A/N: OH MY GAWWWSH, IT'S LONGERRRR! lol.

A seventeen whopping pages, folks. Enjoy it, took me long enough to move everything around to fix some stuff. Characters are being stubborn (Matsumoto is on strike because we ran out of sake again) but I'll see what can be done. Can't have anyone quitting on me now!

Minor language issues, nothing gasp-inducing. I figured I would take a little bit of (early) advantage of my rating, hehehe. ;D

Other than that, thanks for sticking around faithfully my duckies, enjoy and review!

Disclaimer: Srsly? This makes me cry.


Mon Cœur S'ouvre à Ta Voix

(My heart opens itself to your voice)


Then She Attacks Me Like A Leo IV


Rangiku Matsumoto was a woman of feral talent when it came to understanding the inner workings of men.

Contrary to popular belief, the buxom blonde knew that they all had a tad more dimension than just sake and women—though these tended to be the more dominant (and thus wrongly accused) traits for some of the stupid things those of the male population tended to do, the vice captain of the tenth division was well aware it was never quite that simple; because both could also go hand in hand of course.

It could be said that because of this, Rangiku had become a sort of love guru in the Women's Association. When it came to problems with men, she was always the first consulted, one time having even convinced one Ise Nanao into wearing slightly more revealing clothes to work and consequently having the eighth division captain run into a wall when he caught sight of her.

Thus, it could safely be assumed that the woman of ample assets could surely (proudly) wrap her mind around any situation involving those of the opposite sex without breaking a sweat.

At least. . . any until now.

What she had once assumed was a young man that either was too young to have ever reached the hormonal stage that was puberty or was just a very damn good closet case turned out to be something completely different right under her nose.

Her brow furrowed, forehead wrinkling in deep thought.

Her captain had never been a skirt chaser, or a drunk, or anything of the sort that would give him a bad name except maybe workaholic and downright cold (only on occasionshe had his good moments too).

Always, always he was the responsible one, the one who took full accountability and could be relied upon to never fail at anything—a young man of influence and renown.

"Shouldn't you be helping Inoue?"

And now, he was someone generous enough to have fully paid everything that Matsumoto had volunteered to pay for—everything that she had gotten to turn the young Kuchiki woman, his partner (and their bait) into a princess for the night—the skirt, blouse, accessories. . . she couldn't even begin to fathom the numbers. In fact she hadn't (purposefully) so that it wouldn't give her a heart attack until she got home.

But he had.

And it didn't seem to affect him in the least; no anger, no popping vein, no yelling at her for going for the expensive stores.

Nothing.

Cerulean eyes turned from the commercial on television slowly, the lights flashing on his eternally wrinkled brow and tan features, outlining them in a faint glow. The room was pleasantly warm, Rangiku noted idly, warm enough to be untouched by the dragon's reiatsu and offering a subtle reminder of the peculiar calm to her captain.

"Something you need?"

Baby blue eyes searched his own with curiosity and a strange fascination that unnerved him in the heavy silence between them, her chin propped up on the hand that was hooked over the edge of the couch as she sat opposite from him and paid no heed whatsoever to the woman on tv urging them to head over to the sale that would go on in two days at the new shoe store.

She made no move at all—no playful jab, no bouncing up and down, no urgency and petition for her daily afternoon nap. Totally quiet if not for the strange glimmer in her gaze, almost as if there was some sort of puzzle before her eyes that she just couldn't quite solve.

He knew-expected- something bad then, bracing himself and knowing beyond any inkling of doubt that the stillness of a woman as tenacious as her never ended well.

"Why?" She finally asked.

At first he thought maybe he had heard wrong. Surely the question had been a query coming from his own mind, poking and prodding at his need for logic to the point that it had taken an almost physical persistency. But then there was a subtle glance, and the white haired youth noted the unwavering resolve flickering in the eyes of the oddly serious woman beside him.

The intimacy, the way in which the question was stated –jokes aside and all—did little to reassure Hitsugaya, who felt the sudden need to run from his companion. Because he was no fool—he knew at once what she was alluding to but refused to acknowledge it, much like a drowning man trying to keep himself alive on a sinking boat.

