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Sunlight sears through the thin veil of his closed eyelids, burning away the last wisps of sleep. Scowling, Ichigo blinks awake to dark splotches blocking out half his vision. He shuts his eyes again and rolls over, slinging his arm over his face with an indignant groan. After the night he’s had — half of it spent hunting down a weird bird-like hollow so fast he really thought the thing had to be teleporting — morning can fuck right off. He… probably doesn’t have anywhere to be. He was out drinking with Keigo, so that meant yesterday was Friday, which made today Saturday. Right?
God. He hates drinking. He hates mornings . Hueco Mundo always looks so much more palatable with a hangover and the sun jabbing needle-like rays of light directly into his brain. No wonder Grimmjow squints suspiciously at the sun whenever he drops by these days to spar and get harassed by Urahara’s gang — it’s an evil celestial body and clearly Ichigo would be doing the world another favor by going full-on bankai at it one of these days.
It’s a minute or two before he’s really aware enough to register that the soft, springy grass under his fingertips isn’t, in fact, his comforter. That there’s something sharp digging into the curve of his ribs that’s not an errant spring from his old-ass mattress.
Fuck .
Either the exhaustion combined with his drunken state meant Ichigo never actually fell back into his body last night (giving Kon a frankly terrifying chance to take it for a test drive)…
Or he world-hopped. For like, the fifteenth time.
He doesn’t want to check. There’s an ice pick being hammered into his eye socket right now and he’s lying in some kind of field and he can’t even have one goddamn week without the universe conspiring to upend his entire life yet again.
But never let it be said that Kurosaki Ichigo is a coward.
Prying open his sleep-sticky eyes for the second time, Ichigo finally takes a good, long look at the azure sky above him. It’s almost too blue, like something out of a surrealist painting, everything notably off by a few degrees. Not the Spirit Society, then, with its perpetual twilight. Not one of the desert worlds, either. What does that leave?
Ah . Fucking hell.
Unless he’s wound up somewhere completely new and unfamiliar (please, no, he can barely keep track of all the weird shit in the worlds he’s already fallen into, another one might break his brain altogether)…
He hasn’t been to the Cacao Society since that second impromptu trip to fight King Shiro the Jackass. Keigo had stayed a while longer, though, and he’d made sure to regale Ichigo with every heroic deed he'd accomplished right alongside every horrifying ordeal that nearly made him shit himself. Probably in a bid to make him feel guilty for leaving him behind. Which worked , but only because Ichigo had already been beating himself up about it. If Keigo hadn’t come back when he did, Ichigo had been prepared to bribe Urahara into helping him find a way back to Cacao Society for a rescue mission.
He has those down to a science at this point, what with all the experience he’s wracked up fighting in wars that really, definitely shouldn’t have been his responsibility.
Sinking his fingers into the loose soil under his hands, Ichigo sits up gingerly, wary of upsetting the delicate balance that allows his head to sit atop his shoulders without exploding. He aches all over, like he’s gone a few rounds with Chad in his human body. Whether that’s from sleeping rough or his drunken hijinks he couldn’t say; makes for a damn pitiful morning regardless, and that’s the only thing he cares about right now.
Or, well, that would be the case, if not for the fucking medieval castle he’d isekai’d in front of at some point during the night.
The structure is massive, like something out of those historical documentaries his dad forces the whole family to watch when he’s feeling particularly neglected. High stone parapets, a wooden door that wouldn’t look too out of place preventing Rukongai souls from reaching the Sereitei, and… a moat? Ichigo knuckles the last of the sleep from his eyes, but the most remains — greenish-blue water sparkling in the afternoon sun and probably overrun with weird, deadly animals he has no interest in messing around with.
It’s nothing like Harribel’s palace he’d visited before, though the scale of it is similar in a way that grates on Ichigo’s middle-class nerves. He’s found himself in what could generously be called a garden in the middle of the courtyard that stretches out from the entrance, a huge black door carved with ornate designs Ichigo can’t parse from this distance. No clear sign of disrepair, though, so it’s most likely occupied. He gives himself fifty-fifty odds of meeting someone actually helpful, and then — after recalling the mess he’d been embroiled in before, and particularly the pointedly unhelpful personalities of many key figures in this world — mentally adjusts it to seventy-thirty, not in his favor.
