I had every intention of continuing this story, when I first published the two chapters already uploaded. However, I fully underestimated my brain's ability to ruin my plans. The world then decided to implode on itself, and I found myself quite thoroughly buried by real life.

However, I have since managed to wrangle my brain back into submission, and so I've returned to each of my stories in turn. I have written a total of 50 chapters for the first draft of this story, and I promise here and now that I will be posting at least up to that number.

Scout's honor.

.

Matsumoto was, to a fault, fascinated by her captain's hands.

Granted, depending on just what assignment she happened to be avoiding at the time, Matsumoto could distract herself with anything, so fascination to a fault wasn't exactly a narrow label with her. She'd once literally watched the paint dry on the east wall of a storage shed instead of attending an officers' meeting; to this day, she insisted it had been well worth her time. She'd taken several weeks to learn how to fold paper sharks, and sometimes turned in her reports that way. The only thing that kept her from a formal reprimand was the fact that Captain-Commander Kyoraku happened to like sharks.

All the same, Hitsugaya's hands were a constant for Matsumoto, and this had been true for a long time, not just since their relationship had evolved past leader and adjutant.

Even when he'd been a seated officer, struggling to distinguish himself under Captain Shiba—which was to say, struggling to distinguish himself to his own satisfaction; becoming a third-seat officer so early in his career was still one of Toshiro Hitsugaya's most noteworthy feats, as far as the organization was concerned—Matsumoto would often catch herself staring at his hands. Hitsugaya was street stock, no matter which way you sliced it. He'd been a Rukongai brat, tough and stubborn, and she'd always appreciated that about him.

"I like a man with callouses on his hands," Matsumoto was wont to say, often without prompting.

One evening, as they worked late into the night, Hitsugaya mentioned that his joints were sore. He'd clearly meant for it to be a minor gripe, after which Matsumoto was meant only to grunt or grumble in solidarity, and then they would go back to their work.

He was quite thoroughly flummoxed when she offered to massage his hands for him.

"I . . . ah . . . I mean. I shouldn't be stepping away from this, and neither should you. And what will massaging my hands do for my neck, exactly?"

"Trust me, Captain," she said. "I actually know what I'm talking about."

". . . I suppose. Just for a moment, though."

The noise that Matsumoto made could hardly be called human; she squeaked with excitement and immediately set to work. Hitsugaya watched her gather up supplies, clearly mystified. He was able to ask several questions without speaking a word; chief among these was what possible use a candle could be.

Matsumoto pulled a chair into the center of her captain's office, and supplemented it with several of her best "working pillows," which turned out to be a euphemism for the best cushions she'd managed to steal for daytime napping.

"Sit here," Matsumoto said, once she finished, and her voice was so sharp, so strict, the words delivered with such conviction, that Hitsugaya obeyed without comment. "Now, I know this is a request that's roughly equivalent to asking a bonfire to cool off, but I'm going to have to ask you to relax. All right, Captain?"

Hitsugaya grunted. He rolled his eyes dramatically. "Truly," he drawled, "you are a paragon of comedy."

Matsumoto settled down next to him. "Now," she said, all business. "For this to work, I need you to talk to me. Understand? None of this tough guy stuff. This isn't supposed to hurt. Do you—hey. You. Look at me." Hitsugaya looked. "It's not supposed to hurt. So, tell me if it does. You hear me? We may be spirits, but we still remember the echoes of our bodies and how they operated. Or however my spiritual studies professor put it. I don't remember. I didn't pass that class."

Hitsugaya rolled his eyes again. "Understood, Rangiku," he said lightly. "I'll tell you."

Matsumoto pushed back her sleeves.

"You'd be surprised how much can be influenced by nerves," Matsumoto said. "This might have something to do with those headaches you've been talking about this past month."

"I've been quite clear that my headaches already have a cause," Hitsugaya mumbled, "and his name is Mayuri Kurotsuchi."

Matsumoto snorted. "Anyway." She took hold of her captain's left arm, one hand on his wrist and the other on his elbow. "I'll show you what I mean. Watch." She gave an expert twist, there was a resounding pop, and Hitsugaya's entire body folded in upon itself.

He let out a shuddering groan of obvious pleasure and relief, and he stared up at the ceiling of his office like it contained great secrets. His mouth hung open. "How did you . . . ? What was that?" He turned his gaze back to his vice-captain and stared openly.

Matsumoto flashed a grin. "I'm just full of surprises, Captain. I keep telling you." She chuckled with satisfaction; it was almost a purr. "So, it's been a moment. I remember what you said. But shall we continue?"

Hitsugaya looked conflicted.

". . . Yes, please."