He had died- honorably, he'd like to think, despite living as a villain and an assassin for over half a century- and that, as far as Xanxus had ever figured, would be the end of that. No heaven. No hell. Just life when you were breathing and nothingness when you stopped. Except that it didn't, quite, turn out that way. Except he came back as the son of the kindest, sometimes saddest father in the world. In both worlds. A father that he knew, without a doubt, to be his flesh and blood. All at once, Xanxus had everything he'd wanted as a child. A home. A family. Stability. And he was going to fight like hell and beat down anyone who tried to take it from him, no matter what his age. (In which Sakumo raises a son who speaks multiple languages from birth, all of them gibberish to the poor single father jounin, spits vulgarity with the same ease as he does his praise and burns with an unshakable determination to build himself a family that will not fall, no matter who or what is thrown against it.)

“Thank you,” he says, and the words feel like they don’t fit right in his mouth. What are you supposed to say, really, when someone gives you a piece of their spirit-form? Especially under these circumstances. Shisui wishes treason came with some kind of manual. Maybe a book full of helpful hints. When plotting to overturn decades of hatred and stop a war by lying to the whole world, be careful not to offend the man giving you his teeth to wear as earrings.

Kakashi is enjoying this a hell of a lot more than he thought he would, and he had high expectations going in.

Shisui's breaths feel too loud in the quiet of the room, like they’re coming too fast. It’s like he’s panting, like he can't get enough air, and it makes his head spin. His whole body is shaking, overheated, burning up from the inside, and he has to catch himself on the edge of the sink and lean there, gasping for air, acutely, exquisitely, awfully aware of every inch of his skin. Behind him, a page turns, crinkling, and there's a quiet hum.

“There you are,” a voice says, sudden enough to make Shisui startle. Before he can even take a step back, though, a familiar figure is stepping out from beneath an overhang of carved stone. Silver hair is bright in the moonlight, even though the light washes color from everything else, turns the red dripping from the tantō black and leaves the pools on the ground depthless. “Captain?” Shisui asks, throat tight, and has to swallow again, has to resist the urge to take a step back. “What—what are you doing here?”

“Shh,” Kakashi breathes against his lips, and there's a look in his eyes that he gets on the very worst missions, in the middle of a battle, when there's nothing left in him of restraint or anything beyond instinct and act-react. “You’re safe, Shisui. And I'm going to fix it.”

Tsunade smiles, thin and bare with fury. “Sensei,” she says, and steps forward. It seems for a moment like Sarutobi is going to try to hug her, but she lifts her chin, meets his eyes, and he falters in the face of her expression. Falters, stops, but Tsunade doesn’t. She reaches up, pulls the hat from Sarutobi's head, and says, “I'm deposing you, sensei. You have an hour to leave the office or I’ll be forced to make you.”