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It's peculiar. You were always prone to seeing these strange, unexplainable things, but they never bothered giving you chase. Yet, you also know that you should stay away from them.
You're coming back from work and the moment you set foot inside your apartment, you come face to face with this... guy. You don't look phased at all, and with a blink, you turn back around to close the door fully.
The blue-haired man appears to find this amusing, a wolfish grin overtaking his face as he continues to lounge on your sofa, some torn package in hand. He thinks you cannot see him.
Then you look at him head-on, and with unnatural nonchalance, you address him. "Who the hell are you?"
"You can see me?" he retorts, and it doesn't answer your question.
You examine the apartment ― the hall has suffered no damage, it seems. Judging by the gaping hole in his abdomen and the part of a mask on his face (reminiscent of the creatures roaming about), though, you can tell he's not human. So you don't bother with pleasantries such as asking how he broke inside your residence.
Your awareness of his presence intrigues him. "You ain't scared?"
"No," you answer as you stare at your nails as if they're more interesting than whatever is going on.
"You're one dumb human, then," he says, coming closer with wannabe intimidation and exaggerated swagger. You almost roll your eyes at his antics.
"Why are you eating that raw?" You point at the meat in his hands. There are obviously missing chunks of it.
The tilt of his head communicates his confusion at your change in subject. "What the hell do you want me to do with it?"
"You're supposed to cook it," you explain with a deadpan. "Or you'll get salmonella."
"I'm immune to your dumb, weakling diseases!" he screams, strangely defensive. Though, if he has to be honest, he had been wondering why it tasted like shit.
You flinch at the volume of his voice. "Alright." Then you try to grab the remnants of frozen chicken from him, but he doesn't budge, and the tug of war isn't going in your favor.
"The fuck!? Stop it," he says through gritted teeth.
You're in slight disbelief at his insistence to keep what's yours, but you don't show it. He doesn't notice the way you pick your words oh-so-carefully, either. "I'm gonna cook it for you."
"Oh?"
You don't expect him to follow you, but he does. The curiosity radiating out of him, he doesn't bother concealing. You make your way to the kitchen and grace the state of it with an impassive stare. It got raided, and the unknown man beams with pride at his handiwork. He lets you take the package this time and observes as you step over the spilled beans on the floor and move to a counter.
You do your thing, undisturbed. While putting the seasoning, you ask, "What's your name?"
"Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez." The shit-eating grin on his face tells you he's proud of that, for whatever reason.
"How tacky."
"You said something?"
"Nah, just talking to myself," you lie.
"Who are you, human?"
"[L/n] [Y/n]."
Despite asking, he doesn't acknowledge your answer. And in spite of his unhidden interest in your behavior, or how strange these circumstances are, you keep up the composed bravado. "So, you see the Hollows?"
"I don't know what that is," you say, as you continue preparing the meat.
"They swing by often? You don't have spiritual pressure, though," he continues.
"I said I don't know. Fuck." A monotone even when you were trying to show frustration.
"Fuck," he mocks, trying to imitate your voice.
It goes silent after that, and you finish your task by sliding the chicken into the oven. Grimmjow doesn't let up his lingering even when you begin cleaning the mess he made, his eyes fixed on your figure as you rearrange cupboards and throw away the aforementioned beans.
"Why are you here?" you question.
"Why aren't you shitting your pants in fear?"
"What do you have against giving a simple answer?"
It frustrates him, in a way, how you're so casual. Yet you've promised him a meal, and you probably wouldn't have a tasty soul, so his incentive to attack you is low. You don't pose a challenge in a fight, as you're nothing more than a hyper perceptive human.But your attitude is another topic. Grimmjow grins again, at the thought of getting you to cower. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, but don't comment on his maniacal expression.
"I like this place. Fitting for a King," he says, gesturing towards your shitty kitchen.
"How so?" You don't mean this in a snappy way, really. There are many nicer apartments in Karakura Town, though, so you don't know where this is coming from.
