He’d been born to be a warrior. A big brother. A friend. One who protected.
But sometimes, even the best warrior needed reinforcements.
With a squawk, his wielder appeared.
Perched on his flagpole, Zangetsu smirked as the young shinigami’s feet found purchase on empty air. Just the slightest lean forward and up, and Ichigo was standing solidly on the sideways skyscraper, only wincing a little at the way his mindscape’s gravity kept tugging at him.
He does learn. Eventually.
“Old man,” Ichigo said with fond roughness. “Figures. I should have come down here first.”
“Instead of trying to deal with Uryuu’s difficulties yourself?” Behind an amber lens, Zangetsu lifted a dark brow. “We work best together when you’ve defined the knot of the problem first, so I can help you cut through it.”
“The problem,” Ichigo grumbled, walking up the wall to him, “is that he’s an idiot Quincy with that pain in the butt Quincy honor that’d rather die than shift tactics a little-” Ichigo stopped, and turned, cupping an ear to better catch sounds blown on the wind. “The hell’s that?”
“Why I called you.” Zangetsu held out a hand. “Come.”
Trusting as when he’d first seized a spirit’s hilt, Ichigo took it.