CHAPTER 5

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach...

Onwards...

XOXOXO

Central Intelligence Agency

Langley, Virginia

He truly despised when his superior summoned him without any warning; it always meant he would have to drop whatever he was currently involved with to answer the man. However, not doing so would result in his express termination. Most unacceptable.

Byakuya Kuchiki stalked through the halls of the CIA headquarters, mind going over the many reasons Tsukishima could want him. Perhaps it was a new assignment? He'd been cooling his heels the past few months, performing menial tasks that he could complete with his eyes closed and hands tied behind his back. He was certainly due for something much more purposeful. As he turned down the hall leading to his boss's office, he amended his thoughts because Tsukishima's idea of purposeful never quite agreed with his own. In fact, their ideals tended to bump heads and clash more often than not. Byakuya assumed rightly that the dark-haired man used him for his cold efficiency and ability to follow exact orders. It made Byakuya the agent he was today and he was immensely proud of that fact.

He stopped in front of a dark, wooden door and politely knocked twice. After a few beats of silence, a voice on the other side told him, "It's open," so he twisted the knob and pushed his way inside. The interior was the headquarters' usual light gray, the carpet a darker one. The desk was big and also wooden, more than likely mahogany, and the windows behind the desk stretched from floor to ceiling. A tall, thin, dark-haired man sat in a burgundy rolling desk chair, watching him with detached black eyes.

"Ah, Kuchiki. Thank you for coming so quickly."

"You called," he replied simply. The other man knew his summons were law.

"That I did. I have an assignment for you. Do you think you're up for it?"

"Of course."

"Good. Have a seat; this may take some time." Byakuya did as requested and made himself as comfortable as possible in the black cushioned seat in front of the man's desk. With an arched brow, he waited for his briefing instructions. "I have a routine cleaning for you, but it may require you to form a team. I have a few people in mind that you can use."

"Sir, I'd rather work alone-"

"Trust me, Kuchiki. When you hear who you're going after, you'll think twice about that lone wolf status of yours," Tsukishima silkily cut in.

Things already seemed dodgy, but he wasn't one to oppose his superiors.

"Yes, sir."

Tsukishima slid a brown folder stamped CONFIDENTIAL across his desk and waited for Byakuya to open and take a look at it. Once he did, his eyebrows rose in unavoidable surprise. He flipped through the information and photos, hands turning clammy. After he'd had his fill, he carefully gave his boss his undivided attention.

"These are agents. Not only that, but they were officially declared killed in the line of duty four years ago," he said quietly.

Tsukishima nodded, wearing a ghost of a grin. "Yes, that's true, but now we have proof that they're in fact, not dead. We also have reason to believe that they mean to move against the agency, which cannot be tolerated, as you know."

Byakuya lowered his head and glanced through the thick file again. There were six agents listed and every last one of them breathtakingly dangerous. They'd been a black ops team, each specializing in a specific field, and only called in for the utmost secret missions. Byakuya had had his doubts when the agency had claimed them dead during a routine cleaning in Tokyo, Japan, and it appeared he'd been right. But now he was assigned to take care of them, and in the process keep everything under wraps. That was near impossible. No wonder Tsukishima had suggested he form a team. He'd need one to accomplish this task. As he flipped through the file again, something niggled at his brain.

"Sir, weren't there seven members of this team?" he asked, glancing up at Tsukishima.

"Ah, quite the memory you have, Kuchiki. I admire that in an agent." He paused to lace his fingers together under his chin. "Yes, there were seven members of that team, key word being were."

Of course. That meant the seventh member, one Shinji Hirako, also known as Agent Blondie by his peers and mentor, was very likely dead. Even though that lightened the load somewhat, Byakuya inwardly squirmed in discomfort. Something felt wrong about this cleaning, but he didn't have any concrete evidence of such, so he would proceed.

"This team you have in mind, are they competent?" he inquired.

