Nuclear Fusion and Gravity
By: WhisperedSilvers
Prompt: "They always said I could sleep when I die—what a shitty lie."
Summary: It's a different time and a different place—and change is necessary. —Grimmjow/Rukia
"You know you aren't someone I would like to wake up to," Rukia finally says, her knees are locked and she stares at him as if he's something she's never seen before.
She finds him on the cloud—ground, thing—whatever, but it's her spot and he's in it.
She notices that his eyes are glass blue and that they glitter like a thousand facets in the sun, he replies gruffly, "I could say the same thing, princess."
She frowns and refrains from shoving her fist into his gut, scoffing she brings her knees up, she's standing and he doesn't seem to be the least bit intimidated, "Then why call me princess?"
"You don't exactly look like someone who had to struggle to get their way in life."
Rukia's jaw clicks hard enough from him to hear it, her tone is neutral, and she replies, "You don't know me."
Grimmjow smirks, his teeth curling, and sky blue eyes crease like gems, "Would you like me to?"
"Have you forgotten that you implanted your fist in my stomach or did that small detail slip your mind?"
"Oh," He blinks and surprisingly he seems genuinely stunned, but that picture shatters as he scowls, "The fuck' you talk so proper?"
Rukia tries not to show how thrown off she is at the question—the quick and seamless change in direction, "Why do you use so much profanity?"
He snorts and sits up, muscles ripple and tighten under his loose shirt, "Because I sound badass—"
"You sound stupid," And it was her deadpanned answer that had him sputter.
She tries to not laugh, because it's the cold, hard truth that he once tried to kill her and her friends and the world that they—used to live in.
"The fuck is that supposed to mean—"
"An idiot actually, but I'm trying to be civil."
Grimmjow can't help it by the way he talks, his first extinct is to hit and talk later. Violence grows heady in his blood, he is a creature of violence, of recklessness, of power and he spits out unapologetically, "Civil my ass, are you trying to pick a fight?"
"Well—"
"Let's go you little—"
Rukia raises an eyebrow and replies calmly, "Please tell me how you are going to fight me without a zanpakuto."
Grimmjow pauses abruptly in his rant, fingers flailing like pieces of wood that happens to tumble off of a branch, ricocheting bones and taut flesh. Rukia concludes, that it hadn't occurred to him that he was—well they were dead. Or at least what she can tell—the next level of death.
He seems speechless and she doesn't know if that's a good thing, he sputters and chokes, "So I—I'm dead? You're dead? As if—you're pussy-ass would've died long ago—"
Rukia doesn't care for the sharp ache in her elbow; she's completely satisfied when it lodges into his stomach, stealing the wind out of his lungs. Maybe they—she wasn't a god, but that contradicted the idea she's been thinking about since she got to this other realm.
Even gods can be killed.
"Am I glad Ichigo killed you," And she couldn't tell when she said that, that she was being honest or sarcastic.
Grimmjow couldn't tell either so he winces rubbing his stomach, teeth sharper than blades, "The bastard killed me—?! Me?!"
"Sure."
She isn't completely sure, but it's enough to get under his skin, and so it's perfectly all right.
"And who killed you?"
It struck an odd chord with her, because she wasn't exactly sure. The memory of her death seems like a far away thought. Shades of darkness and soft hands, sharp moves and bright blades, Rukia answers back honestly, "I don't know."
He feels pity for her and she knows.
He can't say it nicely, but his voice is soft, "How pathetic, y'don't know the face of your killer."
She shrugs, "I don't really care—I know we are going to forget it soon,"
"Our memories?"
"What else?"
It is a known fact that once you die—once you really die, you get sent to another realm other than the Soul Society, or at least that is what they were taught to believe in. Which made sense of course, that there were levels of death rather than just one.
The place that they were both sent to had green skies and blue grounds, it was as if the world they had known was completely flipped and that sleeping on cloud was not as romanticized in the World of the Living as it should be—it's much, much better.
"Oi. Princess!"
"What?"
"What's your name?" Grimmjow asks a bit hesitantly, he knows he's going to see her, a lot because, who else is he going to see? It's better that he has her name rather than call her Princess, because a lot of fucks will start to piss him off sooner or later.
"You don't remember?" Her eyes are purple—soft amethyst and they glitter like silver and he forgets how to speak for a moment because he doesn't remember her eyes ever being so purple.
He blinks sky blue orbs and speaks, "I—no."
She scoffs and stands up, her knees creak and she shakes her head, "Well you did try to kill me. My name's Rukia—" She bites her tongue, because when she died, she became Rukia, "Just Rukia."
He grins crookedly, a bit too maniacal and she noticed that the hollow mask on the side of his face isn't present, and so she can see the whole of his jaw. The sturdiness and the square-ness of him—his masculine energy radiates smugly. She doesn't tell him of course.
"So then you know who I am?"
"Of course," Rukia deadpans, "Grimmjow."
His name isn't supposed to sound like silk in his ears—especially from her mouth. He tries not to focus on that part of her anatomy; he drops his gaze to her chin, "Tch, so now what?"
She raises her eyebrows and he would know that if he back up at her eyes, her voice is touched with surprise, "You're asking me?"
"Why not?"
She doesn't bother to hide her smile, "We move forward."
Trying to get back into the swing of things.
Just wanna try something—
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