Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.

Thanks to everyone who's reviewed - it's really appreciated.

David sits in one of the booths, nursing a half full pint of bitter. It's his fourth this night and he knows he should stop, but he just can't draw the strength to leave and go scuttling back to his apartment where his two guests, Sarah and Matthew, await him.

It's Samantha and the young man perched upon one of the few overstuffed bar stools that have kept him here.

Jealousy is a rare emotion for him, as he's always gotten whatever he wanted, whether it be through the vast funds his family have, or the intelligence he'd just been gifted with. But it's this: Samantha laughing over this guy's crummy jokes, that has unexpectedly brought the upwelling of this emotion.

The young man tells another joke, and Samantha lets out another bark of laughter. David grits his teeth, waiting for the guy to just slip up and issue some inappropriate remark that will give him the excuse to personally chuck him out.

Downing the remnant of his pint in one, he gets up, and goes to ask for another.

And slamming his empty glass beside the young man, David asks, without even meeting Samantha's eyes, "Can I have another?"

When he fails to hear her reply, or see a newly pulled pint in front of him, he casts his gaze upward. And when Samantha's dark, accusing eyes meet his, they leave a stab of guilt. But instead of relenting and walking away like he knows he should, he persists, throwing the money on to the bar. He demands, "Another pint, please."

"No," Samantha says, her voice quiet, and just barely audible over the loud chitter chatter of customers.

"What?" he asks, frowning.

"No," she repeats, her expression blank. "I'm not serving you another. Go home."

David lets out a strangled laugh, barely believing what he's hearing. How can she refuse to serve him? It's partly her fault, after all, that he's been stuck in such a rut lately. Her rejection is still fresh in his mind: the wound her words had inflicted so deep that waves of dejection would still wash over him whenever his eyes would meet hers. The fact that she always finds excuses to extricate herself from his presence just intensified those feelings, also.

"Why?" he asks. "I've got more than enough money." Or had, he remembers, thinking of the inheritance he'd lost because of the dispute he'd had with his father over Sarah.

"You've had enough," Samantha states.

Shaking his head, David pushes the money forward once again.

He's now captured the attention of the young man, however, who shifts on his stool to fix David with a futile glare.

"She said no, mate," the young man growls, rolling up the sleeves of his black shirt.

"I'm not your mate," David spits out, taking a threatening step towards him.

"David," Samantha cries out, alarmed. "Don't."

But he's not listening, his attention solely focused on the opposition, who slicks back his blond hair, and stands up. He takes a step towards David, measuring about an inch or so taller, and snarls, "Walk away, mate."

David juts out his chin, his fists clenched.

"Do as he says, David," Samantha encourages, walking around to the other side of the bar, beside him. "Please."

Her feeble request causes him to start, sending a bolt of realisation to jolt him back to sobriety. What the hell am I doing? he thinks.

Stumbling back, forgetting the money left on the bar, he staggers out of the pub.

"Wait," a voice calls.

But he doesn't.

"Just stop," the voice demands, once again. And he does, but not out of choice, as Samantha has clamped a firm hand on his shoulder, grabbing his arm in the process, also, and holding it prisoner.

"Let me call you a taxi," she insists.

David turns round slowly, yanking his arm from out of her grip. "No, it's fine." He runs a hand through his hair, tired: of the feelings he has whenever she's near; of feeling like such a failure.

He's never felt more ashamed of himself before.

"Just go," he continues, and laughs, bitter. "Your boyfriend will be wondering where you are."

"Boyfriend?" she exclaims.

When he fails to add any more, she continues, "You thought that I was with him."

He grits his teeth, berating himself for the accusation. "You guys looked close," he explains.

Samantha folds her arms and fixes him with a hard look. "Like you and Sarah, you mean. Won't she be wondering where you are?"

David rolls his eyes, leaning his back against the wall, suddenly feeling a little dizzy. "She's not my mom."

