Characters: Starrk, Nanao
Summary: "Why does a Shinigami have no zanpakuto?" And why is a Shinigami held away from battle? Starrk would like to know why. /Starrk x Nanao/
Pairings: Starrk x Nanao (subtext)
Warnings/Spoilers: AU; spoilers for Fake Karakura Town arc
Timeline: None
Author's Note: Nothing to report; I decided I'd try my hand at this pairing, though it really didn't end up as a pairing drabble at all.
Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach.
He's unafraid of all the others as survivors root around the battlefield and, she notices, has cool, calculating, but not unfriendly eyes. Closed-off, shuttered, but not malevolent. This is not, by any means, what Nanao expected of the Primera Espada de Las Noches.
She doesn't bother drawing her zanpakuto—Nanao knows that if this man wanted her dead, she'd certainly be dead by now—but does stand, straight-backed and stiff, her face paling slightly. The early winter chill seems colder, somehow.
"Odd… A Shinigami with no zanpakuto." His voice is lazy and Nanao has to blink, once, twice, three times and hard, to tell herself that his man is not Kyouraku-taicho. Lazy, but alert and astute; again, just like Kyouraku-taicho.
"And what if I don't need it?" She presses her left arm against her thigh to feel the comforting weight of the wakizashi strapped beneath her sleeve, and tells herself that she's not there to fight, calm or simply mocking calm.
The tall man quirks his head to peer more closely at her, a faintly curious gleam coming into his eyes. "That would mean, to my understanding, that you're strong enough to fight without one. So I have to wonder: If you're strong enough to fight without a zanpakuto, why were you absent from today's battle?"
Despite herself, a hot prickling of shame tugs and needles at her stomach and Nanao snaps, face reddening, "That's none of your concern." She catches sight of a ragged scrap of pink cloth caught between rocks, fluttering in the empty breeze like a tattered flag, and winces.
And she's even more mortified when a deliberately muted expression—unmistakably pity—sweeps across the Arrancar's face briefly. "Ah," he breathes softly, face unreadable, as though this explains everything.
.
Starrk can see it now, a self-explanatory image being held out before him in consecutive motion. The girl is slight, but holds herself like she's much bigger than she actually is. Back is straight, rigidly so; years of walking in a way that hides bruised feelings and offense. She holds her head with chin tilted upwards, meeting the gaze of others squarely, assertive and hiding any insecurity, of which there is many. Taking offense at every imagined slight, because she's in the position where she has to worry about such things.
Sheltered. Isolated. Caged.
"It is a pity," he says slowly, and watches as the girl's cheeks flush a darker shade of red, but knows better than to stop, "that one who wishes to be of use should instead be pushed into the dark, shuffled away from all danger and given no chance of proving her worth."
It is a waste. If there is one who is willing to fight, than Starrk can not see why they should not be allowed to fight.
Bespectacled eyes drop to the ground, and her small fists clench. She's quiet, but the frustration coursing through her reminds Starrk irresistibly of Lilinette, even if the Shinigami is infinitely more restrained and self-possessed than Lilinette could ever hope to be.
"And I can't imagine that this doesn't frustrate you." Starrk leans back and narrows his eyes, feeling detached yet intensely interested and curious. He wants to see the pale girl's reaction. "You know you're not a domesticated bird, to be caged at all hours and never allowed to roam free. You know that you can fight, if those who seek to protect you would just let you fight."
And he watches as her face changes.
Gratefulness that someone can finally see her, really see her, and at the same time, the Shinigami is galled that the only person who can see her worth or even comprehend that she is capable of holding her own is one she must count as enemy.
She opens her mouth to speak, but before she can even utter words, another Shinigami—the captain whom Starrk fought earlier on—appears out of nowhere, his arm heavy across the girl's slight shoulders.
"Come on. We shouldn't linger on here."
As she is led away, blue-violet eyes fall back, as if to say, I am confined, and Starrk can hear, with vivid, unforgiving clarity, all the wry bitterness held in that silent voice.