Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach.

Interim

Setting: Continuation of Chapter 7

Orange stains littered Soul Society by the time the medic from the Fourth Division finally arrived. She knocked twice, swift and loud in the silence. It startled Tōshirō into alertness. He knew that he was snarling something awful and that his entire form twitched in his seat at the disturbance, but he had to hand it to her because she wasn't deterred in the slightest—though she did look helplessly at him for a moment. Almost like she pitied him. Tōshirō furrowed his eyebrows at that, but otherwise held his tongue.

The medic wasted no time. As soon as she stood by Rukia's bed, her hands lit as green as her eyes. She whispered something soft and familiar, before shimmering light burst forth from somewhere deep inside of her. Her energy was so bright it appeared as if she'd snatched the sun from twilight's grasp.

Tōshirō was enamored by the sight. He could do nothing but gawk, caught by the bright blaze of her energy's focus. Little more than an ignorant child, ensnared by heat. The medic's hands burned brilliantly in the darkness, lighting up all of the shadowy corners of the room.

Tōshirō searched Rukia's face.

The change wasn't immediate. The way she roused was slow. Too slow. But with each passing second, the wound that spanned from her right shoulder all the way down to her hip mended more and more. The ashen color that had lingered over her all morning finally began to lift. Tōshirō thought he imagined the sudden twitch of her brow or the downward tilt of her lips, forming a pained grimace, but when she groaned, his neck audibly cracked in his sudden snap to attention.

Not a moment later, and he was on his feet, ignoring his aching limbs. He made his way toward her with a scowl that could crack glass, fueled by a flooding surge of relief so palpable that he actually choked; unable to shout the speech he'd prepared about her recklessness, her stupidity, and her utter carelessness for her own well-being.

She was a fool.

His mind screamed it every time he replayed her jumping head first to take that swift downward swing that should've been meant for him.

Soon enough, the soothing wash of healing energy quivered, then siphoned away. Back into the arms of the kind-eyed medic, who licked her lips, fatigued from the strain of what must've been a powerful technique. To heal Rukia that quickly, it could only be.

"Slowly," the medic muttered, but Tōshirō barely heard.

Neither did Rukia, judging from the way her eyes darted around in search—for me, he realized, unable to fully smother his pleasure.

"You idiot," was Tōshirō's greeting.

His lips curled up into a furious snarl, but when her eyes met his and she had the audacity to smirk, the words bent. At that precise moment, he couldn't help the pool of gladness that rocked his core. He watched as the light from the window caught in her eye. Twinkling. Hopeful. Hesitant. All of the words in his throat vanished with an inhale, and suddenly, the rest of the world no longer mattered. Perhaps it never did.

Tōshirō cleared his throat, but when he still couldn't say what he wanted, he settled for cursing her twice instead. The words exploded into the air. His tone alone was enough to silence the people he heard noisily chattering two rooms down.

Rukia's eyebrows scrunched, slowly processing what he'd said.

"Tōshirō," she called, peaceful enough to be insulting.

Rukia wanted to say more, but the words were lost to an uncontrollable cough, and she could only repeat his name again. Her voice was a mere croak. She needed water, unaware herself how thirsty she was. Her body would remind her soon though. So, he didn't bother.

"An idiot," Tōshirō repeated, unyielding.

"I didn't hear you the first time," Rukia said dryly.

Tōshirō frowned. His gaze ventured to her tangled hair and how it caught inside of her collar. It couldn't be comfortable. Without thinking, he reached over to fix it, but stopped when the medic beside them abruptly stood with an embarrassed squeal. Her chair clattered to the floor, shooting a cloud of dust all around them. She stared at them, her eyes wider than dinner plates. To them, she looked as if she'd just awoken from a long and tender fever-dream. Tōshirō's hand dropped in an instant. His train of thought utterly sidetracked because of the look in her green eyes. Her cheeks were redder than anything he'd ever seen.

Is she blushing? Tōshirō wondered. Spirits, free me. What in the world is she blushing about?

The medic took in their confused stares, before shaking her head and shoving a mug full of what Tōshirō could only hope was water in Rukia's unsuspecting hands. The woman was evidently the daydreaming type.

Rukia stared dumbly at the mug for all of a moment, before her thirst got the better of her. The water was gone in an instant. Tōshirō bent to dab at the trickles that fell down her chin. Despite his gentleness, his scowl was back in place and his anger was as refreshed as her throat. Tōshirō's jaw locked in his fury. He gnashed his teeth together in a poor attempt to stop it. The veins along his temples throbbed so much, he could feel it.

