Taste

Negotiations

Kenshin wanted to see him, and he wanted to see him alone.

Mitsuhide thought the idea was almost charming. He couldn't deny that a part of him had wanted to see the God of War, maybe even tempt him with information on his most hated rival. He could feed the rumor mill, plant himself as a valuable double agent, and lure him into a trap–the God, struck low at last.

But he highly doubted that would be the case today. No, he'd tried to get a sense already of what Kenshin wanted, and he couldn't quite place it. Perhaps it was about their continued, uneasy truce? It felt unlikely. The terms were satisfactory and clear. Their enemy was not so foolish as to think he could charm Mitsuhide from Nobunaga up front. This promised to be supremely interesting, of that much, he was sure.

He entered the shop and glanced duly at the man behind the counter, who scurried away to the back. Kenshin was already running a risk, coming to Azuchi like this. Whatever could be so important that he was willing to place himself at Mitsuhide's mercy?

"He's in the back, my lord."

"My thanks." Mitsuhide swept behind the counter and parted the screen. Already seated at the table, pickled plums and sake before him, Kenshin sat. What a sight. The God of War was not so serene and placid as last time. Now those mismatched eyes were a battlefield of their own, his lips a thin line.

"Sit."

"Does it come with a beheading if I do?" The snake hissed a ghostly laugh, but sat anyway. "Shall we have tea, first, or is it straight to business?"

Kenshin narrowed his eyes. "The Chatelaine."

Silence. Mitsuhide's mind swam through options and came up blank. He was aware that Kenshin and she had spoken before, that much was known to him. As to what he would possibly want with her–well, he hated women. His reputation was legendary. As much as he cared for the Chatelaine, he could scarcely imagine that her impact on him was that deep. Or was it?

"What of her?"

"I hear she is your woman."

"Oh?" His lips curved in a smile, his lantern-orange eyes flashing. "And to what do I owe the honor of that assumption? Are the ladies at Kasugayama that short of gossip that they turn to me, a simple servant?"

"Shut up," the man snapped. Mitsuhide stopped smiling. It was a miracle the room hadn't flash-frozen from the strength of his chill alone. "And answer the question."

"If I did," Mitsuhide answered seriously, "why would you be interested in that information?"

The God, it seemed, was mortal after all. He sat sullenly on his cushion for a long moment before draining his cup. "I'm not."

"And yet you call me out here to inquire. Very curious. Pray tell, if she were mine, would you rest easier? Would you lull yourself to sleep in your fortress, your mind at ease?" His voice was a low, soft purr, dragging through the air as if weighted with meaning. Leaning forward onto the table, he cupped his hands together, barely whispering the last words. "Or would the very thought of her in my arms scorch your soul and ravage your mind?"

Kenshin's blade arced through the air, coming just short of his neck. Mitsuhide did not flinch. He sat there, still as a statue, the mirthless smile frozen in place on his lips.

"I would kill you, Snake, were it not for her."

"So you do care."

The blond man clearly considered the merits of killing him. At last, in pensive quiet, he sheathed it.

"I take it that's a yes."

"And I take it you're more invested than you've let on."

"Hurt her," Kenshin snarled, "and I will not hold back next time."

"Please." Mitsuhide poured him a brimming cup. "You may keep as much of an eye on me as you like. You'll find me a perfect gentleman."