The Face of the Enemy
Story Notes
Prompt: First Impression
Rating: T (alternately, PG-13)
Pairing(s): None; Kakashi & Iruka
Summary: Wounded and in need of shelter, Kakashi and Iruka find themselves at the mercy on an innkeeper who hates shinobi.
Contains [warnings]: None
“Prejudice cannot see the things that are
because it is always looking for things that aren’t.”
-- Mark Twain
The innkeeper woke up every morning to the cold lengths of board beside her bed, where a small futon had once been stretched. She would turn on her side and knead her hands, which were beginning to gnarl with arthritis, and allow the old grief to tie a hard knot in her chest.
She would pin back her long, grey hair and pull a matronly apron over her lap. Then to the kamidana, the little family shrine, to light incense. The smell would waft around her like an unhappy ghost, and afterwards she would walk to the kitchen with a heavy step, where Sonosuke would already be up minding the fires if he knew what was good for him.
The work of running the inn began as the sun made its slow path through the wood. She and her husband had established it at the base of the mountain as a place to make a gentle living with their daughter. But the borders had grown unstable. Twice, in one year, they had paid taxes – to two different Lords. And with these power struggles, violence came to the forest and the little inn on the border of two lands.
“Ota-san,” Sonosuke greeted her cheerfully. She watched him heft fuel to carry to the bedroom stoves. He had a stubble of whiskers and was getting on in years, but she kept him on. He minded the repairs and was strong enough to keep out the general riffraff. The usual riraff, but not all of them, she thought, and her face clenched with an anger that curled inward with the long practice of impotence.
<>
It was late in the evening when a worried Sonosuke appeared at her door. “Ota-san, there’s someone coming," he said. "Not from the road, the woods.”
Her hand paused, poised over her ledger. It was too late for regular guests, and a tremor of fear went through her. Nonetheless, she put on her dressing gown and followed Sonosuke. Although it was no protection, she slipped the narrow knife she used to open envelopes into the quilted pocket of her gown.
In the dark, gathering elevation of the forest, it was possible to hear them approach. The fall leaves rustled. Branches snapped and cracked, and for a moment Ota allowed herself to believe they were safe, because surely shinobi wouldn’t make so much noise. Then the brush parted and two figures came staggering out.
At first they were indistinct from one another, until the faint light of the lantern made it possible to see that one was draped over the other’s back. The taller one had a long, pale arm clenched tightly around his companion’s neck, and the other staggered under his weight and almost fell. Sonosuke moved instinctively, but Ota caught his arm.
She could smell the blood, and it froze every compassionate node of her body.
The stranger stepped nearer, panting under his burden. In the low light, she could barely make out his features, but she could tell that he was young and that his dirty, worn clothing was soaked through.
“Hello,” the stranger said hoarsely. He didn’t seem to have the strength to bow, but he tried to duck his head. It moved the unconscious man with him, dark and light hair shifting together, and the ailing man produced a low moan. Lines of concern framed the strained dark eyes that sought hers. “Please. He’s not well. Will you shelter us here?”
Ota was not moved by his plea. She was in a position she had never imagined. She knew who these men were - what they were - but never before had they come to her wounded. To give herself time to think, she questioned, “Who are you?”
A long silence answered, but finally the stranger spoke. He said, “We hoped to be hired at the dam site, but when we started working, it was –” His account trailed off and he seemed to struggle to find words for the suffering inflicted there. She could feel Sonosuke softening beside her.
It was a plausible story. Everyone hated that wretched dam. The daimyo rearranged the land without thinking of the damage or the conditions endured by the workers. But Ota trusted this sad tale as much as she would the keening of a fox with his foot caught in a snare. A sympathizer would receive nothing but a mangled hand.
“What is your name?”
The flickering hesitation was almost indiscernible. “Iruka,” the man answered.
“And your friend?”
A greater pause. “Kakashi,” he said finally, and a weary smile flitted over his lips. Ota was disgusted. Did he really expect her to believe such nonsense? But the man who claimed to be called Iruka did not argue with her apparent disbelief. Instead, he repeated his need: “Will you let us stay here?”
Sonosuke moved forward before she could respond, and wordlessly took part of the weight of the unconscious man on his own shoulders. “There’s a room in the back.” He looked right at her as he suggested it. “It’s dusty. We don’t use it.”
A moment of pure anger flew through Ota. She did not want these…these in her house. Hadn't she endured enough? Wasn't it enough when the patrols came through and she had no choice but to entertain them? But then, even now there was only a parody of a choice. The loose, torn clothes kept them out of sight, but there would be teeth hidden there. Sonosuke’s broader shoulders were an illusion.
Ota pushed open the door and stood aside.
