Orihime woke to the smell of antiseptic, a dull, numb ache coursing through her muscles. She imagined the doctors had given her something to make her feel woozy, but she still felt strange, watery.
"You're awake."
Orihime twisted her head on the pillow to see Commissioner Kuchiki sitting at her bedside with her arm in a sling. The commissioner's partner was standing guard outside the door with his arms crossed. Had Orihime been alert, she was sure she would have been more wary but the commissioner's body language seemed relaxed. Only her face was tense with concern. Besides, everything felt hazy, like they were speaking through a filter.
"How are you feeling?"
"Fine," Orihime rasped, slowly orienting herself as she gazed around the room. At a far corner were sheets tucked into a bucket, dark and damp with blood. Her blood. Memories flooded past her mind's eye again—the attack at the bar, Ichigo's arm around her, Mr Ishida escorting her and the commissioner out of there, a terrible sense of foreboding, the doctors saying something about being unable to stop the birth...
Orihime floated back to consciousness as she recalled everything with a sudden, belated clarity. She looked at the bucket once again in disbelief, but she was distracted, torn in many different directions. As memory returned, she couldn't help but stammer, "Ichigo…"
The commissioner immediately got to her feet as if to discourage her from moving. "He should be on his way. I can't imagine him losing to thugs like those." She returned Orihime's feeble smile, her eyes grim with concern. "Besides, shouldn't you be more concerned about yourself?"
Orihime followed the commissioner's gaze back to the blankets and swallowed. She wasn't sure if it was because of the medication or the shock, but she felt detached from her own body—a sense of loss that felt very strange and ambiguous across her senses and perceptions.
"I'm not leaving her here!" she remembered Ichigo snarling to Uryu. "I don't care if you have to crawl through your own blood to do it—just get her out of here!"
She wasn't sure if it was a fallacy of memory, but Ichigo had looked unfamiliar then, almost animal-like as he'd callously demanded Uryu to put her life above his own. It was an order and Uryu had followed it, entirely unquestioning. Even at the risk of his own death. Put Chad, or Keigo, or Mizuiro in his place and they would have done it too.
And it wasn't that Ichigo was a coward, oh no. He would never ask something of them that he himself wasn't willing to do, but to throw himself into the line of fire for her with little or no consideration for himself…
She felt very cold. She knew she should have felt grief of some kind, that she had to begin mourning the loss of her child—not even a child yet, considering. But all she could feel in that moment was relief. What kind of a mother would she have been if she was willing to stomach someone else's death for her own safety?
"I should probably leave you alone and return to my own ward," the commissioner said gently.
"No," Orihime blurted. "Please. Stay. I don't mind the company."
Rukia hesitated, then acquiesced, settling back in the chair beside Orihime's bed. For a while, they said nothing, the only sound being the murmurs of the hospital staff behind them.
"How far along were you?" Rukia asked eventually
Orihime shook her head. "I didn't know that I was…that we were…"
Rukia's face softened with sympathy. "I'm very sorry for your loss. If you want to talk about it…"
Orihime didn't know what to say to that. What did anyone ever say to that? Besides, what could she confess to the commissioner? They were not friends, even if the attack on the bar had brought them into a temporary truce. She could not tell Rukia what she was feeling without giving Ichigo away.
"I'm sorry," Orihime replied, "but I think I'd rather not speak." She felt a weak smile spread across her own face. "I probably shouldn't have asked you to stay, huh?"
Rukia snorted, but she picked up her hat with her uninjured hand nonetheless. Orihime was sure that that would be the end of their interaction, that the commissioner would soon leave her room, but right before she left, Rukia paused at the door and turned.
"Ichigo saved my life, you know," she said. "I shot Grimmjow's man but didn't finish the job. He would have certainly killed me, had it not been for Ichigo" She gave Orihime a knowing half-smile. "He's probably very good to you, isn't he?"
Orihime's heart soared. "He is."
"There's still hope for him, then. Maybe he can save himself before it's too late."
Orihime opened her mouth to ask but felt her own trepidation stop her.
