Shinobi (Sequel to Otokage)

You Will.

Kisame had finished half his coffee when his daughter literally tumbled all the way down the stairs and popped up like she hadn't tripped in the first place.

"Hi, pops!" she exclaimed. He smiled into his cup as she ran around him to get something from the fridge.

"Hi, Ren. Training today?"

"Mhm," she replied. When she closed the fridge door and went back to sit at the counter, some of last night's cake was stuffed in her cheeks and a glass of juice in her hand. She paused on the stool and looked up, whispering in horror. "Dad's not home, is he?"

"Don't you think you should've asked that before you took the cake?"

"I was— well— it's good cake. Is Dad here? is he? Oh no, he's gonna be pissed when he finds out I had cake for breakfast—"

"And he'll give a lecture."

"Ack, those are so boring! Last time he lectured me was because apparently it's not safe to hang out of windows, but what was I supposed to do? 'toshi was actually doing the thing and 'keo was trying to stop him and I had to get it on video and hanging out the window had the best angle—"

Kisame laughed as he reached over and tousled her hair until it resembled a bird's nest.

"Your dad left earlier to assist Sakura-sama in surgery, don't worry."

Ren pouted.

"Pops!" she whined. "Come on, I thought you were really gonna sell me out to Dad!"

"For cake? Nah. Give me some and I'll keep quiet."

"Deal."

At the hospital in one of the operating rooms, Kabuto sneezed.

::

To say the Rinha household was calm most days was... generally the truth. Takeo was an early riser to reasons completely unknown to his father who, if given the chance, would crash until noon. Or at least until his mother or his many uncles would come over and drag him out of bed. But on a normal day, he and his parents would wake up at five, his mother would leave at six, and he and his dad would leave at seven.

It was routine. 

So imagine Takeo's surprise when at around five past six, he saw the lights in the kitchen already on when he wandered in to make breakfast.

And saw the window open. 

And saw a blood trail leading to the living room.

And there, he say laying on the ottoman: a severed arm.

Takeo screamed.

Hidan bolted upright from his supine position on the flood hidden behind the couch and turned his head. He was wearing his clothes from the day before with mussed hair and a gaping hole on the left side of his body where his arm should be oh my fuck what was happening why was it just sitting there on the ottoman—

"Oh shit, it's morning already? Huh," Hidan mused before blinking at his son. "You okay, bud?"

Takeo had pressed himself as much as he could against the cabinets, his eyes staring at the ceiling to avoid all sights of bodily fluids and decapitated body parts. He knew his father couldn't be killed in any conventional way, but he'd never seen it in practice before. 

Honestly, he thought that was kind of a long-running joke among everyone.

Apparently not. And it probably explained why his own pain tolerance was frighteningly and worryingly high.