Chapter Nine

"Mmmm, taichou," Rangiku moaned, rolling over into his arms. Or she tried to, at least.

But he was gone. His clothing missing, his side of the bed cold, no note or anything. He'd left her again.

She threw her clothes on, intent on racing after him, no matter his head start.

The hell-butterfly stopped her.

Matsumoto-fukutaichou, you have been reassigned. Finish your current projects. As of the end of next week, you will report to Ukitake-taichou as fukutaichou of the Thirteenth Division.

The world didn't end. She didn't faint, or stop breathing, or even bleed. Hell, it didn't even hurt, really, when her heart was ripped from her chest.

Mostly it was just cold, and empty, and terrifying.

Alone. She was finally totally and completely alone.

Hitsugaya sat on Kurosaki's rooftop, staring out at the midnight sky. He'd moved into one of the substitute's spare rooms, since the arrancars had taken over Urahara's place. Usually something about the quiet of the night, the twinkling of the stars, comforted him. It made him feel part of something bigger. Tonight it just made him feel empty.

He had no one. All his life, he'd been trying to get there, to push others away. He'd left his granny, killed Momo, and now he'd finally gotten rid of Matsumoto, too.

It was funny, the way he could feel his former fukutaichou's absence even though they would have been apart anyway. It was like a tiny thread that had always run between them had been severed, and he felt the loss of that connection like a physical void.

Nineteen years. She'd been his fukutaichou for nineteen years, only a heartbeat in their endless existence, and now that moment had passed. She was in line for bigger and better things, less paperwork, more social interaction, a taichou she could respect, a position equivalent in prestige. And Ukitake would finally get someone to keep his third seats in line. It was what was best for everyone involved.

Except him.

"Never figured you for a star-crossed lover," Grimmjow taunted, coming up behind him.

Hitsugaya tensed. He'd noticed the former Espada's reiatsu—wasn't far enough gone to miss that. But he'd hoped the arrancar had enough sense to let sleeping dogs lie. "What do you want?" he snapped.

"Lookin' fer the strawberry. You seen him?"

"It's the middle of the night. He's probably asleep."

The arrancar flashed his feral grin. "Damn. Nothing like a good fight before bed." He looked Hitsugaya up and down. "S'pose you'd do just as well."

Hitsugaya started to reject out of hand, but stopped himself. "You're on."

Better to wear himself out than dwell on his regrets.

Rangiku wasn't sure she could keep going like this. Four days. Four days without a word from him. Not a note, not a letter, not even a butterfly to tell her he'd made a mistake, he didn't mean it. He wasn't throwing her away, he wasn't done with her yet. Part of her was still waiting, still sure that he couldn't throw away a twenty-year partnership because . . . because, why? Because she was bad in bed? Because he'd never wanted to sleep with her again in the first place? Because twice with her was enough for any man, or he'd lost respect for her, or whatever it was that had him running from her bed at three in the morning, leaving her nothing but a spent condom and a slap in the face.

She wasn't afraid of him any more. But that didn't mean the nightmares, the flashbacks, the phantom touches were just gone. No, she didn't have that kind of luck. Instead her heart jumped to her throat every time someone approached the office, and she wondered, despite the lack of familiar reiatsu, if it was finally him. Every night, she lay in bed, tossing and turning, aching, burning, unsatisfied, the feel of his breath on her skin so real she just wanted to close her eyes and live in that fantasy world, where he never left. Where he came home to her every night, where he held her in his arms and promised that he loved her. She could almost hear the words in his voice ringing in her ears. Odd, because he'd never said them.

She hadn't anticipated this. She'd hoped for the best, of course. Optimism did that to a person. But at the very least, she'd thought they could go back to the way things were before. Things might be awkward, or quiet for a while, but they would work it out. As long as they were together, they could work anything out. They were unshakeable, unbreakable, the ultimate team. She'd thought the only obstacle had been her. Her memories, her fears, her problems. She'd never made such a miscalculation.

Whatever was going on in his head, whatever had led him to . . . desert her like this . . . she couldn't overcome it. She couldn't fight an enemy she didn't recognize and couldn't even see. Hide and seek. She'd never pegged him for such a coward.

Making love to her in her own bed, and then throwing her aside, leaving her with the memories, hadn't been enough. Kicking her out of his division, her home, hadn't been enough. He'd done all of it and then he'd run away, to someplace he knew she couldn't follow. Such an awful, ugly, stinking coward.

I don't need you, Toushirou. I'll be just fine on my own.

