Archive of Our Own ^beta

It wasn’t supposed to speak. 

That was one of the first things they taught it.  Back in the fuzzy early days, the ones it struggles to remember through the haze of pure, aimless fear. Speaking out of turn was a sin - and Nightcrawler remembers screaming on end. It talked back. It challenged and aggravated and fought, until the little tag on its collar changed from difficult to volatile . Then, it learned what it was to be volatile . 

A lesson that, despite being within the timeframe of its early days, it remembers far too clearly. It cringes thinking of it now, how bad it used to be to its handlers. 

So why its new handler absolutely insists on it speaking is beyond Nightcrawler. 

There are alot of things about Logan that it’s thankful for. How generous he is with clothes, showers, praise. How he doesn’t hit or call it names. He brings it food. 

Being made to speak was not something it was thankful for. It was… painful. Uncomfortable. Speaking was a human privilege, and more than that, it was a weapon to be used against Nightcrawler. It should only listen to commands and feedback, and it should only respond when absolutely, utterly necessary. Its handler constantly prompting for verbal feedback made it feel as though Logan were trying to make it comfortable with speaking. 

And that was simply an impossible idea. A mutt finding comfort in the boot that kicks it? A horse wielding the whip that cuts it? Animals - weapons - weren’t meant to wield - much less enjoy - such things. 

Nightcrawler surely didn’t. 

Though , it thinks, maybe that was the point. Something sparks in its chest. 

What if its handler knew how much it hated speaking, and it was a test? Yes, that made much, much more sense. He was testing to see how far he could push Nightcrawler. 

But to what end? What did its handler prefer? Was he trying to see how far he could force it to speak until it hit a breaking point? Maybe, he was teaching it how to wield the words he gave it, so that Nightcrawler may use speech as a weapon in the future. 

It did remember that some weapons were being trained like that. Some of the mutants in the facility, no matter how hard they were pushed, couldn’t quite handle the full extent of the combat training. So, they were trained on scripts and trickery. Spies , its old masters called them, and they were considered some of the lowest-ranked mutants. Very few mutants were made into spies. They had to have a worthwhile mutation to accent it - usually shapeshifting. And if they didn’t, they were discarded. 

Maybe that’s what its handler wanted it to be. A spy, a mouthpiece. 

Nightcrawler could be that. Oh yes. It could be good, it could talk, as much as it needed to prove itself to its handler. 

Resolve pooled in its chest. In the morning, when Logan came to bring it food and take it to the Danger Room, it would show him how good it could be. 

Nightcrawler finally allowed its eyes to slide shut. Back pressed against the wood frame of the bed, head slumped to its chest, it felt almost excited for tomorrow. Excited for another chance to prove itself to its betters. To show how useful and versatile it could be. 

–

When the door cracked open the next morning, Nightcrawler was already waiting patiently in its place. Tail still, head bowed, hands behind its back. Its handler grunted its usual good morning. 

Its plan was, naturally, to respond with a greeting. 

…. but. 

It wasn’t to speak out of turn. And enacting this verbal plan meant doing just that. It was a gamble - maybe its handler didn’t wish it to be a spy, and it was being presumptuous. Stupid, as it always was. 

Sweat beaded down the back of its neck. Logan continued on like normal, as the seconds passed and Nightcrawler hesitated. 

“Here's your breakfast. Eat.” The commandment laid into it like fire, and its body - the well trained animal that it was - instantly dropped to its knees before the can. Fuck, it had missed its first opportunity to prove itself. Before it could think to hesitate longer, it pried open its cracked lips and spat out the first rusty words it could conjure:

“Thank you, sir.” 

Silence hung in the air for a long suffering moment. The mutant had half a mind to assume its punishment position, just in case its gamble lost. 

Instead, it heard a grunt to the tune of surprise from its handler, then a further note of affirmation. 

“Oh. Good job.”

Good.  He called it good . That confirmed its theory, then - Nightcrawler was being trained into a new type of weapon. The realization was daunting. 

