Author's Notes: My playlist apparently had a GIANT happy spot for the Strokes when I wrote this chapter, so naturally I chose to include it. A bit more character development for Adrian and Logan ahead, a little more depth in their relationship; awkward situations abound! I'd appreciate any feedback, so thanks to those of you who review. I hope you enjoy this next installment, thanks for reading!

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Marvel/FOX save Adrian. I'm not making anything off of this, please don't sue me, etc., etc.

"Out on the tar plains, the glides are moving
All looking for a new place to drive.
You sit beside me so newly charming
Sweating dewdrops glisten, freshen your side."
-Duran Duran, 'The Chauffeur'

Chapter 3- 'The Chauffeur.'

There's a flash of light and I open my eyes, bleary and incoherent. The clock on the nightstand claims its half past eight, but that means fuck all to me and I bury my head beneath the pillows. This is my chosen form of peaceful protest.

"Get up kid, we've got a long drive ahead of us and I'd like to eat while it's still morning," I hear a gruff voice tell me from the foot of my bed.

Pulling my head out of the pillows like some human ostrich I scowl tiredly. "Fine, fine. I'm up, my eyes are open." I flop back down and promptly begin to doze again.

"Mills, get up and get a shower." Somewhere I register that I'm being addressed directly, and that there's a possibility of exasperation in the tone, but I'm too tired to be bothered. All those days without a bed and some level of security have taken their toll; this guy is a chump if he thinks I'm moving that easily.

"Fine, have it your way." The world tumbles out from under me and I land on my shoes, sputtering.

"Wha- what the fuck was that for!" I sputter indignantly, pulling myself up straight to stand on my feet, albeit somewhat painfully. The mattress is disheveled and my blankets are all over the floor as I scowl darkly at him.

"You're wasting time, get in the shower." I don't even have to look him over to note that he's probably been ready to go for well over a half an hour. It's the ordering tone, though, that really irks me, and without another word I've hauled my backpack up and stalked into the bathroom, shutting the door loudly.

I've never been a morning person, something that most folk worldwide can agree with when they're in my age-range, so it's pretty simple to imagine my genuine disdain for consciousness caused by a pair of tight jeans and a leather jacket. Grumbling, I stripped myself of my clothing and turned on the water, listening to the noise of the spray as I waited for it to heat up.

"Eight thirty in the goddamn morning, seriously, what on earth is wrong with him? This is fucking ridiculous." I stepped into the water and shivered at the cold, yelping. It warmed to a reasonable temperature a few moments later and I set about washing myself, singing quietly in the tiled cubicle.

"Well I don't feel better when I'm fucking around,
And I don't write better when I'm stuck in the ground."

I squirted a bit of shampoo in my hair from the small, complimentary bottle I found on the tub and began to kneed the stuff into my scalp, rinsing away all the dirt and tension that had gathered over the last few days and swelling with the song.

"So don't teach me a lesson 'cause I've already learned,
Yeah the sun will be shining and my children will burn.
Oh the heart beats in its cage."

Looking down on my body I winced at the myriad of purple and black I saw decorating my torso. I looked like a botched Pollock piece, bruises evident against pale flesh. Carefully I washed the rest of my body, ginger motions amplified now that I was fully aware to what extent I'd taken my beating.

A few minutes later I stepped out of the shower, turning the water off with a flick of my wrist and toweled myself dry in the humid air. Searching my backpack I found my last pair of clean clothes, a worn blue tee shirt and a pair of jeans, assorted undergarments included. Putting them on and brushing my hair out, I felt refreshed. The mirror had fogged past the point of repair and I was grateful for it, not wanting to glimpse the handprints branded round my neck just yet. It was too early in the day for that sort of thing. I opened the door and stepped out into the room.

"It's about time kid," I hear the now familiar gruff tone from across the room. "There's bandages and Tylenol on the bed."

Blinking, I glance over at my rumpled bedspread and, sure enough, there sits a plastic bag, its contents awaiting me. Knowing better than to take the pills on an empty stomach, I pick up the box of bandages, a realization punching me straight in the face. "Er… Logan? How would one go about putting these on?"

He cocks a brow, possibly wondering just how useless I really am. "It's easy, Mills, you just wrap it around yourself and- oh."

It seems as though we've both reached the same awkward conclusion.

