A/N: I began reading the manga between classes at my hellhole college (I find I tend to prefer the manga over the anime), and this one-shot popped into my head after plowing through the first three volumes. It would seem I now have a new interest. Which may or may not be a good thing for you all out there in the fandom. : ). Oh well. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Once, for about five hours, I thought I owned my life, but was quickly disabused of that idea.
Words To Watch Out For:
Konbanwa: good evening
Dou itashimashite: you're welcome
Paradox
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All in all, she made a poor excuse for a woman indeed.
For starters, she ran a dojo. The dojo was the sacred realm where the art of war was taught, where its secrets were passed down from master to pupil amidst the clash of weapons blunt and weapons deadly. It was, frankly, a man's place. A refuge of the warrior class of old. And it was in the hands of a woman.
Her hands themselves were calloused and sinewy from practice with shinai and bokken of all sorts. A man's hands, a warrior's hands. Completely the antithesis of what a woman's hands should be. A woman's hands were supposed to be soft and delicate.
Her clothing was wrong too. Oh, she sometimes wore a kimono, the way a woman should, but most days found her clothed in the rough gi and hakama of one who trained to fight.
She couldn't cook worth a damn, either. Sanosuke and Yahiko made snide remarks about her utter lack of culinary prowess, which made her mad, but what really drove her crazy was that they were right. She burned more perfectly good food than she could afford to. So because she didn't have a talent for it, she hated cooking. Unwomanly in the extreme.
She dodged shinai and bokken swings and practiced katas and sweated and swore and yelled and lost her temper.
A poor excuse for a woman all right.
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All in all, he made a poor excuse for a man indeed.
For starters, he was nothing and had nothing, nothing but a reversed blade that couldn't kill but that he wore tucked into his obi anyway. It was a useless weapon—not even a weapon, really. After all, a warrior's weapon was supposed to kill.
This warrior was small. A short, rather delicate looking man with features so pretty he looked more effeminate than imposing. The red hair and strangely colored eyes only added to what amounted to, quite simply, a misunderstanding waiting to happen.
The attitude was wrong too. He was humble, more humble than any one human had any right to be, and so bumbling it was a wonder he hadn't been killed.
And he could cook and do the wash with the practiced ease of your ordinary, everyday housewife. No one ever teased him about it because they were all so very grateful that it was him that took over those duties rather than Kaoru. So because he had a talent for both, he took over those duties without a second thought. Unmanly in the extreme.
He steamed rice and hung the wash and tripped over himself and apologized unnecessarily and smiled like a fool and carried a katana he couldn't use.
A poor excuse for a man all right.
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Kaoru plopped down with an unfeminine grunt next to Kenshin on the dojo porch.
"Konbanwa Kaoru-dono," Kenshin said with a faint smile.
Despite herself, Kaoru returned the smile:
"Konbanwa Kenshin." She paused. "Good meal tonight. Arigatou."
"Dou itashimashite," the rurouni politely returned, and then they lapsed into comfortable silence and watched the sky.
They were opposites in opposites. Two woefully ill-matched people. It was simply absurd, really.
So of course, in the grand scheme of things, it made perfect sense.