The food, as usual, tasted heavenly in its mouth. The water that chased it a soothing cold to its scratchy throat. Breakfast really was its favorite time of the day. 

As usual, the mutant cleaned the can as quickly as it could, lest someone take it from it. Logan tossed the remains in the small overflowing trash can beside its bed. 

“Ready for your training?” Its handler's voice drifted towards it. Normally, Nightcrawler would simply nod, if it felt like it needed to give any kind of response. 

“Yes.” It rasped, and wanted to cringe at how painful it was to speak. Four words into the day and it was already being weak. “I…. I am ready.”

Its handler hesitated once more, a bit longer than the first time. His gaze laid heavy on its shoulders. 

“Good job responding, elf. Keep it up, and I'll give you an extra reward today.” The temptation of reward had Nightcrawler so surprised that it wasn’t able to hold its tail back from giving the smallest twitch. Fuck. 

Mercifully, it seemed Logan didn’t notice. He just instructed the mutant to follow as he swung open the bedroom door. 

As they made their way towards the basement, Nightcrawler wracked its brain trying to think of more things to say. Anything to prove itself - but it was hard . Normally, the fact that all of its thoughts were fuzzy and far was a blessing. The separation between its mind, self and body meant that it could easily compartmentalize anything it needed to. But actually thinking? Delegating energy towards conjuring conversation topics? That was something beaten out of it a long, long time ago. Flexing that muscle again was proving incredibly difficult. It felt a dull pressure begin to build behind its head. 

It couldn’t be a question about the handler. That would be Nightcrawler assuming it had that privilege, and that was a sin worth punishing heavily. It couldn’t be a question about their surroundings - that would mean it had to look, meaning it broke form. Or, in a more unfaithful interpretation, implied it was trying to escape. It couldn’t be a question about its future, as that was only for its masters to know. It had to be something that made it look good. 

“Ah… Sir?” 

Its handler kept walking, only hesitating in his steps for a brief moment. “What?”

“Do.. do you want me to, ah… do any tricks, today?” Awkward. Stupid. You sound so stupid. 

Logan seemed to consider it. 

“If you’ve got somethin’ you wanna show me, then, uh, sure. Go right for it.” 

Oh. That's good - Nightcrawler had so many tricks. 

Their steps began to echo as they transitioned from the mansion to the basement. It was buzzing with excitement, carefully folded underneath its blank stare. It would prove its worth today - it would show to its handler that it could do anything he wanted.

The pressure in its head had increased substantially. It was fine. 

Finally, they arrived at the Danger Room. The chromium silver walls reflected back at the mutant with a soft familiarity. It was really beginning to enjoy its time in this place. 

Before its master could input the regular training session, Nightcrawler spoke up. 

“S-sir,” Its voice stuttered and clipped, and the mutant cursed itself. It was enough to catch his attention though, as Logan turned from the module towards it. Nightcrawler kept its eyes on the ground. 

“Do… do you have, something that, has. Ahum. High ground? ..... Trapeze?” 

It had been some time since its previous owners had made it perform, but it was asked to sometimes. Usually whenever a “potential investor” - whatever that meant - was interested in Nightcrawler especially. It always hated those the most. They would make it train for weeks without end, whip every mistake. And if it dared to slip during the performance? 

… It couldn’t think of that now. 

It was a high stakes performance. It was a gamble, a push. But, if its handler allowed it, maybe it could finally prove its maximum worth. 

Too lost in retrospection, it hadn’t noticed that Logan had already turned around and was flipping through the modules. After a few minutes, he made a noise of affirmation. 

“Yeah, looks like we got one. It’s intermediate - seems pretty tough. Sure you can handle it?”

Nightcrawler's bewilderment at asking a weapon such a question seemed lost in the adrenaline of anticipation. It simply nodded its head first, then thought better of it. 

“Y-yes. yes. I can do it.” 

“Alright. There's nothin’ special about this one - just have to get to the other side, no flags.” Its handler waited for a beat, then activated it. 

