I've been wrong, I've been down …
~*~
The cleaning girl rarely came in to clean while he was in his room, but this was one of those days. He felt slightly awkward around her, because her father had named her – all of them – because he admired his father, and he couldn't understand a man like that. He sat behind his desk as she dusted the rest of the furniture, and got up as if he had always meant to when she headed towards the desk to clean it. He had stacked the papers away beforehand; he did that every time he knew Kaoru would be coming to clean.
"Mr. Shinomori?"
He started. The last thing he had expected was for her to attempt to speak to him – she never did that. There was the one time when she was only eleven or twelve and the old gardener had brought her up to the manor for no reason, but that was so long ago that he could barely remember. "Yes?" he said.
"Megumi – my sister, Megumi – was saying you haven't been for your checkup." Her voice was hesitant, eyes downcast; she knew very well that he didn't expect her to talk.
"Dr. Rogers," he said, with great deliberation, "said I didn't need to come for another six months."
Kaoru's head dipped lower as she mumbled, "Well, Megumi thinks you should. She thinks, with your family history, it's only expected – "
He made his voice as icy as he could. The nerve of that woman, thinking she could force him to come and be poked and prodded with her stupid instruments so that she could smirk and write down senseless things on her little notepad – "No."
The girl's mouth opened, eyebrows furrowing, but he looked at her and she clamped her lips together, nodding. After a second, she said, "I'll tell her that. That you said no."
Like he gave a damn what she told her sister. "Yes, tell her."
"Sorry for bothering you, Mr. Shinomori," said Kaoru, ducking her head further, duster clutched tightly in a white-knuckled hand.
He clicked the door shut behind him as he stormed out of the room – well, left, not stormed, but he might as well have, Kaoru definitely flinched enough – but he wished he had banged it. Did no one understand how much he hated that phrase? Did no one realise how often they used it? Did no one think they weren't a bother? He looked around, standing at the top of the staircase leading down to the front hall, unsure of what to do and where to go – in his own house! This is what they'd driven him to, all of them! – before finally thinking that the gardens would be a safe-ish place to go. He only went out for his morning walk everyday and maybe a sudden spying session on however things went on in the gardens during the rest of the day would give him satisfaction – a place to vent, people to glare at.
It was just before midday, and the snows were over – mid-February was too late for lingering snowfall. The driveway wound before him, and his mind unwillingly flashed back to sitting here a long, cold January day waiting for Misao to come home. He gritted his teeth and tightened his trenchcoat, trudging down the pathway that branched off into the walled parts of the gardens, determined to find someone who deserved his bad mood.
When he heard the voices, he knew it was Sagara Sanosuke's lucky day.
"And so I ask her, I say, 'What do you call a dead hippo?'"
"I dunno. What?"
"That's what she said! And I go, 'Hippoposthumous!'"
"Ha haa! Good one!"
"Yeah, it is good, isn' it? And she just glared at me, as if I was – "
"A trespasser on my property?" Ah, the expressions on their faces. This was almost worth being chased out of his room by strange questions. Almost. He would have his revenge for that. Besides, he hated Sagara anyway, with his obsession with Megumi – those were two names he never forgot. And Himura Kenshin.
The smaller boy, dark hair sticking up in all directions, looked as if his worst nightmare had just sprouted three more heads and was now letting flame out of its backside. Sagara looked similar, except there was less fire in his nightmare and one more head. "Mr. Shinomori – " began one of them, and then stopped with a gulp.
"Well?" he said. "The kitchens are open to you if and when you come to pick up your sister. She has a long while to go. Explain to me why you're here."
He could actually see Sagara swallow his 'We're here to collect Kaoru' and look for something to replace it with. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall of the little enclosed patch he had found the two of them in. This should be good.
"We thought it too much of a bother to walk back in the morning, so we thought we'd just stay till she's done." Sagara had fought his nightmare some; now it apparently only had two heads left and no spiny tail. He was standing up straighter, not quite as tall as he was, but the spikes of his hair giving him a few extra inches.
"Then why aren't you in the kitchen?" They thought he could be icy most of the time – they had no idea how cold he could be when he tried.
Well, the boy and Sagara did, now. They swallowed, exchanged glances, and Sagara continued with his speaking role. "We got tired of being in there. We were in there for almost four hours," he added, as if he deserved sympathy. If he'd had any brains whatsoever, he would have known that no one deserved sympathy right now. No one ever deserved sympathy, especially not filthy freeloaders who liked women who had no calling in life but to dog his footsteps until he –
"And I suppose four hours in one place is too much for even your extended patience."
