All characters are trademarked and copyrighted to Marvel Comics. They are used without permission, and no money is being made on this work. The song is "Army Dreamers" by Kate Bush, and it is found on the CD "Never For Ever."
Release, Part Three
by Tangerine
Warren lay on his stomach, watching Hank and whining all the while. "Please, please, let me go, Hank, my very best friend. I'm fine, really, I am so fine. I'm all better, please, I can't stand it any longer. Let me go."
"Warren, I shall repeat this once more. You may have a concussion, and your nose has been suffered the fate most fine china will in their short life spans. I cannot let you go," Hank murmured, tapping quickly on the computer. "Now, stop bothering me."
"I wouldn't bother you if I wasn't here." Warren paused thoughtfully, figuring this was the wrong approach. He could... sneak out. With the greatest of ease, and without making a sound, he slid off the bed. He began crawling towards the door, praying that Hank wouldn't notice.
"Warren?" Hank said from his chair. "You would not be trying to escape my humble domain, would you?"
"Of course not Hank. I just... lost my... contact lense."
"Need I remind you of your mutant eyesight?"
"Good point. I guess I was just confused." Warren climbed back into the bed. "I'm hungry."
"Warren, honestly, do you ever let up?" Warren winced. Hank was pulling the 'parent' tone on him. "Just stay where you are until I say otherwise. I'll put on some music to calm your hyperactive soul."
The intro gave it away, and Warren knew the word of his 'show' had spread even to Hank in the basement. "Our little Army Boy, is coming home from B.F.P.O., I've a bunch of purple flowers, to decorate a mammy's hero. Mourning in the aerodrome, the weather warmer, he is colder, four men in uniform to carry home my little soldier." The music blared, and Warren smiled dryly at Hank.
"I thought you might enjoy this, but no dancing, my feathered friend. You are ill, and I do not believe our vacuum cleaner can handle your overzealous feet." Warren frowned and lay back down, letting the music sooth him.
"What a waste, Army Dreamers," he murmured under his breath before finally falling asleep.
* * *
The fog was thick, impossible to see through. The sound of gunfire and grenades blasted in the background. Commander Warren Worthington lay back in the trench, waiting for the signal to send his men out.
"Sir?" Lt. Henry McCoy yelped, sliding into the mud. "Captain Summers has just given us the signal to move out."
"Okay, everybody, it's time. Grab your guns, we're moving out!" Worthington shouted, waving them over.
"Sir!" Lt. Betsy Braddock hollered, "this is suicide. We should pull out before we're slaughtered!"
"Nobody asked your opinion, Braddock, now get back in line with the other men." Worthington waved her back in. Had he thought about it, he would have realised she was a woman, but he had been given orders not to think, and besides, it hurt his head.
They moved quickly over the top, charging the German soldiers. He drove with his gun ready for a fight. Beside him, Braddock and McCoy approached with similar plans. Worthington ran and ran until his foot snagged something. He looked down in horror at his snared foot, wrapping in barbed wire. He pulled at his foot, but slipped in the mud, his flesh being scratched by the sharp wire. He cried in agony as huge white wings sprouted from the tears in his back. He heard gunfire and saw his men fall all around him, so close he felt their breath on his wet flesh as they were savagely murdered. Disgusted with the sight, he looked up at the wings, which were now dyed red with blood. Worthington struggled in the wire, fighting desperately to escape, but he was stuck without any means of escape.
*Kill him then string his body up for all to see. Crucify the poor little Angel boy,* a German hissed and bent down to his level. *I am Captain En Sabah Nur, and I will be your destruction!*
"No, please," Worthington moaned in protest as Nur ripped him from the wire, taking his precious wings with it. Worthington screamed into the dark night, his war torn face illuminated by the flares of blasts of other wars being fought as he lost his.
* * *
Warren's blue eyes flew open as his head hit the ground. He blinked a few times, but didn't attempt to move. He didn't feel very good anymore. He felt furry hands on him, pulling him back to the bed. He said nothing. He thought the dreams had stopped for good. The dreams were supposed to have stopped, now that he knew he was free.
"Warren? Warren?" Hank said up above him. "Are you okay? Warren? Warren?!"
"My head hurts," was the most appropriate response he could muster. "I think I'll go back to sleep now." His eyes began to drift closed, but Hank lightly slapped him back to consciousness..
"No! Stay awake, my friend," Hank forced him to sit up, and Warren felt ill at the sudden and jerky movement. Warren tried to make it to his feet, but he vomited all over the floor instead. "Oh my stars and garters."
"I don't feel so good," Warren mumbled as another wave of nausea passed over him.
"Oh my stars and garters, indeed," Hank exclaimed, picking him up and trying frantically to get him into the bathroom. They made it but with little time left to spare. Warren moaned pitifully and threw up again. "You appear a bit aquamarine, Warren. I believe I can officially diagnosis your condition as a concussion." Warren dignified that observation with another round of regurgitation.
"What's going on... ah!" Bobby cried as he slipped and fell, landing on the metal floor with a loud thump. "Shit!"
"Oh my stars and garters, cubed." Hank stole a glance back to where Bobby lay sprawled, lying in the 'surprise' Warren had left him. "Warren is feeling ill, Bobby-boy."