<>
Sonosuke brought them bedding, steaming water, and other supplies they might need. The dark young man was not shy about stripping off his companion's damp, muddy clothes – all, Ota noticed, except for the scarf wound about the pale throat. It obscured the lower half of the face it covered, like the veil over a bride. Iruka left it in place until he had, with difficulty, eased the prone body into the warmth of the futon and drawn the covers high.
Why? From her hidden place by the door, she wondered. Would that face, so carefully guarded, match the visage of a wanted man? Yet the carefulness used to preserve this privacy wasn't anxious. Instead, she found herself thinking that it was an almost protective action, as if he were defending a dignity that Ota didn't know.
The lamp burned low as the oil ebbed; the warm water sunk low in its bowl and cooled. It was dawn before he finally levered himself up. The moons of his eyes were purple smears of charcoal. His weariness was like a cloak he wore, but he met her unsympathetic eyes and followed without being bidden. She led him to her own room and leaned against the dresser. There were only a few things on it: a bone comb, a covered jar of ointment, and a small, faded portrait, no larger than her palm. She averted her eyes.
She had all night to think about what to do, what to say. "You won't be able to move him for a long time, not if you want him to live. Not for at least two weeks." She'd heard the rattle in the narrow chest – pneumonia. Untended, in a winter forest, it would be a death sentence.
There was nothing he could do but agree. "Yes."
"He'll need rest, medicine, shelter. Food."
Out of the corner of her eye, Ota saw Iruka’s throat working, and this was the test. She had him backed into a corner, and it was in this moment that he might lash out. Then he would demand what he needed and take it by force. He might even kill her – but she didn’t think so.
In her mind was the memory of blankets being pulled up with great care. She could read his worry right now, hidden under the studied, blank neutrality. He cared for the comrade lying on the floor of her house, swaddled in the warmth of her linens and breathing within the safety of her walls. He would need cooperation to properly care for him and also stay hidden.
If pushed, she knew he would abandon him. It was all they knew, these soldiers. They were masters of selfish purposes. But, for now at least, she had him – trapped by whatever was between the these two men.
She waited to see if he might snap, but he remained still and silent. His hand had not even made a fist. More sure of herself, Ota proceeded to ask the damning question, "Do you have any money?"
She knew the answer before she asked, but it still gave her some satisfaction to see him pale. "I don't have any money – or anything of value."
"And yet you ask for my help," she scoffed and shook her head. Quietly, she went on, "But I will let you pay. For the room, and whatever else he'll need. You'll pay for my silence too, do you understand?"
He said nothing, but his deep, dark eyes gazed into her face steadily, and again her anger flared because he refused to admit the truth. She snatched up her comb, wishing it were a weapon, and whirled to face him. "You will work for me," she snapped. "Whatever I say, you'll do. And if you ever get different ideas – I'd like to see you try to keep him safe in this place by yourself. Patrols come by all the time!”
He looked at her, weighed her, and then he did something she did not expect. Slowly, with difficulty, he sunk to his knees and bowed until his forehead touched the floor. "I'll work for you," he vowed. "Shelter him, and I'll pay any way you like."
Ota was shaken. She had not expected - couldn't have expected - such a show of humility, and for a moment it stroked her conscience. It made her feel guilty that she would threaten a wounded man, that she would demand payment from someone in need. But just as shame began to work on her, a little corpse and a streak of blood came wailing into her memory, and all ability to feel shut down.
She turned her back. "You'll be no use to anyone today. Go tend your friend. You can begin work tomorrow at first light. Sonosuke will show you."
It took him more than one try to stand. The first time he fell, his knee giving out from under him, but at the threshold he paused and found her eye in the dresser mirror.
"Thank you, Lady," he said.
Ota remained leaning over her bureau, collecting the ragged edges of herself, for a long time after she heard the door click shut.
<>
After the fires had been banked, Ota summoned Sonosuke. "Tomorrow, I want you to take our guest out to the copse of wood behind the shed. He can spend the day there."
Sonosuke rubbed his cloth hat off his head, pressing it between his palms. "That's awfully hard work for an invalid," he remarked. "Suppose I show him how to tend the garden instead?"
"No," Ota answered, taking down the last pin from her hair. It had grown very grey; the two hard bits of slate that were her eyes matched it exactly. "I want him given the hardest work. Let him use a little of his strength to ease our labor. Why not?"
"We've already got cured all we need for winter." Sonosuke tried once more to sway her, but she would not budge.
"The extra wood will never be wasted in a place like this. Now do as I say."
The length of time it took for Sonosuke to replace his cap made his movements seem doubtful, but he didn't challenge her. "Yes, Ota-san," he said, and wished her good-night.
