Hello, people. As promised, your new chappie! I hope you guys like this one, because I tried to make it what you were waiting for. Thanks for bearing with me for the two-week wait, the next chapter will come out much faster seeing as I'm half-done with it already.

IMPORTANT: Er, after fourteen chapters I have sadly remembered that Unohana is not supposed to be alive at this point, considering that this story is set a decade after the current manga…whoops. But I need her. So she's magically here? And another thing, I do know Orihime exists. But it seems to somehow ruin the flow of the story, so she doesn't really appear either? Is that okay with you guys – I'm not an Orihime hater, it's just that this is *cough* IchiRuki.

Oh, we have broken through the 400 review mark (courtesy to ) and I THANK YOU ALL. I love every single one of you.

Thanks to reviewers: DLC2094, Debido, Eternal Cat Moon, Guest, poooy200, , Ethyrin Kairos, lux thebarbarionwarrior, Phantom Claire, MerryKitten, NarutoLuver896, brialees, Faia Sakura, GhibliGirl91, Vanimelde Melindel, uzuki-chan, BakerTennant'sTardis, MugetsuIchigo, Eradona, , The Unknown ShiniGami, Lovely Loree, JTiberiusKirk, Kireina-Ame, Mtmeye, KJC2025, laughingspider, mypupps1, Qwerty321, silverscribbles, Tsuki no Yukihime, Guest, NiceGoingLife, Chirpy Hitomi chan, Guest, Guest, NobodyEpic, Guest, shayerasaiyo, Guest, Guest.

I don't own except the plot, I love you guys, enjoy the chap!

The moment Renji, the Visored, and Matsumoto had disappeared through the portal to the Seireitei of the past, leaving only Urahara, Kyouraku-soutaichou, and Ukitake-taichou remaining, the Fourth Division had pulled open the great double doors to the laboratory.

Unohana and her senior medical team already had their hair and shihakushuo sleeves pulled back, washed hands kept tight at their sides to avoid contamination. Around them, it almost seemed as if every shinigami and seated officer available rushed over the dirty tiled flooring like a tide, dragging stretchers and bandages and assorted technical equipment into regulated rows, a clear path down the center ready for serious cases to be taken directly to surgery.

Hanatarou, newly inducted Sixth seat of the Fourth Division, had been one of them. His small, diminutive stature had not helped in the crowd of black and white shihakushuo, a frenzied patter of feet and clatter of rolling hospital stretchers and shouted commands and reordered positions. Thrown about like a leaf caught in a gale, Hanatarou had gritted his teeth and fought through the heaving sea of uniforms, until he emerged, gasping, into the tepid air of the laboratory, right next to Unohana-taichou and her senior team of her fukutaichou and three highest-ranking seated officers. He looks over his shoulder to check the room.

All is in place.

And all at once, a dead silence falls on the room. Even Mayuri-taichou has run out of things to do, crooked fingers resting on steady dials, having already rerouted backup power to support the dwindling portal.

Hanatarou can feel his heart thudding painfully into his ribs. Fifty pairs of eyes are fixed in the center of the portal, at the one true pinpoint of darkness, a window into the past. Ichigo. Rukia. He breathes slowly and evenly, willing himself to keep his mind blank.

Medical teams are supposed to be professional. Although care is their creed, and healing their purpose, the one true maxim of all medical personnel is far colder and impersonal than any wounded soldier might think.

Detachment.

Every certified shinigami healer is supposed to think of nothing more than the specifics of the healing kido that flow through their fingertips, the green glow of their reiatsu, and the timbre of their patient's breathing and heartbeat. There is no self, no pain, no worry, nothing personal. In the best of the Fourth's healing rooms, all reiatsu signatures are serene, a flat plane of silence where nothing disturbs the calm.

Supposedly, anyway.

The room is near crackling with suppressed reiatsu. Hanatarou struggles to keep his worry in control, endlessly telling himself that the taichou and fukutaichou pair are too strong for anything really bad to happen. Around him, the medical officers stand tense and straight, fists clenched and eyes drilling into the portal. Even Unohana-taichou's usually kind and composed face has descended into a look reminiscent of her days as Kenpachi – a flat plane of withdrawn cold rimmed with darkness. Her hands tremble, so slightly that Hanatarou can only discern it after staring at her for a full minute.

This is about Kurosaki Ichigo and Kuchiki Rukia. It is impossible to be detached in such a situation.

It almost seems as if the entire room is holding their breath as one, waiting, watching, hoping. Unohana-taichou does not need to call out orders. Every shinigami is as ready with healing kido as the Eleventh are usually ready with their zanpakutuo.

Urahara fiddles with a translucent glass sphere, talking in low tones with Ukitake and Kyouraku. The soutaichou turns sharply, and bows his head to the medical team, locking eyes with Unohana.

