Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.

Thanks once again to all those who have reviewed – really appreciated.

I'm sitting perched on the edge of a chair, my hands settled around a cold cup of coffee. I close my eyes momentarily, trying to rid myself of the slowly forming headache that is the result of little to no sleep.

My mind had been racing all night, trying to understand the evening's events. But it hadn't, unfortunately, because the only one who can really make sense of all this mess is the figure splayed out across my settee.

Fang shifts in his sleep, burying his face further into one of the tasselled cushions. He's resting on his side, towards me, with his right arm dangling limply towards the ground. A lock of dark hair slips into his eyes, and I have the sudden urge to push it back. His hand, however, comes to bat it away instead.

Leaning back into the chair, I wonder whether I should just wake him up now. But then my eyes roam to the clock on the mantle, and note that the small hand has just reached six. Maybe I'll wait.

Studying his features; the straight nose, the strong jaw, and then picturing those dark, depthless eyes, I ask myself: Could he love you? Could he possibly…

No.

Don't be stupid.

Because any hope of such calibre would be a fool's pursuit. He'd been drunk and highly emotionally strung. He didn't know what he was saying. There's no way he could…

Fang's eyes snap open suddenly, instantly locking on mine. Panic alights on his face, and he bolts into an upright position.

"Max?"

I fold my arms. "Yeah," I answer. "It's me. You're not dreaming." My lips stretch into a wicked grin. "Although, you may wish you were soon."

He slumps forward, pale and all raccoon eyed, burying his face into his hands. "Feel like shit," he grumbles.

"You look it."

He glances up from his hands, glaring at me, in which I reciprocate with a raised eyebrow. I watch him, waiting for him to speak, but after a few fruitless moments, decide to stand up; might as well do something useful until he proves coherent.

"How did I get here?" he finally asks, as I enter the kitchen to fetch some aspirin and water.

His words hit me surprisingly hard. Did he not remember anything?

"I found you outside The Bucket of Blood," I tell him, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my gut. "You didn't want to go home and have the kids see you like this, so I brought you here."

I step back into the room, reluctant, and hand him the glass of water and pills. "Thanks," he says.

I tentatively perch on the arm of the chair, folding my arms. "For what?"

He shrugs, knocks back the pills, and then washes them down with water. "Everything." He pauses. "I don't normally do that kind of thing – drinking, I mean. I've never been drunk before. I'd never even touched alcohol until last night." He grimaces. "And I won't. Not ever again."

"So why did you?" I ask, my tone sharp. "You've seen what it did to your mom, so why…"

"I just wanted it to stop," he says. "I didn't want to feel anymore." He takes a deep breath. "That's one of the things Mom would say about drinking; nothing looks as bad if you've got a glass in your hand." His dark eyes snap upwards, bearing into mine. "You feel numb."

I shake my head, frowning. "I still don't understand," I tell him. "Last night you said your mom was no longer drinking."

"She isn't."

"Then why are you? Surely everything at home is better now, right? Or is it Iggy? Has the bullying gotten worse?" Dreaded scenarios run through my mind, all depicting Dean and those thugs threatening his brother.

Fang shakes his head. "Bullying has stopped. Those guys got expelled. Got caught drinking on school premises."

I relax, expelling the breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding. "So what then?" I ask. "What made you do it?"

Fang kicks the blanket I'd draped over him last night on the floor, shifting his body so that he now faces me. He hangs his head low. "You must hate me," he says.

I roll my eyes, annoyed that we're just repeating the scenarios of last night. "We've been through this before," I say.

He looks up at me through his overlong fringe. "When?"

"Last night."

"Last night's rather hazy for me," he says, fixing me with a wary look. "What exactly did I tell you, Max?"

My stomach sinks further because he doesn't know what he's said. He doesn't know that his words had sparked a flame of hope for me.

He must have detected something in my face, or in the silence that had pressed upon us, because he leans closer, so that our knees are now touching. He asks, "What did I say?"

"Nothing," I denounce, pushing myself back further into the chair, away from him. "You said nothing."

He scrutinises my expression a second longer. "You're lying."

I clasp my hands together tightly, flexing and un-flexing my fingers. "It was just nonsensical blabber. Nothing particularly coherent."

"Then just tell me," he demands, "what kind of trash was I spouting?"

Trash?

He bites his lip, panic flashing in his eyes. "Please, Max."

