Work Text:
Ichigo looks up from his tiny kitchen island. There is a hesitant first knock at his door followed by three firm ones. He isn’t expecting anyone, but nevertheless he quickly finishes plating his omelette and makes way to his door. He opens it to find a small woman in a blue and white sundress.
She has dark mid-length hair, with one rogue piece stuck to the middle of her face. She has deep blue eyes. The coloring of that strikes him as odd but with hair like his who’s to judge? Her eyes are narrowed slightly and she’s got a slight frown on.
Oh crap. He’d totally been staring at this random girl. A fact they seem to silently acknowledge simultaneously; Ichigo fakes a cough and the woman clears her throat.
“You are Kurosaki Ichigo, correct?”
Her tone is firm and sure and for some reason he feels distantly like he would have been hurt if she had spoken with any less certainty. He nods in a way he hopes looks cool and she gives a curt half nod in return.
“Right, then, this is your mail.” She holds up an amazon package he’d only just noticed she had. She tosses it and he catches it without so much as a glance at its direction.
Why can’t he seem to look away from her?
“Thanks. Hey, um, shot in the dark here, you don’t happen to be Kuchiki Rukia, do you?” Somehow he knows though, the name practically sings on his lips. There is a strange gnawing feeling as he says it.
The familiarity, the longing, the elation at the name…
“Yes, I am Kuchiki Rukia.” She gives him a small smirk and he swears electricity rushes to the tips of his fingers and toes. Such an ordinary conversation, why does he feel almost..giddy?
She is beautiful, he rationalizes. Maybe he should invite her in?
“Heh. I have some of your mail too. Guess they mixed us up. I was gonna hand your stuff to the landlord but…come in, I’ll get ‘em for you.”
She follows him and sits on the armrest of his couch, openly looking around. She surveys the whole of his modern studio and chuckles to herself.
Ichigo takes offense as he slides his closet open to fetch her packages. “Geez. I was warned about nosy neighbours but not ones that are so openly judgemental.”
This to his delight and dismay, makes her chuckle more. “Well for a moment when you invited me in, I was worried you were a serial killer or deviant but surely no one with an apartment so tiny has the means to hide a body. So I figure I am safe.”
He gives an exaggerated frown and hands her her packages, which she takes with a clearly practiced and precise grace. “What kind of guest are you? Insulting my space like that. And for the record this is a perfectly standard apartment. And we’re neighbours! You live in the penthouse or something?”
“Trying to find out where I live so suddenly? Maybe you are some sort of delinquent after all. Anyways, as for your first question, the kind that is just leaving.”
She stands from her place on the couch with a coy expression. “Bye, Ichi-”
“Wait!” , he cuts her off suddenly, kind of aggressively to be honest. Why did he do that? They exchanged their mail, she should be going. But for some reason he can’t bear to hear her say those words.
He can’t stand it.
“Uhhh-” Shit! What now? He scratches the back of his neck.
The smell of his untouched breakfast catches in his nose. “Are you hungry? I made too much food.”
And as he says it he realizes it's true, he had made an extra serving. Why? He’s lived alone for so long, but it seems natural to make extra, and it seems just as right to him that she be the one to eat it.
She cocks an eyebrow at him and for a moment he’s terrified she will say no and already annoyed, she’ll insult him again. But her expression softens and she sniffs in the direction of his kitchenette.
“That does smell pretty good. Were you expecting me? Oh I see! You must’ve switched our mail to lure me here. Alas, I’ve fallen hook, line and sinker for an omelette, and my package of Chappy-pins!” She puts her hand to her forehead in an over exaggerated display of despair, but sits down and awaits her meal.
“Chappy? You came here judging my place when yours is probably overflowing wall to wall with overpriced knock-off Hello Kitty merchandise?”
He grins, glad to finally be able to return fire. She has the gall to look wounded as she cuts her omelette over white rice.
“That only offends me because I wish it were true and it’s not.” She points a loaded fork in his direction. “ But you should prepare yourself for quite the display at my place. It is the penthouse by the way.” She proudly affirmed her childish collection, but seemed bashful when admitting she lived in the swanky 15th floor penthouse.
What an odd woman.
“Oh? And since when was I invited to your place? Do you frequently invite serial killers over to your Chappy hoarding house?”
“Ahh no. I’m not so interesting as to have multiple serial killers in my life who steal my mail then feed me breakfast. But I obviously have to return the favour and cook you dinner. I’ve been told I make an excellent curry.”
~~~~
Ichigo woke up with the taste of curry on his lips. A cruel memory of a simpler time. Okay, maybe not ’simpler’. Most people would probably agree that passing senior year was a much more common challenge than fighting with ghost-monsters, and death-gods and mad scientists with a god complex.
