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Ichigo would deny it forever, but Grimmjow’s new routine of stepping out of the black void of the garganta and into the Kurosaki living room every few days was actually his fault.
Or to be more accurate, the fault of his passionate Las Noches promise to fight the mad bastard whenever he wanted. Which, almost immediately after the domino effect of ongoing, world-destroying conflict had ended, turned out to be all the fucking time.
At first Ichigo tried to negotiate. Not seven times a week, which Grimmjow thought was generous, but twice a week. Tuesdays and Thursdays at 6pm, specifically. It worked for exactly two sessions before life got in the way, and it was after three cancellations that Grimmjow finally turned up at the house on the verge of homicide and asked if Ichigo was breaking his word.
“I’m not breaking my word, I just can’t guarantee something isn’t going to come up, or I have to go to Soul Society, or it’s my turn to do the laundry, or—”
“Your promise rates lower than laundry,” Grimmjow had sounded out, fists clenched at his sides. “Your fuckin’ promise to me.”
“Look, it was in the heat of the moment,” Ichigo had replied, knowing before he even finished his sentence that he was about to fuck up. But he had an arrancar at his front door, Yuzu was bound to come out in moments, and Grimmjow’s chin was slowly and stubbornly lifting while his eyes kept looking down, and that was a danger sign. “Fuck, I want to fight you! I do! I always do! Maybe just—”
“Just what?” Grimmjow snarled softly, overriding him. Ichigo thought fast.
“Let’s not plan it. Just check in when you can tell I’m home, and we’ll go from there. Because trying to plan my life was a stupid idea in the first place. That’s on me—and I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of liar, or that I’m humouring you.”
Grimmjow had glowered a bit, his eyes doing that squinty suspicious thing he did when he was either trying to hide his long-sightedness or was about to draw his sword. Finally, his only response had been to reach back and pluck the air behind him, tearing open the black mouth of the garganta.
“Don’t fuck with me,” was Grimmjow’s final warning, and then the kumon’s teeth had slammed shut on him like a great beast devouring his body whole.
At that time, Ichigo had figured it was the best possible outcome, since he could agree to fight on his own terms without the obligation of deciding between his human life or his shinigami one.
In retrospect, he was a damned idiot and he should have just stuck to the schedule.
“Should we start maybe getting out the guest futon?” Yuzu asked in a stage whisper on the eighth evening in a row, nodding at the no-doubt blurry blob of reiryoku that Grimmjow appeared as for her. He was sitting on the couch like an angry girlfriend, arms folded and knees as close together as a guy like him could manage. He was watching—or not watching—a documentary about World War II with Isshin, who had given up five nights ago on kicking the dangerous hollow out of the house because all he did was pace outside the house all night, and nobody knew what Grimmjow would do if some unsuspecting human walked face-first into him.
In the kitchen, Ichigo handed wet cutlery to Karin, who waited with a clean tea-towel. The small space cramped the three of them a little, but it also gave them the opportunity to have a very hushed conversation.
“Do not put out the guest futon,” Karin and Ichigo hissed at the same time. Yuzu gave them a soulful look and started packing away the drinking glasses.
“But he’s here all the time! I played Scrabble with him last night!” she beamed. “He put down prostate as a word. Then Daddy saw it so I had to pretend it was my guess so he didn’t get yelled at.” Karin rolled her eyes.
“Like he would ever believe that.”
Ichigo winced. “No, I think he did. Dad told me to keep my filthy anatomy facts to myself this morning. Figures it was Grimmjow, but I didn’t know he could read and write. Who teaches hollows to do that?”
“Fuck you,” Grimmjow said loudly without moving, startling Isshin on the couch. Ichigo and the twins almost ducked behind the kitchen counter.
“Oh, good to know you’re against the rise of anti-Semitism,” their father replied affably, putting two and two together and coming up with five. “This program is a little dry, though. What do you want to watch?”
“I don’t give a shit.” A beat. “Something with a battle in it, since I don’t get one tonight. Again.”