"Er – ," cut in the boy – Yahiko, wasn't it? "We're – uh – sorry, Mr. Shinomori, we'll just be goin' now – "
Going? But Sagara was just heating up, his cheeks were just getting flushed, and he couldn't wait until he threw a punch and embarrassed Kaoru and Megumi to the depths of their beings. That would lose him any chance he had with her. That would make both their lives miserable, like Misao made his life miserable – and this was about Megumi and her constant nagging, not about Misao – and – "Going?" said Sagara. "We ain't goin' nowhere. Now, Shinomori, there ain't no need to get nasty – it's not like we've done anythin' really wrong – "
"Sano," groaned the boy, tugging at his arm. Bright kid.
"No?" he said coolly. "You do know what the penalty for trespassing is with the town magistrate, don't you?"
Sagara went red and white in two seconds flat. It wasn't the penalty itself that scared him; a couple of months in jail was nothing to this boy, it was the fact that there was so much else to be unearthed once the authorities got their hands on him … illegal immigration being only one of the things springing to mind. "You wouldn't, you stinking – "
"Sano," Yahiko practically moaned, and Aoshi could feel the satisfied smirk that half-emerged.
"I work for the government. I would only be doing my duty, and if you give me cause to stop neglecting it – "
"I don't need favours from you! Tell 'em whatever you want! See if I care!" Ah, his hands were flexing now, fingers fisting. One more barb, and then an unflustered exit. Leave him seething. The smirk on his own face widened.
"No, I'd be doing everyone else a favour. Kaoru and Megumi would just be glad to get you off their backs – "
"Glad to get rid of me? You have any idea what they think of you, Icicle-man?"
Oh, he knew, and he didn't care. You had to hit where it hurt. He doesn't care what Kaoru and Megumi think – once he cared, but eight years is a long time – he only cares what Misao thinks, and he knows what she thinks and it hurts, but that isn't what Sagara had said . . .
"We're going now, Mr. Shinomori!" said Yahiko, loud and bright and trembling-chinned, grabbing Sagara's sleeve and trying to pull him along. His attempt was as useless as the last one.
He smirked and turned on his heel, delivering a parting shot over his shoulder, "Mr. Donaldson owes me a visit anyway." Mr. Donaldson was a weak and ineffective man who had no business being the magistrate, but his father had been and so he was too . . . and wasn't that how everything worked?
He only half listened to Sagara's strangled roar as he walked out of the enclosed garden, the smirk still hovering around his mouth. This was fun. This was what his life was like before Misao came, before he started to care. Where this group of people whose names he didn't even know were the only people he interacted with outside of work, and terrorizing them was more than enough to make him feel better if he was especially angry. And it was a strange way of making himself better – an unhealthy way, he supposed, not the kind of calm feel-better that Misao gave him . . . but she didn't make him calm anymore, did she? Just annoyed him and frustrated him and insulted him until his heart hurt, and when he ran into her now she was soft and apologetic and scared, and he hated that, and he just avoided her more, and he didn't think they would ever get out of that cycle.
When he turned a corner and saw the woman walking up the path in front of him, his first impulse was to turn around and run as far as he could. He even backpedalled a few steps, but she had caught sight of him by that time, dark hair shimmering down her back as she turned, surprise and disgust and resignation all on her face.
He knew exactly how she felt. "Miss Megumi," he said, inclining his head, very happy with the thirty feet of distance between them.
"Mr. Shinomori," she replied, equally stilted. "I did not expect to see you, but since I have – "
The anger he'd just let out seemed to build again, slow and simmering and horrible. He looked at her and saw a friendship he had ruined, looked at her and saw the past repeating itself, a friendship, ever-so-fragile, destroyed for hormones and kisses that meant nothing. That led to this, two people standing in a deserted lawn as far away as they could, hating the sight of each other. And this is what he would not do to Misao. This time he wouldn't give in.
But wasn't this discomfort, this hatred, what he was well on his way to achieving anyway?
"I do not need to come to the clinic this soon," he said, quick and knife-edged.
"Dr. Rogers doesn't understand, he didn't see your father's illness . . . it is only safe to make sure, after all."
