Chapter Text
Shikaku shot up from his bed, eyes snapped open, unable to breathe. Air refused to come in. He could hear himself, wheezing loud breaths, but nothing seemed to be going in. His lungs were on fire, expanding like a bellow gasping but to no avail. He could feel the darkness encroaching on his vision. He was about to pass out,
He stumbled out of his bed, knees hitting the hardwood floor hard, crawling to the desk where a pitcher of water was placed.
Then he heard it. Inoichi's voice inside his head. Composed. Reassuring. Focused.
Breathe in for four. Hold. Breathe out.
Once again Shika.
Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.
Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.
He didn't know how much time had passed. He found himself clutching onto the leg of his desk like a lifeline just breathing. Slowly, the darkness began fading away. The rest of the world fell away, his entire being coalesced onto simply breathing.
Only when he regained his senses did he notice something was wrong. Very wrong.
He was in his childhood bedroom with a single desk. His hands were that of a teenager, not a fully grown man. A bandaged wound on his left. An injury from his latest mission, no doubt.
Shikaku hadn't taken an active mission in years.
No.
No, no--this wasn't possible. He stumbled towards the calendar in the main hall. Staring at it. Like if he somehow stared at it long enough, it would morph.
It wasn’t just his room. It was his life—rewound by two decades.
What the hell had happened?
It had been such mundane Tuesday. Shikaku had been drowning under paperwork, he and Yoshino were fighting, and Shikamaru was complaining about all his useless D-ranks.
And suddenly, he was back twenty years in the past. This had to be an elaborate genjutsu of some sort. It had to be.
His eyes turned to the bowl placed carefully on their dining table. The smell of his mother's soba wafting up his nose. A note taped on it with her handwriting. Rest up.
His very dead mother's handwriting. He stared at it.
It felt as if someone was squeezing his heart with their hands. His mother was still alive. Shikamaru wasn't born. He didn't have Yoshino by his side. He--he felt lost. What was he supposed to do now? He stared blankly at the note. Unable to process anything. If only to have something to do, he sat fragilely in front of the soba. Hesitant.
Might as well jump into the deep end.
He picked up his chopsticks and quickly shoved the soba into his mouth before he could change his mind. It was a taste he hadn't had in over a decade. He could feel tears prickling in the corner of his eyes. He swallowed down the soba with gusto, and his tears along with it.
His present and future both ghosts felt all too real, suffocating him. And so he ran. Away from his house. Away from the compound.
-----
This was Konoha during wartime. Busy, tense and full of activity. Faces too young—faces he knew wouldn’t survive the war. Buildings that were destroyed during the Kyuubi attack. But what really drove home the point was the Uchiha mulling about. Some busy with work, some hanging out at bars and restaurants, talking with other shinobi and civilians alike. Just like any other shinobi. They were alive. All of them.
Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.
Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.
Just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, that's when he saw him. A very tiny Hatake Kakashi. Wide-eyed, and chubby cheeked. A bag slung over his shoulder, face blank and eyes hollow. Oblivious to the sneers and venom being spewed his way. Trying to make himself invisible. Something inside him shattered.
Shikaku froze mid-step.
He was so so tiny, the parent in Shikaku let out a thunderous roar. Protect him.
ANBU broke men down to their barest selves. The masks, the missions, the blood—it peeled back every layer of facade until only truth remained. Some rotted into cruelty. Others hardened into indifference. But Kakashi--whose life had been a graveyard of losses, at his core was kind. Not nice. Not gentle. But in a thousand small acts—a mission report edited to spare a rookie’s shame, a wounded enemy given a quicker end—he’d shown Shikaku who he truly was.
Wait. The White Fang. His blood ran cold. Sakumo’s suicide—when had it happened? In the haze of war, he’d lost track. But if the man was still alive. No. This, at least, he could fix.
So he suppressed his chakra and tailed him from a distance. One day, Kakashi would be a powerhouse that would rival the Hokage himself, but for now, he was still a six-year-old. He followed Kakashi through all the little twists and turns he took to avoid attention. Kakashi henge’d into a nondescript child when he bought groceries—of course he had to hide. Shikaku’s jaw clenched as he tightly clamped down on his fury, let out a deep breathe. Let it crystalize. He was no stranger to injustices of the shinobi world. But directed at a six-year-old? Unforgivable.
He shook his head.
Calm minds prosper
Calm minds prosper
He watched him all the way to the Hatake Compound. This was as far as he could go. Kakashi may not be a shinobi of that calibre yet, but Sakumo certainly was. Any further would only invite trouble. Shikaku extended his senses through the shadows.
Two chakras. One a dam, the other a candle flame. For now, at least, the White Fang still stood.
-----
Shikaku retreated into the Nara Forests. He needed peace and quiet. He needed to think. Shikaku was not a man prone to extreme reactions. Anger, yes. But he was not reactive. Given what he knew would come to pass, did he want to change anything at all?
