A/N: Hope this is fun for you. For me it's free therapy. Last one today.
Disclaimer: James Patterson owns the characters and any recognizable canon info. Thanks JP for this chaotic universe you gifted us.
M
As soon as we get home Fang is tugging me to the stairs, up to privacy, fingers tapping impatiently on the back of my hand.
"Hang on," I say, and he almost groans. "Nudge!"
She does groan. "Not now. Go upstairs and we'll all pretend we don't know what's happening," she says, flopping down on the couch.
"Nudge." I spin around, dropping Fang's hand and crossing my arms. "What's everyone up to tonight?"
"I'm here tonight," Angel says, not looking up from her phone. Gazzy grabs the remote and chimes in the same response.
"I have a date," Nudge says with frustration. She throws an accusatory finger at Fang. "He's gonna pick me up and we're going on a date and you don't get to fuck it up."
"Language," I mutter, although I'm not sure how much I'm winning that particular Mom battle.
"Chill, Nudge," Fang says monotonously. "Can't wait to meet him."
"No meeting him! Absolutely not! You can watch from the window while I get in his car," she says with finality.
"Why do you wanna take all our fun away?" Iggy calls from across the large living space, sitting at the breakfast bar with a take out menu.
"Literally all of it," Fang grumbles, reaching for me again with a very dark fire in his eyes.
"Dude, chill," Gazzy calls out.
"Gazzy's right," I say. "And so is Nudge. Let her live already."
"Yes! Thank you, Max," Nudge says, jumping up. "Let me live."
"Jeez," Fang mutters, finally getting a grip on me, stepping up the first few steps of the staircase. "Is everyone done needing parents for, like, an hour?"
Iggy scoffs. "More like four or five minutes. Sorry Max. Anyways-what does everyone want for dinner?"
The insult to Fang's pride also served as a great moment for us to get away completely, closing ourselves into Fang's room. Mine, down the hall, is smaller and looks out over the garage. Fang's large window gives a gorgeous view of the forest in the back, and is easier to climb in and out of when flying.
Not that we intend to go flying right now.
Fang's absolutely out of control, handsy as hell, pulling me over to his bed.
"You are wild," I say softly, pulling off his windbreaker. "I want a shower first."
"Fine, let's take a shower."
I roll my eyes.
He tugs my waist and I crawl onto the bed, sitting on his lap. He plays with the hem of my shirt.
"Look at me and tell me you don't want me," he says tauntingly. He rolls me over and brushes the hair out of my face.
"Well I seem to contain an ounce of control in my system that you are lacking," I say, running my fingers up his back underneath the soft cotton t-shirt he's wearing.
"How am I possibly supposed to contain myself around you?" he says softly.
"What has gotten into you?"
"I don't know," he says. "But I need you."
I roll my eyes. I'll play. He knows I'll always play along eventually.
"Need, huh?"
Fang's fingers tiptoe up from the waistband of my jeans to my navel. They hover there, poking and sliding teasingly.
"Need," he says. "Like, made-for-you-in-a-lab, need."
I laugh, pushing his fingers away and reaching up to pull off his shirt. Early on in the limelight, someone ran a popular story that claimed proof that Fang and I were genetically adjusted to perfectly complement each other. It doesn't seem to hold too much weight, since he drives me up the fucking wall, but the Flock loved throwing that in our faces. After a while, it came to be an inside joke for just us.
Although sometimes, I feel like I believe it. Maybe it's only in moments are real and pure as this.
I look up at him. He's pulling that shirt off his head, and he tosses it on the floor without even looking before leaning down over me. I reach out and trace my fingers down his jaw.
"Well, why didn't you just say that?"
Nothing feels more natural than being with him, truly. I remember when we first started taking steps towards this level of intimacy. What a process that was. After years of torture, it was hard for me to share that deeply with anyone, even Fang.
Mostly because I knew he wanted it. He was ready long before I was, and he was patient. Just like every other step of our relationship. But this milestone, at least for me, was a bigger deal. Personally. To give him that, to give myself this.
And I love this. I really do.
We are quiet to the best of our abilities. But we are also on fire, and in our own bubble, so to be honest I have no idea usually how well we ever contain the fire. When the last flames are finally out, he curls up behind me, fingers entwined with mine and our joined hands are tucked under my chin. I wiggle my behind against him as he scoots closer, his warmth enveloping me.
"Shower now?" he prompts, finger reaching up to poke the tip of my nose.
"No, now I am gelatin and I don't want to move, ever."
There's a dull buzz from the nightstand. Fang buries his face in my hair.
"If this is one of the kids I refuse to ever sleep with you under this roof again," I say, levering up to grab the phone. "We were quiet."
"I was quiet."
I scowl at him. It's his phone that buzzed. I click the button. "Yikes, unknown number. Is this your other girlfriend?"
Fang rolls his eyes. "Yeah, do you mind?"
I laugh and toss him his phone. He grabs it and I curl into his side, sighing.
"It's Maggie, from Here and Now," he says. "From earlier."
I give him a look. "So, Maggie now has your phone number?"
Fang levels me a harder look. "Sorry, is there a waiver she should've signed, or?"
I smile a little sheepishly. "I'm just wondering what convinced you to give a reporter your direct phone number?"
We have a landline specifically for these types of things, for safety and for ease of not getting our cells blown up by reporters all day. I watch him open the text, which contains a link. He reads the message attached and quickly types back a polite response without providing me with any other explanation. I huff and roll out of bed, reaching for my shirt.
"She sent me an article from a different paper," he says, clicking on the link in the message. "Said we would want to see it. And if we wanted to get involved, we need to call her."
"I can save you the trouble and say we don't want to get involved," I say, grabbing my jeans. "I'm gonna take a shower."
"Max."
His voice has changed, and there's no longer a hint of playfulness. I spin around and he holds up his phone. He has the article pulled up, and the headline—along with the undeniable picture—make me swallow a sudden lump in my throat.
Suspected Leader of ITEX Gene-Splicing Research and Experiments Taken Into Custody
With a picture of Jeb Batchelder. Right there. On the page. For real.
His mug shot.
