Disclaimer: See chapter 1.
Summary:  Set after "Camera," Logan tries to adapt to life without money. Max tries to help. Will he survive?
What? OK, just ignore the summary for this chapter.
AN: Rated R for violence, language, sex and plagiarism.

This Makes No Sense Whatsoever
Chapter 10: Weekend

Logan leaned forward in the driver's seat of the Aztek, straining to see any sign of Max. She'd been in the warehouse complex for forty minutes now, way past the time estimated in his carefully thought out plan. He shouldn't have sent her into such a dangerous situation he thought, not for the first time. Lately, he'd had her running all over doing his grunt work in a city gone mad with crime and corruption, while he sat on his butt and waited . . . as usual. He pounded his fist on the dashboard in frustration.

The sudden increase in gang warfare and the rise in vigilantism had kept Eyes Only going non-stop for the last few weeks; that and the eruption into violence of a vicious rivalry between girl-scout troops competing for cookie sales. Only yesterday the leader of the "Little Princesses" had been pummeled senseless with a pack of ten year old Mint Creams as she escorted her charges on door to door sales in an upscale neighborhood of Seattle. It was a terrible scene for the young and innocent to witness, but at least Eyes Only had brought the perpetrator to justice. Fortunately, that particular incident had not been troop related. Just an irate resident troubled by one too many Brownie's hawking a $20 pack of Lemon Delights. What was the world coming to? He sighed and looked at his watch, by the time this job was done it would be too late to go post Margo's bail.

There was so much work to be done; yet, Max had managed to talk him into taking her to the cabin for the weekend. Lately, she seemed to be able to wrap him around her little finger—although it wasn't her little finger he was wrapped around when he'd agreed to the suggestion. Maybe she was right and he needed some down time. It would help regain his edge and focus. He had been feeling tired, stressed and distracted. Yes, he could write the weekend off for the good of his health.

The slamming of the car door creating a sonic boom alerted him to Max's return. He was about to ask her if she had the disks when he noticed that she was wet and muddy. This was not good—no, wet and muddy did not bring out the finer qualities of Max's personality. Quickly he closed his mouth and looked directly ahead as they screeched out of the alleyway.

"You said no security and no water. That would imply no 250 pound watchmen and no mud puddles to fall into." In thundering silence, they drove to her apartment building. "Pick me up at seven in the morning." The crash of the side mirror falling off as she closed the door behind her almost obliterated her parting words. He could just make out something about damn well better having smores with him. Logan sighed as he started his solitary homeward journey. Yes, the weekend away would be for the good of his health; if he didn't go Max would kill him.

* * *

Logan frowned as they pulled up in front of the grungy tavern. As they had traveled northward the weather had become progressively worse, until they were driving through a full blown storm. It was only a few miles to the cabin and if he hadn't been worried about not being able to get a supply of milk for the weekend he wouldn't even have stopped here, but continued on for the shelter of his family's weekend retreat.

A sleepless night had done nothing to allay his feelings of guilt at having Max doing all his legwork. In the small hours of the morning, he had gone from worrying that weariness had added to her crankiness and apparent lack of coordination the previous evening, to concerns about her health. What if she were having seizures again? It had been a long time since he had seen any evidence of one, but it was something Max might keep from him. That morning he had made sure he had a supply of tryptophan in his bag before setting out early for the market on his way to pick up Max.

A tour of the supermarkets of Seattle had eventually yielded marshmallows, graham crackers and chocolate bars, but no milk. He was unwilling to leave the city without a supply of the seizure fighting drink, but the thought of having Max waiting for him made him give up on his quest with the hope that they could find some along the way.

He was only a few minutes late, but Max had glared at him as he pulled up to the sidewalk. She threw her bag in the back of the vehicle and herself down in the passenger seat without a word. He had sighed quietly; his hopes that the smore provisions would ease her bad humor squashed, along with the bag of marshmallows she had just sat on. However, as the last sector checkpoint vanished into the distance and the green countryside enveloped them the tension soon eased, until they had fallen into a companionable silence. She had even seemed touched by his insistence on stopping along the way in search of dairy products.

