Chapter 6: The Penguin in the Market
The morning light came through the nursery window in slats, striping the crib in gold and shadow. Sakura stood in the doorway, still in her sleep shirt, watching Shin wage war with his blanket.
He was losing.
The blanket had tangled around his legs during the night, and now he kicked at it with both feet, his face scrunched in concentration. When that didn't work, he tried rolling. When that didn't work, he tried yelling.
"Ba!"
Sakura crossed the room. She untangled the blanket and lifted him out of the crib, and he immediately grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked.
"Good morning to you too," she said.
He babbled something in response—a long, involved sentence in a language only he understood. His free hand pointed toward the window, toward the light, toward the world outside.
"Yes, that's outside. Very exciting."
He pointed more emphatically.
"You want to go outside?"
He shrieked.
"Okay, okay. Breakfast first. Then outside."
She carried him to the kitchen, where Kakashi was already at the table with a book in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. His mask was on. It was always on, even now, even after two years of sharing a bed and a bathroom and a life. She'd stopped asking about it months ago.
"Morning," he said without looking up.
"Morning." She deposited Shin in his high chair and went to the fridge. "We're out of eggs."
"I know."
"And rice."
"I know."
"And—" She opened another cabinet. "Everything."
"I know."
She turned to look at him. He was still reading, his visible eye scanning the page with practiced indifference.
"You were supposed to go shopping yesterday."
"I was busy."
"Busy doing what?"
"Busy not going shopping."
She stared at him. He turned a page.
"Kakashi."
He looked up. "Yes?"
"We have a child. A growing child. Who needs food."
"He had a bottle this morning."
"A bottle isn't food. A bottle is a beverage."
"Semantics."
She closed the cabinet with more force than necessary. Shin banged his hands on the high chair tray in approval.
"Market," she said. "Now. We're all going."
Kakashi closed his book. "All of us?"
"All of us."
"It's crowded this time of day."
"It's always crowded."
"Exactly my point."
She walked over and plucked the book from his hands. He let her take it, which meant he wasn't really reading it anyway. She set it on the counter, out of reach.
"You're coming," she said. "You're carrying him. You're helping."
"I always help."
"You always complain."
"That's not complaining. That's commentary."
"That's complaining."
He sighed. But he stood up. And when she handed him Shin, he took him without argument, settling the baby against his chest with the ease of long practice.
Shin grabbed his mask and pulled.
"Ah," Kakashi said. "No."
Shin pulled harder.
"Shin."
Shin laughed.
Sakura grabbed the diaper bag and her camera—she took it everywhere now, a habit she'd developed after the meadow, after she'd realized how many moments she'd missed by not having it ready. The twig from that day still sat on the shelf above Shin's crib. She'd caught Kakashi looking at it more than once.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Define ready."
"Out the door. Down the street. Functioning as a family unit."
He looked at Shin, who was now trying to eat the collar of his vest. He looked at her, at the camera around her neck, at the diaper bag slung over her shoulder.
"We'll manage," he said.
The market street was chaos.
It always was—a sprawling labyrinth of stalls and carts and vendors shouting their wares. Lanterns hung from wires strung between buildings, swaying in the warm breeze. The smell of grilled skewers mixed with fresh seafood and dye from the kimono stalls, and underneath it all, the faint, acrid tang of ink and paper from the stationery shop on the corner.
Sakura loved it.
Kakashi tolerated it.
Shin, perched in Kakashi's arms, stared at everything with wide-eyed wonder. His head swiveled from side to side, trying to take it all in. A woman walked past with a basket of live eels. He tracked them until they disappeared into the crowd.
"First stop," Sakura said, consulting her list. "Vegetables."
She led the way through the crowd, weaving between shoppers and carts. Kakashi followed, his natural shinobi grace keeping him just behind her, close enough to grab if something went wrong. Old habits.
The vegetable stall was run by an old woman with gnarled hands and a sharp eye. She took one look at Shin and smiled.
"Cute," she said. "How old?"
"Almost five months," Sakura said.
"He's big."
"He eats a lot."
"Takes after his father, then?"
Sakura glanced at Kakashi, who was staring at a display of radishes with intense concentration.
"You could say that."
She bought tomatoes and cucumbers and a bundle of fresh greens. Kakashi bought nothing, but he shifted Shin to one arm and carried the bags with the other, which was something.
They moved on. The fishmonger. The rice merchant. The spice stall, where Shin sneezed three times in a row and then looked around in confusion, as if he couldn't figure out where the sound had come from.
