First story. Just something that popped into my head. Forgive me if some details seem odd, I don't really follow X-Men other than the movies and have never been to Brooklyn or NYU. And since I don't own the X3 DVD, a few things might be off, like where the clinic is located and whatnot. I don't own Warren or X-Men. Just Cameron, who's kind of based off a very minor character from T:TSCC (no, not Cameron) who I also don't own.

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He felt naked. Well, he kind of was, at least from the waist up. It's hard to find shirts with holes to accommodate extra limbs, particularly growing out of one's back.

Warren Worthington had just jumped out of a building, and frankly, it was probably the best damn thing he's done his entire life. It was the first time he had truly felt free, the rush of wind blowing into him as he swept down, missing the crowd of mutants and humans alike on the ground.

But, as they say, all good things much come to an end. Warren never got to enjoy life that much.

After the initial elation and spontaneity had passed, the blond haired man felt a pang of worry, mostly for his father's reaction and for his current situation. What was he to do now? Just soar above Manhattan, trying to stay inconspicuous while the rest of New York City went on with life? He glanced down, acutely aware of how high he was, and more than a little uncomfortable with it. He tried to stay away from flying. His father didn't like it.

Pedestrians, of all races, both genders, all ages, and probably human and not, were rushing along the streets, almost like ants milling about a farm. Warren frowned, watching a car move past a traffic light and allowing more people to crowd the crosswalk, moving to fill the spot previously occupied by the vehicle. No, not like ants. More like cockroaches.

Brushing these thoughts away, the college student tried to focus on what to do about his current predicament. He needed a coat, a sheet, something to cover his wings. Then he could make it back to his dorm, which unfortunately was located in one of the busiest parts of the Washington Square campus. He couldn't land there, as much as he craved security in his own dwelling.

Unconsciously, the winged man wavered higher in the sky near the clouds, his breath hitching and body tensing in response to the altitude and chill that came with it. It didn't bother him, not really. It just felt strange. Straining to keep calm (which was growing increasingly hard since his wings were starting to ache and flap with less ferocity as before), Warren focused on the ground, which was even more distant than before because of his distance. Coming up, he realized, was the East River. He was heading toward Brooklyn.

Shielded as a child (both because of his mutation and because his father saw him as somewhat fragile), Warren had no real knowledge of the boroughs, other than Manhattan and Staten Island, which were more so tourist traps than anything else. Not sure what to take this as, Warren glided lower, deciding to find somewhere isolated in Brooklyn to land. Besides, it's not like anyone really pays attention to the sky.

He almost collapsed in the littered alley, the only area with less pedestrians than cars. The street further down was quiet, with just one or two cars passing by every now a then. It helped that it was around 9 AM (that's when his father wanted to meet).

Kneeling on the ground, fingers curled against the concrete, Warren tried to gather his bearings and pull himself together. Even though people knew about mutants, Warren didn't want to be confronted about it. He just couldn't deal with that right now. Breathing in and out for a moment, trying to regain his composure, Warren slowly rose to his feet, almost stumbling.

Filth, all around him. Littered McDonald's bags, Pepsi cans, convenient store bags, all the such, scattered about for no reason. Warren's nose scrunched up. And an awful smell.

Not willing to brood at the moment (which was actually something he use to do quite often, especially when his little problem forced him to isolate himself from his peers), the blond tucked his wings closer to his back, always appreciative that they fit so well against his back. Trying to gather up some optimism, Warren paced down the alley, away from the street and toward the bend that was coming up. Just as he turned, and was feeling juiced up and ready to help himself, he was faced with a woman, no girl, fumbling with a brown paper bag, a backpack hanging off one of her shoulders. She was walking toward him, focused entirely on the contents of the bag, the paper crinkling as her fingers handled it.

Warren's mouth hung open for a second, and he felt frozen in place. A part of him screamed to turn and run, which would only lead to the street and more people, and another part said to take flight, which was almost impossible since he could feel the same weightlessness in his wings as one would in their legs after walking for so long.

Warren did what the old Warren would do. He stood completely still, staring at the girl with his best neutral expression, and hoping she would walk by him like he was never there. It didn't work.

She glanced up, one hand moving to brush dishwater blond hair from the side of her face, most likely to make sure she knew where she was going. Only to almost walk right into the very still Warren.

Abruptly, like a spring snapping, the girl froze and reeled back, eyes wide and dry lips open just a bit. She was wearing a moss green coat and looked like she had just got done rifling through a dumpster. The brown boots on her feet were covered in dark splotches (which, Warren decided, looked unnaturally shady), and a black skirt with frayed edges hung on her hips, barely reaching mid-thigh. The coat, which Warren noted with contained excitement, was rather long, reaching the girl's knees as it covered most of her purple plaid dress shirt.

