LIKE LAMBS

In like a lion, out like a lamb.

Proverb


ONE

"Okay. Everyone name one thing that they're grateful for."

"Food."

I rolled my eyes at this incredibly predictable (and familiar) answer from the Gasman, but this year, just like every year since that year, I had all the patience in the world. That year—the year of gunshots and expiration dates and Vector—was three years gone and, as far as I was concerned, a lifetime gone.

"Seriously? That's still the best you can do?" I said wryly.

Gazzy grinned wickedly back at me and reached to serve himself another heaping spoonful of mashed potatoes (mashed potatoes that I, thank you very much, had peeled, boiled, mashed, and seasoned myself). He shrugged, looking totally boyish and lanky and—oh God—thirteen.

Thanksgiving found us seated around the secondhand table in our kitchen. Yes, our kitchen. The three bedroom, two and a half bath ranch had formerly belonged to Dr. Martinez's mother (a retired surgeon). When she died shortly after the fall of Vector, Dr. Martinez had gifted it to us and refused to take no for an answer.

Yeah. Really had to swallow my pride on that one.

It sounds unrealistic, I know. But when I tell you that this woman had effectively adopted us, I mean it. We spent Christmas with the Martinezes. The Fourth of July. Our birthdays. We kept Thanksgiving for ourselves because it felt like our holiday for reasons I'm sure you can deduce on your own.

The conversation then moved as it had every year since then:

"Remember Thanksgiving three years ago?" Gazzy continued. "That was, like, the last normal day we had for weeks."

"Normal?" blurted Nudge.

"Yeah," Iggy said, obviously bored of this redundant annual conversation, "but then we totally wrecked Vector and freed ourselves indefinitely, yada yada yada." He punched a fist into the air. "Anarchy."

Next to me, Angel, now eleven years old and objectively one of the most beautiful 'tweens on the planet, frowned slightly, but said nothing.

As tried and true as the tale was, Iggy was right, of course. We had totally wrecked Vector and freed ourselves indefinitely—in some ways. There were plenty of other ways that we'd never be freed, though. Emotionally. Mentally. We had all changed.

While Gazzy, Nudge, and Iggy started recounting the adventures of that year, Angel looked to me.

"I'm okay, Max," she said softly. I flinched. Angel didn't (couldn't? I wasn't sure and had never asked) read our minds or put thoughts in our heads anymore, but that didn't mean she couldn't read my face.

I sighed and rubbed my hand on her shoulder. "No you're not."

She pinched my thigh. "Quit it. I'm fine." She shrugged. "I just don't like talking about this."

She never did. Angel had always refused to open up about the few days she was held captive by Silas Scythe or really any of the traumas she'd undergone since the E-house.

Fang reached a hand across the table and gripped hers. The two of them had formed a special bond over the last three years that I was immensely grateful for but also secretly incredibly jealous of. He smiled encouragingly and squeezed once before leaning back and picking his fork back up.

I spent every day fighting to stay sane, all while attempting to become more domesticated (see above re: potatoes). Fang was on a constant forward trajectory with little ability (or willingness) to even think back to or process the past, tripping over himself as he went. Iggy now shoved all of his pain and resentment into the back corner of his mind and left it there to asphyxiate, running purely on fumes, comedic timing, and irony. Nudge tried desperately to blend. Gazzy was an optimist by nature and had somehow embraced this life better than any of us.

Angel, instead of finding normalcy in the volatile (and only)world she'd ever known, became sad in the simplest sense of the word: often quiet, seldom hungry, tirelessly introspective and wondering. Every day it became clearer that Fang and I raised her; she was stoic, silent, and strong, just like him, but she was also stubborn and moral to a fault. And while the moroseness seemed a demeanor all her own, I knew it was similar to the darkest sides of myself.

I found myself studying her more and more as time passed. My perky, bubbly, sunshine-y girl had become more withdrawn over the last three years. She had always been an old soul, but now she was… different.

That's because she's not your baby anymore, something deep in my mind told me. And even if it was true, it didn't mean I had to like it.

"What I still don't really get is why they hated us that much," Gazzy said. "I mean, like—all these people just wanted us dead and it's like... why?"