Did he have an explanation?

Yes.

Was it a logical one?

Yes.

Was it the only reason?

. . . . he wouldn't be able to lie to her—she was the only one who could see right through it.

Then again, did he necessarily know what these other reasons were exactly?

. . . not really.

So, carefully keeping his gaze on the screen he shrugged nonchalantly. Thin lips opened with subtle hesitation (and bravery allowed only to the few desperate enough to wield it), the answer he had chanted in his head a million times before to convince himself falling out without a second thought much like the spilling of water over a tipping cup.

"It doesn't take a genius to figure out there's no way Rukia would be able to pay everything by herself, Matsumoto."

There. There it was again.

The woman scrutinizing him caught how he addressed their fellow shinigami with acute perception. Surely handling a sword with a shikai of thousands of tiny ashes had been some sort of training for her ability to encompass all and the parts therein whenever she pleased—like now when dealing with an impenetrable wall like Hitsugaya.

And a wall he may be, but she had years of experience and could not recall him ever being this willing for anyone. . . not even Hinamori (on her best days) could get him to buy her lunch.

Was there . . . something else going on that she wasn't aware of?

Because it was obvious through pure observation that whatever was happening was one-sided. No, the strawberry blonde didn't necessarily know Rukia Kuchiki as well as she probably should for judgment, but from what she had seen the small Kuchiki was completely oblivious to the –how to put it—special treatment. And from the way one white haired prodigy was squirming under her stare, it could only be deduced that boy genius (as she so fondly called him in her head) was up to something.

Then again . . . did he even realize why he was doing it himself?

"I was going to pay everything." Matsumoto said with a hint of mirth at the idea of the young man being so naive. Cat and mouse and this was her domain where Toushiro could do little but try and run in circles to confuse her, if only a tiny bit.

"She was planning to pay you back little by little." A momentary stillness, the tension of an open stare still not leaving his form, and the catching of the slightest uncomfortable (nervous) repositioning of his body on the floral print couch.

It had been a while since she had seen him squirm.

"I wouldn't have let her."

"Trust me, she'd find a way."

Again they hit a rut of silence, Rangiku tilting her head to the side with a gaze narrowed by suspicion and glee at his inability to steer her astray in the dark living room.

"How do you know Kuchiki-san would do that?"

Shit. . . . this was the question he was trying to avoid—had been avoiding since the beginning.

"Because. . . she just strikes me as that type of person."

Not entirely a lie, but not completely the truth either.

So the game continued.

And that's when Rangiku came to the realization that this was probably something that he hadn't even come to understand himself deep in the recesses of his complicated head—something new.

"Matsumoto-san! Can you help me with Kuchiki-san's hair?"

The call from the bedroom down the hall tore her burning gaze away from the captain, effectively making him want to sink into the couch with relief until she gave him one last warning look telling him she wasn't done with him yet. Sighing, Rangiku flipped a stray strand of hair over her shoulder before finally getting up and brushing past the young man without a backwards glance.

On the couch, a deeply pensive Toushiro couldn't tear his eyes away from the screen. Since he had gotten to Orihime's apartment he had sat there, silent even with the others' constant comings and goings. If he had shifted it was only barely so, hand limp beside his leg and remote long forgotten; buried into meaningless thoughts and questions towards himself that even Hyourinmaru seemed to have no answer to.

And if he who knew the ice wielder better than himself didn't know, then who would?

If someone had turned suddenly and asked him something—anything—about the show, trivial or general he wouldn't have been able to answer. It was simply an excuse to zone out, to pretend that there was something he was doing when in reality his thoughts were just running at a speed that rivaled that of the flicker of each commercial.

Why had he paid for her?

Well, because she couldn't pay for it herself of course—and she wouldn't accept Matsumoto's help, if her pride was any indication.

Duh.

I don't see why you're making this so complicated.

It wasn't like he did this every day or just for anyone—even Hinamori had testimony to that.

Ok, so you did it to help her, end of story. Was the frustrated reply.

Well. . . yes, he sort of did. . .

Ok, so why else?

Because. . . because. . . ?

