“Congratulations, sir,” Degurechaff announces as she slips into the tent, clearly distracted by something. “The men seem to have collectively decided that your foreign soulmate is a good man and that the entire reason I stepped in as chaperon is because I understand more of his language than you do. No one seems to have caught… on… sir, what exactly are you doing?”

Erich casts a sheepish look at Degurechaff and snuffs out the spiritual fire he’d been using to burn his paperwork. “Removing intelligence the enemy could collect?”

“With green fire,” she says dryly, then turns her exasperated look onto Alexis, who just smiles and continues to let her ghostly blue fires dance across the stack of paperwork in front of her. “And blue fire. From your hands. Where anyone could walk in on you.”

“It’s expedient,” Erich says in a half-hearted attempt to defend his decision. “And we can control it better than real fire.”

Degurechaff sighs and drops another stack of papers on his ash-covered desk. “Light that up then. We’re almost ready to go, just waiting on our injured and the last of the cleanup.”

Erich makes an agreeable noise and sets a hand atop the stack of papers. A small moment of concentration and the paper crinkles, charring around the edges as his power sinks in and emerald flames erupt. The fire burns quiet-soft-calm, brushing silken-cool against his fingers as it bends to his will to devour the paper, leaving nothing but ash in its wake.

It’s a frivolous use of power, bright and showy and childish, but… it’s also a reminder.

(He’s not powerless, not helpless, no matter how he’s been feeling.)

(These simple, childish exercises are the basis for greater, more dangerous powers.)

(Powers he mastered many, many years ago…)

Degurechaff huffs at his display, but says nothing as she sweeps the tent to check on everything. “Where’s Urahara?”

“Fetching his blade to give it to me,” Erich answers as he dusts his hands off and turns to face her. “He’s decided that the best time to do so is now, for whatever reason.”

She makes a face at him, then shakes her head and returns to her inspection of the tent. “Well, we can’t wait much longer for him, though I doubt it will be hard for him to catch up.”

“It won’t be,” Erich agrees easily, letting a hint of question-concern-curiosity drift down into his soulmark while wondering exactly how far away Urahara had stashed his blade. He gets back surprise-sheepishness-loyalty and—

“I’m back!” the man announces with forced cheer as he ducks into the tent, and suddenly Erich understands.

(Urahara hadn’t kept his blade far away, he’d just been steeling himself.)

(Why in the world is the man so nervous?)

“Welcome back,” Erich replies as he takes careful, measured steps closer to the man. Being close is starting to be easier somehow, this morning’s events aside, and… it’s more of a relief that Erich wants to admit even to himself.

(He might actually be able to sell this to his people, might actually be able to convince them…)

(Two more days before the first Quincy beyond his wife spots them.)

(He can do this…)

Urahara watches him for a moment, gaze oddly weighty, then slowly lifts his hands, a sheathed blade balanced atop his palms. There’s a cord knotted around the hilt and sheath, tying the parts together so the blade can’t easily be drawn, but otherwise it looks normal enough. “Here,” he murmurs, a desperate edge of nervousness-fear-loyalty creeping through their bond.

The man doesn’t even realize what he’s projecting, Erich abruptly realizes when the emotions don’t taper off or shift to something less telling. Something about this gesture, about handing over his weapon, has more meaning to him than it does to Erich, and that’s… worrying.

(What has he demanded of his soulmate?)

(What line has he unwittingly crossed that he shouldn’t have?)

(He doesn’t know.)

(He doesn’t know, and all he can do is continue on with this action that his soulmate fears and…)

There’s bile in his throat as Erich reaches up, as his hands fold over the sheath and—

Fear-anger-fury-how dare you-how dare-want-need-loyalty-been burned before—you didn’t know it’s fine it’s fine it’s fine–hurt him and pay—

Erich gasps. Snatches his hands away. Presses them to his chest and tries to breathe through the panic that rises because— because— that blade— that— he demanded Urahara hand over a piece of his own soul and that piece is its own being and he demanded Urahara give up a part of himself for the sake of appearance!

