I Shall Not Want

A/N: Sorry this took so long; the chapters are coming in drips and drabs instead of a flood, or even a trickle. But they're still coming, at least. I hope you enjoy this.

Rainbows and rain barrels to the betas, of which I actually had four this time—bronzetigress, kita_the_spaz, venusian_eye and cjandre.


Part 11: Bosom friends

Three days later, Iruka has the afternoon off from the station, and he spends it doing recon on the streets. He's woolgathering more than observing, though, thinking about the riots again. No one at the police station is even talking about the riots anymore. The damage was mostly in the slums, but Zorossi are not solely Dalits, and two temples in more affluent parts of town were assaulted by the Bandu. The temples were not completely destroyed as the Bandu temple was, but the damage toll overall—including body count—was far, far greater for the Zorossi.

What gets Iruka's blood up is the complete lack of concern by any public figure associated with the police department over the officers' apparent complicity in the Bandu rioting, which is still persisting in pockets around the city. Iruka's patrol was not the only one that encountered rioting that first day, and they were not the only ones who stood by and did nothing. Iruka is not surprised that the only police who actually get involved in trying to control the rioting are in the wealthier parts of town. There are often police in full riot gear in places where there is no rioting at all. And yet, apart from one small circular read almost exclusively by Zorossi, no one is up in arms; there aren’t going to be any upheavals, or even trials. The Director General refers to the rioting as 'a lamentable example of extremism' and promises—emptily, Iruka suspects—that 'steps will be taken to ensure such violence is kept under control in the future.' All in all, it seems like the incidents of this week will all be swept under the rug, and there isn't a thing Iruka can do about it.

The aftermath has left Iruka feeling very sullen and rebellious. Childish, almost, though he continues to try to keep his mind on his mission. Jackal was back before Iruka even woke up the morning after the riots; Iruka is still disgusted with him. He's disgusted with Dagon, and with ANBU as well, with the whole mindset that forced him to sit by and watch such a horrible scene as though it was a movie. He hasn't even tried to call Dagon up since the riots, though Schuldig and Hydra have repeatedly warned him that leaving himself vulnerable—not putting on the mask, so to speak—is a bad idea. He agrees in a way, and he doesn't intend to fail this mission; he's still determined to be the best ANBU he can be, but...he just needs time. Time he doesn't really have, since he's on the job already, but since there is nothing imperative going on, he makes the time. If something happens, he will force himself into Dagon, but until then, Iruka's taking the opportunity to adjust.

If he's honest with himself, it's not his disgust with Dagon that keeps him from assuming that alter ego. Iruka feels fragmented, fragile as glass. He's not sure what would happen if the glass shattered, and he doesn't want to find out, for the sake of the mission and otherwise. It's only his connection with Kakashi, through the bond and through their bodies, that makes him feel remotely sane. He's always thought of sex as restorative, and having sex with Kakashi glued at least some of the fragments back together. If he calls on Dagon, who is—at least theoretically—unconnected, he'll lose what little is keeping Iruka together. The results of that would be a psychological experiment he's not interested in implementing.

Kakashi, genius that he is, would understand all of that. Jackal perhaps understands as well, which is why he hasn't pushed Iruka to summon up Dagon. At least, Iruka hopes that's why. Jackal, cold and unforthcoming as ever, would never discuss it with him. He just maintains an air of professional disdain, and Iruka can almost hear him tapping his foot with impatience as Iruka struggles to pull it all together. At least Jackal seems to understand that forceful, outspoken censure would not be helpful in this case. Iruka is grateful for the window, but he knows it won't last.

Not for the first time, and certainly not the last, he wishes he could talk to Sandaime. The old man always seemed to know just what to say to get Iruka to the place he needed to be, wherever it was. Now, without even Kakashi to talk to, he feels rudderless. He considers talking to Hydra or Schuldig about his thoughts, just to try and sort them out, but he doesn't feel comfortable enough with either of them. Not with something this personal, anyway.

As far as the mission goes, they've got a few suspects: the Director General, a local mafioso named Mohinder Takatori, a foreign arms dealer named David Quinto and one of the Wind Daimyo's ambassadors, Nasu Yuuko. Iruka and Jackal are investigating the Director General, since he's the head of all Kurocha's security and they already have an in. Nagi and Hydra are looking into Takatori and Nasu, since they have each danced for at least one of them already and can track them easily. Schuldig and Jei are looking into David Quinto, who is proving to be the most elusive of their possible targets.

