Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She let her head mold against the head of her seat, her body groggily pulsing from the soporific plod of the train's lumber over the tracks below. Clattering glass chimed up an octave in tandem with each track, as the pushcart slowly made its way up the aisle. Gentle notes of voices would respond to the glassware's echo, and the two continued to converse amicably as the train neared its next station. Beyond her window contorted together, as autumn gracefully stippled New York’s rolling hills. The colors seemed almost alive, and it unsettled her stomach to see something so vibrant, such a far cry from the dusty grey’s and lonely browns she awoke to every morning. She pulled the jacket tighter around her body, relishing in the way the new leather restricted her movements.

To say she was a nervous was so great an understatement, it was almost a lie. She didn't belong on a train, sitting amongst business men and women leaving behind work in the city in crisp suits, college students enjoying a weekend off campus, teachers herding groups of school kids on their field trip. She was like fool's gold floating in an inundated deposit of the real yellowed treasure.

Who was she kidding? Them? Certainly not herself. If only for the time being.

Was she going to be ok?

Her passion to help others may have brought her into the deepest of predicaments. But was it really a 'predicament?' A predicament, a situation, almost had the vague, underlining sense of trouble, of something that should cause worry. Should she be worried? If he was any indication of the rest of them, she shouldn't be.

He had been kind, and respectful, and had offered her an opportunity that had the consequence of being a saving grace for her.

Come back with me. Join us. We could use someone like you on the team.

Yeah. He had actually said that.  

It was a corny recruiting motto, really. And an incredibly naïve belief. Nothing was ever that simple, not in their line of work at least. Not in this lifetime, not in her shoes. And yet that casual arm cross, that lazy pinched smile beneath his mustard-color mask was making her second guess this infallible truth of armor she had strapped to her person.

He wasn't just interested in her abilities, her powers. He showed concern for her, a nobody. And that was why she was sitting on a train she couldn't afford, in new, clean clothes that disguised her as a young girl who belonged in this world, who lived in this world, headed to a place he told her she was allowed to call home.

So where was the 'but'? Where was the clock hidden that would strike at midnight and change the train back into a pumpkin? Where was the poisoned apple she would inevitably bite, or the conch shell that would eventually house her voice? Why was she trembling like a leaf, waiting for the trap door in the floor to loosen and swallow her whole? Because his words were too good to be true. Because something like this, someone like that, didn't just drop into her life with an offer such as this one without a few ropes attached, shaped conveniently like nooses. There were conditions. There had to be. He just wasn't telling her. Because what would a nobody like her have any business working with a group like them.

But that was just it; a group like them. This was it. This was the big leagues. He was legendary, a celebrity in his own right, and so were his colleagues. An opportunity like this didn't come around very often, especially to a nobody like her. The things she could do with them, the masses she could reach, the people she could save. She'd be selfish not to take it. Right?

She sighed again.

What was she getting herself into?

She knew nothing about this life she was walking back into, hadn't been a part of it for years now. She had remained chained to the streets while the world had changed and morphed around her. How was she sitting so casually on a train, headed to a station, wearing new clothes, rested from a mattressed-sleep, full from a breakfast, completely blasé? She didn't belong here. She was a fraud. An. Imposter. And worse, someone was going to call her bluff. She couldn’t keep this kind of act up forever. Why did she think that because she had done it years ago, she was qualified to walk the walk, talk the talk, and think she could pass off?

She perked up at the sound of a warbling voice as it crackled through the overhead speakers, catching only the words North Salem before the intercom faded as waves of bustling surrounded her. Bags were grabbed from below seats and over heads, fogged windows were wiped furiously with little rounded fingers. They had reached their destination. They were starting a new adventure, for the day, for the weekend, for the month. She was starting off a new life, maybe for the rest of her life. And all she got for an introduction were the marbled-mouthed words that plopped out of the static speaker above her head.

No trumpets, no fan-fare, no confetti.

North Salem.

Here we go.

He watched the throngs of passengers exiting quickly out of the train doors, scanning the crowds for a face he had memorized now.

He stuck out oddly. At first glance, it wasn't easy to distinguish why. His flared and frayed denim and worn leather jacket were attractively conspicuous, but not out-of-place. Even his imposing size could just be written off as a dedicated gym goer. But yet something made heads turn a second time, made eyes squint with suspicion. Who was this man? How could he blend in so well with the traffic of the downtown station, and yet stand resolute with the look of a mind and a body touched with something just a little more fantastic than the hamster-wheel of a life everyone else seemed trapped on?

"I don't see her, Logan."

There was an affirmative grunt that she was heard, but his attention remained on the draining carts.

White hair slipped along her shoulder as she turned to look up at him, with a small, curious smile on her face.

A new recruit.

How long had it been since they had opened up their home to a new mutant? A few years now? And one that immediately had a spot on the team? Only a few mutants had had that opportunity when the institute had first started up. Once their small out-reach group had been outed and eventually graduated from Bayville, the Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters was no longer just a boarding house; it had officially become a boarding school and Bayville never saw another X-Man again.

Without the professor, though, it seemed almost insulting to open the institute back up with the intent of teaching and housing young mutants once more. The institute had been Charles's dream, though they had all adopted it over time watching children grow free from the judgement of the world. They had discussed it as a team when they had first reached out to Warren to help fund the rebuilding of the mansion off the books and under the radar. Warren's contractors needed finalized plans and the team had not yet given their final consent on whether they should open the mansion back up to housing children.

The vote had been unanimously bittersweet; the institute had already gained enough publicity back when their students at Bayville had been outed, and the Phoenix explosion had sealed the address's permanent fate on the MRD and Senator Kelly's watch lists. They all understood the danger of bringing young children back onto the property, reconstructing the towering edifice of Charles’s estate. They couldn't guarantee their safety like the Professor had been able to do years ago to hesitant parents. Tildie had been the only exception because she had no one left.

But the vote hadn't been without strong nostalgia of the days they had all been welcomed into the institute and how much it had changed their life, and strong regret that the institute would never be able to do that for anyone else. The anti-mutant hysteria was growing with each day, and young mutants needed a place of refuge now more than ever. But with somber nods, the vote was sealed and the mansion's original classrooms, student bedrooms, recreational areas, music rooms and multiple sport fields were removed from the plans. Now the mansion was. Efficient, blending in with the other up-scale estates on their street. It served a small team of adults that was always on the move and still required their own space in their down time. But it felt larger somehow. Emptier. Colder. An insult to the warm and welcoming home it had been before.

But as Ororo watched with fondness as Logan surveyed the station for the X-Men's newest member, she wondered if it was truly the new layout of the mansion that made it a hollow husk of its former glory, or if there was a slight possibility that it was the habitants inside. There was no more laughter, no more shouts from the fields, no more chatter in the kitchen, no more ambient noise that settled in the rafters like sweet honey. The X-Men operated as a team, and that was that. Once the capes were hung and the suits were gathered for the laundry (or trash if it was one of those missions) everyone scattered. And the mansion echoed the silence.

Ororo wondered to herself if the young girl would be the one to finally break the insufferable quiet, while Logan beside had slipped into a reverie of a few nights prior to. 

He ran across the wet pavement, his feet dashing across the already forming puddles. The beating rain made his tight suit cling to his large body, rippled and edged masterfully with muscles earned from heavy training and the heat of battle. His steady breathing produced small puffs of white fog that clung to the damp air with a vengeance. His nerves danced with excitement, as he peered behind him to watch as they drew nearer. He could hear the loud, monotonous footsteps of his pursuers, already multiplying as his enhanced hearing picked up the screech of another vehicle that had joined in on the chase. He grinned mischievously as the click of the triggers of their weapons echoed across the almost deserted neighborhood.

He wasn't afraid. To say he had gone out that night looking for a reason to run, a reason to feel the excruciating, heated pain of his metallic claws sheath from his dense knuckles was probably not all that wrong. On a stormy night like tonight, no one would be out on the streets. No mutants at least. That meant he had their full and undivided attention. Perfect. And the fact that they had come extra prepared that night, equipped with a holding cell and everything, its extra weight on the vehicle's wheels chiming in his ear, made him all the cockier.

The X-Men leader even gave his chasers a moment to catch up, standing idly in the street, smirking confidently as the uniformed men circled him on all sides, their hauntingly black glasses staring the mutant down. All weapons were trained simultaneously on the wanted convict, as said offender continued to smirk with raw arrogance.

"Took you guys long enough," Wolverine called out smugly, brashly rolling and popping shoulder sockets. "Kelly's really pickin' the best and the brightest for his Mardy squads" watching, amused, as one of the soldiers actually began to shake, the former Weapon-X smiling at the smell of fear that reeked from the rookie's body.

"Surrender now and we won't hurt you!" one called out from the crowd of MRD soldiers, his voice almost muffled by the pouring rain.

"Funny thing, Bub," Wolverine said, smiling at the satisfying sound of his claws slicing through his skin and embracing the fresh, damp air, "I was going to tell you the same thing."

And without a moment's hesitation, the former Weapon-X was off, jumping first for the rookie, quickly knocking him out with a roundhouse kick. Grabbing the shoulders of the now unconscious lackey, he swung the body in a circle, brutally clobbering the soldier's heavy boots into any surrounding MRD recruits. Animal instinct kicked in as he quickly completed a back flip, narrowly dodging a series of blasts that had erupted from a nearby weapon. He swiftly fist punched a soldier feet from where he landed, grinning as their nose broke with a clean crack beneath his fingers. He grabbed the weapon from his hand and began shooting at the fast approaching group of fighters, his mouth cocked in a supercilious smile.

He was having a blast.

Though the men were heavily protected, the force from the blasts of his newly acquired gun alone knocked most of them off of their feet, leaving the haughty Logan with a few more stragglers, before they would be calling in aerial reinforcements.

He was already imagining his proud walk back home to the mansion and the glass of ice-cold beer when his eyes widened in confusion at a sudden and devastatingly sharp pain that had erupted right in the center of his chest. He quickly turned his attention to find a soldier pointing a gun straight at him, the barrel still relishing in the smoke of its bullet's exit.

"So that's how it's going to be. You're going to be sorry –" But Wolverine's speech was cut off abruptly as his world suddenly shifted out of focus, the atmosphere around him tipping like an uneven see-saw and the edges of his vision clouding over with bright lights.

He weakly turned down to look at where the blast had hit him, expecting to see an already healing scorch mark across his rib cage. But he was caught off-guard to find a small vile of some kind, it's needle surprisingly able to make it through his infamously dense skin. He roughly pulled the contraption out, but looked distraught at the empty vile; the damage had already been done. The cocky leader was only aware of a few type of sedation needles the MRD used, none of them able to pierce his skin deep enough to make it into his blood vessels. So what was this?

He glanced back up to find his vision had become even fuzzier, the MRD vehicles and the buildings behind them swirling together like a finger painting. He cringed as his weak legs suddenly crumpled, forcing the mutant down on his hands and knees. He could vaguely hear the footsteps of approaching Mardy’s, their numbers slowly but steadily increasing.

He was screwed.

A flash of golden light suddenly danced across his line of vision. There came a series of panicked yells and screams, as the bright light popped into his vision a few more times before settling before him. And that's when limbs had unceremoniously given out, his fevered body sinking into chilled puddles with glazed eyes settled on brilliant ice blue irises as his world faded out.

The corner of his mouth tilted ever so slightly upward when those same chilled azure eyes settled on his once more, a lean face smiling radiantly in return. Ororo watched with interest as the young girl approached, slight confusion piqued momentarily to find her without luggage or belongings, until Logan’s terse clippings returned to her from the previous night, Hank prodding away at his leader atop his medical bench. The scientist was looking desperately for a sample of the concoction, going about the proceedings as if it was locked away deep in Logan’s reservoir of blood.

The Shadow Healer’s no vigilante. She’s just a damn kid, Ororo. A kid.  She looks like she should still be taking the bus to school. And she’s homeless. The kid’s got nobody and nothing. Just the clothes on her back. Looks half starved. And in this weather. I can’t just leave her like that. I can’t just walk away.

He had been restless since that night, prowling about the house, searching shadows for answers, until she had finally called him back. The relief on his face had been clear as day. And there was an ease about him now, standing before her, that reflected a lifetime of acquaintance they had garnered in a matter of hours. Ororo was very intrigued.   

He nodded in greeting. "Hey, kid.” Her smile grew wider in return, though her hands continued to wring nervously at the water bottle in her grip. "Safe trip?"

She nodded, and right in that moment, Ororo’s stomach bottomed out, and every fiber of her being wanted nothing more to wrap the young girl protectively in her embrace and never let her go. Her eyes so defiantly betrayed the age her body seemed to announce, aided with her impeccable posture and the dark jeans and leather jacket she wore so well. They were the eyes of a child, so young and innocent. Had it not been months ago when dozens of pairs of those same eyes had been laughing and bouncing about the mansion?

This was the Shadow Healer.

The renowned night healer New York had seemed to almost immediately fall head over heels for, and subsequently adopted as their mascot. The mythical superheroine that was the talk within all circles, domestic and otherwise. She was dominating fan-pages, conspiracy sites, even gracing the occasional news outlet.

And she was just a girl.

"Yeah, it was ok,” voice easy but finger straight with accusation at Logan, “And don't you dare call me kid again.”

She smudged the condensation cloud with her thumb, checking the empty street once again for their black off-roader. Her neck lazily swiveled about, letting a set of loosened pops echo in the hallway, giving a half-interested glance along the second floor and the visible portion of the first. "Where is everybody, anyway? I thought they'd all be here to check the newbie out."

He yawned, impatiently tapping chilled fingers along his kneecap.

“Scott and Jean are out by the water, and I really don't want to know what they're doing. Forge’s coddling the jet, Hank's in the zone, Tildie's watching cartoons and Kurt is probably off somewhere moping like a big baby," he rattled off.

Man, was he bored. Ororo had to be driving. There was no way with his Fast & Furious speed that Logan was still out on the road.

She scowled at him, jabbing her toes at his. "Come on, you can't blame him for wanting some alone time. Take it easy on him.”

He threw his hands up, almost imperceptible trails of frost dancing along the air in his wake. "Hey, he went and fell head over tail for Magneto's daughter. We all warned him about what he was getting himself into.”

"Bobby, she almost killed him! None of us saw that coming," Kitty chided.  

The eldest Drake scoffed, arms crossed. "Are you kidding me? I totally called that scenario. Either that, or she'd have Lorna cook him up on a homemade frying pan and feed him to Toad."

He was answered with a jab of Kitty’s heel to his shin, yelping in pain and surprise.

"Hey!?” he whined, rubbing at his leg. “We were all thinking it," he added petulantly.

"I swear with your manners, Rogue's on-off status, Scott and Jean's soap-opera relationship, Tildie's destructive nightmares and Logan's temper, I can't imagine anyone who would want to stay here. I don't even know why we're still here! Mansion explodes for the second time and we’re like sure, who wouldn’t want back in on that hot mess.”

Bobby snorted, though there was no humor on his face, eyes on the world outside. “You clearly haven’t met my family. This was a step up.”

Kitty continued over his comment, arms crossed, eyebrows creased in skepticism. “And since when did Logan start adopting street kids? Last I checked, he hates kids. Like period. Since the beginning of time.”

A finger reached out to prod absentmindedly at the window pane, leaving trails of frost in its wake. “And only a month after Frost became snowflakes all over 9^th. Papa Wolf’s trying to fill a hole in his pack,” he joked.

But Kitty looked at him with intrigue, mulling over his words with more thought than he had. “You think that’s what he’s doing?”

A shrug, the ice dusting growing thicker along the glass. “Who knows. This is The Wolverine we’re talking about. Dude’s an animal.”

But the young Pryde wasn’t satisfied. Something about Bobby’s comment left her pondering only more.

Did the team feel that much emptier without the White Queen? Did her absence really beg for a replacement? Was he actually trying to replace someone at all?

Because, let’s be honest here, this was Logan they were talking about. The man that, for the very reason the Shadow Healer even left the safety of the shadows, went cruising for a bruising with the MRD just for fun.

Did he actually miss anything? “But why her? We have business cards just for instances like this. If the world’s in danger, we’ll call yah. We don’t take in kids. Not anymore. Why are we making an exception for her?”

Bobby gave her a knowing look, eyes and smirk dipped with jest that was looking for trouble. “Jealous?”

She glared him down, before turning her bored stare back to their private cul-de-sac. “No. Just like totally confused.”

He stepped out of the medical laboratory, easing the weighted door closed, tensing as the medical-grade plastic seal slipped together, a gun shot in the empty lab. He chanced a quick glance back and sighed with relief when the occupant didn’t stir. A large, blue-furred hand rose heavily to his face, pushing thin-rimmed glasses further up his nose, bleary eyes turning back to the loaded clipboard clenched in the tips of his fingers. Numbers and graphs blurred to a rhythm his glasses couldn’t rewrite for his tired eyes, and in these sporadic but plentiful moments when the universe dealt the X-Men a few low-scoring cards, he wished the PhD at the end of his name was earned in medicine. Results he could read, conclusions he could try and procure, but clinical care he wasn’t capable of doing.

He wasn’t entirely useless. He could watch a concussion, treat a mild burn, ice bruises; anything that didn’t require a medical degree and was easily found on the internet or in his library of textbooks floors above him. She needed a medical professional, and unfortunately, possibly more support than what their on-call Night Nurse could offer.

A cleared throat pierced his haze, and he all but jumped at the sight of people in his lab, a space not often frequented.

"Everything go ok, Hank?"

He must’ve looked like a dazed deer, Logan giving a groveled snort when Hank pivoted to his voice. The blue mutant ran a hand through his equally colored locks and heaved a heavy sigh.

"I performed a mandatory physical of sorts," he started, walking over to his cluttered desk, swatting a few notebooks off the keyboard to bring up the notes he had taken in their med room. He cursed at the circling loading icon. “She fell asleep rather quickly, probably from the long day of traveling, so I got basic but modified visual exam and a complete metabolic panel. But there’s still so much more she needs done. She needs a full visual and physical exam, a lipid panel, thyroid and diabetes screening, maybe a few CT’s for kicks; she could have organ damage from prolonged starvation. But that’s just—I’m just scratching the surface. For the amount of time she’s been…off the grid, so to speak, she requires more intensive care. At the very least, she needs a full screening for which vaccinations she had, and inoculate her with ones she doesn’t. She also has an increased risk for asthma, iron deficiency, respiratory and ear infections, gastrointestinal problems, on top of the emotional toll of it all. A therapist wouldn’t be a bad idea. A dietician as well; a specialized one. Depending on what her diet was like, she could be malnourished, vitamin-deficient and starved, leaving her at a high risk for refeeding syndrome.”

The lab fell silent enough to hear a pin drop, and Hank cringed reflexively at how loud his voice must’ve been during what he embarrassingly conceded to was a ramble. The few X-Men gathered looked dazed at each other, the gravity of the task and the human being they had taken on finally applying its full weight in the pits of their stomachs.

Jean was the first to speak up, Hank with distant fondness reminiscing of the times she had sat in that same swivel chair, asking questions about her anatomy homework that a stiff textbook just couldn’t provide. "How long has she been out on the streets?"

Another heavy sigh from the former teacher. "She didn’t know until just before, when she asked what the date was. She estimates about 6 years.”

Another bout of silence impregnated the room.

Ororo looked completely ashen and devastated when she turned Beast, eyes wide with sympathy. She had always been the bleeding heart of the predominantly adult male household. There would have been wild creatures for children running about the halls if she hadn’t been a radiating source of motherly love beside the Professor. “Where’s her family? Does she have any?”

It was Logan who replied, the only one upright amongst them, arms entangled with each other across his chest. "She wasn’t willing to disclose that information.”

Scott followed up with an almost immediate remark, Logan barely restraining an eye roll before the young Summers had barely started speaking. “Not willing to disclose—like ‘hey I don’t really want to talk about it right now’ information or ‘hey I’m a fugitive of the law because I killed some people’ kind of information?” arms releasing their grip on the desk edge below him to mimic a hold similar to Logan’s. He turned his question to the young telepath beside him. "Did you get anything from her mind?"

Jean looked output, shaking her head, and Hank felt equal parts intrigued and fearful at the slight hint of awe in her voice. "No. Her mind is locked shut. Completely. A telepath must've taught her how to actively defend against other telepaths, and they taught her well.”

A soundless guffaw echoed out of Cyclops throat, and Hank could all but watch warily as Logan’s all too obvious irritation was bleeding out onto the floor. "So you're telling me we have some kid who’s picture we’ve run through every database out there, including the illegal ones, with no matches. Who’s been living out on the streets for half a decade, literally a textbook definition of falling off the face of the earth. And now she’s suddenly walking around the mansion with the keys!?" red-tinted glasses noticeably flickering.

The former Weapon-X had been finally pushed far enough over the edge, and all they could do was cling to their respective seats like life preservers as the primal Wolverine detracted his claws. "She saved my life, Summers, and she's got nowhere else to go," Logan coolly interjected, restraining himself from physical rounding on the young X-Man. His words were pivoting toward him just as effectively. 

The young Summers lacked the restraint of the much older Howlett, and the hot-headed 24-year-old bled through, mentee turning on mentor with insecure defilement. "No offense, Logan, but you said the same thing about Rogue and she put us through the ringer with her little Brotherhood escapades. What is up with you and abandoned kids, anyway?" he asked, getting up from his seat to address the X-Men leader. The last statement was a low and immature blow to the X-Men leader, a desperately-made tactic Hank knew Scott didn’t try often, even with Logan. Something about the predicament was hitting too close to home and Hank was willing to bet his entire library upstairs that it started with Emma and ended with Frost.

Logan was in Scott’s face within seconds; the mighty Wolverine never backed down from a fight, verbal or otherwise. No matter how long he spent as their leader, that quality would never be bred out. And although it cost them the occasional festive dishware, Hank felt the trait more beneficial than harmful in the current societal atmosphere; he was willing to play the offensive. “In case you’ve forgotten, Summers, you were an abandoned kid when Charles picked you up. We all were," he growled out.

Ororo, bless her soul, was still ready to mother-hen at the drop of a hat, whatever the age: "What did you learn about her powers, Hank?" Ororo asked, Jean already tugging at her partner’s shirt, leading him down back into his seat, because no, they did not need another repeat of the pair’s last fight. He had just gotten his new lab back. 

He gave one last, irritated punch to the ‘enter’ key before abandoning the still stalled screen and simply handed over his notes to their resident weather witch. "If she does possess healing capabilities, due to her numerous superficial and intrinsic wounds, she’s limited to healing others only. She has a long list of mutant alterations, originating from something I’m deeply surprised the MRD have no record of,” he explained, turning to Ororo, “Go to the 3^rdpage.”

On the screen was a rough outline of the young mutant's body and skeletal form. However, right in the middle of her chest, was a ball of burning, white light, flashing warnings swarming to the anomaly like ravishing bees. 

"What…is that?" Jean asked, the entire team staring wide-eyed at the scan.

"It’s her heart,” he exclaimed. “It’s a form of energy source, itself. A powerful one. The radiation and electromagnetic readings I gathered from it supersedes that of any synthetic form of energy. I had to access NASA's data files to finally find something that mirrored the data," the scientist explained.

"And?" Logan asked, inwardly chuckling at the scientist’s enthusiasm over their new house guest. Being a mutant required a breed more resilient against the restrictions of reality to intrigue the mind, than simply extraordinary. 

"It was the Sun. The thermal, radiant and electromagnetic readings from her heart perfectly match. I still can't comprehend how her body is in any way stable. Her heart appears to be freely circulating small pieces of this energy throughout her body, along with oxygenated blood, as if her very being depends on it. And on top of that, her body keeps the energy completely contained. Nothing seeps out into the surrounding atmosphere. Something of that power, just walking amongst us.”

Logan gave an impressed whistle. "Incredible," Jean gasped.

"So what kind of power are we talking about here? Level 2? 3?" Scott asked, his voice still on edge as he sneaked glares over to his leader, who was seeming more intrigued than concerned over the revelation of some kind of burning star living beneath their roof.

"I don’t know. She may not have any powers concerning this particular mutant adaptation and then again, she may have a whole other series of abilities," the scientist explained.

"When she was attacking the Mardy's the other night, she was glowing. Could that be from her heart?" Logan asked.

"It is a possibility," Hank replied.

The young Summers snapped and suddenly the subtle jabs at his leader were being missed. "Great. So we're caging a possible ticking time bomb that, for we all know, could be Senator Kelly or even Magneto's head honcho? You really out-did yourself this time, Logan.”

"You know what, Summers, the door is always open. If you don't like it, no one's stopping you," the X-Men leader grumbled back. Cyclops stood up from his seat and stormed out of the control room, forcefully slamming the door behind him.

Her body ever begrudgingly climbed to consciousness, the heat of embarrassment already pink on her cheeks before her waking mind could even remember why.

Mr. McCoy had been looking over her scans, explaining something to her, and she remembered nothing else. She had fallen asleep.

But something about the numbing taste of the exhaustion that had gone breaking over her was strange. Foreign.

It didn’t wail with a sharp tenor along stretched muscle fibers. Didn’t weigh her bones into the ground. Didn’t scratch fire along her head to embers only the dark world behind her eyes could cool.

It was a tired that stuffed cotton to her skull’s elasticity limits. That sucked energy clean from her, like a swift blow to the ribs. Made her body ache to depths even her nerves didn’t grace. Painted her limbs numb from her mind, so heavily it took too long for her to reason why her wandering fingertips were playing for purchase with cotton sheets, not the unforgiving bench top as before.

Something was wrong.

The reality that she wasn’t in the medical room felt like an unreal door slamming her mind back into place, and suddenly she was sitting up, a golden coat slipping into place around her.

She was scolding herself for being blind sighted so easily, buying right into their false sense of security, when a seagull's screech clawed through, and forced her to take in her surroundings. She was in a furnished room, a bedroom her mind supplied, with a ceiling that stretched for the sky, the windows and balcony door leading out to the setting ambers of the real one. The wood was a dark stain, the light trim and crown-molding, and the foggy dawns on the bed she was sitting on. The two sofas stretched out before the fire place. The empty frames along the jamb. The table runner along a vanity desk. 

It was a beautiful room. It was untouched though, empty of everyday human use. Clean of a messy life. Whomever slept here rarely used it. Then came the question as to whom it belonged to; Dr. McCoy, Logan, Ororo, the red-head who looked at her with confusion just as she felt a telepath tap at her mind for entry, the tall man beside her with ruby glasses that did not hide a distrust pulled across his frown.

She really hoped she wasn’t in his room.

But as she continued to stare at her surroundings, things were catching her attention and disrupting the calm of the room; the jacket she bought the other day hanging in the open armoire, the rest of her new outfit folded on the vanity’s stool, a glass of water, bottles of medication and what looked like an electric heating pad on the table beside her.

Her stuff was here. And no one else’s.

Rapid-fire conclusions stirred her unsettled stomach into another violent frenzy, and she felt sticky bubbles float of her throat.

No.

Life didn’t work like that.

Fairytales worked like that.

Like in Lady in the Tramp, when Tramp saved the young baby, and suddenly he was wearing a collar and calling the Darling’s his home. Just accepted in off the streets, fleas and all.

That was a Disney movie. This was the real world.

But a vicious ache reared its ugly head, roared its tempting roar, and suddenly she was sliding blissfully down assumptions and dreams of fantastic proportions.

This was her room.

Her stuff wouldn’t be hanging here otherwise.

This was her room.

Her sheets.

Her pillows.

Her bed.

Her window seats.

Her chest and armoire and beauty stand and fireplace and couches and rugs and balcony and storm doors and curtains.

It was all hers.

She had a room, a place to call her own.

Not an abandoned apartment building, scheduled for demolition, accented with roaches and cobwebs and mold.

Not a warehouse, with security cameras that saw all except for the small corner with a wooden crate for a bed.

Not the storage closet of a restaurant that reeked of garlic powder, ginger and salty canned fish.

Not a back alley with slight roof overhang to stem the rain, her tarp dancing wildly with the wind, and her single coat in no way waterproof.

Not even the tops of skyscrapers, gravel flooring sometimes manageable, sometimes not.

Already she was retracting her previous suspicion, against her raging half that kept juxtaposing her thoughts to Lady and the Tramp; if these people were anything like Logan, the X-Men were very good people.

But what did she know about Logan?

He was the leader. Charles Xavier’s mysterious disappearance from news reports and genetic conventions begged the question if Wolverine stepped in by choice or force.

What else did she know?

She had helped him with trouble he had gone actively seeking out.

But Wolverine was notoriously known for his physical displays of displeasure with the MRD.

He had metal for bones. Not encasing it, not reinforced by it; his bones were completely made of it.

And it was artificial. It wasn’t a part of his mutation. She shivered at the thought of how that metal and come to find home within his body.

What was a part of his mutation were the renowned retractable claws, the increased healing abilities (beyond levels she had ever seen before), the stagnated aging process, the enhanced senses.

Oh. And he was almost 200 years old.

That was exciting to find when she was healing him. She wouldn’t have second guessed his age; his healing abilities were phenomenal. But when she was removing the serum, she came across those cells in his blood. The ones everyone had. They were the only things in his body that were able to collect his lifespan without being reprogrammed by his mutations.

The stories he could tell.

So. Yeah.

That was it. That’s all she knew.

And yet when he handed her a Metro Q card with some clipped responses of feigned casualness about joining the team, she actually considered it. 16 hours later of flipping the Q card between her clammy fingers found her in a cab staring out fogged glass.

Just. Like. That.

A broad-shouldered double century year old Edward Scissorhands hands her a train ticket to his secret mansion with the fairytale ending that briefly interrupted her stream of nighttime terrors, and she just says yes.

Just. Like. That.

Maybe this was a hallucination. Or some sick telepath.

She’d wake up from what induced mental state she had fallen into with a killer headache tucked away beneath the overhand along the rooftop of The Great Wall restaurant in her familiar clothes Dr. McCoy had not hesitated to take the moment she had slipped them off.

And promptly tossed into a garbage bag.

She had known they reeked to high Heaven, but nostalgia and the anxiousness in this strange new world of hers itched her fingers with a need to pull at the worn thread of that stained and battered hoodie.

She wished with all her being for familiarity. Reflecting on the massive size of the roof she was beneath was a daunting void that threatened to swallow her hole, so she steered clear.

She slowly gathered herself out of bed, skin ghosting against the oversized sweat suit Dr. McCoy had handed her in the entrance way of his lab.

It had been an awkward initial exchange, Logan obviously nervously uncertain the protocols of bringing a homeless kid into a giant mansion. Do you feed them? They’re probably hungry. But what do you feed someone who’s eaten out of garbage cans for the past 6 years? Is chicken and vegetables too bland? Or is it too priveleged to assume it is? But what about a shower? Because they probably haven’t recently. At least they smell like they haven’t. Shower sounds good. But what about their clothes. You can’t expect them to put them back on. Because they smell too. And they’re really dirty. So they need new clothes.

And it was the latter Logan ran with, leading her down to the pits of the X-Men’s house where the walls changed from neutral yellow to a cold metal. And then she was being steered to a calming wall of fur and lab coat that exuded such a relieving steel blue, the ache in her bones craved nothing more than to curl up into it and cry herself into a slumber powerful enough to send her back to far away land.

It was amusing to watch the X-Men leader visibly stutter with her in tow, putrid yellow-greens scratching at her nose like a heavy scent she could smell, failing to subtly convey to the stranger in the lab coat that she needed clothes.

When she looked up, there were stout fangs indenting smiling lips, full of warmth and understanding to levels she had never experienced. Then there was a padded hand with elongated nails in her view, and a voice like the tumbling low wind that would rattle shop windows in the winter was introducing itself.

Hi, I’m Dr. Hank McCoy. Pleasure to finally meet you, Reagan.

In his words, coming from his voice, ‘Reagan’ almost sounded normal. Like it belonged to her. Like the name ‘Reagan’ had a face, with hair and eyes and a nose, and all of the other characteristics that came with being a living human.

And the way he said it. The same way Logan had said it when she introduced him to the girl beneath the hood and cap. As if the ‘Shadow Healer’ wasn’t the real identity. It wasn’t her identity. That someone else awoke in the morning and fell asleep beneath the smog dusk at night. She didn’t know yet if she liked that or not. For the time being, it would just continue to worm against her stomach and fill those philosophical thoughts that always gently disturbed her nights.

And bless Hank who was, in no offense to Logan, easier around her. He wasn’t coiled tight with anxiety but loose and comfortable, handing her a recently warmed jumpsuit with a yellow X. Then he was taking note of her swollen shoulder, her slight limp and the scratch along her hairline, and was suddenly steering her down another labyrinth of hallways.

Suddenly there was a room with a shower that gloriously scorched her skin and soap that didn’t smell and a hair brush that seemed to glide through her hair despite the nests of knots. She felt as if she changed on both a physical and emotional level. What felt like hours later, found her emerging from the cloud of heavy steam into another side room where she remembered nothing more but the warmth of the clothes she was in, the sweet scent of soap and the crisp linen pillow beneath her head.

Sliding out from the cotton sheets, thick socks slithered along wooden flooring to the cool October breeze, feet shivering at the feeling of the chilled marble of the balcony beneath her toes. The fresh air shocked her blood pumping, the fog of sleep swept swiftly from her mind.

She stared in awe at the scenery before her. Directly below her balcony was a large, stone patio below a wooden pergola, covered in rose vines, flowers retreating for the season. The yard stretched out in rolling hills for at least 2 acres before suddenly dropping way to beautiful cliffs, right before a small stretch of beach, all over-looking a vast body of water.

This could not be for real.

She was dreaming.

She was drugged.

Her mind was being manipulated.

The method was not important. What she did know for certain was that this was not reality. A smelly, homeless teenager was not just scooped up off the streets and settled into Barbie’s Dream House, complete with all of the accessories. She wasn’t Annie, and this wasn’t Oliver Warbucks’s New York mansion.

So how did she get out of this?

If it was a telepath, they were powerful enough to somehow tap into her powers and learn her reading abilities along with the associations between hormonal emotions and their resulting colors. She hadn’t come against someone of this caliber before, putting aside the very idea that they were somehow able to reach into her mind. He had taught her how to reach out mentally to him after placing the barriers. Worst comes to worst, she could somehow contact his own mental fields and send out a distress beacon.

If it was drugs…well they had to be some very good drugs. Everything was too realistic. The touches, smells and sounds her brain was registering were too intricate to be something drudged up from some induced stupor. So, high possibility it wasn’t drugs. Though with chemical concoctions like the Hope Serum making it’s rounds in the city, anything was possible.

"Isn’t it beautiful?"

A lot of things happened all at once in such a train wreck of a moment, she would remember it for years to come. A shriek exploded from her, feet propelled backward, unfortunately into each other’s escape routes and then suddenly she was dropping to the ground and pain rocketed along her tailbone.

"I’m so sorry. Sometimes I forget to be quiet when I stalk.”

There was that voice again. She opened her eyes and stared up at the figure.

The boy before her was dark, hair that parted in the middle, both parts flopping to each side, though not far enough to cover his extremely pointy ears. He had no pupils or irises, each pale expanse of sclera circled by a darker spot of skin. She suddenly discovered hi tail, ending in the shape of an arrow head.

She looked once again up to his small smile, his lips almost hiding the two, small fangs on each side of his mouth.

Another new figure.

Very intricately detailed and configured. A new voice pattern. New mannerisms and physical attributes. If she read his emotions, she was willing to bet they would be a perfect match to the twitching tail and the wide pale eyes watching her. She was dealing with no amateur of a telepath. Even worst, if they were going through this much trouble to keep up this act, they may have discovered the true power the Shadow Healer was keeping under wraps.

But then there were thuds echoing along her fingers, knocking the ball and sockets of her knuckles against each other to a perfect beat, and she became very confused.

A heartbeat.

Not hers. But his. His heartbeat.

That was impossible.

It couldn’t be.

But there it was again. And again. And again.

That meant. That meant this was real. All of it. Logan. The train ride. Ororo. Dr. McCoy. The X-Men. The mansion. The bedroom. Her bedroom.

It was all real. And suddenly all she wanted to do in that moment was cry and laugh and skip and sob and cry out to the moon.

He was asking if she was alright, and suddenly she was noticing the heavy Central European accent, German she was sure.

She nodded.

“Reagan, right?” and suddenly there was that three-fingered hand again, “Kurt Wagner, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Her hand had barely settled in his, and she was suddenly standing, his steady grip never leaving until he had brought her knuckles up to place an almost air light kiss upon them. His startling eyes never left hers, gently watching her in a comforting hold she could almost feel settle on her shoulders. She was sure she had responded with “The pleasure’s all mine,” but in his safe gaze, she wasn’t sure anymore.

“Ah, those Irish eyes. Always smiling, according to the song.”

She paused, fingers actually reaching to her cheeks to confirm she was doing just so. “How did you— “

“Your name; Reagan. Quite a popular surname there, but your face, freckles, and curls were enough. Judging by your scapular, probably Irish Catholic.”

She was taken aback once more. Was this what normal people conversed about? Nationality and Religion? Was this how introductions began at this time? She remembered them differently. But then again, nothing about her previous life reflected the societal norms of the times. She unintentionally went to smooth the pad of her finger over the faded medal. “You’re Catholic?”

Not many outside of the Christian faith knew what Scapulars were. 

He nodded, a peaceful look about his face. “Ja.” And then the playful smile was back, “And you didn’t correct me. So the Angel of New York is a Christian herself. Quite fitting.”

She cringed at the name. They were all too…fantastical, feeling gaudy and heavy with excess in her mouth.

The Shadow Healer.

The Angel of New York.

They felt ridiculous.

“I didn’t choose the name.”

He understood profoundly, she could see it in the way he gently smiled in return, in the way he tilted his head lower to reach her gaze to pass this shared reality between them. “We rarely do.”

Of course he understood. Tall, pointy ears, tail; he was the X-Men’s teleporter—Nightcrawler. A name such as that was no doubt bestowed by a third party. No self-respecting person named themselves after a worm.

“It suits you, though.”

He spoke again, and she let his words roll around in her head.

Which one, she wanted to ask.

The fake civilian name?

The mutant calling card that spoke only of the safe half of her abilities?

Or was it the moniker NYC had branded her with, so assured they knew who she truly was?

An angel? Hardly.

But she smiled in thanks to his polite kindness and turned back to the ocean stretched out before her, suddenly aching for it to swallow her whole.

Chapter Text

“I can’t chat right now, Badger.”

Razor sharp air scratched noisily against nares as he exhaled shortly, pupils nearly disappearing behind his head in irritation. And for the 23^rd time that day, he seriously debated his rationale in involving him.

“Don’t call me that,” he ground out, easing the office door closed behind him. Before him stood that 19^thcentury mahogany desk, intimidating in its lonely wait for its former occupant. Whose name plaque still resided right where his motorized wheelchair had once sat.

He immediately felt he was intruding, and resorted to pacing before the cold fire place, away from the desk and its heavy memories.

“Regardless, I’m busy. Leave a voicemail after the beep.”

His eyes rolled again.

The things he had to do as leader. He dreamed of the day these problems became someone else’s.

“Stark! I just need a minute. And I don’t even need you.”

There was a breathy laugh on the other side. “Iron Man is indisposed of at the moment. He’s helping Fury Swifter up the Potomac. Do you know about that? Do you have the news over there in Hicksville? Or does everything just reach you 2 weeks — “

“Stark! I just need your AI.”

A half second pause to absorb the fact before, “What?!”

An accented voice breezed delicately in, if at all smugly.“What can I assist you with, Lieutenant Howlett?”

There went his eyes again. Ever since Stark’s computer had found his old enlistment forms, he couldn’t get that dang glorified toaster to stop referring to his rank from Vietnam.  

A small part of him had reveled in it, to see his past stamped and sealed permanently on a piece of paper. Kind of made the broken memories concentrate a little. But they were still just that; broken. Scattered. 

“I need you to run a photo through your facial recognition software.”

“If you could just email the photo to Sir, I can have the results within the minute.”

Finally. He was getting somewhere.

“‘Preciate it, JAR. And ‘Logan’ is just fine.”

He could almost hear a bowed head.“Of course.”

Tony Stark wasted no time in breezing back into the conversation.“I see how it is. You’re just using me for my tech. This relationship is getting pretty one-sided. I think I want a divorce.”

Shit. If he rolled his eyes one more time, they were going get permanently stuck up there. “How’s clean up?” he offered by way of deviating.

A heavy sigh exploded on the other end, that reeked of 36 hours with no sleep and regulatory report forms for mistresses. He could complain about the X-Men all he wanted, but it never compared to the pencil-pushers and wig-wearers the Avengers had to appease. Sucked being national icons like that. “I don’t get paid enough for this. I need to teach my children how to clean up after themselves when they’re done playing.”

The conversation turned sour with somber, and Logan found himself lowering into the dark leather arm chair. “How’s Rogers?”

The tone was flippant, blasé attitude more for the comfort of the owner than the listener.“Widow whisked him out of Providence. Her spidey senses were tingling, or whatever. Got him and his little flying friend holed up in an undisclosed location until this dust clears out.”

He nodded, letting it all sink in. Had it already been over a week since Rogers had called him on some burner phone.

Romanov’s voice in the background, saying hi, asking about the team like it was just another phone call with old friends, catching up.

Rogers asking for his contacts in Fort Meade. Talking about some locked-up and retired Exo-7 Falcon suit they needed.

Then Rogers had promised their usual time the following Tuesday at McSorely’s, and he hung up.

Less than 48 hours later, and he’s watching a red, white and blue blob drop into the Potomac, every news anchor announcing the possible death of Captain America.

“And Barnes?” Because he had contacts in high places too.

 He could almost hear the shrug over the line. “MIA. Again. Guy makes it a living.”

“Just know. If you guys need anything— “

“Call Richards.”

“You got it.”

The AI breezed back in. “Mr. Logan, I am sending my findings back to your servers.”

“Took a little longer than a minute.”

“I apologize for the wait. My initial sweeps found no photos in all electronic databases with a match. I then, however, ran the photo through several new programs Sir has created, one of them an automated age-regression and progression software. That was when I found a match.”

“Which one did you use?”

“Regression.”

“What’s the--”

“I’ve found a 97.86% match.”

His phone beeped, an email from an Unknown sender, loaded with 48 relevant images and documents.

He opened the first one.

The name listed at the top of the obituary stopped him dead in his tracks.

No.

That. That couldn’t be right. That was impossible.

But then he scrolled upon pictures; family portraits, newspaper clippings, school photos.

And there she was.

She was much younger, dimples full and body healthy.

There was no way. Of all people to come to his rescue.

“Is this—?”

“I’ve sent all pertinent files and records to your servers,” the AI cut in.

“Thanks JARVIS.”

“My pleasure.”

“Getting dirt on another ne’er-do-well?” Stark chimed in.

“Something like that.”

“Let me know how that works out. Or don’t. I don’t care. Beep.”

“You lied!

Scott was striding to her now at full speed down the hallway, watching as the startled recruit turned to him. He watched large eyes lock on his, the fluidity with which her left index slid down her right palm only catching his eyes. Until he was lifting and slamming her against the wall by her shoulders, did his mind finally piece together what he had just watched.

She had been signing.

Her reflection glinted in ruby red glasses, stinging erupting where her head had clapped against the wall. As she tried desperately to remember the list of names Kurt had excitedly rhymed off to her earlier.

Scott, she was sure.

He snarled up at her. “You’re somehow the Carvalho’s dead kid, and you didn’t think of telling us?!”

Her stomach dropped down to her dangling feet, as she blinked back the nausea crawling out her throat.

How did he find out? How did he know?

“Do you know what’d happen if your parents, if the media, found out we took you in!? They’d castrate us before sticking our heads on pikes and setting them out on 9th! You’re painting a giant target on all of our asses! You’re putting all of our lives at risk!”

“Scott, I didn’t— “

He pulled back only to shove her against the wall once more. “Didn’t what !? Didn’t think!? Didn’t care!? That seems pretty damn accurate!”

“Summers!”

She was startled for the second time that day, around these people whose indoor voices were battle-cry volume.

Logan was beside them in an instant, ripping away Scott like he weighed nothing. She dropped to the ground, the impact rattling her bones through her heels, shaking her already frayed nerves. She heard the distant sound of echoing metal.

Last time she had heard that, there were metal spikes coming out of Logan’s knuckles.

She heard Scott’s voice first. “You’re seriously protecting her!?”

It was loud, ragged like it had been cut with a rusted, dull knife. There was a desperation beneath it all, she didn’t know if Logan heard. A cry of fear. She didn’t chance a look at him, but she knew his body would be steeped in deep and rich greens. She could almost taste it on her tongue, felt it ghost at her fingertips like mist.

His voice was back tapping at her ear again, dragging her back in the present. Tone hard and resentful and spiteful. “But then again, why am I not surprised.”

Logan’s snarl came second.

And then she heard a third voice join them.“Logan!”

And a fourth. “Scott!”

And then a fifth. “Reagan!”

She turned to find Kurt coming to a crouch beside her, a red head going to stand beside Scott, hands almost pulling him back, Dr. McCoy coming to stand with arms outstretched between them.

“What’s going on?” Hank demanded of them.

“Why don’t you ask Reagan?” Scott snarled, trying to pull out of the woman’s grasp. He turned to her, and in that moment, she had never been more curious to see what lay behind his ruby glasses. “Or should we even call you that?”

Kurt peered over at him in utter confusion. “What?”

Summers nodded to her. “Her name’s not Reagan. It’s Maebh Carvalho. The kid of the world’s two most prominent anti-mutant activists!”

The hallways fell deafly silent, the only sound the prattling rain drops hitting the glass window illuminating them. Four pairs of eyes turned to look at her in varying degrees of confusion, surprise, anger and pity. Logan still kept his eyeslocked on Scott.

Jean was the first to speak up. “You’re Governor Raul and Dr. Alicia Carvalho’s daughter?”

Hank was shaking his head, defensive stance between the two only slightly wavering. “That’s impossible. Their daughter and son are dead. Have been for years now.”

Kurt turned to her, expectant. “Reagan?”

She bowed her head.

She felt like vomiting all over the carpeting.

This was it.

The feeling she had had waking up in the bedroom. Thinking that things like this only happened in fairy tales. That once they found out who she was, what she was, they wouldn’t want her anymore. That the ‘X’ came with conditions.

Yeah, it was back. And slapping her in the face, leaving it stinging.

It left her reeling and nauseous, and wishing for the quick and clean finality of a poisoned apple.

But no. This moment was going to drag and let her idle in the bed she made.

Her next words were the second most painful things she had ever experienced.

“He’s right.”

