The Grand Scheme of Things

Summary: AU. Sakura crushes on her professor. Things get awkward before they get better. First impressions don't mean much in the grand scheme of things, anyway. KakaSaku. Cheese.

Disclaimer: Naruto is not mine. None of this is mine. Leave me alone..

Author's Note: Hi everyone, sorry for the delay. Life's been kinda crazy - and multiple rough patches in quick succession leave little energy for writing. This chapter is less slapstick and more angst, as I said, but I promise things will pick back up again soon. Thanks so so much to everyone who followed/reviewed! I absolutely appreciate everyone who took the time to do so. And thank you for being so patient with me!

Chapter Three

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Sakura is six months into her first year of residency at Konoha Medical, the second-largest hospital in the city. Every day she feels, more and more, that she is becoming impossibly tired and crotchety - the sort of personality her mother might generously describe as: 'beyond her years'. She's one shift away from yelling at children to get off her lawn; one shift away from writing scathing letters to the editors of newspapers that no longer exist. The sky is as grey as a goose and the temperature unseasonably chilly. Sakura has begun to suspect that this is some thinly-veiled metaphor for life – the sort one might find in a Reader's Digest from the 90s, the only ones that seem to find their way into hospital lounges. She's never been the poetic type, of course, preferring the concrete logic that math and medicine provide; still she fancies she could be - if, y'know, she were so inclined. Standing beneath the awning above the sleek glass hospital doors, Sakura holds out a cautious, upturned hand to catch evidence of a drizzle. Finding none, she hoists her bag more securely onto her shoulder and steps out onto the pavement.

The station is a block away and dips underground; the turnstiles lined up like teeth in a dark, yawping, ugly mouth. Sakura always imagines jumping them but predictably chickens out at the last minute – not for reasons of guilt or morality; instead she is paranoid that she will trip, fall, and ultimately wind up a viral internet sensation. At seven forty-five she lines up with the other commuters, cursing the crowd. During her first month on the job she used to worry she would fall asleep standing up, perhaps lean obnoxiously against a fellow passenger, perhaps drool on their shoulder – but she no longer cares. The world is bitter suffering and she's not ashamed to admit that inflicting both pain and inconvenience on strangers has become a twisted form of self-care. I used up my quota of goodwill when I stuck a suppository up that hairy guy's ass, she thinks spitefully, trying not to dwell on the fact that it wasn't even the last suppository of the day. The train arrives and she slithers wearily between a woman in a pantsuit and a man in a bright poncho over navy slacks. Because she cannot muster enough energy to raise her head she notices that the man is wearing kitten heels. Cute, she thinks, then imagines her funeral in which she is buried, frail and grey, in scrubs, because it's all she seems to be wearing these days. I could write a shoe clause into my will, she muses, maybe? So that…cute shoes..? Or whatever? What even are words? What even is…brain? Is…think? "Urrrghhhhh." Her groan prompts the man in heels to shuffle further away.

There are two new text messages on her phone – the first from Ino, asking her to pick up some toilet paper, and the second is a meme from Naruto featuring a dabbing Squidward (she doesn't get it). Resting the back of her head against the window, Sakura allows her eyes to close, lulled by the steady-rocking carriage. She falls asleep.

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A bell chimes. Sakura wakes to the sound of a tinny announcement confirming that she has missed her stop by approximately forty minutes. A bleary-eyed glance at her phone tells her it is nearly nine AM. Shit. Shit-goddamn. What-the-shit-fucking-heck. She peels herself off the seat and steps out onto the platform, trying to gauge her bearings. There is a graffitied subway map on the adjacent wall featuring an impressive likeness of Sonic the Hedgehog. And also dicks. Lots of dicks. A troubled neighbourhood, she thinks, full of crime. The archetype of a frat-boy is lying across a bench, very obviously hungover. These white boys must be stopped, she muses half-heartedly, then strongly considers joining him for a quick cuddle and a long nap. Instead, she spots a deli across the street and potters off the platform in search of a snack.

