Chapter Text
The child took a long time to sleep.
He was tired — understandably so — having worked all day, running around the village with the child strapped to his chest. The sun was unbearably hot that day, burning everything that it could get its rays on. The flowers withered, and the earth scorched, and the dogs barked, aggravated from the stifling air. The headache, from the air and the noise, had only subsided when he stepped a foot in his house, the child fully awake and looking around with wide, curious eyes.
The air inside the small, wooden cabin was old, stale, and unpleasant. Taking off his black cloak, the eye-patch on his face, and the thick clothes he always wore didn’t make him feel any less choked up— he never dealt very well with the warm weather, always preferred winter and the cold. He laid the child on the single bed, occupying the single room. His child was calm—never fussy, never crying or screeching now that he was almost five months old. His blue eyes followed him around the room as his mother moved with unhurried steps, putting his cloak in the closet, throwing his clothes, which had a day’s long-dried sweat on them, in the laundry basket, trying to make less of a mess behind him. The child didn’t cry even when he left the room —after he made sure to put pillows and blankets all around his baby, lest he rolls and falls — like he knew that no matter how far his mother goes, he will always come back for him.
In the living room, he moved back to the front door, making sure it was triple locked. He put his sandals away, made a note in his mind to clean the dirt off them— of the entrance, too. As he walked to the bathroom to wash his hands, he used a simple, black hair tie around his wrist to gather his not-short, not-quiet-long hair in a low ponytail, resting on the back of his nape. His bangs fell on his forehead, on his eyebrows and eyes, framing his face in thick curtains. The hair tie wasn’t much of a help, still.
He started humming a tune as he turned on the electric kettle, waiting for water to boil. After leaving for the second —no, wasn’t it the third time? A secret, unknown, would-take-with-him-to-the-grave third time that no one knew about, no one but him and the child that was unborn at the time— when less enemies were trying to put his head on a stick or his eyes in jars, and even less friends who could flutter around him and fill his brain with their loud chatter and louder voices, and no family that would coo at him —not twenty yet, with child and getting heavier because of it— and take care of him and his swollen feet, he started to remember. Beyond the blood that reddened his eyes and memories, and beyond the screams that he never really heard but had lived with him a part of his life, he started to remember the sound of laughter. The children playing around a sacred, private compound. White, red, and black stitched to their clothes and toys. Brothers who were not butchers, and fathers that were not always disappointed, and mothers that would tuck his hair back with cool hands and smile, and sing him lullabies and kindness. He lived with their ghosts, and when the silence would bear down on him, he’d start singing, humming. The child in him grew with those tones, and he grew healthy.
The boiled water steamed and whistled, and he turned the kettle off— a bottle ready nearby, the baby formula uncapped and half-empty. The child never really had his fill from his mother’s breast milk.
He left his mug —fragile, dark green, and stained with old tea marks— unattended on the counter, shaking the bottle in his hand as he walked back to the room. The child was where he was left —still moving his fists and legs, eyes wandering around as he babbled and squealed— and a helpless smile spread across his face at the sight of him. His heart filled with joy, giddy with love and pride. He put the bottle —capped and secure— on the bed, and reached out his hands, putting them under the child’s arms as he took him in his arms. The child’s skin pleasantly warm against his own, alive and full of life, and he smiled, toothless and gummy at the sight of his mother.
He smiled, too. Bigger than before, kinder than he ever thought of himself to be capable of. “Yes, that’s right. I’m here.” He said, quietly and just between the two of them. Though there was no one else to hear him, anyway.
The child was the only one he talked to, most days. The villagers came to accept the fact that he didn’t like talking and despised being friendly even more.
He sat on the bed, the child secure in his arms, and crossed his legs. He put a hand under the child’s head —he had a thick skull, probably a token from his father, and thicker hair, something that he had gotten from his mother— and reached with the other to grab the bottle. When it was uncapped and nearing the child’s mouth, the child opened his mouth greedily. He let out a quiet scoff, the smile on his face soft and delicate as he watched his child with the eyes that were called the eyes of hatred back there.
The blue eyes were framed with thick, black lashes. The child’s chubby cheeks and three little line-like marks on each one, which moved every time he suckled at his bottle, the skin that was a shade darker than his own.
