2 Chapter 2: Setting Roots

"You're turning sixteen soon, right?"

Toshiro looks up from his desk, squinting at the figure who'd popped their head into his office. There are ink stains on his fingers and his hands have long since cramped. The motion of sitting up cracks his back and he winces. "Huh?"

Hanako presses her lips together, clearly unimpressed. "When's the last time you slept, Aikawa-sensei?"

A headache pulses behind his eyes. "Uh, tuesday?"

"It's friday."

Ok, she doesn't look happy. That's fair.

"Oh," he murmurs, "Is that so."

"Go to sleep." She says, firm and motherly — though she'd kill him if he said so. (27 isn't OLD!) "You've been working a disgusting amount of overtime, and the hospital can last a few hours without you."

"That's debatable." He mutters, not unkindly. Still, he heaves himself up from his desk, wobbling as he does. Guess he's more exhausted than he assumed. Trudging over to the futon next to his desk, he flops onto it without much grace, sprawling out limbs and shutting his eyes almost immediately. What kind of Medic-Nin is he, anyway? He knows firsthand the dangers of exhaustion.

"Yes, by the way," He speaks up before Hanako's chakra leaves the doorway. "I'll be sixteen next week."

She makes a humming sound and shuts the door.

He sleeps.

What he needed was probably twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. What he got was maybe four hours and three shots of bitter espresso. It tastes like ass. He's never been one for coffee, it smells pleasant enough but the taste leaves much to be desired. Maybe it's 'cause he's a sweet tooth.

His hair's a little longer than it was three months ago, shaggy around his neck and ears. Nowhere near long enough for him to tie back, but still a little bothersome. He settles for a headband, tucking strands of ashy blond away from his eyes and forehead. It's pink, bordering on red, because fuck gender stereotypes. Also, it matches with his eyes a bit — and serves to be the only spot of color in his current wardrobe. The Medic Nin uniform is slate gray and drab, but sturdy and made with shinobi grade fabric. It's ideal for protecting doctors from potential stabs, blood and poison exposure.

Easy to wash, too.

"Sorry you couldn't sleep longer." It's Gedou-san who interrupts him this time, a stout woman with obvious muscle tone and a glint in her purple eyes from fighting two shinobi wars. She's older, probably fifty or so. Her hair is dirty blond with no hint of gray, though wrinkles of stress line her face, as well as the occasional scar.

She doesn't sound particularly apologetic, because duty is duty. He understands.

"Dying nin wait for no man. Or woman." He cracks a grin, though it settles on his lips like a smirk. His headache almost feels worse than it had before he'd gotten four hours. He really needs a full night's rest. At this point, he's probably not even good to perform surgery, and it's no fault but his own.

He'd just gotten… distracted. Overwhelmed. There was so much to do and too many walls to hop to do it all. At this rate, he'll go gray within a year. Or keel over dead.

Or get assassinated.

Thoughts like that are treasonous...but...what Konoha doesn't know won't hurt them. Or make them hurt him.

It's the ANBU again. Again, not shocking. They're a well-used resource, as awful as that sounds. He can never really tell if it's the same unit with the same people, because he's not sure about the whole Mask policy, but he does recognize a cat-masked fellow with long brown hair — what a potential risk, honestly! — and a really, really small ANBU with a mask painted to look like… some tiny weasel-like creature. Probably. This kid looked… tiny. Like, fresh out of the academy during wartime tiny, which was mildly worrying because Toshiro had really hoped that the age for peacetime graduation would stay at twelve.

But it was not unexpected.

Konoha took what Konoha wanted, and child geniuses were a cultivated luxury.

The sight of those two meant that Inu was here. If Toshiro was pressed, he'd admit he believed the three of them to be on the same squad. Of course, as a shinobi, if he was ever actually pressed for information he'd die. Because revealing information was not acceptable even under torture, so he'd have to hope the torturer would end it quickly.

Off topic. God, he needed sleep.

Toshiro took a look at the kid, inspecting him for injuries. No one seemed particularly injured, but they were all terribly, horribly tense.

"He's in room four." Hanako says, looking up from where she's running the Diagnostic Jutsu over Neko. Gedou-san brushes by him and begins fussing over the tiny ANBU like he's a wayward duckling.

