Chapter 10: St. Kurt the Anticipated

"Uuuuurg."
The noise from the other side of the plane made Warren sit up and look around; Kurt was conscious and looking around blearily.
"Are we there yet?" he wanted to know. "I'm starting to feel… not good."
"Just before we move on, I think I might need a fair warning," Warren said. "What kind of not good are we talking about?"
Kurt staggered to his feet. "There is a nasty little man inside my head who is hitting my brain with a board that has nails sticking out of it," he said.
"Eloquent," Warren noted. "Actually, I was worried about any bodily fluids that you may suddenly vent in my direction. Any risk of that happening?"
"Not before I get to a bathroom, at least."
"Good. In that case, we're about twenty minutes from our destination, if the on-board computer is accurate."
Kurt looked startled even through his hangover. "I slept for that long?"
"You downed enough alcohol to kill and preserve the remains of a Plesiosaurus. I'm surprised you woke up at all."
"But the important thing is that I did," Kurt agreed. "Which means we won't lose any time."
Warren looked crestfallen. "You mean you're still going through with this stupid plan even though you're sober?"
"I'm not sober," Kurt corrected him. "I'm sober-er. And we are still going through with the plan."
"I don't want to go through with the plan!"
"You'll come around," Kurt said cheerfully. "Now help me get into the bathroom before I start with the venting."
"Help yourself. This isn't my damn jet, and I'm not the one who's going to have to clean it if you defile it."
"You're no fun," Kurt informed him, swaying slightly on his feet.
"This plane is no fun. While you were passed out for the last couple of hours the only thing I've had to do is read a couple of trashy romance novels I found lying around." Warren tossed a book onto a chair in disgust. "I don't know what a heaving manblossom(3) is. I don't want to know what a heaving manblossom is. All I know is that I want the people responsible for this book to die."
"Well said." Kurt staggered off toward the back of the jet. "Now, if you'll excuse me?"
"Do me a favour," Warren called after him. "When you go back there, could you maybe get lost or something so I don't have to deal with you anymore?"
"I'll do my best."
"Thanks."

----

"How long until we get to the Vatican City?" Scott asked.
"Get your elbow out of my ribs," Jean grumped.
"I would if I could," Kitty shot back.
"Around forty minutes, Scott," Ororo told him.
"So phase. Then neither of us will be cramped."
"Yeah, 'cause I'll be, like, outside."
"At this point I'd only see that as a positive move."
"I can't feel my legs," Rogue announced. "Ain't got nothing below my hips."
"And how long until the Blackbird gets there?" Scott enquired.
Kitty grunted. "Quit shoving me!"
"Then move your elbow," Jean scowled. "It's been jabbing my ribs for five hours."
"That's not my fault!"
"It is your fault. You're bony. Your elbow hurts and it's bony and it's your fault."
"Oh please, meanwhile you're in need of like, a tighter sweater or a boob reduction, 'cause every time we hit turbulence it's like, hey, you're gonna bounce up and put my eye out with those things."
"They oughta be there in about ten minutes, Scooter," Logan reported.
"Bony-butt," Jean snapped.
"Jiggle-jugs," Kitty growled back.
"Everything about this conversation is wonderful," declared Bobby.
Rogue said, "It's like… I know my butt is there, okay? But I can't feel it. Nothin'. It's like I'm sittin' on a pound of raw hamburger."
"Any chance we can go faster?" Scott called.
"What's worse is when you finally get up," Jubilee observed. "You're gonna get hella-bad pins and needles in your butt."
"Aaw, hell," Rogue pouted. "Not in the butt. I hate pins and needles in my butt."
"I stand corrected," Bobby said, "this conversation is even better."
"I'm afraid not, Scott," the Professor informed him. "We're overloaded with nine people on board as it is. This is our top speed, I'm sorry."
"You're too skinny."
"Your boobs are too big."
"Somebody pinch me, I can't feel my ass."
"I am so happy right now," said Bobby.
"Professor," Jubilee said. "There's not much room for us all back here."
"Thank you for the ten-minute update, Jubilee."
"You're welcome."
"How much longer now?" Scott asked weakly.