He had thought of it so many times that he’d lost count. Wondered— dreamed of what his child would look like. Would he get his uncle’s big eyes and longer lashes? His late grandmother’s flaming red hair, or maybe the green eyes. Would he be born with whiskers, just like his father’s? He hoped, prayed, and lost sleep over it— he wouldn’t mind if he had a child with blond or red hair— a child that would look nothing like him. He’d have the stretch marks to show for— to prove that the child was his. His and his alone, no one else’s.
The child finished his bottle, but he started crying only a few minutes after it was taken out of his mouth. Still hungry. His mother hushed him, putting his lips against the child’s forehead to press a soft kiss on his skin as he pulled up his shirt. His breasts had gotten a little heavier when he was going through pregnancy, but now they had turned back to their normal, barely existing form. He raised one of his knees a bit higher as he tried to balance the child to the most comfortable position, and the child’s mouth found his second source of food without hesitation.
It took a while longer for the child to push the breast out of his tongue, turning his face away, his eyes still fully alert and awake.
“Done?” he asked softly, pulling his shirt down as he balanced the child on his stomach, rubbing his back with his other hand. He started patting him softly, waiting for the small sound that his child always made when his back was patted. He leaned down a little, kissing the back of his head, the soft, black hair, and sturdy skull. “I love you. I love you.” He said, barely audible, pressing his lips there for a long time.
Eventually, he put the child back on the bed. Changed his diaper and put him in softer, looser clothes. Laid beside him —head balanced on his hand, his elbow on his bed and supporting him up— and put his other hand on the child’s small body. He dragged a finger under his chin, over his throat, smiled when the child smiled, laughed as he watched him move his tiny hands and feet. He’d walk sooner than most children; he did not doubt that.
He started humming one of the tunes that had stuck with him the most— one that he could close his eyes and almost see his own mother singing to him. The child’s wandering, blue eyes turned sleepy, heavy, and blinking. It doesn’t take long for him to fall asleep, his fisted-up little hands on each side of his head.
He sighed when his tone came to an end. His back hurt, and his feet did, too. His own eyelids were heavy and blinking, begging for ease and rest. But he could feel the day’s sweat and grim on his body, and the bathtub and the water that he made sure would turn hot before moving in seemed very tempting. Besides, he had yet to eat dinner, and his stomach wouldn’t settle for food unless he had tea first. The water that he’d boiled before had gone cold now.
When he tried to put the child in his cradle, the blue eyes suddenly opened. The child’s bottom lip started quivering, and he took him back in his arms in an instant, held close to his chest as he hushed him. He moved back and forth in the small room, trying to put the child to sleep again with soft whispers and softer pheromones. The child wasn’t much of a crier, so the slightest sign of any tear was painful for his mother.
Even after the child fell asleep, he kept him in his arms, walking around and humming to him. Ignoring the stiffness in his back or the way his feet had started protesting wasn’t hard, as he was accustomed to the pains in his body.
The child seemed deep in sleep, so he risked putting him back in his cradle. He put the child’s soft, bright blue blanket dozed in his pheromones on him, and waited for a few more minutes to watch for any sign of him waking up. When he deemed it safe enough, he walked out of the room, making sure the door was wide open.
He didn’t have the patience for boiling water again, even though it’d probably take less time than before. He checked the locks on the windows, on the only entrance to the cabin, which was the front door, before making his way to the bathroom for the second time.
He started filling the tub with water —more on the hot side, since it’d help his screaming bones and muscles— and stripped out of his clothes, leaving them haphazardly on the floor. He untied his hair and stood under the shower, washing the grim off his body before sinking into the bathtub. He almost moaned at how good the hot water felt against his skin. Spending most of his teenage years in combat and then giving birth to a child when out of commission had not been kind to him. He had lost of his muscles after he had his child, and now the scars were the only thing he had to show for, a proof that he’d been a ninja before becoming an omega mother.
He sank deeper. Put a towel under his neck and leaned back, closing his eyes. His body was relaxed, soothed, and almost painless now. He didn’t even realize that he was falling asleep.
The shrill sound of the child’s crying jerked him awake.
