Shimoda was nothing like Tokyo.
There were the boardwalk, the sea, and fishermen calling across the docks. Tourists in sandals and straw hats. Children darting along the surf with nets in hand. Seagulls—squawking nuisances that Grim seemed to barely tolerate—spiraling overhead, fighting over scraps from the morning's catch.
It was a modest, quiet—almost still—town. Sleepy, even. But that was the draw.
The promise of slow mornings, lazy afternoons, and quiet evenings. The lure of hot springs, unhurried walks along the shore, and the taste of fresh seafood.
And for some, a piece of history.
Perry's landing. Perry Road. The old American consulate.
All silent, enduring reminders of the man who opened Japan to the world, for better or worse.
But history wasn't what brought her here.
Not this time.
At first, agreeing to Jerry's suggestion felt like a lapse in judgment. At least he'd had the decency to look flustered about it, too.
Though, as ever, he was quick to recover. Too quickly, really. Mildly irritating.
And—she'd never say it out loud—a little endearing.
She didn't know if she was really overworked, like he claimed. But perhaps there was some truth to it. After all, didn't Grim wake her up in the middle of the night, and she found herself asleep at the counter once? Or that time she stared at the TV for too long, the glass forgotten?
"Just a day or two," he'd said. "And if you're concerned about Essex, Saratoga, and Eugen, they will be fine without my supervision for a while. Eugen, in particular, seems less…tense now, thanks to you. Yokosuka can manage."
A day or two.
Manageable. The place could survive two days without business.
Agreeing was easier than arguing. Jerry would continue being a worrywart if she refused.
Yamatani could use more days to study.
And Saejima-san…
He'd joked—too casually, far too casually—that maybe someday he'd go back to Hiroshima to see what had become of the place, and wasn't she curious about anything outside their little street?
She had rolled her eyes at that. Later, when she was alone, the question lingered anyway.
It took some six hours to go through National Route 1 and Route 135 to Shimoda.
Yokohama was the last major city they passed, and it was there they stopped, briefly, for lunch at a family-run yoshoku restaurant, which was a little out of the way and a little crowded. After that, the rest were smaller urban centers that felt more like large villages.
There were no expressways down the Izu Peninsula, only the coastal roads, winding and tracing the shoreline like a lazy snake, with scenery untouched by the urban sprawl and development that had swept the rest of the country.
Roadside teahouses, markets, temples, and shrines dotted the way, as did tunnels and narrow bridges, and traffic largely consisted of delivery trucks hauling produce and buses.
The hum of the engine. The wind losing and regaining its breath as they crested hills. The radio, tuned to a local station this time instead of AFN, playing old Japanese songs she half-recognized and weather reports she half-listened to.
He didn't press. She didn't offer.
Nobody batted an eye at the odd couple they made. Not at their foreign faces, and not even at the fact that she was a KANSEN. Mikasa was right. Small towns really were the best place to lay low. Everybody minded their own business.
"So," Jerry said, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed in a way she rarely saw in Tokyo, "still think this was a lapse in judgment?"
She considered the boardwalk, the sea, the horrible, wonderful smell of dried squid drifting over from a stall somewhere behind them.
"Jury's still out," she said.
He huffed a quiet laugh, like he'd expected nothing else.
A day or two, she reminded herself.
Just a day or two.
***
"Welcome to Subarugahama. Dinner is at seven. The onsen is open until ten. Curfew is at midnight. There is tea in every room that you may brew and enjoy free of charge. And if there is anything you ever need, let us know."
No side eyes. Nagato was a gracious, if formal and curt, host. More like an owner of a ryokan, really. But she didn't make a big deal out of this either, and neither did her retainer, Kawakaze. The fact that they booked separate rooms helped, perhaps?
The guests didn't seem to mind KANSENs running the establishment, though. That was reassuring.
"Got it. Thank you, okami-san," Jerry bowed in the precise manner that she had no doubt he'd learned from the Ambassador.
But then Mutsu peeked from behind her sister, all sunshine and bright eyes.
"Oh! You're really tall."
Jerry made a noise that could have been a cough. No, not a cough. That was the noise Saratoga would make when she wanted to strangle a laugh.
"Mutsu."
Nagato's expression did not change. The air around her, however, sharpened.
Mutsu blinked up at her.
"What? She is tall, Nagato-nee!"
