Part Four: Reparations
I know I could always be good
To one who'll watch over meAoshi watched Misao sleep, protective instincts running rampant, anger coiling and twisting inside him. Like himself, Uratsuji was old-school Oniwabanshuu: trained and molded before Meiji. There was an edge to their techniques which Misao's lacked -- an edge that meant the difference between victory and destruction, punishment and death; a ruthlessness that was out of place in this peaceful time. Even so . . . Uratsuji had gone too far. There were lines one didn't cross, even when dealing with an enemy. Aoshi's own mistakes had provided the ex-Oniwabanshuu a weapon to use against Misao, but it had been Uratsuji's choice to wield it. Playing on her personal insecurities -- her needs, her fears -- was more than ruthless, and less than honorable.
She stirred beside him, her foot sliding along his leg as she snuggled closer, one slim little hand sliding inside his outer tunic to find the warmth trapped between the layers of fabric. Murmuring sleepily she nuzzled against his chest, her head nestling in the crook of his shoulder, her tone contented although the words were indistinct. Propped on his elbow, Aoshi let his eyes wander over her expressive face, her delicate features, marveling anew at her dainty perfection. Fragile of frame, fine-boned, slender of build -- everything about her was petite, urging him to shelter her, to guard her from harm. He sighed, tangling his fingers in her hair to brush the silky mass away from her face. It was going to be difficult: respecting her as Oniwabanshuu, loving her as a woman. The two together made Misao, and it was Misao he wanted: her mixture of fire and independence, shyness and vulnerability. He didn't want to change her, didn't want to hurt her pride by being overprotective . . . but at the moment, the man and the okashira were definitely at odds. As her lover, he didn't want her to fight Uratsuji again, didn't want to risk her slight body in another test of strength. As her okashira . . . he had to give her the chance, had to teach her what she needed in order to win.
And she would win. It was neither skill nor speed which she lacked, but discipline. Taijutsu. Her chosen style was composed of more than simple blows and strikes; its power also lay in her physical and mental attitude. The flaws in her form -- the openings Uratsuji had taken advantage of -- stemmed from a failure in mind set rather than technique. That was something which they could correct. Misao would win, and then he would have his own reckoning with Uratsuji.
I just have to remember to wait, to not interfere until their exchange is finished.
Bending his head to rest against Misao's, Aoshi closed his eyes as he listened to her breathing. Allowing her to endanger herself, standing idly by when Uratsuji moved to hurt her -- possibly did hurt her -- was something he wasn't sure he could do. He would flinch with every blow the turncoat managed to land, ache for every wound the ex-Oniwabanshuu dealt, and there was a limit to what he could stand for her to endure. A limit to what he would permit. If it came to a choice between her pride or her life, her pride or an end to a losing struggle, he knew which he'd have to choose. It won't come to that, he silently vowed, I will make certain that you are ready . . . and when it is over, Uratsuji will answer to me for every wound he inflicts. He will pay for his betrayal, and for daring to hurt you. Settling back into his watchful position he opened his eyes, their blue light flickering with a cold fire: determination, rage, and offended possessiveness. Misao had the right and ability to fight for herself, but that didn't preclude his responsibility -- his privilege -- to protect her. Uratsuji would be punished.
In the morning they would take the first steps toward accomplishing that goal.
Something is missing.
Misao snuggled deeper into the blankets, searching for the sense of warmth and security she lacked. A hard thigh resting between hers, a muscled arm cradling her head, a spicy scent that was both comforting and exciting. "Aoshi . . ." She slid a hand over the empty space beside her, mouth curving into a pout at the coolness in the cloth -- a coolness which bespoke an extended absence. Still seeking she pushed the covers away from her head, wincing at the painful brightness of the mid-morning sun, startling even behind closed lids.
Sunshine?
Jolted abruptly awake, she sat bolt upright with a dismayed cry -- they had intended to be on their way before dawn! "Aoshi! Gomen nasai! I didn't mean to oversleep -- Aoshi!" Her eyes darted around the clearing in frantic search of him.
"I'm right here." Deep and soothing, his voice came from behind her to still the unreasoning worry stirring in her chest. She blinked owlishly up at him as he walked past: his hair dripping wet, a damp towel slung around his neck, and a bucket of water in his hand.
