In Another Life

The forest is quieter now.

Not the kind of quiet that feels empty—but the kind that settles over your shoulders like a blanket, stitched together by breath and wind and fading tension. The kind of quiet that follows chaos, when the adrenaline has drained and left only silence in its wake. No distant footsteps. No rustle of steel or snap of breaking branches. Just the soft chirr of insects in the underbrush, the occasional trill of birds shifting from branch to branch, and the subtle, uneven rhythm of Kakashi’s breathing beside you—slower now, but not steady. Not quite.

The two of you walk side by side, half-limping, half-drifting. There’s no destination spoken aloud, no strategy exchanged. You simply move forward, feet carving a path into moss-soft ground, weaving between tree trunks wrapped in creeping fog. And still—he says nothing. You say nothing. The hush between you isn’t awkward or strained; it’s lived-in. A strange sort of comfort. A fragile peace wrapped in the aftermath of pain, cloaked in layers of fatigue and everything neither of you has the energy to unpack.

You hear the thud of your pack as you shift its weight across your shoulder, the canvas straps biting into your collarbone through your shirt. The ache is dull now, part of the background noise of your body, like the scrapes along your arms or the grit stuck in your boots. You adjust the strap anyway, more habit than necessity. Just something to do with your hands.

Kakashi glances over. Not a sharp look, not checking—just a flick of his gaze, brief and unreadable. His steps are heavy, but measured. Tired, but practiced. Still, when your pace starts to falter—barely perceptible, a slight drag in your gait—he slows with you. Not obviously. He doesn’t point it out, doesn’t offer his hand, doesn’t say you alright?

He just shifts his weight. Subtle. Natural. Like it was always part of the plan.

You know it’s not.

But you let it happen.

And you don’t thank him.

Not out loud.

There are some kindnesses you don’t name. Some you’d rather not make real by voicing them. Because once spoken, they might become something else—something fragile. Something that might break under the weight of everything left unsaid.

So you just walk, side by side.

Letting the silence hold the shape of something like trust.

You make camp beneath a stand of crooked pines, their heavy boughs bending low with the weight of old needles and dusk. The clearing you choose is tucked against the slope of a hill, sheltered from the wind. Overhead, branches knit tightly enough to blot out the stars, but a faint shimmer of moonlight filters down in soft patches—silver puddles across the mossy earth.

The two of you fall into motion like clockwork.

You kneel and begin clearing a shallow pit, sweeping away damp leaves with the side of your arm. The scent of earth rises—cold and rich, layered with pine sap and old rain. Kakashi drops to a crouch beside you without a word, his movements slower than usual, more measured. He arranges a ring of flat stones with practiced ease, gloved fingers brushing grit from their surfaces like it matters.

It doesn’t, not really. But the rhythm of it steadies something.

You wordlessly reach for your pack and retrieve a small bundle of kindling wrapped in cloth. He doesn’t need to be told what you’re doing. Just shifts slightly to give you space, his shoulder nearly brushing yours. The silence between you is full, but not uncomfortable—there’s an unspoken cadence to it. Familiar. Old.

The flint strikes on the first try. Sparks dance. You coax them to life with a steady breath, and soon, a thin coil of smoke curls into the cold night air. The fire catches with a soft crackle, a whisper rather than a roar. You keep it low, cautious. Tucked beneath the branches, its glow barely escapes the ring of trees.

You pass him a strip of dried meat and half a rice ball wrapped in a square of waxed paper. He takes them with a grunt—gruff, but not ungrateful—and sinks back against the base of a tree. One knee drawn up, the other stretched long. His spine curves against the bark, posture easy, lazy even, but you know better than to believe he’s relaxed.

His single eye remains fixed on the shadows beyond the firelight, half-lidded but sharp. Always watching. Always listening. Even now.

Still watching your back, even when he should rest.

You lower yourself onto a patch of dry moss across from him, folding your legs beneath you, food cradled in your lap. You chew slowly, deliberately, letting the warmth of the meal seep through your cold fingers. The silence stretches out between you, soft and unspoken. It settles like a blanket—worn, threadbare, but warm all the same.

Then—

“You know,” Kakashi says suddenly, his voice rough with wear but unmistakably dry, “for someone who claims to be a better field cook than me, this tastes suspiciously like salted shoe leather.”

You glance up, brows arching, a slow frown tugging at your lips. “I beg your pardon. That is smoked boar. You should be groveling for seconds.”

“Is that what it is?” he muses aloud, inspecting the strip of meat as if it might come alive and bite him back. “Hm. Could’ve fooled me.”

Your eyes narrow into slits. “If you’re not careful, I’ll make you chew bark tomorrow.”