Tsukishima nodded with a genuine smile. "They are. I'll contact them and have them rendezvous with you here in conference room four. Tomorrow, eleven AM. Don't be late, agent."

"I'm never late, sir."

With that, Byakuya rose and made his way to the door, file tucked under his right arm. He didn't bother looking back as he left; he had a job to do.

XOXOXO

Ichigo stared at his silver-haired teammate in shock. Had G really just allowed Renji to get the drop on him? And not only that, but was the guy really, truly blushing? He couldn't believe his eyes. He didn't even know G was capable of fucking blushing. He grinned as Renji swaggered over to him, wide mouth stretched into a huge smirk. Aw, damn, G was in so much trouble now. If Ichigo had seen that little slip, then he could be damned sure that the red head had spotted it as well. Things were definitely going to get interesting, that was for sure.

"So, ya need clothes and firepower, right?" Renji asked.

Ichigo nodded, still grinning. "Yeah, we got into a mess."

"The usual shit, eh?"

"Little deeper this time, Red."

Renji hummed, then nodded and stepped past him, where he indicated with a swift flick of his wrist for the team to follow. They trooped over to another garage-style door that was guarded by a big, dark-haired man, holding an assault rifle. He had spikes for a hair-do and an evil gash running the length of the left side of his face. An eye-patch covered his right eye and he wore a grin that reminded Ichigo distinctly of Jaws. Not reassuring in the least.

"Long time no see, Beautiful," the man greeted Ichigo, voice rough as sandpaper.

Ichigo cleared his throat and nodded, trying to hide the fact that he was a tiny bit nervous. "Yeah, been a while, Kenpachi."

Kenpachi grinned and stepped aside after pressing a button that made the door raise into the air, allowing them passage. Renji led the way inside, then down a wide, metal staircase. Music immediately hit Ichigo in the face, bass pumping from hidden speakers and Nicki Minaj exclaiming, "Bang! My shit bang, it bang, bang!" His booted feet tromped down the stairs until they reached the bottom and made a sharp right. There, the room opened up into a spacious sitting area of sorts, where a purple felt pool table and long bar made its home. A black leather couch was situated in the middle of the room and on it sat a tough-looking dark-haired girl, chewing on a toothpick and a delicate hand resting over her crotch. She had a smirk on her thin face as she watched them come closer.

"I remember you guys," she said gruffly, eyes twinkling devilishly.

Ichigo nodded and sent her a two-fingered salute. "We remember you too, Tatsuki. Good ta see ya again."

She grunted before turning to Renji. "Hey, big bro! Got any runs fer me?"

Renji sighed and ruffled her hair as he walked past her to the opposite side of the room. "Gimme a couple hours, Tats."

"Aw, man! Renj, I'm fuckin' bored," she whined like a seasoned eight year old.

"Stop bein' a baby," the read head absently grunted as he stopped in front of another vault door.

Tatsuki sucked her teeth and forced herself back against the couch cushion, mouth turned down petulantly and arms roughly folded across her chest. Ichigo wanted to laugh, but was distracted when Renji punched in a few keys on the security pad beside the steel door, soft beeps chirping over the music. The lock gave loudly and the door swung inward. Renji turned to face the team and tilted his head.

"Pick yer poison, gentlemen...an' lady," he added after Tu shot him a murderous scowl.

Ichigo felt a sudden surge of adrenaline shoot through him, something he hadn't truly experienced since he was an agent. Even during their brief stint as mercenaries, he'd never been this excited about getting his hands on a full arsenal of weapons. Guess he'd never fully buried the urge to hunt and kill.

