Wow. Chapter 50. Holy fuck, how have I got this far? Answer: by sheer determination, insanity and the support of my readers. Also, another milestone: this story has broken 400,000 words of posted material. That's like eight novels. Or two Wheel Of Time books (seriously, those things go on forever).
Now, for the big Five Zero, I promise a chapter of mystery and wonder, in which there is much character development stuff and more importantly… the Avengers Assemble in conjunction with an incident of game changing proportions. By which I mean, this challenges most of the plot twists so far for scale. And, you know, my insanity for having stayed up until about 4:30 to finish and post it.
Also, a discussion of Jean Grey's potential proclivities (for context, she is about 16, Warren is about 18, turning 19 later in the year. This is not a gap so large as to be unbridgeable, especially with girls that age having a fondness for more mature boys and, you know, the factors of both a) being mutants, b) being pretty. Also, she is utterly oblivious to the fact that Scott is in love with her).
On a more serious note, this chapter partly hints at things to come, both on a small scale (the remains of this story) and on a larger scale (the future of this ficverse).
And, just quickly, Sean and Warren's eye colours: Sean's blue eyed, like his movie counterpart, because this fic has way too many green eyed redheads as is (Natasha, Lily, Jean, and, eventually, MJ Watson) and Warren is grey eyed because there are way too many blue eyed blondes (Steve, Thor, Carol, Gwen Stacy and a few others yet to make their bow).
Carol Danvers was not in a good mood. This was not to say that good moods were uncommon to her, because they weren't. They also weren't unusually common to her because she wasn't unusually cheerful. Indeed, they were probably a bit less common than usual, because she had an explosive temper and was blessed/cursed with a figure that made anything and everything that had ever even considered being attracted to women sit up and pay attention. Jean-Paul didn't, but Jean-Paul had always been gayer than the average Pride parade.
The explosive temper was, quite often, sparked off by the fact that she was constitutionally incapable of taking bullshit, someone, say, staring too long or getting handsy with either her or another girl and refusing to take no for an answer. This had, unsurprisingly and somewhat depressingly, earned her a reputation as a ball breaker, because this is the parlous state of the supposedly progressive society in which we live.
However, insulting as it was, in the literal sense, being called a ball breaker , since Carol was a box to box midfielder for her school soccer team and the first name on the team sheet. She combined a tackle like a cruise missile with a shot that earned comparisons to that of a soccer player in the English Premier League, who had gained a degree of notoriety the previous year for hitting a shot so hard that it simultaneously broke the leg and dislocated the ankle of one of the opposing defenders who made the mistake of trying to block it.
The relevance of this comes in when it became clear that she had threatened on more than one occasion to repeat this trick on a boy who got too grabby or to just cut out the middle man and practice her free kick technique on his balls. Since she was one of the school's top athletes, had fearsomely good aim, and her free kick skills were favourably compared to Bayville High's star striker, Jean Grey, this was a threat that was taken seriously.
Also, no one particularly wanted to attract the ire of a young woman who'd beaten the entire football team in arm wrestling matches, one after the other, the previous summer. Thereafter, the boys fathers sought to bandage their son's masculinity by leaning on the school board to have Carol tested for steroids. The results came up clear, twice, and as if to give them the finger, Carol broke the state 100, 200, 400 and 1600 metres records for both boys and girls in her age group the next week.
Lacking any other explanation, Carol Danvers was generally considered to be a freak of nature.
Naturally, her detractors focused on the freak part. And there were quite a lot of those. Having developed curves about two years before the rest of her classmates and being a classic tomboy (though how much of the latter was simply to spite her father was debatable), most of the girls were ragingly jealous and most of the boys were only interested in her because she was gorgeous and because they wanted to claim that they'd 'broken the ball breaker'. The aforementioned short temper, while unsurprising, wasn't exactly helpful in the PR drive.
Peter Parker, for instance, who might under other circumstances have been a great friend of hers, was absolutely terrified of her. This made a fair degree of sense, since the one and only time that they'd really met each other, she'd been having a bad day and Peter had been left with the impression that he'd narrowly escaped having his head ripped off. Also, she was of the sort of appearance and sporty inclination as most of his tormentors, so, quite naturally, he avoided her.
As for Gwen Stacy, who was also congenitally incapable of being intimidated by anyone, ever, and also had to deal with being judged by her appearance first and merits second, they quite simply moved in different circles, though Carol had heard something about the her and Peter studying the head of a robot that had had a terminal encounter with Thor's hammer until it had been confiscated by the government. It was a pity. If they'd known each other, they'd have got on rather well.
That said, if someone actually took the trouble to get to know her, looking beyond her physical appearance and not unjustifiably suspicious nature, they would find a brave, compassionate and fiercely loyal young woman who dreamed of flying.
But, in truth, there was always something that set her apart. It was neither some kind inner nobility, nor a Nietzschean sense of innate superiority, because, for one thing, it is hard to imagine the Ubermensch naming their cat Chewie. Instead, it was simply something… different.
Maybe it was that she was a born leader. The soccer team loved her because they knew she would go the extra mile for every single one of them and for the team as a whole. Jean-Paul was happy to follow her lead, but that was not the remarkable part, as Jean-Paul was almost terminally laid back, or, in any event, liked to give off that impression. The remarkable part was that Lex Luthor of all people followed her lead. He claimed that it was to make sure that she stayed out of trouble and because he could be her highly sophisticated thug and scare people (because with Carol's escapades, there usually someone who needed scaring and Lex rather enjoyed it), but nevertheless, he followed her.
Or maybe it was because she was one of those people who stands outside humanity at large. It was something she had in common with Harry, and maybe it was why they got on, because they knew what it meant to stand out as different. Such people take one of two paths. They either slip between the cracks or they become great. Great, and in some cases, terrible.
