Author's Note: Aamalie, if you're reading this, I officially hate you (and your little clock). LOL.

Real Author's Note: Right. This is my foray into modern!AUs; a little project on the backburner for almost 3 months (that's an age to me). Normal disclaimers apply.

Miroku was bored.

He lounged at his desk, one cigarette dangling from his lip, both hands behind his head. A slew of photographs remained strewn over the desk where they had been tossed the previous day. He hesistated for only a moment before lifting lanky jeans-clad legs onto the desk to join the mess.

"Hey, Miroku."

"Yes, Inuyasha?" he responded without even turning his head; he could practically visualise the silver-haired man sitting at the desk directly behind him, a look of annoyance in place.

"You keep that up, the boss'll have your head." Inuyasha returned his attention to the glowing computer screen in front of him, periodically rotating his glare between Miroku and the monitor. A plain blue bandana was tied neatly over his head, contrasting the bright gold of his eyes.

He removed the cigarette, waved it vaguely in the other man's direction. "Not lit, don't worry. The boss' precious 'no smoking' rule remains unbroken." The photographer jammed it back into his mouth and let it dangle from his lips.

"It's not that stuck-up arsehole I'm worried about. I can't stand the smell of that thing."

Miroku's attention shifted to the framed photograph sitting on one end of his cluttered desk; a pretty blonde woman pouted seductively, her arms wrapped around a smirking Miroku's shoulders.

"Miss her, do ya?"

Miroku looked up. "What?"

"Your gaijin girlfriend – whatever her name was," grinned Inuyasha. "Man, she was hot, curves in all the right places. I wouldn't mind dating her."

"Emily-chan, my ex-girlfriend, was taller than me," said Miroku. "And she had work done, if you know what I mean."

His friend shrugged. "You're damn fussy, bouzu. Doesn't matter a whit to me."

Miroku snorted at the use of the nickname. "Bouzu? I was only considering staying in that monastery for a few months, not the entire becoming-a-monk business. Besides, I'd be the worst monk on the planet, what with this – " he gestured at the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, " – and the fact I drink and like my women."

"Precisely."

A silence fell, broken by the dark-haired man's derisive snort.

"You're a real wit, Inuyasha, you know. I must have been blessed by the gods to be able to befriend the wittiest hanyou in Japan," said Miroku under his breath.

Inuyasha's head snapped up. "Shut up, dumbass," he hissed. "I'm not supposed to exist."

Miroku had stumbled upon his best friend's secret purely by accident while they were in college together; he had brought beer to Inuyasha's dormitory only to find a grumpy man resembling his friend with black hair and violet eyes. He later found out that Inuyasha's father – whom Inuyasha had told him had left him and his mother when he was born – was youkai.

"Wait. So – your father's youkai... that makes you – "

" – hanyou. Yeah." Inuyasha swigged liberally from the can, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "The old man was filthy rich, though. He provided for me and my mother.. But he died a few years back."

"Don't bother with your condolences," cut in the hanyou as Miroku opened his mouth to speak again. "I never knew the old bastard. Apparently I've got an older brother somewhere who hates my guts."

His friend grinned. "And here I was thinking you were the most rebellious guy on campus because you dyed your hair silver. And wore the most appalling headgear ever to leave the United States."

Inuyasha punched Miroku's arm – not as hard as he was expecting. "Once a month during the night of the full moon I turn completely human." He tugged at one black forelock. "Like tonight."

"Fascinating... so all those legends about youkai and magic were true."

"Not all of it, just some." The hanyou walked over to the window and peeked through the curtains. "Ah – sunrise. Here we go..."

A change came over Inuyasha. His long hair lightened into silver; the intense violet of his eyes lightened into gold; his fingernails lengthened into claws; most interesting of all, a pair of white dog ears poked out of his hair on top of his skull.

He yawned, exposing white fangs. "Damn. Hate it everytime that happens." Inuyasha rubbed his eyes. "So now you know – you better keep this a secret, Miroku."

The dark-haired man surveyed his friend carefully. "Of course."

They had been firm friends ever since that night, all the way up to graduation and employment by the same newspaper, working as photographers. Inuyasha was in the sports department; until about a year ago, Miroku had been in news before being transferred to lifestyle – specifically, the society pages. Needless to say, he did not enjoy his job, judging by the amount of unsorted photographs littering his desk.