"Gomen nasai! I'm sorry I didn't wake earlier!" Misao straightened her clothing and scrambled into her shoes as she spoke. "Now we're going to be late!"
"Daijoubu." Aoshi set the water down next to the remains of their fire, stirring the coals to unearth two leaf-wrapped sweet potatoes. "We'll be fine. There are some things we need to attend to before we start this morning."
"Demo, we don't have much time before Uratsuji's meeting with Ariga Rennyo." Standing, Misao scooped up the blankets and began hastily folding. "I know we need to hurry if we want to catch him in Matsue. I'm so sor-" she faltered slightly as she turned to find him standing right behind her, "--ry." His eyes were calm and clear, his lips quirked with just the suspicion of a smile. "Aoshi?"
Shaking his head he looped the towel around her waist, then used his makeshift rope to pull her close. "Take time to breathe, Misao. We're not about to rush off just yet, and I'm not angry that you overslept." He bent to brush his mouth along her collarbone, his voice turning husky. "I rather enjoyed it, myself. "
Shivering slightly at the scrape of his teeth, flushing at the quiet implication in his words, Misao closed her eyes and leaned into him. "De . . . demo . . ."
Damp hair brushed teasingly against her throat as he shook his head, denying her protest. "Let's," he pressed a kiss just behind her ear, "start over again," shifting, he mirrored the caress on her other side, "with good morning." The words were spoken into her mouth, a low rumble against her lips as he followed his own suggestion.
Arms wrapped tight around their bedrolls and trapped against his chest, Misao whimpered in frustration -- a small, pleading noise as she stretched upwards to meet him. She felt his muted humor, even as his strong hands slid down to cup her pert bottom and lift her into his kiss. His tongue thoroughly plundered her mouth, leaving her breathless when at last he set her on her feet again. "Ohayou gozaimasu," she mumbled dazedly, earning a low chuckle and another quick kiss.
"Breakfast is ready," he told her, taking the bedrolls and steering her in the general direction of the fire, "we'll begin after you've had something to eat."
"Begin?" Misao's voice was puzzled, her attention primarily focused on unwrapping her breakfast without scorching her fingertips. Amused by the little coaxing sounds she made, knowing himself to be smitten, Aoshi joined her by the fire. She stuck her tongue out at him when he deftly sliced the leaf wrapping away from the second potato, then smiled shyly as he exchanged it for hers. "Begin?" she prompted again, gingerly biting into the still-hot vegetable.
"Aa," calmly partaking of his own breakfast, he explained between bites. "Your training. You have a lot to learn, and only five days in which to do it. Only one day for each of the five elements of taijutsu."
"Taijutsu?"
"The Oniwabanshuu self-protection method, the companion to kempo."
"Chi is the ability to assume and project an attitude of confidence and strength in any confrontation." Aoshi's words were measured and deliberate, flowing around and through Misao's thoughts as she stood, eyes closed, in the center of their clearing. "It is unwavering, stemming from earth's own stability."
"What . . ." Misao bit her lip, hesitant to admit the truth, ". . . what if I'm not confident?"
His answer was swift and certain, expecting and anticipating the question. "Your enemy need never know -- the appearance of confidence is as disconcerting as the real thing, especially if that seeming never falters. You must appear certain; your strength and confidence so strong that they are daunting."
"But over-confidence works against you in a fight!" Misao pivoted to face him as she voiced her confusion, hands fisted in annoyance at her lack of understanding.
"Aa." His calm unaffected by her outburst, Aoshi patiently attempted to explain. "Shikashi . . . chi is nothing more than a mask. It shields your insecurities and prevents your enemy from sensing weakness, but it doesn't alter how you really feel." Aoshi halted in front of her, hesitating a moment before demanding: "When did Uratsuji gain the upper hand against you?"
Wincing slightly at his bluntness, Misao searched her memory for the answer. "When he surprised me with his first rush."
Aoshi shook his head. "Iie. You gave him a weapon when you first responded to his taunting with anger." A protest rose to her lips; he overrode her. "You gave him a key to your weakness. The Oniwabanshuu matter to you, as does our founder's memory. Once Uratsuji knew that -- once he saw that he could provoke your anger and uncertainty by playing off your insecurities, destroying your self-perception . . . you lost any advantage you had. You lost your equilibrium."
