Bleach Fan Fiction ❯ No Honor Among Thieves ❯ Chapter 1 ( Chapter 1 )

Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach. Duh.

A great, big THANK YOU to Langus, who was kind enough to beta for me :)

No Honor Among Thieves

Chapter 1

As the double doors of the saloon swung open, the new arrival was momentarily silhouetted against the waning sunlight and whirling dust of the street. Many of the occupants spared little more than a glance for the man in the doorway, but those few whose gazes lingered were inexplicably transfixed by the shock of bright, orange hair that peeked out from under the wide, flat-brimmed hat.

Travelling lower, their eyes met his, and without hesitation they quickly turned back to their own drinks and conversations. In addition to a fierce glare, the man also sported an unpleasant and unforgiving scowl that was made all the more intimidating by his rough and travel stained attire. Though loose-fitting and practical in nature, the mismatched brown clothes were suited only to the rugged lifestyle of a cowboy or an outlaw, or both, and a man of either type tended to be unpredictable at the least. In a time when stability was so rare, unpredictable and dangerous were one and the same.

One look was usually enough to assure most men that Kurosaki Ichigo was a man to be reckoned with, but for those that needed persuasion, there was always the pair of revolvers slung low on his hips, at just the right height to allow for a quick draw, should the need arise. Though mismatched, the newer, single-action Colt and nearly antique, heirloom Smith & Wesson .22 were both elegant and deadly, their worn grips attesting as much to their graceful form as their frequent use. Ichigo was always quick to defend himself, but despite appearances he was not aggressive by nature, and rarely, if ever, instigated an unnecessary argument or altercation. However, it was equally rare for him to correct the impression that he was a hostile man, as he had frequently found that intimidation was a useful ally in his line of work.

Out of long habit, Ichigo silently appraised his fellow patrons as he moved deeper into the dim, smoke-hazed saloon. On his left was a pair of shopkeepers, tidily dressed in vests and frock coats, nursing beers as they discussed their businesses. At a table to the right sat three men with grim expressions, looking far more sober than any man should while sitting in a saloon. Judging by the sweat and grime covering their downcast faces, and their uniformly dirty overalls, they were laborers come to drink the wages they'd earned working on the railroad under the hot sun.

Seeing that the other tables were currently unoccupied, Ichigo redirected his perusal to the bar area, where the men on the stools lounged or hunched in various stages of intoxication and conversation. Farmers, ranchers, and cowhands mostly, it seemed, though what they could possibly cultivate in the barren and fruitless clime of west Texas was beyond him. Having been born and raised among the rolling prairies and waving grasses of central Texas, this flat, arid, and emotionless landscape was utterly unfamiliar to him.

His eyes stopped briefly on the small dark haired figure at the end of the bar, not much older than a child, it seemed. His features were hidden from view as he slumped over his drink, but his attire held few remnants of childhood. He was dressed in a broad hat, long canvas pants, heavy boots, and the weathered, split-tailed duster on his back suggested that he spent the majority of his days on the back of a horse.

Though it was unusual for one so young to be found in a rough-and-tumble saloon such as this, it was not unheard of. Ichigo raised a curious eyebrow, but the kid's exhausted posture and small stature gave him a benign air, and he didn't give it any further thought before turning toward the table a few feet away, where a rowdy poker game was in the making. The men there were clearly on their way to a painful hangover tomorrow, and Ichigo planned to take full advantage of that. The pair of saloon girls hovering around the table must have had the same idea.

Sidling up to the bar, he ordered and paid for his whiskey, before making his way to the single empty chair at the poker table. His back would be to the door, but Ichigo shrugged it off. No gain without a little risk, he thought. He was currently strapped for cash, and after a recent fiasco involving a misfiring gun and a rampaging bull, his alternative method for making money seemed rather distasteful.

“Deal me in, boys,” he said in a low voice, before pulling the chair out and settling himself into it.

