Liar, Liar-
dis.claimed.

He wasn't surprised when he found her room empty—futon cold and unruffled—he'd expected as much when he slid in. Gin never questioned whatever his various impulses bade him to do, whether it was to conduct a mutiny and betray dozens of comrades (and her soft, soft curves that disguised a hard, hard heart) or sneak into one of said comrades' rooms and slink around like a predator awaiting the prey to enter into its trap.

Right now, he didn't have the foresight to construct any such trap.

(He did.

He omitted much, though, and lied about much more.)

So he waited and pouted and didn't wonder (care) what Aizen or Tousen would think when they went looking for him and he wasn't to be found.

They shouldn't be surprised, really—years of knowing her had made him pick up the habit of never being where he belonged.

He knew where she was. He could tell you the exact place in which she slept, the exact position that she lay in and exactly whose bed she had been to earlier to visit before returning to her favored couch—because she told him he was an unnerving person to be observed by and that gave him all the more pleasure in watching her. Gin, ex-Third Captain and traitor (No, traitor) and addressed commonly by Ichimaru-san, instead of any more familiar term—anyway, with the company of all these titles and such, he was not lonely tonight.

So, he had known where she wouldn't be and tried not to dwell on where she would be and he had gone to anywhere but where she was. (Because he was the sort of man that knew exactly how hard to push someone to get his way.)

He wanted her to come on her own terms.

Maybe she'd rationalize (she wouldn't—she doesn't omit and doesn't lie, but what she does is something far more dangerous), maybe she'd chose him over it all (she wouldn't, he'd decided on his lot over her and she was fair enough just to be cruel), maybe she'd let herself fade into apathy and submit to the heavy burdens on her soul (he knew better than even Kira that when things got heavy, she let them go). Maybe, maybe.

Maybe she'd come to him one night—this night—and let her hard heart thump into his right palm as soft curves shuddered with tension.

So he waited for a queen in a room she'd never go to and sat like a king that had no throne. He wondered why she never was where she belonged and knew that now, more than ever, she belonged at his side.

If he had no foresight this night and was not lonely with harsh, heavy titles (he does, he is)—he hoped that his beautiful captor had touched the pillow on his futon and noticed warmth.

Maybe she'd know where to go.