Quixotic

Quixotic Chapter Eleven (NC-17)

Disclaimers Apply

 

A/N Goddess Foxfeather, Queen of Mad Plotbunnies, BUSIEST
WOMAN ALIVE ™, Prophetic Muse, Hamster Witch and Uberbeta… I dub thee Keeper of
the Kilts. (Alan made me do it!) ;)
InterNutter, TC, Maxwell Pink and Dracena get big heaps of muse cookies
for hosting/archiving. *happy dance
* ProPhile, I blame the armadillos for
the sickness. They’re leprotic you
know. Readers/Reviewers: *blush *
Thanks! *twirls around some more
* *giddy with thanks *

 

 

 

“What the…”
“I think,” Jean said with a
note of keen amusement, “the general consensus was, if you can’t beat ‘em, join
‘em.”

Of the
teenagers who stayed at the Institute for Winter break, almost every single
male was out on the grounds under Kurt’s direction. The girls, Remy and Scott had their noses pressed to the windows
in various stages of amusement. “I
don’t believe this,” Kitty muttered.

“What’s
Logan doing?” Scott asked in mild horror.
“Is he…merry?”

“He’s Friar
Tuck,” Kitty informed him.

“Friar…excuse
me.” Scott turned on his heel and
marched stiffly from the room. His
laugh echoed in the hall a second after the door closed.

Remy
snickered. “I gotta agree… Hey! Dat’s my bo!” He knocked on the window in futility—they were all too far away
to hear him out there. Kurt was
gesturing and tingting with the staff, seeming to direct the building of a tree
house. “Kitty, you bes’ be sayin’ adieu
to yo’ petit ami!”

“Calm down,
Remy,” Jubilee giggled. “It’s cute.”

“Cute?”
Kitty asked, almost aghast. “He thinks
he’s Robin Freakin’ Hood… How is that
cute?”

“Could be
worse,” Jean said prosaically. “He
could think he’s George Washington or something.”

“Or the
Pope,” Rahne put in. “What? He’s Catholic…none of you ever played Mass[1]
when you were little?”

“Vaguely
Protestant.”

“Jewish.”

“None of
the above.”

Rahne
flushed darkly. “Oh, look. There’s
Jamie.”

Remy
frowned. “Merde, he gonna mess it all
up!” He swore again under his breath
and strode from the room in Gallic fury.


Kitty
sighed. “Maybe he’ll knock some sense
into him. Though he doesn’t need
another whack on the head…”

“How many
has he had?” Amara asked, interested in an abstract way. They had all by now heard of Kurt’s rapid
fluctuation between Gollum and Robin Hood and there was some under the table
wagers on which hero figure he would become next. Legolas was heavily favored over a return to Don Quixote but
Wesley from The Princess Bride was gaining favor in the older set.

“Three, as
far as I know,” Kitty admitted. “Am I
wrong for finding this…worrisome? I
mean, everyone else thinks it’s just funny or something!”

Jean
managed a consoling expression and said, “Beast ran as many tests as he could
and could not find anything clinically wrong with him. The Professor has…probed a bit and he seems
in otherwise good mental health…”

“Aside from
thinking he’s someone he’s not, you mean,” Kitty practically spat.

“Sometimes,”
Jean began carefully, fully aware of her rapt audience, “people need a little mental
break.”

“You mean a
nervous breakdown,” Kitty said flatly.
“You think he’s snapped.” It was
a statement, not a question.

“Maybe,”
the older teenager allowed. “He seems
to be otherwise fine and Beast thinks it should just run it’s course. The Professor agrees.”

Kitty shook
her head. “No. I’m not going to let him run around like a
fool…I’m surprised you all are just letting this go! I thought you had more respect for him than this!”

“Let her
go,” Rahne sighed as Kitty phased through the floor to the room below. “She needs to vent.”

“She might
have a point, though,” Jean sighed.
“We’re all just laughing at this like it’s some big joke…”

“It is kind
of funny,” Amara murmured. “Hm. Looks like Remy and Scott aren’t welcome
there.”

“Ouch. Kurt one, Remy zero,” Rahne crowed. “I didn’t think Kurt was that fast with a
staff.”

“Must be
all the fencing,” Jean said with clinical detachment. “Duck Scott…” A collective “ow” was echoed one window over by
Jubilee. “Hey, Jubes…what’s Remy’s deal
with that staff? Can’t he just let
Kurt…er…play with it a while?”

