Author's Note: Ah! All your guys' reviews made me so excited, I wrote more. Haha. Here. For you. Hopefully it's well edited... Hmmmmm...

- Chapter 9 -

Ichigo's lungs released their contents in an 'oomph' when his back hit mattress. He groaned and slid himself further up with his feet along cool silky sheets not even attempting to sit up as he watched a moonlit Grimmjow begin to undo his pants. He blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of some feeling rushing in his chest and a thought banging insistently at his numb brain as dark denim dropped, and the ex-hollow moved silently to the edge of the bed in only a pair of black boxers, blue eyes blazing like burning ice, tan skin flawless over sculpted muscles. "Fuck you're hot."

Gleaming white teeth slowly revealed themselves as lips curled up, and Grimmjow leaned over, hands tugging on the shinigami's pants legs. "These need to go," he said in a low voice.

Ichigo nodded his agreement as waiting fingers began to trace along sensitive skin on the insides of his ankles, the touch deceptively gentle, and making his own fingers fumble with his buttons and then zipper. He lifted his hips to push them down when hands grabbed hold of his pants legs and tugged hard, pulling them down and off for him, and then the bed was dipping on either side as Grimmjow began to crawl up, and the knocking on his brain grew louder, making his head hurt and eyes clenched shut as the contents of his stomach sloshed with the bed's movement. Shit. Shit.

"Kurosaki..."

Brown eyes popped open, heat running up his chest uncomfortably, and he swallowed hard as his throat felt like it was trying to close up on him, having clearly caught on to his stomach's plans. "What?"

Grimmjow held himself on his hands and knees as he looked down at the shinigami, his tongue played at the corner of his mouth as he eyed Ichigo, something was off. "What's... wrong with you?" he asked, his tone sounding more suspicious than concerned.

Ichigo swallowed and then immediately wished he hadn't, grimacing as his stomach protested at any newcomers viciously. He let out a careful breath, refusing to shake his head, trying to keep still and willing his stomach to settle. Maybe it would pass. "Nothing."

Grimmjow's eyes narrowed, his lip twitching up on the right side in an irritated fashion, because the shinigami wasn't looking at him even though he was, his eyes were unfocused and his breathing was stunted, cheeks growing more pale by the second, looking like he had been stabbed one too many times. "Why do you look like that?"

And Ichigo started to laugh, but the sound cut off almost immediately with a groan when his entire body protested from the shaking, and his hand shot up to his damp forehead. Shit. How much had he drank? Three? Four maybe? No. No he could remember five at least and then there had been shots, but that shouldn't have—His stomach roiled suddenly at the unwelcome memory, trying to make a violent escape from his body, and he clamped his mouth shut, turning to his side and away from the man above him.

Grimmjow leaned back on his knees and frowned. "What the hell-"

Ichigo shoved himself up and took off for the open door that led to his bathroom like he was running for his life and then a loud clang came from the room only to be followed immediately by disturbing sounds that pushed Grimmjow from his bed and towards the unlit bathroom. He approached slowly, his eyebrows furrowing when he flipped on the light to find the shinigami sitting on the floor, groaning with eyes closed, lying on an arm that was resting on his toilet.

"Fuck," Ichigo moaned, face flushed, his head still spinning even with his eyes closed, bright light attacking his eyelids and making his head want to implode. "Turn that shit off."

Grimmjow stood, feeling oddly uncertain, and then he slowly lifted his arm out to the side - and flicked the light back off with just his index, not overly pleased.

"Thanks," was whispered. Ichigo scooted back from the toilet and then lowered down onto the floor carefully, letting out a relieved breath as its coolness seeped through his skin and calmed his stomach, and he realized the ex-Espada was still there when he heard a heavy breath. "I got sick," he said, voice rough. He heard feet shift closer and then something large slide down the wall in front of him.

"Why?"

Ichigo swallowed, his breaths coming short between dry lips. He wanted to open his eyes and see if his ears were playing tricks on him, because it sounded like Grimmjow was sitting on the floor with him but that couldn't be right. "Drank too much," he forced out.

Grimmjow studied Ichigo as he lay less than a foot in front of him on his side, half curled in on himself, and he wasn't sure what he thought about it. No. That was a lie. He was pissed off. He couldn't fuck the shinigami if he was sick... at least... he didn't think so. He nudged Ichigo's bare shoulder with his foot. "Are you better now?"

Ichigo huffed a laugh and then grunted when it made his stomach lurch painfully, turning his face towards the floor to rest his left temple on blissfully cold tile. "No I'm not fucking better. Do I look better?"

"No, you look like shit."

Ichigo laughed again only to regret it immediately and then flicked the nearby foot blindly. "Fuck you."

Grimmjow pulled his foot back and glared at the useless shinigami. He would beat the shit out of him if it wouldn't be so easy. Fucking drank too much. He shook his head in disgust. His whole night was ruined now with Ichigo lying on his floor, looking like he was about to die right there.

