Rating: T+

Warnings: Orange and blue morality, vague angst, skewed fluff, parental!Orochimaru, shinobi logic, snark, language, eventual slash, etc.

Word Count: ~5900

Pairings: Urahara/Orochimaru, slight Chad/Rogu

Summary: Orochimaru and his sons crash-land in Karakura. Soul Society is most definitely not prepared for what's coming.

Disclaimer: I don't own the copyrights, I didn't create them, and I make no claim to anything except my own (twisted) imagination.

Notes: I've been yelling about writing a Naruto/Bleach crossover for a while now, and this is the product of that plus many, many enablers on my Tumblr. It is indeed post-epilogue for Naruto, but the only Naruto characters present are Orochimaru and his brood, so there's nothing but vague references to the next gen if you worry about spoilers.

The last thing I should be doing right now is starting another WIP, but I stg there will not be over ten chapters to this fic I mean it this time.

Bite

Chapter 1

The girl in the apartment above them has easily five times the chakra of anyone else in this strange, sideways world. Orochimaru finds her interesting, and he trusts his own ability to pick out the talented, the promising, the unique. She is something special, he's sure of it. Like Tsunade was, like Nawaki, like Anko, like Kabuto.

"You know," Rogu says, watching Orochimaru watch the brown-haired girl as she bounces up the steps, "if you looked any more like a guy, someone would have arrested you by now for being a creep."

Orochimaru looks away from their neighbor, glancing over to where his son sits in the opposite window, smoking a cigarette. He thinks, for one moment, of chiding the boy, but Rogu has long since decided that Orochimaru has no say in his life. And beyond that, there's no reason he should—Orochimaru is more than capable of repairing any damage the smoking causes before it's even a problem.

There is, as well, just the barest flash of a memory, faded and half-forgotten. Sarutobi always smelled of tobacco, and despite all that passed between them Orochimaru finds he can't separate his nostalgia from the scent. With Rogu taking up the habit, he's more or less stopped trying.

"Shouldn't you be bothering your brother?" he counters instead, turning back, but the girl is gone. If he listens closely, he can hear the muted thump of her feet on the stairs.

Rogu smirks, leaning back against the frame and exhaling a long plume of smoke. "He was following a ghost. I didn't want to interrupt."

Orochimaru hums in acknowledgement, half of his thoughts occupied by the bubbly girl who rarely lets her smile drop. It's…familiar. He doesn't particularly want it to be, but since the first moment he saw her his thoughts have drawn a connection between her and his former student. Anko hid her sadness with manic glee and bloodlust; this girl does the same with determination and airheaded cheer.

He's never seen an adult go into the apartment above, or any older sibling. Just the girl.

Setting the last of the rinsed dishes in the rack, Orochimaru dries his hands, not looking away from the window as Rogu appears beside him and empties his ashtray into the garbage. "If we lose the deposit because this apartment smells like smoke, you're paying me back in blood," he says absently.

Rogu hums, unsurprised and also entirely uninterested. "You think the weird chakra levels are linked to the ghosts? To seeing them?" he asks.

"It would make sense, wouldn't it?" One more glance out and Orochimaru reaches up to pull the curtain shut. "If you're unoccupied, come help me set up the shop."

The boy pulls a face, but he follows Orochimaru to the door regardless, even picks up Orochimaru's keys before he can forget them. "She's a year below me, you know," he says. "A bunch of her friends—they're all the same way. The ones she doesn't spend as much time with have only a little more chakra than a civilian, and the ones she's always around feel like they could be jounin."

Orochimaru hums with interest, accepting the ring of keys Rogu throws at him and slipping it into a pocket. "I wonder, though… Is she the catalyst, or the product of something else's change?"

That earns him a slow blink from his son, who clearly hadn't considered her to be anything but the source. Orochimaru casts him an amused smile, and reminds him, "She was not the first simply because you saw her first, child."

Rogu rolls his eyes, but accepts the correction with a bob of his head, falling into step with Orochimaru. His hair gets them several startled glances from the scattered pedestrians, but they both ignore it; it's been the same since the very first day. Orochimaru is getting bored with so much dark hair everywhere. And with Rogu and Mitsuki's continued insistence that he should dye his own to match them.

