Watching

Author's Note: This is quite early on in the AU...several months after Miroku takes Inuyasha from the monestary. This is all Sesshoumaru's POV as he tries to decide if he will interfere or not. I think he's a bit of a voyuer. *chuckles* There's mentions of shouta smexings but nothing really explicit.

Please enjoy!!

For jenerik_brand

Watching

by Talon


I have been watching them now for a few days. Unseen, undetected. For years now, I had thought my brother dead. I refused to allow myself to regret my decisions. But…he is not. The things I have been sensing the last few months did not go away, and finally I see why.


My brother is alive. He did not die with his worthless human mother. He did not die after she died, in that wretched monastery. Inuyasha is quite alive.


It is unusual to see a youkai with a human; much less a youkai child with a human adult. Humans cannot tell my brother is half blooded, and youkai would have to get close to him to tell properly. This human, this monk claims ownership of my brother. Claims paternity. I do not know yet if I will allow this. I do not know yet if I will interfere.


This is the third night I have watched them. I can go for several weeks without sleep, though I enjoy the act and the dreams. The monk sleeps with the puppy cushioned on one arm, the other arm over him, holding his shakajou. If he sleeps sitting up, my brother curls up in his lap, like a tame dog. Every once in awhile, his eyes will open and he will look around. He might sense an inkling of my presence. My brother is oblivious in his sleep. I am grudgingly impressed. Mildly. Tonight is much like the other nights. The monk dislikes sleeping out of doors. The pup doesn’t seem to mind at all where he sleeps, as long as he’s with the monk. Disturbing.


Even more disturbing is the sexual overtones that become blatantly obvious when they stop for the night. When I first observed it, I assumed the child was forced or coerced. I had not realized I had decided to step in if the boy were in distress or in pain until it became obvious he was not. The second night I observed to my disgust, full penetration. I would have thought it impossible for a fully grown man to take a boy the size of my brother without pain. Apparently my assumption is incorrect. Inuyasha’s enthusiasm for the act bothered me, greatly.


Tonight however seems different. Something is…off. I cannot put my finger on it. I muse over possibilities until I hear a soft, whining, “Noooo Daddy,” from the boy, and I bring my attention back sharply. If he is forcing the child…but he is not. The monk’s voice is soft and concerned as he presses the boy gently, to tell him what is the matter. I sneer silently at his words, “Did Daddy scare you? You can tell me baby, what’s the matter?” As if a mere human were reason for a dog demon to be frightened, even one this small.


Sure enough, the pup is not frightened. He is however, ill. Or at least not feeling well. And the rest of the night is dull, spent watching the monk fuss over the boy, making him tea, making him warm and comfortable, rubbing his belly which seems to be the source of complaint until the brat passes whatever has made him miserable. And when the boy sleeps at last, in his “father’s” arms, the monk does not. He holds him, stroking his hair and ears as he sleeps, until the boy wakes, a few hours past dawn.


I am still not sure what to make of this, even as I watch the monk kiss my brother, softly at first, then watch my brother’s arms go around the monk’s neck as he licks at the monk’s lips. I watch, still undetected, unseen as the human who claims paternity over my brother cradles the hanyou against him and kisses him again, this time with an open mouth and a tongue my brother seems to welcome.


I admit to being surprised when it goes no further; the monk helps my brother dress in ridiculously feminine clothing, they eat from food they carry and begin walking again, though the human does insist on carrying the brat for the first few miles. He does that quite a lot. The boy is perfectly capable of walking, and yet, out of the blue sometimes the monk will scoop him up and carry him on a hip, his shoulder, his back. Or the pup will whine and hold his arms up to be carried.


I admit too, Inuyasha is far smaller than he should be. He passed his first decade two years ago, if I remember the year of his birth correctly. He should not be as small as he is, even allowing for his half-blooded state. I do not know why this is. This also bothers me.


As the hours pass, it becomes clear the monk has a destination in mind for the day. At midday, Inuyasha whines for food, and the monk pauses only long enough to give the child cold meat and onigiri to eat as they walk. Apparently the village is not far. It is not. It is a fair sized village. It will make things more difficult. But not impossible. Inuyasha does not complain. I am surprised I expect him to. His size is deceiving. He eats his food without protest and when he finishes he is scooped up again to be carried. He sucks his fingers as he did when he was an infant, newly born, resting his head on the human’s shoulder.


It is just two or so hours more walk before they reach the village, and when they do the human picks up Inuyasha again. I frown slightly, then see the reason why at once. The reaction to the child’s obvious youkai heritage is not welcoming. I can see it in the suspicious gazes, hear it in the murmurs. I know the pup can too by the way his ears go flat to his skull. The monk nuzzles him and speaks softly, reassuring words. I despise humans.


Inuyasha is surprised when they take lodgings without doing anything else. I know this because he says so to his…father. The monk reassures him without explaining himself, taking possession of their room, and then promptly taking him out again.


This time I understand. There is a large hot spring near the village, and the monk intends to make use of it. He bypasses the bathhouse attached to the hot spring…the obvious one that is. Just beyond it however is a well hidden and secluded spring. It is delightful and only difficulty of access keeps the humans from claiming ownership of it as well. The rocks don’t bother my brother at all who scampers up them, bounding from one rock to the next, obviously recovered from the night before. The monk climbs more slowly but with no less competence.


