AIM Log {Complete}
WHO: Cirucci Thunderwitch {
rondine_gridare } & Grimmjow Jeagerjaques {
stradapanthera }
WHAT: In which Cirucci makes the mistake of taking Grimmjow out for congratulatory drinks.
WHERE: Corner pub
WHEN: The night before the latest Grimmy-Ulqui showdown.
Cirucci arrived at the pub-like bar rather early and was glad to see that it wasn't the run-down, seedy place she thought it might've been. It was rather quaint, actually, all lovely cherry wood, carved details and red velvet upholstered chairs. She was accommodated quickly and politely - she always did appreciate good service - and was led to a seat at a nice, round little table, the surface of which was clean and glossy.
Cirucci wasn't one to offer her generosity to a person, particularly someone she considered as brutish as Grimmjow, unless it benefitted her in some way. On the other hand, she wasn't one to support a fellow Monacello that she didn't like simply because they were a part of the same family, and in the case of the latest Grimmjow vs. Ulquiorra battle, the former's ability to rouse the wrath of the latter simply could not go unrewarded.
She sat back in her chair, waving off the server who'd come to take her order for the moment, and crossed her legs beneath the layers of white cotton and burgundy chiffon that made up her skirt. Where the hell was he, anyway?
---
Grimmjow was feeling pretty fucking wonderful as he made his way to the specified pub where he was going to meet that pretty little bitch. The fact that he'd nearly died a handful of days ago didn't mean a damn thing to him. What mattered was that not only had he survived (as usual), but he'd managed to wound Ulquiorra's pride. On top of all of that, he'd come out stronger. And Ulquiorra would have no fucking idea just how much stronger he was. Not until Grimmjow had his claws sunk into the fucker's heart to tear it out. The look on Ulquiorra's face then would be fucking perfect, too.
Removing one hand from his pocket, Grimmjow opened the door to the pub and went inside. What a fucking girly joint. Where the fuck were the barfights and filthy men and women drinking beer from dirty glasses? Fucking leave it to a little girl to pick a place like this. But Grimmjow wasn't going to turn down the offer of free alcohol.
It was easy to spot Cirucci--she was the only girl in there who looked like a spoiled little shithead. Grimmjow grabbed the chair opposite her, twirled it around, and then sat with his chest pressed to the back of it, arms folded over the top. "So," he started with a grin, "what color's your underwear?"
---
Cirucci smirked, snickered, and leaned back in the same sarcastic manner she usually adopted when dealing with lugheads like Grimmjow. "Now that's a question you'll never know the answer to, isn't it~?" Her gaze fell from his face to his posture; she raised an eyebrow, lips curling into a bit of a sneer as her eyes scanned him. "Well now, I see that fighting with one of Monacello's most uptight members didn't give you anymore class. Shame."
She raised one gloved hand and snapped her fingers to grab the servers' attention, then beckoned one over with a come-hither motion of her finger, only then turning her disdainful gaze off of her guest and transforming it into an expression of practiced charm for their waiter. "Keep in mind that this isn't one of those cockroach bars you probably love. Now, do the right thing and try to take advantage of my offer by ordering something other than beer."
---
Grimmjow rolled his eyes. What the fuck else was he supposed to order? Some fruity drink that only a fucker like Cirucci or Ulquiorra would have? He wasn't about to make himself look as patheticly feminine as the both of them did. For Cirucci, it was fucking fine. But for Ulquiorra it was completely laughable. What a fucking joke that bastard had been. Couldn't even kill Grimmjow right!
"I don't fucking need any class," he promised. "I'm charming on my fucking own." He glanced at the server with a wolfish grin. "Get me some beer. And try sneaking some into whatever the bitch orders. It'd do her some good."
Maybe it'd get her drunk enough to where Grimmjow could fuck with her head a little. Maybe he could embarrass the shit out of her like he'd done with Ulquiorra. Pissing people off was never uninteresing.
---
"I can order my own drink, thank you." Cirucci sat forward in her seat, upright and attentive, and pointed at their waiter. "If you expect to get paid tonight I suggest you listen to me and not him. The tab's all mine. I would like a White Russian. And hurry it up." Normally she would've been wary of ordering anything with hard liquor in it, but at this point Cirucci had a feeling she was going to need it.
She lowered her hand and turned toward Grimmjow again as their server scurried away, her violet eyes narrowed in annoyance. "Like that was gonna work. Nice try though." She whipped her gloves off pointedly as if to illustrate her annoyance and stuffed them in her purse. "I'm kinda surprised I ordered something stronger, you know." It took everything she had to keep herself from making a comment about weakness and strength and Ulquiorra. But, she was here to congratulate Grimmjow, as much as she was starting to regret it. "At least I won't be spending much." That condecending look was creeping back into her features again.
---
Grimmjow shrugged with his hands in the air, almost playfully. "I like what I fucking like. I'm not here to order the strongest shit in the place. I do that and you'll fucking gut me the second I pass out. 'Sides. Maybe I'll feel like ordering twenty beers and you'll have to pay for each fucking one."
If she wanted to think she'd get away with a light bill, Grimmjow could fix that little problem. One beer might not cost a fortune, but twenty or fifty of them sure as hell would. And if she wanted to think she was stronger, Grimmjow would let her believe her own little delusion for tonight. He was in too good of a mood to let a tiny bitch piss him off. So she could order her hard liquor and sit there in her dainty princess clothing and think she was the strongest person at that table. But if she wanted to be stupid enough to try and prove it, Grimmjow would just have to eat her for dinner. Whore and beer sounded pretty fucking delicious as long as he got some form of anti-virus medication afterward.
---
She had to chuckle at that. "You're smarter than you look then." Cirucci shifted in her seat. She'd do much more than simply gut him, if given the opportunity. Hell, if Grimmjow had lost the fight, it would've been Ulquiorra sitting across from her now. She could care less whether either one lived or died, and secretly she hoped they'd both destroy each other. Until that happened, though, she'd be forced to kiss the feet of whoever was stronger, as she was attempting to do now.
"Honestly, I don't give a shit how much booze you drink," she continued, smiling serenely. "I wouldn't have offered to pay if I wasn't sure I could afford to foot the bill for the amount of beer you throw down your gullet." It wasn't a lie; she'd checked and rechecked multiple times to make sure she wouldn't end up washing dishes at the end of the night. That didn't mean she'd be happy about paying 100 plus euros for the evening; sucking up to those more powerful than she wasn't exactly her idea of fun. "I wonder, though; do you really think you're capable of sucking down twenty or more beers without getting at least a little tipsy?"
---
"You wanna fucking try me?" Grimmjow asked, leaning even closer over the table. "Because I get pretty fucking mean when I'm drunk, woman. You think I'm an asshole now, then you don't want to be in the same fucking city with me when I've got twenty beers under my belt."
At least when he wasn't drunk he could restrain himself. But if he were drunk with Cirucci around, he wouldn't be a very nice guy. Not a fucking nice guy at all. Grimmjow really was a nice guy. Really. He might have liked killing people for no reason, and he might have slaughtered the only friends he'd ever had, and he just might have enjoyed beating people up until they cried. But that didn't necessarily make him a bad guy--he could do much worse.
Grimmjow liked to think of himself as a sort of god. A merciful god who killed the weak assholes on the earth so it got them out of the way for the stronger ones. See? Nothing fucking cruel about that. He was doing the world a favor. Cleansing it of the filth that cluttered the streets.
---
"Oh, shut up," she countered, rolling her eyes and leaning forward herself. Cirucci didn't doubt that he was a mean drunk; hell, how could he be anything else? His superior strength and ability meant she had to be wary when toeing the line, yes, but she refused to simply submit to what she saw as his animalistic aggression. "I don't care how pissy a drunk you are, you'd still be drunk. And that means hazy vision, a loss of balance and poor reaction time."
Cirucci's simpering smile was smug, pleased as she was by her retort. She sat back in her seat again as their server returned with their drinks, placing them down quickly and then hurrying off without asking anything. Cirucci reached for her drink and swept one polished finger gingerly across the top, taking some of the creamy topping with it. "Besides, the least you could do in return for me treating you to drinks is not try to smash my face in, don't you think?"
---
Grimmjow grinned. Like he ever did anyone any kind of fucking favors. Especially not some little girl. "What the hell did you expect to get out of me by asking me to come here?" he asked, large grin still in place. "You expecting me to be your fucking best friend?"
He found it hard to believe she had invited him only because of the reaction he'd managed to get from Ulquiorra. There had to be more to it than that. Cirucci wasn't as stupid as she looked; she was a woman--they were sneaky little bitches who knew how to do more shit than men did. That was what made them so fucking interesting and the only thing that saved them from being completely destroyed. Luckily for Grimmjow, he wasn't stupid enough to fall for a woman's charms. Every woman always had some sort of hidden agenda within everything they did.