"Who are you?" barked the girl, her voice having a rough sort of tone that seemed almost forced. Her moss colored eyes were boring into his own cobalt ones, but he could see her gaze flitting on his entire form, then freezing at the spot over his shoulders.

"Holy shit," she breathed, fingers now barely holding the paper bag as she stared unwavering at the slight arch of his wings that peaked slightly over his shoulder, not as easily hidden without the faux-leather harnesses.

"Holy shit," she repeated. Warren was unsure of what to say, how to respond, but he knew he needed that jacket. It was almost lucky to find something to cover himself with just when he landed, and he wasn't going to pass it up, no matter how buggered out he felt.

"Can I borrow your jacket?" he asked, trying to sound commanding but non-threatening. He didn't want to come off as a mutant thug, or whatever it was that roamed the streets nowadays, not that he would really know. The girl tensed up once again, eyes now looking into his, and one eyebrow raised.

"You're a mutant, aren't you," she stated, and her entire figure seemed to almost relax. "And by those designer jeans, I bet you're just some rich kid who fell out of the sky because his hair was experiencing wind burn." Her lips pulled into a smug smile, and Warren almost felt threatened, realizing that he was wrong to categorize her as just a girl. Her entire demeanor reminded Warren of the women who attended his college, the ones who would bare their teeth and bite into one another with the barbarity of wild animals, fighting over anything from makeup to men.

"Please," started Warren, hesitant on how to really respond to her statements and current smirk. "If you let me borrow your coat, I can be out of your way."

"You already are, freak," huffed the girl, rolling her eyes as if he was a child who was trying to mug someone twice their size on the playground. Without waiting for his response, she moved to stalk past him, now entirely ignoring his presence, which, Warren though idly, was exactly what he wanted moments ago. Now panicking, and afraid that he would never get such another chance, Warren felt his temper peak, which almost never happened. This was his only chance, he had a shitty start to the day, what with his own father trying to cure him of his mutation (which Warren was seeing as less and less of a disease) and now this girl was treating him like scum. Just as the girl passed him, the smell of a strong type of trashy perfume wafting into his nose, Warren's wings unconsciously twitched and fluttered, the edge of one jumping out to hit the girl in the abdomen.

Letting out a cry of surprise or pain (Warren wasn't too sure which), the girl was thrown to the floor, paper bag dropping onto the ground and dark backpack now barely in her grasp. Hair sprawled out behind her, and coat exposing her entire figure, the girl was splayed out on the ground, eyes closed and clutching her abdomen, groaning.

Horrified to see what he had done, especially since he was a generally amiable man, who would rather turn the other cheek and walk away than start something, Warren quickly moved to kneel by the girl's side. Hands hovering above her form, conflicted with what to do, Warren looked nervously at the girl's pained expression.

"I'm sorry, I just-" Warren tried to gauge her reaction; she was growing red, eyebrows scrunching down.

"Piss off!" she barked, eyes snapping open as she struggled to get up. Thinking quick, Warren reached out to pull off her jacket, hoping to grab it and run. If he could just get it off, he would sprint down the alley and jump the towering fence blocking off the way. Once she felt his hand on her shoulder, the girl started thrashing, batting at his hands.

"Get offa' me, birdboy!" barked the girl. Warren turned his focus to her, to try and placate her by explaining his reasoning, but once he met her gaze, her left fist came swinging out and caught him in the jaw, causing him to flop to the side from the force. With his left hand no longer on her shoulder, the girl jumped up with surprising speed and dashed down the alley and around the curve toward the street, her belongings abandoned after her fall. Knowing that the pain could wait, Warren pushed himself up, and with his longer legs and athletic figure (which he felt was really thanks to his mutation since he seldom played sports) managed to reach her in just a second, wrapping his arms just below her chest and heaving her up to stop her from running.

Holding the blond as best he could while she struggled and bucked in his hold, Warren felt vaguely ashamed at what he had been reduced to, but knew this was necessary to return home. He frowned. Was it? Didn't this just further breed hate for mutants?

There was a sharp pain under his ribs, just where the girl elbowed him, and Warren used this as an excuse to let go, pushing her slightly away so that his back was now to the street, blocking her exit.

Breathing heavily, the girl reached inside her jacket to pull out a switchblade, gesturing at him with the point.

"Get out of here freak, I don't want any trouble," she sputtered, looking furious yet at the same time notably nervous. Her hair was in an even more state of disarray than when he first saw her, and her clothes looked rumpled and disheveled.

Holding out his hands, palm side up, Warren tried to plead a mock surrender.

"Easy," he appeased, "I just need to borrow your jacket, that's all I want." If anything, the girl's glare grew and she bared her teeth.

"The coat's mine so you can just screw yourself because I'm not giving it up. Now out of the way before I shank you." She prodded the knife in his direction. Shank? Did people even use that word?

