Archive of Our Own ^beta

Bleeding out on a Friday night. Fuckin’ great.

Tousen had been in fine form, nothing but superior calm and a knife a blind guy shouldn’t be able to use that well. Grimmjow’s side was lit up in agony; testimony to his skill. He'd fucked up, hard. Couldn’t honestly complain at the time. There was only one punishment for his guys making trouble on turf that wasn’t theirs. Di-Roy had lost the first joint of his little finger for it. Grimmjow should have known better than to challenge Tousen in front of the chairman.

Now he had a deep slash through the meat of his side, an unhealthy amount of blood loss and his steering wheel was slick with it as he drove through Karakura looking for a drugstore he could bust into for supplies. Hospitals were out of the question. Going to Szayelaporro for treatment was completely unthinkable. Again, Grimmjow pressed his hand to the wadded up shirt he had shoved against the wound. It was wet. Fuck.

Salvation came just before the business district broke completely into suburbia. A squat, two-storey tan brick building with its lights off and a big painted mural across the front glass window.

Kurosaki Veterinary Clinic.

Grimmjow smiled fiercely. Any port in a storm. Antiseptic, fresh bandages, maybe even something to glue his side shut and hopefully some painkillers that wouldn’t put him in a coma, all badly locked inside. Hell, Tousen had always said he was an animal. Asshole.

Grimmjow didn’t like breaking and entering, but he wasn’t a stranger to it. Street kids learned a few essential skills early on, and pickpocketing and how to force a lock were two of them. Avoiding the cops was another. Yakuza recruited almost entirely from the streets. If you were lucky, you stayed out of jail for the first couple of years and made yourself useful. Knowing how to take a few hard hits from the higher-ups in the family was just another survival tactic. Especially in the Aizen clan. Grimmjow had made it six years already, even established his own family as a patriarch under Aizen’s clan. One slash to the guts wasn’t going to take him out. Shawlong would never let him live it down if it did.

Snorting at his own thoughts, Grimmjow headed for the back door of the clinic. There actually was a light on inside: a narrow rectangular window too high to look into. Security decoy light, probably. Jamming his knife into the doorframe and levering it, Grimmjow tried to feel around with the blade for the tongue of the lock. It was an old frame, he could probably just brute force it—

Instinct pinged in the back of his brain, and he tried the door handle with fingers tacky with blood. The door opened on a soundless hinge, revealing a dark hallway. What the shit?

“Trusting assholes,” Grimmjow muttered to himself, a little annoyed. “Lock your fucking doors.” He headed in.

He was leaving his blood everywhere, Grimmjow thought, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. He was getting lightheaded. Nothing he hadn’t dealt with before, but not great. The car was almost jammed in the alley beside the building; a ’72 blue Mustang might grab some attention. He couldn’t fuck around long. Find the medical shit, swipe everything he needed, get home. Easy.

Everything was easy right up until Grimmjow pushed a door open at the end of a short hallway of treatment rooms. The lit room, to be specific. And then it all went to shit.

It was a warm room, with a wall of cages in varying sizes. The animal room, or whatever. Recovery place. There was no good reason why there was a guy asleep in a chair in the corner with a puppy cradled to his chest. Grimmjow felt every muscle in his body freeze solid.

The guy opened his eyes.

There were about five seconds in every confrontation that decided whether someone was gonna fight, talk, or run. Some were fighters, like Grimmjow. Some talked, like Ichimaru or Szayel. Most ran. But some also just bled; too slow or scared to do anything but take whatever was coming.

The guy in the chair had the most piercing brown eyes Grimmjow had ever seen. They were level, serious, and completely unafraid. Nobody outside the clan had ever looked at Grimmjow like that before. He was just sitting there in his white doctor’s coat with the smallest puppy in the world, a little brown thing with floppy ears. It wasn’t moving. The vet followed Grimmjow’s gaze and sighed.

“He was tick-riddled when he was brought in. Only about seven weeks old.” A thumb rubbed over the shiny fur behind the puppy’s ears. The guy looked back up. Through messy strands of orange—actually orange—hair, a flicker of sympathy crossed his face. “He probably won’t make it through the night. That’s a lot of blood on your shirt. Knife wound?”

“None of your business,” Grimmjow said tightly, clutching his side. “Where’s the good shit? Stay in that corner. Seen a lot of blood tonight but I’m happy to add a little more if you try anything smart.” Adjusting his grip on his knife, he made sure the guy saw what kind of blade it was. Not that Grimmjow’s entire aura screamed anything but yakuza.

“Show me that wound,” the guy said instead. “I can see from here. Just take that cloth off it.” He didn’t move an inch from his chair. His skin was dry and his breathing was as steady as could be. Grimmjow realised with a disbelieving jolt that the vet with the dying puppy wasn’t bothered by him at all. It was the only reason why he lifted his shirt, pulling the bloody cloth beneath it away with a hiss of pain. Ah, fuck. It wasn’t exactly a scratch.

The guy leaned forward and frowned. Both his hands were occupied by the limp puppy, but Grimmjow stiffened nonetheless.

“Whoa, I’m unarmed. Calm down.” Making a little tsking sound of displeasure, the vet swept some hair out of his eyes and beckoned him over with a jerk of his chin. “Wash your hands in the sink and dry them. Lose the whole shirt. Clean yourself off with the cloth there then toss it in the bio-waste bag up the other end.”

“Like hell. Just show me the fucking drugs—”

“You need stitches,” the guy said bluntly. “Badly. That’s a shitty place for a slashing knife wound and it’s just deep enough that you’re going to keep ripping it open every time you bend or stretch without them. Put the knife away, wash up, and then you can take this little guy for me while I sew you up. I doubt you know how to measure a decent painkiller without going into the light.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you harder,” the guy said evenly. Grimmjow’s eyebrows shot up. Maybe the blood loss was sending him a little bit batshit because he did pull his whole shirt off and headed for the deep sink against the other wall, washing the blood off his hands and side. It wasn’t bleeding heavily, but it hadn’t stopped either. His legs felt a little rubbery and silver spots were dancing in the edges of his vision. The idea that he might pass out was intolerable. The guy would call the cops for sure.

“What now, asshole?” Grimmjow asked as he dried his hands, weaving on his feet a little.

“My name is Ichigo. Kurosaki Ichigo. I own this veterinary clinic.” Getting slowly to his feet, Kurosaki Ichigo palmed the puppy’s rump to hold it against his chest and gestured to follow him. “Come on. Don’t rob me or kill the animals in my care, and I’ll patch you up this once.”

“There’s no way I’m gonna fall for that. I broke into this shack. You know what I am.”

“Yakuza, yeah. It’s kind of written all over you.”

“Just my back,” Grimmjow replied, and Kurosaki laughed. He headed to the door in the centre of the wall opposite the cages. It was a heavy thing with a bolt and small square window in the middle.

“Well, I’ve had brushes with your type before. I didn’t pay them protection money then, and I’m not backing down from you now. Hope you don’t mind being sewn up on my table. I promise it’s sterilised.” Backing up against the unbolted door, Kurosaki pushed it open with his shoulders and invited Grimmjow into the operating theatre.

The blood loss had to be responsible for a lot because Grimmjow did follow him in, twitching and blinking at everything in the room as the overhead fluorescent lights came on, bathing everything in too much blinding white light. It looked like a smaller, sparser version of a hospital operating room, according to whatever medical dramas Grimmjow had caught while zoning out in the office. In the centre of the room beneath lights on huge hinged arms was a shining metal operating table.

“You’ve had gokudo knocking on your door looking for protection money?” Grimmjow asked, trying not to hold a hand to his side. The pain was manageable, in the sense that he wasn’t going to vomit. “I know whose turf this is. Like hell they’d just stay away like good little assholes. They would have burned this place to the ground, animals and all.”

Kurosaki shrugged. “I guess I was persuasive. They never came back.” Stepping on a pedal on the floor, the table lowered with a muted electrical whine. Turning towards Grimmjow, he held out the motionless puppy. “Hold him on your chest for me. High. He’s still breathing and partially sedated, but he’s too weak to be away from warmth. I need to prep this place a little.”

“I don’t know how to hold one of these,” Grimmjow argued, feeling sweat beading on the back of his neck. He still caught the little bastard when he was pressed into his hands, which were still damp from washing the blood off. The puppy felt like a fuzzy water balloon. Its eyes were mostly shut. “Fuck. Fine. Can’t believe I’m doing this shit. You have any idea who I am?”

“Better that I don’t.”

The doc could move, Grimmjow would give him that. Within minutes he’d set up a small wheeled trolley, scrubbed his hands, sheeted the table and gloved up, though maybe not in that order. The damn wound wasn’t that bad, but concentrating was getting harder. Distantly he thought it must be past two in the morning. Not late by his standards, but late enough. Leaning on the table, trying not to list to the side a little, Grimmjow stared down at the weak little life in his hands and frowned. If it wasn’t strong enough to survive, why fucking help it? He asked as much when he was pointed to sit on the table, swinging his legs up and laying back. The light overhead was pointed right in his eyes, blotting out anything else in the room.

“If all we did was wait for each other to die, I don’t think life would be worth living,” Kurosaki said absently, checking a small bottle of liquid. It was clearly some kind of drug. “Even if we were strong enough to make it ourselves. I’m going to sedate you a little. The suturing—”

“I can handle some stitches,” Grimmjow bit out furiously. He didn’t need some bullshit drug, and he sure as shit wasn’t going to let some civilian vet knock him out cold. He’d wake up in a holding cell. If the vet opened his trap to the cops—

“I said a little,” Kurosaki snapped. “I don’t need you going into shock from the pain. I also need to dig around inside here to clean it up first. Trust me, you’re gonna feel everything. I’m just dulling the edge a little.” When Grimmjow snarled and tried to kick the trolley, Kurosaki whipped a loaded syringe from fuck-knew-where and jammed it directly into his thigh. The plunger was down before Grimmjow could think about retaliation.

“I’m gonna kill you…” The room slowly began to soften around him. A bottomless sensation of panic behind a paper screen rose from under him, but it was too distant to focus on. He was warm. The pain was further away than it had ever been. What the hell was he on…?

“Ketamine,” Kurosaki said curtly, snapping his gloves like he was changing them. “Commonly used as an anaesthetic for animal surgery, but it works perfectly well on humans too.” The light overhead was moved down from Grimmjow’s blank-eyed stare to his stomach. “I’m going to numb the local area a little as well. And don’t worry; I might be a veterinarian but this is a walk in the park. You can get out of here once you’re all sobered up.”

Grimmjow felt cool fingers touch the bright heat of his side, where even the distant pain was at its worst. Wetness swiped over and around it, but he didn’t look. Every muscle in his body felt like a pool of warm water. It was enough to keep his fingers around the little dog. Its dry nose was pressed into the hollow of his throat, heaving tiny little breaths every now and then.

Time started to stretch like warm taffy; long, rope-like strands of confusing sensation and prickling, burning pain. His side was being yanked at a little, maybe. A sting and a tug and a sting. Stitches, his blurry thoughts told him, until they too had stopped.

“Why’re you doin’ this?” The words hardly sounded like words, but a face filled his heavy-lidded vision. Kurosaki was wearing a little wire headband that pushed his orange bangs out of his eyes. Narrow eyeglasses were sitting on his nose. What a douche. His hand was as cool as fresh water when he pressed the back of it to Grimmjow’s brow. Grimmjow wasn’t sure he’d ever seen a kinder or more vivid set of brown eyes.

“Not every yakuza breaking into my place for painkillers would get distracted by a sick puppy,” Kurosaki replied, the corner of his mouth quirking tiredly. “Besides, I was lonely in here. Treating you keeps me busy instead of feeling like I failed this little guy.” He moved out of Grimmjow’s narrow slice of vision again and fingers touched his side. Wetness again, and something dry pressed over the pain. “I’ve cleaned and sutured the wound. You’re lucky you’ve got some muscle; if they’d gotten you any deeper they could have nicked the large intestine. You don’t have an ounce of spare fat on you.”

Grimmjow’s smile was slow. “You checkin’ me out, Doc? Cute.”

