Chapter Text
When Warren Worthington III showed up on the doorstep of Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters, his stomach was churning. He was half terrified beyond belief, and half determined beyond measure. As he slammed the door of his father’s shiny black Cadillac, he saw himself reflected in the tinted windows. His hair was long, his cherubic golden curls parted neatly and brushed into order over his shoulders. His mother still fussed with them on the walk up from the car, imperceptibly adjusting the headband, just so.
August was warmly spread across the landscape, the golden air carrying the warmth and consistency of butter smeared over toast. The school rose up from the ground before them, imposing and elegant, while their three pairs of shiny patent leather shoes crunched on the gravel walkway to the door. The front grounds were well kept, and Warren imagined relaxing under an umbrella out here with other teenagers when classes weren’t in session, like he had dreamed of ever since he found that this place existed.
In the daydream, Warren was lying on his stomach, and his wings were out, stretching as wide as he pleased.
In the daydream, Warren never had to worry about hiding.
Distant uncleared forest marked the isolation of the school from the nearby town. It was an isolation shared by most of the farms and private homes in the area, tucked away in the northeast corner of Westchester.
“The campus certainly is beautiful,” Warren’s mother remarked, a nervous smile playing across her face. “An awful long way from home, though.”
“It’s not too far,” Warren replied, smoothing his hands over the sides of his coat. His wings ached underneath, itching terribly strapped to his back. “The trains work fine, and soon I’ll be able to drive the whole way home.”
“Do you feel ready for your interview?” His father asked, turning a sharp eye on Warren, who nodded, standing a little bit taller under his stern look.
A bespectacled boy opened the door when they knocked and bowed his head slightly, welcoming them inside. The Worthingtons looked around the foyer.
Charles Xavier wheeled down the hall, giving them a smile that seemed to brighten the whole room, as if it was an emotion made physical. “Good afternoon! Welcome to the school. I’m so glad you could make it. Mr. and Mrs. Worthington, I presume?”
Warren’s father met the professor in two long strides and shook his hand firmly. “Yes, and we’re pleased to meet you too, Dr. Xavier. I’m Warren, this is my wife, Kathryn, and our daughter, Ella.”
Charles felt the teenager before him flinch mentally at the end of the sentence, a wave of half-stomached discomfort rushing out from a troubled mind. A strong, projected thought rang out.
That’s not my name.
Charles noted the thought, eyes trailing over the prospective student, whose hair, cardigan, and skirt were all immaculate and crisp. He flipped through the parents’ minds, skimming their memories since just after the child had contacted him asking for an application. No shocking confessions from their beloved ‘daughter’ were in their minds.
“I’d just like to thank you again for traveling so far to visit. I understand you're from Long Island. That's quite the drive."
Warren Jr. waved a hand. "It was nothing. Naturally, I wanted to see the school my daughter so insistently wishes to attend."
Charles could feel the discomfort rolling off the child, a trembling that tugged on his mind.
"Well, then let's not delay. Only prospective students sit for interviews, but I'll meet with the two of you when we're finished. In the meantime, I’d love it if you met with one of my preeminent pupils, Mr. Scott Summers. He has been here the longest and will be happy to answer any questions you have about the school. Hank, could you please show our new friend to my upstairs office while I take the Worthingtons to the parlor?"
“Of course, Professor,” The boy with glasses nodded, and gestured to Warren to follow him out of the foyer.
"So what makes you a gifted youngster?" Warren asked Hank as they climbed the stairs. Hank was awkward in every way imaginable, built like an ox but not quite finished with puberty. Despite his lumbering appearance, he moved with surprising agility up the stairs. Warren found himself panting to keep up every time they reached a landing.
"I know a lot," Hank said, pushing up his glasses. "I graduated from Harvard last year. I’m taking this opportunity to do research in genetics with the professor before I’m old enough to pursue a professional career."
"Wow," Warren said, suddenly nervous that the talents he had noted on his own application were not going to be good enough to get into this place. “That’s, uh, really impressive. What kind of things have you learned so far?”
He silently wondered what Hank's secret gift was, the reason he was really here. What freakish thing set him apart, made him other, besides his intelligence. Warren didn’t have any evidence to back up what he suspected about the school, but the way everything was phrased in the brochures, it was impossible for it not to be a safe school for mutants.
“We haven’t made any breakthroughs quite yet. We’re looking into the ways radiation’s effects on nucleotide sequence impacts growth and development in humans during adolescence.”
Warren nodded, not sure exactly how to reply. Luckily, Hank was happy to keep talking about his research, and he went on, filling in the conversation around Warren’s occasional noises of assent or understanding.
“It’s an ambitious project, of course, but Professor Xavier is brilliant, so we’ve been able to make strides of progress like the world has never seen. I couldn’t have worked on something as new as this anywhere else. The professors at Harvard haven’t even thought about this yet.”
“Huh,” Warren replied.
“This is it,” Hank said suddenly, and stopped short in front of an oak door. Warren ran into him, his face hitting the back of Hank’s neck with an ‘oof’. He apologized profusely, and Hank’s face flushed.
“It’s all right. Um. Good luck with your interview.” He quickly turned and disappeared down the hall, and Warren was faced with the closed door of the professor’s office.
What if he wasn’t good enough?
Swallowing, he wiped his palms on his skirt, and adjusted his headband. The belts and straps beneath his shirt left burning, itching lines over his newly-grown wings.
His feathers fell out in patches each night wherever the harness chafed his skin a raw red, and he had to burn them with leaves in the back garden so his parents wouldn’t ask any questions, watching them curl and crack into ashes beneath the stars.
He couldn’t fly, and had sprained his ankle last time he tried to.
What if he wasn’t good enough?
Warren clenched his fists.
He needed this place. He belonged here.
He opened the door, and the professor was waiting for him, and he smiled as Warren entered.
