A/N: Mirsan.
Blessed Hands
She didn't remember much about her mother, but some conversations stood out amongst the foggy veil that seemed to cover her childhood memories.
Mother, how did you fall in love with Father?
It was his smile, Sango. He had such white teeth!
They left a strong impression, those words—like it often happens with seemingly unimportant episodes. Sango thought it was a silly reason to fall for someone, which got her wondering: will I fall in love with someone's smile? No, I think it will be his eyes!
This, of course, was before, during a time when she payed no mind to the blood coming out from under her fingernails as she washed her hands; before, when the story of the half-demon stuck to the tree was just a legend meant to scare children into behaving; before, when she didn't know she'd fall in love with the right person at the worst possible time—for both.
Sango would never admit it out loud, but she fell in love with Miroku's hands of all things. Oh, the irony!
It wasn't the groping. She fell in love with how strongly he grasped her waist as they rode Kirara together; fell slowly, painfully in love with the sight of his dark-skinned fingers brushing against her armor. She dreamed of kissing both his palms, dreamed of undressing his covered, cursed hand, getting rid of the offending piece of cloth that was always, always in her way—like so many other things.
Miroku's hands had groped her, protected her and healed her, but what she really wanted was for them to hold hers. Eventually, when there had been no more spider, no reason to hide behind shameless flirting and no covering, they did.
On her wedding night, she let his hands—unblemished, unstoppable—touch her everywhere. She let his hands hold their children and help her with the laundry, relishing the sight of their fingers meeting under the glistening water.
Sango would notice when that hand shook without warning, begging for reassurance, and she would intertwine her fingers with his, building them a small, invincible cage. Miroku helped the men build their house with those hands—the house in which he would die peacefully of old age, with her at his side, after battling all his demons and mercilessly groping his loving wife for an entire life.
While it happened, Sango repeatedly kissed Miroku's hands, and he offered her a tired—but still infatuated—smile.
"Won't you kiss my lips like that other time you said goodbye, wife?"
She ran her fingers through his white hair, sighing wistfully. "Kissing lips is for children, husband. I didn't know it, but I was still a child—a broken girl." She paused. "I'm a full woman now."
And I fell in love with your hands, she mentally added, giving him a secretive, sad, already-missing-you smile. But I would never tell you that, you lecherous, stupid, dearest monk.
