Two days have passed since the failed invasion and still nothing about it feels real.
Hollows have always been a threat. Before Ichigo got a handle on his powers — his powers, not the ones he’d gotten on loan from Rukia without either of them really consenting to it — he’d nearly died a dozen times over trying to cut them down on his own. They’ve attacked his family, his friends, and god knows how many stray plus souls have been devoured whenever Soul Society couldn’t be assed to appoint a permanent shinigami to patrol Karakura Town.
Point being, he’s known they were dangerous since day one. A hollow was what got him into this insane, interdimensional mess in the first place. But these hollows, these arrancar, are so far beyond anything Ichigo’s experienced up to this point… it’s like he’s a kid again, small and weak and forced to stand up to people twice his size because there’s no one else who’s going to bother.
He can’t count on Soul Society to handle this. He doesn’t want to leave it to them, no matter how many times Renji assures him he’ll get revenge for Rukia, no matter what Toshiro says about this not being within the scope of his responsibilities as a substitute shinigami (and one that really should’ve been retired already, all things considered).
He’s not strong enough to protect everyone he loves with his own two hands. But he’s going to be.
Rukia’s fine. Healed up thanks to Inoue and already scolding him for not running when he had the chance, what was he thinking taking on an unknown threat like that by himself. The words were harsh but the look in her eyes was soft, compassion and understanding and regret for her own shortcomings. Rukia’s fine, and she’ll be fine, because she knows what they’re dealing with now, she won’t let her guard down again.
She’s fine, but Ichigo can still feel the phantom heat of her blood on her hands and the staticky burst of panic in his chest at that thought that he wouldn’t be in time to save her, that she’d die there in the street because he wasn’t fast enough, strong enough — that he wasn’t enough.
It’s that sense-memory that drives him out of the house that morning, long before his sisters are awake and without a backwards glance at his dad. He doesn’t realize exactly where his feet are carrying him until he passes through a vacant alleyway, and it hits him he’s nowhere near the shoten, that he’s on the complete opposite side of town and the only thing out this way is—
Ichigo stops abruptly, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, breathing past the knotted mass of fear and fury anchored to his rib cage. He ups the pressure of his hands until light sparks against his closed eyelids, until it starts to hurt, just a bit. It’s fine, he’s fine, right now he’s in control, not, not whatever that thing inside of him is, this thing that Urahara clearly knows about and refuses to elaborate on for reasons Ichigo doesn’t even want to guess at. It almost took over during that fight but it didn’t, Ichigo held tight to the reins, and… lost. f*ck, he lost. Nearly got himself and Rukia killed for it. He can’t have a liability like this, he can’t afford not to trust his own damn body in the middle of a battle.
He’s really doing this, then.
What other choice does he have?
Another breath to steady him, and then Ichigo starts walking again, determined now. Which is of course why, three steps into this, he’s yanked off his feet and flung with such force the impact with the ground knocks every last ounce of air from his lungs, so that he can’t even f*cking swear at whoever’s decided this is the day they want their teeth kicked in by the resident delinquent.
Except before he can even really think that there’s a wrapped around wrists, pinning him to the pavement, and a heavy weight across his torso that he knows, instinctively, he’s not going to be able to buck off even if he can get his legs in the right position. Ichigo hisses through gritted teeth as the hand tightens to the point of pain, nails biting into the thin, vulnerable skin on the underside of his wrist. His eyes are watering from his head bouncing against the ground, and with the way the shadow falls from the adjacent building he can’t make out much of the person on top of him, just that they’re big, and f*ck his life this can’t be happening.
“What… the f*ck,” he rasps, twisting his arms in his assailant’s hold only to bite down on a follow-up f*ck when he realizes the asshole might as well have hands of steel. Or, hand, sh*t, where’s the other one? There’s no point of contact between them beyond the weight on his chest and the hand on his wrists.
A low, rumbling sound is the only answer he gets, a noise that Ichigo can feel in his own chest. He goes still with it, blinking rapidly to dispel the last of the tears from his eyes. What the f*ck. What the f*ck. Ichigo cants his head back, straining for a better angle to get a look at the asshole’s face. There’s the white slash of a smile, too many teeth, the impression of a sharp jawline and high cheekbones, and — blue eyes.
His heartbeat triples in an instant, blood and adrenaline surging through his veins as his body tenses into an unyielding line against the ground. Sweat beads at his forehead and coats his palms, clammy and uncomfortable and altogether irrelevant because Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez is here, f*cking sitting on top of Ichigo, looking wild around the eyes and like he’s half-drunk on bloodlust already.
“You’re human.”
