headlights, highways (Logan/Veronica) R
Title: headlights, highways
Author: cartwheel_dizzy
Pairing/Characters: Logan/Veronica (plus Keith, Lamb, & Parker)
Word Count: 6,113
Rating: R
Summary: Logan hears the news about the Hearst College rapes, and sets his plan in motion.
Spoilers: Through 3x09 Spit and Eggs
Author's Note: Happy New Year, everyone! This is a fairly long Logan fic, beginning right before the end of 3x09. I didn't mean to write it in second person, but it just came out that way. The title, cut text, and breaks are all from the song "Headlights" by Dispatch. Feedback is glorious :)
leaving our shoes behind, we cross the water
It’s past three a.m. when you hit the Coronado Bridge, heading back to a lonely hotel room, your façade of a home. You dropped Wallace off and took a detour, pressed your sneaker to the gas pedal and drove off searching for something in the night. Needless to say, you haven’t found it yet. A yawn slips from your lips as you fiddle with the radio knob and tap the steering wheel at the same time. Even exhausted, you’re anything but still.
Your headlights beaming out across the pavement show you the road, and sometimes you wish life could be like that. A beacon illuminating the way home, a neon sign promising safety. The good and true path chosen for you, and laid out before your weary feet. You hate being lost, being uncertain, being burned. Lucky for you, tonight you’re d) all of the above.
You light on a station and look out over the water. With the stars above and the ocean below, it’s almost peaceful. Almost perfect - a boy, a road, a good song. Simplicity, tranquility, and everything you never had.
And then you hear the news report.
It’s a jumble of static and words, a trail of deception crackling through your speakers. Mercer. Moe. The rapes at Hearst College. Some of the pieces fit and some of them don’t, and all that matters is that somehow you let her down again.
It’s déjà vu, too. Finding out someone betrayed you, here, in this spot again. Missing a her and hating a him and nowhere to go but down.
In your head, you’re flying back through time, a year and a half has disappeared and you’re bloodied and broken, hearing the news about Lilly and your dad for the first time on this same highway. Tequila on your breath, suicide and murder on your mind, Felix’s blood on your shaking hands. The Xterra skidded clumsily in and out of lanes as you clawed at a vision of anywhere but here. Then the radio buzzed, spoiling the lies you’d been fed and the ones you chose to believe. And the night got so much worse.
Your hands don’t slip as much on the wheel this time around. Your eyes aren’t blurry from tears, your stomach isn’t curdling from alcohol, your ribs aren’t aching from bad decisions. It still hurts, though. That wicked cocktail of pain and guilt is tearing up your insides, infesting in your bones and eating away at every good feeling you’ve had since that night.
You should be immune to this disease by now, but you aren’t.
Trying to recapture your calm, you look down again at the dark waters churning below, the waves crashing one after another. The Neptune city lights are glassy on the surface of the ocean, patterns of light and dark over cycles of ebb and flow. Usually you expect to see your mother’s corpse staring back at you from the depths, but that’s not the kind of answer you’re looking for tonight.
Mercer was supposed to be your friend. Just like Beaver was supposed to be your pal and Aaron was supposed to be your dad and Lilly was supposed to be your girlfriend and your mom was supposed to live. It’s like nobody understands their roles anymore, nobody plays their parts right in the movie of your life and everyone’s as bad an actor as your parents were.
You’ve been acting, too, for Veronica’s sake. Playing a character you thought she wanted in a role you thought you needed. Two days ago, you tore up the script, walked away from her walls and her masks and her shells and every way she hides from you.
You won’t pretend tonight, and you won’t give up like you did with her. There’s no one left to impress with decency, and you’ve missed the sweet taste of revenge.
The anger builds up inside of you slowly, which is a nice change from the normal. You’re usually a powder keg ready to be sparked, a firecracker waiting to be lit off. You jump at the chance to hurt others almost as much as you jump at the chance to get hurt. And like a dive off the Coronado Bridge, it’s suicide any way you look at it. It’s masochism any way you call it.
Outside your windows, the water doesn’t seem so peaceful anymore. It looks how you feel - chaotic, turbulent, violent but cyclic. It feels like you remember - restless, angry, intense, and here we go again.
cold wind rushes down my face, smoke heats the black throat of the chimney
The autumn breeze wafting through your rolled-down windows does nothing to cool you or quell your anger. You’re filled with questions about alibis and girls with shaved heads, but only one thought is repeating in your head: is she okay?
You left Veronica at the party with Mac and the kid with the puppy-dog crush.
Is she okay?
They didn’t name her in the news report, but it doesn’t mean she wasn’t there.