Why is he even here? Normally someone would’ve started chasing him through the woods or dragged him to the nearest convenient monarch within minutes of his arrival. Left to his own devices, Ichigo… really doesn’t want to bother getting involved.
Can he just leave? He needed Urahara last time, though, and god knows where hat ‘n clogs is in this world right now. God knows where Ichigo is. Yoruichi could find Urahara, but Ichigo needs to find her first, and that’s. That’s not an easy task even when it’s the Yoruichi he’s been to war with. At least this one can’t turn into a cat to escape awkward and-or boring conversations.
…she can’t, right? That’s not a thing here. For the sake of his threadbare sanity, that’s what Ichigo is choosing to believe, that he’s not going to hesitate every time he happens upon a black cat and wait for it to talk back to him.
Shit, he doesn’t have the brainpower for this right now.
Realizing abruptly he’s just been sitting on the ground for an excessive amount of time, Ichigo heaves another sigh and leverages himself to his feet. His head throbs with the movement, and something turns over unpleasantly in his stomach, both of which he ignores with the ease of someone who’s gone into battle half-dead. It’s not quite as effective in his human body, though, and Ichigo nearly collapses right back onto his ass when the world sways dangerously beneath his feet and his stomach gives another lurch up into his diaphragm. He rights himself with a curse and takes a moment to get his land legs back.
He’s not really in state to go wandering around the forest to hopefully stumble across a familiar face. There’s the castle, in all its ominous, menacing glory — fuck, is there an Aizen here? The castle’s not stark white and butt-ugly, but maybe the guy’s taste is a little to the left in this universe. Although, wait, Los Noches wasn’t Aizen’s, right? That old skeleton arrancar built it, or, well. He thinks that’s what Nel said when she decided to give him a crash course in Hueco Mundo history. In his defense, she’d started in on it right in the middle of a sparring match with Grimmjow and he’d been a little too focused on not getting disemboweled to give her his full attention.
Either way, heading into this caste sounds like a good way to get his squishy human body murdered, so. Forest trek it is.
Ichigo’s taken approximately three steps towards the nearest tree when a prickling at the back of his neck has him whirling around, instincts warning of a threat and a potential fight. Saliva floods his mouth as a disgusting precursor to bile, but the thought of getting sick right there in the middle of the clearing vanishes the moment Ichigo registers who he’s looking at.
“Oh, shit,” he says, almost at the exact same time he hears a vehement “What the fuck ” from Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez .
There’s no mistaking the jawbone mask affixed to his cheek or the wild blue perpetual sex hair, and there is definitely no mistaking the murderous gleam in his electric blue eyes. It’s Grimmjow through and through. But not his Grimmjow, which is especially unfortunate given that one’s no longer inclined to murder Ichigo just for breathing wrong in his direction.
“Why’s there another fucking human in my territory?” Grimmjow growls, adjusting his grip around the handle of the big fuck-off axe he’s dragging through the dirt behind him. Like he’s getting ready to lop off some limbs for the insult of Ichigo’s mere presence. “D’ya have a death wish, or are you just an idiot like the last one?”
“Uh,” Ichigo says, totally beating the idiot allegations. The words won’t come, stopped up in his brain with the sticky-slow remnants of his hangover. His thoughts snag on the four tiny black horns curving up from Grimmjow’s forehead, right along his hairline. A demon? It’s not as in-your-face as it was with the oni version of him from the Spirit Society, but Ichigo’s struggling to find a more fitting alternative.
Why are there so many demons in the multiverse? Is that just the basic bitch term for anything that’s meant to be a hollow in his home universe? The lack of creativity is a crime, honestly.
At least the outfits are kinda cool.
Grimmjow looks good in shinigami black. Too good.
