You already know that.

There was that connection again. Ginta trying to reforge something Kakashi had killed.

"Your apologies need practice," the clone told the lowered blond head, while Kakashi sat stone-faced. "I'm sorry would be a good sta--ow!"

My inner three year old, Kakashi thought, pulling his hand back. That's the personality. He set his empty rice-container aside, kept the half-empty sports drink held loosely in one hand, and felt his emotions come rushing back. That was something Ginta and Ryouma had in common, amongst others: the ability to destroy his grip on rule twenty-five.

But this time it wasn't anger, or guilt, or even fear.

Resigned, he realized, as the silence stretched. I feel resigned.

"Stupid's a word for it," he agreed finally, and slipped off the cot. Aching muscles complained as he sat on the floor, stretching his legs out, and braced his back carefully against the steel frame. "Pissed off is another. And you're probably entitled to that one."

He tipped his head back, easing out his neck, and looked at the ceiling. Mapped out the last four months on bare wooden joists as he thought about Ginta and Ryouma and two very different rescues--two very different people--and himself stuck in the middle.

Two more rescues, when Ryouma had ripped Sadao away, and Ginta had watched Kakashi's back long enough for him to sleep. A hundred other moments, laced with meaning. Bruises, bite marks, broken bones, shared jokes, messed up missions, sex, stolen birthday kisses...

He wasn't even sure who he was thinking about, now.

"Just ask me, Ginta," he said eventually, without inflection or nickname. "We're stuck here. Get it off your chest."