The Enemy of my Enemy, part 1 (After-Dinner MNTs)

[Warren Worthington III]

" …comme dessert, je prendrai une tarte aux pommes. "

The waiter nods once, crisply, and returns to the kitchen as Warren turns his attention from the menu to admiring, for approximately the hundred-and-twenty-seventh time, how good Josh looks in a tux, and how bewildered he still looks at being taken to Paris for dinner. All of which leaves Warren grinning like a twelve-year-old on Christmas Eve as he raises his wineglass. " To happy birthdays," he toasts softly.

Nice to know money is still good for something, he thinks idly as he takes a slow sip of his wine, letting it roll around his tongue. Well, money and enough of a telepathic link to discern a long-standing desire to visit Paris, and a convenient 18th birthday to provide an excuse. Not that Josh would have turned his nose up at a burger at the Westchester Mall, either, but on the other hand how many other boyfriends would have arranged dinner at Taillevent for the occasion?

(Granted, Josh did end up flying them to France on the Blackbird, which probably isn’t on the standard Perfect Date checklist. On the other hand, Josh is hardly a “standard” anything, and the Blackbird turned out to be more, um, romantic, than the first-class tickets would have been… so that worked out well. )

He looks around the room casually, wondering if there’s anybody here he’d recognize. A lot of powerful people eat here, after all, especially when they want to show off to their guests. But nobody seems familiar… though the reverse clearly isn’t true, he realizes, amused at the number of tables looking abruptly away as he looks them over. Well, at least he doesn’t have to worry about paparazzi in a place like this… they know how to handle that sort of thing… and if any of the other patrons have a problem with his wings, or his dinner partner, they at least have the good taste not to mention it.

He grins again as he catches Josh’s eye. "Care for a dance while we’re waiting for the soup course?"

---

Three tables down, General Jean-Claude Ancher makes a distinct effort to clear his mind as he waits calmly for his party to arrive.

He doesn’t think about the two X-Men… certainly not the young telepath. (Of course, that little fact wasn’t revealed at their little press conference, but Strikeback does not depend on news reports for its information. What Ancher’s reports were unclear about was the telepath’s level of sophistication. Moderately low, by all accounts, but that has a way of changing rapidly… and of course, they would not send him to spy on this meeting if he weren’t sophisticated enough to do so effectively.)

No, he doesn’t think about them at all. He’s been trained in how to resist telepathic intrusion, after all… all high-level Strikeback operatives have been. And he doesn’t think about the chaos that is about to visit this quaint little restaurant when his “guests” arrive. Strikeback’s Mutant Neutralization Teams are subtle when they need to be, but in this case they have not been instructed to be subtle… just effective. Whatever these two mutant spies have already uncovered, Archer does not intend to allow them to report back to their headquarters.

[Josh Dalton Worthington]

> …comme dessert, je prendrai une tarte aux pommes.

Josh can get by in French, thanks to the Institute’s language requirement, but conjugating French verbs to score points off of Ororo’s snotty French waiter is totally different than interacting with a live person. He leaves the ordering to Warren, and once again marvels that they’re in Paris, of all places!

Ever since they’d started dating, small, random bits of information had become common knowledge to the other, thanks to their unique mental bond. Normally, the fact that one person had access to unknown amounts of his entire memory should scare him - but with Warren, it was pretty much standard operating procedure. The reality of being able to know another person so fundamentally, cutting past all memories and barriers, both excited and humbled him. As much as he enjoyed their telepathic experiences, though, spending time with Warren was what made him happiest. The telepathic link was sort of an added bonus. More like an extra sense, really. Being able to sense Warren when they were within range was like being able to hold hands from separate rooms.


> To happy birthdays.

He raises his glass, eyes sparkling with cheer. “Thank you for this, Warren. I know I’ve already said it, but honestly… you’ve made my day. I don’t even know what to say! All of this is amazing.” He gestures at the room.

Josh takes another look around the restaurant. There are quite a few important-looking people there, though he doesn’t really recognize any of them. Some of them appear to be familiar with the two of them, however, judging from their abrupt interest in their plates. He wonders whether it’s from their media exposure, or a result of the press conference. Probably both. Except now people know I’m a mutant.

Which, honestly, he could really care less about. With his telekinesis, the two of them were hardly defenseless. He doubted anyone would make an issue out of it here. The place was too upscale for that.

> Care for a dance while we’re waiting for the soup course?

“Of course. I’d like that.” Josh gets up and lets Warren lead him over to the dance floor. It’s a slow piece, played by the musicians in the corner. I can’t say I’ve ever been to a restaurant where you can dance between courses. It’s like something out of a movie.

After a minute, he shyly links eyes with Warren. “You know, this is especially appropriate, seeing how we first got together. Though I can’t see those two,” Josh inclines his head at a particularly stuffy-looking couple seated near the dance floor, “approving of how we were dancing back then.” He grins briefly, but grows quiet as he sways to the music. Josh leans his head against the side of Warren’s, and circles his arms around the other’s waist.

<This is perfect.> Similar to back in Hartford, the world has seemingly narrowed down to the two of them. Except this time, they're much closer to being one than they were before.

[Warren Worthington III]

(( OOC: Schmoop, schmoop, schmoop! Plus a bit of plot at the end. Honest, this will become an action thread eventually. ))

> " I know I’ve already said it, but honestly… you’ve made my day. I don’t even know what to say! All of this is amazing. "

Warren grins, eyes shining. "Say it as often as you like, hon; I love hearing it. Besides, you’ll make it worth my while later…" Which was true, though not the sort of thing one ordinarily said about a birthday gift. Which was a lot of the reason being with Josh was such a treat… he’s never been in a relationship this fundamentally honest before.

(Well, OK, if he’s going to be honest he has to admit he’s never been in a relationship before; one-night stands and back-room orgies aren’t the same thing at all. But even leaving that aside, being with someone who knows your real thoughts and lets you know his is… awesome, in the literal sense of the word. Like being allowed to carry something precious and fragile and beautiful.)

> " Of course. I’d like that. "

Warren chuckles quietly at the eyes on them as they move onto the dance floor. It used to be he knew all the hairy eyeballs were because of his wings… now he isn’t sure how much of it is that, and how much of it is two men dancing.

