Hey huns! I'm back. I know, it's been a while. I feel really bad because I haven't been updating any of my stories but I have NO inspiration. It's sad, really.

Anywho, here's a oneshot I wrote one night at like midnight, listening to When You're Gone by Avril Lavigne and Broken By Seether feat. Amy Lee. Listen to them. They're great songs, if a little sad.

Yeah, so I was listening to those songs and I went, hey, INSPIRATION PEOPLE!!! And I didn't really think, I just let my hand go and I got a rough version of this. A little filling, a little grammar and viola! I have a oneshot. How cool is that?

So, yeah. Enjoy, ma peeps.

{--Inky--}

P.S. There's a quote from a song somewhere in there. If you can find it, tell me the song and the artist, I'll see if I can maybe rustle up a little preview of one of my other stories. Just review, give me the quote, the song, the artist, and what story you want to hear about. First five people get rewards!! OR, you could ask me about the new story I've got about Bella and Edward, if you really want to. So, get on it y'all!!!

She knocked softly, almost inaudibly, knowing he would hear. She called his name through the wood, and he replied, telling her to come in. Pushing open the door, she saw that the room was as neat as ever; bare walls painted a cheery, uncharacteristic peach, uncluttered desk, his bed made. His backpack was placed near the window, ready for escape. He was spread out on his bed, hands resting underneath his head, dark eyes trained on her form standing in the doorway. She could see the smooth, flat skin of his stomach and his bellybutton, an inney, where his black t-shirt had ridden up from his grey sweats. Bare feet dangled off the end of the bed.

"Can't sleep?" he asked. She shook her head slightly, closing the door behind her with a click. He must have seen the furrow in her forehead, or her troubled eyes because he frowned.

"Nightmare?" She ignored him and crawled up into the end of the bed, avoiding his lengthy legs, and sat Indian-style facing him.

"Were you drawing again?" she asked, fingering the cover of the worn leather book resting on the comforter next to his leg. She didn't open it to look inside, even though she wanted to. His sketchbook was like his diary, and it would be morally wrong to intrude like that. Besides, she knew that if he wanted her to know something, he would just tell her. That's the way it's always been with them. That unfathomable perception of each other, the familiarity, was astounding to see for anyone on the outside. Which was practically everyone.

His lips twitched upwards, a small smile that made her smile, dazzling him a bit. "Trying to," he replied. Actually, he had been trying to remember her face, the tiny freckles dotted across her slender nose, the arch of her cheekbones, the gentle curve of her lip, the sparkle in her eyes when she laughs.

There was no trouble in calling up those familiar features. He had seen them almost every day of his life. It was trapping her on paper that was the problem. He couldn't seem to do it, and every attempt he made was wrong, off. He couldn't capture her right.

But then again, he thought, Maximum Ride isn't really the type to be captured. He watched her, sitting cross-legged like a child at the foot of his bed and staring out the open window at the milky night sky. She still had a dangerous air about her, even in a green tank top and black shorts, toenails painted purple—courtesy of Angel—and her hair falling in messy strands out of her braid to frame her delicate face. Max twirled a piece of blond hair around her slim finger, gazing out his window thoughtfully.

Max looked delicate, with her wide hazel eyes and sylphlike frame, but he knew that she was tough, durable, tenacious. She could take out just as many Erasers as he could, if not more. She was fast, light on her feet, and unafraid to take chances, to be brave. She's sarcastic and cynical, sweet and understanding. She's a fighter. She's a mother. She's a runner, a rebel and a stunner. She's unafraid of anything.

She's Max. There's no way to describe her correctly. She's just . . . Max.

"Are you staying?" She broke him out of his thoughts, being blunt as ever.

"I don't know," he shrugged, as if it didn't matter. She frowned at his careless demeanour, because it did matter. A lot. These were his parents, hi authentic, biological real parents, and they already loved him, even though there was no telling what their reaction to the wings would be.

"You can if you want to," she told him, even though inside her chest, her heart was shattering into a billion unfixable fragments at the possibility. What would she do without him to catch her when she falls, to put her back together when everything falls apart, to hold her back from making the mistake of her life? "I want you to be happy, Fang. It's okay if you want to stay. We'll understand; I'll be okay." She tried to assure him, and herself, and willed herself no to cry at the same time. Tears sprang to her eyes anyway. He was through her facade, making it useless, like he always does. She wasn't sure why she tried with him anymore.

"Will you be okay?" he sat up, leaning forward to grasp her wrists and pull her towards him. For once, she let him. She shuffled towards him, settling herself between his legs, moving so that she could wrap her arms around him. She rested her head on his shoulder.

"Maybe," she whispered, still playing strong and holding up her walls. But it was becoming difficult to hold in the tide of emotion anymore. "Probably not," she allowed. Tears started to leak out of the corners of her eyes, flowing faster. She buried her face into his shoulder so he wouldn't see her cry.

Her bruised pride demanded it.

The soft cotton of his black t-shirt rubbed against her wet cheek, comforting and familiar. It told her that he was there, being her solid rock as always. That he could handle her craziness and problems. She owed him for so much, she was deeply in debt.

"Probably not," he repeated, rubbing soothing circles on her back to help her calm down. Slowly, her quiet sobs faded into deep, even breaths. She sat up, wiping salty tears off her pink cheeks. Their eyes met, and a single message was clear.

I won't let you fall.

She looked away first, glancing down at her small feet and wiggling her violet toenails. A traitorous yawn forced it way out, making her eyes water and her eyelids droop.

Noticing this, he pulled his comforter and sheets back for her to crawl into. She did, him following. Once they were both settled, he reached over to flick the lamp off, darkness enveloping them like a blanket. She curled into his side, her head on his chest, almost as an automatic reaction. She could hear his heart beat rhythmically and feel his chest rise and fall with each breath. He put an arm around her waist to hold her there.

When she pressed her cold feet to his leg, he jumped and she smirked. He tugged playfully on the end of her braid in retaliation, and she slapped his hand away. All teasing aside, she snuggled closer to him and closed her eyes. He stared at her for a minute or two before breaking the silence.

"Hey Max?" Sleepily, she cracked one eye open.

"Yeah?"

"We're in this together. Where you go, I go. No matter how full her fridge is."

She smiled brightly. "We could always take the fridge with us."

"Sounds like a plan. You can carry it."

"Then you'd better catch me when I fall."

"I always do," he whispered.

Her rosy lips curved upward. "I know." Then her deep hazel eyes drifted shut and her breathing levelled out slowly. He lay there for a while, feeling her body heat next to his. He followed her soon after. He would follow her anywhere.

Like it? Hate it? Want me to write more oneshots, or just give up writing and go curl up in a deep dark hole with Orville the mongoose?

Lemme know.

And Orville the mongoose is my buddy, he belongs to me.

He keeps me company.

I copyright him.

So there. Hah.