A/N: Entry #2 of trope-related tumblr fic prompts. Out of a list of classic fic tropes, this was a request for UraYoru, Seemingly Unrequited Pining, rated M or above (i.e. this includes smut).

Remember that scene during Suì-Fēng's flashback, when she first sees Yoruichi walking with her retinue, clad in that golden ceremonial kimono with her hair up? I've always wanted to write something about that scene/day, and so I have. Expect clothing porn alongside regular porn.

This takes place roughly a hundred years before the end of TBTP (1801 AD). At that time, Kisuke and Yoruichi have just reached their 200th year of age. I go for a 1 to 10 ratio for Shinigami ages in my fics, which means they're 20 years old in human terms.

This is broken in two parts to make for an easier read, plus there's a pretty sudden shift in tone about half way through, so it made sense to split it up.

Lots of cultural notes, most of which are explained within the story, but if you'd like a bit more info (just doing my part to help you guys slay in Trivial Pursuit), read on.

Cultural notes:

Genpuku: The precursor to the modern Seijin Shiki (Coming of Age Day celebration), a ceremony held for young adults who have reached their 20th year of age (the age of majority) in Japan. In the past, there was no set age for the celebration of Genpuku, which could be held at any time between 10 and 20 years of age, depending on the unrest of the given period, as after Genpuku, an individual was allowed to assume adult responsibilities (including being assigned a military position). The ceremony centers around the presentation of adult clothing, and included many variations according to the era, the clan, the sex etc. There were separate ceremonies for men and women in earlier periods (it was called mogi for women), but during the Edo Period, the ceremony for women also came to be known as Genpuku.

Rokuyo (Taian): Literally translates into 'six days,' and up until the Meiji Restoration and the modernization of Japan, it was a term used for –you guessed it- the fact that their week consisted of six days. Each of these days had a name and an associated meaning, as well as information on how auspicious any given day was. Some days were considered to bring luck in only certain hours of the day, others were considered entirely lucky/unlucky. When it came to weddings, funerals and other traditional ceremonies, choosing an auspicious day was an important aspect of the planning.

Taian is one such day, considered to be the most auspicious of the six.

CHAPTER 1: Predestination

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"Good morning, Fourth Seat Urahara!"

A testament to how fast news travels within the Thirteen Divisions, the recent shifts in leadership are already common knowledge mere hours after the fact, before the official announcement has been made.

With a curt nod and a smile, Kisuke ambles past the two bowing Soul Reapers in a muted patter of feet against the wooden deck. Even without turning back for a second look, he knows the two men are already on the move again. Captain Himura has always run a tight ship, and given the state of disarray the entire Second Division is in today, he means to make the transition as fast as possible. Any Soul Reaper not on active duty appears to be on the new Lieutenant's beck and call this morning, including Kisuke himself.

Well. Technically.

He is, after all, meant to be in charge of coordination, rather than actual manual labor, and on that front he has performed beyond the call of duty. Overcrowded corridors notwithstanding, the task of clearing out former Lieutenant Tsukioka's quarters and prepping the space for the incumbent was completed in record time. Within a scant few hours, the process of moving in the new Lieutenant will be a done deal.

Sidestepping a pair of Soul Reapers lugging a bulging crate, Kisuke picks up his pace, making a beeline for the doorway at the end of the deck. He doesn't bother knocking; the double shōji already lay ajar, and the room's occupant knows by now to expect an endless parade of intruders coming and going for the foreseeable future.

The small antechamber acting as the Lieutenant's office space is heaving with clearly marked crates, some opened, some untouched. There is no furniture to speak of, save for a glossy desk dominating the center of the room.

Perched on the desktop is Yoruichi, her ankles crossed over a crate that sits at the foot of the desk. Features drawn in a decidedly haggard look, she is idly twirling a finger in the ponytail that cascades past her shoulder, absorbed by the document in her hands. And as he follows the line of her arm, from black wristguard to shortened Shihakushō sleeves, Kisuke spots the Lieutenant's insignia gleaming on the side of her bicep.

"Good morning, Lieutenant," he says, stepping into the cluttered office.

Yoruichi looks up to meet his gaze, then her eyes immediately dart over to his empty hands. "So much for agreeing to help with the move."

"You wound me, Yoruichi-san," Kisuke says, hand clutching his chest. "Would I ever go back on a promise?"

As Yoruichi opens her mouth to answer, the two Soul Reapers he had hurried past a moment ago come grunting into her office. The crate makes a thud entirely disproportionate to its small size as the two men set it down, and they fall into a bow before scurrying out of the office.

"See?" Kisuke says, pointing at the newest addition to the growing mountain of containers littering her quarters. "I have everything under control."

Yoruichi lets out a snort and rolls her eyes, failing to smother the brief grin that graces her lips before she turns somber again. "You wouldn't happen to have spoken to Ōmaeda? I haven't seen him around today."

"Ōmaeda-san is spending the day at the Intelligence Squad compound," Kisuke says. "He's currently shifting through cases, making a list of everything you and I need to sign off on."

Having gone through three Divisions already in his short career, Kisuke has never been one to form particularly strong attachments to his co-workers. Up until a year ago, when Yoruichi had joined the Thirteen Divisions and convinced him to transfer over to the Second, he wouldn't have batted an eyelash at a reassignment. And yet he would be lying if he claimed he hadn't enjoyed his tenure in the Onmitsukidō so far.

The initial transition hadn't been easy; the grueling daily regimen, along with an entirely different philosophy to the Thirteen Divisions had taken some time to acclimatize to. It certainly didn't help matters that Yoruichi, a mere Third Seat at the time, had taken it upon herself to conscript the Seated Officers. Traditionally, the Captaincy of the Onmitsukidō Corps was passed down to the officers of the Second Division only when a Shihōin Captain stood at the helm, but Yoruichi had insisted on getting them acquainted with the Onmitsukidō modus operandi.

In Kisuke's case, it had worked a little too well; leaving the Intelligence Corps for the decidedly more mundane Corrections Corps was going to be a hard pill to swallow. Even harder to stomach was her decision to choose Ōmaeda over him as the future helm while she moved on to the Executive Militia, soon to be promoted as its Lieutenant. He had expected to be given some sort of excuse about rank, but to his surprise, Yoruichi had given him no more than a mercurial, "I have my reasons; trust me."

And so he had.

"He still has a way to go," Kisuke goes on. "But from the looks of things, all our outstanding cases are either resolved, or can be safely passed over to the incumbent. Except for one."

It takes Yoruichi all of a second to connect the dots. "The Tanaka case," she says, pursing her lips. "No, we can't drop this one, we've been working on our assets for months—"

Kisuke holds up both hands to stop the incoming –and futile- rant. "Which is why I have just returned from visiting Captain Himura," he says. "I requested some time off from my duties as Fourth Seat to see the Tanaka case through. Consider it my gift to you for your promotion."

