Fic: "Midnight Blue" (Nightcrawler, Beast. PG.)
Title: Midnight Blue
Author: tartanshell
Written for: 4pawsonthefloor for the 2007 xmmficathon. Request: Nightcrawler. Where did he go? What is he doing? Thinking about?
Disclaimer: Marvel owns it all! (Except the song "It's Not That Easy Being Green," which belongs to...Kermit the Frog? Sesame Street? Not me, at any rate.)
Characters: Kurt Wagner (Nightcrawler), Hank McCoy (Beast)
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1,386
Author's Notes: 4pawsonthefloor, I hope you like this! :)
Kurt learned more about Jean Grey in death than he had in life. Her memorial service was held a week after they returned to Xavier's school, after the broken windows had been first patched with heavy plastic and silver tape, then repaired. The furniture had been righted and dusted. The floors had been swept and mopped and vacuumed, though each day, someone caught sight of a stray, hidden glass shard gleaming, ready to draw blood.
The mansion had grown thorns overnight, it seemed. And though Kurt knew none of these people well, he could see that they were stepping carefully.
He passed Scott on the landing of the stairs, the day before the service, clutching an empty cardboard box and looking at the floor, as if he did not remember whether he was going up or down. He found Rogue in the garden one night, crying.
The evening after they returned to the school, Bobby and his friend Piotr cooked macaroni from boxes and grape jelly sandwiches for everyone to eat, and no one complained. Few ate it, either, but the adults did not so much as speak a word of protest.
At the memorial service, others wept openly and even the professor's eyes were bright, but Kurt did not share their deep, heartsick grief. He mourned her death, regretted that he had not known her well, but--he had not known her well. This was not his loss. These people were kin to one another, but he was not. Not yet.
And so, shortly after the service began, Kurt found himself sneaking glances at the people around him. Seated at the back of the crowd, he had a good view. He recognized most of the people in front, but next to Scott was a large man with curly brown hair he could not recall seeing before. As he watched, though, the man's form wavered, blurred, and then he was larger. And blue.
His eyes widened as the now blue--and hairy--man stood, but no one else seemed to notice. When he began to speak, Kurt listened. Intently.
After the service, everyone gathered together to eat and drink and talk. Kurt hung back and stayed in the corner, sipping coffee, though he kept an eye on the blue and furry one, Dr. McCoy. He dared not speak to him now, not here. He considered going to the den to watch TV with the little ones, but decided against it. He went to his room instead, and prayed for Jean Grey.
He woke just after midnight, with his forehead pressed against the edge of the mattress and the feel of cotton on his teeth. With a grimace, he stood and rubbed his knees, then opened the door, quietly, wondering if perhaps it would be improper for him to go downstairs for a drink at this hour.
Surely not. This, Ororo had stressed, was his home now. He was free to go down. He would not teleport, though. There could be children in the kitchen, and he did not want to wake the mansion with screaming.
The kitchen was not empty, Kurt saw when he had padded downstairs, though there were no children. He lingered in the doorway, tail curling around his body shyly. After a moment, he cleared his throat. "Hello."
Dr. McCoy turned from the refrigerator, holding a tomato. He did not seem surprised at all as he smiled. "Good evening." He closed the refrigerator and set the tomato on the counter before extending a hand. "I noticed you earlier, but I don't believe I've had the pleasure. Henry McCoy, but please call me Hank."
"Hank," Kurt repeated as he clasped Hank's paw. "I am Kurt Wagner, the Incredible Nightcrawler. But you may call me Kurt."
Hank smiled again, showing sharp teeth. "Would you care for a sandwich? We have cold cuts. Or a soy-based alternative, if you're a vegetarian."
Kurt shook his head. "I only wanted a drink." He got a glass from the cupboard and poured milk, then perched on one of the counter stools and watched, sipping, as Hank piled slices of meat, tomato, and cheese on his sandwich. He finished it off with a squirt of mustard and picked up his plate, then came to sit. The stool creaked in protest, but held his weight.
Hank's thick black claws dug into the bread as he picked up his sandwich and took a bite. Kurt looked at his own hand on the countertop, even deeper blue than Hank's, with its too-few fingers and cracked, yellow nails. His tail twined around the legs of the stool, the metal cool against his skin. After a moment of silence broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and Hank's chewing, he glanced sideways. "I could not help but to notice you, too," he admitted.
"Oh?" Hank's eyes crinkled at the corners, but his expression quickly sobered. "Have you not met many others like us, Kurt?"
Kurt frowned into his milk as he took a drink, then licked a drop from his lips. "I lived with the Munich circus. I knew many who were not--not normal," he said slowly. "They were my friends. My family. But, no. Not like us."
Hank only nodded. Kurt hesitated a moment before continuing, then took a breath and looked up. "Forgive me, but you did not look...before, you were not blue?"