Jackal has his doubts that their target is actually included in their short list of suspects, though. The technologies that the guerrilla forces sport are very advanced, very expensive, and would need a lot of time and possibly a lot of manpower to duplicate. He can't think of a reason the Director General would commission that kind of hardware if he wasn't going to use it openly; he can't see why Takatori and Quinto would commission the hardware if they weren't going to sell it, which they have not, according to their sources. He can't see what possible use Nasu Yuuko would have for that sort of technology, unless—again—she was going to sell it somehow. There's definitely a market for the glass chakra-masking cloaking device, at the very least, but it hasn't appeared in any markets, open, governmental or black.

Not only that, but their suspects' ties to Sunagakure are tenuous at best, and nonexistent—as far as they can tell—at worst. The Director General displays a thin veneer of deference toward Gaara, poorly masking a deep-running contempt which seems to be more historically based than personally or politically. Kurocha's Director Generals have flouted the Kazekage in the past, never openly, but through subterfuge and sowing dissension. It is very unlikely they would take a course of action directly against Suna, even if it is guerrilla. Iruka has been too distracted to pay attention to the particulars of the history of politics in Kurocha, a subject he'd normally be fascinated by, which has him in an even worse mood.

Just to put icing on his cheer-deficient cake, Jackal has taken their precinct captain out to a late-afternoon dinner in an effort to wrangle info about the Director General from her. The Director General is a second-cousin of hers, and in Kurocha that's practically immediate family, so she's a decent source. Jackal might sleep with her to get the information, and Iruka doesn't think that would really hurt—everyone he knows, including himself, has had sex for a mission at one time or another—but he doesn't appreciate the notion. He doesn't think it's likely that the precinct captain will fall in love with Lieutenant Janak; she doesn't seem like that kind of woman. But sometimes people get more involved than they mean to. He's not particularly fond of the precinct captain, but he doesn't want her to be hurt, either.

At least he doesn't have to worry about Lieutenant Janak getting too involved, he thinks wryly.

He looks up from where he's aimlessly wandering the streets, watching some pigeons flocking by overhead. Someone ahead of him gets pigeon poop on their arm, and stealthily wipes it on a passer-by. That makes him smile in spite of himself, reminding him a little of Naruto.

He smiles a little wider, his heart hurting a bit as he reminds himself what Naruto would have done in his place, if he had been at the riots: of course, he would not have let a single person die. He would have charged in like the blazing sun, without worrying about cover, and saved everyone. He probably would have made a speech that would have had the Bandu and the Zorossi putting aside their age-old feuds and hugging each other by the end of it. When confronted with the fact that their cover was completely blown, it wouldn't have bothered him. He would have charged full-steam ahead, tearing apart buildings and finding strange friends in weird places who would eventually lead him right to the instigator of all their troubles, and then somehow render him unable to cause any more mischief without actually killing him.

Iruka shakes his head. Things only seem to work like that for Naruto. If anyone else tried something like that...well, people have, Iruka knows. They're all dead now.

Even so...even so, he wishes he could follow Naruto's example more than he did three days ago. He wishes he could be the sun, sometimes, lighting up the darkness the way that kid always does. He doesn't feel anything like the sun right now; he feels more like a cornered skunk, like anything he does to extricate himself from this trapped feeling is going to stink.

Looking up, he happens to see a group of young kids in an alleyway not too far away—he thinks they're Dalits. From the looks of it, they're being tormented by a couple of adult men, one of whom appears to be holding a dead cat. He can't tell if the adults are Dalits or not. He can't really tell what's going on, but he can tell the kids are scared, and the men are gesturing with increasing violence.

::Fuck it,:: he thinks, ::I'm not on duty.:: Even if he had been on duty, he doesn't think he'd be able to stand idly by once again while someone got hurt, not without Dagon. But as he begins making his way through the sparse crowd to get to the alley, he sees a man go into the alleyway and start to talk with the men. He can't quite see—the alley is dim—but he thinks some money changes hands. Not knowing what that implies, he hurries, but by the time he gets to the alley the two men are walking off, and the new stranger is bending over to speak to the kids, one of whom—a little girl—is crying.

He can't quite read the situation, so he hides himself behind an overflowing dumpster—apparently there is a garbage collection system in town, one just has to be able to afford it. He tunes out the rest of the world as well as he can, so he can hear what the stranger is telling the children.

“--I'm sure he didn't mean to kill the poor beast, but of course to blame the animal for getting in his way and demanding compensation from you for his dented bicycle is preposterous,” the man is saying, apparently trying to comfort the crying girl, who is holding the dead cat now. “Oh, there, there, don't take on so. I dare say that cat's in a far better place now, though that's not saying much—oh, dear, I'm afraid I'm not such great shakes with children...er, would you like a sweet?” The man reaches into his pocket and pulls out four golden foil-wrapped candies, which the children look at with astonishment. “Go on, help yourselves. I've had too many as it is, as you can see,” he says, patting a belly which, while not fat, is certainly not ninja-flat.

