Not quite two weeks later...

Chapter One: Angels and Nightmares

Warren Worthington III stood up from the painfully uncomfortable desk chair, the chair that he could've sworn was should have been forming to fit his backside, considering how much time he'd spent in it during the last two weeks. He reached his arms high, and his wings out wide to their full twelve-foot span, feeling the tight muscles along his back stretch joyfully for the first time in hours.

God. He really needed to fly.

He looked over at the redheaded girl who had sat beside him all day, the beautiful and capable Jean Grey. She was half hidden from him as he sat by a huge pile of portfolios and files, and her desk was buried by the same kinds of things. Her pale face was lit, as much as he could see it, by the blue and white flashing of the computer monitor she'd been staring into for hours, and the curve of her jaw was set so that he knew she wouldn't be giving up any time soon.

He barely knew her. But he had seen enough of her in the past few weeks to know that expression on her face. She was close to something, they both were. And she didn't want to give up until they found it.

But really. He had to fly.

"Jean," he said softy, putting a hand on her shoulder gently, hoping to not scare her. She was very intense when she was working, and more than once he'd startled her into jumping, when he'd spoken to her.

She looked up at him with large green eyes, quickly. But she didn't jump.

He smiled at her, and spoke again, "I need to go out for a little while. Can I get you something? Have you eaten today?"

Jean blinked, and her smooth white brow furrowed marginally. "No, Warren, I haven't eaten."

She looked tired, already. And she had a test in two days, in her biochem class. He knew she did, she'd mentioned it to the Professor earlier this weekend. And here she was, helping him slog through this mess, the mess his family had made for him...

But he couldn't trust anyone else. No one else could be allowed to know what to look for. They would all wonder why, exactly, he needed to know who was researching what, and specifically, what effect it was having on the recently exposed mutant community. Only someone from the Institute could be trusted. And Jean had volunteered.

Not that he was complaining. Jean Grey was beautiful, intelligent, funny, and quite distracting, at times. Distracting in the best possible way.

Years ago, he would've spent the entire time flirting with her. Funny, to think of how things had changed, in just a few years. The advent of his mutation, his extremely obvious physical mutation had kept him from ever getting too close to a girl. Or to anyone, for that matter, for years now.

Including his own parents.

But the point, of course, was that there was a very hungry girl who was busting her tail to help him sort out his business, and she was starving thanks to his lack of hospitality.

"Why don't you take a break?" He offered. "I need to get out and fly, and you look like you could use a little fresh air. We can just start again tomorrow. Or I could call Scott or Rogue, I know they'd–,"

Jean shook her head, and pushed herself to standing, shrugging off his hand lightly, "No, I want to do this. They don't know what to look for, and I do. I'll just go for a walk, and get us some Chinese."

"I'll get it," he smiled, gently.

Jean blinked, and then stared at him for a moment.

Funny, he thought, how they'd both been so fresh and ready to work this morning. And look at them now. Zombies.

"I'll be back before long," he told her, fluttering his wings lightly, in anticipation of what he knew was to come. He felt so caged in this little room they'd set up in his own place, for fear of his parents coming home from London and catching him hard at work examining their company under a microscope in search of mutant interests, if they set up at the mansion.

He saw her eyes shift away from his at the sudden movement, and down to his wings, which he knew were visible behind him, over his shoulders. And experienced a slight flash of self-consciousness. He still wasn't used to people who looked him in the eye knowing about them. And as much as he loved them, as much joy as his mutation could give...

It was difficult to be comfortable with it when others were near, even around the X-Men. Just yet, anyhow.

But her eyes quickly found his again, and she smiled, gently. "Sure, Angel. I'll just go for a walk."

"I'll be back with food," he promised, as he turned to go.

He tried to rid his eyes of the residual flashing lights and endless black and white glow of text files from the monitor he'd been staring at as he made his way up the stairs of his Manhattan penthouse, up to the roof of the Worthington Towers. It was the middle of the day, but it was cloudy enough that he could hide, as long as he managed to take off without anyone seeing. If he went around back, and took off almost straight upward, he knew that the chances of being spotted were slim to none.

He stepped up onto the ledge he normally took off from, if he had to fly during the day, and spread his wings wide, stretching them. He brought them down once, with the loud whooshing sound that the powerful beat of his wings always created, and pushed off the ground lightly. A few more quick beats, and he was off the ground and rising straight up, pushing hard and fast, with no air current under him to glide upward on. Just pushing until he could feel the burn in his wings, along the joints in his back, just down from his shoulder blades, along the ridges of muscle that extended down his back from there.

