I know it states 'chapter lengths will vary' in my chapter 1 Author's Notes, but I still feel I must apologize for how short this chapter is. I'm dealing with a very recent death in the family, so as you can imagine, writing a fic that's plot hinges on a death in the main character's family is hard at the moment.

Chapter Two

Perfectly Distracting

Her gaze was fixed on his fingers as they rested against the table beside his tea cup. She hadn't tried to let her mind, or eyes, wander as he'd spoken, but she couldn't seem to help herself. Maybe she could blame her lack of focus—or perhaps, object of focus was more appropriate of a way to consider it—on how very exhausted she was, Kagome thought.

He had very nice hands, really. Long fingered, but strong, the nails perfectly clipped. Meticulous. Like the rest of him. Really, she thought dully, it made her understand why some women had a hang up with men's hands.

They were sort of perfect. Pretty in a wholly masculine way. The sort of hands you could imagine sliding over your skin . . . down your sides . . . around your back . . . slowly tracing lower to—

"Ms. Higurashi?"

She snapped up her gaze to meet his eyes, hoping the sudden color flooding her face could be mistaken for embarrassment at simply being caught not paying attention. "I'm so sorry," she said, already recognizing a theme of apologizing in his presence which she did not like in the least. She would have to try to keep her wits about her.

Even if it was becoming glaringly and annoyingly obvious that every part of him might be perfect. Well, perhaps not every part; it was hardly as though she could confirm that until she'd seen him na—

The young woman shut that thought down so hard there was a strange feeling of having practically torn it from its roots. Simply finishing that last word was in danger of sidetracking her mind all over again.

Kagome didn't expect much in the way of sympathy or compassion from him—there was just something in his stoic demeanor that didn't exactly scream warmth of any kind—but she attempted, shaking her head as she explained. "I'm not trying to be rude or distracted, I'm just very tired. I haven't been sleeping much at all since this started."

The barest hint of a thoughtful frown graced his lips. He would ignore that there was something enticing about the bloom of color that had dotted her cheeks just then, though her exhaustion explained the drowsy blinks and her just-roused-from-slumber appearance. Sesshomaru pushed aside the curiosity about that blush, as well as a thought that there was a certain appeal to knowing how she might look when a bed was involved.

"I was saying I don't want you to tell me of the activity, itself."

Her brows pinched together. "No?"

He gave a headshake of his own, finished his tea and setting the cup down against its saucer. "No. You need to accept that my findings are genuine. That's something of which you can't be certain if you tell me what to expect. It's part of the process, in a way."

"Oh," she said, her tone simple and small as she nodded. "I suppose that makes sense, actually. So, what is it you want me to tell you?"

"Everything but that," he answered, his tone just as simple, yet in a far different manner, as though he were suggesting that she should've already known this.

Aware 'everything' would probably not be well-received knowledge if she just started rambling at him—in her state, the things his very appearance and nearness made her imagine would probably be the first mention to fall from her lips—she asked, "Could you be a little more specific?"

Oh, there had been an interesting flicker in the depths of her eyes just then. He smirked in spite of his evident attempt to remain blasé. "Your history with this house, prior to the start of the activity."

"Well, that's really just 'my history,' then," she answered with a shrug, her gaze dropping from his to settle in the depths of her barely-touched tea cup. "My mother was a single mom, she died giving birth to my brother Souta, so our—" She jumped, her voice shutting down and her attention shooting back up to his face.

He hadn't meant to, but somehow Sesshomaru's body had moved without letting his mind in on the decision. His hand resting over hers was as much as shock to him as it was to her.

He wanted to reprimand himself, to snatch back his hand, but if this line of work had taught him anything, it was that often one's instincts were cognizant of things—actions that should be taken, moments of awareness to which one should pay attention more than others—before their minds. "Did you blame your brother for her death?"

Her features pinched in distaste at the question. "Look, I know some people feel that way in that type of situation, but I was too young to understand what had happened. My grandfather had taken us in, and he was the one who explained things to me. I guess how he saw it—the simple fact that a baby couldn't be held responsible for being born into the world—was how I came to see it." Kagome shrugged, doing a stellar job of ignoring the feel of his skin pressed to hers. "Does that matter?"

Shaking his head, Sesshomaru easily and subtly collected himself as he sat straight, making the decision to draw back his hand now appear natural to the moment, rather than a hasty desire beating at him for fear of what prolonged physical contact with her might lead to. "I suppose not, no," he said—if pressed, he could always offer an explanation of poltergeist activity and its origins. If she held ill will toward her brother and that relationship was tied to the property, blah, blah, blah.

"Continue."

She swallowed hard, pulling her own arm from the table. Dropping her hand into her lap, she clasped the other atop it, fingers resting over the lingering sensation of his touch. "Um, as—as I said, after my mother died, my grandfather took us in. He was already widowed by then, retired. He thought if anyone had time to mind two young children . . . ." Again she shrugged. "We had a wonderful childhood. Of course, we both went on to college, moved out, but then . . . ."

Kagome could feel her eyes cloud over. She wasn't at peace with his passing. She wasn't sure she ever would be.

Clearing her throat, she forced herself to continue. "Then he passed. We'd had plans to pack up, to sell the house, but I just couldn't do it." A sad smile curved her mouth. "Too many memories, I suppose. And that's it."

"And he died a month ago?"

She nodded, but then just as quickly shook her head. "A month and a half, but the activity only started a month after. Is that significant, somehow?"

Sesshomaru didn't answer until she managed to lift her gaze back to his. "In truth? I don't know, but possibly." Gods, why was he being so candid with her? It would suit to have offered some more mysterious, non-committal answer, but no, he'd been driven by some pesky need to give her assurances.

He stood from the table and then, for some reason he could not fathom, he extended his hand to her.

Kagome merely stared at those perfect fingers, outstretched, waiting. She'd been under the impression he was to do the walkthrough on his own, so her energy wouldn't influence his readings.

Her lips suddenly felt very dry, but she refrained from darting out her tongue to wet them—too afraid the gesture might be misinterpreted. Instead, she quickly took a sip of her tea, noisily setting her cup back on its saucer before she finally settled her hand in his.

He tugged gently and she went with the movement, rising from her seat. Cautious, she met his gaze, again. This close, she thought she could feel the heat of his skin through their clothes, seeping into her. Those eyes of molten gold flickered, giving her a fleeting impression that he felt it, too.

Just as quickly, he turned away, heading back toward the living room to begin his walkthrough. Kagome tried not to think on the warm, firm hold of his hand around hers as she followed.