A pot of tea was blowing steam from its spout on a side table by the window. Warren took a seat in the straight-backed chair in front of the massive mahogany desk.
“Tell me,” Charles said after he had shuffled the papers on his desk into an orderly pile. “What is your name?”
Warren blinked, not having expected the professor to forget him so quickly. “Um, Ella.”
The professor shook his head. “Your real name. I noticed you seemed to hold a certain resentment for the one your parents use.”
Warren’s eyes widened, and his hand gripped the arm of his chair. No one had noticed that before. “It’s--it’s Warren. How did you...”
“For now, suffice to say I have a sensitivity for such matters.” The professor blew the steam off of the top of his teacup with one hand, making a note on one of his papers with the other. “So you like your father’s name?”
A memory flashed through Warren’s mind then, so bright that Charles could not help but pick it up, but so brief that he could barely catch it.
“Yes, we would have named you Warren, if you’d been a boy. But Eleanor is just as fine a name, don’t you think?” His mother brushed crumbs off the front of his sweater, pursing her lips as he looked out over the country club golf course from the patio where they were enjoying afternoon tea and scones.
“Of course, mother,” Warren replied quietly, her words playing through his head again and again. If you’d been a boy. If. If.
If only.
“Yes, I do,” Warren said coolly, shaking the thought from his mind as a horse does a fly. “I’m the third Warren in my family. It’s a bit of a tradition at this point.”
The professor chuckled. “Well, Warren, I don’t think I have to tell you that you’re a very special young man. You seem to know it already. Your report card and test scores are impeccable, and the initiative you have shown in pursuing an education here is impressive. Convincing your parents was no easy feat, I’m sure.”
Warren gave a winning smile. “I think I’ve inherited a knack for negotiations.”
Charles raised an eyebrow, but his lip curled into a smile. “I have to ask, though. Forgive my crude wording, but why bother? The school you attend now is very prestigious and far closer to home. Why are you so set on this one?”
Warren took a deep breath and let it out again, eyes turning to the window behind the professor’s head, where the sun painted the forests and fields outside green and gold. He had planned a scripted answer to this question at home, had written it out and rehearsed it until he could list the reasons he wanted to attend Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters in his sleep. But now, here in this office, the thoughts crumbled like sand in his hands, slipping through the cracks in his memory.
“Well, my school now is great, you’re right,” Warren began, struggling to stay calm, trying to regain his footing. “But my teenage years have wrought a lot of changes on me, and now I feel like that school isn’t the right place for me anymore. Everyone there is so...different from me, and I feel afraid to be myself there. I want to be with people who can accept me. People I can be honest with.”
Warren paused. The professor was looking intently at him, hands folded thoughtfully on the desk. Desperately, Warren added “Professor, I hope you don’t think I’m rushing into this decision. I’ve done my research; I’ve read about every alternative boarding school on the eastern seaboard. This is the only one that feels like it could be a home.”
Warren exhaled. He had managed to say something, at least. Completely unrehearsed, but a coherent something. The professor had an unreadable look on his face.
“So,” he said finally, voice no longer friendly, but stern and ashen. “I assume you know this is no ordinary school.”
Warren nodded.
“And you understand that this institution is devoted entirely to preparing a unique set of teenagers for extraordinary lives? You believe that you and your gifts would be served well by such preparations?”
“Yes,” Warren breathed. “I do.”
The professor nodded. “All right, then, Warren. Show me your gift.”
Warren opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. “Uh. Not to be rude, but...do you have a smock, and place where I can change in privacy?”
The professor blinked in surprise, wheeling himself from behind the desk towards the door. “Oh! Of course. Follow me.”
Five minutes later, Warren stood in a bathroom down the hall from the office, shaking with nerves and doubts that felt like they were pouring through his veins, as his hands fumbled to unbutton the blouse that was stretched tight over the bulges on top of his shoulder blades. His hands struggled behind his back with the clasp on his bra, and then trembled even more with every loosened leather strap holding down his feathered wings.
Finally, topless and terrified, Warren stared at himself in the mirror. He rolled his shoulders, trying to relieve the stiff, sore muscles at the place where his smooth skin gave way to white feathers. He slipped the smock over his front, leaving the back open like a hospital gown. Opening the door, he peeked his head out into the hallway, making sure the coast was clear before darting back to the office.
“Incredible,” The professor said from his desk, staring as Warren entered again, wings fluttering and stretching in the dusty, bookish air. “You have a fascinating mutation, Warren. I won’t touch them until we’ve gotten you some better clothes, of course, but they look, well, physiologically miraculous!”
“Thank you, Professor,” Warren replied, unsure of what else to say. Charles Xavier was only the second person in the world who had seen them.
“You can go put your shirt back on now, and strap those back down if you’d like. You are welcome to display your mutation openly here among friends, Warren, but I had a sense earlier that you hadn’t told your parents about this.”
“No, sir,” Warren said. “Thank you. For keeping it secret. And...for the name thing. Most people don’t ever really notice, or ask.”
“No need to thank me, Warren,” Charles said kindly. “Though now I think it only right that I let you in on my secret, after you have so kindly bared yours for me.”
Suddenly, his voice rang out clearly, though his lips did not move.
I too have a mutation, Warren, he thought, and Warren recoiled, wings puffing up in a defensive stance as he gripped his skull, trying to find the breach.
“Of course, as a matter of ethics, I will only intrude on your private thoughts in dire emergencies. But projecting my own messages mentally is a useful way to communicate with my students, especially at great distances.”
Warren stared at him, still shocked, but nodded anyway. “Right. And all the other students here, they’re like me--like us, too?”
“They are, Warren. This school is devoted to educating those with special genetic gifts like yours. All of the students here are mutants.”
Back in the bathroom, Warren pressed his wings as close to his back as he could before tightening the straps. God, how he hated this. It was always the worst when he was tightening them after stretching; it felt as if he was putting on a straitjacket. He remembered with joy, however, that he only needed to bear a few more weeks like this. When he came here, he could walk with his wings spanned wide. He could walk without fear of the judgment of other students.
