Bleach Fan Fiction ❯ Murder My Heart ❯ Meetings and Murder ( Chapter 3 )

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach or any Bleach affiliates.

 

(A/N: Wow, this is a really long chapter! I hope everyone likes it! I'm really thankful for all the reviews I've received so far, thank you all so much! And you know something, I've never really considered writing mystery novels before—fantasy, romance, comedy, etc.—but not mystery. I've never really read them, but I think I might start, any suggestions for authors? I'd like to get to know the genre a bit more. Who knows, I might really like it.

 

PLEASE DON'T FORGET TO REVIEW!!! )

 

 

 

 

Chapter 3

 

“We're dealing with a serial killer.”

 

Ichigo Kurosaki's head jerked up from the desk, the inevitable crick in his neck making a horrid cracking sound. He groaned and immediately raised his hand to massage the throbbing spot. A few seconds later, the words “serial killer” sank deliberately into his brain and his eyes widened in realization.

 

“What?”

 

His captain slammed a folder onto his desk, his scarred and muscular hand breaking one of Ichigo's many pens in half. Ichigo frowned and took the manila folder from him, opening it slowly. Instantly, images of a murdered hooker were plastered against his eye.

 

“Jesus,” he muttered, taking a closer look. Her face was pale and aside from a single bullet hole in the center of her forehead, unblemished. Her eyes were stained with running mascara and her mouth was smeared with the remnants of cheap lipstick.

 

Her body was dressed provocatively, well, as provocatively as a dead hooker could be dressed anyway. Her large breasts were practically bulging out of her top and her legs were spread so her short skirt almost hiked to her hips. Ichigo also looked down to her feet, one of her shoes was missing a heel and on that foot her ankle was curved at an unnatural angle.

 

“Damn…” Ichigo muttered, even though he wasn't all that impressed. He had seen to many deaths far more gruesome than this to be disgusted. “But what does this have to do with a serial killing?”

 

The captain pointed to the first picture—an all encapsulating shot of the dead woman—and said, “Do you recognize her?”

 

Ichigo took a moment longer to stare at the photo and ended up shaking his head. “I don't recognize her.”

 

The chief narrowed his eyes, “That's Matsumoto Rangiku, she was a cop working undercover as a hooker.”

 

“What precinct?”

 

His lieutenant paused and shook his head, “The two eight.”

 

Ichigo raised his head even higher, “You can't be serious.”

 

Kenpachi nodded, “Yeah, and another twist… it was her birthday.”

 

Ichigo groaned heartily and put his head in his hands, “Damn it.”

 

“She was found this morning… on our turf, the M.E. says that she's been dead for three days.” His captain continued. “She was found on The Corner, a known prostitution area but the two eight has assured us that she was working undercover. They've given us her file and we've going over all of her contacts, jobs, and possible enemies.”

 

“What do you want me to do?” Ichigo asked calmly, already knowing the answer.

 

“Look, Kurosaki,” his chief said as he leaned down and glared at him, “You're the best damn detective on my squad, you had better figure out who's knocking off people from the two eight.”

 

“On their birthday's no less.” Ichigo muttered softly.

 

“Just shut up and get over there,” his boss ordered.

 

Ichigo snapped his head up and sputtered, “Wait, you mean go to the two eight? Again? What if I run into that Kuchiki chick?”

 

The chief glared at him for a moment and offered him a snide smile, “I have every confidence that you you'll figure something out.”

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

 

 

Detective Kurosaki walked back into the two eight with a soured expression covering all of his face. Not one for pleasantries, Ichigo banged through the doors and made straight for the Lieutenant's office. God forbid he be seen by anyone… especially that female psychopath.

 

He pushed by lines of desks, occasionally looking up at the policemen and women he passed, but mostly focusing on not tripping over phone cords and computer cables. Perhaps it was a compulsion, perhaps it wasn't, but Ichigo—even though he told himself he wouldn't—ended up raising his head and searching the room.

 

He saw aisles and aisles of haggard men answering phones and taking notes, he saw women gulping down coffee and tapping away at ancient computers. He saw red heads, blondes, baldies, and even a guy with feathers sticking out of his head.

 

But he didn't see Rukia Kuchiki or her partner… what was his name… oh right… Renji, Renji Abarai. The red-head with the crazy tattoos that he had been rumored to receive on a night when he had been shit-faced drunk.

