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tampered2007-12-07 02:16 am
anti-buttons.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2007-12-07 02:16 am
LOG; BACKDATED; COMPLETE
When; December 4th; morning
Rating; PG-13 for blood
Characters; Ishida Uryuu![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
anti_buttons & Cirucci Thunderwitch thunderwitch
Summary; Cirucci refused to move from Ishida's couch the previous night, and little did she know Alfons was trading the deities his health for her heart. The next morning, Cirucci flounders beneath the weight of her sins. Ishida's not very good at this.
Log;
That he had managed to get to sleep at all was a miracle, perhaps, knowing that the Thunderwitch had insisted on his couch. He could have shot her, again, only he didn’t care to deal with it, and he would have had to, even if he did kill her. When sleep came, it came light, restless and fitful, giving dreams of little sense and shorter time.
Now Ishida was not dreaming. That period of nothing, that felt more tangible than nothing, of unconsciousness that could have dreamed. An alarm didn’t pierce it, not like a sudden beeping, a blaring of music, but something did, something that slammed into the fragility of his current sleep and propelled him immediately up, bleary-eyed, groping for glasses, heart somewhere between his rib-cage and throat. It took him half a minute to identify the scream, for alarm to become irritation rather than worry.
To his mind, little else could be the cause of a scream than a pure need to irritate him. Ishida cast a very black look at his closed bedroom door, and determined to take his time choosing what he would wear after a shower.
>>>
When Cirucci Thunderwitch had gone to sleep, it was in blissful denial. Denial, in point, of the fact that she was lonely. She had grown far too used to sleeping beside another, too much, for her own good, for a Privaron’s good. And she was lonely. Her brothers would only mock her, hurt her, abuse, and who else did she have? Some humans, how pathetic. But at least Shiro-Megane-Kun would shoot her before he grudgingly allowed her company, probably only to shut her up.
She didn’t mind.
So she had drifted to sleep, nursing the wound in her back, relishing the lack of ticking in her brain. Until she woke. The Thunderwitch couldn’t say what woke her, just some subtle thing, but then she was awake, and everything was wrong. Without knowing why, or how, her breath had began quicken. Too fast, her eyes opened, snapped, and then dilated. Something was wrong, her brain screamed. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Her hand moved, flew to her breast, and met skin. Not where it was supposed to be, skin where the hole of her heart should be.
That was when she screamed, a sudden, drastic panic of noise, scrabbling up until she fell off the couch, her breath dying in a sudden whine, her hands scrambling at her chest, ripping open her uniform and staring at her breast, the hole that should lay between and beneath them.
Flesh.
>>>
Those slacks, that shirt (snap-up), those boxers, these socks. With the aforementioned articles of clothing folded over an arm, Ishida opened the door to his bedroom and walked out into the hallway. The bathroom opened out of the hallway, which ended by opening into the living room that contained his couch. As Ishida could not walk without looking down into the living room, he noticed her legs. Only legs, the rest obscured by a couch she didn’t seem to be on. His eyes narrowed into a thin, unpleasant focus.
What was she doing? Could Arrancar have nightmares? He didn’t care to humor them, if so, as he certainly hadn’t asked her to stay and play human (no doubt to disorient and mock him).
Pausing at the bathroom door, Ishida nudged his glasses along the bridge of his nose with a finger. One sock had nearly fallen to the ground, and his hand dropped to correct it before he stepped inside. Ishida asked, loudly, scathingly: “Was that really necessary, Thunderwitch?”
>>>
Her nails dug in, was it really flesh, yes, it was really flesh, soft pale skin and muscle beneath, organs, tissue, and… a heart. It was hard for her to comprehend, impossible, even, for her to comprehend, and his voice only dully registered, she didn’t hear the question, only his voice, legs akimbo and hands still scrabbling where a hole should be as if she could rip it out herself, right now.
“Ishi…” No nicknames, now wasn’t the time for nicknames, no, not… now... the last syllable of his name was more moaned out, a soundless cry, something like a wounded animal, but not quite. Perhaps it could be mistaken for one of pain, attributed to the wound in her back that had coated the white fabric of her dress with dark brown dried blood, but it wasn’t that.
It was devastation, the sound of emotion, hitting the Arrancar like a ton of bricks. Emotion, guilt, sadness, pain, fear, loneliness, all magnified, especially guilt, suddenly affecting her as she stared down in horror at her own body, the wildly fluctuating reiatsu she now possessed, thrown off by her sudden acquisition of the void filled in her chest, what made her Arrancar.
>>>
Uncertainty flickered; first in his eyes, the way the skin moved around them, to furrow between the dark arches of his eyebrows, to lift them. Finally, given perhaps time or a moment to be a little less self-centered, Ishida began to understandd that this had nothing to do with him. His arm dropped, clothing shifting to hook against the angle of his hand.
The emotion in her voice – he couldn’t begin to place it, so alien it was in her tone. He fidgeted again with his glasses, at a brief loss as resentment of not having asked for this battled with curiosity, with concern, and he took a halting step forward. He could begin to see over the couch, now, another step.
“Cirucci?” He asked, a name for a name, that uncertainty an accursed waver in his voice, matching the cant to his head.
>>>
She didn’t whirl to face him, turn, anything, her hands, small seeming, so small, now, to her, still pressing, scrabbling uncertain between her breasts, pulling white fabric out of the way and beginning to tremble. This was so wrong, so wrong that she couldn’t understand it, begin to comprehend it, her eyes dilating quickly to small pricks of black in violet, whole body beginning to quake with the fear.
Because Cirucci Thunderwitch was afraid, of the things that made humans human. All those emotions they felt, all of them, so strong, the ones they could feel that she couldn’t this overwhelming guilt.
“I-“ Cirucci withdrew her hands, looked at her palms, back to her chest. “I don’t understand-“
>>>
He noticed the blood first, pooling behind, seeping through the bandaging he had forced her to unassisted. It hadn’t been a shallow wound (though it could have been worse; he had warned her he would shoot her, even if she showed him her back and closed her eyes, but he hadn’t, in the end, been so severe), and the bandages would be useless soon. Ishida didn’t think for a second that her current bizarre panic had anything to do with it; it was something he couldn’t see. A curse?
Rather than waste time guessing, he left his clothing in a neat pile beside the bathroom and padded toward her, bare-foot. (Pajamas, of course, long-sleeved and legged, white and blue vertical stripes). He moved around the coffee table until he stood in front of her, looking down, baffled and blushing (gaze averted) until he realized (gaze jerked back), and his eyes were all white.
“What—” a sharp intake of breath. He didn’t understand. Ishida glanced at the couch, but no, his couch did not (as far as he knew) fill in the holes of Hollows.
“It must be a curse,” he volunteered, somewhat stupidly.
>>>
“It hurts,” Cirucci murmured brokenly back, gaze rising slowly until it hit his. Violet eyes wide in fear, even more fear than when Seele Schneider had been reflected in them, shaking, the pupils spasming, dilating, and her lips trembled.
“I don’t-“ She wanted to reach for something, hold something, be comforted, something, anything, but all she knew was that it hurt, and she didn’t even know why or how but she couldn’t even stop to think about it. How many people had she killed? How many souls had she eaten? How many lives had she taken for wanton amusement, for boredom, for food, and how…
“I’m-“ She couldn’t even form a coherent thought, choked on a sob and wiped her eyes hurriedly, a small part of her, that remember what it was like without a heart, told her this was too shameful, even, had to deny the moisture pooling in her eyes, the way her voice hitched and she clutched helplessly at her heart, at her heart, helpless to emotions she had no experience fighting.