"They thought we were dangerous. We could've blown up their whole operation like that," Iggy said, snapping his fingers.

"We did blow up their operation just like that," Nudge pointed out.

"Yeah, but how did they end up like that at all? Who goes to work for a place like that and feels good about it?"

This existential question from the Gasman dissolved into the air around us and settled there like a fog.

"It's how you grow up, I think," Nudge said after a while.

"That doesn't make sense," Gazzy said, furrowing his brows. "I mean, look at how we grew up. And you don't see us hating people and being assholes just because we can."

"Language," I growled.

"It's like that musical," Nudge said, picking at a loose thread on the tablecloth. "The one they did at school at Anne's."

Iggy, apparently the only one of us to have retained anything from our days at Anne's,snorted.

"South Pacific, you mean?" he said. Nudge nodded. "You're saying all this reminds you of living on an island in the middle of the ocean during World War II?"

"Not that part, dumbass," Nudge snarled.

"Language," I interjected again. Uselessly, I might add.

"'You have to be carefully taught,'" Nudge quoted.

"'Carefully taught' what? Algebra?"

"No," Nudge was now obviously frustrated and frowning deeply at Iggy. "Bias. Hatred. The point is that nobody is born a bad guy. You have to become one."

"That's bullshit," Iggy said. He cast a blind glance my way, but we both knew that I knew better than to scold Iggy for his choice of words. "No way. It's a decision that you make."

"I think Nudge is right," Angel said quietly. "I mean, maybe part of it is a decision, but whoever raises you is the one that teaches you morals and to be nice and what matters and stuff."

"Well, then, who taught us? And don't say Jeb, I'll throw up."

My heart jerked painfully at the name, a flash of his bloody, dead body crossing my mind's eye, but the conversation rolled on uninterrupted: Nudge rolled her eyes powerfully.

"Max."

I nearly choked on the bite of potatoes I'd just barbarically shoveled into my mouth.

"Me?"

"Oh," Gazzy said dumbly. "Well, duh."

Iggy made a sort of noncommittal face before finally shrugging and nodding.

"Okay. Touche. Fifteen-love, Nudge."

Angel, in a rare moment of stereotypical eleven-year-oldhood, wrinkled her nose. "Love?"

"Tennis, sweetie. It means zero," I said quietly, but my mind wasn't on the French Open—it was swirling around the idea that these kids—no, these people; my family—were suggesting that I had been their moral compass all their lives.

I mean, I'd tried, hadn't I? I'd always led with my best foot forward. Whatever that meant. I figured I'd done an okay job, but the idea that I had actually molded their psyches in the way they were suggesting had me choked up in a way I hadn't felt in a while.

"Max?" Nudge said apprehensively.

I snapped out of whatever reverie I'd fallen into and saw five pairs of eyes gazing intently at me. After everything with Vector, there had intermittent moments of unprecipitated panic on my end as a result of the torture at the hand of Scythe and those relentless memory episodes—these anxiety attacks were few and far between these days, but the flock still babied me over them.

"I'm fine," I said tartly.

I wasn't sure how to continue, so I stifled my sentimental thoughts and looked to Fang, who'd been burning holes into me with his stare since I'd momentarily checked out of reality.

"Alright, enough of this crap," Iggy said, brushing his hands off and pushing his chair away from the table. He was obviously trying to take the attention off of me and dissolve the thick air of the room. "Who wants pie?"

I shot Fang a leave me alone look and, blissfully, he dropped it.

"Feels like we're really home, doesn't it?" he said instead.

It does, I thought. Home sweet home.


The day was nothing short of spectacular. Iggy's food was incredible as always, and the (seemingly endless) game of charades that followed had us all laughing so hard we were nauseous. By the time night fell, we were all exhausted.

Just like every Thanksgiving these days, I spent extra time saying goodnight to the "youngest" kids. They were too old to be tucked in now, but I did it anyway, and I don't think any of them had the heart to tell me to buzz off—they'd all been pretty receptive to my mom-ish tendencies since that fateful year.

"I love you," I told them all. "And I'm grateful for you every single day." And even Gazzy, rough-and-tumble at thirteen years old, looked up at me with those big, mischievous blue eyes and said it back.