The red head wasn’t convinced, certain of the thousands of the news coverage stories she had watched. “How? You died. You were murdered.”

She nodded. Damn, it felt like glass was carving away at her throat. “I did. And I didn't.”

“Maebh Carvalho was born mute, though.”

Oh gosh, and then there was that secret.

A secret she didn’t entirely understand herself.

“I was. I am. I’m still— “

Scott didn’t want explanations. “She could be working for her parents, feeding them intel on the nation’s most wanted mutant vigilante group!”he called out.

All were slightly spooked at the darkness that slipped into their recruit’s voice as she glared daringly back at him. “Trust me, I’m not.”

“Scott, I picked her up off the streets! She didn’t have a home before this!” Logan defended.

She knew he didn’t mean ill at all, but his words sent a punch to her gut, stole her breath from her lungs. Why, though? Because she had known all along? But once someone else said it, admitted it, out loud; then it made it real?

Scott waved his arms in exasperation. “And who’s to say that wasn’t all an act?!”

Dr. McCoy turned, expression grave. “Given the state she was found in, I find that theory very unlikely, Scott.”

“Regardless. She can’t be trusted. She’s gotta go.”

Kurt spoke up, still crouched on her level, but felt large, as he tightened defensively beside her. “If she goes, then I guess I’m leaving too.”

Scott turned to him, “Kurt, stay out of this.”

“Why? If we’re judging team status on our parents, then I’d be the first to go. Who knows, maybe Mystique or Azazel will take me back.”

The names she wasn’t familiar with. Calling cards by the sound of them. But the spite Kurt threw them with; there was a strained relation there. Anger. Resentment. She could taste their colors on her tongue.

The red head stepped in, hand on Scott’s shoulder forcefully pulling him away, back down the hallway he had been stomping about minutes before, printed results from Stark Industries still clutched in his hands.

Thanks to Forge’s infiltrating program he had pilfered.

He had been suspicious of the new recruit from the beginning.

Jean, maybe.

She thinks that’s the red head’s name.

“Come on, Scott. Let’s go cool down before you say something you’re going to regret.”

Jean (hopefully) lead a reluctant Scott back down the hallway, throwing Reagan an apologetic look over her shoulder.

Logan remained tense until the two disappeared around the corner, and he could hear them head down the opposite stairway.

He turned behind him to the sound of sniffling.

“I’m so sorry.”

Reagan was still sitting on the ground, hands limp in her lap, shoulders slumped.

Kurt was crouching back down, dipping his head to try and meet her eyes. “Hey— “

She shook her head, voice wet and thick. “I’m so sorry to be causing so much trouble. I’m so sorry I kept it from you. I shouldn’t have done that, especially from you guys. You’ve been so kind and giving to me since the moment I got here— “

Kurt put both hands on her shoulders. “There’s nothing to apologize for. We didn’t ask, so there was no reason for you to explain.”

“Scott can overreact sometimes, but it’s not— “

“Guys! Guys! You’re never going to believe this!”

All eyes met a frazzled Kitty rushing towards them. “There’s a Sentinel loose in the city!”

Hank appeared astonished, “What!?”

She sprinted up to Logan, handing him blown up footage hot off hacked security cameras, watching with interest as Kurt was helping the new recruit up from the ground. “Reports are coming in real-time. He’s making a mess of Parkside.”

Logan nodded. “Alright, suit up guys. Forge, grab Jean and Scott from outside and fill them in. Hangar in 10.”

He turned back to her, watching as she was composing and already moving to follow them. He put his hand out. “Kid, I need you stay here, ok. We’ll be back in little while. Forge’ll be here if you need anything.”

He turned and headed for the hangar without another word.

“No.”

She pointed at her reflection in the clean metal paneling of the one of many supply closets scattered about the institute.

It had been the one Dr. McCoy had taken her to that morning in search of clothes that would fit. Which had ended up being a bunch of sweatpants, hoodies and t shirts. But amongst the crates were words like UNIFORMSand SPARE TR. SUITS and MISC. JACKETS, things like boots and survival kits and duffel bags peeking out of boxes.

And there she found herself, pacing back and forth along the narrow path between boxes, talking herself out of something, deep down inside, she felt she needed to do.

“He told you to stay here. He ordered you to.”

That’s right. He did.

If Logan thought they were going to be fine, then they were going to be fine.

So why did she feel dread squeezing her stomach for all it was worth?

“He’s your leader, now. That’s a thing. You take orders from him now.”

That’s right!

He is your leader now!

No more of this lone wolf, it’s-me-against-the-world angst. She was a member of a team. Dynamic of a team was to work together under a leader.

Whether she liked his orders or not, she listened to him.

“They’ll be fine. The X-Men have gone up against worst.”

Another very good point.

They have. With less members.

“So then why do I feel…”

Scared.

Afraid.

Worried.

Nervous.

Anxious.

And all over people she’d just met.

Some she didn’t really know.

She glanced back at the boxes, but immediately averted her attention to the wall.

“No. Nope. Nopitty-nope. You’re staying here and that’s final.”

Smoke rose with a vengeance from scrambled cars, metal stretched and scorched. Deep scratches at the earth marred the pavement, some even gaining tenacity to climb the walls of neighboring buildings. Sheets of road lay scattered in disheveled pieces, gathering in deep pockets of the ground formed by the haunted pounding of heavy, metal feet.

But what bothered Wolverine the most had the feral mutant throwing a fearful, hesitated glance back at the pedestrians who had gotten caught within the conflict, huddling ever so violently together by what remained of a small, coffee shop.

The Sentinel was smart.

It had known to attack the Parkside Housing Project, most of the neighborhood occupied by mutants who had been relocated shortly after the Mutant Housing Bill was passed, allowing hotels and apartment buildings to place mutant restriction policies in their rooms.

Mutants all across New York were, within hours of the passing of the bill, thrown mercilessly out onto the streets.

Mutants flocked to neighborhoods with ample zombie property, and found refuge amongst each other.

The former Weapon-X could only watch as Summers was blasted clear from his stance before the robotic beast, sailing limply through the air and landing with a crunch against a Mazda, smoke still billowing from his freshly activated eyes.

It was playing with them. Original programming had been shut off, the Trask’s perfect little project now focused on making as much of a mess of the neighborhood as it could, focused only partially on the annoying humans below.

He knew that whatever masterful hold was on the Sentinel was not one to take lightly.

Someone else was controlling it.

Time finally balanced around him, the screeching sounds of the large city and muffled screams of terror from the pedestrians behind him beginning to ring mercilessly in his ear as he turned back up to the towering Sentinel.

Its head stiffly twisted from its glare on the unconscious Cyclops, laying still on the roof of the car, to look at the X-Men leader.

"Mutant detected," its mechanical voice decreed, its arm simultaneously rising to alignment with the still dazed Wolverine.

He watched as the orb within its palm began to burn with a familiar purple. Instincts kicked in, and Wolverine leapt from his spot, tumbling and rolling unsteadily. It sent an ear-piercing ringing bounding across his head as it imploded with the asphalt, debris flying, sending the group of huddled mutants into another disorderly frenzy.

He listened carefully as strings of affirming confirmations trickled through his ear piece, mistakenly believing that the alloy titan before him still contained its rather slow processing.

"Zone A is cleared out," Nightcrawler sounded.

"Zone B as well," Storm announced.

And before he could have a chance for his heightened senses to assess the situation and react, he felt his whole vision lighten with the Sentinel's blast, feeling a wrenching, burning pain erupt all along his chest, and his body go airborne.

The blinding burn that scorched across his ribs and upper abdomen were enough to vaguely cover his rather ungraceful plunge in the asphalt, but his now throbbing spine was indication enough that his healing factor was working on over drive.

His ringing ears could pick up the faint calls of his fast approaching teammates behind him, just as his blurry vision began refocusing on the encroaching Sentinel. He could vaguely hear Kitty calling out his name and Jean yelling out to Beast to help her with Scott, who Logan was already regretting not breaking the fall for. Scott wasn't immune to injury. Wolverine could care less what he put his body through.

Logan tried to lift himself up from the ground, but his arm wasn't able to carry his dead weight and he collapsed back to the pavement, half-listening as Iceman and Kurt began calling out to the distressed group of citizens while Shadowcat's footsteps were steadily growing closer.

Wolverine turned his head up to the Sentinel, his shadow now completely covering the X- Men leader, who felt his stomach catch in his throat as the robot slowly inched his head in a circle, his eyes igniting as it registered the fast approaching band of new mutants.

"No," Wolverine whispered, watching as the Sentinel raised both hands, palms igniting, directing them on the group of huddled pedestrians, Iceman and Nightcrawler's backs to the threat.

"Guys!" Wolverine called out hoarsely, neither one of them catching their leader's warning.

While the adults of the cluster had their eyes trained on the two X-Men, watching them as they gestured toward subway staircases and restaurant basements, a small girl suddenly turned to the huge robot before the group, letting out an ear-piercing shriek as her small eyes settled on his glowing hands.

And time seemed to stop for Wolverine, as he watched in a haze as his young teammates turned, wide-eyed behind them, throwing each other a quick glance of fear as they turned back to the innocents, their mouths now opening in showers of frantic screams. Feet began pounding and faces became hysterically anxious as they prepared themselves to run.

Suddenly, he twisted his gaze beside him, a small corner of his eye abruptly stirring with a flash of white light.

He’d recognize that light anywhere.

"Halt, mutant," came only seconds later, mechanical palm raising to meet the levitating mutant dead on, as mechanics whirred and gears grinded to fully face them.

The Shadow Healer stared down the blaster, its palm began to pulse its infamous purple shade, the whirs of its blaster’s ignition exploding in their ears.

Jean and Beast paused in shouldering Cyclops from the dismantled car, Nightcrawler and Iceman turned from the fleeing crowd and Shadowcat peered up from her crouch beside Wolverine, Storm feet behind her.

All staring at the standoff ensuing between their new recruit and an MRD weapon that was believed to be long dismantled.

In one fluid motion, both arms were raised and directed at the activated blaster.

The air popped with ignition, inches before her hands sparking into a burning white light, an energy surge soon taking form.

It went scorching in a stream through the Sentinel's blaster.

The stream disappeared, the air cooled, and the shattered glass of the weapon’s bulbs went crashing to the ground.

The robotic titan wasted no time in raising its other arm, already activating it before it left its side.

The Shadow Healer was faster still, levitating body burning an ever brighter hue, limbs and edges indistinguishable beneath the light, a construct almost as bright as her materializing just in time to block the blast.

The X-Men shielded their eyes from the collision of the two energies, the air around them heavy with the scent of something burning, exploding with sound.

It died down, and the Wolverine was the first to peer back up. The Sentinel’s blast was finished, systems were rebooting, and gears were rerouting remaining power for another discharge. 

But the glowing form above his head had other plans in store. He watched a movement of her upper body, the shield construct simultaneously pulling apart.

Separating into three smaller constructs.

To Wolverine’s interest, shaped roughly like stars.

The air suddenly stilled.

Not a movement disrupted the atmosphere.

Not a sound pierced the silence.

All was calm. All was bright.

Wolverine could hear, and smell, and feel the heat radiating dozens of feet above him from a mutant he had thought only to be a healer.

He watched as two constructs went spiraling, straight towards the Sentinel’s face, both exploding on impact.

The titan reeled back unbalanced on its heel. It paused to recalibrate its equilibrium, smoke clearing to reveal two holes where its optics had been.

There was movement again above him.

The last projection was suddenly curving low and then up, the bright light sawing cleanly through the giant's wrist and sending its hand free falling towards the ground below.

The giant's movements were stiff and haphazard, its limbs skittering in an attempt to regain programming.

But Bolivar Trask’s creation didn’t stand a chance.

With a shout that startled them all, an arc of pure, blinding light surged out from her, scorching through the Sentinel’s chest, the scattered chorus of sparks from its damaged internal wiring resonating victoriously across the block.

The neighborhood fell into silence again.

And then suddenly, it had ended.

The flying mutant watched as the purple glow of the online Sentinel turned off, as the now lifeless husk finally began its backward fall to the ground.

The crash was deafening, the shockwave whipping at their hair and pulling at their uniforms.

It echoed across the now quiet night, finite in its volume.

He threw Shadowcat a grateful look as she helped him off of the asphalt. He did a quick assessment of his team, searching for Scott. He found him draped around Jean and Hank, breathing heavily with his focus on the ground. But a tight smile and nod from Jean reassured him that, for the time being, Cyclops was ok. 

And in the middle of a wrecked and quiet Parkside, the X-Men watched with slack jaws and wide eyes as the bright mass slowly lowered to the ground, its human characteristics becoming more visible. He was frustrated that she had disobeyed him and had participated in the field without training, but his voice betrayed his posture, just taste of fondness leaking out. “I thought I told you to stay at the institute.”

The light had faded to a dim outer glow, eventually petering out completely, leaving just a small young woman in an X-Men sweat suit, drowning in one of Storm’s old capes.

He could barely make out her face beneath its hood, but what he could see was wide and taut as it stared down at her hands.

Her eyes glanced warily at them as if ready for them to explode right before her.

He tried again, softer this time. “Kid, you ok?”

She turned to him, spooked as if she hadn’t heard him before. She was nodding frantically at him. She was out of breath when she finally spoke. “Yeah. Yeah. Totally. Just a little. Wind-whipped.”

He smiled down at her, arms crossed fondly across his chest. “Did you know you could do that?”

He chuckled when she turned back up to him, laughing from waning adrenaline, grinning from ear to ear. “No! Forget that whole light show; I didn’t even know I could fly that fast! I made it from the mansion in like, what, 15 minutes!? That’s like…I can’t actually do math right now, but that’s really fast!” she exclaimed.

The X-Men were all smiling now, from exhaustion, from a crisis averted, and from a young teenager just discovering the incredible potential that lay within her powers.

“Have you never used your powers before?” he asked.

She shrugged, still smiling and still trying to catch her breath. “The healing stuff. Sure. But that whole scene just now. I knew I could do it. I could always feel it. But I never did it. That was. Wow. That was nuts!”

She turned to Storm, suddenly. “Also, really sorry about borrowing your cape. I needed something to hide in, because your giant mansion full of vigilantes doesn’t have a single mask. What kind of superheroes are you?” she asked, turning to the rest of the group.

Iceman threw up a tired hang loose sign. “The kind too cool for secret identities.”

“It’s alright. I’m glad it’s being put to good use,” Storm replied fondly.

Jean nodded. “It actually looks fitting on you, Reagan. Maybe a little hemming.”

The Shadow Healer peered down at herself, twisting to try and take in the entirety of her body. “You think?” she asked, twirling uncertainly for her team.

And in that moment, in baggy sweat pants, a hoodie that hung on her like a dress and a cape that seemed to swallow her hole, draped along the ground, the X-Men saw it.

In that fantastical, existential moment, they were looking at a heroine.

Even if she couldn’t see it yet.

The city released a breath. The air, poised before on an inhale, released. The sidewalks and the buildings still stuttered with raw adrenaline, nerves uncoiling, albeit slowly.

The crisis was averted. The city was safe once more, as the night preceded around it, untouched. Two bodies were tucked away on apartment rooftop in its shadows.

Bags were strewn out alongside them, brimming with week old clothes, empty water bottles and cartridges, granola bar wrappers and blood stains. Two return tickets from Blackwater, New Jersey sticking out of a dirtied backpack, a prop for his elbow as he peered through his military grade binoculars.

“Well, damn.”

He turned to the red head beside him, who was swiping through readings pulled from footage taken not just seconds ago, when the fate of the city tipped precariously over a sharpened edge.

‘“Well damn’? That’s all you have to say is ‘Well, damn’? Did you see what I just saw!? That deserved a what in the absolute fuster cluck was that!?”

She snorted beside him, the corner of her mouth tipping upward ever so slightly. “Nothing surprises me anymore.”

He gave another cursory glance through the binoculars, though his world-renowned vision picked out even more details than the ones they were feeding him, before setting them down and turning to his partner. “What the hell are we supposed to tell Stark?”

Natasha Romanov gave a shrug to Clint Barton, closing up the Stark Pad and stuffing it in her already full knapsack. “Obviously something a lot different than what we put in the report for Fury. Keep details focused on the Sentinel; operated off of an untraceable frequency, Trask’s labs are still squeaky clean, looked like a show more than anything.”

Without another word, they were silently and methodically packing up their belongings. Equipment was efficiently disassembled and tucked away, surfaces were dusted and cleaned of prints. It was a process the former SHIELD agents had done a million times before.

Hawkeye waited a whole 4 seconds, to the Black Widow’s amusement, before voicing his concern for the 12^thtime that night. “I got a bad feeling about this whole double-crossing business.”

She shrugged again. Double-crossing along sticky webs was what the Widow had been bred to do. It was second nature. “We only have to do it this one time before she signs on with us, and Stark sticks the princess in an untouchable ivory tower.”

“Away from SHIELD.”

She nodded. “Away from SHIELD.”

He blew a hot breath through his cheeks. “Well, damn.”

She was slipping bags over her shoulder, texting away to an untraceable number for a ride at a rendezvous point, her teammate still trying to stuff down what she bet were souvenirs from Dubai he hadn’t unpacked yet.

The archer had been knee-deep undercover, infiltrating an illegal arms-dealing ring, when his SHIELD issued tech had all but pulled a Mission Impossible self-destruction on him. He had put his neck out to make an untraced call back to headquarters, only to find all emergency lines scrubbed from existence and handlers’ numbers disconnected. In the end, all it had earned him was a hit to the head, and 2 hours later, chained to a chair in an abandoned warehouse, the run-of-the-mill torture weapons spread out to the side and a bunch of pissed off criminals.

Cue the clandestine, bullets-soaring, hellfire-raining entrance of one Natasha Romanov and one Phil Coulson.

Who was supposed to be dead.

Whom he promptly kicked in the balls once he was free.

And stomped on his foot.

And then immediately hugged.

And to Coulson’s embarrassment, kissed.

10 sketchy car swaps later, and a ride from hell on a puddle jumper from the ‘80s finally found them back on US soil, and somehow getting more orders from a guy who was technically dead, head of an organization that was pretty much road kill, all thanks to some Nazi-bred illuminate group from the ‘40s.

Disclosed orders: to observe an online Sentinel. Source: chatter from its unknown master picked up before SHIELD went up in smoke.

Undisclosed orders: to pull data on the Shadow Healer, rumored to have been picked up by the X-Men quite recently, for SHIELD intel. Source: unknown.

“Thought that phrase wasn’t good enough.”

“It isn’t but…Nat,” he said, arms stretching out to the city before him. “Nat. The readings we just got.”

She sighed. “I know.”

This just opened a whole other can of worms none of them were apt at swallowing at that moment.

Clint was still reeling. “The power that girl’s packing.”

She gave him a hand, hefting the fully loaded archer to his feet. “I know.”

They kept their bodies crouched to the rooftop, slipping across to the fire escape, and made their way quietly down to the street.

“Damn,” Clint whispered again, the two falling into an eased pace beside each other, eyes tracking the night life around them with practiced ease.

Natasha sighed again. “I know.”

Tired sighs were expelled and weighted duffels were plopped on the ground, both noises echoing across the cold and dark empty floor.

She muttered something in the dark, her response a few of the dimmer lights in the large communal kitchen turned on. He bounced up onto the countertop, catching the jar of peanut butter and spoon she tossed blindly over her shoulder as she perused the stocked cabinets.

Both heads turned to the sound of a voice filtering out from the opening doors of the elevator behind them. “Alright, super spies. Spill the tea.”

Clint shrugged, roughly swallowing down the glop of peanut butter in his throat. “She exists.”

Tony exhaled, stained black undershirt expanding, and rolled his eyes, slipping behind Natasha on route to the coffee machine. “So urban legend’s now a nonfiction piece. Good start,” he drawled sarcastically.

“Healing abilities weren’t confirmed,” Natasha noted, leading the fridge door close with her shoulder. On the countertop she deposited her stockpile of yogurt cups, dried fruit bags, and leftover spaghetti.

“Ok. Not ideal,” Tony admitted beneath a poorly concealed yawn. “But we’ve got other sources to confirm that.”

“She’s gifted,” Clint piped up.

Tony snorted. “No shit, Sherlock.”

“No, I don’t think you get it,” Natasha interjected, nodding to her former SHIELD partner, “Show him the specs.”

Tony turned just in time to catch the Stark Pad Clint tossed to him. He threw the archer a death glare, before scanning the bright screen. “These aren’t -- woah.”

“Yeah.”

“Holy shit,” Tony whispered to himself. He couldn’t believe what he was looking at. You’d think after years of working with the likes of the walking electrical conductor with golden hair, Captain 70 Year Suspended Animation Champion, and the Jolly Green Giant, he’d be more used to see the extraordinary in ordinary humans.

And yet here he was standing in the Avenger’s Tower’s 23^rdfloor kitchen, two world renowned assassins flanking his sides. One sucking down peanut butter like it was crack, the other popping strawberries in her mouth while simultaneously pulling out knives from her beneath her suit, dropping them on his clean island -- andnope, he did not know you could keep a knife there – looking at a floating mass on his screen.

Whose core temperature was reaching over 6000K.

Undergoing constant nuclear fusion like it was going out of style.

Lighting up his stellar energy readings like a Christmas tree on Red Bull.

“This chick. This is the Shadow Healer!?”

“Yep,” Clint responded, popping the ‘p.’

“But she’s—“

“Got powers emitting energy that supersedes any artificial weaponry on Earth? Yeah. We know,” Natasha replied, extremely interested in a particular spot of blood on the hilt of one of her daggers. Tony shuddered to himself.

“Where did you dig this freak up, Badger?” he asked himself.

Natasha then spoke up, “Based on the files you scavenged, does it look like Fury had even an inkling that she could do. You know. All that?”

Tony shook his head, eyes still watching the readings filtering across the old video feed. “No. All he filed were rumors on her healing touch or whatever. Sent out one ground team for recon months back, but the data they pulled doesn’t even touchthis.”

Tony raised his head at the sound of a hard slap, catching just in time Clint pulling away his hand from the bowl of fruit, looking wounded, Natasha barely batting an eye at him. “We think she can turn the energy readings on and off. We were able to ping them briefly while she was using them, but they disappeared just as quickly,” Clint informed, rubbing delicately at his hurting knuckles.

Tony was surprised she hadn’t used the open, exposed and easily accessible knives surrounding her to warn the archer.

“So we’re thinking Fury’s in the dark because he never caught her when she was…glowing.”

Natasha nodded. “That’s our best guest.”

“And will he still be in the dark?”

Clint gave him a goofy thumbs up, before swinging his body off the counter, straight for the cereal cabinet. “Report we’re sending him gives a rough sketch of some possible illumination capabilities, but nothing noteworthy. Lucky SHIELD scattered underground so no one can fact check us.”

“Any bystanders?”

“13. They’re not going to talk.”

That didn’t sound sketchy in the slightest.

“Any possibility footage’s going to make its rounds online?”

“Fat chance,” he replied, grabbing a fistful of some chocolate and peanut butter puff balls, the rest warbled between chews. “Frequency disrupter’s got a 4-mile radius. Anything outside that zone would’ve captured grainy feed that won’t really stick anywhere.”

“That’s my good little assassins.”

“Woof,” Natasha drawled.

“How’s Rogers?”

Both assassins paused; Clint in the stuffing of his face, Natasha in her knife-coddling ministrations.

“So. That’s why we’re here,” she finally answered. 

Damn he hated pauses.

“Wasn’t to see my beautiful face, Honey?”

“Rogers’s got appendicitis.”

That. He wasn’t expecting. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Was holed up with him and Sam at one of Clint’s safe houses. Started complaining about a pain.”

He scoffed, sliding the Stark Pad on the counter. “Well, yeah. He’s more holes right now than Super Soldier.”

The former Russian spy shook her head. “Not near any of the gunshot wounds. Sam says its appendicitis. Fever’s spiking.”

“He’s got the serum.”

“It can’t magically grow him a new appendix.”

Tony roughly ran his fingers through his hair. “Well. Shit.”

Clint pointed to himself, other arm deep in the fast emptying cereal box. “My thoughts exactly.”

“We need the girl,” Nat added. Like she was just asking for something to be added to the weekly shopping list.

“Girl. You mean this girl?” Tony exclaimed, pointing at the Pad. “And how the hell do you plan on doing that?”

Clint smiled smugly. “We don’t keep you around just for looks.”

The Manhattan-born billionaire reflected on that comment for a second, eyes widening when he realized just what the stupid spies were implying. “Oh hell no. I am not calling Badger for one of his little monsters. You want the mutant; you call him yourself.”

And even as he said it, he knew he had already been signed up for the job.

Man did he hate talking to that over-stuffed, rabid woodland creature.

Dude had human-decency issues.

“Tony, we need her.”

“You want her, or Fury does?”

“Both. We’re just telling Fury the X-Men gave us a hard and inarguable ‘no.’ Given his history with Logan, he’s not about to go convincing the Wolverine himself.”

“I’ve got like a thousand of the world’s best doctors on speed dial.”

Natasha almost looked apologetic. Funny how she wasn’t the one walking up to be strangled by Edward Scissorhands incarnate. “He can’t go back into surgery, Tony. We need something noninvasive. Someone noninvasive. And we need them now. Would take too long to try and clear your guys on retainer. We don’t know whose Hydra.”

He sighed.

It was useless. He knew it too.

“So you need her here,” he admitted with defeat.

Clint sucked a whistle of air through clenched teeth. “Well. No. See. That’s our other little problem.”

“Yes…” Stark prodded.

Clint still held that tight expression as he turned to Natasha. Pleadingly.

Way to be a man, Barton, Stark thought.

“Sam needed equipment. Clint’s place wasn’t stocked. So we took Steve to Blackwater,” Natasha finally answered.

Ah hell, no.

Where was the alcohol? Pepper better not have hid the keys to the liquor cabinets again.

He groaned, dramatically dragging a hand down his face, leaving trails of grease from his fingers along his cheeks. “Please tell me there’s another poor, unfortunate hell hole called Blackwater out there.”

Clint gave a cheeky grin, that bastard. “Nope. Only one.”

“You took him to a SHIELD site!? In Jersey?!”

Natasha let her spoon dance between her fingertips. “Technically, SHIELD doesn’t exist anymore.” Like that made it any better.

“It’s an unregistered site. It’s clean. And we got clean people patrolling the area,” Clint supplied.

No. That still didn’t make it ok. “Do you know how dumb of a move that was!? Was the crumbling Triskelion and falling Helicarriers not enough to sear that into your brain!?”

Clint threw his hands up in a whaddya gonna do gesture. “We had one unmarked Quinjet low on fuel and a really heavy Super Soldier we had to sneak out of Providence. The odds weren’t really in our favor.”

“Tony.” The billionaire turned uncertainly to the Black Widow’s interestingly concerned tone, “He’s in bad shape. Sam needed supplies. We moved him too soon from the hospital.”

Well…“Shit.”

The spies remained silent as they watched and waited for Tony Stark to process all they had just given him. Even for 2 am in the morning, low on caffeine, neither were surprised when he turned back to them, up to speed and ready to do some damage.

“Do you know how hard it’ll be to convince Badger to let one of his own into a SHIELD compound? In light of what just happened? And after I tell him Fury’s got his eyes on her?”

Natasha gave that corner smirk, just shy of a Cheshire grin, “If anyone can sweet talk him, it’s you, Iron Man.”

He blew a breath out. “Shit.”

“Choose a different word,” Natasha replied casually.

“Damn.”

Clint shook his head. “I already called that one.”

He sighed again. “Anything else you moochers want.”

“When Logan agrees, a cleared area he can land the Blackbird. She’s gotta come in low, clean and solo. Maybe a convenient lapse in video feed in a few hallways. Banner too.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “When ? Not if ?”

She chewed through another strawberry. “He may hate you, but he’s got a soft spot for Steve.”

Steve.

The man of the hour.

The perpetrator of the entirety of this shit show.

That he was left cleaning up.

Because Rogers was all. Holey.

And now, apparently, on the brink of going septic.

“How long does Sam think Rogers’s got?” Stark asked.

She tried to look calm about her following words, lackadaisically twirling her spoon around the yogurt cup. But he saw right through it. “Serum’s holding off some of the effects, but it’s already working overtime with the rest of him. His body’s exhausted. So not long. A week maybe. Tops.”

He scrubbed another hand through his hair. “Dammit, Rogers.”

Guess this had to be done. “Yeah. Alright. Yeah. I’ll call him now. Prepare the hard stuff, Jar.”

“I’ll keep it at the ready, Sir.”

Clint raised his hand excitedly. “Hey. Can I get in on that?”

“So, Richards didn’t pan out.”

Was he never going to catch a break?

He must’ve sounded his frustration aloud, because Stark was back on his ass within seconds.

“Oh come on, Badger. You got to play around with my cool toys, now I want to see yours.”

That’s it. He was done.

He dealt with enough kids parading as adults on a daily basis. He didn’t need an even bigger one phone calling him after he had already pulled a beer from the fridge, on his way to settle into the outdoor seating area for the chilled evening.

He regretted asking it the moment the words left his mouth. “What do you need?”

“Well, if we’re being frank, Rogers needs to stop trying to tackle every immoral cooperation in the world.”

He sighed. Aloud again, he thinks. “The real issue, Stark.”

“Rogers needs medical help we can’t give him. Few little birdies told me your new compatriot has a lot of experience in that field.”

He snarled, sliding the storm door shut forcefully behind him. “You keeping tabs on me n’ my team, tin can!?”

That’s all he needed. The kid had been with them for what, less than 24 hours? And she already had those NYC lackeys hot on her tail.

“Technically SHIELD is. And I’m keeping tabs on them. Found her file in their backlogs.”

He paused briefly in his crouch into the wicker couch at Stark’s words. “Anything interesting?”

“In their files; nothing. Now mine are a whole different story. Did you know your little glow stick is giving off solar flares like it’s B.O.?”

Shit.

Double freakin’ shit.

Hank’s findings had been by chance. The scientist had been sure of that. But he warned anyone looking hard enough, waiting hard enough, might know how much energy her body was storing. And based off of tonight’s adventure, she could wield it as well.

For as obnoxious and obtuse as Stark could be, he sometimes had his insightful moments. Like this one, when he seemed to be able to pick out the concern from the silence filtering through from the other line. “Logan? JARVIS is putting every lockdown protocol on her files as we speak. No one is getting to them.”

He felt a little bit better about that. But that didn’t make the issue disappear. “What’s Fury want with her?” he asked, taking a long pull from his bottle while Stark replied with, “Same as us. Looking for someone to help Rogers.”

Fury had gotten a little more people-friendly over the years. Wrangling a bunch of toddlers jacked up on gamma radiation and electricity into saving the world, simultaneously smiling for the camera and telling the 7 billion people behind the lens that SHIELD had the public’s best interest at heart, humbles a guy.

But a man doesn’t lose his scent for opportunities benefitting of him and his agenda. Ulterior motives are a habit no man breaks.

Not even the esteemed Nicholas J. Fury.

And he had dealt with the spy too many times to forget how those motives can wreck another’s life.

Getting the kid to heal Rogers would just be the start.

Fury’d have her number on speed dial then.

Maybe the President needed saving one say. From a cold. The plague. Strep throat. Whatever.

And that was all well and good.

Until she’d find out later the President had been on the fence about severing ties with a foreign nation, whatever their reasons were. And that thosesevered ties would result in strained international relations, making the jobs of every single SHIELD spy infesting that nation’s government all the more difficult.

And her healing the President; that was a trade-off.

A nice ol’ pat on the back, a compelling incentive to do the right thing.

Fury’s way of scratching the President’s back.

“And he thinks she can do it?”

“He doesn’t know. The files he’s got on her, Logan--the pirate knows next to jack about her. My guess is he’s heard the rumors just like everybody else, and he wants to see what she can do.”

Rumors were what that espionage agency lived off of.

“And put her on his payroll,” Logan surmised cynically.

“Probably.”

He sighed again.

This was the last time he was taking another mutant in.

He was done.

If Chuck wanted more, he’d have to wake up from the coma himself and deal with this bullshit.

He just wanted to finish his beer.

“He’s not laying a finger on her, Stark. Over my dead body.”

“Hey, no one’s making her sign the dotted line. Trust me, I’m still in the process of burning Barton and Romanov’s employee badges.”

He wanted to tell the billionaire that Hydra kind of already did that for him.

But it was still a sore subject.

And he didn’t need another dose of Stark’s deflecting sarcasm in that present moment.

Or ever again, for that matter.

“So this has to stay off their radar,” he reiterated.

He could hear the hesitancy when Stark finally answered.

He hated pauses.

“Might be a little easier said than done.”

What the hell did that mean?

If he was at Stark Industries, what was the problem?

Unless… “They’re keeping him on site, aren’t they?”

“Don’t ever let ‘em tell you you’re dumb, Badger.”

This day just kept getting better and better.

“There’re not all burned to ground?” he said, exasperation in no way hiding.

He could hear the shrug over the phone. “Apparently he was mid-building one off the books when shit turned sideways.”

“You can’t move him?”

“Didn’t Fury give you the whole We Got Eyes Everywhere lecture?”

He didn’t care where Fury was growing his second eye, if Stark wanted her, they were going to make sure Fury and Hill and the lot of them were blind to it all.

“He’s in bad shape, Logan. Widow doesn’t want to move him.”

That made the bottle halfway to his lips stop short.

Last he’d heard bullets were out, holes were closed up and Rogers was talking. He wasn’t leaping from Quinjets in a single bound just yet, but he was out of the woods.

The Serum would take care of that in a week or so.

But the slight hint of worry in his Stark’s voice made him pause.

“The fight that bad?”

Another pause.

“Who’s to say.”

Too vague.

Code for something just changed and I don’t know who’s listening in.

He nodded his head.

Great. Here he went again, doing something he knew he was going to regret offering.

“Alright. Your people talk to my people?”

AKA: Forge and JARVIS were about to play a little game of advanced, coding racket ball across a few databases.

Divide up the info, mix up the paper trail a bit.

He suddenly remembered they were low on coffee.

Forge would need it.

“You the best, Badger. See you on the flip side.”

Chapter Text

He could tell she was uncomfortable, the leather of the arm chair pulled in yawns from her anxious twitching. Though the ambiance of the room was calming—fire roaring, lights dimmed, early morning sun peeking through curtains—her limbs seemed stiff with unease, jutting at sharp angles beneath the blankets.

After the adrenaline, the endorphins, and the sheer mind-washing rush of it all, she had waned to nothing before their eyes, standing out there in the middle of the Projects. There was the almost-comical moment where, beneath all the weight of exhaustion that had her body slumped and limbs shaking, she had found a moment of clarity, her wide eyes finding his upon realizing too late she had expended too much energy.

First had come the dry-heaving, producing a small bit of bile that hit the pavement with a splatter, that shattered the void of exhaustion they were all swimming in. And with an invisible snap, her eyes rolled to the back of her head and her body crumpled on a crash course to the asphalt.

The X-Men were too well-versed in the subject of human limits, knew too well how much expenditure a mortal body could undergo, and how mutant abilities tended to swing and jump far outside those parameters. And so a tired, but suddenly coherent and alert, jumble of X-Men leapt into action, a scramble of hands and arms and shoulders catching their new recruit.

About an hour and a half later had found her waking in her room, tugging haphazardly at IV lines in a dazed confusion. She had seemed even more disoriented when weighted hands pulled her deft fingers back to her side. The room had slowly petered into focus for her, eyes eventually making out the concerned faces of Jean and Dr. McCoy above her.

He had heard her stirring from the patio beneath her window, the remnants of his beer just passing through his lips, cell still clutched in his hand, Tony’s conversation replaying in his mind.

It still was, as his shoulder rested against her doorway, watching her.

She was barely 24 hours an X-Man, and she was already going on a sanctioned mission.

On her own. 

She didn’t know protocols, tactics, plans, unspoken rules. What to do and when to do it. What you could and couldn’t say. Falling into the mindset that in the field, you were your codename and your codename only. You didn’t exist outside of your moniker. That was hard. It took time, it took practice, and it took willpower. To somehow drop your life on the steps of the Blackbird and leave it there. That there wasn’t a Reagan, a Logan, a Hank, a Jean and Scott, a Kitty and Bobby, an Ororo and Tildie. That there wasn’t a bedroom in a residency at 1407 Graymalkin Lane in North Salem, tucked away along the shores of Westchester County in New York, where she laid her head at night.

It was a lifestyle that took some getting used to. It wasn’t something you forced yourself into overnight. You had to play around with it, get acclimated to it. Absorb it throughout the day, not just when the cape and tights came on. And here they were, throwing her into the belly of the beast on her first go. 

Her eyes found him at the sound of his entrance, and he made his way over to the couch beside her chair.

“Logan— “

He held up his hand to stop her, as he eased into the new leather with a sigh. He knew she was still biting at the bit over what had happened earlier. “Kid, I don’ care who your parents are.”

Her face paused where it was, mouth taut to speak but nothing came out. He gave a nonchalant shrug. “None’v my business. Or anyone else’s.”

She shook her head. “But I’m putting you all in danger. They’re more resourceful than most give them credit for. It’s only a matter of time before they find me. I’m more visible now.”

He scooted forward in his seat, knees nearly knocking hers, eyes locked. This was one of many simple truths she needed to understand if she was going to move on as a teammate. “We’re not gonna let ‘em near yah, kid. If they want you, they gotta get through us first.”

He saw the gravity his statement hit her with. Tired eyes became glassy with moisture. Lip clenched and puckered to keep from trembling. But she shoved her eyelids shut, stubborn to a fault. “It’s not my safety I’m concerned about.”

“Well, it’s the only thing I’m worried about. So why don’ yah breathe for me. Relax.”

She scrunched her eyebrows at him in confusion, but suddenly, in the lull of silence that followed, picked up on the wheeze her hitching breaths were making. Aware of her hyperventilation, of her quickened heartrate, she eased back in her chair slowly. Air whistled to a forced beat through her nose. And damn, if he wasn't itching to knock the Carvalho's teeth in, for having the stomach to scare their own kid into the anxious state she was in. 

He gave her a few seconds, waiting until her nails were partially unclasped from the leather before he hazarded a “Good?”

She nodded, waiting a few seconds before responding. “Yeah. Sorry.” She kept her eyes on the ceiling a little longer before looking back at him, face schooled.

He shook his head. “Don’t apologize. We cool?” he asked. She gave him a small quirk of her lip, before the stoic façade slipped quickly back into place. “Yeah. We’re cool.”

He nodded quickly. “Good. Y’up for a little mission?”

Her eyes widened, and her mouth fell slack just slightly. “Me?”

He nodded, as he eased back into her couch. He gave a glance about her bedroom, noticing the empty closet, the bare walls and tables. He’d ask Ororo about that later. See if taking her shopping sounded like a good idea. “Wanna make sure you’re good. Hank cleared yah, but final say lies with you.”

She recovered fast, still looking hesitant but nodded her head eagerly. “I’m good. Just. I’ve never. You know,” her eyes wandered as her mind searched for the words, “been an X-Man before.”

He nodded his head in understanding, knowing the point she was trying to make.

X-Man was an example.

What she had wanted to say was superhero.

She had never been a hero before.

He chuckled fondly to himself, somehow knowing she had been a true X-Man since the day she got her powers. “Don’t worry, kid. Non-combative. You can shelve those explosive powers of yours for now. Until we get you trained.”

He watched her mull over his words. “Non-combative. So you need me to heal someone?”

“Yes. But we’re giving it a Code Black.”

She scrunched her nose at him again. “Meaning?”

“No one can know you were there. No digital or physical footprints.”

Her eyes squinted at him, reading between his words. “I’m noticing I’m the only one in that sentence.”

He smirked. “That’s because only your assistance is required.”

She paled. “It’s a solo mission?”

“I’ll be supporting from an offsite location, but ultimately, yes.”

And then the question he had been mulling over himself since his talk with Stark echoed with her voice. “You sure I’m ready?”

But he was confident of his answer now. “Wouldn’t be sending you out if you weren’t.”

“So why all of the sneaking around?”

“Our person of interest—specifics are on a need-to-know basis—is injured and holed up in one of SHIELD’s dark sites.”

Her eyebrows rose to her hairline. “Wait, SHIELD? You want me sneaking into SHIELD!?” she exclaimed.

He nodded casually. Like it was just another day. Wake up. Eat some cereal. Take a shower. Read a book. Do some laundry. Take out the trash. Oh, and you know. Break into a facility that belonged to the government’s most top secret agency who may or may not have stopped the invasion of New York, cured a few plagues, wiped a country from existence and moved the moon for optimal gravitational pull.

None of those were confirmed. But they weren’t not confirmed.

She was still looking at him like he had three heads. “Aren’t they. You know. On our side?”

He snorted. Yeah. Fury was on his side alright.

Like a giant thorn.

“When the occasion calls for it. Normally, they don’t do sides.”

She shook her head in disbelief, throwing her hands up as if to physically pause the conversation. “Ok hold on. This is SHIELD. Like, probably has the vaccine for aging, SHIELD. I’m pretty sure whoever this is, they’re in good hands.”

“For now, assume the person of interest is enhanced. Modern medicine doesn’t work on them.”

“Do we at least know what their condition is?”

“Unknown at this time. We’re going to be updated on our way there.”

“Updated? By who?”

He cringed. “Also on a need-to-know basis.”

She scrutinized him further, wide, ice blue irises so innocent yet so aged. “Something tells me that when it comes time for me to know, you’re still going to leave me in the dark.”

He gave her a half smirk. “If there’s anyone who can do dark, it’s you, kid.”

“You ok there, kid? You’re lookin’ a little— “

“Just peachy.”

He quirked his mouth, watching as her face flickered through varying shades of pale white and faded green, her white knuckles clawed around the arm rests as the Blackbird finished off its climb into the clouds.

“The faster we land this thing, the faster I get out of here.”

He teased, “You telling me a mutant flyer’s scared of plane?”

“I’d like to emphasize the fact that I’m not a frequent flyer. Yesterday was my first attempt.”

The Blackbird cabin lapsed into comfortable silence, the horizon before them just shaking off the last remnants of yellowed sunlight, the starry night sky blanketing over. Logan had already given Stark the thumbs up, receiving in kind an encrypted file addressed from his AI, set to unlock halfway through their flight with Steve's medical chart. He was already warned most of it was redacted. The kid wasn't all that thrilled about it.

He was surprised to find that Rogers had appendicitis. Almost made him laugh. That stubborn New Yorker had been shot at, blown up, drowned and frozen for most of his earthly life, and the dude was gonna get taken out by a little, useless organ. 

He was just the slightest bit creeped out when that was followed up with a text from Romanov, assuring her and Barton were going to keep the on-site SHIELD agents occupied during their visit. Finishing up the text asking about Reagan, if she was alright. 

As if there was a reason she wouldn't be. 

And suddenly, he knew whose Tony's little birdies were. Traitors. Payback's a bitch, Widow. 

She side-eyed him after a while. “Don’t suppose you’re gonna fill me in on who my mystery date is?”

“Sorry, kid. Gotta keep it—“

“Confidential. So I’ve heard,” she parroted sarcastically. “Is everything you guys do this…espionage-like?”

“Not normally, no. But the whole Hydra-in-SHIELD shit-show kinda put us all on high alert about everything we say or do.”

There was that name again. Hydra.

She had heard it frequently over the past week or so; newspapers, magazines, the window TVs, pedestrians. Everyone was talking about this Hydra person. Group. Thing. Place? She really didn’t know what it was. “Ok, so. Question. What is Hydra?”

“Hydra was the military science division of Hitler’s Nazi regime back in the 40s. Group disbanded after World War II ended, and Schmidt went down with his own plane.” His eyes made the gesture of obviously not.

“Who’s Schmidt?”

Logan didn’t answer for a couple of seconds, gaze falling somewhere short of straight ahead. She could see the emotions, the memories playing across his face. And she wondered if any of those 200+ years in his skin ever saw the havoc of the Nazi party. Or maybe this Schmidt guy in person. “Johann Schmidt, or Red Skull to his bat shit crazy cult, was a lead scientist under Hitler. Some think he was even more deranged than his leader. In his eyes, Hitler wasn’t doing enough to obtain complete domination over other countries. The Nazi party was too weak to take control over humanity, so they broke off as Hydra. That group was a special breed of crazy.”

She winced. She remembered brief mentions of that part of history when she was younger. But she only walked away with the overall idea that the Nazi party had done some bad things to many people in many different parts of the world. The specifics, though, she hadn’t learned. “What’d they do?”

There was a snort, and she was somewhat relieved that what he said next wasn’t going to be too dark. “Schmidt believed that truly ruling over mortal men required power of…supernatural proportions. So the nut job went scrambling after every myth, folk lore, any ounce of mumbo-jumbo fantasy crap about some kind of otherworldly power.”

“Did he find what he was looking for?”

Another snort, a wiry smile turned at the irony of it all. “In a weird, twisted fate, yeah I guess he did. Drove him insane in the end.”

“So the new Hydra. Or old. They still want world domination?”

“I guess,” he admitted, flipping a few switches above his head before letting go of the controls to casually fold his arms, turning his seat to face her. He smirked at her horrified expression, before pointing at the Autopilot Engaged readout on the controls. “They just went about it smarter. Infiltrated society rather than outright commanding it. Made society want a controlling presence, not just forcing it on them. Unfortunately, they succeeded in the end.”

She still seemed a little frightened, looking as if she wanted to jump in and take the controls, if only for the comfort that someone was driving. “But we stopped them, didn’t we? The good guys, I mean.”

“Yeah. Close call, though,” he said, expression downcast before adding in a softer tone, “Too close, for my liking.”

She had picked up pieces of dialogue on the streets. Some thought SHIELD was corrupt all along. Some admitted to understanding Hydra’s plans, that a more regulated approach would’ve been better. Some chastised SHIELD for not being more diligent with possible infiltrations like that. Others believed that the group of super powered individuals who had saved New York a few years back, the Avengers, were now corrupt. Even more believed that one of them, a guy that went by the name of Captain America, was the head of Hydra, leading the charge from within SHIELD. It was just all a mess. 

“Ok. ‘Nother question.”

He nodded for her to continue. “Shoot.”

“How do you know I’m not Hydra?”

A question like that, he would’ve laughed off. And he had been about to. But the seriousness behind her tone, eyes wide, uncertain and scared; she truly didn’t understand why. She wanted to know why.

He just smiled at her. “Are you?”

She guffawed. “Is that your screening process?”

He shrugged nonchalantly, getting an even more animated response from her. “It’s my screening process for you.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s foolish.”

He gave another lazy, one-shoulder shrug. “Could be.”