If she could just make herself believe it.

"Watch your aim! Damnit!" Toushirou shouted, throwing out a quick kidou spell of his own to divert Kurosaki's and keep it from killing an innocent little duck that happened to be sitting six feet away from the target! "Focus, Kurosaki!"

"That's easier to do when you're not screaming at me, kid! I've come a long way! At least they're not exploding any more, like Renji's! So just 'cause you're pissed about something else, don't take your anger out on me!"

Underneath the haze of anger and frustration, Toushirou knew it was true. This was only their first training session, and Kurosaki had already improved dramatically. It was just that he'd started so low. He could triple his level of skill and still be incompetent.

"I am not pissed, as you so eloquently stated, and I am not now, nor have I ever been, a kid!"

Kurosaki stared at him in silence for a moment. Then burst into laughter. "Do you even know what you're saying any more?"

"Shut up!" he snapped, crossing his arms to take away from his blush. "You know what I meant! Now try it again, and get it right this time!"

Kurosaki was too busy rolling around on the floor to hear him.

Then they both stiffened, sharing a look as the distinctive reiatsu rolled over them. Arrancar. And not the ally-kind, either.

Toushirou shunpoed, following the reiatsu to its source, the park on the other side of town. He felt Kurosaki right beside him and grimaced. He liked the kid, he could admit that now—if only in his own head. But it had been years since he'd gone into battle without someone he trusted implicitly at his back, and while he had major respect for Kurosaki's skills, he just didn't know about his judgment. Ichigo was a wildcard, as apt to jump in front of Toushirou's sword as he was to lash out blindly at the enemy, leaving Toushirou's back wide open when he needed support the most.

If there were other things he missed about his fukutaichou, well, he told himself they didn't matter. Only battle mattered, only training, only being a strong leader.

Only kicking arrancar ass.

But not killing them. They were only three privarónes—not really a danger to four taichou-level and two fukutaichou-level Shinigami, three weapon-wielding superhumans, and two very, very pissed former Espada. So he let Kurosaki get some extra on-the-spot practice with his bakudou (hey, if he killed one by mistake, no big loss), and they brought the lot in for questioning.

Toushirou was fairly sure Urahara had ways of making them talk that he didn't want to know about. And if not, they could just let Grimmjow kick the shit out of them. After all, it made the former Sexta so happy.

While the interrogators were working their magic, Toushirou dragged Kurosaki back to the practice field. "Hit the target this time!" he demanded, checking his watch. "And do it quickly; I'm meeting your sister for a soccer match in twenty minutes."

If he drove everyone into the ground, including himself, well, he wouldn't have any time to regret, would he? It didn't matter if your heart was bleeding if you never checked the wound.

Rangiku almost ran out and jumped into bed with another man. Shuuhei was definitely offering. Had it been a year or two ago, she might have taken him up on it. But now, she not only knew that sex didn't have to be uncomfortable, but she was also sure about her feelings for Toushirou. That night between them had been . . . explosive. Mindblowing. Something precious worth preserving and working toward again. So until (and unless) she found someone else she could have that intensity of feeling for, who would take that level of care with her, she didn't want to ruin the memory. No more cheap, dirty fumbling in the dark. No more suffering through groping hands and insensitive words just to feel beautiful, just to feel wanted. She was worth more than that. Maybe not worth staying with, having a true relationship with, but worth friendly, fun, eyes-wide-open sex. He'd taught her that.

He'd also made her body sing, every nerve in her body race with pleasure. He'd imprinted himself on her, and she couldn't close her eyes at night without feeling the ghost of his touch on her skin, exciting her, teasing her, bringing her so close to that illusive peak. And then leaving her there. Desperate, wanting, unable to get relief. Tossing, turning, burning up in her own personal hell. She hadn't had more than a couple hours of sleep since he'd left. This was worse than the nightmares, because at least then she'd known they would fade in time. This was constant, keeping her awake at night until she was blurry-eyed and muddle-headed and unable to concentrate even to train, even to pack her office for the move to the Thirteenth. She even resorted to begging Nanao for help.

And so, on her second-to-last day as a member of the Tenth, Rangiku was cleaning out her desk (which mostly consisted of shoving things into a box at random), while Nanao went through the office closet Rangiku had forgotten even existed (and was pretty sure her taichou had too). They'd already found several dusty, smaller haori from Hitsugaya's first few years as taichou. He hadn't grown much over the years, but there was definitely a difference. She turned her back on those, though, telling Nanao to toss them and refusing to think twice about it. Holding on to the past brought them nowhere. He hadn't considered their history when he'd thrown her out on her ears.

