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*
“It’s not a punishment.”
Rukia doesn’t turn from her open suitcase. She packs with the same even methodical rhythm that she approaches a hit. Outside, Tokyo is harshly bright with late spring sunlight, glancing off glass and metal.
“I didn’t say it was,” she says at last.
From behind her, at her open bedroom door, Renji scoffs, a low sort of rumble in his throat. “We all have to pay our dues, Rukia.”
She wets her lips, glancing over her shoulder. Her hair sticks to her throat and cheek. “I’m paying them,” she says heavily, her fingers light on her sleek gun. It never goes into the suitcase. She could carry it on her person into an airport and no one would ever know. “I’m fine paying them.”
Renji shrugs, arms crossed over his chest. He’s still wearing that ridiculous vest with the tie-dye pattern. “It’s just a month.”
“Or two,” she retorts.
“He would appeal it, if you asked him to.”
Rukia rests her foot on the bed, her fingers dipping under the sleek line of her skirt, searching for the holster at her thigh. She can feel Renji’s eyes move over her. “I don’t need my brother to do anything for me,” she says sharply. “And you just said it’s not a punishment.”
Again he shrugs, his gaze heavy on her. The tattoos at his temples stretch as he smirks. “Maybe it’s a little bit of a punishment. You know how the old man is. When people die on the job –“
“Shut up, Renji,” she mutters as she slips her gun into place and lowers her leg back to the floor. She tucks her hair behind her ears, staring out the window over the sharp edges of the skyline. “I know how it goes.”
The floorboards creak under his heavy footsteps as he comes into the room. “Say the word, and I’ll be there to help,” he says, his hand landing on her shoulder.
“I don’t need it,” she says curtly, closing the flap on her suitcase.
“I know you don’t. Still, it’s a lot of hits in one month.”
“Not so many. Four small ones, one large fish. I can handle it,” she says, glancing up at him. They are the same age, from the same background, equally skilled; yet he has risen faster and higher in the family than she, and she can’t help but wonder why, really.
“Just sayin’. I’m there,” he says with a shake of his head, his eyes dark on her face.
She hums, and zips up her suitcase. “I’ll be fine.”
“Where’re you stayin’?”
“I don’t know yet. And you aren’t supposed to know, either,” she says evenly. “I’m going dark for this one.”
He huffs, his hand falling back his side. “Might as well be. Karakura Town is in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.”
Her mouth curls as she smoothes down her black blouse over the top of her skirt. “Eloquent as always,” she drawls as she slides her feet into her flats. She has heels in the suitcase, as well as tread-less shoes for the hits themselves. She is always prepared; it’s her reputation, now.
“Just – be careful, will you?” he says, voice low and rumbling in his chest.
She gives him a small little smirk, her purse in one hand and her suitcase in the other. “I always am,” she says before she walks out of her room, leaving him there without another word. She’s never been good with goodbyes.
*
The train is her preferred mode of travel, as it is for all the Kuchiki members of the family at large. Less security, more space than planes; easier to disappear into, less permanent than cars. She’s learned more than they think she has.
Trains also take more time. It gives her more space to breathe, to think. She settles into her private compartment just as the sun is sinking past the tall spire of Tokyo Tower. Her gun is a comfortable weight at her thigh as she stretches out her legs. She has the compartment all to herself. It’s only now, with Tokyo disappearing behind her and a month or more of plans and hits ahead of her that she shuts her eyes, and remembers.
Her last hit, in Kyoto, has been labeled a disaster by everyone not acquainted with the details. On the surface, she understands why. When she’d left the house with her orders, she had been with her partner; when she returned, bloodied and bruised, she had been alone. Everyone believes Kaien died in the line of fire, in a hit gone awry, and it was her fault.
One part of that is true; he died in the line of fire.
*
They are both bloody and bruised, having come this far and gotten through all of the usual protections surrounding a mob boss. There is an open wound at her sternum from Aizen’s blade that will leave a scar, she knows. But they have Aizen alone, cornered, and she falls back to back Kaien up, her hand easy on her gun. It’s his kill to take, to have.
When Kaien doesn’t step forward and take the lead, she’s rattled, confused.
“What the hell are you doing?” she hisses, the cool spring wind carrying her words off the rooftop. Cloudy darkness hangs thick over their heads.
Kaien lowers his gun and steps past Rukia, towards the smiling Sōsuke Aizen, who stands unprotected across from them. “I’m sorry,” he says, a low sort of growl right from his chest.
Betrayal is bitter on the back of her tongue. Adrenaline tightens her muscles, sharpens her nerves. “Sorry?” she repeats.
He bows his head for a moment, dark hair falling across his brow. The sharp angles of his face are masked in shadow. “Yes.”
“You didn’t know? He’s been working for me the whole time,” Aizen says with a slow smirk. “Yamamoto has no idea what kind of power I have across Japan now.”
Rukia rests her free hand at her hip. A knife is tucked in the crease of her hip and thigh. The hand holding her gun outstretched does not falter. “Kaien,” she says, not taking her eyes from Aizen. “Kaien –“
“It’s over, Rukia,” Kaien says, stepping between her and Aizen. His eyes are narrowed, dark on her. “It’s over for me.”
“We could use you, Kuchiki-san. I’d love to see the look on your brother’s face, to hear of your defection,” Aizen says lightly, a single strand of brown hair settling across his brow. In the darkness, his smile is maniacal.
Her toes curl in her shoes, mouth dry. She meets Kaien’s gaze, taking a step back onto her heel. “No,” she says after a moment.
“Hmm. Too bad. You’re better than they let on,” Aizen says softly. “Kaien. Kill her.”
Kaien’s hand hesitates in its rise, the barrel gleaming dully as it points at her. “Rukia, it’s over,” he repeats under his breath. “Do it.”
Fingers twisting at the hem of her skirt, she ducks and pushes her shoulder into his chest before he can fire, the knife flying straight and true from her grip towards Aizen. She clips him across the cheek, drawing blood. Rolling to a crouch, she pulls her gun and fires.
Then, she runs.
*
Rukia goes home, with Kaien’s blood on her hands and the knowledge of Aizen’s infiltration on her lips.
The head of the family, Yamamoto, listens, and then sends her away. The next thing she knows, she is sent on a long-scale hit to Karakura Town, and there is no mention of Kaien’s betrayal.
She understands, really. There can’t be rumors of any sort in a family built as theirs is; they are on shaky ground in the power structure of the mob families as it is. But to be sent away for this kind of time, to allow for everything to die down; it is a punishment, no matter what anyone tries to say.
Still, she thinks as the countryside blurs in her gaze, the night falling thick and fast in her train compartment, she will do her job. She always does.
*
Parks near schools are always a safe bet for disappearing into the crowd. She chooses one near Karakura High, full of children in the height of play and youth, and parents either too wrapped up in their own events to watch their children, or overanxious and needy with them. It’s easy enough to sit on a bench under a tree, and open her suitcase without seeming a danger.
The manila envelope with photos and addresses is tucked into the bottom of the suitcase, unopened. You don’t open the envelopes until you’re at your location. It’s a rule from all the way up the chain of command.
In her envelope, there are five photos. She can feel from the thickness of the package. The top photo is a no one, a regular brute of Aizen’s who is running a drug trade from Karakura Town. On the back of the photo is an address of a local dive bar where he goes for hookers and sake.
Rukia bites her tongue on her distaste, and puts the envelope away.
She doesn’t look at the other photos. One hit at a time, she thinks.
“Five more minutes, Nii-sama!”
Her eyes fall to a tall man with vibrant orange hair, waving at a slim dark-haired girl in football shorts and cleats, across the park from him in the wide green space. Her teammates linger and wait for her at the edges of the grass.
“Yeah, fine!” he shouts back, slumping to a sit one bench over from her. His long fingers pull at his trousers, his shoulders hunched. Rukia watches him, as he watches the park. There’s a sharp awareness radiating from his limbs, the line of his gaze, even as he slouches his shoulders. For a moment, she is reminded of Kaien, of her brother; it’s the same casual hyper-awareness she has never been able to emulate.
