(A/N: Hey y'all! I posted this to my tumblr a few weeks ago and wanted to put it up here. MirSan, canon, short one-shot told in small moments. A HUGE shout-out to my friends on tumblr for being so amazingly supportive, y'all mean the world to me and you know who you are. Inspired heavily by narqueen and her stunning writing.)

When she first sees him, there is blood on her mind, in her mouth; her heated eyes focus on the red and silver in front of her and hardly notice the other blurs of color, the blue and violet a dull splash out of frame. He is background noise to the roaring chorus of vengeance vengeance vengeance pounding in her ears, the sounds of metal clashing with bone and scraping against cloth and ripping flesh but not enough. She is equal parts fury and adrenaline and unsustainable, and the blotches of colors fade to black when everything hits her all at once like a chain scythe at her back (the wound is crying out, pulsing alongside the ghosts of arrowheads, re-opening and spreading its stain across the fabric of her uniform from a culture that is dead and dies with her, if she were to let herself die). She regains consciousness long enough to learn the truth, long enough to hear that you should have believed the lie and killed him, then at least you could die happy.

She sees him again days later, when she finally awakes to the sound of bickering amongst digging graves and the smell of incense and soil and home, and glimpses him – shovel in hand, robe's sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, forehead pricked with sweat – as she silently takes her place in front of the row of her buried kin and wonders if she should be buried too, curses the fact that her family is buried at the palace of their murderer and she is here, above ground, suffocating all the same.

When she first mistrusts him, she pinches the hand resting on her thigh in warning, lifting it between her fingers like an overgrown insect. When she continues to mistrust, she delivers a slap to his face when he is too close and she lets her guard down (you misunderstand me, he assures), she hits him with the nearest object she can find when she feels his cursed hand on her (again the guard was down, again she fell for it), she slinks away when left alone with him while the others are out and she is still healing (what's wrong, he asks as if he does not know). And so she watches him through narrowed daggers for eyes, harsh whispers aimed at him unsubtly exchanged between herself and her companions, judgment thrown over her shoulder while he flirts with and comforts other women and is it my imagination, Sango, or are you a bit on edge lately?

And surely it was just their imagination.

When she first doubts her mistrust, he takes a serious cut to his arm in battle, the result of throwing himself between her and an oncoming attack like a careless shield (like a man not also made of flesh and blood, like a fool, like a…). When her second-guesses turn to third and fourth and fifth-guesses, he is collecting the remains of her family, gingerly placing pieces of armor inside of his outer robe to carry back to her village for a proper ceremony and burial if that's alright with you, Sango; he is risking his life by sucking in poison while she is elsewhere, sword in hand and aimed at Kohaku's neck because it's the only way, because he'll never be free, because don't worry, I'll follow shortly, I won't let you die alone; he is wincing in pain as his eyes find hers that are bleary and tired and tearful, and he tells her there's still hope, so please, keep smiling – and for some reason she can't quite place, she wants to smile and she wants to believe, and she is grateful that he tells her what she can't (won't) tell herself.

And then she lets her guard down and there's an opening and he takes it and it's back to this, it's back to dancing the line between you-are-kind-to-me-when-I-am-unkind-to-me and your-hands-do-not-belong-anywhere-near-me; but thank goodness he does this because each time she allows herself to feel a bit weightless and at ease around him, he reminds her what a foolish feeling that is as she comes crashing back down to earth, to reality, to now. So it's another lump on his head, another ruined moment, and it'll happen again, she's sure.

Except it does happen again and she's left feeling even more disappointed this time than the last, why more than any other woman, your concern makes me the happiest could throw her off so much that she forgets the formula, fails to see the next step coming, wishes his consistency was a little less consistent.

When she first lays everything on the line for him, it is after numerous trials and tribulations, it is after countless battles against enemies while their backs are pressed to each other, it is after she gives as good as she gets and he does the same, it is after living through hellfire when they should have never awoken to see the smoke had cleared.

But those moments were never everything, they were never choices made to abandon everything, they were we'll come out of this alive and no, we can't die here! not like this! and they were lost consciousness, choice ripped from them and outcome out of their hands. But it's different now, because now she's regaining consciousness, and she's waking up underneath him and he's hardly breathing, if at all, and she's confused and asking for answers and she can't ask him. She sees the oncoming threat and remembers the hit to her body with a wince, and she puts the pieces together until she arrives at the only plausible conclusion: he tried to save her at the cost of his own life (like a man not also made of flesh and blood, like a fool, like a…). So she shakes him, crying, begging for him to open his eyes and even when he does, the tears don't stop, because surely they're already dead.

When she first lays everything on the line for him, it is when he tells her i'm sorry, please go on without me, at least you should make it and she's shakier but she's also louder when she cries no and if you can't come with me, we'll die here together! because surely, surely, they're already dead.

