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Part One: Aoshi There's a saying old, says that love is blind
She was watching him again. He'd long since become accustomed to it: The tingling sensation which told him he was under observation, coupled with a bone-deep recognition of her nervous-hopeful presence. A sense that let him know the someone watching was she. "Aoshi-sama?" He wasn't prepared for the hesitation in her voice, the near-reluctance with which she spoke. Whatever her feelings, her words were rarely anything but confident; refusing to show weakness, especially to him. What did you expect, when you've been avoiding her? Pushing the pang of regret aside, he responded to the question in her greeting with one of his own, "What is it, Misao?" Looking up as the words passed his lips, he found himself transfixed, just as unprepared for the sight of her -- for his reaction to her -- as for the anxious quality in her voice. Which is why you've been avoiding her. Dressed for bed, the soft fabric of her simple yukata draping gently over her slender curves, she seemed impossibly appealing. She's only eighteen, he admonished himself. The oft-repeated phrase did nothing to alter the effect she had on him, no more than it had the first or second or third time he'd used it. Old enough, another voice whispered, old enough. Her hair was in its omnipresent braid, and he wondered inanely if she ever wore it any other way. "Aoshi-sama?" Misao asked a second time, disconcerted by the way he was staring at her. He'd been avoiding her lately -- not keeping to himself in order to meditate, and not snubbing her, simply making a conscious decision not to be wherever she was. She scanned his face, but his expression revealed no more of his thoughts than it ever had . . . and it was too dark to read his eyes at this distance. Stop staring! Her face was puzzled, her eyes dismayed. He gave himself a mental shake, striving to address her in his usual manner, "Is there something wrong?" She blinked, the absolute normalcy of his question at odds with the silent way he'd been watching her. "No . . ." shaking her head, recovering her composure, she came a few steps further into the room, "it's just late. I thought everyone was asleep. What are you working on?" Aoshi shifted his gaze from the gentle sway of her hips to the papers spread on the low table before him. "Reports on the last of Sunaga's men. As we expected, they've fled Nagoya. Uratsuji has made an appearance in Matsue." He felt her stiffen, her body suddenly tense beside him. What hasn't she told us about what happened in Tokyo? "There's a small possibility Masuaki is posing as a pilgrim on his way to Kumano." "Masuaki? Move his carcass for anything other than money?" she made a disgusted sound, "I doubt it." Reaching over his shoulder, she leaned forward to pick up one of the reports, her braid sliding over her shoulder to tease his cheek. "Then again, that's what makes it plausible, ne? No one would suspect it." "Mm," Aoshi quietly agreed, one part of his mind focused on what she was saying, another noticing that she smelled sweetly of vanilla. He was distantly surprised by her observation, her understanding of why he was interested in a seemingly useless report; such insight wasn't what he expected from her. "Still, at the moment the information is too suspicious to act on. Noriaki's been alerted to watch for him while we investigate further here." Misao sighed, her breath warm against his ear as she returned the report to the stack on the table. "I suppose whatever you have on Uratsuji is just as flimsy." It was half question, half statement, her tone implying nothing more than curiosity. Only her hand fisted at her side -- fisted so tightly that her arm shook with tension -- gave her away as she awaited his response. Whatever happened, Uratsuji was involved. It was more than she'd yet revealed. Tucking the information away, he watched her carefully as he answered. "Toshikage is in Matsue now. I expect him to confirm or deny Uratsuji's presence there shortly -- by tomorrow evening at the latest." "That soon? When did you . . ." she cut herself off, shaking her head at her own forwardness. As if he normally discusses his decisions with me! It was unusual for him to confide as much as he had. "Never mind, I don't want to know all the details." Linking her hands together behind her back she stretched slowly. "I'm not cut out for this business of spying; for plotting and planning and thinking deep thoughts. It makes me tired." Her eyes twinkled with half-hearted humor, her mouth curved in a small smile -- a show for his benefit. "I don't know how you do this day-in and day-out without being exhausted! Demo, Aoshi-sama, it sounds like you've already taken care of everything. You should get some sleep." He nodded, his manner distracted, his words at odds with the small gesture, "I still have a few more things to check, and a packet to prepare for the runner to take to Tokyo in the morning." "Wakatta," she responded softly, knowing it was useless to argue with him, "but get some sleep afterwards, ne?" The concern which had prompted her to pause as she passed his door, the same care with which she always watched him, guarding him from some unknown harm, was clear on her face. Aoshi acquiesced, promising