A/N: I swear, it was a mere drabble that annoyed me that set me off on this pseudo-spoof. That said, I've researched the War on Terrorism, the Patriot Act, Signing Statements, First Amendment case history, and attendant subjects. I have friends who are journalists of record. So maybe I've let a little too much real-world creep into this fic, along with maybe too much of my own liberal point of view. Ah, what the hell – the whole point of writing fanfic is to put in what YOU WANT!

Disclaimer: No commercial claims made, no value in a civil claim against. We're all good….

Chapter 5: Deriliction of Duty…?

It would be trite to suggest that from the moment Miroku's hand firmly caressed her buttocks Sango succumbed to his charms.

After all, she had traveled throughout the Middle and Far East and met more than her share of forceful, attractive males. Then there were the Europeans. There was a reason that French was considered the language of love! Really, comparatively speaking, all that the average American male had going for him was rampant health and vitality, and Sango had had ample opportunity to sample the best of that through her DoD connections.

She hadn't liked this assignment from its inception. It was one thing to spy out the secrets of those who wanted to bring her adopted country down. She had no qualms about the requirements such undertakings involved, lawfully sanctioned or otherwise. But Sango had taken her citizenship studies and vows seriously, including the value of a free press. And while the frippery her current prey indulged in hardly rose to constitutional heights, she suspected he was also not likely to pose any kind of harm. She had read his work and, while finding it for the most part superficial, had to admit it seemed remarkably well-written and reflected a rather keen intelligence. Vague memories of high school civics class suggested there ought to be serious free speech claims here…

In any case, she couldn't see anything to condemn, so why she had found herself standing outside the bar he generally frequented she really didn't understand. Then again, a gen. ed. college history course on top of high school civics certainly did not make her an expert on the freedom of the press beyond knowing it was enshrined somehow in the First Amendment. Likewise, it wasn't her job to understand her targets – only to determine their secrets. And, occasionally, to take them out.

He was better-looking than his pictures – the intensity and warmth of those oddly violet eyes escaped the camera – and while she was familiar with charm she hadn't really expected him to be so adept in his expressions of interest (and seemingly off-hand probing into what she cared about). Well, he was a successful journalist, wasn't he? Obviously, he knew how to draw a person out. All this, combined with his apparent sincerity regarding not blaming her for his injury, tickled her long-dormant conscience.

And something else.

Something to do with the speculative look she had caught in his expression several times this evening when he regarded her, a certain self-deprecation in his not asserting his own modest but very real celebrity, and definitely something to do with the way she felt enveloped in his warmth when his hand had rested on her shoulder – ostensibly for support yet unmistakably holding her close to him. His height didn't hurt - Sango never felt particularly feminine, but she had to admit a tall man could cast some illusions upon her reality. And as he pulled her down with him onto his bed she recognized a wiry strength beneath the debonair boyish charm of this notorious lady-killer. Hnn. By no means was his only exercise venue confined to his bed!

So when she found herself straddling his apparently groggy form, a decidedly un-groggy hand clamped firmly across her backside as he nuzzled along her neck, she seriously wondered whether it would harm anything to take some pleasure from that obviously experienced hand, those soothing lips leading the way for a decidedly teasing tongue and attendant teeth…

Wait a minute - hadn't the doctor prescribed a soporific?

******** "Miroku! Answer, you ass! I've met the most wonderful woman – even Ella couldn't render 'Mack the Knife' with more sexy smarts… And I got her! I can't wait to show you what you missed out on, you idiot and – No, woman, damn it! I'm not suggesting sharing you around or anything – are you nuts? Stop hitting me, you crazy bitch!"*****************

******** "Miro-luv! The feds are onto you, now…" a range of giggles. "So anyway, they want a list of your sources – something about last month's story on inner-city charities? Look out, Handsome! Next thing you know they'll think you're an Islamist, and you know what happens after that…! Boss says to call him ASAP…" *********

******** "You fucking lech! Where were you? That Inu-idiot took Kagome home with him! Blasphemy on every level and I was counting on you to stop it if I couldn't convince her to go home with me! When you get home from whatever crib you crawled into, call me! He needs bringing down!"**************

******** "Miroku, if you give up your sources, you're fired. The publicity we will gain from this case is priceless, and I've informed the legal department to be prepared to go all the way to the Supreme Court to defend you." His editor, Inuyasha's brother, was always coldly logical in his assessment. "We've got several issues we can test the Court on with this one, and the spinoff on even one winner – or even a divided court – is a boost to our advertising rates. Even if we lose, we win, given the potential for national exposure. I've got an 10:00 a.m. meeting scheduled with Kaede to discuss your contract. I advise you to be there."*********

Well. He was a journalist – of course he'd heard the phone ring! His livelihood depended upon the phone, among other tools.

But some things were more important than his livelihood, and most people who knew him understood his philosophy on this. After all, what was the point of an answering service otherwise?

Gods, she. . . was . . . delicious! And, surprisingly shy – given he was so sure she was some kind of a spy. She had been so… hesitant in her responses – he had had to really work all his skills – but, yes, in Kouga-speak the return had more than paid out on his investment! So much flexibility and responsiveness, when finally coaxed forward, had more than compensated for his having foregone the codeine out of fear for anything else the doctor might have added. Of course, it had helped that he'd downed about a thousand miligrams of Ibuprofin while he was in the bathroom; he had been reasonably sure it would soon take enough edge off the pain to allow him to sleep once the adrenalin surge he was expecting from pre-sleep activities had worn off. In the meantime, he just had to be a little careful as to how he moved that leg – and what was a little pain, given the pleasure to be had…

It wasn't as if Miroku was exactly a stranger as to the pleasure/pain principle. He had found it interesting, though he was far from a true adherent. As with all his dabblings, Miroku was a cherry-picker, carefully accepting that which fit into his always evolving world-view, and eschewing all else. Thus, it was fascinating for him to notice now, how the care - or lack thereof - he took in flipping Sango over onto her back – sent an answering thrust of pain from his injured foot before he planted his knee firmly between her still-clothed thighs, and how that had resonated in his groin, stimulating an arousal that had previously relaxed during his bath. Or, was it the presence of Sango beneath him that had provided the stimulus?

Well, he would analyze that later.

Along with the fact that his killer spy had allowed him, a lowly print media hack - while maybe hedonist extraordinaire - to flip her into a highly vulnerable position. Hmm. That too would bear thinking on – later!