Aizen frowns and something eerily close to concern starts to rise in his chest. He sits up, slowly, no need to frighten Gin any more than he already is. But Gin still startles—a minute thing, barely even a flinch, but its enough to tell Aizen that whatever spooked his youngest follower would be enough to send any other shinigami running away in tears.

“Gin,” it is easy speak softly, gently, “What’s wrong?” He doesn’t mention the late hour. Gin is a firm night owl—Aizen can’t count the number of times he’s found the boy curled up in the high branches of their courtyards trees, staring into the stars.

It has been decades since Aizen saw anything but that infuriating corpse sitting on the throne of heaven every time he looked at the sky. It took effort to blind himself and see the sky instead. An effort he rarely bothered with.

Gin’s smile stretches thin and Aizen sees the lie coming before the boy opens his mouth. He cuts off the attempt, “The truth Gin, if you please.”

“I…” the boy falters, and for the first time his fixed smile falls and something in Aizen’s chest twists.

He looks the boy over and for the first time since he entered Aizen notices how disheveled he is. There are leaves and dirt in the boy’s hair, but it’s the bruises that has Aizen’s breath catching. Gin is in a simple sleeping yukata, loose and breathable, coming up to his knees and there on his thighs are darkening bruises in the shape of a hand.

Aizen knows the hot swell of anger well—he feels it stir whenever he looks up at the heavens—but this is a different kind of anger, there is no cunning here only a deep visceral need to tear whoever did this to Gin apart with his bare hands until the only thing left of the man was a broken and mutilated pulp.

It takes every ounce of his considerable self-restraint to keep his reiatsu under control.

He gets to his feet and feels another flare of anger when Gin twitches at his approach (he’s going to destroy the man’s zanpakto just for that alone—Kyoka Suigetsu sings viciously in agreement). He’s careful not to box him in, kneeling down so he isn’t towering over the boy.

“Gin. What happened?” The softness in his voice can’t quite hide the hard edge of his anger and though it isn’t directed at him, Gin still flinches.

“I—I gutted ‘em,” Gin whispers, his voice shaking. “I gutted ‘em, but he wasn’t alone, an’ I was asleep, an’ he wasn’t alone, he wasn’t—”

Some deep, ancient, animal instinct has Aizen pulling Gin into his arms with a gentleness that not even he knew he possessed even as his anger howled, seething in his belly like magma just waiting to erupt.

Gin freezes for only a second at the unexpected embrace before collapsing into it, burying his face in Aizen’s chest, the last vestiges of his pride draining away as his thin shoulders shake with silent tears.

And Aizen—his heart has never burned like this before, and this seething weight in his stomach hurts at the sight of Gin’s tears—that this is a pain he cannot heal with the soft glow of kido. It’s infuriating.

His cold, calculated anger towards the farce of the Soul King is nothing compared to the rage burning through him now. If he had even a fraction of less control over his reiatsu the weight of his fury would’ve cracked the grounds of Squad Five’s Division in two (not even mentioning the countless shinigami that would’ve died beneath the weight of it).

Aizen could just imagine Captain Hirako’s reaction to such a thing—no, he cuts himself off, his little game of cat and mouse with Captain Hirako can wait. His plans can wait. (His shift in priorities comes so suddenly and swiftly, and with such force that it almost makes him pause, but then Gin whimpers in his arms and the thought is lost).

He pulls Gin more securely in his arms as he slowly gets to his feet, and Gin rather than protesting, just holds onto him tighter. He ignores the swell of warmth rising in his heart, so different than the acid burn of anger that still sits low in his belly.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” He waits for Gin to nod before he moves to the bathroom (and never has he been more thankful that captains and lieutenants get their own personal bathrooms that are attached to their quarters).

Gin trembles as Aizen wipes him down as gently as he can with a practiced and very fake calm that even Captain Hirako would see through because the bruises beneath Gin’s yukata were already turning a deep, nasty purple and there were gouges, bleeding and open made by fingernails forcing him in place.

Aizen fought to control himself, to not shunpo out of this bathroom and find these men—these monsters—and destroy their very souls. And he would make it hurt.

