It's probably going to take a little bit of time for me to get back into the habit of writing these folks. While I've only recently finished Bleach — all 686 chapters of it — it's still been upwards of 4 years since I've written my first OTP.

My OTPrime, if you like.

I beg patience, as I get back into the swing of things.

For anyone new, who might be wondering about the character dynamics I'm working with, this is a direct sequel to my previous Bleach story, "Best I Am." The concepts, headcanons, dynamics, and arcs that came about in that narrative will return in this one.

I'm not necessarily saying you have to read BIA to appreciate this, but more that … we're taking a bit of an "in medias res" to the whole thing. Any HitsuMatsu fan looking to find out how I think our favorite Tenth Division miscreants got hooked up in the first place — the old story has the answers.

This one will only have echoes of the past.

We're headed for the future.

.

Matsumoto had a tendency to hum while she worked. Sometimes there wasn't any tune to it, no rhyme or proverbial reason. Sometimes, if he was in a waspish mood, Hitsugaya reprimanded her for her lack of focus. They were working, after all. Honestly.

"Rangiku," he would say, in a much softer voice than he might have used three years ago, but still a sharper voice than was strictly normal, "we're jointly responsible for 2,300 soldiers. You've been staring at that sheet of paper for 46 minutes. I know time is an illusion, but maybe you could try to imagine a little harder? I'd like to be finished with today's business before next week."

"Aye-aye, Cap'n," Matsumoto would say, with a jaunty little salute, and then she would go right back to whatever doodle she'd been scrawling in the corner of . . . what was this one, again? A preliminary drill efficiency report? What even was that?

Other times, if he was in a decent mood, Hitsugaya would say nothing at all, and simply go about his business.

And if he was in a good mood, she would spy him tapping his pen, or his finger, or whatever else he had on hand—was that a pun? Matsumoto wasn't sure—in time with the tune. It was a strong gauge through which she could work out whether it was a day to be on task, or a day when she could get away with . . . certain things. She liked the days when Hitsugaya went along with the music. Not so much because she could be lazy—although Matsumoto would have been outright lying if she'd tried to claim that wasn't a perk—but because it meant he was in good spirits.

Another pun?

Matsumoto still wasn't sure.

One day, she started peppering in lyrics along with the tune.

"The ice drops like rain on our crops. Blood in our veins 'til our collective heart stops."

Or something like that. She didn't always write this stuff down. Sometimes she did. Little nonsense rhymes to help pass the . . . times. Whatever. Look. She wasn't claiming to be a minstrel.

"Hm?" Hitsugaya looked up, eyes sharp. "What? Did you say something?"

"No." Matsumoto waved a dismissive hand. "Nothing. Everything's fine."

"I definitely heard something." Bright green eyes went narrow as razor blades. "You said 'ice.'"

Matsumoto had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. "Of course you'd notice that." She snickered into her hand. Shook her head. "Nothing important. Just a . . . little poem I cooked up."

"You write poetry?"

This was a question that Rangiku Matsumoto had heard innumerable times before, and every time it was with a different shade of incredulity. Hisagi, Kira, Hinamori, even Kurosaki. Them, and a thousand others, all reacted the same way to the idea that the red-headed bombshell leading the Tenth's officers could be cultured. It wasn't even like she was particularly good, really. She didn't consider herself an artiste, or what have you.

But it always left her feeling dejected and insulted.

Assholes.

Short-sighted, sanctimonious, probably sexist assholes.

But Toshiro Hitsugaya asked the question in a different way. There was a particularity to his tone of voice that surprised her, and yet didn't surprise her at all. For the first time since she'd first let slip that she liked to wax poetic, That Question™ was asked with . . . not just genuine interest.

Not just a lack of mockery.

But with something like delight.

Matsumoto found a smile. "Sometimes," she said.

Hitsugaya leaned back in his chair. His eyes lost their razor's edge, going a bit cloudy. He smiled. "Excellent," he said, almost to himself, and nodded decisively. He pointed at Matsumoto with his pen. "Keep at it."

Matsumoto, eyes twinkling with unspoken gratitude, nodded.

"Aye-aye, Cap'n."