He gasped, sitting so quickly that water splashed everywhere. He winced, put a hand to his head to try to shake the shock of waking up so suddenly. He felt confused at first, not understanding the sound in his ears or why his heart was beating so terribly fast, until realization came crushing down on him.
His breath caught in his throat, and he almost dislodged his knee when he was trying to get out of the tub, the water lukewarm and almost cold now. He left the bathroom without bothering to put clothes on —he hadn’t even brought any with him to the bathroom— or even toweled himself dry, the only thing his mind could think of was the sound of his child’s cries, loud and lonely.
He released his pheromones, soothing and maternal, something only for his child, as he called to him before entering the room. “What is it, Menma, why are you crying, hm?” he said softly, entering the dark room, “I’m right here—“
They weren’t alone, he realized that seconds before two hands grabbed his body from behind.
He was thrown back with force— the back of his head collided painfully with the wall, and a ringing noise filled his ears as he fell on his knees, a hand pressed to the wall to support his body. He gasped, his vision turning dark with darker spots than the room they were in— Menma’s loud, scared crying piercing through his brain.
He didn’t have time to brace himself for anything before a hand fisted tightly in his hair, pulling and pulling, forcing him on his feet. Nails dug into the skin of his skull, and he raised both of his hands, wrapping them around the wrist that was squeezing his neck, making him stand on his tippy toes to try to ease the pain.
Between the gritted teeth, he growled, “I’m going to make you fucking regret this.” his eyes flicked around wildly, looking around the room, to where the cradle was. He couldn’t— couldn’t see Menma, but he was hearing his cries—
He had never allowed Menma to cry for so long, never. He was always there to pick him up, to hold him against his chest and whisper to him, use his pheromones to let him know his mother was there.
But now, Menma could feel the presence of strangers in their house, a place that only had his scent in it— and that very scent that used to soothe Menma had now turned bitter and vicious and biting.
The alpha —he could tell by the stench coming off his body that it was an alpha— holding him by his hair laughed, loud and mocking and disgusting. His grip turned more steel-like, and he bit the inside of his lip hard enough to bleed, just to stop himself from groaning.
His sword— he needed his sword— if only he could reach it, he’d paint the room with the alpha’s guts for making his child cry—
“The little Uchiha still has a bit in him, huh?” the alpha said, laughing. He let go of his hair, only to grab his slender neck instead, slamming him into the wall. He snapped his jaw close to his face, his teeth clinking loudly against each other as he mocked the act of biting. “Though, that’s not really surprising, is it? You’ve always been a bitch in dire need of taming.” He snarled at the end, squeezing his neck harder.
“Fuck off—“ he choked out, trying to pry the hands off his body. The alpha let go of his neck, pressing his big palm to the omega’s mouth firmly, almost cutting off all of his airways.
He breathed harshly, his heart beating wildly in his chest. No matter how much he struggled, his body was pressed to the wall, the alpha overpowering him in strength.
“Not so high and mighty now, are you, Uchiha?” the alpha said, slamming his body into the wall once more. With his other hand, he grabbed the omega’s wrist, twisting it hard enough for him to groan. “Where’s the power that you were so fucking proud of— where are the eyes of the Uchiha? Come on, use them— I’m fucking dying to_
Menma screamed louder, crying hard enough for him to worry about his son’s lack of oxygen more than his own. Above the alpha’s shoulder, he saw another dark figure move to the cradle, saw hands reaching out, saw a body leaning in—
He bit the palm against his mouth. Clammed his teeth against the salty, disgusting meat and pressed his teeth as deep as he could— the rich, iron taste of blood filled his mouth, and the alpha yelled in pain, trying to pull his hand away.
“You son of a bitch—“ the alpha cursed, voice laced with anger and shock as he took his hands back to himself, staggering away. “What the hell did you_”
The blood in his mouth —the alpha’s blood— dripped down his chin, staining his teeth. He couldn’t even feel it as he reached a hand, instincts screaming at him to stop the stranger from touching his child. Nothing else mattered, not now, and not before— every little thing that happened to him in the past, or would happen to him in the future, was meaningless— nothing but his child—
But he couldn’t get any closer. His mind didn’t function properly; he couldn’t set his priorities straight. He forgot, momentarily, about the alpha that he had shallowly wounded, forgot that he was still a threat; angrier than before, out for blood now.