"Haven't you checked enough?" he said, and he was surprised his voice wasn't rising. He thought it had been. "If there was anything, you would know by now. And even if there is a chance, I do not care. Why is it so hard for you to understand that?"
"As a doctor, it is my duty to make sure – !" Her eyes were sparking. He hated her.
"Like you care."
Like you care. The words hung there, flung out the way Misao had flung them out at him that night on the stairs, all white skin and big eyes, so easily thrown, so hard to circumvent. Childish, unlike him, but there they were, haunting his thoughts, and now out through his mouth. Like you care.
Megumi blazed up like a match laid to dry leaves. "As much as I dislike – no, loathe you – Shinomori, I do not want you to die! If I have to force you to the clinic every two months, I will!"
The bubbles of his anger didn't abate, but the fire lowered slightly. He wasn't going to pick a fight with her, not after taunting Sagara already. If they sat down to compare notes, Sagara and Megumi and Kaoru, they'd piece together the reasons for his bad mood easily enough, and the last thing he wanted was for Megumi to know that her nagging upset him this much. Not that it was the only reason, but . . . "Are you here to speak with Kaoru? She's finishing up with my rooms."
"Actually, I needed to talk to Omasu and Okon." Her head was held high, eyes still alight. "I expect you at the clinic next week."
"I hope Okon and Omasu are free. Sometimes they are busy all day." By God, he would make them busy all day today.
"I'm sure they'll find time. Next week, Shinomori."
"Have a nice day, Miss Megumi."
As he turned away, he thought she might have ground her teeth, but it didn't make him feel any better. He was grinding his own. One day . . . one day he would be free of this. One day he'd see her and wouldn't want to run. One day he wouldn't feel angry and sad and one day he wouldn't hate her anymore.
He wondered if Misao would hate him, soon. She thought he was heartless, true, but he didn't think she hated him. But would she, one day, even if he didn't do with her what he did with Megumi?
Probably. Who didn't hate him?
Almost at the front door, knowing Megumi wasn't far behind, he supposed the only thing to top his day so far would be to bang into Misao and have her stammer apologies at him. He almost wished she would start flinging insults . . . Oh, he knew he didn't wish that. Like you care. He did care. He didn't used to, and now he did, and he hated it. He'd grown out of caring, his mother and father and everything else in his life had taken care of that, and now . . . now he had to grow out of it again. And it hurt.
And sure enough, there she was, holding that vase she'd almost broken that day – was it really as long ago as he thought it was? – her face screwed up into something unreadable, looking small and hard in a severe skirt and a dark blouse. She always wore dark colours in the day. He had never wondered why.
He supposed he had to ask. He couldn't just walk by and watch her smash the vase he'd already rescued once. And he supposed she'd planned all this and he was stepping right into it. Like you care. "What are you doing, Misao?"
One eye popped open, and he took the opportunity to glance around to see where Megumi was. He couldn't see her behind him, and he assumed she'd taken the kitchen door. Good. At least she wouldn't be looking in on this. "Nothing," she said, extremely unconvincingly.
He would have sighed, but he was angry and irritated and really not ready to deal with whatever scheme she had come up with to make him talk to her properly again. What did she want, after all? She was supposed to tell him he was heartless and have him say, fine, let's have lunch? Bring your copy of Dickens along? Apologies were not the point – it was the fact that she'd said it, that she'd thought it. It wasn't an apology he wanted; he wanted the thought gone from her mind, wanted her never to have thought it . . . and didn't blame her for thinking it. So he did the only thing he knew best; he ignored her. And here she was holding up that expensive Chinese vase, ready to throw.
One of these days, all his hair was going to fall out and grow back white.
"You're holding a vase you've already almost broken two feet above your head, and you expect me to believe that you're doing nothing with it."
"I'm doing nothing with it right now," she said, arms outstretched above her head.
The lowering simmer began rising again, close to boil. He would never lash out at her, never; he would simply shut down, absolutely and completely, and he knew she recognised that for what it was. "Put it down," he said.
"Why?" she said, looked straight back at him. Had he really thought he didn't want groveling and apologies? At least he could deal with those quickly.
"Because I'm telling you to." Standard grown-up answer, and he'd hated it when he was small, but there was a certain satisfaction in whipping it out right now.
"Well I told you that I was sorry, and did you listen? No. So why should I listen to you?"
