Sea's Greetings [Catherine, Ulquiorra]

She had seen the little note pad before. A mess in most cases. But all the same, she watched as they tossed their phone aside and ultimately laid out across the bed as she provided information. Information that, ultimately, she had been able to derive from their past interactions. Perhaps not this exact clear thought. But the topic had come up before.

"It's possible. A hollow will be produced in the event that a human is not capable of allowing themselves to pass on from the world when they die. If a shinigami is not able to cleanse them, they become a hollow." She stated, looking off toward the window for a moment before glancing back to the woman sprawled out across the bed. "I did not take you for someone particularly attached to this world." Words she had said to the woman before. Perhaps in different contexts, about different subjects, but the words would be familiar on her lips all the same.

"You could always wind up in soul society. Perhaps incarnate into one of the nicer, more peaceful districts."

"Hm. Is that right?" Perhaps she might have been concerned. But this was merely how Catherine felt. How a human spoke and expressed themselves did not necessarily reflect the truth. Even in her inhebriated state, depending on the circumstances of her death, she might, ironically enough, swiftly pass peacefully into the soul society without any chance for something to happen otherwise. She might not even remember that hatred she so firmly clung to in these moments.

And yet, the thought did not sit well with her. She had .... an opinion. Strangely, perhaps feebly and not quite concrete. But some part of her was more comfortable with the notion that Catherine would at least have some choice in the matter. That seemed more ideal. An insipid thing to think.

Amused by this intrusive thought, her lips shifted by the smallest amount. The faintest hint of a smile for just a brief moment.

"You may need to become more comfortable with medical assistance, if you are so intent on living long."

Ulquiorra watched as the woman coiled up on herself only to sit back up and start to head toward the kitchen once again. Having voiced her intent, there was no reason to guess. Of course there wouldn't be much there, probably just enough to get a few sips. Ulquiorra wasn't concerned. Or rather, it wasn't her place to express concern. If nothing else, Catherine seemed to despise the notion of needing help. Despite the fact that she so very dearly could use it. From her own solitary practices to the habits revolving around treating her own wounds for lack of trust in a proper physician.

Like so many other humans, Catherine was, in her desperate endeavor to live longer, likely killing herself faster than most other humans. Drugs. Crime. Poor medical care. There was, perhaps something beautiful about such a fleeting thing. This flash of red hair and anger that so pointedly twisted itself into pieces. And there was, ultimately nothing she was likely to be able to do about it. Catherine hated companionship, and correction was an implicated level of care and intimacy that woul, no doubt, annoy the woman.

And so, she allowed Catherine to vent her frustrations. And to go have herself a drink. It wouldn't be long until the woman passed out. She would simply insure it wasn't on her back and that she reduced the mess that occurred as a result if necessary.

She'd likely be unconscious soon. If she wasn't partially already. Though honestly she was almost certain that this particular state could likely be considered a state of subconscious more than anything. Hm. Still, that Catherine was still capable of forming words was an interesting little surprise as Ulquiorra's gaze shifted down to the woman whom was now pointedly staring at her. And presenting a question as well. Her eyes shifted to the drink. Be it in Caths hand, or strewn across the floor, before turning her attention back to the woman herself. Slung over the edge of the bed.

She stood up and walked over, gently reaching down and scooping the girl up under her arms as if she were a cat before laying them onto the bed properly, setting them on their side incase they got sick, before promptly returning to her own spot, still within Catherine's field of view and with a comfortable distance to avoid potential vomit.

"A Barn Owl."

An answer without further explanation.

Catherine was easy enough to handle at least. Something no doubt impossible to replicate in a sober state. But that suited her just fine, she was used to dealing with this by now. And as the silence settled in, she sat back against the headboard of the bed and looked out the window for the time being, only glancing back toward Catherine when that soft admission emerged from the human.

"It's fine to be afraid of death. Most humans are. If it is any comfort, I'll make sure to intervene if it seems like you'll die." A promise that she was fine with making in the woman's state. something to ease her addled mind as she fell asleep.
"You don't have to do anything, Catherine." Another assurance. In truth, there was not much Catherine would be willing to do. Could? Most Certainly. But the woman's path was, for all intents and purposes, cemented. And so, this subconscious portion of the woman was...ultimately, trapped with a destructive conscious mind.

If nothing else. She supposed her words might provide some small, meaningless comfort to the girl's drunk mind.
Comfort that would be neither remembered or forgotten, for it simply passed through the woman's intoxicated brain like water over oil.

It was, perhaps, a meaningless effort.

But she made it all the same.