This is an attempt at writing something more introspective and complex than I have before. This one-shot takes place after "Comfort and Safety" but before "Strategy and Tactic.", which I consider to be "action" fics. I have rewritten this several times and would like to thank TylAshke for her kind input and insight, and to Rii no Ame for reminding me to be myself. Your critique is cordially invited.
Disclaimer: Bleach world and characters belong to Tite Kubo.
OBLIGATION
Only an occasional scrape of ink stick against stone broke the oppressive silence in the 6th division office. The round, grinding motion scraped gravelly and raucous against Kuchiki-taichou's burdened senses. He'd already dismissed his staff for the night. Only he himself chose to stay. The obligation to catch up on the immense back-log of work accumulated during his and Renji's mission to the World of the Living buoyed his determination. Only he could fulfill that obligation with appropriate care to detail and supply other division captains with consolidated intelligence reports.
He relished burying his need in the imposing, tall stacks of paper which sat staged on his Abarai Renji's desk. Byakuya accepted the crushing workload with equanimity, for serenity was his ultimate, just reward. The soothing rhythm of brush and ink, the quiet whisper of wolf-hair over paper, the cocoon of insulating silence of his empty office allowed him to immerse himself in the beautiful brush-strokes his work required, in the importance of it and in his desire to finish it all by morning.
His eyes strayed to the empty chair on his right and for a brief moment he rued the inconvenient absence of his fukutaichou. It occurred to him that work went smoother with Abarai around, but then, like a stream of water avoiding a stubborn rock, he skittishly veered away from the thought.
His eyes strayed again.
"Is it impossible for you to finish a simple task without becoming distracted?" The haughty voice of his grandfather reached out to him, helping him banish the vision of his fukutaichou.
Halfway through the second stack a stray breeze of wild thought whispered memories of Abarai Renji. If he wasn't laid up at the 4th division, still unconscious, he would have been here and helping. He would sit at his desk, his tabi making dry, shuffling sounds against the hardwood floor underneath. He would stir in his chair, his large frame making the already loosened structure creak. He would grunt and sigh and swear quietly, unaware of the choice words which escaped his lips every so often. He would load his brush with ink for his signatures only and beg and plead to use his Living World "ballpoint" for everything else.
I am bored.
The thought broke into Kuchiki Byakuya's conscious mind like a bubble. He dismissed it with a pop and moved the wet tip over the smooth, white paper surface. The thought threatened to organize in his mind again and he banished it with a flick of his wrist. Dismay seized him as betraying black droplets flew from his brush and polluted his perfect page. Now he'd have to redo it.
I don't need him.
The words stood erect in his mind with rigid and unforgiving firmness as his empty, gray eyes glanced at the formidable mountain of paper on Abarai-fukutaichou's desk. He was struck by the words still echoing in his very soul. Why "need"? An odd word to think of when looking at his fukutaichou's end of the office. His fine, linear eyebrows drew together in sudden confusion. Brush poised over a pristine sheet of paper, eyebrows drawn and mouth set firm with resolve, he absently watched a drop of black ink separate from the tip of his brush and languidly, as though in slow motion, fall to the white surface, its splatter pattern suddenly violent and disturbing. He heard the drop fall in the stillness of the large room and, unbidden, a memory of a gunshot filled his ears.
The satisfaction he expected from work well done evaporated with one glance at his calligraphy. Smooth forehead tensed at the inadequate brush strokes. There was no flow, no sense of single-minded dedication. The characters resembled a mechanical product of a distracted mind. Byakuya looked at his remaining work and the pleasure of anticipated accomplishment fled his heart.
I don't feel like going home.
Yet he should go somewhere else, do something else. Sleep had shown itself to be elusive at the Kuchiki mansion. Behind his closed eyelids he could not dismiss the vision of a wild redhead moving in fast – then falling with a loud bang – the blood of his gigai splattered on the cobblestones of Karakura streets like an ink drop on a virgin sheet. Behind his closed eyelids he was constantly visited by flashes of a rogue grin interspersed with that handsome, expressive face full of pain, rejection and sudden self-doubt.
They probably held dinner for him again yet he felt no hunger. A small, distant part of him knew he should eat, but tea was enough for lunch and somehow he was too tired for anything more.
I am a Kuchiki, disciplined and autonomous. I shall prepare for tomorrow.
The feeling of capitulation sat heavy on his chest as he cleared his desk. He rinsed his brush and set it in its stand, his slender hands aligning the outgoing papers in clearly labeled stacks. He could not abide clutter. Everything was neat and logically ordered: his desk, his mind, his heart. Thus when he opened the storage closet to retrieve a new ink stick for tomorrow, he almost frowned. The small space was raging with chaos, shelves full of boxes all askew, goods in senseless places. There were no logical categories, no rhyme or reason to the stacks and piles of papers and brushes and stamps and various sundry office supplies. The floor of the closet was almost covered with a large, green-and-yellow duffle bag.