“Keep it up. I can neuter you while I’m here.”

The guy had no fear whatsoever. Grimmjow was high as fuck, but he felt a quiet, genuine rush of delight at the quick wit directed at him. When was the last time someone had played around with him like that? When was the last time he’d let ‘em?

“The drug will wear off soon enough, maybe another twenty minutes or so. Rest here until then.” Clattering noises as Kurosaki started to pack up his trolley and push the wheeled stool away. “The local was just a numbing agent. Keep the wound dry and clean for a week. I’ll give you some replacement dressings. If anything goes wrong, don’t come here unless it’s after hours—” Kurosaki’s speech was interrupted by a tiny little squeaky sound coming from under Grimmjow’s chin. Something wiggled under his palm. “What the hell? Button?”

“Button,” Grimmjow repeated slowly, trying to think. In that time the puppy was carefully removed from his grip, leaving a cold spot on his chest where it had been laying. Kurosaki looked disbelieving as he held the blinking puppy under the light.

“He’s moving again.” The words were wondering. “I thought for sure he was on his last legs. He’d perked up earlier but became so much worse after, I was certain it was the final—” Kurosaki jumped a little, almost snapping to attention. “Shit. I need to get a new IV into him. Get off the table.”

“I can’t feel my eyeballs.”

“Get your legs off the table, then.” There was some laughter in the words, and then hands on Grimmjow’s hips, dragging him down the operating table until his legs slid off and hit a chair. The asshole then just left him there like that, fiddling around behind his head with the puppy and a run of tubes hanging from…somewhere. The puppy was making faint sounds that belonged to a chew toy, which maybe meant it was gonna pull through.

Strength was only worth it to help others, huh?

Shit, in that case maybe they both owed the doc one.

It took another whole half hour of languid dozing before the world came properly spinning back, and with it an ache in Grimmjow’s side that felt abused and tugged strangely when he sat up. A large, rectangular white dressing was stuck over the wound. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but nothing some over-the-counter shit wouldn’t help. Staring down at the dried blood staining the waistband of his suit pants down to the thigh, Grimmjow tried to focus. He was about ten blocks from the office. If he could get back there in one piece he could sleep it off. Hopefully Di-Roy had his stump finger in a cup of antiseptic or something. Idiot. What a shitty fuckin’ night.

Something brushed Grimmjow’s shoulders, startling him into reaching for the knife that was sheathed in the back of his pants. Instead his fingers touched cloth, slightly rough.

“The sheet is stuck to your back,” Kurosaki snorted quietly. Hackles went down faster than Grimmjow liked to admit as it was tugged free. It took him one more foggy second to realise what that would mean. Behind him, a small inhaled breath pulled tension through his shoulders. “That’s some tattoo you’ve got.”

“Yeah.” Grimmjow knew what he was seeing. He also knew that Kurosaki was one of very few civilians to ever see it. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know my flowers, sorry. Good work on whoever did that white jaguar, though.”

“Sure it’s not a leopard?”

“Animals are an interest of mine, believe it or not,” Kurosaki said wryly. “But thanks for testing me. The spots inside the rosettes give it away.” A cool fingertip touched the centre of Grimmjow’s back, drawing a curving line that probably traced something. “You’re not just some low-level thug, are you? This is big, expensive work.”

“Thought you didn’t want to know who I was.”

“You could tell me,” Kurosaki replied, “or I can just ask the next yakuza I see what family the guy with the blond hair and blue eyes belongs to. Pretty sure someone like you is one of a kind in any family.”

“Now don’t go getting sweet on me just because I saved your dog,” Grimmjow replied, and the fingertip vanished. No good came of flirting with civilians, besides. “Thanks for the patch job. I’ll get on out of your pretty hair.” Not that Grimmjow ever took his own advice.

“It’s probably for the best,” Kurosaki replied, stepping around Grimmjow as he got to his feet properly. Stripping the sheet off the table and dumping it, he started washing the metal down with a cloth dripping something that stung the shit out of Grimmjow’s nose. “Button’s in the top cage resting now, if you want to say goodbye.”

Uncertain if it was a joke or not, Grimmjow didn’t bother replying. If he was completely honest with himself, he probably shouldn’t be driving anywhere, but getting Shawlong or any of the lieutenants to pick him up would give away where he got treatment from. Call it instinct or whatever, but he didn’t want to share Kurosaki with the world just yet. Definitely not his world.

Instead, he half-swayed his way out to the recovery room to grab his blue shirt and pull it on, buttoning it just enough to hold it closed. The sliced up and bloodstained thing needed to go in the trash. Hell knew where his suit jacket and tie had gone. Still in the car?

Stopping just before he left the way he came, Grimmjow squinted into the cages at eye-level. Sure enough, a brown lump was laying in the middle of one, crashed out again. Button, huh. Looked like a runt. Runts never made it on the streets very long. You needed sharp teeth to do that. Long ones.

Kurosaki’s comment about not paying protection nagged at him. It was a common racket among all the families; carve out your turf, then extort every business for cash or you’d beat the shit out of them, their staff, and their families. If they got mouthy, the business was usually torched to shit. When someone new moved in, the cycle started again. Doctors were useful, so they were often given a free pass. But a vet? No way did Ichimaru have enough love for animals to let a place like Kurosaki’s clinic slide by. It itched under Grimmjow’s skin in a way he couldn’t explain.

Don’t get involved, Grimmjow told himself. Get your ass healed up and back to the office. Get back to business and keeping the men in line. Di-Roy’s shit couldn’t be repeated. Examples had to be made.

And yet. That shit he’d said.

The strong and the weak.

Fuck.

“Oi, Doc,” Grimmjow barked, spinning on his heel so fast his head almost floated with it. “C’mere a second.”

Kurosaki looked over at the open doorway warily. He wasn’t an idiot, and he didn’t trust Grimmjow an inch. Curious, maybe, impulsive definitely, but not stupid. He pulled the wire band out of his hair and tugged his glasses off one-handed, laying them on a side bench. He came out rubbing the bridge of his nose. Poor bastard looked exhausted. Up all night with a ball of fuzz.

“What is it?” Kurosaki asked. Before he could back up, Grimmjow grabbed his face by the jaw with both hands, tugging it up slightly so he could see. “What the hell? Let go of me.”

“Shut up a second.” A muscle tensed under Grimmjow’s hand. Clenched teeth. Heh. Grimmjow prided himself on reading people, but sometimes you just had to look up close.

Kurosaki was interesting. Stubborn bastard head on him, but his nose was unbroken. Jaw too, if the pure line of it under his fingers was any indication. No scars. Sharp brown eyes; sometimes kind, sometimes burning with concentration and intensity. Grimmjow had seen that already. Short, thick lashes much darker than his hair. Decent bones, nothing crooked about him except that half-smile he’d flashed before. Lips weren’t bitten or swollen. Just another good-looking vet with nothing to worry about. Had to be pretty carefree to sew up Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez like it was no big deal, totally oblivious to his status. The Aizen clan would never find out. He’d make sure of it.

“Going to count my teeth next?” Kurosaki asked irritably, pulling his face out of Grimmjow’s hands. “Are all yakuza like you?”

“There’s nobody else like me,” Grimmjow said after a moment, reaching around Kurosaki and patting his ass. There it was. He pulled out a slim phone before the guy could do more than tense up like a fireplace poker. He flashed it up at his face to unlock it and entered some quick digits, then passed it back. Kurosaki grabbed it with a curious look and read the screen.

“Grimmjow. Interesting name.”

“Call that number if you find yourself in deep shit,” Grimmjow told him, turning for the hallway. “And don’t tell anyone I was here. Safer for you that way. This isn’t my turf.”

“Your turf,” Kurosaki repeated, poking at his jaw. “Not our turf.”

“Don’t go thinking about it, dipshit.” Smart enough to read into that, then. “Go back to lookin’ after your animals. Thanks for sewing me up.” Grimmjow turned for the hallway, hell-bent on getting out into the night air and his blood-smeared car. Reality, in a nutshell.

“Hope you gave as good as you got.”

The words were startling. Before Grimmjow could think about it, he was snarling a grin at the clinic’s back door. A single wave over his shoulder was all he gave in reply. Giving anything back to Tousen was mostly out of the question at the current juncture, but Grimmjow refused to rule anything out.

There was a reason his tattoo looked like it did, and he meant to fulfil the destiny on his back.

The night air was cold on his skin after the comfortingly warm back rooms of the clinic. The wind whipped through his hair, stinging his skin with the promise of a cold snap soon. His watch said it was past three in the morning. Letting the door close behind him, hearing the soft click of the lock finally tumbling, Grimmjow staggered back to his car, ready to reverse it back out into the world.

He had to give the doc props though, Grimmjow thought as he glided through lanes, going just fast enough to give the cops no reason to stop him. Not many would help the guy who broke in. Almost nobody would have looked at him without some degree of fear. It wasn’t a brag. Common sense said you didn’t fuck with the guy in the black suit. Instinct definitely said not to fuck with the one who looks like a foreigner and doesn’t do up his tie.

The vet was either fearless or stupid. Privately, Grimmjow wondered if he’d ever use the phone number, or delete it and move on with treating his furballs.

Guess time would tell.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Di-Roy was folded on the Jaegerjaquez HQ’s fancy granite floor in a full bow, almost babbling. His left hand was heavily bandaged. A conspicuous inch was missing from his little finger. “I fucked up so hard, Boss. I forgot where the turf line was, I was two clubs outside ours and I got a little rowdy, I’m so sorry—”

“I heard your stupid story already from Tousen, you dumb fucking moron,” Grimmjow snarled, booting him in the face with a wing-tipped shoe. “Get up and go buy me some cigarettes. Someone find me some oxy or a bottle of damn good whiskey, I don’t give a shit which.” Clutching his nose with his good hand, Di-Roy practically evaporated on the spot to go do just that.

“It’s almost four in the morning,” Shawlong said smoothly, manifesting at his side. “Surely a meal and some sleep would be a more prudent option.” He caught the shirt Grimmjow threw at him one-handed. His dark eyes didn’t miss the gauze dressing stuck to his side as he walked through to his private office. “Do not get into your shower with that. I’ll prepare a bowl of hot water.”

“Whatever,” Grimmjow groaned, easing himself down onto his leather couch. He felt about eighty years old. “Where’re the rest of the boys?”

“Sleeping at this hour, like responsible men should be.” Shawlong never took any shit. It was infuriating sometimes, but Grimmjow supposed he did let him get away with it as his captain. Sometimes it was the better part of valour to just let him be a mother hen asshole. “You should have known better than to interfere with Di-Roy’s punishment. The chairman was right there watching. Even if Tousen wanted to go easy, and he never does, he had to keep up appearances.”

“Think I don’t know that? I just didn’t want that blind asshole getting his own way.” Grimmjow sneered up at the ceiling. “He wants an excuse to kill me and take you under his wing. Boost his numbers up past Ichimaru’s, then he can be Aizen’s sole kiss-ass captain. It’s not exactly a secret.”

“Don’t get involved in their politics. Just run your own family for now.” Sounds of water being poured behind him filled Grimmjow’s ears. Shutting his burning eyes, he had to admit that he needed a few hours of sleep and a gallon of water or two. His side was still killing him. Numbness was completely gone. The vet felt like a faded memory already.

“I hate letting that fucker have whatever he wants. I’ll kill him one day.”

“You’ll try.”

“I’ll kill him one day.” Annoyed, Grimmjow opened his eyes and turned his head. Shawlong was rinsing out a cloth with the same perfect calm he did everything. “If you’ve got no faith in me, go join up with Zommari’s family. You two can fuckin’ meditate together.” Shawlong didn’t even reply. Bastard. When he brought the bowl over and sat it on the coffee table, Grimmjow refused to move. “Cut it out. I can wash myself.”

“Remove your clothing, Grimmjow-sama,” Shawlong said, too formal and totally full of shit. “Or at least show me you can do this yourself before you pass out on the couch.”

