Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Tite Kubo. I only own any of my original characters that I choose to include, as well as any of my own original plot ideas.
His Word
He's been different these past few nights.
She returns from her duties later than usual, and, each time, he's sitting there, just waiting. He hasn't said anything, and it's unusual. Even if it's simple, he always has something to say. So she's turned it into a test, to see just how far she can go before he snaps at her. But there's been nothing. He hasn't even looked her way. She's had the pleasure of doing just what she feels like.
She likes the way her hands feel, tracing the structure of his face. The way he just pretends she isn't there, that there's nothing out of the ordinary. His reluctance to play along is what makes her smile. The stillness of the moment reminds her of the Greeks, the way their artists carved their men and women, smooth and beautiful, out of blocks of solid stone.
But perfection wouldn't do, not even in a comparison.
It's bittersweet, the way he just sits there, allowing her hands to roam. On nights like this, however, there's very little satisfaction to come from that simple notion. She wants to feel it from more than just her end. Some sort of attention, however brief.
Were the tides on the sand only to push, there would be nothing, just like this.
When it comes, it frightens her, to be pushed back and held down, that brazen curiosity having announced its arrival. His hand keeps both of hers away, if only for a moment. He relaxes, her fingers moving to pull him back, mouths pressing together with a soft moan.
She knows he hates them, the things she does to him, the way she makes him feel. He prefers to be left in the tide, to his own destructive devices. He doesn't want to be a part of her own tests, of her mission to "fix" him. So far as he's concerned, nothing is broken.
But broken... It's his word, not hers.