Chapter Text
There’s a shinobi living next door.
You don’t see much of him, save the occasional, quiet greeting in the hallway whenever it’s unavoidable – sometimes there’s even a titbit of conversation before he makes a hasty retreat into his tiny apartment. He’s rarely seen without a book in hand and a mask on his face, after all, and neither scream that he’s particularly open to conversation, even if it’s just small talk in the hallway between neighbours. Never mind that he has only one visible eye, the other hidden under a crooked, shinobi hitai-ate.
“It’s part of the allure,” insists Maya one dreary afternoon. She’s lounging on your threadbare sofa and avoiding her insistent boyfriend; she shifts constantly as you busy yourself pouring tea and you hear her grumbles about your sinking cushions.
“If you’re not happy,” you tell her, handing her a steaming cup and sitting next to her, “you could always go home.”
“He’s persistent,” Maya complains. “It’s irritating.” She sighs after taking a long drink, the sound a cross between pleased and disgruntled. “It’s borderline obsessive, really.”
You settle against the cushions. “Maybe you should discuss this with him?”
She hums thoughtfully. “I could,” she says, “or I could stay here and wonder what your charming neighbour is doing next door.” She shoots you a long, considering look and barely reacts to your blank returning stare. “You can’t say you haven’t thought about it!”
You frown. “There’s not much that charming about him, really,” you admit softly. “I don’t see him enough to form an appropriate opinion though.”
“He’s so mysterious,” Maya continues dreamily. “What’s he hiding under that mask, do you think?”
No, you don’t think. You rarely see the man – honestly, you’re convinced that he prefers leaving through his window simply to avoid confronting his neighbours. Not everyone is as easy-going as he seems to find you, after all; Saito-san next door, for example, seems convinced your ninja neighbour is a hermit. You’ve caught the tail-end of only one conversation between the man and the old woman, one where she seemed to be chewing him out for apparent barking coming from his apartment that morning – he’d gladly thrust you into the line of fire and disappeared (literally disappeared before the two of you) – and since then, your nosey, batty old neighbour has complained incessantly about the menace next door to you.
“I like you, though,” Saito-san had said, clawing at your arm with a frail, bony hand. “Him, I do not like.”
“That may be,” you replied as politely as possible, “but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s lived here for years, ma’am. Maybe even before yourself. So, really, if anyone has a right to complain, it’s him. Is that all?”
A few hours later, there had been a small box of dango on your windowsill in thanks.
“Not really,” you tell Maya. “He just likes his privacy.”
“Mystery,” your friend counters. “He likes his mystery.”
“He’s not mysterious. He’s just busy.” She opens her mouth to counter once more and you cut her off with, “You’d complain if he wasn’t busy, so don’t start.”
“Doesn’t it bother you, though?” She sits up, sets her empty tea mug on the coffee table near her feet. “He lives next door but you barely see him. That’s not normal.”
“He’s a shinobi,” you reply. “They work odd hours – sometimes he’s away for months on end. It’s not that odd.”
“They are an odd lot,” Maya insists. “It’s unnatural, what they can do.”
You roll your eyes. “Your little green monster is showing, Maya-chan.”
She huffs quietly. “I’ll tell you something, though,” she mutters savagely. “I wouldn’t be having the issues I am with Jomei if I did go the Academy years ago.” She stares off into space, contenting herself it seems, with dreams of burning the man to a crisp. “Although maybe if I did, I’d know all about your mysterious neighbour.” She sighs at last and starts to rise. “In any case, hiding away here isn’t going to help with the inevitable talk.”
Your smile is sympathetic. “Try not to be too harsh,” you tell her. “My door is open if you need a shoulder to cry on later.”
She scoffs. “I’ll let him know,” she teases.
You escort her to the door, watching bemusedly as she peers out first – at first, you think she’s checking for her ‘obsessive’ soon-to-be ex-boyfriend but when she sighs disappointedly and steps into the hallway, she woefully declares it empty.
“Probably took the window again,” she complains, not quietly. “How inconsiderate of him.”
“Yes,” you agree sarcastically, “how inconsiderate of him to cherish his privacy.” You poke her ribs, dart back as she flips her hair in your face. “How inconsiderate - ow.” You gingerly rub your shoulder, glaring balefully at the doorframe, the culprit of your injury.
