A/N: Hey! I'm back with another Max Ride fanfiction. This is from Fang's POV, which is a first for me, so I hope he's not too OOC. The plot of this story is that Angel is kidnapped, and so it's a mystery/humor, because I'm cool like that. Also, everything else I'm writing I've gotten major writer's block on, so... have fun reading!

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot, and hardly even that.

Song of the Moment: Ain't No Rest For The Wicked by Cage The Elephant

Perception, Love, and Backflips

Chapter One

"Wait - you're saying that Angel's... missing?"

Max's face contorts into something I've never seen before, and I instantly begin to worry - Angel is her little sister, her everything. Now, one night out with me, and she's gone. It's crazy, the first night she decides to leave her alone - and suddenly I feel guilty, something I've hardly ever felt, for anybody.

"Yes, Ms. Martinez, I'm sorry to inform you that it's true." The detective standing in front of us nods, his lips pressed into a straight line of resignation. "She was home alone, while you were out, and your mother is out at a convention for work, correct?"

"Yeah," Max mumbles numbly. "But... she's seven. I was left alone all the time while I was seven, nothing ever happened to me!" Denial fills her eyes and I feel relief; same old Max, right there. "Something's really, really wrong here. This isn't random, is it?"

The detective tilts his head in a very non-obvious way and then nods with suspicion filling his eyes. "Yes. It seems that several children in the Phoenix area have gone missing, and none of them have turned up yet; they're all ranging from ages seven to thirteen. It's rather peculiar."

I look over at Max and lick my lips, narrowing my eyes in order to view her with a perceptive state of mind - just not like I had earlier that night.

You see, some back story may be in order here. I'm Fang Ride, sixteen, attending Jackson High School along with Max. Tonight, we had a study date for this summer class I have to take on Calculus (she's one of the tutors); I insisted it was a real date, you know, because I like her (she thinks it's just because I think she's unattainable, and I like a challenge, which is partially true, but...). I was just thrilled that I finally got her to go out with me.

And then this happens.

Max will hate me forever, I'm positively sure of it; she stays 'til midnight at my house, comes home to find out that her sister is missing. Who wouldn't hate me for that?

The detective seems to notice me just then. "And who are..." He looks me up and down, and I sigh, because I'm probably making a bad impression. Dark jeans, dark t-shirt, black leather jacket, and un-groomed hair. Well, it was groomed earlier, but it seems that my hair can never stay nice for long. "You?" he finishes, with complete distaste obvious in his voice.

"Fang Ride," I say automatically. Realizing that doesn't sound professional at all, I rephrase with, "Err, uh, I mean, Nick Ride, sir. Max's boyfriend." I smirk when I see her open her mouth to protest from the corner of my eye, but she's interrupted when the detective speaks again.

"Interesting." He narrows his eyes, in a hardly noticeable fashion, though, just slightly.

"We're just friends, sir. He has this weird, hell bent obsession on getting me to date him. But that's not happening. Ever." She glares at me without holding back, and I almost flinch. Almost.

The detective sighs, exasperated. "Well, do you mind if I ask you some questions, Ms. Martinez?" He glances at me and then adds, "Alone?"

It's only then when I realize that I had put my hand on her waist protectively, and she peels my fingers off, causing me to feel a flush start to creep up my neck. God. That was slightly embarrassing.

Max and the detective disappear into a random room of her house, and I look around. Crime scene people are all over, taking photos and placing markers. Although, oddly, I have an intuition that the evidence they need isn't in here.

"Where else have you checked?" I ask a woman who's taking a photo of something on the carpet.

"I don't have time for your questions, kid, so bug—" She cuts off when she looks up at me and a blush tints her cheeks, swallowing - quite audibly, I note - and looking back at her camera. "Uh, basically the whole house. Why?"

"Did you check outside?"

"Yeah."

"Where?"

"The patio, the garden, the front porch, the deck... everywhere. Even her play set." She looks up at me, her blush far from gone. "How old are you?"

I ignore her question and shove my hands into my jacket pockets, playing with a little piece of paper I have in there. "Hm... Would it be a problem if I checked the house a little bit?" I flash a smile, and she looks away again.

"S-sure."

I walk away just as she's asking me if I'd like her number, and check around the house, avoiding the room that Max and the detective are in. I find nothing of interest (other than one of - I assume - Max's bras hanging over a shower rack... I'm such a perv), until I head upstairs.

I am so tempted to do more than the necessary "searching" in Max's room, but just scan it over, checking obvious places for evidence instead of indulging in her easily-found journal (seriously? Who puts their journal on a book shelf? A book shelf!).

