this is not a joke so please stop smiling.
As requested by zauberer_sirin. I'm so pleased that you're feeling the Veronica Mars love! Can be read as a follow up to living is what kills you and movies of your dreams, if you'd like.
good day
1.
This is how it will happen.
You will not have kissed her for five years.
You'll see her on a Thursday, at the edge of Neptune's borders. She will have gone to Stanford on a scholarship, book royalties, and some quick, discreet motel stake-outs between doing AP reading and breaking into houses. She's that sort of girl. She will still be that sort of girl, only older, less angry. That furious bitter hope of hers will have turned into something harder, easier to contain and hide. She will have cut her hair short again and dyed it darker, but you'll still want to bury your hands in it and pull, you'll still want to feel her mouth on yours. You won't be any smarter. You will have shaved that morning, and you'll remember that only because you'll keep wanting to scratch the side of your jaw.
It'll be one of those days where you almost believe that things have gotten better, that you are twenty-three and have a future. It'll be one of those days where you haven't thought about your father yet, where you think you've got a chance to make the twenty-four hours decent, maybe even good. You'll walk into a Starbucks and no one will recognize you. You'll meet someone new and it'll be right, normal. Nice. You won't want a cigarette or a shot of vodka. It'll be warm enough for short sleeves and you will be busy and you will have been able to forget who you are, were, almost.
It'll be one of those days that give you the smallest, sharpest piece of hope. You'll see her and it'll be like a crushing weight on your lungs; it'll be something vicious and sudden and you'll feel stupid for ever pretending to forget the edge of her mouth, the way it tightened and stilled when she was surprised and trying to hide it.
2.
"We've both got dead ex-girlfriends now. Maybe we can share our feelings. You know, establish some sort of bond."
Duncan just stares at you, like he's offended or something. He's a good boy. (And a fucking shitty friend. A liar.) He almost looks hurt by what you've said, sensibilities all bothered, and you open your mouth to say something nastier, crueler, just because you can, know how to. But looking at his face, his parted mouth, you don't. All of a sudden, you're so angry that you can't form a single spoken word. You're sitting in his $1,000 a night suite, wearing his fucking clothes, and trying to pretend that the two of you are still friends when all you want to do is punch him.
You feel like screaming. You feel like yelling, you think you're fucked up? You think you've got it bad, what with your dead sister and epilepsy and fucking lack of emotion? You haven't been my friend, not really, for two years, you haven't been my friend since Lilly died - you haven't been anything but a robot. You think you're okay but you're not, you're goddamned not. You think that I'm the crazy one. You weren't there. You're never there. And you were pissed because I fucked your girl, well, you've got her back now, you've got it all back now, and I'm still some goddamned curse that no one talks about, that no one mentions. You think you're being a good person by letting me stay here, fucking holier-than-thou. I'm pathetic, I know it or else I wouldn't be here, but I'm making you uncomfortable, at least. You don't deserve her. You don't deserve any of it. Fuck you. Fuck you. I was your best friend once. You mattered to me. Your black outs mattered to me and your stupid elections mattered to me and your fights with your parents mattered to me. Fuck you.
But you don't say anything. It's building up, you can feel the words tumbling over themselves in the back of your throat; if he does anything, says anything, it's all going to spill out and you're just waiting for it - the doorbell rings.
He gets up and walks out of the room without looking at you, and everything you wanted to say sinks back down into nothingness. You don't even have that, and for a second, you want to hurt something, you want to make someone else feel worse than you do. But it passes, and you're just left sitting on his stupid leather couch, staring at your stupid useless hands. Stupid, you keep thinking, you're so, so stupid.
3.
You hate them. You're not a murderer, but you don't really give a shit that the biker's dead, beyond the consequences that it has on you. Good for him, you think. You aren't remorseful. You're not going to talk about what a fine person he was deep down. You won't say, he was just misunderstood. It's a lie, that's what it is.
But you didn't kill him, either. Maybe it would be simpler if you did, easier, but you're innocent for once and that's something you're going to hold onto as hard as you can. It's why you grit your teeth and ask her to look into it for you; it's why you're so stubborn about digging out the truth.