Both reactions bug him – one of the things that had attracted him to urban youth culture in the first place was how much more accepting of alternative life-styles it was than the high-society culture he’d been raised with – but they bug him less and less. He’s gotten so much joy from his mutation and from Josh that he increasingly just feels pity for the people who would condemn him for either.

> " I can’t see those two approving of how we were dancing back then "

Warren laughs. "I was just thinking something like that, myself. I don’t suppose they’re particularly approving of how we’re dancing now, either… but I can’t say I really care all that much, either." He plants a light kiss on the top of Josh’s head as they move slowly in something that only vaguely resembles a waltz.

> <This is perfect.>

Truthfully, Warren wishes Josh were a better ballroom dancer… it would be nice to really shake up the floor a little. Then he grins at the thought, and shrugs apologetically in his own mind at whatever current or future Josh might pick it up. Just an idle thought, he notes mentally.

It still worries him, sometimes, knowing that Josh might pick up on stray thoughts like that, fearing that the next one might be so insulting or disgusting or otherwise offensive that it ruins everything. But it worries him less and less as time goes by and they experience more of each other, the good and the bad and the ugly, and they deal with it.

Of course, it’s had its difficulties, and he knows Josh feels the same… some things really are best kept private. But somehow even the most frankly disgusting personal moments, things he’d never in a million years even talk about with anyone else, don’t feel that way with Josh… it’s more like a part of him experiencing it all, instead of someone else observing him.

And anyway, the shared joyful moments more than make up for it… it all feels more real, somehow, with someone else to share it. It makes the sex indescribably good, too, but surprisingly it’s the little quiet moments of enjoying a song or a warm breeze or something like that, stuff you ordinarily can’t share with anyone, that matter more.

Perfect enough, for sure, he thinks “out loud,” letting his memories of their first dance bleed through with the words, along with the warm contentment of having Josh in his arms. I’ll have to top it somehow for your twentieth, though. You’d better start working on a new fantasy…

It’s odd, thinking about two years in the future when they’ve only been together a couple of months. But at the same time it feels completely natural. Not so much because he’s sure they’ll still be together then – there’s no predicting the future, and he knows that – but because it feels like they’ve already been together forever.

On reflection, Warren supposes the telepathic link is responsible for a lot of that. It’s like being an old married couple, one of the good marriages where they stay engaged and involved in each others’ lives, know each other’s flaws and are OK with them, even while they’re still in that “honeymoon” period where they can’t get enough of each other.

In more ways than one, he realizes. Heck, it’s only been a few hours since Josh landed the Blackbird, and Warren’s already thinking about the hotel room he reserved for the evening. He grins, reminding himself to stay in the moment… and being here, dancing with the man he loves and offending half of French high society into the bargain, is definitely a good moment to be in.

"I think our soup is ready," he murmurs, sensing the waiter returning to their table without opening his eyes or changing the rhythm of their movements. The roar of a high-performance engine coming to a sudden stop catches his attention for a moment – there aren’t many cars souped up like that on the road; heck, even the Institute only has the one – but he disregards it. Whatever it is, it’s not our problem tonight.

---

The five-agent team slips rapidly out of their car and lines up for just a second before deliberately adopting more relaxed, sloppy poses – no sense in giving themselves away before they’re ready to strike.

The team leader nods approvingly and checks his gear, making sure it’s all operational and concealed."OK, we’re live,” he murmurs practically inaudibly into his throat-mike. "Disperse and establish line of sight; fire on my mark only. Anti-telepath protocols active, make sure your inhibitors are online. Winged target has augmented senses; maintain complete silence until mark once we’re indoors. "

He resists the temptation to reiterate mission objectives: neutralize both targets and capture for interrogation if possible, kill if necessary to prevent target escape, and identify additional mutant targets and neutralize them as well, calling in backup as needed. It isn’t necessary; the team is hand-picked and well-trained for just this sort of operation, they don’t need the reminder.

He nods again, and they all make their way discretely into the restaurant. He knows the MNTs weren’t slated to begin active missions for another three months, so obviously something unplanned is happening. No battle plan survives contact with the enemy, he reminds himself. It doesn’t matter. He can’t speak for the rest of Strikeback’s operatives, but his team is ready to roll.

[Josh Dalton Worthington]

(OOC - schmoopy!)

Josh blushes a little as Warren kisses him on the top of his head, pleased. While Warren was the one with the wings, and presumably the one more used to defying the norm in public, he couldn’t help but enjoy Warren showing affection for him in public.

As the two of them dance, Josh picks up Warren’s wish to show the rest of the floor how it’s done. Hey, you’re the one who’s actually taken lessons. You want to blow everyone else away… give me some. It’s not my fault that the only thing taught anymore is the Cha Cha Slide. Theoretically, it was possible for a telepath to temporarily ‘borrow’ learned behaviors from another being. In practice, he’d not had much luck with Jake. Apparently, Jake knew the entire script of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, by heart. Unfortunately, that exercise had ended with the lyrics to ‘Planet Schmanet, Janet’ stuck in his head, backwards. Anyway… if Warren’s teaching me… well, some things are better learned the old-fashioned way. He grins, nudging the thought towards his partner.

Josh could still barely believe the two of them were here, together. In Paris! He hoped that they could see the Eiffel Tower before they left. It was really too bad they were only here for one night. Ororo’s AP Art History course had left him with a strong urge to see the Lourve. Well, we can always fly back for the day! The thought excites him, and he rests his head on Warren’s shoulder once more.

>I’ll have to top it somehow for your twentieth, though. You’d better start working on a new fantasy…

<It's going to take me that long to come up with another.> With the words comes Warren’s recollection of their first date. Josh telepathically enfolds the two of them as they dance in a cloud of warm thoughts. Even more pleasing to him was Warren’s casual reference to the two of them in a long-term sense. Originally, due to Warr’s playboy image, Josh had been a little worried about that. His worry had abruptly ended on the night they’d first made love…

"I want to wake up every morning to see you there, right there, looking at me like that. Just you. Always."

A shiver runs down his back at the memory. He’d been thinking, for awhile, about taking Warren up on that. Maybe it was time. It would definitely beat dodging teachers in the hallway…

> I think our soup is ready.

“Really?” At times Josh envies Warren’s windsense. It seemed to require no real concentration, and often outstripped his telepathy for precision. He opens his eyes, and sure enough, their soup is at the table. “Good job. That deserves something special tonight.” He winks naughtily, and leads Warren by the hand back over to their table. The two of them sit down and begin to eat.