Inuyasha snorted and cracked his knuckles noisily, his bandana accidentally slipping to reveal the tip of one ear. He quickly pushed it back into place after a furtive glance around.

"Keh. Back to the subject, idiot. Loafing as obviously as that may be brave but stupid. Our dear boss is so anal-retentive, his head's shoved right up his – "

"You may not want to finish that sentence, Hayashi-san," interrupted a cold voice. Tsukino Sesshoumaru had glided over unnoticed, an intense expression of dislike etched on his face. "Miyasuzu-san, my office. Now."

Miroku quickly tossed his cigarette into the trash bin and hopped off the chair, walking after Sesshoumaru. Inuyasha hunched over his laptop and muttered a few curses under his breath when he thought they were out of earshot.

"Damned bastard moves so quietly – he must be youkai! Would explain why he's too fucking pretty for a man."

He pretended not to hear that last remark; he was the editor, after all – the supreme being at the newspaper – and it was beneath him to squabble with one of his employees. Sesshoumaru swept along the corridor, completely disregarding the stir he was causing merely by his physical presence.

The editor's eyes slid sideways, quietly appraising Miroku. The man had lost some weight since the last time they had been this close; his unshaven face looked more gaunt. More worryingly, there was a haunted cast to the eyes Sesshoumaru did not like the look of.

Comfortably ensconced in his plush office, Sesshoumaru gazed at Miroku through the arch of his steepled fingers; the man sat across from him, a guarded expression in his eyes.

"Miyasuzu-san, I cannot have you wasting company time." The editor's tone was icy; the photographer shifted a little in his seat. "Care to explain what you think you were doing?"

"I couldn't stand that shit any longer," growled Miroku. "All those shots of vapid, self-obsessed society airbags... and you expect me to pick out the best?"

Sesshoumaru rested his hands on his desk. "You are a society photographer. That is your job."

He had enough on his plate as it was, dealing with the incident involving Miroku and the subsequent media backlash. The other newspapers, happy to smell weakness in one of their most hated rivals, had thrown all their ammunition at them. The editor had even heard rumours of a tabloid reporter tailing him around, trying to dig up some dirt on him. Even now, the occasional reference to the debacle popped up now and then.

"You know very well I never wanted this job!" Miroku was angry now, his violet eyes almost black. "Damn it, shachou, take me off this department! Put me back on the front line!"

"You know I can't do that, Miyasuzu-san," said Sesshoumaru, his voice a shade calmer. "Even though you were one of the best photographers I have ever seen, I will not deny that. Not since that incident last year..."

The photographer ran a hand through his hair, exhaling loudly. The editor leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. Silvery-white hair, finer and more luminescent than Inuyasha's cascaded over his immaculate suit.

"... Take the rest of the week off." The commanding look was back in Sesshoumaru's amber eyes; even Miroku dared not disobey when his boss assumed this expression. "When you come back in next Monday, I expect your usual standard of work. Now leave my office."

The photographer left, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

Miroku walked back to his desk, ignoring the babble that had erupted around him. He had never been a popular colleague; the affair that had transpired last year had only served to make him the subject of hot gossip. As he passed the sea of shifty eyes, he wondered whether they were speculating on whether he had been fired.

Inuyasha was waiting for him, pretending to be engrossed in editing and cataloguing his latest batch of photographs. He abandoned the pretence when Miroku appeared and sat heavily down in his chair.

"What happened, Miroku?"

Miroku reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a carton of cigarettes, jamming one in the corner of his mouth. "I'm taking a little holiday." He leaned over, consulting the calendar wedged in between two bulging files. "Shit – it's Tuesday. What am I supposed to do until then?"

"You could eat," suggested Inuyasha wickedly. "You're skinnier than a fucking wench." His hand fell on a glossy magazine tucked in one corner of his desk; a porcelain-skinned woman with long black hair and haughty brown eyes stared coolly out of the cover. The hanyou jabbed the picture. "You could give her a run for her money."

His friend tossed a wad of paper at his head.

"Seriously," he muttered to himself, "what?"

The other man shrugged, already tired of teasing, and returned to his work. "Why don't you go out and take some photos?"

"Wonderful, as though I don't already do that for a living."