"Which only made it harder to meet the next attack." Much as she wanted to deny it, Misao could see that Aoshi was right: there had been no way to compensate once the traitor was inside her defenses, and a blow to her confidence had naturally had much more impact than a physical strike. It was the beginning of a downward spiral. Or in my case, a downward slide -- faster, and much more painful.
"Aa." Carefully, almost regretfully, Aoshi nodded agreement. "Shikashi, if you master taijutsu, it will be much harder for him to find a weakness."
Frowning, her expression skeptical, Misao tilted her head to the side, considering. "So . . . I'm just supposed to ignore him?" Her tone was clearly annoyed, balking at the very thought.
Mild amusement tinged with approval colored his reply, "There's more to it, but that's a fair start, yes." As she gave a dissatisfied snort, his amusement found louder voice. "You can always make him pay for the insults afterwards, Misao."
After a brief moment of disbelief, a sheepish smile crept slowly over her face. "Sou da ne . . . !" Aoshi arched one eyebrow at her murmured understanding, and she broke into open laughter. "It's just . . . it makes it easier to let things go if I tell myself I'll get even later."
Her gamine grin made it difficult to keep his own features straight and stern. "Are you ready?"
Straightening her shoulders, Misao closed her eyes again, centering herself as he'd first instructed. Her blue gaze was determined when she again met his. "Yes."
Twisting her hair into a tight rope to wring it dry, Misao scowled in aggrieved frustration, half-wishing the thick mass were Aoshi's stubborn neck. Knowing that there were reasons -- good reasons -- for the words he'd tossed at her that afternoon didn't take the sting from them completely. It was somehow wrong that a man should be able to say such things to and about the woman he was supposed to love. He really didn't have to be so mean, did he? Not that I wanted him to go easy on me, but . . . Rolling her eyes at the internal voice, she told herself to be quiet, emphasizing the command with another sharp movement of her wrists. "He told you that you could make him pay for the insults later, didn't he?" An emphatic nod, another twist of her hair, "So make him pay!" Whys and wherefores didn't matter: now that their training session was finished, her lesson learned, he should make amends -- was going to make amends -- for all the harsh, taunting things he'd said to her.
Bundling the heavy weight on the top of her head, she secured the soft bun with a strip of cloth, then rose from the water to scramble into the clothes she'd left neatly folded on a rock by the lakeside. The normally loose fitting shorts and shirt clung to her still-wet body, doing little to hide her figure or the curve of her unbound breasts. Perfect. If noticing her figure had allowed Aoshi to recognize his feelings, what would he do when confronted with her almost indecently exposed form? Stifling the pleased laugh that rose to her lips, she made her way back through the woods to their campsite.
Aoshi raised his gaze from the map he'd been studying to watch as Misao crossed to her pack, giving him an enticing view of her bottom as she rummaged for her comb. Slowly, silently, he drew in a deep breath, managing -- just barely -- to maintain his stoic expression as she settled herself cross-legged on the waiting blankets to work the tangles out of her hair. Studiously ignoring him, she slowly ran the comb through the fine black strands until they fell straight and shining to pool in her lap.
She's punishing me, he realized with some surprise. The idea was laughable for several reasons, not the least of which was the fact that Misao giving anyone the silent treatment had to be harder on her than on the subject. Relieved, Aoshi hastily feigned interest in the map to hide his amusement. It was impossible to teach her to ignore the taunts of her opponents without verbally harassing her himself, and he had no doubts that she was attempting to "get even" for the things he'd said during the course of their afternoon lesson. This he could handle far better than the hurt he'd been fearing -- sooner or later she would burst into furious flame, expending energy in a brief, intense display of temper, and then let the matter drop. Do I tease her out of it now, or wait for the storm? A sidelong glance afforded him a glimpse of the way her hair coiled so temptingly against her slender thighs, brushing the cradle of her womanhood. Better sooner than later, he decided, taking another deep breath.
Tucking the map away for further perusal, he stretched out beside her, taking care to remain firmly on his side of their makeshift futon so she could take no exception -- which would very likely serve to annoy her further. Leaning nonchalantly on his elbow, mentally counting the strokes of her comb, he measured the seconds until her temper frayed.
