In Another Life

The morning after the storm comes like a breath held too long.

The world outside the cave is hushed and heavy, as though the forest itself is still recovering. Rain lingers in a gentle whisper overhead, no longer the furious downpour of the night before but a slow, reluctant weeping. It trickles down the stone, threads through moss, kisses the ferns with cold dew and clings to every leaf like glass.

Mist drapes low and thick over the underbrush beyond, curling between trees like smoke that forgot how to rise. It softens the edges of everything, swallows sound, swells with the scent of waterlogged earth and crushed greenery. You breathe in the sharp tang of ozone still clinging to the air, the loamy musk of soaked bark, and something faint and metallic, like old blood washed clean by rain.

Inside the cave, it’s colder than it should be. Your joints ache from the damp. Your limbs are stiff with fatigue, yet you don’t feel tired—just hollowed out, like a bell long-since rung.

You haven’t slept.

Neither has he.

You don’t have to look to know. His chakra is a steady weight at the edge of your senses, unwavering and alert. You can feel it—like a drawn wire humming too tight. Kakashi hasn’t moved from where he sat the night before, his silhouette hunched but unmoved, cut in contrast against the faint, colorless glow of morning mist. His back leans against the stone wall, one knee raised beneath his arm, the other leg stretched out in front of him. His head is tilted just slightly toward the rain.

It would almost seem restful. Almost.

But you know better.

He’s still watching. That singular eye, sharp and unfaltering, tracks the movement of the forest like a sentinel who forgot how to blink.

You draw your cloak tighter around your shoulders and shift against the chill that seeps up from the cave floor. Your movements are soft, deliberate. Everything in this quiet feels magnified—your breath, your heartbeat, the gentle rasp of fabric brushing against your skin.

Eventually, the storm dies down to something so faint it could be memory. You hear the creak of damp leather as you reach for your pack, hands stiff with cold—and freeze when your knuckles graze his cloak.

The fabric is torn. A clean split along the shoulder seam.

You don’t remember when it happened. You doubt he does either. But it’s there—delicate threads pulled loose, the dark cloth torn just enough to let in the cold. A silent wound. Unnoticed. Untended.

He doesn’t react when you draw it gently toward you, folding it in your lap with the practiced efficiency of someone used to fixing what others don’t bother to notice. You retrieve your sewing kit from your pouch—small, worn, wrapped in cracked leather—and thread a fine black needle, your fingers finding rhythm before your thoughts do.

You’ve done this countless times.

For Gai. For Genma.

But not for him.

The act feels unexpectedly intimate. Not romantic, not soft—but personal in a way you aren’t prepared for. Your fingers tremble once before steadying, drawing each stitch through the fabric with quiet precision. You don’t look at him, but you can feel him watching.

His breath shifts.

Not quite a sigh.

But it’s enough to tell you he notices.

When you finish the seam and tie it off, you don’t say anything. You offer the cloak back silently. He takes it with the same wordlessness, then sets it aside and picks up your pack instead, inspecting the frayed strap without ceremony.

His hands move with a kind of detached competence, the same way they do in battle—measured, methodical. You watch the way his fingers trace the tear, the way he threads the cord with sure, nimble movement. You’ve seen those hands bloody, broken, buried in soil. And yet this—this act of quiet repair—unsettles you more than any battlefield.

There’s something unspoken here. Something still.

You’re both mending things that shouldn’t have been torn.

You can’t stop watching him work.

The way his hands move. The way the backs of his knuckles graze against the worn fabric. The thread pulls taut. His thumb smooths the edge. There’s a small tremor in his fingers when he finishes—not from strain. Not from cold. But from holding too much stillness in for too long.

He glances at you sideways, expression unreadable beneath the mask.

You don’t thank him.

He doesn’t expect it.

The moment hangs, brittle as glass.

Then—your stomach tightens as your hand dips into the food pouch.

Gone.

Your fingers curl around empty cloth and air.

You stare.

“What the hell.” Your voice is soft, flat. Accusatory.

Kakashi’s head tilts slightly, the only sign he’s listening.