But such speculations would be naught but hot air and wasted words to Carol, who was at this point in the unenviable and uniquely unpleasant position of being simultaneously parched and in desperate need of a toilet. And while she'd found a toilet, like many women's toilets, it had a queue. Quite a long one, in fact.
So Carol was left bouncing from one foot to the other and hoping for either a Mary Poppins style tornado that would leave her path clear or a distraction.
And lo and behold, a distraction appeared as her phone beeped. Carol fished it out of her pocket, crossed her legs and brought up the screen. A facebook message. From Harry of all people.
She ran a quick mental calculation. Harry was at school in Scotland, which was five hours ahead of New York… that meant it was about eight thirty in the evening there.
Perfect. A distraction from someone who, theoretically, could conjure a Mary Poppins style tornado on the grounds of Midtown High. Or, at least, ask their dad to do it.
Hey, she wrote. How are you?
In Common Room. Just finished my homework. One best friend not speaking to me, other best friend in food coma. You?
Thirsty and busting for a wee. In a queue for the loo. Food coma?
We found the secret entrance to kitchens. The staff love me. My friend, Ron, loves food. I practically had to drag him up from the basement to the tower.
Carol blinked. Tower?
My school's a castle.
Whoa… that sounds cool.
Not in winter, it isn't. It's snowing right now.
Carol winced. Of course. No central heating. You must be frozen.
Nah, the tower's warm and so are all the classrooms, except the dungeons. The corridors not so much.
Why not? Surely magic could warm them up? And you guys have dungeons? Do you have detention there or something?
It could, and they're heated up 'til the end of January, but I think the teachers like them to be cold. It encourages students to get to lessons quicker or get very good at warming charms. And yes, we have dungeons. One of the teachers lives there and teaches classes down there. He hates my father and hates me. He also dresses like a giant bat. I think that if he ever goes near a fire, all the grease in his hair will ignite.
Carol snickered, and shuffled forward. Sounds bad.
It is. His house (he's head of one of the houses) lives there too. Their rooms go out under the lake.
That sounds pretty cool, not gonna lie.
There was a long silence, and Carol wondered if she'd driven Harry away.
I suppose it is, came the grudging reply. Doesn't change the fact that they're almost all dicks.
Almost all?
One's okay. Draco Malfoy. He used to be a dick, but he's grown up recently.
It's nice when that happens, Carol replied, a touch wistfully. Rare, but nice.
Tell me about it.
Carol could imagine the put upon sigh, and grinned. So, you've got this teacher who hates you. Why?
He and Dad hated each other at school. Dad says that he bullied him, but one of the other teachers, who was there at the time, says that my teacher gave as good as he got, and that dad didn't want to sound to me like he was justifying what he did.
Carol digested this. While she'd always seen Thor as a nice, friendly and decent person, she could well imagine him falling into classic jock territory. He'd been sent to Earth as an attitude adjustment, after all. Everyone does things that they're not proud of, she replied. I know that I do.
Me too. That's why my other friend isn't talking to me.
What happened?
There was a pause, as if Harry was considering his answer, then he replied slowly, as if measuring his response. My friend is a really good student. Top of our year, top in everything, she's really clever and hardworking, with a memory like nothing I've ever seen. But that left her a bit alone at first. She was isolated and became a bit arrogant and overbearing in response, maybe because she felt she didn't need people, or she just wasn't very good with them. Then she, I and Ron (who's still in the food coma. If he doesn't wake up in ten minutes, friend or not, I'm feeding him to my pet wolves).
Carol burst out laughing at this, getting some odd looks. Pet WOLVES?
Yeah. Freki and Geri. Well, they belong to my grandfather, but he sent them down as sort of bodyguards. They're each the size of a pony, but they're complete softies.
And you're going to feed your friend to them?
They're hungry and he still hasn't said thank you. He's bigger than I am and I had to drag him all the way up from the basement to one of the towers.
Carol found herself grinning. Isn't that a bit much?
You try lugging sixty kilograms of overstuffed teenage wizard up eight flights of stairs. Stairs which have a habit of moving around. Stairs which have trick steps. I had to retrieve him three separate times and he didn't wake up even when his head had gone through the trick step. There was a pause. He's not that bad really. I suppose I could just give them the legs.
He might need to use them.
He didn't use them on the way up. My motto is simple: you don't use 'em, you lose 'em.
Carol grinned. Fair enough, but we got off topic. What's this friend's name and what happened?
Her name's Hermione. And she's really good at theory because that's what she's naturally good at, and she's really good at spells because she practices at them. She works at it.
With you so far.
And I'm not very good at theory. But I tend to pick up spells really quickly, without practicing beforehand.
Carol winced. She could see where this was going.
Not only that, but you remember when I explained Quidditch to you?
Yeah. You said you were the Seeker and I said that the Seeker was like the striker in soccer. Does none of the work, gets all of the credit.
Right. And the Seeker can't slack off for a moment, you know.
From what you told me, you spend most of the match floating above the other players, looking for a golden ball.
That's hard work.
Right. In my book, the Chasers are the ones who do all the work and the Seekers are the glory hogs, but by all means, carry on.
Thanks. I'm glad you think so much of my position.
Think nothing of it.
Trust me. I will.
Carol smirked. He so took after his uncle. So. You were saying?
Well, I'm the best flier in the school. I was the youngest Seeker in a century. This sounds very arrogant, but it's true. It's what I'm best at.
So, you're the star sportsman, famous because of miraculously not dying as a baby and you pick up practical magic like no tomorrow. And didn't Prince T'Challa say that you were unusually powerful?
You forgot that I'm a Prince of Asgard, was the slightly dour reply. And yes.
Ah. So I'm guessing that this Hermione got a bit upset about you outshining her?