“Beat it, string-bean,” Grimmjow growled, hauling his bloodless carcass back out of the warm cradle of his favourite couch. He grabbed the cloth in one hand and started unbuckling his belt, dripping water everywhere. “Shut the door behind you.” Miracle of fuckin’ miracles, Shawlong actually left with a judgemental look and a glint in his eye that said Grimmjow had about five minutes to wash and change.

That was the thing about running a family. Some of them took it real personal that they had to look after the boss. Loyalty was king. Brotherhood and all that. Grimmjow got it, he did, but facts were facts; Shawlong should have been the one running the family. Qufang had a better sound to it, and he had the head for business. Grimmjow? Great for strategy, reading motive, and beating the utter shit out of anyone in his way. Running rigged casinos and acquiring real estate? Not so much. But Aizen had hand-picked his officers seemingly at random, ignoring people like Shawlong who had a cool head for leadership and knew how to bow and scrape when it was needed. Grimmjow was still coming to grips with that one.

Maybe he should become a vet, Grimmjow snorted to himself as he washed the evening’s blood and grime off his skin, watching the water slowly turn pink. Seemed kind of cruisy, got to touch animals if you were into that kind of thing. Save a life now and then. Total opposite of his life so far. Maybe Kurosaki would laugh at him even thinking about it. Or flay his ass for taking his job lightly. Weird bastard, stabbing him in the leg with the syringe like that.

Finally clean, Grimmjow flung the rag back into the bowl with a splash and half-stumbled toward his office wardrobe, looking for something he could pull on to sleep. The boys couldn’t see him in anything but his Sunday fuckin’ best, but Shawlong wouldn’t give a shit. He’d been with him through the worst already. Seeing him in sweatpants wouldn’t even rate on the scale. Going home just felt like too much damned effort after a night of shit and weirdness.

Collapsing down onto the couch, Grimmjow groaned silently as he hauled his legs up onto it and rested his head on the cushioned arm. His side was blaring a siren of pain, but it wasn’t the urgent bloody emergency of before. This was safe pain. Treated wound pain.

Grimmjow fell asleep before Di-Roy could return with his stash, thinking about cool fingers touching his burning skin.

Maybe the night had been the real dream. Reality was ahead.

Life went right back to normal in no time. Organising the boys. Checking in with Tousen. Collecting protection money. An actual few instances of his boys working for that cash, as an asshole from one of the other clans’ territory started pressuring a local ramen shop to close up business. That had been a fun night. But mostly it was same old, same old.

Grimmjow’s side healed up real nice; three weeks later it was a red line wrapping around his side, an inch higher than his navel. Kurosaki might be used to treating animals but his stitches were perfect. Even Shawlong had taken a good look at them, his normally unsmiling mouth shrugging with approval.

Kurosaki. Crazy asshole animal doctor.

Just when Grimmjow had been certain that his little meeting was a one-off and nothing more would come of it, his phone dinged one Tuesday night with a photo from an unknown number.

[Unknown]: Look who’s up and about.

A photo of a chunky little brown puppy standing on his own four legs was attached, all floppy-eared and looking like he’d put on a kilo or two of puppy fat. Grimmjow snorted at the photo before he could help himself. He didn’t reply. Couldn’t encourage that kind of communication after all the shit he’d talked about staying out of his business.

Thing was though, it didn’t stop.

At all.

Breaking up Grimmjow’s routine of running his family and generally being a terrifying spectre of Karakura and the Aizen clan in general were pictures of random bandaged animals, tidbits of Kurosaki’s day and whatever shit was going on in the clinic that he seemed to think Grimmjow would want to know about. As if he fuckin’ cared! But they kept coming, once a day or every two days, just opening a window to a civilian life he’d never have. That he never wanted, more importantly.

“You boys ever hear of the Kurosaki Veterinary Clinic?” Grimmjow asked suddenly one afternoon, sick of scowling out the high-rise windows at the sunset. “It’s past the business district, over on Ichimaru’s turf.”

Yylfordt looked up from his laptop, confused. “You got a pet?”

“Yeah, five of you dipshits,” Grimmjow snapped back. “Look it up for me. Get some dirt on the owner.”

“You got a bug in your ass about that place, Boss?” Edrad asked with zero tact, as always. Grimmjow needed to start shanking them for their shitty language. “We could swing by if they’re playing tough.”

“Go near that place and I’ll kill you myself.” Biting the end of the Montblanc pen Shawlong had gifted him a few years ago, Grimmjow scanned the room with a glare. “I owe the guy there a debt. Figure me out something already.” It was satisfying to see them all stop what they were doing and crack open a laptop, getting on the job immediately. They were rough and rowdy, but when push came to shove they had his back and followed his damned orders.

It was a rare afternoon when they were all still in the family headquarters, which was really just the top two floors of a high-rise building they owned. It was a fancy looking place: high ceilings, black and chrome and white everywhere you looked. Black leather couches, an expensive oak and marble desk in his private office. Even a bathroom for running late between appointments. Like Grimmjow had scrambled anywhere in the last few fuckin’ years. Aizen’s little promotion had seen to that. Front of the office space was something like a common area rather than desks and bullshit. He had a captain and four lieutenants, not secretaries. They had their own gigs going and their own boys under them to manage, but they never shook the habit of voluntarily spending their downtime under Grimmjow’s watchful eye. Except for Di-Roy, who looked like he was ready to piss himself any time he caught Grimmjow watching him. Good. Little asshole.

“I’ve got some dirt for you,” Yylfordt announced into the productive silence, looking thrilled. He scooted forward on the couch. “It comes in the form of the Karakura Wildlife Heroes Charity Calendar 2019.” Grinning at Grimmjow, he slicked a curtain of yellow hair behind one ear and spun his laptop around. Right there on the screen for all to see was— “Doctor Kurosaki Ichigo is Mr July.”

The room exploded with laughter and whistling. Even Grimmjow couldn’t hold onto his pissy facade, striding across the room to get a good look. So did the others, with Nakeem almost bouncing Shawlong into the adjacent wall with his girth as he jumped up. Crowding in around Yylfordt’s knees, they all stared in varying degrees of curious amusement.

Surrounded by lush green jungle-looking foliage in what had to be an arranged enclosure somewhere, Kurosaki was wearing nothing but tiny khaki shorts, a smouldering expression, and about a litre of oil rubbed into tanned skin. It was clear the guy worked out; even if he was flexing for the shoot, those were real muscles. In the photo he was looking directly at an actual fucking tiger rolled over on its back, head tipped back and flashing the striped white fur of its stomach. Damn thing looked like it was in love.

“That’s not photoshopped,” Yylfordt said helpfully, so proud of himself for finding interesting material. “Taken in association with the Karakura Zoo’s tiger breeding program. This guy’s got some big balls.”

“This is a civvie veterinarian?” Edrad asked, stroking his chin. “He’s ripped, Boss. If he can take on a tiger, we should recruit him.”

“You just want to wrestle that tiger,” Di-Roy piped up, squirming his way between them all and bumping into Grimmjow’s side. “Guy looks familiar though. Think I’ve seen him before at one of the bars.” Nobody could argue with Di-Roy’s knowledge of all their local watering holes, even if he got stinking drunk and started fights in the wrong ones. Grimmjow shoved him out of his personal space and tilted the laptop screen back, pulling out his phone camera. Yylfordt looked down at it.

“I can just send you the link.”

“Shut it.” Snapping a half-assed photo of the spread, Grimmjow sent it directly to Kurosaki with no message attached. “Find me some more shit. Family, friends, whatever. I want to know what he has that Ichimaru wants to look after. Doubt it’s just because he looks good in mini-shorts.” Seeing the look Nakeem, Di-Roy and Yylfordt shared, Grimmjow just clicked his tongue and started back toward his office.

“So we’re not recruiting him,” Edrad said behind him. “And we’re forbidden to beat information out of him. That’s bullshit. Get a fuckin’ secretary to dig up his dirt.”

Shawlong sighed. “A little appreciation of nuance would be desirable, Edrad. Allow for some middle ground.”

“Being a shady asshole is your area. Mine is making sure our boys are strong enough to catch lead in their motherfucking teeth. If I can’t make this vet squeal on whatever he’s hiding, I got other places to be.”

Grimmjow turned just in time to see Shawlong sprout three needles between his fingers, kicking off Edrad’s giant ass to gain height and thrust one down into the pressure point at the hinge of his jaw. He went down like a felled tree, crashing into the arm of one couch and hitting the tiled floor. Flawlessly composed, Shawlong vanished his needles into his sleeve and bent gracefully, hauling Edrad back up by his wild red hair. His expression didn’t flicker as he spoke softly and directly into his ear. Grimmjow could guess what he said, since sweat started to gather on Edrad’s forehead. They were quick to get up and bow to each other, one a damn sight lower than the other.

“I don’t need you to discipline my lieutenants,” Grimmjow said curtly, watching Shawlong adjust his sleeves. He only did it like that when he was doing some sleight of hand shit with his needles. It was impossible to know how many of them he had. “I can handle it.”

“Of course, but unlike yours, my discipline tends to leave them alive.” Pushing a thin black braid behind his shoulder, Shawlong straightened the family pin on his lapel. His long face was a closed book. “And a captain’s duty is to keep his patriarch’s hands clean and the family in order.”

Grimmjow grunted. The five of them were watching him warily, waiting for his reaction. They’d been getting mouthy lately. Getting a little stupid. But Shawlong stepping in while he was in the room? That wasn’t how their outfit worked. For Edrad to talk back to his face, he must be slipping.

“Shawlong.”

“Sir.”

“You want this family? Want me out of the chair?”

“Of course not. I serve you.” Shawlong’s face finally showed an emotion. “I’m loyal to you.”

“Then the next time one of the boys talks shit while I’m standing right here, I take care of ‘em. No nanny bullshit. No protecting ‘em.” Grimmjow scanned the room, stopping on one face before moving to the next. “I don’t need lieutenants who can’t follow orders. I pulled you out of the gutter with me because I can use you. You start talking trash and fucking up, disobeying and pissing off other families? I can’t use you. And I don’t need dead weight dragging behind me.” He waited until Edrad and Di-Roy bowed, hands on their thighs and heads bent. The others followed quickly. “Now get the fuck back to work and stop wasting my time. I’m going for a drive.”

For once, Shawlong didn’t complain about him taking his own ride around town, only standing aside to watch him go. Grimmjow hit the stairs once he was out of HQ, ignoring the elevators. Maybe they could cool his head after that shitshow.

Being the patriarch of the Jaegerjaquez family might sound great, but managing what used to be a gang of thugs when his status said he couldn’t even break ribs personally? Wasn’t his speed. Six years of reining it in to look like Aizen’s good officer was killing him. Now he finally had something interesting to investigate, and his own boys were giving him stick over it. Well, fuck that.

Grimmjow was going to find out what was going on between the vet and Ichimaru’s family, even if he had to do it all himself. Emerging from the air conditioned lobby of the building, the street felt like another world to him. People, sunshine, cool air, street noise. The hungry vacuum of the office and all its demands vanished from his shoulders almost instantly.

Inside his breast pocket, Grimmjow’s phone began to vibrate. Hope wanted it to be Kurosaki calling in embarrassment to explain the calendar, but common sense said it was probably Tousen. Grimmjow scowled at the blocked number. They’d already had their weekly meeting, the fuck could he want now? Hitting the accept button with prejudice, Grimmjow grit his teeth and waited for it.

“Jaegerjaquez.”

“Even your greetings are substandard.” As usual, Tousen didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Show some respect for your betters.”

“Your number’s blocked from display. Get someone to fix your settings, eagle eyes.” Insulting the blind was pretty shitty behaviour, but Grimmjow always made an exception for him. Not like he didn’t have it coming. “What’s the matter? If you want Di-Roy’s fingertip mounted on your wall, I know a guy.”

“The offerings of the unwashed and irrelevant do not interest me. Much like you, Grimmjow.”

“The hell do you want?”

“Meeting at five o’clock. Bring your captain. Leave the riffraff.” Grimmjow felt his hackles rise.

