A/N: Some translation notes before we begin!

Obaa-san: "grandmother"- you would use this to address your own grandmother.

Babaa: equivalent to "old hag" - he says it with love. -snort-

Botchan: you would use this to address someone else's son. She says it with love.

Grimmjow awoke, gasping, spluttering, clawing at the earth underneath him. It was mud beneath him, and he couldn't see for the water in his eyes. But there was no pain, not like he'd been expecting. He managed to get up, still trying to catch his breath. There was no pain, but shit he felt terrible. He looked down at his hand, and the ticket he had grasped in it.

A number? No, an address. Sort of. That's right, he'd been given a ticket telling him where to go. Where he would live.

Fuck, but he was starving. Why did hunger feel so familiar?

He searched his memories desperately for the answer. The last thing he remembered was receiving the ticket. He remembered his name. Clearly, he remembered how to read. But who had given him the ticket, and where? How had he gotten here? Where was here?

He looked up and around, sucking on his lips. His face felt weirdly light and cold, and he rubbed his cheeks furiously before running a hand through his hair, slicking it back with the rain water and preventing it from falling into his face. When he removed them, he found that there was something on the ground beside him. He picked it up—a sword. It must be his. There wasn't anyone else around, after all.

There was no one around, in this forest. He sniffed, the cold starting to sink into his skin, down into his bones. He needed to find shelter.

Grimmjow searched around himself mentally, and found it disturbing that his awareness didn't go any farther than the distance that he could see. Why was that so unsettling? What was going on?

He picked a direction at random, since it all seemed the same. Clutching the ticket in one hand, sword in the other, and wrapping his arms around himself, he plowed forward.

Grimmjow arrived, eventually, at what seemed to be the edge of a settlement. Houses and roads, at least. The few people in the streets wore rags, and no sandals on their feet. They looked at him with eyes that promised violence, or with eyes that held nothing at all. None of them approached.

He did not linger, either on their faces or their doorsteps, moving through the town like a ghost. At some point he realized he was naked. This didn't really bother him, mostly because it didn't really seem to bother anyone else. The more he walked, the hungrier he became. Eventually, he no longer registered the faces of the people around him or the facades of the buildings. He walked blindly down the street, focusing on each breath and each step.

"You'd best come here, out of the rain, boy."

Grimmjow stopped and looked up and around, blinking rain out of his eyes. He found the source of the voice—an old woman, standing in a doorway with a weather-beaten shawl around her shoulders. She had her hand out in a welcoming gesture, and the door to her home was open, warmth billowing out from inside.

Grimmjow didn't remember a lot about himself from whatever life he'd had before arriving here, but he was pretty sure he wasn't the type of person to just trust some old lady, even if she seemed completely harmless. Appearances could be deceiving and all that.

But the warmth was tempting, and so was her smile. She was an old hag with nothing, and he was in his prime with a sword. He'd be fine.

So Grimmjow shuffled forward, ducking his head to enter the small abode. It seemed tallness was not the average here—the ceilings were low, the door frames were low… He ran the risk of hitting his head if he just sneezed too hard. He stood, dripping, just inside the door, looking around. There was a fire in the center of the room, over which a pot hung. Piles of blankets and pillows were in each corner of the room, and there was one doorway to his left, which presumably led to a bathroom.

The little granny tottered in after him, shutting the door, trapping the warmth inside. Grimmjow closed his eyes and suppressed a shiver. He could feel the warmth dancing on his skin, slowly making its way toward his cold, cold bones.

"Here."

Grimmjow opened his eyes. She was holding out a towel for him. He took it suspiciously, folding the ticket deeper into his palm to do so.

"You dry off, and I'll see if I can find some clothes that'll fit you." She smiled up at him, which took Grimmjow a moment to register because her face was so wrinkled anyway.

Numbly, he began to towel off, starting with his hair and working his way down his body. He put the towel in his hand and ran it down the length of his sword's hilt before dropping it to the floor and soaking up the mess he'd made by pushing the cloth around with his foot. The old woman was digging around in one of the piles of blankets, and at this point, she emerged, groaning as she straightened up.

"These belonged to my son. He was tall, too—they ought to fit you." She passed them to him, and Grimmjow started to struggle how to figure out clothes.

The old woman sat down, ignoring his plight, and stirred the pot over the fire. She had to take the lid off to do so, and once she did, Grimmjow paused and almost moaned. It smelled amazing.

"Word travels fast. The people say you look hungry. It's not much—we don't often get meat here. Just some potatoes and carrots, I'm afraid."

Grimmjow pulled the shirt over his head. The pants didn't go below his knee, and were patched in quite a few places. They were soft with a life of being well-worn and well-loved, and they helped to warm him even faster. The shirt wasn't really a shirt at all, just a piece of cloth with a hole in the middle. But it fell over his shoulders and covered his torso, and that was good enough. The neckline was wide, and he had to adjust it until neither side fell off his shoulders. Finally, he was able to sit down catty-corner to the old woman, his sword beside him.

"What's your name, boy?" She asked him, not unkindly.

"Grimmjow." I think. He added silently. He might be remembering someone else's name, after all.

