Trouble in Mind

Disclaimer: don't own. also i have no clue what i'm doing

Somehow he always ends up doing Mashiro's paperwork when he stays too long at the office; sometimes it seems to kind of appear out of nowhere and it's too much trouble to find her and get her to do it herself, even if she's usually doing something that's not strictly protocol. She must find some way to slip it in whenever he takes a break or goes off to do something else; sometimes when Shuuhei's back gets stiff he wishes for a fleeting moment that he could be twenty years younger and working for Tosen again, but he quashes that thought. Even now, it stays with him; he's gotten better at letting go but it's all relative; he still clings to falsehoods and the skins that have been shed rather than the newly-molted people who have emerged.

And sitting in the office on a hot day when he knows how many hollows are out there, when he's breaking a sweat already without even moving, always makes him feel a little bit guilty, as if he's shirking his duty. Paperwork is important, but it's not what he's here for, is it? Shuuhei sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose before picking up a stack of paper and smoothing it out, glancing at the top one before signing. It's not hard, just tedious and impossible to put off, really. He might be able to take some of it to the barracks and finish it then—but they'll find something else for him to do by then; they always do.

He pricks his ears as the wind picks up through the trees; today is still—but the presence of a familiar reiatsu appears and Shuuhei smiles; even when he's trying to be discreet he makes a grand entrance.

"You're back."

Ichigo hops down from the window ledge and crushes Shuuhei in a hug; Shuuhei returns it, kissing Ichigo's neck and relearning the shape of Ichigo in his arms (in a month he's gotten just a bit leaner and his grip is tighter and his hands grasp the back of Shuuhei's uniform just a bit differently but the scent of battle is still the same on him and still not faded yet and his arms are at the same angles around Shuuhei's torso and there's rough stubble on the bottom of his chin in the same place he always misses shaving and it's so good—that word is such bullshit, doesn't even begin to describe the emotions whirling around inside of Shuuhei—to have him back).

"They let you go that quickly?"

"Nah, I have to make a report but I figured I'd catch you first."

"And tear me away from my work?" Shuuhei arches an eyebrow.

Only a few years ago he would have said similar words and meant them seriously, but even though now he does not take his duty lightly by any stretch, he can fake it a bit (and it helps that the stack in his hands is 90% Mashiro's).

Ichigo's practically vibrating; he's not leaking reiatsu like he used to but he's still excited, still with time before the post-battle adrenaline crash, completely sure of himself but still unsteady—it's dizzying to think of him like this especially when he's in front of Shuuhei, but he manages to push him aside firmly.

Ichigo grinds fondly, grasping Shuuhei's hands. "I'll be home for dinner."

And he disappears the same way he lefts, just as suddenly, off to his meeting no doubt—Shuuhei feels something akin to pride, that Ichigo's really taking things somewhat seriously, that he's not just fighting because he can, blindly following his instincts of protection (which are pretty damn good, and Shuuhei will freely admit that). Then again, he hasn't been that way for a long time; Shuuhei's just been used to thinking of him that way, and even as he got to know Ichigo it was hard to strip aside the layers of preconceived notions.

"Oh, did I miss Berry-tan?"

Mashiro peeks in, half-pouting although she's probably joking (he can't ever say for certain with her).

"Stop hogging him."

"I didn't make him leave."

Mashiro sighs. "Whatever. I'll find him later."

She breezes out; apparently she'd only come for Ichigo and not to actually do her work. Typical.

Ichigo comes home angry; meetings always get like this—he hates criticism, especially when it's true and even if it's minor—Shuuhei gathers that everything actually went well; Ichigo and his squad weren't all that reckless in their pursuits in the world of the living, didn't make their presence conspicuous, and found the source of the problem after staking it out. Waiting was the hard part; it always is for Ichigo, and Shuuhei understands that to a certain degree.

He listens the whole way through as he cooks, offering words that barely register in Ichigo's mind but let him know that he's still paying attention, and gradually Ichigo's frustration peters out and he huffs; Shuuhei doesn't have to look back to know he's stretched out over the table, fists curled and eyes closed.

"I just…it's never enough."

"This is a job, Ichigo. It's a duty. You might keep doing this for hundreds of years. The world is changing and evolving and you can't remain stagnant."

"I'm not."

Of course he isn't; he's always had the ability to pull new power-ups out of his ass, seems to stumble into them by accident and somehow assume them comfortably—even if that's not really the case (and Shuuhei has listened during long nights when neither of them can sleep, to Ichigo venting about how difficult his layers and layers of spiritual energy are, how separating them all out is tiresome and seems so unnecessary sometimes and always has; Ichigo's not great with words but he gets the point across anyway), even if it's an unreasonably high expectation that he refuses to back down from but resents as he surpasses it.

"Ichigo."

"I know. Sorry."

Shuuhei rests a hand on the top of Ichigo's head and he raises it; he's tired (they both are) but he's done talking for now, relieved enough of his burden to relax slightly. They eat dinner in a comfortable silence; Shuuhei will not press Ichigo further and Ichigo will not shove Shuuhei away—it holds true the other way around on nights when Ichigo's here and Shuuhei's the frustrated one; it's a give-and-take they're both familiar with, one that had never existed so easily in either of their lives before they met the other.

Ichigo's not too tired to clear away the dinner plates and clean and then to lean against the kitchen wall with wet hands and a smirk, and Shuuhei's not too tired to want to lunge at him but restrain himself and close the gap between them slower than is necessary, to savor every second of the taste of Ichigo on his lips.