Title: Keeping Up
Fandom: Bleach.
Rating: T.
Length: 5,905.
Content notes: Warnings include bullet wounds, and brief mentions of murder, child prostitution, and non-con.
Author notes: Written for Challenge #83, 'Fight'.
Summary: Grimmjow lives in the shitty end of town, the bad neighborhood with the constantly warring gangs, and he's got a very secure position there. He works for Aizen, the leader of the gang that is currently rising to ascendance, he's got his loyal group of friends/minions, and his life's better than most others that live there can claim. This, is just another night in the dark streets, but with an unexpected visitor who doesn't belong there. - Hints of Grimmjow/Ichigo, AU.


I take a drag of the cigarette held between my fingers, letting the smoke curl inwards to burn at my throat and lungs for a few long moments before releasing it. The inane chatter of my five friends - minions, whatever the fuck you want to call them - is a dull buzz in my ears, long since tuned out. If I actually listened to D-Roy talk about whatever shit he'd eaten this morning, or whatever chick he'd managed to somehow get into his bed, I would have strangled him a long time ago. It's easier to just ignore him, and it's not like that's actually hard to do. The others - Nakeem, Il Forte, Shawlong, and Edorad - keep him entertained, even if I know damn well it's probably only Nakeem and Edorad actually listening to the little bastard.

I lean against the wall of the alley, the rough surface of the bricks digging into the skin of my shoulders where they're not covered by my black tank-top. It's dark, night long since arrived and the streetlights - what few of them are still working - not penetrating this far into the blackness. I'm separated from the rest of my group by a chest high stack of empty slitted wooden crates. No clue what the fuck was originally in them, it's not like we're nearby any kind of a real business, but they've just been left here. It could have been legal, but it probably wasn't.

The voices of the rest of my group raise in pitch, but it's not until a new voice cuts in that I flick my eyes open.

"I'm not looking for trouble," someone says, and I flick my gaze over to my group. They're at the mouth of the alley, loosely ringed around some guy. I rein in a snort at the declaration, flicking my eyes up and down his frame. My eyes have long since adjusted to the night, so I have no problem picking out the decent quality of the kid's black t-shirt - the logo of some band I've never heard of on the front, black jeans, and white tennis shoes. His hair is a bright orange, and that's probably the only thing about his appearance that fits into this neighborhood.

He's dressed too nicely, he looks too young, and he's not sporting bruises or dirt. He's pretty enough, so unless he belongs to someone important he should be much more roughed up than he is. If he did belong to someone, he would have opened with that, so he doesn't. He's not from here, and he doesn't belong in this shit part of town.

I see D-Roy reach for him, a grin on the small man's face, and the guy turns the moment those fingers brush his right wrist. He hits D-Roy with a left-handed punch, the force of it more than enough to slam the smaller man to the ground. The rest of the group makes sounds of anger, Il Forte's brown eyes narrowing, and the guy backs through the hole made by D-Roy's abrupt removal, deeper into the alley.

"I'm not looking for trouble," he repeats, voice a little harder, and I fill in the unspoken end of that sentence. But I can handle it.

Huh. So, not from this neighborhood, but not one of the idiot rich kids that come down here either. Those fuckers come through for the thrill, to pick up things their rich parents would disapprove of, and, most of the time, we let them go at the end of it. The focus of the cops isn't, usually, worth offing some irritating rich fuck, not with the money of their parents behind the investigation. The gang leaders tend to frown on that kind of reckless behavior. Murdering each other? All fine. But not the visitors to our fair little town.

I take another drag from my cigarette, watching the brat as he stands there. His hands are loose, stance surprisingly relaxed for someone facing four opponents, and that interests me. So, the brat knows how to fight. D-Roy isn't hard to take down, but most people don't do it quite so thoroughly. He's stirring, making pitiful little groaning sounds, but it'll be at least a few more minutes before he manages to drag himself off the ground. That's going to be a hell of a bruise.