“What else is on the agenda? I’ve given up trying to predict you, Warr.” He grins and takes a spoonful of soup. Wow, this might be the best soup I’ve ever had. Even better than Grandma Dalton’s…

After a minute, he lowers his voice slightly. “And why do I get the impression that everyone stops staring at us every time I look away from you?” Josh raises an eyebrow in mock-innocence. “I suppose it’s the whole gay thing, right? Or maybe the wings.” His eyes light up in amusement. “Or maybe my fly was down?”

[Warren Worthington III]

> Hey, you’re the one who’s actually taken lessons. You want to blow everyone else away… give me some. It’s not my fault that the only thing taught anymore is the Cha Cha Slide.

Warren feels a moment’s sheepishness at his implicit criticism of Josh’s dancing, then grins at the idea of giving Josh dancing lessons. I don’t know, J…, he thinks back, amusement tingeing his thoughts, …our first flying lesson ended with both of us covered in mud in the shower; can you imagine how a dancing lesson might turn out?

The leader is the last to make his way in, and is pleased to note his team has already found positions to surround the targets. Charlie and Red have moved out onto the dance floor, and Scanner rubs the back of her neck as she heads towards the ladies’ room, their pre-arranged signal to indicate no other mutants in the area. His fifth agent is nowhere in sight, of course, which is entirely as it should be.

Lovely. Clean, simple, no complications… just the way we like it. He allows the waiter to lead him to a table.

> " Good job. That deserves something special tonight. "

It still amazes Warren, as he walks a little dazedly back to his seat, that such simple gestures – the wink, the hand-holding, the innocuous innuendo – can have such a powerful effect on him. The tux helps, admittedly, but he’s had less reaction to people doing hardcore striptease acts for him back in his clubbing days! (Come to that, it’s also amazing that he’s able to think of that as a bygone era, and of his time living with his parents as ancient history, when it’s been less than a year since both... feels like magic, sometimes. Which, in a hokey love-song kind of way, Warren supposes it is.)

"I think that’s my line, hot-pants… it’s your birthday this time, remember?"

Charlie surreptitiously watches the couple as they return to their table… easy enough to do, since practically everyone else is doing the same thing. It would be more obvious not to.

Pity this has to be such a fast hit, she thinks. Taking my time with these two could be fun. Which is nonsense, of course; they may look like innocuous teenagers but their threat-level is significant – especially the younger one, who could probably turn her inside-out with a thought if she gave him a chance, which she doesn’t intend to do.

> " What else is on the agenda? I’ve given up trying to predict you, Warr "

Warren laughs as he sits and spreads his napkin on his lap. "What, impatient with dinner so soon? Enjoy the soup. We’ve got all night." Which, he’ll admit, is hardly fair of him to say when it’s all he can do to keep from cutting dinner short and dragging Josh off into a dark cave somewhere, but he can’t resist teasing Josh about his enthusiasm. Not that he expects Josh to mind being teased, admittedly.

"As for predicting me… well, you should keep trying. I get my best ideas from your guesses, sometimes." As he takes a spoonful of the watercress soup^* he adds with a suggestively raised eyebrow Especially the ones you’re too embarrassed to mention out loud…

* www.npr.org/programs/atc/features/2001/nov/recipe/011119.pariscook.html#Watercress

From his concealing patch of shadow, Strikeback’s fifth operative readies his sniper rifle and settles his sight on the side of Josh’s head. Good… sitting down. Easier target that way. Not that it really matters… he can plug a moving target between the eyes from fifty meters; taking down a couple of waltzing fairies is hardly even sport.

> " And why do I get the impression that everyone stops staring at us every time I look away from you I suppose it’s the whole gay thing, right? Or maybe the wings. Or maybe my fly was down? "

"Believe me, if your fly were down I’d have noticed," Warren replies around a smirk. Then he shrugs. "Not to cut the legs out from under your budding career as a public indecency, but remember this is France, not the U.S. Two guys dancing raises eyebrows only from the tourists, so it’s probably the wings. " He’s about to ask Josh if it’s a problem, but he already knows the answer… then decides Josh would probably appreciate the opportunity to say it out loud, anyway. "Do you mind?"

Red rolls his eyes at the cutesy dialog as he trains his sensor rig on the targets. No concealed weapons, no body armor. Younger one can’t even dance.

Of course, they’re both telekinetics – though Worthington isn’t much of one, granted – so they’re hardly unarmed or defenseless, but all their freaky mutant abilities in the world won’t help them if they don’t see the attack coming.

He taps Charlie twice on the shoulder as they dance, indicating target acquisition, and she acknowledges. Now it’s just a matter of waiting to get the “go” signal.

[Josh Dalton Worthington]

> Especially the ones you’re too embarrassed to mention out loud…

Josh sucks a little too much soup in at the mental comment, but recovers and throws Warren a mischievous grin. <That goes both ways, love.> He continues eating, unable to keep the crooked smile off his face. One of the things about being romantically involved with a telepath was how hard it was to keep things from each other. Oh, they gave each other mental privacy, of course. It would be difficult not to. Things tended to float both ways across their link, though, without actual conscious thought. Despite the possible drawbacks (Christmas gift-giving was going to be rough this year!) Josh would never have changed things - telepathy brought an entirely new level to the concept of ‘intimacy’.

>Two guys dancing raises eyebrows only from the tourists, so it’s probably the wings. [..] Do you mind?

He knows that Warren knows already. Just because the two of them both know his answer, doesn’t mean it needs to be said any less. “You know I don’t care. I love you, wings or not.” He locks eyes With Warren. <And, honestly? The wings are a huge turn-on.> Josh strokes a telekinetic hand along Warren’s jaw from across the table.

A pair of waltzers catches his eye while the two of them eat. There’s something about them that makes him uncomfortable. Perhaps it’s how the rest of the restaurant is throwing occasional glances at the two of them. This pair is doing the same, but their gaze is… uncomfortable. Not curious, unlike the others. I’m probably just imagining things. Josh picks up his napkin and brushes at a bit of soup on the edge of his lip.