“Serves you right,” Maya tells you, sticking her tongue out.
“Screw you. Go break up with your boyfriend already.” Your eyes flit to the door across the hall; it crosses your mind that the two of you may not have as much privacy as you think, if your conversations with Saito-san are anything to go by. She may ‘like’ you, after all, but that doesn’t stop her from being a nosey old bat.
“Sure, sure,” she mumbles. “I’m… oh .” You’re still cautiously poking at your shoulder when Maya nudges you hard enough to throw you back onto the doorframe.
“Ow ! Jeez, Maya, what the hell-?”
She’s blinking owlishly at the end of the hallway – at, more specifically, your illusive shinobi neighbour. Tufts of silver hair are what you see first, followed by the leaf symbol etched proudly on his crooked hitai-ate. Maya’s soft intake of breath seems to echo in the hallway as the masked man draws closer; he doesn’t look up, engrossed still in his book – the same one, you note, that you saw him reading the first time you met him. Does he read it over and over again or something?
“…Hello, shinobi-san,” Maya greets softly, nervously, sweetly. There’s a pink tinge to her cheeks and she’s biting delicately on her bottom lip, twisting her hands in front of her.
You stare, open-mouthed and flabbergasted, accusations on your lips – you’re still in a relationship, you daft melon -! – when your neighbour glances up. He looks between the two of you – Maya, shifting nervously, you, lingering in the doorway of your apartment.
Don’t let him look inside, you lament to yourself. I haven’t tidied up in days.
“Hi,” he says. His lone, visible eye rakes over you in silent greeting, and then he moves on before Saito-san can thrust her thin, nightmarish body into the hallway. His door creaks quietly as he steps inside, and that’s that.
“He was checking you out,” Maya tells you immediately.
“Go home,” you reply.
Shit hits the fan that night. At 2.03 am, to be precise.
A pounding on your door rouses you from sleep and sees you trudging your way to your door, yawning wildly and scrubbing sleep from your eyes. You’ve barely wrenched it open before two large, cold hands are grasping you around the collar, stretching your favourite night shirt as they tug you from your home and into the hallway. The breath is knocked from your lungs as you’re thrust against the wall, a terrified, pained gasp leaving your lips as you strive to regain your bearings.
“Jomei,” you finally manage to groan, seeing the man towering over you, hands fisted tightly in your nightshirt. “What-!”
“You did this,” he’s hissing in your face. He’s close enough to you that you can see the wild look in his eye, smell the pungent stench of drink on his words and clothes. He’s slurring and hardly able to stand upright, his harsh grip on your shirt the only thing that seems to be keeping him steady. Strands of dirty hair are in his eyes, creating a manic visage that troubles you greatly.
“Jomei,” you try, but you cut off with a cry as he wrenches you forward and slams you against the wall again.
“This is your fault,” he hisses furiously. With an enraged growl, he removes one hand, clenches into a fist, and drives it into the wall next to your head. Pieces of plasterboard shake loose as he removes his hand and stumbles on his feet; you daren’t lift your hand to pick off the loose debris you can feel on your shoulder and hair. You’re shaking fearfully as his crazed eyes fix on you again. He repeats, “this is your fault,” and his lips twist into a sneer when you try to explain or refute.
He raises his fist again. You flinch away, a cry on your lips-
“D’you mind? You’re interrupting the best part of my book.”
He’s not even looking at Jomei; one hand holds the bright orange book causally as his single, visible eye drinks in the words, and the other is wrapped around your attacker’s wrist, holding the fist meant for your cheek only inches away. You hadn’t even heard the annoying squeak that usually accompanies his door – perhaps the pounding of your heart in your ears blocked out everything else.
Your neighbour’s eye swivels towards you. “You might want to move,” he advises calmly.
It’s incredibly disconcerting how unaffected by the whole thing he appears but nevertheless you scramble to obey, skirting around the skirmish until you’re in the doorway of your apartment, watching the confrontation from behind his shoulder. Only now do you allow yourself to feel how unnerved you are, how shaky you feel. Of everyone on your floor, your illusive, anti-social neighbour is the last person you expected to step in.
You’ve barely swivelled to face them again before the shinobi has released Jomei; adding insult to injury, he’s returned his full attention to his book, unconcerned with the angry drunk disturbing the peace. Jomei, while still raging and now humiliated, flushing red in the face and his chest heaving with every breath, looks from you to the shinobi standing with his shoulders slouched by your door.