I let the smoke out of my lungs, dropping the cigarette to the ground and crushing it beneath my boot as I straighten up off the alley wall. The brat's facing the wrong way, and it's near pitch black down here so I doubt he'd seen me when he was facing this way. If he had, he probably wouldn't have backed down the alley.

"Hey, brat," I snap sharply, and he whirls. He's got light brown eyes that quickly pick me out of the blackness, narrowing in wariness. He's only half facing me, head turned my direction but his body poised between me and the rest of my group, not turning his back on either of us. That's good. "What the fuck are you doing down here?" I ask, stepping out from behind the pile of crates.

I see his gaze flick up and down my frame, weighing, studying, before meeting my eyes. "Looking for my sisters," he answers, cautiously, and I almost laugh. So it's some protective older, or more likely younger, brother, come to track down his sisters and retrieve them from whatever shit they came down here for.

"Yeah?" I ask, grinning. "What kind of fucked up shit are they into?"

He scowls, anger in his eyes. "It's not like that," he snaps, and my grin gets a little wider. In denial too, oh it just gets better and better. "They were taken while walking home, they're just kids." My grin drops. Kidnappings happen, though not usually with actual kids, but there's also a whole host of nastier things that happen down here. Some bastards will pay really well for a little fun with younger kids, and some of the fucked up businesses out there will cater. It's a part of this town I try to forget about, most times.

"How old?" I ask, and his hands clench.

"Thirteen, both of them." Yeah, that sounds about right.

"So how do you know they're in here?" I demand. "Could be a kidnapping, they could be anywhere."

He shakes his head, turning the slightest bit to face me a little more. "No, I saw it happen. Our house is only a couple blocks outside this place, so I meet them when they come back from anywhere, just in case. They were just a block away from me, a black van pulled up, grabbed them both, and headed this way." That doesn't mean much, by itself. Best way to throw someone off would be to drive into this part of town. Who's going to follow you into this place? "You know someone with long pink hair?"

Well, that changes things. Szayel, and there's no fucking way it could be anyone but him with a defining trait like that, doesn't deal in kidnappings. That's more Stark's area of work, or Zommari's. Brat's got decent instincts after all. The pink-haired fuck is the one who runs the brothels down here.

Il Forte makes a noise of disgust, and the kid's gaze flicks to him. "My brother," my friend says coolly, "unfortunately." He flicks his long blond hair over his shoulders with one hand, before crossing his arms. "Though I do wish that title didn't apply." He looks past the brat, to me, as the rest of our group relaxes, Nakeem finally helping a swaying D-Roy back to his feet. "Grimmjow?"

I give an irritated huff of breath. My team, but especially Il Forte, knows me well enough to know that I despise that particular part of our fucked up town. Illegal is one thing, I've done some shit that condemns me in the eyes of pretty much everyone, but children are something else entirely. It takes a certain kind of fucked up bastard to mess with kids, and I'm not quite that far down the rabbit hole.

"Well," I start, moving towards the brat, "I guess I haven't punched your irritating fuck of a brother this month." I stop in front of the brat, and to his credit he doesn't back down from me. He meets my eyes fearlessly, but warily. He's brave, but he's not stupid, and that's another point in his favor. "You can fight, yeah?" I ask him, and he nods. Yeah, I figured as much. "You know how to shoot a gun?" I've got spare weapons, not that I'd like to use them - it's safer to keep this a fistfight, but I'm sure as hell not handing the brat one if he doesn't know how to use it.

"No," he answers, and I give a grunt of understanding.

"Then I'm not taking responsibility if someone shoots you," I state bluntly, and his chin raises as he looks up the three or four inch height difference between us.

"I don't remember asking you to," he answers, and I grin. The brat's got attitude, and I'm pretty damn sure that I like it. Most of the fuckers who don't live in this shit hole don't have the balls to stand up to anyone who does. "You're going to help me?" There's a measure of disbelief in his voice, not that I blame him. Five guys jump out of an alley to ambush him, and then I offer him help finding his sisters? He's right to be a little wary.

I give a small shrug. "Not like I had shit else to do tonight. What the hell? Guess it's your lucky day, brat."

