Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach.


Breach

What to expect: A little melancholy. A little introspection. A whole lot of affection waiting for a chance to blossom. (Dashes of IchiRuki for flavor included.)


Tōshirō reclined back against the couch. He had a cup of steaming tea in one hand and no less than a dozen reports in the other.

He'd been wasting away in Inoue Orihime's home after days spent recuperating. Sitting around and meditating was beginning to make him antsy, especially when Tōshirō just knew that piles upon piles of paperwork awaited his return like a terrifying lover that he couldn't quite shake. So, he'd taken the liberty of having them send a few stacks over so he could at least dent what expected him when he got back.

It was between shuffling through the pages and trying to decipher the handwriting of a soul reaper with particularly childish script that he wondered how the other divisions got their work done, notably the Eleventh and Eighth Divisions. Tōshirō was practically swimming in a sea of papers every morning, and that was taking into account the fact that he not only finished his on time, but spent enough hours doing overtime that he was sure he'd grow hunched in his old age. Tōshirō seriously debated if those two divisions were exempt from paperwork—he needed that same privilege, if just for a day—or if their obligations had been pushed onto other divisions and that was why he was always drowning in reports.

Tōshirō suddenly shook his head. He was getting distracted. These reports weren't going to read and sign themselves. He didn't know where Orihime was, but it wasn't late enough yet that he was particularly worried. Matsumoto, on the other hand, had taken one look at the work he had sent, wrinkled her nose, and walked right out the door. He didn't bother asking her where she was going. Tōshirō needed peace, and she was the epitome of everything peace wasn't. Besides, she should've known him well enough by now to realize that this was exactly the type of stunt he'd pull. Tōshirō never would've become a captain at such a young age if he wasn't a workaholic after all; natural talent could only get someone so far.

He wasn't completely alone though.

Kuchiki Rukia had come in a little over an hour ago after a spar with Abarai. She claimed that the redhead was still down in Urahara's training grounds, practicing his hand-to-hand combat with Yoruichi.

"Why didn't you go to Kurosaki's?" he had asked.

"His window was locked." Kuchiki shrugged. "No one else was home. I wanted to walk the soreness off a bit, and Renji said you'd be here for the rest of the day. Oh, don't worry. I texted Orihime before coming."

"I'm surprised you don't have your own key to Kurosaki's by now."

"The window has always worked for me. It's rare for me to get locked out."

"But not impossible."

"Well, Ichigo did mention that they were all going to eat dinner somewhere. He even told me the place, but I didn't want to intrude. I think Kon snuck away with them. I forgot to ask Ichigo to make sure that he was in the house, so he could open the window because, well, Ichigo told me all of this right before he went to school."

It was early. I wasn't paying attention, was what he basically got out of that spiel.

Tōshirō didn't say anything more.

There was no need.

He focused on his work, while she pattered about the house. At one point, she'd asked him if he wanted to eat anything and he waved her off without so much as a glance in her direction. He heard the sizzle of eggs and bacon in the kitchen. It smelt good, but he wasn't exactly hungry, so he didn't bother. Frankly, he was surprised that she had managed to make something decent actually come out of that kitchen. He was sure that those poor pots and pans had been abused to the point of no return; forced to endure all kinds of unnamable substances. It was a wonder that they didn't spontaneously combust as soon as she set them down on the stove and placed normal things inside.

Kuchiki didn't bother him. She went about her own business, not once turning on the television or making any other sudden noises because of what he was doing. Tōshirō didn't know if she was being considerate because he was a captain, if traits like that had been fixed into her by her older brother, or if she was naturally that thoughtful, but from what he'd seen of her extremely contradictory interactions with Kurosaki, it would be a headache just trying to figure it out.

So, he didn't bother. No use dwelling on something so banal anyway.

Eventually, Kuchiki went to bathe, possibly deciding that it wasn't worth walking around feeling so sticky when she had no idea what time Kurosaki would be back.