The inn in the small town close to the cabin was a last resort--in more ways than one. It had a bad reputation, definitely not the kind of place to bring a lady. Max yawned and stretched, ignoring his request that she stay in the vehicle while he inquired about milk supplies. She ran through the rain and was at the bar ordering burgers before he maneuvered his way through the doorway.

She smiled as he wheeled up beside her. "Want to shoot some pool while we wait for our food?"

Logan cringed inwardly at the thought of eating here. Max would probably survive food poisoning, even botulism, without batting an eyelid—he, however, would die a slow and painful death. "Sure, mind if I break?" Maybe the distraction of a competitive game would take her mind off food--yeah, maybe a bout in the coliseum with a few dozen lions and a couple of bloodthirsty gladiators.

Woah, nice break. He hadn't lost his touch. Noticing Max looking impressed out of the corner of his eye, he found himself a little upset when he missed the corner pocket a few shots later. He wheeled back to the bar as Max set up her shot, and was cheered by the barman's affirmative on his request for a jug of milk to go. Turning back to the table, he watched Max ease into the shot gracefully.

"Nice." Logan heard the leering voice and hoots of agreement behind him. It didn't take any stretch of the imagination to figure out the object of the louts' admiration. How dare they lay eyes on Max and treat her in such a demeaning fashion. He felt his blood boil with indignation.

"You got a problem?" He noticed Max stiffen almost imperceptibly as he faced off against the scruffy creep.

"No man, I ain't got no problem. I'm just enjoying the view." Beady eyes continued to survey Max's posterior.

"Why don't you go enjoy the view from your cave?" He saw Max turn as he spoke, just before the dirty expanse of ceiling claimed his attention and his back hit the floor.

"Ha-Haaaaaaagh." Lout # 1's whoop of glee was cut short as his head bounced off the concrete floor. Logan couldn't help but smile at the speed of his reflexes in grabbing the guy's shirt collar on the way down. He hoped Max was suitably impressed also. No time for gloating though, Lout # 2 was heading for him. He heard the crack as Max broke the pool stick over her knee and saw the look of surprise on her face as #2 disappeared from her line of vision. Man, lying on the floor really gave one a whole new perspective on barroom brawling. Yanking people's legs out from under them was a piece of cake from this angle.

Oh-Oh, # 3 was creeping up on Max as she stood stick at the ready in fighting stance, although her bemused expression and mouth hanging open did little to add to the air of danger she usually managed to exude. If he pulled the corner of that dirty floor mat with just the right acceleration . . . "aaaaarrhhh" . . .  SPLAT! . . . "ooohh my back " . . . yes, she wouldn't have to trouble herself with the ignorant brut at all.

Lout #1 was stirring, though his eyes were moving strangely, as if following the flight pattern a tweety bird circling his head.

"Max, give me that pitcher of milk." Obligingly, she scooped the jug off the counter and handed it to him.

"Er . . . Logan." He could just about hear her over the spluttering sounds assaulting his ears. "The pitcher isn't big enough for his head."

"Nonsense."

 Logan rammed a little harder until the pleas of "NOOOO . . . not milk," echoed around him in a gurgling sort of way.

"Apologize to my girlfriend."

"Get this !!@#$ thing off me . . . gurgle . . . gurgle . . .."

"Watch your language, there's a lady present." He sat the ruffian up and delivered a sharp tap to the bottom of the pitcher. "Max! Step back! Your shoes will get milky."

"O-o-o-U-u-u-Ch-h-h, splutter, splutter."

"The lady's waiting."

"Sorry." Not sorry enough apparently. A swift pull on the handle of the pitcher and the goon was out like a light again.

"You all right?" His voice was full of concern. "I'm sorry you had to put up with those disrespectful idiots."

"I . . . I'm fine." She watched, seeming a little dazed, as Logan lifted himself gingerly back into the chair.

He turned impatiently in the doorway. "Another pitcher barkeep."

"Yessir."

Max took the milk from the bartender's shaking hands and stared at the man sitting by the door.

"Well, come on then woman."

She shook her head, grinned, and followed him out into the stormy night.

