Disclaimer: If I owned Bleach, I wouldn't torment people with things like what was in the Bleach Musi-oh who am I kidding, I so would.
Characters: Yoruichi, Kisuke, Uryuu. Definite hints of Yoruichi/Kisuke, though perhaps one-sided.
Summary Notes: ...because I'm just randomly good at picking random stuff up like this. But either way, enjoy.
People often stated that to be a true craftsmen, your work had to be made with a little part of your soul instilled within the piece. Love, hatred, passion, yearning, tenderness, anger and heartache...feeling, emotion...soul...such things were paramount in creating a truly beautiful peace of craftwork. Without that little piece of soul, the work piece had no form, no substance, no feelings to be evoked, and to evoke in turn.
Urahara Kisuke knows this all too well.
His most precious creation came from the very depths of his soul, after all.
He knows its wrong to play favorites, especially with children.
Still, he smiles softly from where he leans against the shop door, the tenderness of his piercing blue gaze shadowed by the safe haven that is his hat.
He watches with the slightest of aches in his heart as the timid little girl that was his first creation attempts to explain the rules of hopscotch to the Shihoin Princess, and his smile softens more so, if possible, as Yoruichi indulges the girl and throws the stone, her long, plum-coloured ponytail bouncing as she hops amongst the squares, easily avoiding the stone with that cat-like grace of hers.
Despite that, Ururu claps her hands delightedly, her dark eyes sincere and her rare smile warm as she praises the woman for picking up on the game so quickly. Her pigtails bounce with her movements as she hops from foot to foot happily, and Urahara reflects fondly on Yoruichi's ability to coax even the shyest out of their shell, even as he somberly wonders as to whether or not he is the only one who would notice the lights that reflect in Ururu's indigo hair with the dying of the setting sun.
Purple lights. Plum-coloured lights. Barely there, but there none the less. He couldn't go giving her purple hair, after all, much as his soul might have quietly yearned to give into the image of a little child with hair that he loved so dearly.
Just like he couldn't give her amber eyes, or dark skin. But he could give her eyes almost like his own, skin as pale as his. And if one watched the little girl long enough, perhaps they would take note of the slim face, the pointed chin as her pigtails bounced with each hop on the hopscotch base against it, every movement imbued with a strange cat-like grace.
He wonders if anyone, any of those rare few who've seen Ururu smile, have ever found familiarity in that smile. The white teeth, the warm gleam in her eyes, the way her mouth tilted just so to the right side with that one stubborn dimple, ever present.
Such a beautiful little girl.
Such a beautiful little woman.
He knows its wrong to play favorites. No matter who or what they are, children can be sensitive individuals, craving love and approval regardless of their situation in life. But that's exactly why he can skate over the issue, like he's so good at doing when the fancy strikes him.
He knows of both of his 'children'; Jinta is the self-sufficient one. Jinta smiles when he is praised, but he doesn't require it; he's independant and strong-willed, content enough in his own confidence not to drop his head when he feels neglected or scolded.
Ururu, though, is everything you'd expect from a shy little Daddy's girl, so to speak. She clings when she is frightened or shy of too many strangers. She is forever eager to please and drinks up love and praise like a dying soul desperate for water. She is devestated when she thinks she's done something to anger or disappoint him, burying herself in that dark hair with its plum-coloured lights even as she attempts to stifle her tears. She seems to barely acknowledge or realise the power within her. Her only thoughts are of kindness and the safety of those she cares for, even if she's a bit slipshod in getting it across sometimes.
Much like the beautiful creature who now indulges so happily in a child's game with her.
Kisuke smiles wistfully. Ururu is his little princess. She is everything he could ever want in a daughter, and in moments like these, he can almost forget reality and pretend...
And pretend that she is his daughter. A daughter with plum highlights in her hair and cat-like, blue-hued eyes, made of unbelievable power even as she mumbles and examines her feet shyly, never quite sure of what she's supposed to do in order to please everybody.
A little princess.
The shopkeeper sighs quietly, observes the scene before him for precious few moments more before turning away, not wishing to catch the gaze of the woman so dear to his heart and soul.
After all, a craftsmen must put some of his soul into his work to make it a thing of real beauty.
He's just the fool who slipped his own battered heart into his creation in the process.