Fathers
By Katie
Disclaimer:
Ishida Souken and Ishida Ryuuken belong to Tite Kubo.
"Father." Ishida Souken looked up from his washing at the stern face of his only son. When had Ryuuken become so cold? he wondered.
"Hello, Ryuuken," he said kindly, rising to his feet and drying his hands on his pants. "What brings you here on this lovely day?" Was it just his imagination, or did his son's expression become even more harsh at the friendly words?
"You know why I am here, Father," he said coldly.
"Did you want me to babysit young Uryuu again?" Souken asked. "Your practice must be going very well indeed to keep you so busy." If there was the barest hint of a scold in that last sentence, it was unintentional.
"Enough of your games!" Ryuuken snapped. "When I asked you to take care of my son while I was at work, that did not include teaching him the craft of the Quincy!"
"How else is the boy to spend his days?" Souken asked reasonably. "Watching television? The boy has too fine a mind to ruin in such a fashion. Besides," he added, taking the wet clothes and beginning to hang them on the line, "he has talent. More talent than I ever possessed." More talent than you ever possessed, either, though not by much.
"The Quincy are a dead breed," Ryuuken said. "His mind has better things to occupy itself with than arts that are long since useless!"
"The Quincy art will never be useless, so long as Hollows plague the earth," Souken responded. To that, Ryuuken snarled quietly, clenching his fists. Any other would not have been able to detect the rage in the stoic man, but Souken was his father, and knew his son better than Ryuuken would have liked to admit.
"Leave the Hollows to the Shinigami," he said. "That is their task."
"What then, is our task?" Souken asked.
"To survive."
Souken let out a heavy breath, his hands still and unmoving on the clothesline.
"To survive," he said quietly. "Why else do you think we Quincy fight?"
"The world has changed, Father, and you refuse to see it!" The edges of Ryuuken's stoic facade were crumbling, breaking down under the pressure of pent-up anger. "This is not the age of samurai and nobility! We cannot hunt for what we need! We need to work! Honest work, human work."
"Are you saying that spirits are not human?" Souken asked quietly.
Ryuuken snorted.
"Let the dead care for the dead," he said. "It's time we were concerned with the living."
"Aah," Souken said, smiling faintly. "But what does it mean to be alive?" Another brick in his son's facade fell; the boy had always hated Souken's penchant for questions. He had never appreciated the Socratic method of teaching.
"I don't want you teaching my son the craft of the Quincy," Ryuuken repeated coldly. "That is all I have to say." Furious, he spun on his heel and stormed away from the house. Only then did Souken muster the strength to turn from the laundry and watch his son as he left.
When had Ryuuken become so angry? He had never been a cheerful child, but he had never been full of fury either. Had a childhood of paltry meals and hand-me-down clothing really scarred him that much? Young as he was for a father, Ryuuken was far past the age where Souken could continue explaining his son's anger as teenage rebellion.
Did Ryuuken really hate him?
Souken sighed, shaking his head. What's done is done, he told himself. Allow Ryuuken his anger. Just as long as the tradition lives on in young Uryuu... That would have to be enough.
