Author Notes: I've had this fic up here for a good two years now, and many things have changed drastically in that time. Most of all, my taste in music. If I was to see a story titled 'And This Is How You Remind Me' now, I wouldn't even click on it, because I couldn't bear reading something based on that kind of disposable pop-rock (no offence) …
I still agree with the reason I chose this song – its particular theme – but the song itself … shudder. I find it deeply distressing that a Sex Pistols fan like myself ever listened to this kind of music. Not that the Sex Pistols deserve to be used in this context – that's just ludicrous – but … well. I just needed to absolve myself of this.
It's a little late to go back and change the title of the fic and all the chapters, huh? (Kinda ironic to read the very next line here. Hehehe.)

It's not like you didn't know that …

He would have liked to take her by carriage, just the two of them; he wanted her to see the scenery change, wanted to point out landmarks she might have appreciated, wanted to tell her stories and bits of history that he knew. But instead here they were, stuck in a small booth in a rattling train that stank of old food and wet newspaper.

Misao was having an animated conversation with the elderly man sharing their booth, going on and on about how prices for poultry really didn't need to be so high. The man, top-hat slightly askew, seemed dumbstruck by her assumption that he would actually care about poultry costs, and had yet to interrupt her.

Aoshi considered distracting her and giving the man a breather, but he decided it would be far more rewarding to remain immersed in his book. He was rereading Gulliver's Travels; the satire was a sharp contrast to Misao's unfailingly cheerful outlook on the world, and he thought he needed to keep himself balanced if he was going to survive this trip with his sanity intact.

He didn't feel like going to the dining car for lunch, so Misao went by herself – the old man in tow – and returned with a plate filled with steak-and-kidney pie for him.

"They let you take cutlery out of the dining area?" he asked.

"'Let' is such a strong word," she said, grinning. She whipped out a spoon and dug into his plate.

"We're sharing?" he said, mildly disdainful.

"Oh, hey, it was hard enough smuggling out one plateful, I wasn't gonna risk another."

Fair enough, he thought, and let her finish half the food before taking another spoon from her and eating himself. He didn't rush himself the way she had, thinking, instead, that there was something oddly intimate about eating off the same plate, even if it was in turns … as if things between them weren't bound by the accepted laws of gender and propriety. And he supposed that they weren't.

It was a strange kind of freedom he felt, with her. He didn't quite understand it, but he didn't really want to. It was enough that he felt it.

"Where are we staying?" she said, after a while. The man sharing their booth wasn't back from lunch yet. If he knew what was good for him, he wouldn't be back for a while. "In London, I mean."

"Hotel," he said noncommittally.

"O-kay," she said. "What's it called? Where is it?"

"London."

"Mou," she said, exasperated, standing up and seating herself next to the window with a flounce. "Be that way, then."

He didn't say anything, amused.

"And don't give me that look," she said, annoyed.

"What look?" he said blandly.

"That ooh-I'm-about-to-break-out-laughing-but-not thing that you do. Gah."

He must be losing control over his facial expressions – it was the only explanation for this. He shook his head slightly and went back to his book.

Dark, damp afternoon, a light drizzle causing a faint mist in the city air. Cobbled streets that would usually be packed with carriages and people were fairly empty; people would be out in the mornings, or the evenings, but not in the middle of an afternoon as dreary as this one.

He would have preferred taking her sight-seeing on a sunnier day than this, but he had work to do and he didn't trust her alone on the streets of London. It was bad enough that he was here with her without a female chaperone … if he didn't keep a low profile, this would be talked about. A lot. And he didn't want to call any attention to himself just now.

They didn't get off in front of the Houses of Parliament because Aoshi didn't want to arrive at the hotel soaked, so Misao had to content herself with plastering her nose to the carriage window and staring up at Big Ben. He'd shown her St. Paul's already, but they hadn't been able to go inside because there were strict timings for visitors. She had been disappointed, and he'd promised to bring her back later.

"I've never been inside a church," she'd said, eyebrows turned down in a frown.

