A/N: Inuyasha and all affiliations are property of their creator. I am using them without permission and for no profit.
For the 42 Days Challenge #2, in which a character must focus completely on getting dressed. The only way I could think of to get Inuyasha to slow down in the morning that didn't involve elephant tranquilizer was a hell of a wound. The fiction is 1,996 words long, and the scene where Inuyasha dresses himself is 921, from the sentence of realization of nakedness to the sentence where the task is completed.
The rating is PG only because of minor language and the fact that Inuyasha's naughty bits are exposed to the air. No romance, though, just the awkward rapport he and Kagome have.
Much thanks to Ganheim for comments and criticisms, but this is still quite probably a work in progress. Practice, practice, practice.
She once told him, "The world is so full of wondrous things, I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings."
He was in no position to do any such thing. Groggy from sleep, weak with hunger, he was completely unappreciative of the niceties surrounding him. Hot pain assaulted his senses, screaming from his leg, his gut, his shoulder. He was acutely aware of every minute spasm of muscle as it grated against his bones, aware of the whimpers issuing from his mangled nerves. And just above the bearable hurt there lay the itch.
The intolerable, permanent, heavy antiseptic itch of bandages upon bandages that forbade him to scratch. With every shuddering breath it would intensify against his shoulder, so that he had to clench his fists at his sides lest his claws do more harm than good.
This immediate affront was in no way brightened by the cheerfully blinding rays of the sun streaming directly into his tired eyes. He winced against it, bringing his good arm up to shield his face, and began running through a familiar mental check as he stared, prone, at the ceiling. Body? Intact. Injuries? Three. Where am I? Kaede's hut. Good. Sword? ...The hell?
He looked around wildly for a moment, stunned by sudden nausea, but located Tetsusaiga on the floor nearby and pulled the sword to him without much strain. Then he closed his eyes against the sunlight and waited for the room to stop spinning as he lay flat on his back on the floor.
The dizziness subsided, and the pain and the itch took a backseat to other senses. The air reeked of antibiotic ointment and blood. His nose stung with the miasma and the lack of a breeze to clear the room. He could smell his own sweat, the strain of leftover exertion and fevered dreams, the infection that had been pressed from his skin. He wondered with a gut-twisting flare of panic just how long he had been unconscious.
Suddenly, desperately, he wanted reassurance that he would not have to instantly fly off into battle. The last thing he needed was to have to strain his battered body. He struggled to sit up, but the gash in his side threatened to reopen and spill his innards onto the floor. He clamped a hand over the bandages and fell back with a grunt of pain. And then he heard the low, gentle hum.
His tense muscles relaxed as the sound filtered into the hut, and the sharpness of the pain in his side began to subside. The voice was feminine, familiar, and lovely, if a bit tone deaf. She sounded content and quiet, almost happy. Involuntarily, one corner of his mouth quirked upward.
With greater care, he levered himself up on his good arm. As the heavy blanket fell away, he realized for the first time that he was naked. He looked around and found a red pile of folded fabric sitting beside his leg. It took a few moments of shallow breathing to gather his courage, and then he made the stretch to grab it as tenderly as he could. His side whined in protest, but the decision was no contest.
This was not an act of modesty, but of protectiveness. He would be just fine prowling about in the nude, unhampered by hot, heavy vestments that stank of livestock and women's hands, but he would be far more vulnerable not only to physical attack but to the stares of others.
He pulled the blanket away from his legs and surveyed the damage. His opponent had done quite a job, and his entire left leg from ankle to hip was thoroughly bandaged, held in place by a heavy, wooden splint. The smell of blood was mitigated only by the familiar scents of antibiotic cream, cloth bandages, and the oil from human hands. With some effort he managed to quell the blush that threatened to rise to his face at the quandary as to whose hands had actually been upon him.
He remembered a day when Kagome, as she was wont to do, had spouted an idiom from her time. "I'm sure he puts his pants on one leg at a time, just like the rest of us." At the time, he had wondered how someone could do it any other way. He'd thought about it long enough to try later that night, when he was sure nobody was looking. He'd jumped carefully enough until he managed it, and felt smug about the feat for days afterward, though he didn't dare tell anyone about it.
Jumping was out of the question as he could barely sit upright, let alone stand. He tested his leg and winced when the limb refused to give an inch. With his left shoulder and torso so heavily bandaged, he could barely stretch far enough to reach his own knee, let alone his foot. With a long-suffering growl, he unfolded the pants and shook them out. He realized with mild surprise that the only article of clothing left to him was that in his hands, and suddenly his nakedness became all the more apparent. He hated showing any bandages to the world, even for the short amount of time he had to wear them. His hands tightened about the waistband of the pants.
A heavy line of stitches ran completely down the left leg. He had, he realized, practically been naked when he'd finally killed his adversary and collapsed onto soft warmth. Kagome had rushed forward to catch him, and he had passed out with his head resting against her shoulder. His clothes had been torn to shreds, falling away from him where they did not stick to the blood on his skin. He ran his hands over the line of stitches on his pants, merely feeling the handiwork with no effort made to test it.
