Work Text:
When Ichigo had proposed, it had been an accident. Hell, he was sure Inoue knew it was an accident, because they'd only been dating for three weeks, she'd had her mouth stuffed full of bread like she was some kind of carbohydrate-fueled chipmunk, and he was flipping through channels on the television in her home. Despite the short amount of time they had been formally dating, it was no secret that the orange-haired punk turned hero harbored very deep, very real feelings, as did she. A bond of the heart needn't be announced to the world for everyone with a pair of eyes to understand.
"Inoue," He shook his head and balanced his ankle on his opposite knee, slouched into the comfortable back of her couch, "I dunno how you watch these shows. Don Kanoji's one thing, but 'Chickens in Paradise?' 'Mira Mira Mirror?' 'The hell's that even "
"Eh?" Even with a mouth of bread, she still managed a confused expression, "They're entertaining!"
"Entertaining my ass," He drawled lazily, a teasing tone in his voice that makes her blush just enough to earn a smile from him, "This kinda nonsense won't stand up in the Kurosaki household."
She shrugged, chewing and swallowing; as of late, this kind of silliness with a twinge of Ichigo's serious nature was something she adored indulging in. His softer side was always something she had the privilege of witnessing, but finding him comfortable enough to joke with her and tease her reminded her of something akin to a video game. She finally beat a certain level and could reap the rewards of a teasing Ichigo, one she could banter with lightly while still reveling in the kindness melting in those chocolate eyes of his.
Raising a hand, she made a move to take the remote, and he allowed it, though both parties knew he could have easily evaded her, "Kurosaki-kun, I wouldn't know anything about that." Orihime stated, giving a huff when she couldn't find anything suitable to watch, "I'm not part of the Kurosaki household."
"I want you to be," Came Ichigo's immediate response, as offhand and casual as ever; the implications of a statement weren't fully understood until Orihime's mouth was already occupied with nibbling on the soft inner slice of bread in her hands.
Shooting up like a rocket, the shinigami sat straight, body rigid as he looked to Orihime, who appeared a cross between completely shocked and mildly amused, "R...Really, Kurosaki-kun?"
A breath left his mouth, and he couldn't resist her, or his heart, "...Yeah. Really."
---
Her wedding had initially frightened her; wearing all white still reminded her of conflict. She was the root of so much fighting, of so much blood, a demon, death, the sands pelting her skin and burying her hair and stinging her eyes. She was the cause of the man she loved reversing into a monster, the monster and while she knew better now, they all knew better now, it was only to an extent on her part. Some wounds never closed.
Ichigo suggested other colors when prompted: pastel pink, if she wanted to go the light route, a deep navy blue seemed to be popular lately, for whatever reason, or even yellow. She always loved the color, after all, how it made her feel so bright and happy from the inside out.
Crossing her legs, round eyes traced the designs in a catalog Rangiku procured for them; she'd been ruminating over them for the past hour, and while Ichigo had largely left her to her own devices that Sunday evening, he couldn't help but be curious. Her thin brows consistently furrowed, her index finger pressed against the pink of her lips as she sat at the desk Ichigo mainly used for paperwork dealing with the clinic.
"Orihime," He watched her head raise slowly, and he lifted a brow, "It's time for dinner. What do y'wanna eat?"
Rather than answering, she pressed with an inquiry of her own, "Wearing all black at our wedding would not bother you..?"
His expression grew solemn; he knew that tone of voice by now, that inching into her self-loathing, the few jump backs her heart sometimes made, "No. Why?"
"It doesn't remind you of fighting..?"
"It reminds me of protecting. And wearing black at our wedding," He stood beside her at the desk, leaning against it as he ghosted a kiss against her hairline, his palm radiating warmth into the curve of her cheek, "Reminds me of protecting you. Wearing all black tells me to protect your heart, to protect your body, to protect and love you for the rest of my life."
He felt the wetness of her tears, saw the glassiness of her eyes, and Orihime sighed shakily. She didn't know what she had done to deserve a man as upstanding, a man as solid and beautiful and compassionate as Kurosaki, but she wanted nothing more than to be his counterpart. Because the white she swathed herself in that day would remind her that she had someone to protect, too.
---
"I- Uh. This is okay, right?"
"Mm hmm."
"He looks...happy."
"He is. He's smiling at you, Ichigo."
It was strange, holding the being that was the perfect mixture of himself and Orihime. He noted the color of his hair, that color that would always pull attention to him in school, make bullies hurdle their fists towards his nose. He assumed that kind of negativity would be inevitable in Kazui's life, but when his son opened his eyes again, Ichigo inwardly noted they weren't just brown but the orange tinge of his wife's.
She tended to the nursery, realigning diapers in a drawer absently; Ichigo never thought she had a real eye for detail until she was pregnant and had Kazui. He could still hear the screams when he focused, he could still see her sweating and digging her nails into his arm; unlike so many other men that hadn't been graced with a childhood helping the bloody and worn and with emergencies of all kinds and then fighting with his their own two hands, Ichigo stood by her valiantly and cheered her through birth. He, personally, thought it was beautiful.
Returning to his side, she smoothed a thumb over Kazui's forehead, watching Ichigo micromanage his own holding of him; he readjusted his arms, supporting Kazui's neck more and his legs. Orihime smiled widely at the both of them, and as Kazui let out a long yawn that made his hands flex, Ichigo instinctively headed to the crib and laid him down.
He frowned, "He's just so fragile."
Orihime raised a brow, returning patiently, "He's a baby, Ichigo."
"I know that," He sighed, inching out of the nursery with his wife in tow, "I've never had to be responsible for a baby before."
"You don't have to be so reserved with him," She hummed, "You're his father. Show him some love."
Sometimes Orihime didn't think Ichigo listened to her, especially when he set his jaw and looked off into the distance. She doubted this was any different, especially as he just held her hand as opposed to actually speaking.
The following morning, as she had woken to tend to Kazui, as she usually did, she thought belatedly about how he had seemingly slept through the night undisturbed. A rare occurrence, despite Kazui being a relatively agreeable, content baby. Sleepily, she opened the door to the nursery, holding back a yawn as her bleary eyes soon focused on the two orange-headed boys by the singular window.
With the curtain pushed back, Ichigo was able to watch the sun rise over Karakura Town, and had spent the last couple of hours in that same chair, rocking the baby in his arms slowly; Kazui slumbered against his chest with his hands balled in loose fists. Tearing his gaze from the window and the skyline outside it, he smiled at Orihime, who closed the gap between them to place a delicate kiss to his lips and one to Kazui's forehead.
"Good morning," He breathed against the ivory of her skin, and he pecked her jaw, then her cheek; Orihime smoothed her fingers through his hair, smiling, "Good morning."