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Summary
For two weeks, Kakashi leaves the house in the mornings to buy fresh groceries and let Naruto get some fresh air. He spends his time cleaning, changing Naruto’s nappies, or feeding him. He reads on a chair next to the crib while Naruto sleeps, and eats his own food one-handed, his left pointer finger perennially relinquished to Naruto’s unreasonably strong grip.
Every evening, he walks to the hospital and sits by Minato’s bed for a while.
“He did well today, sensei,” Kakashi mutters in a soft voice, rocking Naruto in his arms. “Drank his bottles at the right times and didn’t cry once.”
Naruto giggles, blinks up at Kakashi. He sighs, rocks him a little more gently.
On the bed, Minato doesn’t move. He’s pale and gaunt. The skin sagging a little. He looks older than he is. His lips are cracked, though Tsunade has assured Kakashi that the drips connected to Minato’s arms are keeping him hydrated enough.
“You’ve got to wake up, sensei,” he whispers. “I don’t think I can raise your kid alone.” He swallows the lump in his throat, squares his shoulders. “But I’ll do it. You don’t have to worry. I’ve got this.”