Chapter 1.
Warren stepped out of the red Porsche he had casually parked in front of Xavier's School for Gifted Children and slammed the door behind him. There were several other vehicles in the semi circular driveway, two SUVs and a Land Rover, though not as many as he had expected. He checked his Rolex. 7:01 pm. Just in time. Not late, but not so punctual as to be awkwardly, unfashionably early. He frowned at that thought, annoyed with himself; when did he ever get so jaded? Warren felt old taking the brick stairs one at a time, rather than leaping or flying up them, the way he remembered from his youth, although the last time he had been on these steps he had also taken them one at a time, slow and shocked. Then he had been a kid, with his MBA still a year away from completion. It had been dark that night, cold, the rain rapidly turning into sleet in defiance of the spring. A single suitcase banged against his legs, his father's silver Bentley, the back door spilling it's light out into the night, open for him. Without a backward glance he had walked away from his career as a vigilante. Walked away from his friends. He shook his head and turned his mind away from the sleet and the darkness. Tonight it was clear, with the new moon overhead feebly trying to illuminate a lawn not yet covered with leaves. At the top of the steps, he pulled open the door, the brass doorknob cool under his hand, and stepped inside past the remote Georgian façade.
The foyer looked almost the same as it had when he had left. The same teak paneling and the same quiet English countryside oil paintings on the wall. There was a bullet hole in the wall over the stairs, wondered when the hall had acquired that and why it hadn't been fixed yet. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The smell was the same though, leather and old wood, and a touch of dust. It was comforting.
"Are you here for the memorial service?"
Warren's eyes snapped open. He had not noticed the girl standing on the oriental carpet at the end of the foyer. She was tall, for a teenager, and thin, with light brown hair that swung just above her shoulders. The skin around her eyes was red and streaky. "Yes I am," He said gently.
She reached for his coat, which he handed her, "Turn right, and down to the end of the hall." In the dining hall, the biggest room in the upper half of the house. Of course. Warren turned to walk down the hall, then changed his mind and turned back towards her. The girl was gone. He blinked and looked around himself. A moment later she walked out through the door of the coat closet. She no longer had his coat. Warren's eyebrows crawled up into his hairline. "That way," the girl pointed down the hall. This time he obeyed, following the sounds of people talking in hushed voices.
The overwhelming smell of flowers hit him as he crossed the threshold into the dining hall. They were everywhere. Towering arrangements were placed on every available flat surface, tastefully decorated with lilies, delphiniums, carnations, gladiolas, and daisies. And roses, hundreds of roses. It seemed that everyone had remembered her fondness for them and tried to outdo each other with elaborate displays of that flower. There were white and peach, yellow and pink and red, the color of spilled blood. It was a dizzying riot of color in a room otherwise filled with dark somber suits. For a moment Warren thought he saw a casket set up behind the lectern, but then his eyes focused and he knew he was looking at a sideboard stacked with plates. He shook his head. There was no casket, because there was no body, just a grieving husband, grieving parents, students and friends, he included, who would miss her terribly. Jean was gone.
Scott was standing stiffly next to Jean's mother who was speaking to a woman he didn't recognize. He looked dazed, like he might actually fall down at any moment. He was wearing a new version of his ruby quartz glasses, they took up less room on his face, but it made the hollows in his cheeks stand out in sharp relief. Warren wondered if he had bothered to eat in the last week. Ororo was across the room speaking to a handful of teenagers. One of the girls had a wide white streak in the front of her brown hair. At first glance the room looked populated with mostly students, though Warren was guessing the other adults were either family members or Jean's colleagues. No sign of Henry. He heard the sound of a motorized wheelchair, and turned.
Professor Charles Xavier had been deep in conversation with a tall good looking boy with blue eyes and light brown hair, but his face lit up into a smile when he saw his old student step into the room. He moved his chair closer, "Warren, so good to see you again. Thank you for coming."
Warren closed the distance between them, knelt down and took Charles Xavier's hand in his own, "Sir..." he started, and then stopped, alarmed at the intensity and swiftness of the emotion rising within him. He squeezed his old mentor's hand instead of choosing to finish his sentence. Charles' eyes twinkled, and he returned the pressure, but his smile was sad and tired.
"You're the Angel," the boy observed, almost reverently.
There were, outside of this mansion, only a dozen people still living that knew of Warren's mutation and fewer still who knew of his former life as a crime fighter. It was disconcerting to meet someone, especially someone so young, who already knew his deepest secrets.
"I am," he said carefully, stood and extended a hand." Warren Worthington the third".
The kid nodded, took it, "Your picture is on the wall in the library, "he waved his other hand to indicate where in the mansion it was, though of course Warren already knew. "I'm Bobby. Bobby Drake."