It sounded like heaven.
With his shirt and sweater back on, he adjusted his headband, lest his mother complain, and fixed his hair, lest she have a heart attack.
Meet us downstairs in the parlor, Warren, the professor’s voice sounded in his mind, and Warren felt goosebumps rise on the back of his neck. That was definitely going to take getting used to.
He descended the mansion’s grand staircase, and when he stopped in the doorway of the parlor, he saw his parents absorbed in conversation with a brown haired boy wearing opaque red glasses.
“Ella! Come over here, darling. This nice young man was just telling us all about himself, and how he ended up here.”
The boy looked mildly embarrassed. “It’s nothing, really. I’m Scott Summers, pleased to meet you.” He held out his hand.
“W--Ella Worthington, pleased to meet you as well.” Warren shook his hand, and looked curiously at his glasses to see if he could make out the eyes behind them.
“I was just explaining to your parents about my eye condition. It’s why I’ve got these glasses. My eyes are a bit unpleasant to look at. They’re also very sensitive to light, so the glasses serve a twofold purpose.”
“Is it infectious?” Warren asked.
“No,” Scott smiled wryly, and Warren noticed his neat, even teeth. “Genetic.”
At that moment, Hank wheeled the professor in.
“Mr. and Mrs. Worthington, forgive us for taking our time. Your daughter is very engaging, and gave an extremely impressive interview.”
Warren smiled as his mother squeezed his shoulder, and his father nodded approvingly.
“Scott, Hank, you’re dismissed. I know for a fact you’ve both got papers due next week, so you’re free to go work on those.”
“Thank you, Professor.” Scott replied. “It was wonderful meeting you, Mr. and Mrs. Worthington. And good luck, Ella.” He smiled warmly, and Warren wished he could meet his eyes.
Hank nervously mumbled his way through something similar, and the two left together.
“Please, do sit down,” the professor said, and the Worthingtons returned to their seats on the parlor sofa.
“Now, I hope you understand that I am not exaggerating when I say that Ella is an exceptional applicant. She exemplifies every trait this school looks for in a student, and proved herself to be outspoken, quick-thinking, and unique in today’s interview. While I understand you may be hesitant to act so quickly, I would like to offer her admittance immediately, so she may start the fall semester here in just a few weeks.”
Warren’s heart leapt, but his eyes watched his parents cautiously for signs of suspicion or disapproval.
“How can you offer admission so quickly? Don’t you need to review these things in some sort of committee?” Mr. Worthington demanded, frowning at the professor.
“I understand your concerns, sir, but as I’m sure Scott told you, our pool of applicants is very small, and so is this year’s class. Plenty of spots are available, and even if there were very few, your daughter is truly outstanding. As for your second concern, as the headmaster, founder, and primary benefactor of the school, my admissions choices are of course reviewed thoughtfully and carefully, but are rarely questioned.”
“Will there be other girls here?” Warren’s mother spoke up anxiously, eyes darting towards him. “Scott and Hank were charming, of course, but we don’t want Ella to feel at all isolated from other young women her age.”
Warren flinched but said nothing.
“That’s a very important question, Mrs. Worthington, but don’t fret. A longtime private student of mine is coming to study here full time next semester. She’s a brilliant, vibrant girl, and I think she and Ella would get along famously.”
“Is this place even certified?” Warren’s father asked sternly, in the way he spoke at business meetings. “I think I want to see more than a brochure or two before I sign on to pay tuition and send my daughter away.”
“Certainly,” The professor nodded. “I have all our certification documents in my upstairs office, and I’ll be glad to go over them with you here, or fax you copies.
“Is this really what you want, dear?” Warren’s mother asked, gripping his hand in hers. “Are you sure about this?”
Warren’s mouth was dry, his heart pounding. He could still say no. He could still back out and return to the life he had: morning runs on the Sound, a best friend to whom he could tell anything, a prestigious school with teachers and peers he loved.
He could return to that, yes, but then there would be the harness with its chafing and itchiness. Warren could return to dropping matches in clumps of fallen feathers every night, to crying in his best friend’s arms because nothing ever felt right, to the blouses and cardigans and clipped wings and that damn name--
Warren smiled at his mother, squeezing her hand to reassure her and looking up at his father with a nod. “When can I start?”
Chapter 2
Summary:
Warren goes on a picnic, gets a haircut, and moves into his new school.
Notes:
Happy Thanksgiving! I'm really grateful to everyone who left kudos and positive comments on the first chapter! I'm sorry it took so long for me to update, but I'm pretty busy, so updating even just once a month is a goal for me.
This probably isn't the highest quality writing out there, but hey, no one said fanfic had to be perfect! I kind of just wrote this in frenzied bursts and did some minimal editing.
I hope you all enjoy this chapter as much as the last, and let me know if I can do anything better. I want to give my precious winged son everything he deserves...!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"I still can't believe you convinced your parents," Candy said, her arms swinging a picnic basket back and forth beside her. "Though I suppose if there's anyone who could manage to do that, it has to be you."
"Trust me, I'm just as surprised." Warren scratched his head. "I thought I had no chance. It hardly feels real. Like I'll wake up one day and none of it will even exist."
They stopped on a slight ridge overlooking the beach, and Candy squeezed his hand. "It is real, Warren. I'm so happy for you."
She put the basket down, and Warren spread out the checkered blanket, wincing as the metal pieces of the harness on his back dug into his tender, bruised flesh. Standing up quickly, he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off with a grimace before he reached back to loosen the straps that held down his wings.
"Do you want some help with that?" Candy asked, and Warren nodded wordlessly. In a moment her cool hands were touching the skin above his spine, unfastening all the bits and pieces he had pulled so tightly that morning he could hardly move.
