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The phone call doesn’t come on his denreishinki, which is how most people contact him when they need something these days. That, or they just drop in, as if Kisuke doesn’t have a hundred things to do already. As if he’d be happy to have various members of the Gotei 13 dropping in unannounced.
(He may not technically be considered a traitor anymore, after helping to take down Aizen and revealing the centuries’ long deception that’s been at play. But he’s learned his lesson about who he can trust. He’s learned his lesson about where to put his faith.)
No, it’s the shop phone that rings, the one that’s hooked up to a landline. He doesn’t have nearly as many customers in the living world as he does amongst the Shinigami, but it’s useful on occasion to be able to schedule deliveries and take orders this way. Besides, the whole point was always to blend in, and Kisuke may dress like he’s from a different era, but he keeps up with changing technologies. The Shoten even has WiFi now.
It's pure luck that Kisuke is the one to answer; recently he’s spent most of his time in his lab, trying to solve the puzzle of Ichigo’s soul and how to restore his reiryoku to him. It’s a complicated project, hindered by Isshin’s bullheaded insistence that Ichigo needs to be “normal” now, whatever that means, and Soul Society’s bad habit of hiding all their mistakes in the farthest, darkest closet they can reach.
(Not that it matters to him. Half the reason that Kisuke didn’t agree to return to Seireitei is because he’s gotten used to doing what he wants, when he wants, and without anyone trying to stop him for bullshit reasons.)
Still.
The point.
Normally it’s Ururu or Jinta, or sometimes Tessai, who handles the front of the shop. But Kisuke is sorting through expired inventory today, keeping his hands busy with something inane as he lets his brain churn in the background. When the phone rings, he picks it up out of habit, not bothering to check the caller ID.
“Urahara Shoten! How can we help you today?”
“Geta-boushi?” the voice on the other end says, a little incredulous. Honestly, that’s how Kisuke feels; it’s been eight months since he’s last seen or heard from Ichigo. Eight months since Ichigo used his father’s technique to boost his own power and rip apart his soul in the process.
Eight months since Kisuke patched him back together as much as he was able, before he was told in no uncertain terms that it would be best to give Ichigo space.
Hearing his voice over the phone now, Kisuke has to wonder if that was wise. Ichigo sounds…tired. Exhausted, even. His voice is raspier and thinner than Kisuke is used to hearing, and there’s something in his tone—in the surprise at the fact that Kisuke answered his call—that doesn’t sit right with him.
“Kurosaki-kun. It’s been a while.”
Silence hangs on the other end of the line for a long moment, and then, “Yeah.”
There’s something uncomfortably heavy in the way he says it. Flat. Resigned, maybe. It makes Kisuke’s fingers twitch, makes him want to shunpo to wherever Ichigo is right now. If he can just lay eyes on him, maybe that will be enough to satisfy Kisuke. He sounds so unlike himself, but perhaps that’s the phone distorting his voice.
Kisuke can’t be sure. He’d rather see Ichigo in person, make that judgment for himself.
Just as Kisuke is about to suggest Ichigo stop by the shop, Isshin’s request be damned, a loud bang in the background of Ichigo’s call stops him. Ichigo grunts something unintelligible, sounding pained, and then, more clearly, “Fuck. Another one?”
“Ichigo,” Kisuke says, much more urgent than he was earlier. “Is something the matter?”
Ichigo snorts. “Yeah, you could say that. Hold on a second.”
Kisuke does not want to hold on a second. Especially not when he can hear the sounds of a fight in the background. Especially not when, after a long moment, there’s another bang—a gunshot, Kisuke is almost certain, dread settling in his gut.
His first instinct is to run to Ichigo and whatever trouble the boy has found himself in this time. It probably won’t take Kisuke long to find him, even without his reiryoku shining like a beacon. But to do that, he’d have to hang up the phone, and if he hangs up the phone only for Ichigo to try to talk to him again…
Cellphone, Kisuke mentally adds to his list. He hadn’t thought one was necessary, since nearly everyone he knows can keep in contact with him via denreishinki. An oversight on his part. One he intends to correct.
“Ichigo?” he says into the phone. He’ll give the boy another ten seconds, and if he doesn’t answer, then Kisuke will go track him down.