The deli is one of those 'mom-and-pop' joints and is run by a very angry old man; the sort whose face is all eyebrows. He glares at Sakura when she takes more than thirty seconds to order a sandwich, and this escalates to a full-blown intervention after he disagrees with her choice of meat. "No!" he snaps, reaching instead for some thinly-sliced roast beef, "this is what you want. Don't touch that other stuff. It's crap!"

"But…you're…selling it…?"

"You wanna eat crap?! Huh? Be my guest!"

"No, no, I trust you," she says, defeated, holding up a placating hand. Her gaze drifts beyond the window, polished to a perfect sparkle save the smear of a lone handprint. The grey has begun to dissipate somewhat; sunshine curling around the lip of a passing cloud tints it silver and offers a satisfying contrast against the dark-leaved trees. She watches the people go by: a lady with a glorious afro in a red dress; a father with two young daughters, obviously very late for school; an older woman, walking her dog; Hatake Kakashi; A couple, sporting dyed hair and piercings. Wait, what? Sakura does a double take.

She is not dreaming. Yes, that is Hatake Kakashi. She presses her face against the glass to follow the sight of his back, slouching down the block.

"HEY! I just cleaned that!" shouts the angry deli-man, brandishing a loaf of bread.

Sakura doesn't hesitate. "Sorry, I'll be right back!" she calls, and chases after him, all fatigue forgotten.

"Hatake!" she yells, "Hatake!" Barreling past the couple with the piercings (eliciting an indignant "what the fuck!?"), Sakura launches herself bodily off the ground to grab her friend's shoulder. "KAKASHI!"

He turns, frowning; defensive; then recognition dawns on his face and he breaks into a wide smile. "What the hell, how're you?!" he asks happily.

Sakura, wheezing for breath, has not released her iron grip on his shoulder. "You…idiot…you…absolute…garbage person…."

"There's that trademark Haruno charm."

"Just…stay…just…phew." Sakura lifts her eyes to meet his. Instead of relief, instead of joy, she finds that she wants to punch him right in the face. "Where have you been?!" she demands.

"Oh, here and there. Travelled a bit."

"You vanished. You literally just vanished."

"Something came up."

"It's been over a year and I thought-"

"Sorry about that," he says, looking apologetic. He closes a hand over hers and gently removes it from his shoulder.

The train that Sakura had been waiting for leaves the station with a noisy rattle. She feels like she has left the real world and stepped into a dream. "I have a sandwich waiting for me," she says, pointing behind her. "Are you busy right now?"

"I was heading to work."

"Work?"

"Yeah."

"I guess I'm worried that you'll vanish again." She shrugs. "Can't really blame me. And what's 'work' anyway?"

"In a neighbourhood like this? What can you expect?"

"I dunno. What can I?"

A beat. "I've been prostituting myself."

"At nine in the morning?"

"I keep regular office hours."

"Kakashi."

"Sakura."

Another pause. Sakura begins to feel that familiar prickle of hurt and humiliation and rejection that plagued her all through middle school. So Hatake is setting some boundaries. So what. It's not like they were actually friends or anything. At least that's what it's starting to look like. She steps back.

"Right," she says, looking anywhere but his eyes, "I'll let you get to it, then. Those old men aren't going to blow themselves."

"You'd be surprised. Some of them're pretty flexible."

Sakura's eyes snap back to his and she hates herself for it. His expression is soft and apologetic. His mouth is pulled into a lopsided smile and his stupid dimple is as deep as a well in the desert. This makes her angry.

"Right, I'm sure I would be." She turns, tucking a clenched fist in front of her body, away from his line of sight. "See you around," she snaps, with little to no sincerity, and leaves before he can respond. Rather – he doesn't even try – and this hurts her a lot more than she expected. It surprises her more than the knowledge that old men can be flexible enough to fellate themselves. She stomps back into the deli looking so thunderous that even the old man doesn't comment, and stuffs a large tip into the jar on the counter out of spite. So Hatake doesn't think I'm important, she fumes. So what? I don't care. No big deal. And so what if this old man is a horrible jackass. I'm a good person! It's his loss. Look at me. Look at this tip. HAH! Screw you, Hatake. I'm too good and pure for this world, and that's the truth. Sakura stalks purposefully from the deli and takes a vicious bite of her sandwich. A piece of lettuce falls onto her hand and she flicks it away vengefully. She storms the train platform and occupies the bench the frat boy once did. Little by little her anger subsides to sadness, and her (poor, abused) sandwich is allowed a brief respite.

