Chapter 4: A Medical Bay
Two Weeks Later…
Professor Xavier was dead. That fact kept turning over in Kurt's mind, even though—or maybe because—he couldn't quite figure out the response he should have to it. Certainly, part of him had a hard time believing it—not an unreasonable reaction, given the relative impermanence of death among the X-Men's ranks, not to mention the fact that his body was still missing. But another part of him knew better, knew that no matter what, it was the end of an era. The end of the era that had brought him to America out of the clutches of a Witzeldorf mob. The beginning of his friendship with Scott, Sean, Ororo, Jean, Peter... and Logan. Two of them already dead, and missed dearly. The rest of them—including himself—alive through the grace of miracles. And for what? Was the world any better, any safer, any more tolerant? Kurt still couldn't walk down a public street wearing his own face without risking a repeat of the mob scene that had brought Professor Xavier to his aid all those years ago. And now Professor Xavier was dead…
Suddenly desperate for any kind of movement, Kurt struggled painfully into a sitting position, stitches pulling across his injured left shoulder and through the too-slowly-knitting-together internal injuries across much of his upper body. He swung his sweatpant-clad legs over the side of the hospital bed, his tail—one of the only parts of his body that seemed blessedly pain-free—stretching itself out gratefully behind him before draping itself over his thigh. He flexed the muscles of his good arm and made a fist crying out to punch something, anything—a wall or a face or Sentinel. His left hand, though, fingers coiled limp and lifeless suspended in the sling hooked around his neck, might have belonged to a stranger—if there was any stranger on the planet with blue fur and two fingers.
The portion of the underground medical bay in which Kurt resided was, by now, deserted. Kurt knew that it had been a bustle of activity at some point, though his memory was hazy. It was only during the last two days that he'd been conscious for any significant length of time; before that, he'd only experienced moments of lucidity between dreams and dreaming-wakefulness, interrupted, of course, by a frenzied battle and the destruction of the mansion, events that had set back his healing process more than a little. He did remember at least one painkiller-drenched conversation with Kitty where he'd said more than he should have about how much she meant to him and how he either forgave her or was sorry for things from years ago that were too insignificant to matter to anyone who wasn't drenched in painkillers. (He wasn't entirely sure, though, whether Kitty had been present for it.) He also thought he remembered Logan's face, but those memories were even hazier, overlapping between the faraway past and various imagined, distant futures. Especially, though, his pain and drug-addled brain had conjured the trauma of the recent past, his numb body bleeding out on a snowy mountaintop, wondering whether the smell of charred flesh would be the last physical impression he'd have from Logan, and whether "shut up" were the last words.
Kurt almost sighed with relief when he heard the hissing sound of the automatic door, rescuing him from his thoughts.
"Good morning!" Hank McCoy's rich voice greeted as he entered the bay. "Glad to see you're up and about."
"About, anyway," Kurt offered.
"Well," said Hank, stopping next to Kurt's bed. "Good news—I'm kicking you out of here today."
"Thank God," said Kurt, looking dramatically skyward.
"Don't get too excited about escaping my company," Hank cautioned him. "You're probably going to be walking with a cane for another couple of weeks. You'll start to wish you were still lying down if you tear your stitches."
"I'll take the risk."
"And I'd like to think it goes without saying, but since this is you we're talking about—no teleporting, either."
Kurt saluted sarcastically with his two operable fingers. "Jawohl."
Hank's leonine fact made its version of a frown. "Don't worry—I'd know you were lying even without the sass."
Kurt grinned. "Now who's anxious to get rid of who?"
"Here—let me see your arm."
Kurt unzipped his sweatshirt enough to let Hank's paw-like fingers find their way inside, feeling their way around the outside edge of his bandages.
"How does this feel?" asked Hank, pressing his thumb into a particular area of Kurt's collarbone.
"Fine," Kurt lied, smiling tightly.
Hank pushed down harder, just slightly, with the large flat of his palm. "And now?"
Kurt blinked back a rush of pain, eyes watering, smile buckling. "Great," he managed.