Is she okay?
You can’t call her. You’re not sure which you’re more afraid of - if she did answer or if she didn’t.
Is she okay?
You call Keith instead. She’s giving her statement to Lamb, but she’s fine.
She’s okay.
Victorious once again over the criminal masterminds of Neptune, champion of girls who are broken by sex and secrets.
She’s okay.
You try and steady your voice on the phone with Keith, attempt to hide the rage that’s building inside you. He’s a good detective though, and he’s always seen through your bullshit. But it doesn’t matter.
She’s okay.
You ask him not to tell her you called. He likes you enough to respect your wishes, and even better, he dislikes you more than enough to justify keeping you away.
She’s okay. But that isn’t good enough for you. You’re mad at them first. At Mercer, mostly, because you don’t know the other kid and he never asked you to trust him, cover for him, get him out of jail.
Then you’re mad at yourself. For defending him, for clearing him, for letting him get close to her. For leaving her tonight, for running the only time she ever needed you to stay.
Next you’re mad at her. For putting herself in danger again, for refusing to let anyone help her. For being right about you and Mercer and everything, as usual.
Which brings you back to hating yourself. And then hating them. An endless cycle of passing the blame and trying to find someone to damage. You drive around aimlessly, too restless to sleep, too guilty to go to her. You reach the Grand only to turn around again, you drive by her house but you won’t go in empty-handed. You can’t just say you’re sorry again for not being there when she got hurt by someone you trusted.
(I can’t take that I hurt you when all I want to do is protect you.)
You keep driving, but thoughts aren’t being collected and redemption isn’t being sought. You park at the beach to watch the sun rise over the ocean. There’s supposed to be beauty in this, a fresh start, a new beginning. But all you see is blood-red (Lilly’s skull), orange (the fires you’ve lit), yellow (Veronica, Veronica, Veronica). All you see in the sky is traces of the mistakes you’ve made, and you’re tired of nature being a metaphor for how much your life sucks.
The wind whips around you, brisk and cold in the early morning. Your lips feel chapped and your skin feels dry and you left your jacket in the car but you won’t move to get it. It’s a vigil for nothing since the damage has already been done, but that doesn’t stop you from standing there.
You’re slouched over, hands shoved in your pockets and mind racing with ways to make it better. You don’t come up with any. You can’t solve this. But you won’t sit back and do nothing either.
As you formulate your plan, a kind of heat bubbles in your veins. Something familiar is warming your blood, something that tastes like violence and ash, bright and dark, fiery and hazy at the same time. Adrenaline speeds up your heart and passion clouds your vision, and the world dissolves into flames and smoke rings. It’s a sight you remember, it’s a task you’ve taken on before.
The horizon doesn’t hold the promise of a new beginning for you this morning. It’s a step backwards, an old pattern, a well-worn path of (self) destruction. A way to throw salt on wounds you can’t heal, a chance to break and be broken again. You’re tired of pretending to be whole and you’ve never been one to stand idly by. You know what they say - if you can’t leave it be…
Might as well make them bleed.
Someone deserves to pay for her pain, and this is a fire you’re willing to start.
the misty mist, it covers our traces, covers our faces
The rest of the morning is almost a haze of cold fury. You drive around Neptune, ready to pounce on the first cruiser you spot and trying not to think about how foolish she’d tell you this is. Nobility through stupidity, but isn’t that Logan Echolls’ M.O.? You only just escaped a murder rap, and now you’re counting on an arrest before breakfast. Spent a whole year avoiding jail and now you’re searching for a way in.
But you’re not looking for the path of righteousness anymore, white light and promises, innocence and deliverance. You need the shadows. And what better way than repetition of the past? Your history is about as dark as it gets.
The irony of smashing someone’s headlights in an attempt to avenge her does not escape you. Acts of vandalism have pinpointed your relationship, and not in a good way. A crowbar to the LeBaron in the parking lot of Dog Beach cemented your status as enemies. Setting fire to the community pool ended your romance two summers ago. Shards of a broken lamp in her living room spoke the tale of your mistakes. And the look in her eyes when you told her about the fire in Mexico was a promise you’d never be good enough.
It’s a clear morning but you can’t quite see straight when you park outside the diner. Everything’s a little foggy, shrouded in the passion of your mission. Maybe there’s something literal to that whole blind hatred thing.
The first time the crowbar collides with stiff metal, a shock reverberates through your body. A chill creeps down your spine. You start to lose yourself a little in how good this feels. The glass shatters at your feet and the hood dents with the pressure of your hate. Power, revenge, all of it is spelled out in this small act of property damage. It’s only a step, but it will get you where you need to be.