And then they live, and she kicks her honest vulnerability under the rug of blushes and nervous, avoidant glances because what's the point in opening her heart to him if she has to deal with the consequences, what's the point in confessing to a fool unless that can be the high point, with no room for disappointment and expectations-not-met in the aftermath?

And so hearts pump more steadily and rash in-the-moment promises are forgotten and this way is better, she knows, because she won't set herself up for disappointment, not again. Not again and again and again.

When she first says yes, it is after her body betrays her, is used against her; it is after he subdues her relentless strikes against him, with her dead eyes and sickly mist seeping through her lips, products of possession (because she was weak, because she already wasn't herself, because her vulnerability nearly killed them both). It is after he nearly shatters her pride in one humiliating you are my comrade in battle, that is all we are.

But then he clarifies, he closes the wound before it has a chance to bleed, he asks her not for an heir to avenge him but for a child, for children (ten, twenty) to have after they make it out of this alive.

Together.

And it's a yes squeaked out through the widest smile she's given since before she lost everything.

(But a flirt is a flirt, and a confession is not a transformation, and she wonders if her patience and commitment are a fair trade for an after all this.)

When she first reconsiders a happily ever after with him, she tries admirably to let another mishap slide off her shoulders; but the jealousy piles onto her like stones stacked tightly together, and if stones could whisper she'd hear how many other women have there been and what makes you anything different than another, and no amount of it's alright, it was in the past can quell her nerves. And so with cold fire she tells him that perhaps this won't (can't) work, and the flash of panic and hurt in his eyes is not completely unwanted and she hates herself for it. She flees before she can hear there is only one woman my heart is set on, because jealousy is too loud, too heavy, too impossible to reason with right now.

He redeems himself through heroics and bold declarations and the truth, and she forgives. She tells herself not to get even a bit of enjoyment out of his gruff voice, lacking any kind of composure, calling her "his woman" – because when did she become the sort of woman to flutter over something like that?

That's what he gets, she giggles behind a strategically placed hand, especially when it happens again. Because a flirt is a flirt, and he could benefit occasionally from tasting his own medicine, she thinks.

When she first chooses him, it is perhaps after she has already chosen him in moments of great despair or joy, but now – with clarity and sound mind – she says to the demons inside of her weapon that she will always choose him, that she will fight with every last part of herself but in the end it will always be him she goes to hell and back for (to hell and back with), and that this is the only promise she can ever keep. Help us fight together, she pleads, as he is elsewhere numbing himself of the ability to feel the limitations of poison and pain so that he can help us fight together and when she finds out, it breaks her (the lines of scars trace a pattern from his wrist up his arm, trunk and branches splitting off toward his heart, ready to take him before the hole in his hand rips free first).

Idiot, she wants to curse, but she knows she would do the same. She gathers her courage and covers his lips with hers before she leaves to finish her story so that they can finish his together (I'll be back, I have to come back, please don't die).

Her resolve strengthens with each memory of his compassion and strength toward her and her struggle, her fight; she is flooded with so please, keep smiling and I don't want to see you sad, please tell me if there's anything I can do to help you and don't force yourself to hate him, that is the way of the human heart and we'll save him, Sango.

And they do, and she knows her story will not end until he is saved, too.

When she first begs to him, it is after she shows her desperation and how far she has fallen, it is after he leaves her alone inside the body of their enemy so that his cursed hand does not take her too, and it is after she makes what must be her final attempt to end it all and she fails. So she fastens her greedy hand to his robe, voice cracking in time with the tears pooling in her eyes and spilling over down her cheeks, and begs please, take me with you, and he holds her nearly-lifeless form because this time – unlike any other time – they are surely, surely, surely already dead.

But the tides turn, and they always forget how they turn, how their hopelessness swings back around into determination and steadfastness, and they defeat the demon that ensnared them all because there is no room for broken promises anymore, and when this is all over, let's get married is something worth fighting for.

She is stunned still when he uncovers his hand to find a palm of flesh, unmarred and whole, and her eyes are brimming with tears again but this time they are joy and they are victory, and she lets them fall without shame.

When she first says his name, it is after they are married and they are wrapped in each other's arms, legs and thin blankets tangled between them. It is when her forehead is pressed blissfully to his, and they are all contented sighs and closed eyelids and barely-touching noses. She laces her fingers with his from his once-cursed hand, while his other is preoccupied with the fading scar on her back, tracing lazy circles into her skin. She breathes it out like a prayer, like a song she has wanted to sing for so long.

Miroku.

She wonders why she never said it sooner when he responds by holding her tighter and laughing softly into her hair, all warmth and delight and love.

Finally.