"Go team," I mutter, slouching awkwardly on my own bed, tossing him the box.

He sighs, visibly uncomfortable. "Well, come on kid, we ain't got all day. Let's get this over with."

"You're not the one who has to take their top off, jackass," I mutter, standing again with a wince. He lets the comment go and comes to stand before me. Letting the wet locks of hair fall in my face, a sad way to try to cover the burning in my cheeks, I heed reason and pull off the blue tee shirt, dropping it onto the bed.

He frowns, observing the damage. "Jesus kid, he really did a number on you."

Irritation and discomfort overriding niceties I snap at him. "Dually noted, Chops. Can we get this over with?"

There's a snort of something like laughter as he opens the box, taking out the roll of cloth. "Sure thing kid, you're welcome. Lift your arms up."

I know I'm being ungrateful, but my general embarrassment is superseding most of my rational thought and I find myself fighting the urge to kick him in the shin as he begins to wrap the bandage around my body. I suck in a hiss of air when he gets to a particularly tender area but manage to keep myself quiet otherwise, focusing on the red glow of the alarm clock. It's a little before ten in the morning and I'm standing half naked in a cheap motel with a man I've barely known for a day. Oh, if Maggie could see me now. The bindings are tight, but he's gentle in his ministrations and I mumble a barely audible "thank you" when he ties it off.

We're both silent as I pull my tee shirt back on and he moves off, now standing an acceptable distance from me as I do a quick scan to be sure I haven't left anything. Somewhere, glittering on the floor lies the remains of my shattered dignity, but I manage to reason with myself that it could have been worse. Stuffing the Tylenol into my backpack and grabbing my jacket, I nod to him and we exit the room, walking quickly out to the truck in the warming air.

When he unlocks the doors I step up and inside, recalling my actions yesterday and arranging myself comfortably. I know there's space behind my seat where I might be able to stow my things, but I feel more at ease having them close at hand incase I need some sort of distraction. "Breakfast?" I ask as we pull out and he nods, grunting. After five minutes we pull off the road at a diner near the end of town and climb out, heading inside. Forty minutes later and we're off once again, speeding down the highway and into the sun.

The first few hours trickle by slowly, silence weighing heavily in the hot desert air as we drive, the windows down in feeble attempts to give us some ventilation. Cursing the pair of dead AA's in my CD player silently, though no less vehemently, I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. "Hey, Logan?"

My unexpected call to his attention seems to have almost startled him. Our collective mood really hasn't wavered from its previously awkward, irritated plateau, so I suppose that even he's a little taken aback by this new inquiry. "Yeah?"

I fidget with the sleeves of my jacket, which lies balled in my lap commanding my attention as nothing else does when you've been driving through the worlds' largest litter box since the Sahara for over three hours. "Yesterday night you mentioned that Xavier guy sent you to find me in LA, yet I ran into you earlier on, before you realized I was a mutant. You didn't do anything." Unconsciously my hand clutches at the jacket, white-knuckled. I don't have to look over at him again to know that he's displeased.

"It's complicated, kid."

I raise an eyebrow at him, involuntarily mimicking that familiar facial stance. "So complicated I almost ended up with my face on a milk carton?" He gives me a warning glare, something that, I might add, is rather disconcerting to be at the receiving end of, but I can't stop myself. The heat and the pain of my body's present state has inflamed my aggravation past the point of any intelligent means, so I continue my inquisition. "Don't you have heightened senses? Why didn't you know it was me? He might not have caught me then, he wouldn't have-" I stop myself just as I hear a low growl.

"Look kid, your scent, there was something wrong with it," he's almost biting the words out and instantly I know I've said too much too callously. This man, in the short time I've known him, has done nothing more than care for me and all I've done to repay him is play out the part of some obnoxious little snot. "Rainwater," he finishes. "All I smelled was rainwater. I didn't realize it was you until it was too late."

My own mutation kicked me in the ass. Fan-fucking-tastic. Guilt rests cold and uncomfortable in my belly as I glance over at him again. There's another brief silence, punctuated by a soft. "I'm sorry, that was unfair."

There's still anger there, you'd be foolish not to sense it, but there's also this muted weariness that sort of emulates from him at the moment. It's so scarce you'd miss it if you blinked, but the very notion of its presence frightens me. "You have every right to be pissed for what he did to you, I can't say I wouldn't be feeling the same if I were in your shoes."

