Work Text:
Shinjuku City, Tokyo 1989
When he entered the izakaya he took a deep breath to savor his last night. The taste of tobacco smoke is thick. It’s dim and hazy as usual. Most of the light came from the orange glow of paper lanterns and string lights on the street behind him and the lit shelves of alcohol lining the back wall. It's probably to make the tiny bar seem more intimate and high-class. More likely, it’s to hide the chipped glasses and scuffed tables.
That’s fine by him. He didn’t expect or want anything fancy from a cramped alley bar in Shinjuku.
A few lonely businessmen in suits are crammed into the bar counter. Couples sit pressed together at tight tables. Most turned to look at the sudden appearance of the hairy foreigner in a leather jacket before going back to their own business. Most of the regulars are used to him. A particularly rowdy group is in a corner booth, laughing and sloshing their beer around and paid no attention to him. Hatori is at the bar, his peppered gray and black hair pulled back tight in a long tail, as he slid a suited man a drink. He caught sight of him and his face creased into a smile.
Logan would really fucking miss this place.
“Hello there, Logan,” Hatori said in thickly accented English as the Canadian sat heavily at the bar. The sloshed businessmen on either side of him bump over one seat so they aren't pressed against his broad shoulders. Hatori handed him his usual beer. “Been a while since you’ve been in. I thought you had found a new bartender to commiserate with you.”
“Commiserate,” Logan scoffs mockingly. “Fancy word there Hatori. Not many around here would know that word let alone a lick of English.”
“I traveled far in my youth,” the man said, wrinkles creasing the corners of his eyes. “How have things been?”
“Been better,” Logan grumps, recalling the blood on his claws and sheer rage coursing through him last night. The horrified look on Yuriko’s face as she realized who her father’s murderer was though was more upsetting. Guilt and shame rushed through him and he quickly took a swig of beer to try and drown it. “I won’t be seeing me again.”
“Ah. I take it you found who you were looking for then and finished your… business,” Hattori said, tapping a finger against the counter. “Shame. I will miss your company here. I don’t get to practice my English often.”
Logan just snorted and took another long drink. Sure he had finished his mission. He found one of the men responsible for the extra weight in his bones that had wiped his mind clean and stolen whatever life he might have had. He tried to get answers, a hint, anything, to what he knew about Weapon X. Until the end, Dr. Oyama denied knowing anything. And patience was never Logan’s strong suit. It didn't end well for the doctor.
That pain in the ass guilt and deep-seated feeling of dissatisfaction rose in him again. This time he drained the glass and fished through his jacket for a cigar.
“Another round of beers for my table.”
Logan glanced to the side at the perfect English. A slim young Asian man with long hair and a round face leaned easily against the bar. Dark eyes met blue. The other man’s gaze went to the cigar in his hand and his nose wrinkled before sliding back to Hatori with a smile. Judgmental bastard. Logan sniffed and got a whiff of petrichor and spices that were surprisingly nice. Under the faint smell of sweat anyway.
“Add it to the tab I assume?” Hatori asked pleasantly while getting out the glasses.
“Yeah. Uh, please.” The guy glanced at Logan again before slinking back to his group in the corner booth.
Logan looked back at Hatori. Logan could see the displeasure in his normally calm demeanor. His lips turned down in a frown as he filled the glasses from the tap.
“What is with those punks?” He asked, flicking his lighter and lighting his cigar.
“Came into the neighborhood two days ago. They’re part of a film crew from Hong Kong,” he sighed, filling each glass till a nice foamy head formed on top and setting them on a tray. “Filming some kung fu action film nearby I hear. They're troublemakers though. They got a little rowdy last night and tried to pick a fight with one of my regulars.” He frowned and muttered something in Japanese that made Logan snort. He probably wasn’t supposed to hear that.
Hatori waved over Haruka, the lone waiter who nodded, smiled at Logan and expertly picked up the beers on the tray.