"That's what I thought." Hank released Kurt's body, frowning seriously as he regarded Kurt over the top of his glasses. "Honestly, Kurt, if this was the real world you would be in bed for at least another week after what you've been through."
"Then it's a good thing we don't live in the real world, ja?" Kurt offered, smile more genuine as his pain diminished.
Hank left Kurt's side and turned his attention to the medical scanner at the foot of the bed.
"I'm surprised Logan's not here," he said, eyes on the scanner.
Kurt hesitated almost imperceptibly. "Why?" he asked nonchalantly.
Hank made his way over to another bank of scanners, punching in numbers for some obscure doctor-ly purpose. "He's barely left your bedside in a week."
Kurt blinked, smile fully abandoned. "Oh. That's… I don't remember him being here."
"He came by when you were asleep. Seemed to make a point of it."
No longer sure how to cover his feelings, Kurt dropped his gaze to his dangling blue feet and tail.
Hank, who had been studying Kurt out of the corner of her eye while he worked, stopped what he was doing.
"Do you… want to talk about it?"
Kurt looked up at his friend. "No, but… Thanks for offering. Really."
"Are you…"
"I'm sure."
"Okay," Hank consented, returning at least half of his attention to his work. "Word to the wise, though—Scott Summers is much more suspicious than I am. And his girlfriend's a telepath."
Kurt's brow furrowed in a sudden flush of anger. "What is that supposed to—"
"I'm just…" Hank sighed, fingers once again pausing on the console. "I'm just saying that I hope you know what you're doing. Because when Scott asks you about it—and he will ask you about it—you're going to need an answer."
"Or… he'll ask Logan," Kurt realized, anger dissipating into cold anxiety.
"Exactly."
There was a long silence.
"Logan's really been coming here?" Kurt said at last, all the emotion gone from his voice. "And just… What? Watching me sleep?"
"For hours."
Kurt stared uncomprehendingly into the middle distance. "Where did he even find the time?"
Hank looked up from the scanner, his face widening into a warm, relieved, feline smile, the quiet concern of Kurt's question spreading like a healing balm over all his doubts.
"What?" Kurt asked, noticing Hank's reaction.
"Nothing," Hank chucked. "It's just…"
Hank trailed off as the automatic door once again hissed open, admitting Kitty Pryde.
"How's the patient, Hank?"
"At least half himself," Kurt answered. "Are you my escort for this evening?"
"It's morning, Kurt."
"Well, yes, but it's the thought that counts."
"If you say so."
Observing the rumbling tension between Kurt's attempts at levity and Kitty's steadfast refusal to be baited, Hank decided to make his exit.
"Well, that's it for me. You're free to go, Kurt. Remember to take a pain pill whenever you feel like you need it, but not more than—"
"I know the drill, Henry. Thanks."
"Okay, then. I'll see you back here in 48 hours for a checkup."
Kurt nodded. "Thank you for everything, my friend."
"It's nothing I wouldn't do for anyone else."
"Still."
Hank hesitated only a moment longer before leaving Kurt alone with Kitty's frown.
"So," Kitty began deliberately after Hank left. "You seem like you're feeling better." There was very little warmth behind her words.
"I've been worse," said Kurt, eying her warily. "But what are you doing here? Is this just a visit, or…"
"Logan said he'd come get you," she said. "I just wanted to let you know."
"Oh. Okay, thanks."
Kitty dropped her eyes then, spending a long minute reading some invisible message in the floor tiles before she finally spoke.
"Kurt, can I…." she looked up, a new warmth subsuming her features to match her softened voice. "You'd tell me, wouldn't you, if there was something… well… something… going on… between you and Logan?"
Kurt wasn't quite sure whether he should look surprised at the question. He realized Logan's visits must have been quite a spectacle, and suddenly understood Hank's concern.
"I don't know what you mean by—"
"Yes, you do."