“Did you eat all the persimmons?”

He doesn’t even blink. “They were going soft.”

“They were perfectly fine.”

“You didn’t label them.”

You turn to gape at him, utterly scandalized. “You think this is about labels? Those were my reward food.”

“I didn’t realize we were rationing for emotional victories.”

“It’s called morale, Kakashi.”

“Didn’t realize we had any of that left either.”

You stare at him in betrayal. Genuine, irrational betrayal.

Then you toss a twig at him—small, harmless, damp from the floor. He catches it one-handed without even looking and sets it gently beside him, like a child’s toy returned to the shelf.

It’s ridiculous. It’s absurd.

And for the first time in what feels like weeks, a strangled laugh escapes you. Short. Rough. Half-choked on disbelief. But real.

He doesn’t smile. But his eye softens. Just slightly.

Then his voice shifts again. Just a degree.

“In Konoha… we used to get crates of those. Persimmons.” His gaze isn’t on you now, but somewhere beyond the cave mouth, out toward the mist that veils the trees. “Before that push in the northern borderlands. Remember that winter?”

You stare at the floor.

You do.

The memory returns slower than it should, like something dredged up from a dream. You hadn’t forgotten—not really. But it’s been buried beneath so much else. The siege. The ration lines. ANBU rotation doubling through the dead months. The way the orchards near the outer farms were razed to keep from feeding the enemy, even though it meant nothing sweet came into the village for nearly a year.

You’d traded a half-pouch of soldier pills once for a single slice of dried fruit. The boy you gave it to couldn’t have been more than twelve.

“…Yeah,” you say quietly, after a moment. “I remember.”

“Hard not to,” Kakashi murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Cold every night. No clean water. And half the unit on boil-leaf tea and bad nerves.”

A beat of silence. You glance at him from the corner of your eye.

He’s not smiling. But his voice is softer now, touched by a thread of weary nostalgia.

“I watched Genma get into a screaming match with a logistics chuunin over a crate of chestnuts. I think it was his birthday. Or maybe he was just hungry.”

You huff a breath, not quite a laugh.

The memories feel strangely distant now, like they belong to someone else. A life lived in a harsher place, beneath a colder sun. Konoha feels… not forgotten, but displaced. Blurred around the edges. This world—this rain-slick forest, this strange, parallel hush—has started to swell outward in your mind like a tide. You hadn’t noticed it until now.

Like your own life is being pushed back. Like the shape of who you are is softening under the weight of this place.

You swallow around it, uneasy.

Because some part of you—some quiet, traitorous part—doesn’t miss the sharpness of that old world. Doesn’t miss the constant breathlessness, the raw edge of reality that never dulled.

But the thought unsettles you more than the cold.

Because if this world continues softening everything… what will be left?

What happens when you can’t feel the difference anymore?

“I didn’t think I’d forget,” you say, voice low, more to yourself than to him. “But sometimes it just… drifts.”

Kakashi glances at you, unreadable. His gaze lingers, but he says nothing.

And maybe that’s mercy.

You study his profile in the dim, watching the line of his jaw, the way his eye tracks nothing at all. He looks tired in a way you don’t know how to name. Not just physically. Not just now.

“Do you miss it?” you ask, your voice quieter than you meant.

The question hovers. Barely there.

He doesn’t answer at first.

You almost regret asking.

Then—

“I don’t let myself.”

The words are plain. Unflinching.

But they land like stone dropped in deep water. Sinking out of sight.

You nod. Once. Mostly to yourself.

There’s nothing left to say that wouldn’t be a wound. Nothing left to offer that wouldn’t be a lie.

So you sit together in the aftermath. Silent. Cold.

Listening to the slow drip of rain beyond the mouth of the cave.

And not feeling alone.

Not in the way that matters.

Later, you both set out again.

The forest has changed. It’s not the same woodland you walked through days before. Now it’s soaked, subdued, as if caught in the hush that follows grief. The air is cool and heavy, thick with the scent of wet leaves and churned-up earth. Trails that once felt familiar are waterlogged and alien, turned slick by runoff and broken branches scattered like bones beneath the underbrush.