"That's right," Samantha says. "So who is she, huh? An ex-girlfriend? Because that might make that little boy your kid, right?" She shakes her head. "She got knocked up quite young, didn't she? She can't be any older than…"

"Shut up!"

David had all but shouted at her, startling her, plunging them into an emotional sea of tension and angst.

He hangs his head low, his chin resting on his chest. He mumbles, "You don't know anything." He takes a deep breath. "I was going to tell you. I was going to tell you everything. But things just came up, and then…"

"Could you help Fang set up those music stands, Max?" Phil asks, frowning over his cello bow. "I've got problems with my bow. The little bugger won't tighten."

I wring my hands together, looking around the hall for some other pressing matter that must be seen to. Streamers and tinsel are decked here and there, sporadically clad in Christmas decorations, too. A tree stands erect in the hall's corner, reaching the great height of seven foot. Coloured lights revolve around it, with crackers snuggled deep within its branches.

And there looks to be nothing left to do. Damn.

"Fang won't bite," Phil encourages. But then, realising the irony of his statement, adds, "Wait." He looks over at Fang, his eyebrows raised in question. "Do you bite? I mean, people must call you Fang for a reason, right?"

Fang's lips quirk upwards. "I did when I was four." He jerks his head in my direction. "Max gave me the nickname."

Nodding in understanding, Phil goes back to his hunched position, where he meticulously slobbers some lubricant over the bow's mechanism.

I'm still hesitant, however, and go to set up a stand as far from Fang as I can, without it being blatantly obvious that I'm treating him like the plague.

Unfortunately, the stand I'd picked is stiff and uncooperative. Damn. And it won't pull out or pull up. Double damn.

A large hand covers mine then, causing me to jump back, startled, into a firm chest.

"Just me," a deep voice says, their breath tickling my ear.

I rip my hand out from under his, using my elbows to shove him back. "Get off," I demand.

And he does, albeit with a few curse words that feature my name. "Only trying to help," Fang explains.

"I don't need your help."

"Yeah, you did," he disagrees. "You're supposed to twist it, not pull it. That's how these things get broken."

"Guys," Phil shouts, "stop flirting. I'm trying to concentrate."

Rolling my eyes, I remark, "Well, good luck with that, because the schools are beginning to enter the hall. And we're supposed to be playing in the next five minutes."

My eyes take in the students from both the middle school and high school: just like the sports field, both academies shared the same performance hall, which would supply us with a full house.

Nerves suddenly flutter inside me as I realise just how many will soon be here to hear us play. But then my eyes note the group of dancers hiding behind the curtain, and I remember that we would not be the only anxious performers today: the Christmas concert contained numerous acts, and we were just one of the dozen that would be seen this afternoon.

"Shit," Phil mumbles, his cursing barely discernible above the cacophony of shouting teachers and rowdy students. "Could one of you get JJ and Dylan? They're still practicing in that spare classroom."

"I'll go," I volunteer, and quickly make my way to the door.

I'm in the hall when I hear the running footsteps behind me.

"I'll come with you," Fang says, adopting my slower pace once he's by my side. "I left the music in there, and that box is rather heavy to carry."

I grind my teeth, biting back a cutting remark. "I'm sure I can manage on my own. I'm not weak."

He shrugs. "I know. But it's still heavy, and I am in charge of the music."

I roll my eyes at the lame excuse and pick up my pace, increasing the length of my strides. "Go back and help Phil," I shout over my shoulder. "I don't need you."

And when the sound of Fang's footfalls halt behind me, I know I've won.

That is, until he says, "You can't keep avoiding me, Max."

I shake my head, disagreeing and disbelieving, because I could.

And I would.

"What should you have told me, David?" Samantha asks.

She comes to rest against the wall beside him, gently touching his shoulder, trying to gain his attention.

He wipes a sweaty palm across his face, trying to pull the myriad of thoughts jumbling through his mind in to some order.