That wasn’t enough for her. She was still confused, still couldn’t process the austerity behind a truth like that. “Why just me?”

“Kid. Sometimes you meet certain people. Only a few of them in your lifetime. They’re rare. And they’re gonna hit yah a certain way. When you meet them, you just know. You know they’re good people.”

She still couldn’t fathom an unyielding trust like that for her. Given at first glance and maintained even through hidden secrets. Unconditional parameters set on a human nature she had grown up to believe was anything but. It made him hate her parents so much more.

“So, when you met me. You just. You knew? That you could trust me?”

“One look at yah, kid, I knew I could trust you with my life.”

Her face fractured, just the slightest of cracks.

But it cracked all the same. It had hit hard. If the moments of silence following and the curled, pensive position were anything to go by. He gave her time to process that statement. Hell, he needed a moment too. Playing back the words, he was more sure about them the second time around. Yeah. She was just one of those people. And it was true. Look at him. He was ancient, and he had only, really met one other person; Chuck.

She pulled him from his thoughts, her words subdued, but strong. “Well. Diddo.”

He smiled, and realized too late his hand had reached over to ruffle her. “Good to hear.” He had spent much of the remainder of the flight pondering over the warmth in his chest that fluttered at the sound of her exasperated laughter, half-heartedly scowling at him as she ran fingers through her hair in frustration.

She tapped her foot impatiently on the floor, drawing a somewhat irritated glance from the older gentleman tucked alongside the elevator’s buttons. She didn’t care. More importantly, she didn’t have time to. Her next appointment was at 3:15, and she was pushing it sidetracking all the way down to Hell’s Kitchen. The elevator dinged before drawing up into a shuttering stop, old doors sliding open. She was out before they had fully disappeared, striding with purpose down the narrow hallway, her preamble rapped knuckles only twice on 214 before pushing through the door.

“Hey, Sh— “

“Not here to talk. Just came to stock up, and then I’m gone,” she rushed out, making a beeline for the hallway closet, smiling to herself at the sight of a still somewhat organized array of containers and bins. It was the little things in life.

She dove first for the saline bags.

She heard a bubbly voice chime up from somewhere behind her. “Oh, come on. Not even a little bit of— “

“I’m on the job, Chrissy,” she tersely replied.

Claire spoke up from her chair. “Whoever it is, they can wait.”

And she was probably right.

Her stomach growled in response, the traitor. Didn’t help that something salty and hearty and juicy was wafting out from the kitchen. “They probably can. But if I want to get a decent sleep within the next 48 hours, I need to bang this next batch out.”

There was a collection of tired moans and sighs behind her. “You too, huh?” Claire asked.

“My phone has not stopped going off since Monday. I had to turn the ringer off because it was driving my dog nuts. And me,” Christine admitted.

She heard Claire snort into her glass. “How many people did SHIELD actually employ? Just when I think I’ve seen them all, I got 50 more calling me,” she asked.

Christine enthusiastically hummed in agreement. “They’re all so cryptic, too. Won’t give you a name. An age. Any medical history,” listing off on her fingers, “And you have to meet them in a Dunkin restroom, a sketchy warehouse, or some bush in Central Park, because any other location could be traced back to them. They’re all so paranoid. I’d have ulcers like you wouldn’t believe if I ever went into that profession.”

Thanks to Metro General, Shirley already had enough ulcers to wipe her stomach clean from existence. But she could empathize with the agents. Although, it was their own stupid faults for signing up for some crackpot spy business anyway. What did you think was going to happen? A normal, everyday, 9 to 5? “Well, get used to it. After D.C., they’re all crawling out of the woodwork,” she spoke up from her knee deep wade through the closet, grabbing at bandages and clean towels as she went along. They’d have to get new shipments soon.

She would be helpful right about now.

And as if Claire had read her thoughts, “Where is she anyways?”

They all glanced at each other.

Shirley threw her hands up in the air in exasperation, before diving back into their bin of antiseptic wipes. “The one time we actually need her, and she’s MIA.”

Christine gave an almost apologetic shrug. “She’s not in her usual stomping grounds. Circled by them the other day. Not a peep.”

“I think she got recruited.”

Both Night Nurses turned to Claire Temple, baffled.

From Shirley Benson with suspicion. “Recruited?”

From Christine Palmer with anticipation. “By who?”

“The X-Men.”

Both turned incredulously to Claire.

“Seriously!?” Christine asked.

“Where’d you hear this?” Shirley intoned dubiously.

“I got a call the other day from Dr. McCoy,” Claire began, “Said they have a new recruit on site, young female mutant. He’s concerned about the length of time she’s been out on the streets. Wanted to get her a physical, and names of a few therapists and dieticians who could be discrete. I just gave him Stark’s contacts,” she said, flicking her hand back and forth, playing off the info as inconsequential, “But get this; I ask for the whole abilities checklist, trying to figure out what I need. And he says she’s a healer. And if he’s asking for us, she obviously can’t heal herself.”

Christine’s gasp was incredulous. “No.”

Shirley shrugged, struggling to keep the sides of her bag cinched enough to pull the zipper closed. “Probably a coincidence. She can’t be the only one with powers like that floating around in the world,” she grunted from her crouch.

“But it all checks out,” Claire reasoned, “They just recruited her; we haven’t heard from her in days. She’s a mutant. She’s a healer who can’t heal herself. We all figured she was young. Obviously not teenager young, but I could see it.”

“But if it is actually her. Then. She’s been homeless. This whole time. Living out on the streets. Hungry. Cold. Sick. Alone,” Chrissy admonished, hand coming up to her mouth as her eyes welled with moisture. The last part was added in a whisper, but held the loudest echo in the little apartment. “And we didn’t do anything.”

Claire tried for brevity. “Well now we know why she never took the wine we offered.”

But Shirley, always realistic borderline cynic, wasn’t looking to wallow in guilt. She didn’t have the time or mental capacity to deal with that whole mess. “She never discussed her living situation, so it’s not on us. She was in, all dramatic hoodies and shadows, never showed face, and then she was out.”

Claire could see Shirley’s understanding of it. She was comparing it to the medical field, to nursing. Patients hid things, from embarrassment, guilt, fear or any other emotion. They did it all the time. But guilt could still be seen painted clearly across Christine’s face, the bleeding heart amongst them. She kept them emotional. “But who better to help than a room full of nurses with like, 30-something years of experience between us?” 

Shirley still wasn’t all that convinced. “It’s neither here nor there. If it even is the Shadow Healer, and there’s a high probability it’s not, she’s safe now. I’ve seen that mansion. Those X-Men aren’t hurting. She’ll be fine.”

“And if it isn’t her?” Christine asked.

Shirley huffed in exasperation. “Then put up some flyers and file a missing vigilante report. I don’t know. I gotta go,” she threw hurriedly over her shoulder on her way out the door.

The two other Night Nurses sat in the echoing silence for a few moments.

“Did you agree to do the physical?” Christine finally asked.

Claire nodded. “Yeah. Stopping by tomorrow.”

She smiled, though it looked heavy beneath the weight of something a little more somber than happiness. “Good. Say hi to her for me. Tell her we miss her.”

Claire smiled. “I will.”

The night felt large and wide, the whistling tones of swamp frogs and breeze-tickled reeds cascading out on an infinite ripple, painting the blackness an even bigger void than it appeared. The sky was splashed with clusters of dainty lights, some that moved and some that didn’t. The air was a little warmer, but still held that heavy, wet autumn chill that annoyed her more than anything. She was a warm being, and colder temperatures always seemed to affect her more than they had before.

She was crouched low to the ground, the tall grass enough to hide her frame, if only for the time being. That was the 8^thguard she had evaded in the past 200 feet. Another blink of her eyes, a readjustment of her powered vision, and the familiar white lights floated back into her eyesight.

“I’ve got someone off to my left, about 50 feet. Then there’re 2 further ahead, guarding the building.”

“I need yah to hold tight for a few, kid. We’re waitin’ on a distraction.”

That was going take some getting used to.

Having someone in your ear all the time.

Giving orders. Asking for help. Requesting locations. Status. ETAs.

How did you even calculate ETAs? Was that something she’d have to learn how to do? Or was that just from movies she had watched when she was younger?

How did they do that when they were in the field? How could you split your concentration so seamlessly; being present in the conversation over the comm. systems and reacting to whatever was happening in front of you?

She flattened her posture out a little more, keeping close to the damp ground, the tall stalks reaching feet above her head. The tops were a pale white in the glow of the buildings overhead storm lights, her body just barely hidden beneath the undergrowth of shadows below.

A large noise exploded across the field, and she startled in her spot, seconds later a resulting shockwave bending the stalks around her, sending her scrambling for a lower crouch. Peering back up into the night, she watched as the white masses scattered towards the noise, completely emptying the area around her.

“Alright, kid. That’s your que.”

She was up and racing through the grass, straight for the access door along the side.

“Your friends don’t mess around. When they commit to a distraction, they don’t go halfway,” she whispered in her ear piece. She smiled when Logan grunted through the line, a mumbled consummate professionals my ass barely audible above the sound of her heavy breathing.

She almost faltered in her running when the door eerily slipped open.

“Keep moving. You’re good.”

She didn’t know what she was expecting on the other side, but an empty hallway made her draw up short, rubber soles scuffing loudly in protest. She wasn’t expecting to face an army, but something about the silence felt unnerving. After its fall, she had figured what was left of SHIELD would be doing everything in its power to protect a superhuman asset. Then again, the fall no doubt led to some hefty staff cuts.

Metal siding lined the walls and flooring, tunneling and verging down different directions like a skewed roll of aluminum foil. A flickering bulb above caught shadows dancing along the ceiling, and her eyes barely caught a shaft and violet arrowhead before it disappeared into the slightly crooked grill of an air vent, and she was left to question if she had seen anything at all.

Before she had a chance to switch on her vision, and take a peak in to the vent, a terse let’s go, kid trickled into her ear, and she was forced to reel her concentration back to the task at hand.

“Take a left. Follow it to its end. Then another left.”

She took one last look behind her, at the hallway and the ceiling vent, and then sprinted about the narrow corridors, Logan calling out directions just in time for her to careen around corners at the last second.

Amongst her heavy breaths and her skidding boots, singular thoughts popped up.

The place was deserted.

Where was everybody?

She could sense life.

There was a person above her in the vents.

Another in the lab she had just passed.

Two together in a room to her right.

All calm. No one was rising up. Stirring. Running. Firing. Amongst the chaos that was raining outside, these people remained still. Heartbeats were controlled and even. No bodies were shocked with adrenaline. No nerves were firing on overdrive. They were unaware and immune to it all. But why?

She was given no more time to ponder it as she pulled up short before door, Logan assuring her that it was safe to go in, that she needed to do what she came to do and get out. Time was critical.

She stepped through.

The patient was a male, large in build and frame, young in age.

Her finger twitched, and the familiar twinge slithered along the back of her head, tensed muscles etching fissures of nerve impulses, traveling up from her spine to settle behind her eyes. Her corneas burned, and the world around her became whitewashed, as the man before her stretched and expanded into 4 dimensions. Planes of bone, muscle, vasculature, organs, cellular groupings, nerves all slowly distilled from each other.

Her arm reached reflexively up to still the floating vascular overlay, the plane of veins and arteries having a habit of floating far above her height and out of each. With soft movements, she pulled it back down to her, waiting until it bounced and settled amongst the skeleton.

The overlays showed an influx of immune cells, sites of triggered inflammation ushering in spikes in local and broad-scale temperature fluctuations, an increase in vascular flow near his hipline; an infected appendix.

But what startled her were the other areas of inflammation responses, healing occurring at an incredibly fast and efficient rate. The enhancements, she assumed.

One around his side, another towards his shoulder, one running along the back of the thigh, and two in perfect alignment in the front and back of his midsection. Areas where tissue had been perforated, muscle had been sliced and bone had been impacted. Too much experience identified those immediately as knife and bullet wounds.

She was suddenly very apprehensive of the situation she was walking into, and it only grew as she continued to study his body, wounds like secrets tucked away until she concentrated hard enough to sift them out. His body was littered in bruised muscle and bone, abrasions and minor lacerations, contusions and a few cracked bone around his chest.

She had only seen damage like this done to someone, of his physique, in instances of turf wars and gang initiation, men and women alike. But a cursory glance at exposed wrists, shoulders and neck showed no distinguishing tattoos or branding. The room seemed bare, small too now that she was getting a better look, save for the medical equipment; his clothing could possibly help her out more in identifying his gang.

She hovered closer to the bed, only to register too late he had already been awake, waiting patiently for her.

A vice-like hand grabbed hers and ground the little bones in her wrist until they creaked like old floor boards, and her heart stopped. Ice blue, threatening eyes stared back at her, gaze equally assessing and warning of her next move, all alive in a pain-induced adrenaline.

The world was poised on an inhale.

Nothing stirred.

A second later found him clenched stiff, curled protectively around his abdomen, breath scratching through clenched teeth. His breathing labored as his body rode out the agony of every bruise, every wound, every infection that was suddenly awake and alive and screaming.

She motioned to put a comforting hand over his, the one twisted in the edge of the sheets, but his eyes dared her to try, as his body retreated towards the other side of the bed. In an attempt to flee or fight, she wasn’t sure. Given the storm of nerve endings loudly vying for his mind’s attention, she didn’t think he was all too sure either.

She watched as large, straining deltoids, pectorals and biceps were pulled taut to help aid the body up on a shaky elbow.

It was easy to see his spent energy. His eyes were tired, his face pale and tongue white from ample nausea and vomiting. His body shivered relentlessly in pain and fever. It was hard to gauge time and age with his enhancements, but his body had no doubt suffered far longer through a ruptured appendix than any normal human could.

She recalled back on one night with the nurses, to Claire’s laugh and eyes full of mirth when she had climbed into the apartment from the fire escape, dazed and frazzled, before she regaled the nurses of a patient whose inner stomach just seemed to have burst.

Appendicitis leads to peritonitis. What you saw was peritonitis.  Appendix’s in the right iliac region of the stomach. Little useless flap.

The girls had laughed at the flapping motion Claire had made with a limp index finger.

Christine had jumped in at this point. Food can get stuck in the appendix. Perfect breeding site for bacteria. Inflammation occurs, swelling, sometimes pus. That causes pain, usually feel it around your bellybutton first before it travels to just above your hip.

As Christine pointed to locations along her scrubs, Shirley filled in the rest. Pressure builds up there with all of the swelling. It can get to a point where blood supply is actually cut off. No blood equals pretty much dead tissue wall. Easy to tear. Tear releases bacteria into abdominal cavity. Bacteria goes to bloodstream, bloodstream goes everywhere, and you go into sepsis.

How he was still coherent, still alive, was a marvel to her. The cynical voice in her head chided that maybe he was now, but not for long. His enhancements were incredible, close to rivaling those of Logan's, but they were strained now. They were rushing to deal with the other life-threatening injuries, that there was almost no reserves left for the appendix. 

The awe and curiosity, though abundant, fell quickly away to the growing fear. Even propped only on one arm, body still trembling with fatigue and pain, he towered over her in many more ways than size. Coated in a haze, his eyes were a deathly shade of defilement, a warning of pure and stubborn resilience that roared unabated beneath any exhaustion, any pain, any fear seen at first glance.

Something about his expanding shoulders complemented with his imposing glare warned her she had cornered a territorial beast and she was treading on thin ice.

Her hands were up immediately in a placating gesture, as she took a swift step back from the bed, “It’s ok. It’s ok. I’m only here to help,” and at the tone of her voice, Logan was immediately in her ear, asking if she was ok, asking what was happening.

And suddenly the stranger was very intrigued at the familiar tinny echo of that voice in her ear piece; a voice he hadn’t heard from in a few weeks, that brought him back to 1939, when that it was coated in tobacco from a never-ending stash of premium cigars, a heavy Canadian accent, yelling at him to pull his head out of his ass.

The man had his head tilted in curiosity now at her. Who was this woman, in black combat gear, hands hidden in gloves, hair stuffed in a cap, and eyes hidden behind shades?

This woman, young because he knew the taste of youth on a tongue that worked and strived to reek of authority, of composure, of command. Of maturity. Wasn’t that smell curdling in his own mouth.

This woman, new to the world of daring adventures, of tasks that superseded the call of an average human life, that dwelt among titans and giants that seemed pulled from myth, not reality. He could tell that from her jittering body.  

This woman, small in stature but large in presence, in energy.

She intrigued him, as did her relation to the Wolverine.

She looked back at him, mouth clenched in an uneasy smile, still unsure of the rehearsed line Logan had given her back on the jet. “I was sent by your favorite genius, billionaire, playboy philanthropist.”

She jumped at the snort that flew from the man’s nose, and watched, eyes arched incredulously as he finally, visibly, relaxed, body lowering back into the bed. It was as if his whole body took one large, relieving breath, rib cage collapsed in, limbs sinking back into the hard mattress, putting her at ease that he wasn’t going to strain himself even more.

She let him reorient himself again, waited until the creases in his face had released and his hard breathing had evened, and startled at the bright ice blue eyes that peered tiredly over at her beneath long lashes.

“Does SHIELD know you’re here?” he asked, as he gave a once over her black gear and glasses. And his voice sounded young and old, authoritative and gentle, and tired and in pain, and she had spent too long analyzing it, if the upward quirk of his eyebrow was anything to go by.

Heat traveled up her face as she gave an awkward smile and shook her head. “It'd be cool if we could keep it that way, too.”

He huffed, a laugh she thought, but wasn’t too sure, and gave a barely perceptible nod. “Roger that.”

They sat there for another few moments, both still breathing heavily, her from nerves and him from pain.

And as they continued to stare at each other, a calm passed between them, and she found herself approaching the bed again. This time though, he didn’t move. He watched her hands hang suspended just over the edge of his bed. The cap of her hat tipped upward, showing she was looking up at him again. And he just barely made out a blonde, corkscrew curl that had fallen out. “With your permission.”

“To do what?” he asked. Because he was still very confused why she was there. Why Tony had recruited her. He didn’t know what her bare hands could do that a medical team equipped to the nines couldn’t.

She gave a small smile, strange though without eyes to connect the emotion to. “Hopefully, get you back on your feet,” she said, and her hands were suddenly glowing, and he could feel his body break out in goosebumps at the powerful warmth that was radiating off of them.

He nodded his head, though she still persisted in assuaging his worries. “It won’t hurt, I promise. It’ll only take a minute.” She waited for verbal permission; the nod wasn’t enough.

He surprised himself with, “I trust you.”

And he could tell he surprised her too, her hands pulled up short, at a loss for words. She didn’t know how to process such a raw and vulnerable truth.

He didn’t either.

Why did he trust her?

Because she was acquainted with Logan? Because she was sent, and probably personally recruited, by Tony? Because Clint had let her slip through the entrance without a warning arrow from the vents? Because Nat had watched her walk right up to his room from where ever she was hidden, and let her pass without a few bullets for her troubles? Because Banner hadn’t leapt from his chair in the lab at the sight of dark figure slinking around the halls? Because Sam was still chowing down on a sandwich, by the sound of it, despite the round of explosions outside? Because it seemed his entire team was working overtime to keep SHIELD from knowing she had slipped in?

Maybe. But something about her voice. Her easy demeanor, despite the situation. Her willingness to help, given their lack of history. Something told him she knew the implications of being caught here, but she wasn’t going to let them stop her. Her stubbornness felt well-worn and broken-in on her. She had a history of not letting things stop her. Her hands hadn’t moved and her sunglasses were still peering down at him as if he’d just revealed the secret of all secrets to her.

So he surprised himself again that night. His deathbed offered a beautiful respite from the consequences of dangerous choices. He shuffled against his sheets, closer to her, gently wrapped his hand around hers and guided it to his chest. Her long, calloused fingers right over his heart. He waited until they had stilled along his skin to repeat again, “I trust you.”

She seemed to compose herself finally, mouth set in a hard line, nodding her head, movements speaking of pure determination. She added weight to the hand on his chest, still feather-light but firm, and placed her other along his forehead. Both areas tingled at the heat that poured out from her hands, a heat that seemed to cool his fever-flushed skin.

So he settled deeper into the bed and closed his eyes.

And soon the heat had dispersed, like a sprinkle of mist throughout his body. Every inch of skin had broken out in goosebumps as his aching body relished in the change of temperature that fluctuated between clammy sweat and persistent shivers.

His entire body felt warm, in some ways physically and in other ways he just couldn’t find the words to describe.

The ripple of heat continued to wash over him, a consistent, pulsing slew of waves that seemed to lift his mind from his body, to a headspace where nothing existed. The exhaustion, the pain, the aches, the fever, all washed away as he fell deeper and deeper into the warmth. A heat that only his skin had experienced on that perfect sunny day. Now, the sun was inside him and casting the pain away.

The pain.

Where had it gone?

Confusion poked at the calm that had passed over him, and he slowly blinked back to reality, her dark form slowly coming back into focus along with the dawning realization that he didn’t hurt anymore.

His body was no longer ablaze, burning, dying.

She sent him a tentative smile, her hands slipping from their place on his skin, their ghost of heat still lingering as the rest of his body chilled at the absence of her warmth. She watched him as he ran hesitant hands along his torso, fingers prying and pulling away bandages and prodding at unblemished skin. His hand put weight over his appendix, and his eyes widened in disbelief. “It. Worked.”

She was startled at the ease her chuckle expelled with. “Don’t sound too surprised.”

He turned up to her, those young eyes back and wide and mystified. And profoundly grateful. “Thank you.”

She gave a genuine smile and dipped her head. “My pleasure.” She gave succinct nod in farewell, and was already turned to leave, when his voice caught in her in her steps.

“I didn’t catch your name.”

She turned back to him. He was already sitting upright, posture strong. An energy and vigor renewed that was felt more than seen. His skin was back to a healthy pink, and the tissue beneath the already picked-away bandages was clean.  

Well. Shoot.

“Uh…”

What did she give him?

The get-up would be wasted if she just came out and blurted Reagan. She could already script the lecture that would be waiting for her back on that stupid death jet.

And Shadow Healer was just out of her mouth, when the words pulled up short on her tongue.

Was she the Shadow Healer? Still?

She was an X-Man now. More importantly, she was an offensive X-Men. All the energy, all of the power, she unleashed the other day. Those weren’t the ways of the Shadow Healer. The Shadow Healer was a ghost who came out at night, kept to the shadows, hid her face, and only healed. And healed all, no discrimination or prejudice.

But this new line of business she was in. She was on a side now. The Shadow Healer was a neutral in the wars of the domestic world. This new being though, that stood in her place; she had chosen a party the moment she had walked onto X-Men property. She held an allegiance to a team. A team with very clear enemies she fought against and allies she defended.  

The Shadow Healer couldn’t be tainted with her occupation. She needed a new name. She needed, dare she say it, a superhero name.

So what?

An elemental healer, they had called her, when she was new to the streets and even newer to her abilities.  

A healer, she no longer could claim as her own.

An elemental manipulator; that was what had surfaced the other night with the Sentinel.

A bender.

A wielder.

A controller.

A conduit.

For energy that came farther than the Earth below her feet. She could feel the distance it traversed, the miles under its wings, the seconds it had aged, when it reached her chest and ignited her heart.

Further than the skies.

Much further.

Past the atmosphere, deep in the universe, where the energy ran fire hot in a frigid void. It came from space, from the heavens.

It was extraterrestrial.

Interstellar.

Astrophysical.

Celestial.

“Celestia.”

Celestia?

That sounded ok, right?

It must’ve, because he nodded his head in acceptance. “Thank you, Celestia.”

Yeah. It sounded ok coming from him. She could get used to it. Not that she had a choice. She was stuck with it now. She was about to reply in kind, but remembered too late she couldn’t know his identity. So she awkwardly bowed her head again, at a lost for another variation of your welcome. And backed out through the doorway.

She eased the door closed behind her, ready to take off back down from the direction she had come. But a flash of deep emerald exploded along the corner of her vision.

Green? That didn’t make any sense.

She felt her eyes glaze over, such a cooling refreshment to the burning wave that had taken over with her new abilities, a hot itch that still hadn’t abated. She turned back to his room behind her, utterly confused to find gradients of blues and purples.

Where was the green coming from?

It was still scratching at the corner of her vision.

She turned at flash of white in the corner of her eye. A heart beat sat curled in the corner, concern and worry and fear pooling off of the male body in torrential rivulets. It seeped the room he was hidden in, the excess draining into the hallway and almost making her choke.

“Uh, kid. Exit’s back the other way.”

She shook her head. “There’s someone here.”

“Yep. It’s a SHIELD compound. Not surprised. N’get going.”

“No. I mean there’s someone beside that guy’s room. He’s just. Sitting there.”

There was a long pause of silence that echoed in her ear.

“I’ll let our contact know. Yah need to start booking it, kid.”

But something was keeping her glued to the spot she was in, opening her vision wider, letting her senses reach out in their entirety to the emotions he was releasing into the atmosphere. To the physicality and health his body was calling out with.

The guilt mixed with concern. The raw confusion and feeling lost. The inorganic material harmonized with natural nerves and tissue and muscle, graphed into his shoulder. The absence of a natural left arm. “There’s something. Different. About him. It’s like—“

“Reagan! Get moving, NOW!”

As if on que, a door at the far end of the left hallway opened, voices bouncing off the wall towards her.

“What do I do? They’ll see me if I go back the way I came,” she hissed beneath their bellowing echoes, subconsciously slipping deeper into the shadows of the adjacent wall.

“Vent above your head.”

She looked up, equally parts intrigued and creeped out to watch the grate slide back soundlessly on its own. “How am I supposed to get in there?” she asked. She didn’t know what Logan thought she could do, but jumping at least 10 feet in the air into a cramped space was not it.

“Same way you floated hundreds of feet above the Projects last night.”

Shoot. “Oh. Right. That.”

That. As in levitating. Flying. Which she did.

How, she still didn’t know. She had been so hopped up on adrenaline, her impulses had governed most of her actions the other night.

Replicating that ability in a more subdued, controlled environment was something she wasn’t entirely sure she could do. And shame on Logan for not having a more humanly-feasible escape option, knowing full well most of what she…did the other night was off-the-cuff and completely on accident. 

She lowered hesitantly into a squat, sending her mind into as much of an induced panic as she could. There’s trained Mission Impossible spies looking for you. You need to get out. You need to run. This is your only option. They could be armed. Most likely dangerous.

“Well, here goes nothing.”

Her body began to glow. Conveniently. In a hallway she had been hoping would remain dark.

But that was it.

Unfortunately, as she was about to call out to Logan for another route, at the sound of elevated shouts growing closer, her feet left the ground and her body took off in an uncoordinated crash course for the ceiling of the vent. Her shielding arms and shoulders bounced painfully off the metal, startled enough to drop her abilities, her hands coming up just in time to grab at the lip of the opening as she dropped for the ground.

She grumbled to herself. “Ow,” she groaned, her fingers barely locked around the edge as it held up her weight.

“Talk to me, kid.”

She gasped, panicked, wincing as the flimsy metal groaned beneath her weight. “Fine. Just. Overcompensated.”

“You! Stop!”

Her head turned instantly to the now approaching group. “Crap.”

“Kid.”

“Working on it!” she shouted. She held no more scruples over yelling. They already knew she was there. 

She struggled to pull herself up into the vent, her fingers barely purchased on the opening’s lip to begin with. Her stomach dropped at the feeling of them slipping a few inches closer to the edge. And then all of a sudden, the weight dragging her down was gone, the metal was no longer digging into her hands, and she was glowing.

Again.

She internally sighed and externally groaned.

Served her right for using powers she’d boxed up for 6 years.

Her body shot up uncontrollably, her shoulder bouncing painfully off of the ceiling of the vent, before she went into what she can only describe as the trajectory of a ping pong ball between two paddles, within the confines of the really small air vent. One second her head was directly beneath her spine, and then her foot was in her face, body smacking against the wall all the while. When she finally felt her body perpendicular to the bottom, she harnessed whatever semblance she could and propelled herself forward, narrowly dodging corners and fans, shots sounding off behind her.

She didn’t release her breath, didn’t let her limbs unlock from her side, until cool air had slapped her in the face, and the dark, open night sky greeted her.

“So. Celestia, huh?”

“You’re the best, Badger. Send my love to your little Glow Stick. She still in the dark?”

He shook the last remnants of his laundry basket into the washing machine, closing the lid down with a tired sigh. “Yeah. I don’ like it, but yeah.”

He scrubbed his calloused fingers through his hair, the cold beer in his hand leeching warmth from his bowed chest, hunched over the rumbling machine. It had been a long couple of days. It had felt like years. At least, that’s what his stinging, drooping eyes were telling him. He just had to hold on a little longer. Just had to wash and fold the last load of the laundry (mostly Bobby’s if he was being honest). Then he could take a shower, check and make sure Reagan was sleeping well, and then he could disengage into a crash course for his cotton sheets.

He honestly didn’t know how Stark was operating at full, jittering and annoying, capacity at this hour.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, that won’t last long. Spangles wants her help with something.”

That woke him right up. “And what would that be?”

“Fixing Barnes. Thanks for the intel by the way.”

Fixing Barnes?  “Wait. You’re saying—“

“Manchurian Candidate somehow snuck past us and s’been camped out beside his bestie. Came willingly when we busted in on him.”

So it had been the Winter Soldier.

He had immediately contacted Stark, who then stuck him in a conference call with Romanov and some ‘Sam’ guy and made him repeat himself again. All had thanked him quickly, a few choice words in Russian from Romanov, English from ‘Sam’, and they had just as quickly hung up.

When a frazzled Reagan had finally made it back to the Blackbird, after she committed the roughest, most haphazard landing he had ever seen, she had gone crazy telling him about this man that was in the room beside the patient.

Her eyes were alive with interest as she went into detail about this enhanced individual with a metal, prosthetic arm. How he stuck out from the other SHIELD operatives tucked away in rooms and corners. Her voice had rocketed up a few decibels in excitement huddled beneath an electric blanket beside him in the cock pit, as she regaled him of the stranger she was enamored with. (Hank had made him perform a few basic medical tests both for a baseline for their records and to make sure she was still alright from the other night. Her temperature had been all over the place, and along with some persistent shivering, he had gotten her to keep under the blanket. He had immediately messaged Hank, who had predicted this symptom as a consequence of using such hot forms of energy, but Logan was instructed to monitor her vitals until they were back in New York. To his relief, her temperature had evened out by the time the Blackbird had landed in the hangar, though Hank had still instructed her to take some medication, and finish both a water bottle and a large cup of decaffeinated green tea before immediately going to bed)

The metal left arm had been what tipped him off in the first place. But hearing it confirmed. Made a guy wonder what life was like for normal people. 

So then the Winter Soldier was in Avengers’ custody. Or SHIELD’s. Whatever. He was safe. Out of the wind. And they were looking to what. Make him a good guy? Or more specifically, Reagan was going to make him a good guy? Sounded like something straight out of book. Naively simplistic. Though it sounded an awful lot like a familiar goody-two-shoes idiot trying to help his old friend. It also reeked of a greedy organization looking for both an easy grab at a pretty tide-turning ally, as well as a leash and collar for a free-roaming assassin.

“Turning Barnes; sounds like something right up Fury’s alley.”

He could practically hear the shit eating grin on Stark’s face. Like a kid who had gotten one over the old man’s head. “It is. We’re commandeering it. Use your asset without getting Number Two’s grubby mitts all over her.”

The idea made him pause.

As vague as the plan was, and as long as his list of but what ifs was. Maybe. Maybe it was possible. But that was under the assumption that in whatever ways Hydra screwed up Barnes, the kid could heal him. That she could undo the crap-ton of damage that had settled in over the decades. And there was a lot of damage. All he had to go off of was the way he Swiss-cheesed his old friend.

He wasn’t all that aware of her own abilities. If she could fix things like conditioning, mind manipulation, and brainwashing. If things of that nature could be fixed, using natural or supernatural means.

“Do you think it’ll work?” he asked, in regards of the pretty far-fetched idea, but Stark answered the other crazy-ass notion that they could keep Fury in the dark with, “She’s got all the Avengers batting for her. We’ll make it work.”

He wanted to tell Stark that it sounded like Rogers was rubbing off on him, the rallying sense of steadfast optimism and gun-ho spirit of camaraderie. But that required holding a conversation with the tin can for another few minutes. And nothing about that scenario appealed to him. So instead, he just hung up the phone, took a long gulp from his beer and pulled up the basket of clean towels to start folding.

“Help me.”

“Help me, please.”

“Help me.”

A light penetrated the darkness, the voice given a blurred outline of a body.

“You’re the only one who can hear me.”

Desperation. Anxiousness. Purpose.

“You’re the only one who can help me.”

And a little fear.

“Please.”

The figure came closer to her, the outline still blurred, only a head distinguishable from the limbs. The voice was desperate, frosted along the edges with an echo that seemed to glitter like gemstones.

“I need your help.”

The voice was louder now. Clearer. More desperate.

“Help me.”

Before her stood a figure all in white, porcelain skin and platinum hair almost glowing as bright as the clothing, fractured in patterns of glass-like crystals, light shining through the cracks.

A gloved hand reached out toward her, blurred fingers eventually distilling to reveal a hand covered in shattered diamonds.

“Please. Help me.”

Reagan woke up gasping and sweating, the autumn breeze sliding through her open balcony doors chilling her perspiration, that sent her into fits of shivers she didn’t think were all because of the cold night. She burrowed back beneath her pile of blankets, letting the warmth of the carpet beneath her chase away the demons of her sleep, as her hand wiped at a stray tear drop along her cheek.

She watched it dance along her finger, the moonlight filtering through her window catching along its surface, and it reminded her of the fractured diamonds in her dreams.

She closed her eyes, and fell into a fitful slumber for the remainder of the night, as a woman made of broken glass plagued her sleep.

Chapter Text

“You’re sure we need all this, Cheré?”

Her back was to him at the moment, as she stuffed their minimal luggage in the overhead racks, but she was certain he was still staring at the non-descript carriers stacked beneath the window, recoiled as if waiting for them to explode. “I ain’t the scientist. Hank says he needs this much, so we get ‘em this much.”

His scarlet eyes peeked over his sunglasses and held hers when she finally turned to face him, and she could feel the irritation passed between them. “I just don’t like traveling with all of this baggage,” he grumbled, nodding to them in the corner, “Whole point of the disguises is to blend in. The giant bags of syringes are just a tad counterproductive.”

And coming from a master thief, she should heed his warning. If there was anyone who knew about getting in and getting out unnoticed, it was him. That was why she had been partially receptive to him tagging along in the first place.

Because being blind-sighted by him in New Orleans, just hours from meeting Dom’s MRD contact with a bag full a cash; that had been all kinds of suspicious. Warning sirens had been going off in her head, all of her senses were geared up and on edge, and she had been ready to book it. But the obnoxiously suave Crazy Cajun was quick to calm her, and even quicker to relay his warning; the contact was dirty, wired, bugged and accompanied with shipping units with her name written all over them. Resources kept him linked into MRD chatter, and when he had heard they were luring an X-Men down to his home, he hopped on the next bus headed south.

She obviously didn’t believe him. Aside from the hell he had previously put the X-Men through, he could benefit greatly from acquiring that much Hope Serum. He’d be the only immoral mercenary willing to sell the stuff. And she could name at least 10 politicians, billionaires and scientists who would do anything for just a sample.

He understood the mistrust, and decided to appease her. He would accompany her to the pickup site, but they would come prepared. And for 13 thrilling minutes, the pair were dishing out explosive playing cards and ungloved fingers, Rogue probing enough brains by the end to know he had been telling the truth. And in the dead of night in New Orleans, surrounded by a sea of unconscious bodies, the contact’s stubborn confession still ringing in the air, she had turned to the thief with a new set of eyes.

“That complaining I hear?” she playfully accused.

He slouched further in his seat, and plopped his feet into the vacant seat beside her. She watched him clock his surroundings skillfully, line of sight eventually settled on the connecting door behind her. “I don’t complain, Cheré. Just making an observation.”

“There’s a difference?” she teased.

She snickered as he flipped her the bird, and tried to look relaxed as well, though she felt stiff with nerves, while he looked every part the disinterested college student, the top knot beautifully complimenting the faded Columbia sweatshirt and low-riding skinny jeans. She forced herself to look away, because she knew once she started laughing, there was no way she was stopping. It was a look.   

She mirrored his sitting position, and nudged his elbow with her toe. “Alright, let’s hear that speech you’ve been working on.”

He immediately stiffened and squirmed in his seat. “It’s not done yet.”

“You got 500 miles left. Get cracking,” she chided.

That comment only seemed to make him more anxious. After locking the MRD officers in their own holding units and ludicrously spray painting their vehicles, they had cackled their way to a local bar, where they celebrated their endeavors with cheap beer and peanuts. Buzzing in tandem with the gaudy window neon displays, he had lost some of his filters, and blurted his hope of joining the X-Men someday; to get out of the life he was living. And with a sober smile, and a somewhat uncoordinated back slap, she asked why he had to wait for someday.

Logan was going to kill her.

First, he would say something along the lines of I told you so (she had refused back up for the pick up and he had ineloquently said she was going to regret it). Then he would clap her on the back once she handed over the vials of serum. And then she would beckon her stowaway through the front door, and Logan would spontaneously combust.

“Remy—“

He put up a hand to stop her. “Now, Cheré, while I appreciate whatever sentimental compliment you’re gonna throw my way; how I’ve changed, how sorry I am for my past transgressions. Don’t waste your breath. There’s no taking back what I did. Any leader in their right mind would lay me to waste if I stepped onto their front porch.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Swamp Rat. I’m fresh out of compliments, especially when it comes to you.”

He threw her a withering glare over his glasses.

She threw him one back. “What I was gonna say was that if they took me back, after walking away and selling them out— “

He gawked at her. “What kind of teammate are you!?”

She gasped, affronted, and proceeded to flick him across the face with her train ticket. She didn’t relent until she could see a ghost of a smirk on his face.

“They’re pretty forgiving people,” she added.

This time, Remy didn’t hide his guffaw. “We’re talking about the same Wolverine, right?”

“This look sus’ to you at all, Jar?”

“If you are speaking to the absence of origin frequency and homing signal, then yes, I am inclined to agree with you.”

He scowled to himself, fingers clawed around a persistent 5 o’clock shadow. “Don’t sound too put out about it.”

“My apologies, sir. I will aim to correct such behavior in the future.”

He let the past few interrupted nights stench up his repressed yawn, as he dismissively wiggled his fingers around. “Bring up Megatron’s prints again.”

“As you wish, but I fail to compute how a 22^nd analyzation of the same data will yield any new information.”

Yeah, Tony kind of failed to compute it, too. But they were missing something, they had to be. As crazy as his world had been getting over the past few years, science was the basis on which he could look straight into the eyes of crazy, and resist losing his mind. “I’d really like to know how Trask’s Michael Bay knock-off suddenly turned fully autonomous. And being that you’re not really helping in this group project, I’m forced to find it myself.”

He was ominously answered with the echo of his lab doors being opened. Which had previously been locked shut, passcode encrypted, the whole 9 yards. And a familiar, unimpressed voice shattered his peaceful sanctuary. “You don’t look dead.”

He glowered at the nearest computer screen. “We’re having words later, Jar.”

He turned to watch the archer lean back into the hallway, “Nat, he’s not dead. Kinda smells like it, though. My job’s done.”

She looped an arm through his and dragged him back into his lab. “Come on, human interaction, Barton.”

The grown-ass assassin actually pouted, making a show of digging in his heels, “But Mom, I don’t want to.”

Yeah, Tony didn’t really want to either. Sure, he feared Natasha more than most flavors and variations of death, but his rest, patience and interest in company were nonexistent, and his lab had been his safe reprieve from whatever Pepper was going to make him do to correct any or all off those three. 

Satisfied in manhandling most of Clint’s body the rest of the way, Nat came to lithely slip into the seat Tony had just vacated, her legs intertwined into a position that looked painful. “Steve said to come check up on you. Remind you to eat, use the restroom, shower,” a teasing smirk just barely disrupting her iron-pressed lips.

Tony rolled his eyes. Steve had let the role of leader bleed heavily into their domestic lives, keeping every human under his roof in tip-top shape. And one of his greatest challenges was wrangling Tony, who had the ability to tune out the world, his mind and his body for days on end. Bruce sometimes helped, especially when Tony’s antics got borderline destructive, that hypocritical little botany-lab hermit. And here Steve was, fresh from knocking on death’s door, still mother-henning his 39-year-old child.
“How is he?” Tony asked, by way of deviating.

Natasha finally made eye contact with him since she’d stepped into his lab, and what he saw shook him to his core. The Black Widow mask was down, the spindly limbs were lax and before him suddenly sat a quite vulnerable woman, staring down the abyss of the impossible and trying her best to make sense of it all. “Tony. It’s crazy. I mean we’ve heard the stories. There’s not a person in the city who hasn’t heard of her. And about these healings. But Tony. Rogers was dying,” and to his grave he would take the sound of Natasha’s voice cracking, etched now permanently in the inside of his brain, “I know we’re all avoiding the topic because he’s up and walking around, but Rogers only had a few more days. He wouldn’t have survived sepsis with all of his other injuries.”

And at that comment, Tony was reminded again how late he was to the party. That for days Nat and Sam and Maria held Steve’s insides in, watched while doctors did that for them, and snuck a pretty bruised all American beefcake around DC and then Jersey. They were protecting a man, a legend and hero, who suddenly wasn’t capable of taking care of himself. A man, who could lift cars and bust through walls, that could barely sit up in bed. He wasn’t there to witness, and it still scared the shit out of him.  Unraveled truths like that tended to freak him out.

“And now,” Nat said, voice still flabbergasted, “He went to the gym before Sam took him to his check-up with Cho. Matched Thor’s pancake count this morning. It’s like she reversed time. It’s as if none of it ever happened.”

Barton piped up from behind them, as he juggled 3 empty K-cups (of the 13 spilled over his trash can) and effectively shattered whatever he and Romanov were having. “What’re you looking at?”

Tony recomposed himself, “The Iron Giant specs you and Red got me.”

“Anything interesting?”

Tony coughed up a snort, pained cynicism in its depths. “Other than the fact this freaking automated WMD was not only mass produced but approved for public use?” He sighed. “I just. Did I suddenly wake up in some 1984, dystopian cock-up with a government that checks off on this shit?”

He caught emerald greens peeking at him with interest behind a curtain of scarlet. “He knows Orwell. Impressive.”

“I’m edumacated.” And upon hearing the whistle through a sassy mouth behind him, gearing up for a comeback, he intercepted with, “Not a word, Katniss,” before he turned back to Mrs. Smith, “the Jaeger had no controller. No input signals were being received, nothing,” he said, reaching around the Black Widow to flick up JARVIS’s holographic rendering of the Sentinel’s schematics. It was a testament to their garnered friendship that she didn’t snap his hand off in such close proximity to her.

Barton suddenly turned serious. Tony was looking at semi-professional, SHIELD agent Clinton Barton now, one of Fury’s best little lap dogs. “You’re saying this thing was acting on its own?”

Tony nodded. “And there are no records of a fully-automated Sentinel in Trask’s databases. Even creepier, the machine’s still got the original hardware for command receiving and processing. It was just. Non-operational.”

Natasha leaned up in her seat, eyes still on the hologram. “Scanned it for traces of--?”

“Ultraviolet and electromagnetic radiation, ion manipulation, all of the 118 elements, you name it,” he rattled off, tiredly. He had already been down this lane. 22 times, apparently. Lot of good these intruders were—

“Scan for magnetic field disturbances,” she suggested.

A little something stirred in his chest when JARVIS immediately followed her instructions. This person, persons, who had invaded his lab and his life without permission--no, dammit he is not getting emotional right now, he didn’t have time for it. “Especially around the robot and at least a mile away, with matching frequencies.” And to his questioning look, she dipped her head uncertainly. “Got a hunch.”

Seconds later, the 3-way computer in front of them shifted from schematics to the Avenger’s own database records, files and records accessed and displayed for all of them to see.

Barton, who recognized the mugshot: “Son of a bucket.”

Tony, who recognized a pattern in the data: “They’re perfect matches.”

And Nat, the brains behind the discovery, not an inch of her expression or posture clean of smugness. “Erik Lensherr,”

Barton swept his butt onto his lab desk, and it took all of Tony’s strength to hold back shoving him off, school yard style. “Dude got expressed delivered to one of Blink’s dimensions. We got multiple confirmations on that,” he said, directing the last part to his former partner with a very we-have-to-kill-them-now, Big-Brother-with-an-eye-patch-knows-all air to it.

Natasha shrugged her shoulders, but gave the archer a pointed look. “You’d put it past Magneto to somehow find a way out?”

“It’s possible,” Tony interjected. “Blink creates biomolecular displacement warps with much of the same magnetic field disruption style that Magneto uses. If that ass-helmet went about it the right way, he could’ve reversed the polarities through the portal he got sent through, and got spit back out.”

Barton’s groan turned a deep shade of jejune, high pitched and very much disgruntled and flat out done with new problems he knew he was going to get roped into fixing. “And back to creating chaos as he does best.”

“Where’d he find a spare Sentinel?” Natasha asked.

Tony supplied, “Traces back to a dump site in Bethesda the backorder ones got shipped to.”

Barton released another loud and dramatic groan, a dark shade of petulant if Tony was being honest, just shy of a good old foot stomp. The immature sulking was thick to the point of obnoxious, but Tony found himself relating to it. There was something releasing about looking at the mountain of mature undertakings scheduled within the next 24 hours, grabbing his warm cup of hot milk and storming off to find a pillow-fort he could hide out in. Pepper’d kill him, though. Natasha turned to look up at Tony, and he felt her next words were going to be one of those kinds of orders disguised as a friendly suggestion, but in the end it really wasn’t. Her and Pepper were definitely spending way too much time together. “You know we have to fill Logan in on this. Wouldn’t hurt sending a quick update to Genosha either.”

Yep. He was right. She was even starting to sound like her. “No! I am not talking to Van Hesling again. He hung up on me last night. Uncultured creature. And after I pretty much pledge the Avengers’ allegiance to his little Celestia. It was a beautiful moment. We were having A Moment! And he hangs up!”

“I think you’re having another moment right now.”

He spun around to face the archer. “You know what, Barton? I got some ugly-ass purple, highly experimental arrows fresh out of the R&D Easy-Bake oven that I could easily repurpose as Lincoln Logs.”

Clint put a dramatic hand to his chest. “Et tu, Brute?” he asked. Damn, he didn’t know how Steve put up with all of them. The boy scout was just barely able to legally purchase and drive a rental vehicle, and yet he was somehow the adult amongst their dysfunctional group of children, dressed in deceptive brands of maturity.