“I don’t march to your fuckin—” The line went dead. “Fuck. Asshole.” There went his free afternoon and his clear head. Meeting on a Wednesday, though, that was new. Something must have happened for Aizen to call them together two days after the weekly meeting. Quotas had been discussed already. Reprimands issued. The usual.

Something was up and for once, it wasn’t his family causing shit. That was enough to lift Grimmjow’s spirits. Sending a quick text to Shawlong with the details, he headed for the parking garage with a slight spring in his step. If he cruised slow he’d make it to Aizen clan HQ just in time.

Time to see what it was all about.

The headquarters of the Aizen clan never failed to intimidate. Even Grimmjow, who would spit in Aizen’s eye for fifty dollars and wear the consequences, hated the place down to his bones.

Word was that it used to belong to another clan, til Aizen and his captains killed their chairman and cannibalised them. Whatever offer he’d made, it’d been too good for the families under him to resist. Aizen tended to do shit like that; came in all friendly, made an offer that forced you to swallow your ego and accept the leash. If you didn’t, it was goodnight for you and your men. Grimmjow had seen it happen too many times already. The asshole was a genius, and he worked fast. The sprawling white three storey mansion he slouched his way towards was evidence enough of that.

Grimmjow would hate him more if he wasn’t so fucking good at what he did. One day he might make a play for that title, but for the moment Tousen was more satisfying prey. Biting back the urge to shake out a cigarette, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his black suit pants, finding the unfamiliar barrier of a recent tailoring inside. Fucking Shawlong. Yanking his hands back out, making a mental note to piss in his whiskey, Grimmjow bared his teeth at no-one and yanked his tie out of its knot, letting it lie loose against the blue of his shirt. His captain might be trying to take the thug out of him, but he wasn’t going quietly just yet.

“Ooh, if it isn’t Grimmjow. On time for once,” Szayelaporro said from inside the main lobby doorway. He pushed off the wall with one hand and straightened his glasses with a smile that showed all his perfectly white teeth. “You’re looking dangerously handsome, as always. How is it that someone like you is able to push every button Tousen has and the chairman still refuses to let him kill you? The Di-Roy incident should have been the last straw.” Leaning in far beyond the boundaries of personal space, Szayel’s eyes were wide as he stared at him. His expensive amber contact lenses looked just a little crooked. “What’s your secret, Grimmjow?”

Szayel was too close to see him coming. Unlatching his jaw, Grimmjow lifted his chin and bit down on the tip of his surgically enhanced nose so hard the shaved cartilage gave way. Szayel screamed at a pitch that filled the lobby with a musical echo and pulled his knife, but Grimmjow was already six feet away, checking his mouth for blood. Exact application of pressure, he thought, sneering at the crumpled mess of Szayel’s nose. Now that was perfection.

“Guess he likes his wild animals,” Grimmjow called as Szayel pulled a compact mirror from his pocket, wailing at the sight of his own face. He was already running for the door. “Asshole. Keep your plastic face away from me next time.”

“I’ll fucking kill you!” The words echoed back too tearfully for Grimmjow to give a shit. Szayel’s family was smaller than his and he was terrified of a fistfight. Asshole liked to pretend he had the legendary balls of a Shiba clan member, but his spine was nothing but water. Having Ichimaru as his direct captain made sense; sly bastards like them liked to share a cozy nest. Easier to keep an eye on each other. Grimmjow preferred a few of the more direct patriarchs to keep company with, if he ever had to. Heading for the carpeted stairs, he took them two at a time and hit the hallway with a long stride. The meeting room was at the back of the compound and at least a few of Aizen’s pets would already be there waiting with a stupid comment to make.

“You need a muzzle,” a familiar voice said. The mild reproach was unmistakable. Grimmjow didn’t even bother to turn or break his pace.

“And you need a dick.”

“You know my tastes don’t lean in that direction.” Footsteps sped up behind him as slightly shorter legs tried to keep up. “Or are you still offended that the chairman allows women in his new vision for the gokudo? You, a jumped up half-Japanese street thug? You should be grateful.”

Grimmjow felt heat burning under his skin, but it wasn’t embarrassment.

“Not all of us begged to be part of this outfit, Nelliel.”

“So the rumour is true. You’re the oldest patriarch among us, if you don’t count Tousen and Ichimaru. Out of all the gangs and outfits and thugs and organised rackets in Karakura, he really asked—”

“You should stop fucking your family captain if you’re going to go digging in other people’s business,” Grimmjow snapped coldly. Her footsteps stopped and he swung around to meet her steadfast hazel gaze. “Harribel’s already on Tousen’s radar as your replacement, and Nnoitra is ready to kill you if he can’t fuck you. Give him what he wants already.” He barely waited for her expression to turn shrewd, scanning her from head to foot. The suit did fuck all to hide that there was a woman under them. Cutting her hair off did less than nothing. He turned and continued running the damn gauntlet of assholes.

“I’d rather fuck my tanto,” Nelliel called after him, and against his will Grimmjow snorted a laugh.

“Sweep your office sometime,” he shot back over his shoulder. “I heard it’s getting dirty.” She didn’t follow him any further after that, and Grimmjow knew it wasn’t just their uneasy exchange that did it. The politics of a yakuza clan had always driven him nuts, but that didn’t mean he didn’t hear things or couldn’t play the game when he wanted to. Nelliel might not approve of his methods or history, but if cluing her in that her office was bugged ended up pissing in Nnoitra’s cereal, so be it.

Whistling the rest of the way to the meeting room, Grimmjow felt his mood improving with every step. He almost welcomed whoever showed up next, right up until he rounded the next labyrinthine corner and came face-to-face with a benevolently smiling Ichimaru Gin.

“You should really stop speaking so loudly about listening devices. People will get paranoid and begin shooting each other.”

Grimmjow felt his hackles rise. “Loud, soft, whole place is bugged anyway. I could fill a trashcan with the amount of yours my boys have cleaned out over the years. If I’m that interesting, fight Tousen for me.”

“Mm, I actually would, but Kaname-san wants to keep his eye on you. So to speak.”

“Aizen’s orders?”

“You should really call him the chairman when you speak to me.” Grimmjow’s eyes narrowed, but Ichimaru was busy reaching in to straighten his crooked tie. It put him in the same proximity that Szayel had been, but Grimmjow’s teeth were blunted when it came to this one. If there was one asshole in the clan who had the capacity to be more cold blooded than a snake, it was Ichimaru Gin. He still barely restrained a snarl when pale hair brushed his cheek. “Don’t bite, Grimmjow. Animal as you are, I’d hate to send you back to the veterinarian with a new wound to have patched up.” A mouth grazed his ear. “Though Kurosaki-kun does wonderful work, doesn’t he?”

Grimmjow’s gut clenched like a fist.

The office was clean. His boys were loyal. Had he been tailed that night? No. Not even blood loss could have made him miss that. All that was left was an option that tasted strangely sour in his mouth.

“Oh, don’t look so glum,” Ichimaru said almost kindly. “You must know by now that I have eyes and ears everywhere. Hazards of being the clan’s captain.” He paused. “Well, one of them. Tell me something, and I’ll let you play with Kurosaki all you want: did you tell him which clan you belong to?”

What the fuck? Why would—

Grimmjow’s thoughts broke off as his tie was abruptly yanked as tight as a noose, enough to cut off his air. Ichimaru’s usually smiling squint opened into the glacial gaze of a killer. The smile was completely gone.

“Didn’t tell him shit,” Grimmjow forced out on the only breath still in his lungs. “Got my first name and my tattoo. Nothin’ else.” The answer gifted him sweet oxygen as his tie was pulled back into place. Cold hands patted his chest.

“Oh, good. Keep it that way, won’t you?” Ichimaru turned to leave, tugging his cuffs down slightly. The perfect picture of professionalism. Grimmjow never could help himself.

“Tell me why.”

Ichimaru’s genial—and entirely fake—smile faded again. “Or what?”

“Or I see what this information is worth to Tousen. Everyone knows he’s trying to edge you out of Aizen’s good graces, anyway.”

“Suicide is a poor way to go, Grimmjow,” Ichimaru said. “Which if you’re wondering, is much like telling Kaname-san anything about my business. Talk, and I’ll see to it that you’re very cozily chained to your family captain when I kick you off the dock.”

Every instinct in Grimmjow was blaring like an alarm. Beneath his unbuttoned collar, sweat was beginning to dampen his nape.

“The dock thing kinda muddies the suicide threat a bit.”

Ichimaru actually scowled. “Usually I only have to make the one.” When Grimmjow just stood there, his expression slowly shifted into something indecipherable. “The vet is a civilian. A very valuable civilian who has nothing to do with this clan. Keep him safe or I will have you murdered. Are we clear?”

This time Ichimaru didn’t wait for a reply, already putting his happy face on to greet Starrk and Nelliel as they walked up the hall. Shawlong followed at a distance, relief relaxing his brow as they spotted each other. Five minutes to meeting start. Not enough time to talk. Besides, Grimmjow’s gut told him he shouldn’t be saying shit about that conversation to anyone in the clan. Shawlong wasn’t a snitch, but with only half the story in his hand there was someone else he wanted to talk to first.

Up ahead, the heavy oak double doors slowly opened wide and Tousen emerged.

“Everyone, come in and take your seats. Captains, stand behind your patriarchs and do not speak.” He paused, sniffing the air like a bloodhound in Armani. “Where is Szayelaporro Granz?”

Oh shit, right. Grimmjow didn’t let his expression flicker in the slightest, but the silence stretched for long seconds. Tousen simply waited.

“I think he had a nose job booked today,” Nelliel said, jerking her lapels smartly into place. Her level gaze did not swing to Grimmjow, who was trying to will back the tears of laughter in his eyes in case Tousen could smell those too. Instead, Tousen only frowned faintly.

“The chairman will be disappointed. Regardless, come inside. Someone can fill him in later.” He disappeared back into the room and the rest of them followed, early enough to sit and await the arrival of the others. Beating Ulquiorra to a meeting for once. The day was officially a good one, even if Grimmjow could still feel Ichimaru’s eyes drilling into his temple.

A valuable civilian. Giving Grimmjow just enough rope to hang himself with, no doubt. Ichimaru wasn’t as smart as he thought he was. The vet was interesting, but not that interesting. If he was so valuable then Ichimaru would never have opened his mouth. He wanted Grimmjow in close to Kurosaki for some reason.

“You’re distracted,” Shawlong said in his ear, standing just behind him. “This meeting could be anything. Stay on your guard.”

“I’m gonna smash your skull like a melon if you keep this mother hen shit up in public,” Grimmjow said under his breath, knowing he’d catch it. Fingers squeezed his shoulder and removed themselves before anyone noticed. “And stay out of my suits, asshole. I want my pockets back by tomorrow afternoon.”

Beside Grimmjow, Nnoitra threw himself down in his own leather chair, two wide rows of them with Aizen’s larger chair sitting at the head like an empty throne. The asshole was grinning in a way Grimmjow instantly didn’t like.

“I hear something’s really cooking this time. Could be a mole in the ranks.” The pointed tip of a pink tongue emerged to touch the corner of his own mouth. His sole eye held the gleam of joyful violence, the kind that didn’t care who ended up dead. “I hope it’s a woman.” It didn’t take a genius to guess which woman he wanted it to be. Sadistic piece of shit.

The rest filed in slowly, the captains looking uneasy about being present and the patriarchs—plus one matriarch—seated with perfect posture. Starrk looked like he was ready to nod off. Most of the others held no interest for Grimmjow. Pandering fools and money-hungry assholes. Tousen’s chin lifted slightly as Harribel walked in to stand behind Nelliel, his nostrils flaring. Creepy bastard, sniffing people like that. Explained why he sent them all signature cologne for Christmas.

Finally, everyone was present and seated. Only then did Aizen walk in from a concealed door, his favourite entrance. His suit was a three-piece dove grey with a royal purple shirt beneath. Typical bullshit displays; black suits were for his underlings, which was everyone but himself. Mr. Special. His smile was kind, caring and set beneath eyes like chips of stone. They all stood as one to bow and greet him.

“Chairman,” Grimmjow muttered with the others, his eyes on the carpet and hands on his thighs. His scar still tugged at the movement.

