Disclaimer: I forgot who owns Inuyasha, but it wasn't me. I don't make money off of fanfiction.
AN: A new fic, an idea that struck while I was trying to figure out how to fiddle with "Humble Shopkeeper". Enjoy! Also, (as a btw) I've started a group for fan-made audiobooks of fanfiction. Link(remove spaces): http:// groups. yahoo.c om/group/ fanaudios/
Join, download, add your own. Have fun. Spread the word. That's what I'm doing at the moment.
The predominant color was a very dark blue, perhaps because of the cigarette smoke. However, it wasn't beyond the realm of possibilities for it to be a strange reflection of the night lights outside on the shiny surfaces of leather furniture. No, the lights were orange or yellow, not blue, so it couldn't be that. Reflections of orange light on leather furniture painted blue on the orders of a rich and psychotic owner. Yes. Something of that sort.
Fact No. 1: This was not his house. He had no clue whose house it was. He had commandeered it because he liked its feeling.
Speaking about the feeling, it wasn't only the smoke that could be felt floating in the air. There were also dust and the sort of perfumed mysterious aroma that is a given of important drawers belonging to old desks and skeleton-containing closets. It was an antique smell that made him feel comfortable, welcomed. At home. It was half-home, half-deposit, very intimate because it seemed to have been unused for such a long time. The perfect place to feel great and comfortable and make the other one feel ill at ease at the same time – not that she had arrived yet. Or that she knew anything about the reason she would be here.
And the view! The view was splendid, elegant Kyoto, the true capital, he'd always felt, spreading right beneath him in a majestic view, worthy of one of the greatest cities in the world. A king-sized deposit-apartment, the penthouse of a luxurious building. Who could afford to waste so much space in Japan? It was a crime, it was a heinous crime that he could do nothing but approve of.
He didn't know the reasoning behind the owner's choice, though. This was something other peoples did. Europeans, maybe. Americans, certainly, with their wide country in which they could afford to be wasteful. Still, he wasn't about to complain. He enjoyed the place. He almost wished it could be his, so he could always leave it like that, a wild urban beauty, never tamed, never to be stepped in during the day so it would not be tainted by the banal of viewing it under the sunlight, where the cigarette smoke would seem a nuisance instead of another veil.
Fact No. 2: He had no clue when he'd picked up smoking. He wasn't even sure he had done it.
It was damaging even to such people as himself, lacked elegance, lacked style and was considered a vice. He wasn't sure why he even lighted those things. He didn't enjoy inhaling.
But he loved the smoke, curling and spreading and making everything blue. It fascinated him, especially to see it in near-darkness. In fact, he only pressed his lips to the offensive, small object to make it continue to give off the smoke.
There was a faint rustle, then the sound of a door opening. He turned, calmly, slowly, silently and waited to hear it close and then the footsteps.
Fact No. 3: He had a meeting. If it was her, his goal was achieved. If not, his claws would come in handy. It was as simple as that.
Although he would hate to ruin his favorite place.
There was also the click of the light switch. It had no effect, of course. He couldn't allow the effect of the apartment's aura to be destroyed by something as foolish as that. He'd taken out all the lightbulbs, except one in an old lamp in a corner, behind some gathered up furtniture that hid a comfortable sofa that he sometimes read on or slept on.
And then she slipped into view, gradually, walking aimlessly and trying to find him, but looking in the wrong direction. He recognized her shape from the very start – and more than her shape, her smell, that was very much Kagome-ish. It should be, considering it was Kagome herself. He'd come to recognize it in the past and he'd run into it on the street a few days before.
"Whoever is there, I can use a gun!" she said.
She hadn't seen him yet.
"This Sesshoumaru has no doubt that you can," he said, using his way of speaking from a long time back and enjoying the way she jumped. "But he doubts you have one on you."
She turned towards him like something on springs, fast, amazed. Why was she like that? It couldn't have been that long since her visits to the feudal era. A few years, at most. It had been much, much longer for him.
"You!" she said. It wasn't hatred, as it might have been at another time. It was shock, surprise. Had she not expected to see anybody of their kind ever again?
She had grown into a beautiful young woman, he noticed. Taller. More secure on her feet. A borrowed, European elegance, that, however, suited her well. Clothes generally do, when you wear them the right way, he supposed. A business-like appearance, a button-up shirt, a button-up jacket, a crisp skirt. Secretary? No, something more important. Or maybe it was just a 'look'.
"Kagome," he nodded. "It is an honor to be remembered." The fact that the real honor to be remembered by him and not to remember him was something that they both understood implicitly as the real meaning of that particular statement. After all, she could hardly have forgotten him. "Please. Take a seat. Anywhere. There is a piano somewhere, if you enjoy playing."
She remained where she was, still, confused, trying to process things.
"I'm not dead," he said, as if that point hadn't already been cleared. "Now, sit. We need to talk."
Fact No. 4: He knew how ominous that phrase sounds. And that was why he used it.