Characters: Ryuuken, Uryuu, Orihime
Summary: Judgment is passed by one who should not judge.
Pairings: Ishida x Orihime
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Timeline: Post-manga
Author's Note: This is the third in a "series" of oneshots, of sorts. The first was Castles in the Air, the second was Afflict, and there will be another one after this, but that will be the last one.
Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach.
He looks smaller now, even though he shouldn't; Ryuuken supposes that narrowly averted exsanguination can have that affect on people, especially his son in his eyes. Uryuu's already pale skin has gone chalky-white with pale powder blue undertones, back to the overtly sickly tones of his childhood; the shadows of his hollow cheeks seem somehow more prominent now.
Uryuu has fallen into a light, fitful sleep, sinking into the thin mattress of a standard-issue hospital bed like he's used to falling asleep in a strange bed, and all desire to snap at or berate him flies out of Ryuuken when he sees he's sleeping, glasses askew and sliding down the bridge of his nose.
Uryuu still looks like a child when he's sleeping.
Ryuuken leans over and gently pulls his son's glasses off of his face, sighing. "How often do you find yourself in this position, I wonder? Do you ever think of your own safety? Do you even care?" The glasses go down with a muted clink on the stand near the bed and, predictably, Uryuu doesn't answer. Ryuuken doesn't know why he so often finds himself expecting the sleeping, blind and deaf, to talk to him.
A flash of burnished reddish-brown catches Ryuuken's eye from the hall, and his mouth tightens in anger cold and fierce. "You are such a fool, Uryuu," he mutters. Orihime, arms wrapped around her thin torso, stares worriedly into the room, though she says nothing and makes no move to enter. "About a great many things."
She shouldn't interject herself into matters that have nothing to do with her. Especially not when she gives Uryuu so much cause for pain. Knowing from experience what most keenly hurts his son, Ryuuken can recognize when he's hurting, even if he possesses neither the desire nor the will to rouse himself to do anything at all about it. It's better just to watch.
Shadows of strange speckles dot the walls and Ryuuken knows, without turning to look at the window, that it's snowing. The room is all down in white, bleached, starched, dyed. It's all sepulchral and sterile, like a death chamber or a morgue.
When everything starts to remind him of death, Ryuuken knows it's time to leave.
Shoe soles hit the ground too loudly, sound pinging off the walls hollowly, like an accusation. Ryuuken lingers in the doorway, one hand braced on the threshold, turns round to say something more with a strange, strained expression—
—Hesitates, and lets his mouth fall shut. Words have failed him.
He brushes roughly past Orihime as he leaves, shooting a sharp sideways glance chilly as the snow outside. The girl shrinks and wilts slightly but meets his gaze squarely.
Neither say a word.
There's nothing to say.