KIKIKIKI

He could hear the cicadas chirping in the shade of the trees on the right hand side of the road, see the heat wave as it fluctuated over the pavement, screwing with his depth perception. The brown paper bag in his arms was wilting from the sweat that was accumulating on his finely muscled arms, muscles shifting beneath smooth hazelnut colored skin that would bronze even more over the coming summer months. Both the front and back of his light blue T-shirt were soaked with his sweat, and he huffed, resituating the damp, fragile bag of groceries in an attempt to keep it from tearing and spilling its innards across the hot cement. Flip-flops were making ripping and sticking noises on his feet, slapping against the ground sharply, intoning his lethargic pace in a beat that was a bit downtrodden. His basketball shorts were clinging and releasing his athletic thighs, stirring up a muggy breeze that did nothing to prevent the discomfort of perspiration dripping down his softly defined abs and into his waistband.

Every breath was stagnant and stifling hot, the perpetual scowl that coated his features was weak with fatigue from the heat. Orange hair was drooping from the normal spiky mess and starting to feel heavy from the humidity. Chocolate eyes were half-covered, hooding the irritated resignation that radiated from his gaze.

Honestly, you think he'd have worked it out by now; relationships really just weren't his thing.

He should have known better than to try to date Rukia, and now he was paying for it by going out and buying the same shit he had before they'd gotten together. He was back to the same old monotonous life he dreaded. To be fair, they'd lasted much longer than he'd anticipated; near five months. His longest relationship ever.

"Ichigo, you go into a relationship setting yourself up to fail," the dark woman behind the bar Ôken – Shihōin Yoruichi – had told him the previous evening when he'd gone to fiddle with the idea of drowning his sorrows for a night. "You immediately think that it's not gonna work, and that's why it doesn't."

"Hai, hai," he'd heard this every time he'd come in after a breakup, and he'd practically memorized the speech.

A beer slammed down on the counter, causing the orange haired young man to startle and look up, only to be shocked by the frustrated, worried expression on her attractive features.

"I'm serious. You never let yourself get into a relationship – I mean really get into it. At this rate, you're going to be single for the majority of your life; lonely. Don't eff this up," her brows furrowed as she turned away from him, fed up but still frustrated with worry. "I mean it; you've got to stop doing this to yourself. You pick people that need an ego boost, and get dumped when they realize that they're grateful to you rather than in love or like with you."

"She's right ya kno," Hirako Shinji – a regular to his left – butt-in, his straight blonde hair cut at his jaw and slightly mussed as if he'd been running his hands through it the way he did when he was thinking overly hard. "Yer gonna end up like one of those lonely people that only get satisfaction out of life by helping others. You'll never get a proper lay."

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While Ichigo was at the bar, a man was sitting in his office after hours, alone, working on clothing designs, and at the exact moment Shinji spoke those words, he sneezed and his papers went flying, his light-lead pencil slashing violently across the work at the action. With a weary sigh and creaking joints, he set about picking things up.

That's what he did; he fixed things.

KIKIKIKI

Currently, however, the young art student with the bright hair was melting in the 102° F weather, and hating godforsaken every minute of it. It wasn't just the heat that was making him angst that afternoon, it was the fact that they were right; he was going to end up unhappy if he kept this up much longer. Goddamnit, he thought, drowsy from the heat. I hate it when they're right. They never let me live it down.

His current train of thought, the firm decision he was coming to was interrupted by the most intriguing of scenes.

"Drop it!" the rough, deep, demanding voice sent a dark, pleasant shiver down the young man's spine and he found himself halting to glance curiously towards where the drop-dead sexy voice was coming from.

It appeared to be a drug-bust or something of the like.

The first thing that caught his attention was the brilliant electric blue hair that glowed in the hot afternoon sun, then the intense narrowed cyan eyes that shot heat straight to his groin as they focused on the assailant before him. He was wearing a light blue button up with the sleeves rolled up, and unbuttoned in the front over a sweat soaked grey wife-beater, police badge hanging off a ball chain, enhancing defined abs, and narrow, athletic hips that boot-cut jeans clung to with comfortable – but uncomfortably hot – looking Chucks on his feet, as well as the shoulder holster that was mostly covered by the button up. Peaking from the top of that sweaty undershirt was an angry looking scar, an ugly puce stain, inflamed from heat and the obvious irritation of the sweat-salt in his clothing. Full frowning lips held his attention for a moment over the strong jaw and proud features, then down a muscled neck to broad, strong shoulders that he could see bunching ever-so slightly under that worn blue dress shirt.