Isshin actually patted Grimmjow’s shoulder companionably. “You’ve a tough life, Grimmjow. Maybe you’ll get lucky tomorrow. In the meantime, why don’t we watch Mortal Kombat? I hear that’s popular with the young ones.” He pulled his hand away before Grimmjow could decide whether to lunge at it or not.
“That’s a really bad movie,” Karin groaned, “and it’s not even new! Plus it’s Hell’s Kitchen time in twenty minutes. Grimmjow, don’t you want to watch something competitive and real? About food?”
“Real?” Ichigo repeated doubtfully, but Grimmjow twisted around to glare at the three of them.
“Put it on.”
After cleaning up the dinner dishes and closing the curtains in the house, flipping on the low golden light of ambient lamps in places, the living room scene was almost cozy and warm. Grimmjow was familiar enough with the process by then that he didn’t flinch when Karin threw herself down next to him and fished around his ass for the remote, which had fallen down the cushion crack as always. Ready to run interference, Ichigo planted himself on Grimmjow’s other side. It was a bit of a squeeze with the five of them, but he was determined not to let his family be alone with an extremely pissy arrancar for long. For both their sakes, really.
“Is it really about Hell?” Grimmjow asked quietly as the flaming credits rolled, the recap showing steaming cooking stations and people in white chef gear. He was leaning over just enough that the question touched Ichigo’s ear on a small gust of breath. It put the unnatural heat of his body up close against his bare arm.
“No, it’s just one of those stressful cooking shows,” Ichigo replied in a low voice, leaning in to match him. “There’s bunches of them these days. I don’t think there’s even anything to cook in Hell. It looked pretty bare when I was there.” He scratched his jaw. “Though I guess it could have a kitchen. I didn’t get to see all of it.”
Grimmjow stared at the side of his face. “When the fuck did you go to Hell?”
“Ages ago.” Preening? Who was preening? “Some asshole stole Yuzu’s soul. Whole thing was a setup.”
That seemed to give Grimmjow a lot to think about. On Isshin’s other side, Yuzu leaned around him and smiled.
“Yeah, I remember that! Kind of. I remember something happening. Definitely.”
“You don’t remember shit, do you?” Grimmjow asked bluntly. Yuzu, deaf to his actual words but understanding he’d spoken to her, looked expectantly at Ichigo for answers.
“He said you’re really brave,” Ichigo said without missing a beat. “Even Grimmjow’s never been to Hell.”
“Fucker,” Grimmjow muttered, thumping him in the leg with a closed fist. “Sure you don’t have time to go a few rounds tonight?”
It was actually kind of tempting, but Ichigo was pretty sure he’d just end up vomiting the stir-fry they’d had for dinner all over Grimmjow’s black jumpsuit. Or his white armour plates, whichever he ended up wearing when they fought. Shaking his head in mild apology, Ichigo rubbed his sore leg.
“At least we get to hang out though, right?”
Grimmjow blinked. “What?”
“Well, I mean, it’s like when we fight, but without the actual fighting part. We’re hanging out together for a few hours and talking.” Ichigo felt more and more stupid about his explanation as the silence stretched. Karin snorted softly.
Grimmjow had a different reaction to it.
“I don’t do that.”
“You’re doing it right now,” Ichigo pointed out, not unkindly or anything. It felt like one of those teachable moments was upon them, like that time he had to explain to Byakuya that his family wasn’t living in poverty just because they only had one bathroom for four people.
“Because I can’t fight you,” Grimmjow replied with emphasis. “Not because I want to.”
“You could leave,” Karin said baldly, staving off Isshin’s silent headlock with one hand. “You know, go home? Your own home, specifically. The one that isn’t ours.”
Ichigo sensed an argument in the immediate future, or at least for Grimmjow to get huffy in his prideful way and leave. Instead, he just clacked his mask with a minute twitch of his jaw.
“Don’t have one.”
Karin’s whole body stopped moving for a long second. Ichigo’s stomach dropped. Yuzu, only half-aware of the conversation but as smart as a whip, looked at her twin sister and tsked loudly.
“Don’t listen to her, Grimmjow-san. I still owe you a new game of Scrabble.” She smiled in his general direction. “I have a dirty word up my sleeve that will make Daddy cry.”