Cautiously, as though they expect the stranger's hand has a bear trap attached to it, they all reach forward and take a candy.

“There you are, there you are,” says the man, straightening up. “I suppose you'd best run along, now,” and Iruka hears him mutter, though the children don't seem to hear, “not as though you've anyplace to be, but there it is.”

The Dalit children look at each other, and then look at the stranger with wide, uncertain eyes. Then, as one, they turn and run down the alley with the air of frightened deer and disappear.

Iruka is bemused by this man's behavior, and more than a little suspicious. He comes out from hiding with a bright smile and approaches him. “That was so nice, what you just did.”

The man startles, turning to face him, and Iruka takes a good look at him: mid-fifties, by the weathering of his face, with messy, shoulder-length, white hair and rumpled, rough cotton clothing. His shirt is light blue, an uncommon color for the adults of the area since it is considered childish. He moves with a slight limp, and his expression is friendly and unguarded, even with someone he doesn't know approaching him. If the strange accent and manner of speaking weren't enough, that alone would reveal him as a foreigner.

“Oh, well, had to be done, really. Where I come from...well. But I'm surprised you would say so, being from around here?” His tone indicates he's already aware that Iruka isn't a local.

“I'm a relative newcomer to this area myself,” Iruka replies, knowing he's skirting dangerous territory.

“I thought so, yes. Otherwise you wouldn't care about a few Dalits, would you?” the man says wryly.

“I care about children,” Iruka firmly replies. “I don't care who they are, even though--” He cuts himself off, wondering why he's come so close to confiding in this man. He needs to watch himself. “I'm Ravi,” he tries, bowing slightly.

“Philip,” says the man, stepping forward and holding out a hand. Iruka reaches for it tentatively, and is caught in a very firm grip, his hand shaken three times vigorously and released. “Pleased to meet someone who actually sees these untouchables. I had given up all hope of humanity in this god-forsaken city.”

“Well, I'm not usually allowed to have humanity,” Iruka admits. “I'm with the police.”

Philip laughs, though Iruka isn't joking. “I hear you, my friend,” he chuckles. “There are times and places for everything. One can't hope to overturn the caste system just by virtue of one's good nature, after all.”

“Is it your hope to overturn the caste system?” Iruka asks, curious.

Philip sighs. “I hope it's abolished, but I really have no hope of doing it myself. Just one man, and all that. I do what I can, when I can. And let me tell you, it doesn't always turn out as well as it did today. I've had more than my fair share of injuries inflicted by degenerate fists and my own self-righteousness.” He makes a half-turn. “But why should we talk in a filthy alleyway like this? Let us sojourn to a rooftop. The air won't be much fresher, but one can see the sky, at least.”

Iruka feels like he ought to refuse, to go on his merry way and forget about this incident, concentrate on recon. But he just can't walk away. The alluring promise of genuine warmth is too much, like a drug he's just quit recently.

He follows Philip up a hidden stairwell onto a third-story rooftop; he thinks it's over a storefront but he isn't certain. Philip's right; the air is no fresher, but it is relatively quiet and he feels slightly more peaceable.

“There we are,” says Philip, “right as rain. I have equated altitude with peace of mind ever since I moved to Kurocha. People tend to congregate on the ground, you see. I don't know why, since it's so much more serene at a height. Serenity doesn't count for as much as it should, I'm afraid.”

“How long have you lived here? I almost thought you were a tourist,” Iruka admits.

“I strive to keep my tourist persona intact, actually,” replies Philip. “I'd rather not be taken for a local, if I can help it. I have more leeway that way; people forgive me my liberal foreign ways. You...it's hard to tell if you're local or not. You might be forgiven for showing compassion to the untouchables, and you might not. If that's something you want to think about, you might try for a more foreign look, more foreign ways about you.”

“It's an option,” Iruka surmises, even though he knows it isn't.

“So...you're a police officer, I got that. But what do you do?” asks Philip, as though the two are mutually exclusive.

Which they are, of course, but Iruka isn't about to admit that. “Do?” he asks, feigning cluelessness. “I am my job, pretty much.”

“And that is just grievous,” replies Philip. “Grievous and heinous. An old soul like you? You must have an outlet of some kind, to relieve the day-to-day sameness of paperwork, patrol, ticket and arrest.”

“Well...what do you do, Philip?” he asks, hoping for a little misdirection.

“I? I am a glass-blower and metaphysical theologist, in my spare time,” Philip announces, as though that should make perfect sense. “When I'm clocked in...well, let's just say I'm a research analyst. It may not be glamorous, but it pays the bills.”

“A...theologian?”

