A Rickety Bridge

A/N: This chapter references parts 357-358 of vol. 36 of the Inuyasha manga. Like the battle in the stomach of the stone oni, it was something I did not want to adapt, but certainly needed to acknowledge. The side plot of the medicine seller conman is not mine but Rumiko Takahashi’s.

Chapter Eight: Night Bathing

Miroku was in a foul mood.

He cursed the ceiling as he lay on his back, alone in the room he would be sharing with the presently absent Inuyasha. Sango had been nothing but tolerant and affectionate over the past few days since their fight and he couldn’t help but wonder what she was playing at. It was as though she had simply cooled and let go of the issue. This was utterly maddening. He was so rankled, so flummoxed inside—how could she have settled into a state of acceptance and peace so easily? It was as though she were content with their current arrangement, as though she forgave him his flaws and indecencies.

His own mother never forgave his father for leaving her alone to raise their child, brave the scornful glares, and die young and violently without him. She had spoken acidly of his father’s faults from the earliest Miroku could remember—of his desertion, of his emotional indifference, and, most bitterly, of his philandering. Miroku hadn’t even begun to lie to Sango, to mistreat her, to neglect her. He knew it, and she new it. He had never wholly tried to suppress his nature or compensate for his insufficiencies—never honestly wanted to, but that was different now. He longed to do right by her. Still, his hedonistic temptations were great, his strength of will to resist weak, and he had already failed her in so many ways. He never should have taken her. If he truly cared for her, he should have never. There was so much she deserved, so much that she needed he couldn’t give her. Harder was knowing that this would not be the last time he failed her; his selfish disposition was to be reckoned with. He would slip again and probably again after that. Yet Sango had pardoned him before the fact.

That should have made him feel better, he supposed, but it did more the opposite. The argument they’d had after making love in Kaede’s hut had spelled things out for him, revealed the ugly face Sango’s love had taken on. She recognized his death as imminent and thus absolved him of all crimes past, standing, and pending. It was all because he would die. She was his now because she wouldn’t have to be a year from now, because she wouldn’t have to be for the rest of her life. Which meant she wasn’t his at all.

He didn’t know when or how, but there had been a complete shift of power in his relationship with Sango. Just a month ago he had been in control. He cared for her, but she loved him. He wanted sex, but she wanted marriage. He was confident in his experience, in his desires—but she was floundering, too unsure of her appeal and too preoccupied by the hunt for Naraku and her brother. He had been more certain, more free—because he wanted less. But it seemed Sango had had an epiphany. And it seemed he’d had one as well. Buddha knew how, but in the dawn after she had given herself to him, they had walked away changed people. He now wanted so much, perhaps more than he was qualified to give or accept in practice—but he wanted it. And she wanted so very little. She now expected absolutely nothing but the barest minimum he was capable of giving her. The shackles he had always dreaded were nowhere to be found and he...was so very disappointed.

Perhaps it was because this development reflected the most unflattering image of himself he could recall seeing. Sango thought more highly of him than any other—she loved him. And in him she saw a figure so degenerate he was beyond reclamation.

Such was the crutch of his dilemma: did he truly desire more from his relationship with Sango, or was he simply offended and hurt that she did not?

If Miroku were honest (a recent predilection that was, to his horror, becoming something of a habit), it didn’t much matter. His feelings, whatever the hell they were, had no real bearing on the state of events. Something inside Sango had hardened and he was fairly certain that no softening on his part could reverse the damage.

Perhaps it was this futility that had him so vexed. He was a pessimist by nature, but never before had his every course of action seemed so pointless.

Or maybe it was none of this, but rather that Sango had allowed a mosquito youkai to ravish her neck, suck her blood, in the name of a product that did not exist.

Miroku, Sango, Inuyasha, Kagome, and Shippou had gone in search of the so-called medicine peddler after hearing rumors that he might have an all-purpose antitoxin that would protect Miroku from the Saimyoushou poison. Soon after setting out, however, it became obvious that their quarry was, in all actuality, more handsome lecherous swindler than town savior. The youkai had also taken an alarming liking to Sango, a liking she seemed, at least superficially, to reciprocate. The karmic irony of the situation was hardly lost on Miroku, and it left a bad taste in his mouth to consider the possibility that he may be more Sango’s “type” than an extreme deviation caused by an overflow of uncontrollable amorous feeling and bad judgment. Belonging to a type of man Sango was drawn to was much less flattering than being the one and only who had lead her down the dark path of temptation.

Jealousy. There it was again, and unfortunately it didn’t seem to be going anywhere.