The cloth smelled of the dirt from river water and sun-heated rocks. It smelled of manufactured thread and the tang of a metal needle in human hands. Most of all, it smelled like Kagome. He had grown accustomed to this scent, her chemical soap and perfume and the natural oil from her skin. There had been a time where he had been uncomfortable with having her smell embedded in his clothes, but he had gotten used to it.
His eyes were gradually adjusting to the sunlight, and his nose to the antibiotic stench. Kagome's humming filled his ears. He should have felt at peace, focusing on the now before obligations crashed heavy onto his head. And yet, despite all instinct, he did not want to be naked. He debated tossing the pants down toward his feet, and any other number of ways to get dressed without reopening any of his wounds.
Finally, he glanced around to ensure he was alone, hooked his pants over his right foot, and eased his good leg down toward the other one. With a little gentle maneuvering, he had the waistband over his left foot, and, propping himself on his right arm, he used his right foot to pull the pants up his leg. Once at his knee, he tenderly stretched forward and grabbed the pants, hitching them over his right leg and up to mid-thigh.
Here, he stopped, laying back and gritting his teeth against the pain he had been ignoring thus far. Sharp, shallow breaths sounded harsh against the background of Kagome's faint hum. He stared at the ceiling, not wanting to look down at himself, at the bandages that were crinkling with old blood. He was growing too warm in the sunlight, sweating from heat and exertion, and this made the itch beneath the bandages flare. To keep himself from scratching, he held his breath and clenched his good hand around the cold sheath of Tetsusaiga. The sword thrummed with power even in dormant state, urging him to ignore these discomforts. He levered himself upright once again and leaned on his right hip, hitching his pants up to his waist.
The task completed, he collapsed onto his back, cursing his weakness and the stupid wooden splint. He brushed some of the sweat-matted hair from his face and closed his eyes, holding Tetsusaiga and listening for Kagome.
Her humming grew louder, drew nearer, and soon she stopped for fear of waking him. She poked her head into the hut, already folding white fabric in her hands, and made a soft, approving sound when she saw him. "Are you awake?" she asked softly.
In response, he gave a grunt. She smiled. "I finished washing your clothes. I've just got a little bit of sewing to do and then everything will be good as new. How are you feeling?"
"Hot."
Kagome laughed lightly. "It is pretty warm today. Miroku's been using leaves as a fan. And misusing them," she added with a roll of her eyes, surreptitiously pulling down the hem of her skirt. "Do you want help getting out of the sun?"
"Don't need help," he growled, but stayed where he was.
She shrugged and came to stand by his head, blocking the window and the brightness of the sun. He opened his eyes and saw only Kagome, haloed like some Madonna in a painting or figurative fiction. As if he had the capacity for such poetics. "You know Kaede will want to have another look at your leg," Kagome said, putting her hands on her hips.
He knew exactly how far the bandages stretched. He immediately looked away, trying very hard not to blush. "Kaede?"
Kagome nodded. "Well, of course. I've been learning how to wrap wounds and everything, but I'm not the best, and your leg was one of the first major things I've really done on my own. She came later and told me I did it right, but she'll still want to check on it."
He swallowed hard, the blush on his cheeks turning fiery. "Alone?" he croaked. Neither looked at the other, and neither realized that the other was just as uncomfortable.
"Yes. She said you deserved some privacy." He was unable to keep himself from snorting as Kagome continued, "And she said I'd done so well on your arm and your stomach that she didn't really need to watch me like a hawk. We were all really worried."
He snorted again, this time in indignation. "Why the hell would you need to?"
"We always do." Kagome paused, holding his clothes to her chest, and was about to say something more when Shippou exploded into the hut.
"Kagome! Sango and Miroku are fighting again...Inuyasha? Hey! He's awake! I'll go tell the others!"
"I thought you just said they were fighting," Kagome called.
Shippou giggled as he bounded away. "But they'll stop once they know!"
Kagome sighed and smiled after the fox, setting Inuyasha's clothes on the ground by his hand. "This place is going to be very crowded in a few minutes. I've got some sewing left to do. I'll come by in a little while and check on you. Don't worry about your pants just yet. I'll help you out of them when the time comes." Both of them visibly twitched as Kagome realized her words. She blushed furiously and babbled, "No, wait, that's not...I mean...uh...I think I hear Kaede calling."
And with that, Kagome was gone, leaving Inuyasha to shove his hands against his eyeballs and try to prepare himself for the rest of this promising day. Soon, Miroku, Sango, and Shippou would be back, full of words, words, words for him. Then Kaede would come in, poking and prodding, running her expert hands over his body as she clucked with disapproval about him wanting to get his pants on. And then, maybe later, Kagome would come back. She was not smart enough to let an injured man lie, but she would let him rest while she was there. That heavy, comfortable silence was worth the work in getting dressed up.