Archive of Our Own ^beta

As Ichigo slowly regained his senses, he realized that something was definitely off this morning—something so familiar that he hadn’t experienced in over a decade. It felt like home, even though he knew it wasn’t where he belonged.

There was no mistaking it.

It was reishi, the warm and comforting spirit particles brushing against his bare skin.

Ichigo opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling. It seemed different—both unfamiliar and familiar at the same time.

But damn it, he was certain he wasn’t in his own bedroom. That was one thing he knew for sure.

What the hell? Was he waking up in Soul Society?

That was absurd. He hadn’t been to Soul Society in over a decade, for the sake of his sanity and for everything and everyone he cared about.

It made no sense. 

Slowly, Ichigo pushed himself up to sit on the bed, letting the blanket fall to his waist.

"Fuck," he cursed in agony. His body was stiff as hell. And the headache just got even worse like a thunderclap headache.

He sat up straighter and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to piece together what had happened the night before.

Ichigo recalled going home after work, his hands in his pockets, looking up at the sky, which had seemed unusually starry and beautiful. He had taken a detour, aimlessly wandering around because he just didn’t feel like going home yet.

Then he sensed a hollow—a weak one—and thought it might be fun to have a late-night workout. It had been a while since he’d transformed into a shinigami. After the war with Yhwach, Soul Society had finally sent proper shinigami to the real world, and they had been handling the weaker hollows well enough that Ichigo and his friends rarely had to step in anymore.

And after that...

Everything became a blur.

What had happened next? Had he been hurt? Had some shinigami stationed in the living world brought him here after a serious injury?

That didn’t make any sense; they could have taken him to Urahara or Orihime—one of the best healers and his wife.

Ichigo looked down, searching for any wounds or bandages on his torso, but found none. Nothing indicated that he had been badly injured. Instead, it felt like he had been unconscious for months.

He scanned his surroundings. The room was large and luxurious, designed like an expensive traditional Japanese mansion that strongly reminded him of the Kuchiki estate. In one corner, there was an ornate sword holder, and Zangetsu sat there, as if it had always belonged.

Ichigo ran both hands roughly over his face.

Okay. This couldn’t be real.

Why would he be in Soul Society of all places? It had been over a decade since he had last been there, and things had been peaceful—no wars, no threats—ever since he had sacrificed everything to keep Yhwach at bay for everyone’s sake.

Wake up.

Wake the hell up.

This had to be another cruel dream.

It wasn’t surprising; he often had dreams like this. Dreams where he woke up to a different life, one where he could protect the people he loved in a meaningful way—not by sacrificing himself and living in misery to keep the enemy at bay, but as a shinigami, fighting without fear, growing stronger for those he cherished, and being proud of the life he had chosen, all while living with the one person who meant everything to him.

(Even now, married with a child, he couldn’t let it go. He couldn’t forget her. He couldn’t move on.)

He had those dreams—visions of a different life if he had fought for his happiness.

If he hadn’t been a coward.

If he hadn’t let her slip away.

If he had been more stubborn than her and refused to give up on her, on them.

In those dreams, he was happy. So incredibly happy.

Yet whenever he woke up, he was met with shame, seeing Orihime peacefully asleep beside him. Part of him wished he had never started this life with her.

The dreams usually came in a haze, but this one felt so vivid, especially with the reishi gently brushing against his skin.

Ichigo moved slowly, sitting on the edge of the enormous bed. He was shirtless, wearing pajama pants he didn’t recognize. His feet touched the ground, and the coolness felt too real—too detailed for a mere dream.

The sunlight was particularly bright, streaming through the large window and glinting off a framed photograph beside the king-sized bed where Ichigo sat.

He picked up the photo and let out a humorless, mocking laugh. "What the...?"

He knew he shouldn't be surprised, but it felt far too cruel.

Ichigo would have gladly given God the middle finger if he could, wondering what kind of twisted game this was—mocking his life like this.

The picture showed a beautiful, happy family. There was Rukia, wearing her captain's haori, looking stunning as always since the moment Ichigo first saw her. In his dream, she had shorter hair, making her even more beautiful and mature. She was holding a cute little girl, a toddler with jet black hair just like her mother and chubby, rosy cheeks. Next to the girl stood a little boy, around five or six years old, with pale skin and spiky black hair. He had dark eyes and a scowl that made him handsome for his age. Ichigo wasn't naïve; he knew this dream was both beautiful and cruel. Aside from their hair and eye colors, the boy was a near carbon copy of him. While the girl looked almost entirely like Rukia, the boy was a perfect blend of them—60% Ichigo and 40% Rukia. Standing next to the boy was Ichigo himself, older and more mature, proudly displaying a vice-captain badge on his toned arm, complete with the snowdrop insignia of the 13th Division. He still had a hint of his boyish charm, his spiky hair intact (despite the teasing from Karin about balding). Although he looked annoyed in the photo, Ichigo knew better; this version of him was content, rewarded for fighting for his happiness.

