Naruto drew a breath of startled wonderment, as if the universe had just unfolded a realm of beautiful possibility in front of him. “Whoa. I want a dragon, too! No—maybe a tiger—or a lightning—” A tiny, pointy elbow jabbed Kakashi in the ribs as Naruto flailed at his own face with both hands, sketching air designs. Then at Kakashi’s face. “You can have a butterfly!”

Kakashi blinked over the forest of excited fingers. “Why a butterfly?”

“So you can be pretty!” Naruto said, as if Kakashi was being a tiny bit dim. “I can be fierce. You can have a butterfly on this side—” one small palm pressed against Kakashi’s unbruised cheek, “an’ a flower on this side, an’ a star on your forehead, an’ then racing stripes…”

One day, Naruto was going to stop thinking that Kakashi being a pretty, pretty princess was the most hilarious thing in the world, but it was not going to be today. Or any time soon. And Kakashi owed Minato so many bruises for that.

“An’ a sparkly frog,” Naruto continued, valiantly trying not to break down into giggles. “And a bow.”

“I’m ignoring you,” Kakashi told him, and unloaded Naruto back onto the bed, bundling him up in Ryouma’s navy blue bedsheets. Naruto squawked and kicked, thrashing about on the bouncing mattress. A hasty constrictor knot fixed the sheets firmly around him and prevented immediate escape; Kakashi left Naruto to figure his way out of that, and eyed the several things in Ryouma’s apartment that offended him.

Some of it was Naruto’s fault: the spilled med-kit, the bookshelf contents still scattered on the floor. But Naruto hadn’t left the old dirty dishes in the sink, or the clothes on the floor, or the clutter of odds and ends on top of Ryouma’s weapon’s chest, which was not a table. What did Ryouma expect to do if he needed weapons in a hurry? Fling things everywhere?

Kakashi narrowed his eye, and waged brief, efficient war.

When Naruto finally freed himself from the sheets, five or six minutes later, Kakashi greeted him with a bowl of re-warmed curry rice, the TV remote, and a lap to take possession of, because Naruto had opinions about sitting on anything else when he could sit on Kakashi instead.

Which, frankly, Kakashi didn’t mind much.

They made a warm, comfortable tangle on Ryouma’s borrowed bed, Kakashi slouched way down against the wall, with Naruto’s little-boy-weight a solid anchor against the necessity of getting up again. The film was—well, Kakashi doubted its artistic merit, but Naruto actually wiggled in glee at the fountains of red corn syrup flying everywhere, and the slow, dramatic decapitation of one of the several lesser villains, so it had ‘appeals to three-year-olds’ among its limited successes. Kakashi sort of missed Captain Seaweed.

“Feeling better?” he asked Naruto quietly, when the movie reached a lull.

Naruto’s head lolled drowsily back against his shoulder. “We still gotta rescue Dad. I get t’ride Baiji.”

Gently, Kakashi brushed his fingertips over the curve of Naruto’s belly, which was finally starting to lose the roundness of toddlerhood; he splayed his hand flat when Naruto giggled, fingers spread over the slow rise and fall of the delicate, breakable ribcage. “I don’t think your dad needs rescuing,” he said. “Right now, he’s rescuing other people.”

Cue instant wakefulness. “You know?” Naruto demanded jealously. “How come you know? Where is he? When’s he coming back? Can we go help him?”

“The best way we can help him is by staying here and being safe,” Kakashi said, picking his words with care. “Your dad’s not in danger; he’s the strongest ninja in the world. But he’s trying to help a lot of people, which takes time, and he can do it better when he’s not worrying about us.”

Naruto curled into him, movie forgotten. “But I want him.”

“I know,” said Kakashi, pulling Naruto closer and tucking his chin down on the wayward blond hair, because he did know. At Naruto’s age, having your father gone was like having a hole punched in the world. “Me, too.”