Bleach Fic: brittle mouth
So once upon a time tosca1390 and I drank and watched Fade to Black together. This was a spectacularly awful idea, considering the fact that I spent the return commute to my apartment thinking about Rukia and limbo and how utterly traumatizing the movie is. But as always, this is for Emma and her face and the fact that she is always will to endure my awful ideas.
BRITTLE MOUTH
time likes to draw circles. It’s all a lousy confession. rukia, ichigo, and veering off routine.
bleach. fade to black & general spoilers | 3,139 words | r | ichigo/rukia
-
A week after, she sits on his bed.
She cries.
It's an incomplete memory.
The scar is impossibly long.
He forgets it. Or has. You can't count seventeen months backwards on just one hand.
A lot of things are surfacing again.
"Stop," Rukia says finally. His thumb and index finger stretch over her skin. It sits as a thin line. "It's old now," she quiets.
"Not doing anything."
She sighs.
"I'm not," he insists, voice low. He breathes out, over her belly.
Her hand moves. Her fingers push into his hair, her thumb sweeping under a few locks.
It's hot in his room. Spring unsettles her. Her knees ache. The twin of her scar juts into her back. It isn't the only one, she almost says. This one is just his.
"I think about them sometimes. And then - there’s my sister."
He says nothing.
"I still smell the neighborhood," she says quietly. "I know I -"
He's quick. "You don't -"
"It's like anything else," she interrupts, shrugging into the bed.
"You never talk about it."
"There's never been a need." Ichigo lifts his head, his fingers stretching out over her belly. He stares hard.
"What -" an angry flush pushes at his cheeks. "That's stupid," he says.
But it's true, she thinks. Her gaze pulls away. Her eyes wander around his room; things have changed.
There is still a place. The bed remains at the wall, the desk at its side, the incorrigible mess of posters she doesn't understand, and the peek of his closet. He's more aware of space though, and then mechanics, every bit of his showcased as a shaky reveal. She does not know if she likes this.
"It's not stupid," she says slowly.
"Ugh."
She curls her fist and hits his arm.
"Look," he says. "I've never asked you about it."
"I know," she shakes her head. "I know."
"It went beyond forgetting you," he murmurs, and he says the word with such distaste. She shifts and sits up. He follows, curling an arm around her waist. "I went through - knowing exactly where I was, seeing you in my head, but it didn't feel right at all."
He catches her hand.
"Being there," he reiterates.
Her mouth purses. Then she pulls her hand away from his to rub her eyes.
"I don't want to talk about the past," she says.
"Is it really about talking?" he asks.
"No," she reasons. "I remember it every day," she quiets, sighing. "I don't want the pity," she tells him. She meets his gaze. "Intentional or not."
"This isn't about pity," he says gently.
"Intentional or not," she repeats.
He shakes his head. "There's ... there's just things that I've done to you too."
She studies him, but says nothing. There isn't a point to pushing forward. Reaching for him, her fingers flick lightly over his forehead.
She looks back into his room. A desk, a closet - it circles in her head - his sisters and father down the hall.
It's funny, she thinks. How they talk about things.
It's a violation.
Sometimes she dreams.
Inuzuri never loses its smell or the heat. The dust in southern Rukongai is a very strange thing to remember.
But then there are two little children, dead then, dead now.
Her sister and a stranger's face; of course, of course.
They could unravel her the most.
Byakuya finds her.
She tells Ichigo two days at the most. Says something about her captain; checking on Ukitake is a useful routine. On the third day, she sits on one of the rooftops, the mess of straw and wood peeling at the back of her knees. She is not dressed in uniform.
"Is this wise?" he asks.
She laughs. "How did you find me?"
"I'm no stranger," he says, and Hisana's name goes without saying. She no longer sighs at her sister; instead, she turns her gaze back into Inuzuri.
At night, things are always so still.
