Disclaimer: Fan fiction should be self explanatory by now, yes?

Mini-Summary: Prequel: Grimmjow, beginning to succumb to the flu, has to get an unwilling Orihime from point A to point B--without bruises. With a repertoire composed almost entirely of violence and threats, this could be a struggle for him.

Chronology: Somewhat of a prequel here. Writing sick people is a touch monotonous, and before the really fun stuff happens, poor Grimmjow needs more medicine in his system. So. This is after he's been infected (that's a whole chapter to itself, really), but before people really pick up on it. For kicks and giggles, I decided to try my hand at Orihime.

"Grimmjow."

The Sexta Espada let his eyes wander the throne room, following the outlines of brownish rock that climbed Aizen's perch. He wasn't sure whether he was more curious or more annoyed that they were different each time he came here. He usually avoided the cavernous chamber entirely but it was cooler in Aizen's throne room than anywhere else in Las Noches, and he was tired of the heat outside, to say nothing of the heat he felt in his own head.

An elbow in his side and a muttered 'he's talking to you' from Nnoitra dragged his attention back to the dim shape within the glass cage below. Aizen stood before it, Hōgyoku in hand, looking up at him expectantly.

Grimmjow sighed inwardly and searched for the proper response. This was precisely why he usually avoided the place. "Yes, Aizen-sama?"

"I want Inoue Orihime to join us this afternoon, as she's never seen an arrancar birth." Aizen paused as though expecting a response from him, but continued after a moment without one. "Bring her here, Grimmjow."

Grimmjow counted no fewer than seven other arrancar in the room, including Halibel and Nnoitra. Why he had to be the one to go fetch the prisoner was unclear. So what if Ulquiorra wasn't here to take care of his little project? How did that make the job his?

"I'll do it!" Nnoitra called out from beside him. The bangles on his wrist jingled as he waved his arm around eagerly. "I'll bring her right here, swift as you please, Aizen-sama."

Aizen seemed about to speak, but Tousen stepped forward with a frown. "Aizen-sama did not give the task to you, Nnoitra. It is Grimmjow's to perform."

As thrilled as he was to see Tousen getting pissy on someone else's ass for a change, Grimmjow bit back his comment to that effect. Regardless of what people thought, he did have a healthy sense of self-preservation when consequences had been laid out in advance. There was no need to tempt sword-happy Tousen over something like this.

He got to his feet smoothly, using the grace of his motions to mask their slowness. It wasn't so much the fighting, he told himself, as it was that mysterious 'flu' thing the cat-formed shinigami had mentioned. Their fight had been good, her coughing and sneezing less so, but this full-body ache and fever were just plain miserable. He hoped they were on the way out.

Logically, Grimmjow knew there was only so long he could hide them, and he recalled Stark being supremely upset after Szayel visited his room to cure a fever and cough. All things considered, he didn't want the Octava anywhere near him, and to ensure this, he couldn't afford to let on that this was anything more than a nagging cough.

"Grimmjow."

Hearing his name again, Grimmjow fought the urge to roll his eyes and turned his attention back to Aizen. "Yeah?"

"I want to be absolutely clear on this," Aizen said. "You are escorting her here, not dragging her. No busted doors, no bruises, no torn clothing, no threats, no tears, no chains. There will be no need to pull her hair or fling her over your shoulder like a caveman."

"Like a what?"

Aizen smiled that smile that pissed Grimmjow off the most, the patronizing one that oozed superiority and hinted at a threat. "It doesn't matter. There's no need to pick her up or otherwise force her. Do you understand?"

The intelligent thing to do was to nod his head and say 'yes, Aizen-sama,' before fetching the woman. That wasn't at all what he wanted to do, though. He wanted to show his resentment at being half-lectured, half-scolded, like a child who needed to be taught how to behave himself. He was a fucking Espada, and while Aizen was the top of the chain for now, it didn't mean the rest of them were so far beneath him. He briefly entertained the mental image of Aizen's face after a set of claws had been dragged through it, then dropped the image before it could show in his expression.

Grimmjow shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his hakama and scowled. "Yes, Aizen-sama," he muttered, before turning to follow his orders. Whoever said he lacked self-restraint had never been inside his head.

It was hotter than he'd remembered out here. At least in the real world there was a sun in the sky to make it hot. This artificial crap of Aizen's was hot for no good reason. Grimmjow took a deep breath, coughed a little, and made a conscious effort not to fan himself. If he ever met that cat woman again, he'd kill her, orders or no orders. Fucking, flu-ridden bitch.

The wind started up again, and he had a moment to enjoy it before the sugar and oats smell wafted over. That it had taken so long meant the woman had fallen behind again. He stopped and turned to face her.

"Come on, woman." Grimmjow almost folded his arms across his chest, but figured he'd rather feel what little breeze there was. "We don't have all day. Walk faster."

She looked up, pushing her hair out of her face. "I am walking faster. You're taller than I am, that's all!"