 

He had heard good things about that team—Kuchiki and Abarai, that is—they had been together for only a little over a year but had solved numerous cases, even going as far as having a different case every week. The “Dream Team,” as some precincts called them. It sounded cliché, but if any other expression had been used it wouldn't have done them justice. He had heard that the two worked in synch: Abarai drove while Kuchiki navigated, Abarai took notes while Kuchiki examined the body, Abarai took care of the paperwork while Kuchiki worked with the D.A., things like that.

 

In truth Ichigo was a tad jealous of such great pairing. He had tried having a partner once and well… truth be told it hadn't worked out as he planned.

 

It hadn't worked out the way anyone planned.

 

Ichigo shook his head and tried to focus on the task at hand. There was no point thinking over something that couldn't be changed. No point. No point. No point.

 

He glanced up and scanned his eyes around the precinct once more. This time, he noticed two desks near the back of the room—the only two that were unoccupied. Checking his surroundings once more—to make sure he looked inconspicuous enough to be walking around—he inched closer to the unoccupied work spaces.

 

He reached them with relative ease and smirked when he took a look. He took another step forward, it really wasn't hard to figure out which desk belonged to whom.

 

On one bureau there was an array of pictures all starring a dorky red headed kid smiling goofily with two aged adults, presumably his grandparents or guardians. Beside the pictures were small knick-knacks dressing up the bland space, Ichigo noticed a pen shaped like a snake and a stuffed animal in the likeness of a large baboon—apparently with tattoos drawn in Sharpie all over it's back. All in all, it was a homey space, personal and easygoing. He knew within an instant that it was Renji Abarai's knees that cramped into this small desk every day.

 

The other desk, however, was so bland it was almost painful to look at. There were no pictures, no essence of family, no special pens, hell, there wasn't even a personalized message on the computer screen. Ichigo raised his eyebrows and even clucked his tongue a bit at how… tasteless her desk looked. `Her' being the pushy hard-ass detective with the luminous eyes.

 

The only thing of actual color piled on her space was a collection of photos displaying the dead bodies of both Matsumoto Rangiku and Byakuya Kuchiki. Frowning, he leaned forward and pushed aside some of the papers. Inside were ballistics reports, the medical examiner's findings, crime scene photos, and detailed reports of the cases both victims had been working on for the past five months.

 

Why was she looking over this stuff? She wasn't supposed to be working on the case at all… and if she was working on it, was she trying to figure it out with her partner or by herself? She shouldn't even have these. Casually, he glanced over at Detective Abarai's desk but didn't see any of the same information. This… wasn't right.

 

“Is there some reason you're pilfering through my desk, Detective?”

 

The voice was cold and even lethal, it sent a slight chill through Ichigo's spine and he turned quickly. Good God, there she was… the ball-busting, ebony haired, pain in the ass…

 

…And her partner, who was actually wearing a rather deadly glare on his face. Well, almost deadly, he did look rather comical with those tattoos.

 

“Just examining your pictures of the latest vic,” he answered casually, “You seem to have clearer ones than mine.”

 

“In addition to better photos,” Detective Abarai added nastily, “The two eight also has better detectives, better leaderships, and better coffee.” He gave Ichigo an irritating smirk and crossed his leather-encased arms over his broad chest. “Maybe you should transfer.”

 

Oh so it was a turf war he wanted right now? Two could play at that game. Ichigo shook his head and grinned wickedly, “Sorry, I wouldn't want to meet my premature death by working with you guys.”

 

Detective Abarai's smile dropped like a dead fly, Kuchiki, who didn't seem to wear smiles at all, glowered. “Nice try, Kurosaki,” she hissed, “Now tell us what you really want.”

 

“`Us?'” Ichigo replied cattily, “My, aren't you the cozy twosome?”

 

If it were possible for looks to kill, Ichigo was quite sure he would have been murdered twice over, dismembered, and then tossed piece by piece into a food processor. Although oddly enough, it felt kind of fun to tease them like this.

 

Abarai, however, didn't find any of Ichigo's remarks amusing, and in one swift move he had a fist wrapped around the front of the inferior detective's jacket. Ichigo didn't even make a grunt of surprise as he was manhandled by the muscular detective. He merely let his hands go limp at his sides and made a point of not fighting back. Abarai pulled him close to his face and snarled, “Are you insinuating something detective?”

 

“I don't know,” Ichigo answered calmly, “What do you think I'm insinuating detective?”

 

“You little—”

 

“Cool it Renji,” The female detective barked, placing a hand on his fist. She was outrageously shorter than her partner but she possessed a power that made him stop dead in his tracks. Renji dropped the Detective Kurosaki immediately, but pushed him slightly and made his lower back slam against Kuchiki's desk. Which in turn caused the papers and photos to scatter onto the floor.