Being this hurt is stupid, she knows. Hatake was never a close friend; he just a sort of fun acquaintance with a penchant for drama - a 'Peter Pan'; the type of prankster who'd lose his own shadow. And yeah, so she used to have an unrequited crush on him that never received closure. Maybe she's still caught up in some lingering feelings. She wonders if things would have been different if she had helped him mug Professor Gai in that alleyway a year and a half ago. Sakura turns her anger inwards, blaming herself for not being aware of whatever social cues would have spared her this humiliation. In some ways it's a repeat of her life at the hospital – the senior doctors find her inexperience tedious at best, and personally offensive at worst. Lately she's felt like she's being treated like a bad smell, waved away from room to room like a minor nuisance that isn't even worthy of a second look. Sakura can feel an egg-sized lump in her throat that threatens to hatch into tears. She scuffs the toe of her shoe against the ground, giving into brooding with a downturned mouth and a heavy heart. She is not sure when the next train is due but is starting to suspect that time has turned into to treacle.

"Sakura! Sakura!"

It's Hatake, leaning over the turnstile, waving his arms. Sakura looks up, smiles falsely and waves back.

"Sakura, I'm sorry," he calls. "I was being an ass. It wasn't cool."

Sakura feels herself thawing. "Yeah you were," she replies finally.

"Come back. We should probably chat."

"Probably. What about work?"

"I'm self-employed. C'mon, don't make this weird."

Sakura stands, indignant. "Oh, so I'm making this weird?!"

"Yes!"

She's half convinced she should ignore him just for the principle of the thing. Is she really that pathetic that she would so be easily swayed?

"We can get some coffee on the way," calls Hatake.

"On the way? Where to?"

"My place!"

Fifteen seconds later Sakura is following him out of the station, just a step behind.

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"So, is this the inner seraglio?"

"You bet. Watch out for that mug. I've kicked it over twice."

"And you didn't pick it up then?"

"I'm a busy man, Sakura."

"Right."

Kakashi potters over to the kitchen, opening up and peering into the cupboards. "Want some tea? I've got some matcha – the shitty stuff, mind you – and some oolong – also shitty – some nice black Ceylon tea, and something called… Lavender Dreams."

"Black tea would be great."

"Okie dokie. Milk and sugar?"

"Yes please."

Sakura takes this opportunity to take in Kakashi's apartment like a hungry P.I. It is neither meticulously clean nor abysmally untidy; rather it is bizarrely normal. She listens to him humming absently amidst the clatter of china and pokes around suspiciously; surreptitiously. Hatake Kakashi is not a normal person, but looking around – she can't seem to find the evidence. There is a sleek, green sofa – faded from use – with matching cushions, a couple of bookshelves, some photographs on the mantelpiece. At the foot of the sofa, sitting on some ethnic-looking woven rug, is a rustic coffee table with a large and discernable burn. Sakura picks the mug off the floor – concealing a curious layer of ancient, congealed coffee – and places it out of harm's way before meandering over to the photographs. There is a group shot featuring a prepubescent Kakashi alongside a gang of other children – one of whom is wearing large orange goggles; another of what is presumably his parents (he is the spitting image of his father, thinks Sakura, a little stunned); a couple more people in military uniforms, and finally….