"Ah." Toshiro says, because who else would come back critically injured? He rushes to room four, throwing the doors open and immediately sending chakra to his hands. Inu is writhing on the stretcher, three medical attendees holding him down as he thrashes.

"Report!" He barks, grabbing the attention of the three.

"Severe poisoning, broken femur, left forearm crushed, burns covering eighty percent of right hand, extreme signs of chakra exhaustion!" The one at Inu's left replies swiftly, their hand bright green and the other struggling to hold one of Inu's arms down.

Toshiro strides forward and puts his hand on Inu's mask, turning the man's head to face him. The other he places on the mop of sweat-damp, bloody silver hair, pressing until he feels scalp. "Sleep." He commands, and sends chakra straight from his hand into the man's head.

The tension in Inu's body releases like a cut cord, and he stills, limp and loose. Unconscious at last. They set to work.

Toshiro slips on new gloves, puts a safety mask over his face and follows every sanitation protocol. He identifies the poison, but the strain is a mutated version that's likely just hit the market — he recognizes some of the ingredients. They're native to Kiri, which could give a lot of hints as to where a supposedly covert, top-secret mission took place.

He swears every Medical Employee under him to secrecy, regardless of their knowledge on where the wounds came from. Though on a time crunch, he manages to formulate the new antidote while they hold off the worst of Inu's pain using an antidote for the regular strain. He leaves the others to heal the bones and burns.

Inu will be laid up for a while, however. The severe lack of the man's chakra is worrying, and the poison wasn't doing any favors, even after administering the correct antidote. The man's body desperately needed rest and recuperation. Chakra was a person's life force, which is why it irked Toshiro greatly when ninja thought it wasn't a big deal. People literally die from overuse.

Children die from performing jutsu too consuming for their reserves. It wasn't funny and it certainly wasn't something to scoff at. (And the stigma that smaller reserves made you weak was bullshit. It didn't matter how much you had, it matters how you use it.)

The lightning scars on Inu's hand are worse, vivid and stark white against already pale skin. Toshiro wonders at the point of such a self-destructive jutsu. When all is said and done, it's been another thirty-six hours and Toshiro is beginning to see double, but Inu is all bandaged up and stable in his hospital room, peacefully sleeping in that professional killer way of his — meaning he somehow managed to look tense even when relaxed.

So Toshiro took the opportunity to pass out.

Which, in hindsight, wasn't a great idea. But it's not like he could control it!

Waking up in a hospital bed of his own is darkly ironic, but at least he feels a million times better. There's a change of clothes by the bed, so after taking out the IV drip in his arm he moves to the attached bathroom and showers. Showering the grime of a few days off his body feels amazing — even more so after a great rest.

The bags under his rosy eyes have all but vanished. He pokes at his cheeks while peering at his reflection in the steamed-up mirror. Funnily enough, the whole 'new appearance' thing was pretty easy to deal with. Memories of his old life had become faded, feeling less like actual memories and more like helpful hints and instinct to help navigate this life.

And it's not like he's gonna be mad about having a pretty face, now is he?

"Aikawa-sensei, how are you feeling?"

When he re-enters the hospital room in fresh clothes, a towel scrubbing at wet hair, he finds Hanako waiting for him.

"Great." He says, letting the towel drape around his neck. Damp strands of hair brush his forehead and temples. "How long was I out, and am I in trouble?"

A hint of a smile flashes across her mouth at his childish way of asking for his consequences. "About a day, sensei. It's currently monday morning and no, you aren't in trouble."

"Huh," he says, mildly surprised. "Well that's good."

"It's not unexpected to collapse after long hours, especially after multiple surgeries. That's not to say, however, that we aren't concerned for your health."

Toshiro grimaces, but tries to twist the expression into something lighter. "Right. Sorry."

"You're going to be running this place one day," Hanako reminds him, and he can't hide his shock at her easy acceptance of the fact, "So please try to take care of yourself. Sleep schedules exist for a reason."

"Sleeping just wastes so much time!" He whines, acting his physical age for a second. "Think of what we could get done if we didn't have to be unconscious for a third of our lives!"

"I suppose we'll never know, will we." Hanako raises a sharp eyebrow. He doesn't know how she manages to turn her mousey appearance into that of a lion.

He purses his lips before sighing heavily. "No, I suppose we won't."

