I am taking some poetic liscense here. Being an avid reader of the original comics -- and having an obsession with Nightcrawler (almost as large as my obsession with Gambit) -- I am taking some of the original history of the character, and incorporating it into the Evolution universe. Therefore, there shall be some inconsistincies, but I liked his original history and origins too much to leave them out :) Also, please note that the original histories of some other characters (such as Beast and Rogue) will be coming into play, as well as some interesting tidbits about the powers and such of characters such as Scott, among others. Enjoy!
Oh! I almost forgot! This fic relies heavily on the comic book Origins for most of it's history concerning Sabertooth – and Wolverine. If you haven't read the comic book, I suggest you go out and buy it – because it is the early history of Wolverine. By reading this fic, I am assuming have either read that comic, or are prepared to find out the official story behind Wolverine – his powers, his parents, his real name.
Enjoy!
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He had never wanted to abandon his son.
That had been his wife's idea, and under the circumstances, he had agreed. What else could he do? There had been too much danger, and he had been so angry with her for hiding her powers. Even when he was trying to be normal, to be human, he was thwarted. Thwarted by lies and half truths.
It had hurt, the first time he had seen his son among Xavier's little band of misfits -- trying so hard to be something he wasn't. He hated that stupid watch, the silly little image it let the world see. Not that it was surprising to see his son so willing to lie to the rest of the world -- even more so than most of his comrades. Friends. Did he consider them his friends? He would learn.
And he hated, hated, that name. That stupid, insane name. Kurt Wagner. It wasn't what they had chosen for their son, he and Mystique. But it was his name now, and he had to accept that. Not that he was having a very successful time of that.
No matter. He had more important things to dwell on.
He wasn't a thinker, perhaps the reason why his mind kept wandering as he stared down at his son. He had barely gotten there in time to save the teen, and the brutality of the beating had shocked even him, hardened as he was by the years and the wars he had seen.
How old was he now? He could find out if he really wanted, although he knew he had already passed the century mark -- and was barely even into middle age. It hadn't been two centuries -- not yet. He'd been born in the mid 1800's, hadn't he? And Kurt near the turn of the century.
They'd kept him until the 70's -- he'd grown slowly, had been close to 4 years old by then. Did he remember them? Maybe in passing -- he certainly didn't remember how his father looked, or he would have said something by now.
He had tried to hold back, during the times they had come into contact with one another. Kurt had done nothing of the sort, of course, not realizing just who it was he attacked. Luckily, most of his scuffles tended to be with Wolverine, the idiotic maniac. That left him little time to interact with his son.
It was probably for the best, that they had no time to interact. After all, Kurt seemed happy, well adjusted. True, he had few friends, and even those he could claim were distant with him, forcing him to wear that silly little watch of his.
He hated that watch. Hated the fact that his son had to hide.
Shifting in his seat, Sabertooth continued to watch Kurt Wagner. Nightcrawler. His son.
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Kurt slowly blinked open his eyes, staring blearily up at the ceiling. He knew instantly it wasnt the ceiling of his own bedroom as the Insitute, or even back home in Germany. The room around him -- when he took the time to lift his head and glance to the side -- was painted a dirty white, the paint peeling here nd there. He lay on a small twin bed, the covers pulled up to his middle chest. To the left was a plain wall, decorated only with an open door, leading out to what appeared to be a hallway of some sort. To his right was a bare window, void of any decorations or curtains, and it appeared to be the middle of the night outside. Directly across from the foot of the bed sat a ratty old dresser, barely holding itself together. A few articles of clothing had been thrown inside, and he could see half of a white t-shirt and what appeared to be blue jeans in two different drawers, half open. The rest of the clothes -- if there were any -- remained hidden from his sight.
It was when he attempted to sit up the rest of the way that the previous night's dealings came back to him with a punch -- and he certainly felt it physically, as he cried out and collapsed back on the bed. He was vaguely aware of somebody else entering the room, a cool, large hand coming down to cover his forehead. He barely even registered that, however, as he lay there panting for breath and attempting to clear his vision. So dizzy ...
The hand moved over to his right cheek, gently cupping the side of his face. He tried to open his eyes -- really, he did. He couldn't find the energy, however, breathing slowing until he once again slept.
When he awoke again he was alone, the door open and sunlight streaming through the window. He couldn't be sure how long he had slept, except that he felt tired -- the kind of tired that came from oversleeping. Rolling carefully over onto his side, Kurt winced at the sharp pain in his side, breathing slowly in and out until the pain had, if not passed, then at least lessened slightly.
Struggling up into a sitting position, he was forced to stop every once in a while as the pain threatened to become too much, but eventually he was sitting upright, and took in his surroundings once more.