Ten, Jack, Queen, and King of Hearts. It had had the makings of a great hand, that was, until he'd discarded the five of clubs and drawn an equally useless five of Diamonds. Luck of the draw, he thought sourly. Still, it was the best opportunity he'd had all night. Over the course of the evening, Ichigo had won just enough hands to keep himself in good standing, counting on his repeated losses to lull his compatriots into a false sense of security. Though it stung his pride, it was all part of the game - his game, anyway - and he knew that it would be worth it in the end.

He feigned a nervousness he did not feel as betting went round the table, knowing that each man was probably wagering more than his hand merited, and allowed himself a small smirk, hidden behind the cards fanned before his face. The best way to read a man was to study how he acted when he was winning, after all.

The individual sitting across from him, a particularly fat and greasy specimen of humanity, raised, then directed a toothy grin at his fellows. Darting his eyes around nervously, the proper-looking, mustached gentleman to Ichigo's right matched the bet. Slowly raising his eyes from his cards, Ichigo looked at each of his opponents in turn before pushing all of his recently earned money to the center of the table.

“This'll be my last hand, gentlemen, if any of you feel brave enough to call it,” he said smugly.

The man to his left, a thin and pallid individual with beady eyes, stared hard before pushing his coins to the center as well. As each player deliberated over, then matched, his bet, Ichigo folded his cards into a single stack. Resting them on his thigh, he reached behind his head with his free hand and arched his back in a casual stretch. He deftly released a clip in his sleeve that attached his Ace of Hearts to his cuff, while surreptitiously slipping the offending five under the table, feeling its slight impact against his foot. As he pulled his hand back down to his lap, he quietly covered the five of Diamonds with his booted sole. Sliding the ace in with the rest of his cards, he fanned them out once more, maintaining an expression of neutrality.

Play had finally moved the rest of the way around the table, and Ichigo waited patiently for his opponents to show their hands. The seedy individual on his left quickly turned over a two pair, nines and threes. Next was the heavyset man across from Ichigo, who flipped his cards up to reveal a full house, eights over fours. Finally, the neatly dressed man at the right exposed his own cards with a smug smile. A straight flush, clubs, to the jack.

Ichigo paused momentarily, enjoying the suspense of the moment, before slowly exposing his own cards, taking no small measure of satisfaction from their reactions to his royal flush. The silence was heavy and bitter as, carefully avoiding their gazes, Ichigo reached forward and raked in the pot. Standing, he filled his pockets with the multitude of bank notes and a few gold and silver coins.

Sensing that his easy win might have engendered some bad feelings with his erstwhile partners, Ichigo straightened quickly. His internal jubilation at winning, however, outweighed his sense of self-preservation, and he decided to gamble a bit more by leaving his bankrupt poker partners with a parting comment.

“It's been a pleasure, gents. Y'all have a fine evening,” he said cheekily. “If you're ever looking for another game, I'll be happy to oblige.” As he started to turn away, the smirk had not yet died from his face before he heard a meaty fist strike the table, upsetting a drink and sending several cards to the floor with a soft shuffle.

“Now, why'd you go and do that, Everett?” complained the thin man, who leaned forward in his creaking chair and bent to collect the cards. The other two continued their grumbling, though the thin man was conspicuously silent as Ichigo started to walk away. He had taken no more than three steps though, when he was halted by a dangerously low voice.

“Boy.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Ichigo caught the speaker's eye. The gaunt man was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, and holding a card in each hand. Ichigo took in his narrow-eyed look of anger and winced as he realized his mistake.

“You must think I can't tell skunks for house cats, but I do know this,” the man said evenly, holding up the cards. “There's only one Ace of Hearts in a deck.”

With that, the man slammed the cards onto the table and reached for the six-shooter strapped to his hip. Ichigo was quicker, though, drawing the Colt at his right side and firing a single shot. With his gun sliding uselessly across the floor, the man clutched at his bleeding hand, sunk to his knees, and fired foul curses in Ichigo's direction instead. Observing a flash of motion out of the corner of his eye, Ichigo pivoted just slightly, almost gracefully, to the right and brought his sights to bear on the fat man, who had drawn his pistol and was preparing to fire it. A quick shot to the shoulder sent his opponent careening into the wall, his ruddy face turning sickly pale in shock as he slumped to the ground.