Even before the Arrancars showed up, nothing about his time in and with Soul Society had been easy, but dammit if he hadn’t been happier. Months of powerlessness, of being cut from that world, from his allies and Zangetsu and his friends and….
He didn’t think he could ever get used to being without all of it.
He often had what he felt were prophetic nightmares; where he’d be forced to see his friends charge into an invisible battle of some sort. Risking life and limb and sending him home with sympathetic looks. Then things would get worse, people he could and couldn’t see would get injured and he would have to look on at nothing; utterly useless as the world shakes around him, with no insight to what is happening before him besides the cracks on the ground and his friends' blood at his feet.
Recently though, between the nightmares, there was a whole different kind of torture. Like the dream he’d just had. While awake, Ichigo had made a point to avoid all thoughts of her. For reasons he refused to unpack, he told himself he was rightfully angry with her.
She with her mountain pile of Kuchiki money should have no issue getting a new gigai and coming to see him-
Them! He meant the gang of people who came to rescue her from Soul Society! Where were her manners?
He knew she had an entire life outside of Karakura, but she had fit so perfectly here. Was it really so easy to turn her back on his world? Did she think he had turned away from hers? Or would it just be too hard to look at him now? Now that he’s a far cry from that brave, strong-willed fighter she kept in her heart.
Maybe that was why so many of these dreams had felt like do-overs. Like his subconscious was creating new scenarios to ask: ‘If we had met this way, at this time, would you have thought of me differently? Would you have been able to stay?’
The worst part was he never got an answer. Even in his dreams they simply met. Sometimes they were mundane, like getting their mail switched, getting stuck in an elevator together or reaching for the same box of cereal at the same time in a grocery store. Sometimes it was more dramatic; he would save her first this time, from bandits or hollows or evil family members. Sometimes she still came to his and his family’s rescue, and the dream versions of him usually made better first impressions than he had that fateful night.
His subconscious could never seem to change her though. Alas, even in his fantasies she would never cower, never beg to be rescued or leap into his arms in gratitude. He preferred it that way.
If he was to be tortured in his sleep by her memory, it should at least be an accurate recreation. Although some gratitude and basic affection would be a welcome addition, but he wouldn’t dare dwell on that thought any further.
Nevertheless, no matter how they met, no matter how long his mind could stretch the encounter, he always woke up before he could find out what happened next. These dreams were always so vivid too. He’d wake up with a phantom pain in his arm from where he’d blocked a cloaked figure from striking her, or there would be the distinct scent of winter air - even on a hot summer day - or , like today, he’d have the taste of her cooking fading from his mouth.
To have her there so distinctly, just to have her fade from him all over again…He almost preferred the nightmares. At least then he woke up relieved no one was actually under attack. On mornings like this one, he had to face disappointment and all the denial and confusion that the dream brought on.
Like most mornings nowadays, he threw off his blanket, and forced himself to think of whatever mundane list of things he had to do that day. Anything short of flicking Keigo at lunch or picking up an extra shift at work was shoved as far back into his mind as possible.
He got ready and headed out, pretending the heaviness in his chest was just anxiety over some upcoming exam or something.
~~~~~~~~
Ichigo slides over another americano. The other side of the counter is overrun with grabby, impatient hands desperate to get their morning coffee and sprint to their boring desk jobs. Ichigo can’t imagine being that desperate to go anywhere, let alone some grey commercial building. He calls out order after order, but the crowd never really diminishes.
“Order 423!” He calls out for a strawberry frappe. In January?
Then, a pale hand reaches out and nabs it from the counter. She emerges only for a second, disappearing back into the crowd after getting her drink. She has a yellow coat on and is wrapped in a pink scarf. His eyes follow her as he continues calling out orders. He couldn’t quite place it, but something about her has drawn his attention.
She reaches the cafe door, her eyes briefly scan the crowd too, looking for someone. Deep blue eyes meet his. A glint of something washes over them. She sucks in a short breath before looking away and making her exit. Before he really registers what he is doing, he sheds off his apron and jumps over the busy counter. There are shouts of shock and disapproval. He had spilled some of the crowd's precious coffee in his haste. He squeezes his way, passing them as they continue to yell their order numbers at him.
The frigid air outside the cafe hits him hard, he had forgotten to grab his jacket, but he can’t risk losing track of her now. That feeling gnawing at him since he saw her. It was familiar. Yes, familiar and…painful?
He can’t place her, but he needs to find out how he knows her. He needs to see her, talk to her, touch her. The need to find her again consumes him like a fire, keeping him warm in the winter streets.
The city is crowded and she is quite short. Still, his feet seem to know which direction he will find her in, even as the roads begin to turn and dip. Just as his eyes were pulled to her in the cafe, his feet are tugging towards her, his whole body is calling out to her, trying to reel her back.