Oh, perfect. Now he had to reestablish his authority, and either destroy whatever friendship that could have been salvaged out of this, or let it go and have her smash the vase and any respect and obedience she had left for him at the same time. "I cannot make you listen to me," he said, in a voice that suggested he very much could. "I can only ask you to put it down. If you don't, I do not expect you to ever listen to me again, and I do not expect to ever listen to anything you have to say again either."
Her eyes bored into his, and he looked back unblinkingly. Her eyes were unreadable, blue and wide and hard, but whether angry or thoughtful or simply stubborn he didn't know. Then her mouth twitched, and he knew he'd won. Slowly, so very slowly, she lowered the vase, held it tucked under one arm. He winced, mentally; that was more pressure than it's delicate glass could probably withstand. "Will you listen to me, now?" she asked.
Asked. It wasn't a demand, it wasn't a mumbled apology, wasn't a burst of impatient anger. It was a question.
"All right," he said.
And then there was silence. She just stared at him, wide-eyed, as if she hadn't ever expected him to actually agree to anything she said. He was slightly pleased with himself – he never liked being predictable. And the anger rolled around somewhere inside him and he fenced it away into a part of his mind for the moment, because he didn't need it now. He would listen to her. He wasn't sure if he wanted to or not, but he would.
"I'm sorry about not wearing – enough stuff – that night," she said, and her cheeks went red but her eyes remained fixed on his. "And I'm sorry about saying that you didn't care if I caught cold, because I know you do. I was just angry, and I wanted to make you angry, and I know that's stupid and makes no sense, but I did, and besides, how was I to know you'd have someone over so late? You never have anyone over. And you've been avoiding me like the plague, and it's not like I said anything really bad – okay, so maybe I did, but you know I didn't mean it. You know that!"
He was going to wait for her to run out of steam before he said anything. He wasn't going to interrupt, not at all. Already he could see her breaking down, a worried crease between her brows, as she went on, "I mean, you do realise that, don't you? That I was just being stupid and bratty? You're supposed to understand that. It's your job! And . . . well, you wouldn't avoid me if you did understand, so I suppose you don't – didn't – but . . . say something, for God's sake!"
"I was listening," he deadpanned.
"Well, stop listening and say something."
He had a horrible, horrible urge to say 'something', and shoved it down. "All right," he said.
She blinked at him, angry and red-faced and fuming. "If I had my kunai . . ." she ground out.
He raised an eyebrow.
Her face broke into a grin just as suddenly. "Bad way to wind up an apology, ne? But . . . well, you have to say something. And not just all right. You have to accept it. You have to say, 'I accept your apology, Misao, and I will never freeze up on you again.'"
"Freeze up?" he said. Excuse me?
She coughed loudly, covering the rise of his voice on the word 'up'. "Are you listening to me, Aoshi-sama?"
"I accept your apology, Misao," he recited obediently. The anger settled inside its fence and decided to go to sleep for a while.
"And?" she prompted.
He looked back at her blankly.
She sighed. "Oh, fine. Be that way." There was a beat of silence as she stood there, eyes clear once more, looking at him as he looked at her, ever-present braid hanging down her back and dressed all in shades of black and grey. Girls didn't usually dress like that, he thought again, and wondered why Okon and Omasu didn't get her something bright and happy to wear. Something that suited her. That was like her.
"Put the vase down."
"Hai, Aoshi-sama," she said, and stuck her tongue out.
Someone stuck an arrow in the anger and it groaned, gave a few dying thrashes, and faded away.
~*~
A dinner.
Dear God, a dinner.
Here. At Misselthwaite Manor. With Makimachi Misao as hostess.
He had an urge to giggle, high-pitched and insane, and fought it down as he signed the last of the yellow cards lying in front of him. He thought he could see the strings attached to his hands as he opened an envelope for each and put the cards carefully inside, placing each precisely, the folded side outwards and the envelopes sealed with wax. Usually Okon and Omasu would do things like this, but he was the one who had to sign them, and work was lagging just now – he had absolutely no information on the general, hence the dinner – and he'd volunteered to do it. Or more like ordered Omasu and Okon out when they said they'd take the cards when he had put his signature at the end of the invitation, but it was his way of volunteering.
A dinner.
He stacked the envelopes up neatly, imagining that Omasu would have told Misao about it by now. He didn't have the courage to do it himself, didn't have the courage to go and tell her that in a week's time she would be stuffed into a party dress and expected to be nice to people he didn't especially like, expected to act the hostess to a group of dangerous men at a dinner that was purely arranged for business purposes.
