Frostbitten

He sat bolt upright, confused and disoriented. He was style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>cold, cold and soaking wet. That made no
sense. This wasn’t his room, these weren’t his things, he wasn’t supposed to be
cold, he had to…he had to…

The water. The water rushed style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>in.

Kurt’s eyes snapped open, and he rubbed his face with
shaking hands, before sliding out of his bed. He looked back, had he been wet? He
and his bedclothes were dry. Not even sweat. He shuffled into the bathroom, his
tail nearly dragging behind him, weaving listlessly around his ankles. He leaned
on the sink counter, staring at his reflection, and for a split second, what he
saw reflected in the mirror wasn’t a young man with elfin features and blue
skin, but a man with pale blue eyes and blond hair. And then -- before his mind
could register what he’d just seen -- it was gone.

And then he wasn’t sure he’d seen it at all.

He was already in the shower when the memory of the night
before came rushing back, just as the water rushed over his body. class=GramE>The wet air, the frost, the healing. How would he explain it
to Hank? He was supposed to go down for a follow-up.

The water soaked his fur, flowing over him, his tail wrapped
around him as he rose up on his toes, seeking the spray. Again, that strange
surreal Other-ness settled over him, as if the water,
the steam, was solidifying, wrapping around him, tendrils of mist twined around
his legs, his waist, caressing, and soothing, and wanting. His head dropped
back, the moisture shifting, moving. Kurt leaned back against the tile, his
forearm pressed over his face, as the wet air and the water continued to slide
over his skin, penetrating his fur, brushing his lips, and then – Oh, class=SpellE>Gott – he could feel himself, hard and leaking, pressed
against his lower belly. One hand reached up and gripped the showerhead, as the
thick air lapped at him, tendrils of mist licking at him. He inhaled the mist
and came in trembling gasps. His knees nearly buckling, as a sudden flash of
memory exploded in his mind’s eye.

Chains. The sound of chain links
clinking together. Eyes as pale as a wolf’s. class=GramE>The smell of leather. The smell of sweat.

Pain.

A hand balled in his hair, words hissed in his ear.

Pleasure.

Possession.

Kurt’s eyes opened.

The asylum. He needed to go back.
They’d taken him there. He could feel it. And he had twenty-two minutes of class=GramE>days worth of injuries to account for.

Who were those hooded people, what had happened to Iceman
there, what was the connection, and what the devil was happening to style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>him?

Kurt knew that somehow, it was Bobby who’d healed his
injuries. That Bobby was somehow with him.

That he’d been somewhere else.

And he needed to know where, and what happened there.

It was just before dawn, so Kurt dressed and packed up his
gear. He had to do this alone.

But he wasn’t alone. There was something else there. In his
blood, on the back of his tongue, in the scent of his fur – he was changed.
Changed by whatever had happened in those lost twenty-two minutes.