Chapter 44: Cherry Blossoms, Villains, and the Perfect Dress
Morning at the Urahara Shop began with a deceptive domestic tranquility. The sun streamed through the kitchen window, illuminating the steam rising from the teapot and making Kara's hair shine as she sat at the table, frowning, battling the Daily Planet crossword puzzle.
She was wearing her favorite pajamas (flannel pants and an old t-shirt from a Kryptonian rock band only she knew), and she had a milk smudge on her chin. Urahara was sitting opposite her, reading the Tokyo financial newspaper with his reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose.
He looked irritatingly awake, composed, and elegant in his green house kimono. The only sound was the rustle of the newspaper as he turned the page and the rhythmic crunching of Krypto, who was under the table devouring a bone-shaped cookie.
"Kara," Urahara said, without looking up from the stock market.
"Mmm," she replied, biting the end of her pen. "What's a five-letter word for 'imminent disaster'? I have the T."
"Toast," Urahara suggested.
Kara shot him a murderous look.
"Very funny. The toaster is behaving. Today it even recited a haiku about strawberry jam to me."
Urahara smiled slightly, turning another page.
"I am glad to hear it. By the way, I have made a reservation for tonight."
Kara paused.
"Reservation? For what? Are we ordering pizza again? Barda ate the last box by herself."
"No," Urahara said, folding the newspaper carefully and placing it on the table. He took off his glasses and looked at her.
"A real reservation. At a restaurant. In Ginza, Tokyo. It is called 'The Silver Lotus.' It has an excellent view of the tower and the chef is an old acquaintance who owes me a favor for a kitchen exorcism fifty years ago."
Kara blinked.
"Oh. Great. Real Japanese food. I'm in."
She went back to her crossword.
"It is a black-tie place, Kara," Urahara added, his voice casual, as if he were commenting on the weather.
Kara froze. She looked up slowly.
"Black tie?"
"Yes," Urahara said, taking a sip of tea. "Strict dress code. White tablecloths. Waiters with gloves. Violins. That sort of thing."
He looked her up and down, pausing significantly at her old t-shirt and messy hair.
"So, please... I would ask you to dress appropriately. No t-shirts with alien band logos. And no capes. Try to look like... a sophisticated civilian. If you can find anything in that closet of yours that isn't made of spandex or flannel."
The comment hung in the air. Kara felt her cheeks heat up. Was he asking her out on a date? And insulting her at the same time? Her defensive instinct, honed after years of hiding her secret identity, activated instantly.
She jumped to her feet, slamming her hands on the table.
"Excuse me!" she exclaimed, feigning supreme indignation. "I have plenty of style! I have amazing clothes! I dress appropriately all the time!"
She crossed her arms, lifting her chin.
"Just because I like to be comfortable at home doesn't mean I don't know the difference between a salad fork and a fish fork! I am a Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter! Well, almost winning. I am sophisticated!"
Urahara arched an eyebrow, clearly amused by her reaction.
"Oh, really? Then you will have no trouble finding something dazzling for eight o'clock. The car will come to pick us up."
"I won't have any trouble!" Kara snapped. "In fact, I have the perfect dress! It's incredible! You're going to go blind from how elegant it is! You won't even mind!"
"I am dying to see it," Urahara said with a calm smile.
"Fine! Then you'll see it!" she shouted.
She turned around with a dramatic flip of her hair (which hit her in the face, ruining the effect a bit) and marched toward the kitchen door.
"I'm going to get ready! I have sophisticated girl things to do! Goodbye!"
She left the kitchen, closing the door with a little more force than necessary. Urahara remained alone in the kitchen. He poured himself another cup of tea.
'Five...' he counted quietly. 'Four... Three... Two... One...'
From the floor above, the muffled sound of a closet door opening was heard, followed by a panicked scream smothered in a pillow. Urahara smiled and returned to his newspaper.
In her room, Kara Zor-El's facade of dignity had crumbled faster than a building under demolition. She stood in front of her open closet, staring at the contents with eyes wide with terror.