At the moment he was standing with both of his hands raised, palms outward, no higher than his waist, completely focused on the shaking, thin man before him, only two and a half, maybe three meters away. Trying not to appear threatening, but his very frame spoke of power and deadly grace.

Hot damn, he managed to think, swallowing the buildup of saliva in his mouth and licking his dry cracked lips.

"Fucking drop it!" the masterpiece of man-meat snarled and Ichigo barely managed to swallow a small whimper of appreciation at the animalistic nature of the man's anger.

Obviously the guy was doing something to piss that hunk off.

Oh, he noted, grip loosening on his bag of groceries as he took in the shaking, desperate man only a few feet from the orangette young man. He's got a gun.

"Holy shit…" he breathed without thinking, and both individual's gazes flew to him.

The druggy's bloodshot eyes were wide as he stared at him for that half a second it took for him to decide what the young man's purpose was, and in that same half a second the orange haired man dropped his wilted paper bag and took a step back in preparation to book it. He could hold his own in a fight, but against a gun wielding crackpot? Not something he was going to chance. His instinctive retreat was apparently with good reason, as in the moment it took for him to take another step back, the druggy was on him, pointing the mini-Uzi in the redhead's sweating face before swinging around behind him to place one of his arms around the young man's torso to hold him in place.

Fucking-A, suddenly wide chocolate eyes automatically locked with incredulous bright blues as he felt his face pale. The gorgeous man with the intense cerulean eyes features tensed, and the now-hostage Ichigo noted that the man was already halfway to him by the time they'd locked gazes. With each breath the volatile man before him took, his badge and holster shifted, but he made no move to reach for the weapon, and for this the young art student was grateful. He hadn't the slightest idea how the guy would react to the threat, and when he was pressing the large, open end of such a disastrous weapon at his temple he really didn't want to figure it out. I'm a hostage! I'm in a godforsaken hostage situation!

"Come on, Nnoi, ya don't wanna be doin' this," the young man's soon-to-be wet-dream cautioned, settling slowly, so as not to startle the jumpy man that was shifting closer to Ichigo's back, onto his heels, thumbs hooked casually in his pockets. "This could get real bad for ya if'n ya don't let the kid go."

With a choked, sharp laugh, the junky – Nnoi, apparently – pressed up tightly to Ichigo's back and the young brightly haired man stiffened as he felt the erection pressed to the top of his ass, feeling his face pale just that slightest bit more and his lips tense in his weakened scowl. This guy was getting off on the situation, or he was just hopped up on something that was effing with his system. The young man whose week worth of groceries were now cooking on the burning asphalt prayed that this was a case of the latter, but feared that it was really the first choice.

He hated being right all the time.

"Whadda ya think ya kno, Grimmjow? Hah?" leaning into Ichigo, the man's slurred, rushed words were drowned into a groan as he ground into the athletic body he'd caught in order to save his own ass. "Ya feel good," he murmured thickly in the orangette's ear, licking the sweaty, cold with nerves, neck before him with his sticky, not quite covered in saliva tongue and humming brokenly, enjoying the shudder from the ripe boy in his arms and the murderous rage in Grimmjow's gaze. "Taste good too."

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Shit, was his internal mantra at the moment. Shit, shit, shit.

The attractive young man who was currently being held hostage by his fucked over old friend looked sick to his stomach as the man continued to grind against him, eyes gleaming feverishly but surprisingly never leaving the detective's hard, furious gaze. Those soft chocolate eyes were wide, and his scowl had shifted into a pained grimace, but he'd yet to make the slightest of sounds since his quiet outburst on walking into the situation.

He couldn't believe that it'd gotten so bad all of a sudden. All he'd been doing was the routine wrist slap and confiscation of what the known drug house had in stock. It had become blaringly obvious that something was amiss when his childhood friend hadn't let him into the house to do his job; either he had gone insane or he was dealing something for someone. Grimmjow Jaegerjaques had always been the one to go in and do this kind of stuff alone, as he'd grown up in the scene and they tended to cooperate better with him than with the other officers, soothed by his rough mannerisms and jerky, half-assed speech.

Everything had gotten serious when he'd given his young partner a reluctant go-ahead to call in someone on an assist, and his old friend had suddenly drawn a gun on him and backed him out of the entryway of the house and into the road. Reason wasn't working, so he'd started to make demands, and he'd thought that maybe he was getting through to the other when that bit of eye-candy that was now the source of a rather frustrating dilemma had come around the corner, looking like he'd just watched someone kick a puppy. The blunette had noticed him just before the young man had taken in the scene and spoken without thinking.

