Seireitei Monogatari

AN: This part was supposed to be in Ichigo's POV. But Grimmjow was louder, so he stole the show. *Glares*

Can't be helped, I suppose. Enjoy!

Thanks to my readers and reviewers, who waited patiently for my return! Thanks to Kuromei (Don't worry. I have your request locked and loaded already!), uchiha mikomi, and MasterAkira!

Title: What Are You Looking For?
Characters: Ichigo/Grimmjow, Urahara, Renji, Rukia
Rating: T
Warning: boykisses, language, light violence
Words: 3783
Arc: Sequel to Anywhere but Here. Fifth in Gravitation series.
Description: He's still here. He hasn't left yet. And Grimmjow can't understand why.

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“I recognize that I am damaged; I sympathize that you are too. I wanna breathe without feelin' so self-conscious, but it's hard when the world's starin' at you,” “What are You Looking For” by Sick Puppies

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“Well, if it isn't my newest freeloader?”

Grimmjow freezes at the sound of that voice, somehow always sounding lewd to him. He swears up and down that the geta-boushi looks at him funny. Like he knows something Grimmjow doesn't. And he hates that stupid, ugly hat, too. It hides too much, and Grimmjow can't guess what he's thinking.

Turning, Grimmjow presses his back against the wall, caught in his attempt to stealthily sneak into the kitchen and obtain something to eat. It's been hours since the “fast food” that Kurosaki brought him, and his stomach is growling. Hell, at this point, he's considering Hollow-hunting, except that he can't really leave this place.

Dammit.

“Ya should talk to Ichigo 'bout that,” Grimmjow returns warily. “He's the one that won't let me leave.”

Urahara looks at him, his eyes shadowed by that stupid hat and making his intentions impossible to read. “I don't see any chains or shackles. Perhaps there's something else keeping you here,” he hints, that damn fan fluttering in front of him and only half-concealing his face.

The Espada swears that the Shinigami-smelling shopkeeper is leering at him. And yeah, the blond doesn't look like one, but he stinks like a Shinigami. An exiled one probably. Or even retired. But Urahara is definitely Shinigami somehow.

“I could leave if I wanted,” Grimmjow returns, squaring his shoulders. If Urahara thinks he knows Grimmjow, then he's sorely mistaken. “I just haven't yet.”

“And why not?” Geta clack against the floor as he steps closer. And though they are the same height, the shopkeeper seems to loom over Grimmjow. “Have you fallen under dear Kurosaki-kun's spell as well?”

Stepping backwards to return the space between them, Grimmjow splutters. “I don't know what the hell yer talking about!” he says and feels the hair rise on the back of his neck. He doesn't like this creepy Maybe-Shinigami at all. “Ichigo's the freak that saved me. I didn't ask him ta do it.”

The man laughs. “Yes, he does have a mind of his own. Strange how that works,” he murmurs, that fan fluttering again as he continues to watch Grimmjow.

The Arrancar edges down the hallway and towards the safety of the underground basement. Feeling as if that bastard is stripping him down with those shadowed eyes. Fuck lunch. He can do without it.

“If ya want me out of here, just say it,” Grimmjow says, hating that he's here by this man's grace and nothing else.

He doesn't want to admit that he has nowhere else to go, so he pretends that he does. That if he gets thrown out on his ass it's no big deal. And though that pretty thick wound on his chest itches, he ignores it. He can make it on his own. He's done a good job of it so far. He doesn't need anyone. Not this pervert and definitely not Kurosaki Ichigo.

“Now, Grimm-chan, whatever makes you think I'd be happy to be rid of your presence?” Urahara says in a near purr. He cocks his head to the side.

Warning bells ring in the back of Grimmjow's head. He's pretty sure that Urahara has something up his sleeve. Grimmjow has come to realize that the blond is a crafty bastard. It's why he avoids the man whenever possible.

“Ya certainly ain't celebratin' it.”

Urahara chuckles, and somehow, the sound makes Grimmjow worried for his chastity. If he even has such a thing. Bright blue eyes narrow, but before he can speak, his gaze catches movement behind the shopkeeper. Stepping down the hall, Grimmjow recognizes a familiar face.

“Yo, Urahara-san,” Abarai Renji greets and lifts a hand. He is wearing the black robes of a Shinigami, zanpakutou strapped at his side. Not that such a thing is any different from usual.