“Theologist, young lad. It's a word when I say it. As Humpty Dumpty said to Alice, 'Impenetrability!'”

Iruka is certain they're speaking the same language, but he can't follow the conversation. “I'm...I don't understand.”

“Ah, quite alright. I suppose it's far too obscure a reference, especially around here. As long as one of us knows what I'm blathering on about, we can have a half-decent conversation.” Philip gazes up at the sun, a breeze blowing his hair about wildly, giving him a distinctly mentally unbalanced look. It's amusing rather than disturbing, though.

“What is a metaphysical theologist?” Iruka asks.

“Well, there are many ways one could define it. As you're young and probably ill-inclined to listen to an old man rambling on about cosmology, epistemology and the fundamental nature of the gods, I'll give you the short version. My own area of specialty is the divinity of the soul.”

“Divinity? You believe every soul is divine?”

“I do believe that, yes. Souls are immortal, my friend, and immortality is an aspect of divinity. Not to say that every person on Earth is a god, but our souls are inextricable from the gods. Apart and a part, if you take my meaning.” He leans close to Iruka, as though imparting a great secret. “I'm not just waxing philosophical, my friend; I have seen irrefutable proof of this.”

Iruka raises a brow. He's beginning to think the image of this man as unbalanced might not be far off the mark. “You've seen gods and souls.”

“It takes very specialized equipment, but yes, I have. I hear certain ninjas are capable of similar feats, so it's not so daft an idea, is it?”

Pursing his lips, Iruka considers. He supposes the only reason the idea sounded weird was because it came from a civilian. “I suppose it's not out of the realm of possibility, though I've never heard of a ninja that could see gods.” Even as he says that, he remembers a rumor that the shinigami are visible to anyone who can perform the jutsu to call them. But since summoning a shinigami means death to the summoner, he doesn't know if it's true.

“They're all linked—gods, souls, life force, chakra. Inextricable, as I said, but the possibilities for such wonderful manipulations exist! And ninja, who are perhaps more closely linked to divinity than any other human, waste all that potential focusing on fighting each other and creating new ways to blow each other up.” Philip shakes his head. “Tragic, simply tragic. I abhor wasted potential more than anything.” He turns on Iruka, eyes twinkling. “Which is why I must express disbelief that you are nothing more than your job, young man, especially if you are an officer of the law. I don't sense the affliction of wasted potential in you. I flatter myself that I'm rather a good judge of character, and if I had to venture a guess, I would say you're the sort of man who strives to be all he can be.” Philip raises a bushy brow, as though challenging Iruka to say otherwise.

Iruka laughs and scratches the back of his neck. “You've taken my measure, though I don't know what basis you could possibly have for saying that.”

Philip chuckles and pats Iruka's arm. “When you've seen as much as I have, Ravi my lad, you can draw accurate conclusions surprisingly quickly. I should like very much to show you some of what I have seen sometime, if the fates are kind and we should encounter one another again. The labs where I do my research hold many fascinating secrets, if one knows where to look.”

“I would enjoy that as well,” Iruka says, “but in such a large city, I'm afraid the fates are against us.”

“Nonsense,” Philip scoffs. “The larger the city, the smaller the world, I find. You'd be astonished how often, even in a city of ten million or more, you run into the same people again and again. You must have arrived here quite recently if you have not observed this phenomenon yet. You'll see.”

Iruka decides that must be his cue to leave—he really needs to get on with his recon—though he feels surprisingly reluctant to break off their conversation. He's grown quite fond of Philip over the course of their discourse. “I hope you are right,” he says, bowing slightly. “I've really enjoyed speaking with you, but I'm afraid I must be going.”

“No leisure to spend all evening listening to the carrying-on of an old fool? How surprising.” Philip laughs, the sound reminiscent of water falling onto stones. “Thank you for indulging me in a chat, Ravi. Usually I find it difficult to truly speak my mind to a stranger, but I feel we might be kindred spirits in more ways than one, my friend.”

Iruka feels his lips stretching into a more genuine smile than he's sported since before arriving in Kurocha. “I don't know, Philip. Are you a workaholic?”

“If by workaholic you mean obsessive about my work, I am indeed, whether it pays or not,” Philip replies. “And yourself?”

“I run myself ragged as well, I'm afraid.”

“And we both have a soft spot for the little ones.”

Iruka shakes his head sadly with a chuckle. “You could say that.”

“Do your tea preferences lie with rooibos, green, black or white?”

“Such a loaded question,” Iruka says. “Where I come from, the tradition is green, but I really prefer black. There are a lot of interesting varieties of black tea for sale around here, I've found.”

“That settles it,” Philip says, thrusting a fist up to the sky. “We're like two halves of the same coin. Earl Grey over Bancha any day of the week, yes?”