Sakura picks up the photograph very gently and runs her forefinger across the glass. In it, a younger Kakashi is partly hiding his face behind a familiar orange book, one arm slung intimately around the shoulders of a laughing, pretty woman. The placement of her hand, crossing her chest and resting on his forearm, is frighteningly tender. They are both wearing wedding bands. Something uncomfortable jolts within Sakura, and she begins to feel like a voyeur - like she's seen too much of something she was not meant to. She hurriedly puts the frame back and moves to the furthest possible end of the room. Without looking she grabs a book off the shelf, flops heavily onto the sofa, and tries to distract herself. Except -

"What the hell kind of book is this, Kakashi!?" She turns the book over in her hands and reads the summary aloud. "When Sue Havisham finds herself kidnapped by the wickedly handsome pirate captain Berk, she is forced choose – to become a mutineer of love, or to walk the plank, straight into desire." Sakura smacks the book down with a loud exclamation of disgust. "It's called Virgin Voyage, Kakashi. Virgin Voyage! What the hell!?"

Kakashi emerges from the kitchen with a broad tray, balancing an entire floral tea set. "Oh, that one? Spoiler alert – it gets boring after they hook up in chapter six." He sets the tray down on the coffee table and sits next to Sakura, and begins setting out the cups.

"This is…unexpected."

"Wedding present," he explains, spooning the sugar. "When are we ever going to use this, we asked ourselves, and laughed. And then we began to use it ironically. And then we forgot that it was ironic. So now it's just a tea set that gets regular use."

Sakura feels the discomfiting jolt again. "Your wife. The one in the picture?"

"Mm," hums Kakashi, suddenly quiet, pointedly continuing his task without pause.

"She's pretty."

"She's dead."

"Oh. Oh shit, I'm sorry-"

"They're all dead. Everyone up there."

"Sorry," says Sakura softly, breaking the awkward silence.

Kakashi shrugs and sighs matter-of-factly. "It's okay," he says, handing her cup. "It's just a thing."

Sakura takes a sip of tea. It is refreshingly hot and perfectly sweet. "It's good," she confesses.

"I've got a good contact," he says. "This old guy I play chess against sometimes."

"Ah. One of your self-fellating clients?"

"Nah, he's a Muslim octogenarian from Sri Lanka. Cute as a button. Has probably three whole teeth in his entire head."

"Heck."

"Yeah. Kicks my ass up and down a chessboard, I'll tell you that."

"This I'd like to see."

"Smiles the whole time he's doing it, too. Positively merciless. Love him to bits."

Kakashi leans back against the sofa cushions, cradling a saucer in one hand and holding a cup in the other.

"So," says Sakura finally, "want to tell me what's been going on?"

"Not really. But I guess I do owe you an explanation."

"An explanation would be nice."

"Yeah. Honestly I feel pretty guilty – I'm not sure if you realized but I was kind of flirting with you back then. Leading you on a little."

The bottom of Sakura's stomach drops. "I guess you kind of were," she says casually.

"Sorry about that."

His apology feels like a straight punch to the gut. Ugh. "So what happened?"

"The short version?" - Kakashi sets the cup down and begins counting items off on his fingers – "…wife died, had a nervous breakdown, went back to work – that's when I met you - had another nervous breakdown, went away, made reckless and impulsive decisions, nearly died, got scared, came back, took up a bunch of hobbies, killed a bunch of plants during my gardening phase, got back in touch with the university, started working remotely, and then," he concludes, "I ran into you again."

"…wow. That's a lot." In spite of her nervousness, Sakura places what she hopes is a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Sorry things suck so much."

"Meh, it's a living."

"I guess. Technically." Sakura releases a breath she didn't realize she was holding. She leans back so that their eyes are at level with each other. "So. What's next?"

"Well," Kakashi looks away for a few contemplative seconds, then back, "I'd be okay to just sit here a while."

The poignancy of the moment catches Sakura off guard. He has never seemed so tired; so serious; so trusting – the look of a man who has fallen ass-backwards into hell and is waiting for a friend to throw down a lifeline. The dull ache in her chest dissipates somewhat, and its departure clears her head. She notices that the sunlight, soft and diffused, has cast her reflection in his eyes. Sakura does not consider herself a poet, but thinks that she has begun to understand how she could. She takes another sip of tea, then smiles. "I'm down with that," she says.