how doth the little crocodile (--improve his shining tail?)

Chapter 1: Introduction

Chapter Text

Looking back, it’s impossible to know for certain what caused it. It could have been that damn necklace that kept drawing his eye. The ludicrous Chakra beacon, the unforgivable op-sec nightmare he has been seething about since they left the Hokage’s office. It could have been a convenient rustle in the leaves. It could have been any number of things.

Pointless speculation. One way or another, he spots the trap just in time to do something about it. In this case, doing something about it means substituting himself with Nawaki before the boy barrels into his death, sunny grin and all.

Fire licks at him, some sort of explosive agent cuts debris into his skin. Boo-hoo. Orochimaru is a grown-ass Jōnin. He coats his body with enough Chakra to stop an ox in its tracks and spits out a glob of wind, wide and sweeping. What the f*ck is happening? They’ve left Konoha not two hours ago—they’re well within what is supposed to be safe.

Think, hisses the cautious part of his brain. The cold part. Our intel claimed this entire region is safe. How, oh how, could a solid Chūnin-level trap be here, then? With half a mind, he finishes blowing out the flames and thick, faintly purple smoke—wait.

Motherf*cker.

He whirls around—where—

Nawaki—

He grabs his apprentice—his little snakelet—his-his-his—and envelops him with as much Chakra as he dares. He’s alive still, but he doesn’t have the immunity Orochimaru has. Practically no one has the immunity Orochimaru has.

“Be calm,” he says, clinging to his own advice. “We will be back in Konoha in minutes.”

“M’fine s’sei.” Nawaki’s teeth are chattering and his entire body trembles with increasing force. Sage-willing it’s just shock and not a toxin that attacks the nervous system.

“Indeed you are. Try to relax. I will move fast.”

There is some blessing in the fact that they are close enough to Konoha that he could find his way back blindfolded. He is, in effect, doing just that. The sequence of Shūnishin’s he forces himself through is truly inadvisable. It is entirely possible that he has torn through a tree or two in his mad-dash to Konoha.

The trees can, respectfully, f*ck right off. His apprentice breathes, still, which must not change even if Orochimaru has to do considerably more improbable things than run quickly.

Two jumps more.

Breathe in. Step—Twist.

He tears through Konoha like a demon so many think he is. Being the Hokage’s student—and one of the most prominent Jōnin in this damn village—he is spared the run-around. He throws his hitai-ite at the Gate-guards and continues on his life-run, focusing solely on the wet-earth-clay of Tsunade’s Chakra. She’s in the Hospital. Perfect.

There is no sense in sending a serpent ahead—Orochimaru moves quite a bit faster than any of his darlings. Ah well, what’s trampling one Hospital between friends? He will raze a hundred to buy Nawaki ten more minutes of life.

His snakelet lives. His veins are dark under his skin and the smell of sweat is sour with poison. A minute, no more. Just hold on for one more minute.

“Wha—Oro—“

“No time, Tsunade, get my apprentice into an operating hall now—“

“Nawaki—“

There is no toxin under the sun Tsunade cannot cure, that much Orochimaru is certain of. This one was only dangerous in that it was fast-acting, with a particularly inspired method of delivery. A double-layer trap and a toxin tricky enough to require the greatest Medic in the Elemental Nations to fix.

If Orochimaru was half a breath slower—

“Report.” Sensei’s facade is good, but he can read the fear and worry underneath. Is that enough? He’s beginning to wonder.

“My apprentice and I encountered a Jōnin level trap, four clicks Northwest from here. The exact location is in my mission report. I was able to partially prevent a fatal injury in my apprentice and retreated immediately to Konoha for medical assistance. Genin Senju is currently in surgery.”

“You abandoned your mission, Shinobi?”

Orochimaru doesn’t dignify Shimura with so much as a glance, burning his eyes into Sensei instead. “I request an investigation into the client and the Intel team who ran support for this C-ranked mission.” Foul play, he suggests loud and clear. Certainly loud enough that everyone in the room, from Sensei, his senile advisors all the way to the ANBU guard to hear. “A trap of this complexity would take hours to set-up, by a Jōnin-level Shinobi.”

“Incompetence,” says Shimura, oily voice eroding Orochimaru’s final shred of composure. “Incompetence and paltry excuses. You abandoned a mission, in war-time, for the sake of an injured Genin—”

“Silence.” Is that him? Seems so, judging by the jolt of surprise by the rest of the occupants, and the stench of fear coming off of sensei’s cronies. “You have no power here, war-hawk. Only that which is handed to you by better men. Stronger men. My apprentice—the last male Senju—is my first priority.”

“Orochimaru-kun is right,” says Sensei. “You overstep yourself, Danzō. My student, although he could have been more polite about it, has every right to pull his apprentice out of a mission that he deems unsuitable. Especially a Clan Heir. You know this.”

“Maybe your student should consider if he is worthy of having an apprentice if he cannot protect him from near-fatal injury practically at our doorstep.”

The barb was meant to infuriate him more, but it does the opposite. “Yes, that is peculiar, isn’t it?” His ’s’s elongate and his voice deepens, slows down. “Our first mission outside of the village, and the route our Intel department outlined is trapped so extensively.”

“A Jōnin must be able to adapt, boy,” says the other, somehow even more irrelevant crony. “Maybe we should reconsider your rank.”

Orochimaru hums in honest amusem*nt. That was a misstep on their part. “Perhaps you should.” His voice winds into a croon, flowing through the room in a poisonous caress. “Perhaps I should as well. I will have a long think about it, Sensei. I’m sure Tsunade will join me in my meditations.”

Sensei stiffens, as does every single ANBU in the room. There are few Shinobi in the village stronger than his team—in frontline combat, at least. Hatake, Akimichi Clan Head. Possibly a few higher-level Uchiha. Hyuuga matriarch. Losing Orochimaru would cripple them. Losing Tsunade would lose them the war.

He’s heard enough. “If you will excuse me, I have an apprentice to visit. Strange things have been happening to valuable children recently, haven’t you heard?”

“It was Danzō.” He takes a moment to appreciate just how even his voice is. The words feel cold in his mouth, like sake iced for a good long while.

“Who—Shimura Danzō? Sensei’s advisor?” Tsunade’s head twists from where she buried it in Orochimaru’s lap. The four of them—Senju-hime, Nawaki, Tsunade and Orochimaru are safe behind Uzumaki Wards. Little can get to them here. Nawaki is still in critical condition, but critical condition in the compound is miles better than a stable one in the hospital where anyone can get to him.

Mito-sama hisses through her teeth, visibly working her jaw.

“I am almost certain of it.” He pauses for a moment, thoughts racing much too quickly to be practical. Talking about his problems has never come easy to him. Hell, pinpointing his problems is hard enough, especially in recent times, since Jiraiya left.

“He’s been—talking to me,” he says finally. “Offering me—knowledge and resources and—”

“That sounds suspicious.”

He unclenches his jaw with some effort, swallows down the instinctual poison he wants to spit. The self-serving deflections. He thought he can handle it and he was wrong. The proof of his mistakes lies fighting for his life not two meters away. Orochimaru’s nonsense was never supposed to spill over to his apprentice.

“He offered—test subjects and labs—just prisoners for now but—”

Tsunade closes her eyes and buries her face back into the softest part of his stomach. “f*ck.”

“There have been rumours,” says Mito-sama, every word crisp and precise. “Children going missing. Inexplicable tragedies happening here and there. Unconnected on the face of it, and yet—”

The call for help from Uzushio came too late. They’re all thinking it—Orochimaru thinks of little else on a good day, never mind now. By the time they got the news, it was hundreds of genocide-preventing hours too late.

“The peace talks have been ruined four times. Many more have been prevented from happening. This War has dragged on for much, much too long,” he says instead. No sense in bringing up Uzushio. It would upset Mito-sama, but it would upset Orochimaru more.

“Do you—do you think Dan—”

Damn. He didn’t even think about Dan.

“I don’t know.” He says, honestly. “I do know that Shimura wants one thing and one thing alone. He wants more than anything to be Hokage.” And Dan had been very outspoken about his ambitions. Come to think of it, Nawaki was, too.

“And war.” The steel in Mito-sama’s voice cauterizes a weeping wound on his soul. “Always more death and suffering, until Konoha rules a continent of rubble and bones.”

He inclines his head. “That, too.”

“My Tobira—to think your students —”

“Sensei isn’t like that.” Says Tsunade sharply—a little desperately. “Sensei would never—.”

Orochimaru bites down on the first three things that he wants to say. The matter of Sensei is best left to the side for now.

“Saru is not like Danzō.” Says Mito, not for a moment bothering to leech the steel from her tone. “That much is true, at least.”

The rumours are circulating the village before his impromptu seclusion has come to an end. Deserter, they whisper. Betrayer. Coward.

He hums as he strolls leisurely to the Orochi compound, and takes a long while examining the Wards. There has been some tampering, but very little overall. They are Uzumaki seals, and the matrices have been evolving and improving over the centuries the Orochi have been trading with the Uzumaki. Mito-sama could perhaps slide around them—and brute force could blow them open, of course—but other than her, there are none alive who could pass through undetected.

He summons Kiyohime first—he will never be too old to crave comfort from his Den-Mother—and then Haia and Okimi.

“The village is turning on us,” he says, syllables folding into snake-tongue. “My snakelet has been attacked, practically within our walls. We need to prepare.”

“Filth,” hisses Kiyohime. The pearl-white snake always did like Nawaki the most. “What are your thoughts?”

“We need information. We need allies. We need leverage.”

“Is the snakelet safe?”

“Tsunade has him and Senju-hime is helping her. If he survives his wounds, he will be safe enough behind Uzumaki Fūinjutsu.”

“True. How can we help?”

Chapter 2: Chapter one

Chapter Text

Sensei assigns him off-duty time. The whispers gain another level of poison. If they were not in war-time, he doesn’t doubt the shops would bar him from entry. As they are all on rations, he need not bother with that, at least.

Tsunade continues her work in the hospital, daring anybody to ask. Nobody does, of course. Senju Tsunade is single-handedly responsible for keeping their heads above the water in this dreary, miserable war. She doesn’t need to throw her political weight around, not when she can simply take a few days off and watch them die in droves.

Biting questions about her teammate’s fall from grace or her little brother’s condition are kept far away from her ears. If Jiraiya were here—but Jiraiya and his little blond maniac have been gallivanting through the Elemental Nations for over a year now. All three of them have their own apprentices, now. Tsunade has Shizune, Orochimaru has Nawaki, and Jiraiya has Namikaze. Not a coincidence, that. Statistically, at least one of them will die in this war, and the village is very keen on them passing on their knowledge to the next generation while they can.

Orochimaru is as busy as he’s ever been, depressingly. He’s not not prepared for this. Paranoia has been drummed into every Orochi since their inception. They’ve been partially nomadic for a reason—sooner or later, the humans turn on them. They’re too odd, too wild, too close to their Snake-companions in both body and thought.

He complies what evidence he already had and writes out what he hadn't had the time to. Every instance of sabotage, every unexplained occurrence, every promising orphan that he had noticed had gone missing. The money that is missing in the coffers, the warehouses that mysteriously get sabotaged. All signs of a private army and a man gathering power behind the scenes.

“There you go,” he says, and thunks all the sealed-up treason in Hatake’s lap.

“Ex-cuse me?” Says Hatake slowly, putting his sake down. The Shinobi drinking establishment is empty but for the two of them. That's not all that surprising. The place is a dump, that Hatake patronizes for inexplicable reasons.

“I don’t have time for pleasantries, Hatake. Everyone and their duck knows you are next in line to be Hokage. Well, since that is the case—there you go. Read that. Burn it afterwards. Most importantly, do something about it. If you don’t, I will, and I don’t have anywhere near as much attachment to this cursed village as you do.”

Hatake tilts his head in a very canine gesture of performative confusion. “This all sounds rather treasonous.”

Well, if they’re going with Clan animals. Orochimaru counters with a smile, baring curved, poison-laden fangs. “Depends on your point of view, I suppose. You follow your heart, Hatake. It is, ultimately, none of my concern. I am capable of fixing the problem myself. One way or another.”

“Horkew-sama preserve me,” says Hatake a little warily. “Aside from the fact I have no wish to become Hokage, even if it were an option, I am a front-line Shinobi. I have no skill in—whatever this is.”

“As I said, do what you want with it. Read it, burn it, throw it in the Naka. You are not my only option. You are just the least bloody one.”

“Sooo.”

A muscle twitches in the corner of Orochimaru’s lips. Benzaiten-sama, but she is a charming little fox-kit. Fully aware of it, too, which makes it that much more effective.

“Yes, Uzumaki-hime?”

“Ew.” Her nose twitches, wrinkling a little at the top. “Call me Kushina. You’re like. Famous and sh*t. And old.”

“I assure you I am nowhere as famous as the Uzumaki heiress.” What a bizarre conversation this is turning into. “I could call you Kushina-sama?”

Uzumaki Princess, arguably the wealthiest woman in Konoha, slides down her chair into a puddle of embarrassed teenager. “Noooo, that’s much worse.”

“Kushina-san, then.”

She perks up. “I will f*cking take it! Now, to my earlier point. I’ve heard rumours of you either calling out or proposing to the White Fang. Which is it? Is it both—please tell me it’s both. This is very important information for the youth of Konoha.”

Blink. Blink.

“Pardon?” He says, a little outraged.

“No proposal? Intrigue? Jilted lovers, bloody hearts ripped out of still twitching ribcages?”

Blink.

“Senju-hime, your apprentice is menacing me.” He pitches his voice loud enough to carry to the other room where Mito-sama sits with Nawaki and Tsunade. There are some horrors he doesn’t need and teenagers invested in his love-life certainly fall under that umbrella.

“Is it about Sakumo?”

“Not you too Tsunade—”

Things in Konoha—change. Senju Mito-sama moves in with Tsunade permanently and she guards Nawaki like a Dragon. Orochimaru cannot think of a better guard, nor can he justify his absence from the war effort any longer.

Since the gloves are off, it is clear Danzō is surer in his position than even Orochimaru would have thought. His missions are sabotaged to the last. Intel is leaked to the enemy, his travel routes are trapped, mission objectives are either missing or incomplete. He becomes a liability. Sooner or later Konoha Shinobi will start refusing missions with him, just in case. He pre-empts them by switching to solo missions.

There, Danzou is hard-pressed to harm him. There isn't a single camouflage and stealth technique in Fire country he doesn’t know, and he’s invented quite a few more. If he wants to remain unseen, second-rate lobotomized lackeys certainly won’t be able to stop him.

Whether by his own volition, or by Tsunade’s counter-espionage efforts, the word spreads that Orochimaru is being sabotaged, and by their own people on top. Details of his mission stats, of just how often intel somehow finds its way into the hands of the enemy, circulates through Konohan Shinobi, and the narrative shifts.

Danzō, he thinks, has overplayed his hand. He gambled on Orochimaru being so hateful, so repulsive, that no one could perceive him to be anything but a villain. If he were alone, Danzō would have likely been correct. Orochimaru has neither the skill nor the inclination to pander to the masses. He is not, as it happens, alone. He has the Uzumaki and the Senju behind him, which is as close to divine approval in the eyes of the civilians as you can get.

More interestingly, he has the Hatake, the Aburame and the Uchiha.

About a month into his ‘lone snake’ routine, he starts noticing a shift in the Chakra surrounding him. The first addition are the Uchiha. The short lull in the war has stopped—the battles rage on as fiercely as ever. Orochimaru lives at the front lines, as do his teammates. Unfortunately, having all three of them in one place is overkill. Tsunade is on the Suna front, handling their poison users. Orochimaru is at the Kumo border, being the most adept at Kenjutsu out of the three and Jiraiya is at the Iwa border, his Toads being a good defence against the might of earth Ninjutsu users.

After a month of constant back-stabbing, Orochimaru has grown used to constant paranoia—and liberal use of body armour. So the first time an Uchiha Chūnin blocks a stray kunai flying at his kidneys, he almost tears the poor girl’s throat out, purely from shock.

The trend continues. The Uchiha Shinobi and Kunoichi have always been frontline specialists, almost to the last one. They’re split evenly across the three fronts, and the ones at the Kumo border concentrate around Orochimaru without any pretence of subtlety. When his tent is sabotaged, it’s the Uchiha Clan Head that spots it first. A messenger-hawk carrying explosives instead of mission orders? An Uchiha materializes shoots it out of the air before he has time to form a Chakra-barrier.

“Is this your doing?”

Hatake doesn’t pause his nightly blade upkeep for so much as a second. “Good-evening Orochimaru-sama. I trust you’re in good health. I am well, thank you for asking.”

Orochimaru doesn’t huff because he has class. He taps his foot, though. “I don’t need protection, Hatake. You should utilize your resources more efficiently.” All truth. He has had to rescue more than one well-meaning teenager from getting maimed in their fool quest to stand between Orochimaru and the world.

“I certainly don’t know what you’re talking about. If hypothetically, a Noble Clan found themselves invested in keeping someone alive, I can certainly do nothing about it.”

Orochimaru holds his peace. Hatake knows he is right—whatever statement the Uchiha think they are sending, they’re going much too far with it.

Hatake relents after another couple of sweeps with his oil rag. “I have been, as the case may be, in communication with Uchiha-sama in recent weeks. I can talk to him about some of his clanspeople being a bit too fervent with their Will of Fire.”

How he despises that term.

“I cannot keep them safe, Hatake—I can barely keep myself safe. Call them off. I appreciate the gesture, but this is neither the time nor the place.”

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Hatake says out of the blue.

“Pardon?”

“Tea. Would you like some?”

He blinks. “How on earth did you get tea here? And yes, Sage, of course I would.” The thought of a hot beverage is enough to make his veins visibly shiver in anticipation. He’s a coldblooded creature, producing very little of his own body heat. This wet, miserable month at the frontlines has left him in a constant state of near-freezing.

“Kari sends me some.” Kari—who—

“Inuzuka?” He says, a bit questioningly. “The tracking and assassination specialist?”

“Ye-es,” says Hatake, dragging laughing eyes up to meet Orochimaru’s. “Also, my wife.”

“Oh,” he says, uncertain. “Congratulations?”

“I am a lucky man. Have been for three years now.”

Hatake has had a wife for three years? When on earth did he do that—did they get married during the War?

“Yes, well.” He says, uncertainty melting into full-blown social incompetence.

“Oh sit down.” Hatake produces a thermos from the duffel bag next to him. “Have some tea. There should also be some—”

“Your wife is a marvel, Hatake.” Biscuits. How the f*ck—“A Goddess among women.”

Hatake’s laugh, he notes, is a lot like his summons’. He knows the Hatake are close to their Noble Spirits, but not to which extent. He is in some ways even more a wolf than Orochimaru is a snake. In fact, judging by those fangs…

“Would you care for a mouse?” He asks, reaching for one of seven blood-seals Mito has recently tattooed on his thigh.

Hatake beams, wide and inhuman. “Very much so.”

“Aburame, too?”

He oozes into his spot—and it had really become his spot, by now. It’s been two months into this wretched amble to hell and he had struck a friendship with Hatake and, somehow, his wife Kari. He’s never even met the woman, but he couldn’t keep accepting her (priceless f*cking) tea without some reciprocity. There isn’t much he has on hand that would suffice, but after some thought, an elegant solution presents itself. He took to sending her stealth-oriented Ninjutsu, and even a scent-blocking seal of his own design. He might not have tea, but the woman is an assassin. She can never have too many stealth techniques.

“Entirely unprompted, I assure you.” Hatake’s ever-present cheer has been cracking for weeks, and it’s a pale imitation of its usual vivacity. Orochimaru can sympathize. He’s been tying his hair up, that’s how exhausted he is these days. If not for his second set of eyelids, he’d have long since gotten some horrid eye infection with how damp and disgusting the air is.

