Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter One

The Temporary Dad

The Hokage’s office was tense.

Not because of paperwork — Naruto had already plowed through half a mountain of it that morning. No, the tension came from the councilors sitting in a stiff row across his desk, each one watching him with carefully blank faces.

Eight years ago, they’d been children underfoot. Now they were Academy graduates — and a problem.

Naruto’s fingers drummed on the desk. “So you’re telling me… no one wants to take them?”

Shikamaru exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Naruto. Be real. They’re not just any kids. Arashi grew up under you and Kakashi. Itsuki is Sasuke’s heir. And Shinju—” his voice lowered, “—she’s Yamato’s legacy. Wood Release, just like the First Hokage. A daughter carrying that bloodline? No jonin wants that responsibility.”

He ticked the points off with the weariness of a man who’d lived through it. “They spar like veterans. They scheme like Nara. Okay, maybe that part was my fault. And they’re unpredictable like—” his glance slid to Naruto, “—like you.”

One of the councilors cleared her throat delicately. “It is not that they lack potential. Quite the opposite. They are… overqualified for any ordinary mentor. Which is why there is only one logical solution.”

The words hung in the air. Naruto’s gut sank.

Naruto found Kakashi loitering by the railing outside the training grounds, book in hand, posture all casual like he hadn’t been waiting.

“They want you,” Naruto said, leaning against the post beside him.

“I know,” Kakashi answered without looking up. “It was written all over their faces. Like they were about to throw me in shackles if I refused.”

Naruto smirked. “Well, lucky for you, I can just order you. Hokage’s privilege.”

Kakashi finally lowered the book, eyes glinting. “Mm. Funny. You’re forgetting I know exactly how much a Hokage can get away with before the council revolts. Wouldn’t want to look like you’re abusing power, right?”

“Tch—come on, Kakashi-sensei, don’t make me pull rank.”

“Pull rank all you like, Hokage-sama. I’ll just write it down in my memoirs. ‘The Seventh Hokage strong-armed his retired predecessor into free childcare.’ Very dignified.”

Naruto shoved his hands in his pockets, grinning wider. “You mean our kid. Don’t think I didn’t see you slipping Arashi extra dango last week when you said you were just passing by.”

Kakashi’s ear twitched, betraying him before his mask could. “…He looked hungry.”

“Mm-hm. And Itsuki and Shinju? You’re telling me you weren’t watching the three of them train yesterday? Because they’re already stronger than half the chunin roster and it’s mostly your fault.”

Kakashi hummed low in his throat, the kind of sound Naruto had long since learned to recognize: amused, exasperated, resigned. The book finally slid into his vest, forgotten.

“Fine,” he said. “But I’m not walking into this blind. If I’m going to take the job, I want terms.”

Naruto’s brows shot up. “Terms? You’re negotiating with the Hokage?”

“I’m negotiating with the idiot who calls himself Hokage,” Kakashi corrected, tone lazy, but his eyes sharpened. “First—politics. If those three are mine to train, you keep the council leashes short. No pulling them into show missions, no parading them around like some victory trophy team. They get space to grow, not spotlight.”

Naruto nodded slowly. Protective-dad mode. He loved it, even if Kakashi pretended he wasn’t showing it.

“Second—” Kakashi’s voice dropped a little, steel under the humor, “—you back me up when they mess up. Because they will. No ‘they’re just spirited,’ no excuses. They’re mine to shape, and I don’t want whispers about pulling them from my command.”

Naruto leaned forward, storm-bright eyes lighting. “Kakashi… I’d never let anyone take them away. They’re ours.”

Something softened in Kakashi’s expression — but only for a moment. Then he tilted his head, smirk tugging at the edge of the mask. “And third… personal.”

Naruto grinned, ready. “Yeah? What do you want, old man?”

Kakashi stepped closer, voice low, threading smoke and silk. “I want you… every night I come back from each mission, waiting for me. No excuses. No ‘Hokage paperwork.’ You’re mine until sunrise.”

Naruto choked on air, ears burning red. “K-Kakashi—”

“And,” Kakashi went on mercilessly, “you’re going to stop holding back. No more ‘we’ll wake the kid,’ no more ‘I have a meeting at dawn.’ You started this fire, Hokage-sama. You’re going to keep feeding it.”

Naruto’s breath hitched, grin feral now. “Tch—so that’s it? You’re trading jonin duty for… bedroom duty?”

Kakashi leaned close enough for Naruto to feel the brush of his mask against his cheek, his voice a whisper only Naruto could hear. “Consider it an… intensive training schedule. For both of us.”

Naruto’s laugh broke sharp and warm in his chest. “Kami, you’re shameless.”

“And yet,” Kakashi murmured, eyes half-lidded with amusement, “you’ll say yes, anyway.”

Naruto’s grin turned wicked. “Yes.”

Kakashi’s terms hung in the air between them, heat simmering beneath the playful bite. Naruto’s grin only widened, sharp and certain, because after eight years together there was no winning against Kakashi — not really.

And he didn’t need to. They’d already won.

He glanced out over the training field, where Arashi was locked in a shouting match with the air itself and Itsuki stood nearby, composed and cold as a shadow, sketchbook balanced in his hand — the Uchiha boy’s expression unreadable, but the power around him unmistakable.

And just a little apart, Shinju knelt with both palms pressed into the dirt. A single sprig of green pushed through the cracked earth, delicate and stubborn, curling toward the sun. She smiled faintly at it, not at the boys, not at the world — as though coaxing life itself was enough for her.

Three forces of nature: Arashi’s storm, Itsuki’s fire, Shinju’s living wood. Too sharp and too wild for anyone else to handle. Their kids. Their chaos. Their pride.

It was hard to believe sometimes. Hard to believe that the storm at his desk now — the genin team no one else dared touch — had started with a single mistake.

A clerical error. A five-year-old with a scowl too big for his face. Naruto standing in the middle of the administrative office, wondering how in hell his life had gone sideways.

And somewhere between then and now — between Arashi’s tantrums, Itsuki’s quiet calculations, Shinju’s soft disasters — he and Kakashi had stopped pretending they were just partners in parenting. They’d signed their names together in more than mission scrolls. Shared more than custody and late-night watch shifts. They’d put rings on each other’s hands, vows in each other’s mouths, and for once in their lives… let someone stay.

Husband. Hokage. Father. Naruto still wasn’t sure how he’d gotten here. But he knew he wouldn’t trade it. Not for the world.

8 Years Ago

The village still smelled of smoke sometimes. Two years hadn’t erased it, not from the broken stone that still lined the streets or from the air that lingered heavy after rain. But Konoha was breathing again. Everywhere Naruto looked, there were signs of it—new beams rising where homes had fallen, fresh plaster sealing walls, green shoots stubbornly climbing through cracks.

Naruto tugged his jacket tighter, hands shoved in his pockets as he ambled down the main road. It was strange, seeing the village busy without the shadow of war hanging over it. Laughter instead of alarms. Children instead of refugees. For once, the noise of Konoha didn’t make his shoulders tense.

A sharp squeal cut through the crowd. Naruto turned just in time to see a tiny blur of dark hair dart between two stalls—followed by Ino barreling after with murder in her eyes.

“Mirai Sarutobi!” she barked, though her arms were already scooping the toddler up before she face-planted in the dirt.

Mirai kicked her legs, pouting fiercely. “No! I wanna play!”

“You’ll play when Uncle Chōji says it’s safe,” Ino scolded, though there was fondness softening the edges.

Sure enough, Chōji appeared with skewers in both hands, one already half-finished. “Mirai-chan, you hungry?”

Her tantrum evaporated in an instant. “Yes!” She lunged for the food with both hands, earning a long-suffering groan from Shikamaru, who was trailing behind with his hands in his pockets.

“Troublesome,” he muttered, though he crouched anyway to straighten Mirai’s lopsided sandals.

Naruto couldn’t help it—he laughed. Loud and bright, cutting through the market noise. Three heads turned toward him, and then four when Mirai twisted in Ino’s arms, eyes wide.

“Uncle Naruto!” she shrieked, arms shooting out like she expected him to catch her from halfway across the square.

Ino tightened her grip. “Not so fast, princess. You’ll bolt.”

Naruto grinned and jogged over anyway, ruffling Mirai’s hair until she giggled. “Man, you’ve got energy, huh? Bet Iruka-sensei’ll have his hands full with you one day.”

