It was routine

By: WhisperedSilvers

Prompt: Gore and Glory.

Summary: "I didn't start this." —Ichigo/Rukia. Drabble.

She could vaguely remember being this injured. Of course, there was that damned espada and fuckin' Grimmjow—but even after that—she prided herself in coming out of a fight without barely a scratch.

But there she was gasping, with ragged breaths and wincing when her burnt fingers brushed her ribs.

Up.

She needed to sit up.

Who knew hollows could breathe fire.

"RUKIA!"

She hissed.

The idiot.

He never learned did he?

She could hear footsteps, wet footsteps, maybe it was her blood, or maybe it was raining again. Harsh breaths, the wind howling and it was cold. So cold that she felt goosebumps nip her skin, and she had to wonder, when had she ever felt cold?

So cold.

A whisper of a shiver shook her spine violently, and she trembled in the mud.

Why was he so slow?

She felt fingers grasp her shoulders, callously jerking her up and she gasped when the world suddenly flashed red and black.

"My stomach you idiot—my stomach!" Rukia choked out, she felt blood gush out of her wound with ardent fever. She inhaled shakily and she felt faintly nauseous.

"Shit, sorry." Ichigo apologized roughly, he maneuvered her small body into a slanted incline, her spine curved to place her weight into her upper body, but it didn't seem like enough to ease the pressure of her injury. "How the hell are you so fucking careless?"

"Me or you," She spat annoyed, "You're jerking me around like a damn ragdoll," She tried to sit up, but no avail, "Clearly the blood wasn't a warning sign for your stupid head."

"Now is not the time for your pathetic insults."

"Then do something, fool!"

Bickering.

They were always bickering.

That's what they were best at.

Ichigo hooked his arms under her knees and slung his other arm around her upper ribs and shifted her weight to his left shoulder, he paused, warning her, "This is going to hurt."

Rukia nodded weakly.

He stood up quickly, the abrupt action caused her to cry out. The gash on her stomach was leaking with blood, it dripped onto the ground and she grimaced.

"Hold on to me."

And then he was running.

He was careful not to jostle her, moving as swiftly and evenly as he possible could.

It didn't matter.

The bastard was rough.

But that was Ichigo.

Always rough, always brash and loud and—just Ichigo.

He couldn't go to Orihime. First off, it was midnight. Second off, is that her constant care, her constant fussing, her constant worry and she was everywhere at once—it would only frustrate Rukia—overwhelm her.

Normalcy.

She craved it.

Third off, was that Urahara was much, much closer.

So when he entered the sandal-wearing bastard's house, she promptly fell asleep.

It was quiet, and Rukia couldn't tell if she was sleeping, or if she really was sleeping. The illusion between a dream and reality was all so blurry. But she could feel her fingers achingly numb, perfectly numb and wrapped in gauze. She couldn't feel her ribs either, but she could smell the jasmine tea that was drenching the air.

Awake.

She had to be awake.

Rukia opened her eyes, it was morning and the sun was bright on her tongue. She tilted her head to see a tired Ichigo, with hazy amber orbs and a half-smile curled onto his lips.

"Hey."

She smiled, "Hey."

MEH. I don't know.

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