"What's behind here?" Kakashi asked curiously, reaching out for the wood. "I've never even seen the door open-" Iruka was between him and the door before his fingers could even curl around the doorknob.

"Get out," Iruka snarled, back pressed up against the wood. "Get out, get out! I swear to God, I'll kill you!" Kakashi stepped back, stunned, and Iruka pushed him further away, hard. "Get out!" Kakashi hesitated for a moment, then fled the small house, trying to repress a feeling of hurt, because he wasn't even sure why he felt hurt.

The next day Iruka smiled and waved at him, beckoning him over to the teacher's table in the mission room, and Kakashi went slowly.

"Ah, Kakashi," Iruka said sheepishly, a finger scratching the scar across his nose. "About last night, I'm sorry. I just don't ever open that door, and you surprised me. I mean, no one else has ever even seen it, and it just threw me off." Kakashi nodded, pretending to understand, and Iruka beamed.

When Kakashi went back to Iruka's house, days later, he studiously ignored the door, just as Iruka did, and he felt a sense of sorrow from the younger man, though he didn't know why. Things fell back into something that could be a routine, and time passed. People lived, and people died, and the seasons changed. Years later, during the summer, they sat under a tree, watching children running and laughing, waiting for classes and missions. Iruka shifted in the grass, leaning against the tree trunk, and said something that Kakashi would never expect.

"Anko's pregnant."

"What?" Kakashi asked, stunned. "Who with?"

Iruka gave him a look as though Kakashi was particularly slow. "She's been with Ibiki for over a year. Where have you been?"

Kakashi grumbled something and tackled Iruka, puffing them away to somewhere much more convenient.

Two months later Iruka answered a knock at his door, stunned when Anko looked up at him from under messy bangs, eyes red-rimmed and blank.

"He's dead," she whispered, and he pulled her, the first person since Kakashi, the second since his parents, into the house. "He lied, he said he'd never leave me, and he's dead."

He set her on the couch, kneeling to lay his hands on her knees. "Ibiki?"

"He's dead." She reached out, tousling Iruka's hair carelessly, eyes far too empty. "I should have known, 'Ruka. It was too good, and now I'm screwed over. Oh, God, he's dead." Her face began to crumble, first her mouth, lips wavering, then her eyes, eyelids clenching shut. "He's dead."

Hours later he laid her on his bed, covering her with a blanket. She clung to his hand, avoiding his eyes, and he sat next to her. "Stay here," he said softly, brushing her bangs back from her forehead.

"What about Kakashi?" she asked, voice hoarse.

"He doesn't live here, no one does, except me. Stay." Her face wavered again and he tightened his hand around hers, leaning forward to kiss her lips softly. "Just stay."

He stayed until she was asleep, and then he left. He padded down the hallway, until he was standing in front of the door. He reached out, touching the knob with his fingers, curling his hand around the cold metal. He opened the door slowly, wincing as it squeaked out a protest. When it was fully opened he took a slow, cautious step inside. The window's drapes were hanging limp and ragged, letting in the pale moonlight. He took another step and his barefoot waded through the thick dust. He repressed a sneeze and took a few more steps into the room before he stopped and spun around slowly, looking.

It was just as he remembered. The walls were half-painted, a job he never got to finish with his father. The paint that was on the walls was cracked and warped, discolored with age and dirt. The shelves and dressers were covered in inches of dust, and the pieces of soft cloth were nearly decayed, moth-bitten and full of holes, about to fall apart at a single touch. In the center of the room was his mother's pride and joy. He pushed it gently, then a bit harder, smiling when the crib didn't budge. It was still sturdy, just like it had been when he was a kid. He'd helped his mother drag it from storage to the small house, those many years ago, and he could still remember how happy she'd looked, beaming in the room, talking about how they'd paint the walls a pale yellow, and how she'd sorted and resorted the tiny clothes again and again, folding and unfolding them until his father had told her, laughingly, that they'd fall apart long before they were finally worn. He remembered how his mother had shut the door that night, closing it for the last time, not to be opened again, until tonight. Iruka ran a finger along the edge of the crib, blowing the dust off with a breath.

Yes, he decided, as he closed the door gently. He'd show Anko in the morning.

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