His gaze flickers over to her, catching hers. She shifts her eyes immediately, her fingers curling on the manila envelope as color threatens the pale skin of her throat.
She leaves the park before he does, her heels sinking into the soft spring grass. Her back is hot with the lingering of his stare.
*
It’s easy enough to get the hit to leave with her. She is wearing heels and a short skirt and every man likes that after enough sake, no matter how strange the stranger is.
Looking back, she thinks it’s too easy, after all.
Her fingers are crushed under a heavy boot, another at her chest. Her gun is past her feet, her heels kicked off during the physical battle. Gravel crunches into her back, hard pinpricks of pain that are nothing compared to the sensations crippling her hand.
“Never send a girl to do a man’s work,” the husky brute who has her by the throat rumbles. His mouth is too sharp and too white in his face, like a skeleton. The barrel of his gun is dull in the moonlight. She doesn’t shut her eyes, doesn’t move a muscle.
“Hey! What the hell is going on–“
The brute whips his head around, the pressure on her chest lifting briefly. She arches her back and kicks up, wriggling out of his grip. From the corner of her eye, she sees a tall shadow of a man, long and broad shouldered in the lit opening of the alleyway.
She rolls herself to a stand just as the stranger launches himself towards the thick-shouldered brute, hands and legs flying in an intricate sort of martial arts that she herself was taught during her training. The brute’s gun drops to the ground as he does. She drags herself towards her gun, reaching clumsily with her good hand.
“Hey, lady!” the man calls, landing a kick at the brute’s ribs. “You all right?”
Rukia shakes the hair from her eyes, tasting blood at the corner of her mouth. She meets the stranger’s gaze, her eyes moving over the planes of his face. An odd sort of recognition curls her mouth. It is the man from the park, from earlier today. He does look like Kaien, but not, she thinks as the brute groans on the ground.
“I will be,” she says after a moment, her gun clumsy and unwieldy in her weaker hand.
He presses a booted foot on the hit’s chest, gaze steady. He is holding him down, she realizes in an instant.
Then, she shoots once, twice. It’s all she needs.
He doesn’t look away.
*
His name is Ichigo, he tells her as he drags her back to his home, her good wrist in one hand and her suitcase in his other. He’ll take care of her hand, he says. She’s in too much pain to argue with him, to try and wheedle her way out of his grip and onto the next hit. He had helped clean up after her, and got her to relative safety, so she thinks she can’t be ungrateful for that.
It feels too weird, sitting at a kitchen table in an entirely domestic situation, with a young man who looks like the partner she had to kill to survive and who just helped with a mob hit he had accidentally walked into. She’s not one to question the events of any given day (a product of taking orders with respect, she supposes), but this, this is strange.
An open bottle of sake sits at her elbow.
"Your hand is a fucking mess," he says, his fingers gingerly prodding at the bloodied and bruised skin. The X-rays lay scattered on the table, between salt and pepper shakers and other signs of domesticity. She wonders if he’s married.
"You have to reset them," she says through her teeth. Kuchikis don't show their pain, she reminds herself.
Ichigo meets her gaze with steady eyes. In the warm light of the kitchen, the angles of his face are softened. He looks more like the watchful older brother from the park this afternoon, nothing like a man who helped on a hit two hours ago. "You should let me take you to a hospital. I’d rather you be knocked out for something like this, and I don't have all the supplies-"
"No hospitals. Can't be on records," she says shortly. The muscles of her fingers are starting to stiffen. "Do it. Or I'll walk out right now and find someone who will."
His gaze darkens, his hand settling on her tender wrist. "Stupid. You're staying right here."
"Then do it, idiot," she snaps.
Mouth curling, he watches her for a moment, a hint of gold reflected in his dark gaze. He doesn't snap back, doesn't throw her out. He rises from the table, moving to the china display, the drawers there. "Here," he says, tossing her a thick leather strap. "Take a shot of sake. Take three. Drink the whole damn bottle. I'll be right back."
She waits until he leaves the room to swallow the sake down. It leaves a comfortable burn in her throat, distracting her from the fierce throbbing of her hand. She smoothes her good fingers across the leather strap, across the indents of teeth from patients before her.
A memory comes over her, of years before; young and alone in her bedroom of the Kuchiki house, listening to the grunts and muffled shrieks from the injured. They had an in-house doctor to take care of any injuries and wounds; she’d listened to plenty of bones reset and bullets pulled from abdomens and legs before. She knows what’s coming for her now.
He returns with gauze bandages, splints, antiseptic, and a bottle of pills. "For after," he says sharply as she leans in to the bottle.
"What kind of doctor are you?" she grits out through her teeth. The sake is warming her through, dulling the throbbing and sharp spikes of pain. Every twitch of her hand is agony.
"Who said I was a doctor?" he drawls, sitting across from her once more.
She stares as he bends his head over her hand, his hair a vibrant orange in the light. "You're not- but- the office-"
“Relax,” he says with a sharp little smirk. “Yeah, I’m a doctor.”
“The kind of doctor that knows how to help kill a man,” she says, tongue heavy with pain and sake.
His eyes are dark as he pushes the bottle to her once more. “More,” he says after a moment, voice clipped.
She wets her lips and curls her hand at the neck of the bottle. His gaze doesn’t move from her as she takes a long bitter swallow, her shoulders shuddering. She has never been the best with taking shots. “What kind of doctor are you?” she repeats, her voice soft in the air.
He takes the bottle from her and pushes the thick strip of leather to her good hand. “Bite down,” he says instead. “My dad and sisters are asleep upstairs.”
In her shock, she does as she’s told with little resistance. His fingers, gentle and warm, fall to her injured fingers once more. “I’m gonna be thorough,” he says after a moment. It’s a warning; this will not go quickly, or smoothly.
She realizes now that he doesn’t know her name.
“Okay,” she says, meeting his eyes.
His touch is firm, authoritative. For some bizarre reason, she trusts him. Perhaps it’s the sake, and the pain. But when she next opens her mouth, as his splints are laid out and gauze unwrapped for easy access, she does the one thing she’s not supposed to do, out of all the missteps and freakish accidents of fate from this evening.
“My name is Rukia,” she says, clear and soft.
The air thickens between them as his fingers skim the tender lines of her broken fingers. She shivers, and not from the pain. Her eyelids are heavy from the sake, a warm sensation pooling in her stomach. She tries to memorize it now, because it will be gone soon enough.
Ichigo tilts his head, vivid hair falling across his brow. “Rukia,” he repeats, low and hoarse on his tongue.
She nods and puts the leather between her teeth.
“Okay, Rukia,” he says, resting his forearm across hers on the table to keep her steady. His fingers are steady as they apply the antiseptic. She doesn’t twitch with the sting.
“Okay,” he repeats, wetting his lips.
Then, he begins to uncurl her fingers with steady firm precision, and she has to shut her eyes and lean back against the pain.
At one point, she blacks out. All she can hear is him repeating her name over and over, almost as a prayer.
*
It takes thirty minutes to do four fingers. Her thumb, having escaped damage, is left alone.
She doesn’t scream. But the leather strap is nearly bitten through by the time he tugs it from her mouth.
“Okay?” he asks as he kneels at her chair.
Her eyes burn with unshed tears, her jaw aches from clenching. The palm of her good hand is damp. She can’t open her mouth just yet, the pain still caught between her throat and lungs.
“Shit, Rukia –“ and there it is, the sound of her name on his tongue, as he unravels the fist her hand has become, his thumb swiping across blood from the crescents of her nails. “Hold on,” he murmurs, grabbing for more antiseptic and gauze.
Rukia hunches over the table, breathing shallowly. She would almost prefer a bullet to the chest or thigh than repeating any part of this again.
“You can stay in my room,” he is saying as he wraps her palm in gauze.
“No – “ she grits out at last, voice rough and ragged in the cool air.
“Where else do you think you’re going to go?” he retorts sharply, tying off the gauze tightly.
She breathes out, sitting up in her chair. Her bad hand, splinted and bandaged, she tucks close to her. Her eyes move past his to the bottle of sake. “I have to finish my jobs,” she says at last, reaching for the bottle.
He stands, towering over her as she takes a long swallow. It cuts through the lingering aches in her body. “That’s your shooting hand.”
