[fic] you can't save anyone
it's like I'm physically incapable of seeing a vm prompt and not filling it ugh. especially when I have work, double ugh. But I swear this is the last thing for the longest time (it has to be, external contingencies demand it) and on the plus side, it's not long either. I'm getting better at being awful \o/ This has random sprinkling of italicized Margaret Atwood in it, though. I think it's the gorgeous ficathon title that reminded me. Also, how is this poem not L/V considering that we've had a "can we stop being so hard on each other" in canon. I mean, if i love you, is that a fact or a weapon. SERIOUSLY.
you can't save anyone
veronica mars | veronica; veronica/logan | r | 1/1
written for you think i'm not a goddess? try me.
she doesn't think she is seventeen anymore.
i exist in two places
here, and where you are.
i.
It takes her about thirteen minutes into a bottle of scotch to realize this is a bad idea.
“Veronica Mars,” her name drawled out, a catch, nothing more, “honoring the memory of your mum, then?”
He’s drunk too, obviously. Her mother is as well, somewhere, probably.
“What do you want Logan.” it is not a question. She does not ask questions she does not know the answers to.
She doesn’t mean to sound. Tired.
He looks at her far too long, far too open. She looks away first. She doesn’t mean to do that either.
ii.
If she’s judging the day by the things he says, she can never quite tell what time-frame they’re in.
It could be now; it could be two years before. It could be all the times in between.
I think I loved you.
She wouldn’t have dared to love before Lilly. Or during Lilly.
Oh, Lilly. There’s a bright, flaring ache in the center of her chest. It’s after Lilly, then.
That would be an admission if he could read her mind.
iii.
“Past tense.” His smile is ugly; feral and wild and broken. She didn't do this to him. She couldn't have.
“What?”
“Loved,” a stress on the last syllable, “past tense. Present perfect. Grammatical rules. Something like that.”
She hadn’t realized she’d said it out loud.
Dully. “If you’d bothered to show up for English once in a while, you might know.”
iv.
The problem is; she has loved him lots of times. It doesn't narrow it down.
The first time he kissed her and the next time he kissed her and there's something to be said about being seventeen and in love in the summer.
There's a lot more to be said about being seventeen and believing this is what love is.
She doesn't think she is seventeen anymore.
v.
His knuckles are bruised, she notices dimly. He's bleeding on the table. And it could be any of those times before. It could be a few times after that she's missed.
"Good night?" she asks, sharp, cutting, "you've had the time of your life?"
Everytime I've dreamed of this moment, no one writes songs about. There is something wrong with the words, but he's the one good with his tongue. She's good with her feet. The running away.
"Apart from being inside you, the best." low.
She flushes because he always does this, and he grins. It could be twelve with her knee-socks, but he's dirtier and she can't be twelve.
His hand brushes hers, she pulls hers back, abruptly.
She can feel his fingerprints all over her, inside her. It is after summer then. The second summer. She knows the planes of his chest under her hands. She knows the weight of a loaded gun and fury.
In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt.
She doesn't know why summer is their time.
vi.
"I've never," a pause, "fallen in love with a cold, heartless bitch."
He drinks.
"That's not how you play." she may be slurring her words, but she knows this. This is sense memory and Lilly's brightness and LoganandLilly and the best day of her life. "Don't be the cavalry and the martyr." This is sense memory and the coldness in his eyes and the worst day of her life.
He raises his glass in acknowledgment, "I've never fallen out of love with a cold, heartless bitch."
She waits two beats, he doesn't drink.
vii.
"How is the boyfriend?" snidely.
Duncan or Piz. But Piz is after Logan is after Duncan is after Logan is after Duncan. Duncan is the number sequence on her mirror, Piz is the list of songs on her playlist. Logan is. Logan is.
When I am lonely for boys, it is their bodies I miss. She read that last night. Highlighted it, perhaps. Deconstructed it, even.
"How is the girlfriend?" she shoots back.
"The one who left me because I'm in love with you? Or the other one who left me because I'm in love with you?"
"Present continuous." she says. She is after Lilly. She is after Hannah. She is after Parker. She is the after. He is the middle and the going back. That is sad.
"Sorry I broke your heart," she says. This could be a lot of times before.
viii.
She gives up.
"When are we?" she asks, instead.
He only laughs. A brush of his bruised knuckle against her jaw. She closes her eyes.
"Does it matter?"
She can feel his blood sinking into her skin.
ix.
Take me to your trees. Take me to your breakfasts, your sunsets, your bad dreams, your shoes, your nouns. Take me to your fingers.