His assurances that the case will be seen through to the end by someone who knows the material inside out seems to placate her. "Well, that worked out nicely for you," she says, smirking. "Cheapskate… But thank you, that's one fewer headache to have to deal with." Rubbing her temple, she lets her gaze wander down to the document on her lap, a knot forming between her brows. "That only leaves about a hundred thousand."

"Actually, significantly fewer than that," Kisuke tells her. "Captain Himura has also given you a week off from your Lieutenant's duties to deal with your upcoming promotion in the Onmitsukidō."

"I can't take a week off! There are so many things to take care of—"

"And the Captain has graciously decided to delegate said duties between himself and a few lower-ranking officers in order to lessen your load," Kisuke says. "It's only for a week. I would accept his offer if I were you."

Yoruichi is visibly conflicted as she considers this; she's not used to operating this way. As a large, independent organization, the Onmitsukidō was always meant to function as one, cohesive unit, with each Squad's operations feeding into one another. A single underperforming cog slows down the entire machine and she is used to pulling her weight. In the Thirteen Divisions, however, co-operation is only the norm within the confines of each Division, whose affairs are always their own. With no higher authority having a say in its inner workings, every Division enjoys a certain amount of freedom that is only subject to the respective Captain's judgment.

"Everyone is so accommodating, it makes me nervous," Yoruichi says.

"I would wager they understand coordinating an entire Division with a separate organization is a tall order," Kisuke says. "It's the same over at the Fourth, you know; allowances are always made for the Seated Officers who have to pull double duty between Division matters and the Relief Center." Having spent considerable time as one of the Officers in question, he can attest to the realities of a schedule that was nearly always disrupted by emergencies. "Plus, I have a sneaking suspicion their accommodating mood might also be somewhat related to the fact that you're the closest thing to Royalty they have ever come across."

His last comment draws a grimace out of her, but she doesn't challenge it. No doubt she's been thinking it as well.

"Give it some time," Kisuke says. "Remember last year? Everything resolved itself in due time and you got yourself worked up for no reason; coordinating the two schedules won't happen overnight and worrying yourself sick over it isn't going to make the transition any quicker."

With a sigh, Yoruichi unceremoniously drops onto the desktop back-first, staring at the ceiling.

"Wrap things up here and go get some rest. You look like you need it."

"What I need is to hit something," she drawls, and though he's willing to bet she meant it as an off-hand comment at first, she suddenly sits up, grinning at him hopefully.

Kisuke's eyes widen at the sight, saucer-like. He knows that look. "Ohhhh no. No, no, no… I'm not sparring with you when you're like this, it never ends well for me."

"Awww, come ooonnnn-uh."

"I will not play the part of your personal punching bag," he says resolutely, refusing to cave no matter how much she swings her legs petulantly and droops her shoulders. "If you want to spar, I will gladly do so—"

Not one to take no for an answer, Yoruichi pulls out the big guns: brow creasing, her eyes take on the kind of expression one might associate with fawns, lower lip pouting.

It's not often that she resorts to the kind of manipulative tactics he normally employs; she must be really desperate for a release. And before he knows it, his meager defences have laid down their weapons and yielded to the superior firepower of her silent plea.

"Fine."

.

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.

There are few things in life she enjoys more than the sweet, throbbing ache at the end of a good workout. From her perch atop the entrance to the Training Grounds, Yoruichi leans back against the smooth boulder and lets her gaze wander over the view of the Seireitei below.

A small, round object appears in her peripheral vision, and when she turns, she finds Kisuke holding out a canteen of water for her. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" she says with a grin as she takes the proffered item.

Kisuke plops down next to her, uncorking his own canteen. "Noooo, not bad at all," he says, taking a generous swig of water. His sweat-glistened throat undulates with every swallow, until he has drained every last dreg from the container. "There is the small matter of me being a walking bruise come morning," he says, breath a little short as he plunges the cork back in. "But we needn't concern ourselves with such minutiae."

Between offering to take over their outstanding case for the Intelligence Corps and stoically taking one hell of a beating, he has been a true friend today. "I owe you one," Yoruichi says, taking a moment to quench her own thirst. "And hey, if your super-secret healing project works, we won't have to worry about holding back anymore, assuming your boasting is to be believed. How's that going, by the way?"

"It's… going."

The fact that he very deliberately refuses to meet her eye as he answers in not lost on her. Though she's used to him being tight-lipped about his work until he has something of substance to show for it, this particular project has been steeped with a peculiar air of mystery from Day One. Normally, he would tease her with tidbits of information until the grand unveiling, but he has been reluctant to share anything thus far. Given past precedent, she can only assume it's something as awe-inducing as the Tenshintai, and she decides not to press the matter.

She says nothing more, and neither does he for the longest time. Their silences have always been comfortable, and there is something quite soporific about the way their uneven breaths slowly come to a natural pace and synchronize. On most days, they end their sparring sessions with a visit to a teahouse, or occasionally Kisuke's place in the Rukongai, sharing a meal and the occasional anecdote from their respective days.

Today, however, she is perfectly content to do nothing but sit there; today the walls sing with memories, and she is too consumed, too enraptured with their siren song to move a muscle.

The first time Kisuke executed a successful Flash Step under her tutelage, the time he taught her how to handle a blade, the excitement and terror of the three sleepless days it took him to defeat Benihime. Each and every milestone reached within those walls is reason enough to bring a smile to her face, but mostly, her thoughts keep straying back to that first day, the day he led her through a narrow tunnel and into what would grow into their private haven for years to come.

She could summon up his memory as though he were standing before her, a gangly little thing, all knees and elbows and shoulders, his face alight with the kind of zeal she has only ever witnessed again once or twice, both proud of himself and terribly nervous that her continued silence upon arrival could only mean she wasn't impressed.

Little did he know, she had been struggling not to fall apart in the face of the greatest gift she had ever been bestowed with: the gift of freedom.

"So when is the ceremony?"

Yoruichi turns to Kisuke, her eyes slowly regaining focus. "Hmmm?"

"The Genpuku," he says, arms resting against his bent knees. "I assume your clan has settled on a date?"

"How did—?" As soon as the words leave her lips, she knows her question is a pointless one. Of course he knows.

Kisuke gives her an only mildly disparaging look, grinning. "Your clan has officially chosen you as the successor," he says. "Our two hundredth birthday was three weeks ago, and ever since your last visit to your family's estate, you have been on edge. I put two and two together. Plus…" He raises one long index finger in her general direction, his voice faltering somewhat. "You have been growing out your hair for the last few years."

