Title: What's Not Broken
Character: Hisagi
Setting: Set during Hisagi's Academy days; mentions of Sandman canon
Rating: K
Summary: What happens when a spirit isn't quite ready to move on, and has a few too many questions.
Author's Note: This was written as part of a challenge I took up, to write 100 Bleach fics centered around the Gotei 13.
Disclaimer: I am neither Kubo Tite nor Neil Gaiman, and thus I do not own Bleach or Sandman. I don't claim to. Just having fun here.

For whatever reason, sometimes they just didn't move along quietly. And it was usually the ones that had the most unusual assumptions floating around in their head.

"So you're death gods, right? That means you can fix this, right?"

"Not in the manner you're thinking." His answer was a bit on the distracted side, as there were a lot of souls and only three of them--himself and his two teammates. The longer a large group of souls lingered in one area the more likely they were to attract attention, and it was not the kind of attention Hisagi would call welcome. He motioned for Aoga to handle that group of people edging away, then turned back to his work.

That is, until a pair of hands grasped at the front of his shihakushou, effectively gaining Hisagi's undivided attention.

"You can fix this, right? You're a god, you have that power."

Hisagi blinked at the woman; delirium raced through the back of her eyes and Hisagi almost thought it looked like a school of vibrant tropical fish--except that the flight of fancy disappeared almost the second it occurred to him and he was simply annoyed.

"No, we're not gods." He answered flatly, sheathing his blade so that both hands were free to pry at the vice-like grip on his uniform top.

"B-but you said you're a shinigami."

"We are." Hisagi pressed his fingers into the tendons of the spirit's wrists and finally sighed, eyeing the woman. It had been so long since he'd died, but Hisagi could remember that feeling of panic, the fear of whatever it was that came next.

"Look. We just move you along. We don't…we don't take you, do you understand?"

"No." And if Hisagi hadn't been looking at her he'd almost assume that cry came from a child, wavering and uncertain. Under the annoyance a flair of pity sparked.

"We're not Death." Hisagi let go of the woman's wrists, allowing her to cling to his shihakushou and dropping his hands limp to his sides. "We aren't the end--we're simply the ones that move you from here to there."

"But--"

"And even if we were Death," And here Hisagi remembered, remembered looking into dark eyes, gaze trickling down the line that swirled, that seemed to loop only once but if you looked too long it was endless, but he shook the image away, "we couldn't 'fix' this. Understand that this isn't something that's broken. It's the way of the world. You live, and you die. You can't linger here. It's not your place anymore."

The grip loosened and weakened and finally the woman sank back, dropping her head into her open palms and openly weeping. The pity Hisagi had felt became discomfort. In the years since facing Death himself and moving on he'd forgotten, and that feeling of loss had faded. Seeing others attempting to come to terms with a perceived end was a new challenge for him.

"What's not broken can't be fixed." Hisagi took up his blade and, with perhaps more care than he had shown the others before her, performed the konso. Even if he could sympathize with the woman--if he could allow himself to remember his own death--the result would be the same. He was a student at the Academy of the Gotei 13, a shinigami, and this was their duty. They may not be Death, but they worked close enough behind her to call themselves shinigami.