"You know all about it, don't you? How he makes a living," Rukia explained. "Well, probably not all the details. He'd want to protect you from it—from the ugly side of this life, beyond the mansions and the cars and the pretty dresses. But it'll tire soon. He'll buy you a ring, and you'll wonder where it came from, whose life paid for it. He'll take you to Paris, maybe Venice, and you'll be happy—for a while. But when he's sleeping at night on your soft cruise bed, you'll lie awake, wondering if it was worth it. Trust me, I've seen what happens to people like you. To good people. You'll spend your whole life wondering; he'll spend every inch of his soul until there's nothing left of him for you to keep. And that's the best case scenario."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Orihime said, frantic, anxious.
"You know the worst case scenario," Rukia continued, undeterred, as if Orihime hadn't just interrupted her. "You just saw it happen to someone else."
He'll die, Orihime thought. Panic chilled her, and she gripped her sheets tight within her fists until her knuckles went white.
"Talk to him," Rukia urged. "It's not too late to save his soul." So saying, she left the room, nodding at her grim-faced partner. They left together, their silhouettes leaving long shadows as they exited the corridors.
Orihime sank back into her bed, numb. Minutes, or maybe even hours passed as she fell back into an uneasy, drug-induced slumber. Nurses arrived and left, clearing the buckets at the foot of her bed at a dutiful pace. She watched it all happen, eyes heavy, head heavy, heart heavy. Time had crystallized, slow and syrupy and full of dread. Was she asleep? Had she always been?
Orihime had no idea how much time passed in this manner, but eventually her ears cleared as someone yanked her door open.
"Orihime…"
She instantly sat up, holding her arms out as a worried Ichigo entered her room. He flew to her without hesitation but sat gingerly on the edge of the bed as if he was afraid to hurt her. One look at him was enough to confirm he hadn't bothered to stop by the doctor's himself; he was still bleeding from his forehead, and his suit was utterly dirty.
"Orihime," he whispered again, eyes soft with relief, hands cupping her face. "How are you feeling?"
Orihime felt a sob build within her despite herself. She went into Ichigo's arms, her head resting on his shoulder as he embraced her. She was so relieved he was here. She was so, so relieved. Her knuckles turned white as she tightened her grip on the back of his suit.
Ichigo's hand came up to stroke her hair, and for a moment they stayed that way, blissfully unaware of the outside world. He kept kissing the top of her head, his hands warm on her neck and shoulders as he stroked her.
"You should see someone about your head," she said when she pulled away, one hand reaching up to stroke his sticky cheek. "You're bleeding."
"Don't worry about me," Ichigo said dismissively. Then, his eyes grew darker, more serious. "I talked to the doctors outside."
"Yeah," Orihime whispered.
"Did you know?' Ichigo asked softly, searching her eyes for answers.
Orihime shook her head, much like she had when Rukia had asked her the same question, but the wounded look in Ichigo's eyes cut deep, filled her with an insurmountable sorrow. Her pregnancy had been in its early stages—very, very early—but she knew Ichigo was sensitive in matters pertaining to children. Perhaps even more sensitive than she was.
"I'm sorry," she confessed, eyes downcast. "I called Mr Ishida so you wouldn't be in trouble, but you came anyway! I tried—I wanted to—!"
"Shush. You have nothing to be sorry about," Ichigo assured her, once again pulling her into an embrace—although this one was much tighter, like he could protect her from it all if he tried hard enough. "You did the right thing. Your quick-thinking saved all those people."
But you came, Orihime thought. Despaired. Ichigo's hand was so tight at the base of her head, his eyes filled with guilt, with grief, that something about the moment felt irreversible, stamped into time for eternity. Whoever they were before this felt distant, lost in a haze, and something told her it would be very hard to find it again. It would be very, very hard. All around them, people came and went, but to Orihime, it felt like she and Ichigo would be stuck forever.
"Orihime. Look at me," Ichigo muttered eventually, calling to her attention.
Orihime slowly looked up to see Ichigo's eyes fierce and blazing with determination.
"I swear to you, I won't stop until I fix this. I'll do whatever it takes to make it right again, I promise."
Orihime swallowed, returning her head to his chest. It was not the first promise Ichigo had made her, but for the first time in her life, she felt nothing but unsettled by it.
..
..
Ulquiorra paced around his apartment, feeling stiff in his funeral clothes.