He huffs disgruntledly. “You won’t always have your bodyguard,” he announces, “and you will pay for what you’ve done.”
Unimpressed, the shinobi takes a step forward; Jomei scrambles backwards, tripping over his own feet in his haste. “Leave,” he commands, “while I still allow you that luxury.”
Jomei stumbles down the hallway to the stairs. Neither you nor your neighbour move until his heavy footsteps grow quieter; distantly, a door slams. You let out a sigh of relief, leaning sluggishly against the doorframe and willing your hands to still their shaking. The hallway is quiet now with just the two of you; in the silence, a crumb of plasterboard peeling away and crumbling to the floor is deafening.
“I don’t know what that was about,” starts your neighbour, making his way back to his apartment. He closed the door behind him, you note, swallowing nervously, “but if you’re going to make a habit of crazy ex-boyfriends coming to your door to start fights, I could use a warning in the future.”
“Not my crazy ex-boyfriend,” you reply dazedly, shaking your hand through your hair to remove the debris. Really, you’re still nervous, and the action is only to distract you; you make a mental note to check all your windows are locked before you settle in again, though how that will be possible, you’re not sure.
“Oh?” He’s closed his book and now idles near his door. He’s reaching for the handle, itching to remove himself from this awkward after-rescue encounter, you’re sure, so you shake your head, clearing your thoughts. He’s not actually interested, you’re telling yourself, even as he continues, “Let me guess: your friend from earlier?”
You shrug. “Guilty.” Another sigh as you wipe your face with your hand tiredly. “It doesn’t matter. Thank you, shinobi-san. I appreciate your help.” You accompany your words with a customary bow but try not to linger.
“That doesn’t explain why he came here,” the shinobi points out. His words stop you closing your door, surprise at the continued conversation overruling your need to escape and have a good cry.
“I don’t know why he came here,” you say thickly. Embarrassingly, you can feel your eyes beginning to water, your throat begins to burn in warning of the oncoming flood. “I don’t know why he’s blaming me.”
The shinobi hums. His door creaks open. “Too much sake,” he muses mildly.
“Maybe,” you answer softly. One thing’s for damn sure: you’re going to be having a bloody good talk with Maya next time you see her. If Jomei is going to keep pounding on your apartment door after a few drinks, you’d like some warning. “Anyway. Goodnight, shinobi-san.”
He dips his head. His eye lingers on something past your head. “Maybe see about getting that hole fixed before Saito-san sees, hm?”
“Oh, the horror,” you respond. There’s no bite in your tone, nor the sarcasm you intend, only bland indifference that accompanies bone-deep weary.
“Maa,” he continues, “I’m sure she won’t mind. She likes you.”
You jerk your head towards him, surprised, but all you receive is a strange closing of his eye and a head tilt – a smile, perhaps? With his mask on you can’t tell, and you hardly know the man well enough to read his actions and translate his thoughts.
A breathy laugh as you say softly, “That’s true.” You rub the back of your neck, more comfortable and feeling lighter, braver. “Ah, this may seem forward, but I don’t actually know your name?” You introduce yourself first – your parents didn’t raise you on the street, after all – and you’re ready to bury your head in embarrassment and flee the hallway if he doesn’t respond.
Instead, he politely says, “Kakashi Hatake,” and finally retreats into his apartment.
You wait a few moments, testing the name in a whisper on your lips, surprised your boldness bore fruit. The hallway is quiet now, save your quiet, thrilled breaths, and you don’t move to shut your door until you hear the distinctive rattling of Saito-san’s door-chain, signalling her imminent arrival.
You all but slam it shut, throwing your full weight against it before the raggedy old woman can make her presence known, and if she hears your key turning in the lock, you couldn’t care less. Your neighbour officially introduced himself to you, finally – it may not be outright approval of your presence but it might be all you’ll get any time soon.
Kakashi Hatake , is the last thought you have, as you throw yourself into bed. Every lock has been checked twice, but, if you’re honest, part of you is wondering if the shinobi next door might find a way into your apartment if you truly needed him. What are silly little locks against a trained killer, after all? You imagine the answer to that is the same to the question that was aroused tonight: what’s a drunk civilian against an uninterested shinobi?
Nothing at all.