"We are all in your hands now," Kyouraku says softly. His words echo off the hewn ceiling, sounding louder, and severer, than they were intended.

The Fourth Division bows as one.

Kyouraku shares a glance with Ukitake and Urahara, and at a small nod, they move towards the portal together.

Then the portal shivers.

Urahara snaps his head towards Mayuri. Mayuri shakes his head rapidly, hand tapping a dial.

"Someone is passing back through," Urahara says, stepping away from the portal's mouth fluidly.

The medical team tense almost to a crouch.

With a sucking noise, the gateway almost seems to collapse inwards at the center, the darkness encroaching towards the blued edges in a spinning frenzy. A shadow begins to grow larger in the nothingness, a tall silhouetted form –

Kurosaki-taichou?

Then Kuchiki Byakuya emerges like a white-robed ghost from the plane of the portal, hair whipping behind him, not even pausing to acknowledge Kyouraku's presence. Nobody bothers to ask why, for in his arms, cradled like a sick child, face unnaturally white and too thin even for someone of her stature, is his sister, Kuchiki Rukia. Her eyes are half-closed, violet irises glazed over, and she rests like a limp doll in the crook of his arm, head against his haori. Her shihakushuo robes are drenched and heavy, as if she has been running in pouring rain, the kind that wets shinigami through to the bone.

Then an all-too familiar smell hits Hantarou's nose, a metallic rust-iron reek that slams into the back of his throat and clogs his airways. At the exact same moment, Rukia shifts a little as Byakuya lands, crouched, and her robes trail a brilliant swipe of scarlet onto his haori, red painted in stark contrast to clean white.

Her shihakushuo is soaked through with blood, not water, dripping perfect circles of coin-like crimson on the tiled laboratory floor.

Kuchiki Byakuya's expression is one of unbridled agitation. His signature cold emotionless mask is wiped away, and those storm-clouded eyes are wide with distress. He dashes towards Unohana, feet almost slipping in his haste.

Hanatarou swallows. He has only seen that sort of look on Kuchiki-taichou's face once. Half a century ago, he had just been introduced into the division when he had paused outside the window of Unohana-taichou's office and seen Kuchiki Byakuya pleading for a cure for some disease he had never heard of. Only later had Hanatarou learned of Hisana's illness. Unohana-taichou had told Byakuya gently, and firmly, that there was nothing the Fourth could do. Hanatarou hadn't meant to eavesdrop, truly, but the look of barely controlled desperation that had washed over Kuchiki Byakuya's face at that moment is only marginally worse than the dark frown of fear that he now displays.

Unohana gestures swiftly, and the closest medical shinigami run forward with a stretcher. Byakuya reaches her at the same moment, and his words tumble over each other in a rush.

"She just activated bankai for the first time with extremely low reiatsu reserves at her disposal." His voice is almost completely level, but there is an underlying tremble in his words. He tries to lay Rukia down on the stretcher, but the moment his arms loosen around her, she squeaks, a strangled sound, and closes her bloody fingers in a death grip on his haori. Even her lips are pale blue, now. Byakuya has to kneel awkwardly beside the stretcher, throwing his dignified poise to the wind, Rukia still half-within his arms.

Isane-fukutaichou finishes her preliminary scan with a twist of her fingers, and reports rapidly. "Severe reiatsu exhaustion. Near depletion of core. Entering shock."

"Physical wounds?" Unohana asks, taking Rukia's head gently between her hands. Hanatarou hovers next to the stretcher, hands already glowing with healing kido. Considering the amount of blood, they must be extensive.

"Except for third-degree burns on wrists, likely reiatsu burns, none."

Unohana turns like a whiplash and holds Byakuya's gaze.

Byakuya says calmly, "It's not her blood. I suspect she only gathered enough reiatsu to melt through her reiatsu cuffs because of shock." He breaks her gaze and looks back down at Rukia, the fingers of one hand stroking her hair away from her face. "Kurosaki Ichigo should be coming through soon."

Unohana processes this piece of information with growing alarm, and flings a hand at her senior medical team. "Second through fourth relief team, mark Kuchiki-fukutaichou. First relief team and senior medical corps, standby! Move her to the other room immediately!"

At Ichigo's name, Rukia shudders, jerking into half-conciousness. "Ichigo…" she whispers, starting to shift, turning her head even as the stretcher starts to move. They pass through the doors, surrounded by medical shinigami.

"She shouldn't move!" Hanatarou calls out quickly, reaching out to steady her. But Byakuya is faster, drawing her closer and hushing her soothingly, telling her to stay quiet.

Rukia seems to recognise her brother's touch, and says in a half-incoherent mumble, "Nii-sama?"

"Sssh, I'm here, be still," Byakuya says, bent over her.

"I – I can't – I can't see very well…"

Isane stiffens. A chill goes through Byakuya's heart, but he forces himself to stay calm as he gently tilts Rukia's head back so he can see her eyes. A remnant of her bankai's glassy film still covers her eyes. "Rukia, I need you to do something for me," he says carefully, signaling to Isane and getting a nod in return.