Nine seconds in, Ichigo picks the phone back up from wherever he’d stashed it. There is no noise in the background. “Sorry about that. Um. Look. I wouldn’t bother you if there was anyone else, but I don’t know who else to call.”
“What do you need?” Kisuke asks without hesitation. His curiosity—and concern—is piqued. Besides, he owes Ichigo more than he can ever repay, and more than that, Ichigo is…well. Ichigo is his.
His student. His protégé. In some ways, his creation, though he’s grown beyond what Kisuke ever imagined.
His in other ways, too, though those are less clearly defined.
“I’d rather not say over the phone,” Ichigo hedges, and that’s probably not good. There’s a hesitation there, and then a sigh. “You know what, sorry. I’ll figure it out. I don’t know what I was thinking—”
No. That’s not acceptable. On multiple levels. The first being that Ichigo is clearly in trouble, and if he felt the need to call Kisuke about it, then it must be serious. The second being that Ichigo has never once in all the time they’ve known each other, sounded so unsure.
It’s not right.
“Where are you?”
“What? Uh. You know the back alley by the corner store that’s like, two streets down from the school?”
Off the top of his head, no, Kisuke doesn’t know that exact alleyway. But he knows Ichigo’s school, and he thinks he knows the corner store, and it doesn’t matter anyway, because Kisuke will get there.
“Five minutes,” he says and hangs up.
He makes it in three.
At first, he almost doesn’t see Ichigo. There’s an overflowing dumpster midway down the alley, trash bags beginning to pile up, and it’s only because Kisuke is looking that he notices the way one of the trash bags rustles, a little too much disruption to be attributed to a stray cat.
When he does lay eyes on him…
There is something quietly devastating about the way Ichigo looks: dark circles under his tired eyes, thin wrists, a slump to his shoulders that looks like exhaustion. Like defeat. He’s also bloody, though Kisuke is more used to seeing him that way. The obvious bullet hole in his shoulder is new, but the strained grimace Ichigo wears as he stubbornly toughs out the pain is the same.
The worst part, by far, is the way he looks at Kisuke, like he can’t quite believe he’s here. Once, that never would have been in doubt. But obviously, sometime over these past few months, Ichigo has stopped believing in him the same way he used to.
(He believes in you enough to call, something in him whispers, and Kisuke clings to that. It means that things aren’t broken beyond repair. Not yet.)
“You actually came,” Ichigo says.
Kisuke crouches down beside him where he’s cushioned by the trash bags. He reaches out, tentatively, to examine Ichigo’s bleeding shoulder. It’s a clean wound, at least. Straight through. There will be pain for a while, and he’ll need physical therapy to ensure he maintains the full range of motion, but as far as injuries go, Ichigo has had much worse.
That doesn’t do anything to abate the anger he feels that someone has dared to attack Ichigo—shoot him, try to kill him—but it’s easy to file that away for later. Easy to slide the anger towards the back of his mind where it can be savored, used. Once Kisuke knows who’s done this. Once Kisuke has a target.
“Of course,” Kisuke says. “You called. Now, it’s best if I take you back to the shop—it’ll be easier to clean this, make sure it doesn’t get infected. I assume there’s a reason you don’t want your father to know.”
What with Isshin running a clinic, it seems the obvious choice to go to him first.
(Although, now that Kisuke thinks about it, he’s not sure Ichigo has ever turned to his father for help with anything. Not willingly, at least.)
Ichigo continues to stare at him like he’s not sure Kisuke is real. Then he shakes his head. “Yeah, no, I mean. Goat-Face…would not take this well. But—” He shrugs, and then immediately winces as the movement jostles his injured shoulder. “—the gunshot is whatever. That’s not why I called you.”
“Oh?” Kisuke asks, and when Ichigo gestures over to his left, he sees the issue. There are two men, both dressed in black tactical gear—the official sort, high quality and expensive—with guns and knives and masks over their faces that have since been pushed up. Kisuke doesn’t recognize them. They’re definitely human and not Shinigami, for starters, and they’re not part of the usual local gangs, either.
What they are, is dead.
