Where Disappointment and Regret Collide (Logan, L/Vish) R
Title: Where Disappointment and Regret Collide
Author: Lindsay
Pairing/Character: Logan. L/V, L/H, L/K, and V/D mentioned.
Word Count: 1,183
Rating: R, for Logan's lovely language.
Summary: Logan's going to get sh**faced. With each kiss from the Absolut bottle's biting mouth he thinks of a new reason.
Spoilers: This takes place sometime shortly after Ain't No Magic Mountain High Enough. So everything up to that.
Warnings: Swearing. Underage drinking.Yeah...that's about it.
Disclaimers: The title comes from a Death Cab song, since I couldn't really think of anything else and it seemed to work alright. And I don't own Logan. If I did, I definitely wouldn't be writing about him, if you know what I mean. (I'll try to refrain from winking.)
Author's note: Enormous cookies to
pumpkins_n_pups,
rogue_fangirl,
lorn86 and
yumjello01 for polishing this up for me. Also, I realize that Veronica, during this period in their relationship, would never do what she does for Logan. But it's my fic. Which means that she's going to anyway.
Logan is going to get shitfaced. He’s wanted to since he knocked on Hannah’s door and she gave him this smile, that smile, a smile like she was actually glad it was him slouching on her front porch. And he can’t even comprehend why she could possibly be happy to see him, since he's still devastated every morning he wakes up in this skin.
He’s half way there by the time he falls apart on the couch, Conan on mute, an open bottle of Absolut vodka clenched in his fist. The brilliance of Operation Shitfaced is only confirmed after Veronica waltzes into the suite and straight into Duncan’s room, sans even a casual mumble thrown in his general direction.
With each kiss from the Absolut bottle’s biting mouth he thinks of a new reason:
Because his father fucked his girlfriend then smashed an ashtray against her head. Because his mom would rather be fish food than his mother. Because ever since that day Veronica kissed him at the Camelot, that day when she saved him he saved her, his hard shell has been cracking and leaving little Logan crumbs in her wake.
Speaking of Veronica, how long ago did Duncan’s door close?
Because, though he didn’t think it was possible for anyone, she always smells good. Because of her hair, slowly smoothly slipping past his finger tips. Because Veronica’s an endless loop in his head that he’s given up trying to stop. Because with his face in her neck he was thinking maybe he could start breathing again.
Why is she still in there?
Because her name is a prayer and her lips are his sanctuary. Because all he wants to see for the rest of his life are her blue eyes, blonde hair, pink lips. Because of her flower petal skin and kisses like water, running over him, through him.
Ha. Ok, he’s definitely drunk now. He awards himself another sip, nice and long, for that last one.
There’s a hole in his heart. No, not a hole, a fucking canyon. His parents started it; every glass of wine, every overpriced Italian belt cutting through air and skin, every gin and tonic, each perfectly round cigarette blister was another pin prick in the gasping pink muscle. And then Lilly grew her own fucking canyon, but in her head. Duncan’s edges blurred until Logan had to concentrate just to know he was there. Lynn Echolls parked her red Viper on the Coronado Bridge and became one with the Pacific Ocean. Veronica… well, Veronica. He was accused of rape, murder, practically kicked to death by a leather-clad band of Mexicans, discovered that Aaron Fucking Echolls fucked his girlfriend then fucking smashed a fucking ashtray against her fucking head. Another murder. Like father like son? Veronica--take a sip, take a sip--well, Veronica again and please God, again, please just one more try. Rinse and repeat that whole murder part. And there it goes, feeble threads snapping, giving in. His fucking fumbling heart slashed, shredded, gouged out until all that remains behind his rib cage and lungs is a gaping, yawning canyon.
But it doesn’t stop there. It never quits. His heart is paper ripped to pieces, glistening red confetti, but it still doesn’t stop because he can’t stop thinking about her. Yesterday they were reviewing his case (because even though he’s innocent, even though he was proven innocent in a court of law with a judge and jury of his peers, he’s a murderer again. Enter Hannah. Reenter Veronica Mars) and suddenly she was seeing him again, not the wall behind him, not his blurry best friend, and even if it was only for a second he couldn’t breathe or think or perform any Logan Echolls sarcasm. All he could say was “I’m in completely over my head.” And she did this little half smile--could she hear his cardiac muscles tearing?--and said, “Impossible. You’re too tall.” So he added it to the Veronica montage perpetually playing behind his eyelids.