Byakuya continues in his quiet, calm tone. "Can you tell Sode no Shirayuki to let go of the rest of your shared reiatsu?"

Rukia's eyelids droop lower. "I'm tired, Nii-sama," she says, face in his haori.

"Don't let her sleep," Isane says sharply.

If she doesn't completely let go of bankai, she'll die from reiatsu exhaustion, Byakuya thinks. The thought is like icy meltwater poured down his windpipe, nearly debilitating him. "Rukia."

No reply.

"Rukia."

Nothing.

Byakuya gives himself no time to panic. If he allows himself to pause for one more second, the memory of calling out to Hisana mid-conversation in a plum garden and hearing silence in reply will flood his heart and soul and he might as well be paralysed with fear and horror on the spot. So he ignores this terrifying memory on the edge of his consciousness and snaps into his cold captain's tone of authority, a tone he has not used with Rukia for over a decade.

"Rukia. I forbid you to sleep. Wake up and deactivate bankai."

And Rukia shivers in his arms, pain washing over her features. The last remnants of the icy covering over her irises melt into silvery tear-trails that trickle out of the corners of her eyes, mingling with her tears. "Nii-sama…" she murmurs, almost too soft to hear. But she is breathing evenly now, albeit lightly.

Byakuya almost sags with relief, and finds himself without words. He just holds her, looking at Isane Kotetsu shouting orders to her team in a sort of detached stupor. And all too soon, he has to loosen his hold on his sister as the medical relief team swarms around her bedside. But her small hand never leaves his, hidden away in his palm. Her fingers are cold.

Behind them, Urahara, Kyouraku and Ukitake leap forward into the portal, leaving Unohana and her senior medical team standing in the empty laboratory. The Fourth Division captain is snapping orders left and right, bringing the heads of each relief team to order. "Prepare at least four blood transfusions – hook them up consecutively. Hanatarou-san!"

"Hai, taichou!" The call comes from the other room. Hanatarou ducks and weaves through to come to a stop in front of his captain.

"Your team is on standby after Kurosaki-taichou comes through. Any other injured shinigami is entirely your duty. Do you understand?" Unohana's usually kind face is now in absolute stern command, and Hanatarou knows better than to do anything but respond in affirmative.

"Yes, ma'am!" he says quickly, bobbing his head.

Unohana has already turned away towards her most senior officers. "I want two teams ready for emergency surgery –"

The portal shakes once again, a seething morass of crackling white and black and cerulean lightning.

The room falls still immediately, the only sound coming from the team attending to Rukia in the other room.

A tumble of ragged shihakushuo, torn cloth, and orange hair. The clatter of two zanpakutuos bathed in crimson on the tiles, and a seeping pool of undiluted scarlet. The two figures hidden in the bundle of soaked cloth are almost indiscernable.

And Isshin raises his face – tears mingling with blood – and rasps, "Help him. Please." His words sound like they have been dragged through a grate of saws. Ichigo is held pressed to his chest, and Isshin's hands are covered in red, a weakening pulse that drains his son of life.

The horror of the moment seems to take that second of time and drag it to a dying crawl, an instant frozen in ice-tinged carmine.

Then Unohana is pulling Ichigo from Isshin's arms, aided by her team, and the room erupts into deafening clamour. Isshin can only feel his son's lingering warmth slip away from his hands, and see his orange hair matted with blood, and then he is obscured from view on the stretcher as two relief teams swamp him as one.

The world suddenly tilts into a strange patterned vortex of sound and colour, and Isshin is momentarily transfixed by the colour of his own hands. Why are they so red? Ichigo's blood. The vividness of the colour seems even stronger in contrast to the white tiling of the laboratory floor. He tries to rub away the red by dragging his hand along the ground, but all that leaves is a glaring swipe of ridged scarlet trails, reflecting his own haunted eyes in the artificial glow of the lights above.

Someone is shaking him. Slapping him, even. Must have fallen asleep – there's Ichigo waking him up with his usual violence, after all. Sigh. All he wants is a nap, really. Time to teach his son a bit about parental respect –

"–sshin-san! Wake up! Look at me. Look here!"

Isshin frowns as his vision comes into focus. Where's Ichigo? That doesn't sound like his voice… In front of him is a small shinigami with a determined, if nervous, frown, waving a hand before his eyes.

"…What?" he manages, choking the words out from the back of his throat.

"I'm Yamada Hanatarou, Sixth seat of the Fourth Division. I need to check you over for injury. Are you hurt?" The small figure speaks rapidly.

