Disclaimer: Bleach does not belong to me, and I make no money from this.
XIX.
Epilogue
Two Years Ago:
For Ulquiorra Cifer, the best time to be in Tokyo is winter. Winter is grey asphalt and white snow and black coats, and the biting cold that helps him stay numb. He ignores the chattering of the Sexta beside him, choosing to focus on their boss, Sosuke Aizen.
Normally, bodyguards would be shoving people out of the way, so that the gang leader could walk, undisturbed, on the sidewalk. But not Sosuke Aizen, surrounded by his white-clad Espada. The pedestrians get out of his way, averting their eyes.
He hears the whispers of, "Monsters", "Espada bastards", and even, "Green-eyed demon."
'Trash,' Ulquiorra thinks contemptuously, striding a few feet behind Mr. Aizen, guarding the rear. It is not like this is new, so he pays no mind to the hissed words, and continues on his way.
A sudden movement on the side has him springing into action, pulling out his weapon and shoving it against the chin of a trembling office girl. "Take your weapon out slowly," he utters, pushing her chin up with the gun. Her shaking hands retrieve a folding umbrella from her blazer, as she raises tear-filled eyes to his.
"Do you think you can look me in the eye?" Ulquiorra asks tonelessly, "pretending to be so innocent?"
Mr. Aizen stops at a distance, with Tier at his side. He watches the exchange between Ulquiorra and the girl with mild interest. Grimmjow bounds towards them, grabbing the other man's arm.
"Cuatro, what are you doing?" He tries in vain to lower the arm holding the weapon, but Ulquiorra is stronger. Grimmjow flashes an apologetic smile to the girl as he wrestles with Ulquiorra. The girl whimpers, begging them not to hurt her as she rises on her tiptoes to avoid the gun on her jaw.
"I told you to take your weapon out, and I dislike repeating myself," Ulquiorra tells her calmly, ignoring the attempts of Grimmjow to stop him.
"What the hell, Ulquiorra?" Grimmjow growls, standing in front of the girl, pushing her away from the gun.
"Idiot," Ulquiorra mutters, as the girl grabs Grimmjow, pressing a knife to his throat.
"I'm going to kill him!" she hollers, pulling the blue-haired man to his knees.
"Go ahead," Ulquiorra grumbles, putting his weapon away. Without changing expressions, he heads towards Mr. Aizen.
"What the fuck do you mean, go ahead?" Grimmjow howls after him, struggling against the girl's arm lock. "Hey, asshole, where are you going?"
"Let's go, Mr. Aizen," Ulquiorra tells his boss. "She may have been sent by a rival gang, and there may be more of them in the crowd."
He respects his boss a lot, but he does not understand why Mr. Aizen insists on these weekly "walks," exposing himself to danger to stroll around the sidewalks. Other gangs have tried to take advantage of this by sending assassins frequently.
"Is it worth taking her in?" Mr. Aizen asks curiously, falling into step beside him again.
Ulquiorra shakes his head no. "She had no tattoos or jewelry claiming her affiliation, and there was nothing obviously visible. From the way she dresses, it seems that she is a freelancer, a mercenary if you will."
Mr. Aizen strokes his chin, glancing over his shoulder at the situation behind them. "How can you tell?"
"Her clothes are well-made, but worn, which suggests that she does not have a steady paycheck and needs to save money. They have been altered to improve the range of mobility, meaning she or someone she knows is an expert in clothing, but they've been altered specifically to hide weapons. Most run-of-the-mill gangs would not bother going to this detail," Ulquiorra recites. "And she is not as young as she seems. Her make-up goes a long way."
The older man smiles. "You never cease to amaze me, Ulquiorra. But why did you leave Grimmjow? Are you not on the same team?"
"He's the Sexta Espada. With all due respect, sir, if he cannot even defend himself, then she can, and should kill him," the Cuatro pronounces, flicking a dispassionate gaze at the struggle.
"Yoruichi! You can let him go now," Mr. Aizen calls, grinning. "Thanks for helping me out."
"Yes," the woman purrs, whipping her ponytail back. "I'll take the fees in cash please." The would-be assassin releases Grimmjow with a flourish. Tier pulls an envelope out of the briefcase, handing it to the tanned woman. The woman pats a furious Grimmjow on the head, slinking past Ulquiorra with a feline wave.
