#it's tiny

The first sign of trouble came on a grey afternoon when Minato opened his front door and found his godson standing beneath the dripping eaves with his hair plastered to his cheeks, his little sandals muddy, and his face arranged into the grave, solemn composure of a child who had already tried asking reasonable adults and found them lacking. In his arms, wrapped with enormous care in one of Mikoto’s good towels, was a shivering squirrel. Behind him, sitting in a crooked line along the path as if awaiting formal admission, were two damp cats, another squirrel with an indignant tail, and something round, brown, and deeply offended-looking that Minato sincerely hoped was not a raccoon.

For one long moment, man and child regarded each other in silence.

“Itachi kun,” Minato said carefully, because every shinobi instinct he possessed was telling him this situation had layers.

Itachi lifted the towel bundle a little higher. “They were cold.”

There were many things Minato could have said to that. He could have pointed out that Uchiha Fugaku and Mikoto were both intelligent, capable people who had likely already refused this request for sound reasons. He could have explained that wild animals belonged outside, that even rescued animals required proper handling, that bringing unknown creatures into someone else’s house without warning was not generally considered polite, even among godchildren.

Instead, Minato made the mistake of looking sympathetic.

Behind him, Kushina made the mistake of inhaling.

Three minutes later, the household had entered a state of emergency. Kushina was sneezing so violently that the hanging charms in the entryway rattled against the wall, the smaller cat had taken one look at the noise and launched itself up Minato’s sleeve, the first squirrel had attempted to burrow into the towel rack, and Itachi had shifted his entire body sideways to conceal the second squirrel behind his back with the unmistakable subtlety of a shinobi child who had not yet learned that adults could see around corners if properly motivated.

“No,” Kushina said, voice thick, furious, and muffled behind a handkerchief. Her eyes were watering. Her hair had started to lift in dangerous little strands around her face. “Absolutely not. I love you, Itachibi, but I am not dying because you adopted half the forest 'ttebane!”

Itachi’s lower lip trembled.

Minato, who had once been surrounded by enemy Jōnin and made it out with less fear in his stomach, crouched carefully so he was eye-level with him. “Itachi kun,” he began gently, “your mother and father said no animals in the house, didn’t they?”

Itachi nodded, the movement so small and tragic that the squirrel in his arms looked, by comparison, emotionally resilient.

“And Kushina really can’t breathe around them.”

Another nod.

“So we need to find somewhere else safe and dry.”

Itachi went very still. This, Minato had learned, was always a dangerous development in brilliant children. Loud children could be negotiated with. Crying children could be comforted.

Silent children, like this particular Uchiha, were usually constructing a legal argument.

Then Itachi looked him directly in the eyes and said, with perfect Uchiha gravity, “Your office is dry.”

Kushina lowered her handkerchief just enough to stare.

Minato blinked. “My office.”

Itachi nodded.

“The Hokage’s office.”

Another nod, solemn and patient, as though Minato was the one struggling to keep up.

“Itachi kun,” Minato said, choosing each word with the care of a man stepping across a floor full of explosive tags, “the Hokage’s office is not really meant for animals.”

“You keep old frogs there for Jiraiya sama.”

“That is different.”

“They smell worse.”

Kushina made a strangled sound into her handkerchief. It might have been another sneeze. It might have been laughter. Minato chose, for the sake of his marriage and his dignity, not to investigate.

“The frogs are summons,” he replied.

Itachi looked down at the squirrel, then back up at him. “This is Sora.”

The squirrel sneezed.

The sound was tiny, miserable, and devastating.

“Itachi,” Minato tried again with the sinking feeling of a man watching diplomacy collapse in real time, “I understand that you want to help them. That is very kind. But I can’t simply turn the Hokage’s office into--”

“If they get sick,” Itachi said softly, “I will tell ha-hue you let me walk home alone in the rain.”

Minato stopped.

Kushina’s eyes sharpened over the edge of the handkerchief.

“I did not let you walk home alone in the rain,” Minato said, very calmly. “You walked here by yourself before I knew you were outside.”

Itachi gazed at him.

Minato stared back.

Rain pattered steadily against the eaves.

“And,” Itachi added, because apparently mercy was not among his developing virtues, “I will tell Kushina obaa sama you said her emergency snack drawer was excessive.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Kushina turned very slowly toward her husband.

Minato felt several years detach from his life and drift peacefully away.

“I said,” he began, with great dignity, “that perhaps three drawers represented a comprehensive preparedness strategy.”

Kushina’s stare did not soften.

“It was a compliment,” Minato tried.

Itachi hugged the towel bundle closer.

The squirrel sneezed again.

That was how the Hokage’s office became, for the duration of the rainy season, an unofficial animal shelter.

At first, Minato convinced himself the arrangement was temporary, contained, and well-managed. He cleared a corner near the window, laid down old towels, borrowed a shallow dish for water, and established several firm rules in a voice that had once made enemy commanders rethink their life choices.

