In the dim half light of the makeshift infirmary, he watched. There was no barrier between him and the healer with her patient. It was hardly sanitary, but in places like this you had to take what you got. The Gillian didn't care much about little pesky things like infection. They only needed to be patched up enough to carry on with their miserable un-lives, and even the Espada were not much better about caring for their bodily needs.
But this was no arrankar.
He had made himself very clear when he came, carrying the bloody, barely breathing mass in his arm. He killed the first healer who glanced up at him with empty, rolling eyes. Then he had looked at the other. "Don't leave a mark on her," he said. "Not a scar, not a scratch. Got it?" Shinsô twitched at his hip, prepared to carry out his will. The remaining healer nodded a little and got to work. Gin stood and watched.
Hours passed; little by little the blood faded away, the wound to the chest closed under the shifting green light and the face became clear and recognizable. Not as the startled blank mask he had seen last. Calm, like a girl on her funeral pyre. The wisp of jet black hair hung stubbornly between her tightly shut eyes, and the fringe of lashes did not flutter at all.
He contented himself with the thought that they would, soon enough. He stretched and moved toward the exit, where the domed windows had no glass and exposed the permanent half-dusk that was Hueco Mundo. He had been here what seemed like forever with little amusement. Then the human girl had been acquired, and it seemed that maybe the ennui would fade. But she was closed off to him, whether by design or chance, and he had to satisfy himself with toying with Arranloli. But they seemed to enjoy his playing too much for him to derive any real pleasure from it. Once or twice he caught himself thinking of his sweet Kira-kun, who was perpetually and delightfully horrified. But for all that, Gin knew Kira-kun gave into him out of some warped sense of duty. In the end, it had become boring with him, too. There was no point in even thinking of Ran-chan.
But here, by some incredible stroke of luck, was a real playmate. He had been able to twist her in the most delicious ways in the past. He wondered if she had changed any.
He turned back to look at the healer, who was stepping gingerly away from her patient. Gin's smile turned down just a little. On her exposed torso was a vibrant pink scar. He looked at the healer, who edged further into the corner. "It was there before, Ichimaru-sama--" Shinsô took no time in silencing her for her failure.
He gathered the still-limp form into his arms. As he headed to the place he would happily hide the Kuchiki princess, he mused that Gillian were made to obey, and if the could not do so they were worse than useless and best disposed of. Shinigami, however, were made to fight. The refuse in his arms would give him all kinds of amusement; he was sure of it.