In the back of his mind he was smug about the fact that the attractive young man had been checking him out before seeing that Nnoi was holding a gun.

Now he felt his gut souring with rage because there was a fine tremor running through that enticing frame and it was growing more and more pronounced every time the drug addict that he'd grown up with ground up against him. The poor boy was terrified.

Where the fuck was that backup? Where was his partner?

"Come on, Nnoi, ya c'n still come outta this if'n ya jus' let the kid alone," he locked his angry gaze with that of the blanking chocolaty orbs and felt his heart throb as the boy started to enter shock. "Any more o' this an' I'll lock ya so deep ya won't last the nigh'."

The harsh laugh that he received grated on his nerves.

"I ain't gettin' outta this'n Grimm," that tone was bordering on desperation and he found himself leaning forward slightly in interested concern. "Not this time."

"Nnoi –" he cut himself off in his frowning tone as he saw the boy gag suddenly, and the junky holding the weapon to his face screwed up his face and leaned the majority of his weight on the sweaty, tense, pale young man.

He'd just fucking cum on the poor boy.

The animalistic snarl that ripped from his throat was because those magnificent fawn eyes were gathering tears and he was clearly struggling with the effort not to puke up whatever was in his stomach, his body trembling nonstop, jaw clenched so hard that he could see the muscles fluttering by his ear. Smooth, golden skin was so pale as to seem green, and he hated the way those dexterous hands were clenching and stretching with nerves. Muscles tensed as he prepared to spring and rip the man who was no longer his friend apart just as he heard a gun fire and flinched, watching Nnoi's eyes widen almost comically before he slid down the petrified, gorgeous young man's body.

Standing 30 feet behind Ichigo, was Grimmjow's young, prodigal partner, Hitsuguya Tōshirō, standing still in his firing stance, face calm and eyes cold as he stared unemotionally at the body of what was once one of Grimmjow's good friends. His snow white hair still managed to defy gravity, even in the humidity, his clear, sky blue eyes held nothing but calculation as he studied the remainder of the scene before him. His pale, creamy skin held the slightest flush from the heat of the day, as he wore a full-on dress shirt and slacks with his dress shoes. The boy was like a walking thermostat always set on cool, never got hot, and never really got cold. When it was snowing was really the only weather type that the muscular blunette had seen his young partner enjoy, his face lighting up and a smile curling on his full peach lips.

As it were, Grimmjow found himself completely bypassing the dead body, and quickly moving towards the collapsing art student to catch him as he fell. Carefully holding the trembling young man, he smoothed his large seeming hand over the narrow, lithe waist and marveled at how well the pretty little thing fit in his arms.

"What's yer name, kid?" he asked gruffly, unaware of how gentle his voice sounded beneath the roughness as well as Hitsuguya's raised brow at the position he was in.

"K-Kurosaki Ichigo," he managed, teeth chattering from the adrenaline rush and shocked disgust at what had just been done to him.

"Hajime mashite, Ichigo, I'm Grimmjow Jaegerjaques," carefully shifting so that the frightened young man didn't have to look at the body of his violator and captor, sending Hitsuguya a look that told him to take care of the mess. "Let's head over ta the car, yeah?"

"Yeah, okay, car," the distance in that light tenor sent another ache through the tall, brash man's chest and he wished that Nnoi were alive still so that he could kill him again, slowly.

Gently, Grimmjow helped the trembling young man to his feet, supporting the majority of his tense weight as he helped the other with the slow going towards the commissioned vehicle, noting idly that the boy's crown was just at the height of his lips. Perfect, he thought idly, glancing back to see his partner on the phone, idly studying the man that he'd killed. He's perfect. Feeling a warm wetness that was thicker than sweat on the back of the boy's shirt, he glanced down and back to note that Nnoi had spattered a bit of blood when he'd been shot, staining this shirt irreparably. He tightened his arm around him just before sitting him in the back seat of the cruiser, kneeling down in front of him and taking those marvelous, narrow hands into his own and chafing them gently.

"So, Ichigo, how ya feeling?" his brow was furrowed and his voice softer than he meant it to be.

"Well," he took a breath before his expression turned confused, nearly befuddled. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

Skill as well as instinct helped him to shift to the side to catch the boy again, and support him as he vomited up something watery and extremely unpleasant. He soothed the back of the orangette's skull and neck, as well as banding an arm around his chest, hating the spasms that went through his body as he heaved. That smooth looking skin was jumping with nerves and sickness, and Grimmjow couldn't think of a way to help other than to hold the boy and speak nonsensical meanderings that didn't connect to the situation in the least.

It was all he could do.

