Title: Routine
Author: SpiritualEnergy
Characters/Pairing: Ganju/Rukia
Spoilers: Up through the fillers, with mentions of the Arrancar arc.
Disclaimer: Bleach © Kubo Tite
Summary: She's been a part of death for too long now, he realizes. They both have.
Notes: For Chelseamuffin, who is my wife of one year. Happy anniversary!
Ganju watched her sometimes. Not with hate or contempt - which, for what must've been years, was all he could feel for her once - but with the eyes of a Shiba. It was a stare of curiosity, a way of asking questions he'd never be able to ask his brother. He'd listened to Ichigo and helped him rescue her, all the while asking questions in his head such as 'why?' and 'what makes her so special?'
But she was. To both Kaien and Ichigo - and if he were perfectly honest, maybe the resemblance alone played a role in all these silly questions - this shinigami girl who had murdered his own brother was special. Even more - worth it.
He remembered her in front of his sister, begging without the hands of a fireworks expert but the calluses of a god with too many injuries to speak of. It surprised him, getting the apology he'd always wanted. It pricked and spun and formed tears and anguish from her he'd never known existed - maybe didn't want to know existed.
But it did. Thus began the long string of silent questions.
She came into his shop once, with Hanatarou bearing a tentative smile and nervous hands at her entrance. With her little blue dress and severe eyes, she'd grumbled something about ramen and juice packs. If only to get Ichigo off her back, apparently.
She looked completely different from when they'd been in Soul Society. She looked normal, somehow; healthier. Maybe it was the dress; yeah, definitely the dress, he told himself. The white robes were a death sentence. The dress was summer time.
With a final exchange of money and product between her and Hanatarou, she turned and left the store.
--
He saw her more often after that. She'd appear in the shop, get what she needed, leave, and then come back again when she needed something.
It became a routine.
It was what they called a regular customer.
Maybe even a valued one.
"Fireworks."
The sound of her voice was something he was used to nowadays. But the word she used made him stop in his tracks, and turn to look at her with a raised eyebrow. "Eh?" he asked.
She raised her own eyebrows at him. "It's New Year's. Don't people light fireworks?"
The reminder snapped him back into place, like a rubber band. "Oh, right." He grinned, handing her a package of sparklers and cherry bombs. "Blowin' some shit up tonight?" he asked, interested. He'd lived in Soul Society always surrounded by fireworks; the topic was something he was used to, something that made him feel like he could be level with her and not feel the tension, even then, when it was at the smallest it could ever be.
She glanced at the box before deciding it was good enough. "Maybe," she said, expression straight enough to be serious.
He blinked. "Okay."
She looked at him. "What?" Her hair pooled around her shoulders, free of any restraint. Her hands were light and almost looked soft as she held the box of fireworks.
She looked pretty.
He waved a hand in her general direction, suppressing a cough. "Nothin', nothin', just… you're into this whole human lifestyle thing, aren't ya?"
"I'm not the one running a shop."
"It's a perfectly good business!"
She smiled a little. "Yeah."
She left, and he watched fireworks light up the sky that night.
--
That same night, after the gun powder blocked the stars and the noise broke into solitary shots, Ganju looked out his window and saw her skate against the sky in old shinigami robes.
--
It wasn't until two weeks later when he saw her again in the shop. She looked tired; small and worn.
"Need somethin'?" he asked, catching a quick glimpse of her drooping eyes before the look disappeared entirely.
It was replaced by a sharper look, and she simply stared at him as if she knew he'd been watching her.
"No."
--
Years pass with war in between, the real world punctured with holes that only Aizen could inflict.
When he goes back to Soul Society, he finally sees her again after a long period of absence.
She's wearing her shinigami robes, and her sword is hanging limply by her side as she watches him watch her.
"It's been awhile," she says finally.
Ganju rubs the back of his head, and suddenly feels the weight of something – nostalgia, maybe. "Uh, yeah…" He doesn't mention the deaths, or the ruin, or the fact that it's been fifty years and it feels like they've aged for far, far too long.
And then she kisses him.
Her weight is nothing to him, and her body is cold against his dirty and soot-covered skin. Her hands are gripping his robes, and she simply holds him – her grip is strong, stronger than she appears. But looks don't matter now, not after fifty years of a monotonous routine that's been broken by her very appearance here.
He ignores the blood on her as he pins her against one of the trees. He kisses her along her jaw, over her neck and on the lips. She smells of death, of rotting Hollows. She's been a part of death for too long now, he realizes. They both have.
"Rukia," he says thickly.
She just looks at him, and smiles, and moves against him, and he thinks he finally understands when she touches his face and says, "Thank you."