A/N: I started writing this back in 2012, but lost track of the half-finished draft after getting a new laptop. Nearly three years ago, my brother was diagnosed with cancer, so I felt an intense urge to find and finish it.

Chemotherapy schedules vary and depend on a lot of factors. The duration, frequency, number of drugs, and even the side effects differ by patient and cancer type. For the sake of this story, the schedule used is once a week, every week.

It's not tagged, but there is of course (as always) some InuKag in here.

Disclaimer: Don't own anything I'm writing about besides the words.

Week 7

Miroku Tsujitani hated hospitals.

And not in that vague sort of way that everyone hates them because hospitals are the place most associated with being sick or dying. No, he hated them in a way that made him physically uncomfortable—his knees weak, his shoulders stiff, his teeth grinding. It was a borderline phobia.

Still, once a week, every week, he sat in the same waiting room for four hours, staring at the wall across from him. Like every other wall in the building, this one was a neutral off-white color. He had long since learned to tune out the flurry of activity in the background. The conversations and actions of various nurses, doctors, and patients no longer even registered.

Miroku hated hospitals probably because he couldn't do anything to change what happened in them.

His father's lung cancer—the result of years of smoking despite knowing the risk—for example. This was, of course, the reason for Miroku's weekly visits as Mr. Tsujitani underwent chemotherapy.

Just like every other week, Miroku wasn't alone in the waiting room. Nearly two months into his father's treatment, he recognized many of the faces around him. He greeted the doctors with a nod and gave every nurse a pleasant smile and compliment when they retrieved someone to escort them to an exam room. This harmless flirting was something they appreciated (really; it wasn't just his imagination), especially since many of them worked long, stressful hours. They could do a lot worse than the handsome man in the waiting room, one who was kind enough to wait for his father for four hours every week.

This week, however, Miroku made a new friend.

A pretty woman stomped into the room, looked around at the mostly occupied seats, and then collapsed in the empty one beside Miroku. She was pale – her face white under what he could tell was normally a healthy tan. Her features were slack with shock. Slumped over in the seat, she turned her eyes to the blank wall that Miroku now knew so well.

After several very long minutes (during which Miroku could hear her breathing quicken until it almost sounded like she was hyperventilating), he couldn't stand it anymore.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she answered automatically, her voice hoarse. Then, a horrified look dawning on her face, she shook her head in a way that made her long ponytail swing violently around her shoulders. "No, no I'm not. I'm really, really not."

"I—"

"Cancer," she said. The word obviously felt foreign on her tongue. "I have—I can't believe it… I jog every single morning," she blurted out suddenly, turning on Miroku and putting her hands on the armrest of his chair to brace herself as she leaned towards him. "Six A.M., I'm out of bed and in my running shoes. And I eat salad, and I don't smoke, and I rarely drink and… Cancer."

It seemed to hit her just then that that particular waiting room was for the cancer ward. As if seeing Miroku for the first time, she narrowed her eyes at him, took in his startled but sympathetic expression and his strong hands and the way he sprawled out in his chair as if all his energy had been sapped from him just by being in a hospital.

"What about you?"

Just in case she had anything more to say, he waited a beat. (She didn't.) Deeming it safe to respond, Miroku answered, "My dad has lung cancer. Did—Did you just find out?"

"About half an hour ago," she confirmed, settling back into her chair and putting a hand to her forehead. She closed her eyes, suddenly looking very tired. "I figured since I was already here, I should discuss my options with the specialist. I already took a half day to come in for my results."

"Not exactly what you expected to hear, was it?" Miroku asked carefully. For someone who was normally so good with words, he was failing to come up with just the right ones for this particular situation. At least he hadn't panicked and blurted out, 'I'm sorry.' (It's what he had done when his father had delivered the bad news months ago.) "Have you called your family yet?"

"All I've got is my brother, and I can't tell him. I can't. This would kill him," she admitted, covering her face with her hands. Her shoulders rose and fell with a deep sigh. "I have to tell him, don't I?"