"And a more powerful human than most civilians. I've got great instinct."
You groan at his monologue. "I'd have more luck getting a wall to reply to me."
"Doesn't matter," he says, with a dismissive glance in your direction. You, again, don't seem to react to his provocation.
After another period of silence, you see that the chicken is good to eat. You retrieve it, and Grimmjow tries to grab it with his bare hand, to which you retaliate with a light slap. "No. Cutlery."
"You're testing your luck, touchin' me like that," he warns, like his mood has suddenly changed from somewhat playful to aggressive.
"Wait, a second." You figure if he can disregard anything you say, you're free to do the same to him. He grunts at that, furrowing his brows in a rather nasty twist of his face, which you consider a hypocritical response.
Figuring he's not to be trusted around knives or anything sharp, much less in your vicinity after you've ignored him, you cut both your meals after moving them on two plates. You place them on the table and motion him to eat as you put down forks.
You see him disregard the fork and straight up gobble down the pieces after he's lifted the plate high enough for them to fall down into his mouth. However, you're too tired to argue any more about his table manners and so you leave it be.
Feeling the urge to piss, you disappear without notice. Not like someone like Grimmjow would lose track of you, anyway.
When you come back, both of the dishes appear to have been licked clean. "Hey. You ate mine," you say, scowling.
"Not my fault the size of your pissy meal was miniscule."
"Not my fault someone ate like, half of it raw either," you shoot back. It's the equivalent of sub-tweeting him to his face. You wonder if he even knows what Twitter is, but you disregard the idiotic thought soon enough.
His stare in your direction is challenging, like he's daring you to retort to him one more time and live to see the sequences. Despite your rather vapid demeanor, you're sure the last thing you want to do right now is test him, and so all you do is let out a light huff from your nose.
With nothing to eat, courtesy of your guest who you'd like to push down the stairs, you decide it's time to call it a night and begin doing your routine. After you feign going to sleep, Grimmjow grows bored quickly and disappears. You wonder what this was all about.
You didn't expect Grimmjow to return. Again, and again, and again.
It's not like you see him every day, but it's still too often for it to be comfortable. He's gross in the way he tried to pick up a spaghetti string with his fingers from your bowl and slurp it, which inevitably made you frown. Shenanigans like that aren't uncommon for him.
You come back from work only to see him seated on your sofa once more, like he owns the place, and you're convinced that's what he believes, too. Not bothering with a greeting, you go to drop your stuff off until you notice the slight noise in the background.
He found out how to turn the TV on, didn't he? You think to yourself with narrowed eyes and imminent displeasure. He's the type that would blow the machinery to bits if it plays a show he doesn't like, so this isn't an outcome you were looking forward to.
"The box is playing some dumb shit," he says, and you catch the hint of dangerous dissatisfaction.
"The―" Well, no need to correct him, you suppose, and then halt your sentence. "It's chill, I'll change it." Now comes the hard part. You take a minute to come up with something safe that a brute like him would enjoy. Wrestling, maybe?
His interest seems somewhat piqued once you switch the channel. You figure you're free to retreat to your room, but your gaze lingers on whatever's playing. Grimmjow notices this and scoffs. "You know that shit is fake, right?"
"Of course I know that," you retort, your eye twitching. He literally just saw wrestling for the first time less than five minutes ago. Why is he lecturing you?
"Well, you're staring at it pretty hard," he accuses.
You shrug before pointing at one figure on the screen. "I like this guy." You're not sure you know the wrestler's name, but that's none of Grimmjow's business.
"Whatever. You know, I could do these things for real," he says, boastful. You'd like to add 'all of a sudden' to this statement, but it's more like a default setting with him. God forbid anyone in this universe is interested in something that isn't him or his prowess.
"I'm sure," you relent, albeit sounding tired.
"Are you makin' fun of me?" Great, now it appears he took your agreement as sarcasm. With an obvious scowl on his face, he stands up from the couch and takes a stance, as if he's a second away from fighting you. The fuck?
