Scott Summers hadn't been back with the team long after betraying them with that run to Magneto. Even if he suspected that the Professor actually had something to do with it. And he certainly hadn't been back long enough to feel comfortable. Then the Professor had insisted on sending him and Storm and Peter to Japan. Public relations. Propaganda. They were fashionable for their fifteen minutes. It was all crap. All it would take was one mutant kid losing it at his high school when his power manifested and hurting a 'normal' and they were back to square one. Hated and feared.

So it was back to Westchester, finally. Back to him.

He managed to avoid the school's most recent recruit for nearly two entire days once they returned from Japan, listening carefully for the distinctive sound of rustling wings around every corner, eating in his room, working on the jet at every opportunity. Eventually, however, he had to go outside.

He was walking toward the old stables past the garages, on a mindless errand for the Professor, when he heard the rush of air, spinning, too late, to just catch sight of a swooping shadow out of the corner of his eyes. Reaching for his combat visor controls automatically and cursing inwardly when his hands met the rounded edge of his regular wear goggles instead. Defenseless.

Strong arms slipped under his own, hands locking over his chest; air blasted down around him, dust swirling, then he was lifted into the air with shocking ease. He stared down at the ground receding below him, blinking in astonishment. He could feel some of the chest muscles of the man behind him contracting strangely, not exactly in a human fashion, and in time with the sound of beating wings. Hot breath seared his neck as Warren Worthington III pressed him close, carrying him up into the sky.

"Welcome back, Scott," Warren said, his voice as calm and normal as if they were standing on the ground instead of climbing up through the air toward the bright afternoon sky. How could he do that? Talk and fly? And where was he taking him? Fear shot through him like a spike of ice, freezing his thoughts, his voice.

"What are you doing?" Scott finally managed to get out around the tightness in his throat, hands tugging at the arms locked over his chest. Not thinking of anything other than the need to escape.

"Do you really want to do that, Scott?" Warren's tone was amused. Their flight had leveled and even begun to dip back down a little. Scott looked down, seeing the lake at the edge of the mansion grounds now only a dozen feet or more below them, and on the far side, the boathouse. Seldom used, isolated, he'd already heard several of the new students discussing it's suitability for intimate rendezvous. Panic flooded him as he realized they were descending toward it.

"Yes," he snarled, grabbing the middle finger of each hand over his chest and pulling out, breaking Warren's hold on him. He slipped down, in free-fall for only an instant before Warren grabbed at him, fast as a striking snake. His grip like iron as he snared one outstretched arm. The jerk of his full body weight on one shoulder made Scott grunt in pain, but he glared up at the winged man hovering above him anyway.

"Fuck off, Worthington!" he yelled, angry, frightened, trapped. Remembering only the hallway and humiliation. "Get your damn hands off me!"

A thin smile, more of a sneer, curled Warren's lips and with a slight shrug of his shoulders he let go. Shocked that he'd actually done it, had actually let him go, Scott stifled a shout, arms pinwheeling in the air as he fought to keep himself upright in the air. To land on his back or neck would be bad, perhaps fatal. Better a broken leg. He glanced down, then sucked in a surprised breath. In his panic, he'd forgotten they were over the lake.

With a tremendous splash, he landed in chilly water, the impact knocking some of the air from his lungs, but not all. He struggled to the surface, gasping for breath, keeping his eyes firmly closed until he could check his goggles, make certain they hadn't been knocked askew. Treading water, he reassured himself they were still in place, wiping them as clear as he could, then looked around. He was only five feet or so from the end of the dock. And as he watched, Warren landed gracefully at the far end of it, by the shore. He found himself staring in helpless fascination.

Worthington's wings were set high on his back, in the middle between his shoulders like the classic angels of religious imagery. Somehow sharing the shoulder joint. They were huge - their span at least a dozen feet, maybe more. To land, he curled his body down, drawing his legs toward the ground like a parachutist landing. It was more as if he walked out of the air with precise grace. No inelegant thumping landings for Warren Worthington. The sheer muscular strength, in stomach and back, that it took to do that, and to do it so effortlessly stunned him. No wonder Warren had been able to carry his 185 lbs. so easily into the sky. The man was walking - or rather flying - physical power.

He stared as Warren closed his wings against his back with a twitch. They folded, surprisingly sleek and compact, yet long, with only a few additional twitches to ensure stray feathers were straight. Like a bird, settling. Scott wondered, then, how much he could feel through them. What did it feel like when they were touched? A deep shiver wracked him and he realized he was just treading water dumbly, staring at Warren's wings. He swam slowly to the low dock, aware of the piercing blue gaze of the other man following him. At least he wasn't approaching him, not yet.