His arm was seized in an instant, before he could take a second step, and he was yanked back. A palm, heavy and sticky, hot with oozing blood, clamped painfully tight on the back of his neck. He could feel the blood running down his naked back, and he could hardly breathe as he was forced to his knees. The bones of his legs slammed into the wooden floor fast enough for him to get dizzy, and his face was pressed against the soft mattress of his bed.
The alpha pressed his body weight on his back, heavy and merciless. “You’ll be begging me to let you fucking die, Uchiha.” He snarled, no sign of laughter in his voice anymore, all angry and growling.
The blood on his mouth and chin smeared all over the white bedsheets. He raised his head as much as he could, eyes searching wildly for his child —still screaming, crying, wanting his mother— and reached his free hand, the one that was twisted before and throbbed now, bruising rapidly, across the bed.
“No—“ he gasped, breathless and panicked, not even comprehending what the alpha was saying to him. “No, don’t touch him, don’t_” he almost screamed when his arm was snatched back again, held in a grip that almost broke his bones. He panted, struggling. “Let go— let go!”
He didn’t even know if he was begging or demanding. His eyes burned, his mind was pained, and static filled his ears with white terror. If he died here, they’d take his child— and no one would even know—
“Stop fucking moving.” The alpha behind him snapped, digging his knee into his back to put more weight on him.
He watched, helpless and almost insane with grief and terror, as his child was held in a stranger’s arms. Menma didn’t stop his wailing, and thrashed around even more. He had never been held by someone who wasn’t his mother— the second he was born, he was placed in his arms and never felt another’s embrace, or pheromones. But now— now he was__
“Hey, Agata,” the other one, who was holding the child, called out. “Come see this.” He sounded satisfied, almost gleeful.
“Kinda busy here, dipshit— this almost bit my fucking hand off—” The alpha grumbled, and yanked his arm back more, almost as if to make him groan and prove a point. “What is it?”
“It’s that goddamn beast’s fucking carbon copy!” the other one exclaimed, looking at his colleague with gleaming eyes. “Holy shit, I can’t believe they were right, the nine tails really has a_”
The omega went still, as if cold water had been splashed on him. He thought that even his heart had stopped beating as the ringing in his ears grew louder and louder. The grip on the back of his neck, the disgusting feeling of another alpha’s blood dripping on his body, and the presence of strangers in his nest were making it difficult for him to breathe. It didn’t help that a body twice as big as his had dropped all of its weight on him, and the lower part of his face was smashed against the bloody bedsheets, too. The words, though— they took something out of him. They broke him, rendered him useless, and more powerless than before.
They knew. They knew— whoever had sent them, they knew the origins of Menma’s heritage, knew that he was_
“Knew it!” the alpha holding him down said, laughing again. “Fucking knew it he’d open his legs just for that animal— isn’t that right, Uchiha? You’d never settle for_”
“No,” he whined, and thrashed even more, ignoring the twisted arm and the pain in his legs. “He’s not— he’s not— he’s mine, my chi_”
“Aw, no need to fret, omega.” The alpha crooned. The knee on his back was removed, and the alpha sat down behind him, legs spread on each side of the omega’s body. He pressed closer, putting his mouth against the omega’s ear. “I can feel that he’s yours, I can see the stretch marks—“ he said, letting go of the arm clasped between his fingers in favor of running his hand over the omega’s stomach, his naked thighs, and chest. “But you didn’t make him all by yourself, did you? That’s not how it works.” He laughed.
He shook his head as best as he could, spreading both of his arms across the bed and taking the sheets in his fingers. His bruised arm throbbed. “What do you want?” he said wetly, his throat tight as his body trembled. “Why are you— who sent you—“
“We,” the alpha holding the child started. He held him comfortably enough, but didn’t try to soothe his crying in the slightest. “Want a lot of things. But most importantly, we want to know why you are so fucking weak?” The humiliating tone of his voice grazed on the omega’s skin and soul. “You’re famous for your ruthlessness, your power as the last Uchiha— was it all lies? Or has motherhood turned you soft?”