The giggle rose again. A dinner. Next week.
They were never going to survive this.
He knew how things worked for women in these times. At sixteen, girls were ready to be 'out', to be taken to the city and shown around parties and balls until they found a suitable match. He'd been in London enough to have been forced to attend a few such occasions, and his mother had left him enough of a history to make him a target for women who weren't quite rich or attractive enough to find men richer and more attractive than they were. His mother's family had been well-known, and well-respected, but his father had been a man far below her station in life, and his hair was just too dark and his eyes just tilted that little bit too much for him, diluted as his blood was, to be mistaken for anything but a foreigner.
And now there would be people in this house, with their frowns and their censorious eyes, disapproving of a sixteen-year-old girl who couldn't conduct herself in polite society – and she really couldn't, he knew that well enough – a girl whose guardian had never gotten her a proper female chaperone, hadn't ever had her taken to London for a summer – and no matter that she hadn't been here long enough, they wouldn't ever be that accommodating. And he didn't know how much of such criticism Misao had faced, how much disapproval she had fought off in Japan, but he didn't want it now. Didn't want to ruin whoever she was so that she could be who society wanted her to be. Vacant and vapid and restricted.
Underneath all of which lay the slight guilt that he hadn't done anything of this for her, hadn't fulfilled any of the expected requirements of a guardian for a sixteen-year-old.
He thought of calling Omasu to come and take the cards, but eventually decided to take them downstairs himself. He needed to look over the house anyway, order preparations for the food for next week, sort out the withdrawing room – needed to see if the dining table hadn't been devoured by termites. He picked up his neatly arranged stack and started for the stairs. The house was pretty quiet, but not eerily so; Shiro and Kuro could be heard outside, a low rumble coming from the kitchens where Okon and Omasu presumably were. He supposed Misao was studying, because he was sure she wasn't outside.
It had to be his house, didn't it? It just had to. He never showed any interest in social affairs, in social connections, and they would pick his house to hold this at. Why? Because he never called anyone, and so everyone would be willing to accept his invitation – out of pure curiosity, if nothing else – and he had a hostess now, too, so he couldn't pull out that excuse either. It had always been a flimsy one, but backed up with folded arms and an icy glare it had always worked. He had tried to tell Davidson that Misao was just a little girl, but Symonds had coughed and coughed until he nearly choked himself, and Davidson, one of their best, over from France, had said that Symonds had previously said otherwise, at which both of them had glared at each other and Aoshi had been the one to give in. Give in to the dinner, that is. He continued the glare long after Symonds stopped.
The dust-sheets had been removed from the dining room earlier that day, but the chairs were still pushed back against the walls instead of placed properly with the table, and there was a general air of mustiness surrounding the place. He remembered the last few meals he'd had here . . . Just after he'd begun university, when he would still come home in the time he had off, he used to sit with his father here, eat out of their best cutlery and sit straight throughout. His father had been particular about things like that – meals on time, food always on the dining table, table manners perfect. A combination of the meticulous attention given to tradition in Japanese society, and his own desire to fit in as a respectable man in a country where the very slant of his eyes was enough to condemn him to disreputability.
He supposed that was why he always had his food sent up to him in trays, whenever he wanted, if he wanted.
It made him think of Misao – I was just angry, and I wanted to make you angry – and he wondered if anyone ever really grew up. He was twenty-six, and here he was, still rebelling against his father in ever-so-petty ways, angry, and trying to make him angry, somehow, in some way, even though he was dead and gone and he didn't believe in his spirit watching over him, or any of that. He hated that his father still had such a strong hold over him, hated that Megumi did too, hated that he couldn't break out of any of it – hated that he couldn't help pulling Misao into all of this as well.
"Aoshi-sama," came Okon's voice from behind him.
"Yes?" he said, turning.
"Have you completed the invitations?"
"Yes. I put them on the table in the hall."
"Oh. Thank you." She stopped. "Misao didn't take it very well."
News of the dinner? He didn't think she would. "What did she say?"
"Well, that it was just unfair, and that you were – not exactly the most – um – honourable? – person in the world for not telling her directly, and that she can't eat properly at a table, and you should know things like that . . . and honestly, Aoshi-sama, what were you thinking? She doesn't even have a dress! And there hasn't been a dinner here for at least five years, and we don't want to give a bad showing!"
