Hazy Shade of Winter, a x-men: evolution fanfic

Notes: No specific timeline, except that it's before Magneto had Mastermind screw with Wanda's memories, but after "On Angel's Wings". Also slightly AU because Mystique went away shortly after Wanda arrived. I tried to find out when Warren's parents died, but I couldn't find an exact timeline, so I took some creative license. If anyone knows how old he was when they died, please e-mail and let me know, because I need it for another fic. And incidentally, I'm adjusting their ages in this (and all future fics). Wanda is 18 and Warren is early to mid-twenties, somewhere between 21 and 25.

Dedication: For Scribbler & Dylan, the world's best betas, who prodded me until my muses woke up. :)

Hazy Shade of Winter

"That-is-the-sorriest-looking-Christmas-tree-I've-ever-seen," Pietro scoffed, glancing at the half-barren evergreen in the corner.

"It looks like something Charlie Brown brought home," Lance complained.

"Whaddya want from me, yo?" Todd sulked. "By the time me an' Freddy got to the tree lot, this was all they had left."

"Yeah," the large mutant agreed, "and it's not like we paid for it or nuthin'."

The silver-haired mutant grimaced at the wad of green slime that covered the middle of the trunk where Toad's tongue had obviously been. "Yeah. Weseethat."

She watched them from her place in the doorway, observing silently while they decorated with ornaments and garlands Freddy had fashioned from the kitchen foil Toad had stolen the last time they went 'grocery shopping'.

Todd was busy hanging big foil balls with his tongue – until Lance and Pietro threatened to cut it out of him if he didn't stop getting slime all over everything. Freddy was humming a Christmas tune - one she couldn't remember - stringing a foil garland, and then lifting thesmaller boy up to finally place a ramshackle star at the apex of the tree. The four of them looked utterly ridiculous.

And so much like a family.

Jealousy burned inside her. She growled in frustration. How could he treat them like brothers? How could he, while in all the years their father had locked her up in that institution, he'd never once come to visit, never once acknowledged he still had a sister?

She allowed a quiet, bitter laugh to escape. She'd escaped that hellhole, but she was still on the outside, looking in.

Some things never changed.

Glaring at the group of boys, she turned away, shifting her gaze to the front door.

It's not like they'll notice you're gone anyway.

Decision made, she donned her duster and left the house, unnoticed. Several hours later, she would return in the same manner. It was her pattern of events, and it always ended the same. Even as she closed the door behind her, she wished that this time it would be different – that one of them would notice she was gone.

The wind was icy, ruffling his feathers as he cut through the night sky. It was clear and dark, save for the gentle glow of the moon. The weatherman was forecasting a white Christmas, but so far Old Man Winter hadn't seen fit to comply.

Looking to the city below, his keen eyes observed the shoppers that milled along the sidewalks, arms filled with last minute purchases and hurrying home to their families.

He would have been doing the same, had he family to hurry home to.

But he didn't.

His parents were long dead, and he'd sent the staff off for the holidays with a hefty Christmas bonus and strict instructions not to return until after the New Year, so all he had to go home to was a big bank account and an empty mansion.

Satisfied that things down in the city were calm, he allowed his mind to wander back to the last Christmas he'd spent with his parents.

"Warren," Kathryn Worthington addressed her son as she pulled the last present from under the tree, "this one's for you, from your father and I."

He took the package, tearing through the red foil paper to reveal a small box. Lifting the lid, he discovered a gold pocket watch.

A small gold pocket watch inscribed with the figure of one of the archangels.

His head shot up, blue eyes wide as he stared at his parents. "How long have you known?"

His father stepped over, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Long enough. Did you think you could hide it from us forever?"

He swallowed. "I'd … hoped I could try."

Kathryn smiled. "And how did you plan to explain the little white feathers Gretchen keeps finding in your bed?"

He gave her a sheepish smile. "I hadn't exactly planned that far ahead."

Warren Sr. looked down at his son. "It's a gift you've been given. I can understand you not wanting publicize it to the whole city for fear of a social backlash, but we're your parents, Warren. And you will always be our son. Nothing in the world can change that."

His mother leaned over to hug him - tight. "And we wouldn't want it to."

