Sharp pencils and lined paper,

She surfaces from the vast and tainted sea of information with a shuddering gasp, whole body shivering. Trembling hands move to jerk out the neural jack, and are intercepted with larger, warmer ones, and the tremors slow. With her head held still, only her eyes move, tracking under tape-closed lids. She is precious, delicate, and he hates how every trip into the ether leaves her broken and dazed. Shallow puffs of breath mist her respirator mask white as her places her hands gently back on her chest, tucking them into the blanket folds. She is so cold, so very cold that he almost can’t stand it – but she follows her orders to the very letter, and the day she doesn’t would be the day she died.

He croons nonsense to her, thumb rubbing gently against her cheek as his other follows the cable up to where it merges with her skull in an awful way - “Deep breath, Nanao-chan,” – and slides it out, wetslick with cerebral fluids and plasma. Her back arches, a high whine of protest and pain clawing out of her throat; he can’t help but embrace her. Too long, she was under for too long again and the bastard Central 46 won’t listen to him when he says that she needs to rest for longer between each dive. He knows better than most what happens when you stay under too long; Ukitake was living proof of that.

He’d die before he let that happen again.