Chapter Text
He doesn’t think he’s ever hooked up in a car before.
To be frank, Kurt isn’t in cars all that often. Why would he be? When the X-men were always using the jet and anywhere closer he could just teleport? Cars in that sense are a formality. They’re just another room to have a conversation, listen to music, or otherwise share a moment with another.
So if you could do all those things, in theory, you could set an intimate moment in a car. Kurt had set them with less. And what else was the purpose of driving thirty minutes out to a gorge, in the middle of winter, isolated from everyone and everything, if not to have intimacy? The snow covered pine trees of the forest invited them in like it's not a bother.
That’s why, now, Kurt is pinning Logan against the foggy window of his pickup-truck’s passenger seat with his cold hand up his flannel shirt. Contrastingly, it’s warm in the truck’s cabin and the pine tree air freshener sways from the rearview mirror when Kurt adjusts his hold on the older man under him. It’s hard to stay balanced, even for an acrobat, with one leg down in the cramped leg space and the other jammed against Logan’s crotch on the long, padded bench. He can smell the tobacco on Logan’s breath as Kurt leans just out of reach for a kiss.
“Stop teasin’ me, elf,” Logan says and Kurt outright grins when Logan starts shifting his hips. “This window crank’s diggin’ into my back like a mother. Make it worth it.”
He makes a look of contemplation performatively. It’s a little game to him: teasing Logan. But he doesn’t want him to be in a kind of pain he doesn’t like so Kurt decides to be merciful.
He kisses him deeply and the fur on his face gets poked through by rough stubble. Their lips are both chapped from the cold, but neither seems to mind. Not when Kurt’s skin is always silkier than the average human’s.
Logan groans, fisting a strong hand in Kurt’s hair to hold him close and Kurt’s ears tilt back. It’s a pleasing feeling. He never grows tired of his friend’s rough touch. Even the most gentle motion is tinged with a lack of awareness of his strength. That makes the petting, despite how it knocks him around a little, all the softer.
After a few moments of licking at each other’s mouths contentedly, Kurt pulls back. The hand under Logan’s shirt drags down his stomach: muscle dampened by a layer of fleshy softness from one too many beers and hot cocoas over the winter. Kurt calling Logan his bärchen, his little bear, was frequent in private moments between them, and the winter weight made the term feel all the more applicable. He is surprised Logan does not hibernate.
Logan knocks his head back against the glass window as Kurt palms him through the front of his jeans. The denim is cold, but knowing what they would get up to, Logan thoughtfully forwent his belt. Tiny miracles. He rewards him by undoing the button of his pants, with some difficulty, and wiggling them down a bit so he has some relief from the rough material.
The eagerness– the way Logan bites his lip and watches– the way he lifts his hips before Kurt is done unfastening his pants– has Kurt’s tail wagging behind him. This wasn’t going to be sex for comfort with Logan, like it had been often before. It's sex for pleasure, and he is excited about sharing that with Logan.
Logan is too, if his body language is anything to go by. Kurt has to stop him from rushing when he reaches down to pull his pants and underwear down more, to his knees in one go. Kurt knocks his hands away, wanting to do it. Then Logan is reaching for him, trying to pull his jacket and sweater off. But Kurt wants to take his time, wants to lead this endevor right now since he’s the one balanced precariously to keep himself from crushing Logan against the seat.
His tail flicks around to pull Logan’s wrist away and restrain him. He’s a bit less gentle than usual; pleasure over comfort brings the thought that Logan might appreciate it. It’s cramped, so when he does swing Logan’s arm to the side he ends up knocking into the dashboard. How old this truck is, Kurt does not know, but it's old enough to have a window crank and for the glovebox to fall open when it's disturbed.
Kurt looks over at the noise. Now they had even less space. Kurt goes to shut the glovebox. Then he sees it: a handgun. The barrel is pointed in his direction where it lays on the drawer and he pauses. It confuses him.
This is Logan’s truck, is it not? So why does Logan, the Wolverine, with claws nestled in his bones, have a gun? Kurt’s eyes are sharp; while he’s staring he can see it was engraved, then grinded away. Standard military make but old.
It reminded him of the one they pointed at him before he learned to teleport.
It isn’t that he’s unfamiliar with firearms; it isn’t that he doesn’t encounter them on missions, but this moment looking down the barrel of Logan’s gun does make the particular memory come up. And it does linger. When it had happened all those years ago, Kurt had gotten away, so it was not entirely unpleasant. It showed him a gift.
But the gun still makes him uneasy.
Logan seems to notice, pauses and goes to close it with his restrained hand.
“Oh, can you close that- Danke.” Kurt says like he was already moving to do it and the thought was his. He trails his golden eyes up Logan’s suede jacket sleeve to his face, and watches for a moment. Neither of them bring it up.
Seconds later, Logan is putting his unrestrained hand on the back of Kurt’s neck to pull him in so he can– yes, Logan wants him to try and mark his neck. The action doesn’t leave anything that lasts but he enjoys it, so Kurt gets back to it.
But even while he’s marking him and sucking groans out of his neck like he’s playing an instrument, Kurt is distracted. Even when they’re both half naked and rutting against each other. Even when Logan is moaning his name, spilling over his fingers and kissing him kissing him kissing him to bring him back to the moment.