Pretty much. See, Hermione never gets questions wrong. She's always the first hand up. Except for once, in my best subject. We both raised our hands at the same time and gave different answers. The teacher asked us to explain our answers. Hermione went first, and based on all the books she'd read and could reasonably get hold of, she was right. But I had an Asgardian book or two to call on. And I contradicted her.
Ooh… this isn't going to end well. The teacher went with you?
Yeah. Apparently some really old records agreed with my answer, so Hermione was proved wrong. In front of everyone.
Carol winced.
I was advised to let her cool down for a while.
Sensible advice. Seriously, whoever told you that probably saved your life.
Hermione's terrifying when she's angry. There's no probably about it.
How long has she not been talking to you?
Two weeks.
Whoa… that's a long time.
Hermione's stubborn.
Sounds familiar, Carol replied.
Takes one to know one. And that means you too.
Carol blinked. How do you know that?
Jean-Paul.
Remind me to kill him.
You'd have to catch him first.
I'll settle for killing you.
You'll have to catch me first.
I'm faster than you.
I'm sure you are. But I can fly.
Carol wrinkled her nose. If there was one thing that she envied about Harry, aside from, at the moment, the fact that he was a boy and a male bathrooms rarely had queues, it was his flying broomstick.
Ridiculous as the idea seemed, brooms were actually used to fly, and Harry, in the grand tradition of vaguely guilt induced parental spoiling, had been given a top of the range example of the kind by his father. Ridiculousness of the concept aside, Carol had to admit that the name 'Firebolt' was pretty cool, and so was the actual broom. It looked sleek and fast, as if it was speed incarnate, just waiting to speed away in a blur, leaving the competition spinning in its wake, wondering what the hell had just happened.
True. But one day I'm going to have a jet of my own and I will hunt you down.
I don't doubt it.
Good.
Yeah. I get the feeling that if there was ever anyone who was born to fly, it was you.
Carol went slightly pink. That was the thing about Harry. He could be friendly, refreshingly able to keep his eyes on her face and a touch sarcastic most of the time, and then, all of a sudden, he would say something kind, touching and inspiring as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
What made Harry Thorson special was that he cared, even, perhaps especially, when other people didn't.
Thanks, she replied, slightly dazed.
It's true.
She smiled and shook her head. She hadn't known Harry for all that long, but she'd known him for long enough to know that he was capable of being simultaneously very insightful and totally oblivious.
So, she typed. What else have you been getting up to?
Well, we've got two new teachers...
OoOoO
On being informed of the arrival of two new teachers, who were also bodyguards of a kind, Harry told Freki and Geri to hang back at first, since he rather doubted that bodyguards would react well to horse sized wolves trotting up to greet them. The wolves did as bid, but he could see them lurking on the edge of the Forest, less than two hundred feet away, a distance they could cover in moments. Indeed, he suspected that the only reason they obeyed was because of Hagrid, who was large, protective and conveniently bulletproof. T
his done, he followed Hagrid down to the gates, watching as the winged figure glided over their heads, rose up briefly, circled, then landed neatly beside the red headed man, Professor Cassidy. And the red hair was really quite distinctive, a true red rather than the Weasley's ginger, wavy and flecked with coppery-gold that caught the dying light and the wind and turned it into a living flame.
This attention catching hair was set above a freckled, weather beaten face, young looking and lined only with smiles, out of which looked two sharp, intelligent and amused looking sea blue eyes.
"Good afternoon," Cassidy said cheerfully, with a strong, lilting Irish accent. "You would be Professor Hagrid, I'm guessing."
"Ye guessed right, Professor Cassidy," Hagrid said, with a smile, opening the gates. "Welcome to Hogwarts."
Cassidy chuckled. "Thank ye kindly," he said. "But as an old friend of mine once said, 'I'm not a Professor until I have students.'"
"I don't count?" the young man with wings asked mildly. There were very few men who could reasonably be described as beautiful, but like Jean-Paul, Harry felt that this was the only appropriate adjective to describe the other man.
Indeed, he was like an older mirror image of Harry's friend. He was tall and well built, with flowing golden blonde hair down to his shoulders that shone in the weak February sunlight. His skin was clear and lightly tanned. His features were clean cut, strong and aristocratic, Harry finding them vaguely reminiscent of his father and the statues and paintings of gods and angels that Bruce had shown him pictures of. His eyes were silvery grey.
And then there were the wings, made of clear, silvery metal that caught the light, at least three metres wide, reaching their apex with two pointed pinions, each feather gleaming with sharpness. They were as beautiful as the rest of him. And they were as deadly as they were beautiful.
"The girls are going to eat you alive," Harry found himself saying.
The young man looked surprised at the unexpected speech from someone who he had until then designated as 'munchkin, random', then let out a put upon sigh as Cassidy let out a hearty roll of laughter. "Lad, if wizards are like the rest of us, it won't just be the girls we have to worry about."
Harry had to admit that this was probably true. Judging by his first impression of Warren, this was going to be worse than Lockhart, and he was pretty sure he'd seen a few of the boys giving that idiot lovestruck glances.
He looked at Cassidy, about to say something, then frowned as he saw Cassidy giving him a very strange look, one of wide eyed astonishment and disbelief. "A Naomh Mhuire, a mhathair Dé," he breathed.
"Professor Cassidy?" Harry asked, puzzled.
Cassidy blinked and his easy smile swiftly reasserted itself. "Sorry, Mister Thorson, I slipped into a little Irish there. That scar looks painful."
"It doesn't hurt most of the time, Professor," Harry said.
"Most?" Cassidy asked, frowning. "It's twelve years old."
"It's a curse scar, Professor," Hagrid rumbled. "It's more'n a little out o' the ordinary."
"I'll bet," Warren murmured.
"Oh, aye, I know that," Cassidy said. "My family's got more than it's share of history with magic, both dark and light."
