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Ishida is first on scene, catching up where Ichigo's shoulder dips toward the softly bloodied earth. He's wary to stoop below the half inch wound that's gone jagged through the end of his collar bone, and loops a weary arm around Ichigo's back.
"You're done, Kurosaki," he says, raw.
Ichigo allows himself to sag, a little, into Ishida's side. But he doesn't let Aizen up, follows the prisoner around where he is kneeling ahead of them, gaze intent, trained. Aizen slips him a slow, mirthless smile. "Do not worry, Kurosaki Ichigo," he says, "Allow yourself to savor this victory - this blood, rather, than guard me."
Ichigo snorts. He adjusts himself beneath Ishida's supporting weight. "Yeah, right. Like I'd just turn you a blind eye."
Aizen's smile becomes minutely wider, develops a sinister curve beneath the blood bubbling at his teeth. He doesn't seem bothered either by the cauterized flesh singed at his elbow, by the slash at his back, but Ichigo knows - watches, with little emotion, how he is slowly swallowing back on himself. They know - have known, too well, his near immortality, his schemes and plots.
"Kurosaki!"
Ishida directs him in a crescent, one leg between Aizen and the remnants of Yhwach, to where Hitsugaya and Rangiku are approaching, shunpō swift, for all of the fatigue they're all currently experiencing in the aftermath.
Hitsugaya stops in the middle ground, one cold, cold eye on Aizen. "Don't worry about him," he says, "Suì-Fēng and a squadron of the Second's prison guards will be here shortly. I suggest you make your way back toward Sōkyoku Hill; let the remnants of our forces - and theirs, know that victory is ours."
*
Everything is in ruins. Shards of rock, of build, still crumbling from the foundations of buildings, scraps now, leftovers thrown haphazardly by giants and by men.
They slowly make their way back. The forest still stands, largely. Only thickets of trees have been struck down. The air is misting, condense so thick it slides, slippery, down the back of his neck. Ishida says nothing. Ichigo leaves it; now, in the breath of the aftermath, what's he supposed to say? Thank you's feel futile, and he notices the way Ishida drags his left ankle, the occasional harsh intake of breath, one, three fractured ribs, pinpricks of flesh wounds and slicings in his face, on his throat, down his collar. It's not wounds he hasn't earned, but Ichigo thinks that at least, there's no doubt left worrying between them. Ishida's Ishida; Ichigo knows him, knows where he has him.
He's sluggish. Blows to the head, loss of blood, exhaustion; he could rattle too many things off which makes him that way, but he knows that he could've noticed them earlier. The strands of reiryoku are starch and noticeable, when he tunes out the surroundings, allows for them to materialize, red, red, not far off.
Ishida's breath hitches.
"Idiot," Ichigo mutters, "The hounds of Hell aren't out for you."
It takes Ishida a few moments to relax again, barely, some tension coming and going in his posture. "Who's the idiot, Kurosaki," he murmurs. "It seems they're alone," he points out.
Ichigo nods, breathes in through his nose. They're okay, at the pace they're going.
*
He eventually makes it through the slick fog permeating the perch of the hill, half an ear, non-damaged, on the short burst staccato of her breaths - there, somewhere.
Rukia emerges from around the bend of a cliff face, facing down towards them. Ishida stops, arm slowly loosening around Ichigo's back, as both Rukia and Renji come into their watery view, silhouettes wobbling through the mist.
He doesn't have to - never has to, because she just does, knows, innately - come to her. Rukia is two heartbeats away, and then she's slipping into the bend of his body, pressing her nose harshly into Ichigo's sternum. His shihakushō is parted, crusted with blood and matter, but she's winding her fingers into his back and pushing her face into him, nevertheless. Ichigo's never been religious, but Christ, he thinks, blinks his eyes shut and loops his one still usable arm around her shoulders to keep her - him, steady, rooted.
"You fool," Rukia breathes.
"Yeah," Ichigo replies, "Yeah, I know."
*
"Rukia-chan!"