I figure that there'll be people crowding Angel's room, but there's not. "Wow, Phoenix needs a better CSI unit," I mumble to myself as I quickly go through her stuff, using a tissue whenever I touch anything in order to not contaminate any evidence. I find a lot of pictures of her and Max on her dresser - her and Max at the water park, her and Max with Ronald McDonald, her and Max with some old lady - and a few breakable, valuable-seeming chess sets under her bed, including one made of glass.

"Angel likes chess," I muse. "That one's goin' in the vault."

Ha ha, I know, you must be thinking, "Wow, you talk to yourself a lot!" Well, truth be told, I do talk to myself a lot. It's just the simple fact that I don't really like having to hold conversations with other people, so instead I use up my gab by talking to myself. People are just so... over-rated.

Finally, I head out to her balcony (wait - this kid has a balcony?), which only juts out a few feet from the house, only large enough for two people. I step out onto it cautiously and examine the cement carefully... huh. Nothing unusual really, so I guess—

WAIT A MINUTE.

WAIT JUUUUST A MINUTE.

WHAT DID I JUST SEE?

Just as I'm about to turn away, I twirl back around and do a double take at... scoff marks on the railing. The railing is thick enough for somebody to stand on, yeah, but this makes it look as if they landed on the railing. Well, that or jumped off it, which are both highly impossible.

Did I catch secondhand stupid from my brother or something?

I examine them closely, and they are, indeed, scoff marks. I frown at it and examine the floor of the balcony, finding yet another pair of scoff marks on the ground, like somebody jumped from the railing. "This is weird," I muse, unconsciously raising an eyebrow.

"Fang, what are you doing up here?"

I whip around and look at Max, a look temporarily coming over my face like she had just caught me jacking off. (Okay, that would probably be worse than this.) I quickly clean up my expression and swallow, less audibly than the woman downstairs. "Just checking out your house, you know..." I'm going to add, For clues, but decide against it, lest I be mistaken for a part of the Mystery Gang.

"Why?" she demands, egging me on. "Did you go into my room?"

"Yeah. But I didn't read your journal, if that's what you're wondering. I did find it, though." I smirk slightly in amusement as her eyes widen and she crosses her arms at me, glaring.

"Fang, will you just leave?" She seems exasperated, emotionally worn-out even though it didn't look like she had been crying or anything. "I don't have time to deal with you right now. I need to find Angel."

"I found some stuff, though," I pipe up, giving her a pointed look. "Scoff marks on the railing." I motion to it and her face contorts into confusion as she walks onto the balcony next to me.

She examines the black marks and shakes her head. "Fang, you must be tired or something, these can't be scoff marks. I mean, that's impossible, because they indicate that somebody either jumped or landed here, and that's impossible—"

"I know!" I exclaim, out of character. "That's the point. And then there's these here, too." I point to the second pair of scoff marks. "Let me just point out that whoever made these was impeccably well-dressed... especially since he was wearing this much shoe polish."

She looks at me after a moment and nods. "Yeah. These are scoffs marks, but it's crazy... how can they be here?"

I shrug without an answer, not sure how to reply. How can they be here? Big Bird wearing a tux? (Wait, can he fly or not?)

Max runs a hand through her hair and sighs. "Well. Maybe we should point this out to the CSI team," Max suggests, looking at me and shrugging. "I mean... I don't see how they'd be here, but..."

"Maybe we should investigate, on our own. You know as a team, try and find Angel," I offer, leaning against the railing.

Max gives me a suspicious look. "Is this just a ploy to get into my pants? Because it's not going to work. I don't like you."

I frown. "No, it's not. And I know you don't. Yet." I smirk as she rolls her eyes. "I want to find Angel, okay? And I wouldn't mind finding those other kids, either. I have killer perception skills." And I'm not lying to impress her this time.

She tilts her head and runs her fingers against the scoff marks. "Well... I guess. It couldn't be all that bad..." I sounds like she's saying this to herself, but I was pleased. This isn't a ploy to get into her pants; it's a ploy to win her heart.

... And, you know. Find Angel.

Max stands up from where she was crouching, and gives me a very skeptical look, her lips pressed together. "Fang, I'm choosing to trust you, okay? That means that you can't always be hitting on me, or making moves," she says to me, crossing her arms. "This is purely because I think you do have good perception skills, nothing else. Capiche?"

"Capiche," I repeat with a nod.

