The raindrops pattered softly on the pavement. They were all but invisible in the dark until they crossed a pool of light thrown down by a streetlamp, and then the droplets sparkled with the reflected glow. The night hid many things.
Kurt stood on the bridge with his back to the thoroughfare, in a patch of deep shadow midway between two lamps. Wearing his long, baggy raincoat, nothing was visible of his skin, his face or his pointed blue tail, coiled around one leg for safekeeping. The only things that betrayed his mutation were his three fingered hands, and those were hooked lightly over the balcony.
Kurt liked the night. Here he was just another passer by, another figure in the shadows. An insomniac perhaps, or an artist, even a writer looking for inspiration. Just like any other nightwalker. But he was not an ordinary nightwalker. He was the Incredible Nightcrawler, and his demonic face struck fear into the heart of man!
Still, Kurt felt happy. Given his appearance and the reaction he provoked in most people, he had learned to find happiness wherever he could. The quiet flow of the river below calmed him and spoke to his soul of God's hand in the world. The rain cooled him as it wet him, and what was a bit of wetness for this semblance of freedom? In the night he could be among "normal" people, and as long as he kept his hood up his skin could pass for a very dark black.
Not that he needed to worry about that right now, alone at the parapet with his back to the passers-by. He smiled to himself. Happiness, that was something he seemed to be finding more of lately. It was true, he'd had good times with the circus, but his fellow performers had all been "normal". Even those who knew him had been distant; he had never quite been "one of the gang." He couldn't very well have gone out for drinks with them, or for dinner, or to the movies, and in any case they had never invited him. That was the way it had to be, and Kurt didn't resent them for it.
Even so, with the X-Men it was different. At Xavier's school he was among mutants, and though none were quite so distinctive looking as he was, all had their differences and their reasons for staying outside of the lighted circle of humanity. There were so many he could count as his real friends now, after only one week among them.
There was Rogue, still grateful for the rescue that he hadn't thought twice about, and Bobby and Logan, also grateful for the safe return of their friend. There was Scott, who, although still closed off and obviously hurting about the loss of Jean, had never treated Kurt with anything but civility and kindness. Professor X had welcomed him, and the young students, after getting used to his demonic looks, seemed fascinated by him and were always begging him to show them his powers of teleportation. It was taking some getting used to, which was why he needed these nighttime walks more than ever now. He needed space on his own to make sure that his newfound popularity was really, truly real.
And then of course there was the other, she whose face even now haunted his thoughts in the dark, damp night. She with the dark and beautiful face framed by a halo of snowy white. An angel, Kurt thought, but an angry one. An angry, hurting angel, full of rage and pain and hate just under the surface. Kurt didn't know what it was that had made her so, but he longed to find out, to heal and to soothe.
Storm. Perhaps not a name suited to your usual angelic being, but a fitting one for someone whose hidden emotions were as tempestuous as Ororo Munroe. She, the first person in his whole life to tell him that his tattoos were beautiful. She, the first person to look upon him without fear, without mistrust and without revulsion from the very first. She, the beautiful and tortured angel whose grace he dared not even hope for.
And yet hope he did, because hadn't she looked into his eyes and told him she had faith in him? And didn't he sense her watching him as he prayed, or played with the younger students? It could just be curiosity; the religious often fascinated those without faith, even when they weren't bright blue and sporting a tail. But Kurt thought there was more in her eyes than mere curiosity. And so he felt hoped and prayed that this angel who seemed to see through the looks of a demon could perhaps see even further, to the heart that lay beneath.
The rain was easing and the sun was rising in the east. Kurt sighed, he had better be off. He turned. The bridge was empty of all but himself and a young woman walking by on the other side of the road. As soon as she was out of sight there was a soft implosion, and then the bridge was empty even of that.
Kurt stood on the bridge with his back to the thoroughfare, in a patch of deep shadow midway between two lamps. Wearing his long, baggy raincoat, nothing was visible of his skin, his face or his pointed blue tail, coiled around one leg for safekeeping. The only things that betrayed his mutation were his three fingered hands, and those were hooked lightly over the balcony.
Kurt liked the night. Here he was just another passer by, another figure in the shadows. An insomniac perhaps, or an artist, even a writer looking for inspiration. Just like any other nightwalker. But he was not an ordinary nightwalker. He was the Incredible Nightcrawler, and his demonic face struck fear into the heart of man!
Still, Kurt felt happy. Given his appearance and the reaction he provoked in most people, he had learned to find happiness wherever he could. The quiet flow of the river below calmed him and spoke to his soul of God's hand in the world. The rain cooled him as it wet him, and what was a bit of wetness for this semblance of freedom? In the night he could be among "normal" people, and as long as he kept his hood up his skin could pass for a very dark black.
Not that he needed to worry about that right now, alone at the parapet with his back to the passers-by. He smiled to himself. Happiness, that was something he seemed to be finding more of lately. It was true, he'd had good times with the circus, but his fellow performers had all been "normal". Even those who knew him had been distant; he had never quite been "one of the gang." He couldn't very well have gone out for drinks with them, or for dinner, or to the movies, and in any case they had never invited him. That was the way it had to be, and Kurt didn't resent them for it.
Even so, with the X-Men it was different. At Xavier's school he was among mutants, and though none were quite so distinctive looking as he was, all had their differences and their reasons for staying outside of the lighted circle of humanity. There were so many he could count as his real friends now, after only one week among them.
There was Rogue, still grateful for the rescue that he hadn't thought twice about, and Bobby and Logan, also grateful for the safe return of their friend. There was Scott, who, although still closed off and obviously hurting about the loss of Jean, had never treated Kurt with anything but civility and kindness. Professor X had welcomed him, and the young students, after getting used to his demonic looks, seemed fascinated by him and were always begging him to show them his powers of teleportation. It was taking some getting used to, which was why he needed these nighttime walks more than ever now. He needed space on his own to make sure that his newfound popularity was really, truly real.
And then of course there was the other, she whose face even now haunted his thoughts in the dark, damp night. She with the dark and beautiful face framed by a halo of snowy white. An angel, Kurt thought, but an angry one. An angry, hurting angel, full of rage and pain and hate just under the surface. Kurt didn't know what it was that had made her so, but he longed to find out, to heal and to soothe.
Storm. Perhaps not a name suited to your usual angelic being, but a fitting one for someone whose hidden emotions were as tempestuous as Ororo Munroe. She, the first person in his whole life to tell him that his tattoos were beautiful. She, the first person to look upon him without fear, without mistrust and without revulsion from the very first. She, the beautiful and tortured angel whose grace he dared not even hope for.
And yet hope he did, because hadn't she looked into his eyes and told him she had faith in him? And didn't he sense her watching him as he prayed, or played with the younger students? It could just be curiosity; the religious often fascinated those without faith, even when they weren't bright blue and sporting a tail. But Kurt thought there was more in her eyes than mere curiosity. And so he felt hoped and prayed that this angel who seemed to see through the looks of a demon could perhaps see even further, to the heart that lay beneath.
The rain was easing and the sun was rising in the east. Kurt sighed, he had better be off. He turned. The bridge was empty of all but himself and a young woman walking by on the other side of the road. As soon as she was out of sight there was a soft implosion, and then the bridge was empty even of that.