When he reached the first cloud bank, he suddenly tilted his wings tip upward, letting the sensitive skin under his feathers feel out the wind, in a split second of almost weightless hovering. And in a moment, he was riding the current, before he even realized that he'd picked up on it. Just gliding along. Feeling alive.

This was when he felt most like himself. This was when it didn't matter that he was a freak, that his own parents could never really know him, that he had responsibilities on his twenty year old head that most fifty year old men didn't have to think of. No, up here, he was just free. And the wind was in his hair, and his mind was consumed by the sun and the sky, and his heart started to beat faster, the harder he beat his wings...

Felt so good. Felt like home. Let him forget the dark room full of sinister files that was waiting for him back at the penthouse. Let him forget that he was a mutant, a freak. Let him forget the responsibilities, the pain, the fear, everything.

God, he loved to fly.

* * *

Scott Summers jumped off the metal table and grabbed for his shirt instantly. "Do you really have to keep it so cold in here, Mr. McCoy?" He asked the large, furry blue man hanging from the ceiling, preparing the blood sample he'd just taken from Scott as part of his annual check-up.

"Unless you'd like me to refer to you perpetually as Mr. Summers, Scott," Came the jovially rumbling response, entirely ducking the question, "I would suggest that you call me by the name my mother assigned me– I'm called Hank."

Scott cleared his throat uncomfortably. They'd had this conversation before, but it was strange, calling an ex-teacher by his first name. Lately, all the grown-ups in the house had started pulling that routine on him. Storm had insisted that he call her Ororo just yesterday, in fact, and Logan had growled at him for attaching a "Mr." to the beginning of his name.

Not that he minded. He liked being treated as an adult. Deserved it.

But they could be a little more understanding about him needing the time to adjust. After all, he did it out of respect. "No thanks... Hank. Mr. Summers makes me feel just a little too old," he replied, after pulling his shirt back over his head and tucking it in quickly. "So what do you think, am I fit to lead the X-Men?"

Soundlessly, and with a grace that Scott could hardly believe from such a large man, Mr. McCoy flipped over and landed on the floor, test tube still in hand and unspilled and turned to face him. "I believe so. Other than the mental strain which you are so obviously trying to repress, that is."

Involuntarily, Scott clenched his jaw.

Yeah, and thanks for reminding me, Hank.

One caterpillar-like eyebrow raised on Beast's forehead, and he cocked his head. "I'll assume it's not school, and since all is well with the X-Men, I can only venture a guess that it's young love."

Young love. Heh.

"Something like that. Do you need me for anything else?"

The questioning expression disappeared from the good doctor's face, and he immediately turned business like. "You are free to go, my friend."

Rigidly, Scott nodded, and started toward the door, trying very hard not to think. Just like he had been all week.

"Scott," Hank's voice stopped him with his hand on the doorknob. "Should you require anything... a Twinkie, a Band-Aid, or just someone to talk to... the door to this laboratory is always open."

"Yeah," The younger man turned to look over his shoulder, and offered up a half smile that he knew was weak. But it was the best he had, at the moment. "Thanks."

Hank nodded, offered a toothy smile, and turned back to his work.

And Scott headed out into the halls of the Xavier Institute, still trying not to think, but finding that Mr. McCoy's kind words had loosened the dam he'd built up inside of himself over the past week and a half.

Young love. Jean. He hadn't seen her in a week, at least. And when he had seen her last, they'd been so... cold. Nothing to say, nothing new, nothing special. Just... well, yeah. Cold.

And Alex. Jesus, he felt like an idiot for reacting the way he had when Alex had told him he was...

Right. Gay. Dammit, not as if it was a dirty word, or something.

He'd never had trouble with anyone else being gay. (Well, not that he knew anyone else who was other than JP, but hell, that had certainly never bothered him!) Why he'd been so stupid, so uncertain, when Alex had told him his news, he had no idea. He was over it, mostly, now. But he hadn't been able to meet the kid's puppy dog brown eyes since their little "talk" over a week ago. And he felt like a complete ass.

Hell, he'd even been avoiding JP, he felt so bad.

Scott sighed, as he started up the stairs for his own room, to try and get some school work done. It occurred to him that Alex's favorite descriptive term for his big brother when he was in a mood was the only thing that could really describe Scott's state of mind at the moment. He was, most definitely, "angsting."

* * *

Jean-Paul watched Jeanne-Marie and Kurt laughing with each other in the yard. The two of them were always inseparable on Sunday afternoons, since they'd started going to mass together in the morning. Jean-Paul, who had little time for the Church, and honestly didn't have that much for god in general if he really thought about it, couldn't understand.

