Chapter Text
I.
Teaching was his passion, but Iruka liked working at the mission desk. Most days were pretty calm even with tired shinobi coming back from missions and restless shinobi eager for something to take them out of the village. He liked the straightforward filing system. He liked handing out missions to genin teams. He liked feeling useful, liked feeling like he was able to help Konoha run smoothly even if he was just a chuunin.
It wasn’t always easy, of course. A lot of genin complained about D-ranks. A lot of chuunin tried to snap at Iruka because they thought being in the field made them better than him. But jounin were the worst.
Not all of them, sure. Iruka had known Anko since they were teens and she’d long since stopped being intimidating. Genma and Raido were both easy-going. Gai was eccentric, but his reports were always done perfectly.
But there were others who thought their rank meant they could get away with pretty much anything. Including poorly written reports with whole sections missing and illegible handwriting and sometimes splattered with body fluids and other questionable substances. Iruka always started a shift at the mission desk with a can-do attitude and the same level of patience he used for his pre-genin students, but inevitably, through the incompetence and arrogance of entitled assholes, he got worn down.
Iruka stared at the report that had been placed in front of him with dismay. It was crinkled and smeared with what he hoped was just mud, but worse than that, the handwriting was illegible. Even though most of the necessary sections were visible, no one would be able to read them.
“Hatake-san, I cannot accept this,” he said, trying to be polite. It had been a long, long day, and Iruka had already argued with three other jounin and a chuunin squad. What he wanted was to end his shift—just another half hour left—and go home to a hot bath and dinner. And then sleep, possibly for the next twelve-to-fourteen hours.
Hatake Kakashi was clearly not going to make this easy for him, however. The man had his nose shoved in one of those bright orange, tasteless “romance” novels that were really just thinly veiled porn. The rumors about Hatake were varied, but the general consensus was that he’d been in ANBU too long and it had made him…weird. Iruka was inclined to believe it because he couldn’t fathom any other reason a distinguished ninja would read something so inappropriate in such a public place.
“Maa, chuunin-san, I’m sure it’s all filled out correctly,” the man drawled, not bothering to look up from his book.
Iruka could feel his eye twitching but tried to ignore it. He didn’t know Hatake personally, but he knew the Copy-Nin was one of Konoha’s strongest, knew that he’d done a lot for the village, and that meant Iruka would try to be respectful. Plus, Hatake had only just started back up on the normal jounin mission roster; Iruka could cut him a little slack while he adjusted to life outside of black ops again.
“I’m afraid we require reports to be in better condition than this, for the sake of filing.” Iruka slid a fresh, blank report form over the desk. “Please fill out a new one neatly and try to keep it out of the mud this time.”
Hatake’s eye finally left the book, cutting over to Iruka and narrowing. Iruka tried not to falter under the assessing gaze and instead continued to smile politely.
“Hmm.” Hatake picked up the muddied report, wiped it against his pants leg which only served to smear the mud and ink further, and then set it back down on the table. The jounin’s eye curved into what must have been some sort of smile. “How about now?”
Iruka blinked. “You made it worse.”
Hatake waved his hand dismissively. “I’m sure it’s fine—”
Iruka finally snapped. “It’s illegible! Our cryptology department wouldn’t be able to read this! There are first-year pre-genin with better handwriting. No, there are nin-dogs with better handwriting. And where did the mud even come from? You were supposed to be in Sand!”
When he finally stopped yelling, the room was dead silent and Iruka was painfully aware that everyone was watching him. Hatake-san’s eye was wide, the orange book hanging uselessly in his hand by his side, and Iruka suddenly had the impression that if that mask wasn’t in the way, the Copy-Nin’s mouth would be gaping like a fish.
Iruka’s cheeks were warm, though whether that was from embarrassment, the exertion from yelling, or anger, he wasn’t sure.
“Ah.” Hatake cleared his throat, grabbed for his old report and shoved it haphazardly into his vest pocket without even once taking his eye off Iruka. “I’ll just…do that.”
Then, without another word, he grabbed the blank paper and shunshined away.
