Archive of Our Own

He’s having the same dream again.

It started not too long after Mom died. It’s always the same, down to the very smell of it – dusty tatami mats and lacquer.

In the dream Ichigo isn’t a boy. He’s a ragdoll, all flat cloth and stuffing. And somehow he’s come to pieces, his limbs hanging by threads, clumps of cotton littering the street. Above him is a beautiful lady – but she’s not a lady, she’s a puppet, all articulated limbs and shining rounded fingers. She stitches him together again, pulls his flattened limbs back and stuffs him plump again.

Sitting by his head is a man – but he’s not a man, he’s a toy soldier. He wears a dark coat and a brimmed hat and carries a rifle that shines in the darkness. There’s a light above them all that casts long shadows over them; outside the circle of its glow the world is black, empty.

No one speaks in the dream; the puppet stitches silently and the soldier stands guard. Ichigo doesn’t feel afraid, not even of the puppet’s long bone-white fingers as they rapidly prick thread into the cloth of his limbs. He feels safe here; he knows the puppet and the toy soldier are taking care of him.

The dream ends just before the puppet puts in the final stitches, a few clumps of white stuffing still lying like cotton balls on the asphalt.

This night, like always, the puppet reaches its smooth fingers out over the final rips in his fabric – and Ichigo tumbles out of the dream and into half-wakefulness.

The room is dark; it’s still the middle of the night, hours from dawn. The house is quiet all around him, the street outside empty. Ichigo closes his eyes, rolls over, and goes back to sleep.

Ichigo is not a complainer. He lost his mother at a young age, and the older kids at school bully him for his hair colour, and now he’s got a down-on-her-luck Shinigami living in his closet and a pervy lion doll stalking the house looking for ero-manga that Ichigo definitely didn’t hide under his winter sweaters. And not once has he complained about the unfairness of it all (although he does tread on Kon’s face on a daily basis). He has his shit together, he can handle pretty much all the BS life throws at him.

Right now, though, looking down at the red dripping wound in his side, he thinks that he doesn’t have the ability to deal with this.

It was a hollow, of course, not particularly strong but fast as a swift, and with long wicked claws that dug like knives into his side. Ichigo can slice through walls and trees and probably even cars with his blade, but it is long and it is heavy, and he is at his worst against agile opponents.

His blood is hot against his palm, already spilling through his shihakusho. He needs a hospital, needs surgery, but right now he’s a spirit and if he goes home and reclaims his body he probably will be in time only to bleed to death in his bed. He’s a Shinigami, and he needs a Shinigami solution.

Ichigo’s encounters with Geta-Boushi have done little to engender confidence, but he is the man who saved Rukia after the hollow took a formidable bite out of her. And he’s been dealing with all her Shinigami needs, albeit not very satisfactorily. And he has, once or twice, been of slight assistance when things got a little weird.

Things aren’t weird now, they’re just grim. Ichigo limps through the dark streets of Karakura, blood dripping on the asphalt. Does spirit blood stain? Will anyone other than him see it? He doesn’t know.

His vision is starting to go dark as he drags himself towards the old-fashioned front of the Urahara Shouten, its rickety doors closed against the warm spring night. There’s no lights behind the glass, the building dark. Ichigo trips on uneven concrete and falls against the doors, wood and glass shuddering loudly in the quiet night. He tries to prop himself up on his elbow but his body is heavy, so heavy, and it’s all he can do to keep breathing.

White light shines in his face, blinding him, and then there’s the sound of wood and glass rattling.

“Kurosaki-san?”

Ichigo looks up into grey eyes, blond hair shining pale as winter wheat. He tips forward, knees giving out under him, and whatever words he intends to speak come out as a groan. His face mashes into a solid chest, cloth-covered and smelling of pipe smoke and mosquito coils. Old-fashioned, summer smells.

Strong arms catch him; a moment later he’s being pulled into a dimly-lit room, then up into brightness. He staggers along for a few steps but he’s losing feeling in his legs, his body growing cold, his thoughts pouring away through cracks he had never noticed. He feels himself lifted fully, grey eyes looking down at him oddly familiar.

He’s put down, numb and insensitive, and watches with thoughtless eyes as glowing hands hover over him. They glow soft as fireflies, a pale green that washes over the face hovering above him.

Slowly, slow as a flower turning towards the sun, warmth starts to seep back into him. The sensation of his heart beating in his chest returns, then the awkward press of his sheath against his spine, and then finally pain. Considering he has two stab wounds in his side, each at least five centimeters deep, it hurts much less than it should.

“What… are you doing?” his voice is raspy, as though sliced out by a serrated blade.

“Saving your life, Kurosaki-san. Isn’t that why you came here? Or were you perhaps just looking to do some late-night shopping? I have a deal on hard candy.”

“Jerk, I –” spittle catches in his throat and he coughs, and then the pain comes with sudden sharpness. He moans and balls inward, rolling onto his side and drawing his knees up to his chest, unable to stop coughing.

“You really are a beacon for trouble, Kurosaki-san,” says the laughing voice as he fights to breathe. “I wonder how bright you’ll shine.”

A cool hand wipes over his forehead and the pain – and his consciousness – wash away.

When Ichigo wakes, much later, he’s lying in his bed. His side is tender, bandaged, but there’s no trace of blood. Just the memory of a warm glow, and grey eyes above.

The next time he wakes up in the Shouten, Rukia is gone, Ishida is injured, and Ichigo is beat all to shit.

It’s neither the start nor the end of something, just a piece in the ever-expanding saga that’s suddenly his life. And standing in the background, all smile and shadow like a puppet-master, Urahara Kisuke.