You take a step back and then remind yourself to run away, best to duck and hide somewhere. You're pretty sure he doesn't know how the washing machine works yet, so maybe if you could trap yourself inside―
The sound of a loud laugh interrupts your not-so-clever scheming. You cringe as Grimmjow has a field day making fun of you, entering the kitchen just so he could grace you with his condescension. "You're so gullible, damn."
"Well, you looked pretty serious back there," you say, feigning composure as if you hadn't just contemplated trying to fight for your life against an Arrancar or whatever he said he was. Of course, you're sure if he had any plans of hurting you, he would've already done so. But considering how moody he is, that reasoning is never a guarantee.
He leans against the doorframe, then hums. "I guess I could be a talented actor."
"One of your many virtues, Grimmjow," you reply with a fake smile, this time trying to piss him off on purpose as revenge for his so-called prank. You're not even sure he was acting, despite how he's trying to play it off.
He clicks his tongue in retaliation, but doesn't try to convince you of anything either, which is uncharacteristic. He reclaims his spot on the sofa soon after, and you figure you're free to go to your room.
Once you put on different clothes and return to where he is, you notice he's still watching the wrestling channel. You take a seat a few inches away from him, though once you turn your attention to the TV, he turns it off and discards the remote on a nearby table.
You eye him suspiciously. "What's your problem now?"
"Nothing," he says, giving you a mischievous look.
"I wanted to watch." There's a hint of whining in your tone, even though you know it's wasted effort on your part. No, Grimmjow is not one to be moved by begging or videos of homeless cats or any other manipulation tactic the average modern person would attempt exerting on him.
He offers nothing to your request, and you stand up to retrieve the remote. You can tell he's gawking at you again, and you're only half-surprised when he waits for you to be a movement away from grabbing it, only to snatch it before you can.
"Why are you like this?" you deadpan.
Grimmjow juggles the remote between his hands. "I'm pretty great. Why aren't you like this?"
You attempt to pounce on him and take it, even if you don't care too much about watching sweaty men. It's a matter of principle. Who does he think he is, making himself at home in your apartment without paying rent, and hogging your belongings as the cherry on top?
He evades you, your sorry ass landing where he was once sitting. Putting his free hand on his hip in a gesture unlike himself, Grimmjow stares at you with a smile that's a bit too sharp around the edges to hide good intentions, looking rather pleased with himself. Though, if you had to pin it down, he always looks self-satisfied, so it's not a bright observation by any means.
You hug your knees to your chest and defy him with an impassive stare, not willing to play along with his strange ways of entertaining himself anymore.
"Aw, you quit?" he asks, voice dripping with mock pity.
You wave him off and turn to leave the room once again. At your refusal to engage him any longer, Grimmjow weaponizes a trait he doesn't acknowledge having ― pettiness. With a frown, he darts his eyes around the room until he finds a spot that's inconvenient enough to shove the remote in so you wouldn't find it.
Small evils count too.
Grimmjow likes you in the way he doesn't realize humans revere the mundane, sometimes.
Not to say your personality is boring; sure, you could be a bit of a killjoy, but it's a part of the dynamic. It's just that you're so normal, with a job and your own territory (apartment, you correct in his head) and shit. Kurosaki and the woman who restored his arm, they're not similar to you at all. Your normalcy is entertaining.
He bears a begrudging respect for you. You cannot put up a proper fight, but you're the one who knows how to fix the TV, do laundry, cook, unclog the toilet, whatever is viable on Earth. You have the potential to be a warlord in the human realm, surely.
"You're late," he points out, bored, once he hears the click of the door. You find it a bit redundant. Like you know most things he points out to you, you're aware of this as well.
"My boss held me back for a thing," you explain, though it's not an answer as much as it's filler. You drop the bags you've been holding on the way back. "I bought some stuff to make Beef Wellington again. I remember you liked it."
"Say what?"
