Chapter Text
Everyone wanted super powers, didn’t they? The power to fly, heal, lift buildings, save lives. The power to move things with your mind, to control fire, ice, the weather… Everyone wanted powers.
Everyone wanted powers until they got one they were stuck with.
Y/N had the misfortune of developing abilities at an age younger than puberty, which Charles Xavier had said was not entirely uncommon. But at age 9, your power had more than terrifying. The memory was vivid still, of walking into the hospital to see your aunt who was dying of cancer. She was on hospice. She was dying. Soon. Everyone always said vague numbers and arbitrary dates and it had annoyed you.
Seeing her in the bed, an aunt you knew vaguely well, the one who came over on Thanksgiving and had given you that small bracelet she picked up in India on one of her treks through sacred space your mother had given her grief for. You knew her in a way that hurt because you wanted to know her better.
Your mother had been busy speaking to a nurse when you walked into the sterile room, fluorescent lights spilling in and making the space look vacant. And it was. But you had carried yourself to her side, her eyes closed, dark hair still on her head, not the way you had seen it on TV. She had opted out of chemotherapy. She had wanted to die as herself. Whatever that meant.
Carefully you placed a hand onto her arm, feeling the warmth of her skin, but feeling… something else. It felt heavy. Painful. It felt overwhelming and overpowering. It… well, it fucking hurt. The pain was so hard to describe, and you remembered little at this point. All you remembered was your mother coming in, later being told you were screaming, feeling her grab a hold of you as she panicked. You had gripped her arms, eyes wide and desperate, locked onto hers as you felt the pain leave. Sudden. Abrupt.
Gone.
It had been confusing to then watch her fall to the ground, unconscious immediately, nurses and doctors called, you ushered out, only to see briefly your aunt move in bed.
Words were used and tossed around. Everyone was confused. Nothing made sense and no one would tell you anything. All you knew was that two days later your father was sitting down with you, telling you that your mother had died. His eyes were red, tears filling them as they had been. You were sitting in the same hospital, the same room your aunt had been in and you wondered what had happened to her. Had she died also? Was it a disease? A virus? You were confused and your father, bless his heart, would tell you nothing.
You had broken from his hold, one meant to console you, to console him, and you had bolted down the hallway of that goddamn hospital. You ran, fast as your feet could carry you, your crappy, worn down sneakers slipping as you made your way to a door. Whatever door. Any door. The first one with a handle, pulling it and throwing yourself inside.
It was dark. You had turned on a light, processing still the news that your mother was gone, processing it as you looked around the supply closet that held gowns and gloves. Sanitizer. Cleaning supplies. Sterile as it came. And you remembered the voice, “It’s not your fault, Y/N. You didn’t know.”
Things changed after that. You were careful. You wore black to your mother’s funeral and finally was told she had died from terminal cancer. You saw your aunt, once pale and emaciated in a hospital bed, walking quietly past you, not saying a word as she took a seat. Not looking up. She looked afraid. Guilty.
It’s not your fault.
But maybe it was.
No rocket scientist, you were still bright. And you made the conclusion any child might at that age, which was you had given your mother cancer. The idea was beyond logic and reason. People couldn’t do that. They couldn’t take an illness and give it to someone else willingly. But your father must have believed it because it was after that he moved you across the country, to North Carolina, and changed your last names. He had you cut your hair and he dyed his. Grief was what you felt, but so disconnected from it.
Maybe it really is my fault.
Time after that went at a snail’s pace. You had been careful when meeting new people, shaking hands abruptly and eyeing them for any… issues. Labled a germaphobe at a young age, you figured that wasn’t a bad way to be. You were headed to middle school which was a trial in and of itself.
You had remembered when things had settled, you were about twelve, your father had encouraged you to play soccer. But you still didn’t like the idea of touching people, and in a game where that was bound to happen, you did what any good kid did. You played badly. On purpose. During tryouts, that were called that just for show, you played poorly, labeled immediately as a crap player. It had you on the sidelines, safely. Much to your father’s dismay.
And you would have stayed there.
It was the first game of the season and you were on the small bench on the sidelines, hair tied back, looking out at the field, bright and green, sun shining down. You could remember looking at your father who was smiling, cheering you on. He seemed… bright. You had chalked it up to the day, the warmth of the first real day of spring. But that was when it happened.
Turning back to the field you had watched in time to see the goalie dive for the ball, a young girl still learning her own movements and body she was growing in, watching as her head made contact with the metal of the goalpost as she fell. The sound was hollow and soft, but it felt horrifying and a shock had run down your body.