There was just something about how she was more worried about her brother than her own health that made Miroku's heart constrict in his chest. Sitting in that chair, the woman looked so defeated, as if the world had just come crashing down around her ears. At least his old man had Miroku, but this woman…

"That's up to you," Miroku said finally, remembering she'd asked him a question. There was a pause, and then he shifted in his chair. There were people all around them, but it was as though they were entirely alone, cut off from everyone else in the hospital. The others in the waiting room looked exhausted and afraid, and up until then, he'd never had a reason to look any different himself. But now, here was someone who needed support. "Is there anything I can do?" he found himself asking.

The woman stilled, her face still covered. Finally, she said in a soft, tremulous voice, "This may sound weird, but can you just—can you hold my hand?"

Before he could question it, Miroku leaned over and grabbed her wrist, gently prying one of her hands from her face. Keeping his eyes on her to gauge her reaction, he carefully interwove their fingers and gave her a comforting squeeze.

"I'm Miroku," he introduced himself.

Immediately, she mumbled, "Sango. I'm Sango."

"Sango," he echoed, and the way her name felt in his mouth was as though he'd been saying it for years. "Whenever you need something like this," Miroku continued, holding up their joined hands between them and waiting for her to look at them, "just ask."

"Why?"

He didn't answer right away, maybe because he was wondering if he'd finally found something in hospitals that he could change. Maybe he couldn't cure cancer, but he could still help in some small way. "I don't know how to answer that," he answered finally, honestly. "Ask me again sometime."

With another sigh—although Miroku convinced himself that this one sounded more reassured than the one before—Sango leaned into the back of her chair, subconsciously squeezing his hand tighter. She was back to looking at the wall across from them, so Miroku mimicked her. They sat there for several minutes doing this until the woman found herself asking, "How do you know there will be another 'sometime' to ask you?"

"I'm here every week at the same time," Miroku explained jovially. "Unless my father's schedule changes, I guess. I promise you can always find me if you need me."

"I—thanks," she said after only a little bit of hesitation. It could have been his imagination, but he had a feeling that she didn't use that word very often. "I might just take you up on that."

It was only a few minutes later that a doctor stepped into the waiting room and approached Miroku. She was dressed primly in dress pants, heels and a blouse, her hair carefully tied at the nape of her neck. Her calm expression—dominated by clear, serious gray eyes—drew the attention of everyone in the room.

"Mr. Tsujitani, your father is ready to go home. He is waiting for you by the front doors," she informed Miroku. "I suppose we will be seeing you next week."

"I suppose you will," he answered with a charming smile. It did not fluster the doctor one bit, but he figured he could keep trying. Something had to keep him occupied for four hours every week, and he wasn't about to bring a book with him. With his free hand, he gathered up his coat. Then, he turned to Sango, giving her hand a tight squeeze. "Are you going to be alright?"

"Yeah," she answered. "For now, I guess."

It was an honest enough answer, so Miroku released her hand, not allowing his fingers to linger. He reassured himself by how much calmer Sango seemed. Her breathing was even, and she even had color in her cheeks now. She was, he realized, even prettier than his first impression had led him to believe.

"Sango, this is Dr. Hidaka; I believe she's the specialist you were talking about earlier," Miroku introduced the two women as he got to his feet.

As he walked away, he heard the beginning of their conversation.

"Dr. Kikyou Hidaka—What can I do for you?"

"I'm Sango Kuwashima. I need to speak with you about how I keep myself alive."

Week 8

It was both surprising and completely unsurprising when Miroku walked into the waiting room the following week and found Sango sitting in the same chair he had left her in. This time, she was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt instead of what he assumed were her work clothes from before. Her hair was down, and he caught her playing with it as she flipped through a magazine.

For a moment, he actually hesitated. In any other setting, Miroku would have sat down next to her, probably jostling her elbow in a thinly-veiled flirtatious manner, and then paid her a compliment on how shapely her legs were.

Thankfully, he realized how inappropriate that would have been.

In any other setting, Miroku would have been focused entirely on the fact that Sango was a woman. Now, however, he reminded himself that she was a person—a scared one—so instead he sat down in the seat next to her but kept his elbow to himself.

"Good afternoon," he greeted, shrugging out of his coat and folding it over the arm of his chair.

