Veritas

When they stand together, many marvel at their difference in height—he so tall, she so tiny, so petite. While his hair is flaxen-golden, hers is black as deepest night—his eyes gleam with the knowledge of one who has seen the world (and everything underneath it), hers shine with the wonder of one who is experiencing life for the very, very first time.

And he is so very old, while she is but a child.

(His soul so tainted, and hers fresh like newest snow.)

He knows that when he was running affairs as the captain of Division 12 in the Gotei 13, she was likely not even born (not even dead). And he was disgraced, fallen from grace long before she became the baby girl of the honorable – stuck-up, prudish – Kuchiki family.

There is nothing similar about them to draw them together, and he thinks that is precisely what drew them together.

(She may think the same, but certainly no one has dared to ask.)

He remembers when he first saw her, with her blood in puddles at his feet and her body a ragged mess before him. He looked down and he saw a body, with the epidermis ripped-shredded, veins, arteries, capillary beds severed-torn asunder, though the skeletal structure appeared intact.

He knew she was not dead—she was a spirit, and would have disappeared, to wherever dead souls of dead human beings went.

It was broken, and Kisuke Urahara was a man who fixed things. He brought the broken girl-thing into his house and did what he knew best. First Tessai, with the kidou, to mend what was inside, the mess inside the girl-doll-thing, and then more kidou, to repair the fabric that held it together.

Then he, the scientist and she, the test subject—together they defied the conventions of science and the boundaries of moral law.

(Not that she did anything, of course, except lie there to his scrutiny – all sharp glances and calculations – and live, which she did, because when Kisuke Urahara fixes something, it certainly is fixed.)

When she opens her eyes, little Rukia Kuchiki is all business to his whimsical smiles and the inane fluttering of his fan. She thanks him, stiffly – superciliously – and tells him that she is at his service for his kindness. Certainly not his words, and perhaps not even words that she meant, only memorized for any uncomfortable – very awkward – situation.

Theirs at this moment certainly qualified. What exactly do you say to the person who has – literally – seen the deepest inside of you?

I would never ask payment from you, was his answer, a lie amidst others he knows he will have to tell her, There is certainly no need for payment.

Yes, certainly, because he has already made her pay, in currency that no one would ever wish to give. He feels guilty for a moment, maybe even two. Pushes the emotion away.

Science, Kisuke tells himself, Safety.

Meanwhile, she yawns, and her eyes slowly close, but she clings to consciousness long enough to again rewords her thanks.

You are very kind, Sir.

He only smiles as she sleeps, and flutters his fan. Calls in Tessai to complete his kindness.

When Rukia wakes once more, she finds how infuriating he can be, a simpleton's grin that slides away from direct answers, eyes shielded from contact with the world and hidden from scrutiny.

(She gets the feeling that if only she could see those eyes, they would tell the secrets of the world, and maybe the horrors of hell.)

You are better, he announces, quite cheerily, and one would have believed him. She did believe him.

(Her mistake.)

She thanks him. He preens. She offers payment—again. He declines, with coy expressions and ever the incessant fluttering of his fan. She gives up, because it is like reasoning with the wind.

I am different, she says, meaning that she is no longer shinigami. Yes, he agrees, with a tilt to his mouth that speaks of his understanding of her loss. Different, he repeats, and a particular shade to the dark that obscures his eyes implies regret.

The moment is gone, and he is away, chirping about her medication, about her meal, worrying about the morning sunlight in her eyes, fussing with the curtains as though he were the nurse, and she his patient.

(Yet the entire while, she feels that he is more than that, because the glimpses she catches of those eyes speak of the doctor that he is. She knows not yet whether the knowledge should comfort her.)

When she leaves, she is nearly certain that she won't be seeing him again.

Nearly, because as she exited, the bell above the door tinkled merrily and he called out with perfect nonchalance, thank you for your patronage, please come back soon! As though she had done nothing more than buy something in his quaint little shop, as though he had not rearranged her insides for her.

She is back within a few days.

Kisuke is not surprised to see her.

Here we stock the latest from the Seireitei, ma'am. If you want it, we have it. If we don't have it, we order it.