He gives a slow nod. "Yeah, I guess. Thanks." His gaze flicks to the rest of my group, and then back to me. "So you know where he is?"

Il Forte speaks for me, most of the disgust gone from his voice. "Szayel runs three brothels in this area," I see the brat's face pale, "and only one of them caters to that level of illegal immorality. They'll be there." The brat doesn't say anything, but his jaw clenches. It's easy to see the mix of anger and worry in his eyes, the concern of an older brother combined with the anger towards the fucked up part of our world.

"How far is it?" he asks.

"About six blocks," Il Forte answers, "longer, if you weren't accompanied by us." He gives a thin, cool smile, just this side of mocking. "Some places down here just aren't safe, you know?" He uncrosses his arms, tossing his head to get the stray slide of blond strands out of his eyes. "I'm Il Forte, this is Nakeem, Edorad, Shawlong, you've already, rather violently, met D-Roy," he points to each of our group in turn, and then gestures at me, "and our esteemed leader is Grimmjow."

The brat's eyes follow the movements of Il Forte's hand, and end up on me. He takes a second look at me, gaze drifting up and down my frame, before he gives a small nod. "I'm Ichigo," he introduces, and I can't stop myself from grinning. No fucking wonder the brat knows how to fight, with a name like that. Even if his family is rich, which I doubt, school would have been hell for him. Strawberry, how fucking adorable.

"Grimmjow," Il Forte says with a warning note, "don't start." Yeah, Il Forte is probably right. We've got shit to do, and his brother to beat the crap out of, no need to irritate the brat. At least, not for now. Maybe later. "Shall we then, men?" Il Forte asks, a bit of snap in his voice, and I snort, looking over at him.

"Yeah, sure. Lead the way then, pretty boy."

He smirks, turning on his heel to stride out of the alley. "I always do, Grimmjow." Arrogant little bastard, he's damn lucky he's my friend.

----------------------------

The brat sticks close to our group, through the dark streets, and though we pass quite a few groups clearly looking for trouble, none of them bother us. They know better than to mess with me, or anyone who works for me. I'm one of Aizen's - the leader of the fucking ruling gang in this place, even if the others haven't recognized it yet - top lieutenants, and even the other gangs wouldn't dare come after me without a fuck ton of backup. I had a reputation for not taking shit long before Aizen ever got around to recruiting me, and with him behind me it's only gotten better.

Aizen's a scary bastard when he wants to be, and even though he rarely stoops to our level of physical violence, that doesn't at all mean that he doesn't know how. He's a damn good shot with a gun, though not as good as Stark, and he could probably kick even my ass in a hand to hand fight. The fact that he normally chooses to let the rest of us handle the physical, while he hands down strategies from on high, doesn't mean shit.

Il Forte takes us to the back entrance of Szayel's club, two thick guards roughly my size - six feet, and built - standing on either side of the double door. I take another glance around the edge of the wall, before offering the kid a grin. "You ready to prove you can handle yourself, brat?" I ask him, and he scowls at me.

"Soon as you are," he answers shortly, and Il Forte gives a small noise of approval.

"We'll be right behind you," he offers, and I nod.

I step out from behind the wall, striding up to the two guards like I own the fucking world, and I can hear the footfalls of the brat barely a step behind me. I stop in front of them as they eye me, warily, giving them both a wide grin. "Szayel here?" I ask, and the one to my left nods.

"Yes, sir. But admittance to this establishment is by prior appointment only, or permission from him."

"Is that right?"

I move, swinging high at the guard who'd spoken to me, and he doesn't move fast enough to dodge. My knuckles crack across his cheek in the same moment as I hear the other guard give a startled grunt, the metallic ring signaling his impact with the door. Mine reels as I go after him, betting that the kid will handle the other just fine, and doesn't pull it together fast enough to stop me gripping his head and slamming it into the wall beside the door. He goes limp, and I do it one more time to make sure he stays down before letting him slump to the floor.