He hums, that lazy tone of his brushing the edge of laughter. “Might be an improvement. Bit of fiber. Earthy undertones.”

You reach for a twig—thin, brittle, harmless—and flick it at his head with deadly aim. It bounces off his forehead and tumbles into his lap.

He doesn’t dodge it.

Doesn’t even blink.

Just blinks slowly, lifts a brow in theatrical betrayal, and says, “Assaulting a wounded man. How honorable of you.”

You grin, sharp and satisfied. “Next time it’ll be a pinecone.”

“You’re escalating. Dangerous sign.”

“You love it.”

His eye crinkles slightly at the corner. Not quite a smile. But close. You’ll take it.

And for a moment, just a moment, the ache in your chest fades.

You don't sleep that night, eyes closed and world shifting abstract and restless from behind rested lids, cycling even as you move to open them. 

Not quick— slowly, gently, as if the dawn itself is tugging you up from rest. The air is still, cool against your skin, damp with dew. You can smell the faint remnants of last night’s fire—smoke and scorched pine—and the earthy scent of damp soil and crushed leaves beneath your bedding.

The world is hushed. Not silent, but held in that rare kind of stillness that only exists in the space between night and morning. Birds have not yet begun their chorus. The wind hasn’t stirred the canopy. Even your thoughts move slower.

Beside you, Kakashi is still asleep.

The fire has long since burned down to ashen ghosts, a hollow ring of warmth at your backs. But pale morning light is creeping in through the trees, silvery and soft. It spills across his face in bands—cutting through the leaves, painting dappled shadows across the strong lines of his jaw and the gentle slope of his cheekbone.

You’re not used to seeing him like this. Vulnerable. Unshuttered.

His mask has shifted slightly in the night, just enough that you can see the curve of his mouth, slack with sleep. There’s no tension in his brow, no wariness in his shoulders. The ever-present storm behind his single eye has, for once, gone still.

He’s peaceful.

No—more than that.

He’s human.

You don’t move. Not right away. You’re caught in it—in the quiet, in the sight of him like this, stripped of armor and sharp edges. The Kakashi you know is all angles and shadows: dry wit, tight control, unreachable distance. But this one…

This one looks young.

Not in the way that time has forgotten him, but in the way exhaustion carves a person down to something honest. His lashes are pale against his skin, his mouth slightly parted with each quiet breath. There’s a smudge of dried blood at the edge of his jaw, half-faded, and a faint crease between his brows that hasn’t entirely faded with sleep.

He looks like someone who once knew how to dream.

Your chest aches, a strange, subtle weight pressing just beneath your sternum. You don’t know if it’s guilt, or tenderness, or something else entirely.

Maybe it’s just the sight of someone who never lets himself rest finally doing so.

You trace the shape of his expression with your gaze—the relaxed jaw, the furrowless brow, the hair falling loose over his forehead protector. You wonder, briefly, what he’s dreaming about. If he dreams at all anymore.

A breeze stirs the leaves, rustling low and soft above. One strand of silver hair flutters across his temple. You almost reach to brush it away—almost—but your hand stills in your lap.

Too intimate. Too much.

Instead, you just watch him.

You let yourself look.

Because in a few minutes, he’ll stir. He’ll feel your gaze and crack some dry remark, or blink sleep from his eye and drag the mask back into place. He’ll be the Kakashi you know again. Sharpened. Distant. Contained.

But right now?

Right now he’s just a man asleep beside you, breathing quietly in the hush of morning, alive.

And somehow, that feels sacred.

So you look away—carefully, deliberately—before he wakes and catches you staring.

And say nothing.

As always.

Midday brings a stream, slow-moving and silver under the dappled light of the canopy. The trees thin just enough to let the sun spill through in broken shafts, catching in the ripples like scattered gold coins. You step into the clearing first, and the air here is cooler—clean in a way that feels rare. Like nothing terrible has ever happened beneath this sky.

You breathe it in, letting it push out some of the tightness in your chest.

The stream gurgles softly, tugging over worn stones and mossy roots. You ease yourself down on the bank, boots off, socks peeled away, bare feet sinking into the damp earth. When your toes touch the water, a sharp chill bites at your skin—but you don’t pull back. You just press in deeper, letting the current nip and swirl around your ankles. It’s the kind of cold that feels alive.

Across from you, Kakashi drops his pack and slumps onto a smooth rock with a sigh that’s halfway to a groan. He rolls his sleeves to the elbow, pushes his hitai-ate up to rub his temple, then kicks off his sandals with exaggerated caution, like they’re liable to explode.

