Technicolor Achromatic (Denial), a x-men: the movie fanfic

Story context, if you haven't watched the anime:

Logan's love interest, Mariko Yashida, was taken by her father Shingen's crime organization to arrange a marriage with Hideki Kurohagi to expand his operations. While on the mission to save Mariko, Logan is faced by Kikyo Mikage, a mercenary hired by Shingen.

However, Kikyo allows Logan to delay their duel due to his code of honor, and helps Logan break into Dragon Palace to try to rescue Mariko, since only once Logan saves her will he be able to focus on the duel with Kikyo, and Kikyo wants to know which of them is stronger in a fair fight.

Logan sustains nasty wounds as he fights Shingen. Kikyo prevents Hideki from using a powerful poison dart gun on Logan.

Logan pursues Hideki, then he endures a poison dart but manages to use it against Hideki. However Mariko has been hit by a stray bullet, but they share a kiss before she dies. In the post-credits, Logan and Kikyo start the battle that they had postponed.

This story starts at the post-credit scene, and continues from there.

Brief rundown on Kikyo Mikage, if you haven't watched the anime:

Kikyo Mikage is a character from the Wolverine anime. He has a regenerative healing factor like Logan, so he's able to survive any damage, below decapitation, and fully restore the damage or lost anatomy within seconds with no lingering signs or affect to his performance. He also has retractable Adamantium katana blade in each arm, extruding from his wrists. The each blade has a makeshift handle at the end, extending enough from Kikyo's wrist to properly grip them in his hand for battle.

He is extremely skilled swordsman, equally proficient in single or double-handed form, backhanded-grip, and even wielding two blades at once, proving himself ambidextrous. He has near complete mastery of the Yagu Shinkage-ryu style of kenjutsu. From its teachers, he can channel chi into his blades to unleash powerful shockwaves or transparent wind blades from his sword swings, letting him to blast or slice respectively from a distance.

Beginning notes:

This is a birthday present for my lovely little sister, who wanted to see these two as a couple.

Dialogue in «italics» indicate that characters are speaking in Japanese. Dialogue in ~italics~ indicates a psychic conversation.

Technicolor Achromatic (Denial)

Drip.

Blood on the ground. The drops of red looked black in the moonlight.

Drip.

The copper tang of blood in the air. His blood. He hated the smell of it.

Drip.

The shallow cuts on his arms should have been healing already. Kikyo had barely nicked him. Was his body really so taxed?

Drip.

Logan growled deep in his throat, shifting, claws itching between his knuckles, waiting, watching.

Kikyo just stood there, completely still except for his long black hair fluttering softly in the cool breeze blowing from over the ocean. Black bangs obscured gray eyes, shadows fell over his face. Adamantium blade extended from the samurai's palm, pointed down toward the ground, glinting in the moonlight.

«Well?!» Logan snarled in Japanese, crouched, ready to lunge at the slightest movement from the samurai. «You wanted a fight, didn't you?! Mariko's dead, so I'm not distracted trying to save her any more! What are you waiting for?! I'm able and ready!»

Drip.

The shadows nearly hid Kikyo's slight smile. «There would be no honor,» he said softly, «in defeating an exhausted and heartbroken opponent.» The sword retracted, slipping back into the sheath of Kikyo's arm. «I will wait.»

Drip.

Logan snorted, straightening up from his fighting position, letting his claws snikt back into his forearms, hands unclenching from their fists. «Very well, then. But I'm not sticking around. Cyclops will be picking me up and taking meback to New York.»

Drip.

Why hadn't his cuts healed yet?!

Drip.

Kikyo lowered his chin, the slight smile still gracing his lips, eyes still veiled by wisps of black tresses. «The location matters not. We can finish our fight just as well in New York as we could here.»

Drip.

Yet more drops on the ground to be turned black by the moonlight. There was bound to be a fucking mosaic down there in the dirt by now, hidden in his shadow.

Drip.

Logan slid his hands into jean pockets, raising his eyebrows at the samurai standing several feet away from him. «You really want to fight me that badly, huh?»

«I must see,» Kikyo said, tilting his head, a stray beam of moonlight catching on his enigmatic smile, «which of us is stronger.»

«Suit yourself, then,» Logan said, turning and starting to walk along the cliff edge. «I won't turn down a fight. Just warning you, though, where I live may not be what you expect.»

Drip.

Sphinxlike, Kikyo was still smiling.

"You're paying for the gas this time, Logan," Cyclops said, as Logan walked onto the Blackbird.

"Yeah yeah, Cyke," Logan grunted, taking the passenger seat behind him, stretching out his legs and folding his hands behind his head, completely ignoring the seatbelt. "Bill me for it, why don't ya."

"Who's Mr. Tall, Dark, and Silent?" Cyclops asked, as Kikyo took the seat across the isle from Logan, posture ramrod straight, hair as in his face as always. It was a wonder he could fight like that.

"That's Kikyo Mikage," Logan said unconcernedly. "He's a samurai. Wants to fight me once I'm rested up and able to give 'im my full attention. Don't worry about 'im. He won't hurt the kids."

"What happened to the lady you were with last time?" Cyclops asked as he shut the Blackbird's cargo doors. "Yukio, was it?"

"Dead," Logan said bluntly.

"And the reason you had to come to Madripoor in the first place?" Cyclops asked, flipping switches on the console, preparing for takeoff.

"Also dead."

Cyclops was silent for a moment, weighing the pain in Logan's voice behind those words. "Nothing you'll be bringing back with you to the mansion then, right?" he said finally, as the Blackbird rose into the air, before shooting off towards New York.

"Nothin' but Kikyo," Logan grunted, eyes closed.

"Sounds like a band name," Cyclops remarked, guiding the plane up into open skies, setting it on autopilot as he swiveled around in his chair to regard the two, Logan sprawled in his chair, almost seeming to be napping, while Kikyo sat perfectly straight with his hands clasped in front of his lips, looking down, face shadowed.

He'd also forgone the seatbelt, Cyclops noticed.

"Do you speak English, Kikyo?" Cyclops asked.

Kikyo didn't look at him. "Mikage," he correct, voice smooth but surprisingly deep. "Please refer to me by my surname. And yes, I am perfectly fluent."

"At least he speaks English," Cyclops said to himself, turning back around to look out the windshield, checking the controls. Louder, he said, "So, uh, Mikage. How long will you be staying in New York? Do I need to call ahead to have a room set up for you?"

"I will be staying for as long as is my destiny," came Kikyo's subdued voice.

Cyclops heard Logan snort at that, but Kikyo said nothing more.

"Well," Cyclops said, reaching over to press the button to call the mansion, "I'll have them set up a room for you just in case destiny decides to keep you in Winchester for a while. Could be a while before Logan's able to give you his full attention, as emotionally unstable as he is."

"I heard that," Logan muttered.

"But I don't hear you denying it," Cyclops shot back, not even needing to look to know that Logan hadn't even opened his eyes.

Logan just gave a dispassionate grunt.

See, that was how Cyclops knew that something heavy had gone down in Madripoor. If Logan had been emotionally sound he would have quipped something back.

Great. Cyclops would be stuck in a plane for over three hours with a sullen Wolverine and a silent, brooding samurai. Who might or might not be staying at the mansion for a while.

He sighed. "Why do I do these things for you, Logan?"

"Because yer my friend an' a fuckin' boy scout, Cyke. And ya know I'll make it up t'ya later."

Cyclops snorted. "I'm not a boy scout, Logan. In fact, I never was a boy scout."

"Could'a fooled me," Logan muttered, and Cyclops's lips twitched.

"I suppose I should feel proud of myself, then," Cyclops said, hands easy on the controls. "You're a hard one to fool."

"Yeah, Cyke, give yerself a medal for bein' such a stick-up-the-ass prissy," Logan drawled, reaching out a foot to nudge Cyclops's chair. "You can hang it on the wall next ta yer 'World's Biggest Asshole' award."

"Last time I checked, that award was hanging on your wall, Logan," Scott replied, "along with the trophy for being a complete ingrate who mooches off the kindness and generosity of your friends. And cheap beer is not an acceptable means of payment, just so you know. If you plan to pay me in beer, you better get me the good stuff. Or maybe vodka."

Logan snorted. "Piotr's been corrupting yer taste in drinks, I see."

"What can I say?" Scott said, lips twitching. "I like my alcohol the way I like my women: able to pack a hell of a punch."

That elicited a surprised chuckle from Logan. "Heh. Yeah, Emma can pack a punch, alright. Not sure she'd like bein' compared ta vodka, though."

"I don't see why not," Scott said. "Both she and vodka tend to make people do and say things they wouldn't do normally and won't remember later, and then leave them unconscious in a puddle of their own vomit on the floor."

Logan laughed, then, and maybe it was quieter and more reserved than it would have been normally, but it was still a good sign.

He still didn't know what was with that Mikage guy, though.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Kikyo watched Logan pretend to be asleep.

His breathing was consciously slowed, but it hitched every now and then, and the ghost of a snarl would curl his lips, eyes clenching tighter shut. Likely the man was seeing all his mistakes play over and over in his mind. Watching his woman die, again and again.

He'd fought for her with all he had, and his pertinaciousness had been impressive. But it hadn't been enough.

It would be so easy to kill him when he was like this. Mourning. Distracted. Vulnerable. It would be far too easy.

Kikyo scoffed slightly, turning his eyes to the back of the seat in front of him, not missing the way that Logan twitched at the soft sound.

«Pathetic,» Kikyo murmured in Japanese, too soft for the man piloting the plane to hear.

Logan shifted in his peripheral, his voice just as low when he spoke. «And yet, you still want to fight me.»

Kikyo's lips quirked, but his eyes didn't move from the seat in front of him. He didn't answer.

He heard Logan scoff and turn away.

The palms of his hands itched.

He folded them carefully in his lap. He was nothing if not patient. He possessed a samurai's honor. He could ignore the eagerness of the swords in his forearms, the odd feeling in his chest that thrilled at the idea of crossing blades with the Wolverine again.

He could wait for Logan to recover, for them to be on even terms, for the fight that he so oddly desired.

The palms of his hands itched. He ignored them.

He was nothing if not patient.

Scott walked out of the plane into the hangar at the school to find Logan standing there, still, head down and shoulders hunched, hands in the pockets of his jeans.

Kikyo stood a distance behind him, gray and black yukata kimono rustling slightly from the breeze blowing from the still-open hangar doors, long black hair blowing gently. He was watching Logan.

Logan was either ignoring him, or didn't notice the stare. Scott would bet money it was the former.

"One of the spare bedrooms has been set up for you, Mikage," Scott said, when the silence stretched on a few beats too long. "I can show you where it is, give you a tour of the mansion."

Kikyo turned his head just slightly, looking at Scott from the corner of his left eye. "That was considerate of you," he said, quiet but not hesitant. He looked away and straightened his head. "However, I will not be needing it."

He turned and walked into the breeze, heading for the hangar doors, feet near-silent in tabi socks and setta sandals. He paused just before he stepped into the sunlight, saying, "I will return, and we will finish our duel at a later time, Logan."

Logan grunted, but didn't turn to look at him. "I'm countin' on it, prettyboy."

The samurai stepped into the sun.

"The room will remain open if you change your mind," Scott called after him.

Kikyo paused, silhouetted in the light streaming through the hangar doors, and then continued walking.

Scott walked over to Logan, but glanced back at where the samurai had left. "Some character, huh?"

"He won't cause any trouble, trust me," Logan grunted, before finally moving, stalking towards the door that led inside to the school.

After closing the hangar doors, Scott hurried to catch up to him, placing a hand on the shorter mutant's shoulder and pulling him to a halt. "Hey, Logan."

"What d'ya want, Cyke?" Logan grunted dispassionately, hands still shoved in his pockets, glaring at him with dull brown eyes. He looked numb.

"If you ever decide that you want to talk about what happened," Scott said, "I'm here for you, okay?"

Logan snorted and looked away.

Up close, Scott could see just how battered and tired he looked, hair even messier than usual, red jacket missing, white muscle shirt torn and bloodied, jeans ripped and stained, boots scuffed. Scott had no doubt that if Logan hadn't had a healing factor, there would be dark bags under his eyes and he'd be covered in wounds.

Well, if he hadn't already died. If he hadn't had the healing factor, he probably would have died several times over during the mission, as was his style to not take any care for his safety at all.

"Ya don't need ta worry 'bout me, Slim," Logan muttered, jerking his shoulder out of Scott's grasp. "I'll be fine. Jus' need a few beers."

How typically Logan, to blow off any concern for him and deny that there was anything wrong when it was so obvious that he was hurting.

"I mean it, Logan," Scott said, wishing, not for the first time, that he didn't have to wear the ruby-quartz visor that hid his eyes. He wanted Logan to know that he was being genuine, but he couldn't show it with his eyes, so he had to express it as much as he could in his voice. "You're my friend."

Logan snorted and walked away. He never had been much of a man for words.

Scott forced back a sigh and followed behind.

~Emma, could you keep tabs on him?~

~You know how hard Logan's mind is to read, darling.~

~I know.~

~However, I should be able to monitor his surface emotions.~

~Thank you. Did you get anything from our guest?~

~The samurai that Logan brought back with him? No, his mind escapes my grasp, I'm afraid. High-level psi-blocks.~

~Really? I suppose we'll have to rely on other measures to keep an eye on him.~

~Don't worry so much, dear. I'm sure Logan will be our reliable little guard dog.~

~Yes, because that's incredibly reassuring.~

~Try to have some trust in your friends, dear. I'm sure Logan would not have allowed the samurai to come if he thought there was any way he'd endanger the students. Samurai's have a very strict code of honor.~

~Doesn't mean I'm comfortable with him wandering around the grounds without us having any knowledge of his intentions or whereabouts.~

~Purr. Bring your controlling alpha-male self to the bedroom, darling, I'm sure we can find some diversions for it.~

~You're so bad.~

~And you are far too good, darling. Come do terribly wicked things to me, and I'll make you forget all about sullen wolverines and unpredictable samurai.~

~You drive a hard bargain, madam.~

~It's one of my many talents. Not everyone can be this perfect.~

~Emma in the sky with diamonds.~

~Need I remind you that I am diamond, dear. And that not everyone is so fortunate as to have the opportunity to worship this perfection, so do make haste before I grow bored waiting for you.~

~Yes, ma'am. I would be loath to keep a lady waiting.~

Logan wondered if it was karma. If he'd killed so many people, taken so many from their loved ones, that the world was determined to take everyone he loved as recompense. If the world wanted him to know this sorrow so he'd know the pain he was causing every time he took a life.

He tried to tell himself that nobody loved the lives he took.

He reminded himself that he was, in the entire world, the only person mourning Mariko's death. It didn't make it hurt any less, to know his suffering was simultaneously all his own, yet at the same time something he shared with a majority of the world.

Most people had lost someone, and everyone would, if they didn't die too early to live through the death of someone else.

He would have outlived her, any way, with his healing factor that kept him practically immortal. He was always going to lose her.

That didn't make it hurt any less.

«We can't be together, Mariko,» Logan said, pain in his voice. He couldn't look at her. «I can't give you the life you deserve. I can't… Mariko, I don't age. I can't grow old with you.»