---
Cirucci rolled her eyes. "I believe I already told you...mm, two times now, at least." She parted her lips and licked the bit of cream off her finger nonchalantly, almost thoughtfully. "Anyone who can get a rise out of Ulquiorra - otherwise known as He Who Lacks Visible Emotion - deserves a round of drinks. And tonight that 'anyone' is you, Grimmy." She snickered to herself under her breath. Sure, let him think she was kissing his ass; let him think she was friendly. She'd be only too happy to put a bullet through his head when she felt the time was right - hopefully after he'd murdered Ulquiorra.
"So tell me," she continued, pausing for a moment to finally raise the beverage to her lips to sip, "what did our precious Ulquiorra do when you kissed him?" Her gaze lifted from her drink to Grimmjow's face, her features donning a genuine expression of interest for the first time that evening. "Did he scream? Did he cry?" Cirucci pouted in mock sympathy. "Did you make him bleed at least?"
---
The dumb bitch just wasn't going to drop that, was she? Grimmjow figured she probably still had it in that head of hers that he'd kissed Ulquiorra because he'd wanted to. And that he'd liked it. Someone that fucking uptight wouldn't ever be pleasing to kiss.
"I already fucking told you what he did," Grimmjow said with a wave of his hand. "And next time I'll make him bleed. I'll watch him fucking lay there and bleed to death and then I'll write you a fucking story about it. How's that sound?"
Grimmjow examined his fingers, imagining the claws that lengthened there with his new power. The claws that were going to tear into Ulquiorra's body and withdraw the stick he had jammed up his ass. And then maybe he'd use that same stick to shove down Cirucci's throat and get her to shut the fuck up.
Grimmjow's bright eyes were a little shinier when he glanced up from his fingers and at the woman across from him. Yeah. That sounded like a perfectly exciting idea. Remove the stick from Ulquiorra's ass and put it through Cirucci's mouth.
---
"Touchy~" she chirped in a teasing, sing-song voice. "I was just curious. I enjoy a good beating story as much as the next person. So, yes, I think I would like you to write me a story about your next fight with him." Cirucci sipped at her drink again. "I don't think you understand just how much that little twerp irritates me." She eyed Grimmjow carefully, warily, examining his face for any hint of what he was thinking.
"He's such a little suck-up. Probably wouldn't mind having his lips permanently stitched to the asses of those he's loyal to. It's sickening." She was being perfectly honest for once; she hated blind loyalty and all the bullshit that went with it. Thus, it didn't bother her a whit that the feeling of kinship she ought to have felt for her fellow tear-cheeked Monacello was absolutely nil.
Cirucci lowered her voice a bit, straightening in her seat, as if about to divulge some taboo secret. "I wouldn't mind knowing he'd had his skinny little neck ripped in half, by you or anyone else." She grabbed a red coffee stirrer from the condiment centerpiece on a whim and began idly stirring the cream in her drink. "You gonna drink your beer?" she asked Grimmjow, inclining her chin in the direction of the untouched drink in front of him.
---
Grimmjow raised an eyebrow at those little tidbits of information. He was one who'd never aligned himself with either house because he wasn't the kind of asshole who enjoyed being told what to do. Grimmjow was his own master. The fact that Ulquiorra apparently enjoyed being told what to do spoke volumes about his character. But now Cirucci had managed to catch his attention, because she obviously knew more about the fucker than Grimmjow did. It came along with being in the same house, he guessed.
Ignoring his beer, Grimmjow looked genuinely interested for the first time that evening. Cirucci didn't seem to like Ulquiorra with the way she was speaking about him. He knew she could have been speaking out of her ass to get Grimmjow on her side, too, but as long as he got information, he didn't care what her fucking reason was.
"If anyone rips that fucking neck in half, it'll be me," Grimmjow promised. "What else do you know about the fucker?"
---
Bin~go~, Cirucci thought to herself as she leaned forward eagerly, setting her glass on a napkin and placing her elbows on the tabletop, chin resting daintily on her entwined fingers. "All right, I'll tell you, but you cannot let anyone know it was me who filled you in. Not if you want to keep the information coming at least." Not if he wanted her to live long enough to keep filling him in, anyway.
Cirucci scooted closer in her seat. "Now, I can't legitimately say that this is all completely accurate; Lord knows Ulquiorra would never share any of this with anyone. But I've heard some things from others." She grinned, her expression as interested and excited as Grimmjow's. "First, I heard he's related to the Monacellos. Rather distantly, granted, but he is. Makes sense to me, since the little wretch is so goddamn loyal, and the actual blood family seems to love him. Second, apparently the whole reason he's even in Italy is because his parents were killed; he was sent here after that." Her nose crinkled in a mocking jeer. "Poor thing.
"Also, it's rumored that the whole reason he's so strong is because somebody altered his genes. Makes sense as well, I guess; it explains why he's so fast and strong and hard to injure. Basically, no one's gonna be able to lay a hand on him without some genetic altering of their own. Which leaves me out." She arched an eyebrow and smiled ruefully, shrugging and sighing wistfully, as if lamenting her normality.
---
Well wasn't that fucking funny. It made sense that Ulquiorra had been genetically altered, because you just weren't that fucking fast on your own. And you weren't born with skin that hard to cut. Grimmjow could take care of him perfectly fucking well. He'd been genetically enhanced twice already, and if all Ulquiorra had was speed and special skin, then he'd be fucking dead. What was disgusting was how loyal Ulquiorra was. How the fuck could someone be that damn loyal to one house? It was like he was a piece of shit dog who didn't know how to keep his tail out from between his legs.
But that made it perfect, because Grimmjow was like a cat. He enjoyed fighting and killing things and being alone. He enjoyed going to whoever paid the most and picking his favorite people when it worked for him. Cats and dogs didn't get along, and cats were always the smarter ones.
"Don't worry, little woman." Grimmjow twirled his chair around so he could sit in it the right way and rest one foot over the table. He leaned back, arms folded over his strong chest. "I'd never tell anyone where the information's coming from. I don't turn people in--I take care of them myself. If I ever fucking want you ass-deep in trouble, I'll do it by kicking your ass."
Grimmjow did wonder, though, if she was going to attempt to try to find information on him and give it to Ulquiorra. Fortunately enough, he didn't belong to either side, which meant they were unlikely to have information on him. The only ones who would know anything were the scientists and he couldn't imagine them giving away their secrets.
---
Cirucci smiled easily, tilting her head to the side. She was pleased by his answer; she wasn't one for undying loyalty to someone who was merely superior and not necessarily a person she liked, no, but when potentially risking her life she appreciated a little confidence. Now if only the information she was willing to share would lead to the death of that snot-nosed little sneak.
Cirucci couldn't help but hate Ulquiorra, hate him for being nothing but a chicken-necked little freak who thought he could lord over her because of his blood and after having the good luck to have been genetically altered. That's all it was, she'd decided - mere luck that he'd become that powerful and strong.
"Good boy, Grimmjow," she teased. "I was hoping you'd say that." Cirucci's fingers trailed back to the stirrer in her drink, again swirling the liquid around as she grew more enthusiastic. "It's said that the experiments affected his speed, strength, density of his skin, and...his eyesight, I believe. Apparently that's what turned him white, too." She paused. "Still think you can take him?"
---
That shit about Ulquiorra might have sounded difficult to someone like Cirucci who was boring as they came. For Grimmjow, though, that wasn't a fucking problem. A little smile made his lips curl and he finally took a large drink of his beer, draining the glass to half of what it had been in one gulp. The bitch had better hope she never made Grimmjow angry. She was lucky to be on his fairly good side, which was the complete opposite of the one Ulquiorra was on.
"No, I don't think I can take him," he replied, a confident grin stuck to his face. "I know I can take him. He's nothing but a starved dog with a few special powers. Ulquiorra's not going to know what the fuck hit him when I fight him. I'm going to make him bleed and I'll crush that perfectly fucking pretty face of his. Then I'll mount his body on my wall and you and I can have a drink under it."
Grimmjow didn't even care anymore that Cirucci might be trying to play him. The only thing on his mind was destroying Ulquiorra and getting to see a look of shock on that dead, emotionless face before the fucker died.
---
Cirucci leaned in a bit more, pulling her glass in front of her and stirring the alcohol a bit more fervently. She really didn't believe in absolute loyalty - well, except in Ulquiorra's case; who could ever doubt his ass-kissing? - and hardly trusted the word of another. Something in Grimmjow's face, however, perhaps the tinge of bloodlust she saw there, made her believe that he was serious when he said he wouldn't rat her out.
She couldn't help but wonder how it was he could be so confident about eventually taking his enemy down. Surely there was something behind it; there were plenty of people out there, she knew, who'd've loved to see Ulquiorra shot and killed, but slim to none who'd actually be able to accomplish such a feat if the rumors of his genetic alteration was true. Unless, of course, Ulquiorra's opponent had also been the subject of an experiment...