“Well, if it isn't my other freeloader,” Urahara says with an easy grin, turning to greet him. “Come for dinner again, Abarai-san?”

A flush stains the redhead’s cheeks, but he shakes his head. “Actually, I thought Grimmjow might be up for a spar.” His eyes shift to the Arrancar, carefully guarded and revealing nothing. “Are ya?”

“Che.” He snorts. “These wounds're nothing.”

The fan snaps shut as Urahara claps his hands together. “Play nice, boys! And maybe I'll have Tessai whip us all up dinner. Ne?”

Grimmjow watches the pervert warily. Unwilling to get any closer but seeing the escape of the trapdoor just behind him.

“Yeah whatever.”

Luckily, Urahara is already moving past Renji, leaving Shinigami and Arrancar to their business. Keeping his sigh of relief internal, Grimmjow turns toward the basement, the pineapple-headed idiot on his heels. Still, he swears that he can hear a chuckle echo in the hallway behind them – Urahara laughing.

Grimmjow grits his teeth. “Bastard,” he mutters under his breath.

“He's not so bad,” Renji returns as he moves around him to lift up the concealing trapdoor. “Once ya overlook the perversions and invasions of personal space.”

“He do that to everybody?” Grimmjow asks.

Renji thinks about it for a minute before he ducks his head, nodding. “Yeah, pretty much.” Heat stains his cheeks as the door snaps open, and he rises to his feet.

Grimmjow snorts. “Che. Pervert.”

And then, he realizes he's becoming friendly of all things with a Shinigami. He can't have that.

He says nothing else, dropping down into the basement with Renji right behind him. The sudden change from the dim interior of the shouten to the bright and fake light of the basement makes Grimmjow momentarily wince. He can't say that he misses the darkness of Hueco Mundo though since he doesn't. There is something about that black sky that had always seemed so lonely to him. Though he will never admit that out loud to anyone.

“Ya ain't seen Ichigo, have ya?” he questions then, mostly because it seems weird to be here when the teen isn't. Grimmjow knows he doesn't belong here. But that’s all Ichigo's fault to begin with, so what else is he supposed to do?

Renji looks at him with a strange, stupid expression. “Why?”

“Forget it,” Grimmjow says, not wanting to answer the question because he isn't about to explain himself to some Shinigami. Even if said Shinigami had been one to help Ichigo in the first place. “Are we gonna spar or not?”

Drawing his zanpakutou, Renji huffs. “Spar,” he mutters with an annoyed breath. “Impatient bastard. I shoulda just killed ya when I had the chance.”

Smirking, Grimmjow draws his own blade, a part of him surprised that they allow him to keep it. But then, no one's ever mentioned that he's a prisoner or anything. He's free to come and go as he pleases. His fate is up to him. Too bad he doesn't know what he plans on doing with it.

“Why didn't you?” he counters, gradually loosening his hold on his reiatsu and letting it curl around him like a powerful cloak.

By the feeling of power rising in the air, Renji is doing much the same.

The redhead shrugs. And the motion seems nonchalant but even Grimmjow knows better than that.

“Ichigo didn't want ya dead.”

In the end, it all comes back to him, doesn't it?

Eyes narrowing, Grimmjow avoids the line of conversation and darts forward with blade lifted. Renji isn't much of a challenge; he would rather be sparring with Ichigo. But the Vizard isn't here right now, and Grimmjow will take what he can get. Anything to distract him from the excitement his existence currently lacks. And especially from the lusty thoughts that occasionally intrude on his subconscious. Thoughts that usually involve Ichigo in some state of erotic disarray.

Their swords collide, and Grimmjow smirks when the force of his blow drives his opponent back a step. The Shinigami is quick to recover, however, And soon, they are trading skilled strikes, a familiar burn building its way through Grimmjow's body. This, at least, he can understand. The sound of blades clashing and the adrenaline rushing through his veins.

He twists, and his sword flashes out, cutting shallowly into Renji's side. With a muttered hiss, the redhead counterattacks. Grimmjow whirls to avoid and catches a small gash across the top of his arm. The smell of blood rises in the air, but they're not out to kill each other.

