I do not own Inuyasha or its characters. Rumiko Takahashi does.

This is a continuation of an old story of mine called 'Skin', though it can stand on its own.

Ache:

"I shot an arrow, Inuyasha... I shot an arrow, and it- it hit the mark, just like you said it would."

There, in the darkness, his mind replayed those words, uttered somewhere between the battlefield and the hut, as he'd struggled desperately to help her get them some place safe.

He heard the desperate plea in her voice that he stay awake- and he'd tried, damned if he didn't- but the blackness that sought him was equally as determined to claim his attention.

Some time later, he felt her touch, fleeting and tender, and her tears as they fell on him while she cleaned the blood from his skin. But he couldn't find his voice in the depths of the darkness that plagued him, couldn't find the strength to open his eyes, to show her, even if he couldn't voice it, that he'd be okay- that she shouldn't cry anymore.

"I'm sorry, Inuyasha. So, so sorry," she'd sobbed, and his heart twisted at the pain he could hear in her voice.

"Don't be sorry, Kagome." He'd tried to say, "It's not your fault." But the words were lost to him, left unspoken as she worked to wrap his wounds, the pain of that struggle sending him into oblivion once more.

When next he woke, it was to her touch yet again. He tried in vain to open his eyes, to find his voice. But again, the effort proved too much. So he lay there instead, allowing the soothing caress of her fingers to dull the ache of his wounds.

He'd never forget her scream on the battlefield, never forget the surge of her power when he hit the ground. But the feel of her fingers on his cheek, the loss he felt when they left his skin, and the rush of excitement he felt when he heard her press a kiss to those same fingers before pressing them to his lips- that was something he'd remember until his dying breath.

When she shifted away from him, he'd wanted to whine, the urge so intense that it surprised him when no sound was emitted. When she pulled his head onto her lap, her fingers combing gently through his hair, he found peace from his pain, until that single tear fell to his cheek, followed quickly by the brush of her skin against his. It made his heart ache.

"Don't cry, Kagome. Please, don't cry anymore."

She hummed softly, a song he didn't know, the melody the last thing he heard before darkness called to him once more.

Vaguely, he could recall waking enough to drink the broth she'd made him. He felt the warmth of a fire, but even that couldn't chase the darkness away completely. It wasn't until he felt her pull her only blanket over him, heard her call his name as she lay down next to him, that he'd summoned the strength to speak, to move.

She'd taken care of him, guarded him against the night, against their enemies. He couldn't- wouldn't - leave her to the cold, too - she'd suffered enough already.

Forcing his hand to move, he brushed her hair over her shoulder, her name falling from his lips as he pulled the blanket over her as well.

In that same breath, he gave his heart free reign, allowing his love for the woman beside him to shine bright in his eyes, unguarded and unrestrained.

If he'd have had the strength, he would have told her then, that he loved her, too. But exhaustion had claimed her; she didn't hear her name fall from his lips, didn't feel his touch. She didn't see the emotion on his face as she snuggled closer to him, her hand never leaving its spot above his heart, or the smile on his lips as he lay his head down beside hers, his eyes taking in her beauty.

And still, as dawn came and went, his gaze was held by the small, human woman who'd brought him to safety, who'd cleansed his wounds, binding them against infection, though she knew he wouldn't need it.

His memories were fractured, as were several of his ribs, but he'd hold the pieces he could remember close to his heart, because they were proof, even if the words were never said, that she loved him, too.

This same woman, who was so fierce in her protection of him, so fragile in her worry for him, would be his.

And this time, when the ache in his heart blossomed, he welcomed it.

A/N: This was written for lj prompt I Shot an Arrow and stands at 762 words. It is a continuation of my old story 'Skin', though it stands well on its own.

I will likely be out of commission for a little while. A fall down the stairs has aggrivated my health issues.

Deserted has three chapters awaiting editing, but is temporarily on the back burner until I can get back to it.

*HUGS*

Neisha