Disclaimer: Bleach and its characters belong to Kubo Tite. The title of this oneshot comes from the song by Florence + The Machine.
Hope you enjoy :)
i.
And then she'd left.
It didn't stop a part of him from waiting though. Waiting. Wondering. Hoping. One always fed into the next and he would often be suddenly awoken by his own imagination in the dark early hours of morning. If he had to be completely honest with himself, he would mutter that it was 'just a stupid dream' and roll over to face away from the open bedroom window. Another part of him would listen: for a telltale creak on the floorboards, the slide of the closet door, the sound of her breath in the dark. Anything at all.
Sometimes, he'd return to that night in the rain. It had become an unfortunate little tic of his in the days that followed. The look on her face would flash before his eyes with the clash of sword against sword during his training and something like lightning rippled through him, something white-hot and electric that left him cold when she looked away.
He would often wake with his arms around himself, swearing.
ii.
He wondered if this was the point at which he was supposed to do something.
Everything seemed perfectly in place: they were alone for a change, the setting sun casting a warm glow over the deep purple of her yutaka. Looking at her face, he knew there weren't going to be any tears. At least.
Good. This was good.
He supposed that he ought to smile, so he did. It felt weird, but it would be the right thing to do in this situation.
Hell, he had no idea how if this was how it went outside of the movies.
So he'd waved goodbye and turned away, wondering if she would know any better.
iii.
"… is dead."
The electric jolt returned, scorched with fear.
"She is no longer among the living."
NONONONONONONONO –
He was already moving when the Espada asked, "Where are you going?"
"To save her."
Things didn't go as planned from then on. The battles had piled on, the injuries multiplied. He knew he had to stay on track. He'd come here to save a friend, after all. He'd fight for all his friends, even if it came right down to the wire. Even if the bitter end was nowhere in sight.
He would not lose track. He would not lose anyone. He would not lose, he would not lose, he would not lose, hewouldnotlosehewouldnotlose –
She met him on the edge of a grey sand-dune, eyes locked on his. He couldn't lose track yet; there was a war yet to begin after all. She was here now and he was glad for that. Thankful, even as he turned his back to her, returning to the present impending chaos. She called out his name and he still felt the current, less so but just as much a part of him as…
Was it really so bad a time to admit it? That his foes hadn't been wrong when they'd called him weak, that he'd been cursed with a steadfast heart that clung too tight to his childhood memories of love and other losses. For a moment, he caught himself off-guard with a question he didn't want to ask, one that struck the same nerve that ached when he thought about the last time he'd said goodbye. Would he be wrong if he – against any semblance of good reason – thought it right?
I'm glad you're okay, he said without a word to her.
So am I, she replied in a glance. I'm glad you're okay too.
iv.
The pain truly kicked in once she'd gone forever. For once, he tried to recollect the day they'd laid his mother to rest, trying to get through the motions in a swift, sharp pull of the heart. It didn't seem fair to either of them that he was struggling as much as he did, but that seemed to be the point of life.
"Well, y'know, what doesn't kill you…"
It was the dumbest thing he'd heard of: resignation wasn't strength. Neither was inertia, but it wasn't like he'd never thought of the future before. It was just that he hadn't paused to reflect that it would really come down to mopping up overflowing wounds, setting bones back into place, stitching torn flesh closed, and waiting around for the uncomfortably familiar wail of the local ambulance. Inoue might have had a point when she'd touched on the oddity of his first choice of a career in healing. He'd corrected her, saying it was 'medicine', and she'd grown apologetic, assuring him the slip hadn't been altogether Fraudian (Ishida gently commented that the word was 'Freudian' and she smiled back, thanking him, much to the raised eyebrows of their lunchtime table-group).
The Substitute Badge was more of a memento than an implement now. Didn't stop him from the occasional moment though, the ones which prickled down the back of his neck and made him reach into his pocket at the slightest sense of trouble ahead. Usually came with the occasional glance from a tiny, dark-haired girl who turned out to be just another fresher lost on campus. Sometimes it was only the rustle of black cloth in the twilight shade, but only a scrap of lost handkerchief fluttering in the wind come morning light.
