Ichigo had always been so, so good at avoiding police stations. So good at being invisible to cops, hiding in plain sight.
There was a kind of pride in this skill. Ichigo had seen other gang members flee crime scenes at a full, frantic sprint. Had seen them freeze up and curse the second an officer approached them. But he could stay even tempered, maintain the pretense of ease as he walked away from a deal with envelopes of money under his jacket. He could breeze past police cars with the casual ambivalence of a normal teenager.
He had been so good at gracefully avoiding the law. Now, the harsh fluorescent lights of the police station were giving him a headache. The chairs in the waiting room were a rigid plastic that dug uncomfortably into the already sore muscles of his back.
Just a chat. Ichigo reminded himself. Not a commitment. Not a betrayal. Just a chat.
If Aizen caught wind of this, Ichigo could manufacture any number of plausible reasons for his being at the station. Gang members got picked up by cops constantly for petty theft, domestic violence, drunken brawls. They were a self-selecting group of lowlifes. As far as Ichigo could tell, his clean criminal record was an outlier.
"Kurosaki?" The officer that ushered him forward was older, graying. He gave Ichigo a disdainful look as he led him to an office in the back. The station was an outdated, claustrophobic building. Scratched wood panel floors and narrow hallways lined with doors. Ichigo disliked the oppressive walls immediately. He thrived on maneuverability, the fluid movements possible in wide-open spaces. Being here by his own volition felt insanely risky, like entering a maze you might never see the other side of.
They stopped at a door at the furthest end of the hallway. As the cop rapped the wood lightly with his knuckles to announce their arrival, Ichigo read the dull brass plaque in front of him.
"Inspector Kuchiki"
Ichigo was well acquainted with this name. He had heard Aizen spit it out like a curse countless times. Had read it in police statements and local newspapers. As Ichigo stepped into the office, he couldn't help but remember how Inspector Kuchiki was responsible for dozens of the gangs' failures. She was the name that preceded high profile arrests and busted trafficking rings. The name that left the faint taste of trouble in the back of his throat.
Once, he had accompanied Nnoitra to the docks for what was supposed to be a lucrative shipment of American opioids. Instead, they had scarcely avoided the police raid already underway – seemingly dozens of officers swarming the boats and warehouses. Later, heart still pounding erratically in Aizen's office, he remembered the look on Aizen's face as he reported that hundreds of millions of yen had slipped out of their grasp. Ichigo had slumped warily into one of the overstuffed leather chairs and listened to Aizen complain about that little Kuchiki bitch.
Ichigo had assumed that the word "little" had been meaningless. An arbitrary sign of the disrespect Aizen often afforded women who displeased him. So it was surprising when he found himself facing a woman who was – well – little. Inspector Kuchiki was about the size of one of his sisters, small behind a polished wooden desk stacked with papers. The same narrow shoulders and short stature. His brain – prepped for confrontation – was unsure how to process this similarity.
Around Yuzu or Karin, Ichigo often felt hulking and unwieldy, scarcely the same species as them. He would look down at his sisters – the lingering childishness of their features – and feel a momentary panic that these small, brilliant girls had to navigate the same ugly world as him. Vulnerable to dangers he could breeze through without a thought.
In fact, if he had not registered Kuchiki's face – scowling mouth and wary eyes that flicked over him soberly – Ichigo would have felt a knee jerk kind of protectiveness over the woman. But her gaze was steely beneath a sweep of inky black hair, and her voice was even when she said "Ichigo Kurosaki, to what do I owe the pleasure?"
He didn't like the way she said his name – like she was every bit as familiar with him as he was with her.
"Sit." She said. It was more command than request and suddenly this all seemed like a very bad idea. Ichigo could turn around right now. He could walk out the door – they didn't have a warrant on him. He was sure that the cop that led him in would be easy to brush past. And if he tried to intercept Ichigo could knock him out cold with a single, well-placed blow. A meeting of knuckles on skull so fast that neither of them would register it for several breathless moments.
The instinct to make a fist was hampered by the plastic splint supporting his broken finger. Ichigo remembered the feeling of watching Orihime tend to the injury, turning his hand over in her own like she was appraising a valuable piece of art. He had never met anyone whose intense, focused expression could still radiate such kindness.