“Welcome, all of you. I appreciate you all arriving on such short notice.”

“Szayelaporro would rather be with his plastic surgeon,” Tousen said smoothly as they sat down. Aizen’s smile deepened as Ichimaru’s froze on his face. In the division of families, Granz answered to Ichimaru. “Mine are, of course, all in attendance.”

“Forever my diligent captain, Kaname,” Aizen replied easily, stretching his legs out and crossing his ankles. “But we must address this immediately, so Gin, please pass on the message.” Aizen slowly scanned the room, his gaze alighting on each family head one by one. The captains he ignored entirely. When his dead brown eyes hit Grimmjow’s, they stayed there just a split second too long. Long enough that the ghost of the leash around his neck weighed just a little heavier. Then he moved on. “Information has been presented to me that suggested we have an information leak. Last month, a person known to the clan frequented a bar that is not part of our territory. They drank, they boasted, and the wrong ears were listening.”

“Wrong ears,” Starrk repeated, finally looking alert. “What did we lose?”

“What we lost is not as important as how we lost it.” At the disgruntled silence, Aizen sighed. “It was the contract for a land purchase we were negotiating. The vendor mysteriously received a much higher offer and rescinded the sale.” Aizen accepted the tumbler of whiskey that Ichimaru passed to him, bent to one knee like a smiling servant. “There will be others. However, I’ve learned today that the sale went to the Yamamoto clan. Specifically, the Kuchiki family.” Aizen’s smile began to fade. “Our talkative soul was drinking in a bar owned by Kuchiki, and was overheard by one Abarai Renji.”

The room exploded into cursing and raised voices as the patriarchs and their captains began swearing up and down it wasn’t their family, not their boys, nothing to do with them at all. Grimmjow knew why. Not only was the Kuchiki family one of the best in the Yamamoto clan ever since the Shiba went down in spectacular flames, but Abarai was Kuchiki’s captain. There wasn’t a yakuza in the Aizen clan who didn’t know exactly what that redheaded fucker looked like. Even Di-Roy wasn’t that fucking stupid. It had to be an information leak for cash.

“We’re not that green,” Shawlong said at his shoulder, bent low and composed. Grimmjow just nodded. Damn right they weren’t. Besides, he barely remembered giving a shit about a land sale in the first place, let alone passed the information down to his own boys. Score one for not crawling up Aizen’s ass to be in the know.

“Gut ‘em like a fish! Skin ‘em!” Nnoitra was hooting, out for entertainment. “Show ‘em the Aizen clan isn’t to be fucked with!” The others all muttered similar agreement, even if Zommari and Nelliel looked a little uneasy. Worried it was one of theirs or not into the violence? Both, maybe. Grimmjow looked back to the head of the room to find Aizen smiling at him curiously.

“You’re very quiet, Grimmjow,” Aizen commented. “Bored already? After your little mess last month, I wondered if you’d consider the lieutenant we relieved a fingertip of as a possible culprit.” Someone tittered a little laugh. Nnoitra just gave his enormous joker’s grin. Grimmjow couldn’t wait to roll his eyes.

“Di-Roy would have to be smart enough to know what a sale contract even was.” A few muffled laughs, but Aizen’s eyes were unblinking. “Besides, he’s the biggest source of information for this clan. His ear’s to the ground all day and all night. He probably knows all about that fucking sale already and doesn’t realise it yet.”

“Watch your language,” Tousen warned, but Aizen waved it off.

“You trust your men implicitly, don’t you? And they trust you. It’s a true shame that the other patriarchs have yet to instil such loyalty.” Leaning back in his chair, he took a slow sip of his whiskey. “Including myself. Housekeeping having the key to my office was a poor oversight on my part, indeed.”

Grimmjow’s skin began to crawl with the instinct to get up and fight. To move, to do something. Slowly, Aizen stood and headed to the wall behind his chair. A ceremonial sword was mounted on it; Aizen’s personal pride and joy.

“Gin, bring Loly Aiverrne in. Kaname, lay out the plastic sheet. The rest of you, watch what happens here today.” Aizen lifted his eyes from the sheen of the steel in his hands. His expression finally matched the savage greed within. “Remember the price of letting the Yamamoto clan steal a single thing from my grasp.”

Grimmjow stared blankly into middle distance until the sounds of a young girl screaming for help sounded faintly somewhere in headquarters. Closer, closer, closer to the door until the screaming started to make words.

“I live for Aizen-sama! I love him! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Please, please! Take my finger, take my hand!”

Nnoitra snorted. “Maid thinks she’s yakuza now.” He stretched out and cracked his knuckles one by one. He looked completely at peace as a girl no older than nineteen was hauled sobbing into the room, the lace headband in her dark hair slid askew. She wore pigtails and knee socks, for fuck’s sake.

Fetish maid read the wrong piece of paper, had too many drinks with the wrong asshole and it was curtains for her. Grimmjow felt Shawlong’s cool composure like a wall at his back and wondered if he had the stomach to watch it all. Probably. Grimmjow was no stranger to blood, but this wasn’t just blood. It was slaughter. Civilian slaughter.

When they threw her down on the plastic, Nnoitra elbowed him in the side and leaned over conspiratorially.

“Guess it’s my lucky day.”

That was the thing about good days, Grimmjow thought, keeping his unseeing gaze pinned on the spectacle. All it took was one fuck-up to ruin them.

Especially when you ran with yakuza.

The bar was dim, quiet and lit with muted yellow lamps in corners and mounted on dark wood-panelled walls. Ginza-style, it was one of those windowless places that defied the time of day, playing quiet jazz somewhere to muffle conversation. Couple of half-square booths in the corners; one of which was always reserved for the Jaegerjaquez patriarch. A six-stool bar stood proud against one wall with a large, impeccably dressed man behind the polished wood, cleaning glasses and wiping surfaces that were already pristine. It was a good place to think.

Grimmjow threw back his first whiskey of the evening and shook a cigarette out of his packet, lighting up with a match and a careless drag. His hands were perfectly steady. His guts were still churning.

Aizen had killed the maid, of course. Grimmjow could still smell the heavy warmth of her blood as it rose up from the floor, almost too dark to believe. He’d seen death before. Even killed before. That wasn’t what made his guts turn inside out remembering it. The maid had been in love. Infatuated, even. Long dark pigtails and a tiny black and white maid uniform. Patent leather shoes with bright silver buckles. Probably been proud as hell to brag about Aizen’s imminent purchase. Big development in the middle of town, right on the territory border between Aizen and Yamamoto. Little fool. She was in pieces inside a bag now, probably floating to the bottom of the river.

“How the fuck can you stomach us?” Grimmjow asked as a second whiskey was placed before him unasked. “Sneeze the wrong way and you’re dead. We call ourselves gokudo but the rest of the world has it right: we’re yakuza. There’s no fuckin’ hand unluckier than ours.”

“You’re yakuza?” the barkeep said, feigning quiet surprise. His dark moustache twitched. “I thought you were a rebellious salaryman.”

“Fuck off.”

“You’re a necessary evil in this town, I believe.” Hesitating a moment, he poured Grimmjow a double. “The police don’t have the grip on society they think they do. As far as yakuza families go, I’m pleased that our holdings fall under yours. I’m indebted to you for bailing our bar out of financial debt. Because of the Jaegerjaquez family, we can still open every evening to Karakura’s night life.”

“What do you deal in the back room these days, anyway?”

“The usual. Rifles, handguns, tasers. I have those clawed knuckledusters you ordered coming in next week. Tungsten alloy, ion plated.”

“Blue?”

“Blue. I’m told it’s quite tacky.”

Grimmjow smiled into his drink. “It’s my colour. Thanks, Master. I’ll kill you last.” It was always worth having a few pockets of loyalty around town, hidden behind the veneer of turf and protection. It was a nice bar, and a damn nice front for weapons dealing. To specific buyers only, of course.

After the master of the bar had returned to his register, leaving Grimmjow to quietly smoke in peace, a muted buzz sounded from inside his jacket. If it was another fucking meeting, Grimmjow thought wildly, yanking the phone from its pocket, he was going to lose it once and for all. But it wasn’t a meeting request. It was a new message from a contact in his phone that he’d only recently given a name: The Doc.

[The Doc]: Now that you know that calendar exists, I have to kill you. Where are you?

Grimmjow snorted softly, carelessly delighted by the response. Big brass balls. Maybe his memory of a few weeks ago wasn’t that foggy after all. He tapped out a quick reply, and on impulse he sent his location with it.

If you’re coming, come alone.

The reply was immediate—and interesting.

[The Doc]: Are you alone?

Yeah.

No more messages after that. Grimmjow wasn’t a stranger to death threats, but even he could tell that Kurosaki was amused more than anything. Maybe he owed Yylfordt a little bonus for finding that photo. Putting his phone away, Grimmjow picked up his tumbler of whiskey and took a slow sip, more interested in enjoying it now that the afternoon’s edge had been blunted. Fucking Aizen. He’d never publicly executed someone before. Not just to send a stupid message. The girl had been housekeeping, hired by headquarters staff. Nothing to do with the families. Nothing to do with Di-Roy, either.

The most interesting thing to come out of that meeting had been Ichimaru’s interest in Kurosaki, but not to the point that he wanted Grimmjow to stay away. Inviting Kurosaki to the bar was a good way to test that. In any case, it was a good excuse to want to see him.

Twenty minutes later, the bar’s polished wooden door opened. The master gave a practiced greeting, one Grimmjow heard quietly returned. Taking a deep drag of his cigarette, he leaned forward from his back corner booth and stubbed it out in the ashtray. His calculated exhale rolled smoke across the table as Kurosaki Ichigo walked over with something in his hand.

He looked good, Grimmjow thought as he glanced up, a little surprised by his appearance. No white coat, no little glasses; just a pair of fitted black slacks and a burgundy shirt, all tucked in and belted. He made a tall, clean line with rolled-up sleeves and a couple of buttons undone at the collar, showing a small wedge of skin beneath the hollow of his throat. The eyes were familiar though, still burning brown and a little pleased to see him. The orange hair was a write-off, though Grimmjow could see it was damp. Freshly showered, maybe. He made an interesting sight, standing there in front of the booth wearing the low light like a halo.

“Got you something,” Kurosaki said when the silence stretched too long, tossing a large envelope onto the low table. “Appreciate it.” Signalling Master from the booth, he made a practiced gesture that repeated Grimmjow’s own drink order and slid across the vinyl like he owned the place, even dropping his phone and wallet on the table. Comfortable asshole.

Reaching for the envelope with a lazy hand, Grimmjow slid his thumb under the fold and felt thick gloss paper inside. He pulled out his gift and snorted loudly.

“I’m gonna turn it into a billboard,” Grimmjow announced, flicking through the calendar to July and opening it up wide. It was even better in print. Kurosaki in his tiny little shorts looked like he was ready to shower under a waterfall and swing off some vines. “Did it sell?”

“Sold out,” Kurosaki replied dryly, accepting his drink as it arrived. Master spotted the calendar and instantly decided the wall was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. “My sisters bought ten copies each, and so did a few of my friends. Can’t have this kind of thing circulating around while I’m trying to be a serious professional.”

“So the tiger’s real?” Grimmjow didn’t doubt Yylfordt’s knowledge of digital manipulation or anything, but Kurosaki standing with a tiger meant he probably had nerves of steel. No wonder he hadn’t been afraid of him.

“Yeah, she’s real. Bred in captivity.” Taking a sip of his whiskey, Kurosaki slid closer and took the calendar from him, flipping through to the back page. There was a small photo on the acknowledgements of Kurosaki again, this time dressed in his white coat. He was kneeling in front of the same tiger with his stethoscope out, having his hair licked straight up in the air. “She’s young and prone to respiratory problems. I sub for the on-site vets when they’re out of town, so I visit the zoo when I can to check on some of the younger wildlife. She likes me the most.” Kurosaki’s nose wrinkled. “The other option for the shoot was a chimp named Henley, but he jerks off when he’s nervous.”