Outside, it was raining, the entirety of New York drowned in protest, it seemed, over Grimmjow's death. Lightning flashed like a whip, and each strike brought with it a heavier fall of rain. It was a miracle the funeral had even happened, though an open casket had been out of the question even under drier skies. While Grimmjow's face was intact, the rest of him had been mangled beyond belief on the autopsy table, flesh peeling and melting wherever Kurosaki had shot him.
"He died on impact, pretty much," the coroner had explained, nervous.
Aized had shaken his head, disappointed, and left the coroner to do his bidding.
"Grimmjow had been certain in death, as he had been certain in life," he had said at the funeral later, somber, his hair streaked and wet under the rain. "Few soldiers were willing, as Grimmjow was, to die for his cause—and we live by his example."
Ulquiorra wondered how much of that was true. Grimmjow had certainly never expected to die when he began his siege on Highwell Hall. Come home with bottles of whiskey, perhaps. Something finer for Aizen, as tribute, maybe. But in a body bag?
That simply wasn't Grimmjow's style.
Ulquiorra sighed, loosening the collar of his shirt as he methodically undid his tie. There was no point in feeling any guilt. He had not asked Grimmjow to fail—had not set Grimmjow up for any failure. All he had done was have Yammy deliver the password to him, a chink in the Kurosakis' armor that Grimmjow was free to use as he desired.
Grimmjow, of course, had not trusted this olive branch—certainly not from Ulquiorra.
"Never took you for a friendly guy," he'd said, later in the week, after everyone had cleared out and it had been just the two of them in the Las Noches cellar. "It's not like you to want to help me."
"I detest Kurosaki more than I detest you," Ulquiorra had said simply, to which Grimmjow laughed, all teeth, amused. "Besides, my actions weren't meant to be a helping hand to you."
"No?" Grimmjow didn't look like he particularly cared about why Ulquiorra did the things he did, but he was still here, so Ulquiorra explained:
"I simply acted in Don Aizen's favor. While I respect his many decisions, I think his curiosity about Kurosaki has gone too far. We've indulged the boy enough."
"So you need me, huh," Grimmjow said.
Ulquiorra said nothing back. Any reply would have just been stroking Grimmjow's ego.
"How'd you get the password anyway?" Grimmjow asked, locking his hands behind his head as he leaned back in his chair.
"I have my methods," Ulquiorra replied, unwilling to reveal his source. Although, from the way Gin Ichimaru had stared at him throughout the funeral, he suspected the cat was as good as out of the bag.
In the end, Grimmjow had thanked him for the help—and promised to return with plenty of spoils as thanks. It was clear that in Grimmjow's head, he had already been crowned the king of the east. He had been complacent. He had involved civilians. He had been foolish in taking Kurosaki's woman hostage. He had been foolish. That wasn't Ulquiorra's problem.
And yet.
A sharp knock at the door drew Ulquiorra out of his reverie. He frowned. He wasn't expecting any visitors. Yammy had gone to Di Roy's less-populated funeral on the other side of the city and would be staying the night with his mistress. He wasn't expected to be back until the next day.
Ulquiorra silently lifted his gun out of his drawer and tucked it into his blazer. It was unlikely that one of the Kurosaki crew had found his place of residence. No one knew of his existence. No one knew he had aided and abetted Grimmjow in his attack on Highwell Hall. Besides, even if they did, they were all still licking their wounds. It was too early for a counter-attack.
Ulquiorra slipped the chain through the latch and opened the door a crack.
On the other side of the door stood Gin Ichimaru, his hands tucked into his pockets, a sharp smile on his face, like he had somehow seen every action of Ulquiorra's despite the barrier separating them.
"Ichimaru," Ulquiorra greeted, wary.
"It's rude not to invite a guest in, you know," Ichimaru said cheerily, one foot sliding forward to keep the door from closing. He was still in his own funeral attire, though Ulquiorra couldn't help but scan his clothes for signs of a concealed weapon. Would he dare? Had Aizen allowed him?
Ulquiorra undid the latch entirely and swung the door open. "What are you doing here?" he asked, watching carefully as Ichimaru entered his apartment and took the place in.
Ichimaru whistled. "Wow, this place is really sparse, huh. I guess they weren't lying about you living in the office."