Ino rolled her eyes. “Please. She’ll be top kunoichi in her class. Like mother, like daughter.”

“Or bossy, like mother, like daughter,” Shikamaru drawled, earning himself a jab in the ribs.

Naruto chuckled, though the scene tugged at something deeper. Mirai’s laughter, Ino’s scolding, Shikamaru’s quiet steadiness, Chōji’s gentle spoiling—it all knitted together so seamlessly, like a puzzle that had never lost its pieces. So much so, that Mirai's biological mother, Kurenai, resigned to the three's constant guardianship fiasco.

It made Naruto ache a little.

Ino caught him staring and smirked. “What about you, Naruto? When are you settling down? Or are you just gonna keep haunting Hokage’s office until Kakashi-sensei kicks you out?”

Naruto sputtered. “Hey—I don’t haunt! I’m just—helping out.”

“Mm-hm,” she said, unimpressed. “Whatever you say.”

Shikamaru straightened with a sigh, Mirai now perched on Chōji’s shoulders, sticky fingers clinging to his hair. “We’re heading to the office anyway. You coming?”

Naruto blinked, then nodded. “Yeah. I’ll walk with you.”

As the group melted back into the crowd, Naruto glanced once more at Mirai’s bright eyes, at the way she clung to her clan like gravity itself. A little life that had survived, thrived, and already knew exactly where she belonged.

Naruto shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, grinning faintly. Someday, maybe. For now… it was enough to just keep walking.

They split at the corner—Ino tugging Chōji toward the market, Mirai squealing for more food, Shikamaru trudging along with his usual slouch. Naruto promised he’d catch up and lingered on the main street.

The sun cut sharp between new beams and scaffolding, dust motes turning golden in the air. Everywhere he looked, the village was mending itself. Walls patched, tiles replaced, windows shining clean where there had once been soot.

And everywhere, eyes found him.

An old woman paused in arranging flowers outside her shop to bow, lips moving in thanks Naruto didn’t know how to answer. A pair of genin, too young to have seen the battlefield, whispered behind their hands before one finally blurted, “Thank you, Naruto-sama!” then bolted red-faced down the lane.

Even the carpenters paused their hammering when he passed, one clapping him on the shoulder with a grin. “Because of you, kid, I’ve got a house to rebuild instead of a grave.”

Naruto laughed it off, scratching the back of his head, but his grin faltered when he moved on.

He still wasn’t used to it. The looks. The weight of their gratitude. He’d fought for them, sure, but standing here with their eyes on him felt heavier than the battlefield ever had.

It was easier when he thought of himself as just Naruto. Not the hero. Not the savior. Just a nineteen-year-old who still dropped by Ichiraku’s for free ramen and annoyed Kakashi whenever he felt like it.

Naruto shoved his hands into his pockets and picked up his pace, heading toward the looming tower at the village’s heart. Kakashi could handle the Hat. Naruto was fine just being… Naruto.

For now.

The Hokage’s office towered with scrolls in crooked stacks around the desk, like walls Kakashi hadn’t bothered to defend. The man himself was hunched forward, mask tugged down just far enough to sip at a lukewarm cup of tea, eyes tracking the lines of a mission report.

Shikamaru slipped inside first, muttering a perfunctory “morning” before dropping a stack of folders with a thud that made Kakashi’s pen hand twitch.

Naruto leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed, grin in place. “Yo. How’s the big chair treating you, Hokage-sama?”

Kakashi didn’t glance up. “Same as yesterday. Endless. Boring. And yet somehow still life-threatening.” He signed his name with a flick and dropped the parchment on the growing pile. “Try not to start a war on your way home from the market, and I might finish one before dawn.”

Naruto barked a laugh and strolled in, dropping into the chair opposite. “Can’t promise that.”

“Didn’t think so.” Kakashi leaned back at last, stretching until his spine cracked. The sunlight caught silver in his hair, weariness etched deep around his eyes. Still, the corner of his mask curved faintly upward. “So. What do you actually want?”

“Just checking in,” Naruto said, shrugging. “Making sure the old man isn’t buried alive.”

Kakashi huffed. “Mm. Thoughtful.” His gaze lingered a beat too long, softening before he caught himself. Then he snapped the next report open with deliberate focus. “Stay out of trouble, Naruto.”

Naruto stood, stretching. “You know me.”

“That’s the problem.”

Shikamaru snorted from the corner, already flipping through a new stack of papers. “Same fucking conversation every single day.”

Naruto just grinned wider, storm-blue eyes sparking with mischief, and sauntered out. Sunlight chased him through the door, leaving Kakashi staring at the parchment in his hands without reading a word.

For all his complaints, the room felt emptier once Naruto was gone.

HOKAGE OFFICE ADMINISTRATIVE OFFICE 

The administrative office was louder than the market outside. Papers flapped in harried hands, voices overlapped in a tangle of complaints, and somewhere in the middle of it all a five-year-old was standing on a chair, shouting at a clerk half his size.

“I said I don’t like soup! And you can’t make me eat it!”

Another clerk rushed over with a sweet bun, only for the boy to snatch it, glare suspiciously, and mutter, “Too dry.”

Naruto froze in the doorway, blinking. “…What the heck’s going on in here?”

Every head whipped toward him. For a moment, the room went silent. Then three clerks moved at once, herding him inside like prey into a trap.

“Uzumaki-san!”
“Just the person we needed—”
“Perfect timing!”

Naruto stumbled as they shoved him toward the desk. “Whoa, whoa, slow down! What’s—”

A bundle of papers was slapped into his hands. A second later, the boy hopped down from the chair and planted himself squarely in front of him, arms crossed. Big storm-colored eyes, bluish-grey, glared up at him, too sharp for his small face.

“…You don’t look like you can cook,” the kid declared.

Naruto gawked. “Excuse me!?”

“He hasn’t eaten a proper meal in weeks,” one of the clerks muttered, rubbing her temples. “We’ve been… rotating shifts. Babysitting. Until the records are untangled.”

“Babysitting!?” Naruto yelped.

Another clerk wrung his hands. “The guardianship files were scrambled in the resettlement lists. He’s from Fire Country—his parents’ village was destroyed. We were supposed to transfer custody but the paperwork—well—”

“It… listed you,” the first clerk finished weakly.

Naruto stared at them. “Listed me?”

“Yes,” three voices chorused miserably.

The boy tilted his chin up, sparks crackling faintly around his fingers. “Guess that makes you my dad.”

The papers nearly slipped out of Naruto’s hands. “What!?”

The clerks all bowed at once, sweating bullets. “Please, Uzumaki-san. Just until it’s sorted. Don’t let word spread—we can’t afford more doubts about the reconstruction!”

Naruto’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again, completely useless. The boy just smirked, bun crumbs on his cheek, as if daring him to say no.

Outside, the village carried on rebuilding. Inside, Naruto’s life quietly tilted on its axis.

He threw his hands up, voice cracking. “Hold on! I’m only nineteen—twenty, whatever—I’m still a kid myself! How am I supposed to raise one?!”

The clerks flinched, then leaned in as if they’d rehearsed this argument a dozen times already.

“We don’t have anyone else,” one said, wringing his ink-stained hands.
“Half the orphanage staff are rebuilding their own homes,” added another.
“We’re still processing resettlement rosters, there are widows without roofs, missing heirs, injured shinobi—”

The third clerk’s voice broke, raw with exhaustion. “Uzumaki-san, please. The war left more than rubble behind. This is one thing we can’t fix with missions or muscle. We need you to—just—hold this child until the paperwork clears.”

Naruto’s chest burned. He looked around the office, really looked—at the shadows under their eyes, at the mountain of unfiled reports, at the way they stood like stretched wire about to snap.

And for a moment, he saw Kakashi.

Saw him behind his desk, drowning in mission requests and reconstruction plans, wearing his fatigue like a second uniform. Saw the endless nights, the council meetings that dragged until dawn, the way the whole village leaned on him and only him to hold it all together.

Naruto swallowed hard. How could he grumble about babysitting one snotty kid when his sensei was carrying an entire country?

He looked down. The boy was still glaring, bun crumbs clinging to his cheek, sparks twitching faintly around his fingertips. Not scared. Not pleading. Just waiting, like he’d already learned the world wasn’t reliable.