But he can’t leave Gin, not like this. Not hunched in on himself looking scared and ashamed, like he was the one who had done something wrong.

“I…I managed ta get away before…before they,” Gin shudders, crossing his legs defensively, “I got away.”

The relief that pours through him abates the feral edge of his anger by a fraction, just enough for him to push the feeling down and make the calmness he’s trying to exude appear more natural.

“Thank goodness.” The words come out unfiltered and the sincerity of his relief (the simple fact that he said them without a mask of any kind) shocks the both of them.

Gin tries to smile, but he just looks like he’s trying not to cry. “I…it won’t happen again. I ain’t gonna be caught like that again.”

Aizen frowns. Anyone else would take those words at face value—a vow to protect themselves, to become stronger so they could protect themselves—but Aizen is not just anyone.

And Gin, better than most, better than even Kaname, seems to see him—truly see him in a way no one ever has.

So Gin knows that Aizen has no time for those who need protecting, who cannot fight with their own strength. And if it was anyone else he’d be right.

But Gin was different. From the first moment he saw the child standing above their dead Third Seat with a smile on his face and blood still dripping from his sword Aizen had known that Gin was different.

And he had never been able to treat Gin with the same reserved polite menace that he treated the rest of his subordinates with. He indulged Gin, allowed him lenience’s that would’ve gotten anyone else a swift and terrifying scolding—the kind that made a single, pointed look make them break out in a cold sweat.

And when Gin was on the battlefield taking out hollows with a sharp smile and a terrifying ease, Aizen was always there in the background, watching the carnage with an indulgent smile. But he was there, ever watchful as the child (so small, so terrifyingly breakable) darts around the thrashing limbs of the enraged hollows like he’s playing a game of tag with them.

It is only now that Aizen realizes that he wasn’t watching Gin for the sake of learning how best to utilize him, no, he was there to make sure nothing happened to him. It seems that unbeknownst to him, Gin had somehow awakened a long, dormant protective instinct that Aizen had never felt from himself before.

It was a jarring realization, but looking at Gin who was still staring up at him trying to grin through his uncertainty, Aizen knew that fighting this feeling would be more than futile, it would be akin to self-sabotage.

(And from the way Kyoka Suigetsu has wrapped herself around Shinso with all her sharp edges carefully tucked away, he knows his zanpakto would throw a vicious fit if he tried to distance himself now).

No matter, he thinks to himself. His strength, even without the power of Kyoka Suigetsu, already outstrips more than half the captains in the Gotei 13, including his own. And he will only grow stronger, as will Gin. He will ensure it.

But until then I will make sure that no one ever touches you again.

“Gin, I am not upset with you. I am…upset,” furious, incandescent with rage, brimming with killing intent, “that you got hurt. That you were attacked in a place that you believed to be safe.”

Gin’s shaky smile falters, confusion scrunching his brows.

Aizen knows better than to be offended by Gin’s disbelief. Even before he joined Aizen, before he became a shinigami, it was apparent that he lived in one of the lower districts of the Rukongai where alliances were only honored if you were strong enough to pull your weight.

And in Gin’s eyes, despite being a child, despite only coming up to most peoples’ waists, he had failed. He had gutted one of his attackers, but the others still lived and in his haste to escape the brutality they threatened to inflict, he had fled instead of killing them.

And to a child born in the wild savagery of the deep Rukongai that could only been seen as a failure because you risk leading the threat back to the group. And that, in Gin’s limited knowledge, is unforgivable.

He sets a careful hand on Gin’s head and smiles (genuinely, with real warmth) when he doesn’t flinch; the unconscious display of trust has his reiatsu thrumming happily.

“But…” Gin trails off, his slanted eyes falling to the finger-shaped bruises marring the milky-white of his thighs.

“The only ones I hold at fault are the men who did this to you, Gin,” and here his voice turns cold and so very dangerous, “and believe me, they will pay for it.”

Gin looks at him like he wants to believe him, but more than that he just looks tired. The rigid anger in Aizen’s heart softens in the face of it.

“Come,” he says gently, lifting Gin into his arms. “Let’s find you something to wear and go to sleep. Things will look better in the morning.”