She does not like that line. She didn't like it yesterday, and she doesn't like it today. There is too much want in it, too much need. She doesn't need anyone.
You never need anything.
He walks away, slow, measured; doesn't look back. She knows because she does.
x.
It's dark outside, it's always dark outside. Her hands are clammy against the neck of the bottle.
She says, "I've never."
And drinks.
you can't save anyone
veronica mars | veronica; veronica/logan | r | 1/1
written for you think i'm not a goddess? try me.
she doesn't think she is seventeen anymore.
i exist in two places
here, and where you are.
i.
It takes her about thirteen minutes into a bottle of scotch to realize this is a bad idea.
“Veronica Mars,” her name drawled out, a catch, nothing more, “honoring the memory of your mum, then?”
He’s drunk too, obviously. Her mother is as well, somewhere, probably.
“What do you want Logan.” it is not a question. She does not ask questions she does not know the answers to.
She doesn’t mean to sound. Tired.
He looks at her far too long, far too open. She looks away first. She doesn’t mean to do that either.
ii.
If she’s judging the day by the things he says, she can never quite tell what time-frame they’re in.
It could be now; it could be two years before. It could be all the times in between.
I think I loved you.
She wouldn’t have dared to love before Lilly. Or during Lilly.
Oh, Lilly. There’s a bright, flaring ache in the center of her chest. It’s after Lilly, then.
That would be an admission if he could read her mind.
iii.
“Past tense.” His smile is ugly; feral and wild and broken. She didn't do this to him. She couldn't have.
“What?”
“Loved,” a stress on the last syllable, “past tense. Present perfect. Grammatical rules. Something like that.”
She hadn’t realized she’d said it out loud.
Dully. “If you’d bothered to show up for English once in a while, you might know.”
iv.
The problem is; she has loved him lots of times. It doesn't narrow it down.
The first time he kissed her and the next time he kissed her and there's something to be said about being seventeen and in love in the summer.
There's a lot more to be said about being seventeen and believing this is what love is.
She doesn't think she is seventeen anymore.
v.
His knuckles are bruised, she notices dimly. He's bleeding on the table. And it could be any of those times before. It could be a few times after that she's missed.
"Good night?" she asks, sharp, cutting, "you've had the time of your life?"
Everytime I've dreamed of this moment, no one writes songs about. There is something wrong with the words, but he's the one good with his tongue. She's good with her feet. The running away.
"Apart from being inside you, the best." low.
She flushes because he always does this, and he grins. It could be twelve with her knee-socks, but he's dirtier and she can't be twelve.
His hand brushes hers, she pulls hers back, abruptly.
She can feel his fingerprints all over her, inside her. It is after summer then. The second summer. She knows the planes of his chest under her hands. She knows the weight of a loaded gun and fury.
In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt.
She doesn't know why summer is their time.
vi.
"I've never," a pause, "fallen in love with a cold, heartless bitch."
He drinks.
"That's not how you play." she may be slurring her words, but she knows this. This is sense memory and Lilly's brightness and LoganandLilly and the best day of her life. "Don't be the cavalry and the martyr." This is sense memory and the coldness in his eyes and the worst day of her life.
He raises his glass in acknowledgment, "I've never fallen out of love with a cold, heartless bitch."
She waits two beats, he doesn't drink.
vii.
"How is the boyfriend?" snidely.
Duncan or Piz. But Piz is after Logan is after Duncan is after Logan is after Duncan. Duncan is the number sequence on her mirror, Piz is the list of songs on her playlist. Logan is. Logan is.
When I am lonely for boys, it is their bodies I miss. She read that last night. Highlighted it, perhaps. Deconstructed it, even.
"How is the girlfriend?" she shoots back.
"The one who left me because I'm in love with you? Or the other one who left me because I'm in love with you?"
"Present continuous." she says. She is after Lilly. She is after Hannah. She is after Parker. She is the after. He is the middle and the going back. That is sad.
"Sorry I broke your heart," she says. This could be a lot of times before.
viii.
She gives up.
"When are we?" she asks, instead.
He only laughs. A brush of his bruised knuckle against her jaw. She closes her eyes.
"Does it matter?"
She can feel his blood sinking into her skin.
ix.
Take me to your trees. Take me to your breakfasts, your sunsets, your bad dreams, your shoes, your nouns. Take me to your fingers.
She does not like that line. She didn't like it yesterday, and she doesn't like it today. There is too much want in it, too much need. She doesn't need anyone.
You never need anything.
He walks away, slow, measured; doesn't look back. She knows because she does.
x.
It's dark outside, it's always dark outside. Her hands are clammy against the neck of the bottle.
She says, "I've never."
And drinks.