Ichigo could say with certainty, he definitely would not, but that was on a need-to-know basis, and his sisters, who he loved dearly and with all of his current Grinch-sized heart, didn’t. He would mope tonight, feelings awash and weird for no discernible reason—or at least, not one he cared to put a name (or face) to—and be back to mostly normal tomorrow.

Kon screeched something about going in his place, sweeping out the door, slamming it shut behind, and that was that. Footsteps walked—or stomped, in Karin’s case—away. Good enough for now, though he’d feel bad for making them mad later. He had to get over getting mad at himself first.

Sure, Urahara’s would be lively and probably fun, but, knowing him, it would also be a big schmoozing event, and Ichigo wasn’t in the mood for that. And the war. If Ichigo had to hear one more thing about the war that they’d won, he’d lose his goddamned mind.

The past two years had been brutal, and he was still…recovering. That’s what he called it, anyway. Giving distance to some places—Kiskue Urahara’s on the very top of the ‘places to avoid’ list, circled, starred, and highlighted. Some wounds still too fresh in his mind.

Sure, Urahara was a certified genius, but Ichigo got tried of being the pawn in everyone’s game. Was it so bad to want something low-stakes for once? Maybe a fight could just be a fight. Just like he wanted.

But whatever.

Besides, it wasn’t like he’d be there anyway. He and a certain blue-haired arrancar hadn’t spoken often after the end of the war—Ichigo made sure to go by the shop twice a week while he was unconscious, body healing from the poison that Quincy had given him.

And then one day Grimmjow just…wasn’t there.

Urahara said he’d woke up, opened a garganta, and fucked right off to Hueco Mundo. Well, not those exact words. But that’s what the ache in his chest told him.

Bastard.

Now Ichigo was lucky he saw him once or twice a month.

Nel was around far more than Grimmjow ever was, and while Ichigo viewed her more and more as a little sister, he couldn’t say that when the sounding boom of a garganta opening happened, he was always a little disappointed it was just Nel.

She’d for sure be at whatever party Urahara threw. And as much as he loved her, she could be a lot.

Same with his friends, both human and soul reapers.

If Renji decided to knock on his door and drag him to the shit show of a party it would turn out to be, he’d fake…Ichigo wasn’t sure…explosive diarrhea or something and run to the bathroom. Between him knowing how to do surprisingly realistic armpit fart noises, and Renji’s relative cluelessness regarding…many things, as far as the human world went, Ichigo could get him to leave.

Rukia would be another story.

He’d probably actually need to shit and do something he’d regret almost immediately to get her to leave, and honestly, that was still iffy.

Grabbing his laptop, he plopped back down on his bed and searched for a movie. He guessed a Christmas one would do, he shouldn’t be a total trash bag about things. So he typed in the world “Grinch”, searching through the options, and settled on the original, since it was about as short as his patience at the moment.

Hitting the play button, soft music started in the background as Ichigo tried to get himself comfortable, wrapping his duvet around him like he was a cold snowman in need of a nice spring thaw. Sighing as the opening was narrated, Ichigo closed his eyes, lids heavy.

 ............

When he opened them again, his laptop was dark—I must’ve fallen asleep—and there was a warmth spread across his chest.

And legs.

Everywhere, really. And it was heavy.

And vaguely body shaped, Ichigo thought, blood turning to ice. Did someone break into his house? Did he have an intruder cuddling him? What in the absolute fuck? Was this one of his friends sick ways of harassing him because he missed the party?

Glancing around the room trying to stay as calm as possible, Ichigo attempted to get a feel for their spiritual pressure. It took him all of five seconds to give up. It felt familiar, but without any kind of menacing or fighting aura surround them, he was honestly at a loss. The only reason he knew it wasn’t Captain Zaraki is because he wasn’t suffocated into the bed. That, and his two-person boy band wasn’t criticizing him from unseen corners of his room.

Trying to focus on the shape sprawled across him, Ichigo could tell they were taller than him, though probably not by much. Trying to move his arms was met with resistance—hands gripped each bicep like a lifeline, gently clawing and relaxing long fingertips into the meat of each arm.

The head shifted, and Ichigo felt something hard and smooth scrape across the exposed skin of his neck. It felt like a—

“What the fuck,” Ichigo hissed out, eyes going wide in realization, debating whether or not he was going to leave the guy be, or push him off him (and his bed) and smother him with Ichigo’s favorite pillow.