The violent report of the first gunshot had many surprised patrons leaping out of their seats, and by the second nearly all had begun a mad scramble for the door, with the exception of one or two more intoxicated or less easily frightened drinkers who would not be parted from their beverages. The small person at the end of the bar was one of the latter, and merely turned to watch the unfolding brawl with mild interest.

So it was that the diminutive onlooker was suddenly wearing a glass of whiskey that had become airborne in the melee caused by the third assailant rushing unarmed at Ichigo. The now-dripping bystander took a step backwards as Ichigo staggered following a sucker punch to his chin before returning it two-fold to his attacker. The assailant dropped heavily onto a nearby table with a resounding crash, sending cards and drinks flying. The spectator now wore beer as well.

Having dispatched his would-be assassins, Ichigo surveyed the nearly empty saloon, breathing harshly as he holstered his weapon. Noting that his assailants were either unconscious or moaning in quiet agony, he paid them no mind as he bent to retrieve his wide-brimmed hat, knocked free in the fray. He replaced it with one hand and rubbed at his now-tender jaw with the other. However, he had scarcely collected his wits and caught his breath before a small hand closed roughly on his shoulder, spun him around, and fisted in the collar of his shirt.

“Damn it all, what now?” he growled testily, gritting his teeth in exasperation. Ready to hand out another beating if necessary, he pulled his arm back in preparation to deliver a blow to his attackers head, only to stop short when he had to adjust his line of sight nearly a foot lower. His eyes widened in surprise as he realized that the aggressor was a woman, evidently the same person he had mistaken for a young man earlier in the evening.

Obviously, I miscalculated, he thought appreciatively, taking in her tiny, but decidedly feminine form. Whiskey dripped down her small, furious face, plastering an unruly lock of black hair to her cheek, and soaking into the collar of her buttoned brown shirt, while the beer had created an unattractive stain against the long legs of her tan canvas trousers.

“Apologize,” she ground out from between clenched teeth, punctuating the statement by bringing her other hand up to grasp another fistful of shirt and jerking him sharply downward to her own eye-level. It was at that point that any positive thoughts he may have entertained promptly flew out the window.

If any other pretty girl had grabbed him so roughly, he would probably have interpreted it differently, and reciprocated with a kiss and a suggestive remark. However, this girl looked mad enough to bite the sights off of a six-shooter, and despite her small stature, seemed all the more threatening for the fact that she had two six-shooters, one at each hip.

Quickly coming to the conclusion that she was not interested in a roll in the hay, Ichigo settled his features into a deeper scowl, his ire steadily rising. He had just faced down three men, two of them armed, and this little girl wanted to make his already long day longer, just because she'd gotten a little wet?

“If you want to keep those hands, you ought to get them off of me,” Ichigo intoned menacingly. Though he would never intentionally hurt a woman, he didn't see a problem with scaring one a little, especially an arrogant, imperious little brat like her.

“If you don't want more trouble than you've already got, you ought to keep other people out of your fights,” she responded with equal venom, completely unfazed by his forceful declaration.

At first Ichigo was slightly taken aback by her fearlessness, and, in spite of himself, even a little impressed that she refused to be intimidated, but annoyance with her bossy manner soon won out. A belated flash of indignant anger surged through him at the thought that he was being blamed for her involvement, unavoidable and indirect as it had been. Glowering fiercely, Ichigo leaned in until they were almost nose-to-nose, his brandy eyes clashing violently with her icy blue gaze.

“I don't take advice from cross-dressing midgets,” he informed her hotly, and counted it as a victory when her face contorted with rage.

His triumph was short-lived, however, as she gave an inarticulate cry of rage and her hands released their hold on his shirt. With surprising speed, her right fist connected solidly with his already bruised jaw. He had just enough time to wonder at the strength she put behind the strike before he registered that her other hand was following the same trajectory. His reflexes kicked in just in time, and he caught her fist in his palm, gripping it tightly. Unable to free her trapped hand, she gave a snarl of frustration before swinging her right arm around once more, but Ichigo caught that one as well, snaring her slender wrist in his long fingers.

