Something Old, Something New

Summary: Kitty Pryde should be happy. For the first time in her life, she's almost got it all. She's the leader of the X-Men, and in less than a week, she's going to marry her first love, Peter Rasputin. Yet when Kurt Wagner stops by the Belles of Hell bar for some whiskey, dancing, and reminiscing, she starts to realize why she's not, and even wonder if she's marrying the wrong man. Focus on Kitty/Kurt with glimpses of Kitty/Peter and Kurt/Rachel.

Notes: Welcome to my first new X-Men fanfic in (gah!) 8 years! This story is a (hopefully!) imaginative re-write of events surrounding Kitty and Peter's wedding-that-wasn't. The most relevant comics issues are: X-Men: The Wedding Special (Kurt visiting Kitty at Belles of Hell; the bachelor and bachelorette parties); X-Men Gold #26 (more bachelor party); and X-Men Gold #30 (the rehearsal dinner; the wedding itself). But I've tried to provide enough context that even if you haven't read those issues (or don't remember them well), you should be just fine.

While this story is *mostly* set within existing comic book canon (with occasional snippets of dialogue from the comics themselves), there are a few tweaks. The biggest one is that I'm changing the sequence of events so that the bachelor party in Vegas happens *after* Peter gets abducted by Nance and Co. and nearly killed in outer space. I'm also putting the bar Belles of Hell in New York rather than Chicago, and having Kitty work there semi-regularly; this felt easier than explaining why the bar showed up all of a sudden after so many years. Also, in my storyworld, Kitty didn't date Star Lord. I like to think I'm reasonably creative, but trying to explain that relationship would be a lot for me. Let's not and say we did, hm? And of course—don't worry too much about timelines. Of necessity, they're as ambiguous here as they are in the comics. But I'm definitely not proposing anything age-inappropriate between Kitty and Kurt; they're both responsible adults when they realize their feelings. This story was originally rated "T," but has now been upgraded to "M" (for loving and consensual sexual content in the final chapter).

The last thing: because this story is about unexpected desires spoiling a wedding, there is some (fairly mild and mostly emotional) infidelity involved. While I hope I've handled these issues with the requisite sensitivity (I tried not to vilify anyone), I know stories that include infidelity in any capacity can be a trigger for some. No other trigger warnings jump out at me; this is a trope-y romance-y story about friendship and love :) Okay—on to the fic!

Disclaimer #1: I don't own the X-Men or make a dime from imagining their between-panel exploits.

Disclaimer #2: Heroes always practice consent and safe sex.

Chapter One: Belles of Hell

"I hope I don't regret this."

Kurt met her frown with a fang-tipped smile. "This time, you're going to love it."

"That's what you said the last time."

Kurt's smile didn't falter; if anything, it broadened. "I won't believe you're truly grown up until you're able to properly appreciate the cinematic masterpiece that is The Adventures of Robin Hood."

Kitty rolled her eyes as she arranged herself on the deep-seated burgundy couch. No, she corrected herself, the sofa. They called them sofas in England.

"All this talk of growing up," she said, "yet nothing ever changes. Once again, it's my birthday, and I'm spending it watching your favorite movie."

"Didn't we also surprise you with cake and dinner and presents?"

"I suppose…"

Meggan had, indeed, cooked her a spectacular dinner, while Brian had flown to London to bring home the best chocolate cake she'd ever eaten. But her favorite gesture had come from Kurt. At some point during their move, she'd lost her Star of David necklace. Her fritz-prone powers meant she hadn't been wearing it, and it hadn't shown up in any of the boxes they'd brought to the lighthouse from the Mansion and Muir Island. Kitty had pretended it wasn't important, but Kurt had known better. For her birthday, he'd given her a new one, which was currently dangling from her neck.

"And you know what they say about birthdays," Kurt said, pushing the well-worn tape into the even-older VCR. "Something old, something new…"

"Pretty sure that's weddings."

"I knew it was one of the two."

Kitty rolled her eyes a second time, but it was mostly for show. The truth was, she'd been looking forward to what had become their annual re-watch of the old Errol Flynn film. It had started with a promise she'd made to Kurt during her tenure as an X-Man, when he'd almost died in her arms aboard the Brood ship. She'd been the one to insist on keeping the promise, but had watched the movie with her arms curled around her knees, six feet away from Kurt, with Illyana between them. The second time had been on Muir Island, shortly after Kurt had woken up from his coma. Then, she'd hovered above the hospital bed next to his, wishing she could confirm his aliveness with her touch, but couldn't, because she was stuck in her phased state. Now, they were at the Braddock Lighthouse off the coast of Cornwall. Brian and Meggan had retired to enjoy each other's company, Lockheed was asleep, and Rachel was missing (and hopefully not dead—they'd all been doing their best to avoid considering that possibility). That left Kitty alone with Kurt and the inevitable defeat of King John's enforcers at the hands of Robin Hood's band of Merry Men. And short of bouncing in the front row of a Cat's Laughing concert, Kitty couldn't think of anywhere else she'd rather be. She wasn't sure if she'd ever enjoy the movie as much as Kurt wanted her to. But she liked the company just fine.

Kurt stepped nimbly over the coffee table and tumbled into the opposite corner of the sofa, remote in hand. Kitty began the movie folded into her own corner, but had to get closer to reach the popcorn. By the time Flynn's Robin Hood had started winning the archery contest, she'd dropped her shoulder against Kurt's, enjoying the cozy warmth of his velvet-furred body amid the ever-present chill of the lighthouse.

"God, Kurt… The tights. The quips. The dramatic rescues. The outrageous villains. The overblown romance… This is just like our lives."

She couldn't actually see Kurt's smile, but knew it from the telltale twitch of his tail where it draped over his thigh. "I know—isn't it great?"