"Five friends," Rogu informs him as they head towards one of the far corners of Karakura town. Then he tips his head, considering, and amends, "Well. Four, now. There was another girl, but she wasn't there today, or yesterday. She might be gone."

Change should always be subject to scrutiny, Orochimaru thinks, considering. He casts a glance at his son, then back up the twilit street. A shinobi's instinct says to keep his head down and make sure Rogu and Mitsuki do the same; they're foreigners here, several dimensions away from where they should be, and all the forged documents Orochimaru could craft won't hold up under intense scrutiny. He doesn't have the correct connections in this place, and they take time to cultivate, especially when he's still trying to learn all the little things unique to this world. Politics and religion and technology—some of it falls short of the Elemental Countries', some has pulled ahead, but it all needs to be assessed and memorized if they're going to make their way here.

Not, Orochimaru supposes, that they have much of a choice at this point.

"I should have listed you as a year younger," he laments as the winding street opens out. There's a wide lot on the far corner with a fairly ramshackle building set back from the road, bearing a white sign emblazoned with the name, and Orochimaru casts a faintly wary glance at it as he pauses before the small shop he recently rented. He's been here many times, at all hours of the day, and has yet to see anyone actually go in. Perhaps a shinobi's instincts aren't useful in this world, but Orochimaru is fairly certain something is going on there.

Rogu is eyeing the building as well, if just as subtly as Orochimaru, and hums in agreement. "That would have saved us some trouble," he agrees, and out of the corner of his eye Orochimaru sees him tuck his hands into his pockets. A casual gesture to someone else, maybe, but Orochimaru knows exactly how many kunai his son is carrying. "Well. Would you look at that."

There's enough light from the handful of flickering streetlamps just coming on for Orochimaru to catch the reflection in the window of his shop as someone passes behind them. A boy, perhaps fifteen, with hair the color of a daylily and an impressive scowl on his face, stalks past them, turns into the lot, and heads right into the building despite the closed sign. The slam of the door echoes down the street.

"One of the friends, I assume?" Orochimaru asks mildly, eyes still on the closed door.

Rogu hums in confirmation, pale gold eyes faintly narrowed. "He's the one they gravitate towards."

Orochimaru thinks of Uzumaki Naruto, of the devotion Mitsuki showed Boruto right up until the end. He knows the type of person who can draw others to them, and though in manner that boy seems as if he could hardly be further from the brightness of the Uzumaki Clan, Orochimaru is willing to bet he's the same.

"No chance you can start a fight at school tomorrow?" Orochimaru asks. "When they call me in I can get conveniently lost and take a closer look."

A soft snort, and Rogu shakes his head. "Today was the last day before a long break. Otherwise I have a list of several people who need their noses broken and would do it happily."

The sticky lock finally gives way, and the door opens with a groaning creak. Orochimaru steps in and turns the light on, studying the neat piles of boxes waiting to be opened. He may not have all the contacts he needs to move freely, but he has more than enough to earn a few favors, pull some strings, and acquire a shop and the herbs to stock it. Killing people is a skill that easily transfers universes, after all, and there are certainly no other shinobi of his caliber here, so he's safe from detection.

"I commend you on your restraint," he says absently, and when the door fails to click shut as quickly as it should he adds, "And you, Mitsuki? Fights with other children that I should be aware of?"

"Only ghosts," his younger son says cheerfully, squeezing between him and Rogu and hopping up to sit on the counter next to the new cash register. "Apparently there are two different kinds. The human ones we kept seeing, and ones that are something else."

Orochimaru doesn't particularly need to ask if Mitsuki is certain they're both ghosts; he wouldn't have said it unless he was. "Very interesting. Similar chakra levels?"

Mitsuki wrinkles his nose a little, considering. "The big ones? Maybe…like a tokubetsu jounin. Not much higher. A boy with a bow and a pointy face killed it before I could try, though."

"Pointy?" Rogu echoes, taking the box Orochimaru dumps in his arms and crouching down to open it. "Black hair, glasses, talks like a fifty-year-old man with an attitude problem? I think that's another of the friends."

