Disclaimer: I don't own Dark Angel or any of their characters, or anyone else I might mention in this chapter who is trademarked or copyrighted or whatever.

A/N: For some reason, November is a very popular month with M/L fans. Can't for the life of me figure out why. ;) I'm joking, of course. Therefore, I would like to dedicate this chapter to all of my reviewers who had FFN anniversaries in the month of November.

Setting: Where we left off. Look it up.

Max sat perched upon a stool in the kitchen, watching Logan chop and mix and do things for which she knew no name. There was a strange silence between the two, she couldn't tell whether or not it was comfortable. So finally, she decided to break it.

"So," Max inquired. "What exactly are we eating?"

"An American classic," he replied without looking up from the pound of hamburger he was dumping into a mixing bowl.

"Meaning?" Max asked with raised eyebrows, his meals were usually gourmet, and, as far as she could recall, never American.

"Meaning I'm too lazy to make anything else," he admitted. "So we're having meatloaf." When he brought himself to make eye contact, he found her smiling at him.

"What?" he asked with a nervous laugh. Max's smile broadened.

"We're having something normal," her voice wasn't mocking, just amused, her smile genuine. He smiled back at her.

"You know," he said as he transferred the meaty gunk into a loaf pan. "Most people would be disappointed. Meatloaf isn't exactly fine cuisine."

"Oh, come on, Logan," Max teased. "We both know you're gonna dress it up somehow. It's in your nature. You can't help it." Logan laughed at that and nodded sheepishly. He usually couldn't stand meatloaf, it was icky, but he was too tired to make anything else.

"I can leave it plain if you want," he offered.

"No, no," Max replied quickly. "Your way's fine." Logan laughed once again.

"Can you set the table?" Max nodded, and set to work doing so. As she was setting out a fork for him, she noticed her left hand was shaking. She dropped the fork and grabbed it with her right hand and held it until she was sure it was steady. She glanced up to see if Logan had seen. He hadn't.

Logan sprinkled some spices on top of the squishy hunk of cornflakes, onions and flesh, and put it in the oven, setting the timer. Then he washed some lettuce and diced some tomatoes to make a simple salad. He brought the salad bowl over to the table along with cordials of oil and vinegar. He and Max made eye contact, and did the whole "gaze at each other with gooey eyes like idiots" thing for an immeasurable amount of time before they both broke off, embarrassed.

"Do you want to have the salad now or with the meatloaf?" Logan asked, trying desperately to avoid an awkward silence. He was proud of himself for being able to say the word "meatloaf" without making a face.

"Later," Max replied. Logan was glad that she'd said this; he wanted to confront the elephant in the room, and figured there was a better chance that she wouldn't bail if she hadn't eaten yet.

"I want a rematch." Logan broke from his reverie, confused at her words until he saw her eyes were on the chess set.

"We have time before the food, right?" Max's voice was uncertain now, but he saw this as an opening to address the issue.

"Chess doesn't seem to be very lucky for us recently," Logan replied grimly. Max sighed, pulled a chair out from under the table, and plopped down on it, facing him, although her eyes did not quite meet his gaze.

"I'm sorry about earlier," she finally met his eyes for a moment before dropping them down to stare at the floor. "I don't know what came over me. Guess I really was twitchy." She shot him a sardonic grin that he could tell was meant to be self deprecating. He wheeled in closer, less than an arm's length away.

"Hey," Logan said softly, guiding her face up by the base of her jaw so that he could look her in the eyes again. "It wasn't just you, okay? Things have been... tense with us. For a while now."

"Yeah," Max's voice was soft and despairing, just above a whisper. "Well, I'll tell you my issue if you tell me yours." They both grinned at her choice of words.

"You wouldn't tell me what was wrong. It bugged me," he felt surprised at his own admission even as he said the words. "Like you still don't trust me enough to let me know what's on your mind."

"I trust you, Logan. More than anyone. Even Zack, now that I've met him. I just felt kind of weird this morning. I don't know," She sighed. "I haven't been able to concentrate on anything recently. My mind just keeps blanking out. And before my hand was shaking. I think my seizures might be about to act up again."

"Well, I keep a full bottle of tryptophan in the bathroom cabinet if you want to crash here," he offered hopefully. "You probably shouldn't be out and about at night like that. You start seizing at a sector checkpoint, you'll end up back at Langford."

"Yeah, thanks I think I will crash here." Max accepted his offer readily. When given the choice between seizures at a place with clean sheets and hot water, and her apartment, with its cold water and sheets that were seldom used and washed even less frequently. And, while she loved her roommate, a post-Crash OC couldn't hold a candle to a doting Logan. Even though she was making herself vulnerable to him, the warring voices in her head did not speak up, seeing as there was barely enough room in her imploding head for her psyche.

Logan and Max chatted comfortably for a while. Then, as the oven timer rang out, yellow-white lights exploded behind Max's eyes and she was thrown from her seat as her body was racked with tremors.

To Be Continued...