They used to say it was for the children. Of course, those were the stories for the other neighborhoods, for children needed to be disciplined - at the Academy, early on, she and Renji used to her those stories with laughs.
Inuzuri's children were wise. Night, they knew, is when you found your place and you stuck with it. Night belonged to no one; the streets shrieked in silence, death was a longing and not just a smell.
"I have always wanted to say I haven't been back here in years," she tells him. She meets Byakuya's gaze. "What did she say?" she asks.
His mouth twists. "She came," he answers.
"And was that enough?"
"To her," he says. "It was always at the brink of what she could offer - to me, to you."
She shakes her head. "That's not what I asked, nii-sama," she says quietly. She pushes herself to stand. Her knees crack and she turns, sliding her hands back into her gloves.
The house underneath her creaks. Her gaze wanders to the street. There is a scuffle; a man scurries forward, hitting the wall. His arms stretch out, flanking the wall.
Byakuya steps forward. It seems impulsive. Rukia's arm stretches out in front of him.
"No."
His mouth tightens.
They watch his problem finally follow. There are two other men, a woman with a knife brandished at her side. The wide scar at her throat is new.
"We should go."
Her brother scoffs. "We are involved," he says.
"No," she shakes her head. "We are not."
Inuzuri has it's scars, she thinks. A wild dog among the inconvenienced pack. Scars are important.
"What will she do?" Byakuya asks. He presses lightly against her arm; she does not move.
"Mark him." Her answer is immediate.
"Mark him?"
She turns her hand and it curls into his uniform. Her fingers push into the fabric. She looks at him seriously, her hair fitting across her eyes.
"Nii-sama," she says. "We are all given the chance to fight for ourselves. What you're thinking doesn't work her. Perhaps she is defending her family, maybe she's not - and he simply stole from her. What I can tell you is that Seireitei's laws are not Rukongai's laws, as much as you would like to believe. There is no order here, no memory or place."
It's the most she's said, but it continues to live on surface. She thinks of Ichigo's bedroom again, and how simple it is to pull herself to - the bed, the chair and desk, the drape of curtains that hit his blanket, his books.
She does not want to think of children anymore. Byakuya hovers.
"What are your marks?" he asks quietly.
She's late, she thinks. Ichigo will be angry. She cares, she doesn't - it's all the same. Her hands press against her face and she hopes for her mind to remain clear.
Her answer is careful though. "That you know I'm carrying them is enough."
He finds her at lunch. She simply hasn't gone in.
Her legs make home over a tree branch in the courtyard. Her fingers brush over her skirt. She traces the patterns.
Ichigo stands underneath her, hands on his hips.
"You can't disappear."
She shrugs. "I didn't." She studies him. "I told you I'd be back."
"Your brother came to see me." There is a pause. Then he sighs. "Are you going to come down?"
"Are you going to make that face if I don't?" she shoots back.
Ichigo scowls.
His hands move to cross in front of his chest. Behind him, she can see some of the other students start to file out for the rest of the lunch period. She shakes her head.
She jumps from the branch, landing softly in front of him. She pushes her hair from her face and then moves to steady herself.
"You said two days," he tells her.
"I did."
He studies her. "You can't just disappear, Rukia." His mouth tightens. "I mean - I get it."
She looks away.
"Your brother was worried."
The amusement in his voice covers something. Her fingers itch and she thinks of her gloves.
"He found me," she says. She meets his gaze again. "You told him," she says, and there is no accusation. There is a little wonder, but nothing more that kind of weight.
"He guessed," Ichigo shrugs.
Her lip curls. "Hm."
"He did."
But she ignores his insistence - it's half-hearted at best. She reaches out instead, her hand brushing over his chest. She thinks of his scars and then her own, her fingers dragging down to his belly.
"Want to go somewhere?" she asks, and he'll say no, of course, as there are four more classes left in the day. The press of his uniform shirt is warm against the tips of her fingers. She gets it, she thinks.
Ichigo tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear though.
"Yeah," he says.
