There were a few things Sango had learned over the past two years. She had figured out how to function on a precious thirty minutes of sleep, baby giggles were the sweetest sound on earth, and reading bedtime stories always led to adventures. But there was one lesson in her life that she knew she would never really master - learning how to lose him.
Fandom: Inuyasha Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Romance Rating: T Sequel to: Forever and Always (but can be read as a stand-alone) Pairing(s): Suikotsu/Sango, mentions of Miroku/Sango Word Count: 6,100
Can be found on AO3 and FFN
A fic finally written in its completion for Fleet Week, hosted by @inu-mothership. Thank you for the prompt that finally brought this to its end. And to @fawn-eyed-girl for looking it over and pushing those plot bunnies to the finish.
Excerpt:
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Sango exhaled slowly as she lifted a glass of whiskey to her lips, listening to the clinking of the ice cubes and breathing in a fragrance that only years in an oak barrel could achieve. Already the worries of the day were beginning to fade, even as the first taste touched her lips. She hummed with content. Her tongue slid across her lips to relish every drop as she leaned against the counter and closed her eyes.
Water dripped quietly from the faucet, recently washed dishes piled beside the sink in the drying rack. The silence of the rest of the house was only broken by the sound of the waves crashing in the bay every so often, the smell of a late-night bonfire wafting in through the open window. Most nights were spent like this, alone in the kitchen under the dimmed pendant light.
The whiskey - an old favorite - turned down the volume on her thoughts. It brought her memories of good times past, and she let herself dwell in them rather than think. In these short minutes, she was there and not, existing in two perfect moments. Somehow it steadied her, giving her the resolve to get through another day.
Drunken laughter. Kisses intermingled with whiskey breath. Fingertips brushing over bare skin.
There were a few things Sango had learned over the past three years. She had figured out how to function on a precious thirty minutes of sleep. There was a difference between a hungry-cry and an uncomfortable-cry. Baby giggles were the sweetest sound on earth. Reading bedtime stories would always lead to adventures. Two-year-olds were always mobile. And it was totally okay to call a babysitter just to have a few hours of personal time with her friends, because self-care was important.
But there was one lesson in her life that she knew she would never really master - learning how to lose him.
When she woke up in the morning, there was always a second before she fully awakened in which she would forget. Then another second would pass, Miroku’s name a melancholic whisper on her lips, and she would remember. She would roll over to the other side of the bed, the sheets cold and never holding the scent she used to call home.
Several minutes would pass as she fought to recall what his voice sounded like, the feel of his lips pressed against hers, the way he would laugh. Then there would be a stir in the next room, and she would murmur her daughter’s name, her lips tugging into a smile.
Sango always poured two cups of coffee in the morning, a silent conversation being exchanged in her mind, as she shushed her energized toddler in her high chair. Some habits died hard, and sharing the beginnings of her days with quiet talk of what was to come had always been one of her favorite routines.
Even still, it was strange to wake up in the home Miroku had chosen for them - that on his deathbed, he had surprised her with that house on the hillside they had both adored. There was still so much she needed to do - so many ideas and ambitions they had shared together - but it was slowly shaping into the dream house they had planned to spend their married days in.
“It’s been three years, Sango. It’s time to start dating again,” her mother had told her months ago over the telephone.
She knew her mother didn’t mean anything cruel by it. She was simply trying to help her daughter be happy and move on. But Sango’s parents lived across the country, only visiting a few times out of the year. Her parents had been high school sweethearts and married since they were twenty. They already had their dream of marriage and kids and the white-picket fence.
They simply didn’t understand. Sango’s happily-ever-after had been robbed.
A static-filled cry from the baby monitor pulled Sango out of her thoughts, her glass of whiskey now empty. She inhaled deeply - memories of happier times - and exhaled - the pain of loss palpable - before she set her glass in the sink and turned out the lights.
It had been no secret that losing Miroku - her fiancé, husband, father of her child - wasn’t going to be easy. He had been taken from her so suddenly, the shock alone nearly killed her. But dammit. She had been so naïve to believe it wouldn’t be this hard. She was sure his absence would be something she would never get used to.
