Work Text:
Sango stood in front of the door, pausing with her hand on the doorknob as a wave of exhaustion hit her. Resting her forehead against the door, she took a moment as a sense of defeat consumed her; sometimes, her job really sucked.
This had been the week from hell. Her favorite patient, a cute little old man by the name of Myōga, had taken a turn for the worst and was now on hospice. At this point, there wasn’t much more anyone could do but make him comfortable. He had been fighting so hard, only for all the bloodwork to come back and reveal the one thing they had feared: the cancer had returned and was metastatic. Myōga had taken it in stride, saying all his years of smoking were catching up to him, and he’d lived a good life. He had said that it no longer made sense to fight, and that if he could, he wanted to see his family. Sango had been pragmatic, nodding mechanically to Myōga’s request… to Myōga’s grace. And she had waved goodbye, thanking him for making her laugh.
Sango, like always, swallowed it all down. And perhaps that would have been the end of it if a dickhead coworker had not stolen her sandwich from the fridge that week. Or the anti-Myōga (an old bat who seemed to relish in making Sango’s life as miserable as possible) had thrown up on her scrubs. Intentionally.
She didn’t cry in the car on the way home. Nope. She shoved those tears down. Because there was something she could look forward to. Home. Safety. Miroku.
Her husband would be waiting on the other side of the door. He would let her lumber into his arms and collapse into a hug, stroking her hair as she cried it out about Myōga or raged about Taigokumaru or plotted evil laxative-filled revenge against the sandwich stealer (probably after handing her a sandwich).
Even the text message that he sent her had managed to quell the storm of her emotions, just long enough for her to get away from the hospital. Just sweet enough to make her smile.
You’re badass enough to make it home unbroken, and when you get here, I am going to take care of you 🎀
Miroku rarely used emoji, and when he did, they were usually clues to something. It meant for much of the day, she was trying to puzzle out exactly what it meant. (Probably part of his brilliant plan at being the best husband in the history of husbands.)
It didn’t erase her exhaustion, or her misery, and she knew that walking into their apartment would mean opening the lid on all the feelings of the week. But she would be safe in Miroku’s arms, and that was often enough.
It wasn’t as if Miroku didn’t also have a job, but as he always said, he was happy being the little husband with the breadwinning wife (as if being a graphic designer was anything to sneeze at). And he was waiting on the other side of the door. To take care of her.
Sango wondered what Miroku had planned. Why she could feel his excitement through the text message alone. It spurred her key into the latch, breath taken, bracing herself to collapse into the puddle of depressed goo that was definitely coming when she crossed the barrier into “safety” and got to let down her guard.
Well, at least that had been the plan, anyway.
“Hello, wife-nyan.” The sight that greeted Sango… there were no words. Really. None. Because there, grinning like an idiot, was her husband. Dressed as a maid—no—dressed as a catgirl maid.
Artwork by the extraordinarily talented kalcia
Miroku had taken his roguish shoulder-length hair and tied it into two short pigtails that were decorated with little bells, and he was wearing a black satin collar, also decorated with a bell. On top of his head were a pair of black and pink cat ears that somehow matched his black hair perfectly enough that one might think he was part nekomata.
“Wha—” Sango tried to choke out words, but she was still too busy… surveying.
Because the dress—the dress!—was black satin at its base, with vibrant violet adornments. The puffy sleeves were lined with white lace, and the collars and apron (it had an apron) were tied with bright purple bows.
Sango thought she had seen everything, but, alas. Miroku winked and wiggled his butt, just to make sure she saw the coup de grace of the costume. There, seated between Miroku’s luscious glutes, was… a tail. Black satin, matching the dress, but also tied with a shocking purple bow.
Miroku: Sango’s husband, the catgirl maid.
“I spent today cleaning-nyan!” How did he sound both so ridiculously cutesy and utterly sexy? “The house is spotless and…” Miroku took Sango’s hand (he had black satin cuffs on each wrist) “osso bucco is cooking: your favorite-nyan.” Miroku added a little flourish to his motions, curling one of his hands into a paw and theatrically licking it. “I hope this pleases mistress-nyan?”