As she struggled to break his hold, he kept her at arms length, wincing as he rolled his jaw and heard a small pop. “I think I've had enough of people hitting me tonight,” he said, highly irritated.

“With your personality, I'm surprised you're not used to it,” she retorted angrily, still furiously attempting to jerk her limbs from his grasp. Giving her hands up as a lost cause, she settled for delivering a sharp kick to his shin, and was thoroughly satisfied by his audible hiss of pain. With growing frustration and a fierce growl, he twirled her arms in a twisted parody of a dancer's movement, spinning her around so that her back was to his chest and his powerful hands now kept her arms crossed over her torso.

“Let me go!” she shouted, redoubling her efforts to escape his grip as her anger tripled.

“Then quit trying to hurt me!” he yelled, thoroughly vexed, before yelping loudly as she brought the heel of her boot down on his foot. With an incoherent vociferation, he released his hold on her wrists in favor of wrapping his arms around her midsection and, leaning back slightly, lifted her off her feet. Whether he intended to throw her across the room or simply squeeze the life out of her, Ichigo wasn't sure. All he knew was he wanted her to -

“Stop hitting me!” he roared at her, switching his grip to one arm so that he could fend off her flailing limbs with his free hand.

Distracted as they were, neither noticed the red-headed man, clad in faded black, who had silently slipped into the nearly abandoned saloon minutes earlier and watched their entire altercation, his arms crossed and a crooked, humorless smile spread over his face. Now, though, the heavy creak of a floorboard under booted feet was a belated indication of the presence of a spectator to Ichigo, though it came too late.

Ichigo had no time to react before the butt end of a rifle connected with the back of his skull. His arms, wrapped tightly around the struggling, dark-haired woman went suddenly slack, and he slumped to the floor, pulling her right down with him. With a surprised squeal, she landed hard on her backside before quickly scrambling to her knees. As she turned, she brought her hands up in a defensive gesture, but froze as her eyes widened in a moment of recognition before the stock of his rifle met her temple. She collapsed, unconscious, atop Ichigo.

As he regained consciousness, the first thing Ichigo noticed was that his mouth was exceedingly dry and his head felt like it might split open at any time. He was obviously in the back of a carriage or wagon of some kind, because every jarring bump in the road was echoed by an equally jarring throb in his head. He lay on his back, his arms pinned at an uncomfortable angle beneath him - tied behind his back, if the chafing against his wrists was any indication - though he noted absently that his head and shoulders were cushioned by something soft and warm.

Opening his eyes slowly, Ichigo winced as his vision swam in and out of focus. The light was muted by a low canopy of pale canvas, supported by a fragile framework over the small wagon, and before him, he saw the dim silhouette of the driver against the wide flap separating the seat from the rear. Giving a pained groan, he shifted in an attempt to alleviate the ache in his shoulders and the pressure on his wrists, and then started as he was answered with an undignified snort and felt a bony elbow jab him between his shoulder blades.

“Done napping?” A quiet voice inquired dryly. “Then get off my legs.”

Tilting his head back to glance above him, the color drained from Ichigo's face as he realized that the person staring back at him was the woman from the saloon, now sporting an ugly gash at the left temple, dried blood flaking from her cheek. His weight had pinned her uncomfortably against the wooden lip of the wagon, and she glared down at him with no small amount of contempt. Quickly sitting up, he found he had to bend his neck at an awkward and uncomfortable angle due to the low canvas ceiling stretched taut over his head.

She shot him an exasperated look, with dislike etched into each of her features, and then sat up as well. Leaning forward, she stretched slowly, and a pained expression crossed her face as she wriggled her fingers in an attempt to regain feeling. It seemed her hands were bound behind her back as efficiently as his. At a loss for words, and still somewhat confused as to where he was and why she was there, he simply watched as she curled her recently freed leg beneath her and arched her back, reaching downward awkwardly to grasp feebly at her boot with her bound hands.