The thoughts trailed off in her mind. The truth was so close she could practically smell it. She grinned, pulled back a bit, and smirked doubtfully. "Is that so now. And what makes you so sure?" Her face was a perfect mask of skepticism. "He's unnaturally fast, strong, and skilled. There's just no way."
---
There was a large part of Grimmjow that told him Cirucci kept pushing because she wanted him to admit to something. And that something would be his genetic alterations. Typically he didn't give a fuck who knew what, but this time it was Cirucci, and if she was so eager to spread information about Ulquiorra, who was to say she wouldn't do the same about Grimmjow? Anything remotely important about him she might pass to the next highest bidder.
"Don't you think I can handle myself, Cirucci?" he retorted, looking a little dangerous. When people doubted him, it pissed him off. And when people doubted him, they usually died. "Ulquiorra shot me a good few fucking times a couple days ago." Grimmjow lifted up his shirt to expose his smooth, perfectly muscled stomach. "And look at me now. I'd think it's fucking safe to say I can handle myself, don't you think?"
If she really wanted a demonstration, though, then he'd use it to remove her head from her little body. He'd say he only trusted her as far as he could throw her, but he'd be able to throw her across a fucking field, so it would be a lie.
---
If there had been any doubt in Cirucci's mind as to whether or not Grimmjow had been genetically altered in some way, those thoughts were gone. Now she was absolutely sure he must've had something done. Healing that fast from bullet wounds to the stomach was definitely not normal. Hell, if she'd been the one to have been wounded like that, she'd probably still be attached to a hospital respirator even now.
"I see, thank you very much." Cirucci didn't know whether to be apalled at his apparent lack etiquette - this was a relatively nice place, after all - or to give away a look of vague interest. "I believe you." Then her nose crinkled again, lips curling in a devious little grin. "Better watch how much beer you drink, mm? Wouldn't want those washboard abs of yours to look flabby, now would we~?" She couldn't help but taunt. He was practically asking for it, after all.
---
Grimmjow dropped his shirt and drank the rest of the beer down. And then waved the server over for some more--just to show her that he didn't give a fuck at all. Some alcohol wasn't going to make him gain weight, especially not when he made sure to work out daily anyway. You couldn't be a man unless you had muscles that you'd earned. Something Ulquiorra would know nothing about.
"What the fuck are you so concerned about, huh?" Grimmjow asked, putting his other foot on the table as well. "You ain't my fucking mother or wife. Unless you want to marry me. But you'd have to be willing to put up with me for the rest of your fucking life. And you'd have to wear nothing but skirts that'd show that little ass every time you bend over."
---
"Excuse me," she said almost haughtily, a look of teasing, mock-offense on her face. "Did you ever stop to think that I might've been enjoying the view?" Two could play the game of sexist bastard, after all. She took another swig of her White Russian when Grimmjow started in on his second beer, the sight of it making her realize her thirst. The liquid tingled as it slid down her throat.
"Mm. Oh yes, because that's what I aspire to be - your wife." She rolled her eyes, resting an elbow on the table and her cheek in her hand, and hiccuped. Perhaps she'd swallowed that last sip a bit too quickly. "Like hell I'd wear some skanky little getup for you. This," she sat up again and swept a hand over the fabric of her dress, gesturing to the whole of it, "is my look. Reggio Calabria knows me by my excellent taste in clothing." She raised a sassy eyebrow, pursing her lips and eyeing Grimmjow's outfit in turn. "Too bad the same can't be said for you."
---
That made Grimmjow roar with laughter. "Excellent taste in clothing?" he repeated. "If that's excellent taste, then this city's in need of a big fucking rescue. That shit you're wearing ain't that fucking attractive. It makes you look like some kind of doll. You've got the outfit and Ulquiorra's got the fucking emotionless face. Like a fucking perfect match. Maybe you should marry that asshole instead."
Picturing Ulquiorra with anyone was like a nightmare in a comedic novel. The bastard couldn't make any expressions, let alone speak in more than one tone. Having sex with him was probably like fucking a dead body. Poor woman he married, whoever the fuck she ended up being. And if it ended up being Cirucci in some arranged marriage, Grimmjow would attend the wedding just to see the look on the bitch's face.
---
"Oh really?" she shot back. There were a few things that people simply did not dare argue with or insult her about, and one of those things was her wardrobe. "And how the fuck would you know about style, hmm? Look at you!" Cirucci waved her hand in his general direction. "I'm guessing you paid, what, five euros for that entire outfit? If you can even call it that." Maybe it was the booze, but her voice was getting steadily louder. Offended and irritated, she grabbed her drink and choked the rest down in one last-ditch effort to relax herself; she was supposed to be getting on his good side, after all, not picking a fight.
His next words, however, almost made that last gulp of alcohol come right back up again. "Marry Ulquiorra? Like hell!" Cirucci might've found the thought amusing if she wasn't already annoyed and hadn't just finished off a vodka-based drink. "That would never happen. Never. I'd refuse. I'd rather die. I'd slit my own throat before that happened." She glared back at Grimmjow's laughing face, her own as sour as if she'd swallowed a shot of pure lemon juice. "It's not funny."
---
The anger in her voice and on her face only made Grimmjow laugh harder. Fucking women. They thought they were so fucking smart and classy and high up on their pedestal. They had no idea how pathetically low on the food chain and in general they were. That was why they were so fun to bother. Give them a kiss without their permission and they scream and slap. Slap their ass and they kick you in the balls. Insult their hair and they cry. Throw out their cooking and they cry. Tell them they've gained weight and they cry.
Cirucci was so fucking upset over Grimmjow insulting her clothing that it just made him want to do it even more. "Maybe Ulquiorra will like the way you dress," he went on. "You look just as fucking bitchy as he does and you both fuss over what you fucking wear. I don't take an hour every fucking morning to pick out an outfit. I throw on whatever the fuck is clean and comfortable. And then I go outside and don't have to worry about a piece of dust getting onto my fucking shirt."
---
Cirucci was growing livid. "Shut up, shut up!" How could he possibly compare her to someone as dry and lifeless as Ulquiorra? She was anything but. Dry as toast, quiet as a mouse, annoying as your neighbors blasting music at 3 a.m. while you were trying to sleep - that was Ulquiorra. And she, Cirucci, was the opposite, the opposite! Not like him at all! "SHUT UP!" she yelled into his laughing face, rising out of her chair a bit and turning more than a few heads in the process.
'Maybe Ulquiorra will like the way you dress.' No. There was no way. None. She wouldn't even consider it. "Shit, and after I was so goddamn friendly, inviting you out to drink as a treat, and for what?" Cirucci settled back into her seat, the stares of the people around them shaking her back into her senses a bit. "To congratulate you for pulverizing the little freak!" Her voice was lower now but still shrill, like the screech of a bird warning a predator cat to stay away from her nest, or else.
---
Grimmjow felt like his sides might split if he laughed any harder. The little bitch was so fucking priceless when drunk and suddenly he was glad he'd agreed to come out here. After being locked up in a laboratory for days, this was the best fucking gift he could've gotten. Or one of them, anyway. The way Cirucci's voice was screeching like a bird was fucking hysterical. Grimmjow was the cat stalking the bird and the bird rarely got away.
"How about this?" Grimmjow sat up straighter in his chair and took his legs off the table, doing his best to look apologetic. But it was hard, because jackasses couldn't look apologetic. "To make up for being such an un-fucking-gentlemen tonight, I'll give you something." He leaned in closer. "You like presents, don't you, Cirucci?" His voice was practically a purr now, like a cat coaxing his prey. "Ulquiorra would never give such a pretty little lady a present."
---
Now that caught Cirucci completely off guard. She paused, straightened up, looked at him through slightly squinted eyes as if trying to see him clearly through a hazy fog, an almost comical look of surprise and confusion on her face. Had she really had that much to drink? "Depends on what the present is and who's giving it." Ah, so she could still mouth off retorts the way she always could. That was a good sign, at least - it meant she wasn't totally woozy.
Still, there was something about that new voice he was using. Cirucci had never heard it before, ever, and it made her spine tingle and her shoulders shiver, whether from fear or delight she didn't know. She shifted, rocked, moved in her seat as if trying to find a comfortable position, the pair of .45 pistols she kept hidden under the skirt of her dress bumping against her knees. "No, I don't suppose he would." Cirucci gazed at him tentatively, eyes full of blurred suspicion. Shit, why had she ordered such a strong cocktail? "Your point?"
---
Grimmjow grinned. He did a lot of that. The sign of a truly happy man depended upon how much he smiled, and Grimmjow was a very happy man. He might have been completely fucking insane, but he was happy that way. And he was always going to be happy.
