Title: Getting Better

Author: Mercy Me It's Ashley

Summary: When Max files for divorce, Fang can't seem to cope, at least, not without some help.

Rating: PG13 for implied homosexual/bisexual relations, language, and suicidal thoughts.

Pairing: Iggy/Fang, slash, and one-sided Fang/Max

WARNING: Yes, two males are going to engage in romantic activities. You have been forewarned. Any anti-slash flamers will be met with my personal wrath.

Disclaimer: MaxRide is James Patterson's, but I have temporarily clubbed him over the head and stolen the characters for my own amusement. Just don't tell anyone, okay?

AU: Ten years after SOF.

Chapter I: The Three Ds of Adult Life

Iggy says he's worried about me.

And I have to admit, he might have a right to be.

Two weeks ago, Max and I had a fight- not out of the normal. But,then I threw myself out the window, what the doctors called a "suicide attempt". They say they're worried about what I might do, they say I should start talking to someone. But I don't want to. I'm not crazy, I just have a bad marriage. Most people do.

Now, Max wants a divorce from this bad marriage. But I don't blame her, I've been wanting to file for months. Years even. I never thought she'd file though, it always seemed like she'd been more willing to give it a shot than me.

But, it's not like I'm complaining. Really. I couldn't care less if she divorced me. Doesn't matter at all.

I just don't care anymore.

Iggy says he doesn't believe me.

I told him to shut up.

Iggy says he wants to move closer.

I shrugged, then I realized we were on the phone, and I told him that would be okay.

He says he'll call me tomorrow and tell me what happens.

I say good bye and hang up.

I pick up a glass of rum and coke and drag myself into our bedroom. Her bedroom. These days I sleep on the couch, not 'cause she kicked me out, but because I didn't want to sleep there anymore. She'd decorated the room, all her stuff was in there, it wasn't mine, never was and never will be. And as for sex? I've got my hand.

I take a small orange bottle out of my pocket, lithium. It's what the doctors prescribed to go with my Zoloft after the fall.

Cause it wasn't a suicide attempt, it was a fall.

I tell myself I need to stop thinking about it, just take my pills and then a nap.

So I pop open the lid and pour a small pile of white into my palm. I put two in my mouth and wash it down with rum and coke. More rum than anything. Actually, it's pretty much just rum. And some vodka. Rum and vodka.

I lay down on the bed, more like collapse onto it. I want to sleep, I want to sleep for a long, long time, and maybe not even wake up. Because when I do, Max'll be there. And she'll have the papers, and I'll have to sign them cause I want to get out of this damn hell hole. But then I'll have to drink, because otherwise I'll never get back to sleep, and then I'll have to take more pills and-

I take a deep breath, realizing I've gone completely overboard.

But I also realize how sad it is. The three Ds are not in fact, determination, drive and desire. (Or something like that.) But actually are drinking, depression and divorce. If sleeping started with a D, then there'd be four. Or if I had a thesaurus.

And let's face it, that's just plain sad.