[AIM Log] [Ichigo and Sakura] [Closed] [Snapshots]
Backdated to the night of March 28th; rated PG to PG-13 for language and...mentions of violence.
Ichigo unlocked the door with a tired snarl, glaring at the serrated edges of his key (never fuckin' worked, always had to jerk it out, force it through). Fuckin' thing. The blade-like part of it looked chewed up, like it always had, and he shook his head and shouldered in anyway, kicking the door shut with a casual bend of one knee. Shoe meets door (he was pretty sure there were tread marks on it).
He dropped his pin-and-patch-bedecked messenger bag in front of his own sorry excuse for a door, and sidled toward the kitchen for a glass of water. Maybe a beer. Maybe hoping there'd be something like boxed ramen or spaghettios lurking in the cabinets (though he'd forgotten to go shopping for real this week). Ichigo settled for a tall glass of milk (hoped it was still good) and nearly stumbled over Sakura in the living room.
And by stumbled, he meant sat on.
Sakura cried out in shock and some pain.
"ICHIGO!" she shouted, fumbling for the lamp or the tv remote so that there'd be some light. "What time is it?"
Had she fallen asleep?
The light did blink on then, the cracked lampshade dealie he'd found in a yard sale (more like a dumpster) and managed to solder together a few pieces, do a little rewiring. He wasn't entirely inept, after all.
"S'fuckin' 11:30, Sakura," he squinted, dazzled by the harsh light after walking through the glamour of yellow-wash city lights. "Go t'bed or somethin'. I just got back from work."
"..." Sakura stared at him. "I was in bed. Sort of." She tucked her hair behind her ears and rubbed her eyes. "I found the cake," she paused.
"Thanks."
"If by in bed y'mean takin' up the couch and shit. I mean, seriously, ease up on the books an' all," and he really meant less the books and more the seemingly self-destructive attitude associated with studying said-books. He managed to half perch himself on one of the couch arms (dangerous business indeed), and tried to look like he wasn't about to collapse into a stupor as well.
"Yeah," he acknowledged, palming the back of his head with a sheepish half-smirk. "Hope you haven't tried to use the stove in the meantime."
She looked at him, reaching for a tissue. "I wasn't reading my books. I was..." she blew her nose, winced and then sniffed. "I twisted my ankle and I didn't want to move."
It'd been a while since they'd talked. Or even seen each other...and did he say something about the stove. Sakura looked up at him fully intending on demanding what he'd done to the appliance.
"Man, shouldn't leave all this shit lyin' everywhere then. Place is a fuckin' disaster-zone." Though in comparison to a lot of the other apartments, it wasn't bad at all. This was just a little cluttered, not dirty (even Ichigo didn't quite living in a space where he couldn't find shit, whether because it was buried beneath an eon's worth of dust of simply because of the other amount of crap laying around).
"You take anythin' for it?" There seemed to be a kind of latent expectancy hanging in the air--he didn't quite feel comfortable getting up and leaving himself to his own devices just yet, nor did he feel right at home with her.
"Yeah." She'd been wincing because of her bruised nose. Which, in the past hour had darkened more than her cheek and jaw. She self consciously wrapped her blanket around her shoulders; more bruises were on her arms. Tsunade said that her ribs were not broken but to go get x-rays in case there were fractures. "Uh...I was wondering if you could do me a favor."
Ichigo blandly rubbed at his eyes--that fucking light fixture in the backroom of the CD Exchange just kept flickering; he was damn glad he didn't fall prey to any of that epileptic nonsense. Would've been seizing all over the place. "Whadaya mean?" he asked, leaning back, splaying himself catlike over the arm, the back of the couch, until his head nearly hit the wall.
There were always shadows. What looked like bruises were often tricks of light--and vice versa. He hadn't looked long and hard enough to catch any darkening swellings, a spider web of broken capillaries.
"I need to, uh, put in a restraining order." She looked down, nervously fingering the fringe on the blanket.
"...I just thought you...you could tell me the best way to go about it." She wanted him to be there but she didn't feel comfortable with asking him to do that.
He'd just laced his fingertips over his stomach, over the slick material of the track-style jacket (eyes trained ceiling-ward) when she broke in with that. With a jerk of orange-spikes, a raised brow, and a twist of his upper body that very nearly sent him over the edge of the couch in its abruptness--"What?!" A pause, as he straightened himself out, opting for straddling instead of leaning.
"The fuck you talkin' about, Sakura? Against who?"
"..." She got up and limped to the kitchen, hoping he'd follow. She switched on the light; it was brighter in here and then hobbled to the fridge pulling out a drink before turning around, letting the blanket fall and show her bruised arms. "Against my dad." she said softly, then bit her lip, dropping her eyes to the can of soda she held.
There was a brief moment where he surveyed the scuffed hardwood and didn't quite know what to say; he'd never been put into a situation in which the family unit wasn't something tight-knit (albeit ridiculously strange and/or fucked up). Sure, he and his Dad generally greeted each other with roundhouse kicks or the standby clothesline, but that was all in good fun--
He slid to his feet with a reluctant catch in his step (he was getting pulled into something that was going to get him in trouble; that much was evident) and padded down the short hall into the kitchen after her. Ran his hands through the stiff orange spikes. Once he emerged into the dim fluorescence of the linoleum tiled kitchen, where he'd unsuccessfully rummaged just five minutes prior, the contours of her face became prominent. Obvious. A ridiculous feeling of helplessness washed over him; wasn't this the shit he was trying to prevent? No one needs to get hurt anymore.
Shifting his weight to one side, he leaned forward, pads of his fingers just barely touching the ridge of a cheekbone (expression darkening, ominous), the swollen orbital of an eye. "I can help you."
She stiffened a little at his touched before relaxing. "Thank you." Sakura's breath trembled slightly. Dammit.