That was the second time someone called her that. Why did she still get self-conscious? Nobody'd ever needed to look up when they spoke to her, right? Except kids. Kids rarely talked to her.
Mutsu leaned farther out from behind Nagato, ears perked with interest. Her gaze ran quick and bright over her face, her clothes, her hair. Stopped at Grim.
Her eyes got bigger.
"A bird! An eagle!"
Grim flared his wings and cocked his head as Mutsu pivoted to meet Nagato's glare like it was nothing.
"But Nagato-nee, you said 'no pets,' right?"
Right. Of course. She'd been careless, letting Grim in without asking for permission.
But Nagato herself was taken aback?
"Right," she said after letting out a small cough. "As long as eagle-san does not enter the rooms or disturb the guests, he could be…anywhere he likes."
"And…and!" Mutsu spun to face them again. Nagato twitched. Subtle, but she could notice it.
"So you're Enterprise! We heard about you from Dai-senpai! You run an izakaya, so you are just like us! Do you really pour drinks like that? Do you—"
"Mutsu."
Mutsu clasped her hands behind her back and rocked on her heels. "Okay! I'll behave."
That lasted exactly three seconds. But this time, her attention was on Jerry.
"An American! We don't get many Americans around here! What do you do in Japan, mister?"
Jerry's smile came easy.
"Work, mostly," he said. Not the cadence of a diplomat—it was the same kind of Japanese one might use talking to old friends, delivered with the still-familiar drawl. "Embassy. Meetings, papers. The like. Not very exciting, really."
Mutsu's grin was wide still as she closed in on him. The air around Nagato dulled by a fraction.
"Mm-hm! But you are a soldier, too, aren't you? I can see it from your…um, you know, posture!"
The air shifted. Jerry didn't flinch. Of course he didn't. He just tilted his head.
"Yes. But my fighting days are behind me. Now I just help build relations. Mostly."
He stopped there. Nagato's eyes narrowed just a smidge. But then she bowed her head. Just a little.
"Anyone is welcome here, regardless of the past. It is…the present that matters. So, once more, enjoy your stay. Kawakaze will show you to your rooms."
"Oh! Oh! Let me help carry their bags, too!"
She could've sworn Nagato's smile turned a little sly.
Mutsu darted forward before anyone could protest.
"I'll take this one!" she declared, already wrestling Jerry's suitcase away from him with a surprising amount of strength for someone so small.
Jerry let go before she tore his shoulder out. "Yes, ma'am."
"And I'll carry this," Kawakaze said, far more sedately, taking her smaller bag with a practiced bow. "This way, please."
The hallway smelled of tatami and faint incense. The sliding doors on either side were marked with neat wooden plaques. Faint murmurs and the clink of tableware suggested other guests settling in.
They stopped at two adjacent rooms. Kawakaze slid one door open, knelt, and flipped the wooden plaque.
"Your room, Enterprise-sama. The sea is that way—" a gesture toward the shōji at the far end, "—and if you slide this open a little at night, the breeze is pleasant. Please don't worry about the futon; we will lay it out for you after dinner."
Mutsu had already dropped Jerry's suitcase just inside the next room, peeking between the two spaces like a cat.
"Oooh, you got the one with the bigger veranda, mister," she said. "If you sit outside, you can see the lighthouse. Well, a little bit. If you lean."
"Mutsu," Kawakaze chided, though it sounded more resigned than stern. "Let the guests rest. There will be enough time to chatter over dinner."
"I know, I know." Mutsu rocked back on her heels, then leaned in toward her again. "Well then, gotta help in the kitchen. If you wanna know the best sightseeing spots, just ask! I can even show you around!"
With that, Mutsu bobbed a quick bow to both of them and scampered off.
The hallway quieted. Kawakaze inclined her head one last time.
"If there is anything you need, please ring." She indicated the small bronze bell on the low table by the door.
"Thank you."
The door slid closed with a soft thud.
***
The room was simple. Tatami, springy underfoot. Low table with two cushions. Alcove with a tiny flower arrangement.
Grim landed on the veranda railing outside with a muted thump, claws clicking on the wood. He peered through the shōji until she slid one panel aside.
"Curious too, huh," she murmured.
He ruffled his feathers and gave the faintest croak, as if agreeing. The air that slipped in smelled of salt and something grassy.
She set her bag down and unpacked the essentials. Change of clothes, toothbrush, the small case with the comb and a mirror.