She saw jeans. She saw t-shirts. She saw hoodies. She saw her Supergirl suit. She saw a summer dress with flowers she had bought on sale. But she saw nothing that said "Romantic Black-Tie Dinner in Tokyo with the World's Most Mysterious Man."
"I have nothing!" she moaned, pulling her hair. "He's right! I only have farm clothes and battle clothes! I am a fashion disaster!"
She flopped onto her bed, staring at the ceiling. Why had she said she had the perfect dress? Why did she have to be so proud? And, most importantly... why did she care so much?
It was just a dinner. They were friends. Roommates. But then she remembered Urahara's look on the porch. She remembered how he had brushed her hair aside. She remembered how he had stitched her soul. No. They weren't just roommates.
And she wanted to look good. She wanted, for one night, for him to look at her and not see the girl who breaks things, nor the powerful alien, nor the apprentice. She wanted him to see a woman.
She sat up with a jump.
"I need backup," she said.
She grabbed her phone. She dialed a speed-dial number.
"Babs," she said as soon as they answered, her voice high with panic. "Code Red. I repeat, Code Red. It is an Omega Level emergency."
"What's wrong?" Barbara Gordon's alert voice replied, with the sound of keyboards in the background. "Alien invasion? Did the Joker escape? Darkseid?"
"Worse," Kara said. "I have a date. With Kisuke. Tonight. At a fancy restaurant. And he told me to dress nice."
There was silence on the other end of the line. Then, the sound of a swivel chair stopping was heard.
"He asked you out?" Babs asked, her voice shifting from tactical commander to excited best friend. "Officially?"
"He said 'reservation.' He said 'black tie.' He said 'car,'" Kara listed. "And I yelled at him that I had the perfect dress and ran off. Babs... I don't have the perfect dress. I have flannel pajamas and a cape."
"KORI!" Barbara shouted, moving away from the phone. "FASHION EMERGENCY! KARA HAS A DATE!"
A second later, Starfire's cheerful voice filled the line. "Oh, glorious! The mating ritual of the hat man! We must prepare you for the courtship!"
"It's not a mating ritual!" Kara protested, blushing even though no one could see her. "It's a dinner! But I need help! I need clothes!"
"We're on our way," Barbara said. "Meet us in Paris. Champs-Élysées. In twenty minutes. Bring your credit card and your super speed. We're going shopping."
Twenty minutes later, three figures landed in a discreet alley near the Arc de Triomphe. Paris shone under the afternoon sun. Kara wore sunglasses and a trench coat to hide her civilian identity (and her panic).
Barbara Gordon was in her high-tech wheelchair, with a smile of mission accomplished. Koriand'r hovered a few inches off the ground, radiant as always, attracting admiring glances from Parisians.
"Alright, team," Barbara said, consulting her tablet. "The objective is to find a dress that says 'I am elegant, sophisticated, and mysterious,' but also says 'I can throw you into the sun if you don't bring me dessert'."
"And that is resistant to heat vision," Kori added. "Just in case passion ignites."
"Kori!" Kara hissed.
They entered the first haute couture boutique. It was the beginning of a shopping montage worthy of a movie, but with superpowers.
Kara tried on a red dress.
"Too flashy," Babs said. "You look like a flag."
Kara tried on a green dress.
"It makes you look like radioactive lettuce," Kori opined.
Kara tried on a fitted black dress. She looked in the mirror. She looked good. She turned to see the back.
RIIIIIP!
The sound of tearing fabric was tragic. Kara had gotten nervous, flexed her muscles a little too hard, and the zipper had exploded, sending the slider across the room like a bullet, where it embedded itself in the drywall.
"Oops," Kara said, covering her back.
The French saleswoman looked at them with horror.
"We'll buy it," Barbara said quickly, pulling out Bruce Wayne's credit card (which he had given her for "emergencies," and this qualified).
They left the store with the torn dress in a bag.
