�Sangre de Cristo, would you get a load of the rack on this chica?

� Noitora�s
murmur contains so much awe it nearly qualifies as its own form of lewd respect.
Ulquiorra turns to see Inoue Orihime standing, head bowed, at Aizen-sama�s right
hand.

�Hey, Ulquiorra, you bagged her, right? You get the chance to cop a feel?�

Ulquiorra's non-expression does not alter. �I follow Aizen-sama�s orders. I do not

molest innocents.�

�Yeah, yeah, whatever, you�re killin� me here, man. I mean, just look at those
tits!�

Prey to a distant curiosity, Ulquiorra does. He�ll admit the human girl has�
pleasing contours. He is, after all, male, and before his death, must have had
just as much appreciation for a nicely-formed rack (to borrow Noitora�s vulgar
term), as any other living man.

Any straight, living man, to be more precise. Ulquiorra has noticed Grimmjow
Jaggerjack�s eyes stray more often towards masculine rumps than feminine breasts,
and he�s positive his rival would much prefer Kurosaki Ichigo to the amply endowed
Orihime, at least as far as potential bedmates go. For his part, Ulquiorra feels
no real inclination towards either sex, and certainly none for a mere child
possessed of more chest than brain. In this state of happy indifference Ulquiorra
might have remained, but fate (also known as Aizen-sama) has other ideas.

�Hey! Bossman�s talkin� to you,� Noitora hisses in Ulquiorra�s ear, and he

reluctantly gives their leader his attention.

It seems Hueco Mundo�s dictator has come to the conclusion that, as Inoue-san is
most familiar with Ulquiorra, who better to keep an eye on her? He�s to be
caretaker as well as captor, a role he never wanted in the first place.
Ulquiorra�s apathy turns slowly to vague resentment. He�s a ranking Espada, not a
playground monitor. How much the creature eats � or indeed, if she does at all �
should not be amongst his pressing concerns. Why ought he to hang on her slightest
change of mood like the nervous owner of a high-strung purebred?

Such circumstances are intolerable, yes, but the zenith of Ulquiorra�s annoyance
is Orihime herself. The girl has a mile-wide streak of obstinacy and will of
Castilian steel to back it up. For the first time in his hollow existence, he
finds himself fantasizing�

�of strangulation. Reveries of his hands wrapped around that soft throat soothe
his flayed equilibrium, and if she disobeys him once more�

He won�t hurt her, of course. It�s his own fault she�s here, and besides, how can
he blame her for resisting a way of life that is anathema to her very soul? So he
watches and commands and occasionally must rein in a temper he hadn't previously
known was his. He doesn�t realize, though, just how integral she�s become to his
own life, until the day he finds her huddled outside his quarters, bruised and
shaken. Pushing the door to, he shoves her gently through and steers her towards
his bed -- the single comfortable seat his Spartan accommodations afford. �Sit
down before you fall down. Why did you not enter before this? It wasn�t locked.�

Wetting a washcloth, he returns to the main room and hands it over. Orihime gazes
at it as though she�s no idea what it�s for. After several minutes of listless
inactivity pass, Ulquiorra retrieves the damp rag, tilts her face and carefully
cleans the rusty smears from her mouth and chin. Dazed brown eyes wander over his
face as he works, but focus on his own when he touches a finger to her split lower
lip. �What happened?�

�I� I was� looking for you. Menolly said you�d be here. She gave me directions,
but I � I must have got lost.� Orihime�s voice trails off. Her eyes avoid
Ulquiorra�s.

�And?�

She stares at her lap. Tossing the cloth through the washroom entrance, he tucks
hands into pockets and studies the burnished crown of her head. �Even if you don�t
tell me who it was, I�ll still find out.�

Startled, Orihime looks up into impassive green. �Who?�

�Do not play with me, Orihime,� he informs her in flat tones. �You will not win.�

Tears spring to enormous, pansy eyes, but decline to fall. Stubborn to the end,
Ulquiorra thinks in something approaching amusement. Taking a deep breath, Orihime
squares her delicate jaw and frowns at him with all the fierceness of a month-old
kitten. �It was a misunderstanding. And I�m not hurt, not really. Please,
Ulquiorra, don�t� don�t say anything. Not to Aizen-sama. O-or Ichimaru-taichou.
Please.�

So expressive, her eyes. So eloquent as they plead mercy for one who does not
deserve it. �I will not.� He raises one hand to stop her gratitude. �For now.
Which does not mean I won�t pursue my own inquiries.�

Orihime deflates a little at that, unsure as to what manner of clemency she�s been
granted, if any. Those lucid eyes rove his face, searching. What they find he does
not know, but she seems satisfied. Her gaze lingers, the intensity lessening as
something indefinable takes its place. �You�you�re really beautiful!� she blurts,
then blushes a rather attractive crimson.

So easily, she manages what no one else has in more years than he can recall. The
Espada�s Stoic succumbs to surprise, one brow describing an elegant arch.

Orihime�s cheeks darken further. �Oh my god, I�m so sorry! Tatsuki always says my
mouth operates without my brain interfering, and I--,�

�Why?�

�Um. Why what?�

�Why would you say such a thing?�

Incomprehension furrows an otherwise flawless forehead. �Hasn�t anyone ever?�

�No.�

�Oh. Well, you are. Beautiful, I mean.�

�I don�t� understand.�

�I think it�s your face,� Orihime explains, utterly guileless. �It�s� it�s
perfect. Like math, you know? Symmetry. And your colors are way extreme. I mean,
Grimmjow, he�s fine, sure, but you� you�re all white and black and, wow, this
really intense green and it�s kind of� I dunno how to describe it. Just, um�
gorgeous.�

When he doesn�t respond, she rises from the bed, one arm outstretched, and he
stands as though turned to stone whilst delicate fingertips trace the path of a
nonexistant absinthe tear. �These should make you look like you�re crying,�
Orihime whispers, as though confiding a secret. �They don�t, though. Not to me.�

She is close and warm and so very alive in this wasteland ruled by those who fear
death more than anything. Full breasts brush against him with her every breath,
and Ulquiorra discovers that you don�t have to be fully human to be a fully
functional male.

Orihime�s touch drifts down his cheek to the corner of his mouth, pauses� and is
gone, replaced by something even softer. Her lips skim his, a barely-there
benediction, but before he can move, she�s already at the door. �I have to go. I
promised Wonderwyce I�d play with him this afternoon.�

�Orihime. You will not walk alone.� It�s his most forbidding voice, used in
conjunction with her given name. No honorific.

Orihime smiles. �I�ll be okay. I know where I�m going this time.�

�Wait.� She does, head cocked in inquiry. �Why did you come here?�

�Oh.� A renewed flush creeps up her throat. �I wanted to see where your room was.
Just� just in case. Ulquiorra��

�Yes?�

�Are you... will you come tonight?�

Ulquiorra considers the question. Orihime�s flush blossoms.

�Yes.�

�Oh, good. I�ll � um � see you later?� With a swish of white and streaming red,
she�s gone. Ulquiorra walks sedately to his solitary hard-backed chair, sits� and
stands almost immediately. Certain physical conditions do not lend themselves to
seated comfort. Crossing to the window, he stares out over the bleak horizon
without seeing it. Human or no, the flesh is weak, and if Noitora lays another
hand (or mouth) on what belongs to Ulquiorra, he�ll soon become acquainted with
precisely how frail an arrancar body can be.

Fin.