The thing about Urahara is, he’s an ass. A deceitful, conniving, secretive ass. He saved Rukia’s life, then he left her to Soul Society to build Ichigo’s character. He trained Ichigo to go after her, but didn’t tell him the secret he buried within her gigai. It’s only in the calm after the chaos of Soul Society that Ichigo realises just how cunningly he orchestrated every step of his introduction into the world of the Shinigami, how very intentional it all was.

But the thing about Ichigo is, he doesn’t bear grudges. He’s fire, not ice, and when the heat of his anger burns down it leaves fertile soil ready to grow forgiveness. Urahara tricked them, but he also saved Rukia, and Ichigo, and Chad and Inoue and Ishida and any number of other people. The positive impacts of his actions spread outwards like ripples.

So when Urahara gets down on his knees on the flight back to their world and apologizes, Ichigo accepts it. Slate wiped clean, wrongs forgiven.

They sit side-by-side as the enchanted paper flies over Tokyo, the city’s tiny lights twinkling below like inverted stars. “You know, you didn’t have to sneak around. You could’ve just asked for help,” says Ichigo. Somehow despite the fact that they’re almost in the clouds the air here isn’t cold, the wind just a pleasant caress against his skin.

“Maa, Kurosaki-san. Don’t think of it as a judgement upon yourself.”

“I definitely wasn’t. I was thinking that you’re a scheming, duplicitous, paranoid tinkerer who probably has deep-seated trust issues.”

Urahara smiles, face half-hidden by his fan. “You’ve seen the machinations of the Gotei-13 for yourself now. Do you really think my trust issues are so unfounded?”

Ichigo looks at him, turns up his face to the moon, the white light casting them all in shades of grey. Urahara’s hair glints like platinum in it, all the pale colour drained away. “I’m not them,” he says simply, arms crossed.

Urahara’s grin softens, like a sheet smoothed by a gentle hand. “No, it would be quite hard to mistake you for that. I suppose I’ve just grown used to solitude. Of thought and action,” he adds.

“Sounds lonely.”

“You fill your life with colour and noise and friendship, Kurosaki-san. It’s a very impressive trait. You turn enemies into friends. I… I turn friends into enemies.” He’s still smiling; bitter, brittle.

Ichigo punches him in the shoulder, hard, and he sprawls onto his face. “Mwa!” In the background Inoue lets out a sound of surprise. Yoruichi makes a gruff noise, a black cat’s laugh.

“Don’t give me that crap. You’ve got the stacked giant and those two weird kids back there living with you. And you and Yoruichi-san were friends in Soul Society, right? That was back when dinosaurs ruled the earth, so obviously you’re doing something right. And now you’ve got me, and Ishida and Chad and Inoue, and Rukia too. You’re not the kind of guy to get all weepy, so don’t start now. ‘Cause I’m not either.”

“No, you aren’t,” agrees Urahara, sitting up. In the moonlight his eyes are the bright colour of polished steel, glinting in the shadow beneath his hat. Ichigo can feel the weight of his gaze, neither testing nor assessing. Just confident, confident in him. “You could go far.”

“I will go far, you mean,” says Ichigo.

Urahara props his fan beneath his chin. “Perhaps. What I’ve learned in my time, Kurosaki-san, is that nothing is ever certain.”

Ichigo is struggling to breathe.

Behind him somewhere, limp and broken, lie Inoue, Chad and Arisawa. Limp and broken because of him, because he wasn’t strong enough. Because he’s afraid of himself, of the growling darkness in his heart.

By rights, he should be dead. He expected no rescue; he expected to be enough. Wrong on both counts.

Over him stands Urahara, his sword extended towards the Arrancar, his reiatsu harsh as glass shards. He keeps his power under such a tight leash that Ichigo has hardly ever felt it before, only a few times in training when their training sessions got to their most heated. For all his smiles and jokes, Urahara’s reiatsu is violent, hungry for blood. Benihime, thinks Ichigo, as he looks up at the figure above him and the crimson flicker of his spirit. Intensely powerful, and under immense control.

The Arrancar decide that they don’t want to face up to Urahara and Yoruichi, which is just another kick in the face to Ichigo. But mostly he doesn’t care because now they’re gone, and he can roll over and watch as Yoruichi goes to check on Chad and Arisawa and Urahara squats beside Inoue and calls that warm green glow into his hands. Ichigo crawls over on his elbows, his whole body a mess of pain, and watches the cuts and bruises fade from Inoue’s face. Ichigo can see now that her forearm is bent unnaturally, the skin bruised darkly; in his chest, something tightens.

“She’ll be alright, Kurosaki-san,” says Urahara, glancing at him. “I can’t do much for her broken arm, but I’m sure she will be able to take care of it soon.”

Ichigo’s fingers dig furrows in the dirt, stones slicing into his skin. His breath catches in his throat, choked.

Urahara speaks into some small device. A few moments later the muscled giant, Tessai, appears out of shunpo. “Back to the Shouten,” he says. The man nods and scoops up Chad and Arisawa like so many bags of rice. Yoruichi strides over and raises up Inoue, surprisingly gentle. The two of them are gone in a moment.

“Well now, Kurosaki-san,” says Urahara, looking down at him. His sword has reverted to its shikomizue form and he’s leaning on it, feet spread wide apart and back curved.

Ichigo’s chin is in the dirt; he can smell it, almost taste its dry grittiness. “Just leave me here and go take care of Inoue and the others,” he says.

“How self-sacrificing. And unusual, for you to be so long-faced.”

Ichigo looks up at him, pulling his arms in under his chest to prop himself up; his ribs are screaming, his back afire. “You saw what happened.”

“I saw you trying to protect your friends.”

“You saw me fail to protect my friends. Not because I wasn’t strong enough. Because I was afraid. I chickened out and Inoue –” he swallows thickly, looks away, cheek to the ground. “He could have snapped her neck,” he says quietly.

