Disclaimer Don't own Inyuasha, and if I did, I'd be so rich. Then I would be able to pay people who write fifty times better than me to write my stuff down and get even more rich off of that.

Warm Fire

"I want to talk to you." I say softly, watching somewhat exasperated as your face breaks out into a slightly conceited, even suggestive, grin. Honestly. I think that my mind has been more enthralled with bloody thoughts lately than it ever was before I met you.

But then again, I'm glad. If I hadn't met you, or even the other people you travel with, I would probably have given up living a long time ago. Having people to support me, cheerful, almost everyday people, feels nice.

Friends. I like the way it sounds, and how it makes me feel. Warm and fuzzy, as overrated as that phrase is when associated to one's friends. But still, that's how I feel, and there's not nearly another nice enough phrase to describe it.

I think you know that I've never really had friends before. I think you're the only one who knows. You know because you've been there before. Friendless, only focused on one goal. For you, it was religion, for me, it was demon exterminating. Funny, when I first talked to you, heard the first words out of your mouth, I had wanted to slice your head off with the sword that's always neatly tucked into my sash. I would have laughed if someone had told me that I would get close enough to start trusting you.

Still, you know what loneliness is. We all do. Perhaps that's why we get along so well. We have common ground, as depressing as it is, we have it. Death, loneliness, and throwing oneself into one's goal, losing sight of anything else. I know your life was the same as mine.

Raised to carry on a family tradition, not allowed another option. Not allowed to gain personal interest. Not that I'm saying that my family was thoughtless, harsh, or cruel, but they were very demanding. My village was full of people born and bred to be excellent fighters. With a mother and father like mine, much was expected from me even before I exited my mother's womb. I grew up to those expectations, though now that I look back on it, there really wasn't much of a choice. I was never one for girlish things anyway, being more of a weapon and fighting girl, though now that I'm older, I like the way that the red eye makeup I have makes me look. It makes me look like my mother.

Which brings me to why I need to talk to you. It's a personal family matter, and I made sure that I had started slowing down, not very noticeably, but for some time now. I want to talk to you alone. I know what you're thinking right now, in fact, I even know what you're probably picturing, and it makes me shudder and make me want to blush. Or hit you so hard you go flying and hit something. Anything to knock those thoughts out of your head.

I'd like to think that this pervert side of you is a mask. Yes, I do know you like women, any woman apparently, but I see your eyes when you smile at them. Mischievous, sometimes interested, but always sad. You know that if any of those women accept, you know what your children will be cursed to bear. The same thing that keeps you up at night, staring at the palm of your hand when you think that no one is up.

Those nights, both of us bombarded by our nightmares and pasts, those are the times when we're the closest. I don't have to act tough; I don't have to bottle up my feelings. I don't have to do anything. You don't touch me, not in the way you do when everyone else is awake. There's a tenderness in your touch, in your eyes that dance with the flames of the fire, and sometimes I feel as if the fire in your eyes burns into me, because I feel like I'm ablaze when I'm with that side of you. The side you don't want anyone to know about. Which is too bad, because that's the side that I think I would like to get to know more of.

But the perverted monk side of you isn't that bad either, give or take a few quirks. One of those late nights, when it was my turn to watch but you stayed up with me anyways, I had been depressed. So depressed that I had trouble lying to you and telling you everything was fine. Not like it would have mattered even if I could have lied to you. You saw straight through it, and to my surprise, hugged me close. I don't remember exactly what you whispered to me, breath tickling my ear and your heart thrumming to the same drum as mine, but I do remember how you made me feel.

And then you had made a pass at my butt, and as protocol states, I had to beat you senseless. Still, it was a bit touching, in more ways than one. But your ways do sometimes bring a smile to my face, the utter absurdity of it of course.

"Of course." That's all you say, but that same perverted grin is still on your face, as if it's stuck there and you're not quite sure what else to do with your expression. Which is the same reason I like to keep my expression blank. And for some reason, this upsets you. You always joke to try to get me to smile, or pinch my butt or something disgusting like that to get my angry. You tell me it's depressing to see someone as lovely as me frowning all the time. And then you like to remind me that frowning wrinkles the face, and I should keep mine because with my short temper, I'll never get a man any other way. But we both know better. It's more of a charade than anything else. I don't care really if I get a man. I like you as a friend better.

I'm silent, trying to gather my words, and to my surprise, you're actually patient. What I want to talk to you about is personal. I don't want everyone crowding around, even though I know that they'd only want to be supporting me. But this is... this is deep. And surprisingly I know I can trust you. I feel I can trust you, and those feelings have saved me more than once, and they're things I tend to listen to.

But then again, you've saved me more than once also. Just half an hour ago, we were attacked by a lower level demon. And it had come straight at me, before I could reach my sword or the big boomerang on my back. Closing my eyes and fearing the worst, it wasn't me who cried out in pain. It was you. Foolish, stupid, and utterly noble of you, you had taken the blow. Later you had brushed it off easily, saying that the demon hadn't stood a chance against your might. You had even had the nerve to ask for a quick feel for your good deed, but I knew you better. I had seen the blood seeping through your robes, even though you tried to divert my attention elsewhere.

