DISCLAIMER: All DARK ANGEL characters belong to James Cameron and Charles Eglee (Cameron Eglee Productions) and DARK ANGEL itself belongs to FOX.

ARCHIVE: No

Artwork courtesy of Valjean & JensenAckles.org

Alec had a bet with himself that it would be pasta, salad, and some ordinary vintage of wine -- nothing too expensive since he wasn't exactly a VIP guest. However, as he headed up the stairwell to the basement entrance of Logan's apartment -- taking the steps two at a time -- he smelled chicken and his mood brightened.

Meat was good.

He knocked once on the door out of politeness, then proceeded to let himself in since it was unlocked. Max looked up from where she was setting the table as he came through the kitchen into the dining room, a rather blank expression on her face. She was wearing her usual attire -- black on black on black, with boots -- and Alec relaxed a little bit. Other than showering and putting on a clean warm sweater and jeans he hadn't particularly "dressed" for the occasion. Then again, Eyes Only's little dinner affairs were usually fairly informal -- or so he'd been told. This really was the first time the X5 had ever been officially invited to supper at Logan and Max's little love nest, although he'd mooched a meal a time or two before.

"You should have come in through the front," Max said, her voice frosty. "We only use the tunnel for emergencies now."

"Sorry," Alec said, eyebrows drawing down slightly as he wondered why she was in such a bad mood. "I didn't know." He scratched at a spot behind his ear and wrinkled his nose. "Is our strategy session gonna be before or after we eat?" he asked.

"Why? You in a hurry?" she said coldly, pausing from where she'd been folding red linen napkins, the color choice -- along with the green holly decorations in the centerpiece -- apparently paying homage to the upcoming holiday season.

"We need to get moving on this, Max," he persisted. "We can't let Eddy and his gang get away with believin' they pulled one over on the Freaks. You might not like to think of us as a gang, too, but basically that's what we are. And we hafta protect our turf," he gingerly touched the almost-healed bullet wound on his forehead, "not to mention our people."

"I know you want revenge, Alec," Max said, straightening up with a huge sigh and a glance toward the kitchen where Logan was taking a roast chicken out of the oven, the aroma wafting through the apartment promising a pretty good dinner to come. (Alec's mouth was starting to water.) "But the public's been kind of cold toward us ever since the first of the year when we got all that bad publicity about the Furies' massacre. We took the fall for that, Alec -- the transgenics -- and we didn't do it."

"I know we didn't do it, Max," Alec said patiently. "I was there, remember?"

"But someone," she said, "undoubtedly one of White's or Mathias' or Senator McKinley's Familiar buddies, tipped the press that it was a Freaks versus Furies fight that day in the cemetery and the Freaks won. The police didn't pursue us because after all, it was just a gang that got slaughtered and not anyone important. However, Clemente's never quite believed me ever since, and the loss of his faith in us hurts, Alec. We can't afford any more bad publicity, and goin' after the Steelheads would be nothing but that."

"Chicken's ready," Logan said, poking his head out of the kitchen and wiping his hands on the red and green apron he was wearing. "Oh and Alec, Max is right about the Steelheads. The feeling around the globe, in fact, is quite a bit less sympathetic toward the transgenic cause than it was this time last year. Didn't you say business at the Art Mall has been slowly dropping off?" He paused to stir what looked like gravy on the stove, tasted a bit of the brown sauce from the end of the wooden spoon, then reached for the salt.

"I'll cry me a river then," Alec said in a flat tone of voice. "We're still makin' money at the mall. People will settle down and forget, then business will improve again."

"It's been almost a year, Alec," Max said, coming around the table and heading for the kitchen. "It never hit the press, but Logan says the transgenics are also still under investigation by the FBI for what happened that day at Big Sky Retreat, not to mention the ongoing questions about all the dead people at Lyman Cale's estate. Logan fielded a CIA agent just last week about that supposed gang break-in at his uncle's place. Like-it-or-not, Alec, we left DNA evidence behind. There are people in high-up places that know about our involvement in both of those events, and people in even higher up places that know it was transgenics going against the Breeding Cult."

"Old news," Alec said succinctly as he moved to the table and picked up a handful of mixed nuts from the little crystal dish in the center. Munching thoughtfully, he added, "We still need to spank the Steelheads. Mole and the other guys agree."

"Mole and the other guys always agree with you, Alec," Max said.

"Not true," Alec argued. "They listen to you, too, Max. You're their leader after all -- not me."

That last was said with a decided twinkle of challenge in his eyes. Both Max and Alec knew that the people of Terminal City thought of Max as their leader, but that it was her second-in-command who often made the practical decisions and saw to their immediate needs. 452 was the visionary, but 494 was the one who kept them in Skittles, beer, and -- in Mole's case -- cigars.

"Children!" Logan called out as he emerged triumphant from the kitchen with the chicken artfully displayed on a Sterling silver tray, its bed of parsley making it look like something in a fancy restaurant. "Dinner is served!"

"Shouldn't we wait?" Max said.

"Wait for what?" Alec said. And then, for the first time, he noticed the fourth place setting at the table -- just as a knock sounded at the front door.

"See," Max said with a snide smile in his direction. "Some guests have decent manners and know which door to use."

Alec made a face, at the same time wondering who on earth else had been invited to what was supposed to be a strategy session about slaughtering a bunch of pea-brained techno warriors.

Max opened the door. "Hey, Asha," she said pleasantly, holding out her hand and playing the perfect hostess. "Long time, no see. Glad you could make it tonight."