Everything drips. From the canopy above, fine beads of rain cling stubbornly to leaves and needles before giving way, one by one, to gravity. The sound is quiet, constant—soft percussion against bark and stone. The drizzle isn’t enough to soak you through, but it weaves into your hair and collar and cloak, clinging like breath. Each step leaves a squelch behind, the mud clinging to your soles in thick ribbons.

The trees crowd closer here—old-growth pine and cedar, moss-laced oaks. Their shadows reach long and blurred across the forest floor. Mist settles low to the ground, creeping through the roots and hollowing out the space between trunks like rising smoke. It clings to your knees, silvering the landscape in pale static.

Kakashi takes the lead, as always.

He moves with that unnerving, quiet precision—never loud, never showy. Just… decisive. Like the forest itself bends out of his way. He doesn’t hesitate, even when the trail forks into unfamiliar underpasses or when a sudden gully cuts through the slope. His boots find purchase where yours falter. His balance never shifts too far, never overcorrects. Even soaked through, weighed down, the terrain doesn’t seem to touch him.

He knows exactly where he’s going, or at least pretends convincingly enough to make you believe he does.

You, on the other hand, are breathing a little harder. Not winded—but aware. Every few minutes you have to adjust your footing, catch yourself. You’re not used to feeling like the unsteady one. Not next to him.

Still, you keep pace. You always have.

Kakashi doesn’t comment. He just glances back once or twice, then adjusts his pace to account for yours. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough that you notice.

At one point, he stops suddenly.

You almost walk into him.

He tilts his head back slightly, just enough to angle his face to the sky. A few strands of silver hair have come loose from his hood, plastered wet against his forehead. Then, abruptly, he gives a short, brisk shake of his head—like a dog drying off—sending droplets fanning outward in a fine mist.

You blink, stunned by the sheer animalism of it. It’s… strangely endearing.

The thought comes unbidden: Kami above, he’s like a dog shaking off the rain.

A laugh snorts out of you before you can stop it—quiet, caught at the back of your throat. You try to smother it with a cough, turning your face slightly to your shoulder.

But it’s too late.

Kakashi stops mid-step, half-turns, and levels you with a narrowed gaze.

“…What.”

You clear your throat, expression neutral. “Nothing.”

He watches you a moment longer, clearly unconvinced. Then he turns away and resumes walking.

You follow, a crooked smile playing at the edge of your mouth.

The exchange fades into the sound of the forest again. The hush of rain, the whisper of leaves brushing each other in the breeze. You fall back into step behind him. Not side-by-side—but near enough to sense his chakra, steady and unhurried, threading quietly through the wild around you.

You travel like that for a while.

The path narrows again, weaving uphill through a dense patch of undergrowth where the storm has dropped half a tree across the trail. Kakashi climbs it in one silent motion, boots gripping the damp bark like it’s nothing. You follow a beat behind, not quite as fluid, slipping once and catching yourself with a muttered curse.

He glances back, but doesn’t offer help. You wouldn’t take it if he did.

The trail winds higher, edging around the shoulder of a rocky ridge. The wind picks up here, whispering through the trees, scattering droplets like pinpricks against your cheek. Somewhere ahead, a bird takes off in a flurry of wingbeats. You hear the shift of Kakashi’s weight as he subtly adjusts his stance, and feel the flicker of his chakra sharpening—reflexive, alert.

But nothing happens. Just the hush of drizzle and wind.

Hours pass—quiet, grey, uneventful.

You smell smoke first.

Not the soft, ghosting kind that rises from distant hearths or the charred remains of firewood, but something sharp. Chemical. Acrid. Oil-slick and synthetic. It clings to the damp air like an uninvited presence, cutting through the lingering petrichor left behind by the storm. Beneath it, the forest still drips and exhales—mossy, wet, alive—but the scent is wrong now. Tilted.

Kakashi stops.

Only for a moment.

A subtle shift—a twitch in the fingers at his side, the narrowing of his visible eye. The weight of his body changes, heels rising slightly from the forest floor, center of gravity pulling forward. You mirror him instinctively, without thinking, your breath stilled in your throat.