There was something ... familiar about this place, even if he couldn't put his fingers on what, exactly, it was. Like his bedroom back at his parents -- something he had woken up to for years, knowing every nook and cranny of the room. He got that feeling from this room -- although he wasn't sure why. He had lived in the same house for nearly his entire life -- as much of it as he could remember, anyway.
That wasn't true. He did remember his biological parents somewhat, although it was hard to reconcile the soft-spoken words and gentle touches with the woman he knew Mystique to be. And then there were the other memories ... they were all fuzzy, distorted with time, but he remembered his father as large man, hands wide and firm, not nearly as gentle as Mystique's had been. But neither had they been harsh -- he had simply not known how to handle a child, and so had been a bit more clumsy that a woman was wont to be. As Mystique had been.
His happiest memories had been with his birth father, although the old bitterness was still there, ever present. Why had he not been good enough? Had it been his oddities, his freakishness? His mother hadn't exactly been normal either, but at least she could hide it, protect herself with her powers. He had never been so lucky.
That was why this room looked so familiar. It reminded him of his father. He wasn't sure what it was -- the room itself looked delipidated, old, worn down, and that wasn't at all the image he had of the man he could barely remember as it was. What image had he held? Whatever it was, this shouldn't have reminded him so strongly of the man. But it did.
The smell. It was strong here, almost sweet but not quite. It reminded him of some of his favourite calogne, but with obvious differences. And ... roses. The smell of roses hit his nostrils, and he inhaled deeply, blinking rapidly against the sting of tears.
Yes, it was the smell. Like a memory out of a dream ... He'd often wondered if the smell was a combination of both his parents, or simply one of them. Strange, that this room should have that perfect combination to shock him with long buried memories.
Hissing slightly as a sudden jab of pain, Kurt steadied himself against the wall and blinked a few times to clear the stars from his line of sight. He wasn't sure what those boys had done to him -- it had all happened so fast, he had been too stunned to teleport at first, and then too injured to conjure up the energy -- or will -- to use his abilities.
It wasn't the beating that hurt the most, or even the words they had shouted as they did it. It was the memory of wondering whether or not he deserved it. That he had even questioned it ... Professor Xavier would be upset with him. Hell, he was disgusted with himself, and he had thought he knew better.
Apparently he wasn't as smart as everybody thought he was.
The room spun as he tried to take a step away from the wall, and Kurt found himself on the floor, gasping for breath as he barely stayed on his knees, his body wanting nothing more than to collapse bonelessly on to the floor. Finally, however, he braced himself against the side of the bed, forcing himself to his feet, but remaining bent over, most of his weight on the arm that held tightly to the mattress.
He didn't hear the door swing open wider, nor the sound of footsteps approaching. He certainly noticed the feet that entered his line of sight, however, and the hand that descended on the back of his neck, gently kneading the muscles there.
Glancing up sharply, he couldn't help the way his breath hitched, the frightened look that crossed his face as Sabertooth frowned down at him.
"What are you doing up?" The deep rumble of the man's voice seemed to pass right through him, making Kurt shiver as he continued to watch the hairy man, lower lip trembling slightly. "You should be in bed." Kurt blinked in surprise, finding himself being led back to the bed, settling on it with a slight oomph.
Sabertooth stared down at him for a moment, squeezing the young man's shoulder perhaps a bit too tightly as he watched his son actually physically jerk out of the hold, scooting away from him on the bed. Pressed up against the headboard, Kurt watched the man frown, lips pressed tightly together and eyebrows drawn in together s he stared at the blue-furred teen.
"You don't need to be afraid of me, Kurt."
Kurt raised his chin defiantly at that, eyes narrowed in sudden anger. "Who said I'm afraid?" It was weak, he knew, and the shaking of his hands betrayed him, as did his quickened breath. And his voice was weak -- almost a rap, a hiss, as he found it hard to speak against the painful rawness of his throat.
Just what the hell had happened to him?
Sabertooth was his son for a moment, fighting back the urge to growl low in this throat. Wouldn't do to frighten the boy even more than he already was, now would it?
But the boy was scared; there was no skirting around that fact. Pressed up against the headboard as he was, it was obvious he was ready to bolt at any moment, and damn the consequences.
Speaking of bolting ...
"Calm down, boy. I'm not going to hurt you."
Kurt snorted at that, and Sabertooth had to admit it probably did sound like an outright lie to the boy. After all, he had never even tried to appear as anything but an out-and-out brute and thug to the boy; although, come to think of it, usually he was too preoccupied with ripping Wolverine limb from limb to pay much attention to his son.
