A/N: I do not own Rurouni Kenshin. *bawls shamelessly in a corner*
Oh and this one was inspired by Sumiregusa's "New Growth."

"One felt as if there was an enormous well behind them. Filled up with ages of memory and long, slow, steady thinking; but their surface was sparkling with the present : like sun shimmering on the outer leaves of a vast tree, or on the ripples of a very deep lake. I don't know, but It felt as if something that grew in the ground—asleep, you might say, or just feeling itself as something between roof-tip and leaf-tip, between deep earth and sky had suddenly waked up, and was considering you with the same slow care that it had given to its own inside affairs for endless years."
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings

Sometimes Kaoru thinks that Kenshin would never truly open up to her. She chides herself for it, quickly correcting in thought that although she might never really know, she would always understand. She spares a glance at the man sitting beside her. It is good that he is feeling strong enough to sit at the porch today, the warm breeze was sure to be a balm for all his hurts—and there were plenty enough. It was only their third day back from the island.

He was wearing that wistful look again, his eyes were closed in quiet alertness, almost as if he was looking inside his own soul, his hair was slung over his good shoulder, it looked heavy in the dying afternoon light. His hair… it looked like it had grown considerably longer during their brief separation. She has always had an urge to run her fingers through it, rough strands tangled by toil and sweat and wind-swept all those years.

There were dark circles under Kenshin's eyes. Kaoru remembered when they first got to the dojo after quite the long ferry ride. His dwindling strength was barely enough to keep him standing, Sano had to half-carry him to his room. Kaoru knelt promptly by his side and tucked him in his futon. His eyes were closed but he reached a hand out to her, mirroring her gesture not many months ago.

"Welcome home, Kaoru-dono," he whispered, and it echoed through her heart. She took his hand and lingered until after he was asleep, her other hand smoothing the bangs on his forehead.

Kaoru belatedly realized that she had been staring at Kenshin for quite a while. His eyes were open, gently regarding her, then he spoke ever so softly, "This one was only thinking that he is glad that he is here." His reached up to brush long stray strands of her hair away from her eyes and his fingers trailed lightly over her nose, her cheek, her jaw, her chin, as if to memorize them with his fingertips. He left a feather-light touch on her bottom lip and drew back, slowly retreating into himself. Kaoru was quick to grasp his hand.

"I… Kenshin…" She stammered, not knowing what to say or how to say what she didn't know. She stared at the worn hand she held firmly between her own. How could she hope to convey her depth of feeling for a man whose own sadness was so deep he was awash in it for more than a decade?

She made to release his hand, but was pleasantly surprised to find that he was holding on to hers. She looked up at his face to see a guileless smile creasing the corners of his eyes and Kaoru knew that she had to be braver than this, she had to be stronger for him.

Tugging gently at his wrist, she pulled him to lie sideways with his head pillowed on her lap. Her fingers ran slowly through his hair, untangling the knots at the ends. Kaoru felt rather than heard him sigh, it was one she associated with contentment.

"Kenshin?"

"Hmm?"

"Your hair is longer than mine."

He chuckled against her thigh. "This one meant to cut it, but hasn't been able to get around to doing it thus far."

"I could cut it for you…"

She let her words hang in the air for a moment, "Would that be alright?" She added almost as an afterthought.

He drew a deep breath before he answered.

"Aa. This one would be most grateful, Kaoru-dono."

Kaoru would cut his hair a day after their visit to Tomoe's grave. He would kneel with his back to her, his shoulders relaxed, not with resignation but with calm determination. She would twirl strands of them between her fingers, losing herself in thought now and again. He would be patient with her as she turned the point of the scissors lightly against the tip of her forefinger, as if to consider giving him a style in trend. He would be aware, though, that that was not the case. She would have a firm set to the line of her mouth as she starts. She would shed a tear for each snip, willing her hands to stop shaking. Halfway through, when sobs rack her body with little tremors, he would turn to her, cup her face between his hands and tell her that her tears are beautiful and he won't let them go to waste, but he would never ask her why she was crying. He doesn't need to know to understand.

When it is all over, they would kneel across each other, the cloth with his cut hair lying between them. The red was almost a stain in streaks across the white spread. He would set it aside, take her hand, and lead her to the porch where the air would blow cooler, permeated by the smell of first blooms. Spring would come early, so would better days.