"Indeed, I was not born appearing as I do at present, but I have in fact--oh." Hank blinked behind his glasses. "You mean earlier today." His smile, this time, didn't quite reach his eyes. "No, my friend, it was merely the work of an image inducer. An illusion." He touched one finger to his opposite wrist, and his form blurred, for an instant, before he became the brown-haired, pale-skinned man from the memorial service. Another touch, and Hank became large, blue, and hairy again at once.
Kurt's eyes widened. "That is incredible!"
One of Hank's broad shoulders rose in a shrug. "It is, unfortunately, quite useful at times."
Another glance down at his fingers. At his arms, bared in the t-shirt he had borrowed from Bobby; raised, cryptic indigo telling of his past. "Ja," Kurt said softly, "I can see that it would be so."
He looked up when Hank laid a gentle hand on his forearm. "Now it is my turn to apologize for my over-familiar curiosity. Have you always appeared thus?"
He blushed, but nodded. "It has...not always been simple," he said, searching for the correct words. "You know, inconvenient. But, though--perhaps I would like to be different. To have brown skin, like Eddie Murphy. To have brown eyes, or blue eyes, or black hair. No tail," he added, though his left hand encircled it protectively. "I would like to meet someone and to say to them, 'Hello, I am Kurt Wagner.' Only Kurt Wagner, not the Incredible Nightcrawler."
He shrugged, but shifted his arm from beneath Hank's touch and, feeling bold, stroked a finger along the back of his hand. The blue fur was soft beneath his fingertip and glinted in the overhead light. He raised his eyes to Hank's and smiled. "You know. To be like everyone else. But...I am as the Father made me. I believe there is a reason."
"Indeed," Hank said quietly, turning his hand palm-up in order to clasp Kurt's on the counter. His palm was as warm as his smile. "Indeed. It's not easy, but it'll do fine, will it not?"
Kurt could tell from Hank's tone that what he said was supposed to be funny, and though he did not understand, he smiled anyway. Perhaps it didn't matter why.
***
He awoke the next morning to sunlight flooding the window and a sky the color of a robin's egg. Kurt smiled and stretched both his arms and his tail, but stopped abruptly when his hand brushed paper on the nightstand.
He sat up and looked at the metal band for a moment, uncomprehending until he picked up the piece of yellow notepaper it was sitting on. Only two words were written there, in a small, messy scrawl he had not seen before but knew at once.
Danke schön.
Author: tartanshell
Written for: 4pawsonthefloor for the 2007 xmmficathon. Request: Nightcrawler. Where did he go? What is he doing? Thinking about?
Disclaimer: Marvel owns it all! (Except the song "It's Not That Easy Being Green," which belongs to...Kermit the Frog? Sesame Street? Not me, at any rate.)
Characters: Kurt Wagner (Nightcrawler), Hank McCoy (Beast)
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1,386
Author's Notes: 4pawsonthefloor, I hope you like this! :)
Kurt learned more about Jean Grey in death than he had in life. Her memorial service was held a week after they returned to Xavier's school, after the broken windows had been first patched with heavy plastic and silver tape, then repaired. The furniture had been righted and dusted. The floors had been swept and mopped and vacuumed, though each day, someone caught sight of a stray, hidden glass shard gleaming, ready to draw blood.
The mansion had grown thorns overnight, it seemed. And though Kurt knew none of these people well, he could see that they were stepping carefully.
He passed Scott on the landing of the stairs, the day before the service, clutching an empty cardboard box and looking at the floor, as if he did not remember whether he was going up or down. He found Rogue in the garden one night, crying.
The evening after they returned to the school, Bobby and his friend Piotr cooked macaroni from boxes and grape jelly sandwiches for everyone to eat, and no one complained. Few ate it, either, but the adults did not so much as speak a word of protest.
At the memorial service, others wept openly and even the professor's eyes were bright, but Kurt did not share their deep, heartsick grief. He mourned her death, regretted that he had not known her well, but--he had not known her well. This was not his loss. These people were kin to one another, but he was not. Not yet.
And so, shortly after the service began, Kurt found himself sneaking glances at the people around him. Seated at the back of the crowd, he had a good view. He recognized most of the people in front, but next to Scott was a large man with curly brown hair he could not recall seeing before. As he watched, though, the man's form wavered, blurred, and then he was larger. And blue.
His eyes widened as the now blue--and hairy--man stood, but no one else seemed to notice. When he began to speak, Kurt listened. Intently.
After the service, everyone gathered together to eat and drink and talk. Kurt hung back and stayed in the corner, sipping coffee, though he kept an eye on the blue and furry one, Dr. McCoy. He dared not speak to him now, not here. He considered going to the den to watch TV with the little ones, but decided against it. He went to his room instead, and prayed for Jean Grey.