“I'm not familiar with Earl Grey,” Iruka responds thoughtfully. “Ceylon and Assam are favorites of mine.”

“Well, if you like those, I'm certain you'd like Earl Grey. They sell it at the tea and crystal shop over on 146th Avenue; are you familiar with the place?”

Iruka and Kakashi have passed the very shop Philip is talking about several times on their patrols and recon expeditions. “I am. I'll look for it.”

“Make sure to take it with lemon and sugar, or just lemon, if you're not a sweet-lover like myself.”

Iruka chuckles. “Actually, I do like sweet things.”

“Aha! The evidence is piling up, officer. Isn't it odd, how out of millions of people, two with such similar tastes and dispositions should find each other in a dismal alleyway? I'm inclined to believe it's Providence, if such a thing exists.”

“If?” Iruka chuckles. “You've seen gods and souls, but not Providence?”

“Oho, you're teasing me now, are you? Providence is a wily creature, you know, and near-impossible to catch whether she strikes like a lightning bolt or creeps in like fog. If she can be seen, these eyes will see her, you can count on that, Ravi!” Philip is smiling, but there's a manic glint in his eye that makes Iruka think he's only half-joking.

“I have no doubt,” he answers, and is pleased when it sounds earnest.

“And now that the evening is getting late and the night is young, you no doubt have places to go, joy and cheer to spread about the city, what. Didn't you say you had to go just a few minutes ago?”

Iruka laughs, the feeling light and pleasurable in his chest. “I did, and I do, but you've been distracting company. In a very good way.”

Philip leans on the wall that runs along the edge of the roof. “And without invoking the overtones of pederasty, I will return the sentiment. Not that you're not a fine looking specimen of manhood, but I'm rather astonishingly attracted to women, believe it or not.”

Blinking, Iruka says, “I would never have suggested otherwise.” He wonders if Philip has somehow picked up on his bisexuality. He can't imagine how he would have given himself away.

“You'd be surprised how often people do suggest otherwise,” Philip says, sneering a little. “It's this color, I think,” he says, motioning to his shirt. “It's my favorite, but it's not often worn around here. That and the apparent penchant older foreign men have for young boys. They're almost as pretty as the girls, around these parts, really. I suppose one wouldn't necessarily have to be a proponent of Greek love to proposition one.”

“I expect you're right,” Iruka says, wondering how in the world they got on to this topic.

“Well! Now that I've obviously made you quite uncomfortable, I shall give your hand a proper shake and bid you adieu, my friend!” Philip steps forward and grabs one of Iruka's hands, pumping it just as vigorously as before. “I truly hope Providence dictates that we shall run into one another again, hopefully when we have leisure to enjoy a cup of tea and read the migration patterns of the local pedestrians together.”

Iruka squeezes Philip's hand once and lets go, smiling at the thought of the memories he will have of this odd encounter. He doesn't believe for a second that he'll see this man again, which is probably why he's let the conversation extend as long as it has. It feels nice to think that he might have a friend in this awful city. He decides, as long as they're never going to meet again, that he might as well voice this sentiment. “We'll say we each have another friend in the city, then?”

“Naturally, my boy! Friend of my bosom you are, and no less!” He winks, chortling.

Iruka smiles and waves, and then walks to the stairs, descending them without looking back.

*-*-*-*

Footsore and tired, but still in a relatively good mood, Iruka comes home to the apartment and throws himself down on the couch that serves as Jackal's bed. He's enjoying being Iruka at the moment, but he knows he needs to pull himself together and start focusing his attention on being Dagon again soon.

With someone like Philip somewhere in the city, someone who seems oblivious, wise and good-natured all at once, he's far more inclined to try to be Dagon. If there's good in the world somewhere else nearby, he feels better about shutting himself off from it. Perhaps it's self-centered of him, or arrogant, to think of himself—Iruka, not Dagon—as being a force for good, but he can't help but think so. He doesn't know about Kurocha, but he doesn't know of anyone in Konoha who would disagree with that.

He doesn't know if Dagon is a force for good. Dagon is only a force for the Hokage's Will of Fire. He believes Tsunade is good, but she doesn't always have the ability to make decisions that benefit everyone. Hokage have to make terrible decisions, and ANBU have to do terrible things as a result. None of that is up to Iruka or Dagon to decide.

::How are you feeling today, Father Dagon?:: Hydra's voice purrs into his brain softly, like a yawn.