I turn around just in time to see the brat land a kick to the side of the other guard's head, sending him crashing to the floor like a sack of potatoes. He's down and out, and the kid relaxes into a comfortable medium stance as he rebalances. Formally trained in martial arts then, he didn't just pick up how to fight. That's not the kind of kick you land unless you've been trained how to.

His light brown eyes meet mine, and his chin lifts the tiniest bit, challenge in his eyes. I don't need to hear the words that go with that kind of a look to know what he's thinking, and he doesn't say a damn thing. After the moment of silence, I offer him a small, sharp, grin, and a small nod. Yeah, alright. At the least, the kid knows how to take someone down, and efficiently too. He's probably not near good enough to compete with me - though I'm pretty damn sure I wouldn't mind finding out - but he's probably at least better than my group, maybe on par with some of Aizen's less physically violent lieutenants.

He shoves the guard he'd downed away from the front of the door with his foot, as I look up to fix eyes on the rest of my group as they approach us. "Ready to kick some ass?" I ask, when they're standing in front of me, and I get some nods and one nasty grin from D-Roy.

"Tell me you have some sort of plan," Il Forte says with a resigned air, and I grin.

"You know the layout of the place?" I ask, and he nods. "Great. Berry," I ignore the angry narrowing of his eyes and jerk my chin towards Il Forte, "you stick by him, he'll lead you to where your sisters will probably be. No guns unless Szayel's idiots pull them first, period. Got it?" I only wait long enough to get some semblance of a nod from all of them, before I turn and shove the metal doors open.

From there it's fucking pandemonium. This is Szayel's nastiest place, with the worst things, so it's also got the best security in it. They rush us, a wall of uniform black suits, and I dive in with a grin and a laugh, the rest of my group, and the kid, only a step behind me. A couple are smart enough to just step out of our way, recognizing me, most likely, backing up against the corridor walls with their hands held up.

Il Forte leads the way, his distinctive long blond hair a beacon, with the kid a few steps behind him. I'm generally preoccupied by the walls of muscle, but while in the midst of all of this I do get a better a look at the brat's style. He's fast, graceful, and surprisingly strong for his size and build. More importantly, he's got a fucking beautiful sense of balance. I see him take one hit, to his left shoulder, that smacks him back against an actual wall, but before the grunt can even pull his arm back the brat's got him, sliding inside his guard with practiced ease and dropping him hard to the ground with what looks like an afterthought combination of a hip check and a foot to the back of his knee. The guard's are all easily twice his size, but it doesn't seem to bother him at all, or even phase him. That's pretty damn impressive for someone that doesn't live in this shit hole, and isn't forced to fight to survive every day.

The room Il Forte takes us to is only one corridor and a right turn inside, not more than fifty feet at most, but the whole damn place is like a kicked anthill. I'd swear Szayel's grunts were coming out of some alternate dimension filled with them, or some other bullshit location. It doesn't feel like there's any better explanation for why there's so damn many of them.

"Damn!" Il Forte hisses, and I finish off the guard in front of me with a jab to his undefended ribs, and then an uppercut when his arms falter from the first impact.

"What?" I ask, glancing at him for just long enough at him to see his narrowed eyes.

"They're not here," he answers sharply, voice raised to be heard over the impact of knuckles on flesh and the pounding of footsteps. "Our second best bet is to find my brother, he'll know where they are, guaranteed. We need to get to the main room!"

"Which way?" the kid asks, in something surprisingly close to a snarl, and I have to assume that Il Forte either tells him or points the way, because a moment later the brat is at my side. He forges forward, brown eyes thin slits of fury and steel determination. Him being in front of me, I get the chance to watch his fighting style a little more, and it's pretty ruthless. It's efficient in a way it wasn't before, focused purely on downing opponents as fast as possible without regard for their possible injury, and it makes my breath catch in my throat in something dangerously close to want.

Fuck, maybe he is a match for me.

I follow him after a moment, coming up beside him as he drives his elbow into a black-suited grunt's solar plexus, the twice as large man dropping to the floor and gasping, clutching at his chest. He steps around the struggling to breathe guard without pause, meeting the next one head on with a smooth duck and a jab of rigid fingers into his throat. That one folds back against the wall and out of the way.