Nightcrawler watched the landscape transform around it. The walls bled away into a distant fog, leaving only a small platform jutting from the void for the mutant to stand stiffly on. 

Laid before it was, sure enough, a trapeze ensemble. The first thing infront of it was a swing with a small wooden handle, just wide enough for it to get its hands around it. With some momentum, it would swing it to a bar a distance further from it. The space felt endless, and Nightcrawler immediately noted that it couldn’t see the end of the track. It simply faded into darkness the further it looked, with a seemingly limitless amount of tightropes, swings, and bars to lead into it. Aside from the endlessness of it, it was shockingly similar to the one it used to train with - enough that the hairs on the back of its neck stuck out. 

The pressure in its head was immense. There was something else now, too - a tightness in its chest. 

The mutant recalled its training, and left its body. 

It watched in detached interest as it moved - launching through the air to grab the swing with two hands. Gravity allowed it to fly up, up, as far as the swing would let it, until it let go. A graceful, flawless spin, and it latched onto the standalone metal bar. 

Good. Good. Doing good. 

Two full body spins around it and it launched to the next swing, leveraging the momentum against the wooden handle to carry it into its next flip.

It felt… good. To let loose, to fly. 

Tuck and roll. Balance on the wire. It lost count of how many flips it performed. The course was long, and aside from the platform it had jumped from, there were no others. Only wires, bars and swings jutting from oblivion. 

Finally - when the mutant was really beginning to feel the strain, it caught sight of the end platform. It was too mentally distant to celebrate, but felt its body begin to speed up, desperate to reach the finish. 

One last swing. The furthest one yet. Nightcrawler let its momentum build, build, throwing its whole body into the sway. It let go, soared through the open air, and - 

Cold steel graced its feet. It did it. 

The simulation buzzed green and the mutant was thrust back into awareness all at once. It was overwhelmingly disorientating - it hadn’t realized how far away it had pulled from itself. The overhead said something, but the blood rushing through its ears was far too loud. Its heart was pounding, chest heaving, legs weak. 

Footsteps approached. 

“Elf, that was… that was somethin’ else. Didn’t know you had it in you. Here - you’ve more than earned this.” The rip of a package, and the scent of beef jerky hit its nose. It took the reward with unsteady hands. Even the smell was overwhelming.

“Thank y-you -” It heaved, “Wanted.. to show you, that - that.. I..” The words weren’t coming anymore, and it barely held back a frustrated whine. Logan said nothing. Just watched it, waiting for it to respond. 

Shit. Did he want me to say more? It swallowed dryly. The pressure in its head was near-blinding now - a steady weight behind its eyes, in its throat. 

“I -” The words weren’t coming. They weren’t and it couldn’t force them out, no matter how hard it tried. Its heart hadn’t stopped pounding since it finished, and its breath was becoming quick. 

It felt like it was spiraling. Maybe it was. Maybe, it had fallen at that final jump, and it was still falling now. 

The jerky dropped from its hands, and Logan made a noise of surprise. Before it's handler could stoop to grab it, Nightcrawler was on its knees. 

“I - sorry - sorry - bad -” The words were disjointed, and cut into its throat on their way out like knives. It was painful . It was all wrong, it was doing everything wrong. It couldn't even speak right - how would it be a good spy? It-

“Jesus, kid, slow down - just -” Its handler's voice was distant from it, like he was miles away. He said something further but it didn't - couldn't - hear. 

A thought suddenly sprung forth in the sea of fear: It could punish itself for its handler. Show him how good it was . 

It was acting on it before it could finish the thought. It knealed fully, forehead on the cold floor, pitched its hands behind its head, and dug. 

The pain was blinding. God in heaven, the pain was good.  

The pressure, the thoughts, the fear - it all bled away, slipping out with the hot liquid gushing from his scalp. It was warm on his digits. 

It felt a presence above it, and knew it was about to be stopped. In a last act of desperation, Nightcrawler ripped its claws down the stretch of its neck not covered by the collar. The pain was overwhelming. It thinks it might’ve been screaming. 

