To my reviewers: You have made my heart all aflutter. You have made my heart go bump in the night. You have made my heart boogie woogie and shake its booty like Patrick Swayze on methamphetamines. Thanks.

It is a shame that we can take a phrase, one that typically describes rather well how we are feeling, who we are, what we are doing, who we are doing, and just about everything else in between, and drive it into the ground with overuse. Words of our species' finest minds, so artfully arranged and conveyed, are butchered by our mob mentality, semiconscious collective consciousness. We write them into pop songs. We paint them across billboards. Our actors and actresses spout them until we are so goddamn tired of hearing the once beautiful words that we label them and put them in a category of bastardized quotes. How many high school seniors have failed timed writings because they mistakenly used these poor, abused sayings? The author only knows of one for sure, but she is certain that there must be many. How many journalists have been written off as prosaic when they exploited the wrong string of words? How many authors have been centered in the cross hairs of critics' evaluations and mercilessly shot down while the soaring creator of prose road the updrafts of exhausted apothegms?

Oh, lowly, unloved cliché. This author understands your pain, even if she thinks that she can come up with something better.

Out of respect for the cliché, the author will use one.

It had been the week from hell. The use of this expression is rather ironic in that the week had been characterized by snow--lots and lots of snow--and generally cold people. (Why must hell be considered hot? The author, coming from the sunny shores of Maui, finds the hot to be quite enjoyable. Besides, one can always remove their clothing--which is an under appreciated skill--and frolic about in an effort to cool down. Would it not be more appropriate to make hell very cold? Instead of the tired biblical reference, we could say, "What the Michigan in February?" or, "Go to Helsinki, Sunday driver!")

More suitably, it had been a week from Vancouver, minus the marijuana. Snow had fallen consistently with brief union breaks for the spent clouds to settle back and let the heavier ones step in. The sun, winter's arbitrator, had not shown her face once. The wind, winter's most truculent protester in the picket line, came hand-in-hand with the snow, chanting their slogan through the halls of the palace.

This blizzard laughed in the faces of their braziers. It stood tall and sneered down at those who donned extra layers. It smote the gardeners and devoured the messengers. There was no escaping this blizzard.

Now, imagine, if you will, braving the blizzard alone. That had been Kagome's week. Every meal had been late and cold. In fact, everything had been late and cold. Every morning, when a servant would typically bring her a clean kimono, the garment arrived late and cold. When she requested a bath, she was made to wait outside the bathhouse while other occupants enjoyed it. When she could finally get inside, there was no fire to heat the water and no implements to build one. After a quick, chilly scrub and an even quicker, chillier soak, Kagome was ready to give herself up to the blizzard since it seemed so determined to get to her.

Rin had mitigated Kagome's frustrations slightly. The girl was refreshing and downright amusing, but she could not offer any real emotional connection. And, unfortunately, what Kagome needed more than anything else was emotional connection. Instead, she got cheerful conversation and an abundant supply of reassurances that things would get better.

It was not much, but it was enough. Kagome had survived her first seven days under Sesshomaru's roof. In truth, she had not expected as much, so the sunrise of her eighth day was a surprise to Kagome.

Sitting on her front porch, marveling in her unforeseen well-being, and wrapped in a red haori that had once not belonged to her, Kagome watched the snow.

Snow is the of contradiction of meteorology. Spawned from cruel parents, Rain and Cold, snow is the gentle, misunderstood offspring. Snow does not pound like rain. Snow does not howl like wind. It does not pierce like hail. Snow falls softly, quietly, lovingly, wrapping the landscape in ample, white arms. It beckons children, the most vulnerable and fragile of our kind, outside to frolic and frenzy as it collects in drifts. Drifts. What word is more benign that "drift?"

And yet, despite its delicate personality, snow attacks with the most brutal weapon: her only child, Ice. She is a silent, subtle murderer who will sneak into your veins before you can think to defend yourself. From there, she quietly creeps through your entire body, killing everything that had once fed off the warmth of the soul. She will turn you red, then blue, before taking you to her brumal bosom and turning you white. White... the color of cold.

She offers a sordid mercy to her victims, however. Before she exterminates you, she lets you go numb. You do not die in pain; though it can be argued that being without feeling entirely is just as painful as being in pain. But that is snow's token, snow's gift to us, and it is the task of the receiver to interpret it.

