Fic: "Feathers" (X-Men Movieverse)
Strictly movieverse, I have no comics knowledge.
Warren Worthington III (Angel) & Scott Summers (Cyclops)
Set several years pre-X1
For karabair.
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all ~ Emily Dickinson
For the past three days, it had rained, and Anna hadn't let Warren go to the park at all. On nice days, if she was in a good mood, she'd sometimes bring him to the park twice, morning and afternoon, and three days of being shut up in the apartment had been so boring he couldn't stand it.
But today it had finally stopped raining. Warren climbed to the top of the jungle gym and tipped his head back, watching the tattered clouds chase each other across the sky and make a hazy, shifting mask over the sun. It made his chest go tight and his shoulders hurt, but he didn't look away. He was used to feeling that way, a lot, when he looked at the sky or at the pigeons outside his window or at his father across the length of the dining-room table. A dull, vague kind of ache all over, but stronger in his shoulders and his heart. Maybe that was what they called growing pains.
He climbed down after fifteen minutes or so--he wasn't done watching the sky (never), but the little kids were waiting to play, and Warren didn't think it was fair to hog the thing just because he was older. Anna thought twelve was too old to want to come to the park so much anyway, but Dad said Warren got to decide what he wanted to do when his schoolwork was done. Nobody ever disobeyed Dad.
Anna was talking to the other nannies, over by the park entrance. Warren walked around slowly, pausing by the slides and then the swings, watching the little kids run and scream and play. "Look, Sara! I'm flying!" one called, from the high point of the swing's arc, and Warren bit his lip against the sharp pain under his jacket and his shirt and his harness.
There was a guy sitting on a bench at the far end of the park, feeding the pigeons. Warren turned away from the swings and walked toward him. Sometimes people fed the pigeons things they shouldn't have, stuff that made them sick and killed them and left plump corpses scattered across the playground, wings tucked close to shield them from an enemy they couldn't escape by flying away.
This guy had actual birdseed, though. Warren was glad to see that. He had on a leather jacket and jeans and a big pair of dark-red sunglasses. Warren wished his dad would let him have clothes that made him look that cool.
"Hello, Warren," the guy said, not looking up from the pigeons. He tossed another handful of seed in a smooth arc across the ground, and the birds chuckled anxiously to themselves as they raced after it.
Warren forced himself to stop, plant his feet and glance around warily. Dad had warned him about strangers who knew his name. They might want to use him against Dad, and if they found out about his secret, that would be so, so bad...
But Anna was still in sight, and nobody was lurking behind the trees, so he stayed where he was and looked at the guy on the bench again.
"My name's Scott." He still didn't look up from the birds. "It's okay if you don't trust me. You don't have to come any closer. I just wanted to tell you something."
"What?"
The guy--Scott--flicked his wrist and tossed out another handful of seed. "That there's nothing wrong with you. And that I'm sorry it's so tough."
Warren wanted to scream as his wings flexed against the harness, instinct overcoming painful practice. He knows. He knows, he knows, how does he know? "Wha--what do you mean? I'm not-- I'm not a mu--there isn't anything wrong with me. I'm normal." The desperate whine in his voice that he hated, but couldn't make stop, like he couldn't make any of it stop. "I am."
"You are," Scott said, looking up finally and staring at Warren through those thick red lenses. "You are exactly the way you're supposed to be."
Warren stared at his reflection in the glasses, noticing how they were weird but not sleek or fancy like something just for show. They were clunky. Almost ugly. Like something you wore because you had to.
"Are you one?" he asked.
He didn't say what he meant, but Scott nodded. "Yeah. I am."
Warren tilted his head and took a small step closer. "Is it your eyes?"
"Very observant, Warren." Scott set the bag of birdseed aside and clasped his hands in his lap. "Yeah, it's my eyes."
"What do they do?"
"They emit force beams." He tapped the edge of his glasses. "Without these, I could really hurt people. I would hurt people."
"I hurt people," Warren whispered, taking another step. "I hurt my dad."
"I'm sorry."
"He hates them," Warren said, and even though he hadn't explained that either, Scott seemed to know exactly what he meant. He really knows. How does he know? He swallowed hard and shrugged, a hitch of his shoulders that was always awkward because it used muscles and bones that normal people didn't have. "He doesn't hate me, but he hates them so much."
"And they're part of you."
"No." Warren shook his head automatically. Yes. "They're not supposed to be there."
"They are." Scott sounded so sure, like Dad on the phone with one of his companies, handing out decisions and numbers and rules. "There are a lot of us, Warren, and we're all exactly how we're supposed to be."
"Wouldn't you be normal, if you could?" It came out sharp and angry, and Warren wanted to apologize, but Scott just ducked his head. His hands clenched tighter until the knuckles went white.
"Yeah," he said finally. "But we are who we are."
"Some of the ones they show on the news look normal." Warren couldn't keep the jealousy out of his voice, but he wasn't trying very hard.
"I know ones like that." Scott unclenched his hands and rubbed them on his jeans. "They're lucky. There are others who don't look human at all."
Warren nodded--he'd seen those pictures on the news, too, before Dad turned off the TV.