Naruto let out a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “…Alright. I’ll take him. But just until you fix the paperwork.”

The clerks sagged with relief, bowing so low their foreheads nearly hit the floor.

The boy smirked. “Tch. Guess, I'll go home with you, dad.”

Naruto nearly toppled the paper stack in outrage. “Oi—don’t call me that! This is temporary, y’hear me? Temporary!”

The child only grinned wider, storm-bright eyes sparking as if he already knew better. “Okay, temporary dad.”

Naruto shoved the door open with his foot, juggling a half-asleep Arashi on his hip and the paperwork still crumpled in his fist. The apartment smelled faintly of instant broth and laundry soap, the kind of place held together by stubbornness and takeout containers.

“Uh… so,” Naruto said, setting the boy down and rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not much. Kinda small. But—” He puffed up a little, gesturing toward the humming fridge with a grin. “—my fridge is full!”

Full was generous. The shelves were crammed with cup ramen stacks, leftover dumplings from Teuchi, and more bottles of milk than one person could possibly drink.

Arashi climbed onto the battered couch, looked around the cramped single-room space, and let out a long, adult-sounding sigh. “This is fine,” he said flatly.

Naruto blinked. “Fine?”

Arashi swung his feet, unimpressed. “Better than the office. At least you don’t smell like ink.”

Naruto spluttered, torn between indignation and laughter. “Hey, I’ll have you know this is prime shinobi living! Cosy! Efficient!”

The boy gave him a look far too knowing for someone barely five. “Temporary Dad, your fridge is full of noodles.”

Naruto’s grin wavered. “…Yeah, well. Noodles build character.”

The sparks that danced off Arashi’s fingertips when he smirked said exactly what he thought of that.

Naruto flopped onto the couch opposite the boy, scrubbing a hand through his hair. His head still buzzed from the mess at the office — clerks bowing, papers shoved at him, the word guardian echoing louder than any battle cry he’d ever heard. Temporary dad. He still couldn’t wrap his head around it.

He glanced at the kid, perched small and defiant against the threadbare cushions. “Oi. I didn’t even ask your name back there, did I?”

The boy blinked at him, then sat up straighter, chin tipped high. “Arashi.”

“Arashi, huh?” Naruto tested it on his tongue, storm-colored eyes brightening with a grin. “What about your clan name?”

Arashi just stared at him for a long moment, unimpressed. Then he shrugged, tone dry as dirt. “Whatever your clan name is, Temporary Dad.”

Naruto blinked. “Huh?”

But Arashi had already turned his face away, sparks flickering faintly at his fingertips like it was no big deal.

Naruto scratched the back of his head, confusion written all over him, then pushed himself up with a huff. “Well… whatever. You hungry, Arashi?”

That finally earned him a spark of interest, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of the kid’s mouth.“…Depends. Not noodles again, right?”

Naruto’s jaw dropped. “Wha—how’d you—hey, don’t knock noodles! They’re top-tier!”

Arashi just grinned wider, feet kicking idly at the couch cushions, already at home.

Naruto padded over to the fridge, yanking it open with the smug intent of proving ramen was a complete meal. His hand was already reaching for a cup when the clerks’ voices came back to him, raw and exhausted.

“He hasn’t had a proper meal in weeks.”
“We’ve been passing him around… none of us could keep up.”

Naruto froze. His gaze swept over the shelves—stack after stack of instant noodles, half-wrapped leftovers, milk bottles—and then caught on the corner. A bundle of greens, a carton of eggs, a few cuts of meat, fresh rice.

He blinked. Right. Yesterday. Kakashi had dragged him through the market, pretending it was a coincidence, slipping extra vegetables into his bag when Naruto wasn’t looking. He’d rolled his eye and muttered something about “if you’re going to eat like a shinobi, at least feed your chakra properly.”

Naruto huffed out a laugh under his breath, leaning on the fridge door. “Thank god for Kakashi, always trying to make a healthy kid outta me.”

He turned back, catching Arashi watching him from the couch with storm-bright suspicion, little sparks jumping between his fingers like a warning. Naruto straightened, determination settling in his chest.

“Alright,” he said, rolling up his sleeves. “Forget noodles. You’re getting a real meal, Arashi. Something my sensei taught me.”

The boy tilted his head, doubtful. “…You can cook?”

Naruto grinned, pulling the pan down from the shelf. “Watch and learn, kid. This is Temporary Dad’s specialty… kinda.”

Naruto plunked the pan on the stove, cracked his knuckles, and muttered, “Alright. Easy stuff. Kakashi-sensei said it was easy. Said even I couldn’t screw it up.” He pulled the rice from the bag and frowned. “Uh… two cups? Or was it three?”

“Rinse it first, Naruto. Cold water. Until it runs clear.”

Naruto jolted, glancing over his shoulder. No Kakashi. Just his voice, smug as ever, echoing from memory.

“Right, right, rinse it.” He fumbled the pot under the tap, water splashing across the counter, grains of rice sticking to his fingers. Arashi snorted from the couch. “Don’t laugh,” Naruto shot back, shaking his hand over the sink. “This is advanced jutsu.”

Next came the eggs. He lined them up on the counter like opponents in a staring match. “Okay. Crack and stir. Easy.”

“Not like that, you’ll crush the shell—gentle tap, use the edge.”

Naruto grimaced, tapping too hard. The egg exploded over his fingers, yolk sliding down his wrist.

Arashi cackled. Sparks danced in the air around him like applause.

Naruto wiped his hand on a towel, ears red. “You think you’re so funny.”

He tried again. Better. Two eggs in the bowl, whisked until foamy. He tossed in a pinch of salt—maybe too much—and set them aside.

The pan hissed when he added the meat and greens. Naruto scrambled to keep it from burning, wooden spoon clattering against the edge.

“Low flame. Don’t rush it. Let it breathe.”

Naruto growled under his breath. “Why’d you make it sound so damn easy, sensei?”

Still, he lowered the heat, stirred slow, and watched as the colors deepened, the scent rising warm and savory. His stomach growled. Arashi leaned forward on the couch, eyes widening despite himself.

Finally, Naruto poured the eggs over, mixing until it all came together into something—messy, uneven, but real. Food.

He slid the pan onto the table with a triumphant grin. “See? Told you. Temporary Dad can cook.”

Arashi studied the plate like it might bite him. The smell drifted up—warm rice, savory meat, greens just soft enough to shine against the egg. His stomach growled before he could stop it.

He glanced at Naruto, who was leaning forward with storm-colored eyes wide and hopeful, grin sharp but nervous. Like he’d just laid his whole heart on the table next to the food.

Arashi picked up the chopsticks, silent. Took one bite. Chewed. Another bite, slower. The sparks that had been twitching faintly at his fingertips faded, replaced by something quieter in his gaze.

Naruto swallowed, leaning even further. “Well?”

The boy set the chopsticks down carefully, staring at the dish. His shoulders dropped, breath leaving him in a little rush he hadn’t meant to let out. “…This is the first hot meal I’ve had in weeks.”

The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be.

Naruto’s grin faltered, the edges softening. He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly awkward. “…Yeah? Guess I didn’t mess it up too bad, then.”

Arashi didn’t answer. Just picked the chopsticks back up and ate, steady now, as if afraid it would vanish if he slowed down.

Naruto leaned back, something loosening in his chest he hadn’t realized was wound so tight. Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard after all. “Eat up,” he said quietly, voice rougher than he meant. “There’s more.”

Arashi didn’t look up, but for the first time since the office, the storm in his eyes eased.

Dinner had gone down smoother than Naruto expected. He’d even felt a little proud, watching Arashi’s eyes go heavy as he cleaned the last of the rice from his bowl. But pride was premature.

Bath time was war.

“Hold still!” Naruto yelped as Arashi wriggled like a fish, soap suds flying across the cramped bathroom.

“It stings!” the boy hollered, kicking water everywhere.

“It’s just soap!”

“It’s acid! You’re trying to kill me!”

Naruto swore under his breath as the bottle slipped in his hands, the harsh scent burning his own nose. He blinked against the sting in his eyes and froze. …Oh. Right. This was the same soap he used to scrub mission grime off his own skin. Shinobi-issue. Harsh, sharp, not made for five-year-olds. He rubbed a hand down his face, guilty. “Alright, alright, my bad. I’ll get some kids’ stuff tomorrow. Promise.”

