Warnings: Violence
A/N: I will definitely continue this. For now, enjoy the prologue. And also, a note on ages. Iruka and Kakashi were 13/15 when the Kyuubi stuff happened. I'm setting this when Iruka was 9 and Kakashi was 11. Though it is unknown when Kakashi joined ANBU, I'm going to assume it was fairly young--maybe 10 or so. At this point he's not yet a squad leader, and hasn't quite been "accepted" by every single ANBU. (I see them as a rather tight knit group; they have to be.)

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His parents always tell him not to wander too far into the great forest that surrounds Konoha. They regale him with tales of the Kyuubi beast, who has a past time of using his fox wit to trick little boy out of their souls. They tell him of shinobi clans, battling for hundreds of years, with the ancient forest as their war ground. His parents tell Iruka, in hushed voices meant to teasingly induce terror, that Konoha does lots of secret business in the forest, and if he sees something he’s not supposed to, the ANBU will sneak to his room at night and steal him way. The ANBU, with their silence and cold, blank masks, already frightened him.

(It doesn’t occur to Iruka until much later in his life that there might have always been grains of truth to these tall tales.)

But Iruka, pleasant child though he may be, is nothing if not a stubborn and mischievous boy. So when his friends dare him to go deeper into the forest than any of them have before, the small group of children congregated a little ways into the forest where the trees are still sparsely scattered, Iruka accepts with excited, barely restrained glee. He wants to know what’s there, wants to prove his bravery. So Iruka wanders in the forest, even his breathing becoming hushed. It seems so utterly still the deeper he goes, still and silent and old. Even his feet, which had been noisy at first, crunching every dead leaf and dry branch they came across, eventually quiet to a soft padding.

He’s not scared, he tells himself, he just feels—suffocated by the stagnant air around him. Iruka sees, ahead, a small clearing, the sun shining gold rays down into the circular gap in the trees. Iruka sighs in relief, wanting to have some space—the constant crush of trees around him was making him feel claustrophobic. Iruka breathes out slowly, stepping into the clearing. And suddenly—pain. Blinding pain, and he can feel moist hot sluggish liquid streaming down his cheeks, his nose, over his lips, dripping off his chin with an odd tickling—getting in his mouth, his nostrils. Salty and disgusting. Iruka falls to his knees, body heaving with gasps of pain. Aspirating flecks of blood.

“A-ah,” Iruka sobs, clutching his hands to his face. A deep gash (never been cut so deep; he’s frightened, thinks he might die) runs from cheek to cheek, over the bridge of his nose. He keeps his hands pressed tightly over the wound, trying to remember what his mother, a medic, had told him about these sorts things. He can’t think, though, hurting too much. Iruka’s frame crumples, bent over his thighs; kneeling on soft moss. He lets his hands inch away from his face, wincing as more blood drips out, making dark splotches in the moss. Eventually Iruka sits up, glancing around the clearing, confused. What—had happened? His eyes, eventually, fall upon a kunai embedded in a tree to the left of him, small amounts of blood glinting on its edge. Thrown at him. And then his eyes land on who had thrown it, sucking in a quiet breath and holding it in. An ANBU sits against a tree, blank mask inclined towards Iruka.

“Come here,” a quick, tense voice demands. The ANBU’s small frame is not trembling, but his muscles are pulled taut, entire body radiating the same tenseness that voice had. Iruka scrambles to his feet, stumbling across the clearing. He tries to keep standing, wanting to be taller than the other, but—but his legs won’t cooperate and he has to sink onto his knees, gazing at a stylized dog’s face.

“I thought you were—someone else. I apologize,” the ANBU says, though his voice sounds more concerned with other worries than with apologizing to Iruka.

“Oh,” Iruka mumbles, looking cross eyed down his nose at his face. The blood’s started to clot, drying sticky on his skin.

“You’re—hurt,” Iruka realizes slowly, staring with wide eyes at a hole in the man’s—no, boy’s, Iruka decides, side. The wide, ragged hole in the white fabric is surrounded by deep red, staining the material, and Iruka can make out a deep stab wound, giving a small shudder at the gruesome sight. Iruka’s not used to violence yet, too young to be. If he could fully see the cut on his own face, he’s sure it would make him—pass out or something. But the pain is fading (or he’s getting adjusted to it) so Iruka’s able to take his mind off of his own wound.