It’s not a question, and Ichigo wouldn’t answer him regardless. But Grimmjow doesn’t need his confirmation — he leans over Ichigo, shifting his weight to keep him pinned even as he ducks his head and inhales right beneath Ichigo’s ear, f*cking hell he’s going to die here and it might not even be from anything violent.
“f*ck, you are human,” Grimmjow says, sitting back up and scowling at Ichigo like he’s somehow betrayed him. “Thought it was f*ckin’ odd that I couldn’t sense your reiatsu the second I touched down here. Figured you’d f*cked off somewhere to get patched up and that I’d just wait, but… this wasn’t in that bastard’s report. sh*t.”
“Get off me,” Ichigo snaps.
“How the hell do you fight like this?” Grimmjow asks, utterly ignoring him. “I felt your damn reiatsu, that was real, no f*ckin’ way that was anything but you.”
Ichigo struggles, futilely, to wrench his wrists free of Grimmjow, and when that fails he draws up his legs as much as he can, trying to find purchase against the asphalt for leverage. His dumb worn-out sneakers aren’t doing him any favors and he has a fleeting moment of resentment for his past self for not taking Yuzu up on her offer to go shopping with him last week.
“Waitin’ for an answer here, shinigami.”
“f*ck you,” is Ichigo’s eloquent response. Grimmjow’s eye twitches, and he shifts to line a foot up with Ichigo’s ribs like he’s contemplating kicking them in, but he still doesn’t bring his other hand into the equation like Ichigo’s half-expecting. No sword, either, but then, he hadn’t bothered with it last time, why change strategies now when he’s already proven this is enough to keep Ichigo down? “You wanna see how I fight? Let me up and I’ll show you, asshole.”
Grimmjow’s mouth curls up, somewhere between a smile and a sneer. He leans over Ichigo again, lowering his voice to a rumbling drawl. “Nah, having you at my mercy’s more fun than satisfying my curiosity at the moment. Besides, lucky for you, I ain’t here for a fight.”
“Not here for a…” The sentence loops in Ichigo’s head, over and over, incomprehensible. He opens his mouth and strikes out on anything remotely useful to say. Why else would an arrancar come after him? Why else would Grimmjow, who’d promised Ichigo nothing but death the next time they met, be here? “What the f*ck,” he repeats, baffled, only to wince a second later as something drips onto his cheek, dangerously the corner of his eye. “sh*t—”
Whatever it is, it’s hot — scalding, almost, compared to Ichigo’s fear-chilled skin. His eyes dart up to catch Grimmjow’s, but it’s not like he’s crying, and…
With the way Grimmjow’s adjusted himself, and with his head tilted in that bird-of-prey way of his, he’s tipped into the slash of sunlight slanting into the alleyway, finally giving Ichigo a good look at his face. A purple-green bruise sits high on his unmasked cheek, a dark contrast to the smear of blood staining the skin around his mouth and nose. Four crimson lines have been carved down the opposite cheek, from the outer corner of his eye to just under the jawbone mask itself, like someone… like someone tried ripping it off his face and caught skin instead. Two of the marks are still weeping blood — which explains the uncomfortably warm droplet sitting on Ichigo’s cheek.
Ichigo stares at Grimmjow a moment longer, the gears churning to life in his head, and then lowers his gaze to Grimmjow’s body.
Grimmjow lets him look his fill. Lets him see the partially-healed starburst slash across his chest that Ichigo left him with as a parting gift. Lets him see the crimson stains on his once pristine jacket and hakama, the wounds pockmarked across his bare torso. The empty left sleeve, shredded from the elbow down.
Ichigo’s mouth goes dry as he hastily flicks his eyes back up. Grimmjow’s staring back at him intently, hawk-like, almost daring him to make a comment.
Ichigo barely left a scratch on him during their fight. It took every last ounce of his strength to get off that Getsuga Tenshou, and it hardly phased Grimmjow. There are other shinigami who could’ve done this, the captains and lieutenants who dealt with the other arrancar who invaded with Grimmjow. But Ichigo would’ve heard about that, he’s sure of it; Renji and Rukia wouldn't have left him in the dark.
“They tried to kill you,” he realizes, unable to stop himself from dropping his gaze to a particularly nasty gash across Grimmjow’s ribs. With whatever regenerative abilities he has, it’s probably not as bad as it was whenever he took the hit, but Jesus Christ how bad could it have been when Ichigo’s still privy to what Grimmjow’s muscle fibers look like when they’re knitting themselves back together?
