Chapter Text
“Ichigo-kun.”
“Yeah?”
“Does your younger self still exist in this timeline?”
“…No, I don’t think so. I mean, I’m in his body, right? Well, mine. It’s mine now. Technically it was before as I’m still him and yet not really, but it’s still me. Just a different version of me. Or him. Maybe? I’m not the scientist here, Geta-boushi.”
“I see, I see. So how old are you really, if you don’t mind me asking?”
The orange-haired shinigami sprawled boneless on the floor, waving his hand in a lazy, if dismissive, gesture.
“Maa, I don’t mind. Round thirty, I think. It’s a pretty rough guess; I lost track after twenty-three.”
Surprisingly, the silence that stretched out between the two managed to avoid being awkward. It was comforting, a sentiment reflected by both sides. Kisuke knew better than to push, and Ichigo knew his limits well enough to avoid filling the silence.
“I see.”
And that was that.
“Ichigo-kun.”
“Wha’up?”
Kisuke snorted in amusement at his charge and his blatant disrespect for grammar. Ichigo was curled in a sleepy ball by his side, head pillowed on his thigh and long orange hair spilling into his lap. The shopkeeper carded his fingers through the strands, grey eyes flicking over the now familiar web of scars visible beneath the collar of his boy’s shirt.
After that first night, Kisuke had forsaken any and all attachment he had to his personal space. He refused to let Ichigo sleep on his own. The blond made it perfectly clear that he didn’t give two shits about when Ichigo chose to sleep. If his charge wanted to sleep at night, it was to be within an arm’s reach of wherever the shopkeeper was sleeping. If he wanted to sleep during the day, he was to be next to Kisuke. Until he believed Ichigo’s mental trauma to be healed to a non-threatening level, everything was second to his safety. Physical and mental. And the substitute sleeping on his own? Was not meeting these requirements. He’d finally given up trying to convince himself that it was a manifestation of his self-preservation instinct: keep the powerful deranged swordsman as stable as possible. No. This was Kisuke’s ‘mother hen-ing’, as Yoruichi put it.
“I was thinking-”
“I hope so, Geta-boushi. The day you aren’t is the day the world ends.”
A pillow whistled through the air, thwacking the back of an orange head in retribution. Since the first week, Kisuke had discarded his fan, so the small smirk was visible to the little troublemaker.
“Brat. Don’t you dare start with me.”
“Yes, Ki-kun.”
Another thwack, this time accompanied by a groan.
“I’ll kill Yoruichi for telling you that.”
“Well,” the boy mused, finger tapping his lips, “technically,” he stressed the word, “she hasn’t actually told me yet. Sooooooo…..” Ichigo trailed off, hopeful excitement in his eyes. No. He was not falling for this again. Kisuke was an exiled captain. He was immune to puppy-dog eyes.
One box of chocolate, a pillow fight, and two cups of sake later, the blond finally managed to return to the conversation. This time, Ichigo had somehow managed to sprawl across his lap while reading a book and still disguise the fact that it must be highly uncomfortable.
“Ichigo, do you want to bring your father into this?”
He felt the slight tightening of shoulders, and reconsidered what he was going to say. He had to proceed with caution.
“I imagine Isshin will be beginning to worry, since you don’t usually take off for this long without leaving some sort of message.” The tension was still there, but he hadn’t been attacked yet, so Kisuke threw caution to the wind and tossed in a low blow. He winced internally, begging Ichigo to forgive him.
“Your sisters must be beside themselves.”
That got a reaction. His boy froze, every muscle seized up in what must have been painful pressure for under a second. The next thing he knew, Ichigo bolted for the door. Stopped before even taking two steps. Began to pace violently. Halted. Began to pace again, picking up speed until it was bordering on a slow shunpo. Wrapped fingers in his waist length hair and pulled in time with his steps, each more forceful than the last. Stopped. Gave a strangled half cry, one hand wrapping around his throat while the other snaked around his chest.
Kisuke stayed perfectly still, only moving when the hand Ichigo had around his neck tightened enough to impede his breathing. One hand gently tugged until the substitute let go, the other wrapped around the boy. Still silent, the blond began murmuring in a soothing tone while rocking the boy back and forth. Ichigo made a soft whine and his knees gave out. Supporting all of his student’s weight, Kisuke lowered him gently to the floor and cradled him through his inner turmoil. Three hours later, Ichigo agreed to meet with his father in the training grounds if Kisuke was there.
Two days after that, a call was made to the Kurosaki household.
“Kisuke, hey, I was gonna call you soon! D’you know where Ichigo-”
“He’s been here at the shop for the past fortnight, with me. He’s safe.”
“Oh, well that’s good then. He hasn’t gotten himself killed-”
“I think you need to come over. As soon as possible. Now, preferably. Don’t bring your daughters.”
“Kisuke, what’s this all about?”
“…”
“Kisuke?”
“I’m not having this discussion with you over the phone.”
“What? Kisuke, what’s going-”
“Caller has disconnected.”