“That I am,” a tired sigh.

“Shouldn’t—shouldn’t you go to the hospital? Why are you just sitting here?” Iruka asks, voice childishly bossy. Like he knows best.

“I’m waiting for my team,” the ANBU explains quietly. Iruka frowns, swallowing nervously, still able to taste coppery blood in his mouth. Silence. He doesn’t like quiet.

“What’s your name? Mine’s Umino Iruka,” he says, a bit of a prideful swelling in the way he speaks his family’s name. They are well known, popular, healthy. The perfectly normal nuclear family.

“Inu—ah, no—you can call me—” a pause, “I’m not sure what you can call me.” Another quiet sigh, and a delicate hand lifts up, running through messy silver hair with, Iruka realizes, flakes of dried blood in it. The ANBU’s armor and, well, all of him, is also covered with it, drips and splatters.

“Kakashi, if you’d like.” Iruka nods slowly, though his expression is confused. How could someone not be sure of their own name? It seems odd, to Iruka. For another few moments there is quiet, just the gentle rustling of leaves. Iruka glances up, alarmed, when Kakashi’s head slumps suddenly, chin against his chest.

“K-Kakashi?” Iruka asks, with wide eyes. Kakashi is so still, it frightens him. No response. He can’t tell if Kakashi’s chest is moving or not, but Iruka doesn’t know how to take someone’s pulse. He decides that it will be easiest if he can take the mask off to feel whether or not Kakashi is still breathing. He nervously settles his fingers on either side of it, gripping the porcelain—it’s warm, from Kakashi’s body heat. Kakashi’s hands move quicker than Iruka can register, grabbing tan wrists and wrenching Iruka’s hands back from the mask. Iruka flinches away, wincing.

“O-ow, that hurts,” Iruka stammers. Kakashi’s fingers shift slightly, but his grip doesn’t loosen.

“Don’t try that again,” Kakashi speaks insistently. Iruka nods quickly, lower lip trembling.

“A-alright, I just—wasn’t sure if you were okay or not,” Iruka hurriedly explains, eyes doleful. Kakashi gives a tired sigh. He does that a lot, Iruka thinks.

“I’m fine,” Kakashi says briskly.

“But—you—” Iruka trails off helplessly, wanting to do something but unable to help. Kakashi drops Iruka’s left hand, raising the now free hand to Iruka’s face. He gently runs his fingers along the cut, probing at it, but his fingers are gentle enough that it only hurts a little.

“You need stitches, or it’ll scar—bad. It’s still going to, but—” Kakashi’s voice is guilty.

“It’s okay,” Iruka mumbles, all the forgiveness of a child.

“When you’re older, you’ll probably hate me for it,” Kakashi says calmly, simply.

“I won’t!” Iruka insists, not sure he could ever hate someone who seems so tired, weary.

“We’ll see. I’m not sure why you’re even out this far, but—you need to go, now! Go to your parents,” and there’s a sudden nervous restlessness in his voice, frame tense again—it had started to relax, a little, in Iruka’s presence.

“Shit, there’s not enough time,” Kakashi curses to himself, suddenly jumping up to his feet, finally releasing Iruka’s wrist. The masked face moves around, searching the clearing rapidly. Kakashi pauses at an old, huge tree with a hollow at its roots. Kakashi grips Iruka’s upper arm, tugging at him—Iruka stumbles to his feet hastily.

“What—what is it?” he asks, though he knows that whoever did that to Kakashi, whoever Kakashi thought he was, is coming.

“Nothing,” Kakashi mutters, dragging Iruka towards the tree. Once they’re standing before it, he turns to face Iruka, reaching up and sliding his mask back. Iruka is met with someone who looks far too old for such a young face, half covered by cloth and his headband, slanted diagonally across his left eye. Kakashi’s eye, beautiful shade of slate blue, is wide, panicked, pupil minutely flitting around; lost deep in though, planning.

“Get in there and hide. You can’t come out until I say it’s okay, alright?” He shakes Iruka’s shoulders for emphasis.

“O-okay, Kakashi,” Iruka promises, the name rolling comfortably off his tongue.

