Notes: I've written about these two for many years (and watched the series many, many times), but this is my first time posting any of it. These short pieces are not in order but all take place sometime after the seventh movie. I hope you enjoy reading them. :)

"That night at the warehouse. I bit off my own thumb to get out of the handcuffs, you know," she told Mikiya one evening, suddenly.

He was reading, sitting on her bed with his back to the wall, not on the floor. Briefly, she wondered when he had started doing that; sitting on her bed, not on the floor. That small shift in position was such a large difference. It felt strangely significant. She wouldn't admit it, but she liked it. It meant she could crawl over to him and lean on him more easily. It was like seeing eye-to-eye, and she liked that; it was like facing off with an old, familiar adversary whenever he sat there.

"Really?" He looked up at her. "Come to think of it, it was missing."

"Yeah. The left one." She smiled bitterly. "Impressive, huh?"

She watched his face carefully, interested in how he would respond.

"Hmm. I'm not really surprised. You're Shiki, and it was prosthetic." He absentmindedly flipped a page. Shiki felt a flare of disappointment, though she wasn't even sure what she had been waiting for.

He suddenly looked up again with a furrowed brow. "Did you say handcuffs?"

She nodded.

"What did he do to you?" His voice had become a little strained and his book lay forgotten by his side.

"Annoying, creepy things. I just wanted him to shut up." Now Shiki found she couldn't look at him; this wasn't where she'd wanted the focus of conversation to go. Or had she?

He was staring at her with an eye that swam with worry and frustration.

"I don't really want to talk about it," she said, and lied down on her side, burrowing her face in her pillow, doubting those very words as she said them. (Probably, somewhere deep in the recesses of her heart, she wanted to talk with him more about that night when they had almost died. Probably, they would not.)

His silence made her uneasy and she had to fight to ignore it. Anyway, I know what kinds of things he wants to say... Mikiya-like things. Irritating things.

...Oh, right.

The first time he sat up here, not on the floor, was when he brought those silly flowers and those drinks...

The thought stung. Later, when he turned the lights off and slipped in beside her, he lay so his back would just touch hers. She did not move away.

It was maybe about 5 p.m. and the sun was already growing low, casting orange rays through her window. They were getting ready to head out for an early dinner.

"Are you staying tonight?" asked Shiki nonchalantly. She was careful to keep her eyes on the window as she spoke, pulling on her jacket.

She could hear the smile in his voice as he replied, "If you want me to."

It was familiar and irritating.

"I don't care," she lied. "It's not like -"

Mikiya raised an eyebrow at her, paused in the act of sticking an arm through a sleeve of his black coat. One corner of the lens in his glasses reflected the light from the window.

"It's not like I need..." Shiki muttered. "It's not like I need you around or anything."

She didn't mean it like that and hoped that he understood; she felt irritation and vexation now towards herself and her petty dishonesty.

"Would it make a difference if I said I wanted to?" said Mikiya, softly.

Shiki swallowed. He finished putting on his coat.

"It wouldn't," she said finally. "Because I want you to."

He stepped close and touched the back of one of her hands briefly. "Then we're on the same page. Let's go get food."

His kindness and patience hurt more than anything. She vowed to get back at him for it.

Sometimes she caught him humming that particular tune, when he was busy with something in her kitchen or tidying up or organizing something, or when they were walking somewhere together, or waiting for the bus, or anything else mundane - a song that made her heart stir a little painfully, and pulled at a faint memory of rain and shared shelter after a long school day.

She loved it but she could never admit it. She could never tell him how special it was, and how it made her uneasy and comforted her at the same time; how his voice was soft and beautiful and how he was surprisingly good at singing. She had come to accept that she would not tell him.

Instead, when he sang it nearby, she would perhaps let her eyes close and let the faintest smile tug at her lips, in the hope that he would glance over and see, and know that she enjoyed it. Perhaps once in a while she would open her eyes when he had stopped and see him looking at her, and their gazes would meet and they would share a small smile. And to save her from feeling embarrassed, Mikiya would ask right away what she wanted for dinner today or whether she wanted to go somewhere.

Increasingly, she let him choose.

One night, alone, Shiki lay awake and found herself thinking about him. She was alone because that fool had gone away for some work for a week; resentment simmered within her because how dare he think she wouldn't be lonely, how dare he think she wouldn't miss him and lie awake thinking about him. He hadn't even said goodbye properly - just a little wave and a smile and a light "see you" from the door.

No, she thought sadly, resentment fading away, I have no right to call him a fool.

With half-lidded eyes, she watched a distorted square of faint light on her wall. She watched ghostly shadows shift across it as a car drove by. She hated how she was listening, still, for the sound of him at her door - the quiet tinkle of keys, the slow steps that betrayed a limp - still waiting and hoping, even though she knew he wouldn't be back yet for several days.

He was not a fool. He probably knew exactly what she was doing, at this moment, that insightful jerk. She exhaled a long, resigned breath, and rolled over.

Mikiya had changed. Shiki had changed, also, but her curiosity settled on him right now and she tried to pinpoint what and how. He had always been serious and polite, to a degree, but now he seemed much older. He had a young man's face with a gaze beyond his age.

She remembered him, suddenly, from when they were in school together, and even after she woke from her coma. He had been clumsier, then, and somehow so innocent despite malice and horror. The thought of him looking at her with widened, confused eyes - both of them - twisted in her chest. Now he carried darkness and grief inside of him, like her, even more so when he smiled and laughed.