“So, how’s the seminar going? You were so excited about starting that. I hope the students aren’t giving you any trouble.” Cause if they are, I’ll go take care of them for you… He thinks this, but doesn’t say it out loud. Josh himself was extremely interested in seeing Warren’s teaching style, how he interacted with the other students, and that sort of thing. He’d even begun to develop an interest in the topic after being with Warren.

No way in hell I’m taking it, though. Josh had been happy for Warren when he’d found out, and even happier with his promotion to the X-Men. The fact that it elevated Warren to something past student, but less than faculty made him a less happy, however. He kept waiting for someone to comment on him ‘fucking Professor Worthington’. Although I can’t visualize anyone calling Warren ‘Professor’ quite yet…

"Any current PR plans for the X-Men?" Josh looks curious. "The big press conference went well."

[Warren Worthington III]

> < That goes both ways, love. >

Warren grins. I’ve noticed… and a good thing too!

It still feels unbelievable when he stops to think about it. A few months ago he’d have said, if anyone had asked him, that he was already living out his fantasies. In fact, he had said it, several times; he knows this because it ended up in print once or twice. Looking back on it he genuinely can’t understand how he’d ever thought that. That’s the problem with giving interviews, he supposes… you end up with a permanent chronicle of your own foolishness, whereas most people can just quietly forget about it.

Seated at his table, the MNT leader places an order for drinks and appetizers with his overly chatty waiter… no sense in calling attention to himself, after all. Eventually the waiter heads off to the kitchen, and he gives a final scan around the room.

Good… everyone is in position, then. He reaches discreetly into his jacket pocket for the triggering device and catches Red’s attention.

> " You know I don’t care. I love you, wings or not. " < And, honestly? The wings are a huge turn-on. >
Warren almost chokes on his soup at Josh’s telekinetic caress, then flashes a predatory grin. "Oh, are they now?" Discretely concealed by the tablecloth, he snakes a wingtip suggestively up Josh’s pants leg and rolls a dress sock down to his ankle. "Why do I keep forgetting that? I’ll have to keep it in mind for later." He rolls the sock back up and withdraws the wingtip, then, his smile turning teasing.

"Excellent soup, don’t you think?"

He reviews the plan one last time in his mind – it’s a fairly boilerplate operation, but they only had a few minutes to adapt it to the specific targets, so it’s good to double-check.

If all goes according to plan, the detonation takes out the lights and grabs everyone’s attention, the trank takes out Dalton before he knows what hit him, Red and Charlie take out Worthington with tazers – pity about his toxin resistance; the tranks are so much neater -- and the three of them are gone with the bodies before the emergency generators even kick in, leaving him and Scanner behind to confuse any pursuit.

If it doesn’t go as planned, plan B is old-fashioned bullets… Dalton can stop one or two, but can’t cope with concentrated machine-pistol fire from four sources. Getting out is even simpler, then, since they don’t need to take the bodies with them.

And if either of the targets gets outside… well, the SAMs are more blatant than he’d like to use, but his mission parameters were clear: prevent target escape by any means necessary.

He doesn’t actually nod, but he relaxes imperceptibly as he gives the signal and triggers the detonator. These freaks don’t stand a chance.

> " So, how’s the seminar going? You were so excited about starting that. I hope the students aren’t giving you any trouble. "

"Well, I’m no Hank McCoy, but that’s probably just as well… looking things up in dictionaries all the time does have a way of distracting students. I’m basically following his lead, though: real-world problems, real-world analysis, emphasis on clear thinking and not just right answers. Right now I’ve got them working on ways to predict the House and Senate votes on Hank’s bill… I’ve already announced that anyone who calls it right gets an automatic A for the class. Has a way of motivating them. " Warren finishes his soup and pushes the plate away slightly, leaning back into his chair with a relaxed chuckle.

He’s been happier than this, certainly, but he can’t remember ever being more content. He closes his eyes for a moment to take in the whole room… the music, the couples on the dance floor, Josh’s heartbeat and breathing, the waiters bustling eagerly, the sounds of food and drink and conversation and –

click BOOM phut

Later, Warren will confabulate this instant the way people inevitably do, remembering it as taking longer than it does and involving more conscious thought. In fact, it’s as simple as the sound of a gun-hammer being cocked grabbing his attention, and the shape of a figure on the balcony pointing a rifle at Josh galvanizing him into instinctive action, their table flying halfway across the room as Warren wraps himself protectively around Josh before he’s quite realized that there’s a threat.

Well, so much for plan A, Red thinks as Worthington gets in the trank’s way.

His hand was already heading for his tazer, but moves on without hesitation to the machine pistol next to it. He doesn’t even bother angling for a clear shot; they’ve run this sort of simulation before: Teflon-coated bullets blow right through the wings and take out the main target. Worthington’s clearly been watching too many movies with this take-a-bullet-for-your-lover business… in the real world it just gets both of you killed. He’d’ve done better to let the kid get tranked.

He beats Charlie to the punch by a fraction of a second, he thinks, though (of course) Scanner’s already firing before he’s even squeezing the trigger – she can be freaky that way, sometimes. It’ll take the sniper an extra second or so to switch weapons; Red figures the show’ll be over before then.

Warren is surprised when the bullet turns out to be a dart, embedding itself in his wing rather than blowing through it. Drugged, he assumes… so if he can survive the next few minutes he might surprise them with a quick recovery.

That happy thought fades almost before it’s completed, as gunmen seem to appear out of nowhere. In the instant before the bullets strike he concentrates on his new “force-field aura” trick, but knows even as he does it that it’s no use – it can protect him from windburn and friction, sure, and he even managed to spend thirty seconds in a swimming pool completely dry once, but bullets will tear through it like fabric. And Josh can stop a bullet or two, but not the barrage that’s coming.

I guess this is it, then, he thinks, strangely calm. Not the worst way to go… it certainly beats accidentally drowning in a lake. At least they’re together… though he’d give that up too, if it meant Josh would survive. Guess we should’ve gone to Disneyland, after all…

[Josh Dalton Worthington]

Josh starts a little when he feels Warren’s wingtip underneath the table brushing up his leg. The sensation, in conjunction with his evaluating grin, makes Josh’s stomach flutter. It takes all of his willpower to keep himself from jumping across the table and having his way with Warren, right there in the restaurant.

> Excellent soup, don’t you think?

“You know… the soup is excellent. But I’m sort of looking forward to the main course.” Josh bats his eyes in Warren’s direction. Two can play at this game… A small laugh escapes his lips.

