What makes history (Hijikata x OC)

Truce ?

I gently dragged Chizuru away. Funny, how just a few weeks before, she had been the one to care for me after the bathhouse attack. I was only returning a favour. Before we stepped out, Hijikata added.

"Get to Yamazaki first, this wound needs to be tended to."

Chizuru tensed: "I am fine," she said, shrinking on herself in her pink kimono. The Vice Commander scoffed, expressing his disbelief with as much tact as a Panzer tank. And for once, the frightened kitten that was Chizuru exposed her claws. Chin up, she rebelled like a wounded teenager.

"I can take care of my wounds myself," she nearly yelled at Hijikata. Eyes wide, I couldn't help but find the commander's stunned face amusing before Yukimura bowed, and left without me.

"I'll take care of it," I told him. He nodded, still pretty stunned that Chizuru had found the guts to yell at him. I jogged after her, keeping my mouth shout about how unlikely she was to wrap her own upper arm by herself. It didn't matter. First, I was about to handle the slice, hoping no stitches would be required. Secondly, I'd get my sword. And third, I would ask questions.

"Er, Chizuru ...?"

"I said I would care for it myself."

"Right. So, do you happen to know where the commander's room is?"

The young woman gave me a contrite look, and suddenly deflated. She swayed on her feet, and I grabbed her waist to keep her from crashing down.

"Hai," she whispered. "That way."

The fact that she wasn't even apologising for snapping at me was worrisome; Chizuru always found a way to apologise. A few twists and turns took us to a standard sliding door. How Hijikata had heard us from this far away was a mystery; he probably had ears everywhere. Chizuru stopped before the shōji, intimidated. Granted, sleeping in the commander's room felt really, really weird.

Gathering my courage, I pushed the sliding door away. A lantern was burning still, illuminating a low desk with paperwork scattered over it. A full teapot settled on the side, awaiting its owner. I realised Hijikata had probably been working – or writing Haikus – while we peacefully slept. Oni indeed; who could function with so little sleep? It explained, though, why he had popped up first, dressed to the nines as was his habit.

My heart gave a strange tug as I took in the place; it seemed strangely familiar. Yet, I had never set foot inside. I shrugged, reaching for the rolled futon at the back while Chizuru closed the shōji. Future and past always got scrambled in my brain; I was the Keeper of Time after all. The young woman slid on the bedding as soon as it was laid out, her face blank.

I insisted to look upon the cut; she outright refused, her face turning red, then white with anguish. Chizuru's panic went way beyond that of child in the emergency room, I eventually relented, and handed over the pot of tea so that she could wash the blood away from her arm. She insisted on dressing it by herself, and I allowed her some privacy to do so.

While she shuffled in her torn kimono, huddled like a scared animal, I found myself enthralled by the sight of my elvish sword, resting upon a rack at the back of the room. My whole being brightened, and I fell upon my knees, hands eagerly finding the leather of the scabbard. At last!

Beside it, Tristan's bow was stowed, neatly tucked upon the tatami mat. I sighed in relief. They are in good hands, Saitō had said when I had asked upon my weapons. Safely resting in the Vice Commander's room. To his credit, the Demon had taken good care of both sword and bow. Given his rigid stance upon the care of one's swords, I even doubted he had laid a single finger over it.

Yes, the man had a temper to rival that of a firestorm, and real communication issues. But he was a warrior, and respected weapons. I could bow to that.