FicWad

Asha is at Logan's and the sight of her is surprise enough that Max suddenly turns clumsy. Asha has been gone for months. Logan hadn't said anything and Max hadn't asked, so it was days before she had realized Asha was gone. Max has let herself forget--mostly--and tells herself that the past is past and Logan doesn't need to know everything. She still feels a bit angry, a lot guilty, and she can't and won't sleep in Logan's spare room these days. But she has adjusted, suppressed what she can and it wasn't so hard to pretend nothing happened while Asha was gone.

There is a couch by the window and Asha is curled up in it. She is wearing the deep red robe Logan loans Max when she showers at his place. Max bites her cheek and resolves not to think of that. Asha is holding an ice pack to her left eye and her lip is puffy and split down through the center. She turns when Max's hip collides with the counter, gun in hand, and Max sees that Asha's hand is shaking. Max doesn't ask what happened, doesn't care, looks away as soon as she regains control.

They eat at Logan's, the three of them, in silence so heavy Max can hardly breathe. Things are awkward, confused, and for all her skills this isn't something Max knows how to deal with. She has never had to stick around when things became difficult--she never really cared enough for it to matter if her actions caused pain, never belonged and never bothered to stay in a place where emotions threatened. She has a job here, good friends, Logan--so she spoons up rice, eats, smiles and drags forth words that fit her surrounding and don't touch upon the thick silence running beneath them.

Max vows not to leave until Asha has left and she waits for hours. Asha rises, touches Logan's shoulder, looks at Max and moves into the guest bedroom. The door closes behind her and Max's cleverly designed brain has enough power to understand Logan even as she tracks Asha's footsteps, the slide of cloth and skin, the soft squeak of the mattress as Asha slides into bed. Max's hands curl on her thighs and she thinks of Asha--blackened and bloody and hurting--and hates her.

She has never liked Asha--Asha who has known Logan for years, Asha who can touch Logan, Asha who sometimes looks at Logan as if he is an answer to a long forgotten prayer. It is worse now, because she doesn't like Asha and she loves Logan and she still ended up pressed against naked flesh with Asha's hands at her hips, at her thighs. Logan may love Max, but he likes Asha and Max knows about Asha's clever hands, talented mouth. Max has seen the worst of the world and knows that love doesn't mean Logan doesn't or won't want Asha.

Logan sees Max to the door. She can here the click and whirl of his exoskeleton, too faint for normal human ears. His glasses magnify his eyes, and even with his stubble and casual clothes Max thinks he looks intelligent, kind--a gentleman, and she's never known one of those before. His hair is mussed, wild, and Max wonders what it looks like when he rises from bed. She thinks about grabbing Logan's face, feeling stubble scratch at her palms, pulling him close and closing her mouth hard over his. There's animal in her that wants her territory marked in ways that words and looks can't touch.

Sometimes, Max doesn't quite feel human. Logan doesn't like when Max slips out of normalcy, out of usefulness, into someplace darker. She remembers how Asha looked at her that night, how her fingernails left red marks on Max's legs, and thinks that maybe Asha understands, and that isn't comforting at all.

...~*~...

The Crash is crowded. It usually is. Max likes that, sometimes--the noise, the press of people, how _alive_ it all feels. Other nights, it becomes too much--too loud for sensitive ears, and she chokes on the scent of smoke and perfume and bodies, and she despises them all for what they have, what they are and can't help but hunt out the weak with her eyes.

There is a woman at the bar. She is tall and slim and skin as dark as Tosh's (Tosh, who nearly disappeared into the night; Tosh, so clear against fresh snow where he swirled and jerked and died). Original Cindy has been watching her all night and Max doesn't ask her to stay when the woman waves her over. They lean in towards each other and Original Cindy rests slim fingers and trim nails against the other woman's hip. Max turns away before she looses them to the crowd as they make their escape from the Crash.

Asha is at the Crash--it seems like she always is when Max is, inescapable. She is dancing, using her whole body: weaving fingers above her head, rolling hips, quick steps. Asha has a version of moves Max recognizes--training and experience and remembered pain have left their mark on how Asha carries herself. Asha's head falls back, her hips swing and Max is suddenly glad that Asha is just human. She is dangerous enough as is.

Alec is a sudden presence at her side. Max doesn't look at him, doesn't need to, she thinks he smirks too much and he won't have chosen now to abandon the expression. Alec's voice is low, but his words aren't lost to the music. "Couldn't you just," he says, and Max can't help but look at him out of the corner of her eye, "eat her?" He looks from Asha to Max and his grin stretches wide and white and infuriating.

Max wishes Alec would simply go away, leave Seattle, leave her _alone_. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't have to most of the time. Max can feel that he's amused by her and Max is so used to thinking of herself as hurt and dangerous and haunted that she can't stand that he thinks her some sort of child.

"Shut up," Max snaps because Alec is still talking: Asha, Asha, Asha, all smarmy seriousness and laughter.

Alec doesn't listen, never does. "You need to work off some of that tension. You need to get yourself laid, Maxie," Alec says, still grinning and since he won't leave, Max does.

It is cool outside, dark and drizzling. Max sucks in a breath and almost misses Manticore, just for the clear air and the scent of pine and rich soil. She stands on the street, at a sudden loss--not knowing where to go, not wanting to go anywhere--and Original Cindy left with her new girl and Max doesn't want to go home and listen to them locked away in Cindy's room and as clear as if they were right next to Max.

Max is still there when Asha steps out into the quickening rain. She scans her surroundings, eyes too weak to see Max, and jumps and gasps when Max calls her name. Asha's eyes are hard and sharp and her smile is the very shape of bitterness. Max can imagine Alec laughing, but can't quite summon the strength to care because even Alec may be right about some things some of the time.

Asha's home is in what used to be a church. There is a dark flow of amusement winding through her words, and maybe it is funny, ironic, something, but Max can't tell, doesn't care, because she has never known the God that makes Asha's face so terrible to look at. Max doesn't know Asha, looks away from her face because she doesn't want Asha to be real, doesn't want to know who Asha is, what she wants, what she's lost.

They lay together in the dark. It is easier to pretend when things aren't sharp and bright and clear. Max's fingertips drag across knotted scar-tissue on Asha's shoulder-blade and Asha makes a small sound like pain. She moves back, grabs Max's wrists and lays Max's arms straight out above her head, knuckles knocking against the headboard. Asha doesn't find the memory of pain made permanent on Max's skin. She leaves her own marks instead and they both know that they'll be gone by morning.

She leaves the bed, still shaking, and Asha doesn't see her to the door. Outside, it is still raining, and Max's skin burns.

~end~