"For the love of—why did you step in front of me?" Tōshirō shouted, loud enough to split his own ears with the sound. "Had that blade sunken a little deeper, you would've died!"

Rukia didn't even acknowledge his words. She only sat up a little straighter in bed, grimaced at the pain that lanced up her side, then outright groaned when the hurt echoed outward to shock the rest of her small body. Having seen that, Tōshirō, despite his fury, was by her side in an instant.

"Don't get up," he ordered.

"I'm injured," Rukia said, all stark violet eyes and righteousness, "not invalid."

He both loved and hated her stubbornness.

"Well, you need to think before you act!" Tōshirō chastised. His hands were white from their grip upon her sheets. His spirit energy exploded from his body. Ice spread across the bottom of the bed, freezing it to the floor.

The medic jumped, startled by the abruptness of his fury. Neither of them paid her any mind. Tōshirō didn't bother asking her to leave. It was obvious that he wanted her to. Thankfully, the medic got the message, having quite clearly seen his wrath. She left a tall cup brimming with—an undoubtedly acrid—medicine for Rukia, before sparing them a hesitant glance. It was clear to all of them that she wasn't fully willing to leave her patient behind with a riled captain that had a temper as infamous as his, but when Tōshirō squared his shoulders, his adam's apple visibly bobbing as he swallowed mouthfuls of cross relief, she knew that it would be okay to leave, despite the harsh line of his lips... maybe.

When Tōshirō's icy glare moved to her, however, she didn't stay to rethink that decision. She scrambled outside without so much as a farewell. The door slammed noisily behind her.

"This?" Rukia murmured once his eyes returned to her. Her voice was low and affronted. "Coming from you?"

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Between the two of us, who's the one more likely to lash out with their tongue when irritated?"

"Really? Insulting me at a time like this?" Tōshirō muttered in disbelief, his glare hardening. "Rukia, you almost died. You have no right, absolutely none to talk about—" he cut himself off with an exasperated groan. Somehow, he had a feeling that this conversation would get them nowhere.

And he was right.

Not a second later, he realized that she wasn't listening. It was in the way her eyes shifted to look around the room, utterly uncomprehending; the way her mouth settled into a thin frown, her eyebrows scrunched together in thought. There was a question on the tip of her tongue that clearly had nothing to do with what they were talking about. He knew her well enough by now to know that. But even when he didn't, certain sides of her had always been easier to read for him. This was one of them. It was infuriating. Especially now.

"Listen to me," he said roughly, drawing her full attention—finally. Soul King, he was going to claw his eyes out. "You almost died, Rukia. You shouldn't have rushed in. You shouldn't have blindly run off when you knew your arms were already too mangled to properly lift a sword or—"

"Or what?" she interrupted, snarling. "You're telling me that I should've stood back and watched you get cut open?"

"It would've been better than you getting slashed!" Tōshirō's control over himself splintered into nothing. His tone was scathing enough to make her glare daggers at him. "How do you think I felt witnessing you go down like that?"

"Casualties are inevitable in battle," Rukia argued, red in the face. "You know that. Sacrifices are sometimes nece—"

"They're all fucking necessary, aren't they?"

"You know as well as I do that it's better to lose a vice-captain than a captain."

"You're answering me rationally when you know that I'm not angry at you because of the correct—and yes, they were correct—quick-second battle decisions you made. You know what this is about."

Tōshirō tasted blood and though he struggled to unclench his jaw, it wouldn't lift. Rukia opened her mouth to respond, only to close it once his words sank in. She looked down with shame on her face and in her eyes, but there was something else there, too.

Defiance, he realized with no small amount of annoyance.

She at least looked apologetic, though that didn't mean he could just let it go. Tōshirō needed to get the words out now because he could feel their unsettling weight deep in the pit of his stomach. He'd be damned if he allowed such a burden to fester. It wasn't even an option.

Despite his decision, the words came out weaker than he'd intended. Softer. Less scalding. More understanding. He gritted his teeth in an attempt to make his voice sound harsher.

"I thought you died," he said, revealing the concern and deep insecurity tangled up in all of his anger. "And I thought that it was my fault… that it was my weakness that killed you. Proper battle tactics be damned, Rukia. Please promise me that you won't do something like that again."

Rukia hesitated for a moment, before answering, "You know I can't."

Silence now. From them both.

Tōshirō scrutinized the downward tilt of her lips that spoke of regret and defense all at once. Her eyes were dimmer than he remembered them ever being while in his presence. Rukia didn't speak, hardly even moved. Tōshirō struggled to hear her breathe, and after a full ten minutes had passed, he wondered if maybe she'd fainted in that position. But then her entire body shot up, and for an instant, she looked absolutely livid and sorry and oh-so helpless. Tōshirō couldn't help but stare at the mix of emotions that marred her face. Oh, what he'd give to know what she was thinking.