“Erich.” Alexis steps between them. Cuts off his view of Urahara’s shuttered-guilty-hurting eyes. Cups his chin in her hands. Taps ‘focus’ into the skin below his ear. “Breathe with me,” she says-orders-demands, voice low and focused, fingers tapping ‘focus-focus-focus’ into his skin and—

He breathes.

Listens to the insistent demand to ‘focus’ drummed into his skin. Remembers days when ‘focus’ meant something else, something innocent, when it was just wandering attention due to boring lessons, not scattered, broken thoughts because— because—

‘Focus’, she taps — demands — and then adds ‘me’. An order. A directive. One he can follow.

He pries his eyes open — can’t remember closing them — and meets Alexis’ worried gaze. Reaches up to grasp one of her wrists. Presses his fingers into her pulse and counts—

“With me now?” Alexis murmurs, concerned but patient.

“Yes.”

Alexis nods and runs a thumb across his cheek. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

He breathes. Counts her pulse. Gives himself a moment to actually process what he felt, trying to find the words to describe the sensation and coming up short. “His blade is… part of him. Holds — or is, maybe? — part of his very soul,” Erich begins slowly, thinking on the vast rawness of a soul so brutally exposed to casual touch.

(Were all Reaper blades like that?)

(How did Urahara manage to use that sword?)

“It’s what?” Alexis asks in shock.

“It’s part of his soul,” Erich repeats, then tilts his head slightly to glance at Degurechaff when she makes a disbelieving noise. “Reapers are souls, remember,” he tells her, only a touch awkwardly. “The idea that they could… form part of themselves into a weapon isn’t exactly beyond the bounds of reason.”

He thinks he hears her mutter something to the effect of ‘this is all beyond the bounds of reason’, but before he has a chance to say anything else, she’s turned her attention on Urahara.

“Did you know he would react like this?” Degurechaff asks, sharp-polite-deadly.

Erich can’t see how Urahara reacts, not with Alexis still standing between them, but he hears the shift of cloth and the man clearing his throat before saying, “Not like this, precisely… I knew he would realize what Benihime is, but… I didn’t expect…”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?!” Erich demands as he takes a half step to the side, pulling free of Alexis’ hold. He needs to see Urahara’s expression, needs to see his eyes—

Urahara’s gaze flickers down, body unnaturally still and his sword — Benihime? — still held out in offer. “Would it have made a difference?” he asks, a touch of resignation in his tone. “Would telling you have changed your decision? Would your people simply accept that you’ve left me armed because she’s part of me?”

They both know the answer to that, as much as it burns Erich to admit. Urahara is a dangerous man, with or without his weapon, but leaving him so visibly armed while leading him directly into the heart of their stronghold is…

Unthinkable.

“It didn’t seem—”

“Important? It didn’t seem important?” Erich growls as he tips his chin up and fixes Urahara with a steady look. “You…” he stops himself with a bitten off curse and reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose. His hand is trembling and he can’t quite seem to take a full breath, but… it’s fine. He’ll get through this just like all the other times. “Colonel, if you would translate for me again?”

“Of course, sir,” Degurechaff answers, the sheer steadiness of her voice enough to ground him a bit more.

“I am uncertain if simply handing over part of yourself is common amongst Reapers—” he suspects it’s taboo or close to it actually, based on Urahara’s reactions— “but here it is not. If you had spoken of it, we could have discussed things. We could have found some way to compromise, or to lessen the impact of me touching her unexpectedly.” He wets his lips and looks at the deceptively plain weapon in Urahara’s hands; there are very few ways around him having to carry her, and he’s… not exactly looking forward to it. “The fact you felt it wasn’t even worth mentioning is concerning. She clearly has a sentience, and just as clearly doesn’t like me—” he ignores Alexis’ concerned noise and Degurechaff’s frustrated one— “so should I take this as a oblique attack upon myself? An attempt to punish me for overstepping boundaries I did not know existed?”

Alexis tenses at his side, her spiritual power creeping towards the surface. She sends him a look when he pushes calm-steady-peace through their connection, but settles nonetheless.

(Thankfully.)

(He doubts this is a case of Urahara deliberately trying to harm him, but… he needs the man to understand how it looks.)

Erich watches as Degurechaff finishes her translation and Urahara’s face pales, shock-concern-denial echoing through their connection.

