Hollows didn't dream.
Ulquiorra knew that for a fact, yet here he was, listless in the dreamscape. At first, he thought maybe death had overcome him, but the fierce golden light surrounding him held no notion of Hell. In fact, the light was quite genial and warmed his face.
One thing was for sure, though; he was not in the real world, dead or not. When he opened his eyes, he could see, although all there was to look at was the light. The last time he had been conscious, he'd been blind, stripped of his eyes ... hadn't he?
He remembered no more and shielded his eyes from the brightness, choosing to peer at his arms instead. They were clothed in white and as he regarded the rest of robe-like clothing, Ulquiorra realized that he was in his first Release form, his Resurrección.
It had been some time since he had ever taken this semblance. Hadn't the last time been when he had first presented himself to Lord Aizen? No, that wasn't right; it had to be more recent. A sliver of a memory peaked at the edge of his mind, of an orange-haired woman and a bright-haired man. Ulquiorra tried to grasp it, but it slipped away.
He let it.
There was some comfort in forgetting, comfort in remembering only bits and pieces of his life before death—he was dead, now, wasn't he? Hadn't he just admitted it? Ulquiorra's thoughts sloshed together like té negro in a cup. Something wasn't right. Memory fractals faded in and out of his mind and pieced themselves together in orders so random that he couldn't even begin to make sense of them.
"You are not dead," a voice echoed throughout the dreamscape.
Ulquiorra's guard went up immediately. How had he not sensed another presence?
"You cannot sense me, Ulquiorra," said the voice, "for one cannot sense themselves."
He looked straight ahead, using his ears and pesquisa to detect from where the disembodied voice was coming from. He found no one; he was alone in this great golden space.
Suddenly, there was a burst of air, and the light faded. Darkness enveloped him like a shroud, and instantly Ulquiorra was reminded of the dark abyss in which he was born.
A greenness glowed in front of him, and his eyes widened. "Murciélago?"
The next morning, Ichigo Kurosaki awoke to the sound of Orihime's alarm clock. It was a loud sound, filled with a short snippet of a strange techno-pop-rock remix his wife had fancied.
"Ichigo?" Orihime mumbled in her sleep. "Is that you?"
He raised an eyebrow. Did he really sound like an untrained, untalented seventeen-year-old singer? "No, it's just your alarm clock, Orihime."
Orihime yawned. "Oh." She rubbed her eyes and readjusted her pillow. "Would you mind turning it off, please? I'd like to get some more sleep."
"Of course." Ichigo quickly hit the 'SNOOZE' button and massaged his forehead, wide awake. So much for getting any sleep. He would have to talk to Orihime later to see if she could change the alarm sound to something less ... deafening. Even a wailing Hollow would be quieter.
He clambered off of the bed and took light steps down the staircase so not to wake anyone. It was quite early and dawn had barely clutched the morning yet. The sky was a bruised mess of gold, red and purple. Ichigo fixed himself a cup of sencha (it was a habit he picked up from his father) and ambled toward the window that faced in the direction of the sunrise.
It wasn't often that one could find Ichigo Kurosaki standing plainly and doing nothing in particular, but he enjoyed the few times that he was able to. There was always some Hollow that needed fighting, some patient that needed seeing in his father's clinic, or something that Orihime needed to show him 'right away if he wasn't busy' . He didn't mind the latter all that much, for Orihime's idea of interesting was always a combination of 'quite strange' and 'intriguing', but there was always some small reward in spending the first few moments of your day alone.
It was then, that Ichigo remembered that he wasn't alone. He set his tea on the windowsill and walked toward a corner of their living room floor. Laying on a soft navy rug that Orihime had procured from somewhere, lay Ulquiorra Cifer.
The Espada had arrived on their doorstep yesterday, reiatsu waning to the point of death, and Orihime and him had decided to take him into their house until he woke up. After Orihime had healed him, she had placed the rug underneath the Arrancar so that he wouldn't be lying on the cold wooden floor and had dubbed his section of the living room, 'Ulquiorra's Corner'. Very clever.