"Good job, green-eyes," she chuckles before disappearing into the crowd.
"This was a test, then," Ulquiorra states matter-of-factly. He is neither angry nor pleased; this is his purpose, after all, in being Sosuke Aizen's Cuatro. He is not paid to feel.
Mr. Aizen claps him on the back. "One you passed with flying colors. Incidentally, that was Yoruichi Shihoin. I set her up with a shop in Harajuku a few weeks back, so she helps me out every now and then." Of course, Mr. Aizen has a diverse portfolio and knows a lot of different people.
"That's a cute little shop," Mr. Aizen muses, pointing to a café across the street. "We should go there sometime."
He follows the older man's gaze to the cheerful-looking coffee shop. "Yes, sir." He is used to his master's random digressions. They walk towards the Cifer Corp building down two blocks from here. Nnoitra, the Quinto, has set up his office in this building, of all places, and it is sheer luck that Ulquiorra has not run into his father.
The meeting takes a while, and because it is winter, the sun sets at five. Ulquiorra and Grimmjow wait in the lobby as Tier and the boss head upstairs for their six-thirty pm meeting.
Checking his watch, Ulquiorra estimates that he has at least two hours to kill before the meeting ends. He does not wish to run into his father by accident, nor does he want to sit around listening to Grimmjow complain. "Call me when they are done," he orders the Sexta, just in case the meeting runs faster than he expects.
The still-pouting Grimmjow crosses his arms and settles into the couch, ignoring him, but Ulquiorra knows that the blue-haired man will do as he says.
.
.
It is snowing lightly now, outside.
The dancing flakes remind Ulquiorra of his brother, and the gnawing emptiness of standing before his grave. He welcomes the cold, digging his hands into his pockets as the snowflakes fall on his hair and eyelashes.
Soon, the sidewalks and shrubbery are dusted white, marred by footprints of the pedestrians. The streetlights make for interesting shadows, but Ulquiorra is lost in his own thoughts as he walks the nearby streets.
His existence is defined by two things: the presence of Sosuke Aizen, and the absence of his brother. Everything else is shadows and light, unsubstantial and unimportant. He strides through this existence steadily, as he has for the past five years, cold, numb, unfeeling.
Lately, though, there has been an... itch. Of sorts. It comes to him when he is alone with himself, a strange unsettling, just enough to be annoying, but he cannot pinpoint the cause of it.
Winter is perfect because of the frigid temperatures, but as he trudges through the wet pavement, his icy façade melts into a scowl. He is restless. He does not know why, and that in itself is irritating. His long strides turn into stomps, squishing the newly-fallen snow into puddles of icy water, splashing his pristine white slacks until his socks are wet.
Wonderful. Now he is too cold. Inasmuch as numbing cold is his preference, frostbite and pneumonia are not. Glancing around, he spots the café that Mr. Aizen pointed out earlier. It would be worth a trip there right now, just so he can tell his boss if the coffee is decent or not.
Approaching the coffeeshop, he can see a bright orange blob through the fogged-up windows. It seems to be the hair of one of the employees, judging by the apron the person is wearing. How unfortunate for them, he thinks, to have hair of that colour.
Curiosity has him observing that person through the window for a few minutes. It is disorienting, seeing that vivid shade of orange after all the grey and whites. A woman, although barely one, more girl than adult, except the size of her bust would place her at a more mature age. Dancing around the tables, talking to the customers, this girl cannot seem to sit still.
He cannot say why he stands there, surrounded by the passing pedestrians, staring through the window at some unknown coffee girl. It is as if her fiery hair is the first colour Ulquiorra has seen in years, though this cannot be true. Her features are distorted through the window, but even from this distance, he can feel the warmth radiating from her. She turns her head in his direction, to talk to an older man in a hat, and suddenly her whole face erupts into a smile, knocking the breath from Ulquiorra's lungs.
Why is he waxing poetic about some girl he can barely see, he wonders. Perhaps the cold is getting to his brain. The wetness of his socks reminds him that he needs to get someplace warm, or risk losing appendages, so Ulquiorra heads to the door of the shop, pushing it open.