A note is written on his desk in bold letters, taped down so he doesn't lose it.

REMEMBER TO SLEEP, IDIOT.

Toshiro's fridge still hums a little too loudly. It works, so he doesn't bother replacing it. Seeing as most of his life is spent at the hospital, his poor little fridge remains consistently sparse or empty, as almost all he eats is the crappy nutrition-based hospital food or take-out. So when he has a day off, he doesn't know what to do with himself. Apparently it's come to the attention of senior staff — AKA Aoyama-sensei — just how much he'd really been working. The hospital may be understaffed, but they'd prefer to keep their workers alive, thank you very much. So.

His schedule has changed a bit. It goes a little something like this:

Monday, 8AM to 6PM. Tuesday, 8AM to Wednesday at 8AM. Thursday, 12PM to 12AM - technically friday morning. He then had Friday off. Saturday was a short shift of six hours, the timing would vary week by week. Sunday he had off as well.

All in all, about a fifty-two hour work week. A scheduled fifty-two hours. It would rarely run that smoothly. For one, some surgeries could take hours longer than his shift, or he could literally have a half-hour left of one, then get a patient requiring twenty-four hour care. He'd be compensated, of course. Shifts had to be fluid at the hospital, if he worked past one shift all the way into the next one because of extenuating circumstances, he was required to take off eight hours to sleep, ignoring the schedule.

The employees couldn't be put at risk. As much as they needed help and as much as it was the duty of Medic Nin to provide help, it would be impossible if they didn't take care of themselves first. (Even if he was technically on call 24/7, being one of the most skilled Medic's Konoha currently had.)

So, it's Friday. 9AM.

He's hungry.

Scratch that, he's starving after the shift he had last night. There's not a single thing in his fridge, which he'll have to fix now that he'll likely be spending a bit more time at home. He's got the money to buy groceries. He can also count the number of times he's actually done such a mundane task.

Boy, did he have a lot to say about Konoha's thought process on letting four year olds figure out how to take care of themselves. He's lucky he had a head full of past memories, or he'd surely have burned himself on the stove, fallen from stools or counters, drowned in the tub — the list of dangers were endless.

Toshiro slips on the standard, dark navy ninja slacks, leaving the hems untaped and loose around his ankles. He eyes his chuunin vest but doesn't put it on, intent on relaxing, and instead of the shinobi grade, navy long-sleeve shirt, he picks out a simple cotton tee. It's much softer on the skin. And thinner, which he prefers at the moment because the summers in Konoha are blistering hot. It's disgusting.

He only owns various pairs of shinobi sandals, so he puts on a pair that look relatively lived-in and makes his way out the door, wallet in one pocket, kunai in another. (This may be his home village, but he is a shinobi, and shinobi are prepared or they are dead.)

The air is humid and heavy with the buzz of insects. He has to squint against the light when he steps out of his apartment. Konoha is built in a way that seems impossible, the buildings growing in and out of each other. As the population expanded, they'd had to grow. Upwards, that is. Apartment buildings were all at least six stories high, slap-dashed together like pieces of different puzzles. You could visibly see where new levels had been added to some buildings, either they were made with different materials or they seemed to hang over the edge of the first level, propped with support beams. It was charming, in a rustic way. But if you wanted a yard, you had to be rich or live in a Clan compound.

Toshiro has only ever been in one; the Inuzuka Compound. To return a body. That was years ago now, but he recalls quite clearly how it was almost its own village within the village. Clans had private forests, while every other schmuck lived in a mix-n'-match building, left only with flower boxes hanging out windows or rooftop gardens.

Not that he was particularly bitter, because in most cases the contribution of a Clan was worthy of the reward. Toshiro had a soft spot for the Ino-Shika-Cho clan trio, the three of them had the best businesses, departments and research facilities. He was on good terms with more than a few Nara, had tea on occasion with Yamanaka Inoka while discussing world domination, and the Akimichi restaurants had been the reason he even survived childhood. (One day he'll learn to cook...one day.)

Toshiro weaves in and out of the busy streets, dust kicked up under his sandals. He feels sweat building at the back of his neck already. Children run by, dirt on their knees and laughter falling from their lips. He takes a deep breath and is hit with the wild scents of the market. It's loud and stifling, but he works at the hospital and nothing is more overstimulating than thirty-six hours of non-stop surgery requiring all his focus.

