IDN own Bleach. For this purposes of this story, the conversion factor of time is 1 human minute equals 77.05 shinigami minutes.

Here, you will find those things we often lose in translation.

1: Don't Question Borrowed Brilliance

"Mr… Ukitake, was it?" asks the Doctor with a distracted air.

Juurshirou nods pleasantly, lifting one finger in gentle disapproval. "But I prefer Ukitake-tiacho, if you don't mind."

"Right," agrees the Doctor after a slight pause, "Mr. Ukitake." The man in the white coat flips through a file, one page, another page, another page. Flips back to check a figure on the first page.

Bemused, Juushirou observes the room - a patient's room - which he finds funny. English is a goofy language, and this particular homophone (patients/patience) is rather fitting. He has been waiting on this table covered with wrapping paper for thirty minutes — which is 1.06 days in SoulTime.

Good thing Juushirou is a patient man.

The Doctor finally looks up from the file labeled 'Jushiro Ukitake.' Then, he nods seriously, walking over to place it in the slotted file-catch on the back of the door.

"Paperwork," Juurshirou sympathizes, "Never much fun, is it?"

The Doctor chuckles heartily, quipping, "Can't live with it, can't live without it."

Juushirou smiles softly, thinking: 'Too true, except the living part. Can't die without it either.'

Clearing his throat, the Doctor says, "On the patient questionnaire, I noticed that the age blank was filled incorrectly. The nurse who conducted the initial interview and administered the preliminary exam must have written the date in that blank instead. I'm apologize for her incompetence." (Truly, incompetence. The date's wrong too.)

Juushirou would like the English speaking Doctor to articulate slowly, perhaps use fewer I'm-especially-educated words.

Apart from that, Juushirou is sorry too. He knows more than his fair share about incompetent subordinates. (Though he would never say so out loud.) "That's alright," the forgiving superior soothes, "I'm 1310 years young." Then he grins boyishly, bringing the little joke home.

The Doctor stiffens, raises a brow, purses his lips, thinks hard. Trying for lighthearted equanimity, he replies, "1310 years? Unlike you, I'm American, you understand. Not all that familiar with the Metric System. Have they changed the measure of time? Europeans… have a funny way of doing things. Why can't they use inches and feet like the rest of the world, eh?" (Metric System = universal. America = a world all its own.)

Juushirou clears his throat, wondering why… never mind. Doing the math in his head and wishing Mayuri-taicho would invent a device to run the figures for him (like a calculator, maybe?), Juushirou decides, "I'm 17 then."

Shifting in his plastic chair uncomfortably, the Doctor asks, "And how long have you been 17?"

Juushirou smiles secretly. "A while."

Which reminds the Doctor of a movie (2 out of 1,000 stars) his daughter dragged him to some weeks ago. Carefully, calmly, unwillingly, he inquires, "You're rather pale, and I imagine you spend much of your time indoors; so, if you don't mind me asking, do you have fangs or a girlfriend you'd like to eat?" The Doctor coughs, "Drink, excuse me."

Nearly affronted by the idea of having a girlfriend (What would Retsu think!), Juushirou replies, "I'm not sure what any of that means, but I do spend much of my time indoors with my friend, Shunsui-kun."

The Doctor, however, remains doubtful of his patient's sanity. "Your friend, King Kong?"

"No," Juushirou corrects the doctor, wondering what sort of academy certified this man, "Shun - shui - kun," sounding it out. Juushirou watches his face closely, willing him to see sense. Because, obviously, Shunsui is not a 'king' nor quite a 'kong' (which means "glorious" and a million other things in Chinese and "king" in Danish), and the idea of Shunsui getting wind of this kingship business is troubling.

Not quite nauseating, but it's a near thing.

Which reminds Juushirou: "I do believe you're a doctor: a pulmonologist, correct?"

(Vocab word of the day: pulmonologist - pulmonary specialist, i.e. the lung doc.)

"Why, yes. Yes, I am," supplies the Doctor unnecessarily, fingering his lab coat smugly. All that tuition, hard work, and those favors his parents called in are finally paying off. Recovering himself, he adds, "And I have the results of your blood work, spirometry, and biopsy.

The last two things-he-has mean absolutely nothing to Juushirou, though 'spirometry' sounds like a death sentence. (It isn't. Only a lung capacity test.) Then, the beleaguered captain sighs, knowing it's useless to even ask — all hope has been lost for centuries. (So about a week in HumanTime)

Then, he thinks of Bleach readers who depend on him to be valiant and wise because Ole' Yama is neither — those precious fans who need him to fight the good fight until the bitter, bitter, bitter end.