"Calm down, Kara," Babs said on the street. "You're tense. If you keep this up, you're going to destroy the entire textile industry of France."
"I can't help it," Kara moaned. "I'm nervous. What if he doesn't like me? What if I spill the soup? What if I laugh and freeze the wine with my breath?"
"He likes you," Kori said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I have seen it. He looks at you as if you were the only star in his sky."
Kara took a deep breath.
"Okay. Okay. I just need the dress."
They entered the last store. A small, exclusive boutique, with no prices on the tags. And there she saw it. It was on a mannequin in the back.
It wasn't red. It wasn't shiny. It was a deep midnight blue, almost black, made of a silk that looked like liquid water. It had a classic cut, with an elegant but modest neckline, an open back, and a skirt that flowed like a storm cloud.
It was simple. It was elegant. It was perfect.
"That one," Kara said.
She tried it on. There were no rips. The silk slid over her skin like a caress. It fitted her strong body without squeezing, enhancing her figure without being vulgar. She came out of the fitting room.
Barbara and Kori fell silent.
"Wow," Babs said.
"You look... stunning," Kori said. "The hat man will lose his ability to speak."
Kara looked at herself in the three-way mirror. She saw a woman. A strong, beautiful, and confident woman. She smiled.
"I think this one will do."
They paid (with Bruce's emergency card, bless his paranoid heart) and went out onto the streets of Paris.
"Now," Barbara said, looking at her watch. "We have two hours for hair and makeup. And Kori is going to teach you how to walk in heels without breaking the pavement."
Kara looked at the sky. She was ready. She was going to that dinner. And she was going to prove to Kisuke that she could be just as surprising as him.
Night had fallen over Kyoto, bringing with it a cool breeze that made the paper lanterns dance along the Shirakawa Canal. Kisuke waited in the genkan (the entryway) of the shop. He had taken off his green kimono and bucket hat.
For the first time in decades, Kisuke was wearing a Western suit. It was a charcoal gray suit, impeccably cut, probably tailored by some spiritual tailor in the last century.
The shirt was crisp and white, unbuttoned at the collar, no tie, giving him an air of nonchalant elegance. Instead of his usual wooden sandals, he wore black dress shoes, polished to the point of reflecting the moonlight.
However, he hadn't been able to resist a personal touch: his fan rested in the inner pocket of his jacket, and he held a black walking stick with a silver handle (which, of course, hid Benihime).
He checked his pocket watch. 7:55 P.M.
He heard footsteps on the stairs. They weren't the heavy footsteps of combat boots, nor the light trot of sneakers. It was the rhythmic and deliberate sound of high heels on wood.
Urahara looked up. And the world stopped. Kara appeared at the top of the stairs. The midnight blue dress she had found in Paris seemed to be made of liquid starlight.
The silk flowed over her body, hugging her strength without restricting it, falling to the floor in a dark cascade. Her back was bare, revealing skin that glowed softly, not from makeup, but from the sun she had absorbed all her life.
Her blonde hair was loose, falling in soft waves over one shoulder, and she wore simple diamond earrings (probably created by herself with coal and pressure, Urahara thought with amusement). But it wasn't the dress that stole Kisuke's breath. It was her.
The way she moved, with a nervous but regal confidence. The way her blue eyes sought his, full of shy hope. Kara walked down the steps, one hand on the railing. She stopped on the last step, standing at the same height as him.
Silence stretched between them, dense and electric. Urahara opened his mouth to say something witty. He had a joke prepared about how she had managed not to break the floor with her heels. Or a comment about the aerodynamic efficiency of silk.
But his brain, that supercomputer capable of analyzing dimensions and rewriting reality, went blank. He simply looked at her.
"Kara..." he said. His voice came out softer than he intended. Hoarse. "You look... stunning."
It wasn't a polite compliment. It was a statement of fact. An irrefutable scientific observation. Kara blinked, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. A blush rose to her cheeks, visible even in the dim light.
She looked away, fidgeting with a strand of hair, trying to recover her usual bravado.
