Fic: Parental (self) Control (Logan) R
Title: Parental (self) Control
Author: secrets_and_lie
Pairing/Character: Logan and a squalling baby
Word Count: 1284
Rating: R for curse words, mention of violence, mention of sexual situation
Summary: Him. With a kid. What a colossal, universe-bending joke.
Category: future fic
Spoilers/Warnings: If you've seen Season One, you're good
Disclaimer: I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of Veronica Mars. No copyright infringement is intended.
Note: This is my first fan fic ever, though not my first work of fiction. Please tell me what you think!
Why had he ever thought this was a good idea? "You go back to work, Veronica. I'll take care of him. I'd love that." Had he just said it to see the way her blue eyes lit from within, incandescent? Or had he really meant it? Because right now the crying - no, not crying, that was far too tame a word for it - the screaming-sobbing-wild-creature-in-pain otherworldly caterwauling, it was giving him the mother (or was that father?) of all headaches.
Him, a father. To this scrunched up, red-faced, beady-eyed thing. The result of one late night after a Battlestar Galactica marathon, Veronica so sleepy, pulling him toward her on the bed, fire and breath and shifting against each other, skin sliding against sweet skin, his fingers splayed on her back and oh, so easy to slip inside just as she reached for the condoms in the nightstand drawer, as she gasped, short and sharp, and the still-sealed condom wrapper slid from her fingers onto the rug, as he met her gaze and they both knew. A dare, the risk making the act so much more thrilling, hearts beating in time with each other, a strange kind of synchronous pulse as he clenched and orgasmed as she rocked around him as if she were him and he were her and how fucking perfect was that?
And no, that night, that glorious condom-free fuck had nothing, absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Dick had called him that afternoon to crow about how he'd knocked up his wife on their wedding night because he was such a virile stud of an amusing screwup of a boy-man, and fuck, if Dick could grow up enough to have a child of his own, why couldn't Logan do it with his sass-and-spit blonde firecracker?
Well, if he'd thought about it at all, he'd have known why not. Him. With a kid. What a colossal, universe-bending joke.
He picked the baby up from its crib. It hiccupped in surprise, maybe that was all it took? Hey, no sweat, no problem, he could handle this. Hold the baby, look, it stops crying.
Nope. Just a pause for air. A station break. A mind fuck. It was, after all, his baby, mind fuck was programmed in its genetic code. When it learned to talk, its first words would probably be sarcastic commentary. If it lived that long. If it ever stopped screaming. He rocked it against his chest and thumped its back like a Heimlich maneuver and it still wouldn't. Fucking. Shut. Up.
The wails became a siren, rattling inside his head like the worst hangover ever, like a ping-pong ball on a rampage, ripping out his eardrums and tearing his heart. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, wanted to claw out his eyes, his earlobes, his brain stem, the baby's larynx, something, anything, but now, right now, now-now-now. His fingers tightened, tendons tense and ready. That noise, that cry, the wrenching PAIN.
He looked down, surprised to find himself holding the baby at arm's length away from his body, ready to shake, ready to throw, ready to - to what? Beat a four month old innocent child? Smash its face in? Hell, why not make little pink-cheeked Jared pick out his own special torture device? There must be some belts somewhere in the house (except no, there weren't, no belts ever, he always just bought tight-waisted pants). Must be something around here he could use to become a proper torturer of a father.
Logan was shaking now, all right. Not shaking the baby, no, just quaking like some fucking palsy victim, like an old man.
No. Just. No. Not that. Not ever. No belts, whips, cigarettes, shards of glass, not even a too-sharp pencil. Never. He looked down at his son's delicate skin, almost translucent. Unmarred. The boy would inevitably grow into bruised shins and bloody lips, but not on his watch. Never on his watch.
He dumped the baby in its bassinet and staggered to the couch.
Still. The screaming. Had to stop. Or he'd lose his mind. If he hadn't already. If he could he'd grab the baby -- bassinet and all - and walk out the door of their adorable California Craftsman beach bungalow, scale the narrow cliff trail down to the sandy white beach below, walk into the cold, dark ocean water, wade in past his elbows and finally let the bassinet go to float away, a white blob bobbing on the surface of the black water.