Isshin tries to understand the chain of sentences. "I'm…fine," he says, blinking against the bright light. He dimly registers that Hanatarou is ordering them to check him over anyway, but all he can see is the tumult across the room that surrounds Ichigo. He can't see his son at all, except for a limp arm that trails off the stretcher, dripping crimson onto the ground from one slack fingertip. Unohana can barely be seen either, surrounded on all sides by her team, shouting commands he cannot understand. He sees her raise an arm drenched up to the elbow with gore, gesturing for something.

Someone hands her a knife.

And a roaring emotion rears its head within Isshin, and he is on his feet and halfway across the room before six people jump him and bring him to the ground, and still he struggles as he sees the blinking lights reflect off the deadly edge of the scalpel.

"Get him out of here right now! I need a sedative!" Hanatarou again.

Something hits the back of his neck, and he hears the hiss of a depressing needle, before he finally relaxes, sprawled on the ground. He can still hear and see, but the raging emotion is sucked away. And with the loss of confused anger, there comes a painful clarity that resounds within his consciousness.

Ichigo is hurt. My son is dying.

Indistinctly, he is aware that he is being helped through a set of doors, to another room also filled with green kido and rushing shinigami. The doors slam shut with a painful finality behind him, cutting off the laboratory from the outside room.

And just as quickly, he is being laid out on white sheets, and he is looking at the ceiling instead of the walls. If he strains his ears, he can hear Unohana's muffled orders even through the thickness of the great double doors.

Isshin doesn't know what to do, and so he just breathes, looking at the rings of light emanating from the bare lightbulbs above him.

Then, a voice, cutting through his stupor. "Isshin-san."

He looks blearily to the side, and there is Kuchiki Byakuya, holding an unconscious Rukia's hand as a medic carefully bandages her wrists, and another fits on an oxygen mask. Byakuya's usually cold tone is different, somehow. An understanding between them, perhaps. Or a mutual experience. His eyes ask a silent question.

Isshin lies there for a moment, thinking of how to reply. In the end, he just shakes his head.

Byakuya's gaze drops away, back to his sister. He grips her hand tighter, fingers in her hair. He, too, is quiet for a while. When his reply comes, it is resigned, soft, apologetic. "I'm sorry."

Isshin doesn't answer. There is nothing to say.

Seiretei is silent. The lights in the Twelfth Division laboratory burn late through the hours, a wavering candle struggling against a gale that threatens to snuff it out.

No one sleeps in Seireitei that night.

(BerryBREAK BerryBREAK BerryBREAK BerryBREAK BerryBREAK BerryBREAK)

The new soutaichou, well, relatively new, seeing as he has been in office for a full decade now, has different tastes than the previous one. Not that Kyouraku Shunsui would ever scorn his sensei's memory by insulting Yamamoto Genryuusai, but his office and adjoining gardens are far more, ah, floral.

So thinks Ukitake, as he makes his way to his friend and soutaichou's offices, a pensive frown marring his usually open face.

In full bloom, the gardens of the soutaichou rooms are well-groomed enough to rival Kuchiki Byakuya's at their finest. Vivid blossoms of every imaginable colour from pink to mauve to powdery periwinkle blue, along with leafy green trees over pebbled walkways. Ukitake lets a small, momentary smile wash away the gloom – he is almost absolutely sure, after all, that the shady treeline was added for his benefit alone – before sadness once again redeems his features.

It is the last few weeks of autumn now, and almost all the trees have shed their leaves. The once dappled sunlit walkway is besieged by a tide of dead leaves, most almost drained of colour. As Ukitake walks gracefully between the arched gate, the last, fiery leaf breaks from its stem and drifts in a dead wind to the ground.

All things have an end, and a death.

Ukitake is old. He may not look it, that perpetual easy smile of youth and amiability ever present, but inside, he feels his age. He is not a stranger to death, having believed himself to have one sandal in it already since a long time ago. He has lived longer than he expected, anyway. If he were to die now, that would mean not much to him. But no, fate has a strange way of changing the seasons. An eyebrow lifts as he considers the irony. The aged captain waiting for his death is now healthy as ever, thanks to a new cure. The young – the young are not supposed to die, or to fall, or to pass away. Their job is to squabble, to party, to fall in love, to be overly loud and receive candy from their elders. That is their lot in life.

The young are not supposed to fade.

With that thought, Ukitake reaches the door of Shunsui's office. He enters without knocking, as is their tradition. Two thousand years of brotherhood crumbles many barriers.

Kyouraku is standing by the window, looking at the fraying garden. "Juushiro," he says quietly.

Ukitake smiles painfully at that serious tone. No Juu-chan today. "Shunsui," he answers equally as softly, joining him by the window.

"How is the new medicine faring?" Kyouraku's voice is weary.

"Well. I am well."

"Good." A tired exhalation.

Ukitake turns slightly. "And news of the memory-modifying hado?"

