Disclaimer: I don't own Dark Angel...if I did, I wouldn't be sitting here writing fan fiction in my spare time.
A/N: This ones a little longer than the past three...hope you like it. Oh! And, I couldn't remember when I wrote it, but the little quote thingy Logan thinks of comes from Dragon Heart. And, my description of Gillette, just so you know, is right. Fox got it wrong...you wouldn't find ponds or trees anywhere near it. I've been there, middle of nowhere, reminds me of home :)
*I hope this comes out formatted okay, I'm using a diff. editor than I normally do!*
Wild is the Wind
Part 4
Max was laying on a ratty, old bed thinking about her last moments in Logan's penthouse. She'd bid him goodbye in the most impersonal fashion she could bare. She'd told him she'd be in touch, and wasn't planning on staying gone. He'd taken it well, much too well for her liking. She'd imagined tears and professions of love. Of course, they hadn't come. Logan had wished her luck in finding her other siblings and given her a tight hug.
She'd been unwilling to break that hug, and in the dark, she imagined herself once again in his embrace. She could almost smell him, could almost feel the warmth of his body touching hers. Zack was nearby, and she tried to hold back the small groan that rose up in her throat. She missed him terribly, and she'd hadn't even been away for two full days.
She scooted closer to the wall, wanting to hide herself and her thoughts. She shook lightly with one of her now nightly seizures. She pinched her eyes closed, fear rising it's ugly head within her.
She dealt with it the way she usually did and brought forth a comforting image in her head. The one she came up with surprised her, but was highly effective. It was Logan, stretched out on top of her, his weight holding her down, suppressing her shaking. He was whispering about how he had missed her in her ear.
Max clung to the image, languishing in it. Zack and the beaten hotel room they were staying in bled away into the night until it was only her and Logan. She felt the tears coming down her cheeks, and her imaginary Logan wiped them away with his thumbs.
"Don't cry," he murmured to her.
Oh, God, I miss him.
Rolling over on the bed, she sought out the clock on the VCR with her eyes. It was past midnight, she wondered distantly if he would be awake, or if he would get up to answer the phone if he was asleep.
She reached for her
jacket, her hand still shaking. Across the room, she heard Zack sigh and
roll over, his heavy body making the springs of his bed creak. They hadn't
stopped to rest since leaving Seattle. Max herself was exhausted, but sleep
was second on her list of things to do. She and Logan had been a team for
a long time, maintaining contact with him was something she'd become accustomed
to doing.
The hazy image of Logan
still floating through her head, she walked silently through the darkness
to the door. With her sensitive ears she could hear Zack breathing and
the slight rattle in his chest when he exhaled. His lungs pumped the air
in, out, and in again in a steady rhythm. She focused on the sound as she
silently turned the doorknob and escaped out into the night.
The crisp, damp spring night was
in stark contrast to the hot, muggy hotel room. The foggy impression of
Logan which seemed to be following her crystallized when she closed her
eyes. A shiver ran up the length of her spine, although she wasn't sure
if it was a reaction to the chill in the air or the painfully clear image
of Logan that seemed to be wrapped around her.
Better off not knowing.
Pushing her hands into her pockets, she started down the sidewalk toward a payphone which she had noticed on her way to the room. The gentle breeze lifted her hair away from the back of her neck, which was sticky with sweat. Self-consciously, she reached back to settle her hair under the collar of her jacket.
As she neared the payphone, she searched through her pants pocket for change. She didn't think Logan would mind her calling collect, it wasn't like he didn't have the money, but she still preferred paying for the call herself. Her fingers connected with a quarter and she pulled it out triumphantly.
Smiling to herself, she picked up the receiver and dropped the coin into the slot. The light clicking that followed reverberated through the phone and she hastily dialed Logan's number. There was a short pause, followed by two low rings. On the third, he answered, his voice sounding groggy.
"Hello?" he asked, followed by a yawn.
"Hey there, did I wake you?" Max asked.
"Max! No, not at all...how are you?" he sounded eager to talk to her. His voice easily conveyed his emotions, but she was having trouble translating them over the poor quality phone.
Maybe he does miss me...or maybe this shitty receiver's playing with my head.
"I'm okay," she replied. "We've been traveling pretty hard these last two days, finally stopped off for a break. How's everyone?"
"Kendra's understandably upset," Logan answered, the damn phone making his voice sound as if he was frowning. "I've managed to convince Normal not to fire you, although Cindy and Sketchy had already been covering for you. Some of the things they came up with were..."
"Out there?" Max supplied.
"Yeah," Logan laughed. "If you'd like, I could pass on a message to them from you."
"No, that's okay," Max sighed. She didn't have anything to say to them, how could she explain that she had run off with a man who none of them even knew because another man was trying to kill her. Or, even less likely for her to try and explain, that she had to leave or become so entangled with Logan that she'd never be able to walk away from him. Something they'd both eventually see as a mistake.