“Yer not so bad, Shinigami,” Grimmjow taunts because he finds that his opponents make more mistakes when they are angry. Especially this one. “Not as good as Ichigo, of course. But you'll do.”

Red flushes Renji's cheeks, a mix of anger and embarrassment. Grimmjow knows his type and isn't surprised when the redhead’s attacks suddenly get more aggressive. Bolder.

“Shut up!” he snarls, zanpakutou whipping through the air. “I don't want to hear somethin' like that from someone who was only the sixth.”

Grimmjow snorts. Throwing out rankings that don't mean anything anymore. If Renji thinks it's an insult, he's sorely mistaken.

Their blades crash and lock. Grimmjow meets eyes nearly the color of blood, finding that they are the same height, and counters with a feral grin. He drags his tongue over his lips, blood pumping through his veins.

“So tell me, Shinigami,” he says, the exertion more than his body is ready to deal with so soon. Not that Grimmjow is going to stop or anything. “Which Espada was it you defeated? ‘Cause I can't remember one.”

He is amused by the fury that promptly colors Renji's face as the Shinigami growls in wordless fury. Grimmjow pushes forward with a violent shove, ready to end their deadlock. His fingers curl around his sword, and Renji shifts to counter.

“Renji?”

The redhead stumbles at the sudden sound of his name by a female voice, and Grimmjow's blade breaks through his guard. His sword slashes across Renji's shoulder, tearing through cloth and shallowly slicing into his flesh. Panting, Grimmjow pulls back. Pretty damn sure that killing Ichigo's friend is not in his best interest right now.

Cursing under his breath, Renji slaps a hand over the wound. He whirls to face the newcomer.

“Rukia!” he splutters, sounding like a child caught doing something very, very bad. “What’re ya doing here?”

Bored, Grimmjow rolls his eyes and drags his sword back towards himself and inspects the blade. His fingers dance over the length of it, skipping briefly over the small cracks that haven't healed yet. Only proving the limits of his own body.

“I was looking for Ichigo,” Rukia replies with a veiled threat in her eyes.

Grimmjow can practically feel the weight of her stare. It crawls over him, pinning right between his shoulder blades. He distinctly remembers shoving his hand through her chest once upon a time. That definitely explains the hostility. Well, that and the fact he's a Hollow and she's a Shinigami. The two are naturally inclined to hate one another. Still, he also recalls her trying to drown him in ice, so the feeling of hostility is mutual.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Rukia continues with a half-snarl, taking a step towards them. One hand rests on the hilt of her zanpakutou. “I thought he was dead!”

Renji quickly sheathes his sword, running a hand over his hair with obvious nervousness. “Ichigo and I sorta found him in Hueco Mundo,” he rushes to explain. “And things happened. We couldn't leave 'im ta die. So he's here.”

“And you didn't tell me?” A mixture of outrage and hurt clouds the woman's tone, not that Grimmjow really cares.

This argument doesn't concern him in the slightest. Let them have their little tiff. His stomach is growling with increased insistence, and if he doesn't get something to eat soon, he's going to hurt something. Preferably Ichigo for abandoning him here with a perverted shopkeeper and a bunch of stuffed animals that moved on their own.

Renji splutters and makes more excuses, apologizing profusely. Grimmjow ignores the both of them, already heading for the massive ladder to the exit. What is it with Shinigami and being pushed around by people half their size? He doesn't really get it, and he'd rather not stick around to find out the results of their little discussion.

Climbing up the ladder, the Arrancar peers around to ensure that the shopkeeper is nowhere in sight, scowling all the while. He sees neither stripe nor fan of Urahara and assumes that the man is off skulking somewhere else. Luckily for him. And Grimmjow hauls himself off the ladder and slams the trapdoor shut behind him. Better that than one of the brats falling down and injuring themselves, only to blame it on him later. He'd rather avoid that kind of issue.

Yawning, Grimmjow rakes a hand over his hair as he moves down the hallway. This kind of life doesn't suit him, he reminds himself. This kind of boring, humdrum existence where he does nothing but sit around and heal. But what else can he do? Where else can he go where he won't be hunted like a mad animal?

The shouten seems abandoned, meaning he won't run into anyone else who will possibly annoy him. A definite plus. And Grimmjow steps into the kitchen and pulls open the fridge, searching the stocked shelves for something quick and easy. His other hand lifts and rubs across his chest, where his scar is currently twitching with a light ache.

