Salome, 2008
Finding Daddy
for the puppykink underground
Author's Notes: Doing my best to keep this plausible and in-character, emotionally deep/angsty, and also naughty-hot.
Warning: Shouta overtones. Don't read it if you don't like that sorta thing.
I
As always when Inuyasha injured himself, he bawled uncontrollably and called for his mother. And this time was especially bad because he had hit his head incredibly hard on that huge boulder. He couldn't remember exactly how he had done it; probably climbing it. He always had to find his own pastimes and he liked them a little dangerous. Took his young but nimble mind off other things. When his mother was busy, there was no one else to play with, and even when she was not busy, her sad-love look often kept him from begging for anything more than just her affection. So, yes, he must've climbed this huge boulder and fallen. Though, really, it wasn't so very large, and neither were the plants and trees around it. He stopped his own crying with that realization. How come everything looked smaller? And just which glade was this? Nothing looked familiar or right. He curled into a ball and cried out for Mother again, the combination of his throbbing head and fear that he had somehow gotten hopelessly lost rendering his howl more than usually sharp and plaintive.
As he lay, his sensitive ears picked up the sound of running feet. He stopped crying again and sat up on his haunches to sniff the air. No, it wasn't Mother. A jingle of metal offered a staccato accompaniment to the rhythm of the feet. He smelled…a human. They were never friendly, unless they wanted something from him. He winced, instantly remembering far too much. The steps were getting close. Who was it? What should he do? As the options of running, hiding, facing his opponent bravely, and crying out once more for Mother flashed through his mind, a voice called out "Inuyasha!" with such concern that the little hanyo could do nothing but freeze.
Seconds later, bursting through a stand of bushes, Inuyasha's wide-eyed gaze beheld the flushed visage of a monk. He was slender and not old, with mild, expressive eyes. Perhaps he would be kind. No matter how many times Inuyasha was disappointed—or worse—by human cruelty, hope returned anew. If Mother loved him, perhaps someday someone else would, too. Or maybe someone would just be kind to him, maybe today, when he sorely needed it.
The monk called out his name again as he approached with care, with worry, with sympathy. Inuyasha shook his head and inched backwards. Only Mother ever sounded this way, and her voice was always soft, melodic, and sad. Inuyasha did not know how to reply, what to do. He pressed his back to the boulder that had wounded him and held his breath. He gazed up.
"Are you all right, Inuyasha?" the monk asked.
Inuyasha did not speak. Who was this man of protectiveness? Should he know him? Surely not.
The monk drew closer. He reached out a hand to help the hanyo up. His smell was benevolent. There was no evil in him, unlike every other human man and male demon he had met in his few years of life, even the monks. Not knowing what else to do, Inuyasha took the offered hand. And it was then that Inuyasha saw that his own hand was as large as the monk's. Impossible! When he stood, he seemed to be of similar height, too. What was going on? Nothing made sense. Unable to find, in that instant, any possible answer to satisfy his childish distress, Inuyasha threw himself into the monk's arms and sobbed.
Miroku was stunned. Whether he was more shocked by the hysterical wail for "Motherrrrrr!" or the tightness of the clench around his waist, he could not rightly say. But something was very wrong here. Even as the anxiety rose, however, the truth hit him. This was a joke. It had to be. Prying the idiot hanyo from his body, Miroku demanded, "Quit the nonsense, Inuyasha. You scared the hell out of me. I thought you'd really been hurt!"
Inuyasha clung with all of his might to the only thing that seemed stable in this suddenly alien world but was cast off. "Please, Hoshi-sama," he whined, falling to his knees. "I'll be good. Let me stay with you until my mother comes to find me." His voice was unfamiliar to his ears, too low and too loud. He fell silent, bowing his head and offering his lips to nearly kiss the monk's holy feet. He'd learned through several harsh beatings that actually making physical contact with humans when he was showing humility sometimes made them even more angry and apt to violence than if he refused to show submission.
"I'm serious," warned Miroku, starting to get a little panicked by this strange prank. "What kind of stupid joke is this, anyway?"
Joke? thought Inuyasha. He never "joked." Having fun and playing games were things other children did, not hanyo outcasts like him. How could he get this kind-seeming monk to understand that he was not "joking"? He was scared and alone, lost and injured. He had no choice but to risk speaking again in his strange new voice: "I beg you, Hoshi-sama. Show me kindness. The gods will reward you for your charity, even if it is only to a worthless hanyo like me." He bent his head to the earth and waited. Though it was not cold, he shivered. Maintaining control over himself like this—begging properly and not crying—had saved him before and just might save him again now.
That Inuyasha was not pulling some absurd hoax struck Miroku when he looked closely at Inuyasha's bowed head. There was a patch of blood at the back of his skull, threaded thorugh his thick white hair. "Inuyasha," he began softly. "Did you hit your head?"
Inuyasha nodded into the dirt.
"Look at me, please, Inuyasha," he encouraged.
Inuyasha raised his head but did not make eye contact. "Yes, Hoshi-sama. Forgive me, Hoshi-sama. I hit my head on that boulder. I am a clumsy, worthless hanyo. I apologize for being so much trouble, Hoshi-sama." He bowed his head again.