"You shouldn't be so hard on yourself," she murmured as she worked. "Your circulation's getting cut off like this."
"Better than my parents seeing the bulges in the back of my shirt," he replied, but breathed a sigh of relief when the harness slipped off and his wings could stretch out.
Candy gave him a playful smirk and threw him an apron. When he caught it in his hands, he shook his head at her and turned around to take off his bra and slip the apron on over his bare chest.
"Number One Grandma? Really, Candace?" Warren asked, looking down at the embroidered canvas.
"I would say it was an accident, but it definitely wasn't," she giggled, and Warren chuckled back.
The cool, salty breeze coming off the Sound whistled between his feathers, and he couldn't help but smile, even as his sore muscles worked to loosen themselves.
"So, shall we eat?" He proposed, kneeling on the blanket, and he beat wings once in eagerness.
"Of course." She pulled out the food from the basket before sitting cross-legged opposite Warren. "I got deli sandwiches. Do you still eat turkey, or is that too closely related?"
Warren tried to cover his mouth. "Of course I do, you loser," he replied. "I'm not a bird!"
"Whatever you say, bird-boy," Candace laughed. handing him a turkey and brie sandwich on French bread. She suddenly stopped, her eyes suddenly sad as Warren took a bite. "God, I'm going to miss you."
"I'll miss you too," he murmured, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. "But I'll come back and visit some weekends, and if you're ever upstate you can come by."
Candace sighed. "Yeah, but you're my best friend. You’re special to me. It's going to be so hard without someone to bike and picnic with, and talk to, and get math homework from..."
"You can always just fax me copies of your work, and I can fax back the answers," Warren suggested.
"...And who's going to be president of the debate team? What if we lose to some special Manhattan school without you?"
"Maybe I'll start a debate team at my new school."
"Then we'll lose to some nobodies in Westchester! That's even worse."
"Maybe it will be a lesson in humility," Warren said. Candy put her head on his shoulder, and there was a long silence.
"Are you going to cut your hair when you get there?" She asked, playing with a long golden strand.
"I want to," Warren answered. "A fresh start. People won't be calling me my birth name all the time. I really want to look like Warren, you know?"
"I'll be honest with you, bird-boy," Candy looked up at him, her short dark hair shining in the evening light. "You've always looked like Warren to me."
He felt his eyes crinkle with a genuine smile, his heart soaring. He tilted his head in gratitude, and Candy touched his hand, leaning into him until their lips touched.
Warren pulled away in surprise, his wings puffing up, his feathers ruffling.
Candy looked away with red cheeks. "Sorry. I know we're not...together anymore, so I probably shouldn't have. But I just--I don't know what I'll do without you."
Her eyes welled up with tears. Warren hugged her tightly, his hand gently touching the back of her head. "It's all right, Candy. I'm going to miss you more than anything. But thank you."
He paused, squeezing her shoulders before continuing. He felt his own eyes water, too. "Thank you for everything. For helping me with my wings, for keeping my secret, for...for being my best friend. Not just Eleanor's."
Candy laughed, wiping at her eyes. "I don't get why everyone's so obsessed with her, anyway. I think Warren's way less...hawkward." Her face spit into a huge grin.
"I can't believe this!" Warren shouted, covering his face in embarrassment while she laughed at her own joke. "How could you do this to me?"
“You should see your face,” Candy giggled. “You totally deserved that!”
He jumped up, flapping his wings while she laughed on the picnic blanket on his last evening on Long Island.
The limo dropped Warren off in downtown North Salem, if it could be called that at all. A quaint main square was surrounded by shops and a few offices--a grocery, a dentist, a realtor. After sending the driver on with his luggage, Warren walked into the barber shop. A squat, middle aged man looked up from his newspaper at Warren, squinting at him.
"Hey lady, you lost or somethin'? This ain't the salon."
"I'm aware,” Warren said curtly. “I need a haircut. Whatever’s most stylish on young men right now.”
The barber stared at him, brows furrowed, the gold crucifix glinting around his neck. After a few moments, he let out a grunt and nodded his head, pointing towards the chair. “I know your type,” he said, taking a drape off the wall as Warren sat down in front of the mirror. “You’ve got a husband you’re trying to escape, or a boyfriend, I bet. Trying to change your look, throw him off the scent.”
Warren said nothing, too surprised to speak. I suppose it’s better than hatred, he thought.
“You don’t have to say anything, honey. I’ve seen this all before. I’ll fix you up real good, and if anyone asks after you, my lips are sealed.”
“Th-thank you,” Warren said quietly, and then fell silent as the barber went to work. Long, golden locks fell to the floor, and Warren smiled.
An hour later, Warren stared into the mirror, his new short hair light on his head. “It looks fantastic,” he said, turning to see the back of his head. “Thank you,”
“No problem, honey,” the barber nodded, sweeping up the hair off the floor around the chair. “That’ll be thirty dollars.”
Warren paid with a generous tip, and the barber whistled.
“Wow, lady. Is your man after your money or what?”
“Something like that,” Warren said, smiling as he stepped out of the front door.
And then, finally, Warren was there.
The mansion loomed, and it felt even larger in front of him than it had been a few months ago. The trees around the campus had turned red and gold now, and the sky was cloudy, evening approaching more quickly now. Warren’s heartbeat quickened as his feet, dressed in new patent leather shoes, crunched on the gravel of the long driveway in a familiar sound. He could feel his wings straining for freedom under his new blazer, still crisp from the men’s shop he’d bought it from. It didn’t fit perfectly around his body, but coupled with his new haircut, he looked like himself.
He had made it.
Maybe it’s the confidence, too, he thought, and smiled at his feet. He rang the bell at the front door, and the boy with the opaque red glasses whom his parents had met over the summer opened the door.
“Hi, Warren,” he said quietly, giving the winged boy a cautious smile. “We’ve been so excited for you to get here.”