“Oh my.” Kisuke leans a little closer. He has enough experience from his days in the Onmitsukido that he can tell from a glance that one man’s neck is broken. The other has been shot in the forehead, presumably with his own gun. It’s not the cleanest work, but it’s efficient, and that pretty much lines up with what Kisuke knows of how Ichigo fights.
Though it is, admittedly, rare for Ichigo to kill his opponents. Lesser hollows, yes. Without hesitation. But anything humanoid—even when it comes to Arrancar, even when it comes to Aizen—and Ichigo has never struck a finishing blow.
Except, here are two bodies with evidence to the contrary.
Interesting.
“They shot at me first,” Ichigo says, defensive.
He can’t say he’s surprised. Ichigo is honorable; he wouldn’t have attacked these people without reason. Not that Kisuke would have cared either way.
If they are dead, it’s because they’re Ichigo’s enemies. If they’re Ichigo’s enemies, they’re Kisuke’s enemies too. They should be thankful, wherever their souls have gone, that Ichigo is the one that got to them first.
Kisuke would have kept them alive longer, but only so he could wring every last drop of intel from them first.
“Look,” Ichigo says, and again, there’s something defeated and empty in his voice. Kisuke hates it. “I know you don’t—I’m not your problem, anymore—”
Kisuke snaps towards him, fingers wrapping around Ichigo’s chin and tugging him so he has to look Kisuke in the eye. He doesn’t like the way that sounds. In fact, he doesn’t like the way Ichigo has been talking about their relationship since he first picked up the phone. Like Ichigo is a burden to Kisuke. Like Ichigo is a bother. Something unwanted. Something Kisuke is glad to be rid of.
Nothing could be further from the truth. And the fact that, unintentionally or not, Kisuke has made him feel that way—
“You were never a problem, Ichigo. You were my student. And then a friend.”
Friend almost doesn’t seem like enough, but Kisuke isn’t sure there’s a word for someone who has fought for you and bled for you and given you their absolute, unyielding loyalty over and over again. What would you call someone who willingly gives themselves over to you to be remade? How do you explain to that someone that there is nothing you would not do for them, so long as it’s within your capabilities?
Ichigo is precious. He is invaluable. Irreplaceable.
“What do you need from me?” he asks. He thinks he has a good idea, but he wants to hear Ichigo say it.
“I need help hiding the bodies. I figured…well. You might be the only person I know who would know how to do it, and who also wouldn’t judge me for it.”
No, it never occurred to Kisuke that there was anything here worth judging. But Ichigo’s other friends are sensitive. They have far more delicate morals. And more delicate stomachs.
“You’ll want to know who they are, too, and who sent them.”
Ichigo shakes his head. “I can’t ask you to do that—”
“You’re not asking. I’m offering.” Even if Ichigo says no, Kisuke will do it anyway to satisfy his own curiosity. And because whoever sent two hired guns after Ichigo is unlikely to stop just because it didn’t work out this time. Not that Kisuke would let them get away with it, even if they never try to attack Ichigo again.
For a long, long moment, Ichigo stares at him, face scrunched. “I can’t figure you out, Geta-boushi.”
“Oh?”
“You ignore me for months, but now you’re going out of your way for me. If there’s something you want, you should just say so.”
The accusation buried in his words hits like a knife to the gut—that Ichigo is only worth Kisuke’s time when there’s something Ichigo can do for him, that Ichigo is only worth helping if it means he owes Kisuke something in turn—but at the same time, Kisuke can’t fault him for that assumption. He hasn’t done much to disprove it. From Ichigo’s perspective, it must have looked like Kisuke abandoned him the second he no longer had powers, was no longer useful.
(And maybe he did. Not outright, and not the way Ichigo must think. But he listened when Isshin told him to stay away, and he might be working on healing Ichigo’s soul, but it’s not like Ichigo knows that.
The boy has been through a war for him, and how has Kisuke thanked him for it?)
“Can’t I do something nice for my favorite student?” he asks. In his hurry, he left his fan at home. He wishes he had it now. Wishes he had something to hide behind.
Ichigo raises a brow, as if to say, Really?