----

"Kurt!"
"Was?"
"The computer says it wants to land soon!" Warren called. "How do you stop this damn thing?"
Kurt appeared from the back of the jet, armed with a half-empty bottle of Vodka. "Alright, alright, I'm coming."
Warren looked blankly at him. "You're drinking again."
"Ja. It hurts, sort of, but it's making the hangover go away."
"…I'm not sure I want you to take over the controls anymore."
"I got us this far," Kurt pointed out. "Though if you want I could just let you handle them. Do you know how to fly this thing?"
Warren glared at him for a moment; then he deflated and walked away from the pilot's chair. "This is so goddamn stupid."
Kurt settled himself into the seat and grabbed the controls with one hand, taking a swig of his bottle with the other. "Relax, mein Freund, it could be worse."
"How could this possibly be worse?" Warren demanded.
"We're attempting to land a strange, unmarked fighter jet in the middle of the Vatican City and the Italian Army has no idea who we are or what we want," Kurt said in a distracted tone as he switched the jet over to manual. "When you think about it, things could be a lot worse."
For a long moment, Warren stared at him, wide-eyed. Then his wings sagged.
"I hate you so freaking much."
"Nein, don't be silly," Kurt told him. "You love me. Now come here and help me pick a landerning spot."
"…landerning?"
"Ja, to lander this plane."
"You mean land?"
"Whatever. Come help me."
Shaking his head, Warren made his way back to the front of the plane and peered through the windshield. "Well, how about that building?"
Kurt looked at it appraisingly. "It's big enough, but is it close to the Vatican?"
"I don't know. Where is the Vatican?"
"I don't know either."
Warren blinked. "Then I guess it's as good a place as any."
Kurt gave a demented grin. "Then let's land this chicken."
At that, Warren opened and closed his mouth a few times. Eventually he said, "I don't know if that was drunk gibberish, bad English, or just insanity."
"It shall be a mystery forever," Kurt agreed. "Now, seatbelts! I'm about to fire the reverse thrusters."
"What the hell? Jets don't have-"
Before Warren could finish, Kurt pressed a button on the control panel; Warren was thrown forward to connect face first with the windshield as powerful reverse thrusters kicked into action, bringing the plane into a spectacular mid-air stall.
"This one does," said Kurt.

Warren roared in protest as his face smeared against the glass as Kurt pressed another button, this one marked Retrograde Thrusters. Warren was bodily peeled off the windshield by gravity and thrown onto the floor as the Blackbird fired into hover mode.
"Why are you doing this?" Warren wailed. Kurt's demented grin got bigger.
"Because I'm drunkfaced!" he declared, and turned the retrograde thrusters off. The plane dropped like a stone; Warren was flung off the floor, smacked headfirst into the ceiling, bounced off, and began hovering in midair, shrieking wildly.
"Don't worry," Kurt called to him over the noise. "We're nearly there."
A mere one thousand feet up in the air, Kurt reactivated the retrograde thrusters. Warren faceplanted on the floor again, cutting off his howls; the supports of the jet creaked, groaned, and miraculously held; the downdraft from the thrusters started twin fires on the rooftops of two buildings nearby; and slowly, the Blackbird – wildly cackling Elf, dismally wailing Angel, screaming thrusters and all – came to a gentle, perfect landing on the rooftop Warren had specified.
Kurt unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to look at the dazed Warren. "See?" he said, sounding absurdly pleased with himself. "No problem."
"Uhhhn."
"You were screaming for nothing."
"….i hate you…"
"Now come on!" Kurt bounded forward and dragged Warren to his feet. "We have to get going!"
Too stunned to resist, Warren allowed Kurt to drag him forward, over to the door. Then he opened it to reveal three Polizia helicopters, hovering in the air around the Blackbird, all with armed men inside training their weapons on the two mutants.
"Look!" said Kurt excitedly. "Helicopters!"

Warren, feeling his strength miraculously returning, tugged at Kurt's arm. "I see them. Kurt, close the damn door!"
Kurt shook his arm free. "Nein, this is good! They can tell us how to get to the Vatican!"
"I don't think that's what they have in mind."
One of the policemen shouted something in Italian at them through a megaphone. Kurt cocked his head to one side.
"Did you catch that? I wasn't listening…"
"I don't speak Italian," Warren said quickly. "But he sounded very angry and I think we should get inside the jet and close the door now."
"Bah!" Kurt made a face. "If they won't tell us, I'll find someone who will tell us! Follow me!"
Before Warren could grab him, Kurt darted away, bounded off the rooftop like a cat, and leaped over the edge of the building. The men in the helicopters started waving their arms, and one of the helicopters followed Kurt. The rest stayed where they were.
Warren just took a deep breath, crossed himself, unfurled his wings, and dove after Kurt.