“Rogers is heading over to Hicksville, anyway, to recruit her. I’ll let him deliver the message,” Tony relayed, turning back to Natasha.

Her eyebrow peaked slightly with interest. “You think she can do it?”

He shrugged. “Sure. Piece of cake.”

The emerald eyes were back on him again, dissecting him. “Strangely sanguine of you.”

“What can I say, you save the world a few hundred times and even someone like me can let a little optimism rust out this tin heart,” he replied, rapping a knuckle against the arc reactor.  

“She better say yes,” Natasha mumbled, those present slightly spooked at the warning tone beneath her words. “I need estrogen in this boys’ club. Can we bribe her with something?” she asked.

Tony turned to her. “What do you bribe the Shadow Healer with? Universal healthcare, AmeriCorps on steroids and world peace?”

With a straight face, she asked “Can you make that happen?”

He threw her a withering look. “None of us would be employed right now if I could make that happen.”

“Why do we even keep you around, again?”

He threw his hands up in defeat. “Apparently I’m just an over-qualified phone receptionist.”

“But we still love you,” Barton quipped before he leaned in for a quick peck on Tony’s head, scurrying quickly for the door as Tony called out after him, “Watch me color them green. Watch me!”

“Hi, I’m Claire.”

Reagan watched her with interest as she closed the door to the med room behind her. She was always comfortable around Claire and the others, and found her nervousness, in that moment, came from the naked feeling that was creeping along her skin. She had never shown her face to them, never introduced herself with a name other than The Shadow Healer.

She smiled conspiratorially over at the Night Nurse, as she began pulling familiar equipment out of her backpack. “Hi Claire,” she said, the name purposefully fond and familiar off her tongue.

Claire halted, stethoscope only halfway settled along her shoulders, as she stared open-mouthed the young woman in front of her. “So it is you,” she laughed, mouth only falling slack even further at the teenager’s guilty smile. “I knew you’d been recruited,” she said, finger pointing excitedly at her. “It all added up. You were MIA and the X-Men suddenly picked up a healer. Chrissy believed me, but Shirley was skeptical.”

Reagan’s smile turned a shade snarkier. “And that surprised you?” she asked, extending her hand, “Reagan, nice to meet you.”

Claire coughed out a laugh, surprised at the ease of the conversation, and shook her hand. “No I guess it shouldn’t have.”

The mood had immediately sobered with Reagan’s retreating smile, eyes now wide and apologetic as they regarded the Night Nurse, “Claire, look— “

“You know you could’ve told us, right?” Claire prodded, turning from her lean over the deep sink, before she slipped sterile gloves on. “HIPPA trained us to be good secret keepers. We’re right up there with priests and mothers.”

The exhale was heavy and audible and far too mature-sounding for that young of a mouth. “I don’t exist, Claire. I came from a dangerous world, full of wealthy aristocrats, untouchable people, swimming with resources and money that can just make obstacles disappear. Can make people disappear.”

And damn if that didn’t shock her blood cold. Untouchable and disappear came from a language she knew too well, a dialect straight from Daredevil’s world. Those long nights in his apartment, sewing skin back together and stuffing blood back in cavities, talking about shadows that lurked behind the shadows, people and transactions and murders that were whispered once and never repeated again. Nothing was ever for certain in that world, only your last breath coughed out of your throat when you pushed too hard, asked all the right questions and fought with your life for an ounce of truth.

People with the means to alter the world around them without even blinking. People disappeared, obstacles vanished, money traveled, evidence changed, words stopped and no one was left the wiser. They were gods with mortal bones, playing the world around them as if they didn’t even belong in it. And somehow, the baby cheeks before her had gotten a taste of it. Had seen the shadows move on their own accord, like Peter Pan’s.

“And the X-Men?”

She shrugged helplessly, as if she was figuring it all out as she was going along. “I figured were equipped to take on enemies like this. And had the resources to give me another identity, before my old one was discovered.”

I don’t exist.

I didn’t have a name.

Old and new identity.

This was all too real again for her. Her heart ached to help those who were helping the world, the ones who pushed beyond their body and their mind’s limits to make just the smallest of differences in a war you couldn’t see and sometimes would never hear about. But as she learned the hard way, all you had to do was breathe in the smog from the darkness they skipped around in, and suddenly the shadows behind the shadows? They were whispering your name. Calling out for your blood. And she was painfully and brutally reminded how human she was amongst them. There was a white-wash of relief that came with a gift of ignorance.

She appreciated the young girl for giving her that gift. “You’re on the run?”

A darkened laugh in disguise as light-hearted sarcasm. “I’m not sure if a dead person can technically be on the run, but yeah. Pretty much.”

The Velcro on the blood pressure cuff rang like a gunshot in the medical room, and she left the echoes to fill her mind to capacity. “Whad’yah do?” She tried to sound casual, but her mind prepared for the worst.

“Become a mutant.”

A glance at her patient saw her smirk, and she released another shaky laugh. “I heard that can be a deal breaker.”

“Unfortunately, the rumors are true.”

They shared another smile, and Claire decided to leave it at that. An instinct, stirring in her stomach, told her that Reagan had spent enough time recently ripping away at truths that had been secrets for years. The least she could do was let her keep a little to herself.

Time passed as Claire ran through basic exam procedures, taking notes sporadically, cataloging her actions aloud as she went. Later, she would reflect and would be unable to pinpoint the reasoning behind why she had said aloud everything she was doing. It was a brilliant idea, for a host of reasons. She didn’t know Reagan’s history, especially her time on the streets. But fending for yourself in a place like New York City put even the best people on edge, and letting her patient know her intentions before she acted on them was a smart tactic in keeping her at ease. Her voice also helped to fill the silence and possibly Reagan’s head, again another effort in keep her patient’s attention otherwise occupied and diverted from the anxiety that came with medical exams. None of those ideas preempted her audible exam, but she was thankful for whichever intuition had kicked in.

When it came time for a physical exam, the apprehension was clear on Reagan’s face, her movements jerky as she slid into a flat position on the bed.   

She was slight for her age. Most likely from a limited, low-fat diet. She was lean though, edged muscles from what little her body had to offer. Whatever life she had lead on the streets, it was an active one. What stood out to her more, though. More than the abs and biceps. Were the wounds.

Some were shallow, where something had sliced quickly. And then there were others, where the skin was scarred over in a healthy pink, though ugly, ragged and uneven from a hand that wasn’t all too experienced in stitching. If she had to hazard a guess, by the young girl’s own hand, no doubt. Her body was littered in them, some large blotches others long trails that traveled across great expanses of skin. And if this wasn’t déjà vu, reminding her deeply of a red-dressed vigilante out of Hell’s Kitchen who was just as marked up.

Her voice startled her from her thoughts. “Alright, be frank with me, doc. Am I gonna live?”

At the lightness in her tone, Claire finally breathed for the first time since she’d first started the physical exam. She could tell her aim for brevity was a little forced, could see it in the way her body still remained wrung and tightened like a twisted coil, in the way her eyes tried to focus on never meeting hers. Maybe this was the first time she had breathed too.

Claire sent her a withering glare, a ghost of a smile between her flattened lips. “Very funny. I’m inclined to say yes, as long as you tell me your secret to your tan. Because you are tan for a Caucasian woman in the middle of fall.”

She grabbed at the distractive joke greedily, all too eager to join in the banter. They both needed it. “I don’t know. I look like this all the time, too. I wasn’t like this before I got powers. So maybe it’s another manifestation.”

“Gorgeously tan all year long. That’s a pretty horrible side effect you got there.”

“It’s a cross I have to bear.”

“How courageous of you,” Claire drawled.

She nodded to Reagan, the young girl all too happily tightening the plastic robe back around her as she sat up, watching as the Night Nurse spent the next few long moments jotting down notes in a worn spiral notebook. Never lifting her eyes from her notes, Claire asked, “What was your diet like?”

Reagan’s brow furrowed, as she reflected back on all those years, so fresh in her mind yet miles away. “Sporadic. I’d eat when I could, if I could. Homeless shelters were always amazing about providing meals, but I usually didn’t stay in the same neighborhood for too long. Hopped around a lot. Probably two meals a day from a shelter, at most. Maybe a snack if I had one stashed in my pockets.”

Claire’s head jerked to the side, and Reagan slid noisily down the bench to make room for the Night Nurse, as she bounced up and sat beside her. “What’s eating been like for you, now?” she asked, pushing the spiral notebook more into Reagan’s view, the young girl watching with interest as Claire scribbled more words down, making check marks and tallies in a roughly-lined chart in the bottom corner of the page. Claire smiled a little when Reagan’s reply came out slightly distracted. “Weird. I’m hungry, now that there’s food whenever I want it. But I usually can’t eat past a few bites. I got extremely hungry after the fight with the Sentinel, hungrier than I’d ever been on the streets. Hank said it was from ‘increased energy expenditure’.”

Claire reached in her backpack and pulled out a thick, brown envelope. “I’ve got material from a friend back at Metro. Dietician. She’s got your particulars, anonymous obviously. She’ll get the results from Hank, too. She doesn’t have time to meet privately, but this is her number, and she’s open to answering texts if you want.”

Reagan was surprised by the weight of it, as she peeked through its contents. “What’s in the material?”

“A food schedule you should follow for the first couple of weeks, let your stomach readjust to a full diet. Gently ease in the processed foods, if you want them. Portion sizes you should stick to. She recommends charting down your meals and any resulting uncomfortableness after. 6 years removed from a certain food group could possibly create intolerance in your gut.”

Reagan nodded absentmindedly, already pulling out brochures and brightly-colored fill in calendars. Claire watched her a bit, letting her process the new information, subtle as she reached up to feel the young girl’s forehead and neck. Hank was right; her internal core temperature would terrify any person in the medical field, and beyond. There were probably plenty of people at NASA and the Pentagon that would be crapping themselves reading the body temperatures she was so contently walking around with. But her skin felt fine, not burning as one would assume. She turned to Claire in question, the Night Nurse slipping her hand away. “Feeling really tired at all? Maybe a little weak, like you can’t move around for too long without needing to sit.”

Reagan shook her head. “Not really.”

Claire nodded she was following, flipping back a few pages in her notebook. “Hank mentioned that you threw up a little the other night. Fainted and remained unconscious for about a half hour.”

Reagan nodded. “Yeah. I used parts of my abilities I had never accessed before, and I severely over-extended myself. Hank thinks it was from that.”

Claire was thinking that too. “Super powers can do that to you sometimes.”

Reagan bobbed her head back and forth, mulling over conditions and symptoms she had learned from the same woman sitting beside her now. “Close to the symptoms of magnesium and phosphorus deficiency, though. You’re thinking refeeding syndrome.”

Claire smiled proudly, but let her hand find Reagan’s shoulder and squeezed comfortingly. “Based on your previous, 6-year diet, you’re at a high risk for it. The reintroduction of nutrients and glucose to your body can easily cause these symptoms.”

“Hank’s been helping keep my meals smaller in portion size.”

She nodded enthusiastically. “That’s a good start. And now you’ve got a meal plan to follow,” she said, gesturing to the packets still in Reagan’s hands, “I’m gonna have Hank still run tests on your blood samples to confirm the deficiencies, but for now I’m going to add a few more vitamins, and some electrolytes to your diet.”

Reagan made a face. “Intravenously?”

“If you want to. I’ll recommend dosage on here if you want to do an IV, but I was thinking more along the lines of electrolyte drinks. Probably easier.”

She watched as Claire wrote brand names she had heard lifetimes ago. “How often do I need to test electrolyte levels?”

“Twice a day, morning and evening. Just a finger prick, nothing major. I would do a—“

“Urine sample?”

“Definitely. I’d say a good habit to have for the next week or so would be to log how frequently you use the bathroom, and notes on urine and stool appearance.”

“Color, size, consistency, buoyancy?”

Claire smiled, throwing her hands up in surrender. “You know the drill; why am I even here?”

Reagan blushed from the positive attention, and Claire just wanted to squeeze her cheeks and snuggle with her while watching a movie. She was so young, younger than she had ever dreamed of seeing as a caped crusader. Why she had to be the one to deal with the messed up world they lived in, she didn’t know. Rotten luck and an unfair universe, was Claire’s opinion. “I’m still learning. You still know much more than me.”

Claire didn’t look convinced. “Maybe. You been bumping into things at all, recently? Maybe catching your shoulder on doorways, hip on edges of table?”

Reagan’s eyes widened. “Yeah, actually. What’re you thinking? Could be balance impairment. I’m at a higher risk of diabetes, could be that. Parkinson’s?”

Claire chuckled. “Oh no, nothing that serious. You just need glasses.”

She watched with interest as the color seemed to immediately drain from Reagan’s face. She was already reaching for the electrolyte drink samples she had brought, ready to catch should she keel over. “What? No I don’t.”

She was thrown by the tone. Almost scared. It was dark and borderline threatening, the same baritone of burly a certain red vigilante liked to dabble in. Like two Bale Batmans. And so she approached her following sentences delicately. “Bumping into things is a sure sign; you can’t gauge distances well. You’re squinting and blinking your eyes frequently. You held those papers really close to your face to see. Probably get reoccurring headaches.”

But Reagan was interestingly stubborn on this matter, shaking her head furiously. “That could be—“

Claire put her hands up. “I know, I know. Different symptoms to different problems. Don’t recite my own words back to me, young apprentic,” she scolded playfully, but at the sight of the ineffective tease, she put her arm around the smaller girl. “Just humor me, and get your eyes checked out. If Hank doesn’t have the equipment, here’s the number of an optometrist down in SoHo,” she said, handing her a small, white business card. “Just drop my name, and Shirley’s if you want, and set up an appointment. He’ll be discrete, won’t ask for records or anything. Can get you set up with a pair of glasses the same day, too.”

Reagan flapped the card between her fingers. “Who knew I’d be the one getting a Ghost appointment.”

Claire nodded her head. It was a scary realization to come to. That you were now so different from society, you needed backroom deals to resources that would never find its way to paper. You and your appointment, x-ray, cleaning, flu shot, whatever the case may be; it didn’t exist. “These are strange times. You are now a mutant member of society,” Claire said, jokingly knighting Reagan with her stethoscope, who thankfully chuckled in response, “It was only a matter of time.”

Reagan’s amusement was slow to sober, and Claire enjoyed the seconds of that peaceful smile on the young girl’s face, before Reagan brought them back to reality, “Anything else I might not know already?”

“You probably know this, but need someone to say it for you,” Claire started, pulling an index card from her back pocket and handing it to Reagan, who stared at the list of names and corresponding contact information curiously. “What are these?” she asked.

“Numbers of therapists. Vetted already, know how to be discreet. I gave you a few, so you can shop around. I would suggest visiting with the them before committing. Find one that clicks with you.”

Reagan looked up at her, confused. “Therapy for what?”

“For this,” Claire replied, tapping the side of Reagan’s head. “Lesson for the day, my young apprentice: the mind is the most overlooked, damaged organ in the human body. You don’t take care of it, and you’re pretty much setting up the rest of your systems for failure. All of your nerves, organs, bones, muscles; all depend on the health of your psyche.”

It made sense to Reagan. Mental health was no doubt as important as physical. She had met so many on the streets who had lost jobs and family from overlooked depression, PTSD, bipolar disorder, and so many others. Even more homeless had developed mental disorders over the course of their difficult lives on the streets.

But then. “What do I need to talk about?”

Or more importantly, where do I begin? So much of what she went through contradicted a stable lifestyle in the present. With what traumatic event did she start? Which ones did she leave out, if any? Did she focus on her life before the accident, before her powers, before she was turned away from her own home? Or did she talk about the accident, the day she got her powers and her whole life flipped upside down? Or did she talk about her life on the streets, and all the consequential trauma that came from struggling to survive on streets that preyed on the lonely, the young and the forgotten.  

Claire shrugged. “Whatever you want. That part’s completely up to you.”

He smiled at her reassuringly, of what he was trying to reassure her of, he wasn’t entirely sure. She tried her best to mimic the gesture back at him, but the smile felt strained and altogether, he felt guiltier than anything. He fiddled with the draw kit a few more times, checking and rechecking tubes and ports were secured, if only to unwind his own disappointment coiled along his heavy shoulders.

Here she was again, curled up on her side along his medical bench. He felt horrible for continually dragging her back down the drab walls, white lights and chilled basement air, procedure after procedure.

The pragmatic neurons argued that as a scientist, doctor and leadership figure, he had the duty to give her the best care possible, and to alleviate any ailments. That meant assessing her body down to its smallest enzyme, making sure everything was in working order. But those other, idealistic and emotional neurons; they were taking in her subdued and worn-out demeanor and letting it twist him up inside.

"Can I ask you something, Dr. McCoy?”

Her voice startled him from his ministrations, and he nodded for her to continue.

Her fingers kneaded at the cotton fabric of her X-Men sweatpants. "Can I go back to school?"

And if that didn’t wake him right out of his reveries. “That’s a big decision, Reagan.”

She deflated, as she read the tone behind his words. It’s too big. “I know.”

No, he wasn’t so sure she did know. “It’s not one to make lightly. With everything that's been happening, I don't know if going back to school is the wisest of decisions.”

"Logan said the institute put students, before, in the local, public school system.”

And wasn’t that such a stress-free period. “It was no walk in the park, Reagan. There were many incidents that had to be manipulated and in some cases, completely wiped from memory.”

He watched her process, and couldn’t help the pain blossoming in his chest at the sight of her crestfallen expression. Because it there was anyone who would advocate for the gift of education, and using that gift to its fullest potential, it was him. Many of the parents were hard-won over in enrolling the children in Bayville. So much of high school was unpredictable, and a breeding ground of disaster for teenagers new to their abilities and puberty and love and adulthood. Even harder to convince were Ororo and Logan. He hadn’t been with the institute at that time, but Ororo had told him of the incredible laugh Logan had let out when the idea was first being passed around. But Charles had convinced them all, that children did not grow and mature and experience life locked away from the rest of the world, as he had been forced to do many years ago.

Yet here he was, sitting before a child who had so much taken from her because she was different. Because people didn’t understand her. Telling her that there was one more thing she couldn’t have, another thing falling just out of reach. And it hurt him more than she would ever know.

He lamented in silence for a few more seconds, before removing his glasses to look at her more effectively. “Permission to speak candidly?”

She looked up at him wide-eyed, eagerly nodding her head. “Of course. Always.”

“Let’s say for arguments sake this was going to happen,” he began. He saw excitement flash in her eyes, and he immediately held up his hand as if to stop the train of thought she was on. He hadn’t meant to sound hopeful. He simply wanted her to understand where he was coming from, “Public school enrollment requires documents; birth certificate, social security card, legal guardians. We would have to create fake ones; good fakes. You would also need proof of residency. The institute has been already under previous suspicion of housing mutants. If we enroll you with connection to this address, that’d be putting us on the radar again. And with all that’s been going on, we can’t afford that kind of attention right now.”

"What if I wasn't connected to the mansion?" she countered. He was slightly taken back, not prepared for this to become a debate. “What if there was just a P.O. box I was connected to instead? If I got my driver’s license, I could drive myself to school, and you’d never have to worry about a bus picking and dropping me off here.”

He ceded they were valid points, and slightly disheartened that she had clearly spent time thinking about this in hopes of winning him over. "That would still mean we would need proof of guardians for you. The institute used to have resources, contacts if you will, in positions to procure those kind of documents for us. So much time has passed though; we either lost contact or those connections have been irreversibly severed.”

“If you can dig up the information you did on me, it can’t be all that hard to cook up some fake papers.”

He cringed. So much of that day, of that hour still left a sour taste in his mouth. They had been so uncouth, so inconsiderate, lacking all of the delicacy a situation like that required. Logan had come a long way as leader, from a rogue resident who embodied the term ‘teammate’ loosely, had stepped up in ways even Hank would admit he had never thought possible. He would be the first, and certainly not the last, to admit that when it became clear Charles was no longer capable of leading the X-Men in a conventional way, his first instinct had been to turn to Scott for leadership. Sure, he was raw and unhinged at the time, still mourning the loss of Jean. It seemed he had taken on many of Logan’s qualities when he had first appeared at the institute. He brooded often, interacted rarely, and acted like a rookie in the field.

But yet Hank had put all of his betting chips on Scott and his ability to lead them. He had been one of Charles’ star pupils. He was a model X-Men and student, and was already looked up to by so many on the team. Often in the field, he found himself naturally slipping into a leadership role, and everyone was there to eagerly follow suit. And so when Charles had placed responsibility on Logan, the Wolverine, Hank had all but done a spit take. A man who rarely listened to orders, who disappeared without warning, who didn’t play well with others, plagued and controlled by the absence of memories, was suddenly going to be playing with their lives in the field.

The first few tries were rough going, but that had more to do with the change in the dynamic of the team as a whole, not just solely Logan’s new promotion. But then Logan was strategizing plays, taking the hard hits, calling the shots, and they followed. Now, Hank couldn’t think of anyone else to lead the team. A man he wouldn’t trust with a glass beaker, back when they had first met, he was suddenly trusting with his life, without a second thought.

Yes, Logan had come a long way. But he still slipped up from time to time. Got too eager in a fight, let his emotions govern an order or two. And the other day had fallen prey to engrained instincts.

There’s a tact to getting background checks on new recruits. For a new, young student, who had parents to read most of the application paperwork for The Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters, background checks were just part of the process. But for a young woman pulled off of the streets, abandoned by family who put her ideas of trust through a blender, permission would’ve been a good start. Minus an overly-alert Scott breathing down Logan’s neck, waiting for, in his mind, the inevitable shoe to drop. A quiet setting to let Reagan talk, get her side of things.

But the poor girl had been rampaged, attacked and hurt, and there was no excusing that. “Most of that, I must admit, was procured through other means. But granted we can; then what? You’re still 6 years behind in schooling.”

“I’ve attended nationally-acclaimed boarding schools my entire childhood, and have had tutors for most of the major subjects. Realistically, I’m probably only a little behind. And what I don’t know, I have full faith in your capability to teach me.”

He wasn’t expecting that response, and to his, no doubt, surprised look, she nodded behind him to his diplomas hanging above his work station.

Bachelors in Genetics from Harvard

Masters in Mechanical Engineering, Biomedical Engineering, Electronics, Biochemistry, Genetics, Biology, Education and Biomedical Science from MIT

Doctorates in Genetics, Biology, Bioengineering, Phlebotomy, Pathology, Histology and Biomedical Science from MIT

Yes, he supposed he was ample capable of filling in the holes for her. Had it not been a few years ago he taught Biology right down the road at Bayville.

“I understand doing this for me would be jeopardizing much of the anonymity you’ve fought hard to acquire. And if your final answer is no, I will respect it. But can you just, think it over for me?”

“Hey, kiddo. Could you come down here a sec? Maybe bring back the hat and glasses look again.”

The response that came back though the speaker of the tablet was stalled. “Uh. Yeah. Of course. Give me a minute.”

He smirked. “Take your time.”

The voice behind him was openly curious and shamelessly teasing all at the same time. “Kiddo?”

He turned to address the mansion’s visitor. He barked out, “Shut it, Rogers.”

Captain Steven Rogers unhooked his folded arms long enough to give his old friend a quick placating gesture, goofy grin never leaving his face. “I didn’t say anything.”

Wolverine threw Captain America a withering glare. “Uh huh. Sure.”

But the glare fell away to a look that fell just shy of relief. Something about seeing Captain America standing tall, breathing.

It just. It just was.

Just like there was supposed to be at least 3 spare beers in the back of the fridge, dumbasses for him to punch, metal in his bones and something stupid coming out of Summers’ mouth. Steve Rogers was supposed to be carrying a shield, awake and alive and breathing. End of story. Nothing more, nothing less. It was the laws of nature. You don’t go messing with those kind of things.

He was just one of those constants in his life. Stubborn kid. All of these deep, existential thoughts all accumulated in his head to the most eloquent and sentimental response he could muster as man before a Super Soldier. “You look good, Cap.”

The kid let his head dip to the side in shyness, in true Steve Rogers fashion, and threw Logan his infamous sideways smile. “Feeling good. Thanks to her.”

Logan nodded, something tasting of pride welling in his chest. “Yeah, she’s—“

Both pairs of enhanced ears picked up the sound of footfall making its way down the basement’s corridor, a voice calling out soon after. “Are you assigning me another mission? Because if you are, we should definitely—“ She paused in the doorway, as her eyes flickered warily between him and the new stranger she wasn’t at all prepared for.

A baby deer in headlights. She was spooked, in a way that had Logan second guessing if she’d recognized the man she had healed the other night, standing before her. Logan’s calm posture and relaxed voice concaved and bowled gently, beckoning her in from the doorway. “Kid, this is Captain Rogers. Captain America, to the rest of the world. Cap, I’d like you to meet Celestia.”

Steve read her anxiousness easily, and he held back from striding forward to greet her. Instead, he kept beside Logan, arm extended if she felt comfortable enough to shake hands. His “nice to meet you,” lacked much of the military rigidness that colored most of his actions, and was all unadulterated 1940’s charm and grace and patience, with even a touch of the 20-something year old he didn’t think his fellow Avengers had heard before.

And it seemed to be just the foiling mechanism she needed. She was quick to stifle her unease, visibly recomposed herself, scuttled forward and met Cap’s handshake. She gave him a cordial smile. “A pleasure, Captain Rogers.”

He shook his head at the title, chin dipped to hide his smile. “Please, call me Steve.”

She nodded her understanding, and Logan noticed with interest a sly smirk that spurted from the corner of her mouth. “Two identities in one fell swing? I fear whomever redacted your files is off having an aneurism somewhere.”

Both were startled by the blunt sarcasm; Steve barked out a surprised laugh, and Logan could only beam with pride. Steve quickly turned sheepish again, as he rubbed the back of his head guiltily. “Yeah. Sorry about all of the smoke and mirrors. Thank you again, for all you did. I owe you my life.”

The last admission was said with such reverence and candor, her bones shivered violently at the sudden burst of cold air. She felt exposed, too many layers stripped away by the profoundness behind such a simple truth. I owe you my life.  

So many people had said those very same words to her before. Sobbing in relief. Elated with hope. Clinging viciously to her with gratefulness. The weight of the statement had always been lost on her. Maybe it was because she could sense their emotions, knew how much adrenaline and dopamine was fueling the words dribbling desperately out from their mouths. Or maybe it was because her trust and faith had dried out so many years ago, and never waited for a repayment of debts. Not that she ever felt she needed to be repaid. That’s not why she did what she did; she wasn’t looking for a return.

But the way he had said it. Steve. It felt heavy with so many unspoken promises that went far beyond repayment. The words felt like bondage, tethering her to him so intensely, it scared her. But yet she felt safe in them; protected. In a way she didn’t think she ever felt before. No, she had felt it once; when the same man had taken her hand in his, placed it on his bare chest and said I trust you. His openness terrified her, and the genuineness was too much, too fast.  

She smiled back at him, genuinely she hoped, fear tampered and hidden. “I’m glad I could help.”

“That’s actually why I’m here. My team and I were wondering if we could get your assistance again. Only if you’re comfortable. If you need more time, just say the word…”

My team and I.

The Avengers, she presumed he was talking about. The murals all over the city. The t shirts in all the vendors. The posters on all of the shop windows. She wondered if they were the same people that had been scattered throughout the SHIELD base the other night. Not lurking, she realized now; protecting their leader. “I don’t. I appreciate the delicacy, but it’s unnecessary. I’ve been healing people for a long time.”

Those perfect teeth and camera smile were back with a hint of humored pride. “And I don’t doubt your tenacity, but the person who needs healing. I don’t know if you’ve dealt with someone like this before. Decades were spent conditioning him into compliancy with the use of cryostasis, and memory wiping technology. Time away from his handlers is helping him regain some free thought, but he’s still not completely in control.”

Memory wiping technology? Conditioning? Is this what life was going to be like with the X-Men? She felt like she was in a sci-fi novel. “You want me to…heal his mind?”

He was embarrassed again, cheeks even colored. “In my head it sounded crazy, but aloud it just sounds asinine.”

It did. She had never done healings so close with neuron programming and the subconscious. She couldn’t even work with the body on a genetic level; the subconscious was so much more intricate. The desperateness was palpable in the room; Steve had thoroughly soaked ever crevice and corner with it. She was his last hope. His great shot in the dark.

If there’s anyone who can do dark, it’s you, kid.

Logan had been right. She could handle the dark. More than she thought she could. She turned back to the enhanced leader with a reassuring smile. “Then I guess you came to the right people.”

Chapter Text

Kitty really didn’t know what to make of their new recruit, who had tried to slip unnoticed into her bedroom with a pretty big package. An enigma of the highest proportions.  

Reagan talked like she was from Downtown Abbey, all big SAT words and full pronunciations, even sat like it, poised so much it looked like it hurt. Her wardrobe had been pretty limited to whatever sweat suits were left in storage, but she figured when they eventually got her normal-people clothes, there would be lots of pearls, skirts and dresses. She smiled a lot, gracious in her gratitude and gentle in her ways. She apologized a lot. But she was also withdrawn and prickly, didn’t really speak unless spoken to, first assessing you like a triggered land mine to see what you would do with the words that she was about to supply. The mistrust was palpable, and only heightened those abrasive moments.

Once her real identity had been unceremoniously dropped at their feet, her name danced unrepentantly in Kitty’s head.

Maebh Carvalho.

The Carvalho kids and their tragic deaths had been a big thing back when; the first ever heavily publicized murder by a mutant, and when the term ‘mutant’ became normal American vernacular. Not many details had been released at the time; just that Senator and Dr. Carvalho had watched their kids burn to ashes at the hands of a powered individual, supposedly a revengeful political opponent, while vacationing up north. The murderer had, according to multiple reports, teleported just as law enforcement arrived on the scene.

But then of course, one of the two deceased Carvalho kids was currently taking up residency beneath the same roof, and now Kitty questioned everything she thought she knew.

What had actually happened?

She could, really, just ask Reagan. Because isn’t that what got them into this whole tense, walking-on-broken-glass situation? Not just asking Reagan?

She knew Hank had been making an effort to gently ease her into the mundane life of the team, especially after the other day. But it didn’t seem like Reagan wanted to ease in at all. She had no interest in this integration process, the primary reason beginning with Scott and ending with Summers. And really, he went and body checked the girl into the wall. If someone had done that to her on her first day at the institute, she would’ve promptly packed her bag and got on the next flight back to her parents.

Kitty slipped unannounced through the bedroom door way, the only warning of her presence a “You’re here three days and you’re already getting packages? I can barely get Amazon to—” before she paused, gaping at the sight before her. On the arm chair was the package she had seen, now ripped open, packing peanuts exploded across the floor, and then she noticed a branding stamp on the top flap, looking an awful lot like the Stark Industries logo.

But then her gaze had found Reagan, and her jaw dropped. “Reagan! You look killer!”

The whole suit was a dark cerulean, contrasted up against Reagan's paled blonde curls. The one piece looked thick and reinforced, Nomex by nature, but with fewer inlays of Kevlar for flexibility, a little stiff in curved areas where her own suit tended to hungrily cling for her skin. She stared with longing and envy at slightly bulkier padding around the joints, ridges showing comfort but smoothed for no limited range of motion. Even more disheartening were the knee high combat boots, thick with support and not a heel in sight. The padded gloves were fingerless, the mask didn’t even look like it had strapping, and the cape! She wasn’t into them herself, kind of seemed pointless for someone who didn’t have to worry over the trials and tribulations of aerodynamics. But, damn, if she didn’t want to take Reagan’s for a spin. The body of it ran down to her knees, with two, thick single ribbons of the same heavy material laid over it, falling just slightly higher, the edges lined in a silver that kept catching the room’s light like a diamond. The neck of it bulked around Reagan’s like a scarf, it’s back hanging just a little longer into a hood. And the way it hung. Ugh, made her want to fly with that thing flapping behind her.

Reagan's cheeks pinked along the bottom edges of the mask that wrapped along her eyes, and her words pulled Kitty from her definite gawking. “Thank you.”

And ‘killer’ seemed such a horribly inadequate word to describe the girl before her. The only word she could think of was the one that came to her the moment Reagan stood before them the other night, breathes heavy from exertion but smile wide from a battle, probably her first. It was a word that, in the wrong context or tone sounded patronizing. But now, it was the only right one.

Superhero.

She didn’t even realize she had gravitated towards Reagan, though the new recruit’s tense posture and eyes that yearned for retreat should’ve been warning enough, until she felt her hand brush at the cardboard box. Her eyes caught the logo again, and sure enough, after flattening the side, she had been right. “This says Stark Industries.”

She sounded like an idiot stating the absolute obvious, but it gave her time to put a few things together. Like the fact that Stark Industries made a lot of things, but superhero costumes weren’t one of them. Like the fact that there was a very rich, very famous man that owned Stark Industries. Like that fact that said man was a member of another, more recognizable, hero team. And thus, her second train of thought was born. “Did Tony Stark make this for you?”

The bloated bout of silence that followed and Reagan’s shy smile was enough to confirm her suspicion, the reality of it waited until then to hit the young Pryde, and then her jaw dropped just a little bit lower.

“Who is Tony Stark? The way you said his name implies I should know him.”

And Kitty was about to reply in kind with an equally crazy question, along the lines of have you been living under a rock for the last decade, when she remembered who she was talking to, and Ororo’s words to Hank earlier.

She isn’t of our society, of our world. She’s live outside of it for a long time. This is all new to her. Take it easy with her.

Shadowcat tried to give a nonchalant shrug, play off her bubbled incredulity, and sprawled herself out casually on her couch. “He’s pretty much one of the world’s greatest technological geniuses. And one of the richest men in the world. Oh, and he’s Iron Man. Oh, and a member of the Avengers, that group that stopped that alien invasion a few years back.”

Reagan slowly nodded, Kitty watching as the information sank in. “Does he work with the Captain?”

The question threw Kitty. “Captain America? Yeah. Why, do you know him?”

The last question was really just a knee-jerk response, more teasing than anything. But then Reagan nodded, spread her arms out and looked down at the suit, and Kitty realized in that moment she was banned from ever underestimating their new recruit ever again. “He was the one who delivered this to me.”

“WHAT!?!” and yeah, maybe that came out a little fanatic and high-pitched. But this was The Captain America, the world’s greatest blond-haired beauty, the living legend, who had been on their property, in their house and she wasn’t notified!

This was crazy. The Shadow Healer was pretty much hefted right off of the streets by Logan himself within one business day of meeting her. And now, she was barely a X-Men. Hadn’t broken in the training equipment, hadn’t really talked to everyone on the team. Never drove any of the mission vehicles. Heck, she couldn’t even fly straight. And out of nowhere, she was getting recruited by the leader of the Avengers. Where Kitty’s envy ended, complete confusion picked up residency. “When did you get an in with Captain America?”

“I did this black solo op with Logan the other night,” and yes, that’s right, she just said black solo op, like a cool person, “and unbeknownst to me, I had healed Captain Rogers. And Tony Stark had been the one to originally request Logan for my assistance.”

What!? “Seriously!? How do you get requested!? Are you handing out business cards? Posting on LinkedIn? Is this something I should be doing?”

Reagan shrugged, looking as if she was still trying to keep up with it all, wallowing in the effects of whiplash long after the racecar’s lap. “I still haven’t the slightest idea how he knew to request me through Logan,” but her confusion condensed into contemplation, “But then again, Captain Rogers did say something about the Avengers watching me.”

“Dude, you’re being scouted by the Avengers! You gotta tell Bobby, Reagan! Just watch him explode,” Kitty exclaimed, her heart warmed at Reagan’s growing smile. 

She turned at the sound of Jean’s distant voice traveling down the hallway. “Kitty?”

“In here!” she called out, “Come see Reagan’s new look!”

A second later, a curtain of red waves peaked in through the doorway, followed by curious green eyes that lit up at the sight that greeted them. “Oh, Reagan, you look stunning!”

The new recruit was blushing madly, now, her body almost crumpled in, shying from the attention. She was hunched in on herself, in an attempt Kitty realized, to hide from and deflect the eyes on her. And while Reagan uttered a polite thank you, Kitty was left dumbfounded at the feet of a smaller, insecure form of the radiant girl that had been standing before her.

There was a different person entirely left in her wake, someone who looked every inch of 16 years old. She was wrinkled and deflated beneath the pressure of insecurities, anxiety wafted off of her in thick, gaseous fumes. And Kitty sat there speechless, trying to figure out if she was looking at was the husk or the core of the Shadow Healer.

Kitty caught movement beside her and almost exhaled loudly in relief. Jean always had a knack for knowing when something was up. The telepath had confided in Kitty years ago, on the counter top of their shared bathroom, face masks, moisturizers and magazines between them, that because of her abilities, she found she was extra sensitive to mood and emotion shifts in people, without ever having to use her powers. Jean had sensed the outcry of insecurities as well, and approached Reagan slowly with a large smile, open hands and soft words. “Where’d you get it? It looks nothing like what we’ve got in storage.”

Kitty piped up from behind the telepath, a chance for Reagan to regain her breath and composure, as she slowly acclimated to the environment. “Get this: it was made by Tony Stark, delivered by Captain America, a gift from the Avengers for helping heal Steve a few nights ago on a solo mission!” Yeah, saying it aloud didn’t make it sound any less crazy than how it was running through her head.

Jean turned back to the new recruit with a wide, placating smile. “Oh my gosh. Reagan, that’s incredible! Can we get a suit from Tony Stark?”

Reagan had finally seemed to have loosened a bit, enough to shift her expressive blue, irises from threatened to intrigued. Kitty and Jean’s building excitement held too much surprise, dusted thoroughly in confusion, toward a gesture that didn’t seem to warrant that level of excitement. “Do you not normally have this close of a relationship with the Avengers?” the healer asked.

Jean and Kitty shared an unreadable look, before they turned back to Reagan, their bodies just short of one, big shrug. “Not really,” Kitty started, voice pitched high and stalled in uncertainty.

“We swap mission intel on occasion,” Jean offered, “Dr. Banner’s sent Hank samples and experiment results in the past for his expertise, and I know Stark made up the blueprints for the Blackbird’s upgrades. But other than that, not really.”

“I know this will sound quite fantastically naïve of me, but you never. I don’t know. Team up?” Reagan asked.

Jean almost looked apologetic when she shook her head. “The Avengers tend to deal with the national and international incidents. We usually stick closer to home.”

“Don’t you think you both would benefit from the other’s assistance?”

Jean gave a conceding nod. “We’ve both got our own lives, busy with our own problems, I guess. We help where we can.”

Kitty, though, had had enough of this. She wanted to get to the real matter here: the tall, blond and gorgeous specimen that had been inside her house. “So Captain America was here? What did he say? Did he just drop by to say thanks?”

“He needs my help again soon. The suit was a requirement,” the new recruit replied, as she gave herself another once over again. It was still a lot to process. Would it be weird to wear it around the institute; get more comfortable with it? “Another one of his colleagues needs help. Unfortunately, I again won’t know specifics until I’m picked up.”

She turned back to Jean and Kitty. “On a separate note; what’s LinkedIn? Oh, and you said Amazon before; is that the e-book website? Also, what are the giant touch screens everywhere, the ones that look like giant iPods? Oh, and where can I get a good fake birth certificate?”

“You’re late.”

The familiar voice that greeted her upon entry, along with the tangible, pungent pong of sweat-covered rubber was enough to unroll the tension stacked atop her collarbone. It had been building since earlier that morning, when the nerves of the Captain’s meeting had eventually disentangled, when the inquietude had settled down enough she wasn’t spooked every time someone spoke to her.  She had traded the nauseous, slimy anxiety, always in motion as it crawled in and out of body cavities, for the thick and heavy unease, that just kept burying her lungs, so much so, deep breathing had become a self-reminder.

Over coffee, tea, and plain oatmeal, with the promise of spices and toppings if she was able to keep down at least a fourth of the bowl, she swallowed down the taciturn escaping up her throat, and asked Logan. She had planned the moment perfectly; Hank had just slipped out to grab the paper from the front steps, and the rest of team was still asleep, leaving just her and Logan at the kitchen table.

“Can I go to Manhattan tonight? I have a friend there I see often.”

She had rehearsed that sentence a dozen times over to herself. Had added the bit about the friend to make it sound personal, had taken out details about said friend, so it didn’t sound like she was trying to overly convince him.

He had barely glanced up from the electronic in his hands and replied easily, “Where in Manhattan?”

“Lower West Side.”

He nodded. “Got some prepaid Metro cards lying around if you wanna make the trip yourself, can pick up the train at Purdy down the street. If not, Hank has a meeting in Midtown, and probably wouldn’t mind carpooling.”

She hadn’t been prepared for that.

We don’t trust you yet—or—

I need to keep my eye on you—or—

Your commitment is to the team. You can’t leave.

Or any variation of those three. She had been expecting no, in a variety of flavors. The yes she was gifted in that moment: it felt sour, tangy and weird to her senses. And there was that unguarded trust again. Just like Steve, putting her potentially lethal hand over his unprotected chest, all over again. They were so incautious and impulsive with their faith in strangers, wielded carelessly around for anyone to snatch up. Was it because of their circumstances, that they were never in a lowly and vulnerable position of inferiority? They never had to worry of others using them for their own advantages? Never were pawns beneath someone else’s hand, or were never in a socioeconomic status that made them chest pieces to begin with?

Whatever the case was, they truly were fools at the heart of it. She held such a dangerous standing amongst them, now. She knew so much about them, enough to turn around and betray them in the cruelest and most malicious ways possible. And they knew so little of her. Sure, they now held her identity. But if they were placated by that truth alone, they were even more moronic than she gave them credit for.

And so that was how she found herself on a 2-hour car ride into the city with Dr. McCoy, where she was given an interesting look into the esteemed geneticist. A man of great scientific knowledge and discovery was, at his center, one of the gentlest people she had ever encountered. She knew from his medical care he was thorough, slow and methodical in his ministrations. His tests were always greeted first with detailed explanations, followed closely by permission, and she loved him all for it. But to see him carry that patience and tenderness over into conversation was overwhelmingly relaxing. He described everything to its fullness, and for someone who still had much to catch up on of the world she was living in, it was incredibly helpful. He was eager to ask about the mission Logan had brought her on, and of her powers in general. She was open to explaining what she could of her abilities, though there still was much she didn’t understand about them. But she needn’t worry about filling the silence; Dr. Henry McCoy was a natural born conversationalist. From the SUV they were driving, to the premise of the genetics lecture he was sitting in on, to businesses slowly populating the sidewalks around them, he had something interesting to say about everything, from a keen and observant eye she had come to discover. He had dropped her off with the promise of being back around 10 pm, along with his cell phone number (and change for the payphone when he realized she had nothing to call him with). She waited until the SUV disappeared around the corner, before she crossed the street and made her way down to the opposite end of the block.

She had missed their last two sessions, and so she couldn’t help the smile when she found the side door of Fogwell’s Gym still unlocked for her, and the lights in the short hallway turned on.

His voice broke through her reverie, “You smell different. Like you showered.”

She screwed up her face at him. “You really know how to charm a woman,” she commented drily, as she plopped down onto the metal bench and slipped off a jacket Logan had lent her.

“Wait.”

She turned hesitantly beside her, watching him as he slipped in beside her. “You smell really different. Clean cotton. Probably sheets. You’ve got new clothes on; the threads are stiff. You don’t smell hungry at all. Or dehydrated,” he started, as he reached out with a steady finger to lightly trace the skin above her cheeks, “Your eyes aren’t inflamed, which means you got a human amount of sleep last night.”

She snorted. “That’s rich coming from you.”

He playfully flicked her on the nose. “Shush, your elder is talking. You smell like soap. Detergent. Oatmeal. Cinnamon. Toast. Dish soap. Glass cleaner. Did you break into a place?”

She scoffed at him, dramatized enough to make him roll his unseeing eyes. “I’m offended you felt you had to ask.”

He suddenly turned serious, a cold, rich cocktail of saving hope. “My friend said he saw you on some X-Men fan sites. Rumors about you joining. Did they take you in?”

Fan sites? Like websites? On the internet? There was so much she needed to catch up on.

Her lapse in thought, though, was enough for an innocent grin to split across his face, as he pulled her into a hug. “Reagan, I’m so happy for you.”

She smiled into his t shirt and returned the embrace. “Thank you, Matt.”

“Are you happy?” he asked, voice muffled in her hair.

“Yeah. I am.”

“Oh, Reagan.” And he squeezed her harder, enough to pinch out a giggle from her.

“I don’t ever think I’ve seen you smile this much,” she chuckled.

He pulled back a little to grip her shoulders fondly. “Well I’m happy for you.”

His smile only got bigger, to a point where it almost scared her. She had never seen such an outward expression from him. “Are you ok?” she prodded, skeptically.

“Yeah,” he reassured, though his tone was more somber than before, his eyes a little glassier, “I just. Since the day we met, I’ve wanted to help you. I knew your situation, could smell it a mile away. I was in college then, and there wasn’t much I felt I could give you. And then I got my first job and the apartment, and I thought I could finally help you out; give you some food, give you a key and let you crash at my place. But you stopped showing up, for over a month, after I offered it all to you. And I didn’t want to lose you…”

“Nope. I’m going to stop you right there, Matt,” she grabbed his scabbed and torn hands in hers, “None of what you did was wrong. I will admit I was prideful, stubborn and still very much lost in my own misery to even think of letting someone that intimately back into my life again. I was too scared to depend on someone like that, after all my parents had put me through. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this enough, but I truly appreciated the generosity and kindness you showed me.”

He gave a breathy laugh. “Well, now we’re both crying.”

“Yeah. If you were looking to psych me out before sparring, it worked.”

He chuckled. “Sounds to me like a good day for stretching.”

“Couldn’t agree more.”

Dusted eyes tiptoed across her body, before they were back tracking the room around her. They had latched onto her the moment she had stepped into the old brick warehouse with Steve, the car he had picked her up in hidden beneath sheets of tarp behind them. Callouses scratched at her skin, and finger tips were taut with measured pressure in a hold that felt manipulative, like he was gripping a weapon. But his ghostly smile was easy, his posture was relaxed and she couldn’t help feeling somewhat at ease with him, though refined instincts warned her she was in the presence of a dangerous and lethal man.  

His hand slipped from hers and slid back in his pocket. “Can I go back up on the roof?”

It took her too long to realize he wasn’t talking to her, Steve’s audible resignation behind her telltale this hadn’t been the first time he asked, “Keep us posted.”

A gleeful grin bloomed across his face, and he all but skipped his way over to an open window, where he practically jumped out of sight. She leaned over to Steve, “Can he fly?”