"You know what I mean, bastard," answered Inuyasha. "Take some random shots for yourself. Now go, before you annoy the fucking hell out of me." He stared down at the glowing computer screen, lost in thought.

Miroku sat up, smoothing down the front of his shirt. "Can't you string together a sentence without an obscenity?" Picking up his trusty Nikon camera from the peg, he slung it around his neck and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair.

It was going to be a long and painful holiday, thought Miroku sourly. At least he was grateful Sesshoumaru had not fired him. Goodness knew whether there were any other newspapers in Japan willing to hire a photographer as talented and eccentric as he was.

On the way out, he passed a massive billboard; an image of an old Buddhist monk loomed overhead, a string of prayer beads in his hand. Miroku smirked up at it.

The monk in the photo – Master Mushin – had been a real fraud of a monk. He drank like a fish and had been, in his day, a notorious womaniser. It was amazing the way Miroku had made him look like a perfect saint in the shot; in the background, an old temple building loomed out of the forest. The photo was one of his favourites: the lighting, the angle and the exposure had been perfect. Not an easy task for a perfectionist like he was.

The photographer examined the rest of the poster. It seemed his photograph was being featured as part of an exhibition on Japanese culture.

Miroku shrugged. The assignment, he recalled, had been to capture the disappearing traditional Japanese way of life in photos for a special pullout edition – something Sesshoumaru had assigned him, knowing the photographer's love of traditional Japanese culture. It was fun; he had spent months trekking all over the country, camera in hand, snapping things he had only ever read about in books. Shinto ceremonies, traditional dances, an obscure place in Hokkaido where they still made sake as is had been done five hundred years ago... He still had one last bottle stashed away in his apartment.

He himself had been particularly captivated by Mushin. The last remaining member of an ancient Soto Zen Buddhism order dating back to the Sengoku period, the old monk was a font of wisdom. Miroku had made plans to spend a few months there after the assignment was completed – something Inuyasha never stopped teasing him about.

That had been before the incident, of course. He tore his eyes away from Mushin's serene gaze and refocused on the throngs of people in the street.

It was a long time since he had done street photography. Miroku dropped to one knee, aimed and snapped. Checking the light was where he wanted it too be, he took several more shots in quick succession. He adjusted his grip, making sure his right hand was held at an angle from the camera. It was still healing and he had no wish to jeopardize that.

So far, he was enjoying himself. The buzz of the crowd was music to his ears; it lent a natural slant to the shots he was taking. Now and then he reached up to twiddle the focus knob to zoom in on a few details; a harrassed-looking man with a brightly-coloured bag; a strikingly tall woman, her elaborate hairdo fastened with a butterfly hairpin; a small child licking eagerly at an ice cream; a tanned man, long braided hair cascading down his back, carrying a massive pike – damn cosplayers...

Miroku loved the way each person seemed to tell their own story – even when frozen in a moment. He was getting quite a few good shots today. Hell, he might even be enjoying his mini holiday –

– when someone knocked into his shoulder, sending his cigarette into the gravel underfoot. He cursed under his breath.

"Hey!" he protested, standing up and looking at his unwitting assailant.

"I'm so sorry!" Miroku blinked; the young woman standing in front of him looked vaguely familiar for some reason. She looked like any typical Japanese woman: long black hair swept up in a high ponytail, almond-shaped brown eyes lined with pink eyeshadow, petite build dressed in a conservative black Western suit. The apologetic look on her face was enough to mollify him – he had a soft spot for women. In more ways than one.

"It's alright, miss, no harm done." He cast a despairing look at his cigarette. "I'm sorry... do I know you?"

It was her turn to blink in surprise before scrutinising him. "I don't think so," she said after a pause. Miroku shrugged carelessly. "Never mind, I must have confused you with someone else."

The young woman bowed and then went on her way, preparing to reenter the throng of people. He watched her go, his camera forgotten in his hands when he was struck by an idea.

"Miss!"

She half-turned towards him, on the brink of becoming swallowed up by the crowd.

Click. The camera whirred; it was out of film. Miroku swore.

When he looked up, she was gone, completely engulfed by the mass of people as though she had never been. But she had been there; she had collided with him – his shoulder was still a little sore from the impact. She had been real.

