Disclaimer:
[1] I do not own. [2] I have no money.
The importance of these statements:
I don't own X-men, marvel does, see [1]. If I owned them, them being the X-
men, I would be rich, see [2]. If I was rich, I wouldn't be writing fan
fiction, see [2], because I would be able to buy the X-men, see [1].
Author's Note(s): My artist's muse went AWOL, so I stole a writing muse. Sorry if it was yours. That also gives me a reason to suck at writing. Ha ha! I would love reviews! Even flames, but if you flame me please be specific. How else will I learn from my mistakes? Constructive critism is key. Archive to your hearts content, just e-mail me (tripping_tongue@yahoo.com) with the site so I can giggle over my growing poplularity. And one final note : Continuity-shontimuinity. I would sink this bugger somewhere in between X-Men 110 and Uncanny X-men 413 (Warren is still blue in my story). And there is a point/plot. I'm getting there, I promise!
After Logan had left, Kurt had finished off the leftovers from the continental breakfast offered in the main foyer before slipping downstairs to the hotel lobby, from which he extradited a local map. He opted to spend the afternoon, wandering in and out of the small shops along the busy streets downtown. Bobby would most certainly be sleeping the remainder of the daylight hours away, and he presumed that Stacy would perfer to use this time to get to know Warren more intimately, and would perceive his continued presence as an annoyance.
So he found himself taking in the sights, and enjoying the hustle and bustle of ordinary people living their ordinary lives. Ever since Xavier ousted himself as a mutant and revealing the nature of the institute, he found fewer occasions that required use for an image inducer. He still garnered confused and angry stares, but it was a respite from the threats and mobs that he had encountered back when the X-team was in it's youth.
He began drifting towards the food district, his stomach rumbling against the cold bagel and orange juice that he had devoured earlier. The warm smells led him to a small café nestled among some open fruit markets. He entered, and found the dining area to be clean and well lit. He made his way to the counter, taking a seat with his back to the door, and the kitchen to his right. The waitress appeared, smiling readily, and he placed his order which she dutifully jotted down. She took his order to the cook, and they took to chatting politely as they waited for the cook. He found her questions curious, but not prying. He grinned and recounted a tale about a childhood adventure from his days in the circus. She chuckled good humoredly, pardoning herself when she left for the kitchen. She returned with his lunch, and he ate while tossing friendly conversation back and forth with her as she waited on other customers. Kurt began to relax, letting his defense ease.
The door opened, sending a quick breeze into the café before it shut. Kurt grinned, barely registering the change as he took a sip from his coffee, and set the glass down. Suddenly, Kurt felt a shove in the back. His hands dodged out catching himself before he bumped his plate of food off of the counter. His glowing yellow eyes darted side to side, the café's patrons looking away from his gaze uncomfortably. He looked up over his shoulder as the man leered at him, seating himself down on the stool next to Kurt. Kurt nodded to him in acknowledgement, hoping that the guesture would acquiesce the man from further antagonizing the incident. The look in his eyes gave Kurt the impression that he shouldn't bother hold his breath. His assumption was rewarded as the man continued to spit out derrogatory comments while picking up Kurt's half finished coffee. Disregarding the jibes the man sent in his direction, he attempted to finish his sandwhich, taking another bite. Infuriated, the man dumped the cup of liquid onto Kurt's plate, dowsing the other half of the sandwhich and the fries with it, the hot liquid splashing towards the blue furred mutant. From the back of the restaurant, everyone had stopped eating, watching the confrontation in horror. The waitress' jaw dropped as she came out of the kitchen carrying a plate of food. With a heavy sigh, he dabbed at his coffee dampened shirt, the man watching him with a satisfied smirk. Without bothering to make eye contact, Kurt removed his wallet from his pocket, and with wet fingers dropped a twenty down next to the mess. He took a dry napkin from the canister holder and exited the café. He walked down the street, praying for strength and patience. By the time he had reached the end of the block, he could hear a scuffle behind him. He glanced over to see the cook roughly shoving the man out of the small shop, the waitress yelling angry indignations from the safety of the doorway.
Kurt kept his head down, not slowing in his step. He knew that the man would be sore for that humiliation, and he should attempt to get out of sight for a bit. He looked up and saw a marquee for the local independent art house. He shuffled away from a passerby and ducked into the old theatre building. It was dark inside, his eyes adjusted quickly and the faint glow grew as he moved along the shadows. He walked past glassed in displays of past performances: cast pictures, program sheets, dog-eared scripts, and newspaper reviews. After a moment, he moved on, stepping out into the small auditorium. The floor extended out to a veranda that rimmed the theatre. Small tables in booths lined the terrace, tucked away to overlook the stage. Behind him to his left was a stairwell, most likely leading to the auditorium seating below. He headed off to one of the wings, slipping into an empty booth, the dim lighting allowing him to blend into the shadows. He slid his chair, shifting it so that he could overlook the stage. Below a gentleman nervously croaked out verses of poetry, and a small group of supporters shouted encouragement.
