Disclaimer: Theirs, not mine. As a child I was taught the merits of sharing.
A/N: Written for Nemain's Life After Death Challenge (even though I missed the deadline). And because I can.
Continuity: So far past the end of the series the Season Four future predictions are just a blip against the sunset of time.
Finale
© Scribbler, March 2006.
Life begins alone. Life ends alone.
The middle?
Kurt filled his life with people – friends, family, lovers, and those whose connection to him had no pigeonhole to easily slot into. He was a veritable flow chart of acquaintances. He grew up with them, grew old with them, but never, ever grew out of them.
He went to Scott and Jean's wedding in his best suit. He went to their funerals in it, too, but burned it afterwards.
He went every week to lay flowers on Kitty's grave, walking and then hobbling through the gates of the Jewish graveyard just off Greenwood Avenue. You couldn't even see the entrance from the street, which gave them enough privacy to talk like the old days, when they'd accidentally meet in the kitchen at midnight and finish what cookies and milk Jean and Scott had left.
He spent long hours in his 'church', talking to Bobby, to Evan, to Sam. Little Jimaine, the only one of his granddaughters who knew where it was, often came to listen and ask about his old teammates. Kurt would sit her on the rock next to him and weave intricate stories of foes in swirly capes and heroes who sometimes argued and whose costumes never matched. When he embellished his own daring she admonished him with a thick-fingered jab.
"Don't tell porkies, Grandpa. Your nose'll grow."
He never told her about the sour-mouthed fear of some missions. He never told her how much he missed everyone.
Rogue understood. She'd stayed with Roberto all through the melanoma, and still wore her wedding band. The engravings had worn smooth under her constant touch. She'd also helped write the invitations when the Professor went, and video-phoned Rahne to make sure Lucas actually turned up.
Logan kind of understood, but he was as good as eternal. Perception of death altered when you had a few centuries of watching other people die under your belt.
Kurt cried all the way through Rogue's wake. Afterwards he sank into his armchair, wondering where the hell the years went. Jimaine and Hilde came to sit by his feet, Hilde's purple hair scattered across his knee as she stared into the fake flames of the fire. Kurt ruffled it, drifting off the sleep as he was wont to do when warm and comfortable.
And then …
"I know who you are," Kurt murmured at the tall woman standing in front of him. Neither Jimaine nor Hilde noticed her, though she was unfamiliar to them. She also cast no shadow in the flickering light.
The woman nodded. Her face was burnished gold, like a surf bunny, with a tumble of dark ringlets that reached past her shoulders. Despite this, she was dressed formally, as though going out to the opera.
"Wait. 'M not ready," Kurt said, looking down at his granddaughters. They looked so fresh and young. Fur was useful for covering wrinkles, but his joints still creaked and his bones still ached when the weather got cold. It seemed to be cold all the time these days …
"Nobody ever is," the woman said in a voice like a tomb door shutting. "That's the way of it."
Still, he hesitated. "But I - "
Somewhere in the distance, someone called his name.
"Kurt!"
"Yo, Nightcrawler."
"Fuzzy."
"Dude, c'mon."
Kurt felt strangely disconnected from reality, as though caught in the split-second between 'port and re-entry. The colours of the things around him seemed muted, the fire not so warm, Hilde's head against his knee not quite as solid as it had been. At the same time the woman stood out, her features sharpened and clear.
"Hey, Fuzzbutt! Get your ass over here. Don't make me come after you."
All at once, Kurt smiled and went towards those familiar voices, feeling lighter than he had in years.
FINIS.