The two of them finish their soup after a minute or two. Josh is about to suggest another short dance - anything to have your arms around me - when everything goes all to hell.

click BOOM phut

Josh feels a surge of fear from Warren, and before he quite realizes what’s happening, the table is overturned, and Warren is hugging him tightly, their bodies pressed up together. Vaguely he realizes that Warren’s arms are, indeed, now around him, but this is forgotten when a dart appears in Warren’s wing.

“Nooo!!!” Josh lets out an anguished shout as he sees it flick into his vision. He reaches out with his telekinesis and removes it quickly, hearing it drop to the floor with a clink of metal. At the same time, a man at a nearby table pulls a machine pistol out of his dinner jacket, and a pair of dances extend firearms in their direction.

Josh hugs Warren tightly as a thought fires its way across their link. Some sort of resigned contentment that they’ll die together… A tear works its way out through his squeezed eyelids. At the same time, he feels Warren’s short-range telekinetic aura surge, which sets off a series of thoughts in Josh’s own brain, all in an instant.

First of all, there’s no way that Warren’s aura is going to keep them safe, especially taking into effect its lack of range. I can stop a couple bullets… but not at the speed a machine pistol is going to pump them out. Add on top of that the bullets coming from at least three separate directions… We’re dead. I wonder whether it’s going to hurt a lot? Maybe I can keep Warren safe with my powers… Wait. Telekinesis. Warren. It’s worth a shot.

As he hears the whine of the weapons in the background, Josh reaches out with a combination of telepathy and telekinesis, weaving their two minds together as he similarly interlocks their telekinetic energy. He projects his voice into Warren’s mind. <Together - we’re unstoppable.> Linked, their powers move in synch with one another. With all of his mental strength, Josh pushes outward with his TK. Oddly, his range seems to have shrunken down to about two feet… but the sheer power of their combined might staggers him.

Red scythes fire across the pair. He and Charlie have instinctively taken cover by a nearby table, oblivious to the screams of the staff and patrons. Charlie has that look on her face… that one. Nothing wrong with enjoying your work, I suppose. The gunfire winds down sporadically as each of the team members’ pistols click, empty. The targets’ bodies are obscured by clouds of smoke and destroyed furniture. Expensive marble tiling has thrown chips every which way, and Red coughs, waving a hand around.

As the hail of gunfire impacts their telekinetic shield, Josh clutches Warren as if the world is ending. Soon, they’re encased in smoke, made all the more unreal by the restaurant’s emergency lighting. It’s working! None of the shots seem to be making it through.

When Red reaches down, feeling around for another clip, a hand materializes out of the cloud. It jerks roughly in their direction, and he can feel himself lifted off the ground by a blast of force. Red sails across the room, finally landing in an ornate fountain near the lobby, shouting painfully. Charlie catches the edge of the wave, and is spun around into a nearby chair. Their leader looks down as he slams a fresh clip home, and sights towards the targets. Nothing…

Josh crouches next to Warren, on the far side of the smoke. He’s pulled the two of them around behind a decorative column, which isn’t likely to hold their attackers off for long. He was too frantic to aim well, though he's certain one of them is in pain right now, judging from the distance of the crash. “Warren? Are you okay?” Josh sounds ready to cry, and brushes his boyfriend’s hair back. It’s okay. If it was a tranquilizer, he’ll need a couple minutes to metabolize whatever it was. If it wasn’t… He pushes the thought from his mind.

[Bobby Drake]

Warren is not in the least clear on what just happened. Well, OK, part of it is obvious: a bunch of random strangers started shooting at him and Josh. He’s pretty clear about that part. Also, he isn’t dead. Which is nice. He’s pretty sure Josh had something to do with that, and he thinks it involved combining their abilities in some way he’d never considered before and doesn’t entirely understand. Which would be fascinating if it weren’t for the whole “random strangers shooting at them” part.

Also, whatever it is he’s on, the high is absolutely amazing… and it’s not outside the bounds of the possible that all the rest of it is just a particularly involved hallucination.

> " Warren? Are you okay?"

"Who… me? Dandy. I’m – " Whatever he was about to say is cut off by the sight of two men with machine pistols coming around the pillar behind Josh, drawing a bead. "Look out be— oof!" His warning is cut off, in turn, by a boot in his solar plexus, attached to an angry-looking woman whirling around the pillar.

He raises a wing instinctively to block her punch – too slow, too weak. It takes him in the jaw, not quite managing to crack it but not for lack of trying, and is followed by its two older brothers before Warren has even finished hitting the ground. Whoever this woman is, she’s good… Warren isn’t sure he could take her even if he wasn’t on some kind of horse-tranquilizers. As it is, whatever limited grasp on consciousness he’s got doesn’t seem likely to last much longer, and from the resumed sounds of gunfire he suspects Josh already has his hands too full to help.

He tries to roll up to his feet, but his legs get tangled up in his wings, and he falls again. His assailant takes advantage of the opening, another kick landing astonishingly painfully in his kidneys. She seems to be enjoying this, he realizes, and that seems to be a bit much to have to put up with…

[Josh Dalton Worthington]

Josh is relieved when Warren’s able to respond to him verbally. Thank god. What would I do without you? Warren’s handling whatever it was in the dart better than he’d been figuring. Hopefully in a couple minutes he’d be back together in the head.

If we have a couple minutes. Those guys are packing some serious firepower. Shit. Josh allows himself a moment of pique. Assholes. This was supposed to be my birthday. We were going to see the Eiffel Tower. Somehow I have the feeling we’re not going to end up at that hotel Warren reserved for us. His lip curls slightly. Well, if we’re doomed, I’m at least going to make it difficult for them. No one attacks my boyfriend and gets away with it.

> Look out be— oof!

One of their assailants comes hurling around the pillar and clocks Warren, hard. Josh raises his hands, about to fling her across the room, when Warren’s last words finally process. Dammit. He whirls around, just in time to see the first one level the machine pistol in his face. With a grunt, he whips a hand around, knocking the gun wide as it goes off. The other sights at him, and Josh spins to the side as shots rip through his previous location. Why couldn’t I sense their approach?