"Beef Wellington, remember? The meat inside th―"
"No, before that," he grunts, growing annoyed at your inability to decipher his vague and nonsensical hints. Appalling.
You discard your shoes with no care, not in the mood to be precise. "My boss held me back?" You're not sure if that's what he wants to hear, you see no reason for him to. It's nothing interesting, or a recent occurrence.
"Just kill him and take his post," he says. At first you think he's stating his profound advice like that's a normal suggestion to make, but when you take a glance at him, you find the situation is worse than what you first thought. He's standing there with a proud smirk on his face and his chest puffed out, arms crossed over it. If arrogance had a smell, he'd be stinky right now.
"What? No, the only thing I'll take that way is a charge," you rebut, stretching your arms over your head.
"Well, how'd your boss become a boss, then?" he asks, as if he's making a valid point.
"I don't know. Grindset or something," you reply. You wonder if he knows what that slang is. Of course he doesn't, but unwilling to appear any more ignorant than you may find him (and under the assumption that you've just uttered a sophisticated term), he doesn't admit it out loud.
"You people make no sense. Killing him clearly means you've surpassed him."
"What if he's an accountant or something? Where do we go from there?"
"What the fuck is an accountant?"
"So, you guys don't do finances," you conclude while you put your finger on your chin as if you're in thought.
"Of course not," he says, again with unnecessary fulfilment. "If I want something, I take it and leave. Who's gonna stop me? That shit is all a waste of time." Again, this is a sentence you'd like to start with 'sometimes I forget' and the rest goes like 'Grimmjow's bragging can make Kanye West seem well-adjusted' but it's not quite possible.
You waste enough time with him to make it impossible to forget.
"Bold words coming from someone who needs me to pay for his groceries while he's here." A pause as he interrupts you with a grunt and a gratuitous display of his middle finger in your general direction. "Hey, Grimmjow, really, why are you hanging around here?"
You tilt your head and await an explanation.
"Things get stale at Hueco Mundo," he says. You've come to recognize the name by now. He mentions it in passing whenever he feels like sharing his braggadocios stories with you. There's even an idea of how it looks in your mind, though you doubt you'll ever know if it's true. "Gotta swing by here, eat a few Hollows to remind them who's boss, try new things Harribel doesn't know 'bout. You know how it is."
You, in fact, don't know how it is. Still, you don't find it urgent to oppose that part of his speech. "Oh, so it's like an ego thing?"
"I guess," he concedes.
"I guess," you parrot. "I just can't accept that the great Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez―"
"Watch it with your sarcasm!"
"―would end up leeching off of me. Those kinds of things don't happen to me, y'know?"
"About time something interesting happened to you, then. I dunno what to tell you," he says, grinning.
You like Grimmjow in the way people get accustomed to their annoyances and begin expecting them, then feel irritated when they don't occur.
"Holy fuck. It's so hot."
You turn at the sound of Grimmjow's complaining. Now, him doing that is not a rare sight, but this time you might have to agree with him. You're not sure what the deal with this sudden heatwave is, but it's worse than usual.
"I know, right?" you mutter in agreement, repositioning yourself on the sofa. There's no cool surface.
He scoffs at you like you're in charge of the weather and like this is a personal attack towards him. You return the gesture until you figure the situation is bad enough to turn the air conditioning on. Even if the machine is a sputtering pile of shit.
You experiment with the settings, and when they're to your liking, you press the button and wait. Then wait some more. And nothing happens. You're about to cuss out in realization that the thing finally broke, but you're interrupted by a puff.
Hopeful, you await the breeze, but it turns out it was a false alarm. The good old AC has reached its limit. Goodbye, sweet prince, you think to yourself before you're graced with an idea from your beautiful mind.
"What're you standing around like an idiot for?" Despite the insult, his usual bite isn't into it. The heat is taking something out of him, for better or for worse.
"Grimmjow," you say, trying your best to sound pleading. "I need your help to make the weather more bearable."
