Archive of Our Own

They say it feels like the roots of a great tree shattering your breastbone.

It is well known within the Better Houses and beyond that to be Bonded is both a gift and a curse.  A gift of strength, of love.

A curse to die the moment your Bonded’s heart stops beating, as if both muscles were intertwined with the roots of that same great tree; a single organism, one unable to flourish without the other.

Some, like those of the powerful Senju Clan, display their Bond marks with pride, wearing tunics cut to the navel to reveal the twisted scars that prove they have found their match amongst the Great Nations.  Women and men alike proudly display their chests once the mark has formed; to wear a high-neck tunic amongst the Senju is considered a great shame.  Children are often pushed to find their Bond from the time they begin their education—a tradition which, to most other clans, remains a foolhardy and dangerous ritual.

After all, in order to find your Bonded, you must first try to kill them.

And especially amongst young children, such a thing is sure to have consequences, some of them dire.

Most clans prefer to wait until their children are older for them to begin their search.  The Uchiha teach their young how to fight well from early on, but they do not engage in true sparring sessions until they are come of age, at which point they will be pitted against their peers in strenuous matches during days-long festivals held each spring.  Many a Bond has been found this way—beneath the watchful eye of medics, the careful tutelage of the finest masters of the martial arts as can be bred or bought.  Unlike the Senju, they wear high collar tunics that hide their Bond marks away, feeling there is an advantage to keeping their marks secreted from potential adversaries.

The Hyuga Clan, obsessed with the purity of their dominant family lines, only allow their children to fight suitors already approved by the Elders.  And even then, no high-born children are ever slaughtered in pursuit of their Bonds, though the same cannot be said for many of their ill-fated potential matches.  A Bond formed with an Hyuga is followed immediately by a marriage ceremony, regardless of age or agreement.  To disobey the tradition is a prison sentence, those who try to flee the arrangement chained to a wall and well force-fed to keep their Bonded alive.

Beyond the well-known names, however, most smaller families and clans simply wait—there is no time for playing games unless you hail from one of those Better Houses.

And your clan, a small brood of fire-wielders buried in the swamps of River Country, all but extinguished by the tumultuous flood seasons of your homeland, has no reason to believe such methods would ever prove a Bond.

For your clan’s numbers dwindle because no one amongst them has found their Bonded since before you were born.  Half a generation nearly snuffed out, because not a single person had managed to discover their soulmate amongst the clan number or beyond.

Of course, it is possible to marry and have children without the Bond, but many look down on such unions as less legitimate.  You have heard more than one story of young lovers paying to be intentionally scarred, hoping to fool their Elders into approving a match.  Most such stories ended in heartbreak, however, and you shiver when you think of what it must feel like to sit beneath the knife, holding your beloved’s hand as great vines are carved into your chests in a bid to trick fate.

As far as you are concerned, worrying over whether you would one day find your Bond is a futile endeavor.  There are too many other concerns—those of a daily, life-or-death variety—that require tending to.  And besides, your parents were not Bonded and still they had made you; still you grew up in a home built with love.

Soulmates were a figment of predestination and you do not believe in destiny.

Your people are a scavenging sort, nomadic and rootless.  Perhaps, you think to yourself but never aloud, that is why the old Bonds are dying out amongst your clan.  What is the purpose of being tied to another—to a place, to a life—when there were so many more locales your feet have yet to tread?  A Bond is a liability; you are twice as likely to be killed and half as likely to live exactly as you pleased.

In addition to roaming the Land of Rivers—and even sometimes, very quietly, beyond—your clan is more peaceful than most.  With small numbers and an unobtrusive air, no great ambitions for better hillsides or seashores, it has moved mostly unnoticed amongst the larger, louder folk of the Great Nations.

Until recently, that is.

Only a few months ago, no one who looked upon you would see any reason to raise a dagger.  But things are changing, now.  The new Head of your clan—the product of Bonded parents, the last to find their matches in your clan’s history—seeks to rouse greater ambitions in your clansmen since his father’s passing.

And it is working.

Your kin have never before subscribed to standard work—they bartered their belongings in markets, took odd jobs at farms along meandering footpaths to make some money when needed.  A few of your number are artisans and peddle goods at small shops in even smaller villages as you move through your native Country in search of seasonal work and food.

But your clan has never been rich, a fact which now begins to upset some of your brethren as their new Head beseeches them.  It is difficult not to be jealous as the Lands around you swell, you suppose.  But you and your parents are not interested in gold or goods.  You live for the adventure of your life, for the chance to do good and see good in others everywhere you go.

When your old Clan Head dies and his son ascends to a position of authority, your entire world is upended.

“We have lived from the scraps of the world for long enough,” he declares, voice booming and authoritative despite his slight stature.  “The time to take what should always have belonged to us is now.”

Things change after that.  From the age of ten, you learn to wield a sword instead of a shovel.  Your afternoon lessons are no longer of herbalist remedies but poisons. Instead of practicing to harvest grain and vegetables, you are instructed in the swinging of a broad axe and other weapons.

You spar with your brethren, come home with cuts across your knuckles and bruises on your ribs.  You tell your parents you don’t want to train like this.  Your mother speaks with the Clan Head, but her wish to have you returned to your pacificist roots is denied in no uncertain terms and your training difficulty doubles in retaliation for the perceived slight against the clan’s betterment.

This is your life, now.

By the time your parents die, you are a hardened fighter, capable of disarming a man twice your size with your quick feet and quicker thinking.  Your small clan is no longer quiet, but loud—you make your money as mercenaries, taking bounties and collecting the fee for a body returned in pieces or bondage.

The Clan Head appoints you to an elite squad of fighters, chasing down the most lucrative bounties throughout the many Great Nations.

You hardly remember your peaceful life before you learned to sever a man’s head from his shoulders, to slice the tendon of a retreating enemy’s heel so they could not outrun you.  You dream, sometimes, of soft voices and the trickling of water, holding purple flowers in your hands, grinding them with honey to make a healing salve as your mother bumps your shoulder.

But you don’t remember the right plants anymore.  If you tried to collect them as your mother once taught you, you’d be as likely to return with thistle as wisteria.

You are newly into your twenty-fifth year when your squad receives its most lucrative assignment yet.

“The Copy Cat,” your Captain whispers over a fire just before down, “hails from the Land of Fire, but his clan deals in lightning.  He has stolen an enchanted eye from one of the Uchiha.”

The collective stiffening of each spine around the fire makes it clear how unsettling such a thing is.  To defy a Better House is akin to suicide.

“Why do the Uchiha not find him themselves?”

Your Captain answers simply, “They do not wish to waste their best fighters searching.  And they believe to send them after him would make the clan appear weak.  Sending mercenaries allows them to project a level-headed strength in the face of the theft.”

“Why is he called the Copy Cat?” someone asks.

Your Captain scowls.  “It is said he is more adept with the power of the Sharingan than most natural born Uchiha, that the eye bends to his will.”  He stares at each of you around the fire.  “The eye sees and remembers all—with it, he can copy your movements and enchantments exactly, making him a deadly opponent.”

Seriousness settles over your squadron, as it does before each mission.  Because there is an understanding that every assignment may be the last.

“When?” you ask, looking at the sky overhead and noting the subtle shifting of the light.  The sun will be awake soon, and if this bounty is bound by time…

“Before first light,” your Captain confirms, “Gather your things.”

It doesn’t take long for the six of you to descend into the woods with what few belongings you require to attend your mission.  The Copy Cat has last been sighted at the place where the Land of Fire and the Land of Rivers meet, so you begin there on that unfriendly swath of territory, searching for tracks in the swamplands.  It is familiar terrain for you and you breathe in deeply the sulfur of the marshes, feeling the muggy air in your lungs like a childhood blanket, warm and protective.

When you find a silver hair twisted around a tree branch, you signal for the rest of your squad to follow you as you take the lead, tracking the Copy Cat’s movements with sharp eyes.  He has obviously been attentive to covering his path, but you are too keen to be fooled by his shallow double-backing and the snapping of branches meant to mislead you.

You grew up in these wetlands—he is but a tourist here.

The slight impressions of his feet in the earth tell you he is less than half a day ahead of your squad.  Even though when the six of you fan out through the woods, walking silently over the heavy mosses of your homeland, you think it is unlikely you will be the one to come upon your quarry alone, you still loosen your sword from its sheath so you will be ready if you do.

You are wrong in thinking the Copy Cat will pounce upon another of your squadron, and it is only a half-moment when you see the shadows around you shift unnaturally before you realize you have very nearly walked straight into the man you’ve been sent to capture or kill.