"Sarah's my younger sister," he explains, "and Matthew, her son, is my nephew."

He slides down the wall and crouches on the floor. "I saw her for the first time in five years just three weeks ago," he explains.

Samantha's breath hitches.

"I was still at Harvard when she got pregnant," he declares, resting his head on his elbows.

She slips down slowly beside him, and his head snaps to look at her, his eyes wide with panic. "You have to understand," he says, "Sarah was never the kind of girl to ever do that. She still isn't. It was a one night thing…"

"It's ok," Samantha assures, gently patting his hand. "She doesn't seem the type, anyway."

He nods, relaxing somewhat at her words.

"Sarah's intelligent," he continues. "She's brilliant, really, and would have surely excelled in anything she chose to pursue." He gives a bitter laugh. "And our father just loved her for that. He had her whole future planned out: what she would study and where she would study. He controlled everything about her life, much as he did for me, but just never to the same extent. She was his protégé."

David tilts his head to the side, his eyes firmly fixed on her now, instead of the ground.

"Sarah and I had always been close, and I knew she hadn't always been happy with our father's strict regimes. She didn't really have any friends, beside me, I suppose. Because as I said, she was bright, so a lot of her peers saw her as some freaky-genius-type."

He closes his eyes, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. "When I moved out to go to college, we drifted apart. I just got too caught up in my own life, revelling in the freedom of being away from home." He purses his lips. "I was so selfish, because I just left her there, alone. I should have called home more; I should have done more. But I didn't, and she grew so unhappy. I never knew this until she told me three weeks ago, because like you, Samantha, she locks everything up, and tries to shut everyone out."

Samantha doesn't know how to respond to such a comment, so she doesn't, and just waits with abated breath for him to continue.

Our applause is loud, with several people whistling and standing up. I spot Ella amongst the crowd, just beside the striking figure of Iggy. And standing on her seat, pointing over at me, she declares, "That's my sister, Max, up there."

I can feel my cheeks burning bright with embarrassment, and dangerously narrow my eyes at her. She just winks in response.

As we file out of the hall, I notice the small smile on Fang's lips. And I can't help the corners of my own mouth from turning upwards, because I know the cause for his buoyant mood. The audience had been going wild in response to his quintet arrangement of bands like Nickelback, Paramore, and Linkin Park. He'd believed those songs would be the most effective way of capturing our teenage audience, and he'd been right.

"Your arrangements were just brilliant, Fang," JJ tells him.

He nods, and issues a small smile in response.

"You rock, man," Phil declares, clapping him on the back. "I wish you weren't leaving us, I really do. I just don't see why we can't add an extra player." He snaps his fingers, struck by an innovative idea, and beams. "We could be a sextet instead!"

Fang shakes his head, however, and says, "Thanks, I really do appreciate your offer. But I have to put my college work first, and I've just gained a few more shifts at this restaurant I work at." He smiles. "The fuel for my new car is eating away at a large sum of my income, also, so I really need those shifts."

Phil grins. "So you finally got those wheels you've been pining after." He nods approvingly. "Nice."

All my string buddies begin to pack away our instruments, while I methodically place our sheet music back in their respective folders.

Dylan's the first to slot his violin and bow in place, and casts an apologetic look at us all, having noticed the message on his phone. "Would it be alright if I left you guys to finish the packing away? It's just my ride is already here, and they're kind of impatient to get out of here."

"No worry," JJ says, fastening the straps on her own case. "There's nothing left to do, is there?"

"Nope," Phil responds, shifting his cello case on to his back. "I'm gonna head off now as well." He smiles broadly at Fang, and holds out his hand, "It was nice playing with you, Fang. You're an amazing violinist, so don't be stranger to the music centre, ok?" Their handshake develops into an awkward one-armed hug, in which I can tell Fang feels particularly awkward about. But Phil's just too enthusiastic and will miss Fang, I'm sure, as they'd become particularly close since September.

