Author's Note: I've had this random thing in my writing folder for ages so I decided to post it. I'm not even sure I like it- I hope you enjoy it though!
On the Bleach wikipedia, it says that Mayuri takes off his make up every night before he goes to bed and then repaints it in the morning (which must take him absolutely ages). This short was inspired by that! I'm also working on the assumption that his entire body is painted, not just his face, neck and arms.
I'm still working on chapter 4 of HarleQuincy, but I'm also currently working on a commission so that needs to take priority. Thank you for your patience!
The corridors of the SRDI were almost deserted by the time Nemu re-entered the lab for the last time that day. As usual, most of the evening's work had been carefully tidied away, save for a few messy piles of paper and the small twitching body of a hollow, already half dissected and due for completion as soon as the sun rose. The distinct smell of disinfectant hung in the air, as if concealing the sweet, sickly stench of toxins that dripped silently into half-full glass containers. The only lights remaining were the ones shining out from the three large computer screens at the far end of the room; harsh, florescent, unnatural glows that stung her tired eyes.
Swiftly, with no noise from her soft footsteps, she made her way across the floor and paused a few metres behind the tall-backed plush chair. As usual, he did not respond to her presence- not even a slight shift in body position to acknowledge the rapid change of spiritual pressure. As if she were invisible to all but the black glassy lenses that peered suspiciously down from the ceiling.
She did not call out to him, for that would only disturb his work and set alight the short fuse that was his infamous temper. No, he would address her when he wanted to. Respectfully, she remained silent and waited for dismissal.
After a few moments, it suddenly occurred to Nemu that the data on the monitor had not changed since she had arrived. Where he would normally be scrolling madly through pages and pages of new, unprocessed information, the screen instead lingered on a single paragraph and showed no sign of movement.
Cautiously, she took a few steps forward. From where she was, the words shown did not look to be of any great importance or interest. There should have been no reason for her captain to have paused on those few uninspiring lines, instead of dismissing them as useless and a waste of his precious time. Brows creasing slightly in confusion, her eyes darted to her father's back as she registered how abnormally still he seemed as well.
He did not move as she crouched down next to him and tilted her head to observe his condition.
Mayuri was slumped with his face on the hard surface, a pencil still grasped, though slackly, in his pale fingers. His vivid golden pupils were hidden behind closed, faintly flickering eyelids, his breathing shallow and soft. For once, he did not look angered or stressed or frustrated. His expression instead showed a rare tranquillity, as his mind wandered through a world she would never fully understand.
The first time he's slept in a week, Nemu thought to herself.
There were protocols for this.
Silently, Nemu went over to her desk and opened a compartment. She extracted a deep bowl filled with clean water- refilled only that afternoon- and a thin towel. This was not the first time her father had fallen asleep at his desk and so, to prevent the hassle of having to source what she needed, she had stored the items securely away so they could be easily retrieved when required. Taking care not to spill the clear liquid, she moved back towards Mayuri and pulled up another chair, positioning herself so that they were barely a metre apart.
Gently, she removed his headdress and attachments and placed them beside her, taking care not to move his neck too sharply. She brushed a few loose strands of vibrant blue hair from his forehead, leaving the smooth black and white skin clear and free from imperfections. Her touch was soft, light, as one might use when laying a sleeping infant to rest. For if he were to awaken, he would not only take out his fury on her, but also on the few researchers who remained behind in a desperate attempt to finish their work on time.
Folding the wash cloth neatly, she wet it with a few drops of water from the bowl and brushed it across his cheek, streaking the thick paint as if tears had fallen there. It took precisely ten rhythmic strokes until the dark skin underneath was revealed.
She would not sleep tonight.
The process, when performed without his cooperation and without waking him, was a lengthy one. She calculated that it would take her at least until the early hours of the following day to complete the washing of his head, neck and upper body. After all, not a smear could be left behind, not even a faint tint on the tanned flesh.
She would rinse and brush his hair, running the comb through until it was untangled and soft. She would run the towel along his rough jaw line, down his nose, over his invisible lips. She would weave through his surprisingly slender fingers, across the slightly pink palm, tracing, following the scars up his arm as if they were lines on a map. She would lightly wipe his chest, lingering only for a moment where an enhanced heart beat melodically against enhanced ribs.
The rest she predicted, if done properly, would take her to first light.
And of course, despite her hard work, despite the long hours she would battle against the lulling oblivion of sleep, he would simply paint it all back on in the morning.
But it had to be done.
It is important to Mayuri-sama. Therefore, it is important to me.
Nemu washed her father's skin until his gaze met hers, the warm light of dawn falling silently across Seireitei.