They've taken everything else away, but they're not going to take this. It sounds stupid and melodramatic, but it's the only thing that keeps you going every day. Some people find it hard to keep caring, don't have the energy for it, but that's your problem, your biggest weakness. You don't know how to give up. You don't know how to stop feeling every little pinprick like a blow, don't know how to shield yourself. You try, but you're no good at it. That pisses you off sometimes.
You daydream, once in a while. About what kind of life you'd be leading if Lilly hadn't died, if things hadn't fucked up, if your father had been a better person - not a good one, necessarily, but at least better. You'd still be bitter about your parents, maybe. But you'd complain about what an asshole your father was about curfews to Duncan, and he'd roll his eyes and tell you to stop whining. You'd break up with Lilly every other month but apologize and get back together again; you'd order Chinese for two but really only steal food from her take-out carton. You'd tease Duncan relentlessly about his relationship with Veronica, but you'll like talking to her, feel weirdly reassured when she smiles at you in that way of hers, because Veronica's a good girl, a smart one. Nice. Conventionally prettier than Lilly, you'll admit, but not as bold, as bright and burning. You'd go to school and do pretty badly, spend the weekends with the three of them and make trouble all the time, but never the really serious kind. You'd be immature and self-centered, spoiled like hell and not very kind, but it would be a good life. You'd be happy, maybe.
You daydream. It hurts, but you can't turn away from it; you tell yourself that even if it had been true, if your father hadn't beat you and murdered your girlfriend, you'd probably still be as messed up as you are now. It's Neptune, after all. There are no happy stories and even if there were, you'd never be the kind of person that would end up with one.
You're not a good person, not even a nice one, and you've never been. You like making people feel bad. You like flaunting what you have, feeling superior. You don't really give a shit about orphans in Cambodia or world hunger. Those kids on the bus died. You don't know if you care. You only care about the things that affect your life, the people, and nothing else, nobody else matters.
None of this makes you feel bad, and you comfort yourself with the thought that no matter what had happened, it was pretty much inevitable that this is how your life would have turned out.
Fucked up, basically.
4.
This is how it happens.
You are eighteen and desperate - drunk, lonely, something like a constant kind of sadness pressing down on you, and on the verge of crying. You're tired. No matter how much you sleep, it feels like you've been standing on your feet and walking to nowhere for months on end.
You kiss her again. It feels like something new and her mouth opens for a second, soft and almost sweet, but then she takes a step back, her hands small and thin on your chest. There's a look on her face that's almost like heartbreak, some sort of sympathy. It looks like a sob, you think, which doesn't make that much sense, but that's what it looks like, something deep and hurting all over. It looks like a sob and you want to say something. Before you can, though, she puts her arms around you, her fingers on the nape of your neck. It's as close to tender as she'll ever be with you, something almost maternal, which is fucked up in so many ways, but it doesn't really matter to you, not in that moment, what with your face on her shoulder and her sweater soft against your cheek, what with the freezing air and warm light streaming through her doorway - it's something akin to safety, understanding.
A promise. You want to say, you're the only real thing I have left, but that's not true, even; you don't have her, not really. She feels guilty. She feels bad for you. It's unbelievably pathetic, but you'll take it, you'll take anything right now, pride be damned. And you know you've wasted your last chance. You know that you've fucked things up beyond belief. You know that someday soon, you're going to do something that she'll hate you for again.
You know all this. You know it, and you'll deal with it later, the next morning or the one after that, but all you want right now is to rest. You want somewhere to lie down. You want someone to tell you that things will be alright for you, that they'll turn out okay. Not good, probably, but bearable. You want her to lie to you. She owes you that one bit of kindness, at least. You swear that it's the last thing you'll ask of her. You swear that to yourself and you know you're going to break it, but she smells like cinnamon and dusty offices and all you want is for her to say, I'll help you fix this and don't worry about what's going to happen next and I still care.
It's all you want. Just this once, you'll be good at pretending.
notes: I write Logan whenever I'm feeling really emo, guys. You might be able to tell. ;;) But, seriously, Veronica Mars fic is a personal indulgence of mine, I think. I don't write it very often, but when I do, it's quite fun.
good day
1.