A delicately snort, if that was possible, to her left answered her question and she turned to find a smirk on hard pressed lips detailed with short waves of hair. “He wishes.”

“Celestia, Black Widow,” Steve introduced.

A hand was already exposed to shake, as eyes picked her apart. Each second under her gaze, and she could almost feel another layer was peeled back, another bone was stripped clean of comforting muscle. While Hawkeye had been quick with his assessment, the Black Widow was slow and methodical, every nook and scratch unveiled.   

She blinked, and the hold was shattered.

Black Widow smirked, and the hand that held hers firmed and shook. “Call me Natasha.”

And the admission sounded equally parts blasé and vulnerable, and she was left with the warmed feeling she had been given the access to a coveted, locked vault.

“And the child scaling the side of a brick building right now is Clint,” Natasha added, tipping her head back to the open window.

Another sigh from Steve. “Keep an eye on him for me?”

She gave her leader a sardonic smile. “I thought that was my full time job. This is all just a side hustle.”

“Hope the benefits are good.”

Steve snorted, now learning to expect those rare moments of sarcastic humor from the healer, but Natasha wasn’t, and gave her leader a pointed look of excitement, before she turned back to Celestia, “Medical’s alright. We’re all just in it for the Starbucks discount.”

She wasn’t sure what the Black Widow meant by ‘medical,’ and hadn’t the slightest as to what Starbucks was, but she smiled regardless, and watched with amusement as the Black Widow skipped toward the same open window and flipped out, followed by a squeal of delight from Hawkeye outside.

“Ready?”

The largest breath she’d ever taken. “As I’ll ever be.”

A glance at the rest of the warehouse indicated construction halted prematurely. Neat piles of lumber were scattered about the first floor, dulled and scratched plastic sheeting dancing ominously across unfinished windows. There were stacks of unwrapped sheetrock in a far off corner, hard hats strewn beside them. The stairs she ascended behind Steve were down to their skeleton of 2x4s and random sized planks, and felt incapable of carrying her weight, let alone the super soldier’s in front of her. It curled its way skyward, where it disappeared behind make-shift walls of plywood before it reached the second floor.

As they turned the last sharp corner, she found a man stretched along a few steps, arms crossed, head turned at the sound of their footsteps from the second floor. His posture relaxed at the sight of Steve, but he was quick to climb to his feet. “Nothing new. Hasn’t said anything.”

She assumed he was referring to Sergeant James Barnes, which meant that the man before her was, more or less, a posted guard. Natasha and Clint were scouts, and this man was a guard. It made her ponder if she was to fear the sergeant, or the other way around.

Steve’s nod was almost imperceptible, but the somberness to it was obvious. He stepped to the side a few seconds later, remembering her. “Celestia this— “

He put a hand out to stop Steve. “—man can speak for himself. Sam, nice to meet you,” he intercepted, a hand out immediately for her. His smile was sincere, his hand nothing close to appraising, and while Natasha and Clint had felt observant, Sam didn’t. It was if he simply took her at face value and moved on. Natasha and Clint had been looking for a reason to trust, Sam just did. He was like Steve in that respect, and again she was unnerved.

She gave him a smile. “Pleasure.”

“We’ll be occupied for a while,” Steve informed.

Sam nodded. “I’ll keep up surveillance with Nat and Clint, but I think JARVIS has us pretty much covered.”

As she wondered to herself which Avenger Jarvis was, she nodded farewell to Sam and followed Steve further up. The second floor slowly came into view, much of its layout and materials similar to the first. In the middle of the floor, however, was a man.

Dark hair curtained off most of his face, and made the white of his eyes all the more striking. His clothes were clean, but the rest of him was dirty, as if he had slept on the dusty cement. His back was pressed tight against a cement pillar, knees up with one arm draped over. His left laid limp beside him; the metal one. It was in plain view, most of its metal plating exposed from his short sleeves. It hung limply beside as if it were dislocated, but a closer look revealed a small machine that lay next to its palm, and she wondered if it was doing something to the arm; like a weapon disarmed.

Steve stopped just shy of the stairs, and she realized he wasn’t going in any further; it was up to her now. Before she continued past him, she heard him call out Celestia quietly, and she turned to find the same eyes that stared up at her days ago on a hospital bed. So unguarded. “I want you to know that, whatever happens, I am truly thankful and appreciative of you doing this. And that if you aren’t able to help him, you didn’t fail. It’s not your fault. You’re showing him so much dignity and kindness just by trying.”

Her heart had been beating too loudly that she had just nodded numbly, walked past him and up onto the second floor. But hours later, when she’d be in bed, as the events of that day kept her eyelids light, his words to her would stay on replay and their candor and sincerity would help her cry softly to sleep. 

Wary eyes softened as she slowly approached James, and his lower lumbar curved ever so slightly with gravity. Billowing plumes of spectrums of greens faded into her line of sight, as they tracked out across the floor from his body. Coughed up spurts of dark blue exploded amongst the green; he was trying to calm himself, somewhat successfully.

She startled at his voice, low and scratched. “Are you an angel?”

She let the last of her nerves trickle out her laugh, instinctively looking down at her suit again. She guessed she looked a little…fantastical. She wondered if he knew about the Angel of New York alias. “Against the popular consensus, no.”

He smiled at her, almost playfully, and it stirred something deep in her stomach, unsettled a tidal wave of sick feelings and old memories. That innocent, taunting kind of friendship, the easy chides and ribs and pokes that spoke of such a deep level of comfortability.

She swallowed down the bile and painful flashbacks, and lowered down to his level, slowly, and he watched her, unwaveringly, the way down.

His voice spooked her again, but she realized now from its humanly flaws of exhaustion, as if she thought the mechanical arm and enhancements made him otherworldly. “You’re the healer.”

It was phrased neither as a question, or a statement. It fell somewhere in a limbo of uncertainty and relief.

She smiled at him by way of answer, and slowly stretched out her hand to him.

He nodded, and she settled one hand against his head, and the other against his chest.

She steeled her nerves at the beat of his heart against her fingers, and startled as, with it, came the familiar slithering ghost up her neck and along the back of her skull. The burn behind her eyes and the whiteout of the world around her snapped synonymously into place, and her mind tripped fearfully into a blank. The pain was loud, the outside world buzzed with white noise, and her body trembled in hiccups, as it acclimated to the whiplash of her powers. Never had they turned on so fast. His dimensions were already pulled apart before her. She could sense the grafted metal arm, the inlays of machinery with muscle, without looking at it; could taste the aluminum on her tongue and the sound of fibers, synthetic and organic, that scratched against each other, tore along the inside of her head. His every nerve pulse tapped beneath her nails, every inhale in his lungs whistled along her skin. Her own body faded away, his filling all of her senses. It was too much. It was all too much. She made her body flinch, taut so hard everything screeched to a brake. She held her breath, as the pause expanded around her. She was too scared to move, too scared to focus a thought, to breathe, to open her eyes.

His hand squeezed hers. He was there. In a silent admission she didn’t think he really knew he was making, he’d be there to ground her.

The gesture felt old and faded, like he had done it often for someone else.

A man she had never met before, never spoken to before today.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

She was going to save him. The hope and conviction that was bleeding through his palm into hers; he believed she was going to save him.

So she wasn’t going to let him down.

She set the sensation of his hand wrapped around hers on replay in her mind, let it take up space and room, as she set to work. Her eyes slowly unpeeled, the planes of anatomy still floating around her, waiting patiently. She could feel the current tugging at her again, taunting her of strength and power it had yet to unleash. But she didn’t wait for it. She charged through, reaching out for the central nervous system, grabbing for the brain, and letting the noise, pain and chaos suck her up and pull her down into its depths.

But the hand was still there, breaking through and tethering her to the ground. She let it envelop her, slip over her like a shield, and plowed through into the disarray.

The first to call out was the amygdala, severed and twisted nerve connections vying for her attention. But the prefrontal cortex, cerebellum and hippocampus were close to follow, damage so extensive, rough and rudimental healing stunted along the way. There was so much damage, she didn’t know where to start. And if she did, would she finish within this lifetime. Affected neurons surrounded her on all sides, and easily added up to somewhere in the millions. If she fixed them one at a time, she’d be at it forever, if her strength kept up with her. But there wasn’t another way around it.

The sensation of his hand squeezing hers again rippled around her, and her bubbling frustration just wanted to bat it away. But a thought had seized her.

His hand squeezing hers.

His hand touching hers.

He touched her hand and she felt it.

A surface emitting a signal and a surface receiving it.

Like neurons.

Signals traveled from one to another. And another, and so on.

She didn’t have to fix them all individually. She just had to heal one. And through one, she would have access to them all.

The warming burn of her power’s recognition was instantaneous, a white fire that built in her palms that ate the rest of her consciousness greedily. The world disappeared, her senses slid back into a numb and the scratch at the base of her skull had become out of this world.

But his hand stayed clasped around hers, and it was the only thing that kept her tethered enough to reality to keep from passing out. She felt more drained as each second progressed. She felt abused, like an overworked conduit as energy passed unabatedly through to one neuron after another, after another.

Minutes felt eternal but at a point, the strength behind her powers waned abruptly, her body emptied of the Sergeant and her energy, and she suddenly felt the ground impact with her shoulder. She picked herself up, her vision teetered dangerously and her head emptied enough to float, and startled to find the Sergeant’s eyes locked on hers.

They sat there, eyes never leaving each other’s, as heavy breaths echoed around them. The waning adrenaline left her body shaking, pounding in her ear, warning of waves of fatigue and hunger mounting distantly. Until his voice broke through, small and strung out. “I remember.”

She watched him as he continued to whisper it again, and again, a desperate mantra he tried to convince himself of.

I remember.

But on an even deeper level. What he was really saying.

I am me.

“Steve?”

She turned at his voice, the Captain behind her caught in his wide eyes. And the way he said, Steve. There were no formalities. It was informal, it was comfortable, it was familiar. And Steve must have felt it too, because there was a wet choke, before footsteps were coming closer and a shadow loomed over them.

He lowered to a crouch beside James. “Yeah?” and his was as equally ragged, and every ounce hopeful.

And suddenly there was a wide smile on James’s face, a wet, breathy laugh bubbled out along with, “How’s it going, punk?”

Steve’s joy was tangible, and the force of it slammed her back to a propped elbow, left her breathless as she watched him drop to the ground, the Captain and the Sergeant swallowed in each other’s arms, as they hugged fiercely. 

There was blubbering, and crying, and such wide smiles, she found she couldn’t help herself from smiling too.

And suddenly James’ eyes peaked at her from over Steve’s shoulder, and she found his eyes smiling at her, too. “Get in here, Angel.”

Uh. “No, I’m—“

Shame on her for forgetting his enhancements. Before she had a chance to finish her stammering, his arm had shot out, hooked around her and pulled her between them.

She was squished between two very large men, and James must’ve sensed her unease and irritation because he said, “Just let me have this.”

And so she indulged the newly freed man, and gave into the hug, which only prompted the two to hug her tighter. And though she wanted to feel awkward and unyielding, something about the gesture felt too raw, and in her life rare, and a small part of her didn’t want it to end; the three of them, embraced on a sawdust-covered floor, warmed in the early morning sun slanted through.

She didn’t know how much longer they stayed like that, until they all seemed to come to a comfortable consensus and pulled away. Steve took one last look at James, before he finally turned to her.

“He’s good?”

And what a vague term that was. Good. Good, as in: he no longer felt the burning need to obey orders of a genocidal cult? Good, as in: recall of old, distorted memories was restored? Good, as in: those points of conditioned trigger responses were gone? Good, as in: he was a healthy man now in control of his body?

So much had changed over the course of the past few minutes, it was too much for even her to process. Before them was a new man, yet old and familiar all the same. So many identities and mentalities had shifted within him.

So she just settled with, “Yeah. He’s good.”

And suddenly, she was wrapped in another hug. “Thank you,” he whispered to her.

And she found herself smiling again, as she patted his large shoulder. “It was my pleasure, Captain Rogers.”

He gently pulled back to look at her sternly, though its intensity was minimal against his tear stained cheeks and the smile that spilled over his lips. “Please, it’s Steve,” and at his tone, she remembered he had told her to call him that yesterday.

“It was my pleasure, Steve.”

Chapter Text

“Help me.”

Light refracted around her in a dizzying frenzy, crystal walls shifted around her in kaleidoscopes of diamonds. She couldn’t feel anything around her, just that her chest felt cold, as if she was freezing from the inside out.

“Who are you?” she called out, her voice ricocheting like the refracted light.

“Help me.”

The voice sounded closer this time, and the diamond walls had stopped shifting. She felt a breath on her neck, a hand on her shoulder. She jumped around, but nothing was there. Just more crystals.

“How?” she asked, this time her eyes catching the sight of her frigid breath escaping out her mouth.

“I’m trapped.”

That was new. The voice had never said where it was, what it was doing.

Trapped. But— “Where?”

“Trapped.”

Here it went again. Like every other night this week. The voice fell into a loop like a broken record, stuck on a thought it couldn’t fall out of. Just when she thought she was getting somewhere, a break in the conversation fell just out of reach.

But always the diamonds. The crystals. And the cold ice.

“How do I free you?”

“Only you.”

That, she wasn’t expecting. “Only me, what?”

Suddenly everything went dark, and a woman stood before her. But her image blurred and distorted, like static. When it stilled long enough, she could make out features. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Porcelain white skin that chipped and peeled to reveal layers of diamonds underneath. A white suit. Her hands were stretched out to Reagan, and this time their fingers met, solid skin against solid skin.

“Only you.”

The dream slowly dissipated, and left Reagan calm and drowsy, cocooned beneath the doorway to her balcony, the October air pulling at her blankets. And as she drifted back to sleep, a name suddenly formed in her mind, as clear as the diamonds from before. And sensing the curious moon above her, she whispered Emma out into the night.

She smiled as she fell back to sleep, happy to finally have a name for the stranger in her dreams.

“Why haven’t we yet heard from Captain Rogers?”

Reagan perked at the name and looked up from her breakfast to find Black Widow on the TV screen. “Can you turn that up?” she asked aloud.

From the stove, Hank fished the remote out from underneath a dish rag and obliged her.

“I don’t know what there’s left for him to say. I think the wreck in the middle of the Potomac made his point very eloquently.”

The Black Wi—Natasha, looked different. Her hair was straight and there was some bruising on her cheekbone, makeup was trying hard to hide. A note at the bottom of the footage showed the content was about a week old, from a Senate sub-committee hearing.

A week ago; Captain Rogers had been most likely at that SHIELD site by that point. Obviously in no condition to be fielding hearings with the government. So Natasha was fielding them for him. Her mind was brought back to that small moment with the three of them back at the warehouse, the easy teasing between Natasha and Captain—Steve, about their teammate and the situation as a whole. They were a group of incredibly powerful individuals, most likely one of the most globally known. They were a team, efficient, by the sound of it, in what they did and regarded highly for their results. But amongst the relations of the teammates was something so much more intimate; something she was noticing amongst the X-Men as well. It was a rare ‘something.’ Beautiful, and delicate, and yet so powerful it made her warm and tickly all over.

You could see it in the fondness their eyes passed between each other, the familiarity in the way they moved and touched each other, the ease with which their conversation flowed. The baiting and teasing was decisive, and the small and open displays of an acquaintance were profound. They didn’t just don the mindset of teammate when the work day began, and then slipped it off at the end of the day. They carried it with them where ever they went, and it changed because of it. Became something a little different, a little deeper, and a little wider.

The camera panned to one of the members of the committee. “Well he could explain how this country’s expected to maintain its national security, now that he and you have laid waste to our intelligence apparatus.”

Natasha didn’t look in anyway phased or impressed to his accusations. “Hydra was selling you lies, not intelligence.”

“Many of which you seemed to have had a personal hand in telling.” Right, because the Avengers used to be headed by SHIELD. She was slowly catching on.

Hydra was an old, bad organization.

Hydra had infiltrated SHIELD.

SHIELD was a new, so-so organization.

SHIELD, to the public, had been destroyed. But the base they had been keeping Steve, the agents that had attacked her that night; something made her doubt SHIELD was really as leveled as everybody was being led to believe.

This was too much to keep up with. Once she thought she was ahead, she was shoved back another few steps. It was just too confusing, and left an acrid taste in her mouth she had associated with her parents and their lifestyle. She didn’t like how that taste had found her again in her new life. It tainted everything.

“Agent, you should know that there are some on this committee that feel, given your service record, both for this country and against it, that you belong in a penitentiary. Not mouthing off on Capitol Hill.”

It made her wonder what Natasha had done previously, against the country. She knew very little of her, but her demeanor seemed selfless, clean of lies and ill-intent, the other day and she couldn’t imagine someone with those attributes committing something as extensively evil as treason.  

“You’re not going to put me in prison. You’re not going to put any of us in a prison. You know why?”

“Do enlighten us.”

“Because you need us. Yes, the world is a vulnerable place. And yes, we help make it that way. But we’re also the ones most qualified to defend it. So if you want to arrest me; arrest me. You’ll know where to find me.”

And then Natasha was gone from the screen, replaced with a reporter in dark purples before an institution in Washington DC she had studied in textbooks years ago, but forgot the name of now.

“Agent Natasha Romanoff had no further comments. SHIELD still has not released a statement in regards to the events of last week, leaving many to speculate what will happen to the agency, as well as the location of Nicholas Fury, Alexander Pierce and many other MIA agents, along with the condition of Captain America and the Winter Soldier. More to come in this next hour—“

“Who’s Nicholas Fury?” she asked aloud again.

Alexander Pierce, she knew.

A peace keeper, she remembered her father calling him.

But a different word fell on her tongue whenever she had seen him, watched him.

Deceiver.  

He was a prominent figure in her parents’ circles and frequented the same conventions, campaigns and dinners. He had brought presents often to their home, from his international travels, and had even gone so far as to learn new bits of ASL each time he visited.

He had always acted clumsy when he signed to her, would laugh and say that he was rusty and horrible at memorizing new languages. But she remembered having a strong sense of doubt whenever she was around him, that he minimalized his abilities and shirked under praise in a way far from humbling. It felt cruelly deflective from himself, and it only made her feel more suspicious.

She didn’t know he had affiliations with SHIELD, and for some reason felt a need to warn someone who exactly they had in charge. Not that she had any proof of wrong doing; he had the world believing him to be the next Gandhi when she was young, she doubted much had changed in 6 years.

Hank piped up from over the frying pan, and snapped her out of her reverie. “Director—well, I guess former Director—of SHIELD.”

She peered over at Logan across the table in time to catch an irritated scowl flash across his face, an infamous gesture she was beginning to learn. “You don’t seem a fan,” she commented to him.

He grunted. “He’s a spy, kid. In every sense of the word. Got too many open agendas, no one knowing more than 2, and then the little man’s left a puppet in a game he didn’t even know he was playing.”

But Natasha was a spy, too. At least that’s what it had sounded like the Congressman had been implying. And she didn’t seem the deceitful type. Or was she; was that what connected to her treason? Ugh, this was all making her brain hurt too much. It was only 6 in the morning.

“You know him personally?” she asked instead.

“Unfortunately,” he replied, looking up at her briefly to flash her a smirk, “Like a damn rash; pops back up when you least want it.”

So then SHIELD was connected to the X-Men, to Wolverine at least. But how? Like Jean had said the other night, the X-Men really didn’t have a large profile. They were more of a locally based team, and from what it sounded like, weren’t interested in becoming involved with the politics and struggles of the larger world. So what did an international, government agency, like SHIELD, need of the X-Men? Or rather, what did they need of Wolverine? “Is he—“

The three X-Men paused at the sound of the doorbell, a quick look of skepticism passed between them. Who was at their door this early in the morning?

“I’ll get it,” Hank volunteered, as he slipped out of his apron and out the kitchen. While Hank seemed mostly at ease, Logan was colored with uneasy greens and suspicious blues. He was swiftly out of his seat, a hand out to her to stay put and a finger to his lips to keep quiet. He slipped closer to the kitchen doorway.

They both tensed at the distant sound of Hank pulling the front door open, and almost instantly, Logan sprinted out of the kitchen, a growl echoing in his wake.  

Hank started to greet, “Rogue! And—“

Logan pulled in the second guest and, with no reservations in his super strength, slammed him against the wall, as he snarled “Gambit!”

Rogue was quick to jump on Logan’s back, as she yanked hard against the immovable Weapon X, “Logan, stop!” Hank was close behind her, quick to stymie Logan’s right hand, claws extended and seeking for purchase of the thief’s neck, a why didn’t you guys call ahead of time grumbled tiredly.

They barely had a second to turn to the fifth, questioning voice when the air around them ignited with an intense heat. And at the scent of something burning, an invisible force exploded between them and sent the four flying to the walls, a warm hold pinning them there. Rogue peered at Hank beside her, and Logan and Remy across from her, concerned they looked as confused as she did.  

A voice popped up from her right, and she turned to find a young girl in pajamas, with a bed head of wild curls, looking utterly terrified. Her hands were golden haloed, her eyes coated a similar hue, as were the telekinetic holds on them. The energy that pinned her to the wall was burning hot, she felt herself sweating through her clothes.

“What the—“ Reagan whispered, breathless, eyes wide with fear at her glowing hands. She flipped them around, and then back again, as if the off switch was hidden somewhere between her fingers. The anxiety climbed a few notches, and then she was shaking her hands helplessly in the air. “I’m sorry. It won’t turn off. I’m sorry.”

“Detendez-vous, ange,” Remy calmly reassured, though his attention was still on the irritated Wolverine beside him, straining against the golden hold towards him.

Reagan replied, distracted, “Plus facile à dire qu’à faire.” As the anxiety built, feeling horrifically void of control, she resorted to clapping her hands wildly in the air, unfortunately to no avail.

Rogue didn’t bite a gift horse in the mouth, and called out to her leader from across the hall, “Logan, he’s not here to cause trouble. He helped me with the shipment. He’s looking to join.”

“Dammit, Rogue!” Logan yelled, “He pulled the same trick on Magneto. He lies for a living.”

“He has pure intentions.”

Logan had wanted to laugh, just a big old, ridiculous, unrealistic guffaw to reflect the absolute stupidity of that statement. But he finally registered it was Reagan’s voice behind those words, and he turned back to her, quick enough to catch a faint, white light flit across her golden eyes. Her abilities, probably the same ones she had used on Barnes back at the SHIELD base. Empathic capabilities, it seemed. Though it seemed she could only sense, not control. “He doesn’t mean any of us harm.”

Dammit.

No. There was no way. This piece of shit had been willing to sell out his own kind just to get a few stacks of blood money. There had been too many catastrophic future events that traitor had catalyzed, and his team had gone scrambling trying to correct. And now, suddenly, he was supposed to let a man who broke into their home and stole their property back under his roof!? Like hell he was. Pure intentions be damned.

Remy piped up uncertainly, “Uh, what she said,” and it took all of Logan’s strength to keep from letting loose a storm of expletives. That, and Reagan’s big, baby eyes were a good warden for his language. Glancing over at her, it was easy to see she was still spooked by her loss of control. It was textbook symptoms of recently-developed abilities; Logan had seen it a hundred times before.As much as he wanted to hash out Rogue’s strategically planned surprise, they needed to get the kid to relax and regain control over her abilities before he started to die of heat exhaustion beneath her telekinetic hold.

Hank seemed to be on the same page, and had already started to try and get her to refocus, “Reagan, I need you to look at me. Everything is alright. We are safe. Rogue is an X-Men. Mr. LeBeau—“

At his name, the thief threw the scientist a toothy grin and a wink, which Hank replied in kind with a scowl that could curdle milk, “ – as you’ve found, has pure intentions. And Logan will not be trying to hurt anyone.”

At his words, Dr. McCoy sent a daring glare to his leader, a proverbial slap on the wrist. Logan looked all around displeased at the cease fire order, and Rogue almost found it comical, if it weren’t for the fact Remy had a small rivulet of blood down his neck from where Wolverine’s claw had nicked him.

They watched as Hank’s words slowly unrolled the anxiousness in the girl, as the golden energy faded, until her blue irises stared back at them, and they were eased to the ground.  Reagan shoved her hands under her armpits, and turned to the ground embarrassed. “Sorry.”

Interestingly, it was Remy who spoke up, “No harm, no foul, ma mie.”

Wolverine growled again, wanting nothing more than to personally sew the Crazy Cajun’s mouth shut. But this wasn’t the time or place for it. Especially in front of the kid. She didn’t need to see that right now, see him lose his temper like he did. So he growled out his frustration and turned to Rogue, “Told yah you shouldn’t have gone alone.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t like lying.”

Clint smiled rueful through the open sun roof, his hair plastered in his sunglasses from the howling wind. “Morning, Sunshine,” he called out.

“It’s afternoon,” he drawled, about to open the window to his hotel room when he paused at a familiar sound echoing through the phone, “Where are you two? I hear gun fire.”

“We’ve talked about this before, Agent Coulson,” Natasha intoned, most assuredly condescending, as she took a quick peek in her left review mirror before she abruptly swung the Mercedes into a U-turn, forced the reluctant sedan over a flattened divider, and watched with pleasure as the tailing SUVs flipped as they attempted the same maneuver. “There’s nothing shameful about changing your profession. Some people just aren’t cut out for this career.”

Oh, she was talking about his first statement. He reached for the dredges of the morning’s coffee and downed it. He must’ve been low on caffeine if he couldn’t keep up with Natasha’s train of thought. He prided himself in the fact that he, and a very select few, could keep up with her rabbit-hopping ideas. “Let me rephrase: I don’t like lying to my boss.”

“Look at it this way,” Clint started, voice muffled by wind and distance from the speaker. There was a grunt from impact before, “There’s no more organization, ergo he’s not the boss because there’s nothing to be the boss of.”

“Flawless logic, Agent. Yet, I am still here, answering to his orders, filing his paperwork, covering up an extremely powerful mutant healer the X-Men have adopted.”

There wasn’t a response for a long 42 seconds, in which time Agent Coulson heard 2 squeals and a scream, a Clint,  dammit, at least keep a leg in!  order from Natasha, the release of what sounded like the automobile EMP arrows and Clint’s horrible sound effects. Natasha’s following words were closer to the speaker, and hopefully meant her eyes were back on the road and not on her partner, “If you fall out, I’m not coming back for you.”

He could picture her recomposing herself, straightening in her seat, as she slapped on her professional tone and responded, “Sorry, you were saying?”

“I’m tired of covering for your stray.”

“Give us about 10 more minutes,” she answered.

10 minutes?  “Where are you right now?”

As if on cue, Clint roared out in the background, “Poshyel k chyertu, you Vodka-chugging blowhards!”

If Fury ever found out about this, he was dead. “Are you in Russia?”

“Medvedi,” Natasha specified. “Only for a couple more seconds.”

“Who sanctioned this?”

“Cap,” Natasha answered flawlessly.

“And who sanctioned him?”

It was meant to be a rhetorical question, but Clint chimed in, “Uh, probably God. They’re pretty tight.”

His fingers rubbed viciously at his forehead. He would need a few more Advil and another cup of coffee just to get through this phone call. “And why is Russia going to save me from lying to Fury? Again?”

“We got papers for her.”

Agent Phil Coulson considered himself a fairly seasoned agent, and well-versed in all things fantastical, supernatural, extraterrestrial, and everything else of the bat shit crazy variety. But he stopped short at Natasha’s words, and what exactly they implicated.  

Papers.

In Coulson’s line of work, there were two forms of documentation of which a spy could utilize for identification purposes: docs and papers.

Docs never exceeded the extensiveness of an id, could be cooked up by just about any second-rate printer, and were supposed to be trashed after one use. They were meant to get you over a boarder, into a somewhat secure institution, or through a few lousy embassy gates. They were temporary, cheap and high risk. A typical international mission utilized at least 3 different sets of docs.

Papers, on the other hand, were not meant for quick fixes. Papers established an identity from the ground up, with birth certificates, medical records, IRS forms, driver’s license, pay-stubs, credit card statements, mortgage payments, high school diploma, ect. It narrowed down the buying pool significantly. He could count, on one hand, the people in North America, he would trust to create papers that could hold up for about a year under any form of government scrutiny.

Paper to last a lifetime; those were rare. He knew of one woman in New Zealand who had been doing it for years for those looking to escape high-profile, abusive relationships and fall completely off the grid. If she was still practicing, it wasn’t in New Zealand anymore.

He wasn’t surprised Natasha knew and trusted someone in Russia to procure papers for her.

He was even less surprised that she had kept that contact from Fury.

What did surprise Agent Phil Coulson was that the papers were for the Shadow Healer, this phantom of mystery he had been spewing pretty low-grade lies for in order to cover her involvement with the X-Men, Steve’s miraculous turn of health and Bucky’s even more unbelievable recovery. Periodically dislodging Fury off of her scent was a job in it of itself, as it required any ounce of her latest where-abouts scrubbed completely from the internet. Fortunately for him, many were about as in the dark as he needed his boss to be.

The Avengers had known her for less than a week, and yet she seemed to already have his team wrapped around their finger. She somehow had his two best spies meddling, unsanctioned, in KGB sanctuary with no back up.

But papers.

Her real identity was unknown; there wasn’t a need to create a second one. So why the papers?

“How clean?” he asked skeptically, though he knew already Natasha wouldn’t have taken the risks she did for anything less than perfect.

“Crystal,” she confirmed.

“And the contact?”

“Immaculate. Got McCoy in contact with them. Just picking up his order.”

Even better. The less Avengers’ prints on this, the further the buck could be passed around when this eventually made its way to Fury.

“Immaculate contacts usually don’t get you chased out of the country,” he added.

“Blame it on my old passports. Thought I had scrubbed them enough years ago. Apparently everyone’s on high alert after SHIELD fell.”

“Including Fury. So what do I get to tell him, now?”

“That the X-Men have recruited the Shadow Healer. And that the Avengers intend to as well, but she is not under SHIELD orders.”

This ought to be good. “Why?”

And in a weird, subconscious imitation of Maria, Natasha began to rattle off some SHIELD employment agreement by-law—chapter, section, and subsection unfortunately perfectly memorized, as he would later check—ultimately saying that anyone contracted by a recognized and licensed institution before the time of employment by a chapter of SHIELD, is “considered primarily employed by said contracting institution, and does not fall compliant to terms of agreement under SHIELD employment and can be instructed on a consulting basis by said chapter.”

Said contracting institution: Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters, unfortunately still registered as a boarding school somewhere, on some paper. Said chapter of SHIELD: the Avengers, unfortunately still…well, the Avengers. He wasn’t called their babysitter for nothing. “Any messes I need to know about in Moscow?”

Her response was delayed, preempted first with a choir of screeching tires and an undignified squeal from Hawkeye, no doubt still hanging completely out the sun roof during a sharp turn. He had a knack for not listening to Black Widow’s warnings. “Clint may have trashed a few KGB transport vehicles, and I may have stolen a diplomat’s Mercedes, but aside from that, nothing major.”

“I hate cleaning up after you guys.”

“Again, no shame in changing careers.”

Yeah, wouldn’t that be nice. What the heck he would do, he had no idea. Another desk job maybe. Like that would stimulate his adrenaline quota. “When do I get to meet her?”

“She’ll be by the tower on Tuesday to check up on Barnes. Could conveniently stop by then,” Natasha suggested.

He peered curiously over at his desk planner. Tuesday he could make work. Knowing Tony and Pepper, they’d put on a big lunch with everyone in town, so the afternoon was shot. “Might as well. Meet the mutant I’ve been sticking my neck out for.”

“She’s kind of adorable,” Clint chimed in, “If the X-Men hadn’t of picked her up first, I would’ve adopted her.”

An adorable Avenger. He could hear his conversation with Fury in his head.

Fury would start off, all red and flustered, You’ve been hiding the Avengers new member from me?! What the hell were you thinking!? She had better be worth it!

But he would defend himself, valiantly, with, But, sir, she’s worth it. She’s adorable.

He sighed aloud. “You guys need any transport?” May and Daisy probably wanted a good change of pace from Damage Control over in D.C.

“We’re good,” Natasha assured. “Tony got us a jet.”

“Yeah, and it’s got an open bar,” Barton said, voice significantly closer, probably back in the shot-gun seat, “I’d like to add that to the Helicarrier’s suggestion box.”

He hung up.

“So this is part of the training…how?”

They had passed the gym, the meditation dome, the infamous Danger Room she had been hearing so much about and seeing none of; what other rooms were down in the basement? She had practically leapt from her chair when Logan came knocking, saying it was time to start her training. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

“I want to introduce you to someone.”

She turned to him, clearly surprised. “Oh.”

It certainly was possible she hadn’t met everyone. Just this morning, she had met Rogue and Remy, though Remy’s status on the team appeared about as new as her own. Then there was the young girl she saw the other day bouncing around in the back yard after a soccer ball. And there was also another team member named Bobby she hadn’t met yet, but had heard a little of from Kitty the other night in her room. It was a large estate, and most days she didn’t see everyone. There could be another person hidden away in the long corridors and towering ceilings. Of course, she really hoped they weren’t holed up in the basement all day. There was absolutely no sunlight down there.

Logan stopped short before a large, engraved ‘X’ along the metal walls. Panels shifted and a pinprick beam was projected into Logan’s eye out of nowhere. Reagan watched curiously as an automated voice greeted ‘Recognized, Wolverine’ and hidden mechanical doors slipped away. She followed Logan in, hesitantly, confused by a glass dome in the center.

Suddenly, the room turned cold, a breeze blew straight through her bones, and her world was completely blanketed in a thick fog. She was behind Logan in an instant, hands out as she felt fear and unease calling out the hot burn of energy in her chest. Her palms burned intensely, and with undefiled, vehement incertitude, she straightened her fingers out to the fog, and without delay, her golden energy exploded across her vision. It domed over the two X-Men in a shield, and blanketed in them in a bubble of heat. She could barely see through the fog, and the golden hue of her shield only worsened her visibility.

There was no one out there. So who was causing the Sleepy Hollow effects?

She suddenly felt Logan tap at her shield. Hesitantly, she noticed. “We’re alright, kid. Nothing to be scared of.”

Yeah, easy for him to say. Were all mutants with accelerated healing just inherently careless with safety? First him, then Steve. Sergeant Barnes, too. Well, it might be news to them but some of us bruise and stay that way, so buck up and stay alert.

“Reagan, this is Charles.”

Reagan, this is…what?

She peered around Logan’s large frame and was startled to see someone else there. A man, average height and bald. Who smiled at her as if they were old friends reacquainted. She felt another cold wind steal her breath from her lungs.

“It’s so wonderful to finally meet you, Reagan. Logan has told me so much about you.”

She felt her stomach drop to her feet, as the floor swallowed her whole.

The chill felt colder.

Panic seized her.

He didn’t have a heartbeat.

She let her thumb slip from the hold on the shield to reach out for that familiar thrum.That muffled base that slipped under her skin.

Nothing.

The stilled silence shocked her cold.

He wasn’t real.

The plane they were on wasn’t real.

She came to stand in front of Logan. A man who could get past her defenses wasn’t an adversary to treat lightly, “How are you in my head?”

She felt a hand on her shoulder, rock solid compared to her trembling form. “Kid, you ok?”

The man stayed where he was. Smart. “Reagan, you are safe. I am not accessing your mind, in the capacity I presume you believe me to be. Do you want me to leave? I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

Her blood thundered in her ears, and she felt the edges of her vising encroach inwards.

She looked up at him, fear stricken. He had promised the shields would work. He had promised no matter what level the mutant, no one could get inside. And if someone were strong enough to gain access, she’d feel it. She’d feel them scrape away and tear down her defenses, brick by brick.

She didn’t feel him.

She barely felt a disruption in her mind.

She emptied and concentrated like Caliban had taught her, but nothing. She tried again forcefully; messily urgent as she blocked out Logan and the man and their words.

Nothing.

There wasn’t a trace of an intruder.

He got in.

And so easily.

“Can you see things?” her voice shook and she hated it; hated how such a small thing could unravel her so easily.

He firmly shook his head, and looked almost desperate as he reached out toward her. “I am simply an astral projection, as are you and Logan. Our location is simply a shared mental illusion; a plane on which all of ours can meet.”

Astral projection.

That’s what he was. That’s what she was.

They were all projecting their conscious to a common focal point, this alternate reality of fog and…more fog.

He wasn’t in her head and she wasn’t in his.

He was a telepath, yes. He still had to be to create astral projections.

But he wasn’t in her mind.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t get in eventually. She was far from letting down her guard. She took a large, stuttering inhale, yet still felt slightly breathless as she nodded and replied, “I’m okay,” she answered, as she simultaneously dropped her shields. She thanked God for that one small mercy; that the telepath didn’t have to know how wholly inept she was at controlling her abilities.

The gratitude was so stark clear in his smile, so powerful in its purity, it knocked her off her unsteady feet into Logan’s ready grip. They all lacked an anatomy within this plane, but the colors were still very much alive and dancing. And the stunning rose gold blend was so potent against the grey haze around them. So revealing. And so powerful. Their words became even more muffled, as she felt her altitude dive for the ground and her equilibrium disappear. As soon as she felt her butt hit solid ground below her, she threw her head to side where the muffled voices weren’t as loud, and vomited.

She was making a horrific habit of that lately; vomiting uncontrollably.

Her mother’s ugly stentorian tone taunted amongst her lightheadedness and overstimulated mind that she had had no qualms of doing so controllably not so long ago. It was such an odd thought to have at such a chaotic moment. So she told her mother’s disembodied voice to stuff it, and got back to spitting the last of her vomit out of her mouth. And as if she had purged the cotton blanket suffocating her senses, everything came back to her very clear and very loud.

“--her more warning of your intentions in the future. She was not at all prepared to come in here.”

“Cut me some slack, Chuck. I’m no kid expert.”

“I know, Logan. But this is all new to her; you must be slow and patient.”

There was an equally affirmative and irritated gruff, before Logan piped up seconds later, “I didn’t know we could throw up in this place.”

“Her real body isn’t actually committing the action. It was her subconscious’ natural response to the predicament.”

Seriously. Not only did her body involuntarily fall back on that disgusting default reaction, but her mind did as well? She mind-vomited!? She didn’t even know how to begin to process that. The confusion and pensive expressions roused Logan from his side conversation, “Hey, kiddo. How you doing?”

She didn’t know why, but her answer to his question was to collect her numb legs beneath her and try to stand. As if she was physically showing him that she was, in fact, alright. No matter how much her appearance and state of mind contradicted. Which they did, spectacularly. Her legs refused to carry her body weight, her head spun horrifically the moment it rose above her knees, and she just about face planted. Fortunately, there were other brains working for her, as hers had gone on holiday down to Aruba, and hands firmly righted her and weighted her limp body back down to the ground. “Woah, woah. Why don’t we stay sitting for a bit?”

Yeah. That was probably a good idea; so she nodded. She swallowed down the bile that hiccupped at the sudden movement. Nope, no more nodding.

She caught Charles out of the corner of her eye, looking even more concerned than Logan.

And then it hit her.

Charles. “Charles? Like Charles Xavier?”

He smiled graciously in reply.

“You built this. You built the X-Men,” she observed.

His smile took on a little mirth. “In a manner of speaking.”

This was Professor Charles Xavier. The man who single handedly created not only the X-Men and a safe haven for young mutants, but the first competent opposition to Senator Kelly’s anti-mutant propaganda. This man had spent most of his life fighting for people like her; fighting for the good of everyone. And here she had been, completely freaking out over the idea of him trying to breach her mind. She felt horrifically embarrassed for the second time that day, and felt her face flush.

She clumsily stuck out her hand and tried to ignore meeting his eyes. “Reagan.”

His relief, in that split second she offered her hand to shake, couldn’t have been surpassed. His smile grew as he replied, “A pleasure, my dear. And thank you for letting me stay.”

She nodded again, as she tried desperately to calm the base of her heart beat as it echoed out her ears. “A lot of people think you’re dead.”

Wow, Reagan. Some real tact you have.

But his humored smile never left. “I guess technically speaking, I am.”

Her mind traveled back to the room Logan and her had entered. That must’ve been Professor Xavier in the room, inside the dome perhaps. She really didn’t know how to phrase this, or how much Logan had told him of what she could do. “You know, I—“

He put up his hand. “My predicament, at the moment, is allowing me to provide the X-Men with incredibly important information. I thank you, though, for the offer.” So Logan had told him about her and her abilities. Made sense; it was technically Professor Xavier's home she was living in. And his team she was joining. She owed this man so much, and she must've voiced the thoughts aloud, because he placed a hand on her shoulder and replied, "You owe me nothing, my dear. I'm just happy your path crossed with Logan's, and my team has been able to help you."

She felt the desire to respond, to thank him even more, but she didn't need to; he didn't need her to. So she diverted the conversation instead with, "Logan said you can help me with my powers.”

He nodded eagerly. “Why don’t you explain to me what you know of them so far.”

She was ready to reply in kind with not much, but she stopped herself.

She did know something. Something she didn’t know what to make sense of. They could help. She could trust them.

“I’m an elemental healer.”

She watched the Professor's eyes enlarge and ignite in recognition, “And how did you come to this knowledge?”

The question sounded built upon his own knowledge, and she had to admit, she got the tiniest bit excited. He knew something. So she divulged him. “I was approached by a man called Konis, very soon after I got my powers. He told me I was like him.”

“Did this man try to take you somewhere?”

Take her somewhere? Hah. “Just the opposite. He said I was a tainted member of the species, and thus banned from a place he called the House. It was a very strange encounter.”

Logan turned back to his mentor. “You’ve heard of this kook, Chuck?”

“Of Konis particularly, no. But of this race of rare mutants; I have been researching them for many years.”

“Who are they?” she asked.

“The elemental healers are a special breed of mutant the human population. We see the abilities manifest in one human once every couple hundred years. A group of them, millennia ago, formed a sanctuary they call the House of Healers. A doctrine was created, and they each swore to use their abilities to protect the human race. There’re many legends of them protecting civilizations from plagues, bringing truces to wars, shielding cities from natural disasters. But as time passed, they slowly began to withdraw from society, to a sanctuary believed to be high in the Himalayan mountains.”

“This Konis dick said she was tainted. What did he mean by that?” Logan asked. 

“He could be referring to a few things, the most obvious of which; all elemental healers have always been male.”

Reagan pulled a face. “A boy’s club? Yeah, I’m good.”

Logan smirked.

“Elemental healers also have the ability to heal not just others, but themselves as well. Which is why many of them have gone on to live for centuries,” Charles added.

She couldn’t believe it. All this time, she somehow had felt a failure. She didn’t know Konis from a stranger, and yet the power his words had had on her all this time. He never explained, never elaborated, and her imagination was left unbounded for years, filling in the holes with possibilities, and ultimately lies she convinced herself truths. But now Charles, as much of a stranger as Konis was, was giving her faculty back. Breaking a chain she hadn’t known was dragging behind her. She wasn’t a failure. She was a mutant, through and through. She belonged.She wanted to know so much more. “What else?”

“I believe it has something to do with the elemental side to your abilities,” and he watched the young woman slightly freeze at his words, “Elemental healers, as far as we’ve seen, can control either fire, water, earth or air. From what Logan has described to me of your abilities, you wield an element of something else entirely.”

Yeah.

Something else entirely.

She peered down at her hands, “I don’t even know what it is.”

A hand was on her shoulder, and one of the kindest pairs of eyes was holding her own, “And that’s ok. That’s what I’m here for. That’s what all of us are here to do; to help you.” And just like that, Professor Charles Xavier had taken a wrecking ball to her brick dam, and she all but collapsed with tears of relief, knowing there were a net of hands waiting to catch her.

Chapter Text

He begrudgingly levered his body upright, another restless hour wasted under soft down. It was already noon, and his body felt just as heavy as it did the previous night. He felt as weighed down as the clouds outside the windows to his right, rain dragging them to the ground.

The healing the other day had opened the floodgates to his memories, and the following nights had been spent thrashing amongst his sheets and pacing along Steve’s suite’s kitchen, trying to make sense of past, present and reality. Every moment he had experienced was dusted off and shoved beneath a glaring bulb. Each was sickeningly accessible, and the clarity with which every single memory sparkled with made his stomach churn. Little second snapshots had suddenly found forgotten hours, singular senses now were accompanied with a symphony of others. His head was full of them, now. Teeming with them. Decades of repressed memories, all vying for his attention.

Maybe if he stared out at the city long enough, stayed on his feet for another hour, the exhaustion would be enough to overpower his hyperactive mind. Of course, that’s what he had tried to convince himself earlier this morning, doing pushups as he watched the streets below slowly populate with early morning traffic. Lot of good that did him.

He caught the distant sound of footsteps from down the hall, exasperation drooling from his groan. That’s just what his tired, cantankerous disposition needed; a strong, caffeinated dose of concern from a stubborn Irishman. He was only three days into his stay at this gaudy building full of freaks, and he was already acutely aware of how little his old friend had changed over all of these years.

He needed to get Stevie a life. And laid. In that order.

A second pair of footsteps accompanying the first startled him from his thoughts, and he tracked them all the way to his door. A few knocks before it opened and Steve popped his head in, uncertainly. Like it wasn’t his suite. “Hey, Buck.”

Bucky’s return greeting was just as casual, until his eyes caught the timid smile and bouncing curls behind Steve, and suddenly the 20^th century man was on his feet and fixing his shirt, because his mama raised a gentleman and, by golly, you got your ass out of a chair when a lady entered the room. “You brought me an angel, again?”

Celestia’s cheeks pinked, and she dipped her head from the attention. But her warm smile remained, those dusk grey irises holding his own glance with such reverence and dignity, he froze. She saw so much of him the other day. How broken and mutilated his mind was; he was. And yet there she stood, shy and bashful and too timid to respond to his compliment. It should be him shying away from her, diving back under the heavy comforters away from that gentle gaze that had held so much of his brokenness.

She was such an interesting dichotomy of confidence and meekness, of strength and timid. He watched her, his body on autopilot, as they both seated themselves on the couch. Steve must’ve offered drinks, because he heard her sweet voice graciously ask for green tea and a glass of water. Her posture was straight and rigid, hands folded delicately in her lap, usually indicative of high societal upbringing and self-assuredness that carried that learned posture into older age. But something about her posture looked unsteady, like a good, strong wind could come along and send the structure buckling. And there was that juxtaposition again.

A healer, Steve had explained to him. A mutant healer.

Someone who can help you.

And sure, yeah. It sounded a little far-fetched. Hydra was nothing short of efficient, and they had decades to work him over like an experimental mule. It didn’t matter how much power this magical, mystical doctor was packing; Hydra didn’t dabble in the temporary or fleeting. What they did burned, melted away your soul.

