.
.
.
He sits back in his chair and waits patiently for darkness to fall. It'd be much earlier tonight, he thinks, since it's winter, though it isn't as cold as last year's. From his far-seated position, he looks out the dusty, crooked window and notes that this year's snow is flowing down slower than usual. Weird, he comments. He leans back and stretches out his legs with his hands behind his head; it's nearly always like this: silent and peaceful with a dew of coldness that he likes. People would think his job would be insane and crazy, but in reality it's rather-
-his eyes swerve to the sound of padding at the end of the other block. Having been here for so long, he became in-tune with the many, many different footsteps; thus he concludes that this is the Koroshimasu Group, or K, as he'd preferred to say (he was never good with names). K, he rings monotonously in his head, a long time ago some sort of emotion would've riled him up to want to kill all of them; but nowadays, he hardly itched, even if he does remember them a little bit.
(just a little bit)
Close, he determines after a few seconds, but still too far to safely kill without anyone's notice; he waits impatiently for ten more minutes.
(so despite how slow and boring his job mostly is, he is always, always on high-alert.)
The tension in his bones is always there, no matter how calm he makes it to be. The peacefulness is exactly what's driving him crazy, he muses, it's too quiet and slow, which is exactly the opposite he'd expected and wanted. More action means less thinking; more action means less of everything he hates, and there are so many many things he doesn't want to remember- he climbs to the roof and spots them; with a nonchalant look on his face, he swoops down and quickly dismembers them.
(he brushes aside the fact he'd only waited for five minutes.)
.
.
Being emotionless, feeling nothing, he adds, is a bonus, because everything other than that took too much brain power; which was annoying as fuck and so much easier to think people are things (or 'it', as he calls it) that are meant to die soon, though when it comes to the 'K' group he calls them 'K' and not 'it', but even so-
-blood is blood.
Although sometimes, he has trouble believing blood is a thing, because he'd heard it was warm -from books of such a long long time ago and from people he once fought with- and yet, he eyes 'K' blood dripping down his arm, it's cold; much too cold to be blood.
(but that's what makes it so easy.)
.
.
And of course the moment he thinks of this, karma hits him right in the gut and he tastes blood for the first time in his killing regime. He recalls that in that instant, he'd slaughtered 'K1' in front of him, but then, he'd missed seeing 'K2' behind him, who strikes him through his back to 'K1' stomach. 'K1' falls as he simultaneously holds the sword in place behind and in front of him to keep the man from fucking moving the damn sword. But it's a moment too long for him and he tastes his own blood as he spits it out: salty and thin and lukewarm.
(if he were still human, he'd think of this to be gross, he muses; but instead, it is very cold and very tolerable.)
The stupid thought makes his hold loose and would've easily killed him on the spot if it weren't for another girl's (yes, girl, he confirms again when he looks closely at the hideous stuffed toy sitting too still and too perfect on her shoulder) interference, and he wonders who the fuck she is to think she has the right to save this piece of shit he is. He glares intensely at her: i can fucking take care of myself you goddamn brat, don't you fucking interfere, don't you fucking ever try to prevent my imminent death when I'm so fucking ready to-
-and coincidental or not, she turns and tilts her head at him with a nonchalant look of: I know- and I don't give a fuck.
(he doesn't know how the fuck he knows she says that without saying anything, he doesn't know how she knows him, he doesn't know why she even-
he doesn't know anything anymore.)
.
.
.
A step forward, and she follows. A couple sharp turns, and still she follows. He grits his teeth and after seemingly disappearing around the block, he spins around and grabs behind him only to find thin air. He looks up, and from a foot away, he can see the creepy Cheshire grin spread from cheek to cheek. Shivers run up his spine before he remembers that this is a merely a game created by a kid, and that games are only for kids, so he shouldn't let brats fucking skyrocket his blood pressure. He briskly turns away and stomps off, peeved that he'd stoop to this level, just- fuck this.
(he could kill her later anyways, definitely.)
A submission, an escape, and she smirks with satisfaction. It's been a long time since she's messed around with someone who she didn't end up killing, and much much longer since she's had fun.
(she could let him live longer, definitely.)
.
.
.
