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Morgan held the door open. "Turning in early, Mr. Worthington?"

"As planned, Morgan."

"Ah." The old doorman sighed. "Thought you might change your plans. Find enough suitable distractions at the gala."

Warren smiled ruefully. "I'd have been back sooner if suitable distractions hadn't kept barring the exits."

Morgan shook his head, even as he gave his customary send-off. "Have a good evening, Mr. Worthington."

"Good night, Morgan."

As he stepped inside the empty lobby, Warren shifted the wings straining beneath his tuxedo and overcoat. After four hours standing by the refreshment table trying to avoid everyone, then dancing with nearly all the women in the ballroom, then talking with nearly every man about business matters he couldn't give two figs about, both his brain and his wings were in dire need of unwinding.

He took his coat off when he entered the elevator, leaving his tux long-jacket to serve in case anyone stepped inside. Beneath the jacket, he allowed his wings to move a little more freely, sighing as they worked out cramped muscles. 

This was absolutely the last time he would attend a party to make his parents feel better about him, he resolved. He had to stop giving in to their misplaced guilt. The next time his mother pulled the Choked Maternal Voice of Despair, or his father the Quiet Paternal Voice of Resignation, he would just have to put the phone away from his ear. He would wait for them to finish making sounds on the earpiece, sounds relating to their concern over his strange behavior and so on. Then he would put the phone back to his ear and tell them, very firmly, that they really shouldn't worry, since there was nothing strange about him except for the feathery outgrowths on his back, the solution for which would not be found in huge upper-class social gatherings.

Yes, that's exactly what he would do.

The elevator doors opened to his floor. His feet ached, but he sprinted out just the same, reaching his door in record time. Inside his home, all alone, surrounded in darkness interrupted only by moonlight, Warren exhaled deeply. Shaking off his long-jacket and unbuttoning his shirt, he walked to the couch and plopped face down atop it.

"Ohhh," he groaned into the couch, stretching his wings out completely while the rest of his body lay absolutely still. He wasn't going to get up. Ever. Even if his parents came back and found him glued to the couch, and cried and went on Oprah to talk about the son they'd failed, he wasn't getting up.

It took him a few moments to realize that he might have to. And soon.

He was shivering.

Lifting his head, he looked around.

"Oh, right," he mumbled, seeing the doors to the balcony were open. He put his head down again, trying to work up some energy to rise, wishing there was some way to close the doors without actually having to walk across the room to reach it, thinking that wind-control or teleportation or telekinesis or magnetic manipulation would be nice powers to have just then.

And then he froze.

Magnetic manipulation.

The balcony doors were open.

Warren had closed it before he left for the gala.

"Angel."

Warren shot up into air. Frantically darting his eyes, he made out a cloaked figure wrapped in shadow moving away from the far corner. Warren flew to the balcony doors.

They slammed shut in his face.

"Now, if you'll just have a seat, Warren..."

Heavy. Something heavy to break the glass. He flew to a nearby table, but it moved beyond his reach at the last instant.

"Try not to make this so difficult for yourself. I only want to talk. You only have to listen. There is a rational way to this."

"Right. Because you're the poster child for rational."

Gold eyes glowered as they moved in the shadows. Warren backed away, wondering if he could use his own body to break the glass. He would need momentum. How was he going to fly past Magneto to the other end of the room, and then again past Magneto to the doors without getting squashed in a magnetic field? There really wasn't any way to do that. Plan B, then. 

"Our last meeting was unfortunate. I wish to apologize."

Warren almost snorted as he streaked past him.

"Fool! You truly think to fly out the front d—wha—no, ge—OOF!"

He slammed into Magneto. Hurling through the room, their combined momentum and weight easily smashed through the glass doors. Warren folded his wings around his body to ward off the falling shards, but a moment later he lifted his wings again, realizing the glass wasn't reaching him anyway. Magneto had wrapped them both in a magnetic bubble. They stopped mid-air, beyond the balcony.

This near the madman, Warren couldn't help wondering at how much smaller he was up close. And how weak he seemed. He shook as he stood with his hands outstretched to maintain the bubble. Warren patted it carefully, surprised to find it giving way beneath his light touch. A hard push would've broken it.

He glanced back up at Magneto. He was wearing only a hood instead of his metallic helmet. Warren pounced, hoping a solid right fist would have some effect. Magneto already looked unsteady. And he really was a small guy.

The punch landed. It had the kind of effect Warren never thought to hope for. Magneto staggered back, swaying, his hood falling off. The cold invaded the air surrounding the two as the magnetic field dissipated.

"What the hell?" Warren stared in horror and confusion as his enemy passed out, beginning a sixty-storey plummet.