Mitsuki beams in the way that means he's very much laughing at his older brother, and Orochimaru resigns himself to the sniping contest this will doubtlessly devolve into. "Yes, we had a full conversation and he was very interested in shinobi techniques."

Rogu grabs a bundle of wormwood from the basket he's filling and throws it like a senbon. Mitsuki ducks at the last moment, smile slipping into a smirk, and Orochimaru sighs and plucks it out of the air as he sets a pile of baskets next to the boy. "I would like to open tomorrow," he reminds them. "Mitsuki, be a dear and arrange the teas?"

"Sure." Mitsuki slides to the floor and starts picking through boxes, pulling the correct ones over to the shelf by the window. Following after him with several more jars, Orochimaru pauses, eyes flickering up the street to the lonely shop. The orange-haired boy hasn't come out again.

He thinks, for a moment, of the Anko-and-Tsunade-girl, her masking smile, her solitary footsteps on the stairs. Her chakra levels are high, and they've only increased since Orochimaru first saw her. The boy earlier walked with a purpose, as if he had something to prove, and if the brown-haired girl is his friend as well…

She might be pulled into something she isn't anywhere close to ready for.

Orochimaru isn't the type to care, even now, so many changes from the man he used to be. He isn't one to get involved, but his instincts are well-trained. He's nearly eighty years old, if only mentally, and he knows when to trust a feeling.

This one says change is coming, that the avalanche is starting right beneath their feet. Maybe Orochimaru won't involve himself more than he has to, but he certainly won't stand back and let it bury his family.

In this world, the time after midnight is called the witching hour, but Orochimaru knows it as the hour of the wolf.

(He thinks sometimes, in passing, of a man he used to know, more wolf than the loyal dog he presented himself as. Underestimated, broken, but strong enough to reforge himself from the ashes of so many tragedies. The wolves he's met in this world are something far different, all of them with their teeth blunted, wrapped up in a net of civility even when they try to play the villain.

Look at you, Orochimaru had thought, the first time he walked among them. I would pick my teeth with you and build a throne upon your bones. You would not last one day in the world I know.

No wonder, really, that they name the time something different. If there are true wolves here, Orochimaru has yet to meet them.)

But, witch or wolf, Orochimaru is awakened by the pad of footsteps beyond his door, and opens his eyes at the click of the latch. A shadow slips in, pale against the slants of sickly-yellow light that break through the threadbare curtains, and ghosts across the floor to pull himself up onto the foot of the bed.

Orochimaru doesn't roll over, doesn't sit up, stays still and silent as he waits for his son to speak.

The silence lingers for long minutes, broken only by the passing of a lone car on the street outside. Then, carefully, Mitsuki lets out a breath and asks, the next best thing to soundless, "Do you resent me?"

Ah, Orochimaru thinks, and this is truly no surprise. It's been a while in coming. He sits up, brushing back the strands of hair that have fallen loose from their braid, and leans against the headboard. "I was the one who wanted you to choose a path," he reminds the boy, and it's not an answer, but it's a response.

In the half-light, in the shadows, Mitsuki looks a little like Jiraiya, quiet in his regret. It makes something twist in Orochimaru's chest. Something he buried years ago, only to have it resurrected by a foolish student who couldn't help but give Orochimaru back the humanity he had thought himself well rid of.

That is, perhaps, what makes Orochimaru release a breath, weary with more than just the hour. "No," he admits, and when Mitsuki jerks his head up to look at him Orochimaru is already looking away, out the gap between the curtains. "You felt loyalty, and it drove you to make a sacrifice. Rogu and I assisted you because you are family. His choice was his own, as was mine."

Right now Mitsuki has no sly smirks, no bright smiles. He ducks his head, fisting a hand against his forehead and hiding his expression, and Orochimaru closes his eyes, giving the boy privacy as he grieves.

There was nothing in particular Orochimaru cared to cling to, in that other world. Nothing he wanted to keep beyond his two children. When they chose to help Boruto, to save Konoha at cost to themselves, Orochimaru had followed after them, committed more to keeping them alive than any noble goal of saving his former village.