Then you hear it.

Not the sigh of wind or the distant call of birds, but something rougher. Human. A splintering snap—wood breaking under force. The brittle crack of something being torn apart. Then come the voices, disjointed and close, thick with contempt.

You count them in heartbeats.

Four… maybe five.

The tones vary. One lazy and cruel, another younger and tense with forced bravado. They’re speaking in low, jeering bursts, words overlapping. You can’t make out every phrase, but the ones you do chill something ancient in your spine.

“…old hag’s got nothing left—check the bags…”

“…damn brat bit me—should’ve knocked him cold…”

“…just grab what’s worth selling—leave the rest…”

The laughter that follows is wet and mean.

You drop low into the underbrush, heart tightening as bark scrapes lightly against your glove. Kakashi is already crouched beside you, half-shadow in the mist, masked face tilted toward the source of the noise. His presence is so still it almost disappears.

Your eyes meet.

His breath leaves in a slow, narrow stream, but his shoulders are set. Tense. Restrained.

“We don’t need trouble,” he murmurs. The cadence is calm, but there’s a flicker of something else underneath—caution, maybe. Weariness. “We already have Konoha on our back. Let’s not add rogue ninjas to the list.”

You don’t reply at first. You’re already listening past the trees, letting your chakra hum quietly against the web of life around you.

There.

You feel it.

The flare of fear, bright and jagged, from two signatures ahead.

One is older—shallow but resilient. Fraying at the edges from strain. The other is younger, quick and fluttering like a cornered animal. A child’s chakra. Small and volatile with panic.

“They’re hurting someone,” you say quietly. A simple truth. Unshakable.

Kakashi doesn’t argue.

He knows it too.

He’s felt it all along.

“They’re rogues,” he says instead, voice more neutral now. “From the signatures—Wind Country. Suna-born, probably. Drifters. Outcasts.”

You frown. “That’s not an excuse.”

“No. It’s not.” He looks ahead again, watching the tree line. “Still not our mission.”

Your gaze slides to him—steady. Unyielding. “We’re still ANBU. And ANBU protect those who need us most. Or did that change while I wasn’t looking?”

A beat of silence.

Then he sighs. Deep. Long-suffering. His head drops slightly, and the breath fogs faint in the air.

“You were going to go in anyway.”

“Of course.”

“You never make it easy.”

You shrug. “You’ll be right behind me.”

The look he gives you is dry enough to cut stone. “Idiotic.”

You grin at him, sharp-edged and shameless. “You like it.”

The air shifts—just enough to stir the leaves.

Then you’re both moving.

No more words.

Just the quiet flicker of chakra, the blur of motion as two shadows vanish into the trees. You don’t need a signal. You don’t need a plan. You’ve worked with Kakashi long enough to know the rhythm of him in battle—the tilt of his head when he’s counting, the angle of his shoulders when he’s ready to strike.

You know how to fall in beside him like breath.

And right now, someone is hurting the innocent.

And that is simply not allowed.

The clearing splits the forest open like a gash. Trees fall away into churned-up mud and flattened brush, the air heavy with the copper tang of blood and the acrid bite of burning oil. A broken cart lies tipped on its side in the wreckage, contents spilled in a chaotic sprawl—burlap sacks torn open, bedding soaked and scattered, the pungent sweetness of smashed pickled plums thick in your nose.

At its heart lies the wreckage: an old travel cart, toppled on its side like a corpse. Its wooden frame splintered and gutted, contents strewn across the clearing as though ripped apart in a frenzy. Rice sacks lie burst open, their grains scattered like spilled teeth. A bedroll hangs half-dragged in the mud, torn and sodden. A ceramic jar of pickled plums lies in pieces nearby, its sweet, vinegared scent mixing grotesquely with the metallic tang of blood and oil.

You see her then.

