Chapter 9: Waking Up is Hard to Do
Logan had never been particularly good at waking up. He tended towards groggy in the mornings, unable to orient himself for those first few moments after consciousness first pulled him from the murky depths. More often than not, his dreams were too realistic, leaving him confused, and, more often than he would readily admit, heartbroken. He dreamed of Max quite a bit; he dreamed of her in his arms almost every night. It was something Logan had long ago given up all hope of ever experiencing, and yet something he ached for every night and every morning of his life.
Naturally, it wasn't waking up in a strange bed that confused him when first his bleary, tired eyes opened to the sunshine that was filtering into the spotless white bedroom. What startled him was the pair of dark brown eyes looking into his own, and the pair of smooth, bare legs entwined with his beneath the sheets. A shudder ran through him as memories of the night before slowly began to filter back into consciousness, followed by a unique tingle of joy. He brought his hand up to cup her face, and she smiled softly.
"Morning," she whispered, biting her lip almost imperceptibly.
Somehow he managed to find his voice, "Good morning, Max."
"You want some coffee? I made some a little while ago." She seemed nervous, but all he could think about the fact that she was in his arms.
He smiled, "Would that entail you leaving the bed?" Her smile grew, and she nodded flirtatiously (if it is, in fact, possible for a nod to be flirtatious). Of course it would, unless she had a servant stowed away somewhere that he'd failed to notice before. "Then, thank you, but, no," he replied, pulling her closer. Her head found the space between his head and his shoulder, and she splayed her hand over his chest, drawing little nonsense patterns there with the tips of her fingers.
How long they stayed like that, Logan couldn't have said. He found himself oddly hypnotized by the openness of Max's expression, and by the rhythm of her fingers tapping, as they were, so very near to his heart. He wasn't sure if time slowed down or sped up, but it seemed distorted somehow, as if they could control it. So mesmerized was he that, when the familiar, shrill ringing began, he barely blinked. Max, however, pulled away, albeit slowly, and, frowning, climbed out of bed to search through her clothes. It was then that Logan recognized the sound as Max's cell phone, which was somewhere among the piles of sartorial debris.
"Yeah?" she greeted when she flipped open the phone, and it was hardly the sweet, perky tone she'd answered with the evening before. Realizing the magical moment was over, Logan began fumbling around, searching for his glasses. He found them on the floor next to the nightstand – at least he'd tried to put them somewhere he would find them – and quickly donning them, he clearly saw Max's horrified expression as she stood at the other end of the room. Her shoulders slumped, and she held her free arm across her stomach as the voice coming through became so loud that Logan could almost hear what he was saying, and Max had to pull the phone away from her ear.
When the voice finally stopped, Max took a deep breath, and began giving instructions like she always did – like a woman accustomed to being obeyed. From just the look on her face, Logan knew that, whatever it was, the news was not good. He sat up and watched her carefully. When she flipped the phone shut with barely a "bye," and turned to look at him, he knew she needed his help.
"What's up?" he asked, all thoughts of a lazy afternoon in bed vanished.
"That was Will. He thinks his father just killed someone."
A/N: I know I said that there would be answers in this chapter, but I needed a segue, so instead I give you fluff. Answers next, though, I promise. TBC...