His eyes always go back to the glove box…
—
The cold doesn’t let up, but there are more people to enjoy it back at the mansion, that’s for sure. The resident kids play bundled up like puffy marshmallows in the deep snow outside. Their games take up the wide expanses of empty, untouched lawn that stretch around the manor. Kurt watches them from his window as he does his morning stretches; the sense of normalcy and safety they can have here brings contentment to his heart.
Kurt will be out there again, in the cold, soon enough himself. Xavier had let them know this morning that the danger room was down for maintenance (again), so training would be held on the basketball court. Kurt hopes it was salted or everyone is going to be slipping all over the place. Scott in particular, Kurt noted, had no winter boots with treads and he could often hear him sliding around the icy porch outside to do something as simple as retrieve the morning paper. It becomes a Christmas present idea, and a good one at that if he does say so himself.
When he’s done with his stretches, Kurt puts on his hat, his scarf, and his well worn gloves. All are gifts from various X-men- from his family. He foregoes his jacket because of how it restricts him, opting to bundle up his normal suit the best he can. By the time he is down to the basketball court, he is thinking of who he can tease with the tip of his cold tail.
Xavier can be seen watching from the warmth of his office window as everyone gathers. The court is salted and clear of snow, and the joyful squeals of some students can be heard in the distance. Kurt tries to interject himself into every conversation that comes up, here, there, with whoever and them while they wait for the stragglers to show up.
The last one on the court is Logan, who arrives late with a thermos and a hat with ear flaps. Why he needed the hat with his bushy hair is beyond Kurt, but it is still cute, he notes. He passes by Kurt, patting the top of his head good naturedly and finds a spot to lean against the chain link fence surrounding the court.
It’s basic hand to hand drills today, no flashy stuff and nothing that could shoot out and kill a kid randomly. Ororo and Jean are first, training to break out of holds and work on their physical brawling. Kurt notes the levelness in which they approach each exercise with and the way they encourage each other. It reminds him of when he was back in the circus, training on the trapeze. The trust and synergie is something he is familiar with and really admires in them. He aches a little to be a part of it.
Not just them though, the whole team. Kurt notes how everyone helps each other through their training. He does yoga on the side so he can watch. Remy and Scott are doing cardio with jump ropes while they wait to be partnered up for hand to hand. Piotr and Rogue were in a pushup competition, which Kurt joined in on for a short stint before getting out paced and going back to yoga. Kurt sniffs the air once he’s backed off. Logan is drinking soup from the top of his thermos.
Kurt makes sure not to stare. He doesn’t hover or drape himself across Logan when they’re doing team stuff like this. He’s careful to keep things separate, private. He shows the same level of affection as he shows everyone he loves, with a few added touches here and there, he admits. Logan has his… Loner tendencies, and Kurt, while always leaving the door open for inclusion never tried to break him of that.
Rogue comes up to Kurt when Jean and Ororo, and two other pairs have gone. “You’re up, hon,” she says, flicking the pom pom on the top of his hat. Kurt relaxes from his pose and quirks a brow.
“Is Logan ready?” he asks. He can still smell soup in the cool air.
“Is he ever? You don’t need him. Come on, Remy’s ankles are going to snap if he keeps doin’ jump rope. I want to see you toss ‘im around,” she jokes, nudging Kurt encouragingly.
Kurt pauses, then he gives an apologetic smile. As much as he’d like to show off, he knows better. He’ll save his combat training for the danger room bots and lasers, not his friends. “I’m going to pass. Surely there is someone else he can wrestle other than me.”
But Rogue crosses her arms. “Is something wrong? You’re not normally one for slackin’ on training,” she says. The look she gives is firm but concerned. She’s scanning him over with sisterly intuition.
Remy calls from the center of the court, “Come on, I’ll go easy on ya. Gambit’s already warmed up.”
Kurt looks between them, his tail flicking uncomfortably. He flashes Remy an acknowledging smile but he knows he’s hesitating. He always does when he’s paired up like this.
“The sooner you lay him out the sooner we can go back inside. Please, for my sake,” Rogue gives Kurt a bit of a shove to the middle of the court and he stumbles into position. Remy’s starting pose is that of when he has his cards, but with empty hands he looks awkward. Kurt can’t help the amused smirk that tugs at his mouth.
The fight honestly has minimal contact. Kurt is using the time to practice up on his dodging and evasion while Remy presses the offensive. It’s more of a game of tag than an actual fight. The way Remy begins to get frustrated on the lack of counters starts to make him feel like a bit of a tease. Who knew the cajun wanted to be knocked around so bad?
He can’t get close enough to Remy to actually deal solid blows without risking his own hide. So Kurt decides to give him what he wants in the most work-around way possible. After Remy manages to get a hit or two into his sides and back, Kurt starts using his tail to trip him and knock him off balance. It turns a sparring match of punching and weaving into both of them posed awkwardly to knock and be knocked off their feet. Remy’s a good sport, and they’re both laughing and flailing around like children a few minutes in.
Then Rogue calls it short. Both Kurt and Remy are confused until they see Logan standing at the ready with his arms crossed. Kurt smiles. Remy looks bummed that his play time has been cut short but steps out obediently to be replaced by his teammate.