Startled, Sango jumped and brought her eyes up to him. She was definitely more in control of herself than the week before, and now she just seemed tense. "Oh! Yeah, hi," she responded, actually smiling at him. Then, in a rush, something seemed to hit her. Her cheeks flared with a blush, and she quickly dropped her eyes to the glossy pages of her magazine. "I, uh, I really want to apologize for my behavior last week."

"You," Miroku began in bemusement, "want to apologize? For what?"

"For making a stranger hold my hand because I was having trou—I was freaking out."

"You just found out you had cancer," he reminded her as gently as he could. "And I did ask if there was anything I could do."

"It was completely inappropriate," Sango countered, bringing her eyes up to his. There was a fire there that was unlike anything he had seen from her thus far. Clearly, the shell-shocked woman from before was not who Sango was. Spirited, maybe? Stubborn? Well, Miroku thought, that could only help her situation.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but that was probably the least inappropriate thing I have ever done," he confided in her, lowing his voice as though he was sharing a secret. "Really, I mean it. I'm happy I was able to help—if I did, that is. I guess you never said—"

"It helped," Sango assured him, cutting him off just as his voice turned doubtful. Then, realizing what she'd said, her cheeks turned a smidge pinker. "Thanks again." Before Miroku could respond, she added, "Does this mean we're friends now or something?"

Miroku laughed. "I don't know. I haven't had to ask directly about being friends since primary school."

"Waiting room buddies?" Sango joked, smiling wider.

Which tore through Miroku's chest like a bullet. Because, right then, Sango looked like a happy and healthy woman, but it hit him that she had cancer, that she was dying unless something could be done about it. That, in turn, reminded him that he was in a hospital, and he hated hospitals. In a way, he needed a friend just as much as she did.

"Definitely," he agreed, forcing himself to keep grinning at her. "When's your appointment?"

The woman checked her cell phone before answering, "I've got half an hour. I show up early when I'm nervous."

"We'll just have to keep your mind off things until then," Miroku announced. The table in the middle of the room was piled high with magazines as well as, although it was a painful thought considering where they were, coloring books. He moved things around until he found a mostly blank sheet of paper and a crayon. "Let's play a game."

At first, he drew out the scaffold for the children's game known as hangman, but then he quickly scribbled it out. He hoped Sango hadn't seen—hadn't been reminded of the very thing he was trying to make her forget. Death. The hospital was filled with it, and Miroku felt like a dark atmosphere was pressing in on him. After some thinking, he drew a tic-tac-toe board.

"Hugs or kisses?" he asked her with a wink.

"You mean exes or oh's?" she asked dryly, but he could see the grin hiding just under the surface. "Oh's," she answered, leaning down to grab a broken blue crayon.

She won every single game.

Week 11

"Hey, there," Miroku greeted, entering the waiting room with two large cups of coffee in his hands.

"My savior," Sango joked, jumping out of her seat and reaching for one of them. She was almost to him when she stumbled to a stop and put the hand to her mouth instead, looking queasy. "On second thought…"

Realizing that the side effects to her chemo treatments were only beginning and not wanting to aggravate them, Miroku looked around for someplace to ditch the coffee. He caught sight of a doctor walking past with her nose pressed to a clipboard.

"Ah! Dr. Higurashi!" he greeted loudly, smiling broadly when the woman looked up. "You look like you could use some coffee."

Sango watched as the young woman looked over her shoulder as if expecting another person with her name to be standing behind her. With a start, she turned wide, blue eyes back to Miroku. "Dr. Hig—? You mean me?"

"Of course I mean you," Miroku scolded, holding out one of the two cups of coffee. "When are you going to get used to your title?"

"Well," she answered, weaving through the crowd in the hall and stepping into the waiting room. "I've only been a doctor for two weeks, so… I'm guessing just a little bit longer."

"You're a natural," he assured her, pressing a cup into her hand. "I want you to meet someone."

Immediately, the doctor looked from the cup of coffee to Sango, who hovered awkwardly behind Miroku. "I'm Sango," the brunette introduced herself.

