Scott dragged himself to consciousness by his fingernails. He was aided by a very insistent shake around his shoulderblades and a frightened voice creeling "VAKE UP, VAKE UP, DO NOT BE DEAD!" at the top of its lungs.
"Not dead," he muttered blearily, wishing he was. The pain was no longer quite so all-encompassing, there was at least that much relief. No, instead, it was centered in his bones and guts and skin and in slight and insignificant spots like his teeth and ears. He had absolutely no desire to open his eyes yet.
"Gut! Ooh, gut! I am very glad." The shaking stopped. "I vas very vorried."
"Thank you. I'm a-a-a-okay now."
"Ach, not really. But you are kind for pretendink."
Scott really wished that everyone could just lose those hinting tremors in their voice and stick to monotones in a crisis. Of course, now he wanted to know.
"I look horrible, don't I?"
"Do you really vant me to tell you?"
"Yes. Might as well."
"You look better zhan Rogue," he hedged.
"Oh? Rogue doesn't look so good? Looks dead?" Sarcasm was probably not helpful at the moment, but the temptation was too great.
"Very dead. Hamburger dead."
"That's very dead."
"Ja, very dead."
"I don't look very dead."
"No. You look very healthy in comparison."
"That's nice to know."
"Een fact, dear me, all ze floor you embedded een your face is back on the floor now."
"That's terrific."
"Sure you vant to hear any more?"
"Shoot. I'm game."
"You are a deer?"
"Kurt, you're being deliberately thick now."
"Sorry. Um. Eet is bad."
"All right. What kind of bad? I'll need bed rest bad, or I'll need plastic surgery bad?"
"Definitely plastic surgery."
"Oh, that kind of bad. Well, that's all right. Jean won't mind, will she? Anything else?"
"Maybe." There was a distinct hemming sound. "Um, ja."
"Can you give it to me in one straight sentense?"
"Ah . . . " Extended pause, broken sigh, and "Youaresomewhathorriblydisfiguredintoathingythereyougo."
Scott needed a moment to process that.
"What kind of thingy?"
"Ve can use Lord of the Rings terms?"
"All right. Let me guess, I resemble an orc."
"Somevhere between zhat and Aragorn's horse."
"Ouch."
"I expect it must hurt, ja."
"It hurts."
"I am sorry."
"No, it's all hunky-dory." Scott faintly wondered if the pain was subsiding. It was hard to tell. "You know what? No offense at all, man, but I am starting to wonder if this does have something to do with you."
He could hear Kurt's breathing suddenly become heavier. "I tink so. I tink zat ees right. I don't know vhy or how, but I tink zat ees right."
"Could you leave?" His voice was more plaintive than he wanted to admit. "I appreciate your loyalty, but I don't want to die, okay?"
"I vill leaf." There was a silence. "By ze door," he finally added, sounding rather shattered and a bit frustrated at the same time.
The door swung open a bit too early. Scott heard wheels creaking loudly on the floor. Xavier. Only, probably not.
Kurt let out a stifled shriek and teleported. Waves of brimstone swept over his head and he scrunched up his face involuntarily.
Creak, creak, the wheels came closer. Xavier's breathing was quite audible now.
"How are you feeling, Scott?"
The old detatched kindness was horribly misplaced. Scott felt a rage well up inside him. He wanted to jump to his feet and hit the imposter, force him to admit what he was and what he'd done . . . must of done something. But he couldn't.
"If you can't tell, you're blinder than I am."
"You'll survive, Scott. Be glad of that, if nothing else. Although you are still in pain, your body is functioning far better than you think it is. I'm going to have to ask you to use it now."
"Drop dead," Scott said sweetly.
"I said I am going to have to ask you to use it now."
Scott's legs scrabbled against the floor completely independent of his mind. He could feel his toenails dangerously raking against the concrete, catching on every inconsistency, every dent or scratch, and twinging hard up his foot and into his ankle. His knees were throbbing as his thighs tried to swerve them against the ground and into a kneeling position, even while his hips just sat there, inert and thick and tired.
Scott gave up. He didn't care if that was the point, it just wasn't worth it to have half of your body under someone else's control and trying to break away from the rest of you. "I'm working on it," he gritted and his legs collapsed, his again.
It was a slow process, standing. The muscles in his lower body were sore and torn from "Xavier's" abuse and they didn't feel familiar. There was that and the whole Scott still had his eyes tightly closed thing. He admitted to himself, reluctantly, that it was fear that kept them closed, now. He had enough of that wretched curiousity to want to find a mirror and suffer it all at once, but not in front of anyone, especially not this creature.
When he'd found his knees and his hands in the same crawling position, he found something else. His body did not want to stand. There was something chittering in the back of his mind that was extremely uncomfortable with an upright position and preferred a good-close-to-the-grass profile, driving forw . . .
Scott banished it and forced himself up.
His position was unsteady -- top-heavy with the shoulders dominating (instead of the nose, now, although the nose was still kinda oppressive in relation to its usual role) and trying to drive his head and chest back down, but he could stand.
"Excellent. Now, follow me."
Still refusing to open his eyes, Scott staggered after the sound of the wheels, one hand splayed off to his right to warn him of any imminent chair or brick walls.
Attack him, a voice urged. Do it now.
Now, why didn't I think of that? Scott responded belatedly, exhausted . . . and lunged.
He opened his eyes in frantic hope that something would happen. Nothing did. But the bald pate was facing him, and it was a clear shot. He formed his hand into a fist and . . .
. . . stopped just before impact.
"No good, Scott. Are we irritable today?"
Scott, staring at his frozen fist, didn't answer.
"I'm going to have to babysit again, aren't I? Well, all right. I'll walk you."
The wheelchair started wheeling and Scott zombied along behind. His fist was still out, as if Xavier hadn't felt it worth the effort to lower it.
It was a dark fist. Its coloring was irrelevant -- Scott's color vision was still shorted out along with his power -- but it was dark and disproportionately large to his arm. It was also clawed. A rending sort of claw, appropriate to Jurassic Park, save the jaggedness of the outline of his arm had to be more due to fur than scale.
Fur, huh? Perhaps Kurt . . .
. . . was practically right in front of him. Scott blinked. They were next to the library doors. Kurt was crouched, very still, like some sort of statuesque guardian, but he blinked a moment after Scott did and looked somewhat more aware.
"I'm going to park you two here for the time being . . . after, if you'd be so kind, Kurt, you open the door for me."
Kurt nodded listlessly and did so with an extended squeak. Scott tried to look around the wheelchair into the room, but felt a dismal boredom fall over him and stopped moving.
"I'll call for you momentarily . . . "
And the door shut.