“Now that’s information I didn’t fuckin’ ask for.” The rest of the calendar was full of similar shoots with animals, but Kurosaki was in none of them. Grimmjow shut it and slipped it back into the envelope. When he leaned back into the cushioning vinyl, he felt the pressure of curious eyes on the side of his face. “What?”

“How’s your side healing up? I’d like to get a look at it, if you’ll let me.”

“You came here for that?” Grimmjow snorted. “It’s fine. Stitches came out a while ago.”

“Tell me you at least had a professional do it,” Kurosaki said with no hope in his voice whatsoever. “You were supposed to come back to me for those. Why do you think I bothered telling you to come after the clinic was closed if you needed anything?” He looked almost annoyed about it, and for a short, mistrustful moment Grimmjow wondered why Kurosaki would want him coming back.

“You know whose turf you’re working on?” Grimmjow asked instead of answering. “You know it’s not mine, but d’you know whose it is?” He was treated to Kurosaki’s expression cooling off real fast. His eyes switched to the table.

“I’d be stupid not to. Ichimaru family, right? And the head of that family is a captain for the Aizen clan.” Kurosaki turned slightly to meet Grimmjow’s sharp look. “That’s how it goes with clans, right? Clan chairman, clan captain and subsidiary family patriarchs who are considered clan officers. They also sit at the top of their own power structure, but the chairman of the clan is the one in total command. Right?” Seeming pleased with his recitation, Kurosaki took a sip of his whiskey and reclined into the booth like he’d just done a hard day’s work. Grimmjow fought an instinctive urge to shove him.

“You Google all that?”

“The other option was to join a family and see it firsthand,” Kurosaki teased, a small smile dimpling the corner of his mouth. Grimmjow bit the inside of his own cheek to stop himself returning it, but he got the impression from the way Kurosaki’s expression warmed that his amusement was plain.

“Nice distraction,” Grimmjow said finally, pulling out his packet of cigarettes. Kurosaki made a face when he lit up but didn’t otherwise comment. “You don’t have to sit so close if the smoke pisses you off.”

“I’m fine here.” Fine was one word for it; their knees and shoulders were brushing with every unthinking movement. Grimmjow found himself relieved that his smoke was obscuring the scent of an unfamiliar woody cologne. It was just a little too pleasant for his liking when he still couldn’t get a read on the good doctor, or whatever vets considered themselves.

Sensing the silence had stretched a little too far again, Grimmjow blew a perfect ring of smoke across the low table and reached for his drink.

“So tell me about yourself already.”

Kurosaki’s brows twitched upward in surprise. “There’s not a lot to tell. I’m twenty-six, a licensed veterinarian, and I live alone. I have twin younger sisters who work part time as my receptionists while they finish uni. I like big animals. I’m a dog person. Star sign is Cancer. Blood type A. Yakuza killed my mother.”

Grimmjow aborted his next exhale and almost choked, smoke shooting out his nostrils in a rush. Kurosaki’s eyes were on his tumbler of whiskey, tilting the glass to make the amber liquid swirl. His eyes were untroubled, but there was a pressure in the air that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Grimmjow stubbed out his cigarette and took a generous mouthful of his own drink.

“How old were you?” No point tiptoeing around it.

“Nine. I was there; she was walking me home from school. They drove past like it was nothing.” Kurosaki tipped his head back against the seat. “One second I was trying to decide which hand to hold and the next bullets were spraying everywhere. I was shot in the leg. Mom took three in the back while covering me.” Rolling his neck slightly, serious brown eyes cut to Grimmjow and lingered. “Before you, that was my only real experience with yakuza. I don’t know the Ichimaru family. My dad is probably the reason they left me alone.” Unsmiling lips flattened slightly. “We’re not on good terms, so there’s no point asking for more details. I never did. So. Can you put the suspicion away now?”

“Depends,” Grimmjow replied bluntly. “Can’t say I’d want anything to do with yakuza after an introduction like that. Then I pull a knife on you in your own clinic. How the hell does that lead to drinks in some hole in the wall bar? You don’t make any damn sense, Doc.”

“Vets don’t typically insist on being called Doctor, you know,” was all Kurosaki said at first. His crooked little smile was returning, creasing the corner of his eyes. Grimmjow privately thought it was a good look on him. A real good look, actually, even through all that bright hair. Maybe orange was fast becoming a favourite colour of his. “I don’t have a grudge against yakuza, really. The men who killed my mother are long dead. I just prefer to take people as they come.”

“With a knife,” Grimmjow said slowly. Incredulously. “I came with a knife in my hand and a threat to kill you.”

“Yeah, well, I thought you were good-looking.” Kurosaki barely waited a beat for impact before continuing. “You’re kind of annoying, though. I’ve been looking up flower meanings for weeks. I got the black lotus figured out, but what was the blue one? And if that was a black lotus, why is the jaguar stepping on authority and power but reaching for it as well?” Shifting in the booth to turn almost on his side, Kurosaki actually prodded Grimmjow in the upper arm. “I need to know. It’s keeping me up at night.”

It would have been really nice to get Kurosaki in a headlock and start squeezing til he explained that crack about being good-looking and annoying, but Grimmjow was impressively distracted by the door to the bar slamming open with a thud and a lot of braying laughter as three stumbling thugs crashed through, arms around each other for balance. Each one was wearing the yellow armband of the Gilga family over their cheap tracksuits. Fuck.

Master looked long-suffering for a split second before calling out a greeting, which wasn’t returned by the idiots wearing sunglasses indoors. Grimmjow watched them loudly debate what to order, clammy hands planted down on the just-polished wooden countertop of the bar. A lot of elbowing and arguing about who owed who money arose.

The noise of them set Grimmjow’s blood boiling almost instantly. Beside him, Kurosaki leaned around his body and frowned at the spectacle.

“Let me guess.”

“No need to guess,” Grimmjow grunted, putting his glass down with a decisive clink. “I’ll give ‘em thirty seconds to settle their asses down.”

Of course drunk assholes weren’t known for settling the fuck down, and Grimmjow was quickly treated to a performance by Nnoitra’s bottom of the barrel, last rung on the ladder gutter trash invading his favourite bar.

“I’m not buying shit from this place!” said the one in the middle, scratching at his greasy ponytail. He shoved at the thug on his left when he reached for his wallet. Leaning right in, the guy yanked his sunglasses off and squinted blearily at the master of the bar. “Fucking uppity aren’t you, old man?! You gonna explain these prices?”

“My prices are dictated by the wholesale cost of the liquor, plus an extra cost for upkeep of my establishment and enough to make a meagre profit on top of that.” A consummate professional, Master went right back to cleaning glasses. Grimmjow counted down in his head as the loudmouth on the far right closest to the door started up.

“We can get this shit for half the price down the road, you old bastard. How do you explain that?”

“I expect the good folk down the road do not pour your drinks from unopened bottles, sir.”

The three of them paused in sudden revelatory silence. Kurosaki snorted softly and got to his feet. He was out and up to the bar before Grimmjow could blink twice, signalling Master with a smile. He held up an empty glass.

“Two more, please. He’s paying.” Kurosaki didn’t point back at Grimmjow. He was looking directly at the lead thug asshole, whose jaw was now hanging open. “Or leaving for cheaper pastures, I guess.” Kurosaki set his glass down on the bar and rotated one shoulder discreetly. “Once he apologises.”

He had to be fucking kidding, Grimmjow thought wildly as the three idiots rushed Kurosaki, already shitfaced and howling threats as they bowled towards him. Grimmjow quickly downed the last of his drink and shot to his feet.

It wasn’t much of a fight. The heavy glass tumbler in Grimmjow’s hand nailed the first guy in the forehead and dropped him. The second thug’s unprotected throat met his fist, his shouting turning to panicked wheezing. And the third—Kurosaki had the third guy facedown on the perfectly clean floorboards when Grimmjow turned around, arm bent up and back, a foot between the howling idiot’s shoulder blades. He looked so calm he could have been examining a new patient instead of making one. He straightened up a little when he caught Grimmjow looking, quickly letting the guy go.

“You’re on the wrong turf to be fucking with barkeeps,” Grimmjow sneered down at them. Displaying no survival instincts whatsoever, the loudmouth cheapskate wiped his bleeding forehead and sat up dazedly.

“Gilga family outnumbers those Jaegerjaquez pussies anyway. Fuck their turf. One phone call and a hundred of our boys—”

“Shut up.” Grimmjow hit a contact in his phone and held it out flat, patting his pocket for a new cigarette. He really had to stop stubbing them out halfway. Master leaned over and lit it up for him just as the call connected.

“Hey, fuckface,” Nnoitra said cheerfully. “You drinking? I’m drinking. Am I on speaker, you asshole?”

“Yeah,” Grimmjow said smoothly, eyes cold on the trio. “Got three of your armband boys here making trouble in one of my bars. Think I’ll kill ‘em.”

“Armbands?” Nnoitra’s laugh was shrill. “Tesla’s been trying to get rid of that cannon fodder for months now. Forget killing them, send them up to Gilga HQ. I’m in a great mood. Join me if you want—” The call ended with a decisive thumb on the screen as all three of the thugs sat quietly on the floor like terrified schoolboys, finally clueing in to just who stood in front of them.

“Bad look if I kill Gilga boys without any notice,” Grimmjow told them, pinching the cigarette between his fingers and exhaling in a long plume of white. “Good thing I don’t care what happens to you after you leave here. Show your face on my turf again and I’ll carve you up myself.” He nodded at the door. “Get the fuck out.”

They didn’t need to be told twice. Kurosaki whistled low and appreciative as the trio bolted, weaving unsteadily as they barged out the way they’d come. What a shitty display, Grimmjow thought with a twist of his mouth, tugging his cuffs down into place. Yakuza in general needed to quit going anywhere near each other’s turf. It wasn’t against the rules or anything when it came to the clan, but it kept on causing issues for Grimmjow. He didn’t like issues.

“Saved by the heroic patriarch himself,” Master commented as he recommenced wiping the bar down. “I intend to brag heavily about this to anyone who will listen.” He hadn’t even broken into a nervous sweat, which said he probably had his electric baton beneath the bar.

“I could have taken them alone,” Kurosaki insisted, actually shouldering Grimmjow out of the way a little. “Where’s my praise?”

“Ah. You were quite brave too, young sir,” Master replied dutifully, despite being the size of a small house himself. “You’re most welcome at Benihime any time.”

“And I’m the annoying one?” Grimmjow muttered, shoving Kurosaki into the bar a little. He headed back to the booth and grabbed the calendar in its envelope, catching a burgundy elbow on the way back. “C’mon, I’m taking you home before you can cause me any more trouble. Fighty bastard.” Kurosaki only fought him a little as they headed for the door, calling his goodbyes back to Master, who seemed mildly amused by the ruckus. What a fucking day. It didn’t bode well that Kurosaki had definitely heard Master call him the patriarch, but if Ichimaru asked it was on Nnoitra’s boys who’d caused it. Not that it would matter much if that viper was pissed off.

“I said good-looking and annoying,” Kurosaki corrected far too late, a little flushed in the cheeks from the alcohol but otherwise seeming in his right mind. “You’re too mistrustful. You’re the shady one, remember? I’m not a crime boss. I’m a vet.”

“You’re a pain in the ass.” Steering the warm and pliant body beside him with firm hands, Grimmjow pushed Kurosaki out onto the street and into the evening air. His car was nearby, indescribably blue and flashy in the multicoloured lights of Karakura’s less palatable nightlife district. “Nnoitra’s going to wonder why those idiots never showed up to his office with their throats washed and ready for slicing.” Unlocking the passenger side door with his key, Grimmjow threw the calendar in the back seat and pointed inside. “Get in.”

Oddly compliant, Kurosaki only hesitated a moment before bending down, sliding into the restored black vinyl of the bucket seat. Grimmjow all but threw himself into the driver’s seat and started the car, nerves jangling and having no decent explanation why. The pulse of directionless adrenaline was making him pissy. Pulling out onto the road, Grimmjow eased into the evening traffic and tried to figure out exactly what it was about Kurosaki that was getting under his skin.