A soft knock came from the next room, followed by Jerry's voice, muffled through the wall.
"Skipper?"
"I'm here."
A beat of silence, and then…
"Too much?"
"…Just different."
"Just checkin' in," he said. "Everything alright in there? Tatami not tryin' to swallow you whole?"
She snorted despite herself.
"It's fine. Springy, even."
"Good. I, uh…" Another pause. "You mind if I—"
The wall wasn't getting any thinner. She slid the shōji a little wider instead and stepped onto the veranda. Grim hopped sideways, talons ticking against the railing, eyes narrowing at the sudden light from next door.
Almost at the same time, the shōji of the adjoining room rattled open. Jerry leaned out, one hand braced on the frame, the other shoved in his pocket.
They stared at each other over the narrow gap between verandas.
"Oh," he said lamely. "Hi."
"Hi," she echoed.
"It's strange," she said again, more quietly. "Not bad. Just…strange."
"That's okay," he said. "Strange's allowed. We got—" He glanced at his watch. "—a couple hours 'til dinner. You can spend 'em starin' at the ceiling, if you like. Or…"
"Or?" she prompted.
He scratched his cheek, suddenly looking much more like the man who'd fumbled over asking her to come in the first place.
"Or we could walk down to the harbor," he said. "Poke around Perry Road. Or enjoy the view."
She snorted.
"That's your idea of rest? More walking?"
"We can go slow. Take it easy."
"Alright…just let me change a bit."
He nodded and went back to his room, whistling a tune that every sailor and aviator seemed to know.
Changing. Was it needed? After such a long trip, perhaps putting on something fresh would be a good idea?
She decided that it was.
***
Dress, shawl. Western clothes, the only ones she had. The irony wasn't lost on her.
Something bought on a whim, never worn before, never seen by anyone before.
That would mean Jerry would be the first, wouldn't it?
Just ignore the blush and hurry up.
Jerry didn't make a big deal out of it. Just a cough, and the usual smile after a moment of surprise.
She was unsure how to feel about that.
But then they began walking out and she didn't have the time to make a big deal out of it either.
***
Perry Road wasn't exactly postcard-pretty, but its quaintness had a certain beauty all its own. The stone-paved streets had been worn flat by foot traffic. Moss, weeds, and grass pushed up between the stones. The old-style streetlights—tall wooden posts with lanterns at the top—were lit.
The sun was setting, casting everything in warm tones, and the breeze smelled of flowers and the sea.
The canal ran along one side of the street, with trees dangling their leaves and branches over the water.
There were old Western-style buildings, too. Wood siding, iron balconies, and cracked whitewash. Meiji? Taishō? One of those eras Mikasa'd talked about. Either way, older than her.
Businesses were thriving. Souvenirs, tea and sweets, or just a good time, if the place with jazz spilling out was what she imagined it to be.
Relaxed, relaxing. Jerry, too, was unhurried.
Commodore Perry was supposed to have walked this path back in 1854. She wondered if it was irony or grace that allowed an American KANSEN and a pilot from the Pacific War to do the same.
A plaque by the bridge bore Perry's name in clean, sharp letters. Someone had left a single carnation at its base. The petals were already starting to curl.
The Ryōsen-ji loomed ahead. The austere temple was where change was forced upon Japan. Yet today it was commemorated and preserved. Was it still a monument of shame? Or perhaps something else entirely.
"You're lost in thought again," Jerry remarked.
"Oh…sorry."
"Don't be. Still more relaxed than you usually are, and that's the point of the trip."
"It…is."
"Good. Well, then…that's all there is to see on this road. There's a museum over there, but it's closed at this hour. Shall we head to the beach now? Mutsu-chan said it's called Tatadohama."
She looked ahead, then back at the street stalls they'd passed.
"Of course," she said, then turned with a small, quiet smile. "But first—I'll get us dango."
***
She paid for the snacks before he could do so much as take his wallet out.
"Let me, Jerry."
"Thanks, but I'm supposed to—"
"What, can't I treat a…friend?"
"Of course, of course," he was surprisingly amenable, despite the surprise. "Then I'll have some anko."
Of course he would pick the sweet one. She preferred the mitarashi herself, for that little bit of salty kick that balanced the sugar.
They took their time to sit back with tea, savoring the flavors and the silence, and keeping an eye on Grim, who was perched on a willow.
The sky was painted in hues of deepening crimson, purple, and gold. The clouds were soft and pink.