Normally, it didn't bother him. Normally, he was glad that she had found someone to talk to, someone who understood her on that level. He certainly couldn't, no matter how strongly she projected over their empathic link. It just wasn't his "thing."

But today, he was annoyed, watching them. Because Jeanne-Marie hadn't spoken to him since she and Roberto DaCosta had broken up, nearly two weeks before.

"What the hell is with the long face?" A familiar voice asked beside him.

Normally, Northstar had no trouble seeing Quicksilver coming. While Pietro was faster than Jean-Paul, by a great deal, the Canadian X-Man had a brain that could process certain kinds of information just as fast as he was capable of moving– and simple visual information was on that short list. It was one of the many ways his mutation allowed him to keep up with his silver-haired best friend, in fact.

But he'd been so engrossed in standing there, brooding over his sister's inattention to him lately, that he hadn't even noticed this time.

He rolled his eyes, immediately readying himself for contact with the outside world, wiping all traces of emotion from his face, and turned to look at his friend. Pietro was standing there, leaning on a tree, arms crossed over his chest, looking at him with platinum eyebrows raised high, expectantly.

And then he swallowed hard.

Pietro had always been pretty. But lately, he was damn beautiful, for some reason. And it made Jean-Paul just the tiniest bit uncomfortable, really.

"My sister," he nodded in the direction of his raven-haired sister and the fuzzy blue elf sitting on the grass near the soccer goal across the yard.

"Still not talking to you, huh?"

Jean-Paul shrugged, and turned away from the two laughing figures in the distance, so that he wouldn't have to look at them and could pretend it was no big deal. "I just assumed she would've forgiven me by now, is all."

"You actually apologized to someone?" Pietro smirked, coming to stand closer, and then starting to walk back toward the house with him, at that slow, measured pace that Jean-Paul recognized as Pietro at his most controlled. It always struck him as a little odd, when Pietro moved so slowly. The Brotherhood speedster only did that for extended periods of time if he was very engrossed in what he was talking about (which usually meant he was talking about himself), or in certain situations involving very little clothing, a lot of sweat, and Pietro trying to make something last.

"Of course not," Jean-Paul scoffed, already fully returned to sarcastic mode, after his moment of being hurt by his sister. "But she's been mad at me before, Pietro, and she always forgives me."

Pietro rolled his eyes now, and gave his friend a playful punch in the arm, "This is Jeanne-Marie you're talking about, right? She's gone girl power, man, since she dumped DaCosta. You're gonna have to beg."

"I don't beg," he sniffed.

"True," Pietro admitted. "But you'd look so good doing it, JP."

Jean-Paul pretended that he didn't like the sound of that, and returned the punch, taking the opportunity to get off the subject. But when he looked back at Pietro, who was now laughing at him outright, he noticed that there were faint dark circles under the other boy's cobalt eyes. He hadn't noticed at a distance, but up close... it was odd. Pietro always looked perfect. "What's wrong with you?"

Pietro rubbed at his arm where Jean-Paul had hit him, and kept grinning, "Where to begin, as Wanda would say!"

But Jean-Paul was serious now, because it really was a little disturbing. Not that obvious, probably no one else would notice it... but yes. It was definitely there. "You look... tired."

The other boy blinked for a moment, and his eyebrows drew down and together, in a strange combination of confusion and frustration. "I haven't been sleeping well, I guess."

Jean-Paul knew very well that it took a hell of a lot to tire Pietro out to the point where he could finally lay down and fall asleep. It usually required running uncountable laps, or staying up for two days at a time, in fact. The guy was unstoppable, really. But once Pietro was out, he was out like a fucking light. "What's that about?"

"Just happens sometimes," Pietro told him, shrugging, but avoiding his eyes now. He turned to look straight ahead, and started walking a little faster. "Who knows why. Mutation or something. Hey, don't you think we should have a Halloween party? I told Lance we should, but he is being a dick, as usual. Iwannamakeacostumethough!"

Irritated, but knowing it was better to quit when he was ahead, Jean-Paul let it drop, and began discussing the impending holiday with his friend, instead of their obviously too-personal-to-share-with-the-guy-I'm-sleeping-with issues.

As usual.

After all, if he wasn't willing to confess himself, he could hardly expect Pietro to.

* * *

Jean rubbed at her temples, trying to rid herself of the throbbing headache she could feel coming on. It was there, vaguely, already. In a few hours, it'd be a full-blown, migraine style headache.

