Hands

Kaoru probably shouldn't have been suprised when Kenshin had readily agreed to be a test subject for the massage techniques she was trying to learn before they didn't have enough money to keep an in-house doctor on call.

But for heaven's sake! Did he have to sit there with his eyes closed and a happy little smile on his face? Down right annoying, it was. She scowled as she yanked his hand to begin. Damn it.

Two seconds in, she became slightly disgusted the way his hands cracked loudly when she pressed on the joints. Snap, snap, snap and then the odd pop for a good measure.

"That hurts, that it does." He said impassively. Kaoru snapped another joint aggressively, still scowling. His smile faltered for a second but he never made a mention of pain again. She felt justified now.

Then again, she was fairly sure she could have pulled a katana on him and he would have just smiled before patting her on the head, saying she shouldn't be playing with something so dangerous. That was how he functioned, wasn't it? Calm. But . . . not always. He had scared her from time to time. Not enough for her to consider evicting him, but enough.

She bit her lip, maybe she took him for granted a little. After all, the tips of his fingers were raw from scrubbing endlessly at the laundry pile that never seemed to diminish, but he always chipped away at it with a smile on his face, blowing bubbles with the doctor's grandchildren, letting them clamber on his back. That was when he would take a break to give them piggy-back rides and smile and laugh like a child himself. No wonder they found it easy to call him their brother.

Kaoru slowly moved the joints of the appendage, making certain she was doing this correctly. A burn mark glared back at her. Idiot, probably grabbing the pan handles without a cloth. Then again, they would all surely starve if the cooking was up to her. Embarrassing to be outdone by a man in a woman's area. Again, she jabbed aggressively, frustrated. It ate at her mind that though he was here temporarily, he still worked more. Did it with a smile even, with wide bright eyes that danced merrily.

She flipped his hand and set to work again. Ah, but these hands that she knew, that did honest work and twirled through the air as he told stories for the children he so often looked after, also were cold killers. The mind that commanded them silenced their wishes, consigning their skills of slaying to protection of others. They must have been insulted when that decision was made. Their callouses and blisters bespoke their sword work; odd that they seemed to have a life of their own.

What difference did it make? Wasn't it the person whom that the hands were attached that made the difference in what they did? After all, his hands look more like that of a housewife than a murder. Yes, indeed his choice is what made it different. She hadn't even realized she had stopped working until he gave a small 'hm' and she looked up, again feeling the blush creeping along her neck.

Eyes half closed and a foolish grin in place, he murmured quietly, "Don't stop. Feels good."