Disclaimer: Bleach is Kubo's.
Title: These Scars of Mine
Rating: T, for maybe a tiny, itsy bitsy bit of lime.
Character Focus: Kuchiki Rukia, Kurosaki Ichigo
Setting: Time could be anytime Rukia is at the Kurosaki residence, really. If you read closely, you'll see hints that this is actually meant to be a prequel to my other Bleach story (which I will finish, soon hopefully, I promise).
Description: On the marks she bears, what they mean to her, and why she is not ashamed even when Ichigo looks upon them.
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Embarrassment was something lost to her a lifetime ago. Body-shyness was a phenomenon saved for those of a more delicate upbringing. She had grown up a scruffy street rat with Renji and the others, without even a modesty screen to hide behind and make-believe for a second she had such luxuries.
She was used to living in uncertain territory – of sleeping with one eye and both ears delegated to restlessness, and never blinking but for a second even in the light of day. And so, when the door slammed open behind her, she did not jump, and nor was she even particularly surprised. Even without his reiatsu flaring like a beacon and lighting his every move for her other eye, her ears had instinctively followed the heavy shuffling of male footsteps, and the back of her neck had instinctively prickled as her mind counted the steps, cataloged the telltale pause, noted the hissing of the doorknob –
It was clear from the blank look of shock on his face that the discretion had not been deliberate. She would not trivialize herself so much as to say he has forgotten he was sharing his room. Besides, if her mind cataloged every errant noise as diligently as if she were in the midst of enemy territory even now – even here – then she could certainly forgive him for relaxing and allowing his instincts to take over in this, his own home.
She hesitated, pilfered shirt wrapping arms frozen in midair, slid halfway down her arms but not at all over her body. Her back (cold, uncovered, naked) was to him, blocking any view that might have been embarrassing (for him – she had grown up with boys on the street, trained with guys in the academy, lived and breathed and died with men on the battlefield) but after several seconds passed in awkward silence and there was no hurried shuffling of retreat, Rukia looked unrepentantly over her shoulder at him.
"I apologize, Ichigo. I will only require your room for a few moments longer," she sniffed in clear dismissal. Hesitated.
Silence.
"Rukia –" His voice was choked, coming from somewhere deep in his chest and smoldering with emotion she could not quite interpret. Unbalanced by the tone, she shot another look over her shoulder.
She wished she hadn't. The horror on his face was clear as day, and hurriedly (agitatedly), she yanked the shirt over her head. "I'm sorry it disgusts you," she snapped, though she wasn't.
A tiny, petty corner of her mind lamented that he had seen her brands. Had seen the marks that would forever ruin her body. She was not Orihime, pretty and pure and perfect, the little voice wailed.
She was not pretty.
Rukia huffed; petty little voices were also niceties saved for those of a more delicate upbringing.
And so, after a stung moment (a moment of weakness – just one word – just her name – should never have pained her so deeply), the sereneness slipped easily back into place. The subtle, secret little smirk tugged easily on her lips as she turned to face him, clothing now modestly in place. "Well. If you simply couldn't wait a moment longer, you say as much," she jabbed, still agitated, and moved to sidle past him.
She was stopped when a solid hand snagged her arm in passing. His grip was surprisingly ungentle, and her halt was admittedly jarring. "Rukia – I want to know who did that," he spoke so carefully (too carefully), and her mind filled in the blanks. There was something about the soft hoarseness in his voice that unbalanced her – left her dizzy and breathless.
Resentful of the momentary whim, the treacherous corner of her mind intervened. 'He is angry at them for ruining your skin. For making you ugly.'
"Who did that to you?" He demanded rather than asked this time, and the query was less careful and edged far closer to barely restrained anger.
But his temper was only bellows flaming her own, and Rukia snarled, "I did, Ichigo!"
She almost laughed out loud at the stricken look on his face – at the way he dropped her arm as if it burned. Drawing back and aloof, turning up her nose, she somehow managed to look down at him. "My body is a lacework of scars, and every blow was taken by choice. I would change nothing. Each score is a mark of victory."