"Maybe next year, we can watch something less realistic—like a romantic comedy."

"For you—anything."

Something about the way he said it made her heart beat faster, and then slower. It felt like they'd been joking, and then, suddenly, weren't.

But she didn't have a chance to reflect on the change. The first duel between Flynn and Basil Rathbone's Sir Guy of Gisbourne had started, which meant she had to concentrate on pretending not to smile as she listened to Kurt enthusiastically explaining each move and counter move like she hadn't heard it twice before, and many more times between viewings. Part of why she enjoyed watching the movie with Kurt was because she liked seeing him so simply, purely happy. She could almost picture him as an adorably fuzzy child, acting out all the moves and dreaming about being exactly what they were—superheroes. Despite all the awful things they'd faced and survived in their still-young lives, Kitty wasn't above stepping back to marvel at that fact.

It was the strange lull at the beginning of the final act that always did her in. She started yawning, and snuggling deeper into Kurt's warmth. He slipped his arm behind her neck to let her wriggle deeper, his strong, soft fingers curling protectively around her shoulder.

Kitty woke up with her cheek pressed against something exceedingly soft. She dragged her face along the texture of it before she realized it wasn't a what—it was a who.

"Katzchen? It's time to wake up."

When she raised herself from Kurt's chest to see his face, his lips were still moving, but they weren't saying words. The only sound was a high-pitched beeping, getting louder and more insistent the more she strained to hear his voice. She was telling him to speak up, but her voice didn't work any better, and his face had started to fade, getting blurry and ghostlike as she clawed her way through quicksand and the deafening noise to reach him, realizing at the last moment she wasn't going to make it. Her broken throat was calling his name, begging him not to go, telling him she couldn't lose him again. None of it did any good. By the time she finally reached him, her fists clenched around empty air.

...

Kitty woke up painfully clutching a fistful of sheets, heart pounding in her ears. It took her a moment to unclench enough to smash the alarm clock into submission, which wasn't exactly good for it, but was at least safer than phasing through it.

She rubbed her tired eyes as she rolled out of bed. The previous night had been sleepless due to a hostage situation in a Lower Manhattan office tower involving stolen alien tech. Cleanup had taken most of the night, and for most of the morning, she'd had to listen in on a series of congressional hearings debating the status of her own human rights. She'd finally managed to find some quiet time that afternoon to drift off in the blessed privacy of her own quarters. Though she'd been spending plenty of time in Peter's quarters in recent months, she still liked having her own space. They hadn't properly discussed exactly how they were going to negotiate their space after their wedding. Kitty kept meaning to bring it up, but then she'd almost died, and then he had, and suddenly, the only thing that seemed to matter was getting married as quickly as possible. She told herself there'd be time to discuss it later—hopefully, a lifetime's worth.

Her thankfully-not-broken alarm clock said it was currently 9:17 pm. That meant she had just under 30 minutes to shower, get dressed, make her hair look presentable, put on some makeup, and maybe, if she was lucky, get something to eat before leaving for her 10 pm to close shift at Belles of Hell. Seemed doable—for a superhero. Fortunately, Kitty Pryde was one.

She had a towel wrapped around her hair and one leg in a pair of high-waisted jeans when the phone rang. It was her mother. Kitty put it on speakerphone and continued getting dressed.

"Hi mom."

"Hello, Katherine—is this a bad time?"

"No more than usual. What's up?"

"I was just checking in. Seeing how you were feeling."

Kitty sighed as she fastened a pair of large silver cuffs around her wrists—a seldom-worn but long-cherished gift from Alison Blaire. Earlier in the week, she'd made the mistake of telling her mother she was experiencing some totally mild, entirely normal trepidation about her upcoming wedding. She'd been in heavy-duty mom mode ever since, calling daily, and sometimes twice a day, to see how her only daughter was "feeling," as though her feelings were an unpredictable skin rash that might change by the day or the hour.

"I'm fine, mom. Same as this morning. Same as yesterday."

"That good, dear. I was just checking in."

"I know…"

"Have you talked to Peter about—"

"No. And I won't be. It's just pre-wedding jitters. If I tell him, he'll freak out and make everything worse."

"I thought the two of you were communicating better lately."

Kitty broke the tip of her metallic blue eyeliner, swore silently under her breath, and starting digging through her makeup bag for a probably non-existent sharpener. She didn't usually wear metallic blue eyeliner, but it was an unspoken requisite of the job. Bartending at Belles of Hell required projecting a certain image—at least if you wanted to earn any tips.

"We have been," she insisted. "This isn't about that. I just… don't think it's worth talking about."

"Okay, Katherine. You know best."

As Kitty gave up and chose a different eyeliner, there was a pause on the line, long enough for her to wonder if her mother had accidentally hung up. She had just opened her mouth to ask if she was still there, when her mother's voice finally returned.

"Sometimes, I still can't believe it."

"What?" Kitty asked, shaking some texturizer through her short hair.

"That you're getting married. And to Peter, after all these years."

Something about the way her mother said it hit her strangely. She frowned into the mirror as she asked, "Is there someone else you'd rather I marry?"

"I didn't mean that, dear. I know how much you love Peter. There was a time, though, when I used to think… Oh, never mind."

"What is it?"

"Just that, I used to think there might be something between you and that nice German boy."

Kitty stopped in the middle of applying a dash of hot pink lip gloss to shoot her phone a thoroughly incredulous look. "Kurt?"

"That's right—Kurt. I always liked him."

"We're talking about the same person, right? Pointed ears? Devil tail? Blue fur?"

"I always thought he was quite charming."

"I mean, sure, he can be, but… Kurt and I have known each other for… a long time."

"I thought you met Kurt the same time you met Peter. When the X-Men—"

"I did, but…" She finished applying her lip gloss, and rubbed her lips to spread it. "Kurt is just… not my type."