Harry blinked in surprise. "You're not a wizard?" he guessed.
"No," Cassidy said. "Though I have a cousin who dabbles." He smiled. "But I'm not exactly helpless."
"Oh?" Harry asked, curiosity piqued.
The smile grew wicked. "Let's just say that I'm not called the Banshee for nothing."
This would have been nice and mysterious way to end the conversation if Harry hadn't seen Warren disgustedly rolling his eyes. The older boy caught his gaze and said, "He's far too melodramatic for his own good. He's got powers, like me."
"You're mutants?" Harry asked.
The pair started.
"Where did you hear that word?" Cassidy asked, voice guarded.
"From Charles Xavier, Professor," Harry said.
Cassidy relaxed, though his gaze lingered on Harry for a moment. "Aye," he said. "I'm not surprised." He smiled. "Charles taught us both – different classes, o' course."
"He's old enough to be my grandfather," Warren said. "He just refuses to have the decency to look it."
Cassidy sighed. "Children today," he muttered. "No respect for their elders." He glanced at Harry. "You don't seem surprised."
"My dad's fifteen hundred years old, give or a take a century, Professor," Harry said, shrugging. "These days, I'm pretty difficult to shock."
Warren snorted. "Trust me, there's a lot in this world left to shock you," he said.
"Like what?" Harry asked.
"Like how people you think you know can change their attitudes in the blink of an eye when they find out that you're different," Warren said flatly.
There was a long silence.
"It shouldn't be that way," Harry said quietly. He met Warren's gaze. "And I think I know that a little better than you think."
Warren eyed him sceptically, and for a very moment, seemed to do a double take, then nodded. "Maybe you do," he said quietly.
There was another silence.
"Well, isn't this cheerful?" Cassidy asked, a cheerful grin flashing across his face. "I've been all around the world, and I make my home in Scotland, but I've never seen quite anything like this." His tone was full of genuine awe as he looked up at Hogwarts, which was shining with light, standing out against the darkening winter sky, looking warm and welcoming.
"Aye, Hogwarts is beautiful, Professor Cassidy," Hagrid said warmly.
"Please, call me Sean," Cassidy said easily. He gave Harry a slight smile. "But I'm still Professor Cassidy to you."
"Damn," Harry said, totally deadpan. "I thought we had something special."
Cassidy goggled.
"'arry," Hagrid hissed, but whatever he was about to say was cut off by Cassidy's warm, bubbling laughter.
"Well, that's me told," he said, voice still full of amusement, sea blue eyes sparkling with mirth. "Though ye might want to keep a sharp hold of that tongue of yours, my lad. Take it from me, it's far easier to talk yourself into trouble than out of it again."
Harry made a face. "Trouble finds me, Professor," he said. "Whether I like it or not."
"Then you should have plenty of reason not to go finding more, shouldn't you?" Cassidy said shrewdly, arching an eyebrow.
Harry nodded thoughtfully. "I never used to be like that," he said frankly. "But Tony Stark is a bad influence, Professor."
"I'll bet he is," Cassidy murmured. "I've heard the stories."
"And 'bad influence' is putting it mildly," Warren said.
"You said that you lived in Scotland, Professor?" Harry asked.
"Aye, up at Muir Island," Cassidy confirmed. "A friend of mine, Moira MacTaggert, leases it from the government and runs a research station."
Judging by the slight change in intonation on the word 'friend' and Warren's raised eyebrow, Harry suspected that this Moira person was rather more than a friend in Cassidy's eyes.
"If ye'll forgive me, Sean," Hagrid said. "Ye don' sound Scottish."
"I'm not," Cassidy said. "I'm Irish-American, born and bred in Chicago, Illinois, though I haven't been back for more than a couple of weeks at a time in thirty years. And yes, as Warren says, I am older than I look. I moved to Ireland in the early seventies to look in to my family history and ended up staying. I used to work for Interpol, though, so I travelled all over."
This left open the reason for moving to Scotland, though Harry could make a reasonable stab at it. He'd caught a glimpse at what was on the chain around Cassidy's neck. A simple gold ring. A wedding ring, in fact.
Though he was all smiles for now, Harry was pretty sure that Sean Cassidy had more than his fair share of mystery and tragedy in his past.
And then there was Warren. The younger man was only a few years older than Harry himself, yet he seemed… sad. And lonely. Harry was a touch surprised by this, unsure as to why someone so good looking was so alone.
Then he thought about Carol and Jean-Paul, both of whom were by any standard, astonishingly good looking. And yet, Lex aside, they didn't seem to have any other friends, or at least, if they did, they hadn't mentioned them, not face to face nor in their conversations on Facebook. Both had a lot of friends on Facebook, hundreds even, but Harry got the entirely correct impression that 'friends' was a fairly loose definition.
As he thought about this, he realised he was staring at Warren, who, by this point was also staring. Both blinked as they realised the other had noticed their regard.
"Sorry," both said in unison. Cassidy chuckled softly, but said nothing, thinking that it might be no bad thing if the two became friends. If he remembered correctly, Harry was rather a fan of flying, whereas it was one of the few wing related things that Warren actually enjoyed.
"How did you get those wings?" Harry asked curiously.
Said wings mantled slightly. "I was born with them," Warren said. "Though they weren't always like this," he added, as Harry winced. "My back was just a bit downy at first. Then I grew feathery wings."
"And then… they just became metallic?" Harry asked.
Warren's expression closed off. "Not quite," he said, voice low and bitter.
Cassidy placed a hand on his shoulder, and said to Harry, "It's a sensitive subject."
Harry nodded. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.
"You didn't know," Warren said. He glanced at Harry, grey eyes flicking up to the scar. "And I'm guessing that you know a little something about those."
"Yeah," Harry said. "I lost my mother and got this stupid scar." He paused, then said, "It's not fair."