He wanted to kiss her then. Logan always wants to kiss Veronica Mars. What he wouldn’t give for a drink of her flower petal skin and kisses like water right now, or just anytime again, because he’s starting to mix his metaphors, starting to forget. He didn’t know the last time was the last time, after being the target of a drive by shooting and before burning a pool, before flinging a fucking lamp at her living room wall. Like father like son? He didn’t memorize it properly.
So instead he kisses a different blonde. Blonde that giggles and wears sparkly nail polish and can’t get anywhere near the glistening red confetti behind his lungs. She’s all the right colors in all the wrong shades. But if he squints his eyes and concentrates on silence he can almost pretend she’s his blueeyesblondehairpinklips. Almost.
Well, he’s shitfaced now, that’s for sure. Sobriety no more. Like mother like son? Congratulations, Logan, for finally establishing an obstacle you can defeat. When he notices his vodka’s half gone he remembers Veronica is still trapped in Donut’s room. He’s leaning against his best stab-in-the-back’s door before he even realizes he could stand up and turning the knob before he understands that this a bad, bad, bad idea. But what is Logan if not a series of idiotically impulsive, ridiculously stupid ideas?
Well, nothing either way, really.
The door is opened. Huh. No Veronica. No Donut either. Just the lonely bed, hungry drawers, echoing closet. Oh yeah. Duncan is gone. He’s been gone for quite a while now. His edges blurred until he disappeared, and he took his bouncing bundle of illegitimate joy with him.
When Logan says one wrong word, he’s declared World‘s Biggest Jackass. If Duncan kidnaps a baby and runs away to Mexico, he’s making the noble move. He’s a hero. A fucking martyr.
Why, for once, can’t Logan be a happy drunk? Why does he always have to be so sickeningly sentimental and self-inflicting? Why does his inebriated brain have to invent scenarios that just kill him? Hasn’t he been punished for every depraved thought he’s ever had in his life by now?
His pants are ringing. He digs the cell phone from his bottomless right pocket and flicks it open.
“Wha?”
“Logan?” Kendall. Hurray.
“Who?”
“You, idiot.”
“Still? Damn.”
“Whatever. Feel like fucking?” Ah, romantic Kendall.
“I’d rather not.”
“Since when?”
“I’m being good now.” Except for giggling sparkly nail polish smiling that smile. Where’d the vodka go?
“Ha. Ha ha.”
“That wasn’t supposed to be funny.” Damn. It’s on the other end of the world, between the sofa cushions.
“Why the hell would you want to do that? Does this have anything to do with your little school girl?”
He doesn’t ask which one. Just snaps the phone shut and stuffs it back in his pocket. He opens the refrigerator door and resists the urge to climb inside with the sole survivor of last night’s six pack and a gallon of milk and last week’s Chinese leftov--wait, milk? It shoots him an accusing glare as he hangs, lopsided, from the door. Milk is in his fridge? When did that happen?
…Blueeyesblondehairpinklips…
And suddenly he’s floating somewhere near the bottom, sun shimmering somewhere above. Unaware of when he stops and water and chlorine begins. Then lungs scream so he races bubbles to the sky, breaking at the surface. He prefers life under water, can’t even count the number of stars he’s wished would supply gills or permanently replentished oxygen tanks or something that would let him stay down there forever, in all that crisp quiet, where sky and sun and water and Logan run together. But then she’s there, saying something that he can’t hear because she’s salvation outlined in pure blue, hugged by fingers of white light, water drops tracing tan legs and beading sun-bleached eyelashes. When he closes his eyes her silhouette remains.
He trips across the world to the couch and pulls his new best friend from between the cushions. He wants to remember every second forget her. He raises the Absolut in a toast, glad for another excuse:
Because regardless of geography, she is still there. And will probably linger for quite some time.
But this excuse doesn’t work so well and instead of feeling comfortably numb and pleasantly fuzzy, he is gasping. His fingers are dialing before he can laugh at them for thinking she’ll pick up and then, holy fuck, she actually does.
“Hmph?”
What to say? Inhale. I’m sorry. Exhale.
“Logan?”
Lips crack open I need you but no sound escapes.
“Logan. It’s three fifteen. In the morning. I was sleeping. You better start saying something soon.”
Inhale. I love you. Exhale.
“I’m hanging up now.”
“There’s milk in the fridge.” He strains to keep who knows how much of a bottle of vodka from his cracking voice.
“You woke me up for that breaking news?”
“Why is milk in my refrigerator?”
“Um, because milk must be stored in cool temperatures to prevent spoilage?” Ah, smart-ass Veronica.