::Better,:: he answers. ::How is your dancing?::

::Better. I am getting more skilled at it. So is Nagi. His telekinesis affords him the ability to do amazing acrobatic feats, which our clients find thrilling. I am trying to imitate some of them, with limited success. We are both getting more and more clients. Even with our masters' cuts, we are making a lot of money. If you and Jackal need anything and you don't want to get it Schuldig's way, we can give you whatever you need.::

Iruka stretches out his arms and legs. The couch is not long enough for him to stretch them all the way out without putting his feet and hands over the armrests. Jackal has to sleep curled up on his side, which he doesn't seem to mind. Not that he'd show it if he did mind. ::We could use a new couch,:: he sends without really meaning to.

::You could move into a nice furnished apartment if you wanted,:: Hydra sends back. ::It is not like Nagi and I have any expenses.::

::No, no, it's better if we stay here, since all the cops live in this area. We're underpaid and overworked, after all. If we move somewhere nice, someone might wonder where we're getting the money and they'll want a piece. At least, that's what I gather from what I've seen so far. And don't worry about the couch, I was just thinking out lo...I was just thinking,:: he finishes lamely.

::I picked up that the couch is too short for Jackal,:: Hydra says, and Iruka winces. It's really hard to keep his thoughts to himself, especially now that he's getting used to projecting them to his colleagues. Hydra generally knows him well enough to know which thoughts he means to send and which he doesn't. ::I will have a new one delivered to you. One that is not nice enough to arouse suspicion.::

Iruka shakes his head. He's too tired to argue. ::Thanks, Mother Hydra.::

::I am happy to look out for you and the captain, Father Dagon,:: Hydra replies, and Iruka is surprised that he can really hear Sai in that sentiment. He hadn't thought there was much difference between Sai and Hydra, but it seems there is a definite distinction.

He hears no more from his alabaster-skinned colleague, and decides both Sai and Hydra have signed out for the evening. Thinking of Sai's complexion, he wonders what it looks like painted in henna, silver, and gold, in the style of dancers, wealthy men and ladies-about-town. Even not so well-to-do women have small designs painted on their cheeks and wrists, the men on their foreheads and biceps, in black or tea-stain. Iruka has always been fond of tattoos and other body art, and he admires the different styles he's seen on the locals.

He could never get a tattoo, of course, other than his ANBU, because ninja like to avoid distinguishing marks. He's still not sure why the ANBU, such proponents of anonymity, brand themselves with such a clear stamp of identity. It's a mark of ownership, in a way—he can understand that—but it's also a mark that says 'Hey, I'm an ANBU!' if one should ever happen to bare an arm in public. Shikamaru caused quite an uproar for a little while because he refused to let himself be marked in the usual location. Iruka doesn't know the details, or why Ibiki compromised for Shikamaru, but Gazelle's tattoo is on the inside of his arm, almost in his armpit. It seems a far more sensible place to Iruka, though he would probably have chosen someplace like the sole of a foot, if he'd thought to challenge the procedure himself.

::Sonnenschein, are you spreading your glow?:: Schuldig asks, and Iruka finds it odd how it seems normal for someone to just start sending messages to his head from out of the blue.

::Didn't I tell you to stick with 'Delphin'?:: Iruka closes his eyes and feels drowsiness creeping up on him.

::But you're my ray of sunshine in this putrid land of plenty,:: Schuldig responds. ::I don't even want to think of what would happen to a dolphin around here, especially if he happened to go into that septic tank of a river.::

::Ugh,:: Iruka agrees with a shudder. ::Fine, call me what you like. You and Hydra, I don't know why I bother trying to argue with you about this.::

::You don't bother, eventually. Obviously.::

::Yeah, I'm a pushover. Rub my face in it.::

::Maybe another time, Dagon m'love. I'm just checking in to see if your sweet fragile heart was broken again today.::

Jackal naturally telepathically informed his colleagues of the events they witnessed on the day of the riots. None of the others were in the thick of it as they were, so Jackal was quite specific in his descriptions of what went on, including Iruka's reaction. The tone of the report, which Iruka also heard, was clipped and brusque, not mocking, but Iruka could still see Jackal sneering at him. “You expect comfort?” that cold voice echoed in his mind.

Hydra—or Sai—showed his underlying concern for Iruka by checking in with him daily, but otherwise no one said anything to Iruka about his possibly compromising their position or his loss of composure, except Schuldig. Schuldig mocked him openly, but somehow his tone gave Iruka the impression that he was worried. Not about Iruka, necessarily, but still the tone made it impossible for him to be mad at Schuldig, or even very irritated. He knew Schuldig probably calculated it that way, but he went with the flow. Better to be unruffled than have to fight to hide evidence of ruffling, especially from someone who could read people as well as Schuldig.