"This?" she said, making a vague gesture toward the haute couture dress that cost more than the entire shop. "It's just... an old rag I found at the back of the closet. Babs said it was okay. No big deal."
She turned to put on her coat, turning her back to hide her face. But Urahara saw the mirror in the entryway. And in the reflection, he saw the smile. It was a radiant, triumphant smile, a smile that said 'he likes me, he really likes me.'
Urahara felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with Reiatsu.
"Shall we go?" he asked, offering his arm.
Kara turned back, her mask of indifference back in place (almost).
"Sure. I'm hungry. And if that chef of yours is as good as you say, I hope the portions aren't microscopic."
She took his arm. Her hand was warm on the fabric of his suit. Urahara tapped the floor with his cane.
"Next stop: Tokyo."
The air in front of the door distorted. They didn't use a flashy portal. Urahara simply "folded" the distance between his shop door and a discreet alley in the Ginza district. They took a step.
And the silence of Kyoto was replaced by the electric hum of the world's largest metropolis. Tokyo at night was an ocean of neon. Red, blue, and green lights reflected on the wet asphalt. The air smelled of rain, yakitori, and expensive perfume.
They walked a block to an elegant glass and steel building. The elevator took them to the 50th floor. The doors opened and they entered "The Silver Lotus."
It was exactly as Urahara had promised. Quiet luxury. Immaculate white tablecloths. Candlelight. Soft live piano music. And an entire wall of glass offering a breathtaking view of Tokyo Tower, glowing red and white against the dark night.
The maitre d', an elderly man with rigid posture, approached. Upon seeing Urahara, his eyes widened slightly, but his professionalism held.
"Urahara-sama," he said, bowing deeply. "The Chef was hoping you would... survive another year to honor us with your visit."
"Weeds never die, Sato-san," Urahara smiled. "Table for two. The view, please."
They were led to the best table, in a private corner by the large window. Kara sat down, looking at the view with awe.
"Wow," she said. "This is... really fancy, Kisuke. There isn't a single grease stain on the tablecloth."
"Try to keep it that way for at least five minutes," he teased, sitting opposite her.
The waiter brought water and menus. The atmosphere was perfect. Romantic. Intimate. And, of course, the universe couldn't allow that to last. The first sign was subtle.
While Urahara read the wine list ("Hmm, the '89 Pinot Noir or the Lunar Rice Sake?"), Kara felt something on her leg. A cold touch. She thought it was a draft. Then, she felt a tug on her purse, which she had left on the floor next to her chair.
Kara looked down discreetly, using her X-ray vision at low power to see through the tablecloth. Under the table, there wasn't a dog or a cat. There was a creature. Small, the size of a child, but with wrinkled gray skin, a bloated belly, and an oversized mouth full of needle teeth.
A Gaki. A lesser hungry ghost. The creature was trying to open her purse clasp with dirty claws, probably attracted by the residual Reiatsu of the magical items Kara sometimes carried.
Kara tensed. Her eyes glowed. She was about to give it a kick that would send the spirit through the building wall and probably all the way to Yokohama. But then, she felt Urahara's hand on hers, on top of the table.
"Red wine goes better with meat, don't you think?" Urahara said, looking her in the eyes with a calm smile. "Ignore the draft, Kara. I will handle it."
Under the table, without anyone in the restaurant noticing, the tip of Urahara's dress shoe moved. He stepped, very gently but with immense spiritual pressure, on the Gaki's hand. The spirit squealed silently, paralyzed by the former Captain's aura.
Urahara reached into his pocket, pulled something out, and dropped it discreetly under the table. It was a small sugar sphere. A Soul Candy. The Gaki let go of the purse, grabbed the candy, and with a look of terror and gratitude toward the man in gray, vanished into the floor, fleeing back to the underworld.
"Solved," Urahara said, returning to the menu. "I think I will order the duck."
Kara let out a breath.
"Was that a...?"
"An unwanted admirer," he said. "Sometimes perfume attracts flies. Let's not let it ruin the appetizer."
