Once a year, Kenshin travels to Kyoto alone. Sometimes it's with barely a word of warning, and sometimes Shinomori Megumi has a few days to plan, to lay in the foods he likes and to air out all the futons.
One day she'll open the door and there he'll be.
"Hello, Megumi," he says quietly. "May I come in?"
Aoshi comes to greet him and they drink tea. Though her husband never says so, Megumi knows that he too enjoys this time together. For an okashira understands, better than anyone, how hard it can be to wear a mask.
After tea, Kenshin disappears. He'll return in an hour or two, dry-eyed and quiet, and help Megumi in the hospital. He doesn't pretend ignorance of medicine during these visits; his hands move swiftly from one packet to the other, preparing teas and herbal remedies, or stitch a man's cut with quick, neat strokes. And if she makes some suggestive comments while rubbing in salve to ease his stiffness, he doesn't pretend he doesn't understand.
As they eat dinner together afterwards, Megumi always reflects on the great gift she and Aoshi have received: They are the only ones permitted to see the man without his masks.
While he is with them, he smiles, but it's not the goofy smile of the rurouni. He laughs, but softly and not often. He doesn't trip or fumble. He acquires no bumps or bruises.
And not once does he 'oro.'
He never stays long. A day or two. Then one morning, she rounds the corner and there he is, pack slung across his back.
"Goodbye, Megumi-dono," he says, smiling. "This one thanks you for your hospitality."
Her heart wrenches, because the glimpse of man beneath is gone. She watches as he walks off down the road, his smooth stride becoming choppy. She waves goodbye.
And goes back inside to wait for next year.