Arashi sniffed, triumphant, before splashing him on purpose. “You better.”

By the time Naruto got him out and towel-wrapped, the bathroom looked like a water release jutsu had gone off.

Then came clothes.

Naruto tore through his drawers, tossing shirts and pants in a frantic pile. Everything was either too big, too ragged, or smelled suspiciously like ramen broth. He muttered curses under his breath until his hand hit the back of the drawer.

A too-small orange hoodie, frayed at the edges. A pair of shorts with a patch on the knee. Relics from his younger days he hadn’t tossed.

And underneath them—gray fabric soft from wear. A shirt, a pair of sweats, long-sleeved with cuffs that still carried the faintest trace of laundry soap that wasn’t his.

Naruto froze, shirt clutched in his hands. He knew this smell. Knew it better than his own. Kakashi’s. He’d “borrowed” them on nights when exhaustion dumped him on his sensei’s couch instead of the long walk home. Borrowed, then kept.

Arashi peeked up at him from the towel, hair dripping in messy spikes. “Temporary Dad?”

Naruto shoved the shirt into the pile, ears burning. “N-Nothing. Just… clothes. Here.” He wrestled the hoodie over Arashi’s head, the fabric hanging loose but serviceable.

The boy tugged at the sleeve, eyes half-lidded now with weariness. “This is fine.”

Naruto swallowed a laugh. He’d heard that tone earlier, in his apartment. “Yeah. Fine.”

It wasn’t much. But for something temporary, it was enough.

Naruto flopped back onto his futon with a sigh, patting the blanket beside him. “Alright, Arashi. One bed. Pick your side.”

The boy trudged over, dragging the too-big hoodie with him. He didn’t hesitate—just plopped down on the far edge, turned his back, and curled into the blanket like he’d lived there for years.

Naruto smirked, propping himself up on an elbow. “You know, if we’re sharing a bed, you could at least tell me more about yourself. Like… favorite food? Hobbies? Anyone you miss?”

Arashi yawned so wide his jaw cracked. “Mm.”

“That’s it? Just ‘mm’?”

Another yawn, a slow blink. A vague nod that could’ve meant anything.

Naruto chuckled softly. “Guess exhaustion finally got you, huh?”

The boy’s breathing evened out before he could answer, little sparks fading into nothing as sleep tugged him under.

Naruto lay there in the dim light, staring at the ceiling. His chest felt tight, but not heavy—just full. Today had flipped his life upside down in the space of an afternoon. A clerical error, a snotty five-year-old, and suddenly he was a “temporary dad.”

He shook his head, smiling to himself. “Arashi, huh… Guess we’ll figure it out.”

His eyes drifted closed, exhaustion pulling at his bones.

He had just started to sink into sleep when—

WHAM.

A heel drove straight into his shin.

Naruto yelped, bolting upright. “Ow—what the—!?”

Before he could recover, a small foot jammed into his stomach, knocking the breath out of him.

Naruto doubled over, wheezing. “You—you fight in your sleep?!”

Arashi snored peacefully, completely oblivious.

Naruto collapsed back onto the futon, groaning. “Great. I get a storm for a son and a taijutsu master in his dreams. Perfect.”

He tried to shove the kid a few inches away. Somehow, Arashi drifted back across the mattress like a magnet, elbow digging into Naruto’s ribs.

Naruto muttered into the pillow, “Temporary. This is temporary,” and prayed to every kami he knew that Kakashi never found out about this.

Naruto groaned, dragging the blanket over his head. Every muscle in his body ached from phantom kicks, and his ribs still smarted where a small elbow had jabbed him in the night. He’d barely shut his eyes when—

“Temporary Dad.”

A voice, sharp and annoyingly awake.

Naruto cracked one eye open. Arashi was perched cross-legged on the edge of the futon, hoodie sleeves hanging past his hands, storm-bright eyes trained on him with far too much energy for this hour.

“What,” Naruto mumbled into the pillow.

“You can’t be a real dad if you sleep like a troll,” Arashi declared.

Naruto squinted at him. “…What?”

“Dads wake up first. They make breakfast. They don’t snore like dying boars.”

Naruto sat up slowly, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes bloodshot. He stared at the kid. “…Oh, kami. I thought yesterday was a dream.”

Arashi smirked, kicking his legs against the floorboards. Sparks flickered lazily at his fingertips, harmless but mocking.

Naruto scrubbed his face with both hands and stumbled upright. “Fine, fine. Breakfast. But don’t get used to it—I’m not your permanent dad.”

“Sure, Temporary Dad,” Arashi said sweetly.

Naruto shot him a look, then shuffled to the kitchen corner, still half-asleep. He managed to fill the kettle without spilling too much and slapped a pan on the stove with exaggerated bravado.

Arashi leaned his chin on his hands, watching critically. “This better not be noodles again.”

Naruto froze mid-reach for the ramen stash, shoulders slumping. “...You’re gonna be the death of me, kid.”

The first few days were a blur.

Breakfasts that started with Naruto fumbling half-asleep in the kitchen and ended with Arashi poking at the food, muttering, “Not perfect. But it’s fine.” Every time. Like it was a decree.

Groceries meant trudging down to the market together, Naruto juggling bags while Arashi wandered ahead, storm-bright eyes catching everything. People glanced their way, but only a handful lingered. Enough to whisper.

“Is that…?”
“No way. Uzumaki’s still practically a kid himself.”
“Maybe he’s just babysitting?”

A shopkeeper had leaned over once, bold enough to ask outright. “Yours?”

Naruto had gone scarlet to the ears, sputtering so hard Arashi sighed and answered for him. “Temporary Dad,” he’d said simply, grabbing a bag of apples off the counter like he owned the place.

It wasn’t enough to spark full-blown gossip. Not yet. Just murmurs at the edges of the street. Villagers weren’t sure what they were seeing, so they tucked it away for later.

In the apartment, things were quieter. Arashi learned which pan Naruto always burned less. Naruto learned to check the soap labels. They ate, argued, laughed a little, tripped over each other a lot.

Every night ended the same: Naruto telling himself it was temporary, and Arashi crawling into bed beside him anyway, limbs flailing like a secret taijutsu style.

And every morning, Naruto woke to bruises, breakfast duty, and the same verdict: “Not perfect. But it’s fine.”

It was messy. It was exhausting. But slowly, Naruto stopped thinking about how long it would last.

HOKAGE OFFICE

Kakashi noticed on the third day.

The office felt quieter without a certain loud blond leaning on his doorframe, grinning like he had no business being there. Naruto’s check-ins had become such a habit that Kakashi had almost filed them under “daily nuisances.” Almost.

But now it had been a week.

He flipped through mission logs between reports, half-distracted. Uzumaki Naruto—no missions dispatched, no activity, days marked inactive. Odd. Naruto didn’t sit still, not unless he was sick, sulking, or plotting something that would give Kakashi another headache.

He made a note to check later.

The day dragged, swallowing him whole in endless reconstruction requests, negotiations, and petitions from clans who suddenly remembered their grievances after the war. By the time the sun sank, his head throbbed and his pen hand was cramping. He finally shoved the paperwork aside, stretching, ready to escape the Tower.

That was when a clerk, arms stacked with scrolls, paused in the hallway and offered a polite bow. “Hokage-sama. If you see Uzumaki-san, could you tell him the administrative office has located some children’s supplies for little Arashi?”

Kakashi froze. “Who’s Arashi?”

The clerk blinked, thrown. “Ah… Uzumaki-san didn’t tell you? He’s been—well—” The clerk shifted uneasily. “Assigned guardianship. Temporarily.”

Kakashi raised a brow, eyes narrowing just slightly. Guardianship. Naruto. And somehow, the whole Tower knew before he did. “…I’ll check on him,” Kakashi said finally, voice smooth.

The clerk bowed again, relief plain, before scurrying off with their armload.

Kakashi lingered in the hallway, mind turning. Naruto. Guardianship. Arashi.

He adjusted his vest and started down the stairs, already knowing exactly where he’d find his wayward “check-in.”

The apartment smelled… better than Kakashi expected. Not the instant-salt of ramen broth or scorched eggs, but something warmer: rice steaming, vegetables hitting the pan, a faint hint of sesame.