Iruka slumped back into his seat with a sigh. The next woman in line looked more than a little nervous, but Iruka waved her forward with only a slightly strained smile.
I’ve just shouted at Hatake Kakashi, Iruka thought as he stamped the woman’s report and filed it. I’ve just shouted at the maybe-mentally-unstable Copy-Nin in the middle of the mission room. At least when I die, there are plenty of witnesses who’ll know who did it.
II.
Iruka wasn’t dead, but he was pretty sure he was cursed.
That, or Hatake had decided that irritating Iruka at the mission desk would serve as adequate revenge. There was no way it was an accident that nearly every time Iruka had a shift, Hatake would show up. There was no way it was an accident that he always, always got in Iruka’s line. Sometimes he came in to turn in a report, and all of them were sloppily written or missing an entire section or three weeks past due. Sometimes he came in to take a new mission even when Iruka knew he’d just returned from one. Sometimes he asked for a D-rank if there was nothing else available.
Sometimes he showed up just to say, “Maybe I missed your voice, sensei,” whenever Iruka snapped at him that if he wasn’t going to turn in paperwork or pick up a mission, then he needed to leave.
Maybe it was just paranoia, but Iruka was half convinced Hatake only took so many missions—even the ones way below his paygrade—just so he’d have more shitty reports to hand in. Like he was just trying to make Iruka crack again. Trying to push him to see what would make him break.
Iruka had kept a good grip on his temper ever since that first time, though. No matter how irritatingly dismissive Hatake was. No matter how poorly filled out his reports were. No matter how many times in a shift Hatake would come by and stand in front of Iruka’s desk with that stupid orange book and his stupid little eye-smile and his stupidly rumbly voice. Iruka was determined to be a professional.
But even he couldn’t hold up a professional veneer for this.
“WHAT THE FUCK.” Iruka couldn’t help it, he really couldn’t.
Hatake stood before his desk with that annoying, smug little eye-curve, his mission report actively on fire. The jounin was trying—with little success—to pat out the flames as he set the paper on Iruka’s desk and slid it forward. Iruka could only stare as the paper smoked, embers still eating away at the edges of the report, crumbling it into ash right before his eyes. His brain was struggling to process what was happening. He thought he’d seen the extent of what Hatake was willing to do to irritate him, but he’d never imagined this.
“Why?” Iruka shook his head, bewildered, eyes still locked on the steadily deteriorating paper. “Why even bother bringing it in?”
Hatake attempted a pout, surprisingly expressive for man showing approximately a quarter of his face. “You’re not going to accept my report, Umino-sensei?”
“Accept your report?” Iruka repeated, feeling numb. He wasn’t sure if that was the shock, or if it was a prelude to homicidal rage. Considering Hatake was involved, probably the latter. He’d never considered himself a particularly angry person before—at least, not in a long time—but Hatake had a way of bringing out the worst, most violent impulses in him. “Accept. Your. Report? How could I accept it? WHEN IT DOESN’T EVEN EXIST ANYMORE!”
Over half of the mission report had burned away, the embers finally having fizzled out but still smoking. A pile of ash was all that remained of the bottom half of the paper, and they were still hot to the touch when Iruka scooped them away and into the trash bin.
“Maa, see? There’s still the first part—”
“It was on fire!” Iruka took a deep breath, urging himself to be calm. Just breathe. Breathe and tell him to redo it, and you can get rid of him for at least an hour. “I’m sorry, Hatake-san, but you’ll have to redo your report.”
Hatake sighed but didn’t look particularly surprised. Just…sort of satisfied. Fucker.
“Anything for you, Umino-sensei,” the jounin said, a hint of flirtation in his voice. He disappeared in a puff before Iruka could start yelling again.
“Son of a bitch,” he swore under his breath, snatching the half-crisped piece of paper up and crumpling it in his fist before throwing it with more viciousness than necessary into the bin. At least it would take him a little while to redo the report and Hatake rarely caused trouble like that twice in a row. His second report was almost always passable, even if it was still subpar for a shinobi of his rank and reputation.