It is her turn to arch an eyebrow at him for that last observation.

Curiously, a hint of color creeps up Kisuke's neck and ears when he speaks again. "You once told me your mother went apoplectic when you got your hair cut, because she'd always had this mental image of you for your Coming of Age, with your finery and your hair up. So I assume it's been in the back of your mind for a while now."

That he can recall a piece of information she had off-handedly mentioned three decades ago is not exactly surprising. Nor is the fact that he deduced something she had yet to share with him by observation alone. She has been his friend long enough to have made peace with the fact that there is simply no hiding anything from Kisuke; she takes comfort in the knowledge that he is, by now, just as transparent to her as she is to him.

It occurs to her then that the reason he didn't put up much of a fight when she suggested a sparring session might very well be because he meant to bring this up. What's becoming even more obvious, is that he knows all too well this is a sore subject.

A Coming of Age celebration is meant to be a joyous occasion. To any outsider, Yoruichi's reluctance to revel in her own upcoming Genpuku must surely seem ridiculous, she muses. Becoming the official head of her clan, earning a promotion in both the Divisions and the Onmitsukidō, being recognized by society as an adult… what reason could any sane person have for not wishing to celebrate those milestones?

Looking away, Yoruichi busies herself with a flake of invisible lint on her hakama. "A month from now. The 22nd."

Eyes rolling upwards, Kisuke frowns in concentration for a couple of seconds, then nods. "Taian… An auspicious date, lucky all day long."

"Don't tell me you of all people suddenly believe in that sort of thing?"

"Oh, good grief, of course not," he says with an affected little shudder. "Ascribing arbitrary levels of luck –a foolish concept in and of itself- to given days is asinine. But people tend to relax and be more confident when they believe luck is on their side," he says. "To that effect, I think we can expect your Genpuku to be a pleasant and enjoyable occasion indeed."

He has always had a knack for finding the silver lining on any given situation, and though she recognizes this as a fairly obvious attempt to cheer her up, she cannot deny that it works. It proves to be impossible to maintain her somber expression when confronted with the warmth of his soft smile.

"Easy for you to say…" she quips, a reluctant grin tugging at the edges of her mouth as she rests her chin atop her knees. "You're not the one who has to wear a million layers of silk and balance on top of platform shoes for the whole day."

"You're concerned you might trip?"

So much for that moment. "…Well now I am!"

He puts up the sorriest excuse for a remorseful façade she has ever seen when she rounds up on him. "My apologies, I shouldn't have planted the thought in your head. It would be unfortunate if it becomes all you can think about throughout the day."

Yoruichi throws her empty canteen at him in retaliation, but he catches it with a chuckle, any pretense of sincerity now long gone. "Asshole! Asshole!" She follows it up by hurling his own canteen at him, to similar effect, then one of her shoes, which prompts him to start juggling all three objects in open mockery of her fury. To be fair, it could be she's having trouble communicating said fury when she's laughing along at his antics, in between the colorful expletives.

His little show is brought to an abrupt end when she aims and throws a rock at the opportune moment, knocking one of the canteens out of the loop and sending it bumping squarely across his forehead.

"Just for that," she says, grinning smugly as she reaches for her fallen shoe. "You're forbidden from attending in anything less than full uniform. I don't care if my father invites you personally; I don't want to accidentally look at your stupid face during the ceremony and be reminded of this conversation."

Rubbing the angry red welt that has bloomed on his forehead, Kisuke turns to her. "I wasn't aware I was invited period."

"It's mandatory attendance for the entire corps of the Onmitsukidō."

"Ah. Then I suppose I have no choice but to be there."

"In full uniform."

"In full uniform," Kisuke repeats, nodding.

Yoruichi turns her gaze away very ostentatiously, well aware that he continues to watch her as she puts her shoe back on, idiotic grin still plastered on his face.

"I was just kidding about the tripping thing."

"Iiii knoooow…"

"Then what else is there to worry about?"

Even before she catches his eye, she knows that his expression has shifted; she hears the change in his voice. Laying back against the boulder once more, she lets her eyes flit over to him for a moment, then returns to the view of the Seireitei. "Nothing, I guess," she says with a sigh.

"You're not worried about Akira, are you?"

"No," she says at once, shaking her head. The enmity between her and her cousin has been longstanding and well-documented, but over the years, she has come to appreciate that it was the product of the immense pressure that had been placed on them both from a young age. Even with that knowledge, it still takes a lot out of her to even admit that their decades-long competition often made her blind to some of his better qualities.

By all rights, Akira would make an excellent head of the clan.

"Well… I'm not worried, I just…" she goes on, wrapping her arms around her knees. "I keep wondering if maybe he wouldn't have made a better choice."

"In what way?"

In every way. "He seems to enjoy aspects of this life that I never have."

"Ah, well…" Kisuke says. "It's easier for men; we don't have to squeeze into a furisode for formal occasions. Most of us, that it."

The mental image of her forcing him into one of her mother's furisode as part of a game never fails to make her laugh. It is one of their more prominent childhood memories, and he has a tendency to bring it up when she feels at her lowest. There is a gleam of pride in his eyes when she returns his smile, like he is congratulating himself for a job well done.

"I… I think…" He hesitates, idly rubbing the back of his neck. "So far you've managed to do things on your own terms, even when you didn't entirely agree with what was expected of you."

"Mmmm, well, I don't think that's going to fly anymore," Yoruichi says. "Got the whole future of the clan to think of and all. I can't afford to be selfish."

"Maybe just a little?" Kisuke says, head tilting to the side.

This time, when her lips twitch upward, she doesn't meet his eye. "Maybe."

Wouldn't that be something?

The idea of marriage has never sat well with her. She suspects the fact that she was first introduced to the concept through the lens of duty may be partly to blame. Even outside of the circle of nobility, the concept of marriage for love is not a common one, often seen as a fanciful, selfish approach to what is meant to be a contract to secure the future well-being of two families. Her clan is nothing if not practical, a quality they often boast is the reason they've been well-respected and powerful for millennia.

And try as she might to distance herself from certain behaviors typical in both her clan and nobility in general, Yoruichi can freely admit that being practical is a quality she gladly embraced.

None of her past lovers were under the delusion that their affairs had a future. That she knows of. If they ever were, the fault for their misconception was theirs and theirs alone; she has never been anything but perfectly upfront with her intentions. That particular arrangement has worked well enough for a number of years now, allowing her to satisfy her more superficial needs without sabotaging her future.

Practical.