He couldn’t help but notice that she hadn’t come to him tonight. It was the first night in almost a week that she had not come to him.

It was no use, Miroku realized bitterly, sitting up and tossing the covers off his legs. He would not be sleeping tonight. He slid his feet into his sandals and pulled on his robes. Shambling to the door, he picked up his shakujou from where it rested and leaned on it slightly while he slid the door open.

He had taken more poison than he ever had during the battle inside the stone oni, and even now, a week and a half later, his body was feeling the effects. His lungs burned as well from the amount of miasma he had inhaled while holding up the barrier around the others. Still, he knew he was far better off than Kagome, who still winced every time she took a step.

It was dark outside, and quiet. The veranda was deserted when Miroku stepped onto it. Something about this town seemed familiar and he wondered absently if he had passed through before. It was entirely likely as he had been nomadically moving through this region since the age of thirteen, but it may also just be that he had seen so many towns through his travels that they were all beginning to look alike.

He could see light glowing through the paper wall of the room next to his where the girls and Shippou would be sleeping, but Inuyasha was nowhere to be seen. This was not surprising. The hanyou would much rather sleep outdoors than in—especially when he and Kagome where quarreling (a feat Inuyasha had already managed despite the good will he had incurred during their last battle).

Thinking that a soak would do him a world of good, both for his overwhelmed mind and his weak limbs, Miroku set off toward the bathhouse. His sandals were nearly silent against the soft dirt and grass, still somewhat damp from the morning rain. He should have taken that slight slickness more seriously, he realized too late. The mud beneath him seemed to become impossibly slippery in the space of a single step, and the world toppled. His reflexes were slowed; he made a desperate grab for his shakujou to steady himself, but only succeeded in cutting his hand on the rounded blade.

It seemed he’d found a puddle, Miroku concluded as he lay there on his back, watery mud seeping into his robes. He could have sat right up—or, more precisely, he should have. But he didn’t. He found himself lying there for a very long moment. He lifted his cut hand to examine it in the moonlight.

Blood. It glittered as it ran down his palm to his wrist. The universe was perhaps trying to tell him something—the universe seemed to be doing that a lot lately.

Fuck the universe.

He pulled himself into sitting position with effort. His back ached from the rock he had landed on, and he winced as he used his shakujou to heave onto his feet.

Well, he thought as he took stock of himself, what had started as a whim had become a necessity. Mud was in his hair and in his sandals; a bath was sounding like a definition of paradise at this point.

But when he arrived at the bathhouse, he saw a very familiar yukata and slayer’s suit folded neatly beside the door to the women’s hot spring.

He knew he shouldn’t, of course, but the need to see her was sudden and great. He pulled open the door silently. Down passed cobbled the path, Sango was waist deep in water soaping her naked breasts.

Miroku stood silent and almost frozen. She was so beautiful and so very far away. The droplets of water dotting her skin caught the light of the moon in such a way that, had he not known slightly better, he would have wondered if perhaps he had stumbled upon a goddess bathing, as in some bedtime tale. He stood there like that for a long time, his eyes moving over her in infinitesimal increments. This moment seemed a very special one, and Miroku knew it would be fleeting. Right now she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. But he was a cynical enough realist to understand that this would not always be the case. She would grow old. Or maybe it would happen before that—maybe he would take her beauty for granted, maybe as early as tomorrow. There was also an extreme subjectivity to the moment he couldn’t help but admit to; his vision was clouded by the tender feelings he had for this woman. Sango was uncommonly lovely, yes, but his head was aware of more beautiful women in his past and the probability of more in the future. His heart, however, was beating in a frenetically awed way that disagreed.

The realization was something that hit him squarely in the stomach. It was rather uncomfortable and certainly unwanted, but for the first time actually considered the nature of love and the possibility of it manifesting in him. Did he…love this girl?

The question frightened him to no small degree, but mostly he was puzzled. He thought about it as she dunked her head under water to rinse her hair. He didn’t think so. But then how would he be able to tell? He had never loved anyone, after all. Not even his mother or Mushin. He cared for them, of course, but not in the selfless way people who were afflicted of this emotion described. And then he forced himself to consider if perhaps he was deliberately misreading the warm, swelling feeling in his chest because he did not want to be in love with her. Nevertheless, the fact that he was even asking himself this question was disturbingly monumental. He had never done so before.

Miroku closed the door as silently as he had opened it. The idea of bathing with Sango, of making love to her, did not sound as appealing as it probably should. In fact, just now, he’d rather she didn’t exist.

