thisavrou_log | the darkness inside you [closed]

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x-men movies: kurt wagner

the darkness inside you [closed]

Who: York and Kurt.
When: Late in January, but before they get to the fourth floor.
Where: Camp, third floor - specifically the tent they are sharing.
What: Kurt's been fighting sleep for a long time after encountering all the bodies on the second floor, but he couldn't do it anymore and finally passed out. Little does he know, his dreams aren't going to be so nice to him ...
Warnings: Probably some mentioning of the dead bodies and abuse. If anything else comes up that should be added, I will edit and do so!

It had been almost three days since the last time he'd been able to lie down and get something that could account for sleep. Each time Kurt put his head on the pillow and closed his eyes, all of the destruction from the earlier floor came flooding back, torturing him with mangled bodies, the distinct smell of rotting flesh and the sight of people working together (himself included) to move them all out of the room for a proper burial of some sort.

This, coupled with the audio logs that had been found were plenty to keep him awake for far longer than he'd ever intended and finally, his body couldn't take the lack of rest anymore.

He sat slumped on the cot, rubbing over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing heavily at the grogginess that he couldn't fight through. He didn't even register falling onto his side, knees curled into his chest, arms and tail looped tightly around them. For an hour or so, it seemed like he might be able to get away with snoozing for some length of time, but the memories began to creep back, even into his unconscious thought process.

Deteriorating corpses, riddled with unidentifiable marks, the horrible stench, how many prayers he had uttered in hopes that wherever the souls had ended up, they would be given the chance to return to their creator - whatever or whomever that might have been.

He whimpered and writhed in his sleep, rolling in a rather violent manner onto his back, his arms moving to clutch around his shoulders. Seeing all those poor people had brought on memories of his time in the fight club - how the workers there simply carted off the bodies, whether they were simply knocked out or actually dead, disposing of them as if they were garbage, unfit and undeserving of any decent treatment.

His breathing began to increase in pace, fingers struggling to grip his coat, fumbling across the leather in his tossing and turning state. Kurt wanted to wake up, needed to be pulled from this unsettled state, but couldn't find the strength to do so, no matter how hard he attempted to bring himself back to the safety of consciousness. He was trapped in that box again, unable to barely move, let alone breathe in the claustrophobic conditions.

How did one escape the fear lingering in the depths of ones mind with no possibility to break free when he couldn't find the strength to jolt awake?

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York is a light sleeper these days. It's actually easier for him to be patrolling than sleeping, but he isn't completely nocturnal -- some nights he does sleep in the night, and this is one of those. His armor rests in a pile at the bottom of the tent and he's actually resting. He still keeps an ear out, though, for anything suspicious that could be coming for them. So when Kurt's sleep is disrupted by dreams York is awake in an instant, his eye taking a moment to focus in the darkness of their shared tent.

"Hey..." He leans down and whispers it first, not wanting to disturb anyone in a nearby tent, but Kurt doesn't seem to hear. "Hey." A little louder, reaching out this time and gripping the younger man by the shoulder, giving a little shake. He's on guard against being attacked -- that was usually the case when he woke a roommate up from a nightmare. "It's just a dream, Kurt. You're safe, wake up."

The main reason he can't hear York at first is because of the pitiful noises he's making in his restless state; he continues to shift uncomfortably, but doesn't stretch out his legs, although he has the capability to do so. In his subconscious, he knows he isn't actually in that electrified container, but within the nightmare, that's exactly where he's at and he can't seem to break free.

Kurt stirs at the second attempt to rouse him, inhaling sharply and wincing his eyes shut tighter. He's startled awake by the touch on his shoulder, one hand reaching to grab York's wrist, the other clenching around his opposite forearm. His tail lashes out to loop around the other male's waist, eyes snapping open, the golden irises flaring to life as he bares his fangs in a throaty growl.

It takes him a moment to notice where he's at and when he begins to regain coherent thought, the blue boy loosens his grip, withdrawing his hands to cup around his face in shock, the length of his tail sliding away, too. "York, I ... I am so sorry!"