The door has bells on it, and they announce his entrance. It is a quaint little place, cozy and smelling of butter and vanilla. Another girl mans the counter, her pink hair bobbing behind the pastry case. Is bright hair a requirement to work here, Ulquiorra wonders, carefully wiping his shoes on the mat.
"Welcome, Sir!" the auburn-haired girl sings out over her shoulder. How can someone be that happy? Instinctively, his hands clench into fists, to defend himself against this... happy person. He slips them into his pockets.
Ulquiorra is not sure how to deal with her, since most people usually cower or scream at the sight of him. He has had enthusiastic waitstaff before, but she seems... sincere. He does not know what to do with sincerity.
"Would you like a table?" The girl fishes out a menu from somewhere, and heads over to him. "Normally, we need you to order from the counter but it's so quiet, so we can do table service."
But if he had a table, she might try to talk to him. There are stools facing the window. Wordlessly, he makes his way there to the furthest stool, against the wall. There are heaters by the window, so he can dry his socks. Perfect.
The girl smiles. "Too cold, huh? The heaters are the best spot." Does she think they are having a conversation? He settles on the stool, grabbing the menu from her fingers.
She cocks her head to the side, like a puppy. "I recommend the hot drinks, obviously, because it is really cold."
"A double espresso," Ulquiorra mutters, propping his feet up on the lower rung of his stool. The girl nods, searching his face. Good lord, is she trying to make eye contact? He stares out the window, ignoring her efforts. He is certain that if she succeeds, something terrible will happen. Even now he can feel his pulse pounding at her proximity. That has never happened before.
"Um, would you like cream or sugar? Or would you like it Con Panna?" The questions do not mean anything to him. He does not respond. She waits a moment, then scurries back to the counter area.
As soon as she leaves, Ulquiorra sucks in a calming breath. She is annoying, yes, but not in the same way Grimmjow is annoying. He is reluctant to hurt her feelings, which is odd, because he normally does not care. Well, he shall drink his coffee and be gone, hopefully to never see her again.
She serves his coffee in a demitasse cup, sliding the snowy porcelain onto the dark wooden counter with a quiet clink. She has to reach across him to do this, so Ulquiorra pulls back, stiffly, trying to keep his balance while maintaining as much distance between them as possible.
Noticing his reticence, she backs away almost immediately. "Tell me if you need anything else, okay?" she chirps, breaking into a smile.
Up close, the full wattage of her smile is disconcerting. He turns his back to her, glaring out the window at nothing in particular. Taking the hint, she leaves. Ulquiorra can now understand why the moon is so radiant, reflecting the sun's light. He wonders if he is glowing as well, just because of his proximity to the woman.
A curious thing happens; he can see her in the reflection of the window, as she skips back to the counter. Perhaps, working here, she has unlimited access to sugar and caffeine. That would make sense. This seat he is in has an excellent view of the goings-on behind the bar, and in spite of himself, he watches the red-haired girl sneaking glances at him.
The pink-haired girl shoves her; he almost rises to his feet in her defense before he realizes it is playful. Women are a mystery to him, he thinks. But then, other people are a mystery to him. Trash, he adds automatically, draining the rest of his excellent espresso.
The other girl is at the counter as he approaches to settle his bill, but she promptly grabs the auburn-haired girl, dragging her to the cash register. This, he is used to, being avoided by people.
"How much?" he inquires tonelessly.
She gives him a lopsided grin. "It's on the house today."
Are they so afraid of him that they will not let him pay? Ah, they must have recognized him as an Espada. This happens all the time with Mr. Aizen so he does not think much of it.
Still, the coffee shop is empty. It is not customary in Japan to leave a tip, but he should give her something for her efforts, at least. Fishing in his pocket, he pulls out a bill, neatly folding it into the tip slot.
Her eyes widen. "Sir, you just tipped me ten times the cost of the coffee," she gasps, her cheeks bursting into colour. She digs into the tip jar, handing the bill back to him. "There must be some mistake. Please, take it back."
"I do not make mistakes," Ulquiorra replies tonelessly, walking away. He must get out of the woman's presence. She is... suffocating is not the correct term, although it is close.
She sprints around the counter, skidding to a halt in front of him. "Wait, sir! Please, at least take this umbrella to cover your head. It's snowing pretty heavily out there and you don't have a hat or a hood." Animated. That is the word he would use to describe her. Animated and alive, the complete opposite of what he is. She is all warmth and curves and sunshine and laughter, and her very existence might just cancel his out.