“You don’t like seeing people hurt. You don’t like not being strong enough. Old memories, perhaps?”

Old memories flash through his mind in a space that has no place in time, memories of rain and a small child and his mother, running. And, just like that, he’s on his feet, lunging at Urahara. Urahara, who reaches out with one hand and plucks his wrist out of the air, swivelling with him and twisting so that he falls to his knees with his arm held bent above him, painful and powerless.

“I’m not trying to goad you, Kurosaki-san. Merely suggesting that you should reflect on your motivations. And your weaknesses. Your drive to protect others does you credit, but it also hamstrings you. You have a lot of baggage, and –”

“You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t spent years thinking about the costs of my failures? I know,” he spits, twisting in Urahara’s grip. “I know that my actions have consequences, that my failures have consequences, and those consequences are people I love dying. What do you know – you cut yourself off from your life, you hide away in a store playing the mad scientist, and when you make a mistake you just fix it up or hide it – no problem.” He’s panting, his whole body trembling with each heavy breath. He stares up through the spikes of his bangs, sweat trickling through the dirt on his face. “When have you ever just done something to help someone because it was the right thing to do – not because you have some secret plot on the go?”

Urahara lets him go abruptly; without that tether he falls on his face again, slamming into the ground. He opens his eyes and stares at Urahara’s geta, wood and leather old, worn. His feet are long and smooth like river rocks.

“You’re a bright boy with considerable potential, Kurosaki-san. I wish nothing for you but success. And if my methods are somewhat unorthodox, well, I’m afraid you’re not spoiled for choice. The fact of the matter is, you’re stuck with me. You don’t have to accept my advice but I’m afraid that right now, you do have to accept my help.”

Two long arms reach down and haul him up, hooking him against Urahara’s shoulder. “Fear of losing control isn’t the same thing as cowardice,” he says.

“Why shouldn’t it be? The results are the same.”

Urahara is silent for a moment, then steps into shunpo. They leave the field, and this discussion, behind them.

It’s Urahara, once again, who sends them forward. This time to Hueco Mundo, to rescue Inoue.

“I’m not gonna fail this time,” Ichigo tells him as the Garganta opens before them like a yawning mouth, a portal into darkness.

“Think first, act second,” advises Urahara.

“Not my jam,” says Ichigo, and steps into the void.

It’s Inoue who heals him in Hueco Mundo, Inoue dressed all in white like the Arrancar, her face so sad. She’s faded, the colour and the life washed out of her by this. By her connection with Ichigo who dragged her into this strange new life of Shinigami and hollows and reiatsu in the first place. Inoue is sweet and kind and lovely, and caring about Ichigo is killing her.

He brings her home, first to the false Karakura, then the real one. He is thankful for her healing, the gentle caress of her power like sunshine against his skin.

It reminds him of something, the softness of her kindness, and the strength of her resolve to protect her friends.

It’s only when he’s at home, with Aizen defeated and the world back on kilter and Goat-Face and his sisters back together eating a meal, that he realises what. It’s the poster that does it, the dumb, shiny, blow-up poster of his mother.

The woman I fell in love with… was a woman who could die protecting her son.

He wants to admire it, wants to love her for it and be proud of her the way Dad is. But that kind of love, that kind of sacrifice… it just makes him hurt inside.

He doesn’t know why he ends up talking to Urahara. It must be the lack of reasonable male role models in his life – with the other options of Goat-Face, Don Kanonji, and Kon, the former captain of the Twelfth seems a perfectly reasonable, rational choice.

It’s February and Tokyo’s bitterly cold, the humidity of the bay holding an unforgiving chill that seeps in under collars and through layers of cotton and wool. At home Ichigo keeps his heater blazing, but Urahara, unsurprisingly, doesn’t have an AC/heater system. What he has is a kotatsu and a box of mikans. So they sit in the Shouten and peel oranges, Ichigo drinking steaming coffee and Urahara shouchu.

Ichigo has spilled his guts like so much chum, the sad pathetic story of his love life at almost seventeen, while Urahara delicately peels the white stringy bits off the mikan slices. He looks up when Ichigo finishes, half-way through making what are disturbingly accurate likenesses of the Gotei 13’s flower crests out of them. “I’m confused, Kurosaki-san,” he says. “I thought you liked Kuchiki-san.”

“Yeah. I did. She’s so determined and fearless, and she wasn’t anything like any of the other girls I know. She’s calm and collected, but her first instinct is to fight. I like that. But she’s not really into me in that way, and besides how could it work?”

“Mm, love across worlds, a difficult trope,” agrees Urahara. “So you turned your sights to Inoue-san.”

Ichigo’s head snaps up. “No – I mean – you make it sound calculating, like I thought it all through and… and decided to like Inoue.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s not really your M.O.”

“No. No, but I’m not blind, y’know. I know she likes me, I know she’s done so much of everything with Soul Society and Aizen and the Arrancar because of me – because she wanted to look out for me. And I like Inoue! But… she’s not like Rukia. She doesn’t have a shred of violence, or meanness in her. She forces herself to fight for us, and she throws herself into protecting us because that’s what she can do. But she’d never strike first, or be cruel. And people like her, people who are kind and want nothing other than to protect the ones they love… they’re the ones who die. I want someone who would fight for me, not someone who would die to shield me. Not that I’m ungrateful! I’m not! Or maybe I am, I don’t know…” his head drops and he stares down at the table; it’s old, the varnish scarred and scuffed in places. Urahara’s living quarters have a smell that’s quietly familiar, tatami and old lacquer; it makes Ichigo feel unaccountably at home. He’s relaxed here in the Shouten, with the winter winds rattling the windows off in the distance and his body enveloped in warmth from the kotatsu. It takes a little of the tightness away from the conversation, loosens his throat.

