A gentle snore and steady rhythm of inhale and exhale breached Ward 56.

Uryū, still on the bed, was completely dead to the world, ignorant of all sorts of stimulation, or rather disturbances hanging over him. He was at ease. Or at least that was how he looked like with a blank face and astonishing impassiveness. A metal stood by the cabinet supporting a package of sterilized substances – dark red and thick – which were channeled directly into the boy's veins. He would not know he was connected to foreign blood from a generous donor by a tube invading his wrist. Goodness he belonged to type AB. Should he be informed how pale and ghostly he appeared to be when his father rushed him to the hospital?

A lone figure approached the unconscious form.

So his son needed the blood transfusion after all. This would better be the last time he had to carry the boy to the hospital. Even if there must be recurring visits to this block, he would rather the boy walk here by himself. Then maybe he could glimpse upon his son from a distant window, or even hear news from the nurses' gossips. They might be inaccurate… but at least there was something, rather than none at all.

"Uryū…" he cracked, after the long pause impregnated by solemnity in the ward, "have I been doing things the wrong way all along?"

Even if he had been wrong, his intentions had been right, always. He would stay staunch to his devises of course. Only lately, he had been doubtful of the way around his plans. Perhaps there were some other methods to bring Uryū up exactly the way he wanted, but at the same time, he would never need to distant himself from his son? If there was, he would be darned… why did he not realise of such a way in the first place?

No. He had spent his whole fatherhood thinking of another possible path. He was almost certain that this would be the ultimate outcome no matter how he chose to portray himself. He told Uryū to leave the Quincy idea, not as the "Last Quincy", but as Ishida Ryūken, father of Ishida Uryū. The child would not listen.

Gastritis, he could handle. Gastric ulcer, he could handle. Gastric cancer – he would know of this when the pathologist issue the report – he could handle. Modern medicine proved them no longer fatal. And he was a doctor. He would search for a cure.

But death in combat… he was not sure if he could cope with it.

Ryūken gripped the cold metal railings. The boy still had his eyes close, not wanting to take notice of his old man who was currently rooted by his bed. Did he not want to see for himself how worried his father looked before his ashen form? Ryūken only reserved that when his son had his eyes closed.

Just like now.

If only Uryū knew.

He wondered if Uryū knew his father had looked upon him this way too when the child was sprawled on his back, exhausted, after he was dealt with a spiritual arrow in the chest?

You were skeptical whether my "method" would help reinstall your hopelessly gone Quincy powers.

Back in the underground chamber, Uryū was merely running aimlessly, dodging blow after blow. There were doubts inked in his mind, a lot, and even Ryūken who was fifty meters away could discern them. But the attacks were far from faltering. They came in full vigour and precision, and in full brutality. He wanted the boy to move with conviction. He wanted his son to believe in his father's every action, and at the same time, he wanted to douse the useless hope for mercy of a child from a father.

So I displayed my murderous intent. It wasn't difficult, actually. You were lacking that intent yourself. Naturally, you felt more.

I told you it might just work if you stayed alive. I hinted I would not think twice in murdering you. And you flinched. You flinched. There was no detest, loathe and the raw want to even hurt me. You had terror in your eyes. You just could not believe that your father would want to snatch his son's life with his own hands.

Given that their meeting was of a normal occasion, Ryūken would have lowered his bow and left. The last thing he wanted was for his son to fear him. But it was not exactly fear echoing in those azure irises. Ryūken believed it to be terror and shock. Why would the child be surprised to hear those callous words from his mouth?

Deep down, you still have me as your Father.

I'm proud of that, son.

Ryūken knew that their bond was never really severed.

"Ryūken…"

"Is that how you speak to your father, Uryū?"

Ryūken wanted to stay as the child's father; a father to a rude son nevertheless. But at least that son had the decency to mind his courtesy in the community. He knew his wife would have wanted their offspring to be the perfect gentleman, always humble and polite… yet the fact that Uryū was well-mannered was not a compliment.

There is only waning compassion in this world we're living in. Keep your compassion to yourself, Uryū.

This was one of the many advices the child would happily disobey.

If I were someone else, someone who really wishes for your death, would you look at me that way? Would you even consider the option of setting me free? Hopefully not, Uryū. That will be plainly stupid.