 

She cursed and immediately dove to the floor. The pictures were fluttering and spreading out so they covered a good five feet of space. Ichigo looked down and immediately sat a picture of her brother's corpse, his head and his sliced throat. He was down on his knees before he knew what he was doing. Quickly, he picked up a few shots of her brother that had glided near him.

 

He handled them gingerly and positioned them so they'd be facing right side up and forward. He glanced up and handed them to Detective Kuchiki, who was looking at him with a funny stare, as if she had a bad taste in her mouth.

Ichigo blinked at her but in a moment the expression was gone, replaced by her normal one: disdain and distaste. As she grasped the photos from Ichigo her fingers brushed his unintentionally and he wondered if he was the only one who felt a tiny electric shock go up his arm.

 

Detective Kuchiki didn't even bother to thank him as she climbed to her feet and put the photos back inside the manila envelope. Ichigo also stood and watched as she impatiently she flicked some hair out of her face.

 

He took a moment to appraise her outfit, firmly believing that you could learn much about a woman from what she was wearing. Once again it was a rather bland outfit, she wore nothing excessive and nothing unnecessary. She had donned beige pants and a light purple top, three quarter sleeves, scoop neck, nothing that was immodest or the least bit revealing—Ichigo blinked, why was he thinking of that?—and of course a pair of comfortably brown walking shoes. No jewelry, no rings, no earrings, not even a necklace. The only extra accoutrement she possessed was her detective's badge. Good God, that woman would have fit in at a Puritan church.

 

Not to mention, her outfit only succeeded in telling him that she was as boring as hell. It was only her eyes… her eyes were telling him that she had one of the most unique and fantastic sparks he would ever see in his life, but that she also had a will of iron and determination of steel.

 

She was like Superman, only three feet shorter and with a uterus instead of testicles.

 

Whoa… not something he wanted to think about right now.

 

“Did you want something else, Detective?” She asked after a few moments of silence. Ichigo jerked out of his daze and started, right… he was here for a reason.

 

“Yes,” he said, “Yeah, I was here to talk to your lieutenant.” He answered slowly, taking a moment to reorient himself.

 

Detective Kuchiki narrowed her eyes and raised one of her delicate hands. She pointed an unpolished nail over at the chief's office and smirked. “He's over there.”

 

Ichigo sighed roughly and straightened his leather jacket, which, he was proud to report, looked tougher on him than Detective Abarai's leather jacket. He turned away from them and nodded once before knocking on the lieutenant's door and entering.

 

Rukia Kuchiki watched Detective Kurosaki as he opened the door to the chief's office and went inside. Her face expressionless, she kept straightening the pictures until she forced her anxious body to sit in her chair. Sighing, she opened her top drawer and placed her brother's folder—and now Matsumoto's as well—inside.

 

Renji followed suit and sat down, sending her a speculative look. “He was checking you out, you know.”

 

Rukia turned to him and frowned, “What are you talking about Renji?”

 

Her partner shrugged and began to poke his stuffed baboon with his snake pen. “Come on; don't tell me you didn't notice.”

 

“I didn't.” Rukia replied shortly, turning to her notes on their most recent case. The dead homeless guy dressed in an Italian suit was solved, something about him being a witness to an affair between a CEO of a multibillion dollar company and a married housewife, he threatened to go to the papers unless he got a million bucks and an Italian suit, which, ironically, ended up being the suit he was buried in. Needless to say the hit man had been caught, the CEO tried, and he was now serving twenty years in a federal prison.

 

And she had another twenty bucks in her pocket.

 

“Well,” Renji sighed, inclining his head towards the lieutenant's office. “He was definitely checking you out. And don't forget that comment he made about us being a couple… yeah, he's interested, even if he doesn't know it yet.”

 

Rukia sighed and dropped her pen on the paper; she leaned back in her chair and glared at Renji, who was busy tossing a plastic football between his hands. He tossed it to her and she caught it between deft fingers. “Did anyone ever tell you,” she said supremely irritated, “That you watch too much Oprah?”

 

“Not Oprah,” he said as he motioned for her to toss the ball at him, “Dr. Phil.”

 

Rukia glared and shot forward, throwing the tiny plastic football so hard that when it hit Renji between his eyes he cried out and clutched the bruised spot. “Holy fuck!” He yelled, loudly enough to make the entirety of the precinct stop what they were doing and stare at them.

 

Rukia smirked with satisfaction, wondering if she made him bleed. She snorted and resumed her notes while Renji howled and cursed.

 

“You're such a girl,” she muttered, a smirk still prematurely curled on her lips.