Now that Cirucci seemed calmed and interested enough, the entire place wasn't staring at them anymore. The dumb bitch really needed to learn how to hold her alcohol. But he'd said he was going to give her a present, so he was going to give her one. Grimmjow was an asshole, but he wasn't a liar.
With a sigh he pushed out of his chair to go to hers, where she was still sitting in that stupid outfit looking like a princess from some fucked up colony in space. (That shit wasn't cute. She'd look better without it on.) Grimmjow placed a hand on the table, used his other to tilt her pretty face up, and then he leaned down and kissed her. It wasn't like the rough kiss to shock Ulquiorra. Fucking funnily enough, it was a gentle one.
---
Cirucci hadn't liked the way he'd been staring at her from the across the table, like some hungry animal sizing up their next kill, their next meal. She'd liked it even less when he'd actually stood up from his chair and walked over to her, cool and calm as can be. He wouldn't really try to do a stupid thing like break her neck in the middle of all these people, would he?
He'd placed his hand at her setting and leaned in; meanwhile her hand had scrambled to retrieve one of her guns as subtly as possible, fingers made clumsy from the consuption of alcohol. Fuck fuck FUCK. She'd suddenly found herself paralyzed with sudden, unexpected fear, her heart in her throat, blood pulsing - this was it, this was it...
The kiss hadn't lasted long, two or three seconds at best, but it'd been enough to send her mind reeling and spinning more than it already had been from all that goddamn vodka. Cirucci had been the one to break it, pulling back suddenly when her mind finally caught up with the rest of her, kohl-lined violet eyes staring up at like the shiny eyes of a bird pinned beneath of paw of a cat. Apprehensive, unsure, and wary - all her favorite emotions, really - she said the only thing that made sense to say. "Are you trying to fuck with me?!"
---
At least he hadn't been shot again. It had fucking hurt enough a few days ago when it had happened to him and he really hadn't wanted to feel that another time. Cirucci's response was more like a woman's, although he had expected to be slapped. Maybe she was too drunk to remember how to slap. And she was probably too drunk to remember this later once the alcohol had left her head.
Looking like a smug bastard, he tweaked her nose before moving away. "I guess you'll just have to fucking figure that out on your own," he replied with a careless shrug. "Now I guess you fucking know I'm not into guys like you'd convinced yourself."
It was about time to be leaving anyway, and this was the perfect opportunity. He'd not only gotten Cirucci to shut the fuck up, but he'd managed to kiss her without being wounded. And he'd made her confused. It was the perfect fucking way to close out such a great evening. He'd gotten free beer, too. Couldn't forget that fucking gem. All for making Ulquiorra freak the fuck out. Maybe when he killed the bastard, Cirucci would cook him dinner like a good little woman.
Before Grimmjow turned away, he added with a smirk: "You're a better kisser than that asshole, too."
---
She was on her feet in an instant - a little shakily, perhaps, but on them nonetheless. Fists clenched, eyes narrowed, mouth partially open in offense, Cirucci's gaze bored into Grimmjow's face with such loathing, she half expected it to alight in flames - and when it didn't, she wished heartily that it had.
What to do, what to do! The question spun in her head. Smack him? Punch him? Blow a bullet into his head? Every option was more delicious than the last, but none satisfied her completely; none suited her hunger for getting back at him somehow, anyhow, just as long as it left him with a scowl and her with a smirk.
Then, suddenly, it came to her. Perfect. Cirucci took a deep breath and let it out slowly, taking in the anxious glances that were shooting their way now that they both were on their feet. She shook her shoulders out slowly, almost sensually, calming herself down. Patience Cirucci, patience, she told herself. Slinging the thin chain of her purse over her shoulder, she glanced down at her feet, lips pursed to the side, as if thinking something over. "Really." A moment later and her eyes were on Grimmjow's face again, and she stood taller, biting her lower lip playfully and raising an eyebrow. "But I wasn't really kissing back, you know. You caught me by surprise."
---
Grimmjow knew she was either too drunk to know what she was doing, or not drunk enough and was fucking with him. Women weren't to be trusted and the only reason he'd kissed her was because he could. Fucking around with people didn't interest him. He liked fighting. He liked killing. He liked pissing people off and making women cry. Everything else he could probably do without. But he turned to face her again anyway and reached out with a hand to touch her cheek.
What a little bitch she was. Whatever she had planned wasn't going to work. Grimmjow could practically see the wheels in her head turning as she planned whatever the fuck she was planning. ...Unless she really was drunk off her fucking ass. Grimmjow leaned in as if he were going to kiss her again.
"I take everyone by surprise," he whispered into her ear.
Then he placed his fingers on her forehead and shoved her back in the direction of her chair. Like fucking hell he was going to fall for any shit of hers. Grimmjow didn't have the desire to get himself into trouble with a bitch of a woman trying to gut him as he slept.
---
It was a bit like having the wind knocked out of her, having her body shoved back into her seat like that. Cirucci fell back and winced, groaned under her breath, and scowled up at him through the bit of dull pain she felt from being forced into what she know realized was a very solid piece of furniture.
Ooh, how she hated this. One measly little plan, one that hadn't revolved around blood or pain or bullets - she had no intention of actually hurting him until he'd butchered Ulquiorra, at least not if she could help it - and he had to fuck it up. Why? Because he was stronger. Bigger. Faster. Superior. He was more and she was less. And just that itsy little thought was enough to eat at her.
Cirucci pushed herself up into a standing position again despite the ache that crowded the muscles that'd slammed into the dark wood and patted her hairline. Just as she thought: her hairpin had been knocked crooked. "I'll be in the ladies' room," she huffed, features hardened as she whirled and headed toward the sign at the back of the building. "Wait there."
---
Grimmjow watched her walk away with a grin. She wasn't even going to yell at him for throwing her back into her chair. But the little bitch really thought he was going to wait for her? Fucking whatever. Now he was curious to see what she was going to do when she came back. Did she think she could try to make herself look prettier and more appealing? No fucking way. Grimmjow wasn't interested in that shit.
Regardless, he did wait, if only because Cirucci was amusing as fuck, and getting reactions out of her was entertaining. The bitch was able to make expressions unlike Ulquiorra, which meant fucking with her head was a better way to pass the time.
Maybe she'd gone to the bathroom to cry. Grimmjow hoped she had. Then she could come out with red eyes and he could laugh at her for being such a fucking woman.
---
Cirucci turned to glance over her shoulder as she disappeared into the bathroom. So he wasn't following her. All the better. She sauntered over to the mirror, vision still a little hazy from the alcohol. With slightly unsteady hands she fixed her hair, repositioning the pin at her brow and patting down her curls. All the while her mind was overflowing with thoughts of hatred for Grimmjow, and frustration at ever having decided to take him out in any capacity, no matter what alterior motive she'd had.
She reached for the sink faucet and turned it on, then leaned over the bowl to splash a little cool water on her face. Cirucci didn't care if her makeup smeared; at this point all she wanted was to wake up, wash away the fog of booze in her head and get out. She looked up again, disgusted at the many tiny rivulets of eyeliner and mascara running down her face. Angrily she reached for a nearby towel and wiped the black smears away. She disliked her appearance even more without her standard cosmetic mask.
Tossing the used towel aside, Cirucci glanced around the bathroom curiously. It was rather nice, actually, all shades of dusty pink, gold embellishments, polished wood...and a pretty little screen-covered window, right near the ceiling, right where it should be. Excellent. Cirucci grinned and headed to the side of one of the stalls.
Thank God the wood was carved; it made it that much easier to climb the side, swing up onto the top of it, and kick the screen in. The opening itself was just big enough for her petite frame to slip through, though the same could not be said for her dress; she winced at the pronounced rrrrrrrrip that accompanied her fall to the ground outside. She landed on her feet and recovered quickly, clutching the shredded remains of one part of her skirt, and walked off in the same cool, careless manner with which she usually carried herself. Hopefully Grimmjow had enough cash on him to take care of the bill.
---
Grimmjow waited about two more minutes before it dawned on him that the little bitch wasn't coming back. What a fucking slut. It wasn't surprising, considering she was a woman. Women tended to be sneaky about things rather than being upfront. That was fine. Grimmjow wasn't about to pay for the alcohol, either. The money he earned was for himself, not some little bitch. So Grimmjow asked the server for a pen which he used to write Cirucci's full name down on a napkin. The napkin he gave to the owner of the store, telling him that Cirucci had decided not to pay for the bill she'd racked up. The man's best luck was to bill her through the mail.
Grimmjow left with his hands in his pockets, grinning to himself. Wouldn't she be surprised when the bill for the drinks came in her mailbox? The dumb broad thought she'd get away with it, too. Grimmjow would have loved to see her expression when she opened the bill. But he had better things to do. Now he needed to go home and wait to hear from Ulquiorra since he didn't know where the bastard lived. After that, he'd destroy him. Now that was something he was looking forward to.