Once disentangled from the embrace, another pair of arms immediately encircles Fang: JJ's. This time, however, the hug is more protracted. I frown at this, the crease on my forehead becoming even more prominent when I realise she's whispering something in his ear. He shows no facial recognition to her words, save a quick nod of his head.

"Bye," Dylan says, as he walks out the door. "It was good playing with you, Fang," he calls from over his shoulder, having neither one of them indulged the other in such a compassionate departure; they'd never particularly been 'best buddies'. "And have a good Christmas," he adds.

That just left Fang and I, which I would have quickly remedied by bolting out the door, after the three, but was prevented from doing so by Fang's quick request, "I need your help. I need you to help me carry this box of music sheets to the car, please. I can't do it on my own with my violin in hand, as well."

Sighing loudly, just to let him know how agitated I am by this, I help him heave the box off the table, with me supporting one end of the box, and him the other.

"How've you been?" he asks.

I frown and open the door, wondering whether I hadn't just imagined the quiet utterance. "What?"

"How are you?" he repeats, his eyes locking solely on mine. "Did everything work out with Jeb? I've been trying to ask you that for the last four weeks, but you just keep avoiding me."

I shift my gaze from his, grumbling, "And you wonder why."

He stops moving suddenly, leaving us standing still in the hallway. And fixing him with a glare, intending to just drop the box and leave him to shift it on his own, I order, "Move."

"You haven't answered my question," he says coolly. "I'm waiting."

I give a curt smile. "And why would you care, huh?"

"Because contrary to popular belief, Max, I do have a heart. And I do care about people."

"Yeah," I agree, struggling to keep my voice steady, "but just not about me."

He winces. "I never said that."

"You didn't have to. Actions tend to speak louder than words." My eyes catch his again, and for a moment, I worry he's glimpsed the emotions I'd so desperately desired to conceal: heartache, despondency, and an overwhelming desire to just run.

He drops his gaze. "You're not being fair."

"And neither were you," I shout. I take a deep breath. "You need to stay away from me." I clench the box tightly, mildly annoyed that I can't use my hands to wring out my nerves. "I don't know how to feel or act around you," I explain, "and it confuses the hell out of me."

He fixes his lips into a firm line, no doubt trying to contain himself. He drops the box, causing me to jump back in surprise, and letting go of the box in the process. I erase every emotion then, erecting an impassive mask, and wait for him to snap.

"How can I 'stay away', Max? We go to the same college!" He chokes for a moment, running his hands furiously through his hair.

I've never seen him like this; so distraught and defeated. And yet it also illustrates how his words and actions confuse me, because they're just so conflicting and contradicting.

"What do you want from me?" I ask, taking a step towards him. I tilt my head upwards to look him squarely in the eyes.

He just shakes his head dismissively, all previous anger erased in exchange for despair. "I don't know what to do anymore," he consoles.

Frowning, I fold my arms, waiting for him to elaborate.

He keeps his gaze fixed to the ground, and agitatedly rubs the back of his neck.

"I tried to do the right thing," he says. "But I'm not so sure it was now."

I take another step towards him, not following all this cryptic crap, and demand he look at me.

"What the hell are you on about?" I ask.

He sighs. "I hurt you. I'm sorry."

"So what do you want me to do about it?" I throw my arms up in the air, exasperated. "Tell you I forgive you and that we can go back to how things were? Because how exactly were things? Were we friends or archenemies?"

"Neither."

Oh, for GOD'S SAKE, Fang. Just cut all this elusive, secret shit.

I'm fuming now, with my hands curled into fists, shaking at my sides. I want to hit him, I want to cry, and I want him to leave me the hell alone.

He reaches out to me with his outstretched hand. I jerk back, glaring. "Don't touch me," I snap. And then I'm walking backwards, out the door, away from him.

"Just leave me alone, Fang."

David pinches the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb, wondering how best to continue his explanation.