He wasn't the only one with that special gleam in his eye, either. He took a look at his teammates and grinned proudly, like a father watching his kid take its first steps. P, although projecting indifference, couldn't hide the tiny lift at the corners of his lips, and those mustard-hued eyes were shining like diamonds. Tu literally squealed and clapped her hands together. G smirked, hands diving into the pockets of his shorts, his encounter with Renji obviously forgotten for the moment. Grenade edged closer wearing a lazy grin, but his gray eyes belied his anxiety, glittering with poorly disguised mischief. Ichigo could tell he was just itching to get his hands on some explosives. And then there was B. Still disgustingly sexy in only his underwear, he stood to the the left of Grenade, wide mouth curved into a toothy smirk. From the sharpness in those brilliant blue eyes, Ichigo knew the predator was alive and prowling.

They collectively moved to the vault of destructive goodies, Renji already inside and grinning hugely as he removed the lollipop from his mouth and stood out of the way. Ichigo pivoted once he entered, heart tap-dancing its way north. The red head had definitely upgraded and expanded. There was a plethora of guns: pistols, rifles, shot-guns... The guy had explosives of every kind: missile launchers, land mines, grenades... The list went on. Hell, Ichigo even spotted accessories like scopes, laser points, silencers and more. It was a fucking smorgasbord of death encouragement. No wonder the man kept his business under padlock and key. If he was sloppy and ended up caught with all this shit, he'd never see the light of day again.

B's deep voice rumbled from behind a rack of sleek, black Glock .45s. "Holy shit, I got a fuckin' stiffy."

"Animal," P absently commented as he perused a rack of M-16s.

G cackled as he studied a wall of knives, swords and daggers, while Grenade ignored everything around him, face buried in a crate full of his namesake. Tu had her hands wrapped around a pair of Sig Sauer P220s, pouty lips forming an impish grin. Ichigo rolled a fifty caliber bullet between his fingers and cracked a grin worthy of the Joker as he turned to Renji.

"I owe you, man."

The red head shrugged and stuck his lollipop back in his mouth. "Yer good fer it. S'why I do business witcha in the first place, Odie."

Ichigo nodded and went back to browsing the bargain basement full of mouthwatering weaponry, feeling like he'd just stepped right through the big, pearly gates of heaven.

XOXOXO

Grimmjow growled down at his current attire. Remind him to never take clothes from that idiot weapons dealer again. He didn't do skin-tight, and the black, short-sleeved tee he wore defied even that. The child-sized shirt along with khaki cargo shorts and black combat boots was enough to have him ready to have an epileptic fit. This wasn't his style at all. As a matter of fact, he felt more like the weapons dealer's fucking mini-me.

They were back on the bus, their precious cargo loaded into the storage compartments on the side of the hulking vehicle. Grimmjow glared over at his orange-haired teammate, still a little peeved about how his morning had started off. How dare that prick wake him up with a pillow to the face? But that was fine; it hadn't gotten under his skin until O'd started yelling at him and then called him an idiot. Don't ask him why that'd gotten to him, but it had. From there, shit had just degenerated like it normally did between them, only now it seemed a lot hotter, in both good and bad ways. O was a sexy motherfucker when he got all pissed and scrappy, those expressive brown eyes alive with danger. Even though he tried to ignore it, shit like that turned Grimmjow on. He couldn't help it if he was attracted to passion and power, and O just topped it off with a healthy dose of intelligence.

Grimmjow could remember like it was yesterday their mission days, when O would be in full throttle, him and Blondie hashing out a plan to get them in and out successfully. Seeing those brain cogs at work was like watching top-notch porn for the blue-haired man. So, to avoid sprouting a woody during the team huddle, he'd usually ended up tuning things out until it was go-time, where he'd pull either Grenade or G to the side and have them rehash. It'd been annoyingly frustrating being silently attracted to his teammate, but once Japan had come around, the situation seemed magnified by a million degrees.

He wanted to just walk up to O and ask if what he'd felt in Japan had indeed been a kiss. He needed to know; the fucking not knowing was driving him nuts. But if he did that, and especially in this predicament, he could kiss all of his will and composure away. There'd be no way in the sauna down under he'd be able to keep his hands off the orange-haired man. So, he opted for cluelessness. It didn't feel good, but it damned sure kept him out of trouble.