Then, as quickly as shadows blending into the night, the moment was gone.

Rukia slouched back against the headboard. Her entire body deflated, as she sighed in resignation and something else that he could more easily recognize—grief. Wild and naked on her face. It tore through his chest more cleanly than anything else he'd ever known. Still, she didn't speak and neither did he.

Although he saw the apology on her lips, he squashed the urge to shake it from her. That would only get him a squawk of displeasure. Because he knew, somewhere inside of him, that if he tried to force it from her, this room would erupt in a burst of snow and ice. Neither of them had the energy for that.

Tōshirō was tired, too. That was something Rukia realized, he noticed. Because when she spoke, her voice sudden enough to startle him, the worry he heard there shook him.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

His grip tightened, unconsciously dropping the temperature in the room another five degrees. Tōshirō caught her eye. Stop staring, he thought, not without warmth. One of his hands flew to his twisting mouth to shield it from her view. She could already read him so well by just looking into his eyes, he really didn't need his lips to give him away too.

"I'm fine," he murmured, his voice muffled by his fingers. There was no more force in his words now.

"That's why it's freezing in here," she said. "You shouldn't lie."

"I wasn't," Tōshirō maintained, while glaring in warning. He actually felt good. Well, better than before. Because Tōshirō couldn't feel anything right now. Any physical pain that haunted him was outdone by the churning of his insides.

"Sure you weren't."

A pause, before…

"I'm sorry," she muttered, just low enough for him to hear. It was so full of repentance and gloom that he knew it wasn't for their current conversation. She was so nauseatingly stubborn. They both were. But Tōshirō didn't want her apology—yet, a part of him accepted it all the same.

He really hated that.

"I know," Tōshirō said this time. "So am I."

He pointedly ignored the weariness in her eyes in favor of falling back into his chair and burying his face in the sheets beside her legs like a man seeking home.

A long stretch of silence followed. It allowed the knotted thing in the air between them to loosen. It was only after he lost track of the minutes that passed that he reached for the cup of medicine that the medic left. He brought it up to his nose, and his entire face crinkled at the horrid scent. It was like getting a whiff of old socks and death. He didn't envy her. Tōshirō judged anyone that would.

"Drink up," he told her.

The yelp of horror that abruptly escaped her lips made him smirk. Rukia's eyes pleaded with him to put it back down. He almost did, too. It was that pungent. But he wasn't that sympathetic, especially if the matter concerned her health. Tōshirō placed the cup carefully in her trembling hands, his eyes warning her not to purposely spill it.

"Are you trying to poison me?" she asked, staring at the gooey contents. The sight made her insides squeeze in apprehension, and she fought to keep her breathing even. It would be the death of her. She just knew it. "I said I was sorry. How could you still make me drink th—"

"Drink," Tōshirō ordered, merciless, before making his way to the door. A decision he rued after one step. He fought the urge to stumble in her presence, entirely unwilling to yield to the pain riding up his torso and pressing the life from his lungs. He hid his grimace with his back.

Tōshirō stopped only briefly to check if she braved the concoction, but instead found her staring at him with eyes that were too wide for his liking. Sheer surprise kept him, rather than any restraining force. His insides churned in understanding. She was watching him leave her.

Damn sap, he thought with no real strength.

"You're leaving?"

"What does it look like?"

She didn't even stop to consider her words. "I need you here, Tōshirō."

"…. For what?"

"Nothing." Rukia said, quiet. "I just… need you."

His chest heated, despite himself. "I'll be back," he assured, the words spilling out of their own volition. "I just need to call Matsumoto. I told her I would check-in with her once you woke."

"I'll go with you."

Tōshirō held his hand up when she made a valiant, but useless attempt to scramble to her feet. "No, you need rest. I already said I'd be back. You know I wouldn't—"

"—lie to me," Rukia finished, then waved him off. She settled down as soon as his lips formed that final sentence. Those magic words that were a balm to all of her wounds. "I know."

"Good."

Rukia flashed him a weak smile. He awkwardly returned it. He was sure that the corner of his mouth quirked up into something else entirely, but it was close enough. It made her laugh at least.

Shuffling his feet and holding his breath for a good five seconds, Tōshirō gathered his wits, and then left like a monster would swallow him whole if he didn't. The pain of his side remained forgotten, numbed by something hot and stifling and still too new to name.

Tōshirō's ears burned red with the possibility that maybe—just maybe—he wasn't the only one that thought of this warmth between them as home.

A/N: Please review.