The soothing ointment took some of the pain from her hands, but as Ota began to crawl into her bed, she was struck with a desire to look in on her unwelcome guests. The hall was dim, but the boards had been cut evenly and didn’t creak. She came to the entry and peered inside.
There were many pillows propped behind the sick man's back. However, even with them, Ota could still hear the labored breathing and see the high flush over sallow cheeks. Clearly the illness becoming critical, the fever spiking.
Iruka was bathing his companion in an attempt to control it but sometimes the breathing would still catch and – terrifyingly – falter. As she watched, a particularly bad episode seized Kakashi. He fought to free the obstruction, but his body was too weak even to curl inward or contract as he coughed. He gurgled wretchedly, a drowning sound.
Dark hands intervened. Iruka dragged his companion up from the pallet and pulled them together, chest to chest. After a while, the leverage seemed to help. Too feeble to do anything else, the pale man rested his cheek trustingly against his companion's neck and continued breathing while the cloth returned, wiping away the perspiration from his forehead.
Feeling like an invader, Ota turned away and went to bed.
<>
The next morning, Iruka rose wearily and forced himself to go to work. He took the axe and all day long the forest resounded with the thunk of steel biting into wood. There were times he almost felt wrecked, unable to lift the handle for one more swing, but a lifetime of disciplining his body allowed him to continue. Only for Kakashi did he occasionally stop. Aside from that, he pushed himself until the sun began to fall. He knew the innkeeper was listening, and he wanted her to hear.
The manservant of the house didn’t approve of his mistress’s decision. More than once during the day, he brought Iruka water, but it wasn’t until the chores were done that he emerged from the kitchen, bearing a steaming bowl.
"I've brought you something to eat - no, don't tell me you've ‘et. That weak broth may be good for him, but after today you need something substantial. Neither of you are much more than bones."
Iruka accepted the warm rice porridge gratefully, but winced when the heat stung his raw hands. He set the bowl down and laughed inwardly. A very short time ago, his life was endangered by his mission, but today his pain came from splinters and hard labor.
A sound in the hallway drew his attention, and he turned in time to see a shadow pass over the door, and then it was gone.
Sonosuke looked too, and his mouth became a thin line. "Please don't think bad of her,” he said. "She's a real good lady, down underneath. She just...can't let go."
Iruka nodded. From their first meeting, he thought he’d seen an emotion that he recognized; it was loss. Her coldness wasn’t a hard puzzle to solve after that.
Sonosuke arranged himself on the tatami, stretching his back until it popped. Then he searched his apron and withdrew a pair of tweezers. "Let me have a look, then."
Chagrined, Iruka presented his hands and let the warm grasp of the older man pry at the myriad tiny wounds.
"Iruka, huh?" he began by way of conversation. "That's a strange name in these parts."
"It's strange in most parts," Iruka remarked, surprised as to find he still had the energy to smile, even dryly.
Sonosuke's grip around the tweezers was deft. The ends clicked skillfully, prodding at his palm. "It was news about the dam that drew you?"
Yes, in a very literal sense. He and Kakashi had been assigned to investigate it – well, he had been assigned to investigate it. Kakashi, in his usual stubborn-headed way, hadn't been content to hang back and wait for Iruka. He should never have been on the crest of that dam. The memory of tons of pounding water momentarily overcame Iruka, and he had to shake his head to force the echo away.
"These splinters are pretty deep. Wore straight through the calluses."
"Wrong kind of calluses," Iruka joked wryly. He looked around at the warm bed, the continually renewed bowl of water, and in that instant he thought of how lucky he had been. "Thank you for your help. Thank you for everything."
Sonosuke leveled a keen eye on him, then nodded. "He seems better today. Fever broke?"
"Late last night," Iruka answered without bothering to mask his relief. He looked over at the prone form of Kakashi, resting easier even if his breathing did sound terrible. "Though he's still very weak."
Sonosuke gave his shoulder a light swat, drawing his attention. "You’ve done all that can be done," he said. "The rest is up to him. Though, the way you boys came in..." He shook his head.
That night was still crowded very close in Iruka's memory. First the perilously cold water, the foam of the gnashing, pulsing falls that obscured his vision completely even as he blindly groped through the water. Of sobbing with relief when he found Kakashi and dragged them both ashore. Minutes of terror, pumping, forcing breath into still lungs. Then the long journey down the mountain, with the shout of pursuers behind him. The trees all strangers, the weather an enemy...
Iruka pasted a self-deprecating smile on his face. "I'm just glad we came upon this place. I wasn't sure how much further I could carry him. All bones or not, he's heavier than he looks."
"Dead weight and worry make for a heavy load," the old man commented, tying off the last bandage. "There. Wiggle your fingers. Yep, just right. What say I get your back, now? No, no use denying it. I saw the wash water before you threw it out. He wasn't bleeding."