Eventually he says, "Sarah told me she met some guy – he was at least four years older than her - at some voluntary thing she'd been signed up to attend by our father. She was only 16 at the time, and still just a kid. My God, if I'd have known about what he'd done to her then, he wouldn't still be…"

"Ok," Samantha soothes, "It's ok. You didn't know." And with a sinking feeling, having already pieced together what his next few words will be, she listens to him continue.

"She was vulnerable – our father was never much of the caring, parental figure. Our mother was more so, I suppose, but none could ever win Parent of the Year Award. Both are just too bloody selfish." He sighs, and runs an agitated hand though his dark, shaggy hair. "But this guy cared for her, she said, and made her feel loved."

He takes a deep lungful of air, expelling it in a long, shuddering breath. "He didn't care, however, when she told him she was pregnant. He just left her."

David's hands clench into tight fists, his knuckles turning white. And noticing the sudden tension, Samantha wraps her small hands around his fists, trying to unclench them, so that she can intertwine their hands together.

"She told our parents a couple of months later. She was scared, and didn't know what to do. She should have told me, because I would have helped her, and none of this would have happened. None of it. But she didn't, and she told them. She told him.

"As soon as our father heard, he just lost it and began screaming at her, telling her that she was a disgrace and a worthless bitch that should be cast out on to the streets. He had a reputation to withhold, and couldn't have her tainting it in such a way. Especially when she refused to abort the kid. But she just couldn't do it.

"And so he kicked her out." David shakes his head in stupefied disbelief. "And our mother didn't even try to stop him. I can't believe she allowed him to do such a thing, but she did. Maybe it was because she was scared of him, or because she also wanted to preserve their reputation. But she let him do it, and even supported the lies he concocted to fob me off with. And me, being the gullible fool I was, brought it.

"They told me she'd gone to some private boarding school abroad. And then, when I returned home during the summer, expecting to see Sarah at home, also, they tell me she's staying at some friends villa in Spain."

David shakes his head, causing the glints of moisture in his eyes to slip down his cheeks.

"I was so stupid," he cries, "because I should have known something was wrong when she never returned any of my phone messages or letters. I latched on to the whole rouse about 6 months later, having demanded to speak to her. I thought she was mad at me for a time, and was just refusing to talk to me, giving me a taste of my own medicine since I'd been neglecting her so much. It's then they told me she ran away; just left a note and disappeared.

"I didn't believe them to begin with, because surely she would have told me, right? We'd been close. But I'd also let her down recently, and began to think that perhaps, they might be right.

"I was assured they'd hired the best private investigators to search for her, and she would surely be delivered home, and soon. Or she would grow tired of this rebellious stage and come home herself.

"She never did, however, and it was only until just over a month ago that I discovered the truth."

David wipes away the traitorous tears with his left hand, his right arm having slipped around Samantha's waist sometime during his explanation. Her head is on his shoulder as she waits for him to continue.

"Our mother, however, does appear to have some heart," he says. "She arranged for her to stay at a long distant Aunt's house, without my father's knowing, of course. And Sarah's been there for the last five years, believing that I didn't want to talk to her, and that I was ashamed of her. She would try ringing home, only to be told I either wasn't available, or I simply refused to speak with her. I'd changed accommodation at college, as well, during that time, under the advice of my mother. I never really thought anything of it at the time, because the new dorm I'd been assigned was closer to my classes, so I just thought it was a move brought about by convenience. I never thought they could be so conniving or deceitful or heartless..."

He looks at Samantha then, looking disgusted, but not at her, but because of his 'loving' parents. "What kind of people could disown their daughter like that?"

"I don't know," Samantha murmurs, her mood severely dampened by the story. It does, however, set off a feeling of mild gratification, forcing her to appreciate what she has – or had, because at least her father had been a great man, and her mother caring and kind. And at least she still had her brother, with whom she loved and adored, and had never been more than a couple of days apart from. Her life looked significantly better in that light, when in comparison to the hell Sarah had been subjected to. She must have been so scared, Samantha muses.