She huffs, licking her lips. “You don’t think I can shoot with both?”
“I’m sure you can,” he retorts. “But not well enough and clean enough for the family.”
It’s the first time the words have been raised, the idea that this wasn’t just a momentary accidental shooting in the night. The color flushes at her throat, crawling up to her face. He knows something, she thinks as she looks at him, her eyelids half-open with pain and exhaustion. He knows something.
Finally, he just shakes his head and leans down. His arm is a hard anchor at her back as he pushes her back from the table and picks her up in his arms. “You’re not going anywhere tonight,” he says firmly.
“Hey! Put me down!” she exclaims, cradling her hand to her chest.
“Don’t think so, no,” he hisses. “And keep it down, my sisters –“
“Are asleep, I remember,” she mutters as he moves with her up the stairs to the third level. The house is very clinical and clean, sparse with décor. “My suitcase –“
“I got it. Shut up, will you?” he says as he nudges a door open to their left.
“You have the worst bedside manner I’ve ever seen,” she mumbles, tongue thick in her mouth. The pills he had forced her to swallow down are kicking in, a rush of chemicals in her bloodstream.
He scoffs and lays her down on the bed, cool and soft under her overwarm skin. “Just try and sleep, will you? You can figure out shit in the morning,” he says gruffly. His hands linger at her face and throat, as if he is testing her for fever. Color flushes her cheeks and she shuts her eyes.
“Don’t look in my suitcase,” she mumbles.
Sheets curl at her shoulders, callused fingers light on her temple. “Yeah, okay.”
When she falls asleep, it’s into reassuring and soothing darkness.
*
The next morning, the clatter of plates and the pitch of raised voices awaken her. Sunlight slants across her itchy eyes. Her hand is slung securely to her chest, immoveable. Mouth dry and tongue thick in her mouth, she opens her eyes and groans. It takes her a moment to remember, but when she does –
She sits up in the unfamiliar bed, wincing with the movement. Her skin is littered with cuts and bruises from the fight and the gravel, her head pounding from aches and sake. She looks around the room, trying to press out the sounds of a family getting ready for their day from her ears.
It is neat enough, a few clothes here and there. Her suitcase is unopened, resting near the door. Mostly, she is impressed by the books, the desk, and the martial arts equipment. There is a practice katana leaning against the wall near the ajar closet. It explains some of last night, considering how well Ichigo handled himself in battle, how collected he was.
From the kitchen below, Ichigo’s voice rises against another man’s, the latter deeper and oddly familiar. Rukia shifts her legs over the edge of the bed just as the stairs creak under heavy footsteps. Her hair falls tangled across her cheek, sticking to her throat. She could use a shower, and a glass of water, and a plan. Four hits to go, less than a month to do it in, and a compromised shooting hand.
The doorknob twists, and for the first time she sees Ichigo in full light, without the dulling effects of pain and sake. Color flushes at her throat as she smoothes her good hand over her wrinkled dress. It’s the outfit from the bar last night; she wishes she were in something less provocative.
“You’re up, huh?” Ichigo says, shutting the door behind him. His white doctor’s coat flutters at his ankles, gaping open to reveal a black button-down shirt and trousers.
“Yes,” she murmurs, tucking her hair behind her ears.
“Did the old man wake you? Sorry about that. He’s a jerk sometimes,” he says with a shrug, leaning against the door. His gaze is heavy on her, and she so wants to duck her head. But she was trained for hard looks. She doesn’t know why it feels different now, with his eyes on her.
“It’s fine,” she says, rising to an unsteady stand.
“Take it easy –“ he says, walking towards her, a hand outstretched.
She shakes her head, her hand throbbing once more. “I have to go.”
“Just- for fuck’s sake, sit down again,” he says crossly, his hand heavy on her shoulder. He pushes her back to the bed like it’s nothing.
Shutting her eyes for a moment, she sits. The bed creaks as he sits as well, the warmth of him radiating against her skin. Her toes curl against the wood floor, smooth and cool. Outside, she can hear birds chirping, school children calling for one another on the sidewalks. It’s comfortable, which is terrifying.
“Are you with Aizen?” he asks after a long moment.
Her eyes fly open, mouth parting in surprise. “No – No! How do you –“
Ichigo turns away from her, mouth a thin line. “He’s the mob boss with the biggest hold here. I assumed –“
“No,” she says immediately, good hand curled into a fist. “No, I’m with –“ and she pauses here, wetting her lips.
He glances at her, a tiny smile sharp at his mouth. “You’re with the Society,” he finishes.
Panic rises in her throat, bitter in the back of her mouth. “Yes,” she says, because she can’t lie to him, not when he looks at her like that and he took care of her.
He lets out a deep breath, hands resting on his knees. “Are you after Aizen’s people?”
She bites her lip and shifts uneasily on the edge of the bed. “Yes,” she says again.
Grunting, he glances at her again. She wonders how old he is; he seems caught between a boy and a grown man, between the responsibilities she’s imagined for him and how he acts around her. It’s only been hours, but somehow, she finds herself curious.
“I’ll help you,” he says at last.
She raises her eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“You can’t take anyone on alone, not with your hand like that. It’ll take weeks for everything to knit back together the right way, and you have jobs to finish, or so you said,” he says flatly. “I’ll help you.”
“You – Ichigo –“ she stutters. “You’re a doctor!”
He smiles then, a sharp white slice of teeth that isn’t funny in the least. “I won’t kill anyone.”
“Why?” she blurts out, her temples throbbing.
His face darkens, closes to her. He stands, running his knuckles over his pant legs. “You can stay here. I told my dad and sisters I had a friend coming from medical school, as a cover.”
“I don’t know anything about medical school,” she says crossly.
He shrugs. “Eh, so you dropped out.”
“Ichigo, this is –“
“You can’t do it alone, Rukia,” he says sharply, with enough force to stop her mouth. “I can be useful.”
All she can do is stare, a weird sort of tightness constricting her chest. He stands still in the middle of the room for a moment, his fists trembling at his sides. Everyone has secrets, she thinks as she watches him, the hard line of his jaw and the fall of his strangely vivid hair, bright in the sunlight.
“Make your plans. Come downstairs if you want. I’ve got patients,” he says at last. He leaves the room quickly, white coat flapping behind him.
Rukia sits for a long time, staring at the plain black suitcase in the corner, and wonders whether she’s about to get someone else killed.
When she finally ventures out of Ichigo’s room, after a shower and a change of clothes, his youngest sister Yuzu has breakfast prepared and a guest room set up for her. Karin, the middle girl, is the one from the park and the sports team yesterday, tall and slightly sullen. She has just a bit of bite to her, and reminds Rukia a little of Nanao, her no-nonsense attitude. Isshin and Ichigo are already in the clinic section of the building. She feels nearly at home here, with the business of work and the residence wrapped up into one package.
“That’s a nasty injury,” Karin says as they finish their tea, eyes dark on her.
Rukia swallows, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. Her hand aches, the fingers immobile. Less than twelve hours ago, she sat here and let a strange man set her broken fingers with just sake and his voice in her ear.
“Car accident, a few days ago,” she says shortly.
Yuzu tsks softly as she bustles around the kitchen, looking much older than her fifteen years. Karin’s gaze flickers from Rukia’s face to her hand and back again. Rukia can see the family resemblance there.
“I got something like that once,” Karin says at last, holding up her left hand. Rukia can see the remainders of short thick scars on the top of her hand. “Football injury.”
“You play?” Rukia asks politely. She already knows, but ignorance is better to make conversation with.
“Oh, she plays on the boys’ team!” Yuzu exclaims before Karin can open her mouth. “She’s so terrific. That accident happened during the championship game. I thought Ichigo was going to rip off that boy’s head!”
Karin flushes and ducks her head. “It’s not that big a deal,” she mutters, the perfect seventeen-year-old response. “Ichigo set it just fine.”
“I hope he knocked you out,” Rukia says, a small smile playing at her mouth.
“Oh, Daddy wasn’t going to let him, but he did. Daddy said it would build character, to sit through it,” Yuzu says from the sink, shaking her head.
“He’s an idiot,” Karin mutters.
