It's night.
The fire is going out. In the dying light, she can just make out the murky silhouettes of her companions. They sleep, circled around the last of the dying embers, dreaming clouded dreams.
Even him. Or so he would have it seem.
She holds her breath as she slowly shifts upright on her mat, keeping her eyes on his face. It's downcast, and unusually still. His chest rises and falls as he breaths; his only movement. Even in the weak light, she can make out the way his hair stirs softly with each breath. His arms are draped around his sword, cradling it loosely to his chest. Motionless.
She knows this posture well. It's been sculpted carefully over the years, an immaculate rendition of a figure deep in slumber.
And she knows better than to trust her eyes, when experience tells her that he is awake and humming just under the surface of the façade, always ready. So she has to wonder why she's creeping forward, ever so carefully, one hand on the knife concealed at her hip. But even her own inner turmoil becomes a pretense. She knows why, and so does he. Night after night, she reminds him.
Only a foot away.
And his eyes fly open, dark and deep. Weary.
"Sango."
She starts, clenching her jaw so that she doesn't gasp aloud. Her heart thrums in her ribs; she knows that if she can hear it, so can he.
"What're you doin' up?" A warning rumble in his voice.
She doesn't miss the way his grip tightness, ever so slightly, on Tessaiga's hilt. The way his eyes bore into her, unmaking her, tearing her apart. He knows, he always knows, and the unspoken accusation weighs heavily in the air.
"In— Inuyasha." She hates the way her voice trembles; answer enough. "I couldn't sleep. Sorry to have woken you." I won't next time.
"You didn't." You won't have to.
It is a subtle, silent dance, and the roles of predator and prey are never clear. This is not the first time, and it will not by any means be the last.
"Go back ta sleep."
"Hai. Hai, Inuyasha."
And so she lies back down obediently, cursing him, cursing herself. His eyes burn into her back, so she struggles to lie still on the rustling straw mat. Peace, she tells herself, forcing her breath to steady. Next time. Next time. The promise she has been making to herself for too long now. Still, her will is formidable, and giving up is not an option. Not when somewhere out there her brother is lying just as still, in this same darkness, waiting for his own life to burn out.
Dry eyed, she stares at the wall, waiting for dawn.
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A/N: Because the undertones of darkness suit them.