Category: Bobby/Warren Slashhumorangstbitching.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine. Marvel's. I don't make a buck from this, so don't sue me. And what would you Marvel people be looking at this stuff anyway? Just hope your MOTHER doesn't find out, young man!
Feedback: Knock yourself out. slashy@nowherenearsober.com

And Many More
by Captainslash!

Morning came to Bobby Drake, warm sunshine bathing him in glorious, lazy sensation. His cheek nudged comfortably on the cool face of his pillow, and his shiny brown hair framed his soft expression. With a drowsy murmur, he passed a toned arm through the warm, tangled sheets, coming into contact with a hot, muscled shoulder. He sat up, blinking at the gorgeous blond man that lay naked next to him. The man rolled over, looking up at him with soulful, peaceful, sleepy blue eyes. Familiar eyes. He smiled, and Bobby did too.

"I love you," the beautiful man said.

He then added, "Did you remember to study, by the way?"

Bobby blinked and started to say something, but all sound and life went from him as his bedroom door swung open with a slam. Stampeding into the room came Miss Frockenbecker, his 67 year old chemistry teacher from freshman year.

"ROBERT L DRAKE!" she shrilled. "Why aren't you prepared for class!"

Bobby felt cold sweat popping up on his forehead. He shrunk away, gathering the sheets up into his lap, fearful. He started to blubber something, but the slapping of her yardstick on the table shut him up quick.

"This is the THIRD TIME, Mr. Drake! I will NOT TOLERATE IT!" Miss Frockenbecker screamed, beating the table for emphasis. His comic books flopped and fell to the floor.

"Miss Frockenbecker, I--" Bobby cheeped.

"No! Tell it to the principal," she roared, bearing down on him with the yardstick, "You've had it with me young man!"

Bobby tried to fend off the blows, but to no avail. He shot a desperate look at his dream man. Brad Pitt was picking his nose.

"Pay attention when I'm beating you!" Miss Frockenbecker shouted, balancing his equation with a brutal smack from the yardstick.

"Please, no, stop," Bobby sobbed, "I'll draw hydrogen bonds on the blackboard! I will! I'll do anything...!"

The principal, Mr. Henderson, palpated his double chin, sitting in bed on Bobby's other side. "Anything?" he asked.

Brad Pitt sniffed and looked up, interested.

And that's when Bobby yelled himself awake.

He found the world upside down, terribly bright, and discovered himself plopped off the side of the bed twisted around in the sheets. He untangled himself, returned to a full and upright position, and groaned. His bedside clock, in giant blue digital letters, said: 3:09. Bobby groaned again, and note-to-selfed that he should have taped the MST3k marathon last night instead of watching it until four in the morning.

Sunlight was blaring in his window, making him squint hard and feel his way feebly to the bathroom. Splashing some cold water on his face seemed to make him feel a fraction better, and he stared at his dripping reflection in the mirror.

Bobby, a voice said suddenly in his mind. He jumped.

The professor said, My apologies, Bobby. May I have a word with you?

"Whuh ... Now?" Bobby said aloud, watching the sleepy-faced, droopy-eyed brunette mumble in the mirror.

Shortly, if it's no trouble, the professor replied.

Bobby and his smileyface boxers hesitated.

"Am I in trouble?"

No, Bobby, I simply need your help. I will see you in my office in ... five minutes?

"Be right there," Bobby said.

Need his help? What could the professor possibly need his help for? Taxes? Pranks? Bobby's mind came up with all sorts of crazy escapades. It unnerved him how easily it was to picture kindly, wise old Professor Xavier pulling some wicked, twisted prank involving Land o Lakes margarine, a toilet seat, and Scott Summers. Hoo, I really got you now, Scotty! What tomfoolery!

Bobby was still smirking at that by the time he'd reached the office. He'd pulled on his old jeans and his Blink 182 shirt and managed to get on his shoes and eat a cold slice of pizza all on the way down there, and though he had been remarkably efficient, he was still late. Three minutes late. And he had pizza sauce on his chin.

"Good afternoon, Bobby," the professor said as he sat down. "Did you sleep well?"

"Um, sure," Bobby answered.

"That's good. You must be wondering why I called you down here. You see, Bobby, I need your help."

"I know. You told me. So, what can I do for ya?"

Xavier steepled his fingers. "Well, you see, Bobby, I am worried about Warren..."