"Really?" he had said. His mother used to take him to church on Sundays, in Misselthwaite – he remembered it, vaguely. His father had never embraced the religion of the white man, but he'd let his mother have her freedom when it came to him. In certain respects.

"Yeah … never."

"We can come again tomorrow," he had found himself saying. "Or the day after."

Bright smile in her eyes, then, and a touch of something else. "You don't need to bribe me to behave, you know," she'd said, grinning.

He had sniffed, and she'd laughed.

They drove past the Tower of London before turning down towards the Kingston area, where they were staying in what Aoshi had told Misao was a hotel. It wasn't actually; it was the house they always rented out in London, whenever any of them was there on business. Rodney, the housekeeper, was the only permanent fixture there.

"This doesn't look much like a hotel," Misao said immediately, looking the red-brick building up and down.

"I wasn't going to tell you anything else in public," he said, almost-but-not-quite exasperated.

"There wasn't anyone in our booth when I asked," she said, turning to him. "I made sure."

"It was still in public," he said, motioning for the carriage driver to unload their bags. Misao followed him up the curving pathway that served as a drive, and peered over his shoulder as the front door was opened.

"Rodney," said Aoshi, nodding. "This is my ward, Makimachi Misao. Are our rooms ready?"

"Rooms? Oh yes, yes, Mr. Shinomori – " stuttered the man, gazing at Misao with blatant curiosity. "Your ward, you say?"

"I asked for two rooms," he said, sighing. "Are they ready?"

"Of – of course. I wasn't sure – but of course. Follow me."

The rooms were like they always were; nothing fabulous, nothing too bare either. Hers was down the hallway from his, and he was glad for the distance. It made things a little – easier. He started placing his clothing in the cupboards, knowing that if he left it for too long Rodney would pretend to be his valet and sort out his clothes himself. And he hated other people touching his belongings.

"Oy, Aoshi-sama," said Misao, poking her head around the door.

"Hm?" he said, turning.

"Ooh, are you unpacking? I'm thinking I'll just live out of the trunk for the week. Can't be bothered to sort out my stuff."

"Did you want something?" he said, trying to get her to focus.

"Huh?" She looked up from her perusal of his half-empty suitcase. "Oh, no, just bored."

Which meant that she wanted to sit here and he was supposed to entertain her. Or let her entertain him. Mostly, that would be fine by him, but today – today he could feel the brush of her hair as she dozed on his shoulder in the train, today he could see the twist of her mouth when she smiled standing too close to him, today … today he didn't think he could risk it.

"Didn't you bring a book or something?" he said, and he sounded stern but he felt helpless.

She stared at him. "What?" she said, blinking, then ignored him and plunked herself down on the bed in the middle of the room. His bed. "So I was wondering, what're we going to do tonight? Are you just going to work, or are we going to go out somewhere?"

He'd like to take her out, to the theatre maybe, show her how plays were different here, different from what little he knew about Japanese festivals. But – unmarried man, young un-chaperoned woman … it was just asking for attention. "Work," he said, shortly.

"Mou," she said, making a face. "What am I supposed to do, then?"

Annoy me, he wanted to say, but he didn't. He shrugged, and went back to unfolding his clothes. It felt odd, doing that in front of her, but she didn't seem fazed at all … and after a while, as she began to point out where to put what and why on earth men had ruffles on the front of their shirts, it almost felt – comfortable.

It was frightening, this freedom that kept creeping up on him when he was with her. He was so used to guarding himself, to showing a certain façade to the world, and it was unnerving to have someone in here with him, within the confines of his room, within his private space. Within his façade, not outside it.

"Zoning out again, Aoshi-sama," she said, and he heard the grin in her voice.

"I'm thinking," he said, slightly ruffled.

"Whatever."

He didn't deign to answer.

Saitou was right. She was getting too close; he wasn't dependable anymore. He was becoming – just like everybody else. Ties, a family, a … woman.

He wasn't sure he wanted to be dependable. Wasn't sure he wanted his status as their very best spy, as their most reliable informant. Most ruthless. There were … other things …

Dependency.