“What?” Isshin blurted, his priorities firmly in place. “Yuzu-chan, my darling, what word? Was it Ichigo again? Was it your degenerate older brother who taught you this word? How many letters does it have?”
Yuzu’s smile was radiant.
“Four!”
Isshin jerked and cast a baleful look at his son, but Ichigo’s mind was on different things.
“I don’t get it,” he said, turning toward Grimmjow on the couch. “Las Noches wasn’t completely destroyed. I know Nel and Harribel still live there.”
“Fucking forget it,” Grimmjow muttered, shoving himself to his feet. “Dumbshit.” Jamming his hands into his pockets, hunching over the way someone who preferred to mask their height tended to do, he stepped around Ichigo and headed for the door. The actual door, not the kumon he usually tore open for himself. “Later.”
Out of sight before Ichigo could properly react, he was unprepared for the fist that pounded his leg for a second time. Karin’s eyes were stricken.
“Bring him back! I didn’t know he was like Rukia!”
Like Rukia? Ichigo thought, already up and following Grimmjow into the separate entry hallway, a stunted thing with barely enough room for the genkan, an umbrella stand and enough leg distance between it and the living room door for an end table. Grimmjow’s shoulders, hunched though they were, seemed to fill the entire narrow space. Ichigo mentally flailed at his back and tried to think of exactly what he should say or do. What did he mean, no home? What did Karin mean?
“Do you want to fight?” Ichigo blurted as the front door was opened on a soundless hinge, letting in all the chilly evening air. The night outside was a curtain of pure darkness. “We don’t have to hang around here, but—”
“Nah.” The clean lines of Grimmjow’s profile were unreadable. “Your sister’s got a good way about her. No bullshit.”
“She’s a bitch,” Ichigo said emphatically, spreading his hands. “Zero filter.”
“S’good. You always know where you stand with people like that.” A sliver of cold, hard blue met Ichigo’s guilty gaze. “I’ll keep my distance.”
“But—”
“Live your fuckin’ life.” One broad shoulder jerked. “I’ll still be here for what comes after that. I got time.”
Ichigo’s spine stiffened. “Look, you don’t have to—Grimmjow!”
It was the yawning void of the garganta standing outside the door, not the black of a serene night in the Living World. Grimmjow had torn it open so quickly it hadn’t even made sense to his human eyes, mistaking it for a night without the warm lights of the house. Two proud steps and the arrancar who’d made himself a demanding pain in the ass was one breath from leaving for good. All because Karin had said the things Ichigo had guiltily thought in his own head, things about Grimmjow being unwelcome and demanding—oh, hell.
Demanding that Ichigo keep his promise.
“Wait,” Ichigo said desperately, repentant and just, such a fucking loser when it came to people sometimes. “I’ve been an asshole. Come back soon and I promise that whatever I’m doing, I’ll drop all of it for you. I swear to—I swear on my zanpakutou.”
Grimmjow never replied. Not in words. With a sharp, unreadable look over his shoulder, he studied Ichigo for a moment or two. Ichigo saw himself through those blue eyes: standing in the hallway wearing sweats and a t-shirt, looking nothing like the heroic shinigami that Grimmjow constantly wanted to pit himself against and defeat. Ichigo felt like an idiot, trying to hammer an arrancar down into a place in his life that was made for safe people. People he could sit on a couch with.
“Never mind,” Ichigo said finally, just as Grimmjow stepped silently into the void.
He didn’t wait to see it close.
“He’s nothing like Rukia,” was all Ichigo said when he re-entered the living room, meeting Karin’s upset gaze over the back of the couch. “We don’t need anything from each other except a battle now and then. Not that he’ll be back now. Good job, Karin. You’ve got the rest of the couch to yourself now. I’m going to bed.”
Ignoring the protests and complaints that elicited, Ichigo turned and headed for the stairs. Peace and quiet was in his room, and just then he needed to sit and think. Mainly about why he felt guilty when he should feel relieved, and about just what his word was worth when the stakes were no longer sky high. Grimmjow was supposed to keep coming and coming at him until he got his fight, not—
Not just give up on him.
