This takes place outside of any normal continuity, whether it be Marvel's or my own. I've had this idea floating in my head for weeks, but time did not allow me to write until today. It's one of those quirky, introspective pieces, and believe it or not, I have no warnings to put in this story. Come to think, I don't think I used one semi-bad word in this at all. It really must be the holiday season! Season's Greetings to everybody and enjoy the story and feedback is welcomed

The choir sang angelically in the background, carolling of miraculous births and gifts from God, but Warren Worthington barely heard any of it. Mass had ended over an hour ago, but he had yet to move from where he sat thinking.

All he needed was one reason, one meagre reason to be happy with what he had. He should be happy, and he knew it. For the first time in God knows how long, his life was beginning to get some semblance of order to it, and he had a clear reason for living, or so he thought. Recently, the lines of happiness had become blurred again, and he could no longer see any reason for joy this holiday season.

Tonight was a prime example. He had practically begged Betsy to join him at mass, full well knowing she was not a religious person, but the grace with which she had shot down that idea was less than dignified. Their relationship was on the rocks, teetering dangerous close to falling over the edge and tumbling to a violent death. It was only a matter of time, he realised, before something within both of them was fractured beyond repair.

The music rang throughout the cathedral as the choir sang their hearts out this Christmas Eve. Warren envied them, to be so content with song that they needed nothing else. The looks on their faces were painfully clear as they sang. The glorious euphony made them happy.

Placing his head in his hands for a brief moment, Warren fought the urge to cry at the sadness brewing in his heart. The worst thing was, he had no right to feel this way. Everybody else, they had problems. Mothers who couldn't afford to give their child a Christmas, families who found themselves being torn apart by conflict, people who were dying by no choice of their own, they all had the right to mourn for what they didn't have, but not him, not Warren Worthington the Third. He had money, he had power, he had everything. He wasn't allowed to be unhappy, and he felt guilty when he was.

Warren looked up, immediately aware that he was no longer alone. Beside him sat a man he didn't recognise, and almost as if he sensed Warren's eyes on him, he turned slowly, smiling slightly as if he held a secret Warren didn't know.

"Good evening," he said in a deep, melodic voice, "I hope I am not disturbing you."

"No, you're not," Warren said abruptly, his voice being drowned out by the loud pipes of the organ. This intrusion was unwelcome, and he wished the man away but could not find the words to voice his displeasure.

"Good."

Warren raised an eyebrow. "Do you know me?"

"Yes," the man replied casually, a small grin dancing on his lips, "but the question is, do you know me?"

Warren was flabbergasted at the response, unsure of what to say because anything he uttered would indubitably sound absurd, so he managed a simple shake of the head, and the man smiled, turning to let his eyes fall upon the choir of singers.

"It is quite soothing, is it not? To come here on the Eve of our Lord's birth is one of the more pleasurable aspects of my profession. In all the world there is not a single sound more grand than songs of joy."

"Just what exactly do you do?" Warren asked, suddenly feeling quite relaxed in this man's presence. There was something about those deep green eyes that could calm even the most troubled of souls.

"I watch," the man responded simply, smiling broadly.

"Watch what?"

"Whatever catches my eye, and tonight that happened to be you."

"You sick pervert!" Warren cried in disgust, causing a number of praying people to look up at what had caused the outcry. Seeing only an irate man and dismissing it as lunacy, they turned back to their unspoken words.

"You can calm down, Warren," the man said gently, the smile gone from his beautiful face. "I did not mean it like that, but I realise how that may have been taken badly, especially by you. I apologise for saying it."

"You know my name." Warren hadn't meant it to sound like an accusation, but that's how it came out, harsh and angry.

"I know a lot more about you than your name," the gentleman confessed, turning his head so that his face was haloed by his curly, dark tresses as they hung long and free down his back. "I know you, Warren, more than you know yourself."

"How?" Warren asked meekly, suddenly afraid to be in this man's strange presence, awed because he began to sense this stranger was something more than he appeared to be. Warren didn't know why, but he knew this meeting was more miraculous than it looked to be.

The man smiled softly. "Your heart is good, your soul is pure, that is all I need to know, Warren. You think you are something less than what I see, but you are not. There is a reason you were given the name Angel, and it was not because of the wings that grow from your back."

Warren stared at him, his lips too parched to talk and his mind too stunned to think of the words even if he could.

"You have been sitting here, and you have been brooding when you should be at home with the woman you love, with your family. This is not the place for you, not right now, not on Christmas Eve, Warren. If you must, be sad with them, but do not force yourself to be alone again. This Christmas you can make everything different from how it has been in the past. It does not have to be like it has always been."

"Why should I try to change it now? Christmas has always made me miserable. Everybody always had loving families to return to, and what did I have? Two parents who spent Christmas in Switzerland, leaving me to spend it alone. Even now, it's always the same. Everybody else goes home, and I spend my Christmas without a soul."

"But this year is not like any year before. As we speak, your family gathers as one to celebrate, and they are wondering why you are not there. Save your sorrow for another day, Warren, it has no place in the world tonight. Go, join them."

Warren pondered this idea. Christmas in the past had been a dreadful ordeal, but there was always a chance this year it might be different, and he did miss Betsy. He didn't care how cold she was, he wanted to be near her, to tell her he loved her and to fix things, to find a place where they'd be safe from the pain.

Warren stood slowly at the urging, gathering his coat in his arms then turned back to the man to thank him, but he was gone. Bending down to the man in the pew in front of him, Warren whispered, "did you see where he went?"

"Who?"

"The man I was talking with."

"There was no man there, boy," the elderly gentleman said, his eyes twinkling with the same secret the stranger had held. "There sat an Angel, and even though my eyes told me he was not with you, I felt him there, just like I had felt him when he visited me in my youth. Consider yourself lucky, boy, you've been blessed this evening."

Warren walked numbly from the church into the cold evening, letting the snowflakes hit his face, and he stood there, looking around for a sign, but he was alone. The world itself looked unaffected in its blanket of white, cradled from anything that could harm it. It too had been touched by something incredible.

Warren smiled, and releasing his mighty wings from their harness, he spread them majestically. Taking one last look around, he flapped the pristine, white appendages and lifted his body into the night sky, but beyond the sound of his wings as they beat against the winter wind, was the sound of a second pair of wings to Heaven.

Tonight, Warren Worthington had been blessed by an Angel.