Chapter Text
Sakura Haruno had been Hokage for exactly twenty-one days when she realized peace was a scam.
War had at least been honest. War told you when it was coming. War didn’t hide behind polite smiles and phrases like “inter-village cooperation.”
Peace sent paperwork.
Everyone assumed Naruto would become Hokage.
Naruto disagreed.
He looked at the hat. Looked at the village. Looked at Sasuke, who had already turned away like the decision had been made weeks ago.
“Nah,” Naruto said. “I wanna travel.”
And then—miraculously, catastrophically—he left. With Sasuke. Together. Not together together, obviously. That would require communication. But together enough that no one with functional eyes was fooled.
Kakashi stayed Hokage longer than intended. Tsunade drank more than usual. The elders began aging in real time.
Eventually, Kakashi retired, smiling like a man escaping a curse.
Sakura Haruno became the Seventh Hokage.
It made sense. Which made people nervous.
She was Tsunade’s apprentice. Kakashi’s student. A war hero. A medic who had rebuilt bodies and strategies in the same breath.
Also—critically—she read things.
Which was how she discovered the shinobi alliance was being held together by verbal agreements, outdated scrolls, and something best described as collective optimism.
Sakura fixed it.
She restructured the alliance. Introduced documentation. Defined chains of command. Standardized emergency responses.
No vibes. No assumptions. No “we’ll figure it out.”
If peace was going to last, it was going to be regulated.
The villages reacted predictably.
The Cloud complained loudly.
The Stone complained quietly.
The Mist claimed they’d already been doing this.
The Sand complied.
Immediately.
Suspiciously.
Gaara remained Kazekage, calm and unbothered. Sunagakure ran like a well-oiled machine. Ino Yamanaka lived there now, happily embedded in Sand life and in Gaara’s space, sending Sakura letters that were seventy percent emotional updates and thirty percent ominous hints.
Gaara’s right-hand is scary but efficient lol
You’d like him. Maybe. Actually no you wouldn’t.
Sakura ignored that part.
She was busy.
Which was why, exactly two weeks after the last Sand delegation left Konoha, she was mid-signature on a budget request when Temari’s voice snapped through the office.
“Hokage-sama. Delegation from Suna just arrived.”
Sakura froze.
Slowly, she looked up.
“…Huh?”
Temari stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression neutral in the way that meant brace yourself.
“They’re here.”
Sakura blinked.
“Again?!”
“Yes.”
“I SAW THEM TWO WEEKS AGO.”
Temari shrugged. “Time passes.”
Sakura leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling like it might provide divine intervention.
I swear the Kazekage has some sort of agenda, she thought. And it involves testing my will to live.
She stood, smoothing her sleeves—red qipao-style tunic, high neck, keyhole cut, black obi firm at her waist. One bell sleeve grey-pink, the other red. Mesh hugged her arm and traced down one leg. Black shorts, leg warmers, doll shoes.
She looked composed.
She felt hunted.
“Fine,” Sakura said. “Send them in.”
The doors opened.
Sand entered the room before the man did.
Sasori stepped inside like this was an extension of Suna’s administrative wing. Not a Kage—no robes, no formal mantle—but the authority sat on him anyway. Ninja tape wrapped his arms to the biceps, practical and clean. A darker green flak vest with flared shoulders, navy pants, boots dusted faintly with desert sand.
A white keffiyeh draped loose over his head, no band holding it in place. It stayed because it wanted to.
He carried a stack of folders that made Sakura’s soul leave her body.
His eyes met hers.
“Missed you too, Hokage-sama.”
Sakura’s smile strained.
Don’t tell me they’ve sent this grumpy old man again.
Out loud, she said, “Why are you getting assigned all these missions to Konoha?”
Sasori adjusted the stack slightly, unbothered.
“I’m efficient.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is,” he said calmly, “the reason.”
She pointed at the paperwork.
“Could you just send it by post?”
He glanced down, then back up.
“I doubt any bird could carry this amount of paperwork.”
Sakura pinched the bridge of her nose.
Has the Kazekage gone mad sending me all of these?!
She dropped into her chair like gravity had finally won.
“This feels personal.”
Sasori’s expression didn’t change, but something sharp flickered behind his eyes.
“Wasn’t it your idea,” he asked mildly, “to restructure the alliance and introduce more documentation, Hokage-sama?”
The silence was immediate.
Violent.
Sakura opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“…It—”
It was, her brain finished, collapsing theatrically. This is karma. This is consequences.
Temari, behind her, made a sound that could generously be described as a cough.
Sasori set the folders down.
The desk made a noise. A warning.
He looked… satisfied. Not smug. Worse.
Vindicated.
“…Sit,” Sakura muttered.
He did.
And just like that, the Hokage of the Leaf found herself exactly where she did not want to be—across a desk from the Sand’s most relentless problem-solver, buried under paperwork she had technically asked for.
They worked.
Clause by clause. Annotation by annotation.
Sakura pushed back. Sasori adjusted. She corrected a section. He accepted it without comment.
Efficient. Focused. Quiet.
Too quiet.
At one point, Sakura leaned back and muttered, “You enjoy this.”
“I tolerate it,” he replied. “Which is more than most.”
She glanced sideways at Temari and whispered, “Grumpy old man.”
Temari bit her lip.
Sasori’s eyes lifted.
“Is there an issue.”
Sakura smiled sweetly. “Nope.”
They finished an hour later.
Sakura signed the final page.
“There,” she said. “Approved.”
Sasori stood, gathering the documents.
“I’ll report back to the Kazekage.”
“…You’re leaving,” Sakura said, hopeful.
“For now.”
Her eye twitched.
He inclined his head once and turned to go.
At the door, he paused.
“Your system works,” he said. “Annoying. But effective.”
Then he left.
The doors closed.
Sakura sagged in her chair.
Temari looked at her.
“…He’s coming back.”
“I know,” Sakura said tiredly.
“And?”
Sakura stared at the ceiling.
“…I hate that this is my fault.”
Temari smiled.
“Welcome to leadership.”
And somewhere between sand and ink, the war had simply learned to speak politely.