Unacceptable.
Sleep eluded him tonight and so did this calligraphy, and having failed at his effort to conquer the paper tiger he could, at least, dispose of the offending piece of luggage. He had no doubt as to its contents, unlikely to forget his consternation as he watched Abarai Renji run up and down the aisles of a Living World store with a cart full of merchandise and a long shopping list in his hand. Shinigami Women's Association has long been Byakuya's bane with their efforts to break into his mansion, take photographs of him, or build a swimming pool in his gardens. Now he was faced with tangible evidence of his fukutaichou's cooperation with the offending body of women. He reached and grabbed the onerous piece of luggage, then flinched back as though burned.
I really should not touch his things.
Touching Abarai-fukutaichou's things felt strangely intimate. Slowly, a word came to Byakuya's mind, a word which was his beacon in the time of darkness, his salvation: Obligation.
Obligation was something that Kuchiki Byakuya, captain of the 6th division and the 28th head of the Kuchiki clan, understood all too well. It would be unseemly for him to spend his days and nights by Abarai's bedside. It would be unacceptable to embrace Abarai and comfort the smooth, tattooed forehead with his cool hand and to meet his lips like he did in the Living World. Here in Seireitei he was bound by different rules, different obligations. But obligations were one area where he could be of service to his indisposed fukutaichou. As his captain, he could at the very least make sure that the goods reached the recipients.
I am doing this only out of obligation.
He pulled the bag out. The garish colors were so typical of Renji. A tug threatened to turn up the corner of his mouth in a faint smile as he recalled Renji's penchant for color when they shopped for clothing in Karakura.
The metallic rustle of the zipper broke the silence of the large room and the bag opened its large maw.
Members of his own division would be shocked to recognize their own captain sitting on the floor, the contents of the large bag spread around him. A brown envelope held their old map of Karakura, a pad with Renji's notes, a folded poster with the likeness of Gabriel rendered in color.
The scribbled list in his hand was barely legible, but the information was all there.
Recipient.
Item.
Price.
That's all he needed to make the tidy, carefully labeled piles. Byakuya looked at the thirty-something recipients' names and shuddered. He was, most emphatically, not making deliveries. Yet there was a mess of piles on his division office floor and considering the amount of time it took to sort the contents of the bag out, he was loath to load it all back in again. It would keep till morning, he decided. The SWA can come and pick up their contraband.
Byakuya Kuchiki teemed with satisfaction. Abarai was banished from his thoughts and he sorted and organized with meticulous care. Yet just like he'd never leave an ink splotch on a perfect sheet of paper, he could not bring himself to pollute the floor of his supply closet with the duffle bag. One glance at Abarai-fukutaichou's luggage brought forth a memory of the redhead's carefree laughter. Byakuya sighed in defeat.
This bag cannot stay.
Master key in hand, he carried the almost-empty bag to Abarai-fukutaichou's quarters. With only slight hesitation he unlocked the door. He was acting out of obligation – there was nothing to it.
The door slid open silently. As soon as Byakuya's feet crossed the threshold, the residue of that fiery, scorched-cinnamon reiatsu that was Abarai Renji hit him right in the face – a sharp intake of breath – and he swayed slightly. With a careful exhale he centered himself and only his finely honed sense of duty forced him to invade the muted darkness and make light.
Suppose Abarai-fukutaichou was incapacitated for many more days to come? Byakuya's grey eyes slid to the duffle bag. At the very least he could unpack it for him. He strode to the carefully made futon bed, placed the bag on top and unzipped the smaller compartment. With great hesitation, one by one, he removed Abarai's things. The awful jeans and t-shirt given to him by Urahara reminded him of Abarai's touching effort to find something decent for him to wear. The elegant, black, button-down shirt he himself selected for Abarai was rolled up in a ball and as he shook it out, his senses were awash in the warm, spicy, well-aged fragrance that was Abarai Renji.
He should have recoiled. He should have put the unwashed, offending garment down yet he somehow could not.
His eyes slid closed.
He inhaled deeply and could almost feel Abarai's weight sprawled on his lap on the bench in the park, across his chest on the train, always warm and comforting. Byakuya's slender hands lifted those fragments of his days against his face as he breathed in the heady scent.
"…"
He realized his face was buried in his fukutaichou's long-worn, unwashed shirt and he felt a speechless sense of ridicule and shame. He struggled in vain for a long moment and once again he raised the fragrant cloth to his face again and inhaled, his eyes closed.
