Disclamer: I don't own it.
Somewhere between him and her there is a hollow. The spirit energy it throws off is familiar, almost comforting in the fact that it's Stupid Hollow Enemy and not Vengeful Death God Enemy. He is home and he is in control; he can dispatch this thing at his leisure, really.
Except he can't.
The urgency is pulsing through his veins like hot iron. She's out there. She's alone and still clearly limited in her power, not that she would stop to acknowledge it in a way that would let her call for help. Not his help anyway. And she'll get herself killed.
Somewhere between him and her there is a hollow. He has to kill it. He is aware of the beads of sweat manifesting on his neck, compounding themselves each time he hears it roar. Each time the roar becomes louder, it changes a little and he can tell by its pitch that the hollow is ready to maim, rend, destroy. Perhaps there is a tiny death god in its talons, too shocked and weak to cry out. Perhaps there is blood. Perhaps there is already nothing at all, and he's too late. His head is exploding with each step and he berates himself for not being faster.
Just when he thinks he can't stand any more, he is upon them, and he can feel her spirit energy as well as the hollow's. And it's strong. Before he even sees her he is enveloped in the icy warmth of her battle stance. And, as if she wills it, he freezes.
Her eyes are wild. There's blood on her but it isn't hers. The hollow is bellowing its horror at the sight of its severed arm, on the ground and oozing. Then comes the shadow, half butterfly, half Valkyrie, and her keening cry. The hollow is gone before the tiny feet hit the ground. And she takes a breath, sheaths her sword, looks at him with eyes he could swear he's never seen before. But he knows them. Those were the eyes he saw before he knew her name. But no, it was just a flash, and as she walks calmly toward him she is Rukia again. "You did it," he says when his voice returns.
"Of course I did." It was nothing to her. She does not look back when she walks past him. He numbly falls in line with her and they are quiet. He can't summon the words to congratulate her. He resents what this new muteness means. And he hates his heart that's still pounding, now with an entirely new rhythm. She'll never need him again. She never really did, but that's beside the point. Is it over, and they are separate now? And dammit, why is she bumping into him? He looks down to see her close by his side.
"Wake up, slowpoke," she says. I was half a block away by the time I noticed. Where's your head?"
"On my neck," he growls.
"Then use it," she says. "I can't take out every hollow on my own. Where the hell were you?"
"What difference does that make? You had it all under control."
"Oh now that's uncalled for. Are you worried I'm going to horn in on your business?"
"Heh." She already has. She doesn't need saving anymore. "You have it covered," he hisses. "Forget the shinigami shit now, I've served my purpose, haven't I?"
When she gives him a kick in the pants, he skitters away, startled. And faces her. Ivory skin, violet eyes and sharp little teeth bared in a fierce smile. "I don't need you to protect me, dumbass. I just need you." And then she frowns as it dawns on her that she's confessed something she probably didn't want to.
He can't smile back at her and be reassuring. He knows sooner or later his mind will wander over to how she needs him, and the companion piece to that thesis is how he needs her.
And that's something he doubts she wants to think about either.