“But Ichigo just sat Daddy down and told him to mind his own business,” Yuzu finishes.
“You mean Ichigo knocked him out,” Karin says dryly.
A laugh bubbles up in Rukia’s chest, hard to swallow and contain. She sips her tea as the sisters go back and forth, her eyes straying to the entrance to the clinic. There is a warmth here that’s foreign to her, and yet – she already likes this weird family, this tall man with mysterious reasons for helping her.
If the comfort she feels is slashed with dread, she isn’t surprised.
*
“How old are you?” Ichigo asks the next evening as they walk in the sunset towards the nicer parts of town, on their way to the second hit on her list.
Rukia shifts her sling across her shoulder, reassured by the weight of her gun at her thigh and the press of her knives at her wrist and spine. The weather is cooler here than in Tokyo, spring still light and breezy in the air. She likes the lingering smell of cherry blossoms, the wide expanses of green. In another life, she would like a life here, a world to build here of her own.
“Why do you want to know?” she asks instead of answering, smoothing her hand over the sleek line of her dress. What she doesn’t say is that she wants to ask the same thing of him. His sisters are still in high school, and his father seems ageless, worshipping the ghost of a wife long gone. There is an odd familiarity to his father; she feels as if she should know Isshin Kurosaki, know the tone of his voice and the force of his presence in a room. But he is just a doctor, like Ichigo, and that’s all he says on that.
Ichigo shrugs, hands stuffed into his trouser pockets. “You look like you’re fourteen. A little young for the mob business.”
She elbows him in the ribs, glaring at him. “Idiot. I am not fourteen.”
“So?”
Sighing, she wets her lips as they turn a corner. They are on their way to a party thrown by one of Aizen’s henchmen, an invitation set up weeks ago through a secret network of her brother’s contacts. It’s actually helpful to have Ichigo by her side, now. A young woman alone at one of these functions is more suspicious than a notable doctor-in-training and his girlfriend, which is their cover story. They met when she came in with a broken hand and it was love at first splint, he offered with a cheeky grin as they were getting ready, and she had to smack him just on principle for enjoying it too much.
“I’m twenty-one,” she says at last, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow. They were close enough to the house that they could be under surveillance. Can’t be too careful, she repeated to him over and over as she went over the logistics of the night between his patients and Isshin’s brash interruptions.
He glances her over, brows raised. “Wow.”
“What about you?” she asks, now that she has the opening.
“What about me?” he asks, his hand covering hers at his elbow.
She bites her lip, struggling against the flush hovering at her throat. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-two,” he says.
“And you’re almost a fully licensed doctor?”
He shrugs, his fingers curling into hers. She tightens her grip instinctually, and it’s just bizarre, how they seem to slot together. “Eh, I skipped a few levels in school. I was an advanced kid.”
She shakes her head, looking straight ahead. The sound of her heels clicking on the pavement is the only sound between them for a block. He is warm and silent next to her, his profile sharp in the orange-red sunset.
“You remember the plan, yes?” she asks at last.
“Yeah, yeah. I remember,” he murmurs.
Her hand twinges with pain, a dull throbbing radiating through her whole arm. He had wanted her to take more pain medication, but she refused. She needs to be sharp tonight, needs the edge of pain to keep her on her toes.
“You’ll be okay, yeah?” he asks after a moment, his eyes dark on her.
She wets her lips and nods as they turn the corner, walking up the lantern-lit path to the looming mansion ahead. “I’m always okay,” she murmurs.
“Bet you say that a lot.”
“Because it’s true,” she retorts.
He laughs, a short low sound that sends a shiver through her spine. “Sure.”
“Shut up, Ichigo,” she warns as they pass under an elaborate wooden arch decorated with pale white flowers.
“Is that any way to talk to your boyfriend?” he teases, mouth quirking at the corners.
She doesn’t reply, cheeks spotted with hot color.
This is going to be a long evening, she thinks as they walk into the spacious and open house.
*
“Doing this at parties is the worst,” Rukia murmurs as they linger in the guest bathroom.
Ichigo snorts, running the faucet. “Harder to get rid of bodies, I guess.”
“Or staging them convincingly,” she murmurs, watching as he scrubs the blood from his hands with a hard vigor. “You all right?”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “You’ve gotta stop going rogue though.”
She bristles, sitting on the white marble sink and replacing her knives and gun on her body. Her thighs part on instinct, and it’s just like any other hit, except she can feel the weight of his gaze on her, and it’s completely different. “You were busy, and the target was getting ready to leave. I had to make a decision.”
“That’s all fucking well and good, but you’re down one hand and I’m all you have,” he snaps back. The water runs pink down the white bowl of the sink. The lighting is dim; she has a hard time seeing whether the puffiness and the redness from the punch to his cheek is faded enough to go back out into the sea of people. They’ve been gone less than ten minutes. She hopes it’s not long enough to be of note.
“Fine, fine,” she says, arching her back to slide her last blade back into place. His gaze lingers, though her continues to scrub at his hands. “Where did you learn to fight like that?” she asks, reaching over to thumb a bit of blood from the corner of his mouth.
“My dad,” he says shortly, grabbing her hand and pulling it underneath the water. He scrubs at her skin for her, his fingers gentle on hers. “He’s obsessed with making sure we’re all prepared, just in case.”
“In case of what?” she asks, a little flabbergasted. It feels nice, to talk to him normally after he took punches for her and beat a smirking drug lord into the ground before she shot him clean in the head.
“Eh, anything,” he says with a shrug.
She’s about to press further, just as she wants to about why he’s helping her in the first place, but they both freeze as heavy footsteps linger outside the door. “Shit,” she whispers, tugging him across the lip of the sink and between her thighs. “Shit- just – Ichigo –“
It takes him just those three words to catch on. His damp fingers catch at her face, the fancy knot of her hair at the nape of her neck, and he kisses her, mouth hot and easy on hers. She shuts her eyes even as she is startled by the simplicity and instinct in her movements. Her thighs press to his hips, her good hand curling in the starched fabric of his shirt under his blazer. He presses her against the mirror and twists her so that her back is angled to the door, so that her face is hidden.
There’s a knock on the door as his tongue presses against the seam of her lips. She can’t help the gasp pushing out from her throat as his fingers drag down her throat. The door opens as her mouth parts to his, her fingers twisting at the collar of his shirt.
“Hey – Oh! Oh,” a man’s voice says, high-pitched and effete. “Well, I am sorry –“
Ichigo raises his mouth from hers, keeping her face ducked close to his shoulder. “Eh, sorry, friend. Got carried away, I guess,” he says. She can feel the reverberation of his voice, low and gravelly, in his chest.
“No, of course –“
“We’ll be right out, if you –“
“Yes, sure –“ the gentleman says, and suddenly they are alone again.
Rukia looks up just as Ichigo licks his lips and meets her gaze. “That worked, yeah?” he says at last, eyes very dark with just the hint of gold. His pupils are blown wide, his cheeks high with color.
“Yes,” she says at last, her skin flushed. “Good – good job.”
He ducks his head with a shrug and leans away from her, helping her down from the counter. “How do you get the gun to stay there on your thigh?” he asks as they leave the bathroom and make their way back to the main floor, and the sea of guests.
She smacks his arm, her knees still weak from the feel of his mouth on hers. “You’re an ass,” she mutters.
Grinning, he takes her hand in his as they melt into the crowd. They are there for another twenty minutes before they leave with a group of guests, walking together into the cool spring night air.
If she says she doesn’t go to bed thinking of his hands on her, and the feel of his lips on hers, she’s lying.
*
Two weeks pass, another hit between them. They learn each other, and their ticks and tells. She decides to make up codes for the two of them, a language just between them, so they can plan in the middle of every situation. He grumps and groans about it, but catches on quickly enough.
They never speak of the bathroom, of the kiss. But when his eyes linger on her at the breakfast table over tea, or as she’s putting a bullet between the eyes of another drug kingpin in a dark park near the shoreline, the smell of salt water heavy in her nose, she thinks of it.
She thinks he’s thinking about it, too.