"Rangiku, what on earth do you keep in here?" Nanao snapped. "Look at this!"

She glanced up, yawning, her hazy brain making out what looked like a dress. "Oh, pack that, Nanao, I want to keep it," she mumbled, not even sure what it was.

"Ran! Are you kidding me? Come here!"

She rolled her eyes, stumbling over. Her limbs were like noodles. As she got closer, she winced, realizing that what was in Nanao's hands wasn't a dress, but a stack of seven or eight molding sake bottles. They must have been five years old at least. "Oops."

"Oops? If you're not going to take my help seriously—Ran!" Nanao gasped as Rangiku swayed on her feet. She would have crashed to the floor if her friend hadn't dropped the bottles to catch her. Unfortunately, that meant the bottles crashed to the floor instead.

"Damnit," Rangiku cursed as she eased over to lay back on the couch, glaring at the mess. "That'll take forever to clean up!"

Nanao was quiet for a minute, then sighed. "Ran-chan, you can't keep going like this. Your body needs sleep. You're going to really hurt yourself."

Rangiku tried to smile—she was pretty sure it came out more like a sneer. "You think I don't know that? What do you want me to do, Nanao? I'm trying! I took three of Unohana-taichou's sleeping pills last night."

"And?"

"Woke up three hours later. I can't take any more of them. I'm not going to poison myself just because he—" she broke off, holding back the sob threatening to choke her.

"Just because he what?" Nanao pushed, grabbing her shoulders and forcing her to meet her eyes. "Just say it, already!"

"Just because he—just because I can't stop thinking about what happened," she switched. She would protect him no matter what. Even if he didn't give a damn about her any more—even if he never had.

Nanao turned away. "I can't help you if you won't let me in, Ran-chan."

She knew that. No one could help her. Except him.

"And you can't stay like this. I'll have to report you to Ukitake-taichou. It's not safe for you to take over as fukutaichou of the Thirteenth in this condition. For Ukitake-taichou or for you."

More things she knew. She'd lost him, she'd lost her division, she'd lost herself, now she'd lose her status as a fukutaichou. There was nothing else to lose . . .

"There's only one solution," Nanao continued, in a tone that brooked no argument. "You have to confront him, and fix whatever it is that's keeping you up at night."

. . . except her pride.

She managed to get in a half hour nap, and she and Nanao finished packing and cleaning the office. Rangiku had been tempted to trash the place, to let her taichou know exactly how she felt about him and what he'd done, but she wouldn't stoop that low. She'd realized something in the time he'd been gone. This wasn't his fault. He'd never wanted to touch her again in the first place, but she'd begged him and forced the issue. If he couldn't handle it, it was probably because he could tell she wanted more and didn't know how to tell her he didn't. She didn't love his method; she was pretty sure some hollow were kinder. But, well, this was on her. Her fault, her problem, her misery.

Why did her whole life keep falling apart? And why couldn't she find someone else to blame for it? Anger, finger-pointing, at least they would keep her from noticing the hole in her heart from being rejected yet again.

As evening broke and the stars came out to play, Rangiku wandered the halls of the division, knowing that it was impossible for her to get any real sleep that night. The next day would be her last as the fukutaichou of the Tenth. She'd never really thought the day would come. She didn't know what she was expecting; to grow old like the soutaichou and just keep fighting, to serve under Hitsugaya-taichou until she could no longer move and her spirit body disintegrated into reishi, only for her soul to be reborn in the living world, starting the cycle all over again. The Tenth was in her blood. She'd never been in any other division. Taichous had come and gone, and she had remained, until one taichou came that she never wanted to outlast. Well, she wouldn't. He would remain, she would be replaced, and the division would go on, just as strong as it had ever been. They would forget she'd ever been there.

Shaking her head, hoping to banish the bleak thoughts, Rangiku realized she had strolled into one of the remote hallways of the division. She'd only been there one other time, actually; when Hitsugaya had taken her home from that bar and, well, taken her. His rooms were the only thing down this way. She looked both ways, knowing no one would be around, but unable to resist. People looked around before they did something they weren't supposed to do; it was just how it worked. Satisfied she was alone, she jimmied the lock on his door and slipped inside.

The place had an air of disuse. It was to be expected, she thought, after he'd been away for over a month already. Neat, though. Meticulous in its organization, nothing out of place, and yet it still managed to avoid that stifling, formal feeling. It was comfortable, welcoming. Peaceful. And under the dust, it smelled like him.