Its hands were both snatched in a tight grip. It managed to ball one into a fist in time, but it distinctly felt the other's claws dig into his handler's skin. Fuck . To apologize, the mutant dug its claws into the palm of its balled up hand, and it heard its handler cursing furiously over it. 

With its eyes screwed shut - when had it done that? - it couldn’t tell if its vision was tunneling, as it usually did when it was losing a lot of blood. It hoped it was.

Maybe, this would finally convince its handler that it was something worth hurting. 

A strange sensation engulfed it, like it was being lifted up into something warm. Its chin rested on a solid force, while pressure settled on the wounds in its neck, tight and restricting. The mutant whined. 

Reality fazed in and out. It thinks it hears people, sees hallways. It feels light. Happy . 

-

When it begins to wake, the first thing it realizes is that it can’t feel pain.

It wants to panic. It wants to lash out, and it wants to smother the instincts all at once. It can do nothing. 

With a sinking pit of dread, it realizes that its arms are bound. Legs and tail too, and it felt so, so far away from its body. Like it were trapped under a suffocating blanket of non-existence. 

It liked to be distant sometimes. It was a reward to not be present, and more than that, it was necessary for its training. It needed to compartmentalize the pain, to ignore all spoken words besides commands, to let the time pass without losing too much of itself. 

But this - this painless drifting, distance with no anchor, felt terrifying . It felt like it would never come back from it. 

It whimpers. 

Immediately there is a shift somewhere near its head, from a presence that it hadn’t even realized was nearby, only furthering the sinking feeling in its gut. The mutant's eyes slowly cracked open.

Blistering white sterile light seeped into its retina, and it hissed , trying in vain to sink back into the cold steel of the medical table beneath it. 

“...crawler’! Hey - he's awake!” called the presence above it. Trying to pinpoint the identity was so, so difficult when the world felt so far away from itself. It thinks maybe Scott, but the person’s smell was similar to Jean’s, so it could have been either. 

Maybe it's neither of them, says a nagging voice in its head, maybe you’re back . Back where you belong. 

Movement dances along its aborted senses, feather-light and difficult to discern. More people seem to have come into the room. Something heavy settles on its forearm. It wants to jump away, it wants to crush the instinct, but it can't do either.

“Nightcrawler. Physical report. Verbal Response.” The command cuts through it with such shock that it feels as though a bucket of water was dumped on it. It feels its entire body clench upwards - trying to get into form - but it can't . 

Belatedly, it realizes that its handler - surely it was its handler, right? - was still waiting. The mutant's throat isn't as painful as it normally was. 

“...Pain - painless. Scratches.” it was infuriating trying to make its mind do what it wanted. More words hang on the tip of its tongue, but it can’t make them come out.

“Good” mumbled the voice above it, and now, the mutant is sure it was its handler. “Sleep”

Entirely against its will, its body sags. A breath seeps out of its tensed chest, and it closes its eyes tight against the blinding light. At that, there's some more movement around it, and the light dissipates all at once. 

The mutant isn't aware of how long it takes for it to drift off. Maybe immediately, maybe hours. Eventually, though, sleep takes it. 

-

“ Scott -”

“No - no Jean, this can’t… this isn’t right at all. Clearly this-” Scott made an aborted gesture towards Logan “-isnt working, and I won't be complicit in it any longer. Christ, there was so much blood.” His voice was heavy and weak, laced with something Logan couldn’t quite pick up on. Fear? 

God damnit. They had been making progress. 

“Listen. Stuff like this happens. You don’t - you can't just walk out of somethin’ like that and not have bad days. Crawler’s bad days are just… scarier.” Both Jean and Scott were looking at him now, their eyes filled with conviction. Logan realized after a moment that they wanted him to continue - he sighs, heavily. 

“Look - he was doin’ great earlier. Talking to me, askin’ for things. Then, when he finished the course, he just - lost it. Like a switch flipped.” That seemed to get Jean's attention, and she took a small step closer. 

“What was he saying? What did he ask for? This - it had to be triggered by something .” 