Yes.
The answer came without hesitation.
In the calm of the forest, he could see clearly what his anger-addled brain couldn't.
Shikaku did not know if he could stop the White Fang's suicide. He would try, certainly. But he was an ANBU Captain during wartime. He was a miracle he could even come home. He would be called back any day now. What then?
Tomorrow. First thing.
Shikaku set that aside neatly, making space.
He had the foreknowledge to change the course of the war entirely. Shorten it by--years. He knew all the crucial supply routes, chokepoints, and targets. He understood the reluctant and begrudging nature of the Kumo-Iwa alliance. It wouldn't be too hard make them turn on each another. Shikaku even knew exactly how he would execute it. But should he?
The more he changed, the less he knew. What if the war ended years earlier and Minato was nowhere near ready to become the Hokage? No one in their right mind would trust a teenager to rebuild the village from ashes of a war. Who else then? He knew the Council would want Danzo, or even perhaps for Sarutobi to continue a few more years.
Both options were equally intolerable.
Sarutobi was objectively a terrible Hokage. During Shikaku's tenure as a Jonin Commander, he used his grandfatherly demeanor to fool or placate a lot of people, but Shikaku was not one of them. He was everything a Hokage should not be.
Indecisive. Cowardly. Sentimental to the point of bringing Konoha to her knees, rigid and close-minded. There were very few people that could evoke a visceral reaction from Shikaku. Sarutobi Hiruzen, was right at the top of the list. Every time the man opened his mouth, all he could hear was Danzo's words, albeit, packaged prettily.
The entire reign as a JC was spent in a strange shadow war with Danzo, wrestling for control. Everyday was a battle, with Danzo trying to replace shinobi loyal to him piece by piece, all the while Sarutobi gave Danzo a free pass to interfere with the administration as he saw fit.
"He only wants what's best for Konoha, Shikaku. Let him take some burden off you."
Which led Sarutobi to make one disastrous decision after another. Most days, he dreaded even getting out of the bed. Everyday he thought about resigning. One thought stayed his hand.
If not him, then who?
It wasn't a statement borne out of vanity. Behind Shikaku stood three major clans, and even then he was struggling to hold his ground. Who else had that kind of backing?
Once, he downright handed in his resignation to Sandaime. It was that threat that finally made Sarutobi see reason and agree to curb Danzo's influence in the Tower. And finally, Shikaku he could breathe. So he did what little good he could do, protected whom he could, and spent the rest of his time doing damage control. He watched as the economy shrunk, even as his advice was ignored. He watched department after department get their budget slashed. Fewer missions. Lesser pay. Decreased benefits, and no help whatsoever to those that came back permanently injured.
Konoha rotting away in stasis, led by a man stuck in a time capsule.
Shikaku came back to his question. He could change the course of the war, but should he?
Somehow, despite all this. His answer remained unchanged.
Yes.
Whether Minato ended up with the Hat or not, his answer did not change. He had other options. Orochimaru, for one. Yes, the man could be cruel, egotistical and power-hungry. But those qualities didn't necessarily render him as a bad Hokage. Orochimaru was a Sannin, one that was extremely aware of the injustices of the shinobi world. For all his inadequacies, he was also decisive, practical and smart. Hatake Sakumo, despite The Mission. Hell, he wasn't above throwing Mikoto Uchiha's name into the fray. That would certainly solve a lot of political headaches down the line.
But that wasn't the point. Shikaku had enough political cunning and power to tilt the table towards someone that wasn't Sarutobi or Danzo.
How many lives would he save by ending the war early? In a couple of years, Choza would get a genin-team. Shikaku had the power to prevent a whole generation of kids from being traumatized.
Now, came the hard parts. The personal parts. His mother, who had died of stroke in her sleep, when he was deep undercover inside Iwa territory. It took him three days to receive the missive. No chance to say goodbye. No final words. No closure. Could he prevent that?
No.
Sure, he could force her to go to the hospital and get a comprehensive health checkup. But she was stubborn as a mule. Nothing on this earth could convince her to undergo a dangerous surgery that would leave her bedridden for who knows how long. All her life, she had been an independent and capable shinobi. She would rather die than be tied down to a bed helplessly.
He could already predict her response.
“I miss your father…I wouldn’t mind joining him soon. You’re a grown man now, Shikaku. You can carry things from here.”
His chest tightened—he felt her words drip through every defense he’d raise. But the heart of the matter was, she just didn’t want to live anymore.
Perhaps he couldn't change his mother's death. But he would cherish every second he had with her. Be nicer. Be more present, not lost in thought as he often was.
Yoshino. Sage, they hadn't even begun dating yet. Currently at outpost 9. Grass border. Three weeks left on her rotation. He knew this the way he knew enemy troop movements—instantly, without thought. The information sat in his skull, useless and persistent. His hands shook.