Ichigo looks up, not previously entirely sure that he'd been clear enough to see his oaf dad, black shihakushō tattered around the ankles, elbow steady on his thigh and chin propped onto it, lounging on a piece of rock, grinning in their direction. Rukia huffs, where she's supporting Ichigo on the right, Renji on the left. "Kurosaki-san," she relents.
"It's dad - "
Ichigo narrows his eyes, and kicks out towards Isshin. "One word, old man," he warns.
Isshin smiles. The silliness, the happiness, slides out of place, leaving room for something slightly more brittle to take its place - something more suitable for a man who almost lost a sizable portion of his family. Who almost watched it occur.
"You made it, son," he says.
Ichigo breathes out. Rukia is still steadying him, somewhat, at his side. There's still a piece of his mind which he has to occupy with consciously keeping upright. There's a weight, dropping like an anchor between his shoulders, squaring up in the center of his body and pulling him down. He doesn't allow for it to show, he thinks, but -
"Yeah," he replies, "We made it."
*
"How's the pain?" asks a brusque Fourth third seat, one hand, oval shimmer of a healing kido across her palm, hovering over his shoulder.
Ichigo grunts. "Hurts," he mutters. There's an itch to pull back, that he's fighting.
The third seat snorts. "Figures," she says. "Whatever's used here has gone right through your scapula; severed the acromion pretty much right off. You're lucky you're able to tough it out. Not everyone does."
They're in a spot of unusual seclude, given that this is, after all, the aftermath of war. In the midst of a war zone. Ichigo surveys the hurried craftmanship; the hastily constructed tents, makeshift beds made out of mattresses slung over piles of driftwood, harvested from the nearby ruins. There is no flooring, and there is no running water. The Fourth are overtasked, and Ichigo's seen Orihime, amidst the chaos, lend her knowledge and powers. Most of them are helping - the captains, lieutenants, who're not in critical condition, are up and about, receiving orders from Isane and Kiyone. Blood transfusions are running high, and he knows that the third seat assigned to him will want to use him for that. He's not sure how they'll make it through.
The flap of the tent to their right, scissored into a makeshift passage to somewhat split the tent into sections, is delicately pushed aside.
Rukia's left sleeve is torn up to her shoulder. Her bicep is wound tightly, with bandage pressing over scraps of gauze. Ichigo notes her lieutenant badge, however, chalked down to rest in the crook of her arm. The lily is stained, no longer bleach white.
She half smiles, a ghost of the gesture. "How are you feeling?" she asks.
Ichigo shrugs with the shoulder still undamaged. "Fine," he says, "Quit worrying so much."
"I'm not worried," she shoots back, lip momentarily curving into something more victorious, more alive, "It was a simple question, Ichigo. Honestly, that's such a manly answer - Quit worrying. You quit reading into what I'm saying wrongly."
"You're saying that you don't care, then?"
"Psht. I'm not saying anything."
"So you don't?"
"Now you're making a mountain out of a molehill! Of course I care. I said I wasn't worried. I think your stubborn will to live will be enough for as long as even I am alive."
Ichigo quirks an eyebrow at her. Rukia sticks her tongue out. "But you still don't - " he begins -
The third seat clears her throat. Ichigo notes how she's poised over him, over his shoulder. Her neck is craned, so that she can look over it, down onto his chest. "I'm sorry, Kuchiki-fukutaichō, to interrupt - but Kurosaki-san's injury requires, ah, delicate handling. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to finish this up."
Rukia straightens. Privately, Ichigo thinks that once, she'd become embarrassed, warm with it. Now she nods shortly, squaring her shoulders. "Of course. I apologize. I'll make myself scarce."
She turns, beneath the tarp, coming down over her shoulder, obscuring the curve of her shoulder. "I'll see you later, Ichigo," she says. There is something soft dawning in her face. The brittle aftermath of a battle breaking in her brow.
He nods.
"I'll come find you," he says, because that's an answer he's never been able to give her, and she deserves it, now.