>>>
Putting two and two together happened to be one of Ishida’s specialties. Therefore, curse day or not, however little sense this made, he came to a few conclusions. Standing, looking down, eyes wide but narrowing to normality as thought flashed quick and conclusive within them.
It wasn’t an act -- too much shook in her voice, colored the violet of her eyes, intensified the contrast of black pupil. Hurt had nothing to do with the physical, with the wound she had only paid mind to in order to torment him. If she had skin where there was once a hole, if the hole stood for a heart, then Cirucci Thunderwitch had been given a heart, and if she suddenly became broken in thought and on the brink of genuine tears, the heart had everything to do with feeling, despite the logic of emotions born from chemicals. A moment passed, Ishida gazed down, impassive, blank, analytical, evaluating, cold. It seemed a cruel thing to do to one such as her – too cruel, or, not cruel enough.
And because Ishida had a heart, he was stupid. He dropped to a knee, reached with both of his hands, and let them fold over hers, pressed them together, directed his eyes at hers.
“Thunderwitch,” Ishida said, sternly, only able to guess at the problem, “I don’t care. Whatever you’re feeling, I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. Don’t think about it. Let’s change the wrappings.”
>>>
“I care.” She whispered hoarsely, hands trembled in his own, shaky, too weak, and it was that revelation, that she cared, that it hurt her more than ever that he would say he didn’t care, that anyone didn’t care, and yet a part of her cried that she deserved it, that who would care about such a despicable person such as she, who had done so many things-
“It hurts.” And though she still wasn’t referring to the wound, bleeding slow and leaking fresh crimson onto the dark brown of her uniform, she was more concerned with the unmarred flesh of her chest, with the tears leaking out the corners of her eyes, the hitched sob and lurch of her body to try and curl, instinctive, to protect, anything, the sudden onslaught of emotion too much for her to comprehend or even begin to try and explain.
She felt guilty, for killing all those people. She felt dirty, for being a whore. She felt sad, because Luppi had left her, just like Il Forte had. She felt angry, that she was showing weakness in front of this mortal boy. She felt helpless, because she couldn’t stop herself, torn every which way by all her new emotions that she couldn’t begin to know how to control.
>>>
Ishida strengthened his grip, to steady her hands, to force them still.
She cared, it hurt, and he watched her moist eyes fill with tears before her body moved, and his body in reaction. One hand delegated to her two, the other leading his arm around, under her shoulders. His body shifted to allow it, and without pause he made the attempt to heft her to her feet, to have her moving before she could let that sob become many, could become a pathetic ball.
His solution to unwelcome emotion had been, always, to deny it. Suppress, deny, until it no longer existed, but his talent came from years of experience, and she had none of it. Advice rolled, fumbled, died on his tongue. Ishida could not call her a monster, now, and he resented that as he said, “Come on,” and made to guide her to his home first aid kit.
>>>
She let him guide her, she was in no condition to protest, shoulders shaking in silent sobs, at least, she idly thought, she was not a loud crier, weak limbed, her eyes blanked and she moved. Guilt, guilt, guilt, that was the first emotion that she did not master, but mastered her, and she ended up collapsing, her legs buckled and she fell to her knees in the hallway, one hand still clinging, how pathetic, how tragic, to his fucking pajama pants, a sob ripped harsh from her throat.
First one, then two, and her other hand was clutching at her heart, nails digging in, spasms, her eyes squeezed shut and ashamed, there, another emotion so much clearer now, shame, she never thought it could be more shame, but it could be, and it hurt, too, that she was curling in and breaking skin further, one more sob, and it was more a keen, avian and squalled out, unnatural coming from her throat, her painted lips, shaking harder, and something that sounded suspiciously like I’m sorry breathed out between shakes of tears.
>>>
He could feel her crying, through the tremors in her skin, her shivering bones. It weakened his resolve, to say the least, and by the time she collapsed, it was over. His arm slipped from her, not even trying to hold her up and continue on the path, and once again, he looked down at her, once again, now seized with an isolated horror – for the way she had crumpled, for the force of her weeping, for the way her fingers had clawed into his pant leg.
Ishida stared, stupid and seventeen (only, not properly, really sixteen, it hadn’t been a year when November 6th hit in the City), a dumb boy with a woman sobbing and bleeding in his hallway. What was he supposed to do? He wanted to pull back, needed to turn away, needed to distort her words and be unable to identify them. Ishida swallowed, reeled, and found himself kneeling.
“Stop it,” he said, a weak plea, almost desperate. “It’s –“
He could only react through instinct, through what clumsily felt right, because this kind of thing, it didn’t happen in the books or movies either. Ishida leaned toward, wrapped his arms around her in a clumsy embrace, and pulled her close, against his chest.
“Shh,” he felt stupid, almost wild-eyed, this was absurd, people said these thing, maybe parents who had never been his, shh, hush, “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. Shh.”
>>>
Her fingers clawed into the fabric, clung and she moved how he directed, didn’t have thought or worry for anything else, fit against him and sobbed, her mouth moving against his shoulder, open to sob and then moving to speak, choke out sentences, so sorry, between please forgive me, and I can’t believe I did so many bad things.
She had never before been so weak, and part of her wondered how in the world they chastised her, for thinking humans were weak, that hearts were weak, because this was weak, she was so weak, and it took her whole minutes, five, ten, she didn’t know before the fabric by her cheeks was wet, before she finally dissolved into hiccupped sobs, buried her face against his neck and slowly calmed, rather, ran out of the fit of emotion, throat bobbing as she choked back any more, clinging helplessly, the pain building in her head, behind her eyes, in her chest.
“I’m so sorry…” The Privaron breathed, limply, voice strained.
>>>
Shell-shocked but patient, Ishida did not keep-track of however long it took as her tears and words made his shirt heavy, wet, not sopping but not only damp. He held her against him, deciphering her apologies through a bewildered filter, mouthing and speaking soothing sounds, hush, hush. Her face against his neck, then, felt strange; her wet cheeks, the movement of her eyelashes too close to tickle.
Ishida’s mouth opened, almost to say, it’s fine. He began: “It’s”
He stopped, the words frozen in his throat, because he could not tell her that what she had done was fine, that he had forgiven her. Of course not. Even as he lifted one hand, not to adjust his glasses but to comb his fingers through her hair, gentle, stroking, he could not say it. And after the first, he didn’t even try.
“Yes,” he said, when his lips parted again, and his voice might have been cold except for the pity, “I imagine you are.”
>>>
“So sorry…” She breathed again, fingers twisting in his shirt, eyes half lidded, lashes fluttering against his neck, pressed and clung and whimpered, because the wound in her back still hurt, still bled and she couldn’t even begin to remember why she’d done that, why anything was like this, why she had a hole in her chest filled, blocked up by an organ she refused to need, want, didn’t desire a heart.
“What-“ And she finally withdrew from him, but not far, just enough to hesitantly nuzzle into his hand, the touch in her hair, soothing, calming, eyes sliding closed to breath, unsteadily, one, two, three, the wet still on her cheeks and the pant of sobbed breaths.