Juushirou instantly brightens in that special way which makes Division 13 the loveliest of them all. Tone joyous, he inquires, "How long do I have to live?" And in his head, Juushirou pulls a new sheet of metaphorical scratch paper and prepares to do some more math.

The Doctor frowns, confused and deeply disturbed by his patient's sparkly pessimism. "What do you mean by 'how long do I have to live?'" Then, he tilts his head, eyes regretful. He was right: Mr. Jushiro Ukitake is not quite right in the head. Though, he comforts himself, at least the white haired man does not think he's a vampire. Thanks be!

"I..," Juushirou starts. Perhaps, his completely basic and legitimate question was lost in translation. Perhaps, he should break it down. "Let me rephrase: at which point in the future will I cease to be?"

The Doctor shakes his head, dismayed. How can this man discuss death — his own death — so casually! Truth be thought (certainly not told), he's a bit jealous; doctors are supposed to remain clinical and detached. Mr. Ukitake would make a fine physician. However, that does not negate the fact that this was-a-doctor-in-his-last-life (pediatrician) person needs a shrink. The once-was-pediatrician is obviously unhinged: he greets terminal illness with a smile?

"You're not dying," the Doctor sputters, "You are sick, yes. But dying? Heavens, no!"

Juushirou is stunned, blank, speechless, overcome, undone, sideways, upside down, and inside out. The only thought surfacing is: But Heaven does know. Up there, we know I'm dying.

"Does the term 'tuberculosis' mean anything to you?" the Doctor asks tentatively, "Fever, lack of energy and stamina, poor appetite, sallow skin, coughing up blood… sound familiar?"

Each symptom penetrates Juushirou's brain with supernatural force, and he suddenly knows how Shunsui feels when little Nanao beats him over the head.

Fever. Check.

Lack of energy and stamina. Check and Check.

Poor appetite. Just ask anyone who knows him. (They would all say, "Check.")

Sallow skin. Begrudging Check.

Coughing up blood. Check to the nth power.

But what about…

"Why, then, do I have white hair?" Juushirou inquires, voice not necessarily shrewd but near enough to call that adjective to mind.

The Doctor shrugs blithely, (Juushirou is not an albino, so that's off the table.) hypothesizing, "Heredity; perhaps, you're parents had white hair. Otherwise, the lack of pigmentation is a chemical reaction. Exposure to hydrogen peroxide or maybe bleach?"

"Ah," Juushirou concurs ruefully, "Bleach." Kubo and his little quirks: the colorless wonder of Shirou-chans.

The Doctor nods vaguely, continuing, "The treatment is rigorous, and the scar tissue in your lungs will never go away. But you will mend in time."

An Epiphany. Eureka. Holy-wooh!

Type moment.

Juushirou takes one deep breath (which aches a bit), then verifies, "You're absolutely sure I don't have a parasitic-incurable-manga-epic-tear-jerking disease?"

Should he dare to hope again?

The Doctor's had enough of this charade; dropping all professional pretense (and shattering the 4th wall), the man embraces his oc-ness, arguing, "You think I'd make this shit up? I'm not writing this story. Dude, ya' got TB!"

Frowning a little, feeling bad for robbing this Doctor of good cheer and the 4th wall its integrity, Juushirou explains apologetically, "I did not mean to impugn your honor as a man of healing. Only, for many years, I've thought I had a fatal illness, draining my power and making me an easy target for Kubo to kill for emotional impact."

"'Many years?'" the Doctor snorts, ire cooling, "You said you're only 17, remember?" Then, he smiles just a little: apology accepted.

Juushirou grins too wide in return, rivaling the sun's splendor, reveling and celebrating and breathing it all in. There are so many things he's been shrinking away from, things he thought were lost causes because death would render the effort moot. So many projects and ideas he shelved because tuberculosis put his goals out of reach.

But there is a cure! And he will mend in time.

He can finally tell Kiyone and Sentaro to 'just shut up' and tell Shunsui 'If you don't stop drinking, old friend, I'm going to outlive you.'

And he can finally, finally confess to Retsu, his sempai. He'll tell her he dreams of unbraiding her long silky hair.

In short, Juushirou can get a life.

Oh, how his twin blades sing of resurrected youth! (They're not present at the moment, but it's the thought that counts.)

And realizing all of this, Juushirou answers finally, "Age is just a number."

And for once, the comment — it's true meaning —is not lost in translation.

Yey! First one done; a million more to do.

PS: I am American, so I'm allowed to make fun of myself. (If you disagree: Free Speech. Get some.)

Mare!