Author's Note: Thank you for reviewing. To answer a few questions, anyone read the origin of the X-Men story? That picture of Scott focusing his optic blasts on his hand is the real catalyst for this story. It is very loosely based on the comics, focusing more on the movie and my idea of Scott that nobody else seems to share. To answer Victoria lily, he was an athlete in the comics. I don't know, I just always saw him as geeky. Spitze, the answer to the poem and name will be revealed in due course. Thanks again. To Lady Lestat, that is precisely what I am trying to do, as the way he was portrayed in the movie (or lack thereof) irked a little bit. If I can get any of that across, my purpose is served. Thank you, Diaz F and CykePhoenixSummers.

Disclaimer: All recognisable characters are the property of Marvel Comics and Fox Entertainment. No plagiarism is intended.

The Guide:

When everything that can fall has fallen

Something rises,

And leaving here, and evading there

And that, and this, is my headway.

Where the snow glare blinded you

I start.

Where the snow mama cuddled you warm

I fly up. I lift you.

Tumbling worlds

Open my way

And you cling.

And we go

Into the wind. The flame-wind - a red wind

And a black wind. The red wind comes

To empty you. And the black wind, the longest wind

The headwind

To scour you.

Then the non-wind, a least breath,

Fills you from easy sources.

I am the needle

Magnetic

A tremor

The searcher

The finder

Ted Hughes.

Chapter Two:

Scott had been at the mansion for four days now, and so far there had been no nasty surprises. There had, however, been numerous tests and questions. It was soon discerned that the source of Scott's power was solar energy, and after many jokes with Ms. Jean Grey about being autotrophic and a primary consumer, they got down to the real business of control, the omnipotent word that rules Scott's world.

On the second day he met Henry P. McCoy - or Hank - an enlightening if somewhat eccentric twenty-something year old going for his sixth degree at Yale. Scott couldn't help his surprise- in the form of raised eyebrows- when he felt soft fur on the hand he shook. He felt it best not ask.

Charles Xavier had expressed an interest in Scott's education, and so he began attending classes with the only female occupant. He was relieved to learn that he was a quick study, and the Professor seemed confident that he would catch up. Scott had been called 'gifted' as a child, his mind two years ahead of his age. That and the nearest library worked in his favour.

He did have one complaint, which he never shared. Listening to the Professor or Hank read out the text book aggravated him. He knew it was the only way he could learn, but even as a child he had hated being read to. Hearing written words aloud ruined the magic of any book for Scott. Only the inflections he placed on words and voices in his mind allowed him to really lose himself. It was one of the things he hated most about being blind, being restricted from the only form of escape that had got him through everything unpleasant (to use an euphemism) in his life. While sitting quietly in a chair before his two teachers, he would silently berate himself for his self-pity.

After his first physics class since seventh grade, Scott was navigating his way down to the kitchen, making only one wrong turn into a room with what felt like two dozen computers. Finally standing by what he hoped was the kitchen counter, he was not quite sure what to do next. He could feel around the shelves and cupboard for a glass, but he was afraid he might break something. So far he had only eaten in the dining room, served.

He was still pondering his next coarse of action when he felt someone creep up to stand behind him, a slight rustling noise. He bent his knees slightly, centring his centre of balance. No one jumped on him. Instead he felt a friendly pat on the back. He had to get used to this.

"Afternoon, Scott. You seem a little lost." It was Warren. Scott hadn't 'seen' him since the first day he arrived. That rustling noise came again as Warren moved to Scott's side. "May I help?"

"Uh, I'm looking for a glass."

"Well, then you're against the wrong counter. The cupboards here only contain cereal. If you move over here," Warren took Scott's arm and led him to a different counter, then took his hand and reached it up to a corner cabinet. "You will find enough glasses for a small army. The one beside this has plates, and further over is every kind of pasta or packaged soup you can think of."

"Thanks."

"My pleasure. Here is the drinks refrigerator, the dishwasher, sink, and general fridge. Think you can manage?"

"I think so." Scott stood beside the drinks fridge holding a glass. "But could you, uh…." He rubbed the back of his neck embarrassedly. "Describe the drinks? I don't think cartons come in brail."

"Certainly." Warren gave a complete inventory of the refrigerator, then assured Scott that he would see to it the drinks weren't moved from their place.

As Scott sat down at the kitchen counter, sipping orange juice, he heard Warren pouring cereal, and again the rustling noise. His curiosity was roused.

"What's that….noise?"

""Hm? Cereal."

"Uh, no. The other one."

