Geek Fashionista

Guess what? *whispers* It’s NnoiNel. From a one-shot I never got around to. Apologizing ahead of time for potentially butchering this delicate flower of a pairing.

~

The day Nnoitra Gilga was executed, Nelliel Odelschwanck returned to the apartment she shared with her boyfriend; her subject dead, her work completed.

She carried herself down the uneven sidewalk, shedding layer after layer of duty with every step. The closer she drew to her building, the more expressive she became, emotion slowly trickling back into her large hazel eyes. When the baker greeted her, she was startled by her own smile. Sudden. Natural.

She walked on, the warmth of the baker’s friendliness thawing the winter inside of her. But her surprise lingered. It turned her mind’s eye to her upturned lips and stared.

Nnoitra Gilga had never seen her smile. Not once. Nelliel did not joke or laugh with serial killers; she merely interviewed them.

Nnoitra Gilga had kissed her, though. Hard. Spitefully. With no other motive than to try and frighten her.

The thing about Nnoitra was, he’d had this way of looking at her. Not when he was cackling and mocking and claiming he’d guiltlessly killed ten people for the hell of it. Not when he was making lewd gestures at her with his eerily long tongue. But in the silences, in those fleeting seconds between insults where real motives crossed his mind. Then, Nelliel had observed, the depth of his gaze became fathomless.

His eyes had been like that after he’d kissed her. Again, as he’d waited for the lethal dose to take effect. For one wild moment she’d felt the ghosts of his fingers clutching her hair, pulling, tightening, driven by his hatred… or perhaps, something else entirely.

And then he was dead, without ever having told her his motives. Without ever having seen her smile.

Nelliel unlocked her apartment door and was greeted by the smell of garlic and herbs. Her boyfriend appeared a moment later, apron-clad and wiping his hands. “Hey,” he said gently, and Nelliel allowed herself to be pulled into his arms. “How are you feeling?”

He always asked that question after executions. She always answered the same way: she was fine. Really. Work was work. Home was home. She’d spent years fighting to keep the two as far from each other as possible.

But on the day Nnoitra Gilga was executed, Nelliel found that she was too tired to keep trying.

“Sad,” she whispered, tears pouring into the creases of her wavering smile. “I’m so sad.”