“Oh, I am certain you know better by now. Still. I keep having to stop myself from removing their Kikachu, and it’s getting distracting. They keep crashing into fights they can’t possibly survive. It can’t go on.”

“I’ll talk to Aburame-sama. But honestly, Oro, you can’t blame them. You are their—anchor, let’s say.”

Orochimaru sighs, entirely aggrieved. “You are perfectly capable of handling a couple of retired Shinobi, Hatake. If I die, you will be fine.”

“We will not. You are strong, you are famous, you started this whole thing, and most importantly, you are the apple of our Hokage’s eye.”

And a lot of good it has brought me. Well, he amends, that is not true. Danzō never dared move directly against him, not like he had with, say, Dan.

“It doesn’t change the fact that these children are not helping anyone. I am always at my weakest when I have to cover for someone—it’s simply how I am. I cannot predict them, especially with the foolhardy risks they take.”

“Yeah, yeah. Have a biscuit.”

“You’re lucky your wife is a marvel, Hatake, or I’d have washed my hands off you a long time ago.”

“I am beyond fortunate.”

“This can’t go on for much longer.”

That is certainly true. Otherwise they will all be dead.

“I’m being sent to Suna.”

f*cking Danzō.

“Kari sent you a package.”

Did he send her that chameleon technique he created a few years back?

“Will you say something?”

With monumental effort, he cracks one eye open. “What would you like me to say?” Sage wept, his voice sounds like someone took sandpaper to his throat. Nawaki will never be a full-time Shinobi, even if they manage a successful foot transplant. Mito is getting ready to go join her husband. What is there to talk about?

“f*ck, Oro.” He never really realized how much bigger Hatake is than him. Not just taller but wider, radiating the type of heat to scorch the skin of cold-blooded reptiles like Orochimaru. Enveloped in the man’s arms, he doesn’t even mind it. f*ck, but it’s cold.

“I’m sorry about Senju-sama,” Hatake says quietly. “It’s her choice.”

It is. She has lived much too long already, clawed herself together to withstand the poison of Bijū Chakra as long as she could. Kushina-chan got to experience at least a good few years before her sentence began.

“Suna, you say?”

“Just got the transfer papers today. Hokage-sama’s personal seal.”

That’s something at least. At least Sensei approved it.

“You will take Kiyohime.” He injects the last molecule of force into his voice he can muster. “One way or another she is coming with you to Suna.”

“Yori will certainly be glad for the company.” The joke is weak, but it is a welcome reminder of normalcy. “You know best. Are you certain?”

“You have next to no immunity against poisons, you brute. You will not go to the Suna Front without the most experienced poison-user I have to call on.” If only Dan was alive. Tsunade is excellent at countering toxins, but Dan was a genius at it.

“As I said, Yori will be glad for the company. And I certainly won’t miss his moping. He’s much too old to pull it off.”

A baldfaced lie. Yori had the sort of soulful dark eyes set off by his white fur that would melt the heart of a stone. Five hundred pound of wolf or not, Yori could emote with the best of them.

“Listen to Yori, listen to Kiyohime. Stick with Tsunade. You will be fine.”

“Of course.”

Senju Mito organizes a Death-day Party. She also pulls enough strings and browbeats enough people to make sure both Tsunade and Orochimaru are there. Why exactly she insisted on him is anyone’s guess—they are passing acquaintances at best. His best bet is Nawaki.

For the first time in four months, Orochimaru passes through the gates, leaner, meaner and generally whittled down to bare essentials.

“Off with that frown,” says Mito as he passes through the Senju Wards. “And that gloom. Tomorrow you will do what you will, but today, today we make merry.”

Something splinters in Orochimaru, some long-forgotten part of him. If he were more mammalian, he’d cry. As it is, he freezes, mind halting, everything just—slowing down.

“Goddamn it, Grandma.” Says Kushina, poking her head from around the corner. “We’ve talked about this. You can’t order people not to be sad about your impending death.”

“I can do whatever I want.” Her tone may be indignant, but her smile gains an apologetic edge. “Come, snake-son. You have been missed.” She pauses for a second, listening intently. “In fact—”

“Sensei!”

A chaotic little blur of a boy, moving in an odd, lurching manner attaches itself to his midsection.

“Nawaki—”

Orochimaru sands frozen. He is not personally familiar with panic attacks but this state matches his reading. For all his neuroses—and more than a passing familiarity with sociopathy—anxiety and panic have never been frequent enough to get used to.

“Give him a minute, jackals.” Tsunade. Merciful soul. “Off, off with you. Oro, a bath is ready for you upstairs. Take your time.”

Noise quietens around him and his tight, mechanical breaths even into a more natural cadence. The oppressive silence of his mind lifts, piece by piece, and smells start trickling though. Tea—jasmine—and pastries. Fish. Rosemary. Chatter flits from one room to the next, bouncing off the walls that are—

Painted white, with seals pained in Uzushio red, the Senju browns taking a back-step for once.

Sage, his strength is sorely challenged. He hasn’t—he can’t stop looking. It’s everything he thinks to look for, except it’s just homage, isn’t it? Instead of bleached white marble, it’s wood. Hashirama wood to be exact. He can’t taste the salt in the air or hear the gulls in the sky. It’s a memory, a good one, but a memory still.

Don’t be a coward. If the Uzumaki can bear it, what right do you have to fall apart at the mere acknowledgement of Uzushio? Pull yourself together, Shinobi.

He makes his way through the corridor, up the stairs, to the right—there—a bathroom.

Entirely on automatic, he strips the disgusting war-stained rags and sinks into the tub. The water is a f*cking marvel, Fūinjutsu keeping it just shy of scalding hot.

Peace. He closes his eyes and lets the warmth seep into his bones, lets the muscles unclench for the first time in however long it’s been. Peace.

The day goes by in a hurricane of emotion. He slips in and out of true awareness, allows himself to be swept away in the tidal wave of Uzumaki bullheaded energy. Apart from Orochimaru, everyone present is at least partially Uzumaki or Senju He doesn’t have anywhere near enough presence of mind to think about that much. Tomorrow, they will return to the front. Absorb what warmth you can, while you can.

The ritual goes off without a hitch, and just like that—a new Jinchūriki is born.

He can’t stay for the funeral—which is not high on his list of worries. Mito would have despised the hubbub, but she allowed it for the sake of morale. None of her immediate family are there. Kushina stayed at the compound with Nawaki, and Tsunade was sent to the Suna Front when Orochimaru went back to his own slice of hell.

The war can’t last for too long. Land of Fire almost drained their resources, and they have by far the best agricultural conditions out of the five nations. Sage only knows how Suna is feeding their people.

Chapter 3: Chapter two

Chapter Text

Hanzō the f*cking Salamander takes to the field and just like that, the Sanin are hurriedly re-called from their corners of the War-front. It’s a rather desperate play. If the Sanin lose, Konoha loses, but if the Kage continues to lay waste on what few farmlands are left in Land of Fire, they will all starve anyways.

Orochimaru sets eyes on their elusive third teammate and notably doesn’t want to kill everyone and everything. Jiraiya looks good. The years he spent wandering the Lands haven’t been as punishing on him as they were on Orochimaru or Tsunade. Jiraiya is taller and broader than he remembers, the ridiculous white mane even longer somehow. Overall, he is more striking than ever, and Orochimaru doesn’t even want to set him on fire. Witchery.

“Where is your little shadow?” Tsunade's smile is sharp around the edges if you know where to look. It’s not Orochimaru, after all, that has lost their husband, mother-figure, and very nearly their brother. Jiraiya sent letters. They were not enough.

Jiraiya spots it but lets it go. “Minato is in Konoha,” he says with a wide, proud smile. “He got his Chūnin field promotion the other day. The kid is a genius. One day, mark my words, one day he will change the world.”

Orochimaru doesn’t doubt it. He’s well-aware of just how deeply frightening that boy will grow up to be if his fanatical dedication to Shinobi arts at ten is anything to go by.

“And your brats? Shizune, Nawaki?”

He hums. No matter how old or wise Jiraiya gets, he will never stop being thoughtlessly cruel. Orochimaru assumed him to be deliberate, once. That he played a subtle game of who can dig their barbs the deepest. He’s learned better since then, which dulls the sting a little.

“Konoha,” he says. “Nawaki is training in Fūinjutsu with Uzumaki-hime, and Shizune is apprenticing in the Hospital for the time being.”

“Minato is working on Fūinjutsu as well! Maybe they can get together and compare notes.”

Nawaki is going to stay well away from the blonde ball of murderous rage until Orochimaru has had enough time to inspect him and his mental state. There is hope that the boy’s frothing insanity has been sanded down by his hero-worship of Jiraiya, but Orochimaru won’t hold his breath. That sort of intellect, brought up in such a uniquely twisted time and place—Namikaze is only ever going to be a high-functioning sociopath. Nawaki already has one for his Sensei, he doesn’t need another as a study partner.

“Perhaps. Nawaki is at least a year or two away from his Chūnin promotion. There is no rush.”

“Alright,” cuts in Tsunade with battle-lights shining from her eyes. “We have a job to do. Hanzō is massacring his merry way through Kusa. The sooner we start, the sooner we can get away from this cursed place.

“Agreed.”

You have to hand it to Sensei, his teachings have a way of sticking with you. Three years since they’ve fought together, three years of developing their own styles and techniques, and they slot together without a glitch. Each of them is strong but together—Hanzō doesn’t stand a chance.

They fight for a full day, retreating and advancing like the tide, until, nineteen hours later, he has finally retreated from Kusa for good, more wound than Shinobi.

“’S a good fight.” Jiraiya is slurring—and Orochimaru can’t fault him for it. He is by far the sturdiest of the three of them. He has not shied away from taking blows for him or Tsunade.

“Spectacular,” he says, adrenaline tinting the world red.

Tsunade grunts terribly focused on fusing together the nerves on Jiraiya’s knee where it’s been sliced off by a well-aimed wind sickle.

“f*ck, but I h’pe thi’ is the end of it.”

It just might be. The big four—Sarutobi, Ōnoki, Hanzō and Hōzuki—are widely considered to be unbeatable in frontline combat. That Konoha has pushed him back—without calling on their Hokage—will send a message.

“Your hair techniques have improved.” It doesn’t even hurt to say it.

“Hah! Than’s! Your—the thin’ with the fire and the pois’n and the smoke—whoo boy—that was nas’y!”

A trickle of fondness soothes the worst of the bloodlust. He thunks down, finally able to unclench his hands from Kusanagi.

“Thank you.”

He spoke too soon. Even with the distance, even with newfound maturity and patience, Jiraiya can still bring him to the brink of murderous rage in 0.2 seconds flat.

“You will stay. Here. With these children.”

To his credit, Jiraiya doesn’t shy away, doesn’t pretend to be slower than he is, for once. He knows just how preposterous everything about that idea is. How much it would undermine everything Konoha has been trying to do with this desperate play. She must have her Sanin—or what even was the point?

“Yeah—I—” he inhales sharply, herding the children behind him like he’s worried they will get caught up in the crossfire. “Listen—I have to—I just—”

“I have to.” There is nothing but honesty in his eyes. He believes it, Orochimaru thinks faintly. The tingling in the roots of his teeth increases, even as his fingers grow number by the moment.

“Alright,” says Tsunade, with a curious, detached stillness in her eyes. “It’s your life, Jiraiya. You do you.”

“I’m sorry,” Jiraiya says. The pain in his voice is almost enough to make Orochimaru snap and go for the jugular.

“Good luck,” he says instead. “There is—you should—” Where was he going with this? Something about—Ah yes. “You should take the red one to Uzushio when you can.”

Jiraiya blinks at him, not a sparkle of comprehension in sight.

Didn’t he—isn’t that why—

Of course it’s not why. Jiraiya never had a single thought for anything but himself—No. No. Stop it. Rage later, talk now.

“The boy is obviously an Uzumaki, Jiraiya.” He drops his eyes to the child hiding behind his (ex?) teammate’s legs like a frightened kitten. “You, child. Yes, you. I could spot that shade of red in a hundred miles. If you’re not at least three-quarters Uzumaki, I will eat my slippers.”

“M-me?” The boy still can’t look up at him, but it certainly doesn’t make the hope in his voice any less real.

“Uzumaki-red, child. I will bet my life one or both of your parents had hair just like yours.”

The trembling increases, as does the boy’s desperate attempts to fuse with both of his friends and Jiraiya’s legs. “Mama said it was a gift from the sun-god. But it always rains, so I thought the sun-god must not like me.”

Orochimaru exhales and gathers composure around himself like a shield. He looks at Jiraiya, who has relaxed out of his death-stillness enough to stare at him with something terribly close to gratitude.

“Why must you stay? No—” He raises his hand to interrupt whatever fool objection Jiraiya thinks to say. “I am not saying you should leave the children. Why must you stay here? Take them to Konoha. Uzumaki-hime would move mountains for a chance to meet a Clansmate.”

Jiraiya stares at him for a long moment, long enough for Orochimaru to give up and send a pleading look at the resident voice of reason. The detached blankness faded from Tsunade’s eyes, thank the Sage. She looks at the five of them with a great deal more of her customary warmth. At his pathetic look, she huffs a small laugh and summons the smallest version of Katsuyu she can. “Hey Katsuyu,” she says, still hiccuping quietly, as if drunk. “Tell Nara we have encountered a small delay, but are on our way. Everything is in order.”

Good thinking. Orochimaru should have thought to do so already—he blames Jiraiya’s nonsense.

“Alright, then,” She plonks right down into the mud. “How about some introductions. I am Tsunade Senju, Clan Head of the Senju. What are your names?”

The children show no willingness to abandon their strategic position, but that’s alright. They have time, within reasonable limits. An orange head is first to poke out. “I am Yahiko,” says the child with an ill-advised amount of courage, considering how untrustworthy they must look.

“No last name?” she asks, not unkindly.

“No, I—I don’t know—”

Now, there will be none of that. If they are rescuing orphans, then they will rescue the best orphans in all the nations. “That’s quite alright,” he says, funnelling a fair bit of steel into his tone. “Your valiant saviour is a self-made man, and he forced Hanzō the Salamander to retreat not ten hours ago.”

“I—Oro—What—” sputters the oaf, and Orochimaru waves an impatient hand in his direction. They don’t have time for Jiraiya’s dramatics.

(A small part of him that went cold and still and dark when Mito died, cautiously stitches itself together. It had not occurred to him to help these children. The very thought is preposterous, which says a lot about him. Still—now that the thought is out there, now that he is considering it—he can’t be displeased by any of it. An Uzumaki belongs at Uzushio. Failing that at least in the Uzumaki compound. It’s what Mito would have wanted. It’s what Aisa and Shion would have wanted)

“Orochimaru is right—that’s my friend here, the thin, snakey one with yellow eyes. He’s the Clan Head of the Orochi Clan.”

“How do you do.” He can’t hope to make them comfortable, but he can at least make them smile. Indeed, the ginger grins cautiously and elbows his friend.

“I’m Konan,” comes from behind Jiraiya’s legs. It’s a girl’s voice, high and piping. “No last name.”

“Nice to meet you,” says Tsunade. “And finally, the Uzumaki—?”

“Nagato.” The child’s voice is barely more than a whisper, made even less audible by the uncomfortable-looking huddle. “I’m Nagato.”

“Well-met, Uzumaki-kun,” he says, words ringing with formulaic weight. Finally, finally, the child looks up—

Orochimaru freezes for the umpteenth time.

Motherf*cker.

Alright, keep your cool. Nod, don’t f*ck sh*t up now that the child has fragile hope swirling in his eyes. His Rinnegan eyes.

Chapter 4: Chapter Three

Chapter Text

“What’s the plan, then?” The kids have finally gone to sleep, fed and watered to the best of their abilities, and the three adults sit in seal-enforced silence.

Jiraiya shrugs, gesture heavy with frustrated helplessness. “There is no plan. I was going to stay with them for a couple of months, long enough that they can fend for themselves. Now—it would be one thing if they were Ame orphans, but Nagato is apparently an Uzumaki, and so is Yahiko—”

“Is he?” Orochimaru says, a little surprised. “How do you figure that?” He had thrown it out there because the lie was a useful one, but he hadn’t thought—

“The boy is an Uzumaki,” says Tsunade with iron-clad confidence. “At least half. His Chakra is off the charts, both in volume and in density. Only Uzumaki have Chakra that thick.”

“Only you, Jiraiya, can find two Uzumaki children out in the wilds,” he says, kneading his temples hard enough to bruise.

“What can I say, it’s a gift.” The dry tone does little to hide the note of honest distress. “But no, really. We can’t just leave them out in the wilds—they’re Uzumaki. If nothing else, Kushina-chan will castrate me.”

Tsunade huffs a weary sigh. “We’re not leaving my cousins in the woods. But we have no place to put them.”

“Can we mask them somehow? Do you know of some permanent or semi-permanent transformation technique or seal?”

Jiraiya—their Fūinjutsu expert, that’s how low they’ve fallen—shrugs. “Focus-based illusions are out. A Genin would sniff it out. A seal should be possible—but I can’t make one up on the spot. Kushina-chan could do it.”

Hmm. Not impossible, then. “The way I see it, we have three options. Number one, we take the children to Konoha. Number two, one of us becomes a missing-nin and raises the children in obscurity for ten plus years. Number three, we kill them here and now. Those are the only three options.”

Honestly, Orochimaru is half a step away from calling it quits with Konoha anyways. “I don’t think I could kill the Uzumaki,” he adds. “So.”

“So we bring them to Konoha,” says Jiraiya with manic cheer. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Orochimaru grimaces. “I dare not entertain the possibility of the worst thing that can happen. Honestly, the first inkling of the worst thing possibly happening, I’m grabbing the boy and running to the Land of Snow for a few decades.”

“You wouldn’t last a day in the Land of Snow, you old reptile,” smiles Jiraiya and slings an arm around his shoulders. Orochimaru absently braces himself for the howl of want—which doesn’t come. Interesting. He blinks and an honest smile touches his lips. It is so very awkward being in love with your straight teammate.

“Very true,” he says. “I would have to burrow deep underground and live in a maze of eerie corridors. It would suit my aesthetic, but it would do nothing for my brittle bones.”

Jiraiya predictably howls with laughter, and even Tsunade’s bold chuckles join him. He relaxes practically against his will. No matter how complicated their lives are, he’s managed to patch up his relationships with the two people he cares for. Oh, not everything is solved—he is still no closer to understanding why Jiraiya does anything he does. But a considerable amount of the poison is drained.

“We will never sneak them into the village as they are,” says Jiraiya a few minutes later.

“We can dump them into the Ryuuchi cave.” Huh. That’s not a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all. “I will claim them as Orochi, and the White Snake will shelter them for a day or two.”

“You will—what?” Even Jiraiya recognizes how big a deal that is, and Tsunade is straight-up speechless.

“Oh come now, that cannot be surprising by this point. Obviously, I wouldn’t ask them to become full members—just a small claiming, nothing drastic.”

“Claiming?” Jiraiya’s voice is faint, wobbly with disbelief.

“Calm down. I would just smear a bit of blood on their foreheads, say a formulaic phrase and we’re golden. It’s all a formality. My Snakes love little ones, and know full well they aren’t getting them any other way.”

“Hey, now,” Jiraiya says, with a sly glint in his eye. “Let’s not be hasty. Maybe the Uzumaki have some seal that would let you carry some babes of your own?”

It’s obviously meant as a joke, but the thought still sticks with him. Hmm. The sound of baby-hisses, the idea of a clutch of baby-Orochi, sitting in a proper Den, singing together. Hmm. “You know what, Jiraiya, when you’re right, you’re right.”

“Now you’ve done it,” mutters Tsunade.

“Don’t I know it.”

The fawns fall over themselves to express their enthusiasm for the idea. He cannot summon Kiyohime—she’s in Suna, hopefully keeping Sakumo alive, but he settles for the next best thing.