“What do I… I’m not supposed to have a…” Cirucci begged for answers from him, was looking to him for guidance, because he had one, he was supposed to know what to do with one. And she knew she couldn’t go to any Arrancar, not like this, couldn’t let them find out, couldn’t let anyone find out, didn’t even know what this is, but damn it whatever it is had to happen while she was with him, didn’t it, eyes closed still, tears on lashes, clinging gently, weakly.
>>>
It wasn’t easy. In one instant his heart was hard, cold, forced, in the next her breath was warm and desperate against his skin, the apology settling into dermal cells and he inhaled, looking now over her head, now down to her crown of hair, and wavered. She whimpered; his hand clenched, not in her hair but where it held her body. She needed him, and he tried not to squirm beneath the force of her gaze. Leaving his hand in her hair, he moved his other, traced his thumb over her cheek, brushing at the moisture.
He laughed, a small, bitter laugh at his own expense. “I’m not the best human to ask.”
Ishida would sooner deny he had a heart, except as a point of superiority over Hollows. He looked not at her eyes, but at the water gathered in her eyelashes, catching light and reflecting it bright. Again, he swallowed, and his gaze fell to the left, the floor. “It isn’t… very different. It doesn’t have to be.”
>>>
She shook her head, dark curls framing her face, the protests dying softly in her throat and sagging with the weight of the guilt. What she did not know was that Alfons Heiderich had wished her this heart, for the full range of human emotions, and she was in for even more than this, this horrible topsy turvy encounter with guilt, with sorry and regret, and she couldn’t fathom it being worse. As an Arrancar, she could experience a limited range of emotion. Anger. Fear. Excitement. Loyalty. And yet, they did not feel regret, for killing, for eating souls, were not saddened by death, nor killing, did not cry, but from pain, and Cirucci Thunderwitch did not want to think of how many times she had cried now.
“I can’t do it.” The Privaron murmured, slumping further until her cheek rested on his shoulder again, the bloody back of her uniform felt wet, her eyes felt wet, her cheeks, the fabric where she’d clung, her eyelids were heavy, her shoulders heavy, from the weight.
“It hurts too much.” A hand vainly dug in to where the hole had been as if it were feasible to rip it out, and she wished she could, the murders she had committed running through her mind.
>>>
No doubt, Alfons would at some point be given the opportunity to tell Cirucci to make the most of it, to, perhaps, walk her through the benefits of having a heart. This was information Ishida did not have, he who felt burdened, suddenly, obligated to introduce the Arrancar into how she ought to handle being a human. Ishida Uryuu, who, deep in his teenaged years, tended to wish more often than not that he wasn’t a human, wasn’t possessed of all that emotion – whether because he was feeling particularly petulant, or it wasn’t very cool, or whatever else. Emotions weren’t a gift, they tended to make him do and say embarrassing things.
He let her slump, as if he had a choice in the matter, his attention drawn again to her body, where now he could look over her hair, down the curve of her back and catch on the blood. His arm shifted around her again, careful to avoid the spot where his arrow had pierced, and his hand coaxed through her hair until it fell, grasping hers, keeping it from scratching at her skin.
“Of course it does,” with a thread of brisk impatience, “it isn’t easy. Of course it isn’t easy. You could …”
Oh, no. Ishida braced himself, suppressed a shudder. “… Talk about it.”
>>>
“…” Cirucci’s eyes fluttered, closed, opened, closed, opened, her eyes dazed, watered down. Her other hand, at his back, smoothed out, palm flat, slipping down before her hand simply hit the floor. The one he held shuddered a moment, and her nails still tried to scramble at the flesh that did not belong, but her efforts died, She hurt too much, the heart in her chest ached too much.
“… I don’t want to talk about it.” She whispered. It hurt too much, there was too much to cover, where to start, where to end, because all of it was new, and she didn’t-
“Can you… ?” She wriggled against him with a whimper, asking softly for him to bandage the wound on her back. She had tried herself, the night before, but she had not been able to do that so well on her own.
“Please.” She remembered, thanks to human empathy, the same empathy that made her recognize his discomfort at talking, recognized it and cared to respect it, let the talk lie and try and concentrate on the physical pain, though the mental, the emotional pain, was much more.
>>>
That he felt a certain surge of relief at her decision could not be denied, and he felt flush and deplorable, a little guilty with his relief. If she needed to talk, he ought to have been willing to hear it. Ought to, but he didn’t linger on it. He pulled back his hand; not the one keeping hers still, but the other, pulled from her hair and now pushing up his glasses as he felt her against him and tried not to blush.
As if one could control that sort of thing. Swallowing a lump but not the heat, Ishida understood her request and ignored how bizarre it was to hear a genuine please from her.
“Yeah,” he said, softly, and shook his head. Ishida didn’t let go of her hand, and didn’t overthink that – he hooked his other hand at her elbow and, as he stood, urged her to her feet. If successful, he walked her to the bathroom, closed the toilet lid and sat her on it as he retrieved the first aid kit from where she had placed it, and not in its proper place, either.
>>>
Standing she could now manage, made it to where he placed her and sat, shoulders saved in and the line of her collarbone dipped down, head hanging, legs pressed together. Interesting that a certain amount of self hatred had come with that heart, a peculiar set of personal shame and disgust at her own body, her own self, more so than she possessed as Arrancar.
She had a concern, now, for embarrassing him, didn’t want to, because that just wasn’t very nice, and who was she to demand to put him on the spot, waiting for instruction instead, about the slow leak of crimson on her back and the wince and sting of ripped flesh. The Thunderwitch was used to pain, but coupled with the pain in her chest, her back became something of a hassle.
>>>
It was easy. Ishida had plenty of experience in treating his own wounds, and tending to another's was that much simpler. Pulling back the bandages, Ishida did not do it with a tender hand. He did not look at where his arrow had pierced and rent her flesh and feel guilt. He did not, even, spare the mental process to defend it again in his mind, to think, I warned her.
Looking at her like this, hearing her silence, it was too bizarre. Out of necessity he focused on the wound, on washing it again, on dabbing on ointment, on wrapping tight new bandages. With that clinical detachment, he could almost keep from blushing, keep from thinking that he touched her skin, his arms, fingers having to reach toward her front to wrap, brush against more. He finished, put it away, and
couldn't bear to look at her.
"I'll … put the kettle on," he said, and turned to hurry from the bathroom, leave her to herself.
>>>
She was perfectly still, did not breath overly, still the breath in her chest, but she could imagine her heart, goddamnit her heart thumping wildly in her breast, eyes still wide and wild, afraid, so afraid, of feeling, of emotion. The Thunderwitch was more afraid of emotions like love and attachment than she was of anything else, of death at the hands of the Quincy bandaging her, than she feared the abuse of her brothers, anything at their hands.
“Alright.” She murmured, stayed sitting on his toilet seat as he left. Her eyes lowered, lidded, and she stayed there, small and curled in, until she slowly stood, a few minutes before she left the bathroom, stiff movement, but better, with the tighter bandage, the lack of blood seeping, hovering in the doorway of the kitchen, hesitating as she didn’t normally, heartless.
“… Thanks.”
>>>
It would have been easier if she hadn't thanked him. Of course, there were many ways in which this could have been easier. Ishida didn't bother tallying them; all roads lead to the same destination. He could
feel her, behind him, in the doorway as his thin wrist curved overhead, pulling down two mugs, the teapot quiet on the stove. He could feel her, and when she thanked him, his shoulders tensed, visibly.
