Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.

Rated T. See FF ratings for clarity on what the term means.

Here is a multi-chapter drama exploring the KakaAya possibility, which would otherwise be improbable in the Naruto-verse. Through narrative, The Pickle Jar explores Kakashi's newly acquired rank of Hokage, Ayame's civilian status, and how the two social classes clash with mistakes, romance, spirituality, and pickles.

How isn't this pairing a thing?

Preface

Blue and black galaxies were not enough to encompass the entire human condition nor could one night with a beautiful woman compensate for a lonely childhood.

Before Kakashi awoke he knew what he had done. He immediately touched his face, partly to rub a forming headache away, but mostly to block the spicy scent that initially woke him. The scent. It was tinged with salt and blood and—no. His whole body tensed. It coiled tight and then he slammed an arm down. The wooden floor creaked. He winced.

The previous kage were probably rolling around in their graves.

His hand was perfumed by a blood-tinged aroma. Heat crept up his neck and he was embarrassed. God help him, he was the Hokage. The entirety of the present situation was ridiculous and bizarre and—it was inappropriate. Inappropriate; something he never thought he would feel as a middle aged man. Being the leader of the continent's most powerful village never felt so daunting until that very moment. The steps that would need to be taken—she was gone.

He laid on unfamiliar flooring warmed by his flesh, half covered by a frilly quilt. She was probably just as embarrassed. This was her home and she was not there to kick him out. She would not do that to her leader, now would she? He had not drunk much sake—of course the Hokage wouldn't—but just enough. It had been enough strong drink to convince himself that following Ichiraku Ayame home after the wedding was a perfectly acceptable idea and—Kakashi sat up.

The world did not spin and his head did not hurt half as much as he would have preferred. Without moving his upper body, Kakashi's gaze shifted. The sofa. It was plushy white and on it rested ridiculous flower-shaped pillows, his stupid, stupid formal clothing, and a tell-tale stain.

He sighed, reaching for his robes. It was time to lead a village.

Ichiraku Ayame hung her apron on the rack. It was closing time and otousan had gone home. She had finally, finally finished cleaning the catering equipment after they closed up the ramen bar and sent the workers home. She should have done it all by midday. Well, that certainly had not happened. After all, she had arrived after midday. She had sneaked out of her own home at sunrise and done the mother of all walks around the village. Returning home in the afternoon, she had avoided eye contact with the living room and washed up for Ichiraku's.

Otousan had been upset at her tardiness. However, when he had seen the positively miserable mood she carried, stumbling in after noon, he sobered and told her to go home. She mumbled the standard "I'm okay" and proceeded to the back of the shop and cleaned everything. Twice. No one bothered her. Although, it was hard to miss the fleeting looks of concern and curiosity, because Ramen Girl was never down in the dumps and what could have happened?

Ayame sat down on the terracotta tiles. She pressed her back against the storage door, where all serving equipment was kept. Biting her lip, she remembered. Oh God above, she remembered what she'd done with the freaking Hokage.

He had been so sweet at the wedding, having been assigned to the same table as her. Apparently, ramen and ninja nobility were equal in value to Naruto. Oh stop it, she chided herself.

Naruto thought of her and her father like family. It had only made sense that Naruto sat them with Sakura and the others. It only made sense that Hatake Kakashi sat to her left. It only made sense he made small talk. It only made sense that she tried hard not to laugh as he joked under his breath while Gai interrupted dinner with a youthful cheer. It only made sense she noticed him pocket a trembling hand as he gave a speech of how proud he was of his students, of Naruto. It only made sense that he asked her to dance. It only made sense that he smelled so nice—that she dared to kiss him on the exposed part of his cheek before stumbling away, pink faced and surprised by her own actions. But this, too, only made sense because she had been crushing on him for the past year.

Ayame covered her face with her hands, unsure of what to do. She wanted to take it all back. She hadn't drunk at all, because she didn't do that. Not even at weddings, because sake was super gross. Yesterday, she had gone home a couple hours early. She'd gone home early. Too early, really. She had started feeling just a tiny bad about the fact that Naruto was getting married at nineteen and she was twenty three and never even experienced a proper kiss. And…and she had felt rejected by the tight-eyed smile Kakashi forced after she pecked his cheek. So she had left. She had left with her tail between her legs and properly chagrined. She had no right doing such things with the Hokage of Konohagakure.

But then he showed up with a tired look and a shrug of the shoulders. Just like that.

Imagine her surprise when she had gotten out of the shower and Kakashi knocked at the door. She opened and he asked to come in. She let him, of course. He was the village kage and she couldn't say no—nor did she really want to say no. After all, this was Kakashi—witty, clever, strong Kakashi. And even if she had initially been half convinced he was there to scold her, the ludicrous thought of him wagging an angry finger at her vanished the moment he suddenly kissed her and kissed her good.

Her eyes watered at remembering the whole debacle but she did not cry.

She had let him. Yes. She had let him kiss her because she wanted to kiss him, even if he tasted like sake. She had let him lay her on the couch because it made the kiss better. And…and she didn't stop him from touching her more because if she told him to stop, if she had asked him to wait—to leave her robe on— he'd leave and never come back and never, ever return her feelings. And if she said, no, please—I'm not ready—she would be fifty by the time anyone married her.

Heaven above, she should have just said no.

I broke my heart this mornin',

Ain't got no heart no more.

Next time a man comes near me

Gonna shut an' lock my door

Cause they treat me mean—

The ones I love.

They always treat me mean.

-Langston Hughes, 'Cora'