It was on the tip of his tongue, mocking him with its' strange flavor, teasing and taunting with a hair's finesse and ghosting from his reach with barely an effort. If he could describe it in any way, Toushiro would say dancing—weaving, ducking, gliding and chasing the hand of something he, for all his knowledge, could not understand.

He didn't know what it was . . . but it was there.

"She out yet?"

Toushiro didn't catch when the door had opened (blamed it on the gigai's abhorrent hearing system) and glanced up at the two young men coming in as if they owned the place—one in shinigami garb, the other in human clothing, doppelgangers in appearance but not emotion. While Ichigo nodded curtly, Kon simply ignored him and would've begun a straight dash for the bedroom where he claimed he could "smell Nee-sama" had it not been for the well placed kick to his back, effectively pinning him to the ground.

"No way in hell you're going in there with my body, stupid!"

Kon twitched.

Hitsugaya barely paid any mind to the struggle that ensued once the two males began to bicker, not even wincing when a sneakered leg flew over the back of the couch and nearly caught him on the head. In fact, he began to wonder whether or not he was overdue for another channel change once Tomoko decided to confess her love to Yamato—

Until the remote was knocked out of his hand by another of Ichigo's (whether human or not he couldn't tell) limbs.

Closing eyes that were beginning to glitter with a flicker of annoyance, Toushiro took a deep breath and tried to ignore the vein that was threatening to begin popping with his anger as he reached for the remote at his feet.

Surely by now someone had begun to note the temperature drop. . .


Rukia had always pegged Orihime as someone who could safely be called obsessed with all things flowery. This of course, had not changed over the months of their friendship, had probably instead grown with the manifestation of her powers and had accumulated itself in the many trinkets around the room.

But then she noted something strange as she sat before the vanity silently, allowing the two large-chested women to do with her hair as they pleased.

Orange.

It was no secret to anyone (except for the dense twat in question) that Orihime had a major crush on Ichigo. And as violet eyes roamed lazily around the little she could see through her own vision and through the reflections in the mirror, she quickly caught how that too had manifested in the safety of her private room.

On her large bed were alternating pillows—a few flowered pastel pink ones and two that screamed in bright shades of orange. On the walls were posters of bands Rukia had slowly come to recognize in her studies of the modern culture, one catching her eye when she noted with a half smile how each member sported—you guessed it—orange outfits.

Surely there was more she couldn't catch in her current "sit-still-or-we-burn-you-with-the-hair-iron" position.

So as the young noblewoman sat there patiently, not even wincing when her two chattering companions yanked at her locks, her thoughts began to take to a strange path.

Was it love Orihime was going through, or infatuation?

Was there even a difference?

If Byakuya-nii-sama caught her with such musings, surely he would narrow his eyes at her and turn away with a frown of disgust, she thought wryly.

Then the question of the hour as she sat there wondering what her own life would've been as a regular human: had she ever been in love?

Being a street rat had its downfalls, she guessed. Surely it was reasonable that thoughts back when she was in her more youthful days decidedly included ways to catch fish, dead ends in the neighborhood, and which vendors were the easiest ones to steal from--not including the days when the only thoughts that were able to form in her mind included the word run.

Which still was a very healthy word in her vocabulary at times, thank you very much.

So then no, Rukia concluded, she had never been in any way, shape, or form in love . . . something that brought about mixed feelings in her heart.

But then . . . could Kaien-dono be considered a crush? There were many a day when she would feel guilty (and more than a little happy) that he was spending more time with her in the daytime than his wife, even if they were in different divisions; but that didn't necessarily mean much—it was duty.

What had his wife told her once, that "love was like an ocean"? The implications (and complications) of such an odd notion made her frown with nothing short of complete and utter bewilderment, oblivious now to how Orihime had almost dropped the hair iron onto her head, or how Matsumoto suppressed the impending gasp of surprise at the other woman's clumsiness.

"What's it like to fall in love?" Rukia suddenly blurted out.

Immediately the two behind her exchanged a look of confusion in the sudden silence that followed the statement in the now stifling room. Slowly, the busty blonde eyed the petite woman before them almost suspiciously before taking the strand clasped in her hand and teasing the end to match those they had already finished in the hair clips.

