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In a cloud of brimstone and sulfur, Nightcrawler teleported away from her lunging fist, that familiar, not-quite-irritating-and-almost-enjoyable little half smile (that seemed to say he thought this whole thing was plainly ridiculous) the last thing Rogue saw before she whirled around to where she knew he would reappear. He was very good, but so was she, and they had fought so many times now that it was starting to feel like a well-choreographed dance, each trying to impress the other, even if admitting how much she enjoyed it would mean admitting he couldn't actually be the enemy he was supposed to be). Forcing her mouth into a thin line even as her lips started trying to twitch upwards, she set her feet and crouched into a ready stance, eyes settling on exactly where he would re-appear in the world.
But he was far closer than she expected—than he ever usually got during one of their not-a-dance tussles—almost right on top of her. Close enough that her fear of contact—of hurting anyone that way—froze her for just a moment, her eyes widening in surprise or panic or maybe both. In the instant before he moved, she had just enough time to notice one of his yellow gloves had disappeared, and the fur of his hands was even darker than the rest of him, shining midnight-indigo in the moonlight. And then his hand was moving and she braced herself for impact because she knew she had stayed still too long and--
Fur brushed across her face, slowly, featherlight, caressing the skin from her temple all the way down her jawline, to the tip of her chin. She froze. He was touching her. He was touching her! Without clothes or any other barrier between them but a tiny fraction of an inch of surprisingly-soft fur. And not just brushing by, either—the careful pressure, just enough to be deliberate and bend his fur without bringing their skin into contact, was unmistakable. Fur warm with life. Another human person—Kurt—and she hadn't ever let herself imagine that anyone ever again—
Rogue shivered, and leaned into Nightcrawler’s touch before she even knew what she was doing. Her brain caught up to her a moment later, and she started to recoil, horrified at her lapse, but he just moved his hand with her, and at the sad sigh he breathed out she forced herself to look at his face.
His smile was small and soft and nothing like the deranged, I-would-still-be-this-completely-happy-if-I-were-on-fire manic grins he normally wore when fighting alongside Scott Summers and his merry mutant band (that maybe sometimes she wished were her band, too). Rogue had never seen it before, but some instinct told her it was the most genuine smile he had ever given her.
His hand slipped off her face like a leaf blowing away in a gentle wind, but he kept it hanging by her ear before she could start to miss it, flicking gently at one of her alabaster bangs and somehow managing not to be awkward at all (or maybe he was completely awkward and she just didn’t care?).
Rogue opened her mouth to speak, their tableaux going unnoticed as the battle raged around them, but no sound came out.
"I do not mean to be overly forvard," Nightcrawler whispered, and out of the corner of her eye she was vaguely aware of Scott Summers sending Toad flying on a jet of red light in the distance, but otherwise paid them no mind, "but I can’t…” For once he stumbled over his words, nervousness suddenly flickering in golden eyes before he chased it away. “Ve are not monsters und no-one should be forced to ... feel alone like I … und ... I refused to see you sad und admit there was nothing I could do about it." This said, something in him seemed to uncoil, and he wiggled his furry fingers and his smile got just a bit bigger, but was still that mellow, sincere thing she had never seen before tonight. "Luckily, the Fuzzy One has a few tricks up his sleeves. So I practiced for weeks, made up dozens of excuses for fondling all the pillows in the mansion with my fingertips along the vay, somehow without everyone thinking I have some sort of plump furniture fetish, und I just thought," even in the dim moonlight she can see his blue face flush a deep purple, "it is not much, but...Happy Valentine's Day, Rogue."
It’s what day?! Dimly, it occurred to her she should really look at the calendar more often. He finally pulled his hand away from her hair, then, but she was so busy gaping at him and floundering for words she didn’t notice the flower he somehow pulled from behind her ear until he’s pressing it into one of her gloved hands. The pale moonlight showed her a rose with dark petals ending in pale, almost-glowing, white tips. “Silk, of course,” he grinned at her. “You’re alvays complaining about the vater at the Boardinghouse getting turned off vhen you’re trying to kick me in the head, and I vanted to make sure Toad vouldn’t try to eat it.” Even in the dim light, the quick eyebrow waggle was unmistakable.
For several heartbeats, Rogue just stared at him, heat rising in her cheeks and a pleasant warmth rising in her chest, and words, she needed words because this was the silliest and wierdest and sweetest thing anyone had done for her since she got this poisonous skin, and her vision blurred and something moist in her eyes had her blinking and the smile on her face, where did it come from, so wide it felt like it would cramp?
The words won't come, but maybe she doesn't need them, because suddenly he smiled fit to split his head open, relief and pleased joy crackling together in golden eyes as the last trace of his nervousness melted away. “Vell," he whispered, "I suppose ve should get back to pretending to beat the tar out of each other like proper enemies, ja? I'll be glad vhen all this is sorted out. En guarde?" he asked, face settled back into the private little half-smile she now suspected (hoped) was only for her.
For a long time, now, he'd been her secret almost-friend. In quiet conversations during their one-on-one battles-that-really-weren't, she let herself tell him bits of things no one else knew, and he shared snippets of secrets she suspected even the other X-Men had never heard. From the beginning, he had made it clear he never thought they needed to be enemies, even though she accidentally drained him that first, horrible night. But she couldn't imagine how they would ever get there. Then again, she couldn't have imagined getting to this moment, either. Maybe there was something more for her than the Brotherhood she stayed with—not because she believed in their cause, but because she couldn't see any other options.
Maybe someday. She turned her mind away before the same paralyzing fear—echoes of warnings and doubts Mystique whispered in her ears—that always kept her from approaching Professor Xavier tangled her up. She wasn't ready to trust the X-Men that much, not yet. But Nightcrawler, though?”Happy Valentine’s Day, Kurt,” she whispered, snorting a delighted laugh away when his pointed ears twitched at her and he beamed, white fangs glistening in the moonlight. She tucked the silk flower safely into one of her bigger pockets. “Now come and get it, ya big blue raccoon. Ah don’t have all night.”
And if that same head-splitting smile was still stuck firmly on her face, Kurt didn't say a word as he sketched a bow and came at her, fists and tail coming from two different directions so quickly even she wasn't sure how she twisted out of the way.
It was Valentine's Day, and the rest of these idiots could keep trying to kill each other if they wanted. She had a dance to finish.