“I am sorry,” Urahara says in Imperial, rough and awkward and desperate the way he’s rarely been before. “I…” he makes a noise of frustration and shakes his head sharply, falling back into Akitsugo. “I did not mean it like that, I swear to you. It’s… it’s not common to allow someone else access to our zanpakutou, but I’ve never— being able to directly feel the spirit in it isn’t usual. There’s… there are a few tales about soulmates being able to, but all of them are from the very beginning of our society, a few thousand years ago. I didn’t… I didn’t think there was anything to them beyond wishful thinking. None of the older Captains ever mentioned anything like that, and I know at least two of them are soulmates…”

“They probably didn’t want to, if this whole… thing is as intimate as the two of you are making it sound,” Degurechaff chips in, then wrinkles her nose when the two of them turn to look at her. “Sorry sir, but if that was me, I wouldn’t be telling anyone something like that.”

“No, you’re correct. If you weren’t here to see it…”

“Trust me, sir, I understand.”

Erich nods once, then turns to translate Urahara’s words for Alexis. The more he speaks the more thoughtful she becomes, her wariness settling and the traces of her power fading from the air.

Seeing her settling makes it easier for him to relax, and his relaxation makes the tension in Urahara’s shoulders ease away. It doesn’t fix anything, doesn’t change that he still has to carry part of Urahara’s soul at his side, but… the calmer all of them are, the better.

(If only he hadn’t been caught by surprise.)

(If only he wasn’t so on edge…)

(Curse this whole situation!)

Erich takes a moment to corral his thoughts, then turns his attention back to Urahara. The man is still on edge, still cautious-concerned-resigned, still offering Erich part of his soul…

“Do you actually trust me with her?” Erich can’t help but ask as he takes a tiny, cautious step closer.

(If Urahara doesn’t trust him, him carrying that blade isn’t going to go well for either of them.)

(He… honestly doesn’t blame Urahara if that’s the case.)

(This… this is too much too soon, just like this morning…)

Urahara blinks, surprise-confusion-uncertainty rippling through their connection before being abruptly snuffed out, and says, “Maa, of course—”

“Don’t lie to me,” Erich snaps, tipping his chin up to meet Urahara’s gaze steadily.

“There’s no other option—”

“We can find one.” Erich grits his teeth and forces his frustrations back, knowing his volatility is doing nothing for the situation.

(He’s better than this!)

(Focus!)

He swallows his emotions and forces himself to breathe, ignoring the strange way Urahara is watching him in favor of summoning up the strength of will that let him handle Degurechaff before he truly knew her. “Alexis could carry her, if you trust my wife more,” he offers, tone as even and calm as he can make it. “Or perhaps Degurechaff, if the issue is that we’re soulmates.”

Urahara watches him, pale grey-green eyes wide and body worryingly still, and Erich knows in his soul that he’s once again done something, said something, that Urahara doesn’t understand how to process. For a moment he thinks Urahara won’t answer him, that the man doesn’t know how to answer, but then…

“Can we… try again?” Urahara almost whispers, gaze flickering down to Benihime and then back to Erich. “I… trust you, I do. It was just… it was unexpected for both of us. Maybe… maybe now that we know…?”

Erich gives a shallow nod, giving up on arguing for the moment. If Urahara wants to try again…

He lifts his hands and reaches for Benihime, watching the tiny signs of distress rising the closer he gets to touching her and…

Pauses, bare inches from the blade.

Breathes.

Lets his powers spin from his fingertips—

“What…?” Urahara murmurs in disbelief, distress fading into confusion as Erich gently brushes his power against Benihime. Once, again, again, until he finds a tiny gap in the man’s control, a way in that Urahara has left him.

Gently, Erich reminds himself as he begins to weave their spiritual powers together. Gently, he continues to repeat, threading careful, cautious tendrils into the edges of Urahara’s self. This is more trust, more intimacy, than he wanted to give for… for months if not years—

(Quincy do not give of themselves lightly, not with how easily this act can break them.)

(He won’t survive this going wrong.)

(He doesn’t even know how Reapers feel about doing this, doesn’t know what boundaries he might be treading upon, but…)

—but he does it all the same. This is the only thing he can think to do, the only act that has a chance at settling Urahara’s fears, and if it takes the most intimate bond outside of soulmates that he can think of…

He’ll do it.