He will make them better in the morning.

Gin’s small hands tighten on his haori as he tucks his head into Aizen’s shoulder and says nothing, but the tension crawling through his small body speaks volumes to his doubt. And Aizen knows that there is nothing he can say to make Gin believe him—to trust that Aizen can make this better. Aizen knows that his life up till now, has never allowed for such luxuries.

That’s fine, Aizen thinks, stroking a gentle hand down his back, actions speak louder after all.

º

Morning comes with Captain Hirako banging on his door, startling Gin awake with a violent twitch that makes Aizen want to jab the man’s face in with Kyoka Suigetsu’s hilt; the poor boy had barely gotten two hours’ worth of sleep as he kept being jerked awake by nightmares. And now this.

I’m going to replace all your haircare products with dish soap, he promises maliciously as he slips out of bed, and re-tucks Gin in, in the same move.

He ignores the confused and slightly offended look Gin shoots him, even as the boy snuggles back into his blankets only a moment later.

But before Aizen could reach his door, Hirako slides it open and steps inside with a grim look only to freeze at the sight of Gin in his bed.

Ah, Aizen thinks with some amusement, this does look rather bad, doesn’t it?

“Captain Hirako,” he pitches his voice in a mocking veneer of politeness, “what can I do for you so early in the morning?”

But Hirako doesn’t answer him, his eyes fixed on Gin with a look of slow-dawning horror on his face (the same kind Aizen had experienced last night).

(And Gin, despite his genius, is still very much a child and watches the two adults with a confused ignorance because he doesn’t understand what the image of him sitting in Aizen’s bed and wearing an oversized yukata that is now pooling at his waist, could be construed as—with his bruises now more visible and livid in the light of day).

Hirako’s eyes swing back to Aizen, a cold rage flickering in his eyes that has his reiatsu bristling like a monster baring its teeth. Aizen stares back, unmoved.

“Gin, come here. Now.” Hirako bites out the order, his eyes never leaving Aizen.

But Gin doesn’t move and Aizen feels a fissure of warmth (and no small amount of smugness) when the boy looks to him for reassurance and direction.

“I’m afraid your drawing all the wrong conclusions, Captain Hirako,” Aizen said smoothly.

That has Gin perking up, a flash of panic crossing his face. “No—no! Lieutenant Aizen didn’t do none o’ this. It was…” Gin’s voice withers to a whisper, his hands twisting knots in the sheets. “It was someone else.”

“Gin came to me a little after a midnight,” Aizen picks up where Gin had trailed off, “and after seeing the state he was in, I certainly wasn’t going to send him back to the barracks, so I let him sleep here. I was going to inform you of this, this morning, Captain.”

Hirako scoffs, knowing damn well that Aizen wouldn’t have told him shit and they both know it. But (he glances at Gin, who can’t quite hide his unease and confusion behind his usual grin), “Fine,” he allows reluctantly. “But you’ll bring the people who did this to me. Ya’ want slaughter ‘em, fine—we just gotta make it official-like. Ya’ hear me Souske, official. None o’ this vanishin’ from existence crap.”

“I’m not sure what you’re implying Captain,” Aizen replies mildly.

Hirako scoffs. “Like hell ya don’t.” He turns to Gin, his whole body softening, “C’mon kid, you’re with me for the day. I’ll walk ya to yer barracks so’s you can grab yer stuff.” He turns back to Aizen, “Kid’s stayin’ with you from now on.” It wasn’t a question.

“If that’s what Gin wants,” Aizen replies agreeably, his polite smile never wavering.

Gin just looks at them, full of confusion, and fear, and the most damning of all, hope.

•

Gin forces himself to not look longingly back as Aizen walks away. He can still feel the warmth of his hand when he had gently ruffled his hair with a warm smile that didn’t look or feel fake at all, even though Gin tells himself that it has to be.

I’m just an asset to ‘im that’s all. He ain’t protectin’ me—I’m just more useful alive than dead. That’s all. Maybe if he repeats it often enough he can make himself believe it. Because Aizen wasn’t some protector or big brother figure, he was the Boss and Gin couldn’t afford to forget that.