"No kidding," Bobby said, standing up and looking a bit ill himself. "I think I'll go take a shower."
"That would probably be the best of ideas, yes." Hank turned his attention back to Warren, who looked more than a bit dazed. "Warren?"
"I'm okay," he muttered, sinking slowly to the ground. Hank caught him and forced him back to his feet. "Or maybe not." He bent over the toilet bowl again and Hank sighed. This was going to be a long afternoon.
* * *
"I have never witnessed anything like this before in my cultured life. He was fine one moment, the next sicker than a hungover Gambit, and now this." Hank gestured madly at Warren, who lay delirious on the infirmary bed. Warren murmured incoherent words, occasionally returning to his senses.
"What's wrong with him?" Bobby asked, having returned to check on his friend after his shower. "He's looking a bit... slimy."
"I have absolutely no intellectual hypothesis, my frozen friend. I believe him to have a concussion, but his symptoms are off the scale." Hank checked his temperature again. "Oh my goodness gracious."
"What?" Bobby asked, peering over his shoulder. Judging by the length of the red fluid in the glass tube, that wasn't good. "106 degrees? Hank, this is bad, isn't it?"
"Indubitably. Help me get him to the showers. We must get his temperature down... now." Hank grabbed one arm, draping it over his shoulder while Bobby grabbed the other one.
"No, please," Warren moaned, sweat running down his face, his entire body, shaking violently, shivering. Hank and Bobby continued to rush him down the hall and into the showers. Remy looked at them both then to the oddly hued Archangel. He stepped away.
"Thank you a thousand fold," Hank said, as Bobby lowered the temperature of the water. Warren shivered viciously, curling up into the fetal position on the floor. "Not too cold, the last thing we need if for our bird of a feather to go into cardiac arrest."
"Mon dieu, what's wrong wit' de man?" Remy asked, staring at Warren, who was turning paler by the second.
"We have no idea, gumbo," Bobby answered, monitoring the temperature of the water. "But he's sick, very sick."
"No, please, don't hurt me," Warren mumbled as Hank tried to pry him out of the position.
"I'm not going to hurt you, my friend," Hank whispered soothingly, trying to talk sense into a delusional man. "We're here to help."
" Never... told me... would... hurt like this, like being ripped apart, like in the tunnels. I only wanted my... wings... back." Remy, Hank and Bobby exchanged uneasy glances. "No. Please. No more. It hurts . . . so much," he whimpered, shaking his head back and forth. "We had a deal... soul wasn't part of... deal... no..."
"What's he talking about?" Bobby asked quietly, watching him mumble nothing more than sounds now. Hank just gave Bobby a look, while Gambit looked oddly sad, as if remembering something. "It's Apocalypse, isn't it? We shouldn't have heard that, should we?" Hank shook his head no. "He said deal, didn't he?"
* * *
Warren opened his ice blue eyes slowly, feeling disoriented and sore. Hank was asleep at his desk. Seven cups of age old coffee resembling mud surrounded his head like a halo. Betsy was crouched over in a chair, muttering about some of her favourite things in a sing-song voice as she sleep peacefully.
Warren threw his legs over the side painfully, pausing to catch his breath. His open- backed gown let the chilly air in, freezing his blue skin. He carelessly ripped the IVs out of his arms, wincing in pain as he realised he shouldn't have done than, and stood up, wavering back and forth on shaky legs.
Already he was feeling better, and he walked slowly out of the room, keeping the back of the gown closed with one hand. He just needed to get outside and spread his wings then he'd be okay. Flying always helped.
It was late and the air chilly, but the cleanliness of the whole outdoors experience helped clear his system. He remembered vaguely being sick, but it lacked vividness or reality. It was like a dream, not real and just barely remembered.
"Warren Kenneth Worthington the Third!" Jean exclaimed shrilly from the doorway, glaring like an overprotective mother. "What do you think you're doing? It's absolutely freezing outside. You'll catch your death! Why aren't you downstairs? Hank didn't let you leave, did he? You aren't supposed to be up here, are you?"
Warren turned on her slightly, frowning deeply but attempting to remain mellow. "I am not a child, Jean. You do not need to speak to my like I am your idiot toddler that just freed the birds from their cages."
"I wouldn't have to act like that if you had any sense in that head of yours," Jean retorted, dragging him inside. "I swear, Warren, sometimes you just don't think. You're going to get yourself killed!"
"I already have," Warren responded, slapping her hand away from him. "But you never gave a damn about me then, did you? You were too preoccupied with Scott and his inability to cope properly with any stressful relationship."
"Warren," Jean said calmly, her anger dissipating. "It wasn't like that at all. I tried to help, I did, but you were so withdrawn at the time, and you didn't really die. You're here now, aren't you? You're alive."
Warren remained silent, suddenly preoccupied from the thin line of blood trickling down his arms from where the IVs had been. It was a striking contrast against his blue skin, and he hated it, he hated looking at it, seeing what he was, what he looked like all because of him, because of Apocalypse.
"Warren, you're alive."
But he paid her no mind, ignored what she was saying because he knew it wasn't true, and as the blood continued to ooze down his skin, he knew it couldn't be. He should be healed by now, he shouldn't be bleeding, but he was and that terrified him.