"Planning on taking them all out yourself?" I ask with a laugh, decking the guard that comes down my side of the hallway and ramming my knee into his head for good measure.

"If I have to," he answers in a deadly cold voice, not sparing me a glance. Alright, I'll give the brat that much. He's definitely dangerous, even if I don't get the feeling that he's cruel, or even really enjoys violence. I'm pretty sure he learned to fight because he had to, not because he wanted to.

"Right!" Il Forte calls from behind us, and the kid sweeps the guard stupid enough to lunge at him around, slamming him into the sharp edge of the branching corridor before moving around him and down the direction my friend had indicated. The guards are thinning out, and I look back long enough to confirm that the rest of my group is making sure anyone the brat and I take down, stays down. Not the most fun job, or the most exciting, but damn necessary if we don't want to get boxed in from both sides.

It's a job they've done for me, countless times before. One I trust them all - even D-Roy, the little bastard - to do, and I don't make a habit of trusting people. I've taken too many knives to my skin to do something that's so foolish, so easily. But somehow these fuckers rate. With the exception of Il Forte, who I pretty much grew up with, I don't even know how it happened.

At our blond navigator's directions, we burst through the last few of the seemingly never-ending guards and through a pair of double doors. There's a whole fresh lot of black-suited muscle waiting for us, and behind them, elevated on a stage, is Szayel. He looks very displeased, eyes narrowed and lips pursed into a thin line, his arms crossed over his chest.

I reach out, grabbing Ichigo's arm to stop him leaping headfirst into the rest of the guards - though I'm sure he'd be fine - as Szayel speaks.

"Grimmjow," he says coolly, "is there a reason you are disrupting my business?"

The brat shakes my grip off, taking a step forward and glaring up at the pink-haired bastard that owns this place. "Where the fuck are my sisters?" he asks in a tone that brooks no argument. His anger is obvious enough, as is his willingness to beat the crap out of anyone who stands in his way. Family loyalty, I guess. I wouldn't know.

Szayel's lips get even thinner, but he forces a tight smile. "You'll just take any excuse to interrupt my dealings, won't you? You know very well that our leader knows what I sell, and has no intention of intervening. Leave, Grimmjow, and take your new friend with you. Pretty as he may be, I don't like his attitude." The fuck's voice is high, dismissive, and it rubs me even more the wrong way than his usual snide comments.

"I'd answer the brat," I say with a vicious grin, "cause you seem to be under the fucking terrible impression that I give a fuck what Aizen wants. Or that he'll care if I take a fist to your face."

The glorified pimp's lips curl with distaste, and he takes a single step back. "Take them down," he orders sharply, and the brat springs into motion before the words are even fully out of Szayel's mouth.

There are only somewhere around twenty guards, and in the larger space - out of the cramped corridors - the brat and I make short work of them. It's only a few minutes, though it's a damn good few minutes, before they're sprawled out around us. Most unconscious, a few still moving a little but soon to be out as well.

The kid steps toward Szayel, looking like he has every intention of knocking out every tooth the bastard has, and I glance back to take in the rest of my group. Edorad is sporting a fresh nosebleed, and D-Roy's earlier blow from Ichigo has bruised to a dark mark, but otherwise they look unharmed. Il Forte even looks smugly pleased, and I'd bet that at least one guard made the mistake of treating him like he wasn't a threat. Il Forte might look like a useless pretty boy, but he grew up with me, and he's deceptively skilled. I'd also bet that he's very pleased that he's about to see his brother get a well-deserved punch. They've never gotten along.

I don't hear the click of metal, but I do see Ichigo abruptly halt in place out of the corner of my eye, posture turning rigid. I snap my head around, and find the brat held at gunpoint by Szayel, the fucker's thin fingers wrapped around the grey metal of a pistol. My lip lifts in a snarl.

"Put that the fuck away, Szayel," I demand, fingers drifting back to where my own gun is shoved into the back of my pants.