Kagome did not know what she preferred. She did not enjoy pain, but, while suffering, at least she knew she was alive. She knew she could still feel even if being able to feel ripped her apart every time she allowed herself moments of contemplation. But now, after a week of suffering, of conscious solitude, of stabs and slices and slaps, Kagome's emotional nerves had let out exhausted sighs and resolved to take a sabbatical for an undetermined span of time.

And that, more than anything else, terrified Kagome.

The snow swirled in intricate trails, darting across the backs of gusts in an almost playful manner. There was no pattern in the blustery discord as white blended into white, blurring everything into a haze.

Something in the snow, in its disharmony, comforted Kagome. Perhaps it was the knowing that there was something else in the world more dubious than she.

She thought she was drowning. Kagome was drifting. Drifting. Drifting like snow. Uncertain, confused, vacillating between hating this life and hating herself for hating this life, Kagome fought desperately to discern just exactly how she felt. But how does one feel when they are numb?

There was one sensation remaining, one knowing in her that loomed like a specter, following her and casting its shadow over everything she saw: Kagome felt that if she could not keep moving, if she finally acquiesced to the stagnancy of her grief, she would find herself face down in the garden and sobbing until Lady Snow built her a grave, nestled in her innocuous drifts.


The orgasm. God's gift to man. That joyous, feverish, sweaty climb to the highest cliff; the precarious, almost painful teetering at the edge; the mindbending, glorious plummet; and then the nigh-inevitable contact with the ground below. The entire process, specifically the brutal return to earth and the bitch-slap of gravity could make or break a couple. Of course many could overlook the rough landing if the sex was good.

In this situation, the sex was good.

Sesshomaru remembered a time when the impact had not been so severe. Before Sokkenai, now sprawled across him, purring loudly, had ever shown her exquisite face in his court, there had been times when he thought he could enjoy the sex for reasons other than the sex. There had been females, however few, who... he was not certain what they did to him. But that time had passed. Adolescence, grinning and swaying and speaking words that dripped like sweat and semen, had been snuffed out by adulthood, and, as appreciative as he was for his age, Sesshomaru could not deny the touch of nostalgia that came with thoughts of naivety, effervescent hormones, and sticky romps in... well, just about anywhere.

Sokkenai shifted, deliberately rubbing her slick thighs over his.

Once, a very long time ago, Sesshomaru had not loathed her. He did not know her, both biblically and literally, and she had seemed like a decadent treat, dripping in honey and plum juice She danced and fluttered her fan, hiding the smile that whispered steamy promises even when her mouth did not, though her mouth was quick to take action when Sesshomaru made his offer.

Their arrangement was mutually beneficial: Sesshomaru could keep a female under the facade that she was his chosen, thereby slaking the insistent reminders from his advisors that he, for traditions sake, needed a mate, and Sokkenai would get her hungry, little paws on the most eligible bachelor in all of demon society. To sweeten the offer, she was promised land for her clan and all the wealth she could waste. And waste, she did.

After a few months, though, Sesshomaru discovered that Sokkenai's plum juice was a bit off. In fact, it was downright rancid. She was still long-legged and slender. She still swayed when she walked, and she still purred in a manner that could ignite fire in a snowman. Her grapefruit breasts still bounced when she laughed, but her laugh itself had changed. She did not giggle or chuckle sweetly as she once had. Somewhere deep inside the visual work of art that was Sokkenai, a dark force bloomed up to burn away her bluff, and, after another month, Sesshomaru discovered that that dark force was the authentic Sokkenai, rising up to her surface like dead fish rising in water.

But, again, the sex was good. So he kept her around.

In her defense, Sokkenai was not the only one who had changed. Sesshomaru, who had once spent the balance of his time exploiting her femininity for all it was worth, eventually found more interesting pastimes to pursue. Sokkenai, slowing turning into the heartless sexpot she was now, moved into the background of Sesshomaru's focus as a brighter, more appealing subject for his interest rose to the fore. Tessaiga. That damned dangling carrot that kept Sesshomaru invested in following his brother when his better judgment told him to leave the asinine bastard to his own devices. He abandoned his new "mate" and journeyed out into the Japanese countryside only to return nearly a year later with a small human at his side and one less arm.