“How’d it get there?”
“I put it there. I figured you’d be getting sick of room service by now and some cereal would be appreciated.”
Hold the phone. “You bought me cereal?”
“Cap’n Crunch.”
Cereal. Cereal. Cereal is food. Food equals sustenance. Sustenance keeps you alive.
There are moments when Logan absolutely hates Veronica Mars. This is not one of those moments. Very far from it, in fact.
Blueblondepink wants him alive.
And he’s gasping again, glistening red confetti shuddering, choking, “I can’t breathe I can’t breathe.”
“What? Logan, why?” Concerned Veronica. He likes that one.
Ok. Deep, deep breath. Think about something else. Inhale. Exhale. Like… What is that stain on the sofa? He moves his hand away from the armrest.
“Logan, how drunk are you, exactly?”
“Shitfaced,” he informs her proudly. And in a sudden brainwave adds, “Hey. You should come over.”
“First of all, it’s nearly three thirty in the morning. I have--we have, if, you know, you’re planning on graduating sometime--school in four hours. Second, I’m really not all that interested in hosting your personal pity party.”
“No, no. Going away party. For Duncan. Duncan Kane? Remember him?”
“Mmm... Vaguely.”
“That guy. Man. He was… He…” Some dark, dusty corner of Logan's brain wonders how many of his drunken breakdowns Veronica has to witness. “I miss him.”
He doesn’t realize it was out loud until she responds quietly, “I know.”
“I miss you.”
Except that part must just exist in his mind because she’s still thinking about Donut. Damn. Why did he have to remind her of him?
“Veronica.” I'msorryIneedyouIloveyou.
“Logan.” How can his heart be collapsing if it's a fucking canyon?
“Thank you. For… the cereal.” For wanting me alive.
“You’re welcome.”
“Cap’n Crunch is my favorite.”
Silence. Logan counts. One one-thousand two one-thousand three--“I know.”
She remembers him.
He hangs up and drops the phone on his chest, leaning his head against the stained arm rest, trying to think about nothing. He glances at his room but God, it’s miles away, and he can’t crawl that far. The Absolut slips from his fingers and rolls across the floor, coming to a stop safely out of reach.
Operation Shitfaced fully accomplished, he closes his eyes, an ache where his heart should be singing Logan to sleep.
Author: Lindsay
Pairing/Character: Logan. L/V, L/H, L/K, and V/D mentioned.
Word Count: 1,183
Rating: R, for Logan's lovely language.
Summary: Logan's going to get sh**faced. With each kiss from the Absolut bottle's biting mouth he thinks of a new reason.
Spoilers: This takes place sometime shortly after Ain't No Magic Mountain High Enough. So everything up to that.
Warnings: Swearing. Underage drinking.Yeah...that's about it.
Disclaimers: The title comes from a Death Cab song, since I couldn't really think of anything else and it seemed to work alright. And I don't own Logan. If I did, I definitely wouldn't be writing about him, if you know what I mean. (I'll try to refrain from winking.)
Author's note: Enormous cookies to
pumpkins_n_pups,
rogue_fangirl,
lorn86 and
yumjello01 for polishing this up for me. Also, I realize that Veronica, during this period in their relationship, would never do what she does for Logan. But it's my fic. Which means that she's going to anyway.
Logan is going to get shitfaced. He’s wanted to since he knocked on Hannah’s door and she gave him this smile, that smile, a smile like she was actually glad it was him slouching on her front porch. And he can’t even comprehend why she could possibly be happy to see him, since he's still devastated every morning he wakes up in this skin.
He’s half way there by the time he falls apart on the couch, Conan on mute, an open bottle of Absolut vodka clenched in his fist. The brilliance of Operation Shitfaced is only confirmed after Veronica waltzes into the suite and straight into Duncan’s room, sans even a casual mumble thrown in his general direction.
With each kiss from the Absolut bottle’s biting mouth he thinks of a new reason:
Because his father fucked his girlfriend then smashed an ashtray against her head. Because his mom would rather be fish food than his mother. Because ever since that day Veronica kissed him at the Camelot, that day when she saved him he saved her, his hard shell has been cracking and leaving little Logan crumbs in her wake.
Speaking of Veronica, how long ago did Duncan’s door close?
Because, though he didn’t think it was possible for anyone, she always smells good. Because of her hair, slowly smoothly slipping past his finger tips. Because Veronica’s an endless loop in his head that he’s given up trying to stop. Because with his face in her neck he was thinking maybe he could start breathing again.