“I don’t consider that ingratitude,” says Urahara slowly, laying out a stem for the stem of the Tenth’s daffodil with steady hands. “It’s an unusual attitude, certainly. But one I can understand. But Kurosaki-san, I think you’ll have a hard time finding someone as willing as you to step head-first into battle. Such people abound in Soul Society, but not here. Are you perhaps condemning yourself too soon to loneliness?”

Ichigo runs his thumb along the rim of his mug, the steam hot against it. “I’d rather live with loneliness than guilt.”

“I see.”

Ichigo looks up, finds Urahara watching him from beneath the brim of his hat, eyes calm. “You’re not going to try to talk me out of it?”

“I think the motives driving you run bone-deep. They may not be wise, or healthy. But trying to run counter to them would make you deeply unhappy. I will say that emotional intelligence is not a strong point of mine, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. So you should take my advice with a grain of salt.”

Ichigo smiles and takes a sip of his coffee. “I always do, you know. Otherwise who knows where I might end up. Um… I don’t really know how to ask this, but… are you and Yoruichi-san…?”

Urahara’s laugh is soft, more breath than voice. “Maa, it’s been a long time since someone asked me that. No, we’re not. We were friends, then superior and subordinate, and then colleagues. But never lovers. My interests don’t lie in that direction.”

“Oh. Oh. Right.”

“Indeed. But if you’re asking whether Yoruichi-san is available…” he grins, eyes shining.

“I am absolutely not,” says Ichigo, and grabs his bottle. “And I think you’ve had enough of that.”

“Maa, Ichigo-saaaan…” He grabs for it and Ichigo pulls back, amused.

“You’ve never called me that before.”

Urahara, face now pressed to the table from over-extension reaching for the shouchu, looks up. “Ichigo-san?”

“Yeah. ‘S kind of nice.”

He blinks hopefully. “Nice enough that you’ll give me back my alcohol?”

“Nope. You’re cut off.”

“Stingy.”

For a little while, Ichigo honestly thinks that he might have a chance of going back to a normal life, studying for finals, going to university, maybe even becoming a doctor no thanks to any coaching from his old man.

Then the Quincy invade, and everything goes to shit.

This time it’s not about rescuing a friend, it’s not about righting an injustice. It’s a war to save two worlds. Ichigo and Chad and Inoue go to save their world. Rukia and Renji and the Gotei 13 go to save Soul Society. Ishida, all alone in the Quincy faction, goes to prevent catastrophe.

In the end, even Urahara and Yoruichi deploy. And while Ichigo and his friends all return to Soul Society following the defeat of Yhwach and the Quincies, Urahara and Yoruichi don’t.

Soul Society lies in ruins around him, Shinigami buried in mass graves, dead captains buried with haste and without ceremony. Throughout the rubble people are mourning, are despairing, and are struggling to just keep going with the huge burden of daily tasks. Inoue steps in to help with the Fourth, while Ishida advises Kyouraku about possible remaining pockets of Quincy resistance and Chad does manual labour to help with clearing roads and flattened houses.

Alone in the midst of this chaos, Ichigo realises for the first time what it’s like to suddenly not have Urahara behind him, guiding and scheming and grinning. Urahara who stepped in again and again without Ichigo ever asking, who was simply there when needed – with a sword, with a plan, with healing kaidou – and then gone like mist on a sunny day.

Urahara who he’s come to rely on. A presence he never noticed but that was always there since the very beginning.

The search parties find Askin’s corpse and the ruins of the battleground. The earth is poisoned, the air fetid. There’s no sign of Urahara or Yoruichi or her brother. But the searching Shinigami do bring back a single piece of cloth, stiff and tattered. It’s striped with white and green. They deliver it to Kyouraku, who gives it to Ichigo with gentle hands. Part of the hat crumbles away in his palms as he stares at it, throat tight.

Ichigo still remembers the scrape of Urahara’s reiatsu against his skin, the brutality of it, the fierceness. Such strength, and such control. Urahara isn’t like Rukia or Inoue or any of Ichigo’s friends. He doesn’t fight to protect. He fights for himself alone. And yet he came to Soul Society’s aid. To Ichigo’s aid. And now…

“There’s still no body,” says Ishida when he sees the remains of the hat. “He could be anywhere, healing, recovering.”

“How many people did we see completely destroyed? If he was alive he’d have called by now.”

“He’s not exactly considerate,” says Ishida.

“He would have come to finish the fight,” replies Ichigo. certain. “If he was alive, he would have come.”

A Shinigami from the Second runs in with some information for Ishida, and Ichigo slips away.

He should pull himself together. Urahara is a friend, yes, but a weird one, and really they don’t know each other that well. How much time have they ever spent together? How much does he know about Urahara that’s come from the man’s own lips and not someone else? He’s mourning a ghost, a shadow. He needs to get over it, put it behind him.

But he can’t. Every time he tries he feels a bleeding emptiness inside, a little notch of hollowness where something warm and round and whole used to sit.

Two days later, a Garganta from Hueco Mundo opens up in the First. Urahara Kisuke, Shihouin Yoruichi, and Shihouin Yuushirou step out.

Ichigo is all the way in the Tenth helping Toushirou with some paperwork when he hears about it from the gossiping eighth chair in the hallway – “And Shou-chan said the former captain of the Second and the Twelfth just showed up in the Captain-Commander’s office.”

Ichigo drops the inkwell he’s holding, black ink splattering across the floor when the stone tablet shatters. He yanks the door open so fast he rips it right out of its runners; the two Shinigami in the corridor turn and stare.

“Is that true?”

They gape at him, wordless.