At least, that's what she tells herself whenever her mind sees fit to play tricks on her on certain mornings, when the sweet haze of sleep still clouds her perception. Those mornings when she thinks, just for a second, that the arm wrapped around her waist is slender and pale; the long, clever fingers entwined with hers spattered with tiny inkblots; the breath warming her neck belonging to someone… else. Those mornings when her breath hitches in her throat for a moment, before the veil of illusion is lifted from her eyes and reality comes crashing in.

"You know," Kisuke says, startling her out of her reverie. "It occurs to me we've been remiss in celebrating your promotion properly."

Something about his last chosen word sounds off the alarm in her head. "Meaning?"

"How about drinks? Or rather, dinner. On us."

"Who's us?"

"I'm fairly certain Kūkaku-san would be up for it," Kisuke says. "Perhaps her brother and the Lady Miyako would also like to join us."

She can't help but recall that he was never quite so eager to spend time in Kaien's company before their betrothal fell apart. She's tried not to make much of the change in his behavior, but Kisuke himself has always scoffed at the notion of coincidences. "No such thing," he would always say, quoting his late mother.

Scraping one nail over the ever-present, tiny little inkblots peppering his long fingers, Kisuke rolls his eyes up to her with a grin. "What do you say?"

If she were being perfectly honest, she'd tell him that she feels like staying in tonight. Maintaining the façade of being even marginally excited for her upcoming Genpuku is exhausting, and she'd rather not have to put up a show for a crowd. At least with Kisuke, she can allow herself to tone it down a little.

Still, she has the distinct feeling that refusing the offer will only cause him to redouble his efforts to cheer her up. "Sure. Why not."

It's only dinner with friends… What could possibly go wrong?

.

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.

There ought to be some sort of universal law, Kisuke muses when he returns to their table, that dictates whatever is likely to go wrong on a given occasion, will go wrong.

"How long was I gone?" he says to an exasperated Kūkaku, at the same time she says, "Where the hell have you been?"

Already regretting every single decision he's made that night, Kisuke points vaguely toward the exit. "Well I— You know… Nature calling."

"You couldn't hold your piss in for, like, two minutes?" Kūkaku growls.

"I thought you were coming back soon!" he says, a little too defensively. There's no denying the safer course of action would've been to wait for her, but he had honestly expected her to return with more food before calamity had stricken.

"The place is packed! Excuse me for taking a while."

"I dun unr'stand what th'big deal is."

Kūkaku and Kisuke turn in unison toward the table and over to Miyako. Out of the three inebriated occupants, she appears to be in the best shape. Kaien has completely passed out on the tabletop, a tower of miscellaneous items precariously balanced on top of his unmoving head: a glass, a plate, a series of bottle corks bearing yet another plate. Yoruichi is in a similar state, a pair of chopsticks clasped in her loose fist, but she appears to be somewhat anchored to reality, judging by the occasional mobility of her eyes. Lady Miyako is the only one sitting upright.

In retrospect, Kisuke sees that he shouldn't have been counting on her usual level-headedness. It was becoming plainly obvious from early on in the night that Kaien's influence was having a detrimental effect on the two inexperienced drinkers of their group.

"The deal, sweet sister," says Kūkaku as she sweeps in to remove the clutter from Kaien's head. "Is that your moronic husband was clearly too plastered to recall we don't let Yoruichi drink, and you obviously didn't know."

"She only had like… three," Miyako says in a subdued voice. The absence of her typical eloquence makes for both an amusing and a terrifying sight.

"More than enough. Look at her! She's tiny!"

"To be fair," Kisuke interjects when it looks like Miyako may burst into tears. "You're not exactly a colossus yourself. Sometimes I wonder where it all goes," he mutters as an afterthought, his eyes inexorably drawn to Kūkaku's generous décolletage.

She notices.

Salvation arrives in the form of Miyako bursting into laughter, before Kūkaku has time react. "S'funny 'cuz her breastes are so big!"

…Or maybe not.

"Yes, thank you for captioning this, Lady Miyako," Kisuke says, clearing his throat and trying to change the subject. Fast. "How long would you say it's been?"

"I dunno," Kūkaku says, arms akimbo as she observes Yoruichi. "It worries me that she seems to have completely bypassed Stage Two and gone straight into Tiny Little Ball of Misery mode."

Yoruichi generally avoids sake, claiming that she doesn't care for the taste. The plain truth is that she has a tremendously low tolerance for alcohol, but will occasionally overlook that fact either when challenged, or when she feels out of the loop. The results are almost immediate: it takes approximately six and a half minutes for her to go from snarling at someone to keep refilling her glass, to her trying to disprove the laws of physics, to eventually simmering down and cursing at everyone who had a hand in enabling her.

The woman in question choses that moment to look up from the table, cheek still pressed against the sticky wood. "Stahp callin' me tiny!"

"It lives," Kūkaku says wryly.

"Ah'll have ya know I am fine-uh. Ah haff new frien's," Yoruichi says, pointing at the passed out Kaien and Miyako in turn. "Peeps who lemme have fun. Not like you two squarez." To illustrate her point, she forms a triangle with her joined fingers.

A few seconds of silence pass between him and Kūkaku, both of them blinking at Yoruichi, then Kisuke turns to her. "Okay, why don't I start by taking your brother back to your place while you keep an eye on these two?"

"I can take him."

"Both of them?"

Kūkaku seems to have spotted the problem. She's a strong woman, but Kaien is going to be dead weight and she isn't entirely sober to begin with. "Hmmm… Oi, Miyako. Stand up."

Happy to oblige, Miyako makes an attempt to get up from her stool, then promptly topples backward onto the floor, serenaded by Yoruichi's concerned cries of "Friend!"

Kūkaku pinches the bridge of her nose, shaking her head. "Try not to wake up Ganju or he'll want to help."

"Noted," Kisuke tells her, dropping his money back in her waiting hand.

Kaien barely makes a sound during the trip from the teahouse to Kūkaku's home, which is fortunate. Kisuke has a hard enough time as it is sneaking past a sleeping Bonnie-chan, whose ears twitch at the barest hint of a sound. What was once a cute little piglet has grown to the size of a small dragon, and he is not in the mood to become intimately acquainted with her sharp-looking tusks.

By the time he returns to the market square, Kūkaku has already paid up and carried a semi-conscious Yoruichi and Miyako to the bench outside. Miyako seems to fare well enough on two legs when supported by Kūkaku, and Kisuke bids the two women goodnight as they traipse down the dirt path. Yoruichi, meanwhile, has all but melted against the bench, her eyes only barely open.

Kneeling before her, back turned to the bench, Kisuke glances at her over his shoulder. "Come on, you lush."

Yoruichi doesn't seem to be able to make the connection between his position and the suggestion. "Mmnnnn?"

"Piggyback ride."

