I rattled this out in about half an hour. I think I wrote this because Max is one of my favourites, and gets absolutely no love.

Disclaimer: Don't own LB.

The Prodigal Son

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Max wonders if pride can be fatal for a parent.

He wanders past Lucy, past the fair haired boy and his two stoic friends. Their voices...the gabbling, adolescent mumbles of almost men, and the rising highness of Lucy's frayed patience...becomes nothing but a drone in the background. Of course, if he wanted, he could channel it; make every sound clear, sharp, to his ears. But he chooses not to, for there is a figure...a dark figure, spread open like a bat...splayed across the upcoming workbench.

David's overly large trench coat is gathered around his ankles. His arms are cast wide, as if awaiting an invisible embrace, and his head is turned away from Max.

He could be sleeping, like a child that nods off on a long car ride; his face is peaceful, set in an expression devoid of reproach or any of his famed ferocity. The only thing jarring this idyllic scene is two ugly horns protruding from his chest. Marko, ever the poet, may have whispered that maybe they were reaching for heaven.

There is no such thing as heaven. No such thing as hell. There is only life, what rests from here and then; the eventual decline of death, and blood.

Max hovers over his fallen child.

But maybe there is such a thing as this.

He stretches out a hand, and gently rolls David's face into plain sight. David is fair, the fairest of his boys, and the most strong. The prodigal son, destined for greatness far beyond the glistening grime of Santa Carla and as a helpmeet to a frail old vampire, fatigued already by the world and his place in it.

He feels something live scuttle deep within the blurring, fading sparks of David's consciousness. The boy isn't lost. He's alive, and soon, he shall wake.

It is at that point, that Max realises he is going to die.

Wait.

It's a small plea that rattles through their shared connection.

It is also a farewell.

Wait. Until I give the signal. Wait.

The air crackles between them. David is weak, yet his promise of obedience is obvious.

The softly weathered skin of Max's fingers draw away from David's cheek. He stands; prepares himself. He is a veteran; he has spent his whole unlife acting. This next performance should be no mean treat.

He senses the star-crossed lovers huddled in the corner. The tragic hero torn between good and evil; Michael, Lucy's eldest son. And the treacherous gypsy, steelier in spirit that David could have ever anticipated.

Max wanders past them. He has little to do with the youngsters; they are nothing to him now.

"I'm sorry, Lucy." He dramatically removes his glasses. Humans have no eye for detail. If anyone attempted to look through the frames, they would merely find them props; fit for little more than child's play.

He spins out a convoluted story about a half baked plan for a family of vampires...a ridiculous notion. He is old fashioned, but even he knows that covens don't operate on mortal levels. But in some cases, he does, and as he gazes at Lucy, he finds this is the one thing he can't lie about.

"It was you I was after all along, Lucy."

The fear and confusion dawning on the sweet woman's face brings him a stab of guilt, but never regret. Blood is thicker than water, thicker than the need to recatch a few simple, mortal moments lost in a past hollowed by time. Maybe, for a short while, he had been happy, in the most facile and human way possible. But now, it was over.

They all come to take their turn, each face pinched by apprehension and self righteous bravado. The insipid girl draws behind him, her eyes hate filled, and shrewdly deducts that he was "the secret" that David protected. Max smiles at her indulgently. It was far more complex than that; far more than she shall ever now.

His face contorts; ah, what a performance. They scream and hold each other, until Michael feels heroics call and steps from the god forsaken room that is David's temporary crypt.

"I didn't invite you this time, Max."

This is the punch line. Michael snarls, and forward he bounds; Max thrusts out sharper claws in which to catch him.

Go. Now.

Everyone is so caught up in their battle cries that they don't feel a slight breeze tickle the back of their necks, or the dull snap of a window closing. Max does. He channels it, remembering the chill of David's skin on his fingertips, and holds out a mottled claw to Lucy.

That isn't all he hears. He hears the screech of tyres of the road; the clatter of wooden spikes strapped to the rickety behind of a truck. Michael is well placed above him. He's a quick witted boy; surely he will know what to do.

He too slowly pulls Lucy towards him. He ceremoniously goes for the neck, before staring up in mock confusion as an obnoxious horn blares through the house.

A natural thing, that is neither human nor vampire, is how the old is replaced by the new. David shall inherit his power, and within the ashes of his father, shall unleash his potential. Shall heal and maybe start again, far from Max's grasp, and his own mistakes. It is an ongoing circle, a fact of life, of nature, and as Max releases Lucy, he finds himself a little too tired to be bothered with it all.

Michael acts accordingly. Max makes sure he stands stock still, in the full fury of one of the flying stakes. It crunches through him; breaks through muscle and cruddy remains of heart, and this time he gasps, for the pain is real and it's the first real thing he has felt in a while.

Then there is heat, screams, flames rising up around, and inside him. There is death, and then, there is nothing.