The Copy Cat is quick, but you match his speed well enough to parry his first attack, send it arcing wide to your left.  He wears a dark traveling cloak and a ceramic mask modeled after a wolf, teeth carved into a sneer meant to intimidate.

You think it funny a man dressed as a predator has become your prey and want to say as much, but his movements are too quick for you to have time to tease him.  Instead, you find yourself twisting and turning, dodging and swinging and losing your balance before regaining it again.  You remember what your Captain said and you move on instinct rather than choreography, hoping that by straying from standard fighting stances you might be able to trick him.

It almost works and you find almost equal footing against the Copy Cat; he is the most worthy opponent you’ve had in a long time and you say as much.

“I wish I could tell you the same,” he says—his voice is low and rough, muffled by the heavy mask he wears.

But the words have their desired effect, and you snarl, launching a fireball at him that he reciprocates in kind.  The result is an inferno that reaches high into the trees, so large and hot it must alert your comrades to your location if they have not been made aware of it already.

Your blades clash together—the abrasive song of metal on metal ringing out against the trees; you can feel the reverberation of it through your forearms.  You both press forward, digging your heels into the soft moss beneath your feet, leaning with all your weight.  Water leaks up from the ground into your shoes.  Your faces press close enough together that your nose touches the cool ceramic of his mask, your blades just barely biting into one another’s shoulders.

It happens when you first spill each other’s blood.

Both of you spring apart, screams tearing from your throats in unison as you clutch at your chests.  When you open your eyes, you see your opponent across from you, the front of his cloak hanging open to reveal the new, twisted scar over his breastbone.  One you know will mirror the knot of flesh over your own heart.  You can feel it through your shirt, even if you can’t see it, yet, and the implication of its appearance punctures your soul.

You look at the man in front of you with panicked eyes, pulse racing furiously against your thoughts.  “It’s you?”

You wish you could rip off his mask to read his expression, but there isn’t time for either of you to really register what is happening before you hear your comrades emerge from the trees at your back, shouting your name, waiting for your usual response.  You had quite a lead on them, but it seems they’ve finally caught up.

You have only a split second to decide where your loyalties now lie, and you wonder if the Copy Cat is surprised when you turn and block a blow from your Captain aimed squarely at him.

“Run!” you shout, not bothering to look over your shoulder.  “I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”

He hesitates just long enough that one of your clansmen manages to catch him off guard.  He still dodges the attack, but he stumbles as he does so and the Copy Cat ends up scrambling to regain his feet.  It’s an inelegant thing, and you can feel your heart pumping desperately.

You have no time to help him, though, because you are too busy deflecting blows from your squad leader.

Your Captain’s mouth is pulled to a grimace, lips peeled back to reveal his teeth.  “What do you think you’re doing?” he growls, swinging his axe down, intent on cleaving you in half.

You grunt as you absorb the blow, your already injured shoulder screaming, and you’re not sure you’ll be so lucky with the next one when another blade slices down, only centimeters from the tip of your nose, to intercept it.

The Copy Cat is there, at your side, defending you.  He takes up position at your back out of instinct and you wonder whether his clan trains its young in the same defensive methods as yours or he is copying your movements with his stolen eye.

It takes several long minutes of defense before he has an opening.

“Go,” you say firmly.  “I’ll find you.”

He hesitates only a moment before disappearing into the trees.  When one of your clansmen attempts to take after him, you throw your sword and it sinks into the ground at his feet, stopping him short.

Your Captain is about to swing his axe down to claim your life when you pull your shirt open and he stops, eyes wide.

Everyone in your squad stares at your chest, at the twisted mess of skin over your sternum.

“It can’t be,” one of them says, but you’re too distracted to recognize whose voice it is.  You look down at the mark, eyes fixated on the ugly scar.  It looks like a bundle of vines, angry tendrils reaching toward your navel and your throat with the greatest concentration of raised flesh directly between your breasts.  The skin is angry, as if freshly healed, and when you press your fingers to it, it’s warm to the touch.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice soft and shaken.  “I couldn’t—”

It is a sin to kill your Bonded; everyone here knows that.  And they all know that if you had allowed the Copy Cat to die, you would have died with him.  It is your fate, now, for your heart to beat in perfect rhythm with his until one of you dies, taking the other with them.

When you meet your Captain’s eyes, you can see the empathy in them—he’s drowning in it; as if standing beneath a waterfall, bending beneath its weight.  He knows none of your clan has claimed a Bond in more than a generation.

You are an anomaly.  Fated.

“I can’t go back with you,” you say.  “I have to find him.”

Your throat tightens, unsure of what comes next.  Because though you are Bonded to the Copy Cat, your brethren are not.  And you do not know whether they mean to pursue him now.

“Go,” your Captain says as you pull your tunic closed again, “we will return with word of your Bond.”

What he doesn’t say is that this will give you time to find the Copy Cat and flee with him so he will never be found.  Not by your clan, and not by anyone else who may be induced to seek him.

You bow low, grateful tears prickling at your eyes.  “Thank you,” you try to say, but the words catch in your mouth, caged by your teeth as they grind together.

As you straighten, one of your brethren hands you your sword.

“The Uchiha will not stop hunting him,” your Captain says.

“I know.  But I am not afraid of the Uchiha.”

He grins at you.  “Good girl.”

The Copy Cat eludes you for long weeks.  You traverse the familiar forests of River Country and then the unfamiliar crags of Stone Country after that, peeling your clothes away to sleep naked as a weak defense against the cruel and oppressive heat of the place.

Your Bonded is even more diligent now in covering his tracks, but your eyes remain keen and, you think, the new Bond forged between you also seems to spur you forward, like a whisper in the back of your mind guiding you toward the correct path when two choices make themselves equally known.

All the while, you wonder what your Bonded is like.  You only know of the Copy Cat as a warrior—a man with a reputation for beating his opponents into submission using their own techniques.  A genius, to be killed on sight, the stolen Sharingan eye returned to the Uchiha for a bounty.

You know nothing of the man behind the mask.  No image of his face appeared in any of the information you saw of him.  And you wonder if he will be handsome when you take it off one day, though you know it will not matter—the scar on your chest throbs and you rest your palm over it, trying to steady the racing of your heart.

The gesture does nothing to help the seizing terror in your veins—the adrenaline suddenly coursing through you.

As you stand in mute fascination, the sensation unfurls in understanding.  The fear you feel is that of your Bonded.  You know this, though you do not know how.  And from it, you sense your Bonded is in danger, fighting for his life.  It feels as if someone has curled their fist around your heart, squeezing the muscle until it falters in your chest.

You collapse to your knees, panting, drooling as you try to breathe.

“Don’t…” you whisper, hoping—in some impossible way—that your Bonded will hear you.  “Don’t give up.  Please.  You have to fight.”

The sensation of helplessness that overcomes you is all-encompassing.  You feel like a babe tossed amongst the waves of the Great Sea—boneless, breathless.

Dying.

Hot tears stream over your cheeks.  You know—somewhere deep in your bones, you know —this is the end.

Your Bonded will die, and you will never see his face, never learn his true name.  Still, even without any knowledge of him, you will die with him.  It is fated.  Destiny.

You collapse to the ground, dirt scraping over your wet cheek.  You wheeze a breath, inhaling more dust than air.  Your eyes bulge, throat straining and gasping for air you cannot find.

Suddenly, you feel a rush of fresh, clean oxygen through your lungs, as if your head has burst above the surface of the water after being held under.  Your heartbeat steadies, the ache in your chest lessens.  The tears streaming over your cheeks dry in the dirt.

He’s alive.

As soon as your legs are steady enough to carry you, you run.

You know he is injured; can feel it in the way your body responded to his plight.  He was near death—might still be, and you have never needed to find anyone so desperately in all your life.

It takes nearly two days to discover his hiding place.  The blood soaked into the earth in a clearing nearby, the scattered bodies of mercenaries, tells you all you need to know of what has happened.

If your clan could not deliver the Copy Cat, the Uchiha are not above hiring new assassins.

Your Bonded huddles beneath an outcropping in the Land of Wind.  It’s dark when you come upon him and he’s shivering, clutching a double-edge knife loosely in one pale, sweaty hand.

When you kneel beside him, you can hear the rattling in his lungs; a death rattle, you remember your mother called it.  You heard it just before your father faded into the Afterlands.

“I’m here,” you say, gently prying the weapon from between his gloved fingers.  “It’s okay.”

It isn’t, you think, not if he dies.  But he’s so fevered and weak he can’t stop you when you reach over to pull open his cloak so you can assess the wound.

