Chapter Text
Iruka was distracted.
Usually, Kakashi’s presence at the mission desk was like the spark for an inevitable explosion. He would lean against the counter, pull out the latest neon-orange volume of Icha Icha, and wait patiently for the precise moment the vein in Iruka’s temple began to throb. It was a ritual: the sharp reprimand, the lecture on “professionalism in a public space, and especially when there are children around!”, and the satisfying spark of heat in the teacher’s eyes.
But today, as Kakashi peered over the top of his book, he realised with a jolt of genuine unease that the sensei had not noticed him at all. Distracted was not a word Kakashi would normally use to describe Iruka Umino. In his mind, Iruka was categorised under adjectives like hardworking, focused, determined, and bright. He was the bedrock of the Academy, the man who handled the village’s chaotic paperwork with the precision of a master tactician while juggling all his other responsibilities. Truly, the Will of Fire personified.
Now that Kakashi looked closer, he could see a dozen wrong things.
For one, the sensei’s ponytail was not its usual perky self. It hung limp, strands of dark hair escaping their normally fixed place to frame a face that looked several shades paler than its usual rich tan. Every three sentences, Iruka spoke to the genin in front of him. He seemed to stumble, his tongue tripping over familiar words as though he were translating them from a foreign language.
Worst of all were his eyes. Those bright auburn eyes, normally so full of life and righteous temper, went dull and distant the moment he thought no one was watching.
It was a foolish assumption. Shinobi were always being watched.
All of these were small things. They should have been small things. But when it came to Iruka, they felt like tectonic shifts. The man who was normally so transparent, so hot-headed, had been replaced by a ghost. Kakashi told himself his concern was purely clinical. It was not as though his interest in the sensei was strange. You could barely call it interest at all. It was simply… observation.
Anyway.
With the conclusion that something was fundamentally wrong firmly settled, Kakashi finally decided to take action. He needed to see if he could provoke the real Iruka back to the surface. At least his ruthless teasing of the sensei would finally have a purpose.
He pushed himself off the back wall, his movements fluid and deceptively lazy, and sauntered over to Iruka’s line. The floorboards barely creaked under his weight. As he moved, he tucked his beloved book into his flak jacket. In its place, he produced his mission report.
For most shinobi, the crumpled scroll in his hand would have been considered a disaster. For Kakashi, it was surprisingly acceptable. Every section had at least something written in it, though whether the chicken scratch was legible was another matter entirely.
Kakashi mused to himself, almost giddy with anticipation. What would the teacher’s reaction be? Would he explode over the illegible script in front of him? Would he be suspicious that Kakashi had managed to write anything at all this time? For someone so predictable, the sensei did have a remarkable range of reactions.
The mission desk was only slightly busy, filled with the low hum of the village’s administrative heart. A genin team nearby loudly recounted a D-rank involving a stubborn cat, while several chunin loitered near the door, gossiping about seemingly anything and everything.
Do they not have places to be? Kakashi thought idly, his focus narrowing entirely on the man behind the desk.
“Sensei,” Kakashi drawled as he reached the front. He leaned an elbow against the wood, hovering just a little too close, invading the space Iruka usually guarded so fiercely.
Iruka blinked, his head tilting up slowly. “Oh… hello. Welcome back, Kakashi-san.” A small, tired smile flickered across his lips, but it did not reach his eyes. “Your report?” Kakashi handed it over, a look of calculated nonchalance stamped onto his mask.
He waited. He braced himself for the sigh, the groan, the inevitable Really, Kakashi? I cannot even read the date on this.
Iruka took the scroll.
His fingers brushed Kakashi’s, and Kakashi noted immediately that they were colder than they should have been. The teacher skimmed the paper, his eyes passing over the illegible ink, the coffee stains, and the blatant lack of detail. Silence stretched between them.
One beat.
Then another.
Was he not supposed to be shouting by now? Kakashi watched closely, his lone visible eye narrowing as he searched for the familiar signs: the tightening jaw, the sharp inhale, the flare of irritation.
“Passable,” Iruka said at last.
His voice was deceptively calm, almost hollow. He did not even reach for a red pen to circle the errors. He simply placed the scroll onto the completed pile with a dull thud. Kakashi blinked.
A strange, prickling sensation settled in his chest. Genuine confusion. Before he could scoff, or widen his eye by even a fraction, Iruka was already looking past him, his gaze sliding toward the person standing behind the jōnin. “Next,” Iruka called. Kakashi remained frozen for a moment, curiosity sharpening into something far more uncomfortable.
This was not just a bad day. This was a break in the pattern. Their pattern. He stared at the side of Iruka’s head, waiting for the man to realise he was still there, but Iruka had already reached for the next stack of papers, his movements mechanical. Realising he would get nothing more here, Kakashi stepped back. With a subtle twist of chakra, he flickered out of the room, leaving only a swirl of leaves in his wake.