Entirely second nature, he nicks a thumb on a fang, and crouches down, hands running through hand-seals. “Avi,” he says warmly to his sister-snake, fiercest of their nest-mother’s children — and more importantly, most exuberant. “Meet the children, Mizuno Konan, Uzumaki Nagato and Uzumaki Yahiko.”

“Nestmate,” she says in human-speak, for the sake of the kids. “You have finally brought us snakelets! I feared I would not live to see the day!”

She uncoils and darts toward to inspect the children.

“Oooh, what lovely children you are! Come, come, let your aunt Avi see you.”

Yahiko is, as expected, the first one to gather the courage to speak to the five-meter long snake with purple-gold scales. “Hi, A-aunt Avi. Nice to m-meet you.”

Avi spins around him a couple of times, cheating with Chakra outrageously. “Uzumaki boldness to match your brave heart. Well-met, Yahiko.”

“Hello, Avi-san,” says Konan quietly, but eyes the snake with nothing but awe. “How do you do?” She imitates Orochimaru down to the accent, and he elbows Jiraiya to stop him from laughing out loud and ruining the moment.

“All the better for having met you,” says Avi, spinning around her just as quickly as she did Yahiko.

Nagato is last, and he takes the longest to gather his composure. “Well-met, Avi-san.” He says carefully forming each word. “I am Nagato. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise, bright-eyes. Uzumaki-red suits you—but your eyes, look how well we match!”

Indeed, her purple scales are practically identical shade of the Rinnegan.

“D-do we? I can’t really remember their colour.”

“You do,” says Konan, voice no less fierce for how quiet it is. Everything the girl does has a deliberate edge. “Perfect match.”

Well, that’s torn it. The yawning, greedy jaws of his heart close around the three strays and click closed for all eternity. Casual claiming or not, the three are his-his-his.

“Well said, Konan-chan,” says Jiraiya quietly. A little wistfully. “Perfect match.”

The kids are more perceptive than they have a right to be.

“So if we’re—Orochimaru-sensei’s now,” says Yahiko slowly. “And teammates are like siblings. That makes us—yours too? And Tsunade-sensei’s as well?”

Orochimaru hisses a quiet laugh. “Well reasoned, little sun. I cannot fault your logic.” He meets Jiraiya’s cautious eyes. “Well, nest-brother? What say you?”

He expected a booming laugh, maybe a beaming grin. Instead, Jiraiya’s smile is small, a bit crooked. Fragile. He chides himself—it’s easy to forget Jiraiya is an orphan from birth, a nameless child found behind the garbage bins near a particularly unsavoury brothel. Jiraiya makes it easy to forget with quick smiles and easy mannerisms.

Tsunade clears her throat, eyes shining tellingly. “You two, I swear. Where have my surly teammates gone, and who are these sappy old men.”

“We’re hardly old, nest-sister,” he says, keeping a veneer of lighthearted teasing. They are old. Much too old, for how young they are.

“Oh, hush. Alright, brats. Let’s get this over with. The sooner we leave the sooner we can tuck you three into the Senju compound and see about feeding you up properly.”

Avi has gone on ahead to warn the inhabitants of the Ryuuchi cave, and he summons a small, as of yet unnamed snake to act as a messenger just in case Jiraiya and Tsunade need him.

The claiming goes by in a blink. He wasn’t exaggerating. A smear of blood, a formulaic phrase, a touch of Chakra. The ritual is simplistic because it is unnecessary. The serpents are highly motivated to accept any gossamer-thin excuse which would let them fawn over little ones.

“Gather round, children. I will be reverse-summoning us to the Ryuuchi cave.”

They scuttle close, as eager for adventure as one might expect from teeny-tiny baby snakelets.

“On three.”

Manda ties himself up in knots, that’s how befuddled he is by Orochimaru finally claiming some children. Not that he isn’t entirely charmed—they bear Orochi blood, no matter that it’s a smudge on their foreheads, and they’re bright-eyed, curious, and strong. Snakes, above all else, value strength.

“You little worm,” Manda hisses. “How did you get your tail on a God-child—”

Yahiko, bless him, takes offence. “Orochimaru-sensei is not a worm! He’s big and wise and he saved us and gave us names and blood and—”

“It’s alright children—” says Orochimaru, between amused and off-balance.

“It’s not.” Huh, the shyest of his snakelets speaks, quietly but no less firm for it. “You’re not a worm. You—you are—s-strong and brave and pretty and he should not say those things.”

Sage have mercy—pretty?

“It’s a form of spoken play,” he says, keeping his voice even as best he can. “Manda has been my companion for many years now. He’s my nest-mother’s brother, actually. Which makes him practically my uncle.”

“Oh. Okay then.” Yahiko brightens, mood bouncing back maniacally. This one will have a temper problem, make a note. Uzumaki indeed.

“So, Manda-san,” says Yahiko. “How did you get so big? Is it something you ate? Cause, cause—the lady-snake, Aunt Avi, she was nowhere near as big as you.”

Manda puffs up in pride and wilts from embarrassment at the same time. It’s hard to be the target of such innocent admiration isn’t it, Orochimaru thinks, basking in schadenfreude.

“I am quite a bit older than little Avi, snakelet. One day, however, she will be just as big as me, if not bigger. I have high hopes of her becoming the chief protector of her clutch, just like I was for mine.”

The kids all exclaim in wonder—if at different volumes—and start drowning Manda in more and more esoteric questions only children can think to ask.

He can’t wait to introduce them to the White Snake Sage. The old clown will faint from shock.

Jiraiya is practically hopping from foot to foot, body rattling with anticipation and nervousness. “How was it? Are they—?”

He smiles. “They’re fine—sleeping. The snakes loved them—although fair warning. I think they will lord it over your toads for the next hundred generations.”

“It had occurred to me,” Jiraiya says. “Because, let me tell you, the toads know already and they’ve made certain I know too. The child of prophecy—”

Oh, Benzaiten-sama give him strength.

“You know I don’t believe in fate,” he interrupts, as gently as he is capable of. “Which reminds me—don’t think I have forgotten to lecture you about setting aside orphan geniuses who worship you like the sun. There have just been more pressing issues to address.”

Jiraiya blinks at him. Is he? Orochimaru scrutinizes him closely. No—he’s not playing dumb. Jiraiya genuinely doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

“Your apprentice,” he says. “The Namikaze child. If you had abandoned him to parent another genius child, how do you think he would have reacted?”

“Wha—Minato?” Jiraiya falters for a moment, a bit of uncertainty poking through. “Minato is fine—a Chūnin, with a sterling reputation and a stable web of connections. He’s practically an adult. He doesn’t need me.”

Hmm. How best to approach this—should he even be the one bringing this up? He looks at Tsunade, who is determinedly not looking back. No help from that quarter.

“Alright, say, for the sake of argument, that Sensei never took on our team—just you. Imagine yourself as a ten-year-old child, being the very first apprentice of a famous, respected Jōnin. You reach Chūnin when you’re twelve, two years later, and people start paying attention to you all of a sudden. Instead of a nameless, invisible orphan—a problem to be solved—you are now someone worth knowing.”

Wary caution enters Jiraiya’s eyes, and his shoulders start hunching inwards.

“Imagine, then, your Master just—leaves you. Leaves your village. To raise another genius orphan. This one has, for the sake of argument, a legendary Doujutsu. How would that make you feel?”

“It wasn’t—it wouldn’t have been like that.” Jiraiya’s voice is saturated with guilt—but also denial.

“It would.” Finally, Tsunade chimes in. “Not just for Namikaze, either. I would never have forgiven you. Never.”

“Oh come on—”

“No.” She is not even angry, is the thing. Just determined. Immovable as the mountain. “You live your life by your own design—you always have. But your idealism carries you away until you forget about the responsibilities you made along the way. To me, to Oro. To Namikaze. You would have destroyed that boy. Shattered him. If you don’t see how much he worships the ground you walk on, you are intentionally blind.”

Defensive rage starts darkening Jiraiya’s features, and his lips tighten into a sneer.

“Think of the two of us,” Orochimaru says. Sage, but he doesn’t want to talk about this. “How hateful we both were to each other, just because of a vague suspicion the other was Sensei’s favourite? Now imagine if Sensei abandoned you to teach me. How would you have felt?”

“I am done talking about this.”

Orochimaru’s lips tighten in a sneer of his own. He tried. Sage, but he tried.

They’re greeted as heroes. The civilians bow to them and cheer as they walk by. The name Sanin is thrown about, foolishly. All three are too tense—too fragile—to really care. To be fair, Orochimaru never would have cared. There is nothing in him that can care about the opinion of prey.

“Team Seven, reporting,” he says, with a small, ironic twist of his lips. “Mission successful.”

“And what a success it is.” Sensei is all but bursting with pride. With the added weight of perspective, with first-hand knowledge of what it’s like on the other side, Orochimaru has to admit—they are all unfair to their old Sensei. Especially Jiraiya and he. Entirely, unforgivably childish in their thinking. They ask for much and give little, especially in the way of support. When was the last time he had dinner with his Sensei? Trained with him—talked to him? And yet—he expects him to know, understand and predict everything without error. Any error is attributed to malice, and is that, really, any way for a grown man to behave?

“Thank you,” he says out of the blue, with more honesty than he intended. Sensei’s puzzled eyes find him, and he unwinds further. “Truly, Sensei. Thank you. The fight—it was spectacular. We fought as one, not giving so much as an inch. Your lessons stuck and stuck well. So—thank you. You were there in spirit.”

“And I could not be more proud.” Sensei’s eyes shine suspiciously, and Orochimaru is a minute away from tipping into overwhelmed nothing.

“‘f*cks sake, Sensei, I think Oro is nesting, or his dormant maternal instincts are finally acting up. He’s been sappy like this for weeks.” Tsunade’s voice has all the whine it had when she was a brat herself, artfully spun into dramatic play. In this—like in most things—she is Jiraiya’s polar opposite. Where Jiraiya is thoughtlessly cruel, Tsunade is mindfully soft, always careful to avoid any potential weak spot in her teasing. Case in point—no Orochi worth their name would have any attachment to a nebulous concept of masculine pride.

He hums, tipping his head to the side, gazing theatrically into the distance. “It would be nice, once this mess is over, would it not? A clutch of baby snakelets is just what I need, I think.”

Jiraiya unwinds from his snit enough to send a despairing glance Sensei’s way.

“And you, Jiraiya?” Asks Sensei, voice deep and rich with good humour. “Tsunade has Nawaki — not to mention Shizune, Orochimaru is busy making plans for a whole brood — you’re the holdout, it seems.”

“Nah,” says Jiraiya with a careful, uncertain smile. “I have a brat already. Minato is plenty.”

“Well said,” beams Sensei. “How you’ve grown, my students. I turn around—and here you are, tall and wise and mighty.”

“How could we be otherwise, if we're standing on the shoulders of such giants.” Benzaiten-sama, but he has grown sappy, hasn’t he?

Chapter 5: Chapter four

Chapter Text

Hatake jumps them the moment they’re out of the Hokage tower. And he’s not alone

“Oro,” he says, lupine fangs on full display. “This is a welcome sight. I had wondered where you are.”

A smile touches his lips and he lets it grow as it would. “Sakumo, step aside so I can finally pay my respects to the marvel you call your wife.”

He doesn’t know how he expected Kari to look—loud and boisterous perhaps, like the rest of her Clan. She’s not. In fact, she projects the image of an average, entirely unremarkable woman so well, it is almost attention-grabbing.

“Oro,” she says, and there, at least she can’t hide. Her voice is deep, hoarse and rich. A hair away from masculine. The sort of voice that makes you sit up and pay attention. “Your presence has been sorely missed, my friend. Kiyohime is a gem, but she is not you.”

He can feel Jiraiya’s stare boring into his back, as well as Tsunade’s more amused one.

“Where is my nest-mother?” He asks, faux off-hand. “In the Hatake compound?”

Sakumo huffs. “I think she and Yori are hunting in the 44^th, actually. They’ve been inseparable.”

It would be amusing if they weren’t a lethal combination—even if they played at being non-Chakra using animals. Kiyohime’s pearl-white scales blend in perfectly with Yori’s fur, which is more than long enough to disguise her body. Add to that Yori’s lightning Ninjutsu and Kyohime’s Genjutsu and venom—the two could take on anyone short of a Kage.

“I am in a bit of a hurry,” he says with some reluctance. “I could stop by the Hatake Compound later tonight? I have news you will enjoy.”

Hatake smiles at him, wide and disarming, and Kari even drops some of the flawless harmlessness, lets him see some of the assassin underneath. It's a thrilling gesture all around. He needs to think of an appropriately grand gift to give in return.

It is hard to judge who is more excited about their return. Nawaki, of course, is as he remembers him. Almost fourteen, with Senju-warm Chakra and a smile bright enough to outshine the sun. Kushina is less obvious—but only just. There is a solid weight in her eyes, a heaviness that will, Gods-willing, soon be lifted. Orochimaru knows well how hard it is to be the last of one’s Clan. Tsunade whisks her away, for a quick check-up. Her Jinchūriki seal might be phenomenal, a work of a decade by a peerless Uzumaki seal-mistress, but complications could always happen.

“We bring good tidings,” he tells his student. “For both of you. And, of course, trouble.”

“Is it true, is it true? Is the War over?” It’s a miracle that his apprentice remained this up-beat. Injury aside, the boy is a prisoner in his own home. Now that Mito has passed, Orochimaru would bet both his arms Kushina has locked both of them into the Senju Compound without exception. “Because of you?”

“Suna has accepted our terms,” he says with some pleasure. “As have Kusa and Kiri. The rest will follow. Unless something truly unexpected happens, we will have peace in weeks.”

Nawaki wiggles in place. The prosthetic he wears is as good as can be made in Konoha, but it’s far from acceptable. As soon as they have a moment to breathe, Orochimaru will start work on a transplant, even if he has to invent a whole new field to do it.

“But, that is not the only good news. As soon as your sister and Kushina-san come, we will have a council. All five of us.”

“And—and—‘Raiya it’s been years!” Nawaki scuttles off to Jiraiya, and throws himself at the older man, wrapping all four limbs around the man as best he can under the circ*mstances. “I’ve heard everything, of course. Minato is amazing, ‘Raiya, he’s so smart and calm, and he explains everything so well!”

Orochimaru straightens slightly. Well, now. What is this?

“He is, isn’t he,” says Jiraiya. “He’s a good kid. Have you been spending time with him?”

“Not anywhere as much as I would like.” Nawaki droops comically, turning his enormous brown eyes in Orochimaru’s direction. “He’s always busy with missions and stuff, and when he’s not, he’s drawing seals with Kushina-nee-san. We barely get to spend any time together at all!”

“But he has been kind to you?” He asks, keeping his voice light and unconcerned.

“He’s amazing,” says Nawaki. “I think,” he leans forward with a conspiratorial air, “that Kushina-nee likes him. And we all know what that means.”

Oh, thank the Sage. That’s one pitfall avoided. His snakelet is much too young to be fantasizing over Konoha’s most lethal child genius.

“That is good to know. Not many things will stop an Uzumaki woman who has set her sights on someone,” he says, sneaking a glance at Jiraiya.

Jiraiya grins, wide and proud. Parental, even. “That poor bastard. He doesn’t stand a chance.”

“Are we talking about Minato?” Kushina swans into the room with long, confident steps. “Lay off, will you. He’s a good friend.”

“A friend, is he?” Says Jiraiya.

She rewards him with a dubious look. “He’s like. Twelve. Chill.” She turns to look at Orochimaru with a strange, amused glint in her eyes. “You haven’t met him yet, have you, Oro?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure, no,” he says, a little wary.

Kushina hums, still infernally amused. “You’ll like him, I’m sure. He’s—yeah. You’ll like him.”

He hums a meaningless little noise. Time to change the topic. “Where is Tsunade?”

“Getting food,” comes the shout from the other room. “You start the story.”

Right. He turns to Jiraiya with an expectant look.

“No way,” he says, shaking his head like a lunatic. “You tell it.”

Coward. He sends him a speaking look and sniffs a little for good measure.

“Alright. So. We have good news, Hime—Kushina-san,” he corrects, at her glare. “On our way back from the recent battle with Hanzo, Jiraiya came across three children. Orphans.”

He nods at the suddenly desperate violet eyes zeroed in on him. “Yes, it is as you suspect. Two are Uzumaki. The girl, Konan, well. We hinted she could be from Mizuno Clan. I very much doubt that’s true, but there is no harm in it. As for Nagato, well, it was clear as day.”

“W-where are they?” The thin, trembling voice does not suit her, he thinks. She should never sound so frightened. “Why aren’t they here—where are they?”

“I will summon them presently.”

“What do you mean—”

“I will explain soon. But first—”

Nick—crouch—twist—

Three tiny little six-year-olds stand in a cloud of Chakra-smoke, Avi circled around them in a deceptively loose curl. Have they always been so small, good grief?

“Sensei!” Yahiko takes a step forward, uncaring of the audience. “Sensei, it was awesome—we played and and—we ate some fruit which was sticky and gross but sooo good and—and—Manda let us climb him Sensei—”

“Breathe, snakelet,” he says, corner of his lips curling into a crooked, honest smile. “I am sure your stay in the Ryuuchi cave was eventful, but first, let me introduce you to your Clan Head, Uzumaki Kushina-hime.”

Kushina stands, speechless, desperate want written so plainly on her face that Orochimaru averts his eyes. That is not for him.

“Come, now.” He places a soothing hand on Yahiko’s shoulder and reaches for the other two with his other arm. “You’re safe here.”

“Inari-sama,” breathes Kushina and takes a half-step forward, as if afraid they will disappear.

“H-helo, Kushina-sama,” says Yahiko, a thin layer of bravado barely hiding his nerves. “I am Yahiko. Umm. Sensei told me I am an Uzumaki.”

“What else could you be,” she says, voice thick with emotion. “I can sense your Chakra clear as day. Both of you—” she turns to Konan who is curled in on herself as much as possible, standing even smaller than Nagato who is actively trying to melt into the floor. “A-all three of you,” she corrects with a wobble. “Precious little miracles.”

A stone would believe her earnestness—and the thick cloud of Chakra enveloping them all with boundless joy.

“I will leave you to your introductions,” he says, experiencing far too many shades of discomfort for a miserable old snake like him. “Children—” Three pairs of eyes snap to him, and he ignores Kushina’s hiss of disbelief at seeing Nagato’s Rinnegan. “—Be good for Kushina-sama. I will be back shortly.”

He escapes the thick sentimentality and flees to Tsunade.

“Too much for you, eh?” She is sitting on the floor, back propped by the kitchen counter. “I get that. Kushina-chan is a lot, and the kids—well. She’s not wrong. One Uzumaki child is a miracle but two? Sage.”

He slides down next to her and commandeers her Sake. “Best leave the sentiment to Jiraiya,” he says. “Do you think Nawaki—”

She snorts. “Nawaki is a hoarder. I will bet my life he will have adopted the brats before we return. Especially the red one.”

“Sage,” he echoes.

“Alright, let me see if I understood everything correctly.” Kushina waves her hand as best she can, considering she has three children sprawled across her legs and isn’t willing to let them go for so much as a moment. “You smuggled the kits into Konoha because Shimura—the same guy that has been sabotaging your missions for months now—will try to get to Nagato. So you need me to apply a seal, to disguise his eyes.”

“Correct.”

“And Danzou is alive because?” She asks, a little plaintively, like she can’t quite believe this even needs to be brought up.

He shrugs. “I thought it best to try the legal route first. Back then, Nawaki was still in recovery, so moving him would have been dangerous. So I gathered everything we had and took it to Sakumo.”

“That’s how you know them,” says Jiraiya, several notes too loud for casual conversation. “Sorry, sorry—I was just surprised—continue, please.”

“As I was saying, I took everything I had to Sakumo, and tasked him with fixing it, more or less. He’s been working with Uchiha and Aburame, and I think he plans to bring in InoShikaCho soon.”

