By Clorinda
Rated: PG
Category: Drama/Romance
Summary: Saito Hajime thought life was a pitched battle of him against the world. This is the story of how he changed one strange Christmas night, and the woman who helped him through it. (SaitoxTokio)
Semi-AU for bringing back Okita Souji from the dead.
Chapter One
Ten years before Kenshin and Kaoru's story starts...
There was a fairly good reason why Okita Souji didn't like to visit Hajime's household on Mondays. The post-Revolution Saito was angry and brooded when he had time to kill. He worked as a policeman, and he didn't like it that he was simply roping up petty thieves.
Well acquainted with how far Hajime's love for his country had taken him, Okita did not blame him. However, he still stepped into the silent house on Monday evening, taking off his footwear as Hajime's housekeeper slid closed the shoji behind him.
Okita Souji was a short man, almost boyish in countenance. He was currently unemployed, but a bit of a local hero, after he'd fought as the First Unit Captain of the Shinsen Patrol in the Tokugawa days. He'd known Hajime for an eternity. That gave him certain ... privileges over the other man.
Only the lamps were lit, and the house was bathed in a soft yellow glow. A thoroughly Japanese house, but Hajime had furnished it like a European. He had spent just too long in the west, but not enough to give up on soba. Okita winced at the memory of how much his friend liked wheat noodles.
"Mr. Hajime is not home," said Tokio quietly. She was his newest employee, lasted record of three moths. She was a pretty girl who did not come from Kyoto, and she was very efficient and very devoted.
In silence, Okita followed her into the drawing room where she set warmed sake before him while he waited. He settled into a big, rounded wicker chair padded with cushions, that seemed to be his inexorable favourite in Hajime's house. He leaned back, and closed his eyes.
This place was oppressively silent, lit only by yellow lamps that were as bright as a wolf's eyes, Hajime's eyes. Hajime who liked the silence. More than once, Okita was struck that the atmosphere simply lacked the cries of laughter. The laughter of children.
But Hajime would love no woman, and no woman would love him.
Tokio was badly scared by her employer at first. It took Okita and many weeks to convince her he was a nice man deep, very deep inside. Sometimes, when he caught her looking at Hajime, he swore there was always something that he could place, mingled with the colour of her eyes.
An hour passed lazily, and within that, he had cracked his eyes open and was reading Hajime's newspaper. There was nothing of interest, but some of the headlines had been circled in red. Okita knew better than to wonder what was of speculative interest in something capped, "VEGETABLE PRICES RISE."
He was distinctly sure that it was Hajime's doing, not Tokio's. Definitely not Tokio's. People knew better than to fiddle with Saito Hajime's newspaper.
There was the sound of the door being opened, and Okita sat up, and Tokio emerged. She bowed out of courtesy to someone Okita couldn't see. He heard footsteps, and the next thing he knew, he was being cuffed by a fist balled up in a white glove.
"Yow, Hajime," he complained rubbing the side of his head. "Can you just stop doing that?"
But Saito was already sitting down, lighting a cigarette. "When'd you get here?"
"An hour or so," said Okita, settling back with the paper. "Lost track of time. Where the hell were you, anyway? You normally get off at five-thirty. It's seven now."
"At the station," said Saito taking a long drag and exhaling. "I just got promoted. Inspector now, officially. Inspector Goro Fujita. Can't believe I even went into all this work." He ran a hand through his cropped black hair.
He wasn't supposed to be known as Saito Hajime, the notorious slasher. He was just another justice department official. He'd had to cut his hair and change his residence, and he hated all of it.
"Congratulations, Hajime," said Okita warmly.
"Feh. I've written for special permission, too. I hate those measly sabres we have. Some days I don't think I spear people well enough without my sword. Bloody eejits."
Tokio poked her head in. "Will you be having supper with us, Mr. Souji?" Saito glanced at Okita who shrugged. "If it's not too much trouble, I will. Thank you, Miss Takagi."
"Why do you always call her Miss Takagi?" said Saito bluntly.
"Why does she always call you Mr. Hajime?"
