By Lori McDonald
January, 1996
The birds were dancing in the sky, whirling and looping carefree over the fields, arcing and banking. One moment they'd be gliding mere inches above the grass, the next they'd be dots in the heavens. They were everywhere, flying, singing, dancing.
Archangel didn't notice them. He lay asleep on his stomach in the grass, his metal wings spread to catch the warm sun's rays. They twitched in his sleep while he sunbathed, the individual feathers shifting, but he didn't wake. For him it was a chance to relax, to forget about how the wings were an artifical replacement for his lost original ones, given him by Apocalypse.
Archangel slept, but on his back, the wings moved, feathers shifting and overlapping at the presence of the birds. Paralyzing flechettes aimed at any who came too close, but didn't fire. Not yet.
Under the nearby trees, Betsy Braddock, the telepathic ninja named Psylocke, stared at her lover's body in concern. She knew those wings well, had been carried by them, had felt their metallic warmth wrap around her while she and Warren made love. They'd always been a part of him, leaving her incapable of imagining him without them. But before, he'd always been in control.
Now his wings were different, menacing. They moved on their own, not in response to Warren's dreaming. They seemed almost aware, somehow. Ready to fight and kill. Almost eager to.
Yet they were leaving the birds alone.
Psylocke knelt down, grimacing as healing wounds in her abdomen twinged. She ignored them. They'd hurt a lot worse when she got them. A few aches now were nothing.
Why do I get the feeling they're aware of what's going on around them? She thought. She watched the wings twitch, uncertain for a few more minutes, then made her decision.
I had Kwannon in me for a long time without knowing it. A ninja assasin who could have burst out at any time and killed someone I loved. I know Gambit has something dark in him as well, but he denies it and I have no proof. But you, Warren... I may not give a damn what happens to Gambit, but I love you. We know Apocalypse gave you those wings, and you're afraid he still may have influence over them. But no one's done anything about it.
She looked at the sleeping, blue-skinned, blond haired man and her eyes narrowed. Not anymore, she thought. I'd owe you for saving my life after Sabretooth gutted me, even if I didn't love you. I'm going to find out what drives those wings once and for all.
Betsy concentrated and what appeared to be a butterfly of energy flickered above her head. It was one of the few signs that her telepathic powers were in use. Gently, she reached out with her mind. Not to Warren, but to the silver wings on his back.
-Danger-
Betsy reeled back as the wings snapped up straight, tips pointed towards the sky, hundreds of flechettes bared and ready to launch. They quivered with tension, but Warren slept on, oblivious.
Betsy knelt where those spikes wouldn't be able to hit her and frowned, stroking her chin. Her probe had reached the wings, but there hadn't been anything resembling sentience in there. No consciousness at all. No evil, either, which was a relief. Instead there'd been only instinct, an animal awareness which only recognized danger and reacted to it. To it, everything was a threat, because it had no way to conceive of them as anything else. So the wings stayed at full alert, ready to slice and kill.
But the birds were still left alone.
Why? She wondered. You see them as a threat. I know you do. So why let them live?
She probed again, a little deeper this time. With no psychic shields to keep her out, the wings couldn't stop her, but they shook at her presence.
Betsy felt everything she'd felt before, all the killer instincts, but this time there was more, something deeper that touched the wings with something beyond what they'd been created for. She blinked as she recognized a familiar touch. Then she began to smile.
Warren. You've been so worried your wings were influencing you that you never stopped to think you might be influencing them.
The wings were still ready for battle, urged on one side to kill indescriminately, and on the other not to. The link to Warren was weak though, and the balance tenuous.
Maybe I can do something to strengthen that.
Reaching out with her mind a third time, Betsy linked the wings to a field sparrow darting back and forth above the grass.
For a long, tense minute, there was no effect. Then the wings seemed to relax. The flechettes spread back among the razor sharp feathers. The wings lowered and stretched to the sides, just as the sparrow's were.
Silently, Betsy watched as the great wings dove and banked and soared without moving or waking Warren, all in perfect synchronization with the sparrow. They danced with the tiny bird, innocently and effortlessly, for no other reason than the enjoyment of it.
Suddenly, the sparrow flew directly upwards to join its mate and Betsy giggled as the wings gave a tremendous flap, hauling Warren unceremoniously to his feet, waking him in the process.
"What the hell?!"
Betsy walked out to join him. He was looking upset, his wings, now under his control again, folded into themselves under his shirt.
"They did it again, Betsy. These damned wings..."
She kissed him to quiet him. "I wouldn't worry about it, Warren. I was watching them. They were dancing."
"Excuse me?"
She linked her arm with him. "Well, that's what it looked like. They were flying with the birds, which I think is a marvellous idea."
Warren still seeemed to be trying to absorb the idea of his wings dancing. Betsy laughed softly and stood on her toes facing him, looping her arms around his neck.
"Let's fly, Warren, and enjoy the day."
Warren hesitated another moment, then, trusting her judgement, he scooped her into his arms, spread his wings, and flew into the sky.
The birds flew with them, unafraid, looping over and under them. All in a dance Betsy was sure the wings, under the violence, enjoyed as much as they did.
The End
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