She kissed him gently, hands framing his face. «Then let's enjoy the time we have.»

He'd had so little time with her.

He wondered if it was karma. He wondered if he could have prevented it, if he'd done things differently. If only he'd been stronger, faster, smarter, better. He ran through, in his mind, all the ways he could have saved her.

Sometimes he found himself trying to convince himself that she wasn't gone. That she wasn't dead, she was just far from him, like she'd always been. She'd always been beyond his reach. How was this any different?

It was different, he told himself, because she wasn't gone. She was dead. She was dead, and she'd never have a chance at happiness.

«Thank you, Logan,» she'd smiled, even as her face paled with blood loss, pain and serenity in her dark eyes. «You saved me from living a life of hell. I can die… happy...»

It didn't make it hurt any less.

Logan felt empty. Eating seemed pointless when he could neither register hunger above the pain in his heart nor find any pleasure in the taste of food. Sleep alluded him, lying alone in the dark of his room with the Japanese fan she'd given him hanging on the wall, the katana he'd earned but never used hanging beneath it.

«Logan,» she said, eyes full of adoration, hand against his cheek, brushing her fingers over his thick sideburns. He bared his teeth, tensing, and she just smiled. Unflinching. Beautiful. Mortal.

«I'm an animal, Mariko,» he said, meeting her dark and fearless eyes. «You shouldn't involve yourself with me.»

«You're not an animal, Logan,» she smiled, taking his hand and running her fingers lightly over the spaces between his knuckles. «I know men who are nothing but animals. You are not one of them. You are so much more than that, Logan.»

He felt like an animal, filled with raw pain and burning rage as he hacked apart hard-light holograms of ninja in the Danger Room, knowing that it wouldn't bring Mariko back but unable to stop seeing red.

He was so angry. Angry at himself for failing her, angry at the world for taking her from him, angry at the other X-Men for their looks of pity, angry at the wind for blowing and the birds for singing.

He fought hard-light holograms in the Danger Room until either he c ouldn't see straight or Scott kicked him out to run a simulation with the students.

Most of the students stayed away from him, now, eyeing him nervously as he stalked by them. He could hear their whispers, their fears that he'd gone feral, that he'd never get back to normal.

Normal. What a laugh.

He couldn't drown his pain in beer, but not for lack of trying. The taste of beer soothed him, even if the alcohol never gave him more than the slightest of tingling buzzes that were gone in minutes.

He wanted to fight, but not even the regular thugs were picking fights with him, no matter how many beers he drank and how drunk they figured he should be. He hardly had to look at them before even the densest and brutest of men thought better of it.

The only ones who tried were the ones who'd gotten so drunk that a single punch left them splayed on the floor unable to get up from lack of coordination, already on the verge of unconsciousness from possible alcohol poinsoining.

"I should hire you as a bouncer," his favorite bar tender said one night, grinning.

Logan just grunted and took swigged his beer. The empty glass touched down on the table. "Why hire me when ya already have me doin' it fer free?"

The bar tender had laughed and poured him another drink.

"You got sorrows that won't be drowned?" the bar tender had asked once, when Logan had consumed seven beers, kicked a couple drunkenly brawling thugs out of the bar, and walked back in a straight line, asking for another drink.

"They're armed with fuckin' life jackets," Logan had muttered, wishing he could give them metal bones so they'd sink as easily as he would if he gave up and stopped swimming.

(Giving up was never an option.)

"I miss her, y'know?" Logan had said once, alcohol tingling in his system just barely enough to loosen his tongue.

"Yeah," the bar tender had said, pausing his washing of a glass to touch his shoulder where Logan knew a name to be tattooed there. "I know, man. And I'm sorry for your loss, for what it's worth." He went back to washing the glass. "Just give it time, man. The pain'll lessen eventually."

"Yeah," Logan said, staring into the dark liquid of his glass. Not as dark as her eyes. "I know."

But knowing that didn't make the pain any easier to bear.

~Logan noticed me keeping tabs on him and informed me that you likened me to vodka.~

~I did. Are you bothered by the comparison?~

~On the contrary. I'm flattered.~

~I thought you would be.~

~You know me so well, darling.~

~Not as well as you know me, dear.~

~Mm. I do love a man commands attention and respect without posturing.~

~No posturing here. Just the real thing.~

~Believe me, I know, darling. There isn't a crevice of your mind unknown to me.~

~Speaking of minds. How is Logan doing?~

~Going through the phases of grief: denial; bargaining; depression; anger. It's all rather trite.~

~Not everyone is able to turn into diamond so they don't feel anything, Emma.~

~What a pointless statement, darling. We both know nobody else could ever attain this level of perfection..~

~Exactly. And Logan is probably about as far from perfect as anyone can get.~

~He is a perfect killing machine. But as a person he's quite the mess. It must be quite tragic, to be a better killing machine than a human.~

~Said superciliously.~

~I never said that I found it tragic. I find it more pathetic, really.~

~Some would argue that you don't make the best human being, either, you know.~

~Scott, darling, most of the world would argue that we're not human beings.~

From afar, Kikyo watched Logan mourn.

The sorrow was visible in every line of his body, every movement, every word spoken. Heavy like stone and dark like thunder clouds.

It was pathetic. It made the bile rise in Kikyo's throat, the anger ache in his bones.

Sometimes, though, he saw that same anger in Logan, that ferocity, and it made his heart beat faster with excitement, his stomach flutter with anticipation, his palms itch with the craving for blades to split them, for clashes of metal against metal to reverberate through his bones in place of the anger.

He wanted Logan to have the anger, not him. Being angry did not set him free the same way it did the Wolverine.

Sometimes he saw that anger resurface in Logan, but it was brief, fleeting, tainted with a self-destructive sorrow that made Kikyo sick.

He'd seen Logan fight to protect. When he'd fought to protect his woman, he'd been beautiful. Enticing, his focus and determination turning him into the perfect weapon, calculated to end the most lives in the least amount of time.

That had changed. Logan went on missions with the X-Men, and he fought hard, but he didn't fight to protect.

He fought to get hurt.

It made Kikyo sick, to watch Logan throw himself into fights using his body as a shield, letting his technique slide away as he resorted to the skills of a starving and tortured animal. No longer a trained killer but a feral beast.

It was disgusting. Pathetic. Degrading. There was no honor in such behavior.

The man that Kikyo so desperately desired to fight, to best, to prove himself against, wasn't there. And it angered Kikyo, that Logan had the nerve to deny him that. To deny their destiny.

A month had passed since that woman's death, and Logan was still pitifully caught in sorrow's clutches, trying to carve it from himself in blood, weakened beyond measure.

Logan was being weak, and it made Kikyo furious.

He could not stand to have his fate denied him just because Logan couldn't get over the death of some girl.

It was a month before Kikyo returned. And when he did, his return was just as unceremonious as had been his leaving.

Logan was at the back of the mansion, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes closed, cowboy hat pulled low, a cigar between his teeth.

There was the slightest sound of movement, and Logan opened his eyes to see Kikyo standing in front of him.

Narrowed gray eyes, glinting. Long black hair and hakama blowing gently in the breeze. The wind tugged at his gray haori, too, dancing the sleeves around his hands, tugging the neckline to show more smooth skin of his chest.

Aside from that, he was completely, perfectly still. A living statue.

«So it's time, then,» Logan muttered around the cigar. «Took you long enough.»

Kikyo's only response was the slide of metal through his palm, the blade folding out from the hilt, extending to its full length.

A living statue, stoic and silent. The wind blew black strands over cold gray eyes.

Logan dropped his cigar, crushing the orange ember beneath his boot, grinding his heel. He stepped forward, leaving the cigar crushed dead in the grass.

Six blades slid from between eight knuckles. Fists clenched. «Well, then. What are we waiting for, prettyboy?»

Kikyo was silent. Achromatic eyes glinted.

Pale skin, black hair, black and gray kimono.

He matched the color-sapped world Logan now lived in, all vibrance sapped away with the dimming of Mariko's dark brown eyes.

The sun was still rising in the sky, and seven blades glinted in the light. There could have been eight. There wasn't, the blade in Kikyo's left arm still sheathed between muscle and bone.

The samurai wasn't even taking this seriously.

Logan snarled, something inside him snapping, breaking, shattering, and he lunged forward, the familiar red creeping over his vision.

He didn't fight it. The red was a welcome change to the colorlessness of the world.

Metal clashed against metal and Logan fought, but Kikyo danced, ever out of reach, ever expressionless, not even a spark of anything identifiable in his eyes.

Logan's shirt was shredded and drops of red flung from Kikyo's sword.

The pain was a welcome change to the numbness Logan felt otherwise. (And he thought that, if his life had to end, this wouldn't be a bad way to go.)

He growled, lunged, wanting more, needing more, the shudder of clashes in his bones, the pain of torn flesh, the scent of blood in the air, the red.

There was something in Kikyo's eyes. Logan faltered, the hair on the back of his neck raising.

Kikyo had been on the defensive, but now he took the offensive, darting forward, blade flashing, feet dancing, complicated patterns Logan couldn't keep track of in the red.

Pain in his face. Pain in his right arm. Pain in his left arm. Pain across his torso. Pain in his left leg. The ground met his knees, or maybe the other way around, and there was agony in his chest in the form of a sword stabbed through it.

Logan yelled, gasped, blood choked up into his mouth, and Kikyo leaned forward, gray eyes glinting.

The blade twisted. Silver cut through the red.

Logan gasped.

«You're pathetic,» Kikyo said, voice edged with barely-contained disgust. The blade sliced down. Blood welled in Logan's mouth. «You're not even trying.»

The blade was pulled from his chest and Logan barely caught himself with his hands, leaning over, senses overhwhelmed with the taste and smell of copper, hot and digusting in his mouth, overflowing past his lips.

«You're not fighting to win,» Kikyo said. There was something in his eyes like fury. «You're fighting to be punished.» The sword sheathed. «I will not be your punisher.»

Logan tried to growl, but choked on blood, red bubbling up in his throat.

But the red in his vision was gone.

Kikyo stood there, looking at him with adamantium eyes, and Logan felt like he was seeing him for the first time.

There was a brown band around his head, alternately over and under strands of dark hair. A brown obi around his waist. Strips of seafoam green cloth just barely visible at the neckline of the gray haori. The only strips of color on him.

But it was color.

Kikyo turned away, then, and walked past him towards the mansion, right up to the other X-Men who had gathered there, watching the fight with wide eyes.

Logan hadn't even noticed them. He should have, but he hadn't.

As the samurai walked over, Scott reached for his visor, but Emma put a hand on his arm, stopping him.

"I will take that room now," Kikyo said seamlessly.

Scott's fists clenched and he opened his mouth.

~Stop, darling. Don't say No.~

Scott shut his mouth.

~What do you mean don't say No?! Did you see what he did to Logan?!~

~Trust me, dear. Let the samurai stay.~

~Are you crazy?~

~Just trust me.~

~And you trust him? You said he has psi-blocks and you can't read his mind!~

~Do you honestly believe that I'm completely reliant on my telepathy to read people, dear? I thought you knew me better than that.~

~Oh? And what do you read from him, then?~

~Scott, darling, you can be so dense sometimes. He could have easily sliced Logan's head off and killed him. He didn't.~

~So?!~

~You should know that samurai are bound by a code of honor. Everyone knows that. ~

~Oh, and I should just trust that rumor, is that what you're saying?~

~I'm saying that you should trust the judgment of your friends, Scott. Trust me. Trust Logan.~

~I'm starting to doubt whether I should trust either of you. I can't let someone who just nearly killed Logan into the mansion! I can't let him get away with that! I can't endanger the students! They're my responsibility!~

~Scott, dear. Logan has lived far longer than you have. He's not your responsibility, and his and the samurai's business is their own. And, frankly, I'm getting tired of Logan's sulking.~

~Are you really that insensitive? He lost the woman he loved, Emma. You don't get over that kind of loss in a month. It can take years.~

~We're the X-Men, Scott. We don't have years. This samurai has snapped him out of it more than any of us have been able to. So I highly recommend that he stay.~

~You'd rather have Logan dead than mourning?~

~You're hilarious. The samurai isn't going to kill Logan.~

~He wants to.~

~Just trust me, darling. The best course of action, for everyone, is to let the samurai stay.~

"...Fine."

Kikyo was given the guest room next to Logan's room, which had remained empty because nobody wanted to sleep in a room adjacent to the Wolverine.

Logan's bedroom was on the middle floor in the back left corner, so there'd only be one unusable room next to him. They hadn't bothered to fix all the holes stabbed through the connecting wall by adamantium claws.

But now Kikyo was, supposedly, sleeping in that room, and Piotr had a new next-door neighbor.

"I am Piotr Rasputin," the large Russian man had said, holding out a hand. "I also am known as Colossus."

"Mikage Kikyo, " the Japanese samurai had said, nodding his head very slightly, and then had stepped around the larger man and continued down the hallway without shaking the offered hand.

Piotr frowned after him. "That was rude thing to do," he had remarked, glancing over at Logan, who was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

"The Japanese traditionally bow rather than shake hands," Logan had said around the toothpick in his mouth. "Don't sweat it none." He had paused, chewing on the small piece of wood for a moment. "He is an arrogant prick, though."

"He sounds like most pleasant company," Piotr had muttered, sarcastic, and Logan had chuckled ever so slightly.

"Yeah," Logan had agreed, toothpick moving between his teeth as he spoke, "he's a real riot."

Scott watched Logan and Mikage, and he didn't understand.

Most of the time Logan seemed to completely ignore the samurai's presence, brushing right past him, looking right through him, refusing to acknowledge the way Mikage orbited around him like a moon.

If anyone stared at Logan for too long, he would fix them with a glare and growl slightly, letting them know that he knew they were starting, knew what they were thinking, and if they didn't immediately look away they would quickly have a face full of adamntium claws. And Logan always knew when people were watching him, could always tell.

But Mikage was always watching him, and Logan never saw it. If he noticed, he gave no sign, never sent his signature glare and menacing growl the samurai's way.

And the samurai was always watching. Often from a distance, but sometimes not. Sometimes Mikage would come up, silently, right behind Logan, and his lips would move, speaking something, but Scott couldn't hear his voice, and he couldn't see his eyes, obscured by dark bangs.

He could only guess at what the samurai was saying, watch as Logan would tense up and, instead of whirling around and punching Mikage in the face, simply walk away. Sometimes he would growl something, sometimes he would just growl, sometimes he would just sneer, sometimes he would show no response, but he never resorted to violence.

It was so wholly unlike Logan.

And it had something to do with Mikage only, because when Scott had asked Logan if he was okay, Logan had shoved him in the chest and snapped at him to leave him alone.

And when Scott had told Logan that he needed to snap out of it, that he needed to stop being so selfish and start thinking about the others who lived at the mansion with him—and, need he be reminded, he was staying there for free under the X-Men's generosity, and it was also a school and if Logan kept making the students feel unsafe then there wasn't a place for him there, and maybe Logan should leave and take some time off to himself until he got his shit together—Logan had punched the wall next to Scott's face and told him to get out of his face, he was already planning on leaving.