Iruka breathed deeply and tried to remind himself that with the Academy starting up again in earnest next week, his shifts at the mission desk would be reduced to twice a week, and that meant less Hatake. That was a nice thought.
III.
In what was nothing short of a pure miracle and a sign that the gods had heard Iruka’s prayers, he went a whole three months without Hatake showing up during any of his mission desk shifts. He’d never been so grateful for his job at the Academy keeping him busy with after school tutoring and assignments to grade and parent-teacher conferences. He often went home exhausted, but never as frustrated as he had when he’d been dealing with Hatake four to five times a week. The fact that his class of pre-genin somehow managed to be more tolerable than a single grown adult was ridiculous, but Iruka wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
And yet…
Look. Iruka would never, ever, under pain of death or torture, admit that he kind of…almost…sort of…missed Hatake. The very idea was absurd, especially considering Iruka was almost always consumed by an intense desire to just strangle the man every time they were within ten feet of each other. Hatake was infuriating and impossible and overconfident and seemed to have made it his whole objective in life—at least for those first few months—to find ways to drive Iruka insane with paperwork.
Was it fucked up that Iruka had, in some ways, enjoyed the back and forth between them? Enjoyed that there was something going on in his life besides just stamping mission scrolls and grading children’s quizzes?
You need to get a social life, Iruka scolded himself, if you’re so desperate for companionship that you want Hatake to show back up.
It wasn’t like he didn’t have friends. Anko liked to drag him out to bars at least twice a month, and Kami help him if he tried to refuse. He got along well with most of the teachers at the Academy, too, though things were getting a little…awkward lately. Mizuki had been Iruka’s friend since they were kids, one of his best friends, even, and when he’d become a teacher too, Iruka had been thrilled. But that was before Mizuki had started asking him out to dinner or to drinks or if Iruka wanted to go to a festival with him. He’d made the mistake of saying yes once, thinking Mizuki had invited him as a friend, and it had been horribly awkward when Iruka realized that the whole thing was supposed to be a date.
Iruka had tried to be honest but casual about it—it wasn’t a big deal, in his opinion, just something they needed to be on the same page about. And Iruka just didn’t see Mizuki that way.
It was unfortunate that Mizuki had taken that to mean try harder.
So maybe Iruka was avoiding the teacher get-togethers and turning down Mizuki’s persistent offers to hang out, and Anko was out of the village on a long-term mission. But that still didn’t warrant missing Hatake.
The stress of preparing for graduation must be making me insane, Iruka reasoned, and firmly directed his mind elsewhere.
But apparently it was too late, and that brief moment of weakness had tempted fate, because when Iruka clocked in for his shift at the mission desk on Saturday, not five minutes later, Hatake appeared. He caught sight of Iruka almost immediately and froze, lone gray eye widening. The man’s sadistic delight was practically palpable as his eye curved into that damned smile for only a second before he was gone in another puff of smoke.
Oh no, Iruka thought, trying not to picture what sort of horror awaited him. Because there was no way Hatake wasn’t going to return with some abomination of a report, probably specially crafted to maximize the psychological damage it would cause Iruka.
The whole first hour of his shift, Iruka was tense, on high alert for the sight of gray, gravity-defying hair and a dickish aura. By the third hour, he wasn’t sure if it was safe to let his guard down, or if Hatake was just waiting for Iruka to relax to spring his trap. By the fifth hour, Iruka wondered if today’s particular brand of torture was to drive him up the wall in paranoid anticipation.
And then, precisely at six o’clock, Hatake casually strolled in, orange book in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other, and all Iruka could think was, If his report is written on that bag, I’m going to gut him.
It took another twenty minutes for the Copy-Nin to finally make his way through the line, and by then Iruka was waiting for him with a raised brow and his most unimpressed expression. Hatake only eye-smiled.
“Your report, Hatake-san?”
“In a minute, sensei. I haven’t seen you in months. I’d hate to rush our reunion.”
