Summary: Warren´s transformation from Angel into Archangel.
Watch before reading: Wolverine and the X-Men: Episodes 19 and 25
Warnings: blood, disturbing images (if I wrote it well) and a character death of sorts
Disclaimer: Characters are Marvel´s , the point of view is mine.
An angel flew above the Institute grounds, sun warming his white wings all along their huge span. He beat them strongly, feeling his underused muscles stretch and let the air currents carry him higher and higher until the wind´s coolness began to sting. He looked down and saw the almost unrecognizable shapes of his friends: a motorcycle headed toward the entrance, that would be Logan; a ray of red identified Scott; and a shape disappearing calmly into the ground must have been Kitty.
A burst of wind threw him unexpectedly to the side. He suddenly noticed the darkened sky and the forceful gusts. Smiling rather ruefully, he dipped downward and toward the mansion as the rain began to word its way past his feathers. The burst of thunder startled him and he jerked upward and to the left and the lightning (too fast, too close, in the wrong direction) touched him and threw him down.
He burned and struggled to stay in the air, wings twisted and buffeted couldn´t expand and the velocity wrapped them around his struggling body. He smelled the sick scent of burning feathers as they came off him and into the storm like sparks. He felt his flesh sear and his wings ripped from his body with a wet, sick crack of dislocated joints and torn ligaments. The ground pummeled toward him and the impact—
—Warren jarred awake, a scream in his throat and the scorched smell in his nostrils. He was panicked and pale faced, and stretched his wings to reassure himself. Stretched his wings…and nothing happened. He spun in place, crumpling the sterile white sheets as he reached over his shoulder, grasping futilely. Nothing. He leapt up and choked back a sob. A wingless Angel.
His nails caught against the stitches and started ripping them out. He could heal; they would grow back if he only gave them space. It would be all right.
His frantic nails screeched against metal, lost their grip in his own slippery blood, and caught again. There was a metal plate in his back and locking his bones in place so no tissue could grow back. He stopped, Angel (no, Warren now) slid down to his knees, exhausted.
He fought to calm himself and clear his thoughts. He lifter his head, sweat dripping down into his eyes, and looked around. It was dark, the room was unfamiliar, and sterile looking, sparse, with a single door and a window. Unwilling to risk the door (and perhaps used to seeing windows as a perfectly safe alternative) he staggered across the room and looked past the curtain, down, down 8 stories to the pavement. Only a bird could leap safely from there. Or an Angel.
Warren turned away, shuddering with a fear of heights for the first time in his life. He tried the door next, falling forward as he walked. It swing open neatly to reveal a nurse with a needle, who put out his free hand toward Warren in a calming gesture.
"Relax, you're safe", his eyes widened at his patient's bloody hands and shoulders. "Your stitches..." he added faintly.
But Warren hadn't seen anything past the hypodermic. He charged the nurse, who raised an arm defensively, and saw, too late, the needle flashing into his bloody side and thought inexplicably of lightning.