Oneshot: Worth it
It was slow. Slips of time when their pack would collide. At first, of course he thought this outlandish child was a mere ningen, weak. She pranced with his half brother with complete trust that he would keep her safe, her arrows painfully missing the mark.
It made sense when he saved her. They were pack after all. . . even if it was through a half breed. Her child face was soft and wide as his ward, babbling nonsensical things in his silence.
Winters in Edo were tough for humans. He made sure Rin was padded in the best cloth, he wouldn't let her run around without shoes anymore. Rin was still chipper, eager and always asking to see her; the strange girl-child that would give her something called hot chocolate and played with the kitsune. His half breed of a brother was an idiot letting her run in strange cloth, the wind striking through it swifter than Naraku could.
It made sense that he'd give her winter clothes. They were pack after all, and she looked after Rin when he left. Her cheeks were bright, stammering and awkward in their attempts at refusal, but they fit her nicely. He needed her healthy, for Rin.
After another endless farce with their enemy, she rewarded him with tea even in his silence. Her face had changed through the season, cheeks becoming sharper. There was still a kindness in her strange gaze even after seeing the demon's being ripped apart. She wiped blood from his cheek, those guts still steaming with their shadow of life, a different silence on her lips.
When his arm was regrown. . . it was sore, a rippling pain every time he moved. The flick of his fingers were worth the pain, to be able to feel Rin's when she reached for him. She too was growing, a painful blink in his demon eyes that hurt more than regrown limbs.
He helped the girl-child because she was pack. It made sense when he placed a short sword in her hands, demanding that she learn. She was faster now, lined with muscle and attire he gave her. She was hot headed at first, grounding her blunt teeth when the flat end of his sword smacked her. Her child's face grew red each time, a slide and twist and suddenly it was a woman's face that was furious.
It was almost unsettling. When she plaited Rin's hair he could see her blisters from the bow, from the blade, yet those nimble fingers were fully gown now. Her hips were no longer that of a child but rounded under her miko garb. Her black hair now twisting down her back, a testament to her growth that he'd rather notice than other supple areas.
Was Rin growing that fast? Her freckled face was still young, fed and supple in her eleven years of human life. He was almost afraid to blink, afraid to see Rin's face sharped, her hair to grey and teeth to fall from diseased gums.
When they met again the girl- no, the woman, taught Rin a dance. It was swift, turning and twirling, a sweet veil of a game when in reality it increased swiftness. A strange pride curled in his chest. She was improving her sword play, pushing him back against his demon strength. Meeting him blow for blow, even if it was for a few scant seconds.
"Hn. . . you've done well." It made sense he would praise her, pat her head. They were pack after all. It made sense when his gaze would follow her, catch on the subtle grin.
He told himself it made sense when he missed her. His dreams slowly curled around her, a remnant of her scent, of how her fingers curled around his wrist in reaching. Her face was sweeter and brighter than the sun, his eyes scrunching closed in pain from looking so long.
It made sense on the battlefield, to be pack leader you must protect them at all costs. Naraku was caught in his grip, pressed around from all sides.
"Do it!"
The sword glowed pink. Split through the rotten flesh of their enemy. Sliced with more heat than a million suns through his own chest. Her eyes were wet, cheeks glistening but he couldn't feel them.
It made sense. She was pack. He loved her.
For the first time in a very long time he smiled. Her shoulders hunched over him, her mouth was open but he couldn't hear her. Her lips were chapped under his crimson fingertips, the last real thing when he wasn't anymore.
Kagome was worth it.