They'd been at this for over a week now, she and Warren. The Professor had come with her, to see the factories, visit the companies, and generally look over the vast holdings of the Worthington family. Angel had recently been encouraged by his parents to take a greater interest in the family business, as their only child and heir, and he had done as they asked... only to find some disturbing rumors about the research and technology companies that were listed under the Worthington Industries heading.

Of course, he'd called the Professor. Warren's family knew nothing about his mutation. He never talked about why, or, for that matter, how the hell he'd managed to hide a twelve-foot wingspan from his own parents. But Jean gathered that they spent most of their time at the family home in London, and left Warren here in the States to handle every day things. They wanted him to come with them, that much she'd discerned from a chance listen at a message on his answering machine, but Angel had made it clear that he had no interest in either moving to London, or in talking about his parents, in the short time Jean had spent with him.

And she was enjoying spending the time with him. Even if they didn't say much, aside from business talk.

She told herself it was just because she was irritated with Scott lately. She knew she'd been stand-offish with him since she'd moved to school. She hadn't done it on purpose, of course, but things were just so... complicated, in her head. School was a whole new world, studying chemistry and biology at the University was so consuming, she had so many meetings to attend, classes to keep up on, professors to talk to. And then coming home to Xavier's on the weekend, training with the X-Men, special sessions focusing on her formidable telepathic powers, powers that were not nearly as developed as her telekinesis...

She just didn't have the time to talk to him every night. And slowly, as one night became two, and two became three... she let it go further and further until she didn't have the time to talk to him any night.

Her mother had mentioned this, when Jean had first left for school. Relationships are hard to keep up like that, Jean. It takes effort. And if he's not worth the effort, you won't exert it.

Only... Scott was worth the effort. It was just that she only had so much effort in her, really. And it was all going... well, other places.

"Jean, did you look at the ExGen files from just after the incident with Magneto and the Sentinels? That increase in activity has to mean something. The investors were pouring their money in, but they're the big guns. The Swiss bank account big guns...," Warren's soft, low voice trailed off slowly as he shuffled papers on his utterly destroyed desk.

She looked over at him, and tried to process the information he was giving her. Magneto. Sentinels. ExGen. Investors.

She'd been at this forever, it felt like. And she hated it.

She had a test in two days in biochem, a Danger Room session tomorrow that she'd promised to run, and she desperately needed to meet up with her English group to work on their presentation before they came hunting her down. She should've told Scott to do it. Or Rogue. Angel had asked for both of them, in fact.

But she'd offered. She was the logical choice, having gone with the Professor on all those tours, hearing all of Warren's theories and concerns during that weekend they'd spent with him. And, to be honest...

Warren fascinated her.

It was stupid. She knew it for what it was, a silly, childish crush because she was irritated with her boyfriend. And along comes the angel, golden and strong and silent. Not to mention beautiful. They had nothing in common, nothing to talk about other than the fact that they were both mutants.

But then, neither did she and Scott lately.

Jean took a deep breath, and shook hear head slightly. "Yes, of course, I'm sure it has something to do with the rumors. But we've checked ExGen out, we have all the files. There's no chance–,"

"Here!" He suddenly announced, stabbing his finger at his monitor, and then down at the paper in front of him, heroic face taking on a strangely child-like expression of excitement. "This document you found this morning, the one with the contributions... Worthington Industries dumped ten percent of our holdings into this genetic research company just then, and the project that sold it to us was called X-F, for a code name."

Sighing, Jean leaned her chin on her hand, elbow on the table, and watched Warren's pale blue eyes flashing in the light of his monitor. "What does this prove, again? I'm not following."

"The mutant gene is the X-Factor," he looked over at her now, and held the paper out to her. "Pull up the file on ExGen in the electronic portfolio that was given to the investors– the one with the projections that you had to call the Institute for help cracking into."

She accepted the paper from him, and typed in the appropriate passwords that Kitty and she had managed to produce, after hours of phone and internet collaboration. Hours that she'd initially thought had been wasted. The project was genetic research, yes, but there was no indication that it was at all related to mutation in any way. In fact, it seemed to be part of some sort of stem-cell research, hence it's location in certain Eastern European countries where the issue of such research was not such a hot topic, and it went on unheeded, for the most part.

Shaking all thoughts of Scott, Warren, school, and drama in general out of her head, she watched the files open up one after another. She'd seen it all a hundred times, and she still didn't–

Wait.

"Project X-F you said?"

"That's it," her partner affirmed.

