Disclaimer: I do hereby disclaim all rights and responsibilities for the characters in this bit of concession… especially for the gracious one. A nod of recognition is bent towards Rumiko Takahashi for her creative prowess.

A Debt of Gratitude: With thanks to Fenikkusuken, mine beta.


Chapter 2
Resisting

Sango relented a little, though not for his sake… or her own, for that matter. Careful to direct her comments to the little neko-youkai currently perched on Miroku's shoulder, she said, "If we're going to reach shelter before the storm breaks, we should probably fly."

If Miroku was surprised by her reluctant proposition, he didn't show it; tickling the cat under her chin, he addressed the feline as well. "What do you say, Kirara? I know you're not fond of getting your paws wet." With an answering mew, she leapt from his shoulder, and in a whirl of flames, transformed for them.

Sango silently passed Hiraikotsu to the monk and climbed on first while he settled the cumbersome weapon on his back. When he approached, she shot him a warning glance, which he acknowledged with a gracious smile. He mounted without a fuss and quietly begged her pardon before sliding his shakujou into its customary place in front of her waist. The horizontal bar prevented Sango from leaning any further away from him, but it kept his hands out of trouble. Be grateful for small mercies. The man might be all hands… but there was more to him than that.

When the neko-youkai launched into the sky, Miroku's legs pressed against Sango's as they gripped Kirara's sides, and it was difficult to ignore his broad chest, especially since the cat's leap knocked her backwards against it. Even after they leveled out and she was able to draw away, Sango was very conscious of the fact that she was caged between the monk's arms. He wasn't touching her any more than was strictly necessary, yet she was completely surrounded.

Why is he being so… perfect? The self-control, the courtesy, the calmness—they only widened the gap between them. This was Miroku at his best, and she wanted him, but not here… not now. Not when I'm on the verge of flying to pieces. Not when I'm at my worst.

Ever since her decision to return to the village, memories had come flooding back—the names and faces of family and friends whose lives had been so needlessly cut short. She would mourn their loss and face her regrets; however, she wanted to lance the hurt, pour out her bitterness, and tend her wounds away from prying eyes. I cannot grieve with an audience. I don't want him to see me like that. As the first squall-borne raindrops splattered her face, Sango's shoulders slumped in defeat. The situation was impossible, and she was worn out from struggling against the inevitable. The tears would come. He would see.

"Sango?" Miroku's gentle inquiry was nearly lost to the wind, but she felt its hum as he leaned into her, speaking close to her ear. "Sango, we're here," he prodded, and she was startled to realize that they'd already arrived in the ruins of her childhood home. "I'm here," he added, offering.

She ducked her head to hide a bitter smile. That's the problem.


End Note: This drabble was written for the Live Journal community mirsanficart and their Miroku x Sango Summer Challenge. They issued a 4-part drabble challenge, with entries due each week in June. The prompt for Week 2 was Rain. 499 words. Posted on June 14, 2009.