Give me the Words

Summary: It's kind of worrying how it's getting harder to keep yourself in check.

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You grumble sleepily, wondering what has woken you up, and burrow deeper under your blankets, trying to doze off again. Unfortunately, the reason becomes apparent as you swallow and find your throat completely parched. You contemplate ignoring it in favour of sleep, but by then you are already awake enough for coherent thoughts, so you might as well get up.

With an annoyed sigh you roll out of bed, shivering as your naked feet hit the cool wooden floor. You really need a rug in here. There's a light shining from beneath the door to your father's room and you frown, wondering how late it is. Didn't he say that he'd go to bed early today? Damn liar.

The hinges make no sound as you slowly open the door, but it probably wouldn't have made a difference even if you had banged it open, stubbed your toe and then jumped around the room cursing like a sailor. He's out cold, slumped over his desk and using several important looking scrolls as pillow, the ink on the documents now smudged.

Your steps seem unnaturally loud in the quiet room, but as expected he doesn't move, though you don't know whether it's because he subconsciously knows you are no threat, or because he's too exhausted to wake up. You hate it when he works himself into a state like this, but no matter what you say or do, he doesn't listen to you anyway. It's frustrating as hell, but you have resigned yourself to it somewhere along the way. All you can do is make sure he gets his rest once he's finally passed out.

He stirs a little as you lay your hand on his shoulder, but even as you rest it at the base of his neck he doesn't wake up, only moves around a little to get more comfortable. You trail your fingertips over his skin, resting them beneath his chin so that you can feel his heartbeat pulsing beneath his skin. It's calm and even, typical for someone soundly asleep, and some part of you that you'd like to deny even exists wonders what it would take to get his pulse racing, turn his even breaths into pants, and force a flush onto his relaxed features.

You force yourself to take a step back and shake his shoulder, softly calling out, "Minato."

He murmurs something in reply, but it's too quiet for even you to understand, and instead of waking up he crosses his arms on the desk and hides his face in them. You can't help but smile at how adorable he looks and carefully run your fingers through his tousled hair, combing out the few tangles you find. Again he mumbles something, just as incomprehensibly as before, and leans a little into your touch, making your heart flutter with repressed emotion.

You don't know when you came closer again, but when you lean down to whisper into his ear you can nuzzle your nose into his hair, breath in the heady scent that's entirely him. "Minato. Wake up, you have to go to bed."

He murmurs louder this time and his breathing gets shallower, signaling that he's waking up. You run your fingers through his hair again, fiddling around with the soft strands, and it's alright if you just stand here and wait for him to become coherent, isn't it? You aren't doing anything bad.

"Hnn...'ruto?"

You should step back and take your hand away now, but it's like you're glued to the place, your body unable to follow your mind's command even as your fingers continue to comb through his hair.

"Feels good..."

His words aren't more than a nearly inaudible sigh, but it's enough to make you freeze for a few seconds. There's an answer at the tip of your tongue and your mouth feels dry as you swallow heavily.

"You should go to bed, dad."

He grumbles a little, then sits up and tips his head back into your hand, blinking blearily against the light. The rings under his eyes are almost as dark as the ink smudge on his cheek.

"What time is it?" he yawns and stretches, involuntarily shaking off your hand. You finally convince your body to take that step back.

"I don't know. Late."

"Hhnng, I've gotta finish these reports... " He yawns again and rubs his eye, smearing the ink all over his face.

"Go to bed. It's too late to work," you answer with a frown, annoyed by the way your hands are just itching to wipe the smudges off.

He glances at the crinkled scrolls and shakes his head. "No, I have to finish here. These reports--"

"Will still be here tomorrow," you interrupt him resolutely and tug at his shoulder. "Go to bed."

He throws another glance at the papers, at his bed, and then at his own rumpled state. He sighs heavily. "I guess you're right."

He stands up and shrugs his coat off while giving you a tender smile. "You are just like your mother, always taking care of me. I wonder what I'd do without you."

You cover the heavy feeling in your chest with an amused snort and avert your eyes as he starts to strip. "Probably exhaust yourself until you pass out in your lunch, and then you'd be famous for being the first and only Hokage who ever drowned in his ramen."

He chuckles and nods while shuffling off his pants. "And wouldn't that be a sweet way to go? Honestly, I can't imagine any way I'd rather die."

You can think of one or two, but since they all involve you two naked and in a bed you keep your mouth shut.

By the time you've managed to shake of the images accompanying your thoughts he's down to his boxers and getting into bed, and you can't convince yourself that you shouldn't stare at the way his sinewy muscles ripple as he tugs the blanket up over himself and gets comfortable. Lying on his side and facing you he finally seems to be content and gives you a sleepy smile.

"Thanks for waking me. Good night then, ne?"

You nod and mutter a quiet "Good night," but instead of leaving, your feet carry you over to the bed, making you wonder just what madness your body is planning to do this time, and why you aren't trying harder to stop yourself.

"Naruto?"

His face is a picture of sleepy confusion and if your smile is just a little sad, he doesn't notice. You reach out to carefully rub at the black smudges marring his skin and it's so soft beneath your rough fingertips, you wonder if it's like this everywhere.

He looks a little more awake and even more confused now, and you'd like to delude yourself into thinking that that's a light blush settling over his cheeks, but you know it's just because you rubbed at the skin. Your explanation consists of only one word, "Ink."

He smiles and closes his eyes, holding perfectly still as you work to clean of the dark spots, and if you keep trailing your fingers over his face just a tad bit longer even after it's clean, then he doesn't need to know, does he?

"Good night, dad."

Again, your voice sounds unnaturally loud in the quiet room and there is no answer, his deepening breathing telling you that he has already fallen asleep again. You absentmindedly let your eyes wander over his features, not really thinking about anything and trying to ignore the bundle of conflicting emotions in your stomach.

He looks so peaceful like this, completely different from when he's concentrating on his work or frowning sternly at some idiot who messed up. The stress lines disappear and leave his face all smooth and kind, looking like he's barely in his twenties, and it makes you want to--

You catch yourself before you can lean all the way down, for one long moment horrified at what you almost did, then you hastily straighten up and hurry to the door. You are so, so stupid, what if he isn't really asleep yet, what if he woke up again, what if you--what if you couldn't stop?

Your hands tremble as you hit the light switch and close the door behind you. Your throat is still parched, but it's not water that you're thirsting for.

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