Disclaimer: these kooks belong to Rumiko Takahashi.
Bleh.
Mousse sighed, leaning against the old gnarled tree behind the Tendo Dojo. A lazy leaf, one of the last trembling remainders of autumn, drifted past his wandering eyes to land on his white coat. The weather was turning colder, but he didn't mind. He was used to it. A weary grimace caught his mouth at the thought of the last winter, spent freezing in the main entryway of Shampoo's house. It had never been his home.
He wanted so very badly to forget her. So very, very badly. Once he'd acknowledged that she was bad for him, the decision to leave had been almost easy. But still, damnit, still a cold and whimpering part of him had desperately wanted her to beg him to stay. Even if she were only begging him to stay so she could trample on his soul a little more thoroughly.
He could see her face even now, the beautiful face of the woman he loved. The reflections of their shared childhood were in every brown crumpling leaf, every dying blade of grass, every drifting, lonely snowflake.They hadn't gotten a good snow yet, which was just as well since he'd doubtless see her reflected from every snowbank. He missed her. He plain old missed her, like a puppy misses its mother. Which, as he was all too aware, was nothing like a healthy mindset.
Oddly enough, the images of her body and face now were the easiest to banish. His lust for her was rapidly cooling in the ice of self-hate. Now, staring at the freezing koi pond, his thoughts were not full of that thick, sweet-smelling hair, those high full breasts, the long powerful muscles of her arms and legs and hips. His mind was a cradle for the images of her as a young girl, eight or nine, proud and violent already. He could still remember the day she'd beaten him, the ONLY time she'd ever beaten him, when they still had their baby fat clinging to their bones and her face had been round as a pumpkin, her purple hair shorn with a dagger because it got in her way. Her mother had cought her before she cut all of it off, so from the age of three until she turned four she looked shaggy and lopsided.
She hadn't always been beautiful, but he'd always wanted her.
The sounds of Akane being violently sick reached him even in the yard, and he resisted the urge to go in and check on her. He knew, from experience, that his presence was not wanted. He'd just get in Ranma's way as the pigtailed boy rushed down the hall. He'd tried to help once, when the morning sickness came. For his efforts he'd gotten knocked through a wall by the impatient husband of little Akane. Ranma apologized later, but still.
Truthfully, Mousse thought the whole spectacle was incredibly amusing. The two of them danced around each other, afraid to speak for fear of screaming and shattering their fragile closeness. He could see it in their eyes when they looked at each other. The most amusing part, for Mousse at least, was the absolute look of panic almost always present on Ranma's face now. Akane was having a rather difficult pregnancy, and Mousse supposed he was afraid she'd simply break. She was six months along, almost seven, and her belly swelled like a canteloupe on her tiny frame.
An image of Shampoo, round and swollen with his child, passed through his mind. He clenched his fists. He wanted this. He wanted what Saotome had, a family, a wife to cradle and protect. He wanted Shampoo, he wanted all of her, and she would never give him even the smallest part of herself.
He was so, so incredibly lost.
------------------
"I thought morning sickness was only supposed to come in the freaking morning," Akane muttered, clutching at the rim of the toilet. Ranma hovered over her, her constant companion and, to be truthfull, annoying close and attentive caretaker. It was getting to the point that she couldn't go out to pick up something for dinner without him fussing over her like some old woman with a grandchild.
How the mighty have fallen.
"Yeah, well, I thought it was supposed to go away after three months," Ranma countered, not happy himself. Her frustration softened in the face of his obvious worry. How do you get mad at somebody who worries so much about you?
"Some women are sick all the way through. Guess I'm one of them," she grumbled, hauling herself up from the floor. Ranma caught her elbow, helping her up. She didn't pull away, as she would have before her balance became so altered. She leaned into him, let him cradle her and the baby- or babies- in the circle of his arms. They kicked against her, and she grimaced. Ranma moved his hand to cover the tiny thudding bit of flesh, and his breath spilled into her ear, suprised and warm. He chuckled softly. Akane felt like her stomach had just crawled into one of her lungs, and the taste of bile was heavy in her mouth. She didn't feel much like chuckling at a child whose antics were bruising her from the inside.
On the other hand, the kicks were a good sign. She didn't think she could bear it if she went through all this, held the child under her heart, only to have it come out . . . she couldn't bear the thought. However, her family ahd such a history of miscarriages and stillbirths. . . her father was the fifth child his mother had carried, and the second that lived to be a week old.