And then maybe he'd find Cirucci again and play with her entrails for a little while.
rondine_gridare } & Grimmjow Jeagerjaques {
stradapanthera }
WHAT: In which Cirucci makes the mistake of taking Grimmjow out for congratulatory drinks.
WHERE: Corner pub
WHEN: The night before the latest Grimmy-Ulqui showdown.
Cirucci arrived at the pub-like bar rather early and was glad to see that it wasn't the run-down, seedy place she thought it might've been. It was rather quaint, actually, all lovely cherry wood, carved details and red velvet upholstered chairs. She was accommodated quickly and politely - she always did appreciate good service - and was led to a seat at a nice, round little table, the surface of which was clean and glossy.
Cirucci wasn't one to offer her generosity to a person, particularly someone she considered as brutish as Grimmjow, unless it benefitted her in some way. On the other hand, she wasn't one to support a fellow Monacello that she didn't like simply because they were a part of the same family, and in the case of the latest Grimmjow vs. Ulquiorra battle, the former's ability to rouse the wrath of the latter simply could not go unrewarded.
She sat back in her chair, waving off the server who'd come to take her order for the moment, and crossed her legs beneath the layers of white cotton and burgundy chiffon that made up her skirt. Where the hell was he, anyway?
---
Grimmjow was feeling pretty fucking wonderful as he made his way to the specified pub where he was going to meet that pretty little bitch. The fact that he'd nearly died a handful of days ago didn't mean a damn thing to him. What mattered was that not only had he survived (as usual), but he'd managed to wound Ulquiorra's pride. On top of all of that, he'd come out stronger. And Ulquiorra would have no fucking idea just how much stronger he was. Not until Grimmjow had his claws sunk into the fucker's heart to tear it out. The look on Ulquiorra's face then would be fucking perfect, too.
Removing one hand from his pocket, Grimmjow opened the door to the pub and went inside. What a fucking girly joint. Where the fuck were the barfights and filthy men and women drinking beer from dirty glasses? Fucking leave it to a little girl to pick a place like this. But Grimmjow wasn't going to turn down the offer of free alcohol.
It was easy to spot Cirucci--she was the only girl in there who looked like a spoiled little shithead. Grimmjow grabbed the chair opposite her, twirled it around, and then sat with his chest pressed to the back of it, arms folded over the top. "So," he started with a grin, "what color's your underwear?"
---
Cirucci smirked, snickered, and leaned back in the same sarcastic manner she usually adopted when dealing with lugheads like Grimmjow. "Now that's a question you'll never know the answer to, isn't it~?" Her gaze fell from his face to his posture; she raised an eyebrow, lips curling into a bit of a sneer as her eyes scanned him. "Well now, I see that fighting with one of Monacello's most uptight members didn't give you anymore class. Shame."
She raised one gloved hand and snapped her fingers to grab the servers' attention, then beckoned one over with a come-hither motion of her finger, only then turning her disdainful gaze off of her guest and transforming it into an expression of practiced charm for their waiter. "Keep in mind that this isn't one of those cockroach bars you probably love. Now, do the right thing and try to take advantage of my offer by ordering something other than beer."
---
Grimmjow rolled his eyes. What the fuck else was he supposed to order? Some fruity drink that only a fucker like Cirucci or Ulquiorra would have? He wasn't about to make himself look as patheticly feminine as the both of them did. For Cirucci, it was fucking fine. But for Ulquiorra it was completely laughable. What a fucking joke that bastard had been. Couldn't even kill Grimmjow right!
"I don't fucking need any class," he promised. "I'm charming on my fucking own." He glanced at the server with a wolfish grin. "Get me some beer. And try sneaking some into whatever the bitch orders. It'd do her some good."
Maybe it'd get her drunk enough to where Grimmjow could fuck with her head a little. Maybe he could embarrass the shit out of her like he'd done with Ulquiorra. Pissing people off was never uninteresing.
---
"I can order my own drink, thank you." Cirucci sat forward in her seat, upright and attentive, and pointed at their waiter. "If you expect to get paid tonight I suggest you listen to me and not him. The tab's all mine. I would like a White Russian. And hurry it up." Normally she would've been wary of ordering anything with hard liquor in it, but at this point Cirucci had a feeling she was going to need it.
She lowered her hand and turned toward Grimmjow again as their server scurried away, her violet eyes narrowed in annoyance. "Like that was gonna work. Nice try though." She whipped her gloves off pointedly as if to illustrate her annoyance and stuffed them in her purse. "I'm kinda surprised I ordered something stronger, you know." It took everything she had to keep herself from making a comment about weakness and strength and Ulquiorra. But, she was here to congratulate Grimmjow, as much as she was starting to regret it. "At least I won't be spending much." That condecending look was creeping back into her features again.
---
Grimmjow shrugged with his hands in the air, almost playfully. "I like what I fucking like. I'm not here to order the strongest shit in the place. I do that and you'll fucking gut me the second I pass out. 'Sides. Maybe I'll feel like ordering twenty beers and you'll have to pay for each fucking one."
If she wanted to think she'd get away with a light bill, Grimmjow could fix that little problem. One beer might not cost a fortune, but twenty or fifty of them sure as hell would. And if she wanted to think she was stronger, Grimmjow would let her believe her own little delusion for tonight. He was in too good of a mood to let a tiny bitch piss him off. So she could order her hard liquor and sit there in her dainty princess clothing and think she was the strongest person at that table. But if she wanted to be stupid enough to try and prove it, Grimmjow would just have to eat her for dinner. Whore and beer sounded pretty fucking delicious as long as he got some form of anti-virus medication afterward.
---
She had to chuckle at that. "You're smarter than you look then." Cirucci shifted in her seat. She'd do much more than simply gut him, if given the opportunity. Hell, if Grimmjow had lost the fight, it would've been Ulquiorra sitting across from her now. She could care less whether either one lived or died, and secretly she hoped they'd both destroy each other. Until that happened, though, she'd be forced to kiss the feet of whoever was stronger, as she was attempting to do now.
"Honestly, I don't give a shit how much booze you drink," she continued, smiling serenely. "I wouldn't have offered to pay if I wasn't sure I could afford to foot the bill for the amount of beer you throw down your gullet." It wasn't a lie; she'd checked and rechecked multiple times to make sure she wouldn't end up washing dishes at the end of the night. That didn't mean she'd be happy about paying 100 plus euros for the evening; sucking up to those more powerful than she wasn't exactly her idea of fun. "I wonder, though; do you really think you're capable of sucking down twenty or more beers without getting at least a little tipsy?"
---
"You wanna fucking try me?" Grimmjow asked, leaning even closer over the table. "Because I get pretty fucking mean when I'm drunk, woman. You think I'm an asshole now, then you don't want to be in the same fucking city with me when I've got twenty beers under my belt."
At least when he wasn't drunk he could restrain himself. But if he were drunk with Cirucci around, he wouldn't be a very nice guy. Not a fucking nice guy at all. Grimmjow really was a nice guy. Really. He might have liked killing people for no reason, and he might have slaughtered the only friends he'd ever had, and he just might have enjoyed beating people up until they cried. But that didn't necessarily make him a bad guy--he could do much worse.
Grimmjow liked to think of himself as a sort of god. A merciful god who killed the weak assholes on the earth so it got them out of the way for the stronger ones. See? Nothing fucking cruel about that. He was doing the world a favor. Cleansing it of the filth that cluttered the streets.
---
"Oh, shut up," she countered, rolling her eyes and leaning forward herself. Cirucci didn't doubt that he was a mean drunk; hell, how could he be anything else? His superior strength and ability meant she had to be wary when toeing the line, yes, but she refused to simply submit to what she saw as his animalistic aggression. "I don't care how pissy a drunk you are, you'd still be drunk. And that means hazy vision, a loss of balance and poor reaction time."
Cirucci's simpering smile was smug, pleased as she was by her retort. She sat back in her seat again as their server returned with their drinks, placing them down quickly and then hurrying off without asking anything. Cirucci reached for her drink and swept one polished finger gingerly across the top, taking some of the creamy topping with it. "Besides, the least you could do in return for me treating you to drinks is not try to smash my face in, don't you think?"
---
Grimmjow grinned. Like he ever did anyone any kind of fucking favors. Especially not some little girl. "What the hell did you expect to get out of me by asking me to come here?" he asked, large grin still in place. "You expecting me to be your fucking best friend?"
He found it hard to believe she had invited him only because of the reaction he'd managed to get from Ulquiorra. There had to be more to it than that. Cirucci wasn't as stupid as she looked; she was a woman--they were sneaky little bitches who knew how to do more shit than men did. That was what made them so fucking interesting and the only thing that saved them from being completely destroyed. Luckily for Grimmjow, he wasn't stupid enough to fall for a woman's charms. Every woman always had some sort of hidden agenda within everything they did.