Time passes and melts into June. Before she knows it, four hits are down and she has a week or so left before she needs to check in, and head back to Tokyo. Already, she’s concerned of what might be trickling back to the Society, and to Aizen as well. At night when she can’t sleep, she sits at the tiny desk in the guest room across the hall from Ichigo and writes out coded notes for him, contingency plans in case something should go wrong. His family, this crazy family of his that has taken her in and made her breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and taught her the finer points of football once day in the street, they deserve to be safe.
Ichigo deserves to be safe.
He’s a puzzle to her, sometimes. He can be incredibly annoying, and dense, and just generally moronic. But other times, he is quiet and very still. The way he fights, with a sharp precision borne from years of his father’s training, it complements her. She works well with him in a way she hasn’t felt with anyone else, even Kaien. And he watches her all the time, even when she’s drinking tea or arm wrestling with Isshin (it happened and she couldn’t stop it; The fact that it made her feel a part of the family is something she’s decided to ignore). It feels stranger to have him watch her like that than it does when she’s finishing the hit, more familiar.
One night, as she sketches out the plan for the last hit, the big one – the head man of Aizen’s outpost here in Karakura Town, Ichigo knocks at her open bedroom door, still dressed in his work clothes.
“Rukia.”
She glances over her shoulder, elbows resting on the scratched wood of the desk. “Hi.”
“Tomorrow – I can’t do anything tomorrow,” he says quietly, eyes hooded. His hair falls across his brow, shadowing his face.
She wets her lips, tentatively flexing the fingers of her injured hand. She is able to use it without the sling now, though she still sleeps with it secured. By the time she reports back to Tokyo, she should have nearly full mobility back, though stiffness will remain.
“What’s tomorrow?” she asks after a moment.
He ducks his head, hands shoved in his pockets. “The anniversary of my mother’s death. We do family things. I just – I can’t blow them off,” he murmurs.
“Oh,” she says softly, thinking of the parents she never knew, the sister lost to her when she was too young to know her. There is a story here, dark tender places she has yet to know, has yet to ask of. She may never ask, at this point. She doesn’t know why she cares, except she does. “Well – yes. Of course, Ichigo. The day after, will be all right?”
He nods, leaning against the doorframe. “Yeah, fine. Last one?”
“Last one, she says with a slow sort of smile.
He looks at her, mouth drawn down at the corners. “I don’t feel bad about it,” he says at last, moving into her room and shutting the door behind him.
She watches uneasily as he walks over and sits on the edge of her bed. He is in here more often than not, to plan and strategize; but the air feels different between them tonight, a thick heaviness that has little to do with the humidity, the threat of summer rain. “I don’t either.”
Resting his hands on his knees, he glances over at her. “Yeah. But you’re trained for it.”
“You might as well be. You’re very good,” she says.
Laughing, he shrugs, shoulders hunched. “Well, anyway. In case you were worried about lingering psychological trauma, or whatever.”
“I wasn’t, actually,” she says immediately, her mouth dry. “I’m more worried about what happens next.”
“You mean when you leave,” he says flatly. The words curl with something like disappointment, bitterness easy on his tongue.
“I suppose, yes.”
He shrugs again, raking a hand through his hair. “I won’t rat you out. Just promise not to take a hit out on me,” he drawls.
It’s not me you have to worry about, she thinks sadly, a lump settling at her throat. “I know you won’t,” she says at last, rising from her chair and moving to stand in front of him. There is such an aura of bitterness, of resignation radiating from him now. Her fingers itch to run through his hair, touch the line of his jaw. In truth, she wants his mouth on hers again, like all those weeks ago. That is a step too far, too dangerous now.
Looking up at her, he straightens up. His fingers flex on his pant legs. “I wish I could do more,” he says at last.
“Why, though?” she asks at last, the question lingering on her tongue. “Why?”
After a long thick silence, he sets his jaw. “Aizen killed my mother. In front of me,” he says evenly.
Her mouth falls open in surprise. “Ichigo.”
“Or one of his men did, I guess. But it was on his orders,” he says.
She lets her hand fall to his shoulder then, a light weight. She likes the feel of his starched shirt under her fingertips. “Why?”
“I have no idea. But I’ll never forget it,” he says darkly. “And I want them all dead.”
Instinct moves her to lean down, brush her mouth across his brow. It’s a half-memory, perhaps, of a comfort from a sister she barely remembers. “I’m sorry,” she says as he meets her gaze, eyes wide with surprise.
One of his hands rises, grips at her hip. “He’s a shitty guy. I hope you guys kill him,” he murmurs, licking his lips.
“So do I,” she says, her fingers curling into his shoulder.
“What did he do to you?” he asks, pulling her closer inch by inch. She is nearly standing between his legs, and her nerves are on fire, her mouth dry.
“Killed my parents. Turned my partner into a mole,” she says at last, the words heavy on her tongue as her knees hit the bed.
“Your partner?”
“He’s dead now,” she says curtly, her hair falling across her throat and shoulders.
Ichigo’s mouth twists slightly. “Okay.”
“This is a bad idea,” she says, shaking her head.
“Okay,” he repeats, his hand spread wide at the length of her hip and upper thigh.
“Okay,” is all she gets out before his mouth is on hers again, unhurried and languid. It’s slow and warm and easy, the graze of his teeth at her lower lip, the press of his fingers at her hip. He pulls her down so that she straddles his hips, her knees pressing into the bed.
“Seriously. This is not a good idea,” she murmurs into his mouth, her good hand caught in the thick mess of his hair.
He laughs, a hot little press of air against her lips. “Don’t give a shit.”
“Sometimes you are such a child,” she mutters even as he mouths at the line of her jaw, pulling her flush to his chest.
“Why? Because I’ve been thinking about this since the night at the mansion?” he asks, eyes too dark on hers.
She falters, her fingers falling to the hard line of his jaw. “Ichigo –“
He leans in and covers her mouth with his again, his hands restless at her ribs, the curve of her breasts through her shirt. She gasps a little, sighs a little, and shuts her eyes as his hands smooth down her stomach towards her parted thighs. His tongue presses against hers as his fingers play at the hem of her skirt, sliding and skimming over bare skin. With the hand she has to her use, she tugs at the collar of his shirt, struggling with buttons.
“This is so unfair,” she breathes into his mouth, fingers grasping at buttons and holes.
With a hoarse laugh, he turns her and presses her back into the mattress, their heads at the end and their feet entangled at the pillows. “Maybe just let someone do something for you for once, Rukia,” he murmurs at the corner of her mouth, his fingers edging along the lace of her panties.
“What does that mean?” she demands through a sharp exhale, shivers skimming right under her muscles and nerves.
“It means shut up,” he says with a smirk, biting at her mouth as his finger slides against her clit.
She swears under her breath, a low rumbling moan in her chest. His mouth lingers at her throat and collarbones, edging at the scar left by her last encounter with Aizen on the rooftop. He slides a finger into her, slow and careful, and she shifts with the stretch. It’s been a while, a long while; there had been a brief whatever with Hitsugaya, another higher-up in Society, but he was too serious, too somber, and besides there had been something missing.
Here, with Ichigo’s careful fingers drawing out breath after breath, his mouth gentle on the scars and curves of her body, she feels it all, feels everything. Everything is breaking in her, softening and shattering with the crest of warmth through her chest. He brings this out in her, and she can’t place it, can’t explain it – just as she knows she brings out something in him, something new.
As he thumbs lazily at her clit, she turns and chases for his mouth, her good hand desperate in his hair. She breathes his name through the sharp stuttering of her chest, his mouth wet and hot on hers. Under him, she breaks apart, her hips pressing and searching against his hand.
He bites at her mouth and jaw as she settles back against the bed, muscles shivering. She watches with wide eyes as he drags his wet fingers along her bare thigh and back up to his mouth. “Jesus, Ichigo,” she breathes as he licks his fingers. Her hand dives down his chest towards the button of his trousers. He’s hard against her thigh, overwarm and startling against her body.
“Watch your hand,” he murmurs with a groan as her fingers curl around his hard length. He keeps her injured hand loosely pinned at the side of her head, for safekeeping. Her mouth is soft on his, her fingers twisting and thumbing at his cock.