A rough, but not unkind hair ruffle brings him out of his thoughts.

“C’mon kid,” Captain Hirako nudges him forward, “you get the dubious honor of helpin’ me with paperwork.”

Gin fixes his smile in place and ignores the childish urge to whine because paperwork is the worst and he still has a hard time reading kanji—he’d rather be practicing with Shinso instead.

But he doesn’t let any of this show on his face as he chirps out an obedient, “Yes, Cap’n.” And follows at his heels, but as they turn the corner Gin can’t help but look in the direction that Aizen had gone, a part of him wishing he could’ve gone with.

If only to stab Shinso through those bastards stomachs. That was always an awful way to go.

º

Aizen excels at playing by the book—of finding all the finicky, little details and twisting them until they suit his purposes. He is also good at playing the meek lieutenant, indulgent and harried, always chasing after his captain.

Oh he is well-liked enough, his Squad often describes him as “someone who can soften their Captain’s rough edges”—a description he has to fight not to laugh at. But most importantly, no one fears him. No one sees him clearly enough to know to fear him.

Well, besides Captain Hirako. A truly troublesome if entertaining man. But in this they are united—Hirako won’t let anything happen to Gin, which leaves Aizen with more than enough freedom to find these men and make them regret every life choice they’ve ever made that lead them to this point.

And then, he’ll turn them over to Captain Hirako where they’ll soon understand that death by his hand would’ve been a kinder end. Though not by much.

º

Shinji hides a grin as he watches Gin thumb reluctantly through the paperwork he had handed the kid, a badly hidden pout on his face.

Cute. It seems that despite the kid’s well-earned reputation (and boy had that kid earned it) he was still just that, a kid. Pint-sized too. He hadn’t realized just how small the kid was until he had him walking beside him, the brat’s head barely cleared his waist.

He’s ashamed to admit that he’s avoided the kid since Aizen took him under his wing almost immediately and Hirako doesn’t trust that bastard an inch, so when Gin started followin’ Aizen around like a second shadow Hirako began treat him the same way he did Aizen.

Well, that’s gonna have ta change. And it’s gonna have to start with letting the kid know he can trust him. Not an easy feat by any means—Rukon kids are a lot like stray cats, once bitten always shy (as Shinji knows only too well, having been one of those Rukon brats himself).

And while Aizen seems to have his trust (an infuriating prospect), Gin only knows him as his Captain, and a distant one at that. A Captain who was too busy waiting for Souske to slip up only to miss that at least three shinigami under my command are rapist pedophiles who deserve to get thrown straight to Hell.

If Gin ever trusts him again (if he ever did) Shinji would consider it a miracle. He glances at him again and quickly bites down on the huff of laughter when he sees the kid’s face—his fixed, eerie smile is completely absent as he glares at a piece of paper like wants to light it on fire.

He probably found the our monthly budget. Even Souske can’t quite hide his disdain fer it. Which was why Shinji always made Souske handle it, if just to see that flicker of irritation break through that awful mask of his.

“That’s quite a face kid,” Shinji drawls. “Did ya find the budget? That always puts Souske in a sour mood too.”

Gin’s face scrunches up even more, making him look a disgruntled puppy or perhaps, more accurately, a fox kit, either way it was disgustingly cute, and Shinji valiantly resists the urge to pat the boy on the head, mostly because he didn’t fancy getting himself stabbed.

“No, I like numbers,” the boy mutters, looking embarrassed, “it’s jus’—I’m still…I don’t know all my kanji yet.” He mumbles out that last part miserably.

Ah. A pang of sympathy hits Shinji right in the chest. Reading and writing—the bane of almost all Rukon brats. And with the kid speeding through the Academy in just under a year he doubts that any of the teachers had even bothered to teach him anything but the most basic hiragana and katakana.

Useless morons.

“Well, bring it here kid,” Shinji waves him over, “we can go over it together.”

He sees Gin hesitate, a brief stutter in his steps before his gait smooths out and he’s handing over the report with his usual grin. “That’s ok, cap’n. I don’t wanna—”

“Ya ain’t an imposition,” Shinji interrupts, “and I ain’t askin’. Now pull up a seat.”

