Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.

Status: Incomplete

Aia hadn't wanted a child. She hadn't wanted any children. She didn't like kids. Not much at all, not in the beginning. She didn't like that they were messy, didn't like that every conversation seemed to be the start of an argument. Don't eat that, you'll get a rash. Don't touch that, you'll hurt yourself. She disliked their pudgy fingers and dainty nails. She disliked their innocent, peering eyes staring up at you, curiosity ingrained deep within them.

Aia did not like children.

But what she disliked them for most of all was that they were dependent. Incapable of living, existing, without help. They relied on you for everything. They needed parents—guidance, at the very least—to show them what to do, how to behave, what to eat, what to touch and what not to touch.

Children, babies, toddlers, infants, were, at their very core, dead weight for Aia.

They could not talk. They could not engage in intelligent conversations about Konoha, about politics, about the pressure of war, the strain of ninja on the civilian sector of a military state. Children couldn't talk about rising prices, about taxes, about the state of civilian education, and how trades and laymen were the only thing taught to them. Children were not intellectuals, at least not yet they weren't.

Aia had not wanted children. She didn't even incorporate them into her plan. And yet, one day, after a heavy day at work, she stumbled into Hatake Sakumo, and a small smile had graced her lips. She remembered him, vividly, from the days where her mother had pressured her to become a kunoichi, and her father had brightened when she chose a civilian life instead. She remembered his sleek moves, his bright, sharp eyes, and the serious look on his face.

She remembered a serious child, a disciplined actor of movement and thought.

(She didn't remember the lawlessness in his eyes, the yearning, the agony, the absolute loneliness)

A little too much nostalgia, indulgent daring, and too much drink, she found herself slinking out of the house knowing full well he was awake, but too uncaring to shout a goodbye or an invitation for breakfast.

Aia had not wanted children, not how she knew them; she'd planned a life without the sound of small footsteps gracing her home, when two months later, she was leaning over her toilet, face white in shock as she thumbed the pregnancy test.

She remembered after, the fear. The terror in the thought. A child. A little, tiny, fluttering life inside her. Was it even alive yet? She did not know.

It was a lump in her throat, stuck, and she stared at the pink sign, the little happy face, and felt a horrible cold swell in her chest, a yawning, gaping terror clamping its maw over her.

Aia had not wanted children when she stepped inside the clinic, intending full-well to get rid of the growing cells inside her. She hadn't wanted children when the doctor lifted a hand to her rounding stomach, she was growing large for three months, and smoothed the ultra-sound gel over her bump.

When she heard the slow, methodical beat of the heart inside her, she felt lost. It had a heart now. A tiny, growing body, a lengthening spine, a growing brain…a soul? She did not know. For a minute, she thought about it. She thought of the idea of a child. Was it so terrible, would it be so terrible to have to clean up spittle on her clothes? Would it be that awful to wake up in the middle of the night to hush a crying child to sleep?

She swallowed. The doctor said nothing, but she could feel the tension in the air.

(What would it look like, this child, this clump of cells; would it look like her, with her dark hair and green eyes or would it…would it look like him…silver locks, gray eyes…full lips…she clenched her eyes tight and willed it awayawayaway)

And when the doctor handed her the pill—the one that would determine the next nine months of her life, and the following sixteen years—she stared at it. It was terribly small, she thought, for its job. To wipe an embryo out of existence. Something that was a child, and yet, not quite. Would it be murder? She didn't know. How would it be, she thought, to feel the flutter of growth within her? Would she like it? She thought of her work, her long office hours, and the satisfying feeling of crunching numbers and presenting formulas. Would she regret it?

Aia went home, sat on her green suede sofa. She palmed the pill in her hand. Stared at it as it rolled in her grip. Then she rose a shaking hand, clenched her eyes tight and slipped it between her lips.

For a shaking, tentative second, she nearly swallowed right away.

(It felt like choice, and she was not sure, she did not know—how can I choose? How can I know?)

It was heavy on her tongue, it felt like lead.

(What do I do? What do I do?)

She thought of gray eyes and full lips and she remembered a child, standing at the front gate, blankness in his visage.

(You were lonely, so lonely, and you had no one, and no one knew where you came from—lawless, desperate agony clouded you and I saw how your face strained for affection)

Then she spat it out into her hand and heaved, rushing for the toilet.

The pill rolled straight from her fingers and fell with a pitter patter to the floor, rolling, rolling, rolling. As she threw up into her toilet, she knew she'd leave it to him. Aia had a plan. She had a plan, and a bundle of a cells, a miasma of what-could-be, embryo, larvae, would not stop her from completing that plan, from reaching that goal.