Sesshomaru knew he had shunned Sokkenai. He could admit to that much, but he chose to see their fall from affection as a mutual, if not involuntary effort. She turned into a bitch, and he lost interest. It was that simple.

A set of five, sharp claws traced the the thin scores they had left across his chest only moments earlier. He had once twitched with excitement when she did that. Now he barely noticed.

Sokkenai continued to purr as she lowered her pouty mouth to the wounds she had inflicted and licked the blood from his skin. She then looked up at her lover, smirking suggestively. Apparently the two ruts they had grudgingly shared already were not enough. When her eyes landed on a distracted Sesshomaru, her purr took on a darker shade of vermillion growl.

"Sesshomaru," she said, sounding annoyed. He continued to look at a place on the ceiling, appearing to be concentrating on something outside the room. Sokkenai wriggled against him, making an effort to rub as much of her skin as she could against his. Sesshomaru responded by looking even more pensively at beams overhead.

"Sesshomaru," Sokkenai repeated, more insistently. Her ignored her.

"Sesshomaru!"

"Silence, you abhorrent female," snapped the Demon Lord, sacrificing an irritated glance at her. "We are done."

Her nostrils shook their angry fists. "What happened to that stamina, Lord Sesshomaru? Are you exhausted already?" He did not take the bait which aggravated Sokkenai even more. "What is so damn interesting?" she asked, looking over her shoulder toward the ceiling where Sesshomaru's gaze was steadily burning two round cavities into the wood.

"I smell something," he replied flatly.

Sokkenai narrowed her eyes and sniffed the air. All she could perceive was their mingled musks at first, but upon further inspection, the nekoyoukai sensed what was clearly perturbing her lover.

She grinned, delighted to find something that would undoubtedly anger Sesshomaru. "It would seem that there is a wolf at the gate."

Without warning, Sesshomaru pushed Sokkenai off of him and rose quickly. The nekoyoukai let out a sound of protest as she dropped to the futon, but she knew better than to try and stop him from leaving. Only half of her truly desired his company anyway, and that was her lower half. She watched him dress with an appreciation mitigated by time. He was still mouthwatering, and Sokkenai was still pleased to know that she alone held the status of Sesshomaru's pet sex-on-a-stick. Beyond that, he sickened her.

"Do you think it's him?" Sokkenai asked, pushing herself up on her elbows.

"Yes."

"Oh good," she said. "I like him."

"Had I wanted your thoughts on the matter, Sokkenai, I would have asked for them," he replied as he stepped into his hakama and tied them at his hips.

Stand and deliver, little nostrils, thine master beckons! "That's right. You don't like him very much, do you?"

Sesshomaru said nothing.

"He's a charming specimen of wolf breeding, if you ask me."

"I did not," growled Sesshomaru.

"I know." She smirked. "You're not jealous of him, are you, lover? Afraid he might steal me away?"

"I could only hope for such luck."

Sokkenai's fist curled in the blanket, but her smirk did not falter. "You are delicious when you're insecure, Sesshomaru-sama," she purred. "You know what I like about that wolf? It's those legs," she mused out loud, putting the claw of her index finger in her mouth. "Your fear of inadequacy is almost as delicious as his legs, but not quite."

Sesshomaru had very few sore spots, and the handful that he did possess were heavily guarded, their positions rarely leaked. Sokkenai, having been a receptacle for much of Sesshomaru's leakage, only knew two of them for certain: his shame in keeping a female child and his shame in losing his arm. If there was one target over which the female had painted a large, red and white bullseye, it was Sesshomaru's feelings of impotence.

In one hand, Sokkenai held the end of Sesshomaru's sexual leash, and, in the other, she cradled a dart that she threw with accuracy every time.

He pinned her with narrowed eyes, burning gold, the color of power. He wore his white hakama, the color of cold, and his printed, red haori, the color of passion. What an intriguing combination.

"If you had the intelligence to advise me, female, I would desire your thoughts more frequently. However, your purpose it limited to the breadth of your spread. You serve no other function; therefore, you will not speak unless it is requested."

Sokkenai's lips tightened.

With that, Sesshomaru turned and left. It would appear the Demon Lord had a few darts of his own.