The dinner continued. The food was exquisite. Every dish was a work of art. They talked. They laughed. Urahara told her the story of how he had met the chef (it involved a possessed pufferfish and a very sharp sushi knife).
Kara relaxed. She forgot the cape. She forgot the aliens. She was just a woman having dinner with a fascinating man. And then, the main course arrived... and the second interruption.
The elevator opened with a loud ding. Elegant customers didn't come out. Six men came out. They wore cheap suits, plastic Oni (Japanese demon) masks, and automatic submachine guns glowing with purple neon lights.
Stolen technology. Probably from Intergang or some high-tech Yakuza lab.
"Nobody move!" the leader shouted, firing a burst at the ceiling.
Diners screamed. The music stopped. Waiters dropped to the floor.
"This is a robbery! Jewelry and wallets on the table! NOW!"
Kara dropped her fork. The metallic sound was loud in the terrified silence. Her expression changed. The sweetness disappeared. Supergirl had arrived.
"Oh, please," she said, pushing her chair back. "On our first date! That is the last straw!"
Her eyes lit up red. She was going to stand up. She was going to disarm them at super speed and tie them up with the tablecloths.
"Kara," Urahara said. His voice was low.
He put his hand over hers again, stopping her.
"If you stand up... you will have to be Supergirl. You will have to give explanations. The police will come. The press will come."
He looked at her dress.
"And it would be a shame to wrinkle that silk."
"But Kisuke..." she protested. "They have guns."
"Toys," he corrected. "Noisy toys."
Urahara took a sip of his wine.
"It is our night off, Kara. You enjoy your foie gras. I will handle the trash."
The leader of the robbers approached their table, drawn by the couple's lack of fear. He aimed the glowing weapon at Urahara's head.
"Hey, you! Pretty boy! Give me the watch! And the girl, give me the earrings!"
Urahara placed his glass on the table carefully. He turned slowly in his chair to face the masked man. He didn't stand up. He simply... looked at him. And then, he released his Spiritual Pressure.
It wasn't an explosion. It was a needle. Urahara projected his Reiatsu in a concentrated beam, straight into the robber's mind and his five companions. It wasn't physical pain. It was Killing Intent.
It was the feeling of standing in front of a tsunami of blood. It was the absolute, biological, and primal certainty that you were about to die, that you were an ant insulting a death god. The air in the restaurant became heavy, dense, cold. The lights flickered.
The robbers froze. They saw... things. Behind Urahara, the shadow on the wall seemed to grow, take shape. They saw a giant woman of red threads. They saw a bottomless abyss.
The group leader began to tremble. The weapon slipped from his sweaty hands and fell to the floor with a thud.
"M-monster..." he whispered, his eyes wide behind the mask.
His companions dropped their weapons too, backing away, tripping over their own feet. The terror was so absolute that their brains decided the only logical option was to shut down. One by one, the six men fainted.
They fell to the floor like sacks of potatoes, eyes rolled back, foaming at the mouth from pure fear. Silence returned to the restaurant. The other diners, who hadn't felt the directed pressure, lifted their heads, confused.
"What happened?" someone whispered. "Gas leak?"
The maitre d', Sato, who had seen many things in his life, approached quickly, discreetly kicking a gun under a table.
"Excuse us, ladies and gentlemen," he announced in a calm voice. "It seems these... gentlemen... had a sudden allergic reaction to bad manners. The police are on their way."
He signaled the waiters to drag the bodies out of sight. Urahara turned back to Kara. His smile was serene.
"I think the duck is excellent," he said, cutting a piece of meat.
Kara looked at him. She looked at the unconscious robbers being dragged away. She looked at the man who had defeated them without even getting up from his chair, just with a look. It was terrifying. And it was incredibly attractive.
"You're a show-off," she said, smiling, and the color returned to her cheeks.
"I just wanted to dine in peace," he replied, raising his glass. "To us, Kara. And to a night without capes."
Kara clinked her glass with his.