"Oh. The Professor hasn't told you of my mutation?" Scott shook his head in the negative. Warren sat beside him with the spoon poised above his cereal, a contemplative gesture. "I have wings."

"You mean you can fly?"

"I can soar above the clouds. Every person's dream, right?" There was a note of bitterness in his voice.

"Every dream comes with a price. May I ask what they look like?"

"The others nickname me 'Angel'."

"I see." Warren glanced at him, before eating.

"So you stay here too?"

"Most of the time. You may have heard of my family. I occasionally have to attend to its business." Scott had indeed heard of the Worthington family. He wondered how his companion's mutation had affected his family, and how it had stayed out of the news. Competing companies would have a field day with that kind of information.

Scott bid Warren goodbye and meandered up to his room, glass in hand.


On the fifth day, they made a breakthrough.

Hank McCoy - the genius that he was - had come up with the idea of glasses. Scott, who had worn glasses most of his life, had no problem with that. The chance to see was…. Words could not describe. It was something that is taken for granted until it's gone, and Scott was looking forward to its return - if it returned. Still, hope is a weakness few can avoid, especially one as viable as this.

They began experimenting with different substances. Apart from Scott's own person, few things seemed able to prevent the 'optic blasts' - as they were now termed - and all were opaque.

Finally, it was discovered that a type of quartz, if sufficiently thin, could be used as a lens. Unfortunately, another problem arose when they came to matching Scott's prescription. The lens became too thick for him to see through. They began work on the quartz itself.

Three days of rearranging the strength and density of the quartz, and Hank and Jean were confident of their success.


A quiet knock on the door, three taps.

"Enter." Scott was reclining on the bed, book absently open at his side as his mind wondered on other things. He heard Jean enter, now familiar to her knock, followed by someone heavier, with longer strides. Hank. He thought he noticed a slight bounce in her step, and her excitement was palpable, making him sit up.

"I think we've done it," her voice tried to exude calm, bit failed miserably. She then began to rattle on about the chemical composition of the quartz and how Hank and herself had to go though various processes to alter it. Just as Scott raised a hand to halt the flow, Hank graciously intervened.

"What Ms. Grey here is trying to say is: we may have found a way to subdue your optic blasts."

The room fell deadly silent for a moment as Scott digested this, chest constricting at the possibility of sight. He could feel the blood rushing in his ears as he dared believe.

"You mean I can see?" His voice was a chocked whisper. Even Jean remained quiet as she felt the emotions pressing on Scott, watching his shoulders seem to strain with the possibility. He had never complained, or even spoke, about his lack of sight, not directly. A few chides at himself here and there were all that showed his hatred of his disability. She had felt the weight of self-loathing almost crushing him, however, whenever he needed help navigating, the shame of being read to, of a spoon being pressed into his hand when he couldn't find it. Even the Professor seemed unaware of his discomfort, having promised not to read Scott's mind. Jean didn't need to read his mind. It was all so plainly evident in the tense shoulders, the clench of his jaw. How could no one else see?

"We're almost certain it will work. Please, come down to the Danger room. I don't believe you've been there yet." Hank's strong hand clamped down on Scott's shoulder, directing him to the door. Scott's hand clenched in a nervous fist. Jean trailed solemnly behind, lending silent support that Scott felt much more than the hand on his shoulder.

Descending into the lowest floor, Scott could feel the chill in the air, even before he reached out a hand and felt the metal of the wall. Scott clearly imagine the hospital type lighting. Definitely no Bat Cave.

He was stopped abruptly, and then the hiss of a door opening and a low beeping noise announced the entrance of the Danger room. He was led inside.

"This is the Danger room, Scott. You could release those beams of yours here with minimal damage," Hank's hand left his shoulder. There was a rustling noise - Warren - and someone cleared their throat - the Professor must be here, too. Jean took his arm and led him a little ways into the room. Scott suddenly became self-conscious.

"Okay, take of the bandage," Jean's voice came to him as if through a fog. He swallowed jerkily, reaching up a shaky hand to untie the cloth from his eyes. He quickly ducked his head, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Jean could feel his fear, and squeezed his arm comfortingly. She then released him and readied the glasses, removing them from their protective case. "I'm going to place them on your face, and then you can open your eyes." Scott swallowed convulsively again.

"Don't stand in front of me," he murmured quietly as she slid the glasses on the bridge of his nose.

"I'm safe," she backed a way a few feet, still standing in front of him, but off to the side. Scott took a deep breath, and opened his eyes.

Author's Note: Thank you for reading.