 

“Bitch.” He growled, feeling the bridge of his nose to make sure nothing was broken.

 

She shook her head and looked back at the pool of papers before her. A few moments later she heard the door to the lieutenant's office open and out came Detective Kurosaki. She paused and allowed her stare to linger on him for a moment.

 

Tall, mysterious, ruggedly dressed, and semi-good looking… okay, a little more than semi-handsome, but she didn't care about that… He had a face that… well, it was an annoying face to begin with, but once you got past the fact that it was in a perpetual frown… it might have been kind of nice. But only for a while. Once he opened his mouth and those arrogant words came out it was like a tirade of pride and stupidity.

 

All that and she had only met him three times.

 

She watched him until he left the precinct, small folder in hand. Taking the tip of the pen into her mouth and chewing lightly, she reached into the drawer containing her brother's and Matsumoto's file. This time she was looking at Matsumoto's report.

 

“Hey Renji,” she said after a moment, “Do you think Matsumoto followed up on anything we asked her to do?”

 

“I don't know,” he answered, his voice high and nasally, “Are you ever going to apologize for tormenting my nose?”

 

“I don't know,” she smirked and then cocked her head to the side, “You want to go and ask a couple of her girls?”

 

“You know we're not supposed to be on this case,” Renji scowled, “You do know this, right? Right?”

 

“Technically,” Rukia said, raising one finger, “He told me not to work on my brother's case… I, however, want to figure out more about who killed Matsumoto Rangiku, in a hope that they might be connected.”

 

Renji rolled his eyes, “But they're not connected,” he picked up the football and began twirling it again. “Different methods were used in each murder, Matsumoto and your brother were working in different sections—so there's no connection there, and they were both killed in different parts of town… two different cases.”

 

Rukia shook her head and her face became somber. “No... They were both killed in different ways, that's true; however they were both killed on their birthdays, they were both working for the two eight, they were both found in the slums—they were just at separate ends, nothing major—and…” she paused, sighed, and ran a dainty hand through her hair, “They were both connected to me.”

 

Renji sat upright in his chair and immediately, his eyes widening in alarm. “Wait, whoa, you can't think that you—”

 

“Come on,” Rukia cut him off harshly, “Don't tell me you didn't notice it.” She looked down at her desk and muttered, “Byakuya was my brother and Matsumoto was my friend, not to mention I asked her to investigate the death of my brother only two months before she died.”

 

“Rukia,” Renji said firmly, “You can't think that you had anything to do with their deaths.”

 

“I know I did.” She muttered softly—too soft for her partner to hear. Grouchily, Rukia raised her head and shook it lightly, “Still, I want to go talk to her girls. I want to know if she told them anything.”

 

“You know she didn't,” Renji snorted, “She was a cop first and foremost. She wouldn't have told them anything.”

 

“I don't care,” Rukia said, rising from her chair and grabbing her coat from the back, “Come on,” she motioned to the door. “I'm leaving with or without you.”

 

Renji sighed with the futility of it all and got up from his own desk. Frowning, he seized his jacket and his car keys. Rukia had already gone to the door and was exiting the precinct.

 

Inwardly, Renji groaned, Rukia Kuchiki really was an acquired taste.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

 

Rukia Kuchiki hopped out of the car and immediately went running, her feet sliding on the muddy ground. Three girls before her were running from her, tripping and spinning as they flew away.

 

“Stop!” She called. Renji was out of the car behind her, rushing forward as well, “Stop! We just want to talk to you! It's about your friend, Matsumoto, or—or—Hollywood! She called herself Hollywood!”

 

One of the three girls stopped running; the other two disappeared into the grubby streets of the slums. The third, the one who had actually stopped, was standing—more like shivering—in the cold morning air. Rukia sprinted up to her and reached a hand out, palm upwards, defensively and comfortingly.

 

“Hi,” she panted, waiting for her partner to catch up to her. The girl was tentatively easing away from the detectives. Cold and afraid, she looked like a deer ready to bolt at the first sign of a gunshot. “What's your name?”

 

She was biting her lip so hard Rukia thought it might start to bleed. “Cocoa,” the girl finally answered, her voice squeaking softly. She was dressed in a colored push-up bra with a see through top, a heavy coat hanging weakly off her shoulders. Her legs were almost completely uncovered—only sheltered from the cold by a pair of runners bottoms and connecting fishnet panty-hoes. She blinked slowly and ran a dirty hand through her gritty hair. “It's hot and sweet and best for cold nights.” Her voice was riddled with self disgust.

 

Rukia nodded her head, her eyes shining with compassion. “What's your real name?”