Renji…
He forced himself to lower the shirt and shake it out and fold it carefully, placing it on a pile along with Renji's other personal items. The very act of handling each sock, each bit of fabric stirred his memories and he was stunned to realize that he hasn't felt such pain since Hisana died.
"He took a bullet for you, just like in the movies,"
Yoruichi said back then as Urahara was forcibly separating Renji's spirit body from the reiatsu-supressing gigai.
"That's almost romantic, Bya-bo."
Her words did not amuse him; they seldom did. His actions were most certainly not romantic, not in the slightest. His activity was driven by higher needs.
Duty.
Obligation.
Responsibility.
The curiously hollow feeling in his chest was unrelated to the process at hand; a mere by-product of his busy life. The emptiness he felt could be attributed to the late hour, to the changing weather, to his extreme workload.
The heady scent made him relax, forcing him to acknowledge his heavy-lidded fatigue. He permitted himself to sit on the bed and was irrationally tempted to spend the night. The long days and sleepless nights were catching up with him and for the first time in a long time he felt his eyes closing. The thought alone shocked him, negating the satisfaction earned by disposing of the contents of the duffel bag.
A sudden, idle thought invaded his tired mind – did defeat taste of scorched cinnamon, was it redolent of musk? He shook off useless thoughts and replaced the pillow he found himself hugging, smoothing its surface with careful hands.
Abarai's in the 4th. I am not visiting him…but I should bring him some of his things. It's on the way home. It is nothing but obligation.
Byakuya walked through the small apartment, eyeing the space and its contents with thinly veiled curiosity. So many trophies from the World of the Living cluttered the shelves. He brought some water from the small kitchen and watered Abarai-fukutaichou's drooping plants, surprised at their presence. His eyes drifted to the opposite wall and he halted at the sight of a wall of books. For somebody who hated paperwork as much as Abarai did, his library was extensive. Byakuya glided over the tatami mats and reached his tekkou-clad hand with greed to pull down a random volume. Most of these books were from the Living World and the subject matter varied. Volumes both large and small by authors known and obscure were punctuated by several books instructive to cooking and horticulture.
He decided that his fukutaichou would appreciate a book during his convalescence. The Living World objects were largely a mystery to Byakuya, but books were safe and familiar. He pulled down a volume by Ovid, scanned its contents and felt a slight flush as he placed it back on the shelf. Maybe Aurelius Marcus would be appropriate: "Meditations".
With protracted hesitation he abandoned Abarai's space and aimed for the 4th division. Isane-fukutaichou was on night shift.
"You're late tonight, Kuchiki-taichou." Her healer's eyes scanned him slowly. "You haven't eaten again. Let me get something for you."
She steered him to a chair and a bowl of rice and ginger porridge materialized soon, accompanied by a glass of lemon and honey water.
"But I am not sick." He hesitated to eat the food reserved for the ill.
"You will be if you don't take care of yourself." Isane's voice was firm. She kept his company while he ate, the way Yumichika kept Yachiru's company when she was supposed to be brushing her teeth.
"Will you visit Abarai-fukutaichou?" Isane asked mildly and Byakuya could not but notice how her smooth voice resembled the one of her formidable superior. A question turned command. He turned his unsmiling face toward her.
"I can sit with him for awhile." Only for a little while.
I do not need to be here. It is just a sense of…obligation.
As soon as Byakuya entered the room, Renji's reiatsu reached out blindly in search of him and he leaned into the contact; the warmth and rightness of it grounded and centered him and suddenly he realized he felt so tired he could fall asleep on his feet.
He leaned back in the visitor's chair and was about to close his eyes in meditation when Yamada Hanatarou walked in, bearing a folding cot.
"I won't have you falling asleep in that chair again, Kuchiki-taichou."
The cot looked awfully good. Better than the hard chair, better than the soft bed in his mansion. Better than his quarters, or his fukutaichou's cold room, still filled with vestigial remnants of his presence.
He nodded.
I may as well sleep over; they will rouse me come morning.
It was logical to sleep over. Nothing to it, really. He settled in the darkness, the slow breathing of his fukutaichou a comfort to his ears. He could feel their reiatsu brush and entangle and it felt natural and soothing and redolent of warm spices. The empty ache in his chest began to subside and his eyes felt suddenly leaden and unyielding. As his eyelids slid shut, he blindly reached his arm out. The tekkou-clad hand barely brushed Renji's warm fingertips. Unaware, the corners of Byakuya's mouth curved up in the slightest smile as sleep claimed him.
Just an obligation…