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[Gin has reached an apex.

Life within Hueco Mundo is tedious, according to Gin. Aizen rules, Tousen maintains, and the every Arrancar fights and fumes and lives, all while Gin watches, the ever present ghost in white. It should be an ominous position, but Aizen says that Gin is too flighty, too free willed.

Which is fine. Gin likes the room to roam.

But there is only so far Gin can run with no purpose, and today, he waits.

He expects he'll hear something about how weird it is, his uncanny ability to just show up. How he's too sneaky for his own good. In all honesty, all it takes to find someone is a quick evaluation of the security monitors, an understanding of the halls of Hueco Mundo, and the ability to comprehend someone's typical pattern of travel. Easy.

That's how he's positioned himself at the t-junction of the halls, hidden behind the corner, counting the steps that approach. Three…

He's thrilled.

Two...

The grin is on his face.

One - and he spins directly into Grimmjow's path, invading the espada's space in an instant.]

Grimmjow.

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What -

[ Grimmjow has his patterns. Despite certain...other habits, ones that involve a dereliction of duty and a penchant for doing what the fuck he wanted when he fucking wanted to, he's nevertheless habitual in other, more predictable ways. He always goes this way this time of the 'night', making for the roof, the real one, with the real sky.

Except - ] Fuck, what are you--

[ It's that face; it's that thin, wide smile set in a pale face, under a careless curtain of pale hair. The first step back is as instinctual as the tension that slings across his shoulders before he stamps that shit out, that very brief show of surprise quickly yanked down into a scowl.

Gin. ]

The hell do you want?

[He'll grant Grimmjow the step back. Gin's grin says enough; he's already elicited a wanted reaction. Casually, too casually, he leans against the wall, staring Grimmjow down with unwavering interest. This is a treat, really. It's been too many nights that he's watched Grimmjow disappear upwards, to the roofs, beyond the range of any camera within Hueco Mundo. It was voluntary, though, not chasing after the arrancar to indulge his curiosity, to let the tension build within-]

Where are you goin', Grimmjow? Ain't it awfully late to be roamin' the halls? I'd hate to think that yer gettin' up to no good.

[ Ah, there it is again - the incredible desire to fit his fingers around that skinny throat and squeeze. It shows briefly on his face in how the corners of his mouth and that line between his brows gets tighter.

Yeah.

Just keep smiling. Gin's been doing that since day one, hovering in the background, always with that constant, easy, amused slant to his mouth, as though the whole world was a big joke, a big game. ] Not sure how it's your business.

Don't you got some shinigami to harass? [ A pair of boots to lick?

He has the mouth for it. ]

Shinigami? [Momentarilly, Gin pulls a look of dismay.] There ain't too many of those around. They'd all just tell me off, anyway~ [-and his grin is back, mostly at the small implication that, yes, Aizen and Tousen are grouped into that latter statement.

But it's Grimmjow's fault that he didn't take the opportunity to push more space between himself and Gin, and it's a fault that Gin exploits as he steps in towards the espada. One step, then a second, and then a third just to put himself back within Grimmjow's personal space.]

Shinigami are no fun, anyway. Not the same way you arrancar are. Yer all just so… feisty. [He puts enough emphasis on that final word, draws it out just enough that his teeth biting his lip offer a fleeting, provocative moment.

But only because it's Gin.]

So where're ya goin'?

[ Grimmjow's not fucking surprised. How anyone can even tolerate Gin has been a mystery since day one, moreso because Grimmjow has yet to hear word of what the bastard actually does. Tousen's role has been apparent enough, and Aizen's grand agenda is as obvious as it is suspicious, but Gin -

He doesn't know anything. None of them know anything. And since the beginning, he's been like this, sneaking, snooping, too close, way too damn close.

The faint show of white draws Grimmjow's eyes to Gin's bottom lip; his fingers twitch, and curl slowly into fists. Irritation, anger, and a subtle, demanding pit of warmth and frustration lodge themselves in his chest.

He doesn't back up, because he knows what that would say, but he does snap: ] Out.

Or is there suddenly something wrong with that?