"Grimmjow. Unusual name." She chuckled.

Grimmjow bared his teeth in a sneer and was about to shoot something back, but the old lady only spoke over him.

"You may call me Obaa-san, if you like." She seemed to laugh to herself. "I'm so old, I don't remember my real name anymore."

Grimmjow had to do a sort of double-take.

"Here." She placed a steaming bowl of soup in his hands.

It was a wooden bowl, and there was no spoon to go with it. But it was beautifully carved, and the soup was creamy and full of flavor. Grimmjow gobbled down the first bowl and held it out to her for a second helping, trying to school his features into something other than pleading.

But Obaa-san just laughed and filled it again, watching him wolf down bowl after bowl until all he could do was lie on the floor and groan about how full he was.

She puttered around while he recovered, setting out the blankets and cushions across the fire from each other. Presumably, one for her, and one for Grimmjow. Staring up at the ceiling, Grimmjow was realizing that the house was not as well-built as he once thought. There were gaps in the walls through which the cold blew in, and the roof leaked just enough to be annoying.

"You should rest, we'll have an early day tomorrow." Obaa-san sing-songed, laying down in her pile of blankets.

Grimmjow dragged himself over to his own, and was asleep within minutes.

The next morning did come early. Obaa-san shook him awake, and then sent him on a mission to look for spare wood with which to patch up the house. She did this with a cheerful smile and a promise that there would be more food by the time he got back, and Grimmjow had a very bad feeling about all of it.

But he went out and did as she asked, awkwardly asking around to sour-faced people if they had anything to spare. Unsurprisingly, no one did.

So instead of continuing, Grimmjow found his way back to the forest from which he'd come, unsheathing his sword.

"Well," He told it in a mutter. "You're probably better at cutting people, but let's give this a try."

Grimmjow did not remember much, but he was pretty sure that chopping wood with a sword was the hardest thing he'd ever attempted, in any life, ever.

He returned near dusk with an armful of clumsily cut shingles and boards. He didn't think it really mattered, since it seemed every place here was made with clumsily cut shingles and boards and in bad repair besides, but he was still angry with himself for not being able to do better.

As promised, Obaa-san had food ready, and had somewhere procured hammer and nails. As before, Grimmjow wolfed down the food, and Obaa-san warned him that the next morning he'd be getting up bright and early.

And so he did. The next day, she had him repair the house, covering up the holes in the walls and patching the roof. All the while, he could smell some sort of stew cooking slowly over the fire. He cursed ever having woken up near this fucking place.

"Food, Botchan?" Obaa-san poked her head out of the front door, holding his bowl, filled with a thin-brothed soup.

"Piss off, Babaa!" Grimmjow snarled from his precarious perch on the roof, trying very hard to restrain himself from dropping the hammer on her head and killing her. Obaa-san laughed hysterically.

He still came down for food, though.

"Hey, Babaa, do you know what this is?" Grimmjow asked, uncharacteristically quietly. He held out his ticket to her, which he had kept though it had been months now since he'd first arrived.

"Oooh, yes." Obaa-san took the ticket from him, holding it in the firelight and squinting to see it better. "Yes, it's your ticket. I had one when I first came here… Oh, I was young then, you should have seen me!" She laughed, delighted. "I used to be very beautiful, you know."

"Right." Grimmjow agreed flatly, unimpressed.

"It tells you where you're meant to live, here in the Rukongai." Obaa-san continued, unbothered. "It brought you to me." She smiled warmly at him, handing it back.

"Does it mean anything, though?" He asked.

"Not particularly." Obaa-san shrugged and shook her head. "We live in District 68 in the South." She told him. "The lower the number, the nicer the district, but really it's all by chance."

Grimmjow said nothing, looking down at the ticket. The ink was blurred now, and the paper very crumpled. He frowned, clenching it tighter in his hand. Why did he feel so pressured every time he looked at it? Like it meant something, like he was supposed to be doing something? The longer he stayed still, the more antsy he got.

"Babaa, what am I doing here?" He whispered. "Why can't I remember anything? Sometimes I think I do remember, but then it's gone…" He broke off helplessly, looking up at her.

"I couldn't remember anything from when I was alive, either." She put a withered hand on his knee consolingly.

She seemed to consider for a long time, frowning to herself. Finally, she said, "It's time for bed."

Grimmjow slept fitfully, tossing and turning. He had dreams all night of swirling blackness, accompanied by overwhelming sadness. In the dreams, he felt like he was saying goodbye, but there was no one to say goodbye to. No one was there. He awoke, frustrated and troubled.

He didn't have time to dwell on it, however. Obaa-san was already ready to go, dressed in her shawl and a battered basket over one arm.

Grimmjow gave her a searching look as he got ready, fastening his sword at his hip.

"You're eating me out of house and home." Obaa-san laughed. "We have to go shopping."

Grimmjow flushed, and did not complain when she took his elbow to steady herself as they walked along. They walked mostly in silence, with Grimmjow keeping an eye on those around them in the streets. He didn't trust any of them to not take whatever small amount of money Obaa-san had. Well, they'd lose an arm before she lost a single cent.