"And take a beating from your new friend?" The safety clicks off, and Ichigo takes half a step back. "I don't think so. I have no intention of playing the punching bag for either of you. Business is business, Grimmjow, and you should have minded your own."

The gunshot is loud in my ears, and Ichigo jerks in reaction. It takes me and him the same moment to realize that he hasn't been shot, and it wasn't Szayel's gun that had gone off. I turn, scanning the room with wide eyes, and find two wholly unexpected figures standing near the main entrance to Szayel's club,

Aizen, and his second in command, Ichimaru. Ichimaru is the one holding the gun, the barrel aimed upward at the ceiling. His wide grin is unchanged, as is Aizen's eternal benevolent smile. It's a total mask of bullshit, but his ability to never show anything beyond that little quirk of lips just makes him scarier. Ichimaru lowers his gun to rest at his side, against his leg, one long finger flicking the safety back on as he does.

"I think that's enough," Aizen says softly, "don't you?" He moves toward us, carefully stepping around or over the unconscious bodies on the floor until he's standing about midway between Szayel and me. "Szayel," he orders in that same soft tone, "put the gun down." The pink-haired man hastens to obey, and to my slight surprise Ichigo doesn't immediately jump him, watching Aizen with wary eyes. "Grimmjow, we've talked before about interfering with my other lieutenant's work, haven't we?"

My jaw clenches for a moment, before I give a grudging nod. "Yeah."

Aizen's gaze falls on Ichigo, and his smile grows just a touch bigger. "You're here to retrieve your two sisters, correct?" The brat nods, and Aizen echoes it. "They will be returned to you, with no harm done. Szayel," our leader's voice doesn't sharpen, but there's a sudden hint of danger in it that makes something in my stomach clench, "do you know the names of your two victims?"

Szayel seems to sense the same thing I do, that something is very wrong and this is dangerous ground to be on. "No," he answers cautiously, and Aizen gives a soft sound of amusement.

"How about the name of their dear older brother, or their father?" Szayel doesn't answer, and Aizen answers the question. "It's Kurosaki."

Szayel stiffens, the color leaving his cheeks, and my gaze falls back to Ichigo. Oh, that explains things. Even I know the name Kurosaki. There's a doctor by that name that runs a free clinic a couple blocks outside of our neighborhood, and it's well known as the place to go for anyone injured. No fee, no questions, and absolutely no violence in or around it. I know for a fact that Aizen donates enough to it to make sure it's always fully stocked and open. I knew the doctor had a son, but I had no idea it was this brat.

"Now you understand," Aizen says, voice still deceptively soft. "Your actions tonight, if those girls or their brother were harmed, could have been very harmful to my organization." I flinch as a second gunshot goes off, and Szayel gives a shrill cry, collapsing to the ground with a neat hole in his right calf that begins to stain the white cloth around it a dark red. Gin casually flicks the safety back on, though I've got no idea when he managed to turn it off again after the first shot, and stores the gun inside his loose white jacket. "Do not ever take anyone again, without consulting me."

He turns back to Ichigo, and to the kid's credit he stands his ground, fists clenched. Aizen's hard to stand up against, even for people used to him. The kid's clearly wary, he'd be fucking stupid not to be after seeing Szayel's punishment, but he's not really afraid.

"Now, as I said, your sisters will be returned to you." His smile becomes a small smirk. "As soon as a guard is found that is capable of standing, anyway. The three of you will be escorted back home, and you have my word that none of my subordinates will ever do something like this again."

The brat nods, "Alright," and then pauses. He looks over at me, at the guards around us, at Szayel, and then finally back at Aizen. "He doesn't ever come to our clinic again," he states plainly, and I get the rare sight of seeing Aizen's eyes flicker with surprise as his smile falls.

"Excuse me?" he asks, and Ichigo's arms cross.

"That bastard," he nods at Szayel, "never gets treated at our clinic ever again. You didn't know, and that's the only fucking reason I'm not banning every fucking member of your gang from the place, but he never shows his face again."