Isshin wandered into the Urahara Shouten, feeling slightly apprehensive, but mostly curious. Ichigo wasn’t dead, and he wasn’t severely injured, so what could possibly be wrong? He pondered the question, finally deciding that his son’s manners, or rather their absence, had finally broken his friend. That must be it. After all, it wasn’t like his son was having something as ridiculous as a mental breakdown. The former captain called out into the empty shop. He noticed a book left on the kitchen counter, a tea set forgotten about just outside of Kisuke’s lab. Curiosity growing, Isshin made his way to the underground training facilities. After all, that’s where Kisuke would be throwing his son around, wouldn’t it? What he saw, when he finally made it to the ground, made him freeze in his tracks. That was Ichigo.
But that wasn’t his son.
Ichigo looked at Goat Face. It had been years since he’d last seen Isshin; they hadn’t spoken after the last time the old man had failed to kill him for what happened to Karin and Yuzu. After all, it was clearly his traumatised son who’d been thrown into a war at fifteen that had been responsible for them falling under Aizen’s attention. Not the fucking liar, Shiba-taicho, who’d thrown Ichigo into EVERYTHING without even asking if he’d wanted to do it first. No, it wasn’t his fault at all.
Clearly.
He tried to rein in his anger, carful to let his reiatsu do nothing more than pulse. He recognised the disconnect in Isshin- for he hadn’t been his father in a long time. He was looking at Ichigo, seeing him there, and dismissing everything that he was. Because Ichigo wasn’t fucking perfect enough for him, so he didn’t matter. He knew what he looked like. Long orange hair like a tattered banner swirling around him, always moving and never still. The steel in his eyes that had long ago stopped being molten (the steel was cold now; frozen, verging on brittle). The latticework of pale scars dancing across his neck, his chest, his arms and legs and hands and feet and jaw; he remembers the story behind each and every one of those.
Some were torture (Aizen was creative, but he had nothing on the free reign Central 46 gave to their little minions. Aizen had at least wanted him kept alive). Others were recognition; a parting gift (his favourites were the ones Ulquiorra left on his face; for someone who’d claimed to have no comprehension of human emotions, he’d been pretty set on making sure Ichigo’d never forget him). Others simply came from fatigue in battle, or even some of the damage the Fourth had to do to keep him alive.
Seeing that liar standing there, belittling his sacrifices; that was too much. He didn’t move, didn’t tense a muscle. Slowly, Ichigo unfurled his reiatsu, letting his anger pulse and thrum as his awareness slowly expanded. Isshin took a half step back. Good, Ichigo thought to himself, fear this. Fear what you’ve done, what you’ve made me into. That won’t make me stop.
He kept on expanding his reiatsu; it crawled along lazily as his anger snapped just beneath the surface, anything but. By now, a little bit of red was winding through the orange-haired teen’s eyes. The more control he ceded, the more his hair moved. A light breeze began to swirl through the training grounds, causing long hair to flutter in an intricate dance. And then the man who wrecked his life spoke.
“You are Ichigo.”
It was a statement. There was only one acceptable answer. Luckily it was the truthful one.
“I am.”
Ichigo was wary. He loosened his muscles even further; readying for an attack that he knew was coming. The wind picked up, becoming more agitated. It carried a faint whistle. If Ichigo was in a more dramatic mood, he’d be pleased at the sight he made.
“You are Ichigo. But you are not my son.”
The words were quiet, but their effect probably would have been lessened if the substitute had them yelled at him. All of a sudden, Ichigo’s reiatsu went through the roof. Figuratively.
And literally, of course. Nothing Ichigo did was ever done by halves.
It smashed through the roof of the training ground and straight through the Shouten to become a blazing beacon of black and gold in the sky. Ichigo wasn’t the only one who changed during the war.
The ground around Ichigo was pulverised under the weight of his reiatsu as it swept through the area as casually as brushing away a fly. Isshin was forced to his knees, partly due to his son’s reiatsu and partly to the gale force winds that whipped through the training grounds. Indeed, they would have been echoed throughout the whole town if the teen hadn’t kept some measure of control. Even so, the skies overhead darkened as thunder threatened an imposing storm.
All across Seireitei alarms and warnings were going off as units were mobilised. A warning went around, effectively grounding anyone under the rank of fukutaichou. Reports were flying left and right of an immense shinigami reiatsu edged in hollow.
“Kyouraku-taichou?”
“Maa, Nanao-chan, what is it?”
“Wh-What does this mean?”
“…I don’t know, Nanao-chan. I don’t know.”
“Oi! Shinji!”
“Whadda ya want, Hiyori?!”
“Ya feel that?”
“Ya idiot, of course I do!”
“It feels like one of us. Do ya think…?”
“I know. Wanna help me gut Urahara?”
“Ya bet.”
“Get tha others. Tell ‘em we’ve got business over at the Shouten.”
“Starrk, you notice that crazy-ass reiatsu?”
“Yeah. So what?”
“You lazy bastard.” A pause. “It … it feels stronger than us, Starrk.” A breath. “Aizen… Aizen lied to us, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, kiddo.”
“Can we go check it out? It’s like us…but not. It might be-might be someone who…who…”
“You really want this, huh, Lilynette.”
“Please Starrk.”
“Will you leave me alone for a week if we do?”
“Yes.”
“Then sure. Now let me sleep, brat.”
“Jerk.”