Um. Well. About this fic.

I have the first four chapters written, and I'm sorry I haven't gotten a chance to publish them, but here's the second one? Don't kill me?

I'd like to finish this fic. I love the idea, and I have it all planned out.

But I need your feedback, so be a good person and leave a review? *hopeful face*

~Fex/Angel

For a few seconds, I just stand there staring. If my life was a bad sitcom, a cricket sound effect would play about now. I can't believe anything that has just happened, and my brain's not working too well. So let's create a flow chart. Imagine the flowy-ness.

1. I hear sex from other side of wall. Said sex annoys me greatly.

2. I bang on wall.

3. Sex stops, footsteps.

4. Open door, see Dylan. See muscle-dude behind him.

Conclusions from chart:

Dylan was having sex.

With muscle-dude.

A man.

Dylan is gay.

Fang's head is about to explode.

I think I say something along the lines of "What the fu..." and trail off before I can even finish it.

"Fuck this," Muscle-dude says, storming off down the stairs and away to a car.

Dylan stares after him emotionlessly, but as soon as he's gone, he's all over me. No, not like that, but his hands are around my neck and suddenly I'm up against the wall of my own hotel room.

"You idiot," he hisses. "You just cost me a hundred bucks and a ride back to civilization."

Well, what are you supposed to say to that? I try to speak, but Dylan just keeps going, his face inches from mine.

"First you and your little flock degrade me and mess up my first life, and now you're back and messing up my new life, too? Haven't you done enough? Where's the flock now?"

"I'm here alone, for you information," I spit back, shoving him hard, because in his haste he's forgotten the essential rule of pinning, whether it be against a floor, column, or wall; always control their arms. "And I'm not the one that screwed up your miserable little life, thanks. Don't shoot your blame at me when I didn't do anything. And how the hell did I lose you a hundred bucks?"

"Forget about that." Dylan flips back onto his feet. "What the hell are you doing here alone?"

"I ditched out for a night. Why do you care?"

Dylan suddenly doesn't look so murderous. He looks surprised. "Isn't Max always with you?"

"I don't want to talk about her." I don't. And I don't actually want to say that, but in my still-sleep-hazed state, it just slips out.

Dylan raises one of his eyebrows which I now realize are meticulously plucked. "Interesting," he says, then flops back down on the bed. "You owe me a place to crash for the night and about a hundred bucks."

"I don't have a hundred bucks."

"Eh, I'll waive that if you don't tell the flock what you've seen tonight." Dylan stretches lazily across the pillows, arms behind his head. His t-shirt sleeves are ripped off, giving him a somewhat rugged appearance. There's a stain on the front of his pants, and I don't linger on that too much.

"Why?" I mean, I had been planning to tell at least Iggy. He'd get a kick out of it. Then maybe make food for me.

Dylan's mood has changed completely. He's lounging around, looking up at me with blue eyes like we've just met on the street or something, and everything's completely normal. "They'd think it was so pathetic," he says, rolling his eyes. "I mean, trying to find my new perfect half in such a crude manner. In truth, that's not the only reason I do it. There's the money. Usually some free food ends up being part of the deal, and all I have to do is—"

"Stop!" I can't help myself. I don't want to hear any more about what Dylan does for his money, because his occupation, from everything he's been saying, could be clear to any idiot off the roads. Dylan's turned into a hustler, and a gay one at that. Though he doesn't look very gay. No gel in his blonde hair. No eyeliner. Then I realize I'm being stereotypical, and try to stop thinking.

"Why?"

"I just...I don't want to hear it."

I expect Dylan to be at least a little offended at that, but he just laughs a little. "Eh, you're not the first one. Delicate subject. Anyway, can I crash here?"

"Um...sure."

Dylan makes no move to get off the bed, so I slump down onto the couch. "I'm going to sleep," I tell him, because I'm still tired as hell from all my flying.

"Cool."