Why is she still in there?
Because her name is a prayer and her lips are his sanctuary. Because all he wants to see for the rest of his life are her blue eyes, blonde hair, pink lips. Because of her flower petal skin and kisses like water, running over him, through him.
Ha. Ok, he’s definitely drunk now. He awards himself another sip, nice and long, for that last one.
There’s a hole in his heart. No, not a hole, a fucking canyon. His parents started it; every glass of wine, every overpriced Italian belt cutting through air and skin, every gin and tonic, each perfectly round cigarette blister was another pin prick in the gasping pink muscle. And then Lilly grew her own fucking canyon, but in her head. Duncan’s edges blurred until Logan had to concentrate just to know he was there. Lynn Echolls parked her red Viper on the Coronado Bridge and became one with the Pacific Ocean. Veronica… well, Veronica. He was accused of rape, murder, practically kicked to death by a leather-clad band of Mexicans, discovered that Aaron Fucking Echolls fucked his girlfriend then fucking smashed a fucking ashtray against her fucking head. Another murder. Like father like son? Veronica--take a sip, take a sip--well, Veronica again and please God, again, please just one more try. Rinse and repeat that whole murder part. And there it goes, feeble threads snapping, giving in. His fucking fumbling heart slashed, shredded, gouged out until all that remains behind his rib cage and lungs is a gaping, yawning canyon.
But it doesn’t stop there. It never quits. His heart is paper ripped to pieces, glistening red confetti, but it still doesn’t stop because he can’t stop thinking about her. Yesterday they were reviewing his case (because even though he’s innocent, even though he was proven innocent in a court of law with a judge and jury of his peers, he’s a murderer again. Enter Hannah. Reenter Veronica Mars) and suddenly she was seeing him again, not the wall behind him, not his blurry best friend, and even if it was only for a second he couldn’t breathe or think or perform any Logan Echolls sarcasm. All he could say was “I’m in completely over my head.” And she did this little half smile--could she hear his cardiac muscles tearing?--and said, “Impossible. You’re too tall.” So he added it to the Veronica montage perpetually playing behind his eyelids.
He wanted to kiss her then. Logan always wants to kiss Veronica Mars. What he wouldn’t give for a drink of her flower petal skin and kisses like water right now, or just anytime again, because he’s starting to mix his metaphors, starting to forget. He didn’t know the last time was the last time, after being the target of a drive by shooting and before burning a pool, before flinging a fucking lamp at her living room wall. Like father like son? He didn’t memorize it properly.
So instead he kisses a different blonde. Blonde that giggles and wears sparkly nail polish and can’t get anywhere near the glistening red confetti behind his lungs. She’s all the right colors in all the wrong shades. But if he squints his eyes and concentrates on silence he can almost pretend she’s his blueeyesblondehairpinklips. Almost.
Well, he’s shitfaced now, that’s for sure. Sobriety no more. Like mother like son? Congratulations, Logan, for finally establishing an obstacle you can defeat. When he notices his vodka’s half gone he remembers Veronica is still trapped in Donut’s room. He’s leaning against his best stab-in-the-back’s door before he even realizes he could stand up and turning the knob before he understands that this a bad, bad, bad idea. But what is Logan if not a series of idiotically impulsive, ridiculously stupid ideas?
Well, nothing either way, really.
The door is opened. Huh. No Veronica. No Donut either. Just the lonely bed, hungry drawers, echoing closet. Oh yeah. Duncan is gone. He’s been gone for quite a while now. His edges blurred until he disappeared, and he took his bouncing bundle of illegitimate joy with him.
When Logan says one wrong word, he’s declared World‘s Biggest Jackass. If Duncan kidnaps a baby and runs away to Mexico, he’s making the noble move. He’s a hero. A fucking martyr.
Why, for once, can’t Logan be a happy drunk? Why does he always have to be so sickeningly sentimental and self-inflicting? Why does his inebriated brain have to invent scenarios that just kill him? Hasn’t he been punished for every depraved thought he’s ever had in his life by now?
His pants are ringing. He digs the cell phone from his bottomless right pocket and flicks it open.
“Wha?”
“Logan?” Kendall. Hurray.
“Who?”
“You, idiot.”
“Still? Damn.”
“Whatever. Feel like fucking?” Ah, romantic Kendall.
“I’d rather not.”
“Since when?”
“I’m being good now.” Except for giggling sparkly nail polish smiling that smile. Where’d the vodka go?
“Ha. Ha ha.”