He's at the fruit stall, the seller speaking jovially to some other customer after greeting him with a 'welcome, shinobi-san!', to which Toshiro could only nod. He's not wearing his hitai-ate, but these civilians have lived their whole lives around ninja, they know how to spot the differences when a shinobi isn't hiding. And Toshiro is doing nothing to hide the scars on his visible arms, nor is there any way to hide the ghost of war haunting his every step.

He leaves with six apples swinging in a bag.

Across the street is a man. About five inches taller. Silver hair sticking straight up like he's been electrified. He's strolling without a care in the world, dressed in all black and covered so fully that only his ankles, fingers and the top half of his head is visible. At first, Toshiro is only shocked that someone can even wear such an outfit in the heat — not without constantly regulating your temperature with chakra — then he understands exactly who he's seeing.

Inu.

With no ceramic ANBU mask.

Inu, who knows that Toshiro sees him. Toshiro lets his gaze slide off the other man and resumes shopping. What an idiot! He can't help but think. Who thinks they can keep their identity secret with hair like that?

A second thought hits him sometime later, when he's walking back from a completed shopping expedition, arms heavy with bags of food. (And if half of it is microwave meals, well, no one else has to know!)

Inu is Hatake Kakashi.

Hatake Kakashi is a well known name in shinobi households. Son of the White Fang, student of the Yondaime (may he rest in peace), the kind of genius Konoha hasn't seen in decades. They never went to the academy together. He's quite sure the man became a genin before Toshiro had even been orphaned. That's a lot of trauma.

Actually, it really was. Everything Toshiro knew about Hatake-san was...well, not great. Oh, he was an incredible ninja, there's no doubt. But every person in his life died. Horribly. And he was a child soldier at like, four. Then never stopped. Fifteen or so years of fighting for a man only nineteen, if Toshiro's math was correct.

There's a very real chance that Hatake-san doesn't realize that Toshiro knows he's Inu. Though he's loath to consider that a man like that could possibly think just putting a mask on his already masked face would lend him any sense of anonymity. Not with that hair.

He doesn't say anything.

Summer ends, as does fall. Winter brings a frigid chill and leaves him smacking icicles from his window and kicking his heating grate when it splutters.

Toshiro sees Inu in the hospital six times by the time winter hits.

Then nothing.

Months pass. Toshiro feels the barest hint of worry, and wonders why.

Inu stumbles into the hospital late spring, a month before Toshiro turns seventeen. The man has been gone for six months. He almost doesn't notice the ANBU. It's the start of his twelve hour Thursday shift and he'd slept in, so he's still rubbing a bit of sleep from his eyes.

"Aikawa-sensei." The man greets, and Toshiro is momentarily shocked enough to only gape. The nurse at Hatake-san's side looks flushed with frustration, like she's been arguing.

"Inu," he finally says. "Welcome back."

It doesn't sound as sarcastic as he means it to.

The nurse — Yona? Yura? He can't remember, she's one of the new interns and he's not technically responsible for her, since she's not part of the Trauma unit — looks between them with some expression he can't quite define. She then rolls her eyes to the ceiling and walks away. Toshiro doesn't say anything, because that's a frequent reaction most of the staff have when dealing with active shinobi.

"Ah." Inu replies, stock-still and tense at the words, like he's caught off guard. He's clutching his left arm, which hangs limply at his side. The shoulder looks displaced and purpling, skin visible in the sleeveless ANBU get-up. "I'm….back."

"...that needs to be looked at."

Inu nods.

Toshiro waits, and when it looks like the man isn't going to continue, he sighs. "Well, come on then."

He doesn't ask why the man didn't just go with the nurse — who Toshiro at least knew was a former kunoichi, even if her name escaped him — when a dislocated shoulder wasn't really…. Trauma Team worthy. Any Medic-Nin could treat an ANBU.

Inu follows silently, just a step behind.

When they're in an empty observation room, Toshiro runs a Diagnostic Jutsu over the ANBU just to be sure no other injuries are being hidden from him. Ninja, remember? Luckily it's just the shoulder, though Inu's stamina is severely depleted. He needs a good night's sleep and food, probably.

"Okay…" He murmurs, glancing into the mask's eye holes. "I'm gonna pop it back into place, alright?"