The alpha laughed together, and he trembled more. His hands moved on the bedsheets, tugged and pulled.
“But it doesn’t matter now, I guess. They’ll have a lot of time to get to that answer, anyway.” He could feel the alpha’s grin on his shoulder. The mating mark on his neck was touched carelessly. “Fuck, even thinking of it makes me fucking hard. That beast is going to get fucking ruined_”
His left hand —the injured one— touched something cold and metallic, the thing that he was looking for all this time, the kunai that he always put under his pillow. He wrapped his fingers around its handle with all of his power, ignoring the way his bones protested and making his mind numb with pain. He took it from under the pillow and swung it behind him blindly, not even knowing where he was aiming it. The kunai grazed something— got caught on skin and flesh as a hiss of pain and sound of curses rose in the air. The alpha fell back, and the omega turned his body, almost falling in his haste. The alpha was clutching the right side of his face, blood oozing not only from the injured palm but also from the eye that the omega seemed to have blinded.
“You fucking bitch—“ the alpha yelled in pain and frustration, but the omega didn’t relent.
Another voice behind him called out, “fuck! Stop it, you—“
He didn’t listen. He lurched his whole body, putting pressure on the screaming bones of his legs. He dropped his body on the alpha’s lying form and raised the kunai with both hands, a vicious growl, seething and mad coming deep from his chest. The alpha was caught by surprise and too slow to stop the sharp blade coming down, penetrating him in his neck. Blood spurted out, thick and in waves, coloring his naked body, his knees and thighs, his arms, and under his chin.
The alpha gurgled and moved his hands towards the gaping wound in his neck, but the omega —blood in his teeth, bruises making his ivory skin black and blue— didn’t back down. He dragged the blade down, tearing the alpha’s flesh wide apart, satisfied with the way it felt— the way it sounded.
He wasn’t allowed to enjoy it more. Once again, he was grabbed from behind. First, a hand holding his already joined wrists together, not allowing his hands to move, and holding them high above his head. The alpha used his hold to make the omega stand on his feet, something sharp and pointy pressed onto the skin of his back.
“You crazy, deranged bastard,” the alpha hissed, making him walk to a wall, cornering him there. “That’ll be the last thing you—“
But the omega, now that he had gained his mind and strength back, wasn’t going to listen to his child’s painful wailing anymore. His body ran on pure adrenaline and instinct. Now, he wasn’t the last Uchiha, or the missing-nin once captured in the bingo book. He was someone trying desperately to protect his child.
He twisted his body, mindless of the fact that his arms were trapped in the alpha’s hold. He put his weight into his left shoulder and pushed with everything he had, making the intruder lose his balance and fall on the floor. He fell with him, and his hands were released. In a weakened second, his palms opened, and the kunai in his grip was lost in a corner he couldn’t see. The alpha jumped into action, holding his upper body up as his hands grabbed for the omega. But he wasn’t going to let himself get captured again.
Now, weaponless, he used his bare hands. He took the alpha’s short hair in his fingers and pushed his thumbs into the widened eyes, deeper and deeper. The alpha screamed in pain, thrashed under the omega’s weight, circled his hands around his wrists, and tried to move his fingers out of his skull, but he couldn’t. Nothing could move him away.
He could feel madness clouding his brain. He’d never felt something like this before— he was used to feeling anger and hatred, but now— he couldn’t even name the emotions swirling inside his soul. He was sure that spending the rest of his life torturing this man wouldn’t soothe him the slightest bit. Nothing was enough— nothing could make him suffer enough—
He pulled his thumbs out of the alpha’s skull. Now, those gleaming eyes —the ones that had looked at his son with glee, the ones that saw and described what he looked like, to whom he was similar— were nothing but bloody, gory holes.
The alpha was groaning pathetically, his hands moving on the wooden floor, nails digging in,
The omega wrapped his hands around the alpha’s thick neck. He squeezed. “Who else knows?” he snarled, blood rushing in his air. “Who sent you here? Who—“
The alpha laughed weakly. Despite the agonizing pain— the spite the fact that he was brutally blinded and was going to die right there, the bastard laughed. “Oh, you’re done for, Uchiha.” He said.
The omega choked him more. “Answer me!”
