Ienzo didn't consider Ulquiorra's words to be as cold as Nel might have. He had a feeling she might have admonished him for saying them, as if him being waited on now was going to somehow make the next few days, or weeks, or years easier.

So he nodded, leaning over to the side with the arm still attached to grab the glass. His mouth was dry, and his head still ached, and he wanted to drink the entire glassful, but Nel had said that he was only permitted sips, so he sipped. He sipped and then replaced the glass where it belonged. It was room temperature, so there was no ring of condensation sitting on the tray where the glass sat.

Ulquiorra looked sadder than usual. Ienzo wondered if he blamed himself. It wasn't his fault. He couldn't remember ...

... he scowled at the vague, fuzzy memory of a flash of red, the scream of something strange ...

... but he knew it wasn't his fault, that he hadn't done it. He knew Ulquiorra well enough to know he would have done anything to stop anything bad happening to him, he took his job seriously and, lately, his friendship.

He reached out for him, but stopped. The arm moved at the shoulder, the muscle following what it remembered of reaching, but it hurt, and there was no hand to complete the movement. He frowned.