Gradually, the rhythm came back as Rangiku smoothed down Rukia's bangs with a smile at their reflection.

"Why, you got a guy in your life you're not sure about?" The grin was cat-like as she waggled her eyebrows suggestively, noting how the black haired young woman remained nonplussed by the statement and offered nothing but a weak grin.

"No, no one in particular, just curious is all."

With a tilt of her head, Matsumoto studiously looked over the younger woman's features before picking up small tube of lip gloss and handing it to her fellow shinigami, raising her brows questioningly as she inquired, "What about Renji?"

Orihime continued working diligently, a serene smile on her features as her eyes met Rukia's in the reflection.

"He's just a friend—has been since we were kids."

There was no hesitance in her voice, nothing but a careless shrug of her shoulders as she clasped her hands together loosely in her lap to keep from fidgeting with the lip gloss as she scrutinized her handiwork in the mirror. The violet of her eyes reflected back at her and she wondered for a moment if Hisana's eyes had been the exact same shade as hers or if they had been lighter.

Beside her, Matsumoto hid a grimace.

If she had been there all the nights Renji had gone way past his limit on sake, she would've known clear as day that it wasn't the case from his angle. For a moment she felt sorry for him but placed that thought away to fiddle with later.

"And Ichigo?"

All of a sudden Orihime jerked her hand in surprise, Rukia letting out a yelp as the hair iron came in contact with the tip of her ear.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry Kuchiki-san! I'll go get you some ice!"

"Don't worry about it Orihime, it's fine, it doesn't hurt." Well, technically it didn't hurt much. "It's ok."

Sighing, the young shinigami bit into her lower lip as she sent the older woman raising a brow at her through the reflection a dark look.

"Ichigo is just a friend." Was the even reply.

Rukia remembered then, ironically, the day when she had spit out chocolate milk in sheer surprise at the inquiry of his classmates (not hers, no, she didn't belong). How easily the answer had come then (why would she ever set sights on a lowly human?) and how easily she had accepted that as truth in her heart.

Even now, she was beginning to second guess whether she wanted to answer that question differently or not.

Nonetheless, she carefully masked this with the expertise only a thief would know, lying through her teeth with fluid grace.

"We've always just been friends."

What she didn't realize though, was that before she could gain control of it, the rawness of the turmoil she felt on the subject had flitted in an instant onto her face before being caught by the blue eyed lieutenant of the tenth division who offered no remark—the same woman who saw how the smile returned slowly to Orihime's oblivious features and how tensed fingers seemed to relax once more into their current task.

Immediately Rangiku began to try and crack the reasoning behind Rukia's subtle decision to step back and found that it wasn't too hard to decipher once she thought about it. She was a shinigami, Ichigo human (no matter how much he kicked and screamed and claimed to belong), and there was no way to just easily cross such a taboo barrier spanning two worlds and the very fact that she was dead.

There was no way around that.

Then there was the problem of when it finally did come time for one of them to jump the barrier—would they find each other again?

Jeez, talk about a tragic romance; and that was just the first reason.

Then there was the chance (more like guarantee) that Byakuya would move heaven and earth to make sure Rukia was unattainable for the carrot top—just as he had done to Renji, who chased after her like an ever unreachable apple on the proverbial tree. Which by the way, was completely idiotic in her opinion when he had had the young woman for years with him before the appearance of Byakuya and had done nothing to try and attain her as more than a friend—had instead (from the drunk retellings) pushed her further and further away until he could do nothing but reach for an inaccessible star.

Men could be a very stupid lot.

Still, even with those reasons (and probably more) Rukia could do nothing but try and hide what she most likely believed to be a lost cause and try to find something a little more. . . solid? Because the substitute was anything but solid—had been a trouble magnet as far back as the first ripples of Rukia's execution had spread.

And Orihime was her friend, making things oh so deliciously complicated of course.

Plus, from the way she asked, it was safe to say Rukia wasn't even sure the tall youth was worth the risk. Especially if the dense moron had no idea of all these things going on around him when he was jumping in to save anyone who needed it with no clue as to how romantically inclined females would feel on the situation.

"Well. . ." Matsumoto began, hoping to lift the cheer in the room a little, "love is like . . . very good sake."