The man, eyeless and losing life rapidly, grinned wildly. “Do you think we were the only ones? Did you think you’re safe here?” he crooned. “The poor child, I really pity him—“
“Shut up_”
“— what a cursed blood runs in his veins! All the beasts in the hidden leaf village, all of them could never compare to what he’ll turn to—“
“Shut the hell up—“
“The jinchuuriki is his father, and the clan killer is his uncle, and—“ he coughed, struggling for breath as the hold on his neck grew tighter. “And Uchiha Sasuke is his mother! He was born cursed— he’ll be cursed— all the blood on your hands, and he’ll die the most miserable death, Uchiha Sasuke! Your son will_”
Sasuke was done listening.
The alpha grew silent and breathless soon after.
“I told you— you will regret this.” He whispered, releasing the wrenched neck as he stared blankly at the disfigured face lying dead under him. It was only then that he wailing returned to his ears.
Sasuke looked up wildly. His child was on the floor, in the corner of the room. The omega stood up quickly, and his head spun, dark spots dancing in his vision. He was covered in the blood of the men he murdered ruthlessly, from head to toe. His hands were covered in red without an inch of his skin visible, and his feet slid on the slippery blood. His arms, neck, thighs, and parts of his stomach and under his navel as well—
On the floor at his feet, Menma was wailing and screaming. His small face was scrunched and blotchy red, eyes shut tight as big drops of tears fell on his cheeks. His voice sounded scratchy, as if he’d hurt his throat from crying.
Sasuke looked at his child desperately. A sense of helplessness washed all over his body, consuming his entire soul as he fell to his knees. He wanted to soothe his child, wanted to take him in his arms and hold him and never let him go, not once again— but he didn’t want to get blood on him. The blood of the men he’d killed, the blood of alphas that had threatened him and his son, threatened his alpha—
He wasn’t even wearing clothes to wipe his hands on them.
He tried releasing more of his omegan pheromones, something softer and kind, but the bitterness and terror in his chest were too much for him to be able to ignore. He had no choice but to hold his child in his arms, and as he did, he started whispering, too.
He held Menma close to his bloody, naked chest, hoping that the familiar warmth of skin would make the child calmer. But he was covered with the alphas’ blood, and probably their pheromones as well.
It worked, though. Somehow, Menma recognized his mother under all of the unfamiliar scents and calmed down. His cries turned to wide, teary blue eyes and a quivering chest as he stared at Sasuke.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Menma—“ for the first time, Sasuke cried.
His tears felt salty on his tongue as they fell down. He’d almost forget what crying felt like; it had been too long since the last time he’d done it.
He gathered himself together soon enough. He knew that they couldn’t stay there anymore; it wasn’t safe, and he was in no position to protect his child after what happened that night. His body was injured and weak, powerless and helpless. He was sure that one of his arms was broken, and his bruised back, legs, and knees were not suited for long travel on foot. He didn’t even know if he was concussed or not.
But he’d die there if he didn’t move. Or worse, he’d stay alive and fail to protect his child.
Sasuke didn’t waste time cleaning himself. He used the bedsheets to wipe away most of the blood off his body, and wore his black, baggy clothes as fast as he could. He took a small bag with him (nothing for himself other than his sword, which had been in the closet all this time. It was stupidly careless of him to drop the habit of carrying it with himself everywhere he went) and filled it with a few of Menma’s clothes, diapers, baby formula, and his bottle. He wasn’t going to stop anywhere on his way, but it didn’t hurt to be prepared.
He opened the window in the living room and whistled three times. While waiting, he took a piece of paper and scribbled a few words on it. The dried blood on his hands left the paper a little messy and red, but he didn’t care. Soon enough, the loyal hawk that always waited around for him arrived at the window. Sasuke wrapped the note around her leg, and dragged his finger on her small head. Dark, intelligent eyes were looking at him.
“You know what to do,” the Omega whispered through chapped, dry lips. The hawk didn’t wait any longer.
Sasuke strapped the child to his chest —safe and secure— and wrapped his cloak around his body. There was no need for his eye-patch anymore. The bones of his left hand throbbed ceaselessly and constantly, and when he walked, there was a slight limp in his leg. Menma was warm against his clothed body.