And Logan had stalked off, and Scott hadn't expected him to come back, not for a few weeks, not even for a few months, maybe.

But a few minutes later, he'd heard a loud ruckus coming from the garage, and when he opened the door he found a furious Logan battling an expressionless Mikage, Logan's motorcycle in sliced-up pieces on the ground.

Scott had yelled at them not to damage the other vehicles, and then left.

Later that night, he'd walked by the kitchen to find Logan leaning against the counter while Mikage crouched atop it, an alcohol bottle labeled in Japanese set between them, small glasses of clear liquid in each of their hands.

Logan would down his quickly, pour himself another, stare at the shotglass for several moments, and then down it again. Mikage nursed his shotglass, occasionally taking a drink, then lowering his hand, fingering the glass, head down and hair in his eyes. Neither of them looked at the other, and neither of them spoke.

Neither of them looked up at Scott standing there in the doorway, watching them. They didn't need to look at him to know he was there, he knew, and he walked away.

It puzzled him. Whatever it was that was going on between them. Whatever it was that was going on with Logan. Whatever it was that was going on with the samurai.

Nobody ever saw Mikage sleep.

Which he knew because rumors had started flying around the mansion. That at night the samurai would enter the room given to him, but he wouldn't close the door, and anybody who looked in either found him gone, the window of the room open, curtains blowing in the night-chilled breeze, moonlight splashed across the barren floor, or they'd see the samurai sitting in lotus position that silver pool, his back towards the wall that separated his room from the Wolverine's, apparently meditating.

They claimed he was never sleeping, because when they'd peek in, he'd turn his head slightly, and lowly say, "Do you need anything?"

The students had apparently been terrified and taken off running.

"He never sleeps," they whispered amongst each other, eying the samurai nervously whenever he passed. "Is he even human?"

"He's not a robot," Bobby Drake whispered, like he was saying something forbidden. "I saw him eating noodles and rice, once. With chopsticks."

"Where'd the noodles and rice come from?" John Allerdyce asked, scratching his chin, brow furrowed. "I don't remember that ever being a dinner option."

"Maybe Mikage cooked them," suggested Jubilee reasonably.

"That guy cooks?!" exclaimed John, eyebrows shooting for his hairline.

"Guys can cook," said Bobby, defensively. "I like to cook!"

"Maybe he doesn't like our food," Jubilee suggested. "He's Japanese, right? American food is probably really weird to him. My parents would cook Chinese cuisine, and often complained about American food."

"I don't understand how one uses chopsticks," bemoaned John. "Aside from maybe stabbing things with them. Or lighting them on fire."

"Here," Bobby said, picking up his own pencil and stealing John's pencil out of his hand, holding them out to Jubilee beseechingly. "Show us how to use chopsticks, Jubes!"

Sighing and rolling her eyes, Jubilee nonetheless took the pencil chopsticks, using them to pick up an eraser off the table. "That's how you use them. It's really not that hard." She set the eraser down, clicking the tips of the chopsticks together. "See?"

Scott just barely heard John say, "That is so weird, man! How is that an good way to eat anything?" and Jubilee start defending the Asian eating utensils, before he walked out of earshot.

He passed by Mikage in the corridor, and the sumarai's eyes flicked to his face briefly, but gave no other greeting or reaction, continuing past him in the other direction.

Scott hadn't had much contact with samurai, but Mikage seemed to display a stereotypical samurai personality: quiet, stoic, detached.

The closest thing to emotion Scott had seen from him was what appeared to be some kind of nervous tick, where he would curl his hands into fists and his fingernails would scratch at the skin of his palms. Which seemed to happen sometimes when he was watching Logan, though only when he was watching from a distance.

Scott didn't know what that was about. He didn't understand anything about the samurai. But he hadn't harmed or threatened the students. The students were apprehensive about him, but appeared to be less afraid of him than they were of the sullen Wolverine, who they actively shrunk away from. Mikage they just watched with curious eyes.

Mikage was a mystery, but he didn't appear to be a dangerous one, despite how utterly he'd beaten the Wolverine when he'd returned from wherever he'd disappeared to for the first month after landing on American soil.

It wasn't like Scott had never seen Logan so wounded before. Hell, he'd seen Logan survive worse.

But he'd never seen Logan look so ready to give up.

He'd thought, for a terrified moment, that the samurai was going to slice off Logan's head.

And then Mikage had walked away, letting Logan live, and confusion had brought a bit of the light back into Logan's eyes.

Whatever flame inside Logan that kept him fighting had returned after that, and while he still fought more recklessly than before he'd returned from Madripoor, he was fighting only with the desire to be injured, rather than the acceptance of death that had dogged every movement of his fight with the samurai.

But Scott wasn't the only one who had noticed Logan's intentional recklessness.

The first X-Men mission after Mikage started living at the mansion, the samurai had refused to go, staying at the mansion with the students and teachers who were watching over them.

But when the X-Men returned, the Wolverine especially battered and blood-soaked, something in the samurai's gaze had changed, every so slightly, and the next X-Men mission he'd silently boarded the Blackbird with them.

At first Scott didn't understand why he'd come, since the samurai stayed back for most of the battle, simply watching the fighting, making no move to join in or help out.

And then Logan did something stupid, and the Sentinel that had been about to incinerate him could no longer do so, it's hand sliced clean off.

And there was Mikage, crouched on the ground, arm and blade extended behind him. Then he stood and walked away, letting Logan finish the robot off.

And Scott figured that he then understood that Mikage was the kind of person who, unlike Logan who would jump into fights at the most trifling excuse simply for the thrill of it, did not fight unless he had a good reason to.

(Which just left the question of what Mikage's reason was for wanting to fight Logan.)

Kikyo hated Logan.

He had spent all of his childhood (that of it he could remember, at least) and his teenage years training under the legendary swordsmaster Tanba Yagyu to become the best swordsman in the world, and he'd spent all of his adult life as a mercenary, seeking opponents who could give him a meaningful challenge.

It was difficult to find anyone strong enough, skilled enough. And he'd spent the majority of his adult life astoundingly bored. Nobody he'd encountered could ever come close to beating him.

Only one man had ever defeated him—his fellow classmate under Tanba Yagyu. They'd trained together for years, and then, when the man was about to leave, Kikyo had demanded one last match to see who was the strongest.

The man's name still left a bitter taste in Kikyo's mouth, the shame of defeat still coiled hot under his ribcage, waiting for the next time he met the man so Kikyo could kill him and finally put the shame to rest. Nothing else had ever been so brazen as to enter his dreams to torment him (the dreams where his child self wandered lost through alleys in tattered, too-thin clothes, no idea who or what he was—those dreams never counted).

Kikyo awaited the day he would meet that fate would bring that man to cross his path again.

In the meantime, Logan, the only other person to so much as cut him, would have to do.

He absentmindedly rubbed his arm where Logan had cut him, the flawless skin that had not so much as scarred, and watched Logan throw himself into battle like an addict in need of his fix, and his drug was pain.

Kikyo didn't much care what happened to Logan, as long as he lived. There was no way he would let the mutant deny him the settling of their debt.

Kikyo watched Logan use his body as a shield, his strikes wild and half-blind, and when the mutant came limping over, the hard-light holograms of the X-Men's 'Danger Room' flickering away, Kikyo mused, "Is it even possible for you to fight without obtaining grievous injuries?"

Logan growled at him. Softly, like a kitten.

"Who taught you to fight?" Kikyo continued evenly, when the mutant didn't answer. "You possess a katana, so I assume you know how to use it."

"Ogun and Keniuchio Harada," Logan grunted, leaning against the wall next to him, breathing hard.

So, a Yakuza ninja and the Silver Samurai.

"I've been informed that you have mastered fifteen forms of martial arts," Kikyo continued, unaffected. "And yet, I have not seen you demonstrate any of that proposed skill."

Logan wiped blood from his mouth. He chuckled slightly. "Bub," he said, and the samurai bristled at his tone, "yer still just a kid in comparison to me. I've been studyin' martial arts since before ya were even a glimmer in yer father's eye."

Kikyo scoffed. He decided to ignore the slight. "As far as I know, I never even had a father."

Logan looked at him sideways. "A test-tube kid, then?"

"I told you," Kikyo said quietly. "My origins are a mystery even to me."

"So ya really have no idea how ya got the adamantium blades an' skeleton," Logan said gruffly, looking at him with narrowed eyes. His wounds were already healing. "Ya really tellin' me that you've had that shit since ya were a kid?"

"Yes," Kikyo said. He had no memories before waking up alone in that alley with dried blood on the palms of his hands, clothes ripped, completely and utterly alone.

It had never mattered to him, where he'd come from. All that had ever mattered to him was the way of the sword. Fighting was his life, and he was determined to become the best. He'd never needed anything more. He'd never desired more.

Logan was still looking at him, brow furrowed. "How'd yer swords ever fit in yer lil' kid arms?"

The question took Kikyo off guard.

"Painfully," he answered.

"How'd ya grow any with yer bones covered in metal?" Logan asked. The way he was looking at Kikyo made the samurai uncomfortable.

"Also painfully," he answered, somewhat stiffly. "Though I was informed that growing pains are perfectly normal."

Logan snorted, looking away. "Prob'ly not to the extent that you felt 'em, huh?"

"I wouldn't know," Kikyo said, dismissive.

Logan looked at him again, something in his gaze that made the samurai tense up. "It's prob'ly better that ya don't know yer origins," he said, a weight in his voice that spoke of experience.

"I never wanted to," Kikyo told him, watching him out of the corner of his eyes.

Logan grunted and looked back at the center of the large, empty room. "Ya want a turn? Or ya just gonna watch like'a voyeur again?"

"If you actually demonstrate some martial arts skill without using your body as a shield, I might take a turn," Kikyo said easily. "Until then, I will watch."

"Heh," Logan said, and pushed himself off the wall, walking to the center of the room, cracking his knuckles, then his neck. He took off flannel shirt and tossed it several feet away, leaving him in just a black tank-top, stretched tight over the muscles of his chest.

"Danger Room Training Protocol 82275," he grunted, and a group of Hand ninja appeared around him, the entire room dimming and turning into what appeared to be a warehouse in late evening. Foot-long claws slide out from between Logan's knuckles with a soft snikt of metal tearing through flesh.

Kikyo was now leaning against a wall of stacked crates as he watched Logan fend off the ninja with his adamantium claws, the sound of metal clashing echoing in the large space.

Well. It looked like the Wolverine actually did know martial arts.

The palms of Kikyo's hands itched, and he scratched at them idly, eyes following the movements of the battle. His heartbeat sped up slightly as he watched the way the Wolverine fought, all viciousness and grace, actually making an effort to not throw himself onto the ninjas' swords.

He was so tempted to fight Logan now. So very tempted.

He dragged his blunt nails over his palms.

He couldn't fight Logan, not yet. Not with the way Logan was still fighting like he could see the woman he'd loved dying again and again before his eyes, his control of his movements already degrading as the despairing anger took hold of him yet again.

Kikyo would not fight Logan when the mutant would not even be able to focus on the fight. When all he'd see in Logan's eyes was the despair of losing that woman, rather than the fear of losing his life to the samurai's blade.

When Logan staggered back over to him, the dead ninja and evening-lit warehouse disappearing, and slumped against the wall, Kikyo said, "Did she really matter to you that much?" The derision was evident in his voice.

Logan snarled at him, even as he slumped against the wall. "I loved her," he growled.

"Love," Kikyo said, and scoffed.

"I assume ya've never been in love, then," Logan said, and snorted. "Have ya even ever had a friend?"

Kikyo looked at the mutant out of the corner of his eyes to see Logan watching him discerningly.

There had been Kikyo's classmate, but that man had been more of a rival than anything else.

Kikyo scoffed again, looking away in disdain. "I have no need of such things."

He heard Logan chuckle slightly, head thunking against the wall. "How'd ya do it, Chuck?" he muttered, seemingly to himself. "How'd ya knock sense inta me when I came t'ya, denyin' I was human?"

Kikyo exhaled through his nose and left the room, fingers curled against his itching palms.

Logan was missing Mariko and failing to sleep when he chanced to look out his window and see the dark figure of Kikyo down below, a ways off in the castle grounds, backlit in silver, hair blowing in the night breeze, just outside of the inky shadows of trees.

The shadows were deep, Kikyo standing on the moonlit precipice.

Logan crossed to the open window to feel the cool breeze on his skin, not to watch the samurai extend his adamantium blades from both arms and train alone in the night while the mansion slept.

But Kikyo just happened to be there, a moving figure in the night otherwise still but for the rippling amorphous darkness that Logan knew to be oaks, maples, hickories; birches, beeches, ashes.

Kikyo just happened to be there, so Logan watched, leaning against the windowsill, breeze coming its chilly fingers through his sideburns, rustling his hair.

Logan watched Kikyo whirl and strike in a dance of blades that someone lacking Logan's heightened response time would have had trouble following, letting his thoughts flow and ebb and flow without reign, and presently the emptiness of Mariko's absence didn't feel so hollow.

Because Kikyo's movements were that of a creature who knew only fighting. Who knew not of love, knew not of friendship, knew not of feeling pain on someone else's behalf.

And Logan realized that he was not hollow.

Kikyo was hollow; hollowed out by meaningless rage and misguided passion, steps guiding him assuredly down a path that led to nowhere.

And Logan stopped flinching away from the pain of Mariko's death. Took it, instead, held it in the palm of his hands to admire it, caressed it, clutched it close to him, reveling in the fullness of the feeling, the realization that he was human and alive.

He was miserable with Mariko gone, guilty that he hadn't been able to save her. But he owned that misery, that guilt. It was not something to be ashamed of. It was not something to be afraid of.

It meant that he had loved.

And watching the hollow samurai fight only for the sake of fighting, for the sake of becoming the best—a goal bereft of meaning—Logan realized that the ability to love was life's greatest gift, and that his time with Mariko, however short, had been blessed. And he was so tremendously grateful.

The gratitude flooded over him, washing away the bitterness that had resided in his heart like demons since her death.

Down below, Kikyo fought nonexistent demons as if it would bring significance to his hollow existence.

The samurai didn't believe in love, and bestowed devotion upon the only thing that had saved him from falling into the abyss of despair: the way of the sword.

Mastering the way of the sword was the only way that Kikyo had been able to give his life any meaning at all—lacking in family, lacking even in memories, there had been nothing else. But the blades had been in his arms, however they had gotten there, a part of him, an identity. And he'd held onto it and pursued it with all he'd had.

When one had a healing factor and suicide was never an option, one had to, more than anyone else, find a reason to keep living. A reason to not crawl into a hole, curl up and wait with baited breath for a death that would never arrive.

Logan watched Kikyo fight, and where once he'd seen an arrogant and power-hungry bastard, he saw a man searching desperately for purpose.

So Logan clung tight to his misery, and pitied the man who'd never mourned a loved one because he'd never had anyone to lose.

A while back, when Forge had monitored Wolverine's vitals during a Danger Room training session, he'd reported Logan's physical and mental state as being equivalent to an Olympic-level gymnast performing a gold-medal-winning routine whilst simultaneously beating four chess computers in his head.