He heard the shower run, followed by the tub spout as she prepared to soak for a while. He smelt the faint scent of vanilla in the air. It distracted him for a moment longer than it should have. Then, as if she wanted to assault all of his senses, the smell was followed by the sound of her humming. It invaded his mind more than any amount of shouting could. Not because she had a particularly hideous or soothing voice, but because there was something about melodies that just made them so much more difficult to tune out. Tōshirō put both his teacup and his papers down, before closing his eyes in an attempt to flush the rest of the world's noise as if that might enhance his gigai's hearing enough so he could hear the soft tune.

Tōshirō eventually did, although it was only after she shut the tub spout off. It wasn't anything he was familiar with. Surprisingly, it sounded like something Matsumoto would hum while completely shit-faced. Where did she learn that? He doubted her brother would ever willingly let her near any unsavory types while growing up.

Her file did say she grew up with Abarai in Inuzuri, Tōshirō thought, thinking of the scum that lived there. I guess she could've learned it from some old drunk there. Then again, Ukitake's her captain. That man was famous for drinking the days away with Captain Kyōraku whenever the latter managed to get away from his Lieutenant, which truthfully, was often.

He realized belatedly that it wasn't just her humming that he heard… he heard everything. The walls were absurdly thin because, with ease, he caught every satisfied sigh, each self-mutter, all of the minute times she brought a limb out of the water to—

Tōshirō hated how clearly the images came to him. His imagination was so abhorrently vivid that he seriously considered whether or not she'd casted some kind of Kidō on him, before she stepped inside of the bath. But of course that wasn't true. For one, did something like that even exist? And two, why would she?

But icy spirits, the mental picture inside of his mind was so detailed and so stupidly vibrant that suspecting her was all he could do because he absolutely refused to believe that he was in any way a… a…

Pervert? Hyōrinmaru offered.

Hormonal teena—adolescent, he corrected darkly, uncaring that he'd just referred to himself as such.

Is that supposed to make it better?

Why, yes. Yes, it did. By a damn long shot as far as he was concerned.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

Tōshirō instinctively allowed his senses to fan out, realizing in the span of half a breath that it was Kurosaki. He crossed the small distance between him and the door, twisting the insane number of locks—seriously, why in the world did Orihime have five, six… nine locks—on the door.

"Yo," Kurosaki greeted.

He was pleasantly surprised when his first name didn't follow. Instead, the substitute soul reaper merely stepped inside with a little paper bag in one hand—had he brought dinner for her?—before doing a quick sweep of the area. Tōshirō felt the moment his spirit energy spread in the same manner that his had. Kurosaki's presence was immense, and he still had trouble controlling his own strength. It was amazing how Kuchiki managed to constantly be in his presence without feeling suffocated by all of that energy. Tōshirō had to draw his own to the surface, a whisper of power right along the edge of his skin, just to keep Kurosaki's from oppressing him.

Tōshirō didn't bother telling him where she was. He realized for himself quickly enough. It was only when Kurosaki started walking towards the door that he stopped him.

"That's the bathroom," Tōshirō said.

"I know."

"… You know?" Then what the hell are you doing, stupid?

"How long has she been in there?"

"I wasn't paying attention to the time. Maybe thirty minutes?"

"She sure got comfortable quick."

"She came here after training at Urahara's."

"Yea, she mentioned it," he muttered, before walking forward again.

"She's bathing," Tōshirō hastily said. Did eating out with his family make him lose it?

Kurosaki tilted his head back to shoot him a puzzled look. He blinked at him. Twice. Very slowly. "Well, yea, I figured." A pause. "Did Rukia smack you or something, Tōshirō? I know you're a captain and all, but she can be a hammer sometimes."

Did you always state the obvious? were the unspoken words.

It was Tōshirō's turn to blink in bewilderment. The reflexive retort he always shot out whenever someone called him by his first name didn't even manage to make it past his lips. By the time he gathered his wits, Kurosaki already had his hand on the doorknob.

"Hey, Kurosaki! What do you think you're do—"

"Rukia!" he called. Steam drifted out as soon as he opened the door. "Rukia, you alive?"

