-1Chapter 11

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Janey -- re: pace -- this is actually my normal writing pace, and most of this story was written on lunches and during my commute. Essentially, I get an idea in my head and I have to complete it before I get my brain back. This means I work very fast, because I'm seriously useless until it's done. (The advantage to this is that I do tend to complete what I start.))

At least this is a relatively short fanfic and not a 200+K wordcount novel ...

And re: the "They're so cute," comment and Atsuko not blushing -- she probably didn't care one way or another if they knew what she said, and given that Soujiro has a Japanese name, she would have been at least suspicious that he might understand her. Atsuko doesn't really worry very much about what people think of her.

A note -- this chapter's a bit of an infodump, so I may revise it later. I've written several versions of it and I'm at the 'just post the damn thing' point.

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Kenshin sat, back resting against the wall, on the apartment's very small balcony. In the distance, under the light of a nearly full moon and through the wrought iron rails , he could see the horizon. Below the horizon, the lights of ships on the ocean glowed. The apartment was only a few blocks from the waterfront, and it was a third-floor walkup with a clear view of the sea.

It was still a cheap apartment, mostly because this neighborhood was inarguably bad. Despite the fact that it was three AM, he could hear someone arguing in the parking lot, and the police had been called to the building next door the day before, for some crime that had involved an ambulance after the fact. He listened with half an ear to the argument, hand resting on his sword, but he didn't think he'd need to go to the rescue of anyone and he'd rather not single himself out as that crazy red-haired guy if he could avoid it.

The rough neighborhood wasn't much of a threat to him, all things considered, and Atsuko had lived through a lot worse. -- he had a large amount of respect for Atsuko's ability to take care of herself. Sanosuke would be most proud of this particular descendent.

He sighed. He was unable to sleep; several problems -- Heather, Soujiro at the forefront-- gnawed at him, and several not-problems worthy mulling over battled with the real problems for time in his head. The not-problems included, Is Richie really ...? and Everything Atsuko! followed by I need to train with someone good enough to test my own skills; is it irresponsible to do so with MacLeod knowing he's a killer at the heart?

He sighed and chose to think of Atsuko, largely because there wasn't a thing he could do about Heather or Soujiro at this hour, and he'd already decided he'd spar with MacLeod.

Atsuko ... rough neighborhood ... he let his mind drift back to his thoughts of threats to her.

He'd trained her in hand to hand combat, something which would have surprised Yahiko to no end. He hadn't taught her swordplay, of course -- except a bit of kendo, mostly to teach her how to swing any stick she got in her hands during a brawl for maximum effect. (She'd mentioned, to his amusement, that kendo worked best when one substituted a crow-bar for the shinai!) Mostly, however, he'd taught her hand to hand fighting -- a mixture of styles, nothing formal, and including every dirty trick he knew.

She was rather good.

And the apartment was, as he'd said, conveniently located. He would worry about her -- she wasn't bullet proof -- but truthfully, his finances were going to be stretched by supporting Heather's bills and two separate apartments. (Heather's would be two doors down. Atsuko had wanted her to stay with them; he was still certain that would be a disaster -- Heather and Atsuko would end up killing one another, if nothing else. More likely, if Heather felt too pressured, she'd move out, and Kenshin figured it was better to have her living somewhere reasonably safe than on the streets.)

He glanced, briefly, in the direction of her bedroom. Atsuko was snoring -- he could hear her through two doors. She'd crashed as soon as they got home after dinner; the snoring had begun almost seconds after she'd shut her bedroom door. He hoped she'd removed her shoes, considered checking, mentally counted the number of cocktails she'd drank with dinner and came up sufficient alcohol in her system to move her from 'joking proposition' to 'serious proposal' should she wake to find him in her room. He decided it wouldn't hurt her to sleep with her shoes on.

Teasing aside, he was glad she was here. Of all of his "family" Atsuko was one of the few he really and truly enjoyed spending large amounts of time with -- she was someone he genuinely considered a good friend in addition to a responsibility. He had lots of friends, and plenty of people who considered him family, but of them very few fell into the category of people he could let his guard down around.

He'd first gotten to know Atsuko as an adult rather than a cute (and brilliant) child -- oh, perhaps twenty years ago. He'd met her as a child, of course. But he hadn't really known her as anything other than a pixie-ish face among the dozens of family kids. He'd admired her artwork a few times, and as he recalled, had sent her an SLRn camera when her grandmother had mentioned she had true talent. But he hadn't really known her.