"And then there are ones like us," Scott said, "in the middle. We can hide it and look almost normal, if we try."
"But it's still there." Warren felt the old ache again, worse than ever, spreading up into his throat now and hurting when he talked. "Pretending doesn't fix it."
Scott nodded and squinted up at the trees. He was quiet for a long minute. "What's it like? Having your mutation. What's it like when you use it?"
Warren caught himself smiling before he could stop it, before he could remind himself that he wasn't supposed to ever be happy about being a freak. "It's...it's so great. It's awesome."
Scott smiled at him, and it was hard to tell with the glasses, but Warren thought that he looked sad. "Be glad for that. Don't be ashamed of that."
"What's it like to use yours?"
He thought about that for another long minute, and Warren wanted to apologize again. But he answered. "Scary." He folded his hands together again and stared down at the ground. "But it's also...well, it's what I'm supposed to do. I just wish it didn't hurt people."
Warren nodded, remembering Dad's face the one time he'd come home and found Warren chasing bits of confetti through the air currents from the ceiling fans.
"Anyway." Scott cleared his throat and sat up straighter. "Sorry about that. I work at a school, Warren. In New York. It's a school for mutants, a safe place. We wanted...we wanted you to come with us there. The founder of the school and I, we wanted you to come."
"But Dad said no, right?" Scott nodded and Warren shrugged again. "I haven't gone to a real school in a long time. I study at home, by myself."
"I'm sorry," Scott said, and now Warren definitely could see that he was sad. Scott held out a little card, and Warren took it--it had an address printed on it, and the letter X embossed into the paper. He tucked it away into his pocket, knowing without being told that he'd have to hide it away as soon as he got home.
"I wasn't supposed to speak to you directly, after your dad said no," Scott went on. "But I wanted you to know, in case you ever need a safe place. I hope you won't, but..."
Warren looked over his shoulder, back at where Anna was still talking. She'd want to leave soon, he could see how she was fidgeting with her purse.
"And I wanted you to know there are more of us." Scott stood up and tucked his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "Out there pretending."
"Dad says they'll find a way to fix us," Warren offered, watching his reflection in the glasses again. "Maybe they will."
"Maybe." Scott smiled a little and started walking toward the park fence. "Or maybe everyone will start to really believe that we don't need to be."
The pigeons clucked and scurried out of his way as he hopped over the fence and walked over to a motorcycle parked there. Warren's breath caught in his chest--wow, someday he wanted to be as cool as this guy.
Scott glanced back at him one more time and offered a small wave good-bye as he got on the bike. Warren wasn't sure he heard him right, but he thought before the engine started, Scott said "Maybe even us."
Warren Worthington III (Angel) & Scott Summers (Cyclops)
Set several years pre-X1
For karabair.
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all ~ Emily Dickinson
For the past three days, it had rained, and Anna hadn't let Warren go to the park at all. On nice days, if she was in a good mood, she'd sometimes bring him to the park twice, morning and afternoon, and three days of being shut up in the apartment had been so boring he couldn't stand it.
But today it had finally stopped raining. Warren climbed to the top of the jungle gym and tipped his head back, watching the tattered clouds chase each other across the sky and make a hazy, shifting mask over the sun. It made his chest go tight and his shoulders hurt, but he didn't look away. He was used to feeling that way, a lot, when he looked at the sky or at the pigeons outside his window or at his father across the length of the dining-room table. A dull, vague kind of ache all over, but stronger in his shoulders and his heart. Maybe that was what they called growing pains.
He climbed down after fifteen minutes or so--he wasn't done watching the sky (never), but the little kids were waiting to play, and Warren didn't think it was fair to hog the thing just because he was older. Anna thought twelve was too old to want to come to the park so much anyway, but Dad said Warren got to decide what he wanted to do when his schoolwork was done. Nobody ever disobeyed Dad.
Anna was talking to the other nannies, over by the park entrance. Warren walked around slowly, pausing by the slides and then the swings, watching the little kids run and scream and play. "Look, Sara! I'm flying!" one called, from the high point of the swing's arc, and Warren bit his lip against the sharp pain under his jacket and his shirt and his harness.
There was a guy sitting on a bench at the far end of the park, feeding the pigeons. Warren turned away from the swings and walked toward him. Sometimes people fed the pigeons things they shouldn't have, stuff that made them sick and killed them and left plump corpses scattered across the playground, wings tucked close to shield them from an enemy they couldn't escape by flying away.
This guy had actual birdseed, though. Warren was glad to see that. He had on a leather jacket and jeans and a big pair of dark-red sunglasses. Warren wished his dad would let him have clothes that made him look that cool.
"Hello, Warren," the guy said, not looking up from the pigeons. He tossed another handful of seed in a smooth arc across the ground, and the birds chuckled anxiously to themselves as they raced after it.
Warren forced himself to stop, plant his feet and glance around warily. Dad had warned him about strangers who knew his name. They might want to use him against Dad, and if they found out about his secret, that would be so, so bad...
But Anna was still in sight, and nobody was lurking behind the trees, so he stayed where he was and looked at the guy on the bench again.