She curled up on his couch, pulling one of his spare haori over her as a (somewhat short) blanket, and slept.

It wasn't a full night. Hell, it wasn't more than two hours before she woke up, gasping, burning, needy and unfulfilled. But for those two hours, finally, she was at peace.

Nanao was right. This couldn't continue.

Toushirou paced around the room he'd claimed as his, trying not to stare out the window. At the sky, of course. The rain that was coming down in droves had driven him inside, but not even its rhythmic drone and the accompanying scent of wet earth and ozone could calm the thoughts whizzing around in his head.

And so he did push-ups. And sit ups. He ran in place, he meditated, he outlined the next month's kidou lessons for Kurosaki, he wrote a draft letter to the soutaichou explaining his assessment and plan for the substitute's future. And then he mapped out the advance team's patrols and planned a strategy for driving Yammy out into the open. If he worked himself until he passed out, there'd be no time to think.

It was a pretty good strategy so far. He'd never been so efficient. He had a thirty page plan of training drills to try out on his division when he returned, he'd played six games of soccer with Kurosaki's sister, and Kurosaki's kidou was almost as good as most new recruits'. And, well, if he was driving everyone crazy barking out orders and snapping all the time, it was all for the better. Kurosaki and crew needed some discipline, and they certainly weren't going to get it from Urahara. And as for the arrancar, well . . . the more pissed Grimmjow got, the better their sparring sessions. Toushirou's bankai was already lasting a few minutes longer. It was all for the best.

Yep, ruining his life was the best thing he'd ever done.

On his twenty-third rep of one-armed push-ups, Toushirou felt a trickle of awareness, the forewarning of something or someone he couldn't quite place, and then he sensed her. He made it from his room to the back door in one step.

She was waiting for him outside the door. She knelt formally, back straight, head down, eyes trained on the ground. Humble. Meek. Unfamiliar. Soaking wet, as the rain poured down in torrents.

"Matsumoto! What are you doing here?" She wasn't supposed to be there. She was supposed to go work for Ukitake, to go on with life, to move on, to hang out with Nanao and have light in her life and not be dragged down by a taichou who couldn't be trusted to keep his hands off her or her happiness in mind. She was supposed to be saved.

"Taichou, I—"

"I'm not your taichou," he snapped brutally, ruthlessly. Rip the band-aid off. Neat, clean, virtually painless.

Her eyes lifted, and his heart clenched at the sight of tear-drenched blue. She wasn't supposed to hurt like this.

"You are." Her voice was low, dark, elemental. "Right now, you still are. I know you don't want me and you can't wait to be rid of me, but for three more hours I still belong to you and you broke me so you are going to fucking fix it, Hitsugaya Toushirou!"

"Wha—?"

"It worked, okay! We slept together again and it was incredible and now when I close my eyes all I think of is you and it's good instead of bad, except it's too good and I haven't slept in a week and a half and all I feel is feverish and achy and like I'll die if you don't touch me but you're not there and so I just die over and over again! And I know you don't love me and you don't want me and you probably don't even care, but you're a good man, Toushirou, so you're going to do this, just this once so I can function again. Because you're still my taichou, and you're still responsible for me, and you know, you know that I have enough pride that I wouldn't be here begging you like this if there was any other way! I—"

"You deserve better than me," he interjected, desperate, horrified, resolution slipping through his fingers.

"I know. But I don't want better than you. I need you!"

Tears slid down her cheeks and his resolve shattered on the floor. "Don't cry, Rangiku. You have me."

"Then touch me!"

He pulled her into his arms, wiped her tears away. And then he snuck her up to his room and he made love to her. Again. He was quicker this time, but no less sweet and tender. He'd seen her scars firsthand, created some of them. There was no way in hell he was going to cut them open now.

Knowing he was only allowed three mistakes, and that this was the fourth. Knowing he was damned.

And feeling guilty for thinking about himself when it was her he kept on hurting.

This time, when he woke up, she was gone.

A/N:

I've been thinking of this story as sort of a modern fairytale. There's no magic or fairy godmothers or princes and peasants, but it's kind of a classic tale of love and romance set in a modern and very imperfect world, where sex comes before love and happily-ever-afters give way to better-than-nothings. I hope you can see the romance in the unromantic and the beauty in the contrast. And if you have no idea what I'm talking about now, but start to see it as things progress, let me know. I'm really interested to see how much of the intent shines through. Anyway, please review! I can't believe this story has now topped 50 reviews—you guys rock!