"… all things share the same breath - the beast, the tree the man… the air shares its spirit with all the life it supports."
-Chief Seattle, Duwamish

Chapter One

April 15, 2019, 10:59 AM
Logan's Apartment, Sector 9, Seattle, Washington

The rain made a gentle, soothing noise as it patted against the large windows of the Penthouse at Logan's apartment. It had been raining since dawn and showed no sign of abating. Dark clouds scuttled by on the high wind like alien ships, an endless armada sailing through Elliott Bay. A few lights dotted around the living room made it warm and inviting by comparison and the heat was working, taking away any chill.

I might be a souped-up, transgenic bike messenger, Max thought, smiling slightly, but I'm glad I'm not out in that today.

Something classical was playing in the background; a quartet of some kind who had thought it was a good idea to make a CD of music written by some old, dead guy. Max hadn't paid attention to the name of the group or the composer. At least it wasn't intrusive. She sat in a chair pulled from the dining room table wearing her standard attire: long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans, feet bare on the polished wood floor. Her dark, wavy hair was tucked behind her ears as she leaned over the small table before her, carefully selecting her bishop and moving him two spaces diagonally along the board. The move was obvious but it was all part of her strategy. She had made her opponent wait five minutes before making it: no need to win too soon. If she wanted lunch, she needed a reason to stay, right?

Who're you kiddin'? her Inner Commentator said. You just enjoy the view, and I'm not talkin' about the city.

Shut up, Max thought sharply.

Suit yourself.

Max sat back and reached for her mug of tea, silently regarding the man before her as she took a tentative sip.

Logan Cale was focused on the chessboard, his elbows resting on his knees as he considered his next move. He was sporting his usual style: the 'I-showered-and-shaved-and-absently-ran-my-hand-through-my-hair-with-some-gel-on-it' look that was apparently fashionable among cyber-journalists this season. He wore a t-shirt, jeans and socks. Though it was warm in the apartment, Max figured the socks were insurance for his feet, which could grow cold without his knowledge and potentially give him trouble down the line. Logan braced himself against the wheelchair and shifted slightly before returning to his previous pose.

Maybe he's been sitting in this position too long, Max thought, wondering if she should say something but uncertain about his reaction. He could be touchy about anything that might be construed as a weakness, especially if it involved his spinal injury interfering with something as simple as a game of chess.

The tea was hot. She blew on it lightly then took her second sip. Logan glanced up at her over the top of his wire-framed glasses and she sighed inwardly at the tingle she felt when his green eyes met hers.

Her Inner Commentator stirred again. You're gettin' mushy.

I'm allowed to appreciate beauty, she defended, her gaze dropping briefly to the well-defined torso, which was being pleasantly hugged by the t-shirt. She hoped he wouldn't notice she was drooling. Her eyes met his again and they stared at one another for thirty-eight seconds, not that Max was counting.

Stick to artwork you can sell fast and leave the rich boys to their own.

La, la, la, I'm not listening…

Max watched his arm muscles perform their subtle shifting as he raised his right hand and reached unerringly for a member of his army. He looked down at the piece then back up at her before deciding it was safe and releasing his queen. He sat back and picked up his own mug while she resolved to at least appear to doubt her ability as a general.

"Interesting move," she murmured, studying her own army. She hoped she sounded sincere. It wasn't very interesting, actually, but expected, standard, normal, and he hadn't taken very long to make his decision about it. He seemed to be playing wildly today, as if he were preoccupied with something, or didn't care if he lost. Can't he see my knight and pawn? He's leaving himself wide open. She knew he sometimes played chess with Bling, and also knew he often defeated his friend and personal physiotherapist. Not that Logan told her, of course. Bling had adapted to Max's random visits quite well, pleased to have an ally when it came to getting his employer away from the computer, interacting with people, remembering to eat… He had shared a few anecdotes with Max, including games of chess and poker. Both were rare, though, as Logan's secret identity as Eyes Only, defender of the weak and wielder of justice, kept him very busy.

Max glanced at the clock: 11:02. How much longer could she draw this out?

"You have somewhere to go?"

Her head snapped around. "What?"

Logan tilted his head slightly, a grin teasing the corners of his mouth. "You're looking at the clock. Do you have somewhere to go? I didn't think you had a shift at Jam Pony today."

"I don't, and I don't," Max said, pleased with her reply. His grin widened.

"Good. Then you'll stay for lunch, I hope?"

"That depends," she said coyly.

Logan waited a few moments, allowing Max time to try and figure out what his army was doing, and noted her eyes were contemplating the location of her knight and pawn. He had no strategy today, and was playing simply for the pleasure of being in her company. The situation was obviously puzzling her, though no other sign of confusion was apparent. He wondered idly if she'd be good at poker. A fantasy image of them suddenly popped into his head.

It was night and they were on the couch, surrounded by candles and stripped down to their underwear. A half-empty bottle of wine was on the coffee table beside them, and he had a Royal Flush in his hand. She stared at him with those huge, brown eyes and sighed when he showed her his cards, smiling like the winner as she calmly reached back to undo the clasp on her bra -

"You still with me?"

