A/N: Hey guys! This is something that's been knocking around my head for quite a while; there are some spots in RDBH where I've seriously wanted to expand on a comment a character has made or a scene that happened 'offscreen,' but wasn't really able to fit it into the flow of the story. (Yes, the Noodle Incident is one of them.) So, this story - Symphony's kiriban request - is the first in a series of one-shots, set to expand, enhance, and explain portions of RDBH that have never made it to your screen. Call it the Director's Cut. (Although it will be retitled when I can think of something more intelligent to call it.) Enjoy!

This story: Expansion on Ichigo's comment in Ch. 12, "Kira, make a note to have me get Ishida down here and teach these idiots how to sew?", although this sequence actually takes place in or around Chapter 21.

RDBH 250 Kiriban

Winner: SymphonyofSilence

Request: Humor, Ichigo and Ishida, teaching Shinigami how to sew.

Overall Thoughts: A lot of fun. Glad to be getting back to some more comedic writing, and hoping I managed to pull Ishida off okay since I haven't really written him before.

WHAT REAPERS SEW

"You're joking, right?"

Ichigo, who still looked stiff and uncomfortable in the heavy Captain's haori, scowled at Ishida from across the confines of the Quincy's living room. "Why the hell would I joke about something like this?" he snapped back, ignoring his friend's incredulity. "My squad needs to learn how to sew."

Uryuu shook his head slightly, dislodging the minor tic that accompanied Ichigo saying the words 'my Squad,' and very carefully set his cup down before Ichigo said something else to make him spill his tea. "And you want me, a Quincy, sworn enemy of all Shinigami, to put my life on hold for three days, travel to the Seireitei, and teach a pack of inept Soul Reapers how to darn their socks? No."

"I think they already know how to swear at their socks, Ishida."

Ishida froze momentarily, sincerely hoping he'd misheard that glaringly idiotic statement, before thunking the heel of his hand against his forehead. It was Kurosaki. Of course he hadn't misheard it.

"What?" Ichigo demanded, looking bewildered, and Ishida just shook his head.

"Darning socks, Kurosaki, is the proper term for reweaving the fabric to repair a hole. It has nothing to do with addressing profane comments at an article of clothing."

"Well, excuse me, Mister High-and-friggin'-Mighty Quincy seamstress," Ichigo snapped, and Ishida glowered back at him, pushing his glasses up his nose to mask his offended dignity.

"Just because you are a testosterone-driven oaf does not mean you are entitled to take potshots at my gender, Kurosaki. Sewing is a highly useful talent to have, whether male or female."

"Yeah, Kon finds you very useful every time he busts a seam."

Oh, fine. If they were going to play it like that... "So do all of the girls in our class, Kurosaki, whenever they tear their uniforms."

Ichigo opened his mouth to respond, thought for a moment, and then shut it again without commenting. Ishida bit back his smirk, wondering if a few days spent in the Seireitei wouldn't be such a bad thing after all. Much as he hated to admit it, he'd missed having Ichigo around - nobody else gave him such prime a prime target for his wit.

Two days later, Ishida stood in the mess hall of the Third Division and inventoried the sewing supplies he'd been presented. Three hundred and fifty medium-sized needles (because at least half of them would be lost by the ham-fisted Shinigami he was expected to be teaching), three hundred spools of thread (two hundred black, one hundred white, and again he anticipated half of it being reduced to unsalvageable knots), one hundred and fifty thimbles (in the largest sizes he could find), one hundred and fifty pincushions (although he imagined the Shinigami would be serving that purpose before the lessons were over) three dozen pairs of sewing scissors... and one Yamada Hanatarou.

Uryuu pushed his glasses up his nose a little and blinked.

Hanatarou blinked back, looking a little like a particularly pathetic abandoned doll in the midst of the boxes of sewing supplies.

"Yamada-san," Ishida said finally, "did you need something?"

"Oh, no, Ishida-san!" the young medic answered, bowing. "I'm assigned to you for the duration of your visit to the Seireitei."

"...as my escort?"

"As your assistant, Ishida-san."

There was a long stretch of silence before Uryuu managed to repeat, in a voice strangled by disbelief, "My assistant? Assist with what, exactly?"

"With teaching the Third Division how to sew, of course," came the bewildered answer, and Ishida pushed his glasses up again and stared.

"Yamada-san... do you actually know how to sew?"

"Of course!" came the mildly indignant reply. "I'm a member of the Fourth Division, after all. We're trained in all manner of medical treatments, including emergency non-reiatsu-based healing methods practiced by humans, such as suturing."

Ishida bit the inside of his cheek and resisted the urge to slap his hand to his forehead, again. Only in the Seireitei would a battlefield medic be considered a sewing supply.

Uryuu clenched his teeth and fought down the impulse to beat his head against the nearest hard surface. Under ordinary circumstances, he might have picked a wall, but with fifty Shinigami heads in immediate proximity, there were plenty of harder options.

The only ranking member of the Division who might have actually been a help in this situation - Kira, the Lieutenant - was off somewhere training, and the maturity level of the other officers seemed to dip considerably as a result.

The most blatant example was a quartet of men halfway down one of the long tables in front of him, clustered together and snickering at intervals, loudly enough to disrupt the entire assembly, as their apparent ringleader repaired the center seam of his hakama with decidedly suggestive movements of the needle. Hanatarou, who was supposed to be helping to supervise the class, caught Ishida's eye from the other side of the room and gave him a helpless shrug.

Ishida scowled, caught his tongue between his teeth to restrain the comment he would dearly love to make, and returned his attention to the whiteboard he'd brought along, drawing out the directions for an invisible stitch.

A low laugh from nearby very nearly made him drop his marker. "Go ahead and say it, Ishida," Ichigo murmured, his voice not carrying beyond the Quincy. "I know you've got some comment for Ayo, and he deserves it."

"You're siding with me, Kurosaki?" Ishida asked in surprise, glancing over at his long-time rival. Ichigo was sprawled at his private table, managing what was actually a serviceable locking stitch on a foot-long split in the leg of one of his hakama. The fact that that particular stitching style was generally used for skin sutures wasn't really an issue; knowing Ichigo, the extra reinforcement of the rip wouldn't hurt. "These are your men. Shouldn't you be defending their right to behave like juvenile imbeciles?"

Ichigo snorted in response, carefully tying off the seam and tugging on the fabric to check it. "No, I told them this was a mandatory class. That means they're supposed to pay attention."

"If you say so," Ishida replied, then turned to face his 'class,' fixing a frigid glare on the misbehaving quartet. "If that needle is the best available analogy, Ayo-san," he snapped, pitching his voice to carry clearly throughout the room, "I'm not certain you should really be publicizing the fact."

The man's face went white, then red, but a particularly sharp glance from Ichigo - when had he started commanding that kind of respect? - quelled him as the rest of the room erupted into snickers.

"You know," Ichigo said, low-voiced under the cover of the laughter, "you've got all the charm of a frostbitten cactus."

"And your men have all the patience and maturity of a flock of caffeine-laden squirrels," Ishida countered, turning his attention back to the whiteboard and trying not to smile.

Tomorrow, he would teach the more advanced group how to darn their socks.

END