But for Kurt the flood of relief is instant. He goes to pat Logan’s shoulder thankfully once Remy has stood down. Logan doesn’t look excited though. There’s a pause. Then Kurt’s arm is being bent behind his back and he’s being tackled in the snow. It takes him longer than he’d like to be at Logan’s back instead, turning him around to get a hit in.
The whole brawl is… Rough. From the very start, Logan doesn’t cut him slack. And eventually Kurt hones in to meet what Logan throws at him with dexterous strength. Kurt doesn’t hold back, but he will admit: he’s tense. There’s too much frustration in the sparring from Logan to not be.
Kurt whips the back of Logan’s knees with his tail to break out of a headlock that makes his head swim, when the thought crosses his mind: What reason does this man have to not feel safe enough so much so to need a gun?
A gun! Of all things. Logan is a match for even Kurt’s most slippery maneuvers because he’s experienced and trained like no other man he’s met. His hands could take lives like Remy could take a wallet. So why the added protection?
Kurt knocks Logan off his feet and his ears flick at the sound of him crunching against the rough salt. Maybe Logan thought he wouldn’t be good enough backup. Kurt likes to think he’s better protection than a gun. No less lethal if he wasn’t careful. And he tried to be. He tried so hard to be careful, like moments before. So why didn’t Logan ask him for help?
By the time they’re being switched out, Logan seems thoroughly jostled but still ready to continue. His brow is furrowed and he doesn’t have his usual, playful fight with him. He probably has cramps from eating moments before they began.
When he gets back to the fence, Logan is immediately gathering his thermos to leave. Kurt catches his breath, watching as Logan doesn’t even look at him. He’s not sure what he did wrong.
The next pair step to the center and Kurt steps to the edge of the court, eyes trained on his friend. Logan faces the fence and lights up a cigar. The drag he takes is long, like he himself was never out of breath to begin with. He stands there, with his smoke coming out his nose and his eyes on the treeline for some time. Kurt smells the smoke even though the wind isn’t carrying it his way and thinks of their kiss. He was sure he would not be getting another for some time with Logan’s current attitude.
—
Kurt closes the passenger door on the old pickup, the sound echoing in the garage. He had followed Logan by his footprints in the snow after training was over, lingering just far enough behind in case he got the sign he was not supposed to follow. When Logan doesn’t start the truck and puts out the stub of his cigar in the built-in ash tray, Kurt knows he was supposed to.
“You can’t do that.” Logan says with his elbow propped up on his door as he leans his head on his fist. His tone is low, stern. He stares out the windshield at the unpainted drywall in front of him like he’s trying to burn a hole in it.
“Do what, mein freund?” Kurt asks, and he has an idea. But he doesn’t want to make assumptions so he lets Logan continue.
“Be playin’ favorites like that. I don’t come before anyone else out there, ya hear?” Logan says.
“I don’t think I understand,” Kurt squints, “I was sparring with Gambit just fine-”
“You pulled the fight. You were supposed to be beating each other up not playing footsie.” Logan grumbles. “I fought you enough times to know when you aren’t trying.”
“It was all in jest, mein Logan,” Kurt tries to soothe.
“I’m sure you thought so but I don’t. You need to fight with someone other than me… Is it because of what we have goin’ on? Between you and me?”
He says it with a frustration, a disappointment that makes Kurt’s tail thump nervously. “No, of course not-”
“Because what we got- It’s between us. I don’t want you bringing the others into this, it wasn’t supposed to change anything,” Logan says, jamming a finger against the steering wheel pointedly.
“I think you’re misunderstanding, Logan,” Kurt is trying to think of how to soothe this, but Logan is working himself up to a boil. He’s got a tightness in his jaw and a crease in his brow that says Kurt is doing everything wrong right now.
And he’s probably right. But Kurt doesn’t know how to stop. Because he’s clearly already being cut out of something with Logan, some issue just beyond him, and Kurt knows for certain this is not getting him any closer to it. He glances at the glovebox again, shaking his head, trying to gather his words.
Logan interjects before he can continue.
“I’m not better than a single damn one of those guys on that court, Kurt. I’m fucking not,” He says. “Well. Maybe Slim. But not the point.”
Kurt looks at Logan and the look he’s throwing the wall ahead of him is hollow.
“So you can’t be wasting your time, their time, my time, by only really trying if it's with me. You can’t care about me more than them when it comes to the team shit,” Logan says, shaking his head disappointedly and Kurt feels his tail reflexively tucking.
“Or this isn’t going to work”, Kurt can hear Logan saying in his head.
“Logan, I am going to be honest with you, mein freund…”
“Please, do.” Logan snips.
“I do not know what thought sits worse with me. The fact you do not think you are as worthy as them, or the fact you think I am not trying,” Kurt says quietly. He looks down, and stares into the knit texture of his gloves. “I was just trying something different. Is that really so bad?”
When Logan doesn’t respond Kurt continues. “I might not look like I am trying but I always give my best with the team. Just because I am not trying to rip Gambit’s head off does not mean I am not still training with him. Though sometimes, I will admit, I feel like I am losing my touch. I’m sure you and the others picked up on that before I ever noticed though.”
It feels weird to acknowledge; the fact he has awareness that he might not be performing as well as the rest of the team. He has always felt that way though, it is not something that has come with age or time, but has always been a nagging thought in the back of his mind. They’d never call him such but at times he feels the drag of his deadweight. Maybe situations like this just exacerbate it.