It had been the tail end of a war in the early 1970's when she'd first really come to his attention -- the exact war didn't matter, because really, they were all alike when you got right down to it. She'd had her first real assignment as photojournalist and war correspondent after graduating college. Predictably, she'd been captured by "the other side" and he'd gone to the rescue. In what would become something of a pattern later, she'd ended up saving him when he'd taken a bullet in the back -- she'd done so despite being bayoneted in the leg. However, because she didn't have the foggiest clue how to fight, she'd had only one option in a battle with the bad guys -- and that was to use a shotgun taken from a fallen soldier and shoot back. She'd killed three people including one boy no older than fourteen.

In that particular war, enemy combatants were often beheaded. She had saved his life, truly.

She had killed to save him, however, and he would forever see this as a personal failure. One more black mark on his soul -- he should have been able to get her out without anyone else getting killed, and especially without her being the one to do it, and to save his lowly self.

He had kept his distance from her on the journey back to Tokyo. He hadn't wanted to know her. The deaths of those soldiers, that boy, had filled his thoughts, had left him sleepless and tormented and terribly saddened. He'd not done enough.

The day she was released from the hospital she had shown up on his doorstep, drawn and pale and on crutches. She'd shoved right past his emotional resistance, refused to let him push her away, and had demanded his help on a variety of levels. Atsuko was like that -- heaven forbid someone tell her 'no' because she'd take it as a personal challenge! That trait made her a good journalist and, sometimes, a truly vexing friend.

When she had realized just how badly he was affected by the events of that terrible week, she'd firmly and stubbornly inserted herself into his life until he was. if not better, at least not hurting so much. She'd hauled him out in public: to meals, to parties, to clubs, to coffee shops, to concerts. She'd introduced him to her friends, and he'd been adopted by a cadre of twenty-something women who had no idea he was a century and plus their senior.

She'd woken him up every morning, refusing to let him sleep the clock 'round; conversely, on the nights when he couldn't sleep for the nightmares, she'd listened to his thoughts and shared her own darkness. She'd had just as many nightmares as he did, and no experience dealing with them. He hadn't realized until much later that booting him out of his funk had been very good for her, too.

And, sometime during those long months, he'd started talking. For the first time in half a very long lifetime, he'd had someone in his life whoreally and truly listened, and who saw him as a person, not a revered elder or a mystic or simply something other than human.

For his part, he had expected that she would never again want to see a war zone. Instead, she'd proclaimed that she would go back. She would make a difference with her cameras and her stories and her courage. She would not stand idly by while terrible things happened in the world. She was going whether he liked it or not, she'd told him, and he had no say in the matter. And she'd asked -- no, demanded -- that he teach her to defend herself.

And how could he say no? He'd recognized something akin to his own warrior's spirit in her stubborn determination. And, also, he'd recognized a kindred soul in her deep desire to change the world, to make a difference. He did it with the dull side of a blade and his wits; she wanted to do the same with her words and her camera.

Her way's probably the more effective one, too, he thought, ruefully and not for the first time. At least on a large scale.

And so he'd taught her to fight. Not to kill -- and he'd passed on none of his swordsmanship, because Hiten Mitsurugi-Ryu would die with him. But he'd taught her to defend herself, effectively and efficiently. Being able to fight hand to hand had both saved her neck a few times, and likely prevented her from needing to use lethal force -- though she did now carry a handgun of her own when covering wars and, sometimes, disaster zones.

And maybe he'd saved a few lives by teaching her to fight. And -- yes, he understood why she kept going back, over and over again, to wars, to disasters, to riots, to famines, to terrible places where she saw things no gently raised woman ever should. And she brought back photos of those ungodly things and showed the world, so that the truth would come out and other people would be inspired to make a difference.

And because she'd seen the worst of humanity, first hand, she understood. He could let his guard down around her -- he could be himself, rather than the ancient, legendary family protector.

He sighed, for about the thousandth time that night. Then, he realized he was not alone moments later, when a cool wind swirled around him. The wind settled down on the balcony beside him, radiating cold and quiet energy.

"Hello, Kaoru," he said, quietly. "I've missed you."

Something that might have been a hand brushed his cheek. He closed his eyes, feeling her presence -- she'd doubtless sensed his unhappiness this night, had come to pay a visit.

"When are you going to come back to me? I'll wait. I'll always wait."

