Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Tite Kubo: the genius behind the captivating manga that started it all. I only own any of my original characters that I choose to include, as well as any of my own original plot ideas.
Open For Our Marks
Everything she believed was contradicted, possibly rendered a lie, by nothing more a single thought laid bare upon the table.
She loved winter, the way the world seemed to be assaulted by pieces of the sky. White flakes, cold to the touch, but with a pleasing view that warmed the heart. But hers was lost, confused by all this, unable to acknowledge that which had once been so lovely to her eye.
It wasn't beauty that she needed to find, but clarity.
These ethics, these ideals, had been present for as long as she'd been given tangible form, swimming briskly about in her head at all hours of the day. They were certainly a constant, quiet barrier that manifested with force when questionable situations had been placed before her. But, given who she was and what she held dear, she had responded in one way each time: If it went against what she believed, then she couldn't go through with it.
That's all there was to it.
This thought, however, that of the unexpected trench in which she found herself, appeared to be the exception. But there weren't supposed to be exceptions, no matter how small. As if this attraction could be even be called such. In fact, it was likely the biggest mistake she'd made; the biggest she ever could make. Yet, she couldn't find the means to back out. In some strange way, it had grown on her, a permanent, inky stain on that which had once been clean.
It all violated the moral code by which she had sworn herself to live.
But she didn't detest that stain at all. Quite the contrary. Though it was hypothetical, this mark, it still had a very real and physical form, the likes of which she loved very much to see. She embraced it, despite everything, even the way the idea occasionally made her stomach churn.
It would terrify her, the way she moved, even breathed, drawn in by the pull as if her body were subject to a greater force. It had been the possibility of helplessness that had shocked her right out of her skin the first time, fearing that she would be grounded, even broken, by this.
The sensation, the delight, had been enough to change her mind.
Still, the moments in which she was alone, unable to return to that elation, was when she questioned it the most. It was a mistake, that much was certain, but how badly did she want to get away? Nights would be spent on this single inquiry, all rationality screaming that it would be best to end it.
But it seemed to give her more meaning, and she couldn't easily walk away from that. It gave her a new definition; one that soared beyond her title, her position as a captain and a healer. It made her feel like she had more to offer than just kind words, advice, and aid. It proved that she was capable of an extreme that no one could have anticipated.
She could take something broken, something more than bodies, and teach it to feel.
There had been a time when she'd believed those words, easily slapping labels upon that which she hadn't once sought to understand. Demented, hopeless, even mad. It haunted her, a phantom in the storm, to know that she'd passively taken part in that. It wasn't as if she'd been one to say such things, but doing nothing was the same as participating in the sin. Perhaps that's why she still felt that guilt, even after accepting everything that was.
Cold nights like this, when the ice would freeze over panes of glass, were her favorite. Yes, she'd tremble, skin taking a great dislike to the nippy air, but it was just another excuse to indulge. Another time, complete with feigned logic, that would push her back to the moments that sent all that doubt away.
She'd always had a fondness for ice. The way it took so many shapes, only to return to the truth of what it was: Water. She saw that in him during their nights together. It wouldn't take long, as the anticipation and fear would override whatever cool, insouciant façade he'd start out with. Somewhere between a lingering touch and heated passion would it melt, giving her the satisfaction of knowing it wasn't meaningless.
She'd do as she pleased, the surprise of his reaction always coming back. He'd freeze up, recoiling from the slightest touch. Had she not known better, she would have believed that he hated it, her presence. But she'd learned how to read that some time ago, when the sky was still warm and the leaves still alive and green. It wasn't hatred, just a lack of understanding.
But, she supposed, that was why she was here. To teach him something he couldn't learn alone.