A/N: I have been a Bleach lurker for a looooooooong time (excluding my short one-fic-and-two-amv excursion with HitsuKarin), but this pairing has been eating my brain for, like, forever. This is my first Ulquihime fic and my first foray into creative writing in over a year, but give it a try, kay?
(If he could feel, he might have loved her).
If he could feel, he might have been impressed. On his first trip with Yammy to the human world, he hadn't noticed her until he saw (felt) the warm glow of her golden shield. He had never seen a power quite like hers, had never known anyone to defy the universe's inevitabilities and remake it on her own terms. He might have thought her some twisted kind of god, a wielder of power Aizen-sama would never have the privilege of having (but the thought suffered a quick death before it was even a whisper of a thought, a dead leaf blown around his empty mind, because questioning loyalty was not something he ever did).
If he could feel, he might have considered her beautiful. He might have actually meant it when he told her the white Las Noches uniform suited her – more than just marking her as Aizen-sama's, more than just formalizing her crossover to a different world (his world), he might have actually meant that it suited her appearance, might have thought that it made her rays-of-sunlight hair stand out and bring meaning to an empty room and an empty heart (a heart that wasn't even there, and he had a hole in his chest to prove it).
He wasn't ashamed of his hollow hole, and he certainly didn't consciously try to wear his collar zipped up to his chin every time he entered her room (because the room undoubtedly belonged to her, so unlike his quarters, for they had never been more than a place to rest).
If he could feel, he might have been fascinated by her. He might have strolled past her room time after time at night, waiting for the three times a day he had an excuse to invade the space that, even though it was stark white and dead, a part of Las Noches as any other room in the place, still felt like her. The place reeked of her. It stank like trash, like human emotions and happiness and repulsive false hopes because she was under the mistaken impression that her precious friends had come and would save her.
He would see about that. He would rid Las Noches of that trash that she placed all her hopes in. He had witnessed her weepy confession, the professed five lifetimes' worth of loyalty.
Disgusting.
If he could feel, her slap might have hurt him. It might have bruised his cheek, turned it black and blue or red and sore (might have put some healthy color in his face), but the hierro took care of that, and anyway she was a speck of dust against his Murcielago, a teardrop in his downpour of despairing reiatsu. Her sharp slap might have done more than turn his eyes away – might have turned his thoughts towards her, might have made him think a weak woman strong.
Well, she was. It was there, beneath her eyes. It was in the way she kept it together for the sake of others; it was there in the way she resisted, was stubborn, clung to hope like it was an IV hooked up to a needle in her arm. She lived off the stuff – it kept her more alive than anything he could provide her as a jailer (guard, caretaker).
If he could feel, he might have been afraid when Grimmjow took her away. He might have questioned Menoly and Loly a little too harshly, might have sonidoed a little too quickly, might have fought Grimmjow a little too vengefully (he might have been so distracted as to let Grimmjow pull a cheap trick that would never normally work, if Ulquiorra hadn't been distracted by another presence, an onlooker he didn't want looking).
If he could feel, he might have missed her. He might have fought his way out of Grimmjow's trap as fast and furiously as he could, all for the sake of seeing her, all for the sake of making sure that nothing had happened to her – that he hadn't broken his obligation to her (his duty) and failed in attending to her welfare.
And when he saw her in the Fifth Tower, if he could feel, he might have felt something like relief. He might have thought her a magnet, the way she drew him to her, drawing long existential monologues out of his lungs and vocal cords and mouth, attracting his hand to her breast and the bridge of her nose as he sought to map out her body's connections to her claimed heart (he almost wished she had a hole like he did, almost thought about giving her one to match his own – he'd have her heart, wouldn't he, if he ripped it out of her chest?).
If he could feel, he might have felt greed, might have wanted her to stay in his control as long as she lived. He might have been testing her as he told her she would die alone because she was no longer necessary, might have been telling more truth than he realized as he told the interloper (trash) that he wouldn't kill the woman (simply because Aizen-sama hadn't ordered her dead (even though Aizen-sama had deemed her useless)), might have wanted to eliminate the Shinigami because he presented a threat, not to Las Noches, but to his control over whether the woman stayed with him.
If he could feel, he might have felt jealous of the orange-haired Shinigami. He might have intentionally destroyed the boy's heart, shooting his merciless cero straight through the chest, carving a hole wider than his own. He might have welcomed, might have been eager for the distraction of the Quincy's challenge as the woman screamed the Shinigami's name over and over, trying to save him with her healing powers but failing, begging to in turn be saved (Kurosaki-kun, Kurosaki-kun, Kurosaki-kun, Kurosaki-kun – was the boy's name a heartbeat? Was she trying to revive his heart with the pounding repetition of her voice?).
Five lifetimes of loyalty indeed.
If he could feel, he might have resented her promise to the Shinigami, might have rambled on to her how short and pointless five lifetimes are (especially when she could go elsewhere for all her lifetimes, could have someone pledge all his eternities to her, never mind the short 80-year spans of human lifetimes).
If he could feel, he might have felt the need to protect her, might have thought to save her from suffering, might have thought to put more meaning behind his last strike at the Shinigami-turned-monster to save the Quincy (the woman's nakama, one of her precious persons), might have admitted to himself that he did it for her. He might have felt dissatisfaction as the woman ran to the cause of all her misery ("Kurosaki-kun! Kurosaki-kun!" - monster, trash, threat that must be eliminated), might have wanted her to come to him instead (her savior), might have been afraid that she would be afraid.
But she wasn't, and so he wasn't either. And as he felt the edge of his wing burst into black sand (ashes to ashes, dust to dust?), the Shinigami and the wounded Quincy disappeared, and horse blinders blocked out the edges of his world, and all he saw was her.
And if he could feel, he might have felt her warm hand clasp his own, might have woven his fingers through hers, might have reveled in the warm pulse of her wrist and her heart, might have drawn all of her towards him, might have shielded her from the world with his enormous wings, might have stared into her pretty eyes for ages.
But Ulquiorra can't feel. And so, even at the end, he can't feel her warm touch, even as she reaches and reaches out to him, because he is fading away.
If he could feel, he might have felt regret.
And without feeling anything, he watches as the woman (his heart) vanishes from his vision, watches as he disintegrates into dust.
And the tragedy of it all is that, if he could have felt something, it might have been for her.
(If he could feel, he might have loved her).