Well my first one shot. I had fun writing this. Basically a drabble about Kakashi's more deadlier side of life. Ooo can you feel the angst? XD

Big thanks to Lupanari's for the reminder. The fifth paragraph was taken from Caitiy's fic Simple Things. I suggest you go and read that one! It's brilliant! Her fic was kind of like my muse so a thank you to her for writing the fic.

Kakashi knew he was good at what he did. Hell he was an elite jonin and former member of ANBU specializing in assassinations; of course he knew what he was doing. So when the Hokage informed him this mission required for him to stretch his abilities a little; he didn't sweat it in the least bit. Twelve targets to eliminate in a time span of two hours would have called for a three man team normally. But he was the Copy Ninja, Hatake Kakashi, Sharingan Kakashi.

Eleven targets and one hour later, Kakashi laid his coal eye on his last inebriated target. So low was his chakra level he was on the brink of unconsciousness- the result of three chidoris. His Sharingan clenched shut, every movement reminding him of every injury he sustained: his left hand was sliced to shreds from being put through a heavy oak door; a concealed kunai gifting him with a deep cut that ran the length of his right side; a sprained left ankle from an impromptu dodge; and an underestimation of a frail old man resulted in three broken ribs.

But now, he shut off all pain receptors in his brain, his ragged breathing slowed. His pulse stayed the same steady beat, never quickening. It never raced anymore. His eye was comparable to a predator's on easy prey. In one smooth movement he retrieved a sharp kunai from his hip pouch. Kakashi didn't know what propelled him to do so; but he held it up to the moonlight. His intense gaze was reflected back to him; and it seemed to him like he was staring at a whole other person.

A grunt from his target snapped him back to reality. Assassin was in control, and Kakashi flowed with it.

A shadow quickly detached itself from the wall surrounding the complex and stealthily crept up behind the last clearly inebriated target and cleanly slit his throat. With the last target taken care of the shadow visibly slumped and quickly, but with an increasing lack of coordination, made its way over the wall.

"Damn," his breath left in a low quiet whoosh. Kakashi's vision was fuzzy, but he kept moving. His current pace meant to be uncomfortable but to slow down meant death. It was a shinobi's duty anyway, to sacrifice one's own comfort for the mission.

So if he had to suffer weariness to preserve his own life and the Konoha's well being, oh well. A hiss of pain escaped his covered mouth as a well placed branch brushed a nasty cut he had acquired. He never slowed once on his way back to Konoha.

Kakashi noiselessly made his way up the fire escape to his own apartment. A misplaced foot caused him to stumble gracelessly into his bachelor pad. He grunted as the pain in his ankle intensified at the contact.

Making his way to his bedroom he unzipped his vest, letting it to drop to the floor. It was soon joined by his baggy over shirt, headband, and gloves; the clothing making a bloodied, ripped and bizarre trail to his destination. He slumped onto his bed carelessly pulling off his right sandal; but tenderly attending his left ankle. The last thing to touch the floor was his sleeveless shirt. At the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of red. Closer inspection revealed it to be a design on the jacket of his only formal suit.

Kakashi didn't know how long he sat there staring at his bedroom floor. He hadn't even bothered to look up when he heard a knocking at the door.

He heard the rustle of his discarded garments being gathered.

He tasted the irony coat on his tongue from the seemingly frail man's fist.

He smelled the scent of strawberry shampoo she entered his room.

He felt the mattress shift when the pink haired laid her medical kit down carefully.

And yet his eye bored into the red design that lay crumpled on his wood floor. Sculpted shoulders sagged as his mind flashed back to all his old missions; the ones that went smoothly to Obito's death. Red doesn't let something be forgotten. Red is the color of his life's work. A grim sigh left his lips and he finally lifted his gaze to his female student.

The pink hair kunoichi let a sharp gasp escape her throat as she met the gaze. Her chronically-late-ironic-pervert-who-will-blatantly-lie-to-your-face sensei was nowhere to be found in those eyes.

Instead, the person who stared back was who he actually was: a living disciplined weapon, a trained killing tool, an elite assassin who had to take other lives to protect his own and the people around him.

A request from the humble author: If you're going to flame me please do so right. Like make sure your grammar is right because I love it when angry flamers misspell. But don't be afraid to tell me your opinion, it really helps in the long run.