Jean knows that Kurt is struggling with some of the reports he receives, as a member of The Quiet Council. She knows why. Sometimes, even in Sage's cool, crisp, black and white, formal language, the things The Council deals with are hard to read: reports from refugees, medical details from victims, threat assessments, most of what X-Force pass on to the council.
They disturb her too. So they go through them together.
He's a gentle soul, she thinks, as she brews tea, he shouldn't have to know about rape, assault and torture or about the dark things done both to and by his country. Some are dark things he has personally authorised.
He's been sheltered for years, mostly by Scott and Logan, from this, from the sharp end. But there's no sheltering anymore. Scott's memories of the last time Kurt found out about clandestine black ops are really not pleasant; no one likes exposing him to such things, but at least this time he knows from the start.
Logan doesn't think that is any better, but he also thinks that not knowing, the previous time, contributed to Kurt getting killed, so he's conflicted.
There is no easy, no kind solution. Kurt has signed up to The Quiet Council, some of the burden is his. But they're all determined that he's not going to shoulder more than his fair share. And he's not going to do it alone.
She watches him work, while the tea brews, his head bent over the custom keyboard, his mind filled with concentration and analysis. She'd never quite realised how clever he is. Not a genius, like Hank or Charles, but sharp and analytical and able to turn his kindness into practical solutions.
Like most people, she was used to the act, the stage presence, cheerful, upbeat, the showman. She feels that she knew The Amazing Nightcrawler, but she's only just getting to know Kurt.
"I've incorporated Emma's data. She's very prompt, I do wish certain others would follow her example. Though without the fur collar."
"Why?" She turns and laughs. She doesn't see what Emma's expensive, ever changing, wardrobe has to do with the punctuality of reports.
Kurt just carries on typing. But she **hears** his thoughts, as clear as though he'd spoken aloud.
The fury which rolls through her like a scalding hot wave causes the paperwork before him to scatter. He looks up then, sees her face, sees her hair crackling with power. Forgotten, the teapot shatters in the sink. Which breaks the tableau.
"Jean!" He's on his feet and over to her in a flash. "Have you burnt yourself? Jean?"
There's concern in his tone as he approaches her, his eyes haven't left her face, he reaches out to touch her, but falls back at the second wave of fury coming off her. She grabs his arms, pinning him before her.
"A FURRIER!"
She feels him flinch. She can barely speak with the fury.
"Jean... I..." He doesn't have the words. And she's stollen the private, private memory from him.
**Kurt!** She reaches through the psylink they share, it's more precise than words and she can deal with the emotions better. **Kurt, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...**
She realises she's still holding his upper arms. He's confused, angry, hurt at the invasion of his privacy. And he doesn't understand why his memory of a furrier, trying to buy him for his pelt, should anger her. It was so many years ago. That he doesn't understand her anger, that breaks her heart and fuels her rage.
She lets go of his arms and he steps back, she can see the flush across his cheekbones. He's embarrassed. Why is he embarrassed?
"I think I'd better go, Jean."
He's pulling away, physically, mentally. He starts gathering up his paperwork.
"No." She can't let him go. She knows of she does she'll have lost him. "Kurt, please, I'm so sorry." She can feel tears prickling her eyes. He holds the laptop, the paperwork work to him, she can feel the turmoil in his mind; he wants to stay, he wants to go, he wants to forget but it's important that he remember.
Logan calls him beautiful. He's certainly striking, the sharp aquiline nose, the soft fall of hair and the grace, even just standing there, clutching the work to his chest, he's graceful, as though his body can't strike an ugly pose.
He's also blue. A shocking, astonishing shade of cobalt, not a colour often seen in nature. And he's furred. She always forgets that. Because the fur on his face is so very fine, but she's seen him in the gym, she knows it's longer elsewhere. Fur, like an animal. Like Emma's fox fur collar or absolutely simple white mink cloak. Bile rises in her throat.
Someone wanted to buy him from the circus. For his fur. They would have killed this gentle, clever, bright, good man for his skin.
His tail, always behind him, a barometer of his mood, is hanging limp; she's upset him, badly.
He looks up at her, those calm, matchless, gold eyes. Not yellow, not orange, glowering with a gentle light, golden. He's ashamed. He's never ashamed of who he is, what he looks like. She quells her nausea, this is his pain, it's not about her.
She crosses the room. He's stock still, she can feel the tension building in his legs, he's going to go. Teleport. Run. She's not sure where to, just away, away from her.
