What makes history (Hijikata x OC)

Business trip

I found plenty of pictures, online, from various artists. I couldn't find the origin for all of them, so if it's yours, drop me a word and I'll credit you, or remove it. All of them are beautiful !

February 2010 – Tokyo.

There was that weight upon my shoulders again. This tightening of my chest. Who could have known I'd find myself seated on tatami mats again, contemplating traditional food with a clench of my heart? The lacquered comb rested in my hair; a token of tradition, especially since I'd pulled my hair up to adorn the gift from another time. It looked authentic enough, with its carved flowers and brightly painted colours.

Around me, people laughed and ate, curious about the country who played host for two weeks. I had not realised it was too soon – 3 months was just not enough to forget. I found myself contemplating how my last mission had affected me; I still sat in seiza on the floor whenever I ironed shirts. Drank my green tea with a hand under the butt of my cup ... trained with the sword to unwind more often than not, and a million other things that were out of place in a western world. Somehow, the gaijin had soaked into the culture.

What I would have given to replace my colleagues – even though they were nice enough – with a set of smelly, rowdy captains. The food was great, the setting even better. It was like walking into the past ... again. But my colleagues wore t-shirts and suits, and I ... an office outfit. My fingers played with the hem of my vest wondering what the percentage of polyester was in that particular one.

Pscht. Did it matter?

Yes. Because back then, at the Shinsengumi headquarters, polyester wasn't an item yet. I'd worn cotton, linen, silk, once, or even Toshi's purple hakamashita on occasion. And around me, the conversation, flowing in English, just sent pangs of regrets through my tender heart. I had not healed up yet. They had taught me to let go ... or at least, tried to. And I had learnt much by their side. I still missed them in this meaningless world.

A waitress bowed low by my side, her kimono spotless, much richer than any waitress would have had in the past. Less colourful than the geishas of Shimbaraba who served my rowdy brothers in arms, a long time ago ... 3 months, for me. A hundred and forty years, for the rest of the world. Her flow of words washed over me strangely, reminding me of a time when I could understand Japanese.

Shit. Aside from the little I'd learnt by myself, not much remained of those skills. Too bad. I just nodded, scooting aside so that she could pick up the dishes. The smell of hot sake lingered in the air and I allowed its warmth to penetrate me. Closing my eyes, I just lingered at this line of consciousness where it felt good, where the pain dulled and I could reminisce on easier times. Where I could remember Toshi's warm body next to mine, or giggle at Heisuke and Shinpashi's food fights. Where Souji had stopped coughing, and gave Chizuru his most heartfelt look.

My heroes; they were still celebrated. I adored Japan for it. Beside me, whomever (Géraldine from France?) was speaking with another whomever (Akram from Turquey?). No one paid attention to me as I sank my nose in the cup of sencha tea. Tendrils of warm fragrance reached my nose and I smiled; there was nothing like a good sencha tea to soothe me. I toasted, internally, to the other tea lover that had taught me so much.

For you, Toshi.

Further away, the low lilt of a masculine voice called my attention. That voice ... my spine stiffened, goosebumps running across my shoulders. Warm and deep, like the song of the earth in the deepest well. It couldn't be...

I straightened on my seat, cup sloshing in the process, spilling hot tea over my hands.

"Shit," I swore.

"All right there, Frances?"

The instructor had caught my gaze. A nice Malaysian guy I respected, with an acute sense of observation. I nodded, turning in my seat to catch sight of the voice. No one in sight; the man that owned it was silent, now. A hearty set of laugher rang from above, reminding me of Heisuke and his insane volume. I was just going mad, and took to observing the people around us. Some were families, friends dressed like us. But a few wore traditional kimonos and hakamas, and I smiled. Japan had not lost its soul, after all, even after being flooded by cannons and machine guns.

How many of those sat in museums now, ruthlessly cloven by my sword? The memory of desperate officers, watching their destroyed canons, called a smile to my lips. Bien fait !

The evening went on, and I absently participated in the conversation. Technology, software and oil industry were part my everyday life. There were interesting personalities to meet in this company, for it gathered people from around the world. I felt at ease in this disparity of culture; I had always loved switching point of view.

Hell, with my missions for the Valar, I was glad to be flexible on beliefs and traditions, else I'd be dead.

"So, let me get this straight. When you're going home, your mother will choose a wife for you?"

Geraldine's stunned exclamation brought a smile to my lips. I would hardly blame a guy for following family traditions, when I always chose my men on the brink of death, or in the past. Or both. The Turquish guy narrowed his eyes at the judgement, and turned to me for support.

"Well, yeah. My mother knows me best after all."

I snorted. If my father had to choose a guy for me, I'd be in deep shit. I doubt he would have chosen a half millenaire elf, either a fifth century knight, or even a Samuraï born farmer. But anyway.

"This is crazy, uh, Frances?" Actually, yes. To me, it was a bit crazy, but I wasn't about to insult a guy who trusted his mother to choose for him? What would be the point, beside belittling his culture, and hurting him? Either he had to grow out of this because his wife could be horrible, either he'd be happy and that was it. I smiled. "Well ... a point of view is very subjective, right?"

"Duh!" Geraldine exclaimed. "But not choosing one's partner!"

She was so typically French; stubborn, a little hotheaded, and convinced that her way of life was better. I'd been like that, once. But again, even if my ID read 26, I was past 3 years old now. After a few wars, I was proud of my own evolution.

"Well," I started. "I get what you .... "

A feather touch over the comb placed in my hair caused me to freeze. Who ...? Geraldine's eyes widened suddenly, focused on something behind me. I whirled around by reflex, my hand jumping to my hip ... empty. Damn conventions, I hated being unarmed! Heart beating a staccato, I found myself facing a purple hakamashita, its colour awfully familiar. My eyes travelled upwards, neck arching when the voice – THAT voice – breathed out.

"Kitsu ? Kitsuneko ?"