“It’s just so—Shimura is just one old guy, not even the Head of his Clan. What could he possibly—”

A shade falls over Tsunade’s features, deepening the already prominent cheekbones. She looks hungry when she gets wrathful, always has. “Don’t underestimate him. He has a lot of sway. Some of it comes from cashing in on Sensei’s sentimentality, but most is regular old politics. Sensei could—and should—get rid of him if he acted quick and decisive, but he won’t. Sensei has been working on making Konoha less autocratic for twenty years now. He will either go with a half-measure, which means nothing at all, or he will stall until his replacement deals with it.”

“What about the Shinobi Council? The Civilian Council?” Asks Jiraiya. “I might be a civilian brat, but I know how it works—Shinobi, civilians and the Hokage should have about the same pull.”

“Bullsh*t,” says Tsunade. “Technically, the Clans should have most if not all the power. That’s what Konoha was—a bunch of Clans living together. It wasn’t even consolidation of resources, at first, as much as it was a more solid non-aggression pact. Civilians—not just Clan-members who weren’t shinobi—only really started arriving during Sensei’s reign. Since then, Sensei has been trying to make both the Clans and the Hokage less powerful, and give the civilians some political pull.” She pauses, grimacing a little, like she is both impressed and disgusted. “It’s a novel idea. Revolutionary. Unfortunately, from what little I’ve seen, Danzou has the civilians under his paw. The Clans are busy bickering among ourselves, and Sensei is eager to spread his power around. He lets the Advisors pull him this way or that because he wants to show his voice is not the only one that counts.”

“Sentiment,” says Orochimaru. “Admirable, but foolish. I have no doubt he will take our accusations seriously, but we need proof—irrefutable proof. Not just coincidences and logical assumptions. And until we have proof, we’re stuck.”

“Minato can help,” says Kushina with a sad twist to her lips. “He knows about the child-snatching more than most.”

Tsunade’s eyes sharpen, and her Chakra cools. “Child snatching? I know there are rumours, but—”

“He will explain better. But there is a reason he was so obsessed with being the best in his Class. Children—especially children from problematic or inconvenient backgrounds—vanished pretty regularly.”

“Jiraiya,” says Orochimaru thoughtfully. “May I borrow your apprentice tonight? He might just be our missing piece.”

“Not tonight,” says Kushina. “I need him for the seal. I have an idea, but he has an interesting way of looking at Fūinjutsu. My littlest brother gets priority. Everything else can wait.”

Fair enough. He looks at the three fawns wrapped around Kushina like she is the first source of warmth they had ever come across. He can empathize. Uzumaki can be very warm, indeed.

“Right—food,” orders Tsunade. “Especially you kids. You weigh half a pound between the three of you, and I will not have it. Chop-chop, wash your hands and get to work. I want to see some progress.”

The Hatake Compound is a ways off from the Village proper, surrounded by a large swathe of forest that counts as Clan Land. He knows very little about them—their paths rarely crossed paths with his own. The sum total of his knowledge boils down to the basics. They are from the Land of Iron, with strong samurai roots. Closely bound to their Summons—wolves—and allied with the Uchiha, after a scandal with Senju Butsuma shattered their alliance irreparably.

Only Sakumo remains, and Kira, of course, from the main line. There is possibly a civilian branch somewhere in Iron, but details are foggy.

He waits politely at the main gate, having flared his Chakra to signal his arrival. The Wards are worryingly basic—a competent Chūnin could circumvent them easily.

“Oro!” Sakumo lopes forward, every inch the wolf. Beside him, Yuri walks at a more sedate pace, Kiyohime’s head resting between his ears. “Welcome, welcome.”

“Thank you,” he says. “Remind me to talk to you about updating your Wards as soon as possible.”

“Pshh.” He flapping his hand in an offhand gesture. “We’re fine—who would want to harm us? It’s not like we have anything valuable to steal. Never mind that, come, come. We made dinner.”

Orochimaru hums and turns the words over in his head. Is it a bluff? It has to be—Hatake are an old Clan. They have blades, if nothing else, that are literally beyond price.

“Dinner, you say.”

He lets Sakumo’s chatter wash over him and turns his senses outwards. It certainly appears as if there is nothing but the simplest layer of Wards—and yet, something in the back of his mind tenses. He can’t sense any aggression, but—he feels like there are eyes in the dark watching his every move.

The feeling grows stronger the closer they get to the lovely, traditional Samurai house until they cross the threshold and it just—disappears.

No wards, his shiny kunai. Whatever it is, it’s not Chakra-work like he knows it, but he can bet every book he has that nothing steps onto Hatake Land that Sakumo—or Kira—doesn't know about.

Chapter 6: Chapter five

Chapter Text

Between Kushina, Nawaki, the three kits and now the Namikaze child, the Senju compound has become a pit of chaos. Orochimaru, who lives and breathes chaos, soaks it up like a sponge.

He didn’t really know what he was expecting from Jiraiya’s apprentice. Perhaps someone like himself when he was a child—calculated, cold, visibly eager for an excuse to escalate any and every interaction into violence.

Instead, the boy is a charming mess. Badly adjusted, without a doubt, but where Orochimaru flaunted his difference—bitterly, it has to be said—Namikaze went down the path of social mimicry. Jiraiya was obviously a major source of inspiration, which was an unfortunate choice. Jiraiya’s charm is undeniable, but the adult version of his teammate combined the hyper-masculine with disarmingly genuine. Namikaze is a shrimpy, androgynous blonde little wisp of a child that is neither masculine, genuine or disarming in any way. Channelling the Yamanaka of his generation works better visually, but rings hollow—the boy is charming, but not even a little charismatic.

Interestingly, Namikaze is good with the fawns. He takes them seriously, which is always a safe approach to take. On the other hand, a barely-sane ball of adolescent rage and sociopathy taking you seriously is not to be taken lightly. Case in point, the three Uzu-kits smell the crazy on him and give him a respectful berth. Nawaki, of course, has no such admirable self-preservation instinct.

It’s not ideal. Orochimaru would much rather all his snakelets stay away from Namikaze until Kushina socializes him some. On the other hand, it could have been much worse. Namikaze is not many things. His life has lead him to prune most non-essential parts of his personality and invest everything into those traits that have a clear survival benefit. That left him intelligent, ruthless, cruel and desperately loyal to his chosen people. Not bad traits to have, all in all. Orochimaru tried to suss him out, see if his damage is as controlled as it looks to be. No success—the child got tongue-tied practically the moment Orochimaru was within talking distance. He directed his monosyllabic answer to the floor, and dove for the nearest exit-point as soon as possible.

“Jiraiya’s brat has a puppy-crush on you,” cackles Tsunade, when he gives up and seeks some answers. They’re in the kitchen again, their preferred place to run, when it all becomes too much.

“Why?” He asks, truly baffled. “He doesn’t even know me—we’ve practically never met. Plus he’s obviously Kushina’s to the marrow.”

Tsunade’s shrug is very eloquent in that it conveys her absolute lack of interest in many and varied ways. “Who knows. He’s a cute little thing, though. Reminds me a lot of you.”

“I was not cute,” he says, mock offended. “I was disturbing, thank you kindly. Eerie. Creepy, at the very least.”

“What—and he’s not? The boy’s got a mind sharp enough to cut, and a very, very settled grasp on moral relativity. Jiraiya is a good fit, honestly.”

Mm. Is he? The more he gets to know the blonde, the more he thinks Jiraiya is a terrible fit—and through no fault of his own, even. The boy will constantly try and fail to be like him. Someone instinctively, subconsciously good. Kind. Nawaki would have been a good fit. Yahiko would have been an excellent fit. Namikaze? At best he will perfect his mimicry to the point where the masses won’t be able to spot the con.

“I’m looking forward to introducing him to Sakumo, actually.” And Kari, more importantly. The child could learn a lot from her.

“Sakumo, hm?” Something in her tone catches his attention, and he cranes his head to see her fully. Indeed, her eyes are full of genuine warmth. “I’m happy for you, Oro,” she says, not a trace of bitterness in sight.

He busies himself with the dishes, not really sure what to do with himself. “It’s nothing yet.” He hasn’t even considered trying anything with anyone since Aisa and Shion. And yet.

Tsunade doesn’t press. “Nawaki is in raptures—he has little siblings to spoil and a role-model to ogle. I had hoped—but never mind that.”

She had hoped to give him blood nieces and nephews. If ever there was a woman perfectly suited for motherhood, it would be Tsunade.

He sighs slightly, disbelieving at the conversations that he seems to be having recently. “We have grown old, haven’t we,” he says. “I haven’t stepped foot in my lab for half a year, did you know? All my experiments—ruined. To make matters worse, when I think about going there, about salvaging what can be salvaged, my mind is immediately swamped with the million-odd things I need to do about the sea of children that have found their way into my care.”

“The war changed us, there’s no denying it,” she says, a little wistfully. “You, out of all of us, have done well for yourself.”

Hmph. Sometimes he’s not sure. Sometimes he wonders about the drastic drop in ambition. No matter how deep he looks, he can’t find the hungry, manic drive that pushed him further and further. It seems so long ago that he felt it last—and yet it could not have been longer than a year. Since Nawaki was placed in his care, in fact. The Senju heir was given to Orochimaru, to the tune of clearly verbalized outrage of the entire village. Even Sensei was wary of the idea. Tsunade—and Nawaki for that matter—would hear none of it. Orochimaru or no-one. Orochimaru or both Nawaki and Tsunade will try their luck in the civilian sector.

Something crashes in the living room, and a cacophony of children’s voices rises in response.

“Sage wept, it’s a circus in here,” says Tsunade. Her voice is lighter it’s been in months, and there is a current of energy around her that makes brightens the very air they breathe. “Let’s see whose ears I have to box.”

Namikaze and Kushina don’t leave the Compound for four solid days and ransack the library for good measure. On the fifth day, a blood-seal is good and finished.

For the life of him, Orochimaru can’t make heads or tails of it. It’s Uzumaki in origin but sprained just enough to make it unrecognizable. He doesn’t ask. The answer will just depress him. For all his efforts, Orochimaru never managed to become more than middlingly adept at Fūinjutsu. He can understand and apply existing seals without trouble, but making his own— borderline impossible. And here are two teenagers that have managed to, if not create the entire seal from nothing, then at least alter it to the point outside interference is practically impossible.

They spend five full hours drawing the damn thing on Nagato’s forehead, and then, in a soundless boom, activate it using a truly ill-advised amount of Chakra.

Kushina leans back, a silly grin matching the dazed violet eyes. “Give it an hour to stabilize, and it should disappear. You activate it by channelling Chakra in a specific activation key—we will teach you soon.”

“Very impressive,” says Orochimaru, and runs a steadying hand down Nagato’s back. The child has blown so far past nervous that he’s manic with fear, body alternatively trembling and seizing up with terror. He doesn’t blame him. A whole lot of foreign Chakra blew through him just now. “This should last you a good few years. Hopefully, by the time it needs serious work, you will be strong enough to not bother with it anymore.”

Kushina loses some of the lethargy, and her movements gain an abrupt edge from leftover adrenaline. She bounces up and down on the balls of her feet. “Come, Minato. I want a spar.”

“Cool.” Judging by the glassy sheen in his eyes, and the icy tint to his Chakra, the boy is every bit as manic as Kushina is. He’s just hiding it better. “Courtyard?”

“Yeah. Swords?”

Namikaze wrinkles his nose. “Taijutsu?”

The two continue to bicker on their way out, but not before Kushina runs a hand through Nagato’s hair, and presses a kiss into his cheek.

“They are a handful, aren’t they,” he says to the overwhelmed boy trembling into his side.

A minuscule nod.

“They mean well.” Hmm. “I will have a word with them about warning people.” Honestly, if Nagato wasn’t so deeply attached to Kushina already, it would have ended badly. The child might be six, but he has the power to turn thought into reality. What horrors the combination of a teenage Jinchūriki and a pre-pubescent Rinnegan-user can inflict upon the world is not something he is in a hurry to explore.

Orochimaru very deliberately makes sure he is in public at all times for the four days Tsunade has requested to stage the discovery of the Uzu-kits. His reputation might be better than it was, but it’s still not anything that would add legitimacy to an already fishy operation. His love for Uzushio is well-known. It’s best if they stick with as much truth as they can—which means Jiraiya and Tsunade.

Sakumo is invaluable in legitimizing his alibi. He and Kari drag him from tea-house to tea-house, on breakfasts and lunches and dinners and all the shades in-between. They’re, for all the world, dating.

He doesn’t linger on where fiction ends and truth begins—that way lies madness. The ink hasn’t dried on the peace contracts yet and Danzō still lives and plots and pollutes the air. There is no time for silly notions of romance.

If he leans into Sakumo’s weight now and again and finds himself sharing his desserts with Kari—well. It’s good optics.

Between his apparent whirlwind romance, he makes sure to have that overdue conversation with Sensei. Sarutobi Compound is always open to all three of them—he knows that well. Why, then, hasn’t he visited in going over five years?

Sensei looks at him with eyes full of love. It hurts a little, to know his public relationship with the Hatake couple is a big part of why that is. Sensei loves him in spite, not because of his nature. That much hasn’t changed—Orochimaru has just grown old and weary enough not to question why the warmth comes, as long as it comes.

They talk about philosophy and poetry, he brings out the sketches he made years ago of an instrument he planned to construct, to add to Orochi Clan archives. Most notably, they don’t speak of the war, Orochimaru’s about-turn in recent months, or the not at all subtle tension between Sensei and his advisors.

When Jiraiya comes to Konoha with three Uzushio children in tow, Sensei isn’t fooled for so much as a second. He sends him a wry look, but a pleased one. Like he is happy that his manipulations have for once been in service of saving children and not killing them. Orochimaru lets a smile touch his lips for a moment, and stands behind Jiraiya and Tsunade, showing his support whatever it might mean.

There is no question about the children being accepted, Ame-born or not. The Senju, Uchiha, Hatake and Aburame are a decent bloc of power. The newly-named Sanin have their own influence and of course there is the matter of the Uzumaki Clan Head. The blood-seal holds through the cursory interrogation in the T&I, and they are judged—rightly—too young for a Yamanaka mind-walk. With so much goodwill directed towards the children—by the Clans and by the civilians who are caught up in the jubilation about the end of the war—not even the advisors think to press the point. Uzumaki Nagato, Uzumaki Yahiko and Uzumaki Konan move into the Senju compound within the day.

Orochimaru waits for a couple of days for the dust to settle before he puts the next part of this production in play. With Jiraiya’s blessing, because he’s not an idiot, he bullies Namikaze into having tea with him. The strange little creed of ‘never lie to children, ever’ has been working out well so far. With that in mind, Namikaze deserves the truth. The child’s involvement would be valuable, but not invaluable. Certainly not enough to warrant deception, and set ablaze any chance of future cooperation.

Thankfully, Namikaze can hold a conversation with him these days. The novelty has a way of wearing off. If anything, it’s a wonder that any of it had remained at all, after the sixth time he summoned Manda for the fawns to climb. (The serpent figured out a way to contort his tail into a swing for the children. It was all very wholesome).

The tea-house is to his taste—and well used to him after all this time. Run by a retired seduction specialist, it was by its very nature need-to-know. Next to no seduction Shinobi get to live to retirement. The few that do make up about nine-tenths of all foreign assassination targets. Norika Takanashi is a civilian-born kunoichi who tore through ANBU before retiring at forty. She kept herself alive by pretending she had been a high-end, highly specialized sex worker. Her tea-house had morphed into something of a haven to many such men and women—the price of their life more than outweighed the scorn of the civilians.

He books his usual room beforehand via Aki, and loiters around in the gallery overlooking the main room, observing Namikaze. It is genuinely interesting, how well the boy blends into the red-light district. Once a street-rat, always a street-rat. Namikaze bats his baby-blues here, and flinches theatrically there, so the denizens think him a civilian orphan. A bit too big to take advantage of without any consequence, but fun to intimidate all the same.

Bless their little hearts. Namikaze could—and would, if Jiraiya so much as hinted at it—slaughter every single one of them without a moment of hesitation or a wink of sleep lost.

Enough of that. He makes his way to his usual room, sinking into the pillows with unfeigned relish. “Tea, please,” he asks—very pointedly not requests from—Norika-san. “Tea and food—appropriate amount and type to feed a twelve-year-old orphan Chūnin.” If he has to sit through Tsunade’s rants about nutrition and children one more time… At least with the war being all but over, the village has stopped the strict rationing.

“One of your nestlings?” Asks Norika-san with genuine interest. The fact that the Senju compound doubles as a daycare is common knowledge by now. “And it’s the Namikaze child too—how curious. I had hoped you would take him under your wing.”

Good grief. “I am doing nothing of the sort,” he says, somewhat outraged. “Uzumaki-hime has claimed him, official or not. Not to mention Jiraiya.”

Norika’s black-brown eyes blink in placid condescension. “Of course, Orochimaru-sama.”

The boy is ushered in by a girl—not a kunoichi, interesting, but definitely Akasen-born.

“Take care, Minato-kun,” she says, the ring of honesty a bit out of place in an establishment like this. Hmm.

“Likewise, Naomi-san,” he says, before turning to Orochimaru, straightening his back and marching inside with grim determination.

Not that surprising, considering his upbringing—but definitely doesn’t fit the squeaky-clean image the boy is trying to peddle.

“Good morning, Orochimaru-sama.” The boy’s tone is amusingly firm.

He hums, a bit charmed by the tense child. “Indeed, Namikaze-san. Sit down, please. No business before you’ve eaten, or Tsunade will have my hide.”

“Right.” Namikaze sits down carefully, movements practised. Traces of awkwardness linger here and there, but the child is practically a fetus. He will learn.

They eat in silence—Orochimaru does little more than nibble—which is not tense, as such. The boy-child is tense, but that is, he suspects, not because of anything Orochimaru is doing.

“Thank you for the meal.” The boy is mimicking himself, and it’s frankly adorable. Does he realize it? Surely not. He never would have been brazen enough to mirror Orochimaru back to himself like this.

“You’re welcome,” he says, tamping down on his amusem*nt. This is a serious conversation, and they will ask a lot of the child. Perhaps more than they should. “Now—I assume Uzumaki-hime has kept you up to date with our—investigations?”

“Very broadly. The Hokage’s advisor is forming his own army, and he’s getting orphans to man it. That’s why you’re keeping Nagato under such close guard.”

“You have the shape of it,” he says, considering how to proceed, here. “The man sabotaged Nawaki’s mission—that was his biggest mistake. He is eliminating what he sees as competition—Jiraiya was never a serious Hokage candidate, he couldn’t sit in one place for long enough if his life depended on it. Tsunade is a different case entirely. Tsunade has the pedigree, the strength and the backing of the people.”

Namikaze hums a noncommittal little noise. “Wouldn’t that be—impolitic?”The bluntness—that is pure Uzumaki. “Three of the four Hokage being Senju?”

“Very good,” he says and ignores the boy’s blush. The boy’s Uzumaki will cure him of it, as soon as it is conscionable for her to do so. “It would, indeed. My bet was—and is—Hatake.”

“Oh.” Namikaze pauses for a moment, thinking it through. “That makes sense. The White Fang is certainly infamous—especially now, after Suna.”

Isn’t that the truth? Sakumo’s fame is—heavy and momentous. The Sanin are held up for their strength, but Sakumo kept his squads alive through a series of truly improbable stunts. Kiyohime recounted a few when they got some free time. His Den-mother is definitely impressed and horrified in equal measure.

“He was the only viable Yondaime candidate even before the war. But now—yes, unless something happens to him, he will be the Hokage. Sensei is planning his retirement party as we speak.”

“O-kay,” says the boy. He’s too well-taught to be impatient, but there is a baffled angle to his eyebrows, like he can’t quite understand why they’re talking about this.

