It would figure that my past catches up with me here, in a cheap diner -- that I spot it when I look up from a salmonella-flavored sandwich -- that it sees me across a cup of cheap coffee.

Though it's been five years since I was within fifty miles of the School, it only takes going inside that boundary for my past at that place to catch up with me, because when I look up from my sandwich to check and be sure there are no paparazzi here, Jeb Batchelder meets my eyes.

Yeah. You.

At first it's accidental, but you keep looking at me, and I know you've recognized me.

Just when I was sure you were dead, too.

I sink down in the booth, trying to be invisible -- tug my hat down further over my hair. This place is miles from the School. What the hell are you doing here?

The guy sitting in your booth half-turns, sneaking a glance at me, and I get a glimpse of his profile, which I feel like I've seen somewhere before. I just can't place him, though. He's probably just one of your whitecoat friends, though.

The three of us are almost the only people in the diner at half-past noon on a fall day, so when you lean toward the other guy, I catch just a snatch of what you say before he gets out of the booth.

"...meet you outside in a minute," you say, and I realize you're going to come talk to me.

I may be more used to fending off reporters than Erasers now, but I still have some shreds of survival instinct left.

I slide out of my own booth, trying to act casual. I look around, pretend I'm waiting for someone.

A little girl with blonde hair edges past me, saying "'Scuse me" just like Angel used to.

The guy from your booth is like two seconds behind her, and he flashes me an apologetic smile that makes me think I maybe do know him.

You're still talking to the waitress, and I switch back over to fight-or-flight mode.

I need to get out of here.

I break for the door, walking fast but not too fast. I do not want to talk to you.

After I've escaped the jukebox-induced cacophony of the diner, it's just a short dash from the sidewalk past the scattered cars in the parking lot to a nice clear space where I can make a good takeoff.

But it's been years since I've had to do this -- leave somewhere and do a U and A -- so I make a critical mistake. I pause too long on the sidewalk outside, even though I know that will let you catch up with me.

Can you really blame me for stopping, though? I finally recognize the guy from your booth. He's standing next to a beat-up grey sedan, hands in his pockets, talking to the little girl.

"-- and I can take you out of it," he says, obviously teasing her, and that's what clinches it. Despite the obvious lack of that weird foreign accent, the tone is exactly the same.

It's the soup doctor.

Ter Borcht.

Hello, my friend, we meet again.

And he's talking to some random little kid -- what fresh hell is this?

I'm tempted to do one of my famous act-first-think-later moves and rescue the little girl from what's doubtlessly a very bad situation, but that's when you catch up to me, so I don't get the chance.

"Haven't seen you in a while," you say, voice falsely lighthearted, as if you aren't a mad scientist who thinks he's my dad.

I summon up my patience (I already have enough courage to deal with the creep, after years of dealing with politicians). "Do I know you, buddy?" I say, turning to face you.

"I have to tell you something," you insist.

I'm tempted for, like, half a second to trust you, but then I think: I will not make the same mistakes that you did.

Because that's where you screwed up -- you kept trying to trust me, when you damn well should have known you couldn't.

When you should have known that I didn't trust you.

But it's what you say that floors me.

"I know about the headaches you've been getting, Max," you say, and although I still want to break your nose, snap your neck, make you hurt half as much as you've hurt me, I have to hear you out. You shove your hands in your pockets. "I know that -- you feel like you're going insane."

How can you know that? How can you possibly know that?

Oh, that's right -- you're the Voice.

I look away from you, so I won't do something I'd regret, and ter Borcht glances away from me.

So what the hell is he doing here?

I know you never meant to leave me. We'd made our plans together, and that was how we were going to carry them out.

Granted, I knew that Marian was unstable -- but I don't think even you predicted how Max would interact with her.

You had the temerity to laugh at my worries, the night before you were lost. Oh, Roland, you said -- don't be silly. No matter what happens, we'll stick together.

Always, I told you.

But I lost sight of you the next morning, lost your face in the mob.

I would have stayed there in the courtyard as long as I could -- I would have waited for you, but Marian's castle of sand was collapsing all around me, and I had to save Elsa from its would-be ruins.

I knew, besides, that you would come and find me. We'd planned, in case we were separated. A place to meet.

But you never came.

So I did all I could for Elsa, kept her safe and far from harm. I can't say I thought of you daily, or that I always did the absolutely perfect thing. I'm not a perfect person.

You'd been away on business trips before, but at least then I could call you and tell you "I miss the sound of your voice" because I knew it made you smile.