She let him lead her to their bedroom, guide her to the bed, lay her down. He lay down behind her, his body cupping hers and his hand going once more to the ever-growing bulge of her belly. His breath raced down the back of her neck, and muscles in her lower regions that had very little to do with the baby tightened.
That was the oddest thing, how much she wanted him now. Amara had warned her that pregnant women often had overwhelming sexual appetites. It was certainly true. She nestled closer to him, eliciting a deep sigh. Her body was hungry for the feel of him moving inside her, the sight of him arching beneath her with the round bulge of her pregnancy resting between them. But for now, her back hurt. Her mouth had a foul taste in it. And Ranma. . . Ranma would probably still be tired from their exertions earlier that day.
So for now, drifting along the border between sleep and waking in her husband's arms, she would simply cherish the sensation of the small feet thudding against her womb. Of the steady, pulsing pressure of his heart against her back. The small, glowing realization that she held a life, maybe two lives, within her, hers alone to protect for a time.
Akane drifted off to sleep in the cold light of a winter afternoon, with visions of tiny pigtailed boys dancing through her head.
-------------------
"Letters, letters, letters," Kasumi muttered, sifting throught the pile. "Bills, bills, bills," she corrected herself, sorting them into stacks. One stack was bills that needed to be paid immeadiately. One stack was bills which could wait- thought not for long. The last stack, the smallest stack, was personal mail. There was a letter from Nabiki-- who Kasumi missed the most when she had to sort through bills. Why, oh why couldn't she have gone to Tokyo University? Was America really that much more interesting?
At least their carpentry expenses had become somewhat less severe. Ever since her baby sister got married, there were just fewer and fewer reasons for walls to fall down. Kasumi almost missed the havoc. At least when everyone else has a hellish life, she could forget about her own. It was getting far too quiet in the Tendo Dojo. Akane and Ranma weren't even fighting as much anymore. As much.
She glared at all the orderly envelopes in front of her. She really, really wasn't in the mood to deal with this. The sounds of her father playing Shogi with Mr. Saotome echoed through the lower part of the house. All very well for them, they could just sit around all day. It had never bothered her before Akane got married. Now, for some reason, they all irritated her. She'd been the matron figure in teh household for most of her life, but now. . . now there was a married woman in the house, so why was she still taking care of everyone?
Watching the newlyweds had thrown into sharp relief the unattained desires in her own life. She found herself longing for things she'd never wanted before, not really. It had been so fulfilling playing the mother for Akane and Nabiki. . . but now they were grown, gone to college and married, and where was she? She was left without little sisters to mother, that's where. They just weren't little enough anymore.
So what could she do now? She had left her own life in shattered shards so very long ago, given it up for others for so many years, that she didn't know how to gather up the pieces. She had forgotten how to be selfish, and now there was no one who really needed her. Except herself.
Restless, she turned to the stove. She could cook. . . no. Akane had said she'd cook dinner. Which meant Kasumi wanted to be far, far away.
"Hey, Kasumi, why so gloomy today?" Mousse asked, coming into the kitchen. She looked up and smiled at him out of habit.
"Don't be silly," she said. She peered closer at those dark blue eyes, and her smile softened. "You ought to go out and have some fun," she admonished, relentlessly declining to follow her own advice. Mousse's shoulder's drooped. What fun could there be in the world where Shampoo had grown up cold and uncaring?
"I'd rather stay in today," he informed her, pulling his glasses out and pretending to study the array of envelopes. "Hey, a letter from Nabiki," he said in mock surprise. Kasumi, ever the excellent diviner of motive, pulled the letters from under his nose and swept them all into a drawer. ::I have to get Mousse out of the house, even if it's only for a little while,:: she thought.
"Would you walk with me to Dr. Tofu's, then? I have to return a book he lent me, and there are so many stray dogs in this area. . ." she asked. Of course, there were no stray dogs, at least none she couldn't handle. There was, however, a rather sad and lonely teenager who badly needed handling. Need. That was a word she'd grown fond of.
Of course, she had her own reasons for returning the book—which she hadn't finished reading yet—that afternoon. The antics of Dr. Tofu always cheered her up. Maybe that would be a nice way to reclaim her life . . . he so obviously needed SOMEONE, someone to tend to him when he forgot to tend himself. Of course, that wasn't reclaiming her life. That was finding a new excuse to continue in the same self-sacrificing vein.
He wouldn't let her take care of him anyway. He was always so independent, so polite and distracted and odd. Half the time she spent with him he used to converse with that mock skeleton of his. It was as if he barely knew of her existence. Which was odd, since she was always cooking for him, trying to discuss books with him . . . she doubted he would ever truly, truly notice her.