Inuzuri does not mirror any sort of city in the living world. Once she liked to imagine it so.
Instead, it's all skylines, vast and imposing, buildings reaching out to touch things that they shouldn't. She likes the mix of grays and silvers, the tossed sense of structure and ingenuity. She thinks of Seireitei and how it is always being broken, rooted to the same mass of structure of rules.
The small temple lives on the outskirts of Karakura Town.
They sit on the wall.
"What the fuck are we doing here?" he asks.
"Shh." She presses her fingers to her mouth. "Shut up."
It takes a moment. There is the faint call of music coming from inside, sounds of conversation and murmurs. Rukia rocks her legs lightly against the wall. Her fingers are cool and Shirayuki is reaching out, offering her a sense of space.
It's all right, she thinks. Her hand finds Ichigo's arm instead. Her fingers catch at his elbow.
"Look," she says.
No sooner than she says something, a flurry of children are rushing out from the temple, all in a row and laughing, laughing loudly. They pull at each other, giggling, stumbling and turning the corner as a few others follow. Some are bright, some are wild, and Rukia allows for a faint smile, counting them all carefully.
The woman is the last to leave. The priestess garb hides nothing.
She is nothing extraordinary, nor is she inevitably so, but the glint in her eyes, the softness around her mouth - next to her, Ichigo takes pause and stiffens, breathing sharp.
"Is that -"
"Yes," she murmurs.
"But - " Rukia shakes her head, interrupting. "It doesn't work like that," she says. "You're reborn without your memories, it's more of a fluke, should they come back to you." Her lips curl. “Or, well, we can’t all be you.”
He turns his gaze to her. "How long have you know?"
Rukia thinks of Byakuya. Her hand moves to her stomach and she curls her fingers into her blouse.
"Seventeen months," she says. It's just careful, the truth. Like most things, she thinks.
He nods slowly. Then he presses a hand to his face.
"Hisana," he murmurs.
"No," she says. "It's Makoto now."
As soon as the name leaves her mouth, the woman takes pause. She shields her gaze, squinting and Rukia finds herself still, leaning into Ichigo.
His hand touches her hip. The woman sighs.
"Have you talked to her?"
She shakes her head.
"Will you?" he asks, and the worry creeps into his voice. Her mouth twitches. There is a sudden cry of nee-san! that barrels through the small courtyard.
Two of the children rush forth, grabbing at her knees. There is giggling. The smiles are unrecognizable, but Rukia feels dusty as it. The woman laughs too. Then her hands drop and wind lightly though each of their hair.
Whether Ichigo sees or doesn't see this too, he doesn't say. She studies the children. Then she studies the woman's face. She doesn't recall anything but pictures, her brother's pictures or the few, lazy and select memories that she has - fingers in her hair, a kind thumb to her knee, and wet tears against her cheek. Her scar hurts.
"Did you know I was watching you?" she asks then.
He's quiet.
"Your father knew I was there." Her lips turn. "We used to talk - weekly, if anything. Of course there were the responsibilities that I had to my captain and to my squad. But once a week, he and I -"
She laughs.
"Babies," Ichigo mutters. His nose wrinkles, but he's flushing. "Shit, don't tell me these things."
She shrugs. "I'll tell you everything." Then she smirks. "Babies and all, let's be honest."
"You're cruel," he says, and there is a laugh, the woman and two children disappearing back into the temple. The air seems to settle again.
Rukia wonders how much they really have to talk about.
Ichigo touches her arm.
Whether she wants to take him to Inuzuri isn't the question, nor is it the answer, the only pair, none of it lies in the point that she is trying to make. Because there is a point. There is always a point.
His bedroom is quiet. She hears the bathroom water running against the walls and finally, slowly, pulls her blouse out of skirt. Her fingers move over the buttons and she pulls them open, greeting her skin in the reflection of the mirror that hangs at his door.
"It's really nothing," she says out loud. Her fingers are pink against the stretch of skin.