"What are you doing?" she demanded predictably, just as his silent tally reached thirty-seven.
With the slightest of shrugs, he shifted a little as if to make himself more comfortable. "Nothing."
Behind the curtain of her hair, Misao made a face. Impossible man! "Shouldn't you be doing something then?" She winced a little at the sound of that -- we're in the middle of the woods, delaying our progress because of me, and I want to criticize?
"No," he answered, his tone idle, almost distracted. "It's late; I was thinking we could call it a night." The invitation was mild, but the hand holding her comb paused for a moment, then resumed its rhythmic stroking at a much faster pace: he'd have to be stupid to miss a reaction as blatant as that. Poor Misao . . . Aoshi's thought was teasing -- albeit tender -- rather than sympathetic. Go ahead and be angry, little one; I'm ready and willing to make up.
This is completely unfair. Pouting and trying not to show it, Misao tugged a little too hard at a particularly stubborn tangle, her eyes smarting at the pain. He was supposed to be suffering for the things he'd said earlier in the day, while she sat back and watched, feeling satisfied and smug. Instead, his mild amusement was almost palpable, and she was missing an opportunity to snuggle. Not fair at all. "I'm not tired," she said, her voice sullen in her own ears.
"Neither," his smoky tone was unabashedly sinful, "am I."
Misao closed her eyes against temptation, drawing in a slow, calming breath. You're angry at him, remember? Nodding at the mental chiding, she searched for something to say, and the ability to sound suitably put-out when she said it. "So find something to do."
His chuckle just barely audible, Aoshi reached to run two fingers down her spine, feeling her shiver in reaction. "I'm trying, Misao-mine . . . I'm trying."
Shrugging away from his touch she tried for a scathing tone, and just barely managed to sound annoyed. "Wouldn't you rather try with someone who has more stamina?" It was one of the many things he'd thrown at her that afternoon -- that she tired before he did.
Undeterred, he let his feather-light touch drift over the curve of her shoulder and down her arm. "Don't worry . . . I'll slow down if you start to fall behind."
"Someone . . . someone with longer legs, then." Not even a hint of annoyance now, only breathy and eager. She wasn't going to let him distract her from that apology . . . was she?
Sitting up a little straighter, bracing his hand a few inches from her hip, he nuzzled the exposed length of her throat, tangling his free hand in the loose drape of her ebon tresses. "They're the perfect length when you wrap them around my waist."
Comb clenched tightly in her hand, eyes closed as he gathered her hair in his fist, Misao found it hard to remember why she was angry. "Someone who . . . who . . ." his breath teased her nape as his lips brushed back and forth in a lazy caress, slowly stealing what little remained of her focus, "who doesn't get . . . over . . . excited?"
His laughter played lightly upon her as he tugged her down beside him, leaning over her in a posture which was both protective and dominant. "For what I have in mind, little one, excitement is absolutely essential."
"Yokatta," she whispered as he slowly bent to capture her lips, "because my heart is racing so fast I don't think I could catch it." She felt his smile against her mouth, tasted satisfaction and something addicting in his kiss. Mingled scents of wood smoke and green tea wrapped around her as he lingered, coaxing her tongue to play, scraping her bottom lip with his teeth. Twining her arms around his neck, her hand slipping under his collar to caress his back, she mewled encouragement as he licked teasingly at the heart-shaped well at the base of her throat.
Loosening the laces of her shirt, Aoshi pushed the fabric aside to expose smooth flesh, felt her fingers clench in the mesh of his under tunic as his palm warmed the curve of her breast. Its soft weight was small, filling rather than overflowing his cupped hand, its nipple tightening under his ardent gaze. Perfection. Rolling the taut point between finger and thumb, he gently worked his knee between her legs, pressing the hard muscle of his thigh against her as he took careful suckle.
Misao gasped his name, the steady pressure and muted heat soothing the slow-building ache between her legs, even as the swirling stroke of his tongue aroused her further. Shivering as he switched his attention to the other sensitive peak, his thumb brushing roughly against the engorged tip of the first, she burrowed into the hollow of his shoulder, her forehead against his chest, her hands fisting in his shirt.