* * *

Max lay on the bed, trying to sort out the emotions assaulting her. What the hell had happened back in that bar? She was having cognitive difficulty assimilating the new side to Logan she had witnessed and even more difficulty handling her reaction to it. She wasn't some lily-faced maiden tied to the train tracks, waiting for her hero to ride in and rescue her . . . was she? She had a brief image of Logan charging into her presence on horseback and decided to leave the psychological analysis for a more opportune time. Right now she should be gathering data—yes, this aspect of Logan demanded immediate and intimate exploration.

Leaping to her feet, she saw her reflection in the dressing table mirror and frowned. OC had convinced her to buy this lace and satin bit of nothing she had just wiggled into. She herself didn't see the point of it. She either had clothes on or not, and alone in Logan presence preferably the latter. Still, Cindy insisted it would drive roller boy wild, not that that would be a problem tonight.

Max smiled, recalling the final leg of the journey to the cabin: a sweaty, tousled Logan battling through the storm to bring her to safety, having defended her honor and leaving the opposition in a tangled heap on the barroom floor. She had almost been able to hear the pounding of his heart and smell the testosterone wafting across the interminable distance between the front seats of the Aztek.

It had been all she could do to stop from flinging him onto the bearskin rug in front of the hearth and having her way with him the instant they had arrived, but he had insisted and going outside to chop some wood for the fire. Although, it was probably best to let him work off some of the hormone overload—he was an enthusiastic lover under normal circumstance and she didn't want him doing himself an injury. No, they had an entire weekend to get through.

Impatiently, she walked to the sitting room window and peered outside. Funny, there was no sign of him by the woodpile, where was he?

"Yeah, where is he?" she said as she  . . ."I said, where the hell is he."

What?

"Can't type and process dialog at the same time? Why doesn't that surprise me? Now, listen up lady. What have you done with him this time?"

What the . . .. Get back in the story.

"What have you done with him? Tell me NOW."

Gulp! Well . . . he's fine . . . at least he will be . . . eventually. Hey, back up . . .. OK, OK. The thugs discovered where you guys were staying and are busy beating him up. NO STOP . . . I've got a husband and a parrot to take care of. You're going to go out and find them and you and Logan will fight the creeps off together.

"Do I look like I'm dressed for an action sequence?"

Fortunately, you packed that black cat suit thingy. Listen, it'll be great. You'll strengthen the growing bond between you over a few bloody corpses and Logan will feel like a "real" man, yet again. It's a great plot development and . . .

"Unless you want to dangle from the lead to that keyboard over the lake out back, I suggest you get him back here NOW."

I won't compromise the integrity of my writing.

"Oh Yeah? Let's see how far this mouse will go up your nose . . ."

Having fought off the thugs, Logan wheeled wearily toward the door of the cabin. The wind howled and the rain fell in torrents around him . . .

"Faster."

I can only type 10 wpm.

"Then cut the weather crap. I want him on the doorstep in ten seconds flat."

Suddenly Logan appeared in the doorway, wet and disheveled from his encounter with the storm.

"Take off his shirt."

The gusting winds had ripped the shirt off his back.

"Let's see him with black hair."

No. I can't change my character's appearance on a whim.

"Your character? Listen lady . . . a nice long dunk in the lake and a letter to Cameron about what you've been doing to his baby."

"Logan's jet black hair glistened in the incandescent lighting."

"Eyes."

His brown eyes were filled with exhaustion . . . no? . . . longing . . . OK, lust dammit . . . filled with lust.

"Come here big boy."

Well, I can see you don't need me anymore.

"Not so fast. I'd like a hot tub in the livingroom."

I'm out of here and you're a few keystrokes away from a nasty genetically engineered virus.

"What kind of stupid idea is that? Here let me help you out the door."

OUCH!

SLAM!

Hey, it's cold out here, you could at least give me a coat.

THAT's IT! Those damn writers were right: that girl needs more problems in her life. Yeah, I've been making things way too easy for her. Well, look out girlie, I've got plans for chapter err…whatever the next one is . . . yes, big plans . . ..  And to think of what I've done for that ungrateful hussy. Not, to mention what I've let her do to Logan. Well, she'd better enjoy this stinking weekend because . . . aarrgghhh . . . damn mud puddle . . . does it always have to rain in this God forsaken state  . . . we'll see who had the last laugh . . . we'll just see. . .