Title: Love, Rice (Food, Porn)

Claimer/Author: This story is written by and belongs to Emmy Kay.

Pairing: Iruka, Kakashi

Summary: Humor/Romance/Food. Iruka wages a battle every day to get dinner on the table. Iru/Kaka

Disclaimer: Naruto and all affiliated characters belong to Kishimoto Masashi. This story is written without permission and for personal/fan/nonprofit entertainment purposes only.

Note: a filler for the kakairu kinkmeme on lj. Take out the commas and you'll see what what I'm aiming for.

PROMPT: I was watching an AMV of the Italian intro to Naruto, and at one point it talks about how Iruka is Naruto's teacher and that he can both cook and fight. I was like wow, that makes his fanon kitchen-skills practically canon! And so I want a KakaIru (or for big bonus points, IruKaka) fic in which Iruka beats someone up and then goes home to let off steam by cooking and...other things.

Every day, Iruka Umino sets up his rice pot so the rice will be ready for his return.

It's a routine that has been years in the making. He slips off his shoes, drops his bag of papers in the entryway, hangs his vest on the back of the door, and heads into the small apartment, a separate small bag of groceries in hand. The smell of hot, moist carbohydrate beckons him into the kitchen. It is profoundly comforting, it is the smell of home, of safety.

His kitchen is small, but like a ship's mess, he has everything he needs within arm's reach. He can prepare a gourmet meal without taking a step. Given a few hours notice and the proper ingredients, he can produce a Kage-worthy banquet. He's been given it as a mission. Twice, so far.

Iruka puts on an apron, winds the strings around his body twice and tucks a few towels into the waistband. He rolls up his sleeves. He is ready, physically and mentally. Cooking for Iruka is not a chore - it is a meditation, it is an act of love, it is part of who he is and what he offers to his closest companions.

He pulls the produce and proteins out of the shopping bag. Off a large magnetic strip nailed into a wall, he yanks a fine steel chef's knife, running it against a conveniently located and angled sharpening steel for a few strokes, and sets to chopping on the large flat of wood that dominates his small counter. Light flickers on the blade, so fast it almost looks as if it is barely moving. The sound is a steady, rapid beat. In bare seconds, every vegetable will be uniformly julienned, seasoned, and then beautifully spread out in glorious colors of purple, red, green, and yellow.

Depending on the meal, shrimp might be cleaned and butterflied, fish scaled and deboned, or poultry dismembered, skinned or larded. He has a special arrangement with an upper-class meat market - in exchange for prime cuts of meat, he will butcher a whole cow, lamb, or pig in minutes, breaking the animal down into any variety of cuts desired. His fingers and palms are criss-crossed with scars, gouges, and nicks from mandolines, cleavers, hacksaws, shuriken, axes and knives of all sizes. Many of the scars are not from cooking.

Even among shinobi, whose sharps are like extensions of their own appendages, Iruka's knife skills are enviable, bordering on legendary.

His eye falls on the yuzu - he stabs it, slicing it in half. The sharp acidic brightness of the fruit hits his nose. He takes both halves and crushes them in a fist, the juice dribbling into a ready bowl. He nonchalantly tosses the empty shells over his shoulder, his foot reaching back and pressing the pedal so the lid on the trash can pops open and they drop in without a sound.

Iruka shops everyday he can, quickly skimming over the produce and dashing last minute into the fishmonger's or the butcher's, snatching the best and freshest possible for what's available at the end of the day. But that is the act of a man who is pressed for time.

On the weekends, he gets up early to battle the housewives of Konoha for the finest produce. They, like enemy nin, take no prisoners. They lack the burden of mercy. It is a contest of wills, staring down the oldest, the wiliest, the fastest of them all to get to the best offerings. Shinobi status means nothing in the farmers' markets - everyone is equal in the eye of the greengrocer. Only cash is king.

When the vegetables are in season, Iruka will buy in bulk and produce vats of pickles; cabbages, cucumbers, radishes, turnips, ginger, and umeboshi. In late summer, he will mash and set to fermenting blocks of soy so he can have his own natto, miso and shoyu. In spring, with the first thaw of snow off the mountains, he plans for trips to procure the melt water. With this water he will produce rice vinegar, mirin and sake. His family sake recipe is a closely guarded secret - he gives away a few precious bottles when he is trying to bribe someone to do something especially vile. It always works.

When he is in the mood for wasabi, he always grates his own, fresh. It's occasionally an issue at restaurants. It's not because he thinks his life is in danger from poisoning, unlike most paranoid ninja. He just does not trust anybody else to provide the genuine article. Whenever they meet for dinner, Kakashi asks, much to Iruka's continued discomfiture, "Is that a wasabi in your pocket, Sensei, or are you just happy to see me?"

People have wondered about his visits to Ichiraku ramen bar and assume Iruka is a terrible cook because of it. The reasoning is simple. Iruka loves their noodles, made fresh every day. He has seen it. Also, he eats there because there is this one ingredient in their stock that he cannot put his finger on and it drives him crazy. He has tried to ask Teuchi, in all manner of sly ninja-like ways, but the man is is tighter than a fresh oyster with his secrets. One day, he will figure it out.

Tonight it will be a light dinner for two; tofu in soup made from kombu stock with ponzu sauce, seasoned vegetables, and a few varieties of pickles. The rice waits patiently in the pot.

A clock ticks quietly in the apartment as the table is set. Has been set for a while. Iruka checks the time. His guest will be late. He often is.

Perhaps this is why Iruka often makes food that can sit.

Kakashi suddenly appears in the living room, looking apologetic.

"You're late!"

"The Hokage kept me," he says, by way of apology.

"The food will be cold - " frets Iruka.

"It's okay," Kakashi says. "Your food is always great. Besides, it's not your food that I really love."

Caught in the middle of irritation and affection, Iruka sighs and then smiles. He doesn't want to fight. In resignation, he gestures to the table. "Shall we get started then?" He takes off the apron. Forgotten, the towels slide to the floor. He bends over to pick them up.

Kakashi pulls down his mask, pushing his hitai-ate up, suddenly looking ravenously hungry for something not on the menu.

Iruka looks up and catches sight of Kakashi's expression. He flushes, raises a hand to ward off the sudden pounce in his direction. "Now, now - "

Too late.

Kakashi grasps the out-flung hand and lazily draws it towards him.

Iruka gasps, "Kakashi!"

Kakashi places his lover's index and middle fingers in his mouth and sucks, thoughtfully. "Citrus?"

"Yuzu," Iruka answers, starting to tremble. Ever-so-slightly. He fights valiantly to regain control. But they both know it is too late. "For the ponzu."

"Hn. Hint of yuzu over essence of Iruka," Kakashi purrs, eyes half-shut in pleasure. "Delicious."

A/N

Thinking about how in Korean, bap (밥) = cooked rice (or meal or food), and a bapo (바보) is a fool, or somebody who is too dumb to eat. Plus, rice=food=love, and love makes fools of us all, so...yeah.

mandoline - a vegetable slicer consisting of a flat stainless-steel frame with adjustable cutting blades

yuzu - a citrus fruit about the size of a golf ball, a hybrid of a primitive citrus called Ichang papeda and a mandarin, which grows on tall trees in Japan and has a strong sour flavor. Its rind and juice are a popular ingredient in Japanese cooking.