"But you're the one who saved me from him." I pause, feeling disgusted with myself. "I'm sorry, I guess I'm still sort of overwhelmed by all of this. I'm pretty fucked up from the last couple of days and this heat isn't making it any better. I didn't mean to be disrespectful."

I must look like a naughty puppy that had been whacked on its cute, fuzzy head with a rolled-up newspaper, because when I see him dart his eyes towards me again, his gaze softens and he sighs. "Don't worry about it kid. We'll be to New York in three or four more days and then you can readjust yourself."

A snort of something like laughter deflates out of me. "This car seat makes me want to readjust myself. Do you mind if we pull over at the next gas station? My ass is about to detach from my body and fling itself out the window; there's a spring that's got it in for me."

He gives me a look for my comment and nods. "Sure. We should hit one in about a half an hour."

I suppress the urge to groan and maintain the thin veneer of maturity for the time being. The truth is that I'm so fucking sick of sitting inside this truck I want to scream. It's only been a few hours and already I'm losing my mind, and Logan's utter lack of conversation isn't making this any more bearable. I find myself wishing I'd never mentioned my broken ribs, if only for the hope that the awkward mess that was this morning might have never happened. What's done is done, though, and I'm in far less physical anguish right now, so it's a fairly fleeting thought. I'll just keep quite while my mind does mental cartwheels of boredom.

It seems that even Logan has grown weary of the silence, though, and his hand goes to the radio, bringing it crackling to life as the static flows through its proverbial veins. His fingers, long and dexterous, turn the tuning knob in the hopes of finding something, anything to listen to. Country ballads, adult contemporary and talk radio all speed by until he twists the knob backward, listening intently.

"…anti-mutant sentiments are on the rise in schools after a student lost control yesterday evening and accidentally electrocuted his coach during a rainy practice session yesterday in Chico, California. Following the water works of a Los Angeles county school student only a week previously, some parents are having their children pulled from schools as a safety measure. Julie Doherty from Simi Valley states-"

Logan switches the radio off decisively but my mood has just been set from annoyed to irritated bordering on surly. I pull another cigarette out of my pack and light it, blowing out the smoke angrily. "Sweet suffering fuck, that's the biggest pile of shit I've ever heard. If the whole goddamn world wasn't on our asses about everything, if people actually gave a fuck enough to educate themselves and help us out, none of this would be happening. We're kids, for god's sake, we're their fucking sons and daughters! And now they're throwing us to the wolves and it's just so-"

I inhale again, long and deep, trying to steady myself and subdue my rage at the situation. I look out the window, closing my eyes. Bad things happen when I'm angry, when I lose control, and while I know we're barreling down a stretch of highway through the desert, I'm not about to risk it, not again. I was able to gain a hold on it when J.D. Psycho-Rapist attacked me in the alleyway, and again in that passage the other evening, but trust is something I find myself lacking in these days, especially concerning myself.

"You all right, kid?" Logan snaps me out of my red introspection and I nod, flicking ash out the window.

I feel like a bit of a jackass now for my previous outburst. "I'll be fine. Sorry about that, I just- well, you know how it feels." A lame finish, but he seems to understand and we drive onward in silence, finally reaching the rest stop after another twenty minutes.

I step down and out of the cab tentatively, wincing at the pins and needles in my legs. Stretching, I twist my neck to the side, hearing a satisfying crack and straightening. Logan and I make our way into the run-down gas station, he makes a b-line for the pay counter, intent on getting gas and I look for batteries, finding a four-pack of AA's to my relief. I'll be damned if I'm stuck in there without anything to do for another two or three days at the mercy of his tactless radio tuning. I pass by the meager liquor section and glance longingly at a bottle of cheap whiskey, eager for anything to dull the paranoid rush I've had creeping up my spine, take a little of the edge off of me. Looking out the long window at the wall of the station, I see Logan standing near the pump, waiting for the gas to finish and I head over to the cashier, an older gentleman in an attendant's uniform.

"A pack of Camel's as well, please?" I ask, taking out my wallet from the back pocket of my jeans and waiting for him to total it. He sets the pack down and I pay him with a polite, though quiet, "Thank you, sir."