"Excuse me." A voice startled him out of his thoughts. He turned to regard the blonde woman that stood waiting for his response. The dimlight shone down on her features, and Kurt guessed that she was not yet in her twenties.
"I'm sorry, I didn't quite hear you," he grinned and shrugged holding his palms up in a unassuming guesture.
"Did ya want anything from the bar? We've got soda, coffee, tea, water, beer."
"A beer would be fine, fraulein."
"Sure. Whatever." She jotted a note down on the pad she was carrying, and headed to the next booth. Kurt redirected his attention back to the performances below. The poet had been replaced by a olderman, who was seated at an stool. He had readjusted the mike, and was in the process of removing a worn, antique violin from a battered gray case. He placed the instrument in the base between his chin and chest, and smooth falcetto of violin notes began to fill the auditorium. After a slow warm up scale, he began a moody overture, starting slow and heavy, picking up power and momentum has he moved through the music. Kurt leaned against the banister railing, propping his head on his arm as he listened. The concentration on the music, allowed his ears to pick up footfalls of someone approaching his booth. There was a pause, then figure slid into the booth across from him, entering his periphal vision. Nothing was said until the heavy seconds after the violinist had finished passed.
"He has quite a talent."
"Some would call it a gift, Warren. We all have gifts." He turned in his seat, ignoring the comedy act that was setting up the stage. He faced the man across from him, giving him a questioning glance. Warren fought against the cold stare, motioning with hands.
"She went out shopping. I doubt she ever really had the opportunity to purchase from designer stores in the past."
Kurt nodded in understandment. "And you?"
"Well." Warren juggled with the thought of being coy, but he thought that an upfront approach was warranted at the moment. "I heard that you and Logan are staying behind when we take off tomorrow. Niether of you mentioned anything previously, I just wanted to make sure you were okay."
"Telepath? Jean. Or Emma?"
"Actually, no." Warren chuckled. "Bell hop. Apparently Wolverine had left quite an impression heading out the door this morning."
"It figures. He wasn't exactly a morning person today. I doubt that there's anything to worry about. Logan has something up his sleeve, but he's not bothering to let me in on it either. I trust him, so doubt that there should be any trouble while we are out."
"I didn't mean to come across like that. You don't need me to hold your hand even if I am leader of this team. Take whatever time you'll need. When your ready, let us know if you need our help with anything, even if it's a flight back to the U.S."
Kurt smiled, his fangs glinting. "You're right, I'm being difficult, nein?" He nodded as the young woman came back with the cold bottle, he motioned to Warren. The girl's eyes widened, but she nodded and took off to bring a second drink for his companion. "Has Bobby wakened to give us his input on where to go tonight?"
"Well, actually, since you bring it up."
Author's Note(s): My artist's muse went AWOL, so I stole a writing muse. Sorry if it was yours. That also gives me a reason to suck at writing. Ha ha! I would love reviews! Even flames, but if you flame me please be specific. How else will I learn from my mistakes? Constructive critism is key. Archive to your hearts content, just e-mail me (tripping_tongue@yahoo.com) with the site so I can giggle over my growing poplularity. And one final note : Continuity-shontimuinity. I would sink this bugger somewhere in between X-Men 110 and Uncanny X-men 413 (Warren is still blue in my story). And there is a point/plot. I'm getting there, I promise!
After Logan had left, Kurt had finished off the leftovers from the continental breakfast offered in the main foyer before slipping downstairs to the hotel lobby, from which he extradited a local map. He opted to spend the afternoon, wandering in and out of the small shops along the busy streets downtown. Bobby would most certainly be sleeping the remainder of the daylight hours away, and he presumed that Stacy would perfer to use this time to get to know Warren more intimately, and would perceive his continued presence as an annoyance.
So he found himself taking in the sights, and enjoying the hustle and bustle of ordinary people living their ordinary lives. Ever since Xavier ousted himself as a mutant and revealing the nature of the institute, he found fewer occasions that required use for an image inducer. He still garnered confused and angry stares, but it was a respite from the threats and mobs that he had encountered back when the X-team was in it's youth.
He began drifting towards the food district, his stomach rumbling against the cold bagel and orange juice that he had devoured earlier. The warm smells led him to a small café nestled among some open fruit markets. He entered, and found the dining area to be clean and well lit. He made his way to the counter, taking a seat with his back to the door, and the kitchen to his right. The waitress appeared, smiling readily, and he placed his order which she dutifully jotted down. She took his order to the cook, and they took to chatting politely as they waited for the cook. He found her questions curious, but not prying. He grinned and recounted a tale about a childhood adventure from his days in the circus. She chuckled good humoredly, pardoning herself when she left for the kitchen. She returned with his lunch, and he ate while tossing friendly conversation back and forth with her as she waited on other customers. Kurt began to relax, letting his defense ease.
