Disclaimer: I do not own Inuyasha.


Cicatrice
He has no scars – his body mends wounds without leaving any traces – but sometimes she looks at him as though she can see them anyway. Sometimes he thinks she must.

It is always the same: she will let her fingers roam his mane, teasing him innocently, relentlessly, until the yoke of fear loosens and he falls forward.

First is the tip of his right ear (where the villagers managed to cut him when he was twelve summers old); she presses her lips softly, just where the mark would have been, over and over until the remembered sting eases. Then, it's the right eye – where Sesshomaru's whip landed on their first encounter after his mother's death; the memory still makes him flinch, but Kagome's gentle movements soothe the erratic throbbing. Her lips seek out his cheek – where his mother hit him in their only fight – ghosting over to his chin where he had hurt himself falling out of a tree; then lower, to his throat, where the rope he had been put in by humans had cut into the tender flesh.

She pauses, at that point, hovering over that spot before moving to his hands, which have been injured in far more instances than he can count.

"Inuyasha!" Her eyes almost swallow him – he is so desired, so cared for, it nearly makes his heart stop. With a smile, the haori is pushed aside; warm eyes fix on him and he feels exposed. She smiles at his blush – his strained gulp does not ease his anxiety. She is staring at one particular spot on him and her head begins to follow her eyes.

"Kagome..." He is never sure if he is ready.

Tender lips push softly into his flesh and for the millionth time he wonders if she can see his whole life written in scars across his body. She latches gently over the small patch of flesh that has suffered the most of all of him. It burns with remembered heartache, she knows. All her feelings, all her wishes for his happiness are rained into the pierced skin. He closes his eyes.

"Kagome..." His heart feels like it will burst.

A few more sprinkled kisses and she is once again studying his face, the rise and fall of his chest, the tears that always fall when she touches that part of him. Her lips trace his tears, her fingers caress him.

"Does it still hurt?" She asks softly, her hand resting above his heart.

He shakes his head slowly, his own hand closing over hers.

"Not since you pulled the arrow."

They both know he is lying, but she understands that some scars do not heal. She rests her head above that very mark, content with just hearing his heart.

Sometimes he really thinks she must see all his scars, sometimes he knows it.

A smile comes to him: sometimes he's glad he's got so many scars for her to heal.


Author's Note: O.o Yeah...I hope you liked this.