"I suppose he's not quite the specimen Peter is."

"What? No, that's not what I… I mean, Kurt's attractive. And women like him. He's romantic. And fun. And, like, the nicest guy ever."

"Is he seeing anyone right now?"

She shooed Lockheed off her desk chair so she could sit down to lace up her knee-high leather boots. "You remember Rachel? You've met her—she was with me and Kurt in England."

"Kurt and Rachel are a couple?"

"Um… Yes?"

"I just didn't think they seemed…"

Kitty shot her phone another intense look. "Mom, you barely know them!"

"Have they been together long?"

Kitty shrugged for no one's benefit but her own as she inspected the contents of her purse. "A few months, I guess. I never thought Kurt would go for a telepath, but… Wait, why are we talking about Kurt? I'm getting married, and… I have to go to work."

"I'm sorry, dear. I was just trying to take your mind off things."

Kitty found her sharpener in the bottom of her purse, and sighed. "You mean—off the fact that I'm getting married in a less than a week, and should be deliriously happy, but instead feel like I'm walking into a final exam, totally unprepared?"

"You never had a problem with tests, Katherine."

"Exactly."

"I'm sure it will work out. It's normal to be worried before a wedding. When I married your father—"

"Mom? I'd love to hear about it, but maybe another time? I really do need to finish getting ready." In her present emotional state, she knew she wasn't equipped for a story about her father, and was even less excited about comparing her parents' thoroughly imperfect marriage to her own.

"Of course, Katherine. I'm sorry. I was just checking in."

"I know. And… thanks. I'm, uh… glad we've been talking more."

"Me too, Katherine. I love you."

"Love you too, Mom."

Kitty returned to the mirror to give her completed outfit a final inspection with Lockheed hovering over her shoulder. She'd paired her high-waisted jeans with a laser-cut spandex tank and two low-slung studded belts that matched the mood of her cuffs. She remembered wearing similar things years ago, but styles, she reflected, seemed to come back from the dead almost as often as X-Men. What had once been contemporary was now "retro," and she didn't mind. If dressing like Alison Blaire was wrong, she didn't want to be right.

She spun on her heel to collect her purse and stalked out of the room, Lockheed trailing behind her. If she walked to work, she wouldn't have time to stop in the kitchen, but if she was lucky, there'd be something not-deep fried to eat at the bar.

Her hair was still a bit wet, but it got dryer as she walked—one of the advantages of her new, shorter hairstyle. She'd been working as a bartender at Belles of Hell on and off for the past two years. She could usually only manage a couple of shifts a month, but the manager gave her an unprecedented amount of leeway, partly because she was good at her job (the bar always did very well when she was working), and because he was supportive of the side job that was really her main job. She knew working at the bar was silly; she didn't need the money, and there were almost certainly better ways to spend her time. But she liked it; it was nice to feel normal, if only for a few hours each month. Her friends understood, and some had even stopped by. Rachel had been there, and Kurt had been twice, both times at the end of her shift, to catch a nightcap and talk about old times. Yet neither of them had returned since they'd started dating. Sometimes, she was sorry Peter never visited. But she knew it wasn't his kind of place; Peter much preferred quiet restaurants and quiet time at home to noisy bars brimming with college students.

Tonight, she was heading to her last shift. Her responsibilities were changing, and her life needed to change with them. It was already weird for the leader of the X-Men to be escaping her responsibilities a few times a month to sling craft brews and cocktails for little more than minimum wage. She was sure it would seem weirder once she was married.

Despite her determination to enjoy her final night behind the bar, melancholy thoughts started overtaking her almost as soon as she stepped through the door. The past had been creeping up on her a lot in recent weeks, more so when she was faced with what felt like definite endings. She knew it was something more than sadness about leaving her job behind. But she couldn't quite place what that something more was.

By midnight, she was starting to feel haunted. She could have sworn she saw her father in the shiny surface of a tray, and Logan hovering somewhere, just out of reach of the hearing and sense of smell he'd taught her to hone. Her movements had become mechanical, her glances at the wall clock frequent. Lockheed wasn't much help. She would have liked to have him close at hand, or even draped over her shoulder. But instead he was curled up half asleep in one of the cabinets behind the bar. He'd been secretive, lately, disappearing for long stretches and sleeping a lot when he returned. She supposed he must have his own life, with its own responsibilities. At least he was there, which was more than she could say for anyone else.

Then, suddenly, a familiar "BAMF" and blast of brimstone made everything better.

When she wheeled to face Kurt, his indigo face was illuminated by a very white fang-tipped grin. "Hard isn't it, Katherine? Being grown up?

"Kurt!"

Kitty dove forward to throw her arms around his neck. She'd seen him the night before, during the hostage crisis. But seeing him there, outside the Institute and off the battlefield, brought an unexpected surge of joy. Before he appeared, she couldn't have imagined a single thing capable of improving her mood. It hadn't occurred to her what she really needed was a single person. But as she met Kurt's glittering smile with one of her own, it seemed obvious. At that moment, there was no one else in the entire world whose neck she'd prefer to be hanging from, or whose tail she'd rather have curling around her waist.

Kitty was still gripping Kurt's neck, fingers subtly parting his sleek fur, as she asked, "What are you doing here?"

Kurt's smile became lopsided. "Where else would I be, on a night like this?"

It wasn't exactly an answer, but it made sense when he said it. Kurt had always been there. He'd been there when she'd been a frightened 13-year-old afraid of his demonic features, working tirelessly to earn her friendship. He'd been there when the X-Men had gone off and died without them, helping her make a new home on another continent. He'd been there during her time in college, dropping everything to eat Chinese takeout on the floor of her tiny South Side apartment when she'd been losing her grip mourning Peter. The only thing that had ever truly kept them apart was death—first hers, then his. But even then, they'd come back, to be where they were—hugging like friends who'd been separated for years, rather than hours.