This is how it will happen.
You will not have kissed her for five years.
You'll see her on a Thursday, at the edge of Neptune's borders. She will have gone to Stanford on a scholarship, book royalties, and some quick, discreet motel stake-outs between doing AP reading and breaking into houses. She's that sort of girl. She will still be that sort of girl, only older, less angry. That furious bitter hope of hers will have turned into something harder, easier to contain and hide. She will have cut her hair short again and dyed it darker, but you'll still want to bury your hands in it and pull, you'll still want to feel her mouth on yours. You won't be any smarter. You will have shaved that morning, and you'll remember that only because you'll keep wanting to scratch the side of your jaw.
It'll be one of those days where you almost believe that things have gotten better, that you are twenty-three and have a future. It'll be one of those days where you haven't thought about your father yet, where you think you've got a chance to make the twenty-four hours decent, maybe even good. You'll walk into a Starbucks and no one will recognize you. You'll meet someone new and it'll be right, normal. Nice. You won't want a cigarette or a shot of vodka. It'll be warm enough for short sleeves and you will be busy and you will have been able to forget who you are, were, almost.
It'll be one of those days that give you the smallest, sharpest piece of hope. You'll see her and it'll be like a crushing weight on your lungs; it'll be something vicious and sudden and you'll feel stupid for ever pretending to forget the edge of her mouth, the way it tightened and stilled when she was surprised and trying to hide it.
2.
"We've both got dead ex-girlfriends now. Maybe we can share our feelings. You know, establish some sort of bond."
Duncan just stares at you, like he's offended or something. He's a good boy. (And a fucking shitty friend. A liar.) He almost looks hurt by what you've said, sensibilities all bothered, and you open your mouth to say something nastier, crueler, just because you can, know how to. But looking at his face, his parted mouth, you don't. All of a sudden, you're so angry that you can't form a single spoken word. You're sitting in his $1,000 a night suite, wearing his fucking clothes, and trying to pretend that the two of you are still friends when all you want to do is punch him.
You feel like screaming. You feel like yelling, you think you're fucked up? You think you've got it bad, what with your dead sister and epilepsy and fucking lack of emotion? You haven't been my friend, not really, for two years, you haven't been my friend since Lilly died - you haven't been anything but a robot. You think you're okay but you're not, you're goddamned not. You think that I'm the crazy one. You weren't there. You're never there. And you were pissed because I fucked your girl, well, you've got her back now, you've got it all back now, and I'm still some goddamned curse that no one talks about, that no one mentions. You think you're being a good person by letting me stay here, fucking holier-than-thou. I'm pathetic, I know it or else I wouldn't be here, but I'm making you uncomfortable, at least. You don't deserve her. You don't deserve any of it. Fuck you. Fuck you. I was your best friend once. You mattered to me. Your black outs mattered to me and your stupid elections mattered to me and your fights with your parents mattered to me. Fuck you.
But you don't say anything. It's building up, you can feel the words tumbling over themselves in the back of your throat; if he does anything, says anything, it's all going to spill out and you're just waiting for it - the doorbell rings.
He gets up and walks out of the room without looking at you, and everything you wanted to say sinks back down into nothingness. You don't even have that, and for a second, you want to hurt something, you want to make someone else feel worse than you do. But it passes, and you're just left sitting on his stupid leather couch, staring at your stupid useless hands. Stupid, you keep thinking, you're so, so stupid.
3.
You hate them. You're not a murderer, but you don't really give a shit that the biker's dead, beyond the consequences that it has on you. Good for him, you think. You aren't remorseful. You're not going to talk about what a fine person he was deep down. You won't say, he was just misunderstood. It's a lie, that's what it is.
But you didn't kill him, either. Maybe it would be simpler if you did, easier, but you're innocent for once and that's something you're going to hold onto as hard as you can. It's why you grit your teeth and ask her to look into it for you; it's why you're so stubborn about digging out the truth.
