She is not desperate enough yet to chase after him. This is what Kisuke would call a fallacy. Many a night she has caressed his cheek with her tail, made a slow, delicate pattern around his ear with her cold nose. Half-asleep, he brushed her away, smiling just a little, as if dreaming of a time he knew she was there. But she soon tired of the one-sided company and wanted him to see her, touch her, listen to her. Or maybe even love her in a way that would result in an explosion that would span centuries. The concept that she is not giving chase is what Kisuke would call a fallacy.
It's what she calls a pain in her ass. She waits, longer than she waited for him to begin with, to grow tired of running—limping—away from her and come back, but he does not. She was bored before he slid the door aside and his eyes nearly popped out. Had they fallen onto the floor and rolled to the futon, they would have gazed up at her in horror, she supposes. The question he has asked without so many words. Where have you been, and what has happened to you?
She huffs as she feels her reiatsu hum and her tail grow back. She sits on her haunches for another few moments, wondering if she should cough up a hairball on his blanket so he's aware of her thoughts on the situation. Gross, but attention-getting. Immature is one of many adjectives he has not used on her, but there's a first time for everything. But, no. The idea is as appalling as it is amusing, but she will not cross that line. A thousand years and maybe now she is falling into maturity. Or perhaps cat years, being shorter, are no less potent in their aging ways.
Perhaps this is how she can slip into his study where the door is open just a crack—ah, unbidden hope—with her tail high and her eyes sharp. It is dark but for the guttering lamp at his side. He sighs, tilting that ivory head in ways that made her tingle when she was younger and given to fangirl fantasies. A lock of it at his crown glints rich, stainless silver. "This," she declares airily, "is what Shirou-chan has to look forward to when his voice breaks."
"What, will you abandon me for him?" He always jokes when he senses her on edge.
"The thought has not crossed my mind before, but it does have certain fascinating aspects." Her stance is involuntarily rigid. Why is it that things fly out of her mouth when she is around him that she could easily swallow and forget in his absence? "He certainly won't tease me. When he flees me, he will use the shun-po he's been taught like a good little shinigami. Why do you run, just to go where I can find you?"
"Perhaps," he murmurs, and the slight pink is in his cheeks, "I do not intend to be lost."
"I wish I would have puked on your blanket," she fumes. "You make me so angry now."
"I frustrate you," he corrects.
"Why do I need to have fur on my ass to talk to you?"
"You didn't, not so long ago," he says. "We sat together and I kissed you. We agreed things should not be serious, until the task, the war, was done. But we cannot just pick up where we left off. I was foolish to think we could."
"Juu-chan," she breathes. "Why is it wrong of me to want us to?"
"Yoruichi. I still love you."
"Then what?"
"You scare the life out of me," he starts, and tries to continue but she is already gone; she does not want to hear. She and Kisuke are a train wreck. She has mutilated Soifon so badly that only now is the stone giving way to flesh, and the guilt still tears at her in long, deep gashes. And the empty place Juushirou is meant to fill howls. All this she can distill into one stark sentence.
She is sick of being tossed about by love. She stops here, shakes herself, goes back to that empty room.
When he finds the hairball, he knows he's getting to her. It's a good place to start from, he thinks grimly. Smelly, but good.
If she does it again, he'll skin her.
