InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Cobalt Skies and Too Blue Eyes ❯ Interval Two: Mahiru ( Chapter 5 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Disclaimer: I do not own Inuyasha, etc. This story is for entertainment purposes only.

COBALT SKIES AND TOO-BLUE EYES

Summary: A dream haunts Sango in the eyes of her newborn son. As the veils between this world and the next are drawn back on the night of seasonal equinox, she must consider that the ghost of the father might come seeking both her and her son… (“after Naraku” canon cont., SangoXBankotsu, some InuyashaXKagome)

WORDS

Mahiru - midday

A/N: This chapter is a little choppy, and I deliberated too long over rewriting the whole thing over. I finally gave up the goat and just decided to post as is. (Fate)

WARNING! ADULT SITUATIONS AND ISSUES, NO ONE UNDER 17, PLEASE!

INTERVAL II (MAHIRU)

The snow stayed away for two days. Her cough and the fevers and weakness that accompanied it stayed away for one.

At least it had been long enough for her to start some laundry.

Too bad he was the one having to finish it, under her scowling instruction and his scowling irritation with her scowling instruction.

Good thing she had a cold. It kept cutting her off at just exactly the right moment---when her owe irritation would rise, and she’d try to snap something sharp at him, and only end up coughing, the tears fairly running down her cheeks as her chest exploded in angry fits.

He would have offered to pound her back or brew up some steam to help clear her head, but the snooty wench had already spurned any help of his. “Don’t touch me!,” she had almost screamed at him, though it had come out as a hoarse croak after that first fit had nearly doubled her over.

He had pulled his hands back as if burned, and not touched her again, though she was weak as a newborn kitten. Kirara had been the one to help her to the necessary facilities---now hidden by a worn blanket he had hung without comment across one corner of the too-small space they shared. She hadn’t even thanked him for that small courtesy, the ungrateful wretch. Well, now she was getting her just deserts. Let her cough her lungs out. As long as she had the strength to hug Mikomi to her chest for his feeding than he didn’t give a rat’s damn if she up and keeled over!

Well, that was a lie. A rather big one, actually. Still, she was working his last damn nerve. It had been so much easier when she had been passed out and feverish…

The sudden silence in the close hut had him jerking his head up, a brow lifted in sarcastic inquiry. Usually the wench would have been saying something scathing by now---about how he was scrubbing her damn yukata too hard, or how he was hanging them up all wrong to dry, that they would be more wrinkled than if he just wadded them up in a ball and threw them in a corner.

Stupid laundry. He was a mercenary, damn it, not a washwoman!

He scowled at her. She was slumped, her head on her knees, not looking in his direction. Mikomi was sound asleep in his little pen, snoring lightly.

“What? You have nothing to say?” His voice was biting as he rested his hands on the sides of the narrow wash tub, a blanket ballooning lazily across the sudsy surface. There was wet fabric draped everywhere there was a free surface, and the air was both damp and hot from the fire set blazing to help dry them. He didn’t want to think about how much more laundry waited his tender ministrations---he had used up most of the blankets and clothing in the small hut taking care of Sango’s damn ass those past four days, and she had insisted in that annoyingly snide way of hers that everything had to be boiled and cleaned lest Mikomi become sick again.

She had to use that argument to get him to do it, the sadistic wench. He would do anything for Mikomi---even laundry.

Gah.

“Hello?!” His voice was particularly acidic, hoping to goad a response, but the girl remained bowed over her knees.

Mikomi snoozed on, oblivious.

So did she, apparently.

Scowling, Bankotsu drummed his fingers on the wooden rim of the tub and stared at her. Nothing.

*Must be nice to sit back and relax while I do all the work!*

Annoyed as all hell---for laundry was women’s work, and here he was, doing it, while she was, well, not---he finally swept to his feet and stomped over to shake her lazy ass up. He half-expected her to wake up as he neared her and shy away, if not hit him with an angry growl about how he should keep his distance, hentai! But her head stayed bent, and he frowned.

His right hand reached out to lightly touch her on the shoulder, his voice a lot more gentle than he had intended. “Hey.”

Still no response. He shook her lightly, and jumped back as she fell over sideways, her black hair spilling across the blankets she had huddled under. Her breath was raspy, and he made a face as he crouched beside her, his hand automatically pushing her long bangs aside to check her forehead. Feeling the familiar heat of fever under his calloused fingers, he grimaced.