"Uh-huh..."

"He doesn't seem like himself these days..."

"You think he's been bodysnatched?" Bobby was intrigued.

The professor laughed lightly. "Oh, my ... no. He's quite all right, in that respect. No, it seems to me that he is very unhappy. It's his birthday today, you know."

"Oh."

"And I was hoping ... well, Bobby, you are very good at cheering people up. Would you take him out for his birthday? Try to lighten his spirits?" The professor looked humble, pleading.

As if Bobby could say nahhh.

"Sure thing."

The professor brightened. "Thank you, Bobby."

"Anytime," Bobby said, rising up from his chair. He had just reached the door when the professor spoke again.

"Oh, Bobby?"

He turned.

"You have something on your face..."

Bobby loved Warren. Don't get him wrong. The guy was like one of his best friends. It was just that ... Warren liked to brood. And sulk. And nothing short of nitrous oxide would get him out of it. Even on one of his good days, Warren was a pain in the ass. That's exactly what he was. A pain in the ass. And Bobby was fresh out of Novocaine.

As if he could tell Professor X no.

Bobby dawdled around the mens' dorm, looking here and there half-heartedly for the winged wanker. Warren's door was locked, and he knocked and knocked, finally settling to jiggling the doorknob. Gambit had passed by then, looking like he'd just woken up, grinning in that sleepy weasel way of his.

"Oh? Whaz' dis, break'n enterin on d'Ange?" he said. "You aine doin' 'tright."

Bobby didn't need that swamp rat's help, though. He wanted Warren, not access to his room. Though the idea of rigging it up Drake-style did have its appeal: whiny Warren Worthington discovers the old itching powder underwear drawer trick. Try to brood dramatically now, hot shot.

Bobby frowned. Warren probably could.

After searching high and low, Bobby finally found the High-Flying Angel. The scene was like something from a vacation brochure: off to the side, a lively game of basketball jived across the courts; on the fresh green lawn, a colorful, attractive array of mutants lounged talking to one another with the summer sun on their faces. And up in a tree away from others perched Warren Worthington.

He looked like some old icon brought to life, a sad-faced angel with clear blue skin and flowing blond hair. His knees hugged to his chest, he sat slouched in the arms of the tree, wind ruffling through his feathers. Despite the majesty and nobility of his appearance, it apparently was lost on Warren that brooding wasn't as dramatic in preppy clothes.

And here Bobby was to unbrood him. Here goes nothing, he thought.

"Hi!"

Warren had no reaction.

"Psst. Worthington. Your cue: Hi Bobby, how's it going."

Warren said nothing.

Bobby folded his arms, leaned up on the tree. "Yanno, Warren, you got the angst drama posture down pat, but we got to work on your acting. You suck."

Warren said, "Bobby ... fuck off."

"That's another thing. You suck at grammar, too. You're not supposed to end a sentence with a preposition." Bobby clucked his tongue.

"Fuck." Warren breathed. "You."

"See? Now we're getting somewhere!" Bobby flashed his most cheery grin, but it was wasted on Warren. He was staring dourly off into the horizon. "So, any particular reason I should be fucked? Life givin' ya lemons, Warren?"

No response.

Bobby's grin faded. He toed at the ground with a battered Nike. "Hey, I didn't come all the way down here to bother you, you know. You know why I was lookin' for ya?"

No response.

A minute passed.

"OK, actually, I did," Bobby said, spreading his hands. "I came all the way down here to piss you off. But still."

Warren and his sulky hunkiness mumbled something.

"What?"

"You ended a sentence with a preposition," Warren skulked. "And you just used a sentence fragment right there. 'But still'."

"But I'm allowed to, I'm the idiot, remember? And you just started a sentence with 'and' back there -- that's a big no-no."

"So did you."

Bobby felt his grin coming back. "So you know why I came lookin' for ya?"

"To be an obnoxious jackass?" Warren ventured glumly. He shifted his weight in the branches, his wings tightening around him. "Maybe if I leave you alone, you'll go away."

"I'm not a scab, Warren."

"No, but you're a pain, Bobby. In the ass."

"Funny, I could say the same thing about you, but I'm not."

"You just did."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

"I said I wasn't."

"But by saying that, you had to say exactly what you said you weren't going to say, thus implying that--"

"Don't start a sentence with 'but.'"