Mitsuki hasn't learned yet, but there are always dire threats. There are always wars brewing and machinations being plotted, always shadows to every bright spot of happiness. They stopped this one, saved Mitsuki's friends and the village as a whole, and now Konoha has time to prepare for the next, and the next, and the next.

Someday they won't manage to stop it. There will be no Uzumaki Naruto, no Uchiha Sasuke, no Haruno Sakura. No Mitsuki to seal away the darkness at the cost of himself and his family.

Let Mitsuki believe that he saved them and that's the end of things, though. He understands that every conflict conquered demands a price in turn, and that's enough for now. Orochimaru won't remind him that each time the price grows, the consequences escalate. Won't remind him that now, for the next time, Konoha will be short three of its most powerful allies when it faces down the danger.

Mitsuki saved them, and Orochimaru remembers when that was enough, when that was all that mattered. He cares enough not to rip that away from his son.

"Come," he says, reaching out to lightly tap the backs of his fingers against the top of Mitsuki's head. "It is not all so bad here, is it?"

Slowly, fingers unthread from where they're buried in pale blue hair. Mitsuki glances up, eyes showing just a hint of gold in the dimness, and manages something like his usual smile. "The ghosts are interesting," he allows, and then wrinkles his nose. "Everyone treats children like babies, though."

"Like civilians," Orochimaru corrects, and sees Mitsuki blink. With a chuckle, he leans forward to ruffle his hair slightly. "This is a world of sheep, Mitsuki, with only a handful of predators in the shadows. There are far worse places to be than somewhere where we are the biggest monsters."

Mitsuki smiles, the sly, faintly wicked expression that indicates he truly means it. No angelic, innocent smiles for Orochimaru and his blood, not unless they're angling for something. "I'd like to try killing a ghost," he says cheerfully, wrapping his arms around his knees. "We can see them, so do you think we can hurt them?"

Another chuckle, because Mitsuki is most certainly his son, Boruto's influence aside. "An interesting experiment," Orochimaru approves. "Tonight, then? We can all go hunting together."

"Tonight," Mitsuki agrees, sliding off the bed. He doesn't pause to say goodnight, simply slips out of the room on soundless feet and lets the door click shut behind him.

Sleep doesn't come easily in this strange world, but, just perhaps, Orochimaru finds it more quickly than usual when he closes his eyes.

The shop is small but uncluttered, and Orochimaru likes it as well as he does anything functional. It smells of herbs and sunlight, and the door creaks when it's opened. Playing shopkeeper is generally too long-term for undercover missions, but Orochimaru has done it on occasion, and the skill transfers well to real life.

Shinobi, he thinks with some amusement as he lounges behind the counter, flipping through a novel, rather underestimate their skillset. He's heard, over the years, a thousand variations of all I'm good for is killing, and Orochimaru has certainly never minded that being his greatest talent, but he thinks that most shinobi tend not to think of anything they do undercover as actual work, especially if it's something civilians usually do. It's especially amusing considering the sheer number of shinobi—Orochimaru included—who have played farmhand or server or bartender or the like, solid and steady jobs that are almost always in demand.

Smiling to himself, Orochimaru absently flips through the next chapter, entertained by the fact that this drivel manages to be worse than Jiraiya's by several magnitudes, and keeps half an ear on the rise and fall of his sons' voices in the storeroom. Rogu and Mitsuki get on well, but it's in rather the same way that a very large tiger and a very small dragon would get on well—when their playful roughhousing turns into something a little more serious, the surrounding area suffers for it.

He thinks, just for a moment, of what Tsunade said, the one time she dragged herself to visit him in his lab after her retirement. There was something of a fistfight, which Orochimaru obviously lost, several accusations of varying degrees of truth thrown around, and…something, perhaps, like a reconciliation.

Uzumaki Naruto was a terrible influence on her, all told, but Orochimaru had accepted the hand she offered him, so perhaps Uchiha Sasuke was just as bad an influence on him.