"Zack was right, Lydecker's been on the prowl here," Logan announced. "I don't know what he's up to yet, but I'm working on it."
"What's he been doing?" Max asked, curious.
"Nothing too direct yet," Logan replied. "But he's definitely narrowing in his search. If he gets too close to your apartment I'm going to pull Kendra out."
"What a mess," Max groaned. She felt responsible and didn't want any of her friends to get hurt because of her. She also felt guilty for running, she'd only run from one thing in entire life: Manticore. He record, however, was broken. She was running from everything, from the way she felt and the things she didn't want to face. The guilt of that realization hit her with unimaginable power.
"Don't worry about it, I'll take care of it," Logan insisted, his voice calming. "Eyes Only, right? It's my job."
"Thanks, Logan," she clutched the phone tightly with her hand, making her knuckles turn white. "How are you doing? Inviting Bling over for dinner every night so you have someone to brag to yet about your special little skill?"
"Nah, I only invite him over every other night," Logan chuckled. "He claims that he has 'other obligations.'"
"Imagine that," Max shook her head and leaned against the wall, "something else takes precedence above Logan...wonder what it could be."
"Yeah, that's what I've been wondering," Logan replied, his voice animated. He laughed then, the sound much too appealing.
"Maybe Bling's got himself a lady friend," Max suggested.
"Maybe," Logan agreed, then paused. "Where's Zack?"
"Sleeping back in the hotel room," Max answered, the sound of his breathing coming back to her. Oddly, the steady in and out wasn't what came to her. Instead, the gentle rattle when he exhaled reverberated in her head.
Strange...Zack couldn't possibly be sick. Maybe he snores.
"You're not tired?" Logan asked. "Are you okay? No seizures or anything keeping you from sleeping?"
"I'm fine," Max lied. "Just not tired." Seizures weren't the only thing keeping her up. She couldn't even hope to sleep when every time she rolled over she imagined he would be there waiting to hold her. Her unruly imagination was beginning to get on her nerves.
"I'm glad." His reply sounded genuine, but with the shitty phone she was talking on, she couldn't possibly be an accurate judge of how he sounded. Not that she hadn't spent enough time studying his voice. When he spoke, no matter what he said, it seemed genuine. She could sit and listen to him talk all night, soothed by the magical sound he was so easily able to create and manipulate.
"I'd better split," Max announced. "I'll talk to you later."
"Alright, it was good to hear from you," Logan replied. "Take care, Max."
"I'll be fine, later." She hung up the phone, resisting the urge to wait and listen to see if he would hang up first. She was close enough to desperation and didn't want to come any closer to the line.
"Who were you talking to?" Zack asked out of the shadows. His long, muscular body leaned lazily against the side of the building, his expression unreadable. Max wasn't overly surprised that he had been listening. The only emotion that his invasion of her privacy evoked was anger.
"Actually, I thought I'd just call Lydecker and gossip for a while," she replied, crossing her arms. "None of your business."
"No need to get snippy, Max," Zack smiled, a thready muscle in his jaw tightening. Even through the smile, Max could tell that he was upset.
"Do you and Logan have some kind of testosterone thing going, or what?" she demanded.
"Not considering only one of us has any," Zack retorted, rolling his eyes. "I don't know why you hung around that guy. He's the biggest sissy bastard I've ever met."
"He's not the one running from his problems," Max pointed out, knowing the comment applied to herself as well.
"That's another thing that bothers me," Zack breathed out heavily. "You always stand up for him...which was important I guess back when he couldn't stand. Do me a favor and lay off now that he can."
"Why do you hate him so much?" Max asked, genuinely interested in the answer.
"Because he keeps taking you away from me," Zack answered feverishly, his skin turning a ruddy color as his blood rushed to the surface in a hot blush. Max had never seen Zack blush, indeed had never even dreamed that he possessed the emotional sense of mind to mutter the things he was saying.
He reached for her then, his skin hot. She tensed when he touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers. His eyes peered at her with unhidden lust. The magnitude of his feelings for her surprised Max. She hadn't anticipated that he felt as strongly for her as she did for....Logan.
Feeling a little sick, and even more confused, she stepped away from him.
"Please...don't," she begged. Zack's hand dropped to his side lifelessly. The fire in his eyes died and rekindled in another form. This time it wasn't lust, it was anger, the tightly leashed demon which Zack hid so carefully inside of him.
"Get some sleep, Max," he bit out, his patience obviously wearing thin. "I'm going to get some towels so I can shower."
She noticed as he walked away, a pile of raw nerve and muscle, that he hadn't offered to get her towels. Logan would have offered, he would have sewn her a towel from the clothes off his back if she asked him to.
Damn it, why does everything come back to him with me? I don't need any towels anyway, if Zack wants me to smell like a rank old dog I might as well give him what he wants.
Disturbed by her thoughts, but thinking that smelling bad wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing if it kept him far enough away from her that she didn't feel the need to fend him off, she walked back to their room.