"Asshole."

"Hey, what did I just say?"

Warren shot him with a glare. "Fuck you, Bobby."

"Happy birthday, Warren." Bobby just smiled at him.

The Angel blinked, then his pretty mouth pulled into a sneer. "Oh, you came to count my gray hairs. I see."

"I sure did. You probably aren't a real blond anyway though."

"Go away."

"I planned to," Bobby said, hands in pockets. "But with you coming with me."

"What?"

"I wanta take you out for your birthday, duh."

"No."

"Why?"

"Why? Why do you even ask?"

"'Cuz I'm your bud and I care about you?"

"Is that a question?"

"Does it sound like one to you?"

Warren puffed up. His feathers bristled, and his wings spread. He launched from the tree, flapping off.

Bobby grunted, then went running after him. "Hey, wait up!"

"Leave me alone," Warren yelled from above.

"But it'll be fun!"

"Like hell! Damn it, Bobby! If you don't stop following me I'm going--"

"--To what, poop on my car?" Bobby hollered.

He was grateful that Warren didn't have metal wings anymore, otherwise he was fairly certain he'd be looking like Swiss cheese. He was aware that his attempts at cheering him up were only pissing him off, but at least he'd broken the ice. Irritation made people funny, and Bobby bet he could have Warren begging to go out with him, if only it meant that he'd shut up then.

In the meantime, Warren wasn't making the chase easy. He winged his way higher and higher, flapping over the busiest areas of the campus. Bobby was getting a Danger Room-like workout, leaping over sunbathers and darting around trees and slipping through basketball games.

And Professor Xavier, poised on the porch with a drink in hand, smiled as he watched his X-Men jump and startle at the sudden arrival and departure of young Robert Drake, racing after a winged man while howling the Happy Birthday song at the top of his lungs.

"Happy birthday dear WARRRENNN," Bobby was shouting in a god-awful voice, "Haaaaaappy birthday to yoooouhhh!"

That's when Warren smacked into a tree.

He'd whipped his head around and seemed about to yell something particularly nasty, and apparently hadn't seen what was in his path. When Bobby reached him, he was smushed up bonelessly before a big monster maple. Bobby blinked, edging closer to him, pondering the irony of a heroic outlaw X-Man, fighting for truth and justice and equality, dying because he ran his dumb ass into a tree.

Bobby looked down at Warren. He was breathing shallowly, legs and arms and wings akimbo, looking dramatic. And there was a big red mark smackdab in the middle of his forehead. Bobby was overcome with guilt. And the giggles. He snorted and snickered helplessly. "Talk about fallen angels," he said aloud, then sobered up. He bent, kneeling next to the spread-eagled Angel.

"Well," he said. "I guess there's only one thing to do now."

Bobby sang with the radio as he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He had a not-bad voice when he wanted to, and now he was in the mood. Ignoring the way his Ford Escort coughed and gasped to life at the green light, he stole a quick glance at Warren. He was still out, slumped up against the window, a small pillow smushed up behind his head.

It'd been kind of a pain for Bobby to drag him across the campus to his car, but the looks that he got from various mutants was compensation enough. For something that could spread his little nimble fairy wings and zip around the sky, Warren was heavy. And unwieldy. Hollow bones, his ass. But Bobby managed. He'd thought doing something about the wings would be the real problem, but it'd been a piece of cake. Folded 'em up, got a jacket on 'em, slapped on an Image Inducer, and Warren Worthington III was good to go.

Bobby was cruising through Salem Center by the time Warren came to. There was some blinking and groaning involved, before he shot straight up in surprise. He looked around, eyes wide and then narrowing.

"You ... didn't," he groaned.

"Yup."

"You ... you kidnapped me!"

"Kidnapped? Pffft."

"What else would you call moving an unwilling and unconscious man to your car and driving off? This is a new low, Bobby."

"Hey, Lindbergh, you flew right into a tree. How dumbass is that? If that was a cartoon, you'd have cuckoo noisy me's circling your head. How's that for a halo?"

"Stop the car. Right now."

"No way. You're going to have a happy birthday, and with Blink 182 as my witness, I'll make you laugh yet, Warren Worthington!"

"Warren Worthington the third. And I was wondering what the hell that shitty sound was."

"Not as bad as you singing in the shower."