He pictured the baby silent, pictured his tiny scrunched up face smoothing as he gazed up at the brilliant sliver of moon in the ever-cloudless Southern California night sky. Pictured the water lapping at the edges of the bassinet-boat, rocking the little creature to sleep. Pictured peace and quiet. Stillness and movement. And maybe the ghost hands of his mother would rise up out of the surf, pluck her tiny fragile grandson out of his white woven cradle, unwrap him from his blue-and-white striped flannel blanket, and cuddle him to her streaming seaweed chest, to have and to hold and to whisk away so that Logan could finally sleep, his son safely bobbing on the waves.
Veronica would kill him.
He needed a drink.
No. Veronica would kill him for that too.
When Veronica got home, they were so talking about a nanny. Full time. No, sleep-in. She could be ugly as sin (Veronica would insist on that!) but she had to be good - really really good - genius level good - with colicky banshee babies.
A sudden flash of memory, one he hadn't thought about in years: himself, five years old maybe, racing over to his mother in a big field. She was wearing a white dress with oversized yellow polka dots. He wanted to show her a toy snake he'd just gotten as a party favor. And she smiled politely and turned away, smiling at the much older producer standing next to her. The nanny came running up to apologize for letting her charge get away from her. Even now, twenty years later, the feeling wrenched him, caught at his throat. His mother, turning away, her smile belonging to someone else, some stranger with graying hair as he clutched the rubber snake in his fist and the sun beat down on his shoulders like a hammer blow. She loved him, his mother. She just never had the energy to show it.
Without conscious intent, he plucked the baby from the cradle, clutching him close to his chest. No, no nannies. Not full time, anyway. Not yet.
He found himself staring down at Jared - really looking at him, maybe for the first time. It - he - looked like every other baby in the history of the world, chunky cheeks and drool on his chin, and yet not. Something in the slant of the eyes, something in the line of the earlobe, this was a specific child. This was a hint of Veronica in the chin cleft and a whisper of himself in the curve of forehead and something else too, a premonition of a human being in the steadiness of the gaze. The boy looked up at him with black saucer eyes, seemingly transfixed at the sight of this grownup person above him, this giant with power of life and death, food and comfort. Logan swallowed.
"I'm your daddy, Jared. Get used to this face, kid, because I’m sticking around." He pitched his voice as soft as he could. Gentle, even.
And damn, but the kid stopped crying.
Author: secrets_and_lie
Pairing/Character: Logan and a squalling baby
Word Count: 1284
Rating: R for curse words, mention of violence, mention of sexual situation
Summary: Him. With a kid. What a colossal, universe-bending joke.
Category: future fic
Spoilers/Warnings: If you've seen Season One, you're good
Disclaimer: I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of Veronica Mars. No copyright infringement is intended.
Note: This is my first fan fic ever, though not my first work of fiction. Please tell me what you think!
Why had he ever thought this was a good idea? "You go back to work, Veronica. I'll take care of him. I'd love that." Had he just said it to see the way her blue eyes lit from within, incandescent? Or had he really meant it? Because right now the crying - no, not crying, that was far too tame a word for it - the screaming-sobbing-wild-creature-in-pain otherworldly caterwauling, it was giving him the mother (or was that father?) of all headaches.
Him, a father. To this scrunched up, red-faced, beady-eyed thing. The result of one late night after a Battlestar Galactica marathon, Veronica so sleepy, pulling him toward her on the bed, fire and breath and shifting against each other, skin sliding against sweet skin, his fingers splayed on her back and oh, so easy to slip inside just as she reached for the condoms in the nightstand drawer, as she gasped, short and sharp, and the still-sealed condom wrapper slid from her fingers onto the rug, as he met her gaze and they both knew. A dare, the risk making the act so much more thrilling, hearts beating in time with each other, a strange kind of synchronous pulse as he clenched and orgasmed as she rocked around him as if she were him and he were her and how fucking perfect was that?
And no, that night, that glorious condom-free fuck had nothing, absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Dick had called him that afternoon to crow about how he'd knocked up his wife on their wedding night because he was such a virile stud of an amusing screwup of a boy-man, and fuck, if Dick could grow up enough to have a child of his own, why couldn't Logan do it with his sass-and-spit blonde firecracker?
Well, if he'd thought about it at all, he'd have known why not. Him. With a kid. What a colossal, universe-bending joke.
He picked the baby up from its crib. It hiccupped in surprise, maybe that was all it took? Hey, no sweat, no problem, he could handle this. Hold the baby, look, it stops crying.
