Aizen was standing by the fire, hands behind his back, looking up at an image hanging in midair. One of Ulquiorra's reels of magic-eye footage.
He didn't turn around as Orihime came in. She was glad. She was still lost in the haze that had descended when she stepped in front of that mirror with Ulquiorra. She thought she might be lost for a long time yet, but any extra moment she had to pull herself together felt like a monumental blessing.
"I'm sorry about the mirror," Aizen said softly, and Orihime jolted. His voice was different—or at least different from the throne room. There was nothing mocking or teasing in it, first of all, but more than that—he did sound genuinely sorry. Sympathetic. "I thought it might be best for you to find out here, before any more time passed. And before we saw each other again."
Orihime blinked. That sounded—what? She blinked and cocked her head like she was trying to catch a distant voice calling her name. It niggled at her.
"I—thank you," Orihime said, shaking her head to clear it. "You're right—I wasn't prepared, but it's better to know."
Aizen nodded, back still to her. His shoulders heaved once with a sigh, and she followed his gaze to the floating image panel. She blinked, lips parting in surprise, and stepped forward.
It was her, because of course it was—Ulquiorra had just told her what to expect—but it was a her that was completely different even from what she'd just seen in the mirror. In the film, she looked more or less like she did now. It was what she was doing.
Even from the wide distance and the extreme high angle, she recognized the scene. The rays of moonlight through the porous surface of the forest floor, as she'd fought a swarm of the hive-mind hollows.
Then-Orihime was scrambling for high ground, practically throwing herself between tree roots as wave after wave of tapewormy monstrosities pelted after her. The problem was that once they broke apart and started whistling through the air, they were almost impossible to pin down. It was an evasion game from then on out. Orihime's shield blazed and broke and blazed again, over and over, protecting her back, then her sides, then from above when Grimmjow yelled at her to look up. She leapt, inhumanly high and far, and twisted in the air as the three worms she'd just dodged showed her their unprotected broadsides—finally, an opening. Her right hand flew out, fingers splayed, and Tsubaki ripped through them. She dropped as they disintegrated, and then she was up again, already looking for the next threat as Tsubaki coursed back to her open hand. Her loose hair billowed in a messy wave as she cast from side to side, and Present-Orihime's eyes widened at the look on her face as then-Orihime swung her left arm wide to hurl a shield against another squirming riot of worms that was readying to untangle and launch itself up after her. It hit, pinning them to the side of a huge root, and held them down and together in a clump just long enough for Tsubaki to fly back out from her outstretched hand. She broke the shield just as he hit, and a savage cry of effort tore from Orihime's mouth as he punched into and through the tough, rubbery mass.
Good God, Orihime thought, watching herself hack and slash with wild abandon, I've gone completely native.
"I remember this," she said, pointing absently. "It was while we were below. This was the—" she didn't know how she knew, when there had been so many, "the twelfth encounter, just before we found the controlling Adjuchas nest."
Aizen nodded, but still didn't face her. His right hand was at his mouth, the knuckle his index finger pressed over his lips thoughtfully. From where she was standing, she could see his cheek pouching out with a small smile.
"I particularly like this part," he said, and tapped his finger in the air. His posture was hunched, intent, left arm crossed over his ribs, right elbow braced on the back of his wrist. She supposed he'd watched this before, like a sports nut rewatches match-ups and games to get the full play-by-play.
In the film, Orihime—caught in open ground this time, with dozens of enemies between her and Grimmjow—spun again, but not just once. She turned twice, then three times as her hands and wrists crossed in a weaving pattern overhead, then threw her arms wide, both palms out. Sand and light and leaves and rocks and enemies flew up and away from her position like a bomb had gone off, and then a sharp-edged golden wave raced away from her on all sides, slicing through anything it touched. She hadn't noticed at the time, but Grimmjow actually leapt out of the way, too, sinking his hand into a treetrunk like it was butter to hold himself out of danger, and then dropped back down once it passed.
"Whoa," Orihime said, blinking. It was a little embarrassing to see herself this way, but it also brought tears to her eyes for some reason.
"How is it done?" Aizen asked.
"Uh," Orihime shifted on her feet, and her voice caught. She cleared it and tried to focus. "I store up the power from a shield during the turn—then mix it with Tsubaki's force and release it all at once. It's a time-delay-energy-surge thing, I think. I'm not sure." She laughed a breathy little laugh. "Didn't know it was quite that dramatic."
"Beautiful," Aizen breathed, and Orihime blushed fiercely. "It's like you're dancing."
Aizen finally turned to face her, and Orihime's heart stopped in her chest. She must be dreaming, she thought. She had to be dreaming. Aizen looked like he had in the dream. His eyes were lit up with pride and warmth—and—
"Probably from the time you spent training with Rukia just before you came here," he said, and reached for her. His fingers curled around and through hers, and he pulled her slowly toward him.
"What?" The word came out a strangled gasp. What was happening? Her feet carried her toward him on instinct, totally unresisting, and in a moment he was looking down at her from just a handspan away.
"Isn't her shikai command 'Dance'?" he asked, smiling, and his other hand rose to cup her cheek. "She has such a graceful style. I can never recall the full name of her zanpakuto, though." He chuckled. "It's incredibly long and severe-sounding if I remember right."
Aizen exhaled and shook his head softly as he looked at her. And looked at her, and looked at her. The intensity of his gaze was an almost physical sensation—she could feel it like the tingling pressure that comes just before a touch lands. A sense of waiting, anticipation. She'd felt it when he looked at her in the throne room, too. He seemed to notice her hesitation, and smiled gently.
"It will take some time," Aizen said at last. "But then I've had all this time of watching Ulquiorra's footage to get used to it, though, so it's easy for me to say, I suppose." He brushed the errant strands of hair away from her face, and wrapped his arm—the same arm holding her hand—around her waist to pull her closer against him. He didn't let go of her left hand as he did this, just raised it along with his so that her arm bent at the elbow and crossed behind her back. Their wrists and forearms lay flush against each other across her hips. It made her back arch, and her chest pressed against his. She should have been able to blush—but it felt too good—and too strange—
It was so comforting and intimate—she felt vulnerable but protected—she didn't know why he was doing this—
It did feel strange—but then it became—
Unique. Unique to him, she thought. Whatever that meant.
"Just when I thought you couldn't get any more beautiful," Aizen murmured, sighing. Her eyes fluttered closed as he leaned in, holding her like he couldn't let her go, and pressed his lips against hers. That familiar electric current traveled up her spine again, rooting her to the spot, making her lean in even closer against him. She raised her chin. Their noses brushed. She smelled almonds—no, almond soap—
"Ori…" he breathed, and Orihime's eyes snapped open. His stayed closed as he spoke against her skin. "I missed you so much."
Orihime began to shake—she couldn't help it. She couldn't speak, couldn't think. Aizen's fingers were rough and calloused against her cheek. She knew his touch—she shouldn't know his touch. He'd called her the name he used in the dream—a nickname no one had ever thought to use. Her chest began to rise and fall steeply with rapid, panicked breaths, because it had been a dream, it hadn't been real, and it hadn't been real—it hadn't—been—
Because it hadn't been real, and now it was.
She fainted.
The last thing she heard was Aizen's worried voice calling her name—not her name—Ori—
The last thing she felt was his body, his strong, inexplicably familiar hands holding her against him as she crumpled—
The last thing she knew—the only thing she knew—was that one of them wasn't who the other thought…and that it could only be her, because she no longer knew who she was at all.