DISCLAIMER: Characters Jackie Tristan and Renji Abarai belong to Tite Kubo! I'm just writing this because I'm a lifeless teenager bored at night 8D Please, excuse the grammar/spelling errors. ENJOY~! Oh quickie: I might just make this into a full length chapter story ; Depends what happens in the manga though. I need more info on her Dx What would you guys think, hm?
She wanted to fight, god knew she really did. Why then, if there was only that option, fight to a bloody end, couldn't she? His defense was down. The reddened hilt of his sword staring her in the face as he held her by his side. Just lift a hand, tightly grab onto it and slash. He'd drop her. She'd be rendered to the ground, true. But he'd have no blade, no protection. Yes, and maybe then she could win. Win like she'd plan to do. The very need of victory having burned in her veins after all.
So suddenly though, after he'd so effortlessly taken her blows, that need diminished and something inside…
snapped.
Heavy lids closed over her softened eyes. What had it been? Jackie's lips parted for a moment, her seemingly aching lungs drawing forth pained breaths. A tanned face though never wrinkled, never showing the defeat overcoming her body, the death that slowly grew inside.
What had it been? If she could muster enough breath she'd probably have laughed. This man, whatever his name had been, was … great.
A man that raises his hands on a woman is trash. If I have to become trash in order to survive, it'll be just like dying.
Yes. Any man could spit words and hide behind the nobility in their meaning. Jackie had met many who'd done just that. Cowards masked by vocabulary. This man though, when he'd finished the sentence, seemed almost detached. As if revisiting a certain time. One where he might have which been that trash. The trash that at some point lifted hands over a woman, hurt her in ways he shouldn't have. And then she could see a sort of hurt. Small, almost microscopic, but there and present in vermillion eyes.
For an instant she wondered. Who had he hurt? A lover? A friend? Another enemy? Before the thought could stretch on, her mind hung to the last word. Enemy. That's what he was, her enemy. Never would that change. Never could it change. Not when death was so clear in her sights. This, though, was best. If she'd survived this fight, had ravaged his life for her own, she would have never been able to cope with the guilt. Because somehow she just knew there'd be guilt. And lots, loads, of it. So it was she'd rather discard her own breath before his. In the end, she was real trash after all. No, not even that. She was dirt, filth. If anything her very power proved it. Dirty boots. Dirty… like her.
A smile, small in length, crept over pinked lips.
"If only I was saved… by someone like you."
If only I could've known you better, red.
Realization crossed a tattooed face. Here was a stranger, a female he barely knew, willing to give her own heart beat for his? How, why? Hell she wasn't just a stranger, but an enemy. One he was told to put down at all cost. Yet despite that, she'd sacrifice something as precious as life… Where was the logic here? Was there something he was missing? There had to have been a piece, a picture he just wasn't seeing. Because how was it that a foe would show such concern, go to such lengths, resort to very death, when his own closest friend could barely care when he's injured. Could barely call his name like she did his…
"You…"
A calloused grip tightened considerably on her frame, almost as if withholding her from death itself.
Can't, don't.
Before words could construct, be said, an explosion rattled and blasted.
Yet neither could hear a thing, feel a thing. Just their insides screaming. Hers for his, his for hers.