She was alive. She was safe. She was not his.
(Not yet. Maybe not ever again.)
The Yoshino he remembered would’ve been elbow-deep in supply manifests right now, scowling at some clerk’s incompetence. She’d have stolen his coffee if he left it unattended, replaced it with tea she claimed was “better for his stress levels.” She’d have—
Shikaku exhaled. Pointless. That woman didn’t exist. This Yoshino wouldn’t know his tells at shogi. Wouldn’t recognize the way his shoulders tightened before a migraine. Wouldn’t care. He could request a transfer. Could invent a reason to stand in the same room, breathe the same air.
But it wouldn’t be her. Just a stranger wearing her face.
(And if she looked at him without recognition—if she treated him like just another jounin—could he stomach that?)
The thought lodged behind his ribs like a kunai.
Could he even relate to a teenager anymore, let alone fall in love? He felt so, so alone. He didn't even know who he was without her. She was his north star. His life without her was--unthinkable. Impossible.
Shikamaru. That was when he finally collapsed. Tears, now falling freely, as the colours around him blurred. His little smart-aleck brat, his entire heart, mind, body and soul. He missed him so much, it shouldn't be humanly possible. Now, Shika only existed in his heart. In his memories. If Yoshino was his north star, Shikamaru was his purpose. His king. The one he fought for.
Shikaku didn't know how long he sat there. He's never cried like this before. Never cried until his tears ran out. But the hole in his heart only intensified.
-----
"You're up early. I thought you'd be in bed till noon." his mother commented, as he came downstairs, still in his sleep clothes and bed-ruffled hair. She looked exactly as he remembered. Her black hair now streaked with grey pulled into a tight bun. Already dressed in her Jonin blues, and ready to head out. The sun hadn't even risen yet. Such was wartime Konoha.
"Couldn't sleep," he mumbled, replying like a teenager he hadn't been in a long time.
Nightmares. Her dark, intelligent Nara eyes looked at him knowingly.
"What are you planning to do today then?"
Shikaku shrugged slightly. "Sleep. Maybe head out for a bit." She just hummed, accepting his non-answer.
She continued talking about this and that.
"--and I've made Karaage for lunch," he absently nodded, greedily drinking in every inch of his mother's face. Her comforting presence. Trying to be casual about it. He knew she had to go soon.
"Oka-san," a word he hadn't uttered in over a decade, fell strangely from his tongue, "do you know Hatake-san well?" trying to prolong this interaction as much as possible.
She looked surprised at this non sequitur.
"Well enough, I suppose. What brought this on?" eyes probing.
Shikaku hesitated, "Do you think he would make a good Hokage?" Now she was staring at him. But it was worth it. He'd always placed a lot of weight on his mother's opinions. And she was right, more often than not.
Looking at him seriously, she considered it.
"He could've been. Considerate, powerful and kind enough to inspire loyalty. Has a son to ground him. Tactician, not a strategist. He lacks political cunning, but maybe its not a requirement if he surrounds himself with the right people. But--" she sighed. "The hat, it changes people Shikaku," as if looking at some distant memory.
"Anyway, I gotta run." Kissing him on his forehead. "Rest up!" she said and she was out the door. He stared at the door like a fool for a long time, and then at the tamagoyaki neatly placed in front of him, feeling lost.
Forcibly shoving his feelings aside, quickly ate breakfast, cracked his neck and let out a long sigh. Time-travel or not, crying over spilled milk would get him nowhere. Work awaited him.
He dressed in his Jonin blues — mostly habit now — tied his hair back, trimmed his beard, and stepped out into the waking village. Past the clan compounds, the looming Tower, the stalls in the central market just opening its doors. Shikaku did what he did best, he observed. Civilians moved about their tasks with a forced normalcy, but the strain never left their faces, the tension never left their shoulders. Konoha was awake, but uneasy.
Shinobi looked tired as they rushed about in a hurry, haunted by ghosts and helplessness. Everyone had a loved one fighting on the frontlines.
Upkeep of the village had fallen to the wayside. Money was tight, and supplies were scarce. Whatever little remained were saved for necessities only. And it showed. It was as if the village itself felt tired.
By the time he reached the rural edge of the village, the sun was high. The long walk, if nothing else provided him ample time to gather his thoughts. By the time he reached the defaced Hatake gate, he felt--clear. A large looming gate stood before him, meant to intimidate, no doubt, yet now, it stood defaced, slurs painted, garbage thrown. He paused, gathered himself, and knocked.
Only one chakra signature inside. Kakashi was gone. Training, no doubt.
The gate opened, just slightly ajar. Hatake Sakumo stood there blocking the way, polite but wary, as though the simple act of opening his own door was an invitation to risk.
“Yes?” His tone was measured, his face unreadable.