Once he and O had worked off some aggression in the form of good old hand-to-hand combat, they'd distanced themselves from one another. Grimmjow didn't need the extra stress and he was sure O felt the same way. Too bad, though, he thought as he watched O shift on one of the couches near the TV. There were a million different things he wanted to do to the red head, but that was so unwise. Therefore, he let the idea of him getting his hands around Tsukishima's throat soothe and deter him. Much better. He kicked his feet up on his own commandeered couch and settled in to watch the basketball game playing on the big screen. He did not toss O subtle admiring looks.

OK, who the fuck was he kidding? He stared the man down like his eyesight depended on it.

O no longer wore those dark-blue mail man shorts and ugly black boots. He sported black khaki pants and a black tee that read, "I have the dick, so I make the rules" across the front. Black and white Vans kept his toes company. Lucky bastard. Not to mention, although the shirt was a lot less tight than Grimmjow's, it still managed to mold wondrously to the man's lithely muscular frame. Shit, he wanted to lick his lips and drag the man up to his bunk. Maybe keep him there forever, or at least until they'd screwed several times over. Just as his thoughts were getting down and dirty, P's angry voice cut into them.

"And this coming from Lara Croft's twin? I don't think so, Tu."

"Har, har, har. Very funny, P," Tu stated dryly. "At least I don't look like I stepped out of the Revenge of the Nerds cast."

B watched the two – who bickered almost as much as he and O did – file down the stairs, P out front and Tu trailing behind him. Now, he might be a guy, but he had pretty adept intuition and his instincts were almost always on point. For example, he'd noticed when G had been on the verge of spiriting away with Tu years before when they'd all still been agents; those looks and slight touches had been more than enough to tip him off. And you'd have to be blind not to notice the shit happening between G and their red-haired weapons dealer. He'd also noticed whenever they'd gone on missions and managed a little down time, how O would mysteriously disappear, how sometimes he'd catch the guy looking other guys over in ways that weren't merely friendly. He'd noticed all of that. So, it wasn't too surprising that he'd noticed the escalating intensity of the arguing between P and Tu.

He had to tip his hat to P, though. That dude had kept his attraction to their green-haired teammate tightly guarded. No lusty looks, no suggestive touches, nothing. He'd only griped at her like he couldn't stand her very existence. But that was where he'd fucked up. Grimmjow smiled to himself as he watched them toss obscenities at each other. P was one of the calm ones of the group – not the calmest one; that title belonged to Grenade hands down – so, for him to lose his cool at Tu was mighty fucking curious. He shook his head and turned back to the game, still wearing an all-knowing smirk. And then P had to go and ruin his good mood.

"Ishida is in Baltimore, so once we stop there, we can head straight for Langley. O, I'm assuming you're waiting for the prints before you devise a plan in that hot head of yours?"

O snorted without even looking away from the TV. "You're one to talk about a hot head, P. Weren't you and Tu just regaling us with your versions of Married With Children?"

Grimmjow normally would have laughed, but his mind was busy replaying one word. He raised a hand to get the pink-haired man's attention.

"'Scuze me, P. But did you just say Ishida?"

P turned to him wearing a sadistic sideways smirk. "Indeed."

"As in Uryuu fucking Ishida?"

"The very same."

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. After that, he rose and headed for the stairs leading to the upper level. Well, that settled it. "Call me when we're on the way ta Langley."

O's deep voice rang with amusement as he howled with laughter. Asshole. O didn't have a creepy nerd chasing after him trying to grab his ass...among other places. He was halfway up the stairs when he nonchalantly called down to his orange-haired teammate.

"Fuck you, O."

