Hey all. So, holy wow, chapter twenty already! Wow! I really love this story so much. However, oh god do I HATE writer's block. Couple that with an ungodly obsession with the anime Bleach that leaves me utterly helpless to think of anything else, and that kind of leaves other things left out in the cold. (Tears) I'm really really really sorry. Fortunately, I have another chapter that I'd already written after this one, so y'all have at least another week before my unfortunate situation is actually bothersome for you. I will try my very best to move on soon, I promise. On another note, I also promise that after this it will be more or less nothing but fluff until the end. A fact which pleased Rayne, as he's getting rather tired of my constant 'emoness'. Anyways, huge thanks to my faithful reviewers StoryofGreen, endiahna, and Patricia16. OK, on with the chapter! Read, Review, Enjoy!


He was floating, he was safe, he was warm. Everything was dark, completely dark. He was surrounded in empty, blissful, nothingness; he was surrounded by everything that was Logan. It was a kind of sleep that Warren had never felt before Logan came into his life, and it was a kind of sleep that Warren would never feel outside of Logan's arms. It was pure, wholesome, and beautiful.

But then it was gone. The warmth, the dark, the peace. He felt himself fall into a dream, one he knew he wouldn't like.

He kept his eyes clinched tight, the dream was just on the other side of his lids, and he was in no hurry to greet it. But he could only stall for so long and eventually his eyes opened themselves against his will.

The bright light that suddenly surrounded him left him severely disoriented for sometime. And before he could fully recover himself, he felt rough hands grabbing him, and he knew for certain which dream this was.

He heard a tiny whimper that could have only come from himself as the rough hands lifted him to his feet. He coward away from the touch, clenching his eyes again, he didn't want to see this; he didn't want to feel this, not again.

But the hands didn't stop, and soon the lips joined them. Warren waited, trying not to cry out. He just had to wait it out, like he always had done, just wait and it would be over soon.

But then a voice broke through the pain. Warren couldn't understand what the voice was saying, but he knew who's it was. He almost sighed in relief. Logan would save him, Logan would stop the dream, it was all over.

But then he realized that Logan's voice was in the dream. The hands had let go of him, Scott had said something back to Logan, but still Warren couldn't make out the words. He wanted to open his eyes, he wanted to see what was happening, but he's body refused to obey. And so he was forced simply to remain where he was, struggling to make sense of the garbled sounds that surrounded him.

Then there was a flash of red light so bright that he could see it even through his eyelids. Warren screamed, and screamed again, and again.

He woke up still screaming, so loudly that practically the entire motel room was shaking with him. He huddled on the bed, his mind scrambling in panic, his breath coming in short, painful gasps.

It took a long time for him to calm down enough to open his eyes and take in the room around him.

It was empty. Logan was nowhere in sight. Warren spotted a note on the table, but didn't have to read it; he could already guess what it said.

Gone to finish my business. I'll try to hurry. Maybe we can go flying again tonight.

Love, Logan

Warren took several more steadying breaths. He decided to take a shower, that would calm him down.

And sure enough, as he left the steamy bathroom he did feel calmer, a little bit. His stomach rumbled and he eyed the leftover pizza from the night before. It didn't look very appetizing. Besides that, he still felt haunted by his nightmare, so he decided that perhaps a little fresh air would be good for him.

With that decision made, he got dressed, and hesitantly left the motel room.

Mistake, big one.

He rarely left their motel room without Logan, only when the need for the freshness only high altitude air can have forced him to. He always felt nervous and uncomfortable, twitchy.

Nevertheless, he continued determinedly for the Dunkin' Doughnuts just down the road. He had made it as far as the edge of the motel parking lot the first time it happened. Just a flash out of the corner of his eye, the barest flicker of something. Warren jumped, whirled, saw nothing, told himself to calm down, and continued walking.

It happened, over and over again, about every few feet. He struggled to ignore it, he at least didn't jump and whirl around after the first few times, but nevertheless, by the time he reached the Dunkin' Doughnuts he was extremely twitchy and rather out of breath.

He got his doughnut and coffee quickly and had to force himself to walk at a normal pace as he retreated back to their room.

When he arrived at his sanctuary he all but slammed the door behind him and locked it. It took him several minutes to slow his breathing back to normal again.

Most days, he would have been more or less all right going out for so short a time alone, but with the dream so fresh in his mind, he was a lot more jumpy than usual.

Pointedly ignoring the images his mind was trying to torture him with, Warren flopped himself down on the bed again and flipped on the TV. He tried to be nonchalant and relaxed, he tried to tell himself that everything was fine.

But it wasn't. It still lurked, in the back of his mind; waiting for the second he let his guard down so that it could pounce. The memories, the fear, the pain, but he refused it. Logan had helped him build up his defenses, and Logan helped him to refuse to give in.