Afterwards, as they were drinking in the aftermath, Tsunade had squinted dubiously at him. "If anyone deserves to raise those two brats, it's you," she'd said bluntly, and Orochimaru had rolled his eyes at the time, but he'd understood. He still understands.

That doesn't mean he always has to enjoy it.

The sound of something shattering doesn't even make him flinch at this point. He sets his book to the side and rises from his seat, voice mild as he calls, "Mitsuki, mind the register. Rogu, do clean that up, won't you?"

"Sure!" Mitsuki bounces out of the back room, no trace left of his midnight melancholy, and hops up onto the stool. There's a lazy grumble before the door swings shut, but reluctance to follow orders aside, Orochimaru knows Rogu generally tends to comply with requests. He smiles at his younger son, getting a smirk in return—clearly Mitsuki was the one who did the breaking, and Orochimaru makes a mental note to avoid Rogu's inevitable revenge—and heads for the door.

Karakura is swelteringly hot this time of year, and the pavement reflects the heat right back so it feels even hotter, but Orochimaru has never particularly minded such weather. On the contrary, it almost makes him want to find a clear place to bask, though such a thing before he's found Karakura's most inconspicuous places would hardly help keep a low profile. With a note of wistful regret, he dismisses the idea, instead turning his steps towards the large park that's close by. A pretty enough area, certainly, and Mitsuki will come find him if a real job turns up. Orochimaru is hardly expecting any customers of a more benign nature—it's one of the reasons he finds Urahara Shoten at the end of the block so suspicious. This isn't an area known for its booming trade or frequent visitors.

There are ghosts here and there, following people or simply standing in place. Orochimaru watches them without looking like he's watching, careful not to make eye contact. Easy enough to tell that they're not human—their chakra is strange, half-faded, like looking at a beam of light that's already halfway to its destination. It unsettles Orochimaru slightly, though he'll never show as much. Makes him wonder, very much despite himself, whether there were ghosts back in the Elemental Countries, invisible and unseen, watching those they knew in life.

It's one of the few questions he's never wanted to find an answer to.

The trees that start just over the edges of the park cast deep shadows across the grass, and Orochimaru skirts them, not quite willing to give up the sun's warmth quite yet. He keeps one eye out for ghosts as he walks, but there are fewer of them here—fewer deaths than on the roads, he assumes. It rouses a thread of macabre amusement in him; how must shinobi battlefields look, to someone who can see the dead? Terrifying, he's sure. After all, with shinobi such as Senju Tobirama and Namikaze Minato on the field, it was not unusual for a thousand enemy ninja to die in the course of an afternoon. Orochimaru himself would cut down almost as many and count it as a successful day, back when he served a master.

He doesn't miss those times. As strange as it is to find himself in a foreign world, the path back to the Elemental Countries closed forever lest they drag the evil they sacrificed themselves to defeat back across dimensions with them, Orochimaru can't say the change is unwelcome. He's a different man than he used to be, changed by time and his wayward student, dragged back onto a straighter path even if not a path of redemption, but being under Konoha's thumb was still stifling. It reminded him far too much of walking through the village and watching people shy away from him, a fixture of his existence from the time he could stand by himself until the moment he fled.

Uzumaki Naruto was not Sarutobi Hiruzen, and as Hokage they can't be compared, but it was still stifling, still a reminder of eyes always on him. Deserved, certainly, given past actions, but never something Orochimaru cared for.

There's a path that winds through the trees ahead of him, but Orochimaru ignores it, stepping off the trail and turning his feet towards the faint burble of a creek deeper into the trees. No ghosts here either, and though they fascinate him he's faintly grateful for the reprieve. Better not to think of those back in their original dimension linger and watching.

It's been a very long time since Orochimaru dwelt on what his parents would have thought of his choices, and he doesn't particularly want to think on it now.

He takes a breath and shakes the melancholy off, sets it to the side because it's useless, unnecessary, and—

A flare of chakra, as scattered and undirected as a genin's first jutsu, a girl's startled cry, a splash.

Orochimaru pauses, utterly silent in the undergrowth, and lifts a curious brow.

That chakra was familiar.