**Please, please don't go.** She tries a different track. **Let me get Logan...**
**Dear God, no Jean!** He bows his head. **He'd go berserk.**
He should, she thinks. He should find out who and... There she stops. Realisation dawns. If Logan even suspects the furrier or the circus owner are still alive, he will hunt them down and destroy them. And she'd help him.
And Kurt really, really doesn't want that to happen.
They sit, shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the blue green globe below. The white clouds swirl across the Pacific, a huge typhoon, devastating in its ferocity, but from this distance all is calm.
Kurt wraps his hands about the mug, his thick fingers won't fit through the handle.
**I think the worst of it was that, for years after, if I did something to displease him, he would remind me that he still had the furrier's 'phone number.**
**Oh. Oh Kurt.** He'd been eleven. A child. Her heart breaks some more, bad enough to even think of doing that to an adult, but to a child. There are no words in her for such evil. And to hold it over him, for years, to enforce the horror, the terror of being less than human. She finds the word. The word is 'obscene'. Eleven. He was eleven.
**It was after this that Margali started to learn real magic. To protect me. Us.** He gazes at the weather front. **And we all know how well that turned out.** Magic drove is foster mother insane. And his foster brother to kill. And Kurt to kill him, to stop him.
Layers of pain. And he just smiles and carries on.
**Does anyone else know?**
**Charles does. He promised...** He turns to her. **And you must too. Promise me you won't tell, not Scott, not Ororo or Peter, but most of all, not Logan.**
She looks at him. **Promise me, Jean. We can't break all the spindles, on all the spinning wheels in the land to protect me.** He quirks a smile. ** Do you know how many furriers there are, the right age? The right location?** She shakes her head. **No, me neither. But I'm sure he'll find out. If he thinks he has to.**
She embraces him, feels a flash of utter relief that he lets her. He puts the mug on the arm of the sofa and the strong, soft, gentle arms close about her.
**I've had such a privileged life, Jean. We all have, all Charles' students, all The X-Men.**
She thinks of all the death, the pain, the madness. She thinks of consuming a star.
**Privileged?**
He nods, indicates the Earth.
**We sit here, like the gods of Olympus, my lovely Persephone.** He kisses her fingertips. **We decide the fates of our people. Of humans. Of the world which gave us birth. We do it from a position of security, we don't hunger, we're not cold or frightened or hurt anymore. And we are trying to make it better. Better for all the little Jeans and Kurts and Scotts and all the rest who didn't have a Charles Xavier to come in and save them.
We can't hate them all, Jean. We can't limit our lives by wasting energy and time on hate and fear. If I hated everyone who ever said or did something to me, how much of my precious time, of my three score and ten, would I have wasted?**
And so many people have hated you, feared you, abused you, she thinks. Right from the day you were born. She doesn't think she could ever be so forgiving, but she sees now why he feels the need to go through life like that.
She looks down at the spinning globe below, then into those beautiful eyes.
And she understands. Understands why he will do the Council paperwork, even though it hurts him. Why he will sit opposite his mother, listening to her cruel barbs whenever he speaks to the council. Why he'll sit, late into the night, working on import tariffs or drain designs. Why this is important to him.
She hugs him close, Logan is right, he is beautiful.
She wipes her hand across her eyes.
"So, if I'm Persephone?" He knowledge of Greek and Roman myths is sketchy. His smile is naughty.
"That makes Scott, Apollo. Logan is Ares, though, currently, Hades might be more appropriate. Tessa is Athena. Charles and Eric are clearly Hera and Zeus. But we're not sure which is which."
"And who's this 'we'?"
He grins, "Hank and I have it all worked out"
"Do you now."
"Just to show that a classical education is never wasted."
She laughs. "And what about you?"
"Me? Oh, I'm no one important, just a little faun in the woods"
"Some of us wouldn't agree with that."
He tilts his head, the floppy curls fall over his forehead. "Think of me as Pan then." He sneaks a kiss under her ear.
His tail curls beside them, relaxed, like a sleeping cat.
Not a word is said in The Council chamber but Emma stops wearing her furs; she has quite enough expensive clothes without them and some of the younger Island residents think they aren't 'woke', whatever that means.
Kurt catches Jean's eye, with a wink, then stands before The Quiet Council, calm, assured, undeniably blue and unashamedly furry and picks up his paperwork.
"So, as I was saying, the committee on environmental impact assessment..."