Outside, a chill wind gathers, brushing a whirlwind of leaves against the window. Kyouraku nods. "Mayuri and Urahara have discovered no strange readings of the membrane between the worlds. Everything remains balanced, and although they tell me that we would not register a change if it did happen, they also can assure me that any change would have come up on their instruments. It worked."

Ukitakes grips the window frame with one thin hand, fingertips tracing the grains within the wood. Mahogany, a hardwood of many years. Knot to striation to knot again, endless. "Perhaps we have changed nothing at all," he begins slowly.

Kyouraku looks at him with one sharp eye. "What do you mean?"

Ukitake's finger stops at one knot in particular, concentric rings of sable and russet. "Have you ever wondered why Aizen had such a sudden and disturbing fixation on Kurosaki Ichigo? He orchestrated his birth, watched over him all those years. Does it not seem strange to you?"

"You're saying the hado was the cause of this interest."

"Perhaps. We will never know. And our reaction to Ichigo's ryoka invasion was rather muted. I for one remember that you and I were somehow half-convinced of his innocence. And we trusted him with too great a burden – saving Rukia when he didn't even have shikai – than was strictly logical." Ukitake's nail reaches the very center of the wood knot.

Circles within circles.

Kyouraku is silent for a while. Then he asks, "Has there been any change over at the Fourth?"

Ukitake grimaces, fingers clenching. "None. It's been three days now, and nothing. He won't wake. Rukia's not left his bedside – I've had a hard time convincing her brother from pulling her back home for some rest."

Kyouraku sighs again. "Three days only? It feels longer. Even yesterday's Academy Graduation was muted – you could tell no one was into it, Juushiro." He stops for a moment. "Why is it the children that suffer our mistakes?"

Ukitake has no answer for him. Together, the two watch the garden die from autumn to winter.

(BerryBREAK BerryBREAK BerryBREAK BerryBREAK BerryBREAK BerryBREAK)

The first thing that he is aware of is that his wrists feel really light, for some reason. Around him is a sea of black, no ripples or cracks breaking the smooth surface. All is dark, careful, cocooned, quiet.

He likes it.

He isn't quite sure how much time has passed. Sometimes he thinks it is an eternity, this calming, serene plane of blackness, wandering where there is no self and no other. Other times he thinks it is just a second, and he is drifting suspended in empty space, trapped and unable to wake.

He doesn't like that.

He tries to think about his options. The darkness is nice. It seems like there is no pain, or discomfort there. And no one to disturb him. But then again, the sable nothingness is a bit daunting – it really does feel like if he lets go, then it might be, well, forever. Does he want that? He doesn't know.

A peal of laughter like tinkling wind chimes, delicate and fleeting, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. It sounds like an angel.

He frowns. Who is that? That's a nice laugh. He would like to hear it again.

But there is silence in the darkness now. He starts to feel a modicum of fear. What if he remains here, and never hears that voice again?

Then it comes to him, and suddenly he sees a beautiful shade of violet, amethyst clear. Wake up, baka.

Who is baka? Is it himself? Who is he, anyway?

Wake up, tawake! That lovely laugh again.

Alright, then.

And so Kurosaki Ichigo wakes.

Sunlight filters through his closed eyelids, yellow and orange through his eyelashes. His back is against sheets that are warm and soft, his head resting comfortably against a cool pillow. There is an understated, regular beeping of some machinery or the other beside him. He doesn't know why it's there, but he can't really bring himself to care.

Ichigo takes a moment to soak in the feeling. Has he ever been so comfortable?

But just as the thought enters his mind, he becomes aware of the fact that breathing is a bit difficult. Every rise and fall of his chest brings a small twinge of pain that starts near his heart and spikes down his spine. Trying not to panic, he slows his breaths, and finds it a little easier to get air into his lungs.

Ichigo tries to open his eyes. It is surprisingly difficult, almost as if someone has hung weight on his eyelids, so that the simple action of revealing his irises takes as much effort as pulling himself up from the ground after a hard training session. After an age, the first modicum of light drifts through his eyelashes like a golden bar of dust.

His vision is quite fuzzy at first, but a few heavy blinks later, it all comes into focus, like when one first awakens from a dream.

The half-open window is like a skylight to sunny warmth, golden yellow ribbons of light streaming unhindered through the gap. The walls are clean, and sterile white, and so is the bed that he lies on; but the smell of late autumn that drifts lazily into the space gives the small room a welcoming glow. The window only illuminates half the room; the other half is cast in cool shadow from the closed door.

Why am I here?

Moving his head in slow increments, Ichigo manages to maneuver his line of vision so he can see the rest of the room.

He stops breathing for a moment.

For slumped in a small, sleeping heap in a chair at his bedside, a russet-gold autumn haori too large for her draped over her shoulders, sunlight catching the edge of her eyebrows and gilding the tips of her fringe, is Rukia. Her hair falls over behind her as she snores softly. Hidden in the half-light, her face is luminescent gold. Her petite hands are bandaged tightly with wound white strips, crisscrossing over her wrists and coming up to the base of her fingers.