“No one fuckin’ thinks that, Kurt. ‘S why they want to spar with ya.”
“Then I don’t want to mess it up, not with them. I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself,” Kurt says. He knows it's vague, but he’s starting to hope Logan finds something satisfying in his words enough to move on.
He can feel his sins tickling the fur of his back when he doesn’t.
“Kurt, I genuinely don’t know how you could fuck up in a way that anyone would care,” he says, and theres an astonished laugh behind it like he can’t believe Kurt’s excuse.
“I could accidentally hurt them if I try too hard,” Kurt says plainly.
Logan rolls his eyes.
“Or much worse.’”
Logan, looks over with a “really?” expression. A moment later some snow falls off the roof outside.
“Not saying you aren’t strong, Kurt, for god’s sake its practice-”
“I’ve done that before. The ‘much worse. It was an accident then as well. That is why I am fine fighting you normally. You cannot die, Logan.”
Logan is quiet. Then Kurt hears the sound of the window crank and the flick of a lighter. The new cigar sizzles on the other side of the cab as Kurt opens his eyes and looks into the peeling felt of the ceiling.
It might have just been bad luck; a one time disaster. Perhaps he broke a mirror when he was traveling around as a child and it manifested in the worst possible way. But if it happened once, it could happen again. And the guilt he carried from before was already so heavy it had him on his knees, nightly, praying at his bedside for relief. It would grind him into the ground if he had to carry any more.
“ …Just practice like they’re mission bad guys, they’re used to it and you don’t kill them…” Logan mumbles. The solution he offers is pitiful and not nearly enough. Worse, he won’t acknowledge the pain Kurt is presenting him with. Maybe what Logan carries with himself is so heavy he cannot see the burden in Kurt’s own struggle.
“It wouldn’t be up to me. I twist what does not twist, I bend what should not bend- and I cause pain that cannot be undone in moments like with you,” Kurt explains.
He rolls his neck to rest his cheek on the back of the truck’s bench, looking at Logan with half lidded, tired eyes. Kurt is not on track to go to Heaven at any rate but he isn’t trying to be a demon for the time he is here. Even one life lost early is too many for him. He might have gotten absolved by a priest at confession decades ago for what he’s done, but he still hasn’t forgiven himself.
Time ticks on. Kurt is freezing in the awkward silence when he sees something other than Logan. It’s a bullet hole, a new one, in the back of Logan’s seat. Not one, but three. There’s blood stains, scrubbed fuzzy with an attempt to clean them in the fabric. It smells like carpet cleaner. He is surprised he didn’t notice sooner; but with his focus on his thoughts and Logan he isn’t shocked.
“Are you worried about your safety with me as well, mein freund?” Kurt asks.
Logan looks over, meeting Kurt’s sad eyes. He watches them flick over to the truck seat, and quickly moves to sit in front of the evidence.
“What are you on about now?” Logan asks as tensely as an exhausted person can.
“You carry even more secrets between us than I do, mein Logan. Some more obvious than others,” Kurt replies.
“More secrets get kept from myself than you, elf,” Logan takes a drag from his cigar and pinches it in the corner of his mouth. Kurt can tell he’s toeing an area Logan doesn’t want to talk about but he slides in regardless. Physically, he slides over as well, nudging Logan to the side so he can run his fingers over the bullet holes. Logan scrunches up and is stiff but lets himself be pushed.
“Who is after you?” Kurt asks, staring at the rips like he can figure it out himself if he looks hard enough.
Logan lets out a bitter laugh. “No one, Kurt.”
“You will not tell me? Do you trust me that little?” Kurt chuckles along but it hurts bitterly, deep in his chest.
“I’m not lying, it ain’t like that, bub. Cross my small fuckin’ heart.”
“Then who did you shoot?” Kurt asks. If someone didn’t attack Logan then who did Logan attack? Did he just already kill them and do away with them, without saying a word. “You did not tell me-”
“Jesus. You ask too many questions,” Logan pinches his brow and takes the cigar from his mouth to hold out the window. “Me.”
Kurt pauses.
“You?”
“I shot myself.”
Kurt blinks, once. Twice. “Why?”
Logan thumbs his nose. Shrugs. He might as well have said he does daily crosswords the way he’s trying to casually play it off. But Kurt shifts to face him fully because he knows better. Knows it’s something to take seriously, even if the damage wasn’t permanent for Logan.
“Just leave it at that,” Logan says. He flicks the ash off the end of his cigar and rolls it between his fingers. “ ‘S not because of you. Not about you. That should be enough.”
But Kurt’s already doing the busywork inside his head to make room for Logan there. He does it the same way he would for anyone else. Because ignoring it isn’t an option. He takes his self-pity, his guilt, and his own pain, and tucks it neatly in a labeled box for later. He takes Logan’s free hand in his and rubs his thumb across rough knuckles, healed and unbruised compared to his own.
“I… I just don’t understand,” Kurt says.
“You understand regret,” Logan replies. “You just said you did. We have different ways of dealing with it.”
“Do you think you are giving yourself penance?” Kurt says sadly. “Logan. Bärchen. You suffer enough.”