 

The girl choked a little and tears began to form in her eyes. “Susame… m-my name is Susame.” She looked up and offered a wobbly smile, “You know… you're the first person to ask me that since Matsumoto.”

 

“I want to talk to you about Matsumoto.” Rukia said gently, “She was your friend, right?”

 

“Yes,” Susame muttered, “She was always looking out for me. She made me give all my… customers… condoms to wear, she gave me her coat when I was cold, and… and… she did my nails for—f-for me.”

 

“She was a good person.” Rukia said softly, feeling comfortable enough to put a hand on Susame's shoulder. “But, Susame, there's also something you should know.”

 

The young girl—hell, she couldn't have been more than seventeen—frowned, her heavily mascaraed eyes batting away tears, some of her makeup was running down her cheeks. “What?” She asked, her voice burbling slightly.

 

Rukia sighed and gave Renji a small worried look before turning back to Susame. “Matsumoto,” she said softly, “Was a cop.”

 

Susame didn't look the least bit surprised. She coughed slightly, shook her hair again, and crossed her thin arms across her chest. “I thought something like that was going on.” She sniffled and wiped her nose with the dirty sleeve of her jacket. “I didn't think it would be that big though.” She looked up at Rukia, “She was undercover?”

 

Rukia nodded, “Yeah, most of her work was catching the rapists and murderers who would prey on girls like you.”

 

Susame snorted, “It's not like we're not asking for it.”

 

Rukia shook her head, “She also made sure that you girls had protection, someone to talk to, and someone to advise you where to go for help and stuff.”

 

“Yeah, she did do that.” Susame agreed, giving the female detective a short look. “What was she doing for you?”

 

“She was working on something very important for me,” Rukia said, “Did she ever ask you and some of the other girls if you witnessed a murder on Katashi Avenue the night of January 31st or on the early morning of February 1st?”

 

Susame nodded and shrugged, “Yeah, she asked a couple of the girls, but none of them knew anything.”

 

Rukia's face—well, her eyes more than anything else; her face had been stoic since they had started talking—fell so quickly even Susame felt sorry for her. Sighing, Rukia turned to Renji and shook her head slightly; the disappointment was even evident on his face.

 

“You're sure?” She asked, facing Susame again.

 

She nodded, “I'm sure.”

 

“Alright,” she sighed, “Thank you for your help...” she paused for a minute and reached into her wallet, she sighed and pulled out what she had, “Here, I only have twenty three dollars.” She muttered, pulling the money out and offering it to the young prostitute.

 

Susame's eyes began to tear, “So I'm an information whore now?”

 

Rukia shook her head, “Not at all,” she grabbed Susame's grubby hand and pressed the money inside of it, “I just want you to get a good meal. You're too skinny.”

 

The girl had tears running down her face, “T-Thank you.”

 

Rukia nodded at the young girl, “And if you ever need help, don't be afraid to call me.” She handed her a card with her precinct number on it. “I might not be Matsumoto, but I can help.”

 

She nodded and wiped her eyes on her dirty sleeve, smearing mascara across her cheek. Rukia attempted to smile at her—didn't work too well—and motioned to Renji, who entered the car and began to start it up.

 

“She had a package, you know.”

 

Rukia turned immediately and frowned, “What?”

 

Susame began to wring her hands, “She had a package t-the night she died.” She swallowed and closed her eyes slightly, “It was a little baggy thing. It had some stuff inside of it; she had it in her hands when she left.”

 

“Do you know what was inside of it?” Rukia demanded—a bit too strongly.

 

“N-No,” Susame stuttered, “I remember asking her what it was but she wouldn't show me. She just said she needed to get it to a friend on Tokkio Street.”

 

“That's where I live.” Rukia muttered softly. “But it wasn't found on the body…” she swiveled and stared wide-eyed at Renji. “It wasn't on the body! She was killed over what was in that bag! Maybe it had stuff about my brother in it, oh fucking Christ. We need to find that file!” She wheeled wildly at Susame and nodded emphatically. “Thank you, God, thank you so much.” She ran up and hugged the startled girl—it was awkward and strange and too hurried to be considered a real hug.

 

She detached herself from the girl and rushed to Renji. “Let's go.” She demanded quickly.

 

The car squealed out of the slums, leaving a rather startled girl behind. Susame blinked and watched it depart, practically screaming down the streets. Smiling softly, she grasped the money in her hand and turned to walk away. She was going to get a hot meal tonight.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

 

They drove around for a week. Looking and looking and looking until they were all but exhausted.