Dylan reaches over and turns off the lights. Darkness usually makes me uncomfortable, but for some reason tonight it doesn't seem too bad. I'm just about to drift off, when...

"You and Max still together?"

When I open my eyes, they've adjusted to the blackness, and I can see Dylan lying with his eyes open and his arms crossed like a pretzel behind his head. He's still on his back, hasn't taken off his shoes or made any move to get under the still-mussed bedspread.

I consider lying, then don't. It'll just get sticky later. Plus saying "yes" just feels wrong. "I don't know."

"Such a vague answer," Dylan muses. "Clarify?"

I don't do clarify. I do "answer in as few words as possible."

"I don't know," I say again. The words feel funny in my mouth. "We had a fight."

Dylan makes a funny noise in his throat, but doesn't push me further.

Eventually, I drift off to sleep.

When I wake up in the morning, Dylan's gone.

Guess it could have been a dream, but it didn't really seem like one. So I just put my shoes back on and fly back to the flock .The rain's stopped, and the sun is now in full force, hurting my eyes. I wish I'd stolen Iggy's knockoff Aviators to wear before I left.

Max's eyes are red-rimmed and there are dark circles under them. I don't comment, just give her a look that I hope transmits "I'm sorry." She nods, smiling just a little, and goes back to putting a Band-Aid on Gazzy, who has, in my absence, somehow managed to blow up several large boulders with Iggy. The explosion was "wicked cool," he tells me, but the shrapnel "hurt like hell."

Max tells him off for swearing.

"You do it all the time."

Max rolls her eyes and doesn't say anything, securing the bandage and clapping the Gasman on the shoulder. "And what have we learned today?" she asks him in a mock-stern voice.

"Watching rocks explode is fun..." Gazzy starts. Max gives him a Look, and he changes directions. "...but from now on we should do it from a safe distance."

I laugh softly. Max gives a smile.

Everything's okay again. Iggy makes a lunch of beef stew, which is heavenly, and we do flocky things for the rest of the day. Nudge wants me to help her with her newest art project, knitting, which I flatly refuse. Iggy and Gazzy hole up in Iggy's room, no doubt planning out the next great bomb plan. They should go in the business or something. I bet they'd become millionaires. Note to self: find some corporation that needs underground explosives and give them our phone number. You know, if this house wasn't completely under the radar. Which it is.

Max and I hang out. Our conversation is careful...I don't bring up any of her Forbidden Topics. She asks me where I went, and I tell her the truth—most of it, anyway.

"I flew into town and stayed at a hotel."

She nods and lets it drop. She, more than anyone, knows that when I'm pissed, I like to be alone. She's not angry at me anymore, but something's different between us. I can't put my finger on it...I'll get back to you on that one.

I help Iggy fix a simple dinner; basically a montage of leftovers and a few dishes of vegetables. He tells me off for touching his oven, which amuses me greatly.

"Put on an apron and you'll be a shoe-in for the next Housewife of America," I tell him.

He gives me the finger and sticks out his tongue.

Dinner is a merry affair, as it always is. These five people are my best friends in the world, which means we have plenty of inside jokes to throw around and crack up about.

"Hey, Fang, remember that time with the guy that was selling the nuts?" Gazzy's laughing so hard he can barely breathe.

I start laughing, along with everyone else.

"And he was all like—" Angel giggles.

"—'You kids want to buy some nuts?'" Max imitates the Creepy Nut Man, which is the name we have given him. We flew into town one day for some more clothes, since Angel, trying to help out, had done the laundry. However, in doing the laundry, she had neglected to realize that the bleach goes into the little drawer at the top, not poured all over the clothes. And that bleach was only to be used for white clothing.

Everything I own ended up with white splotches, which kind of ruined my image.

Anyway, so we were walking back to the outskirts of town with our shopping bags in hand when this guy accosted us. And he wasn't just some normal guy, either—he twitched. His right eye spasmed constantly. His beard was scraggly and black, and when he opened his mouth to speak, we could see that he had three teeth missing and the rest in serious need of some Oral-B.