He adjusted the bundle under his arm—guardianship paperwork, a parcel of children’s supplies the office had finally scrounged together, and a bag of fresh groceries—and knocked.

The noise inside went still. Then Naruto’s voice, wary and too loud: “Who’s there?”

“Your Hokage,” Kakashi called, lazy as ever. “Open up.”

The lock clicked, the door creaked open, and Naruto stood there—apron crooked over his shirt, hair sticking out like he’d wrestled with both soap and wind. Behind him, a small head of spiky black hair leaned around his hip, storm-colored eyes narrowing at the newcomer.

“Kakashi-sensei,” Naruto said, stiff, defensive. “Uh. What’re you doing here?”

Kakashi held up the bundle and promptly shoved the paperwork into his chest. “Deliveries. Guardianship terms you didn’t read. Supplies the office scraped together. And groceries—because I know you’d forget something vital sooner or later.”

Naruto sputtered, juggling the stack. “H-Hey! I didn’t forget! Look, we’re making dinner!”

He stepped aside just enough to show the counter. Two bowls, chopped vegetables, meat sizzling gently in a pan. Not perfect, but balanced. Honest effort.

Kakashi’s eyes softened a fraction before he could stop it. “…Hm.”

Arashi, still clinging to Naruto’s side, tipped his chin up at Kakashi, voice dry as flint. “Temporary Dad can actually cook. Better than the office.”

Naruto flushed red. “See?! Even Arashi says so! Kids don't lie.”

Kakashi sighed, slipping past them into the cramped apartment like he belonged there. He set the grocery bag on the counter with a quiet thunk. “Move over. Let’s see if I can salvage what you haven’t burned.”

Naruto gawked. “Oi—rude! I didn’t burn anything!”

Kakashi only rolled up his sleeves, mask curving in a smile the boy couldn’t quite read. “Yet.”

The pan hissed as Kakashi tilted it with practiced ease, sliding the stir-fry neatly onto a plate. Naruto gawked like he’d just seen a genjutsu. “You make it look so easy,” he muttered.

Kakashi glanced at him sidelong. “It is. If you don’t treat every ingredient like it’s trying to kill you.”

Arashi snorted from the table, perched on a chair far too big for him. “Ah, he called it a cooking technique.”

Naruto puffed his cheeks. “Traitor.”

But when Kakashi set the plates down and slid into the seat opposite, something in the room shifted. The little apartment, usually cramped and messy, felt… full. Not loud, not chaotic. Just steady.

They ate in relative silence at first. Naruto attacked his bowl like he always did, chopsticks clacking. Kakashi moved slow, deliberate, eyes flicking now and then to the boy watching them both.

Arashi chewed carefully, eyes sharp, storm-colored gaze darting from one man to the other like he was measuring something invisible. Testing. Waiting. When the plates were nearly clean, he set his chopsticks down with deliberate precision. His voice, when it came, was quiet but certain.

“…Yeah. Now it’s perfect.”

Naruto froze mid-bite, blinking. Kakashi’s eyes curved above his mask, the faintest smile tugging there.

For once, Naruto didn’t argue. He just sat back, grin breaking slow across his face, chest warm in a way that had nothing to do with food.

Arashi leaned back in his chair, satisfied. For the first time since the accident, the sparks at his fingertips didn’t twitch at all.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two

Perfect, Apparently 

“Now it’s perfect.”

Arashi’s words still rang in Naruto’s ears long after dinner ended. They followed him into the cramped bathroom, echoing louder with every splash as he tried to wrangle the kid into the tub.

Arashi, at least, was content for once. He’d claimed the bottle of soap Kakashi had brought, sniffed it critically, and declared it his favorite. Naruto scrubbed his hair carefully, mindful not to repeat the stinging fiasco of their first bath.

Still, the line burned in his head. Perfect. After a week of “not perfect, but fine,” Kakashi shows up once and suddenly everything’s perfect?

Naruto scowled at the suds. “Tch. If this isn't corruption, I don't know what is.”

By the time he was towel-drying Arashi’s hair, the irritation was carved clear across his face.

That was when Kakashi peeked into the doorway, sleeves rolled, mask still in place but his hair damp at the edges from steam rising off the dishwater. His eyes curved at the sight.

Naruto pouted at him. “I was with him a week and never got ‘perfect.’ You show up for one dinner and suddenly, perfect.”

Kakashi leaned casually against the frame, arms crossed. “That’s because I am.”

Naruto gawked. “Oi!”

Arashi yawned, oblivious, letting Naruto rub the towel over his head like a puppy. Kakashi tilted his head, studying the pajama set Naruto had wrangled onto the boy — bright orange, patched at the knees, a pattern of tiny ramen bowls printed faintly across the fabric.

“…Those are so very you,” Kakashi observed dryly.

Naruto’s ears went red. “They’re from when I was a kid! What else was I supposed to do? He can’t just sleep in a towel!”

Kakashi hummed. “Mm. At least you didn’t put him in one of my shirts again.”

Naruto’s blush deepened. “That was an emergency! And it looked fine!”

“On you, maybe,” Kakashi said smoothly.

Arashi snorted softly at that, tugging the blanket tighter around his shoulders, storm-bright eyes already drooping.

Naruto muttered under his breath as he guided the kid back toward the futon. But the words still echoed, stubborn as ever. Now it’s perfect.

And Naruto wasn’t sure if it was the meal, the kid’s full belly, or the man leaning in his doorway that made it true.

By the time Arashi drifted off, starfished across the futon with one arm twitching like he was still fighting in his dreams, Naruto padded back into the main room and stopped dead.

Kakashi was at his fridge.

Not eating—reorganizing. Bottles and cartons lined up neatly, vegetables stacked in the crisper, milk pushed to the back instead of balanced precariously on the edge. The kettle hissed on the stove, steam curling in the air.

Naruto sighed, dragging out two cups. “You’re impossible, y’know that? Normal people bring groceries, not raid your fridge and redecorate it.”

Kakashi glanced over his shoulder, eyes crinkling. “Normal people don’t let a five-year-old live off noodles and mystery leftovers.”

Naruto groaned, pouring the hot water. “I didn’t! We’ve been fine!”

Kakashi didn’t press, just leaned against the counter until Naruto slid a cup of tea across the table. The guardianship packet sat between them, a neat, accusing weight.

For once, Kakashi didn’t sound lazy. Just tired. “I owe you an apology. That mess came out of my office. Clerks stretched thin, records scrambled—still, it’s my responsibility.”

Naruto waved a hand, sitting cross-legged on the chair. “Not your fault. They looked like they were about to keel over if I didn’t take him. What was I supposed to do? Say no?”

“You could have come to me.”

Naruto’s grin slipped. He stared into his tea. “…You’ve already got enough on your plate, Kakashi-sensei. The Hat, the council, rebuilding everything. Thought I could handle one kid, at least until the paperwork sorted itself.”

Kakashi exhaled, long and slow, like he wanted to argue but knew better. “…Temporary, then. I’ll look into it.”

Naruto perked up, seizing the change. “Did you find out his clan yet?”

That earned him a sharp sigh. Kakashi tapped the file with one finger, the sound soft but pointed. “You never read the papers, do you.”

Naruto blinked. “…Apparently not?”

Kakashi pushed the file across. “As it stands, he’s Uzumaki. Yours.”

Naruto’s hand stilled halfway to the paper. “…What?”

“Registry attached him to you. Name’s official. Until it’s overturned, he’s Uzumaki Arashi.”

Naruto stared at the letters on the page — his name, tied to someone else for the first time. He didn’t know what to feel. Pride? Fear? The strangeness of another person wearing the same name he once carried alone?

He swallowed, throat dry. “…Guess I really am Temporary Dad, huh.”

For a long moment, Kakashi didn’t say anything. His gaze softened above the mask, watching Naruto wrestle with the weight of it. Then, gently, he reached over and closed the file.

“Well,” Kakashi said, voice light again, “at least he eats your cooking. That already makes him family.”

Naruto blinked, startled, then barked out a laugh he hadn’t realized he needed. “Oi—my cooking’s not that bad!”

Kakashi’s eyes curved in a smile. “Mm. Perfect, apparently.”

Naruto groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Not fair. You show up one night and suddenly I’m outshined.”

Kakashi sipped his tea, unbothered. “Get used to it. Temporary Dad.”