"Very nice to meet you", he replied gravely.
Xavier could sense Warren's wariness, "Bobby is one of our students," he reassured Warren quietly, "He is rapidly proving to be very helpful to the rest of my X-Men. He was on the mission that Jean died."
And there was nothing, really that anyone could think to say after that. Warren thought of moving on to greet Scott, but just then a priest in a collar stepped behind the lectern and mourners began to take their seats. Warren took a deep breath. Jean and Scott had never been particularly religious, he assumed the addition of a priest must have been Elaine Grey's doing. He knew it would make Scott uncomfortable, and he felt for his friend.
Bobby excused himself and headed towards the group surrounding Ororo. The girl with the white streak in her hair met him half way, took his hand in her gloved one and sat down together in the middle row of chairs.
Xavier laid a hand on his arm. As usual, he had followed his thoughts, "If your schedule will allow it, please consider being my guest for the weekend. I think that Scott would benefit from spending time with you. I also think that you and I have a lot to discuss." Warren hesitated, his schedule wouldn't allow for it, he had business meetings even on Sunday, but more than that he feared like hell the place where Scott was. But Xavier had intrigued him too. He found himself agreeing to the suggestion. He pulled out his PDA and made a notation to cancel all his appointments.
The Professor moved his chair towards the lectern and the space that had been left for him next to Scott. Scott's parents had been killed when he was a child, and Xavier was the only father figure in his life. With the loss of his fiancé, Scott was not unlike Warren, now.
The backdrop of flowers abruptly blurred, and Warren passed a hand in front of his eyes.
"Are you all right?"
Warren blinked rapidly to dash the traitorous tears away before looking up into the face of a man he did not recognize. The voice had a heavy German accent, but the body that went with the voice did not at first seem to match. For one thing, he was a blue, with yellow eyes and pointy ears. He also had strange marks, like tattoos, all over his face and neck and on the back of his hands. His fingernails were thick and claw like, with only two fingers and a thumb on each hand. A long blue, spade tipped tail snaked out behind him.
Warren hoped that he kept his expression of surprise off his face, knew he had failed. He smiled to soften his reaction, "I'm fine."
"Ach," the mutant said, abruptly distressed. He looked down at himself "It must not be werking. I thought the Professor said he was going to put an illusion on me to make me not scare people." He had pointed teeth as well.
Warren grinned, amused at the old man, "He must think I can handle the shock in polite company."
"You are not frightened?"
"No, I am not. Please, won't you come sit with me?"
The two of them moved to the last row of chairs.
"My name is Kurt Wagner."
"Warren Worthington, the third."
The priest began to speak then, to call the Memorial service to order. Warren put his attentive face on but tuned out the priest's words. He stood when the others stood, bowed his head with everyone and went through the motions of being a good mourner. Kurt seemed to pay closer attention, speaking the words to the psalms and the Lord's prayer with fervency that put the Priest's own conviction to shame. Warren saw Bobby put his arm around his girlfriend, who was sobbing quietly. Ororo was holding the hands of two of the younger students with her head down. Scott sat ramrod stiff, too conscious, Warren guessed, of his role of grieving husband to allow himself to mourn. He wondered what it was going to take to make the man let go.
He supposed, rationally, that the length of the service was normal, but it seemed to Warren to stretch on too long. There was too much time to think. He knew he should be thinking of Jean, but his mind's eye kept seeing her turn into someone else, to have her swirl of dark red hair turn long and blonde. He turned his head to the side, to try to remember the woman he should be mourning, not the woman he himself had lost.
His gaze came to rest on a man standing just outside the door to the kitchen. He was short and stocky, but powerfully built, solid. He had not dressed for the occasion, wearing black jeans, a pair of cowboy boots and a flannel shirt. He had dark brown hair that was wild and unruly, and old-fashioned mutton chops. He looked like he had just stepped out of the kitchen and was planning on returning in a moment, leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, an unlit cigar clenched in his fist. But the look on his face was far from casual. He looked stricken. Grief stamped his face more plainly than it had for her husband, and he was looking at Scott across the hall with an expression that was almost guilty. Warren watched him while the Priest rambled on. Abruptly, the man turned to look directly at Warren. Their eyes locked. His face became a mask. Warren nodded once cautiously to acknowledge him, and the grief that touched them both. The man's eyes narrowed. A swift glance took in Warren's Armani suit, Italian leather shoes and expensive watch. He spun on his heel and stalked out. Warren shrugged, ah well; there was no accounting for taste.
There was a flutter of activity at the front as the Priest stepped down and Xavier moved his wheelchair forward next to the lectern and wheeled it around to face the audience. Warren turned his attention to his former mentor in a way that he was unable and unwilling to do for the Priest.