He was expecting to be grabbed, so the hands on him aren't a surprise. Neither is the growl. It's quieter than a shout, as well, which is good. What catches York off guard is the tail suddenly around his waist, and he nearly loses his balance and falls on top of Kurt before the other wakes the rest of the way and loosens his grip. York settles back on his heels, keeping the hand on Kurt's shoulder in place and giving it a little squeeze. "--it's okay. Nothing to be sorry about." His voice is soft and steady.

"Nightmare?"

His heart is racing like the wings of a hummingbird, breath quivering, the blood pounding in his ears practically deafening. Kurt adjusts the positioning of his hands, cupping them around his entire face and trying to calm his labored panting. He'd almost hurt someone again - not intentionally, of course, but in his mind, that didn't matter. "I c-could have ..." The grip on his shoulder is reassuring enough to make his left hand lower, the right one staying pressed over his bangs, holding them in place to cover that side of his face.

He's unsure if he can keep his words straight, so in return, he simply nods his head toward the question.

"No, you couldn't have. I'm a trained soldier, trust me a little." He's also probably twice Kurt's size, the little noodle. "I can totally take you." Not that he would, but if it came down to it the worst Kurt could do is teleport them somewhere. Which would be more disorienting than dangerous.

He smiles in the dark, shifting to sit on the edge of Kurt's cot. "Do you wanna talk about it? It sounded pretty bad."

"I do trust you. It is myself that I have less faith in." There's a brief pause, confusion creasing his features at that comment. "Where are we going?" He doesn't quite get the choice of words, although that could probably be chalked up to some of the language barriers he still suffers with at times.

Once York sits on the end of the bed, he shifts to drape his legs over the side, bracing his feet and propping his elbows up onto his knees, face dropping into his hands. "The bodies ... the bodies, York. There were so many."

"No, I mean I could take you, like in a fight I'd win. Unless you teleported me fifty feet up or something. Then I'd be in trouble." He tries to keep it light, keep the smile in his voice, but when Kurt sits up to talk about the dream he sobers. The grip he has on Kurt's shoulder turns to a gentle stroking of his back.

"Yeah... but there's nothing we could have done for them, you know that. They were gone long before we got here. At least we gave them some peace."

"Oh," he remarks in realization, shaking his head and doing his best to force a smile for York, "I would not doubt it at all. You do have a few feet on me and you are probably stronger. After a while, my teleportation would exhaust me and I would be a sitting duck." Kurt sucks in a breath, holds it until the air goes stale and he has to release it, the caress over his back easing some of his anxiety from a few minutes ago.

"No, I know. Seeing all of them like that, it ... awoke some memories I wish I could be rid of."

"And that's the worst kind of duck. I'd kick your butt. So don't worry about it." He keeps up the gentle stroking, the easy manner that says he didn't mind being grabbed, isn't worried about getting hurt. Kurt would never do it on purpose, after all.

"...memories, huh?" He'd be lying if he didn't say the same. Battlefields of soldiers dead and wounded. He just tended to be quieter about his nightmares.

He makes a mock offended noise, eyes rolling, although that earlier smile returns with some renewed vigor. "I will not make it easy for you." Scrubbing over his face, he straightens up from his bent over position and reaches to lightly grip York's shoulder in return.

"Mm-hmm," Kurt muses in agreement, suddenly aware of the fact that he hasn't told anyone about what had happened back when he was still living in Germany. "This all sounds rather vague, does it not?"

"It does, but you don't have to tell me if you don't want to." He's thinking something along the lines of Kurt having grown up in a warzone -- he certainly can't picture the younger man hurting anyone.

Not telling meant that they would sit here, most likely in an extremely awkward silence while York continued to comfort him. Ever since that day the soldier had come to help him with the water poisoning, Kurt felt like he could trust York, even if they hadn't known each other long.

"... it would not be fair of me to mention something like that without offering some sort of explanation." He lifts his other hand to his face, rubbing over tired eyes and throbbing temples with an almost shaking breath. "Just know, I will not be surprised if you think less of me afterward."

"I'd be surprised," York tells him, watching Kurt worriedly. "But I'll listen. Why don't you lie back down?"