"What?"
"It's really nothing," she repeats, and Ichigo comes from the door - she never once heard it open - towel wrapped around his hips, his eyes drawn to her skin.
He doesn't say it.
He does press a flat hand over her belly. Her gaze falls to his and he rubs her skin, gently, even as she curls a fist to hold her blouse up and away. She thinks he has only ever been the one, between executions and memories and maybe this is where she is at the most fault.
"How long has it been?" he asks.
"I don't count," she says. Then she shrugs. "Occasionally, I just check in though."
Her skin still feels warm from their late trip. Ichigo's uniform hangs over his desk chair.
"That's not the question," he says.
Her lips quirk. "I know."
"Rukia."
“Ichigo,” she mimicks.
Her fingers curl around his wrist. She pulls at his hand.
"They're just scars, Ichigo."
He shakes her head. "You're full of shit," he says. "Because you look at mine and I see your face and it's like - shit."
"You saved my life," she says quietly.
And it was a long time ago, she doesn't say. It's there. It's in the same way Byakuya looks at her, still looks at her. She remembers the aftermath so clearly; she doesn't feel comfortable with the kind of weight it carries, being a piece of everyone's memory in this way.
This is the only scar she wears though, that has proof of place, that she understands and holds to herself that fiercely.
Her reply is absent again. "They're happy," she says.
"Are you?"
She sighs. "Ichigo."
"It's a valid question." His arm goes around her hips and she's dragged forward. His mouth dips to press against her shoulder and then his voice is muffled. "It's one of those things that I can't just go and forget. It's different."
You're different, he doesn't say.
But her hands come up to his hair, her fingers digging into the locks. She's smiling and it can't be passed off as just another reason. Her mouth finds his forehead and then the bridge of his nose, her lips are soft against her cheek, then drag against the long line of his jaw.
They catch his mouth briefly. "What did I tell you before?" she asks.
"You don't want the pity," he answers.
"I don't want the pity," she repeats. Her finger are at his mouth. His move to her belly.
His forehead presses against hers.
"I just want to protect you," he says, and it's gruff, it's heady and silly and stupid, so much so that she wants to laugh and hit him at the same time. Her fingers are clenching and it's the same, inevitable feeling she gets for him.
She licks her lips.
Kissing him is not stupid. Kissing him now is. They’ve never really done appropriate well, as it is.
She slides her tongue inside of his mouth, rolling it underneath his. Her skirt pushes off of her hips, scrunched. Her heels hit his towel and they're sort hanging towards the bed.
"I don't want to see that look again," he confesses. “On your face,” he says seriously. “I think about these things too much.”
His fingers hook at her waist and then she is pulling them into the bed. Her leg curls at his hip.
"Okay," she says.
It's all a little vague, maybe too vague, but there is the very same implication: they are finding their footing again, so what if there are memories, living and dead. They never know when or how to talk and she supposes, that's the funniest part of all of this, considering they always have instinct.
But he is between her legs again, his mouth resting over her belly, over his scar, over where Zangestu now lives and remains, coiling over her as another layer, unspoken, sound, and too necessary.
"I'm sorry," he says into her skin.
She scoffs, shakily. "You're being a baby."
"I'm glad you showed me."
"Seriously," she says, then she mocks him, “Kurosaki-kun,” and his teeth grin against her stomach. Her skin starts to cool and she forgets, again, that this is just another spring.
She still forgets how unnerving it is, falling into some habits with him. Her legs, her hands and arms - it all moves according to memory. She knows she likes when he bites at her throat, and that he likes that moment, that slow moment, as he slides inside of her.
They are belly to belly, slick. At some point, he leans back onto his knees and she is in his lap. A low moan slips from her mouth as her legs dangle from his side and she starts rocking faster against him.
She forgets it all, this time, the overlay of her guilt because it is, as it always is, Ichigo and the lazy promise of their own memories, inside, outside of them, and just there.