Because of me? she wondered. She thought of him searching the dark streets for her when she was hunting down Shirazumi, and felt a painful twist again. The scars seemed endless.

Suddenly she got up and looked at the time. Her telephone display said 10:42 p.m.; he wouldn't be asleep yet. After a moment's hesitation, she brought out a kimono from her closet and carefully, slowly, put it on. The comfortable blue calmed her. It felt right.

She kneeled before the phone on the floor and dialed the number he had given her for when he was away.

When the line picked up on the other side, she realized she had been holding her breath.

"Hello?"

He sounded worn out. She waited expectantly, holding the phone receiver close.

"...Shiki."

She held back a smile; it had been a statement, not a question. Of course he knew.

"Hey. Were you sleeping?"

"No, it's okay." A pause. "Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing's... wrong," she said. "Just..."

Mikiya waited, patiently. The silence pooled into her hands and prompted her to speak.

"I'm sorry, Mikiya."

She said it as sincerely and softly as she could. He deserved that much.

"What?" He sounded stunned at the other end.

"That's all."

"Shiki, what are you apologizing for?"

"A lot of things," she said. She cradled the receiver to her ear, the movement overlapping with one she had made before, with a bloodied knife.

He was quiet for a long time before saying, "You don't have to apologize. I made those choices myself."

"Okay." It wasn't, really.

"Shiki, I - I should sleep soon, but I'm glad I got to hear your voice."

For some reason she wanted to cry. "Good night, then."

"I'll see you in a few days, and I..." He trailed off, breathing out. "Good night, Shiki."

She placed down the receiver gently and rolled back into bed. The urge to cry had not yet left her. It's all his fault. I became weak because of him. Hadn't she thought those words once before?

She thought of his voice. She felt tired and at peace. She could not blame him; not anyone, not herself. It was both hopeless and hopeful, because she loved him, and he loved her.

Sleep overcame her easily. The next morning, she went to class, and life went on.

Occasionally Shiki still wandered out at night, traversing old paths through dark alleys and neon-lit streets, the weight of her knife at her back. It was out of casual habit more than anything. It was nostalgic. But it was not necessary, not anymore. She didn't need to do this to quell the craving that threatened to overwhelm her anymore. She didn't need it to feel alive anymore; now there was something else.

Back then, it had been the only way out, because her own despair and numbness had disturbed her so badly. And sometimes, it still burned, just slightly. Sometimes she felt a momentary urge, perhaps triggered by something she heard or saw. Sometimes she imagined finding a hunched, malicious figure around a dark corner and seeing those beautiful lines of death splitting limbs asunder. (Sometimes she saw a murderer when she looked in the mirror.)

But it was becoming rare.

She paused in an empty passageway, lit only by a lonely orange streetlamp. She pulled out her knife, admired its gleam in the lamplight, and tossed it so that it spun several times before she caught it cleanly.

"Haven't lost my touch," she muttered to no one, and smirked - but then put away the knife hurriedly and stuck her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket.

Oddly, holding the knife now unsettled her. On the way back to her apartment, she thought about why this was the case.

"Tch..."

It was obvious. He was always appearing in her head to chide her when it was inconvenient. He was so good at ruining her fun.

When she reached her building, she looked up and saw that the light was on in her apartment, and ran up the stairs.

(She never told him this, but if he was ever in danger, she knew she could still kill again to protect him.)

It was around 8 p.m. and Shiki was standing by the fridge, having just reached in for a bottle of water, when she heard it: the quiet tinkle of keys and the slow steps that betrayed a limp.

She put the bottle of water on the counter and waited, heart pounding. The door creaked open; Mikiya shuffled in awkwardly with a few bags, panting because of his bad leg (or maybe because he had been in a hurry). He peered into the kitchen and smiled wide.

"I'm home, Shiki."

She stared at him, frozen in place and a lump in her throat. The moment stretched through time as a decision hovered inside her head and finally solidified.

He had barely put his bags down on the floor and slipped off his shoes when Shiki cannoned into him, throwing her arms around him and gripping him firmly.

"Ow."

"You took so damn long," she complained into his shirt.

"But you knew I was coming back today," he retorted, teasingly.

She didn't respond. She was too focused on his warmth and the sound of his heart, maybe beating just as hard as hers. Mikiya finally put his own arms around her. Their embrace was tight and intimate and long. It felt like something they had both been waiting for.

That night, he kissed her for the first time. She had asked him to; I want you to kiss me, she had said, so bluntly, trying to glare at him so that he knew that it was a challenge. He had laughed, at first, but right away saw that she was absolutely serious - and then a part of him that had been silenced for many months resurfaced. It was a younger part, a clumsier part, a precious, innocent light in his eye as he removed his glasses, leaned forward slightly, took one of her hands and said, nervously, "Don't get mad if I don't do it right."

It wasn't the kiss itself which made her blush. The pressing of lips was so hesitant and chaste, that it might not have been there at all. But it was his face, so close to hers, and his sweaty hand trembling against her own, and the gentle puff of his breath. It was the way he blinked and looked into her eyes afterwards, when they stayed nose-to-nose.

And then she couldn't stop smiling. "That was okay," she laughed, patting his hand. Soon he was beaming and laughing with her.

She felt buoyant. Was this what he dreamed of? she wondered later, gazing at Mikiya fast asleep by her side.

No, she corrected herself. It wasn't this in particular; it was all of these dreamlike days. Every moment of her life, now sparkling in her scarred hands.