Turnabout By Joy Buchkowski

Disclaimer: We own nothing related to Dark Angel, just the thoughts in our heads.

Rating: PG-13

Email: Joy: jbuchkow@yahoo.com, Aquila: hhinam@hotmail.com

Archiving: Please ask first.

Summary: Max and Logan finish the game they started

Spoilers: Post-Haven, but otherwise nothing serious.

Author's Notes: This story became a joint endeavour when my dear friend Joy decided to share this little piece with me a little over a year ago. I complained that it wasn't long enough and she challenged me to write Logan's point of view. These two chapters are the result. Hope you in enjoy this little piece of escapism. It took a long time for us to decide to share it so we would very much welcome your comments.

***

"Eight-ball in the corner pocket."

"Oh, really?"  I mock him as he leans close to the table, setting up for his final shot.  He ignores me, settling his left hand just so on the soft, green felt, adjusting the grip of the cue in his right.  I know that I can faze him, though, and perhaps win this game after all.

Logan certainly surprised me when he asked me to meet him tonight at this dive near his place.  The late hour of our meeting had me wondering what was up, first of all.  He's seemed reluctant, as of late, to send me off to do any footwork, even though my seizures are back to their normal frequency and intensity for the time being.  I think he's still mulling over what went down in Cape Haven, not that I blame him.  I just wish that I coulda done more to help, instead of being stuck in a helpless pile on the bedroom floor.

Anyway, so he asks me to meet him here really late, and it turns out that he's gone and rented the place, just for us.  We don't have access to the alcohol, of course, but it's the pool table that he's after.  Apparently, he wants us to finish what we started, confident that he can beat me.  As if, but I don't want to rain on his parade, so I agree to the match.  Now, he's actually winning, about to sink the last ball.  Go figure; his experience has beat out my tactical training and strategy.  I still have one trick left up my sleeve, though, poor guy.

He slides the cue into position, eyeing the target closely.  I bite my lower lip to keep from chuckling at my audacity as I lean in as well.  Right beside him, so that I'm almost brushing against him.  I make a big show of checking out his positioning, so close to him that I can feel his warmth seep into my bones.

"Looks good," I murmur into his ear, letting a curl slip across his neck as I turn back to survey the table.

He doesn't bat an eyelash.  Not one hitch in his breathing, not one involuntary shiver.  My eyes are drawn to the cue that he is now slowly, deliberately, sliding back and forth in the vee of his thumb and forefinger.  My mouth is suddenly dry and I am forced to keep my breathing slow and steady.  I don't move a muscle; suddenly aware of the effect our closeness is having on me.  His scent floods my nostrils, weakening my knees that I refuse to unlock.  He slowly turns his head towards me, until his deep blue eyes look into my own, until our breath mingles between us.  Shit, what have I done? He glances downward at my lips so close to his, back up into my eyes, and quirks his mouth into a tiny, sardonic smirk.

            Returning to his set-up, he finishes the game with a swift, decisive strike.  Damn, he's good.  He lets loose a delighted grin, before sobering and leaning back into his chair, distancing us just a little.  His eyes are laughing still as he looks up at me again.

"Nice shot," I admit, my rueful smile answering his eyes.

"Thanks.  Best two out of three?"  He raises an eyebrow, daring me.

"You're on!"  I slowly straighten up to go rack up the balls, trying to hide the delighted grin that keeps tugging at my mouth.  I catch a similar one hovering about his lips, though, as he chalks the tip of the cue, waiting for me to finish.

He's not finished with me, yet, which is fine with me, cause I'm just getting warmed up.  For one night, we forget the world around us, the corruption, the fear, the hurt.  There is only the darkened barroom, the table lit by the lamp overhead making all the colours of the balls seem brighter, and the two of us, teasing as much as we dare, though never so far apart as to lose the sight of ourselves in each other's eyes.