"Bless you," Sakura told him.
He sneezed again.
"He's allergic," Kakashi said.
"He's not allergic. It's pepper."
"Same thing."
"It's not—" She stopped. Took a breath. "Never mind."
They passed a pottery stall, where a man was throwing a pot on a wheel, his hands covered in clay. Shin watched with fascination, his head tilting as the pot rose from nothing.
"Ba," he said, pointing.
"Yes, that's a pot."
"Ba-ba."
"Very good."
He looked at her, then back at the pot, then at her again. His face scrunched in concentration.
"Ba-ba-ba-ba—"
"Okay, that's enough ba for now."
They kept walking. The crowd thickened as they approached the center of the market, where the bigger stalls were. Jewelry. Fabrics. Toys.
Shin spotted it before she did.
One moment he was babbling happily, his head on a swivel. The next, he went absolutely still.
Sakura noticed immediately. It was a mother thing, she'd learned—the ability to sense when something was wrong, when something had changed, when her child had gone quiet for reasons that could not be good.
She turned around.
Shin was rigid in Kakashi's arms. His small body had gone tense, his hands clenched into fists, his eyes fixed on something over Kakashi's shoulder.
"What?" she asked. "What is it?"
Kakashi turned. She followed his gaze.
The toy stall sat at the corner of the market, its wares spilling out onto the street. Wooden blocks. Fabric dolls. A shelf of painted animals.
And there, perched on the top shelf, surrounded by carved foxes and wooden birds, sat a penguin.
It was a ridiculous thing—plush and round, with a body the color of night and a belly the color of snow. Its eyes were stitched-on buttons. Its beak was orange felt. It had a tiny scarf wrapped around its neck, red and striped and entirely decorative.
Shin exploded.
"PENGIN!"
The word came out of nowhere—a shriek, a declaration, a battle cry. It cut through the noise of the market like a blade, and several shoppers turned to look.
"PENGIN!" Shin screamed again. He lunged forward in Kakashi's arms, his tiny hands stretching toward the stall. "PENGIN, PENGIN, PENGIN—"
Kakashi froze.
His visible eye went wide—so wide Sakura could see the whites all the way around. His arms tightened around Shin on instinct, keeping the baby from launching himself onto the pavement.
Sakura stood rooted to the spot. Her mouth was open. Her brain was not working.
"Did he just—" she started.
"Yes."
"Did he just say—"
"Yes."
"His first word—"
"Yes."
"His first word was—"
"Pengin," Kakashi confirmed. "He said pengin."
Shin was still shrieking. "PENGIN! PENGIN! PENGIN!"
The vendor—a round woman with graying hair and laugh lines around her eyes—burst out laughing. "Well, someone knows what he wants."
Sakura's hands moved before her brain caught up. She fumbled for her camera, nearly dropping it, her fingers clumsy with shock. She raised it, framed the shot—Kakashi's stunned face, Shin's wild eyes, the penguin sitting innocently on its shelf—and pressed the button.
The shutter clicked.
Shin kept screaming.
"PENGIN!"
"Okay," Sakura said. Her voice came out breathy, half-laughing, half-crying. "Okay, we're getting the penguin."
Kakashi looked at her. "We are?"
"We are."
"He just—"
"He said his first word. His first word was pengin. We're getting the penguin."
Kakashi looked at Shin, who was now practically vibrating with the force of his desire. Then he looked at the penguin. Then he looked at the vendor, who was already reaching for it.
"How much?" he asked.
The vendor named a price. Kakashi didn't argue. He just shifted Shin to one arm, reached into his vest for his wallet, and handed over the ryo without a single word of protest.
The vendor handed him the penguin.
Kakashi held it out to Shin.
Shin grabbed it with both hands and clutched it to his chest. He buried his face in its plush belly. He made a sound—a low, happy, rumbling sound, like a cat purring.
"Pengin," he said. Softly this time. Reverently.
Sakura's eyes were definitely leaking. She wiped them with the back of her hand and took another picture.
"He's never going to let that go," Kakashi said.
"I know."
"He's going to sleep with it. Eat with it. Bathe with it."
"I know."
"We're going to have to pry it out of his hands to wash it."
"I know."
He sighed. But when he looked at Shin—at their son, clutching his penguin like it was the most precious thing in the world—his eye softened. The way it did when he thought she wasn't looking.
"Pengin," Shin said again.
"Yeah," Kakashi murmured. "Pengin."
The rest of the shopping trip was a blur.