Flashes of their last acts before Ryūken wrapped it up with the significant shot charged before his eyes. Only one registered – the one when Uryū chose to cage his father, dismissing ideas of administering an offensive technique.

Kill me.

Uryū chose to cage his father.

You did not.

Fool. You're a fool, Uryū.

Ryūken set his gaze on the sleeping boy's visage. He did not want to see him on a hospital bed no matter what reasons given. What if Uryū ended up here again sometime later? This was Ryūken's fear.

I cannot stretch my coldness any longer. What can I do for coldness to rub into you? You're too innocent for your good. Help me Uryū. Don't die on me.

Your mother would not want that.

Ryūken released the railings and took hold of his son's unmoving right hand. He lifted it gently, trying to memorise the long lost feel of Uryū's fingers on his palm. These were the fingers which curled around his father's thumb when he entertained his newly born offspring. These were the fingers which trembled in his father's firm grasp on the child's first day in school. These were the fingers now residing lifelessly in his father's hand.

The older man fished out the Quincy bracelet from his pocket and slid them around Uryū's wrist. It was exactly this artifact which warded them apart in the first place, and Ryūken was giving it back to him.

It pained him. But as long as Uryū was happy, he would be too.

Cold fingers tightened somewhat around his callous palm, nudging him to set his attention on the stirring form. The boy blinked twice, and twice, Ryūken noticed, he had rolled his blurry eyes over his surrounding. As if he could see clearly…

Could he see his father then?

"Uryū?"

Cerulean irises darted immediately to the voice. All he could make out was the indistinct outline of a man with white hair. That attribute alone was enough to tell him who he was. And suddenly, he was very conscious of his hand in his father's warm grasp.

Ryūken eyed his hand, too.

They repelled to their respective owner's side in a split second; Uryū folded his on his stomach while Ryūken was satisfied with keeping them hidden in his pockets. They both looked away obstinately, either refusing or was too abashed to look straight in the eyes, but only for a while. Uryū, despite not having his glasses on, scanned the figure before him surreptitiously.

The older man pulled a chair to the side of the bed. Upon sitting on it, he turned to his son again. "How are you feeling?"

And what will you tell me? That I have no reasons to care?

Uryū cautiously brought the back of his hand to his forehead, seemingly vaguely aware of his father's query. Skimming the ceilings, he finally brought himself to answer – speaking for the first time after being fairly mute for almost twenty four hours – in a rather splintered voice, "Sore."

"But I'm all right," he added as an after thought.

He slanted his head towards his father, taking in the fuzzy image of the man. He wished he had his glasses on; he had wanted to see things clearly for once. For now, all he could distinguish was the rolled up sleeves and missing necktie of his father, something he was sure Ryūken would never showcase in public, especially at his working place.

"Have you been here all the time?"

Ryūken crossed his leg as he reached for the pair of spectacles on the bedside stand.

"Yes."

"Then I suggest you go back now and get some sleep – thanks," Uryū accepted the glasses offered, pushing them back against his nose. "I can manage here by myself."

"No, I'm required here."

He leaned back casually against his seat before taking out his cell phone. "Your report should be out anytime now. For you to claim yours, it's better to be accompanied by a parent." Ryūken flicked the plastic cover open. "Unless of course, you want to take the report alone."

"I – no, I didn't –"

"Good day, Isshin please? Yes, he's awake. No, it's past visiting hours. Tell them to come back tomorrow…"

Uryū glanced over the curtains above him as he allowed some quietness for his father. But it was precisely at this moment his throat decided to do otherwise; his chest tightened and the boy started coughing into his fist. He blamed his parched uvula. When he flinched at the prickling sensation, causing his father to stand abruptly with a hasty "Later, Isshin", he mentally cursed himself.

"Sit up."

As he said so, Ryūken half hauled his son up before leaning him against the propped up pillow. Pushing a glass of water into his son's hand, he scanned the outer appearances of the ill body again. At this, Uryū promptly dropped his hand clenching his midriff.

"It still hurt?"

The boy nodded meekly between sips. Sparing a cold stare at the silent form, Ryūken turned his heels to the doors.

"Why?"

He halted. He thought he heard his son speaking.

"I still don't understand!"