"I do not sing in the shower!"

"Hark the herald angels, my ass."

Warren scowled at him.

"So, you wanna go to Harry's, or what?" Bobby took advantage of a too-long red light to look around.

Warren said nothing.

Bobby turned to him. "Hey," he said, softer. "I know I'm being an ass, but c'mon, let's go get monster hamburgers and then if you aren't having fun, we'll go home." He added, "And you can drive. What do you say?"

"Green light," Warren mumbled.

A loud honk blew up Bobby's ass.

"I'm goin', I'm goin'," he said, watching in the rearview mirror as a middle finger popped up. Ahh, peaceful people of Salem Center. "So, Warren, yeah? No? Yeah? No?"

"Fine," Bobby heard him say. He had his arms crossed, glowering out the window.

"Great!" Bobby brightened. "We're going to have so much fun."

Harry's Hideaway had hosted X-Men long before their fearless leader learned to shave. The pub-restaurant held a special place in X-hearts, and having so many memories, and it was no wonder that when it was destroyed, Hank and Warren undertook the job of rebuilding it single-handedly. And despite this being a comfortable place, a happy place, an old place, a very drunk and loud Saturday night place, the black mood of Warren Worthington III remained unlifted.

"Not hungry my ass, I see you keep stealing looks at mine," Bobby said, wagging the hamburger at him. "You got one. Eat it."

Warren said, "I'm not hungry."

"Are too."

"Are not."

"Are too."

"Fuck you."

Bobby reached over. "Then I'll eat it."

"You have your own!" Warren snapped.

Bobby suppressed a smile; he knew that'd work. He leaned back in his chair, watching him eat. Warren ate hungrily, but with class, not so much dropping a crumb. For a sarcastic morass of brooding and virile woe, his Miss Manners was quaint.

But he really seemed hungry. It occurred to Bobby that he hadn't really seen Warren around the dining room in evenings or for breakfast, not even when Jean made her super special pancakes whose super special ingredients Bobby was certain was super special crack. He couldn't even remember seeing him around the Danger Room lately.

"Can you handle the other half of this one?" Bobby said, gesturing to his hamburger. "I had some pizza earlier."

Warren eyed him, then silently reached over and accepted it. Bobby had to admit he enjoyed annoying the jet-set playboy, but now he felt the beginnings of concern for him. Warren'd had his Moods before, sure, but they always went away the instant he found something shiny and expensive to play with. Or at least until he passed by a mirror.

"Good?" Bobby asked.

Warren nodded a little.

"Yanno, I've been acting like a dick and everything," Bobby said, "But you know, I'm just fuckin with you, man. I'm kinda worried about you, actually."

"What do you mean?" Warren sounded suspicious.

"Well, you seem a little.. " Bobby caught himself just in time. Instead of 'blue,' he said, "...down."

"And you seem a little ... high. Like always."

"I'm just trying to cheer you up, I guess. Sucks to be bummed on your birthday."

"I am not ... bummed."

"Please. I'm going to have to rename you Angstgel instead ... Okay. Um. I mean, is there something bothering you?"

Warren's lips pressed into a tight line. "No."

"Something's up, Warren."

"Nothing is up, Bobby."

"Is it Bastion?"

"No."

"Is it the stock market?"

"No."

"Is it molting?"

"No."

"Is it a troubling alternate universe?"

"No."

"Is it an angry badass you from the future?"

"No."

"Is it Betsy?"

"No."

"Is it -- "

"She dumped me."

Warren gloomed.

"Ouch, what timing," Bobby said, wincing a little. "I'm sorry."

Warren took it with an eloquent shrug. "I'm not."

"Then why this?"

"It's been a long time coming ... she's been so distant ... and we just don't work anymore. Our parts have been played. It wasn't meant to be." Warren smirked. "I just wanted to dump her first."

Bobby smirked too.

"All this because you didn't get the last word?"

"Yes. No. Maybe." Warren sighed. "I'm glad ... but then I'm not." The hard, sour look in his eyes melted away, and there Bobby saw a soul that was sad. "And I've been an immense dick to you today, Bobby."

Bobby waved it off, feeling slightly uncomfortable. "Hey, it's no problem, Warr. What are friends for?"

"To ruin your perfectly good brooding session by chasing you into a tree?" Warren suggested. "No, really ... ah ... " And from the dark abandoned wine cellar of Worthington vocabulary: "I'm sorry."