You glance over at him.

“I didn’t realize we had a noble among us,” you say, watching as he eyes the water like it personally insulted him.

“Not noble,” he mutters, already pulling up the legs of his pants, “just aware that rivers are nature’s way of luring shinobi to their deaths via hypothermia.”

“Very tactical of them,” you say dryly.

He grumbles something in response, then steps in with deliberate slowness. The water hits his calves and he stiffens instantly, sucking in a sharp breath.

“That bad?” you call, smug.

“I think my bones are screaming.”

“You have bones?”

“Had.”

He takes another step—and his foot slips. Not much, just a quick jerk of balance as the slick stone betrays him. But it’s enough. His arms flail just slightly, catching himself with a muttered curse and a slosh of water that hits his shin.

You laugh. Not the kind of quiet, polite sound you usually offer in the moments between missions or conversations. This one breaks free from your chest—unfiltered, startled. Real. The sound echoes off the trees and skips across the water like a stone.

Kakashi straightens slowly and shoots you a look of pure betrayal, one brow arched, his single eye narrowing.

“You laughed,” he says, deadpan.

“Loudly,” you say, grinning.

“I’m wounded.”

“I’m not saving you if you drown.”

“I’m your commanding officer.”

“You’d miss me.”

He pauses. “Like a kunai to the face.”

Your grin widens, teeth flashing in the sun.

“Sharp,” you murmur.

His eye curves then, softening at the edges with something that isn’t quite a smile—but it’s close. It lingers there for a beat too long, just enough to make your breath catch. Not because of the words. Not because of the banter. But because something about this moment feels startlingly normal. Like it belongs to another life. A quieter one.

A better one.

The current rushes between you, gentle and cold, carving a steady path downstream.

You don’t look away.

Neither does he.

Not yet.

That night, the fire burns low and steady, its muted glow casting long, golden shadows across the mossy earth. The crackle of damp wood is soft, hushed beneath the whisper of wind through the canopy above. The world feels far away here—muffled, dulled, like a dream too fragile to speak aloud.

You settle beside the fire, a little closer than the night before. Not close enough to touch. Not quite. But near enough to feel the subtle weight of his presence—something unspoken, constant, like gravity.

Kakashi sits with his back against a gnarled tree trunk, head tilted just enough that his face is barely visible beneath the edge of his mask. His breath is shallow. Slow and uneven. Not the kind of exhaustion that sleep can cure, but the kind that seeps in through wounds left untended too long.

You don’t say anything.

Instead, you shift forward and reach for him, careful and quiet. Your hands brush the fabric of his flak jacket where it hangs half-fastened, the edges darkened with blood. You press your fingers to the seam, hesitating only a second before peeling it open to reveal the bandage beneath. The wound is angry—red and swollen, the skin around it fever-hot to the touch.

He doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t protest, either.

Just lets his body tilt, ever so slightly, toward your hands—as though the last of his strength has been spent pretending not to need this. Not to need you.

You clean around the dressing, smoothing the fresh cloth into place with careful precision. Your fingertips are steady, but your throat is tight. His skin burns beneath your touch, and it frightens you more than you’ll admit. You focus on the motion. Fold, press, secure. You’ve done this a hundred times in the field. It should feel mechanical.

It doesn’t.

Because this is Kakashi.

And something’s different tonight.

The air between you hums with tension—not the kind that threatens to snap, but the kind that holds. Suspends. Shifts.

You glance up and find his eye half-lidded, the faintest trace of weariness smoothing the lines of his face. He’s watching you. Searching for something. Or maybe just resting. You’re not sure.

You don’t ask.

You don’t need to.

Your hand lingers near his side a moment longer than necessary. Not pressing, not holding. Just… there.

And then, slowly, like gravity has shifted again, his weight leans into yours. His shoulder bumps yours, tentative. Testing.

You freeze.

But only for a second.

Because the tilt becomes a lean. The lean becomes a rest. And then, in a slow, reluctant surrender, his head finds your shoulder. A quiet, bone-deep exhale escapes him—one he’s been holding in for hours, maybe days. The full weight of his trust settling into your side like a silent vow.

Your heart stumbles.

You don’t speak. Don’t move.

Just breathe.

The fire crackles softly, warm against your legs. His hair brushes your jaw, silver and unruly. His body is heavy with sleep, heat radiating off him like a furnace—too hot, too still—but he’s breathing. He’s here.

You close your eyes.

And for a long time, you stay like that.

The two of you alone in the hush of the endless trees, wrapped in smoke and starlight, tethered not by words, but by the quiet certainty that—for now—you don’t have to be alone.

Just breathing.

Together.