It’s the little things, she thinks as she watches him come apart above her, the tight knot of tension he carries with him everywhere unraveling piece by piece, even just for a moment.
“You think they’re going to come back for the rest of the family, don’t you?” she asks later, tucked into a corner of her bed with his head at her stomach. Her fingers slide through the thick fall of his hair.
He doesn’t make a sound for a long time. The room is thick shadows and summer darkness around them, the air damp with a coming storm. “My dad does, yeah.”
She sighs, shifting as his hands, still sticky and warm, curl at her knees. “And he won’t say why?”
“No,” Ichigo says, voice dark and low. She wishes she could see more of his face.
“Is that why you watch the girls?” she asks softly.
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
Her eyes stray to the notes on her desk, the codes and circles scribbled across crumpled paper. A lump rises in her throat. “They’ll be fine, Ichigo,” she says at last.
His weight shifts as he rises up on his hands, his face very close to hers. “You can’t promise that.”
“I’m pretty sure I just did,” she retorts, color rushing back to her cheeks.
He shakes his head, eyes too dark on hers. “You’ll leave eventually. Then what?”
Wetting her lips, she opens her mouth to speak, but there are no words on her tongue. He watches her for just a moment more before he leans in, his mouth catching hers. She can taste sweat and sake and the lingering tang of her on his tongue. Her good fingers scrape at his scalp, press at the nape of his neck. Then what? repeats in her ears even in the silence.
“You can stay,” she says as he shifts to get up from the bed.
“Planning on it. Now that I’ve got you, and all,” he drawls. “Just, you know, getting pajamas, or whatever.”
In the darkness, his smile is still wide and white. She returns it even as dread sinks into every open pore of her skin.
What now? she thinks as she waits for him to come back, breathing in thick summer air that smells of rain. It rolls on repeat in her mind even once he returns, as she falls asleep with his mouth at her ear and his hand on her waist.
It’s the easiest she’s slept in months, years, really.
*
In the morning when she wakes, the family is already gone. Ichigo leaves a note on her desk, coded in their own special language, letting her know where they’ll be if she needs them. Yuzu has left tea and breakfast, but Rukia can’t eat. There are plans to be finished and finalized, plans for everything.
She tries not to think of last night as she writes out notes at her desk, some coded for Ichigo, some not. They have been very careful with the bodies and the disposals and the patterns of the kills. The police believe the murders are a result of Aizen cleaning house; she has no idea what Aizen thinks, or how much he knows.
She is just getting ready to leave the house to scope out the haunts of the last hit, when the telltale crunch of gravel under slow tires curls in her ears. Gun easy in her hand, she leans over the desk and peers out the window. A black sedan with tinted windows rolls past the house at a crawl, towards the end of the block.
Her mouth goes dry as adrenaline kicks in. It could be nothing, she thinks to herself as it turns the corner. The fingers of her injured hand twitch.
Then, it comes back. The car stops and a tall dark-skinned man with dreadlocks and a visor across his eyes slips out of the car. Even from the third floor, she can tell he’s carrying. Recognition curls through her; this is Tosen, Aizen’s second in command.
They know, she thinks as she grabs the manila envelope with the last photo in it and shoves in between her body and her dress. She is out the window and shimmying down the drainage pipe with her gun just hanging from the curled fingers of her injured hand as they enter the house. She doesn’t worry about the notes as she starts off for the cemetery Ichigo said they would be; the important ones are in code, after all. Even with her running start, she will barely beat them there, if they know where to go.
They always know.
*
She finds Ichigo alone in the woods behind the cemetery, staring up into the grey sky.
“Ichigo!” she shouts, out of breath and damp with sweat and humidity.
His head jerks back to look at her, shock lining his face. “Rukia, what –“
“They came to the house,” she pants as she reaches him. Her hand throbs, her gun loose as it’s tucked into the holster at her thigh. “Aizen’s men – Tosen – they –“
Ichigo’s hands fall to her arms, keeping her upright as she catches her breath. Her hair sticks to her throat and jaw, her fingers trembling. “Did they come for you?” he asks, voice steady and even.
“I don’t know – but if it’s for your family, they’ll know to come here, won’t they? Where is your family?” she asks, voice thin and reedy.
Ichigo jerks his head towards the path leading to the gravestones. “Picnic. I needed a minute to myself.”
“Come on,” she says as she grabs his hand and pulls him through the tall grasses and weaves between trees, a shortcut towards the path. “Do you have anything on you?”
“Give me one of your knives, I’ll be fine,” he mutters, his fingers twining into hers as they run. His other hand slides over her upper arm and under the capped sleeve of her dress, finding the knife she keeps at her ribs.
The muscles of her legs burn and ache, trembling with every step; she is already stretched to her limits from the run to the cemetery, and her hand throbs with every pulse of her heart. Next to her, Ichigo presses on, keeping her moving forward. Thunder rumbles above them, the sky opening up. Slivers and pinpricks of rain catch at her eyelashes.
“This could end very badly,” she says to him breathlessly as they trample down the stone stairs to the walkway of gravestones.
“For them, sure,” he says, shooting her a sharp little smile.
“Ichigo –“ she starts, before a fist catches her stomach at the bottom of the stairs. She crumples, the breath leaving her in a harsh shout of an exhale, and rolls to a stop in the grimy damp sidewalk. Pain radiates from her stomach, crippling her as she struggles to lever herself to a stand.
“Rukia!” Ichigo shouts.
A shadow falls over her, tall and broad. “Ah, Kuchiki-san. Aizen-sama has been wondering after you,” Tosen says, voice low and smooth.
She swipes rainwater from her eyes and pushes into a stand, dark spots still flickering in front of her eyes. “Leave them out of this,” she says through the ache pulsing in her middle.
Tosen smiles, a sharp slice of white in his dark face. His visor is spotted with rain, shielding his sightless eyes. “You know that isn’t how this works. It seems the younger Kurosaki is your new partner. Another one to die at your hands?”
She inches back from him, feet crackling in the gravel and grime. Her eyes shift to Ichigo, who stands restrained by two of Tosen’s well-suited brutes. The knife is tucked into his jeans pocket; she can see little spots of blood at his thigh where it cut through the denim, but he still has it.
Ichigo tugs at his restrained arms, his fingers inching closer and closer to the knife’s hilt. He keeps his eyes on her, face calm. Okay, she thinks, wetting her lips. Okay.
“Kaien signed his own death sentence,” she says curtly, resting a hand at her thigh. She can reach her gun in less than a second, if she has enough space between them.
“I believe you signed it for him, Kuchiki. And your own as well, with the work you’ve done here in Karakura Town. The old man needs to understand that we are in charge now,” Tosen says, the barrel of his gun dull in the rainy light.
Rain slides down her throat and the line of her jaw. “Let him go, Tosen. He has nothing to do with this.”
“Is that so? I find that hard to believe,” he says, turning his head back in Ichigo’s direction. “It’s in his blood, after all.”
Ichigo’s face furrows, as she pauses in her slow inching backwards. With her injured hand, she feels for the wall’s edge, for leverage.
“We’ll kill him quickly, though. Aizen-sama is much more interested in seeing you suffer, Kuchiki,” Tosen adds, voice clipped and dark.
“I scarred him, after all,” she taunts, her heel hitting the wall with a silent press. She lifts her knee slightly, her fingers curling at the hem of her skirt. “Made him bleed where no one else has.”
“And you will pay. As the whole Society will,” Tosen says, his fingers twitching at his gun. His dark suit is spotted with rain, sleek and easy in the grey light. “But first,” he says, and a heavy anvil of dread lands in her stomach.
“Ichigo!” she shouts as Tosen wheels around and fires.
Ichigo is ahead of her by a beat; he stabs one of the brutes between the ribs, right at the kidneys. Blood darkly stains the suit as the man drops; Ichigo falls with him, pulling the other man into the line of fire. Rukia pushes off the wall and barrels into Tosen’s back, leading with her shoulder. They tumble to the ground, her weight falling heavily onto her injured hand. Hands pull at her shoulders, warm and familiar.
“Get behind me,” Ichigo says flatly, his hand under her skirt and plucking the gun from her thigh.