It wasn't a good feeling, being cornered like that, unsure whether to trust. Iruka felt his hackles rise, but Sonosuke's kind eyes were patient. Finally, reluctantly, he turned stiffly around and pulled his jacket off his shoulders. Sonosuke had to tease the cotton undershirt away from where the yellowish fluid had seeped through. He made a tsking sound.
"You let these sit too long."
Iruka knew what he saw. Inch long cuts – not ragged, but precise and quite deep, tapered to a triangle. There were at least seven across his shoulders and back, and they were entirely damning. Shuriken left distinctive marks. He sat tensely while the man looked them over and waited for his verdict; succor or condemnation.
Sonosuke sighed. "I'll be needing to open these up again, to let them bleed out a little of the infection. But my hands aren't so steady as they once were. They might slip – make these look a little less clean."
Iruka's shoulders relaxed in a great rush of tension. He hadn't realized how much he had been depending on a friendly answer. "I understand,” he gave permission. "Do what you have to."
It was hard to remain still while Sonosuke first cut his wounds into less distinctive threats, then pulled them together with thread, in and out, but Iruka had by that time crossed over the threshold where individual pains were possible. His arms and back were one solid ache.
"There," Sonosuke said when he had finished, setting his hand very carefully against the inflamed skin. "Given a few days to heal, you should move a lot better." He stood, his knees cracking, and smiled warmly down on Iruka. "Try to get some rest tonight, eh?"
Once he left, the hurt that Iruka had been keeping at bay all day rushed in upon him and sapped his remaining strength. He looked dumbly at his bandaged hands, then turned to gaze at Kakashi. He was so still, almost deathly still, and Iruka reassured himself by letting his fingers reach out and rest over the pulse point at the slack wrist.
Finally, he allowed his tattered consciousness to be beaten into submission by brute exhaustion. He stretched out beside the futon, thinking, ‘One day’s payment made,’ and grinned crookedly. He fell asleep with his hand still under the blanket, listening to Kakashi's steady heart.
<>
In the following days, Ota put Iruka to any kind of work she could think of. He stripped the empty rooms, brushed the tatami, and cleaned under the floorboards. He beat laundry and rearranged the attic. He helped with the regular chores too.
Sonosuke didn't approve. More than once, he confronted her about how hard she was pushing. "A man needs rest," he put forth.
She was unmoved. In her heart, she thought, ‘Shinobi are not men. They're animals.’
This was a belief that had protected her. For years, it had allowed her to cope with the personal tragedy that had befallen her family. Time and again, she had seen it proved; the brutishness, the irreverence for life. Never before had her worldview been challenged.
But though the little clues continued to pile up around him and his companion like coins in a prayer box, Iruka didn’t act like any shinobi she had ever known. He was respectful, for one, and obeyed her no matter what she asked. And though every night she meticulously went over the inn’s valuables, nothing was ever missing.
In other things, too, he was different. One day, she came across him crouched outside in the grass when one of the inn’s kittens wandered curiously up to him. She froze, but all he did was stroke the little animal’s nose, a small smile of simple pleasure flitting over his face.
Ota had fled from that scene. She didn’t want to see him behave so painfully human.
In his relationship with his comrade, Ota was also at a loss. The man was making slow but steady progress. While he was still barely able to lift his head and slept most of the time, he was taking food now. Every time she saw Iruka patiently siphoning water or soup into his friend’s mouth or sitting up into the early morning when the stubborn fever made a recurrence, she became more confused.
In frustration, she pushed Iruka harder, goading him, but never once did he lose his temper. He kept to his foolish story about the dam too. She overheard him talking about it to the other guests, who worriedly inquired about its progress. His job had been emptying mortar beneath the water line, he said. It was hard; the workers were sometimes beaten, and the food was stringently rationed. He left after an accident, in which someone was thrown from the top of the great wall.
Lies, she knew. But she couldn’t catch him in them.
“Perhaps you’d like to write a letter,” she baited him one night. “To your family, or your village. Perhaps they would send money, or travel here to bring you home.”
Her lure was successful, in a way. Iruka’s hands stilled over the root vegetables he had been peeling, and he stared at her wearing the hardest look she had yet seen. He asked, "What do you want?"
She wanted him to admit that he was one of those beasts who ruined whatever they touched. To say that he was a killer, and end her confusion. Her thoughts must have been plain from her expression, because suddenly he looked like he felt sorry for her.
"I don't want to send a letter,” he said. “But thank you, Ota-san."
Her hands shook, she was so furious. She could barely stand it. "You will clean out the boiler room tomorrow. I don’t want to see even a speck of dirt!" she snapped.
Iruka bowed his head.