"What are you doing here," Ulquiorra repeated. Inside his blazer, he felt the press of his gun, and he shifted subtly to gain easier access to it. Gin Ichimaru was an unpredictable man.
"Guess I just wanted to check in on ya," Ichimaru said, still cheery. "It's all so sad, you know. With Grimmjow gone, I mean." His silver eyes zeroed in on Ulquiorra, snake-like in their intensity, even as he continued to smile. "You two weren't close, were you?"
Ulquiorra licked his lips. "Not particularly."
Ichimaru laughed. "Aw. That's too damn bad. He really liked you, you know. I could tell."
Ulquiorra didn't know what to make of that, nor did he care. "Does Don Aizen know you're here?"
"Do I have to tell him every time I step out?" He sounded curious, though Ulquiorra suspected it was put-upon. He seemed to be taking an idle jaunt around Ulquiorra's apartment, casual as anything, but Ulquiorra wondered if he was looking for something.
"I suppose you do," Ichimaru continued with a mysterious smile when Ulquiorra said nothing. He lifted up a vase, a random, thoughtless artifact that had come with the apartment. Opened a drawer. Idly slid aside a curtain.
As Ulquiorra watched him, his spine tense, two theories sprang to mind: one, that Gin Ichimaru knew everything. Knew he had snuck into Rangiku Matsumoto's apartment and stolen the torch singer's handy password book. Knew he had given it to Grimmjow in the hopes that Grimmjow would eliminate the competition, and all would go back to the way it was before Ichigo Kurosaki put a bullet in Barragan's head and became their collective problem. He had worked stealthily, silently, entering and exiting the apartment like a ghost in the night. And no one—not even Aizen—had known of his actions. Aizen was not meant to. Ulquiorra worked in the shadows and his job was to clean up messes even before Aizen heard about them. Kurosaki was just one of those messes. Unless someone had ratted him out, there was no way the man in front of him knew the truth.
Two: Gin Ichimaru knew nothing and was simply bluffing.
"I have business to look into," Ulquiorra said, his tone measured, calm, a bluff of his own. If the first theory was true, he was definitely not going to leave this apartment alive. "Unless there's something you'd like to discuss, I'd prefer if you left me to my own devices."
"Aw, you wound me." Ichimaru clutched his heart, setting the vase down with a loud thunk. "I came all this way to see you, too."
Ulquiorra did not flinch, but his heart skipped a beat. "What do you want?" he repeated.
"Oh, you know. Just wanted to know if you wanted to get anything off your chest, with Grimmjow gone. Maybe you threatened someone you shouldn't have; messed with someone innocent while you were going after the guilty. It's alright." Ichimaru stepped closer, one hand gently resting on Ulquiorra's shoulder as the two men stared at each other. "I ain't no priest, but I'm pretty good at getting confessions."
Ulquiorra frowned. What was this? A threat of his own—independent of the Trident? Or had Aizen sent him? And what exactly did Ichimaru think he had done to Matsumoto? He was not stupid enough to target someone of her fame so publicly.
It was becoming clear that Gin Ichimaru knew nothing at all—just that Rangiku was involved in some manner, either willingly or unwillingly.
"I don't answer to you," Ulquiorra replied after a beat. "I answer to Don Aizen. If he has any questions about my motivations, I'd be more than happy to answer him directly."
Ichimaru sagged slightly, caught, a flash of disappointment in his eyes. Ulquiorra did not invoke Aizen's name often, but he couldn't deny the effect when he did. There was a reason men believed in him more than they did in God.
"Good to hear," Ichimaru said eventually, clapping Ulquiorra's shoulder. "Ever-loyal, our Ulquiorra. Don Aizen will be proud." There was a perceptible shift in weight, and for a second, it felt like Ichimaru's fingers had dug in a little deeper, a little heavier. "Let's just keep this conversation our little secret, then, shall we? Pretend it never happened?"
Ulquiorra exhaled when Ichimaru released his shoulder. Frankly, he was disappointed in Ichimaru. He had thought the man smarter than that, more calculating. In the end, he was just as trigger-happy as Kurosaki if a woman was involved. A bitter taste entered Ulquiorra's mouth as he lost respect for the man Aizen called co-consigliere. He wanted to spit.
"Of course," he lied.