His gaze drifted back to the city below. His mutation was his blessing. It allowed him to save lives and help people. Yet it was also his curse, keeping him from normal human contact. Mutants were the unknown, and it was human nature to fear the unknown, but the anti-mutant sentiment was escalating, and he didn't know how much longer they had before that fear turned to persecution. He only hoped that the Xavier Institute would be successful in its quest to turn the tide and stem the anti-mutant backlash, or the world was going to become a very dark place indeed.

Until the day when mutants and non-mutants could live in relative peace, he would protect his city in the hopes that he could turn the tide a little on his own.

He remembered something else his father had told him that Christmas.

"Your gift is your gift, Warren. And whether it's a blessing or a curse is up to you. It all depends on how you use it."

Well, tonight, he was going to make it a blessing – his Christmas gift to the city of New York.

She wandered the streets, pulling her coat closer around her in a near-futile effort to ward off the chill in the air. She'd been walking for hours, and didn't know what time it was, but she assumed it was late. The streets were empty. People were no doubt at home with their families, taking shelter from the cold.

A scowl twisted her lips.

Must be nice, having a family to celebrate with.

She had a father who'd locked her away in a mental institution for the last ten years of her life, a brother who'd pretended she never existed, and three guys at home who probably wanted to pitch in and buy her a straightjacket for Christmas.

Too late. She'd received one of those ten Christmases ago.

Arms crossed in front of her, she kept walking, wandering into Central Park. It was also empty, and dark when you left the main path. The trees were oddly shaped, silhouetted by the full moon.

She breathed deeply, cold air stinging her lungs. Lights twinkled merrily, and she stopped for a moment to watch them. She'd almost forgotten what Christmas lights looked like. They never had any at the institution, unless you counted the electrodes periodically attached to her head.

Turning away, she continued walking, no clear idea of where she was headed. Her was mind clouded with memories that surfaced, unbidden.

"No!" she screamed, struggling against the two burly orderlies. "Let me go!"

A voice spoke calmly to her. "Now, Wanda," it said, "you know you have to have your treatments to get well. You want to get better, don't you?"

"No! I don't want your stupid treatments! No!"

She struggled in vain before two sets of thick arms shoved her down into a chair and strapped her in. The voice spoke again, stern this time.

"That's enough, Wanda. Behave yourself."

Hands applied electrode patches to either temple.

"You'll have your treatment like a good little girl."

Somewhere, a switch was flipped and all she knew was pain. Her head felt as though it were being split in two. She wailed in agony and struggled against her bonds, unable to form any coherent words.

She squeezed her eyes shut to block out the memory and her own phantom screams, as the bridge loomed ahead. She walked toward it and stared over the side, the water almost black, except for the small spots that reflected the moonlight.

She liked the dark. It was comforting, in a way – a place the bad memories couldn't find her. She climbed up onto the cement ledge and stood, looking out across the water.

A blast of air caught her coat, sending the crimson material billowing around her legs.

She wondered what it would be like to jump. Purely theoretically speaking, of course. It would probably hurt, she decided, but maybe only for a second. The water was frigid, and the shock of the cold would likely numb a body in a matter of minutes.

But would it numb her mind?

Would the darkness of the water seep into her consciousness and drown out the memories? Would the flashbacks stop? Or would she be trapped in a never-ending nightmare?

She closed her eyes, unable to go through with it – at least, not tonight.

Turning around, she attempted to get down off the ledge. Yet the cement was covered in a thin sheen of early evening frost. Her foot slipped and she tumbled backward, arms windmilling.

Isn't this what you wanted? a little voice mocked her from the back of her mind. Didn't anyone ever teach you to be careful what you wish for?

She hit spine-first, the air rushing from her lungs on impact. Her eyes closed involuntarily as the icy water swallowed her from her legs to her chest. Funny – it hurt a lot less than she'd thought it would. But she suspected that was the numbness coming into play.

Then she felt something she wasn't expecting.

Someone's hands, lifting her out of the freezing oblivion.

"Don't worry," a smooth baritone said. "I've got you."

He'd been passing over the park when he saw it – someone falling from the bridge. Summoning all his speed, he descended, but he knew wouldn't make it in time to catch her. Pushing his muscles to their limits he swooped down, grabbing her hands before they went under. Pulling her free and soaring upward, he spoke softly to reassure her.