The ever changing and yet always consistent show of falling snow was mesmerizing. Kagome watched the fluttering flakes showering down like a deity's dandruff, trying to pick out a single, icy clump and follow it all the way to it's soft landing amongst its kin. But there was too much movement and white. When Kagome thought she could lock her eyes on a single flake, it would dart to the side, find a twin, do a quick foxtrot, and then blend in with the rest of the blurry, cold mess.

Kagome sighed.

She could not feel her fingers very well. They seemed large and cold and too sore to close into a fist. Normally, this would have signaled her retreat indoors, but she could not stand to be in that building anymore. So far, she had only been given one brazier for the main room, and to warm herself by its toasty flank, she would have to endure those damned tapestries that lined every wall in her home. Her exhausted eyes could never escape the great, white dogs, some with gapping maws and wild fur and others sitting erect, muscles bulging and faces calm. Either way, they all seemed to watch her, their piercing red eyes following her around the room when she tried to maneuver from under their gaze.

Kagome sighed again, watching her breath slip through her lips and curl into a little cloud. She hoped she was not going insane.

"Kagome-san!" a familiar voice called from the walkway leading the main hall. She looked up to see a small body, bundled up in many brightly colored layers jogging toward her, waving one well-sleeved arm.

"Good morning, Rin," Kagome called halfheartedly.

"Kagome-san, you have a visitor!" exclaimed Rin.

Kagome felt her eyes widen as her heart stumbled over its own feet in its ongoing game of hopscotch and took its time to get back up. Her mouth dropped open as her body fell victim to the shock one might feel upon discovering an all you-can-eat sushi bar after having traipsed the Siberian tundra with nothing but salted yak on which to chew... for a week. (For the record, Sesshomaru had, where mere mortals possess a sweet tooth, a yak tooth. He loved the stuff.) There had been a time, in her younger, less desperate days, that Kagome would have hesitated and probed the little girl for more details before growing excited. However, in this new era, the Rest of Her Life, Kagome leapt to her feet and charged toward Rin, holding up her kimono unabashedly.

"Where? Where's my visitor?" Kagome asked, skidding to a slippery halt by Rin.

"He's coming this way," replied Rin, pointing in the general direction of the main hall. "I didn't think Sesshomaru-sama would let him enter, but he was very insistent. He even agreed to give up his sword to get in."

"Did you recognize him?" A stinging high in her nose warned Kagome that she was about to cry. Frowning sternly, she willed it away.

"No," Rin shook her raven head. Her rosy face split into a grin. "He was quite handsome, though."

The week from Novosibirsk, in all its merciless monotony had been impaled by the head of an unarmed, handsome pike. It could have been Naraku, back from the dead. Kagome did not care. As long as it was not a simpering, patronizing servant or a great, white dog, Kagome wanted to see this person, this altered link in the chain of her tedious life, with every ounce of her depleted, weary being.

She shifted from one foot to the other, watching the sliding doors of the great hall, barely discernible through the snow. Kagome wrung her hands.

"What did he look like?" Kagome prodded anxiously.

"Hmm," Rin put a finger to her chin. "He was very handsome," she repeated, blushing a little more. "He looked to be tall, not as tall as Sesshomaru-sama, but still tall. He had dark hair, too. Do you know who it is?"

This information did little to narrow Kagome's search. Most of the people who would bother to visit her would be handsome, tall, and dark haired. Miroku perhaps? Or Kohaku with word from Sango?

Irrational thought is one of the most powerful tools a human can possess when harnessed correctly. It can be used for destructive or creative purposes alike, but either way, our delirious delusions are often the deciding vote in the action. Irrational thoughts kill. Irrational thoughts save. Irrational thoughts birthed the telephone, the car, the defibrillator. You can imagine the reaction of doctors when some irrational scientist declared with irrational conviction, "Hey, maybe if we galvanize 'em, they'll live! What do you think? Just one quick zap!"

Love is an irrational thought, or perhaps love is the only rational thought and people simply act irrationally because of it. Of course, the same could be said for fear. Kagome could not tell if her self-induced fallacy was rooted in love or fear, but she knew it could not be real. It could only be sprouting from her loneliness, from her starvation for the solidarity she once felt. She knew that much. There was no possible way her hope, spawned by a one night stand between desperation and isolation, could actually occur.

