A.N.: Kind of a very late Father's Day fic, but also just my outpouring of love to the BLEACH fandom. I hope you guys enjoy it! Reviews are always welcome! Also, I don't own BLEACH; wish I did, but I don't.

Rukia turned to her side, then to her front, to the other side, looked up at her breasts, down to her butt, and back up to her stomach. Nothing. Nothing had changed. Not a single thing was different. The ebony-haired woman looked at herself completely in the full-length mirror in front of her and almost felt offended. Wronged. Slighted. The glass didn't show her anything that she wanted to see, but it was also brutally honest.

She was flat. No curve, hardly a shape to her. She wasn't soft or voluptuous, and she certainly didn't have any delicate part to her.

Rukia held up one of her hands - calloused, cut and scarred. Broken nails adorned her fingers, and dead (but altogether painful), loose skin hung on the sides. She wanted to rip it away but knew it would hurt more than the skin currently bothered her.

Her feet were just as rough, if not more so, than her hands. Dry, cracked skin decorated the bottoms of her feet. Her toes were not cute, though she couldn't understand how anyone could ever find a toe attractive. Rukia looked down, then back up. She couldn't find the energy to mind her feet too badly; she spent too much time with them in socks, anyway, to make a big deal of them. They weren't too noticeable, as it was.

It had never mattered to her that she wasn't conventionally beautiful. Rukia was pretty in the face, and she knew that. She had large purple eyes that could appear blue in the right light; she had smooth skin the color of ivory; she had a small nose and a beautiful smile, she had been told. Her hair looked better now that it was short, and it was easier to care for, and it wasn't split at the ends anymore. Those were all nice things, and it wasn't important, anyway.

She was a warrior. A soldier for the Soul Society. Rukia woke up and fought and went to bed, only to wake up and fight once more. Blistered hands were a sign of progression, success, proof that she wasn't dead. Scars on her chest and stomach symbolized recovery. Her cracked feet told others that she could run, and run well. Her small frame was easily underestimated, but her small definition of muscle on her arms and her tight legs pushed respect to her. She wasn't laden down with weight or unnecessary additions to her body. Rukia was strong, and beauty came next.

'Pretty' had never been important. Curves had never meant anything. They had been nice things, and desirable to most, but Rukia hadn't needed them. She didn't need them, so she didn't want them.

But now, as she traced her hands delicately along the flat surface of her stomach, she wanted them, wanted them now more than ever. She wanted her face to be rounder, and her hands to be gentle, and her chest to be soft. Her hands stopped, and Rukia smiled.

The door opened, and Ichigo had to do a double-take at the small woman in front of him. "What are you doing?" he asked, curiosity penetrating the normally-bored tone of his voice.

"Thinking," she replied simply, stepping away from the mirror. It had been too easy to get lost in it, she mused, her eyes taking one more moment to rest on the glass. Rukia looked at Ichigo, up at him; he had a strong jaw and soft brown eyes. They had warmed from oak to chocolate since she had met him. Ichigo was tall, and well-defined, and slender but not lanky. He was conventionally handsome. That had never mattered to him. He wanted to be known for the strength of his heart, not the strength of his features.

Ichigo scratched the back of his neck. "You could be a bit less cryptic," he offered, but there was a tone of playfulness in his voice that made Rukia take a step toward him. In all reality, she wanted nothing more than to lead him to the bed that was only about two feet away from their current position.

"Mmm," she agreed, stealing another glance down at herself. It was strange, after all this time of building a strong reputation for herself, to finally start thinking about appearances. Rukia had been told that she was pretty, she'd been informed her Zanpakuto (and, moreover, her Bankai) was stunning; and she knew she was and it was. But she had never needed proof of this truth.

Ichigo knelt down to her level. "Seriously, what's wrong?" he asked, his eyes narrow. He was astute, most likely attributed to the fact that he had two younger sisters, and one of those sisters was secretive to a fault. Rukia opened her mouth to speak, suddenly finding herself impossibly nervous.

She found this odd, especially when her right hand searched for her left, just to find the small silver band she wore on her finger. She found it odd to be nervous around the man that had given her the ring, and she found it incredibly odd that she still wore the thing. After all, it had been Ichigo's idea, not hers. Normally, she'd only keep something if it had come from her thoughts and her imaginations.

Her brother had wanted a traditional ceremony, and Ichigo had agreed, on the condition that he and Rukia exchanged rings. Rukia hadn't minded, and Byakuya only resisted for a moment before conceding to it.

She wondered why she still wore the piece of jewelry. Their wedding was over, and although Ichigo still wore his, she was not obligated to follow suit. And it would be so incredibly easy to lose the ring, even if she simply drew her sword carelessly. Her blade could knock the ring off her finger, and it would be gone forever. She was a warrior; it shouldn't be that important for her to wear the band as diligently as she did.

Shaking her head, Rukia answered, "Nothing. I told you, idiot. I was just thinking." She added the informal name with a hint of familiarity and fondness, not with malice. Without another word, she grabbed his hand, using her left hand so that he could feel her ring on him, to remind him that she was his, and without a doubt, he was hers. She closed the small gap of space between the couple and the bed, and she lay down, relishing in the softness of the cushions and the warmth of the blankets underneath her. Ichigo followed, confused; but he did not question the small woman's actions. To do so would guarantee him a jab to his stomach.

Rukia turned on her side to face him, Ichigo, the hero of the Soul Society, her husband. He was just a man, and she was just a woman. But they were also more than that - they were fighters. They fought to breathe, and they breathed to survive. She shouldn't be allowing herself such frivolities as lounging on a bed and wondering just how many colors should be allowed to exist in Ichigo's eyes. She should be worrying about endurance and agility, not receiving a light layer of goosebumps as his hand traced over her collarbone. It shouldn't matter that he just said that she was beautiful, and it shouldn't matter that she believed him. She was a warrior, and it shouldn't matter.

But it does. It does matter that her hand caught his, and violet eyes soften. It matters so much that she loves him, farther than her loyalty to the Soul Society could ever span and deeper than the blood of a warrior could ever flow through her. Right now, they're less than warriors.

He was just a man, and she was just a woman.

But they're also so much more than that.

Rukia's hand traveled once more down to her stomach. "I don't look any different," she whispers, fear finally seeping through her words. And Ichigo nearly laughed at her serious expression but refrained himself, once again fearing an attack to his prone figure.

"No, you're only six weeks along. You're not going to show yet." Ichigo was the son of a doctor; he would probably know these things better than Rukia would. Still, she doubted him.

She wanted to mention how none of her had changed, that her appearance was still shapeless and planed. But she knew that doing so would only cause him to ask if she had read the books that he had given her, the reading material that explained her entire pregnancy step-by-step. She hadn't, and she would say so, and he would be irritated and tell her that that is why she hadn't noticed anything yet. Because she wasn't supposed to yet. So she refused to mention it.

Rukia frowned, but only for a moment, because Ichigo kissed her, and his lips were turned into the lightest of smiles; and he was just as nervous as she was, because he didn't want to screw this up. He was going to be more than he knew how to be, and that scared him. And they were both scared and completely out of sorts. And they would still fight, because it was in their nature; they would fight each other, and they would fight Hollows, and they would probably fight something else along the way. But they were also going to live, and enjoy living. He was, after all, just a man; and she, in turn, was just a woman.

But for now, as Ichigo placed his hands gingerly on her still-flat stomach that contained more life than what could ever be imagined, and as Rukia watched and wondered how she could ever be more at peace with anything yet eager for the future at the same time, they were simply parents.