Dominating Crimson (crimsonobsessor) wrote,
Dominating Crimson

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Fic: 'Monsters', Rating: PG-13, X-Men: Evo, Todd/Kurt

Title - Monsters
Rating- PG-13
Fandom - X-Men: Evolution
Pairings - Todd/Kurt
Warnings- Slash, implied violence and some cursing.
Summary- I joined the x_men100 and picked the Omega Theme Set for my prompts. This is my first, from prompt #01 - Creature. Pre-series.

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me, and if they did they'd never have been able to get them past the censors. Pity, that.
Crossposted to x_men100 and toddkurtslash.

/blah/ = Translated from German

Kurt slammed into the attic floor, knocking the breath out of already burning lungs. Splinters dug past his fur, barely registering against the myriad pains, large and small, that he was feeling. An acrid scent hun in the air; he wheezed, coughed painful, wracking coughs, knocked his forehead into the rough wood of the floor with the recoil, and still his abused lungs kept firing.

Eyes watering, he curled in on himself, a tight, shaking ball, and listened dimly to the thumps echoing down below.


Todd's internal clock told him he couldn’t have been out for longer than a minute. The concrete was still chill against his skin, the wounds still blindingly fresh. Todd didn’t have to move to know at least one rib was cracked, possibly broken, maybe more. Something in his back was screaming and something else in his side was grinding; all of it hurt like a motherfucker.

There was a light touch on his shoulder and he shrieked, a strangled, animal sound, and tried to jump away.

He ended up a huddled mass kneeled on the ground several feet away, knees pulled under him and forehead touching the cool concrete, scrawny arms struggling to force his organs to shut the fuck up and let him think for one goddamn minute.


The hand that rested on Kurt’s shoulder was gentle, but he scrambled back with a soft cry, his sharp intake of breath bringing on another fit of coughing and panting. Recognition was slow to come; it wasn’t until strong arms wrapped tightly around him, momentarily cutting off his breath and filling his nose with a familiar scent (sandalwood and musk, the sweat of a hard day of working with one’s hands) that he realized who it was. Once recognition dawned, though, it was like a tree finally succumbing to the ax that had been hacking steadily away at its base. Kurt fell into his father’s grip, sobbing tearlessly against his broad chest, babbling randomly, his words calling forth images that tightened his father’s already desperate grip on his son.


The soft voice wasn’t what Todd expected, and the gentle hand on his shoulder was even more foreign. He flinched (more pain, every movement caused pain) and glared up at the stranger whose presence must have scared the football players (‘assholes, fucking jockstraps’) off.

“Are you all right?” He was older, middle-aged, with gray dusting his temples and a slight rasp in his voice. His bushy eyebrows drew together. “Those punks really did a number on you. We should get you to the hospital.”

With a growl, Todd roughly shrugged the warm hand off his shoulder. “Thanks, but I got this rule about accepting rides from strange old guys. Mostly because any old guy willing to give a kid a ride’s probably a pedophile, you know?” He grinned, eyes narrowed and lips mocking, and his would-be rescuer frowned darkly.

“I’m trying to help you.”

“Holy shit, chivalry’s not dead.” Slowly and haltingly Todd dragged himself to his feet; every inch of him protested the movement, and he barely maintained his balance, swayed for a moment, his head spinning. The man started toward him, but Todd stopped him with a glare, then steadied himself.

The stranger crossed his arms and his frown lifted, replaced with an indifferent stare. “You’re awfully young to be such a prick.” Eyebrow raised, Todd regarded him for a few moments then frowned, a look surprisingly similar to the one his rescuer wore only a moment ago.

“Just lookin’ out for number one, man. It becomes habit, if you do it long enough.”

“You’ve been doing it a long time.”


Kurt couldn’t calm down at first. They sat on the attic floor as everything darkened around them; eventually the room was lit only by moonlight. Kurt’s fur absorbed the shadows, a dark pit against his father’s pale skin, and his broken sobbing and occasional strained muttering were the only sounds in the house.

Eventually, even those quieted.

Kurt was light; his father managed to lift him with only a grunt and slight stooping of his back. Settling him gently on his small bed, he began a careful exam, his fingers pressing at collarbone, wrist, abdomen, traveling surely and pausing with each whimper or hiss.

Finally satisfied, he sat lightly on the bed, a reassuring weight against Kurt’s leg. “/What happened?/”

Kurt couldn’t meet his steady gaze. “/I’m sorry, Father. I defied you, I shouldn’t have been out. But the theater was showing an Errol Flynn marathon--/”

“/You already have dozens of his films./”

The boy flinched. “/I haven’t been outside in a while.../”

Frowning, his father put a firm hand on Kurt’s odd, fidgeting fingers. “/Kurt...Son, two children disappeared last week. There was a great deal of talk around the village. I asked you to stay in for a reason./”

Kurt's amber eyes widened, then fell to wandering over his ripped and ragged clothes. “/I did something. When they...when the fire.../” He swallowed hard, and met his father’s gaze for the first time that night. “/I was gone from there, suddenly, then I was here. The air smelled Hell./

“/...Are they wrong, Papa?/”

He didn’t hesitate. “/As wrong as they could possibly be./”

“/How do you know?/” It was nearly a shout, his voice cracked with the strain, and his father jumped almost imperceptibly. “/How can everyone be wrong? What makes you so sure that I’m not a monster, that all of this doesn’t come from the Devil himself? Look at me! How could God have had any part in this?/”

The outburst lasted only a matter of moments, until his father’s shock was reflected equally on Kurt’s face. The boy dropped his gaze, apology already on his tongue. His father’s voice stopped him cold.

“/The Devil could never have created something like you, Son./”

Deflated, Kurt slumped back against the cushions, and for a long time there was silence.


Todd limped away, his progress labored, each movement delicate. The stranger watched till long after the boy had disappeared, long after the man became a woman, her skin had changed a deep turquoise, and a dark smile had crossed her features.


It wasn’t until Kurt slept that Varick Wagner started to breathe deeply again. His face was expressionless as he watched the boy’s furry chest rise and fall, and the fear and uncertainty melting from his unusual features as they always did when Kurt slept.

It hurt to watch him. Varick wasn’t even sure his own wife understood; she must feel something similar every time she looked at the boy, but he had never been the type to share too much of himself, his weaknesses or inadequacies being his own to deal with. By his own choice, he knew she thought him much stronger.

He should have protected Kurt. He had failed at the most crucial of a father’s duties; quickly he turned away, looking determinedly out the attic’s small window, avoiding the bed and the wounded boy lying there. They couldn’t continue like this. Not for much longer. Something was going to have to change soon; their miracle child was no longer safe in their care.

They would have to find someplace where he would be.

His hand hovered over Kurt’s forehead for a few seconds, then dropped to his side. Slowly he got to his feet, grunting a little as his muscles protested, then walked downstairs to wait for Giselle.
Tags: fic, todd/kurt, x-men: evo

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