Though Aoshi has many faults, he is not blind.

He can see hints of Battousai when he looks at Kenshin, the memories of the hitokiri which can never been forgotten.

He sees it in the way Kenshin enters a room, automatically cataloging entrances, exits, and angles of attack.

In the moment of tenseness when a drunken Sanosuke tries to hug him, the moment of "friend or foe?", the moment of dislike at being pinned, the moment before Kenshin forces himself to relax.

In the look in his eyes when he greets Aoshi, the analysis of a potential enemy, the wariness that belies the warm smile that others see.

In the swiftness of his movements, the silence of his footsteps, the repression of his ki.

In the hand resting on the sword ever-present at his side.

Though Aoshi has many faults, he is not blind.

He can also see hints of the past, the loss of innocence, the heart that was broken, the memories of a child who was robbed of childhood.

He can see it in the way Kenshin washes his hands, washing away blood that no one else can see.

In his use of honorifics, revealing the feelings of inadequacy, of worthlessness, of taint. The way he fears to get too close, to feel the happiness he believes he does not deserve.

In the mask that Kenshin wears, the heartbreak he is hiding, the way he pretends not to notice Kaoru's feelings. No one's that oblivious.

In the sadness in his eyes.

In his refusal to chop firewood.

Though Aoshi has many faults, he is not blind.

Kenshin's friends see only the gentleness, the friendliness, the goofiness, the man whose heart is as big as the sky.

His enemies see only a murderer with amber eyes and a bloodstained heart, the man who attacks with deadly speed and relentlessly pursues his prey.

The real Kenshin, Aoshi suspects, is somewhere in between.

Sometimes, he finds Kenshin watching him. There's knowledge there, the realization that Aoshi can see what has been hidden, the acknowledgment that there's one man he hasn't managed to fool.

And Aoshi can see his relief.