Chapter Three: Onmyou Hashi
A/N: Onmyou Hasshi is one of Aoshi's techniques introduced during the Kyoto Arc. According to Wikipedia, which is never wrong because it's not like just anyone can go in and change stuff, it translates as "dusk to dawn strike." However, if you were to commit a typo and substitute 'hashi' for 'hasshi,' it would translate as "secret chopsticks."
I apologize for the lack of Misao – I just can't imagine Aoshi stealing food from her, can you?
Shinobi arts (and in this case Japanese language) consultant, as well as the person who pointed out the pun: saluspopuli on LiveJournal.
Disclaimer: I do not own any any of the characters used in my fanfiction, nor profit from my work.
You'd think living in a restaurant, he'd get plenty to eat.
Aoshi eyed the huge bowl of steaming winter melon soup, greenish-white chunks of sweet gourd floating in clear broth. Despite the name, it was a delicacy this time of year when most of the stored vegetables had been used. Its aroma wafted across the table, teasing his nostrils, tempting him.
His eyes shifted to the left. Himura was focused on feeding Kenji, who had not quite mastered chopsticks. More rice ended up on his dark blue gi, a perfect miniature copy of his father's, than in his mouth. He didn't seem to mind, happily sputtering and drooling out soggy white grains.
To the right, Okina wasn't even paying attention to the spread of tasty Chinese dishes. His wrinkled fingers worried the new red velvet bow tied around his beard as he watched a pretty waitress go by, bearing a tray of empty dishes. An outraged feminine shriek and the crash of broken crockery, followed by a loud slap, echoed through the room.
Even Aoshi found it hard to fake a neutral expression when his mouth was filling with drool. Deep blue eyes, tinged slightly with green, shifted back to the soup. He didn't even care about the relatively flavorless broth, really, just that delightfully sweet and lightly crunchy melon…
"Kenji hasn't tried winter melon yet since Kaoru can't…uh…" Aoshi said nothing as Himura's voice trailed off.
"Oro?" The bowl now contained nothing more than broth and a few shreds of seaweed and green onion. The glistening pale hunks of sweet vegetable had vanished as though they had been just a figment of the imagination.
"Okina-dono, did you…" No indeed. The old man was unconscious on the floor, his chopsticks still wrapped in a napkin atop the table. Below, two halves of a smashed bowl perched precariously on his face. A little blood leaked out from beneath.
"Aoshi." The ex-hitokiri's tone wasn't even accusatory, more matter-of-fact. Aoshi blinked, batting his long lashes in a way that would have been feigned innocence coming from anyone else. Coming from him, it was just getting his bangs out of his eyes.
"Excuse me, could we have more winter melon soup?"
Their waitress gave Himura an odd look, but nodded. "Yes, sir."
When it came to fine dining, even Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu had nothing on Aoshi.