He felt a bit numb on his better days and Yuzu would often try to fix it with a spoonful of piping hot soup in the evenings or a plate of steaming braised pork when she thought he looked particularly 'off'. The heat boiled right down to his belly as he lay on his bed, back straight on the mattress, hands behind his head, eyes straying to the closet full of old jackets and winter shoes until they closed under the exhaustion of waiting.
He guessed he would be okay. It had only been a year.
v.
And then there was light.
In a quieter moment, he would later insist to her that hell no, he hadn't been crying. It hadn't been anything. Nothing save for an admittedly well-timed stab to the chest. He wanted to wipe the smirk off her face with an armful of impulse. Maybe even two.
The look on his face when she'd delivered the fateful strike was what goaded her, he suspected. She'd probably thrown in the kick to the face for good measure when the waterworks had set off. Things escalated quickly past the point of him regaining his powers and it should have felt cozier to fall back into their old routine, like nothing had ever changed between their last first meeting and this 'cute little reunion' as Kisuke dubbed it (complete with none-too-affectionate tap to the head, 'just for old time's sake, eh?').
Something did feel off though; he wasn't sure if he hated it.
That the not-entirely-unpleasant flutter in a newly-found cavity of his chest did not go unnoticed by him gave pause for thought. It was a cool spring evening hung over the Kuchiki grounds and the scent of cherry-blossoms mingling with the earthy steam wafting over their cups of tea almost put his wandering mind blissfully at ease.
It was the stupid way their gazes just happened to drift away and meet through it all that did him in.
To her credit, her getaway plan was suspect enough: the blunt cut now framing her face did a shitty job at hiding the blush which had bloomed over cheeks stuffed full with a clumsy, mumbled, off-the-cuff 'Ikindamisssedyousorta'. She snatched the half-full cup from him, on pretense that it was really half-empty and she'd better go ransack the kitchen for a refill, steaming tea-pot at her elbow notwithstanding. Women were a strange sort.
He did remain beneath the cherry trees far longer than he needed to, hoping for an answer. Kinda.
They would meet again in the morning though and that thought alone was enough to keep him warm after Byakuya had personally saw fit to chase him off the grounds. The berth in the closest felt as hollow as before, but only because he cleared out a wide-enough space just in case.
vi.
The pattern reemerged: they met at the onslaught of danger, weaved their merry way in and out of impending doom, taking the occasional sarcastic verbal swipe at each other to keep the gloom at bay. Making jabs at the lack of training on his part seemed to have become a particular favorite mission of hers. He let most of them pass; he more than made up for it in the real battles. Seeing that smile of hers beam across from a skirmish was not something he felt he could take lightly from now on. On the other hand, he couldn't figure out how this would end. After the past few years, the plot-twists his life had run into made him yearn for real answers. Not even a clear one, but anything that would settle the uneasiness when it came to the question of him, her, and the future ahead of them.
But somewhere above them, the moon was rising. From his side of the bed, he noted the clear-cut angle where her neck met collar-bone, a markedly pristine white rivet of skin. Despite the obvious not-at-all-pervertedness of their setting, he was glad he… they… they had this moment to themselves.
It felt… all right. Not yet whole, but he wondered if this was the right hour for things to return full-circle: a quiet night and a strange figure at his window, several questions settling into the silence punctuated by her soft snores. He didn't have the heart to wake her. Just yet.
He shifted slightly to quell the muscle-ache that reemerged with his Shinigami habits. He forgot that his bed was still made for one and was soon confronted with an armful of sleeping Rukia that replaced the numbness that had come from collapsing back-to-back on a narrow mattress after a brief, far-from-romantic tussle with a dual-faced Hollow just a block east of his street. He struggled briefly with the idea of a firm nudge to her head to remind her – and himself – of where they stood, but…
It'd been a long night. He closed his eyes.
For now, he would consider this a victory.