"...I don't want to ask you to come with me if you don't want to...but..." she paused, biting the inside of her cheek. The can of soda was freezing her hands but she just gripped it tighter. "I...I'd appreciate the company." She took a breath, staving off another cough. "If you have time."
He knew enough about fighting to understand that if they looked that fuckin' bad now, they'd only get worse later. Specially the facial stuff--there were a lotta blood vessels under there, capillaries mostly, and they filled up with fluid real fast. But hey, she was a med student--she should've known. "You get this shit looked at yet?" he asked quickly, drawing his hand back to its home in his back pocket.
"I mean, you mighta fractured somethin' there. Looks kinda bad, yanno? You don't wanna fuck around with stuff near your eyes." A pause, where once more he felt absolutely useless. "And you should take some pictures. They like havin' that stuff on hand when you file your OFP."
"Okay." Sakura said quietly. "I'll take note of that." A pause. "It looks worse than it is. I mean it hurts but...I'm going to the ER tomorrow. For x-rays."
A pause. "Anything else I need to bring in?" she asked quietly.
Damn right it looked bad. The worst part about filing any kinda restraining order, especially when it was somebody closely connected to you, was that as soon as said batterer got the order, they generally tried to retaliate immediately. That stuff never went as smooth as one liked--it was only a piece of paper after all. The follow up on it was the important part. You see him, you call fucking 911 immediately.
"Form of identification, really. That's about it. Pictures, any documentation of occurrences you might have," he started, finding himself watching the condensation well up on the smooth aluminum can. Hearing those kinds of words spill out of his mouth in even a relatively professional way seemed..strange. Almost callous. Too official? "I'll go with you, Sakura. You're gonna want an OFP form, not an HRO. You'll get more rights that way, 'specially since you're related. Those things can take like, three hours to fill out properly."
"I'd really appreciate it." she gave him a grateful smile and then motioned to the fridge. "Um...gave me a party. Sort of. There's food leftover."
She limped to the doorway, hesitated and then turned. "Ichigo?"
The startling inconclusiveness of the discussion, the deceptively casual approach to both question and answer made the uncomfortable feeling rise like bile at the back of his throat. This shit wasn't supposed to be matter-of-fact. She wasn't supposed to be smiling like that. "S'not a problem," he frowned, tone of voice slanting toward confused.
Ichigo watched her start across the yellowed tile, not quite registering the mention of food. A dim haze settled over his thoughts. "Yeah?"
Sakura hesitated and then looked at him. "Thank you." she said sincerely. "I...to be honest, I didn't know what to do. When he gets...really violent like that...I just." she gave a half shrug and swallowed, fingernails clicking on the soda tab. "Everything kinda goes blank. I know I'm pretty smart but when I get scared...I'm pretty useless."
There she went, just...spilling things to him. She wasn't sure what it was about Ichigo that made her do that exactly. The same reason he drove her nuts one minute and then made her want to hug him the next, she supposed.
Ichigo understood uselessness, the haunting guilt of not-being-ready or not-being-able-to-help, of failing even when his name alone suggested that there was one to protect. Hadn't quite done that. But what he didn't understand, was failing to rise to that challenge. Letting it happen again. Ichigo had nightmares about that kinda shit.
And so he watched, mouth hanging downward in a scowl, as she fiddled with the soda can, shrugged, and did a few other physical ticks that he might've classified as nervous. Excuses. But--he tried to lower the raised brow, leaning against a cabinet--victims weren't guilty (though he thought maybe they should have the opportunity to be stronger); it was the bystanders that let it happen.
Now, he knew. Now, he had a responsibility to stop it. Ichigo sighed. "Ain't nothin' to be sorry for. Just gotta do shit about, yanno? Fuckin' hit him back, in some way or another."
Sakura nodded, hoping he was talking about the restraining order. Actually hitting her father...she didn't think she could do that. Hell, coming face to face with her father usually meant Sakura lost in some way. She just couldn't manage to stand up to him like that; she hated it about herself - that she couldn't defend herself, that she lost any semblance of self-defense and always let her father take control of the situation. That all she ever did was run.
"So...what are the details of this restraining order?" she asked softly, figuring it was best to know.
"Like I said earlier," he started, shoving both his hands into his pockets and trying to search his brain for the appropriate terminology (and failing, naturally, when it was actually appropriate to know what the fuck you're talking about, kurosaki). "You're filin' an Order for Protection, not a Harassment Restraining Order. You get more priority, more specifics--like how far he's gotta stay away, from who he's gotta stay away, and you might even get some uh, monetary compensation." He paused. "Plus, you really should take some pictures, yanno. And look and see if you've got any other documentation. Doctors' reports."
Ichigo turned his head, yellow-amber eyes staring her straight down, maybe catlike in the dim glare of light. "The point is that you wanna convince whatever judge's on duty that your claim's legit. If he thinks it ain't, no dice." He tongued the corner of his lip. "He'll probably sign a temporary restraining order, and that's when your Dad'll get notice of how he's been served. They'll let you know when he is," the eyes narrowed, tone of voice already serious and now maybe heading toward deadly, "and you're gonna wanna stick close for awhile. That's the worst time, supposedly."
"In about two weeks they'll have another hearin', and they'll decide whether or not to extend the temp thing. Anytime, I mean, any fuckin' time you see or hear from your Dad, you call fuckin' 911, Sakura."
She nodded. "Okay." A hesitant pause. "I have a camera...could...could you help me take some pictures?"
She beckoned towards the living room. And not for the first time was incredibly thankful Ichigo was there to help her figure this out. Sakura knew lots of things; but filing these sort of things...was far beyond any experience she had ever had.
Pictures. Snapshots of a fight gone by. Photographs of victimization--that was what he'd wanted to get better at, right? People? Sick irony, but Ichigo wasn't an opportunist. When he'd thought about practice, he was thinking about hanging out in the stairwell and harassing people.