The door opened, sending a quick breeze into the café before it shut. Kurt grinned, barely registering the change as he took a sip from his coffee, and set the glass down. Suddenly, Kurt felt a shove in the back. His hands dodged out catching himself before he bumped his plate of food off of the counter. His glowing yellow eyes darted side to side, the café's patrons looking away from his gaze uncomfortably. He looked up over his shoulder as the man leered at him, seating himself down on the stool next to Kurt. Kurt nodded to him in acknowledgement, hoping that the guesture would acquiesce the man from further antagonizing the incident. The look in his eyes gave Kurt the impression that he shouldn't bother hold his breath. His assumption was rewarded as the man continued to spit out derrogatory comments while picking up Kurt's half finished coffee. Disregarding the jibes the man sent in his direction, he attempted to finish his sandwhich, taking another bite. Infuriated, the man dumped the cup of liquid onto Kurt's plate, dowsing the other half of the sandwhich and the fries with it, the hot liquid splashing towards the blue furred mutant. From the back of the restaurant, everyone had stopped eating, watching the confrontation in horror. The waitress' jaw dropped as she came out of the kitchen carrying a plate of food. With a heavy sigh, he dabbed at his coffee dampened shirt, the man watching him with a satisfied smirk. Without bothering to make eye contact, Kurt removed his wallet from his pocket, and with wet fingers dropped a twenty down next to the mess. He took a dry napkin from the canister holder and exited the café. He walked down the street, praying for strength and patience. By the time he had reached the end of the block, he could hear a scuffle behind him. He glanced over to see the cook roughly shoving the man out of the small shop, the waitress yelling angry indignations from the safety of the doorway.
Kurt kept his head down, not slowing in his step. He knew that the man would be sore for that humiliation, and he should attempt to get out of sight for a bit. He looked up and saw a marquee for the local independent art house. He shuffled away from a passerby and ducked into the old theatre building. It was dark inside, his eyes adjusted quickly and the faint glow grew as he moved along the shadows. He walked past glassed in displays of past performances: cast pictures, program sheets, dog-eared scripts, and newspaper reviews. After a moment, he moved on, stepping out into the small auditorium. The floor extended out to a veranda that rimmed the theatre. Small tables in booths lined the terrace, tucked away to overlook the stage. Behind him to his left was a stairwell, most likely leading to the auditorium seating below. He headed off to one of the wings, slipping into an empty booth, the dim lighting allowing him to blend into the shadows. He slid his chair, shifting it so that he could overlook the stage. Below a gentleman nervously croaked out verses of poetry, and a small group of supporters shouted encouragement.
"Excuse me." A voice startled him out of his thoughts. He turned to regard the blonde woman that stood waiting for his response. The dimlight shone down on her features, and Kurt guessed that she was not yet in her twenties.
"I'm sorry, I didn't quite hear you," he grinned and shrugged holding his palms up in a unassuming guesture.
"Did ya want anything from the bar? We've got soda, coffee, tea, water, beer."
"A beer would be fine, fraulein."
"Sure. Whatever." She jotted a note down on the pad she was carrying, and headed to the next booth. Kurt redirected his attention back to the performances below. The poet had been replaced by a olderman, who was seated at an stool. He had readjusted the mike, and was in the process of removing a worn, antique violin from a battered gray case. He placed the instrument in the base between his chin and chest, and smooth falcetto of violin notes began to fill the auditorium. After a slow warm up scale, he began a moody overture, starting slow and heavy, picking up power and momentum has he moved through the music. Kurt leaned against the banister railing, propping his head on his arm as he listened. The concentration on the music, allowed his ears to pick up footfalls of someone approaching his booth. There was a pause, then figure slid into the booth across from him, entering his periphal vision. Nothing was said until the heavy seconds after the violinist had finished passed.
"He has quite a talent."
"Some would call it a gift, Warren. We all have gifts." He turned in his seat, ignoring the comedy act that was setting up the stage. He faced the man across from him, giving him a questioning glance. Warren fought against the cold stare, motioning with hands.
"She went out shopping. I doubt she ever really had the opportunity to purchase from designer stores in the past."
Kurt nodded in understandment. "And you?"
"Well." Warren juggled with the thought of being coy, but he thought that an upfront approach was warranted at the moment. "I heard that you and Logan are staying behind when we take off tomorrow. Niether of you mentioned anything previously, I just wanted to make sure you were okay."
"Telepath? Jean. Or Emma?"
"Actually, no." Warren chuckled. "Bell hop. Apparently Wolverine had left quite an impression heading out the door this morning."
"It figures. He wasn't exactly a morning person today. I doubt that there's anything to worry about. Logan has something up his sleeve, but he's not bothering to let me in on it either. I trust him, so doubt that there should be any trouble while we are out."
"I didn't mean to come across like that. You don't need me to hold your hand even if I am leader of this team. Take whatever time you'll need. When your ready, let us know if you need our help with anything, even if it's a flight back to the U.S."
Kurt smiled, his fangs glinting. "You're right, I'm being difficult, nein?" He nodded as the young woman came back with the cold bottle, he motioned to Warren. The girl's eyes widened, but she nodded and took off to bring a second drink for his companion. "Has Bobby wakened to give us his input on where to go tonight?"
"Well, actually, since you bring it up."