Setting: Fogle Towers, 8:00am.
Max awoke to the sound of a typical Seattle traffic jam on the streets far below her. It sucks having hyper-sensitive hearing, Max thought as she sat up, casting the many layers of blankets aside. Outside the usual early morning layer of Pacific fog had, for the most part, burned off, but the city still had a slight aura of gray to it. Then again, that could be your typical urban smog. The sky was overcast, deep gray clouds threatening to empty their burdens upon the populace below.
Max sighed, and hauled herself up out of bed. She listened for signs of conscious life within the apartment. Hearing none, she decided to go check Logan's room to see if he was still asleep. She padded barefoot down the hallway, and tiptoed cautiously into his room.
He was awake, lying on his back staring up at the ceiling. When she entered the room, he pulled out of his trance to focus his attention on her, his face changed from one of concentration to one of surprise and (she hoped she wasn't imagining it) warmth as he took in the sight of her standing in his doorway.
"Hey," his voice definitely held a note of surprise. "You're up early, too, I see."
"Too?" Max teased. "See, last I checked, you've gotta be out of bed and moving before you can be considered 'up.'" It didn't hit her until after she had said it that there was another possible interpretation, but she refused to go there, it'd only embarrass the both of them if it was mentioned aloud.
Logan simply gave a short laugh. "Yes, well, some of us actually require rest, even if sleep is unattainable." Max put on a pout for his amusement, before narrowing her eyes evilly and flopping down next to him on the bed.
"Well, you can pretty much kiss any notions of further rest goodbye," she said. "Because you've got a hungry and bored transgenic on in your apartment who doesn't have anywhere to be all day." Logan laughed and groaned in mock self-pity.
"Okay," he laughed. "I surrender." Max simply gave a slight smile and looked at him expectantly. Logan looked back up at the ceiling, the look on his face said that he was taking silent inventory of his kitchen's contents, considering potential foods he could create. Max loved that look. Then his faced switched to the "Aha!" look she loved even more as he settled on a recipe.
"Okay," he braced his arms on either side of him and drew himself an upright sitting position. He grabbed the handles of his chair, and in one smooth motion, swung his body into it. "Shower, dress, call Original Cindy, whatever. I'm gonna dress and get started on breakfast." Satisfied, Max hopped up out of bed and flounced out of the room.
"You can also forget wasting the day working."She called over her shoulder. "Today is going to be an easy day." Logan smiled at this; how she tried to hide her sweetness with an arrogant, teasing tone of voice. Then he grabbed some fresh boxers and wheeled himself into the bathroom.
--10 Minutes Later--
Max strolled into the kitchen to find Logan had showered, dressed, and shredded part of a slab of chedder in the time it had taken her to dress and fix her hair. He was wearing black slacks and the powder blue sweater he'd worn the night of Zack's rescue. The sight of that sweater brought a quickly-repressed flash of memories. He smiled when he noticed her standing there.
"Hey," he greeted her. "Would you mind mincing that onion for me?" He nodded to the indicated vegetable, already halved and sitting on the cutting board. Max picked up the knife.
"Minced?" she asked, her eyebrows knitted together in puzzlement.
"Really tiny pieces," he defined. "Like, shreds."
"Oh. Why didn't you just say so?" Max moved the knife in quick, calculated movements, finishing in just under three minutes. She set down the knife and looked back up at Logan, who was staring at her, eyebrows raised in an amused and impressed expression. "Need anything else minced or chopped or whatever?" He shook his head, his expression never changing. Max flashed a grin at him and hopped up on the stool, watching him cook. He smiled back, and proceeded to make a cheese and onion omelet, bacon, and pancakes, all the while watched by a hungry chimera.
The conversation over breakfast was light, their issues from the previous evening tactfully avoided. Then, the food ran out, the dishes were washed, and the comfortable moment ended as they were faced with a difficult question: what the hell were they going to do for the rest of the day?