A/N: This is a sequel of sorts for my first Bleach fanfiction, Small. I tried to capture the love that a father has for a daughter on the day where he would realize it most. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Don’t own. Can’t own. Want to own. Damn.

Baby

-For all the fathers who have ever loved their daughters.

He never noticed how much she looked like her mother. Her bright smile that could lighten the darkest of nights. Her honey eyes that filled with such sadness that it broke his heart a thousand times over and that filled with such happiness that it overflowed to all of those around her. Her small hands, her tiny feet. Her dainty limbs, her delicate fingers. She was her mother, and he loved her all the more for it.

Her hair of first snowfall was all that she had inherited from him, in his opinion. His wife begs to differ, but he chooses to not believe her. He watched her grow, he still watches her. He knows her more than she probably knew herself, and he stands on his opinion of her genetics. She was her mother and all she got from him was her hair.

He had always been protective of her. She would never so much as get a scraped knee if he was there to prevent it. She grew up as a daddy’s girl and he grew down to be daddy.

His ego of years ago would never have believed it, but he was a doting parent if ever there were one. He would not dote on her in the sense that he would brag about her endlessly to his squad or would be armed with photos, no. His form of doting was his never ending protectiveness of her. If something concerned her, he knew every detail down to the last punctuation. If something did not concern her, he would make it concern her and learn all the new punctuations that went along with it.

But there were some things that he could never protect her from forever, and that was boys. She was a beautiful girl and this he could not deny. After all, she was her mother. She had been happy at times and she had been hurt at times (and in these times the boy would be hurt as well; he saw to it personally.) And now there was a time where a boy had found her and had fallen in love with her, and she him. He was not happy about it, but he knew that he couldn’t protect her and her beauty from them forever. She was, after all, her mother.

So now he sits in a seat at a table not too close to the loud gathering and not too far away as so he couldn’t reach her if she needed him. His wife, her mother, sat next to him and held his arm. He frowned as he saw her smile from a distance, her eyes of honey ready to burst with joy as she danced around with the crowd in her gown of white.

He had no idea how he ended up here. The past six months had been a blur to him, a blur of blues and pinks and creams and whites with invitations and ribbons and bows. One moment, he was holding her in his arms for the first time as her mother lay in a bed next to them, her face damp with sweat and tears. Now, he was watching her dance with him, her new husband.

He felt a certain level of jealousy towards him. Jealousy that he had her now, not him. That he was her number one now, not him. That she would say “I love you” to him now, not him. He felt a certain level of hatred towards him. Hatred that he would hold her, not him. Hatred that he would make her laugh, not him. Hatred that he would get to see her every day and every night of the rest of forever, not him. He hated him for taking her away from him.

He faced her mother as they made their way to the dance floor. A slow song started to play as a sea of old memories began rolling like a movie behind his eyes. Her birth, her first steps, first words, birthdays, holidays, tears, laughs, loves and heartaches all flying through him like a breeze of air. He released his hold on her mother as he saw her release her hold on her husband.

They joined each other in the center of the floor, the entire room seeming to silence at the sound of the quiet melody that lofted through the air. He held her in his arms like the many times he had done in the past years, but this time it was different. It was a feeling of heartache and parting, like doors were being closed. He looked down into her face and realized her happiness. As the old doors closed, he felt more open.

He loved her so much it hurt him sometimes to think of just how much so. His heart would swell and ache, his very soul overflowing with emotion when he thought of just how much so. She was his joy, his light, his life, his world. She was his little girl, the same little girl who would laugh as the fireflies danced near the pond near their home in the summer. The same little girl who would welcome him home with hugs and kisses after a painful day’s work. The same little girl who made his life worth living. The same little girl who was so much like her mother that it made him want to cry.

She smiled at him. Her mother’s smile. She was so kind, so gentle. He knew that she had the same personality of her mother: She was too kind and likely to get hurt. She would put her life on the line for her beliefs and her loved ones. She was honest and loyal and loved too deeply. She was her mother and all she got from him was her hair.

This made him realize something. Something clicked and made the gears turn, his heart swell again. The emotions all came, and for the first time ever, he cried in front of somebody. In front of everybody. He cried because he loved her, because he felt like he was losing her. He loved her too much to let her go, but he also loved her too much to keep her from being happy. She, of all people deserved it.

He felt a thumb caress the side of his eye, brushing away the tears. He pulled himself back to reality, expecting to see his wife facing him. Instead, he saw his daughter smiling at him, her eyes filled with love. She truly was her mother.

Even years after that day, years after that song ended, years after that dance, he never told anyone the reasoning behind his tears. The reason he let the depth of his love show that day. Finally, he one day decided to tell her mother.

It was a day many years later, one nestled in the midst of summer. Her mother and he stood from a close distance and watched her and her husband play with their young son amongst the fireflies near the pond near their home. She had asked him quietly with a gentle smile on her face, and he had answered.

She may be her mother, but she would always be his baby.

A/N: For all the fathers who have ever loved their daughters…

…And for all the daughters who have ever loved their fathers too.

Ja ne,

TrinityFire13Guardian137