"Easy, Misao-mine," he murmured against her throat, running his hand through her hair in a calming motion, "don't fight it." Massaging between her shoulders to calm the excited tension gathered there, he coaxed her away from the curve of his throat to accept his kiss, returning to the swell of her breasts as she relaxed in his embrace. His large hand smoothed over her trim belly and waist, long fingers stroking her dampening center through the material of her shorts. When her limbs drew up reflexively, opening her body to his touch, he shifted to kneel between them, her thighs atop his, her feet anchored behind them. Venturing inside the wide legs, his fingertips drifted briefly over the crease where thigh met hip, the downy skin there grown incredibly sensitive as her arousal increased. Flinching away in startled reaction, breath shuddering in her throat as she trembled beneath his careful touch, she moaned low in her throat as he slowly lowered his head to lap at her navel through the blue material. The loose seat stretched taut against the backs of his hands as he cupped her bottom, holding her steady as he bent to nibble at the bow tied at her waist, then trailed his tongue down the seam to the pulse-point hidden between the petals of her womanhood.
"Aoshi!" her hands slipped without purchase through his hair, falling away to clench in the spill of ebony around her shoulders as she arched into the press of his mouth and tongue. Sucking at the tiny, throbbing bud through the wet fabric of her shorts, he pulled it hard against his teeth, the fierce touch muted into something pleasurable by the material that separated them. Sinking into a delirium of want, stretching up onto her toes to get closer, Misao sobbed aloud when one of his hands moved to support her back, the other to tease the tangle of nerves between her legs. One long finger slid inside her, filling her, stroking teasingly in and out until she knew nothing but the rhythm he set for her, her slender hips moving in tandem. A second digit joined the first, and she whimpered pleadingly for whatever culmination lingered just outside her reach.
Kami-sama . . . Closing his eyes in anguished desire as Misao's body tightened around his fingers, Aoshi shuddered with the effort it took to control his reaction, his intent only to pleasure her. Smaller and more responsive than he'd imagined, what she wanted wasn't yet what she was ready to receive, nor did he plan to take her so roughly. When he claimed her for his own, he wanted a mattress soft enough to take long, deep, forceful thrusts; and sheets that slid sensuously against her skin as she arched beneath him. Patience, he thought wryly, Matsue is only a few more days away. This, here and now, was for her. Fluttering his fingers gently inside her, he sent her over the edge, feeling a surge of masculine satisfaction at her keening cry.
Regaining her senses in the warm shelter of Aoshi's embrace, his shoulder pillowing her head, his palm still pressed firmly against the moist cloth between her legs, Misao found herself floating, too content to even blush without effort. Her body felt deliciously relaxed, languid, anger and anxiety long gone or too distant to touch her. Sighing, she snuggled closer, and found something could make her blush after all, as the evidence of his continued interest made its presence known.
"Shhh," he murmured, his arm pulling her back against him when she moved away, uncertain how to answer his obvious need and unwilling to cause him discomfort. "I'm fine." Nuzzling her throat, imagining what it would be like to feel her fluid softness around him, his voice deepened in tone. "I'll wait. Consider this," he teased, sudden amusement lighting his eyes, "an apology."
Misao yawned, cuddling closer, unconcerned. "An apology?"
"Mmmm. For this afternoon."
Drowsy laughter faded to sleepy hiccups as she pulled the blanket up to her chin, gentle fingers coaxing him down to her level so she could kiss his cheek. "Just so long as you apologize tomorrow, too."
His answering half-groan, half-chuckle rumbled against her ear as she drifted off. "Depend upon it, Misao-mine . . . depend upon it."
Index of Japanese Terms
- demo - but, however
- gomen nasai -- polite form of "I'm sorry"
- ohayou gozaimasu - good morning
- shikashi -- but, however
- yokatta - thank goodness
Explanation of Japanese names:
- Uratsuji is a surname, written with the kanji "reverse" and "crossing".
- Ariga is written with the kanji "possess" and "selfish". Rennyo is written with the kanji "beguile".
Author's notes:
- This one's for Sariah, Dark Phoenix, Tin Mandigma, and Ashfae. I hope you enjoyed it, ladies!
Komagata Yumi
yumi@sekihara.dreamhost.com
Started September 5, 1999
Completed October 23, 2000
On to Part 5