Uryū lowered his glass, his body inclined towards the standing stature. What he saw though, when his father turned to face him was something he had long missed. The eyes had something kindled in their depths and it was after the deaths of Sōken and his mother the flames in them died. It would be for the best then, to see some emotions in the stoic entity he had failed to comprehend.

"Uryū," he addressed the teen who was apparently longing for answers as reflected by his pallid visage, "I think our misunderstandings have stretched on for quite sometime now, but…" he trailed away.

"But? This isn't a puzzle for me to solve! Haven't you for once think of what you should be doing as a man? Everything seems to be revolving around your life as a doctor, doesn't it? Why is it that you have to be like this, not the least bothered of the matters beyond our realm… or yourself? You –"

"You just don't understand me, is that what you want to ask? But for your role as a son, there is no need for you to know."

"Then why do you even want to be here?"

Ryūken studied the blue eyes of the boy on the bed, willing himself – if it was at all possible – to convey the very truth he had wanted his son to know for so long.

"Who are you?"

"Leave it, Uryū."

"I'm not going to delay this all over again! Just what is your justification for all these nonsense we've put ourselves through?"

"Did your grandfather tell you the reasons then? Did Father mention of families?"

Uryū closed his fingers around the icy railings. "He did," he whispered.

"And he was right."

His son directed another piercing gaze at him. Why the shock? Was it not obvious? But judging from their brittle relationship, he knew the child had not known.

And it was okay. He never blamed the boy.

"Listen, Uryū. There will come a day when you will learn about things nobody can teach you but yourself. I cannot explain. But do you really think I'd lead a pleasant life all along, alone in the house?" he sighed. "It is never easy being estranged from your child. It never will."

Never easy… being estranged from… your child…

Never easy…

"You –"

"Don't worry about it. Your time will come. You'll see. When you can call yourself a father, then you'll see."

There was a shuffle of feet on the outside, and soon, a smart rap on the door was heard.

"Come in."

A young nurse admitted herself in at Ryūken's approval. Uryū recognized her as the very same nurse who tended to him during the biopsy several days back. When he saw a glitter of an engagement ring on her finger, he smiled inwardly. He was so sure she had not had it on when he first met her.

"Ishida-sensei, your report," she handed him a brown paper file clutched tightly to her bosoms. "Got it from the pathologist just now. The list of suggested medication is in the file as well."

She searched for her superior's son and upon discovering him sitting on the bed, she waved amiably. "Hello, Uryū-kun. Feeling better? You still look peaky, though."

The boy held a hand up, waving a little.

"All right, thank you. And can you please check on the patients on the second floor? I'm afraid I won't be able to go there this afternoon. The housemen can report to the sister."

"Yes. Good day."

And everything became awfully uneasy the minute she walked out of the ward. Uryū's eyes darted from the report to his father, lingering a couple of seconds longer at the man's façade to pick up hints of what the health statement might say. But his father deprived him of any of those sorts. He retained his unmoving features, all the while thumbing from page to page; studiously reading the details it came with.

"Well?" the boy finally cracked.

The elder one closed the file and extended it to his son. Hesitantly, the latter accepted.

Ryūken watched as the boy flipped to the second page, then the next, and the one after. His forehead knotted more observably as he delved deeper into the content and the man could not help thinking what the child would expect of his current situation. They say worry is like an extremely big shadow of fear for something small. He had to say that that was one of the adages which make sense the most.

When Uryū lowered the papers to his lap, he blinked at his father.

"Negative," he muttered.

"Yes, I think it's very much so."

"Negative," the boy repeated it to himself. "I don't have cancer."

Ryūken cocked his head at an angle, pinching his nose as he did so. "What makes you think you have cancer?"

But I thought… the books… you did research on gastric cancer…

"I – I don't know…"

"Hn, still, it doesn't hurt to prepare for the worst. Here," Ryūken held his cell phone with his forefinger and thumb momentarily before tossing it over to his son. As Uryū caught it in both palms, he glanced at his father questioningly. "What do I have to do with your cell –?"

"Don't you have someone to tell that you're all right?" the man answered, a tinge of disbelief coloured the sentence. He turned his heels for the second time, and this time, he edged towards the door, a gentle smile gracing his lips as he bowed his head to the floor, concealing his humanity from his colleagues and his son. As he heard the beeps of digits being dialed from the bed, he closed the door with a relieved sigh.