Her scar aches. Which, becomes the question.
Or is it important anyway.
Later they're sticky. He cracks the window open and her fingers rest lightly against his back.
"Next time," she says. "I'll tell you again."
BRITTLE MOUTH
time likes to draw circles. It’s all a lousy confession. rukia, ichigo, and veering off routine.
bleach. fade to black & general spoilers | 3,139 words | r | ichigo/rukia
-
A week after, she sits on his bed.
She cries.
It's an incomplete memory.
The scar is impossibly long.
He forgets it. Or has. You can't count seventeen months backwards on just one hand.
A lot of things are surfacing again.
"Stop," Rukia says finally. His thumb and index finger stretch over her skin. It sits as a thin line. "It's old now," she quiets.
"Not doing anything."
She sighs.
"I'm not," he insists, voice low. He breathes out, over her belly.
Her hand moves. Her fingers push into his hair, her thumb sweeping under a few locks.
It's hot in his room. Spring unsettles her. Her knees ache. The twin of her scar juts into her back. It isn't the only one, she almost says. This one is just his.
"I think about them sometimes. And then - there’s my sister."
He says nothing.
"I still smell the neighborhood," she says quietly. "I know I -"
He's quick. "You don't -"
"It's like anything else," she interrupts, shrugging into the bed.
"You never talk about it."
"There's never been a need." Ichigo lifts his head, his fingers stretching out over her belly. He stares hard.
"What -" an angry flush pushes at his cheeks. "That's stupid," he says.
But it's true, she thinks. Her gaze pulls away. Her eyes wander around his room; things have changed.
There is still a place. The bed remains at the wall, the desk at its side, the incorrigible mess of posters she doesn't understand, and the peek of his closet. He's more aware of space though, and then mechanics, every bit of his showcased as a shaky reveal. She does not know if she likes this.
"It's not stupid," she says slowly.
"Ugh."
She curls her fist and hits his arm.
"Look," he says. "I've never asked you about it."
"I know," she shakes her head. "I know."
"It went beyond forgetting you," he murmurs, and he says the word with such distaste. She shifts and sits up. He follows, curling an arm around her waist. "I went through - knowing exactly where I was, seeing you in my head, but it didn't feel right at all."
He catches her hand.
"Being there," he reiterates.
Her mouth purses. Then she pulls her hand away from his to rub her eyes.
"I don't want to talk about the past," she says.
"Is it really about talking?" he asks.
"No," she reasons. "I remember it every day," she quiets, sighing. "I don't want the pity," she tells him. She meets his gaze. "Intentional or not."
"This isn't about pity," he says gently.
"Intentional or not," she repeats.
He shakes his head. "There's ... there's just things that I've done to you too."
She studies him, but says nothing. There isn't a point to pushing forward. Reaching for him, her fingers flick lightly over his forehead.
She looks back into his room. A desk, a closet - it circles in her head - his sisters and father down the hall.
It's funny, she thinks. How they talk about things.
It's a violation.
Sometimes she dreams.
Inuzuri never loses its smell or the heat. The dust in southern Rukongai is a very strange thing to remember.
But then there are two little children, dead then, dead now.
Her sister and a stranger's face; of course, of course.
They could unravel her the most.
Byakuya finds her.
She tells Ichigo two days at the most. Says something about her captain; checking on Ukitake is a useful routine. On the third day, she sits on one of the rooftops, the mess of straw and wood peeling at the back of her knees. She is not dressed in uniform.
"Is this wise?" he asks.
She laughs. "How did you find me?"
"I'm no stranger," he says, and Hisana's name goes without saying. She no longer sighs at her sister; instead, she turns her gaze back into Inuzuri.
At night, things are always so still.
They used to say it was for the children. Of course, those were the stories for the other neighborhoods, for children needed to be disciplined - at the Academy, early on, she and Renji used to her those stories with laughs.