Inu nods and takes a deep breath. Toshiro floods the area with a bit of numbing chakra, reducing some of the swelling as he does. He doesn't count.

With a sharp POP the shoulder is back in place, and the crunch of bone against bone beneath his hand is unpleasant. Inu grunts. Toshiro puts both hands on the swollen red and purple flesh, the Mystical Palm Jutsu already active and healing the bruised, damaged muscles.

"So…" he says after a moment of silence, drawing Inu's attention. "Have you ever thought about dying your hair?"

Inu snorts.

Yamanaka Inoka is a tall, willowy figure with pale blonde hair and azure eyes that lack noticeable pupils. Where Toshiro hovers at 5'5", she towers over him at 6' even, usually soaring even taller with wedged sandals. They make an odd pair, but she finds his blunt, driven demeanor refreshing and he finds her cunning, ambitious mind a helpful companion. If he had to name a person to call a friend, it would be her, even if he constantly tells himself he doesn't actually have any.

They're sipping tea at their usual haunt — Mayuri's, green for him and jasmine for her — and discussing, as usual, plans for world domination. Sort of.

"I've run your idea by my cousin." She says after a small sip, her razor-sharp fingernails tapping against the ceramic cup. They're painted robin's egg blue today to match the pretty cerulean and navy kimono she's wearing, patterned with swirling waves and wisteria flowers.

There's no negativity in her expression.

"He approves, then." That's good news.

Inoka smiles a bit like a shark. "He certainly does. He thinks your ideas have potential. Looks like all the work you've put into subtly improving the hospital and the education of everyone who works there is finally starting to pay off."

Toshiro takes a sip of his tea to hide a grin. "Slow and steady wins the race."

"Slow and steady brings results, and gives us enough time for those old coots on the Council to pass on already." She corrects.

He snorts, trying to cover the bubble of laughter that chokes him. "So?"

"He wants to meet. If all goes well, the hospital will have the backing of the Yamanaka Clan. And what follows…" Inoka trails off.

"Will be two more clans." He finishes.

Inoka hoists her cup towards his own in a loose attempt at a toast, "To your continued success, Sensei."

The plan: Obtain the support of as many clans as possible. If the Council won't provide resources, others could. If the hospital had the money, any plans for renovation could go through the Architectural Division, get approved by the Hokage — and bam. New Hospital. The Council couldn't limit the improvement of an already existing building, not when that building fell under the jurisdiction of someone on the Council — which is Aoyama-sensei, who's the Hospital Director and therefore has a seat...and a say. That would mean they had the power to make decisions about things in every Council Member's jurisdiction, which no one wanted because they were all either Clan Heads or greedy fucks, sometimes both.

An alliance with the Yamanaka allowed for improved facilities for Mental Health, money, and a collaborative wealth of information to be shared. The Hospital had its own researchers, and only idiots and Elites thought that only prodigies and Clan Members could ever make an impact on the scientific community.

Of course, the Nara and Akimichi would likely follow, and both Clans would exponentially aid in overthrowing the current Healthcare situation. Clan help would not only give him a solid backing, research opportunities, information sharing and resources, but also allies. Allies that could help him navigate the political minefield that was Konoha. Not to mention all the legal shit like taxes and hospital fees — there were differences between what shinobi and civilians had to pay for housing, healthcare and materials. Konoha was a village made by shinobi, for shinobi, which left a big disconnect between the civilians and the people defending them. One that didn't really help the rampant spread of prejudice, stereotypes and sometimes even fear.

Civilians were soft. Civilians were stupid and weak and bruised at the slightest touch, they held too much stake in material items and showed too much emotion.

Ninja were walls of stone. Feral animals. Dangerous and untouchable and made of serrated steel. They walked into the jaws of death, they killed with the hands that passed money to the local fruit vendor.

The two didn't mix. Not well. Not after decades of war and dissonance in a rapidly growing military state. The way things were going now? It would take a lot for Konoha to become the best it could be.

Like another war, and probably a civil one, with the way the Council acted. Their conservative natures only served to poison the very roots of the tree they so desperately wanted to preserve. (Or the tree they so desperately wanted personal resources from.)

"Next Wednesday at 5PM." Inoka says when they leave, her hand gripping his elbow gently to stop him from going. "I'll meet you at the Compound gates to escort you to the Main House."