***
Logan sat listening to the dead phone. The sound reverberated through his ears for long moments before he hesitantly hung it up. She'd been gone two days, two of the longest, most hellish days of his life. His normally genial mood had been offset by her departure. He'd taken on the same basic attitude toward life that he suspected a highly pissed off wolverine might have.
Knowing he wouldn't fall asleep again, he levered himself out of bed. He flinched when he feet connected with the cold hard wood floor that ran through his home. Walking to his kitchen, he sought out the refrigerator. Inside was something he'd been saving for a special occasion, one which was destined never to come.
He lowered himself down into a chair, the bottle of highly expensive, highly rare wine in his hand. Sadly, he looked at it, seeing the distorted image of himself reflected off its curved glass. He didn't have his glasses on, and the image was blurry, but he could still see the pain in his expression.
He wanted to hate Zack for taking her away, but he couldn't hate the man for being in love with her and having enough guts to say so. Logan himself had never said the words. He liked to think that he showed her how he cared by always being there, ready to come at her beckoning. For the first time, he wondered if he'd just been rationalizing his own cowardess.
He reached to rip the mesh from the top of the bottle, but found he couldn't perform the task.
Dreams die hard, and you hold them in your hand long after they turn to dust.
Where had he heard that before? He couldn't remember. He'd been exposed to too many books, films, and songs to remember where the few lines he remembered from them came from.
He held his dreams until they rolled over and died. He had a problem with getting too involved, throwing himself into something and then not being able to pull himself out. Eyes Only, Max...just a few examples of his biggest character flaw. He couldn't let go, couldn't walk away.
Allowing his fingers to release the bottle, he allowed the dull clank of the glass on the table to echo in his empty home. Amazingly, it didn't break, but landed upright with only a thud, no satisfying shattering. He promised himself he'd break it before the week was through, knowing all the while it would probably only result in his getting hit by flying glass. Logan's luck appeared to be worn thin.
"Maybe I should consider getting a cat," he murmered to himself as he leaned back in his chair, stretching his various appendages. His arms slung over the back of the chair, he looked down at his feet and wiggled his toes.
And I'll name it Angel...or maybe Max.
The cat would probably end up being just like her: beautiful, sleek, and wild. It would drop by from time to time to have a snack and go about its cat business. He laughed lightly to himself, thinking he'd probably love it too.
***
Lydecker sat in a plush chair, picking dirt out from under his fingernails with a pocket knife. His mind wasn't in the task, it was back at Manticore, sipping coffee and waiting the young trainee children. They'd had so much potential, but they'd blown it. He hadn't seen the breakout coming. They'd just been kids, who'd known they were capable of escaping from a top secret military compound.
His clenched his hand into a tight fist and stared down at it. A few white colored scars ran across his fingers from past altercations. Lydecker didn't consider himself an overly violent man, but he did derive a certain joy out of the pain of others. His own pain he wasn't quite so fond of. The scar was old, much older than Manticore, and he'd been very young.
His father had been a large man, over six feet and far above two hundred pounds. He didn't openly beat his son, but Lydecker's childhood had been less than ideal. He had similar scars on his upper arms and across his back. He'd never participated in the same father-son activities that all the other boys he knew did. They went fishing, hunting, and hiking through the Wyoming stretch of the Rocky Mountains. He'd never been fond of the mountains, which was why he'd chose Gillette, Wyoming for the location of Manticore. Located in the the middle of nowhere and a right from hell, the place was surrounded for miles on all sides by nothing but grass.
It had been a place that reminded him of his father, of the things that had happened to him, and it strengthened his resolve.
He'd been just a boy, only six years old. Even then, he hadn't been innocent. He liked to see fear in the eyes of another creature, to know that he was in control. On the open range Wyoming ranch his father owned, he'd had plenty of time to find small animals to entertain himself. However, when he moved up and bothered his father's cattle, it had been the last straw.
His father had stepped out of their rickety ranch house and saw him in the pen with the cows, who were letting out wailing bellows. Range firing through his father's cold blue eyes, Lydecker cowered into a corner, his hands covering his head.
He'd been bound in barbed wire and left in the pen with the cows until he worked his own way free. He'd never let his father, or anyone else control him again. He wasn't a docile man, he dominated and destroyed. The scars where the wire had bit into his fingers as he worked his way free from his father's searing trap were a constant reminder of the inherent danger in being anything but the alpha-male.
He traced the scar with his dull pocket knife, his mind occupied.
"Sir." A man's head peeked into the room. He was young, still in his twenties. His raven black hair was tamed with gel and a slick comb job. Behind his wire rimmed glasses, his whisky colored eyes showed that he not only respected his boss, but feared him.
"What is it?" Lydecker asked.
"We've had contact, Sir," the young man replied.
"Did you get confirmation on the voice?" Lydecker inquired, tossing the horribly dull knife into a garbage can a few feet away.
"We did, Sir," he nodded.
"Well then," Lydecker pulled his tired body up out of the comfortable chair. "Let's go pay our new friend a visit."