Semantics
It’s a clean kill.
Swift. Efficient. No unnecessary bloodshed.
The blade slides clean through the target’s neck, and you watch his body crumple like a puppet cut from its strings. His final exhale fogs briefly in the cold night air before silence claims him completely. No gurgling, no screams. Just the dull thud of flesh meeting stone.
You remain still—kneeling low on the rooftop edge, body coiled like a shadow waiting to vanish. The familiar weight of your mask hugs your face, breath warm against the inside, the edges slick with condensation. Below, the alley remains undisturbed. Not a whisper of movement. Not even a breeze.
It’s quiet.
Too quiet.
Then—
“You’re late.”
His voice crackles in your ear, low and maddeningly composed, like he hasn’t just broken formation. Like this is exactly when and how he was supposed to arrive.
You don’t flinch. You don’t have to see him to know he’s leaning somewhere unnecessarily dramatic—maybe crouched on the steeple of some rundown building like a stray cat with too much ego and not enough leash.
“I was exactly where I needed to be,” you murmur, eyes narrowing behind your mask as you sweep the alley again. “Maybe if you actually stuck to the mission plan, Hound, I wouldn’t have to compensate for your flair for theatrics.”
There’s a beat of silence, then the faint sound of a low exhale—amusement, barely stifled.
You can picture his stupid face perfectly behind the mask. That smug curve to his eye, the way he probably hasn’t broken a sweat all mission, like this is some sort of game. Like this isn’t your third op together this month where he’s rewritten the playbook mid-execution.
“I was improvising,” he says lazily. “Worked, didn’t it?”
You clench your jaw. “You ignored the rendezvous point.”
“Technically, I improved it.”
Your hand flexes where it grips the rooftop tile, the cold seeping through your gloves. “Improving would imply the original plan was flawed. Which it wasn’t.”
There’s another pause. Then:
“Semantics.”
Your eyes roll so hard you almost see the back of your skull.
“One day, Hatake, your little improvisations are going to get someone killed.”
“Not today,” he replies, so effortlessly indifferent it makes your teeth grind. “You’re still breathing. You’re welcome, by the way.”
You barely contain the growl that tries to claw its way up your throat.
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Too late.”
You hear the faint tap of his sandals against stone, the wind rustling as he moves. A dark blur slips out of your periphery and vanishes across the rooftops without another word.
He’s gone.
Just like that.
Leaving you alone in the heavy silence, the body cooling below, and a scowl on your face that no one sees.
You mutter a string of very creative insults under your breath, then push off into the night, your cloak trailing behind you like the shadow of your irritation.
Kakashi Hatake: living proof that genius and jackass aren’t mutually exclusive.
And unfortunately, your partner.
It’s always like this with him.
Sharp words, fast reflexes, glances that last half a second too long but never long enough to mean anything. Friction and heat with no real fire—at least, that’s what you tell yourself. You’re like flint and steel, always striking, never quite sparking. The banter is second nature by now, like a blade you both know how to wield with precision. You cut, he parries, he jabs, you laugh—too loud, too bitter—and it continues.
It’s not that you hate him. Not really. Hate requires too much clarity.
What you feel around Kakashi is something messier. Confused. Heavy.
Your words with him are always sharper than they need to be, but they come easy—familiar, even. It’s the only language you’ve ever spoken with him. Sarcasm, cynicism, an occasional low blow just to see if he flinches. He never does.
That’s what makes it worse. He never flinches.
You’ve worked with him for years, and somehow, the rhythm has never changed. Every mission, every debrief, every hallway you pass each other in—it’s like an old song you hate to admit you know by heart. There’s always this tension. Pulled tight like a wire between you, vibrating with something neither of you ever names. Not anger. Not quite. But not fondness either. Something else. Something dangerous.
You don’t even remember how it started. A snide comment during a debrief? An argument over formation? Maybe it wasn’t one moment. Maybe it was a thousand little things—silent disagreements and glances that held too much and too little all at once. Maybe you were doomed from the start.
Everyone around you has their theories.
Tenzo, smug bastard that he is, once leaned over the mission table during a lull and said, far too casually, “You two argue like you’re married, you know that?”
You blinked. Kakashi didn’t even look up from his folder.
“Unresolved sexual tension,” he added helpfully, like he was talking about the weather.
You almost punched him. Might’ve done it if the Commander hadn’t walked in right then. Yamato laughed, completely unbothered. Kakashi just hummed.
Didn’t deny it. Didn’t correct him. Didn’t say a damn thing.
So you denied it for both of you.
Because it’s not tension. Not really. It’s not want. It’s not need.
It’s irritation. Familiarity. A reluctant partnership forged in blood and repetition. That’s all.
Later, you’re walking back through the village with your mask tucked beneath your arm and the weight of fatigue pulling at your limbs. The streets are starting to wake. Warm light filters through the trees, dousing the rooftops in gold. Civilians pass by in scattered clusters, their laughter soft, their problems blissfully simple.
A breeze rolls past, carrying the scent of something warm and baked—bread, maybe, or sweet buns just pulled from the oven. Your stomach growls at the idea of food, but you ignore it. You’re too tired to care.
Someone calls your name from across the street. You lift a hand and wave without turning, not registering the voice, not needing to. You’re not used to being seen like this—daylight clinging to you like a foreign skin, your face exposed, not hidden behind a porcelain mask. It’s strange. Loud, even when it’s quiet.
You turn down a quieter street, one that cuts behind the marketplace and through a shaded alley lined with cherry trees in late bloom. You walk in silence, listening to the rhythm of your own footsteps. The mission hum still lingers in your ears, the weight of your blades still too present on your back, like your body hasn’t caught up to the fact that you’re home.
Or what passes for it.
Then you feel it—the subtle shift in the air. Not a threat. Not quite. Just… presence.
You don’t have to look to know who it is.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just falls into step beside you, hands in his pockets like this is normal. Like this is routine.
You let the silence hang for a moment longer than necessary.
Then, dryly: “Stalking me now, Hatake?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Just making sure you don’t collapse from exhaustion and drag the village down with you.”
You snort under your breath, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of your lips before you can stop it. “Wow. Concern. Didn’t think you had it in you.”
“I contain multitudes.”
You roll your eyes, but you don’t push him away. Not today. You’re too drained to maintain the usual fire. He must know that too, because he doesn’t press. Doesn’t tease the way he normally would.
You walk a little farther, sandals scuffing against stone. The canopy above filters the sunlight, scattering gold across the ground. Neither of you speaks.
The silence between you isn’t easy. It never is. But today, it isn’t sharp either. It isn’t heavy with the usual tension, or laced with the usual bickering. It’s just… there. Breathing.
You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He walks like nothing touches him, like nothing could. That same slouched posture, that unreadable mask in the shape of a man. You wonder—just for a flicker of a second—if you’ll ever really know what’s going on behind that eye of his.
And then you curse yourself for wondering.
Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the way the world feels too bright after the darkness of a mission. Or maybe it’s just that today, you can’t bring yourself to fight him.
So you don’t.
You both keep walking, side by side, the quiet pulling at the corners of something you don’t want to name.
And for a few blocks, you don’t hate him.
You don’t even dislike him.
You just… exist together.
But like everything else between you—it never lasts.
By the time you reach the next street, a kid runs past with a sparrow perched on his shoulder and Kakashi mutters something sarcastic under his breath that earns him a tired look from you. The spell breaks. The moment resets.
You’re back to what you always are.
And maybe that’s for the best.