, until he was stripped down to his black cotton boxers.
"What," asked Iruka, gritting his teeth, "do you think you're doing?"
"Why, did you think I showered with my clothes on? Sorry to disappoint."
"Kakashi," said the Hunter, his voice a dangerous, low growl.
Kakashi sobered almost instantly.
"It's all you can do to stay conscious," he stated evenly. "No way I'm letting you shower alone. If anything happened to you, Naruto would have my head. You know how he is," he added with a self-conscious, apologetic grin.
Iruka knew. He seemed to digest the information slowly. Kakashi noted, amused, that the Chuunin was pointedly avoiding to look at him. He smiled, then wheeled around to check the warmth of the water. Satisfied, he turned back to Iruka, only to find the younger man staring at the ground, a fierce blush covering his cheeks. He mumbled something Kakashi did not catch.
"What was that?" he questioned curiously.
"Can't ..." As Kakashi merely him a blank look, Iruka gestured to his black leggings helplessly.
Understanding dawned in the Jounin's single eye. He crouched down in front of Iruka and helped him out of his remaining clothes.
"It's not like you've got anything more than I do," he remarked wryly as the teacher flatly refused to remove his undergarments. The Hunter's dark glare convinced him not to push his luck.
It took all his Jounin and ANBU training not to flinch away reflexively when he felt Iruka's hand settle on his brow before he could get up. The Chuunin lifted the forehead protector slowly, gingerly. Kakashi's breath caught in his throat and he stiffened, feeling oddly vulnerable. Light, callused fingers trailed over the large, ugly scar, a thumb caressing the long healed mark in awed curiosity.
Kakashi shivered when Iruka abruptly snatched his hand back.
Neither of them willing to process what had just happened, Kakashi flung an arm around the smaller man's shoulders, adjusted his balance as the Chuunin shifted his weight to rest against him. Together they stepped under the jet. Iruka swore creatively, to Kakashi's open delight, as the tepid water hit his warm skin. He tried to squirm out of the Jounin's grasp, but in vain.
"Where d'you think you're going?" laughed Kakashi.
"Cold," hissed Iruka, teeth chattering, "Cold!"
"You've got a fever," he replied slowly, as if talking to a small child, "Seriously, what did you expect? A sauna?"
Iruka shaking and holding onto him for dear life, Kakashi sat down carefully on the shower tiles. The younger man settled against him, pillowing his dark head on the the Jounin's chest. He was confused, horrified at his own recklessness, but Kakashi's aura was oddly soothing, his skin soft and warm, and his hands ...
His eyes widened comically when he realized where exactly Kakashi's hands had strayed. His hair, of all things. Iruka felt faintly relieved -- he had half-feared Kakashi would try something perverted when he couldn't quite retaliate. He forced himself to calm down. The Jounin only meant to wash his chevelure, which, he had to admit, probably needed it badly.
At twenty-five, Iruka certainly was no stranger to sex. Leading a double-life, in close proximity to death and violence almost on a daily basis, the hunter had rarely refused himself the simple solace of physical pleasure, be it alone or with a partner -- male or female, it had never really mattered to him.
He had played around some with Anko, back in their younger days -- both of them, for very different reasons, had needed to feel alive and wanted at that time -- but the purely carnal relationship had not lasted. A few years later, there had been Iria. Fair-haired, bleak-eyed, orphan Iria. He could have loved her, had wished to, but life had decided otherwise - when she had taken on the name of Byakko the White Fox, she had left Iria behind, and there simply hadn't been a place for him in her new life.
Then, there had been a number of inconsequential flings, to find a measure of comfort after a particularly hard mission, or simply not to forget the feeling of another skin on his own, the sound of another voice in his ears, when the loneliness became too much to bear.
Those casual affairs did nothing to alleviate his abiding sense of hollowness and solitude, however. Physical contact was one thing, but Iruka had been craving something deeper. Affection he did not lack, from Naruto as well as his other students. What he wanted was a mate, someone who understood, someone he would not have to lie to -- a kind of involvement his Hunter status forbid him to pursue.
Therefore, he had retreated into celibacy and self-provided pleasure. Better to be alone, he had thought, than lonely in a stranger's arms.
But this, Kakashi's hands in his hair, skillfully massaging his scalp, tepid water running down his cheeks like tears he could not shed, shivering and burning at their closeness, was the most intimate situation he had ever found himself in. He was almost overwhelmed.
The Jounin watched, amused, as his younger companion relaxed progressively, the tension abating in his firm muscles, his shoulders sagging slightly. After a while, he shifted a little so Iruka's upper body could rest almost completely against his. It made it a lot harder for Kakashi to wash his hair, though, and eventually he settled for merely petting the dark tresses. He admired pensively the way their skin tones seemed to clash, milky white against chocolate brown, fair and dark, yin and yang. It was oddly fitting, he found, considering their almost polar personalities.
Iruka was introverted and shy, where Kakashi was all exuberance and flippant attitude; sensible and reliable, where he was free-spirited and laid-back; a overprotective mother hen, where he himself was more of a beardless, lethal, perverted version of Father Christmas.
The Chuunin's eyelids drooped slowly, then closed altogether. He let himself be lulled to sleep by the steady caress of Kakashi's hand.
For the first time in years, Iruka allowed himself the luxury of trust. As sleep slowly overcame him, he merely hoped, in the remotest part of his mind, that he would not regret it.
***
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