"I'm here to help," he said, finally stepping out of her grip. "What I can I do?"

Focus pulling back to the many tasks at hand, she replied, "You can cut fruit when I tell you, and take trays to the kitchen."

Kurt's smile fell. "I thought I might be better suited to a celebrity mixologist role."

"Celebrity?" she echoed.

Kurt made a dramatic show of looking both ways, cupped a hand to his cheek, and leaned in to faux-whisper, "In my spare time, I'm a superhero."

Kitty rolled her eyes. "Okay Mr. Superhero—are you licensed to serve alcohol?"

"No…"

"And do you want this very nice establishment to get smacked with a huge fine?"

Kurt's lopsided smile returned. "I am excellent at cutting limes."

There were a few curious stares, and at least one obnoxious man at the bar who had to be told off by Kitty's manager Dylan, who'd met Kurt before, and certainly didn't mind his free labor or his positive affect on the mood of his bartender. But Kitty wouldn't have worked at Belles of Hell if it hadn't attracted an accepting clientele; the student-heavy crowd was far more interested in blowing off steam after a long week of classes than staring at the purple dragon perched behind the tequila or the fuzzy blue mutant who'd joined her behind the bar, who was currently holding a paring knife with his tail as he handed her a plate of freshly cut limes for a tray of mojitos.

But even her busyness and the comfort of Kurt's presence couldn't stop her mind from wandering. She thought about the boyfriends who weren't Peter Rasputin—Pete Wisdom, Alasdhair Kinross, and, for a brief time in which she was clearly not in her right mind, Bobby Drake. The only thing they seemed to have in common is that they were nothing like Peter. Yet none of those relationships had lasted. And Peter had changed. He was more sensitive, more empathetic, more willing to listen, hear, and accept that sometimes (or, most of the time), she knew better. She'd changed, too, become more confident, less afraid of being eclipsed or intimated by Peter's occasional foolishness. Everyone changed, given time and circumstance, pressure and opportunity. Or so she told herself.

She heard the kitchen door creak, and turned to see another man who had very little in common with Peter Rasputin, despite being one of the Russian X-Man's best friends for more than a decade. Kurt was wiping his two-fingered hands with a bar towel that he then tossed over the shoulder of his red Xavier Institute t-shirt. In the moment before he caught her gaze, he looked considerably different from the man she'd thrown her arms around half an hour before. His golden eyes were dim as he stared absently into the crowd, and there was a downward cast to both his tail and his lips. It was an expression she'd been seeing a lot of lately, ever since she'd returned from space, and he'd returned from heaven. She shuddered a bit, as she always did when thinking about Kurt's death. Having him back didn't erase the pain of losing him. In some ways, it made it worse; she didn't know how she could possibly survive losing him again, and had been forced to face that prospect all too often in recent months.

When their eyes met, Kurt brightened, tail twitching pertly ahead of a small, close-lipped smile. "Thinking of running?"

Kitty cocked an eyebrow. "From you?"

"From everything."

She blinked her gaze away, and reached for a wedge of lemon to finish a Moscow Mule. "Love and marriage, Kurt… the commitment that demands, the life we lead… they don't go well together."

Kurt surprised her with a nonchalant shrug. "Then walk away. There's nothing to stop you. None of your friends would call you out. I think even Piotr would understand."

Kitty studied him from the corner of her eye as she slid the cocktail down the counter and slid back the tip. "You sound like Logan," she observed.

"We are as God made us, Katzchen. Whatever happens after that rests on our shoulders. It's easy to play life safe, take no risks, never love—or be loved."

She considered Kurt's words as she wiped the lemon juice off her hands. These sounded like him, but were also sadder than she was expecting. She suddenly wondered why they hadn't talked about his death, and especially the circumstances of his resurrection. Short of cryptic hints, Kurt was decidedly quiet on the topic. She should have tried harder. Maybe Rachel knew something…

Her musings were interrupted by last call, and its inevitable flurry of orders. Kitty and Kurt worked back to back for the next half hour, their physical rhythm easy and thoughtless, the legacy of a thousand training sessions and life-or-death struggles, not to mention countless afternoons and evenings lounging in each other's orbit, her head on his shoulder, chest, or even his thigh, watching a movie, or a storm, or a sunset, or maybe doing nothing in particular besides enjoying each other's company. Time after time, she'd finish pouring a draft or a flight of shots, and feel Kurt's tail tap her ankle, heralding his velvet-coated arm sliding along hers to put more glasses, garnishes, or stir sticks exactly where she needed them.

Finally, the noisy patrons began filing out, and the cleanup began. Kitty watched Kurt help the servers clear the tables as she worked warm cloths over dozens of sticky spouts and surfaces. Unsurprisingly, he couldn't resist a bit of showing off. As Kitty sprayed the bar with foul smelling disinfectant, Kurt was juggling empty bottles to the delight of the hostess and sous chef, who'd abandoned his own kitchen cleanup to watch the show. The performance climaxed with Kurt tossing all the bottles high in the air, teleporting into a handstand, and catching them with his feet. Or at least, that was the intent. Kurt had apparently forgotten he'd crammed his unique feet into a pair of Adidas sneakers. He still caught the bottles—two in his hands, one with his tail—but had to hit the deck to do it. His appreciative audience didn't seem to mind; they assumed it was part of the act. Kitty cleared her throat loudly, sending the paid employees scuttling back to work, and Kurt back to his feet, smiling again, but subtly—the kind of smile that was for a particular person, rather than a crowd. Kitty couldn't resist smiling back; it felt almost like old times.