 

They talked to hookers, murderers, drug addicts, dealers, rapists, and even a few locals. Nothing came up. So they kept on looking.

 

It was only until they walked into a gathering of homeless people did they find out anything useful.

 

One particular bum remembered a day, about ten days ago—the day of Matsumoto Rangiku's murder—that a new guy had appeared and stayed to warm up near the fire. According to Bum Number One the new guy had stayed only for a few moments before throwing some kindling into the fire.

 

“What kindling?” Rukia had asked crisply.

 

“A bag,” Bum Number Two had answered, taking a swig from a broken plastic cup Bum Number One had given him—God knew what was in it. “I told `im it wouldn't burn good but he threw it in anyway.” He shrugged and turned back to the flickering flame.

 

Rukia had gotten into the bland car and didn't say a word until Renji dropped her off at Tokkio Street where she went up the steps to her apartment, entered her home, grabbed a pillow, pressed her face into it, and screamed with all her might.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

 

“Orihime,” Ichigo pleaded, opening the door to the M.E.'s office and startling the pretty red-head, “Please tell me there was something on the body. Something, anything, that would help us figure out who this guy is.”

 

“Sorry Ichigo,” the woman sighed. She crossed her arms underneath her enormous breasts and successfully pressed them upwards. Ichigo could see her cleavage and was instantly floored… floored, that is, because he didn't feel any sort of desire raging towards her. Normally there was a flicker there, especially when she wore low-cut shirts like today, but oddly enough… nothing.

 

“I don't have anything for you.” She said as she shook her head, her long, reddish-orange hair twinkling in the fluorescent lights. She pouted. “It was a clean gunshot wound to the back of the head, a .22 killed her.”

 

“What about her ankle?” He asked, sounding almost desperate. “Was it broken on purpose?”

 

Orihime shook her head, “It was a clean break Ichigo, her shoe was missing a heel and she tripped on the ground, it happens… only this one broke her ankle.”

 

“Her hands?”

 

“Scraped on the sidewalk.”

 

“Her knees?”

 

“Ditto.”

 

“Anything to give us a clue?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Damn it!” He cried, banging his fist on the examining table. “There should be something!”

 

Orihime cringed at his outburst and furrowed her brow, “I'm sorry, Ichigo.”

 

He shook his head and tried to calm down. “I'm not worried about me,” he intoned glumly, “It's the people this psycho is going to kill next who need to worry.”

 

She nodded and sighed. She had to do this before she lost her nerve. “Ichigo… I know you're upset but… would you want to maybe…?” She never finished her sentence, because a moment later, he was gone, his scent swishing around the swinging double doors.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

 

“I'm going Rukia.” Renji murmured softly, rising softly from his desk and yawning loudly. He glanced at the clock on the wall and groaned, Jesus Christ, it was already past midnight. For the fourteenth time that week, Renji grumbled that the city should be paying them overtime. He glanced over at his partner, still knee deep in papers and photos. On one side of her desk was the file for their most recent case—a business man dropped dead from having hemlock put in his morning coffee—and on the other side was the “Birthday Basher's” file. That was the nickname they had given the monster who killed Matsumoto and Byakuya.

 

He smiled softly at the sight of her, so dedicated to her work yet so wrapped up in the misery he feared she would never smile again. He sighed loudly but she still didn't look up. He wondered if she were actually asleep. He called her name and her head jerked towards him. “What?” She asked dazedly.

 

“I'm going home,” he said, waving his hand in front of her face teasingly, “You should too.”

 

Rukia shook her head and began to shuffle her notes for the millionth time. “No… no, I can't go home yet. I need to look over a couple of things first.”

 

Renji sighed again and shook his head in futility. “You work too much. The city should—”

 

“Pay me more,” she finished wearily, “I know, I know, I know…” she gave him a weak shrug—pathetic really—and motioned to her notes, “I'll take a cab home, okay?”

 

Renji nodded and rubbed his eyes, “Try and get home before I come in tomorrow morning, okay?”

 

She nodded and waved him out the door, her eyes already back on her notes; Renji made his way towards the exit and slipped his coat over his shoulders. The night air was cold, even though it was the first of April, and his breath puffed out before him like little clouds. He worriedly took a look back at the precinct, he could see some lights on inside the dank room, there were a few other people there and only one from his side… only Rukia. Renji shook his head—he seemed to be doing that a lot lately—and inwardly knew that she was going to end up killing herself with paperwork.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

 

“Working hard or hardly working?” Purred a voice right beside of her. Rukia jerked awake and instantly opened her eyes; they had been closed, had she been asleep? She wasn't supposed to be sleeping, she had work to do.