"You kids want to buy some nuts?" he had said in the voice of every pedophile, sex offender, convict, and drug addict put together, leaning in close with a bag of mixed nuts in his hand. "Got some good nuts here."

We said no thank you. Then lasted about ten seconds after leaving him behind before we burst out laughing.

Stomachs full from food and hurting from laughter, we decide that there's no better way to burn off calories than going for a flight. It's something we do most days, but the time varies. Some days we feel like flying around noon, when the sun's high and the tips of your feathers are warmed nicely. Sometimes everybody gets up at the crack of dawn and we go watch the sun rise over the mountains from some perch we happen to find that day with a good view.

But tonight, everyone has a taste for the cool twilight air, so we take off from the roof and automatically assume a little formation, as we always do.

Everything's so peaceful, and we're talking and still laughing and doing aerial stunts, but it's hard for me to keep something out of my mind.

Three guesses what.

I just could never imagine Dylan becoming a hustler. It just...well, it still doesn't compute. He always seemed so...better than thou, like he could have any girl he wanted (except for Max). Have any girl he wanted. So why suddenly switch to men? Why suddenly switch to creepy, older men? Because that guy I saw him with...he wasn't attractive by anyone's standards. I mean, muscles, sure, but he looked like a snake. Someone who would bite your face off given the chance.

Ech. Awkward phrasing.

He keeps doing a sort of dance around my head. I watch a reel of him pushing me against a wall, then flopping down on the pillows, his arms back around his head. I wonder where he went when he left. He was gone when I woke up. He must have left silently, or I must have slept hard.

Nudge tells me I'm quiet. I'm spared answering by Iggy's "He's not always?"

I heard somewhere that the most resilient parasite, metaphorically, is an idea. Apparently that extends to thoughts of people as well, because Dylan won't get out of my head.

Max finally breaks down her walls when we get home that night, and everyone else has gone to bed. We're watching a bad sitcom called something about a third rock, but it's on low and we're not really listening.

"Are you okay, Fang?" she asks me, biting a lip in the way she only does when she's upset.

"Yeah," I tell her. "I'm fine."

She knows I'm lying.

"I'm...I'm really sorry for blowing up at you," she says haltingly. Know that she doesn't usually apologize, so this is kind of a big deal. "I didn't really mean to, you know...I was just kinda surprised you wanted to talk about Dylan."

"I didn't mean to make you angry."

"I know...I just..." She blows a piece out of her hair, frustrated with not being able to find the right words. "You...you haven't talked to him, have you?"

I consider telling her, I really do. But...something in me just doesn't think it's right.

"No," I say.

I dream. Remember how I said I almost never dream? Well, I dream tonight, and as opposed to hazy flashes of sound and color that never quite pieces together, it's a vivid panorama that I can recall exactly.

I see Dylan, tangled in the arms of the Muscle Man, who's staring at me with eyes that have been gouged out—red blood and white flesh mixes and runs down his face like bad Halloween makeup. He stands there emotionlessly as Dylan writhes. I look down and there's a wolf, growling and daring me with eyes like melted chocolate on fire. But as I freeze in fear, it's not me the wolf lunges at—it's Dylan. It bites him once, twice, jagged teeth dragging through flesh as easily as a finger through water. Blood splashes scarlet at my feet, and it scares me that it blends in with my black sneakers and jeans. A metallic smell chokes the air. Dylan looks up, and his eyes are the same as the middle-aged man that's holding him—except for worse, and the wounds are fresh.

He shouldn't be able to see me, but it's apparent that he can—the ruined face turns in my direction and Dylan opens his mouth. Why didn't you save me? he mouths, before closing his eyes and giving a shuddering breath to die.

I wake up shaking, covered in sweat and with my iPod still in my ears, playing diediedie in my ears.