“Sure, they tried,” Grimmjow agrees breezily, apparently unconcerned with the fact that his own people would go this far to take him out. “Bastards thought three of ‘em were enough to stop me. Returned the favor with two of ‘em, and I killed that f*cker Luppi for thinkin’ he was worthy of my number.”
Worthy of his number? What, their ranking system? Does that mean Aizen demoted Grimmjow? It’s… hazy, but Ichigo vaguely remembers Tousen, one of the renegade shinigami, stepping in at the last moment, demanding that Grimmjow answer to Aizen-sama for some crime he’d committed. Aizen demotes Grimmjow and then… orders him to be executed? Or did a handful of opportunistic arrancar think this was the perfect moment to get rid of him, when he’d fallen out of favor with their leader?
f*ck, Ichigo’s head is splitting trying to comprehend any of this. And he’s still on the damn ground, with Grimmjow perched on top of him for no other reason than his own amusem*nt.
“They take your arm, too?” he asks, because, of everything, that’s really confusing him. There’s blood splashed across most of Grimmjow’s jacket, but barely any of it’s on the left sleeve, and only the elbow down is ruined. Given the way it falls flat against his side, he’s missing the entire arm, shoulder and all. It’s like it was gone before the rest of the fighting started.
Grimmjow’s expression darkens even as his knife-sharp smile makes a reappearance. “Figured those assholes could use the handicap, what with me being on the other side of the war now. Wouldn’t wanna make this too easy.”
Ichigo’s eyes widen, because — no, no there’s no way he cut it off himself, why would he even do that? What would be the point? And—
“Other side of the war?” Ichigo echoes blankly. “Grimmjow, seriously, what the f*ck.”
“You and your shinigami pals, you’re going to war against Aizen, yeah? I want in.”
It takes three tries this time for Ichigo to find his voice. “You… can’t be serious. You’re—“ Ichigo nearly makes a gesture to indicate Grimmjow’s entire existence before realizing that’s still f*cking impossible with his hands tied. He settles for jerking his chin at him instead. “You’re one of them. An, uh, Espada, or whatever. Why are you…”
Why would you defect? He can’t bring himself to voice that particular question. The pieces are slotting into place and the picture they make is a grim one.
“First of all, your pronunciation’s sh*t. You’re gonna work on that.” This close, with Grimmjow’s uneven breaths fanning across the bridge of Ichigo’s nose and his cheeks, Ichigo can see what it’s costing the arrancar to maintain his easy-going attitude. With all his struggling earlier he hadn’t noticed the faint tremors emanating from Grimmjow’s remaining hand, or the strain around his eyes, the brutal clench of his jaw. “Second—“
There’s a pause, a fraught silence stretched between them. Ichigo can’t help but catalog the minute changes to Grimmjow’s expression, the rage that pulses just beneath the cracks in his indifferent mask before it’s snuffed out with another frightening smirk.
“Second,” Grimmjow repeats, quieter, something gravelly and deep and entirely too close to a purr for Ichigo’s sanity. “I’ve had enough of being under Aizen’s thumb. He doesn’t think I’m worthy of the number he gave me? Then I’ll tear one through five apart, make him pay the price for underestimatin’ me in the first place.”
Ichigo swallows dryly, throat clicking. At some point the last of his own anger dwindled into embers that linger in the bottom of his cavernous chest. Grimmjow nearly murdered Rukia, in cold blood — that’s not something Ichigo can forgive, not something he can ever forget. But he’s not a hypocrite, either, and he’s more than made peace with the shinigami who tried turning him into mincemeat when he went to rescue Rukia, Byakuya included. He can’t turn a blind eye to this, whatever this really is.
Maybe it’s all some elaborate ploy, Grimmjow playing triple agent and waiting to cut them all down from within. But somehow that role doesn’t suit him; it’s not something Ichigo can see him agreeing to, either, which is insane, because they’ve met twice and tried to kill each other for the majority of the time spent in each other’s company. Ichigo knows jack-sh*t about Grimmjow, and vice versa.
That’s how it should be, anyway.
“I’m not stupid, though,” Grimmjow says, at length, evidently ignoring the internal conflict that must be plainly visible in Ichigo’s twisted grimace of an expression. He seems to hesitate, just for a second, before finally releasing Ichigo’s wrists and shuffling off of him. “Made sure I brought somethin’ you shinigami are gonna wanna know. Aizen’s after tit*.”
Ichigo’s halfway into pushing himself into a sitting position when the crude nickname registers and he nearly goes sprawling onto the pavement again as his hands skid out from under him, choking on the absent response he’d been about to give.
“I’m sorry, who?”