"She said coward, didn't she?"
Okon almost laughed. "That was the exact word, yes."
He thought for a minute, and Okon stood around because he knew she knew he was thinking. "Will clothes really be a problem?" he asked finally.
Okon shrugged. "We can get her something ready in time . . . it's just . . . convincing her to wear it might be something of an issue."
Something very akin to panic rose in his throat. "But you'll manage?"
"Actually, Omasu and I were hoping that maybe you could have a talk with her about it – "
The panic manifested itself as a lump that made it even harder to talk than usual. "No." He tried to make it flat, cold, emotionless … he thought a little of the panic broke off and filtered through.
Or maybe it didn't, because Okon just mumbled something and then said, "Well, I should attend to the invitations. You have to tell us how much chicken to have sent up from the town."
"There are twenty-two people invited. Make your own estimate."
She nodded and left, leaving him to his perusal of the stuffy dining room. He saw his father sitting there, grey streaking his oily hair, saw the way his face hardened and his cheekbones stood out as he ordered him to hold his fork properly, told him what a failure of a son he was, remembered thinking how much he wanted to stab the fork straight through the hand that lay over his, directing his fingers.
How could Misao not hate him after what he had to do now?
~*~
Omasu had the most annoying smirk on her face, he thought. He had seen her smirk annoyingly before; when Okon had embarrassed herself in front of Sagara, when Shiro had broken his arm – Shiro was very accident-prone – and missed a dance in the village, when Kaoru's bratty little brother called Misao a 'weasel' . . . He'd overheard that yesterday in the gardens, and because he hadn't been in a terribly bad mood, he hadn't told the boy to get lost. Also, Sagara wasn't there, so there was very little satisfaction to be had.
But, regardless, this was one of the worst smirks he'd seen for a while.
She set the two trays down on his desk, one in front of Misao, one in front of him, steam rising from the steaks and potatoes. He pulled the tray a little closer to him, watched her deliver one last smirk and pat Misao's shoulder reassuringly as she went out. So he got the smirks and she got the it's-been-nice-knowing-you-s?
Misao had already delivered her rant – which involved quite a bit of shouting and words that had to do with 'spineless' and 'jelly-brained' – and was now smiling and telling him about Himura, Kaoru's freeloader, and how he did laundry for her and that she couldn't imagine him ever doing laundry . . . Honestly, the mental image that brought up scared him, and he had to glare at her a little before she stopped and pulled the tray towards her.
He hadn't had to call her to have lunch, and he was glad; that would have made it too obvious. She'd come up herself, he'd offered to let her stay, and she'd accepted. And now here he was, faced with the knife and fork he had to teach her to wield, and not let her know that he was doing that, because it would just make her scream and act insulted – how dare he say she couldn't use her utensils properly?
She was fluent enough with a spoon – the concept didn't exactly require too much comprehension. He'd seen her put away stew and soup with little or no spillage, and she would end up bringing a set of chopsticks with her for rice and meat . . . sometimes she used her hands, and he pretended not to notice. He'd never thought it would have repercussions. Misao using a fork and knife might not be very good for his physical well-being, but better her slicing up his face now than Davidson's at the dinner. Although, at the moment, he wouldn't mind if Davidson got his scrawny features slashed by a steak knife –
"Why don't you try using a fork today, Misao?" he asked. "And a knife?"
She blinked at him as if he'd suddenly started speaking gibberish. "Do you have a deathwish, Aoshi-sama?" she asked, very seriously.
Did he? Sometimes he didn't know. He reached over and picked up the fork lying in her plate, fingers just below the base of the bend in the metal, offering the handle to her. He couldn't really think of anything to say.
She blinked again, nose screwing up as she took the fork from him. "And I guess you expect me to stab my steak with it?" she said.
"Something like that," he said, picking up his own utensils.
She did exactly that, grounding her fork into the meat so hard that the handle vibrated when she let go. "There. Can I eat now?"
"Did I tell you not to eat?" He cut off a bite for himself, speared it on his fork.
She opened her mouth, shut it, and opened it again to snap, "Fine!" Her hands reached for the gravy-covered piece of meat, slender fingers digging into it, ready to tear off a piece.
"No hands," he said, watching her from under his lashes. Maybe if he didn't give her the satisfaction of looking up, of paying attention, she'd stop asking for it and just listen to him . . .