It’s shallow, thankfully, but you can see why your heart seized.  If the tip of the blade that injured him had gone any deeper, it would have thrust into his left lung, severed a pulmonary artery.

He would have hemorrhaged to death alone in the woods, gasping on his own blood.

You set to work quickly, shuffling off in the darkness to gather supplies.  You look up at the stars and ask your mother to guide you as you gather herbs you don’t remember the names of, pack mud and moss into a poultice.

Even if you can’t name the leaves and berries in your hands anymore, your body moves on instinct, mixing as if you are caught in the delicate web of a dream.  You boil water over a small fire conjured by your hands, smash the berries and strain the seeds out before bruising the dark green leaves between your palms and settling it into the liquid.

“Drink this,” you say, but the Copy Cat turns his masked face away when you try to lift it off.  You frown, irritation prickling behind your ears.  “Drink it.  It will bring your fever down.”

When you hand it to him this time, he sends the drink spilling over your tunic.  You growl, launching forward to grasp his wrists.

He’s startled by your harsh treatment—you were so gentle with him as you dressed his wound, the alteration in your demeanor must come as a shock—but he’s easy enough to overpower in his weakened state, not matter his surprise.

You hold his wrists in one hand over his head as you rip the mask away.  It’s held in place by an enchantment, but his magic is as weak as he is, and so your thumbs can pry it away easily enough.  You laugh when you do because you realize he’s wearing another mask beneath it, though this one is made of cotton and covers only half his face.

“There’s no dust in Cloud Country,” you say, “you don’t need a face covering like this anyplace but Suna.”

He doesn’t respond and it’s then you notice the scar over his left eyelid, the way he’s kept it screwed closed as you tore away his ceramic mask.  His other eye is dark and hazy, still gripped by his fever.  The pupil so small you wonder how many of you he is seeing.

You sigh, releasing your grip on his wrists as you begin to mix a new broth for him.  When it’s finished, you kneel before him, frowning.

“I won’t hurt you,” you say, pulling your tunic down to reveal your Bond mark.  “I can’t.”  The Copy Cat’s left eye is still closed, sweat beading over his forehead, but he nods.  “So drink.”

You hand him the bowl again and he takes it.  When he makes no attempt to drink the broth, your hands ball into tight fists, patience wearing ever thinner.  You’re about to bind his wrists together and force it down his throat yourself when he finally moves.

His hand shakes as it reaches up to tug down the face covering and though you know you shouldn’t, you stare as the rest of him is revealed to you, admiring the soft swell of his lips, the dark mark at the corner of his chin.

He’s handsome, you realize as he finally sips the remedy you’ve prepared for him, and you feel a rush of relief, despite yourself.  Attraction or lack thereof would not change the Bond, but it is a welcome realization.  You wonder if he thinks you are attractive, too, but know you are not bold enough to ask.

There is no conversation that evening.  The pair of you sit in silence, your Bonded occasionally dozing against the stone wall behind him.  You scoot closer, sit next to him as he sleeps lightly.  When you reach out for him, he reacts by twisted your wrist into a painful lock.

You cry out.  “It’s me!  It’s me!”

His grip loosens, though he does not release you.

“I just thought you’d be more comfortable if you could rest your head,” you explain.

The Copy Cat stares at you a moment, his silver hair glowing like a bonfire, reflecting the dim embers of the flames you used to mix his treatments.

You gasp as he peels his left eye open, revealing a blood red pupil with a strange black iris.  You stare into the Uchiha eye, losing yourself in its fathomless depth, until he closes it again.

When he slides down and lays his head in your lap, you stiffen.  You had intended for him to rest his head against your shoulder, and this feels much more intimate than you are prepared for.

But before you can voice your dissent, your Bonded’s breath deepens and he is asleep.

No one ever told you what to expect from a Bond.  Your parents, though their love was deep enough to rival any Bonded pair in existence, had never experienced the phenomenon, and as far as you know, you are the only member of your clan to have formed a Bond in several decades.

So the dreams are startling; startlingly real. You see your Bonded as a small boy, two dark, bright eyes and a wide smile as he stares into the face of a woman—his mother, you know somehow; intrinsically.  The same when his father appears, though this understanding is easier because the resemblance is so strong between them.

You know without confirmation that you are bearing witness to his memories, that the Bond between you allows you to better know him in so doing.  You watch as his mother withers and perishes before him, as his father becomes a shell in the aftermath.

You watch the sticky blood drain from the man’s body and stain your shoe after he slices himself open with his own sword.  Your knees scream as they hit the ground, the blood oozing into the fabric of your clothes as you clutch at your chest—screaming, crying, grieving for all your Bonded has lost.  You can feel the roots of the tree digging deeper, spreading wider, carving their way through your body—

When you wake, your brow is dotted with sweat and the Copy Cat is staring at you.  You fell asleep with his head in your lap, but now your positions are reversed and he peers at you with two eyes—one dark as pitch against the drapery of evening, the other red as the blood that seeped from his father’s body in your dream.

His brows pinch together and before you can stop yourself you reach one hand up and press your thumb gently between them to smooth the wrinkle away, letting your fingers trail lightly over his face.  You feel as much as hear the sharp intake of his breath when you do this, and you wonder if he is as uncertain and nervous as you are.

“What did you dream of?” he asks, and suddenly you know in your heart he has dreamt of your past, as well.  A past pristine and filled with love and gentleness where his had been drenched in gore and loss.

“I dreamt of you.  Your past, I think.”

He frowns and a moment later you barely manage to save your skull from a rather harsh meeting with the ground as he stands, letting your head slide off his lap without warning.  By the time the shock wears off and fades to irritation, you scramble to your feet to find the Copy Cat pulling on his cloak and mask.

“Where are you going?”

“That’s not your concern,” he says, and the irritation flares to outrage.

“Of course it concerns me, we are Bonded.”

He turns so fast you hardly register that he’s facing you, that his forearm is pressing against your throat.  The venom drips from his voice, even through the muffle of his mask.  “I did not ask for a Bond.  I do not want one.”

All you can do is laugh, and so you do, head tilted back against the stone wall as he holds you in place, elbow slackening at your clearly unexpected response.

“As if I asked for it.  As if I dreamed of finding my Bond in a thief.”  He steps away from you, then, eyes boring into yours from behind his mask, though he says nothing.  “You think I want to be hunted by the Uchiha?  To flee my clan—my family —in order to protect them?”

When you reach for his mask and pull it off again, he doesn’t stop you, but his face is as hard as the enchanted ceramic and you wonder if it would be easier to speak to the covering than the man hidden behind it.

“Like it or not, Copy Cat, we are bound together, our destinies as intertwined as the roots of a great tree and its neighbor.  I can no more leave you behind than I could rip my own heart out.”

You wonder if he had felt it when you’d been separated, too; that vicious ache in your chest, the one soothed only when you’d finally found him.

Still, he says nothing, only reaches out and takes his mask back, which you yield to him without protest.  As he pulls it over his face, he finally speaks.  “I didn’t steal the eye,” he says softly.  “It was a gift.”

Your Bonded offers no further explanation as he takes off into the trees, leaving you to trail behind him, eyes squinting against the dark to follow his path through the woods.  You have the distinct impression he is deliberately slowing his pace so you can keep up with him. And while that would normally irritate you, tonight, you find the realization soothing.

It is not until three days later you learn your Bonded’s name.  You spend that time bickering, mostly, and listening to him lament the unfairness of his destiny.

You do not know how many times he says I did not ask for a Bond, but you begin to grind your teeth when he does, growling about how unlucky you are to be Bonded to the notorious Copy Cat.

It is one such time, over a fire you made, the light low and flicking across his serious face, that he finally says, “Stop calling me that.”

“And what should I call you, Copy Cat?  Bonded One?  Soulmate?  My beloved Bond?”

You think his cheeks flush at that last one, but it’s hard to differentiate it from the orange glow of the fire.

“My name,” he says, “is Kakashi Hatake.”  You stare at him, surprised and unsure how to respond.  When you say nothing, he spits, “Why don’t you try calling me that?”

You stutter a moment before you answer, “I’m—”

But he cuts you off.  “I know your name,” he says, “your friends were shouting it when they came looking for you.”  His eyes dart to your sword.  “And I recognized the clan sigil on your hilt.  Besides,” he adds, standing, “what sort of Bonded would I be if I did not know your name already, beloved?”

You know it is not the fire making your skin feel hot as he brushes past you into the thick foliage beyond.

“Where are you going?” you call after him, and you have to bite down gently on your tongue to keep from tacking Copy Cat to the end of your query.  Kakashi, you think, has a nice cadence to it and you wonder what it will sound like in your voice.