"Kagome," the young woman answered. Then, slapping her hand (which was still holding her clipboard) to her forehead, she corrected herself, "I mean, I'm Dr. Higurashi. Dr. Kagome Higurashi."

Miroku snorted. "What's the youngest pediatrician in the history of the hospital doing in the cancer ward, Dr. Higurashi?"

To his astonishment, Kagome blushed a bright pink and dropped her eyes to her feet. "I just needed to take a walk."

The other two shared a look, quirking their eyebrows at one another in silent curiosity. The beginning of an idea began to take shape, and Miroku snapped his fingers triumphantly. "Kagome! You like someone, don't you?"

Miserably, the pediatrician avoided eye contact. "I have no idea who you're talking about," she argued, pursing her lips. Adjusting her white coat around herself (which was difficult considering she had a cup of coffee in one hand and a clipboard in the other), Kagome turned to leave. "I have an appointment to get to. Now, if you don't mind…"

"Oh, sure," Miroku answered, grinning cheekily. "But you know I'll get the truth out of you sooner or later."

The woman rolled her eyes and started to walk away, but she turned back right before leaving the waiting room. "You guys still coming to dinner on Sunday?"

"Yes," Miroku answered.

"See you then," Kagome said, disappearing around the corner.

There was a lengthy silence and Miroku could feel Sango's eyes on him as he contemplated the remaining cup of coffee. After a minute, he looked around, spotted a janitor, and pawned it off on him. When he returned, Miroku snagged Sango by the elbow and led her to their usual chairs.

"Do you know everyone in the hospital?" Sango asked him in a tone of voice that Miroku couldn't quite figure out.

"A lot of them in passing," he answered, furrowing his brow as he studied her. Sango was looking at her hands in her lap, not meeting his eyes. His stomach felt hollow, and he worried that he'd done something wrong. It would not have been the first time. For every smooth move, Miroku always found a way to put his foot into his mouth. "Kagome, though, she's a childhood friend. Her family asks me and my father over for dinner every Sunday."

Finally, Sango pulled her dark brown eyes up to his, and he let her scrutinize him for several moments. "I see," she said finally, her expression lightening. "Is she really the youngest pediatrician?"

"Ever," Miroku confirmed. "She struggled a lot in high school, but she worked hard and made it into medical school. Graduated a year early and completed her residency in record time. I think she found her calling."

"And did you?"

"Did I what?" he asked, confused.

"Find your calling?" Sango clarified.

Surprised, Miroku chewed her question over in his mind. Since that first day, Sango avoided personal questions and stories. She seemed to keep their friendship strictly contained by the waiting room, and the only thing he had managed to learn from her was how she liked her coffee. Now, it seemed, that information no longer mattered since the chemotherapy-induced nausea had hit her.

"Not yet," he said. Then, taking a risk, he asked, "Have you?"

With a half-smile, Sango looked back down at her hands. "Yeah," she answered. For a second, Miroku didn't think she'd tell him what it was, but she finally elaborated with: "I'm a headhunter."

Without pause, Miroku joked, "That sounds violent."

"I'm a recruiter for global corporations," Sango corrected with a grin, punching him jokingly in the arm. "Smartass."

"And how'd you find out that was what you were good at?"

"My dad was a bail bondsman," Sango explained fondly. "He taught Kohaku and I all about hunting people down. Being a recruiter is only a little like that, but I knew it would be something I could do. It's all about persuasion and aggression and tracking the right person down to fill the position that needs to be filled."

"And Kohaku is…?"

"My brother," Sango answered, still smiling fondly. She loved her family, Miroku realized. There was also a sadness there, though, and he wondered if her father was still alive. He must not be since she'd said her brother was all she had left. Before they could talk anymore, Dr. Hidaka stepped into the room.

"Ms. Kuwashima, it's time for your appointment."

Week 12

Kagome was already in the waiting room the following week by the time Miroku had dropped off his father and made his way there. Miroku watched her and Sango exchange jokes and stories about their lives with a strange kind of fondness that he couldn't really explain—if nothing else, it was the happiness of watching two people he liked enjoying a conversation together.