Grimmjow fidgeted impatiently as he watched her catch up, and then started walking again. The smell was a familiar one, slightly stronger than her usual honey and nuts scent. It took him a moment to place it. Granola bars. Stark had brought back a pair of them in shiny foil wrappers after a trip to Karakura Town, and they'd split them up amongst the East wing Espada. Despite the sweet smell, they'd tasted bland, like oats and nuts and nothing else. He wondered if the woman would be the same, but concluded that she'd probably taste less like granola and more like meat.

"Oh no!"

He gritted his teeth and turned to find her several feet away and stationary. "What the fuck, woman? Now you're not walking at all! When I said 'faster,' that's not what I meant." Grimmjow failed to see the point behind allowing her to walk at her own pace if her own pace meant a snail's crawl. They'd have arrived twenty minutes ago if he'd done it his way, and then he'd be back in the cool and out of this sweltering heat.

She knelt down beside a lopsided red building and reached for something on the ground. "Look, he's fallen."

Grimmjow walked back towards her and glanced down at the tiny, fuzz-covered object cradled in her hands. A smear of blood marked where the impact had caved in the bird's head. "So what?"

"It doesn't have a mask," she murmured, bringing the stiff little corpse to her chest.

"Drop the fucking bird," he growled at her. "We don't have time for that shit."

She lowered the bird to a relatively level stone and brought her hands up to her barrettes. The bird was surrounded in yellow glow.

Grimmjow contemplated kicking the building since he wasn't allowed to kick the woman. "Why are you even bothering?" he asked. "It can't get back up in the nest anyway, 'cause it can't fly." This must be another one of her human things, he mused. Like what Ulquiorra had mentioned about her being upset when her 'friends' were dying even though it was their own damn fault for showing up here.

"Grimmjow? How are there birds in Hueco Mundo?"

He looked down at her, and shrugged. She might as well get a real answer since she was going to be stubborn about the whole thing, anyway. "They fly in through the garganta. Birds are dumb as fuck. Don't know what a miserable shit hole Hueco Mundo is, and they're too stupid to leave once they get here."

Her expression turned from frightened curiosity to something akin to pity, and his urge to slap her senseless spiked. Concern, he could handle. Pity was entirely different. Worse, he got the distinct impression that the pity was more for him than for the bird. Briefly, Grimmjow wondered where Ulquiorra found the restraint to serve her meals twice a day. He waited until the Shun Shun Rikka returned, and then turned his back on her.

"There, I let you heal the damn thing. Now come on, already. Aizen's holding things up just for you." He felt a tug on his jacket and repressed his instinctual attack reflex.

"We can't just leave him here," she exclaimed, holding the bird out to him.

"Yeah," he grunted. "We can."

"He belongs in the nest with his parents!"

Grimmjow spat into the sand. "Well he can't get up there, so you're wasting your time. And my time. And Aizen's time." Though, really, he could care a flying fuck about Aizen's time. If the bastard didn't want him hoisting the woman under an arm, he could just wait all day. It would serve him right.

"Y-you could put him in the nest, Grimmjow."

"No." He ignored the bird's high-pitched cheeps, ignored the woman's indrawn sniffle, ignored the throbbing pain deep behind his eyes. "Some little predator gets a snack later on. We're gonna be late."

The woman's hand bunched tighter in the fabric of his jacket. "But he's just a baby!" she pleaded. "He's lonely and scared, and his parents miss him."

Grimmjow rolled his eyes. "I don't believe this shit." He finally turned to face the woman, glaring down at her hopeful expression. "You have got to be kidding me," he muttered. "What is wrong with you that you think I'm the sort of person who'll go out of his way for a fucking baby bird? Huh?"

"Please!"

He shook his head. "Look, if it's too stupid to realize it hasn't got any feathers yet, it'll just suicide again--"

"Do something nice for once in your life!"

Maybe it was her tone. Maybe the words hit a nerve. Maybe he was just sick of being ordered around. It didn't matter why, but one hand shot out and sent the bird tumbling to the sand with a thump while the other clenched around her wrist and jarred her loose from his jacket. "Forget the bird, woman! We're going. Come on."

With an obstinacy he'd only seen her display once before, she dug her heels into the sand and pulled against his grip. Ideally, he'd have broken that tiny wrist and dragged her along anyway. But he had orders, and it was so much harder to gently drag unwilling people.

"But the bird!" she wailed, looking over her shoulder at the stumbling, cheeping lump.

He jerked her toward him so her face was nearer his own. "Fuck the bird," he snarled down at her. "Get your ass in motion or I'll start to think you preferred the chains!"

The response was immediate, and not what he wanted. Her lower lip began trembling, and tears threatened to spill from her widened eyes. He wouldn't have cared much except that she still wasn't moving, and his orders were pretty specific about tears. Also bruises.