The white clothes have always reminded Ichigo too much of Aizen and the control he had over the Espada and lower-ranked arrancar. Grimmjow has his jumpsuit these days but the cropped white jacket is still there. And maybe it’s a preference now rather than a uniform, but some days Ichigo finds himself wishing for a splash of color in Grimmjow’s wardrobe, the way Nel has taken to pink and green and blue whenever she pops up in her gigai.
Unlike his usual fair, this jacket fits him like a glove, tapering in at the hips and flaring out around his legs, though his penchant for refusing to cover his pecs seems like a universal constant. Only a strip of fabric connects the wide-open collar of the jacket, and beneath that is what looks like gunmetal gray armor that stops short of his chest, leaving a wide swath of skin and muscle exposed to the elements and god. And—
Wait. Wait, wait, wait.
Oh, god, is that a tail? Is it Grimmjow’s tail? Is he some sort of wolf demon ? Just completely abandoning the cat motif, then. Ichigo can’t get a good enough look at his backside (not that he’s trying, he’s not as suicidal as his friends like to claim) to tell for sure, but it might be a match for the mass of fur haloed around the collar of his jacket. So. Is the rest of the pelt lining the back of his jacket? Is that why he has a tail? It’s so extra , what the fuck.
And then there’s the metal boots. A little like plated armor (not so different from his Resurreccion form, actually, only in black), shielding him from the knee down, and shaped into something resembling the feet of a beast, tipped with three lethal-looking claws.
He’s been dragging a ridiculously oversized axe around, too, the gleaming obsidian edge cutting through the earth in a wobbling line in his wake. And if Ichigo’s not mistaken — and he’s not, he can’t be, the universe isn’t fond enough of him to grant him even a modicum of peace — the axe is… also sporting a tail. Just like its master.
Reminds me of when Urahara introduced Grimmjow to the concept of pet play.
It was an accident, according to Urahara, but then everything is an accident with him, unless he’s rubbing something in Mayuri’s painted face. Accident or not, though, it took a good chunk of Ichigo’s considerable strength to hold the arrancar back from skewing Urahara’s dick with his claws and firing off a desgarron for good measure. Ichigo almost let him, honestly; he’s never going to be able to unsee Urahara’s eclectic collection of sex toys and the accompanying instructions. When Urahara offered some hands-on demonstrations, Ichigo decided it was best for everyone’s health and sanity that he drag Grimmjow into the training bunker to let him work off some of his apoplectic anger (justified as it might’ve been).
Anyway.
This Grimmjow might be a furry. Ichigo’s still processing that when Grimmjow starts taking some very threatening steps in his direction. Startled, Ichigo hops back, giving the demon a more critical once-over.
He’s not in peak condition, that much is obvious. Blood-stained footsteps trail behind him, leading to a narrow gap in the tree line Ichigo hadn’t noticed before now. The front of his jacket’s been torn, the edges blackened — with fire? Magic? The hitch in his stride screams some sort of ankle injury, a sprain or something worse. Grimmjow — any Grimmjow, Ichigo’s learned — would rather chew off a limb than willingly show weakness, so the damn thing could be snapped in half for all Ichigo knows, and he’d still walk on it like it’s nothing.
There’s soot smeared across his unmasked cheek and his bare chest, too, and when Grimmjow snarls a warning Ichigo sees blood marring the white of his teeth. A matching line of blood drips down from his nose. Might’ve taken a blow to the face, though it doesn’t look like it was enough to break his nose.
This is stupid, Ichigo knows that. Stupid and reckless, and exactly the kind of thing that would spike his friends’ bloody pressure (Ishida especially). But it’s been a long time since Ichigo looked at Grimmjow and saw an enemy. They might never be friends, despite Ichigo’s best efforts, but he’s not someone Ichigo can bring himself to ignore, alternate universe or no.
So Ichigo opens his reckless, stupid mouth.
“Hey, are you okay?”
Grimmjow freezes mid-step, his expression twisting into bewildered rage after about point-two seconds of contemplation.