He wakes up at twelve pm (it's too fucking early) to a clawing, screeching noise that grates his ears and pisses him off that he growls and turns to the noise; only to experience true terror at the sight of a black hooded figure that stares into his window with glowing black eyes ('the fuck is that even possible?), pushing and grating its claws against his small-ass window.
He screams like a little bitch for a short while before it grins and cackles and vanishes altogether.
.
.
A few minutes later of a pounding heart and stillness, he power-walks angrily to his dirty-ass window and looks out-
(and first, he notes: scowling, a little groggy, but otherwise a normal him, he affirms.)
-and of course it's her, smiling innocently and waving to him in broad daylight he adds to her stupidity, although he duly notes she does so behind a conveniently life-sized rock from his two-story complex dojo grounds.
(then again she's hella short and probably ten, he snorts.)
Then he remembers acting like a bitch, and thanks the architects for his sound-proof rooms- he pauses, or at least, he hopes it still works; he has a suspicion that the wide smile on her face has something to do with his scream, or maybe the look on his face (a better but unsatisfying option still, he thinks grumpily).
He doesn't know who spots who first, but the stuffed bunny on her shoulder catches his eye; he can't remember if the last time he saw it if it had a cute, innocent, and blood-winning, creepy smile. But it has to because then otherwise it's alive, or she changed it on purpose (yes, yes, he mutters, that's it).
He shakes himself out of it and flips both of them the middle finger, and stalks off to sleep away this nonsensical game she played.
.
.
.
It doesn't take long for him to realize that sleeping away the pranks she pulls doesn't work when he hardly gets any sleep any more because of her (never mind the fact he usually slept three hours or less).
Since then, she's thrown a pebble at his window, so hard he thought it'd break (luckily it doesn't). A ring from his door only for him to find no one to stab- wait, he doesn't have one- fuck, and it's the freakin' monster again, to which he responds to shutting the door and stalking off. The next, it's an odor so bad his eyes mist over and covers his mouth as he nears the scent, which turns out to be really, really rotten food.
To his credit, he tries throttling off the savage, annoying, fucking -he stops and inhales and exhales- teenager (teenager, not a kid, he'd decided, because no girl of such a young age could ruthlessly kill without emotion). He never speaks a word to her (and musters his intense scowl at her, and of course she didn't react); doesn't offer her food when she offers him (gross) snacks; leaves her to fend for herself in the dark with killers; poisons the food she gets for herself (and he suspects she's an alien, because she ate every single piece, and never had a problem)-
-and still she didn't leave.
.
.
He awakens and swings his arm in front of him and peers through the watch's cracked screen: six full hours today, he concludes, three of it being deep sleep. Then: no nightmare, check; no sweat, check; fully-rested than before, check. This is the fifth day in a row it's happened since the girl came after just two days, he thinks, tapping his fingers slowly against his bedside. He pulls out a small paper and re-reads the words for the second time: i sent you something good! have fun~! :3
(god, he hates his boss and his stupid emojis. seriously.)
He stares at it for the third time, and let's his lighter burn it away in a flash; he stomps out the flames after. There's no way she has anything to do with his boss. Absolutely no fucking way.
(it was too moronic to even think about it.)
Then he hears a sound from his door; he instantly rises to his feet and bounds down to the door and chases her out of his domain like a buffoon.
She's surprised: this man does not crack.
He does not try to kill her, or throttle her, or do anything life-threatening besides react angrily (to her delight) and mutter a few curse words before returning to his pace of life.
(hell, he'd even given her good food, she pauses, really good food that showered her mouth with unknown but delightful flavors and filled her with life. she wonders if he's trying to appeal to her to stop the mischief altogether, or if it's to feed her. she wonders if he'd noticed that he'd also wait for her to finish her own prey off before departing from the shadows. either way-)
This.
This is not who she expects to meet after years of their first meeting and after research and listening to rumors and observing (or in a better and crude part of the word: stalking). She'd been sure that the permanent scowl and rigid routine he carried out and the merciless methods of killing he did would mean he'd have little patience to deal with her antics.
It's like...he's used to this.
(she thinks now, the first time she'd allowed himself to see her follow him, he hadn't been meaning to kill her.
...
how curious, she muses, her lips forming a wide grin.)
She decides to overstep her boundaries.
.
.