“I’m happy to finally be here,” Warren answered. “Scott, right?”
“Yeah. Scott Summers.”
Warren stepped inside, looking around at the foyer. Nothing obvious had changed since his interview. “Still wearing those glasses?”
Scott raised an eyebrow. “You still have your mutation?”
“Oh,” Warren said, heat rising to his face. “I--I didn’t know that was--”
“I get it,” Scott said, turning his face away. “I’m not offended. It’s just better for everyone involved that I keep these things on. I can’t...” he trailed off, letting out a tiny, nearly imperceptible sigh. “I can’t control it.”
Warren swallowed. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” Scott didn’t answer him. “I don’t think I know exactly how you feel, but...mine hurts too. So I can understand.” He put a reassuring hand on Scott’s arm. The taller boy stiffened and glanced sidelong at the contact. Warren took his hand away.
“Thanks,” Scott replied quietly, and said nothing else.
“Ah, Warren!” came a voice, and the blond looked up to see Hank entering the foyer, his button down shirt and lab coat stained with something purple and his glasses fogged up with steam. “How great it is to see you again, my dear new classmate! I observe you’ve been making conversation with Polyphemus over here.”
“Would you stop calling me that?” Scott snapped, exasperated. “It’s getting on my nerves.”
“Only because it’s so apropos,” Hank replied, adjusting his glasses with a toothy grin. “Given your alias and your usual demeanor.”
“No one even knows who that is, though!” Scott protested, but Hank just shook his head.
“Did Galileo stop supporting heliocentric theory just because no one around him knew it to be true?” The bulkier boy asked, eyes glinting. “The answer is no, of course not.”
Candy wasn’t wrong, Warren thought, staring at the sixteen year old Harvard grad. We would probably be an unbeatable debate team.
“Galileo was put under house arrest by the Church for going against their teachings.”
Hank shrugged. “We scientists have always been willing to sacrifice our comforts for the truth.”
Scott scowled and stepped away. “Whatever. Where’s the other new student?”
“Not here yet,” Hank sighed, wiping his glasses on his coat. When he put them back on, they were dirtier than before, covered with the same purple splotches that seemed to be eating away at his clothing.
“There are more of us coming?” Warren asked, making an effort not to sound too dumbstruck.
“Yes. A fellow named Robert, or so I’m told. But he has yet to arrive. I don’t know if he’s coming today.”
“And Jean,” Scott added, scratching his neck.
“Yes, and Jean,” Hank nodded. “Though she isn’t due until next week. Hopefully she won’t miss too much work.”
“I think the professor told me about her,” Warren added. “He said she was his own private student, so I’m sure she’s no slouch.”
“She’s a redhead,” Hank said in a low voice, wiggling his eyebrows at Warren. “I saw a picture of her in the office upstairs once. But watch out. There’s some stiff competition from Polyphemus over here…”
“You shut your mouth!” Scott stuttered, pointing a finger at Hank. “I never even said I was interested in her, and if you call me that again, I’ll--I’ll--”
“Fine, fine, don’t threaten me,” Hank laughed, sticking his hands in the pockets of his lab coat. “You can show Warren to his room. I’ve got to go change my clothes. I think I can feel something starting to sizzle.”
In one fluid motion he turned and dropped to his hands, ambling away on all fours. Warren watched as he disappeared down the hall, and then turned to Scott, eyes alight.
“That’s amazing! Is that what he can do?”
Scott nodded. “That and more. You’ll see soon enough. We call him Beast.”
“Wow,” Warren breathed.
Scott led Warren to the third floor, down a series of hallways lit with old wall lights, to a wooden door with a brass knob. “This is your room,” Scott said. “Your things have already been brought up, so you just have to unpack and make yourself at home. I’ll see you at dinner, right?”
He smiled, lips turning up just slightly, and Warren felt touched. He could tell Scott didn’t smile often. Warren smiled back, staring at Scott’s opaque glasses, hoping that he was meeting the eyes beneath them. “Definitely.”
The room was smaller than the one Warren was used to, but it was well furnished and comfortably decorated, with blue striped wallpaper and a desk by the window overlooking the front drive. His suitcases were on the floor next to his bed, along with the shopping bags of new clothes from earlier that day.
Quickly stripping down, Warren grimaced at the flash of pain as he pulled the harness off his wings, gasping as his lungs finally drew a full breath and his wings unfurled, shaking and bruised. He flapped them a few times to adjust, and swallowed a lump in his throat when they didn’t knock into anything, merely brushed the walls with their outermost tips.
Within the next few minutes, Warren had made himself at home, his bed made and his new clothes folded neatly in the chest of drawers next to the small closet. He pulled on a polo shirt that he and Candy had cut up, wincing as he struggled to push his wings through the gashes in the fabric.
A few feathers fell to the floor as the shirt settled against his back. Warren sighed and picked them up. He dropped them in the wastebasket under his desk. In the mirror, his wings were patchy and feeble. There were long, raw strips of bare flesh where the harness had dug into his skin and rubbed his feathers clean off; the rest was just bent sorely out of shape.
Warren took a deep breath. He wouldn’t worry about that now. Here, he could walk freely The feathers would grow back, his bones would heal, and maybe, just maybe, he would get strong enough to fly.
With a determined flutter, Warren took a sweeping look over his new room, and opened the door to the hall again. It was dinnertime, and he was hungry.
Notes:
Scott and Hank fans, you were in luck this time around.
Bobby and Jean fans, your time is coming. Soon all five merry mutants will be together, having grand adventures in bright yellow spandex. Oh boy!!
Chapter 3
Notes:
I'm finally updating this!! Can you believe it? (And now that summer break is happening, I may be able to actually work on this regularly. I'd really like to, but no promises, though...)
Jean and Bobby are finally here, and I'm very excited about it.Minor content warning for body dysphoria on Warren's part.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“No, wait, wait, you have to listen to the whole thing!”