Kaoru settled against his shoulder, more impression than weight. She was there, he knew she was there, curled up next to him, lending silent support.

"Thank you," he murmured, knowing the answer to when will you come back was, Not in this lifetime, Kenshin, and you've got a lot of living left to do.

It hurt.

But she was here, for the moment, and finally, he leaned his head back against the wall and slept.

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Atsuko woke to at dawn to the sound of seagulls. She yawned, realized the apartment was quite cold, and, with her blanket wrapped around her shoulders, she padded barefoot and in her pajamas into the kitchen. She started coffee -- enough for both herself and Kenshin.

Only after she was halfway through her first cup did she realize he was sitting out on the west-facing balcony.

She sighed, watching him. He was leaning against the wall, sleeping sitting up. He only did that when he was very troubled. And it was cold out there.

She padded to the door and opened it -- it creaked, but he didn't wake. So he was deeply asleep. He also looked cold, as she'd suspected -- goose bumps had risen on his arms, and that scar on his cheek was standing out in stark contrast against pale skin.

"Kenshin." She touched his shoulder.

"Oro?" He opened his lavender eyes and blinked sleepily at her. She realized only belatedly that there were tear tracks down his cheeks. He'd been crying in his sleep, something she thought only a few people knew he did.

"Were you dreaming of her?" She offered him a hand up.

He accepted, clambered somewhat stiffly to his feet, and rubbed at his sleep-sticky eyes with the back of his hand. "Aaa."

Quiet confirmation. He started shivering, and she wordlessly handed him the blanket. "There's coffee."

"Coffee is good. Thank you." He said, then disappeared into his bedroom with the blanket around his shoulders. Fifteen minutes later, he reappeared wearing his usual jeans-and-t-shirt, sword strapped diagonally across his back, duster over his shoulder, and a gym bag in one hand. His hair was wet -- he'd showered quickly. He looked much more awake and the darkness had disappeared from his eyes, at least for the moment.

He poured himself coffee, then sat down on the couch and raked a comb through his hair briefly before tying it back with a bit of leather string. When he realized she was watching him, he said, quietly, "Is something bothering you?"

"Something's bothering you," she replied.

"Aa."

"Are you going to stew on it or are you going to talk?"

"I'm going to go spar with MacLeod, if he's free today," he said, quietly.

Her eyebrows rose. "You never spar with anyone." She realized that announcement was an answer enough to what was bothering him. If she had to guess, she thought he was thinking he might have to challenge Soujiro. And he would be worrying about his own abilities -- he was damn good, but not invincible.

Damn. Given the fact he'd lost weight since she'd seen him last, and given that he obviously hadn't been working out like he should, he was right to worry. Immortality did not automatically confer physical fitness -- and Kenshin, at five foot even and less than a hundred pounds needed to workhard to stay in shape. Many of the moves he did with a sword were meant for men a foot taller and twice his weight.

He gave her a silent look over his coffee that said he wasn't going to elaborate on that statement. "Are you going to go by the hospital today?"

"Yeah." She sighed, not looking forward to that visit. "Heather's going to be so thrilled I'm here."

"Be careful, Atsuko-chan," he said.

"Always am."

He drained the last of his coffee, poured another cup, didn't say another word. She watched him for a minute longer, then padded off to her own shower. Kenshin was clearly not in a talkative mood.

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The ringing of steel against steel drew Richie to the warehouse door. He peered inside, cautiously, hoping to avoid being seen -- he wasn't sure if the two men wanted to be observed or not. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw them.

Both MacLeod and Kenshin had stripped down to jeans; Kenshin's t-shirt hung from his belt. Mac's was nowhere in sight. Both were covered with sweat, and in Kenshin's case, blood from his nose.

Is this a serious fight? Richie thought, in shock, as they circled one another. Mac was bleeding too -- a cut on his hand stained the hilt of his katana crimson, and when Mac and Kenshin rotated around each other so that Mac's back was to Richie, he realized Mac had a perfect sword-shaped bruise from shoulder blade to hip.

God! They're trying to kill each other! Richie realized, I thought -- did Kenshin Challenge Mac? I thought he was one of the good guys!

Kenshin crouched, hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword. Mac mimicked the pose. They lunged together, swords flashing through the air. Neither scored, but ...

Kenshin's faster than Mac. Lots faster. Mac blocked, but barely.

He could barely see Kenshin move; the guy was so fast it was unreal.