The temptation is too great to resist, and Orochimaru doesn't even attempt to, turning his steps towards the source of the power. Past a leaning pine, down a gentle incline and around a stand of large rocks, he catches a flash of auburn. Her features set in determination, the girl who lives in the apartment above theirs hauls herself out of the river, soaked and breathing hard but clearly not about to stop. Staggering up onto the bank, she plants her feet, raises her hands, and says fiercely, "Hinagiku, Lily, Baigon! Santen Kesshun, I reject!"

Power sparks, orange-gold and as bright as the sun. For just the briefest fraction of an instant, the girl's chakra flares, so immense and tightly contained that Orochimaru can't breathe through the pressure of it. He catches himself with one hand on the rocks, even as three tiny spirits whirl out from the girl's hairpins and freeze into a triangle, that same light blooming and hardening between them. It lasts for barely a heartbeat before it shatters, the three spirits tumbling apart in a way that's clearly accidental. The force of the barrier breaking knocks her back, and she misses her footing and sits down hard with a yelp.

It's purely a whim that pushes Orochimaru forward. "Oh dear," he says, pitching his voice so as not to startle the girl, though she jumps a little regardless. As she scrambles upright and turns to face him, Orochimaru stops, offering her a friendly smile, and advises, "Your focus is too wide, I believe. If you keep fixing all of your attention on the outer points of your barrier, the center weakens. Find a common point between the three spirits and center the power."

Brown eyes go wide, and the girl reaches up to touch one of her hairpins. "You—you can see the fairies?" she asks with clear surprise. "Are you one of Yoruichi-san's friends?"

It would be easy to lie and say yes, to allow her to fill in the details for him, but Orochimaru only considers it for a moment. There's no need, here and now. "No, I'm just a passing shopkeeper. I couldn't help butting in, forgive me."

"No, no, no!" The girl waves her hands frantically, then bows. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude! Thank you for your advice, I appreciate the help!"

Orochimaru can't quite fight a chuckle. "What are neighbors for, my dear?" When her features twist in confusion, he simply smiles. "My sons and I moved in below you two weeks ago. I noticed your chakra levels, but hadn't found the chance to introduce myself yet. Yashagorō Orochimaru, at your service."

"Oh!" She beams at him, bright and enthusiastic. "You mean you can sense reiatsu? I'm Inoue Orihime, it's a pleasure to meet you!"

Reiatsu. A different term for chakra, or something else entirely? Orochimaru files the word away for later investigation, but keeps his attention on Orihime. "Indeed I can. Your trick is a very clever one, I must say. What did you call it? Santen Kesshun?"

"This is Shun Shun Rikka! Santen Kesshun is one of their abilities," Orihime says cheerfully, and power blazes. Her hairpins fracture into six small spirits that hover around her. One darts in, grabbing a lock of bright hair and yanking, and she yelps. "Tsubaki! Ow, ow, ow!"

Very clearly she's not in control of her own power, Orochimaru thinks with amusement, eyeing her tearful protests and the little spirit's angry gesticulations, though he can't quite hear the accompanying words. Too timid to be like Anko, he supposes, though he can't quite manage not to see the parallels.

Still. Timidity can be fixed, or at least overcome. Orochimaru twists his fingers together, carefully deliberate as he form the hand signs, and summons a small Raiton jutsu, devoid of most of its power.

The crackle of electricity makes Orihime glace up from her one-sided argument, and Orochimaru straightens, the loops of lightning curling around his hand. "Why don't you try your shield again?" he suggests. "I know a little something about reiatsu, and I have time at this moment. Perhaps I can teach you a few tricks."

Her eyes widen, and even the little fairy stops wrenching at her hair. The auburn locks drop, draping around her shoulders, and she glances up at her spirits for a long moment. A pause, a breath—

Orihime squares her shoulders. "I want to get stronger!" she declares, and for one startling second Orochimaru can see in her a dark-haired shadow, Sharingan eyes ablaze. "I need to help Kurosaki. Please, I'll learn any tricks you have!"

"Then make your shield," Orochimaru advises, raising his hand. He feeds more chakra into the jutsu, lets the net of lightning grow. "Make it stronger. I'll help you grow your strength, but your own effort will have to be the price."