Scott hauled himself out of the water, jeans soaked, tee shirt clinging tightly to his body. Chilly, greenish lake water dripping everywhere. He rolled onto the dock and climbed to his feet slowly, keeping a wary eye on Warren.

"Looks cold," Warren finally said, jerking his chin toward the lake.

"Why don't you find out for yourself?" Scott said, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. Warren shook his head ruefully.

"Ah, now that's one skill I haven't perfected: swimming with these," he said, ruffling his wings out slightly before settling them again, white and fantastic beyond his broad shoulders. "But I swam like a fish when I was a boy. I wanted to be an Olympic swimmer, to race. And I did for a while. Until these sprouted." They fluttered again, moving in response to Warren's thoughts because it was still and windless there by the boathouse. Scott stared at those wings, entranced. Warren looked so classically human in all other ways that the wings sometimes appeared to be just some kind of bizarre appliance - like a practical joke or a costume piece.

But one that he could never remove.

Scott shook his head. Hard. And shivered. He didn't want to feel any empathy for the other man. He just wanted him to go away. Leave him alone.

"What do you want?" Scott demanded, teeth clenched to keep them from chattering. The air might not be moving, but standing around in it wet wasn't keeping him warm either. Warren raised a golden brow at him and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Cold?"

"Piss off," he said, wrapping his arms around his own chest and hunching his back in a futile effort to ward off the fine tremors seizing him. With a low sound of disgust, Warren reached for him. But not with his hands. Those huge wings stretched out, unimaginably fast, and, like before, enveloped him in springy silkiness. Drawing him forward. They were strong, strong enough to carry both of them into the sky. And smooth, not exactly soft. He felt the stiff brush of those feathers against his back, his arms as the wings pulled him forward. Then Warren was wrapping his arms around him too, drawing him against his warmth, the wings enveloping him still, cocooning them.

"Stubborn. You're freezing," the other man murmured, softly. They were of a height, and Scott had his face lowered so that he couldn't see Warren's expression. Didn't want to. Not yet.

"What do you want?" Scott asked again, voice less certain. Shudders seized him.

"To get you warm," the winged man said evasively. Then he was guiding them both off the dock, toward the boathouse. The sight of which had made him panic earlier. But now Scott allowed himself to be led, as if the fight had gone out of him in the water when he watched this man descend from the sky. Wings moving silently out of the way, Warren reached around and opened the door, guiding Scott inside with a firm hand on his lower back. The contact burned like fire through his wet cotton shirt.

The boathouse wasn't completely abandoned. Housekeeping came out here twice a month to make certain animals or vandals hadn't damaged it. And boathouse wasn't really the right way to describe it. It was actually a fully furnished house in it's own right, but compared to the mansion, tiny. It just wasn't used often. He'd been out here once before, with Jean, early on. But he shied away from that memory.

"Do you know what it's like to get everything you've ever wanted handed to you?" Warren asked quietly. Scott took several steps further into the dimness, putting the illusion of space between them. But he realized with a sharp drop in his gut that those wings could probably reach him even on the far side of the room.

"Hardly," he said with a snort, finally stopping in the middle of the main living room, dripping slowly on the boldly woven rug under his feet. Rustic furnishings, a huge slate-rock fireplace and open ceiling beams were the first impressions of the room. Well, rustic for the extremely wealthy. He looked back at the other man where he still stood by the door. He had his arms folded over his chest again and was staring back in cool contemplation.

"I do," Warren continued starkly. No boasting, just simple fact. It sent a shiver through Scott that had nothing to do with being damp and cold. "Makes me a bit of a bastard at times."

"Thanks for the warning, but I figured that out already," Scott said, shooting him a glare. Under his glasses of course, but he knew he was glaring. Warren's expression didn't change.

"I was going to apologize to you, for the way I treated you that day," he said, chin lifting slightly, head tilting as he examined Scott from cool eyes. "Now, I'm not so sure." Scott shivered violently, and stayed stubbornly silent, colder now inside the house than he'd been outside on the dock.

"You should take those wet clothes off," Warren said flatly. The sheer disinterest in the other man's tone surprised him. He glanced down, pursing his lips in thought, then stripped off his tee shirt in one quick motion, careful, as always of his goggles. He dropped the soggy fabric down on the hearth nearby, then pried off his shoes. His good sneakers too. Soaked. Carefully not looking at Warren, he undid his belt and peeled his jeans away, hissing slightly at the chill of air on his clammy skin. Socks followed, and after a brief hesitation, underwear. Scooping up all his wet clothes he turned away from Warren and walked, naked, across the room and deeper into the house.