“Urahara Kisuke – he’s back?”

“Um, yes, Kurosaki-san. In the First.”

Ichigo doesn’t wait to hear anymore, he simply steps into shunpo and flies. Across the compound, across the city, crossing the entire expanse without taking a single breath.

He appears right at the doors of Kyouraku’s building, startling the guards there. “Open it,” he orders and they scramble to do so for the hero of Soul Society. Inside is an entryway, then a corridor, then the wide space of Kyouraku’s office. Ichigo slams the door open, lungs burning, leg muscles fiery, and sees –

Urahara Kisuke in the flesh, sitting on a zabuton having a cup of tea. There’s a fucking biscuit on the table.

“You absolute asshole, where have you been?” he demands, striding into the room. Urahara – sans hat, in what looks like a borrowed shihakushou – turns to look up at him, wide-eyed.

“Ichigo-san –”

“I thought you were dead,” he spits, suddenly shaky. “I thought – fuck,” he says, and kicks the teacup out of Urahara’s hand; it flies out and shatters against the wall. And then, abruptly, his legs give out and he drops to his knees on the hard wooden floor with a thump. His chest hurts and he doesn’t know why, doesn’t know why he can’t seem to breathe right, why he feels like his lungs are full of smoke. “Why didn’t you call?” he whispers, voice rough.

“My apologies, Ichigo-san,” says Urahara in a low voice. “I’m afraid it wasn’t my choice. Working with Yoruichi-san and Grimmjow I was able to defeat the Quincy Askin, however the effect of his final attack left us all tumbling towards death. We were rescued by the Arrancar Nel and taken to Hueco Mundo to recover. And naturally, there are no direct lines of communication between there and Soul Society! So alas, I was unable to inform you of my status. I am still very much alive. And… forgive me, but I didn’t think that you would care so much.”

Ichigo looks him right in his eyes. “Of course I care. You – you’re – you’ve always been there and yeah you’re a jerk and yeah you’re always up to something, but… I don’t want a world where that’s not true anymore. I want to go home and finish high school and go to university, and I want you to be there at your shitty store selling expired candy and giving me bad relationship advice.”

Urahara leans back. He looks very pale in the dark shihakushou, his blond hair platinum-bright. He’s an ungainly-looking man, all angles, many of them not quite right. But Ichigo’s come to like the look of him; it’s disarming in a way very little else about Urahara is. “I see,” says the shop-keeper. “A simple life, is that it?”

“Is that so wrong?”

Urahara smiles. “No. There’s nothing wrong with it, Ichigo-san. And if you like, we can try to make it happen.” He looks over at the teacup lying smashed on the floor by the wall. “Now, if you’d please hurry and clean that up before Kyouraku-san gets back – he never says anything scolding but he gives you this look…”

“I’m not your servant,” says Ichigo. “Clean up your own mess – it’s entirely your fault.” He stands. “I’ll see you later.”

“But Ichigo-saaaa –” calls Urahara plaintively, his whine cut off when Ichigo shuts the door behind him.

Ichigo does finish high school, and in the spring starts at Chuo University doing a pre-med course. Goat-Face has a lot of speeches about how he’s carrying on the family name with intelligence and honour, Inoue bakes him a cake at the bakery, and Chad gives him a medallion of St Luke. Ishida doesn’t do anything for him – he’s joined Ichigo at Chuo in pre-med, primarily to piss off his own father, apparently. Ichigo can get behind that.

They have lectures and labs, class sizes ranging from two hundred to twenty. Some are boring, from professors who have clearly been teaching the same lessons for decades and could deliver them in their sleep; some are interesting and thought-provoking, and genuinely engage Ichigo in the topic. He’s used to working hard and doing well; university is even more work than high school was, but with things now calm in Soul Society, he has a lot more attention to devote to it.

And weirdly, Urahara is just as helpful now as he was when Ichigo was acting as a Shinigami. He’s a scientist and could obtain an MD any day of the week; he has no trouble explaining concepts that Ichigo gets confused about, or walking him through mathematical formulae or chemical processes. They get together a couple of times a month to chat, sometimes when Ichigo comes home on the weekends, or other times at local restaurants near the university.

Time passes, a year, two, three. Cherry blossoms blossom, fall leaves fall. Ichigo studies, and learns to cook for himself, and goes on a smattering of dates that never seem to go anywhere. In the background, as always, is Urahara.

It’s the shop-keeper who tells him that Inoue’s moved in with Arisawa, one evening in an izakaya with the two of them drinking pale ale. “Oh,” says Ichigo. “I’m surprised she didn’t mention it to me. But I guess they’ve always been good friends.”

“I think perhaps more than friends?” suggests Urahara. Ichigo blinks at him; Urahara smiles. “You didn’t realise?”

“Um. I kinda thought that Arisawa had a thing for Inoue, but… this sounds bad, but I guess I was always so focused on not leading Inoue on that I didn’t really notice?”

Urahara grabs a gyoza with his chopsticks, smearing it in sauce. “I think it’s nice. Arisawa is clearly devoted to her, and Inoue deserves someone who can offer her her whole heart.”

“Yeah. She does. She deserves the best.” He looks down at the table, littered in appetizers.

“Feeling a little left behind?” asks Urahara.

“What? No. No – I’m glad. And anyway, I don’t want – that.”

Urahara picks up a piece of tempura and drops it on Ichigo’s plate. “And what do you want, Ichigo-san? Still someone to fight beside you? Someone to attack, not protect? Someone like, shall we say, Zaraki Kenpachi?”

“Are you kidding? No. How could you settle down with someone like him, he’d be down at the sports bar picking fights with the patrons seven nights a week.”

“Someone like Kuchiki-san, then – calm, but deadly.”

