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today:

Ichigo has coarse hands. The sort mapped by intersecting calluses and scars. On his dominant hand, at the base of his thumb and about four inches below his wrist, there are irregular, raised callus spots where the ridiculously long hilt of his katana repeatedly bumps. His forearms bore similar scars - bandaged half of the time, too. His hands are deadly and capable of dealing world-ending calamities. They are, after all, the main tool for his trade.

(he's dealt thousands of death)

Rukia decides her husband has ugly but capable hands.

So it is welcoming to see him delicately and expertly slice tiny garlic cloves. Ichigo is back in their home kitchen. His tall form once again towers over the kitchen island, but no matter how dense his presence is, how bright his hair or how dark his clothes are, he is never out of place against the mild green and white of their home. His knife movements make no sounds against the solid block of wood and his cuts are so precise that it seems he's consciously minding the millimeters in between slices - Rukia likes these small details. Behind him, the pan sizzles with hot oil. He's making chicken stir-fry for dinner and he's made her dozens of stir-frys before. He is very much home.

Rukia sits on the stool opposite him, her head supported by one hand and slowly bobbing to one side. They are out of their 13th division uniform and it's five thirty in the afternoon.

She watched him settle in earlier, did rounds, checked his priced pots and pans, and counted his ceramics - Rukia didn't break any during his absence. She kept it tidy and clean for him. She's never bothered cooking herself because she would not know how to. She is not very good with domestic life, but knows enough to water his potted eucalyptus branches and air them outside once in a while. He is a homebody, natural and effortless, the same way the battlefield seems to claim him.

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