Grimmjow eyes him critically from beneath his lashes, brows pinched in what Ichigo can only imagine is abject disgust at the stupidity of shinigami everywhere. Or, humans. They did establish Ichigo’s something earlier, even if he didn’t contribute much to the discussion. “Your f*ckin’ woman, shinigami. Orange hair, weird-ass hair clip powers, big f*cking tit*? Ring any bells?”
Ichigo abruptly chokes again. “Inoue? You’re talking about Inoue? She’s—” Panic hits him like a slap across the face. He scrambles to his feet, instinctively fumbling for the badge tucked into his back pocket. “What does Aizen want with her?”
Grimmjow snorts, already turning away towards the mouth of the alley. “That’s all I’m givin’ out for free, dipsh*t. You wanna know more, you gotta work out a deal with your shinigami pals. I’m not walking into a slaughterfest out of the goodness of my nonexistent heart.”
Ichigo’s fingers close around the badge, white-knuckled. It’s taken him until now to really catch on to what Grimmjow’s after — defecting from the Espada, from Aizen and the world that built him into what he is today, to join up with the shinigami. For revenge, apparently. To give Aizen the war zone equivalent of the middle finger. Is that enough? Is that worth Ichigo’s trust when there’s no guarantee he won’t turn around and stab him in the back?
He stares after Grimmjow’s retreating figure, sets his jaw, and makes what might be his most dumbass, nonsensical decision to date. He runs after him, ungainly and desperate and clutching the substitute badge like the lifeline it undoubtedly is.
Grimmjow flicks a glance at him once he’s pulled up at his side, a quick once-over that lingers with obvious intent on the wooden badge in his hand before he ends with side-eyeing Ichigo. The attention makes Ichigo itch, an incessant buzz beneath his skin, but he squares his shoulders and looks right back at Grimmjow, raising a brow. Grimmjow huffs a breath from his nose, rolling his eyes but otherwise leaving the act of bravado alone.
“You’re gonna need healing,” Ichigo says, ten steps and an eternity later.
“These’ll take care of themselves,” Grimmjow replies, unruffled even as the act of talking prompts one of the scratch marks above his mask to crack open, blood dribbling down over jagged teeth. He wrinkles his nose, ignoring the pointed daggers Ichigo’s glaring at him. “I ain’t you, human, somethin’ like this won’t put me down that easily.”
Something like this seems like the equivalent of a human being run over by three consecutive eighteen-wheelers and then set on fire. Grimmjow’s lucky he made it out of Hueco Mundo alive.
“We can—“ Ichigo bites his tongue. Aizen’s after Inoue, and Grimmjow may have been the one to warn him (maybe, possibly, if Ichigo can actually bring himself to trust this asshole) but does that justify bringing her into this? To heal someone who put his fist through Rukia two days ago? The Visoreds are out, too; he doesn't think they'd appreciate bringing an unknown like Grimmjow to the doorstep of their super secret "don't notice me Soul Society" base. He can come back when things settle down. If they settle down. “There’s, uh. There’s a place we can go, okay? A friend of mine. Or, mentor, I guess. He’s got like, seven things wrong with him and does illegal sh*t on the side but he’s… probably alright to do something about all the blood trying to escape your body right now.”
“Only seven?” is what Grimmjow chooses to respond to, incredibly. “Guy on the Espada’s payroll’s in the double digits at least.”
Ichigo takes that to mean Urahara’s place is a-go, which is more of a relief than he thinks is, like. Healthy. Because whether Grimmjow lives or dies isn’t exactly Ichigo’s problem, and if you’d asked him fifteen minutes prior to this moment how he’d feel about the arrancar’s untimely demise he probably would just been pissed he hadn’t been part of it.
And yet.
There’s something telling about the fact that Grimmjow refers to them as the Espada. He didn’t say “our guy,” he very explicitly cast himself outside of the group. And, okay, yes, this could all be an elaborate ruse, he knows, he knows that. But Grimmjow’s one-eighty doesn’t feel… forced. Ichigo isn’t privy to the whole story — doesn’t even know if he wants to be — but he thinks he has enough at this point to make an educated guess.
However the Espada rank themselves, numbers are important. They dictate your worth, your potential. And Grimmjow lost his — had it taken back by the very same guy who doled it out in the first place, for whatever crime or infraction he committed. Was planning to give it to someone else before Grimmjow got his petty revenge on the guy. His arm, too, f*ck. Maybe Grimmjow really just… decided the indignity of it all was too much, that Aizen isn’t actually god and can’t just play with people’s lives — afterlives, whatever — as he pleases. That’s possible, right?
So why does Ichigo’s stomach drop every time he meets Grimmjow’s searching gaze?
“Why me?”