At least Ishida was no stranger to handing gratitude. "There's no need," he said, blandly, coldly, sinking into that easy and brutal indifference. "There's no need to thank me."
That was it. With or without a heart, he would treat her the same – the goal, ignoring his previous compassion, holding her on the floor. But then, something about the Thunderwitch tended to send his
resolve flip-flopping, swinging into wild, obscene extremes. It was best to keep looking at the teapot, waiting for watched water to boil.
>>>
“…” Cirucci didn’t expect a response, slowly slipped into the same seat she’d sat in last time, tugged down the hem of her bloodied dress, absently looking down. The snaps still undone, exposing the smooth line of skin down her chest, and it made her shudder, quickly redid them to hide that shameful heart, her eyes downcast.
“I’ll go.” She said suddenly, steadily, despite shaky else. Her heart told her she couldn’t impose, reminded her, this person did not want anything to do with her, and to force herself on him would be… wrong. And she suddenly cared, if what she was doing was wrong.
>>>
The teapot had yet to boil. Her words surprised him, and he made the mistake of looking at her. He looked at her before he could properly think, "Yes, you should," and vocalize it with all the cruel severity
of his certain disdain for her. But Ishida looked at her, where the tears had dried on her face and the blood had stained her white dress, and the strange feeling on her face.
She would have to walk back alone. Ishida glanced away, raised his hand to toy with his glasses, lift them on his nose.
"You might as well stay for tea. … And breakfast. I can be hospitable to the likes of you." There. Now it sounded as if it made him greater, to allow her to stay. It was a small price to pay, to disregard, suppress a sinking, sick feeling.
>>>
A weird, quirked smile twisted her lips, and it seemed almost unnatural on her face. Because it was unnatural, because the feelings that swirled in her chest weren’t hers, they weren’t. They didn’t belong there, just as the smile didn’t belong on her face, and the thank you didn’t belong on her lips.
She slipped into the chair and lay her cheek on her arm, let her eyes drift soft, let her body try and disregard the panic thrumming in her heart over the fact that she had a heart, and the idea to kill whomever had done it crossed her mind before her heart contracted at the very idea.
The smile on her lips turned to a sneer of disgust, and she quickly hid her face in the cradle of her arms.
“Nice of you.”
>>>
"… Not really." He dismissed it; that feeling kept sinking. Better: he wasn't looking, again, and it was at the teapot that he frowned.
When it boiled, the hiss was short-lived; Ishida lifted the pot, tipped it over the mugs. The water poured steaming. He dropped a tea-bag into each and set one mug in front of her, an inch from her arms, and considered the table, its chairs, before choosing to remain standing, mug between his cupped hands.
It's hot, he could have warned her, but that would be stupid. Obviously. Ishida thought of words; thought better of them before he could even open his mouth.
>>>
“… thanks.” It was murmured, and she raised her head, pulled the mug close, and looked down at it. Dull eyes reflected in the liquid and she stared at it for some time, debating, her palm pressed flat against her chest, the pulse of a heart perhaps only imagined in her ears.
“…” She took a sip, slow, deliberate. It was the first time, since the Espada table, that she had touched tea.
“I’ll not bother you again.” Cirucci whispered. “… I shouldn’t have ever bothered you.”
>>>
No need to thank me, Ishida thought, only saying it again seemed redundant. He felt his silence spoke for himself; he exhaled softly in his mug, blowing at the steam. He took a sip and it still scalded his tongue, though he managed to swallow the stained, flavored liquid without making much of a face.
His kitchen was too silent; he heard her too clearly. The clock on the wall had ticked on, quiet and constant, and her voice wasn't much louder. Ishida was glad he hadn't had tea in his mouth, when he
understood, and now, again, he couldn't help but come to focus on her.
Her reflection shaped itself on the lenses of his spectacles before it knew his pupils. It stunned him. Meddling with his reaction came a rush of irritation, not a flash, but something stronger and deeper and
almost angry, at this situation, at this, as if saying shouldn't canceled out what had happened, as if Ishida could be cruel enough to pretend that in a way, sometimes, he wasn't bothered, he was lonely, he appreciated the attention. That was the worst of it, and his hands gripped the mug tightly as a sour expression began to shape.
"I don't believe that," he said, not because he didn't want to, because of course he did. "Don't apologize, Thunderwitch. Words? An apology? Sorry doesn't make a difference, and I've no interest in hearing it."
>>>
“… Ah.” She agreed limply, weakly, dully, her small hands curled on the mug, warm, warm mug. Her nails scraped the ceramic, blood beneath them, drying, and they left a slight stain.
“… then I won’t say them.” The Thunderwitch whispered. “If you don’t want them. Because… I’ll probably take it back, later. Once this curse ends.” The last bit sounded strained, because a part of her seemed to know that this was no curse, for no curse could be this horrible, and she slowly nursed the cup, draining it in silence.
>>>
"Good," Ishida said, though it wasn't so much approval in his tone as cold ultimatum. It was better to be cold than warm, hard than soft. He sipped the tea, mused on breakfast, and with the same purpose did not look her way. She sounded terrible; it was bad enough that he had to hear her like this. It made sense, it was the only thing that could make sense, that she would come to take it back.
Really, it was his bad luck that she'd stayed over into a curse day.
That was all.
>>>
That was all, Cirucci would muse. But all she had was this, and she clung to it, despite the human emotions, the heart settling sickly in her chest, the feel of it, warm and utterly disgusting. And she didn’t say anything else because now she cared if she upset him, and didn’t want to, didn’t, so she stayed silent until she drained her mug.
“Don’t worry about breakfast.” She muttered softly, stood and slowly placed the cup down, with its faint red stains, and bent to brush her skirt, the crinkle of stiff, dry blood fabric on her back, before she turned and just as silently began to slip towards his door. The Privaron had always known when she wasn’t wanted.
She’d just never cared, before then, to leave where she wasn’t wanted.
>>>
Whatever in him that might have stopped her, a step forward, a hand at her wrist, something soothing and kind to say. Whatever in him, he ignored it, looked askance from it, focused on the dwindling steam from his cup and not it, not her. Ishida let her walk, and tried not to feel guilty. Heart today did not negate heartless yesterday – and, besides, for when the curse ended, it would be good to limit what she
would regret and asininely hold against him.
So he didn't even shrug, a shoulder, a bone, a muscle. He finished his tea with a last swallow, and turned to clean her mug, fingertips avoiding the red-stains she'd left behind. She was more than capable of seeing herself out, and no, no, he didn't feel an ounce of guilt.
>>>
Cirucci Thunderwitch had a heart today. She didn’t know if she would have it tomorrow, of course not, because this had to be a curse, her logical mind knew, once her emotional wreckage of a heart had done its foolish bit. She knew.
But that didn’t stop her from feeling today, even thinking, incorrectly, it would all be over by tomorrow. She wanted a kind word, soft things, and he wouldn’t provide any more of them now that his own heart had hardened. Luppi was gone, so there was no Arrancar who would tolerate her in this state and she had only one place to go, her home that couldn’t be home, a cold apartment, with no one there, though two had once been, at times.
