Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach, to my everlasting dismay. The story below is just a product of my overactive imagination.
Sleeve of White Snow
Rukia's shikai was beautiful. Gleaming white and silver, with its trailing ribbon that danced with every sweep of the sword, it looked regal and untouchable, like something he could only hope to look at, and never have the privilege to touch. He watches Rukia hold it out in front of her, blade down, then she calls out one of her sword's abilities and moves so fast he could only see her final pause, blade extended to her side, as behind her their foe was encased in a pillar of ice. Then she straightens up, eyes calm, and deliberately sheaths her sword as the pillar of ice crumbles, their foe turned to dust.
Their eyes meet, and he remembers to breath. He tastes a hint of icy wind and thinks he will probably never forget, every time he feels ice in the air, the image of that graceful and deadly dance, the gleam of a silver-white sword held in a slender, delicate wrist. Rukia, and the dance of death.