Naruto peeked at him through his fingers, scowling even as the corner of his mouth twitched.

The next evening, Naruto was halfway through trying to turn leftover rice into something edible when a knock sounded at the door.

Arashi perked up from the table, already chewing on an apple. “It’s the handsome mask guy.”

Naruto nearly dropped the pan. “Don’t call him that! He’s—he’s Kakashi-sensei.”

Arashi tilted his head, unbothered. “Handsome Kakashi-sensei, then.”

Naruto groaned, dragging a hand down his face before stomping to the door. Sure enough, Kakashi stood there with another grocery bag hooked in one arm, like this was already routine.

“Your fridge was tragic,” Kakashi said simply, stepping past him to unload vegetables, rice, and fish onto the counter. “Consider this intervention.”

Naruto spluttered, waving the spoon in his hand. “Hey, I was making dinner!”

Arashi leaned over the counter, storm-colored eyes bright. “Is the handsome mask guy making dinner instead?”

Kakashi’s eyes curved, amused, as he glanced sidelong at Naruto. “Handsome mask guy?”

Naruto flushed scarlet. “I told him your name! Don’t encourage it!”

“Funny,” Kakashi drawled, sleeves already rolling up. “You didn’t correct the handsome part.”

Naruto gawked, choking on air. “Wha—! I—I—shut up and cut the fish, Kakashi-sensei!”

Arashi smirked between them, clearly entertained.

By the time the pan hissed with oil and the smell filled the apartment, Naruto slumped into his chair, pretending he wasn’t relieved. And when Arashi announced, mouth full, “Now this is perfect again,” Naruto dropped his forehead onto the table with a groan.

Kakashi’s laugh was quiet but undeniable.

It was late afternoon, golden light spilling through the window, and Naruto was sprawled on the floor while Arashi stacked chopsticks into precarious towers. The boy’s storm-bright eyes flicked up, curious in that sharp, too-observant way he had.

“Temporary Dad,” he said suddenly, “how do you buy food?”

Naruto blinked. “Uh… with money?”

Arashi rolled his eyes like he was explaining something obvious to an idiot. “I mean, where do you get the money? You don’t work in the office. You don’t fix houses. So… what do you do?”

Naruto sat up, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well… I’m a shinobi.”

Arashi tilted his head. “What’s that?”

The word caught Naruto off guard. To him, shinobi was everything. Life, death, purpose, dream. But to this five-year-old, it was just another sound.

He scratched his cheek, thinking. “…It’s… kinda like being a protector. We fight when we have to, so everyone else doesn’t have to.”

Arashi squinted. “So you fight… for food money?”

Naruto choked on a laugh. “Well, kinda, yeah. Missions. We do stuff—guard people, deliver things, sometimes bigger stuff—and then we get paid.”

The boy leaned back on his hands, considering. Sparks crackled faintly at his fingertips, harmless little pops. “Sounds like a weird job.”

Naruto snorted. “You’re telling me.”

Arashi tilted his head again, thoughtful. “…Do I have to be a shinobi too?”

The question hit harder than Naruto expected. He opened his mouth, shut it, then grinned softer. “Only if you want to. You can be anything, Arashi. Shinobi, painter, storm-maker… whatever suits you.”

Arashi didn’t answer right away. He just studied Naruto’s face like he was testing if he meant it. Finally, he nodded once, satisfied, and went back to balancing chopsticks.

Naruto exhaled, leaning back on his palms. Maybe this wasn’t so temporary after all.

Naruto watched the chopsticks wobble, thinking, then scratched at the back of his head. “Hey, Arashi… you remember anything? Before the office shoved you at me?”

The boy froze, sparks flickering faintly around his fingertips. His storm-colored eyes slid sideways, not meeting Naruto’s.

“…Not much,” he said finally. His voice was matter-of-fact, too even for someone so small. “Not my mama. Not my papa.”

Naruto’s chest tightened. He stayed quiet, waiting.

Arashi shrugged, eyes still on the tower. “I remember… families. A few. I stayed with them after the war. But… none of them wanted me.” He said it like he was talking about the weather. Just another fact.

The chopsticks toppled in a clatter. He didn’t even flinch.

Naruto reached out before he could think, steadying the boy’s shoulder. “Tch. Their loss. If they couldn’t see how strong you are, how much storm you’ve got in you—then that’s on them. Not you.”

Arashi blinked up at him, surprised at the sharpness in Naruto’s tone. Sparks fizzled out at his fingertips.

Naruto forced a grin, softer now. “You’re here. You’re eating real food. You’ve got a roof. And… you’ve got me. Even if it’s just temporary.”

Arashi studied him for a long moment, storm-bright gaze unreadable. Then he huffed, flopping back against the floor. “…Temporary Dad’s better than no dad.”

Naruto barked a laugh, even as something tugged deep in his chest. “Cheeky brat.”

But when Arashi leaned just a little closer, resting his head against Naruto’s side, he didn’t push him off.

The apartment was quiet that night. Arashi was asleep, starfished across the futon like usual, and Naruto was sprawled on the floor, staring at the ceiling with his hands folded under his head.

He thought his mind was finally shutting up when a low rumble stirred in his chest.

“Are you intent on overlooking those sparks on that kid’s fingertips?”

Naruto stiffened. Kurama’s voice hadn’t rumbled in his head like that in weeks. Not unless something truly bothered him.

Naruto closed his eyes. Not now, fuzzball.

“Don’t ignore me.” The fox’s growl vibrated through his ribs. “Kid’s got chakra. You saw it yourself. More than chakra — it’s patterned. Elemental. You really think those sparks are just cute tricks?”

Naruto’s throat worked, but no answer came out.

Kurama snorted. “Hn. Thought so.”

Naruto rolled onto his side, watching Arashi’s small frame twitch in sleep, one hand curled near his cheek, faint flickers of static jumping off his fingers even unconscious. Sparks in the dark.

He pressed his lips together. “He’s just a kid,” he whispered.

Kurama’s reply was sharp, unyielding. “He’s a shinobi waiting to happen. Whether you want it or not.”

Naruto dragged the blanket higher over Arashi’s shoulder, jaw tight. He didn’t answer.

It didn’t happen every night. Kakashi still vanished into the Tower most days, buried under meetings and reports Naruto wanted no part of. But every so often, when he finished early enough to see the sun before it dipped, he appeared at Naruto’s door with the same casual knock.

Sometimes it was a grocery bag balanced in one hand. Other times, a box of skewered dango dangling from his fingers.

The first time, Arashi’s storm-colored eyes lit up brighter than Naruto had ever seen. “Handsome Kakashi-sensei brought sweets?”

Naruto groaned. “He’s just Kakashi! Stop with the handsome!”

Kakashi’s eyes crinkled as he set the dango down on the table. “No need to correct the important part.”

From then on, Arashi decided dango was his favorite food in the entire world. He’d perch at the table like a king on his throne, waiting with barely-contained sparks in his fingertips until Kakashi passed him a skewer.

And it wasn’t just the dango. The fridge slowly shifted under Kakashi’s influence, too. Fresh greens, rice polished and neatly bagged, fish wrapped in paper instead of the mystery leftovers Naruto always forgot about.

Naruto grumbled about it, of course. He’d mutter under his breath about “masked intruders rearranging his kitchen” while stirring the pan. But Arashi’s grin — cheeks stuffed with warm dango — made it impossible to actually complain.

And when Kakashi slid into the chair across from them, sleeves rolled, chopsticks in hand, the little apartment didn’t feel cramped anymore. It felt… lived in.

Naruto stood stiff in front of the mission desk, scroll in hand, storm-colored eyes darting nervously toward the seat where Arashi was sprawled with his coloring scraps.

“You’re the only one who can do it,” Shikamaru said flatly, arms crossed. “Short range, high chakra stamina, unpredictable terrain. This has you written all over it.”

“Yeah, yeah, but—” Naruto gestured helplessly at Arashi. “What about him? I can’t just leave him here alone.”

Kakashi leaned casually against the wall, flipping a page of his little orange book. “I’ll take him.”

Naruto blinked. “Take him… where?”

“My office.” Kakashi snapped the book shut, eyes curving. “It’s quiet. He can sit at the table while I work.”

Naruto squinted, unconvinced. “…The office.”

Before he could protest, Arashi piped up from the futon, voice sharp and certain. “I’ll behave.”