The Privaron’s eyes dimmed as she shut the door behind her, and the soft clicking of the catch signaled the dull thump of ache in the heart that did not belong.
Rating; PG-13 for blood
Characters; Ishida Uryuu
anti_buttons & Cirucci Thunderwitch thunderwitchSummary; Cirucci refused to move from Ishida's couch the previous night, and little did she know Alfons was trading the deities his health for her heart. The next morning, Cirucci flounders beneath the weight of her sins. Ishida's not very good at this.
Log;
That he had managed to get to sleep at all was a miracle, perhaps, knowing that the Thunderwitch had insisted on his couch. He could have shot her, again, only he didn’t care to deal with it, and he would have had to, even if he did kill her. When sleep came, it came light, restless and fitful, giving dreams of little sense and shorter time.
Now Ishida was not dreaming. That period of nothing, that felt more tangible than nothing, of unconsciousness that could have dreamed. An alarm didn’t pierce it, not like a sudden beeping, a blaring of music, but something did, something that slammed into the fragility of his current sleep and propelled him immediately up, bleary-eyed, groping for glasses, heart somewhere between his rib-cage and throat. It took him half a minute to identify the scream, for alarm to become irritation rather than worry.
To his mind, little else could be the cause of a scream than a pure need to irritate him. Ishida cast a very black look at his closed bedroom door, and determined to take his time choosing what he would wear after a shower.
>>>
When Cirucci Thunderwitch had gone to sleep, it was in blissful denial. Denial, in point, of the fact that she was lonely. She had grown far too used to sleeping beside another, too much, for her own good, for a Privaron’s good. And she was lonely. Her brothers would only mock her, hurt her, abuse, and who else did she have? Some humans, how pathetic. But at least Shiro-Megane-Kun would shoot her before he grudgingly allowed her company, probably only to shut her up.
She didn’t mind.
So she had drifted to sleep, nursing the wound in her back, relishing the lack of ticking in her brain. Until she woke. The Thunderwitch couldn’t say what woke her, just some subtle thing, but then she was awake, and everything was wrong. Without knowing why, or how, her breath had began quicken. Too fast, her eyes opened, snapped, and then dilated. Something was wrong, her brain screamed. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Her hand moved, flew to her breast, and met skin. Not where it was supposed to be, skin where the hole of her heart should be.
That was when she screamed, a sudden, drastic panic of noise, scrabbling up until she fell off the couch, her breath dying in a sudden whine, her hands scrambling at her chest, ripping open her uniform and staring at her breast, the hole that should lay between and beneath them.
Flesh.
>>>
Those slacks, that shirt (snap-up), those boxers, these socks. With the aforementioned articles of clothing folded over an arm, Ishida opened the door to his bedroom and walked out into the hallway. The bathroom opened out of the hallway, which ended by opening into the living room that contained his couch. As Ishida could not walk without looking down into the living room, he noticed her legs. Only legs, the rest obscured by a couch she didn’t seem to be on. His eyes narrowed into a thin, unpleasant focus.
What was she doing? Could Arrancar have nightmares? He didn’t care to humor them, if so, as he certainly hadn’t asked her to stay and play human (no doubt to disorient and mock him).
Pausing at the bathroom door, Ishida nudged his glasses along the bridge of his nose with a finger. One sock had nearly fallen to the ground, and his hand dropped to correct it before he stepped inside. Ishida asked, loudly, scathingly: “Was that really necessary, Thunderwitch?”
>>>
Her nails dug in, was it really flesh, yes, it was really flesh, soft pale skin and muscle beneath, organs, tissue, and… a heart. It was hard for her to comprehend, impossible, even, for her to comprehend, and his voice only dully registered, she didn’t hear the question, only his voice, legs akimbo and hands still scrabbling where a hole should be as if she could rip it out herself, right now.
“Ishi…” No nicknames, now wasn’t the time for nicknames, no, not… now... the last syllable of his name was more moaned out, a soundless cry, something like a wounded animal, but not quite. Perhaps it could be mistaken for one of pain, attributed to the wound in her back that had coated the white fabric of her dress with dark brown dried blood, but it wasn’t that.
It was devastation, the sound of emotion, hitting the Arrancar like a ton of bricks. Emotion, guilt, sadness, pain, fear, loneliness, all magnified, especially guilt, suddenly affecting her as she stared down in horror at her own body, the wildly fluctuating reiatsu she now possessed, thrown off by her sudden acquisition of the void filled in her chest, what made her Arrancar.
>>>
Uncertainty flickered; first in his eyes, the way the skin moved around them, to furrow between the dark arches of his eyebrows, to lift them. Finally, given perhaps time or a moment to be a little less self-centered, Ishida began to understandd that this had nothing to do with him. His arm dropped, clothing shifting to hook against the angle of his hand.
The emotion in her voice – he couldn’t begin to place it, so alien it was in her tone. He fidgeted again with his glasses, at a brief loss as resentment of not having asked for this battled with curiosity, with concern, and he took a halting step forward. He could begin to see over the couch, now, another step.
“Cirucci?” He asked, a name for a name, that uncertainty an accursed waver in his voice, matching the cant to his head.
>>>
She didn’t whirl to face him, turn, anything, her hands, small seeming, so small, now, to her, still pressing, scrabbling uncertain between her breasts, pulling white fabric out of the way and beginning to tremble. This was so wrong, so wrong that she couldn’t understand it, begin to comprehend it, her eyes dilating quickly to small pricks of black in violet, whole body beginning to quake with the fear.
Because Cirucci Thunderwitch was afraid, of the things that made humans human. All those emotions they felt, all of them, so strong, the ones they could feel that she couldn’t this overwhelming guilt.
“I-“ Cirucci withdrew her hands, looked at her palms, back to her chest. “I don’t understand-“
>>>
He noticed the blood first, pooling behind, seeping through the bandaging he had forced her to unassisted. It hadn’t been a shallow wound (though it could have been worse; he had warned her he would shoot her, even if she showed him her back and closed her eyes, but he hadn’t, in the end, been so severe), and the bandages would be useless soon. Ishida didn’t think for a second that her current bizarre panic had anything to do with it; it was something he couldn’t see. A curse?
Rather than waste time guessing, he left his clothing in a neat pile beside the bathroom and padded toward her, bare-foot. (Pajamas, of course, long-sleeved and legged, white and blue vertical stripes). He moved around the coffee table until he stood in front of her, looking down, baffled and blushing (gaze averted) until he realized (gaze jerked back), and his eyes were all white.
“What—” a sharp intake of breath. He didn’t understand. Ishida glanced at the couch, but no, his couch did not (as far as he knew) fill in the holes of Hollows.
“It must be a curse,” he volunteered, somewhat stupidly.
>>>
“It hurts,” Cirucci murmured brokenly back, gaze rising slowly until it hit his. Violet eyes wide in fear, even more fear than when Seele Schneider had been reflected in them, shaking, the pupils spasming, dilating, and her lips trembled.
“I don’t-“ She wanted to reach for something, hold something, be comforted, something, anything, but all she knew was that it hurt, and she didn’t even know why or how but she couldn’t even stop to think about it. How many people had she killed? How many souls had she eaten? How many lives had she taken for wanton amusement, for boredom, for food, and how…
“I’m-“ She couldn’t even form a coherent thought, choked on a sob and wiped her eyes hurriedly, a small part of her, that remember what it was like without a heart, told her this was too shameful, even, had to deny the moisture pooling in her eyes, the way her voice hitched and she clutched helplessly at her heart, at her heart, helpless to emotions she had no experience fighting.