Scott and Warren groaned, giving each other a look of shared misery across the dinner table. Hank was the only one who seemed interested in what Bobby had to share, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as a smile played across his face. The professor had left the room a few minutes earlier to answer a phone call, which meant that in his absence the structured dinner had fallen into the chaos of teenage hands.
“Come on, let him tell the story,” Hank murmured, elbowing Warren, who was sitting next to him.
Bobby jumped back into the joke as soon as he had everyone’s undivided attention. “So then the guy is like ‘Wow, what an incredible pig! If he can do all that--’” He had to stop himself, caught up in a flurry of giggling at his own joke, “Then-then why does he only have three legs?”
The younger boy was snorting with laughter. Scott shook his head and moved to serve himself more potatoes and string beans from the dishes on the table. Although Warren was very used to finery, he noticed the way Scott handled the sterling silver spoon engraved with a cursive X.
“And then the farmer just shrugs! And he says back to the guy, ‘Well, a pig that special can’t be eaten all at once!’”
Bobby devolved into more helpless laughter, and soon the glass of water in his hand was frozen solid. Before long his laughs infected Hank, bubbling up in hearty chuckles. Warren raised an eyebrow at them, slightly disturbed by the whole thing, and then looked to Scott, turning up the corners of his mouth.
Scott didn’t return the expression, merely picked at his potatoes.
“I’m back, boys,” the professor announced, wheeling himself in through the doorway back to his seat at the head of the table. “I am terribly sorry for taking a call at dinner. It involved urgent business about your other new classmate.”
Warren looked up with interest. So did the others.
“Guess I’m not novel enough for you anymore, huh,” Bobby cracked, but the Professor simply met him with a warm expression.
“Of course not, Bobby. You remain just as interesting as you were when you walked through the front door three hours ago.”
The younger boy grinned widely and went back to shoveling potatoes in his mouth.
Part of Warren wondered what the hell Bobby was doing there. The kid was barely fifteen (“Celebrated my birthday last week,” he had mentioned as he moved his belongings into his room, down the hall from Warren’s) and he still had the soft face and the squeaky throat of a young boy. Between his age and all his jokes, it was certainly hard to take him seriously.
“Did something happen to Jean?” Scott asked, face unreadable behind his red glasses.
“Nothing that warrants details, no,” The professor shook his head, carefully carving another slice of chicken breast and putting on his own plate. “She’s just decided to join us earlier than expected. She’s due to arrive tomorrow morning.”
He turned a narrowed eye onto the four of them. “And I expect you all to look and act your very best. She’s nervous enough about this as it is.”
The next morning, a small blue car that had certainly seen better days pulled up at the gravel driveway in front of the mansion. At the desk in his room, Warren threw down his pencil onto his calculus notes and jumped to a window, feeling vaguely embarrassed for staring like some sort of creep.
Jean stepped out of the car, her red hair shielding her face from view as she closed the door behind her and moved to take suitcases from the trunk.
The four of you should report to the foyer at once, Professor Xavier’s voice rang in Warren’s head. He scrunched up his eyes and rubbed the heel of his hand on his forehead. It would take him a long while to get used to that.
He walked downstairs with his three classmates, taking the opportunity to fluff his feathers and flap his wings just a bit.
Bobby noticed and rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Warren, stop preening. Are you going to start doing a mating dance the second she comes in?”
Warren only scowled, and puffed his wings out more in annoyance.
“Leave him alone, Bobby,” Scott said, adjusting his collar. The faintest hint of pink was visible in his cheeks. “He’s got the right idea. She’s very pretty.”
Bobby scoffed. “It’s a girl, big deal. I’m glad I’m not a wolf like you guys!”
The door opened and the redhead stepped inside, bags in her arms. Hank moved forward immediately to take them from her, but she shrunk back as if she had been burned, her bright green eyes raking his face in silent suspicion.
“I--uh, I’m sorry,” Hank apologized and stepped back, clearly caught off guard.
Jean set her bags on the floor beside her, looking around at the foyer like she was searching for something to be afraid of.
“Jean!” The professor greeted her, and the boys turned to see him rolling forward with a smile on his face. “It’s lovely to see you again, darling. I’m so glad you’ve decided to stay here as a full-time student.”
Jean’s eyes calmed a little as they fell on her mentor, and she moved forward to embrace him, still silent.
“It’s all right, Jean,” the professor soothed, squeezing her hand.
The two shared a purposeful look, and Warren realized the professor was telepathically communicating only to her. After a few moments, the stare broke, and Jean stepped away from him, smoothing her skirt down with her palms.
“Um, hello. My name is Jean Grey. Pleased to make your acquaintances. I’m…” Her eyes darted to each of them in turn, and then fell to the floor. “I’m looking forward to learning with you all.”
The professor smiled, clearly proud, while Warren exchanged a curious look with Bobby and Hank.
“Should I get you a chair, Jean?” Scott offered.
“That won’t be necessary, but thank you,” She replied, dipping her head in quiet acknowledgment. “I’ll just head on up to my room and start unpacking.”
She moved to the staircase with one of her suitcases in hand. She stopped on the landing, and with an outstretched arm and a look of concentration, lifted the other one into the air and carried it without touching it. Warren and Bobby gaped as they watched her disappear through a doorway at the top of the stairs.
“Extraordinary, isn’t she?” The professor remarked, seeing their shocked faces.
“I guess that explains why she didn’t shriek when she saw me,” Warren replied, gesturing to his wings, which fluttered feebly from his shoulders.
“She’s seen much stranger things, Warren,” The professor replied, and wheeled himself out of the foyer. Scott followed him in silence, and Hank and Bobby peeled away a moment later, headed outside for some reason or another. Warren returned upstairs alone. He heard the sounds of drawers opening and closing from the opposite end of the long hallway of guest bedrooms, the girls’ wing which for now only housed Jean.