In the past several weeks, the treatments had begun to take their toll on Sango. She was much paler and thinner than when they first met, and the brunette moved with a stiffness that hinted at the pain she was in. Sango had taken to always wearing a jacket, the long sleeves hiding the needle marks on her arms and probably helping her with how cold she always felt. Still, even as her face became drawn and pale, she took the time to sincerely smile at him, at Kagome, at the others in the waiting room.

Miroku tried not to let any of this upset him. If he got upset, it would only make things harder for her.

Shaking himself out of what was quickly becoming a gloomy mood, he approached the two women. "Please," Miroku began dramatically, throwing his arms—oh-so-gently—around their shoulders, "tell me that Kagome is finally telling us about her crush."

The way the petite doctor blushed and ducked her head gave her away.

"Kagome," Miroku continued seriously, squeezing his friend's shoulder and giving her a look that screamed, I'm your friend. I'm here for you. Deal with it. He was very good at that look. "You can totally tell us. Who's the guy? Or girl. You know I don't judge."

The pediatrician kept squirming and avoiding eye contact, which only piqued his curiosity. "Fine!" she suddenly exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air. Her outburst drew the attention of everybody else in the room, but they all looked away once Kagome stared back at them pointedly. The petite, blue-eyed girl was more intimidating than most people gave her credit for. "He's..." She then mumbled the rest of the sentence.

Miroku shared a look with Sango, and they both leaned in with confused expressions. "Excuse me? What was that?"

With a dramatic huff that blew her thick bangs upward, Kagome rolled her eyes to the ceiling and blurted, "He's got amnesia."

There was the briefest of pauses before Miroku burst into uncontrollable laughter. He immediately slapped his hand over his mouth to smuggle his (for lack of a better term) manly giggles, but his smothered guffaws still drew the room's attention once more. "Amnesia?" he managed to gasp, more entertained than he had any right to be. "What is this—a soap opera?"

Unamused, Kagome crossed her arms over her chest and looked away, sulking. "Shut up," she mumbled. "It's not funny."

"It's a little funny," Sango said softly with a sorry-but-it's-true kind of smile. "You, a doctor, fell for a patient who has amnesia. It has 'soap opera' written all over it."

Her resolve crumbling, Kagome started to giggle. "You haven't even heard the best part," she confided, leaning forward conspiratorially. "He was in a motorcycle accident. The head trauma caused the amnesia. That's not the funny part, but—wait for it—are you ready for this?—he has an eyepatch."

After the next round of laughter died down (this time, Kagome joined in), the doctor said with a wink, "I swear, it's all true. I couldn't imagine having a more dramatic romance if I tried."

The trio was then interrupted by Dr. Hidaka, who appeared before them so quietly that all three jumped in surprise.

"Kikyou!" Kagome gasped, almost guiltily. The oncologist radiated silent disapproval at this greeting. "I mean… Dr. Hidaka. Good, uh, afternoon?"

The older woman merely shook her head before turning to Miroku. "Mr. Tsujitani, I need to speak with you before your father's appointment is finished. Do you have a few moments?"

"Yes, of course," he replied promptly, gathering his coat from the nearby chair. Kikyou Hidaka had what was perhaps the world's best poker face, but even she couldn't mask that she had bad news to share. Miroku felt guilty for the jokes and laughter he had just been sharing with his friends.

When he turned to say goodbye to Sango, she must have sensed his unease because she reached out and grabbed his wrist. Whatever she had been about to say, she swallowed back down. Instead, she squeezed his wrist in silent support and rubbed her thumb over his palm.

With a quick nod in her direction, followed by a grim smile in Kagome's, Miroku followed Dr. Hidaka out of the waiting room. Sango kept her hold on his wrist until she couldn't any more, then let her hand fall back to her side.

Treatment 6

When Sango arrived late to the hospital the following week, she anxiously scoured the room for Miroku. It took only a few seconds to recognize his lanky form hunched over in a chair in the corner, and she wound her way through the maze of chairs to his side. This time, she was the one to offer the coffee, waving the cardboard cup under his nose until he looked up.

When he saw her, he smiled, and Sango immediately relaxed.

…Then she noticed the strain in that smile and how bloodshot his eyes were.