Cassidy's gaze flicked between the two of them, then he said sadly, "I don't think life has been fair to either of you two," he said.
"Life isn' fair," Hagrid said bluntly. "No point in expectin' it ta be somethin' it's not." He gave Cassidy a sharp look with his beetle black eyes. "An' I think ye know more than yer fair share of how unfair life can be, Sean." Like Harry, he'd seen the glint of gold.
Cassidy gave him an even look. "You're right. I do," he said, and left it at that. He looked Hagrid up and down with intelligent, calculating eyes, doubtless dramatically reassessing the bigger man.
Then, for the rest of the walk, he inquired about what Hagrid did at Hogwarts. Harry, since Warren didn't seem to be in a particularly talkative mood, walked in thoughtful silence, and when he bade his new Professor and Assistant Professor (the latter, he suspected, was only a job title, since Warren could barely be out of school), interrupting a rather amusing story of Cassidy's involving a selkie, a scientist and a tuna sandwich.
There were more than a few mysteries about the two new teachers to dwell upon (not least exactly how the selkie did that thing with that sandwich to that scientist in that place – to Harry's mind it was physically implausible) and that was exactly what he intended to do.
As he would later reflect, he never could resist a good mystery.
OoOoO
Unbeknownst to Harry, the dwelling was not confined to him alone.
"What did you make of the lad?" Sean asked quietly, half an hour later, as they left their first meeting with Professor Dumbledore.
"Nice enough," Warren said. "But when I came here, I didn't expect one of my first sights to be my ex's eyes in someone else's face." He narrowed his eyes. "And you recognised him too."
"Those eyes are pretty distinctive," Sean said mildly.
Warren raised his eyebrows. "Distinctive enough to spout off in Irish?"
"First, it's Gaelic," Sean said. "Second, I called Hank to tell him I'd got the job. I thought he'd be chuffed, and he was. He also said that there was a student called Harry who looked very familiar."
"Very familiar?"
"He reminds me, and clearly Hank, of an old friend of ours," Sean said.
"One of Jean's relatives?" Warren asked.
"Yes," Sean said, after a moment. "You could say that." He glanced at Warren. "I wouldn't mention Jean to him if I were you."
Warren's voice turned sarcastic. "Well, that might be difficult. I mean, however will I manage resist the temptation to tell him how his eyes are exactly the same as my psychic ex girlfriend's?"
Sean glowered at him, but the effect was ruined by the fact that his lips were twitching. "Ye're a mouthy little git, you know that?"
"I leaned from the best," Warren said. "And seriously, I'd rather avoid bringing up Jean."
Sean raised an eyebrow. "Whatever happened to the two of ye, anyway?" he asked. "One moment, she's only got eyes for you, you're both happy and smiling and Scott's sulking like there's no tomorrow, the next moment you two can't stand to be in the same room as each other."
"My wings," Warren muttered.
"She had a problem with them?" Sean asked, surprised, other eyebrow raising.
"No, she didn't. Very definitely didn't," Warren said. "That was the problem."
"Ah, they turned her on, then," Sean said, innocent tone belied by a wicked twinkle in his eyes.
Warren blanched. "What? God, no! No, they didn't!" He paused. "Or at least, I don't think they did," he added, voice carrying a tone of disturbed curiosity.
Sean rubbed his chin, wicked twinkle remaining. "O' course," he said, Irish accent thickening slightly, possibly on purpose. With Sean, it could be quite hard to tell. "That might explain why she always liked birds. She always liked stories about phoenixes."
Warren grinned softly. "She did," he said. "She'd have loved it here. I mean, Professor Dumbledore has one." He glanced at Sean. "And I refuse to believe that Jean had a wing fetish."
"Ye never know until you ask," Sean said, smirking.
"You're messing with me."
"Me? Would I do a thing like that to you, lad?"
"I don't know anyone you wouldn't do it to," Warren said dryly. He sobered. "She didn't care about how dangerous they were. I couldn't make her understand that we couldn't get too close."
Sean stared at him, then sighed and pinched his brow. "Lad, didn't you think of maybe trusting her?" he asked, tone full of forced patience. "And more importantly, yourself?"
Warren took on a slightly martyred look. "My wings could have killed her, if I'd lost control of them."
"And she could have lobotomised ye and launched you into orbit if she lost control of her powers," Sean said, tone unchanging. "She trusted herself to control her powers and your trusted her too. Couldn't you have extended yourself the same courtesy?"
"No," Warren said plainly.
Sean gave him a look, then, when he spoke, his voice was weirdly modulated. "Repeat after me: I am a fucking idiot who is too scared to know a good thing when he has it and just has to go and ruin it with his martyrdom thing."
"I am a fucking idiot who is too scared to know a good thing when he has it and just has to go and ruin it with his martyrdom thing," Warren repeated obediently, then glared. "Did you just do the thing on me?"
"Aye, and tell me if any of what I had you say was wrong," Sean said coolly. "Jean is genuinely beautiful, inside and out, and she accepted you for who you were, shiny wings of death and all. You could have had somethin' wonderful, lad. And you threw it away." He looked tired all of a sudden, and a hand drifted up to finger the gold ring. "Trust me, lad. Life's too short to do that."
Warren didn't say anything for a while. "I'm an idiot, aren't I?"
"Yes, lad, you're an idiot," Sean said kindly, then the wicked twinkle returned. "But you're a pretty blonde, so everyone was expecting it."
"Hey!"
OoOoO
The Avengers Assembled.
In the living room of the Tower, drinking tea and Loki brewed coffee as preference took them. It was not exactly dramatic, but it was mid morning on a fairly calm day, so what else was to be expected?