“Took ya long enough,” rang out a familiar, gruff voice, though laced with drowsiness. Ichigo felt his heartbeat stutter. His voice sounded almost soft. No. Nonononono don’t gay panic now. “S’warm in here. Quiet too.”

“What are you talking about?” Okay, panic a little. “What are you—”

“Be quiet,” the arrancar whined, rubbing his stupid face into Ichigo’s softest shirt, hands flexing and relaxing on Ichigo’s arms again, unsheathed claws prickling against his human skin. Quiet? Warm? Was Grimmjow drunk? What in the hell and a half was going on? Was he drunk? Ichigo didn’t remember getting into Isshin’s good whiskey, but hey, he’d slept-walk before.

Once.

When he was five.

“Sorry,” Ichigo said in a frantic whisper, nerves buzzing like angry hornets. The nasty stinging kind that only wanted to kill people. “I just wasn’t expecting you to be in my room on Christmas Eve nuzzling into my chest like it was a normal thing that happened.”

“Fuckin’ shut up already, Kurosaki,” Grimmjow growled, shifting around a little bit, head propping up, is damn pointy chin digging into Ichigo’s chest not unlike the dullest dagger in the world, blue eyes narrowed at him. Ichigo felt his hands twitch.

“Urahara’s was fucking loud. Smelly too. Damn booze-hound,” he muttered, laying his head back down.

“You shut up, you bastard,” Ichigo whisper yelled. “You’ve barely been here! You don’t get to just…do this!”

“I’m here now, ain’t I,” Grimmjow yelled in a hush right back, as if there were other people in the house to be concerned about. Wait, were there? What time even was it? He didn’t remember actually looking at the clock. It was only like…seven when he put the little animated movie on—and it was only like forty five minutes long at most. Damn, he was turning into an old man. He’d be eighty in two days.

Sucking in a breath, Ichigo marched on, ready to get this shit show delt with so he could go back to sleep and wake up mad about it tomorrow.

“Yeah, but why?”

Grimmjow growled for real this time, a low reverberation resonating in his chest before the man sat up, and Ichigo saw his glare glow through the darkness.

“The fuck, you don’t want me here now? Shitty Kiskue said you’d been moping around ‘cuz of it, and now you decided to change yer mind?”

Trying not to snort at the completely accurate nickname for the damn shopkeeper, Ichigo propped himself up on his elbows, since Grimmjow was still sitting on half of him like a damn house-cat, and glared right back.

“I don’t mope,” he said, voice now at a normal volume, growling right back, though not quite as animalistic.

Ichigo ran a now free hand across his sweaty face. Grimmjow ran a hell of a lot warmer than he’d anticipated. Of course, it could always be the stress of the situation at hand.

“You fuckin’ do.” Grimmjow leaned in closer, laying more of himself over Ichigo again, arms now caging both of his sides, gaze predatory. What in the hell was going on? Sure, Ichigo wasn’t opposed to the action whatsoever, but it was weird coming from Grimmjow of all people.

“If you don’t want me here then just say so.” Hot breath fanned Ichigo’s face, and if the light were on, Grimmjow could probably see him blush.

Eyebrow ticking, patience thinning regardless of how attractive the bastard on top of him was, Ichigo spat out his next sentence.

“Of course, I want you here, you complete asshat! What the fuck took you—”

Lips—well, teeth, more like—cut off Ichigo’s lecture. Warm and moist and so fucking soft, Ichigo felt his head drop back onto his pillow, arms wrapping around the torso pressing into him. Whatever Grimmjow was wearing, it was scratchy as hell. Yoruichi had been into some kind of string craft thing—knitting or crocheting, he didn’t remember—so it was probably that. She’d all but forced Ichigo to accept a handmade sweater with holes in the armpits. She insisted it was to let his stank out, whatever the fuck that meant.

Grimmjow pulled away first, but stayed close. His mask shone in the dim moonlight filtering through the window, teeth sharp. Stupidly, Ichigo wondered if he ever flossed them.

“Poison took a long time to wear off, had to go back to Hueco Mundo to heal some of it.”

Ichigo knitted his brows, confused. What did Hueco Mundo have that the world of the living—namely Urahara—didn’t?  

“What?”

Grimmjow scraped his mask over the bareness of Ichigo’s exposed neck, and butterflies fluttered all the way into his throat and back down. Fingers clutched at the hem of the poor-quality yarn sweater, waiting for Grimmjow to explain.