Rukia is holding Ichigo's hands tightly, fingers gripping his own. Even in her sleep, her grip does not slacken, and she rests curled protectively over their joined hands, almost slipping off her chair. His hands are similarly bound, in layer upon layer of bandages.

My wrists? Why –

And the events of the past few days come rushing back in a tumultuous wave. Urahara portal Byakuya Kaien Aizen cuffs Sokyoku Gin Rukia – and he remembers that horrifying, heart-stopping moment, as he fell like lightning from the sky and saw Gin's sword flying like a deadly spear towards her small form, and the look in her eyes of death approaching, and the one, last, overwhelming thought that he must reach Rukia. He remembers how he had taken the blow like a thundering punch to the back of his chest, and the feeling of ridiculous relief that she was safe.

So that's why my chest hurts.

Ichigo looks at her now, and marvels at how wonderfully exquisite this single, calm moment is. The present image of Rukia is like a watercolour painting, brushes of auburn and white and orange and yellow, all timelessness and eternity captured in this one, striking picture. He wonders how he couldn't have seen it before, the simple truth – at that moment, when the fear of losing her had blacked out his vision and choked his breath and tore at his heart, he had known, and now knows, that to him, she is the most precious thing in the world. There is no comparison. The thought of losing her had nearly ripped his soul out.

Rukia sleeps on, beautifully unaware, sunlight slowly dancing across her face. Ichigo just looks at her, too tired and too gloriously happy to do anything else. He wants to reach out and brush that strand of hair away from her cheek, to check if she is really there, to make sure that she is not some half-remembered angel created by his memory. But she looks so delicate, almost like crafted porcelain, he is afraid that by a mere touch, she would melt away into nothing. Ichigo doesn't really think she's a ghost. He doesn't think he has the capability to imagine her to such perfection.

Ichigo tries to stretch out a hand, but his arm feels too heavy. He only manages a small twitch of his fingers, brushing against Rukia's bandaged wrists.

But it is enough.

With a small snuffle that is almost a sneeze, Rukia shifts awake. Her fingers tighten against his, and she lets go with one hand momentarily to rub sleepily at her lidded eyes.

Is it possible to temporarily forget the exact shade of someone's eyes? Ichigo had forgotten how stunningly violet Rukia's were.

He tries to smile, and succeeds. He twitches his fingers again. "He…llo," he rasps, voice dry from disuse.

Rukia snaps her head around so quickly her neck cracks painfully. "Oh!" she exclaims both in surprise and pain, eyes wide.

Ichigo tries to suppress a laugh, but it bubbles up and he has to let it through. It hurts quite a bit, and catches in his throat, but he doesn't mind.

"Ichigo!" Rukia says in alarm, snatching a glass of water from the sideboard and tilting his head back to help him drink. A few sips later, the coughing chuckles subside, leaving a dull ache in his chest. She puts down the glass, and they both just look at each other for a moment.

Then he takes her hands in his, and says softly, "Do they hurt? Are you okay?"

A second passes, in which a multitude of emotions fly across Rukia's face, nearly too quickly for him to read. Relief, worry, tiredness, and – anger?

Oh no, it's that face. The prelude to pain.

Rukia takes a breath – and explodes. "Ichigo! How dare you ask after my injuries? You took a blade for me and bled out everywhere and Unohana-taichou had to use six packets of blood and you were out for three whole days and they couldn't get you to wake up and you ask after my injuries? Stupid, stupid, stupid baka…" Her hands are shaking on his shoulders now.

Her flailing about actually jostles Ichigo's injuries a bit, and he winces. The moment the sound of pain escapes, she stops with a horrified expression and lets go of him.

"Oh no, I'm sorry, I didn't hurt you, did I?" The change is instantaneous. Fear clouds her face, and she clutches the oversized haori closer around her.

Ichigo has to smile. "I'm fine, Rukia," he says quietly. "I'm sorry for being an idiot."

Rukia sits back down with a huff. "You are an idiot," she grouses. But she takes his hands again, with slightly trembling fingers. She ducks her head, her hair shadowing her expression from his view.

"Rukia?" His voice is soft, concerned.

She sniffs, a sound torn between annoyance and hurt. "There – there was a point…when your heart stopped." He still can't see her eyes, but she is holding onto his hands so tightly her nails are digging into the bandages. "Nii-sama wouldn't tell me anything…And I – I couldn't –" She stops suddenly, shoulders rigid.

Ichigo doesn't really know how to respond. So he gathers his strength and raises an arm shaking with effort to reach her chin, tipping it gently so he can see her face. "Hey," he says. "I'm still here."

Rukia's violet eyes are brimming with tears, but she is biting her lip in an attempt to keep them from spilling over. She nods furiously for a moment, as if trying to shake the echo of that memory from her mind. A tear drips on Ichigo's finger.