He figures today would be his alone time -as she has not messed with him earlier today- so he's a bit relaxed, but of course she arrives at the worst possible time: his killing spree of the 'K'. She jumps in front of him and knocks her illuminating white blade against his; a tactical surprise, he reluctantly admits, strong enough to knock him over and enough time for her to kill off the rest, but.
He glares at her: they are his prey, his responsibility, and no one else's but his, and he won't stand for this. He won't.
He places his blade to her neck and presses hard enough to draw a line of blood, but instead of a creepy smile or an attack or perhaps even fear, she doesn't move and faces him head-on without doing anything. So close and he can't avoid his eyes from her face: she's been ready to die for a long, long time.
(it's a lot like his eyes and he doesn't like it.)
She shakes her head, no, and precariously digs the blade deeper into her own neck but she doesn't care, because he needs to know: there is a difference between wanting to die and being fearless.
(of him anyways)
.
.
.
He sees the courage light up within them, and he's pulled back to a time where he once loved someone with those same eyes, except the iris was brown and always, always full of love; even when the blade was placed against her neck and- he grits his teeth, tch.
(she'd got him dammit.)
He hurls the forgotten blade away and it lands blade-first into a wall; but he doesn't miss the way her blood pools from her neck, or how he'd made it splatter across the floor, and how very warm it is when it gets him in the face. For the second time in a very very long time, he feels the guilt swallow him whole:
(it's a small child that's staring back at him with horror in her eyes as the blade slices her throat clean and the head sputters a bit for ten seconds before finally going still; and he's choking back on the feeling of something painful climbing up from his heart to his throat and he wants to throw up-
-he blinks and all he sees is the wall.)
fuck
.
.
.
She places her needle down and checks out her skill; not bad, she muses as she inspects the thread she'd sewn to close the wound. After years of not being touched by a blade and thus not having to do these self-surgeries, she considers this an accomplishment, though it is a bit more jagged. She puts a gauze on top and tapes it to her wound. Then she lies on the floor: his face, the trauma and his eyes seeing someone else was written all over his face, not at all like the image he'd given her the past two weeks.
Obviously it isn't that he wanted to kill her (she'd be dead already), it was more like she'd pushed a few of his buttons that had not only incited real anger, but had also triggered something in the long-forgotten past, probably.
(probably, only because she isn't sure if that face is exactly like hers.)
She thinks back of the files and remembers he once had a family, a husband with a gorgeous, innocent woman named- mm, she thinks, Orihime. But they're nothing alike, she muses, with their contrasting hair colors and height and chest, so what else could- oh, she pulls out a file mentally, they did have one daughter: Akuma, a kid about her height, but that was all.
The other file had contained even less knowledge of everything before the marriage. All she knew was that he'd had a father, a mother, and two sisters; there were no pictures of any of his family bloodline.
What she does know: both of his families tragically died and someone must've been killed (why else would he be here now?), how though, she does not know.
Still, it's hard to imagine him as a decent husband, much less a decent father with that scowl that could scare off any spineless kid. She touches the gauze absently.
(what a weak assassin, she muses, to not finish her off because of lingering feelings and whatnot.)
Surprisingly though, she does not feel any regret. The three he'd been planning to kill were -she sensed- different, dangerous, and then something else flashed in the air and she just couldn't stay still. She looks down at the item in her hand that she'd sliced in half before it could end him, and decides to inspect it further and add it to her own weaponry.
...
(it's the first she's saved anyone on purpose, and it's so glaringly out of character that even she sees that going that far for her own entertainment isn't plausible, especially not for someone like her boss.)
...
And then she's no longer thinking about him but about her, and it doesn't take much to realize that the guileless, innocent fun she'd begun turned to an insatiable curiosity long before.
She doesn't quite remember the last time she'd wanted to know a person so much, much less a target.
..
.
(the thought unsettles her.)
.
.
.
.
.
He wakes up at six pm and wipes away forgotten tears and takes a look at himself: bright orange hair, amber eyes, a scowl- normal, he affirms.
(he ignores the dried-up tear trails and washes them away; the dark, dark circles under his eyes from nightmares; the obvious lack of sleep and her blood-
he ignores that she hasn't bothered him for a month since then and pretends he's ok with it.)