----

"Excuse me!"
A short blonde woman on the sidewalk shrieked as a blue-furred demon dropped from the sky and landed in a crouch in front of her, tail lashing the air. "Do you know where the Vatican is?" he asked.
"Kurt!" The demon looked up as an angel descended next to him, looking furious. "Will you leave the poor lady alone?"
"Was? I was just asking for directions and…" turning, he noticed that the blonde lady had fainted. "Are you alright?" he asked her unconscious body.
"You forgot your damn hologram thingy," Warren growled at him.
"Ha-ha!" Kurt stuck his tongue out and brandished one wrist. "That's where you're wrong, because it's right here!"
"Then why the hell haven't you turned it on?" Warren demanded.
Kurt blinked. "Because this way I get more attention," he said, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. Warren closed his eyes.
"That's kind of the problem, you stupid Teutonic wino…"
"I am not stupid!" Kurt cut in. "Now come on, there's a restaurant over there. Someone inside should be able to tell us where the Vatican is."
"Kurt! No!"

The diners of the restaurant in question did not react well to Kurt's entrance. This was largely because it involved smashing through a large glass window and landing on all fours in the middle of a table, one foot in an unfortunate elderly gentleman's soup.
"Sorry!" Kurt called by way of greeting. "I didn't know there was a window there!"
"Somebody stop him!" Warren shouted, running in through the open door and knocking a waitress to the floor with one errant wing. "Oh, God, sorry…"
Warren bent over to help her up; his wings stuck out behind him and brushed the entire contents of one table to the floor.
"I'm gonna pay for that! Don't worry!"
"Does anyone here," Kurt shouted, "know where the Vatican is?"
The gentleman whose soup Kurt's foot was in jabbed him in the leg with a fork. Kurt howled, jerked his foot away, and promptly fell over into the lap of a buxom young brunette. Upside-down, he beamed up at her.
"Hello," he said. The brunette screamed, pushed him onto the floor, and poured her glass of wine over his head.
Kurt gasped, spluttered, and glared at her. "That," he said, "was totally un-called for!"
Across the restaurant, Warren turned to apologise to the people whose meal he'd swept off the table; in turning around, he belted the unfortunate waitress in the face as she was climbing to her feet and knocked her to the floor again.
"Oh, crap, I am so sorry…"
Then someone bonked him in the head with a thrown bread roll.
Kurt was trying to scramble to his feet when the idea really caught on; someone at a table nearby poured a tureen of gravy over his head. As he was turning on them, a plate of noodles hit him in the face and three large spoonfuls of mashed potato squished into his back.
Warren fared no better. After a few body hits he wrapped his wings around himself in a protective cocoon, but that only made the patrons of the restaurant pelt him harder. Pieces of chicken, roasted vegetables, bowls of salad and slices of pie splattered against him from every angle as he howled his unhappiness, trying to protect his face and see his way to the door at the same time.
By this time Kurt had been reduced to crawling on all fours, wailing miserably as he scrambled toward the door. A shortcut under a table got him kicked mercilessly; he leaped into the air to escape, throwing the table back in disarray and knocking over another in the process. A large cream-filled pastry burst directly in his face, and he screamed in protest as he staggered across the threshold right behind the food-splattered Warren.
"Those people," he shouted at Warren, "were not nice!"
"I know!" Warren shouted back. "I just want to go home! Do you hear me? I want to go home!"
Kurt glared at him. "We'll go home when the job's done!" he roared. Then he turned away and toward the street. Warren did the same.
Twenty armed police cocked their weapons and sighted back at them.
Underneath the thick coating of thrown food, Warren's face went whiter than his wings, and he seriously considered going back into the Restaurant of Hate to seek refuge. Kurt, on the other hand, drained the last of his bottle of Vodka, still miraculously held in his tail, and raised one hand.
"Hello there," he called to the police. "Do any of you know the way to the Vatican?"

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(3) Seriously. I'm not sure anyone wants to know what the hell a heaving manblossom is. It can't be pleasant.