A/N I came up with this while trying to write chap. 4 of A Legend which is posted now by the way. It's kind of an angst romance, without much romance. So this is based either before Fang left, or as if Fang never left at all, you can decide.
Disclaimer: Me no owney
The beeping, the never ending beeping, that's what got to him, or maybe it was the whit walls. And the white floors. And the white chairs. And the white sheets. And the white pillows. And the white drapes. Would it kill these people to add a little color to this depressing place? It also might have been the sharp, lethal looking, silver instruments he could see everywhere, or the sound of gurney wheels screeching on peeling, washed out white floors, or maybe it was just the feeling of death and decay that hung around this place like a wet blanket. The most probable explanation though was all of it; all these little insubstantial details added up to one big nightmare. A flashback from his dreary childhood.
He'd endure it all though, gladly even, if only for the girl that lay unmoving (so scarily unmoving) on the white bed in front of him. He just wished she'd get on with it and wake up already, okay, so maybe he wasn't enduring this . . . experience, gladly, but that wasn't the point.
She was going to be okay, Dr. M had promised him that, and although he had never been one for just taking people's word for it, especially adults, he'd learned pretty early not to trust adults, that was exactly what he was going to do, because that's all he could do.
This was Max, and it was Dr. M taking care of her, Max's mother for Christ's sake, she would make sure Max was fine. He just wished he didn't have to think about it at all.
A small girl, well not so small really, considering she was just seven years old, but comparatively, she was small, entered the small, white room just then. Her bouncy blonde curls lay lank, her blue eyes weary, and guilt ridden, wearing an expression of self-loathing no child should endure, no matter how special.
"Hey" she said meekly to the black haired boy sitting in the chair by the head of the white bed, holding it's occupants hand as if she were his only link to sanity, which in a way she was, he wouldn't, no couldn't, stay sane without her.
"Yo," he said back, his voice just as weak as hers. He patted the white chair beside him, eyes never wavering from the pale (much to pale) face of the fifteen year old girl lying on the bed. If he focused really hard he thought he could see her eyelids flutter, just a little.
They sat in silence for a while before the young girl looked up at Fang, and said, on the verge of tears,
"I wish she didn't hate me." Fang sighed; he'd known this was coming. He just wished (he'd been wishing for a lot of stuff lately), that Max was awake; she'd know how to deal with it. Then again, if Max were awake there wouldn't be anything to deal with.
"Angel sweetie, she doesn't hate you, she took a bullet for you. Max wouldn't take a bullet for someone she hates, she loves you more than you know." Angel looked up at the second father figure she'd had in her short, danger filled life. Her face was blank, deadened, emotionless, scary on one so young.
"The gesture would mean more, if I didn't know for a fact that Max would take a bullet for just about anyone." Then she hopped delicately off her stool, and went quietly out the way she'd come in, presumably to find the others, who were staking out the vending machines. Fang didn't stop her, he had nothing to say to that, what could you say to the truth?
Max was a hero, in every essence of the word. Of all the people he possibly could have fallen in love with, he had to choose a flippin' hero. He guessed that made him a sidekick, Fang smirked, Max would love that, maybe he'd tell her when she woke up, then again, maybe not, she'd never let him live it down.
She really was a hero, her costume ripped and tattered jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, her brown-blonde hair cut short with a knife. Her mask was the constant layer of blood and grime on her face. He didn't even have to go into what her powers were.
She was a hero alright, she had to do what was right, always fighting for the underdog, for people like Ella, the half sister she didn't know existed, who she had swooped down from the sky to save, like an angel. No, they already had an angel, Max was a super hero. She protected and saved people like Ari, the brother who'd tried to kill her, Fang snorted, he was just now noticing how messed up Max's family was.
She was going to save the world one day and he knew it. Just like he knew he'd be right behind her when it happened. He'd follow her to Hell and back, but then again who wouldn't, this was Max he was talking about. She was stubborn, arrogant, and bossy, but who'd ever heard of a hero who wasn't cocky, who didn't tell people what to do? Heroes didn't negotiate. Who'd heard of a hero who gave up right away, who ignored perseverance, and all that crap? No one had, because those kinds of Heroes didn't last long.
Max was caring as well, she didn't really hate many people, and the ones she did hate she had a good excuse. Like with Itex, Jeb, Dr. Chu, and the whitecoats (1), her excuses were pretty damn good. She would never forgive Jeb, that he knew; the betrayal ran too deep, even if she wouldn't admit it. All super heroes have enemies though, right? That was probably a good thing, because Max's list of enemies was seemingly endless, he knew because Iggy had gotten bored one day and written every single one down, it hadn't been pretty.
Max was a hero, cursed to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders, created to save it, even if it meant losing herself in the process. He was powerless against it. He couldn't save her, all he could do was follow her around, catching her when she fell, getting her back on her feet, like a good little sidekick(2). He couldn't stop it, just like he couldn't stop that god-damned beeping.
A/N 1. I love the irony with white coats, you know whitecoats (evil scientists), white hats (saints), it's hilarious.
2. Sarcasm people.