"Don't worry, I've got you."

She relaxed just a little, and he hoped that wasn't because he'd dislocated her shoulders by jerking all her weight onto them. Her eyes remained closed, and he headed for the roof of the nearest building. Setting her safely on her feet, he stepped back to study her.

She couldn't have been more than three or four years younger than him. Her dark hair was bobbed short, reddish highlights illuminated by the moon. Heavy makeup surrounded her eyes, giving her face a garish appearance. Something told him it was mostly for show. She had all the marks of Gothier-than-thou, and they were rarely ever sincere. He didn't understand why they took such pains to make themselves look so...beastly. Somehow, he suspected that underneath it all, she was a beauty.

And judging by the way she didn't shrink back in fear of his wings, she was probably a mutant, too.

She walked over to stand at the cement rail, shivering as a gust of wind blew by. He moved toward her. "I know I messed up your plan, but...are things really so bad that's your only way out?"

She looked over at him, eyes narrowed. "I didn't jump." She turned her gaze back to the city below. "I slipped."

"You were thinking about it," he countered, "or you wouldn't have been standing on the ledge."

"What if I was? What I think is my business. But, uh," her voice softened just a little, "thanks for… y'know. Saving me."

"No thanks necessary. You're welcome. Do you, uh… have a power, too?"

She narrowed her eyes again, obviously negotiating with herself whether to answer that. Then she snorted, and it was nothing but bitter. "Yeah. Destroying everything I touch."

Silence stretched between them for several long moments before she spoke again.

"I control other mutant powers, disrupt them." She glanced at his wings. "Though it doesn't seem to work on actual physical mutations."

"Lucky for you then, I guess."

Another blanket of silence.

Perhaps that hadn't been the best answer.

He didn't wear a watch when he made his nightly patrols, so he didn't know exactly what time it was, but the hour was obviously late and the winds were blowing colder and more viciously.

She pulled her coat tighter around her body, but the wet material would do little good against the bone-chilling winds.

"The weather's getting worse," he observed. "You should get dry before you catch pneumonia. Can I fly you home?"

She looked uncertain and he gave himself a mental kick. Warren, you idiot. If she wanted to be at home, she'd be there, instead of out here freezing to death on a rooftop with you. Another thought struck him. Maybe she doesn't have a home to go to. She is a mutant, after all. Maybe… maybe that's why she was thinking about jumping.

She scowled. "Why? They don't know where I am and they don't care."

He tried a different tack. "It's Christmas Eve. You shouldn't spend it alone."

"Why not? I've been spending it alone for the last ten years."

He thought about the empty mansion he'd be returning home to. He thought about his claims of altruism and do-gooderness, and how sad and lonely and pathetic she looked. "You… could spend it with me," he offered softly. He even held out a hand. "If you're sure there's no one who'll miss you at home."

"What are you, some sicko? Think nobody'll miss me, so I'm an easy target? Is that it?"

"I think I'm the guy who just pulled you out of the lake. And I'd like to think I earned a few Brownie points doing it. But, if it'll make you feel better, I don't want to hurt you. My intentions are nothing but noble – Scouts honor." He made the old salute his mind had forgotten, though his fingers had not.

She looked at the proffered hand, and then raised her gaze to meet his. "There's no one."

"So… is that a yes?"

In answer, she placed her hand in his.

"Then let's get somewhere warm before you turn into a popsicle. Are you ready for take-off?"

She nodded, and he lifted her into his arms, ignoring the cold seeping into his uniform from her soaked clothes. "It seems a bit late, but I'm A - " He stopped, almost saying his moniker, but changing it at the last second. "I'm Warren, by the way."

"Wanda."

"Nice to meet you." He spread his wings and pushed off into the air.

She'd never seen a house so big. Or so fancy. The marble foyer, the chandeliers, the French Provençal furniture – she couldn't remember anything like it growing up, and the institution certainly never had furnishings so nice. Then there was the boarding house. They were lucky if they could afford electricity for the month, let alone fancy light fixtures.

And hot water.

Wonderful, wonderful hot water.

The angel-man handed her a fluffy white bathrobe and gestured up the mahogany staircase. "Bathroom's upstairs at the end of the hall. The towels are already up there, but if there's anything else you need, just call." He didn't seem to even consider she might run off with everything of value. Either he was really kind, or really innocent.