The animals were to remain inside the basket unless supervised. They were not to climb the curtains. They were not to chew anything marked classified, confidential, urgent, sealed, or expensive. They were not to approach visiting dignitaries, shinobi messengers, courier birds, mission scrolls, inkpots, loose wires, open drawers, personal correspondence, official correspondence, or the Hokage’s lunch.

The animals, being animals, understood none of this.

Itachi, however, took the rules very seriously. Every morning before his lessons, he arrived with the gravity of a medic conducting rounds, his little umbrella tucked under one arm and his sandals leaving tiny damp prints across the floor despite Minato’s increasingly elaborate towel system. He checked each patient in turn, refilled water dishes, placed bits of fruit and nuts in appropriate piles, and explained to Minato which cat liked ear scratches, which squirrel was “emotionally delicate,” and why the offended brown creature required privacy because “he has suffered a lot.”

Minato listened with the same grave attention he usually gave border reports.

His secretaries did not ask questions. This was because his secretaries were loyal, disciplined professionals who understood the value of discretion.

It was also because Itachi had bribed each of them with hand-drawn thank-you notes, and one of the drawings showed a squirrel wearing a miniature Hokage hat, which had compromised their objectivity beyond repair.

For four days, the situation remained almost manageable. The cats slept in sun patches when the clouds broke. The squirrels nested in towels. The offended brown creature - which Minato had still not identified and had stopped asking about for the sake of his own peace - sat in its basket and glared at anyone who approached without snacks. Itachi beamed with quiet satisfaction. Kushina, safely barred from the office by her allergies and her principles, sent Minato antihistamine tea and several notes that grew less supportive with every passing day.

On the fifth day, the emotionally delicate squirrel escaped into the mission scroll cabinet.

On the sixth, the smaller cat stole Minato’s calligraphy brush and hid it inside a spare flak jacket.

On the seventh, a delegation from Yu no Kuni arrived to discuss trade routes and had to pretend, with admirable diplomatic discipline, that they did not see a squirrel emerge from beneath the Hokage’s desk carrying the corner of an A-rank mission report in its mouth.

Minato maintained eye contact with the delegation leader.

The delegation leader maintained eye contact with Minato.

The squirrel sat between them and chewed thoughtfully.

After the meeting ended and the delegation departed with the strained politeness of men determined to report nothing unusual, Minato remained behind his desk, looking at the shredded remains of three mission forms, one requisition list, two sealing drafts, and what had once been a carefully annotated border report. Rain tapped against the windows. A cat washed one paw on top of the urgent correspondence tray. Somewhere inside the scroll cabinet, a squirrel made a sound that suggested it had discovered paper of excellent texture.

Itachi stood before the desk with his hands folded neatly in front of him, his expression angelic in the precise way that made Minato deeply suspicious.

“Itachi kun,” Minato said.

“Yes, Hokage sama?”

Minato glanced at the squirrel now sitting in his in-tray as if awaiting assignment. “I believe your patients are feeling better.”

Itachi followed his gaze. His face brightened. “That is good.”

“It is very good,” Minato agreed. “It means they can return home soon.”

Itachi’s face fell with such quiet devastation that Minato immediately understood why Fugaku always looked faintly tired around his eldest son. Uchiha clan techniques were formidable, but no one had warned him about the emotional warfare of large dark eyes on a four year-old.

Minato lifted one finger before the full force of the expression could land. “After the rain stops.”

Itachi brightened again.

“But,” Minato continued, voice gentle and firm, “they cannot continue eating classified documents.”

Itachi looked genuinely thoughtful. Then he turned toward the squirrel in the in-tray.

“No biting secrets,” he told it.

Minato, who had negotiated with Daimyō, clan heads, foreign envoys, elders, war councils, and Kushina before breakfast, experienced the distinct and humbling realization that he had just been made second-in-command in his own office.

That evening, when Kushina came to retrieve him, she found Minato seated behind his desk with a cat asleep across his paperwork, one squirrel perched on his shoulder, another attempting to climb the curtain cord, and Itachi curled in the visitor’s chair reading aloud from a picture book about woodland animals in the careful, serious voice of a child instructing patients in moral conduct.

Kushina stood in the doorway.

The cat opened one eye.

The squirrel on Minato’s shoulder flicked its tail.

Kushina sneezed.

Minato smiled weakly. “It’s temporary.”

Kushina’s watery eyes narrowed. “That squirrel is wearing your hitai-ate.”

Minato slowly turned his head.

Itachi looked up from the book.

The squirrel sat very proudly on the edge of the desk, Minato’s hitai-ate sliding over one ear, the engraved metal plate gleaming in the lamplight with all the dignity of an official appointment.

Minato looked at Itachi.

Itachi looked at the squirrel.

The squirrel began chewing on the end of a requisition form.

Kushina sneezed again and pointed down the hall. “You are washing everything before you come home.”

“Hai hai”

“And that includes your hair 'ttebane.”

“Hai hai.”

“And if I find one flea in my house, I am telling Mikoto.”

Itachi gasped softly, as if Kushina had escalated to forbidden techniques. Minato sighed, removed his hitai-ate from the squirrel with as much dignity as the situation allowed, and reached for a fresh mission form.