Inuzuri's children were wise. Night, they knew, is when you found your place and you stuck with it. Night belonged to no one; the streets shrieked in silence, death was a longing and not just a smell.
"I have always wanted to say I haven't been back here in years," she tells him. She meets Byakuya's gaze. "What did she say?" she asks.
His mouth twists. "She came," he answers.
"And was that enough?"
"To her," he says. "It was always at the brink of what she could offer - to me, to you."
She shakes her head. "That's not what I asked, nii-sama," she says quietly. She pushes herself to stand. Her knees crack and she turns, sliding her hands back into her gloves.
The house underneath her creaks. Her gaze wanders to the street. There is a scuffle; a man scurries forward, hitting the wall. His arms stretch out, flanking the wall.
Byakuya steps forward. It seems impulsive. Rukia's arm stretches out in front of him.
"No."
His mouth tightens.
They watch his problem finally follow. There are two other men, a woman with a knife brandished at her side. The wide scar at her throat is new.
"We should go."
Her brother scoffs. "We are involved," he says.
"No," she shakes her head. "We are not."
Inuzuri has it's scars, she thinks. A wild dog among the inconvenienced pack. Scars are important.
"What will she do?" Byakuya asks. He presses lightly against her arm; she does not move.
"Mark him." Her answer is immediate.
"Mark him?"
She turns her hand and it curls into his uniform. Her fingers push into the fabric. She looks at him seriously, her hair fitting across her eyes.
"Nii-sama," she says. "We are all given the chance to fight for ourselves. What you're thinking doesn't work her. Perhaps she is defending her family, maybe she's not - and he simply stole from her. What I can tell you is that Seireitei's laws are not Rukongai's laws, as much as you would like to believe. There is no order here, no memory or place."
It's the most she's said, but it continues to live on surface. She thinks of Ichigo's bedroom again, and how simple it is to pull herself to - the bed, the chair and desk, the drape of curtains that hit his blanket, his books.
She does not want to think of children anymore. Byakuya hovers.
"What are your marks?" he asks quietly.
She's late, she thinks. Ichigo will be angry. She cares, she doesn't - it's all the same. Her hands press against her face and she hopes for her mind to remain clear.
Her answer is careful though. "That you know I'm carrying them is enough."
He finds her at lunch. She simply hasn't gone in.
Her legs make home over a tree branch in the courtyard. Her fingers brush over her skirt. She traces the patterns.
Ichigo stands underneath her, hands on his hips.
"You can't disappear."
She shrugs. "I didn't." She studies him. "I told you I'd be back."
"Your brother came to see me." There is a pause. Then he sighs. "Are you going to come down?"
"Are you going to make that face if I don't?" she shoots back.
Ichigo scowls.
His hands move to cross in front of his chest. Behind him, she can see some of the other students start to file out for the rest of the lunch period. She shakes her head.
She jumps from the branch, landing softly in front of him. She pushes her hair from her face and then moves to steady herself.
"You said two days," he tells her.
"I did."
He studies her. "You can't just disappear, Rukia." His mouth tightens. "I mean - I get it."
She looks away.
"Your brother was worried."
The amusement in his voice covers something. Her fingers itch and she thinks of her gloves.
"He found me," she says. She meets his gaze again. "You told him," she says, and there is no accusation. There is a little wonder, but nothing more that kind of weight.
"He guessed," Ichigo shrugs.
Her lip curls. "Hm."
"He did."
But she ignores his insistence - it's half-hearted at best. She reaches out instead, her hand brushing over his chest. She thinks of his scars and then her own, her fingers dragging down to his belly.
"Want to go somewhere?" she asks, and he'll say no, of course, as there are four more classes left in the day. The press of his uniform shirt is warm against the tips of her fingers. She gets it, she thinks.
Ichigo tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear though.
"Yeah," he says.
Inuzuri does not mirror any sort of city in the living world. Once she liked to imagine it so.