Sometime later, the industrial dishwasher was whirring, the counters were clean, the chairs were flipped onto the tables, and Kitty was standing with Kurt at the front of the bar, waving goodnight to the other employees. Dylan was the last to go.

"Hope you know how sorry we are to lose you," he said.

Kitty snorted. "Right—sorry to lose your number one most casually employed bartender, who tries to fit in two shifts a month provided she's not stuck in space or fighting the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants."

Dylan turned to Kurt. "She always this bad at taking a compliment?"

"Not always," Kurt replied, grinning. "Sometimes, my compliments are met with physical violence."

Kitty glowered at both of them. "Very funny."

Dylan said, "I hate making you close up on your last day, but—"

"It's fine," Kitty interrupted. "I want to be a regular employee, one last time."

"Okay, well—the dishes need to get changed, and the floor needs—"

"I know. Go. I'll see you soon."

Dylan favored her with a small, affectionate smile before addressing Kurt. "Nice seeing you again, Kurt. You'll take care of my girl here, right?"

"Always."

Kitty bristled; she was the leader of the damn X-Men, not some schoolgirl who needed to be walked home from band practice. But when she shot a glance at Kurt, his brow formed an apologetic pucker that mollified her, at least temporarily.

They watched in silence as Dylan traversed the length of the bar to exit through the main door. After a moment, Kurt followed him, opened the door to peer down the street, then stepped back into the bar, locking the door behind him.

"Is he gone?" Kitty asked.

"It seems so," Kurt replied.

"Finally."

She ducked behind the bar to retrieve a bottle of Angel's Envy bourbon she'd been saving for just such an occasion, ticking Lockheed under the chin along the way. The dragon stirred grumpily before folding himself back into a ball, clearly more interested in sleeping than socializing.

Kurt was making his way over to one of the wide, padded benches that lined the walls of the bar. Kitty joined him, clunking the bottle and two glasses down on the table in front of them before pouring two generous helpings. Then she dropped her weary backside into the bench and her weary shoulder against Kurt's, relaxing into the familiar feeling of his velvet fur buzzing against her bare skin as he shifted his body to accommodate her.

"What a night, huh?"

"I don't know," Kurt replied brightly. "Neither of us got shot at, punched, tasered, disintegrated, or tossed out of airplane, which was a nice change of pace."

"I haven't seen you much lately," she agreed, "outside of work. I mean, you know—work work."

"You've been busy," he observed.

"We've made time in the past."

"Responsibilities change. You're the boss, now."

Kitty lifted herself off his shoulder, and met his close gaze. "That doesn't bother you—does it?" It wasn't the first time she'd wondered if any part of him resented their role reversal; he'd been her boss far longer than she'd been his. But if he did resent it, he hid it well; even when she'd been an impulsive teenager who should have had a healthier fear of death, he'd never talked down to her, or doubted her judgement.

"No," Kurt assured her. "In fact, I prefer it. I dare say you're better at it than I ever was."

There wasn't any bitterness in his tone, but Kitty still felt the need to say, "That's only because I stole all my best moves from you."

"Flatterer."

Her lips formed a crooked smile—something else she'd learned from Kurt. "That's why I'm a good boss."

Kurt returned her smile, his expression warm, and something else—reverent, almost, like he was seeing her, but also something bigger than her, the person she was and the person she wanted to be, and could sometimes believe she was. She found herself blushing, and dropped her eyes to her drink.

"A toast," Kurt said, raising his glass. "To your impending nuptials."

Suddenly, Kitty realized that for the first time in what felt like a very long time, she'd managed to go a full hour without thinking about her wedding. She collected her feet from where they'd been twined with Kurt's under the table, and straightened her back.

"Don't call it 'nuptials.'"

"To your impending wedding," he amended.

Kitty met his glass and took a long, deep sip, enjoying the way the alcohol burned down her throat to her chest.

"So you're quitting your job?"

Kitty shrugged, fingers stroking her glass. "I'm getting married."

"And that means you can't work here anymore?" Kurt questioned. "I thought this place was important to you."

"It was. It is. But… I've got different responsibilities, now. Like you said—it's time to grow up."

"I don't think that's what I said."

Kitty regarded him quizzically. "I thought that's why you were here—to see me off."

"No, this is the first I'm hearing about it."

"So why are you here?"

"I just thought you could use a friend." He sipped his drink, then added, "Rachel might have mentioned something about you having certain… doubts."

"I didn't say anything to Rachel."

"Ja, well, she's never been the most tactful telepath."

"Weird thing to say about your girlfriend."

"I don't think she'd disagree."

That was probably true. Rachel's boundaries weren't as reliable as Jean's. Rachel sometimes had trouble controlling her powers, and even when she didn't, she often saw or said more than she should. Despite what she'd told her mother, Kitty agreed that Kurt and Rachel were an unlikely match, and Rachel's iffy boundaries were high on the list of why. Try as she might, she couldn't imagine Kurt being comfortable with quite that much exposure. She wasn't always comfortable with it, either.

Following another long sip, she asked, "So are we gonna talk about it?"

"About… what?"

"You and Rachel."

Kurt blinked, picked up his drink, and finished it slowly. "That escalated quickly."

"Refill?"

"Yes. Please."

Kitty dutifully refilled their glasses. "It's just a bit…"

"Weird?" Kurt supplied.

"Yeah, a little. I mean—she's Jean's daughter."

"Not our Jean."

"Still."

"I would have thought it was because… Well."

"What?"

Kurt shifted in his seat. "Because of how long we've known each. Because of how we've known each other."

"I mean yeah, that too. I think back to Excalibur, and the idea of you and Rachel getting together would have seemed about as likely as…"

"You and me getting together?"

"Yeah, right."

Her snort of amusement echoed and hung in the too-quiet space. She sipped her drink and fiddled with her glass, wondering at the suddenly awkward silence.

