He watched me.

I hadn't noticed it, not at first.

He watched the careful way I handled my chopsticks when we ate our meals, the hesitation in my fingers. He watched my mouth form the syllables of names, places; the important suffixes left unattached. He watched me barter for the first time, buying things for our groceries as he'd taught me, my voice frank with stilted sentences. He watched the ducks and curves my body made as we walked the crowded streets of the towns we passed though, never brushing, never touching; how the beautiful lines of kanji he'd left me to learn turned sour, the elegant script jerky and unkempt when he'd lean in too close.

His eyes observed this and other small things, picking out these tiny quirks with the experience of a seasoned shinobi. And always, he was smiling. It was the same smile he'd made weeks ago, on the day he'd found out I was a girl.


It turns out that Jiraiya's adventure involved a lot of research. Though not of what I was expecting. Reconnaissance, networking, the whole bill- was done over many-a-cup of steaming tea in every tourist town, hick village or roadside tavern we came across. There had been dozens. He with his worn clothing and nicked walking stick, and me in my- well, 'brothel clothes'. They were hand-me-downs, faded and now dirt-stained, but they were all that I had. And I wouldn't dare complain; I was having much too much fun for that. But it was a clever cover. No one looked twice at the white-haired traveling hermit and his little shadow.

The travel though…it was something new and exciting. In the three weeks since I'd first begun wandering with him, Jiraiya had seemed more than intent with camping in the woods. Sure, we went to towns to meet with his contacts, but we never stayed there. It hadn't bothered me much either, as I was far too interested in the environment I now found myself in. 'The grass is always greener on the other side', as they say.

Then we 'happened' to come across it.

The bathhouse its self was not overly large, but with the attached inn, it saw a lot of service. Steam hovered over the place like a shroud, lending it an air of calm tranquility.

Jaraiya practically floated towards it, eyes vacant in some twisted fantasy and mouth parted in what could only be a pant.

I squinted. Yep. The man was drooling. Perturbed, I stepped away, turning the act into one of those skip-hops children do when they're excited. Or have to pee. Meh, technicalities. I looked around as we entered, stopping in the bath house foyer to wait for an assistant to show us to our room. It was pleasant, all cool calming colors, natural light and cultivated gardens. Natural hot springs were the best. I looked up just in time to see a harried-looking bath house attendant slipping behind the front desk to skim quickly over an enormous log book.

My skinny feet tap quickly against the ground as I struggled to keep pace with the Toad-Sage's longer strides, his, shall we say, excitement, overriding his common sense.

Though I really shouldn't complain. His perverseness, ehem, natural manly instincts, are probably the reason why I exist. Gross.

I fight the urge to grin though, exasperated and amused as I trailed to a stop beside him as we enter the foyer and then reach the counter. He knew he could depend on me to find my way if I got lost. He allowed me a fair amount of independence, more than what I was used to. It was a shinobi trait, I think.

Because Jarayia, though he was by no means a neglectful parent, was not all together an attentive one either.

There were nights when I would startle awake, suddenly bereft. The feeling of loss would pull me from the warm comfort of my bed roll as if I had been dragged from it. My eyes would snap open, searching. Only to find nothing: just an empty mat across from mine, the dark gray blanket undisturbed.

I don't know where he went those nights or why he would leave me so unprotected. I only know that I would lay, quivering, silently watching the shadows until my fragile body gave in to exhaustion.

That he would always be there in the morning, smelling of sweat and something more metallic was a small comfort.

Still, his large hands were gentle when he'd help me brake camp, patiently guiding my own with the ease of long practice.

I tried not to flinch away, forcing myself to remain still when he'd take my wrist, rotating it to the proper angle, but sometimes I couldn't help it. He'd let me go immediately of course, but more than once I'd seen his eyes darken before he'd casually turn away.

I was not naive. Though I don't know where he would go the nights he left me, I knew what he did. Rather, I had an inkling. The same hands that kindly ruffled my hair had also taken the lives of who-knows how many people.

I was afraid of his hands.

I was afraid of him.

And he knew it. But I didn't want to be, so I tried, I tried to see Jiraiya as more than just another stranger I was forced to rely on.

So when his hand came to rest on my head in a gesture he seemed so fond of, I deliberately relaxed my body and scrunched my features to glare up at him like a petulant brat.

Surprise crossed his face for an instant, before a mischievous smile lit his features.

Then he pushed down harder, grinding his knuckles in to ruffle my hair into my face, the grin obvious in his voice.

"Me and the kid need two beds."

A real squawk of indignation slipped from my throat as I tried to bat his hand away, tiny limbs flailing. He laughed and scooped me up as we were led to our room. I forced a huff, fighting off the stiffening of my limbs long enough for him to place me down and receive our room key from the bowing attendant. Then the man was sweeping into the room, discarding travel pack and clothes alike and flying to tie a short towel around his middle, giggling rather disturbingly all the while.

