Orihime stared, in amazement or utter shock, at her bedraggled patient. She couldn't really pick one out of the two, both would definitely fit the parameters of the situation. After a few more minutes of staring, she picked on shock. It was the numb feeling that circulated through her veins, freezing her brain and voice. Her fingers trembled, fidgeted and twitched.

She got over her shock and she easily slid into apprehension, moving smoothly like water on oil. The trembling in her fingers stopped, her heart stilled from its frantic thumping to a slow pace. The breathing exercises helped, calmed her spirit and her fear.

She had to be brave and strong. She had to stop her sporadic giggling from escaping her lips. She had to. While she may get away with it now, but she was sure it would come back to bite her later, especially if she were to refuse lunch again.

"Ulquiorra-san, I told you to wear the scarf," she said timidly, hands held together. "Antarctica is very cold."

Ulquiorra was sprawled on his bed, elevated by pillows, coverings up to his chin, and a warm towel on his forehead. He was silent but his overly analytical mind was agreeing with the human. He really should have worn a scarf no matter how silly it looked. He blamed the woman and her overly imaginative brain. It was really all her fault.

Orihime went over to the bowl of hot chicken soup, dipped the spoon in and held it out for the sick arrancar. It pained Orihime that she could not just reject the pneumonia, but Aizen ordered her not to. It was Ulquiorra's punishment for getting sick in the first place.

She spoon feed the arrancar, gave him plenty of juice and generally looked after him. It was her fault in a way. She should've been more persistent in making Ulquiorra wear at least a scarf, she should've not even wanted to go to Antarctica. Maybe New Zealand would've been a better place to travel to.

All the should've, would've, could've were bouncing around her head like ping balls in a ping ball machine. It was too late; the actions have been done and were unchangeable. She volunteered to nurse the Espada, as a payment, in a way, for his rather cordial treatment of herself.

After she finished feeding him the soup, she watched him as he slept. There was something angelic about Ulquiorra when he sleeps. His big, expressive, striking, piercing eyes don't watch her critically. His mouth isn't a thin line, isn't in a disapproving frown, isn't like drywall. His mouth is still flat, not curved up or down, just in a neutral position. His eyes are closed, not closed in annoyance or resignation, just closed, an innocent motion. His skin is white and it stays white, which is the one constant. His hair is matted, soft to the touch, she sneaked a pat, and his broken skull helmet seemed even more natural to his appearance.

The tear marks seem to stand out more, bright color among the stark white skin. They were curious markings. What were they? Were they true tear marks when he became a hollow? Scars of past wars or battles? A really sad clown?

Orihime smiled sadly. Here she was, helping the enemy, comforting the enemy. And yet, to her they weren't the enemy, well Ulquirora wasn't. Aizen was still an evil man who had orchestrated many of the past events for his own gain, hurting Rukia and nearly killing Ichigo. Bu as the days past, she learned that black and white never really existed and that all things were in shades of grey. What will she do now? Her strong supports were knocked under her, her morals floundering in a sea of blood.

She wanted to be strong like Tatsuki, brave like Ichigo and spunky like Rukia. She wanted all those noble attributes but most of all she wanted to save others from suffering. Even if she could not save herself, she will save others.

She sat by his bedside, watching, waiting. Szayel said that it was a virus coupled with intense cold that had made Ulquiorra so sick. Szayel made Ulquiorra something to bolster his healing. It had side affects, and as such, Ulquiorra was suffering from both the sickness and the cure.

Eight hours later, Ulquiorra sat up, his sheets rustling. The towel fell off his face, dropping onto the sheets. He looked around and noticed that the woman was there, sleeping, exhausted most likely, by his bed.

He felt a flicker of foreign emotion, gratitude? Gratitude that she sat by him, comforted him, fed him the liquid concoction? Most of the Espada would have used this opportunity to off him, Grimmjow for example or Nnoitra, more likely Nnoitra seeing how he uses dirty tricks. Then again, if it wasn't for her trip to the frozen land the humans called Antarctica, he wouldn't be in this position in the first place.

Hmph.

"Thank you, you stupid woman."