He won't relent, I can tell. But how will he react? Will he denounce it to be nothing more than drunken drivel? Or…

"You told me you love me," I say.

I ensured that our gazes remain locked while I told him of his declaration, just so that I could peruse his reaction carefully. I now, however, let my gaze lower, towards the floor, no longer sure. His impassive mask had broken, that was for sure; his eyes soft, filled with anxiety.

"I told you I love you?" he chokes.

I nod.

"Max," he begins, "I – "

I shake my head and stand up, cursing myself for not fabricating something else instead. I should have just lied.

"No, Fang," I say, walking away, into the kitchen, "you don't have to say anything. You were drunk and…emotional. You had no idea what you were saying."

Samantha is apprehensive as she crosses the street.

Night had set in over three hours ago, removing the comfort of daylight that she often relied on when entering this rough, impoverished area of town. Her bus had been stopped prematurely due to a technical fault, forcing the few unlucky passengers to depart here.

Trash litters the street in the form of munitions waste, and the form of young, burly youths. A group of straggly teenagers are huddled inside an alley, smoking, she can tell, as the light from the lighter illuminates their pale faces. She casts only a swift glance at them, unintentionally, of course, but is seen all the same. One of them calls, "Like what you see? Wanna join us, love?" Another adds, "I'll show you a good time."

Filled with revulsion and an increasing awareness of the wages lying heavily inside her coat pocket, she picks up her pace.

She hates this town. She hates this neighbourhood.

But where else could she go?

The appeal of college was that, after attaining a degree, she would be perceived as more employable, and may gain a much higher paid job, if she were lucky. And yet on further inspection of those dreams, she saw the flaws and the errors. What about the care bills for Dad? she reminds herself. What about the thieving mother that finds a way to sponge the money off you? And what about Jake and his College fund?

And after all those reductions, there was no money left for Samantha's college pursuit. You need to forget about what you want, she tells herself. The family comes first.

The amber glow of streetlamps guides her path; casting the only light, save that of the apartment buildings that offer their own internal source from unsleeping occupants.

The sky is shrouded in dark, condensing cloud, obscuring a full, anaemic moon that she'd glimpsed mere minutes ago. No stars are discernible now, having been swallowed whole by the mass cloud. She studies it longer, squinting, and then realises that the grey mass is being fuelled by flimsy wisps of smoke nearby.

There's the wailing sound of a siren, roaring right past her in a blur of red and blue flashing light.

She rounds a corner, and hears the massing volume of voices; shouting and crying. And then there's the crackle of fire, and the hissing of water saturating flame.

She knows what it is then; what's caused the smoke, the wail of sirens, and the cacophony of voices.

Don't let it be us, she pleads. Don't let it be us.

I hear Fang's light tread from behind me. I wish he'd just leave, and let me move on. But he just keeps coming back.

"I need to tell you something," he says. "I need to explain." He sighs. "Please look at me, Max."

But I remain obstinate, refusing to turn round, keeping my eyes fixed on the dark morning outside the kitchen window.

"You should go," I declare, my voice a dull monotone. "I tried calling your family last night, to let them know where you were, but no one answered, so I left a message instead. You'll have to think of an excuse to tell them for your absence. I couldn't think of anything."

Silence.

"No one picked the phone up?" Fang asks.

I turn round then, having heard the apprehension in his tone. "It was late," I remind him, "they were probably all in bed."

He slumps against the wall. "Maybe."

The anxious look fixes a frown on his face, until his eyes widen slightly, and he begins rummaging in his pockets. "Do you have my phone?" he asks.

"No," I answer. "I didn't see one last night, either."

"Shit," he curses. And eyes panicked, biting his lip, he looks at me, asking, "Can you drive me home now?"

Fang's silent throughout the whole journey. He's worried, I can tell; biting his lip, tapping his fingers erratically against his knee.

"I'm sure they won't kill you," I tell him, my voice lacking the light tone I'd hoped to instil. But our previous conversation had just stuck me in an expanding, desolate pit that's threatening to cave in, burying me.

"I know," he says absently, "I –"

He cuts off as soon as I park outside his house, frowning. "The car's not here," he exclaims, struggling to unclasp his seatbelt quick enough.

"You didn't drive it last night?" I ask.

"No," he answers. And bolts out the door.

I stumble behind him, slipping on an inconvenient sheet of ice. And just as I come up behind him, he turns his key in the door. We slip inside.