“Sometimes I think I don’t,” Logan closes his hand around Kurt’s, stopping him from stroking his knuckles. “There are times where I drive out to that gorge, and… If I hit the right spot– it’s quiet. Everything just… Stops.” He puts out the butt of his cigar on the outside of his door.
Kurt strains to hear it when Logan continues in a whisper, “You have no clue how much I wish it would stay that way.”
Kurt’s gut sinks to a depth he didn’t know existed. The reason he picked him for sparring was the same reason he had such a problem picturing all of this: he could never see Logan as dead. To Kurt it was simply an impossibility. So to know that Logan had an ache to make it a reality, to end the possibility of everything… It broke the image of Logan that Kurt had so carefully kept safe for nearly the entire time they knew each other.
“You know, I have died before, mein freund. It is not a thing to envy,” Kurt laments and his voice cracks. He clears his throat. Then he thinks…
Logan beats him to continuing. “It’s not like I’d be chasin’ those pearly gates, elf. Even with you sayin’ there’s something there… An after of nothin’ is more comfortin’. Especially since if there’s anything I’m definitely not going up.”
The sting of a tear builds in the corner of Kurt’s eye. It makes him sick hearing this. Not out of empathy. It’s like his heart is trying to begin grieving now, when nothing has happened.
Then there’s the sound of a throat being cleared next to him. Logan squeezes his hand and opens the driver's side door. He’s one leg out when he decides to tack their conversation shut. “Relax. Can’t do nothin’ like that anyway, pal… We’ll get together again soon and forget about everything at the gorge again. I promise.”
Kurt meets his eyes and in the blue of Logan’s he sees the tinges of an apology. Then the door shuts and he’s gone.
And Kurt can’t uncurl his tail from its tuck from how miserable he feels. After a moment, Kurt climbs out of the truck as well. He walks around the front, and stands on Logan’s side on the cold concrete, looking at the floor. The last thing he does before he leaves the garage is throw away the cigar butt Logan left behind.
—
Logan’s body is contorted at odd angles. None natural, all painful. Deep gouges and through-and-through holes mar pale, rough skin. Each blooms red with cooling blood. He stinks of what should have been inside having been pulled out. Metal and matter that spreads and spreads thinner and thinner. He isn’t healing, he isn’t dying, he’s gone. He’s long gone like the possibilities of goodbyes that never happened.
—
Kurt prays the rosary in the dark of morning after the nightmare. When he remembers fragments, he prays it again. Then, with the beads clutched to his chest he tries to sleep again.
—
He doesn’t dream, but the sleep is restless and unsatisfying.
—
By the time he’s hunched over a bowl of cereal, milk dribbling down his chin, it’s past noon. He looks like a vampire, the way he tucks himself out of the blinding sunlight reflecting off the snow. Everyone in the house is rushing towards the front door. An unusually large number of adults try to wrangle the students to the best of their abilities.
“Where are you all going?” Kurt asks raspily. He still isn’t fully awake but he could teleport and meet them if they needed him.
“Museum,” Jean says, putting a pair of black gloves on. “The natural history one– Xavier figured it would be good for everyone to get out.”
“You wanna come? Not far for ya. Ya could catch up,” Rogue says as she puts on a fuzzy headband that covers her ears and lets her hair flow out in every direction.
Kurt puts his spoon down to stop eating. Then he thinks better of it and resumes. He did not feel good after last night. “Nein. Danke. My image disruptor is still in Beast’s lab– I would not want to ruin a day out for you all.”
“Hate that fuckin’ thing,” Logan growls under his breath, picking a kid up under his arm like they’re a dufflebag. He stomps them out to the bus.
“You sure?” Jean double checks. She’s halfway out the front door with her keys in hand, being swept away by the tides of afternoon plans. Kurt nods, twiddling his fingers in a cheeky wave.
When the door shuts, he lets out a sigh and finishes his cereal.
He crushes the empty box he left on the counter into the trash before he begins BAMFing across the mansion. It would do him no good to be alone with himself right now.
Beast’s lab is empty. Xavier’s office is unoccupied. The garage is missing half the cars and no one’s coming or going. Even in the wing of dorms, Kurt hangs from the hallway ceiling and listens. No one there. The mansion is vacant except for him.
Well that won’t do.
Kurt wanders into the living room and falls lazily over the back of the couch. He was always with someone in a place of so much commotion, so he never had this problem before. He can’t say the time to himself is a relief. If anything it pulls out boxes of memories he’s stashed away to do something productive with later, and makes him sort through them in a way that is hardly appealing.
That’s why he didn’t like sleeping– always too much brain work to be sorted and interpreted. He couldn’t even show off the progress, or a job well done. Hardly glamorous. Besides, the less time he slept, the more time he could spend with those he cared about. If that doesn’t make it worth it then he doesn’t know what will.
The clock in the living room ticks by as Kurt zones out. By 2 o’clock he’s starting to regret not going to the museum. Maybe he could have pretended to be a part of displays, if only to be a present observer. Someone could have gotten a kick out of that. It could have restored some faith the team had in him. Have mercy, with how Logan put it he doesn’t want to think about his image with the others right now.
