Officially, this is my first too-long-for-a-drabble-but-not-long-enough-for-a-one-shot kinda thing. I just wanted to post it because I thought it was of okay-ish quality. Yeah, this probably won't make much sense to anyone but me.

Things you should understand before reading this. The narrator is Fang, and she is Max. I never really specified who he was, either, for good reason. It depends on the person who's reading-yes, you- opinion. - shrugs - It just difers, m'kay? (Rated T 'cuz I don't think this is full of fluff-balls of happy goodness.)

Give a round of applause to OCValkyrie for editing, and doing a great job! (Like always!)

Disclaimer: Yeah, yeah, I do not own Maximum Ride.

The Wisps of Her Smiles

Because We Understand

She only comes to me when she is broken.

She does not speak; I do not speak. We have never heard each other's voices.

She knocks on my door in the middle of the night and when I am half-awake, half-zombified, she gives me this smile—always, always a smile. Sorta. It's like the smile is saying 'Yeah, again. Sorry.' Apologetic.

And then I am fully awake; and I am ushering her inside quickly, letting my eyes scan across the street, looking for him. Because I know why she is here, why she is always here.

Because he broke her. Again.

And I have to fix her. Again.

I lead her to my bedroom and I see she is shaking. Without even thinking, I throw a blanket to her, and she gives me another sorta-smile, but this one saying, 'Of course you knew, thank you,' as she wraps the blanket around her tiny shoulders. And I do know.

I know everything about her. I swear I'm not a stalker.

She sits on my bed gingerly, always softly and safely. As if afraid of ruffling anything and signaling her presence was there at one time or another. I couldn't say it made me sad, exactly, but almost disappointed.

I walk up to her slowly and I see her hands tighten on the blanket. She looks up-as usual, her eyes showing nothing but honey-but you could tell that she is scared. Not of me, technically, but of my reactions to the damage that has been done. Because I always get mad.

I have a right to, don't I?

I lock my eyes with her and hold her gaze steadily. She knew this was coming, but she always does not want it to. She gives another smile, but this one says, 'Go on, do it, get it over with.'

So my hand curls around the frayed edge of the blanket and yanks it off. My gaze settles on it floating to the ground, leveling myself to what I am about to see, and I turn my blank face to her body.

And immediately feel it clench in horrified anger, once again.

She is wearing a tank top and what looks like pajama shorts with tennis shoes that aren't laced all the way. Because she was in a hurry. I know how it works.

But that is not what I am staring at.

Every single inch of her skin below her neck is covered in ugly blotches of blue and purple. There are multiple spots on her shirt that are darkened; from blood leaking through from wounds that I cannot see, but know are there.

And, through all of this, she has not made a single peep. Not a moan or groan of pain; and she should be, but I know why she does not.

Because this is not new at all. This coming-here-broken thing.

Sighing through my nose, I kneel in front of her knees and lay a gentle hand there. Her skin is icy cold and I fight the urge to rub it to warm it up. I know it will only hurt her more.

So, like always, I disinfect her injuries-which are worse under further inspection-and bind them silently. I maybe wrap them a little bit too tightly and I glance up, seeing her smile down at me maybe a little bit too sweetly.

But we understand. We always do.

When I finish, I stand up slowly and her gaze never leaves my face, her smile never wavers. Now, she is saying, 'You know how much this means to me.' And I nod, closing my eyes briefly, but I only see her in my mind's eye being inflicted with those wounds, and I snap them open again quickly, afraid that she has disappeared on me like she has done far too many times for my liking.

But she is still sitting there, still smiling at me.

Of all things about her, I do not know why she smiles. Someone in her situation should have a broken smile, if any. But her smile is pure.

Most of the time. Sometimes her smile is pure bullshit.

Because I know she is broken and she knows I know, yet she still puts up the facade I always see her with.

And when I am in her presence, I cannot smile. It is like she is taking up all the smiling and I have taken up all of the darker stuff. Like hate for him and agony for her and absolutely mind-numbing nothing for me.

I give her my everything.

And she gives me her smiles.

We are still staring at each other, silently waiting for the other to do something first. Her smile dies down when she realizes what I am waiting for, and she lets out a long, deep, aging sigh. Her smile becomes a little less fake and a little more real and it makes my heart tug. Because suddenly I feel like I'm asking too much and giving too little and that she deserves better but better is not out there.

So, like always, I let a small smile tug at the corners of my mouth and watch as her smile widens again, saying, 'I know you are pretending for me. Thank you.'

She knows.

Because she knows everything about me. She's not a stalker, either.

I walk her to the door, and only now does she limp imperceptibly, now that I have proven myself not to rave at her. Not that I do. Not that I ever have. But it's in her adapted nature to question everything.

I open the door for her, and she wraps her arms around her stomach and smiles at me. This smile is not like the others. This smile is tainted with goodbye. It says, 'I promise it won't happen again. This is goodbye. For real.'

And I nod my head at her, because this is what she is expecting. What she wants. She will not accept the fact that she will be here again and I will have to fix her again.

The moon is full tonight. She is standing in my open doorway, staring back at me and smiling. Her hair is aglow with the moonbeams shinning down. Her eyes have a spark in them that I do not usually see. Her smile turns into a grin, and she suddenly looks like an angel. A melancholic angel, but still one all the same. She is beautiful.

And she disappears.

Just like that; I was staring at her, now I am only staring at the forest across from my house.

Dark.

Dangerous.

Dead.

So, like always, she is gone.

And she has taken me with her.

But she will be back.

And then I will be back, too.

And I will get caught up again in her- her smell, her grace, her eyes- and like always, I will never ask for her name.

And she will never ask for mine.

Because we know.

Because we understand.

Yeah, I know, crappy ending. I just couldn't decide how to end it, and, that abomination was created. Oh, well.

So, what didja think? Horrible? Okay? Good?

Press the magical button at the bottom and telleth me!

Peace! (I've really never screamed that out loud. I'll have to try it out sometime.)

~Truth