They've taken everything else away, but they're not going to take this. It sounds stupid and melodramatic, but it's the only thing that keeps you going every day. Some people find it hard to keep caring, don't have the energy for it, but that's your problem, your biggest weakness. You don't know how to give up. You don't know how to stop feeling every little pinprick like a blow, don't know how to shield yourself. You try, but you're no good at it. That pisses you off sometimes.
You daydream, once in a while. About what kind of life you'd be leading if Lilly hadn't died, if things hadn't fucked up, if your father had been a better person - not a good one, necessarily, but at least better. You'd still be bitter about your parents, maybe. But you'd complain about what an asshole your father was about curfews to Duncan, and he'd roll his eyes and tell you to stop whining. You'd break up with Lilly every other month but apologize and get back together again; you'd order Chinese for two but really only steal food from her take-out carton. You'd tease Duncan relentlessly about his relationship with Veronica, but you'll like talking to her, feel weirdly reassured when she smiles at you in that way of hers, because Veronica's a good girl, a smart one. Nice. Conventionally prettier than Lilly, you'll admit, but not as bold, as bright and burning. You'd go to school and do pretty badly, spend the weekends with the three of them and make trouble all the time, but never the really serious kind. You'd be immature and self-centered, spoiled like hell and not very kind, but it would be a good life. You'd be happy, maybe.
You daydream. It hurts, but you can't turn away from it; you tell yourself that even if it had been true, if your father hadn't beat you and murdered your girlfriend, you'd probably still be as messed up as you are now. It's Neptune, after all. There are no happy stories and even if there were, you'd never be the kind of person that would end up with one.
You're not a good person, not even a nice one, and you've never been. You like making people feel bad. You like flaunting what you have, feeling superior. You don't really give a shit about orphans in Cambodia or world hunger. Those kids on the bus died. You don't know if you care. You only care about the things that affect your life, the people, and nothing else, nobody else matters.
None of this makes you feel bad, and you comfort yourself with the thought that no matter what had happened, it was pretty much inevitable that this is how your life would have turned out.
Fucked up, basically.
4.
This is how it happens.
You are eighteen and desperate - drunk, lonely, something like a constant kind of sadness pressing down on you, and on the verge of crying. You're tired. No matter how much you sleep, it feels like you've been standing on your feet and walking to nowhere for months on end.
You kiss her again. It feels like something new and her mouth opens for a second, soft and almost sweet, but then she takes a step back, her hands small and thin on your chest. There's a look on her face that's almost like heartbreak, some sort of sympathy. It looks like a sob, you think, which doesn't make that much sense, but that's what it looks like, something deep and hurting all over. It looks like a sob and you want to say something. Before you can, though, she puts her arms around you, her fingers on the nape of your neck. It's as close to tender as she'll ever be with you, something almost maternal, which is fucked up in so many ways, but it doesn't really matter to you, not in that moment, what with your face on her shoulder and her sweater soft against your cheek, what with the freezing air and warm light streaming through her doorway - it's something akin to safety, understanding.
A promise. You want to say, you're the only real thing I have left, but that's not true, even; you don't have her, not really. She feels guilty. She feels bad for you. It's unbelievably pathetic, but you'll take it, you'll take anything right now, pride be damned. And you know you've wasted your last chance. You know that you've fucked things up beyond belief. You know that someday soon, you're going to do something that she'll hate you for again.
You know all this. You know it, and you'll deal with it later, the next morning or the one after that, but all you want right now is to rest. You want somewhere to lie down. You want someone to tell you that things will be alright for you, that they'll turn out okay. Not good, probably, but bearable. You want her to lie to you. She owes you that one bit of kindness, at least. You swear that it's the last thing you'll ask of her. You swear that to yourself and you know you're going to break it, but she smells like cinnamon and dusty offices and all you want is for her to say, I'll help you fix this and don't worry about what's going to happen next and I still care.
It's all you want. Just this once, you'll be good at pretending.
notes: I write Logan whenever I'm feeling really emo, guys. You might be able to tell. ;;) But, seriously, Veronica Mars fic is a personal indulgence of mine, I think. I don't write it very often, but when I do, it's quite fun.