“I’ve enlisted Sakumo’s help after Nawaki was injured. He’s been talking with the Uchiha the Aburame and is planning to expand his circle. You are the first person we’ve come across that is willing to talk about the incidents in the Orphanage—and well-known enough to be believed.”

“So you want me to—what? Talk to the White Fang? To the Uchiha?” The boy’s voice is dubious but not betraying a hint of fear. Cynicism and the base-level of manic rage Orochimaru are almost used to at this point.

“Essentially. We need evidence, you see. You can point us—them—into a direction, give them a lead, something. Names, locations, descriptions of the children taken.” He pauses for a moment. “Did Jiraiya teach you summoning yet?”

Namikaze blinks a little at the tangent. “No—not yet. I don’t have enough Chakra to summon yet.”

Damn. “Until he does, you will be wearing one of my snakes. And best believe I will design you a training routine to get your Chakra capacity where it needs to be. We don’t have the luxury of a slow approach, not with enemies panting at our gates.”

Again, he ignores the blush. “You’ve been protected so far by your visibility and your willingness to keep your mouth shut. It will not last. I will talk to Jiraiya, but toads are badly suited for stealth. Kiyohime is with Sakumo, and Avi is with the fawns. I will talk to my sisters, and see which one is up for an extended stay in the human realm.”

What else—

“If you’re free tonight, I would like you to come to the Orochi Compound for dinner. Bring Uzumaki-hime if you like. Sakumo will be there, as will Kari.” He’d say Jiraiya, but unfortunately, the man is off in Kumo, spying on something important. Orochimaru pointedly did not ask.

Namikaze gulps a little but manages a tense smile. “Sure. A dinner. At the Orochi Compound. With you. And Kushina. And the White Fang. Okay.”

Chapter 7: Chapter six

Chapter Text

It’s not that Orochimaru never entertains—it’s not. Sensei and his teammates have been frequent guests in the Compound. Aisa and Shion have visited whenever missions brought them to his neck of the woods. They’ve spent a glorious month here together, before, during and after his Jōnin exam. And of course, when his parents were alive, the Compound was teeming with guests. For all that Orochimaru is a surly, prickly old man, his parents were social creatures, never without a gaggle of friends coming or going.

With all that said—it’s been a few years. Sakumo and Kari have visited three times, but never completely causally. It was always about work. It’s about work now, too, but it is also about stitching together two parts of his life.

So he makes an effort. He lets his snakes out to play, tidies some of the books away, and prepares a mountain of food for the young’uns. His Den is—well, a den. It’s all wide spaces, and dim lights, thick carpets and no chairs. Cushions, though, thousands of cushions, everywhere. Wine, food, sweets—drugs, even, if his guests were the type. It is a den, which means comfort.

Kushina arrives first, with Namikaze in tow. She doesn’t flare her Chakra like a civilized person but instead lets her curious Chakra twangs across the Wards. Namikaze’s softer poke is less jarring, but only just. Benzaiten-sama save him from precocious children. He can only hope Nagato is less reckless when he comes into his own, otherwise he might as well lay down in his grave now and save them all the hassle.

His lands are not large—one house, and a training ground which he converted into a garden years ago. It takes but a moment to walk outside to meet his guests, and Namikaze is already taking notes about his Wards.

“Alright, children,” he says with more amusem*nt than is perhaps warranted. “Come in, shoes off, jackets off. Don’t mind the snakes and they won’t mind you. All the unfriendly ones have retreated to upper levels. Disturb at your own peril.” It’s a relic of the past, this little introduction. It’s almost word for word what his father recited to every new arrival.

The two teenagers file in after him ooh-ing and aah-ing at everything. Namikaze is contained, but Kushina will touch everything as soon as his back is turned, he just knows it.

The living room is met with uproarious approval from both of them. Kushina is more vocal but the glint in Namikaze’s eyes hits harder. Not completely unexpected. Children who grow up in abject poverty either turn ascetic or overcompensate in the other direction. He can tell Namikaze will grow up to be a complete sybarite, once he is shown how. Once Kushina shows him how.

“Make yourselves comfortable. Food is—” he sweeps his hand in a wide arc, ”—everywhere. Help yourselves. Sakumo and Kari will be here soon.”

He barely has time to finish that thought, before Sakumo’s enormous Chakra blankets the house for a second. It’s such a showy move, he thinks, smiling a little. For a less aware or discerning person, it could be considered a charming mistake—but it takes a lot of skill to spread ones Chakra so widely, and pull it back so it appears to wink out like it was never there.

“That would be the wolves. Sit, eat, rest while you can.”

Sakumo drags him in a hug when he’s within grabbing distance. His hugs were always warm, but they’ve been getting more and more suggestive as time went on. “Oro!”

“Yes, yes, lovely to see you, dear. Now shoo, so I can greet the smart one.”

“Joke’s on you—if she’s the smart one, I’m the pretty one!”

“Very good, dear,” he says, dripping with saccharine sweetness. “You’re exactly right. So move your pretty self, would you, there’s a lamb.”

“It’s been too long,” says Kari, in the expected multi-layered fashion that has Orochimaru so spellbound. There is the uppermost level of artifice, easily peeled away. Beneath that, an in-born stand-offishness—and bellow that honest pleasure, and a suggestive note to match her husband's.

“It has.” He’s seen them yesterday—and yet, he doesn’t exaggerate. Sage, emotions. “Two of my brood are inside, waiting for us.” He stands up from his ever-so-slightly lingering embrace with Kari, and steps back. Both Hatake are keyed into the Wards. Not fully, of course, but as far as Tsunade and Jiraiya are. “Namikaze and Uzumaki-hime. We should not leave them alone—especially the Uzumaki.”

“That’s two. You have just—what, fifty-seven more children stashed about, and then we’re through, right?”

“With the human ones, yes,” he says and leads them inside. They know the drill—and unlike the kids, they’re dressed for the temperature of a house whose owner produces very little body heat. He—never one to deny himself—drags a slow eye over the clean, smooth lines of their bodies. Unlike Orochimaru who will never give up his impractical, multilayered robes, both Sakumo and Kari wear bulky outer layers and skin-tight bodysuits that double as armour. Sakumo’s shoulders are easily two times wider than Orochimaru’s are—and Kari’s waistline is just about at a forty-five-degree angle from her shoulders and hips. It’s no wonder the kunoichi can pass as a civilian entertainer—that’s some deceptively frail physique right there.

Still no sign of a canine partner. He knows she has at least one—she’s an Inuzuka, and not adorned with black tattoos signifying grief. She hasn’t mentioned, and he hasn’t asked. It’s understandably a fraught topic.

The dinner, as it happens, is a disaster. A fun, charming sort of disaster, but a disaster nonetheless. The blonde brat has a puppy crush on Orochimaru, the red brat has a puppy crush on Sakumo, and they’re both egging each other on. Sakumo is trying and failing to make sense of any of it, and Kari is laughing at all of them so hard inside, traces of it are actually visible on her face.

“I hate to interrupt,” he says when he’s finally had enough. “But it’s getting late, and this little Shinobi needs his beauty sleep. Plus Nagato will worry, which will make Yahiko fret and then I will have to dodge Avi’s fangs for upsetting Konan. Now. Namikaze-kun. Sakumo. Talk.”

“Wow, Sensei,” says Kushina. “Harsh. Good on you.” Why exactly she won’t stop calling him Sensei when he never taught her a damn thing is anyone’s guess. It’s probably the kids—all the Uzu kits (and Nawaki naturally) call him Sensei, and it’s spread to the older children. Even Tsunade called him Sensei once, and then promptly howled in laughter for seven minutes on the dot.

“Yes, well. Dealing with you children has been a lesson in clearly communicating one’s wishes.

Namikaze and Sakumo get into it—finally, Sage wept—with the spirited additions from Kushina who tries and fails at only being a casual observer. She might want to play an aloof trickster, but the story makes her angry—as angry as a Jinchūriki teenager can afford to be.

“Interesting child you found yourself, Oro,” says Kari, having migrated to his side, and sitting down just a hair too close to be casual.

“First of all, I’ve not found a single child. They are all Jiraiya’s—or Tsunade’s if we include Nawaki. Second of all, the children are at best communal. But I thought you specifically would find Namikaze interesting.”

“Mm. I can see why. He’s good for his age and resources, but the patchwork mimicry is obvious to anyone who cares to look. ”

He hums, watching the mishmash of mannerisms, the neurotic way the child shifts from one person to another, depending on the content of his words. It doesn’t look to be directly deliberate—but it definitely started off as such.

“He’s using too much of one person,” she says. “It’s jarring because it’s visible. He will learn to only ever use small pieces.”

It’s jarring because it’s using mission tactics to get through a conversation with an ally. It’s jarring because the boy is so badly socialized he gave up on trying to learn the why’s and jumped straight to the how’s. It’s jarring because he may never really understand the why’s, even if he tried.

“He will learn.”

InoShikaCho negotiations are best left to the Hatake, with assistance by Uzumaki and Namikaze. In an admittedly odd turn of events, Kushina made friends with Kari, and Namikaze with Sakumo. It—wasn’t what Orochimaru had in mind, certainly, but what works, works. Namikaze worked on mimicking charisma, and Kushina worked on emotional control, as far as he could see.

With the four of them handling most all the duties on the front of treason, and his pseudo-dating life put on hold, two things happen. Number one, he is free to resume missions, and number two, he spends most of his time in the Senju compound, with the Uzu kits and Nawaki.

His apprentice is still his apprentice. That much will be true up to and post the re-making of the world. The problem is simple—he is off the active-duty roster. The village put their foot down months ago and turned Genin Nawaki into citizen Nawaki. (As soon as they are finished putting out the worst of the fires in this village, he will raid the Senju accounts, and build a lab right in the Compound. If the Sage forsaken Village can’t spare a transplant for the Senju Heir, then by God, he will grow one himself.)

Sensei’s advisors have been harping on him to take a new student, arguing that even should they re-instate his rank, Nawaki will be village-bound. The Village needs Orochimaru’s successors, they drone, they need a Summoner, they need a frontlines juggernaut.

Well then, if that is the case.

Once the female stooge—Utatane? Unohana? Utakina?—barged into Orochimaru’s weekly tea-and-gossip appointment with Sensei, when Orochimaru decides he has had enough.

“Councilwoman.” He stretches from his seiza. “I will raise several issues with your approach.”

He raises three fingers and slowly ticks off one. “Number one—even if I were inclined to take a student, I would hesitate to do so on your orders. I would be bound to honour that obligation, not you.” Taking care to not show a smidge of aggression, he ticks off another finger.

The woman tries to interrupt him, and he talks over her easily.

“Number two—no matter what you like to think, I am still a Clan Head. I am owed respect for that at least, even if you do not acknowledge my personal accomplishments. You, on the other hand, are owed as much respect as Sensei gives you—and that is a currency that is quickly running out.”

“That is enou—”

The third finger folds, with all the theatricality he can muster. “I am speaking, Councilwoman. Number three, you might want to consider the message you are sending to other Clans. If the Senju heir was set aside so callously, how would you treat, say, the Aburame heir? Theirs is a Noble Clan, like the Senju. What about a smaller Clan? If you throw away valuable talent when you can’t be bothered with the slightest inconvenience, how recklessly will you send their children off to die?”

“You arrogant child,” spit the woman, infuriated well beyond thinking through her words. Perfect. “If you stopped for one moment to consider the needs of the village, instead of stroking your own ego, we would not have to guide you through basic procedure. You capitalize on our Hokage’s sentimentality like the snake you are. Konoha is owed your service, it is not something you can refuse.”

“I owe you nothing, you old parasite,” he says, voice light and sweet. “Not a single thing. If you were choking on the ground, I would not feel compelled to so much as pat you on the back. You and your ilk are a tumour on our home, and as such only ever serve to make it worse.”

“Hiruzen—”

He laughs a little, honestly amused, but doesn’t speak—he is curious as to how Sensei will handle this. Orochimaru has, admittedly, been stoking the fires a little, not letting the status-quo settle back. Sensei might be reluctant to get into conflict, but Orochimaru will force a choice himself if he has to.

“Yes, Sensei, what say you?”

Sensei is pale, and his Chakra is forcefully kept back, not so much as a hint of emotion visible inward or outward. “Are you finished?”

“No, I am not—”

“Quiet, Koharu,” he says, not at all amused. “While you have both behaved disgracefully, at least my student is here in an unofficial capacity. He is not standing in my office, representing Konoha, and spitting venom like a toddler. You, however, are here as a Council member. Is this how you fulfill that role? By vulgarity and insults?”

“I do what I have to do to fix your mistakes, Hiruzen,” she throws back. Touchy. “As I always have done. If your Students weren’t—this—I would have some free time to myself to spend with my family.”

Oh, what a clumsy little misstep. How intriguing. Orochimaru should have started baiting the Elders years ago if this is how easy it would have been to get them to shame themselves.

“My mistakes saved this village, Councilwoman,” says Sensei, frost audibly winding through his voice audibly. It’s rare Sensei’s genial facade slips so badly. His blood is up too. “It is through the strength of my students that you and I get to live. If you are deluding yourself this thoroughly in this matter, I am forced to consider you may not be capable of handling your duties. Now, leave my office and do not return until I call you.”

“Now—”

“Do not force me to suspend the institution of the Council, because I will. As my student so rudely pointed out, I handed you the power you hold, and I can just as easily take it back. So. Leave. Now.”

Finally, the woman realizes a retreat is her only option and leaves with one last sneer.

“Well, that was exciting,” he says, sitting down to his tea.

“You are not blameless in this, Orochimaru. You are a grown man, a Clan Head, who should be beyond this behaviour. You cannot demand respect and act disgracefully.”

“I accept whatever punishment you think is appropriate, Sensei,” he says, the hand not occupied by a teacup flipping through the air in a ditzy little gesture. “But that was a long time coming, and I regret none of it.”

“There will be a punishment, make no mistake,” Sensei says, before his composure cracks, and he sags into his seat. “I am too old for this. I need a successor. This peace—it is fool’s gold. A ceasefire, nothing more. A third Great War is on the horizon, and I cannot be the leader for it. I must not be.”

Orochimaru’s heart drops a little. He’s been out of international politics for a while, having been embroiled in the internal conflicts of their village. He had no idea—

“Not me, Sensei.” It doesn’t need to be said—nobody in their right mind would nominate him for Hokage, especially after that little display. Still—he wants to say it. Wants it to be at least in part his choice. (He dreamed, back before, physically yearned for becoming Hokage. Of Sensei choosing him out of everyone in the village.) “I don’t want it—I can’t do it. All three of us—we are barely keeping our heads above water right now. How long do you think the peace will hold?”

Sensei sighs and takes off the hat from his head like it is physically too much to bear right now. “Two years perhaps. Three if we’re lucky. If we want more, we need to orchestrate it—and that is a risky undertaking.”

War. Another war on the horizon—and this time there are even more children on the line. Uzu children, for example. Nawaki. Even Namikaze—although to be fair, Namikaze is basically bred for war.

“The Council has been cautioning me against any rash decisions,” says Sensei. Orochimaru doesn’t trust his mild tone for a second. “And I listened to them—the Village doesn’t need any instability right now.”

Careful, now. “I think.” Careful. “I think that anything I say could be read as self-serving. As luck would have it, I have in recent years gotten close to most of your possible candidates. So—I will try to stay uninvolved. If you need my opinion, or help, you have but to ask. But I have—responsibilities now. I will not let them be caught up in whatever political nightmare will happen when you decide to step down.”

“How much you’ve grown, it is really astounding. To think I will hear those words out of my most ambitious child.”

“I am no less ambitious now, Sensei,” he says, reproach winding around his consonants. “My ambitions simply moved into a different direction.” Such as keeping four—arguably six—children alive through war, strife and corruption. “On that note,” he says, with a sly smile. “I would like to ask you for permission to become a Jōnin Sensei.”

“Come again?”

Sensei does his version of cussing him out but agrees. Orochimaru knows him well, knows that how petty he can get if his people get messed with. So in the end, Orochimaru of the Sanin walks out of there, a proud Sensei of three Uzu-kits. Team Orochimaru, as it happens.

“I have news,” he says, upon returning to the Compound. “Weird, weird news. Come.”

Tsunade is home for once, and with her the four kids—his four kids, as it happens. Uzumaki-Namikaze duo is out politicking with the Hatake, and Jiraiya is still on the field. Now that he knows war is on the horizon, the fact Konoha’s spymaster is busier than ever makes all sorts of sense.

“Good news or bad news first?”

“Bad.” The four kids chorus, while Tsunade rolls her eyes. “It’s always bad news first, Oro, c’mon.”

He melts into the nearest chair. It’s been a bit of a stressful day.

“Bad news is that Sensei is certain another war is on the horizon.”

The kids—sort of play at being alarmed, but all four of them have only ever known war. The past weeks are the anomaly. Tsunade, though, she’s furious.

“Well, sh*t,” she says with feeling. “Certain-certain?”

“Beyond the shadow of a doubt. Two, maybe three years, and it’s back on.”

“This better be some good news, Goddamn.”

He smirks, all sorts of self-satisfied. “It’s two-part, actually, although the first part is only good for you and me Hime. Sensei’s female stooge—Utahabi or something?”

“Utatane Koharu, yes.”

“Well, I called her a worthless parasite sucking out all the goodness from Konoha to her face—and she is the one getting reprimanded for it.”

“Hah!” Tsunade beams at him, delighted to the last molecule. It’s understandable why—Orochimaru may be a convenient target for their poison, but they rarely dared go as far with him as they have with Tsunade. He is, after all, a man, if an effeminate one. He is owed respect.

Pompous windbags. Tsunade has returned from the Hospital pale with rage many times, after they’ve been haranguing her at the Hospital, demanding she ‘do her duty to her Clan’.

“Oh, and by the by, congratulations children. You three are now members of a five-person Squad called ‘Team Orochimaru’.

With how deliberately offhand he made the comment, it takes a while for the news to seep into their minds. Nawaki is the first to get it. He whoops loud and thrilled and tackles him into a hug.

“Does he mean us?” Asks Nagato timidly.

“I—think so?” Says Konan. Yahiko is strangely quiet, very out of character for the boisterous boy.

“Yes, all four of you.” Technically, it’s just the three Uzumaki, but even Sensei didn’t try to phrase it as anything but a paper-thin bit of polite fiction. Nawaki will never not be his, foot or no foot.

Tsunade’s vindictive little smile gentles and she nudges the kits forward. “Go on, give the sappy old snake a hug.”

Not untrue. Between one moment and the next, he is covered with children head to foot, and he’s pretty sure at least two are crying.

How very dignified.

“Laugh it up, Hime.” He says sweetly. “From where I’m standing, you’ve got one brat and I’ve got five. So far it seems I’m in the lead.”

“Five?”

“Oh—right. Kari’s pregnant. Have I forgotten to mention that?”

Chapter 8: Chapter seven

Chapter Text

Training with the three kits goes—oddly. Orochimaru only ever taught Nawaki, and that was in wartime. Subconsciously he expected something analogous to his own team—a genius, a joker and a medic. Not so. Nagato is, objectively, the genius in the group. His Chaka pool is miles ahead of what it should be, and he wields Ninjutsu with preternatural ease. Genjutsu straight up doesn’t work on him. He’s weakest in Taijutsu, which would be a bigger concern if he didn’t simply throw his Chakra around and misdirect what his body can’t evade. So far so good.

He is also paralyzingly shy and uncertain. He has all the potential to be a once-in-a-millennium frontline monster, and yet, even Nawaki, sweet, gentle Nawaki is better suited for the life of a Shinobi. Nagato simply can’t bring himself to hurt others. He doesn’t see anything beautiful in the violence either, and the sight of blood makes him physically ill.