Orihime tilted her head to the side as Rukia's brow furrowed in confusion.

"It makes you do stupid things?" Offered the black haired young woman with a raised brow.

"Apart from that." Matsumoto said with a grin.

"Aaaand. . . it makes you spill your guts out?"

Well, that wasn't exactly what she had in mind, but it kinda made sense she guessed. There was no way the lieutenant could deny the information she had at hand of her drinking buddies . . .

"I think what Matsumoto-san is trying to say," Orihime said as she set soft hands on Rukia's shoulders, "is that love is like a very good chocolate rice curry."

Well, the young Kuchiki wasn't even going to bother trying to decipher that one. So instead she nodded as if taking the statement into consideration before sighing at her reflection, the face staring back at her revealing the figure and poise of a doll.

"Regardless of whatever it is, it doesn't matter now. I have a job to do so I guess . . . it's time to go then, right?" Grinning, Matsumoto hugged the young woman gently.

"Go get 'em, tiger!"

Surely another of her "cultural notes" courtesy of the television, Rukia mused as they led her towards the door.


"She's re~ady!" Orihime practically sang, popping her head suddenly out of the bedroom door.

Immediately the pair (human and mod-soul) behind the couch stopped, Ichigo now in his regular body and dangling a struggling Kon by the head in his hand. Beside them on the couch, Toushiro got distracted long enough to allow the temperature to come back to normal but otherwise offered no curiosity towards the shuffling being done by the women except for turning off the television and shifting slightly to have a better vantage point of the soon-to-be spectacle.

Not that he cared much, of course.

Slowly the door opened, Rangiku and her partner in crime giggling like mad as they blocked the younger woman from view.

"Ladies and gentlemaaaaan!" Rangiku announced loudly, sweeping an arm up grandly in mimicry of a man she had seen on television once, "We're proud to bring youuuuuu. . ."

"The great-" Orihime interjected, now raising her hands too-

"-the beautifuuuul-"

"Rukia Kuchikiiii!" They announced together, stepping away from the small woman hiding shyly behind them.

There was a moment of complete silence—of utter shock.

The dress was simple, a black little strapless number that followed her curves and accented her waist with a thick belt. On her wrists were several charm bracelets she had borrowed from the redhead and the small of a pale ankle gleamed with a thin ankle bracelet as she shifted nervously from foot to foot, wincing when she tried to brush back a stray bang and found the idea of ruining her hair a possibility.

It wasn't like she hadn't felt the tugging and the tons of hairspray and whatnots that had been cocktailed into her hair to make it stay in the pearly chopstick like hairpieces—but at least for today, her bangs had been swept to the side and two silver crisscrossed bobby pins held them firmly in place (except for that one strand).

It was then that Toushiro realized with a growing frown of annoyance that his partner was wearing nothing he had paid for.

As if on cue, Ichigo remarked, "Hey, isn't that the dress I got you for your birthday?"

Rukia nodded, feeling a chill go down her spine when the tenth division's captain laid eyes on her. There was something bothering him and as she dared to risk a glance at him, the feeling that it was her became overwhelming.

Had they taken too long getting her ready?

"It is." She replied towards Ichigo, all the while standing shyly before them.

"You look great, Rukia." Ichigo answered in a tender voice. The smile that accompanied was soft, brown eyes looking deeply absorbed into those of the petite woman before him as he affectionately came forward to lay a hand on her head, not daring to muss it for fear of angering the two women eyeing him dangerously at the likelihood of their masterpiece's ruining, but not missing a beat in making the small shinigami blush.

"Time to go then?" Violet eyes landed on Toushiro from below lowered lashes, clearing her throat timidly.

"Nee-samaaaaa!" Somehow Kon managed to latch onto Rukia's clasped hands and up her arm until he sat on her shoulder, hugging her cheek. "You look so beautiful nee-sama, I wish I could be the one taking you out to dance, and hug you, and-"

Suddenly tan fingers wrapped around the plushie lion's head and pulled him off, dangling Kon carelessly from his grip as the white haired youth eyed Rukia with irritation she could feel coming off him in waves of subtle reiatsu. She hadn't even realized his presence nearby—had last seen him on the couch—and shivered at the proximity of the captain and the cool aura much like her own. "This is a mission, I expect her to treat it as such regardless of the petty baubles used to make her a target."