Then the idea hits him: a little treat! Yes! Who does not love a little snack, that would show he has no bad feelings towards the team. He’d make Pfeffernüsse keks. He thinks the kitchen should have what he needs to make them. If it didn’t he could improvise. Oh, this is such a good idea it should be illegal.
He BAMFs twice in succession: once to grab a painfully old, thrifted cook book from his quarters, another to take him to the kitchen. He had gotten the book when he was traveling abroad, so he reads through the German text like it’s a secret just for him. Then he reads the instructions again as he ties the straps of Remy’s apron around his waist. He’s not going to mess this up and skip a step.
After familiarizing himself with what he’ll need to do, Kurt gathers all the ingredients. The flour, baking soda, salt, gingerbread spices, white pepper and almond meal are separated and combined in one bowl. The brown sugar, honey, butter, and cream go in a sauce pan. Kurt holds the pan handle and takes pause once he’s done… This stove.
Okay, Kurt will admit it, he does not use this kitchen often. So the eight burner, steel stove in front of him is quite intimidating. There’s so many dials and things to flip, up here, down there, he gets overwhelmed.
Then, like a gift beamed down straight from God to his countertop, he sees it: Logan’s camping cooktop. One switch and propane powered. It sits dusty in the corner by the fridge. It never had been used because Logan thought it was too fancy. Kurt wipes it off and makes the sign of the cross in thanks. Its purpose has finally been realized.
He heats up the sauce pan on a low heat on the burner, then shuts it off to combine the thick goop with the dry ingredients. With his tail, he takes out a cookie sheet and sits it on the eight burner stove, and covers it in little dough balls.
He nearly closes his eyes when he sets the oven to preheat, overwhelmed by those cursed dials. He hears a clicking sound once he’s set it and that sounds good to him. So he goes back into the living room, several rooms away, to wait until the oven dings. He’ll hear it no problem, he’s heard others preheating it from his room across the mansion before.
His long limbs drape across the couch again, before he pulls up a blanket and snuggles down. Everyone might come home before it's done but it will be the gesture that saves him. Excellent effort today, Kurt thinks. They’re going to love this.
He’s halfway gone into a nap when he smells something. He almost doesn’t get up because it's not something scary like gas. But… It has been a while. It probably should be about ready to ding. He decides to check.
When he opens up his eyes and sees black smoke on the ceiling he doesn’t run, he BAMFs to the kitchen.
Standing behind the island, Kurt stares at the stove. Flames are licking the bottom of the second floor from the burner and up the wall. The cabinets are already scorched and Kurt looks at the ceiling to see the fire alarm– disconnected again, probably by one of the students that had pyrokinesis.
Kurt had turned on one of the burners instead of the oven and melted through the bottom of the baking sheet.
He watches and he can’t move.
It’s hot, so hot where he’s standing. He can practically hear the sound of his canvas tent turning to ash. And suddenly he feels like he’s being choked. It’s more than the smoke, like his airways were afraid the flames would lick their way down his windpipe if they didn’t seal themselves.
It’s happening again. He messed up again and again, and this time it feels like the last straw. A thought, extreme but seeming to fit in its severity crosses his mind, because others have come to the conclusion before: they’re going to try to kill me for this.
Like they had tried to before when he escaped the circus all those years ago. He couldn’t even run away properly back then, leaving destruction in his wake. He remembers the tent being set alight behind him as he was hunted with guns through the forest… He can still hear their shouts behind him hitting his back. Kurt’s heart hurts with how fast it's beating.
Then he’s being ripped through space, as if involuntary. The jerk from one end of his teleport to the other gives him whiplash, a rare occurrence. He comes out the other side not entirely aware of where he ends up.
For a second it’s quiet. He’s outside in the snow at the edge of the treeline. Then he can hear the crackling behind him. He looks back and he can see the flames shooting out the side of the mansion.
It jumps through his bones, and he’s teleporting again. He BAMFs five more times, stops counting, then does it more. Each one takes him about half a mile, he thinks. He knows vaguely where he’s going, but he shouldn’t be doing this so carelessly. He could end up stuck in something easily. Miraculously, by the time he stops he hasn’t.
By the time he’s at the end of the line he physically can’t move another inch, teleportation or otherwise. His body lies supine on icy pavement. Air comes back to him, and it's a painful reintroduction. He’s gasping and swallowing it greedily as his chest heaves as quietly as he can make it. He does it because, in his head, if one gasp escapes too shrill, they will find him. They will find him and shoot him and he will be too tired to even flinch.
It takes him more than the dissipation of his exertion to catch his breath. His mouth is parted with fangs shining sharply through his lips. His fur and Gambit’s apron do nothing to keep him warm as he sucks in mouthful after mouthful of cold air.
But he stays on the cold ground despite the ice below him, listening to the wind howl and whip snow around him. He reaches to grab his tail, which was tucked between his legs, and hold it to his chest. When he tilts his chin back to look, he sees he’s at a place of solitude.
He’s at the renovation construction site for the Sacred Heart Chapel. It has been under construction for far longer than it should have been. Its structure is dilapidated and in need of repair in a way that Kurt connects with at this moment. In his head, he notes they finally got the Virgin Mary statue back in her nook above the front door on the outside. It had been missing for the longest time. Its return brings him the slightest bit of relief.
He knows he’s running from his problems. Every rational thought tells him he’s reacting on instinct right now like an animal. That it's been so many years and an ocean between them to separate him from what had happened all that time ago.