::Heart's fine,:: he sends, yawning. ::Built like a brick shithouse.::

::And isn't that what we all hope to have in our chest, yeah? A pulsing shithouse? You're a poet, Dagon. Master of all things prosaic and lyrical.::

::Prosaic?::

::Yes. Like unto prose.::

::I thought that meant commonplace or dull.::

::Words can mean more than one thing, young Delphin. Though if you'd rather be master of doorknobs and refrigerators, who am I to stop you?::

Iruka chuckles and stands up with a groan, heading into their tiny kitchen. ::Speaking of refrigerators, I'm going to see what's in ours.::

::You're always doing such exciting things in the evening. My own heart may explode, seeing as it's made from candy. As opposed to your own sturdy construction.::

The thought of Schuldig having a candy heart makes Iruka laugh out loud. ::If you don't have anything important to say, leave me to my prosaic evening, would you?:: he sends, and he can almost hear his own laughter in his thoughts.

::Fine, fine. But you'd be sending to me if I didn't send to you first, Delphin. You know I spice up your life.::

::You're a kick of some kind, sure,:: Iruka thinks. He doesn't really mean to send that, but he can tell he did. His brain gets away from him sometimes.

He gets no response, but he can imagine that Schuldig's sending him waves of smug satisfaction, like a cat in a sunshine-warmed lap.

The fridge reveals nothing extraordinary, just some leftover dal and some samosas that weren't very good when they were hot. He eats it all anyway, cold since they don't have the benefit of a microwave. He'd never realized how much he used his microwave at home until Kurocha. Heating things on the stove is just too much trouble.

Jackal eventually comes home as Iruka dozes on the couch, looking quite delicious in black slacks and a green and black seersucker shirt. Schuldig 'bought' the clothes for him on a whim, since Jackal had informed the team of his recon-date, and he hadn't brought 'date clothes' with him from home. Jackal had looked askance at the gift, since they were well-financed enough to buy such things—and even if they weren't, Jackal was more than capable of stealing them himself, without any mind-altering jutsu—but he'd accepted it, more for expediency's sake than anything, Iruka thinks.

“How did it go?” Iruka mumbles, shaking himself into full awareness in a few seconds.

“I think I may be homing in on something interesting. Apparently, our Director General is even less well-disposed toward the Kazekage than we thought.” Jackal untucks his shirt and sits down next to Iruka. He looks casual, sprawled out there, but he's still Jackal. “He seems to be involved in something that our precinct captain is reluctant to talk about. I think I can convince her when we go out tomorrow.”

“You're going out again that soon?”

Jackal flicks his shark eyes toward Iruka for a moment. “We are pressed for time, Dagon. I don't have the luxury of a long, leisurely courtship.”

Iruka raises a brow. “That would be a luxury?”

“It would be a tiresome chore. Spending a few evenings with that woman is more than enough.”

“Ah.” Iruka glances at his hands. “She seems nice enough.”

Jackal looks at him as though he has a peculiar variety of slug on his face.

He knows he shouldn't ask, that he should never ask a question like this, but since he is not Dagon at the moment he decides not to hold back. “Did you sleep with her?”

Gathering from Jackal's expression, the slugs must have suddenly multiplied. “Would that be a problem?”

Iruka smiles, shrugging with one shoulder. “Just curious.”

“This line of questioning isn't acceptable, Dagon.”

Sighing, Iruka says, “Alright.” He stands up. “I'm going to bed, then.”

Jackal's hand reaches out and snags his wrist before he can dodge it. Jackal firmly tugs his captured arm until Iruka is facing him, and his narrowed eye pierces into Iruka's. Iruka wants to flinch at the scrutiny, but he holds his gaze steady.

Jackal, surprisingly, is the first to look away. When he looks back up, it's Kakashi, smiling faintly. “I didn't sleep with her yet. I might have to start sleeping with her tomorrow. We'll see. She's already talking about assigning sergeants for the two of us to supervise, which would keep us in the station more. I almost wish Schuldig had made us lower ranks so we'd see more of the streets; I get the feeling there's more out there than we've seen in our five days walking the beat.”

Iruka slowly sits back down, not sure what to make of this switch. “Well, we knew that as lieutenants we wouldn't be pounding the pavement all the time. We'll be doing more paperwork, and interacting more with the inspectors and commanders. That was supposed to give us a leg up, if I recall.”

“I suppose. It'll all work out like it should, I'm sure. I just don't like being cooped up inside, like you,” Kakashi teases, playfully shoving Iruka's shoulder.

“I guess we won't need a leg up after tomorrow, since you'll be getting something else up,” Iruka retorts, grinning and shoving him back.

Kakashi smiles briefly. “You don't really care whether I sleep with her or not, do you?” It's not really a question.

Iruka's grin fades. “No, not really. I'm not crazy about the thought, but I know the job. I've done the job.”