He woke just after midnight, with his forehead pressed against the edge of the mattress and the feel of cotton on his teeth. With a grimace, he stood and rubbed his knees, then opened the door, quietly, wondering if perhaps it would be improper for him to go downstairs for a drink at this hour.
Surely not. This, Ororo had stressed, was his home now. He was free to go down. He would not teleport, though. There could be children in the kitchen, and he did not want to wake the mansion with screaming.
The kitchen was not empty, Kurt saw when he had padded downstairs, though there were no children. He lingered in the doorway, tail curling around his body shyly. After a moment, he cleared his throat. "Hello."
Dr. McCoy turned from the refrigerator, holding a tomato. He did not seem surprised at all as he smiled. "Good evening." He closed the refrigerator and set the tomato on the counter before extending a hand. "I noticed you earlier, but I don't believe I've had the pleasure. Henry McCoy, but please call me Hank."
"Hank," Kurt repeated as he clasped Hank's paw. "I am Kurt Wagner, the Incredible Nightcrawler. But you may call me Kurt."
Hank smiled again, showing sharp teeth. "Would you care for a sandwich? We have cold cuts. Or a soy-based alternative, if you're a vegetarian."
Kurt shook his head. "I only wanted a drink." He got a glass from the cupboard and poured milk, then perched on one of the counter stools and watched, sipping, as Hank piled slices of meat, tomato, and cheese on his sandwich. He finished it off with a squirt of mustard and picked up his plate, then came to sit. The stool creaked in protest, but held his weight.
Hank's thick black claws dug into the bread as he picked up his sandwich and took a bite. Kurt looked at his own hand on the countertop, even deeper blue than Hank's, with its too-few fingers and cracked, yellow nails. His tail twined around the legs of the stool, the metal cool against his skin. After a moment of silence broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and Hank's chewing, he glanced sideways. "I could not help but to notice you, too," he admitted.
"Oh?" Hank's eyes crinkled at the corners, but his expression quickly sobered. "Have you not met many others like us, Kurt?"
Kurt frowned into his milk as he took a drink, then licked a drop from his lips. "I lived with the Munich circus. I knew many who were not--not normal," he said slowly. "They were my friends. My family. But, no. Not like us."
Hank only nodded. Kurt hesitated a moment before continuing, then took a breath and looked up. "Forgive me, but you did not look...before, you were not blue?"
"Indeed, I was not born appearing as I do at present, but I have in fact--oh." Hank blinked behind his glasses. "You mean earlier today." His smile, this time, didn't quite reach his eyes. "No, my friend, it was merely the work of an image inducer. An illusion." He touched one finger to his opposite wrist, and his form blurred, for an instant, before he became the brown-haired, pale-skinned man from the memorial service. Another touch, and Hank became large, blue, and hairy again at once.
Kurt's eyes widened. "That is incredible!"
One of Hank's broad shoulders rose in a shrug. "It is, unfortunately, quite useful at times."
Another glance down at his fingers. At his arms, bared in the t-shirt he had borrowed from Bobby; raised, cryptic indigo telling of his past. "Ja," Kurt said softly, "I can see that it would be so."
He looked up when Hank laid a gentle hand on his forearm. "Now it is my turn to apologize for my over-familiar curiosity. Have you always appeared thus?"
He blushed, but nodded. "It has...not always been simple," he said, searching for the correct words. "You know, inconvenient. But, though--perhaps I would like to be different. To have brown skin, like Eddie Murphy. To have brown eyes, or blue eyes, or black hair. No tail," he added, though his left hand encircled it protectively. "I would like to meet someone and to say to them, 'Hello, I am Kurt Wagner.' Only Kurt Wagner, not the Incredible Nightcrawler."
He shrugged, but shifted his arm from beneath Hank's touch and, feeling bold, stroked a finger along the back of his hand. The blue fur was soft beneath his fingertip and glinted in the overhead light. He raised his eyes to Hank's and smiled. "You know. To be like everyone else. But...I am as the Father made me. I believe there is a reason."
"Indeed," Hank said quietly, turning his hand palm-up in order to clasp Kurt's on the counter. His palm was as warm as his smile. "Indeed. It's not easy, but it'll do fine, will it not?"
Kurt could tell from Hank's tone that what he said was supposed to be funny, and though he did not understand, he smiled anyway. Perhaps it didn't matter why.
***
He awoke the next morning to sunlight flooding the window and a sky the color of a robin's egg. Kurt smiled and stretched both his arms and his tail, but stopped abruptly when his hand brushed paper on the nightstand.
He sat up and looked at the metal band for a moment, uncomprehending until he picked up the piece of yellow notepaper it was sitting on. Only two words were written there, in a small, messy scrawl he had not seen before but knew at once.
Danke schön.