A/N: Nevanroy: I forgot to mention it in the last author's note, but your review made my day. It's one thing when fans of a pairing like your story, but when someone who isn't really a fan likes it, that's ten times better. Thank you so much. Aurora: I've never seen The Saint, so I have no idea what you're talking about, but I'm glad you liked it☺! Acb: good to know I'm not alone! Glad you thought it was exciting, I was getting bored with them hanging around in a closet for three chapters! Okay, I'm going to try to write a little from White's POV because a lot of people have asked for it. I've never done this successfully before so…we'll see what happens.
Special Agent Ames White has the junior agent who picks him up drop him back at headquarters. When he walks into the bullpen Otto looks up from the report he's reading, the agent seems to have a sixth sense occasionally; one that tells him when his boss enters a room, or when he's pissed off. White has noticed it before; he thinks it's probably why Otto has advanced so fast: he seems so intuitive. Usually White is slightly impressed by it, today it pisses him off. He suppresses the urge to snap at Otto, he has no legitimate reason to be upset with him, and it's best not to give the agent a reason towonder about him.
"Something go wrong, sir?" Otto seems more curious than concerned, he's accustomed to White doing things his own way.
White walks over to the desk that is vaguely considered his; he rarely uses it, and picks up the top report on the pile.
"Nothing serious, Otto," he tells the other man calmly. "A bunch of idiotic vigilantes screwed up the chase."
He turns to look at him, and continues, "I really hate civilians."
Otto gives him a purely mechanical smile, "Yes, sir."
White goes back to the report, something about a murder that was possibly committed by a transgenic, mostly supposition. He moves onto the next report: a supply depot broken into, maybe by transgenics. It's all crap, and nothing he wants to deal with right now.
He cracks his neck, tired and stiff from sitting in a storage closet for six hours with – he cuts the thought off: he really doesn't want to think about that.
Otto calls for his attention, providing a welcome distraction from the direction his thoughts were heading.
"Sir," he says, "take a look at this."
White comes around his desk to look over his shoulder, it's an intelligence report on a group of anti-transgenics, some radical Christian group, nothing really impor-
Radical Christians.
Meekers.
A red haze obscures White's vision for a moment. He struggles to get back under control when he realizes Otto is speaking.
"Sir? Sir is something wrong?"
White clears his throat. "These people," he says calmly, "are the group that interfered with the chase today."
Otto makes a thoughtful noise, something he's particularly good at, and nods in what White supposes is intended to be an agreeing manner.
"They're not strictly anti-transgenic, sir," Otto continues, "They believe that only normal humans should be allowed to exist."
"So?" White demands, although he's pretty sure he knows where this is going.
"So they condone action against that breeding cult that was exposed a couple of months ago," Otto pauses, searching his memory, "the Family?"
"The Familiars," White corrects him. "Nothing illegal about selective breeding, Otto. Nothing at all."
That muckraking idiot Eyes Only put up a cable hack about them back in September, including how to identify one. A lot of powerful people are now calling for action against the man. White wants him dead, for more reasons than just that one.
"Yes, sir. Just thought I'd mention it."
White nods, distractedly. The Conclave probably already knows about this, but maybe he should send a message anyway. These people, these "Meekers", could become a problem.
He glances down at Otto, "Well, keep an eye on any activity, the government frowns on vigilantism, these people would do best to remember that."
Otto nods again, "Will do, sir."
White puts the report down and walks out to his car. He slides into the driver's seat, puts the key in the ignition, and stops.
Ray might still be alive.
The fragile hope that thought creates in him is something he hasn't experienced in a very long time.
His son might be alive.
Of course, he also might be dead.
White sighs, refusing to dwell on that. He's tired, and after the events of today, he doesn't think he'll be able to get to sleep. He doesn't actually need to sleep; his body doesn't require it, but it's a habit he's become accustomed to.
He leans back against the seat, stretching his arms above his head, feeling his left shoulder protest the motion.
His shoulder.
Max.
He sits upright again, disgusted. Where the hell did that come from? The freak's name is 452.
Except he's having trouble thinking of her lumped in with the rest of the transgenics. Even before today he always thought of her as different, special. He told himself it was because of her flawless DNA, because, technically, she was different.
After the events of today he's having to accept the thought that maybe there was more to it than that.
Maybe there is more to it than that.
His mind runs away with him, conjuring up the feel of her hands on his shoulders and the taste of her mouth, and the way she arched into him…
White slams his head against the steering wheel.
This is bad.
It's really too bad that his genetic makeup prevents him from getting drunk enough to forget anything, he desperately wants to forget the last six and a half hours.
Or so he tells himself.
Max gets back to Terminal City to find that everyone's been worried about her, or at least wondered if she was alright. Alec is pestering her for answers, but that's Alec's main mode of operation and Max ignores him.
"I'm fine," she tells everyone who asks, "I just had to lay low for a while."
She calls a security briefing and tells Mole and Alec and Logan that the Meekers pinned her in an abandoned building for a few hours, and that at least a few of them know what she looks like.
She doesn't mention White. She doesn't think they'll understand.
She doesn't even understand.
Original Cindy asks if she can stay the night; she doesn't want to ride home in the dark and the rain. Max tells her, of course she can stay, and she's always welcome.
Inside, Max knows she really wanted some time alone.
She sits down on the window sill, staring out at the ruin of Terminal City, thinking about today.
About herself.
About White.
She doesn't know what the hell is going on in her life anymore. What about Logan? What about her people? What about Ray?
Ray.
The guilt is almost overwhelming. Why the hell does she feel bad about telling White his son might be dead? He's certainly earned a little pain by killing her people! He'd kill them all if he could find a way, and in no way does he deserve her pity.
So why does she feel like such a horrible person?
She's still sitting there when Original Cindy comes in to tell her that Mole says there's a phone call for her in the CIC.
A/N: Well, that totally ran away from me! I really only intended to write about a page from White's POV, but my plot bunny completely sucked me under! So, there you go, everyone who asked for it, White's thoughts about some stuff. Maybe I'll write more if you tell me it's good. Like I said, I've never had any success writing from a man's POV before…and maybe I still haven't. Let me know what you think. Oh yeah, in response to those who asked, I'm probably not going to bring Ray into this at all, I don't really like children.