Either way, she had hot water.

There was a lot to be said for small luxuries.

"I think I'm okay," she replied, taking the robe.

He nodded in reply, then turned and left.

She climbed the stairs to the second floor, finding the bathroom with little difficulty. Her mouth fell open when she stepped inside.

A large crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling over a sunken, blue marble tub. She felt like a thousand house alarms would go off if she even breathed on the gold-leaf faucets, but shook away the feeling and – perhaps a little defiantly – fiddled with the knobs until she found a suitable temperature. She even poured in some bubble bath from the crystal decanter on the vanity counter.

When the water level was high enough, she turned the faucet off, checked the door was locked and there were no hidden cameras, and stripped off her wet clothes. Stepping into the tub and sitting down, she allowed the warm water to caress her skin, chasing away the cold.

Forty-five minutes later, Warren looked up to see her enter the living room dressed in the borrowed bathrobe, face scrubbed free of makeup and carrying her wet clothes in a ball.

He'd been right; she was a beauty.

Her hair, tousled and still slightly damp, fell into her blue eyes, and he fought the urge to push it away so he could see them clearly. Instead, he held out his hands, indicating her clothes.

"Let me take those. I'll hang them up to dry."

She handed them over, looking a little self-conscious as she noted that he'd changed clothes as well, trading the gray and red uniform and mask for a pair of faded jeans and a black sweater. Again, he was either really kind and trying to make her feel better by showing her his face, or else he was the most trusting person on the planet.

This from the person standing there in his bathrobe when she barely knew his name. Pot, kettle, black.

With the mask no longer obscuring his face, she could clearly see his eyes – blue – a lock of blond hair falling across his forehead. He brushed it away as her hand was making the trip from her side to his face. She forced it back down, berating herself.

He held up the ball of soaked crimson. If he'd noticed her hand's movement, he didn't show it. "I'm going to take care of these. Make yourself comfortable."

She watched him leave the room, forcing her eyes away and wandering over to sit on one of the large cushions in front of the marble fireplace, curling her legs beneath her.

He returned several minutes later with a tray bearing two mugs and a plate laden with cookies. Setting the tray on the coffee table, he joined her on the floor by the fire.

"Warm enough?" He handed her a mug.

She nodded, accepting it with almost completely grateful hands. "Thank you."

Silence reigned for a moment or two before he broke it, setting his mug down. "So what's a beautiful girl like you doing all by yourself on Christmas Eve?"

A light pink blush stained her cheeks and she averted her eyes. "No one ever calls me that," she said stiffly.

"They should. You are."

She narrowed her eyes again, but he seemed genuine. There was a puppyish quality to the way he looked at her, like he paid compliments every day without even thinking about it. She managed a small, sharp smile in reply.

"I bet you say that to all the girls you rescue."

"Only the ones I pull out of freezing cold water in the middle of Central Park. And you didn't answer my question."

She frowned. She hated to admit it, but his naïveté was catching. She trusted him, if only a little. He'd saved her life, brought her home, treated her well and been entirely noble and selfless about it. How could she not? Still, her reasons weren't pretty, and the last thing she wanted to see in his eyes was pity.

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

"Let's… let's just say my brother and I don't exactly… get along." She turned away, looking out the big picture window. A moment later she was scrambling to her feet, pulling him off the floor and over to the window.

He could feel the heat of her hand, even through his sweater.

She stared out the window in uncharacteristic wonder. "It's snowing."

He bit his lip and placed tentative hands on her shoulders. It was a move practiced on dozens of pretty socialites and budding marriage material, all eager to get at the Worthington family fortune. Yet doing it now seemed wildly inappropriate, and it was only because he couldn't think of anything else to do that his hands raised and set down on terry cloth.

She tensed, and he made to remove his hands, but then she relaxed against him so she could lean her head back against his chest. It was not an… entirely comfortable position. It felt more like she was testing something out – maybe him, maybe herself. Either way, she made no move to pull away.

"I guess the weatherman was right after all," he tried.

"I guess so."

Silence stretched between them for several moments.

One more time. "Merry Christmas, Wanda."

She tensed again, but relaxed after a few seconds. "Yes. Yes, I think so."

The End