title: watercolor pt one (when i'm staring down the barrel)
fandom: bleach. (highly own hardcooked cop au)
rating: pg-13 for now. pg-15 to hard r/nc-17 expected
disclaimer: i own nada
warnings: (future and current) consumation of alcohol, coarse language, explicit violence, sexual interaction, etc etc
note: see original post for the (long) note
summary: Inoue Orihime's disappearing isn't just a normal case, despite every technicality resembling a relatively common disappearance. Grimmjow Jaegerjaques, on the Missing Person Unit, with newly recruited partner Kurosaki, are put on the case, but might not realize the stakes of the game they're playing until it's too late.
The roof of his mouth is sandpaper dry, his tongue sticky as all hell. Put a cigarette stump to either and he wouldn't feel shit.
Shower spray on. Cold, that's the secret. Cold till your fingers are shaking and your scalp aches. But it's good. And if it isn't, it's necessary.
When he's done, which is after he's rinsed shampoo out of his hair, and body wash that smells so sweetly of strawberries he feels his stomach lurching, out of his pores. Then he wraps a towel tightly around his waist, shakes two aspirin out of the pocket of his slacks, and steps out of the bathroom.
He feels fucking sick. Much like he's going to dry heave just from the smell of coffee that penetrates the air. And in contrast to the near zero-degree shower he'd just forced himself through it's almost clammy out here.
"How're you?"
Grimmjow shakes his head, pops the pills under his tongue and cranes his neck under the water tap in the kitchen sink. Normally he would've flipped the kid off there. The fuck is he, acting like he has sympathy to give like any charity donor?
Moreover, he'd got none to take.
He turns around and leans against the counter, not terribly concerned with the unknotting towel over his hips, "yeah, fine. Fucking shit, head's killing me."
Ichigo's giving him a thorough once over. Scrutinizing like he's never seen a man keel over to Lady Liqour before.
"What?" he says.
"Nothing. Just, I talked to a guy last night," Grimmjow smirks because really? Ichigo glares now, "and I think he might be of help," he finishes.
"You think?" he says, nodding, "you think. That's good, fer someone your age."
Ichigo growls, "shut the fuck up, wasn't it you who taught me to never assume?"
"And to use your head, you got one of those. You don't think, you don't fucking assume," he levels the kid with a narrow stare, "you know."
He knows he's probably being worse than usually, which is an impressive feat in itself. Not to mention a testament to how hardnosed Ichigo is for going with it.
Ichigo gets up, stalking the distance separating them. Grimmjow's pretty sure Ichigo would've grabbed him by the shirt if he'd had one on. They size one other up. Like they're going to draw weapons, or punch. He's hardly got qualms against nailing the younger man in the teeth if he thinks himself superior. But they stop at nothing before it's even passed.
"I just want this done with."
He sees the kid for the rookie he is then. Don't get the instructor who put a gun in his hand, nor the boss man for putting him on the unit. He knows the kid's crafty, and got his head screwed on tightly. But this fucking job ruins everyone.
Grimmjow says nothing in return. Pats Ichigo's shoulder when he steps past to change into something. He's feeling that he's back to normal temp and brains. Guess that works today too.
"Outline it for me."
"Right," Ichigo says. He's bitter. Grimmjow thinks they all are. Or end up it anyway. He never cared much how it made him look outwards, but what really scares the honest crap out of him, is the day he'd end up like Ulquiorra. When you don't feel, just go through the mechanics of work.
He shudders, rifting through Ichigo's bag of clothes. He could still wear the slacks from the day prior, and the suit jacket is - thank fuck - unharmed. But he refuses the shirt he'd worn.
"Shit, how thin are you?" he critically examines every S/M sized shirt he finds.
Kid snorts, "not my fault I don't have your thick bone structure," he mocks.
Grimmjow flips him off, "yeah fuck off, stick. And I asked for an outline. Details, pronto."
"From last night?"
"I fucking guess, yes." He rolls his eyes.
"I think you can cite the bill I had to pay the bartender last night, so I won't hand your faux-alcoholic ass to you again." Grimmjow tch's, but waits for continuation. His partner breezes through the evening, from the chase to the cul-de-sac, and the night. He's surprised at how little comes to him.
He can't make the kid's face out. Apart from the occassional twitch in the corner of mouth and eyebrow, there's a blue around him and he's not shaking it, but not letting it get to him. He supposes their almost fist-tapping had made Ichigo step back again, caught ahold unnecessary emotions.
"Fucking shit," Grimmjow bites out. The shirt he throws onto his of their two beds, and starts pacing. "We've got motherfucking zero. Zilch. Fuck."
Because they don't. Their girl's still missing, and the last trace they'd physically had, had burnt with the rubber wasted on chasing a shitting Mercedes downtown until they'd completely fucking lost them for fucking ever, given the anonymous car.
Grimmjow throws on the shirt in a fit, and is so irritated with most everything that he pops a button. Of course.
"Asshole, don't ruin my shirts just because you're wound up." Ichigo steps up to him and slaps his hands away roughly. Grimmjow forces a deep breath of air through his nose. No doubt Ichigo's going to complain about his bad breath otherwise.
There's - for once - relative silence, while he's dressed like he's still mama's boy who never done any bad. Kid's fingers brush his collar bone when he examines the torn button.
"You're cold," he frowns.