This time, however, was fairly unique. The assorted friends and partners were all occupied by something else. Darcy had collared Jane, Pepper and Sif for a shopping trip, with Warriors Three coming along as clothes horses, entertainment and bag carriers. Oh, and bodyguards, though Sif was more than enough bodyguard for both Darcy, Jane and Pepper put together. Erik, who tended to steer clear of Loki at the best of times when he was visiting the Tower – Thor wasn't entirely sure if he and Harry had even met – was on a lecture tour.
So the Avengers could talk about what they liked. In this case, Clint's mother's adopted family, the Kents. Like any curious estranged family member, Clint had researched his family. Like any curious estranged family member who also happened to be a high ranking SHIELD Agent, he'd got just about every detail about them.
"Jonathan and Martha Kent. They're a fairly standard Midwestern farming couple, though the wife is the daughter of William Clark, a high powered attorney, and has a background in business and all evidence indicates that Jonathan's no hick farmer either," Clint said. "Vote for the same State Senator each time, Jack Jennings. Hard working, friendly, hospitable people. She's about ten years younger than he is. They take people as they are unless their name is Luthor. Lionel Luthor forced a friend of Jonathan Kent's out of business and apparently there's other bad blood between him and Jonathan."
"Luthor?" Thor asked. "Hasn't Harry befriended a boy called Luthor?"
"Lex," Loki said. "Son of Lionel."
Tony grimaced. "Lionel's a piece of shit," he said. "A dangerous piece of shit."
Steve gave Tony a look that said volumes about language, but nodded. "I take it that Lex and his father don't see eye to eye."
"It's pretty well known that the Luthor's hate each other," Tony said. "And Lionel doesn't like me because I was just about the only adult aside from Brigadier O'Neill to pay attention to Lex at the high society dinners, when I wasn't drunk, so Lex likes me better than he does his father."
"That isn't hard, Tony," Loki said dryly. "Believe me, there are depths I had not believed possible to Lex's hatred of his father." He sighed. "The boy was cursed with a terrible father, a distant mother and a fearsome intellect."
"He's as smart as I am," Tony said candidly. "Or close to."
"I could not think of many mortals who I would definitively state were cleverer than Lex Luthor," Loki said. "Reed Richards is the only one I would state for sure, though from what I know of the young ruler of Latveria, Victor Von Doom, he may not be the only one. Bruce and Tony, possibly." He looked thoughtful. "Maybe Doctor Storm, who he is rather fond of."
"They're dating," Tony said casually. "Reed's jealous, he just doesn't know how to show it."
"That's because Reed could not be more uptight without thorough application of glue," Loki said.
"He's a nice guy," Bruce said fairly.
"Nice, but terminally oblivious," Tony said. "If he'd asked her out, Sue would have said yes, and he had plenty of opportunity."
"Maybe he was shy," Steve suggested. "I don't really know Doctor Richards, but he's always seemed more comfortable with numbers than people."
Tony shrugged, then turned to Clint. "So, Agent Locksley, what else did you dig up?"
Clint rolled his eyes at the billionth Robin Hood crack and said, "They've got an adopted son, Clark, who they adopted quite late when it turned out that Martha couldn't have children. Nice kid. Top grades, glowing reports from his teachers, he even writes a little for the school paper. Movie star good looks, like a better nourished and outdoorsy version of Harry," he said, then frowned slightly. "Actually, he looks disturbingly like Harry. They could be twins."
Thor and Loki's eyebrows climbed and they shared a look. This was yet another thing that Loki would be investigating once this crisis was over.
"And it's odd," Clint continued. "He's never been ill. Not once in his life. And there's something about his adoption…"
"What's wrong with it?" Steve asked.
"Nothing, that's the problem," Clint said, frowning. "It seems too perfect. Almost like it's a cover."
"It is," Natasha said, calmly. Covers and deception were her field of expertise. "In Coulson's style. The kid's superhuman. He's a candidate for the mysterious Omega class that Fury's supposed to be protecting."
"Omega class?" Steve asked, eyebrows shooting upwards. Natasha nodded.
"There's been stories floating around the intelligence community for the best part of a decade that Fury dug up an Omega class kid somewhere, then hid him," she said. "Some people have tied it to the Smallville incident, but others think that it was something else."
Loki nodded slowly. "I have heard those stories," he said. "And they tally with a few other very interesting things that I have heard." He glanced at Natasha. "What do you think?"
"Occam's Razor," she said.
"That rarely accounts for the numerous absurdities of lives such as ours," Loki pointed out.
Natasha inclined her head in acknowledgement. "Doesn't mean that it doesn't apply here," she said. "There's too many unanswered questions."
"True," Loki murmured.
"I heard rumours when I was working for Ross," Bruce said slowly. "Ross was trying to get hold of the kid, or even just to find out who he was, but got nowhere. He claimed that Fury threatened to set his 'attack dog' on him."
"That would have been me," Clint said, in a tone that suggested he was retrospectively annoyed that he hadn't been able to give General Ross a little of the ole Soviet Re-education.
"So if he is this secret Omega class, who is, for some reason, being raised by Kansas farmers with Director Fury's blessing," Steve said. "What is he?"
"Mutant?" Clint suggested.
"Probably," Natasha said. "Or he could be a mutate. SHIELD never managed to clear up all of that meteor rock."
"I could ask my godfather," Tony said. "He can find out soon enough." His expression darkened. "When he wakes up, that is."
"Is he improving?" Thor asked, concerned.
Tony sighed. "Yeah, he is. Slowly but surely. Hank thinks he'll come out of the coma by mid March." He made a face. "Logan nearly filleted me when I came round to check."
"Logan's that way to most people," Steve said absently.
"How do you know Logan?" Tony asked, surprised.
"He and his brother were attached to the Commandos a few times," Steve said.
"Why not go and see him?"
"Albus said that he's lost his memories," Steve said.