He doesn't seem too keen on offering his services, but your offer tempts him. You can tell he's considering what you said already, making your lips twitch up. At the sight of your half-smile, he averts his eyes and grumbles, "Help with what?"
You point at the air conditioner. "First, you gotta take that down."
"Well, that's no problem for me," he all but declares before flexing his physique. You stifle a laugh at his alpha male complex or whatever it is that dictates his behavior, though you suppose with stuff like this, you don't mind having a thoughtless hunk around.
You tell him how to detach it from the ceiling, though you're not too concerned with the state of it as you intend to throw it away. Leaving him to deal with it, you go to your room and dress up for phase two of the plan.
Grimmjow stands as he holds the air conditioner over his head when you return. "How does that help? And why are you all dressed up?"
"We're not done yet." You motion towards the door next before heading towards it and grabbing your key.
Grimmjow understands this as a cue you want him to follow you outside. "Are we doing your stupid shopping thing?"
"Just watch, ok," you say, hinting at a promise.
The walk there is quiet for the most part, except for your instructions to throw the air conditioner in one of the big garbage disposals and Grimmjow's cynical commentary about everything. You tune him out by the time he complains about how 'the sun is the most useless human invention' ― because he knows it's not how it works, he's just trying to piss you off.
Once you're rid of the broken possession, you lead the way towards the mall.
"It's worse out here."
"Shut up, bro." You roll your eyes at his impatience, and you're pretty sure he didn't hear your whisper because he doesn't respond with any empty threats. He could be such a drama queen sometimes, not that you'd ever tell him, though. No, you don't have a death wish.
When you make it to the techmart, you head towards the section with the air conditioners. Grimmjow frowns and wonders what the difference is between all these different models, except the price tag with numbers high enough to consider it blasphemous. Still, despite a lot of contemplation, he comes up short.
To be honest, you're not an expert yourself either, so after some dwelling, you make your choice. As you're talking to an employee to help ring you up, the unknown man raises an eyebrow when you say you don't want to pay for shipping. Grimmjow picks at his ear absent mindedly.
"Do you plan on carrying this by yourself?"
He almost interrupts to say he'll take care of it, but he remembers most of the people around here can't see him. Right. Kind of puts a dent in his plans of intervening and proving he's superior in strength, compared to whoever this guy is. Blergh.
"It's fine," you assure. The employee helps you bring it to the cash register, and soon enough you have secured secured the air conditioner.
"You really plan on dragging it like this?" Grimmjow asks, skeptical as he watches you push the box on the floor, primarily using your feet to kick it ahead. As if that's not counterproductive, considering you had to make this purchase because the old one broke. Yeah, you could carry it for a bit, but you're not trying to get sore arms when tomorrow is a workday.
"Just until we go outside. The streets on the way I know are empty, so it's not a problem."
"You're just being dumb," he says, helpful as ever.
"What would people think, if they saw a floating box near me?"
"I don't know. That you're a fuckin' magician."
"You think you're funny, huh?" you retort with a sigh when you see his smirk as if he has just told you a comedy gold one-liner.
"And now they think you're talking to yourself," he adds on, which reminds you of the times when you used to ask him questions and he'd go on tirades, leaving your often valid inquires ignored.
The first thing Orihime thinks when she sees you and Grimmjow bicker from a fair distance away is that she must be delirious, perhaps half-asleep. After she rubs her eyes and pinches herself, the scene in front of her stays the same ― the passersby are still staring at you with a mix of pity and concern, while you're having a harmless interaction with the bloodthirsty Espada she recalls healing a few years back.
If she told Ichigo about this development, the way you're coexisting with that man in relative peace at the moment, he'd probably go buy a diaper just so he can shit himself out of shock. So, she'll spare him the detail.
This air conditioner thing turns out to be a brilliant investment. Grimmjow loves it; so long as he doesn't have to feel like he's burning inside Aizen's asshole, whatever that may entail, his qualms about your stupid scheme of pushing it around before he could handle it may go forgotten.