Given that level of sophistication and tactical processing Logan was capable of utilizing while in combat, it was mind-boggling how Logan was capable of throwing all that away and fighting only like a caged animal. Which was how he'd been fighting since the events of Madripoor.

And then something had changed, though Scott didn't know what.

But Logan had started fighting smart again, had returned to teaching his classes, had stopped stalking around the mansion like he'd gut anyone who tried to talk to him, had stopped his late nights of staring with agonized eyes into the depths of beer bottles gripped in white-knuckled hands; had started smiling again.

What really made Scott pause, though, was the way that Logan smiled. The smiles were small, fond, contented things. It was eerie.

"Are you alright?" Scott had asked him, when he'd passed by the kitchen doorway just after midnight and seen Logan leaning against the counter with that eerie smile on his lips, brushing the condensation off the beer bottle in his hands with his thumb.

Logan's brown eyes, when he'd looked up, were calm, free of the turmoil that had been broiling in their depths after he'd returned from Madripoor.

"Yeah, Slim," Logan had said, looking back down at the beer bottle, watching a drop of water run down the neck with that smile still there. "I think I am."

Scott had watched him for a few moments, and then said, "I'm glad."

And Logan's smile had widened into a grin as he'd looked back up at him, a roguish gleam in his eye as he'd said, "Ya just can't wait fer me ta beat ya at ping-pong again, can ya?"

And Scott had laughed, feeling relief wash over him. "We're going to have to kick Bobby and John off the ping-pong table. They've been monopolizing it lately."

"Not if we play now, Slim." Logan had raised an eyebrow. "Unless yer too tired?"

Scott had never imagined himself agreeing to a game of late-night ping-pong, but he'd always had a hard time turning down a challenge, especially one pitched by Logan. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed their years-old rivalry.

"Does this mean that the Wolverine is back?" Scott had asked, when Logan had hit the ping-pong ball straight at his face and he'd reflexively blasted it with his visor, causing Logan to chuckle smugly.

Logan's grin had showed his slightly-pointed teeth. "What d'ya think, Slim?"

Scott had felt his features relax. "It's good to see you smiling again, Logan," he'd said. "You were terrifying all the students. I was afraid some of them were going to start dropping out."

And Logan had snorted, punching him in the shoulder. "If they can't take me when I'm angry, then they ain't cut out to be X-Men. But since none'o them dropped, I'd say they all passed the exam."

"Yeah," Scott had agreed, grinning. "If they can face an angry Wolverine, then they can face Sentinels, Mr. Sinister, and Apocalypse, no problem."

"God, Mr. Sinister," Logan had groaned, a hand against his face. "Talk about villains with terrible fashion sense."

Scott's lips had twitched. "Try wearing rose-quartz glasses," he'd suggested, patting Logan on the shoulder. "It helps mute the clashing colors."

"It don't do nothin' about that fuckin' cape, though," Logan had pointed out with a wince, and Scott had likewise cringed.

"Now I have to try to fall asleep with that image fresh in my mind," Scott had said dryly. "Thanks for that."

Logan had chuckled at him.

It had felt good, to interact with Logan in such a way again.

~Didn't I tell you that it would be a good thing to let the samurai stay, dear?~

~I don't see what the samurai has to do with Logan healing, Emma.~

~Oh, darling. That's because you're so oblivious. You men just have no clue, do you?~

~I don't know what you're talking about.~

~And that is exactly why you should do everything I say, darling.~

~Emma.~

~You know I'm right, dear. I always am.~

Mikage was unnerving.

Steel-gray eyes in a narrow, pale face, half-veiled in dark hair that obscured his expression in shadows. Silent-sandaled feet and catlike grace, catlike movements, catlike aloofness, catlike intensity, catlike affinity for crouching in high places and just watching.

He watched Logan like a cat would the dot of a laser-pointer, gaze glued, tail twitching, waiting for the right moment.

And maybe it was more unnerving still that Logan didn't seem to notice. Not at first.

Or that when Logan did finally seem to notice, he started watching back with the same intensity. Hard, appraising eyes.

Or maybe that, when Scott paid more attention, Logan's eyes weren't hard so much as pained, when he watched the samurai. There was a softness to Logan's gaze, a sadness, a look that Logan usually reserved for the more troubled students that he encountered late at night shaking in the hallways with faces streaked in tears and eyes dilated in fear.

And Scott could only wonder what Logan saw there in the samurai's stoic face, a face that gave away no emotion but an assured vigilance.

He'd glide through the mansion like a ghost and then disappear for a few days, only to reappear in a shadowed corner of a room as if he'd always been there, had never left.

Mikage seemed determined not to appear human.

He was good at it. The students were beginning to wonder.

"He's so creepy," they whispered to each other, casting him wary glances. "What even is he?"

Scott had lost count of how many times he'd turned around only to find Mikage standing right behind him, silent and sharp-eyed. Mikage's lips always quirked whenever Scott startled, like it was a game.

It unnerved Scott how many times the samurai could have killed him, before he'd even have had a chance to react.

Mikage was polite to a fault, though, all No, thank you's whenever offered anything, soft-spoken in a way that made even the rowdiest students stop and pay attention. A voice that insinuated that one would be staring down an adamantium blade if one didn't listen, and that no warnings or second chances would be given. Unlike Logan, he never growled, never snarled, never threatened, but the students treated his words with the same weight.

Some of the them had tried asking him about himself and how he knew Logan, but all Mikage would say was, "You should focus more on your studying, if you want to become great and make your tutors proud," "Don't waste your time asking about things that do not concern you," or, "The wind howls, but the mountain remains still," and walk away.

~We should make him supervise detention,~ Emma had suggested, an amused smile on her lips.

"You propose that to him, then," Scott had said, and Emma had laughed.

"In time," she had said, waving a hand. ~I don't think he's yet realized that he'll be sticking around for longer than he expected.~

~But Logan's getting better,~ Scott had thought, confused.

Emma had laughed at him again and gently patted his cheek. ~Oh, dearest. You really are endearingly oblivious.~

It had surprised him, when Mikage had started joining missions.

The X-Men were a team. A family.

Mikage was not an X-Man.

He mostly watched, relaxed on the outskirts of their skirmishes, entering into the fray only when he saw an immediate need, returning to the margins as soon as the need was fulfilled.

"If ya ever join the X-Men, Mikage, ya' alias should be Trump-Card," Gambit had joked, black and red eyes laughing as he'd slipped the Ace of Spades out of his sleeve, the card glowing magenta between his fingers. "O' mebbe Pis Aller."

"Jus' call 'im Secret Weapon an' be done with it," Wolverine had snorted, glancing at Kikyo's forearms as if he could see the adamantium blades tucked within.

"What?" Iceman had said, looking between them in surprise. "I thought he was just called Samurai?"

Mikage had given them a look of utter disdain. "Don't call me by any of your absurd excuses for names."

Wolverine and Gambit had laughed, while Iceman had whined, "Whaaat? I thought that's what had been silently agreed on! 'Samurai' isn't absurd, is it? Isn't it what you are?"

"Samurai have a code of honor," Emma had said. Scott hadn't really known what that meant.

Until the X-Men had gotten mixed up in a fight between the Inhumans and an organization that had decided to try to harness their—both Inhumans' and mutants'—powers, and Mikage was suddenly there in front of a young girl who would otherwise have been gunned down.

For a moment, seeing Mikage crouched over the girl, riddled in bullet holes spreading red through his kimono, Scott had thought the samurai had actually thrown away his life to protect the girl.

And then Mikage stood up, turning to face the men who'd shot him, and Scott saw the samurai's wounds close.

A healing factor. Just like Logan's.

I really should have known, Scott realized.

The men started shooting again, rapid machine-gun fire, but Mikage reflected them all with one of the blade slid out from his left arm.

And then he was gone, like he'd just disappeared, and the men were suddenly cut to the ground, their guns in pieces, the samurai was standing over them.

"I despise guns," Mikage had said, opening his left palm, sword retracting into its grip and then sliding back into his arm. "Especially when they're aimed at defenseless children."

And then he'd walked back over to the girl, offered her his hand, and calmly escorted her away from the battle.

But it stuck with Scott, how Mikage hadn't even flinched when he'd been shot.

Even though Logan healed, you could tell he felt pain. He growled, he gasped, he snarled, he roared, he winced and staggered. The pain never cowed him, never stopped him, but it was obvious that he felt it.

With Mikage, it was impossible to tell if he felt anything.

Scott wondered if part of the samurai creed was not to show any weakness—any humanity—or if it was just Mikage.

"That guy," Logan had said after the battle, nodding at the samurai who was looking down at the little girl who was clinging to his hand and talking to him, "he took a poison dart fer me, once. Didn't want it ta interfere with the fight I was in."

Scott looked at him, and Logan pulled a bullet out of his forearm that had somehow gotten lodged between his radius and ulna. "He believes in honorable battle. Won't let anyone interfere with that."

Logan was watching the samurai, a pensive look on his face."An' I'm tellin' ya—that poison weren't no joke, either. I got hit with one'a the darts later—hurt like a fuckin' bitch. I could hardly stand. But Kikyo," there was grudging admiration in his voice, "he was walkin' around with that poison in his system like there weren't nothin' wrong with 'im."

Scott looked at the samurai, too. The girl was hugging his legs. Mikage gingerly put a hand on her head.

"He can't be more used to pain than I am," Logan mused, more to himself than to Scott. "He ain't lived as long as I 'ave. He don't even remember how he got those blades in 'im."

"Does he actually feel pain, then?" Scott couldn't stop himself from asking, honestly curious.

Logan laughed. "Oh, he does, but I think he's jus' too damn stubborn ta admit it, even ta 'imself."

"I don't think pain works like that," Scott remarked.

Logan laughed at him again.

First Emma, and now Logan, he thought. He didn't understand what was so damn funny. Not about Mikage.

That samurai was eerie.

The girl—she said her name was Luna—had clung to Kikyo for the entire plane ride back to the X-Men mansion.

He had finally managed to get rid of the girl, when the furry blue mutant had come to take her for a medical check-up to make sure she wasn't injured.

Kikyo had gone outside, strolling through the garden, not bothering to change out of his ripped and blood-stained kimono. It was too crowded inside the mansion, too loud.

He didn't mind the din of battle, but the post-battle rush to get everyone medical treatment and the mandatory mission review meeting were oppressive. (That, and the sight of Logan in his tattered and bloodied suit set Kikyo's heart thumping and his palms itching.)

Kikyo preferred it outside, anyway. It was quieter.

Birds sang. The wind rustled the trees and squirrels skittered along their bark. Bees congregated around the flowers, buzzing. A fountain burbled on the other side of the garden. In the forest, twigs snapped under the cleft hooves of a doe and her two fawns. Inside the mansion was still a cacophony of tense voices and harried movement.

It wasn't as quiet as the mountain dojo where he'd grown up. He missed that quiet.

It would be quieter here in the winter, he knew, with snowfall blanketing the ground, stifling any noise.

Kikyo hoped not to stay that long.

The sun was still high in the clear expanse of sky when Kikyo heard light footsteps coming closer, and he turned to see Luna running towards him, a smile on her face.

He didn't understand why she was following him.

"Kikyo!" she said, slowing to a stop as she came up to him, blue eyes bright, still smiling. "I'm so glad I found you! They said you were outside."

Kikyo stared at her. She barely came up to his waist, blond hair in elaborate French braids curled around her head, looking up at him earnestly.

He didn't understand.

"I wanted to thank you again for saving me!" she said brightly. She looked down, then, almost shyly, tucking a stray strand of blond hair behind her ear. "My dad is still knocked unconscious in the med bay, so I'm going to be here until he wakes up and is well enough to walk around again."

She looked up, smiling once more. "So I was wondering if I could spend the time with you!"

Kikyo stared at her, and then scoffed, looking away. "Why ever would you want to do that? Go back inside, Luna. If your father wakes up and you're not there, he will no doubt be worried about you."

"Dr. McCoy said that he probably won't wake up for a few hours," Luna told him, taking his hand. "And I don't want to wait inside. It's really loud in there, don't you think? Everyone's really stressed out. But it's nice and peaceful out here."

Kikyo closed his eyes. "Yes," he said quietly. "It is."

"Wow, these flowers are so beautiful," Luna said in wonder, tugging Kikyo down the path towards a bush with small, white, five-petaled flowers. She stuck her nose in a clump of them, then leaned back, eyes bright. "Oh, and they smell so pretty, too!"

"Yes," he said quietly, able to smell the jasmine even from where he stood. "I suppose they do."

She looked up at him and smiled again, and Kikyo felt confused.

"They'd look pretty in your hair. Your hair is really lovely," she said, almost in awe as she reached out to touch the long, dark strands. "I suppose these flowers smell a little too strongly though, huh?"

Kikyo didn't move, feeling frozen.

Something else caught her eye, then, and she turned, saying excitedly, "Ooh, what's that over there?" and tugging him along.

Kikyo let her, thinking that if he tried to break her hold he'd hurt her.

"Could you go find Luna?" Hank had asked him. "I haven't seen her in a while, and I'm afraid she might be upset and worried for her father. Pietro's vitals weren't very steady when she'd asked how he was, and I would like her to be informed that his vitals are much stronger now. It is a certainty that he will pull through."

Logan had grunted an acknowledgement and followed the girl's scent outside.

He found her sitting in the grass and smiling as she wove a daisy crown, Kikyo sitting across from her and listening to her quiet but ebullient chatting.

Safely downwind, Logan paused to watch.

"My dad really worries for me," Luna said, her voice carried on the breeze. She picked another daisy. "He'll be very grateful that you saved me. He tends to come off as hostile about that kind of thing, though." She wove the daisy in with the others, fingers deft and careful. "He's very protective of the people he loves. He'll feel like it was his fault I almost got killed, and like he almost let me and Mom down. His love consumes him. He can't ignore it, the way some people do."

She picked another daisy, looking at it softly. "He feels a lot of guilt. He did some very bad things in the past, but he's doing his best to make up for them." She smiled as she added the daisy to the crown. "He's really trying to be a good father. And even though he and Mom aren't together any more, he's really trying to be good to her, too. He tends to be overbearing because he's so afraid of being left alone, but he's getting better. I really love him. And Mom, too."

She picked another daisy, looking up at Kikyo. "Do you have a family?"

"No," Kikyo said, unaffected.

Luna's eyes widened. "You grew up without a family?"

Kikyo closed his eyes. "I had a teacher."

Luna relaxed, smiling. "So he was like your family, then. Were there any other students?"

"Yes." A beat of silence. "I thought of him as my rival."

"Did something happen between you two?" Luna asked, daisy still held between her fingers.

Kikyo's head ducked slightly, long bangs further shielding his face. "You could say that."

"But the X-Men are your family now, right?" Luna asked him.

Kikyo opened his eyes, looking at her. "I am not part of the X-Men."

"Oh," Luna said, tilting her head. "Why are you here, then?"

"I have unfinished business with Logan," Kikyo said.

Luna looked at him, smile returning. She went back to working on her daisy crown. "Logan is really great, isn't he? I really like him. He acts scary sometimes, but he's actually very nice."

Kikyo didn't say anything. His posture was stiff.

"You're very nice, too," she said, looking back up at him, still smiling.