He felt a familiar tingle through his left arm at the thought of Tousen's warped sense of justice and his fingers sprang from the woman's wrist as though burned. He'd intended to check the damage he'd done, but she was already back with the bird, cradling it again in her arms as she rocked back and forth in the sand.

Grimmjow cleared the cough from his throat and tried to wrap his mind around the easiest solution to the problem. Clearly, it could not involve violence or shouting. That left his repertoire amazingly thin. He didn't understand why the bird meant so much to her. It was just a bird. Not even big enough to be a meal. She was crying over the thing like it was the next Kuroksaki.

He scanned the horizon for witnesses. "Look," he began, trying to keep a calm voice despite his irritation. "If I put the bird back in that nest, will you heal your wrist and cooperate the rest of the way?"

She looked up at him, disbelief and hope warring for control of her expression. "Would you?"

"Would you?"

Satisfied at her nod, he snatched the bird up by its spindly feet and held it upside down at eye level. "This is ridiculous." If he didn't have orders not to so much as pull the little bitch's hair, this would never be happening. Stifling a cough, he scanned the building for the nest and jumped up to roughly plop the bird into it.

"Now move."

She looked up at the nest, wiped away her tears, and smiled before calling out her Shun Shun Rikka and matching his pace. "Well at least there's one part of Hueco Mundo that's peaceful now," she sighed. The glow to his right faded away. "They're all together again. Now they can be a happy family."

Grimmjow found himself longing for the silence he'd enjoyed when she was unhappily trying to keep up earlier. Happy family. He scoffed mentally, ignoring her cheerful blather. Hueco Mundo didn't have room for happy or for families. Fucking shit hole. Fucking birds. He made mental plans to come back this way and cero the nest with its goddamned fucking happy bird family. None of the arrancar had ever gotten any happy family shit. It didn't belong here.

He'd gotten to the part where he imagined her dismay at finding feathers in her food, when there was a gap in the solid wall of her babble. "What?" he asked.

"I said thank you, Grimmjow. For the bird."

"Don't mention it," he muttered. In all seriousness, it would be better if she never said another word about it. He could just imagine the pre-meeting table talk if people found out. He wasn't sure which would be more brutal, Nnoitra's open-faced taunting or Ulquiorra's snide understatements. Possibly Zommari's silent approval would trump them both for irritation factor.

But that wouldn't be the end of it, he knew. He was incapable of sitting through that without defending his actions, saying it was the only way to get her here unbruised. But the moment he did that, Ulquiorra would quote that stupid thing about "protesting too much" like he had when Nnoitra insisted that he didn't want to sex up their prisoner. He'd never get out of it once it started, and the only way to avoid it was for the woman to keep her trap shut.

"Grimmjow?"

He was getting so sick of people calling his name to get his attention. Why did she even have to be talking? It wasn't like he'd done anything to invite conversation.

"What if the birds are like roaches in Las Noches?" she asked, her eyes suspiciously innocent.

Grimmjow drew back from her, sensing he wasn't going to like what was coming. "So what if they were?"

The woman shook her head, and continued. "I mean, if telling someone about them got them exterminated, I don't think I'd ever mention them, you know?" She sighed, looking back over her shoulder, though the nest was too far in the distance to see. "I could only talk about the birds if they were gone. If something horrible happened to them."

He opened his mouth to respond, but shut it again. Cero blast probably fit into her definition of horrible, as did finding feathers in her food. He got the sense he wasn't going to win this one.

She let out a second contented sigh as they approached the double doors to the throne room. "I'm just glad they're happy, aren't you?"

Grimmjow shoved her ahead of himself through the doors, refusing to answer. So it was blackmail, he thought. The bitch was craftier than he gave her credit for.

Omake:

Szayel frowned at his clipboard, willing time to skip forward by a month, when this would all hopefully be over. According to his tally, they were only four days into the medicine. Eight doses down, twenty to go. He'd had all of twelve hours of sleep, spread out whenever he could catch them. At this rate, he'd rather be sick himself than dealing with Grimmjow.

The Sexta Espada might not have cared about bacteria or the medicine's accumulative affects, but Szayel saw those twenty tally marks and felt nothing but dread. At the moment, Grimmjow was on the upward slope, building up to an eventual concentration of fourteen doses in his system at once. It would be a miserable experience for both of them that would last a whole week before the medicine was all taken and would gradually wear off.

If he was the type, he'd cry.

"I think we deserve happy family shit, too," Grimmjow muttered at the wall.

Szayel looked up at him, and sighed. At least it wasn't in French. "I'm over here, Grimmjow."

"I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to the birds."

Szayel pinched the bridge of his mask and let out a breath. Clearly, the returned fever was frying his patient's brain. He got to his feet to go retrieve some ice from the kitchen.

Note: It's kind of sad, really. None of the current Espada would understand "happy family shit" if they did get to experience it. Hueco Mundo breeds unhappiness and desolation. I like to think that on some level they realize this, too. That they're missing out on something. Poor Espada.