***1" 1/2****

The bulbs and boils and red bits subside overnight. They melt away when Gin drifts off dreamin' of a hundred caterpillars dancing on his skin.

Ulquiorra eyeballs him all morning. Gin just does what he always does and smiles right through the inspection.

"What ya lookin at fourthy?" the shinigami asks as the Espada pauses just a hair too long after their meeting. "Does tha cat got yar tongue?"

Apparently the cat got a tongue. Ulquiorra just sidles off to his mission Gin signed him up for because itsa especially annoyin' and Gin feels like his nightly checkups might have the arrancar tired.

He's tempted to blow raspberries at Ulquiorra's back. He resists. He's about thousand years too old for that. He settles for sticking his tongue out a tiny bit.

Sure Gin is sure that the hollow has every reason to want to make him dead as a door knob. The man has aggravated him more than any of the others. Right now all Ulquiorra would do by trying to stick Gin with his sword is get himself killed. Ulquiorra is as harmless as a kitten.

Gin ignores Tosen's talk about justice 'cause he's "forgotten" his report that he promised yesterday. He skips away and soon dashes his way through the forgotten halls and silent spaces noting each time a digital eye notices him.

There's an arrancar who watches those things but he's asleep.

He didn't want to be dreaming but more and more often, via a remotely active gas, he's snoozin' the shift away. Lazy, lazy fellow.

This time the patch is warmer than before and the walls are starting to look minty. The buds are growing into leaves and they are starting to split into two. Gin's smile is increases with them.

He hovers over his pots drawing his hands behind his back, "Looky here! Ya have been busy little bees!"

The plants wave back in a ripple as the little fan draws air across their surfaces. The shinigami walks the edges surveying the patch. Who knew that the betrayer of the Soul Society, the slithering snake, the breaker of hearts, could garden?

Well. It's a silly question because now he knows who. He can.

Hopefully Rangiku would be proud of him when she found out. It ain't as hard as pullin' teeth but it ain't easy either. Certainly, it takes twice the effort.

Maybe when everything is said and done and Aizen is rottin' away in prison or the ground, whichever came first, he'd show her how to garden.

"Ya know, the silliest thing happened yest'rday," Gin chuckles as he waters the plants. He recounts the whelps to the bulbs. The space is quiet with just the hum of the fan and the occasional flap of the curtains. His little paradise.

He snuffs and methodically works through the rows, adjusting a stake here and there or tellin' a plant that it needs to catch up real quick. Every plant gets a boost. The shinigami gives it a tiny speck of his energy. It ain't soul kind but the renewable stuff, the stuff he gets by slaughtering a hollow or eatin' a hamburger.

Happily, he sits propped up against the wall, his sleeves rolled up to his shoulders and cleaning dirt from his fingernails. He watches the little things do their job. It's a peaceful place.

It's like a world where mean old nasty Aizen can't touch a thing. Gin's the God and it's a wond'rful thing. He controls all the pieces for once.

He itches his hands and freezes.

Little red marks dance up and down his fingers. The lumps are back. In a jerk, the shinigami is moves forward and drags the plant's leaves up up up his right arm.

Nothing.

He grips his left arm with his slightly swelling fingers. Does it spread?

Nothing.

He checks mentally what he ate. It was different than the day before. His nose starts to revv up. What's doing this? What's causin' this drama trama?

It comes to him quietly like ripples on the water 'cept this time itsa red angry whelps. The skin on his left arm is pinker. Well, it spreads then. Now he knows not ta scratch that itch on his nose.

Okay. He could deal with another night of not sleeping.

It's when his right arm feels like it's on fire that the shinigami almost gives up.

The daffodils.

He's allergic to the daffodils.


Gin proceeds to steal various things from Tosen over the course of the next week. The shinigami is prone to it because the Man of Justice seems to be screamin' to be stolen from.

Plus, he has a healthy amount of gloves and glasses.

Every day, the flowers have to be watered. Every day, Gin treks down there dragging on gloves, covering his arms, his body, from the purdy flower buds. They are the snakes now, crawlin' up into him, curling into his body, disturbing it.

No matter what he does, every night is snowballing like the snowmen he used to make with Rangiku.

Itsa weezin' or a coughin' or any number of disturbin' things. Gin spends his time sweating or shivering through the nights. The shinigami wears the robes looser and looser so the cloth hides the jerkiness of his motions because of the scabs.

And now there's another set of inchin' eyes on him. Ulquiorra is watching.

The grin grows with every night of no sleep and he starts envisioning capturing the Hogyoku himself on the eighth night. His hands twitch even thinking about it. Gin knows the secret. The little place where itsa and how it's kept. If he touches the round thing though, he wouldn't be breathin' the next second 'cause Kyōka Suigetsu be seeking a new home in his gut.

Aizen is a fretful mother. That thing ain't leaving his sight.

Gin sighs and drags the cover up over his head. He needs a solution. He needs a way to take care of the patch or else it'll starve without water or love. He's not an idiot. This torture ain't gonna to work and he don't have the time to construct a mechanical doodad to do it for him.

Under the covers is dark and he closes his eyes against it.

Think.

Grind those wheels, come up with a solution.

It presents itself.

There's a set of feet outside his door and then they shuffle away as quietly as they came.

And with that, the captain falls asleep.


I apologize for skipping a week. School will do that to you. I hope you enjoyed it anyways! -Quin