Her eyes glaze over for a moment –presumably in thought- and then his words apparently click. Scooting forward on the bench, she lets her arms flop limply on either side of his neck, leaning heavily against his back. "How'r pigz relevan' to this?"

"A question for the ages," Kisuke says, hooking his hands under her knees and picking her up.

He considers Flash Stepping his way to the Seireitei, but in her condition, he'd rather not risk the possibility of the jostling causing her to re-experience dinner in reverse. Hopefully, the crisp night air will do her some good until they reach the barracks. At the very least, it has long ago stopped raining; he shudders to think of what the trip might've been like mid-rain, seeing as it's just about time for—

A low, pitiable moan rumbles its way out of Yoruichi's throat. "Whyyyyy…?"

Right on time. Here we go…

"Whyyy d'you keep fillin' m'glass?"

He's lost count of the times he's been on the receiving end of the same, nearly verbatim spiel. It takes a great deal of restraint not to sigh out loud, knowing that she most likely lost control in an effort to relieve the stress of the last few months. As much as she's been trying to hide it, he knows it has taken its toll.

"I suspect the fact that you kept asking Shiba-san to do so," Kisuke says. "And the, ah, strongly worded suggestion that he stop treating you like a child, may have had something to do with this." Though he wasn't present for the salient conversation, he's had enough experience on the matter to picture it down to the wording. "But I could be mistaken."

Her ponytail swings into view first before it is joined by her scowling face. "Yer bein' carsastic."

"Never."

"You are," Yoruichi says, her head drooping to the side until it bumps against his cheek."Ah hatechu n' Kūkaku both…" she mutters, drawing up her arms to cross them against his collarbone. " 'Specially you… with the… 'n that…"

But he never quite learns what it is about him she hates, as Yoruichi's voice trails off when she buries her face into the crook of his neck. Kisuke smiles, slowing down his pace to keep his movements smooth and even, hoping the steadier cadence might lull her to sleep.

There is a very innocent, childlike quality to her petulance when she's in this state, throwing small, innocuous tantrums followed by long periods of mollified pouting. He's always found it rather endearing.

She remains quiet for a long time, and when she speaks next, her voice is barely audible. "Dun take me to th'barracks…"

Kisuke turns gently to face her. Though she can barely hold her eyelids open, her gaze is strangely focused when she catches his eye. "I'll be careful; no-one will see—"

"Dun wanna go back there… Not t'night."

He's never been particularly skilled at refusing her anything, especially not when her eyes bore into his in supplication, telling him everything he needs to know: it's not the gossip she wants to avoid, it's the Division grounds, whose mere sight is a reminder of her looming responsibilities.

He can give her tonight; she's more than earned it. "All right," he says, nodding.

He can feel her gratitude in the way her arms clench around him, and she falls silent again for the remainder of the trip to his home. She slumps against his back, her breaths warming his neck in a slow, steady tempo. If she hasn't already fallen asleep, she's close.

Kisuke tries to be quiet as he swings the iron gate open, but the moment he gives a push, he is instantly reminded of the fact that he's been meaning to grease the hinges for about half a year now and never got around to it. The screech of rust against rust startles Yoruichi, who lets out a snort but otherwise remains unmoving. Face contorted into a cringe, he moves as quietly as he can through the sludge in the front garden, hoping the noise wasn't enough to fully awaken her, but at that precise moment, she begins to wriggle against his back, trying to dismount.

"M'fine, I c'n walk—"

"It's okay, we're almost there—"

"Ah said—" She takes all but one step on the slippery, winding stone steps, then faceplants straight into a mud puddle.

He wishes there was some way to immortalize the sight, but then again, he has no doubt whatsoever he will never, ever, forget the memory of dragging a muddy, embarrassed Yoruichi into his bathroom and trying to convince her to wash up before getting to bed.

"M'GONNA FREEZE!"

He's sorely tempted to resort to kidō to keep her steady, but he knows that for all her squirming, she can't actually run away; if he lets go, she's going to drop like a stone. It takes some maneuvering, but eventually, he manages to lift the bucket over their heads as he keeps her pinned against him by the waist.

The moment the water hits her, she lets out a shriek more suited to an animal being led to slaughter. He suspects it's more anger than actual discomfort that powers her lungs, as the fight slowly begins to leave her body the more she accepts her fate. Kisuke lets the bucket drop, parting the curtain of her drenched bangs with one finger. Behind it, Yoruichi's eyes burn with unholy fury beneath dripping brows, her shoulders heaving.

"That was lukewarm and we both know it," he tells her, chin pointing down at his own dripping clothes. "Now… Will you cooperate?"

The look in her eyes spells out pain and carnage in his immediate future. He supposes his own failed attempts not to laugh at the visual she makes aren't helping, but nevertheless, it appears he does not need to fear a second wind.

"You make a single joke 'bout cats n' water…" she threatens.

He can think of a number of jokes about cats in various states of moisture –though perhaps not in that specific wording- but now is not the time. "I was most certainly not going to."

Yoruichi allows him to push her down to the stool and takes the subsequent dousing with as much dignity as she can muster. When Kisuke is satisfied the water runs clear off her clothes and trickles to the wooden panels without a trace of grime, he reaches for a towel.

Sniffing, she glares up at him just as he's righting the lapels of his top, the one she nearly tore off earlier in a desperate attempt to escape her impeding, aquatic doom.

"Oh yah, cover yur bewbs, Kis'ke. Proteck my inn'cence."

Chuckling, he kneels down before her and wraps the large towel around her shoulders. "This is meant to protect my innocence," he says.

"Pbbffftt yah, you havn' been inn'cent in… Ever."

True enough. Still, he cannot shake off the feeling that it would be distasteful to go ahead without permission when she's so intoxicated. "Do you need help?" he asks.

Even in her current state, she seems to understand just how ridiculous his question is. The sight of her naked body wouldn't be new to him, not since she transformed right before his doubting eyes to prove a point. Yet try as he might, he cannot reconcile the two occasions in his head as even remotely equal. In the long pause between his question and her response, he's certain he must've shifted expressions that run the gamut from artificial nonchalance to embarrassment about a hundred times.

"Jus' hold th' towel up," she says eventually, and he's happy to oblige.

It takes a while, but Yoruichi manages to peel off her wet clothes and kick them to the floor with no affront to his or her innocence. She doesn't make it easy for him to keep his expression even, staring at him the whole time.

He is grateful for the opportunity to tear his eyes away when she's done, under the pretext of fetching her a yukata, the vermillion one she's always favored. He turns his back to her, earning a scoff, and goes about changing into a yukata of his own. He can feel her eyes on him the whole time, from the moment he begins to undress until he hangs her wet Shihakushō on the clothesline to dry.