You see your face reflected in the broken glass, a splintered mask of calculating rage snapped into place over your normally boyish good looks. Ice cold veneer, secrets in your eyes, lies on the tip of your tongue, and packing a punch they’ll underestimate. You learned from the best.
That thought scares you a little, but not enough to make you stop.
You look at the debris scattered on the pavement, trying not to see ashtrays and cracked skulls, trying not to wonder if this is what he felt like. Anger mixed with betrayal, and a side of violence and sex.
This is different, though. It isn’t for you.
This is for her, for the rape victims. It’s not an act of self-preservation. The neck you risk is your own, but the motive is noble, defensive, protective. At least that’s what you tell yourself as aluminum and glass rain down on the ground and two cops rush out of the diner.
This is for her, for all of them. This is a fight against men like your father, a battle versus those who take and take, feeding off the weak and wrapping their power and desire in the quiet bodies of defenseless girls.
You don’t see your father’s face etched onto your own, the visage of a man caught up in the sick pleasure of causing pain, an expression that lacks empathy and regret. You see yourself. A misguided boy trying to take back something for victims he couldn’t save, a lost boy trying to defend the girl he can’t help but love.
we made some wrong moves along the way, oh we might have strayed
If this move is about as far from right as you can get, you can’t help but wonder why everything slides into place so perfectly. It reminds you of your old life, of a time when pieces fit together and everything worked in your favor.
You let a string of expletives fly from your mouth when they finally wrench the crowbar out of your hand and throw you in the back of the cruiser. But then you are silent, deadly quiet as you watch the seedy side of Neptune flash by the windows and wait for the moment when you can fix everything by breaking something else.
They can’t see you in the rearview mirror or they’d wonder why you’re smiling. They can’t tell they’re part of the plan. As far as they know, you’re just another angry kid, dope-smoking, cop-hating teenager with a penchant for violence. And while most of that’s true, it isn’t why you’re here.
You’re glad Lamb isn’t around when they march you in. The sheriff’s as dim as they come, but he might suspect something. He knows your history. Granted, if he did show up, you could probably distract him with something shiny, like his badge or his reflection.
They’re taking you to the holding cell, and you know the route pretty well by now. The smile slips from your face, your hands clench at your sides. They slam the gates behind you, glaring at you like they’ve won.
They don’t know the real battle is just beginning.
The bars rattle and the concrete floor beneath you seems to shake. But you are steady, you are solid. You are ready for a fight, and you see in Mercer’s face a million others who have abused and hurt her. You see your dad, you see Lamb, you see Duncan, you see Dick, you see Beaver. You see yourself. Every time you made her cry, every time that cradling her in your arms wasn’t enough to stop the pain - you take it all back with the first punch.
Your fist collides with Mercer’s jaw, and blood spurts out of his mouth, slow motion and gory like you stumbled into a Tarantino film. It takes him by surprise, and you use the extra minute to land a punch in the gut of Wallace’s curly-headed RA. He’s unconscious before you even have to try, sprawled out on the concrete and bleeding from the head, all pale skin and nervous twitches. And you get it - he’s the weak one, the one that rides in the sidecar on the evil adventures.
Mercer’s attention is focused on you again, so you shove him up against the bedpost and feel the cold metal slice into your knuckles. He staggers, and it’s then that you notice the wound in his thigh. You look up at his frightened face and see deep red gashes on his cheek.
Fingernail marks. You know who they belong to. You’ve had similar ones skating down your back from the same girl.
But like all scars, they tell a different story even if they look the same.
The smile inches its way back across your face, and he looks even more scared at its return. She did part of your job for you, fought back against him before you even showed up. And it doesn’t make you mad that you weren’t there to protect her. Instead, it makes you proud in a weird, twisted sort of way.
It doesn’t stop you from continuing to kick his ass, though.
You can tell a lot about a person from the way they fight. Weevil’s style is savage but surprisingly graceful, ruthless only to a certain point. Dick is sloppy and careless, poor form and footwork. Beaver always fought like a caged animal, getting in a few well-placed punches before ceding quietly. Your dad’s fights, even the ones outside his movies, were performances, showy and staged so he’d always come out on top.
Mercer is used to weaker victims, those who won’t or can’t or don’t fight back. He doesn’t know how to defend himself, how to hurt someone as strong or stronger than he is. He’s all about control and he’s afraid to let you have too much of it. He tries to get away from you, escape your grasp and save his pretty face instead. He’s screaming for the guards minutes after you lay into him, hoping someone will save him from a fight he can’t handle.
It occurs to you that he’s weaker than his partner, he’s just better at hiding it.