>>>
Putting two and two together happened to be one of Ishida’s specialties. Therefore, curse day or not, however little sense this made, he came to a few conclusions. Standing, looking down, eyes wide but narrowing to normality as thought flashed quick and conclusive within them.
It wasn’t an act -- too much shook in her voice, colored the violet of her eyes, intensified the contrast of black pupil. Hurt had nothing to do with the physical, with the wound she had only paid mind to in order to torment him. If she had skin where there was once a hole, if the hole stood for a heart, then Cirucci Thunderwitch had been given a heart, and if she suddenly became broken in thought and on the brink of genuine tears, the heart had everything to do with feeling, despite the logic of emotions born from chemicals. A moment passed, Ishida gazed down, impassive, blank, analytical, evaluating, cold. It seemed a cruel thing to do to one such as her – too cruel, or, not cruel enough.
And because Ishida had a heart, he was stupid. He dropped to a knee, reached with both of his hands, and let them fold over hers, pressed them together, directed his eyes at hers.
“Thunderwitch,” Ishida said, sternly, only able to guess at the problem, “I don’t care. Whatever you’re feeling, I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. Don’t think about it. Let’s change the wrappings.”
>>>
“I care.” She whispered hoarsely, hands trembled in his own, shaky, too weak, and it was that revelation, that she cared, that it hurt her more than ever that he would say he didn’t care, that anyone didn’t care, and yet a part of her cried that she deserved it, that who would care about such a despicable person such as she, who had done so many things-
“It hurts.” And though she still wasn’t referring to the wound, bleeding slow and leaking fresh crimson onto the dark brown of her uniform, she was more concerned with the unmarred flesh of her chest, with the tears leaking out the corners of her eyes, the hitched sob and lurch of her body to try and curl, instinctive, to protect, anything, the sudden onslaught of emotion too much for her to comprehend or even begin to try and explain.
She felt guilty, for killing all those people. She felt dirty, for being a whore. She felt sad, because Luppi had left her, just like Il Forte had. She felt angry, that she was showing weakness in front of this mortal boy. She felt helpless, because she couldn’t stop herself, torn every which way by all her new emotions that she couldn’t begin to know how to control.
>>>
Ishida strengthened his grip, to steady her hands, to force them still.
She cared, it hurt, and he watched her moist eyes fill with tears before her body moved, and his body in reaction. One hand delegated to her two, the other leading his arm around, under her shoulders. His body shifted to allow it, and without pause he made the attempt to heft her to her feet, to have her moving before she could let that sob become many, could become a pathetic ball.
His solution to unwelcome emotion had been, always, to deny it. Suppress, deny, until it no longer existed, but his talent came from years of experience, and she had none of it. Advice rolled, fumbled, died on his tongue. Ishida could not call her a monster, now, and he resented that as he said, “Come on,” and made to guide her to his home first aid kit.
>>>
She let him guide her, she was in no condition to protest, shoulders shaking in silent sobs, at least, she idly thought, she was not a loud crier, weak limbed, her eyes blanked and she moved. Guilt, guilt, guilt, that was the first emotion that she did not master, but mastered her, and she ended up collapsing, her legs buckled and she fell to her knees in the hallway, one hand still clinging, how pathetic, how tragic, to his fucking pajama pants, a sob ripped harsh from her throat.
First one, then two, and her other hand was clutching at her heart, nails digging in, spasms, her eyes squeezed shut and ashamed, there, another emotion so much clearer now, shame, she never thought it could be more shame, but it could be, and it hurt, too, that she was curling in and breaking skin further, one more sob, and it was more a keen, avian and squalled out, unnatural coming from her throat, her painted lips, shaking harder, and something that sounded suspiciously like I’m sorry breathed out between shakes of tears.
>>>
He could feel her crying, through the tremors in her skin, her shivering bones. It weakened his resolve, to say the least, and by the time she collapsed, it was over. His arm slipped from her, not even trying to hold her up and continue on the path, and once again, he looked down at her, once again, now seized with an isolated horror – for the way she had crumpled, for the force of her weeping, for the way her fingers had clawed into his pant leg.
Ishida stared, stupid and seventeen (only, not properly, really sixteen, it hadn’t been a year when November 6th hit in the City), a dumb boy with a woman sobbing and bleeding in his hallway. What was he supposed to do? He wanted to pull back, needed to turn away, needed to distort her words and be unable to identify them. Ishida swallowed, reeled, and found himself kneeling.
“Stop it,” he said, a weak plea, almost desperate. “It’s –“
He could only react through instinct, through what clumsily felt right, because this kind of thing, it didn’t happen in the books or movies either. Ishida leaned toward, wrapped his arms around her in a clumsy embrace, and pulled her close, against his chest.
“Shh,” he felt stupid, almost wild-eyed, this was absurd, people said these thing, maybe parents who had never been his, shh, hush, “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. Shh.”
>>>
Her fingers clawed into the fabric, clung and she moved how he directed, didn’t have thought or worry for anything else, fit against him and sobbed, her mouth moving against his shoulder, open to sob and then moving to speak, choke out sentences, so sorry, between please forgive me, and I can’t believe I did so many bad things.
She had never before been so weak, and part of her wondered how in the world they chastised her, for thinking humans were weak, that hearts were weak, because this was weak, she was so weak, and it took her whole minutes, five, ten, she didn’t know before the fabric by her cheeks was wet, before she finally dissolved into hiccupped sobs, buried her face against his neck and slowly calmed, rather, ran out of the fit of emotion, throat bobbing as she choked back any more, clinging helplessly, the pain building in her head, behind her eyes, in her chest.
“I’m so sorry…” The Privaron breathed, limply, voice strained.
>>>
Shell-shocked but patient, Ishida did not keep-track of however long it took as her tears and words made his shirt heavy, wet, not sopping but not only damp. He held her against him, deciphering her apologies through a bewildered filter, mouthing and speaking soothing sounds, hush, hush. Her face against his neck, then, felt strange; her wet cheeks, the movement of her eyelashes too close to tickle.
Ishida’s mouth opened, almost to say, it’s fine. He began: “It’s”
He stopped, the words frozen in his throat, because he could not tell her that what she had done was fine, that he had forgiven her. Of course not. Even as he lifted one hand, not to adjust his glasses but to comb his fingers through her hair, gentle, stroking, he could not say it. And after the first, he didn’t even try.
“Yes,” he said, when his lips parted again, and his voice might have been cold except for the pity, “I imagine you are.”
>>>
“So sorry…” She breathed again, fingers twisting in his shirt, eyes half lidded, lashes fluttering against his neck, pressed and clung and whimpered, because the wound in her back still hurt, still bled and she couldn’t even begin to remember why she’d done that, why anything was like this, why she had a hole in her chest filled, blocked up by an organ she refused to need, want, didn’t desire a heart.
“What-“ And she finally withdrew from him, but not far, just enough to hesitantly nuzzle into his hand, the touch in her hair, soothing, calming, eyes sliding closed to breath, unsteadily, one, two, three, the wet still on her cheeks and the pant of sobbed breaths.
