A/N: I was sitting in a chair and this idea hurt me so bad that I had to write it immediately.

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach or any other copyrighted material.

Flinch

In Hueco Mundo, hurting someone was the only justification for touching them.

It was a world where power was the lone thing of value; where in order to survive, devouring whoever fell onto one's path became custom. To choose not to devour was to surrender the self, to leave the throat exposed for someone else's teeth.

There was no such thing as friendship. There were no true familial bonds. Teams formed for a turn of the moon, then degenerated as eternal hunger trumped over patience and reason.

The enemy was everyone, and could be found everywhere.

Strength was safety. Those who would bare their teeth at the feeble fled in the presence of the strong, cowered behind stark white dunes. Where the powerful chose to walk, others vanished from sight.

Strength was currency. It bought one time. Why time was such a hot commodity in Hueco Mundo, no one could really explain. Time was defined as a prolonged existence. Existence was loneliness, paranoia, misery; but instinct drove one to seek it like an obsession. And because time was purchased by strength, it meant making a choice.

One could not be strong and have companionship, no matter how temporary the latter might be.

The first time she reached for him, he pulled away.

A human would not have been bothered by the suffix she'd carelessly tacked onto his name, but he was no human. He came from a world of ulterior motives, where familiarity was a tool used by the cunning. He would not stand for her thinking that she could get close to him.

She was one of them now. Her words had teeth and claws of their own.

The second time she reached for him, his time had run out.

There was no harm, then, in letting her touch him. She could not possibly destroy him any more than she already had.

In the human world, touch served many purposes.

It was a means of becoming acquainted with one's surroundings when darkness prevailed or when eyes were insufficient. To touch was to learn. One discovered that the stove was capable of burning when hot, and avoided it. The floor was wet and slippery, the ice was cracking, the ground was unstable; too dangerous for one to tread across.

Touch was used to capture attention. A person not minding where they were going could be pulled back from oncoming traffic. Someone listening to music could be tapped on the shoulder and asked a question. A light smack could wake a heavy sleeper when words failed.

But most importantly, touch was an instrument of healing. Premature infants were kept alive by stimulation from parents and doctors. A hand on the shoulder could bring comfort to someone feeling the pain of an emotional wound. Fears died in the face of a loved one's embrace.

This was the woman's primary understanding of touch. This was what she conveyed to him when she attempted to grab hold of him, and came away with ashes.

The brief connection of her world and his began a war of opposing ideas. His hands only knew how to destroy; her hands only knew how to heal. In the end, her power was such that it overcame reality.

It was through touch that he was made new.

The third time she reached for him, he pulled away.

Though he now resided in her world, where devouring others was done by having a higher salary than them, he could not disregard the lessons of Hueco Mundo. He knew what her touch was capable of.

She looked surprised; hurt, even. She had only meant to get his opinion on something. Her innocence infuriated him. Didn't she understand?

She was stronger than him.

It made him wary.

She was saddened every time he recoiled from her hand.

Not because she perceived that he was rejecting her – no, she was not so naïve. She cried for him because she knew, without him saying a word, that he had been hurt before. Flinching was a conditioned behavior. Many years had passed before she had regained her ability to be touched without doing just that.

He, in turn, was surprised to learn that the human world and Hueco Mundo could have something so sinister in common.

When he reached for her, she drew closer. She always drew closer. Regardless of past hurts, she never let the learning, the comforting, the healing power of touch be ruined for her.

And in time, he followed her example. He did not pull away when her hand made contact with his skin. It was a slow process, filled with setbacks, but she was patient with him. She knew better than most that fear was a difficult thing to unlearn.

He discovered that loving someone was a justification for touching them.

Perhaps, subconsciously, that was why he'd reached for her in the first place. It made sense in vague philosophical ways that were lost on her whenever he slid his hand up her thigh.

Touch was a means of expressing affection. Interlocking fingers, brushing noses, searching lips; an arm around the waist, a light grip on the back of the neck, a nip on the earlobe. To have permission to touch someone was to have their assurance that they were not afraid.

Because in the human world, one did not always have to be wary of the teeth at their throat. Existence meant listening to her chatter about nonsensical dreams, playing idly with her hair while she watched television and he watched her, falling asleep intertwined.

And in the human world, the only strength he needed was the amount it took to hold her.