You jumped, much like the rest of those around, running over. Her name was Janelle. She was nice to you. She had offered to help you learn to play when she saw how you couldn’t, or didn’t. She had told you how you could totally rock it. But as you pushed through, watching her on the ground, you could see a soft grey haze around her. It felt wrong. Sick. Dark. And without a thought in the world you reached down and took her hand.
The pain was immediate and intense, filling your skull and rocking it. It was sharp and your stomach turned. Stumbling back as the pain filled you, a teammate went to help you, “No!” You had shouted, keeping yourself away from others as you ran. Ran anywhere. Ran towards the trees, hardly able to see as you turned back. Even as your vision began to cloud, consciousness leaving you, you saw the haze around Janelle had lifted and a soft glow had come back. It wasn’t bright. But it wasn’t-
Fuck.
You came to, unfortunately, in a hospital. Your head ached but panic filled you, your heart racing as you wondered who had touched you, who had contracted your injury, who had-
“Glad to have you with us, Y/N,” a voice, warm and welcoming, spoke up. It wasn’t a voice you recognized, a British voice, one of a man.
Looking over, you saw him. He was middle-aged, bald, looking… calm. Eerily calm. You shook your head, “No, I need to make sure-”
“No one was hurt, Y/N. After you lost consciousness on the field, paramedics got to you. Concussion, wouldn’t you know. But not severe. Which is interesting as no one could recall you hitting your head,” he looked at you, waiting. For others he often came in with banter, or encouragement, but he had heard you years before. He had felt your pain. Your absolute anguish. He had heard you like a scream and had been searching ever since. Charles was only upset he hadn’t found you sooner.
He had explained to your father what he already knew, and offered to take you in. Not one to judge, you felt blessed, in a weird way, with your father. He hadn’t judged your label as ‘mutant’ and instead had been quick to cover your placement at Xavier’s Institute noting a scholarship for your studies. Which was fair, you had excelled.
As it turned out, Charles explained, Janelle had endured a significant head trauma that should have, and would have, killed her. Your taking of her hand, and dropping just before things got too overwhelming, had saved both your lives. She had left with only a bump and a light concussion and you had found your abilities were so much more. Your time at Xavier’s was spent with a lot of studying, your focus on anatomy and biology. Of course. And you had honed your powers. The light, or aura as you came accustomed to calling it, was gentle. And always different. With practice, you could identify not just if someone was injured, but how bad the injury was, where it was located, and the type. You could identify mutants, their strength… all of it. Your powers had become more than just a curse.
It didn’t stop you from shying from touch. Though you were no Rogue, you had always feared giving someone pain. Of what it felt. You could feel energy so intensely in a person it sometimes felt overwhelming. When Bobby Drake had come to the school and you had shaken his hand, you could feel a shiver, a sort of shock, but hid it well. Logan, of course, didn’t like shaking hands anyway, so it didn’t matter, as it happened. But Ororo had been warm and welcoming and taken you in an embrace despite warnings from Charles. She was so warm though. Peaceful. Good. You had smiled.
Like any good X-Men, you trained as well, but your training wasn’t in fighting. You weren’t a fighter. You could have been, you supposed, but there was risk in punching someone in the face and subsequently absorbing that pain. Charles had helped you control it but in the heat of battle, who knew? You weren’t a fan.
Until… now.
“Y/N!” You had been huddled over your laptop, headphones blaring music in to block out the rest of the world as you focused. In your mid-twenties now, you had become a teacher. A helper. A supporter. You could help students and knew when they were in pain. Mental and physical. No psychic, certainly, but you felt pain. You saw pain.
Bobby yanked the headphones off, a smirk on his stupid face, blue eyes sparkling, “I was worried you had melded with the computer. C’mon, Professor is asking for you. I think the Avengers are here, everyone’s talking about it.” He put your headphones down, watching your face change, washing with confusion. Just a moment before you had been peacefully planning the next lesson, a focus on virology, and now the Professor was asking for you with the Avengers?
Taking in a sharp breath you stood, “You’re such an ass, Drake. I’ll be sure not to tell you if it’s anything exciting,” you walked out of your room with him, shutting it behind you.
Bobby looked defeated as you strolled down the hall, donning a simple pair of black leggings and an oversized grey sweater, hanging off your shoulder, “Truly, I’m sure this is a mistake anyway. Why didn’t the Professor ask for Scott or Jean?”
