Disclaimer: I own neither Bleach nor the characters therein.
Dead Men Walking
Dead men walking, the others say when a new batch of officers makes its way to division eleven. Dead men walking, said with a snort and a shrug and a wry little grin. The phrase they've picked up on their trips to the real world; the grin they've picked up from hanging out with said officers. Both fit the eleventh squad to a tee.
Yachiru throws them for a bit, Yumichika's noticed. Such a cute, short, bright pink little thing, always stealing candy and cupcakes and wreaking havoc on Byakuya's belongings; surely a squad in which she is vice-captain couldn't be the pit of violence it's made out to be.
And then, sooner or later, she shows up in the 4th division with a wounded Kenpachi slung over her back, all three feet of her covered in blood save for two wide, curious, blinking little eyes, and all the other divisions understand: 11th is a place of death and violence, and no one – not Yachiru, not Yumichika – is exempt. Dead men walking, they say, and now they understand, and the words feel dry and bitter in their mouths. Dead men walking down the halls of Seireitei.
But Yumichika's not quite sure that's right, not when he's drinking with Renji and Ikkaku, not when he's giving Yachiru lessons in hair care, not when he's sparring with Shuuhei. And when he's in battle, Kenpachi's reiatsu blaring in front of him, Yachiru's war cheers in his ears, a bruised and laughing Ikkaku at his side, his world a chaos of steel and sweat and blood and the awe-inspiring wonder of the muscles and the mind working together to slash and to stab and to kill – that's when Yumichika understands: they're not dead men walking, they're dead men living – for a moment.