Eventually, she worked up the courage to ask, softly, "Are you… happy?"

She watched Kurt's fingers open and close around his glass. "I like being with her. In the moments between crises."

"Well that was certainly evasive…"

"Yes," he said, meeting her eyes with a more affirmative tone. "I'm happy."

"Because sometimes, it seems like…" she trailed off uncertainly, trying to decide whether it was worth taking them even further from the wordless synchronicity they'd had behind the bar.

"You can tell me," Kurt assured her.

Kitty took a breath, and continued. "It's just… You talk about the stuff with Rachel, but you've been going through your own stuff."

"We all have."

"Yes," she agreed, "but not all of us have almost died. Multiple times. And then… not. And nobody knows why."

"That's not all that unusual."

"Kurt." She wanted to reach across the table for his hand, but didn't, feeling unsure, in a way she'd never been in the past, about which touches were appropriate, and which crossed the line.

"If you're worried about my mission performance—"

"You know I'm not," she interrupted. "I'm worried about you. Since you… came back… you've been…"

"What?"

"You smile less."

"I've been smiling all night."

"Which is unusual."

Kitty couldn't see Kurt's tail, but could hear it swish under the table as he flexed his jaw. He'd clearly reached the end of his patience for that particular line of questioning. "I could say the same about you."

"What do you—"

"You're different, too. I never would have thought…" he stopped himself, jaw flexing again as his eyes wandered toward the window.

"What?" she prompted.

"It's not important."

"Is it about me and Peter?"

"It's not my place."

"You're my friend, Kurt. Mine and Peter's. If you've got something to say, say it."

He turned to her and asked, "Are you happy, Katzchen?"

A icy dagger shot up her spine. She wanted another sip of bourbon, but didn't trust the steadiness of her hand. "I'm getting married," she said, flatly.

"I know that," Kurt replied, a subtle edge to his own low voice. "But it's not what I asked."

His tone snapped her out of her trance. "Of course I'm happy," she insisted. "I'm a bit stressed, but, you know… Everybody gets stressed before their wedding."

Kurt dropped his gaze. "I suppose."

"What, exactly, are you getting at?"

"Nothing, except… You said you couldn't have imagined me with Rachel. By the same token, I couldn't have imagined you going back to Piotr."

With a determined effort, Kitty raised her glass to her lips, sipped, and swallowed. "You think I shouldn't have?"

Kurt chose his words carefully. "I think… that there are reasons you broke up in the past."

"I could say the same thing about most of your girlfriends," she observed.

"I haven't married any of my girlfriends."

"People change."

"And Piotr's changed." It wasn't quite a question. But it wasn't a statement, either.

"Has Rachel?"

Their eyes met across the table, his fiery golden gaze meeting its match in her hazel one.

The standoff ended with Kurt expelling a tired sigh. "Maybe we're the ones who've changed. I don't want to fight with you, Katzchen."

"We're not fighting."

"Okay."

Kitty contemplated the slow burn of the bourbon, then said, "I'm sorry."

"Me, too. I shouldn't have—"

"It's okay. I started it. And I can see why you'd say that. You were there for all the times Peter wasn't at his best."

Years ago, when Peter had brutally assaulted her then-boyfriend Pete Wisdom, it had fallen to Kurt to lock him in the Muir Island brig with an inhibitor collar around his neck. Kitty had verbally forgiven Peter for that and his other indiscretions, including the time he'd cheated on her with a princess from another dimension. Peter's mistakes, she told herself, were ones of passion, rather than malice, extending from the emotionally charged chaos of life as a mutant superhero. She'd made plenty of her own mistakes over the course of her similarly chaotic life. They all had, even Kurt; there were times he'd slept with people he shouldn't have, and followed his heart instead of his head.

Kurt interrupted her thoughts to say, "But you're right. People can change."

He punctuated his statement with a small, close-lipped smile—a peace offering, she knew, for hurting her, however minimally. Kitty returned the gesture. She and Kurt had fought before, but never for long, and the source of their fights was almost always concern for each other. Kitty truly wanted Kurt to be happy, and hoped Rachel would help, even if she didn't truly believe it.

As she poured them another drink, Kitty once again found herself pondering Kurt's changes, as well as her own. It was true he smiled less, but it was also true that she noticed it more. When she'd been frightened of Kurt's fangs, fur, forked tail, and glowing eyes, she'd only noticed the things that scared her, and blown those up to ridiculous proportions, wholly divorced from reality. Now, she knew the softness of his fur and loved the playfulness of his fang-tipped smile. She also saw his graceful cheekbones and nicely formed lips, his straight, almost aquiline nose, and of course his well-built acrobat's body, which was partly the result of genetic gifts, but also supreme effort. Kurt was proud of his body and had a right to be; he worked as hard as any of them to shape and maintain it.

She was sure she'd aged substantially in the 12 years they'd known each other, but Kurt never seemed to. She was 25, now, and Kurt was turning 32. Or maybe 31; it didn't seem fair to count years spent in heaven. Besides acquiring an even-healthier roundness to his shoulders, he looked much the same as he always had. Kitty had the sneaking suspicion that even if Kurt were turning sixty, he'd still appear youthful. His fur absorbed wrinkles as well as scars, and he'd never lose his boyish smile, which could instantly transform his face from serious, intimidating, or handsome, to carefree, inviting, and cute. She wondered if his hair would go gray, but couldn't imagine that, either. Kurt was prideful about his hair, which was wavy and shiny and usually a bit too long, constantly tumbling over his forehead and being pushed back again behind his pointed ears. If Kurt's hair did go gray, he'd probably dye it, and be fussy about getting it just the right shade of blue-tinged black.

Kurt caught her smiling to herself. "What's so funny?"

She shook her head to clear it. "Nothing. Just thinking about where we've been—and where we're going."