Ichigo smiles, again that half-joking grin that makes her want to hit him and smile back at the same time, the one that makes her heart beat faster for some inconceivable reason. "I told you we would make it back. I promised, remember? It's my turn to tell you 'I told you so'."

Rukia has to snort at that, smiling tremulously. But she still retains her grip on his hands, as if afraid to let go. Ichigo does the same.

She appears to pull herself together, swallowing. "Urahara managed to explode some sort of high-level memory-modifying kido. Kyouraku-soutaichou thinks that we can assume it worked, considering the boundary between the two worlds is still stable. Nobody from our side sent over was hurt."

Ichigo nods. "I knew that man had something up his sleeve – or in his hat." He looks askance at the beeping machines that he is hooked up to, and says with a touch of irritability, "When can I get off these things?"

Rukia's eyes narrow, and a petite finger points straight at his nose, so he goes cross-eyed just looking at it. "When Unohana-taichou says you can."

"Nehhh, I hate machines like that –"

"You have a hole in your chest, Ichigo!"

"Psshh. Done that before. 'm alright."

"You will stay in this room until I give you permission, or so help me I will kill you myself." Rukia's eyes flash dangerously, haori swinging as she looms over him.

Ichigo looks at her, all four feet nine inches of thunderous authority, towering over his helpless self, blazing with righteous indignation. And he smiles. Maybe it would be good to follow her orders, just this once. "Alright, then," he says plainly.

"Don't you –" Rukia begins, gesturing angrily, then pauses. "What?" she says, stunned by his compliance.

"Sure, ma'am. Anything you say, ma'am." Ichigo is the model of sweet innocence.

Rukia's face darkens. "Are you mocking me, Kurosaki-taichou?"

Er. Backfire. Crap.

"No…?" He ventures in a squeak. He tries to shuffle backwards to the wall, but his injuries render him motionless. Zangetsu? Help me! The sword snickers once, and is silent.

Rukia's hand is creeping towards Sode no Shirayuki, the sword leaning against the bedside table.

In a scramble for words, he manages to hold up both hands in a placating gesture. "No, really! I just thought, since you were worried and all, I wouldn't argue or anything!"

Her hand stops a millimeter from Sode no Shirayuki's hilt. "Really?" she says, gaze drilling into him.

"Yeah," he says truthfully.

"Hmph," she says, reaching down at him.

Ichigo braces himself for a slap, or at least a painful flick. But instead, he feels his blankets being drawn up to his shoulders from where they had fallen during their near-confrontation. He blinks up at her in surprise.

"You're going to follow my orders, right?" Rukia says bluntly, somehow looking threatening even when swamped by what is undoubtedly one of her brother's haori.

"Yes, midget," he says with a weary laugh.

"Good. Here's the first one. Go back to sleep."

"What? But I just woke up!" he complains.

"From a three-day coma. You need your rest." Her tone brooks no argument.

"But I'm not even tired –" at this point, his body betrays him and he breaks into a gigantic yawn, causing his chest to twinge.

"My point is proven. Now close your eyes and be good. Sleep."

"But…" Ichigo doesn't know how to tell her. He wants to just lie there and look at her, because if she is in front of him then he knows that she is safe. He doesn't want to close his eyes – what if she is gone when he wakes, and this is all a dream?

Rukia reads something hidden in his expression, and her eyes soften. "Baka. I'll be right here." Her tone hardens again. "Now go to sleep."

Grumbling, Ichigo shuts his eyes, cutting off the sight of the afternoon rays glancing off Rukia's face. But the next moment, her hand takes his again, and her fingers rest in his hair. Comforted, and despite his valiant efforts to stay awake, he begins to drift off, his breathing evening out.

Somewhere in the timeless realm that is halfway between sleep and wakefulness, he feels someone kiss him lightly.

Phwah?

The shock of it jerks him back into the living world, and his eyes flutter open a mere crack to see Rukia bent over him, a funny little smile on her face, showing no indication that she knows he is awake. "Thank you for coming back to me," she whispers quietly.

Ichigo's heart is hammering in his chest. Was that real? Did he imagine it?

She is still close enough…with only a moment's hesitation, he smiles, and leans forward to kiss her gently.

She makes a small squeak of surprise.

Neither of them is aware of the patter of approaching feet, as a young girl's voice calls out from outside the door. "Rukia-nee, Rukia-nee! Has there been any change? Is Nii-san awake ye–"

The door creaks open to reveal Kurosaki Yuzu in full shinigami shihakushuo, halfway through the doorframe, mouth frozen in a half-sentence.

Ichigo and Rukia break apart instantaneously, both blushing a brilliant shade of crimson.

Yuzu blinks several times from shock, a similar scarlet tinge rising in her cheeks. "Oh. Sorry?" she says, feet tapping nervously as she dithers between coming in and backing away.