“To relieve myself!” he shouts back from the darkness, but part of you detects the faintest hint of a lie.  He often disappears into the woods around wherever you make camp, presumably to check for any signs of enemies or traps.  Your Bonded is a paranoid fellow, though you cannot blame him.

As such, you don’t press any further, turning back to stare into the flames as they continue their illicit dance. You think, occasionally, one of them leaps red enough to almost look like Kakashi’s Sharingan.  You wonder if the blood of his iris also dances.

You think of the eye often, wondering about his previous words: It was a gift.  He never elaborated on the point, steering the conversation as far from the Sharingan and the Uchiha as he could at every opportunity.

You are not sure how you don’t hear them approaching, but by the time you are aware of the three men wearing the sigil of a Water Clan you do not recognize, one’s hand is already over your mouth, a sharp knife or spear—you can’t be certain because you cannot see it—pressed against your ribs.

Your heart pounds, blood beating in your ears as you sense the danger all around you in a rush.  They’ve used a silencing enchantment to muffle their approach, you realize, and curse the fact you missed it.

“Well, well,” the man says, mouth against your ear, breath hot and humid and smelling of a swamp, “it seems we’ll be taking our bounty much easier than expected.”

“Wait!”  One of the other men yells.  The third attempts to shush him, though his voice is too desperate and swift, easily cut off by the other, who is clearly not concerned with being heard. “The Copy Cat is worth more alive and you know that.”  The grin in his voice is obvious, even beneath the bandages he wears wrapped around the lower portion of his face.  “And I think the Uchiha will pay handsomely to torture his Bonded while he watches.”

The man holding you shrugs.  “He’s still worth plenty dead, Zabuza” he says, pushing his weapon into your flesh until you feel the warm spring of your own blood, “and with none of the fighting.”

“Or maiming,” the third adds.

The man named Zabuza snorts, clearly itching for a fight, “Cowards.”

You feel Kakashi before you see him, the warm thrum of his closeness pulses through your chest like a reassuring drum as he cleaves the third man in half with his blade.  You use the moment of distraction to extricate yourself from the grip of the mercenary behind you, though his spear takes a long strip of your skin with it.

“Fire!” Kakashi shouts and though his speech is not at all descriptive, somehow you know exactly what he means.  You snuff out the flames by clenching your conjuring hand into a fist and the clearing is swathed in shadow.

For a moment, all is silent and dark.  The sounds of the forest cascading to nothing as it prepares for what comes next.

Then, you hear a low growl behind you and realize Kakashi is standing there, his back to yours just as the two of you had fought together when your Bond was first carved into your skin.  You are weaponless, your sword somewhere near your bedroll, but the night is as black as tar and you know you won’t find it in time.

“What sort of man seeks a bounty he is too afraid to face himself?” Kakashi asks.

He is answered with a hearty laugh from the man who cut you.  “A smart one, Copy Cat.  I know my chances would be far better against your Bonded.”

You swallow, still ashamed at being caught off guard, too lost in your thoughts of Kakashi to realize you were being approached.

“You underestimate her,” Kakashi says, “as I once did.”

Your body feels warm and tingly in the wake of his praises.  You reach one hand back to brush it against his free one and his fingers turn to meet yours for just a moment before they pull away again.

It is the most tender thing Kakashi has done since you awoke with his head in your lap many nights ago, and your skins sizzles in the wake of the caress.

Everything happens quickly.  Suddenly, the seemingly impenetrable darkness is sliced open by the red of the Sharingan eye—the sacred bloodline of the Uchiha Clan ripped to life by a man who was never born to wield it.  It bathes the small clearing in savage crimson, the blood of Kakashi’s nearest foe soon painting the ground in the same shade. The man who once held you at the point of his weapon falls to the ground when Kakashi severs the tendon at his heal, and then Kakashi plunges his sword through the man’s chest and the fearful light leaves his eyes.

Only Zabuza remains, but he is faster than you expect—rushing toward Kakashi with dizzying speed while your Bonded tries to free his weapon from a corpse.

You don’t even think before you move.  Rushing toward Zabuza with a feral growl, you launch your body into his and tackle him to the ground in a tangle of limbs.  His sword, a great heaving thing, slices you across the thigh, but it barely slows you down.  You roll on top of him and clench your hands around his throat.  It isn’t enough to kill him, but plenty to ensure Kakashi has time to free his blade and land a debilitating stroke just as you pull your hands away.

Zabuza coughs blood, but it only stains the bandages he wears around his mouth.

“Who among the Uchiha purchased you?” Kakashi asks, red eye still gleaming.

Zabuza laughs.  From your position above him, you can feel the vibration of his disdain like a hundred spiders’ legs racing over your skin.  You shiver.  And when your head spins, you realize that between the two wounds you’ve sustained, you may be losing more blood than you expected.

“Did you think you could steal from the Uchiha and live?” he asks, the red stain above his mouth spreading.

“The eye was a gift from a friend,” Kakashi says, “The dying wish of Obito Uchiha, one that should be respected by his clanmates.”

Zabuza leans up, blood glistening on his bandages, “Obito Uchiha was a nobody and his clan does not honor the wishes of the weak.”

You wince, nearly blinded by the bright blue of lightning in Kakashi’s palm, the scorching electricity he has conjured singing like a thousand birds, their shrieks pealing through the night air like a death knell.

The mirth in Zabuza’s eyes dims, but his resolve does not waiver.

“You will always be hunted, Copy Cat,” he says, adding, “and so will your Bonded.”  The flickering lightning screams, filling your ears and threatening to deafen you.

Rather than wait, you deal the killing blow yourself, taking the man’s own sword and driving it through his neck.

A moment later, you slump and it is only because Kakashi smothers his lightning magic that he is able to catch you before you hit the ground.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, voice high and panicked.

You strain to answer, but all you manage to say is, “I’m sorry.”

Kakashi closes his enchanted eye and you are swallowed by darkness, listening to the distant sound of his voice as he calls your name.

For the first time since you found Kakashi injured, your sleep is dreamless.  And part of you, distantly, is afraid this means you are dead.  For you do not find your Bonded lingering beneath the surface of your subconscious as you have each night since you made him a healing draught.

Worse than the fear that you may have died is what it means for Kakashi.  You weep for him in every way you possibly can in the endless obscurity you find yourself trapped within.  You ache for all the things you have not yet shared with him, all the things you do not yet know about him, and those he will never know about you.

You do not know how long you linger in the dark.  But eventually, your eyelids flutter open and you realize you are not dead.  Rather, you are staring at the rafters of a rather downtrodden room, with a hole in the ceiling to your left.  Someone has tried to patch it, though they’ve done hardly a perfunctory job, and you can see water stains stretching across the wood where the rain has leaked inside.

When you turn your head to the side, the tendons of your neck scream in protest, and you wonder how long they’ve been immobile.

What you find at your side, though, soothes some of that concern, because it is Kakashi’s sleeping face that greets you.  He appears uninjured, as far as you can see, though the deep purple marks beneath his eyes make it clear he has not been sleeping well.

It takes a great amount of effort to roll yourself onto your side to face him.  Once you do, you reach out and run your fingers through his hair.  It is greasy and slick, a thing that would normally make you pull away in disgust.  But you are so relieved by his presence it doesn’t bother you, and you content yourself with brushing your fingers through his hair until he wakes.  Your fingers ache from the new movement, but you ignore the pain, opting instead to focus on the soft fluttering pulse of your Bond mark.

When Kakashi’s eyes open, he stares at you at first.  You are unsure whether he recognizes you for what you are—his Bonded, alive, awake.

But once his pupils focus on you, the red of the Sharingan bright and blinding so close to your face, he springs silently up from the bed, hurries across the room.  Startled, you try to struggle to sit up, ignoring the protest of each muscle and joint.  He returns to your side with a quarter-loaf of bread and a cool slab of salty butter, which he smears over it.

“Eat,” he says, “you’ve been sleeping for days.”

You take a tentative bite of the proffered rations.  At the first wash of saltiness over your tongue, your stomach lets out a mighty grumble nearly loud enough to shake the room you’re in.

“Here,” he says, holding out a skin of water, “drink, too.  But slowly.”

You listen to his instructions and Kakashi perches himself on the edge of the bed, watching you carefully with both eyes open as you eat your bread and take small sips of water.  You realize how parched your throat must have been and must fight the urge to drink greedily and make yourself sick.

When you finish eating and drinking as much as you think yourself able, you finally voice the question most prominent in your mind, though it takes several attempts to clear the fatigue from your throat before you are able.  “Where are we?”