“Well, crap.”
.
It was a whole hell of a lot quieter in the hut now that her mouth wasn’t going so damn much. Mikomi made up for it, though, hollering his head off as his mother basically ignored him. Bankotsu had become an old hand at propping both baby and mom in his lap, though, and Mikomi settled down once lunch was made available. The brat might have been fighting off his own illness, because he slept like the dead once his hunger was satisfied. Bankotsu kept checking on the kid with a nagging worry about it, but the little monster never developed the fever or chill his mother had, which was one small relief.

Caring for the wench was sure getting tiresome, though. But he was a man, so he rose to the challenge, and actually felt a whole hell of a lot better without her sarcastic mouth annoying the shit out of him. He got a lot more done without her nagging him about it, and was actually taking some smug satisfaction in the fact that he could do it, without her snide little comments.

After finishing the laundry in half the time she would have used, he built up the fire and made sure both kid and mother were well covered before venturing out of the hut. It felt great to be outside, though the chill in the air was enough to make him glare at the scuttling clouds in the distance. More snow was coming---he could feel it, and the stuff on the ground hadn’t melted much in the meantime. Tromping across the buried path, he cursed the idiocy of an arrogant taijiya for storing all her provisions in a building so close and yet so far away in terms of need.

Grunting with effort, he managed to wrestle the door open through the snow that buried it in three feet of annoying obstruction. Eying the neatly stacked shelves, he shrugged. Grabbing up this and that, he started hauling. And hauling. And hauling. He had a rather sizeable pile going inside the hut by the time he quit. He checked on both of his patients, but there was no change in either kid or wench. Damn, they could sure sleep. He paused to stoke up the fire, and eyed the depleted woodpile with sour resignation.

Back out he went, this time to haul logs. At least there were plenty cut and stacked on the storehouse’s porch. He was sweating lightly, which chilled him in the icy wind by the time he finished, but the exercise had worked out some of his frustrations with the situation he found himself in and mellowed his mood somewhat.

Securing both storehouse and hut against the renewed threat of a blizzard, for the gathering clouds were ominous, he regarded the drying laundry and lumpy pile in the center of the room with something even akin to cheerfulness. Mikomi was up by then, babbling and drooling and amusing himself with a round brass ring he continually tried to stick in his mouth. It wouldn’t fit, but the boy seemed happy enough to munch on it. The girl stirred as he checked her temperature, but the fever seemed less, and she only rolled over, huddling further into the blankets piled around her. Sleep was probably best for her right now, and so he left her alone.

His mood stayed rather cheerful as he worked his way through the giant pile of supplies he had hauled from the storehouse. Opening various parcels, he stowed them here and there according to need. Sango would probably holler about where he stashed her shit---she was so damn picky about it---but while she was facedown in the blankets she couldn’t say too damn much. He tossed some rice to boil over the fire and even dared to stir in a mix of dried vegetables and meat, seasoning the whole with a heavy hand from things that smelled good. He added a bit of dried herbs to a smaller kettle to steep---something to help the girl if she deigned to drink it. He actually had more working knowledge of healing salves than cooking herbs.

Mikomi needed changing by then, and required some play-time and attention. He managed to feed the little monster some of the gooey rice mixture Sango had previously made up, before her coughing fits had taken her back to bed. He would have to ask her how to make more of it. Mikomi’s bottomless pit of a stomach required quite a haul to fill up.

“I don’t know why I bother feeding you, brat. You’re only going to shit it out.” Bankotsu mock-scowled at the boy, who screeched a laugh and waved his arms. Small bits of rice were stuck to his fat cheeks and tummy. Bankotsu found it easier to feed the messy kid naked rather than dirty up another of his little kimonos.

He didn’t want to do any more laundry than he had to, thank you!

The fire cackled to itself as he removed the pot to scoop up his own dinner. He didn’t bother using a separate bowl---he hated washing dishes as much as he hated washing clothes---and fed himself between feeding bits to the kid. He fed Mikomi some of the softer portions of his own dinner, though the boy made faces and spat most of it out. He seemed to like something green and lumpy he had added, and sucked the juice out of the small cabbages before gumming them to death and swallowing.