“What do I… I’m not supposed to have a…” Cirucci begged for answers from him, was looking to him for guidance, because he had one, he was supposed to know what to do with one. And she knew she couldn’t go to any Arrancar, not like this, couldn’t let them find out, couldn’t let anyone find out, didn’t even know what this is, but damn it whatever it is had to happen while she was with him, didn’t it, eyes closed still, tears on lashes, clinging gently, weakly.
>>>
It wasn’t easy. In one instant his heart was hard, cold, forced, in the next her breath was warm and desperate against his skin, the apology settling into dermal cells and he inhaled, looking now over her head, now down to her crown of hair, and wavered. She whimpered; his hand clenched, not in her hair but where it held her body. She needed him, and he tried not to squirm beneath the force of her gaze. Leaving his hand in her hair, he moved his other, traced his thumb over her cheek, brushing at the moisture.
He laughed, a small, bitter laugh at his own expense. “I’m not the best human to ask.”
Ishida would sooner deny he had a heart, except as a point of superiority over Hollows. He looked not at her eyes, but at the water gathered in her eyelashes, catching light and reflecting it bright. Again, he swallowed, and his gaze fell to the left, the floor. “It isn’t… very different. It doesn’t have to be.”
>>>
She shook her head, dark curls framing her face, the protests dying softly in her throat and sagging with the weight of the guilt. What she did not know was that Alfons Heiderich had wished her this heart, for the full range of human emotions, and she was in for even more than this, this horrible topsy turvy encounter with guilt, with sorry and regret, and she couldn’t fathom it being worse. As an Arrancar, she could experience a limited range of emotion. Anger. Fear. Excitement. Loyalty. And yet, they did not feel regret, for killing, for eating souls, were not saddened by death, nor killing, did not cry, but from pain, and Cirucci Thunderwitch did not want to think of how many times she had cried now.
“I can’t do it.” The Privaron murmured, slumping further until her cheek rested on his shoulder again, the bloody back of her uniform felt wet, her eyes felt wet, her cheeks, the fabric where she’d clung, her eyelids were heavy, her shoulders heavy, from the weight.
“It hurts too much.” A hand vainly dug in to where the hole had been as if it were feasible to rip it out, and she wished she could, the murders she had committed running through her mind.
>>>
No doubt, Alfons would at some point be given the opportunity to tell Cirucci to make the most of it, to, perhaps, walk her through the benefits of having a heart. This was information Ishida did not have, he who felt burdened, suddenly, obligated to introduce the Arrancar into how she ought to handle being a human. Ishida Uryuu, who, deep in his teenaged years, tended to wish more often than not that he wasn’t a human, wasn’t possessed of all that emotion – whether because he was feeling particularly petulant, or it wasn’t very cool, or whatever else. Emotions weren’t a gift, they tended to make him do and say embarrassing things.
He let her slump, as if he had a choice in the matter, his attention drawn again to her body, where now he could look over her hair, down the curve of her back and catch on the blood. His arm shifted around her again, careful to avoid the spot where his arrow had pierced, and his hand coaxed through her hair until it fell, grasping hers, keeping it from scratching at her skin.
“Of course it does,” with a thread of brisk impatience, “it isn’t easy. Of course it isn’t easy. You could …”
Oh, no. Ishida braced himself, suppressed a shudder. “… Talk about it.”
>>>
“…” Cirucci’s eyes fluttered, closed, opened, closed, opened, her eyes dazed, watered down. Her other hand, at his back, smoothed out, palm flat, slipping down before her hand simply hit the floor. The one he held shuddered a moment, and her nails still tried to scramble at the flesh that did not belong, but her efforts died, She hurt too much, the heart in her chest ached too much.
“… I don’t want to talk about it.” She whispered. It hurt too much, there was too much to cover, where to start, where to end, because all of it was new, and she didn’t-
“Can you… ?” She wriggled against him with a whimper, asking softly for him to bandage the wound on her back. She had tried herself, the night before, but she had not been able to do that so well on her own.
“Please.” She remembered, thanks to human empathy, the same empathy that made her recognize his discomfort at talking, recognized it and cared to respect it, let the talk lie and try and concentrate on the physical pain, though the mental, the emotional pain, was much more.
>>>
That he felt a certain surge of relief at her decision could not be denied, and he felt flush and deplorable, a little guilty with his relief. If she needed to talk, he ought to have been willing to hear it. Ought to, but he didn’t linger on it. He pulled back his hand; not the one keeping hers still, but the other, pulled from her hair and now pushing up his glasses as he felt her against him and tried not to blush.
As if one could control that sort of thing. Swallowing a lump but not the heat, Ishida understood her request and ignored how bizarre it was to hear a genuine please from her.
“Yeah,” he said, softly, and shook his head. Ishida didn’t let go of her hand, and didn’t overthink that – he hooked his other hand at her elbow and, as he stood, urged her to her feet. If successful, he walked her to the bathroom, closed the toilet lid and sat her on it as he retrieved the first aid kit from where she had placed it, and not in its proper place, either.
>>>
Standing she could now manage, made it to where he placed her and sat, shoulders saved in and the line of her collarbone dipped down, head hanging, legs pressed together. Interesting that a certain amount of self hatred had come with that heart, a peculiar set of personal shame and disgust at her own body, her own self, more so than she possessed as Arrancar.
She had a concern, now, for embarrassing him, didn’t want to, because that just wasn’t very nice, and who was she to demand to put him on the spot, waiting for instruction instead, about the slow leak of crimson on her back and the wince and sting of ripped flesh. The Thunderwitch was used to pain, but coupled with the pain in her chest, her back became something of a hassle.
>>>
It was easy. Ishida had plenty of experience in treating his own wounds, and tending to another's was that much simpler. Pulling back the bandages, Ishida did not do it with a tender hand. He did not look at where his arrow had pierced and rent her flesh and feel guilt. He did not, even, spare the mental process to defend it again in his mind, to think, I warned her.
Looking at her like this, hearing her silence, it was too bizarre. Out of necessity he focused on the wound, on washing it again, on dabbing on ointment, on wrapping tight new bandages. With that clinical detachment, he could almost keep from blushing, keep from thinking that he touched her skin, his arms, fingers having to reach toward her front to wrap, brush against more. He finished, put it away, and
couldn't bear to look at her.
"I'll … put the kettle on," he said, and turned to hurry from the bathroom, leave her to herself.
>>>
She was perfectly still, did not breath overly, still the breath in her chest, but she could imagine her heart, goddamnit her heart thumping wildly in her breast, eyes still wide and wild, afraid, so afraid, of feeling, of emotion. The Thunderwitch was more afraid of emotions like love and attachment than she was of anything else, of death at the hands of the Quincy bandaging her, than she feared the abuse of her brothers, anything at their hands.
“Alright.” She murmured, stayed sitting on his toilet seat as he left. Her eyes lowered, lidded, and she stayed there, small and curled in, until she slowly stood, a few minutes before she left the bathroom, stiff movement, but better, with the tighter bandage, the lack of blood seeping, hovering in the doorway of the kitchen, hesitating as she didn’t normally, heartless.
“… Thanks.”
>>>
It would have been easier if she hadn't thanked him. Of course, there were many ways in which this could have been easier. Ishida didn't bother tallying them; all roads lead to the same destination. He could
feel her, behind him, in the doorway as his thin wrist curved overhead, pulling down two mugs, the teapot quiet on the stove. He could feel her, and when she thanked him, his shoulders tensed, visibly.
