A/N: Okay guys! I'm going to try to keep ALL of these PG-13 or lower, so most likely no lemons. However; in this collection of themes there will be 54 drabbles with Grimmjow and Ulquiorra! X3 enjoy, and please review!

Dedicated to all of those who died on September 11, 2001. May you all rest in peace.

Crash

Ulquiorra sighed. Grimmjow was due back from his business trip in Boston tomorrow. To say that he missed his boyfriend would be an understatement.

Everyday, he went to work at the small bookstore, that he owned downstairs in the middle of Upper Manhattan, and worked from nine in the morning to six in the evening. Afterwards he would come home, prepare dinner, eat dinner, and take a quick shower. Once he was done with all that, there was really nothing else left to do, so he would usually curl up in bed with a book while he listened to the politicians debating in Congress until he fell asleep.

He did the same thing that night, and climbed into bed with Michael Crichton's Airframe and turned on C-SPAN. It was a relatively slow day, as No Child Left Behind had already been passed and made law. Ulquiorra glanced at the clock; it was only 7:34. He opened the book to a random page a began reading; "the plane seemed to shudder, the nose of the plane turning down. Suddenly everything tilted at a crazy angle." He shook his head and glanced at the next page; "the plane went into another steep dive. An elderly Chinese woman slid down the aisle on her back, screaming. A teenage boy followed, tumbling head over heels."

He closed the book (maybe not the best choice when Grimmjow was coming home on a plane the next day); some Representative was talking about some new proposal that he had missed earlier. He clicked the light off, leaving the TV the only source of light in the room, and curled up around Grimmjow's pillow. It still smelt vaguely of Drakar and lime; he nuzzled the pillow and inhaled deeply. It was a very comforting scent, and he slowly drifted off to sleep.

Ulquiorra was waking up rather slowly that morning as he'd had trouble sleeping the last night. He always did when Grimmjow was gone. It was 8:31 on September 11th, and it was already bright outside. He turned off the TV, got out of bed, and went to go prepare his breakfast.

Walking down the hallway into the kitchen, he was trying to remember if there were still eggs left. Opening the fridge, he saw that there were, in fact, a few eggs for breakfast. Ulquiorra turned on the stove and put a little bit of butter into the pan and flicked on the TV to the news station. Cracking three eggs into the pan and quickly adding some shredded cheddar cheese before beginning to stir them around the pan as they cooked, he had a pretty happy outlook on today. Grimmjow would be home in a few hours time.

By the time Ulquiorra had finished cooking breakfast and dished it out onto a plate, it was 8:45.

He sat down in the small living room with his breakfast; it only took him 5 seconds to realize that this particular news station was live. In New York City. Where he was. And there was a plane, headed straight towards the World Trade Center.

The clock turned to 8:46, and the plane struck the North Tower. Ulquiorra thought he was going to vomit, but he still watched, transfixed with horror, at the screen.

17 minutes later (at 9:03), the South Tower was struck.

34 minutes after that (at 9:37), news was received that the Pentagon had been hit by a plane as well.

At 9:59, the South Tower fell.

At 10:03, they found a fourth plane had crashed into a field in Pennsylvania.

At 10:28, the North Tower fell.

Ulquiorra couldn't move. He couldn't think. He didn't believe that that had just happened. Numbly, he stood up and walked toward the window that faced the far side of the city. There was a lot of smoke rising into the air over there. Ulquiorra glanced back at the TV.

They were announcing the flight numbers that had been hijacked.

"… American Airlines Flight 11 struck the North Tower of the World Trade Center at 8:46, United Airlines Flight 175 struck the South Tower at 9:03, American Airlines Flight 77 struck the Pentagon at 9:37, and United Airlines Flight 93 fell in a field in Pennsylvania at just 10:03 today, on September 11, 2001…"

United Airlines Flight 175… Ulquiorra was starting to panic now. Grimmjow was coming back from Boston on a plane, even though it wasn't that far, they had both agreed that it would be a bit quicker... but what was the flight number?! This wasn't happening… "There are no known survivors from any of the flights."

He couldn't take it anymore; Ulquiorra grabbed a glass and the Vodka and retreated to his room. Grimmjow was dead.

Ulquiorra hardly ever drank. It wasn't that he didn't hold his liquor very well; he just didn't like to do it. He was totally out of it and numb. The pale man didn't want to have to face the loss of his lover; it hurt too much, not to mention the fact that he'd seen it all happen on TV.

The sun was setting now as he sat there with the now almost empty bottle of Vodka and his glass. Ulquiorra's back was against the bed side bed frame and he had his knees pulled up to his chest. He heard the quiet click of the lock, the door opening and closing, the tossing of keys onto a table, something being placed on the floor, the soft sound of a jacket being removed, and the quick and heavy footsteps of someone coming into the bedroom.

Out of his peripheral vision, he saw someone standing, "Ulquiorra…" said a tired, but familiar voice. Not long after, he found himself being embraced, "I'm so happy that you're alright…" they murmured into his neck.

The pale man let out a shaky breath and slurred, "I'm not alright…"

The person next to him sounded confused, "what do you mean? You're alive, I was so worried about you…" they still sounded a little concerned… maybe they had seen the almost empty bottle of liquor?

His lower lip trembled and somehow managed to slur out a "Grimmjow'ssss dead….."

"Hey, no, don't cry…" Ulquiorra hadn't even realized he was until it was pointed out to him. Drunkenly he reached up to wipe it away, but ended up hitting himself in the nose before actually wiping it away. The person next to him collected the bottle and the glass and took them to the dresser.

Ulquiorra felt himself being gently lifted up and placed on to the bed. "Shh… love," a blurred face said, "you're going to have one helluva hangover in the morning…"

"W-who are you?" he slurred again, struggling to remain conscious.

"You must be really out of it… Ulqui, it's me, Grimmjow… come here…" Grimmjow lay down next to Ulquiorra and held him in his arms.

"Grimmjow…?" he repeated dumbly.

"Yes love, it's me," he said stroking Ulquiorra's soft ebony hair.

Despite his spinning head, he nuzzled Grimmjow's chest, and recognized the distinct scent of his boyfriend; Drakar and lime. "But… how…?" he asked, the words thick on his tongue.

The teal haired man sighed, all he could say was: "thank gods I missed the plane."

A/N: well? Was that good? Or too abrupt of an ending? Just to clarify, Grimmjow missed the plane (which was Flight 175) and had to drive home from Boston but there was a lot of traffic so he got home really late. I just couldn't bear to end this one sadly… Please review with your thoughts…

~Nnoitra-Szayel~