Orochimaru had barely woken up enough to be sure where he was - quiet, calm, smelltaste of ink and paper and steel; a study but not his mother's - when warm hands brushed over his arm and shoulder.

"Oh, come here, snakelet," Madara soothed, and Orochimaru curled up tight, sniffling, as Madara lifted Orochimaru into his lap and rocked him, "I'm sorry."

Orochimaru soaked up the offered warmth and comfort, but- "I miss my Mama." he confided into Madara's chest, turning his face into Madara's shirt and trying not to remember being handed his mother's hitai-ate, thick with the smelltaste of blood and fear and venom.