Jean's eyes scanned the file in front of her now, and the names of the involved parties caught her eyes. "For some reason, these names are ringing a bell," she muttered.

"Drs. Hesse, Gentile, Essex, Movago...," Warren read aloud, and then emitted a short laugh.

She looked up at him sharply, mildly annoyed.

He tapped his expensive looking wristwatch, by way of explanation. "Movago."

She fought not to roll her eyes at him. And not to pass immediate judgment on his rich boy habits, even if he kept them in check fairly often. This was serious, and he was impressed that one of the geneticists on the project had the name of an overpriced watch?

Men. Honestly. He was lucky he was so cute, really, or that kind of thing would really irritate her.

Not just cute, she reminded herself, suddenly softening toward him just a bit. Also very sweet, helpful, thoughtful. A really nice guy, in fact. Wasn't his fault he was worth more than the entire Institute, after all.

"No, that's not what it is," she managed to keep the annoyance out of her voice. "I think it's Essex..."

"Dr. Nathaniel Essex began this research in 1955," Warren read aloud from his screen, looking at the exact sentence she was reading over and over. "1955...? Mutants weren't even known to the public at that time...,"

"No," Jean agreed, "But they existed. And it's not unthinkable that someone knew about it."

Warren sighed quietly, and covered his face with his hands, "I thought this was it... it can't be, that's just too long ago..."

But Jean wasn't convinced that he was on the wrong track. In fact, the more she looked at it, the more she was somehow certain she knew the name Essex from somewhere. Something recent, but still... "This project was instated at ExGen within our time frame, ExGen is at the top of our list of suspect companies, the research listed in the project portfolio is not necessarily of the acceptable variety, for the average investor, and something about this name... I think we should at least tell the Professor."

Fitfully, Warren ruffled his wings. Jean looked over, and caught them glowing slightly in the dying light. If the light was just right, his feathers appeared perfectly iridescent. Like something out of a fairy tale, or a stained glass window.

But his voice was much darker, and had the sound of defeat in it, as he muttered, "Yes, alright, we'll tell Professor Xavier, if you think so."

* * *

A scream cut through the silence, and Wanda Maximoff shot up in bed.

Sweating, heart racing, blood pounding in her head.

She was frozen. Couldn't move.

If she moved, something very bad would happen. She wasn't sure what, but she was sure it was bad.

The only sound was her own breath, coming hard and ragged through her nose. Her eyes darted around fearfully, looking into every corner in her dark, totally empty room.

Something was there.

No.

Something had been there, at one point. Or... somewhere. Wherever she'd been. Somewhere in a huge castle, or a fortress, high on some mountain. Lightning had struck.

And that... cow-person... cow-woman... had saved her. Saved them. Pietro was there too...

Almost as suddenly as it had come, the muscle-lock left her, and she collapsed bonelessly back into her pillow. But she was still breathing hard. And she was still terrified.

Three nights in a row, now.

She remembered, of course, being very young, when she and Pietro had lived with the gypsies in Transia. But only small bits and pieces. Fractured remnants of memory– she wasn't sure if those things were real, or if she'd made them up. She remembered their father coming for them, of course, and everything after that, growing up in America, living with Magneto before he became Magneto, picnics and birthdays and holidays... but there had been something about dreams, before then. She and Pietro used to talk about the animal-people.

And they were fucking with her head again.

Sam had been worried, today, when she met him for a movie. Said that she looked worried. She'd told him to shut up and watch the movie, and he'd only smiled and shook his head at her.

He was apparently the only man in the world who didn't want to run for cover when she got angry. In fact, he tended to stand there and grin at her like an idiot when it happened. And she really found it difficult to stay angry with that ridiculous hick grinning at her all lopsided like that.

But she couldn't really bring herself to tell him that she'd been having nightmares. Nightmares involving half-men, half-animals.

That just sounded way too fucked up.

Not that her getting angry at Pietro last time Sam was in the house hadn't ended up a little fucked up. Half the furniture had ended up going through the window and hanging out on the lawn for a day or two. But Wanda was of the opinion that such displays should really be enough to let Sam Guthrie know just what he was getting into, if he was going to hang around her for any extended period of time. She didn't need to pour her soul out to him, after all.

She had so little soul left, she figured she'd better keep it for herself. In case she ended up needing it some day, for whatever reason.

But at the moment, she almost wished that someone was there with her. Someone who could explain things to her. Because these dreams wouldn't let her sleep, after she'd had them. And she was getting pretty damn sick of this no sleep thing.

It put her in a bad mood.