But everyone moved on, eventually. Even battle-hardened arrancar had better things to do than wait around for Kurosaki Ichigo to have some free time.
As much as that realisation sucked, well, Ichigo knew he deserved it.
Life just plodded on after that.
Work, home, family, friends, sleep, coffee, study, tv, shower, phone, errands, housework.
Normal life, normal routine, no interruptions. It was…fine. Ichigo wasn’t dumb enough to go running out to Hueco Mundo, and Grimmjow wasn’t so indecisive that he changed his mind and came back. He wasn’t the kind of person who could be persuaded. He came to a conclusion, made a decision, and that was it.
That didn’t mean that Ichigo accepted it. If anything, it scratched under his ribs like a fist full of broken glass whenever he had a quiet moment to think. For a while. Three weeks had faded most of Karin’s words and Grimmjow’s conclusion that a human life wasn’t something he wanted to interfere in, or wasn’t welcome in. All that was left was the sense that Ichigo had fucked up, failed to act, failed to take him seriously. Took their bond and that promise to always fight for granted.
Still, it was just Grimmjow. The knowledge frustrated the hell out of Ichigo. When did he start to matter so much? Why did they all care? Eight days, eight evenings annoying them all and loitering in the house weren’t enough to make a dent in their tough family—or so they’d thought. Yuzu refused to play Scrabble with Karin anymore. Isshin had nobody to watch his damn war documentaries with, and Karin had given a huge middle finger to family television time and said she was working on her ghost debunking podcast every evening.
Figured that Grimmjow would be a pain in the ass even when he was nowhere in sight.
Maybe that was just going to be the vacuum he left for a while.
“Look, I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” Ichigo said irritably one afternoon, pushing Yuzu’s hands away from the cutting board. He’d meticulously laid out all the ingredients he needed already. He was prepared. “Go to your presentation thing already. Dinner will be done when you’re all back.”
“But the cutting, Ichi-nii,” Yuzu insisted, pulling a threateningly large chef’s knife from the drawer. “There’s an art to curry. An art. At least remember to cut all the vegetables into similar sized chunks!”
“I said I’ve got it! Get out of the kitchen.” Taking the knife from her, he shooed her until she was forced backwards out into the walkway. “It’s just curry, Yuzu. If I can wield a zanpakutou I can dice some damn meat and vegetables.”
“Slow cooker on low,” she warned, catching the potato Ichigo threw with both hands. “And peel everything!”
“Dad! Yuzu’s hemmed up her school skirt again!” Ichigo yelled. “I think she’s got a boyfriend!”
“Oh my god!” Isshin shrieked from above. Yuzu glared daggers and put the potato on the countertop, completely out of order with Ichigo’s setup.
“I’ll judge you when I get back,” she promised, yanking her skirt down into place and running for the hallway.
Ichigo couldn’t remember what kind of school thing she was participating in, but Isshin and Karin were going and it meant he’d have the house to himself if he stayed to cook dinner, so he’d put his hand up for the simple job of making beef curry. Even Yuzu, control freak and kitchen dominatrix, had been forced to admit he could cut things up and put them in a slow cooker without supervision. It wasn’t as if he was a kitchen disaster or anything, either. She just refused to let anyone into her domain and took over if she spotted anyone making anything more complicated than toast or a cup of coffee. Weird kid.
Soon enough they were all out of the house, leaving Ichigo with four whole hours to himself. Just him, a bluetooth speaker playing his favourite slow rock playlist, and a bunch of vegetables and meat to slice and dice. All lit by a wide golden shaft of late afternoon sunlight pouring in from the living room window. It was surprisingly nice.
Ichigo had the meat seared and in the pot, potatoes and carrots all diced and tossed in when he started in on the onions: three small brown ones, each a little smaller than a tennis ball. Yuzu had been bitching about them so much for their size that he’d tuned her out completely on cutting technique. He’d fought Aizen and Yhwach, damn it. A few onions weren’t doing to do much harm.