Kisuke sighs. There’s probably nothing he can say that will convince Ichigo otherwise, but he truly doesn’t have any ulterior motives this time. Or…well. No ulterior motives that would lead to Ichigo owing him anything.
“We need to get them off the street,” Kisuke says instead, nodding at the bodies. “Any other questions you have can wait until we’re back at the shop.”
For a moment, Ichigo looks like he’s going to push. But then his mouth falls into a flat line, his shoulders drop.
“Fine.”
After Kisuke deposits the bodies in his lab for further investigation, he ushers Ichigo over to a bench and pulls out his rather extensive first aid kit. Kido healing would be faster and easier, but Ichigo’s body as it is now, void of any reiryoku, won’t take to it well. Kisuke will have to do things the human way.
Ichigo sits perfectly still as Kisuke cuts away his shirt and disinfects the wound. It must sting—probably hurts a hell of a lot more than that, even—but Ichigo only barely flinches at the antiseptic, only hisses through his teeth once when Kisuke starts stitching him back together. The sight of the bullet hole is enough to make Kisuke’s jaw clench; he soothes himself with the knowledge that it’s only a matter of time before he finds the person responsible. And then he’ll have somewhere to point his anger.
Neither of them talk through the process, not until Kisuke breaks out the bandages and a sling for Ichigo’s shoulder.
“Thanks,” Ichigo says. “Still don’t know what you want from me, though. Not much I can do for you anymore.”
The way Ichigo talks, bitter and sharp—that’s not a man content with his lot in life. That’s not someone who has settled into their own powerlessness. Not someone who is reveling in being “normal.”
Kisuke looks at him, takes a moment to catalogue every detail. Under the bright fluorescent lighting in the lab, the circles under Ichigo’s eyes look even darker, almost sunken. His cheeks are sharper—that could be age, Kisuke thinks, a natural result of Ichigo losing the baby-fat in his face, or it could be that he’s not eating. He’s always had a scowl as his default expression, but it used to sit naturally on his face. Now, there’s a strain around his mouth, something pinched and grim.
He looks like he’s been through a war—no. Like he’s still in the middle of a war, with no end in sight.
(It reminds Kisuke a little of himself on the worst of his days in the Onmitsukido. He was good at it, didn’t mind the killing most of the time. He’s not haunted by the blood on his hands the way he knows some other members of the 2nd are.
But there were days when it felt like there was no end to the death. No point to it, because even if you took out one target, a dozen, a hundred, there would always be more. There’s a certain exhaustion that comes with the realization that you will do the same thing over and over and over again for decades, and none of it will really make any difference. None of it will matter.
Kisuke doesn’t think Ichigo feels quite the same way, but…there’s exhaustion there. And hopelessness. And loneliness.
It’s familiar enough that it makes something deep within Kisuke ache.)
“Perhaps all I want is the pleasure of your company,” Kisuke says, and it’s not even bullshit for once. He likes having Ichigo around, and he’s missed it these past few months. Missed the way Ichigo would burst into his shop like he owned it. Missed Ichigo’s quick mind and steady, no-nonsense attitude.
(He’s missed the high of Ichigo’s unwavering trust, and the warmth of forgiveness that Kisuke hasn’t done nearly enough to deserve.)
Ichigo snorts. “You’d be the only one.”
Based on everything Kisuke knows about Ichigo—about how loved and admired he is by nearly everyone he’s ever come across, even those who were once his enemies—that is objectively untrue. The certainty with which Ichigo says it makes Kisuke frown.
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, Geta-boushi. You’re smarter than that.” Ichigo’s mouth quirks up, but there’s no humor there. His eyes are flat, angry—not the fiery kind. No, this is the kind of anger that’s been simmering for so long that it becomes a part of you, like it’s melded into your bones. “I haven’t seen you in eight months. Chad and Orihime and Ishida won’t talk to me, won’t even look at me half the time. Everyone else I know is dead and busy—and that’s…it’s fine. I didn’t expect to see any of them for a while. But you’re acting like everything is the same, and it’s not, and I don’t know what to do with that.”
Kisuke stares. It’s true that the other Shinigami are likely busy setting Soul Society to rights again. There’s been a lot of upheaval in the past two years alone, and there simply isn’t time for any of them to take a joyride down to the Living World and check in on Ichigo.