“Good, good,” Kakashi mumbles distractedly, reaching up to fix his mask. Iruka sinks to the ground, crawling into the dirty hollow—it’s a tight fit and he could swear he can feel bugs crawling on him, and the dried flaking blood on his face and chin is so, so itchy, and it’s just—so uncomfortable. But Iruka recognizes the seriousness of this and stays completely quiet, light brown eyes watching the still clearing with nervous anticipation. Kakashi is standing the center, stance battle ready. After a few moments that seem to stretch on for far too long, blurred black figures come jumping down from the branches above, surrounding Kakashi in a tight circle. Kakashi had seemed tall, when Iruka compared the other boy to himself, practically a whole head taller than Iruka. But now he can see how young Kakashi really is, dwarfed by the men around him. Iruka chews on his lower lip, forcing himself to keep on staring still and silent but for a slight tremble in his small, curled up frame.

A fight breaks out suddenly, moving far too quickly for Iruka to be able to completely follow. What he can tell is that, individually, Kakashi is much better than these men, but—with them all ganging up on him, and with his movements hindered by the wound in his side? Iruka is worried, for Kakashi; already caring for the other boy, even if they had just met. He’s always been affectionate towards others, perhaps overly so. He is aware of the danger he’s in himself, but—he cares more for worrying about Kakashi, at the moment. Kakashi’s danger is so much more immediate.

Iruka watches, wide eyed, as Kakashi gracefully dodges sloppy attempts at hitting him. One man crumples, throat slit. The spray of blood that splatter’s Kakashi’s fine porcelain mask should disturb Iruka, but—it doesn’t. He’s glad that the man is dead. A few moments later and another falls, this one’s neck broken. Iruka is starting to dare to feel hopeful, watching intently. That hope slips slightly a one of them lands a deep gash on Kakashi’s bicep. No—no, it’s still going to be all right, it’s still going to be all right! Another man down, a kunai embedded in his forehead. But there’s still three left and Kakashi’s chest is heaving with pained gasps, constantly having to fend off blows. The armor helps, but Kakashi’s still got too much exposed skin to easily guard it all, and Iruka gives a fearful squeak at a glancing blow that lands on Kakashi’s throat, some blood trickling forth. Kakashi stumbles, slamming a kunai into a man’s thigh—when he pulls it out, blood gushes forth heavily, and Kakashi kicks the man to the ground.

Two. One of them seems to be the leader of sorts, the other just a pawn—easily taken out, Iruka prays. Every moment is excruciating, drawn out; the weaker man gives up on weapons, tackling a clearly startled Kakashi to the forest ground. Kakashi is forced to resort to kicking the man hard in the groin, shoving him partially off of Kakashi’s much smaller frame. He quickly rolls away, pulling himself free the rest of the way. The man, stunned and dizzy, is dispatched fast by a shuriken flung at the back of his head, a nasty crunching sound as the skull is cracked. Iruka’s breath is practically just as fast as Kakashi’s even from watching, and he shifts uncomfortable, limbs cramped. Kakashi’s body is trembling, facing the final man silently.

“I don’t even have it, you know. My squad does. Your men died for nothing.” Kakashi’s voice is purposefully smug, trying to cloud the man’s concentration with anger, though his expression remains placid. The complete still that falls between the two makes Iruka tense, frightened, until—one of Kakashi’s legs twitches the slightest bit, and he and the man launch forward at the same moment. As with the others, it is not a battle of jutsu, but a physical battle. Kakashi is faster, but the man is overwhelmingly stronger, and when the man’s hands end up around Kakashi’s throat, a frightened sound escapes the back of Iruka’s throat. Kakashi breaks free, though, putting some distance between them. That man is standing a scant few feet from Iruka’s tree, and Kakashi’s mask visibly tilts down, looking at Iruka. The man notices this, quickly glancing down himself. His eyes—wild, exhilarated—meet Iruka’s, which are frightened and wide.

Iruka, with a sudden surge of bravery he didn’t even know he had, launches out of the worn hole, his small frame barreling into thick legs—a solid wall of muscle and bone. The man is, at least, knocked back a few inches, and Iruka takes advantage of his very momentary surprise to bit the man’s forearm as hard as he can, refusing to let go. He’s kicked hard in the stomach for his efforts though, and the impact forces him to stumble back. Iruka is backhanded roughly, knocked to the ground choking and wheezing still from the kick. He can taste a sudden flood of blood in his mouth, can feel that a tooth has been knocked out. He thinks that maybe it is a baby tooth, and spits it out on the ground, trying to seem less rattled than he really is.