---
Cirucci rolled her eyes. "I believe I already told you...mm, two times now, at least." She parted her lips and licked the bit of cream off her finger nonchalantly, almost thoughtfully. "Anyone who can get a rise out of Ulquiorra - otherwise known as He Who Lacks Visible Emotion - deserves a round of drinks. And tonight that 'anyone' is you, Grimmy." She snickered to herself under her breath. Sure, let him think she was kissing his ass; let him think she was friendly. She'd be only too happy to put a bullet through his head when she felt the time was right - hopefully after he'd murdered Ulquiorra.
"So tell me," she continued, pausing for a moment to finally raise the beverage to her lips to sip, "what did our precious Ulquiorra do when you kissed him?" Her gaze lifted from her drink to Grimmjow's face, her features donning a genuine expression of interest for the first time that evening. "Did he scream? Did he cry?" Cirucci pouted in mock sympathy. "Did you make him bleed at least?"
---
The dumb bitch just wasn't going to drop that, was she? Grimmjow figured she probably still had it in that head of hers that he'd kissed Ulquiorra because he'd wanted to. And that he'd liked it. Someone that fucking uptight wouldn't ever be pleasing to kiss.
"I already fucking told you what he did," Grimmjow said with a wave of his hand. "And next time I'll make him bleed. I'll watch him fucking lay there and bleed to death and then I'll write you a fucking story about it. How's that sound?"
Grimmjow examined his fingers, imagining the claws that lengthened there with his new power. The claws that were going to tear into Ulquiorra's body and withdraw the stick he had jammed up his ass. And then maybe he'd use that same stick to shove down Cirucci's throat and get her to shut the fuck up.
Grimmjow's bright eyes were a little shinier when he glanced up from his fingers and at the woman across from him. Yeah. That sounded like a perfectly exciting idea. Remove the stick from Ulquiorra's ass and put it through Cirucci's mouth.
---
"Touchy~" she chirped in a teasing, sing-song voice. "I was just curious. I enjoy a good beating story as much as the next person. So, yes, I think I would like you to write me a story about your next fight with him." Cirucci sipped at her drink again. "I don't think you understand just how much that little twerp irritates me." She eyed Grimmjow carefully, warily, examining his face for any hint of what he was thinking.
"He's such a little suck-up. Probably wouldn't mind having his lips permanently stitched to the asses of those he's loyal to. It's sickening." She was being perfectly honest for once; she hated blind loyalty and all the bullshit that went with it. Thus, it didn't bother her a whit that the feeling of kinship she ought to have felt for her fellow tear-cheeked Monacello was absolutely nil.
Cirucci lowered her voice a bit, straightening in her seat, as if about to divulge some taboo secret. "I wouldn't mind knowing he'd had his skinny little neck ripped in half, by you or anyone else." She grabbed a red coffee stirrer from the condiment centerpiece on a whim and began idly stirring the cream in her drink. "You gonna drink your beer?" she asked Grimmjow, inclining her chin in the direction of the untouched drink in front of him.
---
Grimmjow raised an eyebrow at those little tidbits of information. He was one who'd never aligned himself with either house because he wasn't the kind of asshole who enjoyed being told what to do. Grimmjow was his own master. The fact that Ulquiorra apparently enjoyed being told what to do spoke volumes about his character. But now Cirucci had managed to catch his attention, because she obviously knew more about the fucker than Grimmjow did. It came along with being in the same house, he guessed.
Ignoring his beer, Grimmjow looked genuinely interested for the first time that evening. Cirucci didn't seem to like Ulquiorra with the way she was speaking about him. He knew she could have been speaking out of her ass to get Grimmjow on her side, too, but as long as he got information, he didn't care what her fucking reason was.
"If anyone rips that fucking neck in half, it'll be me," Grimmjow promised. "What else do you know about the fucker?"
---
Bin~go~, Cirucci thought to herself as she leaned forward eagerly, setting her glass on a napkin and placing her elbows on the tabletop, chin resting daintily on her entwined fingers. "All right, I'll tell you, but you cannot let anyone know it was me who filled you in. Not if you want to keep the information coming at least." Not if he wanted her to live long enough to keep filling him in, anyway.
Cirucci scooted closer in her seat. "Now, I can't legitimately say that this is all completely accurate; Lord knows Ulquiorra would never share any of this with anyone. But I've heard some things from others." She grinned, her expression as interested and excited as Grimmjow's. "First, I heard he's related to the Monacellos. Rather distantly, granted, but he is. Makes sense to me, since the little wretch is so goddamn loyal, and the actual blood family seems to love him. Second, apparently the whole reason he's even in Italy is because his parents were killed; he was sent here after that." Her nose crinkled in a mocking jeer. "Poor thing.
"Also, it's rumored that the whole reason he's so strong is because somebody altered his genes. Makes sense as well, I guess; it explains why he's so fast and strong and hard to injure. Basically, no one's gonna be able to lay a hand on him without some genetic altering of their own. Which leaves me out." She arched an eyebrow and smiled ruefully, shrugging and sighing wistfully, as if lamenting her normality.
---
Well wasn't that fucking funny. It made sense that Ulquiorra had been genetically altered, because you just weren't that fucking fast on your own. And you weren't born with skin that hard to cut. Grimmjow could take care of him perfectly fucking well. He'd been genetically enhanced twice already, and if all Ulquiorra had was speed and special skin, then he'd be fucking dead. What was disgusting was how loyal Ulquiorra was. How the fuck could someone be that damn loyal to one house? It was like he was a piece of shit dog who didn't know how to keep his tail out from between his legs.
But that made it perfect, because Grimmjow was like a cat. He enjoyed fighting and killing things and being alone. He enjoyed going to whoever paid the most and picking his favorite people when it worked for him. Cats and dogs didn't get along, and cats were always the smarter ones.
"Don't worry, little woman." Grimmjow twirled his chair around so he could sit in it the right way and rest one foot over the table. He leaned back, arms folded over his strong chest. "I'd never tell anyone where the information's coming from. I don't turn people in--I take care of them myself. If I ever fucking want you ass-deep in trouble, I'll do it by kicking your ass."
Grimmjow did wonder, though, if she was going to attempt to try to find information on him and give it to Ulquiorra. Fortunately enough, he didn't belong to either side, which meant they were unlikely to have information on him. The only ones who would know anything were the scientists and he couldn't imagine them giving away their secrets.
---
Cirucci smiled easily, tilting her head to the side. She was pleased by his answer; she wasn't one for undying loyalty to someone who was merely superior and not necessarily a person she liked, no, but when potentially risking her life she appreciated a little confidence. Now if only the information she was willing to share would lead to the death of that snot-nosed little sneak.
Cirucci couldn't help but hate Ulquiorra, hate him for being nothing but a chicken-necked little freak who thought he could lord over her because of his blood and after having the good luck to have been genetically altered. That's all it was, she'd decided - mere luck that he'd become that powerful and strong.
"Good boy, Grimmjow," she teased. "I was hoping you'd say that." Cirucci's fingers trailed back to the stirrer in her drink, again swirling the liquid around as she grew more enthusiastic. "It's said that the experiments affected his speed, strength, density of his skin, and...his eyesight, I believe. Apparently that's what turned him white, too." She paused. "Still think you can take him?"
---
That shit about Ulquiorra might have sounded difficult to someone like Cirucci who was boring as they came. For Grimmjow, though, that wasn't a fucking problem. A little smile made his lips curl and he finally took a large drink of his beer, draining the glass to half of what it had been in one gulp. The bitch had better hope she never made Grimmjow angry. She was lucky to be on his fairly good side, which was the complete opposite of the one Ulquiorra was on.
"No, I don't think I can take him," he replied, a confident grin stuck to his face. "I know I can take him. He's nothing but a starved dog with a few special powers. Ulquiorra's not going to know what the fuck hit him when I fight him. I'm going to make him bleed and I'll crush that perfectly fucking pretty face of his. Then I'll mount his body on my wall and you and I can have a drink under it."
Grimmjow didn't even care anymore that Cirucci might be trying to play him. The only thing on his mind was destroying Ulquiorra and getting to see a look of shock on that dead, emotionless face before the fucker died.
---
Cirucci leaned in a bit more, pulling her glass in front of her and stirring the alcohol a bit more fervently. She really didn't believe in absolute loyalty - well, except in Ulquiorra's case; who could ever doubt his ass-kissing? - and hardly trusted the word of another. Something in Grimmjow's face, however, perhaps the tinge of bloodlust she saw there, made her believe that he was serious when he said he wouldn't rat her out.
She couldn't help but wonder how it was he could be so confident about eventually taking his enemy down. Surely there was something behind it; there were plenty of people out there, she knew, who'd've loved to see Ulquiorra shot and killed, but slim to none who'd actually be able to accomplish such a feat if the rumors of his genetic alteration was true. Unless, of course, Ulquiorra's opponent had also been the subject of an experiment...