Without a word, she slumped into the seat next to him, watching from the corner of her eye until he sipped from the cup.

They did not talk at all that week.

Sango ached to reach out, to bridge the gap between them and take his hand, to return the comfort he had offered her the first time they met. Now that simple gesture seemed so very different than it had more than a month ago, when they were strangers. Instead, in a compromise with herself, she scooted her chair closer and carefully pressed her knee against his. He didn't move away. If anything, she thought he felt him press back.

Treatment 7

This week, they were both in better spirits.

Somehow, someway, Sango had begun to get over the worse of the side effects. And although she had never considered herself to be vain, she was beyond relieved to find out from Dr. Hidaka that her treatment was not aggressive enough to result in hair loss. She had not thought to ask about it before; she had just assumed that everyone who underwent chemotherapy lost their hair.

She wondered if Miroku's father had lost his or had chosen to shave his head or, like her, didn't have to worry about that, but the question felt too personal, especially after the previous week.

Instead she was happy just to find him sitting up straight in his chair, an easy smile on his face as he talked with Kagome.

"He's a bit of an ass," the young doctor was confiding, leaning her hip against the wall as she chatted with her friend. "But, god, he has the cutest—"

"Sango!" Miroku greeted over-enthusiastically, obviously glad to cut Kagome off at whatever cute thing her amnesiac, eyepatch-wearing patient happened to have. "Kagome has the greatest news. Her pretty boy patient—"

"Miroku!" Kagome hissed, her blue eyes darting around the room.

"—is beginning to recover and was finally able to tell her his name."

"Kagome, that's fantastic," Sango said honestly, touching her fingertips to the doctor's sleeve. After a moment, she continued, almost suspiciously, "Please tell me he didn't also remember a wife and two kids, or something."

"Ugh, can you imagine? No, thankfully, he remembered he was very single, and that he liked coffee, and then asked if I would join him for some after he was released from this place."

"And?"

"And I said yes!" Kagome said, unable to hide her excitement. Before she could gush any more, someone paged Dr. Higurashi to room 403 over the intercom. "Oh, rats," she said, snatching her clipboard from the top of a stack of magazines. "That's Shippou's room. He probably pulled out his IV again."

Sango watched Kagome dart away, speed-walking in that way only doctors could get away with. When the brunette turned back toward Miroku, however, she found that he had been watching her profile with a guarded expression on his face. She itched to say something snarky, like Can I help you? She bit down on her tongue.

"How are you doing?" he finally asked.

"Fine," she responded automatically. After taking a deep breath and forcing herself to consider his question honestly, she nodded to herself. "Better. Really. The pain isn't as bad, and I'm hardly nauseous anymore. I'm going to get a scan after my treatment today so they can see what progress I've made."

To no surprise, Miroku looked pleased with her answer. "So, no nausea?"

"None," Sango confirmed. "Why?"

He looked away from her, his eyes trained almost nervously on that ridiculously boring off-white wall, the same one they had looked at together all those weeks ago while holding hands. "I was just thinking… Kagome and her mystery date aren't the only ones who like coffee. What would you say to grabbing a cup? Together, I mean, outside of… of this," he continued, gesturing at the waiting room, or perhaps at the hospital in general.

Something fluttered in Sango's stomach. "Did you just ask me out?"

He grinned back at her, his smile endearingly crooked. "Maybe. What's the verdict?"

She pursed her lips, considering his request. "Maybe. We'll see."

The rest of the time they sat side by side, skirting any topic that could tie back to coffee or their maybe-date.

Treatment 9

Because of the scan she had scheduled the week before, Sango hadn't needed to go to the waiting room at all. She had berated herself a little for having never asked Miroku for his phone number – just so she could text him a quick explanation of her absence, of course – but she had told him about the scan and hoped he'd been able to fit the pieces of the puzzle together himself when she didn't show up at the normal time.

She arrived the usual half an hour before her appointment the following week, signed in at the nurse's station, and made her way to her preferred chair. Once seated, however, she found herself shifting nervously, watching the doorway for his arrival, changing which ankle was crossed over which every few minutes.

Time dragged by and she glanced first at the clock on the wall, then at her phone just in case the clock was broken, and realized he was running late.