“Good enough to rend your arm from your body if you even think of touching me,” he says, which clues Ichigo into the fact that he’s raised a hand towards Grimmjow without conscious input from his brain. Placating and concerned in equal measure. Not that Grimmjow’s going to appreciate the intention behind either.
Ichigo drops his hand to his side, opening up his stance to look as non-threatening as possible. It isn’t exactly hard — without Kon or his badge he’s pretty much defenseless. No way out of his body.
Well, on the bright side, if Grimmjow does end up killing him at least he’ll have a fighting chance in the rematch.
“I don’t doubt that,” he says. Smiling right now would probably come across as mocking, but it’s not easy to smother the urge. No other version of Grimmjow is exactly like the one from his world, but it’s sort of nice to see the feral cat behavior is a core part of his personality. “I’m not looking for a fight, or, uh, trying to steal your territory? I’m… kinda lost. And you’re bleeding. Like, that’s a lot of blood, actually, and I just wanna make sure you’re…”
What should he even say? He wants to make sure Grimmjow isn’t going to up and die on him? That he’s got someone around to patch him up? Who knows how this Grimmjow views what he considers to be pity , if it’s anything like the reaction he’s used to.
Telegraphing his movements, Ichigo taps a hand to his chest. “I’m human,” he says, shrugging at the brow Grimmjow lifts in reply. “We like to help, and I’m personally not a fan of seeing other people in pain. Plus, I’m not much of a threat to you, right? Might make it easier to be around me. So I figured I’d… offer. To help. If you, uh, want it.”
Fuck, he’s starting to sweat. This is such an idiotic idea. This Grimmjow doesn’t know him, has no reason to trust him, he’s not going to be vulnerable with him, no matter how much stronger he is when Ichigo is human.
“What’s your name?”
Ichigo blinks. Grimmjow’s eyes narrow further the longer Ichigo goes without saying anything, until only a thin flash of blue remains.
Oh. Oh , okay, yeah, that’s a fair question.
“Ichigo,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching up in a meager attempt to look slightly more friendly. “Kurosaki Ichigo.”
“Huh,” Grimmjow says, almost blasé, “guess you’re not with Ulquiorra’s faction after all.”
Ulquiorra? Was that who he was fighting with? A shudder ripples down Ichigo’s spine at the thought of coming face to face with those soulless green eyes again, and it’s a reaction Grimmjow definitely takes notice of.
Wait. Ulquiorra. Grimmjow. Keigo mentioned getting caught in the middle of a standoff between two crazy powerful demons before Hanamori rescued him. Some bleach-white freak in a fancy robe and a freak with an axe with a hard-on for fighting.
No wonder Keigo was scared shitless, Ichigo muses. Those two trying to murder each other with magic? I almost wish I’d been there to see it.
“I’m leaning towards brain damage at this point,” Grimmjow says, apropos of nothing.
Ichigo scowls, his good humor rapidly draining away. “The hell, man? I’m just trying to be nice . Y’know, because I’m a nice person ?”
“Uh-huh. Because you’re an idiot.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault you got your ass handed to you by Ulquiorra — holy shit what the hell are you doing?!”
In the span of a single breath, Grimmjow’s closed the distance between them and fisted a hand in the neck of Ichigo’s sleepshirt, using his grip to yank Ichigo backwards. It’s too fast and forceful for him to find his balance and he winds up with his ass hitting the dirt and Grimmjow mercilessly dragging him towards the castle entrance by his collar.
“You’re human,” Grimmjow grits out, utterly ignoring Ichigo’s increasingly volatile protests. “You squawking out here is gonna bring every last glory-seeking demon in the area to my doorstep. And I’m not in the mood for slaughter.” Grimmjow’s fingers curl tighter into Ichigo’s shirt, nails biting through fabric to prick at his skin. “Didn’t get my ass handed to me, either, you fucking fool. We got interrupted and Ulquiorra ran off with his dumbass robes between his legs. Like I’d lose to that emotionless, twiggy fucker,” he seethes, his whole face twisting with displeasure.
