Doctor, you suck.
I've been busy, that's all I have to say, LOL.
But here it is! I had fun researching.
The only thing Grimmjow liked about mornings was the breakfast. Other than that, mornings sucked. A lot. But he was in a decent mood, or now, at least.
He had slept a good twelve hours last night, and now he was hungry. He stretched like a cat, yawned, and left his bedroom. Raising himself up on tiptoe to make sure no one would hear him or harass him, he began his catlike promenade down to the kitchen. He was looking forward to some delicious Lucky Charms™, complete with a half gallon of milk to wash it all down. Already he could smell something delectable from the kitchen, a few doors down. It smelled like sugar, syrup, and more yummy stuff he couldn't point out.
But on his way there, he heard fast, frantic footsteps. Grimmjow stopped, scowled, and looked around. Right then, Ulquiorra sped past him, veering left into the kitchen and tearing apart the pantry. Grimmjow, with the words what the fuck etched over his face, sauntered in after him, trying hard to keep a laugh stuck in his gut as Ulquiorra took hearty bites of potato chips.
"Haha, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Grimmjow asked, amused.
"I haven't eaten something hard in two weeks." Ulquiorra said coldly. "Actually, I haven't eaten in two weeks. So go away." Oh, that's right. It had been two weeks since Ulquiorra's tonsillectomy, and it was time to eat, eat, eat since his scabs were partially gone. It had been quiet for Szayel since then—he hadn't had to deal with any maladies.
Grimmjow liked the kitchen. It was the only thing in Las Noches that wasn't white. In fact, it had many earthy tones with an orangey tile and Spanish touches everywhere. It also smelled delicious, like salad and sometimes fresh cooked meat. The kitchen was warm and homey. He also liked the kitchen because there was an interminable supply of food. Healthy, junky, whatever it was, they had it. Which made him happy. Sniggering, Grimmjow strolled over to Ulquiorra's side. But he felt something wet underfoot, and before he knew it, he was on the ground, eliciting a thud and crack, with a searing pain in his arm. His eyes went wide.
"OW! Motherfucker!" Grimmjow screamed, paling.
Ulquiorra, in mid chew, stopped and stared. His eyes widened and his eyebrows went up as he stared at Grimmjow, lying on the ground, moaning in pain.
"I heard a crack…" Ulquiorra murmured through a mouthful of chips. Oh, it was probably the sound his butt made when it clashed with the water he slipped in. That had to be it.
"Dear God!" Grimmjow moaned, sitting up. He leaned against the cabinets, breathing hard and fast. His left arm was being cradled in his right hand, and he inspected it with tears of pain in his eyes.
"I can barely move it. Shit." He muttered, flexing the fingers on his left hand. Ulquiorra, morbidly curious, came closer.
"I think you broke it." Ulquiorra remarked blankly. It's swelling already and crooked." Ulquiorra extended a finger to touch it.
"Go away!" Grimmjow kicked Ulquiorra's shins and shakily stood up, grabbing the countertop for support. He couldn't even have breakfast.
Epic fail.
"Szayel should see that." Ulquiorra said bluntly, indicating his arm with a fork. "If not, who knows what will happen."
"Whatever!" Grimmjow nearly shrieked. He shook his head viciously, in denial.
"Oho, what's going on here?"
Noitora, with his pedophilic and bizarre grin, swaggered into the kitchen with nothing but boxers and a bathrobe. His hair was all messy and greasy, like usual, and there was a slightly smug air around him.
"Grimmjow broke his arm." Ulquiorra said. "He slipped in a puddle of water."
"I did not." Grimmjow coolly contradicted. He sucked in a breath as his arm touched the side of the counter.
"What the…" Noitora's eyes narrowed, and he sashayed over to them. He glanced at Grimmjow's arm for a few seconds, and then shrugged. "I don't know or care. Go make Szayel deal with it."
"No." Grimmjow said firmly. "He's going to cut me up and kill me and feed me cyanide—"
"No he won't, you pussy." Noitora sniggered. He folded his arms and looked down at Grimmjow condescendingly.
"Szayel is a good doctor." Ulquiorra said firmly.
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"No!" Grimmjow whined, stomping his foot. "I refuse."
-
-
And once again that morning, our favorite scientist Szayel was relaxing in his office. His feet were on his desk, and he was typing up a lab report on his laptop. Recently, he had found a very peculiar organic element. After several tests, Szayel had had deemed it a reactive toxin that he placed in the first group of the periodic table, under that alkali metals. So, what better to do than write a report about it? Thirty pages long, single spaced, twelve point font: a typical report about one element, Szayel style. He was so into it, in fact, that he didn't even hear the squalling from the front of the lab. It was when someone screamed that his he realized his relaxation had come to an abrupt end. Szayel sighed, pushed his glasses up his nose, donned his lab coat, and walked out into the lab's foyer to be greeted with a mess of things.