"Max?"

I poke my head from around the corner in the lounge, only to find my mom buttoning up her winter coat, her medical bag placed just beside her feet.

"Animal emergency?" I ask.

"Yeah," she says, "complication with a calf delivery. I'm not sure what time I'll be back though, honey, so just make sure you lock the doors and…"

I hold up my hand, stilling her in mid-flow. "I know the drill: don't answer the door to strangers, don't eat all the chocolate chip cookies…"

She nods, smiling, and casts a glance at the wall clock. "It's half nine now, so just make sure Ella's in bed by ten, ok?"

"Will do," I say. "Hope everything's ok with the calf."

"Me too," she mumbles, and shuts the door soundly behind her.

There's creaking on the stairs, pulling my gaze upwards. Ella's clad in her pyjamas, a glass of water in hand. "I'm going to bed," she tells me. "I'm so tired."

I smile wryly at her. "That's got nothing to do with your two hour conversation with Iggy the other night, does it?"

She blushes crimson and turns away from me, quickly waltzing to her room, mumbling, "Shut up, Max."

Chuckling to myself, I survey the lounge, wondering what I should do with my time now.

My eyes latch on to the Christmas tree propped up on the table in the corner. I'd decorated it only the other day with Ella and Mom, and remember all the criticism I'd had to endure from them in regards to my obvious lack of flair for decorating. In the end I'd just been left in charge of placing the star on the tree, which had been just fine with me, because that was the most important part, right?

I notice the few presents wrapped underneath, and know what I'll do tonight. I still haven't wrapped Ella's gifts, or Mom's, for that matter.

But as with tree decorations, I also prove to be challenged in regards to the art of wrapping presents. It's just all too fiddly: trying to get the tape off the role, and then cutting the Christmas paper in straight lines. What's wrong with a simple plastic bag?

And then I run out of sellotape. Damn.

Grunting, sighing, and throwing the empty role down in frustration, I scribble a quick note for Ella if she were to ever realise I'm out, and grab my keys and head out the door.

Determined, I promise myself I'll finish them tonight, even if I have to go through two roles of tape.

It's surprising quiet on the roads, for which I'm thankful, as I've never been a fan of driving at night, especially when the roads have recently been glazed over with a thin layer of ice.

I drive carefully, the roads lit by the amber glow of streetlamps protruding from either side. The anaemic moon hangs centre stage within the sky's black canvas, surrounded by white stars that glint like pearls in incandescent light.

I park easily, swiftly, in one of Wal-Mart's many parking spaces. And step out of the warm confines of my car, into the night's bitter chill.

"Get out," a rough, burly voice yells.

My eyes latch on to the two dark figures across the street. A large man towers easily above the less boisterous, and obviously drunk, figure splayed out on the floor. He points an accusing finger at the drunkard, scolding, "You've had enough, son. Just walk away and go home. Don't make me bar you."

My eyes flit to the large, expansive sign adoring the top of the building: The Bucket of Blood.

Pleasant.

The larger, heftier man slumps inside, leaving the lone figure on the floor. I'm about to walk away, having no pity for drunks who get themselves in such states, when I hear his voice.

The only words going through my mind are no no no. Because he wouldn't, would he?

"Fang?" I call, hurriedly crossing the street.

The pub's lights from inside dimly shine on him, allowing me to see the bedraggled mess that is, in fact, Fang.

"You stupid, drunken bastard," I swear. "What the hell are you doing?"

He squints up at me, struggling to focus, and struggling to talk.

"Max?" he slurs.

"Yeah," I snap. "It's me."

I try pulling him up, slinging his arm over my shoulder so that I can just get him off the ground. But he pushes me away, and goes to cover his face with his hands. "Just leave me alone," he grumbles. And sluggishly, he waves his arms in the air in a go away gesture.