He stomped to his bunk – that just so happened to be right below O's – kicked off the ugly boots on his feet, then climbed into his office. He drew the curtain and lay on his back, arms behind his head. Unlike G, he wasn't hiding a secret attraction to P's little tech buddy. In fact, he hated that skinny, glasses-wearing fucker. Uryuu Ishida was ruler of all things electronic, coming second only to P. He lived in a humming, wire-filled building that he liked to call his bat cave, and when he wasn't pouring over his toys, he buried his schnoz in a mountainous collection of comic books. The guy would be OK – tolerable even – if he hadn't decided to set his sexual sights on Grimmjow. The man pursued him voraciously whenever P decided they needed to pay dude a visit. The first time it'd happened, Grimmjow hadn't even realized it...until Ishida'd palmed his ass and hummed how nice it was. He'd been a millisecond away from shooting the geek between his dark-blue eyes, when P had reminded him that they were in dire need of his assistance. So, there'd gone that option.

He blew out an aggravated breath. He really didn't want to go, didn't feel like being subjected to that kind of grating humiliation. There was nothing more mortifying than having his body parts openly groped by someone he was miles away from being attracted to. But he knew G would give him shit and O would cackle in his face and call him a blue coward. He'd done it before and Grimmjow was sure the man wouldn't even hesitate to do it again. And honestly, if the roles were reversed, he'd be the same way. He'd harass the shit out of the orange-haired man.

Fuck.

A noise on the stairs made him roll his eyes and suck his teeth. That had to be one of the two people he'd just listed. His bet leaned towards the silver-haired G, however. The guy would smile amiably, frost-blue eyes slitted shut as he proceeded to grill Grimmjow and tell him it wouldn't be fair if he didn't go, since he'd suffered through going to the weapons dealer. As if the man hadn't gained absolute pleasure from their trip to see the guy. Asshole. The floor creaked and he turned his back to the curtain closing him in from the rest of the world.

"Knock, knock."

He growled. "Get the fuck outta here, O."

"Aw, come on. Little pig, little pig, let me in," his teammate sang softly.

He refused to admit how he almost grew a log in his shorts at the sound of O's husky baritone. Nope.

"Whatcha want? Gonna tell me how I should stop bein' a baby like ya did G?"

"Not really. See, you already know you're bein' a baby, so I don't gotta tell ya that. Gonna open up, now?"

He rolled over and glared at the white curtain before snatching it aside and giving the same glare to O, who was bent at the waist peering in at him. God, O and his eyes were something out of romance novels. Not that he'd know that. He never read those things; not even when he was bored and it was raining out. No way.

"Scoot over, knucklehead," the orange-haired man chuckled.

And then there was that laugh, of course. Most times Grimmjow tried to pretend that it annoyed the hell out of him, but the cold reality was: he enjoyed it more than he should. Hell, he wanted to be the cause of it. He slid over on the full-sized mattress and O ducked inside, bringing his unique smell of fresh clothes and cinnamon with him.

"So, what's the occasion, oh, fearless leader?" he grunted, laying once more on his back and giving O a sideways glance.

"Heh. I got bored down there listenin' ta P and Tu engage in verbal foreplay. Plus, they were yellin' over the game."

Grimmjow turned his head fully to look at his teammate. "Ya noticed, huh?"

O scoffed and rolled whiskey-brown eyes. "Yep. I noticed."

Silence descended and made Grimmjow want to fidget, which was something he just didn't do. This peaceful conversation with O was strange. They didn't talk quietly like old friends; they argued, they fought, they cursed each other the fuck out. It was what they were comfortable with. This was new. Maybe even had potential to be nice. But why was it happening?