Grimmjow was writhing on ground like a beached whale, hyperventilating and cursing and holding his left arm in his hand. Ulquiorra had him pinned to the ground with his knees and Noitora had a foot on Grimmjow's legs. Szayel resisted the temptation to smack his forehead with his palm.
"What happened?" he asked in a chagrinned tone.
"He broke his arm!" Noitora said pointing at the pained Grimmjow.
"I didn't!" Grimmjow yelled. "Get off of me!"
"Don't struggle, Grimmjow." Szayel frowned and folded his arms, walking over to the comically pitiful horde. "Ulquiorra, Noitora, get off. You're making it worse."
Reluctantly, the two let go of Grimmjow. He stopped struggling, and was tired from the loss of carbon dioxide.
"Grimmjow, breathe slowly. Through your nose." Szayel said calmly. He offered his hand to Grimmjow, pulling him up. Ulquiorra and Noitora flanked him, watching carefully as Szayel inspected Grimmjow's arm, prodding here and there, eliciting cuss words from Grimmjow. They watched, holding their breath, as Szayel looked at it, turning it around here and there.
"It's definitely broken." Szayel said with a nod. "How did it happen?" The parade of losers trekked down a long hallway—The Hallway—where all of the medical stuff was found. They turned into the famous x-ray room, which Grimmjow was quite familiar with…how many x-rays had he had of his head already?
"He slipped on water in the kitchen. He landed on his elbow, I think." Ulquiorra explained shortly.
Szayel lead Grimmjow to the x-ray table, which Grimmjow glared at. Szayel pulled some dark little plates out of a drawer on the table, and laid both of Grimmjow's forearms on them.
"For comparison purposes, to see how bad the break is." Szayel muttered. He put a lead apron over Grimmjow, whose frown deepened, and then disappeared behind a wall with Ulquiorra and Noitora.
"You know the drill," Szayel chuckled, "Don't breathe and stay still."
The next thing he heard was a quick, shrill beep, and a slightly longer whirring sound.
And the image was promptly printed out, but Szayel took off to go position his arm differently and took two more snapshots. Three minutes later, Grimmjow joined them in the back. Szayel pinned the x-rays up on a light screen and gave a low whistle.
"Good job, Grimmjow." Noitora said sarcastically, sniggering.
"That's a complete, closed axial oblique fracture of both the ulna and radius." Szayel said with mild awe.
The x-ray revealed the ulna, snapped in half, pressing against the broken radius which was pressing against Grimmjow's skin. In fact, one part of the ulna was jabbing into one of the radius fragments. It was choppy break, and compared to his normal arm, gruesome.
"That'll need surgery right away." Szayel said. He snapped his fingers, and Lumina and Verona were at his side immediately.
"Lumina, go tell Ilforte to prep the anesthesia. Then you go prep the OR. Verona, get the metal plates ready—oh! And of course, the intramedular nails and my bone drill, just in case. Stat." Szayel smiled sweetly at them, while Grimmjow's face went from angry to scared to defeated in a matter of two seconds.
"Shit." He said curtly.
Already, Noitora and Ulquiorra were inching toward the door. But Szayel caught them.
"And you two get to help me! Won't that be fun?" Szayel cackled devilishly, rubbing his hands together. "I'm just tickled pink at the thought of orthopedic surgery."
Ulquiorra ground his teeth and Noitora instantly began to sweat as they followed Szayel to the pre op room, where Ilforte was already waiting. He didn't look happy, and was smacking his gum as he text messaged. He slapped the hospital bed with his hand, indicating Grimmjow to lie down there.
"Ulquiorra and Noitora, come with me to the scrub room." And, they had no choice but to follow Szayel, leaving Grimmjow and Ilforte alone.
"Damn, nice break." Ilforte said, inspecting the x-rays. He held the up to the light, looking them over thoroughly. He snickered and set down the x rays. "What is that, a closed axial?"
Grimmjow grunted in reply. He was too busy angsting about surgery and stuff. He had never had surgery before. This was so ridiculously abrupt! But he couldn't fight against Szayel, because that man was crazy with that tranquilizer gun…and Grimmjow was too hungry, too tired, too pained to fight back.
Ilforte jabbed Grimmjow's lower lip with a syringe full of magenta liquid. Grimmjow made a face and turned his head away.
"Drink it now, faggot." Ilforte hissed, shoving it into his mouth.
Grimmjow tasted something yummy; it reminded him of Fruity Pebbles™ with a touch of Cookie Crisp™. Well, until he took a breath. That's when the worst aftertaste on earth erupted on his tongue.