He walked to the other side of the hut, hesitating just slightly before pulling the door to the men’s hot spring open and stepping through. The steaming pool was deserted and he was relieved. Leaning his shakujou against the wall of the bathhouse, Miroku advanced toward the water, disrobing as he stepped. He tossed his clothes into the spring before him as they now needed washing every bit as much as he did. He dunked himself completely under, the water scalding his skin, and Miroku grimaced in pleasure.

Breaking the surface, he breathed in the steam, willing it to clear his head. It had the desired effect and he felt rejuvenated. There was a problem that needed to be dealt with. He was disgusted with how it was affecting him and how long it was taking for him to puzzle his way through it. He gritted his teeth in determination. He would not leave this fucking hot spring until he figured it out—if he really was teetering on the edge of falling in something like love with Sango, the brooding had to end now.

First he needed to turn the fact that he was a fatalistic bastard in his favor. Rather than using it as an excuse to mope in his room, he resolved to implement it toward the preservation of his sanity. He couldn’t change what he couldn’t change: his damned curse, the fact that they were at war, Sango’s feelings, his feelings.

But he could manipulate.

He was obviously unsatisfied, unhappy. So, what was it that he wanted?

Miroku pondered as he beat the mud from his clothes with a rock, confident that the answer would come to him. He knew he wanted her, of course, but he believed he could be more specific. He had her body, he had her love, he had her forgiveness. Shit, but that was a lot. It was more than any average man could hope for, yet still he was restless. Could the truth really be so simple—the very thing that he had been raging morosely over all night? Was he really so disappointed with Sango’s loss of innocence? Did he just want her back to the way that she was?

If so the universe had not only a sense of humor but of schadenfreude as well. He was the one responsible for that change. Naraku, of course, had started the process, but it was Miroku who had delivered the killing blow to the naïve girl and had created the jaded woman. This new Sango lacked wonder and faith in the world...in him.

He froze before bringing the rock down again, something in him chafing raw at the honesty of his thoughts. Yes—yes, that was it. What he missed, what he wanted was the way Sango would look at him with something near worship in her eyes.

The rock dropped into the water with a sickening plop. Buddha help him. He was a big enough bastard for hurting and embittering her so completely in the first place, but wanting that spark back in her eyes just so he could do it all over again....

And just like that, the fight went out of him. Moments before he had been so invigorated, resolving to manipulate his heart’s desire into his hands. But he couldn’t do that. True, it was within his capabilities; he was nothing if not a conman—he lied so well he convinced himself most days. And he had other weapons to use against her: her innate goodness, her desire to believe in the impossible, and most of all, her love for him. He could make her look at him like that again in under a week if he focused all his energies. But he couldn’t do that.

Imagining the consequences such egotism on his part would have for her brought a physical ache.

Fuck, it was true—it was all true. And he was in trouble.

This was foreign ground to him. He had sacrificed his health for others, had gone into battle ready to give his life for others. It was easy—probably because he never had long to live to begin with, and he’s never had much to live for. But to sacrifice his happiness for someone else....

One of the reasons he was such a selfish pick in the first place was his commitment to squeeze every bit of joy and pleasure from what time he did have. The fact that he was even considering giving up any of that for Sango’s benefit meant that he had lost his mind.

His lips twisting in disgust, he flung his clothes over the line to dry. No, he gritted, no. He was no altruistic ninny. He now knew what he wanted, and Sango was hardly made of crystal. If he could bleed for her, then certainly she could bleed a little for him. If outright deceit was now abhorrent to him (a greater life-style crippler he’d never faced), but meek self-sacrifice was equally unacceptable, then surely there was some middle ground. Surely there was a promise he could make her that he could keep.

He was pulling on a communal robe to wear back to his room when he heard the cry of alarm from the town watchtower. Miroku didn’t spare time to rinse out his sandals before sliding into them and he snatched up his shakujou on his hasty exit of the bathhouse.

The men of the village were already gathering in the center of town with their simple weapons, torchlight casting shadows more than anything. From the corner of his eye, Miroku caught a flash of red just before Inuyasha landed beside him.

“Attack?” he asked.

“So it would seem,” Miroku nodded. “I hadn’t heard any rumors about youkai in this area. It could be anything.”

Kagome was running up behind them, Shippou and Kirara trailing after her. “Hakudoushi?” she asked, anxious and readying her bow.

“Perhaps,” Miroku conceded.

But Inuyasha was sniffing the air and shaking his head, “No. Worse.”

“Worse?” she asked.

It was then that Miroku saw the familiar tight tornado over the nearest rooftop, coming to an abrupt halt just before the group. It seemed Kouga had found them.