Grimly, set of his brow heavier, he followed, pausing as he stepped off the linoleum, standing near the door to his bedroom. "What kinda camera, Sakura? I gotta Polaroid--they prefer that kinda shit, yanno. Polaroids can't be altered like regular camera film or digital."
"Okay, that sounds good." A small tremble to her voice. She quickly shoved it away; she was just tired. The day had been rather long after all.
"I guess we should take them in here; it has the best light." Sakura stated, looking around the kitchen.
For a minute, Ichigo disappeared into his room and just stared at the wall. His digital camera, something he'd saved up for finally and bought with the usual birthday money from the few relatives he had (and his Father), was sitting on top of his makeshift desk, but the battered old Polaroid lay buried in a desk drawer next to a tattered box. Didn't open that drawer much anymore.
With teeth clenched he pulled it open grabbed it, kicking the drawer shut again just as soon as his hand cleared the gap. He checked the film, and, satisfied, reemerged into the hall and stepped into the kitchen. Where Sakura was standing, looking smaller than Rukia even (and that must have been an attitude thing, not a physical measurement). "Alright."
She looked at him and nodded. "Just tell me...where to stand and stuff." she said quietly. Sakura was beginning to feel a little hollow, the sugar from the make shift birthday party having long run out.
There was something...just odd about this situation. Surreal, but necessary.
And there was certainly a level of awkwardness in being asked to photograph a roommate. Bodies were different, people were different, especially when you couldn't associate a past, a name, an identity. Ichigo swallowed, suddenly faced with--
"Where're there visible wounds? Bruises an' shit, I mean." It felt like a perversion.
"...Face. Arms. Ankle. Torso. Knees." Sakura said quietly, but factually. As if she was filling out a patient report. "Maybe should start with my face?"
She was steadily not looking at him now, face somewhat closed down. It wasn't like it was awkward exactly; just that the situation was so serious in a way. Her stomach was fluttering violently.
Wordlessly, Ichigo brought the camera to his eye and trusted in the old auto-focus. Got close to her face, to her eye, took a breath and--"Close your eyes. Can't seen all the bruising." In reality, it was easier that way. Settle down, Kurosaki.
He didn't quite appreciate his brain turning everything into a grave situation, but it was pretty bad, wasn't it? Wasn't this kind of violence the thing that usually lead to accidental death? Crimes of passion? Snap. Click. A neat square of film exited the front of the Polaroid, and peeled off into his fingers.
Sakura took a breath and then turned to the side; her upper right arm should be next. The left arm wasn't near as bad. She was struggling not to bite her lip or just...snap.
This silence between them was unnatural and odd. They'd always talked; even if it sounded like they were going to kill each other any minute at times.
There weren't too many people who caught on to his silence, really. He'd managed to fill it since high school, with random crap and punk rock, things that made up for the bitter space beneath his ribs. Stuff to fill that-which-could-not-be-said. Things he should have forgotten, for all intents and purposes, and moved on with. Even Rukia seemed to think so.
And he adjusted her accordingly, motioning for her to move her arm just-so as the pictures rolled out of the camera (and he placed them on the kitchen counter to develop, ghostly images of pale skin and dark bruises emerging slow) with a grinding hiss. Right. Left.
It did feel weird, and the strangeness permeated the air. For a chick that was trying to be a doctor, she sure as hell couldn't take care of herself.
"Uh...so torso?" she asked feebly. She'd rather just get this over with as soon as possible. Then she'd put the pictures in the folder where she was collecting anything else she could think of to help with her case.
She had a fear that it wouldn't work and that she would end up with her father even angrier at her, with no protection between herself and him. He'd never been too drastic; he'd done worse to her before than she had now but nothing that had caused permanent damage.
Then again he'd never hit her when he had been drinking. She couldn't even remember him drinking before.
"Torso?" Ichigo echoed, like the word was something that could fold over and attack someone. Or maybe he was just a little perplexed as to how the fuck she wanted him to photograph her torso (because that was a loose word--did she mean chest? midriff? lower abdomen?. "I ain't no professional, Sakura, y'know that right?"
He fervently hoped that she'd do the right thing and seriously go to the goddamn hospital the next day. Get reports made, filed, validated--they'd probably take pictures and x-rays there, too.
"Yeah, I just...I just figure we should put everything together. If you're uncomfortable I'll...get Ino to do it later." she said, then sat down slowly to pull up her pajamas pants to show her knees.
"...I'll go to the ER tomorrow; get a proper medical report." she said quietly. "I need the xrays too."
She was pretty sure none of her ribs were broken; didn't mean they weren't fractured. And she wasn't so confident to just self medicate. She'd just needed to put everything out of her mind for a bit. It was her birthday; and she'd just wanted a nice day. A quiet one.
In any set of normal circumstances, he might have pulled a face, keeled over, and yelled about a whole lot of nothing (modesty, shame) about anyone offering to flash their chest to him. Save the stiffening in his muscles, the set of his jaw (sudden), he didn't show any other outward sign of being visibly offended. No, this was his obligation.
"I'll do it," he started, sinking to his knees (and it'd been a long day--this was stretching out the seconds he'd been up and about and running) in order to focus on the scrapes and violet riot of contusions (it was looking more like she'd thrown herself down a flight of stairs--had he?). More snaps. He hoped he had enough film. "Just sayin' that you might not be okay with it."
"I just want to take the photos and be done with it." Dammit her voice was getting thick and eyes were starting to tear up. She'd already had a sobbing fit in Ino's car today. She really didn't want to cry in front of Ichigo.
She waited till he was done with her knees before taking the bandage off her ankle so he could photograph the swelling. Her face was still, composed - almost deathly so.
It'd been easier to smile and laugh earlier. To pretend she was fine and things would be taken care of and nobody should worry. It was harder now; maybe because it was sinking in deeply.