“You just need to focus on something, and your time isn't really occupied right now.” Kakashi stretches a hand out to him, and he reaches over and takes it.

“I'm not good at getting recon off the streets, especially when there are so many people. I'm used to more focused sources of intel, so I'm happy we're going to be station-bound. I'll be able to use my time more productively for the mission.” He sighs softly. “But in the meantime, yes, I need distraction. I still can't—” Iruka snaps his mouth closed, turning his face away and releasing Kakashi's hand.

“Iruka—”

“Why are you here?” He knows Kakashi understands he's talking about the strange, sudden absence of Jackal.

His partner smiles enigmatically. “You could use me, couldn't you?”

“I could, but I don't need you.” The hurt that flashes across Kakashi's face is so deep Iruka can feel it through the soul bond, and he hurries to correct himself, grabbing Kakashi's face in his hands. “I just mean right now, at this moment, not in general, you idiot!” He can see, for the first time, how Jackal might be easier to deal with on a mission than Kakashi. Kakashi's hurt subsides as quickly as it came, though. “Why would you allow yourself out tonight? We're not in a crisis.”

“'Out'?”

Iruka drops his hands, folding his arms. “You know what I mean. Quit stalling.”

Kakashi runs his hands through his short, spiky hair. “It felt like you did need me. Through the bond.”

“Ah.” Iruka examines his fingernails with great interest. Not for the first time, he thinks that their soul bond is extremely troublesome. “Say I did. Why would Jackal accommodate me? My needs aren't important. It's the needs of the mission that are—”

“You're needed for the mission. Your needs are the mission's needs.”

“That's a lovely rationalization. That's not why you're here.” Iruka looks up into Kakashi's dusk-dark eye. “Is it?”

Kakashi takes a deep breath. “I'm having trouble keeping myself...segregated.”

Iruka starts to get a sinking feeling. “Is that because I'm not keeping my emotions in check?”

“Partially,” Kakashi says hesitantly. “It's also because...I can't help worrying about you. The soul bond makes it really difficult to ignore you, you know.”

Iruka hadn't really thought about how his emotions affected Kakashi. He hardly ever feels anything from Kakashi through their bond except very deep feelings, which Kakashi so rarely allows himself that it doesn't usually affect Iruka. He knows the reverse is not true, in part because he hasn't even been trying to be Dagon for the past few days.

He feels all his muscles tense. He can't believe he's allowed himself to compromise not only a fellow shinobi, but his captain and partner to this extent. “I will do better,” he growls. “There is no need for you to coddle me, Kakashi. I won't break just because you're not around.”

“But you will break,” Kakashi says quietly. “With or without me, you will. Sooner or later. Not today or tomorrow, probably not even on this mission, no matter what happens—you're strong, I know that. So if me being here now means we can put off you breaking six months from now, I'm fine with being here. I'm not compromising anything. We're off-duty. And if something happens, if anyone calls us, I can snap on like a switch. You'll learn how to, too, and you'll learn fast. But right now you don't have to learn anything, and I don't have to teach you. I'm not coddling you, Iruka. I'm just with you, that's all.”

Iruka can feel all his muscles soften as Kakashi speaks, and suddenly he feels boneless. He slumps against his partner, inhaling the strange spicy fragrance of Kakashi's new shirt against the familiar smell of his pale skin, and fists his hands on Kakashi's shoulders. He scrunches his eyes tightly closed, head bowed on his partner's chest. “Have you ever broken, Kakashi?”

Kakashi chuckles humorlessly. “I've been broken and pieced together so many times, it's a wonder I don't look like a jigsaw puzzle with pieces missing.”

“Who put you back together when you broke, before?”

Kakashi pets his hair, his neck and back. “Ibiki, and others who are dead now. Ibiki, mostly. He's efficient, I'll say that for him.”

Iruka winces at the thought. “You've never broken since I've known you, have you?”

“No. I wasn't in ANBU, either.”

Iruka relaxes his face, opening his eyes. “So...now that you are again, you think you'll break as well?”

“Maybe. As long as I have you, maybe not. I've been through things you can't imagine, but you...I could say a million trite-sounding things about being bonded to you, and not even all of them together could express how you've healed me. So maybe not.”

Iruka looks up at him, his heart in his throat. He can't think of a thing to say to that, so he doesn't try, just settles Kakashi's face against his neck and wraps his arms around him.

Kakashi's hands flutter over his back like ghosts before settling at his hips. They just breathe together, Iruka doesn't know for how long. He can feel Kakashi's love through the bond, knows Kakashi is letting him feel it, coaxing him to understand it. And Iruka loves Kakashi, helplessly, unreservedly, like a maelstrom under the guise of evening calm.