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While Jean and Scott coo over Christopher, checking him all over for the slightest scrape or bruise, Hank sits up front engaged in deep conversation with Ship. Warren takes up a bench seat all by himself, too battered and tired to draw his wings in. They loom around him, sharp and terrible, and he closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at them, so he doesn’t have to look at Bobby, curled up miserably on the other side of the room.
Strange. He gets his sight back and doesn’t want to see a damn thing.
Ice pellets plink on the floor like hailstones. Shit . “Are you crying?”
“Uh. I guess I am,” Bobby says, rubbing his eyes. “Sorry, man, I’m just… I’m really glad I didn’t kill you.”
Oh. “Me too.”
The wings aren’t. The wings ache to finish the job, to shred, to slice to cut to kill to crush to chop. “I can’t believe I couldn’t… I dunno, snap out of it,” Bobby admits, sitting with his head in his hands. “I guess I thought I was stronger than that.”
“You are strong,” Warren tells him, leaning forward, aching to put a hand on his shoulder. “Bobby, you are strong.” Only the strong survive. “It was the jammers, is all. Your brain got scrambled. It could’ve happened to anyone. It happened to Jeannie.”
“I would’ve killed you,” Bobby says. “Don’t tell me that’s okay.”
Warren wants to say, It wouldn’t have been much of a loss . Wants to say, All the best parts of me are already dead, anyway . “Can…” He sighs. “Can you stop thinking about yourself for two damn seconds?”
“ What ?”
“Jesus, Bobby, I’m sorry you got your memory messed with but it’s over now. It’s over for you,” Warren snaps, anger bubbling beneath his skin. Candy Southern used to tell him he was like a tea kettle— all that pressure building up and then out with a whistle, or a scream. “It’s never over for me.”
Bobby stares at him, his mouth hanging open. “What are you talking about? We’re out of the arena. We’re going home .”
“Right, home,” Warren laughs harshly. “Because everything is perfect back there.”
“Warren—”
“I don’t need the drugs, the goads, I don’t need the manipulation that was going on back there,” Warren says. “It doesn’t take any intervention or tricks to get me to that place of… of being ready to lash out, to hurt someone.” To slice to cut to kill to crush . “The Chosen jumped through all these hoops to make me some kind of a killer. It was all unnecessary. The wings could just take over and do it for me, the whole time.”
The wings . Not “my wings.” Just “the wings.”
Bobby looks at Warren like he’s trying to peel away the years and years of friendship to see the ugly truth he’s been shielding himself from. But he just sees Warren. Blue, sad, scary… but still Warren.
Bobby gets up and sits down next to Warren. The wings bristle at the sudden stimulus, but they don’t react otherwise.
“Do… do you wanna kill me right now?” Bobby asks, staring down at his own hands.
“I don’t really want to do anything right now,” Warren says. “I want to sleep .”
“But you don’t want to kill me?” Bobby checks.
Warren turns to look at him. Up close, in profile, Bobby does look older. Between Infectia and Inferno and Apocalypse, he’s been struggling to keep his head on straight. To be fun, goofy Bobby, just like always.
Warren wonders if they’ve put too much pressure on him, elbowed Bobby into the role of class clown so the rest of them could focus on their own traumas. Of course, more likely it’s something Bobby did himself.
“No,” Warren says quietly. “Of course I don’t want to kill you. You’re my best friend.”
“Aw.” Bobby leans over and tips his head against Warren’s shoulder. “For the record, I don’t wanna kill you either.”
“Good,” Warren says.
The wings are quiet.