Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kakashi was two years old, stacking blocks with strange swirly patterns when the truth hit him—he had been reborn.

This wasn’t Konoha. There was no chakra humming in the air, no soft whispering steps of shinobi racing across rooftops. Instead, towering glass apartments loomed overhead, strange loud mechanical beasts roared along the streets, and lights blinked in colors he didn’t think existed.

But one thing remained the same: Sakumo.

In the glossy photo frame he clutched with small, clumsy fingers, his father stood in a crisp uniform, silver hair as familiar as breathing. No mother in sight. That much, at least, hadn’t changed.

“Aww, are you missing your dad, Kakashi?” a teenage girl cooed, crouching beside him. From her chatter, he’d gathered she was his babysitter.

She tapped the picture fondly. “Your dad’s working so hard—he’s a detective, you know? Catching the bad guys.”

Kakashi only stared at Sakumo’s steady smile behind the glass, heart twisting with something far too old for his tiny body. In the memories of this small body, Dad was always there—soft hands ruffling his hair, a warm laugh when Kakashi tried to say big words, stories whispered before sleep. Except when he was gone. Sometimes days, sometimes longer. Work, the babysitter said. A detective. Catching bad people.

But when Dad came home, the time was theirs. All of it. Lifting him high in strong arms, listening to his babble like it was the most important thing in the world. Eyes that never looked past him, never judged, never hurt.And Kakashi craved it.

This time, he thought. This time, I’ll be good. No mistakes. No distance. Just… family. For a long, long time.

School was… strange.
Children laughed loud, voices bouncing against painted walls, hands tugging at toys and crayons. Kakashi sat at the corner desk, watching. He understood everything—more than he should—but the body he wore was small and clumsy, his words slower than his thoughts.

He didn’t fit.Well, he never did.Even back in his previous life, he was an outlier, graduating in a year at 5 years old. He never did learn how to get along with other kids.

The teacher’s worried look gave it away. One afternoon, she crouched beside him, her voice gentle, and later he heard her speaking to his father in hushed tones. Too quiet, too alone. Flaws that Kakashi never thought were a problem.

That night, Dad’s eyes softened, full of concern that twisted in Kakashi’s chest. He didn’t want to see that look again. So, the next day, Kakashi forced himself to sit near other kids, to pretend. It wasn’t hard—he had worn masks before. This one was just smaller, brighter.

If it eased Dad’s worry, then it was worth it.

As he grew and learned, there were two things in this world that caught his attention.First was the world of machines.The intricate pieces interlocking each other to create functions. The circuits bring things to life. The words and numbers creating artificial minds.The glowing screens and humming boxes that filled this new world. 

He tugged at Dad’s sleeve one evening, pointing at the display in the store window.

A console. Shiny, colorful, full of games the other kids talked about. Something about monsters in pockets.

Kakashi lifted his eyes, wide and pleading, the way only a child could. Dad hesitated for all of two seconds before sighing in defeat. The box came home with them. Later, it was a computer. Then a phone. Dad always thought it was games that fascinated him. And Kakashi played, enough to keep up the act. But secretly, when the house was quiet, he peeled back the layers, learning how programs breathed, how lines of code made the impossible happen and began poking where he shouldn't.

Another thing he found fascinating was the cuisine. One night, Dad brought home takeout: golden green curry, steaming and fragrant. Kakashi’s eyes widened at the first bite. Spices bloomed across his tongue, unfamiliar yet perfect.

From then on, he wanted to taste everything. Korean stews. Italian pasta. Sweet desserts from places he couldn’t yet pronounce. He would sit on Dad’s lap, scrolling food blogs and recipes on the computer, eyes sparkling.

“Baked eggplant with cheese,” Kakashi muttered reverently one night, chewing slowly. “Whoever thought of this… genius.”

It’s also the start of his experiments in the kitchen. Cooking was something he always liked in his previous life. But the amount of variety in this world was staggering. He got the hang of it soon enough, cooking simple meals for the both of them, declaring he doesn't need the babysitter and her bland microwave cooking anymore.

The badge landed on the counter with a muted clink, the metal catching the kitchen light. Kakashi’s gaze lingered on it, his small hands wrapped around a mug of cocoa.

He often thought about that badge. This world had laws — written, structured, believed in. Courts and juries. Paper trails. Here, morality wasn’t an afterthought, wasn’t bent by the whims of those strong enough to enforce their own justice. Well, mostly. Most people were civilians, soft and ordinary, living inside peaceful bubbles that never burst.

And yet… evil still existed. Different shape, same essence. Traffickers, abusers, liars in clean suits. And his father — his father — spent every day facing that evil head-on.

“Who’d you catch today?” Kakashi asked, voice light, almost teasing. He blew on his cocoa and took a slow sip, studying Sakumo from under his lashes.

Sakumo smiled, but it was the tired kind. His shoulders sagged as he pulled off his jacket, his hair damp from the rain. “Ah, nothing worth telling,” he said, waving a hand. “Just someone who needed a good talk.”

Kakashi’s eyes narrowed. A lie. He could smell the weight behind the words — the heaviness clinging to his father’s frame, the exhaustion seeping through the cracks in his smile.

But Kakashi didn’t push. Not yet.