As he watched her, the camera (foreshortening of the eye), and the bandages unraveling beneath her fingers, he wondered what it might have been like to be the case photographer on--no. Don't go there. Dutifully, he did what she requested, blatantly ignoring the wetness making her sclera glisten, and continued with the photographic montage.
Sprain, huh. He'd done it up really bad like that once early on in high school, during a bad start coming off the blocks and a giant fuck up with the hurdles (this was incidental, he realized, end result of something else).
Sakura rewrapped the ankle and then hesitated. She took off the loose tank top, then stood and turned so that her left side was facing Ichigo. She lifted her left arm, to show the bruising and slight swelling.
It wasn't like he hadn't seen her with her shirt off - although he'd made a much bigger fuss back then. Right now, without anger fueling her, it seemed more awkward. She was tired; incredibly so. The pain was starting to creep up on her now.
He stood awkwardly, hamstrings tighter than he'd realized (he'd been running before practice started for the season, sure, but not sprinting) and stepped back, measuring his distance from her by the old tiles of yellowing linoleum, by the familiar cracks. This was the fine art model gone wrong, the poster girl for domestic violence.
Ichigo hefted the ancient-seeming camera, aligned the viewfinder with his eye (his eye with her body, making sure to catch her face, the unmistakable shock of pink hair for identification purposes with the rest of her body), and explored the angles. Click. Auto-advance. Click-snap.
On the counter, the squares of film and chemicals produced images, wane materializations of the stark reality in front of him. He wondered if there was any of his professors had any in's with the local justices.
Once it was done, she pulled on her shirt quickly, then tucked her hair behind her ears.
"Thanks." she said quietly, almost hoarsely. She didn't know what else to say. What else did you say? She stood and limped over to the counter looking at the pictures silently.
...Was it this bad? She must have downplayed it in her mind; not that she'd looked in a mirror more than once since returning home that afternoon. "I'll put them in a folder; do we need to label or date any of them?"
Hands had lowered, camera dangling from the tips of his fingers (just a few shots left, huh) by the time she spoke again, covering the evidence with a thin shield of fabric. He'd never thought of clothing like that before. "With somethin' permanent," he agreed, voice hollow. "Mark up the date, and specify exactly what part it is. Don't leave anythin' to question."
She nodded, pulling a permanent marker from the kitchen "everything" drawer and beginning to label each one with clear, neat print. As before, her face was calm, emotionless almost.
Inwardly she was nervous and it took concentration for her hand not to shake. She didn't know what to say now. 'Thanks for photographing my injuries, see you in the morning'?
She wanted to throw a jab at him, a teasing insult or anything. The silence seemed like it was crowding in the kitchen and she took a breath as she straightened. The breath turned into a cough and she leaned against the counter, holding her side, slender shoulders shaking.
It was crowding. The pictures seemed to mirror the presence in the room, never mind the silence. Ichigo didn't move for a moment (but he wasn't the type to comfort, wipe away tears), but when he willed his limbs into forward motion, he turned his head first. Eyes away. Hiding her, or hiding his expression--hard to tell. He didn't know.
"Yeah. In the mornin'." Without another word, he pivoted sharply on heel and stalked back to the cave his room provided. When he finally put the camera away, stowed it properly, he removed the box (exchanging hostages) and set it on his bed to glare at.
She knew well enough. If she wanted something more, she could ask (there was only so much he could give).
Sakura collected the photos and went to her room, after putting the marker away. She sat on her bed, putting the pictures away, not wanting to see what her father had done to her. Her father.
She was alone and in her room. She was free to cry. Some tears slipped down her cheeks and she sat as if frozen. And then she was moving, limping to his room, almost going in before she stopped and knocked.
She didn't know exactly what she was doing. But she didn't want to be alone.
And he hadn't expected anything more. That was it--he'd put away the camera, stowed it and replaced the film (after snapping the two remaining shots of his floor), like he could put away the situation for the night. And ruminate. Tried not to imagine the pictures of his mother, done up like a glistening red dress fucking STOP it, you dumbass--and the knock. The knock.
He was sitting almost-lotus on the old quilt (his mom's), staring at the box. "Yeah?" came the vaguely surprised reply, the okay, come in, and he pushed the box off one side of the bed, nestling it between nightstand and discarded clothing.
She opened the door, crossing her arms over her stomach, face slightly tearstained.
"Uh..." she took a breath. "Can I...stay in here tonight? Just to sleep; that's it." Her words were quick and she looked at him only breifly.
Sakura wouldn't blame him if he said no, considering what had happened the last time she'd asked to share his bed...well, she'd asked for more than that really.
"I really...don't want to be alone." she said, barely above a whisper. "I mean...if not, that's fine, I..." She was trying to backpedal now, wanting to kick herself for acting on an impulse.
And even though the situation was clearly different, he couldn't quite put the picture, of her trying to pin him to the wall with her lips, from his mind. It wasn't that long ago, after all. He'd refused then (stuttering, what the fuck), and he'd have to refuse now. He knew, now, just how his body reacted to having another body (smaller) in bed with him--
Asleep, he'd never be able to tell the difference. And what if Rukia came down and walked in on Sakura curling into his side--no. No. Ichigo felt vaguely nauseous, stomach roiling with the implications of...everything. Being Batman was a fucking stupid idea. Ichigo wondered if his expression leaned toward panic or exhaustion.
"You can have the bed," he decided, voice dying into a slow drawl. "I can sleep on the floor."
Relief seemed to flood her. "Thank you." she said in that same whispery tone, her entire posture relaxing, no longer poised to run as soon as he turned her down. She limped to the bed and sat, waiting for him to take what he needed and then laying down.
She'd been up since four that morning working at the cafe despite her cold. Then the arguement with her father, the small celebration with Ino and Kiba...the short, few hour nap before Ichigo had sat on her. Sakura, to put it plainly, was exhausted.