"Well, looks like that's it for the day," he said aloud, letting his camera dangle from the strap around his neck. As he sauntered off in the opposite direction, he wondered why the niggling feeling continued to disturb him. Miroku had seen her before – he was sure of it.

The relative quiet of his apartment was a welcome relief from the bustle outside – even though it was small by cramped Tokyo standards and still managed to cost him a bomb – but it was his oasis.

Taking up more valuable living space was his minute darkroom – an area cordoned off from the main room by thick, dark curtains. Miroku put down his bag and slipped inside.

Unlike most of his contemporaries, like Inuyasha, the photographer preferred his old Nikon camera and the manual developing of photos to the newer digital cameras. He had one of his own, of course, but he liked the feel of developing and seeing the picture appearing like magic.

He pulled the bottles of solution from the mini fridge and poured a little into the tray; Miroku worked quickly, bathing each photograph until the image began to appear and hanging them up to dry in quick succession.

Slowly, the images formed, ghost-like, on the paper in the tray. Now and then he caught a glimpse of a face, a setting, a splash of light he had been hoping to capture – and here it was, immortalized within a frame.

Miroku grinned. Now he remembered why he did this for a living.

Finally he came to the last photograph on the roll. Miroku's hand hesitated for an instant over the paper – what would the photograph look like?

His fingers shook as he wielded the tongs. The photographer scowled – to think he was a professional. Collecting his thoughts, he gently shook the photograph back and forth.

Vague shadows blossomed across the paper; he could almost distinguish an outline here and there. He leaned closer, ignoring the acrid sting of the developing solution.

At last it appeared. The elegant line of the flowing ponytail framing her face from when she turned her head was the first to be seen; before his eyes, it darkened into black with faint hints of brown from the sunlight. It was a beautiful photograph, by professional standards. He had captured the curve of her cheek, the smooth line of her neck, the mildly surprised look she was casting behind. Around her, the crowd blurred into indistinct lines, contrasting the sharpness of her features.

Miroku did not know why he had not noticed how beautiful she was sooner.

He pored over the photograph, especially the look in her eyes; there was an underlying sadness to them which honestly surprised him. A young woman like that – he guessed she was around his age – should not be bearing the weight of the world on her shoulders.

Tearing his eyes away, he disposed of the excess solution and pushed aside the curtain, letting the fumes disperse.

Miroku was suddenly thirsty; he made a beeline for the kitchen, taking care to wash his hands before he opened the fridge. Cans of beer lined the upper rack; he grabbed one and cracked it open.

He almost wished he had not developed that picture; her face was now burned – more clearly than ever – in his mind's eye. Just who was she, and why did he find her so familiar?

Unanswered questions swirled around his head, filling it and driving out all other thoughts. Miroku tilted his head back and drained the last few drops of beer. He tried to crush the can and winced as a stab of pain traveled up his arm; Miroku hastily tossed it away into the garbage bin.

The young man turned his attention to his hand, walking to the bathroom. He took out a tube of cream from the medicine cabinet and spread the fingers of his right hand.

In the centre of the palm was a raised mass of newly-healed flesh; scar tissue made the entire thing look rough and marked. It had been aggravated by Miroku's attempt to crush the beer can, the pinkish-brown tissue tender to the touch. He grimaced and began massaging his palm, working the cream into the skin.

"Damn, the doctor said it should be alright by now..." grumbled the photographer.

The injury that had resulted in such a horrific scar had been a freak accident; it still made him a little uneasy to think about it. The nightmares, thankfully, had stopped about a month ago.

He put the cream away, flexing his fingers as he picked up his wallet to buy himself some dinner. He had been extraordinarily lucky; the blade had not severed any nerves. The only relic of that night, besides the unsightly scar, was a weakness in his middle fingers which hardly affected his work.

Damn that Sesshoumaru – why couldn't he see that? Apparently treating him as a charity case, his boss had assigned him to society photography – a dead-end job that needed half a brain to do. The socialites were more than happy to throw themselves in front of his camera; with all the compliments he was getting, it was only a matter of time before some of the more empty-headed ones would try to lure him into bed in exchange for their party photos making the front page.

Anger washed over him. His wallet dropped back to the side table, forgotten. Miroku was not hungry any more; he wanted a shower and a long sleep. He did not need to go to work tomorrow, anyway.