She wiped her mouth, brushed her teeth and hair when she finished. Her eyes were set, determined, and she pursed her lips as she marched right up to Hatake Sakumo's door and told him of the existence of the child that grew inside her, trapped in a cage of flesh and bone.

Aia hadn't wanted children, but Hatake Sakumo did, and his eyes glimmered with a warmth she thought unattainable to him when she stood at his door. His mouth was slack and his eyes were round, and he reached out with a trembling hand to feel the soft skin of her stomach.

She averted her eyes. This wasn't her child, it was his. She was merely the…she was merely carrying it for him.

(She had a plan. She had a plan.)

It grew inside of her. Hatake took her to appointments, made her dinners and lunches and breakfasts, and swung onto her windowsill when she was working too hard.

(She traced the swell of her stomach. The red, crumbling lines across her hips. Her breath caught in her throat as she felt the fluttering within her. Should she be feeling this? It wasn't her child, it wasn't, it wasn't—)

Her shirts were too small, and her breasts were too tender, and Hatake was there, a smile on his face, a glimmer of excitement about his lips.

(Nights were long and difficult, but she felt it move inside her, her own trembling fingertips tracing its movements, a low hum escaping her throat, and tears pricked her eyes for reasons unknown to her—he asked about the trailing lines of black and she told him it was a bad dream)

She ignored it. Ignored, ignored, ignored, ignored until on one fine, clear spring morning, just as the sun was about to break through the night's veil, she felt the final kick.

Hatake was there in a moment, worry making him look deathly, his brow drenched in sweat, a tremor in his fingers unable to be smoothed away.

Aia hadn't wanted children, and when she looked at the sight of her daughter—pale, awash in blood and fluid, mouth opening to scream—she realized that she still wasn't quite sure if she did.

…

She left them there, father and child, at the hospital room, her heart beating a drum in her chest, a sigh of relief on her lips.

Left him crowing words of happiness and joy and love.

Aia didn't want children. She swore up and down, promised herself; it was his child, not hers, and she had not place, no right to infringe on that now—

She remembered the flush of her babe's cheeks, the kicks in her stomach, the echo of deep lingering wonder swelling in her chest as she remembered the little one's pink, pink mouth.

Not hers.

She had a plan.

…

It was a year. A year until she saw Hatake again, and her—his—child.

It was raining, and she was rushing, the grocery store was closing soon, and she had to get rice because she'd just run out, and then she slipped—

Tumbled forward, a gasp leaving her—

And an arm caught her around the middle.

She looked up, and she remembered the drop of horror, relief, swelling love that filled her at the sight of who'd saved her.

His hair was longer, and his eyes were darker but happier, and there, in the crook of his other arm she lay still and sound asleep.

Her baby.

She remembered the kick of her tiny feet in her stomach, the rush of the labor and the feeling of separation—she's gone, gone, gone and not coming back—my child, my baby, my daughter—

Aia croaked out a hello, but it wavered, and she felt his grip loosen on her as he finally recognized her auburn hair, her green eyes and tan skin.

If she'd bothered to look, she would've noticed the cooling of Hatake's happiness and the sharpening of his distrust, but she was riveted, enthralled by the long dark lashes, the rosebud mouth and the locks of silver.

Her name, Aia wanted to ask, but it felt sacred, and she couldn't violate that—

She had a plan.

But she couldn't quite stop herself, couldn't quite help herself from raising a trembling finger to her daughter's cheek and brushing the soft, soft skin, couldn't quite help herself from letting out a horrible whimper when the little one nudged into her touch.

And then Aia was ripping herself from his touch, from her baby's love and the terror in her heart was beating wildly and she felt torn in half—

She stumbled away, running as fast as she could from him and her and them.

Aia sat on her suede green couch, and thought about how it began, with a touch too much nostalgia, a brush of drink and daring, and a little, rolling pill.

She still didn't know if she'd made the right choice.

…

It was when he broke into her apartment, that Aia felt her world change.

Shehad been crying, listlessly, and he was red-eyed and sleep-deprived, when the words tumbled out of his mouth, uncensored.

She's your child too.

Aia felt her world stop. Something crumpled inside her and rose with a sweep of crushing hope.

Your child too.

His eyes went blank after that, and his grip on the child tightened, and Aia only stared.

She could not breathe, could not move, and when he left, she could not even wince at the slam of the door.

Mine too.

…

It began with a sandwich.

She had been restless. Staring out the window for most of her days. Her boss, worried, sent her home, and Aia tried to protest, but in the face of a sharp glare, she trudged back to her cold apartment, scarf wrapped around her neck.