"And that's funny?"

"I dunno, it's just… It doesn't seem like that long ago we were just silly kids, and now…"

Kurt cocked an eyebrow. "We're silly adults?"

Kitty snorted. "Yeah, I guess."

They were quiet for a moment, nurturing their mirth and memories.

Kurt broke the silence to ask, "How's your mother?"

"She's good," Kitty replied. "We've been talking more, which is nice. She asked about you, actually."

"A woman of taste. What did she want to know?"

"She asked if you were seeing anyone."

Kurt mimed a whistle. "Truly a woman of taste."

"Kurt!" she protested, jostling his ankle under the table. "That's my mom you're talking about."

"I'm not the one asking about her dating life," Kurt pointed out.

"It wasn't like that, she just… We were talking about some of my past… relationships… and she wondered if there'd ever been anything… you know…"

"Between you and me? That's—"

"Crazy, I know. But you know parents. She sees her daughter spending a lot of time with a fuzzy guy with a cute smile, and assumes there's gotta be something going on."

Kurt's indigo lips twitched into the selfsame smile. "You think I have a cute smile?"

Kitty rolled her eyes, and grumbled, "You're the worst."

His lips twitched again, briefly, before he dropped his eyes, and grew thoughtful. "I hate to ask, but hopefully your mother wasn't… alarmed by that prospect? I wouldn't want her to think—"

"What? Oh, no," Kitty assured him, "nothing like that. My mom loves you. She probably wishes I was marrying you instead of Peter."

She'd meant it to be a joke, but it came out wrong, and led to another awkward silence. Kitty sipped her drink, ground her teeth, and cursed herself, wondering why their previously enjoyable visit seemed to have become an increasingly uncomfortable series of challenges and traps.

Kurt cleared his throat. "Maybe I should…"

"Don't go." Throwing caution to the wind, she reached across the table, and laid a hand on his indigo forearm. "Please. It was dumb joke. I was having fun before and… I really have missed you."

"Okay…" Kurt agreed tentatively, studying her fingers on his arm. "But as I assume you don't want to stay here forever—perhaps we should finish closing up."

"Perfect," she enthused, happy for a physical task to ground her tumultuous thoughts. "I'll do the floors, if you handle the dishes."

She was working the mop around a final section of the bar when Kurt returned from the kitchen. Cleaning floors was nothing compared to a workout in the Danger Room, but the bar was warm enough that her forehead was nonetheless misted with sweat. Some of her hair had fallen forward and stuck in it, itchy and distracting. From the corner of her eye, she observed Kurt round the bar, stop, and strike up a dramatically casual lean against the counter, grinning as he swept a hand through his own unruly hair.

"You look like Cinderella," he said, then added, helpfully, "Before the ball."

She pushed her hair off her forehead with the back of her hand and replied, dryly, "Gee, thanks."

Kurt took a moment to savor his own joke, then cast his golden eyes skyward. The sound system had remained on, playing softly in the background. But there was a noticeable change in the rhythm, heralding the start of a ballad. Kitty knew it was a popular song, though she couldn't place the title or artist; music had been important to her in the past, but she no longer seemed to have the time or energy to keep up with it.

Kurt turned to her and asked, "Have you practiced?"

"For what?"

"The dance. At your wedding."

Her hands went numb on the handle of the mop, blood draining from her cheeks. "Fuck. With everything going on, I completely forgot."

Kurt was trying very hard not to laugh at her dramatic reaction. "Katzchen—it's a few minutes on the dance floor in the arms of the man you love. If you can survive phasing an entire spaceship through another spaceship, I'm sure you can survive that."

"It's just that I still don't… All this time, and I never…" She was mortified by her mortification, which of course made it worse.

"You took ballet for years," he observed. "And you're a ninja. You must be able to dance."

She collected herself by dropping the mop in the bucket and hauling it back toward the bar. "I did those things on my own. Doing it with a partner is… different."

Kurt's almost-laugh became a bemused grin. "Yesterday, we successfully performed a move we'd never actually practiced, in which I teleported us into the skyline for you to phase your fist through the armor of our adversary while I held him by the neck with my tail. And I never once worried you'd trip."

"But that's you, and this is…"

She cursed herself again as she trailed off, still confused about why utterly normal phrases seemed newly charged with kinetic energy.

Ever the gentleman, Kurt rescued her. "I've always known you to be both fearless and a quick study." He extended his right hand, palm up. "If you'll permit me?"

Still holding the handle of the mop, Kitty pursed her lips, and contemplated his hand. "We've never danced before."

"That can't be right."

"If we have, I can't remember it."

"Then we haven't," he replied, eyes glittering above a sly smile. "Because you'd remember."

Competitive juices successfully engaged, Kitty released the mop, and accepted his hand. "Big talk from a dishwasher who works for free."

"We'll see," he returned, leading her toward the open center of the room. "Except—do you mind?" He gestured toward his shoes. "I'm much better in my natural state."

"You'll be sorry if I step on your feet," she warned.

"I'll take the chance," he said, kicking off one sneaker, then the other. "Come."

At first, she wasn't sure how to hold him. Kurt caught the hand she tried to put on his hip. "No, that's backwards. My hand goes… and yours… and a bit closer… That's right. Perfect."

As she placed one hand on the exposed fur at Kurt's neck and let him curl his strong, soft fingers around the other, Kitty experienced an unexpected surge of trepidation. She'd touched and been touched by Kurt many times, when their bodies were far more practically or actually exposed. But this was different from a hug or a lunge into a teleport. There was something far more intimate about the firm, certain press of Kurt's hand in her lower back, and the close, warm motion of his chest filling and emptying against her own.

"If you can," Kurt was saying, "try to keep your elbow up. It should be easy with me, but it will be harder with Piotr."