Irrational thoughts can cut like a knife through the flesh to reveal the cavity where a freshly pilfered heart had once beaten. Irrational thought, in its cruel mockery of hope, ignited in Kagome the vision of a lover, dead and buried, risen to steal her away from this hell and take her back to the little, rickety hut that they shared, where there was no heat to enjoy save that of a warm soul. But that soul, his soul, enough for her.

Some false notions can be easily crushed beneath the heal of a dreamer, while others linger in our minds, straining the surrounding thoughts. Why, Kagome wanted to know, did this one have to linger? Why did Inuyasha have to be the one she imagined strolling down the path, bowing slightly against the wind?

He did not have dark hair. It could not possibly be him.

And he was dead.

"Oh, there he is!" Rin chirped, pointing away from the main hall out into the snow. Kagome turned and squinted against the relentlessly falling fluff and searched for any movement beyond the near horizontal trajectories. "Can you see him?" Rin asked, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "He's over there, coming around the corner of the bathhouse."

Kagome moved to the side slightly, hoping to capture a better view of her visitor. Then, peeking through the billowy white curtains out in the distance, she saw something dark. It swayed from one side to the other slightly in a gentle, lolling gait.

Kagome felt something snap in her chest; perhaps it was the chain tying her to the walkway. Ignoring Rin's protests, Kagome charged into the snow barefoot with only her kimono and haori to guard against the elements. Before she could actually register that she was plodding through the snow, she was running. She was running desperately.

"Who's there?" she called, afraid her tears might freeze on her face. "Who's there?" Her foot slipped, gouging out a slender valley in its wake. Kagome fell to her knees but quickly and awkwardly climbed back up, her trailing sleeves waving like red flags in the wind.

"Kagome?" replied a voice, strained for volume over the wind. But she knew that voice. It was dark and gruff and welcoming and protective and all the things that made the mouth of her soul water. "Kagome is that you?"

As though a wall of overwhelming relief had been dropped in her path, Kagome stopped. She could not run any more. Her knees felt weak. "Kouga?" she cried, the yellow glow of hope tinting her voice.

"Kagome?" he replied through the snow.

She thought she might crumble. It was a familiar voice, an intimate face, a friendly smell. It was a warm soul. After a week that felt like an eternity, his voice sounded like the sweetest song she had ever had the benison of hearing.

In an instant, he was standing in front of her, holding her hands, wiping the moisture from her cheeks with backs of his fingers. His face was a mix of pleasure and concern that seemed to coax Kagome's tears out of the little room where she had tried to lock them away. And while the tears coursed down her face, she could not help but give him a sad, grateful smile.

"Kagome," Kouga said, his blue eyes trying to read her face. "It's good to see you again."

All she could do was stare, her eyes tracing paths cut across his face: the furrow between his dark brows, the black line of his eyelashes, the slightly crooked angle of his nose, the dimple in his chin. When nothing she could think to say sounded appropriate in the wake of the comfort the mere sight of him brought her, Kagome threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tighter than she had ever embraced the wolf before.

Kouga was surprised to say the least, but not so surprised that he could not hug her back.

"Are you okay?" he asked quietly, his lips close to her ear.

"Yeah," Kagome choked. "I'll be fine as long as you don't ask me that."


The Palace of the West had settledin for the evening. It snuggled down into the snowscape under its velvety blanket of black clouds and listened to the bedtime story the wind recited from memory. It was the same story the palace had heard for years, but since wind and structure spoke a difference language, the palace was entertained just by trying to figure out what wind was saying.

Different parts of the palace translated the story into varying dialects, each with their own mournful cadence and haunting animus. In the narrower halls of the upper levels, the story of the wind was a moan, a sad lament of a poor lost soul, waging a desultory war with himself with no distinct antagonist or protagonist, no distinct sides other than thought and action. In what had been called the true seat of the West's power, Sesshomaru's bedchamber, the wind's story passed loudly, sounding in short, heaving breaths, gasps, groans, and the constant underscore of throaty purring. Words fell to the floor heavily, blushing and giggling, rolling in ecstasy, speaking into the drops of condensed water gathering on the chest plate of discarded armor, abandoned in place of snug, flexible skin. The main hall's interpretation was a low, quiet sigh, a long breath of relief at finally finding a space large enough to breeze recklessly.

