Disclaimer; I don't own Bleach. Nuff said.
Comment; This is based loosely on a fanart of Hitsugaya holding onto Hinamori's hair ribbon and looking angsty.
It was all he had left of her.
His fingers ghosted over the thin band of silk hidden in his sleeves as he regarded the replacement three, five, nine trio coldly.
They stood apart from each other, and he couldn't help but hate them because it meant she was really gone. Had it been Abarai instead, maybe Kira wouldn't be edging away slightly, maybe Hisagi would have brought himself to smile slightly. After all, being a captain was an honour. But Abarai had turned the offer down, muttering something about wanting to beat Kuchiki-taichou at his own pace, and not be his damn equal just because there were gaps to fill.
But if he thought about it, she'd been dead before she was even asked. She'd died back then, wrapped protectively in white hospital sheets while he walked away with no words for her. If he really thought about it, she'd died before. Or maybe she'd died many times over, in small ways, when she'd been stabbed and left by her beloved captain, when she'd found him pinned to the wall, when she'd pointed Tobiume and Kira, at him, or even before all that. Maybe she'd died the day she became a shinigami, the day she left him to attend the academy. Either way, the her that had appeared before him while in the Living World had been her ghost. She had died because her innocence had.
It was that simple. This girl in front of him, white coat fitting so snugly and yet looking so out of place, hair shorter than he'd ever seen it and pulled back like Ise-fukutaichou's, face cold and smile so obviously fake, this girl wasn't her. Same name, same face, but there was something missing, something fundamentally Hinamori-esque that there was no way she was her and her she.
It bothered him. But he didn't let it show, bowing when needed, offering gruff congratulations. Watching them edge away from each other. If it had been her, if she hadn't died, it would have been fire. Fire, cleansing them and bringing all the captains together with a small smile. But the flame that burned behind this girls eyes was cold, a blue flame. A lonely flame.
It would no longer match the worn red ribbon he clutched so tightly, keeping it out of view from the other captains.
It was all he had left of her. But she had nothing left of him, and hadn't in a very long time.
He turned to leave. This self had nothing to say to someone that wasn't her.