She retorts that she knows merchandise, and his are certainly not the latest.

Whatever you say, ma'am. The customer is always right.

And for all the hospitable airs he puts on, she knows that customers are not treated in this manner, and he certainly does not tell his customers that, because they might believe him. She doesn't understand him.

But she tries anyway.

The first time, Rukia walks in with a mission in mind and walks out with it accomplished. The second time is less clear. She is there to buy something to be certain, but she isn't as sure of what, and the third time, she browses and leaves without buying something altogether.

He says nothing, because the customer makes the final decision, and the customer is always right. (Right?)

The first time Kisuke Urahara finds himself lost for words, an eerie storm is brewing just outside his window, and tension strums against his nerves, stretched taut with anticipation. There is a clatter against the glass that sounds momentarily like human bullets – is probably-merely the tips of tree branches, bending before the onslaught of the furious wind– he cannot spare even a glance.

His eyes are fixed to her tiny form, and her quivering, bowed head. He doesn't move, and neither does she, beyond the odd shake, and they stand there for what seems like hours, riveted in place, halted in time.

And then she looks at him.

There is a world in those eyes, and a novel, if he cared to read it (if he had the time, and maybe the courage too). Like him, she says nothing.

He has pictured this moment for months, ever since she first lay on his table, a bloody, gory mess. He has thought of her fear, her rage, her hurt, maybe even his own—he knew how fond she was of kicking people. There would have been sound, certainly.

But not this, not silence, as though the universe had stopped and begun to reverse itself, to take them both into the past, where all his mistakes were more than just voices, more than just memories. Kisuke knows silence. He has dealt with it for decades. Silence with which to hear the accusations of the dead, and now, even the living.

He hates it, but Kisuke Urahara cannot find words with which to break it.

(And nothing has ever been about what he wanted anyway, only science, his haven—his savior and now his damnation.)

He has apologized once, he thinks. He has, to her friends, contrite as can be. But never to her. And if words have failed him, then—

On his knees, her petite form is only a little taller than he, but it is something—he can see her face, can see her averted eyes, refusing to look at him. One word comes to his lips—

Rukia…

Two words more should be said, he knows, two words more that are his sole reason for being here, on the floor, his own head bowed (in submission, in guilt, in shame), but they won't come, and he suspects they never will. And that is all.

Something has changed when her hand – small, delicate – touches his face, and lifts his head to look at her, finally. He nearly doesn't, nearly afraid of what he might see there.

Nearly.

Of what he expected to see there, tears were expected. But not the understanding, not the acceptance, and most of all, not the forgiveness.

It's okay, she whispers, somehow louder than the rain starting outside, Everything is going to be okay.

And when his lips touch her skin, despite his jaded years, he can't help but agree.

And that is all.

His fan is fluttering again, faster and faster, as if matching the quick pitter-patter of rain on pavement outside, as if matching the beat of her heart.

You know a lot more about this than me, she admits. He inclines his head (a smile?) and agrees.

That is true.

She pauses unsure, then again, I-I don't know anything… And this time, there is definitely a hint of a smile on his face as he agrees again.

That is true.

Rukia scowls, because she can, and because she hates being nervous, and not in control, You're insufferable.

Kisuke chuckles, because he can, and pulls her down to him.

The customer is always right.

Outside, the night continues with the rain, slightly less eerie, slightly less tense. The wind still whistles through the trees, but no longer punishing, less angry. Inside, Kisuke Urahara loses his words for a second time, but unlike before, they aren't needed anyway.

Sleepily, she mumbles something that makes him laugh, and she hits him halfheartedly, and yawns. This time, she doesn't cling to consciousness long enough to hear his words.

That is true.

The rain hasn't let up, and it is hard to tell, but he thinks it is morning, or something close to it. He doesn't get up. (Partly because he doesn't want to, partly because he can't.)

His hat lies on the floor, out of arm's reach. Anything his eyes speak are hers to know (because though her unassuming young mind may think otherwise, he really doesn't know anybody's secrets, much less the world's.)

She is young, and he is old. Rukia is made one way and he is another—completely opposite. But she says she doesn't care, and really, neither does he.

This is also true.