I might have promised someone for how Muse!Ulqui met Grimmjow. ;D
“Listen, I know that I haven’t treated you well lately. I would even go so far as to say that I–” Ulquiorra lowered his voice, “–deserved this.” He shuddered like he’d swallowed a mouthful of cough syrup. “But don’t you think you’re being a little immature?”
His car remained indifferent. Ulquiorra tried the key again. No luck.
At nineteen years old, Ulquiorra Schiffer could tune a piano, speak fluent Italian, and cook a restaurant-worthy salmon. He didn’t know the first thing about cars.
Outside, sparse snowflakes drifted from the sky as if the clouds were hesitant to inconvenience anyone. Ulquiorra got out of his car and went back inside Las Noches.
The front desk attendant, Cirucci Sanderwicci, took her headphones off. “Thought you were going out.”
“My car won’t start,” Ulquiorra said. He could see, as he approached the front desk, that Cirucci had the computer’s web browser open to her MySpace page. He refrained from commenting. “Is there a good mechanic nearby?”
“Huh. Don’t know about good, but the guy in 606 works at a garage.” Cirucci grabbed her cell phone. “I’ll call him for you.”
“That won’t be necessary. I do not wish to be in my neighbor’s debt–”
“Hey, asshole, do you always sleep ‘til noon after getting laid?” Cirucci said into the phone. She winked at Ulquiorra. “Right, that bimbo who stumbled through the lobby this morning was just my imagination. Uh-huh. No, she wasn’t Nnoitra’s. He had a blonde last night. Anyway, got someone who needs your help down here, so put some pants on.” She hung up.
Ulquiorra backed away from the front desk. “Really, if you could just hand me the Yellow Pages…”
“Don’t worry, Grimmjow will fix it up on the cheap.”
He sighed and slipped his hands into his pockets, doubting Cirucci would be half as helpful if he hadn’t caught her on MySpace. And would it kill her to turn on the heater? How was he supposed to not play the piano later with stiff fingers?
Twenty minutes later, Ulquiorra shivered beside his car as a blue-haired Greaser peered into the hood, muttering to himself in–French? Why French? “Holy God,” the thug exclaimed in perfect English, “when was the last time you changed your oil?”
Ulquiorra blinked at him. “Huh?”
The thug - Grimmjow, was it? - looked Ulquiorra up and down. “You some kind of idiot? There’s no oil in here. Your engine looks like a fucking pot roast.”
Ulquiorra’s eyes narrowed. At least I graduated high school, he almost said. “So all I need to do is get more oil.”
“No,” Grimmjow deadpanned. “Your engine has to be fixed.” He cringed at the mess in the car. “Or put out of its misery. Either way, it’s gonna cost ya. But since you’re clearly a moron and I feel kind of sorry for you, I’ll give you a discount if you take it to my place.”
“How charitable of you.” Ulquiorra’s voice oozed sarcasm.
“Damn straight.” Grimmjow pulled out his wallet and produced a business card, which surprised Ulquiorra. Greasers carried business cards? “Just get it in before the end of the month. I’m going to France in February, and my coworkers ain’t half as nice as I am.” He left Ulquiorra standing in the snow and trudged his way back into the building. Ulquiorra looked at the business card. Grimmjow Jaegerjaques.
Well then. At least living in a dump like Las Noches proved to have its uses.