Title: Hidden Designs
Pairing: Ichigo/Rukia
Word Count: 996
Theme # 22: Like a Fan Unfolding
A/N: Eep, I keep getting worse at this. Sorry it's taken me so long… I have been dealing with some other things.
Rukia was hard to interpret.
It wasn't when she slept that her guard was down. With many people like her – strong, reserved – one could see their more secret selves when they slept. But not Rukia. Even in sleep there was a trace of the stoicism, of the detached face she took to wearing in her daily life. Her lips were firmly closed, almost with the hint of a frown. Dark lashes like perfectly formed butterfly's wings rested against flawless cheeks. A noble's face.
After they began sleeping together, Ichigo had expected to see a change in her while she dreamed, had wondered how innocent she could look. No – with Rukia, the time when her her defenses were truly down was right when she began to awaken, in those swift moments between sleep and consciousness.
He made sure he was the one to see it. Ichigo sat next to her still form, one arm carefully placed on her other side. With a silent movement, he lifted his hand and softly placed it against her nape, sliding it down her back gently, soothingly, the touch only heavy enough to rouse, not startle. She began to stir, and he watched, unaware of the smile growing on his face. Her tiny shoulders shifted, arching her back. Her arm stiffened momentarily, rising above her head in a leisurely stretch. Large dark eyes fluttered open, unfocused, as her legs slowly untangled. Rukia tended to sleep in a defensive position, curled around herself, knees brought up and back curved – but when she awoke, her body tenderly unfolded, stretching out to it's full length (which was not very much at all, but he liked it that way – liked how perfectly she fit in his arms.)
Dark lashes opened, and their eyes met. Rukia froze for one moment, her stern façade about to fall into place, but then she saw his unconscious smile. With a small flicker of her lips, she returned it, and melted back into the sheets. Realizing his expression, Ichigo shook his head wryly and brushed her hair out of her face. "Sleep well?"
"Mm."
She always slept better there than she did in Soul Society. Sometimes Ichigo wondered if she didn't visit merely to get a good night's sleep, and not to see him. But then… he liked to think that it was because of him that she slept so comfortably. Not that he'd ever ask her, of course.
It took him a while to realize this change in her. They weren't often together – her going about her duties as a Shinigami, spending much of her time in Soul Society. When he saw her work, she was expressionless, going about her duty. Her beautiful shadowy eyes were flat and stern, her lips pressed into a thin line. But if he got her alone, pressed her against him, that would melt away from her. Her entire face would soften, her striking eyes opening, the emotions visible in them capable of paralyzing him. Her lips would curve – into a smile, or perhaps a pout. Like a fan unfolding, her heart was suddenly worn on her sleeve.
Rukia shifted on the sheets, encircling her arms about him and nuzzling against his side, before starting to rise.
Ichigo immediately regretted awakening her, and grasped at her hand. "You don't need to leave yet," he insisted, voice harsher than he had intended.
She cast him a sideways look, not nearly as sharp as it could have been. "You know I do."
There was a light undertone of scolding in her voice – he was not supposed to comment on her leaving. It was an unspoken agreement with them, that they had to put their relationship second, until this… war… whatever it was…. finally stopped. If it ever did.
She stood and reached for her robes. All at once overcome with the desire to prolong the moment, he rose and stood beside her, helping her dress. At first she was irritated, sharply insisting he leave her be, but then she realized his "help" consisted more of touches and gliding his hands over her body, memorizing her as best he could. Large palms ghosted over thin, perfectly shaped limbs, his body bending over hers in a protective gesture – he was terribly possessive. She quieted and indulged him, knowing he needed the "dressing her" as an excuse to give in to a vulnerable moment.
It helped that she never wanted to forget the feel of his hands on her skin. Caresses moved from flesh to cloth, pulling the folds about her small form and gently tugging them over her arms, her shoulders. He smoothed it more than necessary, and in her own acts of dressing she made a point of brushing her hands against his as much as possible. Rukia understood all too well the need for excuses.
When the knot was tied about her waist, and neither could stall any longer, she turned her head and kissed him. He was tall, wiry, all sharp angles and bright colors - she tiny and curved, pale and dark - but they worked. Somehow, they worked.
Ichigo broke the kiss, gathering his own defenses, and she stepped away, straightening the fabric and passing her hands over her hair – giving him time. Then she turned to look back.
The fan snapped shut.
He stared at her and Kuchiki Rukia, Shinigami, stared back, her face perfectly composed and regal. She nodded once, and leapt quickly away.
They never said goodbye. To do so would be to admit to separation. To admit to separation would be to admit to the possibility of there never being a reunion – and that was unthinkable.
Ichigo turned away from the window to straighten his bed, having become too used to Rukia's forced change in moods to be bothered by it anymore. He knew he was the same way.
He also knew only he would see the fan's true pattern, the beautiful ever-changing vision.
And that, in itself, was precious.