Thoroughly befuddled by her odd behavior, Ichigo gave an impatient snort and chose to disregard her for the time being, then began an assessment of the tools at his disposal. Glancing down, he saw that his gun belt had been confiscated, unsurprisingly, though he was frustrated to no end at the thought of his revolvers in the hands of another man. Wiggling his right foot inside of his boot, he found that his hunting knife was absent as well. Studiously ignoring the squirming of his fellow captive, he quickly surveyed the contents of the wagon, finding feed, a bedroll, a saddle and tack, and a few provisions, but nothing that could be classified as a weapon. Turning his attention to the woman once more, he noted that her guns were missing also.

With an aggravated sigh, Ichigo settled back, thinking hard. His thoughts were continuously interrupted, though, by his increasingly frustrated fellow prisoner, who now resembled a pretzel more than a human being. Under other circumstances, her comical position might have been entertaining, and he would certainly have valued that kind of flexibility in a bed partner, but at the moment, it was simply an annoying distraction. Finally, he could take no more.

“What the hell are you doing?” he hissed, glancing quickly over his shoulder in an effort to assure himself that they were still unwatched. He needn't have worried, though, for the driver was oblivious to his captives' agitated states, and was in fact currently whistling an upbeat tune in time to the loud clip-clop of the horse's hooves. “Play contortionist after we get out of here!”

She sent him a withering glare before replying in a low voice. “He didn't get the knife in my boot,” she whispered disdainfully, as though her actions required no explanation. “And since someone was sitting on me, I couldn't get it either until now.” With that simple statement, she dismissed him with a look and returned her concentration to bending into increasingly unnatural poses.

Ichigo, feeling slightly sheepish, had no response. Studying her, though, he realized that for such a short woman, she had absurdly long legs, and therein lay her trouble. Her small hands, lashed at the wrists, no matter how they twisted and strained, could reach no lower than the rounded curve of her backside, while her long thighs and slender calves clenched and kicked in a useless attempt to bring her boot closer to her grasping fingers.

With an exasperated sigh, Ichigo scooted closer, turning his back so his own bound hands faced her. “Give me your leg,” he murmured quietly, still conscious of the driver sitting mere feet from him.

“No. It's my knife,” she replied peevishly, drawing her boot away from his questing fingers.

“Listen, midget, you're never going to get it on your own, so just work with me, all right?”

Irritated, Ichigo turned his head and rested his chin on his shoulder, deepening his frown and furrowing his brows in an attempt to glare her into submission. She stared back with equal vehemence, and they waged a brief but silent battle of wills, each refusing to be the first to break eye contact. Finally, though, after several long moments of staring unblinkingly, she exhaled heavily before giving him stiff nod.

“Glad you decided to see reason,” he gloated, though his victory was short lived as she lashed out with her foot, catching him sharply in the small of the back with her heel before casually resting her boot against his hands. Ichigo arched his back and bit back a yelp of surprised pain, then turned to glare at her once more.

“Don't call me `midget,'” she said sweetly, her soft voice completely at odds with the poisonous look in her eyes.

Hating the woman more and more by the minute, he grasped the bottom hem of her trouser leg and quickly worked it up over her boot. He relished the small, angry sound she made as he roughly jerked her leg closer and worked his fingers into the gap in her boot. The back of his hand registered the feel of silky-smooth flesh, but he dismissed the fleeting thought as his fingers closed around the hilt of a rather large knife. Quickly withdrawing it, he worked it out of its sheath with a small grunt of satisfaction, and immediately reversed it to begin sawing at the rope binding him.

He worked quickly, and only a few strands of frayed rope remained when the wagon hit an unexpectedly violent bump, causing the blade to slip in his hands, tearing a long but shallow gouge in his forearm. Ichigo couldn't hold back a loud, pained exclamation as a small stream of blood slickened his fingers. Cursing, he cut through the remaining strands, watching with growing trepidation as the dark shadow at the front turned in profile, indicating that the driver had at last taken notice of his charges' unrest.

Their momentum began to slow as the driver tugged at the reins, calling out to the horse to halt. Ichigo kept his arms behind his back, rapidly switching his grip to the blade and holding the hilt out to the woman.

