Chapter Four: Waiting and Wanting

"They are worried about you, little girl." That voice again. "They shouldn't be. This is your power. Our power."

Rukia struggled to open her eyes. It was very bright here. Rukia could see nothing save the outline of a figure in the distance. A woman. Rukia got to her feet and began to walk towards the figure. She had to ask, to understand. But the more she walked, the further away the woman seemed to be. Rukia could barely see her now.

"Wait," she yelled, "Don't leave! I need to talk to you!" And then she was alone in a sea of white light.

"Rukia! Rukia! Are you okay?!"

Ichigo. Rukia could feel his arms around her and the ragged sound of his breathing. She felt warm. Peaceful. "I want to stay here," she thought.

"Rukia! Wake up!"

Rukia opened her eyes. She was on the floor of Urahara's living quarters, her head cradled in Ichigo's arms. Embarrassed, she quickly pushed herself up to a sitting position and disentangled herself from him.

"I'm fine, Ichigo," she said, forcing herself to look at him.

"Kurosaki-kun seems to think otherwise. It seems as though you've been playing a bit rough, Kuchiki-san," Urahara teased, smiling at her.

"Always the joker," she responded, irritated, "I said I'm just fine, thank you."

"I'll be here if you need me, Kuchiki-san," responded Urahara, adjusting his striped hat as he walked out of the room.

Ichigo stared at her. He was trying to form the words for all the questions he needed answered, but nothing would come out.

"Stop staring, Ichigo." She glared at him, "Obviously, I have no more idea about why this has happened than you do. What did you tell Urahara?"

"Nothing. But you know him. He's probably already figured it out. And why wouldn't you tell him, anyhow?" he asked.

She thought this over briefly. "I'd prefer to wait," she said, dismissively.

"Wait for what, Rukia?!" Ichigo was a man of action. Waiting was simply not his style.

"Wait until I figure out why I practically turned into a hollow back there!" she snapped.

He knew better than to press her. It wasn't like having a hollow inside you was something he was unfamiliar with. It had taken some time before he had asked for help to tame the hollow inside himself, and if she wanted to wait to discuss it with her superiors, he didn't see why he should object. But he resolved to keep an eye on her, all the same.

"Dinner then," Ichigo said, changing the subject.

"Huh?" She looked at him as though he had spoken a foreign language.

"You have to eat sometime. Let's get out of here and get some food." He grinned, pleased with his idea.

"I suppose I should be grateful you can think about food at a time like this," she said with a laugh. Ichigo smiled, happy to see her back to her usual self.

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They decided on sushi – her favorite, not his. Ichigo felt that anything uncooked was not fit for human consumption, and he opted for a bowl of udon with lots of extras piled on top.

The restaurant was small. It was late, and they were nearly alone for dinner. They laughed and talked about little things – about how Urahara always wore his stupid hat (Ichigo suggested it was because he had a big bald spot underneath), or how Ichigo's father insisted on cooking breakfast for the family on Sunday mornings, despite his total inability to follow a recipe (Rukia thought Isshin and Orihime probably owned the same cookbook).

All the while, the subject of Rukia's surprising transformation earlier that day hung over them, silent, yet ever present. "She seems fine," he thought. He'd figure out how to bring up the topic with her tomorrow. For now, he was enjoying himself too much to challenge her again.

Rukia had been staying with the Kurosaki's since they returned, as she had done in the past. No more closet, of course. Instead, Isshin had procured bunk beds for the girls' room, apparently anticipating Rukia's return to the living quarters of his small clinic. She had woken up the first night to find a stuffed lion clinging to her chest. After that evening, she had taken to seeking out Kon before bed and shoving him into a latched cabinet in the closet for safety.

Tonight, Ichigo and Rukia walked back home in near silence. Ichigo, never a man of many words under the best of circumstances, preferred to say nothing rather than risk shattering the uneasy "normalness" of the evening.

Their route back home took them by the banks of the river – a place that held a special place in Ichigo's psyche. Ichigo's feelings about the place were complicated. This was the place where his mother had been killed while trying to protect him from a hollow. But despite the grief associated with the river, Ichigo found himself drawn to the haunting beauty of the place time and time again. He would often sit for hours on the grassy bank and watch the lights of the city dance on its surface.

"Mind if we sit for a few minutes?" he asked her. She nodded. She knew what this place meant to him.

"Rukia," he asked, "did you know about my dad?"

She hesitated. "I suspected," she said, at last.

He sat silently for a few minutes, gazing across the water. She sat close to him, and he was acutely aware of her presence. It felt good being so near to her. He wondered if she felt the same. He got to his feet abruptly, afraid that if he stayed next to her a moment longer, he might do something he'd regret. She followed, momentarily surprised to see him move so quickly. In her haste to get up, she tripped over an uneven patch of ground and fell, face forward.

Ichigo caught her as she fell. "That's the second time today," he said, laughing, and then, just as quickly, all thoughts of what had happened earlier in the day left him as he held her against his chest. It was just seconds, but it felt like hours that they stood there pressed against each other.

"Rukia, I…" he began, but she interrupted, "It's been a long day. We should get some rest," she said. She pushed him away and headed up the steps to the top of the embankment. He followed. He felt inadequate, awkward.

"Idiot," he thought.

Later, in his room, Ichigo relived the feel of her body against his. "What the hell am I thinking?!" he asked himself, "She's lived a hundred years. She thinks of me as just a boy." And he drifted off to sleep, still imagining the scent of her.