She was almost out as soon as her body laid down.
Ichigo unlocked the door with a tired snarl, glaring at the serrated edges of his key (never fuckin' worked, always had to jerk it out, force it through). Fuckin' thing. The blade-like part of it looked chewed up, like it always had, and he shook his head and shouldered in anyway, kicking the door shut with a casual bend of one knee. Shoe meets door (he was pretty sure there were tread marks on it).
He dropped his pin-and-patch-bedecked messenger bag in front of his own sorry excuse for a door, and sidled toward the kitchen for a glass of water. Maybe a beer. Maybe hoping there'd be something like boxed ramen or spaghettios lurking in the cabinets (though he'd forgotten to go shopping for real this week). Ichigo settled for a tall glass of milk (hoped it was still good) and nearly stumbled over Sakura in the living room.
And by stumbled, he meant sat on.
Sakura cried out in shock and some pain.
"ICHIGO!" she shouted, fumbling for the lamp or the tv remote so that there'd be some light. "What time is it?"
Had she fallen asleep?
The light did blink on then, the cracked lampshade dealie he'd found in a yard sale (more like a dumpster) and managed to solder together a few pieces, do a little rewiring. He wasn't entirely inept, after all.
"S'fuckin' 11:30, Sakura," he squinted, dazzled by the harsh light after walking through the glamour of yellow-wash city lights. "Go t'bed or somethin'. I just got back from work."
"..." Sakura stared at him. "I was in bed. Sort of." She tucked her hair behind her ears and rubbed her eyes. "I found the cake," she paused.
"Thanks."
"If by in bed y'mean takin' up the couch and shit. I mean, seriously, ease up on the books an' all," and he really meant less the books and more the seemingly self-destructive attitude associated with studying said-books. He managed to half perch himself on one of the couch arms (dangerous business indeed), and tried to look like he wasn't about to collapse into a stupor as well.
"Yeah," he acknowledged, palming the back of his head with a sheepish half-smirk. "Hope you haven't tried to use the stove in the meantime."
She looked at him, reaching for a tissue. "I wasn't reading my books. I was..." she blew her nose, winced and then sniffed. "I twisted my ankle and I didn't want to move."
It'd been a while since they'd talked. Or even seen each other...and did he say something about the stove. Sakura looked up at him fully intending on demanding what he'd done to the appliance.
"Man, shouldn't leave all this shit lyin' everywhere then. Place is a fuckin' disaster-zone." Though in comparison to a lot of the other apartments, it wasn't bad at all. This was just a little cluttered, not dirty (even Ichigo didn't quite living in a space where he couldn't find shit, whether because it was buried beneath an eon's worth of dust of simply because of the other amount of crap laying around).
"You take anythin' for it?" There seemed to be a kind of latent expectancy hanging in the air--he didn't quite feel comfortable getting up and leaving himself to his own devices just yet, nor did he feel right at home with her.
"Yeah." She'd been wincing because of her bruised nose. Which, in the past hour had darkened more than her cheek and jaw. She self consciously wrapped her blanket around her shoulders; more bruises were on her arms. Tsunade said that her ribs were not broken but to go get x-rays in case there were fractures. "Uh...I was wondering if you could do me a favor."
Ichigo blandly rubbed at his eyes--that fucking light fixture in the backroom of the CD Exchange just kept flickering; he was damn glad he didn't fall prey to any of that epileptic nonsense. Would've been seizing all over the place. "Whadaya mean?" he asked, leaning back, splaying himself catlike over the arm, the back of the couch, until his head nearly hit the wall.
There were always shadows. What looked like bruises were often tricks of light--and vice versa. He hadn't looked long and hard enough to catch any darkening swellings, a spider web of broken capillaries.
"I need to, uh, put in a restraining order." She looked down, nervously fingering the fringe on the blanket.
"...I just thought you...you could tell me the best way to go about it." She wanted him to be there but she didn't feel comfortable with asking him to do that.
He'd just laced his fingertips over his stomach, over the slick material of the track-style jacket (eyes trained ceiling-ward) when she broke in with that. With a jerk of orange-spikes, a raised brow, and a twist of his upper body that very nearly sent him over the edge of the couch in its abruptness--"What?!" A pause, as he straightened himself out, opting for straddling instead of leaning.
"The fuck you talkin' about, Sakura? Against who?"
"..." She got up and limped to the kitchen, hoping he'd follow. She switched on the light; it was brighter in here and then hobbled to the fridge pulling out a drink before turning around, letting the blanket fall and show her bruised arms. "Against my dad." she said softly, then bit her lip, dropping her eyes to the can of soda she held.
There was a brief moment where he surveyed the scuffed hardwood and didn't quite know what to say; he'd never been put into a situation in which the family unit wasn't something tight-knit (albeit ridiculously strange and/or fucked up). Sure, he and his Dad generally greeted each other with roundhouse kicks or the standby clothesline, but that was all in good fun--
He slid to his feet with a reluctant catch in his step (he was getting pulled into something that was going to get him in trouble; that much was evident) and padded down the short hall into the kitchen after her. Ran his hands through the stiff orange spikes. Once he emerged into the dim fluorescence of the linoleum tiled kitchen, where he'd unsuccessfully rummaged just five minutes prior, the contours of her face became prominent. Obvious. A ridiculous feeling of helplessness washed over him; wasn't this the shit he was trying to prevent? No one needs to get hurt anymore.
Shifting his weight to one side, he leaned forward, pads of his fingers just barely touching the ridge of a cheekbone (expression darkening, ominous), the swollen orbital of an eye. "I can help you."
She stiffened a little at his touched before relaxing. "Thank you." Sakura's breath trembled slightly. Dammit.