“Something about the reishi compounds,” Grimmjow started with an irritated sigh, the tip of his tongue flicking at Ichigo’s clavicle. “How an arrancar body breaks them down differently and shit. Kiskue explained it, but I wasn’t listening.”

“Figures,” Ichigo said, smiles beginning to spread across his face. “How’d you even get in my house?” Ichigo ran a hand through messy blue locks, and scratched his scalp lightly, earning a pleased grunt. And maybe a purr, if his ears weren’t deceiving him.

“Yer old man. Told me he left the door unlocked an’ that you were bein’ a brat.”

Ichigo’s face went red at Grimmjow calling him such things, but decided not to think of that—or how his father just left the house open for anyone to rob, thanks a lot. What if there was a hollow and a robber nearby? Did the old fart ever think of that?

Probably not, because he’s a moron.

Then another question wormed its way out of Ichigo’s mouth, even with Grimmjow’s greedy mouth currently nipping at whatever exposed skin he could find.  

“Why didn’t Urahara say anything to me? About you needing to go back, I mean.”

Grimmjow stopped marking Ichigo for a second, dragging an arm over Ichigo’s chest and laying his head on it. He was frowning, but didn’t look all that surprised by Ichigo’s line of questioning.  

“Because he’s a piece of shit,” he said matter-of-factly. Ichigo couldn’t help but nod in agreement, irritated sigh pushing past his lips.

“Good to know. How about we try and kill’em tomorrow?”

Ichigo heard and felt Grimmjow chuckle, shifting his arm again, lower this time, playing with the hem of his sweats. Swallowing, Ichigo’s breath hitched.  

Grimmjow growled like the feral best he was, and ground down into Ichigo’s weight, causing a groan to escape him.

“Works for me. Merry Crisis, Kurosaki. Lemme open my present.”

“Oh but I think he should stay with you for a while, that would be a good thing I think,” Urahara kept on, a garbled noise in the background, followed by Yoruichi cackling like a madwoman. Jinta screamed. He heard the telltale sound of Urahara turning his head, mainly because his scruffy hair swept across the part of the phone where sound happened. Ichigo swore his hair was actually made out of straw like a scarecrow.

“Urahara, you’re insane.” He wasn’t saying that for any specific statement, it was just a general fact. Ichigo wasn’t sure if the man actually knew it, and thought it best to tell him. He was helping, really.  

“Wow, you said something sensible, for once,” Grimmjow said with a grumble, over the doctor magazine he was flipping through, legs hanging off the couch like he owned it and the rest of the house. Feeling his eyebrow twitch in renewed, invigored frustration, he balled up the one hand not holding the phone so he wouldn’t do something stupid with it. Like try and slap a former espada in his human body.  

“You’re worse,” Ichigo said, turning his attention on the arrancar.  

“Bet.”

Ichigo made a noise that was half squawk, half whine—he’d told Karin to stop teaching Grimmjow slang. Ichigo had just got him off his YOLO kick, which had died about five years ago as far as he was concerned. Why Karin had tried to explain that particular phrase he had no idea. Ichigo figured it was specifically to annoy him.

At least he used this one correctly…I think. He wasn’t even listening to Urahara chatter anymore as he hung up on the demented shopkeeper. He’d punch him later—or try, at least, quick bastard.

Grimmjow turned a page as loudly as he could, dragging the page across the other, making a sound close to the worst one in the world, keeping eye contact with Ichigo the entire time, just to piss him off.

Ichigo swallowed his homicidal urges, which Shiro ate with glee, chanting the homicidal urges in his head which were beginning to sound pretty appealing. Flicking a glance down at the other man’s feet, he frowned.

“At least take your shoes off.”

“Nope.” Grimmjow flipped another page without actually reading the one he’d turned to, making the same godawful sound.

Ichigo ran both hands through his hair, not even caring how it looked after he was done. Maybe he should just pull it out—with the way things were going, that’s where he’d end up, bald and no outlet for venting his frustration. And he’d still have a lazy cat on his couch. Would he start clawing the furniture as well? Karin and Yuzu would get a kick out of him cat proofing the house, Isshin would probably just go cry to Urahara or Ryuuken. Maybe both.  

And where were the girls, anyway? They loved harassing the man assaulting a magazine on the good couch. Or Isshin for that matter? He didn’t hear the older man puttering around in his clinic like he normally did. Maybe he was just being quiet, which, after a moment of brief thought, Ichigo figured was extremely unlikely.