"Jean," Xavier started, "Was one of my first students at this school. Was in fact the person who inspired me to found this school, to reach out and make more formal my interest in mutant children." He swallowed. The moment stretched uncomfortably until he shook his head and smiled sadly, "She was many people's inspiration." Warren's eyes fell on Scott sitting very still, staring straight ahead. Warren knew that a gaze fixed on nothing was the only privacy available in a public space, "Jean was a doctor, yes, a scientist, a teacher, a daughter, and a fiancé, and yet she was more than that to us. She was the essence of what is good in each of us. When she saw injustice, in how mutants were treated, she fought back. Where she saw suffering, she gave comfort. Her passions, her loves, her expectations of us, drove us to be…better people than we had imagined we could be. She was not perfect." Xavier let that hang in the air for a moment, "To remember her as such is to do a disservice to her memory. She had a fearsome temper. She was a red head after all," Scattered laughter as people remembered one incident or another where Jean had lost control of that temper, "She was stubborn and she could fail to see the truth when it was presented to her. There were times when she, like all of us, felt powerless, and frozen. Too overwhelmed by the enormity of the task at hand to have the will to begin to tackle it. And yet, in the end, when a choice had to be made, she found the strength to make it. Her actions saved the lives of many of the people in this room, including me." It was suddenly very quiet. Not many people knew the details of Jean's death. This was the most that Warren had heard about it, he wondered what had happened. Wondered if he would get to find out. "If we, in the face of danger can live our lives and make choices with half the bravery that she did, then she will continue to live, inside of each of us."
There was a small silence. Into that space Ororo stood up, dropping the hands of the two children sitting next to her. She went to stand next to the professor, a hand on the handle of his chair and began to speak with the honeyed tongue of Byron. Warren felt tears start up again when he realized which poem Ro had picked. He let himself cry a little then, remembering Jean this time and not someone else.
So we'll go no more a roving,
So late into the night,
Though the heart be ne'er as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword out wears the sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must have its ease,
And love, itself, have rest.
Though the night was made for loving
The day returns too soon
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.
After a perfunctory closing prayer by the priest, the service concluded. Warren felt a little staggered. Although it first it had seemed to go on too long, it's swift conclusion left him blinking a little at the transition.
He got to his feet. A moment later he was enveloped in a fierce hug and a swirl of white hair.
"It's so good to see you," Ororo exclaimed breathlessly, "I saw you from the podium. Thank you for being here."
He could feel her shaking a little in his arms, reaction at the intensity of the emotion in the room. He squeezed her and let her go, "I didn't believe it when the Professor told me, but I have been proven wrong. My favorite street rat really has become an English teacher." She flared her nostrils at him warningly. He didn't heed it, "Too bad you misquoted Byron."
She smacked his arm; outraged "I did not!"
He responded to the hit, rather than to the words, "And now you are abusing the Professor's guest. What kind of role model are you being for today's mutant youth, I wonder?" She smacked him again.
"I gather zat the two of you know each other?"
It was the blue mutant, Kurt. Ororo smiled at him, "Yes, Warren was one of the professor's early students. Now he is a very serious businessman who does not have enough time to hang out with his old friends." She smacked him again, for good measure. Though she meant it in jest, the sting of the truth in her words hurt Warren more than her blows.
Kurt turned a surprised look onto the other man, "You are a mutant too?" Ororo opened her mouth, then shot Warren a look and closed it again. Warren nodded one to confirm, but did not elaborate. "Ach," the other man exclaimed, "I am sorry, I do not mean to be rude. I just assumed…"
"It's okay," Warren said, and then to put the other man at his ease he added quietly, "I have wings." Kurt got very still and his yellow eyes widened. They flicked to Warren's back, up to his eyes, and then away. "They fold down well," Warren added, somewhat lamely. The man nodded absently, then excused himself and walked away.
Warren frowned, puzzled, and a little embarrassed, "What was that about?"
Ororo looked thoughtful, "I'm not… sure. He just started to live in the mansion and he is still getting used to being around people, I think." She paused and her eyes tracked him as he walked, "Jean and I found him living alone in an abandoned church in Boston. We all have scars, but my guess is that his run deeper than most."
Over her shoulder Warren could see Scott, still accompanying Elaine looking uncomfortable while she thanked the priest. He was swaying a little on his feet. "Speaking of scars," he muttered.
Ororo followed his gaze. She lifted a hand and gestured helplessly, saying nothing. Warren squeezed her arm and then started to walk over to Scott, steeling himself and trying to catch the man's eye through his visor. On anyone else they would have been a shield, an affectation to deflect inquiries and pity. Warren knew better. If you were never allowed to take off your shades, the space behind your ruby red glasses hardly counted as a place to hide.