It was all too easy to forget the passage of time here.
Slowly, savoring.
Until the mitarashi sticks were picked clean and the anko ran out.
"You got some on your cheeks," she pointed out.
"Hm? Oh…did I? Well, you got some on your lips, too."
"Really?!"
True, she hadn't noticed. The sun had begun to dip, but it seemed warmer now.
"Here, use this."
He handed her a handkerchief. It was navy blue, and unembellished. Still, dirtying it felt like a crime, so she dabbed her mouth very lightly, trying not to stain the cloth much.
"Thank you…"
"No problem," he replied, using the same one to wipe his face without an ounce of shame. That didn't seem fair, yet she found herself smiling.
"We…we should go, Jerry."
"Oh, right. We still have the beach to visit."
"Right. Let's go."
Nobody was leading the way today.
***
There were no stars tonight, so the full moon was reflected on the sands.
He spoke, but did not complain, of sand getting into his sandals.
She didn't know what he meant until her toes felt it, too.
The sand was soft and cool and fine. It didn't sink beneath her feet.
"Hey, can we go closer?"
"To the sea? Sure."
The tide was going out. It wasn't cold at all, even as the waves brushed their feet.
He was quiet for a long while. She was, too.
"Beautiful."
That slipped out before she knew it.
"Thank you, Skipper."
"Oh…you're welcome, but I wasn't talking about you."
"I know. But I'm glad you said it. Makes the six-hour drive worth it."
"Um…"
He had inched closer, but that was all.
She was suddenly aware of how close he was. He was looking at her with…something she couldn't describe, but could only feel in his eyes, and her breath hitched.
"That means you are getting better at opening up, Skipper. And that's beautiful, too."
"Y-yeah, maybe I am."
"No, you are. Not like the woman I decided to chat up back in '42."
She remembered that one night. Before Midway. The deck was vibrating, as usual. Everyone knew what was coming. The Japanese thought they were setting up a trap, but the Pacific Fleet had set up theirs first. Nobody would know how important the upcoming battle would be. Him included.
Unlike his fellow pilots, who did anything they possibly could to take their minds off it, he did the unthinkable.
***
Night watch. The sky a black dome pricked with stars, the sea blacker still.
She'd been at the edge of the flight deck, eyes on the wake, listening to the radio murmur in her ear. The smell of burnt aviation fuel and cheap coffee. A figure stopping a regulation distance away, hesitating just long enough for her to notice.
"Evening, ma'am," he'd said. Younger, voice a shade higher, still smoothing out the drawl.
"What is it, Lieutenant?" she'd asked, already bracing for a report.
Instead—
"Just thought you'd wanna know the Dodgers won," he'd said. "17–2 against the Pirates."
Baseball. Baseball?
She'd stared at him. He'd stared back, then rushed on.
"Sorry, that's…probably not important. It's just…some of the kids are pretty happy about it. Thought, uh. Somebody should tell you somethin' that wasn't casualty figures for once."
It had taken her a heartbeat to find a reply.
"I see," she'd said. "Good for them."
But his grin had been relieved, like he'd passed some test she hadn't realized she was giving.
He'd kept doing it after that. Bits of news, little jokes, complaints about coffee and socks, until the words had worn a groove in the space between them.
It didn't take long for her to learn his name, too.
Lieutenant Jeremiah Halsey. No relation to the Admiral.
And now, this.
"Yeah, well. Everybody else was busy pretending you were just a ship," he said, more quietly. "Easier that way, I guess. For them."
"Not for you?"
He shrugged.
"Guess I never was good at pretending that hard."
"Back then, I didn't know what to do with that," she said. "You talking to me like that."
"Like what?" he asked. "Like a person?"
"Yes," she said.
He didn't look at her, but his profile softened.
"Sorry," he said. "Old habit."
"Don't be," she said. "I…think I'm finally starting to catch up."
Again, that warmth. Again, she tried not to blush. He heaved a sigh, short and soft.
"…I hope that one day, when you decide to open that door, it's not because someone forces their way in. Not like Commodore Perry threatening Japan into opening."
She didn't answer.
But she looked at him, the moon, the waves—
and nodded.
The door wasn't truly open yet.
But its lock had been undone.
"Ah," he noted, looking at his watch. "We'd better head back for dinner."
"Sure."
One last look at the ocean. Calm, too calm. Not an omen.
And to the departed—
"I'll be alright."