Kirara finally emerged from Sango’s blankets and deigned to try a bowl of his rice-stew. She sniffed and made a rude noise but was hungry enough to eat it anyway. Bankotsu only grinned as he picked Mikomi up to burp the little bastard. After a few healthy belches the kid finally settled to sleep, slumping himself across his father’s shoulder like a warm, boneless lump.

Transferring the child back to his pen, Bankotsu decided the tea had seeped enough for him to try and get the girl to choke some down. His timing was good, for she awakened as he approached, coughing weakly as he helped her to sit up. She tried to glare at him, but the effort was too wearying, and she finally just slumped against him much as their son had earlier. He held the cup steady as she drank the noxious medicine. She coughed again, in between sips, and shuddered as he forced her to finish all of it.

“Mikomi?” She whispered, her voice hoarse and her eyes shadowed.

“Fine,” he replied, waiting for a sharp remark.

“Thank you.” She slumped back down to her blankets, her eyes already closing again.

He stared down at her, shaking his head. The woman was as confusing as anyone he had ever met. Shrugging, he got back up to thin out some of his rice-stew into a soup. She would need food to keep up her strength.

She choked on the soup.

He helpfully pounded her back, like he did for Mikomi, and she started trying to hack up a lung. His hand gentled, making soothing circles on her back like he had learned with the boy, hoping to ease the spasming muscles. She made a choked noise, as if in protest, and kept hacking.

He got another cup of tea, this one with honey in it, hoping to cut the bitter taste of the herbs. The honey actually seemed to soothe her sore throat, for her coughing finally stopped.

She looked at him, confusion in her dark eyes. He absently brushed a black tangle from her cheek and she flinched, as if struck. His lips twisted into the sardonic derision he was becoming too familiar with as of late.

“Sleep, taijiya,” he ordered, getting up to leave. He felt her haunted eyes on him as he went back to the fire and restlessly poked the sullen tinder. The wind, which had risen once night descended, howled around the eaves of the small house. They sat like that for some time, the only noise the howling of the wind and Mikomi’s light snores. He finally turned to look back at her, and found her eyes had closed and she slept, Kirara curled at her shoulder.

“Huh.”

She never woke when Mikomi finally refused the gooey rice stuff and hollered for his mother. Being an old hand at propping her dead weight up, Bankotsu nestled mother and child in his lap as he leaned his wide shoulders against the wooden wall for support. He could feel the chill of the raging blizzard through the snug boards, and hooked an extra blanket to bundle around the pair, staring down as his son suckled greedily.

Her boobs were bigger.

He kind of envied the boy, he looked to be enjoying himself so damn much.

He sighed, closing his eyes as he leaned his head back against the wall.

Her fever spiked later that night, and he bathed her skin with cool water, Kirara helpfully bringing him extra rags. Mikomi grew feverish, and sniffled and whined until Bankotsu wanted to wring both their necks for all the trouble they were giving him. He was so damn tired he wanted to fall over and sleep for a thousand years. Death would be preferable to this.

Not true. Definitely not true. Sure, it sucked, but hell, at least he was useful and needed here. They both needed him, desperately, and boy did it feel good.

Too good.

He slept curled around them, as he had when she had been so sick before. It felt so right, to have her nestled against him, Mokimi in her arms and Kirara at their feet.

She pricked the bottom of his foot, stretching out a small paw.

*Stupid cat.*

Kirara only purred.


The morning brought no surcease from the blizzard, which raged and howled around the snug little cot as Bankotsu battled the laundry, Mikomi battled for breakfast, and Sango battled for her life. The fever finally broke, but she was as limp as a rag and slept like the dead. Bankotsu grew worried over her lethargy, but awareness slowly returned, until she was able to sit up and eat a little egg-dropped soup he hadn‘t bungled too badly.

She protested weakly when he helped her to the necessary. Mikomi laughed, delighted that his mother was finally up and about, if somewhat shakily. Her face went through several interesting shades of both white and red as the strain of hobbling to the necessary with his help and needing that help took its toll. He left her alone to handle her business but was there to help her back to her pallet as soon as she was done. She wouldn’t look at him, and she wouldn’t say a word as he silently bundled her back up in the abandoned blankets.