She grabbed the fork and yanked backwards, face furious. The plate lifted up, and his muscles tensed, ready to grab it before she brought the china crashing to the floor, but it fell back as she let go. She glared at him, spit out, "See, I tried! No hands! Now can I eat?"
"Eat," he said accommodatingly. "But no hands."
She looked back at him, eyes sparking. "Make me."
He thought it happened in slow motion. Her fingers moved towards the plate again, and her words echoed in his head, once, twice – Like you care. Make me. – and he felt more than saw his own arm reaching out, his fingers encircling her wrist – so thin – one wrist, then both, caught in the same hand, his palm and fingers wrapping around the bones of her wrist, going full circle.
That part of him that had panicked before panicked again now. She stared at him, eyes wide, unbelievably blue, her hands caught a few inches above her plate, engulfed in his. He could feel every rise and dip in her arm, in her wrist, feel the way the skin stretched over the delicate bones and pressed into his palm, and he could feel the blood pumping through her veins, her pulse beating … beating …
And his pulse was racing, too, he knew, and she was too close, and when they sat he wasn't all that much taller than her, and he was already leaning forward to keep his grip – why didn't he let go, damn him? – and she was staring into his eyes – why didn't she look away? – and she wasn't pulling away either . . . and he couldn't understand why not . . . He thought what it would be like to lean closer, even closer, have her pulse beating around him, everywhere, and – oh God, she was sixteen, and he was her guardian, and what was he thinking?
He could see the half-blush on her cheeks, the confusion – and something else? – in her eyes, and when she opened her mouth and articulated, "Aoshi-sama?" he couldn't think of an answer for her.
He let go of her hands as if he'd just dropped a hot brick, and they dropped exactly like bricks, hitting the desktop unsupported. She blinked, and he blinked, and he said, "No hands." He thought he might be telling himself that. No hands. No touching.
She covered up well, too. "Hmph," she said. "Whatever. But if the knife goes through your throat, well, you asked for it!"
He really had, hadn't he?
The steel of the knife – he remembered when cutlery was silver, and wanted to smile – was cold against his hand, strange and unyielding after her soft skin. He gripped the handle tightly, tried to absorb the lack of warmth, tried to make his hands cold again.
It didn't work.
As Misao's temper found its way into a deep dark forest and got lost, Aoshi looked at the fork embedded in the wall behind him, handle vibrating wildly, and wondered vaguely if he was in deeper than he thought. In more ways than one, he decided, as a knife whooshed past to join the fork in its rhythmical vibration.
He thought of the dinner, and the urge to giggle rose again.
~*~
Author's Notes: It's been a long time since I actually wrote any 'notes', hasn't it? Actually, I'm still getting over the shock of getting over 100 reviews – having convinced myself it's true after much head-banging (the wall is quite dented) – and am still, even at 139, pretty much speechless. I mean, I never thought I'd actually be one of those people, you know? I found myself on a 'Favourite Stories' list and practically swooned. Incidentally, swooning is fun. Very girly.
But, what I mean to say is, thank you. So very very very much. To all of you who don't have cable internet and go to all the trouble of reading and – if you're money-savers – reconnecting to review, and to all of you who have it easier and have still made the effort to click and write and … I bow before you. All of you.
As for the fic … it is going somewhere. It – and I – do know where it's going. But it's not going to get there fast. I don't mean my updating (*blush*) – I mean the pace of the action itself. I wallow and I psychoanalyse and sometimes I just get plain distracted, but I do have an aim, and I will get there. Eventually. I think. It's just that, at this point, I don't think any dramatic twist is appropriate. Aoshi has to come to terms with himself, Misao has to figure herself out, and it doesn't make sense for them to fall into each other's arms just yet, whatever the circumstances. And I know it drags, sometimes, but this is one of those fics that I wrote for me, know what I mean? Where I just went on writing and never intended to post it … and then one day I just thought, well, what the heck, and I did … and then it got wiped … and you know the story.
Again, pointless rambling that really meant: Thank you, I'm sorry, I love you, and yes, I know it's slow. I just thought you should know that I know.
Or something like that. Friends flashbacks, anyone?
Oh, and does anyone know a good site for manga scans? The early ones. I've searched and searched, but most things have been taken down or just don't work, and I'm having problems with picturisation these days, so I thought … well, anyway.
Next time, chicken feathers!