Kurosaki was actually pretty quiet for a long time. Aside from the click of his seatbelt and a small sigh, he didn’t make a sound. No more smart quips or arguments. In the corner of Grimmjow’s eye, he actually looked a little pensive in the slashes of light that crossed his face as they drove. The silence didn’t last.

“Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez. Patriarch of the Jaegerjaquez family.” The words were spoken with no real inflection. “You’re part of the Aizen clan. I patched up a yakuza big-shot in my clinic that night. And now you’re driving me home, after weeks of ignoring my texts.”

Grimmjow frowned out at the road. “I’m a busy guy.”

“Not so busy you couldn’t Google my name and dig up embarrassing photos.”

“I had one of my guys do that.” Indicating with a sharp flick of his ring finger, he slowed at the lights. “Where do you live?”

“At the clinic. Upstairs.” Kurosaki frowned over at him. That burning gaze of his was back. “When we get there I want you to park and come up with me.”

“Pretty forward of you.”

“It’s come to my attention that if I’m going to get anything out of you, I need to be direct or you won’t get the picture.” When Grimmjow cut him an annoyed look, Kurosaki added, “I want to check how you’re healing up.”

“And check out my tattoo.”

“And check out your tattoo,” Kurosaki affirmed. The pleased gleam in his eyes had mostly faded, but Grimmjow couldn’t pick up anything in his voice that said he was up to any bullshit. There was more to him than a dead mother and an absent father. Had his old man gotten mixed up in a bad yakuza deal? Maybe with Tousen’s family? It would explain why Ichimaru was interested in keeping him secret and safe. What made Kurosaki such an ace was still a mystery though, and it was going to drive Grimmjow nuts until he got to the bottom of it. It was for that reason that when he pulled into the driveway of the Kurosaki Veterinary Clinic, headlights bathing the unlovely brickwork of the building, he turned off the ignition and got out when Kurosaki did.

If he was surprised by Grimmjow’s acquiescence, Kurosaki didn’t show it. Instead he circled around the car and headed for a short metal flight of stairs that ran up the exterior side of the building, leading up to a proper fire door. One handle lock and two deadbolts, Grimmjow noted as Kurosaki’s keys jangled. At least he had some sense.

“C’mon in,” Kurosaki said, hauling the door open wide. “Sorry about the mess. I left in kind of a hurry.”

“That eager to see me, huh?” At the invitation, Grimmjow walked in first. The yellow light of a lamp in the entrance lit a proper little genkan foyer, so Grimmjow yanked off his shoes and wandered straight in, curious about what kind of place he’d find within. Kurosaki was a mix of level-headed and impulsive, stern and mischievous, flirtatious and withdrawn—a fucking mystery, really.

The upstairs apartment was spacious. A lot nicer than the kind of shoeboxes Grimmjow had called home in his earlier days. A large, square living area with a kitchen taking up one wall was sparsely furnished with a single couch and coffee table, bookcase and tiny corner television. The kitchen was pristine to the point of looking unused. As he walked in further, feeling Kurosaki nervously hovering behind his shoulder, Grimmjow sniffed the air and identified that same cologne he’d smelled earlier. Nice. Curious about where the aforementioned mess was, he rounded a corner and poked his head into an adjoining room to find clothes strewn absolutely everywhere in the bedroom. Dressing in a hurry, huh? Well, well.

“Don’t look in there,” Kurosaki muttered rapidly, stretching ahead of him to shut the door with a click. “Come on, sit at the kitchen bench for me. The light’s better there.”

Five minutes later Grimmjow was shirtless and sitting on a barstool, his back to the kitchen and elbows resting on the countertop behind him while Kurosaki shone a small light across his side, frowning at the fresh scar. It had healed pretty well, all things considered, but the look on his face was kinda dour.

“Not my finest work, but pretty damn good,” Kurosaki muttered to himself, reaching out to stroke fingertips above and below the raised red line that sat under his ribs. Grimmjow clenched his teeth on reflex; even the gentlest touch raised his hackles instinctively, and there were no drugs to dull his senses this time. People didn’t get their hands on him often. It was a great way to end up with a few more scars. But Kurosaki didn’t react at all to the flinch, if he even detected it. He just pressed at the muscle surrounding the healing skin, checking for pain. “Well, you do seem fine. Whoever took the stitches out did a really careful job.” Kurosaki didn’t look up as he started zipping a small first aid kit closed, the penlight going in with it. “A friend of yours?”

“Something like that,” Grimmjow grunted, resisting the urge to scrub down the prickling sensation on his arms. “He liked your work, too. High praise, to be honest. He’s a big fan of needles.” The in-joke was wasted, of course. If anything, Kurosaki’s jaw twitched and he put the kit away with a little more noise than anyone needed to make. “You satisfied now?”

“No. Turn around. You promised me a good look at your back, too.”

Grimmjow didn’t move an inch. “Don’t recall that. ‘Sides, you already know who I am. The art on my back isn’t going to reveal anything you can’t already guess.”

Kurosaki’s mouth flattened slightly. Coming around to stand between Grimmjow’s thighs, he crossed his arms and tipped his chin up. Pure stubbornness, Grimmjow thought approvingly. The urge to catch him in the trap of his legs was strong.

“I don’t know anything about you. Nothing that really counts, anyway.”

“Ask, then.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Who cut you that night?”

“One of my clan’s captains.” Kurosaki blinked hard.

“Why?”

“Politics. One of my lieutenants pissed him off. Tousen doesn’t have a lot of patience for roughhousing; he wanted to kill him as an example. I got in the way, talked him down to only taking a fingertip.” Grimmjow felt a strong urge to light a fresh cigarette. “Chairman was there. He agreed to it.”

Kurosaki’s eyes were on the scar again. Moving in close enough that he could reach out and cover the entire thing with his hand, he looked directly into Grimmjow’s eyes with that eerie burning gaze of his.

“So then he cut you out of spite.”

“Nothin’s free, Doc.”

“Call me Ichigo.” The stroke of a thumb felt cool on his skin. Maybe he just burned too hot.

“Better I don’t.”

“Right.” Kurosaki’s mouth twitched a little, but there was no amusement in his smile. “You just want to know the big secret. If I tell you, I guarantee that’s the last I’ll ever see of you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Grimmjow replied, finally shutting his thighs around Kurosaki’s hips. He pulled him in by his wrist. Kurosaki surged forward into Grimmjow’s arms with no resistance at all. “Whatever tie you’ve got to Ichimaru is a pain in my ass more than anything. More I know about it, the better I can get around it, manipulate it. I know how those assholes work, Doc. They’re—we’re bloodthirsty. We’re killers. Backstabbing, cutthroat bastards and the two captains are ready to kill each other for Aizen’s top spot. If you’re in the middle of that bullshit for any reason when it finally goes down…” Grimmjow shook his head. “You’re dead. Or worse.”

Kurosaki’s brows drew together. “So I’m just supposed to believe you actually care about that? You don’t even know me.”

“Yeah, well.” Grimmjow glanced away for an instant. There was something other than pure skepticism in those eyes when he looked back. “I want to. You’re my kind of insane. But I can’t do shit for you if I don’t know what’s going on. We’ll just end up buried in the same ditch at this rate.”

“That’s very heroic of you.” The words were dryly spoken, but Kurosaki hadn’t moved to gain even a little distance from him. If anything, the hands he’d reflexively placed on Grimmjow’s upper arms were fidgeting a little. Through the mistrustful veil of years of doubting every unfamiliar face that approached him, Grimmjow was startled to realise that Kurosaki actually liked him. Lust would have made a move already. He didn’t have a lot of experience with being liked. Yakuza made deals and alliances with each other. Civilians mostly avoided him once they saw the small metal pin on his lapel. His own boys liked him to a degree, but—

“What happened to the mutt?” Grimmjow said suddenly, unnerved by the turn of his own thoughts. Kurosaki’s eyebrows shot up.

“Button? A shelter I deal with picked him up last week. I heard he was claimed for adoption pretty quickly. It’s not surprising; he was cute.” Kurosaki’s fingers finally made a move, skimming over the muscle of his arms and in across his collarbone, loosely encircling the column of his neck. His eyes were pinned there, refusing to meet Grimmjow’s. “You still want to know, huh.”

“Yeah.”

“You won’t like it.”

“Probably not.” Grimmjow shrugged. “Tell me anyway.”

Silence. For a long time, there was just silence. Kurosaki seemed to fight with himself, keeping his eyes on his own hands where they touched Grimmjow’s skin. His mouth tensed into a flat line. Grimmjow only waited, patient and relaxed. Eventually, the tension receded. Kurosaki exhaled on a long sigh that sounded like it came from deep inside. It was the sound of defeat.

“Before my Dad married my mother, he had a different name. It’s one I’ve been avoiding my whole life.” Cool hands bore down slightly on Grimmjow’s shoulders; not to choke him, but to hold him like he might try to escape. Kurosaki swallowed. “His name is the reason she’s dead, and the reason yakuza leave me alone when they know it. It’s why you’ll go too.”

Grimmjow’s brow creased into a frown. “Bit dramatic. Apart from old Yamamoto himself, there’s no name in the yakuza that’d get that reaction.” He shrugged again, covering the hand sweating against his shoulder. “Most of the legends are dead and gone. You’d have to be Shiba himself to scare the shit out of anyone these days, and he’s been missing for almost twenty years.” He squeezed a little, liking the feel of the skin under his palm.

“Seventeen, actually,” Kurosaki said. “Twenty-six if you count when he left the clan.”

Grimmjow’s gut dropped to his feet.

It wasn’t just the words, or the tone he used. It was the way the entire light was gone from Kurosaki’s eyes, the slope of his shoulders dropping little by little. The way he wouldn’t meet Grimmjow’s wide-eyed stare.

Shiba.

The only family in the yakuza world that Aizen himself would cross the street to avoid. That dead family? That cursed blood?

“You’re a Shiba.” Saying it out loud sounded too ridiculous. His own voice turned hoarse on the name. “You can’t fucking be his son. He’s gone. He’s a ghost.”

Kurosaki didn’t raise his eyes. “Sort of. Dad dumped the whole patriarchy and left the day my mother told him she was pregnant. But old man Yamamoto doesn’t just let people leave. Their clan was old fashioned. Old rules. If Yamamoto didn’t let you go, you could only leave the clan on your back. So Dad ran. Changed his name, moved us across Japan. It took nine years for the remaining Shiba family to locate us and spray the roadside in blood. But they didn’t find my dad in time. Later, he found them.”

The rest of that story was a yakuza legend. The worst massacre the underworld had ever seen, and it was carried out by one man. Grimmjow had been nothing but a dirty thug on the streets when he first heard about it; the Shiba Inferno. A one-man army, they said, turning on his own clan after years on the run. The whole time, the bastard had a wife. Kids. Yamamoto had sent the Shiba—his own boys—to find him. Well, wish fucking granted. Shiba Isshin killed every single member of his family and torched the headquarters with something that burned so hot, most thought he’d died inside his own fire. Most also didn’t say that shit too loudly, in case he appeared like the fucking grim reaper.

And Kurosaki was his son.

Yamamoto and Aizen would kill each other for the smallest chance to get their hands on that kind of yakuza pedigree. They’d bargain and barter and cajole and offer him the world to join them. Any yakuza wanting to rise in the ranks or get in good with their chairman would serve him up on a platter. Except for one small detail.

Shiba Isshin was still alive, and he was one hell of a devoted family man.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Watching him closely, Kurosaki’s sudden smile was terrible. “Pretty heavy stuff for a veterinarian, right? Door’s unlocked if you want to make a break for it.”

Grimmjow’s mind was racing so hard he couldn’t think of a single thing to say right away. Ichimaru’s secrecy made no sense. At his level, handing Kurosaki over to Aizen would guarantee him the sole captaincy. Instead, he was hiding him. Keeping eyes off him. But not forbidding Grimmjow from spending time with him. It was almost as if Ichimaru wasn’t aiming for Aizen’s approval at all. He knew Grimmjow wasn’t interested in being the chairman’s lapdog. But Ichimaru, Tousen, and even Aizen himself had rebelled from inside the Yamamoto clan less than ten years ago—

In an instant, Grimmjow’s entire world detonated into a giant fucking mushroom cloud of conspiracy. And all the while, Kurosaki looked at him with bleak brown eyes, still standing in the warm space between his thighs, trying not to look bothered by the prospect of Grimmjow shoving his way clear and leaving. Because he liked him. Idiot fucking veterinarian, what had he been thinking that night?