“He hates
people touching his stuff,” she shrugged.
“Thief thing, I guess, cause I’m the same way. Hate the idea of someone else’s fingers all over my belongings.”

Amara
raised a brow. “Better let Skin know
that.”

“Don’t tell
me he’s spreading that shit around,” Jubilee groaned, diverted from the scene
outside. “I can’t believe him…”

“Remy
didn’t say anything,”ra rra responded lightly.
“I have eyes to see, you know.”

Jubilee’s
expression became thunderous. “What’re
you saying?”

“Just that
it looks awfully…cozy…between you and Skin.”
She shrugged delicately. “On
Nova Roma, high borns often engaged in such…things…but personally, I find no
need to. Lance is quite…admirable in
keeping up with my needs.”

“First,
ew,” Jubilee stated with disgust, “second, I am not fucking around with
Skin or anyone.”

“I just
know what I see,” Amara murmured, her eyes down cast in the very picture of
demure.

Jean and
Rahne were strangely riveted. The scene
outside was all but forgotten as the tension built between Jubilee and
Amara. “Amara, watch yourself,” Rahne
muttered. “No powers in the house,
remember?”

Amara’s
eyes lit briefly with what could have been anticipation or amusement—Jean could
not name which but it made her feel moved to say calmly and firmly, “Okay, you
two. We have chores to get done before
we can go shopping in town. Amara…”

“Stow it,
Jean,” Jubilee snarled. “If you’re
accusing me of cheating, Amara, just say it!”

Amara
blinked innocently. “Why would you
think I’d accuse of that unless you had a guilty conscience?”

What struck
Rahne most was that Amara saw the punch coming and did not move. This alone delayed the Scottish mutant’s
reaction, the sheer amazement that Amara let herself be hit. “Jubilee, stop it!” she finally cried,
lunging forward to catch the slight girl’s arm as she drew back for another
strike.

Amara, to
her credit, had not fallen, merely staggered back. She jerked her chin defiantly, tears leaking from the corner of
her swelling eye. “Defensive, aren’t
we?” she asked coolly.

Jubilee
snarled and tried to break Rahne’s grasp, but a well-timed growl from the
wolfish girl kept her from trying too hard. “Bitch!”

Jean,
stepping between the two would-be combatants, snapped, “Enough, you two!”

“Better
late than never,” Rahne groused, slowly releasing her hold on Jubilee.

“You
fucking…”

“Don’t even
finish that sentence, Jubilation,” Jean said fiercely. “Amara, what the Hell were you about?”

“I have no
idea what you mean,” she said blandly, dabbing at the corner of her eye
tenderly.

“You
provoked Jubilee,” Rahne said in exasperation.
“What the Hell?”

Jubilee,
breathing deeply in an effort to keep what little shred of her temper she had
left, said through gritted teeth, “If you come near me again today, I will kick
your ass back to Nova Roma.”

Amara
tilted her head to one side in acknowledgement. “If you knew how to read a map, I’d feel more threatened.”

“ENOUGH!”
Jean roared, throwing her hands out and holding them in their place. “Stop it!”

Amara
sighed as if much put upon. “While you’re
playing mother hen, you’re husband is getting soundly beaten.”

“Huh?” They all shifted their attention reluctantly
to the windows again.

“Remy!” Jubilee cried in exasperation before
bolting.

“Damn it
all…”

Amara
sighed again once she was alone in the room.
That actually helped, she thought pleasantly. But not enough… The fighting outside was interesting enough
to draw her out amongst the others and let her mind wander towards more plans
for a bit.

 

“Gimme dat
back!”

“You have
entered the keep of Robin Hood,” Kurt called from a low branch. “You are unwelcome here, Nottingham!”

“He thinks
you’re the Sheriff of Nottingham,” Scott murmured as an aside.

“Je
sais! Quoi? You tink I don’ read?”

“I…just
never thought you…oh, Hell. Here he
comes…”

Kurt
dropped from the branch and strolled over with a pleasant smile. “There’s a toll for rats to cross this
forest.”

“Should we
be tellin’ him his syntax all shot ta hell?”

“Don’t ask
me. I’m Guy of Gisbourne. I’m a varlet, what do I know about syntax?”
Scott drawled. “Logan! A hand?”