 

“Now are you unconscious or just ignoring me?”

 

Rukia recognized the voice now. It was Yumichika Ayasegawa, a cop on permanent desk work; he was a nice enough guy, young, inexperienced in the field, and more suited to file papers than to handle a gun. He was a bit self-absorbed and a bit too pretty for Rukia's taste, but he was a good guy and nice to have in tight situations. Only you couldn't talk to him for too long… it kind of seemed like he drained your energy once you spoke with him for a while.

 

She sighed and tried to smile limply, it didn't work, her face wouldn't move. “Sorry,” she muttered, “I'm just a bit sleepy.”

 

“You really should get some rest,” he said, flicking a lock of his beautifully cut brown hair from his unblemished face. “It is very hard to look attractive when you don't get your beauty sleep.”

 

Rukia rolled her eyes, “Then what are you still doing here pretty boy?”

 

“So you do think I'm pretty?” He crooned, fluffing his cheeks with his palms, “Oh, good, I was starting to worry… no one had told me in a while.”

 

“Ass.” She muttered dryly.

 

“Ah, don't think say things.” Yumichika replied, “I'm simply here because I didn't finish the necessary paperwork for my transfer.”

 

Rukia's attention was perked, “Transfer… where?”

 

He sighed and put up his hands defensively, “Don't kill me okay?”

 

The female detective scowled and quirked an eyebrow upward, “Depends on what you're going to say.”

 

Yumichika inched a bit away from her and lowered his voice… even though they were the only two people—besides the janitorial staff—left in the precinct. Rukia glanced at her clock… damn, three in the morning, she needed to get some rest before her day—and Renji's day—started at eight. “Well,” he whispered dramatically, “I'm getting a transfer to the three one.”

 

Silence. Rukia didn't say anything as she sent a death glare of great proportions in Yumichika's direction. He withered on the spot and began to scoot away. He was almost two yards gone when the wearied detective sighed and shook her head. “Don't worry. I won't kill you.”

 

Yumichika's eyebrows quirked, “Really?” He intoned.

 

“Yeah,” Rukia admitted, “I don't even blame you. I'm not all that enthusiastic about being a member of the Death Precinct either.”

 

Yumichika shrugged, “I like the name. It'll stick too.”

 

“Shut up,” Rukia teased softly, “But no, I don't blame you.” She looked at him questioningly, “Don't you have a friend at the three one?”

 

“Ikkaku Madarame?” Yumichika asked with a grin. “Yeah, we've been close since we were kids, it'll be nice to work with him again. He was always more of the aggressor than I was.” He smiled at her, “I'll be content to drive the car.” His smile made its way into a grin and after a moment of awkward silence he indicated towards the door. “Come on, I heard Renji's threat earlier, I'll take you home.”

 

“I don't know,” Rukia muttered, “I have some stuff to do and I could just sleep in the cave.” Indicating to the small room containing two bunk beds that some people used when necessary. Her gaze lingered on the area when she looked up at him and was faced with a murderous frown. “What?” She asked quickly.

 

Yumichika leaned forward until his nose was only an inch from hers, “Your skin is oily, your eyes have bags under them, your hair needs some serious saving from those ghastly split ends, you are in desperate need of a shower, and it is a necessity that you get some clean—and different—clothes on. You're going home, washing yourself, then coming into work a little late. The Lou will understand. I mean, come on, you didn't even take any days off when your brother's body was found.” He stood and offered her his hand. “Do you understand?” He cocked his head to the side and smirked, “Think of it as a present for me.”

 

Rukia glared at him and unconsciously patted her hair, completely forgetting his last comment. “I don't look that bad… do I?” She asked softly.

 

Yumichika sighed heavily and nodded his head, “Yeah, honey, you do look that bad.” He clicked his tongue and shook his hand a bit. Rukia stuffed her notes inside of her desk and finally accepted the outstretched appendage, she stood and grabbed the coat from the back of her chair. Yumichika escorted her out the door and then to his car—he actually had one in this city, Rukia preferred public transportation—where he helped her into the passenger's side.

 

“Where do you live?” He asked her pleasantly.

 

“Tokkio Street.” She answered feeling the weight of sleep for the first time pressing down upon her eyelids. Christ she was tired, she hadn't gotten much sleep over the past few months, only about four hours a night. Tonight would be no exception.

 

“I didn't know you lived near the three one.” Yumichika remarked casually.

 

“I try not to advertise.” She answered sleepily.