At least Ishida was no stranger to handing gratitude. "There's no need," he said, blandly, coldly, sinking into that easy and brutal indifference. "There's no need to thank me."
That was it. With or without a heart, he would treat her the same – the goal, ignoring his previous compassion, holding her on the floor. But then, something about the Thunderwitch tended to send his
resolve flip-flopping, swinging into wild, obscene extremes. It was best to keep looking at the teapot, waiting for watched water to boil.
>>>
“…” Cirucci didn’t expect a response, slowly slipped into the same seat she’d sat in last time, tugged down the hem of her bloodied dress, absently looking down. The snaps still undone, exposing the smooth line of skin down her chest, and it made her shudder, quickly redid them to hide that shameful heart, her eyes downcast.
“I’ll go.” She said suddenly, steadily, despite shaky else. Her heart told her she couldn’t impose, reminded her, this person did not want anything to do with her, and to force herself on him would be… wrong. And she suddenly cared, if what she was doing was wrong.
>>>
The teapot had yet to boil. Her words surprised him, and he made the mistake of looking at her. He looked at her before he could properly think, "Yes, you should," and vocalize it with all the cruel severity
of his certain disdain for her. But Ishida looked at her, where the tears had dried on her face and the blood had stained her white dress, and the strange feeling on her face.
She would have to walk back alone. Ishida glanced away, raised his hand to toy with his glasses, lift them on his nose.
"You might as well stay for tea. … And breakfast. I can be hospitable to the likes of you." There. Now it sounded as if it made him greater, to allow her to stay. It was a small price to pay, to disregard, suppress a sinking, sick feeling.
>>>
A weird, quirked smile twisted her lips, and it seemed almost unnatural on her face. Because it was unnatural, because the feelings that swirled in her chest weren’t hers, they weren’t. They didn’t belong there, just as the smile didn’t belong on her face, and the thank you didn’t belong on her lips.
She slipped into the chair and lay her cheek on her arm, let her eyes drift soft, let her body try and disregard the panic thrumming in her heart over the fact that she had a heart, and the idea to kill whomever had done it crossed her mind before her heart contracted at the very idea.
The smile on her lips turned to a sneer of disgust, and she quickly hid her face in the cradle of her arms.
“Nice of you.”
>>>
"… Not really." He dismissed it; that feeling kept sinking. Better: he wasn't looking, again, and it was at the teapot that he frowned.
When it boiled, the hiss was short-lived; Ishida lifted the pot, tipped it over the mugs. The water poured steaming. He dropped a tea-bag into each and set one mug in front of her, an inch from her arms, and considered the table, its chairs, before choosing to remain standing, mug between his cupped hands.
It's hot, he could have warned her, but that would be stupid. Obviously. Ishida thought of words; thought better of them before he could even open his mouth.
>>>
“… thanks.” It was murmured, and she raised her head, pulled the mug close, and looked down at it. Dull eyes reflected in the liquid and she stared at it for some time, debating, her palm pressed flat against her chest, the pulse of a heart perhaps only imagined in her ears.
“…” She took a sip, slow, deliberate. It was the first time, since the Espada table, that she had touched tea.
“I’ll not bother you again.” Cirucci whispered. “… I shouldn’t have ever bothered you.”
>>>
No need to thank me, Ishida thought, only saying it again seemed redundant. He felt his silence spoke for himself; he exhaled softly in his mug, blowing at the steam. He took a sip and it still scalded his tongue, though he managed to swallow the stained, flavored liquid without making much of a face.
His kitchen was too silent; he heard her too clearly. The clock on the wall had ticked on, quiet and constant, and her voice wasn't much louder. Ishida was glad he hadn't had tea in his mouth, when he
understood, and now, again, he couldn't help but come to focus on her.
Her reflection shaped itself on the lenses of his spectacles before it knew his pupils. It stunned him. Meddling with his reaction came a rush of irritation, not a flash, but something stronger and deeper and
almost angry, at this situation, at this, as if saying shouldn't canceled out what had happened, as if Ishida could be cruel enough to pretend that in a way, sometimes, he wasn't bothered, he was lonely, he appreciated the attention. That was the worst of it, and his hands gripped the mug tightly as a sour expression began to shape.
"I don't believe that," he said, not because he didn't want to, because of course he did. "Don't apologize, Thunderwitch. Words? An apology? Sorry doesn't make a difference, and I've no interest in hearing it."
>>>
“… Ah.” She agreed limply, weakly, dully, her small hands curled on the mug, warm, warm mug. Her nails scraped the ceramic, blood beneath them, drying, and they left a slight stain.
“… then I won’t say them.” The Thunderwitch whispered. “If you don’t want them. Because… I’ll probably take it back, later. Once this curse ends.” The last bit sounded strained, because a part of her seemed to know that this was no curse, for no curse could be this horrible, and she slowly nursed the cup, draining it in silence.
>>>
"Good," Ishida said, though it wasn't so much approval in his tone as cold ultimatum. It was better to be cold than warm, hard than soft. He sipped the tea, mused on breakfast, and with the same purpose did not look her way. She sounded terrible; it was bad enough that he had to hear her like this. It made sense, it was the only thing that could make sense, that she would come to take it back.
Really, it was his bad luck that she'd stayed over into a curse day.
That was all.
>>>
That was all, Cirucci would muse. But all she had was this, and she clung to it, despite the human emotions, the heart settling sickly in her chest, the feel of it, warm and utterly disgusting. And she didn’t say anything else because now she cared if she upset him, and didn’t want to, didn’t, so she stayed silent until she drained her mug.
“Don’t worry about breakfast.” She muttered softly, stood and slowly placed the cup down, with its faint red stains, and bent to brush her skirt, the crinkle of stiff, dry blood fabric on her back, before she turned and just as silently began to slip towards his door. The Privaron had always known when she wasn’t wanted.
She’d just never cared, before then, to leave where she wasn’t wanted.
>>>
Whatever in him that might have stopped her, a step forward, a hand at her wrist, something soothing and kind to say. Whatever in him, he ignored it, looked askance from it, focused on the dwindling steam from his cup and not it, not her. Ishida let her walk, and tried not to feel guilty. Heart today did not negate heartless yesterday – and, besides, for when the curse ended, it would be good to limit what she
would regret and asininely hold against him.
So he didn't even shrug, a shoulder, a bone, a muscle. He finished his tea with a last swallow, and turned to clean her mug, fingertips avoiding the red-stains she'd left behind. She was more than capable of seeing herself out, and no, no, he didn't feel an ounce of guilt.
>>>
Cirucci Thunderwitch had a heart today. She didn’t know if she would have it tomorrow, of course not, because this had to be a curse, her logical mind knew, once her emotional wreckage of a heart had done its foolish bit. She knew.
But that didn’t stop her from feeling today, even thinking, incorrectly, it would all be over by tomorrow. She wanted a kind word, soft things, and he wouldn’t provide any more of them now that his own heart had hardened. Luppi was gone, so there was no Arrancar who would tolerate her in this state and she had only one place to go, her home that couldn’t be home, a cold apartment, with no one there, though two had once been, at times.
The Privaron’s eyes dimmed as she shut the door behind her, and the soft clicking of the catch signaled the dull thump of ache in the heart that did not belong.
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