Kikyo blinked. His voices was quiet when he said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Luna laughed, picking another daisy as she started telling him all about what it was like to live in Attilan on the moon.

Kikyo had relaxed again by the time she interrupted a story about Gorgon and Lockjaw with a pleased exclamation, standing up and walking over to him, placing the completed daisy crown on his head.

"The white and yellow really looks pretty with your dark hair," she commented, smiling.

She turned, then, seeing Logan standing there a ways away. She smiled, waving at him. "Logan!"

Logan started walking towards them, and Kikyo barely turned his head, just enough to watch Logan out of the corner of his eye.

When he got to them, Logan chuckled, hands in his jacket pockets. "Yer pretty good at that, kiddo," he said, nodding at the daisy crown.

Luna beamed.

"Hank sent me here to tell ya that yer father's gonna be alright," Logan said, ignoring the way Kikyo was watching him.

"I know," Luna said, tucking a stray wisp of blond hair behind one of her ears, looking up at him with an assured smile. "Dad is too stubborn to let a little injury like that keep him down. He still needs to be there for me. He would never forgive himself if he wasn't."

It wasn't the first time that Logan had wondered just how much the young empath could see in people. If she could see something redeemable in Pietro, the jerk, there was no telling what redeemable qualities she could see in others.

He wondered what she saw in Kikyo. Burned with curiosity to know.

"Darlin'," he was all he said, a hand fondly on her head, "yer wise beyond yer years."

She just smiled at him, but he knew she was seeing exactly what he felt, probably better than he could determine himself.

Hand back in his pocket, he nodded at the samurai, who had looked away, saying, "Make sure ya take care'a her, Kikyo."

Unworried, he strolled back to the mansion to let Hank know that Luna was alright.

When he found them again a few hours later to tell Luna that her father had woken up, the two of them sitting at the edge of the fountain and watching the brightly-colored koi swim around in the water, murky with twilight, Luna trying to spot the sole black one that kept disappearing in the shadows and rock crevices, Kikyo every now and then pointing it out. Luna would watch the black koi for a while before looking away to talk to the samurai, subsequently losing sight of the fish again, going back to searching for it until she gave him and asked Kikyo once again tell her where it was.

She was wearing her own daisy crown, and Kikyo was still wearing his.

Later that night still, once Luna had gone to bed, Logan would find Kikyo standing in the middle of the room he was borrowing (and supposed to be sleeping in, though Logan knew that he rarely did), door left open, examining the daisy crown in his hands as if it would provide him with some kind of answer to whatever questions were circling in his head.

Kikyo would look over at him, carefully setting the daisy crown on top of the dresser that Logan knew to be empty, before crossing over to the open window, crouching on the sill for a moment, long black hair drifting behind him in the night breeze, before pushing off from the ledge and dropping down.

Logan would hardly hear the samurai land on the ground, would barely catch the near-silent sound of his footsteps drifting away into the night, asphyxiated by the orchestra of crickets.

Logan, for his part, would go to his room and try to catch some sleep.

(His dreams would be full of shrapnel, gunfire and screams; full of blood on his hands and dead bodies in his arms, light fading from different colored eyes: gray, brown, green.)

(He would wake up hungry and wondering why Kikyo had died like Mariko and Jean.)

It wasn't until Pietro had finished fussing over his daughter and making sure that she was actually perfectly okay that he noticed the man Luna had brought with her.

He was wearing a circlet of daisies around his head that matched the one on Luna. Long black hair obscured his face. He was wearing a Japanese kimono that was stained with blood, smooth skin visible through the bulletholes.

"Dad, this is Kikyo Mikage," Luna introduced, smiling. "Kikyo, this is my dad, Pietro Maximoff."

Pietro regarded the man warily, before looking back at his daughter, a silent, I don't care who he is. Why is he here?

"Kikyo saved my life," Luna told him earnestly. "And he's been keeping me company while I waited for you to wake up." Her smile was so bright, so pure. "He's really nice!"

Pietro felt himself relax, smiling softly. Luna was the best judge of character. He was so blessed to have her as his daughter. So blessed.

"Thank you for taking care of her," Pietro said, hating the way his voice rasped. His fingers tapped out Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata on the bed covers.

Luna offered him a glass of water, and he drank gratefully.

Kikyo's voice, when he spoke, was quiet, smooth, surprisingly deep. "It is unnecessary to offer me your thanks. I did not save her for your sake. I would have saved any child that had been in her position. Nobody should be gunned down in such a fashion, especially not one so young."

"Samurai have a code of honor," Luna told Pietro excitedly, smile bright. "Kikyo told me about it!"

Pietro looked at the man, lips twisting. "Kikyo. I offer my gratitude neither lightly nor frequently. Accept it, because I will not say it again."

Kikyo inclined his head slightly. "Very well."

It didn't take long for the samurai to politely dismiss himself, Luna running over to hug him around the waist with a smile and a cheerful, "Thank you for hanging out with me today, Kikyo! I really enjoyed spending time with you."

Kikyo had nodded and left, and Luna had walked back over to the bed, humming to herself.

"Alright," Pietro said, raising his eyebrows. "What's his problem?"

Luna looked at him innocently. "What do you mean?"

Pietro rolled his eyes. "Don't think I haven't noticed how you always choose the company of the most emotionally unstable people at any given location, Luna."

Luna smiled sheepishly. "Is it that obvious?"

Pietro looked at her flatly, but his lips twitched. "Luna."

Luna sighed, looking up at the ceiling. "Fine, fine." She traced a pattern on the white covers. "Kikyo is… he keeps his emotions bottled up. And he's really lonely, but he doesn't realize it. It's like he's always been lonely, so it feels normal to him. Not being lonely scares him because he doesn't know what it is. And he's really angry, deep down, but I don't know why."

She hummed slightly, a small smile gracing her lips. "I think he and Logan are in love."

Pietro, who had been taking another sip of water, nearly choked. "What?!" he gasped out between pained coughs.

She looked at him, still smiling. "I think that Kikyo and Logan are in love. They just haven't realized it yet."

Coughs subsiding, Pietro leaned back against the pillows, staring at her for a moment, before groaning and covering his face with a hand.

Because if Luna said they were in love and just hadn't realized it yet, then they were in love and just hadn't realized it yet.

"I can't believe that man," Pietro muttered, referring to Logan. "His love life is appalling."

Luna just smiled. "I think that Kikyo and Logan could be really happy together," she told him earnestly, when he peeked through his fingers at her.

"Don't you go playing matchmaker, Luna," he warned her, even though since it was she who said it, he was inclined to believe it.

Luna just snorted, her turn to roll her eyes. "I do know better than that, Dad."

"Good," he said, and reached out to brush a stray lock of blond hair behind her ear.

Logan's vision was washed over in red. Red red red; it was all he could see, red blurry shapes of his enemies, red movement lines indicating where they would be.

His vision was red, and their blood was also red, but darker. Blood was all over him.

Theirs. His.

It was so, so red.

He could no longer identify the faces of the red-bathed figures, slicing at anything that moved, his throat red and raw with his growls, his roars, his ears red and raw with their cries, their screams.

His claws red with their blood. His claws were dripping in it, the red.

He was advancing on another target when there was a blur and the path of his claws were met by silver, gray eyes flashing, slicing through the scarlet.

«Logan,» said a voice, molten and silver. «Snap out of it. You dishonor yourself with this behavior.»

Logan's vision was awash in red, and he struck out blindly, snarling, his claws tearing through fresh.

Red splattered.

The figure smirked, bedecked in black and silver. «My turn.»

A flash of silver before his eyes, and Logan was roaring in pain, the red spilling from him.

«Violent, mindless animals must be put down,» was the last thing he heard before everything went black (something in the back of his mind relieved that the black had drowned out the red).

When his awareness returned, Kikyo was standing over him, adamantium sword at his throat, the shoulder of his haori awash with the red of his own blood, but through the tattered cloth his pale skin was flawless.

Logan's eyes locked onto the black of his hair, the brown of his headband, the thin line of seafoam green at his neck. The gray of his eyes.

Anything but the red.

Logan could smell that all around him his enemies were dead.

«Thank you,» he rasped, blood foul in his mouth.

Kikyo scoffed, sword retracting into its handle, sliding back into his arm. «You're pathetic.»

You're beautiful, Logan thought, and didn't say anything. But you'd look better without all that red.

He couldn't remember ever wishing so badly that something was gray.

It was a couple hours after midnight and Kikyo was perched on the railing of the balcony when Logan found him.

"Hey," Logan grunted, a ceramic tokkuri flask of sake in one hand, two ceramic ochoko cups balanced in the other.

Kikyo unfolded from his perch on the railing, and Logan sat unceremoniously on the ground, setting the cups down and filling the one across from him, leaving the one in front of him empty, setting the tokkuri down.

Kikyo sat on his knees across from Logan, watching him carefully for a moment before taking the tokkuri and filling Logan's ochoko with the Japanese rice wine.

They both sipped at their sake in silence, the gibbous moon winking in and out from behind its passing veil of dark clouds.

Logan was on his third flask, Kikyo still on his first, when Kikyo asked something that had been itching at him for weeks.

«You said it was better that I don't know my origins,» he said, narrowing his eyes at the man across from him. Logan's sideburns and wild hair made him look wolfish in the dark. «What did you mean by that?»

Logan grunted, looking down at the empty ochoko cup in his hand. He reached for the tokkuri to fill it. «We ain't born with that metal in us. It had to be put there, and the process of that ain't fun.»

He took another swig, then stared back down at the empty cup. He rubbed his thumb over the rim. «I've been in a lot of pain in my life, but that was the worst. And I was an adult at the time. I can't imagine what that would have been like if I'd undergone that process as a child.» He shook his head, sitll staring at the ochoko. «I would never wish such an experience on you.»

Kikyo looked at him with narrowed eyes, wondering what the point of such an inapplicable statement was.

There were a few minutes of silence, and Logan poured himself another drink.

Kikyo carefully finished his, but held the empty cup in his hand, not reaching to pour himself another. «You were in World War II, weren't you?» he asked, having seen some of the relics in Logan's room, his curiosity somewhat piqued.

Logan nodded, more sake trailing down the inside of his throat. «And World War I,» he said. «The Korean War. The Vietnam War.» He took another swig, emptying his cup again, staring at it again, rubbing his thumb over the rim again. «I've been in a lot of wars.»

Logan looked haunted, cheekbones and eyesockets hollowed out by shadows, the knuckles of his hands bone-white.

Kikyo rubbed his palms out of habit; the itching was a shadow of what it was usually.

Logan reached out and lifted up the tokkuri, shaking it. It made the sound of a flask nearly empty. «You'll learn a lot about my past if you stick around,» he said, and poured the last of the rice wine into Kikyo's cup. «It's always coming back to bite me in the ass.»

Then Logan stood up and left, taking the empty tokkuri and his own cup with him, leaving Kikyo sitting there with a full ochoko of subtly bitter sake in his hand.

He drank half of it and then poured the rest over the railing.

Love had always struck Logan over the head at first sight, addling his brain like blunt-force trauma; had always struck him like a countershock to the heart, a defibrillator shocking him again and again every time he looked at the object of his affection.

So maybe that was why he hadn't recognized his feelings for what they were.

Love had never before infected him like cancer, a tumor that he didn't notice until his brain was already addled; had never before snuck up on him like a predator, tailed him like an inner demon, his heart beating faster whenever he looked over his shoulder and found it lurking.

For Logan, love had never before been so subtle that he'd hesitated to call it love.

But like all the times that Logan had loved, he found that he didn't mind.

One thing was constant in love, no matter how it manifested: it always hurt.

And the Wolverine did not shy from pain.

(But how do you love someone who doesn't believe in love?)

Scott was used to seeing Mikage watch Logan.

He wasn't used to seeing Logan watch Mikage.

He walked into the Danger Room's control room to set up an exercise to run with the students later, only for his plans to flee his head.

Logan sitting in the control chair, toothpick between his teeth, a pensive expression on his face as he watched what was happening in the Danger Room through the observation window.

Coming closer, Scott saw that it was Mikage.

But of course it was.

The samurai was fighting off a dozen Hand ninja with the blade extended from his right arm. He made it look easy. The blade was an extension of his body, his every movement sure and fluid, a dance of lethality.

Scott wondered at how he'd managed to keep his hair so long. Surely it would be challenging to keep that hair from getting cut, with all those blades swinging around.

"Damn," Logan muttered around the toothpick, increasing the difficulty of the exercise. The ninja moved faster, hitting harder, and Mikage kept pace. "How much do I gotta up the ante on this thing ta get 'im to extend his other sword, eh?"

"Logan," Scott said, watching as Logan increased the difficult further.

"What d'ya need, Slim?" Logan asked, toothpick moving between his teeth.

"What are you doing?" Scott said.

Logan added more ninja to the simulation. "What does it look like?"

"Like you're fooling around," Scott said as Mikage somehow cut down all the ninja in one sweep of his sword, without touching any of them. Like they'd been cut by the wind created from the sword swing. Was that a mutant power?

"Cheater," Logan muttered, eyes on Mikage, but his lips were pulled upwards.

Down below, Mikage looked up at them, a statue carved of marble.

When he turned and walked away, it still wasn't quite human. It made Scott's skin crawl.

Logan chuckled.

"I don't understand you, Logan," Scott confessed. He rubbed his temples, feeling an ache forming behind his eyes. "And why is Mikage still here?"

"I don't aim ta be understood," Logan said, leaning back. The toothpick was still between his teeth.

Scott wondered if the toothpick was a test in self-control; if Logan tried to keep it between his teeth for as long as he could without snapping it.

"An' Kikyo's still here 'cause we ain't fought yet," Logan said around the toothpick, and let his head drop back against the edge of the chair, regarding Scott with an expression that looked like it was trying to pass itself off as amusement. "Why, he unnervin' ya?"

Scott looked at him flatly through ruby-quartz lens, before sighing, shoulders lowering, turning to leave the room. Under his breath, he told himself that he should stop stressing out so much because the samurai would soon be leaving.

Behind him he heard the sound of the toothpick snapping.

~I just don't understand what's going on with Logan. He's… it's frustrating. And Mikage—what's going on with him? He's been here for months, but he obviously doesn't like it here. What's his motive? Logan says that he's waiting to fight him, but that doesn't make any sense. If he wanted to fight Logan, he could have fought him by now. And he never had to stay.~

~Can you really not figure it out, darling? It's not that difficult.~

~I'm getting really tired of this conversation. Need I remind you that not all of us are telepaths, Emma?~

~You don't have to be a telepath to figure it out, dear. It's painfully obvious.~

~Says the telepath.~

~Touché.~

Logan's fighting style when he had his head in the game was as beautiful as his berserker rages were repulsive.

Watching Logan fight like a well-oiled machine, Kikyo could feel himself fraying at the seams. He was coming apart.

There was a fire in his chest, his bones aching with the heat of it. His palms were killing him with the itching.

Logan was so enticing; the most skilled opponent Kikyo had encountered. He needed to know who was stronger.

The path of the sword was the foundation of his very being, his very essence, and he needed.

Needed to be stronger. Stronger than Logan. Stronger than everyone. Everything he was demanded it of him.