She doesn't hesitate—too naïve, he thinks, just like Anko. Sasuke at least knew just who he was bargaining with—but starts her chant again. The fairies whirl out in darts of light, and Orochimaru gives her just enough time to focus before he lets the jutsu go. It shatters against the barrier, one blow met and already starting to fade away. Orihime staggers a step, but this time she stays on her feet.

"Again," Orochimaru says, summoning a wind jutsu with an edge that cuts like a knife. "Concentrate. Nothing ends with a single blow, so don't be set at ease. Eyes open. Look for the next hit before the first one lands, and stay steady."

Orange-gold light flares, just in time to deflect the scything wind. This time it trembles, steadies—

Shatters.

"Again."

This time it's Orihime who says it, breathless but steady, and Orochimaru smiles. There's a light in her face that makes him think or Tsunade, of Anko, of Sasuke. And maybe—just perhaps—he missed that more than he had thought.

"Why are you fighting?" he asks her, even as he calls a twist of water from the stream, letting it curl into a pair of dragons as it loops around his body.

Orihime's eyes stay on the jutsu for a moment, wide and interested, and then flicker up to him. "Because Rukia-chan needs help," she says, and her tone wavers slightly, but steadies quickly. "She—she was taken away and now Kurosaki-kun is going to go after her alone, but she's my friend too."

To protect, Orochimaru thinks, and it's bittersweet. Tsunade is in those eyes now, more of her than Orochimaru has seen in anyone in a very long time. Maybe, had Tsunade been raised a civilian instead of a kunoichi, she would be as soft as this girl.

It's not a softness that lends itself to survival, though. Orochimaru finds he rather dislikes that fact.

"Then you're going to need to train quite a lot," is all he says, and keeps his tone mild as one of the dragons twists around his fingers. He brings his hand up to his face, smiling as the construct of chakra and water slides up his arm and around his shoulders, and then glances up to meet Orihime's gaze again.

Orihime takes a breath and then smiles, full of faith and boundless cheer. "Yes! We're going to be training for the next ten days! Yoruichi-san promised to get us ready in time!"

Ten days. That isn't as long as he would like, but it's as much time as they have, Orochimaru supposes. "Then I will help you learn to fight in ten days," he offers. "If you're willing, of course."

The girl bounces a little on her toes, enthusiastic and happy. "I know karate! Tatsuki-chan taught me! She says I'm fifth dan already."

Impressive, for a civilian, but not enough. Telegraphing his movements, Orochimaru spins, letting the jutsu surge towards Orihime, who gives a startled cry. Her shield comes up just in time, splattering water everywhere. Before she can even start to drop it, though, Orochimaru takes three quick steps, slides around her barrier, and lays a hand across her throat. She freezes, clearly recognizing the silent threat, and that's enough. Orochimaru steps back, appeased, and says, "You know movements and combinations. I will teach you how to fight."

Orihime is nowhere near as silly as she pretends to be. Orochimaru can see it clearly in her expression as she turns to face him, brown eyes a little wider than normal but still so fiercely set. "I—I don't want my friends to get hurt," she insists. "I don't want to hurt other people, either—"

"You can't protect anyone if you aren't willing to do that much at the very least," Orochimaru interrupts, taking a step forward. He doesn't quite try to loom over her, but he also doesn't try to hide the grimness that threads its way through his tone. "If you try, you're going to be forced to make a choice very quickly—either you hurt someone, or they hurt your friends. Tell me, Orihime, which would you choose?"

Her choice is clear, even if she doesn't quite seem willing to speak it out loud yet.

It is, Orochimaru supposes, a start.

"Train with me," he offers. "Every day after your other teacher leaves you. Ten days gives me enough time to at least teach you how to duck."

Sentiment is the only thing driving him to this. Sentiment and boredom and the faintest trace of something like nostalgia. So be it. Orochimaru is a creature of whims, and this isn't one he's going to refuse.

"Thank you!" Orihime says, beaming. "I'll definitely be strong enough to help!"

Orochimaru smiles back, then calls up his chakra and lets lightning crackle to life around his hand. "Very well, then. Let's begin."