Which was, of course, a crying shame.
------------------------
Shampoo surveyed the empty house. Her gaze swept over the dirt floor, the badly kept kitchen, the pallet on the floor with its mussed sheets. The other pallet, against he other wall, neat as a pin and cold as ice. The pile of weapons by the door, worn but lethal.
There was no hope for it. She was never going to be able to sleep alone here.
Despite all her intentions and boasts, she found herself missing the clumsy ex-duck of a husband she'd married. The initial shock of his rejection, his first rejection of her, had sent her into fits. Screaming, violent fits. Now that she was calmer, she was beginning to notice. . . much to her dismay. . . that she wanted him to come home.
Of course, he still wouldn't be able to share her bed. And what she really missed, or so she told herself, was not having to cook or clean. But she couldn't sleep, damnit, not without the steady deep rythym of his breath.
So there was no help for it. She would have to go find him. And heaven help him when she did, because for leaving her. . . she wasn't sure what's she'd inflict upon him, but it would be bad.
-------------------------
"You know," Mousse said suddenly, breaking the slience on the way to Dr. Tofu's. "I haven't seen my mother in a long time. I ought to go visit her."
Kasumi glanced at him, her eyes round. How does someone take something as precious as a mother for granted like that?
"Yes, you certainly should. In your cursed form, do you think you could swim to China?" she asked, holding her tongue to keep from scolding him. He didn't need a scolding now.
A slow smile spread across Mousse's face.
"Probably," he said. As was always the case with Mousse, the minute the idea was in his head it played itself out through each of his limbs. He grinned at Kasumi, and settled his glasses firmly on his face.
"You have been most kind, Kasumi-san, but I think the time has come for me to go. Give my regards to the lovers and the old men," he said, and then he was gone over a rooftop. Kasumi watched him go with a small smile on her face. Impetuous as always.
And he'd left her to visit Dr. Tofu alone—just the way she liked it.
Yes, I know Dr. Tofu has an insatiable thing for her. But how would it seem to Kasumi?
By the way, thank you all for your reviews. I really appreciate them. I started writing this stuff out of a compulsion to finish the storyline, but now I write it because the fact that you actually read this just makes my day. So . . . thank you.
Bleh.
Mousse sighed, leaning against the old gnarled tree behind the Tendo Dojo. A lazy leaf, one of the last trembling remainders of autumn, drifted past his wandering eyes to land on his white coat. The weather was turning colder, but he didn't mind. He was used to it. A weary grimace caught his mouth at the thought of the last winter, spent freezing in the main entryway of Shampoo's house. It had never been his home.
He wanted so very badly to forget her. So very, very badly. Once he'd acknowledged that she was bad for him, the decision to leave had been almost easy. But still, damnit, still a cold and whimpering part of him had desperately wanted her to beg him to stay. Even if she were only begging him to stay so she could trample on his soul a little more thoroughly.
He could see her face even now, the beautiful face of the woman he loved. The reflections of their shared childhood were in every brown crumpling leaf, every dying blade of grass, every drifting, lonely snowflake.They hadn't gotten a good snow yet, which was just as well since he'd doubtless see her reflected from every snowbank. He missed her. He plain old missed her, like a puppy misses its mother. Which, as he was all too aware, was nothing like a healthy mindset.
Oddly enough, the images of her body and face now were the easiest to banish. His lust for her was rapidly cooling in the ice of self-hate. Now, staring at the freezing koi pond, his thoughts were not full of that thick, sweet-smelling hair, those high full breasts, the long powerful muscles of her arms and legs and hips. His mind was a cradle for the images of her as a young girl, eight or nine, proud and violent already. He could still remember the day she'd beaten him, the ONLY time she'd ever beaten him, when they still had their baby fat clinging to their bones and her face had been round as a pumpkin, her purple hair shorn with a dagger because it got in her way. Her mother had cought her before she cut all of it off, so from the age of three until she turned four she looked shaggy and lopsided.
She hadn't always been beautiful, but he'd always wanted her.
The sounds of Akane being violently sick reached him even in the yard, and he resisted the urge to go in and check on her. He knew, from experience, that his presence was not wanted. He'd just get in Ranma's way as the pigtailed boy rushed down the hall. He'd tried to help once, when the morning sickness came. For his efforts he'd gotten knocked through a wall by the impatient husband of little Akane. Ranma apologized later, but still.