Shin refused to release the penguin. Not when they stopped at the rice merchant. Not when they bought fish. Not when they passed the spice stall again and he sneezed directly onto its plush white belly.
"Gross," Sakura said.
"Pengin," Shin replied.
She wiped the belly with her sleeve. He screamed. She apologized. He clutched the penguin tighter.
By the time they made it to the final stall on her list—a booth selling handmade soaps and lotions—Shin had calmed down. He sat in Kakashi's arms, penguin pressed to his chest, eyes drooping. The excitement of the morning was catching up with him.
"We should get him home," Kakashi said. "He's tired."
"One more stop. I need to pick up that cream for my hands."
"The one that smells like lavender?"
"The one you said smelled like a funeral parlor."
"Same thing."
She shot him a look. He shrugged.
The soap vendor was a young woman with bright eyes and a kind smile. She cooed over Shin, who ignored her entirely in favor of his penguin. She showed Sakura the lotions, explained the ingredients, sold her two jars and a bar of soap.
"Your son is adorable," she said.
"Thank you."
"Is that his first toy?"
"He has other toys. That's just—" Sakura paused. Smiled. "That's the first one he asked for."
The vendor's face softened. "That's special."
"Yeah," Sakura said. "It is."
They left the market. The crowd had thinned, the sun had risen higher, the heat was settling in. Kakashi walked beside her, Shin dozing against his chest, the penguin still clutched in his tiny fingers.
Sakura looked at them. At the two of them. At the three of them.
"Hey," she said.
Kakashi glanced at her. "What?"
"Nothing. Just—" She shook her head. "I'm glad we came."
"You wanted to stay home."
"I know. But I'm glad we came."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he shifted Shin slightly, adjusting his hold, and reached out to take her hand.
"Me too," he said.
They walked the rest of the way home in silence, the penguin between them, the morning stretched out ahead.
When they got back, Sakura put away the groceries while Kakashi tried to extract Shin from the penguin.
"Come on," he said. "You need a nap."
"No."
"You're tired."
"No."
"You're literally falling asleep standing up."
"No."
"Shin."
"PENGIN."
"Okay, fine. Pengin comes to the nap. Deal?"
Shin considered this. Then he nodded, once, solemnly, and allowed himself to be carried to the nursery.
Sakura watched them go. She stood in the kitchen, surrounded by bags of vegetables and fresh fish and the faint scent of lavender, and felt something expand in her chest.
Her camera hung around her neck. She'd taken twelve pictures today—twelve, maybe more. Shin's first word. Shin's first toy. Shin's first everything.
She pulled out the camera and scrolled through the shots. The market. The vendor. Kakashi's shocked face. Shin's joy.
And there, in the last photo she'd taken—a quick snap as they'd walked home—nothing but the back of Kakashi's head, Shin's small profile against his shoulder, and the penguin's stitched-on eye peering over the edge.
She'd frame that one. Put it on the wall.
Shin's first word.
Pengin.
Her son was a genius.
Her son was a genius.
Sakura said it out loud, standing alone in the kitchen, surrounded by groceries and the faint smell of lavender soap. She said it again, louder, just to hear it. "My son is a genius."
From the nursery, Kakashi's voice drifted through the door. "He's three months old."
"Four months."
"Four months. That's not old enough to be a genius."
"He said pengin. That's a two-syllable word. With a hard consonant."
"It's one syllable."
"It's two. Pen-gin. Two syllables."
"One and a half."
She threw a cucumber at the door. It thudded against the wood and fell to the floor.
"I'm keeping that," Kakashi called out. "Evidence of domestic abuse."
"You deserve it."
He appeared in the doorway, mask slightly askew, Shin asleep in his arms. The penguin was still clutched to their son's chest, its stitched-on eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.
"He wouldn't let go," Kakashi said. "I tried to put him down and he screamed."
"He's attached."
"He's obsessed."
"Same thing."
He walked over and sat at the kitchen table, careful not to jostle Shin. Sakura watched them—her husband, her son, the ridiculous stuffed bird wedged between them like a fourth member of the family.
"I took twelve pictures today," she said.
"I know. I heard the shutter."
"I'm going to frame the last one."
"The one of my head?"
"The one with both of you. And the penguin."
Kakashi made a noncommittal sound. But she saw the way his eye softened, just for a moment, before he looked away.
The first word became a floodgate.
Two days after pengin, Shin said "mama." Not on purpose, Sakura suspected—he was babbling while she changed his diaper, and the sound just fell out of his mouth. But she heard it. She heard it clear as day, an "mmmm" followed by an "ah," and she froze with the dirty diaper still in her hand.