"Thanks," Toshiro replies, and he really means it. He doesn't think he would have gotten so far without her being his in, "I'll be there."

"I know you will." She laughs, "And I can't wait."

Hatake Kakashi carries himself differently when he's not Inu.

They meet on the street, this time eye contact is included. Kakashi strolls beside him as he shops, just a wedge of his face visible and not much gleaned from the apathetic look in the single dark gray eye. His shoulders are a little slouched, his hands in his pockets and an aura of perpetual boredom exuding from his lithe frame.

"Aikawa-sensei." He greets, like this is something they do frequently.

"Hatake-san," Toshiro responds in kind.

Kakashi winces. "I'd prefer if you didn't call me that."

"Kakashi-san, then." Never let it be said that Toshiro isn't a bit of a stickler for manners. He has to keep a politically-oriented nice-guy reputation, which is absolutely dreadful, but hopefully being the spearhead of revolution will be worth it. "Not injured, are you?"

"No."

"Good. It's my day off."

They continue walking and Toshiro begins to wonder, as Kakashi follows him into stores and waits as he pauses at stalls, if the other man is lonely. What could Kakashi even do on his days off when practically everyone he loved was dead and his whole life had been mission after mission? What could drive the man to wander the streets and then stick to the first recognizable person he saw — someone like Toshiro, who was just a passing acquaintance — through something as mundane as grocery shopping?

Oh, he suddenly realizes, It's his birthday today, isn't it?

While Inu does not, Hatake Kakashi does have a medical file. Toshiro has been working through a deplorable amount of paperwork regarding all the shinobi that serve Konoha, and he tends to keep the files of those he sees frequently… closer than others. And Kakashi is definitely in the hospital often. Everything from his birthday to his blood type is listed, so of course Toshiro has seen it. For medical reasons.

Toshiro wanders into a bakery. He doesn't know what kind of sweets Kakashi likes, if the man even likes them at all. Or what allergies the man has. He frowns heavily and peers at the taller man discreetly.

Kakashi stands like a silent shadow, still looking as bored as he did five seconds ago. His one eye trails around the room but never really settles on one thing. Toshiro decides to go with something plain. Vanilla cupcake. Chocolate frosting. The teenager at the register packages it in a cute little box, her cheeks cherry red when she speaks with him. When he smiles and thanks her, she tenses like she's been shocked and he thinks he sees steam wafting from her ears.

He leaves very quickly, mildly uncomfortable. Civilians are so...obvious with their attraction. He puts a hand to his cheek and furrows his brow in confusion, wondering exactly what she sees that makes her so attracted to him. Does no one in Konoha have a working gaydar?

"You're pretty popular."

Toshiro glances sideways at Kakashi. "So are you."

And that's not a lie. Even with something like a sixth of his face visible, Kakashi managed to have a raging fan base among the civilian women who were charmed by his mysterious aura. Not to mention the subtle and not-so-subtle moon eyes kunoichi tended to make whenever he did something impressive. Like breathe. A few men, too. Though Toshiro wasn't sure which team the other was batting for, if he was at all.

When they leave the Marketplace, Toshiro stalls. He doesn't know how long Kakashi plans on following him around. (Or why, really.) The other man halts as well, turning just a tad in his direction. It still feels a little like they're just strangers standing on the same street.

"Happy Birthday, Kakashi-san," Toshiro says, and holds out the little box. "Please accept this."

Toshiro bows slightly as he presents the gift, but flicks his gaze up quickly enough to catch the flash of surprise in the lone dark eye. They remain at a standstill for almost two minutes before Toshiro levels a look at the man, displaying his thought of hurry up and take it, dipshit, without actually speaking the words.

Kakashi takes it. "...thank you."

"Do you not like vanilla?"

"I'm...not big on sweets." Kakashi admits slowly, holding the box like he's wondering whether or not it's real. "But Vanilla is fine."

"Ah. What do you prefer, then?" Toshiro asks, making a mental note.

"...savory foods."

Toshiro thinks of the few places he trusts for good food. "Okay. I'll remember that for next year." He bows once more. "Please take care of yourself, flight-risk."

Finally, finally, Kakashi loses the tenseness to his shoulders and slouches again. His one eye creases slightly in the mockery of a smile. "Of course, Sensei. Goodnight."