Nope. Just a pause for air. A station break. A mind fuck. It was, after all, his baby, mind fuck was programmed in its genetic code. When it learned to talk, its first words would probably be sarcastic commentary. If it lived that long. If it ever stopped screaming. He rocked it against his chest and thumped its back like a Heimlich maneuver and it still wouldn't. Fucking. Shut. Up.
The wails became a siren, rattling inside his head like the worst hangover ever, like a ping-pong ball on a rampage, ripping out his eardrums and tearing his heart. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, wanted to claw out his eyes, his earlobes, his brain stem, the baby's larynx, something, anything, but now, right now, now-now-now. His fingers tightened, tendons tense and ready. That noise, that cry, the wrenching PAIN.
He looked down, surprised to find himself holding the baby at arm's length away from his body, ready to shake, ready to throw, ready to - to what? Beat a four month old innocent child? Smash its face in? Hell, why not make little pink-cheeked Jared pick out his own special torture device? There must be some belts somewhere in the house (except no, there weren't, no belts ever, he always just bought tight-waisted pants). Must be something around here he could use to become a proper torturer of a father.
Logan was shaking now, all right. Not shaking the baby, no, just quaking like some fucking palsy victim, like an old man.
No. Just. No. Not that. Not ever. No belts, whips, cigarettes, shards of glass, not even a too-sharp pencil. Never. He looked down at his son's delicate skin, almost translucent. Unmarred. The boy would inevitably grow into bruised shins and bloody lips, but not on his watch. Never on his watch.
He dumped the baby in its bassinet and staggered to the couch.
Still. The screaming. Had to stop. Or he'd lose his mind. If he hadn't already. If he could he'd grab the baby -- bassinet and all - and walk out the door of their adorable California Craftsman beach bungalow, scale the narrow cliff trail down to the sandy white beach below, walk into the cold, dark ocean water, wade in past his elbows and finally let the bassinet go to float away, a white blob bobbing on the surface of the black water.
He pictured the baby silent, pictured his tiny scrunched up face smoothing as he gazed up at the brilliant sliver of moon in the ever-cloudless Southern California night sky. Pictured the water lapping at the edges of the bassinet-boat, rocking the little creature to sleep. Pictured peace and quiet. Stillness and movement. And maybe the ghost hands of his mother would rise up out of the surf, pluck her tiny fragile grandson out of his white woven cradle, unwrap him from his blue-and-white striped flannel blanket, and cuddle him to her streaming seaweed chest, to have and to hold and to whisk away so that Logan could finally sleep, his son safely bobbing on the waves.
Veronica would kill him.
He needed a drink.
No. Veronica would kill him for that too.
When Veronica got home, they were so talking about a nanny. Full time. No, sleep-in. She could be ugly as sin (Veronica would insist on that!) but she had to be good - really really good - genius level good - with colicky banshee babies.
A sudden flash of memory, one he hadn't thought about in years: himself, five years old maybe, racing over to his mother in a big field. She was wearing a white dress with oversized yellow polka dots. He wanted to show her a toy snake he'd just gotten as a party favor. And she smiled politely and turned away, smiling at the much older producer standing next to her. The nanny came running up to apologize for letting her charge get away from her. Even now, twenty years later, the feeling wrenched him, caught at his throat. His mother, turning away, her smile belonging to someone else, some stranger with graying hair as he clutched the rubber snake in his fist and the sun beat down on his shoulders like a hammer blow. She loved him, his mother. She just never had the energy to show it.
Without conscious intent, he plucked the baby from the cradle, clutching him close to his chest. No, no nannies. Not full time, anyway. Not yet.
He found himself staring down at Jared - really looking at him, maybe for the first time. It - he - looked like every other baby in the history of the world, chunky cheeks and drool on his chin, and yet not. Something in the slant of the eyes, something in the line of the earlobe, this was a specific child. This was a hint of Veronica in the chin cleft and a whisper of himself in the curve of forehead and something else too, a premonition of a human being in the steadiness of the gaze. The boy looked up at him with black saucer eyes, seemingly transfixed at the sight of this grownup person above him, this giant with power of life and death, food and comfort. Logan swallowed.
"I'm your daddy, Jared. Get used to this face, kid, because I’m sticking around." He pitched his voice as soft as he could. Gentle, even.
And damn, but the kid stopped crying.