Ichigo pulled out a chair from a nearby table and dragged it toward the motionless man. Sitting on it, he leaned forward and peered at Ulquiorra's face.
Always frowning, he noted. Always. He supposed he wasn't one to talk; didn't Uryū once tell him that he had a permanent scowl?
"Ah, what does he know, anyway?" Ichigo grumbled to Ulquiorra's figure. The unconscious Espada didn't respond. That was expected.
Feeling slightly silly talking to a might-as-well-be-dead Arrancar, Ichigo's frown deepened as he leaned further into his chair.
Ichigo tilted more toward Ulquiorra, trying to relieve himself of the image of seeing the back of the Espada's eye sockets when Orihime had peeled his eyelids back; it was the only thing he could see when he looked at Ulquiorra now. He'd seen many disturbing things in his lifetime, but that image almost nearly took the cake. He shuddered.
It had been some time since he had battled him, but Ichigo tried to remember Ulquiorra. His voice, it had been so detached, yet so sure that his nihilistic views were right, hadn't it? Ulquiorra had been the only Espada to achieve Ressureción Segunda Etapa. Now that was a fight Ichigo could remember. Or he would, had he been in his right mind for most of it.
One thing he could remember was Ulquiorra dying. He had looked so ... mild and for once, he had been easy to read, his eyebrows finally betraying an emotion. When he had seen Ulquiorra's monstrous black wings disintegrating, he knew the fight had been over, an anticlimactic ending.
One more Espada had been defeated. Orihime was safe. Uryū was safe. He had succeeded in protecting them both.
But even in the midst of the success, Ichigo couldn't help but feel a sliver of regret. He knew that had he spared Ulquiorra, it wasn't like the Espada would turn tides and join them in the fight against his master once he had admitted the existence of feelings. Nevertheless, watching the Cuatro Espada, who seemed unbeatable in every way, disintegrate and become ash seemed wrong ... almost as if Ichigo had stolen something from him—stolen a chance for Ulquiorra to act upon those feelings he had acknowledged, whatever they may have been.
Although she didn't say it, he knew that Orihime had been troubled after Ulquiorra's death, too. Out of all the Espada, he had been the one she had been forced to spend the most time with, given as Aizen had tasked him with her protection. He knew that she hated Ulquiorra, yes, but the way he had died had spooked her a bit.
Ichigo considered this his fault. Who wouldn't be startled when a sixteen-year-old boy turned into a monstrous Hollow-like creature and kicked an Espada's ass like it was no big deal? And it wasn't just Ulquiorra's ass that that ... thing had kicked ... it was guilty of Uryū's wounds, as well.
He sighed and stood up, trying not to think too much. Ichigo walked and retrieved his tea from the windowsill, leaving the unconscious Espada and memories he'd rather forget behind.
He felt the sensation of consciousness first. It was warm, warmer than his dream, but it was an even, controlled warmth, almost as if it were being regulated somehow.
Unlike in his dream, upon his awakening, Ulquiorra was sure of his blindness, of the affliction that nettled his eyes. Only, he realized quickly, there was something nestled inside his eye sockets this time. He brought a hand toward his eyes and felt around. There they were—two eyeballs. His eyebrows raised. How could someone regenerate his eyes when he himself had not been able to?
It then clicked. He had witnessed this type of power before. 'The Rejection of Events', Lord Aizen had said. This was Orihime Inoue's doing. It made sense; the familiar spiritual presence that he had detected in the World of the Living must have been hers.
Ulquiorra opened his eyes, cursing them when all that he could see was darkness. It seemed, that even with newly regenerated eyes, receiving eyesight along with a new life would be too generous. His reiatsu was at its normal gargantuan peak, his hierro seemed to be in order, and his pesquisa was as sharp as ever. It was just his sight that seemed to be lacking.