"...I don't want to ask you to come with me if you don't want to...but..." she paused, biting the inside of her cheek. The can of soda was freezing her hands but she just gripped it tighter. "I...I'd appreciate the company." She took a breath, staving off another cough. "If you have time."
He knew enough about fighting to understand that if they looked that fuckin' bad now, they'd only get worse later. Specially the facial stuff--there were a lotta blood vessels under there, capillaries mostly, and they filled up with fluid real fast. But hey, she was a med student--she should've known. "You get this shit looked at yet?" he asked quickly, drawing his hand back to its home in his back pocket.
"I mean, you mighta fractured somethin' there. Looks kinda bad, yanno? You don't wanna fuck around with stuff near your eyes." A pause, where once more he felt absolutely useless. "And you should take some pictures. They like havin' that stuff on hand when you file your OFP."
"Okay." Sakura said quietly. "I'll take note of that." A pause. "It looks worse than it is. I mean it hurts but...I'm going to the ER tomorrow. For x-rays."
A pause. "Anything else I need to bring in?" she asked quietly.
Damn right it looked bad. The worst part about filing any kinda restraining order, especially when it was somebody closely connected to you, was that as soon as said batterer got the order, they generally tried to retaliate immediately. That stuff never went as smooth as one liked--it was only a piece of paper after all. The follow up on it was the important part. You see him, you call fucking 911 immediately.
"Form of identification, really. That's about it. Pictures, any documentation of occurrences you might have," he started, finding himself watching the condensation well up on the smooth aluminum can. Hearing those kinds of words spill out of his mouth in even a relatively professional way seemed..strange. Almost callous. Too official? "I'll go with you, Sakura. You're gonna want an OFP form, not an HRO. You'll get more rights that way, 'specially since you're related. Those things can take like, three hours to fill out properly."
"I'd really appreciate it." she gave him a grateful smile and then motioned to the fridge. "Um...gave me a party. Sort of. There's food leftover."
She limped to the doorway, hesitated and then turned. "Ichigo?"
The startling inconclusiveness of the discussion, the deceptively casual approach to both question and answer made the uncomfortable feeling rise like bile at the back of his throat. This shit wasn't supposed to be matter-of-fact. She wasn't supposed to be smiling like that. "S'not a problem," he frowned, tone of voice slanting toward confused.
Ichigo watched her start across the yellowed tile, not quite registering the mention of food. A dim haze settled over his thoughts. "Yeah?"
Sakura hesitated and then looked at him. "Thank you." she said sincerely. "I...to be honest, I didn't know what to do. When he gets...really violent like that...I just." she gave a half shrug and swallowed, fingernails clicking on the soda tab. "Everything kinda goes blank. I know I'm pretty smart but when I get scared...I'm pretty useless."
There she went, just...spilling things to him. She wasn't sure what it was about Ichigo that made her do that exactly. The same reason he drove her nuts one minute and then made her want to hug him the next, she supposed.
Ichigo understood uselessness, the haunting guilt of not-being-ready or not-being-able-to-help, of failing even when his name alone suggested that there was one to protect. Hadn't quite done that. But what he didn't understand, was failing to rise to that challenge. Letting it happen again. Ichigo had nightmares about that kinda shit.
And so he watched, mouth hanging downward in a scowl, as she fiddled with the soda can, shrugged, and did a few other physical ticks that he might've classified as nervous. Excuses. But--he tried to lower the raised brow, leaning against a cabinet--victims weren't guilty (though he thought maybe they should have the opportunity to be stronger); it was the bystanders that let it happen.
Now, he knew. Now, he had a responsibility to stop it. Ichigo sighed. "Ain't nothin' to be sorry for. Just gotta do shit about, yanno? Fuckin' hit him back, in some way or another."
Sakura nodded, hoping he was talking about the restraining order. Actually hitting her father...she didn't think she could do that. Hell, coming face to face with her father usually meant Sakura lost in some way. She just couldn't manage to stand up to him like that; she hated it about herself - that she couldn't defend herself, that she lost any semblance of self-defense and always let her father take control of the situation. That all she ever did was run.
"So...what are the details of this restraining order?" she asked softly, figuring it was best to know.
"Like I said earlier," he started, shoving both his hands into his pockets and trying to search his brain for the appropriate terminology (and failing, naturally, when it was actually appropriate to know what the fuck you're talking about, kurosaki). "You're filin' an Order for Protection, not a Harassment Restraining Order. You get more priority, more specifics--like how far he's gotta stay away, from who he's gotta stay away, and you might even get some uh, monetary compensation." He paused. "Plus, you really should take some pictures, yanno. And look and see if you've got any other documentation. Doctors' reports."
Ichigo turned his head, yellow-amber eyes staring her straight down, maybe catlike in the dim glare of light. "The point is that you wanna convince whatever judge's on duty that your claim's legit. If he thinks it ain't, no dice." He tongued the corner of his lip. "He'll probably sign a temporary restraining order, and that's when your Dad'll get notice of how he's been served. They'll let you know when he is," the eyes narrowed, tone of voice already serious and now maybe heading toward deadly, "and you're gonna wanna stick close for awhile. That's the worst time, supposedly."
"In about two weeks they'll have another hearin', and they'll decide whether or not to extend the temp thing. Anytime, I mean, any fuckin' time you see or hear from your Dad, you call fuckin' 911, Sakura."
She nodded. "Okay." A hesitant pause. "I have a camera...could...could you help me take some pictures?"
She beckoned towards the living room. And not for the first time was incredibly thankful Ichigo was there to help her figure this out. Sakura knew lots of things; but filing these sort of things...was far beyond any experience she had ever had.
Pictures. Snapshots of a fight gone by. Photographs of victimization--that was what he'd wanted to get better at, right? People? Sick irony, but Ichigo wasn't an opportunist. When he'd thought about practice, he was thinking about hanging out in the stairwell and harassing people.