Scott appeared to observe Warren's approach disinterestedly. A bitter half smile flickered over his face, "Have you cancelled all your important business meetings to come to tell me how sorry you are too, War?"
Elaine Grey turned away from the priest, and looked up at Scott, surprised and repulsed, and then to the person Scott was addressing. With the exception of very red eyes, Elaine did not look any different than he remembered. Elegantly and expensively dressed, though without what Warren would have called taste; she was perfectly made up, not a hair out of place. She glanced at Scott disgustedly, then stepped forward to taken Warren's hand and kiss him on the cheek, "Warren, I am so glad you could come."
"Mrs. Grey. I am so very sorry."
For a moment her façade looked like it was going to crack, then she gained control, "Thank you," she said, more simply than he would have given her credit for.
Warren looked at Scott, "I didn't come here to fight."
"Why did you come?"
"To say goodbye. And to see you."
Scott's short laugh seemed shocked out of him, "Me? It was always Jean you wanted to see."
"That was a long time ago," Warren kept his voice level. "We were friends first."
Scott's head snapped back and he stared at the other man warily.
Warren heard the Professor's chair approach, and he began to chat with Elaine and the Priest, distracting attention away from the two men. Blessing Xavier silently in his head, Warren reached out and gripped Scott's arm, "Come, on. Let's go get a drink."
It was more than a single drink. The two of them had wandered down to the boathouse with a bottle of Absolut and a twelve pack of coke. Scott never could hold his liquor and although Warren had the intention of being the caretaker and allowing Scott to unwind, he found himself taking larger and larger swallows as he strove to block out his own multiple layers of grief. They were both completely hammered well before eleven.
"Is this what it was like for you?"
Scott was asking the question. He was sitting in a chair slumped over the table, head resting on his crossed arms, a glass half empty in front of him. He had taken his suit jacket and his tie off, and his shirt was unbuttoned, sleeves jammed up to his elbows. Warren, had taken off all that and his dress shirt, and had released his wings from the harness that kept them strapped to his back. Clad in his dress pants and what Scott laughingly referred to as "wife beater", he had tipped his chair onto two legs and was balancing in it precariously, using his wings as counterbalance. He closed his eyes at the question, swirling his drink round and round in his hand, "What is?"
"The…grief. Is this what you felt when Candy was…died."
He knew that this question had been coming, it had been coming since Xavier had asked him to stay and try to help Scott, but he did not dread it any less, "Murdered, Scott. It's okay to say it. Candy was murdered."
Scott picked up his glass and put it down again, "Sorry. Murdered."
"You mean feeling like your eyes are never going to stop being swollen because all you do is cry?" He swallowed, "You mean that confusion when you first wake up because you reach for her and she's not there? Then you remember that's she's dead and it's like a thousand tons come crashing down on your chest. You can't breathe and you don't want to." He shook his head, "You mean, that sense that if you were just dead you could be with her again. And even if the whole fucking afterlife thing is a joke and you can't, at least being dead would not hurt so much. Not quite so much"
"Oh. Yeah, I guess it is."
"Yeah."
There was a long silence. Scott took another drink, "I miss her..." his breath caught in his throat, "…I miss her so damn much. I don't want to…"Warren lowered his chair, reached his hand across the table and gripped Scott's forearm with the drink in his fist. Scott's other hand had come up and covered his eyes and he began to cry in great, drunken, choking sobs, but no tears. No tears for his wife. The power of his eyes shattered the tears before they could fall behind the ruby quartz. "I don't want to live."
"I know," Warren gripped harder, but let the man cry.
Too quickly Scott regained control of himself, gulping in air and disentangling his arm from Warren's by taking a drink. Warren let him pull away, but wasn't willing to let it go. "I remember how that feels. If you decide that's what you need to do, I am not going to feed you a line of bullshit about choosing life." Scott stared it him. Warren gestured with his drink impatiently, "Look, if you want to off yourself I am not going to be able to do a damn thing about it anyway. But I want you to remember one thing before you make your decision. I don't know exactly what happened on that mission and I don't want you to tell me right now, but Xavier made it sound like Jean died in order to save you."
Scott's voice cracked, "All of us. She saved all of us."
"Maybe so. But she wanted you to live, Scott. You. Her husband, or near enough that it makes no difference. Are you going make her sacrifice meaningless by checking out?"
Scott's knuckles tightened on the edge of his glass. His jaw clenched, "Fuck you man."
Warren laughed mirthlessly and finished his drink, "No thanks, you're not my type."