A/N – More shorts, rejoice! Pairings are to be determined, depends on how I feel as they go. Also, Hitsugaya will be a constant throughout; other characters will come and go – that's more as a challenge to myself – keeping him involved.

I own nothing, blahblah. Prompts come from SilverEmerald-DAS on DA.

Also – spewing out as many words as I can for NaNoWriMo.


Blood

He slumped against the wall of the shower, letting the nearly scalding water course over his still-tense shoulders. He was nearly crusted in dried blood and dirt, and it coming loose hurt even more than some of the original injuries. That was one of the benefits of fighting with razor-sharp Zanpakutō at least, he mused randomly as he shoved himself into a more upright position.

One of the problems though, especially his own affinity for ice, was that his injuries would freeze and clot. Handy on the battlefield. Exceedingly painful when it time to scrape the grime off.

He rest his forehead on the shower wall, braced by a hand. The other clenched spasmatically at his side as the ice quickly thawed, dropping off to finish dissolving on the shower floor.

Then the blood began to flow.

He began shivering uncontrollably, clenching his eyes against the sight of the rivulets of swirling red puddling beneath him. He retched once, twice, from the pain, then slumped again into the wall of the shower. He slid down, leaving a momentary trail of red smeared downwards in his wake.


Ichigo pushed open the shower door carefully, keeping his eyes down and averted for the safety of his friend's modesty. Toshiro hadn't answered his knocking or his calls, and out of concern he now came looking.

"Good grief."

He scrambled forward, grabbing a towel, landing on his knees on the side of the tub. The short taichou slumped forward against the wall of the stall, red streaking through his otherwise silver hair. His eyes were open, unfocused off on some distant object only he could see, unaware that he was turning the water icey around him.

Ichigo sighed as he carefully wrapped the towel around him loosely. The snarky voice in the back of his mind giggled. At least you stopped keeping white towels in the bathroom. Saves a lot of replacement costs.

He suppressed a growl, despite the truth behind the words. That was neither here nor there at the moment.

The blood seemed to have actively stopped flowing from the now-defrosted wounds, and Ichigo was left wondering his next step. Dried blood was still knotted into the smaller man's hair, and he suspected Toshiro wouldn't appreciate waking up with it still there. Another sigh, and he reached for his bottle of shampoo.

Little bastard had best appreciate this, his other half groused as he worked the lather up.


It took three repetitions, but he finally had the silver hair free of anything that didn't belong in it. After snagging another towel and getting the semi-conscious taichou on his feet, Ichigo debated. If Toshiro ever found out that he had been carried bridal-style into a bedroom, he was a dead man.

Oh hell.

Deciding that there were easier (and less painful) ways to commit suicide, Ichigo instead just pushed Toshiro in the general direction of his bed. He had no problem sleeping on the pullout futon for a few nights if need be. With the amount of blood that had been lost, it would probably be the better idea to keep an eye on him.


Nothing would ever be said aloud about the nightmares Toshiro had that night, nor how the pair sat up into the wee hours of the next morning, talking of those whose blood Toshiro had come back drenched in. Nothing would ever be said of Toshiro breaking down as he relieved the death of his third-seated officer, or how he could still see his body dropping like a stone as his head and arm went in a different direction.

Ichigo knew. He had blood on his own hands.