Iruka grit his teeth behind a smile. “Hatake-san, I don’t know how many times I’ve told you; this is the mission desk. If you’re not here to turn in a report or pick up a mission—”
“This,” Hatake said, interrupting Iruka as he set the brown paper bag on the desk, “is for you.”
Iruka eyed it warily—it looked like it hadn’t been written on, at least—and Hatake nodded at him to open it. He did so slowly and cautiously, but the only thing that greeted him when he looked inside the bag was a waft of steam, the smell of ramen, and a takeout bowl from Teuchi’s.
Iruka blinked, then looked up at Kakashi with a slightly furrowed brow. “You…brought me ramen?”
The jounin rubbed at the back of his head, the gesture oddly sheepish for someone who didn’t seem to have an ounce shame in his entire body. “You’ve been here all day. I thought you might like dinner.”
“Oh.” Iruka blinked again. He was used to Hatake throwing him off his axis, but he wasn’t used to it being a good thing. “That’s…that was very kind of you, Hatake-san. Thank you.”
He was thrown again when a faint line of pink appeared at the upper edge of Kakashi’s mask. Is he…blushing? What the hell?
“Maa, anything for you, Umino-sensei.” Hatake cleared his throat. “Ah, and here’s my report.”
Hatake reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a folded piece of paper, sliding it across Iruka’s desk. But the second Iruka touched it, he knew it wasn’t what it appeared.
No. It was a napkin. From Ichiraku. And on it, in sloppy-but-legible print, a quick summary of a mission in Tea Country.
“Hatake-san,” Iruka started, his voice already rising, but when he looked up Kakashi was already gone. Instead, next in line was probably the worst possible person who could have witnessed his interaction with Hatake: Anko.
She was grinning, eyes alight and sharp, and as she leaned on Iruka’s desk, he closed his eyes and sent out another prayer to the gods to spare him.
As usual, they didn’t listen.
“Ru-ru,” she sing-songed, eyebrows rising suggestively. “What’s with Hatake Kakashi bringing you dinner at work? Is there something you want to tell me?”
Fucking bastard, Iruka thought uncharitably, and mentally started planning how he could possibly lure Hatake into a trap. Not even a deadly one. Just some light maiming, maybe.
“Anko—”
“Oh, no. You’re going to tell me everything over drinks tonight.” Her smile turned sharp. “And don’t skimp on the details.”
Iruka sighed. Anko wouldn’t be convinced that there really wasn’t anything going on at all, which meant that by tomorrow morning, half of Konoha would either think Kakashi was trying to woo Iruka into a relationship or that they were already engaged in a secret affair.
Great.
Maybe he should aim for a deadly trap after all. A jounin like Kakashi could probably handle it.
IV.
If Kakashi was bothered by the rumors that he and Iruka were secret lovers, he didn’t show it. If anything, he almost seemed to be fueling the fire: showing up with a thermos of coffee during one of Iruka’s late-night shifts, bringing in half-decent reports that only required minor tweaking, coming by during lunch with ramen again, and once, he’d found Iruka after a day at the academy and helped carry a whole stack of papers that needed to be graded back to Iruka’s apartment. Kakashi had immediately disappeared after, leaving Iruka no time to ask what he was doing and why.
Unfortunately, Mizuki had seen, and he had opinions.
“Messing around with a jounin like Hatake isn’t going to end well,” he said, voice full of something uncomfortably close to pity. “You can’t actually think you mean something to him. He’s using you. As soon as he gets bored, he’s just going to throw you away.”
Their relationship wasn’t even real, didn’t exist outside of rumors and speculation, but the words still stung. What, like it’s impossible for someone to actually be interested in me? It’s so completely unrealistic that someone like Kakashi could ever actually like me? The hurt must have been apparent on Iruka’s face, because Mizuki’s expression softened, some of that critical edge slipping away.
“Iruka, I just don’t want you to get hurt. People like Hatake…they’re bad news. You know they call him friend-killer, right? The guy’s stone-cold.” He nudged Iruka’s shoulder. “I just worry about you, you know?”
Whatever, it doesn’t matter, Iruka told himself. It’s not like we’re really seeing each other.