The night went on and the group got louder and louder with each round of alcohol, disturbing the normal peace of the bar. He grumbled, feeling the tension in his bones and clench of his knuckles. Just his luck.
Logan was nursing a third beer when Haruka screeched followed by a roar of jeering laughter.
He turned to see Haruka, her white blouse dripping with amber liquid and soaking her through. There was the faint sight of her bra through the wet fabric and one of the men at the table whistled. Most of the group laughed, except the one who had ordered the drinks. He just looked down at the table. Logan ground his teeth, the muscle in his jaw jumping. He had enough.
He ground his cigar into the ashtray, drained his beer, and stood. As he stomped over one of the men reached over and grabbed Haruka’s wrist with an ugly smirk.
“No! Let go!” She shouted.
“Ken! Knock it off!” the long-haired guy said, standing abruptly. But it was too little too late.
Logan grabbed the man by the collar with one beefy hand and lifted him clear out of his seat. The man yelped. Haruka, freed, scampered to behind the bar as a Hatori draped his jacket over her.
“I'm tryin' ta enjoy my last night here,” Logan growled at the man. "And here you are making a fuss and asking for trouble."
“Fuck you!” the young punk said and kicked out at Logan. Now, Logan didn’t need much to be provoked into a fight. His patience was already tissue-thin. All night his guilt and annoyance had been eating away at him. He lifted the kid and tossed him to the ground.
The kid got up to throw a weak noodle-armed punch that Logan easily stepped away from and returned a sturdy jab to the man’s stomach. The man groaned and coughed. He went down like a wet bag of cement.
“Hey, you bastard! You fight with one of us you fight all of us!”
Another yelled something in Cantonese.
From there it turned into an all-out brawl. He distantly heard Hatori shout his name but a feral roar rushed through his ears as his blood pumped hot. This would be one-sided, barely a workout, but he was itching to boil off some steam. Logan didn’t even need to use his claws.
They all came at him, clumsy swings and drunken yells. Bodies flew over tables and thudded into the walls. Some had surprisingly flashy moves and kicks that suggested they actually knew how to fight. Logan recalled that Hatori said they were part of an action movie crew.
As he flung one out the open door of the bar he got a whiff of rain as a large glass bottle shattered over the back of his head. Liquid spilled over his head and down the back of his jacket. He swore he could hear the ring of metal under the thin skin of his head and he stumbled and whirled.
The long-haired guy stood there, holding the jagged remnants of a large liquor bottle in his hand.
Metal skull, healing or not, that fucking hurt. Logan growled.
“Oh shit,” the guy said and stepped back. Logan swung and to his surprise this guy dodged, head bobbing like a boxer and his feet keeping him on a swivel. This guy could actually fight.
“Fancy footwork there, bub,” he snarled, going for an uppercut. “You going to be more of a challenge than your friends?”
“I’d rather not challenge you at all!” The man whined, blocking his fist with a sweep of his arm. “A normal person would have gone down to a liter of vodka to the head!”
“I’m no normal person, kid!” He punched and missed.
“I can see that!” The other guy kicked at Logan’s knees. “I’m not even that good friends with them! How about we call a-fuck-!” He fell on his ass as he tripped backward on a fallen chair. “-truce!”
“Coward! Don’t start a fight you can’t finish!” Logan loomed over the man as another of his buddies jumped onto his back before being knocked off. A few more of his friends came at him but Logan’s senses had narrowed in on the challenge that was the man getting back onto his feet. A feeling like when he fought wild animals in the Canadian brush rushed through him.
The man preferred long-legged kicks and snappy quick punches. He moved fast, fluid-like, and it did remind Logan of those Kung Fu movies Northstar liked to watch back at HQ. He wasn’t a heavy hitter but had Logan not been… well Logan we probably would have a few broken bones from the snappy strength in his limbs.
When the other guy whiffed a punch, Logan ducking it, both his hands clamped down at his temples. Logan dragged his head down and rammed his forehead directly into his face.