The story told into Kagome's bedroom was insistent. The wind waited outside her door, announcing periodically that it was still there, reminding her that she could never get far from the tale it had to tell.

On this night, Kagome did not listen. She ignored the wind, left it on the veranda where it contemplated how to best intrude. Wind, the clever devil she is, first considered depositing an ignited paper bag of feces by the door, wailing loudly, and then running to hide off into the bushes to watch, but that was not Wind's style. Instead, she took a comfortable seat on the porch, folded her hands in her lap, and commenced to sing a dirge.

And still Kagome did not listen. She had better sources of auditory stimulation that evening.

Kouga forewent the bedchambers offered to him after receiving a very short tour of Kagome's new living arrangements. Reading the loneliness strewn unabashedly across her face, Kouga remarked that it was an awfully large place for one person. Kagome shrugged, wanting desperately to invite him to stay with her while fervently resisting the urge to invite him to stay with her. It was a tumultuous battle that Kouga finally settled by asking her if she wanted some company. Her agreement came quickly, followed by the guilty admission that she had but one brazier, making only one room bearable at a time.

Kouga cracked a grin. "Then we'll just have to share a room, won't we?" The opportunity tasted quite sweet, so sweet that Kouga forgot to remind Kagome that he had spent the past many days trudging through a blizzard and that he could quite comfortably endure a room without a fire.

The brazier burned in the center of the long, rectangular room, a warm, orange light spilling over the lip and pooling on the tatami below. Kagome sat with her knees up to her chin, her bare toes just dipped into the puddle of light. The embers breathed deeply the cold air, savoring the flavor before exhaling it back out in thin wisps of gray smoke. They glowed and faded and glowed and faded again in a dance of indecision between fighting for flame and calling it quits for the night. Kagome wished she had something more to burn.

Kouga busied himself with finding suitable burning materials. After a quick scan of the room, he resolved that the unsightly, as he deemed them, tapestries would do quite well. He then went about tearing them down and shredding them into ribbons small enough to be fed into the brazier.

Soon, a pleasant little fire was crackling at their feet.

"Your clothes are all wet, Kagome," Kouga noted, looking her over once. Kagome shrugged.

"I don't have another kimono to wear."

Kouga then suggested that she remove her wet garments and put on the sleeping kimono that waited just inside the door. After a moment of consideration, Kagome began to shiver.

"Turn around, Kouga," Kagome said as she picked up the white sleeping kimono from the tray by the door. He hesitated, grinning at her until it became quite clear that she was not amused.

"Okay, okay," he said, holding up his hands in some semblance of defeat. He then turned to face the wall while Kagome hurriedly peeled off the clothing and wrapped herself in the fresh kimono. After snugly tying her obi, she announced that it was safe to turn around.

"So," Kagome said as she sank down to the floor at Kouga's side. Again, she tucked her thighs up to her chest and hugged her knees. "How did you know I was here?"

"That female, the slayer-"

"Sango," Kagome filled in the blank for him.

"Yeah, Sango, she came out to my den and told me you where you were. Was she ever pregnant! I'd never let my woman out in that condition." He folded his arms across his chest.

Kagome leaned closer in excitement. "How did she look? Was she all right?"

"She looked pregnant," said Kouga, a little irked at having to repeat himself. For Kagome, however, he would make that sacrifice. "She was good, though. She didn't say much, just that you were stuck with this mutt and that you could probably use some company."

"That was sweet of her." Kagome's eyes slid from Kouga to the brazier. The thought of Sango triggered a nostalgia Kagome had hoped would not arise. As is the case of soldiers who ride into battle together, they had bonded. Of course, riding into love with their men had rather resembled charging the fray, and they had often sought comfort in the simply femininity of the other. Over years of having to periodically escape hanyou and monk, they had developed their own little sorority: "Alpha Delta Avoidance-for-the-Sake-of-Sanity."

Kouga shifted, edging closer to Kagome. He raised his right knee and rested his elbow upon it while his left leg remained bent on the floor. Kagome scooted backwards slightly, leaving to the brazier the view up Kouga's fur skirt. The brazier blushed and burned a little hotter.