He thought about going over to introduce himself, but decided against it. She hadn’t seemed like she wanted to be friendly downstairs a few minutes before. Warren sighed, closed the door to his room, and went back to his math work.
The first few days of life at the mansion were uneventful, but trying all the same. Warren’s wings were still in awful shape, but he had met with the professor about them, and had cut holes in most of his shirts.
“It will be quite a while until you can fly, I’m afraid,” the professor had said, running a hand over the damaged, blistered skin where the harness had rubbed Warren raw, and dislocated the fragile, hollow bones underneath. “Have Hank set them to make sure they heal properly, and don’t overexert yourself yet.”
Warren hadn’t asked how long it would take to heal. He simply swallowed and done as he was told. He didn’t want to think about flying yet. He just wanted to stop feeling the residual crushing, throbbing pain of tying his wings down day after day for the past eight months.
He wanted to feel like himself.
That thought pounded in his head every morning and every night as he looked at himself in the mirror in his small room. Half the time his reflection made him feel sick, and the other half it made him sad, running one hand down the chest he hated and then one up and down his patchy, malformed, bandaged wings.
He wanted to feel like himself.
Warren cried often, breaking down and weeping into his pillow while his wings sagged uselessly over his back. He didn’t tell any of the others. Hank and Scott were always busy, and Bobby would just laugh at him.
And God knew Jean wouldn’t speak to him unless she had to.
So he cried to himself when he needed an outlet, and when he felt most lonely, he wrote letters to Candy. He missed her terribly. She always responded promptly, and reassured him that she was just as lonely with him gone.
He sent her a photo of his class at the mansion (mostly to show her his new haircut,) which he had asked Bobby to take. In it, he was cracking a smile in front of the house, while Hank and Scott stood off to the side, animatedly arguing about something. Jean had her back to the camera, just barely in the frame, reaching to pluck a flower off the shrub by the front door.
Candy’s reply came as follows:
Dear Bird-Boy,
HOLY SMOKES!!! Wings out, ready to take on the world--I love it! I’m so glad you’re free to show them off there, Warren. You really picked the right place for you. I doubt Mr. Hunt would have been much thrilled to see your feathers in first period history.
Your hair looks great too, and it totally suits you! Next time I see you, I’m going to ruffle it at the first chance I get.
It looks like you’re really happy there, Warren. From what you wrote to me last time, I know you’ve been going through a rough spot, but I know you can get through it with your wacky mutant genes and superior bird abilities. I love you so much, and I know you can do this.
Are those your friends? I’m telling you, those two look like they’d make one hell of a debate team. Which one went to Harvard? I feel like it’s red-glasses-guy. Let me know if my assumption is correct ASAP.
It’s amazing that you’ve found such accepting people. I’m really, really happy for you. If only home was the same way...one of the guys from the soccer team made a pass at me in the hallway at school the other day, and my aunt keeps asking when I’m going to get a boyfriend. Yuck. How about NEVER, Suzanne?
Also, this might be weird, but who’s the babe in the corner? Next time you take a photo, try to get her face for me...and maybe talk me up a little!
As always, I love you loads and miss you more than anything. It’s been a week without your homework and tutoring and my math grade has already slipped. SOS.
Forever yours,
Candy
Warren kept her letters in his desk, and pored over them when he needed words of encouragement. His new classmates were supportive, but he simply did not know or trust them enough yet to open up completely about his problems.
As for the issues the others were facing, Warren only had glimpses into their private lessons with the professor, where they worked to practice their mutations. He saw Hank use his monstrously sized feet and hands to guide himself through complex sets of acrobatic obstacles. Bobby practiced elsewhere in the mansion (Warren hadn’t yet had a chance to explore the whole building) and always came back shaking off snow. Scott had slipped in the melted puddles the boy left in his wake multiple times, and frequently scolded him for it.
Jean worked with the professor in his study with the doors locked, but beyond telekinetic exercises, Warren couldn’t even guess what they might be doing. She kept as quiet about that as she did about everything. In the past week, she had barely exchanged more than a handful of words with the other four of them.
Scott himself had his lessons far out on the grounds, out of sight of the mansion’s windows. Warren had yet to see his mutation in action, but he frequently saw Scott storm back into the house after his lessons, looking angry and pained. On one occasion, Scott had run back inside early in a fit of rage and panic, muttering to himself and dragging his fingernails down his face and arms as he ran up the staircase. Warren had jolted when he slammed the door to the next room, and in the ensuing silence, had listened to the sounds of muffled sobs through the old, papered walls.
The winged boy thought about saying something, about marching up to Scott’s door and hugging him, holding his head as he shed tears on his red glasses, about sharing tissues and telling him that it was okay, that he wasn’t the only one crying.
Warren thought about it for a long time, but did not move. He was plastered to his desk chair, even his wings still, until the sounds coming from the next room subsided to sniffles, and finally, finally, silence.
At the end of a round-table class on ancient history, Professor Xavier folded his hands on the table and looked around at his five students. “Excellent work today, all of you,” he remarked.
Warren raised an eyebrow. Bobby was spinning his pen between his fingers, slouched over his notebook. Scott was staring into space, Hank was furiously writing something that looked a lot more like engineering calculations than notes on the Roman Empire, and Jean was sitting with her back rigid, eyes trained down on her orderly notes, hands folded in her lap, as usual. Warren had yet to see her relax.
“You’ve all been adjusting well to life here at school, and I want to commend you for that,” the professor continued, and Warren bit back a sardonic smile. If by ‘adjusting,’ the professor meant ‘learning how to maneuver in the shower stall so that he could wash his wings clean without getting water all over the floor,’ or ‘getting better at catching the various valuables that his feathered limbs knocked over constantly’, then maybe that would be true.
But then again, Warren thought bitterly, maybe I’m the only one who hasn’t emotionally adjusted to this place yet.
