Sir, This is a Bakery. Please Stop Crying. (Naruto)

i. therapy should not sound so revolutionary.

In all honesty, the first sign that things were very, very wrong wasn't the different language everyone was speaking, or the complete absence of a familiar religion, history and world geography, or even the fact that I, at the very mature age of five, remembered my sixteenth birthday. Even the startlingly vivid dreams that felt way too much like memories rather than imaginations could be ignored because obviously that couldn't be possible, right?

No, the first sign that I was well and truly fucked came in the form of one old man with shockingly white hair and a name that tugged at the corners of my memories (dreams, definitely not memories, haha, that's impossible-) and one stupid, stupid question: "Futaba-chan, do you want to be a ninja?"

The obvious answer: no. Absolutely not. Because, what the hell, I was five. What five year old chooses to run off into a warzone and die? Nope, not me. Not happening. I was staying far, far away from that whole mess.

The quickest way to dissuade people of anything, in my experience of five (and seventeen, kind of, maybe, possibly) years, was to be as annoying as possible. And this old man and my parents all had very blatant peeves, one more so than the others.

"I dunno," I said, speaking the words slowly and carefully. Learning a third language when you could barely remember the first two could only ever end in flames and disaster (especially when the two other languages she claimed to know didn't exist). "Does every ninja need therapy like you do?"

The old man frowned. "I don't need therapy," he denied, and I knew immediately that this was, once again, my complete win. Ninjas, on their off days, are not immune to the wonders of distraction and self-criticism.

"Oh." He squinted at me suspiciously at my unconvinced tone. "That's worse," I elaborated.

Papa tried to hide his snickers behind his hand and failed. I beamed at him.

Hatake Sakumo didn't visit for the next three days and Papa spent every one of them glancing nervously at the bakery entrance a dozen times, sending me scolding looks and telling me I went too far. Friendly overtures made in attempt to get him to please stop blaming me for the old man's declining will to live all ended in failure, leaving me just about ready to charge into the old man's house and drag him out.

Fortunately, the old man chose to reappear before I had to resort to such drastic measures. And he had one simple comment on the whole fiasco.

"You were right."

I sniffed. "Of course I was."

Papa was not very happy this time.

---

It was when I was all of six years of age that I realised, with a crash and a bang and a pot colliding with my head maybe giving me a concussion, that the old man's name was Hatake Sakumo and his son had his exact white hair at the ripe old age of four. And, of course, his name set off a million alarm bells in my head, because I knew it before I heard it, this boy must be--

"Say hi, Futaba-chan! This is Kakashi-chan!" The old man was all smiles and cheer, usual world-weariness ripped out and stuffed under some rug in his head like all his other issues. Not that that was any of my business, especially not now. Not when his son was him.

Hatake Kakashi. Kakashi of the Sharingan. Friend-killer Kakashi.

Uzumaki Naruto's sensei Hatake Kakashi, from a fucking manga.

I smiled primly, and bolted for my room.

The sounds of my parents' shocked screams chased me through the halls, accompanied by Sakumo's confounded snickering, but I refused to stop, legs pumping with adrenaline I didn't know I had. This was all so wrong, nothing was real, nothing was real! I didn't exist! As if having seventeen extra years of memories wasn't bad enough!

---

A couple of years down the line, I, unfortunately, learned to live with it. And, even more unfortunately, Kakashi promptly forgot my wild race of avoidance by the next time we met, and decided to be a right brat. Or maybe he did it because he remembered? Whatever. The Hatakes needed to move out of this village, effective immediately, out of concern for my well-being, because I couldn't possibly be alright in any way if I was coming to terms with existing inside a fictional universe.

But, hey, that's just life.

---

A/N: A whole entire fic of my dumb humour? Yes. Tried my best to filter out the swearing because I know it can be a turn-off but the Vibes, man. It's all about the vibes. 2/804 isn't too bad, I guess. There was 7 at first.

Anyways! This fic is a joke! Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed, that means you agree with my sense of humour, so you're now officially in the minus braincells squad. No take backs.

Cover to be added when it's not 11.30pm and I don't have a 9am class tomorrow.

EDIT: I FUCKED UP TENSES AND POVS SO MANY TIMES AAAAAAAA