He flicks a gaze over the proffered green and white umbrella she holds out to him, obviously a personal possession of hers. He imagines her, playing in the snow, green umbrella and orange hair and rosy cheeks.
What the hell is going on in his head? He is not prone to fanciful thinking. There must be something in the coffee they serve here. "And what will you use?" he mutters instead.
She bites her lip and looks sheepish. "It's okay. I've got my winter coat, it's nice and hooded and waterproof. You can bring it back next time you come."
Carefully sidestepping her, Ulquiorra heads out the door, and into the cold arms of winter. He does not turn to look back at the woman, unwilling to acknowledge that the strange restlessness is now gone.
.
.
One week later, he finds himself in ankle-deep snow, standing in front of the coffee shop again. He is here for the espresso, he tells himself. It does not matter if the woman is here. Good coffee is hard to find.
Pushing the door open, he does not react to the jangling bells. Today, there is a tall man behind the counter, with mixed-race features. The coffee shop is full today, and it is probably going to be difficult to find seating. No sign of the auburn-haired girl. He is both disappointed and relieved, which makes no sense. He does not usually care about such things. He does not admit that he has been looking forward to this, either.
Making his way to the counter, he orders his coffee, and pays. The tall man tells him to grab a seat, and he will bring it over. Ulquiorra prefers this impersonal interaction. He searches the room for an available seat, and spots the chair in the corner at the same time as another customer. He will not do anything as undignified as run for a chair, even if it is the only open seat left.
Instead, he gives the other man a flat stare, and starts counting in his head.
One.
Two.
By the count of three, the other customer is bowing and backing away deferentially. He sits in the stool again, sinking onto the hard wood. The couple sitting beside him move away, clearing some room for him. He surveys the view out the window again, but it is dark, and all he can see are reflections of the scene behind him.
He spots her big gray eyes peeking out at him in the reflection, from the espresso machine. She must have risen on her tiptoes. One would think the fluorescent shade of her hair would grab his attention first, but no, it is her eyes. She looks like a puppy, he thinks, the corner of his lips kicking up in an unconscious smirk as he drums his fingers on the surface of the table.
The girl comes, bearing his coffee almost shyly. He does not look at her when she eases the porcelain onto the polished wood table, but he can smell the vanilla on her skin. "You came back," she greets, smiling at him.
He does not respond, sipping his coffee quietly. She waits for a moment, her smile fading as she studies him. Her coworker calls her, so she leaves him. Her words echo in his head. You came back. As if she was happy to see him again.
In his entire life, this is the first time he has ever heard this, said in such a lighthearted tone. The restlessness comes back, full-force. Ulquiorra's brow furrows as he digs in his pocket for a bill. He tucks it under the porcelain. It must be because of the money, of course. She is nice, as wait staff are, because he tips well. The thought quells the unsettling in him.
It is the money. Not him. Except that she tried to give him back his tip last week. No. His inner conflict makes him pound the table with a fist. Why is that woman affecting him this way?
"Is everything alright with your coffee, sir?" The co-worker inquires, drawn by the noise.
"Yes," he mutters, rising to his feet. "Thank you."
She is changing out the garbage can by the door. Now he has no choice but to walk past her, since he cannot sit back down. An unfamiliar heat rushes into his face, so he keeps his eyes down, hoping to get outside unnoticed.
"Have a great week, sir. See you again." she chirps, as he pulls the door open. He exits, glad for the cold winds to calm down his raging blood pressure.
His reactions to her are frustrating. Maybe he has been too long without a woman, he thinks. It is probably that. Purely a physiological reaction to a person of the opposite gender. Or maybe it is temporary madness. There must be some sort of winter illness that causes one to latch on to the first person they see.
A ringing phone interrupts his musings. He answers the call from Grimmjow, picking up his pace.
.
.
Another week passes and Ulquiorra is wondering what he is doing in the coffee shop, yet again. Excellent espresso, of course. Probably the best in the area, and there is no way he will be going back to convenience store coffee, unless he absolutely has to.
The girl has nothing to do with it at all. Except that he can see her bouncing around in the counter area, with the little pink-haired girl, dancing to some western music. She is pretending to sing into a broom handle, accidentally knocking over a stack of tea boxes when she swings her arm.