“I love Rukia, and I’d die for her, but her sense of humour should probably be surgically extracted. I’m not looking for a comedian, but I brood. I know I do. I need someone who’s light-hearted.”

“Someone like Abarai-san?”

“Too abrasive. We’d be fighting every five seconds.”

“Like Yoruichi-san, then?”

Ichigo looks up at him. “Urahara-san, she’s great, but you’ve gotta stop trying to set me up with her. She’d crush me like a bug.”

Urahara smiles. “It seems that, unbeknownst to me, you have a fairly long list of requirements in a significant other.”

To be honest, Ichigo is surprised himself. He’s never given it much thought before. But every name Urahara suggested to him provoked a strong reaction. He knows they’re not right for him. He shrugs.

“Perhaps you have someone already in mind?” prompts Urahara.

“Nope. There’s no one.” The words slip out easily, without thought. A moment later he remembers the emptiness that had sat inside him for those five days in Soul Society, the ache of a loss he couldn’t shake. He glances across at Urahara, drinking from his glass, at the long curve of his throat and the delicate shell of his ear. Behind his mask of innocence lies something unexpected: power, brutality, intelligence, and absolute control.

In Ichigo’s chest, something throbs. He rubs it and looks away. “Why don’t I order another round?” he suggests.

Ichigo’s thought about guys before, as romantic partners. In a thought-experiment kind of way, imagining strong hands on his hips, a firm body against his. He’s never taken it further than that, although there have been a few male students he’s been happy to eye up in class.

Now, as he sits in bed that night with a medical textbook open on his knees, he lets his mind wander. Imagines pale skin beneath his lips, blond hair spilling over his pillow, grey eyes wrinkled with ardour. A strong body easily capable of flipping him onto his back, pinning him down with its weight and holding him, all power and restraint.

The thought of it makes his spine tingle, a warm throbbing settling in his cock. His fingers fall away from the pages of the book and he leans back and lets his imagination paint in the complete picture of Urahara taking him to bed.

Fuck, it’s hot.

It’s the end of the day on Friday, Ichigo finishing up his last lab before the weekend. He had been planning on a study party with Ishida but Urahara emailed to say he’d be in the neighbourhood with some snacks offloaded by another local convenience store, and could he come by to give some to Ichigo? So he’s dragging his feet while he cleans up, most of the class gone, just his professor and a couple of other students still here finishing up.

He doesn’t particularly notice the door open, doesn’t even really notice the slow footsteps until they pass behind him, padding lightly on the lino. He glances up to see an unfamiliar student in a navy sweater and black slacks pass by him towards the final lab table where the professor is packing up. Sloped shoulders, dirty pants cuffs. And, in his hand, a scalpel.

Ichigo turns just as the student rounds the table towards the professor. He sees his professor look up, sees surprise, then shock, and then he sees the scalpel rise.

Ichigo isn’t a Shinigami anymore – after three years of peace he doesn’t even carry his token with him. He has only his human speed and his human strength and it’s enough, just barely, for him to cross the space between them and grab the student by the shoulder. The young man swivels to reveal a face contorted with fury, eyes fever-bright, skin shining with sweat. He slices the scalpel across Ichigo’s hand, blood splattering in an almost horizontal line, then moves in to stab.

Ichigo never learned any of the Shinigami hakuda techniques. He flails, instinctively reaching for a sword that’s not there, and manages to deflect a few of the blows with his forearm, the razor-sharp blade slicing through his lab coat. He tries to wrestle with the student but he’s like a wild animal, furious, fighting wildly.

Ichigo notices somewhere in the back of his mind that the other students and the professor have fled, shouting, that he’s now alone with this madman. He catches the scalpel in his hand once, but it slices through his palm straight to the bone and he grunts and lets go. And then it digs in, cutting into his chest, slipping in between his ribs and cleaving his flesh. He smells blood – he tastes blood, hot and metallic – and he falls. He feels wrong, his heartbeat wild, a hot wetness catching in his lungs as he tries to breathe.

“I’ll show him,” mutters the student. “I’ll show him – show him – show him –” he raises the scalpel to stab down towards Ichigo’s throat. Ichigo prepares to kick his knees out from under him, gauging his opportunity with eyes that are darkening. And, as he starts to lean down, the student is blasted into the far wall. The scalpel clatters away and he falls, limp.

A moment later Urahara appears around the corner of the desk to stare down at him. Ichigo tries to say something but there’s blood in his throat, in his mouth, foaming between his lips.

Urahara’s cane is suddenly a sword, his reiatsu like knives, sharp and slicing. “Bankai.”

It’s the smell that Ichigo remembers. The smell of tatami and lacquer, old but familiar. Above him the beautiful puppet unfolds herself, her hair like onyx, her robes crimson. Her long articulated fingers reach out and start putting stitches into his skin where it was rent by the scalpel, piecing him back together again.

Limbs of cloth being pulled together, stuffing on the street.

Beside him stands Urahara, his naked blade shining in his hand, long and straight as a rifle.

“It was you,” he says, as the blood in his throat, his lungs, fades. The pain is disappearing, and Ichigo watches as she puts stitches in the flayed skin of his hands and joins it together again, the wounds disappearing almost instantly. Even the blood vanishes, his skin growing smooth and clean.

Cotton stuffing on the street shrinking, shrinking.

It hadn’t been cotton stuffing. And his limbs hadn’t been fabric.

Ichigo remembers – light, sound, pain. So much pain he could hardly understand – the blood, and white bone poking through twisted flesh. And above him the puppet and the soldier.

No. Urahara and his bankai.

He stares up at them unmoving as she finishes putting him back together for the second time. “It wasn’t a dream.”