The question isn’t — it’s not what he was planning to say, it’s very much the wrong thing to ask right now when everything feels so up in the air and Grimmjow’s compliance isn’t guaranteed. Pushing buttons seems liable to bring that so-far untouched sword into play. But it’s this question that crawls its way out of his mouth regardless, because it’s what Ichigo needs to know, what he needs to understand.
They pause in the mouth of the alley, Ichigo scanning for anyone who might do a double-take at seeing him speak to thin air and Grimmjow idly staring across the street, bleeding profusely and looking maddenly unbothered by this face. Urahara’s isn’t exactly close but it won’t take too long if they follow the back streets, and worse comes to worst Ichigo can… probably shoulder some of Grimmjow’s weight in his human body. He’ll resort to his soul form if need be but god he doesn’t want to just drop his body here and hope Urahara sends Kon to spirit it away later—
“The look in your eyes,” Grimmjow says. “I f*cking hated it the moment I saw you. That’s why.”
With that, Grimmjow starts walking, and Ichigo has no choice but to walk with him because Jesus f*cking Christ that is not the gait of a man capable of making it more than two blocks on his own. Which he nearly says, out loud, before the very real threat of Grimmjow yanking his tongue out of his mouth catches up to him and he wisely segues into simple directions on how to reach the shoten from here.
But self-preservation has never been one of Ichigo’s strong suits and it’s barely five minutes before the next thread of patience snaps. “So, uh. That doesn’t seem like the most reasonable way of deciding who to trust.”
“Never said anything about trust, human.”
“It’s Ichigo, man. Kurosaki Ichigo. Last name first.”
“I know how it works. Aizen’s not all that keen on being overly familiar with the troops.”
“Right,” Ichigo says, deciding that dropping the subject benefits everyone involved right now. “I just… okay, you hate me, fine. As long as you’re telling the truth, we’ll make it work.”
“I don’t lie,” Grimmjow says, which is, actually, very convincing coming from a man who nearly got himself executed fighting his way out of Hueco Mundo to plead his case with his mortal enemies. Ichigo means it, and more so with the reassurance: they’ll make it work. And then, “Never said anything about hating you, either.”
Ichigo misses a step, half tripping over his feet in an attempt to catch himself on a conveniently placed trashcan before he bashes his head against the sidewalk for the second time today. Grimmjow doesn’t so much as glance at him until he’s righted himself, scowling at the pair of kids across the street openly gawking at his uncoordinated bullsh*t. He turns the look on Grimmjow when the kids have scampered off, and it takes more willpower than he’d like to admit to keep himself from latching onto Grimmjow’s shoulder and shaking him like a ragdoll in the vain hope it dislodges some non-cryptic answers.
He’d lose his fingers, he’s pretty sure, but, well. Desperate times, and all that. He’ll save it as a last resort.
“You literally just said—”
“You think you’re hot sh*t,” Grimmjow cuts in with all the precision of a sledgehammer, raking over Ichigo with a look of his own, brows hiked up to his hairline and mouth curling into that insufferable smirk he favors. “Pissed me off like nothin’ else to see you actin’ all heroic, like whatever it is you’ve done to get here means you ain’t got nothing else to do. You don’t stop, Kurosaki, not until you’ve put everyone who’s ever challenged you in the damn ground. Think you realized somethin’ of that after I kicked the sh*t out of you, though, huh?”
That’s — what does Ichigo even say to that? What can he say?
Not that Grimmjow’s waiting for an answer. “C’mon, get moving. Unless you’re stalling ‘cause you think you can take me once I lose a little more blood?”
“You don’t even know where we’re going,” Ichigo grumbles, too petulant by half and not the least bit sorry about it.
“Yeah, but I can sure as hell cause enough trouble to have your shinigami pals come running, and something tells me collateral damage ain’t their priority the way it is yours. So move.”
“f*ck you.”
The grin that elicits from Grimmjow is terrifying in ways Ichigo can’t even begin to parse while he’s still trying to sort out the everything else about this situation, so he just — ignores it, as best he can, and gets them going in the right direction again.
Whatever, fine, Grimmjow’s reasons for doing this are his own, and the why of it all sort of pales in comparison to the fact that it’s happening at all. If Grimmjow’s telling the truth — if Inoue’s really in danger, if they’ve really got a source of insider information ready and willing to betray Aizen and everyone who follows him, if they can end this with even one less casualty — then Ichigo’s going to do everything in his power to see this through. Trusting Grimmjow, as a person, is only incidental in the grand scheme of things, especially when Ichigo gets the feeling that he can more than trust his rage.
This can work. This will work.
Famous last words.