"If I can't ask you how you're doing, what can I ask you?" said Kouga.

"Is my quiet company not enough?" Kagome asked, mustering a jesting tone. Truthfully, she would have simply enjoyed his presence, conservational or not.

A thick,naked arm snaked around Kagome's waist and tugged her closer. "Just looking at you is enough for me, Kagome," he cooed into her ear. Kouga was rewarded with a sudden influx of blood in Kagome's cheeks and the ear he had just blown across.

She squirmed and pushed against him before realizing how intimate it felt to put her hands to his side. His fingers stroked her her shoulder. His bare thigh touched hers. His breath caressed the side of her face, triggering chills and goosebumps.

These sensations were not foreign. There was a time when such subtle, gentle touches had been welcomed and savored like gooey chocolate licked off one's fingers. But not with Kouga. Kagome had never considered sharing such proximity with the wolf, and in her state of mourning, the thought seemed even less appealing.

But she felt that spark, that fiery snake that climbed up her spine to the back of her neck, through her scalp, tickling her pituitary before gliding down through her solar plexus and curling up languidly into a slippery ball in the tight cavern that Kagome had shared with one other person. The snake made her want to share it again.

"Kouga," she said lowly, inching away from him. "I'm sorry, but... just stop."

He frowned, tightening his grip around her. His free hand fell to her knee which he began massaging gently. "What's the problem?" he asked, his voice as smooth and lubricious as Kagome felt. "Dog breath's not around, for once, to stop us."

There are many ways to ruin a potential sexual encounter. To this day, vomiting is one of the more effective techniques, though an abundance of body hair has been known to have the same effect. The modality with the highest success rate, 97, is the breathy, hot whispering of, "Just ignore that rash, baby. The doctor said it was nothing." (Pause for a moment and consider the three percent that have proceeded from there. Fear not for your low standards until you are of that moiety.)

Kouga, having never resorted to such evasive tactics, just hit the height of his career in degreasing women.

Kagome leap back and slapped the wolf across the face. When that still did not mitigate the wound he had just mindlessly torn open in her chest, she slapped him again. Kouga, unsuspecting and unaware of his solecism, sat dumbfounded.

"You insensitive jerk!" Kagome cried, balling her fists, one of which still stung, close to her chest. Her entire body trembled, shaking the tears from her eyes. "You... you... boorish..." she dissolved into sobs before she could find a suitable noun.

"What was that for?!" snapped Kouga, holding his cheek.

Kagome, with a hand to her eyes, turned away. She felt the burning urge to turn around and slap the wolf again while also considering how tempting it was to simply lay down and sob. When both options seemed inappropriate, Kagome wiped her eyes and clamped an iron hand on the sutra that would seal away her tears for the time being.

"Have a little respect," Kagome ground out, willing herself to turn back to Kouga who was gradually inching back toward her.

"For who? Inuyasha?"

"Yes!" Kagome exclaimed. "Have a little respect for the dead! I can't believe you, Kouga."

The wolf youkai fell silent, watching Kagome.

This was new development for him. Inuyasha was dead? And if she was now living with Sesshomaru, that meant... Kouga's eyes widened as realization hit him: Kagome and Inuyasha had been mates. The Demon Lord was her brother-in-law, and in demon society, that made him responsible for her well-being until she found another mate. Kouga looked away, bemoaning his now negated chances at getting the girl horizontal.

"You and Inuyasha...?" Kouga began, slowing looking back at the flickering flames in the brazier.

"Yeah," Kagome muttered, her soul nearly extinguished from the exertion required to remember Inuyasha's death and be angry with Kouga at the same time. Her voice was thin. "Sorry I never told you."

"But, I always said you were mine. He knew I'd laid claim to you," he wolf grumbled, licking the wound dealt to his pride.

Kagome let out a short, joyless laugh. "He'd laid claim long before you ever did."

"So why didn't you say something?" His fists tightened in his lap.

She winced at the bruises in his voice. "I guess I never had the heart. You... you just seemed happy to think I was yours. I didn't really think you were serious."

"So you'd try to make someone happy even if it meant lying to them?"

"I never lied to you!" she declared. "I never said I was..." When affront required too much energy, Kagome melted into weak exasperation. She mustered a feeble glare at Kouga until her gas light came on and she saw that she was running on fumes. With a painfully resigned sigh, Kagome shook her head. "I'm going to bed, Kouga. You can stay if you want to. I just... I'm tired."

