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[Dec. 27th, 2013|06:26 am]

hatake_kakashi
“If you make any executive decisions, I want credit,” Kakashi said. “You can put a little picture of me at the bottom of the scroll.”

Minato gave a rough, tired chuckle and reached over to tug a lock of Kakashi’s hair. Dried mud crumbled into a fine dust cloud. “They’d make you take the mask off for the photo.”

“I’d accept a cartoon,” Kakashi informed him, and pushed away from the wall.

Even dog-tired, Minato was enough of a ninja not to need hand-guiding back to the bathroom, but he did weave on his feet a few times, as if the horizon wasn’t quite staying steady. When had he last slept?

As soon as they crossed the bathroom threshold, Minato stripped his weapon holsters off, letting them fall with a clank of kunai. Shirt, belt, leg-wrappings, and pants joined in short order. Kakashi was right; Minato hadn’t been injured. At least, not enough to need bandages. There were the usual bruises of a hard fight along the striking edges of his forearms and shins, the slight reddening of joints that had been put under hard strain. Against naked forearms, Minato’s hands actually looked a little inflamed, as if he’d channeled a great deal of chakra through them.

He stood in his dark boxer-briefs and stared blankly at Naruto’s abandoned scrubbing stool.

“You could try sitting down,” Kakashi prompted.

Minato groaned and skinned out of his underwear. “You could try not being a smartass, but I doubt it’d go well.” He collapsed down onto the stool. Naruto’s remaining wash-water was still in the bucket; Minato dumped it unceremoniously over his head, plastering his hair down and slicking the first layer of dust off, and tossed the scrubbing sponge at Kakashi. “Strip down and make yourself useful. Tell me about your mission.”

“Only if you promise not to fall off your stool,” Kakashi said.

“You drive a hard bargain,” Minato said, grabbing for soap. “I demand details. You never told me if you still want that transfer.”

Kakashi stripped down to his mask and black trunks—at least they matched—and drew up a second stool before he answered. “I don’t know.”

“Huh.” Minato glanced over his shoulder, blue eyes thoughtful beneath a damp fall of hair. “That’s good. I thought it would take you two or three missions to hit that point.”

“... now you get no details, only scrubbing,” Kakashi said, and confiscated the soap before Minato could blind himself with it in a fit of tired enthusiasm. Unlike his son, Minato actually sat patiently still while Kakashi lathered up his hair and scrubbed down his back. He only moved once—to brace an elbow on his knee and prop his chin in his hand.

They hadn’t done this in a long time.

It wasn’t like the manhandling he’d had to drag Ryouma and Katsuko through, back in Hayama, or the wriggly bathtime adventures Naruto enjoyed so much. Time alone with Minato, without guards or duty between them, was rare and getting rarer—and in theory that was good for them. Minato had a child and a village to focus on. Kakashi had a career to build. They were weapons, and they needed to stay sharp.

But—

Minato didn’t let himself sit quiet with just anyone, trusting his unprotected back to killing hands. It was a unique privilege. And not only because half the village would trade their eye-teeth to swap places with Kakashi right now, resting one hand on the warm, soapy skin of Minato’s shoulder to help him stay upright, but because there were so many things Kakashi owed Minato, and this was one tiny, tiny way to pay a fraction back.

Because Kushina should have been here, and wasn’t.

When Kakashi handed the sponge over, Minato did a reasonably acceptable job cleaning down his front, but it took a second round of work for Kakashi to get the red under his nails, the dirt on his feet, and the grime on his face washed away. Minato really needed a shave; his stubble was bright gold and light, and he had at least four day’s worth. But naked blades could probably wait until he was more awake.

Minato rubbed his jaw, and muttered, “Urgh.”

Or not.
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