Urahara opens his mouth to say something, and there’s a clatter of footsteps and the door to the lab flies open. Ishida rushes in, his bow glowing, and looks around the room.

“Kurosaki?!”

Ichigo sits up and the bankai pulls back. Urahara flicks his wrist and it – she – disappears. He runs his hand over his sword and it once again becomes the familiar shikomizue form. “I’m fine,” he says absently, looking up at Urahara. “It was you – you – what happened?”

“Kurosaki, some students said a guy with a knife attacked you – security’s right behind me. What the hell’s going on?”

“I think that’s my cue to leave,” murmurs Urahara.

Ichigo reaches out to him, his fingers brushing against the shop-keeper’s haori before it pulls away. “Wait – please –”

“Perhaps you should come see me tonight,” he says. From the hall comes the sounds of shouting. Urahara smiles thinly. “Bye.”

In an instant, he’s gone. Ichigo pulls himself up – even his clothes are repaired, the cuts gone from his lab coat and shirt.

“But what happened?” says Ishida, banishing his bow and stalking over to examine the unconscious man on the floor.

Ichigo pinches the bridge of his nose. “All I know is, it’s gonna be one hell of a pain.”

It is one hell of a pain. The police are called, and an ambulance, and Ichigo spends hours giving statements. He learns that the scalpel-wielding student is a drop-out named Tachikawa Eita, and whose university career had ultimately been cut short by his failing Ichigo’s professor’s course. Things had spiralled from there, with him losing his line of credit and his housing and the respect of his friends. With his life seemingly unrecoverable, he had picked up his scalpel and come to get revenge. A sad, broken life that nearly destroyed two others.

Ishida’s waiting for him when he finally is allowed to go, loitering outside the police station in a canvas coat and a newsboy cap. “You look like a creepy underwear thief,” Ichigo tells him.

“You’re welcome.”

“What for?”

“Having a friend to meet you on your release.”

“I wasn’t released – I was never being held. They just wanted my statement, okay? I’m not in trouble with the law.”

“Uh huh.”

They start walking towards the nearest subway station, Ichigo tucking his hands into his pockets, Ishida unzipping his coat. “So. What happened?”

“Some crazed drop-out tried to stab the professor, I got in the way, he stabbed me instead. Urahara-san fixed me.”

They walk a few more steps in silence. “You should carry your Shinigami token with you – you would never have had a problem if you had.”

“Yeah. I guess. I just… I’m ready for a normal life, y’know?”

“Perhaps it’s not quite ready for you,” replies Ishida dryly. And then, “Was that Urahara-san’s bankai?”

“Guess so. Not sure how it works, but it put me back together again.” He rubs his hand across his chest, over the sites of his recently-healed wounds. “I think – never mind.”

Ishida glances at him. “What?”

“Since I was little, I’ve had this dream. Not a lot – a couple times a year, maybe. It’s always the same. I’m a doll, and I’ve come apart, and this big puppet lady stitches me back together. And… and there’s this guy there, in the shadows. In my dream he’s a toy soldier, with a rifle and a black uniform.”

Ishida frowns. “Are you saying you were foretelling the future?”

“No, idiot. Everyone’s a toy in my dream because I was a kid. Because something happened to me when I was a kid, and he put me back together. And he never said anything about it.”

“Maybe he thought you weren’t saying anything about it.”

Ichigo stops and stares at Ishida.

“That didn’t occur to you?” asks Ishida.

“No! I just figured it out, okay? Jeez, what if you’re right – what if he thought I’ve just been acting like nothing happened because I’m a dick?”

“Kurosaki – you were a kid. I doubt it influenced his opinion of you. Anyway, why does it matter?”

Ichigo pulls his hand through his hair hard enough that it hurts, his scalp tingling. “I just – why would he do that?”

“Maybe because you were a badly injured child and he’s not a monster?”

“No – I mean… Urahara-san never does anything without a reason. He doesn’t do good deeds just for the sake of doing them.”

Ishida shrugs. “I guess you’d have to ask him that, then.”

“Yeah,” says Ichigo, slowly. “Yeah.”

The Shouten is dark when he arrives on its doorstep. He circles around to the side where the house entrance is, and rings the bell.

It’s answered by Ururu, who smiles up at him. “Ichigo-san. Come in, please.”

He enters and toes off his shoes, shrugs out of his coat and puts down his shoulder bag. She leads him through to the space Urahara uses as his sitting room, tatami with a low table and zabutons. Somewhere else in the house he can hear the TV playing, something loud with a lot of bass. Probably Jinta watching a shoot ‘em up Hollywood movie.

“Can I get you anything, Ichigo-san? Some snacks, or something to drink?”

“Nah, I’m fine. You go do your thing, Ururu-chan.”

She smiles and gives him a little bow and slips out. Ichigo takes a seat on one of the zabuton, pulling out his phone to text his dad and tell him he’ll be over later.

He looks up as the door slides open and Urahara enters, for once without his hat. “I see you took me up on my suggestion,” he says. He comes over and takes a seat, his long body loose and leggy.

“Yeah. Uh – I should say thanks. For today. You have a knack of being in the right place at the right time.”

Urahara smiles, just a little. “The screaming students running down the hall were something of an indication. In any case, you’re quite welcome Ichigo-san.”

“You never told me you’d used your bankai on me before,” says Ichigo.

There’s a pause, the shop-keeper settling himself. “No. Either you remembered and were saying nothing, or you didn’t. Either way, what was there to say?”

“I didn’t. Remember. Not really, just – I used to have this dream about it. Something happened, in the street?”

Urahara brings one leg up to his chest, arms around it, and leans back. “You must have been, oh, nine or ten? There was a road accident – a hit and run. I found you in the street. To be frank, you were dying.”

Ichigo nods, swallows. “And you healed me.”