“That wasn’t supposed to be funny.” Damn. It’s on the other end of the world, between the sofa cushions.
“Why the hell would you want to do that? Does this have anything to do with your little school girl?”
He doesn’t ask which one. Just snaps the phone shut and stuffs it back in his pocket. He opens the refrigerator door and resists the urge to climb inside with the sole survivor of last night’s six pack and a gallon of milk and last week’s Chinese leftov--wait, milk? It shoots him an accusing glare as he hangs, lopsided, from the door. Milk is in his fridge? When did that happen?
…Blueeyesblondehairpinklips…
And suddenly he’s floating somewhere near the bottom, sun shimmering somewhere above. Unaware of when he stops and water and chlorine begins. Then lungs scream so he races bubbles to the sky, breaking at the surface. He prefers life under water, can’t even count the number of stars he’s wished would supply gills or permanently replentished oxygen tanks or something that would let him stay down there forever, in all that crisp quiet, where sky and sun and water and Logan run together. But then she’s there, saying something that he can’t hear because she’s salvation outlined in pure blue, hugged by fingers of white light, water drops tracing tan legs and beading sun-bleached eyelashes. When he closes his eyes her silhouette remains.
He trips across the world to the couch and pulls his new best friend from between the cushions. He wants to remember every second forget her. He raises the Absolut in a toast, glad for another excuse:
Because regardless of geography, she is still there. And will probably linger for quite some time.
But this excuse doesn’t work so well and instead of feeling comfortably numb and pleasantly fuzzy, he is gasping. His fingers are dialing before he can laugh at them for thinking she’ll pick up and then, holy fuck, she actually does.
“Hmph?”
What to say? Inhale. I’m sorry. Exhale.
“Logan?”
Lips crack open I need you but no sound escapes.
“Logan. It’s three fifteen. In the morning. I was sleeping. You better start saying something soon.”
Inhale. I love you. Exhale.
“I’m hanging up now.”
“There’s milk in the fridge.” He strains to keep who knows how much of a bottle of vodka from his cracking voice.
“You woke me up for that breaking news?”
“Why is milk in my refrigerator?”
“Um, because milk must be stored in cool temperatures to prevent spoilage?” Ah, smart-ass Veronica.
“How’d it get there?”
“I put it there. I figured you’d be getting sick of room service by now and some cereal would be appreciated.”
Hold the phone. “You bought me cereal?”
“Cap’n Crunch.”
Cereal. Cereal. Cereal is food. Food equals sustenance. Sustenance keeps you alive.
There are moments when Logan absolutely hates Veronica Mars. This is not one of those moments. Very far from it, in fact.
Blueblondepink wants him alive.
And he’s gasping again, glistening red confetti shuddering, choking, “I can’t breathe I can’t breathe.”
“What? Logan, why?” Concerned Veronica. He likes that one.
Ok. Deep, deep breath. Think about something else. Inhale. Exhale. Like… What is that stain on the sofa? He moves his hand away from the armrest.
“Logan, how drunk are you, exactly?”
“Shitfaced,” he informs her proudly. And in a sudden brainwave adds, “Hey. You should come over.”
“First of all, it’s nearly three thirty in the morning. I have--we have, if, you know, you’re planning on graduating sometime--school in four hours. Second, I’m really not all that interested in hosting your personal pity party.”
“No, no. Going away party. For Duncan. Duncan Kane? Remember him?”
“Mmm... Vaguely.”
“That guy. Man. He was… He…” Some dark, dusty corner of Logan's brain wonders how many of his drunken breakdowns Veronica has to witness. “I miss him.”
He doesn’t realize it was out loud until she responds quietly, “I know.”
“I miss you.”
Except that part must just exist in his mind because she’s still thinking about Donut. Damn. Why did he have to remind her of him?
“Veronica.” I'msorryIneedyouIloveyou.
“Logan.” How can his heart be collapsing if it's a fucking canyon?
“Thank you. For… the cereal.” For wanting me alive.
“You’re welcome.”
“Cap’n Crunch is my favorite.”
Silence. Logan counts. One one-thousand two one-thousand three--“I know.”
She remembers him.
He hangs up and drops the phone on his chest, leaning his head against the stained arm rest, trying to think about nothing. He glances at his room but God, it’s miles away, and he can’t crawl that far. The Absolut slips from his fingers and rolls across the floor, coming to a stop safely out of reach.
Operation Shitfaced fully accomplished, he closes his eyes, an ache where his heart should be singing Logan to sleep.