She kept her eyes on the doorway right up until Dr. Hidaka came to fetch her to discuss the results of her scan.

Treatment 10

It was hard not to show up early, knowing that Miroku usually arrived after her, but Sango came tearing into the waiting room a strategically planned five minutes late, hoping to find Miroku in his usual seat.

For a week now, she'd been keeping her results to herself, knowing that Miroku was the first one she wanted to tell. He'd been the first one she had told about the cancer. It felt fitting.

Shoving down her disappointment at finding their usual seats filled by an older couple she didn't know and not seeing his lanky form crammed into any other chair, she perched on the loveseat instead and grabbed the first magazine within arm's reach.

Flipping through the glossy pages too fast, she kept her eyes trained on the entryway. After about ten minutes, she saw a familiar head of long black hair darting past.

"Kagome!"

The petite doctor almost tripped when she pivoted on her heel to face the waiting room, her face lighting up with a friendly smile when she saw Sango launch to her feet.

"Hi!" she greeted, coming into the room and affectionately squeezing Sango's shoulder. "Sorry; it's been ages."

"Hi," Sango replied, feeling the need to ask after Miroku's whereabouts bubbling up. She tamped the urge down. "I had my progress scan two weeks ago, and then I couldn't find anyone last week."

She could pinpoint the exact moment Kagome's smile turned brittle, freezing into place. Sango felt a chill run down her spine, realizing that she'd stumbled into something bad.

"You, uh… you don't know," Kagome said finally, softly. It wasn't a question.

It was a knee-jerk reaction to chuckle awkwardly. "I can't know what I don't know. What's going on?"

The doctor took Sango by the shoulders, guiding her back to the loveseat before perching on the edge. "Miroku's father died early last week. His funeral was last Thursday."

Her throat constricted, and Sango hurriedly swallowed several times, trying to rid herself of the sour taste in her mouth. "I—no, I didn't know. Did they—Did Miroku—Was it sudden?"

A shadow crossed Kagome's face, her expression slipping into something Sango couldn't quite read. "Well, I mean, it wasn't unexpected. They stopped treatment three weeks ago when his latest scan showed how much worse he'd gotten. Miroku and Mr. Tsujitani decided he wanted to live his remaining days in peace at home."

Then why was he here three weeks ago, Sango wanted to ask. She didn't. She suspected she knew the answer. "Oh," she said instead, swallowing hard, "I see."

Kagome squeezed her shoulder again, unable to keep the small smile off her face. "Do you want Miroku's number?" She was already reaching into her white doctor's coat for her phone.

Sango stopped her with a shake of her head. "No, it's ok."

Another understanding squeeze.

"I got my results last week," Sango said after a moment of silence, not looking the other woman in the eye. "They want to finish up my weekly appointments this month, then do one last scan. They think I'll be in remission."

"Sango, that's great!" Kagome gushed, wrapping her up in a hug. Sango loosely hugged her back, simultaneously feeling a weight lift off her shoulders and a new one settle in her chest.

"Thanks, Kagome. I should, um, I should let you get back to your job," she said weakly. After a few more words, they parted, and Sango turned back to the magazine she'd let drop to the floor, her eyes unseeing.

Suddenly, the waiting room felt oppressive. Lonely. She closed her eyes against the harsh glare of the lights, the off-white walls; tried to tune out the voices around her. She was glad she only had two weeks left of this place.

Treatment 12

Week eleven, Sango had shown up to her appointment with only five minutes to spare. She'd signed in quickly and exchanged brief greetings with the nurses at the oncology wing's front desk, then hovered in the waiting room's doorway until she spotted Dr. Hikdaka coming to get her.

This week, she'd tried the same approach, only to be told everyone was running behind schedule. They'd be doing her scan in about an hour. Did she want to leave and come back?

"No. It's fine; I'll just be in the waiting room."

She found a seat, automatically going to her usual chair. Instead of grabbing a magazine or retrieving the paperback she'd shoved in her purse that morning, she laced her fingers together in her lap and studied her chewed fingernails.

Some ten or twenty minutes later, someone sat heavily in the chair next to her, a bony elbow jostling her own in a way that could only be on purpose.