"To a night without capes," she repeated.
And as they drank, with Tokyo shining at their feet and the danger neutralized on the floor, Kara knew she didn't need to be Supergirl to feel safe. She just needed to be with him.
The rest of the dinner passed in a bubble of calm that not even the memory of the unconscious Yakuza could break. "The Silver Lotus" restaurant, with its impeccable Japanese efficiency, had erased any trace of the incident in minutes.
The piano music started playing again, soft and melancholic. The wine flowed. And for the first time in a long time, Kara Zor-El forgot that she could hear the heartbeat of every person in the building. She forgot to check the emergency exits. She forgot to be Supergirl.
She was just Kara. And she was having dinner with Kisuke. They talked. They didn't talk about battle strategies, nor Justice League politics, nor the looming threat of Darkseid. They talked about themselves.
"I never thought I'd like this," Kara admitted, playing with the stem of her wine glass, looking at the city lights below.
"The duck?" Urahara asked, smiling.
"No. The... normalcy," she said. "Earth. When I arrived... everything was so loud. So fragile. I was afraid to move and break something. I felt like an elephant in a glass figurine shop."
She looked up at him.
"But now... now I feel like I fit. Or at least, that I've found a corner where I don't break anything."
"It is a good corner," Urahara agreed. "It has good lighting. And an excellent dog."
Kara smiled.
"And you, Kisuke? You could go anywhere. You have that sword that cuts dimensions. You could live on a beach on Risa, or in a city of gold in the 30th century. Why here? Why a candy shop?"
Urahara leaned back in his chair, looking at the dark liquid in his glass. His expression became reflective, the clown mask slipping for a moment to reveal the tired man underneath.
"I suppose..." he said slowly, "...that I got tired of big things. Of big destinies. Of big battles."
He swirled the glass, watching the "legs" of the wine descend down the crystal.
"In my previous life... everything was important. Every decision was life or death. Every invention could change the world or destroy it. It was exhausting."
He looked at Kara.
"I wanted something small. Something I could hold in my hands and understand completely. A sweet. A cup of tea. A quiet conversation. The shop... is my way of saying I have had enough greatness. Now I just want... kindness."
Kara felt a lump in her throat. She understood that need. The need to stop being a god and start being a person.
"Well," she said softly, extending her hand across the table, palm up. "I think you've done a good job. Your sweets are excellent."
Urahara looked at her hand. Then, with deliberate slowness, he extended his. He covered Kara's hand with his. His skin was cool, dry. His fingers were long and elegant, but Kara could feel the sword calluses, the hidden strength in that scholar's hand.
"Thank you, Kara," he said.
They stayed like that for a moment, hand over hand, connected in the middle of the luxury restaurant, ignoring the world.
"Dessert?" asked the waiter, appearing like a polite ghost, breaking the moment but not the magic.
"No," Urahara said, paying the bill without letting go of Kara's hand. "I think we will take a walk. I need to walk off the duck."
They left the building into the cool Tokyo night. The air was clean after the afternoon rain. The streets of Ginza shone.
"Where are we going?" Kara asked, adjusting her coat over her silk dress.
"There is a park nearby," Urahara said. "Hibiya Park. It is quiet at this hour."
They walked. There was no rush. They walked shoulder to shoulder, their steps synchronized. Urahara offered her his arm, and Kara took it, feeling the solidity of his muscle under the suit fabric. They reached the park. It was dark, lit only by the path's streetlamps.
The trees rose around them, protective shadows against the city. But something was happening. It was autumn. The trees should be losing their leaves, preparing for winter. But as they walked, Kara noticed a scent. Sweet. Floral.
She looked up. The trees lining the path... were cherry trees. And they were blooming. Hundreds of pale pink flowers were opening on the dark branches, defying the season, defying logic. Soft petals fell on them like warm snow.
Kara stopped, marveling.
"Kisuke..." she whispered. "Are these... are these cherry blossoms? In November?"
Urahara looked at the trees with an expression of total innocence.