“Wait –“ she gasps out before he’s pressing her behind him, the small of her back hitting the edge of the stone path wall. She hooks the fingers of her good hand into his hip, squeezing hard. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” she hisses. “He’s blind, but –“
“Oh, I know of Tosen,” Ichigo says coolly, his voice sharp and flat in a way she’s never heard it before.
“As I know of you and yours, Kurosaki,” Tosen says evenly as he rises. He favors his weak side, his right shoulder twisted at a funny angle. “I wonder; do you look like her?”
Ichigo stiffens against her, radiating heat and anger. Rukia digs her nails into the jut of his hip. “Don’t, don’t lose it –“ she whispers, pain throbbing through every bone of her body.
“Shut up for once, Rukia,” Ichigo murmurs, his fingers easy and practiced on the lines of her gun. “It’s fine.”
“How chivalrous,” Tosen says flatly. “But you really have no idea what you’re into now.”
Rukia licks the rainwater from her lips, pressing back against the wall. “You should run,” she murmurs at the nape of his neck.
“You’re in no condition to handle him alone,” Ichigo retorts.
“And soon, neither will you,” Tosen says, raising his gun with a quickly fluid motion.
Rukia pushes at Ichigo’s hip and rolls with him onto the ground, gritting her teeth at the sudden explosion of pain in her hand. The bullet explodes in the stone wall, splinters of it catching at their bare skin. They stop a few feet away from the foot of the stairs, her sprawled on top of him. His hand is still heavy on her gun, his pupils wide.
“We have to run,” she whispers as the sounds of Tosen reloading curls in her eyes. “Ichigo –“
“I can’t run, Rukia,” he says sharply, pulling them both to her feet. “He – he killed her –“
“And with good reason,” Tosen says, his voice carrying smoothly over to them through the rain. “It was necessary, to send a message. “
“She was a housewife,” Ichigo snarls, his face twisting. Rukia takes a step back, heart hammering in her chest.
Tosen smiles then, sharp and cutting in the thick humid air. “There is so little you really know, Ichigo.”
And then, he raises his gun.
Rukia pushes off her heel just as Ichigo raises her gun, heart in her throat. A shot rings out as she shoves him back down to the ground, dust and grime and rain thick on her tongue. She sits up and presses her hand to his chest, his abdomen, searching out a wound. “Ichigo –“
“Really, Tosen. Have you gone so soft?” a soft, amused, distinctly male and familiar voice rises above them all.
Rukia turns her head, looking over her shoulder. In the rain, she can barely make out the broad dark-suited man walking towards them, a slip of a woman at his side. Dark brown hair pulled back at his neck, a single strand curls down the line of his face. Tosen lies before him, a dark pool of blood staining his suit and hands as he grasps at his wounded stomach.
“Kyoraku,” Tosen gasps out, hands reaching for his gun.
Eyes wide, Rukia can only stare as Kyoraku Shunsui comes into clearer view, with Nanao, his partner, at his side. They are from another section of Society; he is of the same rank as her brother, though much less serious and somber than Byakuya. Nanao she knows from training days, and secret sparring in the gardens behind the family mansions.
“You didn’t think we’d let little Rukia-san handle you all on her own, did you?” Shunsui murmurs, a smile playing at his mouth. “Ah, you did. How foolish.”
“What the hell are they doing here?” she murmurs, fingers trembling.
“Holy shit,” Ichigo murmurs, levering himself up to a stand. “It’s Shunsui.”
At that, Rukia stares wide-mouthed at Ichigo. “What?”
He grabs her elbow and helps her up, pressing her gun back into her hand. “Old family friend of Dad’s.”
“What?” she repeats, flabbergasted.
Another shot fires, the kill shot; Shunsui crouches over Tosen’s dying body as Nanao moves past him, adjusting her rain-streaked glasses. “Are you all right, Rukia-san?” she asks crisply, walking with ease through the blood and grime on the sidewalk.
Rukia passes a hand over her face. “Yes, I think so,” she says, glancing at Ichigo as she crouches to replace her gun in her thigh holster. “Your sisters –“
“Oh, Yuzu and Karin are fine,” a booming voice calls out from behind Shunsui. “Sent them home with little Nanao-chan half an hour ago!”
Shunsui straightens up as Isshin materializes through the rain. Blood spatters darkly across his shirt and face. In his hand, there is a gun, familiar; it is Society-issued.
Ichigo grabs onto Rukia’s elbow as she rises from her crouch, her weight wavering in shock. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters, rain dripping from his hair.
Rukia, looking from Nanao, to Shunsui, to a grinning Isshin, to Ichigo, who just looks confused and pale, and decides that she needs a drink.
*
Isshin pours the sake for everyone, after the cleanup at the graves.
Rukia, still in her damp, grimy, and bloody dress, takes the cup and sits on the kitchen counter of the Kurosaki house, sipping eagerly. Isshin and Shunsui sit at the table, spread out and lounging, sharing two large bottles between them. Nanao stands behind Shunsui, a light hand on his shoulder, as a reminder of how much not to drink. She has rarely spent enough time in their section of Society to see them interact together, but she’s heard enough stories.
Ichigo doesn’t take the sake offered. He stands opposite from her, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his chin tucked to his chest. He is still in his clothes from earlier, bruised and bloody and soaked through. He hasn’t spoken since they returned home.
“Did you know who I was this whole time?” Rukia asks Isshin at last, the sake light and tart on her tongue.
Isshin leans back in his chair, arm stretched out across the back. “I had a hunch. You look just like your sister, you know.”
She colors at that, ducking her head for a moment. Her hair, damp and tangled, falls across her face. Her fingers tighten around the sake cup. Rain slaps against the wide windows, a thick storm raging.
“Don’t be bashful, Rukia-chan! It’s a compliment,” Isshin says with a broad wink.
“Stop it, jackass,” Ichigo says at last, voice hoarse.
Nanao’s gaze flickers between Ichigo and Rukia. Taking a deep breath, Rukia wets her lips. “How did you get out of Society?” she asks flatly.
Isshin shrugs, mouth curling. “I didn’t, really. When I married Masaki, they allowed me to resettle here. But this has been one of Aizen’s outposts for so long – they wanted eyes here.”
“So you’re still working for Society?” she asks, startled.
This time, it’s Shunsui who laughs lightly, his broad fingers gentle on the sake cup in front of him. “Rukia-san, the details are not important. All that matters is that you are all safe, and that you’ll be coming home to your brother. He worries for you, you know,” he says with a smile.
Ichigo’s gaze is heavy on her. She flushes at the throat, color crawling up her face. “But, I haven’t finished –“
“Tosen is dead, which is more of a success than we could have asked for,” Shunsui cuts in, suddenly all business, though his casual smile remains. “It’s too dangerous to keep you here now. You’ll leave with Nanao-chan and I, tomorrow.”
Silence settles thickly in the kitchen. Rukia sets her sake cup aside, pain throbbing dully in her splinted hand. “Yes, sir,” she says at last.
She can’t look at Ichigo as he pushes off the counter and walks out of the kitchen. His footsteps are heavy on the stairs, echoing harshly in her ears.
“It seems as if you’ve made quite an impression here, Rukia-san,” Shunsui says with a playful little smile.
Nanao smacks his shoulder. “Stop it, sir. That’s incredibly inappropriate,” she says evenly, though her eyes are soft when Rukia meets her gaze.
“But true, true!” Isshin exclaims, pounding his fist on the table. “I knew, I knew from the first moment she beat me in arm wrestling, this was a girl for my Ichigo!”
“You both are incorrigible,” Nanao says with a sigh. “I haven’t missed the two of you together.”
Shunsui’s hand curls at Nanao’s waist through the slats of the chair. “Bring us more sake, will you, sweet Nanao-chan?”
“That is the last thing you two need,” she mutters as she moves to the side table, where the alcohol lives. The two men laugh, leaning in to speak with each other.
Rukia meets Nanao’s gaze, and takes the quiet moment to slide off the counter and slip upstairs.
Ichigo sits at his desk, his bedroom dark despite the early hour. The clouds have settled heavily over Karakura Town, the air warm and thick with humidity. Rukia shuts the door behind her and leans against it for a moment, all the tension and pressure of the day settling on her bones.
