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Chapter 7

When Ichigo awoke the next morning, Kuchiki was gone. It had surprised him when she had agreed to stay. He offered his room, but she had already settled herself on his couch, with one of the throw pillows tucked under her head. By the time he went to fetch a blanket, she was already asleep-exhaustion and pain finally getting the better of her. He laid the blanket over her and placed pain killers and water within her reach on the coffee table. He had pointedly decided not to look at her sleeping form and quickly retreated to his room. He laid awake for some time wondering how Kuchiki would end up on the ground with a sliced abdomen. The cut was about ten centimetres long, neat across the skin, suggesting it had been done with the point of a sharpened blade. Did she get into a fight with a suspect? If so, why would she call Renji for help? Why not someone in the same unit? Why would she refuse to go to the hospital? What was she up to? Did it have anything to do with her earlier agitation? Why did she choose to stand while getting stitched? Why was she so bloody stubborn?

It was these thoughts he fallen asleep with. And these same thoughts plagued him all morning. Arriving at the station, it was something of a physical effort to push away those thoughts to focus on the case at hand. The station was relatively quiet today, a few uniforms milling about. Apparently, criminals took Sundays off as well. He dragged himself up the steps to his precinct. He sat at his desk and opened his email.
The results from the liquid found on the victim had come through.
It was liquid meth.
What was an IT tech doing with liquid meth?
That was what he should have been focusing on. Except his thoughts kept turning toward Kuchiki. Was she okay? He wondered how long he should wait before he could check up on her. It would have been easier to judge if they were friends. But his and Kuchiki's relationship-what relationship? They were just two detectives working in the same precinct. Two detectives who didn't get along. Except…except something was different now. Even though he wasn't her first choice, or second or third, he was glad that her call came to him, and not Renji. It could be a step forward in…in…well, he wasn't exactly sure what, but it was a step nonetheless.

The sound of the door opening pulled him out of his thoughts. He turned to the door to find Kuchiki entering with one cup of coffee stacked atop another. She walked to him and placed one of the cups on his desk, then, without a word, settled into her seat.
Ichigo stared, dumbfounded. If he didn't know better, he would have never guessed that she was injured.
'What are you doing here?' he asked her, brow furrowed.
'Working, Kurosaki. We have a case to solve,' she said, so casually, as if he hadn't stitched her up a few hours ago.
'You should be at home. Resting,'
'I'm fine, Kurosaki,' she insisted. There wasn't even anything in her voice that indicated that she was in pain.
'Are you kidding me? Are you really going to pretend that you're okay?'
'I am okay!'
She was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous!
He wondered how many other times she had come to work with injuries like that and no one was none the wiser.

The truth was that she was in pain-so much pain-but she was loathe to show it.
Why, she asked herself, was she so hard headed that she wouldn't even take the Sunday off to let her body heal?
Was she that much of a workaholic?
Was she a masochist?
Or was she just stupid?
And why in the world couldn't she admit that was, in fact, in a lot of pain?
Why did she pretend she was okay?
She chastised herself inwardly.
Now her pride meant that she had to keep up the pretence for as long as Kurosaki was around. Which was also a stupid thing to do since he was the only person who knew she was injured.

Speaking of him, she let her mind wander to last night. She stared at Kurosaki's broad back as she remembered how gentle he was. How he had lent her his t-shirt; how he had offered her his room. It was a side of him she never imagined could exist.
She wondered, if Renji had been the one to come for her, would he have stitched her up? She shook her head at the thought. Renji would have done whatever she told him to do and she would have told him that she could handle herself and that would be that
She saw Kurosaki move and quickly looked at her computer screen. She stared at the email he forwarded to her about the liquid meth.
He swivelled his chair around and simply stared at her, his hand on his chin, his brow knotted. It was like he knew she was thinking about him.
'What, Kurosaki?' she demanded, still looking the email instead of him.
He moved his chair closer to her desk. She focused on keeping her expression as unaffected as possible.
'What happened last night?' he asked, his voice softer than she expected.
'Nothing,' she replied tersely.
He let out a mildly frustrated sigh.
'Okay, Kuchiki, sure. It was 'nothing' that caused you to sustain a wound that needed stitching.'
Before she could reply with something clever and facetious, his phoned chimed loudly.

'Look at this,' he said, showing her his chat screen.

"I found some information about Maki.
Let's meet."