A struggling and complaining Kon was handed over roughly to Inoue before he turned towards the table to indicate the things he had set there to be ready for their departure.

Things quickly sped up from there on—the recap of exits and entrances they had scouted out earlier was swift, Matsumoto turning to Rukia and reminding her to not forget that Toushiro would be close by, and that the others would be staking out the remaining two clubs just in case they got it wrong. Then Orihime with the list of things they shouldn't forget—identification (they went from being 16 and 15 to 22 and 21), pills for soul release, cell phone, and in Rukia's case an extra little case of lip gloss for touch ups (on Matsumoto's insistence).

Even so, even Sode no Shirayuki whispered her own query of the captain's sudden annoyance with Rukia in the shinigami's ear. The young Kuchiki might be eyeing the maps, smiling at Orihime, nodding at one of Matsumoto's suggestions, but never did the doubt leave her when violet eyes trailed to her partner.

It wasn't very hard to come to the conclusion that she had angered him somehow; but to figure out why would be the fun part.

Beside her, the stiff captain loosened the thin slick black tie from around his neck a little as he led them out the door (to a chorus of goodbyes and catcalls from his lovely lieutenant) to the curb right outside the apartment building where the cab was expected to pick them up in ten minutes. He had planned for them to be ready half an hour ago, but with Matsumoto things never went as they were supposed to so he wasn't surprised in the least at the time delay—it would just mean they would be waiting ten minutes instead of the forty he had planned for.

He tried to ignore the loud goodbyes from the window two stories above them.

It wasn't until Rukia waved one last time at them (and Matsumoto told her to catch herself a cute one) that they were finally left alone outside the apartment complex.

"Is there something bothering you, sir?"It wasn't necessarily completely silent, but her voice surprised him nonetheless. It was soft to the point where Toushiro almost wondered if he had even heard her at all to begin with.

Turning towards his companion, he raised a brow.

"Should there be?" He retorted.

"You're angry with me. I'd like to know why."

It left no room for argument, he realized. She was dead sure and she wasn't taking no for an answer.

Turning to look down the street, he asked, "so why aren't you wearing the clothes you picked out earlier?"

Rukia could do nothing but tilt her head in confusion, brow wrinkled as she tried to understand what had just happened with large, blinking eyes. Was he trying to change the subject on her, or was that the reason for his sudden frustration with her?

"We figured it would be wise to save those for tomorrow night, should we need them. We couldn't just assume this would be a one night mission." She replied carefully, searching for a reaction on the proud shoulders of the ice wielder beside her.

A curt nod was her response.

"I see."

"I am sort of glad though." She said after a bit of silence befell them, "I barely feel comfortable enough as it is in this dress."

"It looks . . . just fine on you." He replied hesitantly before noting the cab coming around the curb.

Rukia didn't have a response to that, even as he opened the door for her and their eyes met.

A small awkward smile and then she ducked into the cab carefully, the cab driver nodding a hello to her before Toushiro opened the other door and sat in the other edge of the cab.

"Hikari said you guys wanted to go to Fusion?" Hikari, they both assumed, was the lady who had radioed their call in.

"Yeah. How long will the ride be?"

"'Bout forty minutes, give or take on traffic."

"Alright." The captain said with a short nod. The two shinigami glanced at each other and then out their respective windows, watching as the world outside moved past them under the wheels of the cab in a monotonous rhythm that they settled into more easily than either party thought. In front of them the taxi driver had turned on the radio softly, humming to the tune as they went and completely ignorant to the awkward atmosphere between his two companions.

At first, deep in Rukia's thoughts she began to wonder why they didn't just give Chappy her gigai and she wasn't allowed to simply run around in her shinigami form. But then taking another second to truly ponder over the possibility about her trusty mod soul, the grimace was evident at the potentially (disastrous) results.

Chappy was. . . a little too happy-go-lucky. Putting her in a club would only further encourage the reaction out of her, and the last thing Rukia needed was to have to drag her away from a would-be rapist.