to retire for the night before too much longer. His gaze was once again drawn to the graceful movement of her body as she turned to leave, crossing the floor on near-silent feet. At the door, she paused to look back at him. "Aoshi-sama, were you planning to notify Saitoh about Sunaga's men?" He said he was sending a messenger to Tokyo . . . Although her question was deliberately casual, Aoshi could sense continued anger and anxiety beneath her pretense. Her fingers were white on the door frame. She wants to handle Uratsuji herself. It gave him a vague sense of pride; Oniwabanshuu should answer to oniwabanshuu. "Aa, but only the information on Masuaki. Uratsuji was one of ours. We will deal with him ourselves." His voice betrayed neither his emotions nor the workings of his mind, but he had no intention of releasing the former oniwabanshuu to the police. Not until Uratsuji had settled with both himself and Misao -- then Mibu's wolf could do what he would. Uratsuji was one of ours. For an instant, his eyes had held anger, harsh and exacting but directed somewhere other than at her. She blinked and it was gone, leaving his gaze clear, leaving her uncertain it had been there at all. We will deal with him ourselves. Misao allowed herself to relax. She would have her opportunity. "Arigatou, Aoshi-sama," she murmured, not wanting to reveal how important reckoning with Uratsuji was to her, but needing to thank him just the same. Raising her voice slightly, she smiled as she wished him good night -- a real smile this time, her usual gamine grin. "Oyasumi nasai." "Oyasumi, Misao." The door slid quietly shut behind her, and Aoshi stared sightlessly at it for long moments, pondering whether his decision to forego investigating what had happened in Tokyo had been the right one. A single letter was all it would have required, but that had seemed -- still seemed -- like a betrayal of her trust. If and when she was ready for him to know, she would tell him. Yet . . . it bothered him; not knowing, and knowing whatever it was had upset her. She seemed different now, her brightness subdued. Turning back to his reports, he admitted that some of the changes he noticed were wrought simply by time. Misao was growing up, her judgement becoming clearer, her behavior less impetuous. She had always been observant, but now she was taking the time to observe; had never suffered injustice to herself or to others, but now she paused to consider what the best course of action was, and what the results of her actions might be. The Misao who had followed him to Tokyo would have demanded a chance to settle with Uratsuji -- would have wanted to leave for Matsue tonight herself. She would not have asked, she would not have been willing to wait for confirmation. Clearly she had grown mentally as well as physically. Aoshi swallowed, recalling exactly how much she had grown. When she had stretched, her back arching like a bow, the fabric of her yukata had tightened over her chest, emphasizing the curves that had filled out over the last year. Growing up? He shook his head at himself. Anyone with eyes could see she was a woman grown -- if only he were willing to look, and to admit what he saw. It was strange how one could fall into a pattern of thinking, and have that pattern trap him later. In his mind's eye, Misao was a child - laughing and beautiful, and meant to be loved as a parent or relative might: protectively, with care and concern and an eye toward guiding her behavior. It was how he'd always thought of her, and why he'd begun to avoid her when part of him noticed that she was much, much more. This was Misao -- he shouldn't think of her that way, shouldn't look at her that way. Shouldn't want her, shouldn't love her -- not like that, like a man loved a woman. Familiarity had clouded his thinking as well as his perceptions. Misao the woman was different from the Misao in his memory; she was someone he could love, balancing his age and his past against her right and ability to make her own decisions. Recalling the concerned look she'd worn as she hesitated in his doorway, and again when she urged him to get some rest, he realized finally and absolutely that her choice had been made. She didn't just watch him, her eyes filled with longing, her spirit with affection; but watched over him, protecting him from himself, waiting for him to be ready for her. Am I ready? Even as he wondered, he knew the answer was yes. Ready to accept what she offered, and to give in return. Remembering the anxious tension in her body, how her reaction to Uratsuji's name bespoke fear as well as anger, he admitted that it was time and past that he watch over her. When Misao had first taken up her constant vigil, he'd found it intrusive, bothersome. Over time it came to be something he expected, even welcomed, missing her when he couldn't feel her watchful presence; but that had definitely not been the case in the beginning. He hoped she would take to it as well as he had . . . but her initial reaction was bound to be amusing. In the dim light of the candle, his mouth curved in the slightest of smiles. He was going to enjoy turning the tables.
There's a somebody I'm longing to see
Index of Japanese terms:
Explanation of Japanese names:
Author's Notes:
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