Auntie dearest
Gift-fic for Scrunchy. A pairing I would never have imagined (coff-weshallignoreUlteriorMotives -coff) but well. And there are 39 implications, which snuck in despite my best efforts.
It's a sad thing, Kanzeon thought mournfully, when the last two people you kissed were the first in a few hundred years.
And that was life-saving capacity only, thank you very much.
Really. If this went on, she'd start eyeing Jiroushin – probably give the poor man a cardiac arrest if she did, but this was horrible.
There was simply no fun to be had in heaven these days.
The most she could do was watch Konzen and his friends and their antics. And voyeurism was fun (oh, a lot of fun – Kenren and Tenpou had even taught her a few things over the years, horrified as they would be to hear it) but it only lasted so long before it started reminding her that no, she wasn't likely to get any for a few more centuries, bwahaha.
She was almost proud of him.
Konzen. Her nephew, of sorts (not that relations in heaven were much good for anything except deciding between degrees of nepotism, and he had never been interested in those things). Hardworking, short-tempered, suffering from an acute case of ennui until she'd handed Goku over to him and turned his life upside-down. And oh, he'd become quite entertaining after that. Very entertaining indeed; he'd grown a heart, a conscience and a spine, in that order. Things she would never have expected.
Of course, he had now taken entertainment to an entirely new level. It was fun watching him roar and stamp and shoot and whack – he'd certainly retained his kinkiness over the years, it wouldn't take much work to bring it out again, oh no – and make the odd sarcastic comment. He'd always been possessed of an acidic tongue.
She almost liked that.
Konzen had been adorably grumpy those first few years, it had been amusing to watch him until his soul had been weighed down by pointlessness and emptiness and become a dry, dull, dead thing. She had watched him very intently indeed.
Ah, but this Sanzo version of him was much the same. More alive, but more unhappy. More passionate, but more callous. A strange mix.
She was almost fascinated by him.
Remembered lips on hers. Not the same, no. Those lips were softer, smoother, untouched by blazing heat, fifty-mile-an-hour winds, nicotine and loss. Those lips had been angry on hers the first time, and she had smiled against them, smiled when he pushed her away in shock and called her perverted. What was blood in a heaven where nothing was sacred?
Five hundred years gone, but the memory of a celestial being never fades.
She almost missed him.
Five hundred years and he might return. She wondered what she would do then; for his faithful follower will come with him, even death cannot sever that bond, so tightly had it wound and bound and threaded its way into their souls. She wondered if there would be a second chance for this whimsical alliance. To be just him and her, Konzen/Sanzo and her again, even for a moment.
The chances, she concludes, are few.
It is a pity, she thinks, because that time was not bad at all, and given time – time she did not wish to give, not truly, would not give even now because that might have been what he wanted but is not what he needed.
She almost loved him.