The two locked swords and shoved at each other for a moment, muscles cording, grunting with effort. Kenshin lost ground to Mac; his eyes blazed from under a tangled, sweaty fall of bangs. Then, suddenly, Mac stepped back -- he'd apparently given Kenshin no warning, because Kenshin stumbled a hair forward. This put him off balance, and Mac was waiting. MacLeod shouldered him sideways, made him stumble, and then swatted him with the flat of the sword, hard, on the arm. The blow spun Kenshin around, and MacLeod followed it with a swift kick to Kenshin's back. Kenshin staggered farther off balance. MacLeod swung his sword in a whistling arc -- and stopped it an inch from Kenshin's neck.

Kenshin's eyes were very, very large.

Mac stepped back, grinned, and said, "Gotcha."

He offered Kenshin a hand up. Kenshin wiped his nose, studied the blood. "Oro! I didn't think you could take me, Mister MacLeod, this I did not."

Not a deathmatch after all, Richie realized. He exhaled a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. It's practice. Serious training. I've never seen MacLeod fight like that before when he's not trying to kill someone. He looked like he was playing when Connor was here.

"You owe me that beer," Mac said, sounding amused at Kenshin's surprise. Apparently, they'd had a bet. Mac paused, then added, "And if you call me 'Mister' again it's going to be two beers."

"I owe you more than that, Mac." Kenshin shook his head in apparent disbelief. "I should have turned that stumble into a somersault to get clear of you."

"Yeah." Mac agreed. "Go another round?"

Kenshin wiped his nose with the back of his hand, studied the blood on his hand, and then nodded slowly. Richie thought the guy looked rather chastened, and he was looking at Mac with a whole new light of respect in his brilliant violet eyes.

They lit into each other again, swords ringing together. When they sprang apart after several seconds, MacLeod was limping from a blow that Richie hadn't even seen Kenshin land. Kenshin spat blood; Richie had seen MacLeod elbow the smaller man in the mouth.

"Mac's good," a surprised voice said, next to Richie. He jumped.

Atsuko gave him a wry grin. "Sorry, Richie. Didn't mean to startle you."

"Ah, it's okay," he said, a little nervously. She was pretty -- in a no-makeup tough-as-nails sense, and she teased. "You surprised me, is all. And MacLeod is damn good."

Atsuko watched the men in silence, for a moment. She said quietly, "Something's bothering Kenshin. He's distracted. He shouldn't be having this much trouble with MacLeod."

"MacLeod's good!" Richie protested.

Atsuko shook her head, making her bobbed hair bounce. She insisted, "Something's bugging Kenshin."

MacLeod had managed to get past Kenshin's defenses to swat the smaller man on the thigh. Instantly, Kenshin reacted with lightning speed; he swung his sword hard and high over MacLeod's and nailed Mac in the side of the neck. Richie thought Kenshin's swing connected only milliseconds after MacLeod hit him in the leg.

MacLeod staggered backwards, clapping his hand over the bruised flesh. "Shit, Kenshin!"

"Got you, I did," Kenshin said, with satisfaction, then added, "Gomen, Mister MacLeod, that had to have hurt, it did."

"That's more like the Kenshin I know," Atsuko said, grinning at Richie. "He baited Mac into that, did you see? Mac took the opening Kenshin deliberately created, but in doing so, he couldn't block Kenshin's blow. Kenshin deliberately let Mac hit him."

She paused, considering, then added, "I've never seen him spar with anyone before, at least not with a sword. Only in actual fights."

"In a real fight, Mac would have laid his leg open to the bone," Richie pointed.

"Yeah. But MacLeod would be dead." Atsuko shrugged. "Immortals play by different rules than we do, Mac. Short of death, they heal without a scar."

"Are you okay, Mac-san?" Kenshin asked, with some concern.

MacLeod was gingerly probing his jaw; he spat blood before answering. "I'll survive."

Kenshin glanced at Atsuko, then said, "I think Atsuko-chan has something to tell me. We should continue this another day."

"Yeah," Atsuko said, then wrinkled her nose as the two very sweaty men approached. "After you shower. You've got guy stink and your nose blood is really gross." She tilted her head, regarded them for a moment, then added, "Though I like the shirtless look, Kenshin."

Kenshin glanced down, turned as red as his hair, and then protested loudly, "Atsuko-chan!"

While he was still spluttering, Atsuko said to Richie, in a sly voice, "You know, if you tease him enough, his neck turns pink."

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