Kurt paused for a long moment, searching the face of one of his oldest, dearest friends, someone he'd sworn to protect and honour with his own life a thousand times within his mind and only slightly fewer times out loud while inebriated. Later, he'd try to make sense of his moment of indecision, when his heart and soul silently and brutally debated the pros and cons of telling Kitty the truth, all the while trying to ignore the larger question of why he felt the need to weigh the issue to begin with; he was not accustomed to keeping the truth from Kitty. But the only answer he'd ever arrive at wasn't one he felt especially ready to deal with: that there was something lingering at the edge of his consciousness that made him hesitate, a deeply buried memory of the very first time he'd smiled at her and she'd phased away, shrieking…
Finally, he said, "There's nothing going on between me and Logan, Kitty. Nothing."
It wasn't a whole lie. There was some part of him that believed what he said.
"Okay," said Kitty. She released a small breath and offered a game, close-lipped smile. "I'm sorry I even asked, I just… Anyway, forget about it."
Kurt felt the blood drain from his face realizing how implicitly she trusted him.
"Well," she said. "I've got to go. But… I'm glad you're feeling better. Even though you look terrible."
"Thanks for that."
"Anytime. See you around? I'll text you."
"Sure."
Just before she reached the door, Kurt's voice rose in his throat almost against his will.
"Katzchen."
She turned, face trusting, expectant. "Yes?"
Kurt dropped his gaze. "Nothing."
The door opened for Kitty just in time for Logan's entrance.
"Hey squirt," he said. "How's the elf?"
"He looks terrible," said Kitty.
"Hm. I'd have to agree there. You heading out?"
"Yep. You still want me to drop by tomorrow, bring you some groceries?"
"Sounds like a date."
"Good, see you then."
The door slid shut behind her, and Kurt was left alone in the room with Logan, the first time he'd truly seen him since the last time he thought he would never see him again. Kurt's already uneasy stomach somersaulted a bit. In contrast to himself, Logan looked great: fresh, clean, and confidant in his tight white t-shirt and faded jeans, perennial cowboy boots clicking subtly on the tiles as he made his way over to Kurt's bedside. Kurt always loved seeing him that way; somehow, stripped of all pretense, he was even more himself, his uniqueness thrown into relief by the nondescript-ness of his presentation. It was something Kurt could identify with.
Kurt forced himself to smile, and tried to make it genuine. "Come to offer me a shoulder to lean on?" he asked cheerfully.
Logan snorted. "Something wrong with your cane?"
Kurt felt a wave of relief wash over him to see that Logan was playing along, also determined to minimize the awkwardness of their reunion. "I guess that's a 'no' then."
Trying to make a show of his health, Kurt pushed himself off the bed with his good arm and made a small jump to the floor. His ploy backfired, however as he stumbled badly and nearly fell, thrown off by the unexpected imbalance in his body.
"Dummy," Logan scoffed, hesitating only a moment before scooping Kurt up under his good shoulder.
"Danke," Kurt mumbled, both grateful and genuinely embarrassed as Logan helped him to lean against the wall and collect himself.
"You suck at being hurt," Logan observed dryly, handing Kurt his cane.
"Being hurt sucks," said Kurt. "But I really am getting better."
"How do you feel?"
Kurt smiled wearily as he slouched against the wall. "Terrible. As I said—a big improvement."
"Hear you're cleared to check out today," said Logan, tone carefully noncommittal.
Kurt cocked an eyebrow. "And where have I to go? Half the mansion is destroyed. This is probably one of the only rooms left that actually has beds in it."
"Can you teleport?"
"I… Sure, I think so. Why?"
"Because I don't want to have to carry you all the way to my car."
"Oh? And where am I being driven to?"
"I'm renting a place. You can crash there until we get things sorted out."
Kurt looked slowly down and then up, assessing his own wounded body as a symptom of recent events. "Logan… Do you think things are going to get sorted out?"
"You can stay with me anyway."
Kurt studied Logan's face, trying to trace out the hint of emotion that had seeped into his voice, but Logan's eyes flickered away quickly. Kurt gave up and made a long pan of the medical bay.
"Well," he said. "I don't want to stay here any longer."
"So my company's better than an empty sickroom," quipped Logan. "Thanks. I 'preciate that."
"Maybe if Magneto visited more often…"
Logan affixed Kurt with an "I'm not amused" frown that only served to make his face widen into a smile.
"So where's your car?" he asked.