This is not good. With a flick of his wrist, the second attacker’s pistol goes careening across the room. Josh goes charging around the column, hoping to get some space between himself and the two gunning for him. He risks a look across to Warren. Shit. He’s not doing well. The woman he was fighting had a twisted smile on her face. As he ducks around the next pillar, he catches a chair near their melee, and deals her a sharp blow to the head. Her howl is heard clearly over the other gunfire.

Which means they’re catching up… crap! He’s unsure where the original dart came from, so it’s likely there’s a fifth attacker. The other female is nowhere to be found, which also seems ominous. Got to draw them away from Warren.

“Hey, assholes. Over here!” He risks a glance around the column, and gets a faceful of marble chips in response. That was too close. Hmm… There are still a number of diners in the area. Bet this wasn’t what you were expecting, tonight… Josh glances around for inspiration. Fortunately, the Taillevent’s styling was vaguely Rococo, including vaulted ceilings. Gathering his energy into a telekinetically-assisted jump, he leapfrogs across the main dining area, landing in a run, still hearing stuttering gunfire, and turns a corner into another seating area…

Only to be confronted with the one who’d he disarmed earlier. “How did you--” The man gives Josh a predatory snarl, and delivers a gut-wrenching blow to his middle, throwing him back out into the main dining room.

<How’re you holding up, love?> Josh winces a little as he picks himself up off the floor.

[Warren Worthington III]

> < How’re you holding up, love? >

Warren’s reply would be sarcastic if he had the energy to respond, which he doesn’t.

He’d been vaguely aware of a pause in her assault as she was hit by a chair, which slowed her down enough for him to get back up to his knees… he even managed to hit her once with a wing-swipe she seemed to feel. Other than that, the fight has been pretty one-sided so far. Whatever was in that dart has fully kicked in now; he can barely control his body, and he hardly feels the blows landing… though the occasional sound of a cracking bone reminds him that they’re still just as powerful as they were.

He’s pretty sure the only thing keeping him alive and conscious is that his assailant is enjoying the process of systematically breaking him too much to just shoot him; her face has this glazed-over expression that he’s occasionally seen on real music aficionados at particularly good concerts. She lets him make it to almost his feet before a perfectly executed roundhouse kick to his groin sends him back to the ground, wrapped around a jagged shard of white-hot pain that doesn’t seem to want to go away.

He watches her watch him work his way up to his knees again and sees the disappointment in her eyes… they both know the next blow is going to put him out of action. If anything, she seems more unhappy about it than he does.

Scanner watches Charlie systematically demolishing Worthington and clucks her tongue… not good, allowing herself to be distracted like that. The new meds aren’t working as well as their superiors had hoped… oh well. That’s what happens when you send teams into the field before they’re fully baked.

At least the rest of the team is remembering its combat tactics, which is good. It had taken months to retrain commando forces to deal with targets who can disarm and demolish with a thought, but this battle was validating Strikeback’s basic tactical philosophy: fast and stealthy and from multiple directions, never staying in one place long enough to target.

Essentially Strikeback’s trainers had applied guerilla strategy to melee tactics, and it was working beautifully. Dalton would have demolished a more traditionally trained military squad by now, even one of three times their size. Granted, he’s holding off the rest of the team, which is a little disappointing, but it’s one close call after another… if he keeps fighting (which her intuition suggests he won’t, for long) it’s only a matter of time before someone connects. If the team were only a little more coordinated, he would already be dead. She notes that for her report, as well.

The telepathic inhibitors seemed to be working well, also, and the battle is giving Scanner a precious opportunity to observe the boy in action. His tactics are pedestrian, though competent; his telekinesis is formidable… or at least has formidable potential. And she is beginning to sense patterns in his energy-manipulations which may be of some use to her.

Scanner doesn’t entirely understand the nature or limits of her own ability, which is ironic… then again, she’s only had it for six weeks. At first her abilities were purely sensory, which led to her code-name… since then she’s discovered other applications, like intuitions about good places to conceal herself where nobody will think to look, intuitions about an opponent’s next move, etc. She hasn’t lost a chess game in a month.

More recently, she’s started being able to analyze other mutates’ powers as well as detect them. Thus far it’s only been useful for finding weaknesses and helping train new mutates, but she’s wondered lately whether she could learn to duplicate them artificially. An engine that functioned on telekinetic principles could reshape the world! (At least, if the military ever let it out of their control, which they wouldn’t, but still.)

So she watches the boy carefully as he fights, confident in her concealment. The team hardly needs her gunfire, after all… her intuition is that Dalton and Worthington will foolishly take to the air quite soon, and their missile array outside ought to take care of the situation thereafter.

[Josh Dalton Worthington]

Back on his feet, Josh risks a glance over towards the plate-glass window, where the two of them had been eating before their unknown assailants had interrupted things. Not good. The woman was taking Warren to pieces. Bitch. He’s drugged, thanks to your friends. The animalistic look on her face only incenses him more. How sick. She’s enjoying this…

“Shit!” Josh curses and sends a few chairs flying backwards at his attackers. Neither of us are going to survive this unless we run. Bullets don’t bounce off of us. Not usually, anyway… He thinks briefly of earlier.

As a plan formulates in his mind, the two males’ shots become increasingly accurate. Right, here we go. Josh pushes off from the table he’s crouching behind, pelting full speed for where Warren’s fighting the woman near the window. Simultaneously, tablecloths (plates, flatware, and all) covering almost a dozen tables lift up into the air and go twirling through the air towards Josh’s assailants, covering his retreat.

Oh, god. As he approaches Warren and the woman, he can see her about to land one hell of a blow. Josh jumps at her, rotating his body telekinetically in midair so he’s feet-first. As his feet impact her midsection, she cries out. The two of them hurtle towards the window. Her eyes become the size of dinner plates as she smashes against the glass, shattering the pane. The two of them topple over the edge, and Josh catches Warren in a telekinetic grip before he drops out of sight, tossing him through the opening.

For a sickening moment, the three of them drop like stones. After a second, Josh reestablishes telekinetic control and halts their movement, allowing the woman to drop rapidly towards the streets of Paris. Grimacing, he looks away, and then begins to propel the two of them out of sight of the window. The skyline is beautiful, but their current situation prevents any enjoyment of it.

"You okay?" Josh brushes his body up against Warren's, trying to maneuver Warren's arm over his shoulder to take over some of the lift work. It was easier to maneuver "one" object than two with his powers.