He puts on his tight black uniform and places his sword on his back and walks to the door, intending to go out to patrol in the night again, but just as he slides a key in, he hears a window slide open smoothly- the one he uses at night to get in and leave.
He races to his room in a flash and throws a fist at the intruder - her face; in the momentum, he instantly diverts his fist to the wooden wall beside her and feels it crumble under his strength, but he does not care, he does not care because that's not her fucking face.
He shifts his eyes from the cracking wood to her face with fury in his eyes and nearly snarls at her, you fucking fool, but he's so close that he could see her very dark violet eyes and the empathy and what the actual fuck?
(he wonders how she could not perceive this as threatening, unlike so, so many others.)
He tears his eyes away from hers, only to travel down to her neck- scarf, that's perfectly wrapped around her neck. Impulsively, he touches said scarf, but loses the strength to pull it down (because what if it's a damn scar? what if the damage is undone and she's actually still bleeding and possibly dying and just here to say her last words like-)
She curls his shaking hand in her warm one until it stops and tugs the scarf down slowly. His eyes stare at the perfectly, untouched pale skin and breathes out slow, still keeping his eyes on it; he furrows his eyebrows.
(he had plenty of scars, and to see no trace of it-)
She grins and holds out her hand in truce. He stares at it as if the gesture had never happened to him, before she waves an envelope in her hand. A very noticeable envelope that has the exact, permanent black mark on the back that usually gets delivered under his door threshold that can only be picked up by lifting the heavy metal- 230 kilograms to be exact; all of this, because of security reasons, and now: because of her.
He reaches out to snatch it away, but she's faster and leaps away from him, dodging each time at lightning speed and he's still somewhat groggy and extremely hungry-
-the delicious aroma of wonderful, wonderful food reaches his nose and he follows the scent: it's in her hand too.
This motherfu- his brain short-circuits before he can think: he shakes her hand shortly, snatches the food away and gulfs it down and thinks after a good two minutes: so she can cook. Still eating, he catches a flash of white in front of him and snatches the envelope out of her hand.
She smirks and eats beside him as well.
It's been an extremely long time since he's tasted homemade food, much less ate with someone.
(she smiles smugly, i used your kitchen; he grunts.)
.
.
It's when he's done with his meal that he notices his hand isn't bleeding anymore from the earlier violence. He looks up and sure enough, there is still the crack he'd made into the wooden wall (he'd have to fix it later, damn bitch); and he swears he remembers the pain and red, scabby-looking his fist had looked after. He looks up at her suspiciously, and sure enough, she tilts her head with a smirk whilst pointing at the goddamn accursed rabbit on her shoulder. He stares at it for a moment, too long that apparently he'd seen the eyes move, and quickly shuts his eyes, moving to a meditative pose.
(his blood pressure lowers.
.
he finally understands the saying, why sometimes too much knowledge was bad.)
.
.
It's when she's done that he opens his eyes up and looks at her, gathering up his bento as long as hers in a bag. In those few seconds, he struggles to form the words in his mouth; because nice things were just things he didn't do anymore, and to do so now, he feels would be too odd. With that excuse in mind, he settles for silence; awkwardly, his eyes shift around, looking for distraction, but then he notes that even the wall he just hit is nice and flat and no longer in need of repair.
Goddammit, he curses, running his hand awkwardly through his hair.
.
..
...Thanks.
She turns and shows surprise first at his admission before her lips curl into a reciprocating smile and jumps out the window without further ado. He crosses his arms and mutters under his breath, rude much?; deservingly pissed that he's participating in her stupid game and being tossed around by a selfish brat who comes and goes without saying a word.
(well, he decides, she's not that bad.)
He goes over to shut the window, and the moment he does, he spots a shadow of movement in the dark alleyway. He narrows his eyes suspiciously, and peers closer, only to find that it's her silhouette.
Right next to his building.
(what the-)
-she looks up and he quickly snaps his mouth shut; she smirks.
He slams the window shut with finality that it almost breaks and pulls the ragged remains of a curtain across the glass.
(he would not feel sorry for this girl, he would not think about her, he would not relate her to-)
.
Twenty minutes later he looks out again (just checking if she's stalking me, yeah, that's it, that's-) and peers closer.