"Listen," I tell him, my voice softening, "I can't leave you out here. It's winter and it's cold. You'll catch hypothermia or something, and then who'll take care of the kids, huh?"

"Mom," he mumbles. "Better…she's better."

I frown, and crouch down low beside him. "She's no longer drinking?"

He shakes his head, his eyes closed. Dirt smears its way on to his face by the action, in which I wipe away with my hand. He tries batting it away, but misses.

"I'm getting you home," I tell him.

"No," he draws out, shaking his head.

"Well," I begin, "I can't stay out here all night. I'm not leaving you, y'know. So help me out, and let me get you in the car. Pretty girls like me shouldn't be out at this time of night," I say, trying to goad him into accepting, "there are bad people around."

"Beautiful," he murmurs, "beautiful, Max."

Heat creeps its way into my cheeks.

"Ok," he says, attempting to push himself into an upright position. I help him, winding my arm around his waist, heaving him into a standing position.

"Let's get you home," I say, walking him slowly to my car, my arm holding him upright.

He shakes his head. "No…not home. Can't let them see me…like this. Can't."

"Ok," I say, trying to calm him, placating his worries. "You can stay at mine."

Fang rests against the side of the car as I open the back door, and gently help him slide inside. He keeps mumbling, "Messed up…was stupid…sorry."

And then he slurs, "Forgive me?"

My hand stills on top of my seatbelt. I turn round in my seat, only to find him slumped back, his eyes, for the first time that night, focused on mine.

"What?"

"You hate me," he declares.

I don't respond for a moment, wondering how coherent he is, or as to whether his words are the result of the drunken stupor.

"I don't hate you," I tell him quietly.

"Should do."

"I can't."

He then closes his eyes, his head resting against the window.

I turn back round and go to turn the keys in the engine. But Fang's next words stop me, stilling my breath, and forcing my heartbeat to race.

"I love you, Max."

"Our Aunt passed away six months ago," David continues, "leaving Sarah everything she owned. She treated her like a daughter, and welcomed Matthew when he came.

"It was then that she decided to try and get back in touch with her family. She sought me out first, having known I'd most likely be working for our father. And she was right, as always."

He smiles, remembering their long, emotionally charged meeting. "I couldn't believe it when I saw her, Samantha. I really thought, after all these years, that she was dead. But she wasn't, and with her was this small, shy boy."

David runs his hand through his hair again, causing it to stick up at every angle. "We parted late in the evening, having met in the morning, with her telling me everything that had happened back then. I visited my father that night, livid, and having never hated anyone so much as I did then. I wanted to hurt him, and I did." He smiles tightly. "I landed him a black eye."

David stands up from his hunched position on the ground, but ensures that Samantha's hands are still in his. He pulls her up slowly, and gently tugs on her hand to lead her back inside, into the pub, so that the dark night sky is at their back.

"I left the business, obviously," David continues, "and of course, though I would have refused the money anyway, have been written out of my father's will. I would have inherited everything from him before, but not now."

Samantha fixes him with a sympathetic look, but knows it's only wasted, because David looks anything but sorry. He looks relieved.

"I never wanted to run a business," he says, "and I hate all those long, monotonous meetings. But I'd pursued that kind of career, because I'd always been pushed in that direction. I'd never known anything else."

They're both now standing in the hall, the kitchen to their right and the bar to their left. The rumblings of conversations are dim from where they are, barely audible. And yet even if the customers were rowdy, and making a colossal amount of noise, neither Samantha nor David would have noticed.

David smiles, telling her softly, "Things changed when I met you."

Sorry it's taken me so long to update. Initially I had written a chapter last week, but did not perceive it as particularly good writing (never realised how hard it would be to get back into writing after five weeks), and then, later, decided to alter the events in this chapter.

I hope you enjoyed it.

Any kind of feedback is more than welcome.

Thanks for reading.

Peace, love, and coca cola!