She shivered.

"You cold?" A slight shift and violet eyes wide, Rukia allowed a crooked grin to sheepishly make its way onto her soft features before shaking her head.

"No, Hitsugaya-san, I'm fine." And Toushiro would've left it at that except he caught the driver's eyes in the mirror and noted the raised eyebrows and jerking of his head towards Rukia.

I think he's implying for you to warm her up.

Really? Who the hell was this man to tell him what to do?

You're posing as a couple, are you not?

A colorful assortment of words in his mind and then he realized that Hyourinmaru (and in turn their driver) was right.

"Rukia." Immediately her head turned, brows raised in question and mouth open just so as she bit into her bottom lip unconsciously.

"Come here." He said, patting the seat next to his.

For a moment her brows scrunched up and the small of her nose wrinkled in confusion, lavender eyes flicking from him to the area he was indicating with an insistent hand. Blush rising to pale cheeks, the black haired young woman tucked a stray strand behind her ear nervously before slowly undoing her seatbelt and scooting closer to the white haired prodigy with a wary look on her features that didn't escape his gaze.

Still, the petite shinigami didn't question him.

Once she had settled, the next thing she knew there was a strong arm enveloping her small frame and pulling her into the crook of the captain's shoulder.

Toushiro figured doing it quickly while she was still off guard would make things go a little better and a little less awkward. But then the young man realized just how close he had pulled her and things got way more uncomfortable than he had originally intended them to.

A lick of his lips, and the white haired youth holding her couldn't take the abrupt onslaught of Rukia's body against his own, suddenly well aware of every stimulating brush of fabric, the only thin barriers between their skin. The scent of lavender was ever unmistakable on her figured and he could almost feel every curve of her side against his in the dress, knee bumping into his leg with every jolt of the cab. The little of her hair he could place his fingertips on was soft and he could barely resist the urge to try and take the single lock on her face into his hand.

Swallowing nervously, he tried letting his turquoise eyes stray to the environment past their window to attempt and get his suddenly haywire thoughts under control.

What the hell was going on?

Rukia on the other hand, was way too shocked at her current predicament to even try to move.

Her senses were immediately overloaded with everything that was Toushiro Hitsugaya, from the musky scent of his body to the soft feel of the shirt on her cheek and the hand cradling her head close. Surely he had felt her small gasp against his body, or the fact that her heartbeat was louder in her ears than any other noise in the surrounding traffic or even the humming of the driver—if not, then maybe he could feel the way her hands clenched in her lap, trying to understand the sudden fluttering in her stomach.

She couldn't speak, had lost the ability to do so when his warmth reached her heated skin.

Silly, but somehow Rukia had imagined the captain would be as cold and rigid as his element. Whether it was a pleasant surprise or not to find out otherwise was still too big a thought for her poor spiraling mind to comprehend and so she settled for swallowing nervously and staying motionless against him.

Slowly, tenderly almost (once Toushiro had finally regained the most infinitesimal inkling of control over his mind), he dipped his head to bury his nose into her hair and Rukia couldn't help but let her eyelids flutter closed.

"The cab driver's watching us." Was the husky whisper, "Our act starts now."

He watched as the soft of her violet gaze was revealed from beneath shadowed lids, eyes wide and almost glowing in the passing light of the streetlamps.

"Okay." She whispered softly before dipping her head into the crook of his shoulder again.

For a while they stayed like that awkwardly, Toushiro catching the driver giving him a thumbs up in the rearview mirror before rolling his eyes and taking to stare out the window once more. There had been something in the food, or maybe he was way more tired than he had originally thought, but he could do little to keep his thoughts on the path ahead. Every once in a while when he finally could think of something other than their current position, a pothole or her subtle shifting would jarringly remind him of the small warm figure enveloped by his arm and he would curse himself mentally for being so childish about the matter.

This was a mission and they were undercover, and all of this meant absolutely nothing to the both of them. Absolutely nothing. Once they had lured their target out of hiding and gotten rid of it they would each part ways and it would be as if it had never happened. End of story.

Another bump.

Before he could even think it twice, his arm tightened around Rukia to keep her from losing her balance beside him.

She didn't move.