Logan was
not amused on any level. He stalked
over, exuding irritation and sheer miffiness.
“I’m humoring him,” he growled.
The inflection on “humoring” made it sound…dirty.

Kurt slung
his arm across Logan’s shoulders with a grin.
“Friar Tuck is a man of God, Sheriff; mayhap he will hear your
confession before you are twice damned.”

“Twice…quoi?”

“First for
trespassing and second for taking the name of the Lord in vain!” Kurt moved fast, sweeping low and knocking
Remy off his feet.

“Christ!”
the Cajun shouted as he hit the ground.

Scott
snorted. “He called that one, man.”

“And you,
Gisbourne…” He swung around and tapped Scott’s chest with the end of the
staff. They were drawing quite an
audience, including Kitty who was sprinting across the lawn towards them,
calling for Kurt to stop. “You and your
hag! You profane these woods with your
presence. Take your master and leave
before the god Friar and Little John find the need to remove you themselves.”

Logan
sighed. “Kurt, give him the staff and
let it go. You need to finish your tree
house, I have Danger Room session to plan…”
Remy chose that moment to make a grab for the staff, nearly wresting it
from Kurt’s grasp in the attempt.

“No one
steals from me,” Kurt cried, twisting and turning in such a way that the observers
winced in sympathy for his muscles.

Remy tried
to keep up with Kurt’s agility but, despite his own skills, found himself
lacking just enough to earn a rap on the skull. “Homme, you bes’ be glad I like you…”
Kitty skidded to a halt next
to Scott and glared briefly at Logan and Beast, a look that clearly said “I
blame you for this!” before trying to get Kurt’s attention. “Sweetie, listen to me…you don’t need to do
this…”

Kurt
stepped back from Remy and frowned. “Kitty,
you shouldn’t be here! It isn’t safe!
John, take her to the shelter!”

St John
looked up, startled, from his contemplation of his boots. “Huh?
Oh…Little John…Dude, I’d so change my name if I were you…”

Kitty waved
him down impatiently. “Kurt, listen,
you’re causing a huge scene for nothing.
Just let him have his staff and…and come with me.”

“I’ll not
return to Nottingham while thieves such as these,” he gestured to Remy and
Scott with the end of the staff, “run amuck.
I cannot leave the people without a defender!”

“What
people?” Kitty gritted through clenched teeth.
“It’s just us, Kurt. Just you’re…merry
men and us in the house.”

Kurt’s
confusion seemed the perfect opportunity for Scott. He was closest to the staff so he reached for it. Kurt reacted explosively. Somehow, Kitty found herself pinned under Jamie
as Scott landed atop him. Remy swore
fluently in three languages and the sound of the staff whacking several fleshy
bits was loud in the thin woods. It lasted only a few moments before silence
crashed down. Jean’s tense voice asked,
“What the Hell is wrong with you people?”
Scratch that… I know what’s wrong with you people…”

Kitty
sighed with relief as the weight was removed from her ribcage. Kurt was scowling angrily, seemingly at a
loss for words before Jean’s presence, still thinking her the hag. “Kurt, you don’t have to do this.”

“Kitty…”

“No, Kurt,
listen to me…you don’t have to do this…”
She took a breath and said in a rush, aware of the dozen or so pairs of
eyes watching her intently, “I love you as Kurt, not Robin Hood or Errol Flynn or
whatever’s in your head. I love you for
you!”

“Kitty,” he
sighed sadly, “you don’t understand.”
He laid a hand on her cheek and rub her skin with his thumb
tenderly. “This is what I need to do…” Turning to Logan, he said, “Friar, could you
please escort milady to safety past these…excuses for men?”

Logan
smirked a little at that. “I’ll see to
it,” he murmured. “C’mon, Kitty. Er…try not to beat ‘em too bad, Kurt.”

Jean
muttered as they passed, “We’ll be in in ten.
If we’re not, come after us, okay?”

“Expecting
trouble?” Logan asked with a raised brow.

“If we’re
still out here in ten minutes, I’m killing them all myself.”

 

 

A/N Next up, Kitty has a devious plot…



 

 

 



[1] I know it
wasn’t just us… I’ve talked to lots of Catholics, recovering and otherwise, who
played Mass. Crackers for host, grape
juice for wine, a towel for the cassock…
It was odd but killed a lot of time.