I'd started in Iggy and the Gasman's man cave (or evil lair, as I liked to call it—they'd made themselves at home in the spacious finished basement with its own half bath to boot) and made my way back up to the main level to circle through Angel and Nudge's rooms. Each of us getting our own space was foreign to us and not something I expected any of us to take advantage of any time soon.

I ended with Angel, knowing I'd want to sit with her a little longer. As I ran my fingers through her silky curls, she looked patiently up at me with the exact same eyes as her brother, although hers were troubled and lost in the same way I saw in my own.

"You know I love you, right?" I whispered.

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I know."

"Good."

"I'm sorry," she said softly.

"What? Why?" She shrugged and averted her eyes. "Hey. Cut that out. What's up?"

"I dunno," she murmured back. I brushed my thumb against her cheek and her eyes wilted shut. "For being like this. For being…" She couldn't find a word.

I fought the lump in my throat and managed to suggest one: "Sad?"

Her lips quivered so slightly that I might not have noticed it if I hadn't known her since literal infancy. My heart shattered into about a thousand pieces when I realized the expression written all over her face was shame.

"You never have to apologize to me for that, Angel," I said tenderly. "You never have to apologize to anyone for that. Look at what our lives have been. What they've done to us. What they've done to you..." She blinked and one glistening tear streaked down her cheek. I wiped it away. "It hasn't been easy and it never will be. We're all trying to move on. To heal. But just because time passes doesn't mean that we will."

She nodded and exhaled shakily. I leaned down to press my forehead against hers, inhaling the familiar floral scent that would always lead me back to her if she strayed a little too far.

I again reflected on just how much had changed. This was no longer the little girl who carried a bear named Celeste or fed a dog named Total (he'd fallen in love with Magnolia and never looked back). This wasn't the girl who wore dresses with buttons in the back. This wasn't the girl who thought she knew it all at the ripe age of six. This was somebody different.

It was obvious my words weren't fixing anything, but I guess I hadn't expected them to. The harsh reality of our twisted lives was that there was nothing to fix any of it. No amount of therapy, fresh air, or Zoloft would cure us.

I'm sorry, I wanted to say. I'm sorry for failing to protect you. For being a terrible mother. For not being able to fix you.

But I'd been telling that to all of them for years, and it hadn't made anybody feel better, least of all me.

I felt entirely at a loss as what more I could do or say, so I went with what my gut was telling me.

"Do you want me to get Fang?"

Sure, maybe I felt like a failure because Fang could soothe her in a way I couldn't, but that didn't mean it would ever stop me from doing anything in my power to help her.

She paused. By her own rules, Angel didn't read our minds anymore, but there was a level of perception and understanding of body language and the overall human condition that she'd gained from so many years of doing it. Which meant I wasn't surprised when she offered me a look of guilt and apology.

"It's okay," I said softly. "Gimme a sec." I smoothed her curls one final time and kissed her forehead. "Sleep tight, chickadee."

"Max," she called once I'd made it to the door. "You know I love you, right?"

A jolt of something—pride or joy or sentimentality or maybe just plain ol' love—rolled through me like a wave.

"I do," I promised.

I padded down the long hardwood hall to Fang and I's room, unsurprised to find him nose deep in whatever bestselling nonfiction book had piqued his interest this week. Moments like this always had me picturing the two of us in fifty years, with Fang in bifocals diligently working on a crossword and me knitting in a corner somewhere.

Yeah. Knitting.

"Racy novel?"

He smirked and flashed the cover at me. Helter Skelter: The Manson Murders.

"Romantic."

"Don't blame me. Blame the Beatles."

I stripped off my jeans and crossed the room to our dresser. "I'll be sure to write to John."

Fang looked up from his book and let his eyes wander all over my bare legs. "Dead."

"Ringo, then."

"Ringo?"

"I don't think I trust Paul."

I rummaged through the dresser and found a pair of old sweats. Fang clicked his tongue in disappointment.

"Pants?"

"Yes, pants, you creep."

He picked up on my demeanor, frowned, and immediately and dog-eared the page. "They all asleep?"