A pity, he thought, closing his eyes, as there was nothing to be seen. That's how one would describe this situation. Pitiful. Not once in Ulquiorra's entire existence had he deemed himself a creature that needed pity. Arrancars despised the mere notion of the word—Nnoitra, especially—but to him, the idea was slightly fascinating. He had never given it much thought. To pity oneself was to admit that they were at the lowest of low. Had he himself ultimately breached 'the lowest of low'? He had to admit, something about the thought of that irritated him.
Ulquiorra then realized that because he had been healed, his plans had been severely addled. He no longer had the urgency to return to Hueco Mundo so he would not defile himself by dying in the World of the Living. It was not indispensably necessary to interrogate Ichigo Kurosaki about the defeat of Lord Aizen anymore. There was nothing more to do here. This trip almost had been in vain.
Perhaps he would return back home. Surely there were tasks to do. Of course, he had yet to comprehend what, be he was sure of work's existence. A wayward thought clamored for his attention at the back of his mind, but he chose to suppress it. It, too, was pitiful.
He motioned with his hand, and he could feel a Garganta opening. Ulquiorra did not consider thanking Orihime for her kindness in healing him—he had not asked her to, nor did he care about the reasoning behind her actions. What was done was done.
He could tell that the creation of the Garganta was successful through sound. Although, the place where he was settled in at the moment was quiet—only a clock was ticking—, nothing could compare to Hueco Mundo's complete and utter silence. He turned toward the direction of the haunting noiselessness.
Before he could take the first step, though, he felt a mass of reiatsu creep up behind him. His pupils dilated. He would know that feeling anywhere.
It was his killer.
"Going already? You could at least tell us why you were here in the first place," Ichigo mused. His voice was tense but somewhat amused.
Ulquiorra turned toward the voice of the Substitute Shinigami in a deliberate fashion and charged a Cero on his index finger. There were no orders to fire such a technique, but Ulquiorra surmised it was more sensible to appear threatening. "How strange. You expect that I must explain my agendas to you."
"Ichigo?" a voice called from afar. The pitter-patter of quick footsteps echoed across the space. "Is he awake?"
Orihime Inoue. Hm, he was unaware that Ichigo and Orihime shared the same living quarters.
"Yeah, he's definitely awake. And he thinks he's going back to Hueco Mundo without explaining himself." They seemed to completely disregard that he was aiming to fire a deadly weapon at them. Had these piddling humans dodging skills become so advanced that they could be able to evade his attacks?
"Oh, I see."
Tired of their conversation and wanting to test his hypothesis, Ulquiorra released the Cero from his fingertips. He didn't see where it landed, per se, but everyone in the neighborhood could hear the immensely loud boom from the aftermath.
"What the hell? You just destroyed my favorite plant!"
"Ah, Ichigo, you have a favorite plant?"
Ulquiorra tuned out the rest of the pair's banter. For all that it was worth, he had destroyed ... a plant? For a moment, he felt slightly saddened. He would have liked to see the plant, yes; Hueco Mundo sported quartz trees for days, but nothing in the realm of plant life existed other than that. Instantly, he banished the thought, returning his mind to its usual state of apathy. Spending too much time with humans often made him forget of his duties.
"If you are quite through, I will take my leave, now." He took a step toward the Garganta and realized, while he was here, he might as well just finish the task he had come to the World of the Living to do, whether on the brink of death or not. "Before I go, I would like to know something, Ichigo Kurosaki."
The chattering stopped.
He continued, "Explain to me how you, a mere human turned shinigami, did it."
Ichigo seemed to know exactly what Ulquiorra was talking about. "It's ... kind of a long story."
"I am in no hurry."
It was quiet for a moment and the room was filled with the bated breaths of all its occupants.
"Come sit down," Orihime said. Her voice was wary, but kind. "I'll make us some tea while you two talk."
Tea. How long had it been since he had shared a cup of it around a table with the rest of the Espada and Lord Aizen? Too long. Nevertheless, he could not accept this kindness from a human. It would go against his very nature. "That will not be necessary."
