A/N – Inspiration struck. 'The Return' gets another chance at life.

Disclaimer – I don't own Ruroken. Watsuki-san et al beat me to it.

Chapter 6

He felt the shadows before he saw them; six hidden watchers, their focus intent and fixed on his every movement. It was not the first time in the last few months that he'd felt eyes on him, felt someone watching him – but he was an ordinary citizen now, concerned only with the small, everyday pleasures of an ordinary life. He was no longer a hitokiri, and he was no longer a pawn. He had every right to go about his business.

Giving no sign that he'd noticed the watchers he continued on his way, shuffling towards the market to buy Kaoru-dono's tofu, blending in with the early morning shoppers and street life. In this part of the city, far from the CBD or any important government buildings, the crowd was more bohemian in outlook and makeup, and a redheaded man with a sword stood out far less than he would in conventional Tokyo. Slowly, out of the corner of his eye, he began to pick them out: there, on the rooftop, a sniper, crouching low against the skyline. And there, in the overhanging windows, peeking through lacy Western curtains. There were two of them trailing behind him, almost indistinguishable from the rest of the crowd, and another further away, high up, probably watching through binoculars.

And the last man, the most dangerous of them all, his ki focused and intent, was waiting for him openly in an alley, smoking.

He did not even try to hide; he knew from bitter experience that Battousai was ki-sensitive. When the unlikely figure came into sight, he tossed down his cigarette and ground it out with his old, scuffed shoes.

"Five long, bloody years I hunted for you," he said darkly. "You were like a ghost, invisible, untraceable, vanishing into the night leaving only your dead – and now here you are, walking to the market in broad daylight for everyone to see."

"It's best to go in the morning," said the most dangerous assassin of the Bakumatsu, "while the best goods are still fresh."

Saito sneered. "So you take the woman's part while your landlady plays the man."

There were two barbs to that comment. If he had expected to draw blood with either of them, he was disappointed. Himura smiled, a particularly empty smile that revealed nothing, despite its apparent rueful sadness. "Ah, well. Kaoru-dono is the one who earns the money. I have no marketable skills."

"There are men and organizations who would pay millions for your particular skills," he said dryly. "When you left Japan, you could have named your price."

"No." Himura shook his head. "I did not fight for money."

"You fought for trade agreements with the West and loans from the IMF. How is that any different?"

For the first time, something broke through that cheerful façade. "What do you want, Saito?"

Deliberately, he drew another cigarette out of his packet and lit it, taking his time, drawing out the tension. "I want to know if you are still hitokiri Battousai, underneath that ridiculous pretence of meekness."

A crooked, quizzical smile. "Hitokiri Battousai was a myth, a symbol. Katsura-san created him –"

"But the Ishin deliberately refrained from destroying it. They did not intend to let you go, did they, Battousai? That was why you left after Toba Fushimi."

Himura paused, his eyes dark and strangely cynical. Idealistic he may once have been, but he was no fool.

"Katsura protected you once," Saito warned, "but he is dead. To the rest of them, you are a tool, a pawn in their endless manoeuvring for power and influence. If you wanted to be left alone, you should not have come back."

"I could not stay away." Once again, Himura smiled; sad, rueful, charming. "I gave up so much for my dream of Japan. Surely I've earned the right to enjoy it."

Saito only laughed.

"Okubo-sama." The aide bowed low, his eyes troubled as he joined the Minister in the Tokyo Metropolitan Chief of Police's office. "Fujita has made contact with the target."

"Hmm," Okubo said, remembering the meeting with Himura six months ago. He'd looked older, more worn, but with a deeper foundation of calm and maturity, rather than the dangerous, blank impassivity of the Bakumatsu.

"Do you wish to hear their conversation, Minister?" the aide asked earnestly. "Uramura-san says that the quality of sound through the wire is very good."

"Yes. Thank you, Noda." Turning away from his memories, Okubo followed the aide to the electronics division, where Uramura was listening to the conversation between Himura and Fujita-Saito.

Saito's dark, sardonic voice spoke. "Your very presence stirs up speculation and interest, Battousai. You and I, we were not made for a quiet life."

"No," said a lighter, but no less authoritative tone. "I have found peace, here –"

"Wherever you go, you bring trouble. Yes, you have found a home here, but you have also brought the girl and her dojo to the attention of men who mean them nothing but harm. Do you honestly believe that the Meiji era is secure and enlightened, free from corruption and threat?"

Beside him, Uramura could not meet Okubo's eyes.

"What are you saying, Saito?"

"I'm saying that there are forces you know nothing about –"

"Say it!" Himura hissed, his voice filled with sudden force Okubo remembered the stark, dangerous power of Himura's blade, the fundamentalist justice he had dispensed so mercilessly. But, unlike Saito, he had never judged his own -

"Do you think that the remnants of the Bakumatsu suddenly vanished when the Emperor's sun rose ten years ago? Not all of the Ishin Shishi's secrets were as easily covered up as you were. Some of them – less benign than you – had to be eliminated."

The conversation was beginning to verge on dangerous territory, and Uramura knew it. His eyes were wide and uncertain as he looked to Okubo for direction. "Stay," Okubo said curtly. "You will need to hear this."

Saito continued. "But the new government's attempts to whitewash its past were not entirely successful. One of the deadliest and most ambitious assassins survived, and is looking for revenge…"

Uramura looked alarmed.

"Conspiracy theories. Left-wing propaganda." But Himura's voice, though scornful, was not wholly convinced.

"But you've felt it, haven't you?" Saito retorted. "You've been watched ever since you returned, and not just by me, or other branches of the government. They were waiting – we were all waiting – for you to make a move. But then you settled down, making no move to renew your old contacts –"

"I have paid my dues! I have the right to live an ordinary life!"

"You cannot be so naïve. For killers such as you and I, there is no such thing."

There was a long, long silence. In the background, the sounds of the street market continued: loud, calling voices, laughter and shouting and cheer.

"No," Himura said finally. "I will have no part in this. Hitokiri Battousai is dead; I am Himura Kenshin."

Okubo's stomach clenched. What would become of Japan, if Himura would not take up arms against Shishio? There was no one else left, no one who could possibly match the madman's strength…

"So," Saito said darkly. "You would run from your past, hide yourself in this pretence of meek domesticity." He laughed. "Watch your back, Battousai. Protect your cozy, ordinary life – if you can."

There was a brief, fuzzed sound of footsteps as Himura walked away.

"Well, Okubo-sama," came Saito's sardonic voice, pitched for the wire alone, "Battousai has refused."

Then a burst of static, and then a click – and then nothing.

The conversation was over.

Kenshin walked back to the dojo in a daze, his thoughts endlessly spinning and confused. But when he stepped back into the house to find Kaoru, dressed in her faded, sweat-streaked training clothes, berating a cocky, sneering Yahiko and threatening him with her bokken, he smiled at the rightness of it all.

Laughing, he stepped in between them, knowing full well they would both turn on him.

This was his life now.

A/N - Next chapter: Okubo gets it.