Kakashi ducks his head, a grin barely visible on his face before he reigns in his expression and meets you with a more neutral one.  You wonder if it is relief that bares his feelings to you so openly, something you have yet to experience from him.

The Copy Cat is always guarded, with and without his masks.

“An inn,” he answers, “I brought you here after you collapsed.”

“Collapsed?” you ask, brows curling toward one another.

It is then you remember the fight with Zabuza and his comrades. The way your head swam in the aftermath.

“I was losing blood, I think.”

Kakashi shakes his head. “The spear and the sword were both poisoned.”

You curse internally.  Of course.  You should have suspected as much.  But if that were the case—

“You would have passed out no matter what you did, once that man scraped your side with his spear.”

You feel shame, once again, at having been caught so unawares.

“You carried me here,” you say, no doubt in your mind, so no question necessary.

Kakashi chuckles.  It is a lovely sound.  “I didn’t have much choice.  I couldn’t just leave you there.”  Your heart flutters madly beneath your soul mark.  “After all, if you die, I die.”

Right, you think, of course he was only thinking of himself.  Even if Kakashi has given you his true name so you can stop calling him by his bounty moniker, that does not mean you are close; does not mean he has accepted you as his Bond.  And given the circumstances surrounding your last battle, that it was you who allowed your enemies to sneak so close without detection, you imagine a man known as one of the most deadly enchanters alive likely has little love to spare for you.

“Thank you,” you say, because it’s all you can think to do.

You meet Kakashi’s eyes for a moment, but his Sharingan is still open and you find the brilliant red glow of it too intimidating to hold in your gaze, so you turn your head away to inspect the rest of the room.  There is a wash basin inlaid in one corner, steam curling in tendrils from the surface of the water.

“The inn is built over a hot spring, so it’s easy to fill the baths,” he says, “I’ve been keeping the water ready for when you woke.”

You smile slightly and look down at your fingers, the nails still caked in dirt and blood.

“I’m sure I’ve not been a very good bedmate,” you say, smiling despite your predicament.

You are sure you see a pink stain over Kakashi’s cheeks before he looks away, but say nothing.

“Nonsense,” he says, “I’ve slept next to corpses plenty of times, you’ve been a fine companion.”

Still, you think you will feel better once you’ve bathed, rid yourself of the stench of sweat and death, so you climb from the bed, pulling the covers away so you can cross to the wooden basin.  The scent is inviting as you draw closer, something like forests and wildflower fields, and you consider asking Kakashi whether he has used bath oils to make it smell so when your weight dips severely to one side and you are suddenly looking at the hole in the ceiling again.

Your eyes screw closed, certain that you are about to land on the floor with no amount of grace and plenty of discomfort.

But Kakashi’s arms are around you just as fast as the vertigo hits, and he holds you upright with a soft grunt.

As you catch your breath, you become keenly aware of his proximity, his chest pressed against yours, chin tucked against your cheek as his hands fan over your back, one of his legs between yours like a trivet to steady you.  He pulls you upright and you are certain, now, of his blush, because there is nowhere for him to hide it.

You stare into both his eyes, no longer intimidated, but mesmerized.  The Sharingan spins like a pinwheel and you remain transfixed.  Slowly, your fingers reach up to trace the scar over Kakashi’s eyelid, the one that slices his eyebrow in half like a lightning bolt.

His nostrils flare as you do so, but he makes no move to stop you from touching him, and so you trace your ringer finger lightly over the scar, noting the way his eyelashes do not grow in its path.

“What happened to your real eye?” you ask, voice low and gentle, a breeze tickling the back of your neck in spring.

“I lost it in a fight,” he says.

“And how’d you get this one?”

You aren’t looking into his eyes because it’s overwhelming.  Even as you stare at the tip of his nose, you can feel your heart pounding, hear the blood pulsing in your ears and your throat.  The edges of your Bond mark itch faintly.

“A comrade gave it to me before he died,” Kakashi says, voice tight with emotion and regret.  “He saved my life and then he gave me this eye so I could protect others.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and drop your hand, letting it rest on his forearm where he is still holding you up. It’s as if the two of you are frozen in a tableau, you leaned back and Kakashi holding you up, hovering you over the floor.  You marvel at his strength, the way he can hold you perfectly still without any effort at all.

“You can let go,” you whisper.

But he doesn’t.  Instead, he heaves you up into his arms without a word and carries you to the bath, setting you down only when he reaches the bench next to the steaming basin.

You sputter an excuse or an apology or a thank you, but you never get enough of the syllables out to figure out which it is meant to be.

“I’ll be back,” Kakashi says, and then he turns and leaves, the wooden door creaking slowly closed behind him.

You can admit to yourself in the silence of the room that you are disappointed by his departure; that part of you hoped he would stay as you undressed yourself, shucking the filthy rags that were once your travelling clothes, too torn, now, to be considered anything but garbage.

You slide into the water carefully, hoisting yourself over the edge of the bath and then balancing on your hands to make sure you don’t slip too quickly, or spill water over the edge of the wooden rim.  It’s just deep enough for you to sink to your collarbone, and though the water is a little too warm for your personal preference, you soon adjust to the heat, aching muscles relaxing slowly as you lean your head back against the frame.

You inhale, and then you’re certain Kakashi has added salts or oils because there is the unmistakable scent of eucalyptus and evergreen, subtle floral notes of lavender and jasmine that make you hum in delight.

You don’t do much to cleanse your skin, finding yourself suddenly quite tired despite all the resting you must have done since you fainted in that clearing. Still, you do dip your head beneath the water and scrub at your scalp, shaking your head back and forth to let the water comb throughit so at least it will smell better when you return to the bed.

You wrinkle your nose as you contemplate sleeping in the sheets you’ve already sullied, but there’s nothing much to do about it, you suppose.

Kakashi is gone a long time, and you see no reason to remove yourself from the bath while he’s left you alone.  Instead, you settle into the water and close your eyes, inhaling the steam in long, slow breaths.  Without meaning to, one of your hands finds its way to the twisted mound of skin over your sternum, fingers tracing over your Bond mark beneath the surface.  You follow the angry tendrils that spread from it and your eyes spark open when you realize they are longer than you remember.

As if the mark has grown since your ambush by Zabuza and his companions.

It is with this thought in mind that you begin to drift, that lingering exhaustion tugging at your eyelids and then your consciousness until you fall asleep with your head still resting on the edge of the bath.

And unlike the days you had spent unconscious, this time, you dream again.  The images are muted, though, faded, and you wonder if they are only clear and crisp when Kakashi is dreaming, too.

“It’s all I have left of him,” a voice says.  You recognize it as Kakashi’s, though it sounds much younger.  You search for him, but the image is too blurred for you to recognize him amidst the haze.

The only thing you can see in perfectly clarity is a hulking figure, two blazing red eyes slicing through the fog.

“You are as unworthy of it as he was.”

The dim red light is pushed aside by a blaze of white and blue, a cruel laugh drowned out by the thunderous chirping of birds—

The door is loud when it creaks back open and you jolt awake in the tub, splashing water onto the floor.  Kakashi has returned, wearing his travelling clothes with a scarf pulled close around his face, hiding the lower half.  He wears the hood of his cloak pulled low, so no one can see his eyes.

You wonder if this is how he has always travelled when he cannot risk being seen, when the ceramic mask he dons as the Copy Cat would be too conspicuous.

“I have fresh sheets for the bed,” he says, “and a robe for you.”

He drapes the garment over the bench, keeping his eyes trained far away from yours.  You wonder if from above he can see the outline of your naked body beneath the haze of the bath water.  More than part of you hopes he can, and you feel an unexpected rush of excitement when you consider the possibility.

You wait until Kakashi turns his back to stand, letting the water drip from your hair and your shoulders back into the tub.  You’re careful as you step out of it, picking your feet up high to clear the edge of the basin before planting them on the floor.  You don’t find a towel and so you wring your hair out over the side, letting the water drip back into the bath.  The water is murkier than when you entered, and you shiver at the realization of just how dirty you were.

You pull the robe on.  It’s soft cotton, the color a neutral undyed beige, and you tie the belt loosely around your waist, letting the top of it hang open so your Bond mark is visible.

You realize for the first time that you are proud of it, and you understand the Senju Clan a little more than you did when you first received the mark.

Kakashi makes the bed while you do this, and he is so focused on the task you’re certain it’s a show, that he is trying very hard not to look at you precisely because he wants to.  You are emboldened by this realization, but keep it to yourself.  There’s no reason, you think, to embarrass him now.  Not when you’ve just woken up from a poison-induced state of catatonia.