“You’re going to start a war,” Grimmjow finally said, planting his hand on the firm wall of Kurosaki’s chest and giving himself enough space to stand. He immediately started pacing, long strides from one end of the room to the other. He raked his fingers through his hair, shooting Kurosaki a hunted look. “You’re living bait and you’re a bomb. Your old man, he’s—where the fuck is he? Why are you in Karakura? You should be halfway around the world somewhere. Anywhere but fuckin’ here, patching up yakuza as a hobby.”

“Call me a pain in the ass prodigal son, I guess,” Kurosaki said, sounding tired. He’d taken the seat Grimmjow had vacated, watching him move back and forth. “And I don’t patch up yakuza. It was just you.”

“Right, because I looked at the puppy,” Grimmjow scoffed, pissed off all over again when he couldn’t fit his hands into his sewn-up pockets. Shit, he should at least let Shawlong know about it all. Or not. What was worse?

“Because you were freely bleeding and had a knife in your hand,” Kurosaki said, looking away, “and somehow for a moment there you looked more concerned about Button than yourself. I don’t give a shit about people, Grimmjow. People got my mother killed. I’m not some bleeding heart who tends wounds for free. But I was lonely and I thought for sure he was going to pass within the hour, and for once I didn’t want to be by myself.” Chin jutting out, mouth turned down in a tense line, Kurosaki crossed his arms. “I don’t know why I liked you on the spot, especially being what you are, but I did. I do.”

“Shut up for a second,” Grimmjow said, rubbing his temple. “I’m trying to think here.”

“Dick,” Kurosaki muttered, obnoxiously still loud enough to hear. Louder, he added, “You could just say ‘I like you a moderate amount, but you’re the son of a yakuza murderer and I don’t want to get any of that on me,’ you know. I’m an adult, I can take rejection.” Real shame he looked like he might spring a knife and try to kill Grimmjow if he actually took the advice, but it didn’t matter anyway. Hell, that was the whole problem, wasn’t it?

Slowing his tracks across the carpet, turning back towards the kitchen bench, Grimmjow walked all the way up into Kurosaki’s space and planted a hand on the bench on either side of him. Almost nose to nose from the proximity, he breathed in and smelled nothing but woody cologne and fresh shampoo. Torn his wardrobe apart looking for something to wear. Text after text trying to get a reaction. And for what? Some half-Japanese yakuza asshole with a hole in his side who held a dying puppy for an hour. Talk about a low bar. Kurosaki could do a lot better. Anyone would be better.

Just being around Grimmjow might get him killed.

If the clans found out, it was all over for them both.

Ichimaru’s plots, Tousen’s ambition, Szayel and Nelliel and Nnoitra, not to mention the bootlickers like Ulquiorra, they’d all want a stake in Kurosaki for one reason or another. Anything for the glory of the clan.

Then there was the Shiba Inferno himself, somewhere in the shadows. There was no way he didn’t know exactly where his son was.

Any way Grimmjow looked at it, Kurosaki was bad, bad news.

For Kurosaki, Grimmjow was a lure into a world that had been responsible for the death of his mother. Poison in an expensive black suit and tie.

“I did say you were my kind of insane,” Grimmjow said, turning his head just enough that he could lean in until their cheeks brushed. Warm skin touched his own, unfamiliar for only a moment. Hungry for more contact, he slid his arms behind Kurosaki’s back and pulled him off the stool. Again he followed with no resistance, mirroring his hold. Careful fingers found his spine and settled in the hollow it made. “They’re blue peonies, by the way. Guy who inked them on me said I was a reckless asshole but that if I worked at it, I’d be the king.”

Kurosaki snorted rudely into his ear. “So what are you going to do? Conquer both clans so they can’t come after us? Trample that authority and seize power in your jaws? Fulfil the creepy underworld tattooist’s prophecy? It’s kind of far-fetched.”

“Says the fucking yakuza chosen one,” Grimmjow shot back, unreasonably offended. “You’re the one who wanted to know what the tattoo meant, asshole. Now you can finally sleep at night.”

“I was actually hoping I wouldn’t get much sleep tonight.”

Grimmjow blinked out into the room. “Shit, you’ll have to be more direct than that, remember? I’m kind of dumb. Give me some kind of demonstration. Draw a picture.” He waited just long enough that Kurosaki clicked his tongue in annoyance and pulled back, a hot retort waiting on his lips. It went unspoken as Grimmjow finally took Kurosaki’s face in his hands and kissed him as hard and deep as he dared to, arching his neck to taste the waiting depths of his mouth. Fingers dug into Grimmjow’s back in brief surprise, slowly relaxing as the kiss didn’t end. Exhaling softly through his nose, Kurosaki made a low noise that sounded almost like relief and boosted himself up on his toes. Grimmjow had an instant to feel fingers twist in his hair before teeth clamped aggressively on his lower lip, driving him backwards to what he really hoped was the couch.

Kurosaki was a pushy bastard, Grimmjow remembered dazedly as he was shoved down on the waiting cushions, his belt already undone and flying across the room. Clambering over his thighs, sitting there for a moment, Kurosaki pulled him up by his shoulders and stared him directly in the eye.

“This has nothing to do with yakuza, by the way. I’d be jumping you right now even if you were a plumber.”

“You can just say I’m hot,” Grimmjow told him, breaking into a smile as Kurosaki’s face flamed with annoyance. “You’re not gonna hurt my ego that way, Ichigo. I’m yakuza; it’s part of me now. Wouldn’t even know how to leave it all behind.” Grimmjow kissed his softening mouth, quick and embarrassingly tender. “If you can put up with that, I’ll risk Aizen for you. Sadistic asshole could use a good scare, anyway. Just don’t mistake me for a good person. And I have a condition.”

“A condi—” Kurosaki sat back slightly in surprise, head cocked. His lips were enticingly pink from being kissed. “What kind of condition?”

“I want to pet that tiger.”

“She’ll bite you. More importantly, her keeper will peel my face off if I bring anyone to her enclosure.” Kurosaki’s brows knit in thought for a moment. “I have something better, though. Kind of a pet project of mine, no pun intended. How do you feel about freakishly oversized arctic wolves? The zoo has one penned in the back field, a rescue from a black market import. He’s too aggressive to keep in an enclosure for public viewing. Or there’s four kittens asleep downstairs with their mother right now that like cuddles.” The glint in Kurosaki’s eye said that if Grimmjow tried to cuddle anything but him tonight then real blood would be shed.

“I guess I’ll take the wolf. A real wolf?”

“Yeah, Zangetsu’s great. He’s only bitten me six times.”

“Jesus fuck, you really are insane.”

“You like insane.” Kurosaki kissed him hard. “Stay the night and tomorrow I’ll cook you eggs while wearing the shorts from the photoshoot. Plus my sister Yuzu is working tomorrow and she’s desperate to meet the evil yakuza who saved Button.”

“Fine.” Sisters, right. Fuck. So he had three of them to protect now? His boys were gonna be working overtime putting out their batshit crazy fires. It had to run in the family.

Grimmjow was thinking so hard about it that he almost missed the way Kurosaki’s eyes softened entirely, opening up with warmth as he looked at him. Not all confidence and flirting, then. Clothes all over the floor. The kind of puzzle Grimmjow liked to solve. Reclining back on the couch, he tugged Kurosaki down with him and thought about it for a long, languid moment.

“We’ve only met twice.”

“You made an impression,” Kurosaki said, his cheek pressed into Grimmjow’s shoulder. “You flirted first, by the way. I was a complete professional.”

“I told you not to use my number unless it was an emergency and you sent me dog photos.”

“In my defence, Yuzu sent one or two of those while I was in surgery. She called you some filthy names when you never replied.” Grimmjow frowned up at the ceiling at that.

“So I’m dating both of you now? Why not the whole family?” A small silence followed that, and it occurred to him that maybe he shouldn’t have let a word like that slip straight off his tongue.

“No, just me. You’re dating me: Kurosaki Ichigo, local veterinarian and saviour of barkeeps everywhere.” His snort bordered on a laugh when Grimmjow’s fingers jabbed him in the ribs. “You know, I feel like I knew that guy from when I was a kid. If you ever see him with a scruffy old blond guy who likes geta, can you let me know?”

Trying not to be visibly alarmed, Grimmjow masked his tension with a sweep of his hand through unbelievably orange hair. He’d just described the bar’s silent partner perfectly. Maybe there was more than one reason Ichimaru had been happy for him to get close to Kurosaki.

“You called me Ichigo before.”

“So?”

“So I liked it. What do people call you? Apart from fuckface.”

“Boss,” Grimmjow said, fuming at Nnoitra and his stupid fucking way of answering the phone when he rang. The clan’s pecking order really sucked dick sometimes. “They call me Boss. You get to just call me Grimmjow.”

“Not Grimm?”

“You wanna die?”

“Jow.”

“Still dead.”

“Grimmy.”

“Now you’re dead and chained to a block of cement in the river. And I’ve stolen your wolf.” Grimmjow squeezed the pleasantly heavy bulk sprawled across his chest so tightly that Kurosaki made a gurgling groan. “What happened to seducing me? Wind gone from your sails, huh? I hear it happens. No shame in it.” Kurosaki’s head popped up, crawling up Grimmjow’s still extremely shirtless chest to look him dead in the eye.

“I thought I’d give you a chance to change your mind.”

“Sure you’re not changing yours? You’re acting like you’re the worst thing in the world.” When Kurosaki just looked at him, Grimmjow dove straight in. “My chairman killed a girl right in front of me today and all I did was wipe the blood spatters off my shoes when he was done. We’re not soap opera villains. I don’t just watch the skyline from my office and order people around. I hurt people to get what I want.” His expression didn’t change. Grimmjow tried harder. “If you hadn’t been there tonight I’d probably have bled a few of those assholes at the bar just for being too noisy.”

Kurosaki shrugged a little. “If you hadn’t been there thinking the best of me, I would have broken that guy’s arm. And you’re not your chairman. Try harder.” Grimmjow just stared at him for a long, long moment, trying to process.

“I don’t want to,” he said finally, leaning up to kiss him, this time long and slow. “Guess I like you. Second fucking meeting, though. Why tell me the truth so soon?” The words were spoken against parted lips, still temptingly close and easy to kiss. The fingers working their way through his dishevelled hair felt impossibly good.

“Guess I like you. And you deserved to know.” The fingers in his hair moved to the outer shell of his ear, tracing around its curve. Long strands of bright hair were tickling his forehead. The scent of him was heady in their close proximity. “You would have come running if I’d called you with trouble, wouldn’t you? Because you’re honourable and you pay back what you owe. Even when it’s just some sad vet sewing you up. Maybe you’re not a good person but you’re fair and clever and sarcastic, and you look amazing when you really smile.” Lips touched his; just a small brush of warmth. “So. Wanna fuck?”

The laugh that startled out of Grimmjow was almost explosive. Fucking—fine. He was a little bit enamoured with the asshole. More than a little bit. However much it was, it outweighed the fear of reprisal that came with who and what Kurosaki actually was, and all that the future might bring with it. For just a little while, it could be fun. Bar dates and big animals and a worn couch under Grimmjow’s back. Stupid brawls for no reason and a huge tab for all the whiskey they’d drink together. Maybe he’d even cut back on the smoking a little. But only a little. And for all his reckless bravery, Grimmjow was going to keep Kurosaki perfectly safe, from both Aizen and the Yamamoto clan.

Remember the price of letting the Yamamoto clan steal a single thing from my grasp.

Yeah.

It was a family matter now, and Grimmjow looked after what was his.

It was kind of funny, though.

Kurosaki’s burning brown eyes were saying the exact same thing.

End.