"Like I said," Bobby replied with a little smile. "S'not like I had a choice anyway."

Wait.

Warren's eyes sharpened. "Not like you had a choice," he repeated.

"Uh, I mean," Bobby said, "I mean that you're my bud, and I care about you, and of course I couldn't just let you like, stew, and brood, and uh.. "

Shit.

"The Professor sent you, didn't he? Snooping around in my head?" Warren stood up. "I should have realized it sooner. No wonder you were so fucking persistent."

"Um, Warren, wait," Bobby said, "Look, Chuck just wanted me to check on you, that's all.. "

"Nobody asked him to," Warren snapped. "I'm sick of this! Poor little rich boy! Goodbye Bobby. Thanks for the dinner."

Bobby went after him, taking him by the arm. In retrospect, that was a bad idea, Bobby figured as he peeled himself off the bar counter he was pushed into. But looking back, he could find some other pretty fucking stupid mistakes too. He was making progress, he really felt he was, and then wham. He had to go and say something stupid. There went Bobby's mouth, getting him in trouble again.

Bobby sighed. It was going to be a long night.

Times Square at night was a year-round carnival of lights. Screens shone down on the streets, computerized displays scrolled endlessly in bright text, and the stoplights were constipated as always. Bobby tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, running a list of places through his head: Where Warren Could Be. He'd checked high and low, mostly high, and he'd come up empty-handed. Not that he wanted a handful of Warren. But still. There was only one other place Bobby could think he'd be.

Warren's little private apartment, the one "nobody knew about." Bobby wasn't sure if Warren still had it there; he'd probably moved when that Sentinel bitch tried to blow it up. Bobby finally reached it, after finding a place to park his car. Parking was hell in Manhattan.

Bobby stepped up to the door, eyed the directory panel. There was no way, he was certain, that Warren was going to let him in. And Bobby always forgot where Warren hid his keys. So that meant only one thing..

The alleyway looked dark and inconspicuous enough to him. It was warm out... slightly breezy, but warm, enough to, say, melt some frozen water. Bobby glanced left, then right, and then shot twenty feet into the air beneath a column of ice.

He hopped to the window, feeling his stomach lurch uncomfortably as he teetered on the sill. He held his breath, peering in through the glass. He hoped this really was Warren's apartment. That, or he had some explaining to do. Well, you see, ma'am, I'm sorry about the draft, I mean, with you just out of the shower, and everything, but you see this is all just an honest mistake! I thought this was the residence of a blue-skinned winged man, so me and my genetically-enhanced brain created a huge fucking blob of solid ice. My bad!

But Lady Luck was smiling on Bobby tonight. Or at least snickering behind her hand. The room Bobby peered into was dark, but he could see the blue glow of television lighting a pair of wings and their owner on the couch. Bobby took a breath, then pulled up the window and stepped inside.

"What do you want?" Warren said, standing in the doorway. His arms folded powerfully over his bare chest, and his wings puffed at the sides.

"Well, gee, yanno, I was in the neighborhood." Bobby smirked.

Warren dismissed him. "You don't have to do this, Bobby. Just go."

"I promised you a happy birthday," Bobby said, shutting the window behind him without looking away.

Warren stared.

"First, you pop out of nowhere harassing me. Then you chase me. Then you kidnap me and put my unconscious wounded body in your car. Then you force me to go to a bar. Then just when it seems that maybe you aren't really trying to kick me while I'm down, but to be a friend, you reveal to me your underlying reason to generally be a heckling asshole is that Professor X is tired of putting up with my shit. Then, you break into my home and wish me a Happy Birthday."

"And many more."

"Robert Drake," the angel spake, "You are fucking insane."

And Bobby said unto him, "So do you got booze in this place or what?"

Warren stared.

"Yeah," he said.

"So, what d'ya want for your birthday?" Bobby asked around a mouthful of beer.

"Bobby," said Warren, "I'm a multi-millionaire. I have a mansion. I have several houses. I have my own jet. I have my own company. What could I possibly want for my birthday?"

"One a'those Boogie Bass things?"

"Not after you rigged Scott's study with twenty of them."

"It was only eight, geez, and they were on sale, where was I supposed to stick them?"

"I can think of a place."