He prefers to visit you on the two days you're free. When your apartment is empty, there's no one to bother or brag to, which makes it no fun. So when at some point in the afternoon you put on attire he knows means you'll be going outside, he's disappointed. "You goin' to the store or something?"
"I'm going on a date," you say. It's rather clinical. You don't sound enthusiastic, but he knows better by now. Your inflection or expression doesn't betray the way you feel or what you're thinking most times.
"That stupid mating ritual you people do?" he asks, and though he oozes calmness, he must be annoyed. Grimmjow isn't prone to belittling you if you haven't irritated him, however, you don't know what the problem is.
"Mating. Such a gross word," you reply, and the comment itself is off-handed. Neither confirmation nor a denial. You don't think he'd understand this practice in the way you do.
"Right. Does your 'date' know you share your territory with another guy?"
"The hell are you talking about?" You scratch your head. How many times have you told him this is an apartment, anyway? He has to be doing it on purpose by now, or he might be stubborn enough to not let that terminology go.
"Nothing," he claims, before looking away from you and standing up to disappear through the window with one hand in his pocket. If you're going to be away, he sees no reason to hang around here, as much as he pays homage to the AC.
You think this isn't just about him misunderstanding things about humans anymore. After what you view as a pointless tantrum, and still unharmed after an altercation much to your disbelief, you feel empty.
Grimmjow doesn't come back for a while after that. As much as he is an inconvenience ― be it to your nerves, or your furniture, or your finances ― you can't help the loneliness that lingers around you in his absence. You got too used to it, you figure. (It was fun. In a strange and fucked up way, you'd been entertained through the property damage.)
It's a bit naïve for you to think that he'd abandon something he considers his, though. Even if he has no reason to call dibs over your apartment, once he got the idea in his head, it was next to impossible to talk him out of it.
You're about to bring a cup of coffee to your lips when you hear a rustle, then the harsh thud of a door closing. You almost drop what you're holding before you turn around, face-to-face with the unpleasant fellow you were thinking about.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," he says, somewhat disinterested, hunching down with his usual arrogant posture.
"Aren't you dead?" you deadpan.
He shakes his head aggressively as if to shake off your comment. "Stop being a smartass!"
You laugh a little. Grimmjow perks up at the noise, somewhat, then his mouth moves into that unpredictable thin line again as he examines the living room. He appears skeptical, like he was expecting changes.
"Where's the human?"
You tilt your head. "What?"
"The one you went on a date with," he clarifies, frustration laced in his tone at your obliviousness.
"Why would he be here? I never saw him again." You rise your eyebrows. Grimmjow could be so presumptuous sometimes, and for no reason. "He was boring."
"Oh?" he says, with an underlying hint of triumph. "You don't like 'em like that?"
"Yes. The entire time on our date I was thinking to myself, damn I wish someone would come and break all my dishes except the one that's dirty," you reply with sarcasm once you notice the way he took your comment.
"And I'd do it again," he threatens. You think. He's the type of person who gets into certain situations just to make a point of the fact he can, and without repercussions, too.
"Then, when he paid for my dinner I was like, I really wish he'd just mooch off of me," you continue. "It's been so hard. Why were you gone for two months? I had no idea what to do with myself."
He opts to ignore your obvious jabs at him. "Can't hang 'round this shithole too long," says Grimmjow, though you think part of it is bullshit. He'd tucked his tail like a wounded animal the last time you talked to him. Clearly he took offense to something, but you doubt he'll admit it. "So, what? Are you free today, or are you gonna go off on some date again?"
So that's what it was, you conclude. His entitled ass thinks I have to spend every waking moment with him. You take a seat on the familiar sofa before answering. "I'm fine for today. You ever go on dates in that Hueco Mundo place?"
He clicks his tongue. "I don't need anyone."
"Neither do I." You shrug.
Grimmjow sits much closer than what you're used to this time, and manspreads as a maniacal grin overtakes his face. You fiddle with the remote until you find the wrestling channel. All he says is, "Good."