Of course, now every person he knew seemed convinced he and Kakashi were in a relationship and refused to accept any of his explanations that they weren’t. When he’d tried to explain to Anko, she’d just laughed. When he’d tried to explain to Genma, he’d said, “Sure,” while smirking. When he’d tried to explain to the Hokage—who had commented on it during their weekly tea—Sandaime-sama had just raised a brow and taken another sip.
The worst, though, was trying to explain to Maito Gai, partially because the man was genuinely very nice, and partially because when Iruka had tried to clarify that no, he and Kakashi weren’t courting, Gai had given Iruka a very sympathetic and knowing look and said, “My Eternal Rival is not always good with feelings, but his affection for you is plain to see. There’s no point in denying your love to me, Umino-sensei. I have known for months now.”
“Months?” Iruka wheezed.
Gai nodded sagely. “I did not understand your courtship at first, but it is Most Youthful!”
Iruka had no fucking idea what Gai was talking about and promptly gave up on the conversation.
But the whole thing made him think: what would it be like if he and Kakashi were together? When he wasn’t intentionally provoking Iruka into a violent rage, Kakashi was decent company. He was thoughtful, always remembering which tea Iruka liked best, which type of ramen he preferred, which days Iruka worked a double shift and might need a pick-me-up. He was funny, too, and a good conversationalist, and not even half the pervert Iruka had assumed he was based on reading material alone. There was, of course, an almost intangible handsomeness to Kakashi as well; he couldn’t justify it given that only a quarter of Kakashi’s face was visible, but that was uniquely appealing too.
Or maybe Iruka was in too deep, and his feelings were projecting attraction onto the man.
Yeah, that was definitely the case, because instead of being furious right now, he was mostly just amused.
Why do I like him again? Iruka wondered as Kakashi handed over his latest report. He’d been on a roll with mission reports lately, the biggest infraction being smeared ink and that was easily enough fixed. But this…this was something else.
And just when I thought I’d seen it all.
The report had obviously been through some sort of paper shredder. How and why both lingered on the tip of Iruka’s tongue before he pushed that aside—it was irrelevant now. Perhaps the most surprising part was that Kakashi had bothered to tape it back together in its proper order. A few months ago, he would have expected Kakashi to just dump the shreds on his desk in a pile and try to get away with it, maybe even suggest that Iruka put it back together for him. In comparison, this seemed almost…nice.
“It would have taken you less effort to just re-write it,” Iruka pointed out dryly.
“It’s the principle of the matter, sensei,” Kakashi said with a shrug. His eye curved into a smile. “It’s technically in one piece. And readable. And filled out properly.”
Kami be damned, but he was right. Iruka could make him re-write it, but…
But from a technical, by-the-rules standpoint, there wasn’t anything actually wrong with the report.
For a long moment, Iruka debated. Stamping this as complete would feel like he was somehow conceding, but at the same time, making Kakashi re-write it would just be petty. And maybe Iruka of a few months ago, who hated Hatake Kakashi with a burning passion, would have done that. But the current Iruka was different.
“I want you to know how much I hate this,” he said even as he lifted the stamp and pressed it in the correct box, watching as Kakashi’s eye went wide, surprised. Iruka smiled. “Thank you for all your hard work.”
There was barely a moment of hesitation before Kakashi leaned over Iruka’s desk, reached out with a gloved hand to tilt Iruka’s chin up towards him, and quietly—but still far too loud in the mission room where everyone was watching them with rapt attention—said, “Why don’t you save your thanks for later, sensei?”
Someone in the background might have gasped; Iruka wasn’t sure. He was only aware of the heat flooding his cheeks, the burning of his ears, the feel of Kakashi’s hand on his chin, his thumb brushing over Iruka’s bottom lip, the glint in Kakashi’s eye. He felt frozen, stuck.
Iruka hadn’t thought Kakashi would be that cruel.
