Next chapter…There'll probably be one more after this, just to wrap things up, but after that I think that's it for this one. Unless anyone has any ideas…?

Again, I own nothing but the plot and the bad guys, and am getting paid nothing. It was the same thing for all the other chapters; why would it be different now?

It was close to two days before Warren woke up again. Two days that, for the rest of the team, were filled with worry. Would he ever wake up? Was he going to be okay? Why were his wings gone? Who was responsible? When they found him, the building was abandoned, so they had no idea how he had even gotten there, which only pissed Logan off even more than he already was. He hated anyone who hated mutants on principle, and the person who had chained Warren up in the room certainly fit the category. He paced back and forth, until Ororo finally had to practically push him out of the room to get him to calm down.

A few hours later, Warren woke up in the medical bay, thoroughly confused. He quickly sat up, appraising the situation. There was no one in the room, so he swung his legs over the side of the bed and attempted to stand. Bad idea. After years of getting used to the weight of the wings on his back, standing upright without them was surprisingly difficult. Of course, his recent capture certainly didn't make things any easier. He was still weak from blood loss, so his muscles didn't quite respond the way he was used to, causing him to lose his balance and fall to his knees. He swore, cursing Zarkov and his cruelty. He got back up, bracing himself against the bed while he adjusted to his new center of gravity. Once that was under control, he took a few cautious steps, and nearly fell again when Ororo entered the room, ruining his concentration. He swore again, and motioned her away as he carefully walked back to the bed and sat down. "You should be in bed, Warren, not walking around," she scolded. "And don't try to tell me you're all better," she added as he tried to speak. "You may have accelerated healing, but you've already ripped your stitches twice while having nightmares, and bled all over the sheets. You need to rest." As he was reminded for the second time since waking that his wings were gone, his face fell.

It was ironic, really; when he had them, all he wanted to do was get rid of them, but now that they were gone he would give anything to have them back. Part of him had hated them; hated how they made him feel, hated how they had made his father subconsciously delegate him to inferior, hated how his father could never look him in the eyes since they grew in because he knew that Warren knew how he felt. He had spent years hoping that they would go away, or that he would wake up one day and find that it had all been a dream, but it was not to be; they stayed, a constant reminder that he was an embarrassment to the Worthington name. But now that they were gone, he saw them as the gift they were; they had brought him more freedom than anyone could ever imagine, and he had taken it for granted, dwelling instead on what his father thought of him because of them. And now it was too late. He sighed, and Ororo, picking up on his sudden shift in mood, decided to leave him alone, informing him that she would be back in a few hours to check on the bandages and leaving the room.

Warren slept, more to escape his thoughts than because he needed the rest. His dreams were dark, rife with monsters and villains who trapped him and hurt him at every turn. He woke tangled in the bedsheets and disoriented, with a burning sensation in his back. He subconsciously itched, ripping the stitches for the third time before he realized what he was doing. He swore as the blood flowed, quickly soaking the sheets. He sat up as quickly as he could manage, and got out of bed, trying not to drip on the floor. Kitty Pryde entered the room, coming to a dead stop when she noticed the bright red sheets. "Warren, are you bleeding?" She asked, shocked at the sight of so much blood.

"Umm, yeah," he said. Kitty stood there, rooted to the spot, staring at the puddles on the floor and watching the blood droplets roll down Warren's back and drip to the floor. Warren was starting to feel dizzy, and cursed the thoughtlessness that had put him in this situation. He snapped his fingers, bringing her back to reality. "Can you go and get someone? I kind of doubt I could make it down the hallway." Kitty broke out of her trance, nodded, and quickly left the room, bringing Storm back with her a few minutes later.

"Why do you insist on itching?" Storm asked, obviously irritated. "I told you not to touch it, and what do you do? First chance you get, you scratch it again, and now I have to sew it shut. Again. Honestly, Warren..."

Warren dutifully turned around while Storm got the needle and thread and began to sew shut the gash he had ripped open. But, upon inspection, the wound seemed like it was almost entirely healed, as did the one on the other side of his back. And, further piquing her interest, Ororo discovered that there was more musculature where the wings had been cut, and the bone was a little longer than it had been the last time she had looked. When she stopped closing the wound, Warren began to stretch his back, rolling his shoulders as if he had been sitting for a long time. "What are you doing?" Ororo asked, confused as to his actions. "My back burns," he said. "That's why I was itching earlier; ever since I woke up it's been bothering me, and I can't seem to make it stop." He reached back to itch again, and was surprised when he felt the musculature and bone growth Storm had observed moments earlier. "Oh," he said, stunned. "That would explain it."