“Rukia!” He hears his voice shouting. That must be her name. The knowledge of it excites him. There is an undeniable happiness to his tone even as he shouts desperately.
“Rukia! Wait! Rukia, it’s me!”
Wait. How did she know him? Who were they to each other? She is Rukia, he chastises himself.
She is Rukia and he had waited so long for her to be here. He doesn’t know why she had gone or why she hadn’t waited for him at the cafe. But he is too happy to wonder when, why or even who. His steps feel lighter the closer he gets. She is here and that is all that matters.
Finally, the crowd disperses. She stops at the door of a flower shop. The windows of the shop are filled with chrysanthemums, marigolds, camellias, yarrow and more; he can’t quite see from the road. But the most prominent displays are snowdrops and bright blue forget-me-knots.
“Rukia! Hold on a sec!” he shouts once more.
She turns, drink still in hand. She looks at him confused. A flash of recognition passes over her but her confusion does not diminish.
“Coffee guy?”
Anger flares in his stomach, righteous indignation he knows he has no right in having. Still, he wastes no time in correcting her.
“No. I’m not ‘coffee guy’! I’m Kurosaki Ichigo.”
”Ichigo?” She looks down at her drink then back at him. “Ichi..Ichigo!” She meets his eyes for the first time since the cafe and runs to meet him on the road.
“Yo,”he smiles at her.
She takes a moment to fuss over his lack of jacket, but she smiles back. “Ichigo-”
Just hearing her say his name feels like a warm glow in his chest.
“Ichigo, what are you doing here?”
He scoffs, “I could ask you the same thing.”
“Ah. I um..“ She gestures her head towards the flower shop. He grins at her, amused at the thought of her working in such a place. He starts to walk towards it but she stops him.
“You can’t go in there, Ichigo.”
He tries to maneuver past her, but she holds firm. “I just got myself fired from my job, Rukia. At least let me help with yours.”
He gently pushes her to the side and makes his way to the door, but the handle is gone. “Rukia, how do we get in?”
She looks up at him again, her expression suddenly holding back sorrow. “You can’t go in there, Ichigo. You know that.” And he recalls just then that she’s right, he can’t go in, but still-
“Okay then. Walk back to the cafe with me. We can stay there.”
She shakes her head. He sees her eyes start to water and he feels something in his chest start to crack. They just reunited! Why was she intent on saying goodbye?
“Don’t you like it there? You were just there, dammit!”
She won’t give him an answer. Instead she tries to hand him back her drink but he refuses.
“It’s yours,” he says, his voice now becoming small.
She gives a slight nod, holding the drink to her chest. She walks to the shop door and like magic, the handle is waiting for her grasp.
“Cafe’s always open, yanno?” he says to the ground.
“I know,” her voice shakes slightly but doesn’t shrink as his had. “This is-”
Ichigo thanks the heavens in that moment for the thunder and freezing rain that poured down on him because it drowned out the rest of that sentence. He knows what she was about to say and he can’t hear it again. He’s heard it enough in the waking hours before sleep overtakes him, and in the quiet moments before he can shove it away to make room for test answers or study schedules. It’s basically etched into his skull at this point. So really, no need for a repeat of it.
He looks up and sees the open door to the cafe in front of him. No less crowded than when he left. He sighs and walks inside, grabbing his apron off the hook.
~~~~
For a moment, he was convinced he had been dreaming. A Frankenstein of his prophetic nightmares and taunting Rukia-dreams.
He was powerless again; losing his newly minted fullbring made him unable to fight alongside his friends and allies. And in an extra cruel twist; they had made him the enemy! His best friends carried venom in those sympathetic looks this time. Frustration and hopelessness stung at his eyes and stained his cheeks. They were convinced he was the madman now, and they seemed prepared to act accordingly.
And then, at the peak of his despair, there she was.
Deep blue eyes that held no pity for the pathetic state they’d found him in. They looked up at him almost in wonder; like seeing him again felt as surreal to her as the figure before him seemed to his own eyes.
Short black hair with that one rogue piece in the centre of her face.
Small hands that held a blade in his chest.
The sight of her at the handle of that blade dried his tears instantly. He knew she wasn’t fighting him. She, once again, had come to save him.
She had managed to redo their first meeting, better than anything his subconscious had cooked up for him in his dreams. She took up the entire scene before him. He savored the sight of her, the cool air that always followed her, and the feeling of her spiritual pressure enveloping him.
The odd glowing blade in his chest glowed brighter and brighter and warmth filled his body. He felt like the sun emerging through the clouds after a storm. That’s right. He thought to himself, there’s only one person who can make me feel like this.