Okay, I know I'm being unfaithful to my Lost Boys readers...but this idea had been tickling, and nagging, and it simply REFUSES to go away. Haha, so now I am a story-juggler.

Now, for my fellow Sky High lovers...I give you this gift of Warren/Will slash. Out of over a 1000 and half fan fictions there are a little over 50 dedicated to Warren and Will. And quite a few of them aren't even slashy! Just the usual cliche of an OC which is a writer inserting his or herself into the story haha. Don't be mad at me OCers, I enjoy an OC fan fiction from time to time! XDD

Here is my usual type of smart-aleck, snarky DISCLAIMER...I don't own Sky High of course, if I did, Warren and Will would have made the hell out! Or I would have just simply stolen Warren from the movie myself and ravished him all over my dining room table...XDDD


~Warren's POV~

When I saw his face, I instantly thought of his asshole father. He had the same colored hair; wore red, white and blue, and...hell he just looked like him. I watched him walk across the cafeteria with his friends. He didn't walk like his father. His steps were nervous and small while his father's were large, confident and cocky.

The entire time I was watching him, I was thinking of the night my father had come home for the first time in a long time. I remember my mother looking stern, but yet soft and understanding. Despite being a Hero, she still loved my Villain father; the one who may not have married her, but had given her me.

Dad had come to see me despite the risk.

"A boy's tenth birthday is very important. I could never miss it, son." He'd said to me. Despite feeling too old for hugs from my mom, I'd eagerly wrapped myself in my dad's arms.

He'd hardly settled the package wrapped in newspaper into my hands when everything had gone bad.

Sirens started wailing, red and blue lights were flashing and the door busted in. In came confidently striding the Commander, clad in red, white and blue.

I remember Dad's arms, shoulders and hair bursting into flame and then I remembered he pushed me across the room into my mom's arms.

Oh, I hated the name Stronghold. I hated red, white and blue together.

Little Stronghold Junior glanced over his shoulder at me and I saw him murmur with his friends. I clenched the sleeve of my leather jacket in my gloved hand. I thought of how I'd run my fingertips over the leather when I'd first unwrapped it from the newspaper; how I had first pulled it on and it had been much too big for me.

But I'd grown into my father's leather jacket. I'd grown into the powers he had passed down to me. Having found them around the time I was six, I had only been able to light up my hands. Now I could light up my arms and throw it away from me without the fire dying.

I was going to show Stronghold that. I was going to show him a goddamned flashback.


Later on, when I was heading to the front steps to enjoy my free period secluded from anything that breathed, the little twerp appeared again. Obviously his first day jitters were gone because he nearly walked straight into my. I looked down into his eyes. They were entirely sherry at first, but they quickly became nervous when he saw who he was face to face with.

His lips moved but no sound came out. He sidestepped around me, his body language reflecting his anxiousness.

I turned and looked after him. I wondered quietly if he would bruise if I hit him. I didn't know whether or not he had his father's powers. I didn't know if indestructibility meant that one couldn't feel pain, or bruise. Either way, I wanted to know how good it would feel to drive my fist into the small boy; to taste my hatred coming to life.


The locker rooms were deserted when I left the showers. That was to be expected and it wasn't new to me. Whenever I entered a room, everyone else usually shied away or fled. That didn't bother me one bit. It was what I was used to, what I expected, and what I was content with.

I went to my locker, my body already dried from the heat I steadily released, and I put in the combination.

I reveled in the reputation-induced desolation, in fact. Nobody dared to bother me on purpose; when they did by accident…well let's say that I've spent my fair share of hours in the blinding white detention room.

I thought about how vulnerable I had felt in that room the first time I'd been shoved into it in my freshman year.

I buttoned and zipped up my jeans.

I could fight without my powers, but let's face it…not being able to use your powers is like missing your writing hand.

I sat down and pulled on my boots, quickly lacing them up.

To solve that vulnerability problem, I didn't focus on it.

I pulled on my black t-shirt.

That often made me forget that whole super power neutralizing bullshit.

I yanked on my gloves and slipped on my leather jacket. I closed my locker door firmly and gave the lock a spin.

"Damn it."

My ears pricked. I looked toward the equipment room. I heard a hard metallic clunk.

I stepped quietly from the lockers. I went past the doorway to the bathroom and stepped toward the equipment room door.


~Will's POV~

I rubbed at my eyes in frustration. This still wasn't working. I didn't want to believe what the nurse had told me near the end of the day yesterday. I sat up on the weight bench, abandoning the 45 pound bar with the 10 pound weights on either end of it.

I hung my head. This was the second time I had come into the equipment room today to test my strength. My friends most likely didn't believe the lame excuses I had come up with as to where I was slipping off to.

I didn't want to but I imagined myself dressed up as Ron Wilson, bus driver. Oh God…I thought to myself, the depressing thought setting deep into my skull.

My breath seized up in my throat in a gasp when a hot hand grabbed me by the collar and lifted me off the bench. I cried out in pain when my back slammed up hard against the concrete wall. And then a blunt fist jammed hard into my stomach.

Air rushed out of my lungs and I would have collapsed to my knees if it weren't for the hand holding me up by the collar of my shirt. Then my abdomen was bludgeoned three more times. I cough, desperately trying to find air.

My hands moved to clutch my stomach but a hand grabbed my wrists and dragged them up, pinning them to the wall over my head; leaving my chest entirely defenseless.

I lost count how many times that hard, strong, and angry fist smashed into me, driving the air from my lungs and making me dizzy with pain. I'd never known such agony before.

My yells of pain echoed in the equipment room, silenced by the cold walls. Then when I felt as if another punch would surely put me into a coma, the hand released me and I sunk down to the floor.

I curled up immediately, clutching at the throbbing pain that was my torso. I could feel tear tendrils streaming down my cheeks.

I could feel him glaring down at me shuddering in the fetal position. He stood there silently, listening to me gasp with each inhale and then whimper pathetically with each exhale.

I opened my eyes and looked up at Warren Peace. The darkness of his eyes made me feel insignificant. My eyes squeezed shut again when I took an adventurous breath, and was greeted with pain.

He hadn't said a single word through this whole ordeal and neither had I. It seemed that he had decided to keep it that way, for he turned and pushed through the door, leaving me curled up on the equipment room floor alone.