“And if we can start learning what his triggers are, we can make sure to avoid them, so.. This won't happen again.” Scott chimed in. 

Logan wracked his brain trying to think of the morning. “He was at his usual spot, but I could tell he was a bit scared - more than usual. He reeked of it. but he took his food, thanked me, which isn't normal, and I praised him for it. And when I asked if he was ready to train, he said he was.” A coppery taste spilled on his tongue, and Logan realized he had been chewing on his bottom lip between words.

“I took him to the danger room, and on the way there, he asked me if i wanted to see him do a trick or somethin’. Then, asked for a different routine than he normally did, which is weird. Did the whole thing damn flawlessly. When I came over to give him his reward, the kid tried to say somethin’ else, couldn't finish it, dropped to his knees, and just started tearing. Barely even made a sound while he was doin’ it.” Logan shook his head. 

All three mutants went silent. The only thing to hear was the sound of Kurt’s quiet breathing just a small distance away from the group. 

Just as Scott sucked in a breath to speak, Jean beat him to it. “That’s definitely strange. Sounds like he was actively trying to force himself to speak - but why? And what kind of danger room setup did he ask for?”

“The trapeze one. He was - it was some of the best movin’ i've seen. Sure as hell he beat whatever score was on it, it’s like he already knew how to do it.” 

Another bout of silence settled over the group. More copper stained his tongue. 

“Actually, Jean.” She looked to Logan from her own musings, brow creased. Logan tried to keep his voice even. “Can you do me a favor? I think someone should, uh, take a look at his throat.”

She raised an eyebrow at that. “Why?”

“Well, the kid still sounds like he smokes six packs a day. I think they might’ve screwed with his throat or somethin’ - it looks… painful, for him to talk. Sounds like it.” 

Without saying anything further, Jean quickly shuffled back to the kid. Scott stayed with him, and he was, for a terrifying moment, thankful for the company. 

The sight of Kurt doing that to himself was… Logan had a strong stomach, but even that was beyond it. The gush of blood, the full body shiver, the tear. It replayed over and over in his mind. 

This was… it was too much for him. He needed a fucking drink. A pack of them, as soon as he possibly could. 

Scott seemed just as shaken up as he was. None of them were cut out for this. 

“I'm sorry. For saying what I said earlier - I think I get it. Recovery is an uphill climb. I just…. It's hard to trust you on this. It feels so wrong .” Scotts voice wavered, his leader persona long since fallen. Logan wanted to scoff, but didn’t have the energy. Just grunted. 

He should have known something like this would happen. 

-

The mutant can most certainly feel pain again.

A deep, painful throbbing, in tune to the rising beat of its heart. Nightcrawler gradually began to take stock of itself. Bandages tight - but not too tight - around its throat, just above its collar. Some bandages wrapped between its fingers to cover the small puncture wounds on its palms. It felt exhausted. A bit dizzy. 

It seemed it was laid out on the floor of the storage room, slightly on its side so that there was no pressure on its neck. The plush carpet beneath it was a benevolent force. 

Soft light streamed in through the window, cascading into a strip of sunlight across its small form. 

The handler will kill me, it thinks, and it knows. 

It spoke out of turn. Numerous times. It rejected a reward, broke form, damaged the weapon, and barely felt any pain out of the whole ordeal. What lesson was there to learn? What pain was there to prove that it was a good mutant?

Footsteps down the hall - it immediately drags its body to its spot, huddling down with its palms flat and forehead on the ground. Vertigo belatedly stings its vision, but it doesn’t care. 

The door creaked open, gradually, until a figure stepped in. The mutant knew instantly that it was Logan, and a stone sunk in its gut. 

“Kid…..” Is the first thing it hears, and it elects to ignore it. 

Its handler crouches down. A hand cups its cheek, warm and calloused, lifting its head up. Enough to see the indiscriminate outline of Logan's face - eyes empty as they were. 

“Listen to me.” An order - the relief makes it almost sag. “First off, I’m not hurtin’ you, so quit expectin’ it.” Confusion seeped into the mutants bones, and it felt frustration - sharp, like a razors edge - cut up its spine. It realizes, belatedly, that its tail lashed against the carpet. That seems to give Logan pause. 

