Chapter Text
Kurt Wagner hardly ever used the stairs. Porting to and from his destination, no matter how insignificant the distance, was his preferred method of getting anywhere. Tonight, however, he found himself making an unusual exception as he tiptoed down the staircase towards the living room.
Blinking in and out of existence, no matter if was briefer than a millisecond, felt unnerving. For the moment, he wanted to stay grounded. He gingerly tested the carpeted living room floor from bottom step, as if checking to make sure it was still solid.
He had been here before. Where stepping down led to slipping through the floor into darkness. It felt similar to a teleport, but slower, more terrifying. What followed was hands grabbing at him from the darkness. They were his friends’, the X-Men’s, hands. They wrenched him open, left him exposed, and prepared to drive a wooden stake through his heart.
He remembered to trying plea. But no words left his mouth, only guttural noises. He was unable to reason with them, unable to speak. Reduced to an animal, being put down like a dog. Though, a dog would have been treated more humanly.
He felt the weight of invisible chains press on his neck and pinch his wrists and ankles. He felt eyes he could not see boring into him from the shadows.
“Come see the devil himself be exorcized!” He could almost hear the ringmaster sing, riling up the crowd for the show they were about to see.
His fur felt matted, wet. The stench of blood choked him, but the wooden stake had yet to be driven through his heart. It was not his own, but that of his—
Pain split through his chest before he could finish the thought.
That is when he had woke up, drenched in sweat. The fact that he sweated was one of the very few human things about him. Though ironically, it only served to emphasize his inhumanness. Wet dog was a term he often heard after a workout.
After a quick shower and blow dry later, he returned to his bed, but was unable to fall asleep. Which is why he found himself now in the living room, perusing the mansion’s arguably pitiful collection of VHS tapes.
If he was going to be awake, he might as well do something he enjoys, and if he had to pick anything, it would be watching movies. Even if it did not help him fall asleep, at the very least, it would get his mind off his vivid nightmare.
They had started ever since they returned to Earth. It had always been the same, though how it happened usually differed.
Some nights he couldn’t make out anything like tonight, other nights he could vividly see their faces, smiles twisted across their faces as they took glee in his agony. Sometimes it was only one of his companions—usually Logan—who pinned him down to slaughter him like a rabid beast, other times it felt like he was being ripped apart at the seams by the countless sinners of hell themselves.
Sometimes he saw his brother. Sometimes it was his sister or his mother. That pair was always gut-churning. He could hardly face them. They probably hated him, for what he had done. They probably despised him for running away and taking on a new life. They would never forgive him. He couldn’t even forgive himself.
On the rare occasion, he saw Jean. It had only happened once or twice, but when it had, it was a respite. He was never frightened of her, despite seeing her raw power firsthand. She never brought any harm against him for some reason. Perhaps she could resist the rules of his nightmares. He would try to speak to her, but he could only ever form guttural sounds. Even so, he would continue to try. He would try to ask her how she’s been, to apologize, and to tell her that he prayed for a restful eternity for her every night.
He was never sure if he was speaking to her truly or if she was only a figment of his imagination. But Jean had transcend life and death before. What was the mere boundary of reality and dreams to that?
He never asked her to come back. It felt like a selfish request and one he could not make. They had mourned her and buried her body. He had watched the funeral procession perched up in a tree, hidden by shadows. He could have worn his image inducer to remain by the casket. But he did not want to wear a mask the last time he saw her.
Something thudding against the kitchen floor pulled him from his thoughts. He blinked and realized he had simply been staring vacantly at the VHS tapes for a good few minutes. He straightened up a moment. His ears twitched at a thump against the kitchen table, followed by a low hiss of “Seriously?!”
The voice belonging to the hiss sounded young. Instinctively, he knew it to be their latest recruit, Kätzchen.
He had met her while they were rescuing their teammates from Frost’s clutches. She did not seem to like him. In fact, she seemed terrified of him. He shouldn’t exactly have been surprised. He was more than familiar with how she averted her gaze yet kept him out of the corner of her eye. How she always maintained a distance between herself and him. How she immediately flocked to the more human-looking mutants of the group.
He dealt with years upon years of that. It would be stranger if he didn’t notice. And at this point, it should not bother him.
But his teammates had accepted him so quickly. He had gotten complacent, lulled into a false sense of security, only to be shocked back to the reality of his circumstances. This was not a nightmare that he could simply shake off after a hot shower and a movie watch. This was how it was.
As much as he wanted to deny it, it did bother him. It always did. He didn’t want anyone to be afraid.
But his feelings hardly mattered now. No, what mattered more was checking on Kätzchen.
And trying to get some sleep.
That’s what he decided as he straightened up and padded over to the kitchen archway.