The same cannot be said for Kisuke, who lives only a few streets over from Ichigo’s house. Kisuke, who has no obligations to the Gotei 13. The only excuse Kisuke has is that Isshin asked—told—him to stay away. And now, with Ichigo before him looking ragged and defeated and angry and hurt, Kisuke can’t find a single reason good enough to explain why he listened.
Nor can he understand what reason Ichigo’s human friends could possibly have for cutting him out so thoroughly, though that, for now, isn’t something he can fix.
“You’re right,” Kisuke eventually says. “It seems my attempt to give you space was misguided.” And Isshin telling him to stay away was only half of it, if Kisuke cares to be honest with himself. “It was—I have been a coward. I was afraid you would hate me, after all I’ve put you through.”
“Well, that was fucking stupid, wasn’t it?” Ichigo snaps. “When have I ever said that I hate you, huh?”
Kisuke’s mouth twists into a wry smile. “It was implied by your father when he told me you would be better off without my influence as you adjusted to a normal life.”
On a scientific level, it’s interesting to watch Ichigo process that information. His brow pinches, mouth working as he tries to piece together the right words. There’s confusion, but also betrayal, before a wave of anger so strong that it’s almost tangible flashes through him.
“That fucking bastard. What right did he have to do that? To decide who I could and couldn’t talk to?”
“It’s not entirely his fault,” Kisuke says, though he agrees the lion’s share of it falls on Isshin. “I listened to him.”
“Yeah, and that was stupid, and you should have checked with me.” But whatever anger Ichigo feels towards him for that, it is nothing—nothing—in comparison to the way his face crumples. Something quieter and all the worse for it settles over him. “Why did he do that?”
The question isn’t directed at Kisuke, and he’s grateful. He doesn’t have an answer. If he cared to argue on Isshin’s behalf, he might try to say that Ichigo deserved peace. He might say that Isshin is right, and Kisuke isn’t good for Ichigo—hasn’t ever been, considering all the ways he’s manipulated him down to his very soul.
But the truth is that those are just guesses, and Kisuke doesn’t know what Isshin was thinking. He can’t say he’s ever fully understood Isshin’s choices—not in the way he’s chosen to raise his children in complete ignorance of their heritage, not in the way he’s been happy to throw Ichigo to the wolves all this time and only now seems to give a damn about “what’s good for him.” Almost like Ichigo was disposable, and only once he proved that he was going to survive anyway, Isshin has finally found it in himself to try to parent the boy.
Too little, too late. Ichigo has been taking care of himself for a long time now. He probably doesn’t appreciate Isshin butting in—and Kisuke feels like an idiot for not realizing that sooner.
“I don’t know.”
“He didn’t even ask what I wanted.” Ichigo shakes his head, lip curling. “Don’t know why I’m surprised. He’s never given a shit about that.”
“I’m sorry, Ichigo.” When Ichigo goes to wave away the apology, Kisuke stops him, catches his wrist and holds it. He doesn’t pull away, just watches Kisuke intently. “I find myself apologizing to you over and over again, and somehow I still keep letting you down.”
“You haven’t—” It’s a protest, but probably more of an automatic response than what Ichigo genuinely feels. Kisuke remembers the way he looked in the alleyway, how Ichigo was surprised to see him even after calling for help.
“I have,” he insists.
Ichigo stares at him, long and hard. Eventually he nods. “Don’t do it again, and we’ll be good.”
There it is. That too-easy forgiveness.
(Kisuke doesn’t deserve it, but that’s never stopped him from taking Ichigo’s mercy before.)
“I won’t,” he says. It’s a stupid thing to promise, considering who he is and what he’s like, but Kisuke means it. He thinks he’d rather cut off his own sword-arm than see Ichigo look at him like he doesn’t think Kisuke would come for him again.
Ichigo’s mouth quirks—not quite amusement, but something dryer. A little disbelieving. As if he’s saying, We’ll see.
That’s okay. He can work with that. Ichigo may not have faith in him now, but Kisuke will prove himself again.
Starting with the bodies on the far table.
“So, any idea who wants you dead this time?”
