Disclaimer; Don't own Bleach. I think you know that by now.
She loved his hands.
More than that smile, more than the words he would say; it had been his hands. At first, patting her reassuringly on the head. Then, as she worked, trained, and studied under him, they had been guiding. Instructing her on how better to hold her zanpakuto, how to stand, how to bow just the way he liked. His hands taught her how to fill in her forms to his standards. And his hands had helped her stand countless times.
She had found herself reaching for those hands so many times, to comfort her, to guide her, to learn from.
It started slowly, this love of hers. It was small, fragile, but it held fast, making him into everything she ever wanted.
Especially those hands.
Hands that had held her and blade.
Hands that had comforted her when she thought all was lost, when she was confused, when he had shown himself to be alive, told her of his plan and his reasons and apologised for hurting her so.
She sat alone, in the dark, without those hands to guide and hold her now. Those hands had fooled her in their warmth, just as his smile, his eyes, he had. She no longer had them to reach for, to believe in.
She grinned in the darkness; her own, small hands straying to the zanpakuto at her side, fingers ghosting over the hilt.
She wanted to cut those hands of his off.