The thoughts trailed off in her mind. The truth was so close she could practically smell it. She grinned, pulled back a bit, and smirked doubtfully. "Is that so now. And what makes you so sure?" Her face was a perfect mask of skepticism. "He's unnaturally fast, strong, and skilled. There's just no way."
---
There was a large part of Grimmjow that told him Cirucci kept pushing because she wanted him to admit to something. And that something would be his genetic alterations. Typically he didn't give a fuck who knew what, but this time it was Cirucci, and if she was so eager to spread information about Ulquiorra, who was to say she wouldn't do the same about Grimmjow? Anything remotely important about him she might pass to the next highest bidder.
"Don't you think I can handle myself, Cirucci?" he retorted, looking a little dangerous. When people doubted him, it pissed him off. And when people doubted him, they usually died. "Ulquiorra shot me a good few fucking times a couple days ago." Grimmjow lifted up his shirt to expose his smooth, perfectly muscled stomach. "And look at me now. I'd think it's fucking safe to say I can handle myself, don't you think?"
If she really wanted a demonstration, though, then he'd use it to remove her head from her little body. He'd say he only trusted her as far as he could throw her, but he'd be able to throw her across a fucking field, so it would be a lie.
---
If there had been any doubt in Cirucci's mind as to whether or not Grimmjow had been genetically altered in some way, those thoughts were gone. Now she was absolutely sure he must've had something done. Healing that fast from bullet wounds to the stomach was definitely not normal. Hell, if she'd been the one to have been wounded like that, she'd probably still be attached to a hospital respirator even now.
"I see, thank you very much." Cirucci didn't know whether to be apalled at his apparent lack etiquette - this was a relatively nice place, after all - or to give away a look of vague interest. "I believe you." Then her nose crinkled again, lips curling in a devious little grin. "Better watch how much beer you drink, mm? Wouldn't want those washboard abs of yours to look flabby, now would we~?" She couldn't help but taunt. He was practically asking for it, after all.
---
Grimmjow dropped his shirt and drank the rest of the beer down. And then waved the server over for some more--just to show her that he didn't give a fuck at all. Some alcohol wasn't going to make him gain weight, especially not when he made sure to work out daily anyway. You couldn't be a man unless you had muscles that you'd earned. Something Ulquiorra would know nothing about.
"What the fuck are you so concerned about, huh?" Grimmjow asked, putting his other foot on the table as well. "You ain't my fucking mother or wife. Unless you want to marry me. But you'd have to be willing to put up with me for the rest of your fucking life. And you'd have to wear nothing but skirts that'd show that little ass every time you bend over."
---
"Excuse me," she said almost haughtily, a look of teasing, mock-offense on her face. "Did you ever stop to think that I might've been enjoying the view?" Two could play the game of sexist bastard, after all. She took another swig of her White Russian when Grimmjow started in on his second beer, the sight of it making her realize her thirst. The liquid tingled as it slid down her throat.
"Mm. Oh yes, because that's what I aspire to be - your wife." She rolled her eyes, resting an elbow on the table and her cheek in her hand, and hiccuped. Perhaps she'd swallowed that last sip a bit too quickly. "Like hell I'd wear some skanky little getup for you. This," she sat up again and swept a hand over the fabric of her dress, gesturing to the whole of it, "is my look. Reggio Calabria knows me by my excellent taste in clothing." She raised a sassy eyebrow, pursing her lips and eyeing Grimmjow's outfit in turn. "Too bad the same can't be said for you."
---
That made Grimmjow roar with laughter. "Excellent taste in clothing?" he repeated. "If that's excellent taste, then this city's in need of a big fucking rescue. That shit you're wearing ain't that fucking attractive. It makes you look like some kind of doll. You've got the outfit and Ulquiorra's got the fucking emotionless face. Like a fucking perfect match. Maybe you should marry that asshole instead."
Picturing Ulquiorra with anyone was like a nightmare in a comedic novel. The bastard couldn't make any expressions, let alone speak in more than one tone. Having sex with him was probably like fucking a dead body. Poor woman he married, whoever the fuck she ended up being. And if it ended up being Cirucci in some arranged marriage, Grimmjow would attend the wedding just to see the look on the bitch's face.
---
"Oh really?" she shot back. There were a few things that people simply did not dare argue with or insult her about, and one of those things was her wardrobe. "And how the fuck would you know about style, hmm? Look at you!" Cirucci waved her hand in his general direction. "I'm guessing you paid, what, five euros for that entire outfit? If you can even call it that." Maybe it was the booze, but her voice was getting steadily louder. Offended and irritated, she grabbed her drink and choked the rest down in one last-ditch effort to relax herself; she was supposed to be getting on his good side, after all, not picking a fight.
His next words, however, almost made that last gulp of alcohol come right back up again. "Marry Ulquiorra? Like hell!" Cirucci might've found the thought amusing if she wasn't already annoyed and hadn't just finished off a vodka-based drink. "That would never happen. Never. I'd refuse. I'd rather die. I'd slit my own throat before that happened." She glared back at Grimmjow's laughing face, her own as sour as if she'd swallowed a shot of pure lemon juice. "It's not funny."
---
The anger in her voice and on her face only made Grimmjow laugh harder. Fucking women. They thought they were so fucking smart and classy and high up on their pedestal. They had no idea how pathetically low on the food chain and in general they were. That was why they were so fun to bother. Give them a kiss without their permission and they scream and slap. Slap their ass and they kick you in the balls. Insult their hair and they cry. Throw out their cooking and they cry. Tell them they've gained weight and they cry.
Cirucci was so fucking upset over Grimmjow insulting her clothing that it just made him want to do it even more. "Maybe Ulquiorra will like the way you dress," he went on. "You look just as fucking bitchy as he does and you both fuss over what you fucking wear. I don't take an hour every fucking morning to pick out an outfit. I throw on whatever the fuck is clean and comfortable. And then I go outside and don't have to worry about a piece of dust getting onto my fucking shirt."
---
Cirucci was growing livid. "Shut up, shut up!" How could he possibly compare her to someone as dry and lifeless as Ulquiorra? She was anything but. Dry as toast, quiet as a mouse, annoying as your neighbors blasting music at 3 a.m. while you were trying to sleep - that was Ulquiorra. And she, Cirucci, was the opposite, the opposite! Not like him at all! "SHUT UP!" she yelled into his laughing face, rising out of her chair a bit and turning more than a few heads in the process.
'Maybe Ulquiorra will like the way you dress.' No. There was no way. None. She wouldn't even consider it. "Shit, and after I was so goddamn friendly, inviting you out to drink as a treat, and for what?" Cirucci settled back into her seat, the stares of the people around them shaking her back into her senses a bit. "To congratulate you for pulverizing the little freak!" Her voice was lower now but still shrill, like the screech of a bird warning a predator cat to stay away from her nest, or else.
---
Grimmjow felt like his sides might split if he laughed any harder. The little bitch was so fucking priceless when drunk and suddenly he was glad he'd agreed to come out here. After being locked up in a laboratory for days, this was the best fucking gift he could've gotten. Or one of them, anyway. The way Cirucci's voice was screeching like a bird was fucking hysterical. Grimmjow was the cat stalking the bird and the bird rarely got away.
"How about this?" Grimmjow sat up straighter in his chair and took his legs off the table, doing his best to look apologetic. But it was hard, because jackasses couldn't look apologetic. "To make up for being such an un-fucking-gentlemen tonight, I'll give you something." He leaned in closer. "You like presents, don't you, Cirucci?" His voice was practically a purr now, like a cat coaxing his prey. "Ulquiorra would never give such a pretty little lady a present."
---
Now that caught Cirucci completely off guard. She paused, straightened up, looked at him through slightly squinted eyes as if trying to see him clearly through a hazy fog, an almost comical look of surprise and confusion on her face. Had she really had that much to drink? "Depends on what the present is and who's giving it." Ah, so she could still mouth off retorts the way she always could. That was a good sign, at least - it meant she wasn't totally woozy.
Still, there was something about that new voice he was using. Cirucci had never heard it before, ever, and it made her spine tingle and her shoulders shiver, whether from fear or delight she didn't know. She shifted, rocked, moved in her seat as if trying to find a comfortable position, the pair of .45 pistols she kept hidden under the skirt of her dress bumping against her knees. "No, I don't suppose he would." Cirucci gazed at him tentatively, eyes full of blurred suspicion. Shit, why had she ordered such a strong cocktail? "Your point?"
---
Grimmjow grinned. He did a lot of that. The sign of a truly happy man depended upon how much he smiled, and Grimmjow was a very happy man. He might have been completely fucking insane, but he was happy that way. And he was always going to be happy.
Now that Cirucci seemed calmed and interested enough, the entire place wasn't staring at them anymore. The dumb bitch really needed to learn how to hold her alcohol. But he'd said he was going to give her a present, so he was going to give her one. Grimmjow was an asshole, but he wasn't a liar.