“He said you killed him,” Ichigo says at last.
“Who did?” she asks, cradling her hand to her chest on instinct.
“Tosen. He said you killed your partner. Did you?” he asks, back straight. He doesn’t look at her, head bowed over his desk.
The memory curls through her, cool spring breezes and her gun warm in her hands. “Yes,” she says at last. “He turned traitor for Aizen. I had to kill him to get away.”
Pushing back from the desk, he turns to look at her, mouth drawn down at the corners. “I wanted to kill him myself,” he says, voice hoarse and low in his throat. She shivers, fingertips curling on themselves. “I wanted to kill him.”
She keeps his gaze, words thick on her tongue. “I’m glad you didn’t.”
“I’m not,” he mutters.
“Shut up, Ichigo,” she snaps at last, chest constricting. “I didn’t – I don’t want you to become like me,” she says sharply. “You have a family, a real family –“
“I’m all wrapped up in this anyway,” he retorts. “My dad – my fucking dad is a part of it, and my mom –“
“Stop it, stop it,” she cuts in, pushing off the door and walking to him. “I told you that you would be safe. Your sisters will be safe. You can live your life without this – isn’t that what matters?” she asks, her hands curling into his damp and blood-spattered shirt.
His hands, scraped and raw, rise to her face, fitting to her cheeks. Fingers slide into her tangled hair. “I don’t know anymore,” he says, gritting out through his teeth. “I just – Rukia –“
She doesn’t want to hear what he’s trying to say. Instead, she leans up on her toes and kisses him, her mouth cool on his, stopping the words on his tongue. His fingers twine in her hair and tug her even closer, his mouth hot and open, always open over hers. It’s over, she thinks as he presses her back onto his bed and drags his mouth across her jaw and throat, her name a low mantra on his lips. His hands strip her of her damp dress as she pushes and tugs at his shirt and jeans. They brush and press at tender raw places and swallow the hisses and moans, teeth biting and tongues sharp.
“I’ll find you, you know,” he whispers as he sinks into her, his fingers at her clit and his mouth lingering near her ear.
She shuts her eyes, shifting her hips as she stretches around him, her hand digging into his shoulders. He has her still-injured hand clasped above her head loosely, to keep it from hard. “Stop it,” she murmurs, her lips at his jaw. She can taste blood and rain on his skin. Her thighs press at his hips, her heel falling into the groove of his spine.
His finger trails lazily at her clit as he moves within her, pressing her into the bed. “You don’t think I will? Leave, sure. But I will find you,” he murmurs at her ear, his lips soft on her skin.
She doesn’t have the heart to tell him that life rarely works out that way, even for those in the normal sphere of the world.
When she feels herself breaking apart under his mouth and his touch, he pulls back to watch her, his eyes dark and heavy on her face. Color flushes her throat and cheeks as she holds his gaze, the breath shattering in her chest and coming out in gasps and starts, a low moan starting in her stomach and traveling up. She comes and cannot shut her eyes, can’t keep him out of her sight. His mouth covers hers, swallows the sounds of her down with his tongue and his body. She holds him steady, their fingers intertwining as he moves in her, her name leaving his lips in a low hoarse moan, reverberating against her skin.
In the morning, she is the one to leave him sleeping, with all the coded notes in a pile on his desk.
She does not speak his name again for months.
*
The Kuchiki mansion is quiet, a soft sort of snow silence.
Rukia fixes tea in the wide spacious kitchen, the tile cold under her bare feet. There is a Society gathering, a party of sorts for the holidays that also masks as a fundraiser for those politicians they support; she stayed for an appropriate amount of time, and then pleaded off to leave early. Byakuya, still stoic and silent as ever, let her go without a question, perhaps even a softening of the usual stony lines of his face. So she is practically alone in the mansion, with just the snow and the wind to keep her company, as well as the gun always at her thigh.
Everything has changed since she returned from Karakura Town. The revelation of the Kurosaki connection is muffled, of course; but she is different, and the way the higher officers treat her is, too, as if she has proved something. Aizen still chases and threatens, but he is weakened by the loss of Tosen, and Karakura Town is no longer the stronghold it was for him. Society even has a permanent house there now, where Shunsui and Nanao are currently stationed.
She almost asked to be placed there, to go back; but with the way she left, she wasn’t certain of the wisdom of that request.
Instead, she remains in Tokyo, close to her brother’s side, performing minor hits. Now she focuses mostly on intelligence gathering and undercover operations in Aizen’s stronghold. The memory of Kaien’s death is like a bad dream sometimes, easy to bat away; it has all but been forgotten by most of Society, she thinks.
Ichigo, however, haunts her night and day.
Rukia sits on the counter, something she wouldn’t dare do if her brother was in the house, and holds the tea close to her chest, letting the warmth seep into her stiff fingers. Her kimono settles as she does, ice-blue and too fancy for her usual wardrobe. She leans her head against the cabinets and sighs softly.
“Is that just your spot in any kitchen?”
Her fingers tighten around the tea cup. “Now it is,” she says after a beat, warmth flushing her throat. She looks to her left, to the open doorway of the kitchen, and sees Ichigo, leaning in the door frame.
“Suits you,” he says with a shrug, hands tucked into his trouser pockets. He’s dressed up, like the night they went to that party in Karakura Town, and suddenly every moment, every touch, every press of skin is first in her mind.
The fingers from her healed hand twitch. “What are you doing here?”
He bites his lip on a smirk. “Follow-up care for your hand.”
“Ichigo, really. How did you get in here?” she asks after a moment.
“Your brother told me where you were,” he says. “Kind of a repressed dude, eh?”
“Byakuya?” she says, shocked.
Ichigo pushes off the doorframe and approaches her, gaze dark. She can’t make out all the lines of his face, the planes and angles she thinks of sometimes in the night when she can’t sleep. “Dad’s up at the party, you know. Shunsui brought us along. Guess the old man wanted to see Dad.”
She sets her tea aside as he comes to stand in front of her. His hands remain in his pockets. “The old man?” she asks dryly.
“That’s what Dad and Shunsui call him,” he says with a shrug. “Dad’s getting back into in, you know.”
“I didn’t,” she says softly. Her fingers settle in her lap, shifting over the smooth silk of her kimono.
He leans in towards her, hair falling across his brow. In the wintery darkness he looks older, much more serious than before. She wets her lips. “Well, it’s not like you write, or visit.”
“I thought it would be easier that way, idiot,” she retorts. “I told you –“
“And I told you, too,” he says, hands rising to rest on either side of her, palms flat on the counter.
She rolls her eyes. Her hair slides across her cheek and throat, still loose and damp from the snow. “I don’t know what you expect of this,” she says evenly.
“I don’t, either. All I know is that you changed my life,” he says, serious and low. His voice reverberates against her skin. A flush crawls up her throat. “You changed it.”
Leaning back, she rests against the cabinets. He follows her, chases, as he always does. “You don’t really even know me,” she says softly.
He scoffs, his hands sliding over to rest on her thighs. He plucks at the silk of her kimono, his mouth very close to hers. “Yeah, I think I fucking do.”
“Do you have to ruin it like that?” she snaps as her thighs part, and he stands between her legs.
His fingers trace the lines of her holster and gun through her kimono. “C’mon, Rukia,” he says, eyes dark on hers. She can trace the flecks of amber-gold in them, with his face so close.
“You’re an idiot,” she says at last, tipping her mouth up towards his. “And my brother is going to hate you.”
Ichigo smirks, his mouth grazing hers. “Oh, yeah. He already does. But my dad is hot shit up here, or something like that.”
“Oh stop it,” she mutters, pressing her hands to his chest. She can feel the lingering chill from the outside air on his coat and shirt. “I can still kill you any time I want.”
He kisses her then, and though it’s been months, the instinct is still there where she’s never felt it anywhere else, the press of his tongue at her lips, the opening of her mouth under his. Her fingers curl into his starched shirt as his hands pull at her waist, fingers plucking at the belt of her kimono.
“Looking forward to it,” he murmurs against her mouth, a smirk curving at her skin.
Rukia shuts her eyes and breathes.
*