"Why would it—"

"Because Piotr is considerably larger than me."

"Oh. Right."

Kitty took a breath, nodded, and let him lead her, guiding one foot forward, then the other. At first, she felt ridiculous. There was something uniquely humiliating about being so physically insecure when she was used to feeling confident in her body. But Kurt didn't laugh at her, or push her. He led her while letting her set the pace.

The song changed, but it didn't matter. She was starting to understand the rhythm of the dance itself, and enjoy understanding it. It wasn't so different from sparring, except it didn't stop, and the point was to make sure it didn't stop, blending one movement into another. She angled her hips into Kurt's, urging him to go faster, hungry for more of a challenge. He accommodated her easily, pivoting weightlessly on his unique feet, his lean muscles bending to her whims in a way Peter's solid body never would have or could have.

At the end of the next turn, Kurt dipped her, his guiding hand showing her just how to arch her back to feel almost weightless a moment before he swung her all the way up again, back into the encircling warmth of his arms, chest, and hips. To keep up, she had to get closer, her hand climbing his neck, almost into his hair, nose brushing the space beneath his pointed ear. Amid the increasingly natural rhythm of the dance, it occurred to her how well she already knew the smell of him. There was always a touch of brimstone in Kurt's fur, though never enough to be unpleasant, especially because after so many years, it was a smell she primarily associated with Kurt, and Kurt was associated with comfort, safety, and home; being with Kurt always felt like coming home.

With each circle of their makeshift dancefloor, she grew more confident, and Kurt became bolder. She swiveled on his hips to lean deeper into her turns, knowing his fluid strength would catch her, again, and again. The next time he dipped her, her short hair nearly brushed the floor. Adrenaline surged in her chest when his finely tuned muscles and hers swept her up again, back into his arms and another turn that become another spin, to the side this time, her body unfurling like a ribbon in the wind. Kitty experienced another delicious moment of weightlessness before Kurt's arm and two strong fingers extended an additional, impossible inch, and jerked her in. She almost twirled smoothly all the way back to the launch point, but on the second-to-last step, she finally stumbled, crashing hard into Kurt's chest.

She hung there, panting, both hands now tangled in Kurt's hair and the collar of his t-shirt, Kurt's hands gripping her hip and lower back. Whatever part of her could still think was sure she'd never had quite so much of herself pressed quite so tightly against so much of Kurt. She could feel the detailed architecture of his muscles and the friction of his fur against his clothes, his pulse mingling with hers everywhere bare skin touched naked fur. The lower half of her body was also acutely aware of his maleness. Despite a decade of sharing close quarters on two separate continents, she'd never seen Kurt naked. She'd seen the shape of him in countless spandex costumes and tiny bathing suits, but that was very different from the faint but definite feel of him through his jeans, shifting against her pelvis.

In the same moment, they realized they were no longer dancing, and that whatever they were doing had gone on too long. Kitty knew she had to let go, but when Kurt started to draw back, her body revolted, fists clenching in his shirt, stopping him. As the fabric tugged on Kurt's body, she felt the spring and tense of his velvet-coated flesh, and sighed, silently, into his neck. Kurt stopped in earnest then, his own lips brushing her ear, and breathing audibly into it.

"Katzchen…"

She dragged her cheek along his, his warm fur tingling on her own warm skin, until she reached the edge of his lips. The kiss was brief, and clumsy. It was also mutual, and deliberate, lips grazing each other once, and then pressing, not quite open, but wanting to be.

Kitty breathed her response against his ticklish pout.

"Yes…"

It was the only thing she could say; in that moment, whatever he'd said or done, she would have said yes.

For the space of three heartbeats, Kurt considered it, golden eyes closing, lips slowly parting. Then, suddenly, he stiffened, and staggered back, hands springing free of her hips like he'd accidentally made contact with something too hot to touch.

When his warmth was replaced with empty air, Kitty felt cold a moment before she felt ill, realizing all at once what they'd done—what she'd done. She swallowed and chewed her rebellious lips as Kurt took another step back, his perfectly balanced feet suddenly graceless and uncertain.

"I should, um…"

"Yeah…"

She was sure it must have been torture for him to resist the urge to teleport, given the intensity of her own desire to phase through the floor. But somehow, they managed to recoup enough of their faculties to exchange numb pleasantries and goodnights. Kurt, of course, left first, and she watched him go, eyes following the unnaturally stiff motion of his tail until he disappeared from view. Dimly, she realized he'd forgotten his shoes.

Kitty stared at the space where he'd been, certain of only two things: Kurt wouldn't be coming back for his shoes; and she had no idea what the hell she was going to do.

Notes: Sorry for the cliffhanger—there's certainly more to come!

For those canon sticklers out there: I know Kurt doesn't give the necklace to Kitty during Excalibur (I *think* it happens in Uncanny X-Men #360), and that I haven't kept all the dialogue/details in-tact from The Wedding Special. Like all fanfic, this story is "inspired by" canon, rather than a totally faithful re-statement of it (if it was faithful, we wouldn't have Kitty and Kurt kissing, and no one reading this story wants that!). Other notable references: Peter assaults Pete Wisdom in Excalibur #92, Kurt visits Kitty at college in X-Men Unlimited #38, and the thing on the Brood ship happens in Uncanny X-Men #163 (the movie promise detail is my own).

Next—Kurt has to go home to his telepathic girlfriend and then on to Vegas with Peter and the boys for that bachelor party he was so excited about planning. I'm sure all of this will go completely smoothly, without any tension or angst whatsoever ;)

Hoping to get the next installment out there within the next week or so; I never know how much time I'll have to write, but I'm motivated, I promise! Gotta keep the fic flowing to distract from current events.

Hope you'll come along for the ride! And if you liked what you read, consider leaving a review! It almost always helps us fic writers write faster :)