Bobby laughed. Warren grinned. They were watching tv and drinking beer, just like the good old days. Well, in those days they'd been drinking soda, at least. Bobby was stretched out on one end of the leather sofa, his shoes on the table before it. Warren was slouched on the other end, a leg dangling over the sofa's arm.

Warren was a good-looking man. That was fact. The sky is blue. The grass is green. There's death and taxes. And there's Warren looking like ... well, an angel. But not those little floating baby angels, the smily little good ones.

Warren was a sarcastic angel.

Which was why Bobby wasn't about to be caught eyeballing the guy's bare chest like that. He'd been looking at his wings, really, the way the tv lit them up in this dark room, but then he'd followed the wings to his shoulders and then to the ultimate finality of gawking at manbreasts.

After all. This was Warren. It was like, goggling at his brother.

"Well?" Warren looked at him suddenly.

"What?" Bobby blinked.

"I said, are you sitting on the remote?"

"Oh. Um." Bobby put his feet to the floor, stood up. The remote innocently peered up at him. He tossed it to Warren, who caught it easily one-handed.

"Bobby, do you know why me and Betts don't get along?" Warren asked, toying with the remote. His eyes were firm on the television screen.

Bobby flopped back down on the couch. "'Cause your Zodiac signs don't match?" he ventured, taking a swig of his beer.

Warren killed the volume on the tv. He was quiet a moment, chewing on his pouty lower lip, before he just shrugged and said, "Nah."

"So, why?" Bobby peered at him from over the top of his beer bottle.

Warren suffered another pause of unWorthingtonlike hesitation, his fingers fiddling with the remote. Bobby could clearly see the struggle of a sneering little richboy and a just as sarcastic but more mature man, wrestling for control of the same face. Bobby couldn't tell which won, in the end, but apparently one of them got their shit together. Warren looked at him, his eyes cool and clear like sky.

Just before putting the beer bottle to his lips, he made the casual comment "I'm a queer, you know."

Bobby choked. "You waited til I took a drink to say that," he coughed.

Warren rolled his shoulders. "That too."

"You're just jokin, right?" Bobby said, wiping his mouth.

Warren shook his head. "I'm gay."

Bobby blinked. "You are not."

Warren stared. "I am too," he said.

"Are not."

"Are too."

"Are not."

"Are TOO! Bobby, would you like me to spell it out for you?" Warren huffed. "Eye ay-emm ay eff-ay-gee. Em-ee-enn get me aitch-oh-tee."

In the awkward pause that followed, there was silence, and two pairs of eyes staring into each other. Warren had a smooth, sardonic look on him, casual but intense, and Bobby seemed at a blank. That was until he burst out laughing.

"Nice to know you're open-minded and tolerant," Warren snorted, looking aside as he took a swig from his beer.

"When did this happen?" asked Bobby, failing miserably at not giggling.

"When?" Warren squinted. His wings puffed, then gave a boneless flap. "Oh, well, you know, the other day I was walking down the street minding my own business when suddenly, WHAM! I turned into a fag." He eyed Bobby. "Since I was born, you dolt. It's taken some soul-searching and some young Latino gentlemen for me to understand who I am. Smooth, suave, sexy Warren Worthington the third, complete with charming wit, a large wingspan, and a lisp. So, there."

The way he said it, so dignified, so superior, so Nyah Nyah Nyah fuckin Nyah Nyah... Bobby snickered helplessly.

"First of all, Warr, your wingspan isn't all that big," he managed, "And second..."

"Grow up, Bobby," Warren said, rolling his eyes. "I didn't tell you so you could squeal like a third grader."

"And SECOND," Bobby said, "I never would have guessed. I mean, shit, the way you've been brooding around, I thought there was something really serious goin' down, man. I expected some deep psionic shit to be going on, or some dismal future gun-toting clone at the least, or hell, you to like, at any moment, swoop down on me and carry me off to some ungodly nest of shrieking monster ninja babies. Not .. this."

Warren stamped down his beer bottle. "But this is really serious!" he said, and Bobby could detect some Wounded!Worthington in that tone. "I've been wasting my life chasing women like Jean and Betsy, don't you get it?"

Bobby smirked. "But, Warren--"

"Don't but Warren me. Don't even try to talk me out of it." He folded his arms.

"Yeah, but--"

"I'm gay and that's all there is to it."