Ichigo fights to twist himself free of Grimmjow’s hold, scrabbling to wrench the demon’s fingers from his shirt, or at least loosen them enough that he’s not choking so much. But it’s like scratching at granite and nothing derails Grimmjow from hauling him along like a bag of rice.
“You walked into an Overlord’s territory without a shred of fear or self-consciousness. You’re fucking lost in an Overlord’s territory. And you’re trying to be nice . To an Overlord. You’re not even here to entertain me with a fight! I’ve never met a bigger dumbass in my entire fucking life,” Grimmjow grumbles. “You’re lucky I need a bargaining chip to deal with the Bitch Queen or I’d gut you here and now, human.”
“Can you call me… Ichigo… in one … goddamn universe?” Ichigo bites out between strangled breaths. “Fucker.”
He’s ignored. Because of course he is.
Grimmjow waves a hand and the doors swing inward with a metallic groan, and the ground beneath Ichigo’s ass turns from rough stone to polished marble.
The interior of the castle is as dark and foreboding as the exterior, which comes as no surprise if Grimmjow had a hand in decorating it. It’s reminiscent of that grimdark aesthetic that’s become so prevalent in western media, like that Game of Thrones show Yuzu and Karin obsessed over. Karin learned a somewhat frightening amount of English from watching it and now can’t be trusted to speak to foreigners without affecting the worst accent known to man. Or shinigami, for that matter.
He doesn’t get a sense for much of the entryway besides flashes of dark walls and purple-flamed sconces — Grimmjow doesn’t slow until they’re in a room with a high, echoing ceiling, where he tosses Ichigo down onto a raised platform. Ichigo’s back slams into something thick and solid, and he curls instinctively to cradle the back of his head, cursing into the bend of his elbow. His vision swims with dark spots, and it’s only by squinting that he’s able to make out the blur of Grimmjow’s metal boots coming to stand a few feet in front of him.
“What the fuck,” Ichigo hisses, tipping his head back to meet Grimmjow’s indifferent glare. “Was that really necessary?”
“Who cares?” Grimmjow replies. A hint of a familiar smirk touches the corners of his mouth. “Ain’t you the Kurosaki? I heard all about the stunt you pulled with the creepy-ass wizard and that pasty-faced usurper. I can be a little rough with ya.”
“What?” The shrill volume of his own voice is murder on his aching head, but Ichigo pushes the pain aside as he rocks himself upright, pressing a palm to the cool marble dais for balance. Grimmjow merely observes him, curious and amused, leaning precariously against his axe with one hand planted on the hilt and the other on his hip. “That wasn’t— why would you — and what the hell do you mean , a bargaining chip with… who, Queen Harribel?”
Not his most articulate demand for answers, but fuck, that maneuver rattled his brain into mush and it’s going to take him a minute to recover.
The slash of Grimmjow’s smile widens, drawing Ichigo’s eyes to the prominent curve of his canines. “She’s indebted to you, ain’t she? Doubt she’d be too keen on having me send you back to her castle piece by piece. I figure I can get somethin’ good outta her with you falling into my lap like this, make this shit-stain of a day worthwhile after all.”
“Oh my god.” Ichigo drags both hands down his face, suddenly overcome with the desire to scream into his palms. “You’re insane. Why are you always so insane? I just wanted to help you, you absolute jackass, because you’re still bleeding all over your fucking shiny floors, and you’re threatening to chop me into tiny bits and mail them to Harribel like a serial killer.”
The sharp bite of metal digs into the underside of Ichigo’s chin. He swallows reflexively, feeling the point of the axe nudge against his Adam’s apple. Grimmjow’s grinning when Ichigo lifts his eyes from the vicinity of the demon’s knees, wild and brazen, his eyes practically glowing with that manic glee he’s so used to seeing over the clash of their swords.
Ichigo decides he prefers the sword over the axe. Pantera’s much prettier.
“You’ve got balls, human,” Grimmjow says. His tone borders on condescending fascination, as though Ichigo’s a particularly interesting insect he’s never encountered before. Something he may very well squash eventually, but entertaining enough to keep around for now. It’s not actually the worst impression he could’ve made, all things considered. “I’m starting to really believe you’re hiding something impressive inside that breakable body of yours. Otherwise I can’t imagine you’d talk shit to me like that.”