The dark, rich flavor of espresso swirls into his senses as he takes a sip, fascinated by the tableau in the reflection. As the girl bends to pick up the tea, the broom handle flies into the face of the pink-haired girl, who promptly grabs the steam handle of the espresso machine, fogging up the windows of the shop.
He muses that he has not met anyone so uncoordinated, but his thoughts are stopped cold when she breaks into a sunny smile, laughing. Even if it is a reflection, Ulquiorra feels the long-dead parts of him warm up in her radiance. He rises abruptly, tossing a bill on the table. He makes it out the door before she can say a word to him, counting it as a small victory. That does not stop his useless brain from dreaming about fluffy, coffee-coloured rabbits for the next six days.
.
.
He stares out the window, again, one week later. Caffeine. Caffeine is addictive, he tells himself. It is the coffee that keeps him coming back.
"Here you go!" Her voice warms him, again. This warmth is not right for him, but after living his entire life out in the cold, surely he is allowed this. The cup before him is steaming, but his eyes are on the vibrant hues of the girl's hair in the reflection as she retreats.
Just a little more warmth, he thinks. Just enough to make the rest of his existence bearable, for the next week, at least. He knows he will be back, but prefers not to dwell on it.
...
END
A/N: Here you have it, folks, the end of Crush. Well, technically, the beginning, but who knew that Ulquiorra had a crush on Orihime first, huh? Thank you so very much for all of your requests and reviews and follows. It was really a blast. This chapter is dedicated to:
Lilarin - She is the best beta anyone could ever ask for, seriously. Go check out her work, she has been a major reason why Crush was completed and on time. Her wonderful AU Down With The Sun is almost completed but the rest of her stuff is equally mind-blowing. Four To Love is a sweet fic with an awesome twist. And if you're German, you're in for a treat, her German stories are also very insanely good. GO READ LILARIN. SHE IS PHENOMENAL.
KEleison - Thank you so much for talking with me, it's great to make friends on FF but even awesome-r when you guys have the same ship. She found a couple of mistakes in this last chapter and helped me not humiliate myself. Go read her stories, guys! The Purpose of Life is a fantastic take on what happened to Ulq and Orihime after Ichigo loses his powers. I cried reading this.
29th Spirit, Keira14, champylin, Kayla, Cane el Lindo Gatito, Justgrace13, Safira1718, Tabitha Talon, Ulquihime7980, Ahyeon, Kira4Schiffer, CrazyKenz, Constancexx, The Lady Integra, Calantha S, Aya Kazuki, JC1009, Coolseal9, TsuXken, Amacor16, wushbrown, crimson-sage, Epithet8, Aeva-Athena-Marsden, LiberumVersu, LHisAwesome4ever, Grumpy delsan13, The Clawed Butterfly,Nikoleen, Allytsuki, mymina, Yuki, Jeanydeixzz, eii, bla, meivana, akumakisses,9hale, Just4storys, cbug1981, ALL of the people who read and reviewed this. I tried to name all of you here, and I named you in the previous chapters, and I wish I could hug you all. Thank you. Reviews are the lifeblood of every author, and I especially enjoyed reading about which parts you liked and didn't like. Extra extra props to people who gave constructive criticism and feedback. That stuff changes lives. It saved Ulquiorra's! Hahaha.
Also just a quick PSA: shipping wars are not cool. Nope. I get that you love your pairing, and it's great, but that doesn't mean you can put down people who like other ships too. Same goes for characters. It's fiction, after all. Same love for everyone.
And the people who sent me angry messages because they didn't like that who or what I wrote: thank you. I appreciated your feedback. I just wish you could have said it in a way that left room for improvement, instead of telling me "X sucks" or so on. Live and learn, I guess.
The people who sent me lovely messages: MissYunaKitty, Vegetasmylover, Faolan Rei, 29thSpirit (again!) and anyone else I may have forgotten. Thank you.
Please, feel free to drop me a line or two. I am always glad to make friends. This is the end of Crush, and once again, thank you for reading it.
XOXO, Isharaine
**** Dec 1, 2015****
In honour of Ulq's birthday I made a little lemon one-shot called Birthday Present and posted it on aO3. It is set three months after the end of Crush. Cheers!