“It still hurts?”

Grimmjow startles at the sudden voice and whirls. The fridge slams shut behind him.

“Don't do that,” he hisses, glaring furiously. “Does everyone creep around here like a bunch of damn ninjas?”

Ichigo arches one brow at him from where he leans in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. “Scared were you?”

“Shut up,” Grimmjow snaps. He really, really hates that brat. “When did you get here anyway?”

He wants to ask for food as well, but Grimmjow's not that weak. He won't beg Ichigo for anything. Not help. Not food. Not even the answers he can't seem to find.

“Just now.” The Vizard smirks. “I just came to make sure you hadn't keeled over or anything. Figured you'd be pretty bored.”

“Oh, you were thinkin' of me? How sweet,” Grimmjow drawls, rolling his eyes.

He feels aggressive without really knowing why. He thinks if he can just prompt Ichigo into fighting with him, things might clear themselves up. He doesn't know what he's going to do with the brat.

He still remembers what happened a couple of days ago. Grimmjow still recalls the feel of Ichigo writhing against him, the warmth of Ichigo in his own fingers, and the heat of the teen’s hand on his arousal. He wants to kiss Ichigo, of all things, and that most of all is what Grimmjow doesn't understand. He hates this brat.

Doesn't he?

Brown eyes look at him, as unreadable as everyone else in this damn place, and Grimmjow really hates that. At least in Hueco Mundo. it was pretty easy to tell what others wanted from him. Eat. Sleep. Kill. Fuck. Intrude on the living world to wreak a little havoc. Grimmjow never had to second guess things. Not like here. With Ichigo who should be his enemy but isn't anymore for reasons he can't even begin to comprehend.

It's like a puzzle. One where he's lost half the pieces and the ones he has left don't fit together with any sort of sense. No matter which way he turns them or tries to match up the patterns. He can't even see the big picture anymore. It's just a confusing jumble of images that don't form a whole.

Ichigo moves off the doorjamb. His hands fall to his side as he steps into the kitchen, directly into a spray of dappled sunlight that further conceals his expression.

“You never answered my question.”

Grimmjow scowls and tears his gaze away, something strange gripping inside his chest and refusing to let go. “It's an old wound, Kurosaki. I'm not goin' ta die from it. Don't get yer panties in a twist.”

More than an old wound. It's an injury that Ichigo gave him. Grimmjow deftly steers away from the implications involved by a simple scar, not wanting to think about what it might mean. Why he refused to let Szayel get rid it.

“Sometimes, it's the old wounds that hurt the most,” Ichigo comments softly. Wistfully.

It's enough to make Grimmjow look over at him again, and there's a startled edge to Ichigo's movement as he shifts out of the sunlight and peers into the fridge. As though it is something Ichigo did not mean to say, something that slipped out of his mouth unintentionally.

The quiet that follows is not quite awkward, but it's not comfortable either. There's a sizzling expectation that remembers heated touches and frantic gasps. But there's also a thin line of tension that divides Grimmjow's uncertainty and Ichigo's nonchalance.

“Why did you bring me here?” Grimmjow demands, the question lacking the aggression he intended for it to carry.

Bottles clink, and things scoot around before Ichigo withdraws a couple of cans and tosses one to Grimmjow. He catches it, glancing briefly at the label, before his attention focuses back on his companion.

“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” Ichigo answers with a shrug, popping open his drink with an echoing snick.

What the hell is his problem? Going on and on like nothing's changed. Acting like it's no big deal to pick up the first pathetic Hollow he could find and drag him home. Patching him up like it's his right. Rescuing him when he doesn't even want it, hasn't even asked for it!

His fist slams into the wall before he entirely knows what's happening, a crest of emotions threatening to explode from his chest. He's here, and he doesn't know why. He has nothing to do with himself but a debt to a fucking Vizard he doesn't even like.

Grimmjow snarls even as wood cracks beneath the blow. His voice emerges as a frantic hiss because he can't be certain that damn pervert isn't listening and no way in hell is Grimmjow airing his business to the world.

“Well, yer just carefree ain't ya?” He spits out the words, feeling his breath heave in and out of his lungs as something mad coils inside of him. “Doesn't matter that ya fucked a Hollow who’s supposed to be your enemy, does it? Yer standards are pretty low these days, ain't they?”

