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Fourteen years old, and Kakashi realises that his most treasured possessions belong to the dead. His father’s tantō, a faithful blade, shattered and sealed away in pieces under his bed. Obito’s eye, a bloody moon that ever-watches his failures, black tomoe spinning like koi in a circular, red world. Rin’s favourite bracelet; her heart torn out by Kakashi’s hand.
And now this - a square of fabric folded on Kakashi’s desk, no note attached, no lingering chakra signature. He doubts Lord Third delivered it personally, meaning an ANBU slipped in while he was out of the village, bypassing every trap and then setting them again, disturbing nothing. Kakashi stares at the ‘gift’ through the narrowed eyes of his mask, the in-built sensory seals amplifying the midnight quiet; the sound of his breath, almost silent, and Konoha’s muffled slumber in the snow. He stands in his bedroom doorway until the nausea subsides, and then he spins into the bathroom and throws up anyway, barely remembering to remove both of his masks in time.
Minato’s cloak is still there once Kakashi creeps back into the room. He tries to ignore it. He peels off his gloves with shaking hands and tosses them, bloodied, into the laundry basket. The mission was a run-of-the-mill reconnaissance in the Land of Mist. Just him and two others, a small team. An effective team. Kakashi feared he would be out-of-practice after his relatively tame bout of guard duty during Kushina’s pregnancy, but his body knows the motions, his hands remember how to kill. Assassination is what he’s good at. War is all he knows.
He changes out of his ANBU blacks and sets the armour aside to scrub. The mask he seals away until the next mission. His hands won’t stop shaking. Even bare-faced as he is now, it feels as though he’s Hound. There was once a time where he could remove his mask and be Kakashi again, but now he isn’t so sure. He doesn’t know if he wants to be Kakashi; Kakashi is a failure of a student, a friend, a teammate, a son. Hound is none of those things. Hound is whatever Konoha needs.
Minato's cloak lies unmoved. The black lettering runs over the crease like blood dripping onto the desk. Kakashi steps closer, placing a hand on the back of the chair, bracing himself beside the desk. He reaches out to unfold the cloak, but his fingers fall short, tracing a groove in the wood instead. He can't do it. Minato died wearing this. Kakashi doesn't remember much from that night, but he remembers Minato and Kushina dead in the safehouse, butchered in fire and blood.
“Hey kid, you should get some sleep.”
Kakashi turns to Pakkun, sitting in the doorway and casting a small shadow into the front room. He sent Pakkun to confirm with Lord Third that they’d returned, Kakashi remembers, feeling the mission adrenaline ebbing away. That doesn’t explain why Pakkun’s here now, though, although Kakashi can probably guess. He’s one of the more nosey dogs; the others probably would’ve de-summoned themselves away as soon as the mission was done.
“I don’t need to be babysat, Pakkun,” he says, although sleep is the last thing on his mind. He passes most nights awake, desperate for sleep but transfixed by his thoughts. Sometimes he paces, and sometimes he dreams without closing his eyes. Barely a month has passed since the Nine-Tails attack. Its chakra lingers over the village like a plague. Much of the west district and the surrounding forest were destroyed. Civilians, shinobi, and animals alike have been displaced from their homes, seeking refuge by the river and underneath the wise eyes of the Hokage Rock. Konoha is weak right now and the early winter is a testament to her grief. It’s November and already snow packs the streets. The nights are cold and dark and nightmarishly endless. Kakashi’s almost glad for the back-to-back missions if only to escape this place; he can hardly remember what happiness feels like - the lift of content, the sigh of relief. These terrible months since Minato’s death (Rin’s, Obito’s) may go on for years and years and years.
“Think I’ll decide that for myself,” Pakkun replies, plodding in like an old dog far beyond his years. He stares at the edge of the bed for a full minute before attempting the jump. Kakashi counts the spots of lightning-damage on his ceiling while he waits for the Pakkun to settle. “Bed’s comfy.”
Kakashi exhales through his nose. “Go home, Pakkun.”
Pakkun curls up on the duvet. “Whatcha say, kid? I'm deaf to stupidity.”
Arguing with his stubborn summon is pointless. Kakashi shakes his head and unfolds Minato’s cloak before he can second-guess himself. It fuwops open and gathers in a heap at his feet. Longer than he is tall, the sleeves gape open like the sky over Konoha dumping its snow. The fiery border along the bottom looks like blood across the floor. There is blood on the cloak, a great splattering of it under Kakashi’s hands. It’s dry. He rubs the fabric between his fingers, peeling apart the gigantic tear across the middle. It’s large enough to fit his arm through - both of them. Bile wets his mouth. This killed Minato - whatever caused this damage. Something had torn straight through him and gorged his chest apart.
Was it instantaneous? Had he suffered? Had he laid dying in his own pool of blood like -
Pain zips up his leg. Kakashi starts, his leg tearing free from Pakkun’s jaws. He trips over the end of the cloak and lands hard, the shock jolting him back to reality.
“You’re tired, kid, go to bed,” Pakkun says, although Kakashi is anything but right now. His heart is thundering, adrenaline or panic or both twitching under his skin. He would close his eyes to calm himself, but he fears who he will see. Rin haunts him in his waking moments; Sakumo in his sleep. He sees Obito through the world of red, and now all that’s left of Minato is the shadow of who Kakashi can never be.
Pakkun tugs the cloak free. “I’m not gonna tear it,” he grumbles when Kakashi only clutches tighter, his little forehead wrinkling with disapproval. “Don’t tempt me though.”
“You’re all talk,” Kakashi drawls, but it still takes him a moment to let go. He almost snatches it back immediately, but true to his word, Pakkun is careful as he drags it under the desk. It’s not quite where Kakashi would’ve put it, but Pakkun is small and vertically challenged.
Kakashi feels himself smile. He scrubs a hand over his eyes and up into his hair. He’s stopped shaking. Outside, a new layer of snow starts to gather on the windowsill. He watches it freeze onto the glass instead of watching Pakkun with the cloak. “You couldn’t put it on the chair?”
Pakkun huffs. His glower is probably lethal - if Kakashi could look at it. “Bite me.”
“And get fur in my mouth? No thanks.”
“Your problem, not mine.” The bed creaks as Pakkun jumps back onto it. He circles the same spot as before, settling down with his head on his paws. He doesn’t beckon Kakashi over this time, but he doesn’t have to.
Kakashi drags himself up from the floor. He almost glances over to the cloak - to the blood, to all he has left of his sensei - but Pakkun rolling onto his back distracts him. Any other dog would invite Kakashi to pet it, but Pakkun demands it. When he sticks his beany paws up in the air, there’s nothing Kakashi can do but oblige. He joins Pakkun on the bed.
“You’re spoiled.”
“I know,” Pakkun says, kicking him. “Hurry up.”
It doesn’t hurt at all but Kakashi rolls his eyes. He curls up and belly-rubs his stupid, brilliant dog until they both fall asleep, the snow blanketing Konoha and everything to be seen.