X-men Evolution Fan Fiction / X-Men Fan Fiction ❯ BurnOut ❯ Chapter 10 ( Chapter 10 )

Chapter 10

 

 

 

“We won't be back `til three or four, most likely,” Toby told her, walking out the door.

 

 

Doug followed him, “Thanks for the coffee, Angie.”

 

 

“It was no problem, none at all…see you guys later…Happy huntin',” she replied from the rear of the kitchen.

 

 

After a minute had passed, Angela ran to the bedroom and grabbed a blanket. From the small bathroom she retrieved a towel, some soap, and her shampoo bottle. Stopping at the front door she observed Toby and Doug sputtering away in the boat. With the items bundled under her arm, she sprinted to the adjacent cottage.

 

 

The morning sunshine poured in through the curtainless window frame onto the sleeping young man. The light bouncing off his white, feathered wings gave his face an ethereal glow. He couldn't be more than twenty, she guessed. She gently unfolded the blanket and draped it over his torso on top of the sheet and coverlet she had thrown on him earlier.

 

 

Was she looking at a monster? That's what Pastor Wertham would call him: mutant, spawn of the evil one. Angela had often heard the good Pastor's sermons regurgitated by Jen while making potato salad or fixin' Amber's hair. Not that Jen ever physically attended Wertham's church, she watched him on satellite. But the girl was nonetheless a disciple, spouting his wisdom. Mutants were the product of deviant sexual experimentation and secret government projects inter-breeding humans and animals. It was the mutant-loving media that claimed a group of them called the X-Men had saved the world from Apocalypse.

 

 

Angela recalled a news report, no doubt a product of the mutant-loving media, that said these strange beings lived in New York or went to a school there. What was this magnificent mutant angel doing in North Dakota? His peculiar clothes - must be high-tech synthetics - hung a little loosely on him in places and his cheeks were a bit drawn; he looked hungry. Had he been without food? Was he on the run?

 

 

“Where am I?” Warren almost shouted, waking suddenly.

 

 

“You're safe. It's okay. My name's Angela, Angela Preston, and I found you out in the lake last night. I'm the only one who knows you're here.”

 

 

“You pulled me out of the water…”

 

 

“Listen, this place is what you might call remote. No one's commin' by for a while.” He ceased cringing. “So, I was just gonna to make some breakfast. Would you like somethin' to eat?” He responded by sinking back into the bed, rolling onto his side and returning to slumber.

 

 

After fifteen minutes, Angela returned. Using a thick, old steel cookie-sheet as an improvised serving tray, she brought a bowl of cereal with milk and toast and a mug of coffee to the table in the small kitchen. She had been on the verge of frying him a couple eggs but changed her mind when she remembered his fluffy white feathers.

 

 

“Excuse me, I brought you some food,” she announced.

 

 

His eyes cracked open. She waited, leaning against the wall. While retracting his wings, he sat up and pushed the covers aside. He walked the short distance to the table, sat down and started eating.

 

 

“Thank you,” he said, after a couple mouthfuls, briefly making eye contact.

 

 

Though he only met her gaze for a moment, the fleeting self-image he saw reflected there curbed his appetite. He must look pretty ragged. This woman had saved him, some freak with wings, instead of leaving him to drown. Perhaps he should formally present himself.

 

 

He couldn't help thinking of how his mother would react. He could see the deep frown darkening her brow. Six months ago, the last time they were together, her creased forehead displayed how deeply disappointed she was that her only child was refusing the opportunity to be properly presented to society - as an escort to one of the season's debutantes at the Assembly Ball. His irrational insistence on staying whole was a rejection of the rest of the world. Having a sixteen-foot wingspan “precludes the wearing of white tie,” as she put it. If he would just agree to the surgery, he would look so dashing at the cotillion. The young ladies would all compete to hold his attention. Putting down his spoon, Warren stood up.

 

 

“I'm here wolfing down your food because you pulled me out of the lake. Please forgive me…uh… Your name was…”

 

 

“Angela Preston.”

 

 

“I'm Warren Worthington.”

 

 

“Hell, I would have fished out anythin', anybody, I mean, I thought you were a bird lost from the flock or somethin'…”

 

 

“I owe you a lot.”

 

 

“You look like you've been through hell,” she was noticing the many abrasions on his clothes and skin. “I put a clean towel and some soap and stuff in the bathroom. And uh, I don't know what your clothes are made out of but I was just about to throw a load in the laundry…”

 

 

“There's a washing machine?”

 

 

“Next door…”

 

 

“Oh. These can be washed, easily. I know I've torn them up - I've been testing the material, you could say. If you put them in the drier long enough the tears will seal.”

 

 

“I'll come back in ten minutes. You leave your thin's out here, while you take a shower, and I'll put them in the wash.”