Ichigo's drink hits the counter and slides a safe distance onto it. His brown eyes harden.

“The war's over. And last I remember, part of me is Hollow, too. The only one who seems to have a problem here is you.” He closes the distance between them, stalking more like. And though he's shorter than Grimmjow, it doesn't feel like it. “I seem to remember you participating. Or did you forget I'm part Shinigami and human also?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know what the fuck you are?” Grimmjow counters with a growl, standing his ground. “I don't get a damned thing about you!”

Ichigo's hand snaps out and fists in Grimmjow's borrowed shirt. He braces himself, preparing to avoid the violent strike, glad that it's come to this. At least violence Grimmjow understands. Fighting and battle and blood and pain – he understands these. It's the other stuff – the kisses and soft looks and promises of friendship, of maybe even something more – that Grimmjow can't fathom.

He is jerked forward, and his foot slides across the floor. He prepares himself to fight back. Hands ball into fists, and his reiatsu lashes around his body like a wounded beast.

Ichigo's mouth falls over his, tongue darting into Grimmjow's mouth and tasting of whatever it was he’d been drinking. The Arrancar is stunned into immobility, instinct to fight floundering in the face of the intimate contact. Wobbling against the sudden urge to kiss back. To take his hands and wrap them around the brat’s face. To pull him closer until there is no space between them.

The lack of violence is what startles him the most. Ichigo's lips move gently against his, tongue a soft stroke. And the tension in Grimmjow eases as he responds to the kiss, resisting the urge to cling that suddenly slides through his every nerve. What the hell is wrong with him?

The kiss ends, and Ichigo draws back. But still so near that Grimmjow can feel the puff of his lips.

“I don't understand it any more than you do,” Ichigo says lowly, eyes dark with determination and something else entirely. “But I'm not so much of a coward that I'm going to run away because I don't get it.”

“Che.” Grimmjow reaches up, untangling Ichigo's hand from his borrowed shirt. “No one said I was runnin' away either.” He slips out from being trapped between Ichigo and the wall, heart thumping inside his chest. “I'm still here, ain't I?”

Though he doesn't know why he hasn't left yet. Why does he linger? Why is he still here? What is he looking for? What is he waiting for?

Something in Ichigo's face softens with understanding. But before he can speak, a noise in the doorway alerts the both of them to the presence of another.

“Ichigo! What the hell is going on!”

Grimmjow recognizes that voice. It's the ice-bitch again. Having finished scolding Renji, it seems she's set her sights on Ichigo now.

Sighing, Ichigo turns towards her, raking a hand through his hair. “Rukia, please don't start. It's complicated enough without the lecture.”

Her hands plant on her hips. And her eyes dart between Grimmjow and Ichigo and the suspicious closeness she had intruded on.

“Don't start? When you're hiding an Espada in Urahara-san's shouten!”

“It's not like I'm doing it without his permission,” Ichigo argues crossly. “The war's over, remember? We won. Let it go.”

Rolling his eyes, Grimmjow turns his attention back to the fridge, stomach making quite the protest. Women can be so annoying. He realizes that Kuchiki's appearance prevented Ichigo from saying something important. And Grimmjow hates that the answer has been stolen from him.

He sneaks a glance at the Vizard over the top of the fridge door, Ichigo's face is twisted with annoyance as the ice-bitch runs her mouth. He's allowing it because they’re comrades, and she's gotta be someone precious to him. Or something like that. Not that Grimmjow understands anything like that. There's nothing he holds that sacred. Nothing he would give himself to protect. Nothing at all.

So why is he still here?

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a/n: And the oneshot because a two shot becomes a fourth shot becomes a fifth shot and yeah, there will be a sixth in the series. I'm also contemplating an associated series that is another pairing that sort of jumped out at me after writing and editing this piece. Read into it enough and you might be able to guess it. *grins*

I'm still not the biggest fan of this pairing, but it is growing on me. More to come!

Requests will open next week. This I promise. Still have some stuff to finish up this week. Also, if you'd like to receive the update e-mails for this and all my fics, feel free to let me know by leaving me your e-mail. I promise to only use it for the update e-mails and nothing else.

Thanks for reading!