“Wait `til I say go,” she muttered in his ear as she scuttled around to grasp the knife, and did not wait for a response before withdrawing to the corner once more. She had only just concealed the knife when the wagon came to a full stop, rocking slightly, and the flap was pulled back to reveal a rough-looking man with shockingly red hair and a sinister smile. A dark brown vest covered his sun-bleached shirt, and long dark trousers encased his thin legs, which were currently kneeling on the seat. His faded black duster fluttered in the desert breeze, revealing a long-barreled revolver at one hip and a wicked-looking Bowie knife at the other. Under the wide-brimmed black hat, his tattooed forehead distracted only briefly from the determined set of his jaw and the dangerous glint in his eyes.

“Back in the land of the living, are we?” he asked with a wide, wolfish grin that was clearly intended to ruffle feathers.

“And just who the hell are you?” Ichigo shot back angrily, eyeing the tattooed man with obvious distaste.

“You don't need to know who I am, Nancy-boy; it's enough that I know who you are,” he spat contemptuously, staring down his nose at Ichigo with a look that suggested he was looking at something particularly smelly and disgusting.

Ichigo bristled at the remark, and was fully prepared to attack right then. His hands clenched and unclenched behind his back as he contemplated various scenarios of revenge for this tattooed moron who had not only captured him, but had now insulted him. He had just come to the conclusion that an old-fashioned beating would be the most satisfactory, but the interjection of an authoritative voice behind him narrowly stopped him from acting.

“Renji,” she said quietly, but with an air of command. “Let him go. He's not worth your time, and it's me you're after.”

Ichigo snapped his head around to look at her in a mixture of disbelief and irritation. His first reaction was surprise that she actually knew the asshole, until it registered that she had just insulted him. He reflected sardonically that she must have forgotten how easily he had overpowered her in the saloon - though she had put up one hell of a fight - and Ichigo was ready to give her another piece of his mind, but his thoughts were interrupted once more by the man in front of him.

“And here I thought you had already been introduced,” Renji said sarcastically, lips twisting into an ironic and humorless smile. “Kuchiki Rukia, meet Kurosaki Ichigo,” he said without preamble, nodding first at the woman and then at Ichigo. “You're both wanted for robbery and murder.”

A/N: Well, first of all, hello. Second, I'm quite nervous about this (again, if anyone read my first fic) because I hadn't planned to post this until I had at least five chapters, but having completed two and a half, I suddenly find myself lacking motivation. My boyfriend is no help, because even though I tell him to picture Clint Eastwood or John Wayne, he still giggles at the name 'Ichigo' (He's not a manga/anime fan).

So, I'm ashamed to so blatantly ask for reviews, but I need a little encouragement, I guess. Please don't judge me too harshly! I'm looking for constructive, negative, positive, any kind of criticism, I suppose, and would greatly appreciate any responses, though I'll understand completely if you choose to click the back button :0

Oh yeah. Sorry to anyone looking for instant gratification in the M rating. That comes in later chapters :P

A couple of points about the Old West:

- The women so commonly portrayed as fixtures in saloons were not, in fact, whores. They were saloon girls, basically dance hall girls, employed by the saloon to entertain the men in a non-sexual way and entice them to drink more. They could actually sometimes make more money in one night than many men made in a month, simply for the fact that they got commission on drinks and dances. Whores were more commonly relegated to bordellos, as prostitution was illegal, but so rampant that the law sought only to confine it to certain areas. This fact is relatively minor to the story, but it struck a chord with me in my research.

- The woman dressed as a man (I'm sure you know who she is) is not actually as outlandish as she might seem. Yes, it was considered pretty unacceptable and taboo for a woman to dress that way in public, but it was actually fairly common among women on ranches and farms, especially before the advent of the split skirt for riding astride.

Can you tell I have feminist leanings? Heh, but those are just a couple of things I thought I'd share that I learned in the process of researching for this fic. Anyhoo, sorry for the exceptionally long A/N; I'm just a lonely person desperate for human contact, I guess :(