Both men turned. The kid didn’t even look up from his scribbles, just said it like a contract.

Naruto groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. “Tch. Fine. But if he burns down the Tower, that’s on you, Kakashi-sensei.”

Kakashi’s eyes glinted. “Noted.”

By midday, the Hokage’s office looked nothing like usual.

Kakashi sat at the head of the conference table, files spread before him, pen moving with steady precision. At the far end, Arashi sat cross-legged in an oversized chair, tongue sticking out in concentration as he drew swirls and jagged lightning bolts on a stack of scrap parchment.

One aide entered with reports, glanced at the boy, and froze. “…Is that—?”

Arashi glanced up, storm-colored eyes sharp. “…Hi.”

The aide’s face melted. “ADORABLE.” Papers slipped everywhere.

The second aide came in moments later, and then a third. Soon the room buzzed with muffled squeals and conspiratorial whispers as grown shinobi tried (and failed) to sneak peeks at the little boy sketching storms.

“Whose child is this?” someone whispered.

The answer came from the back, from one of the frazzled administrative clerks who had been juggling Arashi weeks ago. She pushed her glasses up her nose, resigned. “Uzumaki-san’s. Temporarily. Hokage-sama is assisting.”

The room went dead silent for three seconds. Then it erupted.

“Uzumaki has a kid?!”
“And the Hokage helps watch him?!”
“They’re raising him together?!”

Arashi hummed, oblivious, and added another jagged lightning bolt to his picture.

Kakashi didn’t look up from his paperwork. “Keep your voices down.”

By the end of the day, the Hokage’s Tower was no longer the quiet seat of governance. It was a hive of muffled whispers, wide eyes, and poorly concealed smiles.

Reports were delivered with suspicious eagerness, messengers lingered too long in doorways, and aides invented flimsy excuses to pass through the conference room just to “check the Hokage’s schedule” — which was code for catching another glimpse of the boy at the table, scribbling storms beside his guardian.

Every clerk in the building now knew the story. Uzumaki Naruto had taken in a child. Hokage-sama himself was helping raise him.

No one dared spread it beyond the Tower walls. Not yet. But in the narrow hallways and paper-stacked offices, it was gospel truth.

Shikamaru stood in Kakashi’s doorway, arms crossed, watching the hum of gossip flow like wildfire. “You need to put a lid on this before it blows up.”

Kakashi didn’t look up from his file. “Isn’t that your administrative role?”

Shikamaru groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Troublesome.”

Behind him, Arashi hummed to himself, adding another jagged lightning bolt to his paper, utterly unbothered.

Naruto bolted down the street, mission dust still clinging to his jacket, stomach growling loud enough to scare cats out of the alleyways. He was late. He hated being late — especially after promising Arashi he’d be back in time for dinner.

When he skidded to a stop outside Ichiraku, he blinked.

There, at the counter, sat Arashi. Feet swinging off the stool, chopsticks in hand, a storm-colored grin bright as the lanterns. And right beside him — relaxed as if this was the most natural thing in the world — Kakashi. Mask tugged just enough to eat, one hand lazily turning a page in his book while the other rested on the counter, steady and sure.

Teuchi beamed when Naruto stumbled in. “Oi, you’re late, Naruto! Don’t worry, Kakashi-san’s been keeping him company.”

Arashi waved his chopsticks. “Temporary Dad, you missed it. Handsome Kakashi-sensei bought me ramen.”

Naruto sputtered, face heating as he squeezed onto the stool beside them. “Don’t call him that—! And Kakashi-sensei, what the hell, you couldn’t wait?!”

Kakashi’s eyes curved. “Dinner waits for no man. Especially not growing storms.”

Arashi nodded solemnly, slurping noodles with gusto. “He’s right.”

Naruto groaned, dropping his forehead onto the counter. “Kami, you two are already ganging up on me.”

But when Teuchi set a steaming bowl in front of him, Naruto lifted his head — and for a moment, he just watched. Arashi content beside Kakashi, laughter bubbling in the warm glow of Ichiraku’s lanterns. A sight that felt… right.

Too right.

Kakashi glanced sidelong at him, as if he knew exactly what he was thinking. “You’re late, Naruto. But you’re here. That’s what matters.”

Naruto’s chest tightened. He grinned anyway, chopsticks snapping apart. “…Tch. Don’t get used to it.”

Arashi rolled his eyes, mouth full of noodles. “Perfect again.”

The night air was cool, lanterns swaying overhead as they left Ichiraku behind. Naruto walked between them, hands flying as he reenacted the day’s mission with far more flair than reality probably deserved.

“—and then the boar was this big,” he declared, stretching his arms as wide as the street. “Tusks like spears, charging straight at me! I barely dodged in time—”

Arashi gasped, eyes wide, clinging to Kakashi’s sleeve. “What happened next?”

Naruto grinned, basking in the attention. “Well, I leapt right over it—midair, like whoosh!—and slammed it down with one punch!” He mimed the strike, nearly tripping over a cobblestone in the process.

Kakashi’s eyes crinkled above his mask. “Funny. The mission report only mentioned a stray piglet.”

Naruto whipped around, scandalized. “Oi! Don’t ruin the story!”

Arashi giggled, sparks crackling faintly at his fingertips. “Temporary Dad fought a piglet!”

Naruto groaned, but the boy’s laughter was worth it.

By the time they turned onto Naruto’s street, Arashi’s energy had faded into soft yawns. His head lolled against Kakashi’s shoulder, fists unclenching, sparks dying away as sleep pulled him under.

Naruto slowed, watching the sight with a strange, quiet ache. Kakashi carried the boy with practiced ease, one arm steady at his back, step unhurried. Like he’d done it a hundred times. Like he was meant to.

At the apartment door, Naruto rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly awkward. “…Guess he wore himself out.”

Kakashi adjusted his hold just slightly, careful not to wake the boy. “Or maybe he just trusts us enough to sleep.”

Naruto blinked, throat tight. “Yeah. Too much for temporary, huh?”

Kakashi only smiled. “Yeah.” As they stepped inside the house.

Kakashi eased Arashi down onto the futon, tucking the blanket up to his chin. The boy mumbled once, sparks flickering at his fingertips, then melted back into sleep.

Behind him, Naruto peeled off his mission jacket, dirt streaked across the fabric. He stretched with a groan. “Sensei, you sleeping over?” The question was tossed out so casually it could’ve been mistaken for nothing at all. He disappeared into the washroom before Kakashi could answer.

Kakashi glanced around the one-room apartment. The futon already occupied by a small storm, Naruto’s spare bedding folded against the wall. He hadn’t planned to stay. His life was built on leaving, on not lingering where he wasn’t meant to.

Still, his hands moved without waiting for his mind. The spare futon unrolled neatly against the wall. The closet door slid open.

Kakashi paused.

His clothes. A shirt. Sweatpants. Even an old flak vest he’d lost years ago.

The corner of his mouth curved under the mask. So that’s where they went.

He tugged one of the shirts free, the fabric soft from too many washings, faintly carrying Naruto’s scent. He folded it over his arm, glanced once toward the washroom where water was running, and let out a low hum.

“…It’ll do,” he murmured.

By the time Naruto emerged, hair damp and sticking up worse than ever, Kakashi was already settled on the unrolled futon. Arashi snored softly between them, sparks dim and harmless against the blanket, only to freeze when he spotted Kakashi sitting neatly on the spare futon, one of his old shirts folded at the edge.

“Oi—” Naruto grinned wide, not guilty in the slightest. “See? Told you I was just keeping those safe. For this occasion.”

Kakashi’s eyes curved, unimpressed. “How thoughtful of you.”

Naruto plopped down anyway, dropping the towel on the back of a chair. He stretched like a cat, then, without hesitation, padded across the room and flopped straight onto Kakashi’s futon.

Kakashi raised a brow. “That’s mine.”

“Mm,” Naruto hummed, already burrowing into the blanket. “You try sleeping with Arashi tonight.”

Kakashi’s gaze flicked to the boy sprawled on Naruto’s futon, limbs splayed at impossible angles. Even in sleep, one hand twitched, little sparks crackling against the blanket.

Naruto grinned, eyes half-lidded. “Kid’s got a mean left kick. Shin, stomach, doesn’t matter. I’ve been black and blue all week.”