Well that was a fucking lie, Ichigo internally screamed five minutes later, two of the three onions peeled, halved and on their backs, their hideous toxic layers of cut flesh wide open to the kitchen at large. If he could see a fucking thing beyond their demonic yellow-white smear through his tear-streaming eyes he just knew he’d see cartoonishly evil lines coming off them. Holy fucking shit, his eyes were on fire. Twenty-one years worth of pent-up tears were pouring down his cheeks like a psychological breakthrough had occurred, not the chemical warfare of Yuzu’s fucking cursed onions.
Ichigo couldn’t take it. He couldn’t see. Dropping the knife on the cutting board, wiping his fingers on the damp dishcloth, he admitted defeat and ran into the furthest corner of the living room, coughing and sniffling for reasons he couldn’t even figure out yet. Was it in his head? His whole head? What if he went blind? Was that a thing?
Pulling down his sweater sleeves, Ichigo tried to mop at his onion-abused eyes ineffectually. The stinging was easing, but the room was a black blur and his tear ducts were on panicked overdrive. All for fucking curry.
Actually, the room was more than just a black blur. There was a massive torn wound in the air, right in front of him. A white, blue and black streak of arrancar walked out of it.
Ichigo didn’t need 20/20 vision to know who that was. Of all the times to return, he thought with excited mortification. Blinking rapidly, trying to clear his vision, he watched Grimmjow’s eyes fix on him and widen in recognition.
“Hey, Grimmjow,” Ichigo said, trying for a normal voice. “I’m just in the middle—I mean, if you give me five minutes and some new eyeballs, we can go.”
Grimmjow didn’t even seem to hear the words. His pallor had turned disturbingly pale. His blue eyes, usually arrestingly intense under their heavy lids, were black-blown pools of alarm. In two strides he’d grabbed Ichigo by the shoulders with ungentle hands and had pushed him against the wall, bracketing him in place with strength his human body couldn’t match.
Then, of all things, he started scanning the room with pesquisa. Ripples of harnessed reiryoku poured through Ichigo and out into the room like sonar, seeking something in the area. Fuck, had he missed something? Was there danger? Had Grimmjow come to warn—
“There’s nothing here,” Grimmjow muttered, finally switching his gaze to Ichigo, who could mostly see again. “What is it then? Family? Your sisters? What happened? Are you hurt?” Not waiting for a response, hands left Ichigo’s shoulders and began feeling their way down his torso, too-hot and not completely steady. Adrenaline rush?
Wiping his eyes with the heel of his palms, which was a small mistake since he still had onion juice all over them, Ichigo winced and grabbed Grimmjow’s wrists.
“Hey, I’m fine. Where’s the fire?”
“There’s a fire?” Grimmjow said rapidly, turning his eyes to the ceiling.
“No, it’s an expression.” Seeing the uncomprehending look on his face, Ichigo switched gear. “Did you come here to fight? I’m totally free if you can wait maybe ten minutes.”
His words didn’t even seem to penetrate the weird state Grimmjow was in. His eyes were huge and liquid black, his breath coming a little fast in small catches against Ichigo’s damp cheeks. Slowly, he lifted his hand and reached for Ichigo’s face with calloused fingertips. Sensing no malice in it, Ichigo squinted but didn’t fight as Grimmjow—
Ran his fingertips through the last of the tears spilling down his cheeks, pulling back to stare at the small droplets clinging to his fingers like he’d never seen anything like them before. Quick, disbelieving glances flashed between them and Ichigo’s dismayed face, who understood too late that Grimmjow had colossally misunderstood the situation.
“It’s just onions,” Ichigo said hastily, grabbing Grimmjow’s fingers with his own. “Everything’s fine, I swear. I’m making dinner. See?” He jerked his chin towards the kitchen countertop where Hell’s own demonic vegetable was still sitting; four halves face up on the board, still surrounded by the brown shells of its peeled-away skin. “I think I cut them wrong.”