The spring is met with earsplitting squeals of delight by Inuyasha and laughter by the monk as the boy strips naked and splashes in at once. He surfaces, making a pained noise, and I finally can see all of him clearly. And I can hear the monk.


“Is the water too hot for your back baby?”


His back…and when he stands up on a rock and turns to answer…his rump and legs. But worst by far on his back. Scars upon scars, some still welted. Still healing closed. Still bruised. All of them red, thick and painful looking. It infuriates me. And for a moment I feel…worry? If Father knew…but Father is dead, and I push it out of my mind. Inuyasha answers and splashes back into the water. It is not too hot; it just stings for a moment. I am not surprised. I am surprised at the extent of the scarring. A youkai child should not scar like that. Should not heal that poorly. I am not fool enough to suspect the monk contributed to any of those scars. He is not the type to strike a child. And Inuyasha shows him perfect trust. A pup would not respond that way to one who had hurt him like this.


I will find out however.


For now, I watch as they play and wash and soak, the monk agreeing to toss the brat in over and over until they both tire after checking the depth of the spring. There is more revolting kissing. I am close enough to smell them and the puppy is relaxed. The monk however is less so. I wonder why.


They have been sitting together and soaking for several minutes in silence when I have my answer.


“Inuyasha…” I watch as he strokes the boy’s hair back from his forehead.


“Hmmm?”


The monk sighs. I can hear it over the whisper of the wind in the trees. “I am sorry baby, but I think this is a good time to do it.”


I frown openly at my brother’s sudden tenseness. It is almost, but not quite, fear. “I…I don’t’ want to, please Daddy.”


“I know, but I think this time I must insist.” I find myself narrowing my eyes.


“But it hurts.” Hurts?


“A small hurt now perhaps. But it will feel better after, isn’t that so?” What is he planning to do, I wonder.


It surprises me that the pup does not move away, but instead crawls to sit in the monk’s lap. “Yes. But I don’t like the hurting.”


“I know. I don’t like it either.” My eyes follow his hand and he retrieves a small jar tied to a rock with a slim cord. Why had I not noticed this before? It comes out of the water, the crockery it is made from hot as the monk cradles the puppy in his lap and sets the jar down beside them, out of the water. “I don’t like that they still hurt you baby. This will help.” What is he talking about?


The puppy closes his eyes and shivers slightly. I do not like my uncertainness. I do not like that I am clearly missing something in their communication. It irks me.


“Would you like to do it here, in the water, or to lie down over in the grass?” It cannot be what I am thinking. I have seen how the monk…I have seen them be sexually intimate. It does not frighten the brat. He does not act like this.


“On…on the grass, I think.” The puppy’s voice is soft, and without another word I watch as the monk carries him back to where their clothes lay scattered. I watch as the monk spreads out his robes and lays my brother on them, and I watch as he rolls over soundlessly to show his small, now very red back. His skin is flushed from the springs, the scars more livid than before.


My eyes narrow; and I close them as I call myself eight kinds of fool as the monk begins to slowly spread salve from the jar into the wounds. Idiot. Simple minded dolt. Halfwit. Imbecile. Jackass. The brat whimpers softly, and I can see why. Even warmed by the hot water, the salve is thick, and so strong I can smell it where I stand. It pulls at the damaged skin no matter how careful the monk is with his fingers.


I can hear the monk singing to the brat…some stupid human tune about happily ever after and love. Over and over again as he works the thick salve into the wounds, the words pour like syrup. It actually is successful in relaxing the boy. I watch as his toes unclench, and his hands relax on the monk’s robes. He still whines now and again but he is surprisingly stoic through the operation. He sheds few tears and not once does he pull away from the fingers.


I do not understand why or how this ningen has gained so much trust from my brother. I do not understand how he can do something that so obviously hurts the puppy, and not just a little bit, but enough to bring tears to his eyes, and voice to his pain, and yet he looks at the monk over his shoulder now and again with a calm, unafraid gaze, even as the tears shine against the amber.


It seems to go on forever, but it is over before I realize it. The monk wraps the puppy in a drying cloth and holds him, still crooning to him. “Such a good, brave boy, such a good boy, my good boy, my little ‘Yasha.” Senseless babbling. Still, for a moment I hear Father’s voice in my head. “I know it hurts, little one, but you are being so brave. Breathe…that’s right. My brave son.” My ears flick irritably. This is not the same thing at all. Father…well, he was my parent. This ningen has no connection to my brother, no blood, no right to soothe and reassure him.


It is dull, watching them. It is dull watching the monk laugh and drink sake at the eating house later. It is dull watching him feed my brother from his hands. A kept dog. That is what he thinks of the puppy. That is all. I remind myself of that often as I watch the monk carry the sleepy child from the eating house to the inn and prepare him for bed. I remind myself as the monk gently wipes the boy down and dresses him in a light shift, and I remind myself again when they lay on the futon together, the puppy pressed as close to the monk as he can get without actually crawling inside his skin.


Father would not approve, I think to myself, as the puppy sleepily pesters the monk for a story. Father would be furious, I think to myself when the story ends, and the kissing begins. Father would make this human beg for death, I growl silently when the monk wrings a sobbing completion from the boy with his mouth, then holds him, soothing and calming him.


And that annoying little voice reminds this Sesshoumaru, as the puppy’s little, breathless voice declares his love for his ‘father’ and quickly drops off to sleep that Father would indeed be furious to find out that his eldest son had forsaken his only brother and let the little hanyou’s life come to this.


To be continued…