Truthfully, Mousse thought the whole spectacle was incredibly amusing. The two of them danced around each other, afraid to speak for fear of screaming and shattering their fragile closeness. He could see it in their eyes when they looked at each other. The most amusing part, for Mousse at least, was the absolute look of panic almost always present on Ranma's face now. Akane was having a rather difficult pregnancy, and Mousse supposed he was afraid she'd simply break. She was six months along, almost seven, and her belly swelled like a canteloupe on her tiny frame.
An image of Shampoo, round and swollen with his child, passed through his mind. He clenched his fists. He wanted this. He wanted what Saotome had, a family, a wife to cradle and protect. He wanted Shampoo, he wanted all of her, and she would never give him even the smallest part of herself.
He was so, so incredibly lost.
------------------
"I thought morning sickness was only supposed to come in the freaking morning," Akane muttered, clutching at the rim of the toilet. Ranma hovered over her, her constant companion and, to be truthfull, annoying close and attentive caretaker. It was getting to the point that she couldn't go out to pick up something for dinner without him fussing over her like some old woman with a grandchild.
How the mighty have fallen.
"Yeah, well, I thought it was supposed to go away after three months," Ranma countered, not happy himself. Her frustration softened in the face of his obvious worry. How do you get mad at somebody who worries so much about you?
"Some women are sick all the way through. Guess I'm one of them," she grumbled, hauling herself up from the floor. Ranma caught her elbow, helping her up. She didn't pull away, as she would have before her balance became so altered. She leaned into him, let him cradle her and the baby- or babies- in the circle of his arms. They kicked against her, and she grimaced. Ranma moved his hand to cover the tiny thudding bit of flesh, and his breath spilled into her ear, suprised and warm. He chuckled softly. Akane felt like her stomach had just crawled into one of her lungs, and the taste of bile was heavy in her mouth. She didn't feel much like chuckling at a child whose antics were bruising her from the inside.
On the other hand, the kicks were a good sign. She didn't think she could bear it if she went through all this, held the child under her heart, only to have it come out . . . she couldn't bear the thought. However, her family ahd such a history of miscarriages and stillbirths. . . her father was the fifth child his mother had carried, and the second that lived to be a week old.
She let him lead her to their bedroom, guide her to the bed, lay her down. He lay down behind her, his body cupping hers and his hand going once more to the ever-growing bulge of her belly. His breath raced down the back of her neck, and muscles in her lower regions that had very little to do with the baby tightened.
That was the oddest thing, how much she wanted him now. Amara had warned her that pregnant women often had overwhelming sexual appetites. It was certainly true. She nestled closer to him, eliciting a deep sigh. Her body was hungry for the feel of him moving inside her, the sight of him arching beneath her with the round bulge of her pregnancy resting between them. But for now, her back hurt. Her mouth had a foul taste in it. And Ranma. . . Ranma would probably still be tired from their exertions earlier that day.
So for now, drifting along the border between sleep and waking in her husband's arms, she would simply cherish the sensation of the small feet thudding against her womb. Of the steady, pulsing pressure of his heart against her back. The small, glowing realization that she held a life, maybe two lives, within her, hers alone to protect for a time.
Akane drifted off to sleep in the cold light of a winter afternoon, with visions of tiny pigtailed boys dancing through her head.
-------------------
"Letters, letters, letters," Kasumi muttered, sifting throught the pile. "Bills, bills, bills," she corrected herself, sorting them into stacks. One stack was bills that needed to be paid immeadiately. One stack was bills which could wait- thought not for long. The last stack, the smallest stack, was personal mail. There was a letter from Nabiki-- who Kasumi missed the most when she had to sort through bills. Why, oh why couldn't she have gone to Tokyo University? Was America really that much more interesting?
At least their carpentry expenses had become somewhat less severe. Ever since her baby sister got married, there were just fewer and fewer reasons for walls to fall down. Kasumi almost missed the havoc. At least when everyone else has a hellish life, she could forget about her own. It was getting far too quiet in the Tendo Dojo. Akane and Ranma weren't even fighting as much anymore. As much.
She glared at all the orderly envelopes in front of her. She really, really wasn't in the mood to deal with this. The sounds of her father playing Shogi with Mr. Saotome echoed through the lower part of the house. All very well for them, they could just sit around all day. It had never bothered her before Akane got married. Now, for some reason, they all irritated her. She'd been the matron figure in teh household for most of her life, but now. . . now there was a married woman in the house, so why was she still taking care of everyone?