"My name's Scott." He still didn't look up from the birds. "It's okay if you don't trust me. You don't have to come any closer. I just wanted to tell you something."
"What?"
The guy--Scott--flicked his wrist and tossed out another handful of seed. "That there's nothing wrong with you. And that I'm sorry it's so tough."
Warren wanted to scream as his wings flexed against the harness, instinct overcoming painful practice. He knows. He knows, he knows, how does he know? "Wha--what do you mean? I'm not-- I'm not a mu--there isn't anything wrong with me. I'm normal." The desperate whine in his voice that he hated, but couldn't make stop, like he couldn't make any of it stop. "I am."
"You are," Scott said, looking up finally and staring at Warren through those thick red lenses. "You are exactly the way you're supposed to be."
Warren stared at his reflection in the glasses, noticing how they were weird but not sleek or fancy like something just for show. They were clunky. Almost ugly. Like something you wore because you had to.
"Are you one?" he asked.
He didn't say what he meant, but Scott nodded. "Yeah. I am."
Warren tilted his head and took a small step closer. "Is it your eyes?"
"Very observant, Warren." Scott set the bag of birdseed aside and clasped his hands in his lap. "Yeah, it's my eyes."
"What do they do?"
"They emit force beams." He tapped the edge of his glasses. "Without these, I could really hurt people. I would hurt people."
"I hurt people," Warren whispered, taking another step. "I hurt my dad."
"I'm sorry."
"He hates them," Warren said, and even though he hadn't explained that either, Scott seemed to know exactly what he meant. He really knows. How does he know? He swallowed hard and shrugged, a hitch of his shoulders that was always awkward because it used muscles and bones that normal people didn't have. "He doesn't hate me, but he hates them so much."
"And they're part of you."
"No." Warren shook his head automatically. Yes. "They're not supposed to be there."
"They are." Scott sounded so sure, like Dad on the phone with one of his companies, handing out decisions and numbers and rules. "There are a lot of us, Warren, and we're all exactly how we're supposed to be."
"Wouldn't you be normal, if you could?" It came out sharp and angry, and Warren wanted to apologize, but Scott just ducked his head. His hands clenched tighter until the knuckles went white.
"Yeah," he said finally. "But we are who we are."
"Some of the ones they show on the news look normal." Warren couldn't keep the jealousy out of his voice, but he wasn't trying very hard.
"I know ones like that." Scott unclenched his hands and rubbed them on his jeans. "They're lucky. There are others who don't look human at all."
Warren nodded--he'd seen those pictures on the news, too, before Dad turned off the TV.
"And then there are ones like us," Scott said, "in the middle. We can hide it and look almost normal, if we try."
"But it's still there." Warren felt the old ache again, worse than ever, spreading up into his throat now and hurting when he talked. "Pretending doesn't fix it."
Scott nodded and squinted up at the trees. He was quiet for a long minute. "What's it like? Having your mutation. What's it like when you use it?"
Warren caught himself smiling before he could stop it, before he could remind himself that he wasn't supposed to ever be happy about being a freak. "It's...it's so great. It's awesome."
Scott smiled at him, and it was hard to tell with the glasses, but Warren thought that he looked sad. "Be glad for that. Don't be ashamed of that."
"What's it like to use yours?"
He thought about that for another long minute, and Warren wanted to apologize again. But he answered. "Scary." He folded his hands together again and stared down at the ground. "But it's also...well, it's what I'm supposed to do. I just wish it didn't hurt people."
Warren nodded, remembering Dad's face the one time he'd come home and found Warren chasing bits of confetti through the air currents from the ceiling fans.
"Anyway." Scott cleared his throat and sat up straighter. "Sorry about that. I work at a school, Warren. In New York. It's a school for mutants, a safe place. We wanted...we wanted you to come with us there. The founder of the school and I, we wanted you to come."
"But Dad said no, right?" Scott nodded and Warren shrugged again. "I haven't gone to a real school in a long time. I study at home, by myself."
"I'm sorry," Scott said, and now Warren definitely could see that he was sad. Scott held out a little card, and Warren took it--it had an address printed on it, and the letter X embossed into the paper. He tucked it away into his pocket, knowing without being told that he'd have to hide it away as soon as he got home.
"I wasn't supposed to speak to you directly, after your dad said no," Scott went on. "But I wanted you to know, in case you ever need a safe place. I hope you won't, but..."
Warren looked over his shoulder, back at where Anna was still talking. She'd want to leave soon, he could see how she was fidgeting with her purse.
"And I wanted you to know there are more of us." Scott stood up and tucked his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "Out there pretending."
"Dad says they'll find a way to fix us," Warren offered, watching his reflection in the glasses again. "Maybe they will."
"Maybe." Scott smiled a little and started walking toward the park fence. "Or maybe everyone will start to really believe that we don't need to be."
The pigeons clucked and scurried out of his way as he hopped over the fence and walked over to a motorcycle parked there. Warren's breath caught in his chest--wow, someday he wanted to be as cool as this guy.
Scott glanced back at him one more time and offered a small wave good-bye as he got on the bike. Warren wasn't sure he heard him right, but he thought before the engine started, Scott said "Maybe even us."