She nods back, still looking skeptical, and walks into Angel's room. "The last time I saw Angel was right after supper, when I headed over to your house for our study date," she tells me, looking over the room. "She was in the living room watching Family Ties. I told her to get into bed by ten, ten thirty at the latest, if I wasn't home. I didn't think you would be that hard to study with, even though I'm the best at Calculus that I know."

I don't exactly know what that means, but she continues before I can ask.

"Judging by this," she picks up a half-eaten half-gallon of chocolate fudge ice cream, which is melted, that I didn't notice before (so much for perception, Fang), "she didn't listen to my no-eating-sugar-before-bed rule. And it also means she was probably up here and was taken about an hour ago. The police said the neighbors called them, when they heard a scream from here. They knew she was alone, too, because I told them."

"Who are your neighbors?" I ask.

"On the right are Madeline and Kent Jones, the left are the Parkers; they have, like, eight kids, Mel and Whitney do."

I want to say, Ha-ha, so you live next to Spider-Man? but I don't. I play with the piece of paper in my jacket again, and then close my eyes, racking my brain to see if I know any of them. Mel and Whitney Parker did sound familiar... "Hey, isn't Mel a construction worker?"

I open my eyes, and Max is nodding. "Yeah. Mostly building houses and small businesses. He's pretty popular. Practically everybody knows him. Whitney stays at home a lot of the time, taking care of the kids, pretty sure she sometimes does a little bit of telemarketing from home."

I look over to Max's left, at the Parkers' house. With a tilt of my head, I see there's a window level with Angel's balcony... that's broken.

"Their window is broken," I comment. "Why would that be?"

Max purses her lips and looks over there. "I didn't notice that... They have a lot of boys, it could be anything."

My gut is telling me we should ask, so I say, "Let's go ask, then."

Max almost laughs. "But it's midnight, Fang, that would be rude. What if we wake up one the boys? They're terrible."

I shrug. "If you don't want to come along, then I just will," I tell her, walking out of Angel's room without looking back at Max.

I soon hear her footsteps follow me down the stairs wordlessly. She follows me out of the empty house, the CSI unit and detective having already left. I sigh at this, considering they didn't even bother to check the balcony for anything suspicious.

We walk over to the Parkers' house and I knock on the door. We wait in silence, practically avoiding talking to each other, until, finally, a woman who looks very tired and worn opens the door.

"How can I help you kids?" she asks politely, despite the fact that we're coming over to her house at... one in the morning. "Oh, hi, Max. Are you here to ask about Angel?"

I narrow my eyes suspiciously, and Max seems to be completely at ease with her neighbor, who I assume is Whitney. "Kind of, Mrs. Parker. My friend, Fang, and I noticed that your window is broken, and we're curious as to what happened."

Whitney seems annoyed at this question, as if she was hoping for something much more dramatic and gasp-worthy. "Well, that's easy," she chirps, her annoyance quickly disappearing. "Aidan decided that his RC helicopter would be much better with a brick tied to it."

Max smiled comically. "That sounds like him. Thanks, Mrs. Parker," she says, just before Whitney shuts the door. Max turns to me. "See? The Parkers are as innocent as baby puppies."

"Puppy is a word for a baby dog, thus the word 'baby' before 'puppies' is really redundant," I correct.

"Shut up. They're cleared." Max, seemingly pleased, starts to walk away, and I follow her with a sigh.

"Not quite." I press my lips into a straight line and she looks slightly confused. "Do you believe what she said about the RC helicopter and the brick? Because I think it's a bunch of bull."

Max nods. "Yeah, it sounds like Aidan. Well, and Jeremy... And Petra... and Leonard."

"Petra?" Peter Parker... Petra Parker... This is crazy. "Are you telling me you live next to Spidergirl?"

Max rolls her eyes and begins walking again. "No, Fang, Petra is only six. I suppose she might become Spidergirl, but I highly doubt that; unless she moves to New York when she's older."

"Whatever. Do you want to hear my theory on her story?" I ask, taking off my jacket when we get back into the house and setting it on the coat rack. We have some major cleaning up to do, it looks like, because the CSI unit went through here like a tornado.

I watch as Max takes off the sweater she had been wearing and ties it around her waist, stretching. I see a tan sliver of skin between her shirt and jeans, and look away; even though I've seen much more of a girl before (usually because of way too low cut shirts and hems that are too short), this makes me slightly nervous. Hell, everything about Max makes me nervous.

She shrugs and picks up some sheet music around the piano as I start to hang the coats back up into the closet. "Sure. What'cha got?"

"First of all, I used to have one of those things. I got one for Iggy last Christmas," I tell her, pausing to give her a pointed look. "Well, let me tell you this, one of those things will not hold a brick. They're light weight. At most, they can hold a plastic block."