Shikaku bowed, as low as decorum dictated to a shinobi of Sakumo's calibre, disgraced shinobi or not.
"Good morning, Hatake-san. I'm Nara Shikaku. Would you, perhaps have the time for a discussion?" Sakumo would be weary of any shinobi approaching his house, Shikaku figured manners were the best way to go about this.
Sakumo's face revealed nothing, even as he opened the gate further to let Shikaku through. The gate creaked open, like a old bones protesting its movement.
"Would you like some tea?" Sakumo too wielding his manners, clearly unsure where this was headed.
"Yes, please."
The house itself was old, it predated Konoha itself, by Shikaku's estimate. It was clean, felt lived-in and cared for. Pictures featuring Hatakes through the generations--one picture that caught his eye in particular. A younger, maskless Kakashi, bright, happy and carefree laughing with Sakumo. Something lodged itself in his throat.
What a beautiful sight.
A few paintings decorated the surrounding walls, tasteful like it was chosen intentionally, like it meant something to someone. A few cherished but broken weapons enclosed in glass boxes, few plants and one singular large Hatake-mon in the main room. Old, simple, and strangely fitting for the small Hatake clan.
Nothing felt neglected, nothing out of place — save the man himself. The dark circles under his eyes, the unshaven stubble, the hollow cast of someone who hadn’t rested in weeks.
Each shinobi measured the other, weighing, calculating. Sakumo had crow-lines around his eyes, and smile lines around his lips. Once, he must've been a man with an easy smile. Shikaku wondered what Sakumo saw when he looked at him. Did he see the same haunted eyes he saw in the mirror? The quiet stretched, filled only by the hiss of boiling water, and the smell of tea that filled the air.
When the cups were set between them, Shikaku took a long sip. It was well brewed.
Jumping straight into the heart of the matter, “Do you regret it?” he asked, looking Sakumo in the eye.
Hatake-san stared at him, eyes flickered with something he couldn't read. The silence stretched, for a beat, then two. Hatake Sakumo exploded into laughter. It was loud, jagged, bitter. The sound scraped against Shikaku’s nerves, silently palming a kunai. Sakumo's eyes flicked to it.
“Believe it or not, you’re the first to ask me that,” Sakumo said, still smiling without mirth.
Shikaku believed it. Konoha was notoriously quick to judge and slow to forgive.
“Well, do you?” Was he the man his mother thought he was?
Sakumo’s answer came without hesitation. “No. Even knowing what followed, I would make the same choice.” His mother had been right then. As she almost always was.
“Then why haven’t you reacted?”
The look of utter confusion in Sakumo’s eyes made Shikaku go still.
He doesn’t know. He genuinely doesn’t know.
Shikaku pinched the bridge of his nose. Even Kakashi, dense as he could be, wasn’t this blind. Perhaps the White Fang had never been suited for Hokage after all.
“Hatake-san,” he said with a sigh, setting his cup down. “You didn’t find it strange that details of a classified S-rank mission leaked so easily?”
Sakumo froze.
“The mission was designed for you to lose from the get-go. Your teammates were shinobi who mostly ran B-ranks, and suddenly they were thrust into an S-rank. If you’d succeeded and your comrades had died, the story would've been the White Fang was a scum that abandoned his teammates for a mission. If you’d died outright, you’d be off the board anyway. And if you saved your comrades at the mission’s expense--” he shrugged.
"Well, we both know what happened.”
As horrible as it was, even he could admit, it was a brilliant setup.
Sakumo looked at him like he was seeing the world for the first time.
"Anyone with two brain-cells knew this war was long in the brewing. You were just the fall guy," Shikaku continued, as if talking about the weather.
"Curious isn't it? All this occurred right after your name was being floated up as a potential Hokage candidate. It's almost as if someone wanted you off the board, one way or another," sharp, unwilling to mince words. He needed Sakumo to open his damn eyes.
"I was setup," he muttered to himself with disbelief, running a hand through his hair carelessly.
Shikaku could almost see it—Sakumo’s mind shifting gears, old memories and choices being reevaluated in a new light.
"I was setup," his glazed eyes now sharp. Anger sharp as a blade's edge, promising blood
His work here was done.
An offhandedly comment to his mother about pairing up Orochimaru and Sakumo, which he knows will reach the Hokage's ears, something Sarutobi would pounce on with the desperation of a starving man, eager to redeem his student's honor.
Sakumo might still die in battle, such was the life of shinobi after all, but at least he'd drastically reduced the chances of him committing Seppuku. At least he'd opened Sakumo's eyes, gave him food for thought. Shikaku had moved his pieces. All he could do is sit back and watch it play out.
"Wait, why are you telling me this?" Sakumo called out, just as he was getting up to leave.
For you son, he couldn't say.
"We have lost enough already. There's no point in throwing away more lives." he said tiredly.