Iruka’s feelings must’ve been so obvious to a ninja of his skill level even when Iruka hadn’t figured out how he felt yet, like a neon sign flashing in his face. And Kakashi had humored him because it was amusing—because Mizuki was right, and this proved it. Why else would he mock Iruka like this, humiliate him by pretending that they were at all intimate and making suggestive comments about it in front of his co-workers, his friends? It was just a game, something to entertain Kakashi until it got boring, something he’d laugh about later: the stupid chuunin instructor from the mission desk that thought he had half a chance.
Like always, Hatake was already gone by the time Iruka pulled himself together, leaving behind a whole room of people who stared and muttered and—
Iruka had thought, all those months ago, that he’d never hated anyone as much as he hated Hatake Kakashi.
Looks like my first impression was right.
V.
It was hard to avoid a shinobi like Kakashi, but Iruka tried his best. He worked longer hours at the academy, offering more after-school tutoring for the younger grades, staying in the classroom to do his grading rather than carry it all home. He changed his shifts at the mission desk, never taking the same ones two weeks in a row, and he avoided Ichiraku ramen and all his other go-to places. It was a little disconcerting to realize how well Kakashi knew him, just how much of Iruka’s day-to-day life and habits and preferences Kakashi had been aware of.
Kakashi had approached him a few times in the first couple of weeks despite Iruka’s best efforts, but Iruka was quick to turn him away. Kakashi brought him dinner, and Iruka would say he’d already eaten. Kakashi came to the academy to offer to walk him home, and Iruka brushed him off with the excuse of being too busy, that he was going to stay late and didn’t want to inconvenience him. Kakashi ran across him in a grocery store, and Iruka said he was already running late.
After a while, Kakashi just sort of…stopped.
Iruka hated that he missed him more then. It was stupid. It was pathetic. But it felt like that made everything final.
“So you and Hatake finally split,” Mizuki said one afternoon when Iruka was holed away in his classroom grading. “Good riddance.”
Iruka sighed. “Can we not do this right now?”
Mizuki rolled his eyes. “What’s the big deal? You dumped him, right? I’m glad you finally came to your senses. You deserve better.”
Mizuki reached out as if to touch Iruka’s hair—just visible in Iruka’s periphery, which let him duck away at the last moment.
“I said I don’t want to talk about it,” Iruka snapped. “And don’t touch me.”
“Fine, fine.” Mizuki backed away with a sneer. “Looks like Hatake’s frigidness rubbed off on you.”
It was strange. Iruka thought he’d feel better after cutting Kakashi out, thought his life would ease back into a familiar routine after a little bit and life would move on as if the past few months hadn’t happened. But it wasn’t working out like that at all. Instead, every little thing reminded Iruka of Kakashi even when the gray-haired man was nowhere around. Ichiraku’s and the coffee he liked best and the mission desk—it was like the memory of Kakashi was imprinted everywhere.
It was ridiculous. It’s not like Kakashi was actually his lover. There was no reason for Iruka to feel this bizarre and terrible emptiness. Even Anko was giving him worried looks. He wanted to tell himself that time would make things better, but it had been over a month since he’d last seen Kakashi at all, and Iruka still felt just as raw as he had upon the moment of awful realization that none of it meant anything to Kakashi.
(It was weird that when Iruka thought about it, really thought about it, he realized that they had, in some ways, acted like a couple might. Not a new couple stuck in some love-bubble honeymoon phase, but like a settled couple who did nice things for each other and bickered a bit and—well, Iruka could understand a little, in hindsight, why everyone had been so certain he and Kakashi were together.)
And yet the world continued to turn whether Iruka was ready for it or not.
“Thank you for all your hard work,” he said for what felt like the hundredth time today alone, though at least the genin team on the other side of the desk seemed genuinely pleased to be thanked. Absently, he waved forward the next person in line without looking. Just another five minutes and he’d be done, and he could just go home to a nice hot bath and whatever was left in his fridge and go to sleep. Block out the rest of the world for a little while.
A clean, neatly-written report slid onto the des, and Iruka pulled it towards him automatically, quickly skimming the contents. He paused, blinked, and read it again.