“Yes.”

“That’s what your bankai does – it heals people?”

Urahara looks at him and Ichigo can feel him considering his options. Bankais are private, always. Not something to be shared, not even with friends – and especially not by secret schemers like Urahara. And yet… “No. My bankai has the ability to repair physical damage, or to augment things – people, weapons, even space. The augmentations only remain within the realm of my bankai. But repairs to physical damage, as long as the damaged object is returned exactly to its original state, are permanent. It isn’t a healing power, but it can be used in that way.”

“Why did you heal me – back then, when I was a kid, I mean?”

Urahara gives him a very straight look. “Are you suggesting I would let a child die when I could save them?”

Ichigo flushes, but he doesn’t look away. “I’m saying – you’ve always got an angle. You knew my parents – you must have known even then that I had a lot of reiatsu, and –”

“Ichigo-san, I healed you for no reason other than that I was there. I was there and you were dying, and you didn’t deserve that. And now, if that’s all…” he starts to rise, pushing himself up.

“I’m sorry.” The words tumble out, quick and pained. He reaches for Urahara and catches hold of his wrist with his fingertips. “Urahara-san – I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have implied… I didn’t mean to suggest that you’re heartless, or calculating.”

Urahara stares at him, face calm. “No? But I am calculating, Ichigo-san. Very calculating. And I can be heartless when I need to be.”

“But you’re also loyal, and reliable, and – and you’re smart and strong and sly and you’ve never let me down. You’ve fought for me without my ever asking, and you’ve given me the chance to get stronger and protect the people I want to protect. And when I’ve come apart, you’ve put me back together again. I – I really care about you, Urahara-san. Kisuke-san.”

Kisuke is staring, eyes wide now, face awash with surprise. “Ichigo-san…”

“You asked me before if I had someone in mind when none of your suggestions for a good partner landed, and I didn’t think I did but I was wrong. It’s you. It’s always been you.” He takes a breath, face hot, heartbeat thrumming in his ears. “And I guess I should go now, ‘cause I’m just some guy in pre-med and you’re a former captain who invented stuff that would make NASA jealous, and I don’t want to make it weird between us.”

He pushes upwards and Kisuke twists his hand so that now he’s the one holding Ichigo, his long fingers wrapped around Ichigo’s wrist. “Ichigo-san… thank you. I forget, sometimes, just how unique you really are.”

Ichigo stares. “Huh?”

“No one has ever considered me an attractive package. In Soul Society I was a silent killer, then a unscrupulous scientist tossed out for experiments deemed unethical. Here I’m nothing but an eccentric shop-keeper with a limited grasp on reality. I appreciate your feelings.”

“But…?” asks Ichigo, sensing the unspoken word.

“But the stigma that lingers around my name – my existence – is significant. You should find someone cleaner. And perhaps, someone kinder.”

“Bullshit,” says Ichigo, immediately. Kisuke blinks, surprise writ across his face. “You’ve cleared your name three times over – you’re a hero to Soul Society. And you’ve always been there for me, with a sword, not a shield. And… and I did think that you were only concerned with yourself, with your plans. But I was wrong. You saved my life in the street, Kisuke-san, for no reason other than kindness. And today you saved it again. I don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks – and I think I’ve earned that right. Yours is the only opinion that matters.”

Kisuke lets out a soft laugh. “Maa, Ichigo-san, you flatter me. To be courted by the saviour of Soul Society… that’s an honour.”

“I’m not here as a hero – I’m here as Kurosaki Ichigo, hopefully soon a med student, looking forward to a small practice and a quiet life with someone I care for.”

Kisuke’s fingers slip, just slightly. “You know, Ichigo-san, you talk so much about relying on me. Has it never occurred to you that I was the one relying on you? The things you’ve done, the person you’ve become – all those are beyond me. I’ve watched you grow from a flickering flame to a sun, bright and powerful and blinding. I’m not talking about your reiatsu. I’m talking about your passion, your heart. You have a gift of making others care for you. Even old, twisted, jaded ones like myself.” He takes a breath, suddenly hesitant, the only time in five years Ichigo has ever seen him doubtful. “Do you really want…”

“Yeah. I really do.” He twists his wrist, slips out of Kisuke’s hold and takes his hand instead. “Could we try it? You and me?”

“Hero and mad scientist?”

“Med student and shop-keeper.” He pauses, considers. “At least, on weeknights.”

Kisuke presses his hand. “I have a lot of bad habits, Ichigo-san,” he says, but he’s smiling.

“Don’t worry; I know them all already. Well?” his heart is rabbiting in his chest, rushing so fast he can’t count the beats. “You’re killing me here, Kisuke-san. Say yes, or say no, but say something.”

Kisuke leans forward instead, pulling Ichigo in with a flash of reiatsu that’s so familiar, that scratches over Ichigo’s skin like sisal, and kisses him. His mouth is warm and wet and he tastes of oranges and miso. Ichigo wraps his arms around him and holds him close, responding firmly. Want opens up like an ocean above him, raining down on him and he digs his fingers into Kisuke’s back and opens his mouth to bring them closer together.

They end up tangled on the floor, zabutons tossed aside, Kisuke’s blond hair spilling like silk over the tatami. Ichigo pulls himself up on his elbows to look down on him, considering. He really is lovely – not conventionally, but in a way that’s just as unique as the rest of him. The shop-keeper catches his eye, lips crooked. “Was that answer enough?”

Ichigo gives a shuddering laugh. “Yeah. Yeah. But maybe you should give it again, just to be sure.”

Kisuke reaches up and catches hold of him, pulls him down, and seals their lips together. Warmth, strength, brightness. A sword waiting one step just behind him, always. Ichigo smiles into the kiss.

END