At the market, she had him pay the vendors and pick out the vegetables. The market was never bustling, and often there were slim pickings. Obaa-san always reminded him it could be worse, they could be in one of the lower Districts, where they had even less. There was always someone stealing, here.

He felt the impact from behind, and instinctively reached out to grab the scruff of whoever ran by, at the same time steadying Obaa-san.

"Are you okay?" He asked her.

"Oh, I'm fine." She reassured him, waving away his concern.

"Let me go!"

"Hm?" Grimmjow turned his attention to his catch.

A boy, no more than twelve years old. Grimmjow didn't let him go, only lifted him higher.

"Why should I?" Grimmjow sneered. "Why don't you give back what you took?"

"You there! Hand over the boy!"

"Now what?" Grimmjow muttered, turning around.

There was someone standing there, of course, but they were a familiar someone. Grimmjow squinted at them, trying to remember. He was turning up nothing.

"Do I know you?" He called over.

The two stood in the square, where people were giving them a very wide berth. They wore black hakamas, though one wore a white over coat. The white-coated one had black hair, and uncaring eyes. The other, though, had the most ridiculous red hair Grimmjow had ever seen. Grimmjow let go of the boy, who scrambled away, and faced the two head-on. He put his hands in his pockets, looking them both up and down. A memory was tugging at him furiously as the redhead leaned over and whispered to his companion.

"Go home, Babaa." Grimmjow murmured, not taking his eyes off of them.

She gave him a long, worried look, before tottering off with many glances over her shoulder.

"I said, do I know you?" Grimmjow called, louder.

The redhead looked at him, stepping forward, a hand on the hilt of his sword. Grimmjow couldn't help the grin that broke across his face. He hadn't had a real fight since he got here. He had a feeling he liked fighting, when it was a challenge. The minor scraps he'd had while he was here were nothing, were boring. When the redhead drew his sword, Grimmjow moved on instinct, drawing his own.

He heard a boom, and dismissed it, because he was suddenly in the redhead's face, their swords meeting in a kiss of steel.

"Sonido?" The redhead muttered under his breath. "Who are you?!" He demanded.

Grimmjow grinned impossibly wider. "I'm Grimmjow Jaegerjaques. Who the fuck are you?"

Grimmjow didn't get an answer. The redhead disengaged, stepping back several times to put a good amount of distance between them. Then he and the white-coated one both disappeared. Grimmjow watched them go, grin fading, eyes narrowing.

"They knew who I was." Grimmjow greeted Obaa-san as he walked through the door.

She was sitting facing him, her face grave and solemn.

"Grimmjow, sit down."

Grimmjow hesitated, his silence more than enough to question why?

Obaa-san sighed.

"Grimmjow, I've been very selfish. I was a lonely old woman before you came, and you've been so very helpful." She smiled, but it looked like a painful one. "I think it's time you left."

Grimmjow tried not to show exactly how uncomfortable that idea made him.

"Why?" He asked finally, sitting down.

"You should go and join the Academy, Botchan. You're going to be a strong Shinigami someday, and it was selfish of me to keep you here." She patted his hand. "You've even already got a Zanpakuto."

Grimmjow swallowed. He didn't want to leave her alone again, but he couldn't deny that he was starting to feel like he was finally moving forward, heading in the right direction.

"How do I get there?" He asked.

Obaa-san saw him off the next morning, and Grimmjow looked back at her only once. What a sight she made. A hunched old lady, standing on the stoop of her home. Grimmjow had lived there for months, and for all the improvements they'd made, it was still just a little, dirty hovel. She had gifted him with her shawl, 'to remember me by, Botchan.' He had it wrapped firmly around his shoulders, tucked into the neckline of his poncho.

As he watched, she raised her hand in farewell. Awkwardly, Grimmjow raised his own. He felt like something monumental was happening, but he couldn't put his finger on it, and therefore was left with this strange, awkward feeling.

He turned away from her. She'd be fine without him. After all, she'd already lasted to this ripe old age.

Grimmjow rolled his shoulders and forced himself to adopt a devil-may-care posture as he strode down the street in bare feet like he owned it. All of it.

It was time for some answers.

Sorry this one's a bit shorter!

Some more notes:

I had some more scenes planned between these two, but there was no really good place to put them. Grimm needed an uninvolved third party to help him sorta get on his feet, and I love this sort of trope.

A note about Grimmjow's abilities: everywhere I've looked, it says Sonido is an instinctual ability in Hollows. One does not require training in order to perform Sonido (though, presumably, practice makes perfect.) I chose Grimmjow to remember how to do this through muscle memory alone.

Usually Shinigami get their Zanpakuto upon entrance into the Academy, where it is an Asauchi, a blank slate. Over time, the Asauchi is molded by its owner's soul and becomes a fully-fledged Zanpakuto. It is completely intentional that Grimmjow retains his sword instead of acquiring one in this manner. .w.

A side note about Obaa-san that I couldn't find any place to put- sometimes in order to keep the balance of souls, Shinigami are sent to the Rukongai (with permission) to kill citizens and thereby reincarnate them into the Living World. This is how Obaa-san lost her family members, many years ago.