Disclaimer: See Ch 1.

Spoilers: Season 1, Between "Camera" and  "Meow."

A/N:  Whew…made it! Hope you had as much fun reading this as I had writing it. Thanks to all who have reviewed, I really appreciate your feedback.

Let me know what you think. Constructive criticism is always welcome.

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It seemed like the journey to his grandmother's house had taken forever. He would have given into his exhaustion and slept if every rut in the road hadn't awakened the pain the drugs were trying to dull. He would gladly give into his exhaustion now but his anger was wrapping around the pain like a fist, until he was wound so tight he felt he might shatter if Bling faltered and dropped him as he lifted him from the chair to the bed.

He tried to relax, to control his breathing, to make sure he was breathing. "Need help with that?" Bling looked from his face to the clean t-shirt he was mangling unconsciously in his grip.

"No." His tone left no room for argument, not that that would necessarily deter Bling, however, his physical therapist knew when to leave him to own black moods. "I'll go help Max in the kitchen then, or maybe it's the kitchen that needs help by now." He didn't look at all surprised when his grin was not reciprocated.

Logan threw the shirt down on the covers and eased down onto the pillows. He should have turned off the bedside light first, he would welcome the darkness, but now he didn't want to move again. His head was beginning to pound--he needed to relax, to clear his mind. Max--he would think about Max. Think about her looking devastatingly irate as they argued in the car on the journey up from Seattle. Think about her turning and waving to him as she jogged away from the porch, hair tossing in the breeze. Think about her fetching the chair so Bling could deposit his sorry butt in it when they pulled up to the farmhouse in the gathering gloom. Think about her trying not to notice that Bling had to push him up the ramp to the door. At least she hadn't had to witness Bling helping him in the bathroom or lifting him, like an invalid, into bed.

He wished now he had accepted the doctor's offer of sleeping pills. The painkillers had reduced the aches in his body to a dull, constant thud—keeping the welcome oblivion of sleep just out of reach. This wasn't like the agony he experienced after the shooting or when his body started rejecting his only hope of becoming whole again. That pain seared through him until he couldn't feel anything else, until it consumed him body, mind, and soul. This pain was closer to the surface, reminding him of his every failure: his father's disapproval, Jonas's barely disguised contempt, his mother's loneliness, his futile efforts to save his grandmother.

Even his work was no refuge now, just an inventory stabbing through his mind of people whose lives he had managed to ruin along with his own. People who trusted him and who ended up on the run, living in fear of discovery, or as a body dumped in alley or even on their own mother's doorstep. He was such an idiot to think he could make a difference; all he had managed to make was a tangled, bloody mess. He wanted to tell them all he was sorry, but sorry didn't cut it anymore.

He brought his hands up to his pounding temples, almost welcoming the searing spasm in his back that accompanied the arm movement. Sorry—the word throbbed in his brain but it was Valerie's voice he heard. "Logan, I'm so sorry" she had said, as she took his money and left. Why should she be sorry? That was all he had to offer her. At least Daphne had never apologized. She had just disappeared from his life when she had outgrown her need for him. How long, he wondered, before Max disappeared. She'd stay as long as she needed a meal ticket and a source of information. In the meantime, he could be a friend to while away a lonely evening with—he had been a fool to think he could be anything more.

"You OK?" Max. Her timing was always lousy.

"I'm fine." He was grateful his hands shielded his face from her. He made no attempt to move them, wishing again he had turned off the light.

"You don't sound so good." He could feel her approaching.

"I said I'm fine." The footsteps halted at the foot of the bed. "Got a headache. Listen, I'm going to try to get some sleep." He turned, reaching out blindly for the light switch. Bad move—pain spasmed down his back, flattening him back down against the pillows with a gasp.

"Logan." She was at his side in an instant. He closed his eyes, not wanting to look in hers. It took her several heartbeats to reach out and touch the moist trail down his face. Her touch was so light—he thought it would take more to make him break.

"Don't." The voice he heard was cold and hard. She recoiled as sharply as if he had slapped her face.

"Logan, let me…."

He was glad she stayed back, away from him. "I don't need your pity."

"No, you've got plenty for both of us." Anger cut through her words. That was almost a relief, her anger he could handle. "It is easier for you if you're in the chair?" The cutting retort that had been forming on his lips was lost in his shock at her coolly delivered comment. Her eyes locked on his. "Is it Logan? Nothing like adding a little steel fortification to the barricades, is there?" Neither of them moved. "It's good strategy, but I can't think why you want me around. Maybe you want to study my bio-engineered, military issued, armor plating. Maybe you admire it. Lucky Max she came with her defense system already installed—you've had to put so much time and effort into yours. Maybe you're jealous of it.  Oh wait, forgot you claimed to have found a beating heart under it. Must be defective huh?" She didn't bother wiping away the tears running down her face.

"Max." He raised up on one elbow angling toward her.

"Don't." She drew further back. "You can't have it both ways. You want to sit around in your throne granting me an audience to the inner sanctum now and then, fine. I'm tired of you dismissing me like I was one of your subjects whenever I get too close." She turned and headed for the door, footsteps slamming against the wooden floor.

"Max." He didn't know what to say to keep her. His voice sounded as broken as he felt. "Stay with me …please?" She stopped in the doorway, her back toward him. He counted the heartbeats again until she turned and retraced her steps. Switching off the light she slid into bed next to him. "You won't leave?"

"I'm not going anywhere." He counted their heartbeats, amplified through the old mattress, until he fell asleep.

***

"You'd better get a move on or the rolls will be cold by the time we get there." Max was out in force this morning, organizing their departure, supervising breakfast, and trying to get a recalcitrant Logan out the door. "Here." She thrust the plate of breakfast food they had prepared for Anna onto Logan's lap and grabbed a couple of bags to load into the Aztec.

Rudely awakened from his reverie, he watched her march down the hallway and smiled. He had had time to think this morning as he lay in bed savoring the warmth emanating from the spot beside him she had occupied all night. Waiting until the door swung behind her, he deposited the plate on the telephone stand and starting to rifle, rather stiffly, through the drawers of the small table. His triumphant yell brought Bling running from the kitchen. "Quick," he threw a small leather bound address book at Bling. "I don't have my glasses. Look up a phone number … Walters, Jake."

An hour and a half later, having said their goodbyes to Anna, they were on their way home. "It's going to be boring being laid up for a couple of weeks." Logan broke the companionable silence. "Like to come over and help me go through my movie collection?" 

"Sure. As long as you don't try making me watch them in alphabetical order again."

"No. Thought it might be better to go for a chronological approach." Max rolled her eyes. "Let's see, we've seen all the Jaws movies—they're late 70's. There were some good movies in the early 80s." Max sighed. "There's one you'll love: Kathleen Turner, William Hurt … romance … intrigue…."

"What's it called?"

"Body Heat." The long silence that followed was less than companionable.

"So your little toe isn't injured?" Logan decided the question was rhetorical.

"Smile and it will be."

It was going to be a long journey and he was going to treasure every minute, every second.

The End