<>
It was probably inevitable that a patrol would come to the inn while the two strangers were staying there. Nonetheless, when they barged into the common room as though they owned it, demanding service and drink, she was as startled as she always was. These are the shinobi she knew. They were aggressive and unpredictable, sometimes sullen and other times jovial. Since today they were there to relax and not to menace, they quickly grew drunk. They bullied Sonosuke and Iruka, who’d been called on to serve, reminding Ota once more why she refused to take on female staff.
Iruka bustled beside Sonosuke, slipping through the rowdy crowd and wearing a harried look on his face, but Ota could see through him. She knew his flustered expression was hiding real anxiety. There was sweat beading his forehead. The hall to the back room was not so long.
The shinobi captain was lounging in a chair, oozing a complacent supremacy that made Ota sick. He motioned her closer.
“Perhaps you can provide us with some information,” he said. “We’re looking for an enemy shinobi who was interfering with the dam. He fell from the wall, but it’s been a week and we haven’t dredged the body, so it’s possible he escaped. You haven’t had anyone suspicious come through, have you? A man with white hair.”
Inside Ota there was a darkness, a place where the very worse she was capable of resided. These ugliest of impulses fed on her vices: on rage, on pain, on meanness of spirit. She had been cultivating that part of herself without knowing it, and before she had even formed a coherent plan, she heard her mouth saying the words:
"Actually I recently hired a man who came from that way. Iruka!” She hailed, and waited until he separated warily from the raucous crowd and came to stand beside her. Voice bright with false ignorance, she told him, “These shinobi are looking for someone – a man with white hair – and they’re asking if anyone has seen him. Didn't you came from the north? Perhaps a week or so ago?"
Iruka looked at her with eyes that were round and rimmed with white. Wordlessly, hollowly, they resonated with disbelief.
‘Tell your lie now,’ she thought, ‘And give up your friend. Or reveal what you are and flee, abandoning him as I know you will. Betray him.’
Everything became slow and noiseless. There was a heaviness in the air. It lasted until Iruka swallowed and quietly admitted, "Yes, I came from that way."
The shinobi captain rose, pushing the chair back and away. “Perhaps we should have a talk,” he said ominously.
Iruka backed up a step, but only to fall into the waiting grip of another nin. His head whipped around, but there wasn’t any escape. Not without unmasking himself. He let them lead him out the back door. Ota watched them go, and then she deliberately closed her ears to anything but the guttural disorder all around her.
<>
After they took Iruka away, Ota waited for an order to search the house that never came. The men drank until they passed out and when they left in the morning without laying down so much as a penny, Iruka was still there.
"Alive?"
"Yes, he's alive," Sonosuke hissed the words at her, as though to say, ‘No thanks to you.’ He moved aggressively around the kitchen, waiting for the kettle set to boil on the stove. "I'm putting him to bed."
"He has work to do," she heard herself saying.
Sonosuke glared, and for the first time openly defied her. "No," he said sharply and continued gathering articles into his apron: rolled bandages, salve. He poured boiled water from the kettle and lifted the bowl and towels into his arms. Before he left, he said, “You should stay away.”
She did for most of the day, but in the end she had to see him. She slipped into the backroom, lit only by a lamp covered with a paper shade. She could still see him, though.
She whispered, “Why didn’t you tell them? They weren't looking for you. You could have lied. Or run."
Iruka was curled on his side, facing Kakashi. He reached out and laid his hand over the pale fingers, which separated like milk and tea swirling in a cup. "Did you think I would give him up?"
Shinobi were brutes, all of them. They stole. They murdered. Not one of them knew true honor, or loyalty, or love. So why, if that was true, did she feel like the betrayer?
Iruka’s face turned up in the near dark, and just as when they first met it was hard to see his features. But she could smell the blood.
"Why do you hate me?" he asked hoarsely.
She fled from the room, and in the safety of her own bedroom, she put her face in her hands.
<>
The back room was quiet for the next few days, at the same time the first frozen spell seized the wood. Frost coated every surface in a delicate white veil, and the leaves browned and finally gave up their last handholds. Winter had come.
They kept a fire going all day in the kitchen and common room, but still it was cold. Ota had spoken little since the party of shinobi had come. The clean-up effort took up days, but it was manual work and left her with plenty of time to think.
Sonosuke looked in on Iruka and Kakashi and brought them meals. Mostly they slept, he said. Ota didn’t know if it was true. Since the night Iruka had asked her, ‘Why do you hate me?’ she had not been back.
That night she couldn’t sleep. Even in her snug bed off the floor, the drafts were enough to keep her awake. The wind whistled hauntingly outside. It fed her troubled thoughts. Finally, she slipped out of bed and into her house shoes.