Only her hairband has escaped unscathed, and he's thankful he had the foresight to pull it off her ponytail before the dousing; she's owned the damn thing since forever, and he doesn't think the delicate white and red band would've come out of the ordeal without a permanent layer of grime.

When he returns to her with a fresh, dry towel, Yoruichi is clad in the vermillion yukata, still curled into a tightly wound little ball of anger on the stool, arms wrapped around her bent knees.

She looks puzzled for a moment when he kneels before her again, his intentions becoming clear only when it's too late to react. She makes a half-hearted, annoyed grunt when he drapes the towel over her head and begins to rub, but she sits still, letting him dry the excess water off. There's something quite gratifying about taking care of her, and it's not for the golden visuals alone, he thinks as she glares at him beneath a crown of matted black hair. He has half a mind to run a comb through it, but he's made it through the night with all his limbs intact so far; he decides not to risk it.

Still, it's hard not to smile at the sight of her, flushed with impatience and embarrassment. She is usually so self-reliant, the experience must be new to her.

"Whuz so funny?" she mutters.

"Nothing."

"Somethin'."

"I'm not laughing at you; I'm smiling."

As he tries to tame the jungle that is her hair into something semi-manageable and only slightly damp, Yoruichi never takes her eyes off him. At first, he attributes the gradual softening in her eyes to the fact that she simply ran out of steam and resigned herself to accepting his help, but there's something deeper in her stare, something he doesn't notice until he takes a step back to admire his handiwork.

"There. All—" His words are cut short when he meets her gaze again. "Yoruchi-san? What's wrong, are you feel—?"

"Why can't I ever have anythin' I want?" Her voice is brittle, the despair in her eyes palpable, her jaw set in a way that suggests she's fighting back tears.

"I…" He has never seen her look so utterly defeated before. She's always been an amusing, if slightly irritable drunk, never one to wallow in self-pity when inebriated. He has no idea what the spark was for the sudden change, but he'll be damned if it isn't somehow related to the stress she's had to endure for the past few months.

"S'not… I'm not asking for… I jus' want one thing. One choice. I… S'not that selfish, is it?"

For all her great fortune in life, Kisuke is all too aware none of it ever came without a price. Since childhood, Yoruichi has had to live with the burden of a massive legacy, of an entire clan rooting for her to fail, hoping to push their own heirs up the line of succession in her stead.

Every decision, every action she's ever made in public has always been the subject of scrutiny, twice as harsh as the scrutiny her male contemporaries had to face.

Every act of rebellion she's ever made has either been a well-kept secret, or a delicate balance between carving her own path in life while never once shirking her duty.

She was never handed the reins to the clan. She earned them, perpetually sacrificing pieces of herself to the altar of duty since the day she came into this world.

"Wanting jus'… one aspect of your life to be… right," Yoruichi whispers, her gaze drawn to her knees. "Shouldn't I—?"

"You should have everything."

The words come out before he can stop them, and he surprises even his own self with the fervor, the conviction behind them. When Yoruichi looks up to meet his gaze again, there is a swell of an emotion in her eyes he has no name for, an inscrutable, penetrating look he can feel down to his very soul.

And all of a sudden, he is terrified. Of the words he just spoke, of what her reaction might be. He supposes there's no rectifying what has already happened, but with any luck, she won't remember any of it come morning. He forces a smile upon his face, the artifice of it straining his lips and heart, and he sets the towel aside. "Starting with a good night's sleep," he says, chuckling.

Yoruichi keeps her eyes on him as he pushes himself up off his knees, holding his hand out to her. She takes the proffered hand, and before he can ask if she can make the walk to the living room, she loops one arm around his neck and places her free palm against his chest.

His lips part in a futile attempt to speak, but nothing save from a faint whimper comes out. Her unspoken request is crystal clear, and though every part of him is screaming that this is a Bad Idea, the look in her eyes makes it impossible to refuse her.

Yet again.

Swallowing hard, he leans down to hook one hand under her knees and picks her up in his arms with ease. He doesn't linger, eager to put some distance between them as soon as possible, all too aware that she can feel his thundering heartbeat as she curls up into his arms.

He tries to tell himself that the soft touch of her fingertips against his bare chest is having no effect on his composure, that he isn't already trying to compare past incident to tonight to gauge the sincerity behind her actions in an inebriated state, that his mind isn't already galloping ahead with ifs and maybes.

Setting her down on the futon in the living room, he reasons he has done more than enough to make her comfortable and tries to make a hasty escape, but Yoruichi's hands cling to his arm.

In the morning, when he will undoubtedly reexamine the night's events over and over again, he will try to convince himself that her grip was like a vise, that he had no choice but to stay, lest he upset her. But tonight, he can admit to himself that he slips under the covers with her because he wants to, so very desperately.

And just for tonight, when her arms encircle his waist and he wraps her up in his embrace, caressing her back until she's sound asleep, he can pretend.

That the possibility of tomorrow can exist for the two of them.

.

.-. .-'. .-. .-. .-. .-. .`-. .-.

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' `-' `.-' `-' `-' `-' `-.' `-' `

.

She awakens to the sound of crackling embers, her body comfortably ensconced in a cocoon of warmth. Cheeks glowing from the proximity to the slowly dying fire, Yoruichi rubs the sleep out of her eyes with the back of her hand, stretching.

Three things occur to her simultaneously: first, her tongue seems to have transformed overnight into a sheet of sandpaper; second, something is applying gentle, but constant pressure on her waist; and third, there appears to be a second source of heat aside from the fire, one currently attached all along her back from nape to ankles.

Her eyes blink open, slowly adjusting to the dim light and the sight of a room that's neither her bedroom in the estate nor the barracks, but one she is nonetheless well acquainted with. Somewhere in the back of her mind the connection begins to form, but she decides not to trust her lackluster mental capabilities at the early hours of the morning, and instead lets her gaze travel to her midsection.

Surely enough, an arm is loosely draped over her waist and once again, her breath catches in her throat at the familiar fight. And even as her slowly awakening mind begins to point out the inconsistencies between this picture and past precedent, Yoruichi pauses, waiting for the illusion to shatter. Seconds tick by, but the image doesn't shift: still the same pale forearm, the same slender, ink-spattered fingers. Tentatively, Yoruichi reaches out to identify the spiritual energy nestled so comfortably next to hers, and the answer gives her body the kind of kickstart only a cold bath usually provides.

Slowly, carefully, she shifts until she's confronted with the warm body cradling hers, and is greeted by the view of Kisuke's sleeping face.

His shoulder rises and falls rhythmically as he breathes in and out, still blissfully unaware of her intense scrutiny. The sight of him triggers a trickle of memories from last night –their talk in the Training Grounds, the outing- then a downpour. She gathers the scattered pieces and begins to fit them together, reconstructing a timeline of the previous night, from the point they left the teahouse to being led back here.