"Mama," Shin said again.
She screamed.
Kakashi burst into the room, kunai in hand, ready to kill someone. He found Sakura standing over the changing table, crying, while Shin blew spit bubbles and looked pleased with himself.
"What happened?" Kakashi demanded. "Are you hurt? Is he hurt?"
"He said mama."
Kakashi lowered the kunai. "What?"
"He said mama. His second word. He said mama."
Kakashi looked at Shin. Shin looked at Kakashi. Then Shin smiled—that gummy, toothless smile—and said, "Pengin."
Kakashi's jaw tightened. "Of course."
"He's a mama's boy."
"He's a penguin's boy."
"Same thing."
Shin said "dada" three days later.
Sakura had been waiting for it. Watching. Listening. She'd noticed that Shin made different sounds for different things—a whine for hungry, a shriek for excited, a grunt for bored. He had a whole language, and she was decoding it one piece at a time.
But "dada" was different.
Kakashi was reading on the couch when it happened. Shin was on his play mat, surrounded by toys, the penguin never more than an arm's reach away. Sakura was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, her back to the living room.
"Dada," Shin said.
The book in Kakashi's hands went very still.
Sakura stopped chopping.
"Dada," Shin said again. More insistent this time.
She turned around. Kakashi was staring at Shin with an expression she couldn't quite read—something between shock and terror and something else. Something softer.
"He's talking to you," Sakura said.
"I know."
"Say something back."
Kakashi blinked. Looked at Shin. Looked at her. Looked back at Shin.
"Yes," he said. "That's me. I'm dada."
Shin beamed. "Dada."
"Okay. Okay, good. That's—good."
Sakura bit her lip to keep from laughing. She'd never seen Kakashi this flustered. Not during battles. Not during meetings with the Hokage. Not even when she'd told him she was pregnant.
"You're doing great," she said.
"Shut up."
"Dada."
"I swear to—"
"Dada, dada, dada—"
Shin was chanting now, bouncing on his play mat, delighted by the sound of his own voice. The penguin bounced with him, its beak flopping.
Kakashi buried his face in his book. But not before Sakura saw the smile he was trying to hide.
The next week was a parade of new sounds.
"Ba" became "ball." "Mmm" became "milk." "Nnnn" became "no"—which Shin discovered was the most powerful word in his arsenal.
"No," he said, pushing away a spoonful of mashed carrots.
Sakura held the spoon steady. "You need to eat."
"No."
"It's good for you."
"No."
"You liked carrots yesterday."
"No."
Kakashi watched from across the table, drinking his tea with exaggerated nonchalance. "He's got a point. They do look like baby food."
"They are baby food."
"Exactly."
Sakura shot him a withering look. He didn't flinch.
"No," Shin said again, more forcefully. He slapped the spoon away, sending carrots flying across the table and onto Kakashi's vest.
There was a moment of silence.
"Pengin," Shin added, as if that explained everything.
Kakashi wiped the carrots off his vest with two fingers. "He's learning negotiation tactics."
"He's learning how to be difficult."
"Same thing."
Sakura sighed. She set down the spoon and leaned back in her chair. Shin watched her, his green eyes wary, his hands already reaching for the penguin.
"Fine," she said. "No carrots."
"No," Shin agreed.
"But you're eating the rice."
Shin considered this. Then he nodded, once, and opened his mouth.
Sakura fed him the rice. Kakashi watched, still cleaning his vest, a faint smile playing at the corner of his eye.
The penguin went everywhere.
To the market. To the park. To the Hokage's office, where Shin sat on Kakashi's lap during a briefing and clutched it so tightly that Shikamaru asked, "Is that a weapon?"
"It's a penguin," Kakashi said.
"It looks dangerous."
"It is. You should see what happens when someone tries to take it."
Shikamaru raised an eyebrow. Then he looked at Shin, who was staring at him with the unblinking intensity of a predator. The penguin stared too.
"Noted," Shikamaru said. "I'll keep my distance."
Sakura took pictures. Hundreds of them. The camera was a permanent fixture now, hanging around her neck at all times, ready for whatever moment might come. She'd filled three albums in the past month—Shin sleeping, Shin laughing, Shin covered in rice, Shin with the penguin, Shin with Kakashi, Shin with the penguin and Kakashi.
The twig from the meadow still sat on the shelf.