Half expecting Warren to follow him after that display, Scott continued alone to the laundry room. There he tossed his things into the dryer and cranked it on. Then he leaned on the humming machine, trembling. He wasn't certain exactly how long he leaned there, splintered thoughts churning slowly through his mind, but he was still alone when he finally raised his head to look around. His hair dripped water slowly down his back, making him shiver.

He found the nearby bathroom, complete with a stack of huge towels. Took one and rubbed it vigorously through his hair, scattering it everywhere. He stared then, into the wide mirror over the sink, at his own reflection. A slender, muscular young man, pale-skinned, and with red goggles strapped over his eyes looked back at him. Brown, average hair cut short, with some spike to the top. Decent shoulders, flat stomach. The mirror didn't let him see any further down. Or the back.

There was a sound at the door, a flicker of motion. He didn't look over.

"Where did you get those scars?" Warren asked, softly.

He just stared into his own eyes, feeling his panicky pulse throb in his veins.

"None of your business," he said, his voice raw.

Then he could see the other man in the mirror, beside him, manicured hand rising to skim his shoulder, then trail down his back. Only he couldn't feel it all the way, through the twisted ridge of tissue back there.

"It's a burn," Warren said, wings shifting with a soft sound.

"Drop it," he said through clenched teeth, pulse pounding harder. He wasn't going to break, to scream. He wasn't. After an endless, tense moment Warren's hand fell away. He kept his head bent, his golden hair falling over his eyes.

"You've been avoiding me."

"What the hell did you expect?" Scott snarled.

"I expected you to spit in my eye, Cyclops." The words bitter and strangely self-mocking.

Scott froze and he closed his eyes, unable to keep staring into his own soul trapped behind red lenses. A stirring of air, as if huge angel's wings had opened and closed restlessly, moved through the small room. It wafted across his bare body making him shiver violently again.

"I didn't really mean to hurt you," Warren said, voice low and husky. "Just play with your head a little. I didn't realize until the Professor explained to me. . ."

"Shut the fuck up," Scott snapped finally, eyes flashing open, turning to glare at the man beside him, towel held bunched tightly in his hands in front of him. "Are you trying to tell me you feel sorry for me now, is that it, rich boy? That you're sorry I had to play the whore half the time just to keep my mutant self alive? That you're sorry men pay better than women? Well, so am I, but you can keep your fucking sympathy because I don't want it."

The angry words seemed to ring in the air for a long moment, both of them holding still, waiting for something.

"I've never had a man do that for me before," Warren finally said, voice harsh, hard gaze meeting his even through the red goggles. "Or since. Just you."

Scott felt angry tears start in his eyes and blinked rapidly, glad, for once, that the goggles he had to wear kept anyone from seeing that weakness. The last thing he wanted to do was cry in front of this man. The prickling feeling slowly faded.

"Great, let's pick out goddamned curtains then," Scott said, trying to sound flip but aware his voice was shaking. His hands were shaking too. And he was naked. Still. Even though Warren's gaze never left his face, he felt the disadvantage keenly.

"I don't know what's going on here," Warren continued, wings rustling slightly, face pale. "All I know is I don't like it. Apparently you don't either."

He stared at the other man blankly, strange feelings roiling inside him. Regret. Need. Fear. Memories stirred. Then a flare of fire and pain. No, nothing. There was nothing there. There couldn't be, ever.

"Doing men was a job," he spat, angry, feeling trapped. Warren flinched slightly, his chin lifting; the first reaction he'd gotten out of him since he dropped him in the lake.

"If that's the way you want to play it, I can do that too," Warren said, expression hardening, a sneer touching his lips. "How much?"

"Fuck you!" Scott shouted and shoved both hands hard against Warren's chest, pushing him, stumbling, out of the bathroom. White pinions spread, stabilizing him immediately out in the hall, and he glared fiercely in at Scott, all detachment abandoned.

"We might just get to that, you never know, pretty boy," the angel said, voice low and cold. Possessive anger flared in his crystal eyes. He took a half-step back toward the bathroom.

Furious and frightened, Scott grabbed the door and slammed it hard, falling against it and locking it before he slid slowly down it to the cold tile floor. Shaking and shuddering. Arms tight over his chest. Towel pressed hard to his face, his goggles. And not crying, no, not crying at all.