Chapter 3
Ulquiorra had little need for sleep, and had spent the intervening hours preparing. He had some knowledge of what damage could be taken by a human body before death was caused, but he didn't want to take any chances. His research had taken up most of the night. Strangely, he still felt ill-prepared.
As he approached the woman's quarters, he yet again caught himself reaching up to brush the cheek that she had healed. His assumption had been that her power simply left the focus of her healing in a previous, undamaged state. However, a tingling sensation persisted on his face, and in the hand that had held hers when she healed her head wound the previous day. When observed more closely, he could detect a slight reiatsu residue in these places, like a stain. He noted the phenomenon and resolved to monitor it for other side-effects and rate of decay.
This line of thought was interrupted by the sight of Grimmjow leaning up against the wall outside Orihime Inue's quarters. He was waiting, hands in pockets, one foot braced up behind him. Upon Ulquiorra's arrival, he reached one hand out to the door and tapped it impatiently. "I can't get in," he growled at Ulquiorra.
"No," replied Ulquiorra. "The woman has been remanded to me entirely."
"Tch. Come on, Ulqui. I just want a little taste." Grimmjow's voice was both wheedling and rough with suppressed violence. His outstretched hand began scratching absently at the door.
The felinoid arrancar was always wild, but this behavior stood out to Ulquiorra, reminding him of the reactions of the lesser hollows who had previously invaded Orihime's quarters, when he denied them further access. He still couldn't place it, exactly, but it might have been hunger.
"Your arm," said Ulquiorra, a thought occurring, "the one she regenerated… how does it feel?"
Grimmjow looked suspicious at this abrupt change of topic. Ulquiorra was not given to expressions of concern. Grimmjow glanced down at his left arm. He flexed it, experimentally, rolling his hand into a fist. His eyes closed, a shudder running through his body. "It feels… good. Really, really good." His eyes snapped back open and he thrust himself away from the wall. "But you would know all about that, wouldn't you? You smug asshole." He shoved a finger in Ulquiorra's face, pointing accusatorily at his cheek. "I can smell her on you."
Ulquiorra considered this strange reaction impassively, not deigning to respond to the accusation or the abrupt intrusion on his personal space. They both knew Grimmjow was no match for him if he wanted to turn this into a fight. Grimmjow stepped even closer, so close Ulquiorra could feel his breath, and he hissed, "I know what you're up to."
Ulquiorra's purpose here was not exactly a secret, but he didn't feel it necessary to explain himself to trash. It looked as though Grimmjow expected him to find this pronouncement threatening. He did not. But rather than elaborating, Grimmjow jammed his hands back into his hakama and backed off. He glanced at Orihime's door, then back at Ulquiorra. "Lucky fuck," he spat, before stalking away. "For now."
Ulquiorra waited for Grimmjow's presence to disappear entirely before releasing the wards and entering the woman's quarters. She was standing before the single window, in the pool of never-ending moonlight that spilled into the middle of the room. Her back was to him, but her face half-turned toward the sound of his entrance. "It's time," he told her.
She nodded, looking down to her hands, now busy in front of her. She brought her arms behind her back, and began to tug the sleeves down over her wrists. The espada jacket slipped down from her soft shoulders as she wriggled free. She placed the jacket carefully on the bed, and bent to remove the long, white skirt. This joined the jacket.
He had not asked her to do this, but didn't stop her. Instead he watched as she stepped back to the center of the room. Her slim arms, wholly inadequate to the task, were crossed in front of her breasts, but she dropped them, hands in fists at her side as she turned to face him fully. He modified his previous observation of the color of her skin. There proved to be many shades. The swell of her breasts and hips were paler, as though the pigment had been stretched thin. Her nipples, surprisingly dark in the middle of that pale expanse, matched the brownish red blush of her lips. The thatch of hair where her legs joined matched the copper tresses flowing over her shoulders. The symmetry was not unpleasing. She took an impressive breath, and then relaxed her hands at her sides. Eyes, wet again with tears, held his own.
"I'm ready," she said.