Grimmjow’s attention flicked to the onions, but mostly he was staring at Ichigo’s fingers wrapped around his. Neither of them had broken contact. In fact, Grimmjow had Ichigo hemmed in pretty closely, almost sandwiched between the wall and his chest. A shield position? All from some culinary crying. The overreaction was almost cute. Ichigo had never considered that Grimmjow might have a reaction other than mockery. But he’d asked about the family. Injury. Tried to seek out danger.
Maybe Grimmjow had originally come for his battles, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t found other things he wanted while he was forced to wait.
“Everyone’s fine,” Ichigo insisted quietly, squeezing a little. The cuff of his knit sweater had gotten tangled between their fingers, stretched too long while he’d been using it to mop his face clean. Grimmjow’s hand looked pale against the dark red wool. “I’m just an idiot.”
“…Right,” Grimmjow said finally, seeming to return to himself. He blinked a few times and yanked his hand free, taking two whole steps back and shoving both hands in his pockets. Turning on his heel, boots still on, he walked into the kitchen and surveyed the damage.
“These? They’re small.” With deft—and unwashed—hands, Grimmjow flipped them all over face-down and grabbed all the roots and peel, dumping it off in the bag of scraps for compost. Picking up the knife, he ran the blade down the palm of his own hand as if to test the edge. Ichigo winced a little at the sight, even knowing a human knife couldn’t cut hierro.
“What are you doing?”
Creeping toward the kitchen to see more clearly, on high alert for the first sting in his eyes again, Ichigo watched Grimmjow halve the final onion and pull the peel off. In about eight quick motions all of the onions were cut down into rough chunks. There was no elegance in the movements, and Ichigo suspected Grimmjow didn’t actually know anything about how to cut them either. The only difference between them seemed to be that even standing back Ichigo’s eyes were beginning to sting again, whereas Grimmjow’s were clear and dry.
“This doesn’t hurt,” Grimmjow said suspiciously, dumping everything into the slow cooker with the other ingredients. When Ichigo pointed at the jug of water, he poured it on top and switched the power on. “What now?”
“Is it set to low?”
“Yeah.”
“I think we just leave it alone until Yuzu comes home and finishes it with the actual curry. You can put the lid on.”
Grimmjow spotted the lid and clanged it down in place like it was about to bite him. What had Yuzu told him about following her instructions? Actually, Ichigo thought, probably the same thing she told everyone: death to traitors.
Eight days could apparently change a lot.
Ichigo was wondering how to bring up their promise and apologise properly, still hesitating in the middle of the living room, when Grimmjow left the kitchen and approached him with more haste in his step than Ichigo had ever seen outside actual combat swiftness. Thing was, Grimmjow didn’t stop until he’d grabbed Ichigo’s face in both hands and tipped it up slightly, just enough that he could look down with fierce attention.
“You’re sure nothing’s wrong.”
“Nothing,” Ichigo said, eyes wide. “I—no, nothing. Onions, I swear. I’d tell you if something was going on.” When Grimmjow’s eyes narrowed, he tensed in surprise. “I would. I swear. I know you’d help me.”
“The fuck you do. You don’t even want me around your family.”
“That’s not true,” Ichigo argued. Grimmjow’s hands squeezed so hard his jaw threatened to break between two palms.
“I didn’t know Grimmjow could read. Don’t get the futon out. Go back to your own home. I heard it all, asshole. D’you think I left because the midget wanted me to? Whatever was said, the words were all yours.” His sharp-toothed sneer was borderline vicious. “If you didn’t want an animal around your family, you shouldn’t’ve waited eight days to say so.”
There was too much repressed bitterness, too much resentment in the words for Ichigo to reason it out. Not Grimmjow’s assumptions, and not his own feelings.
“Then why did you come back?” Ichigo asked steadily, burning eyes unblinking. “Is it because you listened to me that last night and believed that I wanted you to return?” Reaching up under the hands bracketing his face, Ichigo turned his forearms and prised them free. His teeth hurt with the release of pressure. “Or were you lonely because you might have a place to sleep but you don’t have a home? Because I remembered what you said, Grimmjow. I thought about it a lot while you were gone. Las Noches might give you a roof but it’s me that—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Grimmjow snarled over the end of his sentence, a flat palm striking Ichigo’s chest so hard he lost his breath and hurtled back into the kitchen cabinetry. His lower back shrieked a high note of pain, quickly ignored. “I came back because I go where I fuckin’ want, and I felt like giving you a piece of my mind.”