She lifted her chin, as if challenging him to contradict her. But suddenly she realized he wasn't meeting her gaze, but instead his eyes were glued below hers, slightly to the right…
Agitatedly glancing down, she noticed that his grip on her arm had twisted the shirt off her shoulder, and his gaze was fixed there. Her bristling immediately faded, and gently, Rukia relinquished. She would allow him this explanation, if only because of his gentle eyes. "The shopkeeper had a bladed staff."
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'How were we supposed to know the miserable bastard kept a shikomizue? Miser can't afford a few drops of water for thirsting children, but he can keep steel at his side to cut them down should they try to steal it. Burn in hell, bastard,' she later huffed, face red with fury at the recollection such a despicable individual even existed. He stroked her arm comfortingly – slowly leaned in, then murmured soft nothings in her hair as if it might lessen the pain of recollection of a man so utterly, wrongfully crooked.
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"He meant to get Renji."
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'In the back. In the spine, or the back of the head – I don't really know where the blow would have landed. I just knew it would have landed, and that was enough.' Much later, she was far more demure at this recollection. But even if calm and safely years from the incident, the mere thought of losing Renji – even after their separation for so long, even after years of estrangement and a relationship seemingly perverted beyond all repair – it was enough to sting at her eyes and claw at her throat. If he was uncomfortable with the display of devotion towards the other man, the way he softly leaned forward and brushed away the errant tears from her cheekbones with his lips spoke nothing for it.
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Rukia smiled fondly, eyes caressing the angry red scar that would forever mar the porcelain flesh of her shoulder. "He meant to get Renji," she repeated, more softly this time as she finished the sentence, "but he didn't."
He didn't, because he got her instead. And her shoulder bore the eternal evidence of a call far too close.
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'If only I were a shield…' she later sighed, and was glad the darkness veiled the burning intensity of her cheeks. She had sworn she had no body-shyness – had sworn it was something lost to her along with a carefree childhood and a family who loved her – but gods-be-darned if her stomach didn't flutter like so many hell butterflies as his calloused fingers traced the latticework of scars on her back.
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So many different scenarios played out in her head. She expected any number of responses from him – from agitation at her own apparent lack of self-preservation skills to disgust at the fact that she could possibly show pride in her disfigurements.
His response didn't matter. That winding in her stomach was something she ate. The catch in her breath was from anger at his presumptuousness. The chill was from a draft in the window.
The quiet was unbearable because she was far more comfortable arguing with him.
"I'm… glad he didn't," he finally said, and meant it. "I would like it if you shared this with me," he continued. "The stories, I mean. If you wouldn't mind, that is," he corrected quickly. Then, more quietly – barely audible, as if he was embarrassed – he clarified, "They represent the things most important to you, right? I want to know more about those things."
His response didn't matter, she insisted to herself, but could not think of a reason why her stomach was suddenly doing somersaults, and her cheeks burned so hotly, and her veins turned from ice to fire. 'He gets it,' that corner of her mind screamed joyously while the rest tried vainly to shush it back into quiet. 'He gets me.'
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'But alas, the gods did not see fit to give me skin of steel,' she sighed dramatically in finish, pitching her voice and rolling her eyes in a last-ditch attempt to agitate to him – to get his temper to push this thoughtful, sensitive side of him into a corner. Into a safe corner, far in the depths of his mind. To protect until later, when they might have more time to pull it out and polish it up and experiment and enjoy…
And to let her hide for just a little while longer…
'I'm glad they didn't,' he murmured softly, so clearly taking bait of a different kind. When she felt his tongue (so warm and hot and soft) languidly tracing the mark on her shoulder, all thoughts of baiting or hiding suddenly became the furthest thing from her thoughts.
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Much, much later, she would bear scars marking the times she protected him. She secretly coveted these most of all, sometimes stroking them idly in the late solitude of night, finding it eerily fitting that they were the deepest rooted and seated closest to her heart.
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FIN
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