«Logan,» he said, stepping out from the margins he'd confined himself to, the fire roaring so viciously in his chest that he could feel the flames flickering behind his eyes. «Fight me.»

He'd been waiting for months to see that fire spark once again in the Wolverine. He'd waited for months to see it grow into an inferno, for them to be on even terms.

He needed to beat Logan at his best. Anything less would not be victory.

The itching of his palms, the constant itching, had been slowly driving him insane. He felt like he was burning.

He was burning, and the fire in him roared to see flames licking at the edges of Logan's grin, barely restrained by its cage of flesh.

«So it's time, then?» the Wolverine said, cracking his knuckles, his neck. His adamantium claws slid out from clenched fists, glinting. «Bring it on, bub.»

Only when Kikyo's blades erupted from his palms in a spattering of blood, clashing with Logan's own, the strike reverberating through metal bones—only then did the itching finally stop.

Logan had been watching Kikyo fight for months, but he'd somehow forgotten what it felt like to actually fight him.

Kikyo was a swordsmaster, and he fought like swordfighitng was all he'd been doing for his entire life. He fought like it came as naturally as breathing, more fluid and balanced in his movements than most people achieved even in the simple task of walking.

To say that fighting Kikyo was thrilling would have been an understatement, and Logan lost himself in thump of heartbeats and the clash of blades, the silver and the black and the gray, eyes tripping over the thin lines of seafoam green.

A clash of silver, droplets of red in his vision, the tang of copper in the air, and they both stood back, Logan's cheek stinging and strands of Kikyo's black hair falling towards the floor.

Kikyo caught one between two fingers, dragging the long strand between thin lips curved upwards in a smirk. «All that for a few strands of hair,» he murmured, a dark light in his eyes.

He let the strand go, but Logan didn't take his eyes of the samurai's face.

«Remind me why we're going this again,» Logan said, feeling like he'd lost something in the flood of adrenalin, the pounding of blood in his veins.

«I must become the strongest of all,» Kikyo said. His smile caught the light, sharper than his blades. «If I am not, then I fail to see the point in living,» he said, and Logan finally remembered that Kikyo was crazed. «Now, defend yourself!»

Logan barely blocked the strike, nor the strike after it, nor the strike after that. He found himself barely keeping up, distracted by the questions running thorugh his mind.

«Each strike of your blades makes my heart beat faster,» Kikyo said, and smiled, that strange light in his eyes, attacks unceasing.

«Your dedication to fighting is screwed up,» Logan told him, keeping on the defensive as bits of the equation started to come together. Why are you so angry? he wondered, trying to catch the samurai's eyes amid the blurring blades, the sparks of clashing metal. His ears were ringing.

I know you're in pain, Logan thought, and started to push back. But what's making you so afraid?

Logan turned and ran, leading Kikyo deeper into the woods.

I know that swordfighting is your raison d'être, Logan thought, as he ducked under tree branches, leapt over logs, Kikyo's sure footsteps just behind him. But what is it that makes you want to die?

Logan pulled up short in a clearing, turning around to face his adversary, clawed hands at his sides.

Why? he wondered, meeting adamantium eyes. Why are you so angry?

When Kikyo swung at him, Logan ducked under his arm, grabbing him and flipping him over his shoulder, pinning him facedown to the ground, arms twisted behind his back, three claws stabbed through his ribcage to keep him there.

Kikyo gasped, coughed out blood.

Why are you so afraid of your own humanity? Logan wondered, but all he said was, «I win.»

Kikyo's entire body trembled.

Logan pulled his claws, dark scarlet, from Kikyo's chest, getting off him and standing up, looking down at him.

What do you want in a future? he wondered.

Kikyo gingerly pushed himself onto his hands and knees, wound already healing. He was still trembling, head down, dark bangs hiding his face.

«Kill me, Logan,» he rasped out. «Cut my head off.»

Logan felt his heart ache.

Pain at the back of his heels, legs giving out, collapsed to his knees, hands in front of him in the snow, white and so, so cold.

The tears froze to his eyelashes. He was suffocating.

Snowflakes fell all around him; gentle, mocking.

«Kill me, Eric,» he begged. Pleaded. «Cut my head off.»

The sound of a sword falling to the snow knocked the breath from his lungs.

«If you keep being obsessed with how strong you are, you won't have much of a future.»

There was thesound of footsteps traveling away, crunching in the snow.

He couldn't breathe.

Drip.

Drops of water fell to the forest floor, smelling of salt.

When Logan knelt down, lifting Kikyo's chin, the samurai's eyes were wide, terrorized.

His expression was that of a man whose world had ended. A man who had lost everything.

Logan had seen it too many times during war. The expressions of the people who had lost their homes, their loved ones, their purpose. Had lost everything that had ever meant anything to them. Everything that had kept them wanting to live.

And now Kikyo was wearing that expression, and all he had lost was his pride.

(His pride was all that he'd had.)

«I don't want your head,» Logan murmured.

Kikyo's eyes met his, focusing slightly. «Then what do you want?»

Drip.

The tears ran down his face, dripped from his nose, his chin.

Logan had never seen him look so human.

Reaching out, Logan gently brushed the tears from Kikyo's cheek. "Nothin' that I can take from ya by force," he murmured.

(I want your heart.)

Kikyo opened his mouth, but his voice didn't work. The tears streamed down his face.

Drip.

Logan had the urge to kiss him. He didn't.

«Your life is yours, Kikyo,» he said as he stood, turning to walk away. «Do with it what you will.»

He left Kikyo on his hands and knees in the bloodstained dirt, knowing that—broken—Kikyo would have given him anything.

Drip.

(But what Logan wanted most in that moment was for Kikyo to pick himself up off the ground and find a better reason to be alive.)

Drip.

There was the sound of footsteps traveling away, stifled by soft dirt.

He couldn't breathe.

«Kikyo.» He remembered hisTanba Yagyu's voice, reprimanding. «The true path of the sword is not simply to pursue victory.»

Kikyo didn't understand.

«Listen, both of you,» his teacher had said, to him and to Eric. «You must strengthen your hearts. You must always consider the nature of the sword, and through that you will know the meaning of true battle.»

Kikyo didn't understand.

What was the way of the sword but to fight, and what was the reason to fight if not to pursue victory?

He thought he knew. He thought he knew the nature of the sword. He thought he knew the meaning of true battle.

He had waited, after all. He had waited for Logan to be ready to fight.

Logan had been ready. And Logan had beaten him. It had been an honorable battle.

Kikyo had failed, and he had nobody to blame but himself. He wasn't strong enough.

«You must strengthen your heart.»

His heart was strong.

Kikyo clenched his hands in the dirt, decaying leaves between his fingers, glimmering with his tears.

His heart was strong. Eric's heart had been weak; Logan's heart had been weak. All the care they had for the people around them. They were weak.

So why had Kikyo lost?

Kikyo clenched his hands in the snow, crystals of ice between his fingers, eyelashes heavy with frozen tears.

«Kikyo,» Yagyu said. «Pick yourself up.»

Kikyo couldn't breathe, but obediently he stood, Achilles tendons already healed. There were drops of red in the white snow.

«You still have much to learn,» Yagyu had said, offering a sad, small smile. «I only wish I knew how to teach you.»

«Please teach me,» Kikyo begged, fighting to force air into his lungs. He knelt down in the snow, head bowed, determination and desperation burning in his gut. «I will do anything required of me.»

«Stand up,» Yagyu said, and Kikyo did so, head still lowered. «Look at me, Kikyo.»

Kikyo looked up, meeting Yagyu's dark eyes, softened with some unidentifiable emotion. «I will teach you what I can,» he said, placing a hand on Kikyo's shoulder. «But I can't teach you everything.»

«Yes, Master,» Kikyo said, lowering his eyes. «I will work harder.»

«I know you will,» Yugyo had said.

And Kikyo had. He'd worked harder than he'd ever worked before. He'd worked harder than Eric ever had.

So why did he always lose?

«I can't teach you everything,» Yugyo had said. But what did that mean? What had Yugyo been unable to teach him? And was that why he always lost?

Kikyo's lungs were collapsing, crushed by his own failings, his stomach a writhing knot of darkness threatening to expand outwards.

He clenched his fingers in the dirt till hisknuckles were the color of bone, but it didn't allow him to restrain his broken sobbing.

«Kikyo, I have nothing else to teach you,» Yagyu said, meeting the eyes of his student sitting across from him. «I am closing this dojo. Take your belongings, and leave immediately.»

Kikyo's eyes widened with an emotion Yagyu hadn't seen him express in years. «Master, I can't—»

«Kikyo,» Yagyu said, cutting off the young man's protests. «The difference between you and Eric is your ignorance of the outside world. If you seek greater heights as a swordsman, then you must go on a journey, and gain experience. Learn how people live, and learn how you must live.»

Looking at Kikyo's face, Yagyu felt an ache of fondness, but he kept his voice stern as he told him, «Now, go.»

Kikyo's eyes were wide, but he quickly closed them, bowing. «Master,» he said.. «I will never forget the gratitude I owe you for taking me in, when I had no family and no memory.»

«Do not neglect your practice,» Yagyu told him, knowing that Kikyo wouldn't, sorry that he didn't know how to say anything more. (Kikyo had lived at the dojo since he was a child, and Yagyu had always been a teacher to him—but never a father.)

Kikyo's head was still bowed.«Yes, sir,» he said. «It's been an honor.»

(«I taught you morals and honor, and how to fight properly with a sword,» Yagyu thought as he watched the young man leave, remembering the child he'd found in a back alley fighting a gang with the blades sticking out of his arms, covered in blood and donning a satisfied smile whenever he cut one of the men down. «But I hope that one day you meet someone who can teach you how to love.»)

I am weak, Kikyo realized as he sobbed, dirt under his fingernails and in the lines of his palms. I am weak.

Trembling, he sat back, looking at the dark substance on his hands, not wondering if it was dirt or blood. Not caring.

His sword burst from his right palm, extending, his fingers wrapping around the hilt, his hand shaking.

Someone so weak should not be allowed to live, he thought, and held the blade to his neck, wondering if he could slice between the metal vertebrae and cut off his own head.

«Your life is yours, Kikyo. Do with it what you will.»

Kikyo's arm shook, his breaths gasping, ragged. He lurched forward, blade swiveling to lay flat against the ground as he barely caught himself with his hands.

He clenched his eyes shut, so tightly that vague shapes of color swam in his vision like a kaleidoscope, sand falling towards him in the darkness to bury him alive.

But it didn't erase the image of Logan's face from his mind.

For months, all his thoughts had centered around Logan, planets around a sun, and Kikyo hadn't noticed until Logan had walked away and left him with his thoughts freefalling in all directions, no center of gravity to ground them.

His thoughts had all revolved around Logan, trying to determine his emotional state of mind, and what it would mean to beat him.

But Kikyo had never considered what would happen if he lost. And his months of watching Logan told him that Logan had walked away mourning.

But what he was mourning, Kikyo did not know. Logan had won, after all. He should have had no regrets.

Opening his aching eyes, Kikyo stared sightlessly at the dirt between his hands.

He thought about standing up, but he didn't know where he would go. He didn't know what he would do. There was no reason to live if he wasn't the strongest.

His arms shook under him, but the tears had stopped coming.

The blade was still extended from his right palm, and his eyes latched onto it desperately, the metal obscured by the lengthening, deepening shadows, and Kikyo hadn't felt so cold since that day, collapsed in the snow decorated with small splashes of blood.

But this time his teacher wasn't there to tell him to stand up. No reason to work harder.

There was nothing for him, the realization shaking him to the bones, and he thought again about trying to end his life.

But there was an aching in his chest at the thought. His world had revolved around Logan, and Logan had won, but he hadn't killed him. Why hadn't Logan killed him?

«I don't want your head.»

«Then what do you want?»

"Nothin' that I can take from ya by force."

Kikyo clenched his eyes shut. He didn't know what Logan meant by that.

All he knew was that he didn't actually want to die, and it had something to do with Logan. But he didn't even know why that was—why everything revolved around Logan, even when the world was over.

(It was dark by the time Kikyo finally picked himself up from the dirt.)

Logan wasn't surprised when Kikyo stepped in through his open window in the middle of the night.

He rolled over in bed (he hadn't been sleeping anyway) and glanced at the samurai standing there silhouetted, completely still except for his hair and kimono blowing slightly in the breeze.

"What d'ya want, Kikyo?" Logan asked, sitting up.

Kikyo stepped closer, and Logan saw that his expression was lost.

"Careful," Logan said, lips twitching. "Yer humanity is showin'."

Kikyo was watching him like it was in Logan he could find the answers to all his unspoken questions.

In the dark, the samurai was all shades of gray and black, the strips of brown and seafoam green leached of their color. The achromatic look suited him somehow, Logan thought.

Kikyo licked his lips, but they were still dry when he rasped out, "Why?"

Logan raised an eyebrow. "Why what?"

He could hear Kikyo's heart beating faster, his shallow, too-fast breathing. His fists clenched at his sides. "Why didn't you just kill me?" he said, tone accusing, hair and shadows in his face but Logan was sure he was glaring. "Why did you have to let me live?"

Logan sighed, leaning against the headboard, folding his legs in front of him. His hands were on his knees. "Not everyone enjoys killin', Kikyo. I ain't gonna kill without a good reason ta."

Kikyo stepped closer. "And me trying to kill you wasn't a good enough reason?"

Logan sighed, rubbing his face with a hand. "I don't make it a habit ta kill the people I care about," he said quietly, determinedly not thinking about Jean.

There was a beat of silence, and then Kikyo gave a soft, surprised laugh. "The people you care about," he said, and there was a cynical smirk on his face. "And I fall into that group of people, do I?"

Logan was so tired of this bullshit.

Standing up, he crossed the room to Kikyo in three quick strides, taking the samurai's jaw in his hand and tilting his head to kiss him.

Kikyo's lips were chapped.

«I love you,» Logan said when he pulled back, meeting the samurai's achromatic eyes.

He'd expected Kikyo to get angry, but the samurai just looked even more lost. He licked his chapped lips and didn't pull away from Logan's hand on his cheek. «Love is a weakness,» he murmured, at a loss.

Logan snorted. «You're an idiot,» he said, pulling away. Turning, he cross back to his bed, lying down, pulling the covers up over him, turning his back to the samurai.

He listened to Kikyo stand there and just breath for several minutes, heart beating wildly in his chest.

He wasn't surprised when Kikyo finally left.

(He found himself tugging the covers up higher, feeling inexplicably colder.)

Logan and the samurai disappeared into the forest, and a while later Logan returned, alone.

"Where's Mikage?" Scott had asked.

Logan had shrugged. "Wherever he wants ta be," he'd said, and stuck a cigar between his teeth, walking away.

That day marked one of the only times Scott had ever seen Logan actually light one of his cigars. If he lit them, he usually didn't do it around the mansion, where the kids were.

He spent half an hour leaning against the back of the mansion, blowing cigar smoke from between his teeth, and then he got on his motorcycle (a new one, since Mikage had sliced up the old one), no helmet and no protective gear but his usual read leather jacket, as per usual, and rode off.

He didn't come back for hours.

