Warren Worthington III was on a mission. Namely, he was on a mission to win the heart (and maybe, one day, just maybe, hand) of a certain unnamed blue mutant that was in no way, shape, or form Kurt Wagner, alias Nightcrawler.
It was totally Kurt.
And so what if it was? See, being bedridden for a month in the mansion gave Warren a lot of time to think about a lot of things, among them being his burgeoning feelings for Kurt. Which seemed antithetical at first. Kurt was the one who got him into this whole mess in the first place, after all. It was Kurt who slammed him into the electric fence, searing his left wing into a useless, bloody mess. And, technically, if Warren wanted to be petty (which he totally did sometimes, especially if his head was killing him), if Kurt hadn’t teleported the X-Men out of the plane at the last minute, he probably wouldn’t crashed so spectacularly with absolutely nothing to show for it.
In fact, it was safe to say that in the first two weeks of his newly-regained consciousness, Warren Worthington III hated Kurt Wagner. Hated. With a bone-deep loathing. Stupid little blue freak, with his stupid tail and his stupid teleportation powers and his stupid red eyes that were not at all like two limpid orbs of amber-veined carnelian because there was no universe in which Warren Worthington III would wax poetic in such a featherbrained (ha) fashion about Kurt Wagner’s eyes, no sir.
At least, he had no original intention of doing so. It was just really hard, okay, when Kurt would awkwardly shuffle into his room every day with hesitant accented inquiries regarding his health and so much remorse and guilt and concern all condensed into the most heartbreakingly adorable expression Warren had ever had the honor of witnessing. He succumbed to the sheer cuteness that was Kurt Wagner standing tentatively at the foot of his bed, fingers steepled and nervously tapping together, tail waving about like a shy reed. Warren dared anyone to honestly say that they could keep hating someone who looked like a kicked puppy. A hot kicked puppy, with skin the color of dark blue hyacinths and full lips that were perpetually pouting and delicately-pointed ears that Warren just wanted to lick, and - the point remained that Kurt Wagner was very hard to resist and that was all Warren was going to ever say about it. (Out loud, that was.)
And so Warren Worthington III came to the decision that as soon as he was released from bed rest, he would woo the mutant formerly known as Nightcrawler and no force on Earth was going to stop him.
The first step, naturally, was getting Kurt to notice him. This would be easy. Warren was great at getting people to notice him. It was his job, nay, his calling to get people to notice him. He had, after all, a wide variety of noteworthy features: his face, his muscles, his hair, his wings. All he had to do was to find a way to strategically showcase his most-impressive physical attributes in a way that would capture Kurt’s full attention and from there, it was only a matter of days before he, as most people seemed to do, succumb easily and rapidly for Warren’s considerable charms. In no way could this go wrong.
Warren spent his first week after being released from bed rest carefully scoping out every large window with a sweeping view at various points during the sunset. It was of utmost importance to his plan that he stand at a window at the perfect point in time during the sunset, through which the perfect amount of sunlight would stream, at the perfect angle. To make things even more difficult, said window also had to be located in a place that Kurt frequented at the given time.
Finally, finally , after a week of lurking awkwardly around staircase landings and French doors and turrets and, on one memorable, unfortunate occasion, the section of hallway right outside the girls’ bathroom on the third floor - and Warren did not at all panic a little inside whenever he thought he saw a fluttering of red hair after that incident. It wasn’t his fault that Xaviers past had seen fit to install such a spectacular expanse of stained glass on the third floor landing. It would’ve made his wings look like jewels - Warren found the absolute perfect spot: the bay window in the corner of the main library, which Kurt frequented between the hours of five and six-thirty in the evening.
And so Warren found himself posed in front of the window at six o’clock on a Tuesday evening in such a fashion that the last, dying rays of the sun could illuminate the chiseled lines of his profile and highlight the glorious arch of his wings and cast his hair into a halo of gold. Indeed, his entire being was unto a sculpted shadow, dramatically gilded by the light of Heaven. There was no need to be subtle here, no need to not draw attention to the fact that his alias was indeed Angel. All the better to appeal to Kurt’s Catholic sensibilities, in any case.
Warren’s heart leapt, for the unknowing object of his affections had noticed his efforts and was obviously about to fall over swooning, as evidenced by the hesitant waver in his voice.
“I understand that the sunset is very beautiful, especially from this window, aber...”
Warren held his breath, unwilling to ruin the moment that was so clearly forthcoming. He had waited for weeks. He could wait a few more moments.
“I am trying to read, and you are blocking the light. Please, could you move? Just for a bit?”
Warren could feel his heart crawling into his soul and dying until it had shriveled into a stony lump before crumbling to bits and withering away in the wind like so many grains of sand in the Sahara desert.