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"Hah! I know you're going to be okay in no time! I mean, you actually live with the hospital's director! That is saying a lot, isn't it?"

"Ishida-kun, we're very glad to know that you're okay! School has been rather restless without you in the class."

"Ah."

"Everyone's dolls are torn and spoilt and without you, we really don't know what to do with them!"

"Don't go saying things like that Inoue. It sounds as if sewing is the only reason why he has to be in school."

Uryū watched his classmates' antics without so much of a prod to his glasses. They had dropped in the moment visiting hour began and huddled around him as soon as he had done addressing Kurosaki Ichigo, Inoue Orihime and Sado Yasutora. For the first two minute, they had chosen they words scrupulously, not wanting to overexcite or offend the ailing teen, and to his dismay, all of them had spoken to him so softly as if he was on his death bed. But as they entered the third minute, they dropped all pretence.

"So, how's life, Ishida?"

Like he said, they – especially that Kurosaki – had started being crude in their words again.

"That's not even close to funny, Kurosaki. How do you think life has been for me all these while?"

"We've met your father, Ishida-kun."

There was another prod to his spectacles. "You did?"

"And he has a considerable amount of reiatsu. There's a very high possibility for him to be spiritually aware," Sado said, raising his head up to look at Uryū from behind his hazel fringes.

"But I thought it's a common knowledge, Chad. Ishida here is the one who made a promise to his father not to associate with another shinigami ever… no matter how screwed up the logic is. It only makes sense for his father to be a Quincy as well."

"That is not what I meant Ichigo. The Last Quincy, Ishida Uryū. Do you –"

"I see what you mean, Sado-kun."

Uryū leaned back into his pillow, relaxed at the subject of his father, even though he was not sure why. "Judging from his spiritual pressure, I'm guessing even you Sado-kun, knows the height of his skill as a combat fighter."

"But I don't feel –"

"Then treat it as a fact, Kurosaki."

The substitute shinigami should spend more time sharpening his knack for detecting reiatsu, he mused.

"Yes, it's only quite lately I had found out his true identity. He is the Last Quincy, son of the First Quincy, Ishida Sōken."

"Yes…"

Orihime was twiddling a corner of her skirt.

"It must be a very happy feeling, isn't it, to have an actual father? Ne, Ishida-kun?"

He frowned somewhat. "Inoue-san…" Had this matter been too sensitive for her?

"Mr. Ishida!"

The three teenagers twisted their necks to the door; Ichigo was up on his feet when he greeted the doctor. Ryūken nodded curtly. And after he let himself in, a nurse followed and placed a tray of tubes on the bed stand.

"Excuse me; can you give us some space here?"

Orihime and Ichigo stood up, backing into a corner as Sado returned his chair to its respective location. Both Ryūken and the nurse vanished from view behind the drawn curtain and all they could hear later were jargons of the medical field.

Uryū wondered if his friends would leave.

"Oh shit, Chad, what's the time now?"

He knew they had left when he heard the door slam shut and scurries of feet on bleached floors and shrieks which sounded oddly like, "SCHOOL, DAMN!"

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So, he had missed school for almost two weeks already, all due to the unfortunately excruciating symptoms of gastric ulcer, exclusive of another three days of admittance in Karakura Hospital. Miraculously, during his stay here, the ulcer was beginning to heal and he no longer had erratic midnight pains. He could not have asked for more; after so many days, he finally could resume sleeping peacefully from night to day. The only thing which awaked him in the middle of the night was the mysterious creaking of the door. But he was the least worried of it. He knew his father was only checking on him. Well, all the more reasons to drift into a sated sleep – knowing that he was not alone in this – right?

"I've packed you your clothes. You're already discharged from the ward, I've done the procedures. Change into this," he put a bag of neatly folded clothing by his son, "and we can leave for home."

The boy obediently stood up and untied the strings securing his hospital gown, but while folding the discarded green material, his eyes fell onto his reflection on the window panes. And he stopped moving. Ryūken elevated his sight from the newspapers he was reading when he no longer heard motions from his son.

"What's wrong?"

The boy straightened up, looking at his approaching father. Securing his belt, he weighed his words well before turning yet again to the man. "I remembered something Grandfather said when he handed me the Sanrei gloves."