However, as hard as he tried, eventually, he did slip up, and the darkness converged on him.

"There you are, my pet," whispered a voice, that horrible, awful, most hateful voice.

"No," Warren pleaded, staring wildly around the room suddenly, trying to see where the voice had come from.

"I've been looking for you," Scott continued.

"No, go away!" Warren insisted, jumping off of the bed. Quickly he rushed to the bathroom, pulled open the closet, even checked under the bed. He tore the room apart, pulling pillow and sheets from the bed, throwing everything his hands met, determined to find the source of the voice.

At length he breathed a soft sigh of relief, sure that Scott wasn't actually in the room, but that relief lasted for half of a millisecond before he put his hands to his head and cried out in frustration, fear, and pain. Scott was in his head! Even his mind was no longer safe! Was there no place he could go where Scott couldn't follow?

"I've missed you."

"Go away," he whispered.

"Why did you run away from me?"

"Stop it!"

"I love you."

"Leave. Me. Alone!"

"I love your voice, Warren, it's so beautiful, so nice to listen to."
Warren didn't say anything; he just clutched his head and tried to force the voice away.

"I love your hair too, it's so soft, and smells so go."

Then a crazy thought came to him. It was crazy, it was dangerous, it was wrong, but he didn't care, as long as it worked. Warren leaped to his feet, practically tripping over himself as he hurried to Logan's bag. Logan kept a hunting knife in the outside pocket, why Warren had never understood since Logan always had his own knifes on him, but that day Warren was glad. He grabbed the knife and was about to start hacking at his hair, when Scott spoke again.

"I love your skin too, it's so soft, so warm, so beautiful."

So Warren switched the direction of the knife and slashed at his arm instead. He cried out as the blood began to flow, but didn't stop. Any pain was better than Scott, so he slashed again, and again. His arms, his chest, his legs.

But the Scott voice had one more thing to say. "But most of all, Warren, my pet, I love your wings. The wings of an angel, because that's what you are, an angel, my angel."

"I'm not!" Warren screamed, and without even thinking about his, raised the knife and began to hack at his wing. That hurt more than anything and he cried at he did it, but he never stopped, his hand never faltered. Then, the bone cracked, and broken, and his beautiful, pearly wing fell onto the carpet in a bloody mass of feathers, but he didn't stop there, next he went for the other wing.

He was wingless, bleeding, his throat was raw from crying, he was shaking so violently he could hardly maintain his hold on the knife.

He gasped for breath, and as soon as his legs would hold him, he stood. Slowly he made he way across the shambled room to the bathroom and stopped in front of the mirror. There he stood for a long time. He had at some point ripped off his shirt, and now his chest could be seen in all of its bloody glory. He stood there and stared, examining his face, still shadowed with bruises from his last night at the Institute, his chest, his arms. He felt the blood coursing down his back from the stumps that had once been his wings, and the knife still dangled from his hand.

"Love me now," he whispered angrily, as tears began to once more trace their way down his cheeks.

"Oh trust me, pet, I still do," the voice, poisonously sweet hissed back, and Warren saw behind himself in the mirror the face that haunted his dreams. "You're still mine, you always will be."

"No!" Warren yelled, the hand not holding the knife curling into a fist, "I was never yours!" And with that his hand flew up and shattered the mirror into a thousand pieces; he didn't even flinch when the shards struck him.

"You will always be mine." The voice was fading as it said the words, but Warren didn't care.

He decided that perhaps he hadn't done a good enough job. So once more he gripped the knife and began to cut.

He felt the blood pooling at his feet, as though he was drowning in it. He wished he was drowning in it. He was falling, falling, fading away into nothing. His vision had gone black sometime ago, he couldn't be sure if he was still standing or not, he wasn't even sure if he still held the knife. He felt nothing but pain, pain, and more pain; it filled him, consuming the emptiness inside. He heard nothing but Scott's voice, crooning sweet words of false love in his ear.

But just as he was sliding away for good, another voice came, forcing the bad one away. This was a sweet voice, a kind voice, a loving voice, a panicked voice, the voice Warren loved more than anything in the world.

"Warren? Warren!" Logan called, "Warren, please, put down the knife."

Warren dropped the knife he wasn't even really aware of still holding, although whether due to Logan's command or because he was no longer strong enough to maintain his grip on it was impossible to tell.

Logan continued speaking, though the exacted words passed Warren and faded into a blur of soothing noise. He thought about coming back, about refusing the darkness to go to Logan. He tried to open his eyes, tried to speak, to tell Logan that he was alright. But his body simply refused to obey.

The last thing Warren heard was, "Hold on, Warren, please hold on." Then there was nothing.