'Who's Senna?' she asked, reading the name of the sender.
'The receptionist at the IT place,'
'You gave her your personal number?'
'Yeah. Why? Jealous?'
'Positively green,' she said sarcastically, leaning back in her chair. The movement pulled at her wound. She winced.
'Go home, Kuchiki,' he told her.
'I'm fine. Call her.'
He sighed, but pressed the call icon and put it on speaker, then placed the phone between them on her desk. He folded his arms and rested them atop the desk while they waited. He took up a lot of space, Rukia realized. And not being one to give her up her space easily, she rolled her chair closer and did the same, their elbows almost touching.
He smiled at her.
A small, shy smile that she had never seen before.
'Hello, Detective?' came a girlish voice.
'Senna, hi. I just read your message.'
'Yes, oh my God! I asked around and I found out he was really close to someone who use to work here. Can you meet me at the coffeehouse near the station and I'll tell you everything?'
'Actually, Senna, can you meet me here at the station?'
'Yes, of course, even better. I will be there in half an hour,' she said excitedly.

Exactly half an hour later, Senna arrived in a gorgeous red dress and brown bag full of food.
'This is for you, Detective Kurosaki. I figured you must be hungry working so hard solving crimes,' she told him, her tone sickly sweet.
Rukia wanted to gag.
'Thank you, Senna. That's very kind. Here, sit,' he said, gesturing to the chair at the side of her desk. Kurosaki left for his desk and Senna's bright expression immediately fell. She gave Rukia a sour look.
Rukia merely blinked at the woman.
When Kurosaki returned with his own chair, Senna's cheerful face returned. Kurosaki set his chair across from Senna, and next to her own.
'Okay, Senna,' he started, 'tell us what you know.'
'Right, so there was this lady Yoshino…'

Senna continued to talk but all Rukia could think of was the way Kurosaki smelled. Like soap and something else she couldn't quite place. Whatever it was, it was dizzying.
Or maybe that was all the pain killers she had ingested...
She stole a glance at his profile. Kurosaki was one of those men that had unfairly long eyelashes.
He was handsome. So very handsome. But so were most of the men she worked with. Was she feeling this way because he was now privy to a part of her that no one else knew? Was this nervousness because it was possible that Kurosaki could tell the captain what had happened? It seemed wholly plausible. Kurosaki wasn't obligated to keep that night a secret. They weren't even friends…she couldn't expect that kind of loyalty from him. It was right that she should be nervous about that.
Something in her face must have changed because Senna turned to her and asked 'Are you always in a bad mood?'
' 'fraid so,' Rukia replied with a shrug.

When Kurosaki left to walk Senna out, Rukia quickly grabbed his notepad and read the notes he had taken. There was a woman name Yoshino Soma who was close with the victim. Her address was written down, as well her description. Rukia chastised herself for not paying attention.
Damn Kurosaki, she thought. She let her head fall to her desk.
'Owwwwww'

Rukia Kuchiki had to be the most stubborn person Ichigo had ever met. She had insisted that they go to Yoshino Soma's house immediately after Senna left. He tried to persuade her to go home, that could go by himself, but to no avail. And now they were waiting in his car parked outside Soma's house. He had offered her food from the bag Senna had given him. But she refused.
'You should eat first,' he told her as she swallowed two pain killers.
'That's a myth,' she said with a flip of her hand.
'No, it's not, 'he replied, 'It's science!'
'You have to say that because your dad's a doctor.'
'How do you know my father is a doctor?'
'Keigo and Mizuiro told me at the party…' she trailed off, realizing her slip up.
'I thought you had better things to talk about?' he said wryly.
She cleared her throat.
'You may have come up once or twice,' she admitted, crossing her arms.
'What else did those two traitors say?'
'Nothing bad unfortunately,' she said. Her displeasure at that was amusing.
A comfortable silence fell between them. Somewhere during the wait, Kuchiki began to hum. It was a tune he didn't recognize but it was soothing nonetheless. He was disappointed when she stopped to say 'There is she. Let's go!'
She jumped out of the car and he was still amazed that she could move like she wasn't injured.

After questioning Yoshino, they had learned that she and the victim were in a relationship and that she was devastated by his passing. She had also said, as tears stained her face, that there were rumours that the owner of the IT company was running a drug ring on the side and that he sometimes paid employees extra to transport drugs for him. After agreeing to leave a statement at the station, they had left Yoshino Soma to grieve in peace.
The ride back to the station was quiet.
Ichigo hoped that Kuchiki would hum her song again.