He’s safe. He tells himself it over and over again and thinks of the face of every person that would make sure of it for him. He needs to ground himself because this is nothing and he is the only one who can control him right now. He can sooth himself, he’s done it before. He needs to fast to make this right.
He takes a deep breath. He needs to go back. He BAMFs himself once in the direction of the mansion on his own accord. But this time as he teleports he doesn’t come out the other side immediately.
It smells here in the space between. But there is no oxygen, no air to breathe so he always has to be quick. All there is, is smoke and a scent that gets caught in his fur. He drags it out with him every time he passes through. This time would be no different.
He can’t see anything, because like always the space is thick with a cloudy haze that tends to leak out on either side in small puffs. It’s like he’s suffocating in overcast. But even with his lungs deflating on borrowed time, he feels himself center. It’s only him here, and the space would be here for him again and again as long as he needed it. It would cradle him in safety, though temporary, and be his pleasant purgatory.
When his throat burns for air he cuts through the cloud and comes out the other side. He lets himself breathe. He lets his hands hold his stomach. He’s still here and safe, as always. He’d be fine.
He BAMFs, blinks that last for only halves of seconds, back to the mansion.
By the time the team is rolling up in the bus, Kurt has half of a room's furniture and decor on the front porch of the mansion as the flames burn hot through the middle of the building. He’s saving what he can, blinking in and out one object at a time. So far he’s done quite well and nothing of significance as more than smoke damage.
The X-men, save for the professor, rush off the bus and Kurt, blinking out in front of them with an arm chair, waves.
“I made Pfeffernüsse cookies!” Kurt says woefully.
There’s a loud bang inside as something falls. Ororo, snapped to action, begins making a cloud to presumably stop the spread.
Then a little student no older than six tugs on her pants. On his shirt is a “Hi, my name is Booker” sticker the museum gave out with tickets. He looks at Kurt dryly. Kurt swallows. Stares.
Booker sticks out his arms and the flames shoot out of the building in an explosion. The wicked tongues of heat converge on the child. They wrap around his coat sleeves and the funnels them up into the cloudy sky like the spit of a dragon.
It takes all of about ten seconds. When the last of the fire burns off in the sky Booker lets his arms flop down, annoyance written across his face. Then he steps away from Ororo and starts the careful trek across the icy walkway to go inside. After a moment, the rest of the group follows.
Kurt’s heart’s hammering lessens if only the slightest bit, before Logan comes over. The older man looks up at Kurt, quirks a brow, then grabs the armchair that was just evacuated to take inside.
Remy looks Kurt up and down as he passes as well, eyeing his apron around Kurt’s waist. Kurt undoes the hip ties, but leaves it dangling around his neck as he takes a painting back in and follows after his team.
Inside the mansion is charred, but only in a few rooms. Thankfully, the fire had not gone for all that long, considering, and Kurt minimized the aesthetic damage when he returned. It takes everyone about twenty minutes to carefully bring everything back inside.
Rogue eats a black cookie and toasts with the charred remaining half to Kurt as he wanders back out to the front steps to sit, blushing in embarrassment. “Entschuldigung,” Kurt chuckles nervously in apology to his sister before he crosses the threshold. He abandons Remy’s apron on a blackened coat hook on the way.
Snowflakes gather on the fringes of Kurt’s fur as he sits on the stoop, tucking his gangly knees up to his chest and crossing his arms over them. Something hard and chilled knocks him on the top of the head a few moments of staring out at the yard later. He reaches up to grab it, and it’s a beer from his room. Logan drops to sit next to him with a groan.
“ ‘S cold out here. Why don’t you come inside?”
“I’m too embarrassed. I still need to sit down with the professor properly and apologize.”
Logan takes his lighter out of his pocket and flips the top with a click. “Place needed a reno anyway,” he remarks. He flicks his lighter back shut after a few seconds of staring at the flame. “You okay?”
“My tail is not on fire so I could be worse.”
“ ‘M serious,” Logan mumbles. He pops the top on his own beer with the tip of a claw. Then he does the same for Kurt. “Smelled you miles up the road before we even got here. Where were you poofin’ around to with the stove on?”
“Nowhere, mein freund. I needed to clear my head, that is all. Worried over nothing, really. You understand.”
“Mmm…” Logan knocks his shoulder against Kurt and leans on him subtly.
“You do not need to coddle me. I know you have your own burdens,” Kurt assures softly. His tail swishes low and tired, brushing the powdered snow on the steps.
“You ain’t gotta go through it alone. You don’t make me. ‘Sides I’m plenty strong enough for the both of us. What's one more thing on my mind?”
The assurance makes Kurt… Angry. He hasn’t felt that way in a while. Because to Kurt, what Logan is saying is a blatant lie. He’s not strong enough to deal with his own issues, which Kurt doesn’t mind– but if that’s the case, then how could he take Kurt’s weight as well?
“I just… I am unsure of if you can give me what I need, Logan,” Kurt says and he regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. So he tries to catch himself with more. “What’s on my mind now… Are things you cannot fix.”
Logan pats his hand on Kurt’s knee, and rubs circles on it as he listens. This time he does not interject, he doesn’t rush Kurt. He lets him talk.