Rubbing his back, Ichigo wished desperately that Kon wasn’t in Soul Society for the month. Grimmjow was getting angry and his badge was all the way upstairs.
“Then why is it that when you thought I was crying you went into predator mode? Why’d you worry? Why’d you ask about my family? My sisters?” When Grimmjow took a distancing step back, all hard edges and hierro, Ichigo in his tender human skin took one forward. “You give a shit about them, don’t you? And you give a shit about me. It’s not just my promise holding it together. You want to be here. You want to belong here.”
“Fuck off,” Grimmjow snarled, upper lip curling like a threatened dog. “You don’t know shit about me.” Ichigo shook his head, not giving an inch. If anything, Grimmjow shrank back another step. It was the strangest thing Ichigo had ever seen.
“You almost protected me. Why?”
“Why?” Grimmjow repeated, his short brows crumpling. “Because I’ve never once seen fear on you. Never. Hell, I’ve never even smelled fear on you. Didn’t think I’d ever see tears. You’re not the type.” Blinking hard at his own vehemence, Grimmjow shoved his hands into his jumpsuit pockets and hunched his shoulders. “Thought—thought the fucking sky was about to fall in. Kurosaki Ichigo, crying all the way down his damn cheeks.” He turned his face away with a small scoff, like even the words themselves made no sense. Just how tough did Grimmjow think…?
“But I keep turning you down for fights,” Ichigo said in confusion. “Don’t you think I’m soft by now?”
“My last battle was with you,” was all Grimmjow said in reply, like it was enough. Tough, battle-hardened Grimmjow who lived in a crumbling stone citadel in a desert shrouded in eternal night. He fought nobody but Ichigo. And maybe that meant he would never fight anyone but Ichigo, no matter how long it took.
And that…
Between tears and promises, Ichigo felt like there was an oath of its own in there. And maybe he couldn’t offer that much, really. Not for decades and decades. Thing was, he really wanted to. Earning Grimmjow’s loyalty, his commitment, was no small gift.
“Do you want to watch Hell’s Kitchen reruns until they come back?” Ichigo asked, his head turning in a small tilt. “After I shower all this onion stink off, I mean. I’m pretty sure Karin will make sure they bring back ice cream if I let them know you’re here. Do you like beef curry?”
“I don’t know,” Grimmjow replied, his eyes finding anything but Ichigo in the warm afternoon light. “And I don’t know what ice cream is.”
Ichigo had a lot of thoughts then. Thoughts and memories, really. Of a warm breath against his ear and the radiating heat of a body so close to his own on the couch that he could sense the unnatural life beneath it. Of hot hands feeling their way down his body, looking for injury. Yuzu playing Scrabble and unleashing every dirty word she’d ever learned at school just to impress an arrancar she couldn’t even communicate with without the board. Karin, declaring Grimmjow a lost soul who had a home but not a family. Isshin, just happy to have an old warhorse to talk strategy with. And—
“How does fifty years sound?” Ichigo asked in a rush, backing up against the kitchen bench behind him. “I should be dead by seventy, if my last ten years are any indication. Do you want to be part of the family—my family—until then?”
Grimmjow stared for a moment, blurring just an instant until he stood so close to Ichigo that their faces almost touched. What he saw with his blown-black pupils was anyone’s guess. Feeling the oven-bright heat of his strange body so close, Ichigo just kept his mouth shut and eyes unblinking. Fucking this offer up was unacceptable. Especially after last time.
Finally, Grimmjow rocked back on his heels. The fingertip he drew under Ichigo’s eye was a crescent of pure amusement.
“Guess someone’s gotta cut those onions for you.”
“Then?”
“Yeah.” The fingertip dragged down the straight line of Ichigo’s nose, tapping once on the tip. “Deal.”
And that was exactly how the Kurosaki family grew by one in the space of an afternoon.