“I, ah, could probably come up with a list.”
“A list?”
Just how many people can one person piss off in less than a year’s time, Kisuke wonders. And then he remembers that this is Ichigo. Ichigo who is—and has always been—something of a trouble magnet. Knowing his luck, he’s probably managed to attract the attention of some new megalomaniacal psychopath, and not even know it.
Ichigo scratches at the back of his neck with his uninjured arm, face turned away to try and hide the red burning at his cheeks. “I’ve gotta do something with all this free time I have now.”
Kisuke just laughs.
(Oh, Isshin is a fool. There’s no “normal” life for someone like Ichigo.
If he doesn’t get dragged into trouble, he’ll make his own, it seems.)
“I meant to ask,” Kisuke says several hours later. Ichigo is lounging on the couch that’s tucked in the corner of his lab while Kisuke runs the fingerprints of the hitmen that were sent after him. “I was a little surprised you had killed your opponents rather than merely disabled them. Any particular reason?”
“The first one was an accident. Well—” He wavers his hand. “—they were both accidents. But the first one—the guy with the broken neck—I was just trying to knock him out.”
“Hm.” It makes sense. The human neck isn’t nearly so fragile as it might seem, though, and Kisuke has to wonder how much force Ichigo exerted to be able to snap it by accident. Wonders how much of that strength is human. If his reiryoku is returning to him, even if slowly and in such a small amount that Kisuke can’t yet feel it…
Well. That’s something to consider.
“The second guy. Ugh.” Ichigo grimaces. “He’d managed to shoot me while I was taking out his friend. Didn’t even know he was there until the bullet went through my shoulder. I ended up tackling him, tried to get the gun away from him, but—” He trails off.
“But instead you managed to shoot him in the head.”
“Yeah.”
Kisuke’s computer dings then, and he glances at it. His brows raise of their own volition. The fingerprints have come back, and it’s…confusing, to say the least.
“Lucky us. Clean up will be easy. Apparently our dead guys were already dead.”
“What?”
“They’re ex-military. Listed as killed in action. One allegedly died seven years ago. For the other, it’s been four.” Kisuke eyes the corpses, curiosity piqued even further. “What did you get yourself into, Ichigo?”
“The hell if I know.” Ichigo wanders closer, leaning over Kisuke’s shoulder to peek at the screen. With anyone else, Kisuke would bristle at the invasion of space, at having someone in his blind spot. But it’s Ichigo, and Kisuke doesn’t mind having him at his back. “Honestly. I’ve been dealing with some of the local gangs, some wannabe thugs, a few solo troublemakers. They’re all small-time, though. I can’t imagine any of them having the resources for this.”
“Someone has friends in high places.” He feels his mouth pull into a smile, feels the first flutter of excitement in his stomach. With Aizen handled, things have been…quiet, lately. It’s doubtful this will prove anywhere near as interesting—after all, a mind like Aizen’s is a rarity—but Kisuke will take what he can get. Besides, with Ichigo involved, it’s sure to exceed Kisuke’s expectations at every turn. “Do try to leave the next ones alive. And ideally in as good a condition as you can manage. I’ll be able to extract more information from them if they can still talk.”
“Next ones. Right.” Ichigo sighs. “Fuck it. I’m taking the guest room. Indefinitely. If those assholes are going to keep coming until I’m dead—or until we take out whoever’s in charge—then I’m not leading them back to where my sisters live.”
He looks at Kisuke like he’s daring the man to say no.
“Of course, Ichigo. Make yourself at home.” He pauses, frowning. “Though we’ll need to come up with some excuse as to why you’re not at your house. For Isshin.”
It’s not that he can’t handle Isshin storming in, all righteous fury—if anything, Kisuke would relish the opportunity to cut the man down a few pegs. But it would distract from the matter at hand, and more than that, he doesn’t want Ichigo to have to deal with it. Not until he’s ready.
“Summer trip? The new semester hasn’t started yet, so I could say I’m going out of town with some friends.”
Kisuke nods. That’ll work for now. They’ve got a few weeks left before Ichigo has to go back to school.
Plenty of time to solve the mystery of Ichigo’s latest adversary and…take care of it.