She'd started a new shelf—the penguin shelf, she called it, though Kakashi rolled his eyes every time she said it. On it were other treasures: a leaf Shin had grabbed during a walk, a rock he'd found in the garden, a ribbon that had fallen from her hair. Small things. Ordinary things.
She kept them all.
"No," Shin said to his reflection in the mirror.
Sakura was holding him up so he could see himself. He stared at his double with suspicion, then reached out and slapped the glass.
"No," he said again, more firmly.
"That's you," Sakura told him. "That's your reflection."
"No."
"That's how mirrors work."
"No."
She gave up. He was eleven months old, sitting on the bathroom counter, surrounded by bottles of soap and shampoo. He had his father's hair and her eyes and a stubborn streak that came from somewhere she refused to acknowledge.
"Who taught you no?" she asked.
"You did," Kakashi said from the doorway. He was leaning against the frame, arms crossed, watching them with amusement. "Every time you tell him not to do something."
"That's not the same."
"It's exactly the same."
She wanted to argue. But Shin was now saying "no" to his own foot, and she couldn't help but laugh.
The first word hadn't been mama. It hadn't been dada. It hadn't been anything she'd expected—not that she'd known what to expect from a baby who spent his first four months staring at everything with intense fascination.
It had been pengin.
And if she was honest with herself, it made perfect sense.
Shin loved that penguin. He loved it with a ferocity that bordered on obsession. He took it everywhere, held it always, slept with it tucked under his chin. When she tried to wash it—the smell required it—he screamed for two hours straight and refused to eat until it was returned.
"It's a stuffed animal," Kakashi said during the second hour of screaming. "It's not alive."
"Don't tell him that. He'll never forgive you."
"You're indulging him."
"I'm surviving him. There's a difference."
The penguin came out of the wash slightly lighter, slightly fluffier, and smelling like lavender soap. Shin grabbed it, buried his face in it, and inhaled deeply.
"Pengin," he sighed.
Kakashi looked at Sakura. Sakura looked at Kakashi.
"We're in trouble," he said.
"I know."
"He's going to be one of those kids who talks to stuffed animals."
"He already does."
"I know. That's what worries me."
Sakura lifted Shin out of his high chair and carried him to the nursery. The penguin went with them. It always went with them.
She laid him down in the crib. He didn't fight it—he was tired, his eyelids drooping, his grip on the penguin slackening. She pulled the blanket up to his chin.
"Night night," she said.
"No," he murmured.
She smiled. "Okay. Night night."
"Dada," he said.
"Dada's in the living room. He'll come say goodnight."
"Pengin."
"Yes. Pengin."
He was asleep before she reached the door.
She found Kakashi on the couch, book in hand, a cup of tea on the table beside him. He looked up when she entered the room.
"Asleep?"
"Out cold."
"The penguin?"
"Firmly attached."
He nodded. Set his book aside. Held out his arm.
She sat down beside him, tucking herself against his side, her head on his shoulder. The evening light filtered through the window, soft and orange and fading.
"He said no today," she said. "Fourteen times."
"I counted sixteen."
"You were counting?"
"Someone has to."
She laughed. It was a quiet sound, tired and warm and full of something she couldn't quite name. She felt his arm tighten around her, his hand coming up to rest on her shoulder.
"I took a picture of it," she said.
"Of what?"
"Of no. He was saying no to my bedside clock. He looked so angry."
"You took a picture."
"Yes."
"Of him being angry."
"Yes."
"You realize our son is going to grow up surrounded by photos of himself in various states of distress."
"That's what baby books are for."
Kakashi sighed. But she felt him smile against her hair.
"Pengin," he said.
She elbowed him. He laughed.
In the nursery, Shin slept. The penguin slept with him. The world was quiet, and the night was deep, and somewhere in the village, another family was living through the same small miracles.
Sakura closed her eyes. Tomorrow there would be more words—more firsts, more discoveries, more reasons to take pictures and fill shelves with ordinary treasures. But tonight, this was enough. Tonight, she had everything she needed.
"Dada," she whispered into Kakashi's shoulder.
He snorted. "Don't start."
"Pengin."
"I'm leaving."
"No, you're not."
He didn't move. She hadn't expected him to.
They sat there as the light faded, wrapped in each other, listening to the quiet rhythm of their son breathing in the next room. The camera hung on the back of a chair, ready for tomorrow. The twig sat on the shelf, next to the penguin and the rock and the leaf and the ribbon.
Everything was changing. Faster than she could track, faster than she could capture in photos, faster than she wanted.
But it was changing toward something good. Something she'd never known she wanted.
Pengin.
She smiled into the dark.