On the other side of the spectrum is Yahiko. Sage love him, Yahiko’s determination is what carries him from abysmal to average. In one-on-one combat, he carries himself with some measure of ruthlessness cut with caution and self-awareness. His well-developed sense of paranoia is his friend, there. That all evaporates when the three are working as a unit. As soon as Yahiko so much as suspects one of his friends might in danger, he loses all control and attacks with everything he has, consequences be damned. Considering he is training to be a Konoha Shinobi, that particular weakness will be the first one his enemies will exploit. Without a rare bloodline or an overabundance of inborn talent, falling into hysteria at the drop of a hat is a problem.

Konan is his favourite, he decides pretty quickly. Now that is one formidable Kunoichi in the making. Calculating, poised, always looking for an opening, a weakness, an opportunity to strike. Out of his three students, she is learning the quickest and is taking perfectly to what he has to teach. If the snakes haven’t already checked for it, he’d have sworn the girl has Orochi blood somewhere.

The snakes offer her the contract within the week, without Orochimaru having to nudge either party in that direction. The boys aren’t blind—they see how well she matches the serpent-clan, and how much the serpents adore her in turn. Kiyohime has started her poison-resistance training already, and while it’s slower going than it would have been if she had the bloodline, it still progresses fairly well. Her iron will helps. She weathers the considerable pain without a sigh of complaint.

His apprentice considers himself both a teaching assistant and their older brother. He is never more than a few paces away, always ready with appropriate measures. Talking Nagato up, talking Yahiko down, nudging Konan away from the brink of Chakra exhaustion—Nawaki perfectly fills the gaps in Orochimaru’s capabilities as a Sensei.

It’s a novel way to teach, honestly, and it feels almost inappropriately wholesome considering the bloody nature of their work.

Whatever witchery the Hatake are cooking up is heating up. He barely sees them—he barely even sees Kushina, and he lives in the Senju Compound for the most part. Kiyohime—or Yuri on one memorable occasion—informs him that the Clans are meeting more and more and that the InoShikaCho are on the cusp of joining. If they get the Hyūga somehow, that will complete the set of the bigger Clans.

With some time on his hands, he takes his ever-expanding brood of children to the Sarutobi Compound every second day or so. It’s a very multi-purpose strategy. First, it’s a way to keep the children fed. While he enjoys cooking, doing so for four Shinobi children would take up all of his time and some. Second, Sensei is a good influence on the kits. Yahiko learns wisdom, Nagato learns that there is more to Shinobi life than murder and Konan learns the importance of an unassuming presence. She must learn it—she’s a creepy little doll-child, and her association with the serpents will do her no favours. Nawaki, of course, adores Sensei, and that, too, is an important relationship to cultivate.

Biwako-sama’s eyes are heavy with resentment—which is both predictable and tedious. It’s not, precisely speaking, her fault she is in the situation she is in. She is the ultimate traditional Clan-wife. Quiet, obedient, respectful. She bore Sensei two sons, and even Orochimaru can tell the children weren’t enough to keep the Hokage from work. And Orochimaru and his four half-wild brats are.

Not all marriages are happy, and not all people marry for love. Sensei, he is pretty certain, hasn’t the inclination for such things. He certainly doesn’t show any inkling of desire for his wife. It’s slightly disturbing to think about Sensei’s love life, but Orochimaru is closer to forty than he is thirty. He can damn well suck it up.

“You’re at your final year at the Academy, Daichi-kun,” he says to the nine-year-old Sarutobi Heir, interrupting his breathless ogling of his students. “Any plans on your future career?”

“Well,” says the child. “I specialize in Taijutsu—but I—”

“Yes?”

“I want to do Kenjutsu,” he says in one long exile, syllables tripping over one another. “The instructors in the Academy are good but—”

“Kenjutsu?” He says with some interest. “Admirable goal. If I didn’t have my hands full, I’d be happy to show you a few things.” He pauses for a long moment. Actually—

“Your Jōnin Sensei is the only one to have any real control over your training—other than your parents of course. However,” he adds, “I happen to be friends with a few Shinobi specializing in Kenjutsu.” Sakumo would be ideal, but since Sakumo will be Hokage next year, Sage willing, Kushina is left. Kushina and her girl-Uchiha who always looks to be a heartbeat from unhinging her jaw and swallowing the sun. Why the Uzumaki princess surrounds herself exclusively with psychopaths is anyone’s guess. “I will speak to your father about it.”

“Father’s busy,” says the boy, voice saturated with gloom. “He’s always busy.”

Orochimaru, wise to the ways of children, doesn’t offer platitudes but moves straight to possible solutions.

“If he’s busy, then you need to help him make some time for you. Do you think my visits are polite? That it is appropriate to visit the Hokage in his own home while knowing for certain he is in his office? It is not. However, it is lunchtime, and his ANBU will have alerted him that I have come here. For fear of my kits corrupting you, he will come.”

The boy is too well-mannered—not surprising, considering who is mother is—to he doesn’t voice the obvious scepticism.

“Sensei, are you using us to bait Sarutobi-sama?” Says Nawaki, grinning from ear to ear.

“A Shinobi uses what tools they have in their arsenal,” he says. “You four are my arsenal. Now, Daichi-san wants to be a Kenjutsu specialist. I’m sure you remember enough of your Nee-san’s rants to be of service?”

Sensei is only slightly furious with him when he arrives ten minutes later to see his firstborn being thoroughly charmed by Nawaki. Orochimaru is certainly old enough—and has angered Sensei much more thoroughly before—to not be intimidated by the scowl.

Daichi isn’t. He freezes and shrinks into himself, body rippling with anxiety. Orochimaru cuts his eyes to the boy briefly, before turning back to Sensei with raised eyebrows. See, his polite disinterest says. Is this the type of relationship you want with your firstborn?

Sensei droops, losing whatever bit of annoyance he had accumulated. Orochimaru knows Sensei would never be cruel to a child—any child—directly. But neglect, now, that is more his speed.

“Sit, Sensei, and eat with us,” he says, mild as anything. “Nawaki was just explaining the merits of several Shinobi who could instruct Daichi-kun in the art of Kenjutsu.” He pauses for effect. “He may have expanded from strict proficiency in the art, but that’s neither here nor there.” Nawaki has managed to walk the line between a pimp and a matchmaker, but it was altogether too charming to stop. Especially once Yahiko got in on the action, and it all turned into a game of ‘Why all these people are dumber, less pretty and all-around inferior to Orochimaru-sensei’.

“Children, what do you say to the Kage who has returned to find uninvited guests in his home, corrupting their son?”

“Hello, Sarutobi-sama,” chorus his four little nightmares, some louder than others. Nagato is shy enough to barely murmur his greeting, but he makes up for it with a bow.

“Well met, children,” says Sensei, with the defeated air of those unable to resist a pack of scrawny pre-teens. “Hello, son. Wonderful to see you. What are we having for lunch?”

Orochimaru takes pity on him. “Beef teriyaki with a side of eggplant. The kits even managed to save some for you—wasn’t that kind of them?”

Sensei’s eyes soften even further. “Very kind,” he says, voice grave. “Your students are a credit to us all.”

His kits earn him much less strenuous mission requirements. He has three pseudo-Genin, whose status nobody dares to question. They should have gone through the Academy. Orochimaru graduated them himself. With their connection to the Senju and the Uzumaki, combined with all the goodwill accumulated by the Sanin, nobody dared to challenge him.

It’s not like his kits need the Academy. They’re picking up Shinobi skills much quicker with Orochimaru, and Nawaki is making quick progress with their illiteracy problem. They don’t need a paper trail, they need visibility. And there is no better way to make them visible than by D-ranks. Endless D-ranks.

Sensei delights in assigning them—he assigns them himself, which is a gross misuse of the Hokage’s time. Still, there is something to be said about handing out a slew of D-ranks each day to an S-ranked Assassin.

The kits approach every mission like their lives depend on it. They’re very intense children. Even Nagato—especially Nagato. When that boy paints a fence, best believe it will be immaculate. Konan is slightly more relaxed, without Nagato’s crippling need to constantly justify his existence. Yahiko is a walking, talking example of endless enthusiasm and not enough presence of mind to channel it.

The villagers love them. After the tenth menial mission, they don’t even feel the need to grovel about hiring Orochimaru to weed their garden. The PR is invaluable, and Team Orochimaru somehow becomes known as ‘the nice team’.

Kari loves it. So does Sakumo, but he sees Sakumo perhaps once every two weeks. Now that the war is over, his ANBU duties they’re all politely ignoring, are picking up. Kari, now entering into her fourth month of pregnancy, has been relegated to light duties—politicking—and plenty of rest—more politicking. She does get to spend some time with Orochimaru—sometimes he even manages to shake his kits off for long enough to spend an evening with her without interruptions. Only when Tsunade is in the Compound, however. Danzō has been worryingly quiet. It makes all of them very, very careful.

If Tsunade is busy, the kids come with. It’s not unpleasant. Orochimaru genuinely enjoys the company of the children, and they are very polite, considering their age and upbringing. Kari enjoys them too, enjoys teaching them and talking to them, even joins them for training even though she sits on the sidelines.

The pregnancy is going as well as can be hoped. The Hatake and the Inuzuka might appear to be sister-clans, but other than their Clan Spirits choosing to appear as canines, they don’t have much in common. Clans don’t intermarry, as a rule. Bloodline limits are unpredictable, and any mixing outside of a Petri dish is risky business. Hatake are older than the Inuzuka are, and their white-Chakra is more dominant than the Inuzuka bloodline-limit. It’s taking a toll on Kari. The baby inherited the Hatake Chakra, which doesn’t play well with her own. If Tsunade wasn’t there—it doesn’t bear thinking about.

Since Tsunade is there and considers Kari to be her teammate’s wife in all but name, she takes on her case with all the ferocity she is known for. Between her and Kushina, they design some sort of medical-seal that protects her from the worst of the Chakra-damage. She meets Kari twice a week to heal the organ damage that has accumulated, and even then—withstanding little Kakashi-kun takes all she has.

“You promise I cannot change your mind about the name?” He asks, far from the first time. The ridiculous superstition aside, this is surely going too far. Who names their firstborn ‘scarecrow’? What kind of evil spirit will be frightened off by scarecrows?

“Bring it up again,” Kari says, nestling further into his lap, cautious of the ever-expanding belly, “and die screaming.”

“Scarecrow, Kari.” He can’t help the whine braiding through his voice. “Time will come when the Head of the Hatake Clan will be called Scarecrow. Is that really necessary?”

“Everything I do or say is necessary, lovely.”

He sighs but wraps his arms around her obligingly. By unspoken agreement, they never cross the line of propriety, not when Sakumo can’t be there. That initial first leap into full-blown intimacy must be done together or not at all. It’s a thrilling type of tension to be carrying around, one that is completely new to him. The concept of delayed gratification is entirely foreign to Shinobi, but Orochimaru most of all. This waiting game is the very best shade of cruel.

“Will Sakumo be joining us tonight?” He says, lips ghosting over hers in a not-there caress.

“Not tonight. The festival to Horkew-sama is in four days. He will be here, then.”

“Do you have a moment?”

He blinks slow and unhurried to hide the shock. What—When did he even arrive? Why wasn’t Orochimaru informed? Unease ripples down his spine.

“Jiraiya,” he says, buying himself a little time. Three of his four students are hard at work studying their Kanji, and Nawaki is patrolling his troops, armed with a bag of mochi in one hand, and a horribly overdone scowl of disappointment in the other. It’s a very effective strategy—even Konan is bullied into learning, and she is his least academically-inclined kit. “Welcome. I haven’t heard you were back in Konoha.”

“Mm. So—a moment?”

Hold on. Upon a more close examination, the amount of tension in Jiraiya’s shoulders alone could topple Konoha three times over

Tilting his body slightly to the right, he flashes through Konoha standard hand signs. Might be best—it’s not impossible someone could have circumvented the metric ton of Fūinjutsu guarding the Senju Compound. Not likely, but not impossible.

/all-clear/question/attack/question/

“Yeah—of course. I just—please?”

Well, alright then.

“Children, I need to look over some seals with your other Sensei. Kits, listen to Nawaki. Nawaki, pretend you are, in fact, a responsible older brother figure.”

“Hi, Jiraiya-sensei, bye, Jiraiya-sensei,” chorus the kits, not moving from their tasks. Nawaki gives them all a mochi for their iron-clad discipline and flashes the adults a thumbs-up sign.

“Sage help me.”

“So—” he says, once they retreat to a child-free zone.

“I’m sorry—” Jiraiya starts talking in a very uncharacteristically disjointed manner, like his thoughts are half-formed to start with, and even more jumbled when verbalized. “We just fixed us and I f*cked it up—I’m sorry I keep leaving and saddling you with the children I find along the way, but you—I’m sorry! I—even Minato is hanging around now, which makes four of my kids, and five with Nawaki—please don’t run? Please?”

The avalanche of barely coherent snippets stops as quickly as they came, leaving Orochimaru with nothing to do but blink in confusion.

“What are you talking about? I adore the kits and you can pry Nawaki from my cold, dead hands. Aya has adopted Konan, Nawaki has adopted Nagato and Kushina has adopted Yahiko. I’m—I’m not going to run away? Why would I? I’ve never been happier.”

“Oh thank the Sage!” Honest tears glint in Jiraiya’s eyes. “I was just thinking—about that fight we had weeks ago—Tsunade said she would never forgive me if I left, but I had to, Oro, I had to—Sensei—and then I—the peace won’t—”

It’s entirely possible, Orochimaru realizes in a flash of insight, that he will have to have stern words with Sensei about this.

“I am not angry, I am not dissatisfied in any way. I am at peace in a way I never could have imagined was possible. I have you to thank for that. You were kind to both find three orphans in Ame and left them with me for safekeeping. Now, why don’t you go to the bathroom and refresh yourself, and I will return with some tea.”

He pauses, looking over the distinctly protruding cheekbones, and the sunken-in eyes on the giant man. “In fact, why don’t you change into something more comfortable, and I will make us dinner. Nawaki will keep the kits busy for a couple of hours.”

Jiraiya is so turned around, that he nods and slinks off without a word. Another pang of dismay flashes through him, and he doesn’t even try to tamp it down. For Jiraiya to be driven to this level of stress…

The food is simple fare. He sends a Kage-bunshin to the nearest Akimichi restaurant and orders enough protein to keep Manda happy. Living with Fūinjutsu users means leftovers are preserved perfectly every time.

“Children,” he says, dropping his voice into a serious cadence. “Jiraiya needs my help. He hasn’t said as much, but I can tell he is overwhelmed and overworked—we had these weeks since the war ended to wind down and recover. He has been in the field without a break.”

“Can we help?” Nawaki’s eyes grow wide and apprehensive. Jiraiya is the last one of the Sanin that holds some degree of mystery. Unlike Orochimaru, the children never caught Jiraiya napping in every available patch of sunlight to be had. Plus he looks the part of a dashing prince—almost as well as Sakumo does. Not for the first time, Orochimaru despairs at how predictably his tastes run.

“You should take it easy on him. Be kind, I suppose. I don’t know, in truth. Jiraiya is Konoha’s spymaster—his work never ends.”

Nawaki nods, not really understanding, but with more than enough empathy to make up the difference. “Come, kits. It’s time to put Nee-san’s lessons to the test. To the kitchen!”

Well, this will be hilarious. Whatever disaster they produce will certainly make Jiraiya laugh.

The fact Jiraiya lost about ten kilos of muscle is even more evident once he took off his ridiculous robes and put on a well-loved jinbei. Underfed is not a good look on him.

“You’ve been overusing your Chakra again,” he says with a frown. “I can tell you’re skirting the line of exhaustion, and I haven’t even scanned you. Where were you sent? Iwa?”

He had been joking, but judging by the concerning ripple in what little remains of Jiraiya’s Chakra, he is not that far off the mark. They have had peace for nine weeks now. Other than the initial couple of days, Jiraiya hasn’t had any down-time since—well, technically, the entire duration of the Second Shinobi War, but more precisely over a year.

He swallows down his agitation as best he can. “Sit. Eat. I have instructed the kits to leave us alone for a few hours.”

There is very little fight left in Jiraiya. He nods without a word, and sits down, docile as a lamb. Orochimaru’s stomach twists, and something important in his heart steels. This is unacceptable.

“I won’t pry,” he says after Jiraiya has eaten mechanically through many a kilogram of protein. “Careful though—you know stress is not good for my old heart. Please don’t tell me you have been overworking yourself from some fool reason of keeping the peace?”

“I—I—”

Orochimaru smiles a little and passes him a cup of chocolate milk because he needs some calcium. “You’re not a complicated creature, Jiraiya. Hard work is one thing, but only idealism would drive you this deep into work. We know the peace won’t last one way or another—it’s not up to you to singlehandedly engineer it.”

Jiraiya blinks at him slowly, bright eyes dulled. If he understood more than a fourth of the impromptu monologue, Orochimaru will eat his tabi.

“Alright, I’m vetoing this conversation for now. . You need rest and a shower. I will explain everything to Tsunade. Fair warning—the kits agreed to leave you be tonight. Tomorrow you’re free game.”

Another nod—shy this time. Jiraiya has no business looking so lost. (So fragile.) They don’t have that type of relationship. They’re rivals, at best. Teammates. Nest-brothers, if he wants to be sappy about it.

“You did good, Jiraiya,” he says, entirely out of his depth. “But you’re safe now, and it’s time to rest. Shower and sleep—everything will be clearer in the morning.”

f*ck—should he—help him? He’s a grown man, S-ranked Shinobi. Could be a Kage if he wanted to. Orochimaru knows all this, he knows it viscerally

—so why, then, is he walking towards the bathroom, a pile of towels in his hands to serve as a paltry excuse?

He puts his shoulders back and makes sure his steps are audible and his Chakra is relaxed and casual before he steps inside. The water is on—he was likely worried about nothing—

“I forgot to give you towels—”

Jiraiya sits on the floor, obviously overcome by some emotion or other. For once he looks small—his newly skinny arms wrapped around his knees, only wearing the bottom part of the jinbei.

“Hey, now,” he says, keeping his tone light. “I know you to be a hedonist, you big lump, but do you really want me to wash your hair? Because I will, let me tell you. I always did appreciate a challenge.”

f*ck he’s bad at this—whatever nightmare is plaguing Jiraiya, he doesn’t know what to do. Should he pretend he can’t see the tears running down his face? Why is he even crying—could he simply be that overwhelmed? Is more wrong than he thought at first?

How twisted was Jiraiya’s cover? What was he doing, that it shook him this much?

Well—he’s not sure he wants the answers to any of those questions. Between himself and Kushina, Jiraiya has access to full-body transformation Fūinjutsu that would be undetectable and invaluable for infiltration. Considering where he was likely sent—Iwa or Kumo—there are no good options to be had. There are only a few professions that have access to powerful people, and even less that would allow the spy to take advantage of their unguarded moments.

Being honest with children should extend to Jiraiya, surely. The man is practically a child.

“I’m not good at this,” he says. “But I think Sakumo would tell you to let it all out. Lance the wound, as it were. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. The Compound is warded to truly obscene lengths, and you’ve got a few S-ranked shinobi standing between you and anyone who would think to harm you.”

“I—I don’t know why now—the war is over—”

Which has precisely nothing to do with your very appropriate reaction to being undercover for months without any support structure to speak of. Breaking into a million pieces is what happens when espionage is done in a way that signals someone, somewhere would really rather their agent doesn’t return at all. At least he has the Compound, he thinks. What an unwelcome thought that is. Orochimaru had allowed their relationship to wither so much that a year ago neither Jiraiya nor Tsunade would have sought him out in moments like these.

“You are an emotional man,” he says, with raw fondness in ringing through his voice. “That can never change. It’s simply what you are. As such, it is not only appropriate, it is expected of you to go a bit wobbly at times like these. We rely on you to make up for how distressingly frigid everyone else is.”

Jiraiya hiccups a wet little sound.

