*** DISCLAIMER: The X-MEN are Copyright (C) 1997 Marvel Characters, Inc.
, and are property of Marvel Comics Entertainment Group. They have been
used without permission. No profit has been made from this work. This
story is Copyright (C) 1997 by Jon Bartley.

*** NOTE: This story may contain adult language, adult content, and
violence. Don't read this, if you're offended by these things.

BLACK LOVE (4/?)
By Jon Bartley

PART FOUR: "Selfless Gifts"

It didn't take Scott long to discover that he could make as many wishes
as he liked--provided he wished them before he dreamt--and they all came
true. All of them had severe repercussions on reality, but nothing *too*
serious. It only took him a few minutes to figure out how they effected
his life. The best part was, it had been weeks since he began wishing,
and Skuddly hadn't come to collect payment yet. As the weeks turned into
months, it appeared the wishsmith never would, either.
     Whenever he got into a fight with Jean, he wished it never happened; 
whenever he encountered a seemingly undefeatable foe, he wished for a
weakness. It was great having this power, Scott decided. He couldn't
imagine what life had been life before he'd acquired it. But still, in
spite of all his happiness, there were those around him that *didn't*
have this gift, and their wishes were going ungranted. So, one day, he
decided to do something about that.
     Scott knocked twice on Rogue's bedroom door and cracked it a little. 
"Rogue?" he called.
     "Hiya Scott," Rogue greeted cheerfully. She was laying across her
bed with a romance novel in her hands. She motioned for him to come in.
Scott stepped inside and quietly sealed the door behind him. He seated
himself on the edge of the bed and said:
     "So, Rogue... have you and the Professor had any luck with
controlling your power?" Scott wanted to know. He knew Rogue's ability
to absorb the powers, life-forces, and memories of others through skin
contact was harder to control than his optic beams. So he didn't expect
a positive answer.
     Rogue sighed. "No... not than we don't try. In fact, we try ev'ry
day. Nothing seems to help or even reduce the intensity of what Ah
absorb."
     "I'm sorry," said Scott.
     "S'not your fault. It ain't nobody's fault. It's just something I
have to learn to live with, I s'pose."
     "I don't know about that. The Professor helped me," Scott said,
knowing it was a lie. "You just hang in there and keep trying."

That afternoon, after lunch, Scott let a big lawn escape his mouth and
told his wife he was going to take a small nap. He laid on the mansion's
lobby couch and made his wish for Rogue. It would be fun, he considered,
as he ventured off into dreamland. He wished for Rogue to have some way
of controlling her powers--just as he had done for himself. But he no
idea what that way would actually be. Reality had a funny way of
reacting to his wishes.
     In one hour, Scott woke in a queen-sized bed. Another thing, he was
laying under black sheets, only wearing a pair of boxer shorts. He
scratched his head and looked at his watch. Sure enough, only one hour
had passed. He quickly got up and dressed, then made his usual inquiries
about life in the mansion. Scott was still married to Jean. All the
members of the X-Men seemed to be around. Then there was Rogue: in
addition of having a long mane of black hair, Rogue's attire was
composed of sleeveless shirts and tight black jeans. Her southern accent
was as lush as ever. And, Scott noted, she had a metal device over her
right eyebrow to assist with her power control.
     It felt good to have helped someone other than himself. Of course,
she wasn't *exactly* as she'd been before he'd made the wish, but things
rarely were. Like the other repercussions, he could get used to it.

Scott had an afternoon snack, then got back to his super-hero work.
After the usual business had been attended to, he made another selfless
act of goodness. There were, of course, countless X-Men in the mansion
with problems of their own. Scott decided he'd get to them all in due
time.
     Next was Warren Worthington III. Once the X-Man Angel, Warren had
lost his white feathered wings, then had them replaced with metallic
wings that shot razor-sharp metal feathers, as well as having his skin
turned light blue--all done to him by the villain Apocalypse. The most
disturbing aspect of his transformation was his new dark personality. He
had become more repressed as a result of the whole incident. He was now
known as Archangel.
     But Warren was opening up more. He was pursuing a relationship with
the telepath Betsy Braddock, Psylocke. Things were getting better for
him. But it still pained Scott to see his friend--his teammate for so
many years--living in such pain. Scott didn't think twice about making a
wish to help Warren. Though he should have. He wasn't wishing for
another friend the ability to control his or her powers. This wish would
profoundly affect Warren's entire life.
     On that Thursday night, Scott turned out his bedside light and
dreamed of an angel--a true angel with strong, large, feathered wings.
His face was well-defined and in its center was a warm smile. The sun
rose, as always, the next morning, but Scott didn't rise with it. He'd
been working so hard lately, he decided to sleep in. He was woken very
near noon by the growling of his own stomach and got up.
     He left his bedroom and took a slowed, relaxed stroll to the
kitchen. When he reached the end of the hall his and the other X-Men's
bedrooms were joined by, an huge force hit his back. His chest jerked
forward and his back burned. He turned around to face his attacker and
found a mangled, red, rubber balloon at his feet. His back was covered
with water. Scott smiled.
     "Bobby?" called he.
     He was hit in the back by another water balloon.
     Scott turned around and found Warren Worthington the third, blonde-
haired and casually dressed, smiling mischievously. "We got your wife
early this morning, Slim. She didn't blame *us*, though. The balloon she
got was meant for you, so..."
     Another balloon hit Scott, this one in the back of his head.
     "That was from Jean." said Warren, laughing. "Hey, uh, no hard
feelings, right?" Warren held his hand out. Scott smiled and reached out
to shake his friend's hand. There was a squash. Scott pulled away and
look at his right hand. There was whip cream covering his palm, and in
the center of the cream was a dead cockroach.
     "You little..." began Scott. But it was no use. Warren was already
down the hall. Scott followed after him.
     Life was good, he thought.
     Somewhere in the back of Scott's mind, something was trying to tell
him something: What if there are more repercussions than you think,
Scott? What if changing one single thread--one seemingly independent
thread--somehow ruins the entire fabric? Just what if, Scott? But this
was in the back of Scott's mind. And it was suppressed. The part of
Scott that was running things now didn't want to think those thoughts,
so it *didn't*. And why should it? Everyone around Scott was happy. That
was all that mattered.

To Be Continued...
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