"All but one." I sighed and sat at the edge of the bed, dropping my head into my waiting palms. Fang stroked the scapulars of my left wing; my muscles relaxed at his touch.

"Angel."

"Yeah," I said before realizing how strained my voice sounded. A croaking sort of crying sound was lodged in my throat, ready to prey on my vulnerability.

Not today, Satan.

I could feel Fang's eyes on my back and knew he was waiting for me to tell him what was up. I closed my eyes and focused on his fingers and the way they smoothed my feathers.

"She's miserable. And it's my fault. All of this—everything—is my fault."

Fang almost definitely rolled his eyes and didn't falter a second before saying, "Don't be stupid."

This conversation was one we'd had what felt like a million times before. Fang had tried for years to help me process the shame I felt over being the flock's leader and all the insanity and pain I'd led them toward unknowingly: Iggy being blinded, Angel getting captured, Nudge getting shot… there was a laundry list of reasons I'd failed every single one of them.

Every time it came up, Fang said the same thing: we were victims. We were under attack. You kept us alive. By the end of the conversation, I was always in tears with Fang repeating one thing to me: it isn't your fault. It isn't your fault. It isn't your fault, like some weird Good Will Hunting spin-off in which Matt Damon was a teenage recombinant life form.

Fang put his book on the bedside table and rose from the bed. I sprawled out on my back, staring up at the ceiling with a heavy feeling in my chest. Once upon a time, I'd felt this terrible every single moment of my life; nowadays, I was spoiled with intermittent feelings of maybe everything will be okay, meaning even the smallest hiccups had become difficult and borderline triggering.

"I'll go talk to her." He made it halfway to the door before I realized how desperate I was for him not to leave, how badly I needed reassurance.

"Fang," I whispered brokenly. He turned at the sound of my voice, read my face, and wilted at what he saw there. "She's so unhappy."

He retreated back to my side with an impossibly soft look and put a hand to my cheek.

"She's depressed, Max."

"Okay," I said. "So now what? Medication?"

Fang hesitated at this. He picked his words carefully. "Maybe. We don't know what medications like that could do to us."

"What do you mean? We take Tylenol." I gestured to the assorted bottles of over-the-counter sleep aids on my bedside table that I'd leaned heavily on for the past few years. "And whatever the hell's in this crap."

"That doesn't mean we can mess around with neurotransmitters. Antidepressants are serious drugs. There's a reason they're prescriptions."

I growled in frustration. "Then what? Self-help books? Incense? Therapy? She can't exactly lay out all the shit that happened to her to make her this way."

"I don't know, Max. I don't," Fang said quietly. His eyes were sad.

Of course he didn't. None of us did. He reached down to squeeze my hand once and then disappeared down the hall.


Midnight found Fang and I at the edge of the canyon, shivering and sleepy-eyed but, above all things, content. He was leaning a little closer to me these days. And by that I mean… drumroll please…

He was my boyfriend.

Since you're not all idiots, I'm sure you've already deduced this from the fact that we were sharing a room. And a bed. We had been this way since shortly after the fall of Vector, and it truly seemed like we were in it for the long haul. I know what you're thinking—blegh, tres cliché—but I ain't apopogizin'.

He'd diffused the Angel situation with ease and reassured me that she was doing just fine. By morning, I'd be a wreck again. For now, it was enough.

"Nudge is right," Fang said. He held one of my hands with both of his, absently tracing the callouses I'd earned with his equally rough fingertips. "You taught us."

I rolled my eyes.

"O-kay."

"Why are you acting like this is some sort of crazy suggestion?"

"Because," I scoffed, "you seriously think I taught you and Iggy anything?"

Fang looked over the canyon as I considered what this would be like if I were a normal girl. Maybe it'd be a snippet from my travel blog. Maybe an social media photo dedicated to our friendship—or relationship, or whatever—of the two of us staring out from the edge of the cliff. Maybe it would look the exactly the same: simple, peaceful, quiet.

I admired the view. And by the view I mean him, of course. Fang had always been the strongest of all of us, but once we settled into our Real People Lives (with birth certificates and licenses to boot thanks to Angel's mind control abilities and Nudge's freakish knowledge of technology), he took a job working in construction. I'm sure you can imagine what sort of physique this had earned him.