"But--"

"You have a problem with it, Bobbo?" Warren smiled at him, clearly better than him.

"Warren," Bobby said, finally, "It's no big deal."

Warren's wings drooped a little.

"What, were you lookin for a fight or something? Waiting for me to freak out?" Bobby touched his forehead to his palm. "Warren, we are constantly surrounded by laser beam-firing, bus-throwing, multi-tentacled, poison-spitting, otherdimensional universe destroyer hordes of mutants, freaks, and bearded ladies. D'ya really think you sharing your Worthington wee wee with consensual members of the same sex, and maybe some barn animals, is going to mean anything?" He looked up at his best friend.

Who said, "Barn animals?"

Then, a little annoyedly: "Can't you just humor me and be upset a little?"

Bobby hesitated.

"Um," he said, "Well, I'm gay too."

Warren blinked. "No shit?" he said.

Bobby shook his head.

Warren squinted.

And then chuckled.

"Oh. Well." he said.

Bobby nodded.

That awkward pause returned.

"Since when the hell...?" Warren demanded.

"Well, I was walking down Homo Boulevard and the funniest thing happened..."

Warren eyed him, swigging off his beer bottle.

"Watching Scotty do push-ups," Bobby confessed.

Warren coughed. "You waited--"

"That too." Bobby folded his arms behind his head.

Warren ran the back of his hand across his mouth. "Then no one knows, then? That you're gay? I didn't. And you, Drake, are very obvious. I can read you like a book. A comic book at that."

"Well I don't got a neon sign flashing around my head, do I?" Bobby yanked a shrug. "Beats me if anybody knows, at the Mansion. Jean maybe? If she can mystically tell what color underwear I'm wearing, I'm pretty sure she can catch Bobbo the Rampant Homo thought bubbles. That's telepaths for ya."

"Betsy knows, too. The whole exchange was unsatisfying." He drew a long smirk. "'Good morning, Betts .' 'I know.' 'There's something I want to talk about, Betts.' 'I know.' 'Well, you see, it's like--' 'I know.' Run that on loop for five minutes. Sometimes," he said, drinking the last of his beer, "All-knowing telepaths can be a pain in the ass."

"Except the professor," Bobby added. "And I'm sure he knows anyway."

"No ... nothing gets past him," Warren said, smirking.

And that awkward pause struck again.

Who knew Bobby was gay? Beats him. Jean maybe? That's telepaths for ya. All-knowing telepaths. Xavier with kindly old smile: You must be wondering why I called you down here. Xavier with entreating look: You see, Bobby, I need your help. Xavier with concerned frown: Well, you see, Bobby, I am worried about Warren. Xavier with evil plan: Would you take him out for his birthday? Try to lighten his spirits?

Xavier with corny saxophone music intro.

Hoo, I really got you now, Bobby! What tomfoolery!

Bobby fiddled with his empty beer bottle and this dawning realization.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Warren asked finally, rubbing his jaw.

"Yeah, but where we ganna find a cow costume at this time of night?"

Warren narrowed his eyes.

"No. The disturbing possibility that..." he trailed off, too dignified to say it.

"Nahh," Bobby shot the idea down real quick, "That'd be some crazy shit."

"And then some," Warren agreed, nodding his head. "What exactly ... did he say to you."

"He said, yo Bobbo, cheer Warren up, bitch," Bobby said, shrugging. "'Lighten his spirits.'"

Warren nodded, folded his arms over his warm, muscular chest. "Just trying to de-angstify poor whiny Warren, that's all. Lighten my spirits."

Bobby nodded, folded his arms over his oversized Blink 182 tee shirt. "Yup. Lighten your spirits."

Warren grinned. "No offense, Drake. I care about you. And you're kind of cute ... I suppose, in a white Steve Urkel kind of way, if you like moronic tendencies in a man, but..."

"And you're not bad looking yourself, if you like, have unresolved, unhealthy issues with The Smurfs," Bobby replied. "But anyway, you're like ... like my brother, or something."

"Brothers. Right." Warren nodded safely, masculinely.

Incest is best, an evil Bobbo the Rampant Homo thought bubble said.

"And since we aren't two seconds and sultry eye contact away from having our crotches fly at each other, why don't you grab the remote?" Bobby folded his arms, leaned back.

"If the little bastard didn't just up and disappear again," Warren said, busying himself with the search.