Instead, it's all skylines, vast and imposing, buildings reaching out to touch things that they shouldn't. She likes the mix of grays and silvers, the tossed sense of structure and ingenuity. She thinks of Seireitei and how it is always being broken, rooted to the same mass of structure of rules.
The small temple lives on the outskirts of Karakura Town.
They sit on the wall.
"What the fuck are we doing here?" he asks.
"Shh." She presses her fingers to her mouth. "Shut up."
It takes a moment. There is the faint call of music coming from inside, sounds of conversation and murmurs. Rukia rocks her legs lightly against the wall. Her fingers are cool and Shirayuki is reaching out, offering her a sense of space.
It's all right, she thinks. Her hand finds Ichigo's arm instead. Her fingers catch at his elbow.
"Look," she says.
No sooner than she says something, a flurry of children are rushing out from the temple, all in a row and laughing, laughing loudly. They pull at each other, giggling, stumbling and turning the corner as a few others follow. Some are bright, some are wild, and Rukia allows for a faint smile, counting them all carefully.
The woman is the last to leave. The priestess garb hides nothing.
She is nothing extraordinary, nor is she inevitably so, but the glint in her eyes, the softness around her mouth - next to her, Ichigo takes pause and stiffens, breathing sharp.
"Is that -"
"Yes," she murmurs.
"But - " Rukia shakes her head, interrupting. "It doesn't work like that," she says. "You're reborn without your memories, it's more of a fluke, should they come back to you." Her lips curl. “Or, well, we can’t all be you.”
He turns his gaze to her. "How long have you know?"
Rukia thinks of Byakuya. Her hand moves to her stomach and she curls her fingers into her blouse.
"Seventeen months," she says. It's just careful, the truth. Like most things, she thinks.
He nods slowly. Then he presses a hand to his face.
"Hisana," he murmurs.
"No," she says. "It's Makoto now."
As soon as the name leaves her mouth, the woman takes pause. She shields her gaze, squinting and Rukia finds herself still, leaning into Ichigo.
His hand touches her hip. The woman sighs.
"Have you talked to her?"
She shakes her head.
"Will you?" he asks, and the worry creeps into his voice. Her mouth twitches. There is a sudden cry of nee-san! that barrels through the small courtyard.
Two of the children rush forth, grabbing at her knees. There is giggling. The smiles are unrecognizable, but Rukia feels dusty as it. The woman laughs too. Then her hands drop and wind lightly though each of their hair.
Whether Ichigo sees or doesn't see this too, he doesn't say. She studies the children. Then she studies the woman's face. She doesn't recall anything but pictures, her brother's pictures or the few, lazy and select memories that she has - fingers in her hair, a kind thumb to her knee, and wet tears against her cheek. Her scar hurts.
"Did you know I was watching you?" she asks then.
He's quiet.
"Your father knew I was there." Her lips turn. "We used to talk - weekly, if anything. Of course there were the responsibilities that I had to my captain and to my squad. But once a week, he and I -"
She laughs.
"Babies," Ichigo mutters. His nose wrinkles, but he's flushing. "Shit, don't tell me these things."
She shrugs. "I'll tell you everything." Then she smirks. "Babies and all, let's be honest."
"You're cruel," he says, and there is a laugh, the woman and two children disappearing back into the temple. The air seems to settle again.
Rukia wonders how much they really have to talk about.
Ichigo touches her arm.
Whether she wants to take him to Inuzuri isn't the question, nor is it the answer, the only pair, none of it lies in the point that she is trying to make. Because there is a point. There is always a point.
His bedroom is quiet. She hears the bathroom water running against the walls and finally, slowly, pulls her blouse out of skirt. Her fingers move over the buttons and she pulls them open, greeting her skin in the reflection of the mirror that hangs at his door.
"It's really nothing," she says out loud. Her fingers are pink against the stretch of skin.
"What?"
"It's really nothing," she repeats, and Ichigo comes from the door - she never once heard it open - towel wrapped around his hips, his eyes drawn to her skin.