Gin looks at him for one long, tense moment (looking for the trick probably—that glint of cruelty that would tell him it’s a trap) before finally acquiescing with a grumbling sigh.

Shinji resists the urge to grab the boy up and put him on his lap, instead letting him drag a chair that was taller than he was around to his desk.

He lays the report out so they both can see it.

“Ok,” he begins patiently, “where’d ya get stuck?”

º

Dusk is falling when Aizen finally returns dragging two men callously behind him, a slick blood trail following in their wake. Oh they were alive, per his captain’s orders, they just very much wished they weren’t. Like their third accomplice.

The one Gin had gutted. But at least he had died suffering.

No one batted an eye as Aizen headed towards his captain’s office, Kyoka Suigetsu’s power blinding them to the two men being drug behind him, begging for a mercy that won’t come. Not from him and certainly not from his captain.

He only hopes that Gin is tucked away somewhere safe. There’s no need for him to see the faces of his attackers nor witness the absolute carnage Captain Hirako will unleash on them (because no matter how cathartic Gin may believe it will be to witness it, Aizen knows it will only scar him, and that boy doesn’t need anymore nightmares).

So when he opens Hirako’s office he can’t help but pin the infuriating man with a dark glare when he sees Gin fast asleep on the man’s lap.

“Captain,” he says scoldingly as he dismisses Kyoka Suigetsu’s power with a thought, while at the same time making it look like he’s dispersing a concealment kido.

“It’s fine Souske,” Hirako flaps a hand at him and Aizen stifles the urge to rip it off. “Kid’s out like a light. I also cast a sound barrier kido around him; trust me, nothing short of the sky fallin’ is gonna wake this kid.”

“Whatever you say Captain Hirako,” he says flatly, radiating disapproval.

(He silently activates Kyoka Suigetsu again, weaving it around Gin so that even if he does wake up the only thing he’ll see are Aizen and Hirako in the office. He won’t hear or see the two men bound and bloodied at Aizen’s feet.)

Hirako just grins at him like he’s baring his teeth. “Well, at least they’re alive. Barely.”

Aizen pointedly ignores the slight admonishment with well-practiced ease. “You said alive Captain. I’m afraid you didn’t specify how intact you wanted them.”

The men at his feet shudder. One of them even whimpers. Pathetic.

Hirako scoffs, sneering at the men as he gets to his feet, easily cradling Gin with one arm. Aizen hears one of the men choke.

“Ya know,” Hirako begins conversationally, “I’m generally a pretty easy-goin’ cap’n. So’s long as things get done and paperwork gets handed in, I really don’t give a damn what ya bunch get up to in yer downtime,” and here, his voice turns cold and hard, “but this—I should cut ya bastards down like hollows.”

“Wh—whatever that kid said we did,” one them wheezes, “he’s lying! I—I swear to you he’s lying! You…you know how those Rukon brats are!”

The man realizes his mistake too late, panic carving terror into his face. Hirako smiles.

He doesn’t drop his reiatsu on them—Gin’s in the room after all (and it wouldn’t do to alert the entire barracks of what was happening in here)—but he doesn’t need to, the look on his face alone is enough to make the two men shake with fear.

Aizen smiles coldly. Like this, you almost look frightening, Captain Hirako.

“Yeah,” Hirako laughs, “I do know what those Rukon brats are like.”

“Cap—Captain! Captain, please!” One of them begs.

Hirako ignores him. “Souske, take Gin.”

“Of course, Captain,” he replies obediently, taking the boy in his arms and brutally ignores the part of him that’s softens in relief at having him in his arms again—safe.

He cradles Gin close as he watches Hirako stab one man through the throat (a slow, horrible way to die), and slicing the other’s stomach open. Being eaten alive by your own stomach acid, how cruel, Aizen thinks approvingly.

“I did consider cutting yer dicks off,” Hirako tells the dying men idly, wiping his zanpakto clean, “but that would involve undressing ya, an’ I just didn’t need that image in my life, ya know.”

The men gurgle, blood bubbling from their mouths as they choke on their last words.