It all happened in a flash, and for that I was thankful. I really didn't want to be any more traumatized than I already was. I rushed to the toilet as soon as he got out of my way, flinging my tiny pack (something he insisted on me carrying) towards the bed farthest from the window as I passed. I'm excited at the prospect of warm, soothing water, a luxury to calm my aching limbs. Growing pains were no walk in the park. After using the facilities, I stripped, cringing at each gleeful giggle I could hear through the door. Once properly covered, I dared the outside world, only to be snatched up (again), and carried in a blur of colors to a washroom just outside the hot springs, where I was promptly dumped.

Blinking spots out of my vision, I felt a pout form on my lips as I was, once again, left to my own devises. Then, shrugging, I scrubbed myself down, washing away the filth from our travel. It is only after I exit the wash room that I realize my predicament.

This was not communal. And we were not alone. I look away from the other men, searching for a familiar white-haired head and see, there, directly to my right, a tall wooden fence, by which my father figure is crouching, murmuring to himself with notes in hand.

Some of the men are chuckling. Most are scowling. And I feel like I want to disappear, swearing that I have no affiliation with the crazed man. Which is kind of futile, what with me looking just like him and all.

Then a thought occurs to me. A wicked grin spreads on my face. I slip into the water and creep closer to the creep, before adopting a look of innocence and tugging lightly at a water-logged strand of hair.

The man hums distractedly as he peers though a conveniently placed hole.

I go for the kill.

"What are you looking at?"

"Research… heh heh."

I tug harder.

"But isn't that the women's side of the hot springs?"

"Oh yes."

I pause, becoming genuinely unnerved. Perverts aren't so funny up close. My head tilts, damp hair sticking to my face and my eyes widen imploringly. I can feel the glower of the other men prickling at the back of my neck. Amusement gone now, I just want him to stop.

"Why are you looking at naked women." I demand in a whisper.

"Shhhh! Don't you want to help me with my research?! Be quiet!" He hisses back, face flushed. "It is a man's' duty to admire beautiful things, especially round, plump…humm."

He trails off, but I press forward, tense and wringing my hands under the steaming water.

"But I'm not."

"What?" He mumbles, distracted.

I swallow. "A man."

A large hand comes down to absently ruffle my head, pressing my loose hair down to tickle the bare skin of my shoulders and chest. My hands clamp down on the towel covering my waist, holding back a flinch. "Don't worry," He assures. "that'll come with time. When you grow up."

"But I don't want to." I whisper, a strange mix of child-like fear and adult understanding, clouding and confusing my thoughts and speech.

Paper crinkles as the Super Pervert scribbles something down, still bent and raking in the figures on the other side of the fence. "What? Grow up?"

"Become a man." I wince as I say it, small body stiff.

"And why not?" Humoring and exasperated, Jiraiya glances back at me, smiling. Then his smile drops.

His form straightens as he takes in the child's defensive posture, how the little body seems to want to tuck into his side, the way the green eyes flicker, limbs shivering.

"Because I'm a girl." She confides, head down, voice low.

The Toad Sage stilled. He paled.

And then, in a puff of smoke, he was gone.

And Shirane finds her sodden form alone and crying on the soft sheets of her motel bed.


Jiraiya had learned many things in his shinobi career. His sensei had taught him the value of knowledge- how and when to use it. His teammates had taught him the value of flexibility- in his thoughts and in his actions. War had shown him the value of many more things: patients, a critical eye and a (un)healthy dose of paranoia. He had learned how to use these lessons to his advantage. But in this instance? They completely failed him. So he went back to academy basics: attack, defend or retreat. This... was a tactical retreat. Or so he told himself.

He thinks of the past few weeks, looking for signs, instances, any hint-

-and it all becomes so unbearably obvious.

This child, his child, was female.

Of course his spawn was female. The careful way she moved, a geisha's grace. The voice, low and husky, easily mistaken for a boys', but when she laughed…! And the "potty breaks"! Why hadn't he checked?!

Kami, he had a daughter.

Not a boy like he'd thought, not a son, an identical little minie-me he could (would be expected to) mold into a stronger, better version of himself.

A little girl.

His little girl.

Jiraiya breathes deeply of the Mount Myōboku air, savoring the moist cleanness of it all. He hummed, grey eyes squinting. Then he chuckles.

It made sense now. She was such a tiny little thing, all elbows and knees.

No. She wasn't a boy.

But… he was alright with that.


I wake curled in a nest of white sheets, lazily sitting up to blink at my surroundings. I am cozy and comfortable, and there is bright light streaming through the open window. I hear humming, familiar and calming, and it takes me a moment to recognize Jiraiya, cross-legged on the floor, scrolls spread and ink drying in whirling shapes. I lift a fist to rub at my sticky eyes, then pause in the movement, remembering. My head ducks down, loose hair covering my face, as my unoccupied hand clenches around the fabric incasing me in a warm cocoon.

I look up when the humming stops, only to find dark eyes watching me, thoughtful and soft.

Then he smiles, warm and bright.

And I smile tentatively back.