"You're injured. You move around much more, you'll just end up hurtin' yerself." That seemed to calm the kid down a bit, and Sabertooth breathed a sigh of relief that the kid seemed to be trying logic for a spin, for once.
Maybe he wasn't as much like his mother as he acted.
Kurt shifted against the headboard, holding back the hiss of pain that rose to his throat. He couldn't stop his face from scrunching up, however, lips pressing firmly together as his body protested the action rather vehemently.
When Sabertooth reached forward to help him, however, Kurt simply shook his head, shrinking back against the headboard. Sabertooth sighed, nodding as he moved to sit at the foot of the bed, watching his son carefully.
This was going to take some explaining, then.
"Kurt, I need to check your wounds, alright? Make sure everything's alright. Will you let me --?" Sabertooth watched his son carefully, shifting on the bed as he met and held the teen's eyes.
"Where am I?" Sabertooth sighed, turning to glance out the window. It was early afternoon now, the sun streaming in and lighting up the otherwise empty room.
He hadn't been here in years, though he had kept up with the bills – it held too many memories, too many happy times with his son and former wife to just up and abandon.
The people didn't recognize him, of course; and neither did he recognize them. It was a constant truth in his life, that he outlived everybody else.
Except Mystique. Except his son.
"Albion." He finally admitted softly, turning back to make contact with Kurt once again. "In Maine. I brought you here as soon as ... well, as soon as I thought it was safe to move you."
Kurt nodded, swallowing thickly as he remembered those boys, their fists and their shouts. Demon. Freak of nature. Devil spawn.
Sabertooth waited a moment longer, keeping eye contact with the boy as he reached forward, one large hand descending on the boy's side, where a thick bandage had been carefully wrapped. Kurt hissed in pain at the first touch, and Sabertooth almost pulled his hand away, but Kurt merely leaned his head back, trying to steady his breathing.
It took them a couple of minutes, but Sabertooth eventually got the bandage off, wincing at the heavy bruising that still covered most of the boy's side. His ribs had been damaged, he knew, and they were just lucky nothing really important had broken. The boy's accelerated healing had kicked in like it had.
For how long the boy had been unconscious, however, it didn't look good. It didn't look good at all.
Kurt stared down at his side with something akin to wonder, though horror might have been a more appropriate word. He hadn't realised just how bad the damage was before, though the fact he had bandages covering both his legs and arms said something for just how violent the boy's must have gotten – even after he had fallen unconscious.
That must have pissed them off then, that he had stopped talking. Stopped asking them to stop. True, after the first couple of minutes he had slipped into his native German, but the nature of his words had remained the same.
Please stop. Don't. I'm sorry. Let me go.
Swallowing thickly, Kurt glanced away and out the window as Sabertooth set to work, fingers gentle as they moved over his side. The shock of something cold being applied to his overhead skin brought a gasp from his lips and a glance down to see what the man was doing, but he quickly glanced away again as she saw the fresh bandages and ointment littering the bed.
Right. Re-dressing the wound.
"Do you know why they attacked you?" His voice was almost conversational, though Kurt could detect the anger behind it. He simply shrugged his shoulders, though he instantly regretted it as pain lanced through his system like a slingshot. "'Dey were scared, nein?"
Sabertooth nodded, motioning for him to sit up as he began to wrap a new bandage around the boy's middle. "And you think that makes it alright?"
Kurt glanced sharply at the man, but Sabertooth's eyes were fixed on his task, so Kurt glanced once again out the window. "Does it matter?"
Sabertooth glanced up sharply at that, shaking his head with his lips pursed tightly together. He didn't like it, but then again, it didn't really matter, did it?
"There you go. Are you hungry?" Sabertooth sat back, smiling down at the teen as he fingered the used bandage he had removed from his side just a few minutes ago. He did his best to ignore the dried blood decorating the inside of the bandage, did his best to focus on the boy now eyeing him warily.
"Vy? Vy do you care?" Sabertooth sighed, opening his mouth to say something, but Kurt beat him to it. "Vy did you bring me here? 'Ze Prof can take care of me."
"I know. But I don't trust him ... and neither should you."
Kurt merely snorted inelegently at that, raising one eyebrow. Sabertooth smiled at the reaction, though it was a smile laced with sadness, and pain. "I don't trust any telepath's, boy. It's nothing personal."
Kurt nodded – he could accept that. It was the one thing that held him back from completely trusting Professor Xavier – or Jean.
But that didn't make it okay.
"I am a li'l 'ungry, ja."
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A/N: Please let me know what you think of this story! Though I am deeply in love with it at the moment, and have many plants for it's future, I would love to know what you guys think! There's really no point in continuing a story unless people are really interested in it, in my opinion. So review!