He half-laughed again.

Hell.

This was just too cruel.

Setting the photograph back down, he tried to stand up, but his limbs felt heavy, as if he hadn’t walked in months.

Ichigo stretched his stiff arms and made his way to what he presumed was the bathroom. The space was spacious and luxurious. This version of Ichigo really lived life to the fullest, didn't he? With a bedroom and bathroom like this, it was clear that he and the Rukia in his dream must have been quite successful. She was a captain, and he was her vice-captain. Together, they must have been top-tier elites in Soul Society.

Ichigo shook his head at the thought and splashed cold water on his face, feeling a wave of relief as the refreshing liquid hit him. It felt too real to be a dream.

He then turned to the large mirror in the bathroom and took in his reflection. He looked strikingly like the Ichigo from the photograph, but with a scruffy beard that suggested he hadn’t shaved in weeks. The facial hair, while not his usual style, suited him well and gave him a more mature appearance. After brushing his teeth and washing his face again, he dried off with a towel.

He sighed.

Even the cold water did little to shake off the surreal feeling.

When would he wake up to his real, pathetic life?

The longer this dream continued, the more real it felt, making it harder for him to accept the painful truth when he eventually awoke.

Ichigo opened the bathroom door just as someone slid open the shoji door to the bedroom.

"Ichigo-san?!"

He recognized that voice and face instantly. It was Hanatarou.

The timid shinigami rushed toward him, nearly tripping over himself. His expression was a mix of surprise and... relief?

"Ichigo-san! Yokatta!" Hanatarou exclaimed, wrapping him in a hug. Ichigo swore he saw tears on his cheeks.

"Yokatta!" Hanatarou repeated, sobbing, "We were so scared, Ichigo-san! We were so scared you'd never wake up."

Feeling awkward and confused, Ichigo patted Hanatarou’s back, trying to act normal. "... Here I am?"

“How are you feeling right now?” Hanatarou asked, green light emanating from his hands as he scanned Ichigo's head, face, and torso. Ichigo shrugged, mostly confused. He felt tired, as if he hadn’t rested enough. Hanatarou had suggested he’d been unconscious for a while, causing concern for everyone—especially Rukia. A warmth spread through his stomach at the thought of her. He was convinced that Rukia was his wife in this cruel, too-good-to-be-true dream. Would she come to see him now that he was back from this coma?

“Just a little stiff,” Ichigo replied, scratching his neck in his signature style.

“That’s strange,” Hanatarou murmured, narrowing his eyes. “I still can’t figure out what went wrong. Your organ systems are completely fine, Ichigo-san… but your reiatsu is a bit weak—well, weak by your own high standards—and the signature seems… different.”

Ichigo raised both eyebrows. Would Hanatarou figure it out? That he was in a dream? That the real Ichigo was supposed to be in the living world, waking up next to a wife he didn’t love, working a job he disliked, regretting the life he had?

“…but it’s you, 100% you,” Hanatarou reassured him.

Ichigo let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He didn’t want this dream to end—not before he had a chance to see Rukia.

“I’ll have to report to Kotetsu-taichou,” Hanatarou continued. “Your reiatsu is still under the radar; I couldn’t even sense it until I was right at your door.” The timid healer looked apologetic.

“You should rest more, Ichigo-san,” he advised.

Ichigo nodded. “Thanks, Hana,” he said, adding a smirk to show he was okay, that the strongest shinigami alive wasn’t dying on his watch.

“Rukia-san… Rukia-san would be very glad,” Hanatarou smiled. Ichigo knew Hanatarou had always had a soft spot for her. “I can’t wait to see the happiness back on her face,” he mumbled under his breath, but Ichigo could still hear him.

“Where is she?” Ichigo asked urgently. He had to see her. He had to see her before he woke up and faced a life of misery.

“Oh, I think the morning report for the captains isn’t finished yet, Ichigo-san.” Hanatarou glanced at the clock on the wall.

He was about to leave Ichigo to rest when a commotion erupted outside the bedroom door. Ichigo's reiatsu was weak, but Hanatarou could sense it strengthening. He wouldn’t be surprised if everyone who had been waiting for Ichigo to wake up stormed the Kurosaki-Kuchiki mansion any moment now.

Ichigo heard the noise too and turned his head toward the door.

“Megumi-sama!” a young woman’s nervous voice whispered urgently. “Yamada-san from the 4th squad is still checking on Kurosaki-sama; let’s just come back later, young master—”

Shadows danced behind the shoji door. A little boy with messy, spiky hair was being pulled by a young woman, clearly trying to keep him from barging into the room.