"Yeah, but as it turns out, he got the World War II ones back," Tony said. "No one knows why. Or how. It's pretty arbitrary."
Steve looked surprised. And hopeful. So hopeful that it almost hurt to look at, hopeful that he might see one person who was as they had been in the old days, someone who was the way he remembered them.
It was unfortunate that he did not articulate this thought, as if he had, when the time came he would have been far less surprised by the metal claws and the fact that Logan now sank in water if he didn't actively try to swim.
There was a long silence.
"So… has anyone got a new theory on why Strange wants Wanda away from Hogwarts?"
OoOoO
Lucius Malfoy idly swirled the wine in his glass. He would give Von Strucker this, he had fine taste in wine. While he personally preferred elf made wine, this rather delicious Bordeaux was a more than acceptable substitute. And in any case, the equating of muggles with elves rather amused him. Both were born to serve, it was simply a matter of convincing the latter that that was their place.
Of course, some muggles were worthy of consideration as near equals. Not actual equals, of course. Director Fury was one. Malfoy hated him, but he equally acknowledged that Fury was ruthless, extremely intelligent and had a will of pure adamantium. Those traits had allowed him to accrue an astonishing amount of power in an astonishingly short time. And Fury had wounded him in ways that no other had. The leg, well, everyone knew about that, though they didn't bring it up if they had any sense. And the other ways…
His expression soured as he contemplated the wine and considered the other marks Fury had left on him. Marks that he had gone to great deal of trouble to hide. Marks that were the chief reason he despised Fury.
Despised, yet admired. He was a worthy opponent. An inevitably doomed one, but worthy nevertheless. Malfoy accorded him the same level of respect that he'd once accorded Von Strucker. He eyed the other man for a moment. Tall, powerful and with the commanding, arrogant air of a man born to power, he was an impressive figure at first sight. Combined with the power HYDRA possessed and a reasonable intellect, he was an impressive figure at many sights after that.
Malfoy had admired him and courted him as an ally during the first ascension of Voldemort, an alliance that had served both well. Then Voldemort had fallen and he'd been left to die in the burning wreckage of his family home while Fury returned to the Americas to make his legend, and HYDRA had melted back into the shadows, fearful of SHIELD's vengeance.
When they had re-established the old partnership, Malfoy had been impressed by Von Strucker's confidence and his quiet, deadly and terrifyingly sane shadow, Baron Von Zemo, whose face was hidden behind a mask that concealed everything and moved disturbingly quietly and, when the situation called for it, fast enough to make a vampire of any Court blink. And then there had been the coup that was the discovery of the Winter Soldier.
Then Von Strucker's shortcomings had been painfully exhibited in his attempt to undercut Malfoy, then his total humiliation by Fury and his moronic reaction. One did not give something like Gravemoss the chance to do exactly as he wished. You could never be sure what would happen. Plus, the upshot of that incident was that the Scarlet Witch was now back in the field and on all evidence, more powerful than ever, more powerful than any mortal wizard that Lucius had ever heard of.
Well, he supposed that there was Mordo, and his student, the mysterious and – if Lucius said it himself, vaguely intimidating – deadly Victor Von Doom. But Mordo was very much his own man and obsessed with destroying Strange. This was all well and good, except that everyone who had any sense knew that if Strange was provoked into direct action, the results would not be pretty.
No one had forgotten Berlin and Strange's duel with the demon powered Dark Lord Grindelwald. More damage had been done in the hour long duel than in a month of Muggle bombing raids and Grindelwald had been left crippled, no stronger than any other unusually powerful wizard. Strange, on the other hand, had ambled away, apparently without care in the world, leaving the Dark Lord for Dumbledore to finish off.
Malfoy didn't doubt that Gravemoss could at least stalemate the Sorcerer Supreme, but there was no telling what the resultant fallout would be like, nor what would happen if the insane necromancer lost control of the Darkhold. Malfoy was no fool, he knew the stories. The damned thing had a mind of its own and was connected to something far more terrible than even Gravemoss could ever hope to become. No, Gravemoss was a resource to be kept on a very short leash. And if this leash involved ignoring the fact that those who went into his basement rarely came out again and even more rarely, when they did come out, come out either alive or the same shape as they went in, then so be it. There were always others.
The last straw, for Malfoy, however, had been that in the attempt to capture or kill Fury and his cohorts, Von Strucker had not only lost a number of powerful assets and destroyed much of Malfoy Manor, he had attempted to kidnap Narcissa, doubtless for leverage over Malfoy himself, which had resulted in her falling into Fury's hands. This made Malfoy's blood boil. While they might be parted at the moment, he truly loved his wife, and the thought of Von Strucker getting hold of her, or whatever she was suffering at SHIELD's hands, because Fury was little better disposed to Narcissa than he was to her husband, utterly enraged him.
In short, Von Strucker was displaying inexcusable levels of incompetence and insubordination. Malfoy glanced at him and noticed that the other man was having trouble focusing. Good.
"So, Wolfgang," he said idly, sipping his wine. "I am left wondering about how you would care to explain your numerous failures."
"I –"
"Oh, no, wait," he said. "I don't care." He met Von Strucker's bleary gaze. He'd slipped a little spell onto Von Strucker's glass, an old family secret. It didn't do much, it simply magnified the intoxicating qualities of the alcohol placed within it, with the precise magnification at the caster's discretion.
It had been one of the many little things that had greased the rise of the Malfoy family to power, and that was it was all about really. Little things. Fools like Von Strucker and Voldemort thought that great things were achieved by grand actions, and to be fair, sometimes they were. But more often, they were the culmination of lots of little things, lots of little changes that no one noticed until, one day, they woke up and everything had changed.
Of course, with men like Fury and Dumbledore watching like hawks, facilitating such matters was not always easy. So he would give them the self same gift that Fury had given him.