"Have a good afternoon, ma'am," and I'm out the door, walking over to Logan, who is now waiting inside the truck, cigar stub in his mouth unlit. Opening the door, I step inside and buckle myself in, putting my purchases in my backpack. Every time I climb in here, there's always this almost damning note of finality to it, a reminder that there's no looking back, no turning around from hereon in. As he drives off my thoughts drift to my life before my Knight in Denim Armor came to rescue me, before I fucked up and blew it all. The childhood, my innocence stolen in a haze of red and water before I even knew what was happening.

Part of me wonders how they are, my classmates, the people I hurt, however unwittingly, and what would have happened had I stayed behind and faced the consequences, had I not been a coward. But it really isn't about cowardice anymore, and I know it. This, the two of us speeding on down the open highway, is about survival. Mine, obviously, as my ill-tempered companion looks fit to survive a blizzard on Everest if he set himself to it. Then again, he does have that lovely healing factor, a truly useful mutation. I chew my lip, wondering how on earth having the ability to haphazardly use my own mutation would by useful outside of a water theme park. My entire future, everything I ever thought I might be has been swept away and replaced with this daunting uncertainty, and while it's better than it was roaming the streets of Los Angeles, I'm still unnerved. Unthinkingly I begin to hum to myself, a quiet sound barely audible over the sound of the wind coming in through the open windows.

Despite having bought the batteries, I spend the next four hours singing softly into the air currents until we pull off at some random saloon for dinner, the sun sinking in the back of the review mirror a pretty mottle of rosy perfection. The parking lot is full to bursting, which bodes well for the food inside and we pull into a space, garnering a honk and a slew of curses from a man in a Ford pick-up. He speeds off, looking for another space. Logan appears satisfied and I chuckle softly as we go inside.

The place reeks of alcohol, smoke and cooked meat, all wafting into my nose and making my stomach grumble loudly, not that it could be heard above the din at the bar we head towards. I glance about, observing the place. It's small, poorly-lit and smoky, the few tables that there are all occupied by hard looking men and even a few women, though they're few and far between. I don't even need to see the bad perms to realize that I'm an anomaly here, the stares I'm getting are enough to tell me that much. Sitting up at the bar, we pour over a menu almost purely saturated in grease stains for a moment before the bartender gets to us. Somewhere I can hear Patsy Cline floating about the rafters as Logan orders his usual, blood-dripping steak and a beer.

"I'll have the same, though I'd rather it were actually cooked. And a-"

"Water," Logan finishes. The bartender goes off for a moment back to the kitchen and I glare to the man sitting at my left.

"I wasn't going to order an entire bottle of Scotch," I mutter. "Besides, I can pay for it."

He shakes his head slightly, lighting a cigar and pulling over an ashtray. "That's not the problem, kid. You're not even legal and I doubt your folks would appreciate you guzzling booze."

"Christ, are you a human D.A.R.E. program too? I had to learn it somewhere," I say darkly, pulling out my half-finished pack of cigarettes and lighting one. I don't really feel like arguing though, as I'm not wont to appear ungrateful, so I decide again for conversation. "Have you been here before?"

He grunts. "Once. Its good food with the occasional bar brawl."

"Charming," I take a pull off my cigarette as the bartender sets our drinks before us and goes over to some men wearing Stetsons. Leaning my cigarette against the ashtray, I excuse myself to use the restroom, locating the "Rstom" sign in neon and heading into the ladies' portion.

I'm unsurprised to note that it's positively filthy and, wrinkling my nose, I set about my business, trying my hardest not to touch anything. Leaving a stall, I turn the faucet on with my foot, doing my best to touch as little as possible while I let the water flow over my hands. I'm completely nonplussed when I notice the soap dispenser is empty. Wiping my hands on my jeans, I exit, almost running into a man in a stained wife-beater and a trucker hat. He reeks of cheap beer and I skirt around him quickly, making my way through the people and back to my chair beside Logan with my heart pounding. There's too many unfamiliar people here, all of whom I've gotten at least one or two strange looks from, and I find comfort in the presence of his gruff, foreboding form. He's nursing a second bottle of beer now, and I feel something like a twinge of jealousy for his healing factor as I sip my water, picking up the bit of my cigarette that hasn't burned away in the ashtray and inhaling.