And then…

Her abdomen tightens at the memory of him carrying her back to the futon, and her mind is flooded with an overload of sensory details: the sheer breadth of his embrace; running the pads of her fingers against the smattering of fine, dark blond hair on his chest; the graze of his fingers along the curve of her spine; falling asleep breathing in his scent.

It took close to a century and a half, but unless she's very much mistaken, their friendship has just been effectively ruined. And she's only one step away from dancing on the smoking remains.

Yoruichi catches her lip into her teeth as she gazes at his sleeping form, swallowing hard. Hand hovering before his face, she hesitates for a moment before she lets her fingertips trail down the shock of blonde hair that falls between his eyes. She's close enough to count his eyelashes –pale, almost silver- close enough to feel his warm, even breaths against her face, and her fingers come to a rest on his lips.

Before she can even begin to think about how best to wake him up, she starts to wonder whether she should wake him up to begin with. She could do with some extra time right now, at a loss of what she is even supposed to say when the inevitable happens. Is she supposed to make some sort of declaration? Does she really need to say things that Kisuke already knows? At least she hopes he does.

The decision, however, is made for her before she can make up her mind.

A sharp knock on the front door pierces through the silent house. Kisuke shifts gently, brow creasing, and in a rush, Yoruichi does the first thing she can think of: turning around with her back to Kisuke, she closes her eyes and pretends to be asleep.

Whoever is at the door at this ungodly hour persists, and behind her, Kisuke lets out a sleepy moan. He sniffs, then lifts himself up slightly off the futon. Though she cannot see him, she senses him looking at her, no doubt going through a similar mental process to the one she did only a few minutes ago. She nearly blows her cover when his fingers brush past her cheekbone, tucking a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. The temptation to end the ruse right then and there intensifies, but before she can muster up the courage to do so, he pushes himself off the futon.

The patter of his bare feet against the wooden floor is followed by the sound of the door being opened. The ensuing conversation is conducted in low voices. To her frustration, she can't make out the words, and reaching out to identify the stranger only makes matters worse: there is something vaguely familiar about the spiritual signature, but she can't quite place it, nor does she get a chance to do so as the visitor leaves soon after.

Kisuke closes the door shut but lingers there. Yoruichi makes out a faint rustling sound –Paper- then is momentarily taken aback when he very clearly and audibly swears under his breath. "Fuck."

The next few moments are a riddle of odd sounds and inexplicable actions. Kisuke, damn him, moves about the house silently, giving her only faint clues as to what is happening. There is a lot of back and forth, that much she can tell, some hissing when he tends to the fire, a commotion in the kitchen –Pans?- and at some point, he heads upstairs, only to return soon after. All the while, he makes no attempt to wake her up, and just as she's getting impatient, she hears the door close once more, and Kisuke's spiritual signature begins to fade.

Sitting up on the futon at once, Yoruichi stares at the empty room, at a complete loss as to what to make of this, of any of this, from the stranger calling in at this hour, to Kisuke's abrupt departure. She tries not to jump to conclusions, not to assume that he's actively avoiding her because of last night's events, but the possibility, however remote, gnaws at her all the same as the minutes tick by in absolute silence.

The idleness slowly driving her mad, she gets up, deciding to try and retrace his steps for any clues as to what had him running out in such a hurry.

Dawn is only now breaking outside. The living room is still plunged in twilight, the embers casting an orange glow on the immediate vicinity of the firepit but illuminating little else. A swift trip to the bathroom reveals that both hers and his Shihakushō still hang from the clothesline, and she takes a moment to wash all remnants of sleep off her face before moving on. Her steps take her over to the kitchen, but she finds nothing there to answer her mounting questions.

Her toes curl against the cold floor uncomfortably as she frowns at the empty room, fingers bunched into the long sleeves of the yukata that still carries his smell. Torn between worry and disappointment, she vacillates on whether to leave or stay, when the front door is pushed open.

Kisuke walks in, cheeks flushed from the cold, cradling a paper bag in one arm. He comes to a halt when their eyes meet, and there is a momentary pause before his expression shifts into a smile that makes her stomach flutter. "Good morning."

"Morning," Yoruichi says, rubbing the back of her ankle with one foot.

Kisuke steps inside and closes the door, toeing off his sandals. "Slept well?"

She nods at him, the very definition of eloquence when she murmurs in confirmation. "Mmmm."

"No hangover?"

"No, I'm good," she says. "Thanks for the…" She gestures at the yukata.

Kisuke takes a cautious step forward, his free hand flying up in a defensive gesture. "I didn't look."

It's not that she doesn't believe him, because she does. But his words hold little weight when she's already transformed before him once and knows for a fact that he's stolen plenty of looks in the past, the pervert. Granted, it's never happened while she's drunk.

"I know, I remember," she says.

Neither of them seems willing to close the significant distance that stretches on between them, and Yoruichi can't help but chastise herself for this reluctance. She's a grown woman, not a child, for heaven's sake, and more importantly, nothing happened. She cringes mentally at the lie at once; perhaps nothing physical did, but the way Kisuke hangs back as well, uncertain, tells her he has similar feelings over last night's events.

His fingers toy absently with the paper bag in his arm, and he suddenly perks up. "Hungry?" he says, holding up the bag. "I got pork buns. And the water should be warm enough by now, I can get some tea going."

Yoruichi follows the trajectory of his hand as he points to the fire pit, where the kettle has been set up, a tendril of steam now spiraling out of the nozzle; under the dim light of the fire, she'd completely missed it. Hence the commotion in the kitchen. His choice of breakfast doesn't escape her notice, either. He's not particularly fond of pork buns. But she is.

For want of something to do with her fidgeting hands, she tucks her hair behind her ears, unable to stifle the smile that creeps up her lips. "Sure, I'll have some."

Momentarily rooted at the spot, he watches her approach with an inscrutable expression in his eyes. He snaps out of it soon enough, leaving her to roll up the futon and drag the table back in place before the firepit, while he makes his way to the kitchen and returns with a single plate and cup.

Yoruichi glances up at him, a furrow in her brow when he unloads the buns into the plate and gets her tea started. "You're not…?"

Kisuke meets her eye, an apologetic grimace on his face. "I have to pack."

"What for?"

"Order came in just now; the Tanaka case. The entire First Platoon is leaving in a couple of hours."

At last, the final piece of the puzzle falls in place: the early morning call, no doubt a messenger from the Intelligence Squad. They had always known the order to mobilize could come at any time, and given the complexity of the case, cracking it without causing a diplomatic episode between the mid-tier noble clans could take anywhere from three months to half a year.