"My," he said. "What strange weather this country has. Must be a local microclimate."
Kara looked at him. She saw the faint glow of Reiatsu fading from his fingers. He had done it. He had used his power, that power capable of rewriting reality and scaring gods, to make the trees bloom just for her. To make their walk perfect.
Kara felt her heart expand until her chest almost hurt.
"It's beautiful," she said, voice strangled.
"You are beautiful," he said.
It wasn't a compliment thrown into the air. He said it looking directly at her, under the rain of petals. Kara turned toward him. They were alone on the path. Moonlight filtered through the flowering branches, painting patterns of light and shadow on Kisuke's face.
He picked a petal that had tangled in her hair. His touch was electric.
"Thank you," she said. "For tonight. For the dress. For the villains. For the trees."
"It was nothing," he said softly.
They stood there, under the impossible cherry trees, in a silence that said everything. There was no need to say "I love you." The "I love you" was in the dinner. It was in the hand that had stopped the thieving spirit. It was in the trees blooming out of time. It was in the fact that Urahara Kisuke, the man who ran from everything, was there, standing still, with her.
"Shall we go home?" he asked finally.
"Yes," Kara said. "Home."
Urahara raised his cane and traced a circle in the air. Reality folded. They took a step from the Tokyo park... and appeared at the shop entrance in Kyoto. The smell of wood and tea welcomed them.
The shop was dark and quiet. Krypto was sleeping on his rug. The mutant fern was snoring in its pot. They were back. Urahara took off his hat and left it on the rack. He turned to Kara.
"Well," he said, with a small smile. "Safe and sound. No grease stains on the dress. I consider the mission a total success."
Kara didn't smile. She was looking at him with an intensity that made Urahara stop talking. She took off her coat and let it fall onto the counter. She took a step toward him.
"Kisuke," she said.
"Yes?"
"Shut up."
Kara leaned in. She put her hands on his jacket lapels, pulling him gently down. And she kissed him. It wasn't a movie kiss. There were no fireworks or background music.
It was a real kiss. Soft at first, tentative. Urahara's lips were warm. They tasted of red wine and mystery. He went rigid for a fraction of a second, surprised. But then, his arms went around her.
One hand went to her waist, the other to the nape of her neck, burying itself in her hair. And he returned the kiss. With a contained passion that had been burning beneath the surface for months. It was a welcoming kiss. An "it's about time" kiss.
Kara felt the world spin. She clung to him, wanting to melt into his Reiatsu, into his scent, into his safety. They separated slowly, breathless. Kara looked at him, eyes shining, lips red. Urahara looked at her as if he had just discovered a new law of physics that changed everything.
"Thank you for the night, Kisuke," she whispered.
And before he could say something stupid, before he could ruin the moment with his sudden panic, Kara turned around. She gathered her silk skirts. And ran upstairs.
Her steps echoed on the wood: clack, clack, clack. The sound of her bedroom door opening and slamming shut was heard. Silence.
Urahara Kisuke stood alone in the entrance of his shop. He brought his fingers to his lips, touching the place where she had kissed him. He could still feel the heat. A slow, incredulous, and absolutely radiant smile spread across his face.
He chuckled softly, a sound of pure joy. Krypto, awakened by the noise, trotted over, wagging his tail and looking at Urahara curiously.
"Did you see that, Krypto-san?" he asked the dog.
Urahara crouched down and scratched the dog behind the ears.
"Women..." he sighed, looking toward the empty stairs. "That's how they were two thousand years ago in the Soul Society... complicated, fast, and dangerous."
He stood up, turning off the last light.
"And that's how they will be in ten thousand years more, in any galaxy. Impossible. Wonderful. Let's go to sleep, boy. Tomorrow is another day."
Urahara climbed the stairs toward his own room. But that night, for the first time in centuries, the exiled shopkeeper didn't dream of the past, nor of experiments, nor of wars. He dreamed of cherry blossoms and blue eyes.
And he slept like a man who has finally found what he was looking for.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
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