When the bed is made, Kakashi gathers the soiled linens into a pile and sets them outside the door.

“The innkeeper said his wife would clean them for us,” he explains, still not looking at you.  “She’s also going to bring fresh clothes for you in the morning, when the shops open.”

You wonder how Kakashi has managed to find such hospitality and when you ask him, he tilts his head back with a hearty, full-body laugh.

“Friendship can be purchased as easily as rations if you know who to barter with,” he says.  “This place may not be much for luxuries, but the people who own it understand their clientele’s needs very well.”

You think of the hole in the ceiling, barely patched to keep out the rain, but the private bath in your room which allows you to clean yourself without having to use a shared space, and suddenly it becomes very clear this is an inn that must specialize in less than savory patrons.

You eat more bread, turning your body away from the corner of the room with the bath as Kakashi drains the water and draws himself a new one using a pulley in the wall.  It’s an intriguing contraception, and you can’t help but wonder if it is bolstered by some intangible magic laid by the innkeeper or his wife.

When you hear the rush of water draining from the bath a second time, you turn to look over your shoulder and find Kakashi wearing a robe similar to yours, shaking his head to rid his hair of as much water as possible.  You stifle a giggle behind your hand at the sight of him drying himself like a dog.

If Kakashi understands why you’re laughing or is insulted by it in any way, he does not say so.

“How long have we been here?” you ask, deciding it’s time to uncover the missing pieces of information from your memory.

“A few days,” Kakashi says, “but you’ve been unconscious for eight.”

Your eyes widen.  “Eight days?  How am I…”

“I don’t know,” Kakashi says, apparently knowing intuitively you were going to ask how it was possible you were still alive.  “I treated your wounds with the salves in your pack, but I had no idea what to do once I realized the blades had been poisoned.  I carried you as far as I could and then made camp, did the same the following day.”

Your heart aches as Kakashi speaks, realizing with an acute sting that his situation was much worse than yours when you could not find him.  That while you were left to wonder where he was and whether he was okay, Kakashi had been forced to look at your closed eyes and sallow skin each day, to know that you were not.

“I can’t explain it,” he says quietly, and you turn to find him staring at the floor contemplatively, “but that second night, I walked into the woods to scan for any sign of intruders and… something called to me.”  His gaze trails up to meet yours, lid closed over the Sharingan as he continues, “Like someone was leading me.  I found… these plants and brought them back to camp.  I ground them up and fed them to you.”

Kakashi takes a step toward the bed, so light on his feet the old boards do not creak beneath his weight.

“You were much better the next morning, and every day after as I continued to give them to you.”

You furrow your brow, mind racing through your memories to your mother, gently laying your hands over blossoms and leaves as she explained the healing properties to you.  You remember the way you made a healing draught for Kakashi, feeling as if guided by an invisible hand.

Does your mother’s magic reach for Kakashi, too, now that you are Bonded?

You’re so lost in your thoughts you don’t realize Kakashi has closed the space between you, crossed the remaining length of the floor in three long, graceful strides.

“You can never do that again,” he says sternly.

You frown.  “I wasn’t trying to be poisoned,” you say, defensively.

“It doesn’t matter what you were trying to do, you were injured and you— we almost died.”

You stand, then, arms flailing as you do. You don’t know if it is because of the Bond or because you are a stubborn warrior, proud of her accomplishments and strength, that you are so incensed by his words, but you feel sulfur in your palms as your irritation flares.

“I’m sorry,” you say and then continue when he looks at you quizzically, “Sorry you got stuck with such a weak Bond.  Sorry I almost cost you your life with my own.”

He would be happier with someone stronger, you think, with someone who would have detected the silencing spell and would not have been caught by surprise by assassins sent to kill him.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he hisses, “that’s not what I meant at all.”

Your irritation builds like a bonfire, and you feel the ends of your hair sing with your own power.

“Then what did you mean, Copy Cat?”

Kakashi’s eye narrows to a sliver and he grabs you by the arms, not to keep you from falling this time, but to pull you close and force you to stare up into his face.  The Sharingan, closed since he left before your bath, peels open, then, and your chest feels like it’s filled with hot coals at the sight of it.

“Do you have any idea how it felt?  How my heart seized when I realized you were in danger?  Dying?  When I thought I could do nothing to stop it?”

You do.  You remember feeling it when you searched for him for weeks, the panic that lanced through you when you realized he was dying somewhere far beyond your grasp, alone and afraid.

“I was…”  Kakashi stops, looks away, shame painting every inch of his face.

“Scared,” you say for him, so he doesn’t have to.  Your palm comes up to caress his cheek.  “I know,” you offer, “because I felt the same for you before.”

He stares at you then, face snapping back to meet yours.  And suddenly he is closer than he is supposed to be again, body tightly slotted against yours, face a perfect mirror.

“I thought you were going to die,” he whispers, “and I…”

“You would have died, too,” you say, “I know, and I’m sorry.”

Kakashi shakes his head almost as fiercely as when he’d been trying to dry it.  “That isn’t what I mean,” he says, pulling you closer, burying his face in your hair as he inhales.  “I can’t lose you,” he says, voice broken and soft.

Until this moment, you had never considered whether Kakashi might have any feelings for you other than tolerance or irritation.  He has not once in the weeks you have spent together intimated any interest in furthering your Bond or strengthening it.

You think of the way your fingers followed the scar beneath the water, of how the mark had grown while you’d been trapped in dreamless sleep, and you wonder how that happened.  What had Kakashi done to make your Bond mark expand?  You didn’t even know that was possible, had assumed the mark you received was all it would ever be.

Your chest heaves, hardly able to contain your breathing.  It feels tight and hot as your lungs struggle to free themselves from the cage of your ribs.  Judging from the sharp sting of Kakashi’s breath on your face, you guess his experience is similar.

Your nose brushes over his, glances across his cheek.  Your breath stutters, eyes fluttering half-closed as Kakashi’s familiar scent overwhelms you.

This is your Bonded, your soulmate.

And you can feel it with every fiber of your being, as though each individual cell in your body is calling out for him—tendons straining to touch his body, neurons screaming to know his every wish and thought, frayed nerves searing with want.

You hardly notice as you lean forward and close the gap between your mouths.  Your lips slot against his and suddenly the feeling magnifies—multiplies.  You make the anxious sound of an animal caught in a snare, grip tightening against Kakashi’s shoulders as you feel the mark on your chest flare.

Pleasure grips you so tight it’s like you are drowning in flame—veins scorching, skin electrified.  It is so much—almost too much—that you linger on the precipice of pain, though you never cross the threshold.

When you pull away, you’re breathing even harder, mind fuzzy and clouded.

“Do you… feel that, too?” you ask, eyes wide as you stare at Kakashi in half-panic, feel the Bond mark surging deeper within your body, its roots running along the paths carved by your veins, reaching for depths they will never quite touch.

“Yes,” he says, one hand gripping your jaw, thumb pressing into the point of your chin hard, as if to anchor himself to you.

You reach up and lay your palm against Kakashi’s soul mark, the bundle of twisted flesh over his breastbone.  It pulses gently in time with your own heart and you know his beats to the same rhythm.  When he mirrors your touch, you cry out, the sensation flooding your chest.

“I—”

Kakashi does not wait for you to finish, but claims your mouth again.  The kisses are wet and frantic, teeth scraping over lips and tongue recklessly; as if he is afraid you are going to vanish from his grasp any moment.

Your fingers dig into the skin of his chest and his mouth pulls away only long enough for him to moan in response before it is on yours again.  He maneuvers to scoop you into his arms, lifting you up from under your thighs.  You wind your arms around his neck to help support your weight, but neither of you makes any move to pull away from the other.

Your body burns and somehow you know the only way to dampen the fire is to keep touching Kakashi, so you press your body as close to him as you can, as if you mean to meld with him entirely.

You feel the mattress hit your back, one of Kakashi’s hands sliding out to balance himself above you.  The sheets smell fresh and clean, like a meadow after rain, and you sigh against his mouth, content and safe in his grasp.

When you pull away, you stay so close that your lips move over Kakashi’s as you whisper, “I’ve never…” you don’t know how to finish the sentence, exactly.  Surely he knows what you mean, but it still feels important to say it.

To tell him that your only experiences have involved clumsy fumbling beneath tunics and furious (and futile) dry rubbing over trousers.  That the last time you kissed a boy, he was twenty and so were you and your teeth scraped over his until you both winced.

You have felt desire before, felt the warmth spilling between your legs, but never like this.  Never with such intensity and necessity.  Such urgency.