“Oh, my god.” Sango finally was forming words again, but they were fighting with her ability to breathe. It was so over the top, so completely out of left field, so… exactly what she needed.
Once the first chuckle escaped her, so came the next, then the next, then the next. It was as if every single guffaw she had ever swallowed down wanted to break free all at the same time.
“Shall we take a tour of my good work, mistress-nyan?” Miroku had stepped forward and taken one of Sango’s hands into his own. His indigo eyes were twinkling. “Shall we start with the living room-nyan? The floor is spotless and vacuumed to mistress’s exacting standards. And the DVDs are alphabetized and organized.” Miroku dramatically swept his hand toward the DVD shelf. He had seriously alphabetized it? Sango had talked about how it always bugged her, and that some night when she couldn’t sleep, she would rage-alphabetize it. “This couch, now fluffed and cleared of cushion change, is also the perfect seat for any and all foot massages that mistress-nyan might like to enjoy!” Before Sango could sit, though, Miroku tugged her toward the bathroom with a wink.
“Are you seriously going to show me the whole house like—” Sango could not finish, because Miroku shot her the most pathetic look she had ever seen. Apparently he had even worked on his sad kitten face.
“To the bathroom-nyan!” Miroku tugged Sango with him. The impeccable cleanliness of the place, though, was not what was most impressive. Around the bathtub were candles, as well as a large assortment of bubble bath, bath bombs, and flowers. “In case mistress-nyan could use relaxation. And…” Miroku nudged Sango, his eyes no longer quite as playful. “I would not be opposed to joining her in the bath.”
“You did all this for me?” Sango’s laughter lay dormant now, replaced instead with an overpowering love and affection for her silly, thoughtful, perfect man.
“Everything for you.” Miroku seemed to read the change in Sango’s demeanor as she looked down, because his voice had grown impossibly tender. “You work so hard every day to make people’s lives better. You get up and put on a smiling face because you know it will make someone’s suffering less, even when that person is a jerk.” He could not hide the smile that blossomed on his face. “How could I not want to do everything in my power to give back one iota of what you give to everyone else, what you give to me?”
“But… a maid?” Sango reached out her hand and jingled Miroku’s bell collar. “A cat maid?”
“Did it make you laugh?” Miroku waggled his eyebrows, and although his Cheshire grin was back, there was still an echo of affection to it.
“It… did.” Sango dingled the bell again.
“Then I did my job.” Miroku leaned forward and kissed Sango’s lips, adding a delectable little nibble to the end. “Now… what do you think about seeing the kitchen? I’m especially proud of the dinner that is waiting for my hotshot wife.”
Sango could smell the simmering meat, and she knew if Miroku was this excited about it all, that culinary delights awaited them.
But…
“I have a better idea.” Sango leaned closer to Miroku, and she pressed the kiss she hoped told him just how lucky she felt, just how grateful she was, to his lips. “Let’s turn on the water-nyan.” She then let her hand trail down the satin bodice, down the apron, and finally under Miroku’s skirt, where she touched the skin off his inner thigh, eliciting a delicious tremble from her husband. “And have a bath.”
Miroku was stripping himself out of the maid costume. It was one of the things about him that Sango cherished: a bath with his wife was too much to resist. No gimmick (not even a cat maid costume!) could survive the suggestion. Sango watched Miroku’s eagerness, and began to undress herself as well, ready for candles and bubble bath and Miroku’s arms around her and Miroku’s body pressed against her.
A bath and a maid costume couldn’t undo her week, nor the grief of watching a patient lose the fight, but that wasn’t why Miroku had done it. He did it because it would get Sango out of her head, if only for a moment.
“I love you.” Sango let her hand linger on Miroku’s cheek, channeling her love for this wondrous man through the touch, now bare-skinned and smiling, the maid costume a pile on the bathroom floor. She then trailed her fingers up into Miroku’s hair, caressing his silky bangs, then tugged the hair ties out of his hair, letting it fall free. Miroku reached up then to remove the last piece of the costume: the cat ears, but Sango stopped him. “Actually, leave those on.”
“Whatever you say, mistress-nyan.”