To his surprise when he looked down, her long lashes were touching her cheeks, and the little he could feel of her subtle breath was even.

Rukia had fallen asleep on him.

Thanking her mentally, Toushiro finally relaxed his grip on his partner and let his thoughts stray for a moment; at peace with the sudden freedom in the darkness. Maybe it was the fact that his personal space had been affected so much throughout the day, or how abrupt everything was, but it was not past him to revel in the small joy of a moment to himself—even if technically he wasn't alone.

It was. . . strange to have her so close.

"Anniversary, I assume?" The cab driver asked, glancing at him through the mirror once more.

Toushiro took a moment to look down at Rukia, absentmindedly stroking her hair—once he noted what his fingers were doing, he stopped. "Yeah."

What the hell was he supposed to answer? At least the driver offered them a valid excuse for their trip, he thought dryly.

"How long you guys been together?"

Uhh. . . what sounded like a good answer?

Hesitating for a moment, he looked down at the sleeping figure beside him. Of course he knew she wouldn't offer him an answer anytime soon, but he couldn't help but hope Rukia would suddenly wake up and help him with at least this much.

Even as he tried glaring at her, he realized the futility of it and instead noted offhandedly how much more relaxed she looked that way—peace suited her.

"A month." He answered the cab driver, noticing his own long delay.

"Aaahhh, the awkward phase still, huh?"

What the heck? There were phases to this?

The only reply was a slow shrug.

"Well, not to butt in or anything, but I think she's a keeper. Not very often these days I see a couple like you two." Toushiro couldn't help it, his curiosity got the better of him.

"What do you mean?"

"She's sleeping on you, ain't she? She already trusts you, son. Takes a lot for a woman to be like that; just ask my wife." The laugh that followed was short but good natured.

Well, what could he answer to that? Rukia was only tired from the exertions of the day, and he didn't blame her. If anything, she had it worse because of all the ministrations carefully undertaken to make her club-ready.

"I don't think she trusts me that much yet."

Really, he was getting too good at these half truths. Either Matsumoto was rubbing off too much on him or she had slipped something into his lunch.

Which was the more plausible was still up for grabs.

"Maybe not consciously she doesn't yet. Can't blame the gal, you've only been dating a month. Give her time and she'll come around." There was the distinct sound of the turning signal then and Toushiro noted idly as they passed a restaurant how the town was coming to life as the moon followed its path across the sky. "You're off to a good start though."

Oh, if the man only knew this was all a lie.

"How can you tell?" He asked then, taking a sort of morbid pleasure in knowing the irony behind the human man's statements.

But then brown eyes flickered to meet his in the rearview mirror at a stoplight, piercing the white haired youth in a way he had never felt before.

"I see people every day, kid. I've seen people break up and use my cab as a getaway. I've seen couples who can't afford a honeymoon and have me drive them to some dingy little home. I've seen a grown man realize he didn't love his wife and just ask her for a divorce after fifteen years of marriage—I know what I'm talking about."

Foolish man--Toushiro had easily outlived him and seen that and more.

"She trusts ya, kid. If you don't believe it, give it time and you'll see."

There was no answer from the back seat.

"Though I gotta say, I'm willing to bet you'll be the first to fall."

Really, it was ridiculously childish of him, but Toushiro couldn't help but take the bait then. It just irked him beyond belief to have someone try to read him so confidently when he knew absolutely nothing of the bigger picture.

"A thousand yen says you're wrong." Not that he cared for the money, but the prodigy somehow couldn't bring himself to let the human simply be so assured with his predictions, the know-it-all. It was foolish to believe in something so damn blindly, and he wanted to prove his point by proving him wrong (he figured Rukia not falling at all would also count as his own win, because technically he didn't fall first).

A quick incredulous glance his way, thick brows raised to a receding hairline. "You sure?"

"All yours if I really fall first."

"Well, my man, you got yourself a bet."

He'd be sure to share the victory money with Rukia—it would technically be partly hers anyways, right? Maybe he could get more watermelon ice cream with that before they went back home, courtesy of a foolish old sage.

Just the thought of it made him smirk triumphantly.

Oh, how he would savor that little effortless victory.