Then a similar sound of approaching steps announces the arrival of Karin, who skids to a halt with a raised eyebrow at her twin's gaping fish look. "What's up, Yuzu?" she says. Then she turns, and sees Ichigo and Rukia's flaming faces. Her eyes light up at seeing her brother awake, but soon her mouth twists into a snide smile. "Oh, right. First kiss? Sorry to intrude, but it's really about time. Yo, Ichi-nii. Good to see you up. Would you prefer I call Dad now, and get the slobbering tearful reunion out of the way, or later, to prolong your misery?"

And Ichigo laughs out loud, dispelling the awkward atmosphere. He opens his arms and says, "Come here, you two." Grinning, his younger sisters cross the room in one bound and throw themselves in tandem at him, Karin having to tug Yuzu back a bit just before she whams into his injuries. He hugs them as tightly as he can manage, feeling Yuzu's tears dripping down his front, and Karin bury her face into his shoulder. "It's good to see you too," he says softly. "Both proper shinigami now, neh? I'm proud. Sorry I missed your graduation."

"It's okay," both sniffle at the same time. He laughs again, and beside him, Rukia smiles also.

Then there is a thundering outside the door, and all of a sudden Isshin is there, framed in the light of the doorway, something unspeakable in his wide eyes as he leans against the frame, trying to catch his breath.

Ichigo waits patiently for some sort of joking, loud comment. None comes. So he grins instead, wide enough for both of them, and says, "Hi, Tou-san."

And in the next second, Isshin is across the room, barreling into his daughters and son and enveloping them all in a gigantic family hug. Ichigo muffles a groan of pain at the pressure, but Isshin backs off almost immediately, eyes streaming with twin waterworks and the beginnings of a runny nose appearing. "Hello, my son," he says roughly, attempting to swallow his tears and failing majestically, swallowing a booger instead.

"Thanks for getting me, Oyaji," Ichigo says, trying not to laugh.

Isshin's face crumples a bit. At Ichigo's questioning look, he sniffles, scrubbing at his eyes. "I thought since you called me Tou-san a coupla times, you would go back to using it…but if you still prefer Oyaji, that's okay."

Ichigo looks at his father, and a dim memory of someone holding him in the darkness surfaces. He smiles softly. He can't really manage to keep up their act in this sort of situation. "I'll call you Tou-san. I think it sounds better."

Isshin's tears could wash the floor clean, so great are their volume. If anyone could pull off an eyes shining, lip trembling, and hands clasping look, it would be Shiba Isshin. "I love you too, Ichi," he warbles.

Ichigo's eyebrows sharpen into a horrified glare. "Not that nickname," he growls.

"But my sonnnnn~!"

"No."

Isshin finds this a lost case, and swivels to Rukia, who is trying to suppress laughter behind one hand. "Darling Rukia! I thank you so much for looking after my son during his time of," cue dramatic sigh, "frailty."

"OI."

Isshin smirks, and continues. "I just know you'll make him a good wife someday. You're too good for him."

Ichigo blushes an interesting shade of red somewhere between embarrassed and angry. He looks away, even as Rukia blushes also.

Then Ichigo's gigantic yawn saves the day. His family immediately pile on various versions of "Oh no you must sleep now!" with equally varying degrees of intensity – Yuzu actually pushed him under his covers quite forcefully – before clearing out of the room, leaving Ichigo and Rukia alone again.

They smile faintly at each other, and Rukia tucks him in again, quite a natural gesture, now. And Ichigo goes to sleep, with someone singing softly next to his bedside.

Their hands still hold each other tightly, as if never wanting to let go.

Right, hope you liked that…and that the IchiRuki was up to scratch. See you guys next chapter – the epilogue, (sniff).

Review please! If we can break 500 before the end of this story, I will give you guys all hugs :)

Replies to Guest reviews: GUYS PLEASE LEAVE NAMED REVIEWS cause I can't differentiate between six "guests".

Guest: Thanks for reviewing! Hope you liked it :)

Guest: Sure, laugh at Byakuya (I laughed too :) Haha I know it's OP, but it's Bleach. And since Ichigo is the definition of OP, why not give Rukia a chance to kickbutt too? :) Thanks for reviewing!

Guest: The deus ex machina basically works in that any person included in it will have all their actions and words etc. wiped away in others' memories. There is a good point about paperwork (whoops) but, well, this is not perfect, so there you go. Thanks for the review!

Guest: Thank you so much! Glad you liked the family cuteness – I hope this chapter's family cuteness lived up to scratch as well :)

Guest: Aww, I'm sorry, are you okay? I hope it was happy crying :) Thanks for the review, haha :)

Guest: Thanks for the review! Did you like this one?

Guest: I LOVE YOU. Hahah I've got a twin already (my beta), but who says we can't be triplets? I'm praising the Lord that there is someone like you to read my fanfiction! It is an honour :)