Fire.
"Lord Malfoy," Von Strucker managed, tone angry.
"Hmm?"
"What… what have you done to me?" the muggle slurred.
Malfoy smiled thinly. "I have weakened your will. Not that it was very strong to begin with, nor is it really required, but I am a great believer in not making things harder than they have to be," he said softly. He drew his wand. "You only have one more function to perform in this life. And for once, you will do it right."
Von Strucker snarled and stumbled forward out of his chair, Satan Claw crackling with power. Malfoy flicked his wand, slamming him back into his chair. Another flick produced ropes that bound him tightly. "Now that I have your attention," he said and raised his wand. "Imperio."
Von Strucker struggled for a moment, then his eyes glazed over as he gave in, as he was always going to. Resistance was futile, Malfoy thought, as the wine glass slipped from the man's hand to smash on the floor, dark wine spreading like blood.
Malfoy smiled at the aptness of this and leaned forward. "Now," he said. "Tell me how to control the Winter Soldier."
Like I said. Game changer. Von Strucker is, in Malfoy's mind, Too Dumb To Live. He's crossed Malfoy and fouled up one time too many, so now he's out. We won't be seeing him again. Not alive, anyway.
See, the simple fact is that most of the Death Eaters who answered Malfoy's call are dead, having been used as bait, or in hiding, and Malfoy wants to dictate the course of events. So he's making a grab for power.
By the way, the incident of a soccer match where there was a shot so powerful that it broke someone's leg and dislocated their ankle all in one go actually happened. A further explanation can be found in the possibly TL,DR explanation of soccer positions and the odd soccer player below (I went into lecture mode. This is a thing that happens).
Explanation of soccer positions for Americans and other aliens (sorry. Couldn't resist the Good Omens reference). Or at least, those who didn't get caught up in World Cup fever.
There are four separate groups of players – forwards (also known as strikers), midfielders, defenders and goalkeepers. The basic set up is very like field hockey.
There's a lot of variation among the groups (you get attacking and defensive midfielders, box to box midfielders who do a bit of both and follow the play. As you can imagine, they have absolutely phenomenal stamina), but broadly speaking, the defenders protect the goal, with the goalkeeper being the last resort and get the ball away, preferably to the midfielders. Some defenders and goalkeepers are particularly good at getting the ball forward and starting attacks (Manuel Neuer, Germany's 'sweeper keeper' being an example).
However, that task usually falls to the midfielders, who bring the ball forward and bring the forwards into play, sometimes scoring themselves. The forwards, if they're playing out wide, or the wingers (wide midfielders) tend to stretch the play to give the centre forwards, often known as strikers, space, then put the ball into the box for the striker to try and manufacture a goal. The fullbacks, the defenders on the far left and right, sometimes help out, with some specialising in it. If they do, they tend to be known as wingbacks.
Alternatively, the central midfielders, attacking or defensive, may try and play a through ball behind the opposition defence, and allow a quick striker or winger to pounce and get a scoring opportunity. Some attacking and box to box midfielders will run straight at the opposition defence, maybe at a slight angle, to put them on the back foot, and maybe take a shot from distance.
When a player is fouled, if it's outside the box, there's usually a free kick (if it's inside, there's a penalty. The only difference is the range – point blank – and the only person between the ball and the goal is the goalkeeper), which, depending on placing and distance, is either an opportunity to go straight for goal or to set up a goal scoring opportunity. David Beckham, for instance, was an expert at these, and most teams have at least one 'dead ball specialist'.
I could go on forever and a day, but I won't.
Also, touching upon the leg breaker shot and free kicks, it happened in the FA Cup. The FA cup is the big soccer domestic cup competition, which every pro and semi pro team in England and Wales enters.
This leads to David and Goliath match ups between Premier League juggernauts and teams like Havant and Waterlooville (not heard of it? Neither had I, until they turned up in the FA cup), with an average weekly audience of two men and a dog, and the chance for the little team to pull off 'a giant killing'.
The match was between Liverpool and Manchester United (the two most successful soccer teams in English history who, naturally, absolutely hate each other) in February 2006, when John Arne Riise, a Norwegian player famous for having a left foot that regularly does passable impersonations of Mjolnir, took a free kick, and a player called Alan Smith tried to block it from relatively close range. He was out injured for seven months. The incident can be found on youtube.
I'm a Liverpool fan, and I was eleven at the time, so unsurprisingly I remembered it quite vividly in a sort 'wow, that's horrible yet awesome' sort of way.
Also, Jean Grey is, in X-Men: Evolution, a highly accomplished soccer player, playing striker and winning an MVP award, which she was later stripped of after mutants were revealed.
I envisioned Carol as a soccer player because she's the sort of girl who would enjoy the opportunities for athleticism, free movement and physical confrontation. I also envisioned her as a box to box midfielder in the mould of Steven Gerrard, Liverpool and England captain.
He pretty much singlehandedly won the Champions League (the cup competition for the best soccer club teams in Europe) in 2005 and got Liverpool to the final, again singlehandedly, in 2007. These days, he doesn't have quite the same energy levels (he's 34), so he plays in the Quarterback role, spraying passes forward, and set up the most goals in the League (13), while scoring 13.
The guy was nicknamed Captain Marvel for a reason and I think Carol would play the same way because she has a similar never say die attitude, an instinctive air of command and a knack for turning up exactly where needed, when needed.
Also, seriously, both are nicknamed Captain Marvel, I really couldn't pass it up.
And, okay, he's a childhood hero of mine.
Also, I'm referring to football as soccer in the notes because I recognise the reality that most of my readers are American and that, sadly, they would confuse the noble sport of football with the rugby lite that they play in the States (I'm Welsh and my grandfather played for the Welsh rugby team. Did you really think that I'd be complimentary about it? :P).
