Chapter Text
Once, when somebody asked if they were married, she said no, he said yes.
This was a month ago, but Ichigo still pesters Rukia about this.
"What? You're ashamed of me?" he says of course, petulant like a child, and pouting –so horribly, horribly wrong for a man his age, 28.
Rukia likes to think (and is probably true) that she's more mature between the two of them, but she's actually 2 years younger (but sage-like as Renji puts it, fucking know-it-all as Ichigo puts it). She simply –if he's an arm's length- pinches his arms then smacks his head, then tells him coldly.
"It's for our security, you idiot."
"None of your idiot clansmen will find us," he answers, sure of himself, and Rukia hates this confidence wholeheartedly. She wants to agree with him, believe in his confidence -she does, she does, she really really does- but she knows it's not just that. His confidence led him to capture then torture then-
"They are not going to find us," he says again, quieter this time, as if to reassure her.
Rukia doesn't say anything. Somewhere deep, deep, deep, she knows it's to reassure himself. Rukia understands. It's fine, she decides. She has an understanding heart, Ichigo likes to look strong and nonchalant. He doesn't say, but she knows, his shoulders are stiffer than ever, and every leaves rustling brings the same tension a war signal would. He reassures her while he reassures himself and he's failing (but he doesn't know) and she's just being realistic.
This is late afternoon, a lazy, lazy time to just roll around or stay idle in tatami mat, the shoji is wide open, there's the afternoon sunlight, red, and orange, and yellow, and it's quite cold and Ichigo is lying there in the warm tatami mat facing the open shoji, Rukia cradling his head on her lap, the sunset ahead of them, coloring everything in red, orange and yellow.
She just finished changing his bandages and he told her to stay because the sky is just too striking, because they never really had a time like this for them before.
Because people never walk on the same water the second time, the same wind never blows the second time, the same air is never inhaled twice, a moment can never be relived exactly the same twice, Rukia knows this, so she lets him persuade her to stay. She thinks, he has this side of himself, the other side of the skilled warrior, and she kind of adores this side.
This is every day, this is having peace, she thinks, not quite sure how long it will be.
And not quite long, she hears the little snores he makes and brings her palms to his head and rakes his hair slowly, and he snores a bit more.
Rukia, still, has a penchant for wearing white, and him, still, black. Her clothes, more common –simpler than her previous silk and satin sets of robes, jewelry –she wears no jewelry, never really did. And her hair, pulled up into a messy bun with a lone strand hanging. And Ichigo, just like years ago, still wears his standard hakama and gi, but without his black-finished armor and katana.
This is them now, the former noblewoman and the former military commander.