Disclaimer: I make no money from this, and all of it belongs to Kubo Tite
The woman cries at night, and Lord Aizen is concerned. Keep her happy, he said. Happy and healthy.
Why? The Cuatro pauses outside her bedroom door, staring at the door knob. What is the point of making a tool happy? A hammer is a hammer, whether it is happy or not; it is designed for one purpose, and that is that. The woman is nothing more than a tool.
The hallway is dark, save for a shaft of moonlight from Las Noches' eternal crescent moon, slicing the night and bisecting the hallway floor. The woman lies inside the room, presumably asleep.
He has never failed his master, never. This is why he is the Cuatro Espada. This tiny woman will not defy him.
And so, with gritted teeth, he spent the previous three nights studying the woman closely.
He brings her dinner, and she eats it in silence. This is a minor victory for him. When she first arrived, she refused to eat until he threatened to force her. Then, he leaves her. She goes to the bathroom for her nightly bath (he approves of her hygienic practices), brushes her teeth, dries her hair. Then, in her pajamas, she crawls into the massive bed, and cries herself to sleep. Sometimes she weeps for hours. Other times, the sobs stop in minutes as she falls asleep.
Tonight, she had fallen asleep in thirty minutes, prompting him to attempt an even closer observation of the woman. Seeing it on the video monitors was one thing; to be more thorough, he had to observe in closer range.
She will make herself sick if she keeps it up. That much, he knows, based on his knowledge of the weak bodies of human trash. Humans need to rehydrate constantly. His fingers tighten around the carafe of water he is holding. If he himself hadn't seen the girl's power first-hand, he would have left this pathetic creature outside to die long ago. She is not even worth him drawing out Murciélago.
Opening the door soundlessly, he uses his Sonido to move through the room, placing the water at the bedside table. Silly woman that she is, she might not even drink it. Perhaps she has a death-wish.
Death. He bites back a snort. It is worse to be alive, to be weeping and wailing over every thing, to feel hot or cold. Why do they fight so hard to stay alive, these pieces of garbage? Living is a miserable existence.
His critical eyes roam over the woman. Orange hair, the same shade as that boy's. How unfortunate. Perhaps if he, too, had that colour of hair, he would cry himself to sleep as well, he thinks.
Her ears are red-tipped, and condensation mists out of her lips as she breathes in and out, a hand carelessly thrown over her head. He scowls, realizing that the room may be too cold for the human. How has their species survived this long, being so delicate?
Careful not to wake her, he tugs up the thick comforter, covering her shoulders. Her head is still exposed, her cheeks glowing red. Should he put the pillow on her face? Ah, but humans need air, and she might suffocate.
He makes his way to the fireplace, throwing enough logs on the guttering embers until the flames are roaring merrily. A sound from behind him gives him pause. It is the woman, whimpering in terror. Is she awake?
No, her eyes are closed. The light from the fire does mysterious things to her face, casting it in shadow. Even in slumber, she weeps. How vexing.
"No, Ichigo, don't," she cries out, thrashing her head back and forth on the pillow. She is dreaming of that boy. Interesting. He leans closer to study her face, tears streaming down her cheeks. Is crying all she can do? Awake or asleep, it seems, all she knows is to weep. What an insult to the potential of her powers. The Gods, if they exist, must have made a cosmic joke in giving such incredible power to this pathetic excuse of a woman. She could be stronger than all of them, truly.
Her eyes open for a moment, catching him off guard, thick lashes wet with tears. They are dark and full of grief. He freezes, unsure of his next move. With a sigh, she curls up towards him, going back to sleep, mumbling words he cannot understand. Carefully, he straightens up, his eyes still on her face.
She must love the Kurosaki boy, he thinks with a sneer, remembering how he was the one person she visited before coming here. He files away this information for future reference, in case it comes in handy. Love. Humans think it is everything, and are unable to function with or without it. He might be able to use this information against her, if ever she needs motivating.
So, what does he need to do to make her happy? If perhaps he could shift her emotions from the absent Kurosaki to a closer target, or change it to hate, it might work well for Lord Aizen's goals. She is young, for a human, not yet twenty. Adolescence in their species is a turbulent time, and she is easily swayed. Hormones may also explain this so-called love, and at this age, her hormones are unstable. He makes a mental note to feed her endorphin and dopamine enhancing foods. Perhaps they might ease her transition.
Then, she breathes out his name, breaking his train of thought. He glances back down at the sleeping girl. Her fingers reach out and catch his before he can move out of reach, and he is trapped.
In all this time, he has been extra careful not to touch her. Now that he thinks about it, he has not touched or been touched by anybody, save for Lord Aizen's rare pat on the back. Even when he fights, he avoids any sort of physical contact, preferring to communicate violence through Murcielago.
Her grip is tight, and her hand is warmer than his, even if her fingers are clammy. He stares at their joined fingers for a moment, unfamiliar anxiety welling up in him. She breathes his name again, tugging at his hand. Her even breaths tell him she is asleep, so she cannot be doing this consciously. This woman dislikes his presence as much as he does, or so he thought. Her thumb strokes his knuckles, her forehead furrowing. She is always so afraid of him, watching him like a mouse watches a cat. What is she doing?
He finds himself reaching for a lock of that flame-coloured hair, capturing it in his other hand. No, it is not as warm as it seems, although it is cold silk against his palm, soft and slippery. He lets it drop, realizing what he has done. If he had a heart it would be beating madly, but he has none. When she pulls at his hand again, he yanks his away, striding hurriedly out of the room. This is a tactical retreat, he tells himself, or she would have overwhelmed him. The woman has more power than he had expected.
The door swishes closed behind him, but the Cuatro is restless. The crescent moon outside the window is the same; the hallways are still dark in his tower. He clenches his fist, trying to erase the memory of her skin on his.
Perhaps it would be better for her to grow attached to him. The thought comes to his mind. It would make her more docile, an easy enough task as she is so desperate for any sign of affection. He pauses in his retreat, slipping his fist in his pockets. It would be easy to fool this woman into thinking she was in love with him, child's play, really.
He does not think about how his skin still burns from where she touched him, or the softness of her hair. The restless anxiety subsides, and his steps slow down. This obsession she has with her heart, this will be her downfall.