Grimly, set of his brow heavier, he followed, pausing as he stepped off the linoleum, standing near the door to his bedroom. "What kinda camera, Sakura? I gotta Polaroid--they prefer that kinda shit, yanno. Polaroids can't be altered like regular camera film or digital."
"Okay, that sounds good." A small tremble to her voice. She quickly shoved it away; she was just tired. The day had been rather long after all.
"I guess we should take them in here; it has the best light." Sakura stated, looking around the kitchen.
For a minute, Ichigo disappeared into his room and just stared at the wall. His digital camera, something he'd saved up for finally and bought with the usual birthday money from the few relatives he had (and his Father), was sitting on top of his makeshift desk, but the battered old Polaroid lay buried in a desk drawer next to a tattered box. Didn't open that drawer much anymore.
With teeth clenched he pulled it open grabbed it, kicking the drawer shut again just as soon as his hand cleared the gap. He checked the film, and, satisfied, reemerged into the hall and stepped into the kitchen. Where Sakura was standing, looking smaller than Rukia even (and that must have been an attitude thing, not a physical measurement). "Alright."
She looked at him and nodded. "Just tell me...where to stand and stuff." she said quietly. Sakura was beginning to feel a little hollow, the sugar from the make shift birthday party having long run out.
There was something...just odd about this situation. Surreal, but necessary.
And there was certainly a level of awkwardness in being asked to photograph a roommate. Bodies were different, people were different, especially when you couldn't associate a past, a name, an identity. Ichigo swallowed, suddenly faced with--
"Where're there visible wounds? Bruises an' shit, I mean." It felt like a perversion.
"...Face. Arms. Ankle. Torso. Knees." Sakura said quietly, but factually. As if she was filling out a patient report. "Maybe should start with my face?"
She was steadily not looking at him now, face somewhat closed down. It wasn't like it was awkward exactly; just that the situation was so serious in a way. Her stomach was fluttering violently.
Wordlessly, Ichigo brought the camera to his eye and trusted in the old auto-focus. Got close to her face, to her eye, took a breath and--"Close your eyes. Can't seen all the bruising." In reality, it was easier that way. Settle down, Kurosaki.
He didn't quite appreciate his brain turning everything into a grave situation, but it was pretty bad, wasn't it? Wasn't this kind of violence the thing that usually lead to accidental death? Crimes of passion? Snap. Click. A neat square of film exited the front of the Polaroid, and peeled off into his fingers.
Sakura took a breath and then turned to the side; her upper right arm should be next. The left arm wasn't near as bad. She was struggling not to bite her lip or just...snap.
This silence between them was unnatural and odd. They'd always talked; even if it sounded like they were going to kill each other any minute at times.
There weren't too many people who caught on to his silence, really. He'd managed to fill it since high school, with random crap and punk rock, things that made up for the bitter space beneath his ribs. Stuff to fill that-which-could-not-be-said. Things he should have forgotten, for all intents and purposes, and moved on with. Even Rukia seemed to think so.
And he adjusted her accordingly, motioning for her to move her arm just-so as the pictures rolled out of the camera (and he placed them on the kitchen counter to develop, ghostly images of pale skin and dark bruises emerging slow) with a grinding hiss. Right. Left.
It did feel weird, and the strangeness permeated the air. For a chick that was trying to be a doctor, she sure as hell couldn't take care of herself.
"Uh...so torso?" she asked feebly. She'd rather just get this over with as soon as possible. Then she'd put the pictures in the folder where she was collecting anything else she could think of to help with her case.
She had a fear that it wouldn't work and that she would end up with her father even angrier at her, with no protection between herself and him. He'd never been too drastic; he'd done worse to her before than she had now but nothing that had caused permanent damage.
Then again he'd never hit her when he had been drinking. She couldn't even remember him drinking before.
"Torso?" Ichigo echoed, like the word was something that could fold over and attack someone. Or maybe he was just a little perplexed as to how the fuck she wanted him to photograph her torso (because that was a loose word--did she mean chest? midriff? lower abdomen?. "I ain't no professional, Sakura, y'know that right?"
He fervently hoped that she'd do the right thing and seriously go to the goddamn hospital the next day. Get reports made, filed, validated--they'd probably take pictures and x-rays there, too.
"Yeah, I just...I just figure we should put everything together. If you're uncomfortable I'll...get Ino to do it later." she said, then sat down slowly to pull up her pajamas pants to show her knees.
"...I'll go to the ER tomorrow; get a proper medical report." she said quietly. "I need the xrays too."
She was pretty sure none of her ribs were broken; didn't mean they weren't fractured. And she wasn't so confident to just self medicate. She'd just needed to put everything out of her mind for a bit. It was her birthday; and she'd just wanted a nice day. A quiet one.
In any set of normal circumstances, he might have pulled a face, keeled over, and yelled about a whole lot of nothing (modesty, shame) about anyone offering to flash their chest to him. Save the stiffening in his muscles, the set of his jaw (sudden), he didn't show any other outward sign of being visibly offended. No, this was his obligation.
"I'll do it," he started, sinking to his knees (and it'd been a long day--this was stretching out the seconds he'd been up and about and running) in order to focus on the scrapes and violet riot of contusions (it was looking more like she'd thrown herself down a flight of stairs--had he?). More snaps. He hoped he had enough film. "Just sayin' that you might not be okay with it."
"I just want to take the photos and be done with it." Dammit her voice was getting thick and eyes were starting to tear up. She'd already had a sobbing fit in Ino's car today. She really didn't want to cry in front of Ichigo.
She waited till he was done with her knees before taking the bandage off her ankle so he could photograph the swelling. Her face was still, composed - almost deathly so.
It'd been easier to smile and laugh earlier. To pretend she was fine and things would be taken care of and nobody should worry. It was harder now; maybe because it was sinking in deeply.
