X-Men Imagines

25| Warren Worthington III - Healer

"Can you do one before the apocalypse, when Warren escaped from the cage?

He meets an Oc of mine who's wings are more like a dove's than hawk's like his. She is practiced in the field of medicine, so the people she has healed call her the Angel of Mercy.
She's got these scars on her back from when her father cut of her wings once, but they grew back. Quite painfully."

---

Hesitation was holding you back. The warehouse seemed abandoned and in poorly state giving it a haunted feeling. Unsure, you were standing in the doorway, gazing inside the large and empty building hoping to catch a glimpse of the angel you had seen fly into it. You knew he needed help and so every part of your body was screaming at you to go give him the treatment he desperately needed. After all, he was a mutant, just like you. And just like you, he had wings. You felt compelled to help him. Even more considering how badly injured his wings were. You could not even begin to comprehend the level of pain he must be going through. And the longer you waited, the longer he had to endure it.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped into the building and began walking rapidly, looking in every corners for the shape of a winged mutant.

Your footsteps echoing into the abandoned warehouse, your arrival was no surprise to the mutant whose eyes fell on you as soon as you found him. Sitting against a wooden beam, a bottle of whisky in his hand, a blond man was looking at you harshly, probably wondering who the hell you were.

Your eyes were drawn to his wings and you grimaced at the sight of the burnt one. Almost all of its feathers were gone. When you met his eyes, you saw the harshness in it as he opened his mouth ready to talk, but at the same time, you stepped toward him and he noticed your wings, making him close his mouth and look at you with more sympathy.

While drinking from the bottle of alcohol in his hand, he kept an eye on you as you came closer. His gaze was hard on your skin and you tighten your hold on your med kit.

Reaching him, you glimpsed pieces of clothes on the floor next to him. A leather jacket. A black and ripped tee-shirt leaving him shirtless.

Your eyes fell back on him, but he was no longer looking at you, instead drinking heavily from the bottle. You knew what he was trying to do. Drink his pain away. It would not help you. Giving him medicines would be a bad idea now.

"Hey." You said hesitantly when you reached him. "I'm (Y/N)."

Your voice made the mutant met your eyes and he stared at you, not saying anything. You could feel the anger behind his piercing blue eyes.

"Can I examine your wing?"

"Why?" He asked warily, snapping his head at the damaged feathers falling off his wings before staring back at you.

"That's what I do. Helping people with injuries." You answered, sitting in front of his wing. "And you're like me. I know how much it hurts."

The young man nodded before gesturing to his wing, allowing you to touch it. You kneeled and moved your hands on the bony structure of it. It was strong and gigantic, much more fearsome and dangerous than yours. Which contrasted with the boy appearance. He had curly blond hair and blue eyes, and his face, without his angry expression, looked more like that of an angel.

Lowering your hand on his feathers, you ran it through it, trying to see how well the remaining ones were holding and if others would grow underneath the burned ones.

What you saw seemed encouraging and so you took a cream out of your kit and started to apply it on the spots where the burns were the most serious.

The mutant, who had been keeping a close eye on your gestures, relaxed instantly. Closing his eyes, he pressed his head against the beam and let the cold and soothing feeling of the cream ease the pain.

You took your time, making sure every burn was treated correctly, which made, in the process, fall many of the already damaged feathers. The mutant did not protest. You were not even sure he was awake anymore. The only sign he was still with you was his chest moving up and down with each of his breathing. When you finished the front, you looked at him hesitantly, hoping to meet his eyes, without success. Instead, you said very slowly:

"I need to do the back."

It made the mutant's eyes open and he glanced at you warily before turning around, showing you his back. In the process, you heard him grunt several times from the pain and when he leant his shoulder and side on the wooden beam, you heard him sigh in relief.

Facing his back, you began rubbing the cream on the back of his wing and progressively you saw the tension leave his back muscles.

The moment was so peaceful and you were so enthralled by the movements of your hands on his feathers that when the mutant talked, you flinched.

"I'm Warren, by the way."

A slight smile hovered on your lips. "Nice to meet you."

It made him snicker. "If you say so."

You tried not to take it for yourself. Considering the state of his wing it was not hard to say he must have lived a pretty dangerous life. And probably not the one where people were really friendly to you. Especially when you had a mutation that was so apparent. You knew how it was.

Finishing to take care of his wing, you decided to put some cream on the side and shoulder of the injured wing, knowing the now mismatched wings would hurt his spine and back's muscles.

That's what you explained to him before you touched his skin. A guy like him would probably react badly if you were to do a gesture that was unexpected. He agreed for you to do so and you began massaging his back slowly like a physiotherapist would do. You used the exact same gestures your own was using on your back pain and felt him relax completely after a few minutes. When you heard him grunt a few times, you took note of the spots where the tension was the greatest and realized it was the same as you. Even if your wings were different, it was making you feel the same pain.

As you were finishing his massage, you ran your hands on the scars that were lined near his wings and stopped on it. The more you stayed near him; the more you felt like you had went through the exact same lives.

Your fingers caressing the white lines, you realized you had stopped for too long when Warren moved away and took his spot back, pressing his back against the wooden beam.

Your hands fell on your thighs and you looked apologetically at him. His face was no longer showing anger, but exhaustion and sadness.

"Thank you." He whispered when he met your eyes.

Not knowing why, you admitted:

"I have the same."

He stared at you, not seeing what you meant.

"The scars. On your back."

Warren lowered his gaze on his thighs before drinking straight from the bottle.

"How did it happen?" He asked after a few seconds of silence, his eyes boring into yours.

"My father cut them off when I was younger." You took the bottle out of his hand and took a sip of it. It was stronger than you had predicted and you grimaced. "They grew back. It was not agreeable though."

You handed the bottle back to him and he locked eyes with you again. He did not talk but his eyes showed it all. He understood.

"It'll grow back for you too."

He smiled faintly at you. Not a happy smile, but more like a "that's nice of you to say so, but we'll see about that". He looked exhausted, depressed.

"You should sleep. You need it." You closed your med kit and got up. "I'll take the first watch."

You words startled him and Warren looked puzzlingly at you, before lying on the floor, accepting your help.

A smile stretched on your lips. You were happy to have gained his trust.

Walking toward the entrance of the warehouse, you closed the door before flying and sitting on the highest wooden beam, allowing you to keep an eye on every part of the warehouse. You were not going to let anyone else hurt him.