That's what it all came down to. The network depended on him – he had made sure that it would, worked hard to ensure that it did. They trusted him, and they needed him, and he thought that that was his due. And Misao … he depended on her. More and more. He trusted her, he supposed he needed her – he wasn't sure, though – and he knew that it was very, very wrong.

Except – did it matter?

She talked to him. She seemed to like him. Sometimes she looked at him and he wondered – he wondered things he shouldn't be allowed to, but he did, and he thought that she just might want … and he knew it was wrong. To depend on her like that. To think about her like that. Because she was his ward and she was Misao and –

It. Didn't. Matter.

Why not?

Because she cared for him. He knew that. It didn't mean anything deep or earth-rending, it was just something he knew. She had never attempted to hide it, or flaunt it. It was there, every time she came to talk to him, every odd sentence she let slip. I'd never turn down a trip with you.

And so … so if she did care for him, what was wrong with depending on her?

Hurt. Vulnerability. Yawning gaping chasm.

Fear.

He gave in. He sat down next to her, and he knew it was an out-of-character move for him when she looked at him with a puzzled frown on her face. "Aoshi-sama?" she said.

"Hm?" he said.

"Are you okay?" She leaned forward a little; he caught a whiff of the scented substance she used to wash her hair with. "Didn't know folding shirts was that tiring."

"It can be quite brutal," he said, only half-listening.

She grinned. "Yeah, I can see that." She scooted forward a little more, knees against the side of his leg, now. He remembered a wintry day back in her room, a similar situation. He remembered running. Maybe he wouldn't actually give in, just now, but he wasn't going to run.

They sat there in silence, her skirt scraping his trousers, her shoulders hunched forwards, his weight on his hands. He felt oppressed by the silence, felt that he should say something, tell her something. Something big. He felt she needed to know that he liked her except he wasn't sure how much and if it was enough, and that she shouldn't like him because there was really nothing in him to like, except she couldn't know that unless he let her in and he wasn't going to let her in. He felt that he should tell her to stay the hell away from him, except here he was sitting down closer to her than he ever let himself.

"Listen, Aoshi-sama – " she began, and he was scared to death of what might come out of her mouth.

But it was nothing he should have been worried about; she said, "You can't let the clothes leave you whipped like this, all right? You've gotta show some authority."

He looked at her blankly; he wondered if she had actually only been thinking about his unpacking while he thought of life and love and – everything. But there was something in her eyes, in the little crinkles around her mouth … she knew. She didn't know quite what he'd been thinking, but she knew that it had been – significant. He could see that. And he knew this was her way of making things easier for him.

He was grateful.

"Authority?" he said caustically. "I'm not facing an army of shirts, Misao."

"You've got the army, you just don't have the command," she said, grinning, and he let himself slip into the banter.

When he was near her, it was somehow easier to let himself believe that there was nothing wrong with depending on her, needing her. Sitting in the dingy building they used for covert telegraphs, surrounded by papers documenting murder and intrigue, he couldn't imagine why he would ever think that dependency wasn't harmful.

"Unaccounted for?" he asked Dunham.

"Yes. We have no clue where they are."

"What about Samuels?"

"Out of contact."

He looked down at the yellow slip of paper in his hands. "Dead?" he asked, although he knew Dunham knew no more than the telegram told him.

Dunham shrugged, brown hair standing up in all directions on his head. "Possibly. I think he's hiding, though."

Aoshi nodded; Samuels went into hiding at the slightest hint of danger. But if he was dead … he didn't want to lose Samuels – he was a good man, if a little flighty, and he knew too much to be captured and interrogated. Ah well. "Two men," he said to Dunham. Dunham, who'd been working with him for a good six years now, knew exactly what he meant.

"I can't search all of London for them," he said helplessly.

"You have to try." Aoshi knew his voice was hard. "We're too close for two of the General's men to shut us down now."

"They're following you, most likely," Dunham said.

He knew that. He hadn't expected a tail, but he'd had his eyes open, and he didn't think anyone had been following them since their arrival the day before. He couldn't risk making a mistake, though – Misao was here, and he was supposed to be keeping her safe, not leading her into even more danger than she would have been in back home.

