A/N: I have no idea where this came from, but it wanted to be written…so I wrote it. Read and Review, but no flames please.
Warnings: Violence, Angst, impl. Sexual abuse of a child, and Suicide (Attempt)
His appearance screams 'look at me'—triplicate scars and the boldly suggestive tattoo on his face (he guards its true meaning and lets them think what they will), the blue gray stripe that could be ink or bandage but either way draws the eye, collar and armbands banding biceps and throat (he guards the secret of their functionality and lets them think what they will)—but his demeanor is calm and composed, the very picture of a devoted and dutiful fukutaicho of the Gotei 13.
Decades of careful construction (shading and nuance and tiny, unimportant little details), years of perfecting each and every layer to protect what lie at his very center (shattered heart and sundered soul, an aching, clawing grief that never ceased, not for one moment of these past hundred years) from their lying eyes and condemning minds.
He gave them the illusion they expected, never once revealing what lay at his core.
He pushed aside memories of cold hands and sharp surgical instruments, hot breath on his cheek and silken whispers in his ear calling him a 'good boy' while his child's body shivered with the bright tearing pain; he suppressed his nature to follow the 'path of justice' and shunted aside his zanpakuto's lust for bloodshed, balled it tight and let it burn icy-hot within him, until he felt a tear and his Inner World contained two instead of one.
He lost himself in his chosen role, to the point he forgot what they had done…
Until he had shown up with the others, ghosts a century gone that had sent the lie to crumbling, and he remembered.
The raw hurt inside exploded outwards, sent him soaring from the rubble to destroy the monster he had once served while the memories took him and sent his conscious mind spinning far away…
A child's fury melded with a man's strength.
Grief and hatred.
Green eyes glinting black and gold.
Pale golden skin leeched of color.
Tousen's blood on his face, his hands, soaking into his tattered uniform.
Yamamoto falling.
Aizen changing, the Hōgyoku embedded in his center warping reality and responding to the would-be god's whim.
The fabric of the sky tearing, and Aizen and Gin escaping.
He lay panting on the rooftop, his blood mingling with his ex-captain's, struggling to control that which lived inside him.
For him the battle was over.
The War was over.
The fate of Soul Society—whether they won or lost—was not his concern.
He had seen justice done.
Had seen the lie shattered.
It was enough.
Inside him the raging blizzard had calmed, soft flakes falling lazily from the midnight sky as Kazeshini and his Hollow purred contentedly from the ruins.
His zanpakuto (the sword, not the spirit) was within reach, the wrapped hilt rough against his fingertips as he teased the weapon into his hand.
A rough, uncoordinated swipe of the blade against a miraculously blood-free stretch of his uniform cleaned Tousen's blood from shining steel, and he struggled up to his knees, firming his grip on the hilt with both hands and setting the point against his breast.
His purpose was finished…
A booted foot kicked the blade spinning away among the rubble, a gloved hand fisted in the front of his torn shihakushou and hauled him upright to meet hard amber eyes.
"I didn't save your life a hundred years ago just to have to throw it away now, brat."
And for the first time in a century, Shuuhei felt the corner of his mouth twitch upwards in a smile.
"Hai, Taicho."