"That tastes like fucking shit!" Grimmjow exclaimed, looking around the room for water. There was nothing except for Ilforte, who was biting his lip in effort to not laugh, and some other stuff that wouldn't help Grimmjow.
"It's the sedative. When was the last time you ate or drank anything?"
"Oh, way too long ago. Like, fourteen hours ago." Grimmjow said casually.
"Perfect." Ilforte said, pressing his stethoscope to Grimmjow's chest. Grimmjow shuddered at how cold it was. Geez, Ilforte probably put it in a freezer beforehand. "No abnormalities, though your heart's beating a bit fast. Nervous?"
"Hell no! Nervousness is for pussies!" Grimmjow said vehemently, glaring.
"Well, Blood pressure says otherwise, but whatever." Ilforte said, peeling the cuff off of Grimmjow's good arm. "I'll back in about ten minutes. Take off that jacket and relax." Ilforte brusquely threw a warm blanket onto Grimmjow, who accepted it graciously and curled up as a dazed sleepiness started to come over him some minutes later. He was thinking of muffins and milk and Lucky Charms™ when he realized he was moving. Cracking an eye open, he saw walls pass by and felt the temperature dropped a good ten degrees. But he was too sleepy to care. Everything sounded like he was underwater, and his vision was bleary. So he closed his eyes again until the temperature dropped once again, a familiar beeping caused him open his eyes.
The operating room, in all its majestic glory, was oddly calm. He was oddly calm. Grimmjow didn't even notice when he was moved onto the operating table. Szayel stood over him.
"Alright, Grimmjow. Take deep breaths."
Ilforte put a mask over him, and after a few breaths, Grimmjow was slipping away. His eyelids fluttered and his body relaxed. Something sticky was put on his chest, and the last thing he remembered was something cold on his leg.
"Wow, that was so…easy." Ilforte remarked, administering a series of shots. Noitora reluctantly handed him the laryngoscope, which he flipped open gracefully and put in Grimmjow's mouth.
"Indeed." Szayel agreed with a nod.
"Yeah, well, I overdosed on the sedative." Ilforte shrugged, whacking Noitora (who wasn't paying attention), reminding him to hand over the tube. Ilforte slid it down his throat, leaving it right between his vocal cords and hooking it up to the respirator. The needlework was quickly taken care up, and the anesthesia flowed freely into Grimmjow's veins via IV.
Noitora and Ulquiorra thought it was so weird to see Grimmjow in this state. Grimmjow, one hundred percent testosterone and alpha male, avoided doctors like the plague because he was 'too strong' to get sick. Well, that theory was quickly disproved with his double pneumonia and his broken bones. And now his left arm was propped up on an extension of the operating table, where Szayel stood with a scalpel in hand.
"Ulquiorra, dip that little sponge into the iodine." Szayel commanded, pointing to a small bowl with something dark red in it. Ulquiorra did as told, and handed it to Szayel, who ran the sponge soaked with iodine up and down Grimmjow's forearm, turning it orange. And then, he sank the scalpel in the anterior part of the forearm, making a smooth deep cut just three inches from the crook of his elbow. Ulquiorra and Noitora suddenly felt ill. A sanguine odor was permeating the sterile air.
"What a break, huh?" Ilforte prompted, peering at the bone. It was clearly visible, through the muscle, which Szayel was pushing aside and forcing Noitora to hold with the retractors. Noitora just stared at the ceiling for a good five minutes until Szayel finished with the cutting. If Grimmjow weren't on the operating table, he would've fainted already.
"Ulquiorra, hand me the gauze."
He handed it to him, and watched with morbid fascination as Szayel cleaned all the blood, leaving a pure white bone, standing out against the reds and pinks of his skin and muscles. Ulquiorra shuddered and stood behind Noitora, both of which were positively trembling.
"It's a clean break though. No fragments, nothing." Szayel remarked. Carefully, he moved the bones into place, glancing at the x ray every so often. Ilforte was watching, curious. Noitora was beginning to fall into a Grimmjow-OR-syndrome state, swaying as the temperature changed around him. Ulquiorra pretended not to notice.
"Metal plates."
Noitora shakily deposited them in Szayel's hand. With utmost care, he placed them on the bone. There were little holes in them, for the screws. One of the metal plates was put on the side part of the ulna, the thinner, smaller bone and the one Grimmjow had presumably fallen on.
"Ulquiorra, come hold the plate down." Szayel stepped aside and winked at him, twirling a small drill in hand. He put the nails in the little holes, and drilled them in. The high pitched whirring was bothersome, but what was worse was a sharp, sour scent in the air—not one of decay, but an almost smoky scent. Ulquiorra assumed it was the bone's version of sawdust: bone dust. Szayel didn't really seem to notice; he was too concentrated. Drilling each nail in, he then got to work on the radius. The radius, the larger bone of the forearm, was in slightly better condition than the ulna. Although it had also been snapped in half, the fragments were still under his skin and were not mixing with the ulna's fragments.