A woman—elderly, silver-haired and frail—kneeling in the filth. Her arm is wrapped tightly around a child, shielding him with the stubborn ferocity only a grandmother could muster. Her other arm dangles uselessly at her side, elbow twisted, fingers twitching as if trying to curl around pain. One eye is swelling shut, her lip split open in a way that speaks of knuckles and violence. Her kimono has been torn at the shoulder, the silk clinging wetly to her bruised collarbone.

And the boy—gods, the boy—he’s a thin reed of a thing, no older than eight. Knees scraped, cheeks tear-streaked, body vibrating with tremors. He grips a carved wooden kunai like it might become real if he believes hard enough. His little chest heaves like he can’t quite catch the air.

Surrounding them are five men. Four standing like jackals in a loose circle. The fifth crouches low at the cart, rifling through the spilled goods with greedy fingers. None of them wear forehead protectors, but the broken scrap of a Suna insignia dangles from one man’s belt—tarnished, warped. Long since disgraced.

Scum.

You flick two fingers toward your side, a silent cue. Kakashi, crouched beside you in the trees, meets your eyes and nods once.

Left side—yours.

Right—his.

You drop from the trees like a whisper of smoke.

The first doesn’t even register your presence before your heel slams into the base of his spine. He crumples forward, face-first into the muck. You move before he hits the ground—your body twisting, blade flashing.

The second barely gets a word out before your kunai catches his weapon mid-draw, knocking it from his hand. A pulse of chakra surges through your fingers and into his chest—sharp, precise, jabbing into nerve clusters. His knees give out. He folds like wet paper.

Behind you, the air splits.

There’s a familiar flicker—movement too fast for the eye. Kakashi appears behind one of the rogues with a whisper of displaced air and the glint of Sharingan.

The man turns just in time to die terrified.

You don’t watch. You don’t need to.

The fifth man tries to run.

He makes it three steps before Kakashi is on him—an arm around his neck, a fluid, brutal twist of momentum. The rogue hits the ground with a breathless grunt, Kakashi already pressing him down, immobilizing him with practiced ease.

And then—stillness.

No more shouting. No more footsteps. Just the quiet drip of rain from the leaves overhead and the faint, choked sob of the boy.

You step toward them, heart still racing.

Kakashi’s already at the bodies, securing their arms with wire, movements efficient and cold. You kneel in front of the older woman, letting your guard drop an inch.

Her eyes search your face, unfocused but not ungrateful. “Are you… are you with anyone? The daimyo? Suna? You’re not bandits, are you?”

“Neither,” you murmur. “We’re just… passing through.”

She tries to sit straighter, but winces. “My rice…”

You glance toward the overturned jar nearby—its contents spilled in a sticky puddle of syrup and vinegar.

“We’ll see what we can salvage,” you say gently.

The clearing is still heavy with silence.

Broken branches crack underfoot as you kneel beside the older woman, careful not to jostle her too much. Her shoulder is badly bruised, kimono torn, blood drying at her temple. She doesn’t flinch, but her hands tremble as she keeps the boy tucked into her side.

His wooden toy is clutched in a white-knuckled grip.

“Let me see your arm,” you say quietly.

The woman hesitates, then nods. Her lip is split, one eye swollen, but she meets your gaze with a steadiness you admire. “It’s not broken,” she says. “Just sore. I’ve had worse. But Toma—he’s been so brave.”

The boy, Toma, doesn’t look brave. He looks small, shivering, and too quiet for someone his age.

You reach into your pouch and pull out a small cloth, offering it gently. “This should help the bleeding.”

He accepts it like it’s something rare. Presses it to the elder woman’s brow with too-careful hands.

A beat of silence.

Then, softly, “My back hurts.”

You turn to look at him.

Toma stares back with an intensity that borders on challenge. “Also,” he says with all the solemnity of an oracle, “you’re really pretty.”

You blink. “Sorry, what?”

He nods, dead serious. “You punched that guy and he flew like—” he makes a vague gesture, “—like a fish. You’re the fastest ninja I’ve ever seen.”

A flicker of amusement catches in your chest. “Fastest you’ve seen, huh? How many have you seen?”

“Just you,” he says proudly. “But you count.”

You smile despite everything. “That’s a good kunai. Did you carve it?”