The man swore, his hands flying up to his face. His back hit the bar and he slumped to the ground again, cradling his nose.
He heard some of the others fleeing out the door by now but Logan paid no mind as, through the heat of the fight rushing through him, he saw something strange. The man lowered his hands to stare at the blood smeared on them. Between one blink and the next he was looking down at an entirely different man.
This man had short dark brunette hair and big brown doe eyes. His face was no longer round; his chin longer and his cheekbones high and angular.
“That’s going to bruise like a bitch,” the young man groaned, hand going back up to his nose. Realization seemed to dawn on him as he did so, touching his face and eyes going wide. He looked up, horror in his expression as he looked at Logan. A horror that Logan recognized and cooled the fire in his blood.
The kid's hands trembled. His brows were high and knitted together. It was the face of a mutant suddenly faced with their secret outed. The sheer terror of being revealed and prone to the eyes of scrutinizing humans.
A few remaining people in the bar whispered and stared, picking up on the change. His friends whom he fought on behalf of had already bolted, ditching him to deal with Logan’s wrath.
“A shapeshifter, huh?” Logan muttered. “I’ve met someone like you before.”
“Please,” the man said, voice shaking. “I don’t want to fight. Please just let me go.”
Logan regarded the man, sizing up what he could only assume was his true form, before sighing and relaxing. He held his hand out, palm up. The other mutant flinched.
“You don’t have very good friends if they ditch you so quickly,” Logan said.
The man didn’t take the offered hand, regarding it warily, as his own hands fell into his lap. “Well, we were more like co-workers… and kind of assholes if I'm being honest. Besides, if they saw who they thought was the daring stunt double Derek Leung turn into… this.” He chuckled nervously and gestured at himself. “I’m probably going to have my ass fired from the movie anyway. So if you could not add injury to insult by beating the tar out of me for being a mutant I would appreciate it.”
Logan chuckled. Making jokes despite looking white as a sheet. He had guts he'll give him that.
With a sharp snikt his claws popped out from his knuckles. The man jumped and his mouth fell open.
“You… you’re a mutant too?” The man asked. “Also ow… doesn’t that hurt?”
“You get used to it.” Logan shrugged and turned his hand palm up again. “You goin’ to stay on the floor all night or do you want to wait for the cops to find us?”
The man hesitated for just a moment before taking the offered hand. Logan heaved him up and noted that the man was still tall and slim.
"Um..." The other mutant started, wiping blood and snot from his upper lip. "Sorry for hitting you in the head with a vodka bottle. I really thought that would end the fight there. My name is Kevin by the way. Or... Morph if you want my appropriate-sounding-mutation-based alias." He stared at Logan in awe. "I haven't met many other mutants like me."
Logan sized up the tall slim form of the mutant and sighed, the last of the fight draining out of him.
"Logan." He shrugged. "Or Wolverine, I guess."
The... Morph grinned. "Cute."
"Ya know I can change my mind and kick your ass anyway."
Morph just held up both hands defensively but the smile didn't fade.
Logan glanced to the counter where Hatori comforted a sobbing Haruka. The bartender looked up and gave Logan a weary expression and Morph a pointed glare. Logan dug through his jacket for his wallet and pulled out a large wad of bills (about 50,000 yen) and set it on the counter.
"Sorry 'bout this, Hatori," he said.
"Just go before the police show," the other man sighed, waving his hand dismissively. "It isn't like this is the first brawl I've had to deal with." His eyes flickered with a purple shimmer and he snapped his fingers, the cash floating over to his hand. "Thank you very much for this though."
Morph's expression was stunned but Logan's sharp hearing could hear the distant whoop of sirens approaching on the main street. He was technically guilty of murder and he wasn't going to wait to answer complicated questions by cops. He headed for the door, Morph following after as the two of them hurried through to alleys of Tokyo and vanished into the night.