“Neither have I,” he says, licking his lips as he catches his breath.  “At least… not like this.”

Your Bond mark flares like lightning in Kakashi’s palm and both of you whine, so you know he feels it, too.

Still, you can’t help but want to tease him a little—the man who told you he never wanted to form a Bond has never been with another person, has never been with anyone this way other than you.

“You waited.  All that time, you waited,” you say, a grin tugging at the corners of your mouth as you lean up toward him.  “you waited for your Bonded,” you whisper huskily against his ear, not missing the way every muscle in his body tenses when you do.

You bite your lip as you lie back down, trying to draw down your smile with your teeth.  You are unprepared for the mischievous gleam in Kakashi’s eyes.

“No,” he says, face red as can be, but voice firm and unwavering as he answers you with a gruff whisper of his own, “I waited for you.”

You whine again and Kakashi kisses you sweetly before he pulls away once more and all that sweetness is replaced with something darker, more urgent.  “My beloved Bond.”

You are not proud of the sound his words drag from the depths of your throat, but it matters little when Kakashi’s hand finds your waist and squeezes gently because the noise that follows is just as ragged and embarrassing as the first.

The robes provide little barrier and you are able to slide his away from his shoulders easily.  Kakashi’s skin is a tattered map of his life; littered with hundreds of scars.  While he slowly unties your robe and slips it off your body, you begin to trace them tenderly with your fingers and then your lips.

Kakashi hisses, collapsing onto the mattress with a sigh as you press your lips to a particularly angry looking scar near his collarbone.  His hands cradle your head, supporting it as you continue your explorations.  When he says your name, it is laced with relief and reverence, and it makes your stomach tighten dangerously.

You wonder how it is you have spent long weeks alone in the woods, camping with this man at your side, and yet never taken advantage of that proximity.

Your lips trail over his body, peppering kisses over the scars on his ribs and chest.  He writhes beneath you, his grip on your head tightening and loosening with each kiss, breath speeding up with every touch.

When you press a kiss to his Bond mark, Kakashi roars, his back arching away from the bed and grip pulling you close and holding you there for long seconds.  You kiss him again and again, tears pricking at your eyes because you can feel what he does, the incredible and intense warmth, the seering need to be closer.

Kakashi’s erection rests against your thigh and you reach one hand down between his legs to stroke it tentatively.  He gasps and pulls your face away from his mark to slam his lips against yours.  It’s unexpected, but exhilarating, and your own desire builds.

You pull your lips away from Kakashi’s with a vast effort, so you can return to kissing his body.  He lets you go with a grunt, head falling back to the pillow and hands fisting in the sheets.  You continue to run your hand along his cock, lips trailing to his stomach where they are greeted by more scars and coarse, silver hair.  You nuzzle against this part of him, relishing the high, longing sound Kakashi makes in return.

When you flick your eyes up to look at him, his mouth is parted, eyes closed, the apple of his throat bobbing as he swallows thickly.

You turn your gaze down to where your hand pumps languidly, gently squeeze the tip of Kakashi’s cock before you drag your palm back down.  You’ve done this before, at least, though never so openly.  But then, you’d never wanted it so much; you’d always thought your sparse moments of intimacy with others had been lackluster, missing something.

Now you know it is because you were not Bonded to any of them.

Because your hand feels warm and tingly where it touches Kakashi, your whole body burns with the desire to make him feel good.  When you see the glistening wetness at the tip of his cock, you don’t hesitate to lean down and lap at it with your tongue.

This earns you a hearty moan from Kakashi and so you use your tongue to explore the entire length of him, running it down to the base where you press hard, then back up to swirl your tongue over the head.  You glance back up at Kakashi and this time, he is watching you; propped up on his elbows so he can see you clearly, jaw slack and both eyes open.

You turn your eyes away again, embarrassed by the intensity of his gaze, but glad to know he is interested in what you’re doing because at least that means you are doing something right.

Eventually, you lick every inch of him you can reach and part of you wonders what he might taste like if you take him into your mouth fully.  When you do, you move slowly, carefully, but that apparently does not diminish the effect, if the sounds Kakashi makes are any indication.

He feels heavy against your tongue and he tastes like salt and musk, the scent of him filling your nose and overwhelming you.  You descend only until he grazes the back of your throat and then pull up again, leaving your hand curled around the base of his cock to steady it so you can repeat the motion.  You aren’t wholly sure you’re doing this right, but Kakashi babbles some half-coherent sentence that sounds complimentary, so you assume you at least aren’t doing it wrong.

When his hips buck up, plunging his cock deep into your throat and making you choke for a moment, Kakashi sputters an apology and you hum in acknowledgement, a small gesture that apparently does not feel small to him because suddenly he is sitting up, one hand on the back of your head to hold you in place.

“D-do that again,” he says, voice breathy and light.

You hum again and this grip on the back of your head tightens.  His legs twitch.  You feel warmth between your own legs, your arousal a direct correlation to Kakashi’s response to you.

You hum around him until Kakashi removes his hand from your head.  You begin to plunge back down again when his panicked voice reaches your ears.  “S-stop, stop!”

You pull off him quickly and he hisses.  Your eyes are wide, panicked, as you check him for signs of distress.

“Did I hurt you?” you ask, fear prickling in your veins.  Now that you are no longer focused on the task of pleasuring him, you can fully appreciate the sensations of your own body—the heat between your legs, the tingling of your scalp, and the way your soul mark burns.

“No,” he says, the word almost a laugh, “No, I just… I don’t want this to be over, yet.”

You stare at him a moment, unsure what to do as you kneel between his spread legs.  Kakashi’s cock twitches and jumps and you reach out to steady it with your hand.

He groans, closing the distance between you in an instant to pull you into a sloppy, desperate kiss.  Your mouth opens in a moan and Kakashi takes full advantage, grasping your face in both hands and holding you still as his tongue thrusts into your mouth before retracting again to run over your lower lip.

You whine, hands clinging to his thighs as you lean perilously forward.

In a whirl of movement, Kakashi flips you onto the mattress, one hand beneath the small of your back while the other curls around your neck.

He’s panting, just as you are, as he stares at you a moment, Sharingan eye tucked away for now.  Then, his head ducks down and he kisses along your jaw, soft fluttering kisses like the wings of a butterfly dancing over your skin.  You sigh, chest heaving frantically as the need between your legs grows.

Kakashi’s lips trace carefully over your racing pulse and your whole body shudders.  “Do you like that?” he asks, stopping to kiss the hollow of your collarbone while awaiting your answer.

You nod, body flushed and warm, before thinking about all the other furtive kisses you’ve received, none of which made you feel like this.  “I think, though, perhaps it’s only because I like you.”  You brush your thumb over the angry scar that bisects his eyebrow again, and Kakashi blinks his Sharingan open. You stare at it, as it spins, curious.  “Does it really record everything you see?”  You ask, thinking of all the rumors you’ve heard about the Uchiha.  “Forever?”

Kakashi leans up until you are nose-to-nose, and keeps his face impassive as he answers.  “As long as I have this eye, I will be able to recall this moment with perfect clarity.”

Your nose wrinkles.  “What if I don’t want you to remember it?”

His brow furrows, but the corners of his mouth quirk up in a teasing grin.  “Why not?”

“What if I look ridiculous?”

“You don’t,” he says, “You won’t.”  You shoot him a dubious look and he apparently can sense your disbelief because he adds softly, “You’re beautiful.”

It’s not the response you expect and you swallow, at a loss for what to say until, “So are you,” tumbles out of your mouth, unbidden.

Kakashi smiles and you realize the assertion, however unexpected, is absolutely true.

He does not give you much time to contemplate it, however, before he kisses you again and all thought is lost in a blur of heated need.

One of Kakashi’s hands slides down your body and it’s like he’s tracing electricity in his wake, like the blue lightning you’ve seen him conjure is dancing along each nerve in his path.  When he caresses your breast, you push your chest into his hand, aching for more.

As he continues, kissing your shoulders and your breast, letting his hand draw lazy swirls against your side, you feel dizzy.  Your head thrashes gently against the pillow, eyes closed to reduce the sensory input because all you can do, all you have the energy to do right now, is focus on how it feels to be this close to your Bonded—to Kakashi.

And when his lips finally find the scar at your sternum, you scream.

Is this how Kakashi had felt?  Like his body was on fire at the same moment gooseflesh erupted across every centimeter of his skin?  Had his scalp tingled like the stars fell from the heavens to land in his hair, mind racing like lightning arcing across the sky?

If so, how is it possible he had not shredded the sheets with his fingers, as you are certainly about to do?  You grip them so tightly there is no alternative.