"Excuse you," she snapped, turning to face the man encroaching on her personal space, only to find a familiar set of violet eyes and crooked smile.

"Excuse me," Miroku agreed, prodding her elbow with his own once again. His face was pale and drawn, but his smile was sincere, crinkling in the beginnings of crows' feet at the corners of his eyes. "Hi," he tried, after she didn't say anything, only stared intently at him, her eyebrows lowered.

"Hi," she said finally.

"I hear congratulations are in order—" he began to say at the same time she said in a rush, "I'm so sorry, Miroku."

They both paused, searching each other's faces, eyes prodding, neither sure of what they were looking for.

"I'm sorry," Sango said again, her voice pitched low, sincere, feeling like the words were completely inadequate but not sure of what else she could—should—say.

"It's ok," he said honestly, smiling again, and she realized how hard he had always been trying to make her feel grounded and safe and relaxed in this damned room. She hadn't really thought about the other side of this whole cancer thing, how hard it had to be on him, being the healthy one, the one left behind.

"Is there anything I can do?" she asked.

"This may sound a little weird," he began, leaning forward until she could feel his warm breath fanning across her cheek, "but I was wondering if, maybe, you could hold my hand."

She didn't hesitate.

8 Months

Sango and Miroku were sitting side by side in a booth in some diner a few blocks from the hospital. She was fitted against his side, their hands laced together under the tabletop. He kept tilting his head so that his cheek rested on top of her hair, and she'd purposefully jostle him until he stopped.

They were ten minutes early to meet Kagome and her pretty-boy-no-eyepatch-non-amnesiac boyfriend for lunch, and Sango frittered the time away by pointing out things on the menu that she knew Miroku would hate.

"I'm just saying that in some cultures, putting chocolate on a cheeseburger could be considered a delicacy," she insisted, butting her forehead against his chin affectionately.

"What happened to salads every meal, jogging every morning," he retorted, his nose wrinkling distastefully. He did the same thing whenever he spied her dipping french fries in her chocolate milkshake.

Sango sighed, thinking back to her lifestyle a year ago. "I'm not saying I don't like salads anymore, but it doesn't hurt to live a little."

Miroku snorted. "I'm not sure how that translates to putting Nutella on your burger, but knock yourself out."

There was loud rumble outside the window, and they spotted a motorcycle pulling into the parking lot. Kagome hopped off the back, removing her helmet while yelling something at her date, a grouchy-looking man who was obviously yelling back at his girlfriend just as fiercely.

"I thought Inuyasha was selling the motorcycle."

"He changed his mind," Miroku explained, pulling the menu back to his side of the table.

"You mean he and Kagome got into another argument over it, and he decided to keep it just to spite her."

"Exactly."

They watched the fight through the window for another couple of minutes. Watched the doctor and her boyfriend get worked up, their cheeks bright red and eyes flashing, until Inuyasha must have inadvertently said something funny, and Kagome collapsed in a fit of giggles. After blustering for a few seconds, the man also cracked a smile, and he leaned forward to peck his girlfriend on the lips.

"We're a cuter couple than them, right?" Sango asked, flexing her fingers in his hand.

"Much cuter," he agreed easily, rubbing his thumb in circles on the inside of her wrist as he turned back to the menu. "I don't think I've ever even seen them hold hands."

"Why?"

"Well, I guess because they don't—"

"No," Sango cut him off, lifting their hands from underneath the table and holding them up between them. "You told me once to ask you why you wanted to hold my hand."

"Oh, that," he said, studying their intertwined fingers and giving her hand a squeeze. "I think I found my calling."

"Holding my hand," she clarified dryly.

"No," he corrected, "Being there for you."

She rolled her eyes while tucking her head under his chin, pressing closer against his side. "You know, I'd call you out on how cheesy that was if it wasn't so true."

"Ask me again tomorrow, and I'll give you a different answer," he promised before turning his eyes to the door. He lifted a hand in greeting as Kagome shouldered the door open, her date not far behind.

"Tomorrow," Sango agreed, looking forward to the possibility of a lifetime of tomorrows with this man.