Standing up was never more of a challenge. Kagome felt heavy like her body was more inclined to sink through the floor and into the earth then settle in her futon. Devouring the short distance between the brazier and her bed, Kagome felt like her back was breaking. Finally, she found herself standing over the futon, the expanse of cotton and cushioning, too large for her. Too large for one person.

Kagome slipped into her bed and tugged the blanket up to her shoulders. The border of the cover rested there for a moment before creeping up to her nose, swallowing Kagome into a chilly, empty darkness. She watched Kouga. Kouga watched the fire. The fire watched the Oscar-winning performance up Kouga's skirt.

The ookamiyoukai, now nothing but a silhouette against the dying orange glow, heaved a long sigh. His armor and fur-clad back rose and fell, the muscles in his shoulders tensing into hard ridges before softening into gentle hills. His clawless hands rested on his knees for a moment, before he began to climb to his very long legs.

Kagome watched him move, feeling guilty. She knew not what was chewing at her harder: having just been very short with her friend or enjoying the unhurried show being put on by Kouga's hamstrings and quadriceps. "Are you leaving?" Kagome asked quietly.

Kouga did not look at her. "No," replied. "I'm just taking off my armor." He worked the leather buckles on the sides with dexterity, his long, brown tail flicking occasionally. He shed the plates like an insect shedding its spent exoskeleton and set it aside.

"I set up a futon for you over there," Kagome said, pointing with her hand close to her chest at the spare bed unfolded at the opposite end of the room. Kouga looked at the proffered pallet for a long moment.

"Thanks," he said before lowering himself to the tatami next to Kagome's futon. Instinctively, she pushed away from him.

"Kouga," she warned. "You're sleeping over there for a reason."

Settling down on his back, Kouga folded his arms behind his head. "You don't trust me?" he asked, his smirk leaking into his voice.

Kagome frowned. That was a loaded question if she ever heard one. Yes, she trusted him to save her life if she were peril. No, she did not trust him not to feel her up in the night.

"Just know that there is a world of pain in store for you if you try anything," Kagome threatened. Kouga chuckled.

"I wouldn't be able to talk to you from all the way on the other side of the room, would I?" he asked as he crossed his ankles and shifted his shoulders from one side to the other.

Sinking further into her futon, Kagome said, "I haven't been sleeping very well lately, Kouga. I don't mean to be rude, but I need some rest."

"If you haven't slept well before, what makes you think you're going to sleep any better with me next to you?"

"I'll be more motivated to pretend with you next to me, and if I pretend long enough, I might actually fall asleep."

Kouga hesitated. He made a quiet thoughtful noise in his throat before rolling over onto his stomach. He rested his chin on his wrists, his tail now free to swish at will. "I'm sorry... about earlier."

"I never thought I'd hear that from you, Kouga."

He shrugged. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

"You didn't know."

They fell into a still hush, the air around them coming to a restful repose from sound other than the wind, who had sensed her cue and picked up her tune once more. Now, it seemed, she had called in a few friends to lend a harmony to her song.

Kagome listened to Kouga's gentle breathing and observed his sides expanding and contracting in time. He was a pleasant sight under his armor, one that Kagome had never beheld before. He was ridged and valleyed in a pattern that eons of evolution had deemed most pragmatic; he was a wonderful specimen of experiments gone very, very right. The corrugated surface of his flank was exposed by his raised arm, and Kagome could see his ribs shifting under his skin, sliding from one position to another in the most even, graceful transition. His lattisimus dorsi, another taut muscle that formed a long, curved escarpment across his side, looked inviting, beckoning fingers like brave or unrealistic or desperate pioneers to walk its slope.

He looked very touchable. Kagome thought she was going to cry.

"Kagome?" Kouga asked, breaking the heavy silence.

Willing the quaver from her voice, she replied, "Yes."

"How did Inuyasha die?"

How she had dreaded this question. How she had eluded the topic. How she had run, gasping for breath until she spat out her blood and her legs went numb just to avoid this remembrance. But she knew it would come. She knew the voracious shame would suffocateher if she never said it out loud.

"I killed him."