Kurosaki had only opened the door enough to stick his arm with the paper bag through. There was no hint of embarrassment on his face. Nothing to indicate that he was crossing some boundary that he had no right crossing. Everything was all done in one smooth motion, as if he'd done this thousands of time before. Perhaps he had.

"Ichigo," Kuchiki said back, and Tōshirō didn't have to see her face to know that she was smiling.

"I brought your clothes." Ichigo waved the bag. "Is it safe to drop?"

"Yea, it's not wet there. Just don't fling it."

The bag fell.

"Hurry up in there," he said. "This isn't your house, and I brought a little food back for you."

"I'm getting out now." They heard water slush as she slipped out of the tub, then the distinct sound of draining. "Thanks!"

Just as Ichigo closed the door, Tōshirō caught a glimpse of skin as Kuchiki picked up the bag. He got an even fuller glimpse when she leaned forward to wipe at the foggy mirror. But then the door slammed shut, blocking his view. Tōshirō immediately looked away, his ears red. Blood seemed to flow faster in his veins. He clenched his fists and screwed his eyes shut, trying to make it return to normal with nothing more than sheer will.

Thankfully, Kurosaki didn't seem to notice. If he had gotten his own little preview, then he didn't show it. Tōshirō didn't even want to know whether or not he had because that meant only one of two things: either Kurosaki had seen her like that enough times that hiding it wasn't an issue or he wasn't interested and truly did not give a damn—the best option out of the two really.

Either way, this little incident really brought home the fact that maybe, just maybe he was a little bit of a per—hormonal adoles—no, healthy, heterosexual male for not tearing his eyes away as soon as the door opened.

Tōshirō pinched the bridge of his nose in sudden aggravation. These two rivalled Matsumoto in headache-inducing abilities, and they weren't even trying. A truly spectacular feat.

They both turned when Kuchiki emerged. She wore a casual, breezy white halter dress. The towel she was using to dry her hair obscured most of her face from his vision. But the sight of her pale skin tinged a slight pink was enough to make Tōshirō swallow inaudibly. His previous fantasithoughts, his previous thoughts came back full force. Tōshirō roughly shook his head once, just enough to get every absurd idea out of his mind while the pair had their attention elsewhere.

"Dry your hair properly," Kurosaki said. "It's cold outside."

"I know, I know." She waved him away.

"It's going to snow soon," Tōshirō cut in. "Are you sure you should be wearing a dress?"

Kurosaki shot him that quizzical look again, before he turned to Kuchiki. "He doesn't know?"

"Do you want me to stomp on you?" She watched, satisfied, as he backed up a good four feet. "That's what I thought."

"She asked me to bring her a dress," Kurosaki explained, barely sparing Tōshirō a glance even though he was addressing him.

"I like them."

"Yea, she likes 'em. She'll be fine."

Tōshirō didn't like being kept out of the loop, but he supposed that was inevitable with these two. He knew that she had an ice Zanpakutō, but that didn't mean she was immune to chills. Temperature affected everyone. Even he could only handle the cold up to a certain point. Sure, the distance from Orihime's house to Kurosaki's might not have been that far, but he really couldn't have her getting sick on his watch. Why exactly that was, he didn't question—at least, not right now. There would be plenty of time to ruminate later. As a soul reaper, he had a lot of it.

Tōshirō didn't really think as he grabbed the green scarf that he had discarded hours ago on the couch; didn't really consider the weight of his actions as he moved forward with the confidence of a thousand men to wrap it securely around her neck; didn't really reflect upon their proximity as his taciturn gaze met hers in a vibrant clash of teal and violet that didn't exist in any of the three worlds.

Well, no, that's not entirely true, he amended, killing the soft thoughts as soon as they'd come. Some of the dishes Orihime made had a similar conflict of colors. But he really didn't want to think about that, so he focused instead on the noble in front of him.