"Next—Noitora, hold the plate down."
Szayel indicated the plate placed on the side of the radius with a bloody finger, and Noitora disdainfully came forward and held it down with the least effort possible. Ew…he didn't want his finger inside Grimmjow's arm. Noitora shoved Ulquiorra in front of him and escaped the operating room once again. He was so pro at this—chickening out and leaving to go watch his porn. Typical Noit.
The drilling began once again, and within ten minutes, the bones were held in place and Grimmjow's arm was magically repaired. Now it just needed to heal…
"Oh, by the way, that ultimate faggot Noitora escaped." Ilforte declared. He handed Szayel a curved needle and long, dark string. Stitches.
"That's alright." Szayel said suavely. He scowled, and shook his head. "But I do hope he knows what he's getting himself into."
Ilforte scoffed in assent, beckoning Ulquiorra over to him with his finger. He pointed to Szayel's hands, quickly stitching and tying and nimbly slipping the needle under Grimmjow's skin. His long, dexterous fingers were everywhere, stitching faster than a seamstress. Ulquiorra was impressed, he had to admit. But he had to look away when Ilforte pulled the tube out of Grimmjow's mouth. He tossed it onto a cart, shining with saliva under the bright lights. Eighteen centimeters of tight stitches later, Ulquiorra was peeling off his gloves and mask and uncomfortable attire while Szayel finished up, wrapping Grimmjow's arm in a tight bandage. Ilforte was with him.
"Good job." Ilforte said, smirking.
"I didn't do anything."
"Yeah, but you didn't leave or freak out." Ilforte pointed out, drying his hands. He tossed his full head of blonde hair, pulling out his cell phone. "You can leave…"
"Right."
-
-
Grimmjow was about to hop the border into consciousness. He heard everything around him, vaguely. It was all so far away. But so close. He felt slightly dizzy, and little disoriented, and he was very warm under soft and plushy sheets. His arm felt sore, but not too sore. He cracked an eye open and found himself staring into Szayel's face, who was standing over him.
"He's awake."
Chairs scraped the ground and the faces of Halibel, Ulquiorra, Stark, and even Apacci, Halibel's mean fraccion, stood over him.
Before anyone else had a chance to ask or talk, Szayel popped the question.
"Grimmjow, are you in any sort of pain right now?"
"A little…"
"I'll add some morphine." Szayel said, nodding.
"Oh, you're so pale." Stark remarked, shaking his head. You look so sick." Halibel nodded in agreement, while Apacci kind of rolled her eyes.
"I feel sick, too. It's so hot in here." Grimmjow muttered. The room spun around him, and he was becoming aware of the sickish feeling within him. And all he wanted was some Lucky Charms…what more could one ask for?
"That's the anesthesia. Some people have reactions to it." Szayel chuckled. "I'll add some nausea suppressant, too." Szayel tipped something into Grimmjow's IV bag.
"I'm hungry!" Grimmjow complained. He attempted to move his left arm, but it was weighed down by a thick bandage and pinned to his body in a sling.
"I'm not giving you food until you throw up or until you nausea goes away." Szayel said firmly, patting his shoulder. He smiled at him apologetically, and Grimmjow just frowned. "So get the Lucky Charms off your mind, alright? I'll be back in a few hours. If you need anything, Lumina and Verona are at your command."
The little fatties, Lumina and Verona, poked their heads into his room and waved at Grimmjow. Szayel left the room, lab coat billowing behind him.
"So…yeah. We're just screwing around. Visiting, you know?" Stark said casually, folding his arms.
"Feel better." Halibel said blandly. "Apacci brought you something."
Apacci threw a glare at Halibel as Halibel shoved the midget over to Grimmjow's bedside. She looked like she was about to cuss, but shut up, and threw a baggie of Lucky Charms at him brusquely.
"Just eat it. He's gone, anyway." Apacci murmured, stepping back.
Grimmjow raised an eyebrow and peered at her curiously.
"Thanks?" Grimmjow replied.
"Yeah. I'm leaving. I've got to go punch Mira Rose."
"I have to leave as well." Halibel said. The two girls left, leaving Stark and Ulquiorra, who had nothing to say and ended up leaving ten minutes later. Grimmjow was a happy camper now-- no one to harass him while he ate his Lucky Charms. He swallowed most it in one gulp, temporarily satisfied.
Too bad they didn't agree with his stomach. And too bad his satisfaction lasted only five minutes.
So, I couldn't find much info...but that's what imagination is for. And the chapter is not as long as usual, sadly. The next chapter I have planned is very interesting! It involves Halibel, lolz.
I miss writing. HAY GUYZ PLEEZE REVIEW.