As he watched her, the camera (foreshortening of the eye), and the bandages unraveling beneath her fingers, he wondered what it might have been like to be the case photographer on--no. Don't go there. Dutifully, he did what she requested, blatantly ignoring the wetness making her sclera glisten, and continued with the photographic montage.
Sprain, huh. He'd done it up really bad like that once early on in high school, during a bad start coming off the blocks and a giant fuck up with the hurdles (this was incidental, he realized, end result of something else).
Sakura rewrapped the ankle and then hesitated. She took off the loose tank top, then stood and turned so that her left side was facing Ichigo. She lifted her left arm, to show the bruising and slight swelling.
It wasn't like he hadn't seen her with her shirt off - although he'd made a much bigger fuss back then. Right now, without anger fueling her, it seemed more awkward. She was tired; incredibly so. The pain was starting to creep up on her now.
He stood awkwardly, hamstrings tighter than he'd realized (he'd been running before practice started for the season, sure, but not sprinting) and stepped back, measuring his distance from her by the old tiles of yellowing linoleum, by the familiar cracks. This was the fine art model gone wrong, the poster girl for domestic violence.
Ichigo hefted the ancient-seeming camera, aligned the viewfinder with his eye (his eye with her body, making sure to catch her face, the unmistakable shock of pink hair for identification purposes with the rest of her body), and explored the angles. Click. Auto-advance. Click-snap.
On the counter, the squares of film and chemicals produced images, wane materializations of the stark reality in front of him. He wondered if there was any of his professors had any in's with the local justices.
Once it was done, she pulled on her shirt quickly, then tucked her hair behind her ears.
"Thanks." she said quietly, almost hoarsely. She didn't know what else to say. What else did you say? She stood and limped over to the counter looking at the pictures silently.
...Was it this bad? She must have downplayed it in her mind; not that she'd looked in a mirror more than once since returning home that afternoon. "I'll put them in a folder; do we need to label or date any of them?"
Hands had lowered, camera dangling from the tips of his fingers (just a few shots left, huh) by the time she spoke again, covering the evidence with a thin shield of fabric. He'd never thought of clothing like that before. "With somethin' permanent," he agreed, voice hollow. "Mark up the date, and specify exactly what part it is. Don't leave anythin' to question."
She nodded, pulling a permanent marker from the kitchen "everything" drawer and beginning to label each one with clear, neat print. As before, her face was calm, emotionless almost.
Inwardly she was nervous and it took concentration for her hand not to shake. She didn't know what to say now. 'Thanks for photographing my injuries, see you in the morning'?
She wanted to throw a jab at him, a teasing insult or anything. The silence seemed like it was crowding in the kitchen and she took a breath as she straightened. The breath turned into a cough and she leaned against the counter, holding her side, slender shoulders shaking.
It was crowding. The pictures seemed to mirror the presence in the room, never mind the silence. Ichigo didn't move for a moment (but he wasn't the type to comfort, wipe away tears), but when he willed his limbs into forward motion, he turned his head first. Eyes away. Hiding her, or hiding his expression--hard to tell. He didn't know.
"Yeah. In the mornin'." Without another word, he pivoted sharply on heel and stalked back to the cave his room provided. When he finally put the camera away, stowed it properly, he removed the box (exchanging hostages) and set it on his bed to glare at.
She knew well enough. If she wanted something more, she could ask (there was only so much he could give).
Sakura collected the photos and went to her room, after putting the marker away. She sat on her bed, putting the pictures away, not wanting to see what her father had done to her. Her father.
She was alone and in her room. She was free to cry. Some tears slipped down her cheeks and she sat as if frozen. And then she was moving, limping to his room, almost going in before she stopped and knocked.
She didn't know exactly what she was doing. But she didn't want to be alone.
And he hadn't expected anything more. That was it--he'd put away the camera, stowed it and replaced the film (after snapping the two remaining shots of his floor), like he could put away the situation for the night. And ruminate. Tried not to imagine the pictures of his mother, done up like a glistening red dress fucking STOP it, you dumbass--and the knock. The knock.
He was sitting almost-lotus on the old quilt (his mom's), staring at the box. "Yeah?" came the vaguely surprised reply, the okay, come in, and he pushed the box off one side of the bed, nestling it between nightstand and discarded clothing.
She opened the door, crossing her arms over her stomach, face slightly tearstained.
"Uh..." she took a breath. "Can I...stay in here tonight? Just to sleep; that's it." Her words were quick and she looked at him only breifly.
Sakura wouldn't blame him if he said no, considering what had happened the last time she'd asked to share his bed...well, she'd asked for more than that really.
"I really...don't want to be alone." she said, barely above a whisper. "I mean...if not, that's fine, I..." She was trying to backpedal now, wanting to kick herself for acting on an impulse.
And even though the situation was clearly different, he couldn't quite put the picture, of her trying to pin him to the wall with her lips, from his mind. It wasn't that long ago, after all. He'd refused then (stuttering, what the fuck), and he'd have to refuse now. He knew, now, just how his body reacted to having another body (smaller) in bed with him--
Asleep, he'd never be able to tell the difference. And what if Rukia came down and walked in on Sakura curling into his side--no. No. Ichigo felt vaguely nauseous, stomach roiling with the implications of...everything. Being Batman was a fucking stupid idea. Ichigo wondered if his expression leaned toward panic or exhaustion.
"You can have the bed," he decided, voice dying into a slow drawl. "I can sleep on the floor."
Relief seemed to flood her. "Thank you." she said in that same whispery tone, her entire posture relaxing, no longer poised to run as soon as he turned her down. She limped to the bed and sat, waiting for him to take what he needed and then laying down.
She'd been up since four that morning working at the cafe despite her cold. Then the arguement with her father, the small celebration with Ino and Kiba...the short, few hour nap before Ichigo had sat on her. Sakura, to put it plainly, was exhausted.
She was almost out as soon as her body laid down.