Ice settles at the pit of her stomach, and all Yoruichi can say is, "Oh."

Almost immediately, the sinking feeling morphs into guilt; he's going to be in the field for months, and there she is, feeling disappointed that he has to go now of all times, that he won't be there to grin at her behind his Onmitsukidō mask at the ceremony, the one part she was looking forward to about the whole deal.

She hopes she's not entirely misreading the situation, but she is consoled by the fact that he appears to be equally disappointed by the turn of events.

Shaking her head gently, Yoruichi schools her expression into something more dignified. "Go, go, you have to get ready," she says. "But eat something while you pack."

With a grin, Kisuke takes a bun off the plate she holds up before him. "Yes, ma'am," he says, stuffing it into his mouth and getting up.

Yoruichi eats her breakfast as she watches him come and go around the house, prepping a small duffel bag with necessities for the long mission. Idly, she wonders whether she should make the trip down to the Onmitsukidō complex herself soon, but with her Genpuku only a month away, many of her mornings are taken up in preparation for the event. She suspects hiding it out in the complex won't sit well with her mother; she wouldn't put it past her to enlist an entire platoon of men to hunt her down and drag her, kicking and screaming, for yet another fitting.

Waltzing about the living room aimlessly, teacup in hand, she glances upward to the second floor, where Kisuke has disappeared off to, then over to the duffel bag by her feet. He seems to be just about done packing, no doubt gone upstairs to change into his uniform. He's going to be leaving. Soon.

Should I…? Should I say something?

Since waking up, she has been conflicted over whether there is anything to say in the first place, but Kisuke's own reaction has confirmed her suspicions. They need to talk about what happened, even briefly, and clear the air, whatever the end result.

The finer details of last night's events still elude her, and part of her is terrified that she's reliving memories through rose-tinted glasses, reading subtext where there is none, but she is fairly certain of one thing, one moment, one mental picture she has been unable to let go of:

Kisuke, on his knees before her, his grey eyes burning with that rare look she has only ever witnessed a handful of times, the one she'd always had trouble decoding, the one that rendered her silent and flustered, the kind of penetrating gaze that sometimes keeps her up at nights with its intensity as she will toss and turn, trying to interpret it. And last night, the dust had finally settled, every particle of Kisuke's essence screaming out its meaning: longing, yearning.

"You should have everything."

A surge of warmth ripples across her cheeks, and she can feel it reach all the way up to her ears. Wild and half-formed, a pervasive thought enters her mind, and without being entirely certain of what she's doing, she pushes herself up onto the top of the cabinet by the wall and waits.

As the minutes flow past, she begins to feel more and more ridiculous. Vague scenarios of how the following few minutes might unfold play out in her head, and in a moment of supreme idiocy, she begins to adjust the yukata in an effort to… What, exactly? What the hell do you think is going to happen in the ten minutes he has until he must leave?

Shaking her head, she's about to slip down off her perch, when Kisuke jogs down the stairs. It's too late to do anything about her position now, so she pushes herself back again, crossing her ankles tightly and pretending to be very interested in the contents of her teacup.

As she expected, Kisuke is clad in his Onmitsukidō stealth uniform minus the head cover, mask hanging down limply from the neckline of his undershirt. He makes his way over to the duffel bag to toss a few pairs of tabi in, then yanks the cords shut. "I trust I can count on you to feed the kittens?" he says.

Yoruichi rolls her eyes at him; the perpetually present –and hungry- little strays hounding his back yard are cute enough, she supposes, but Kisuke's insistence to treat them like semi-domesticated pets instead of the pack of locusts they are is endlessly vexing.

"You realize they can hunt?" she says, taking a sip off her cup. "I mean, of course you do, you're just worried the neighborhood brats will steal another one of your precious tabbies."

"Mika was the sweetest one."

Of course you've named them all. Of course. "And she left this place readily enough. That should tell you something," she says with a grin. "Fine, I'll watch over the kittens. Anything else?" she asks, offering him her cup.

Kisuke hesitates for a moment before he reaches for it, then takes a sip. "Nope. That's it."

In hindsight, the gesture felt more intimate than expected. They've shared a glass in the past, this should hardly even register as odd, yet given the context of what happened last night, her state of dress, his imminent departure... she is already regretting her momentary impulse.

"You're heading over to the compound?" she says, taking the cup back and setting it down, fingers fumbling around the rim. Stop fidgeting! Good grief, control yourself.

Kisuke nods as he shoulders the duffel bag, and this time, it's unmistakable: he is just as nervous as she is, toying with the leather strap and looking anywhere but her direction.

"Well… I should… go," he says, finally venturing a look at her. "It… it'll be a while before I return, I guess. I know I said I'd be there at the ceremony—"

"It's okay, I know it can't be helped," she says, shaking her head. "We can… We'll see each other… when you're back."

Yoruichi wonders if her chest is heaving as visibly as his; she can no longer make head nor tail of the complicated knot her insides have tied themselves to, her own inner voice screaming at her all the while to say something. Better yet do something.

"Yeah… probably be some time…" Kisuke's voice trails off. And there it is again, the same intense stare glimmering it his eyes, but it disappears as fast as it came, only to be replaced with a strange, artificial look that mirrors the forced smile on his face. "You might even be a married woman by then."

The curt, lifeless chuckle that follows his words is no more believable than the rest of his façade, but it cuts through her like a knife all the same. Because it tells her precisely how much he's willing to risk, how much he's willing to put himself out there and to hell with the consequences.

Not a damn bit.

An eerie numbness spreads throughout her body, and she can only feel the slow pounding of her heartbeat in her ears as she considers every sappy, humiliating thing she's said or done since morning.

He may have seen her nude in the past, but Yoruichi has never before felt so naked before another person.

She sees the sudden pang of shock and guilt in his eyes, and she knows it must be a direct consequence of her own falling expression –"Why can't I ever have anything I want?"- But something hardens within her at that moment –What did you expect- and she refuses to allow him time to try and soften the blow –Stupid, stupid, this is what you get for acting like an insipid fool.

"Yes, I suspect I very well might be," she says, and there is a savage, spiteful glee to be found in seeing the light dim out in his eyes.

But as she transforms and breaks into a run, she wonders if perhaps she was a little too hard on him; after all, he did just make their lives infinitely simpler, resolving the mounting tension that had accrued between them over the course of decades in the blink of an eye.

And for that, she is very grateful, indeed.

She has always been a practical person.

.

A/N: Yes, Yoruichi, you're the least emotional person in the manga, we can all attest to that. This got pretty angsty, I know, but look! Part 2 is up, so click below for the obligatory Happy Ending (pun very much intended), and if you feel like it, let me know what you thought so far!