She broke into chills again, and yet another fever, and the next time she needed to go he merely picked her up over her own muffled protests. She was light, too light, and far too pale. She also smelled of stale sweat, and he only won the battle that ensued over his stripping and bathing her because she was too damn weak to do too much about it at that point.

She had pretty feet. He liked her toes, especially how her second toe stuck out a little further than her big toe. She also had bony wrists, and her collarbone and her ribs were far too prominent. Her hips were narrow, but her ass was still as firm as a boy’s and saucy to boot. Her skin was smooth and creamy with nary a birthmark or mole to mar it. Her hands were small in his but just as calloused at the fingertips, if smoother on the palm. She had too much hair, no matter how long and silky. Washing it was a real bitch.

He toweled her dry, wrapping her in fresh blankets with another one to keep her damp hair off her head. She suffered his ministrations in stony silence, her cheeks red and her eyes opaque. He carried her back to the pallet, and gently laid her down.

She turned her back on him then, refusing to meet his eyes, and he wanted to kick her in the head for being so ungrateful and so damn embarrassed about it. What was it that made her so ashamed of him, and of herself with him?

Damn her to hell and beyond. She needed him, damn it, and one day she would fucking well see that…

He slept on the floor that night, by the fire. She refused vehemently when he made a motion to join her and Mikomi on her pallet. Kirara growled as he silently turned on his heel, picking up a couple of blankets to cushion the hard wood, and later joined him as he lay on his back. Climbing on his chest, she curled herself into a little ball and purred herself to sleep.

*Stupid cat.*

The fevers returned the next night with a vengeance. Bankotsu was beside himself keeping Mikomi occupied and happy while he took care of his mother, who baldly looked like death warmed over. She tossed restlessly in her sleep, muttering miseries that stung his heart raw even as he ignored them. She had truly loved that stupid hentai monk, and she kept calling out to him, making the mercenary grit his teeth and snarl over the injustices of fate.

He refused to give up on her, and his stubborn will proved stronger than the fevers and chills that continued to grip her wearied body in the following weeks. He battled the silent ghosts of both her sadness and heartache with grim silence, and when she would wake, he quieted her various “I’m sorry’s” and “thank you’s” with an indifferent shrug or sardonic quirk of his lips or brow.

She grew quiet, her thoughts turned inward, and watched him under hooded eyes as he played or fussed with Mikomi. He was rather pleased when the fevers claimed her again, for she no longer called out to that stupid Miroku idiot in her fevered dreams.

In fact, she never mentioned him again, in either waking or sleepy murmurs, and perhaps that was worse, for her heartache remained buried behind tightly-pressed white lips and hollow brown eyes.

Bankotsu skirted the subject as handily as she, but he knew that one day he would have to confront it. Now was not yet the time, however, for the cough stayed with her, the fevers returning occasionally to sap what little strength she had managed to gain between bouts. Recovery was long and slow, and she needed his strength when hers was spent for even the most basic of necessities, and although he knew she hated it, she said nothing, and neither did he.

Silence became a defense and a habit for both of them, for both of their souls were raw and smarting from the mere presence of the other who caused them such pain. Neither knew how much, for they carefully avoided speaking or thinking about it, their love and attention taken up with their son, who continually surprised them as he grew, learning something new almost every day.

Bankotsu saw Sango truly smile for the first time when Mikomi spoke his first word, and it was her name. Or something like it. ‘Okaa-san’ was a little too much for a little mite to handle, but he burbled “Kaah” and waved his hands at her with a four-toothed grin. She laughed with unfeigned joy and delight, and picked him up in a hug to spin about the room, laughing and happy for the first time in far too long. Bankotsu was stunned by how her brown eyes danced, her smile almost blinding in its brilliancy. He felt a stab in his heart that such pure joy and love could never be for him, and all because of the shadows of a mistake and a hentai ghost, and his expression grew stony at the bitter thought.

Her eyes darkened, taking in his hard expression, and her delight at her son’s accomplishment dimmed a bit as the mercenary abruptly got up and left the room with no excuse. Hauling logs was always a good way to work out some of his frustration, and Bankotsu eventually returned like a petulant child, refusing to say anything about it. She took his moodiness for envy, that Mikomi’s first word should be for her, and not him, and said nothing.

Silence had become habit by then.