And then - blue eyebrows began to push in and downward when the flippant thought stuck, and Grimmjow listened to short uneven breaths, and he felt a sudden itching inside his chest. He scratched at it, irritated. The shinigami wouldn't die from drinking too much. Was that a thing? "Ichigo," he grunted, but received no response, the shinigami looking suddenly too relaxed, limp.

He leaned forward, shifting half his weight from his knees to his hands and lowered his head to study the sick Ichigo more closely. "Ichigo," he said again, louder, but brown eyes remained shut and unresponsive. He reached out a hand and tapped the shinigami's cold cheek a little too hard for it not to qualify as a smack. Nothing. Grimmjow growled. "Fuck."

Grimmjow glared down at the orange-haired teen, who he had carried out of his bathroom bridal style and placed on his bed. He would have just left him there, but the floor was fucking cold, and he didn't know if that was a good thing for the unresponsive shinigami or not. He pulled his shirt over his head with a growl, pants hanging around his waist but still undone in his hurry. He turned and stomped into his shoes as he made his way for the doorway, fastening his pants and shooting a quick look over his shoulder before stalking out and down the hallway, pulling open the front door and slamming it behind him as he cursed under his breath.

"Coming," was said in a carefree sing-songy voice for the third time that made blue eyes narrow into slits and long fingers to ball into fists, and Grimmjow banged on the wooden door harder as he stood outside Urahara's still-lit shop at fuck-knows-when. "I'll be right there," was called out in a not rushed voice, the words sounding no closer.

"Fucking bastard," he growled and then lifted his fist to beat again on the annoyingly sturdy door when it was swung in, opening, and he was met with shaded grey eyes from under a striped hat.

"Why Grimmjow," the shopkeeper said, looking throughly surprised as he stood fully dressed in the middle of the night, "what brings you here?" He took a small step back and waved him in politely.

Grimmjow snarled at him and pushed inside the empty shop. He wasn't sure what to say now that he was there. He had heard Ichigo call the shopkeeper when he had first been in the Kurosaki household, and it seemed he had an interest in the orange-haired shinigami's well-being, but to what degree and why, he didn't know—

"Is something wrong?"

Grimmjow turned around slowly to face the man who had gotten him stuck in the gigai he was wearing, and he clenched his teeth together. "You mean other than the obvious?" he asked quietly, tone furious.

The shopkeeper let loose a laugh, and Grimmjow's eyes widened with a look of seething rage as he reminded himself over and over he didn't have his powers, and he tried to relax tensed muscles but was failing miserably. "You've developed a sense of humor. That's wonderful," the man said, smiling, his expression bordering on pleased.

Grimmjow felt his body begin to shake, his upper lip twitching sporadically to display sharp canines.

"Need to work on your anger issues though, I see," the man said with a sniff and when Grimmjow took a step forward his cane shot up, its end suddenly pressing against the ex-Espada's chest. "Ah. Ah. Ah. That wasn't a suggestion," he said more slowly, "Calm down, Jaegerjaquez, and tell me what you need."

And Grimmjow glared darkly at the shopkeeper but forced himself back a step and then another, his movement stiff. He would kill him if—no—when he got his powers back. Grey eyes blinked at him, annoyingly patient. He breathed in through his nose, air forcing the muscles around his ribcage to expand and loosen a little, and he was able to say between gritted teeth, "I have... a question."

"Do you...?" Kisuke tilted his head to the side, hands clasped over his walking stick.

Teal tattoos wrinkled around glaring eyes. "Yes," he spat, and then he remembered fully why he had came there to begin with, and he scratched at his itching chest roughly when it started to act up again. "Can you kill someone with alcohol?"

Grey eyes widened for a split-second but then quickly returned to their normal size. And the shopkeeper shifted his stick to just one hand as he sucked on his teeth before nodding thoughtfully. "Yes, I suppose you could... but it would take a lot to do so. And the person would probably get sick and pass out well before you could manage it..."

Grimmjow blinked, the last sentence perking his interest. "Pass out?"

The shopkeeper nodded. "Yes. They'll fall asleep and can't really wake up for a while," he said and then added almost as an after thought, "Planning on murdering someone, Grimmjow?" He rubbed at his rough chin, lips quirking to the side, when he received no response beyond an icy glare. "I have to admit, I just can't picture you poisoning someone to do it, you seem too physical for that type of thing."

The blue-haired man sneered. "I think you're probably right, thanks for the advice." He began to walk past when the shopkeeper's walking stick shot up to the side and in front of him.

"Here," the man said, his tone suddenly more genuine, holding out a small unmarked brown packet. "Pour it in hot water to drink, it helps with hangovers." Grimmjow stared down at the offered item for a long moment, not asking the question on his mind and feeling infuriatingly stupid. "When you drink too much and get sick," was offered as if on cue, and the blue-haired man grabbed it, muttering an angry thanks as he made his way for the door, not responding to the man's request for him to stop by again soon for research purposes, of course.

He yanked the door open and stalked out into the dark.