Ichigo relaxed his hands. Sat down in the chair opposite Kuchiki.
"I want to make a deal." He said.
It was time. Getting out from beneath Aizen's thumb was no longer an abstract plan for another day. Two things had become perfectly clear. The first was that he wanted to be with Orihime. Really be with her. He was tired of trying to fit her into the small safe corners of his days, not when there was so much room in his life for her. So much space in which he could care for her and luxuriate in her presence. Ever since he had seen her in his house, with his sisters, Ichigo had discovered a previously repressed capacity to hope. He wanted her to visit every day, he wanted to watch Karin's soccer games with her and sit in the kitchen while she baked with Yuzu. Ichigo wanted to keep Orihime's favorite snacks in the cupboards and a pair of her pajamas in his closet. He wanted the clean floral scent of her hair to cling indefinitely to his pillowcase.
The second thing that had become clear was that he could not bear to look her in the eye. Not for another day, not for another minute. Not when he was complicit in the institutions that had caused her so much grief and heartache. He could not press his mouth into the gentle hollows of her collarbones with this weight on his shoulders. Could not even think of slipping off her pretty white sundress, pulling her into bed, and finding new places on her body to communicate his reverence. Not yet.
"A deal?" Kuchiki did not look surprised. "A deal would imply you have something valuable to barter with Ichigo. Is that the case?"
"I –" Ichigo paused, unsure how much he could tell her, how much to reserve. His power was his knowledge, his access to a world she was all too interested in tearing apart. Looking at Kuchiki's hard expression, he knew every word out of his mouth could buy his demise as well as his freedom.
Seemingly reading his mind, Kuchiki sighed impatiently and pulled a slim folder from a stack on the desk. "Let's speed this up shall we?" She opened the folder and began laying papers on the desk in front of her. Ichigo was reminded of Aizen, spreading out photos of Nnoitras body to shake him up.
"Ichigo Kurosaki, 18 years old. Suspected affiliation with Aizen Sousuke for approximately 2 years. Confirmed affiliation for 6 months. Father is Ishhin Kurosaki, current whereabouts unknown, though he has failed to attend multiple court summons for participation in illegal gambling circles. Oldest of three siblings, deceased mother. A high school student, grades not bad considering you've been on academic probation for lack of attendance most of the year."
Ichigo sat very still as she listed these details, mentally cataloguing every exit available in the small room. The door, two windows. An air vent that would likely fail to accommodate his shoulders.
"No arrests or outstanding warrants. Suspected illegal activity includes facilitating the sale of controlled substances, countless assaults, obstruction of justice." Kuchiki took a breath, "Not directly linked to any murders, which is rare for one of Aizen's guys."
One of Aizen's guys. Ichigo almost winced at the phrase.
"Anything I missed?" Kuchiki studied his face, and Ichigo made sure his expression remained blank, devoid of the puzzlement he felt. This was not good. Kuchiki knew more than he anticipated, certainly more than enough to cause trouble for him. So why had she taken this meeting? Allowed him to walk into her office a free man?
"A whole file." Ichigo tried to keep his voice disengaged, unshaken. "You would think someone who's done all that homework would have Aizen under lock and key by now."
He thought he saw her mouth twitch. Almost a smile.
"Justice is a slow process Kurosaki. All strategy and waiting." She swept the papers back into the folder and tossed it carelessly into a pile of seemingly identical folders. "I could go after you, you know. Really put some effort into building your case. Now that you're 18 we could utilize the full extent of the law." Another scan of his face. "You're careful, I'll give you that. No extracurricular drugs or violence that I could pick up on. You do what you're told and collect a paycheck. Still, this is my job. And I'm good at it Ichigo."
He took several moments, made sure he was composed before asking, "So, why haven't you?"
"Truthfully? I don't care all that much about you." She flashed him a cynical, tired smile. "I arrest you and what happens? Aizen is on high alert for a few months, kills a few guys to bolster his reputation and inspire more fear. Locks down his operation even tighter." Her brow furrowed.
"Justice is all strategy and waiting. My brother told me that the first day of my police academy training. But he should have added one more thing."
"What's that?"