Once more, the boards did not creak to announce her coming. She slipped into the room without a sound. She could see Iruka lying on the tatami, covered in only a coarse blanket. Even from where she stood she could see he was shivering.
She intended to move closer, but something suddenly seized her, and she froze where she stood. Slowly, her eyes trailed over the room for the disturbance, and there – she looked in paralyzed silence – was an eye.
It was like nothing she’d ever seen – blood red – but, in the wan light of the stove’s coals, somehow fletched with color. An illusion of the dark made it seem to swim as she watched, and she felt suddenly light-headed. The eye pinned her – fiercely, undeniably angry – and that was when she realized.
Kakashi.
It came to her on a shallow intake of breath. She hadn’t even glanced at him when she entered the room. She had never been there when he was awake. It was the first time she had ever looked at him in the eye, and in that instant of connection she knew that he hated her.
Only when she let the thick comforter from her bed down over Iruka's shoulders did the eye close and let her loose of its whirling gaze.
<>
Miracle of miracles – he was practically upright. Propped high on pillows, Kakashi looked on benevolently at a world that remained just a bit hazy and relished the moment of full consciousness for the precious thing that it was.
Iruka sat beside his bed, just as he had tirelessly done for so many days, and flourished a bright orange fruit at him. “Tada,” he said. "I'm sorry it’s not a pineapple, but this will have to do."
Kakashi’s soft laugh turned into a rattling cough. It took him a moment to catch his breath, and when he spoke, lack of use had made his voice croak strangely. "Now, Sensei, don't make me laugh. I might keel over."
"Keeling? I'd like to see you do any kind of bending. You couldn't beat a kitten away from a bowl of milk," Iruka rebuffed, but almost fiercely, and his hands fumbled around the knife.
A pale hand reached up and stopped the movement, and Iruka bowed his head. Kakashi reassured, "I’ll be fine. You got me out of the water in time. You saved me. It's about time you returned the favor."
With his face lowered, the loose strands of brown hair shielded Iruka's expression, but it was still possible to hear the low bark of something too bitter to be laughter. "Maybe so," he said, lowering the fruit to his lap. "But we still have to get home."
"We will," Kakashi rasped, wincing at how raw his throat felt.
Iruka made a face. "Stop talking. Here, the fruit may help."
Kakashi glanced at the offering and made an exaggerated face of disgust. "I hate persimmons."
"Tough. That's all that grows here this season,” Iruka said unsympathetically. Then, seeing Kakashi’s set face, he wheedled, "Surely you wouldn't turn down my gift."
An outraged pause as he considered this bribery, followed by a sigh of resignation. Kakashi opened his mouth and obediently bit down around the fruit. Ack. Just how he remembered it – like a tomato, but inappropriately sweet. Though, he had to admit, the cool juice did have a soothing effect.
Around a mouthful, he glared. "You're evil, Sensei. I always knew it."
"My students would agree with you," Iruka agreed gamely, but then melancholy seeped over him. Kakashi didn’t have to be a genius to realize he was thinking about his kids.
He cleared his throat. “Not much longer, Sensei.”
Worry made Iruka’s face look older. "But your chak –" he began, then stopped himself mid-sentence. He amended. "You're still very drained."
Kakashi turned toward to the door, to where the old woman was hiding, and he spoke too softly for her to hear. "It’s shinobi she hates. Or thinks she does."
"It doesn't matter," Iruka spoke matter-of-factly. Leaning over his lap, he embraced himself and rubbed vigorously. The temperature was dreadfully low tonight, and even indoor with the tiny stove to heat the enclosed space, it was chilly.
Kakashi grasped the comforter and raised the edge weakly. "Come on," he commanded.
The dark brow made a graceful arch. "She'll make assumptions."
"Let her think what she wants. We're still under mission conditions, and I'm cold."
Iruka relented without further argument, sinking down close with a muffled sound of relief. It was more than just the heat. Sonosuke had told Kakashi what happened, and he had seen it for himself. Iruka continued to push himself, but he was nearing the end of his reserves. Stubbornly, Kakashi willed the strength back into his body. He wished he wasn't so damned helpless, leaving his partner to protect him. It wasn't supposed to work that way. He could already hear Tsunade’s scolding voice ringing in his ear.
He thought Iruka was already asleep, but a whispered voice suddenly brushed his ear. "They may come looking again. When they still can’t find a body."
Kakashi said, “Shh.”
<>
It was a slow night. The only guests were a young married couple, still dewy-eyed with new love, all shy touches under the table and secret smiles they believed no one else saw. Ota kept an eye on them, but generally they stayed to themselves. She was about ready to douse the lamps and usher them to their room, when a noise from the road caught her attention. Voices, loud and brash, accompanied by laughter that made her heart jump to her throat.