In an instant, the door slid open, and Ichigo’s amber eyes met the boy's dark ones. It was the same boy from the photograph. He looked so young, maybe even younger than Kazui. The child was both handsome and adorable, around five or six, with round, chubby cheeks and stubborn, jet-black hair that stood up as if defying gravity. He had a pale complexion, reminiscent of his mother, as if he hadn’t spent much time in the sun. But his face—Ichigo could see himself in him. The boy wore a black shihakusho, adorned with a scarf that looked like a miniature version of Byakuya’s, and a red rosary-like strap across his chest, just like Ichigo’s. It was undeniable: this child was his. A perfect blend of a Kuchiki and a Shiba.

Ichigo felt a pang of guilt for even thinking it, but looking at the boy for just a moment, he saw himself reflected back. Back in the real world, when he looked at Kazui, all he could see was Orihime. He had never recognized himself in his own son.

“Young master Megumi-sama!” the flustered maid gasped, almost losing her balance as she tried to hold the little boy in place. But the adorable brat dashed toward Ichigo.

Megumi?

A blessing.

The maid looked incredibly nervous in Ichigo's presence, bowing repeatedly. “I’m so sorry, Kurosaki-sama! Please forgive my irresponsibility!”

Ichigo was taken aback by the level of reverence directed at him; he wasn't used to being treated like a high-class noble. “Nah, it’s okay,” he chuckled, just as the boy—Megumi, his son—leapt into his arms, settling in his lap and hugging him tightly. Instinctively, Ichigo returned the embrace, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Oi, kiddo,” he said, unable to hide his joyful smile. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

“I knew Tou-chan was awake,” Megumi mumbled against Ichigo’s bare shoulder. “I could feel it—Tou-chan’s reiatsu,” he explained. For such a little boy, he sounded incredibly smart. “Miyayama-san didn’t believe me, and she wouldn’t let me run to check on you just because I hadn’t finished my onsen tamago—”

“Really?” Ichigo laughed. “She didn’t?” He glanced at the young maid, who blushed even more at the interaction.

Hanatarou smiled at the scene, sensing that everything was as it should be, unaware that this was Ichigo’s first time holding his son. “Megumi-kun can sense reiatsu already?” he asked, clearly impressed.

Ichigo grinned and pulled his son closer. Maybe Megumi was a genius after all, likely a gift from Rukia. He wasn’t exactly great at sensing reiatsu.

“Of course I can! I trained hard,” Megumi replied, still mumbling against Ichigo’s shoulder and avoiding eye contact. There was a hint of arrogance in his tone, reminiscent of Ichigo and a bit of Byakuya. Had his son spent so much time with his uncle?

“I learn every day from my shishou... so I can protect Kaa-chan when Tou-chan is away,” he added, his voice muffled and quieter now. That’s when Ichigo realized the boy was crying.

His heart broke at the thought of what his imagined family had endured while he was in a coma, especially his son—who loved his mother dearly, just like Ichigo had when he was young.

“Hey, look at me,” Ichigo said gently, pulling Megumi back to see his adorable, tear-streaked face. “I’m here,” he grinned, raising his eyebrows at the little version of himself. “Thank you for protecting Kaa-chan while I was away. You did a great job, didn’t you, kiddo?”

Megumi wiped his tears in embarrassment, nodding multiple times to affirm that he had indeed done well. “I went to work with Kaa-chan, had lunch at the division so Kaa-chan wouldn’t eat alone,” he explained, clearly proud of himself.

“Then I went to Byakuya-jiji’s place for a nap, but after that, Renji-jichan took me back to Kaa-chan, and we went home together.”

Ichigo chuckled. His son was definitely a momma’s boy—just like him.

“And Sachi was crying a lot because she missed playing with Tou-chan, but I told her that Tou-chan would wake up one day, as long as she stopped being a crybaby,” Megumi rambled on.

Ichigo could only assume Sachi was his little sister—the adorable carbon copy of Rukia. His daughter.

Right now, Ichigo felt completely content holding his son in his arms. He hugged Megumi tightly, kissing his forehead as if he had always been a father to him, and this boy had always been his blessing. “Thank you, Megumi,” he said, savoring his son’s name on his tongue; it felt like he had been calling him that forever.

How perfect was the life this version of Ichigo had? He wished he could stay in this dream forever, not before meeting his daughter, and certainly not before seeing Rukia. This was the perfect ending.

He was so absorbed in the moment that he didn’t notice the ruckus and footsteps outside his bedroom door. When the shoji door opened, figures filled the entrance. Ichigo couldn’t make out who was there—just glimpses of Kyoraku, Byakuya, and Renji. They were just shadows, overshadowed by the light that was Rukia.

“…Ichigo?”

Her voice. Her reiatsu. She was still the same, the only person in the universe who could make him feel this way. The ray of light in his life. Rukia.