 

As they drove Yumichika turned on the radio and tuned it to a classical station. The soft melodies of Mozart wafted over her and caused her head to roll back onto the leather headrest of her seat. It sounded so good, felt so good… she felt completely at peace.

 

“Don't fall asleep yet, Kuchiki,” Yumichika teased, “We've still got a bit of a ways to go.”

 

“Okay…” she murmured, trying not to fall asleep to the delicious music.

 

“Well, well, well…” Yumichika murmured softly, “So Killer Kuchiki falls asleep to Mozart… who would have thought.”

 

Her head jerked up and her heart faltered in her chest. She swallowed loudly and clutched the armrest. “P-Please don't call me that.” She stuttered. Her eyes glanced down and then looked up at him. He was frowning.

 

“Why not?” He asked her curiously, “Why don't you like that name?”

 

“It was my brother's nickname.” She whispered softly.

 

Yumichika's face fell just a bit and he nodded, “I understand.”

 

Rukia's throat tightened a bit and felt her fingers curl into a fist. “`I understand,' `I understand,' `I understand!'” She burst. “Why do people keep saying that? How could anyone possibly understand anything about something that I don't even understand.”

 

Yumichika was silent as Rukia fumed in the passenger seat. He shifted the car and looked at the street signs. “I found Tokkio.” He said softly.

 

Rukia sighed softly and shook her head. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—shouldn't have… well, you know what I mean.”

 

The inside of the car was quiet as Yumichika pulled into a free parking space in front of the apartment building. Rukia sat for a moment in the leather seat and folded her hands in her lap.

 

“Yumichika,” she said softly. “Thanks for the ride.”

 

He grinned at her, the friendly gesture breaking the tension in the small car. She nodded at him—too tired to even shrug this time—and opened the door.

 

She was about to get out when Yumichika placed a hand on her shoulder. She looked over and blinked slowly, waiting for him to say… what was she waiting for him to say? Something that would heal her damaged heart? Her tortured mind? Her injured body? Her broken soul?

 

“Kuchiki,” he began softly, “It's human to feel grief and anger. Don't worry about it. No one is expecting you to replace your brother and no one is expecting you to take the burden of his death by yourself. It would really help you if you let someone else carry the weight for once.”

 

Rukia sighed and nodded at him, her heart and mind feeling a little better at his kind words. “Thank you, Yumichika. That means a lot to me.”

 

He grinned softly and nodded, “Don't worry about it and don't be afraid to talk to me or anyone else if you feel bogged down. It's not very beautiful to be so troubled.”

 

Rukia rolled her eyes, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know… now let me go get some beauty rest, as your… your present did you say?” She teased half-heartedly.

 

Yumichika patted himself proudly on the chest, puffing up his cheeks and actually transforming into a rather convincing peacock. “I turned twenty nine exactly two hours and nineteen minutes ago.”

 

“Congratulations” Rukia said softly, “One more year till the big three oh.”

 

His eyes narrowed and he glared at her, she snorted as he raised a threatening finger level with her face. “You tell no one,” he said in a deadly voice, “About any of this. I'm known for being a snob and a being closed off… don't go advertising.”

 

Rukia got out of the car and nodded tiredly, “Don't worry, I won't.” She closed the door and called through the window. “Good night… or, I guess, good morning.”

 

Yumichika waved at her, shifted to drive, and slowly drove off into the night.

 

Rukia watched him go and sighed in the dark. Wearily, she made her way up into her apartment. She clomped up the stairs and threw her key into the lock of her door. As she entered a bit of clutter tripped her and she stumbled forward, displacing even more junk. She grunted as something large and heavy fell to the ground with a sickening thud. Ah well, at least she wouldn't wake up her neighbors—all of them were old and deaf.

 

Rukia could now feel sleep coming on quickly. Grumpily, she went into her bedroom and fell onto the bed, setting her alarm for seven in the morning. She cuddled against her cool covers and thought absently that she'd clean up in the morning. Now was a time for sleep.

 

But… she wished that she could have spoken to Yumichika for a bit more.

 

In all honesty she wasn't sure she had even wanted to get out of his car. Yumichika was a nice guy, for all his oddities, and she did enjoy his company. Christ knew she had been without anyone's company for so long. Work and home, work and home, work and home… there was nothing more than that. Sure she had Renji when she was at work but… what about when she came home? What was there to look forward to but an empty apartment and an empty bed?

 

Rukia shook her head and closed her pained eyes. Now was not a time for self pity. She had a job to do, murders to solve, and scumbags to put in prison.

 

Detective Rukia Kuchiki fell into a fitful sleep. One so irregular that she was not even roused up by the sound of a gunshot going off in the distance.