And at least then I didn't have to tell Elsa that I wasn't sure when her daddy was coming home, or when she and Papa were going home. I'd thought I'd never lie to her, once.

But eventually I realized where you would probably go, if you were still alive. Valencia Martinez, one of the few friends you had who'd take you in.

I'd almost gotten used to the wide, closed space between your memory and I -- I'd started accepting that it was just me and Elsa now.

But I knew you'd go there -- and the gap, the wound, began to shut itself. To heal.

So I took Elsa and left our little hiding-place (and someday, if I don't forget, I'll tell you where we went). And we came to find you.

It was a long time until we were on a plane to where I thought -- no, knew -- you'd be. But once we were in the air I felt at ease -- I could have wept (though I still reminded myself not to be certain you were alive). For the most part I was happy, though -- a feeling I've come to know when I'm with you. (I feel it every day; it's all the same.)

And then there's now, today, on an early-spring day that feels like fall. I've found you again, and though you're overworked, though you're tired and thin -- I close my eyes, and I smile, knowing everything is all right. Your hair has gone more silver at the temples, and you're shaking in my arms (a surefire indication your inner electricity's run out), but the most important thing is that you're here, no longer lost.

I would ask you why you're crying, but I can't because -- I am crying too.

You've got that faraway dreamy-scientist look in your eyes again, and I would interrupt you because I can't stand thinking of you happy, when all you've given me is grief.

But I think of a song I heard on the radio, and though I don't know why it interrupts me enough to let you go

How long before I get in?

Before it starts

Before I begin

How long before you decide?

Before I know what it feels like

So I just walk away, because I'm rattled and I don't need you to interrupt my fragile peace.

Out behind the diner, my flock is still there.

"Wake up, everyone," I call, and they claim to have been resting their eyes. I smile at them, because they look just like they used to -- five scruffy street kids with wings (minus the long-dead dog).

"Welcome back," Angel and Nudge chorus (Gazzy mumbles a much-less-civil teenager hello). Iggy's toying with a knife, and Fang...

Fang's right there with a hug I'm not expecting.

Naturally, that's when you come round the corner looking for me.

I don't know what I expected of you, but it wasn't this.

You smile -- you smile -- and just say gently, "I think I've misunderstood you, Maximum," before you turn to go.

Me and my friends, we're all misunderstood, I think but don't say. I just chase you down -- I have to have the last word. I can't just let you go.

"Hey -- hey!" I say, and you finally stop next to what I guess must be your car, making a neat trio with ter Borcht and the girl.

I don't know what I'm going to say next, and I'm surprised that you even turn around -- so I make a little gamble.

"Look, Jeb," I say. "I just want to be alone, okay? Those guys -- my flock -- are my family. You leave us alone, and -- and we'll stay away from you."

You look at me for a moment, then just smile -- and God, I hate that about you. "Okay, Max," and I'm surprised that you're just caving. It's not like you. "They're your family. And this is mine." And I finally notice: you're standing slightly in front of both of them. Like you're protecting them from me. "I'll leave you alone, if that's what you want me to do."

I must have gotten soft in the years since we've last spoken -- rather than just say okay, I have to know.

"So if this is your family, who's she?"

You look down at her, and you look like someone's dad, all proud and smiling.

I could just break your face.

"My daughter."

I might have to.

She cracks a slight smile, this little girl with her blonde hair in pigtails, and I'm distracted -- I wonder if that means that soup doctor and you are... oh, God, ew.

"I'm Elsa," she says shyly, stepping forward and craning up at me. "I think we're sisters."

Yeah. If you're actually my father, and hers, we're half-sisters. But I can't say that to a little girl who looks so much like Angel used to. "Nice meeting you," I tell her. "If we are, I'm Max. If not, I'm Cynthia."

She laughs, and ter Borcht gets this disgustingly protective look on his face, like she's actually his daughter or something.

"So do you want to take the chance, or what?" you say, and it takes me a minute to remember what you're even talking about.

I almost say no, because the last thing I need is you not only back in my life, but experimenting on me.

Then I think of Fang, who likes me better, I think, when I'm stable. And that's what you're trying to promise, stability.

And I think of Elsa. You've changed, I think, if you're not screwing with her head by now.

"Yeah, okay, fine. I'll take your gamble," I tell you.

You have the guts to smile.

Do you hear me, Jeb?

I'm talking to you.

Lyrics are from Coldplay's "Speed of Sound". Fic written for a contest on MX.