"Why would she lie about that, though?" Max frowns, obviously perplexed and wanting to believe that the people she's lived next to for most of her life aren't bad guys. "The Parkers are good people," she insists with a shake of her head.

I make my way over to the couch to slide it back into its original position. "I'm not saying that they're bad people, or even that they did it," I reply innocently. "I'm just saying that... maybe something happened. Maybe something that involved Angel's kidnapper."

"No, they would tell me." Max pauses as she grabs the handle of the vacuum. "Wouldn't they?"

That last sentence is so low that I strain to hear it, and it sounds more like she's asking that to herself than to me. I watch her as she thinks, her lips moving slightly, as if she's talking to herself inside of her head.

Finally, she sighs. "Okay," she gives in. "We'll talk to them again tomorrow."

I nod in agreement and we continue to work in silence. I wipe down the coffee table, she vacuums the couch. I lift up the couch while she vacuums under that, and we both have to work on the dirt that the tracked in onto the white carpet.

"They're so considerate when they search the house," Max states dryly, frowning.

I sigh as I stand up, and turn to her in a slightly awkward fashion. "So... Max... where's your mom?"

Max stares absentmindedly at her scrubbing brush and runs it lightly over the carpet. "Somewhere in San Francisco. She's at a Veterinarian's Convention, apparently. We haven't been able to get ahold of her."

I shift my weight to another leg and say, "Well, if you don't want to be alone in the house, I'd be happy to stay over."

Ever so slowly, she looks up at me and tilts her head. Suddenly feeling slightly panicked, like she might holler at me or burst out into tears, I decide to rephrase. "You know, stay in a different bed or whatever, different room. Like, if you're scared that they guy's going to come back, or if you're just not comfortable alone-"

"That'd be nice, Fang. And I've never heard you ramble before."

I'm slightly shocked at her smile, and then am taken aback. "Ramble? I, Fang Ride, do not ramble. I simply rant. There's a complete difference."

The smile stays on her face as she stands up. "Won't your parents be missing you, though?" she asks, her smile now just a ghost on her lips as she takes our cleaners out to the kitchen, where she puts them under the sink.

"Parents? What parents?" I ask in a mock confused voice. "I don't have parents. We live off our aunt's money; she's a writer in Germany. She goes by a pseudonym, so I can't tell you who she is, but she owns a castle. It's just me and Ig, most of the time."

Max nods in understanding. "My mom is gone a lot of the time, too." And that's all she says.

I call Iggy to tell him I'm staying over at Max's ("Oh, great, man, are you about to score?! Oh, separate rooms? Well. You should've told me earlier! I don't even have time to invite over hot babes, Mr. Call Me At Two In The Morning!"), and then take my shoes off at the door.

"Black socks, how classy," Max drawls, her arms crossed, referring to my feet.

"Why do you remind me so much of Draco Malfoy?" I ponder as I sit down on the couch with a sigh. "Is this where I'll be sleeping for the night, Maximillion? Or do I have a special room to accompany?"

Max ignores most of what I say, and replies, "There's a guest bedroom up stairs. Follow me."

So I follow Max upstairs, where she leads me into one of the extra bedrooms that I saw before. Pure white, really - bland. How colorful, I think sarcastically, but once my own closet pops into my mind (black, black, black... oh, and look! Black!) I stop the smart remarks.

"Have a nice night. I'll see you in the morning, Fang," she says, hesitantly standing in the doorway.

We make eye contact, and only then do I say, "You, too, Max. Goodnight."

She shuts the door and I let out a breath that I didn't know I was holding. I rake a hand through my hair, feeling very, very compressed in a room so clean and small. Okay, so maybe it's not small, perhaps it's even bigger than my room, but I still... Ugh. Not a time to get homesick, Fang.

I don't remember my mother or father very well. All I know is that they passed when I was three, so I just remember little things; a park, a woman laughing as a pan sizzled, and somebody lifting me up so I could do a slam dunk through the basketball hoop.

I know Max's room is right next to mine, so that gives me a little comfort. I'm here to give her comfort, yet here she is, giving me comfort. It's pretty ironic. I've never slept alone in a house, especially not without Iggy, so I feel weird. Iggy and I were attached to the hip as kids; no surprise there, really.

I pull my shirt over my head and slip off my jeans and socks, my clothes dropping on the side of the bed nearest to the window. I get into the bed (I would say slip in but I'm a jumble of awkwardness, even if I am smooth; is that contradictory?), and put my hands behind my head, closing my eyes.

I sigh. This is going to be a long night.