(If he wants to be trusted, he must first extend his own trust.)

Urahara slowly reaches back, disbelief-wonder-loyalty coloring both his spiritual presence and their soulbond as the two of them weave the very edges of their being together. It’s not particularly deep or solid but it’s there, different from their soulmarks but no less powerful, no less intimate…

Erich lets his hands rise. Brushes the very tips of his fingers across Benihime’s sheath, waiting-wary-cautious of the same reaction as before, and—

Caution-thoughtful-I’m watching you-wonder-fascination-cautious trust-don’t you dare hurt him-

He breathes through the disorienting rush of sensations, using their new connection to carefully blunt the brutal intimacy of touching part of Urahara’s soul without reaching a true accord and—

It’s better. Easier.

(There’s certainly less hatred aimed at him.)

(That’s promising at least.)

Erich curls his fingers around Benihime’s sheath and lifts her out of Urahara’s hands, letting the sense of her settle into the edges of his power where Urahara’s power has been woven. Her power feels different from Urahara’s, a shade or two to the side, sharper-colder-harsher than Urahara’s ever felt; it’s not enough for most people to register, but with his connections to the man it’s… noticeable.

(He’s holding a part of Urahara that’s become nothing but a weapon, nothing but a tool to be used, killing on command, and…)

(He wonders if all Reaper blades feel this way.)

(He wonders if it matters.)

He holds her for a moment, debating the best way to carry her — it feels wrong to relegate a part of Urahara’s soul to being tucked away or hung from a backpack — before he makes a decision and lowers her towards his right hip, just behind his pistol. A touch of concentration and power solidifies around her, twisting into a harness that attaches her to his belt, and a thread of his personal power seals the construct in place.

(Now he won’t — can’t — lose her, not with his own power — his own will — binding her to his side.)

(So long as he does not exhaust his spiritual power, nothing can take her from him.)

Urahara stares at him, pale eyes gleaming with emotions that Erich can’t quite parse, then darts a glance down to Erich’s hip where Benihime now sits. “Thank you,” he murmurs as he takes a small step back, hands dropping to his side as if he no longer knows what to do with them. “I didn’t expect…”

Erich purses his lips and rests a hand briefly on Benihime’s hilt, fingers tracing the odd, complex knot binding her closed. “I am not without kindness,” he settles on after a moment. “She’s part of you.”

They stare at one another, assessing-judging-waiting, silence stretching between them as they both tentatively brush against the other’s power again and again, like children poking at a loose tooth, unable to ignore it, unable to let it go—

Degurechaff coughs lightly, dragging Erich’s gaze away from Urahara and to her; she pointedly taps her wrist and arches an eyebrow at him. “If we have everything sorted out…?”

Erich drops his hand away from Benihime’s hilt and looks back to Urahara. “Is this acceptable to you…?” he asks.

“It is,” Urahara agrees with another mask of a smile, still cautious-wary-tense but with traces of hope beginning to creep in.

(This is still wrong, still too much-too fast-too intimate, but… they’ll get through it.)

(They have to.)

Erich nods sharply and tips his chin towards the exit. “After you, Colonel.”

“Right. I’ll get the men in order.” Degurechaff salutes and stalks towards the tent flap, ducking through without a backwards glance. She begins barking orders the moment she’s outside, her voice carrying with the ease of long practice, her words fading slowly away as she moves off.

Erich heaves a sigh and rubs at the side of his nose, taking one last moment to gather himself, then steps over to his desk and scoops up his pack to sling across his back. “Right. Let’s go. We have places to be and we’re burning daylight.”

Alexis hums and brushes past him as she goes to grab her own pack, settling it in place and making sure she can easily grab any of her weapons.

Urahara laughs awkwardly and rubs at the back of his head. “You look… fierce,” he manages, looking between them in fascination. “I… like it.”

“You’ll like me more when I’m not stressed,” Erich tells the man dryly, then shakes his head and turns away, uncertain where that comment came from. “Enough talk, let’s move.”

He strides from the tent, confident that his soulmates will follow.

(Three days.)

(Just three more days.)

(They can make it.)