“Alright—now that we’ve settled emoting everywhere as one of your duties, move your giant body into that tub, and tilt your head back. I’ve been washing the kits’ hair every now and again. Why not extend the privilege to you, team Seven’s biggest problem child?:

Chapter 9: Chapter eight

Chapter Text

Orochimaru doesn’t storm the Hokage’s office in the morning. He dresses in his most ridiculous purple-gold short-sleeve Kimono, with loose, black underclothes and tucks his feet in silk slippers with gold accents. His jewellery is burnished gold, Uzu-made and dripping with Fūinjutsu. The plum nail polish doubles as a fast-acting poison, if injected into the bloodstream in any way.

He looks like he means business and he does. He’s come to accept, rationally and emotionally, that blaming Sensei has become unwarranted and unproductive. Once a person has spent a long time trying to retire, and has been rebuffed at every turn, they relinquish the responsibility of the inevitable mismanagement. Sensei knows he can’t do the job well, anymore, and he’s told everyone who cared to listen.

More to the point, Sensei isn’t the enemy, which means he can easily be made an ally.

“I would ask our Hokage for an appointment,” he tells the dumbfound ANBU half-heartedly pretending to be a secretary. “If you would be so kind to check whether the schedule permits it.”

The ANBU doesn’t faff about. With movements much too fluid and masculine for the ditzy civilian girl he’s playing, he—they?—immediately rise from their desk and click the door of Sense’s office shut behind them.

He should dress to impress more often. Then again, the outfit is only memorable when coupled with how still and focused his Chakra is. He’s not here to play games.

“The Hokage will see you, Orochimaru-sama.”

“My thanks.”

The man that sits behind the desk is—not to be f*cked with. Orochimaru knows very well how incredibly vast Sensei’s Chakra is. It is impressive it is that he manages to keep it as unobtrusive as he does, when he wants to. He doesn’t want to, now.

“You wanted to speak to me?”

“Indeed. May I?” He waits for Sensei’s nod, before he sits down, mostly to communicate the level of formality he is comfortable with. Still, he wants Sensei as an ally. It’s best to dilute things, just a little. “Thank you, Sensei.” There, that’s a good base level established. Formal but not official. He’s here on important business, but still as Orochimaru of Team Sarutobi and not as Orochimaru the Clan Head. “I had come to ask for—help, I suppose. Advice, for the most part. Jiraiya returned, are you aware?” Surely, he’d have had to check in to report.

“Hmm.” Sensei reaches out and winds his Chakra into a rather complicated pattern, that very much looks like an activation sequence or trigger of some kind. The discrete sequence of hums indicates a long chain of seals being activated. Privacy, then? “I am not. Jiraiya reports via his summons. I learned it was futile to try and track his comings and goings.”

A note of alarm threads through all the rage. How often does this happen? How often does his teammate slink into his dingy rat-hole of an apartment to sweat through anxiety attacks and battle shock?

“He arrived, last night, barged into the Senju Compound, see-sawing in and out of panic attacks.” Now, how to approach this. Should he try to be politic about this? “He’s in a bad way, Sensei.” Impolitic it is, then. “Stick-thin and half-mad with anxiety and fear. For some reason, he got it in his head it was up to him to prevent the war, and he’s been literally killing himself to do it.” Never mind that it is impossible.

Sensei’s sigh is heavy and knowing. “He is our main source of intel. That we know a war is coming is entirely your teammate’s doing. How he got the information, I don’t know. I didn’t assign the mission, I’m afraid. Nobody did. When it comes to espionage, Jiraiya assigns his own, these days.”

“Because of some fool notion of protecting us, I would assume?”

“I can only speculate. If I know Jiraiya, he’d have wanted to do what he can. You know wanderlust how a vice-grip on your teammate’s spirit. Since he knows he can’t stay in Konoha with you two, can’t support you directly, he decided to do what he can. Make the world safer for you and the children.”

Make the world safer, his glittery slippers. “Very admirable,” he says, indulging in a fully ineffectual temple massage. “I need help with this one, Sensei. I don’t know what he did, what price he paid, but I know how little he values himself and his body. He was crying in the bathtub. He let me wash his hair as I do for the fawns. That is not acceptable Jiraiya behaviour. He didn’t mention the Akasen once, Sensei, and Tsunade assured me she’d grind my spine into bread flour if I brought it up even in jest.”

Sensei is quiet for a long sequence of beats. “I admit, I never thought we’d be having this conversation. What did your paramours suggest?”

“The Hatake?” He snorts. “Sakumo is still—away, doing some wholly normal-Jōnin missions, I’m sure. Kari is a lovely woman, but she is even less fluent in the language of comfort than I am. Her advice would begin and end with a series of trophies staked out at our gates to show I have avenged his honour.” That’s what she would appreciate if she was the type to leave the people who hurt her alive and available for dismemberment.

“I see,” says Sensei, lines around his eyes and mouth crinkling into a fond expression. “Well, my honest opinion would be to do what you have been doing. Give him support, try not to shy away. Let him recover at his own pace.” He pauses, humming a happy little sound. “Maybe sic the children on him. Young Yahiko, especially, is going to be a balm.”

Against all odds, Orochimaru finds himself relaxing a little. H doesn’t regret the robes, there are still a few more stops he needs to make after this meeting, but Sensei’s calm is seeping into him. Baggage aside, Orochimaru never for a second doubted that Sensei loved the three of them like they are his own. More than his own, and quite measurably so. He’s met little Daichi and would bet that Sensei would choose Tsunade over him in a heartbeat. Point is, if Sensei isn’t too alarmed by this, maybe Orochimaru panicked. “Oh? Is Yahiko your favourite Uzu kit? I’d have thought it would be Nagato.”

“All of your students are exemplary young Shinobi in training,” says Sensei, with a comedic thrum of professorial displeasure. “But yes, young Yahiko is a marvel. I never once saw a child with such well-developed self-awareness who nevertheless clings so strongly to laughter and joy.”

“That’s true.” It is. Yahiko is a very observant young man, fully aware of just how unlikely it is that he will be treated with any degree of decency. Nawaki, Sage love him, is wholly blind to the realities of the Shinobi world, but Yahiko rejects it, every day, knowing it is futile. “He is also a dismal student. Both of the boys—I would burn down worlds to see them smile, but never does a day go by that I don’t want to set them on a path of carpentry and basket-weaving. It would give my shrivelled old heart some respite.”

“They can’t be that bad, surely? Young Nagato especially has a prodigiously large Chakra pool. He could make an immensely powerful Ninjutsu user.”

“Oh, yes,” he says. “All the potential in the world, but the boy starts crying at the sight of blood, and can’t be made to attack come what may. The only way to change that would be to break his spirit entirely, and there are quite a few people who would get themselves a snakeskin vest if I even considered such a thing.” Depressingly, Orochimaru himself is one such person. Meeting a real-life pacifist is a once in a lifetime event, and he is—curious. What would a Godly-strong pacifist even look like? Once Nagato comes into his own, nothing and no one will be able to overpower him. What more do you want in a driver of change, than a stone-cold idealist with the power of the Sage to back his rhetoric?

“A support role, then. Yahiko is civilian-born, still, but he is part Uzumaki. Yahiko could be your frontline fighter, Konan a long-range fighter and Nagato on Fūinjutsu and support.”

A Rinnegan-wielding Fūinjutsu user, good God.

“My serpents offered Konan the contract, did I mention that? She is a rewarding student to teach.”

Sensei hums, amused. “Konan-chan mentioned it to Daichi-kun. He is quite taken with your students.”

“He is a credit to you, Sensei,” he says because it’s true. “I know you are wary of nepotism or preferential treatment, but he really does have a talent in Kenjutsu. I could arrange it. Kushina would love to teach him. She already spoke about sharing him with her Uchiha, you know the one.”

“Hopefully I won’t have to worry about nepotism soon and I can arrange it myself,” sighs Sensei. “War or no, I plan to step down by the end of the year, unless something catastrophic happens. Even then—I cannot do what is required, anymore. No Hokage should stay in power as long as I have. Whoever succeeds me would be wise to create maximum term limits. Five years, ten in war-time. I have been at this for twenty, and I have to stop while I still can.”

“Right,” says Orochimaru, amused. “So says the only Hokage eager to relinquish power. Let’s not kid ourselves, Sensei, death is the only practical term limit on the Hokage position. You are the outlier, here.”

“True.” Sensei takes off the horrible Hokage hat and throws it to the nearby armchair. “The Shinobi world isn’t used to the old surviving long enough to make a mess of things. Things are shifting rapidly, social progress is made at a pace I cannot hope to match, and yet stepping back is delayed time and again, for increasingly pointless reasons.”

“You drove a lot of that progress yourself, Sensei.” Absolutely true. “While Orochimaru the Clan Brat cannot be happy with how you hamstrung the Clans this much, I cannot deny the number of civilian born Shinobi exploded in your time. The death rate of civilian-born children has decreased by a factor of ten as well. The village you inherited was a loose coalition of four Noble Clans and a handful of civilians desperate enough to trade all political power for protection. That is not true, anymore.”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” says Sensei. “And in return, the ever-growing apparatus that enforces all those things has grown almost saturated with corruption. Every time I build a system to protect a vulnerable population, someone in my own government turns around and subverts it for their own gain. Fixing it is possible—I could do it if only I wasn’t kept busy by the Sage forsaken war and carnage and Daimyōs sending me petulant letters. The Uchiha are being squeezed into oblivion, and I let it slide hoping to amass enough political power to do something about the Goddamn slavery in my own village. In the end, I won’t have achieved any of it.”

Huh. Okay.

“Depends on your expectations,” he says after a pause. “You achieved plenty, Sensei. I can’t say I enjoy a lot of it—the civilian culture baffles and enrages me. But I am not the Hokage.” Thank the Sage. It is becoming increasingly clear a day in this office would see Konoha burning and Orochimaru in the wind, cackling with everything he has. “You wanted a more just world, and you succeeded. If you hoped to build a utopia, well, I can’t help you there.”

“Not a utopia,” says Sensei, fully unwilling to let himself be comforted. “Just a village without slavery. That is not unreasonable. Every day I give an order to arrest this or that criminal, while children are exploited and tortured not a hundred meters away. Do you know how many times the Head of the Uchiha Police Force has demanded I put a stop to it? It’s Clan business, I tell them, as the Hyūga come back into my village with a brain-dead teenager they dragged back to bury in accordance with their tradition.”

Good grief. “I can see how that would pose a problem, from a legal perspective,” he says. He will not let himself be f*cked up by this. He knows about it, everybody does. In the end, he figured it's not his job to fix it. He still kind of thinks that. “I hadn’t known you were so invested in the issue.”

“My thanks,” says Sensei, Suna-dry and exhausted. “What it says about me, that I look like the type who would accept infant slaves. I think about little else, on a good day. I couldn’t get it done—couldn’t even get the ball rolling. The Hyūga would secede or start a coup, which in war-time was not something we could afford.”

Huh.

“You’ve given me a lot to think about, Sensei,” he says. “Thank you for sharing this edifying glimpse into the horrors of governing. Still, even though politics interest me not at all, I might have some useful connections. There are still a couple of months until the New Year. Why don’t we see if you can step back with a bang.” The Caged Bird seal is just a seal, in the end, and they have an Uzumaki. Three, counting the children. Plus Namikaze is a damn genius, almost on par with Kushina. Remove the seal and you destroy the slave, leaving behind a perfectly hearty, pissed off Hyūga capable of settling their own debts. “I have to say, your methods are unorthodox but undoubtedly effective. I came here to rage about Jiraiya being mismanaged, and here I am, worrying about a thousand other things.”

“Perks of being Hokage, my boy. If you ever want your worries drowned out by other larger, more momentous worries, you know where to go.”

“So I spoke to Sensei today.”

Tsunade levels a flat look his way. “Yes, Oro, I know. The entire village knows. You strolled through the village, mad enough to spit venom. Seven different patients asked what that was about. The cleaning staff got me a complimentary plate of dango so I would put in a good word for them when you inevitably murder everyone and become supreme leader. I’m not even making that up. Those kids are very inventive.”

Good grief. “Of course, what was I thinking. Never mind the gossip. He didn’t have any concrete advice on Jiraiya’s situation. I imagine he will take him off the roster if Jiraiya asks, but other than that, there’s not much he can do.”

“There’s not much anyone can do,” says Tsunade. “Physically he is fine. Underweight but fine. As for the rest—we will have to wait and see how things develop. If he doesn’t improve, we can look into some mood stabilizers, anti-anxiety medication, things like that.”

Drugging an S-ranked Shinobi sounds like a terrible idea. He’d have to be taken off the active duty roster. Which he would have to consent to. Which will never happen.

“What I thought was interesting,” he says, getting back on track with, admittedly, some difficulty. “Was that Jiraiya didn’t report when he came in. Did you know about this? He reports via toads and comes and goes without anyone being the wiser.”

Tsunade blinks, opens her mouth, closes it. Blinks again. “The f*ck you say?”

“Mm. My sentiments exactly. The protocol doesn’t apply to him, but it does to us. I always debrief. I debriefed after Nawaki was attacked, and I was actively swallowing down venom that dripped down my fangs without my say-so. Why, then, does Jiraiya report in secret?”

“Maybe protocol is different for spy-masters,” she says, but her heart’s not in it. “I don’t care about the rest, but mandatory physicals and psych evals have their place.”

Even Orochimaru goes, for all that he can run circles around the Yamanaka therapists. He tries not to, when he can be bothered to care. The practice is sound in theory. His mind is his most dangerous weapon, and therapy is favourably placed on the risk-reward matrix. Military therapists aren’t skilled enough to either hurt or help him seriously, but the minute tweaks help.

Tsunade meets his eyes, with something like sadness but also fear. “He doesn’t wear his hitai-ite outside of the frontlines.”

What—surely not? She’s wrong. She must be. Jiraiya is the most patriotic f*cking person—

Except he’s not. You know he’s not. You’ve always known. So when, precisely, did you forget that?

“sh*t, Oro, what have we missed?”

“Quite a bit, it would appear.” It fits all too well. Jiraiya didn’t even try to bring the Uzu kits back to Konoha. He would rather have stayed in the f*cking woods. “Quite a bit was kept from us.”

“To be fair,” she says after a small, pained pause. “We didn’t really foster a healthy environment. I don’t know, Oro. We had gotten pretty toxic, pretty quickly. I love you both, more than anyone and anything sans Nawaki, but a year ago I would not have gone to you with a personal problem.”

True. And that's without taking into account Jiraiya's nigh-incomprehensible relationship with self-worth and responsibility. People call Orochimaru brutal, and he is, without a doubt, but so is Jiraiya. So is Tsunade. Chance and Sensei’s teachings made sure that all three of them built their own value systems as they pleased. For Orochimaru, that meant a flighty, anarchic love of chaos and movement. For Tsunade, it meant family first and last. Jiraiya was considerably more opaque about his thought and beliefs. Many assumed he had none, that he was a vague amalgamation of everything Konoha stands for.

The closest Orochimaru came to figuring him out was that he practised brutal, deceptive reciprocity. He was as faithful to his framework as anybody ever was, but the thinking itself was convoluted and divorced from the norm to the point where it just looks like hypocrisy. Debts aside, Jiraiya would accept only that which he offers. So, if Orochimaru were to develop that a bit further, the statement could state: Jiraiya would expect only the equivalent of that which he had already given.

Meaning, once he had left, once he had stopped giving Tsunade and Orochimaru direct attention and support, he would no longer expect any in return. Perhaps he wouldn't even accept it.

“We’ve let him go adrift for much too long,” he says, when it becomes clear his thoughts are only leading him in increasingly infuriating circles. “This stops now. He did not come to the Compound for shelter and rest. He came to apologize for failing whatever fool thing he had set out to achieve. Whatever he thought he owed us.”

What a f*cking headache, his brutish teammate can be at times.

Chapter 10: Chapter nine

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

He doesn’t hunt down Jiraiya immediately, but he does sic the children on him. That keeps him occupied for a day, while Orochimaru tries to think through this.

There’s a lot to think about, Sensei’s unexpected political struggles taking centre place.

If Orochimaru had to choose between the Hyūga and the Uchiha, he wouldn’t even hesitate. The Hyūga were the epitome of everything he dislikes about Clan culture. Traditional for the sake of tradition, violently opposed to change, endlessly perfecting the same techniques they’ve been using for millennia. Polite for the sake of convention and striving for uniformity instead of individuality.

The Uchiha were far from perfect. They were arrogant, unwise, uncaring of knowledge and the scientific method. Behind the thin veneer of respectability and tradition, their lives blazed short and explosive, leaving little value behind. On the other hand, they were adaptable, passionate, terrifyingly brave and insane to the last one. It wasn’t even their fault, the poor dears. Nobody could stay sane through the whole Chakra imprinting business. Some philistines called the phenomenon having soulmates, and thought up pithy quips and sayings themed around red strings and fate. Orochimaru called it a random mutation that accidentally tapped into the part of the brain that allowed prenatal babies to connect their Chakra with that of their mothers’. It had some accidental adaptive value, so the random mutation got fixed and is still around today, happily wreaking havoc on their poor confused minds.

Whatever it was, it made observing them a fascinating sociological study. Any Clan that survived that long and was that big was quite evidently loyal and devoted to the prosperity of their population. That being said, each Uchiha was only ever loyal to their Chakra-match. Most often that would be another Uchiha. Sometimes—more rarely, but with significantly more explosive and unforgettable results—it would be an outsider. In very rare cases, whatever bit of faulty wiring that led them to this in the first place would glitch out completely. Those particularly unlucky bastards would try to bond with animals or inanimate objects, fail and die, typically after copious murder and arson.

Point was, from Orochimaru’s perspective, there is no contest. Hyūga—stuck-up, unwise, cold, controlled. Uchiha—stuck-up, unwise, passionate, chaotic.

On the other hand, there is the political perspective to consider. Unlike Hyūga worker bees following their queen, Uchiha are a big barrel of cats, laughing in the face of fools who would think to command them, even if that someone is far above them in every meaning of the word. Any Hokage would drop the Uchiha as soon as they could, if only they weren’t so tragically strong.

You’re getting off track. The Hokage is shanking the Uchiha so he could do something about the Hyūga. Why, precisely, his poor, feeble Sensei thought that strategy would work is beyond him. Surely, if you want to stop a strong Clan from enslaving their own people, you want to have the stronger Clan on your side. The Uchiha could take the Hyūga easy, no fuss about it. Instead, you’re letting the Uchiha get discriminated against and pushed further and further out, so that you can coerce or convince the Hyuuga to stop the slavery.

Whatever, that’s in the past. Why did he care again?

Right, Sakumo, and his giant bleeding heart. If Sensei thinks of the Hyūga as his main political issue, Sakumo—sh*t, Sakumo would just as soon murder them all. Not a bad plan, but he’d have nightmares, and Orochimaru always preferred his bed-mates as trauma-free as possible.

(How did it go on this long, thinks Orochimaru with no little surprise. How come he hadn’t given it any thought until now? It would have been a useful weapon if nothing else. There are hundreds of enslaved peoples, living and dying at the whim of their family, and nobody seems to be using that very effective trump card to, say, argue legal reform.)

Sakumo wouldn’t stand for it, and even as popular as he has become in the war, Sensei’s political and social clout is heads and shoulders above Sakumo’s. If Sensei hadn’t managed it, Sakumo won’t either, not without help.

f*ck, he’s going to have to get involved. On top of the insanity that has been brewing in Konoha for a while now, he’s going to have to get involved with the Hyūga.

Tsunade enters the room first and puts her hands on her hips. “Alright, brats, off with you. Team Sarutobi needs to have a serious, grown-up conversation.”

When that utterly fails to inspire the children to do anything other than scoot closer, all wide eyes and expectant eyebrows, Orochimaru takes matters into his own hands. “We will be talking about our feelings and drafting of socially responsible political reform. On the other hand, Namikaze is currently alone, in possession of dango and available for pestering in the downstairs study.”

That works, to nobody’s surprise. The three kits and Nawaki scramble out of the room, leaving behind a stunned and apprehensive Jiraiya who looks half-ready to throw himself out of the window.