[Warren Worthington III]

On the periphery of his windsense, Warren is vaguely aware of a veritable tempest of flying objects and of Josh rushing towards him, so the collision that forces his assailant out the window is somewhat less of a surprise to him than to her – although, granted, his continued consciousness is something of a surprise to him in his current state.

OK, that gets me a breather, at least. Maybe if I can hide from the others for a few minutes I can YIPE! That line of thought goes straight out the window and he follows it, yanked through the now-missing glass by a telekinetic grip he’s too weak to fight, even if he wanted to – which, once he realizes the field is Josh’s, he doesn’t.

Instinctively, he unfurls his wings to catch the air, wincing at the strain. Well, at least there’s no bones in them to break, he thinks. More than I can say for the rest of me… He’s vaguely aware of the woman falling towards street level, and of his body being lifted away from the window, away from their attackers, gaining altitude without effort… it takes him a moment to realize it’s Josh doing the work, and that he stands a chance of surviving this.

The kick to her spine comes as a surprise, and she swears under her breath – four squadmates and nobody could at least shout a headsup? – before she smashes into the window and feels it give way. She’s fairly certain that isn’t natural, which means Teekboy is being cute. You’ll get your turn soon enough, freak! she thinks, wishing her inhibitor didn’t keep the kid from picking up the threat.

She’s a little surprised he lets her fall, though not very… their briefings had indicated that most of Xavier’s students weren’t killers, but that sort of thing tended to burn away in the heat of the moment. Certainly, quite a few of Stryker’s soldiers hadn’t come back from that mission, and Charlie doubts they’d all been accidents.

Of course, she isn’t relying on Teekboy’s good will to keep her alive, in any case. She flips into a skydiving posture reflexively to maximize surface area, and reaches into a holster to pull out her grapnel gun… she’d initially packed it in case they needed a window entry, but with a little luck she can use it to survive this impromptu window exit of hers. The first plausible anchor-point she spots is the Taillevent balcony, and without the time to select a better target she fires at it and holds on tight.

The grapnel catches on the wrought-iron railing and the line goes taut almost immediately, turning Charlie’s fall into a swing. She winces as she realizes where that swing is going to terminate, then grits her teeth and extends her legs to take up the impact as she smashes through yet another window back into the building, sending shards of glass flying through what seems to be Taillevent’s kitchen. A large man in a chef’s hat comes charging at her with a cleaver, yelling something she can’t make head nor tail of with two years of high-school French (something about this being his kitchen?). She kneecaps him on her way to the elevator… she wants to see the show when their SAM takes out the flying Wallenzas out there.

Warren relaxes a little as Josh maneuvers him into a more comfortable gliding position, and manages to hold onto his shoulder without too much pain. Oh, good… arm’s just bruised, then, not broken. Thank God for small favors.

> "You OK?"

That gets a laugh out of him – or, well, an attempt at a laugh, which turns into a pained wheezing cough and forces him to spit out a couple of teeth. He’s pretty sure all of this would hurt much more than it does if it weren’t for the trank, and isn’t entirely looking forward to his body finally metabolizing it completely.

"’m ‘lb… ss sm’in, ah guess.." Warren suspects that, if his reply was understood at all (“I’m alive… that’s something, I guess”), it’s entirely thanks to their telepathic connection. He wonders, idly, if his teeth will grow back… they might, given his regenerative talent, but he’s never had occasion to test it.

Thanks for the rescue, hon… I wouldn’t have lasted much longer in there. Trank’s wearing off a little, though… that’s good, I guess. Who were those guys? Not even French paparazzi are that aggressive. Is this an X-Men initiation thing nobody told me about? "

As the building recedes below them, Warren relaxes a little more… whatever that was, they seem to have survived it. Guess we should contact St – shit! INCOMING! His thought is interrupted by something large and self-propelled heading towards them – a guided missile of some kind, by the “feel” of it – and he tries evasive maneuvers without thinking… managing mostly to send jagged shards of pain up and down his back as various pulled, bruised, and strained muscles complain of being put back to work.

Scanner nods at the confirmation of her intuition as the two X-Men take to the skies. She’d thought they would go out the balcony, granted, but Dalton’s trick with the window was inspired – two birds, one stone, no pun intended.

The sound of breaking glass and brief gunfire comes to her from downstairs, informing her of Charlie’s survival. A moment later she senses the SAM being fired… mission accomplished, then. Or… is it?

There are times when Scanner thinks she may actually be prescient, and other times when she thinks she simply extrapolates brilliantly from available data. It’s hard to tell the difference. Either way, though, she suddenly becomes aware that while that missile would take out either target separately, as well as both together independently, there exists the possibility that they can coordinate their powers to survive it. The chance is small, requiring a level of coordination team-mates would not normally be capable of, but in surviving the hail of gunfire these two have already demonstrated a psychic closeness that transcends normal team unity.

Scanner bolts from her secure position and heads towards the elevator at a dead run, gesturing to the rest of the team to switch to plan B… this mission is not over yet.

[Josh Dalton Worthington]

> m ‘lb… ss sm’in, ah guess..

Warren’s reply is almost impossible to understand, but their psychic link ensures the message arrives. Josh can already feel the weariness of Warren’s mind pressing down him. After scanning the nearby space for threats, he risks a glance over at Warren. The tears that had been forgotten in the heat of battle, back in the restaurant, begin to flow freely. His face is black and blue all over. In fact, more of Warren’s face was bruised than was not. Why would someone do this? Josh briefly slips his hand into Warren’s.

> Thanks for the rescue, hon…

After a moment his fear and sadness gives way to cold anger. <I didn’t recognize them. If anyone else tries to hurt you, I hope they have their will all figured out.> That bitch deserved what she got, he voices silently. The upstanding, ethical side of him rails at the thought of more needless death, but the shell-shocked portion wonders whether the two of them will make it out alive.

Josh shifts his grip a little, trying to cradle Warren’s injured shoulder and take on a little more of the locomotion himself. He opens his mouth to begin speaking, when -

guess we should contact St – shit! INCOMING!

- rips through his mind. Thorough Warren’s mental perceptions of his windsense, Josh can feel the missile careening towards the two of them at breakneck speed.

Shitshitshitshit. He abortively tries to increase their telekinetic speed, but it’s utterly pointless. It’s gaining far too fast. Instead, he casts around desperately for another idea. Hey, it’s worth a shot if we’re screwed anyway.