"I can pay you," offered Warren, knowing full well his wallet was with his trench coat he left back at his father's clinic. The only thing he had in his pockets was a stick of gum and his key chain with his car and room keys, all particularly useless at the moment. This seemed to catch the girl's interest, as her body peaked back and head tilted slightly.

"How much?"

"I-I don't know, one hundred?" he guessed, not entirely sure how much would make her give him the coat. The girl eyed him for a moment.

"Gelled hair, clean jeans, shining shoes. I'd say you're pretty well off. Three hundred." Warren knew he was being ripped off. He wasn't stupid just because he had a lot of money. He just realized $300 was a deal considering the fact he had wings growing out of his back. The blond nodded once.

"Fine." With that, he stuck out his hand, expecting to receive the coat. The girl just gave him a suspicious look.

"I want to see the money first," she stated. For all Warren knew, the coat didn't fit him. He could just forget it and rest, then gear up later to fly around and find a sheet or something hanging out on a line to dry. Anything else. But, Warren was already to hyped up, and unwilling to go searching if he could help it.

"It's…I don't have it on me," he said, and the girl looked about ready to blow a gasket, so he motioned with his palms up again. "But, if you help me, I can mail you it, or, or something." The girl barked out a laugh.

"I can't believe this shit. Well you're not getting anything from me buddy," spat the girl, shaking her head is dismissal.

"My name is Warren Worthington, my father is one of the richest men in the city. I live at a dorm in Manhattan, I can get you the money," ranted Warren, just about at the end of his patience. The girl stared at him for a moment, as if gauging his entire person. Then, after a brief but subtle nod, she straightened her posture and flipped the blade in before tucking it down into her shirt, presumably inside her bra. With no words, she shrugged off the coat and threw it at the winged man, which he caught in momentary surprise. It couldn't be this easy. Nothing in Warren's life ever was.

Hastily, as if he was afraid it would disappear, Warren slid the coat on, pressing his wings, now slightly hanging open, closer to his back. It would've been more effective with the harnesses, but he would have to make do for now. Just as he got one arm in, Warren realized the coat wouldn't stretch enough to cover his chest and wasn't long enough to reach the tips of his wings that were mid-calf. The coat fit over the back of his wings, but left several inches exposed at the bottom, and bared his muscled chest to the elements, an overall very awkward look. Hanging his head in disappointment, Warren pursed his lips to try and stay calm, not freak out. He would have to find another way.

Slowly, he pulled the coat off and held it out for the girl.

"It won't fit," he mumbled, feeling absurdly stupid for all the dependency he had put on one coat. If he was less clouded by his clingy hope, he would realize that in relation, the girl was several inches shorter than himself, and had a more slender body, thus the coat may look large on her, but be tight on him.

"Not surprised," spoke the girl, nodding her head with a slight look of arrogance. Warren glanced up to see her eying him with a smirk.

"I can help you get a sheet or something. For an extra hundred," offered the girl, now crossing her arms over her chest. Warren stared at her, now withholding what little hope he had, the useless coat still hanging from his hand.

"How?" he asked, steeling his voice to keep out the frustration. The girl's smirk grew.

"I have my ways. Put the coat back on, it helps a bit." With that, the girl turned and rounded the corner, heading back the way she came. Eyes widening, Warren hurried after her, reaching her while she was busying herself with the bag and backpack she dropped when he accidentally hit her with his wing. That's what it was, an accident. Warren hated to think it was something else.

"What are you doing?" he asked, because it was the only thing he could really say at the moment. His mind was a whole clutter of thoughts, from whether or not denying the cure was right to how in hell could he ever face his father again . The girl raised her eyebrow at him, slowing getting up from her crouch as she swung the brown backpack over her shoulder.

"Uh, what does it look like? Helping you cover those feathery whites, duh," said the girl, as if he had asked her a ridiculous question like what color boots she was wearing.

"I don't even know your name," protested Warren, knowing full well that he shouldn't look a gift-horse in the mouth, but he was fed up with the girl's attitude and lip.

"Cameron. Now put on the coat, and let's go birdboy," she said, in the same 'duh' voice. Honestly, Warren wasn't very surprised; the masculine name fit her quite well. Cameron turned and walked toward the dumpster Warren fancied she had been sifting through (and tried to cover up, horribly, with that trashy perfume) and pushed herself atop it, looking ready to jump the fence that the dumpster was set against.

Wondering why such bad luck always befell him, and why he had jumped out of the window without grabbing his coat, Warren pulled the green jacket on, a tight fit, and hastened to climb up the dumpster just as Cameron was climbing over the chain linked fence with practiced ease.

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Reviews would be appreciated since I'd like to know how my first story went, haha. I don't think I'll add to this, but I hesitate to call it a oneshot.