"How much longer will we be driving tonight?" I ask, raising my voice a bit to be heard over a quarrel that seems to have broken out at the far side of the bar.

"Another few hours should do it for today, get us out of the desert and into the Midwest," he answers, taking another swig.

I nod. "Fantastic then."

There's another silence, one of the many it seems, that stretches out between us, though it's not uncomfortable. The scuffle at the end of the bar increases in volume, though no one in the saloon seems to mind too much, leaving the small group of men to argue loudly to one another, cursing and spitting as they see fit. I sing a verse softly to myself, finishing my cigarette.

"I guess everybody's week must have been pretty rough.
Cause everybody is drunk, loud, and pissed off.
I know you hate to be impressed with someone else (other than yourself).
But you know, trying to hold back on being an asshole helps."

Logan lets out a breath of something like laughter and I look at him quizzically. "You can actually hear me above all this noise?"

"Enhanced hearing, remember?" he replies as the bartender sets our food in front of us, utensils at the edge of the plates. I go to thank him when I notice he's already moved on to another customer. Shrugging my shoulders, I set to eating when realization strikes. "You could hear me the entire ride over here, couldn't you?"

Logan nods and I groan, embarrassed. I sang everything from Frank Sinatra to New Order back to Garbage and the Faint, which, while it speaks for a well-rounded musical pallet, is still somewhat incriminating. "Er, yeah, sorry about that. I was bored, I hope it wasn't too obnoxious." I cut a bite of my steak and hope that the shit excuse they have for lighting in this place hides the red creeping up my throat.

He shakes his head, revisiting his eating habits from the previous evening. I'm about to leave the exchange for dead when he speaks. "You're not half bad, you should do it more often."

I almost drop my fork on the floor. "Really?" This man, for the little time I've known him, isn't the type for paltry compliments and pleasantries. In fact, he rarely speaks unless he has to or he feels the imminent need to express himself, which isn't often. This is something to take to heart, a moment to be cherished and recalled for the days to come when the going gets tough and I'm likely to be conniving as to how I can shave his mutton chops off in his sleep. I watch him look over at me and nod again before he returns to his meal. "You're no Ella, but you don't sound like shit, either, Mills."

I smile in spite of myself, probably the first really sincere one I've had in days, something he catches out of the corner of his eye. "Thank you, Logan. I really appreciate it." I chuckle as he mutters something under his breath, taking another sip of my water and watching people pass by from the mirror at the back of the bar. We finish eating and Logan pays our tab, leaving a tip for the bartender.

The two of us stride out into the night air, pleasantly full and I thank him for the meal, noting how utterly strange we must look to the passers by, of whom there are surprisingly quite a few. Noting the steak I'm currently digesting, though, it's understandable; such a hardy meal is in short stock on a road like this. We reach the truck and I hear him curse loudly.

"Son of a bitch!"

Concerned, I walk over towards him. "What is it?"

He growls and points to a long scratch running down the driver's side of the vehicle. Recalling the angry driver from before I scoff. "Keying someone's car? Jesus Christ, that's so immature."

But my words fall on deaf ears, Logan already stalking off in the direction of the other man's Ford pick-up truck. "Logan!" I call, running after him. "What are you doing?"

"Getting even," he states, the angry growl still evident in his tone.

"Is that a wise idea?" I ask, somewhat worried for the safety of the man stupid enough to bring on his wrath. I remember the passage with my assailant a mere twenty-four hours previously and trust me when I say that I know better than to fuck with this man. I would rather learn how to tango with a pit full of rabid wolverines.

My response is another growl as we reach the truck, and I hear a strange noise, like metal sliding out of something when I see-

"Holy fuck, Logan!" There are claws, three long, vicious looking blades sticking out from between the knuckles of his hand as he drags them gratingly down the side of the driver's cab, an even three lines from head to tail. Looking somewhat sated, he retracts them into his body and turns back to me, observing my gaping form with a raised eyebrow. I have the suspicion that those aren't something that came as an added bonus when his mutation surfaced.

He walks past me, back towards his truck. "Come on, kid, we've got a long way to go tonight before we pull off." Scraping my jaw off the pavement, I manage to follow after him, my mind bursting with questions for the ride onward.
-----

Lyrics belong to the Strokes' 'Heart in a Cage'.

Lyrics belong to the Strokes' 'Fear of Sleep'.