It began with a stroll in the park, and a hot chocolate in her hand, the sandwich clutched under her arm. She heard it before she saw it; loud, listless crying, and the sound of soft whispers and loving hushes.

When she rounded the corner, she nearly left.

He was in ninja gear, a desperate look on his face, grease and burns peppering his body, a knife in his thigh, and he was rocking her gently, a genin scampering away as fast as they could.

It was her breathing, she later found out, that made him throw the shuriken at her; high and spiked, too much like exertion for a ninja just returning from a mission. The snarl on his face, the way he cradled the baby's neck to his chest, his whole arm wrapped around her protectively, was what emblazoned itself into her mind, never to be forgotten.

She let out a squeal when she tumbled over into a tree.

He looked mildly apologetic, and even more grateful that the child finally stopped crying.

They looked at each other for a while, and she felt guilt seep into her heart, wrapping its hooks deep, her tongue heavy, her eyes darting.

Here, she offered him, and his eyes followed her movements, I bet you're hungry.

The sandwich hung in the air for a moment, and her hand shook.

In a world of ice and snow and silence, Aia was naked, utterly and wholly.

Everything seemed to move again as he reached out, taking it from her.

He watched her, studying slowly and quietly, and when he spoke it was as steady as ever; thank you.

…

When she found them in her kitchen the next week, she said nothing, merely dropping a tremulous kiss to her baby's head and handing him a sandwich.

He said nothing this time, but he cleaned her kitchen as she ran her fingers over the sleeping child, still too uncomfortable to call her daughter.

When she found them in her living room, the baby sitting upright, gripping a box of blocks, she smiled, and asked her name.

This time, he flushed, rubbed the back of his neck, and that was when she realized the child didn't have a name.

The laughter that left her was deep and infectious and she heard his own chuckles mixing with hers.

He didn't speak to her after, only to the babe, but she remembered the warmth in his eyes.

When she found them looking at her when as she danced across her kitchen, humming her childhood songs and stealing pickles from the fridge, she jumped, slipped on a patch of cool tile, and smiled as he caught her again.

He grinned back, slow and soft, and she thought she saw something like affection in his eyes when she cooed at the baby, kissing her soft brow.

…

It was when he left for a mission, and he gave her the child for a week, that Aia cried. The note was shaking in her hands, and the panic was closing in because this was a child, this was his child and she had a plan a plan a planaplan—

It, she, the child was on the bed, silvery locks askew on a pale forehead, next to her—

His handwriting was scratchy and terrible and Aia was close to laughing out shaky sobs when she felt tiny fingers grip her hand.

Large, green eyes blinked up at her, and Aia felt the pandemonium build, and build, and build until it was crushing, and she cried deep, heavy, wrenching sobs of panic and rage and terror.

I hate you, she thought, I hate you I hate you I hate you.

When she calmed down, she scrubbed her face and kissed her daughter's cheek and went about to make breakfast.

It was a week later; a week of breakfasts and lunches and dinners with her daughter; a week of dressing her in pretty dresses and skirts and thick, warm tights; a week of hushing away tears and sleep accompanied by thrumming lullabies and gentle rocking; a week of her daughter.

He found them in the park, under the cedar tree, and she felt the whoosh of moving air before she knew it to be him.

When he sat, smelling of sweat and blood and metal, she said nothing.

He twitched a little, swaying, and then he nudged her hand with his.

His eyes were blank and watchful as he handed her the sandwich.

Aia stared at him, mouth opening a little. Then she shook her head, took the sandwich, and told him their daughter's name was Sugi, because sandwich was just a little too long.

She tried not to think about the rampant joy on his face.

…

Aia had not wanted children, but she as she looked down into her darling Sugi's pale face, she could not imagine a life without her, did not even want to think about one.

Aia clenched her eyes tight, swallowed her nausea, a hand coming to her stomach protectively. She thought of her plan, intricate and detailed, and how it had changed over the years, shoved and pushed and cajoled until the little angel in front of her, and the tiny, growing warmth inside her were the main points of that plan.

She had not wanted children, had not even left a nary thought to question it, but she couldn't help but hope, beg, plead, that someone wouldn't take it away from her.

Aia had not been ready then, but she was ready now, and she wanted them both; her unborn, fluttering child, and her still, unmoving baby who lay before her now.

Sakumo's arms came around her, holding her tighter than ever before.

His voice cracked when he spoke. "It will be alright. Sugi will be fine."

Please. Please. Aia begged. I'm ready now. I'm ready now—don't take them away from me.

Not every woman, or person, is ready for a child. Not all women want one. I was planning this differently, but in light of current political events in the US, I felt this was the most powerful message I could convey.

Enjoy,

Isedy