He saw Ryūken's eyes briefly raked across the scar burnt permanently into his chest. No sooner had he spotted that, his father pierced his blue orbs with a stare. "What did he say?"

"He… told me that…"

It sounded quite wrong. To him, what Sōken had told him on that fateful evening was far too sappy for his father. So currently, from the bottommost of his heart, Uryū wanted to walk out of the door to escape from this conversation. But it seemed that there was no other way around it. His first attempt at getting some answers from his father had failed dismally. Maybe this time, he would succeed. Luck can be so fickle. He guessed that was why there was the saying "try, try again."

He was going to chance it one more time.

"He told me this, 'Your father is already protecting something dear to him. You may not understand him now, but you will when the time is right. And when the time is right, you will know what you want to protect either. And as a preparation for that time, I want to give you this.'"

Ryūken deemed those words summarised his parenthood well, except that Uryū did not look like he had understood the connotation.

"Yes, Father always had his ways with words. But young as you are, I don't expect you to grasp his meaning."

The boy shrugged. He had wanted his father to belch the answers point blank, not answer him with another taunting remark.

"No," Uryū spurted. "No, I want to emphasise on his last sentence. As a preparation for that time, I want to give you this."

That caught Ryūken's interest.

"What more is concealed by the Quincy tribe? Why would Grandfather bequeath me the Sanrei gloves for something I will protect? What is it that you're protecting that by some intricate explanations is linked to me?"

The older man scratched his chin, replaying his son's streaming questions in his mind over and over again.

He himself did not get it either. Did Sōken just hint that Uryū needed the destructive powers of the Sanrei glove to protect something dear to him? Ryūken's intention of shielding his family from harm and adversaries was as clear as crystal, and he assumed that when the time comes, Uryū would understand that his father had never even once abandoned his family for something else.

In a way, he assumed that Uryū would do whatever he could to protect his family in return.

But to rely on the Sanrei glove?

"I believe that in due time, we will come to know what he meant."

"You do believe him?"

Ryūken pointed at the white shirt on the stand, gesturing his son to put on something on his back.

"He was the First Quincy, and a lot more seasoned if compared to you and I. There are things which he might know and we don't."

And time will tell.

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Ist June, 10.15 p.m.

Uryū was discharged only five days ago and within this short span of time, he had showed vast improvement in his condition. I had put him on antacids since day one and thankfully, he had never missed his pills. I thought he had purposely messed up his medicine table, which would eventually lead to all these dire complications he had been through. His doctor prescribed him cimetidine and misoprostol – the former is designed to block the action of histamine on gastric cells, hence reducing acid output while the latter is an agent that strengthens the gut lining against attacks by acid digestive juices. It was very good to know that the pain was receding too; I saw him watering the plants in the garden in the evenings.

Then one night, we were in the kitchen washing the dishes and pots. A plate accidentally slipped from his grip and it shattered on the floor. While we were gathering the shards, he suddenly grinned. I was not quite sure of how high I raised my eyebrows, but the moment he saw me, he grinned wider and started relaying this story he said he had heard from Father. It must be the same old one… the one he used to tell to children when they were on the verge of giving up. So the big question mark was why proposing divorce only after seven years of flying plates from the wife?

I told Uryū – practice makes perfect.

It had been a while since we shared a good laugh between us. And after clearing up the mess, it had been considerably warmer in the dingy house. He did not talk much, but it was enough not to earn that steely glare of detest anymore. I was not quite sure as to why I was even bothered with his perception of me. I thought I was the one who initiated this parenting style.

And, I know the day would come.

This evening, when I came back as usual, the kitchen table was laden with dinner. All of the dishes reminded me of her cooking when my birthday arrives. Of course today is of the wrong date, but the menu consisted of my favourite dishes. I thought I saw cuttlefish among the shitake mushrooms, but she knew I would not touch those – I dislike anchovy's gravy. But the taste amazed me. The chef had cleverly substituted anchovy with garlic.

Even the rice had sesame sprinkled on it. This is usually done on special occasions in the household.

I know he is no longer here, under the same roof. If this is the way to say thank you and farewell, this must be the one most excellently done in the whole century.

Be well now, Uryū.