The alleyway isn't bad, as if it's been cleaned and scrubbed -probably by her- but the strange feeling of unease remains: she could be killed there, much too easily, just like-
(as his mind churns to darker waters, not once does he remember that she's a goddamn assassin.)
.
.
After a painful discussion in his head, he finally makes up his mind and walks down the hallway. He slides the door open and looks around: trash lying everywhere and dust everywhere and it's just, gross; unlike his own immaculate room (because he does like to keep his room clean).
He mutters under his breath, looks out, and starts cleaning up.
.
.
Two hours later he charges down the stairs and into the dark, hidden alleyway and throws her the keys to another room available in his empty-ass semi-dojo. Without even a second thought, she throws the keys back at him and shakes her head.
He stares at her in disbelief.
She shakes her head again with a firm: no.
He absorbs the firm determination in her eyes, voice, and stance; considers the thought of forcing her back with him, and then there is the: what am I even doing? He had no obligation to save her, a mere stranger, one who had only bought trouble and had triggered his nightmares and past to the table; absolutely someone he did not need.
(she was unnecessary.)
.
.
.
He leaves with the image of her eyes burned into the back of his mind.
.
.
.
.
It's a fresh kill tonight and his mind is dangerously elsewhere again: probably a migrant, since her place held the basic survival items to live in this wretched area.
(because that's the only logical reason for her to reject his safer place, because there's no way anyone would want to stay at the fucking alleyway; hell, had it been his-)
-he hears his prey incoming around the corner from his high perch and steadies himself readily. One, two, three, and he jumps and slices it cleanly in half; it falls and before he can get to the rest, they're down already.
(she's here.)
She stands in the middle of the corpses with blood smeared across her body; the moon highlighting her back. Calmly, she turns around and catches his gaze; then she tilts her head and smiles eerily with a shadow cast over her eyes.
This time, there are no chills running down his spine. Instead: there is a feeling of something breaking and a thousand heavy emotions whirling within him; a feeling that someone like her should not be doing this but be happy and innocent and- forgetforgetforget, and: they only have ten seconds to evacuate, so he grabs her by the arm and runs off into the shadows.
.
.
She stares up at him and wonders why he's pressing her against the wall so hard that she feels her head being crushed between his chest and the wall, but the moment she focuses on her hearing (to see if the stupid assassins are gone so she can throw him off), his rapidly-pounding heart answers her.
(but they're not quite safe yet so she says nothing and let's him cover her against the wall behind a pile of boxes as the searchers run around aimlessly.)
She knows she should be paranoid and wary like him but really, she's not; she places his hand over her heart and lets him feel her steadily calm, beating heart. It works: his slows down dramatically and beats to her tune.
(she sneaks a look, and finds the same anger and sadness and angsty look; the same twisted pleasure arises within her from seeing his reaction, but, but-
-it's the first time she really wants to change it, and see more.)
.
.
When they leave and everything is in absolute stillness again, he gets up, only to be pulled back down. His arms move to shake her off but there's something else in her eyes that keeps him paralyzed in place whilst stirring up long-forgotten emotions again- except it's different and nothing that had reminded him of his daughter.
(because he remembers those gray, loving eyes all too well.)
But had he known she'd meant to press her soft lips against his, he would've shoved her off faster -it's so fucking warm- his brain screams for him to stop this before she slips her tongue in and everything stops.
.
.
Eternity ends when she nips his lip, drawing a thin line of blood (punishment, she whispers) and it sends a wave of chills through him as he races back to reality: he winces as she licks it clean and pulls back. He stares and feels a shift in his world.
He blinks again and sees no one else but her and only her.
(she's not his daughter, his wife, or his sisters, or anyone else dead for that matter.
.
she's her own person, yes.)
.
.
.
Finally, he hears from her curled lips and then: Rukia.
He thinks: Assassin, Killer, Shinigami, and then: Ichigo, a name hasn't heard in such a long time, he thinks, and he wonders why he gives her a name he doesn't even recognize is himself anymore.
(because he'd tossed the name away since he'd failed to protect his mom, his family, his wife and daughter-)
He whiffs a strong fragrance of lilac under him before he takes note of her presence and very bright violet eyes. She tilts her head with the same nonchalant look at him before flicking his forehead, moron.
.
.
(for once, he agrees.
.
she's right here.)