Characters: Rangiku, Nemu
Summary: In which Nemu is need in "education" and Rangiku has her work cut out for her.
Pairings: None
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Timeline: None needed
Author's Note: This is not crack. Okay, maybe it is a little bit, but it's not meant to be interpreted as humor.
Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach.
"Matsumoto-fukutaicho, may I speak with you?"
Rangiku shrugs as she flips through her magazine—she's sitting under a tree, long legs stretched out, one flipped over the other, and Nemu's blocking the light just a little bit—, not deigning to make eye contact with Nemu, who is kneeling, hands on thighs, just off to her right. "Sure. I've got plenty of time."
Nemu's dark head dips very slightly in a nod. Her emerald gaze falters, falling from the side of Rangiku's face to her own hands, spread out on her legs. "I have a…" she hesitates "…favor to ask of you. I would ask Ise-fukutaicho, but I suspect that she would find the conversation considerably more uncomfortable than you."
The blonde sighs, guessing that she's not going to find a great deal more time to be reading her magazine and flipping it over on her knee so the spine faces upwards. She cocks her head at Nemu who, somewhat unwillingly, forces herself to meet her gaze. "What's up, Nemu?"
For a minute and a half, give or take a few seconds, Nemu doesn't respond and leaves Rangiku convinced (though she says nothing and gives Nemu time; these sorts of long, awkward silences are pretty common with her) that she won't answer and the stunted conversation will end here. But finally, Nemu draws a breath that makes her nostrils flare and blinks, the blankness strangely forced, at Rangiku.
"I have already received ample information and instruction on this topic from Mayuri-sama," Nemu informs her, clinical yet strangely uncomfortable, "but I suspect that Mayuri-sama's guidance will not be entirely sufficient in this matter. I come to you in the hopes that an independent viewpoint will, perhaps, be more instructional."
Rangiku stares, open-mouthed at her, for a moment. The dappled light, shining in spurts through the wide leaves of the tree they sit under, does Nemu no favors, highlighting the thick layers of foundation—Rangiku can always tell when another woman is wearing makeup; she's never needed any, personally—on Nemu's cheeks, done a little less masterfully than usual. Then, ice blue eyes narrow.
"This is about sex, isn't it?"
Nemu nods wordlessly, looking away, and Rangiku thinks to herself that this comes as no surprise. Mayuri has a less than savory reputation around Seireitei for many things, and this is one of them.
"Okay." Rangiku's tone is matter-of-fact and bluntly direct as she, with a decidedly grim look on her face, stares Nemu down. "Why don't you tell me what your father told you, exactly?"
Nemu does.
Rangiku gets through about half of it before she has to hold up her hand to cut the younger girl off. "Okay, okay! I get it." She does. She gets it all too well. Trust Mayuri to impart his sick and deviant ideas on sex to his innocent, impressionable daughter. And probably did more than that too, not that anyone could ever prove it.
Beneath her foundation, Nemu's cheeks probably tinge rosy pink right about now as she attempts to get up. "Forgive me, Matsumoto-fukutaicho. I can see that this causes you discomfort. I will ask one of the Fourth division…"
Just as Nemu is about to get to her feet, Rangiku grabs her wrist and pulls her back down onto the grass, frowning. "Oh, no, Nemu. This is not one of the things you need to hear from the medics, not if you have other options."
Green eyes, wide open, stare at her face as Nemu nods soundlessly.
Rangiku lets her head loll back on the tree trunk as she looks away from Nemu. "That bastard," she mutters darkly, mouth souring. Mayuri has left her one serious mess to clean up; she can see she has her work cut out for her.
Well, it probably is a good idea she didn't go to Nanao about this. Little Miss Uptight is so repressed that she'd probably pass out from embarrassment halfway through the conversation. I refuse to scrape Nanao up off the floor if that happens.
Nemu, silent, waits for Rangiku's answer. She's like a small child, almost, and it makes Rangiku even more apprehensive about this than she would have been otherwise. Her manicured fingers twitch at the grass.
And Rangiku finds herself weighing her options.
Hell, this is gonna be one awkward conversation. She looks at Nemu out of the corner of her eye, a little nervous. Why the hell does her father have to be such a deviant? He's supposed to be the responsible authority figure in her life she's to go to for things like this, not me!
But who's she going to go to next if I don't say something? Nemu's like a little sponge; she's infected enough already by Daddy Dearest's sadomasochistic tendencies. It'll always affect her, but someone who doesn't handle this right could make it even worse. Rangiku's dilemma is simple. She knows she's in for a mess if she ends up handling this; Nemu's preconceptions will stay with her for the rest of her life. But someone mishandling this could, indeed, make it even worse, and Rangiku's conscience, though often sleeping, wouldn't leave her alone in this case.
She sighs wearily in resignation.
"Okay, I'll do it."
They both find themselves brushing off stray stalks of grass as they stand. Nemu looks at the older woman, face back to its usual blankness. "Do you want to talk about this later, or—"
"No. This can't wait." Rangiku manages to smile wanly at her friend, feeling tendrils of cold nervousness whip through her. "But why don't we go somewhere more private? No one will bother us in my quarter? We can talk there."