He doesn't say it.
He does press a flat hand over her belly. Her gaze falls to his and he rubs her skin, gently, even as she curls a fist to hold her blouse up and away. She thinks he has only ever been the one, between executions and memories and maybe this is where she is at the most fault.
"How long has it been?" he asks.
"I don't count," she says. Then she shrugs. "Occasionally, I just check in though."
Her skin still feels warm from their late trip. Ichigo's uniform hangs over his desk chair.
"That's not the question," he says.
Her lips quirk. "I know."
"Rukia."
“Ichigo,” she mimicks.
Her fingers curl around his wrist. She pulls at his hand.
"They're just scars, Ichigo."
He shakes her head. "You're full of shit," he says. "Because you look at mine and I see your face and it's like - shit."
"You saved my life," she says quietly.
And it was a long time ago, she doesn't say. It's there. It's in the same way Byakuya looks at her, still looks at her. She remembers the aftermath so clearly; she doesn't feel comfortable with the kind of weight it carries, being a piece of everyone's memory in this way.
This is the only scar she wears though, that has proof of place, that she understands and holds to herself that fiercely.
Her reply is absent again. "They're happy," she says.
"Are you?"
She sighs. "Ichigo."
"It's a valid question." His arm goes around her hips and she's dragged forward. His mouth dips to press against her shoulder and then his voice is muffled. "It's one of those things that I can't just go and forget. It's different."
You're different, he doesn't say.
But her hands come up to his hair, her fingers digging into the locks. She's smiling and it can't be passed off as just another reason. Her mouth finds his forehead and then the bridge of his nose, her lips are soft against her cheek, then drag against the long line of his jaw.
They catch his mouth briefly. "What did I tell you before?" she asks.
"You don't want the pity," he answers.
"I don't want the pity," she repeats. Her finger are at his mouth. His move to her belly.
His forehead presses against hers.
"I just want to protect you," he says, and it's gruff, it's heady and silly and stupid, so much so that she wants to laugh and hit him at the same time. Her fingers are clenching and it's the same, inevitable feeling she gets for him.
She licks her lips.
Kissing him is not stupid. Kissing him now is. They’ve never really done appropriate well, as it is.
She slides her tongue inside of his mouth, rolling it underneath his. Her skirt pushes off of her hips, scrunched. Her heels hit his towel and they're sort hanging towards the bed.
"I don't want to see that look again," he confesses. “On your face,” he says seriously. “I think about these things too much.”
His fingers hook at her waist and then she is pulling them into the bed. Her leg curls at his hip.
"Okay," she says.
It's all a little vague, maybe too vague, but there is the very same implication: they are finding their footing again, so what if there are memories, living and dead. They never know when or how to talk and she supposes, that's the funniest part of all of this, considering they always have instinct.
But he is between her legs again, his mouth resting over her belly, over his scar, over where Zangestu now lives and remains, coiling over her as another layer, unspoken, sound, and too necessary.
"I'm sorry," he says into her skin.
She scoffs, shakily. "You're being a baby."
"I'm glad you showed me."
"Seriously," she says, then she mocks him, “Kurosaki-kun,” and his teeth grin against her stomach. Her skin starts to cool and she forgets, again, that this is just another spring.
She still forgets how unnerving it is, falling into some habits with him. Her legs, her hands and arms - it all moves according to memory. She knows she likes when he bites at her throat, and that he likes that moment, that slow moment, as he slides inside of her.
They are belly to belly, slick. At some point, he leans back onto his knees and she is in his lap. A low moan slips from her mouth as her legs dangle from his side and she starts rocking faster against him.
She forgets it all, this time, the overlay of her guilt because it is, as it always is, Ichigo and the lazy promise of their own memories, inside, outside of them, and just there.
Her scar aches. Which, becomes the question.
Or is it important anyway.
Later they're sticky. He cracks the window open and her fingers rest lightly against his back.
"Next time," she says. "I'll tell you again."