The doors flew open before she could warn away the couple or call to Sonosuke for help. They came in with a swagger, and when she saw the black look in their eyes, all hope of getting through this unscathed died within her. These men were not just here to get drunk on a night off-duty. They had come here to cause trouble.
“Got anything to drink, Obaa-san?” One asked when she approached them stiffly, trying to make a barrier between herself and her wide-eyed guests. His uniform jacket was tight across broad shoulders, and his lanky hair hung low over his forehead.
“We don’t have any,” Ota said coolly. “Your friends took it all last week, and I haven’t replaced my stores.”
The men looked at each other in disgust, but they weren’t ready to give up. The same man who had spoken before leered. “Girls, then?”
Ice poured straight through to Ota’s core. It took every inch of her control to remain rigid and calm. “This isn’t a brothel.”
“That’s not what I asked, is it?” The man’s eyes swung around, and lit wickedly when he spotted the young woman huddled next to her husband. He stalked over to grab her arm. “Here we go.”
The man flew up, his instinct to protect her his only weapon. His wife shrieked when he was thrown aside against the wall. She tried to wrench free and go to him, but the bastard who held her only twisted her closer and whispered in her ear. She began crying uncontrollably.
Ota reacted without thinking. A vase appeared in her hands, and she ran, dashing it as high as she could against the shinobi’s shoulder. It shattered, and the sudden shock of pain must have been acute because the man let the girl go with a yell. He struck her backhanded by pure instinct, but even that sent Ota into a crumpled heap. Her head hit the floorboards, and stars swam before her eyes.
“You’re going to regret that!”
The angry exclamation was accompanied by a glancing kick. It jarred Ota back to consciousness and she looked up fearfully into her assailant’s furious face. He raised his hand, and she saw the end of her life there. He would break her neck. She closed her eyes and said a prayer that she would see her daughter soon.
She actually heard the whistle of displaced air. It drew every muscle in her body tight as she braced herself for the impact…that never came. Instead, she heard a terrible sound of splintering wood and the thump of a body crashing to the floor. Her eyes snapped open and she saw her attacker sprawled in a heap of broken table. He was flailing, swearing. The other two shinobi drew near, their expressions of astonishment swiftly changing to murder.
Disoriented, Ota followed their gaze. Iruka stood over her, breathing heavily, and for the first time she saw him with clenched fists. Slowly as her head cleared she began to understand what happened. He had saved her. He had thrown that man – that shinobi – across the room, and in doing so he had revealed himself.
“You.” The broad-shouldered shinobi had regained his feet, and his voice was no longer lustful or even angry. It was taut as cord. There was a killing light in his eye, an understanding. He said, “The one we’ve been looking for. It’s you.”
That Iruka didn’t meet the description of ‘a white haired man’ made no difference to them now. They knew him for what he was. Not a servant in an backwoods inn. He was a ninja.
“You should leave,” Iruka challenged them, and it was brave, but what could he do? True, in a moment of surprise he had landed a blow on one of them. But he was wounded, and they were not. They were armed, and he was not. He was alone, and they were not. Still he stepped forward until he was between them and Ota. His shoulders relaxed, and his whole body transformed as he gathered himself into a readiness to fight.
‘He has no chance,’ Ota thought.
And she was right. They leapt at each other. There was a flurry of blows that she could barely see. There was the impression of force and the crunch of splinters spraying from a wall as someone flew into it. It took all three of them, but the outcome had already been set. Steel was the deciding factor. An arrowhead knife appeared and cut through the air. Too busy fending off fists and feet, Iruka couldn’t block it. It sunk deep into his shoulder, and in that moment of lost balance, they had him pinned, blood already blooming through his shirt where the knife had driven in.
The heavily muscled shinobi leaned over Iruka, where the others were fiercely holding him down. “You know,” he said. “I don’t think we’re going to bring you in. We’re just going to kill you, right here.” The shinobi put the tip of his knife to Iruka’s neck.
Ota screamed.
And then all the shinobi froze. At first she couldn’t understand why. Then the strangely shaped knife fell with a clatter to the floor and Ota saw the reason the men had stopped. There were three sharp splinters of wood, directly through their throats.
In the next instant, they fell like puppets whose strings had been cut, and the tatami floor quickly soaked up their blood leaving a stain that would never come out.
Ota felt her hands clasping together, so paralyzed by shock she simply couldn’t process what had happened. It was Iruka’s voice that explained it to her. Still half-trapped under the bodies of his would-be murders, he breathed, “Kakashi!”
The shock of white hair could belong to no one else. He stood, supported by Sonosuke and a hand braced on the wall. But though he was breathing roughly with exertion, he still kept his focus on the dead men with eyes like a predator. He shook himself, though, when Iruka called his name.