“What—” He looked up, unsurprised to find Hatake Kakashi standing in front of his desk. His stomach curled with dread—this was the last person he wanted to talk to, or see, or deal with—but he remained professional. Mostly. “Hatake-san, I’m sorry, but what the hell is this?”
“It’s my report, sensei.”
Iruka took a breath, counted to three, tried to rein himself in. “Then why does it look like a passage from Icha Icha?”
Kakashi’s eye curled into a familiar smile. “It’s in code.”
“In code,” Iruka repeated. Kami, why did this shit always happen to him?
“Mmhmm.” Then, Kakashi’s head tilted. “But I’m surprised you recognized it. I didn’t know you were a fan, Iruka. You’ll have to tell me which one’s your favorite—”
The clock on the wall indicated that Iruka’s final five minutes was up, and while he’d always taken the initiative to finish with whatever shinobi he was dealing with regardless of when his shift was technically over, he just couldn’t. Not today. Not with Kakashi.
It wasn’t even the report itself—which was, without a doubt, one of the most ridiculous things he’d ever seen—but the fact that just seeing Kakashi felt a bit like being gutted. Sitting here and pretending everything was fine between them made him feel ill. And as much as Iruka had yelled at Kakashi in public before, there were some things he didn’t want to say aloud and he knew he would if he stayed.
“I’m afraid my shift is over Hatake-san,” Iruka said mechanically as he stood. “I’ll have to leave you in the care of one of the others.”
Just get out of here, get out into the fresh air, and go home and you can have whatever mental breakdown you want there.
He moved out of habit, making sure to officially sign out before leaving the building, feet carrying him without thought down the street to his apartment. He was focused only on getting away from the mission room, getting home.
His apartment was in sight when a hand caught on his shoulder. Iruka moved instinctively, twisting to dislodge the grip, hand already reaching for a kunai, but by the time he’d turned around he’d already recognized his “attacker.” Because Iruka’s luck was terrible, it was Kakashi.
“What do you want?” Iruka asked, exasperated. Every ounce of his self-control and patience had been used up over the course of the day, and he had nothing left to give. He felt tired and hallowed out and so completely done with this. He just wanted it to be over. He wanted to not have to think about Kakashi anymore because it was too confusing and painful and only made Iruka feel like a moron.
“Iruka, I—”
“Don’t you think you’ve embarrassed me enough? Aren’t you tired yet?”
Kakashi winced. “Let me explain—”
“Oh, I think I understand pretty clearly—”
“I have been reliably informed,” Kakashi interrupted, more frustrated than Iruka had ever seen him, “that I am an emotionally stunted idiot who failed to tell you that I thought we were dating.”
Whatever Iruka had thought Kakashi would say, it wasn’t that. And it was enough to make him pause.
“What?” He shook his head, trying to make anything make sense. “Why—how—we never even went on a date, Kakashi. You never even suggested you might—kami. How did you think we were dating?”
It made a lot of things make sense, in a weird, twisted kind of way. Like the fact that maybe Kakashi hadn’t been mocking him. Maybe he’d been flirting.
Kakashi rubbed at the back of his head. “We had dinner, sort of. I walked you home from work. I’ve not been subtle about coming on to you, Iruka.” He sighed, and his body sagged into his usual careless slouch. “I’ve never been in a relationship; clearly I’ve been operating on some bad advice.”
Iruka was still having difficulty processing. “You’ve read all those crap romance books and never picked up on the fact that you usually have to ask someone to date you?”
“Ah, well, in Icha Icha, they usually skip to—”
“Right, never mind.” Iruka held up a hand to stop him. “Okay, alright. We have some serious communication issues to work out. Clearly.”
Kakashi was utterly still. “And you…want to work them out?”
Iruka narrowed his eyes at the other man. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m still pissed. But we are going to talk about it. And then you can ask me on a real date—and bringing me dinner at the mission desk, while thoughtful, doesn’t count.”
“Oh,” Kakashi said, relieved. “Are you available tomorrow evening?”
“Yes.”
“Then—” he paused, actually looked a bit nervous “—would you like to go to the new barbecue place for dinner? As a date?”