Watching the newlyweds had thrown into sharp relief the unattained desires in her own life. She found herself longing for things she'd never wanted before, not really. It had been so fulfilling playing the mother for Akane and Nabiki. . . but now they were grown, gone to college and married, and where was she? She was left without little sisters to mother, that's where. They just weren't little enough anymore.
So what could she do now? She had left her own life in shattered shards so very long ago, given it up for others for so many years, that she didn't know how to gather up the pieces. She had forgotten how to be selfish, and now there was no one who really needed her. Except herself.
Restless, she turned to the stove. She could cook. . . no. Akane had said she'd cook dinner. Which meant Kasumi wanted to be far, far away.
"Hey, Kasumi, why so gloomy today?" Mousse asked, coming into the kitchen. She looked up and smiled at him out of habit.
"Don't be silly," she said. She peered closer at those dark blue eyes, and her smile softened. "You ought to go out and have some fun," she admonished, relentlessly declining to follow her own advice. Mousse's shoulder's drooped. What fun could there be in the world where Shampoo had grown up cold and uncaring?
"I'd rather stay in today," he informed her, pulling his glasses out and pretending to study the array of envelopes. "Hey, a letter from Nabiki," he said in mock surprise. Kasumi, ever the excellent diviner of motive, pulled the letters from under his nose and swept them all into a drawer. ::I have to get Mousse out of the house, even if it's only for a little while,:: she thought.
"Would you walk with me to Dr. Tofu's, then? I have to return a book he lent me, and there are so many stray dogs in this area. . ." she asked. Of course, there were no stray dogs, at least none she couldn't handle. There was, however, a rather sad and lonely teenager who badly needed handling. Need. That was a word she'd grown fond of.
Of course, she had her own reasons for returning the book—which she hadn't finished reading yet—that afternoon. The antics of Dr. Tofu always cheered her up. Maybe that would be a nice way to reclaim her life . . . he so obviously needed SOMEONE, someone to tend to him when he forgot to tend himself. Of course, that wasn't reclaiming her life. That was finding a new excuse to continue in the same self-sacrificing vein.
He wouldn't let her take care of him anyway. He was always so independent, so polite and distracted and odd. Half the time she spent with him he used to converse with that mock skeleton of his. It was as if he barely knew of her existence. Which was odd, since she was always cooking for him, trying to discuss books with him . . . she doubted he would ever truly, truly notice her.
Which was, of course, a crying shame.
------------------------
Shampoo surveyed the empty house. Her gaze swept over the dirt floor, the badly kept kitchen, the pallet on the floor with its mussed sheets. The other pallet, against he other wall, neat as a pin and cold as ice. The pile of weapons by the door, worn but lethal.
There was no hope for it. She was never going to be able to sleep alone here.
Despite all her intentions and boasts, she found herself missing the clumsy ex-duck of a husband she'd married. The initial shock of his rejection, his first rejection of her, had sent her into fits. Screaming, violent fits. Now that she was calmer, she was beginning to notice. . . much to her dismay. . . that she wanted him to come home.
Of course, he still wouldn't be able to share her bed. And what she really missed, or so she told herself, was not having to cook or clean. But she couldn't sleep, damnit, not without the steady deep rythym of his breath.
So there was no help for it. She would have to go find him. And heaven help him when she did, because for leaving her. . . she wasn't sure what's she'd inflict upon him, but it would be bad.
-------------------------
"You know," Mousse said suddenly, breaking the slience on the way to Dr. Tofu's. "I haven't seen my mother in a long time. I ought to go visit her."
Kasumi glanced at him, her eyes round. How does someone take something as precious as a mother for granted like that?
"Yes, you certainly should. In your cursed form, do you think you could swim to China?" she asked, holding her tongue to keep from scolding him. He didn't need a scolding now.
A slow smile spread across Mousse's face.
"Probably," he said. As was always the case with Mousse, the minute the idea was in his head it played itself out through each of his limbs. He grinned at Kasumi, and settled his glasses firmly on his face.
"You have been most kind, Kasumi-san, but I think the time has come for me to go. Give my regards to the lovers and the old men," he said, and then he was gone over a rooftop. Kasumi watched him go with a small smile on her face. Impetuous as always.
And he'd left her to visit Dr. Tofu alone—just the way she liked it.
Yes, I know Dr. Tofu has an insatiable thing for her. But how would it seem to Kasumi?
By the way, thank you all for your reviews. I really appreciate them. I started writing this stuff out of a compulsion to finish the storyline, but now I write it because the fact that you actually read this just makes my day. So . . . thank you.