"I don't know if I would've been a good guy without you." Fang said, breaking me from what had to have been a googly-eyed stare. "What did Nudge say? 'You have to be carefully taught?' The School taught us how to torture. How to alienate. How hang up a moral compass and never look back. Jeb taught us how to trust—and then to never trust again. To bail. To betray."

"The School and Jeb taught me all those things, too," I pointed out.

He raised his eyebrows as if to say, That's my point. "That's the difference. You never hung up that moral compass. I did."

I shook my head over and over. "Don't even give me that. You're moral. You're good."

Fang frowned and looked out over the canyon. "I'm angry."

"So am I. That doesn't mean we aren't good."

He looked at me again then, only this time quizzically. His eyes were as dark as the night sky except for where they reflected the shimmering silver of the moon. A smile pulled one corner of his mouth toward his cheek.

"What?" I demanded.

The smile grew but he only shook his head in response. I whacked him on the shoulder and opened my mouth to demand an answer, but before I could, his hand whipped out to grip my wrist just tight enough to smart.

His eyes were playful now—hungry, even—and that familiar kick-start stall-out a-fluttering feeling filled my chest. He reached for my face with his other hand and cupped my chin.

"It's hot when you're angry, you know that?" he whispered huskily.

I shivered, but not from the cold. I let myself smile shyly and felt myself blush "So I'm told."

That heart-stopping grin still hadn't left his face. Nineteen years of it and it somehow never got old.

He leaned forward and kissed me the way he always did—slowly, fondly, and sweetly, exactly like that first time back in the E-house the night we thought I was going to die. I shifted my weight minutely and he grabbed my waist in response to tug me closer to him.

This was how it was these days: Max and Fang, Fang and Max. We were the same as always, really—bickering, comfortable, and in sync—except now we hugged. And kissed. And did… other things.

Fang leaned his weight against me, forcing me roughly to the canyon floor. Try as he might to be macho and rough, he still cushioned my head with his hand. I barely had the agency to notice—in moments like this, the whole world melted away, leaving just his eyes and his hands and his body and Fang.

One of his hands found my hair and I gasped against his lips. He paused immediately, as he always did, and eyed me steadily.

"I'm fine," I said. It was a knee-jerk response these days, so I wasn't shocked when Fang didn't buy it. I forced my body to relax, letting myself feel his warm skin against mine. "Really. I'm… happy." And it was true. Then I said it again. "I'm happy."

At this, Fang grinned; the light of the moon dimmed in response.

"Me too," he said, and leaned down to kiss me again.


A/N: I said I wouldn't do it. A sequel? No way. I was so happy with how it had all ended; it was finally a piece of work that I felt (with some still needed editing) I could be truly proud of. I knew adding more would only complicate that idea further.

But then I sat… and sat… and sat. I missed writing. I missed this little extended version of canon I created. I missed the flock, really, and I missed the depth I felt like I'd given them over the course of Like Lions.

This first chapter had originally been intended as an epilogue to Like Lions but didn't really fit quite right; it's the reason this story exists. I have cushioned several chapters' worth of content ahead so as to not lag with updates, and I am setting relatively low word count standards for myself in terms of chapter length. I am looking at this story from a non-perfectionistic standpoint for once in my life.

That said, I am dropping this first chapter in to test the waters; it is likely I won't update for a bit as I continue to cushion myself with content and carefully plot out where I'd like this story to go.

This will not be perfect, I am not an author nor do I have any sort of degree in English, and I don't read fiction like I used to, so my grammar may be shoddy at best, my word choices may be lame, over exaggerated, or downright incorrect at times, and I am highly susceptible to continuity issues (among other things). I am open to gentle corrections or suggestions but have no patience for negative reviews as I am already pretty fucked up as it is these days what with working in healthcare during an intergalactic pandemic. I know that's pretty pathetic of me but I literally could not care less at this point. The apathy is borderline concerning.

I hope you enjoy this ride. It is quite different than Like Lions but in a way that allows me to explore different and evolving parts of these characters that I am so fond of.