When Storm had trained him to fly the Blackbird, one of their exercises had included offensive power use in certain situations. The ship itself had no weaponry, but a good percentage of its passengers carried deadly long-range weaponry, be it tornadoes, lightning, fire, ice, telekinesis, or any number of others. One of their scenarios had been modeled on a dogfight on the way back from Boston, right before Alkali. Jean had been able to destroy a missile at long range. The second one had still hit… but the theory itself was good. He’d practiced it a good number of times, with the biggest problem being the sheer speed of the projectile. There wasn't much time.

Here goes nothing. Josh reaches out with his telekinesis, feeling the contours of the missile. Shit, they’ve proofed it! Unlike any of the others he’d conquered in the past, this one appeared to be sealed together in one piece. No screws or plating to rip apart. They’ve thought of everything, then. Hooray. Josh feels despair sinking in on him, until a single crazy thought dawns on him. The fuel cell.

He jerks out with his powers, clenching the fuel tank in an invisible vise. Josh concentrates with all his might, and crushes it in on itself. Yeah! The missile explodes spectacularly. His mental cheer quickly turns into fear when the explosion is much larger - and closer - than he’d anticipated.

Josh wraps his arms around Warren, trying to shield him from the blast. <Look out!> A telekinetic shield interposes itself between the two of them and the explosion, but it’s quickly overwhelmed by the shockwave, which tosses the two of them wildly off course. The explosion itself, combined with the feedback from Josh’s shattered concentration, is enough to plunge him into unconsciousness. His body begins to slip away from Warren.

[Warren Worthington III]

> < If anyone else tries to hurt you, I hope they have their will all figured out. >

The thing about telepathy, Warren muses, is that it’s not at all ambiguous whether someone is being ironic or hyperbolic, and Josh isn’t: he really is willing to kill to protect Warren, whatever the consequences.

Warren isn’t quite sure what his reaction to that ought to be. He’s never been in a position where he’s had to kill to save his own life; the idea of someone else doing it for him doesn’t feel right. But regardless of what his reaction ought to be, what it actually is is a profound sense of being protected and cherished. Of safety, however absurd that might seem while floating semiconscious twenty stories above the streets of Paris while a well-armed paramilitary team tries to kill them.

Funny thing, love… just when Warren thinks he’s gotten a grip on it, something happens to remind him he hasn’t even scratched the surface.

But here and now, with a guided missile about to turn them into a smoking mess on the sidewalk, really wasn’t the time to be ruminating on the nature of love… except maybe it was, because it would have been a shame to die without having made that realization, and it’s pretty clear they aren’t going to evade this missile unless Josh pulls a miracle out of his back pocket.

Which, somehow unsurprisingly, he does. Warren’s mind follows Josh’s through the sudden inspiration and the subsequent waves of despair, enthusiasm, and fear… and, when the attenuated shockwave and telekinetic feedback sends Josh’s mind into darkness, Warren’s drugged and battered mind follows it.

That his world goes black and silent then isn’t surprising – that’s what being unconscious should be like – but the dim-but-pulsing presence of Josh’s mind is. Josh? he tries to probe gently, not really sure how that works or if he’s capable of it at all, let alone in his current state... and the darkness around him lights up, just a fraction, and slowly Warren comes to realize he’s still conscious, just “visiting” Josh’s unconscious mind (which is a really odd notion… could he visit Josh’s dreams this way?) while both of their bodies are likely plummeting to the sidewalk. Tactically speaking, not a great choice. So, reluctantly, he pulls out until he feels the air rushing past him again, reaching out to grab Josh’s body before it slips away from him.

Warren isn’t the only flier at the Institute, or even necessarily the best one: Josh and Rogue can both fly faster, hover more easily, and carry more weight. But Warren’s body and mind are adapted for flight, and right now that’s the only thing that keeps him and Josh alive. Even semiconscious, disoriented, battered and drugged he catches the wind in his wings and glides to a moderately soft landing about half a block away from the restaurant.

Scanner reaches the sidewalk a few seconds ahead of the rest of the team and spots the targets’ landing, nodding grimly to herself. Dalton must have taken enough of the blast to keep Worthington conscious. The team’s plans had taken both mutants’ powers into account, but hadn’t allowed for their relationship, their mutual instinct to self-sacrifice, the telepathic rapport they’ve established. We’d better stop making that mistake or they’ll get away from us. With a subdued hand-gesture, she signals the rest of the team to follow her.

Warren wastes a few seconds trying to wake Josh up before realizing that’s not going to work, then pulls him into an alley. His muscles ache more with every passing moment, and he welcomes the feeling… it means the sedative is finally clearing out of his system. With a little luck, they won’t be spotted until both of them are a little more ready for action.

Ironically, the team leader is the last to arrive, having taken an extra moment to initiate the backup capture protocol. He gives a small smile of satisfaction as people around him stare in frustration at their mobile phones, disabled by the MNT’s jamming unit. Good. They may have gotten away from us for the moment, but they can’t contact their home base. And the police APB should keep them from using a public phone anywhere without being spotted… fortunately, the wings were easy to spot.

Still, he’s irritated. Their mission was to neutralize the two mutants before they could report back to their headquarters. They still have a good chance of succeeding, but it should never have gotten this close to begin with… the pair was either astonishingly lucky, or the team’s intelligence was faulty. He intends to find out which.

Warren moans under his breath as he hears his assailants making their way “stealthily” down the street towards the alley where he’s hiding. So much for not being spotted. Not that he can complain about their luck so far, granted – by rights they should both be dead – but it would’ve been nice to stretch it a little further.

A manhole cover near the back of the alley offers one way out; a couple of doors and windows offer others. Or he could take to the air again. He discards the last option – it nearly got them both killed the last time – and decides on misdirection: picks up a brick, pries open the manhole cover, drops Josh through it (trying hard to ignore the stench, and the viscous “sploosh” sound), throws the brick through a second-story window with a satisfying CRASH, and drops through after Josh, closing the manhole behind him.

Come on, J… not a good time to nap. He manages not to throw up as he levers Josh’s unconscious body onto his back, or to cry out as his various broken, sprained, and bruised parts complain at the strain, and starts moving down the tunnel as quickly and quietly as possible.