With a sigh he pushed out of his chair to go to hers, where she was still sitting in that stupid outfit looking like a princess from some fucked up colony in space. (That shit wasn't cute. She'd look better without it on.) Grimmjow placed a hand on the table, used his other to tilt her pretty face up, and then he leaned down and kissed her. It wasn't like the rough kiss to shock Ulquiorra. Fucking funnily enough, it was a gentle one.
---
Cirucci hadn't liked the way he'd been staring at her from the across the table, like some hungry animal sizing up their next kill, their next meal. She'd liked it even less when he'd actually stood up from his chair and walked over to her, cool and calm as can be. He wouldn't really try to do a stupid thing like break her neck in the middle of all these people, would he?
He'd placed his hand at her setting and leaned in; meanwhile her hand had scrambled to retrieve one of her guns as subtly as possible, fingers made clumsy from the consuption of alcohol. Fuck fuck FUCK. She'd suddenly found herself paralyzed with sudden, unexpected fear, her heart in her throat, blood pulsing - this was it, this was it...
The kiss hadn't lasted long, two or three seconds at best, but it'd been enough to send her mind reeling and spinning more than it already had been from all that goddamn vodka. Cirucci had been the one to break it, pulling back suddenly when her mind finally caught up with the rest of her, kohl-lined violet eyes staring up at like the shiny eyes of a bird pinned beneath of paw of a cat. Apprehensive, unsure, and wary - all her favorite emotions, really - she said the only thing that made sense to say. "Are you trying to fuck with me?!"
---
At least he hadn't been shot again. It had fucking hurt enough a few days ago when it had happened to him and he really hadn't wanted to feel that another time. Cirucci's response was more like a woman's, although he had expected to be slapped. Maybe she was too drunk to remember how to slap. And she was probably too drunk to remember this later once the alcohol had left her head.
Looking like a smug bastard, he tweaked her nose before moving away. "I guess you'll just have to fucking figure that out on your own," he replied with a careless shrug. "Now I guess you fucking know I'm not into guys like you'd convinced yourself."
It was about time to be leaving anyway, and this was the perfect opportunity. He'd not only gotten Cirucci to shut the fuck up, but he'd managed to kiss her without being wounded. And he'd made her confused. It was the perfect fucking way to close out such a great evening. He'd gotten free beer, too. Couldn't forget that fucking gem. All for making Ulquiorra freak the fuck out. Maybe when he killed the bastard, Cirucci would cook him dinner like a good little woman.
Before Grimmjow turned away, he added with a smirk: "You're a better kisser than that asshole, too."
---
She was on her feet in an instant - a little shakily, perhaps, but on them nonetheless. Fists clenched, eyes narrowed, mouth partially open in offense, Cirucci's gaze bored into Grimmjow's face with such loathing, she half expected it to alight in flames - and when it didn't, she wished heartily that it had.
What to do, what to do! The question spun in her head. Smack him? Punch him? Blow a bullet into his head? Every option was more delicious than the last, but none satisfied her completely; none suited her hunger for getting back at him somehow, anyhow, just as long as it left him with a scowl and her with a smirk.
Then, suddenly, it came to her. Perfect. Cirucci took a deep breath and let it out slowly, taking in the anxious glances that were shooting their way now that they both were on their feet. She shook her shoulders out slowly, almost sensually, calming herself down. Patience Cirucci, patience, she told herself. Slinging the thin chain of her purse over her shoulder, she glanced down at her feet, lips pursed to the side, as if thinking something over. "Really." A moment later and her eyes were on Grimmjow's face again, and she stood taller, biting her lower lip playfully and raising an eyebrow. "But I wasn't really kissing back, you know. You caught me by surprise."
---
Grimmjow knew she was either too drunk to know what she was doing, or not drunk enough and was fucking with him. Women weren't to be trusted and the only reason he'd kissed her was because he could. Fucking around with people didn't interest him. He liked fighting. He liked killing. He liked pissing people off and making women cry. Everything else he could probably do without. But he turned to face her again anyway and reached out with a hand to touch her cheek.
What a little bitch she was. Whatever she had planned wasn't going to work. Grimmjow could practically see the wheels in her head turning as she planned whatever the fuck she was planning. ...Unless she really was drunk off her fucking ass. Grimmjow leaned in as if he were going to kiss her again.
"I take everyone by surprise," he whispered into her ear.
Then he placed his fingers on her forehead and shoved her back in the direction of her chair. Like fucking hell he was going to fall for any shit of hers. Grimmjow didn't have the desire to get himself into trouble with a bitch of a woman trying to gut him as he slept.
---
It was a bit like having the wind knocked out of her, having her body shoved back into her seat like that. Cirucci fell back and winced, groaned under her breath, and scowled up at him through the bit of dull pain she felt from being forced into what she know realized was a very solid piece of furniture.
Ooh, how she hated this. One measly little plan, one that hadn't revolved around blood or pain or bullets - she had no intention of actually hurting him until he'd butchered Ulquiorra, at least not if she could help it - and he had to fuck it up. Why? Because he was stronger. Bigger. Faster. Superior. He was more and she was less. And just that itsy little thought was enough to eat at her.
Cirucci pushed herself up into a standing position again despite the ache that crowded the muscles that'd slammed into the dark wood and patted her hairline. Just as she thought: her hairpin had been knocked crooked. "I'll be in the ladies' room," she huffed, features hardened as she whirled and headed toward the sign at the back of the building. "Wait there."
---
Grimmjow watched her walk away with a grin. She wasn't even going to yell at him for throwing her back into her chair. But the little bitch really thought he was going to wait for her? Fucking whatever. Now he was curious to see what she was going to do when she came back. Did she think she could try to make herself look prettier and more appealing? No fucking way. Grimmjow wasn't interested in that shit.
Regardless, he did wait, if only because Cirucci was amusing as fuck, and getting reactions out of her was entertaining. The bitch was able to make expressions unlike Ulquiorra, which meant fucking with her head was a better way to pass the time.
Maybe she'd gone to the bathroom to cry. Grimmjow hoped she had. Then she could come out with red eyes and he could laugh at her for being such a fucking woman.
---
Cirucci turned to glance over her shoulder as she disappeared into the bathroom. So he wasn't following her. All the better. She sauntered over to the mirror, vision still a little hazy from the alcohol. With slightly unsteady hands she fixed her hair, repositioning the pin at her brow and patting down her curls. All the while her mind was overflowing with thoughts of hatred for Grimmjow, and frustration at ever having decided to take him out in any capacity, no matter what alterior motive she'd had.
She reached for the sink faucet and turned it on, then leaned over the bowl to splash a little cool water on her face. Cirucci didn't care if her makeup smeared; at this point all she wanted was to wake up, wash away the fog of booze in her head and get out. She looked up again, disgusted at the many tiny rivulets of eyeliner and mascara running down her face. Angrily she reached for a nearby towel and wiped the black smears away. She disliked her appearance even more without her standard cosmetic mask.
Tossing the used towel aside, Cirucci glanced around the bathroom curiously. It was rather nice, actually, all shades of dusty pink, gold embellishments, polished wood...and a pretty little screen-covered window, right near the ceiling, right where it should be. Excellent. Cirucci grinned and headed to the side of one of the stalls.
Thank God the wood was carved; it made it that much easier to climb the side, swing up onto the top of it, and kick the screen in. The opening itself was just big enough for her petite frame to slip through, though the same could not be said for her dress; she winced at the pronounced rrrrrrrrip that accompanied her fall to the ground outside. She landed on her feet and recovered quickly, clutching the shredded remains of one part of her skirt, and walked off in the same cool, careless manner with which she usually carried herself. Hopefully Grimmjow had enough cash on him to take care of the bill.
---
Grimmjow waited about two more minutes before it dawned on him that the little bitch wasn't coming back. What a fucking slut. It wasn't surprising, considering she was a woman. Women tended to be sneaky about things rather than being upfront. That was fine. Grimmjow wasn't about to pay for the alcohol, either. The money he earned was for himself, not some little bitch. So Grimmjow asked the server for a pen which he used to write Cirucci's full name down on a napkin. The napkin he gave to the owner of the store, telling him that Cirucci had decided not to pay for the bill she'd racked up. The man's best luck was to bill her through the mail.
Grimmjow left with his hands in his pockets, grinning to himself. Wouldn't she be surprised when the bill for the drinks came in her mailbox? The dumb broad thought she'd get away with it, too. Grimmjow would have loved to see her expression when she opened the bill. But he had better things to do. Now he needed to go home and wait to hear from Ulquiorra since he didn't know where the bastard lived. After that, he'd destroy him. Now that was something he was looking forward to.
And then maybe he'd find Cirucci again and play with her entrails for a little while.