O sat with his back to the foot of the bunk, right leg drawn up under his left. His eyes were focused on his hands in his lap, but they also seemed distant. Like the guy was thinking hard about something. Grimmjow cocked his head to the side and stared. He let his eyes lazily travel over O's spiky, violently orange hair that seemed to have golden highlights in some places, let them shift over the man's slender face and angular jaw, down over his lips that were pressed together, and down further to his gently rising and falling chest. He wouldn't go lower because that was just asking for trouble. ...On second thought, trouble was his middle name. His greedy eyes slid down over O's firmly muscled chest hidden by that damned shirt, down to his long, equally ripped legs, disguised by dark khaki fabric, where he paused and let his roaming gaze linger between them. He wondered what O was working with below the waist. Briefly. Then, his eyes were on the move again, this time heading back up to watch the man's face. Only, when he did that, he almost bit off his tongue in shock at the sight of those perceptive brown eyes watching him right back. Thin orange brows were arched in surprise and suddenly, heat flooded Grimmjow's face. He swallowed and looked away, heart doing Tae-Bo in his chest.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit...

Erratic breaths fluttered past his lips as he willed himself calm. His bunk felt like it'd just burst into flames, it was so hot. He was not going to sweat, he was not going to sweat, he-

"B."

Oh, shit, yes he was. It sprouted over his top lip and dampened his hairline. It even formed under his arms. He had a bad feeling about what was going to happen next. But...not one to run too far from shit that made him squirm, he turned back to O and hit him with his full-on gaze.

"Yeah?"

O was frowning. His mouth was quirked to the side as he obviously went over what he wanted to say in his head, and his hands were clamped together. Finally, he shrugged.

"Nothin'."

Well, that wasn't right. Wasn't what he'd been expecting, either. O rose from the bed and started to leave the bunk, but Grimmjow grabbed his wrist. He couldn't take it anymore. He had to know what'd happened in Japan and damn the consequences. The orange-haired man froze and looked back at him, brown eyes almost panicked.

"O, wait." O visibly swallowed before nodding, but he didn't sit back down. OK, fine. As long as he was listening. "I been meanin' ta ask ya 'bout somethin'."

His teammate seemed to have recovered because he arched a brow sarcastically. "Something like what?"

Grimmjow locked eyes with him and gave him his most serious, I-mean-business look. "'Bout what happened in Japan."

He saw it. O tried to hide it, but it'd flashed behind his eyes like a bolt of lightening. Fear. Then it was gone and O was scowling.

"You got hurt, B. I thought you remembered all that?"

"Yeah, I do. I remember somethin' else too, though, an' tha's wha's botherin' me. It's there, but it ain't clear as everything else."

"I don't understand," O said softly, although by the tone of his voice, it was clear that he understood perfectly; he just didn't want Grimmjow to say it.

Fuck that.

He let go of the guy's wrist and ran a hand through his hair, sighing. "I remember that beam fallin' on me an' me losin' some time, but then I came to a little. I couldn't get my eyes ta open, but I could hear some things." He paused and watched O shift his weight, scowl deepening. "I heard you."

O swallowed again. "A-ah. Yeah, I was the one that found you."

"Yeah, I remember ya tellin' me that after I woke up in that hospital. But...ya remember whatcha said?"

"Not really."

O was lying. It was written all over his face.

Grimmjow grunted and rose to one elbow. "Well, I do. But that ain't the issue. I need yer help clearin' somethin' up."

"B, I don't think-"

"O, did you kiss me?"

The orange-haired man's face caught fire and burned a deep maroon as he averted his eyes. Bingo. That was all the answer Grimmjow really needed, but he wanted to hear O say it. He wanted that concrete, immovable proof that his feisty teammate had indeed kissed him and told him he'd needed him. Just as he went to ask again, a commotion on the stairs gave O the excuse he needed to get away.

"Mah, Grenade, that ain't the point, mah friend," G's voice drifted over towards them.

Grimmjow gave O a stern look that told the guy they weren't done with this conversation, but O just pressed his lips together and stalked off. Fucking hell, he could shoot G and Grenade for their piss ass timing. But then again, if he went by the look that'd been on O's face, he had the answer he'd been wondering about since the incident had occurred. However, that simply presented another problem.

How should he wrestle the confession out of his teammate?

Oh, shit, Ichigo. Whatcha gon' do now?

Next time...