Logan went on motorcycle rides when he needed to think, and he never took so long except for when he was upset.

"What happened?" Scott asked, when Logan finally came back, hair a windswept mess.

Logan stuck his hands in his pockets, looking up from under his thick eyebrows, lips twitching. "Why, Slim, if I didn't know any better I'd think ya were worried 'bout me."

Scott sighed, rubbing his forehead with a hand. "So it's going to be like that, is it? For someone who's supposed to be over a hundred years old, you really aren't very mature."

Logan had laughed, punching him in the shoulder. "Lighten up, Slim! Ya think too much. Ya ain't gonna get nothin' fer ya trouble 'cept a headache."

"Someone has to be a responsible adult figure for all these kids," Scott said, not as much venom in his voice as there probably should have been.

Logan flashed him a grin. "That's what yer here for, ain't it? So the rest'a us can slack off."

"Logan," Scott said, and the the Wolverine chuckled, turning and strolling away.

"You need to work on your punch!" Scott called after him. "You're getting weak, old man!"

Logan flipped him the bird without looking back, and Scott's lips twitched.

Mikage didn't come back.

Scott was relieved, able to relax slightly, not having having to constantly worry about what the samurai was up to or that he would be standing there whenever Scott turned around.

The students were curious, but a few gruff answers of "He left" from Logan was enough to get them to stop asking, though a few of them kept sending Logan curious, thoughtful looks.

It took Scott a few weeks to figure out why they were looking at Logan like that. It really shouldn't have taken him so long, but he supposed he was just so relieved that Mikage had finally left that he didn't think that anyone else, not even Logan, would feel anything different.

But he should have noticed sooner, even then. Though Scott supposed he had noticed the way Logan was acting, but had never taken the time to think about it, or perhaps refused to.

It wasn't until he caught Logan practicing in the Danger Room with his katana, the one that hung on the wall of his room and that he almost never touched, that Scott was forced to realize what he'd been seeing.

Logan had been acting differently, since Mikage had left. But it wasn't like he'd been after whatever happened in Japan and Madripoor—nothing so obvious.

Logan was not mourning. He was not tortured and heartbroken. He wasn't trying to drink himself into an unattainable stupor or throwing himself into battles blindly with no concern for how much damage he sustained. He hadn't stopped smiling or laughing or joking. None of that.

It was simply that his smiles tended to be smaller, more melancholy, his laughter quieting sooner. He'd start to lose himself in the heat of battle only to consciously pull himself back, lips curling with something bittersweet as he fought with his head rather than his rage. He was quicker to let a fight a go, chuckling to himself whenever he did. He'd drink one or two beers, staring out a window with a pensive, worried look on his face, and then sigh and retire to his room.

And he'd started training with his katana.

~He misses Mikage,~ Scott finally realized, dumbstruck.

Emma clapped slowly, her expression smug. ~Well done, dear. Give the boy a prize.~

~Why would he miss Mikage?~ Scott wondered, not understanding in the least.

Emma sighed, blue eyes rolling up at the ceiling, flipping her long blond hair over her shoulders. ~Why do I put up with you?~ she shot back.

~Because you love me, for reasons beyond reasonable comprehension,~ Scott said, lips quirking as he took her hand in his own, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. ~Isn't that right?~

Emma smirked at him, lips blue with lipstick, her manicured hand moving to cup his cheek. ~Well well. Give the boy another prize.~

Scott's eyes widened behind rose-quartz lenses. ~Wait! You don't mean—?~

Emma laughed at him, and Scott had the very childish urge to bang his head against the wall.

(He resisted it, barely.)

Eric Brooks was hunting vampires in Northwestern Vietnam, having followed a tip on the activities of the vampire who killed his mother.

The tip had been right, but they'd ended up being hunted. His partner, Makoto, had been injured, and he'd sent her off with Razor, the white German shepherd.

He could hear the vampire ninja closing in, and he didn't want her to be injured again. She was only human; unlike him with his vampire blood, her injuries would not heal in a day.

The vampires he'd just disposed of flamed behind him, making it even more difficult to see the figure that stepped out in front of him in the night-drenched forest.

But when he saw the sword slide out of the figure's right hand, the adamantium catching on a stray beam of moonlight, he knew who it was.

"Kikyo," he grunted, tightening his grip on his sword.

The flames dying out behind him and his eyes quickly adjusting, he saw the samurai look up through dark bangs and smile, all the charm of a jungle cat.

"Eric," Kikyo greeted. "No… I suppose you're now Blade, the Vampire Hunter."

And then he was dashing forward, his blade swinging, and Eric blocked the strikes, only to collapse to his knees, the samurai's blade stopping an inch from his shoulder.

Kikyo pulled back, and Eric forced himself unsteadily back to his feet, ignoring the pain throbbing through his body, readying his grip on his blade and wondering why, of all the times Kikyo could have found him seeking revenge, he had to choose now.

Kikyo tilted his head as he looked at him, clicking his tongue. "You're injured, Eric," he observed. "Now that just won't do, will it? It would not be a fair fight."

"What are you doing here, Kikyo?" Eric demanded, fighting to stay upright. "Did Deacon Frost hire you?" The name of the vampire who killed his mother was liquid fire on his tongue.

Kikyo scoffed, the blade sliding back into his arm. "You must think lowly of me, indeed, if you think I'd accept the money and orders of such a foul being."

"You're a mercenary," Eric ground out. "You guys aren't exactly picky."

Kikyo's lips curved upwards, seeming almost wry. But maybe that was just the darkness marring his features. "I haven't done mercenary work in months. I'm sure it's led to a deterioration in my reputation. I should probably amend that at some point."

Eric was sick and tired of this. "Why are you here, Kikyo?" he demanded, feeling his legs shake underneath him.

"I wanted answers," Kikyo said smoothly. "But I think I have already found them." He turned, then, long hair swaying behind him, and walked off into the trees.

"You and I can duel at our leisure some other time, Eric," he called lightly, and then disappeared into the night's shadowy clutches, the darkness swallowing him.

"Crazy bastard…" Eric grunted, and turned to make his own way through the trees, lacking the drive to wonder what was up with the samurai turned mercenary, all his energy focused on moving forward and not passing out.

Love.

What a repulsive word. A repulsive word for a repulsive idea.

To become attached to someone, to need and to desire them. To crave their company and to feel alone without them. To be tethered down; to be held back.

At the dojo, love had only been something he'd heard in Eric's voice when he spoke briefly of other people, other places, the reasons why he had come and the reasons why he needed to leave.

Kikyo hadn't witnessed love until he left the dojo and entered the world, suddenly finding it to be everywhere in people's attachments to each other. It was beyond his comprehension, why anyone would choose to fetter themselves so.

He thought himself above them, all the children he saw running into their mothers' arms, riding on their fathers' shoulders, the couples he saw kissing on park benches, going at each other drunkenly in back alleys, yelling and screaming at each other and leaving in tears, the old couples holding hands, the sex and romance advertised everywhere on flashing signs, the loved ones his opponents whispered the names of before the light left their eyes, the people who let their lives be ruled by others and so broke down when they died.

It was all so repulsive. Love was a glorified dungeon: prison and torture chamber all at once. People clamored for entrance and stayed there only because they were manipulated to believe that through their servitude and suffering was the only way to give their lives any meaning.

Kikyo thought himself above them, all those pathetic people who loved. His only concern was himself and becoming the best swordsmaster he could be, and thus there was nothing to keep him anywhere, nothing to rule his feelings and, thus, his life.

«If you keep being obsessed with how strong you are, you won't have much of a future.»

But it turned out that he'd been imprisoned himself, hadn't he? He'd been so infatuated with becoming stronger that he had let it rule his life. He'd never actually been free.

He'd considered ending his life because he'd lost a single battle, thinking that if he couldn't be the strongest then there was no reason to be alive. He was just as pathetic as all those people who killed themselves because they'd lost a single loved one, or because they felt they could never be loved by anyone.

He'd always thought they were the most pathetic, the people who killed themselves because they were unloved. Who thought that if they couldn't be loved then there was no reason to be alive.

And he was just like them.

He was just like them, imprisoned in his own dungeon undergoing his own torture that he was unwilling to leave.

And it had been Logan who had dragged him from that place, Logan whom he'd followed from it.

Logan who had kissed him. Logan who loved him. Logan who loved the world so deeply that it had made Kikyo feel sick.

(Logan loved the world like Eric loved it, and Kikyo had thought them both weak for it, but it couldn't be a coincidence that they'd both beaten him, could it?)

He'd followed Logan from his cage like a flame in the dark; he burned for Logan, the fire deep within his chest.

But he couldn't be sure.

He couldn't be sure if what he felt for Logan was love, or a result of the obsession he'd had with becoming stronger, so fixated on defeating Logan that he couldn't get him out of his thoughts, so obsessed with fighting that the excitement he felt because of battle was what made his heart beat faster around Logan.

To check, he'd sought out Eric, the only other person he'd ever been obsessed with beating.

And though clashing his blades with Eric's did make his heart beat faster with excitement—he doubted any fight would ever not do so—it wasn't the same. It wasn't the same burning in his chest, and he found himself wishing, every second he clashed blades with Eric, that it was Logan he were fighting instead.

Kikyo walked away from the battle with his answer, but the answer shook the world beneath his feet.

Love.

To become attached to someone, to need and to desire them. To crave their company and to feel alone without them. To be lifted up; to be set free.

Kikyo did not want to call it love, but what else could it be?

He missed Logan.

(The shadows reached out for him, as if to comfort, but he brushed them off.)

Nobody noticed when Mikage first arrived back at the mansion because the X-Men were busy defending themselves against the Avengers.

"Whatever you think we did, we didn't do it!" Scott was yelling at Steve even as he blasted him with his mutant power, Steve deflecting it with his shield.

"Stop lying!" Steve bellowed and threw his shield at him.

"Typical of 'im," Logan grunted, lashing out at Pietro. The speedster easily stepped out of the way, lingering just out of reach. "Yer playin' around, Quickie," Logan observed, eyes narrowed. "Yer heart not in it?"

"Please," Pietro said with a roll of his eyes, easily dodging another slash of adamantium claws. "This is just another superhero misunderstanding. They only happen about once every three months. We fight, and then we realize we were mistaken, and then we feel awful about it and vow not to let it happen again, and then a few months later the whole situation repeats itself."

"Quicksilver, stop fooling around and just kick his ass already!"came a yell from one of the other Avengers across the courtyard.

Pietro sighed. Dodging adamantium claws, he suddenly appeared behind Logan, pushing him hard enough to knock him to the ground.

"Oh dear," Pietro said, his foot paused in the air a couple inches from slamming into Logan's face. "Luna will really get mad at me if I hurt any of you after you helped us that one time."

Grunting, Logan grabbed the speedster's foot, reversing their positions.

"Luna asked me to inquire about Kikyo, by the way," Pietro said, unfazed by the adamantium claws in his face. "She seemed rather concerned about him."

Logan's lips curled, a snarl in his voice. "He left."

A white eyebrow raised. "Did he now?"

Logan's eyes narrowed.

"Well, I suppose Luna was right about at least one thing," Pietro mused, lips twitching.

"Wolverine, stop fooling around and just kick his ass already!"came a yell from one of the other X-Men across the courtyard.

Pietro smirked, and Logan's claws slipped back between his knuckles, curling his fist to punch the speedster in the face.

There was the sound of a bowstring being let go, the sound of arrows whistling through the air towards him. Logan barely had time to brace himself.

But the arrows never hit.

"Having to replace clothes full of holes is really quite troublesome," came a smooth, deep voice, and Logan turned his head to see Kikyo standing there behind him, three arrows wrapped between his fingers, looking towards the flabbergasted Clint Barton. "You really should be more considerate."

Kikyo snapped the arrows in his hand, letting the pieces fall to the ground at his feet. "Let Luna's father go, Wolverine. I do not relish the thought of her tearstained face should anything happen to him."

"Who the hell are you?!" Clint was yelling at the samurai.

Logan stood, letting the speedster up. (His heart ached, beating too fast.)

"Please tell Luna that I am perfectly fine," Kikyo said to Pietro, turning his back to the archer, who had three more arrows nocked.

Pietro was smirking. "Of course," he said, and disappeared.

"Hey, who the hell are you?!" Clint yelled again.

Kikyo continued to ignore him, turning to Logan.

Logan met adamantium-gray eyes, feeling weeks of inexplicable loneliness slip away from him like sand in an hourglass.

And then Kikyo was kneeling down, head bowed, eyes closed. «I am sorry for the fight that transpired between us,» he said. «Please forgive me my past behavior.»

"Oi!" Clint yelled. "Are you ignoring me?!" He let his arrows fly, but Kikyo didn't move, not so much as flinching when the arrows buried themselves into his back.

"Oi!" Clint yelled, lowering his bow. "What the hell?!"

Ignoring the archer, Logan kept his eyes on Kikyo, snorting slightly. «You're already forgiven, Kikyo.»

«Please,» Kikyo said, standing and lifting his head to meet Logan's eyes, ignoring the arrows in his back. «Allow me to attone.»

And then Kikyo was kissing him, a cool hand agains this cheek, and Logan found himself kissing back, one hand in the samurai's hair, the other curling around his waist to pull the bloodstained arrows from his back, dropping them on the ground.

"Oi! Oi!" Clint was yelling. "What the ever-lovin' FUTZ?!"

Kikyo's lips weren't chapped.

Pulling back, Logan's eyes landed on the neckline of the samurai's kimono, the thin strip of seafoam green, and he said, "How many pairs'a that outfit do ya have, Kikyo?"

"Enough," Kikyo said smoothly, turning to look back at the open-mouthed archer. "Though it really is tiresome to have them constantly ripped through with holes."

"You were supposed to catch those!" Clint yelled at him. "You another healing factor guy, what the hell?! And what the futz was that just now?!"

"Friend of yours?" Kikyo asked distastefully.

"'Spose ya could say they all are," Logan shrugged, looking around at the Avengers and X-Men figh—

The Avengers and X-Men weren't fighting. They were standing there, watching them both, either mouths dropped open (the Avengers), or grinning (most of the X-Men).

"Ooh, love on the battlefield!" Bobby called at them, only to yelp when Jubilees hit him in the arm, hissing, "Bobby! This is not the time to be quoting How to Train Your Dragon!"

"Mikage," Scott called, nodding at the samurai, seeming unsurprised by the sudden public display of affection. "Welcome back."

"Who is that guy?" Steve asked the fellow Avengers next to him.

Thor declared, "I know not, my friend, but I like him!" and started laughing boisterously.

"Logan's new love interest, apparently," Natasha said in a bored tone.

Steve groaned. "Thanks for that, guys," he muttered.

"I ran facial recognition," came Tony's voice through their earpieces. "His name is Kikyo Mikage. Isn't Kikyo a girl's name? Whatever. He's a mercenary. Though apparently he's been inactive for several months, but it doesn't look like it's hard to guess why."

"At least someone's helpful," Steve muttered.

Natasha looked at him, unimpressed.

"Hey, I'm the team genius for a reason!" Tony reminded them.

Thor was still laughing.