"I need a few men," he said abruptly.

Dunham blinked. "For what?"

"I want them to watch the Kingston house."

"Why? Old Rod's the only one there."

Aoshi didn't say anything. Damn Saitou and his misplaced advice. This wasn't Saitou's fault, of course, it was just coincidence that they would be followed here instead of in Misselthwaite, but he didn't care about coincidence, he just wanted the freedom to be able to adapt to a change in circumstances and with Misao there he was severely hampered.

And severely worried.

"I've got someone with me," he said tersely.

Irritated, he saw the curiosity spark in Dunham's eyes, saw the questions rise to his lips. "Really? Who? Why?"

He glared at him, tried to make it as cold as possible when he said, "It doesn't matter. But I want protection there."

Dunham swallowed his queries, and said, suddenly sharp, "This isn't like you."

No, it wasn't. He knew that. He sighed and said nothing.

She was curled up in the armchair next to his window when he got back, a Japanese book clutched in her fingers. He couldn't read Japanese, so he didn't know what it was about – he was surprised enough that it was a book. Her eyes were closed, her face turned slightly towards the window; there was something wistful about her pose, something that made him feel strangely sad.

Her eyes snapped open as soon as he stepped in, so it was obvious that she hadn't been sleeping. "Hi," she said, slow smile on her face.

He nodded at her in greeting, then went into the adjoining room to wash his hands and face. She was still there when he returned, and he didn't know why he'd thought she wouldn't be. Uncharacteristically, he decided to make conversation, saying, "Have you eaten?"

"Oh, yeah," she said. "Long time ago. Told the old guy I was going to bed, but I wasn't sleepy, so I thought I'd stay here and wait for you."

Huh. He sat down on the bed, leaning down to unlace his shoes. He felt that strange feeling of intimacy again, of a connection without the barriers of propriety and decorum. It was liberating.

"I have work to do," he told her, because it was true. Because he was scared of her staying here too long.

"Still?" she said, making a face. "But you've been out working all day."

He shrugged.

"Can I – hang around? I won't bother you, seriously."

She didn't need to bother him to be a distraction. But – he shrugged again.

"I'm guessing that's a yes," she said, drawing her knees to her chest and snuggling back into the armchair.

He placed his trenchcoat in the leftmost of the cupboards lining the right wall, and seated himself at the small table in one corner. He had to slouch awkwardly – the table was nothing more than a coffee table, and far too low to act as a desk, but he wasn't the kind of person who could do paperwork sitting on a bed, or the floor.

She talked to him occasionally, shared observations about London, about life outside the window she was facing. It wasn't as distracting as it could have been. Once or twice she ventured downstairs and brought him back a cupcake, or a glass of juice. It was very late, and if Rodney was to make a round through the house for any reason at all, he would be scandalized beyond measure, but Aoshi couldn't bring himself to turn her out. She wasn't doing anything improper, and he was just working, and it was so easy.

It scared him. Because …

Because he could get used to this.

And he had learnt early enough to never treat anything in his life as a permanent fixture. Dependency was wrong because it hurt.

But it didn't hurt just now. Didn't hurt at all, seeing her profile outlined against the moonlit window, seeing her smile in the dark, just for him.

His distance, his reserve – it wasn't about her anymore. It had been, initially, about her trust and her position as his ward and just her, but now … now it was all about him. Was he willing to give her any semblance of control over his life? Was it too late already? Had they reached a point where that decision was out of his hands?

Was he willing to take the risk?

It could hurt. It probably would.

She set the plate down in front of him, and returned to her seat by the window. This time it was a muffin, and he wondered if she was raiding Rodney's breakfast supplies. He looked up at her, and she caught his eyes. She smiled, then, slow and comfortable and almost mischievous, and he felt something twist inside him.

He could get used to this.

Author Notes (cont'd): I'm having formatting troubles. And I hate messed-up formatting - it takes away every bit of reading pleasure.
I'll come back and fix it, I think. This'll have to do, for now ...