The sounds around you make their way into your ears as through a funnel, hollow and distant-sounding.  You can hardly make out any of the words Kakashi says, though you are certain they are good and loving because how could they not be when he is making your heart beat like the wings of a hummingbird?

“Kakashi …”

His mouth leaves your Bond mark and you feel like you might splinter apart, but then he latches on to one of your nipples and you bury your hands in his hair, blunt nails scraping roughly over his scalp until he moans in time with you.

One of your legs curls around his, threading you together like the vines that run from the center of your chest through your body.  When his hand squeezes your hip, the only sound you can make is a stuttered, “Pl-please… I…” and then the words are lost in your throat, fizzle out in deference to the pleasant sensations raking through your body.

Whether he understands what you’re asking for or not—you certainly don’t, at least not entirely—Kakashi leans up to kiss you on the mouth and you clamp your hands against his cheeks to anchor him there, afraid if you don’t he might float up through that hole in the ceiling and disappear into the stars where you will never find him again.

Never feel whole again.

You are so lost in your kiss you don’t notice his hand snaking between your thighs, his finger reaching out to touch the slickness there.

You detach your mouth from his and a high whine unspools itself from your throat.  You are not prepared for him to dip one finger inside you and when your eyes fly open to find Kakashi watching you intently with both eyes, you know you are in good hands—that the Sharingan will help guide his movements better than you ever could.

You are out of your depth, and already the feeling of his hand—of his thumb stroking you firmly outside while his middle finger caresses your walls—is better than any of the clumsy fumbling you’ve experienced with others.  Of course it is, because there could be no other for you.

You try to relax, but every muscle in your body screams in protest, yearns to crash into him like an angry wave, to pull him under the tide with you until you both drown.  Your hands curl into fists and your nails bite against the skin of your palm as your teeth sink into your own lip.

Whatever is happening now makes the rest pale in comparison—the surging rush through your veins, the quickening of your breath, is overwhelming.  You feel light-headed and feverish, each capillary in your body vibrates in time with your heartbeat.

“Are you okay?” Kakashi’s voice comes to you in a fog.  “Do you want me to stop?”  His hand stills for a moment and you grit your teeth.

“N-no….”

It’s all you can do to breathe and so you hope he will understand your monosyllabic affirmation that despite being utterly consumed by the feeling of being with him, you do not want Kakashi to pause his ministrations.

His fingers continue to stir inside you, his thumb’s pace quickening.  You can feel his hips pressing down against your leg, as if chasing the desire to be inside you—a thought that steals what little breath you have remaining.

Your nerves jump and crackle beneath your skin, heart straining as if it wishes to leap out of your body and into Kakashi’s gentle hands.

And then everything bursts.  Your eyes squeeze closed and you let out a serrated scream sharp enough to slice you both open.

Kakashi’s hand pulls away and you whimper, but you soon feel it cradling you at your waist, the sticky slick of your arousal smearing over your skin.

You force your eyes open to find Kakashi watching you, concern painted over every feature of his face.  To soothe his worry, you bring one hand to his cheek and draw him down to you, untangling your leg from his to hook it above his hips and drag him closer.  The sound he makes against your mouth addles your brain until every thought that isn’t Kakashi has been dashed far from the reaches of your mind.

It takes several tries for him to get the angle right and Kakashi blushes at his incoordination.  But you know his legs are trembling just as yours are; his fingers numb and unsure in the wake of all that has already happened.

When he slides inside you, it is like the earth opening up.  The plunging sensation in your stomach is so all-encompassing you have to ask him to hold still a moment as you adjust.  He seems grateful for the chance to pause and relish the sensation, pressing his forehead desperately against yours, nearly hard enough to bruise.

The feeling only doubles when he sinks down deep inside you.  His skin is sweat-slick and feels like satin as you touch him.  He balances on his forearms, one hand draped across your cheek as you stare at one another.  When he moves—truly moves—the both of you unleash sounds of pleasure loud enough to strip the inn of its roof.

You loop your arms around Kakashi’s neck and finally you see them—the tendrils of your Bond mark reaching down to your elbows.  You could feel them growing, distantly, but it is still an unexpected sight; one that sends a swell of triumph and love and rapture through you.  You watch the vines undulate slowly in time with Kakashi’s slow thrusting.  He is sheathed so deep inside you you wonder if he will ever find his way out; part of you hopes he never does.

His arms shake, though, and you coax him to relax, to turn onto his side with one of your legs still hitched around his waist so you can help him, lifting your hips in opposition to his.

When you come together next, he is someplace impossibly deeper and you quiver in his embrace.  Now that you face one another on the mattress and Kakashi is not responsible for bearing all his weight on his arms he can wrap them around you instead, hold you tightly in a cocoon of his own making.

Your fingers dig into the flesh of his back as you move faster, hips slamming down as his buck upward, filling you with bliss and adoration.

Your noses balance against each other as you stare deep into one another’s eyes.  Were you not so lost in the sensation of lovemaking, you might feel self-conscious of the way the Sharingan drinks you in, draping you in its crimson glow as Kakashi records your every minute reaction, the way your eyelashes must dust over your cheeks, your nose wrinkling as you sing his praises in shameless moans and cries for more.

Kakashi whispers something, his lips moving too fast for you to capture the words between the sounds of your skin slapping against his and the rough rush of your own breath.

Then, his grip tightens and he thrusts into you so hard you see stars.  Suddenly, there is a warmth inside you the likes of which you have never felt before and aside from the terrible tremble in your legs and Kakashi’s arms, everything is still.

Your breath is so staggered it sounds like your diaphragm is spasming and Kakashi’s breathing is much the same.  He mutters something against your cheek and then dusts light, fluttery kisses over every part of your face—your forehead and cheeks, your eyelids, your nose, your chin.

He finishes with your mouth and you latch onto him gratefully, whimpering pitifully against his lips.  You feel something wet on your face and you recognize it as Kakashi’s tears, same as yours.

You’re both crying, both shaking, both futilely attempting to capture your breath and bring it to submission.

You don’t know how long the two of you lie there, arms tangled around one another, your foot going numb from your leg remaining draped over Kakashi’s hip.  You can feel the warmth inside you leaking onto your legs, the bedsheets.

You don’t care, and neither does he.

Kakashi dozes off and you spend the few minutes of his rest memorizing each line on his face, each imperceptible imperfection.  You may not have an enchanted eye, but you will never forget this moment.  This night.

You bathe together this time, sinking into the hot water with your back to Kakashi’s chest.  Neither of you speaks much and you realize that words are not as meaningful as they once were; an understanding now exists between you as deep as the roots of your Bond mark.

You fall asleep naked, limbs intertwined like roots, whispered words of love barely breathed between you, just loud enough for the other to hear.

You are woken in the morning by knocking on the door.  At first you tense, but Kakashi presses a reassuring kiss to your forehead as he stands and pulls on his robe.  You wrap yourself in the filthy sheets, too exhausted to stretch your legs to the floor and find your own.  The fact that Kakashi does not bother to cover his face eases your concern and your muscles relax.

When he pulls the door open, there is a woman standing there with what looks to be the fresh clothes Kakashi promised the night before.

“Thank you,” he says kindly, but she waves him off.

“It’s no trouble,” she says, “and besides, you paid well enough for them.”  Her eyes flicker behind him to meet yours and she gives you a warm smile that dusts away any lingering doubts you have about her intentions.

“Still,” Kakashi says, “I appreciate your help.”

The woman hums, eyes turning to Kakashi, to his chest where the robe lies open, revealing the Bond mark.  “That’s the strongest one I’ve seen,” she says, and you can feel how startled Kakashi is, his surprise melding with your own as the woman smirks.  “Not that I’m surprised after all the noise complaints we received from your fellow guests yesterday evening.”

Your mortification sweeps over you like the heat from a bonfire as she pulls the door closed, chuckling to herself.

Kakashi stands dumbstruck for several long moments, unmoving until you gently call his name and he shakes off his embarrassment.

He returns to the bed, leaving your new clothes on a chair on his way past.  The marks you saw on your arms last night have faded, burrowing beneath the surface of your skin, but you can still feel them, thrumming gently in time with your heartbeat.

A rhythm you share with Kakashi.

“What now?” you ask.

He shakes his head.  “I don’t know.”

Your future is as uncertain as the Copy Cat’s, now, the two of you entwined forever; until one of your hearts stops beating.

It should scare you.

But as your beloved Bond drags you beneath the covers, kissing your neck and holding you close, you realize it doesn’t.

With Kakashi by your side—at your back in battle and in your bed at night—there is nothing to be afraid of.