"I think it's on the floor there," Bobby said helpfully. Warren bent, his back arching strongly as his head lowered for a look. His feathers whispered over the sofa leather. Not bad looking, his ass.

"I don't see it."

As nondepravedly as possible, Bobby answered, "Oh, coulda sworn I saw it. Why don't you turn on more lights or something?"

"Because lights give me whanging headaches," Warren replied with a snort, tapping two thick fingers to his bruised forehead. "Thanks to your lightening my spirits."

"Hey, I helped you lighten your spirits," Bobby said, lifting the empty beer bottle up and down.

Warren cracked a half a grin. "Well. True."

"I think you're sitting on it," Bobby said.

Warren arched a blond eyebrow. Then he pulled his weight forward, stood up. His wings rustled slightly, and he glanced down on the sofa. The remote was jammed in the corner of the leather cushions. Bobby scooted over and scooped it up. He stayed scooted over.

Warren rubbed at his jaw absently.

"So you never thought about it, not even once," Bobby said, as they sat watching muted television. It was a football game.

"Never thought about what?" Warren said.

"Whaddaya think?"

Warren's eyes turned to Bobby, then his face. He was like a statue of a god, perfect, and knowing it. "What if I did?"

Bobby shrugged. "Just wondering."

"What about you?" he asked, casually, as if not really paying attention. He was looking at the television presently, his golden head high.

"Nope," Bobby said.

Warren's brows lowered. "Not even once?"

"Nope," Bobby said.

Warren narrowed his eyes, looked affronted. He turned a glance to Bobby. "Bull shit. You asked me if I thought about it, implying that you were thinking about it, to have asked me."

"So have you?" Bobby grinned winningly.

Warren sort of grunted then. But it was the most amazing grunt.

"Was that a Yah or a Nah?" Bobby asked.

"That was a grunt, stupid," Warren said. He put up a hand."Let me get this straight. Are you trying to seduce me, Drake?"

"I thought you couldn't get anything straight."

"I'm laughing on the inside." Warren rustled his wings. "Look, your whole approach is wrong. You make come-ons like ... like a knock-knock joke."

Bobby shrugged. "As if you could do any better, Mr. Ran into a Fuckin Tree."

Warren's wings puffed out. "Only because you were running after me like a moron!"

"Uh huh."

"Anyway, I can too do better than you."

"Can not."

"Can too."

"Can not."

Warren grunted.

"Well, you know what, I wasn't going to do it anyway. It's just -- the principle of the thing, you know? You're ... Bobby. I'm ... Warren. It'd be ... just..."

"Weird," Bobby finished. Their eyes met, held.

"Has it been two seconds yet?" Warren asked.

Bobby ripped his eyes off Warren's, to get a glance at his watch. "Looks like--" he began playfully, interrupted by a kiss.

Warren's mouth moved warmly over his own, tasting of beer, spice. It was sweet, experimental. He held Bobby's jaw in his palm, drawing him away as he leaned back.

Bobby smiled.

Their lips met again, the kiss deeper this time. Bobby's arms folded around Warren's neck, and white wings flicked and draped over his shoulders. The feathers tickled warmly where they touched heated skin, and Bobby writhed in their embrace.

"I thought you were supposed to be cold, Iceman," Warren murmured against his neck when he broke the kiss for air.

"I'm hot but I'm cool, an that's that," Bobby panted. " So, you can't think of a single thing you want for your birthday?" Warren grinned at him, his smile perfect, like everything else.

"Happy Birthday to me," the Angel sang as he slipped Bobby's shirt off. "Happy Birthday to me..."

Morning came to Bobby Drake. It was bright, warm, and happy, and if there were any songbirds in SoHo, they'd be singing. Toned chest rising to a long yawn, Bobby blinked drowsily at his surroundings. He was in a bed, large with cool sheets, a warm body dozing next to him. He leaned in to brush a kiss on the blue skin of his shoulder, the man next to him murmuring and rolling over. White wings flexed sleepily, and beautiful blue eyes upturned to Bobby. Bobby smiled. The man smiled too. And then squinted.

"Fucking bright enough isn't it," Warren said.

And Bobby leaned over and lightly kissed the bruised blue forehead, and then those smirking bow lips, and no chemistry teacher in the world had the heart to interrupt.

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