The only sign of his nervousness was the instantaneous tremble of his hand, before he consciously forced it to cease. He was a soul reaper; he was a captain—and he'd be damned if his body disobeyed him. His brain, his heart, sure. That was inevitable at times. But not his body, never his body. He'd trained too much for his muscles to not yield to his every explicit command.

Tōshirō stepped back, putting some much needed distance between them.

"Be more mindful, Kuchiki," he said, immensely proud of himself when no bright patches of red colored his cheeks the way they suddenly did hers. "Your brother will worry."

Her eyes widened, and then before he could even contemplate the reason why, she was smiling at him. A damn dazzling smile that pierced through whatever layers of frost he was sure was in his blood, warming him to the bone. Kuchiki snuggled into the scarf like it was the best thing anyone had ever given her, before nodding her head in acknowledgement. He was sure it was his words, rather than his actions that sparked that reaction just then, and he found himself marveling why—how? Didn't actions ring louder than words?

But she looked so happy that he found it difficult to find a single ounce of worth in that commonly held belief.

"I'll keep that in mind," she whispered. "Thank you."

Tōshirō turned his head to the side, unable to handle the appreciative look on her face. His eyes coincidentally met Kurosaki's. The substitute raised an eyebrow at his actions. It was a breach—in protocol, their relationship, the personal space that Tōshirō valued more than a rare day off. More importantly, it was an abrupt overstepping of bounds. Their captain-subordinate dynamic didn't call for such waywardness. Never had.

Tōshirō had inadvertently gone a foot too far inside of the bubble that sprung up whenever Kurosaki and Kuchiki were together; the one that even Abarai was hesitant to near. It was, dare he say it, far more welcoming than he expected. There was awkwardness there, but it was snuffed out by a ray of grey-white sunshine, just warm enough to not bother him. Though he attributed all of that to Rukia's jovial response to his words. If Tōshirō hadn't said them, then he was certain that this would be a far more painfully inelegant experience.

Kurosaki, for his part, opted not to comment on Tōshirō's strange behavior. He had to give the substitute credit for that, but whatever appreciation he felt instantly evaporated when, instead of speaking to snap Kuchiki out of the brief, but joyful trance that he'd somehow managed to put her in without meaning to, Kurosaki placed a hand on her head and ruffled her semi-dry hair, effectively severing whatever tender connection that had just formed between the two short soul reapers.

"Look at that grin. Someone's easily pleased," he teased. Kuchiki's cheeks blazed, and he barely had time to dodge the kick she aimed at his shin. "Let's go home, Rukia."

Kurosaki walked ahead, confident that Kuchiki would jump to catch up after a few smart remarks.

"Did you bring me rice dumplings? I've really been crav—" Kuchiki's eyes widened. She swiveled around and bowed to him; an afterthought, if he'd ever seen one. Tōshirō almost felt insulted. Almost. If it was anyone but Kurosaki with her, he would have been, especially after what he'd just done. "Have a good night, Captain Hitsugaya."

"Yea," Tōshirō said, dismissing her with a flick of his wrist.

As soon as the word left his lips, she was once again trailing after the human boy.

Once upon a time, somewhere between desperation and a mundane life in the world of the living, Kurosaki's worth in Kuchiki's eyes rose until it equalled that of her own life—and that worth hadn't plummeted since. Tōshirō understood that kind of closeness; that unwavering sense of devotion, despite differences. He wasn't prideful enough to not be able to admit to himself, and to Hyōrinmaru by extension, that he missed it.

If Kuchiki had managed a relationship with a human of all things, then there was definitely potential for an unexpected friendship for him there, too. Although he was clueless how to go about actually befriending a person.

Is it even worth it? he wondered.

The door closed gently behind them.

Tōshirō rubbed the back of his neck in unexpected irritation at their shared departure.

He didn't know how to explain the sudden, hurtful twinge in his chest, but he blamed it on the hot air that he felt emanating from the bathroom. He really wasn't good with heat.

Matsumoto's going to throw a fit if there's no hot water when she comes back.


A/N: Please review.