"Do not say that until you have heard the story," Kurt warns, fingers clenching around his bangs as he moves to flop back onto the cot again. He feels overheated and ice cold at the same time, his stomach rolling at the possibility of York's impression of him becoming something that he doesn't want.

"...okay. Tell me the story." Some of the things he's done would turn Kurt's stomach, he's sure, but he doesn't say that. He just settles more comfortably beside Kurt, reaching down and pulling the blanket over his friend when he notices a shiver.

His mouth instantly goes dry, sharp canines digging into the side of his cheek to keep his teeth from chattering. He reaches to clutch the blanket over his shoulders, fingers momentarily clenching at York's then slipping away again.

"Do you remember when we were chatting with miss Angela and I mentioned how I was born in Germany?"

Here, buddy, you can hold his hand. York pries his fingers loose of the blanket and offers his to grip instead. Nothing to be afraid of here.

"I remember."

Gosh, even the simplest of touching makes him feel unworthy, but it doesn't stop him from grasping onto York's hand when it's offered.

"Well, before I was brought ... here, I was rescued from a fight club in Berlin and brought to America. In that club, I was forced to fight other mutants for the entertainment of humans."

He stops there for a moment, tightening his grip on the other male's hand and using the free one to try and hide his face. "People got hurt, people died ... I did not want to fight, but I was selfish and wanted to live."

A fight club? That's not what York was thinking, not at all, it's much worse. And while he can see where Kurt would be ashamed of it... he was being forced.

"It was you or them, I'm guessing? Fighting for your life isn't the same as being a killer." He hesitates, then: "You know I was a soldier, right? Special ops. I lost track of my body count years ago, but... I don't think either of us are bad people. I'm just sorry you had to go through that."

"That is exactly how it was, ja. It was either we fought until one of us fell or they killed us both." He went silent to allow York to speak, turning to look up at him through the two-toned bangs obscuring the right side of his face. "I ... I am sorry. You have suffered far more than I have and yet, here I am, whining over something that hardly matters in your case."

That probably didn't come out right; Kurt cringes and dips his head in humiliation, forehead resting in his palm as he clutches his head. Later, he'll blame it on the lack of sleep. "I cannot say that it is okay because it is not. I destroyed another mutant's wing to save myself," he pauses, inhales sharply and buries his face into his pillow. "What kind of person does that make me?"

"No. I enlisted by choice. I'm not going to play the game of who has it worse but you were forced into it against your will. You only did what you had to, and it makes you a survivor. It's not okay. But it's not a reflection of who you are, either."

And that was something he'd been afraid of; it wasn't a contest and he didn't mean for it seem like he was treating it as such. "... I am sorry," he repeats, shaking his head and attempting to loosen his hand from York's while he hides his face deeper in the cushion.

The blue boy feels stupid for his reaction, for bringing up the subject, for waking York and especially for the burning sensation in his chest and behind his eyes that he can't seem to fight off.

"Kurt..."

York sighs, not sure what to say that won't upset him worse. Instead he lets go of Kurt's hand, nudging him farther over on the cot so he can lie down and drape an arm over the younger man.

"Cry if you need to, okay?"

"York, please ..."

He trails off there, unsure as to where he was going with that comment. Raising both hands to the sides of his head, Kurt grips his hair between his fingers, shifting forward a bit when York urges him to do so. An arm settling around him causes him to tense, shimmering golden eyes flicking down to briefly look at it before wincing shut. He inhales sharply, tries to calm his trembling, but the whole situation, the fact that York is so willing to comfort him ...

They pool at the corners of his eyes then begin to stream down his cheeks before he can stop them, running in hot rivulets all the way to his chin. His shoulders hunch with the effort of keeping his crying silent and try as he might, he can't fight back the quiet sob anymore, even when he shifts to bury his face into his forearms.

York lies behind him, a warm solid presence, and tugs Kurt back against his chest. The crying is heartbreaking but he knows it'll be better if Kurt gets it out, even if he just cries himself back to sleep. Maybe the nightmares will relent if his heart is a bit lighter. "It wasn't your fault," he murmurs, voice soft in the quiet of their tent.

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