He watches rather wide eyed as a group of tall, silent ANBU drop down like the men had earlier, surrounding the man rather than Kakashi. The man’s death is quick and messy. Kakashi limps over to his squad, giving a small, reverential nod. An ANBU with a cat mask turns towards Iruka.

“Who?” is the simple question asked them, directed at Kakashi rather than Iruka.

“Umino Iruka. Civilian. He got—caught up on the middle of this. I mistakenly injured his face when he approached me, thinking he was an enemy.” Kakashi reports this all in a clinically detached voice, and though Iruka wants to interject and point out that he is, in fact, a shinobi in training, not a civilian, he wisely decides to stay quiet. The entire group is watching him, and the weight of so many masked gazes makes him shift nervously.

“Fine. We will take him to Konoha. Inu and Sakana will stay and dispose of the bodies.” The group all seems ready to move, when Kakashi interrupts with a simple, flatly spoken word.

“No,” he says. The squad freezes, masks aiming at Kakashi. There is a tense, incredulous air over the entire group.

“I will take him to the hospital,” Kakashi speaks; his voice is not exactly stubborn or petulant, he just says these words in a way that states he will not back down on the matter.

“That would be inefficient. You are injured and too small to carry him properly. And besides,” some venom slips into the cat’s voice, “It is not up to you to decide.” Kakashi takes a step closer to Iruka.

“I am taking him,” he says, voice hushed and solemn. Iruka’s eyes dart back and forth between Kakashi and the tall cat man. Who, after a moment, lets out an exasperated, disgusted sound.

“Fine. The hokage will know of this,” and the air of threat to his voice is noticeable even to Iruka. Kakashi just nods.

“I know.” Then he bends, sweeping his arm under Iruka’s knees, picking up the younger boy. Iruka is surprised by the sudden contact, but relaxes quickly, wrapping his arms around Kakashi’s neck. They bound through the branches, Iruka silently awed by how Kakashi’s moves—knowing he’ll be able to do that, someday.

“I’m—sorry,” Iruka murmurs when he spots the edge of the forest after a long stretch of silence.

“What for?” Kakashi responds flatly, glancing down at the tan boy he’s holding in his arms—not with difficulty, but not entirely effortlessly either.

“I—caused you trouble,” Iruka says, frowning. He blinks as Kakashi laughs, the noise surprising but pleasant.

“No. He’d be angry with me no matter what I did. It didn’t have anything to you.” He shifted Iruka, hefting the boy a bit, holding him closer. They leave the trees behind, Kakashi’s pace slowing now that he’s walking along a dirt path leading into Konoha, rather than running through the treetops.

“I don’t see why anyone wouldn’t like you,” Iruka mumbles, breathing out slowly and burying his head against Kakashi’s chest, tired.

“I’m not a very likeable person,” Kakashi mutters to himself, and Iruka can’t protest this, since he’s drifted off into an exhausted sleep.

When he wakes up he’s in a white hospital room, his mother sitting at his bedside. Her expression brightens as Iruka’s eyes blearily slide open, calling out for Iruka’s father, who hurries into the room, face just as excited as his wife’s.

“Oh, Iruka,” his mother breathes, leaning down and enveloping him in a desperate, tight embrace that’s almost choking, but Iruka doesn’t complain; he hugs her back. He’s certain that he will have chiding lectures later, but for now they’re just glad to see him, and Iruka’s fine with that. When she pulls back, Iruka glances up at her with wide brown eyes, drinking in the sight of her.

“The—the ANBU boy,” he says after a while, “What happened to him?” Iruka’s mother and father exchange glances.

“Oh, honey, I’m sure he’ll be fine. It’s best if you just—forget about him. And forget about what happened.” Her fingers stroke through her hair.

“If people ask you about—your face, you have to tell them you had an accident, alright, sweetie? Nothing more.” Iruka nods slowly. Secrets must be kept, he understands that.

But he doesn’t think he can forget.