With each passing minute I see your grin start to fade, slowly, as if this silence is wiping it off a smudge of it at a time until all I'm left with your concern. The side that I talk to late at night, the side I trust so much. The side that, if let loose in a simple peasant village, would have more girls fawning over you than your usual tactics. But I don't need to let you know that, do I? As selfish as this sounds, I want to keep this side to myself. I want to call it mine, but I know that in doing so, I would have to give you a side of myself. And I don't know if I'm ready to do that just yet. I trust you, but I don't know if I'm ready for anything else yet.

"Sango?" You ask, your voice filled with concern, and you move to place your hand on my shoulder. I notice it's the hand without the wind tunnel, and it always is. Like you're afraid if you touch me with that hand, if you touch anything with that hand, the wind tunnel would spread to the person and infect them.

"I..." I falter, unsure of how to put this into words. I don't want to make a mistake, if asking you to be alone with me isn't one already. I don't want to cry either, but I know if I don't ask you now, I might not get another chance. "Can you to do another ceremony to commemorate Kohaku?" There, it's out. The burden is off my chest so to speak, as if Kohaku has been sitting on my lap again, the whole way here, like he used to do when he was little and wanted something. Like a story.

Out of all my family, I think I loved Kohaku the most. He was so innocent, too gentle and kind to want to hurt anything, much less do it. He hadn't really wanted to be a demon exterminator, and when he had bad dreams about killing or being killed, he had often come to me. One of those times, he had told me he wanted to help people without hurting anything. He wanted to be a doctor, and I knew that if our lives had been different, he would have been. The little kids all over town looked up to both of us. For me to protect them and to Kohaku to heal them. But I hadn't been able to protect any of them when they really had needed me. I hadn't been able to save anyone...

You don't say anything, just taking the hem of your robes (which are a bit dusty, but it's the thought that counts), and wipe away my tears for me. I hadn't noticed I had been crying. But it still hurts to think of you, Kohaku. It hurts to think of everything. Still, I'm ashamed to be crying, especially in front of you.

When I go to wipe my tears, you stop me; hem dropping back to the ground. I note somewhat off-handedly that you're still using your hand that doesn't contain the wind tunnel. Carefully, as if afraid that I'll break, you wipe them away for me, your eyes filled with concern, with no trace of your actions being libidinous. Again you surprise me, and I even lean into your hand a bit, ready to take any comfort you can give me.

"Yes." You whisper it softly, your breath stirring the fire beneath my skin, mostly because it's reflecting in your eyes again. I smile at you, tentative at first. And then you slide your hand to sweep my bangs away from my face and I close my eyes, allowing myself to soak in your touch. It feels nice, the warm fire you stir in me and that I'm not sure I can control yet. Then you let your hand drop.

Without waiting for anything, your start there, at the side of this dusty, seldom used road, chanting soothing words. Your voice rises and falls as silky and calmly as a small brook across smooth stones, your look concentrated. Your words are filled with the sincerity and love that touch me.

It's almost funny we have the ceremony here, beneath the shade of the trees that seem to bow their heads to pay their respects also. All the birds have stopped chirping, and the wind isn't even breathing. I would have been on alert, but I know we're safe here. I can almost feel Kohaku next to me, head bowed also, mock serious. I can almost see him opening one eye to peek at me, making a face to make me laugh, which makes me want to cry.

He would have liked this little ceremony and all my friends. Kohaku was always a much more sociable and nature loving person than I.

He would have also liked the flowers at the side of the road. Though he was constantly scolded by our father for liking the plants, Kohaku was forever picking banquets of them, bringing to both me and mother. And sometimes to a small girl or woman who looked like they needed them. Kohaku...

When all is said and done, I smile at you, even though it could in no way express how happy this has made me. How at peace. You stand there, waiting for me to gather myself together, allowing me to cry this time, and I appreciate it. I think that you've been down this road before, and you know every nook and cranny of it. You know more than you let on.

After the last of my tears has been absorbed into the earth, where Kohaku probably rests in peace now, I turn back to you. And once again you startle me. You're holding a flower, a small delicate white one, with streaks of red streaming out from the center. For a moment I mistake you for Kohaku, and I feel my eyes mist over again, but I know you're alive. He's free. And I know you're the one who allowed that to happen.

I take the beautiful flower from you, unsure of why I feel so touched. So warm and fuzzy inside. I think we're both a bit new at this, but I know what to say, and I even allow myself to kiss your cheek softly.

"Thank you, Miroku."

Author's Notes Aw! Short and fluffy! Miroku/Sango is my favorite couple, and not to mention two of my favorite characters, so I liked writing this. Please read and review! Miroku/Sango all the way!