Logan started and hoped he wasn't blushing. "Yeah, still here. So, what does it depend on?"

"What?"

Have I missed something? "You, staying for lunch. You said that it depends, and I wondered what would be considered favourable conditions for staying."

Max smiled. Maybe he was blushing after all. "What's on the menu?"

Ahhh… "Homemade potato and leek soup with herbed croutons, bruschetta, and strawberries for dessert." He had planned lunch very carefully, hoping to provide a meal she wouldn't be able to resist. Her eyes had grown wider during his description and she licked her lips.

Logan managed to suppress a chuckle. Yeah, she's staying…

"I think my calendar's free."

"Good, 'cause I couldn't eat it all myself."

She shrugged. "So there're leftovers."

"So I can feed you later."

"That's what leftovers are for - assuming you have any after lunch."

His grin was starting to hurt. Have my facial muscles forgotten how to smile? He relaxed a bit and said, "We should try to wrap this game up soon, then. Are you planning to move at all or are you conceding defeat?"

He didn't understand, at first, the odd look she gave him. He performed a quick sweep of the board and realized she had already taken her turn. "Oh."

"When you left, you left, didn't you?"

"Huh?"

Max sighed. "Just now, when you spaced out on me. I made my move then." She arched one delicate eyebrow. "Where did you go?"

"Nowhere in particular," he responded lightly, and tried to focus on the game.

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11:55 AM

Max sighed and reminded herself that licking the bowl would be considered rude. She grabbed another slice of bruschetta instead, broke off a piece, and used it to soak up the last drops of her soup.

Logan watched with amusement, wondering not for the first time how she'd survived before he started feeding her regularly. Bottomless Manticore stomach…

"I take it that was good, then?" he asked casually. She stuffed the last bit of bruschetta into her mouth and wiped it daintily with a napkin.

"Um-hm," she managed, still chewing. He chuckled and she smiled, lips firmly closed. She didn't want to spray crumbs all over the table, though laughter at her own enthusiasm struggled to get free.

"Must feed the victor," Logan teased, referring to her win at chess that morning. "Have to keep in your good graces or there might be repercussions."

Max swallowed and reached for her glass of water, hoping to wash it down quickly. It was hard to be part of a conversation when your mouth was full. "A good strategy," she finally said.

"Have room for dessert?"

"You betcha." She stood and picked up their plates just as Logan's cell 'phone rang. They glanced at one another, each separately wondering if this would be an Eyes Only interruption to their day together.

Just when everything was going so well, Max thought.

Damn, thought Logan. He wheeled to the recharger and snagged his 'phone on the third ring. "Yeah?"

"Logan? It's Matt." Detective Matt Sung was one of the informants for Logan's alter ego, Eyes Only. He was frequently an invaluable resource in the battle against corruption in Seattle and had recently been a target as a result. They didn't exchange Christmas cards, but Logan knew him well enough to know that something was wrong, just by the three words he'd spoken. Even over the 'phone, the officer's tension and discomfort was apparent.

Logan frowned slightly. "What's up?"

"I know Eyes Only doesn't do meets, but do you think you could come down to the hospital right now?"

"Hospital?" Logan and Max shared another look. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." Max placed their dishes on the counter and came to stand beside Logan as Matt continued more quietly. "I've got someone here who wants to talk to Eyes Only. He's the son of a guy on the force. He's just been through a rough time. I can't discuss it on the 'phone, but he's seen Eyes Only's broadcasts and wants to tell him about something."

Knowing Max could hear the other side of the conversation, Logan raised an eyebrow at her. She shrugged and pointed to him and to herself, then crossed her fingers: we go together, she was saying. Reluctantly, Logan nodded.

"Sure, Matt. Which hospital are you at?"

"Metro Medical. How soon can you get here?"

Logan hesitated then said, "Give me forty-five minutes. Where do we meet?"

"Fourth floor, west wing, ICU."

"Got it."

"Thanks, Logan. I appreciate this."

The dial tone sounded loud in the room. Logan placed his 'phone in his lap and looked around reluctantly for his shoes.

"Guess those strawberries will have to wait," Max said, pulling her sweater over her head, her voice muffled by the cotton.

"Guess so," Logan replied, finding his running shoes and deciding they would do. He grunted as he picked them up and put them in his lap then carefully tugged them onto his feet and did a double tie.

Max kept busy while he went through this process, putting on socks and her black boots, finding her leather jacket and checking the pockets unnecessarily. She was anxious to get this over with so they could return to their nice, quiet day in a nice, warm apartment - but she knew Logan was more impatient than she was, if for no other reason than it took him longer than he'd like to get ready.

And was another one of those daily reminders that a bullet had shattered his life.

He pulled on his down jacket and grabbed his keys, placed his 'phone in one of his coat pockets, and turned to Max.

"Shall we?"

She preceded him and held the door for him to pass through, without appearing that she was holding it any longer than she usually would for herself. She almost pulled it off.

"I got it, Max."

"Sure," she said, sounding distracted and let the door go. It caught the back of his left wheel. She continued to the elevator as if she hadn't noticed and ignored the muttered expletives as he cleared the threshold and locked his apartment.

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