"Deals." She replied. "Strategy. Waiting. Deals. The first two have been checked off for a long time now. Years of strategy, months of waiting. And then you come into my office…" she trailed off.
"Ready to make a deal." He finished for her.
"Yes. Ready to make a deal. Like I conjured you up myself."
Ichigo frowned; he didn't like this. "You have my entire life in that folder," he said slowly, trying to piece things together, "and I'm a private citizen as far as my legal record is concerned. I'd bet money that you have whole encyclopedias on everyone involved in Aizen's operation."
Kuchiki nodded. "I could fill a library."
"Which means," Ichigo continued, "I came here to offer you information you already have."
A smile this time, not unkind. "Yes. Which is not to say I don't appreciate the sentiment."
"But you still took this meeting?" He was impatient now.
"Of course, wouldn't miss it."
Ichigo let his eyes close for a long moment before responding. "So what the hell kind of deal do you want to make?"
"Ah." Kuchiki looked down at her hands for a moment. "Ichigo, do you know why people like Aizen are so difficult to arrest?" she picked up another folder from her desk, this one thick and hardbound. "It's because there are about 15 people in between them and their misdeeds. They may give the order, but their hands are usually cleaner than mine. Circumstantial doesn't even begin to describe the evidence I have on Aizen. His businesses are all registered to shadow corporations and his colleagues wouldn't turn on him with a gun to their head." Kuchiki opened the folder and handed Ichigo a business card that was paperclipped to the inner cover. Aizen's business card. "On paper he's a lawyer. A lawyer with a suspicious predilection for defending members of organized crime, but a lawyer nonetheless."
It was true. Aizen liked to use the seediness of his men as a cover, officially serving as a lawyer for anyone with legal troubles. Since this was almost everyone in their world, this strategy afforded Aizen the privilege of meeting with the worst of criminals. Safeguarded him from being called upon to testify in court due to attorney-client confidentiality.
"Did you know that – officially – you're an intern at his law firm Ichigo?"
"I – what?" In truth, he'd assumed Aizen kept him entirely undocumented. Why create an unnecessary paper trail?
"So you didn't know." Kuchiki looked at him pityingly, spoke slowly to communicate the significance of her words. "About 6 months ago, Aizen registered you as the recipient of a lucrative internship at the firm. He even reports your pay on his taxes. Actually, you're the only member of his gang that he associates with his public persona."
Ichigo's head was spinning. "Is he...trying to set me up?"
"Possibly. Or perhaps he's looking for an heir. Has he ever mentioned anything about wanting you more deeply involved? You'd be a good candidate. If my research is correct, he got you very young Ichigo. Young enough to influence. To bend to his will."
He frowned, thought of the possessive, paternalistic way Aizen often spoke of Ichigo's future with the gang. The frown that tugged at Aizen's lips when he trailed his eyes across the clean tan skin of Ichigo's neck, unmarked by the tattoo that would irrevocably tie him to Aizen.
"What do I have to do?" He asked quietly. "What do you need?"
Kuchiki took a long moment to answer. "I need direct evidence Ichigo. He has to get his hands dirty sometimes. Give me receipts with his signatures, phone recordings, videos. Better yet, give me times and places. Let me catch him in the act. Or at least give me a witness. Someone who saw him steal or hurt or kill. Someone who would identify him."
Immediately, Ichigo thought of Orihime. Her unmistakable description of Aizen murdering her brother. He dismissed the thought just as quickly. He would sooner put himself in any level of danger than involve her in this.
"I can do it." He said. "I'll get you your evidence. But I need a guarantee. If I help you catch Aizen I need to know you'll let me walk away from it."
She nodded slowly, "This kind of evidence … only a true insider can get it, someone intimately involved with the worst parts of the organization. Someone who can tell me the exact details of what goes down. Can you do that for me? It's a dangerous and vulnerable position. I know it might not be pleasant."
Ichigo scoffed. Kuchiki had no idea. Somewhere right now, there was a girl with fiery hair and pale white thighs, a nose-scrunched smile that loosened the tension in his chest every time he saw it. There was a girl whose face flushed when he kissed her, a bounce to her walk like she was constantly on the verge of taking flight. He was going to be with her. Become a man she could be safe with. Unpleasant was the most trivial price to pay.