Another urge to roll his eyes overcomes him. "Yeah, what do you use the shower for?"
His partner mumbles something that he can't catch. He gnaws on his bottom lip. They'd need to get out. Ichigo's all too bleedy when it comes to people he knows. Grimmjow supposes he's come to count among them.
"You already got coffee?"
A nod. "Yeah, while ago. I'll get some if you get the peppermint gum I got on the table." A grin.
Grimmjow punches him in the arm. "Get the caffeine or I won't do shit."
The kid chuckles as he goes. Sometimes it even feels as though their partnership actually works.
When Ichigo comes back with the coffee Grimmjow's spread most of their equipment out over his bed. There are the licensed guns, maps and thick manila folders of photographies, test samples, profiles and crime scene reports. All kinds of shit, and just that to them - crap. None of any help.
"Hey, what about that guy you think you tapped up?"
Ichigo scowls, "don't 'think' of anything. What I 'think' is whether or not he's a any help to us."
Grimmjow nods, accepting the paper mug of straight black as he eyes old news clips and spreads lab reports across the sheets.
"You know where to find him?" Ichigo nods. "Got an address."
Grimmjow cocks an eyebrow in spite of himself. Alright then. Sipping his coffee, he inclines his head towards the mess on the bed.
"I want it sorted, gone through till there's not a thing we've missed. Every fuckin' report, every transcript of witnesses' stories, interrogation tapes, you fuckin' name 'em. I want them gone through again and again."
Kid looks vaguely put off. Dare open the mouth of yours, Grimmjow mentally challenges. But Ichigo nods. Just like that. No kicking the issue to them dead.
"Call me if you find anything," he presses. Ichigo's practically flipping his eyeballs rather than rolling them.
But he says: "Likewise." And dots the address down in scrawly characters on Grimmjow's palm. Safer than any piece of paper. He goes over the name and number a dozen times before he knows it, and goes to wash the ink from his skin.
His partner says to him when he's half out the door, "I could come."
And he knows he could, but: "I'm not defying captain's orders."
Bone weary sigh. "Aye, sailor."
Grimmjow shuts the door with a tired chuckle. Right.
It's a shitty neighborhood he arrives at. Bleak houses, pissed on streets and alley ways littered. The wipescreens whip at the rain while he peers out the passenger window of the little Mazda they've rented.
Grimmjow wants to light a smoke. It's an itch in his throat and in his fingertips. A little roils it in his stomach. He can't remember the last time he'd had one. Now, while he kills the engine and sits to observe, it's all he wants.
It's to occupy his thoughts. Since little by little, they're starting to mess with his head. Sure, been on a case for weeks. And last night, it'd all gone to hell. Needless to say, it gets to you. Nobody's immune to thoughts.
He runs his tongue along the top row of his teeth. And thinks for the billionth time: "how do you manage to just fucking disappear?"
'Cause they all do. Grimmjow's on the missing victims unit, all he does is go through this process again and again. Sometimes it's okay, if there's any situation in which it is. But other times it just isn't. It's not fucking okay to have to work with this.
His thoughts wander to Ichigo when nothing continues to happen outside. Boss man had plucked him from the case when it came forth that he was personally involved with the missing person. Grimmjow'd thought it was the right thing to do. Let the kid not work 24/7. Not get trigger-happy, not let him get weary and vow to never have kids himself.
Because this can happen to them too. Kidnappers, paedophiles and fucking psychos alike. All of them, you get close to. They'll be breathing down your neck and you'll wake up next to the girl who swore that silly, religious promise to be with you and order her away.
Someone's in a two piece tracksuit, hurrying across the street just in front of the Mazda. Grimmjow peaks up, pushing the emo kid at 15 thoughts to the back of his head and opening the door when Tracksuit's gone in the rain.
There's something in the air there when he gets up. Thick and tense. He checks the gun at the small of his back before he steps tall into the rain.
Crossing the street it's quiet, apart from the weather. A window rattles when it's shut on the second floor of the 6-storey building he's warily walking towards. Otherwise, nothing.
Shit. He inspects the door and of fucking course he needs a pass for getting in. He mentally runs over the numbers in the address. Punches a few combinations with angry jabs. No success.
"Fucking bitch." He palms his forehead. The rain smatters against his back, some wets his, or Ichigo's, collar. He tries the numbers again. Cunt. Tries again. Hell.
It's got nothing to do with these numbers. And neither with the numbers in the address letters.
It's useless to try and call to the door. Door phone's broken.
Grimmjow backs into the street and cranes his neck to squint up to the window which had been the closed minutes prior. He thinks there's a silhouette in there.
It's almost so he thinks fuck this and calls up to what's probably a ghost. Rain smatters harder against his neck, back, scalp. Tendrils run down in his eyes and he irritatedly scoops hair out of his eyelashes. He realizes he don't know where tracksuit went.
At first he can't place the dull ringing from nearby. Rain's making it hard enough. It's only faint, but as loud as to make it noticeable.
Shit. Phone.
Grimmjow hauls it up and pushes green just before it's about to go to voicemail. He needs to change it already, he notes.
It's not a number he recognizes, and he frowns as he puts speaker to mouth, "yeah?"
Two things: the tracksuit emerges from the window. Then the Mazda explodes from where it's situated behind him. He's knocked out with what's surely a broken spine and blown eardrums, seeing blind white.