Kikyo was unfazed by all the eyes on him. "I have no interest in this petty quarrel," he said, turning and walking over to the mansion, standing in front of the wall to watch. "Please, do continue without me."

Logan yawned. "Think I'll join ya, Kikyo," he said, crossing over to the samurai, hearing Scott and Steve get into another argument behind him.

Logan settled next to Kikyo, leaning against the wall, only half-watching the events in the courtyard unfold. Most of his attention was on the samurai next to him; his scent, his breathing, his heartbeat.

Closing his eyes and letting his head fall back against the wall, Logan's lips twitched.

Even if the fight led to another bitter rivalry between the X-Men and the Avengers, he didn't think he'd much mind.

Mikage integrated back into the X-Men's lives like a missing puzzle piece nobody had realized there was a space for.

But he'd somehow previously carved out a place for himself there, a spot that's edges had been smoothed by the time he was gone, like a pebble in a river. Or maybe it was Mikage himself who had sanded down his rough edges, because he fit in smoothly, and even Scott found himself not so wary of turning around to find the samurai standing right there.

Or maybe it was easier because Mikage and Logan had resolved whatever issue was between them. There was an awkward week as they apparently figured out how to "find the yin and yang in the dominance game," as Logan had described it, but after that the tension ebbed to nothing.

Scott didn't know how they adapted to their relationship so fast. Maybe it was because they'd danced around each other for so long. He didn't know.

And he didn't understand their relationship, but it seemed to work for them.

The biggest difference in Mikage was that he'd stopped lurking and watching with the intensity of a jungle cat. He'd toned it down to the intensity of a house cat. And though he was reserved in his emotions, he certainly wasn't self-conscious, apparently not minding who saw him push Logan against the wall and kiss him roughly, a habit which Logan seemed to find endlessly amusing.

Scott had never heard Mikage give more than a small "Heh" of laughter, but it was becoming more common, along with his small smiles, though they landed more on the 'smirk' end of the smile spectrum.

And it was more common to see Mikage doing normal, human things, like eat or drink. They still never saw him sleep, though, but it was generally assumed that he shared Logan's room.

It was easier to tell the difference in Logan. He grinned more, he laughed more (and apparently Mikage was funny, but the conversations they had that ended in Logan laughing his ass off were always in Japanese, so Scott never had any idea what Mikage had said that was so hilarious). His moods of being silent and brooding had nearly gone away. He was less prone to berserker rampages and easier to pull back from them.

He was just all around happier, and it was evident in the way he spoke, the way he emoted, the way he moved.

They almost didn't act like a couple, though. Aside from the occasional kiss (their kisses were usually only either before or after a fight, whether against each other or a common enemy), the most romantic thing Scott had ever seen them do together was stand close together, sit and share a bottle of Japanese alcohol in silence, or cooking some Japanese dish.

According to some of the students, their cooking was actually quite good. ("Even if they make you eat it with chopsticks and won't even let you just stab the food with them," added Bobby, before Jubilee hit him in the back of the head while John laughed—like he always did when anybody got hit or injured—laughing harder when Jubilee hit him in the back of the head, too.)

In battle, too, it was almost impossible to tell that they actually cared for each other. When fighting one another they showed no mercy, not afraid to injure the other. Seeing how much they could injure each other actually seemed to be the goal.

And even when they were fighting on the same side, they interacted as though they hated each other, showing next to no concern for the other no matter what situation they were in. Whether they were being riddled with bullets or stepped on by a Sentinel or impaled through the chest, their only responses were to rib each other for it or bemoan the state of their clothing.

Though Scott supposed that was what happened when both you and your lover were mutants with superstrength, superspeed, a healing factor, and adamantium blades in your arms; virtually unkillable. There wasn't much reason to worry, was there?

Though Scott thought they were really just both too damn proud for their own good.

It surprised Scott though that Mikage appeared to be almost as good with kids as Logan. He didn't have the same soft side to him that Logan did, but for some reason the students liked him, and the youngest students especially seemed to adore him. Possibly because they were just too oblivious to realize that when he stared at them stoically he was more likely to be imagining slicing thier heads off to get them to stop talking than to actually be listening to what they were saying.

Mikage had proved that he wouldn't hurt kids, though, so Scott figured he didn't have to worry too much. At least with the younger kids.

Emma had somehow convinced Mikage to teach a swordfighting class to the older kids, though. (Or maybe Logan had convinced him. Or maybe Emma had convinced Logan to convince him. Scott didn't know. But Mikage had somehow been convinced to teach a swordfighting class, and it was probably either Emma or Logan or both's fault. And one of them had gotten ahold of wooden training katanas.)

Even from the first class when the students knew nothing, Mikage was not afraid to hit them hard enough to make it actually hurt.

Scott wasn't going to reprimand him, though, as long as he didn't do them any permanent damage. They were all going to be X-Men, after all, if they weren't going on missions already (which some of them were), and they needed to know that making mistakes had painful consequences, and the world wouldn't be going easy on them just because they were young and inexperienced.

Still, he'd decided to watch the first class, just to make sure.

"Owww," Bobby whined after Mikage had moved on to give pointers to another student. Bobby had an arm around his waist as he knelt on the ground, holding himself up with the wooden sword. "He hits hard! I'm going to be all blue tomorrow!"

"And black!" John said cheerfully, lifting up his shirt to prod at an already-forming bruise.

"No, I mean all blue," Bobby said, pulling a face. "I'm going to be so sore that I'm going to have to turn into ice for the entire day, I just know it."

"It's more fun when you can see the bruises changing colors, though!" John had laughed, letting down his shirt and poking instead at a bruise on his arm.

"Psycho," Bobby accused.

"Pyro, actually," John corrected him with a grin. "But you were close."

"I think this is officially my new second-to-least-favorite class," Jubilee said as she walked over to them, before muttering under her breath, "Math is still the absolute worst." She winced as she rubbed at her wrists. "But seriously, who knew it could hurt so much to have a sword get knocked out of your hands?!"

"Hey!" Bobby said, pointing a finger at her accusingly. "People who qualified for the Olympics in gymnastics should not be allowed to complain about that kind of thing!"

Mikage was giving pointers to Kurt, who seemed to be faring slightly better than the other students had, when the door to the room opened, and Logan walked in with his katana.

"Logan," Mikage said, glancing at him, seeming somewhat pleased when Kurt used the opportunity to try to strike him. Kurt was disarmed a split second later, though.

"Give the poor kids a break, Kikyo," Logan said, lips twitching. "Let 'em watch how a real swordfight looks."

Mikage smirked, dropping his wooden training sword, an adamantium blade sliding out from his palm. "Very well." He gripped the blade with both hands, readying his stance.

Logan unsheathed his katana, doing the same.

"En garde!" Mikage said, and charged forward.

The students were awestruck as they watched, eyes wide, some in trepidation, some in wonder, and Scott could guess which students were likely to stay in the swordfighting class. Kurt definitely would, judging by the light in his yellow eyes and the slight wagging of his tail. They were all impressed, though.

Scott admitted to himself that he, too, was impressed.

It was a complicated dance of blades, made even more exciting by Mikage and Logan's superhuman abilities, though Scott noticed that Mikage wasn't using some of the more advanced techniques he'd seen the samurai use in the Danger Room.

The duel ended with Mikage knocking the katana from Logan's hand, shoving his blade through Logan's chest.

The students gasped. (Except for John, who started laughing.)

"Your sword technique needs work," Mikage said, but before he could pull away there was a snikt and Logan's claws erupted from his back in a splatter of red.

"Gotcha," Logan grinned, blood soaking the fabric of his shirt.

Mikage smirked and kissed him.

The students whistled or pretended to gag, and when Mikage and Logan stopped kissing and pulled back, blades sliding glistening red out of flesh, Mikage said, "You owe me a new kimono," and Logan replied, "Ya owe me a new shirt," and Scott wanted to facepalm.

Those two made him feel like an old man, sometimes, which was really rather ironic considering Logan was so much older than him, and Mikage likely was, too. But maybe the fact that they never aged—never died—meant they never fully mentally matured, either.

He'd rib Logan about that later.

~I told you it would be the best for everyone if we let the samurai stay, dear.~

~You can stop rubbing that in my face now, Emma.~

The mission had gone wrong.

There weren't supposed to be vampires.

But there were, and now Jubilee was slumped against a wall, eyes dilated, breathing raggedly and holding her bleeding neck.

"I have to kill her," Eric said, stepping forward, gaze hardened. "She's going to turn into a vampire."

"I'm not gonna let ya do that, bub," Logan growled, stepping in front of her trembling form, claws extended. "If ya want to kill her, ya gotta go through me, first."

Eric's jaw clenched, and he secured both hands around the hilt of his sword. "Fine."

Logan was about to lunge forward, but Kikyo placed a hand on his arm, stopping him.

"Take Jubilee and go," he said quietly, eyes on his former classmate. "I'll deal with Eric." He brushed his lips over Logan's cheek to watch Eric twitch in surprise.

Stepping forward in front of Logan, then, Kikyo extended the blade from his right hand, holding the vampire hunter's gaze. "You are my opponent, Eric. I did promise we would fight another day, did I not?" He adjusted his grip on his sword, smiling slightly. "Let us see who has made better use of the Yagyu skills he has inherited."

Kikyo heard Logan pick Jubilee up and start to leave, saw Eric's gaze follow them, ran forward and took the first strike, forcing Eric's gaze to snap back to his face.

"You lost our last duel," Eric grunted out as their blades clashed, streaks of silver in the air and reverberations in their bones. "You'll also lose this one."

«You're wrong,» Kikyo said, smiling. «I will win this one. Do you want to know why?»

«Don't care,» Eric said, also switching to Japanese, and struck at him again, face grim with hatred.

Their blades clashed, each of them using all their tricks, but Kikyo started pushing the vampire hunter back, watching the alarm gather in Eric's dark eyes, his sunglasses lying shattered behind them after getting caught by Kikyo's blade, leaving a long scratch stretching over dark skin.

«You're fighting out of hatred,» Kikyo said, and slashed his sword across Eric's chest and curving his sword up to slice Eric's arm, making him drop his sword. «I'm fighting to protect.»

His sword whipped through the air again, and Eric gasped as he fell to one knee. «You've changed.»

«How observant of you,» Kikyo said, and walked over to pick up Eric's dropped blade, twirling it in his left hand.

Eric tried was reaching for a dagger when Kikyo brought the hilt of the sword down into the side of his head, knocking him out cold.

«See how long it takes a daywalker to recover from that,» Kikyo said, and turned to walk away, dropping the sword to the ground as he left.

«Listen, both of you,» Yagyu had said, to him and to Eric. «You must strengthen your hearts. You must always consider the nature of the sword, and through that you will know the meaning of true battle.»

And Kikyo finally understood.

Logan was standing outside in the rain when he heard Kikyo approach from behind him.

«Jubilee's taking the transformation about as well as could be expected,» Logan said as the samurai came to stand beside him. «Which is to say, not very.» He looked out towards the trees, their leaves tapdancing under the onslaught of rain.

«I've been filling water bottles with my blood for her,» Logan said. «So the blood isn't a problem. But she's scared as hell. I'm thinking of taking her somewhere else for a bit so she can adjust without worrying about frightening the other students. I think I need to get her angry, and I don't want anyone else around for that.»

Kikyo said nothing, and there was only the sound of rain falling around them, the feeling of the cold water drenching them.

«I dislike the rain,» Kikyo sain finally, face tilted upwards, rain sticking his bangs to his skin. «I prefer the snow.»

Logan looked over at him, chuckling slightly at the sight. «Yeah,» he said, «rain must be a drag when you have such long hair and are wearing such loose clothing.»

Kikyo said nothing, keeping his gaze on the dark clouds above them, the same color as his eyes.

«You didn't have to come outside, you know,» Logan pointed out, hands in his sopping wet jacket pockets, no escape from the water even there.

«You're one to talk,» Kikyo said, like it was an explanation.

Logan supposed that it was.

«You didn't have to come after me,» Logan pointed out, and Kikyo turned his head to look at him, lips quirking. The rain ran down his face like tears.

«I don't have to do anything,» Kikyo said, meeting his gaze. «But what I have to do and what I want to do are two entirely different matters.»

Kikyo looked away again, eyes on the puddles coating the ground, silver with the reflected sky and rippling with raindrops.

«Thank you,» Logan said, and meant it.

«For what?» the samurai asked, and didn't bother to look at him.

Logan paused.

«For everything,» he decided on, and Kikyo gave a soft "Heh," looking at him out of the corner of his eyes.

«Then could I ask you for one favor?» he inquired lightly.

«What is it?» Logan said, curious.

Kikyo turned his head, meeting his gaze again. «Let's go back inside.»

Logan laughed, then, the world lightening, and amid the all the gray and black there was seafoam green at the samurai's neckline, brilliant in the dimness, but the sopping black and gray and the pale of cold and rain-drenched skin were no less beautiful.

The only red was that of his jacket, and Logan wished it would stay it that way, even while knowing that the red would always, always bleed back into his life.

«Come on, then,» Logan said, and as they walked back to the mansion everything about their movements sounded of too much water.

When they stepped inside, Logan pressed Kikyo against the wall, kissing him till there was a large puddle of water pooled around their feet.

Drip.

When their lips parted and they turned to go, they tracked transparent footprints across the floor. It wouldn't have mattered if they were red.

Drip.

(For the first time in his long life, Logan had a lover with whom he could actually share a future.)

END.

I am emotionally exhausted after writing this story.

Assorted notes:

If your Achilles tendons are severed, it's impossible to walk.

If you don't know what Mr. Sinister's cape looks like, go look it up. Right now. It serves absolutely no functional purpose, omg.

"The wind howls, but the mountain remains still" is an Asian proverb that basically means that it's better to remain silent than to talk needlessly.

Sake is traditionally drunk from small cups called choko or o-choko (お猪口) and poured into the choko from ceramic flasks called tokkuri. This is very common for hot sake, where the flask is heated in hot water and the small cups ensure that the sake does not get cold in the cup, but may also be used for chilled sake. Traditionally one does not pour one's own drink, which is known as tejaku (手酌), but instead members of a party pour for each other, which is known as shaku (酌). This has relaxed in recent years, but is generally observed on more formal occasions, such as business meals, and is still often observed for the first drink. (Info from Wikipedia. So, you know…)

On Jubilee:

According to Jubilee's Marvel wikia page, "[she] suffers from Dyscalculia; an inability to complete mathematical problems. Given her status as an academic underachiever, this assessment can probably be assumed to have some degree of accuracy."

She is skilled in gymnastics and had qualified for the Olympic Games before her parents were murdered.

Jubilee gets turned into a vampire in the comics. I didn't actually read how that happened. And I honestly wasn't planning on turning her into a vampire in this fic, but it just kind of worked out that canonically she does get turned into a vampire and Blade is a vampire hunter, and I wanted Kikyo to have to fight him again to protect someone. And Blade is a good guy, so. So, special circumstances.

I haven't actually read much of Jubilee, but she seems totally awesome and badass. Hopefully I wrote her okay.

Hell, hopefully I wrote everyone okay. And I hope that I was able to make you care for Kikyo even if you had no idea who he was before this, and that I made the relationship between Logan and Kikyo really work.