Lost in the Snow

I'm a big comic fan but you don't have to read the comics to understand this. To give you a little context Scott's teenager in this. Charles created the X-men which currently consist of Jean Grey, Iceman, Angel, Beast and Cyclops.

--------------------

Scott's breath comes to him in panicked bursts as he regains consciousness. Flakes swirl in an icy dance around his prone form. Muscles tremble uncontrollably as the wind slices into him, permeating the thin fabric of his uniform and sending a chill running down his spine. The cold is suffocating, crushing his lungs and ripping at his throat with each breath.

His glasses are gone, the memory of them being whipped off in the fight is still painful. He can feel warmth emitting from his cheek, where one of many fists had met its mark. Clenching his eyes shut, numb fingers travel along the snowy bank, but his search is futile. He's well and truly blind and lost.

He's not sure how long he's been left abandoned in the cold, or where his teammates have fled to. Between the freezing flakes of snow cascading down upon them, the hydra soldiers advancing and Magneto whisking guns and men alike off the floor and throwing them in various directions, he had quickly lost sight of them when they stepped off the plane into the chaos earlier that afternoon.

With little time to dwell Scott had been engulfed in the fight. He'd been midway through blasting down a row of soldiers, lined up like bowling pins, before an unnaturally strong wind brushed past; grasping the soldiers it carried them away like leaves in a storm. Left sprawled across the snowy bank, Scott notes thankfully that their chests still move with each laboured breath. Caught by surprise Scott's fingers skimmed over his visor, eyes scanned the horizon for any incoming threats. Faster than his reflexes could account for, it returned. A blur of movement, tinted red through his visor's lens, signified it was more a creature than a mere breeze. As did the sharp pain radiating below his ribcage as it forced him back, stumbling but staying upright. A humanoid grip captured his arm, only releasing when a crack rang out, bone fractured and separating.

Then the blur took human form, a young man of a similar age, with sharp, familiar features and dishevelled white curls, reaching past his ears. His alabaster shirt moved with each laboured breath, it had been without crease, though blood speckled the cuff of his sleeve. Despite his opponent's open posture, one arm swinging loosely and the second dipping into his pocket, Scott kept his battle position, his injured arm held to his chest. Not that it did him any good, the strange mutant's smirk grew a little sharper, straight white teeth on show, before he said ''Bet you didn't see this coming.'' The movement too fast for the naked eye to see, one second he stood there, the next Scott felt a heavy force colliding with his face repelling him into a bed of snow, his visor flying off in a tailspin.

He clenched his eyes shut before any power could be released, grateful when the crunch of snow marked the other mutant's departure. Numbness quickly turns to pain, neurons happy to pass the message along. As the world swam around him, darkness lapped at the edge of his mind, he welcomed it like an old friend.

With the cold seeping into his bones, the faint sound of rustling and crunching footfall brings Cyclops out of the past. Panic flows over him, stealing the breath from his lungs. He's exposed like this. Subconsciously he curls up tighter, his good hand covering his eyes resisting the urge to look. When the sound pauses by his head, he can feel the burn of the stranger's gaze roaming over him. Without warning his hand is gripped by someone else's and tugged away gently. The hands are callused and warm, so much so they almost seem to burn his icy skin, as they patiently wait for his struggles to cease. Scott contemplates opening his eyes but instinct tells him not to, to hold his beam-firing card to his chest until he knows what he's dealing with. Instead, he clenches his eyes shut tighter, flinching when the too hot hands move to his cheek until he feels something being manipulated onto his face, a familiar weight resting on the bridge of his nose. His glasses.