“And that’s fine. I think I realise you have… what is the saying? Gambit says it- Bigger fish to fry.”
“Whaddya mean?”
“You’re wasting your time worrying about me, liebling,” and Kurt’s heart stutters because he realises someone could have heard him call Logan that. “I’d rather you take care of what’s going on with you first.”
Logan swishes the beer around in his bottle before taking a swig. “Can you at least tell me what happened?”
“A memory,” Kurt says simply. “I got lost for a moment in my own thoughts. Very unexciting. Like I said, it is embarrassing I let it get to this point.”
Kurt takes a sip from his own beer and hears his company sigh next to him. “I thought this was mutual,” Logan remarks.
Kurt’s fur bristles. “What?”
“This… sharin’ and carein’ arrangement. I thought we were in this together.”
“We are-”
“Then you need to let me help,” Logan snips. Kurt raises his bottle to his lip and swallows a few mouthfuls until his throat burns. “...I’m sorry.”
Kurt pauses with the bottle to his lips. He squints. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said I’m fuckin’ sorry,” Logan chuckles dryly. “I fuckin’ suck at this, I already know that. Don’t need you remindin’ me every time I try to do somethin’ for ya.”
Kurt reaches up with his free hand and rubs his brow. “That’s not what I was trying to say, Logan.”
“Then what is it? Talk to me,” Logan urges and it sounds so uncomfortably close to begging. “What happened with the fire?”
Kurt flexes his toes in his shoes, frustrated. He downs the rest of his beer and holds on to the cool bottle. “I thought of when I escaped the circus.”
When Kurt looks over, thankfully, Logan is not staring at him. His blue eyes are fixed on the label of his own bottle in his hands. Not reading but giving him a place to look. Kurt figures he can continue.
“There was a time I used to love it. You know this.”
“I know that.”
“Then it got taken over. Economies, money, it was all too expensive after some time. I was too expensive. So they sold the show,” Kurt shrugs, as if things like that just happen. “They would drug me between performances after that– sedate me so I was timid and malleable. Sometimes I’d be so full of drugs I wondered if I’d just float out of my body forever.”
There’s a cracking sound and Kurt notes Logan is fracturing his own bottle from how hard he’s gripping it.
“So one day someone had mercy on me- not God but a man. They let me go, told me to run. I was so… So out of it between the shows. You have no idea. Sleep has never been the same,” Kurt’s shaking his head, then he waves his hand like he’s trying to get back on track. “I knocked over a torch when I was escaping. The whole tent went up like match paper.”
Then Kurt laughs, a bitter giggle. “Even with the animals burning alive in their cages, they were more focused on me and their guns to even save them! What a show I must have been to put so much into getting me back.”
Logan chugs the rest of his beer.
“It is the night I learned to teleport. Like God had yanked me out of the way of the bullet that was meant for my head,” Kurt summarizes. “So I guess… I got caught up in my head when I first saw the flames. It was all a long time ago, I did not know its hold on me was still so tight.”
Then he’s being manhandled. Kurt gets pulled into the warmest hug he thinks he’s ever gotten from Logan. But when he holds him close he can feel Logan’s face, scrunched up in his neck with anger.
“You’re right, elf. I don’t know what to fuckin’ do- what to tell ya.”
“You don’t have to,” Kurt says, gingerly wrapping his arms back around Logan. The man is breathing him in like a dog, warm breath sweeping over dark indigo fur. “I am simply telling you so you understand.”
“But when I come to you-”
Kurt shakes his head. “It’s different. We are different.” And he wishes he’d leave it at that.
But Logan pulls back so he can look at Kurt, his lips pulled up in an aggravated sneer.
“I’m being serious.” Kurt interjects before Logan can get a word in. His ears are pressed back in frustration. “Don’t waste your time failing to save me.”
“Kurt, it was a little fire. No one’s convicting you over burnt cookies an’ bad memories.”
“And no one's still blaming you for your sins as well other than yourself. What good does self punishment do for you that it cannot do for me?”
Kurt can physically feel Logan’s stomach twist against him. “It ain’t about you,” Logan tries to assure. The words are quiet between them. Kurt looks out into the snowy yard.
“I care about you, Logan, that makes it about me,”
“...If ya’ weren’t you, elf, I’d just cut ya out to avoid that. Have before.”
“I… Yes. I’ve picked up on that,” Kurt breathes. His brow are knit together, disappointed. “Whether you keep my company or not, you have to stop trying to end your own life Logan. You have to stop enacting these… These fantasies.”
Logan stares hard, then looks away with a sigh. “Logan,” Kurt urges.
“I heard ya the first time.”
“I can’t go to bed every night thinking about the day your body listens to your mind and you don’t come back home from the gorge.”
Logan’s scowl turns into a smirk. “Fine…You really thinkin’ about me every night like that now?” Kurt slaps the back of Logan’s head with the spade of his tail and Logan hisses. “Shucks, elf. You already know I think about you too. Not scared like that but… Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
Kurt lets the corners of his mouth twitch up into a small smile. But he’s still angry with him. Still scared for him. It would be naive of him to not pick up on the way Logan tries to slither out of being confronted on this matter. But he doesn’t know how to grip the topic when all Logan wants to do is writhe.
What will become of him if one day I’m not enough?