#fantomex

You found yourself waiting outside the blue altar boy's room. All alone in the middle of the night.

If anyone else inside the mansion walked by, they would think how weird you looked halfway down the hallway with your suit in tatters and covered in dried blood. But that thought wasn't what bothered you.

What was really keeping you awake at night was the thought of Nightcrawler thinking you hated him.

No way! Nightcrawler knows he's the object of my adoration. You thought

However… What if there was something you were missing?

You'd been on a secret mission for about 3 weeks in one of those countries small enough to not matter to anyone.

No phone. No letters. No smoke signals.

Nothing to help you communicate with people outside the mission.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Which was torture.

Because the only people on the mission were Deadpool (Was he even a mutant?) and Fantomex (He definitely wasn't a mutant). A sick joke rather than a real mission.

You couldn't have a single normal conversation with those two, and you honestly think you've become a little more unhinged than you were when you left. You'd have to ask Husk for a therapy session and….

Okay, just now you were going off on a tangent.

Damn it.

Deadpool, he had stuck you with his bad habits.

The mission was simple, nothing official, of course, though nothing could be in a mission where Deadpool and Fantomex get together, even if you were involved.

The thing is, small countries usually don't matter to anyone until they reveal they have a bioweapon powerful enough to wipe out half the American population (referring to the continent).

And that's usually mission one for the avengers, the coast avengers, the young avengers, or any team that has the word “avenge” in the name…. Until it's discovered to be a biological weapon that only kills mutants.

Long story short. Bureaucracy ended up sending this case to X-Force. No one was going to watch My Little Pony on this mission (except Deadpool, but that's outside of his work schedule).

The point here was that Wade, in one of those conversations that no one wants to have in the middle of missions, but he forces you to have anyway, spoke up.

— “Why do you hate the cute blue altar boy?” — Your sniper's scope quivered slightly at his words over the intercom — “At first I thought you were like…. A religiophobe or something, like religious people are to you what gays are to red skull.”

Fantomex hissed from his intercom in response, butting into the conversation like a wild goose chase.

— “Ah, yes, the man who worked hand in hand with Hitler definitely can't just hate Jews and Captain America. He's like a little, skeletal, red ball of concentrated hate.”

— “You're right! It's like you could throw it in a washing machine like those water bombs…. But instead of washing your clothes…” — Deadpool's words turned into a big “blah, blah, blah” to you.

NOT. HAD. MEANINGFUL.

There was no way anyone would think you hated Nightcrawler.

Especially considering how MUCH you liked Nightcrawler.

You liked him enough to leave the room because of your poor ability to control your impulses to pounce on him.

You liked her enough not to respond when he spoke to you, because you preferred to listen to his voice over your own, without contaminating his beautiful thoughts with your intervention.

You liked him enough to vehemently deny his participation in dangerous missions, which were usually the kind of missions you were assigned, because you didn't want, even for a moment, to face the possibility of him being harmed.

You liked him enough to… To…

Oh. SHIT.

— “I think that's the first time I've ever agreed with you, you deranged fuck!” - Fantomex's laughter managed to tear you from your thoughts — “Though I think the scent of hate would smell more like rat poison and…”

— “I like Nightcrawler” — The sentence was short, simple and said quickly.

Your two companions stopped talking for a second.

— “Oh, yeah, well, I guess even militant atheists can enjoy tormenting their targets.” — Deadpool clarified, completely oblivious to the true meaning of your statement (not so much).

— “No, no. I like Nightcrawler as when you had that necrophiliac relationship with death; or when the one with the costume that looks like it pays homage to the Ku Klux Klan tried it with Psylocke.”

Just now, the silence seemed to last more than a second.

— “My dear, I understand the message, but not the need for the unconstructive comments” — Fantomex clicked his tongue, not really knowing which part of the comment to latch onto.

— “Well I don't even get the message! Damn bitch, that plot twist even the screenwriter didn't see it coming” —

— “I never thought to say it twice in the same conversation, but Wilson is right. Mon dieu, have you ever said it to anyone else?” —

— “No one has ever asked me.” —

'Of course no one has asked you. Especially if the answer seems so fucking obvious'. They both thought.

And so the mission continued, turning now into a talk full of loving advice, the good use of hints and the need for clarity in messages you never thought you'd get from these two sons of hell.

And yes, that was the reason you were here.

In the middle of the halls, in the night.

With your clothes in tatters, dried blood all over your body, your hair a bird's nest and your conscience uneasy.

The door to Kurt's room opened. He had his hand under his shirt, scratching his chest with all the naturalness of a person who had just woken up in search of a late-night snack and a glass of water.

— “I like you. Very, very much… — A pause, the chaotic duo's advice crossed your mind.

How low you have fallen.

— “And not like a religious militant chasing his prey. But as what Scott feels for Jean, I think more, even.” — The words were sincere, without a hint of mockery, shame or fear.

Nightcrawler's eyes, which seconds ago had seemed to possess overly heavy lids, opened as if he had received a shot of adrenaline.

He didn't blink, didn't move. He didn't even breathe.

Just…

— “Oh” —

One, two, three seconds passed.

Kurt stood at attention, his gaze fixed straight ahead, on your eyes, his arms straight at his sides.

His tail wrapped around his leg, with a strength that went a little beyond what was normal, as if he wanted to confirm to himself that this was not a dream.

You could have sworn his brain was blowing smoke at this instant. As if the information was too much to process. Then, he opened his mouth, once, twice, before speaking again, in a shaky voice.

— “Oh” — He exclaimed again, as if there was no way to process this simply. Neither half asleep nor absolutely awake.