 The pseudo-silence lasted for all of ten more seconds, when a door upstairs slammed open.

“Ichigoooooo,” a high-pitched yell sounded throughout the house, and Ichigo felt the rest of his patience dissipate to a gaseous state. Grimmjow shot up off the couch with a start, which surprised him, pressing himself to Ichigo’s side, black velvety fur sprouting from his hands down to his elbows.

Frowning, Ichigo heard the soft, quick thumping of the most annoying stuffed animal on the planet flinging himself down the stairs with all the strength of a wet snail.

He felt Grimmjow tense beside him, as he tried to turn, but the arrancar put himself slightly in front, crouching down just a bit, making him around the same height as Ichigo. Raising an eyebrow, he snorted at the man’s confusing actions. What was this about all of a sudden?

 “It’s just Kon. You can calm down.”

“What’s a Kon?” Grimmjow’s voice was something between a hiss and a growl—almost animalistic. Ichigo flicked a glance down at his arms. Damn, those nails looks hella sharp. If he was going to be on the other side of them, his human body wouldn’t stand a chance.

“I’m not a anything. I’m the Kon! The one and only!” The lion plush rounded the corner and stood, barely in the living room at the base of the stairs, with his stuffed paws on his stuffed hips, striking the worst peter pan pose Ichigo had ever seen. He was also in a pink, frilly dress with a bonnet on, a bow clipped onto his ear.

Ichigo physically saw Grimmjow relax, but only a little bit, the fur receded to just his hands, he stood up straighter, but made no move to leave his side. And why did he jump to Ichigo’s side to begin with? Pushing that thought away, he turned back to Kon.

“What do you want, Kon?”

Kon immediately threw himself on the floor, and wiggled around like he was throwing a tantrum. Oh wait. That’s exactly what he was doing.

“What do you think I want Ichigo? You think I want to be wearing this? Yuzu tied it in a knot and I can’t get it out and all you’re doing there is standing there laughing at meeeeee,” the rest of his words were cut off as he pressed his mouth into the wooden floor, muffling the rest of his whining. The mod-soul’s feet were moving at about a thousand miles an hour, and Ichigo figured it they moved much quicker, he’d just take flight. I’d never hear the end of it then.

With a sigh, Ichigo started over towards Kon, moving around the arrancar’s form, leaving Grimmjow standing stock still in the middle of the living room.

“I’m not laughing at you. Or at all,” he started, crouching down so he could grab at the tantrum-ing lion. “I’ll let Yuzu know she’ll have to make them in a bow instead.”

“No! I don’t want to wear a dress period,” Kon shouted as he stood up abruptly, and launched himself at Ichigo’s face. With a roll of his eyes, he prepared to swat him away, but never got the chance.

With a jolt, Ichigo was yanked to his feet, a strong arm hooked around his, pulling him into a muscular chest, as the arrancar clawed out at the annoying mod-soul, knocking him halfway back up the steps, dress torn to shreds between his claws and where Kon sat, dazed, but seemingly unharmed.

Ichigo turned to look at the lunatic holding onto him, free hand going to grip on his jacketed shoulder, gripping as hard as his human body would allow, and glaring at the man.  

“What the hell are you doing!”

Grimmjow glared back, eyes narrowed, sharp, and definitely irritated.

“You’re just gonna stand there like a shithead while it attacks you,” he growled in Ichigo’s face, voice low and gravely, like he’d swallowed gravel from the parking lot outside.

“Ichigo,” Kon started, his voice shaking only a little bit. “My body is fine, but my emotions aren’t, avenge me, okay?” And with that dramatic-ass statement, Kon bolted all the way back up the stairs, slamming Ichigo’s bedroom door soon after.

Grimmjow’s eyes narrowed at the sound, but still held Ichigo firm against him, a deep frown set on his face. Ichigo was…well, he was confused.

“So, you gonna tell me what that was about,” he asked, trying to pull his arm free from the vice grip, cocking an eyebrow at the arrancar, who let go to shove his hands in his jumpsuit pockets.

“You’re in your human body,” was all he said, pointedly avoiding eye contact now, before turning and heading back to the couch, flopping on it, back turned to Ichigo.

He stared at the man’s back in disbelief. Did that mean, Grimmjow had shot off the couch because he thought Ichigo had been under attack? Was he protecting him?