He muttered, “Always have to rescue you.”
And Iruka sputtered with relieved, half-hysterical laughter.
<>
Kakashi was sitting upright, braced against the wall. It was clear to Ota that he was tired, but now that he was up he refused to lay down again. Instead, he sat with his hand on Iruka’s shoulder as Sonosuke bandaged the knife wound. It was strange to see their roles reversed.
Ota waited until all hurts had been tended. The husband and wife were resting quietly now after she had convinced them it would be more dangerous to leave than to wait for morning. Two ruined tatami mats were outside, covering three bodies. As they moved them, all Ota could think about was that one of them could easily have been hers.
From the dresser in her bedroom, she retrieved one of the three small items and carried it to the room which had, until recently, been completely closed off. She sat in front of her two saviors, and laid the little portrait before him. From it, the face of a little girl smiled.
She spoke to Iruka. “Once, you asked me why I hated you.” Swallowing deeply around great pain, she said, “This is my daughter.”
“Ota-san, you don’t have to –” Iruka tried to speak, but she shushed him with a hand.
“My husband and I were young when we built this inn. We heard about the daimyo warring, but that didn’t worry us. Everything we knew of shinobi came from stories I read to my daughter. In the tales they always seemed brave, strong."
Overcome, she put her face in her hands.
"Then one night when my husband was gone, the doors were forced open. They were soldiers. They took everything they could carry. Nothing was sacred. My daughter –" Her throat closed. "I fought them, but they locked me in the pantry. I dashed myself against that door. I tore at it until all my fingers were broken."
She lifted her crooked fingers, the joints of which were fused painfully now. A reminder.
"It was late the next morning before my husband came back. I found my daughter in this room. She was lying facedown in a smear of blood. Her soul was already gone."
There was one last admission, one baring of her own heart. “When you came, I was so angry. I thought I would get my revenge by forcing you like I had so often been forced. In my mind, you were the same as my daughter’s murders. I wanted to believe that more than anything.”
She looked at them, their wounded, weak bodies and their strong, noble eyes. She had taken her pain out on Iruka, who even now looked at her with sympathy instead of hatred.
"I was wrong," she said, and tears of regret sloughed down the carven lines of her face. She sobbed. "I was wrong."
<>
Of course, after what had happened, it wasn’t safe for Kakashi and Iruka to stay. The death of the three shinobi would be noticed very soon, so they planned to say goodbye at first light.
Ota made sure they were equipped with all they would need, packing food that would preserve well and dressing both men in the warmest clothes that could be found. It hurt to see them go without their full strength, but Iruka assured her than they had been forced to travel in much worse conditions.
“We’ll be fine,” he said, and looked at her quite warmly. She had been humbled by his forgiveness. Without the constraint of her antipathy between them, she could see his natural kindness, which both soothed her and fed her regrets.
She stood as Sonosuke and Iruka exchanged final goodbyes, the older man first speaking quietly and then dragging the younger man into an embrace. Kakashi watched impassively. He was a different creature on his feet. Reserved, and very tall. He kept his eye on Iruka with a protective watchfulness Ota recognized.
Quietly, and mostly to herself, she murmured, “I still can’t believe how badly I misjudged him.”
Kakashi said, “First impressions can’t always be trusted."
"You don’t think so?"
"No. And especially not with Iruka. I have to redefine him at least twice a week."
A coarse laugh forced its way from her throat. She heard the fondness in his voice – a kind of love, and she couldn’t believe that she had ever thought them incapable of it simply because they were shinobi.
It made the guilt fall against her shoulders, weighing them down once more. She said, "I'll never forget the wrong I did him."
"Nor should you," Kakashi rumbled. He looked at her with a gimlet eye, and she knew that though their hostility had passed, he would never completely forgive her. And maybe he shouldn’t.
“Ready?” Iruka questioned. He had finished his farewell, and hefted a pack gingerly over his shoulders.
Behind him, Sonosuke was bundled up to travel into town. There, he would report the rogue shinobi attack, and how they had been able to do nothing but helplessly watch. Of course, Sonosuke planned to walk very slowly, and he intended to say that when the enemy ninja left, he had fled to the North.
Iruka took her hands at the last, squeezing them gently. He smiled. “Take care, Ota-san.”
“Be careful,” she answered, fighting not to let emotion close her throat. “Get home safely.”
Then they were gone.
<>
Many weeks later, Ota received a letter. There were only a few short words:
Home safe. Recovered and well. Thank you, Ota-san, for all that you did.
And, scrawled in the corner in a much messier and entirely different hand:
Let her go. Live in peace. Don’t forget.
She never did.
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Team Canon: Antelope (Swiss_Writes)