The man shrugged, “No clue. I’m not the psychic,” he walked with you, his own soft blue aura shimmering warmly, nothing off. It was nice to have a friend like Bobby Drake, even when he was a bit of an ass. He didn’t speak as the two of you walked but the support was there. He’d have hugged you if you’d have asked. You didn’t.
Standing outside the large wooden doors of Charles’ study, Bobby parted ways, the halls devoid of the students, mostly. It was a gorgeous day and many were outside, some even in the city with Emma and Hank viewing museums. You were envious. Taking a breath, you knocked three times, lighter than you would have wanted. Nerves.
“Come in, Ms. Y/L/N,” the Professor beckoned and you complied, opening the door into the bright study, lined with books. Normally there would be a circle of chairs, but the deep navy rug was absent of even indentations, the warm light flooding instead to reveal not just Charles, but Steve Rogers and Tony Stark as well. Charles had a reassuring look as you entered, closing the door behind yourself. He always emanated a soft yellow hue, though not gold. It was no different. Tony’s was wavering, a deep red color that had almost consumed him, nervous then as you looked at Steve’s. His aura was incredible. It was intense, moving and pulsing, power screaming from it, though on its own a soft blue had a dark outline, one that looked of mental anguish. Not even just pain. It was worry, it was hurt, but it was emotional.
Clearly your face, as always, showed your hand, “She’s reading us, isn’t she?” Tony looked perturbed.
You scowled, shaking your head, “Please don’t speak as though I’m not in the room, Mr. Stark.” Your voice was a bit firmer, Steve adjusting his own posture, a smile on his features that was both genuine and nervous, “Apologies for my friend. I take it you’re Y/N?” Steve extended his hand, looking to you. Carefully you took his hand, shaking it and feeling now the emotional hit, taking part of it in enough that his face changed as well.
“Oh, shit! I’m sorry, Captain! I just… I didn’t mean-”
This was going awesome.
“What did you feel?” Professor Xavier looked at you with empathy, aware that the piece of you so wanting to help had taken on some of that pain. And it hurt. Your eyes watered.
Looking to Charles you sniffed, sadness coming forth but also… “I feel lost. Powerless. Out of control. Guilty. Worried,” you glanced back at Steve who looked more concerned than anything. He had felt relief for a brief moment as you took some of that burden.
“You don’t need to call me Captain, Y/N, you can just call me Steve.” He looked over at you, a piece of him forlorn and almost warranting of pity. But you didn’t pity.
Sighing, you closed your eyes and centered yourself, listening as the Professor spoke, “We asked you here for a reason, Y/N. Tony and Steve asked for you, actually,” your eyes opened as you glanced from Steve, to Tony, to Steve, then to Professor Xavier again. This was a lot.
“Something happened, our last bout against Doctor Doom.” Steve’s voice was soft, muted almost as he looked at you with hurt.
Tony spoke up, stepping forward, his black suit looking more than presentable, “One of ours, Bucky Barnes, is sick. And we don’t know with what, or how serious it is,” Tony, more able to present the concern, was trying to help.
“It’s really fucking serious, Tony!” Steve was angry, a sharp spike in his aura flashing red briefly as he clenched his fists.
Time to get it back on track, “You have the best doctors in the world… in the universe. Why do you think I’ll do any better? I can’t diagnose anyone,” you frowned. You wanted to help, but if he was sick, what could you do?
The Professor rolled from behind the desk, his chair softly and silently moving him closer, “Therein lies the question, Y/N. From what I understand, Mr. Barnes isn’t responding to treatments and he has become… unresponsive. The Avengers are requesting our help. Requesting your help. Do you think you’d be up for it?”
In truth, Charles had been waiting a long time for such a challenge. You had been so nervous, so traumatized by your abilities and growing up alone afraid. So much of how you lived was by being careful. This would be your first time stepping out of that comfort zone. It was a risk, on all levels. You didn’t know what his ailment was, what state he was in, what he looked like. You were going off of the pleas of two men, one more desperate than the other, asking for help from a person they’d never met before. And you, having spent your time comforting or offering diagnoses in the school, had no idea what lay before you. You had closed off the world thinking yourself safer for it. Thinking others safer for it. No more mistakes. No more pain. You didn't want to be the bearer of another death. The burden was so much. But how long can one hide? How long could one truly go without finally waking up?
With a sort of power you hadn't known slept inside you, you spoke with confidence but with concern,
“When do I begin?”