A/N: Modern AU. Takes time to develop. If you don't have patience to read at least a dozen chapters, don't bother going further. Thank you! (first published 11/8/08, edited for clarification)

Disclaimer: Own nothing, earn nothing, suit worth nothing. All hail to the original character-creating author.

Chapter 1: Prelude

He had been inspired, he was later to say, by the subject's silhouette against his window one April morning.

Of course, a shoe was hardly the first article of clothing Miroku had cast immortality upon. His wit and deft hand for language had brought the modest camisole to fermented heights in his widely read column. He had even brought what he himself considered a "modest homily to a hat" to elegiac symphonies, at least in the minds of his readers and editors.

Still, the shoe was a bit unusual.

Even for him.

It had been a normal after-work gathering, the newsies and columnists splitting up to pursue their favored watering holes, secure in congenial company and potential leaks for future stories. Those with award-winning bi-lines showed their faces at the big-name bars, but everyone knew that real stories were garnered elsewhere.

Miroku had shown his face, gathered accolades for his most recent published triumph, and moved on. He didn't really like being what another era would have called a pulp journalist, but he had to admit he didn't have the nose or the ambition for the hard news pieces that drew headlines and Pulitzers. And he did rather enjoy his own mild celebrity status. He had established a more than reasonable income for what might best be called "personality pieces", those "up close and personal" bits that endeared him to local audiences for his ability to bring out not just the everyman, but those intrinsically unique aspects of life that made humanity feel greater than the sum of its parts.

It also did wonders for his love-life. "Ah yes, I did write that home potter story whose proceeds finance school building on Bolivia's Altiplano. What an amazing person …"

On its face, there was nothing particularly remarkable or memorable about the shoe.

Aside, of course, from its position on the windowsill. He'd had to strain his memory a bit as to how it had gotten there.

Miroku was an early riser, regardless of how he'd spent – or misspent - his nighttime hours. Thus, as the sun rose above the ragged city skyline in a habitually hazy sky, he was helpless to avoid heeding its call, a lesson born of numerous heavily drawn drapes or even more heavily visited hangovers. As a result, Miroku's yoga mat held permanent place before the windows of whatever proved to be the east-facing room of his current apartment. Few of his lovers ever rose early enough to see him assuming "tiger scorpion asana," but then again, his editors were equally oblivious. Given the longevity of his lovers as opposed to his editors, the comparison was hardly incongruous.

So the shoe's attention-getting position was, in fact, more than merely remarkable.

Chapter 2: Introducing the Main Characters

She'd walked into the club alone. No, "walked" was an inadequate verb for someone who made his living exploiting language. She certainly didn't do anything so vulgar or mundane as "sashay" or even "slink". In this case, her stride was more along the lines of "commanded", "asserted possession", or, most simply, "claimed" everything and everyone on the premises.

Miroku's first conscious image, therefore, was of the captain of a ship coming onto the bridge – he had to stop himself from coming to attention and was surprised to note how few others seemed to react to her appearance. For example, his drinking companions had found fault with his immediate declaration regarding the woman who'd taken a place alone at the bar. As the sportswriter, Inuyasha said, she was pretty enough, but certainly not on the spectacular side that warranted Miroku's usual distinction.

For Miroku, they were the fools, and he decided that somehow they were oblivious to her commanding presence merely because that was how she wished it. He, on the other hand, was wholly caught by her every move.

It was remarkable, since despite his awareness of women in general, and desire and appreciation for them all, he had never been caught up in any one particularly. In point of fact, his friends would have taken a second look at this woman had he persisted in his attention to her even a moment longer. However, some atavistic defensive instinct arose, as usual, to defuse his apparent interest.

At least, for the moment.

Inuyasha had bought a round of drinks. On a whim, Miroku suggested extending the offer to the lone woman at the corner of the bar, and Inuyasha had readily acceded, already deep in an argument regarding sport's recession-proofness with Koaga, the AP business writer. The woman, predictably, had at first protested, then with a shrug accepted. Immediately he'd moved to join her at the bar, amid low rumbles acknowledging his position as a master player. He consciously attempted to place all such thoughts behind him as he considered this woman.

There was a wariness about her that he expected and didn't worry much about. In fact, he approved. A lovely woman alone in a bar had to be stupid to trust too easily in her fellow patrons, and while he didn't exactly consider stupidity a fault in a woman, he somehow wasn't keen on seeing signs of it in this one. At the same time, the very fact that she was there at all suggested she was seeking escapism of some sort. Miroku was well practiced at identifying and offering women whatever escape would satisfy them.

He voiced his given name only, registering the lack of recognition of either his name or features with some ambivalence. Well, he knew he wasn't actually famous (if perhaps a bit notorious in certain circles), but he was also used to seeing at least a hint of enthusiasm or at least interest when he gave attention to a girl. She had merely nodded to acknowledge her thanks for the drink, and told him to call her "Sango", in the most neutral of tones possible.

As she worked her way through her Kir he slowly nursed what, with the melted ice, had become a very watered-down unblended scotch. He did what came naturally to him, chatting about current events, new books he had either read or wanted to read, the value of standard cable offerings as opposed to premium channels, and who might next appear on the "Colbert Report" or "A Prairie Home Companion" – his standard first attack in trying to get a sense of her interests and entertainment leanings. While she certainly responded, and definitely seemed to be warming up to him a little, he never lost the sense that this was a remarkably private person he was talking to.

Considering how slowly she finished her drink, Miroku was becoming increasingly stumped as to what she was doing there in the first place.

Sango did allow him to buy her another drink, at which time he got himself a club soda. He wanted to keep his head about him. By this time he knew that she had a brother who was an adjutant to an influential but rather unsavory general (his take, not hers, and he carefully kept his recognition of the general's name from his features), and that she didn't see much of him. This appeared to be the crux of her current funk. She had also indicated that she was a contractor to the Defense Department, and that for security reasons she couldn't talk about her job.

The wry smile that had greeted mild teasing as to DoD fraternization rules suggested she had no lover at work, but she didn't volunteer other possibilities. Miroku chose to believe she was, at least currently, unattached.

A small band was setting up at the opposite corner of the bar, and given the makeup of keyboard, standing bass and drumset, Miroku assumed tonight's fare would be old jazz. When the singer came out, a lovely young woman with generous curves and a ready smile, he bit back a smirk as he watched both Inuyasha and Kouga abandon their discussion to move closer to the band. He had seen this before; the two would vigorously compete for the girl's attention and become so caught up in their warfare as to miss completely their target's leaving with some other man. Often enough, he had been that man.

He asked Sango if she wished to move closer to better hear the music, nodding at his two friends, but was just as glad when she demurred. Even so, he knew the music would inhibit conversation out of mere politeness to the performers. He wondered if he should suggest they go elsewhere already, or if jazz standards would provide an atmosphere that would continue to relax and disarm Sango.

It was actually the shoe that decided it.