Veronica Mars Fic: Loose Ends (1/1)
Short little ficlet to try and deal with teh crazy that is this show. When are new episodes airing, again?
Title: Loose Ends
Disclaimer: I don’t own Veronica Mars. And the title was shamelessly stolen from an Imogen Heap song.
Spoilers: Up to 3x09. MAJOR S3 spoilers.
Pairing: Logan/Veronica
Words: 687
Dedication: For danakm
Logan understands Veronica Mars. Maybe better than anyone. Maybe better than she realizes. He just doesn’t always speak her language.
The cloth is warm, pressing against his left eyebrows. White cloth. Bad idea. Leaves a stain. Not that he ever does his own laundry.
“Veronica-”
You don’t have to do this.
But she interrupts. “Why?”
He closes his eyes so he won’t have to look at her. So he won’t have to see the uncertainty-the reliefworrydisapproval.
“Why do you think?”
He’s tired of it. Fucking tired of having to apologize for loving her, having her throw it back at him like an accusation. He can count only a few times when she’s been with him, when she hasn’t stood only halfway there, the rest of Veronica shoved into a place he can’t touch.
The last time was when he broke up with her.
She removes the cloth, and he opens his eyes in time to see the red stain. His stomach shifts, and he feels like a pussy, heaving at his own blood.
Veronica catches his eye. “You could have just brought me milk and cookies.”
“Yeah. Well.”
He keeps doing stupid shit like this. Trusting people. Wouldn’t think it, child of Aaron Echolls-abusive father of the year-but he does.
“I don’t think milk and cookies would have cut it, Veronica,” he says. “And you know I can’t bake.”
She half-smiles, and sits down across from him, arms folded across her chest. “So you decided to put your fist through Mercer’s jaw?”
Essentially, yes.
“Why don’t you just say it, Veronica?”
She looks up at him, her eyes wet, holding a question. She seems younger. Like it’s two years ago, and they’ve been caught necking on his father’s couch. Back when breaking up was a ritual, every-single-day-habit.
“What, Logan?” she says, losing patience. “What do you want me to say?”
He leans his elbows on his haunches, head throbbing, knowing that he doesn’t regret it, that he’d do the same in a second.
“I failed you,” he says, and he’s not sure if he’s talking about Mercer, or burning down a hotel in Mexico, or about calling her to pick him up-again-at the police station. “And I know that it’s not really my job to protect you, and maybe I have no right to it, but, god, Veronica, I should have been there.”
She’s quiet, barely breathing, and he starts thinking about the pattern on his carpet, and how much he hates it. He decides that he should move out and find something that doesn’t cost one-hundred-plus-room-service a night.
Veronica’s fingers twist against her knees. They don’t feel like two broken up people, because somehow-somehow-they come back to this place in the end.
“Maybe you were right. Maybe I am too reckless.” She doesn’t sound sure, but her voice waivers. It hasn’t been easy for her-drugged, beaten, locked in a closet-things that have happened to her before, things that will keep happening.
“You’ll get yourself killed one day,” he says flatly.
Her hands still, and she bows her head. “Maybe.”
He itches for a drink, and heads to the liquor cabinet, fingers testing his cheek. Still raw. Still painful.
“You better not.” It’s all he says, finding the liquor, twisting the cap, and letting the rest go unspoken. Like Lily and that’s the day I’ll finally lose it for good.
She stands, fists bunched nervously at her sides. “I should probably…”
The first drops of liquid hit his lips, numbing, burning. He nods.
She doesn’t go right away, and he wonders if she’s waiting for him to kiss her goodbye. He almost does, almost takes those few steps forward. Instead he tosses back another drink. He’s tired of going in circles. He means the breakup. This time. For a little while at least.
He smiles, but it hurts his cheek and it twists into a grimace.
Veronica backs to the door, hands swinging idly in front of her. “I’ll try Logan,” she says. “I’ll try to be more careful.”
It would be foolish to believe her.
Title: Loose Ends
Disclaimer: I don’t own Veronica Mars. And the title was shamelessly stolen from an Imogen Heap song.
Spoilers: Up to 3x09. MAJOR S3 spoilers.
Pairing: Logan/Veronica
Words: 687
Dedication: For danakm
Logan understands Veronica Mars. Maybe better than anyone. Maybe better than she realizes. He just doesn’t always speak her language.
The cloth is warm, pressing against his left eyebrows. White cloth. Bad idea. Leaves a stain. Not that he ever does his own laundry.
“Veronica-”
You don’t have to do this.
But she interrupts. “Why?”
He closes his eyes so he won’t have to look at her. So he won’t have to see the uncertainty-the reliefworrydisapproval.
“Why do you think?”
He’s tired of it. Fucking tired of having to apologize for loving her, having her throw it back at him like an accusation. He can count only a few times when she’s been with him, when she hasn’t stood only halfway there, the rest of Veronica shoved into a place he can’t touch.
The last time was when he broke up with her.
She removes the cloth, and he opens his eyes in time to see the red stain. His stomach shifts, and he feels like a pussy, heaving at his own blood.
Veronica catches his eye. “You could have just brought me milk and cookies.”
“Yeah. Well.”
He keeps doing stupid shit like this. Trusting people. Wouldn’t think it, child of Aaron Echolls-abusive father of the year-but he does.
“I don’t think milk and cookies would have cut it, Veronica,” he says. “And you know I can’t bake.”
She half-smiles, and sits down across from him, arms folded across her chest. “So you decided to put your fist through Mercer’s jaw?”
Essentially, yes.
“Why don’t you just say it, Veronica?”
She looks up at him, her eyes wet, holding a question. She seems younger. Like it’s two years ago, and they’ve been caught necking on his father’s couch. Back when breaking up was a ritual, every-single-day-habit.
“What, Logan?” she says, losing patience. “What do you want me to say?”
He leans his elbows on his haunches, head throbbing, knowing that he doesn’t regret it, that he’d do the same in a second.
“I failed you,” he says, and he’s not sure if he’s talking about Mercer, or burning down a hotel in Mexico, or about calling her to pick him up-again-at the police station. “And I know that it’s not really my job to protect you, and maybe I have no right to it, but, god, Veronica, I should have been there.”
She’s quiet, barely breathing, and he starts thinking about the pattern on his carpet, and how much he hates it. He decides that he should move out and find something that doesn’t cost one-hundred-plus-room-service a night.
Veronica’s fingers twist against her knees. They don’t feel like two broken up people, because somehow-somehow-they come back to this place in the end.
“Maybe you were right. Maybe I am too reckless.” She doesn’t sound sure, but her voice waivers. It hasn’t been easy for her-drugged, beaten, locked in a closet-things that have happened to her before, things that will keep happening.
“You’ll get yourself killed one day,” he says flatly.
Her hands still, and she bows her head. “Maybe.”
He itches for a drink, and heads to the liquor cabinet, fingers testing his cheek. Still raw. Still painful.
“You better not.” It’s all he says, finding the liquor, twisting the cap, and letting the rest go unspoken. Like Lily and that’s the day I’ll finally lose it for good.
She stands, fists bunched nervously at her sides. “I should probably…”
The first drops of liquid hit his lips, numbing, burning. He nods.
She doesn’t go right away, and he wonders if she’s waiting for him to kiss her goodbye. He almost does, almost takes those few steps forward. Instead he tosses back another drink. He’s tired of going in circles. He means the breakup. This time. For a little while at least.
He smiles, but it hurts his cheek and it twists into a grimace.
Veronica backs to the door, hands swinging idly in front of her. “I’ll try Logan,” she says. “I’ll try to be more careful.”
It would be foolish to believe her.