He heard Ichigo scoff, "Lighten up, will you? We're not going to poison it or anything. Besides, you just said you had nowhere to be."
Poison it? Did he really believe that Ulquiorra was afraid of being killed by Ichigo's hands again? It, in fact, was quite the contrary; there was no fear in Ulquiorra of Ichigo—there was no fear in him of anyone. It was not the misguided kind of fearlessness that provoked heroes to take pointlessly stupid actions but a calm one. He knew his strength, he was not named the Cuatro Espada for no reason.
There must have been some reason for Ichigo to insist on sharing something as trivial as tea with someone who had once been his enemy. Ulquiorra discerned that it had something to do with an emotion that he had deciphered earlier.
"You pity me." He did not add, because you killed me. It was not a question, just an observation.
Interesting . First, it was Ulquiorra that had pitied himself, but now Ichigo as well. He soaked in the foreign feeling. This pitying sensation, although strange, was not as deplorable as Nnoitra always made it out to be. It seemed to be based on one's perspective and if one decided to wallow in it; Ulquiorra chose neither.
"Call it what you like," Ichigo attested, "I like to think of it as being hospitable."
The thought,—the feeling—that had creeped up in Ulquiorra's mind before had returned. He diagnosed it as 'curiosity'. That, too, was a strange fledging of an emotion. In the end, it won out over his rationality and Ulquiorra found himself saying, "Very well, then."
He waited on a chair, which Ichigo had directed was three paces left of him, as Orihime wandered toward the kitchen to prepare the tea, Ichigo in tow.
A few moments later, the pair returned, and he felt hands placing a cup of something slightly bitter-smelling in his palms. Was this the tea that had been promised to him? It was very different from the té negro—black tea—that Lord Aizen had always insisted that the Espada drink. He carefully brought the strange-shaped cup to his lips and drank. The drink itself had a subtle bite to it, but Ulquiorra wasn't entirely sure he disliked it.
"It's sencha," Orihime explained, referring to the tea.
Ulquiorra swirled the liquid slightly in his cup. "Japanese tea."
"Alright," Ichigo began. He paused, and Ulquiorra assumed he was taking a sip of tea. "I guess you deserve answers, considering Aizen was your 'Master' or something." And then he started.
Ulquiorra listened intently, as Ichigo retold the tales of him defeating Lord Aizen after learning the Final Getsuga Tenshō from Tensa Zangetsu and Aizen's aid in the fall of Yhwach.
"Then ... Aizen is still alive?" he asked.
"I'm pretty sure, yeah," Ichigo replied.
Ulquiorra leaned back. "I see." This definitely changed things. He supposed he should have expected this. Aizen's presence was not in Hueco Mundo, certainly, and if it wasn't there, there was nowhere else it could have been. It was only natural, he supposed, that he had been defeated.
He could scarcely believe it, though. Could scarcely believe that Ichigo Kurosaki defeated Aizen. And, yet, he believed Ichigo's tale. He'd said it before—if anyone could defeat Aizen, it would be him.
But, what did Aizen's defeat mean for him? Ulquiorra had to accept it was a reality now. All his life, he had wandered about, cherishing the emptiness of nothing. It was Aizen that had given him any sort of purpose.
With Aizen gone, what was Ulquiorra to do now?
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Hello again, guys! I hope you guys are enjoying the story! I'm afraid updates will be quite slow with this fic because I really want to make this story as true to the characters as I can get it. Seriously, I've had half of the next chapter written for over three months simply because I couldn't figure out how to write the rest of it—but I think I'm close to making a breakthrough! Only nine more chapters left, considering I have approximately twelve chapters planned for this story.
Also, in regards to this chapter, in the beginning, if you were confused, don't fret: it was supposed to be strange and perplexing, but I promise it will be elaborated on more later! ;)
Anyway, if you liked the story, please leave a review and/or follow/favorite! Reviews always encourage me to write more! :)