Ichigo gets to one knee without disturbing the axe blade still nestled under his chin, wanting a better position to move from in case things take a more violent turn than he’s expecting. He’s painfully aware that Grimmjow’s allowing him the freedom to do even that much. Even injured to that degree, Grimmjow’s fast , and there’s no guarantee Ichigo could roll out of the way before that blade connects with his neck. But the illusion of having options is nice regardless — it gives him a minute to think through what the fuck he’s supposed to do in this situation.
Fighting back right now is out. And he can’t expect someone to come to his rescue, not when he doesn’t even know if anyone else is aware of his arrival. He could just… let Grimmjow contact Harribel. That would technically solve his problem, so long as he doesn’t do anything to get himself killed in the meantime. But that would mean potentially forcing Harribel into ceding something to Grimmjow for his safety, and that definitely doesn’t sit right with him. Besides, it’s also possible Harribel wouldn’t risk her kingdom for his sake — she’s a level-headed, fiercely practical woman no matter the world, and the life of one man, even one she respects and feels gratitude towards, doesn’t hold much weight in comparison to her literal kingdom.
It’s better he assume he’s on his own with this and act accordingly.
Although… maybe he’s not as alone as he thought. There’s a chance, however finite, that Kon got warped here with him, and if he can just get to him…
Ichigo steels himself with a quick, quiet breath, then tips his head back a few degrees, just out of reach of the blade.
“Wanna find out?”
Grimmjow quirks a brow. “Spit it out, human. Playing coy doesn’t suit you.”
Well, he’s not wrong there. “What I’m hiding, I mean. My power.”
“Your negotiating skills are pathetic.”
“Hey, I’m being serious! Go ahead and send a message to Harribel if you want and let her take me off your hands. But if you do that, you’re losing out on a chance to fight the person who beat Ulquiorra.”
Grimmjow barks out a laugh, and then a moment later the axe blade is back to his throat, pressing with the intent of drawing blood this time. Ichigo feels a line of it dribble down the length of his neck, probably staining the neck of his shirt. The blade forces his head up at an uncomfortable angle, allowing Grimmjow to lean over and look down directly into his face. This grin’s a perfect match to the expression his Grimmjow wore the first time he saw Ichigo’s hollow mask.
“That’s not a lie, is it?” he asks, tilting his head as he studies Ichigo. “But not the whole truth, I’d wager. You got an Ulquiorra back in your world? That’s the story, isn’t it? You’re from somewhere else, some other world?”
Ichigo’s mouth curls into the barest of smiles, something stupidly fond swelling in his chest. Inappropriate timing, yeah, but who cares? Some things really are universal constants, huh.
“Yeah, that’s the truth. I beat the Ulquiorra in my world. Kicked his ass just like he kicked yours here.” It’s not something he’s proud of by any means, no matter the fact that he’s made his peace with Shiro. But he’s aiming to entice Grimmjow into sparing his life and hopefully leaving Harribel and her people alone. It’s worth the emotional discomfort of bragging about one of the worst moments of his life.
Now for the clincher.
“I’ve also beaten you . My world’s version of you, anyway. Nearly killed you the last time.”
The last time they fought to the death, at least. Their current count for sparring is somewhere around fifty-fifty, though Ichigo vehemently does not count the time Grimmjow slashed his shihakushō and hakama badly enough his junk was at serious risk of becoming sashimi. Fucking asshole took advantage of the fact that Ichigo was scrambling to cover his bits and more or less suplexed him headfirst into a rock, where he promptly lost consciousness. The last thing he remembers is Grimmjow’s hyena cackle and the piercing wolf whistle Yoruichi let out from where she was refereeing the match.
He’s willingly surrounded himself with people who live to torment him. He had his chance at a normal human life with minimal amounts of human assholery and he refused it. Because he genuinely likes these people. Maybe everyone’s right, maybe he really is an idiot. A reckless, masochistic idiot.