Iruka couldn’t help it; he laughed a little. “Yes, Kakashi.”
All at once, the stress and tension and emotion that had been weighing on Iruka for weeks now seemed to finally catch up to him, and he sighed. He was exhausted, but…this needed to get sorted out. Properly.
“If you want to come in for tea,” he offered, “we can talk now about those communication problems.”
“That sounds…good.”
Oh, Iruka was under no illusions that this would be easy. He was quick to jump to the worst conclusions, and Kakashi was obviously bad at expressing his intentions, but maybe they could make it work. He had a feeling it would be worth it.
VI.
(3 Years Later)
Shifts at the mission desk had been slow lately, mostly because preparations for the upcoming chuunin exams kept most shinobi in the village or on border patrol. There was still plenty of work to do, and D-ranks had actually increased, but that just meant that instead of a bunch of tired, pissy chuunin and jounin, Iruka was mostly dealing with genin teams. Who just so happened to be his former students.
It made the shifts more bearable, he thought.
He’d just handed off a particularly nasty D-rank for clearing out the sewers to an enthusiastic Gai and his significantly-less-enthusiastic students when Kakashi slouched into the room, his three genin trailing behind him like ducklings, the sight alone enough to make Iruka smile.
When he’d started dating Kakashi, he hadn’t really imagined that they’d realistically make it more than a few months. Maybe that was a pessimistic view, but Iruka was well aware of the fact that they both had their own issues and hang-ups about feelings and relationships, and he wasn’t sure either of them knew how to make a serious partnership work. The whole start of their relationship had more than proven that.
Except, somehow, they’d made it work. Despite arguments and the times when Iruka questioned his self-worth and the times Kakashi completely closed himself off, they’d pushed through and come out stronger for it. They’d moved in together, first to Iruka’s apartment because it was homier, and then, more recently, into an actual house—ever since Kakashi had become a jounin instructor, it was almost like they had three children with how often Team 7 came for dinner and ended up staying the night, sometimes staying the whole weekend. It was a strange, unexpected turn of events, but Iruka didn’t think he’d ever been happier.
“Here to pick up a few D-ranks?” Iruka guessed as they approached his desk, already shuffling through the remaining stack. There were a few gardening jobs that Naruto would probably enjoy, a trash pickup job, some construction work, some painting, and another order to catch Tora again—Iruka thought that might’ve been the third time this week.
“Actually,” Kakashi said, “we have a mission report to drop off first.”
Behind him, Naruto and Sakura were both biting down on their lips, poorly hiding their smiles. Even Sasuke, who was the least expressive of the bunch, was attempting to hide his own amusement. Iruka narrowed his eyes at Kakashi—if he was teaching his genin to turn in chaotically unacceptable reports the way Kakashi had done in the early days, Iruka was going to make him sleep on the couch.
The form at least wasn’t on fire when Kakashi slid it across the desk, and it was neither muddy nor torn to shreds. Iruka pulled it towards him warily, and immediately sighed.
“Kakashi, the whole top section is blank—”
He stopped, words cutting off as his eyes landed on the single sentence written midway down the page:
Marry me?
For a long moment he could only stare at it, then looked up at Kakashi, who was fiddling with a small, black ring box.
“I remembered to ask this time,” Kakashi pointed out nervously, and then slid the box over too.
Iruka laughed, his voice a touch watery. “So you did.”
“Maa, sensei does this mean you’ll accept my report?”
Carefully, smiling so wide his jaw hurt from it, he lifted the stamp of approval and marked the paper in the correct box. “Yes, happily.”
And then Kakashi was leaning forward, hand already going for his mask, and Iruka was rushing to meet him halfway, and they all but crashed into each other mouth-first, more a meeting of smiles than a true kiss. In the background, Iruka was vaguely aware of a few wolf-whistles and the grumbling of their kids—someone was making a gagging noise, and he’d bet a day’s wages it was Naruto—but none of that mattered because Kakashi was still holding onto him. Because Iruka was going to get to have this forever.
It was perfect.