“Nothing to worry about,” Orochimaru says. “Tsunade as my witness, I declare this room, for the duration of this conversation, a judgement-free zone. Here.” He places his favourite hair comb in Tsunade’s outstretched arm, decorated with tiny lilac flowers, each petal sculpted out of a crystalized toxin, virtually undetectable when dissolved in water. “My guarantee. If I break my word, Tsunade can keep it. Fair?”

“What is this about,” says Jiraiya, only marginally calmer. “Are you—do you need help, Oro?”

“In a manner of speaking.” He sits down, makes himself comfortable as he can on the damn wooden chairs. Why couldn’t they have lived in the Den? Senju have no sense of comfort, swear to Sage. “I realized, after spending however many months around Hatake and the children, that there is value in open, unobstructed communication. Considering the events that are coming our way soon, I figure now is the last moment to get us three on the same page. Tsunade?”

“I will play along, but this is your show, Oro. I can’t articulate my feelings for sh*t, you know this.”

“Try,” he simpers. “Jiraiya—do you agree? As I said, judgement-free zone, on my honour. I am not looking to trap you or berate you or correct your behaviour. I just want to understand, and make myself understood in turn.”

“sh*t—are you pregnant? Is that a thing that can happen—Oro I’m too young to be an uncle!”

“You’re already an uncle,” he says, not for a minute raising to the bait. “See exhibit one: Nawaki. I am not pregnant, I haven’t even started on the engineering that would make that possible, even if I were f*cking my Hatake. Which I’m not. Either one of them.”

“You’re not?” Tsunade’s tone is thick with surprise. “Seriously?”

“Not yet. Sakumo is living in ANBU these days. Suspiciously long, if I’m honest. I had to go to two meetings with the Aburame and the Uchiha addressing that very distressing fact it the other day.”

“Wow,” says Jiraiya. The apprehension has bled out of his expression, replaced by fragile caution. “You said honest and you meant honest, haven’t you?”

“I always mean what I say.” Okay, what? “Alright, so I almost never mean what I say, but, as I’ve pointed out so many times—judgement-free zone. Not being honest defeats the purpose, and dishonours my sacrifice. I would kill every person in the village before I would touch one damn petal on that comb.”

“Fair enough.” Jiraiya shifts in his seat, slowly reaching for a cup of sake Tsunade has already unsealed. “What is on the agenda, then?”

“Many things,” he says. “Not to put you on the spot, but you feature in most of them.”

Jiraiya grimaces, but there’s less fear and more resignation on his features when he throws the drink back. “I figured it would be something like that.”

“Listen to Oro,” says Tsunade, matching his drink. “Neither of us wants to gang up on you. We just want to know what’s going on with you.”

Best start on a high point. “You did well with Namikaze,” he says. “He’s settled, now, lives in the Senju compound. The kits like him, and Nawaki calls him brother. You did really well. My plans are disgustingly domestic, as are Tsunade’s, more or less. You? I don’t have a single idea what you’re doing and why, and it worries me.”

Tsunade nods. “How are we to help you, if we don’t know where you’re going?”

Jiraiya’s silence is introspective rather than defensive, which is a damn miracle, so Orochimaru busies himself with pouring drinks and keeping quiet. There is, for once, not a single concrete conflict between them. The air is as clear as it can theoretically get with three crack-pot Shinobi much too powerful for their own good. Let the man think. Orochimaru can use the damn time.

“How honest do you want me to be, precisely. You can’t unknow things, I can’t unsay them.”

Tsunade arches both her brows, tilts her chin up in a very masculine gesture of defiance. “I can handle harsh truths, Jiraiya. Oro can, much more so. He’s been spearheading the most civil Shinobi revolt since the Sage gave us Chakra.”

“More importantly,” adds Orochimaru, “we can assist you. We are a team. You are my nest-mates. I don’t care for convention much, but I do respect this aspect of it.”

Jiraiya’s eyes are, paradoxically, empty and overflowing with emotion. It’s clear he doesn’t believe them, but refusing to engage is beyond him. Against all odds, a twinge of unease drips down Orochimaru’s spine and settles, cooling him to the marrow. What could he possibly be so upset about? What could he have done, to think Orochimaru of all people would shun him for?

“I hate this village,” Jiraiya says, voice flat and uncharacteristically harsh. “I despise it. Most of my life, if I had one wish, I’d have used it to wipe it off the planet, along with every other Shinobi village and institution. We are cruel because we are human and are made even crueller with the power we wield. Konoha, however, I would burn Konoha first.”

Orochimaru blinks, blinks again. For a moment, he considers saying something. The notion fizzles out when he takes in the severe slash of Jiraiya’s smile, fully devoid of humanity. Right.

“Sensei knows, of course. He always suspected but after you burned down the orphanage—he knew for sure, then. After the fire killed the horrid, monstrous shrew in charge of defenceless children—I lost it. You took her life and didn’t even have the decency to watch her choke on her blood, to rip her to pieces, joint by joint, to keep her breathing though most creative tortures T&I can devise—” It’s not the brutality of the words that’s alarming. They’re Shinobi. They’re all murderers and torturers. Nothing that a human body can be made to experience is news to Orochimaru. What is news is the audible, earnest delight in Jiraiya’s voice as he says them. Blood-lust was one thing, but this—delight in torture, this thirst for it, this is Kiri territory.

“Sensei stopped me from going completely off the rails. There were no proper sedatives back then, so he poured a bottle of sake down my throat and kept me trussed up with seals and Enma until my psychotic episode stopped, more or less. We made a deal, then. I wasn’t going to be a Konoha Shinobi. I was his, I owed him that much, but I wasn’t going to be a part of the village. I don’t have citizenship, I don’t have healthcare. In return, well, I’m not beholden to this twisted hellscape.”

Okay. Okay, so this isn’t going how Orochimaru expected it to. No matter he can adapt—

“What did she do to you?” Now, Tsunade’s bloodlust is not so surprising. This righteous, hungry flavour of it is especially familiar. She’s been breathing it for months now.

“What didn’t she do,” says Jiraiya. “She did anything and everything she wanted, to all of us. A proper psychopath, that one. That slew of missions, after we made Chūnin, when we went after the monsters preying on civilians, that was for my benefit. Sensei though to, f*ck knows, get me some validation maybe. Some closure.”

“You were in team Sarutobi at six. She didn’t—she couldn’t—” His own voice is faint. Unlike Tsunade’s fierceness, Orochimaru’s tone is wispy, unfocused. “I’d have known.”

“She did. For years.” Jiraiya shakes his head as if to clear his thoughts physically. “That doesn’t matter. Point is, I hate Konoha, despise it for what it enabled. I hate Sensei quite a bit, too, even if I love him more for all the reform he pushed through.”

He pauses, flat eyes assessing them for—something. What it could be is anyone’s guess. Orochimaru stands still and lets himself be assessed. What else is there to do? “That’s why I’m his, you know? I’m not thankful for his help, for giving me a chance or whatever people think I am. He didn’t help, and he had to. That was his job, and he failed. He failed me and my fellow orphans, for years. All of us would have rather died than have had gone through that. I’m his because he sees civilians, he sees inequality and exploitation, and he tries to fix it. Ineptly and a bit naively, but he tries. He’s damn well the only person in the world who does.”

A thought drops into Orochimaru’s mind, heavy and barbed and laced with poison. Shimura. They haven’t mentioned Namikaze. Jiraiya’s own orphan-child who went through something—far too similar for anyone’s comfort.

sh*t.

“Spirits save me.” Tsunade is thinking the same if the tired, weary twist to her tone is any indication. “Oh, but this is a mess.”

“Never mind that,” says Orochimaru, keeping the tension from his face and body as best he can. “Continue, Jiraiya, please. Don’t mind us. We’re just—” What? Who knows. The only saving grace of this moment is that Orochimaru is too shocked to feel angry about one of his people being mistreated to the point of psychosis. Deliberately hidden psychosis that they should have known about— “We’re fine. Rattled but fine. Please.”

“Not much more to say,” says Jiraiya. “The arrangement never really worked. I’d have likely cut and run and became a goat-herder somewhere, if not for the toads. Gamamaru, the Great Toad Sage prophesied I would discover a child that will bring change, that will fan the flames of revolution, until the institutions built to enslave and mistreat vulnerable people are torn down. I’ve been at it since.”

“They what?” The gall— “How dare they? How—You didn’t—” Alright, calm down. You’re frightening your nest-mates. “You don’t need a purpose outside of yourself, Jiraiya. You never did. It infuriates me that you were manipulated into this, and best believe I will address those failings with those responsible, but if you want to be a goat herder, then I will personally ward off a parcel of land where you can be in peace.”

“That’s not—Oro, that’s not what I meant—”

“I don’t care what you meant. I know what I heard. You were manipulated by everyone, even unwittingly Tsunade and I, into being whatever was most useful. I know how you operate, Jiraiya, I understand your strange bartering system and I am telling you it is obscene that at your lowest point your own summoning spirits would shackle you into even more duty. You don’t owe the world anything, you blessed fool. You just owe yourself happiness and fulfilment.”

“We are not done discussing the orphanage,” says Tsunade into the brief, strained quiet following Orochimaru’s outburst. “I will revisit the topic at great length, believe you me. But for now, Oro is right. You were f*cked over. If you don’t want to be a Shonibi, don’t be one. I can’t quite understand why you would hide that you weren’t a Konoha citizen, but since that appears to be the one genuine decision you made for yourself, I say good on you.”

“You don’t—care? That I’m effectively a missing-nin?”

Orochimaru sends him a look as flat as that statement deserves. “I am the first Orochi to settle in a fixed place for this long. My Clan had a compound in Konoha, but we had one in Kiri, Uzushio, Iwa and Taki. I have no loyalty to this cursed place, especially not after Nawaki was attacked. If I didn’t have a gaggle of children that need stability and a lover that is bred to be loyal, I’d join you.”

“The only thing I care about is that you went so long without the logistical support. No healthcare means no checkups with a therapist. I know you’re healthy physically, but other than that, you’ve, what, twenty years of therapy to make up for?”

Jiraiya laughs, low and humourless, each note sharp and dripping with blood. “I’m a spy, Hime. I’m the spy. We don’t get the privilege of therapy, we don’t get to be that vulnerable.”

Right. “Do you enjoy being a spy,” he asks conversationally. “We’ll work around it if you do, but on the off-chance you’re doing this as some sort of penance or obligation, I’ll be the first one to install you as, f*ck, my babysitter. You can teach the kits Fūinjutsu, that will be fun. You can teach Daichi-kun beginners Kenjutsu. You can make sheep cheese, I don’t care.”

“I do enjoy it if you can believe it,” says Jiraiya. “I like having an ear to the ground, knowing what the little guy is going through. Plus, not being a Konohan citizen, I can disseminate intel as I see fit. In wartime, yeah, I tend to stay on Konoha’s side in military matters. Other than that, my people report to each Kage out there, plus a good few judges, wealthy Lords, and, of course, each Madam in Elemental Nations.”

Goodness, that, right there, is a killable offence. All three of them could be tried for treason, legal fiction or no. f*cking Hell.

“And people call me ambitious. Good grief, Jiraiya.”

“Information should be free,” Jiraiya says, chin tilted in a defiant angle. “Do you know how many times I had to spread the word of a technological advancement the Nara made before we massacred an untold number of people? The sheer number of antidotes I had to leak, that would have let Suna run rampant over, say, Iwa? It’s a bloody world out there, and the people need all the help they can get to keep as afloat as they are, which is a low f*cking bar.”

“You weren’t kidding about not being able to unknow this sh*t.” Pride shines through Tsunade’s faux-stern tone. “f*ck, but that’s a ballsy move, you absolute maniac. Good on you.”

Jiraiya is quiet for a long moment, not precisely unclenching but shedding some of the gloom and despair. “This is—going much better than I expected,” he says, eyes blank. “I don’t trust it at all.”

A bark of laughter escapes Orochimaru. “What did you expect? Condemnation? Please. Sensei took a team of nutcases, and then he stuffed our heads full of notions of self-actualization. Nobody should be surprised how we’ve turned out. Now—as much as I would like to argue against it, we must discuss how to proceed from here. How up to date are you on the goings-on in the village?”

“Not as well as I would like. My last missions were—unpleasant. Iwa is gearing up for a second go at it, and Kumo is almost ready for it. More chillingly, so are we. I don’t know if we can avoid a third war.”

Orochimaru cuts an impatient hand through the air. “Wars will happen,” he says. “What worries me is how quiet Shimura has been in the past months. He’s scheming, and the longer that Sakumo is kept from the village, the more nervous I grow.”

“Shimura Danzō,” says Jiraiya, features shadowing. “He is very careful. My people know next to nothing about him, other than the obvious. Everything points to him and his branch of ANBU being loyal to Sensei. If it wasn’t for what he was doing to you, Oro, I’d have no clue.”

“He is a very powerful man, politically. He personally negotiated a solid half of Konoha’s military contracts. I have no doubt that he put safety measures in place that would compromise those contracts if we assassinate him outright. If that happens, we hamstring our village, and Iwa and Kumo slaughter us without much trouble. If we accuse him without enough evidence, we lose what political capital we had. We must have an iron-clad case, and that is almost impossible to build when he has been given so much leeway.”

“We are also terrible at espionage,” adds Tsunade, with grim amusem*nt. “Oro and I are much too visible and asocial for politicking. The Hatake are working with the Clans to get their support, but we’ve got next to no intel about Shimura’s actions.”

“On top of that,” says Orochimaru, “I’ve decided I must do something about the Hyūga situation before Sakumo takes on the mantle because he will lose his fool mind over it. It almost broke Sensei, and he is a much better politician than Sakumo ever will be, even with Kari on his side.”

“Oh, is that all?” Slightly hysterical tone aside, Jiraiya looks much better. The shadows have been chased away, and honest joy shines in their place. “Discreet and arrest Shimura, dismantle the Hyūga Main House, install Hatake in the Hokage position and prevent a war. Easy peasy.”

“Also, live in suitably grand and self-affirming glory. Which, if I may add, I’m already doing. While you two miscreants were traipsing about, I claimed four children and slithered my way into the affections of two supremely dangerous people.”

Jiraiya hums, closing his eyes briefly. “I’m glad, Oro. So glad. I never knew what to do with you, you were so beyond me in everything. Always running ahead, walking paths I can’t follow. Children aren’t for me—not with my damage, not with the life I lead, but you are there to pick up and fix my failings, as always. I am blessed.”

“I am good at taking care of your foundlings,” agrees Orochimaru, avoiding the emotional bits for the sake of his cold, old heart. “Don’t limit yourself. There is enough space in the Den for a few more. The ones you found so far have proven to be exceptional.”

“I’ll hold you to that. The Child of Prophesy—” For once Jiraiya stops himself, a bitter little smile brimming with self-loathing. “I’m so sorry. I can’t stop. I try—every day, I try and I fail, time and time again. It won’t let me go, this obsession. I must find them, it is so imperative sometimes that I can’t breathe. The worst part, the absolute worst part, is that the Toads only told me I am destined to find them. Not teach them, or guide them to success. No, my role is to be a catalyst and—nothing more.”

Right. “Listen to me, Jiraiya, because this is very important.” He waits until Jiraiya’s exhausted gaze meets his and nods, satisfied. “Your toads can f*ck themselves. Bring me to the Toad realm, and I will face the Toad Sage himself and tell him that much. You’ve found exceptional children, and each and every one of them will change the world, in their own ways. You succeeded, Jiraiya. Whatever worth your quest had, you finished it.”

“Namikaze is destined for greatness,” says Tsunade fondly. “He’s a terrifying little monster. Nagato has more Chakra than an A-ranked Jōnin and he’s a barely trained Genin. Yahiko has enough charisma to get a grumpy old snake like Manda to contort his tail into a swing. Konan is our own miniature Orochimaru, from the sullen disposition to the preternatural skill with poisons. Your foundlings are exceptional.”

Orochimaru nods, a bit too forceful. Finally, a concrete angle from which to attack. “They will change the world, Jiraiya, with or without you. It’s up to you, if you want to direct the change. Because any one of them could grow into a messiah or a tyrant. Do you think I can guide them, there? I will support them in either path with my whole heart. Their moral character will be yours to sculpt.”

“Well, sh*t,” laughs Jiraiya wetly. “You got me there. I can’t parent, not for the world or anyone. But I can be the cooky uncle who stops by whenever he can and talks to them about life and justice.” He pauses, mouth quirking into a vulnerable little line. “I was thinking of, maybe. Writing a book.”

Orochimaru blinks, a bit taken aback at the seemingly random rejoinder. Alright, so it’s odd. Who cares? Anything is better than the suicidal self-loathing of before. “An excellent idea.” Wait. “Unless it’s p*rn. Jiraiya, I swear to Sage, if you start writing p*rn—”

Jiraiya’s uncertain smile falls, shifting into something more uncomfortable. “Uh, about that. Since we’re sharing or whatever. You know I’ve never—I don’t—All those sex-workers, I’ve never—They’re my people but we don’t—”

Orochimaru stops, blinks. Thinks about this. Is Jiraiya saying—

Tsunade saves him from putting his foot in it further. His comment on Jiraiya’s book was obviously a misstep, if his newly-hunched shoulders are any indication. “Spying, huh? Good cover. I’d never have guessed. Good work.”

“Yeah, I don’t—they taught me the trade, y’know, for my work but I don’t—I don’t see the draw. Don’t feel the urge. Never have. Uh, Sensei told me it’s okay? That it happens sometimes and that I shouldn’t be, like, worried but—”

Each word falls on Orochimaru like a lead weight, and he finds himself—fully unprepared for this conversation. Jiraiya? The hypermasculine, hypersexual model of virility? His Jiraiya?

“Of course it’s okay,” huffs Tsunade. “Sensei would know. He’s the same way. We’re not civilians, to have silly hangups about things like that. You’re good, doofus.”

Orochimaru nods on automatic. Just because he is frozen in a loop of what the f*ck-what the f*ck-what the f*ck doesn’t mean he is going to, f*ck knows, shame his nest-mate for something as trivial as sexual preference. Wait—

“If you don’t—If you don’t feel the inclination, why do you—You said they taught you the trade—”

“It’s actually easier, I think,” says Jiraiya, relaxing once more. Exhaustion seeps back, where it was temporarily replaced with fear and shame. “I don’t feel the inclination for murder, either, and I do that just fine. It’s just a job. You don’t feel anything particular about it, after a while you know?”

sh*t.

“Okay.” He hesitates, mind buzzing, each somehow equally urgent until he can’t make sense of it. “I will support you, Jiraiya, but I must say, I hate your work. You just—you seem to be hurt by it on every step. I understand you find it fulfilling, but can’t you, I don’t know, become a wandering tea-peddler? Wouldn’t that be a much more pleasant cover?”

“People are much less prone to blurting out state secrets to their tea merchant,” says Jiraiya, dry but easy enough that Orochimaru calms a little in response. “Don’t worry about it, seriously. I might not enjoy sex, but it’s far from the worst part of it. At the end of the day, nobody dies at the end. That’s not nothing, you know?”

Man. How is Jiraiya the most damaged person he knows? How did that happen?

Notes:

me: so i hate jiraiya
me: but i want to redeem him
me: he's irredeemable
me: challenge acceptED
me: *throws angst by the bucket-full*
me: there. *wipes sweat off brow* that should do it.
me: *pats herself on the back* good work.

how doth the little crocodile (--improve his shining tail?) - llamallamaduck (2024)

Chapter 1: Introduction

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Chapter 2: Chapter one

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Chapter 3: Chapter two

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Chapter 4: Chapter Three

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Chapter 5: Chapter four

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Chapter 6: Chapter five

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Chapter 7: Chapter six

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Chapter 8: Chapter seven

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Chapter 9: Chapter eight

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Chapter 10: Chapter nine

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