“If you think I’m as weak as whatever fucking doppelgänger you’ve been palling around with then you’re somehow even more brain dead than I thought.”
Smart enough to twist Grimmjow around his finger, though, which is consolation enough for Ichigo right now.
“So why don’t you prove it?” Ichigo lets his smile slide into a smirk he knows pisses Grimmjow off like nothing else. He can practically watch his blood boil in real time. “Give me a chance to release my powers and see if I’m entertaining enough for you then.”
The axe abruptly falls away, swung around to rest against Grimmjow’s shoulder. Ichigo carefully conceals the sigh of relief he can’t quite suppress, easing to his feet as Grimmjow takes a step back from the dais. A quick glance over his shoulder reveals that Grimmjow had slammed him into a throne earlier, which is just. So ridiculous it almost makes him laugh. Of course it’s a throne. There’s no Grimmjow out there that’s satisfied with less than a crown, metaphorical or otherwise.
“No wonder I can’t sense shit from you,” Grimmjow muses once Ichigo’s stepped off the dais to join him, still keeping what distance he can without looking like he’s going to bolt and set off Grimmjow’s hunting instincts. “Someone seal your powers?”
“Something like that,” Ichigo hedges. Please, please let Kon be here somewhere. Otherwise I’m going to get an axe through the spine and that’s really, really not how I want to go out. Would my soul even go to Soul Society from here when it doesn’t exist? Fuck, don’t think about that. “I just need to find my… companion. He has what I need to, uh, release them. My powers.”
“If you’re just buying time…”
“I’m not! I’m not, I swear.” Ichigo holds up his hands. “Honest. Kon was with me before I came here, so he should be awake and looking for me by now.”
He really hopes if Kon’s here he doesn’t run into Harribel first. He’ll get himself eviscerated before Ichigo has the chance to snag the gikon from him and then they’ll both be shit out of luck.
“First, though… do you have, like, a healer or something somewhere around here?”
Grimmjow’s back to leaning against the axe and Ichigo’s realized it’s not just part of his douchebag impression. It’s what’s keeping him on his feet when he’s not in actively making threats against Ichigo’s life. The blood Ichigo noted before has steadily seeped through his jacket and pants in the time since they first met, and the soot marks — what he thought were soot marks — have spiderwebbed across his face and chest, growing like some malevolent magic mold.
“If we’re gonna fight to the death and all, I really don’t think you should be half-dead before we even start. Kinda gives me an unfair advantage.”
Grimmjow clicks his tongue, looking away, but Ichigo catches the way his hand clenches tighter around the axe hilt, his shoulders hitching just a little higher around his ears.
“Fucking human, underestimating me,” he growls. “I’d wipe the floor with you no matter what state I’m in.”
“I’ll make it a condition of the fight, if that makes things easier on you.”
“Shut up. You’re still not in any position to negotiate and you’re wearing my patience thin—“
“Look, whatever, can we just get you healed? I’ll stop nagging you about it then and we can get on to finding Kon and beating the shit out of each other. Y’know, the fun stuff.”
Grimmjow doesn’t respond beyond a low, inhuman rumble that emanates from somewhere deep in his chest, but he does turn to stalk through a doorway to the left of the throne, which Ichigo takes to mean he’s won this round. Beaming, Ichigo trots after him. Getting one up on Grimmjow will never not be extremely satisfying.
Plus, he’s not all that upset about this turn of events. He’s kind of excited to see what this Grimmjow has up his sleeve, and getting out of the castle will let him maybe figure out why he’s been summoned to this world to begin with. And, well, it’s nice to experience the reverse of that time in Hueco Mundo, when Grimmjow had Orihime heal him so they could fight on even footing.
He’s going to rub this in his Grimmjow’s face when he gets home. Urahara will bitch at him for the resulting carnage and wanton property damage, but that’s something for future Ichigo to deal with.
For now, he lets the anticipation simmer in his gut and bubble through his veins, content to follow on Grimmjow’s heels and explore this weird gothic castle lit with purple fire and humming with Grimmjow’s magic.