Adoration

It was astounding how easily one could grow to hate themselves.

Itachi was especially familiar with this. During his off days, whenever he'd come home drenched in sweat and reeking of blood only to catch his reflection in the mirror and see the ghosts of all those he killed staring back at him. Their shadows were starker some days than they were others. They'd pierce through his iron-clad mask of discipline to dim everything around him, even himself. The shadows always started with his eyes—a private pride—and then extended downward to consume everything but his mind. Perhaps even the dead struggled with the rate at which he processed the world around him. But that didn't mean they didn't stop trying until only a blackened, worn out husk of him remained.

They'd never reached that point of course.

Itachi was nothing if not efficient at mastering himself.

Ninjas, especially those of his caliber, were psychologically evaluated every three years. Though that could be shortened should they experience something especially traumatic, that was the general rule. In all of his long years as a ninja of Konoha, he'd never failed a single one of his evaluations. In fact, he'd had nothing short of a perfect score for the past twenty years. It wasn't because he wasn't haunted or disturbed—oh, he was, and anyone who believed otherwise was a fool. It was just that he knew exactly what to say to get them to give him the green light.

Even if he did somehow slip up, being taken off duty was a far off prospect for him. An illusion that danced upon the wind. He was too… everything. The village needed his expertise. Yes, there would always be ninjas to replace those that fell, but none could replace Uchiha Itachi, as he'd been told time and time again by everyone around him. He was a symbol of sorts. Not as grand as the Hokage of course—he wasn't that arrogant, but he was unreasonably close. It wasn't only his clan that looked to him for guidance, but all of the ninjas in the village.

"Don't die," he distinctly recalled a former ANBU Commander of his say. He was barely seventeen at the time, but he'd risen up the ranks like a hawk spreading its wings to intimidate its prey. "You're a genius, Uchiha, but if a child can keep his life in the ANBU for as long as you have, then this lot of men and women will be motivated to keep up."

That commander of his had been afflicted by a lethal poison not two days later. If he tried, Itachi could still see his bloated purple corpse bobbing up and down the river he'd thrown him in. He hadn't bothered cutting open his stomach and filling it with rocks, already knowing that once his life well and truly ended, the jutsu placed upon him would ensure that his body disintegrated into dust.

Itachi lived and breathed death—and death followed him like a glad companion. He made his job easier after all. But sometimes he thought that the twisted spirit didn't guide those he killed and tortured and maimed to the next world, but left them bound to him instead. So that whenever he looked in the mirror during a particularly dreary day, he'd feel their burdens like stones on his shoulders and hate what he saw.

Men that had cost him but moments to cow, and yet their ghosts haunted him for a lifetime.

Perhaps, Itachi considered, the spirit following me wants to see how I will die.

Now, that was a thought.

A terrifying one, to be sure, but one that amused him nonetheless. That thing would be waiting for a very long time, if he had anything to say about it. Still, it was efficient at making him hate himself, and he'd let it keep that tiny victory because if he didn't, then the cost might be far more than he was willing to give.

What would the psych department think if I told them this? he thought bitterly.

The bastards there were worse than genins with all of their complaining. They always had a word to say to him whenever he brought in a member of the ANBU, who'd lost touch with reality. As if he could do something about their deteriorating mental condition except, perhaps, make it worse. His glare always shut them up, but then they'd complain behind his back while they worked, which ticked him off in ways that he would never admit out loud.

There was a shortage of psych evaluators in the ANBU. In fact, among all of the squads, there wasn't even one. Medical ninjas interested in the human mind and serving their village through more ferocious means—as opposed to holing up in a hospital—typically entered the interrogation unit. ANBU were for ninjas with a more upfront skillset.

But that left ANBU evaluations to be handled by Jonin, or more often, Chunin, owing to the startling amount of recent apprentices taken in. And what did those greenhorns know about the life of an ANBU, save for the occasional censored story they heard murmured about in the halls of the Hokage's building? Absolutely nothing.

Itachi had burned, bled, and killed for his village—more than most ninjas that had come long before him. The least they could do was allow him his dark thoughts without fear of being admonished like a child for not "taking better care of his mental health." How was he even supposed to do that when he was sent on back-to-back S-class missions all the time?

It wasn't as if he asked for much in return for his services. He was a simple man, and had the desires to match. He wanted a salary that paralleled the effort he put into missions, a home that he knew would be protected while he was away, and the continued prosperity of the villagers.

Yes, he might have thought of himself as a godforsaken abomination some days. Yes, he could really loathe his face when he looked at it in the mirror even when he wasn't covered in grime and blood. And yes, he sometimes had strange thoughts about a spirit haunting him and whispering the words of those he'd killed over and over again.

But it was natural. It was a part of his job. It wouldn't go away no matter how much he talked about it. What was the point of even going there, of spending the only day off he'd had in months in that sterile office, when he already knew what the outcome would be—Uchiha Itachi is mentally sound and fit for duty.

So why for the Sage of Six Path's sake, did he have to waste his time?

He was startled out of his thoughts by fingers smoothing out the crease between his brows. They lingered there for a few seconds, rubbing until he relaxed his face. Itachi's gaze focused to find Hinata staring at him with a pensive look in her eyes. He grabbed her hand before she could pull away and brought the pads of her fingers to his lips, so he could press a kiss against them. They smelt like vanilla lotion.

"Everything okay?" she asked.

No. It never would be, but with her here, beside him...

"For now."

She smiled, and when he leaned down to kiss her, it didn't diminish in the slightest. Rather, he felt it widen against his lips. Itachi loved her for it.

"Are you going to the psych department now?"

He nodded, as she grabbed a spare hair tie for him and pushed it up around his left wrist.

"I know you don't like it," she went on. "But they're only trying to help."

"It's a waste of time, Hinata." The reluctant hum of agreement he heard from her satisfied him.

"Can you not send a clone?"

"The last time I did," the corners of his lips twisted, "my own clone had glared at me, and then proceeded to outright refuse my order."

She laughed at his expense. "Oh, I'm sorry. It's just… that's so hard to imagine, Itachi."

"Shall I show you?"

Before she could even answer, his hand was already up and forming a seal. A perfect replica of him appeared beside her. Itachi knew that he was simply stalling now. He also didn't give a damn.

"Itachi!" she called, delighted at the presence of another him. His mouth curved upward into a small half-smile at that. Hinata faced the clone with just as much tenderness, and asked, "Could you please go to the psych department for him?"

His clone's perfect mask faltered for a moment, as he turned to glare at the smug original.

Ah, now this was a tactic he'd never considered before.

"Gladly," his clone said to his immense relief, which lasted all of a second, because before he could protest, his clone was already pulling Hinata towards him by her wrist. "But I will be taking her with me."

Sometimes, he really hated himself.