But he agreed.

And then this little lady came waltzing up to him, very much out of place amongst the serious-looking lot guarding him, smiling and reeking of something he couldn’t quite place his finger on. The stench wavered around her even now, as he stared at those big, curious eyes. It was a fresh and cold grip around his stomach, tugging hard on his navel into memories long ago of Dodger games over fences, trays of watercolors and the plastic seats of Ferris wheels.

And she had healed him. So quick, so easy, so painless, he still thought he was tossing around in a dream, ready to wake up on the cold ground somewhere in D.C., covered in blood. He had opened his eyes to find her smiling at him, covered in an ethereal, golden halo, liked she had been plucked straight from Heaven.

Steve came back in with a mug and a glass of water, and to Bucky’s amusement, she pushed the glass into his hand and politely ordered him to finish it.

He turned and gave Steve a pointed look over the rim of the glass. Oh, he liked her.

“So, Sergeant— “

“Bucky, please.”

“Bucky,” she amended, with a smile, “How are you feeling today?”

“Good.”

And yeah, out loud it sounded just as weak as it did in his head. She threw him a scrutinizing look, colored in shades of a knowing at the placating, knee-jerk response. The bullshit detector was strong within this one. “Any dizziness or light-headedness?”

“Nope.”

She offered her bare palm to him as a request, and he nodded so quickly, he scared himself.

He watched, fascinated, as her eyes glazed over in a golden hue that shimmered, like a faded sunset. “Does anything hurt, or feel sore?” she continued to ask, “Maybe it feels like there’s some pressure building up in a certain spot?” at which point her fingers were in his hair, as they applied light touches along the back of his scalp.

He should’ve been stiff with unease by that point. The Soldier would’ve been uneasy.

His metal hand would’ve grasped her wrist, a quick outward flick that would’ve left the hand immobile and the wrist joint in pain. His right arm would have followed close behind it, a hard and swift thrust of his flexors to her diaphragm, that would have left her stunned and breathless. The right hand would be then around her neck, as he brought her swiftly to the ground, with his left still around her wrist to guide him.

But he wasn’t. Whatever it was, he felt safe with her, and what a bizarre and ancient emotion that was.

Because he had been wrought with nerves the moment he had stepped foot onto that SHIELD base. All of his years of conditioning and training had been screeching at him in that moment, a cumulative what in the actual hell do you think you’re doing?

Slipping into a confined 5000 sq. ft. bunker with no exit but the entrance you passed through? You know better than this.

Confined, unhidden in an empty room with only one exit possibility? You really know better than this.

Stepping foot onto any property owned by SHIELD? Now you’re just dicking around.

And maybe he was. But something so much stronger, so much louder than any order personally ice-picked into his subconscious, had kept him seated right in that little corner room beside Steve’s. It waded him through the hours of tremors, nausea, migraines and the 150 proof anxiety that came with disobeying handler’s orders.

And those effects only intensified when a motley subgroup of the Avengers had come busting in. He didn’t know what did them in; the homely looking outfit he had snatched from a trucker’s front seat, his paled and clammy complexion from telling Pierce’s voice in his head to F off for over 49 hours, or his comedic lack of flight-or-fight response at the sight of 3 armed fighters.

Whatever it was had had the Black Widow smirking—smirking—after all of about 10 seconds, as she slipped her sidearm back into its holster. Hawkeye had been the next to follow, as he tossed his bow inside the vent, and completed a swift hanging sit up after it, grumbling something about letting him know when something actually interesting was happening. Sam Wilson had been the last to lower his weapon, not at all convinced this docile, subdued creature was somehow the new occupant of the body of the Winter Soldier. He had kept a tazor trained on the Winter Solider for about 3 minutes, before he slowly lowered it, shoved it in the back of his jeans and came back seconds later with a half-eaten sub and a can of soda for him.

He must be losing his touch.

He smiled fondly down at her. “Nope.”

She nodded she was listening, but her concentration was on his body, as her fingers trailed along the top of his skull, eventually landing just above each eye. Her head tipped ever so slightly with interest, like a hawk clocking movement, and he couldn’t help but feel slightly self-conscious. But then all of sudden, he was staring back at her storm cloud eyes, and her fingers were gone from his head, ghost trails of her warmth prickling his skin. “Well, it seems like everything is falling back into place.”

He smiled. “All thanks to you, Angel.”

She rolled her eyes, “You’re making me blush,” she argued uselessly.

“I know. It looks good on you.” And he was honest. Something about seeing those freckled, warm tawny-toned dimples pinked made his chest ache, remembering doing it for another girl ages ago. He smiled sadly at the thought.

“Buck, stop flirting with her.”

He raised his hands and threw his old friend a withering glare, “Off my back, Stevie, I’m not flirting. Not like you’d know what it looked like if it bit you in the ass.”

“Jerk.”

With Celestia’s attention on her tea, he slipped in a crude gesture before he responded, “Punk.”

Steve gave him a scathing look, “There’s no possibility of him losing his ability to talk, is there?”

She choked delicately on her tea, and threw Steve a humored look, “Sorry, it’s highly unlikely.”

Bucky scoffed. “Look at you,” he chided, throwing his arms over the back of the couch, as he scowled at his old friend, “You finally get the only guy in the world who can put you in your place, and you’re already trying to bump him off. That’s cold, Stevie. I’ll remember that for later.”

“Make sure your revenge isn’t too strenuous.”

He smirked down at her. She spoke fluent snark too? He really liked this girl. “When do you think I’ll be cleared?”

She blew some hot air out her pinched cheeks. “I believe that’s technically up to the Avengers, and I assume SHIELD.”

He shook his head before he inclined it towards her. “Didn’t ask for their diagnosis, I’m asking for yours.”

She blinked, stunned, and recovered a few seconds later, as she bit nervously at her lip, “You could be cleared now. You shouldn’t be, but you could be.”

Both turned at the sound of Steve’s voice, “How about you give me his release date, and we’ll get Fury on board,” he offered, elbows braced on his knees.

Why was it that every time she encountered Steve Rogers, he did nothing short of expose his jugular for her, knowing full well she had a metaphorical knife in hand? Once again, she was caught off guard.

People didn’t have that kind of trust with strangers, or whatever they were considered by this point. Jaded from her prior state of existence or not, it didn’t matter. He didn’t know her, period. He didn’t know her when she healed him, and didn’t know her a little less at that point in time. Yet here she was in his room, sipping tea from his cup, giving him her unprofessional opinion, making jokes with his teammate like she was Steve's fri—nope, you’re stopping that train of thought right there, Reagan.

She turned back to Sergeant Barnes, curiously. “What do you want to be cleared to do?”

He tipped his head to the Captain “Work with them,” he replied easily. And if Steve’s watery smile at his friend’s response didn’t crack open her heart, she didn’t think anything ever would.

“Full field duty?” she clarified. He nodded.

“I’d say at least 8 weeks.”

She was almost amused as the Winter Soldier blanched. “This isn’t a prison sentence. I highly encourage to continue physical, social and recreational activities, so long as they’re under supervision. Your psyche is still sensitive, as are the processing regions of your brain,” she explained, lightly touching areas around his head, as if counting each one off to herself, “You’re at a higher risk of over-stimulation and more prone to fatigue, headaches and migraines.”

There was a pointed look from her, and he was quick to mentally shift Alexander Pierce down to the second most perceptive individual he had come across.

“I’ll keep checking in every few days, and if we think you need more time, we’ll make it happen,” she said, looking to Steve. He firmly nodded his head; damn right they’d make it happen. “Steve’s got the institute on speed dial, and he can share the number with you. Don’t hesitate to call.”

He gaped down at her, at these two idiots who were fully convinced they wouldn’t just fix him, they would domesticate him. “You found a good one here, Stevie.”

Steve’s crooked smirk was small, but 1000 watts of glowing pride, “Don’t I know it.”

The blushing was back, even more intense if that was possible. “Get some rest, Bucky; you look tired,” she said, running her warm thumb long the underside of his eye. So she did notice the bags, “A heating pad, hot tea and some melatonin may help. If you’re still not getting enough sleep, just call, and I’ll see what I can do. Rest is very important for you, right now.”

He looked at her with interest. This girl never ceased to surprise him. “What can you do?”

She looked surprised he had asked, like the personal offer she had made was out of politeness. And yeah, he surprised himself a little too. Heating pads and melatonin were controllable factors. As the Soldier kept reminding him, she wasn’t. “I can show you now, if you’d like.”

He nodded his consent again, and her hands were on his chest and head, falling right back into the where the crevices of residual warmth from the other day were still carved out. The touch was almost instant, her fingers retreated mere seconds after she had applied them.

He blinked up at her, interested to find her looking at him with questioning eyes. “I don’t feel…woah.” The active hive of his brain muffled and drowsiness crashed into him like a tidal wave, dragging him downward.

She smiled knowingly. “I stymied your memory recall a little, just so your mind is a little less…loud.”

She wasn’t kidding. Even if he had the capacity to form a solid thought in his brain, he didn’t think it would get very far. His mind felt blurry and fuzzy, and oh so ready to sleep. The voices around him were a little less clear now, almost more distant. Wait, they couldn’t leave just yet.

She turned back at his drowsed calling. “Angel?”

He cleared the two-yard distance swiftly, and pulled her into an embrace, as he whispered to her, “Thank you.”

She firmed her hug, and he couldn’t mistake the warmth that pooled from the center of her chest. “You’re most welcome.”

The day Reagan was brought to the Xavier Institute, her jaw was wide enough to catch a bird, let alone flies. Even with her history of marble monstrosities people called homes and estates that required vehicles to cross, the streets had stripped her sensitivity to grandeur and wealth raw, and the sight of the institute that day left a hole of electric fright in her stomach. It was a socioeconomic whiplash of gargantuan proportions.

The X-Men were not overly wealthy by any means. They still circled discounts in supermarket fliers, still added water to empty detergent bottles, still excitedly relayed gas price drops and sales at outlet stores. And maybe that was what had helped soften the blow, made the transition from homelessness to mansion life just the smallest of traces easier. The fact that though they inhabited a small castle of sorts, they didn’t live in the excess the many faces of her past had been drowning in. They lived within their means, where ever the motley, unemployed crew actually procured finances.

But a mansion was a mansion, no matter what angled you peered at it from.

The Avengers Tower, however, made her skin crawl with anxiousness. Where the institute filled its space with soft tones and simple decorum, the tower was sharp angles, harsh palettes and modern styles that looked like something from a sci-fi film. It was a maze of scattered glass walls, hovering holograms and displays, and dark flooring. She felt small and exposed, even in the elevator beside Steve, waiting impatiently as it deposited them on the 72^nd floor, in what looked like a communal area. Stone flooring and fire place were accented with a rustic bar set off to the side, with dark leather couches that were shaped to the circular divot in the floor. Straight out past the glass wall stretched an expensive balcony Steve seemed to be leading them towards. And out by its edge stood a stranger, who gave a crooked smile at the sound of Steve and her approaching. The wind kept his dark hair askew, ACDC t shirt rippling slightly. There were grease stains along his face and arms, and strips of bandage tape littered his fingers.

He lazily pulled himself up from two random stacked boxes, and extended a hand to her. “So you’re the one who’s been putting Humpty Bucky back together again!? Huge fan,” he began.

“Thank you. Celestia; and you are--?”

Never in Tony’s life had he ever had another human being ask for his name. The smile he threw at Steve was rueful, ecstatic and meticulously scheming all at the same time. “Call me Tony,” he supplied, trying so very hard to hide his growing smirk.

A light bulb seemed to click in her eyes. “Tony. Are you Tony Stark? The one who made my suit?”

“The very one.” He was getting too much enjoyment out of this. He was just Tony Stark, the guy who made her suit. Wait until he told Clint later.

“I really appreciate the beautiful gift. Thank you.”

“Gotta be dressed for success," he quipped casually, but his eyes were on her golden ones, and suddenly he was blanketed in such a warm, numbing sensation, he shivered beneath it. It was unnervingly exposing, but he didn't know why until he watched her yellowed eyes sputter. She had used her powers on him. She reeled back from him. “I’m. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to just,” she stuttered, as she stirred her hand around in search of words, “Intrude. That was incredibly rude of me.”

The quirk of his lips felt forced, as did the casualness of his words. “No harm, no foul.” She'd done it unknowingly, but that didn't stop the fierce formication. 

She looked ready to drop the matter, physically and mentally shy away from the conversation. But like a particular super solider behind her, conviction fueled a light unrelated to her abilities within her eyes, and her voice suddenly took on a tone not of authority, but something just shy of it. “I can heal it. You’re chest. So you wouldn’t require all of the hardware,” she said, indicating nervously to the arc reactor. “Only if you want to. At your own pace. If you do, you know where to find me. And you’ve seen my work.” And to his credit, Steve actually bowed, hands splayed as if on display.

And suddenly, Tony Stark was very intrigued about the caped crusader standing before him. He obviously had been since the moment he had come across flagged searches of her in SHIELD’s databases back during the Battle of New York. But as the mystery of the Shadow Healer was slowly painted with human characteristics over the course of his search, she only became more enigmatic. Here she was, offering to him a life without a hole in his chest, all the while perceptive enough to know how much, ironically, it was a crutch, a vice, to him. His smile was tense and his nod was jerky, but she still continued to smile sincerely at him. Gosh, he needed to end this awkward moment. 

He elbowed Steve to prompt him. It did the trick. 

“We know you just joined the X-Men—“ Steve started, Tony cutting in with, “Second rate, if we’re being candid.”

His leader leveled him with a warning glare before he continued with“—but we’d like to offer you the proposition—“

And Tony cut back in with, “Of carrying the big A, taking 12% of the blame when Fury comes huffing and puffing, helping us pull old gramps here out of the 15th century, maybe braid Thor’s hair once in a while if you’re into that—“

Steve sighed with resignation just as Reagan butted in, visibly confused, “Hold on. What are you talking about?”

“What we’d like to do,” Steve attempted once more, his words punctuated with a soft, desisting nudge in Tony’s stomach, “is offer you a spot on the Avengers. We believe with your abilities you would be an incredible asset to our team. You could do a lot of good with us. We completely understand if you would like to pass on the offer, and should you accept, we’ll be understanding of prior engagements with the X-Men—“

“Only slightly,” Tony muttered beneath his breath, which earned him a less discrete elbow from Steve for his troubles, who tried to control the conversation once again “—but we’d be honored if—“ only to be interrupted by Celestia this time.

“Yes.”

Steve’s smile broadened.

“Good!” Tony exclaimed, shoving at her the box he had carried from his labs, “Then it feels a little less awkward giving you these. But don’t open until you get back to Hicksville.”

“Thanks. You…shouldn’t have?”

“Oh, and this,” Steve followed, “You can open that now.”

She inquisitively eyed the plain, brown portfolio folder in Steve’s hand. Were they documents she had to sign? She didn’t know legal terminology. She had a weird thought of her unknowingly signing away rights to her blood, right eyeball and the freckles on her feet. She uneasily unwound the string, her eyes occasional glancing up uncertainly at the two Avengers, who looked rather excited. There were three, plastic sealed packages inside. The largest and heaviest one she took out first, Steve wordlessly taking the portfolio folder to hold for her. Several ripped seals later, she was able to pull out the first piece of paper, and she nearly dropped the packets in surprise.

Staring back was a small photo of her, and quite recent by the look of it. She could only think of the afternoon she had spent with Hank, awkwardly posed for headshots with the intent of putting her data into the institutes retinal scanners. Beside it was the title ‘transcript’ followed by the name of a school she didn’t recognize.

Followed by

Reagan R. Howlett

And her breath caught in her throat.

She clamored, fingers deft with excitement, through the rest of the papers; immunization records, yearly physicals, social security card, middle school graduation certificate, driving permit from the Department of Motor Vehicles.

Reagan R. Howlett

And the adoption certificate in the very back

Reagan Rafaela Howlett

Howlett

Rafaela

She wondered why ‘Rafaela.’

But Howlett…

Where had she heard that name before?

And then below that

Adopting: Father

 ___Logan Howlett___

Logan Howlett.

Logan.

It couldn’t be. 

Without even pulling her eyes from the birth certificate, she reached out to Steve, who placed the rest of the portfolio in her hand, a knowing smile on his face.

A few more seals later, and this time, she held no scruples and squealed in excitement.

Bayville High School Student Registration

Reagan R. Howlett

Signed by Principal Manar Pravesh.

Stamped APPROVED

She couldn’t believe it.

Her concentration wavered enough to recognize Steve’s voice speaking, “We don’t know any specifics, and they haven’t left the sealed package. Dr. McCoy put in the order. We discussed the high possibility SHIELD would offer to do all of this for you. Once they did, they could use your new identity, or aspects of it, to manipulate you into their recruiting process should you initially decline.”

She was listening, but her full attention was on the glorious student registration form in her hands.“We wanted to give you a choice; this distance now allows you room to decide if signing on with SHIELD is something you’re interested in doing. If we had gone the other route, you wouldn’t have had much faculty over your decision.”

She hoped her face could express the gratitude she felt her next words fell short of, “Thank you.”

And the smile Steve gave was genuine to a fault, “After all you’ve done for us, it’s the least we could do.”

Tony butted in with, “We should split now for our call with the pirate. Wanna sit in? See how the sausage gets made?”

“ Targets confirmed.”

A voice growled impatiently from behind the computer console. “I only want the two. Who’s the third?”

One of its agents in the field responded, “Unknown.”

He didn’t have time for this. They had been sitting on this establishment for weeks, much more time than his master cared to waste on this particular project. An opportunity to mark both targets at once, without the rest of the establishments habitants to witness was a gift he could not pass up. All other plans could then fall into motion. “Can you make it known?” he growled, impatiently.

It spoke up in front of him, still hauntingly hunched over the screen. “I know all. If it’s unknown, it’s unknown.”

How irritatingly obscure. “I don’t want any complications.” He was awarded no more mistakes.

It turned to him, and it took all of his composure to simply keep the bile from traveling up his throat. The creature reminded him of a grub; slimy and grimy skin encased around an unshapen blob of a body. The metal contraption keeping his body upright was unsettling to say the least; the way it held back the folds of skin around his eyes and lips from falling in on themselves. Like a bowl of Jell-O swallowing up everything in sight. He didn’t know where his master dug up this creature, but he had no interest in knowing. Nor did he have a right. “Given the location, odds are high they’re an associate. I couldn’t imagine you’d be put out killing three Avengers instead of two," it relayed. 

He paused at the thought. His master had given specific instructions for the extermination of these two; a change in his master’s orders was never tolerated. But if these caped crusaders were going to be a hinderance to his master’s arrival, opponents of the destiny his master had to unleash on this world, one less surely would be in his master’s best interest. One less pawn they would have to take out later on. “Lock on targets and deploy tracers,” he ordered.

The creature almost looked gleeful, if that was at all possible amongst the propped and taut facial features. “It would be my pleasure. Spiral? Longshot?”

There was a moment’s pause before a voice resounded back through their speakers. “Subjects have been tagged. Tracers deployed and operational.” And from their hiding spot, Spiral took one last gleeful glance at Avenger's Tower's balcony before she slipped back into the shadows after Longshot. 

Something about that night had made the hours feel especially long, and his eyes especially tired. He rubbed at them again, hoping to hydrate them just enough to finish notes on his last titration samples. Dr. McCoy was only a few words in when his eyes began to sting and droop once more. He grumbled in irritation, and pulled himself up from his chair, and fumbled beneath piles of unorganized notes for his empty cup of tea. Just one more bag might be enough to get him over this hump.

His fingers latched around the ceramic cup just as squeaks of rubber soles echoed down the hallway through the open lab door, and Bobby, how many times have I told you about running in the labs was just out of his mouth when a small body flung itself into his side and gripped at his lab coat. He caught his glasses just as they flew off of his face and spotted a curtain of blonde curls. “Reagan?”

“Thank you! Thank you so much, Dr. McCoy!” She peered excitedly up at him, “For enrolling me in school.”

Ah, yes. “I’m happy we were able to accommodate,” he obliged, chuckling to himself when her hug lasted many more seconds before she pulled back, cheeks red with embarrassment.

She scuttled over to an empty swivel chair, smile still wide and brimming. She had so many questions; how, from whom, when. But what came out was, “So, how was Logan coerced into surrogate father?”

“He was the one to volunteer.”

She sounded surprised, “Oh?”

“There were not many other alternatives,” Hank started, adjusting the glasses on his face, “Most of us have been involved with Bayville in one form or another. Logan was the only one who hadn’t had any dealings with the school; we want to keep the institute as far from administrative minds as possible.”

She nodded, legs absentmindedly swinging back and forth. “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened? Logan mentioned your previous dealings with the high school, and they don’t sound amicable in the least.”

He looked longingly at his samples, but ceded that not much more progress was going to be made that night, and turned to give Reagan his full attention. “They weren’t. We used Bayville out of necessity for our students; it was affordable for parents and closest in proximity to the institute. However, we overlooked the consequences that are bred from such large congregations of mutants. Though Xavier students had the opportunity to grow amongst society alongside those of similar experiences—”

She nodded in complete understanding, “Chaos welcomes chaos.”

“Precisely. A local mutant gang arose in opposition to Xavier students, acting instead with the purpose of utilizing their powers in public for whatever their gains were at the time. Long story short, our hand was forced, and our students were publicly outed. Charles’s relations with the school board became strained. Our students were eventually allowed back, but Robert Kelly, the acting principal at the time, saw Bayville as a platform for ground zero of his anti-mutant crusade. Our students felt alienated and discriminated against, and once everyone from the first group had graduated, we pulled out of Bayville permanently. And that’s when we began teaching privately, here, at the institute. Unfortunate, but as much as Charles wished for our students to have as much exposure to the world as possible, teaching at the institute was efficient and safe, for all parties involved.”

She could understand that.

She nodded to his pile of slides and notes. “What’re you working on?”

“Rogue and Remy brought back samples of the Hope Serum. I was trying to study its composition further, possibly find a way to create a counteragent of some sort. Or even trace the serum, or any of its ingredients, back to a lab or pharmaceutical company.”

That’s what was inside all of the test tubes, scattered along every table? The Hope Serum!? “Any luck so far?”

“It’s fortunate the ingredients are on the toxic side. Narrows down the supplier pool a bit. As to a counteragent; I’ve hit a few dead ends.” That was what was truly irritating him. Dr. Rao was certainly of the most brilliant minds of their generation, but something had him suspicious she was working with someone else. A new player who’s work he did not recognize and was struggling to dissect. He had sent off samples of the Serum to Banner, Ross, Richards, and Cho in hopes they would stumble across something he had miss. He was desperately hoping he had missed something. He watched her try to discreetly stifle a yawn behind her hand. “Go on, get some sleep. You have orientation with the school early tomorrow with Logan.”

She nodded tiredly, and was on her way out the lab when she called out behind her, “Thank you, again, Dr. McCoy.”

He called out to her, “Reagan?” She turned back to him, “Please. ‘Hank’ is fine.”

She gave him a smile in return, and was about to walk away, when a thought struck her. “Hank?” He nodded to her he was listening, “The middle name you gave me; why Rafaela?”

“Ah yes, Rafael. The Archangel most notorious for their healing miracles. Seemed fitting,” he said, her smile too infectious not to return.

When Tony had said to sit in and ‘see how the sausage gets made’ (what she knew now as an idiom) she hadn’t the slightest as to what she was walking into. Meeting the ‘Director’ and ‘Assistant Director’ of ‘SHIELD’ she hadn’t been prepared for. Nor the amount of air quotations Tony had used throughout the entire conversation.

The first words to her from the ‘Assistant Director’ had been: “So you’re the one I’ve been covering for. I’m starting to believe what Clint said.”

She didn’t know what either of his statements meant, but she was cordial all the same as she shook his hand and smiled. The most striking feature of 'Agent' Phil Coulson was the artful and purposeful way he went about the world nondescriptly. The attire was simple, and she dared to say even his facial features were comfortably plain. Nothing caught the eye. He was average in appearance and movements, and she was now deeply intrigued how a human could groom themselves to be unwaveringly commonplace.

‘Director’ Nicholas Fury was a 180 whiplashing turn from ‘Agent’ Coulson. The eyepatch alone was a far cry, but even his mannerisms. He entered the video conversation immediately with resolute acerbity, and it never ebbed. The video call had eventually ended, and Reagan felt as though nothing had been accomplished, for his expeditious exit dragged behind it still a displeasure that left her unsettled.

Though, that could be from Captain Rogers and Mr. Stark metaphorically monopolizing home plate as they went to bat for her. She could feel her heart well with warmth again at the memory of the two standing shoulder to shoulder; Rogers at attention and Stark at a disinterested slouch that felt even more threatening. Mr. Coulson had warned prior to that Mr. Fury had the intention of recruiting her for SHIELD purposes on top of inquiries as to the Winter Soldier's location and condition (none of which he was given), but it seemed both Avengers were already prepped on the topic. Captain Rogers had instructed her to stay out of sight, and so from the far corner, out of the camera lens’s reach, she watched them systematically cripple each argument Mr. Fury had thrown their way, that a member of the Avengers was a member of Shield, plain and simple. While Captain Rogers referenced bylaws and subsections, Tony spat remarks with such ire and sarcasm, they begged for opposition.

Then the call had ended, and Mr. Stark made a joke about the eye patch and the unsettled weighted air she had felt lifted and she breathed for the first time since the teleconference had begun.

They invited her to dinner downstairs, but she had politely refused, using Logan as an excuse. In reality, she felt drained mentally and physically, and fielding conversation and questions from strangers and acquaintances sounded like the most draining thing in the world.

But Captain Rogers’s understanding smile never left and, after she said her goodbyes, escorted her back down to a lower level full of cars, where Logan sat waiting for her, as if summoned out of thin air. He had thanked her, and hugged her, again before waving her off, dates and times of Bucky’s upcoming visits echoing behind him in the spacious garage.

She yawned in thought of tomorrow spread out before her, and made a beeline for her room, but she pulled up short at the sight of a box on her bed. Tony’s box. The one he had given to her back at the Avengers’ Tower. She had completely forgotten about it.

Her drowsed stupor vanished and, envigored with electric curiosity, she pried open the flaps and peered inside to find a yellow post-it note sitting idly atop an unending pile of packaging peanuts.

On the sticky note, in barely legible scrawl was

the new name you gave Capsicle

The new name she gave Capsicle? She assumed he was referring to Captain Rogers. Which meant the new name had to be…

“Celestia,” she said hesitantly.

“Good evening, miss.”

She squealed and backpedaled hard, knocking over the box in the process. Smaller boxes in varying sizes were now scattered across her quilt, all branded with an encircled letter ‘A’ as well as a Stark Industries logo. She slowly picked the closet parcel up, and into her hand slipped a sleek, white package that bore an image of a cellphone. “Oh my gosh.”

“My sincerest apologies. I did not mean to startle you.”

What the heck?

She slipped the cover off and peered back at her reflection in the shiny silver screen of a very large phone. It wasn’t on. Where was that voice coming from?

“Hello, I am JARVIS.”

She clamped a hand over her mouth to stop from squealing again. “And you’re…in my phone.”

“I am the personal artificial intelligence system of Mr. Stark, utilized by select members of Stark Industries and the Avengers, such as yourself. Sir has programmed me in every technological device provided to you here. My systems can be found in the A series Stark phone, as well as the seventh series Stark watch, the Stark A-Unlimited laptop, and the Stark Pro 3 tablet. All four devices have also been outfitted with several applications and programs used by the Avengers. Because you are newly indoctrinated, there is some information I require for my records, if you are available to provide some verification information.”

“Um. Ok.”

“I appreciate your cooperation. For my records, would you be willing to state your full name?”

What? Tony wasn’t privy to her identity, but somehow his…computer program was?

“I assure you, no one will have access to your on my serves. Every security protocol is being put into effect by myself, which prevents even Mr. Stark from establishing access to the information.”

She wasn’t reassured, mainly because it was too late at night to fully comprehend what ‘Jarvis’ had just said. “Forgive the tactless questioning, but why do you need that information?”

“There is nothing to forgive. With your name, I can simply keep up with flagged uses of your identity in several databases and search engines. I’ve been instructed to alert you should any suspicious use of your identity filter through.”

That…was a little easier to comprehend: it was tracking people who could be tracking her. Like SHIELD. Like bad guys. And at the thought of two certain persons from her childhood stumbling across her somewhere on the internet, she knew she’d be stupid to bite this gift horse. “Reagan. Rafaela Howlett,” and because she, herself, wanted to hear it again in its full glory, “Reagan Rafaela Howlett.”

“Very good. It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Howlett.”

Reagan Howlett. Yeah, she could get used to it. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

Chapter Text

“Your toy needs a tighter leash.”

The irritated growl was already warm in his chest before he laid eyes on his unwelcome guest. He had explicitly instructed no interruptions. Then again, this particular thorn in his side didn't respond well to the word no. “To what do I owe the…pleasure?”

He strode up unrepentantly until he was within inches, only then his dark complexion visibly beneath the gaudy and overdramatic hooded cape. Sinister feigned disinterest, casually turning back to his test tubes and petri dishes, obvious in the back he was giving his unwelcome guest to talk at. “I was promised a soldier programmed to follow every command. No question, no hesitation; self-awareness stripped clean. These were your words, Essex.”

Sinister snarled and rounded on him, “Don’t you dare quote back to—"

But the intruder only heightened himself higher, leaning down threateningly to an almost retreating Sinister, “We cannot afford one misstep. Do you know what an ounce of humanity in a machine does? It makes mistakes.”

Nathaniel Essex scoffed, “My specimens are advanced beyond their years, perfected to an efficiency not even the greatest military powers on Earth can dream to replicate. They do not make mistakes. Archangel does not make mistakes.”

He almost smirked, such an odd outward sign of emotion other than unappeased and outraged. The dark paint markings outlining his eyes only made the small smile all the more mad. “And yet there he stood last night, in the middle of the Smithsonian, hesitating. If it were not for my agents, he would’ve sat there until security found him the following morning.”

Nathaniel Essex perked at the sound of the museum. He was never privy to the stranger's dealings, even when it concerned his own specimens. He was never told where they were sent, what tasks they were given. For it was all for the higher purpose and grand design of the all mighty and all powerful En Sabah blah blah blah blah blah. Honestly, the fanaticism was a bit too much, even for the likes of Mister Sinister. He stirred from his thoughts only to come to the sour realization that he was still talking. “We are graced with the destiny of taking part in his return, his resurrection. Last night’s errand was crucial, and your lackey had almost ruined years’ worth of planning and preparation, stopping to smell the roses.”

Essex hated nothing more than criticism on his life's greatest creations, and the deranged acolyte of sorts was pushing all of the right buttons to gear him up to sever the man's head clean off his body. But the only thing he wanted more was for him to leave, and Essex steamed another moment over the yield he was about to deal to a man he would love nothing more than to smear beneath the heel of his boot. “I will see to the issue," he ground out through clenched teeth.

“Yes you will.”

And with one last dramatic twirl of his cape, he called over his shoulder, “That was strike one, Nathaniel. If I need to come out all this way to reprimand you again, rest assured our partnership will no longer be of need to me.”

And Sinister watched the retreating, tattooed-covered head until it had completely disappeared from sight, at which point Sontag reappeared and waited patiently for her master’s orders. It was some time before he turned to her, “Bring me Archangel. Let’s see if we can attend to those glitches.”

Her fingers clung viciously to the ceramic mug, tucked within her bowed chest, as she tried to leech as much heat from the tea as she could. The clouds were ominous in the distance, that New England archetypal grey that carried with it a bone deep chill, that whispered the threat of snow.

Something about it excited her, in a way it never had before. The grey sky and loud winds would’ve had her scrambling for shelter weeks ago, anxious about keeping dry and warm for the night. Now, suddenly, with a warm house and even warmer shower waiting up for her, she suddenly felt fearless as she stared down the incoming storm.

At the sharp tug of a bitter gust, her mind was pulled back to the dream she woke up from that morning.

The haunting woman in white had her back to Reagan.

“Emma.”

The woman turned, startled, “You know my name?” 

Reagan nodded, “You told me before.”

“Oh. I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

“I am. Real, that is.”

Emma looked at her, “I know. How can you hear me?”

“I don’t know.”

“I can’t read your mind.”

Reagan paused and tried to answer calmly, “No one can.”

“Last time we spoke, you said you needed help,” Reagan reminded.

Emma nodded slowly, “Yes,” she replied even slower. Her eyes searched their ice-like surroundings, “At least, I think I do.”

“You don’t know?”

Emma shook her head sadly, turning with eyes that could not have pleaded louder for help, “I don’t know where I am. Or what’s going on around me. Everything’s dark and empty and quiet. And then I see you and hear you, and you hear me. And then it goes dark again.”

“I will find you.”

A single, diamond tear fell from the corner of Emma’s eye, “I don’t think you can. I think I’m dead.”

So much of that encounter still deeply confused Reagan, and terrified her as well. Emma was a telepath. Sure, she may be dead. And sure, it was just a dream.

But there was something very real about Emma, something so uniquely and terrifyingly human about her, despite the fantastical elements of the dream itself.

A dream of reality. Through reality? With? In? Whatever the proper phrasing was.

And then there was the telepath problem.

The words ‘telepath’ and ‘dream’ incongruent of each other held their own meanings in their own fields. But together, they spawned the possibility of a causal relationship; she was having the dreams because Emma was a telepath. I.e.: Emma was inside her mind. And there went the second telepath in a week able to pry past Caliban's defenses. The only hope she had left was that Jean was still unable to breech them.

But that wasn’t all she had to worry about. Her troubles didn’t end there, if the unsettled stirring in the pit of her stomach was anything to go by; an explosive compound of pure adrenaline and nervousness that threatened to steal her appetite away for the rest of the week. The slimy nausea and tight chest feelings had started the moment she saw her ‘transcript’ papers, and had climaxed that morning on the steps of Bayville High School, two pleasant looking women waving at her and Logan from the entrance. Principal Pravesh and Ms. Cotê had both been incredibly hospitable, frequently including her in the tour of the school, benignly trying to draw her out of her headspace. But her panicked attention had been on the classroom windows, on the sea of faces that would be looking at her next Monday.

It was on the massive cafeteria, and library, and gymnasium, and orchestra room, and auditorium; all places she would have to navigate all on her own. She knew no one, and that fact alone had her perspiring from every orifice and struggling to keep her heartbeat quiet.

Our school has placed in state and regional competitions in several of our sports. Our fencing, field hockey and soccer all came in first in regional competitions. We have a wide array of athletic teams, coached by some of the best in the region. Many of our students go on to play for major ivy league and state colleges. Are you interested in sports, Reagan?

And then it happened.

Out of nowhere, at the worst possible time.

She had been dreading the inevitable moment it would come with the X-Men. When it would decide to spring up and rear its ugly head.

She couldn’t speak.

She had opened her mouth, nothing came out, and she had almost felt like squatting down right then and there, and pounding the ground in frustration. Of all times, of all the days her voice had to fail, as it loved to do; it had to be that day. And in that moment, in a fleeting thought, she wished she could be young again. When her world wasn’t split between these two realities, these two identities. No voice and voice. Signing and speaking. Mute and nonmute. She lived in one reality and she coped. Bouncing between the two, never knowing when one would override the other; she was starting to see how difficult it would be in this new societal world of hers.

But before she had a moment to reorient herself and adapt to everyone's expectant faces, she had heard Logan casually slip in to candidly answer for her. And from there on out, he had monopolized the conversation, until they were waving goodbye, and she was left blankly wondering if Logan had caught on to what had happened.

Her stomach was so viciously knotted, if there had been anything in her stomach to vomit up, it would’ve gotten lost in the labyrinth her intestines had become. She had been waiting for the terse tone, the clipped response, the aggravated impatience at yet another Reagan-certified land mine the team would have to maneuver across.

She had been waiting for:

When were you waiting until to fill us in?

What the heck happened?

And you thought you were going in the field, just to jeopardize my team because you can’t talk?

We will have to reevaluate your status with the X-Men.

She didn’t know if the alternative had been worse or better; Logan asking questions about her thoughts and opinions on the school, sprinkled with his own sarcastic anecdotes, felt like a fresh slap in the face, and she didn’t know why.

Maybe because she thought she didn’t deserve the domestic conversation. The interested questioning, the reassuring smirks, or even the promise of dinner calling after her as she practically sprinted away from him for a quiet corner.

Because if he truly understood the implications of what had happened back at that high school, he would be concerned and furious, as he rightfully should be. The only logical explanation is he didn’t know the true extent of what had just happened.

And her? She had run straight to her room, bundled up her few belongings in a trash bag she had found beneath her sink, and stared at it for about an hour, her feet angled for her balcony window, but some other part of her keeping her rooted in place. Tears had fallen and silent screams echoed painfully in her throat, and by the end, she was too exhausted to run away, and she simply dried her face and went looking for another quiet corner. Looking around at her bedroom wasn’t helping her decision. But she knew what would.

A cup of tea was poured, a few blankets were pulled off of a couch, and that was how she found herself some time later, sitting beneath the dark and shriveled rose vines of the pergola, eyes on the ocean that stretched out before her, her mind emptied to a void.  

“Il fait un froid de canard.”

The voice spooked her from her mental rage, surprise cooling the hot embers, as the natural response floated effortlessly off her tongue, before she could remember that vocal conversation wasn’t going to happen, “Tu es faible. Tu parles tres bien le francais. I didn’t think Louisiana French had so many old French idioms.”

She was quick to school her surprise at the words that trickled off her vocal chords, at her voice's quick return, as Remy gave a humored hum before slipping into the vacant space beside her, hands clawing his jacket on tighter, “An old friend of mine was from Bayeux. So you know French. And from what I saw yesterday, also fluent in Wolverine.”

Yesterday?

Oh yes, he was referring to the other mess she had catalyzed; pinning her own teammates against the wall because she couldn’t keep her emotions severed from her powers. When were they all going to catch on that she was more trouble than she was worth? When she blew the roof off the place? Was that what it took?

“That one, I’m still a little new to,” she admitted, and she was. Though Logan seemed a lone wolf of sorts, responsibility of leader layered with a devil-may-care attitude, she was beginning to see glimpses of the unstable Wolverine peak through, moments of unadulterated emotion honed in on face-value instincts; kill or be killed. She hadn’t had the chance to see him in the field, back against the wall, odds stacked against him. She was, in all seriousness, terrified to.

Remy shrugged. “Doing hell of a lot better than me,” red and black painted eyes lost in the ocean stretched out before them.

“How are you doing?”

He chuckled, throwing his arms along the bench, slouching comfortably, “Me? Living like a king.”

“How are the others treating you?”

“I assume just as well as they’re treating you.”

Reality was a hard slap to the face, if Reagan’s stunned expression was anything to go by, and Remy watched, humored as she composed herself seconds later enough to counter, “I don’t have Logan breathing down my back.”

“Aw, the big lug’s harmless,” he scoffed, waving it off, “ Heard from Rogue, though, you have a certain set of shades gunning for you.”

Oh gosh, and there was that sick, difficult-to-breathe feeling she thought was gone. She swore he prowled the hallways now, always shadowed in the corner of her vision, always lurking. Waiting. She sometimes wished he would just punch her outright. The stalking was too much, stripped another layer of comfort off of her nerves, let the cold air at them some more. “You could say that.”

“He hasn’t hurt you, has he?”

She turned to look at him, stunned, his question leaving her with the feeling of being blindsided. Or maybe not so much the question itself, but the at the colors that followed; a vicious mix of deep crimsons, dark-painted mahoganies and vibrant emeralds. His eyes mirrored the concern in his tone, a worry that caressed the edges of anger. And suddenly she was left feeling guilty she had been wishing Scott to lash out physically, rather than torment her with his mind games. Not for her sake, but for Remy’s. “Not really.”

Remy gave a pleasing nod, “You let me know when that changes.”

And she was left staring at this vagabond thief, shuffling a deck of cards in his hand and wearing one of Logan’s jackets, no doubt for the sheer joy of annoying him. A man she had just met the other day, a criminal and thief who’s dirtied reputation had reached even her little patch of sidewalk years ago.

Someone she had, without cause, attacked and pinned to a wall just the other day.

Worried about her.

Steve: He’s getting rest. Has since you left. I can’t thank you enough.

He watched his message shift to the main screen, an icon popping up soon after, showing that she was typing a response. Her message took a little longer, and Steve couldn’t help but smile at the fact that someone else in the world was as slow a typer as he was. And communicated in full sentences. With punctuation.

Celestia: I’m just happy I could help. I’m going to be honest, I was worried I wouldn’t be able to. Your friend’s a serious fighter.

Steve: That he is.

Celestia: I’ll stop by Wednesday evening, around 6 pm, if that’s a good time. Just check in. If anything happens between then and now, please text me, and I’ll be there. Bucky’s recovery from here on out is new territory for me, so we’ll take it slow and careful.

And Steve Rogers could only sit there, as he reread her last text over and over to himself, a small tear squeezing out the corner of his eye. Because staring back at him was his mother, in all her glory, squeezed into a small young lady he had had the pleasure of knowing for only about a week. She was this generation’s Sarah Rogers, a woman who cared so deeply for others, who held such a profound understanding of the human experience in all its pain and glory. Who gave each and every soul she met nothing less than a full measure of respect, dignity, and more importantly, love.

He had been so lost in memories of his mother that he had forgotten to respond, yanked out of a time, that felt so old yet so fresh, at the sound of new text.

Celestia: Have a good night, Steve. Make sure you get some sleep. You’re still recovering too.

He chuckled softly to himself, sent a quick prayer up to his mother to watch over her new protégé, and responded back

Steve: Yes, ma’am. Have a good night yourself,

and he pulled up short, ready to address it, only to remember he didn’t know her real name. And after such a personal conversation, it felt strange following up with her pseudonym. He sent it quick before he marinated on that thought for too long.

He understood the need for a secret identity, though he had never put it into practice itself, nor ever worked in a company that required that anonymity. It was the reason he and Tony had fielded that call from Fury.

Fury had been insistent for information, listing off one unanswered question after another.

Where was the full Sentinel report from Agent Barton and Romanov?

Who broke into the SHIELD facility in New Jersey?

Who had healed Steve? Are the two events related?

Who had restored Bucky’s memories? Are those events related?

But the solider and billionaire had stood firm and vague, playing dumb on most of the events, only confirming the Shadow Healer’s involvement in Steve’s healing, specifics of which were not given. Agent Coulson had gone so far as to quote one of SHIELD’s bylaws, the very same bylaws he, Nat and Pepper had gone searching for not just days ago.  

Of course, there was no one more perceptive than Nick Fury, and the former—current?—head of SHIELD was keen enough to know a snow job when he saw one. The Avengers were no exception.

The sound of her footsteps coming down the hallway reached him first, then came her almost natural scent; gunpowder, arcing electricity, fresh deodorant and lead. He followed her to his door, where she slinked right in, around the dividing wall and up behind him, where her furtive steps stopped short at his countertop.

He sighed with resignation, “You have your own apples.”

He turned in his kitchen chair to watch the Black Widow nick the fruit from its basket, before slipping into the seat beside him. “Yeah, but yours taste better.”

He watched her, deadpan, as she took an exaggerated bite of the apple, openly smiling when he rolled his eyes at her. His look was scornful, “We went apple picking together. At the same orchard. From the same trees.”

And what a surreal afternoon that had been. Somehow in between moving him from Blackwater and getting Bucky set up at the tower, Sam had cornered Tony and gotten the billionaire to buy out an orchard for the Avengers, for a few hours. A chance to breathe and decompress, Sam had said, a pointed look at the lot of them one night at dinner. They had grumbled and complained, but Sam was the strongest-willed of them all. And so a tired and dazed motley crew of Sam, Nat, Clint, Tony and Steve had slipped into civvies and went apple picking. It had been a disaster from the start; Clint was twitching from a mission pulled short and was quick find his renowned marksmanship with apples, and Tony, still nursing exhaustion and some healing injuries from the Mandarin fallout, was all too happy to egg him on. Sam had been busy parenting them both, while Nat and Steve had actually been productive in picking a substantial amount of apples, though Steve had promptly crashed for several hours after.

“It must be that extra sprinkle of patriotism,” she replied winking, Steve moaning at the cheap tease.

“Whatever she gave him, I want one.”

He followed Nat’s gaze over to his bed, where Bucky was passed out, rolled onto his stomach, right arm bent over his face, as he softly snored the past 14 hours away. Steve hadn’t seen his friend this peaceful since before he left for overseas back in 1943. When they had shared an apartment, and Bucky would come home from a double shift at work just about dead on his feet, and would collapse onto their old couch until the following morning, his soft snores and deep-sleep squirming echoing across the whole apartment.

And there he lay, almost 80 years later, in a lavish suite in a rich man’s skyscraper. Burrowed beneath thousands of dollars’ worth of silk, cotton, and feathers. Surrounded by gadgets and tech people didn’t even dream of back then. Strangling out that same, soft snore. And there went Steve, squeezing another tear out the corner of his eye at almost a century lost, but yet the blessing of consistencies. “It’s incredible, isn’t it? That a human being is just…walking around on this Earth with the capability to do that.”

She nodded, and the next moment they sat in somber and reflective silence, before Natasha responded, “Glad she’s ours.”

Steve turned to her, “Coulson fill you in on the meeting?”

She nodded, “You know he’s going to keep trying.” She looked at him with all her mustered seriousness; she and Clint knew Fury the longest, and how far the spy would cross over into uninvited territory for the sake of international security.

Steve’s responding look topped hers exponentially; the steadfast Captain America glare always did. “And we’ll be there every time to shut him down.”

A smirk sprouted from the corner of her mouth, and she playfully knuckled his chin, “There’s that cute go-getter attitude.”

He scowled at her, “Bite me, Romanoff.”

Her smirk was full fledge, “Gladly. I like people to buy me dinner first, but I’ll make an exception for you,” she teased suggestively.

“You know you’re as bad as him,” he said, tilting his head toward his old friend.

“And what’s our common factor?”

He furrowed his eyes, “Manipulated assassin turned Avenger?”

She took a bite of the apple and shook her head, “You. You bring out the sexually-tense sass in people, Rogers.”

He scowled, and her little smirk only grew bigger. “I’ve gotta run through an op with Hill. But my offer still stands; you get me #38 from Moonlight over in Brooklyn, and I’ll do whatever you want tonight.”

“Will it keep you out of my apples?”

“That’s a strange name to call them.”

His glare was lethal, finger pointed at his door, “Out.”

And she had the audacity to grab another apple from his bowl of fruit, “Cute shade of blush,” she called out playfully in her wake.

“So. Magneto’s back in town.”