"The usual spot," said Logan. "But Kurt I was just—" Logan was standing in front of his 1969 Camaro Z28 and choking back brimstone before he finished his sentence. "—kidding."
Kurt sagged against him for a moment following the teleport, but he recovered fairly quickly as Logan helped him into the passenger's seat.
"Have I mentioned that you suck at being hurt?"
"Have I mentioned that you make a great nurse?"
"No. And don't," advised Logan, starting the engine.
Kurt smiled contentedly as he sank back into the seat, flipping the hood of his sweatshirt up over his pointed ears as a token of discretion against the slim likelihood of anyone looking too closely through the tinted windows. As they got underway, he closed his eyes, savouring the antiseptic-free scent of freedom wafting in through Logan's cracked-open window. He wrapped his uninjured arm around his injured one and propped one blue foot up on the dash
"Do you mind?" said Logan, eyeing Kurt's foot.
"Not really," Kurt mumbled, dimly realizing that teleporting had taken a lot out of him.
"Elf?" Logan prompted after a moment. But he quickly saw it was no use. Kurt was fast asleep, toes still gripping the dash.
Logan watched Kurt intermittently as he drove. He was so still, so quiet, that he might have been dead if his expression weren't so serene, and if his body weren't afflicted with tiny twitches of dreaming consciousness. Logan knew from experience that Kurt's tail sometimes reacted to dreams, a fact that Kurt himself denied, convinced it was just another instance of Logan trying to turn him into an animal. But Logan knew better: Kurt was an animal, and always would be. It was what made it so easy for Logan to get under his skin—because he was an animal, too.
Watching Kurt sleep was something Logan had done a lot of lately. Not intentionally, though—not really. For the first few days after the end of the immediate crisis, Logan had stayed far away from the medical bay, not least of all because it was so crowed, and he didn't trust himself in Kurt's presence, not amid so many wandering eyes. Once the herd started to thin out, however, Logan found himself pulled by gravity into Kurt's orbit. He started coming regularly, helping Hank when he could. But mostly he came at night, when there was the least likelihood of company or Kurt waking up.
At first, Logan told himself he came because he liked Kurt better the way he was: quiet and harmless. For the first time, Logan could look at him freely without any awkwardness because Kurt couldn't look back, couldn't challenge his gaze or his thoughts or his insistence on Kurt's objective, heart-breaking beauty. But it didn't take long before he realized how wrong he'd been—how he missed Kurt's voice as much as his body, his laugh as much as his touch. And that's when he started sleeping in the medical bay in a chair next to Kurt's bed, actually hoping Kurt would wake up and find him there. Once, Logan did see Kurt open his eyes and look straight at him—or through him. Yet when Logan spoke Kurt's name he descended back into oblivion.
That same day Logan had had a not completely unexpected encounter on his way back to his quarters. Turning the first corner out of the medical bay, Logan had found himself looking up into the pulsing red strip of Scott Summers' visor.
"Summers," Logan had greeted.
"I know what's been going on, Logan," said Scott.
"Am I supposed to care?"
"Is it… mutual?"
Logan shrugged. "I guess."
Scott frowned. "That should be an easy question."
"Suit yourself," quipped Logan, making a definite move to storm past him and end the conversation. But Scott grabbed his shoulder roughly, stopping him.
"I hope you know what you're doing, Logan."
Logan's lip curled into a sneer that was a disguise for his real anxiety. "You afraid I might spill the beans on your little kill crew?"
"I think we both know Kurt's at the top of the 'doesn't need to know' list on this one."
"And you're afraid my mouth follows my cock, is that it?"
Scott released his shoulder and took a diffusive step backwards. "I'm afraid of losing two of my most experienced X-Men in one fell swoop if this… If anything happens."
"I'm here for the long haul, Summers."
"And Kurt?"
"I'm not his keeper."
"So how would you characterize your relationship?"
Logan's nostrils flared. It was the only manifestation of anger he permitted himself.
"We done here?"
"Just be careful, Logan."
"Right," Logan growled, and continued his exit.
"And Logan?" Scott called after him.
Logan paused without looking back.
"He's going to be… He's my friend, too, remember."
Logan had nodded once, and continued walking.
