Orihime was in the bath—she'd gone upstairs to find one just like the one she'd left behind in Ulquiorra's tower had been willed out of her room's stark white stonework—when the blast came. She grabbed the edges of the tub, water frilling wildly around her, white dust filtering down from the ceiling. She darted from the bath and snatched up the robe she'd left out, throwing it on as she took the stairs down to the ground floor three at a time. One hand readied her shields, the other gripped the soft cloth at her waist, but when she arrived—after what felt like both 3 seconds and a year—she didn't at first understand what she was looking at.
Grimmjow was on the floor, but not hurt—and the floor wasn't a floor anymore, it was a crater. The walls smoked, the couches were rubble. She ran to him.
"What the hell happened?" she demanded.
Grimmjow looked up at her, dazed, then around at the room, then down at himself. He pressed a hand to his stomach as if to check that his Hollow was still there. And then, for some idiot reason probably unknowable to sane person, he started to laugh.
"What. The. Hell?" Orihime asked again, gesturing around to the destruction. "What is all this?"
Grimmjow kept laughing, but offered no explanation as he gradually stood.
"Oh man," he said, looking ready to dab tears from his eyes." Oh man, he didn't even stab me. I guess he's got it as bad as I do."
Orihime's nostrils flared as she jerked her robe around her and began to cinch it closed with the sash. "Start making sense or I'll reverse engineer you into—" she squinted, "uh, whatever the hell sort of creature you started as."
"It's fine, it's fine," Grimmjow said, waving a hand and recovering himself. When his laughter trailed off into a sigh, there was a complicated look of relief and confusion in his eyes. "Go finish your bath. You're less suited to cleaning up messes than everyone seems to think."