Kakashi stared at him for a long moment, then at the boy. He exhaled through his nose, long-suffering. “…Convenient.”

Naruto tucked the blanket higher with a smug little huff. “Damn right. Sweet dreams, sensei.”

Kakashi left to wash up and when he returned, he stretched out beside Arashi, expecting the storm. Sure enough, within minutes, a small heel thumped against his shin, followed by an elbow sharp enough to bruise. Sparks flickered faintly at the boy’s fingertips, scattering harmlessly across the blanket.

Naruto smirked from his futon, already half-asleep but smug. “Told ya.”

Kakashi didn’t flinch. Instead, he tugged the blanket higher, tucking it firm around Arashi’s shoulders and legs until the boy was snugged in tight. The twitching eased, sparks dimming to faint snaps.

Then Kakashi shifted, sliding sideways across the tatami — away from Arashi’s kicks and almost onto Naruto’s futon. He ended up in the middle, the kid safely cocooned on one side, Naruto glaring at him on the other.

Naruto cracked one eyes open, scowling. “Oi, don’t come near me. You’re spoiling my fun. You need to suffer like I did.”

Kakashi’s eyes curved, voice low. “Hn. No.”

Naruto huffed, flopping onto his back, muttering, “Cheater.”

But Kakashi only settled in, arms folded behind his head, gaze sliding between the boy bundled in blankets and the man sulking beside him.

“You know,” he said after a beat, “this isn’t so different from genin days.”

Naruto blinked, drowsy. “…What?”

“You used to kick in your sleep too. Elbows. Knees. Worse than him, honestly.” Kakashi tilted his head toward the cocooned boy. “Arashi’s practically polite in comparison.”

Naruto’s lips twitched, memory tugging faintly through the haze. “I smell exaggeration though.”

Kakashi hummed, the sound soft in the quiet room. And lying there in the middle, with one storm subdued and another only half-tamed, he couldn’t help thinking: maybe father and son weren’t so far off.

Sunlight crept in through the thin curtains, warm across the tatami. Kakashi was already awake, lying still in the middle futon, one arm folded behind his head.

On his right, Arashi stirred, hair a mess, storm-colored eyes blinking open. On his left, Naruto had somehow migrated in his sleep, plastered shamelessly against Kakashi’s side, one arm draped over his chest like they’d done this a thousand times.

Kakashi exhaled quietly. He should have shifted him off. He didn’t.

Arashi yawned, rubbed his eyes, and blinked at him blearily. Then, without preamble, the boy said, “Well. At least Dad number two is awake.”

Kakashi’s brow lifted. “…Dad number two?”

Arashi flopped back onto his pillow, shrugging. “Temporary Dad’s still drooling on you. Somebody’s gotta be number two.”

Kakashi glanced down at Naruto, who snored softly against his shoulder, lips parted in blissful ignorance. His mask hid the small curve of his mouth, but his eyes gave him away.

“…Hn. Number two, then.”

Arashi smirked, sparks flickering lazily between his fingers. “Better than temporary.”

Kakashi hummed in agreement, careful not to move, careful not to disturb the arm draped across his chest. Then added, “You're good at negotiations, huh?” Rhetorically, of course.

Arashi grinned.

Kakashi tilted his head toward the boy. “Hungry?”

Arashi nodded, sparks flicking once between his fingertips before fading.

Carefully, Kakashi eased himself out from under Naruto’s arm. The blond grumbled but didn’t wake, rolling deeper into the blanket with a snore.

“Let him sleep in,” Kakashi murmured, straightening. “He had a mission yesterday.”

Arashi tilted his head, watching Naruto drool onto the pillow. “…He always sleeps like that?”

Kakashi’s eyes curved. “Worse, sometimes. You’ll see.”

The boy snickered.

Kakashi held out a hand. “Come on. We’ll make breakfast. Quietly. When he wakes up, it’ll be ready.”

Arashi slipped his small hand into Kakashi’s, sparks warm against his palm. For once, he didn’t argue.

Together, they padded toward the kitchenette, leaving Naruto to sprawl in the morning light, still oblivious to the storm he’d let into his life.

The pan hissed as Kakashi tipped oil into it, steady and unhurried. Arashi sat perched on a chair dragged up to the counter, feet kicking idly against the wood.

“Wash the greens,” Kakashi instructed.

Arashi obeyed, small hands clumsy but careful, sparks flickering only once before he caught himself. Kakashi gave him a nod of approval and showed him how to pat them dry with a cloth.

“Cooking’s just like training,” Kakashi said, voice easy. “Patience first. Precision second. You rush, you ruin it.”

Arashi wrinkled his nose. “But eating is faster.”

Kakashi’s eyes curved. “Fair point.”

They worked in companionable silence for a few minutes—vegetables chopped, rice simmering, the air filling with warmth. Arashi watched every move closely, storm-colored eyes darting from Kakashi’s knife hand to the pan like he was memorizing it all.

Then, casually, like he was asking about the weather, the boy said, “So… who are you in Temporary Dad’s life?”

Kakashi paused mid-stir, spoon hovering over the pan. His mask hid the twitch of his mouth, but his hand betrayed him—just slightly, the spoon clattered against the pan’s edge. “…Excuse me?”

Arashi tilted his head, perfectly serious. “You bring groceries. You make dinner. You stay over. You don’t yell at him like the office people do. So… who are you?”

Kakashi blinked. Of all the questions he’d prepared for—chakra, training, why the mask—this was not one of them.

“…I’m… your Temporary Dad’s…” His voice faltered, rare hesitation crackling in the space. “…friend.”

Arashi raised a skeptical brow that looked far too old for his face. “Just a friend?”

Kakashi cleared his throat, focusing very intently on the vegetables. “A… close friend.”

Arashi leaned his chin on his hand, studying him like a puzzle. “…Close enough to steal his futon.”

Kakashi coughed into his fist. “Finish washing those greens.”

The boy smirked, storm-colored eyes sparking in amusement, but said nothing more. For now.

The rice finished steaming, vegetables glistened in the pan, and the kitchen smelled warm and clean. Kakashi set the plates neatly on the table while Arashi leaned forward on the chair, practically vibrating with impatience.

Kakashi poured tea into two cups, then crouched just enough to meet the boy’s eye. “Alright. Mission complete. Breakfast is ready.”

Arashi grinned, sparks flickering at his fingertips.

Kakashi’s gaze softened. “Go wake your dad.”

The boy slid off the chair, feet padding quick across the tatami. He crouched beside the futon, storm-colored eyes glittering mischief as he poked at Naruto’s cheek.

“Dad,” Arashi whispered. Then louder: “Dad. Breakfast. Handsome Kakashi-sensei made it.”

Naruto groaned into the pillow, hair sticking up at wild angles, face buried against the blanket. “…’m not hungry…”

Arashi poked harder. “Too bad. Dad number two says so.”

Naruto cracked one eyes open, bleary and offended. “Oi—what do you mean Dad number two?!”

From the table, Kakashi’s eyes curved, amusement hidden in steam rising off the tea.

Naruto stumbled after Arashi, hair still damp from sleep, scowl firmly in place. “Oi, Kakashi-sensei—what are you teaching him?”

Kakashi didn’t look up from the pan as he set the last of the food onto the table. “Cooking. He’s great at taking instructions. Unlike someone I know.”

Naruto groaned. “I’m not talking about that!”

Kakashi finally turned, eyes curving with mild amusement. “Oh. The ‘Daddy number two’ thing?”

“Yes, exactly that!” Naruto waved an accusatory hand.

Kakashi shrugged, perfectly calm. “He decided that himself.”

Arashi, already climbing into his chair, nodded firmly. “Yup.”

Naruto threw his hands in the air, exasperated. “Unbelievable! You can’t just let him—fine! If you’re Daddy number two, then you should share responsibilities. Groceries, meal prep, late-night baths, the whole deal!”

Kakashi and Arashi both turned to him in perfect unison, deadpan.

“I am already doing those,” Kakashi said.

“He is already doing those,” Arashi echoed.

Naruto blinked between them, mouth opening, then closing again. “…This is mutiny.”

Kakashi sipped his tea, unconcerned. “Breakfast is getting cold.”

Arashi smirked, sparks flickering at his fingertips as he dug into his food.

Naruto groaned, slumping into his chair. Somehow, he’d lost control of his own kitchen—and his own title.