Still, despite the awkward circumstances, he couldn't help but take note of the pleasing feel of the young man pressed against him, they way he fit perfectly beneath his chin. Young, athletic muscle shifted beneath soft looking skin as he regained some of his golden color, and the hard, tanned body on which he leaned found the yielding quality of the orangette pleasing in a most primal sense. The slim build was a perfect, complementary contrast to the wiry frame that Grimmjow possessed, and the young man relaxed against the soothing beat of the detective's chest before completely passing out.

With a sigh, the blunette carefully shifted the civilian in his arms so that he could carry him bridal-style and placed him gently into the nondescript cruiser, situating him in the semblance of a comfortable position. Electric blue eyes studied the golden frame for a moment, lingering on the sweat drenched hollow of his collar bone, and the curve of his neck as his head lolled onto the headrest a bit.

"Pretty," he muttered to himself, not even considering hiding his grin despite the conditions under which he'd met this attractive young man.

Turning away from his possible conquest, he note the people who were staring out their windows and standing on their lawns, looking in the direction of Nnoi's dead body, and Hitsuguya's pale form.

"Aw, shit."

Grumbling the entire way, he started back towards his young, prodigal partner noting with a grimace that said partner was scrunching up his nose in a rare show of disgust at the body before him; the muscular man couldn't really blame him.

It wasn't pretty, by any means.

The bullet had gone in through the junky's back, probably barely missing a rib, sliding on the cartilage and ligaments, chipping thoracic vertebrae on its way to the fucker's heart. From there, it'd most likely torn through the cardiac muscles and gotten lodged in the sternum, or at least the edge of it.

He shuddered, regarding his young companion, in every target, he always managed to get the same spot and the same reaction. His positioning was always just so. Now that he thought about it, this was Hitsuguya's first on-the-clock kill. Grimmjow knew that during the white haired kids first run, with his previous partner, he'd had to kill some people – he'd never gotten the lowdown on who and his taicho had kept that file well out of the blunette's grasp – but that'd been desperation, and he hadn't been working.

Was he going to handle it okay?

"Why the fuck didn't ya call fer backup?" he growled at the crouching, creamy skinned boy. "The shit coulda hit the fan."

"It could have," he concurred, causing Grimmjow to grit his teeth in irritation with the monotone response before scowling as the turquoise eyed prodigy gave him a slightly wry look. "But you hate it when someone comes in and, what was it? 'Throws off your game', wasn't it?"

It was silent as the different hues of blue met and irritation shifted to amused assent; he did hate it when someone else came in and tried to take over his cases, or change his way of doing things. Nobody messed with his prey.

"Okay, I'll give ya that," the blunette ran his powerful hand over his face, feeling the heat that radiated from his palms and grimacing even as he mussed his damp bright locks. "But ya gonna call someone to take care of that body?"

"Already did," a white brow shifted as he considered the bleeding husk before him, taking in the bruising that was beginning to spread over the revealed part of his chest. "Didn't you grow up with this guy?"

"Yeah," deep voice full of disgust, he shook his head at the other's bland stare. An offer to listen, or to take care of it himself, the man didn't know, and wouldn't take him up on either, in any case. "Fucker got into some real deep shit and screwed himself over."

Standing up and dusting off his impeccable slacks, the white haired officer – who wasn't sweating in the least, Grimmjow noted again with irritation – and started to walk towards the car. "Guess I'll take care of searching the house," he tossed an amused look at his older partner as he passed him, noting with pleasure the way his scowl deepened and his eyes traveled to the college student in the vehicle. "Seeing as you so obviously want to take care of the victim."

"Ya just gonna leave 'im there?" the man queried, not rising to the bait no matter how bad he wanted to; that would just make the little fucker even more smug.

"No," the cool boy waved his hand as an ambulance turned the corner. "They're going to take care of him."

The scowl didn't ease up as he seethed internally. Smug little bastard, thinking he's got everything covered. Truthfully, the blunette knew that Hitsuguya usually did have everything covered. He would worry when there was a time when his young partner didn't have everything under control, because then he'd have to relearn how to take care of his own ass. After a particularly trying case, the white haired boy would check up on his senior partner, making sure that he was doing alright, keeping himself fed and clean. It was almost like having a friend, but neither of them could bring themselves to call the other as such.

Seeing the orangette in his black Chevy brightened his suddenly darkening mood, his narrowed gaze taking in the new positioning of his passenger.

Curled up on the Pleather seat with his forehead pillowed on his knees, side to the seat back, the soft glow of his honey skin in the humidity was enticing in a way that caused the detective to smirk predatorily.

Oh, I hope this's gonna be fun.