Bleach 1. Pity and Friendship: Grimmjow

So...for those of you waiting for me to update ATR: I'm sorry. I really am. I know this isn't a valid excuse, but school has been hectic since my last updates. IB=not so much fun for writers. Anyways, this is both an experiment and an apology! There's some other short stuff I wrote this weekend, so please forgive me!

And I'm bringing my ATR notebook to school again. The second piece is almost finished, so it'll be out (hopefully) soon.

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"_Human, soul reaper, or arrancar…THEY'RE ALL THE SAME!! Anyone who looks down on me will be CRUSHED!!"_

He hated those eyes. The eyes were everywhere, always looking down on him. That hollow glow, a reaper's steely gaze, a human light…all were watching him, wherever he went…mocking him.

When he was an adjucha, they'd all mock him for his small stature…until they fell to the ground, a bite taken out of their smirking faces.

Never before had he met anyone that regarded him not as something below them, not as something above them, but as something purely equal to him.

This girl who say next to him…she was unique. Her power shifted with no internal thought, no self-will…

It all depended on the nature of who she was with when she woke up. An evil aura, like Gin, had been shown to send her into a bloodthirsty, berserker's frenzy; a good one and she'd just lay there, content to watch them wander around. Someone like Wonderweiss was a complete mystery because his shepherd never brought him here.

When she opened her eyes around him, she neither pulled at her iron manacles, scratching the air in vain attempts to massacre whatever was in reach, nor smiled warmly at him. All she did was sit there, playing with her shredded clothes, tears falling down her face. Sometimes, if he felt he was in the mood to, she'd let her head rest on his shoulder, her brown hair mixing with his blue and her tears running into the cloth.

They were almost truly equal—trapped against their will in a never ending cycle of violence and forced civility—except he had more freedom than her.

For the first time in his several thousand years of unlife, Grimmjow Jeagerjauques felt two things.

The first was pity for someone less powerful, less able to live than he.

The other was a half-assed friendship.

"Grimm…jow…please don't."

He looked at her teary human eye; the hollow's hidden beneath an overgrown set of bangs. That damn eye…looking up at him…telling him what to do like he was some insignificant bug.

He pushed her away.

He got up, leaving her lying on the ground, gazing at him.

He left the room without even a backwards glance.

He closed the door.

He cried in the darkness as he leaned against wall.

"Goodbye, onna."

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"_I am…I AM THE KING!!"_


	2. Fear and Rage: Ulquiorra

Second chapter of Somewhere Inbetween. A little note: these first few chapters are going to serve as a set-up, really. They're also going to delve into the mindsets of some characters before the main storyline hits. Enjoy!

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Ulquiorra hated coming here. It wasn't the fact that the room where he now stood was enveloped in a suffocating darkness, in fact, the darkness suited him. No…it was something more pure in nature.

What provoked his utter dislike was the fact that what lay within the room, bound by chains and spells, was unpredictable. Ulquiorra hated change and therefore was content to remain the Cuarta Espada. The thing second on his most hated list was Grimmjow's apparent growth.

It wouldn't do. Improvement should only occur when the comparatives improve as well, keeping everything relatively the same.

No, he didn't hate this room because the girl was unpredictable; he hated it because here he could be completely truthful with himself. He could acknowledge his fear of change and his fear of death here and that scared him more than anything the girl could do.

He came closer to her prone body. She was slumbering now, and because she was a deep sleeper, would not be likely to wake up soon. Usually, she only did so when beings with considerable spiritual pressure were around. Like Grimmjow—who'd been here previously, according to the residual pressure—and himself.

As far as he knew, she'd never been awake twice in one day. Without that knowing how she'd react, Ulquiorra had to be on his guard. Normally, she'd wake up and watch him walk around, not speaking, not eating the food he'd placed in front of her.

All she did was sit there; the only mobile parts were her eyes as they followed him, pantomiming his movements. Back and forth, back and forth, one eye green as his, the other the standard hollow's black and gold.

Yes, it was here where he could acknowledge his fears, his insecurities, and his doubts, all without being judged. Every day, dishes and silverware would fly through the air and shatter against the pitch black walls, raining down around her along with his screams of frustration.

And all she would do is watch as he paced back and forth, back and forth, and his voice echoed against the darkness.

And every day, at the end of his hours of ranting, he bent to clean the shattered glass, porcelain, and silver of the floor, forcing her to eat what remained as he did so.

And every day, before he left, the only thing she would ever say to him would be two simple words: "I'm sorry."

And every day, no one would come to check what happened; why would they, when only the Espada, Wonderweiss, Aizen, and his henchmen knew this room existed far below the sand of Hueco Mundo? Even they assumed that she had gone to berserker mode and destroyed the tableware.


End file.

Bleach, Hurt-Comfort