"They might still be in bed," I whisper, noting the clock on the wall reading just past seven.

He shows no recognition of hearing me, instead treading quickly but quietly up the stairs.

I wait downstairs, listening as a door creaks open, sounding loud in the unmitigated silence. And then there are the rushed footsteps as Fang traverses across the hall, opening and slamming a number of doors.

My panic spikes. Are they not here?

"Fang," I say, apprehensive, as he charges down the stairs. The impassive mask is fixed in place, barring all emotion. "Are they here?"

He shakes his head furiously. "No."

"Well then where…"

"I don't know, Max," he shouts.

I take a step back, colliding with the coffee table. I steady myself by placing a hand on the furniture, my fingers instantly connecting with a sheet of paper. I look down, frowning, and pick it up. My eyes roam across it fleetingly, my stomach sinking straight away.

"Fang," I call, "you need to see this." He pokes his head from out of the kitchen, his expression hard, annoyed, until he sees something in my features – perhaps sympathy. "They're divorce papers," I say.

His eyebrows arch downwards as he takes them from out of my grasp. His lips form the words divorce as his eyes scan the pages. "She never said anything," he says. "She looked…happy yesterday morning. She wasn't sad. She was happy." He closes his eyes, expelling a long breath. "I haven't seen her since then. What if she's had a drink, and left the kids with someone, and then forgot to pick them up?"

I don't offer my own thoughts, because I think he may be right.

Picking up the phone, he pauses, having looked down and noticing that two messages have been left on the answering machine. He plays the first one, which is the message I'd left, and then, plays the second. He drops the phone once it's finished, just as I take in a sharp intake of breath, my hand flying to my mouth.

Fang looks at me. His eyes are wide, coloured with worry, and his olive toned skin has paled. In a broken voice, he asks, "Take me there? Please, Max."

I nod, barely responsive until he charges past me, steering me by the elbow, and out into the bleak morning.

The dying roar of flames fails to cool Samantha's fear. The house that stands before her is black with soot, scalded by the fire that had spread throughout every room, and shattered every window.

That is - was her home.

Rushing forward to the nearest uniformed officer, and ignoring the shouts for her to 'Get back', she cries, "Is anyone in there?"

The officer's infuriatingly calm as he instructs her, "You need to step back, miss."

"But I live here!"

Pity pools his eyes before years of training kicks in, clamping the lid down on his emotions. "You need to come with me." And he takes her by the arm, leading her away from the police tape, and the massing crowd that had come to witness the spectacle. "Are you Samantha?" he asks, his voice loud to be heard over the calls between firemen, and the hose piped water hitting the dimming flames.

"Yes," she breathes. It's difficult for her to suck in breath, partly because of the thick, coagulating smoke, but also from her rising panic attack.

"Your brother, Jake," he says, "has been calling for you."

Her knees threaten to buckle from relief, but are saved from doing so by the officer's firm grip on her arm, supporting her.

"Is he ok?" she asks. Her eyes are wide, her heart pounding.

He squeezes her arm reassuringly. "He's fine. He wasn't inside the house."

Samantha expels a long breath, unequivocally relieved, until she registers the remorseful tone in his voice. She stops abruptly. She looks at him with accusing eyes. "What about Mom? Where is she?"

He drops his eyes instantly, confirming her sinking suspicion. "I'm so sorry," he says.

She makes a strangled noise and drops to the floor.

"No," she moans, clutching her hands to her face, "no no no…"

It's colder than I remember as I jog to my car, barely conscious of my actions. But I know that this is not due to plunging temperatures, but an internal frigidity that had set in from the nurse's words on the phone: "I'm calling from Redwood Hospital. Katherine Ride has been admitted, along with James, Zephr, and Angel Ride, after a car accident that took place around seven o'clock yesterday evening. We strongly advise that any family members come in as soon as possible."

Hope you enjoyed the chapter.

I'd been planning the events – the fire and crash – to take place for a couple of months now. I hope I was able to effectively deliver the suspense, and infuse some emotion into this.

Now Max and Fang – they're still not together. But bear with me Fax fans.

There may only be a chapter or two left (depending on how the next goes) and a possible Epilogue that may be set a few months/year later. But that's only if the story doesn't feel as if it's reached a proper conclusion, and a few loose plot aspects need to be wrapped up. I will also include one if you, my fellow (and much appreciated) readers, would like one to conclude the story.

Thanks for reading.

Peace, love, and coca cola!