"There's a difference, here." Saito grinned. "You don't work for me, but you can start tomorrow at seven if you're so persistent." Okita was surprised; he had not heard a crack from Hajime all month.
They lapsed into more serious conversation, politics, the world, Okita keeping tabs as best as he could on veterans from the bloody Revolution. Tokio appeared once or twice or so, but just in passing. She smiled to herself as she saw the two men: Okita leaning forward in the chair, his fingers interlocked, and Saito, intent, with his legs crossed and still smoking.
She was not surprised. They were like this each Monday evening. Playful banter, serious discussions, strange debates, and supper for Okita sometimes. He really was a nice man. It was saying something, for Tokio had been brought up on the principle of, "Never accept rides from strange men, and remember— all men are strange."
It didn't help that Saito was a formidable gentleman even in his own home. It had shocked her senseless when she had found out that she had been working for the ruthless blood-hungry slasher they often called the Mibu Wolf from where she came from, and not the relatively harmless police officer Goro Fujita.
But after she had lasted a three weeks with him, and survived absolutely unscathed, and after he'd been almost friendly to her, much less like the authoritative no-nonsense employer, she decided she liked him too, and it would be a shame to lose a job that paid so much. A woman living alone in a big city needs two things: a roof and money, and Saito Hajime was giving her both.
And an added asset was Okita Souji's ever-cheerful face and company.
She took the food off the fire, and took it to the dining table.
"The food's all prepared," she said to the two gentleman who were wildly gesticulating in disagreement. They froze at the sight of her, fists poised inches from each other's faces.
Tokio sheepishly backed out. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
Silence followed her seconds later, and there was only the sound of badly suppressed female laughter.
The sound of the wind rustling through the trees, kept Saito awake all night. He sat up in bed, just listening. Gently, Okita snored in the guest room. Saito was usually a solid sleeper, but tonight, something akin to, but not quite, hunger gnawed at him, and he couldn't lie back down and close his eyes.
Silently, he got out of the covers and padded out on the wooden room. He moved quickly and soundlessly, and you couldn't distinguish him from his shadow. He was in his own home, and surrounded by friends, and yet, his old habits would always haunt him.
He stood outside Tokio's door, and he heard her breathing slow and steady. He moved through the rooms, and he was standing bare-foot outside the house. He stood perfectly still, and the breeze washed past him, a dark blue figure in front of the giant silhouette of a wolf's den.
The voice came like a whiplash from his throat.
"Whoever the hell you are, you'd better come into the open before I find you."
No reply; the branches of the cherry tree within his yard waved, touching against the trees that lined the street. The silent night pressed itself closer, and movement darted so fast that it was an illusion almost. Only a sheet of paper was tacked to the inside of the fence.
Saito waited sixty seconds, before he walked up to it, and resignedly tore it off the knife that pinned it in place with the wood. The sheet said nothing; it was blank and dark. But even as he held it, his fingertips felt wet.
The faint moonlight glided across the paper surface, and unflinchingly he realised that it was splattered with fresh blood.
He touched the paper, pressing his finger to it. Was it human blood? Probably, yes. Anyone who wanted to leave Saito Hajime an anonymous threat, could not have been a coward. He crumpled it into a ball, and walked back into the house.
The first thing that met him was Tokio. She was in the living room, waiting for him. Her face was white with sleep, and her eyes hooded. "Are you alright, Mr. Saito?" she asked. "I heard you get up."
He nodded curtly, and walked past her. He needed peace. He had to go to work tomorrow morning. But that was not to be. Okita Souji was jealously guarding the door to his room, a most intolerable habit of a house guest towards his host.
"Where were you, Hajime? And who were you talking to?" he demanded instantly, fully awake.
Saito, who felt little upto explanations of phantoms in his front yard, muttered some shocking profanity, and pushed his friend aside. The shoji rattled closed behind him, and he dragged a chair to keep it closed. He flicked the paper ball aside, and got into bed. This time, he didn't wake up until eight-thirty in the morning.
Never accept rides from strange men, and remember all men are strange.
Robin Morgan.