"That isn't your call," Aizen says, that tiny hint of danger back in his tone, "it's your father's."

"And?" Ichigo retorts sharply, glaring. "You think he's going to treat the bastard who nearly sold my sisters to the highest bidder? I don't." Sure, Ichigo might not know Aizen like I do, or really know what he's capable of, but it still takes some serious balls to face off against even this persona he wears. My estimation of the kid just keeps getting higher.

Aizen watches the brat for several seconds before giving a small nod. "Very well, that's an acceptable term." He glances briefly over the rest of us. "Let's find a guard the bunch of you didn't manage to render unconscious or incapable of standing, shall we?" His smile returns, a soft chuckle leaving his mouth. "If such a thing is even possible."

----------------------------------------------------------------

The relief on the brat's face when his sisters are ushered into his arms is intense, and he clutches at them like they're a lifeline. To be fair, they clutch back just as fiercely. Aizen assigns my group to escort them back out, since we're already here, as he cleans up the mess we've made of Szayel's place, and Szayel himself.

It's not a long walk, really, but it feels longer because of the silence. The brat's sisters, one a black-haired tomboy and the other a gentle blonde, are stuck to his side, but oddly silent. Probably the trauma, but it could also be the bad neighborhood, my group and mine's company, or the sketchy as hell groups we pass that contribute to their silence. It worries Ichigo, it's obvious, but he doesn't try to break the silence either. Because of that, my group is quiet too, uncharacteristically so.

The walk isn't awkward, just dragging.

Eventually, we end up in front of the joint clinic and house, and Ichigo gently guides his sisters inside, into the wide arms of their father, before turning to me, and the rest of my group.

"Thank you," he says softly, and I nod.

"Yeah, sure. I do a lot of fucked up things, but kids are a different level, you know?" I can kill a man, or a woman, in cold blood, without a pause in my step, but put me face to face with a kid and I just can't bring myself to do any of the same things. Deep seated issues, or just a tiny bit of a moral compass still left somewhere in me, I don't know.

"No," he answers honestly, "I'll take your word for it. But just, thank you, I don't know if I could have gotten them out of there on my own." I'm sure he would have managed, he's a damn good fighter after all. Which, speaking of...

I can hear the rest of my group move away, voices too low to hear from here, and I offer the brat a small grin. "You want to fight sometime?" I ask bluntly, and his eyes widen in surprise.

"Fight?" he echoes, "You mean spar?"

"Whatever the fuck you want to call fighting for fun," I say with a shrug. "You're a damn good fighter, and you've got an attitude, which is the best fucking part. You could probably keep up with me."

One of his eyebrows lifts, and he snorts. "Keep up with you? I remember you being behind me during that whole raid, personally." There's challenge in his voice, as he looks up at me, and I can't help the grin that twists my lips. I let out a laugh in addition to the grin, pushing my hands into my pockets.

"You were pissed, I let you take the lead."

"Yeah, sure you did." He pauses, I pause, and then he gives a small little grin. "I'll see you around, Grimmjow."

"The next time you go looking for trouble?" I bait, and another snort escapes him.

"More like, the next time you need a bullet pulled out of you."

"Yeah," I agree, "that's more likely." I hold out a hand, and he takes it. "See ya, brat," I say, as we shake. His grip is strong, his hand warm, and I'm almost sad to let go. I turn away, before he speaks.

"Oh, also," I turn my head back, just in time to get blindsided by a right-handed hook to my face, the brat's knuckles impacting with my cheekbone in one of the harder punches anyone has ever hit me with.

"What the fuck?" I ask, raising a hand to my cheek once I've stopped reeling, glaring at him. He flexes his fingers, cracking his knuckles, and meets my gaze with one arched eyebrow.

"Don't ever call me 'Berry' again," he demands, and I just stare at him for a moment, my eyes wide, before giving a bark of laughter.

"Deal."

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A/N: I hope you enjoyed, thanks for reading! This deserves the Ao3 tag of 'I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping', which I will definitely be adding on there when this challenge is over and I post it up.