That was enough to pull everyone from their soporific daze, shaking off the heavy blanket of warmth, exhaustion and the thick smells of sweetened coffee and burning wood. They were scattered about Charles’s old office, collapsed over chairs and carpets, surrounded by steaming mugs and dirtied patrol uniforms, weighed down by the long day behind them.

“And stirring up tension as he does best,” Ororo added, stifling a yawn that echoed a long morning of Danger Room training and an even longer evening spent digging through Trask’s old facilities. Hank, Kitty, Kurt, and Rogue were out there now, chasing down some leads into Magneto’s whereabouts.

While he was at it, Logan went through the rest of the roster; Forge was down in the mission room, simultaneously trying to track Warren, Pietro and Magneto, Piotr, Trask, Hisako and Shiro. He should probably bring him some coffee later.

Last he saw, and to his chagrin, Remy and Reagan were out on the back deck, the two laughing their way through what had looked like a game of Go Fish. But a soft look and nod from Jean let him know she was watching in her own way, too. In the same movement, she leaned tiredly into Scott’s shoulder and curled her legs beneath her, “Do we really think it’s him?”

Logan shrugged helplessly, “All Stark’s data points to him.” Unfortunately, Stark’s theories and conclusions were usually spot on. There was no use arguing against if it was Magneto or not. The why was a different story.

Scott reached beneath his glasses and scrubbed at his tired eyes, “You’d think the future Charles showed him was enough of a reality check.”

“Apparently not.”

Storm stiffly rose from the couch, more so to promote blood circulation to her brain than anything. Late night debriefs she had never been a fan of. “So he’s back. Wreaking havoc; to what end? He’s banned from Genosha, and he’s lost any credibility he has amongst his followers.”

Jean’s following suggestion seemed plausible, “Maybe he thinks he can reestablish his standing among mutants; make them believe nonmutants want all-out war.”

“But he blew his one good chance with that Sentinel,” Scott countered, motioning tiredly to the papers on the table beside him, “Going off of Stark’s data, that’s the last one. Even the ones that invaded Genosha are trashed.”

Bobby cringed at that memory, “Piggy backing off of that beautiful reminder; dude’s just full-tilt psycho. Does he need a motive?”

And yeah.

Bobby brought up an interesting point. A mutant with a motive was dangerous. One though, without one; no call, no code, no goal. That was terrifying. And not completely outside the realm of crazy Erik Lensherr tended to dance around. But there was just one problem.

“Charles seemed to think so.”

And that was the crux of it all, what truly bothered Logan. As much as he yearned to write-off the old buckethead up there with Hydra, Dr. Doom, Sinister, the Chitari and hell, some other sub-par vigilantes, Charles’ voice was always in his ear, persistent in Magneto’s defense. That there was a good man beneath it all worth saving, worth protecting and worth teaching. Hell, Charles wasn’t even there to stop Logan from knocking the guy out and stuffing him into the iceberg they dug Steve out of, and closing up the hole. And yet there he was, assuaging his concerned team that no, Magneto wasn’t all bad, all the time.

A part of him knew Charles’ held a bias toward Magneto, rose-colored in their rich history together, protecting mutant rights and scheming of a better future. That Charles’ saw a different man underneath the hipster galea than the rest of the X-Men; beneath were the eyes of an old friend who deserved the benefit of the doubt. Logan didn’t question where his mentor’s allegiance laid; he knew Charles would defend the X-Men with his dying breath, and wouldn’t hesitate to fight his old friend if it came down to it.

But things were different now. Magneto had been stripped of everything he held dear, down to his ugly costume. A man doesn’t suffer the losses of fame and power, the way he did, and not come out of it with a mad thirst for something to fill those holes. Charles’ Erik may not have been a raw kind of desperate, but their Magneto just might be.

“Anyone heard from him lately?” Scott asked, eyes and voice, though, aimed at Logan.

The X-Men leader shook his head, “He said he’d reach out when he felt safe enough to.”

Bobby straight out groaned, stuffing his face into the meat of his bean bag, “Well that’s just great. We save the future from one catastrophe, Charles wakes up and it’s just a new shit show. When are we ever going to catch a break?”

“Well let’s not worry about Charles’s reality, and focus on this one. Magneto sent an armed Sentinel into the city.”

And the small X-Men subgroup stretched the night and their exhaustion just a few more hours, as they wagered guesses, bounced around motives, referenced old files, projected outcomes and schemed up protocols as the vigilante mutant group knew how to best.

No, no, no, no.

She hadn’t even thought this far ahead in her stay. Some part of her had expected to already be back out on the streets by that point. How much easier it would be out there; roll up some toilet paper, nab a sock, anything.

What did normal people do for this?

She sat there, crumpled, on the toilet seat, staring at the stained toilet paper in her hands, and felt her eyes burn with the urge to cry.

She vaguely remembered Kiara using something called a tampon. She had gotten a four dollar raise at work, and the first thing she had gone out to get with her paycheck had been these ‘tampons’ and air for the tires to the car she used. But Kiara was a 30-something year old mother; was she too young to use a tampon?

Where would she even find a tampon? Where did you keep stuff like that? Anxiousness curled in her stomach at the thought of approaching Storm, or Kitty, or even Jean or Rogue for one.

Reagan glanced desperately around her; there had to be at least one in a bathroom, if not hers at least someone else’s. She prayed to God she didn’t have to go waddling over to rummage around one of the others’ bathrooms. She already was feeling her face heat up in mortification.

She glanced about the contents in the 3 tier shelf beside her, and found only spare toilet paper rolls, a few poetry books she hadn’t noticed before, and a jar of fresh lavender. She scooted closer to the edge of the toilet, and peered through the cupboard below the sink. There was a waste bin, more toilet paper, and…a box. It was bright pink and green, and held promise, even if the brand name wasn’t ringing any bells, if she was pronouncing it correctly. She flipped the box around in her hand, lip turned up at the weird colors and graphics. Inside made even less sense; there were a bunch of individually wrapped packages, like little candies, and a full sheet of instructions. She got through several paragraphs that tried to tell an anxious reader to ‘stay calm’ and ‘relaxed.’ Did they actually think that worked?

She then got to one of the final paragraphs and nearly dropped the sheet in alarm.

She was putting the tampon where?

And for how long?

There had to be a mistake. The sock and toilet paper had been so easy. So…evasive. This. This. Nuh uh. No way was she sticking that little plastic sperm-looking contraption there. Was this how the middle class lived? Sticking synthetic trinkets where they didn’t belong, and walking around with it like it was no big deal? And someone had called her uncivilized once. As if.

But she was a part of them now, right? She walked among the housed, the wealthy, the fed. This was how they did things. And so she would have to as well. She’d have to fit in. No way was she going to leave a bloodied sock in the trash for the X-Men to find.

But as she glanced back at the directions, the Spanish, French and English translations were not penetrating her still somewhat panicked brain. It was listing angles, plungers, and telling her to ‘get comfortable’ and she was about a second away from washing the paper down the toilet.

The most logical thing to do was to ask one of the other women. But pride was such a jealous and toxic friend, and that idea was immediately squashed. There was the internet that Logan had said she could look things up on. The internet that she was still terrified of, the internet she still didn’t entirely know how to use. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind it had changed completely from when she was 11.

So then what? Who?

And then a weird idea struck her, and before she gave her mind a chance to reconsider, she quietly called out, “Jarvis?”

She turned to her phone perched on the sink at the sound of the AI’s voice, “Good evening, Ms. Howlett.”

“Can I ask you a weird favor?”

“I assure you Sir will always out-weird. But by all means; what can I do for you?”

She actually winced as she asked, “Can you walk me through how to use a tampon?”

“Certainly. Which brand are you utilizing?”

And for the next few minutes, Reagan listened to the even tone of the AI, as it walked her through the using and maintenance of the tampon. Soon, the awkward little cotton sperm was settled, she was washing her hands and feeling lighter. As she leaned over the counter, she felt herself breathe enough air to stop the cramping in her lungs. “Jarvis, I can’t thank you enough.”

“It was my pleasure, Ms. Howlett,” the AI replied, “I would also like to add that there are multiple over-the-counter medications used to mitigate premenstrual and menstrual symptoms. I cannot speak on the X-Men’s behalf, but at Stark Tower, every kitchen, bathroom and vehicle operated in the field is stocked.”

There was medication that could mitigate symptoms? What aspects needed to be alleviated? She had so many questions, but she felt buzzed enough that night with information so she just said, “Good to know, thank you.”

“Of course.”

She let herself release one more long breath before she crumpled the remains of the tampon into the waste bin. As she pulled herself up on top of the sink counter, knees scrunched up with toes curled around the edge, she asked, “Didn’t think you’d be walking a teenager through using a tampon on a Friday night, did you?”

“When one works for Mr. Stark, one becomes accustomed to the unexpected. I dare say this domestic altercation was a nice reprieve.”

“Don’t suppose I get to know the weirdest request Tony’s ever asked.”

“Unfortunately, no. Simply know that a flamingo, a pediatrist, and the National Guard were involved.”

She chuckled, “That sounds like a bad joke.”

“If only it were just that, Ms. Howlett.”

Tony didn't seem the trouble making type, at least not in that respect. Stories like the one Jarvis was implying were ones that made their rounds at the high society gatherings and elite social groups she had grown up within; so obnoxiously extravagant, annoyingly immature and characteristically wasteful. Sure, as Kitty had said, he was one of the richest men in the world and the owner of one of the most renowned companies in the world. But up close, covered in grease stains, smelling of burnt chemicals and skin, he seemed so far from that type of lifestyle. 

“May I suggest a heating pad, Ms. Howlett, if you are feeling uncomfortable.”

She hadn't even realized she had been squirming in her spot, trying to find a position somewhat comfortable. “That sounds like a good idea.”

She pulled herself off the sink counter and made her way to her bedroom, almost relishing in the thought that she could hide away there for the rest of the night. Something about the stacked events of the past few days behind her made her only crave solitude more. She slipped in her bedroom and closed the door softly behind her. She turned and stared dejectedly at her bed. She hadn’t slept in it all. She couldn’t. How were you supposed to go 6 straight years sleeping on sidewalks, cardboard boxes and metal grates to this squishy king-sized mattress, fitted with piles of duvets and blankets? She felt like she was going to sink straight down to the floor.

Something told her she wasn't going to be able to get comfortable on in. A cursory glance of her room, and her eyes landed elated on the arm chair. She quickly scurried about her room, plugging in the electric blanket to the wall, grabbing the throw blankets from beneath her window seat and curled up as tight she could in her heated cocoon. And as everything in her body and mind felt itself disengaging, the loud concerns of the next few days bellowed in the silence.

“They’re taking me shopping Sunday for school clothes, and then to a hairdresser, and I’m. I’m really nervous. I don’t want to go.”

It felt so strange putting a voice and words to the thoughts bouncing around in her head, but she was starting to appreciate the simplicity that came with speaking to something like an AI, which held no capabilities of judgement or bias towards her.  No condescending or coddling. Nice neutral middle.

She began reconsidering her previous statement at the long stretch of silence that followed, until Jarvis finally spoke up, “If I may, Ms. Howlett. Your StarkPad beside you.”

She peered over at the very sleek, very clean, very intimidating giant phone-thing sitting there, and gingerly picked it up. As if sensing her complete apprehension, Jarvis followed up with, “Press the center button at the bottom of the screen.” The screen came to life, a plain background with miniature squares falling into an orderly pattern. “I have taken the liberty of installing an application called Pinterest on your StarkPad. Simply click the top right-hand square with a red ‘P.’”

“What does it do?”

“It is a social media service. It is an image and information sharing website that allows you to organize content into ‘pinboards’ as they call them. Ms. Potts utilizes this website quite often. It would help familiarize you with current fashion trends, and may make it a little easier this weekend.”

It took her longer than she cared to admit to finally get the hang of the website. But eventually, she was cruising through photos with ease, Jarvis keeping her company with information on styles, trends, fashion terminology and any other knowledge they stumbled into along the way. And that’s where she spent the remainder of her night; curled in her leather armchair, the heating pad and Starkpad cradled in her lap, the calm voice of a computer lulling her into a peaceful sleep.

Chapter Text

few things for ur glow stick with some vetted deliverers, who i need SO DONT KILL THEM

Logan was seconds away from ignoring the text and just putting his phone back in his pocket, because he didn't have enough patience in the moment to try and decipher what the hell Stark meant by all of that bullshit. He had used it all up that morning, when Reagan had bolted unexpectedly. Ororo had looked guilty running out of the kitchen, saying she had pushed Reagan too far too fast, that shopping was probably the last thing on her mind. Kitty had actually looked a little scared, that they had frightened her off for good. Logan was at his bike in seconds, already beginning to sift through all the different scents lingering in the cool morning air for hers, when a text had come through from JARVIS:

Miss Howlett is safe and accounted for. Miss Potts had previously arranged an appointment at Salon Venustas in downtown Salem, and that is where I have sent Miss Howlett now. She wishes to be alone for the time being, but wants to convey that she is alright and apologizes for running out so abruptly. I will update you on the progress of the appointment, and when she is ready for transportation. 

It had taken him a few seconds to get the mixed emotions, that came at the sight of his last name used like that, to vacate. And then he was sifting through the text for JARVIS's typical code patterns in emergencies, only to come up empty. So the kid was really at a hair salon. It was a low traffic location, especially now so deep into a rather cold fall. There would be trick-or-treaters there for Halloween that coming Friday, and runners for the Thanksgiving 10k later in November, but downtown area was a quieter lull compared to the summer crowds that plowed through the shops. The kid shouldn't feel too overwhelmed there. 

And seeing Ororo's relieved face peering down at him from the front steps, the same text on her phone screen, the tension in Logan's chest eased a little. He had been ready for moments like this, and knew it wasn't the last. The kid had lived one hell of a life. She had gone from everything, to nothing, back to everything in a different kind of way. And developing alone on the streets meant that when things got scary, or hard, or difficult, in this new life, her escape from it all would be finding that isolation again. Sometimes they'd be lucky and it would be in the mansion. But other times, it would be enough to send her running out and finding it elsewhere. 

He'd have to talk to her eventually about this. When and how, he didn't know. He could at least let her know he understood, that she wasn’t alone in those feelings. Yeah, that had sounded cheesy in his head too. Now, he was just pacing in the hallway, thinking about everything and nothing. But then the front door bell rang. The one nobody used. Because nobody ever stopped by who didn't know to key in at the side entrance. And they freaked out the neighbors. And packages went to a PO box. 

And then Logan glanced back at Stark's text, and groaned, a vague understanding falling into place. He didn't even bother to check the peephole, but at the sight of the man before him, deeply regretted it. “You’ve got to be freakin’ kidding me.”

The visitor's face showed no reaction and greeted, “Logan.”

The X-Men leader stepped to the side as Agent Coulson stepped through the entryway, and grunted, “Must be a slow day at the office if you’re Stark's postman.”

Coulson gave just the faintest of smirks, “We need to talk about your new recruit. Well, I guess our new recruit. Figured I’d kill two birds with one stone," he shrugged, before beckoning someone else in behind him, "Logan, this is Happy Hogan, Mr. Stark’s Head of Security.”

Logan sized up the vaguely familiar face, and shook Happy's hand, “And he’s got you doing a delivery run?”

Hogan wasn't as emotionally unfazed as Coulson was, but he was close. “I'm more here to keep you from tackling the movers. But honestly, you'd probably be better at it than I would be,” Hogan admitted, gesturing towards the SHIELD agent. There was that barely perceptible smirk again. But Logan outright smiled; he liked this guy. He could trust Hogan for the time being, even as he ushered two guys in uniforms up to the second floor, promising to keep the boxes out in the hallway. They knew better than to go in an X-Man's bedroom uninvited. 

Logan turned back at Coulson's question, “Want a beer?”

Oh, thank God. “Yeah, sure. The kitchen’s--”

But Phil was already headed down the hallway, “I remember where it is.”

Logan rolled his eyes and turned back to Stark's Head of Security, “You want in, Hogan?”

Happy seemed to consider for a second, before shrugging his shoulders, “I’m technically off duty. Why not.”

If it was possible, she’d have worn out her mirror by now. And she was just about to walk away from it too, but her strange reflection pulled her back. She was all buckled in and tightened up in her suit, wanting the full effect of the new person staring back at her. 

Her materialistic upbringing had clashed violently with the poverty she’d found herself in, back in the city. The growth curve had been long and steep. At first there had been a viciously desperate kind of need to catch her reflection in a glass door or bus window. To assess her state and quickly scrub away at the grime and fix her hair, in a vain attempt of preserving a face and identity that didn’t belong to her anymore. There was a heavy self-consciousness that had settled on her, and it’s only alleviation was to meddle with the appearance she thought so lowly of. The grief over her new way of life drove the incessant need of catching her reflection anywhere. 

But months and eventually years had passed, and her concerns shifted to the basic needs of survival, and her looks begrudgingly took a back seat. She was looking in mirrors and windows again, but her eyes weren’t searching for the imperfections in pulchritude. They were searching for dehydration along her tongue, exhaustion or virus in the whites of her eyes, for premature balding or unwanted guests in her hair, for cultures in the back of her throat, for inflammation around her sinuses and throat, for sunburn or frostbite on her skin. Gone was the fretting over her appearance, its absence immediately home for a much more brutal and harrowing struggle; life.

Here she was again, checking herself in mirrors and reflective refrigerator doors and shiny device screens, with a strange feeling of curiosity. And each time she felt herself doing a double take at this face and body that was slowly changing. 

First was the cleanliness. The dirt and grime was gone, and Kitty kept sneaking products into her shower that were starting to make the acne on her face disappear and made her smell like an entire flower garden. 

Second were the clothes. Granted, most of what she wore around the institute were sweatpants, and some of Kurt and Bobby’s old hoodies, but they were still so new and so clean, and it was hard looking at herself in them.  

Third, was her new hair. Each perfect curl was like silk between her fingers, tamed enough for her to leave her hair down. Her hand didn’t get caught as it sifted its way through, and the way it framed her face, she looked-- 

She was going to say human. 

She knew Brad had told her not to. 

He had been her hairdresser that morning. A patient man she had all but crumpled before.

She had spent the past couple of nights working herself up into a state of panic she could only succumb to. Guilt over plans on buying so many things with Ororo and Kitty, morphed into an anxiousness of visiting one full store after another, which mutated into an anxiety of just the thought of the mall’s entrance looming over her head. 

And with flushed cheeks and a clumsy tongue, she had confessed to Ororo and Kitty that morning that she couldn’t go shopping with them. And damn it all. Damn Ororo looking at her with nothing short of complete patience and understanding, for Kitty offering to sit with her for a few hours that day on a few clothing websites, for even Jean popping in and offering her car if she wanted to try again anytime that week. What gave the world, these people, the right to treat her like this. To be nothing but accommodating to emotions that didn’t make sense. Their kindness only fueled her rage, and she sprinted for the door, and just kept running. Down the steps of the mansion, across the front lawn, out the front gates and down the road. 

Her teeth had throbbed from her clenched jaw, but she hadn’t slowed her jog or released her tension, until every rageful thought had pounded out her feet and smeared on the pavement. Her lungs had ached as each heaving gulp brought in another crisp chill from the October air. Her bare feet had stung at every pebble that swiped at her skin. Her leg hair had bristled in the autumn wind. Her eyes had stung with tears; from the breeze or something else, she didn’t know. But she had just kept going, until her pace slowed to a stop, and she was forced to still long enough to breathe through the stitch in her side. Still long enough to take in her surroundings. At the rows of little shops that had suddenly popped up around her. At the dozens of pairs of strangers’ wide eyes watching her warily. Yeah, she undoubtedly looked unpleasant, and slightly deranged. A group of kids her age snickered nearby. As if she wasn’t already anxious enough. 

She jumped at the feeling of something buzzing in the pouch of her hoodie, and had fumbled with her phone from Tony. The screen showed a message on it from Jarvis:

Salon Venustas is a few shops down on the left. The store has been emptied and is closed just to you. Should you want it, you can get your hair done. If you don’t, they have warm clothes and shoes for you to change into. They are friends of Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts and will be nothing but discreet. The choice is yours. 

Her had heart dropped, and she frantically looked around. How did he know she was there? Where was he watching her from? Was Tony watching her too? She had felt her heart beating loudly in her ears, until another text came in. 

Reagan, I am not in your mind. The appointment had been scheduled yesterday by Ms. Potts, CEO of Stark Industries and Mr. Stark’s significant other. It is a gift from her. The Stark Watch tracks heart rate, as well as your location, for emergency purposes only. I only have access to the data, and only made aware of catalogued outliers. When your heart rate remained elevated through the night, into this morning, the appointment was made private, by myself. I apologize for not making myself clear before. 

She had read, reread, and then reread again, Jarvis’s message. When she finally felt the spots along her vision clear, and her heart stopped loudly pounding, she had considered her options. 

Walk back home, with bare feet, sport shorts and a Bayville High hoodie, for everyone to see. Back to the mansion where everyone was no doubt fretting over her hasty exit. Worried eyes, concerned questions. She had even pictured Logan, rethinking over sending her to school tomorrow morning. 

Or, there was the hair salon. With people who didn’t know her, didn’t just see her sprint through the streets of downtown North Salem like she’d lost her mind. 

To the salon, it was. 

She typed out a quick message to Jarvis for Ororo and Logan. She didn’t really know if that was something Jarvis could do, but he replied with

Of course. 

The loopy cursive of Salon Venustas had felt like a beacon to her, she had to keep herself from sprinting towards it. The CLOSED sign had made her pull up short, and she'd knocked hesitantly on the door. A young man walked towards her, eyes bright and smile wide. He'd unlocked the door and peered out at her. “Sorry, miss. We’re closed for the day.”

Was this right? Was she supposed to be here? Maybe Jarvis had got it wrong…“Someone made an appointment for me. My name is Reagan.”

His smile only grew wider. “I figured you were. Come on in, love.”

She'd nodded her thanks, and stepped in, and she was suddenly horrifically aware of her bare feet as they bristled at the textured welcome mat. He seemed to sense it too, because he had immediately reached behind the counter and handed her a big brown bag, with a store name on it she didn’t recognize. “Some warm clothes you can change into. The bathroom is straight ahead,” he said, pointing at the signed door, “You go ahead and take your time. I’m going to make some tea.”

She had nodded deftly, taking in his smile again, the Brad on his name tag, and walked over to the bathroom, cheeks heating at the sensation of cold tile on her feet. She'd barely registered the salon around her before she immediately closed the stall door behind her. She had all but collapsed onto the toilet seat cover, and immediately felt like crying. There would be no one to hear her; the door seemed heavy enough, and if Jarvis had been right, it was just her and Brad. 

She swiped away some building moisture and peered into the bag. She didn't know how Brad and Jarvis had schemed out an outfit that would fit her. A few minutes later, and she was peering at her reflection over the sinks, feeling...normal? Did a sweater, suede boots and jeans make a homeless, metaphorically orphaned mutant normal? But she had still felt like hiding out in that bathroom for the rest of the afternoon. What did the hair stylist think of her? Mad, that she was just plain mad. Crazy. Off her rocker. Insane. And if he was friends with Mr. Stark, it would get back to him how absolutely mental his new recruit was. 

She told herself to breathe. Panicking is what had gotten her into the situation she was in. She had eventually reasoned with herself the Mr. Stark and his significant other had gone through the trouble of booking her this appointment, it would be rude of her to decline it. So she had steeled herself and stepped out of the bathroom, where she finally took in the brightly decorated salon; the Portuguese tiles lining the walls, the white furniture and flooring, the wood cabinets. It was quaint. And gloriously quiet. Brad turned at her approaching and had smiled that big smile again. “You look beautiful. Do you like it?”

She nodded, and he grinned. “Good. It’s what’s in fashion around here, so I figured it was a safe bet. I wish I could shop for all of my customers. That was fun.”

She nodded, and finally felt confident enough to force out a “Thank you.”

Brad shook his head, “Don’t mention it. Pepper is a close friend, but looking at those big puppy eyes of yours, I would’ve done it regardless," he said, handing her a warm cup that smelled like cinnamon. He eased himself into one of stylist chairs, relaxed. “So I’m here and free for the rest of the afternoon if you want to get your hair done. If not, I’m still just here to drink some tea with. Your call.”

She appreciated the idea of choice he gave her, but in reality, it only brought back that heart-thumping fear from this morning, and she wished for nothing more than for him to make the decision for her. Like she was a child, and not an adult; an X-Man and Avenger no less. She wanted someone to just direct her and her movements, because the weight of possibilities was too heavy for her to pick one way or the other. Not right now. So she quickly averted his attention on her silent stare and asked, “If you were me, what would you do with my hair.”

“First off, I would cry to find out I had that kind of natural blonde. And then cry again when I find out those curls are mine to keep.” Honestly, he could have them. She'd nearly lost a hand the night before trying to work out a knot she had had for months, a bird's nest of hair that even with Kitty's arsenal of products, she couldn't detangle. “Probably a trim, just get rid of some dead ends, restore some volume," he added, eyes roving over her hair. If he spotted the years of sidewalk sleeping, minimal showering and roofless living amongst her curls, he didn't let it show. His eyes were soft as they observed her. She noticed she still stood stiffly in front of him, though another chair and been turned out just for her. Her fingers couldn't have gripped that ceramic mug tighter.  

“I don’t want to dye it. Or straighten it.” Her mother had been insistent she dye it brown years ago. She pulled her mind taut and blocked the incoming memories.

He put a hand to his chest in relief, “Oh thank God, because I would’ve gone kicking and screaming if you had asked. How about I work in a few conditioners and moisturizers, and then a healthy trim?”

She had smiled at him and nodded. Her knots would be gone. She'd almost felt like crying again. He practically leaped from his chair, excited, “Perfect. You keep working on that tea, and I’ll get set up.”

She had been a little looser by the time he had set a display of products and tools around them, and then he had started to slip fingers through her hair with different gels and cream and combs. She was on edge at first, highly self conscious of his fingers meeting walls of knotted resistance. But the feeling of his hands slowly working through each build up had unknotted something much deeper than her hair, and she slowly let herself relax in the chair. 

As if he had known how shy she had been to start conversation, he had started talking about the cute store he had gotten her clothes from. Then he was talking about how he knew Pepper from New York City, when she had just started out as Tony Stark’s personal assistant. After a few appointments with him, Pepper had put him on retainer for Stark Industries, and still saw him to this day. Then he talked about wanting to try and open up his own practice out of the city. He had fallen in love with North Salem, and bought Salon Venustas a few years ago. He'd joked about not having enough time between local business, and all of his former clients who traveled out of the city for his services. But he had admitted loving his new life so much more, and that was all that mattered. 

She had found after listening to Brad’s easy cadence, along with the immense relaxation of him working through her hair, she felt comfortable enough to join in the conversation. So when Brad had turned it to her, she told him about herself. 

How she was new to town, and starting high school the following morning. Brad got very excited, and told her he would be there when the proms, dances and banquets came along. She very delicately tip toed into the story she and Logan had created for moments like these. She didn't lie when she told Brad she had been homeless, and that her adoptive father had found her in New York City, and had helped her before offering to take her in. But keeping the rest of the team, and what they did, and what she was, from the narrative felt strange on her tongue. But Logan had said cover stories would get easier with time and practice, especially if she kept to the same story. They had added that Logan had been a police officer for the NYPD, and it was on his patrol he had found her. 

She'd also explained that this was her first time in a hair salon, in new clothes, getting ready for school, in a very long time. At that point, Brad had been full on bawling, wrapping his arms around her and telling her how beautiful and courageous she was. And when he had finished, and she got a look at herself in the mirror, she cried a little too. Because looking back at her was a reflection of someone so familiar and old, yet so different and new. The silk curls belonged to Maebh, a young girl primed and prodded daily for the spotlight. But the wildness of them, the absence of clips and pins to keep them tamed; that was Reagan. 

They had cried a little more, sitting across from each other in that little hair salon, talking about how she felt more human now than she had felt in a long time. 

Being homeless didn’t make you any less human, Reagan. If anything, your humanity is much greater than any of ours.

But that’s what it felt like. It was such an ironic thought to have: her, a mutant, thinking pampered hair and new clothes made her human. In society’s eyes, she was never human. And never would be. Was she human enough for public high school? Or would someone see right through that?

She jumped at a knock at her door. She hoped it wasn't Ororo, or Kitty, Or Logan. Or even Jean or Remy for that matter. Anyone who had seen her race out the door like a lunatic that morning. Logan had been the one to pick her up from the hair salon, and bless him, he hadn't said a word to her the entire ride home. She had practically sprinted up the stairs to her room, where she had been for the past few hours, going through all these new clothes. Also from Mr. Stark. Ironically the day she had freaked out over going shopping for school clothes. That all looked exactly like all of the clothes she had saved on Pinterest, with Jarvis, the night before. 

She tried to calm herself as she danced around the boxes to her door. She opened it, and nearly collapsed in relief at the sight before her. Kurt stared back at her with golden eyes and grinned. “Du leuchtest, Schatz.”

It was mumbled to himself, but she still knew enough German to let his compliment steam roll over her knotted shoulder muscles. Just his gentle voice alone felt so much like a warm hug and a welcome home. Her few encounters with him had been brief since she'd first arrived, and yet the power each moment had was enough for her to look at him and truly feel she belonged at the mansion. Those whole golden eyes, though at times were unnerving, in that moment felt tangible enough to dust off the remnants of that morning, and this week. As if the sight of them alone gave her enough strength to call out her demons by name and send them running. They held her so intimately, that no amount of deflecting could escape them, so she found it futile to hide from them, and blurted “I didn’t go with Ororo and Kitty this morning.”

His smile turned a little solemn, and he nodded, “I heard. How’re you feeling?”

“Fine.”

His face crinkled in amusement, and slight annoyance, “Guter Versuch. You get to use any word, except for fine. So let me try again: how’re you feeling?”

What was wrong with 'fine'? She felt fine. Didn't she? If she didn't think about this morning hard enough, yeah, fine was the perfect adjective. What the heck was wrong with using that word? What more could she give him? She was dandy? Peachy? A-OK? Her stomach bubbled and hiccuped in contempt at the words. Because she wasn't thinking, she didn't want to. For the emotions that sprang up with that--nope. Nuh uh. Kurt didn't need that; didn't want that. But then she was unknotted by those eyes again, and she found her anxious soul speaking for her, “Guilty. Really guilty, about this morning. And nervous about tomorrow. And just. I don’t know. Restless.”

His hand settled on her shoulder, and she almost stiffened at the touch. But she smothered and swallowed down the uncomfortableness and vulnerability, and kept still, as Kurt responded with, “Thank you for telling me.”

So genuine, so gentle. So welcoming. Yielding. Why was he thanking her? “You’re welcome.”

His smile was timid, yet somehow beheld and understood the confusion hiding in her tone, as he slipped his hand from her. “May I come in for a second?”

Why was he asking her to come in? This was his home. She was the intruder, in a way. “Sure. Don’t mind the mess.”

She noticed he left the door open. And looked to her for approval before he sat on her bed. Little things she wasn't sure why she was cataloging. “First, I have something for you," he said, pulling out from behind his back a small, white box covered in golden outlines of lilies. 

“Kurt, you didn’t--”

“Just open it.”

She slipped the ribbon off and peered beneath the lid, and gasped, “Oh my gosh. Kurt.” The inside contents left her reeling, little things she hadn’t seen or owned for far too long. The familiarity of them hit her like a ton of bricks; a leather bound bible with gold inscriptions lay beneath wood-carved rosary beads, a white-ribbon scapular, Miraculous and St. Benedict medals, a small bottle of Holy Water and a Divine Mercy Chaplet booklet. 

Kurt patiently watched her slowly take in and observe each object, speechless, “As a former stranger to this lifestyle and it's social etiquettes, I know how intimate objects like these can make any place feel like home. And as a fellow Catholic, I know how bare I would feel without those comforts.”

She flipped her faded and tarnished metal scapular off, and replaced it with the new one of white ribbon. She let her finger trace the new material, “Kurt, I don’t know how to thank you.”

He shook his head, “You don’t need to, Fraulein. ” What he didn't say was that her smile in that moment was plenty reward. Seeing her relaxed enough to appear genuinely happy was her gift to him. 

He lithely climbed to his feet and bowed low and obnoxiously to her, “And now for my second order of business. Miss Reagan, would you allow me the honor of a beautiful sunset viewing?”

She gave a dubious look down at her suit from Mr. Stark, “In this?”

He winked playfully up at her, “Suit’s actually required.”

She smiled hesitantly, but was genuine in her ease as she flared her cape out and curtsied, “I would be delighted.” And as she slipped her hand into his, she felt the ground beneath her give out and a pressure build along her core. She instinctively went to gasp and inhale, but was immediately choked by thick smoke and the pungent stench of sulfur. Her hand went for her mouth, and she swore she felt the heat of fire scratching at her skin. Solid ground quickly slipped beneath her feet, the heavy weight on her chest disappeared, the smoke cleared and the heat was replaced with a sudden, gripping cool wind. Though the sulfur clung to her nose a little longer. So many noises hit her at once: the roaring wind, cars driving and honking, water lapping. “Where are we?”

She looked up at his face to find his eyes were on something behind her. “The Tappan Zee Bridge. Best view of den Sonnenuntergang.”

She followed his gaze and gasped. “Oh wow.”

The horizon stretched out before them in a tapestry of vibrant amber, pinks and deep indigo, that could only be rivaled by the rich yellows and lighter shades of blue that plumed out from Kurt, as he perched precariously on the edge of the the tower, eyes fixed on the colorful painted sky before him. He left plenty of space beside him for her: an invitation. But all of his colors; she hesitantly took a seat, as if they would actually stain her suit.  

It felt so wrong, seeing the X-Men’s emotions like this. 

Logan’s deep crimons. 

Hank’s light cobalts. 

Ororo’s rich jades. 

Kurt’s blackened garnets and prussians. 

She was a witness to them all, every color and emotion unfiltered and laid bare before her. Why couldn’t she control them anymore? And why was it only with them? The people in the train station, the staff at the high school; she couldn’t read them. Only if she wanted to. But for whatever reason, she didn’t have a choice here. She couldn’t control her abilities around them. 

And not just these four. That morning, before she sprinted for the door, away from the pity on Ororo and Kitty’s face. Pity at her trembling voice, her erratic breathing, her stumbling words after she had spent too many hours that night working herself up into a panic that wouldn’t let her go, wouldn’t let her breathe. Before she closed the door behind her, she had caught a glimpse of Remy poking his head out from the kitchen doorway, no doubt attracted to the racket. And she watched with horror as swells of effervescent jade spilled out from the former thief and crashed out across the hallway. 

She couldn’t have run faster from that sight. 

From the sickening reality that there was another person she wasn’t protected from. Another life, another soul, laid vulnerable at her feet. Stripped of its defenses from the world of prying eyes. Something sacred was no longer, its degradation could be felt in the air. They didn’t deserve that kind of intrusion. Not after all they’d done for her. They didn’t deserve that loss of privacy. 

“So. Want to talk about the guilt and the nervousness?”

She spooked at his voice. What was there to talk about? She was a mess, and a coward to her fears. Her silence must’ve been read as mistrust, because Kurt consoled, “You don’t have to talk about it with me. You won’t hurt my feelings. But talking will help. Maybe not with me, but someone.”

He was starting to sound like Claire. Was she that broken?  Was she that obviously struggling and failing, that anyone could take one look at her and know the demons lurking beneath needed the strength of more than one person to scrape them out? Before, survival had stolen all of her attention, all of her concentration. Now that she was standing still long enough, the fear of death not as poignant, her invasive thoughts got louder in the stillness. He must've seen doubt in her face, fear of her feelings clear in her eyes, because he followed with, “You know the X-Men are the most giving group of people. You could run away to Madagascar tomorrow for the rest of your life, and they would still give you everything they could and care for you with all they had. Our love for you doesn’t hold contingencies. It doesn’t get revoked.”

She quickly averted her eyes from his as far as possible, as they burned with threatened tears. She forced her breathing into a steady cadence. How pathetic. “I’m sorry that the experiences you’ve had taught you differently. Love doesn’t demand perfection, or anything for that matter. It’s just given. At least from us," Kurt continued. He didn't move, didn't touch to comfort, but his gaze felt as heavy as a hug. 

Nope, she needed to stop this conversation. She couldn’t cry in front of him. She could just imagine the thoughts running through his head. That he was somehow supposed to trust this basket case with his back in the field. She covertly wiped at the moisture along her eyes, and turned to him, schooling her expression, “Were you nervous about your first day of school here?”

If he noticed her evading, it didn’t show. “Ja. American culture was new to me. The circus familiarized me with English, but I had to learn to read and write in it.”

That was a lot for a fifteen year old to take on. “Any advice?”

His smile was small, but yet so heavy with understanding. “Let others help.”

She must’ve looked confused, because Kurt elaborated, “Jean tutored me on the weekends with my classes, the Professor with my English. Kitty picked out my outfits for school for a month. Scott and Evan took me to play hoops every evening to just unload. Ororo always made herself available to just talk. I walked confidently into school because I had so many people supporting me from behind.”

“And then you’re going to get to school, and you’re going to make friends that will be there when the lunch meat tastes bad, and your math teacher is being difficult, and you forget where the gymnasium is. You’re in, and going to be in, really good hands, Reagan. Just let them help.”

“You make it sound--”

The tower suddenly lurched and shook beneath them, and a chorus of desperate screams punctuated the calm evening around them. Both X-Men scrambled for purchase, as the tower continued to violently shake. Kurt looked frantically around him, the authority of an X-Man and the experience of Nightcrawler transitioned into seamlessly. “Was ist lost?”

She crawled to the edge of the tower and peered down below. “Oh my gosh," she whispered. 

Even as the shaking slowed, the world below them had fallen into chaos. Large fissures in the bridge crawled across the road and ascended the towers, upheaving pavement to send cars tipping and rolling. Drivers and passengers were hurriedly abandoning vehicles and running for the ends of the bridge, weaving out of the way of broken beams and wires and empty vehicles. The bridge groaned ominously as the X-Men were shook once again, this one tilting a slave of pavement enough to send a flipped semi truck sliding down the bridge, the X-Men watching, terrified, as it pushed vehicles over the bridge. 

Kurt yelled “I’ve got the cars!” at the same time Reagan called out, “I’ll grab the semi!”

The X-Men were off; Nightcrawler and Celestia disappearing within wisps of sulfuric smoke, only to reappear down on the unstable asphalt. The two nodded to each other, Nightcrawler disappearing once more, and Celestia running for the skidding truck. As stampedes of panicked people shouldered and blindly tackled her aside, she was tempted to switch her tactics to trying to fly over the crowds. But she still wasn’t sure how she had done that against the Sentinel, and she didn’t want to waste time trying to (and probably failing). She was doubting if she'd be able to stop the truck.

The truck was now steady approaching, sliding straight for those escaping cars and trucks, who ultimately would be too slow if she wasn't able to get the cab to stop. Her ankle wobbled slightly in a large crack of asphalt, as she dug her heels in and stared down the cab. And like something straight out of a movie, she threw out her hands to the truck and waited for the golden glowing shield to save and dazzle. 

For a split second, she felt her stomach plummet through to her feet as nothing happened but the building of heat in her palms. They didn’t glow, or spark, or whatever the heck they did the other night against the Sentinel. 

She shook them a few times, snapped her fingers; maybe that’s what would get them started. The truck was mere meters from her now, metal on asphalt screeching in her ears. A couple more seconds and she was roadkill. As her heart began to beat louder in her ears, she felt something slide into place, and light exploded from her hands. It erupted outwards and congealed, a concave shield swaddling the flipped semi. She was caught of guard, and struggled against the counterforce, her feet sliding as she was shoved back, before the truck eventually slowed to a stop. 

She dropped the shield and let her body slouch as she caught her breath. The light vanished, and left her body chilled, the cold breeze out on the bridge brutal. Nightcrawler’s now familiar teleporting pop echoed beside her amongst the panicked screams, and she turned to find his golden eyes swiveling around in the darkness. “What caused this?” he asked aloud, voice breathless. He sounded just as she felt.  

She peered back at the crack she had tripped in, and tried to follow it to a bigger crevice, a hole possibly. But all it pulled her eyes toward were more spiderweb systems of scratches. “The bridge can’t be falling apart.”

“Maybe it was attacked," Kurt suggested, grunting as a rather large person clipped his shoulder barreling past, screams echoing in their wake. 

Celestia peered up at the sky, the water in the distance, further ahead on the bridge, “By what?”

“I don’t--” Nightcrawler started, before his head tipped sideways, ear pointed discerningly to the skies and a wide panicked look marred his face, “In Deckung!” He shoved Celestia backward, using the force to flip himself a few yards from where they had been standing, the high whistling tones of something diving for the Earth ringing in his sensitive ears. He landed nimbly on his feet, and had enough time to watch his teammate peel herself off the ground before something large and fast crashed into the bridge between them. The concussive force of the explosion sent Celestia soaring, right through the windshield of an abandoned car, and Nightcrawler in a tumbling collision with a stray motorcycle. 

He felt handle bars and wheels bruise with each tumble, until he finally felt righted enough to slip from its hold and slide out along the road, letting the bike go by. The side of his head roared in pain as he lowered it to the ground, and his curious hand made it spike in white hot waves of agony. The left side of his body ached, as did his right ankle. He could last for few, good minutes in close combat, and maybe had about fifteen short-range teleports left in him before he'd succumb to whatever made his skull feel cracked open and burning. He need to make them count. Because he had nothing to contact his teammates with, and a new recruit who he couldn't leave alone to deal with whatever was tearing apart the bridge. 

At that thought, he slowly pulled his head up, grimacing and squinting the entire way, to whatever had fallen from the sky. Plumes of smoke and dust and dirt were still settling, but his eyes easily picked out the dark shadows beyond in the night. A dark form rose from the ground, and as the dust settled, and weird shapes became clearer, Nightcrawler swore at the familiar pink and blue hues, and the metallic wings flared wide. 

“Warren?” he whispered. 

His former teammate paid him no heed, systematically swiping his wings out with each step toward him, a storm of blades tearing through every inch of the bridge, tearing wider cracks in the road, severing connecting wires and scratching at already compromised towers. It was him. It was Warren tearing apart the bridge.  

Nightcrawler tried again, louder, “Warren, what’re you doing?.”

Archangel, Mister Sinister's most cherished creation, barely glanced at him, “This doesn’t concern you, Nightcrawler. Leave .” 

And at the sound of his voice, Kurt barely kept in the sting of tears. It was his friend’s voice, but gone was its typical emotion and inflection. There was no fondness, no familiarity. In the final moments Kurt had been around Warren, when the young Worthington was fresh from Sinister’s labs and still battling with the new consciousness reeking havoc in his mind, there were still parts of him there. The mind control had been new and unstable, and Warren bled through. Now, he was gone. Now, nothing of the mutant standing before Kurt reminded him of Angel, of Warren Worthington III, of his old friend and teammate. Kurt wanted to scream and cry at the unfairness and injustice of it all, but a calm warning came out of his mouth instead: “Warren, snap out of it. You’re going to kill a lot of people.”

His old friend ignored him, and had tipped his left wing inward, ready to release another round of blades. But Nightcrawler, with a resolve and strength grown and groomed in late hours of perilous Danger Room simulations and trying field missions, had shaken off the pain and disorientation, and was bounding on all fours at his friend, “NO!”

Nightcrawler lunged and grabbed him, the two immediately disappearing within tendrils of smoke and sulfur. He had aimed for altitude, less focused than usual on the clarity, in his mind, of his destination. He was relieved to find splotches of the peaks of the chamfered towers materialize behind his shadows, but his head throbbed at the sudden elevation change, and his movements were slow and dulled. His grappling was stunted as he twisted around to Archangel’s back just as they were re-materializing, and kicked his former teammate down towards the ground, hoping gravity would do more of the work. It did, however briefly. With outstretched wings, he had caught enough rising air current and within seconds, Archangel had grabbed Nightcrawler's pounding head, and forced his former teammate below him as they continued to dive. The agony escalated from excruciating to unbearable, and with a haggard scream, Nightcrawler fell unconscious, his head still clutched in Archangel's fingers. With the young Worthington yelling ferociously in its head, Archangel grabbed the fallen X-Men, and dove for the ground. 

Celestia groaned aloud as she braced an arm behind her, chimes of falling glass slicing through the silence. And her building headache. The terrified cries sounded distant now. The area must’ve cleared out. Good .

She peered over the center console, and her twisted legs, and found only the shattered windshield, and dark sky outside. Well, that explained the glass. She tried to pull herself off the floor of the backseat, pulling herself up by the back of the front ones. But her body protested vehemently, and she just collapsed back down. “Join our team, Reagan. It’ll be great, Reagan.” Yeah, she wanted a refund, and off this ride. Go back to the life of being the Shadow Healer. Sure, meals were sporadic, and nights sleeping on sidewalks in New York City weren’t ideal, but hey. She didn’t get blasted through windshields. Definitely an experience she could live without. 

A strangled scream sliced through her commiseration, and she was immediately kicking open the door of the sedan and, less than gracefully, climbing out. Her eyes sifted slowly through the darkness, barely making out the outlines of the cars around her. She suddenly caught a flash of pink, and she could barely discern a body, wide silver shapes flared behind it as it pencil-dived for the ground. And that’s when she noticed the dark form beneath the winged one’s feet, leaking shadows from its unconscious body. “Ku--Nightcrawler!”

Her hands were out instantly, and guided by the singular thought of help Kurt , an arc of bright, golden energy rocketed out, her less than perfect aim catching Archangel’s wing, ripping him away from Nightcrawler, and spiraling into one of the towers. 

Celestia was already running towards her teammate, as another outstretched hand slipped a golden telekinetic hold over him and slowed his descent. She caught his chest just as her energy field vanished, and she groaned as his weight sent them both to the ground. She maneuvered around to get a look at his face. “Nightcrawler? Can you hear me?” His yellowed eyes were mere slits, before they pinched closed, a sharp, pained gasp sucked through clenched teeth, before he was out again. 

Her anatomical vision was already on, her eyes immediately drawn to the cascade of blood down the side of his face. Scalp wound . She also caught the contusions and bruising along his side and the inflammation gathering by his ankle. Incomplete ligament tear in ankle.  