"You didn't draw that conclusion yourself?" Kitty asked teasingly.

"No; it was worse the first time. Plus, there hasn't been much growth. When they first came in, they grew a lot faster, so it hurt a lot more; it'll probably speed up once they get a little bigger, and so it'll get worse. That explains why the cuts bled so easily when I was scratching, too; they were close to the surface, so all they needed was a little of my help to break through. That was a pain the first time too; I was scratching my back, and all of a sudden it just started bleeding, way more than what I would have thought was possible. Cleaning that up without my parents finding out was almost impossible." He grinned, remembering his James Bond-esque trip down the hall to get towels to sop up the blood. Of course, that had led to other, less pleasant memories, but at least he could find some amusement in the whole thing.

A few hours later Warren was in agony. The bones that made the structure of his wings were growing at an accelerated rate, resulting in an itching that quickly became full blown pain. He was lying on the bed in the med bay, his eyes closed, trying to think about anything other than what was happening. He was thrilled about it, sure; he had thought that he would never fly again, and now he was being given a second chance. But that didn't make the transition any more pleasant; no matter what he did, he couldn't get comfortable. His skin was on fire; it was stretching and growing to cover the muscles and bone that were quickly growing out of his back, and the painkillers Ororo had given him weren't helping. He bit his lip, trying to stifle the screams that threatened to pass through his lips. He had been brought up under the old belief that men don't cry, and consequently he detested any sign of weakness, especially in himself. Any contact his back made with anything, no matter how delicate, made him want to cry out in pain, so even the small contact he had with the sheets was pure torture.

At some point the pain became too much, and he lapsed into unconsciousness. When he woke again the pain had backed down to itching again. He reached back to check on the progress of his new wings, and was pleasantly surprised to find that all that was left was the feathers. They currently covered about half of his wings, and were quickly advancing. They were still the fluffy down of baby birds, but he knew that they would be real feathers soon enough. He was patient.

He looked around to find Kitty staring at him. He blushed, realizing that the only thing he was wearing was a pair of khaki pants. He sat up, quickly looking around for a shirt, or even a blanket for that matter. Kitty threw him a sweatshirt, one of the ones with an "x" stitched on the left side, smirking. He gave her a grateful look, and pulled it on, carefully pulling his wings through the holes someone had thoughtfully cut in it. "Thanks," he mumbled. She seemed to take great enjoyment out of his discomfort, more than he really felt was necessary.

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The next day, Warren's wings had reached their full size. There wasn't enough room in the med bay for him to stretch them fully, so he decided to go outside, since he wasn't ready to test them out quite yet. He grabbed a jacket, and snuck outside, being careful to avoid Storm. He knew that she would only drag him back to med bay, thinking there was no possible way he could be fully healed. It was funny; here it was, a school full of mutants, people who could turn to metal or walk through walls or control the weather or a million other things, and she still couldn't accept the extent of his mutation. He couldn't help but want to laugh whenever someone was amazed at some "new mutation" he showed. But really, it was all part of the same thing; if you had wings, you needed hollow bones so you would be light enough to use the wings. If you were going to be flying at high speeds, you needed something that would keep your eyes from disintegrating at those speeds. If you were going to be flying at high altitudes, you needed really good eyesight so you could see what was going on. If you were going to be able to fly, you needed an extremely fast metabolism so you could have the energy reserves necessary for flight, and you ended up with accelerated healing as a side effect. But people saw these things as separate mutations, which was amusing to Warren.

He successfully got outside, and immediately relaxed. When he was in the mansion, he always needed to remember to pull his wings in as close to his body as he could, or else he would end up blocking the entire hallway. While effective if he didn't want to talk to someone, this wasn't entirely helpful to anyone else. But outside, he didn't have to worry; he could stretch them out as much as he wanted, which was nice; they got cramped after a few hours of being held tight up against his back, which became excruciating if he didn't get the chance to stretch them out.

It was raining. Usually he avoided the rain, since it tended to soak his wings, which made them very heavy, and it would take hours for them to dry out, and he wouldn't be able to actually use them until they were completely dry. Well, not unless he wanted to test if gravity was still working. But today he didn't care. His wings were back, and he didn't mind the inconvenience he would be met with later.

He stretched his wings, extending them as far as they would go. He looked up to the sky, feeling the rain on his face, and gave a triumphant yell, releasing all the fear and pain and relief and joy that had built up within him over the past few days.