Instead, he slid off his chair, padded over, and leaned against Sakumo’s side. He would be the sounding board, if his father ever needed one. Because Sakumo never went out with friends — did he even have any? — never sought laughter or distraction outside the walls of work and home. Always straight-laced, always holding to his own high morals, even when it wore him down.

It worried Kakashi. More than he could say.

“Eat first,” Kakashi murmured, tugging gently at his sleeve. “I made stew.”

For a moment, Sakumo only looked down at him. Then the tired lines in his face softened, and he let out a quiet chuckle, ruffling Kakashi’s hair.

“My angel,” he said.

Of course, this world couldn’t leave them in peace.

It began with whispers. News reports twisting facts, headlines dripping poison. Sakumo Hatake—detective once praised—suspended for misconduct. Accused of tampering, corruption, aiding traffickers. Lies stacked like bricks, heavy enough to bury a man alive. Powerful people had dirt to hide, and they had chosen their scapegoat.

Kakashi read every word, his eyes sharp and narrow. So this is how they want to play.

At home, his father sat slumped at the table, untouched tea cooling in his hands. Worry clung to him. Shame. Fear. One morning, after breakfast, Sakumo stayed seated instead of reaching for his jacket.

“I’ve been suspended,” he confessed at last, voice thick with humiliation. “They’re investigating me.”

Kakashi tilted his head, widening his eyes in feigned innocence. “Does that mean… you’ll be home all the time?”

Sakumo blinked, taken aback. “…Yes.”

Kakashi’s face lit up, bright with boyish excitement. He launched into a stream of plans — fishing trips, camping, amusement parks, late-night games, cooking together. His voice tumbled fast, warm, relentless.

Slowly, the weight pressing on Sakumo’s shoulders eased. His hand trembled as it ruffled Kakashi’s hair. A real smile cracked through. “My son,” he whispered, eyes shining. “Always an angel.”

Kakashi smiled back, small and innocent. But behind his lowered lashes, the gears of his mind turned, sharp and merciless.

The glow of the computer screen washed Kakashi’s face in pale blue. His fingers moved with quiet precision, dancing over the keys. Firewalls bent to his will, and locked files unfolded like petals under his touch.

Newspaper articles. Police reports. Financial statements. He combed through them all, eyes narrowing. Too neat. Too clean. His father wasn’t careless. He was being buried.

Outside the door, the floor creaked softly — Sakumo, stirring in his sleep. Kakashi minimized the windows in an instant, pulling up the bright screen of a harmless game. If his father peeked in, he’d see nothing but a boy playing past his bedtime.

When the silence settled again, Kakashi returned to the hunt. Names surfaced over and over — politicians, businessmen, officers with hands too clean for the mess they waded in. He highlighted them, cross-checked with bank transfers, offshore accounts, photographs snapped at glittering galas.

They thought themselves untouchable.

Kakashi’s lips curved into a small, cold smirk. Everyone leaves a trail.

Kakashi nearly dropped the book in his hands when Jiraiya barged into their lives, loud and brash as a thunderclap. And then—Sakumo laughed. Not the weary chuckle Kakashi knew, but a full, unrestrained laugh he had never heard before. A real friend. A crack in the solitude that had always defined his father’s life.

Kakashi’s chest warmed, then tightened. It was good—necessary—that his father had someone to lean on at last. But it was also a reminder: Sakumo had carried burdens alone for far too long. Straight-laced men made poor liars, and worse gamblers against corruption.

Trailing behind Jiraiya came another familiar echo of the past. Blonde hair catching the hallway light, blue eyes calm yet sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses. A neat suit, a confident but polite smile.

“Detective Hatake? It’s nice to meet you. My name is Namikaze Minato. I’ve been assigned to assist with your case.”

Minato. Jiraiya. The same pieces, arranged again. If the world insisted on replaying itself, did that mean tragedy would follow too?

Later, the living room table became a battlefield of documents—evidence of tampered reports, buried testimonies, names too powerful to touch. Sakumo’s hands trembled as he read them, fingers that once cuffed criminals now shaking under betrayal’s weight.

Kakashi sat with them, cross-legged on the rug, phone in hand. Bright shapes merged and disappeared on the screen, the kind of mindless game any child might play before bed. He hummed occasionally, smiled when Jiraiya peeked over his shoulder, all the while pretending not to notice the way the adults’ voices dropped low, careful not to frighten him.

But he was listening. Always listening.

Behind his lowered lashes, Kakashi catalogued every name, every thread. He sat close, a quiet anchor at his father’s side, letting Sakumo feel his presence, feel that he wasn’t alone. If the world wanted to bury his father, then they would have to dig through Kakashi first.

One night, Sakumo lingered by Kakashi’s bed. Thinking his son asleep, he sat with his head in his hands, voice breaking into the darkness. “Maybe… it would’ve been better if I’d—”

“Don’t,” Kakashi cut in, stirring. His voice was soft, drowsy but firm as he pressed closer. “It’s better because you’re here. Always here. With me.”

Sakumo froze, then gathered him into a trembling embrace. “My angel… my angel,” he whispered over and over, clinging like the words alone kept him standing.

Kakashi smiled into his father’s chest, small and innocent. But when his eyes opened, they gleamed with something colder, sharper. If his father was the angel who bore the world’s burdens, then Kakashi would be the devil who made sure the world never broke him again.