“With Grandpa’s knife,” he says. Then quieter: “Before he got sick.”

You rest a hand lightly on his head, unsure what to say. The weight of that loss hangs between you, too familiar.

Footsteps behind you.

Kakashi.

The moment shifts. Toma immediately presses closer to the woman, his small body tense. His eyes narrow with theatrical suspicion.

“I don’t like him,” he announces.

Kakashi pauses beside you. “Noted.”

“You didn’t look happy once,” Toma adds. “That’s creepy.”

Kakashi squints down at him. “Being happy during a rescue mission isn’t exactly protocol.”

“You look like you hate birthdays,” Toma says.

You almost choke trying not to laugh. Kakashi turns his eye to you slowly, accusing.

The woman exhales a long-suffering sigh. “Toma, for heaven’s sake. Where are your manners?”

“Back with the horse,” he mutters.

The woman shakes her head but lets it go. “I’m Yui,” she says, looking to you both now. “This is my grandson, Toma. We were on the western road when they ambushed us. Took the food, broke the cart. I don’t think they expected resistance.”

Her gaze lingers on the unconscious men now piled neatly by the trees, wrapped in Kakashi’s wire. There’s something haunted in her expression—worn in and old, but not beaten.

“I haven’t seen fighting like that in years,” she murmurs. “Not since the war. You two—” she gestures vaguely between you, “—you move like it’s muscle memory. Like you’ve done this together for a long time.”

You glance at Kakashi. He’s silent, unreadable.

“We’re just trained for it,” you say softly.

Yui smiles faintly. “Sure. And birds just happen to fly in formation.”

You open your mouth to protest, but she waves you off.

“Don’t bother. I’m too old and too tired to believe in coincidence anymore.”

She shifts, wincing. You move to steady her, and she clutches your forearm with surprising strength. “Listen,” she says, lowering her voice, “we’ve got a roof and enough walls to block the wind. And if that rice sack isn’t entirely ruined, I can make something warm. I won’t ask questions. You’ll stay the night.”

You hesitate. So does Kakashi.

“We’re not here to trouble anyone,” you start.

“Tch. Don’t flatter yourselves,” she says. “You saved my life, not the other way around. I’d sleep easier knowing you’re nearby.”

Kakashi glances toward the trees, probably already mapping out exits. “It’s not necessary.”

Yui looks at him like she’s seen a hundred men just like him—and knows exactly how to deal with every one of them.

“Toma’s scared. I’d like him to see that the people who saved him don’t vanish like ghosts.”

She says it without accusation, but it hits all the same.

Kakashi doesn’t respond. Just looks away.

“We’ve got a roof, like I said. Yukata that don’t fit anymore, a bit of ginger and dried mushrooms if the rice held up. You’ll eat. You’ll sleep. That’s not a request.”

You nod, gently. “We’d be grateful.”

Yui smiles at you, then leans heavily on your arm as you help her up. “Good. And don’t let the quiet one wander off. He’s the kind of man who’ll try to stand guard all night with a broken leg just to prove a point.”

Behind you, Kakashi sighs.

Toma still isn’t convinced.

He tugs at your sleeve as you start gathering their things. “Is he really coming with us?”

“He is,” you say.

Toma frowns. “He still looks like a soggy dog.”

You can't help but snort at that. Should’ve seen him shaking his head earlier. 

“Soggy dog or not, he’s got a good heart.”

Toma tilts his head, suspicious. “If you say so.”

He pauses. Then looks up at you, wide-eyed again.

“But he’s not as pretty as you.”

You lift an eyebrow. “You always this charming, kid?”

He grins, suddenly mischievous. “Only when I like someone.”

You ruffle his hair, and he squawks in protest. But he doesn’t pull away.

As you guide Yui toward the remnants of the cart, Kakashi lingers at the treeline. You feel him watching—not just the perimeter, but you. Quietly. Like he’s searching for something he hasn’t decided how to name.

That ache in your chest—low and steady—it flickers again.

Not pain this time.

Something quieter. Warmer.

Like a storm in retreat.

Or maybe just the air, shifting before a new season begins.