Damn, Miroku swore to himself. Inuyasha thinks he's a child again. Though he knew little about his mixed-blood companion's childhood, he understood it was not a happy one. And from the few words he had just uttered and the way he abased himself, it was clearly even worse a childhood than he had thought. Miroku sighed, wishing Kagome was here with them. She would know what to do. Or perhaps Sango: she had cared for her little brother Kohaku until he had been taken from her. Hell, anyone would be better than him, even Kikyo or Sesshomaru. No, not Sesshomaru. His relationship with his brother was not likely to have been any better during childhood than it was now, perhaps worse. Imagining Sesshomaru ritualistically tearing the child Inuyasha's flesh with his claws for simply having been born, Miroku concluded that, while things could be better, they could also be worse. The monk was available and he would do what he could until Inuyasha came to himself or until they could get back to the others and come up with some other solution.
Inuyasha spoke again, hoping to convince the monk not to hurt him, at very least. "Look," he said, noting the swords in his belt. "I will give you these weapons. They are not mine anyway. I don't know how I got them. But please, take them as a gift, for not harming me."
The first thing to do was to calm his terrified cohort. He had to keep Tetsusaiga with him to avoid becoming yokai. In this vulnerable state, who knew what kind of havoc it might wreak. Without knowing precisely what he would say, Miroku did his best to soothe and reassure: "Inuyasha, do not be afraid. I am here to help you. The swords are yours, though I know they seem unrecognizable. Keep them where they are. Know that you are safe, and I will not let anyone harm you."
Inuyasha raised his head and blinked back tears. "Truly, Hoshi-sama?"
"Truly."
Pushing the weapons back into place at his side with a confused look, Inuyasha spoke again. "Please, Hoshi-sama, will you bring me to my mother?"
"I cannot," Miroku said with sincere regret. "But…I will take you with me and care for you. You can trust me, Inuyasha. I am your friend."
Inuyasha shook his head, apparently without meaning to. Under his breath, he muttered, "Who would want to be friends with a hanyo?"
Miroku felt the pain in those words. No wonder Inuyasha was so often scornful and distant. No wonder he had once wanted the Shikon Jewel for himself, to become fully yokai. No wonder Kikyo's love and her seeming betrayal colored his world so fully and permeated his relationship with Kagome. So many things made more sense now. As he stepped forward and raised his friend's eyes to his, he saw both the adult he knew—in truth many years older than he—and also the child, longing for comfort. He ached to bring him ease, as both child and adult. The gods were so cruel sometimes. Looking into those deeply wounded eyes, what he needed to say and do was clear: "Come into my arms, Inuyasha. Feel the truth of what I say. Let me care for you."
As he said these words and enfolded Inuyasha to his body, the importance of what he offered struck him with unexpected force. He had never embraced his companion, never consciously allowed himself to consider doing so. Such closeness was foreclosed between them by temperament and by gender. Miroku had often fought with pride beside this brave yet rash individual. He had equally often lamented his immaturity and petulance. And he had sympathized with his struggles and his losses. Yes, he admitted to himself as the child-minded Inuyasha clung to him for dear life, he had sympathized and, more than once, wished to show it.
Watching his companion sit at night, isolated, apart from the others under the guise of keeping watch, Miroku had several times thought to go to him and wrap his arms around the tortured, silent figure. But he had held back, knowing his gesture would be refused, misunderstood. And then he had repressed the thoughts that led him to the painful truth of sure rejection. Perhaps even this admission was inaccurate: perhaps it was he himself who misunderstood, not only Inuyasha but himself. All his "lechery" and groping…always of women, always excessive. He flushed and wrapped his arms even more tightly around his wounded companion. "Let me make you safe, little one," he murmured into a soft, tufted ear.
Abruptly, as if in confirmation of Miroku's long-held fears, Inuyasha raised his head. He looked up curiously at the monk, the difference in heights between them only manifest because Inuyasha was still crouching. Slowly, he brought his face forward and kissed Miroku on the lips. The monk was too stunned to pull away at first. Already in a dazed state from his confused feelings and the pressure of handling Inuyasha's delicate condition with care, he could only conclude that Inuyasha had regained his senses and felt a desire as great, or greater, than Miroku's own. He returned the kiss, fervently, not caring whence it began or where it might lead. Never mind that he had never kissed a man. Never mind that he had never consciously wanted to. Never mind that this would complicate their relationship irrevocably. Having his arms around Inuyasha and feeling their lips pressed together was all that mattered in that moment.
After a few moments, Inuyasha gently broke the kiss and smiled a fragile smile. He wiped his eyes on his robes. "I understand how you are my 'friend' now, Hoshi-sama. I will serve you in any way you require. I beg in return only that you not tell my mother what we have done when you are finished with me."
Miroku pushed Inuyasha back and held him at arm's length. What grotesque misunderstanding was happening right now? What deeds had the poor hanyo child been forced to commit before he was even able to understand them, let alone consent? And how had he himself become just another in the line of abusers of his trust?
Despite what must have looked like shocked horror on the monk's face, Inuyasha continued. "Do not frown, Hoshi-sama. Your arms are warmer and your lips are gentler than the others. And you have given me these beautiful swords and may even return me to my mother when you tire of me. I am honored to serve you. May I now kiss you again, Hoshi-sama?"
Before he could speak or even collect his thoughts, Inuyasha's mouth was upon his. The child words in an adult voice, the adult lips with the childish innocence behind them. This was wrong, all wrong. And yet…he did not break the kiss. The desire to hold Inuyasha, to desire him, perhaps even to love him, was only possible here, now. What he knew to be right was quickly losing to what he badly wanted.