He sighs, heavily. Nightcrawler waited for the blow. 

“There will be consequences to this-” the mutant feels a small brush against the bandages on its neck “-that's.. That's against the rules, okay? No hurtin’ yourself, and I’m not hurtin’ you. That’s not how we learn here.”

Nightcrawler wants to whine in protest, but nothing comes out. 

“And, I'm… I'm sorry.” It’s whole body stiffens at that, and it’s sure Logan can feel it under his hand. He’s sorry? Before the mutant can even think to refute it, Logan continues.

“I didn’t realize how hard it was for you to talk. I’m sorry for pushin’ you all the time. From now on, you only gotta respond verbally if you feel like it. Otherwise-” the sounds of papers shuffling gets its attention. Logan guides its chin to look down at a brightly coloured piece of paper. “-use this. We’ll - we’ll get you somethin’ better soon, but this is all we had. When you wanna say somethin’, just point towards it.”

A series of small icons and words sat before it. It didn’t understand all of them - like i need a break, and what seemed to be a picture of some kind of book with a pencil beside it - but the rest it thinks it understood. 

“Can you show me you understand? Just - just point to the one that says that.” it wasn’t quite a command, but his words were urging enough that the mutant slowly - with enough hesitance for Logan to take it away - reached down. Its digit settled on the okay icon. It hears a sigh of relief above it. 

“Good. You did good, kid, really good.”

The paper confuses it, but.. It doesn’t mind it. If this was how its handler wanted it to communicate, then it would communicate with the paper. It was just grateful that no immediate punishment seemed to be at hand. 

A hand gently ruffles through its hair - which had gradually become fluffier over its stay here - then pulls away. Its handler hesitated for a long moment, seemingly debating something. Nightcrawler kept its head down to absently study the paper. 

“We took a look at your…its..” He hesitated, caught on his words. Then, suddenly; “Did They ever hurt your throat?” spoken with that same half-command, half-urge that its handler seemed to prefer. 

Nightcrawler obediently tries to recall.

They’d finally gotten sick of it screaming. It knew it, the moment a rough hand grabbed its chin and tried to pry its mouth open. Pain flashed elsewhere - along the spade on its tail - and its mouth parted in shock. 

The hand took the opportunity to shove something cold and metal between its teeth - it couldn’t close its mouth, couldn’t bite down, and before it could start screaming, something else wedged in. Plastic? It bumped against the back of its throat and it felt itself dry heaving against it. Then -

Agony. Absolute utter agony as it gurgled and thrashed and-

Its hand slaps against the yes icon with such force that Logan made a noise of surprise. For a second, neither of them moves an inch. 

“Yeah, okay, that's what I thought. Breathe, kid, you’re okay.” a heavy hand settled on its back, and it hadn’t even realized that it had stopped breathing. It sucks in a breath all at once, and shakes. 

It takes some time for it to stop shaking. Its handler sits there the whole time, one heavy hand resting on its back, occasionally mumbling things it doesn’t understand. When it eventually calms down enough, Logan instructs it to sit up. 

The scent of food hits its nose. It hadn't realized how hungry it was - its eyes dart to Logan, who finished pulling the cans lid off with a grunt. The mutant watches in interest as he takes out a blister pack of pills from his pocket and crushes one up into the food. 

“This will help with your throat. Probably wont get it all back - least’ not right away - but it’ll make it less painful. That's what Jean said anyways.” The mutant takes it wordlessly, and its gone in under a minute. Logan pats it almost affectionately. 

“Well-” He grabs the paper, stands, and instructs the mutant to stand as well. “-ready for training, kid?”

Nightcrawler almost, almost panics, but Logan quickly holds up the sheet instead of instructing it to speak. 

It taps the yes icon decisively. Logan pulls the sheet down again, and it realizes belatedly that his face was right behind it, meaning the mutant catches a distinct glimpse at its handler's fond smile.