She settled a hand on his chest, and let her healing powers greedily take over. Her mind bucked and floundered as she emptied herself and her senses disappeared, Kurt’s body consuming every nerve in her body. She wanted to fight the speed of it, just as she had with Bucky's healing, but she was a sitting duck, unguarded and unaware in the middle of the bridge; she had to do this fast before whatever she hit came back for more. A small and faded thought floated by that in a few seconds, at the very least, the head wound would be--

She felt her conscious yanked viciously back into the cold air of loud screaming, groaning metal and thick gasoline smoke at the absolute breath-stealing sensation of fire igniting along her scalp. She screamed as she was lifted from the ground by her hair and bodily flung to the side. Just as she had adjusted to being airborne, her sense of touch returned in time for her to feel her body collide painfully with the asphalt. 

Yep, being an X-Men was super overrated.

Even lying still, she felt like she been crushed by the semi truck from before. A groan escaped her as she maneuvered her body into a more prone position, her eyes staring up blearily at the night sky. She gasped as fresh and tender bruising stretched and collapsed beneath the pressure of the asphalt, as she gingerly sat up. She tried to ignore how her knees wobbled as she slowly stood up. Some superhero she was. 

“The Shadow Healer.”

The voice startled her, as did the white eyes that watched her with interest. She took in the stranger fully this time, the colorful skin, the gleaming wings tucked in behind him, the sparkling gem sitting on his forehead. She hadn’t heard of this one. 

“You can call me Celestia.” She straightened, shoulders back, but only ended up wincing and cradling her chest inward. 

Archangel remained unfazed. “My master wishes to extend his greetings, Celestia. A mutant as powerful as yourself hasn’t graced humanity for a long time. As such, he wishes to invite you to join him. He can teach you things--”

Master? Interesting. Creepy, but interesting. “I’ll have to decline.”

Again, no reaction. “As I warned Nighcrawler, this matter does not concern you. Leave, and harm will not come to you.”

“You’re putting lives in danger,” she said, a little more confidently this time, “You made it concern us.”

“Very well.”

With movements too fast to track, Archangel had her cape tightly fisted and flung her once more. What was that, his signature move? Or was she that much of an amateur, and lightweight, that taking her out simply required tossing her like a rag doll. But she was prepared this time. She went airborne, and shoveled enough fear and anxiety at her power, she felt the warmth of her energy slither out from her heart. She was upside down when her abilities brutally flipped on, and it took her, admittedly, too long to right herself. 

But then she was upright, floating steadily, her cape retracted somewhere into her suit and a new hood in place, as she stared down Archangel, and boy, did she feel cool. Especially when her steady voice gave a low growl, “Here’s your warning: leave, and harm will not come to you.”

Her wild imagination piqued at the thought of him grumbling as he submitted, hands above his head in surrender. It would've done wonders for her confidence in that moment. What he actually did next stole her breath and dropped her stomach to her feet, as he flicked both wings to the side, a torrent of huge blades slicing through the already crumbling fraction of the bridge, and the road slowly con-caved beneath her feet. 

“NO!” Golden rays arched out from her palms and immediately coated over every inch of the section of unstable bridge. An insane amount of weight dropped on her arms, and she buckled unsteadily beneath it, breathing loudly as she tried to hold everything in place. “Why are you doing this?! What’re you going to gain from all of this destruction?!”

She tensed as he slowly stalked toward her and spoke, “You couldn’t fathom the plan in store for this world. My master would like to extend his invitation once again to join us. Someone of your calibre deserves to sit high among the masses; a titan.”

His spiel barely registered when her eyes fell to his forehead and the energy that poured out. The jewel. Up close, she could finally sense it. The energy rolling off of it. It wasn’t a part of his mutation. The connection, though intricate and techno-organic in origin, was not his. Was not natural. She wondered if it belonged to ‘master.’

That would mean he wasn’t of his own volition. He was being controlled. Just like Bucky. 

If he could just get close enough. If she could free one hand...“And what would this plan be?”

“The welcoming of a savior this world has not seen for thousands of years; a being born of the morning light, prophesied to become Earth’s mighty deliverer, to raise up the great from the lowly. The great, such as yourself, Celestia. Join us.”

She snorted, and gave him a once over. “Sorry, I only got one savior. And I’m pretty sure he doesn’t dress like you.”

Still, no reaction. “You will regret having turned down the offer, Celestia. We could’ve done great things together.”

A strange heat yawned and roared wide within her. It fiercely seared her heart, she swore she could smell its power. It felt caged, as it felt like it hammered her rib cage, pushed at its edges for release. It was so familiar too. But she couldn’t place the taste of it in her blood, the feel of it on her skin until it was too late, until the blinding white burned her senses and swallowed her conscious whole and she disappeared beneath it.  

It was her powers from the Sentinel. 

She had tapped into them. 

Her eyes disappeared behind the golden rage of her power’s full strength, her body completely aflame. Her body released its struggling hold of the bridge, now capable of willing the structure to remain steady. As if holding up the entirety of it barely phased. With frightening speed, her body levitated and flew straight for Archangel. Sinister’s mutant tensed, wings flared and body stanced, but nothing prepared him for untapped elemental energy. 

Celestia paused just inches from him. And an alert Kurt watched in slow motion as two of her fingers hovered over her chest, eliciting sparks of pure light ricocheting outward, before they reached out and flicked the gem on Archangel's head. A second of dead silence gave way to an ear-piercing explosion, white light and wind and searing heat erupted out and licked at Kurt. But a familiar golden energy ensconced him in an impenetrable bubble. How was she doing all of this? He turned back out to blackened atmosphere, and was surprised to find he could pass easily through her shield. He levered himself up, and picked his way slowly forward towards her. 

He joined his teammate, a curious glance taking in her radiant form, before he turned back to his old friend, kneeling on the ground and breathing heavily. What a scene it was; a floating beacon of pure light and energy, staring down a crumpled and defeated man. 

Celestia turned at the sound of her teammate’s gutted voice, “Warren?”

Nightcrawler's stomach dropped as Archangel's head lifted and crystal blue irises glanced back frantically at them, “Kurt. I can't--I--I can’t hold--hold it.”

That was Warren. That was him speaking; his voice. Raw emotion and pain and exhaustion. Kurt lowered to the ground slowly, hand outstretched. “Warren.” But with a guttural scream that would travel through Kurt’s nightmares that night, Warren’s wings flared and he spiraled off clumsily into the night sky. 

Kurt watched his old friend until he disappeared completely from view, as Celestia felt her anxiety and adrenaline wane, and her elevated powers immediately respond. Its white heat vacuumed inward, crawling speedily towards her heart, until her chest was left cold, her limbs stiff with chill, unsteadily upright on the asphalt. As most of her power disappeared, she felt an indescribable weight drop onto her arms, as she was left only with her original, much weaker, telekinetic hold on the crumpling bridge. She gasped as her shoulders ached in protest. 

“Celestia.”

She unclenched her eyes at his gentle voice, golden eyes staring back at her, vividly asking are you alright ?

He slipped a hand beneath her loose hairs at the sight of her pale pallor, and she almost sighed at the warmth. Nighcrawler noted with concern her cold skin. “I’ll be better once I can let this go,” she conceded, her voice strained.

“Well then it’s a good thing you’re friends with me.”

Nightcrawler turned to the voice, and almost stumbled in surprise at the sight of the gold and crimson metal suit of one of New York’s mightiest Avengers. “Stark.”

Celestia slowly peered up, “Tony?”

His faceplate collapsed back, “Hey, Glowstick.”

Kurt was still very lost, and felt like an idiot gaping at the billionaire. “How’d you know we needed help?”

Tony’s smirk only grew bigger. “Buddy, you’re all over the eight o’clock news. The amount of videos streaming right now of this mess,” he whistled, eyes sweeping casually over the destruction around them. He turned back to Celestia, “You can let go of the bridge now.”

His teammate balked, “What!?”

Kurt hated that Iron Man wouldn’t stop smirking, like Kurt was the only one left out of the secret, all-knowing loop. “I’ve got a state-of-the-art propulsion system holding up the major pieces. Nothing’s gonna fall,” he explained, fondness falling in his eyes when he looked at Celestia again, “ Let it go ,” he urged, gently. 

Just let it go. 

Her powers were strained past her limits; there was no gently dropping her hold. She took a shuddering breath, before she snatched her control away and brutally released her powers. She would’ve crashed to the ground if Kurt hadn't caught her, a whispered, “I’ve got you,” the last thing she heard before nausea climbed like a stampede up her throat, and she weakly retched just shy of his foot. 

Stark grimaced, “Ew. Well that’s--”

“Customary,” Kurt replied gently, arm steadied around her as she spit up whatever was left in her mouth. 

He needed to get her back to the mansion. The freezing skin was enough of a concern, but the last time she vomitted after using her powers, her body had greedily sucked down two IV drips while unconscious for an hour and a half. Hank was also still gathering data on these ‘depletion moments’ he was calling them, and was still not completely sure how bad they got. Stark seemed to read what was left unspoken and voiced, “SHIELD's inbound. You guys probably don’t want to stick around. You safe getting back home?”

Kurt looked back up at the billionaire, grateful. Seeing Warren enact the discord he did that night left Kurt quite raw and tired, and the Shadow Healer was still a coveted commodity by SHIELD. Kurt nodded, “Thank you, Stark.”

He barely got time to catch Iron Man’s lazy salute, before the shadows leached out and Kurt teleported them away. Two jumps was all it took, before the pair were settled on the ground of the Black Bird’s hangar. Just in time for the panicked X-Men crew boarding the jet, ready to join their teammates and dissolve the chaos on the Tappan Zee bridge, to catch sight of the pair. Kurt exhaled deeply, carrying with it a few tears, the image of Warren’s crystal blue eyes invading his mind as Hank and Logan came rushing to them, arms outstretched. 

Chapter Text

The world came back to her heavy, quiet and cold. Not the settled chill she felt in the early morning, after leaving her balcony door open overnight. This was deep in her bones, like ice had burrowed deep, and ensconced every inch of marrow. Reagan's muscles convulsed with shivers beneath a leaden weight, and her body cried and moaned in response. A few of those might have been out loud. Bruises pulled and stretched, and she wished she was asleep again. Or whatever deep unconscious she had surfaced from. 

Her eyes slowly plied apart, a faint light from somewhere casting white and ink black shadows around her dark room. Her head felt heavy as she turned to the light, and spotted her phone from Tony, swallowed amongst her sheets. Sheets. She turned back to her bed, uneasily. How did she end up in the bed? She never slept in her bed. A look at her usual spot right before the balcony doors was void of the mound of blankets and pillows. 

What had happened?

Suddenly her phone's screen went dark, and took the distinguishable features of her room with it. 

She groaned as she levered herself up. Her skin balked at the cold room, the sweaty quilt heat suddenly freezing her skin, and it all came back to her; the bridge, Archangel, her powers. The few second replay was enough to sending her cotton-stuffed skull pounding to the beat of her rushing heart, and she almost vomitted as her world slipped uneasily. Her head spun viciously, and her hand fumbled about in the dark for something to grasp. Down went the lamp beside her bed, and something else that sounded like it spilled across her floor.

She growled again, as her shoulder finally found the head board. She slumped against it, hand gingerly cradling her head and she rode through each wave of soreness that seemed to mount from her toes, and go crashing against her head. Minutes, or maybe hours, passed before she slowly pulled herself upright again and fumbled for her lamp, taking too long to remember it was now on the ground. 

She called out to the dark. "Jarvis?"

"Good morning, Miss Howlett."

Her brain hungrily absorbed the implication of Jarvis's words and let it tether her to the ground; it was morning. "Good morning. Are you able to turn on the flashlight on my phone?"

She almost cried in relief when a warm, yellowed-light spilled out from beside her. She fumbled through layers of sheets and weighted blankets, before she found it and set it atop her side stand, the light catching scattered shadows. She mumbled her thanks to Jarvis, as she fumbled through the pile of stuff: an energy bar, a pulse reader, a bottle of ibuprofen and dramamine, a temporal thermometer and instant cold packs, on top of which lay a folded piece of paper. She caught the sight of another bottle of pills scattered on her floor, as she flipped open the note.

Reagan, 

Logan will call you out of school

Half the bar before 2 advil + 1 anti-nausea

Rest

Hank

She read the note a second time, and the cocktail of mixed emotions that turned the contents of her stomach volatile almost had her reaching for the dramamine. She didn't know why; the one thing that had stripped her resolve to shreds, coaxed unpleasant memories out of hiding, and stoked her anxiousness like a forest fire, wasn't anymore. School. Delayed for another day. Postponed until further notice. Or maybe that was the problem: the metaphorical bandaid had to wait another day. She had been steeling herself, ready to rip it off, and now she had to sit with it some more, and it left a stale taste in her mouth. 

But the initial thrill, the one that had her pleading and bartering with Dr. McCoy, was still there. Buried beneath hulking apprehension. But still there. And it deflated at the thought that today, after years of living a harrowing life in secret, she couldn't be that one step closer to normalcy. 

It deflated even more to think of a full day stuck in bed, coddled and smothered by the team. With blankets, and thermometers, and ice packs. With questions about bruises and scratches from last night, asking where it hurt and how much it hurt. And that thought alone was enough to get her out of bed, on shaky feet. With conviction customarily wielded by the Shadow Healer, Reagan stifled the pain and nausea and deep chill until they were just annoying. In one smooth motion, she had chased down the plain granola bar with the pills and half a water bottle. She collected the spilled vitamins and lamp off of the floor, and then was off, gathering her already packed bag from the floor. She rolled up mixture of the dramamine and ibuprofen and stuffed the makeshift bag into a small pocket of her bag, along with two cold packs. 

She was half way out of the sweaty base layers of her suit (thank God for small mercies; none of them had attempted to dress her) when she froze at a knock on the door. She shimmied back into the sweaty, unforgiving layers, and shuffled to her door. If it was Hank, she was done for. If it was Logan, he would instantly be suspicious, and she would also be done for. So it was a surprise to find Kitty's face staring back at her, hand raised, ready to knock again. 

Kitty gave her a once over, concerned, "Are you ok? I heard something crash."

Reagan wrestled with the notion of letting Kitty in. She didn't know a lot about Kitty. Though she guessed that stood for most of the X-Men members. Kitty, she had observed so far, didn't often ask for permission to do things. Kurt often both gauged, as well as verbally ask before acting. Hank catalogued everything he planned to do, and gave her a chance to deny should she wanted to. Logan, in his creepily observant fashion, seemed to always know what she needed or wanted in the moment. 

Kitty just plowed through. Her mind painted a plan, and she went for it, dragging all bystanders along in tow. Reagan was still trying to discern how she felt about that particular quality in Kitty. She wanted to love it, to be so comfortable and well-adjusted in the moment to let someone else pull the chair out from under her and take her on an adventure. To steer her, so unexpectedly, off the path she was on. To make her uncomfortable. Reagan wanted to have the headspace of the person who loved and enjoyed Kitty's confident and adventurous personality. But she was far from that headspace, still wildly unsettled in this new environment she was supposed to call family and home. Kitty's antics only destabilized her footing even more. 

Reagan shook her head, before hesitantly opening the door wider, "I'm fine; just fumbled a little in the dark."

Kitty nodded, until her eyes caught her filled backpack and schedule on her bed. She pointed uselessly at it, "Is that--are you going to school? Hank said--"

Reagan sighed, "I got his note. I'm still going." Busted. 

Kitty turned to her, and Reagan didn't know how she felt about the giant, scheming smirk on her teammate's face, "I'll help you sneak out," she said gleefully, slipping fully into her room. 

Reagan quietly slipped the door closed, shaking her head, "No, Kitty you don't--"

Kitty only kept smirking,"Sneaking out at this time is harder than you think. It'll take a team."

Reagan didn't like how Kitty said that: sneaking out. Of course when she thought about it, that was exactly what she was doing. Kitty made it sound so selfish and mischievous, but all Reagan had wanted was to save the team the unnecessary coddling they would feel obliged to give her after last night. She knew it would fall on deft ears, but she was alright. Healthy and well enough to lick her wounds alone. She grimaced at that phrasing, that maybe her original intent was selfish at the heart of it; prideful more like. She squinted as she tried to read the words on Kitty's screen, "Who are you messaging?"

Never taking her gaze form her phone, Kitty replied, "First piece of advice: call it texting. And I'm getting Forge to stall Logan in the hangar. Give you a chance to get downstairs and out the front door. Bobby'll pack your lunch. He knows where your food charts are. Rogue's on Hank duty; she'll keep him from leaving the labs for a bit."

Reagan didn't like this at all. Not only was she going behind the X-Mens' backs, but now she was roping another member in. She really didn't understand why Kitty was willing to betray her team like this. For her, of all people. She wasn't worth it. Not after she bailed unexpectedly on her and Ororo the other day. "You shouldn't be doing all of this."

Kitty threw her a bemused look as she headed to her closet, "I want to. Let's get an outfit picked."

God, help them.

"This is concerning. I had hoped we wouldn't need to worry about my father for some time."

Oh, Tony had really wished they wouldn't have to deal with her father ever, but it must've been too lofty of a dream. He had peaked at international, multi-trillion dollar, tech company and bombshell girlfriend/CEO. No more wishing coins in the well. 

He peered up from the table his face was smushed unhappily against to find Steve sitting slumped across from him, the lines in his face telling Tony that while the genius tactician and strategist was hard at work with the new information, the young, artful man underneath was letting himself experience the frustration of it all, commenting, "We're never that lucky in this business."

They both turned back to the overhead screen at the Scarlet Witch's heavy sigh, "It appears not."

Tony could practically feel the exhaustion coming off of her all the way from Genosha. Steve must've sensed the frustration too, for he comforted her with, "We'll continue to monitor his movements from here."

Her smile to the captain was small, but grateful for the not just the aid, but the unspoken alliance beneath. After Magneto's psychopathic tantrum, Genosha and its new leaders were hard-pressed for friends. Lucky for them, the Avengers loved to piss off SHIELD, and what better way than to make friends with the anarchist island of crazy mutants. And Steve said it was 'the right thing to do.' Which, much to Tony's joking chagrin, was always on point. Wanda nodded to Steve, "As will we."

Steve looked almost apologetic, "We have to ask: has he or Pietro contacted you?"

Wanda shook her head, "You will be the first and only to know if either reach out. Do you have any reason to suspect Pietro made it out of the dimension too?"

Steve folded his arms and leaned back in the chair, "From what we know of, he hasn't been spotted. But then again, we only have locating methods for Magneto."

Wanda nodded, gaze shifting away from them as her mind began to work, "It might be pertinent to reach out to the X-Men and see if Cerebro can find Pietro nearby. It could lead us to my father."

It was a long shot, Tony knew it. Pietro was just a tad easier to locate than Magneto. But at the speeds he traveled at, the tad was minimal on Xavier's crazy locating tech.  

Wanda Maximoff briefly turned to something off-screen, "I'm sorry. I'm required elsewhere."

Steve nodded in understanding, "We'll be sending our files along."

"My sincerest thanks to you both."

The video chat had barely disconnected when Tony cursed colorfully to the conference room, as his fingers raked through unwashed hair with frustration, "She knows nothing. We know nothing. Whole lotta jack squat piling up."

He was waiting for Cap to call him out on the cursing, or at the very least inject his apple pie certified optimism into his bitter attitude, but he was surprised to find Steve quiet, deeply contemplative gaze still lost in the contours of the glass table top. "What're you thinking, Cap?"

Steve barely looked up as his mind dumped its contents, "Within the span of two weeks, Hydra outs itself within SHIELD and unleashes three WMDs, the Mandarin terrorist group and A.I.M begin setting off test subjects around the world, Dark Elves threaten to destroy the nine realms, Magneto sets an old Sentinel to unleash hell in New York City, and one of Essex's followers almost drops the Tappan Zee Bridge into the river."

Shit, that was a rough couple of weeks. Poor Fury. "You think they're connected? Kind of a stretch there, Cap."

"Maybe they're not all connected to each other. But each event pulled at least one of our attentions, keeping almost the entirety of the Avengers and X-Men busy. Richards said his team was in Atlantis, and the papers were talking about Kingpin again. There's the Fantastic Four and Defenders diverted elsewhere too. There're too many coincidences to not warrant further investigation."

Good point. Tony was itching to make a joke about Steve reading papers--the dude practically handed the opportunity on a silver plater--but he simply nodded, "I'll have JARVIS run some things."

There was some totality in that statement, that both Steve and Tony got up and made their way to the door of the meeting room. Onto the next world-saving topic on their agenda, which Tony could not for the life of him remember, as the two Avengers fell into step down the empty hallway. Early mornings at the tower were almost too quiet. But also the best time to bang out a secret phone chat with your emo friends (Wanda and Genosha) without your parents (Fury, Maria and sometimes Coulson) listening, who think said friends are a bad influence. Joke's on them; it's the other way around. 

"Speaking of the bridge, how's reconstruction going?" Steve piped up. 

"Better now that S.I. just dumped a few mill into the project," Tony said, stuffing his hands in his pockets, and cringing at the feeling of an opened test vile. Hopefully nothing radioactive in that one. "SHIELD and the great state of New York were having a pick up game of pass the bureaucratic bullshit over rebuilding."

Steve raised an eyebrow to him, "That was generous of S.I."

Tony snorted, "Chump change, Cap. You'd know, if you'd play around with your back pay in those stock portfolios I sent you."

"Everything contained?" Steve diverted. Iron Man had arrived first on the scene, to not just help, but help clean up any biological trace of Celestia before SHIELD techs arrived. Which to Tony's dismay, and Clint's raging amusement, included the vomit she had left behind. 

"Yep. The glow stick's secret identity will live to see another day. Honestly, with all of the great PR we're getting from her, I'd gladly volunteer Clint for clean up duty for as long as Logan wants."

Steve couldn't help but smile at the thought of her. Thanks to Celestia, Bucky had slept, virtually uninterrupted, for 22 hours. At which point, he stumbled into Steve's kitchen and emptied the fridge and cabinets. And if the sight of Bucky resting peacefully had been moving, then bumping into him in the kitchen at three am shattered him. The eyes that glanced at him, guiltily, over the gallon of milk tilted to his mouth, were straight from a small apartment in Brooklyn 80 years ago, wild with life and humor. The sleep carried off the weariness that had settled in the Winter Solider, and if it wasn't for the long hair and prosthetic arm, Steve would've believed he had ended up back in the 1930s. 

"SHIELD's probably aware of her other abilities now."

Steve let a heavy breath escape, "Safe to assume."

Much to Steve's distain (verbally and non verbally communicated) Tony swore again, "Fury's gonna kill us."

Steve nodded mildly, "Probably."

"We can always just sick Logan on him."

Steve physically winced at the mental imagery that invoked. Because the unfortunate reality was that Logan would be all too happy to oblige them. There was perpetual tension between SHIELD and the X-Men, due to Logan's territorial nature and Fury's knack for cornering territorial forces. That, and Logan didn't have the palate for bureaucratic agendas.

Tony continued, "She's trending on all the major sites. A lot of phones caught the Avenger's logo on her suit, and everyone's going nuts." He turned, conspiratorially, to Steve, "A few stations already reached out for interviews or comments."

Steve shook his head, "No comment."

Stark sighed, resigned, "Pepper figured. We'll have to address it soon, though. Long John Silver and Woodstock, too."

Steve scrunched his nose at the names, taking a few seconds to figure out who Stark might have been referring to. "Do you ever turn off the nicknames?" he asked.

Tony threw Steve a shit-eating grin across the elevator, "Nope. It's a chronic condition. You know either of those references?"

Steve gave him an impish smile in return, "Nope, it's a chronic condition."

Tony's face screwed up in a smirk, "You missed Charlie Brown by a few years; you'll like it. Then we'll hit Treasure Planet."

The two fell into comfortable silence as the elevator drew closer to the higher levels. So of course, Tony had to fix that, "Look at us collecting strays. And Fury said I didn't play well with others."

Steve clapped his hand fondly on Tony's shoulder as he exited, "You still don't."

He smiled at Tony's squawk of indignation behind him. 

Principal Pravesh had mentioned 1,200 students during her tour so casually offhand, Reagan didn't think twice about. She said a number, and she was a principal, so it must've been normalcy Reagan could handle. Principal Pravesh never hinted, said nothing, about her high school housing the entire population of the Roman Empire. Everywhere, teenagers. And if there wasn't a student, then there was a teacher, or a paraprofessional, or a substitute, or a janitor, or an administrator. But there were people everywhere. The moment she walked through the doors, right as a bell shrilled across an intercom system, the world exploded faces and bodies, like an anthill was just stomped on. 

She took a quick glance back down at her school map. The History Wing. That's where her locker was. And her homeroom class. Which she was still trying to figure out why they called it a class, when her schedule said it lasted for only twenty five minutes. She should've asked Kitty in the car here. As hard as her previous boarding schools worked at simulating the atmosphere and structure of a public school, they were still restricted by their incredibly small classes of deaf and mute students. It was a taste, but nothing close to preparation for all of this. 

Her different visions pointed out the life force approaching before her eyes caught them; anatomical echoing a steady heartbeat across her already shaking fingers, empath tendrils choking her airways with oranges and pale blues, smothering murky violets and jades that flared as the person drew nearer. 

"Hi, I'm Amani!" Reagan turned to the voice, taking in the towering student with, no doubt, a hanging jaw. She was stunning, flawless beauty accentuated with a lot of subtle makeup. It was obvious from her build she was an athlete, though the oversized hoodie with Bayville High Basketball with the number 43 below it, was indication enough. The blackened green tendrils were now much larger, though Amani still continued to carry herself confidently. "Welcome to Bayville," she smiled brightly, hand stuck out to shake. She glanced down at Reagan's sweater, skirt and tights, "I'm obsessed with your outfit, by the way."

Kitty had squealed when she stepped out of the closet wearing it; that's how Reagan knew it was perfect for school. She had kept the small boots Brad had bought for her, though. As if she could somehow carry around his words with her: Being homeless doesn't make you any less human. "Reagan, nice to meet you. And thanks."

Amani nodded to the paper in her hand, "Who do you have for homeroom?" It was casual in its tone, but Reagan couldn't help but feel almost excited. Was this her first friend? Was this going to become her best friend, maybe? The beautiful, honey-toned basketball player that every person kept staring at as they walked by. She wouldn't ask about her class if she didn't, on some level, care. Maybe navigating public high school was going to be a lot easier than she thought. 

She flushed pink realizing she hadn't responded yet, "Uh, Rahul Nadeem."

Amani's face lit up, "Oh my gosh, you're in my homeroom! That's perfect, I got an open chair beside me." And Reagan couldn't help but smile too, as Amani grabbed her hand and started steering her down the hallway. An actual friend. On her first day. She couldn't believe it. She had been so worried, so riddled stiff with anxiety. For nothing. 

Reagan couldn't help watch with interest as everyone turned at the sight of Amani as she walked them into a classroom. Like a ray of sunshine that caught attention everywhere it went."Hey guys! This is Reagan; she's new," she gave a half-hearted, pointed look to a group of guys in the back corner she was headed towards, "She's chill, so don't be dicks."

All faces turned to her, all smiles and relaxed waves.

"Hey, Reagan."

"Nice to meet you."

"Why are you named after a president?"

"Where yah from?"

So many questions, so many staring, but she felt safe with Amani leading from in front. Like she could swat everything away. 

And that was when she caught it, just barely, out of the corner of her eye. Something flew from the back where a group of girls were giggling, and hit a student in the back of the head. The giggles got louder when the student made no move to indicate he'd been hit, and simply slumped further in his chair. He was curled in on himself, though he looked like he easily towered over most of the students there. He was furiously writing in a notebook, and only rolled his eyes when another projectile caught him in the shoulder, another wave of giggles hiccuped from the back. 

The back where Amani was slipping into a seat, greeting the girls with fond and familiar smiles. Amani turned back up to her with a wide smile, patting the open chair beside her, "Reagan, I got a seat right here for you!"

Reagan looked back at him, and turned apologetically to her new friend, "Thanks Amani, but I'll sit there for today. Next class, though."

And it was in that moment that Reagan unknowingly sealed her fate for the rest of her high school career. She slipped between the maze of desks to his bench until she was in his line of sight. "Hi, I'm Reagan."

He gave a stunned glance at her offered hand, then at her face, "Luhan," he answered hesitantly, peering over uncertainly at his classmates as he shook her hand. He watched uneasily as the new girl smiled again, and nodded to the open seat beside him, "Nice to meet you. Is it ok if I sit here?"

He nodded dumbly, still watching in shock and wariness as she collected her skirt and slipped into the seat beside him, seemingly oblivious to the snide remarks and whispered gossiping now popping around the room about her. But it all fell dead silent when she picked up the projectiles--thanks to Jarvis's lesson the other day, she realized they were tampons--turned to the last girl she saw throw them, and placed them on her desk, an amicable smile, "I think you dropped these."

Luhan watched in total fascination as the new girl turned back forward in her seat, completely oblivious to the loud whispers now building and pop corning around the room, and pulled out what looked like a schedule and planner, and was studying them.

Homeroom class passed by swiftly, Mr. Nadeem slipping in late enough that he didn't take attendance and make her give the weird new student introduction Reagan had seen in TV shows, that she had been dreading. Most of the time she spent trying to decipher a few kids talking over the intercom system, while her homeroom class bustled loudly around her. She eventually gave up, hoping she wasn't missing anything important, and slipped into the mob when the bell rang for next class. She had just barely made it out the door when someone spoke up from beside her.

"Man, you are the coolest person I've ever met." She nearly knocked into the voice, and barely caught her footing before he started talking again, "Can we shake hands? Is that ok? Because damn, that was some savage shit back there."

"Uhh."

Another stranger peered down at her with a goofy smile, eyes hazel and ecstatic, and stuck out his hand, "Sorry, my mom taught me manners, but they don't tend to stick; Koen, and welcome to Hell."

She shook his hand, still trying to catch up to the present moment, "Reagan, and what did I do?"

"Commit legendary social suicide. It was beautiful," he said, punctuated with a chef's kiss. "You just rejected Amani Rao: probs valedictorian, three-sport athlete, one of Salem's elites. And then called out her bestie like you were burning her at the stake. For Luhan, of all people. You're dead, dude."

"But--"

"Sorry, thems the terms. High school, gotta love this bullshit."

She glanced up at him with observant eyes, "You like to curse a lot, don't you?"

He scoffed, "You consider 'shit' a swear word?"

She nodded, practically, "I do. And that's three times."

A gleeful smile beamed across his face, and he looped his arm over her shoulders as they made their way down the hall, "Oh I like you, Reagan. I'm sticking with you."

He groaned as the heavy, front doors swung wide into their adjacent walls. Even before the intruder spoke, he knew the wild and unhinged presence that now stood in the downstairs parlor, even if he wasn't tapped into the magic and mysticism. The intruder screeched, "Sherlock?! Watson's home!"

Another grumble, and Wong had levered himself out his chair, bitterly abandoning the roaring fireplace and his mystical arts book. He understood Stephen was still very new to both his new position as Sorcerer Supreme, as well as the world of mystical arts. The former physician's life had gone from 0 to 100 overnight, and Wong had been accepting of his stumbling, and mindful of some of the older traditions and unspoken rules slipping through the cracks. But this had gone too far; never in his time with the Ancient One and the Sanctum Sanctorum had there been this many visitors. Stephen had been giving out their address to too many people, and it had to stop. 

He tried not to glare down at Wade from the top of the stairway. Or at the still open doorway. "Mr. Wilson, this is an unexpected visit." As per usual, Wong wanted to add, as he descended the steps, closing the doors with a twirled finger. Instead, he added, "And you're wearing civilian clothes. That is unexpected."

Wade Wilson's shrug was forcefully noncommittal, beneath the swagger of it, something Wong immediately clocked. Though Wilson plowed on in his imitable, chaotic way, "Oh you know me, waiting to be discovered by the next 20-something TikTok influencer. Figured with the tolerant minds Netflix and Will Smith have created, someone would want to stick this ugly mug in the next summer blockbuster. Representation, man."

Wong watched the man slip past him to take a seat on the stairs, his neon crocks squealing on the tile the whole way. And it was on the stairs, face illuminated by the slanted evening sun through the Window of the Worlds, that Wong, for the few times in his life, was afraid. For starting back at him was a face exhausted by fear, strained past the limits of fortitude. On a man who Wong had never seen waver. Though unconventional, obnoxious and gleefully unmoral in his practices, Wade seemed almost untouchable. And yet here he sat, in a That's America's Ass(hole) sweatshirt and a Mickey Mouse bucket hat; touched. 

"Stephen isn't here. He'll be back soon, though."

There was silence from Wade for a few long seconds, before he peered up at Wong beneath the brim of his hat, voice all too serious to belong to the Merc with a Mouth, "He felt it, didn't he?"

Wong nodded, coming to sit beside him, "Yes. You did too?"

Wade gave a long whistle, "Nothing like a good old stream slip to wake you up," and as if his own words pained him, his face screwed up in a grimace, and his fingers were immediately massaging his forehead. Much quieter, he added, "The world woke up and chose violence."

Wong turned to him, confused, "What do you mean stream slip?"

He and Stephen were still unsure as to what specifically they felt, which was why Stephen was off to council with other sorcerers, but a stream slip he had never heard of. Granted, Wade often spoke in quite nonsensical terminology; partly due to his mental access to the infinite realities of the multiverse, the rest of it due to his obnoxious personality. 

"As in we aren't getting the Russo brothers' angsty Chris Evans trilogy. The second film was brilliantly executed, little bit of an ending change, but Boseman doesn't get his debut. And my gosh, the airport scene. Wasted. Thankfully, we don't get to see the kiss with Sharon, thank heavens. Romanogers everywhere can live to pine over fan art and Wattpad another day."

"Wade!" Wong halted, "What do you mean stream slip?"

And Wade finally locked eyes with Wong, red with sleep deprivation, but wide with something tasting like fear, "We slipped the stream, boss. This crazy train hopped off its tracks, and is now down this unmedicated spiral, which I can relate to right now."

Wong pondered aloud, "Tracks...the timeline's branched? Wade, that's hardly cause for--"

"It's not a variant, Wong."

Wong almost chuckled, "That's impossible. Only variants can create branches. And there are no known individuals with abilities that can alter the multiverse on that kind of level."

"Well she did."

Wong was beginning to become increasingly worried as this conversation carried, "She?"

"Her voice screamed out and boom. New morning, different timeline. Disney+ never had a chance."

"Could you sense who?"

Wade shook his head. 

"This is troubling."

"No shit, Wong!" Wade snapped, an immediate hand up to massage his head, "I've had a migraine as deep as James Earl Jones' sweet baritone, because all of the universes have to play musical freaking chairs until they figure out what the hell is going on."

Wong immediately softened, a supportive hand resting on Wade's shoulder. As next in line for Sorcerer Supreme, there were many things Wong held responsibility over, and the stress of it all could be felt most days. But for someone non-magical to be so intimately linked to the inner workings of the multiverse and its events was a burden Wong wouldn't wish on his worst enemies. For all his faults, Wade was always dutiful in shouldering that burden. "Why don't you stay here?" Wong suggested, gentler this time. "We'll see what I can do for the migraine, and see what Stephen can make of all of this when he gets back."

Wade let a slow breath and nodded, letting Wong pull him up to his feet and guide him up the steps, further into the Sanctorum. "Only if you're on aux. Petey said you have Beyonce's new album."

"Hey kid."

Reagan toyed his tone around in her head, overanalyzing the lack of anger and the presence of concern. 

"I messed up."

Logan chuckled, "Nah, kid. Just weren't using your head," and she didn't like how gentle and genuinely amused he sounded, leaning casually against his bike. 

If anything, it was an understatement. She had broken rules, gone behind her leader's back, jeopardized her recovery, enlisted the help of other teammates. She had royally mishandled the entire situation, and this man. Her leader. The infamous, feral Wolverine. Not reprimanding her. Not calling out her mistakes. Not dishing out punishment. Not even raising his voice. Was he waiting to do it back at the mansion? Away from wondering students' eyes, that were already eyeing up the mysterious guy in the leather jacket with a souped up motorcycle picking up the new girl. 

But she knew; her empath powers knew even if they weren't reading his colors. It was genuine. The gentle concern, the lack of anger and frustration. And something nestled deep in her chest hated it. Wanted to scream in his face, just so he would justifiably scream back. "I'll pack up my things and leave by tonight. I won't cause you anymore trouble." It was the smartest thing to do. She had overstayed her welcome, squandered a delicate trust, and the least she could do is spare their kind hearts from having to make the decision themselves of throwing the once homeless kid back out on the streets. 

"Reagan, look at me." She hadn't realized she had been fixated on the sidewalk below her, until she met his concerned eyes, "We are never going to kick you out. Not over a little mistake, or even a big one. You're allowed to make those, in our house. I'm not mad at yah, kid. I was just worried about yah."

She didn't like this at all. It felt unresolved, justice unserved. "Why?"

Why would this man, that she didn't know all that well, be worried about her? A homeless teenager could illicit some mercy and pity. A kid with lethal, recalcitrant powers would make someone concerned. The man notorious for merciless and apathetic force against anyone who so much as looked wrong at him, cared about this nobody of a theoretical orphan. Why? The streets had nothing malicious to say about the X-Men and their agenda, but then again, the streets didn't know much of anything that happened behind the closed doors of the X-Men residence. 

What would they have to gain from someone like her? A powerful teammate, sure. But all of the coddling, spoiling, maintenance and patience she needed, there was no way the end justified the means. There was no way she was worth all of it. 

Logan loosed a large breath from deep in his chest, "You had a rough night, kid. All the energy you expended, on top of the work over Archangel gave you guys. You got back, collapsed in Kurt's arms, on the verge of hypothermia, with low blood sugar and a bunch of bruising. You just--," and the sigh that stuttered past his lips nearly made her heart stop, "you scared us is all, kid."

Her question had felt more rhetorical, required a broader answer to a deeper problem, but his response settled her enough for now, "I'm sorry I scared you."

Deep midnight eyes studied her, "I know you are," he said, an upward turn of the corner of his mouth making her feel all the more fouler. She followed him back to his bike, and didn't feel like smiling when she spotted Koen out of the corner of her eyes, gaping admirably at her and Logan on the motorcycle, screaming out the she was still the coolest. If anything, her insides burned red hot. 

"I'm growing impatient, Wyngarde. Your employer is late."

Oh, he was acutely aware of that. Given the past twenty two times Helmut Zemo had mentioned it. He didn't know why his master bothered with alliances. He couldn't speak for his master, but he knew the only way he was making it through this meeting was under sedation, "Mastermind, if you would. And he'll be here; he's a busy man."

A sharp scoff echoed down from the opposite end of the meeting space, Sebastian Shaw and Harry Leland exchanging glares with the 13th Baron Zemo, "And we're not!? You try rebuilding an international organization from the ground up, after that bitch went and destroyed everything."

Zemo let out an exaggerated, haughty laugh, "International? We're talking about the same Hellfire Club?"

Nathaniel Essex smiled coyly, picking at a nail with disinterest, "I say you've had the time to, Shaw. Seeing as you haven't contributed much of anything."

The Black Bishop was out of his seat and lunging for Essex, barely restrained by Shaw beside him. The Hellfire Club and Mister Sinister's associates dabbled in similar pursuits of high-powered mutants, often brutally crossing paths on a hunt for the same powered individual."Why you impish fre-!"

"Find your pet yet, Nathaniel?" Shaw asked loudly, his partner satisfied with this turn of questioning as he resigned himself to his seat, "Thought I missed the sound of his chew toy."

"A pain when they slip the leash," the Black Bishop taunted. The glare they received for their troubles was nothing short of lethal from Mister Sinister, who was already rising from his seat to challenge, when the Baron stopped him with a flourished hand. Mastermind couldn't help his eye roll, and Magneto beside him only slumped further in his chair.

"He does have a point, though," the Baron reasoned, "Through me, he has Hydra's resources. Mr. Lensherr provided a subpar Sentinel performance, Mr. Essex sends his little projects out to terrorize, and Mr. Wyngarde...well I assume you provide something for him."

"Subpar!?" Magneto screeched, up and out of his chair.

Wyngarde begged again, "Its Mastermind, please."

Shaw chuckled, "Dated resources, may I reminded you Zemo. We don't use telegrams anymore."

Baron stared down his nose at the Hellfire Club elites, giving their old victorian attires an obvious once over, "Quite rich coming from you two. How was Shakespeare in the Park this morning?"

The Black Bishop was lunging across the table again, "That's it--"

"Gentlemen."

Like dogs yanked painfully on a leash, every seated at the table was quick to stand as robed figure slipped out from the shadows into the large open room. He slipped off his hood to reveal the intricate tattoos painted all long his head, beady eyes roving over those in attendance. "Our time table has been moved. We start the next phase the end of the month."

Someone choked on their drink. Sinister paled, and Shaw and Leland exchanged confused glances, "That's this week," Shaw stated uselessly.

"Is everything in place?" Mastermind asked his master, though his question was directed more towards the ally this particular part of their operation relied on. 

"We...," Essex trailed, letting his head rest on his steepled fingers, "might have a slight hiccup."

Wyngarde was gearing to rip Mister Sinister a new one, but Mesmero simply held out a hand, and with lethal calm asked, "And pray tell, Mister Sinister, what would that be?"

Essex sighed, "I've lost contact with Archangel."

"What do you mean you've lost contact?" Mastermind exploded, receiving a desisting glare from Mesmero.

Sinister rounded on Mesmero, tone accusatory, "Ever since you used him for your bridge performance, his gem has been deactivated," he snapped, incrementally losing patience the longer he looked at Mesmero's disinterested glare, "I can't find him."

Mastermind turned to Essex, surprise clear on his face. If Archangel was untraceable, there were several implications it could have on their movements, "You don't have contingencies in place for something like this?"

If Essex's red glare could disembowel, it would've in that moment, "Hidden trackers have been fried, and my locating telepaths have not been able to place him."

Zemo rolled his eyes, "So he's dead. Great. Do we have a contingency for Essex's screw ups?"

Mesmero turned slowly to Baron Zemo, "Yes, we do." And even with their cumulative tastes for experimentation, murder, manipulation and torture, every single stomach at the table churned at the sight of Zemo's vile and thrilled grin.  

She felt strange and exposed, lying out on a medical bench again. But that's what she got for sneaking off to school. Snuck off to avoid the coddling, only to come back to receive an even stronger dose of it. She was back in another pair of base layer shorts, with a loose tank top, and she was freezing. It didn't help to watch Logan apply another cold pack, this one wrapped around her lower abdomen where a nasty bruise from her mishap with the windshield wrapped ruthlessly around. She was already laying on, what felt like, a bed of them for the myriad of bruises along her back, where the brunt of that impact had been felt. She had another laying over her collarbone, where Kurt's elbow had clocked her in his less-than-graceful descent. 

She don't know how she had made it through the school day. If it was a pure adrenaline that carried her from one class to another, alert enough to pay attention. Because all it had taken was a twenty minute drive on the back of Logan's bike, and she could barely get off of it. They had pulled up the front door, and every bruise had made itself known, sore muscles leaden and she practically stumbled off the motorcycle and up the front steps. 

Another shiver wracked her body, and she was unable to keep back the sharp breath she sucked through clenched teeth as the bruises along her back seized painfully. She felt a large, furry weight cup her shoulder reassuringly, a large padded thumb tracing gentle circles. She wanted to throw Hank a grateful smile, but she found herself instead bracing for another cold shudder. But Logan worked faster, and pulled two emergency wool blankets from somewhere and draped them over her, carefully tucking in empty spaces. She slowly relaxed her muscles, and almost moaned as a wet, warm cloth was draped over her forehead. 

She peered up blearily to find Logan's determined face crack ever so slightly with a reassuring smile to her, his hand giving the cloth a comforting weight before it was back to fiddling outside of her eyeline. Hank gently warned from her side that he was going to apply a few ECG electrodes. She felt her heavy head nodding, and she wondered distantly why she suddenly felt so tired and sore and heavy. 

She did find it in her to lock eyes with Hank and smile as he gently slipped his hands under the blanket to apply the electrode adhesives, realizing from their heat he had made sure to warm them prior to. He returned the smiled, "These are just to monitor heart electrical activity. Monitor the fluctuations in your powers, and your heart activity overall," he explained, eyes gently observant.

She nodded, and turned at the sound of his voice to find Logan crouched in a high chair beside her, "Do we have reasons to be concerned about her heart?"

"My working theory is that the hypothermia symptoms are a sign of your body struggling to thermoregulate. Your core temperature gets so high with your abilities, that when you turn them off, the dip in temperature is sizable enough to put your body into a state of shock. Repeated experience of hypothermia can put serious stress on the heart, nervous system and other organs. No cause for concern now, but something we need to monitor for the time being."

"Any way to prevent it?"

"I suggest a slower shutting off of your abilities," Hank instructed, "Gradually dampen your powers. It will be less of a shock to your system. We'll keep heated blankets and heat packs on all vehicles and in the training rooms. But like the other side effects, I simply think it's response to the sudden, intense use of your powers. Your body will acclimate eventually."

"And the rest of the symptoms?"

"I think its from your cells undergoing high energy expenditure to allow you to utilize and manipulate your abilities. This would explain the vomiting, nausea, light-headedness and fatigue; symptoms a serious athlete would experience after completing the most grueling workout. But much like an athlete, I believe your body will adjust to these energy expenditures and the symptoms will become less severe. For now, we continue your meal plan, and have high calorie protein bars and snacks on hand before and after missions and training sessions."

More coddling. The taste in Reagan's mouth was growing fouler.

Logan nodded as he processed the information, "We should probably get these notes to Steve, so the Avengers are aware." Hank nodded his agreement, and seemed to gather papers as if to go and do just that. But Logan's focus was back on the new recruit, and the almost annoyed expression she had on her, though she was excellent at hiding it. Annoyed, belittled, and undignified; all emotions he could imagine himself having in that moment. 

"Hey kid," he called gently, waiting patiently until her eyes met his, "Hank has audio books in every drawer and I have to have ear plugs and coffee beans; he's got stubborn animal instincts and I've got painfully heightened senses. We all got shit. You're not special."

Hank threw a suffering look to his leader, the man of impeccable delicacy. But found, with great interest, Reagan giving Logan a tentative smile in return, a small amount of tension rolling off her shoulders, allowing her to sink deeper into her half ice, half heat blanket bed. Gentle tones assured her they'd wake her for dinner, and asked if she wanted to be moved into her bedroom, but exhaustion had already melted down her control of her faculties, and she was out within minutes. Hank and Logan had stayed with her some time after, removing ice packs and electrodes, and adding more blankets and pillows, Reagan never stirring once. 

Some time later Kurt had wandered down, a little stiff and slow with burnout himself, but eager to relieve Hank and Logan. And late into the night, that was where Kurt stayed, perched on a high chair close to Reagan, peering up from his book every few minutes to check on the slumbering Celestia.