*
There is too much to do, and too many answers to give. Too many questions to ask, but -
For now, a crescent moon is breaking over the inner circles. Most of them are half razored, and the pure white sandstone is sticking up in discordant patterns. There are soldiers, trainees, and families of the aforementioned, milling about. The city won't sleep, not until this is dealt with. They're cutting, razing, rebuilding - reshaping the chaos into something resembling rebuild.
Ichigo finds, without having to reach for her reiryoku, Rukia.
She's perched on a steep hill, slanting down to overlook a large lot of land below, squared away from the innermost city of Soul Society, but well within its borders.
"This the Kuchiki estate?" he asks, drawing up behind her.
Rukia barely looks away from the scene, dipped in shadow and in a break of light, when Ichigo lowers himself gingerly to sit at her side. "No," she says, simply.
Ichigo quirks an eyebrow. "Then you're - trespassing?"
Rukia snorts. "Fool," she mutters. She reaches out, viper dart as if to punch him in the arm - ritualistically - but stops just short. Instead, she hesitates briefly, eye catching Ichigo's, before she gently lays her splayed palm on his elbow. She looks away again. "Somehow, perhaps that was unfounded - but I thought that you would somehow recognize it."
Ichigo looks again. They're far away, but not too far - to see where the ornate gates are lilting ajar; where the hedges are curling upwards, no longer attended to. There are no lights anywhere within the vicinity of the main building, nor the servant's quarters. The gardens outside of the main building are overgrowing, wild flora reaching out toward the tree line.
"It's the old Shiba estate," he says. "The main branch house."
Rukia nods. "Like I said - " she pauses. There are thin, thin lines creasing her forehead. Crow's feet, with no place in her face, too young, are still crowding her eyes. "Like I said," she begins anew, "It was unfounded to make that assumption. You have no ties to this house. Maybe the underlying reason that I went - was really for me."
Ichigo watches the moon slip down lower, over the house. "I'm not that guy - Kaien. I know that there's a resemblance, and that we're in some weird way related. How that even works. But I'm not him. You gotta know that."
"I know, Ichigo, that's not what I'm impl - "
"No, listen, alright? I'm serious. I'm not that dude. I'm not gonna up and leave; hell, if they could kill me, they would've. You saw that - you saw a moment, of that. It was done. I was done. I'm not gonna pretend that didn't happen. But then you showed up, with Renji, and it doesn't matter what was gonna happen - it didn't. This? I dunno, it's nice to see it, and that's, in some convoluted way, my family - but there's nothing that ties me to what happened to them, or to him, you know?"
Rukia is biting on the inside of her cheek when he's done, when he looks at her again - dares to. There's a shine to her eyes, a clench to her fist. She nods, harshly. Ichigo swears, quietly, under his breath, and doesn't think it over - he pulls her to him, knocks her nose into his collarbone, holds as tightly as he can, around the fan of her back, bunches his fingers in her shihakushō. "I never left because it was up to me," he murmurs, willing away the weakness of tone, breathes into her hair. There are strands that have been singed away, cut off, broken by ice and by weather. And she's trembling slightly, spanning down her left, injured side - down his own, mirrored side.
"But there was nothing I could do," Rukia says. He can imagine her expression, minutely, even though he can't see her.
He shakes his head, somewhat transferring the movement to her. "No, you couldn't. Not then, not - not with me. But you can't beat yourself up over that. I get that you are - because that's what you do. But you can't. Not over Kaien. And not over me. I'm alive, midget, how are you beating on yourself over something that didn't happen?"
She huffs a half laugh, her mouth curving against his skin, just barely. "Eloquently put."
He snorts, "Yeah, thanks," and worries his fingers over the creases in her robe. "I mean it. I really do."
"Okay," Rukia mutters, into his throat.
"Yeah?" he says, and strokes in the small of her back, up and down, almost an absent motion lost to the process. "You with me?"
"Yeah," she whispers. "Always," she says, a little louder.
"Good," Ichigo says, "Me too."
*