Ichiruki Week - Day 1 - DANCE

"Why 'dance?'" Ichigo asked Rukia.

"Huh?"

They'd been sat on the couch for a time. Late at night, after Ichigo's father had retired to bed. Sometimes, it was easier to stay awake with the television on and its lights picking out pathways through discarded plates and packets of crisps. They were waiting for the hollow detector to tell them a demon was near, but maybe it wouldn't tonight. Maybe tonight would just be ordinary. In a world where ordinary was so completely extraordinary.

And it was good when she relaxed, he thought. Sprawled on the sofa. It was so rare to see her that way. There were couples whirling to a waltz in an old-fashioned black and white movie on the TV and her hand was tapping out the rhythm. She'd no idea she was doing it. Given another minute, he thought, she might have fallen asleep with her chin on her chest and maybe he should have let her. But he'd asked the question now:

"Your sword release – why 'dance?'"

"I dunno."

"Can you dance?"

"I guess."

He grimaced at the wariness in her eyes. 'Why do you want to know?' Damn it, how could so much have passed between them and still, sometimes, he could ask the simplest question and she'd pull back like he wanted something of her that she couldn't give.

"That wasn't a criticism, you know," he said, returning his attention to the television as if he was watching it. He wasn't. He rarely was when she was there.

"I don't think you choose. It's more like the sword chooses for you. Dance. Maybe Shirayuki likes the idea."

"Kind of delicate, isn't it? For a sword," he snorted.

She didn't answer. Or, her answer was a repressive sort of silence.

'Oh great, now we're both pretending to watch the TV,' he thought. And, with a growing sense of horror, he realised that he was going to plough on anyway: "I mean, when you're murdering someone, dancing is hardly the first thing that springs to mind. It's like a sword saying 'I don't want to kill anyone. I'd rather do something pretty'" – Her expression definitely looked like she'd prefer the former, which made him inclined to backtrack or, at least, look for a way out: "Uh, what I mean is" -

"Yes?"

"It is kind of a pretty sword. With the ribbons and that."

She stared at him for a long time. She stared at him in such a way that the hairs on the back of his neck rose up and he was left in no doubt that he was sharing the couch with someone who had been dead for a hundred years, who had walked between this world and the next and who had watched a thousand souls pass across that border; she'd walked alongside many of them.

"Did you have a point?" she asked delicately.

'Don't say it. Don't say it. She will actually kill you.'

"It just made me think – I wasn't sure it suited you. Dancing, ribbons; it's all very" –

"Effective, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh no, I didn't mean that. I meant" –

"Ichigo. I'm tired." She waited until her words registered and then said gently: "I'm going to take a nap if you can be trusted to stay awake for a while on your own."

"Course I can."

"That's good."

She left him then and went upstairs.

Okay, so she hadn't actually sprung up and stabbed him, but it still felt like a slap to his face. How, he wondered, had they gone from a quiet evening where he'd felt happy, comfortable, close to her even, to feeling like he'd just pissed her off royally? They hadn't even argued. But that meant nothing. He always knew where he stood when they argued. It was the times they didn't argue that were the most dangerous. It was the times when they both trod far too carefully.

The couples on the television were still whirling in time to bright, sweet music. Now she was gone, he had nothing else to do but watch as the lead dancer drew his partner in, pulling her close. The waltz was almost too intimate for a few seconds, and then the woman would step back. It looked like a retreat. But, of course, it was all perfectly timed to the beat of the music. She would be back.

They'd probably go on like that all night.

It did kind of make sense, he thought as his eyes grew heavy. Except for the ribbons.