Professor Xavier continued. “I think you all deserve a break. There’s going to be a horse show at one of the stables nearby this weekend, and I would like you all to attend.”
Warren’s eyes snapped up, staring incredulously at the man. Bobby and Hank did the same, and Scott’s brows furrowed above his glasses. Even Jean seemed visibly surprised.
For the first time since her arrival at the mansion, she spoke first. “A horse show?”
“But Professor, are you sure that this doesn’t pose too high a risk? With all five of us still just beginning our training, what if something were to happen? We could all be exposed, and our cover blown,” Scott questioned, his knuckles white.
Warren felt a tendril of uncertainty begin to wrap its way around his heart. Going off the grounds of Xavier’s School, this tiny and isolated mutant haven, meant having to stuff his wings back under a jacket. He would have to dig the harness back out and crush himself into it just when his bones were beginning to heal again. He would have to hide his real identity underneath leather straps and skirts and the old pink sweater he hadn’t thrown out because it was his mother’s favorite.
If that was the only option, he would almost prefer to stay home.
“No, Scott,” answered the professor, “I am certain it does not. I have been assessing each of you, and I trust you all wholeheartedly. There’s a show-jumping event on Sunday afternoon. It will just be a few hours, and a good way for you to grow closer as a class, all while learning how to move confidently in the human world.”
“I’ll go,” chimed Bobby. “I’ve never been to a horse show before. It sounds fun.”
“You can sign me on too, then,” Hank said, glancing sideways at Bobby. Then, after a beat, “We can’t just let the youngest one of us go alone.” Bobby rolled his eyes at that.
Scott sighed, and ran a hand through his hair, thinking. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to tag along. But only for a few hours. Anything more would just be too risky.”
“I want to go as well,” Jean spoke, and Warren’s heart jumped. Her green eyes seemed to glimmer with something other than her usual uncertain look, a spark of happiness that was rare for her. Her lips fought a smile, but her voice was lively and her hair brilliant.
Warren swallowed a lump in his throat as he looked at her. The last thing he needed was a crush on this mysterious, reserved girl.
“Excellent!” The professor beamed at her.
Warren looked around. Everyone was watching him expectantly, waiting for his answer, even Jean. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Do I have to wear the harness?”
Professor Xavier’s expression fell slightly. “Unfortunately yes. But as I said, it will only be for a few hours. Perhaps you could even show Hank the one you used at home and see if he can make any design changes to reduce your discomfort.”
Warren didn’t say that the discomfort he felt was only partly physical. He didn’t tell him that even if it was painless, hiding his wings would feel wrong. But he thought it, his mind mulling that discomfort over and over. He didn’t bother to wonder if the professor had caught the idea.
He sighed. “Then I guess I’ll go. If Hank can get that better harness together in time, that is.” Warren wanted to be involved, even if it hurt him a little bit. And for God’s sake, even Jean was going to be sociable. He had once worn that harness for three days straight on a club camping trip at his last school. A few hours were nothing he couldn’t handle.
“Of course I can,” Hank responded, almost offended that Warren could think otherwise, and immediately flipped a page in his notebook to begin jotting down design notes and measurements.
“Wonderful. Class dismissed,” the professor said, and began collecting his things. Bobby jumped up and practically bounced out of the room. Jean followed behind him, but with a little more spring in her step than usual. Hank walked away from the table, still writing, while Scott and Warren brought up the rear.
They headed back to their rooms, and Scott stopped when they reached the third floor. “Has Jean spoken to you at all?”
Warren was surprised at the question. “Uh, not more than a few passing words. I haven’t seen much of her outside of class, either. Why do you ask?”
Scott shrugged. “No reason in particular. I was just wondering if it had something to do with me. But it seems like she’s been treating everyone that way.”
Warren watched the expression on Scott’s face, trying to read him through his glasses, but couldn’t guess what was on his mind. “There must be a reason she’s keeping us all at a distance. Or maybe she’s just shy.”
“That isn’t it,” Scott muttered, staring at nothing in particular. Warren silently agreed. After a moment, the taller boy shook his head and shrugged, giving the blond a weak smile that was clearly not genuine, a cover for what he was really feeling. “Anyway, thanks Warren. I’ve got some stuff to do, but I’ll see you later.”
“Um, yeah,” Warren said, swallowing and wondering why it suddenly felt like the floor of the hallway had just tipped downward. “Right. I’ll see you later.”
Scott disappeared into his room and closed the door, and Warren took a breath, leaning his shoulder against his door frame. His face felt hot, and his heart slammed in his chest as if he had just guzzled a pot of coffee.
It had been a very strange day for the winged mutant.
He fumbled with the key to his own room for a second and sat down on his bed when he finally got inside. Half-formed feelings rose and fell in his chest, and the anxiety that pooled in his stomach made them a muddled mess.
As he ran his hands through his hair, still getting used to the wonderfully light feeling of his short curls, he thought about the way Jean had looked at the end of the lesson today: excited, curious, and happy, for once.
Warren tried to imagine how the soft line of her lips would feel against his, the way her beautiful, fiery hair would feel in his hands.
Oh, God, he groaned internally, frustrated with himself. I can’t believe this is happening.
But then his mind strayed to Scott, and the quick glances he frequently cast at Jean during mealtimes and classes when he thought nobody else was looking, and the moments when she glanced back. Warren felt suddenly jealous, of both of them, in some strange way. He shook his head to clear the feeling out, because that was really the last thing he needed.
I’ll try to talk to her this weekend, he thought, turning to stare out the window. Maybe if I take the mystery out of the equation, I won’t get infatuated.
Warren nodded to himself, and pushed away the cynical voice that highly doubted that would happen.
Notes:
Fun fact: The quote from Bobby calling out the other three for ogling when Jean arrives was actually taken directly from X-Men #1! Copyright goes to Stan Lee and all that. Hope I don't get sued.