The whole thing lasts less than five minutes, but it feels like an eternity. For those moments, it doesn’t matter whether it’s bad or wrong or stupid or immature. It just matters that for once, for once, somebody in this town gets what’s coming to them. Not a quiet bullet to the head, not a speedy fall from a rooftop, not a few seconds of pain and comeuppance. Mercer and Moe get fear and powerlessness and broken bones to boot. And there is nothing wrong with that.
so long to what’s done, how come we’ve gone
The cop with the mustache and the big one who looks like a bouncer are the two that pull you off Mercer and out of the cell. Well, Bouncer Dude more so than Geraldo Wannabe, but probably because he isn’t as scared you’ll wipe the facial hair off his mug with a single punch. You’re jittery from the fight and the adrenaline, bouncing up and down on the heels of your feet as they try to restrain you. They handcuff you but it’s soon clear they have no idea what to do with you.
It doesn’t matter what happens now. It’s done, your tiny act of vengeance is complete and they can do whatever they want to you now. You’re protected by the knowledge of your small victory, shielded by your triumph, however miniscule it is.
Lamb steps out of his office, sharing parting words with a familiar-looking blonde. You recognize Parker as she turns towards you, halting as she takes in your appearance. Your knuckles are cut, and you feel a bruise swelling under your eye from one of the few punches Mercer did land. Your shirt is stretched out and inched up, exposing your abs. But mostly, she’s staring at the fact that you’re handcuffed in the middle of the sheriff’s station, wild-eyed and itching for another fight.
She doesn’t say anything, just moves towards the door silently. She spares you a glance as she leaves, and in it is a thousand words you never asked to hear. It’s fresh pain and satisfaction, it’s the shadow of tears and anguish. It’s a tacit thank you for what you’ve done, and that is what hurts the most.
You want to tell her you’re not saving anybody, you’re not fixing anything. You can’t take back what they did to her or any of those other girls. You tried. But you can’t.
You don’t deserve her appreciation, this sad but understanding look she’s giving you. It’s nice, though. You certainly won’t get even an implicit version of those words from the one girl you were trying to avenge.
Lamb’s in front of you now, listening as the deputies tell him why they can’t put you back in the holding cell. You snap back to the routine, back to the game. You break eye contact with Parker and let her walk away from you and this mess. At least someone should be able to.
You interject with a few dry comments on how the fight went down. Wouldn’t want Lamb to leave without getting the whole picture. Listen, boys, I promise I’ll go easier on them in round two…, you say and try to turn back towards the dark hallway, the cell, and the crumpled forms of your adversaries.
Shut up, Lamb grumbles, stepping towards you with a look in his eye that fails to be as menacing as he intends. He calls off the other two, sending them back to their respective desks and leaving you facing him. You meet his eye line, and it occurs to you how tired he looks. Like he’s too worn down by this night, or maybe by this town, to even make a snarky comeback.
He reaches for the keys on his buckle, sighs, and grabs your wrists. Twisting the key in the lock, he releases you from the cuffs and shoves you in the direction of the door. This isn’t for you, is all he says to your shocked expression. For once, Lamb’s incompetence and inability to uphold the law are working in your favor.
You turn back at the door, not realizing there’s a question in your eyes until he answers it.
And it sure as hell isn’t for her, he says. In a way that lets you know it is. Lamb owes the Mars family a lot of things, and you can’t help but wonder which one this repentance is for.
we’re stepping into shelter, moving out of shadow
After you leave the police station, you do what you always do when things are shit and you think you have no one to turn to. You show up on Veronica Mars’ front porch.
You’re a little battered and a little bruised, but mostly in places she can’t see. You hang back against the balcony, fingers drumming impatiently, fighting the urge to pull your jacket sleeves down and sink into the nonexistent midday shadows.
She opens the door, steady and slow, and it’s both the same and different as every other time.
You are still desperate like the first time. (I need you to find my mother.) Stubborn. (I’m not leaving.) Bruised. (Hey Veronica…) Sardonic. (You were expecting Sidney Poitier?) Wanting. (We need to talk.) You are all of those nights, all of those evenings of confession and struggle and the temperate hope that’s always tied up in the vision of her form in the door frame.
But it’s the middle of the afternoon, and there aren’t any shadows to hide in today. There’s no way to conceal your desperation, and yet no way to express it. The daylight reveals what you try to disguise. But it won’t matter if she isn’t looking at you anyways.
There’s a pause, a beat, long and silent and it might be the most the two of you have gone without touching or talking in a very long time. She doesn’t speak, just watches you, taking in the shiner under your left eye, the marks from the handcuffs, the traces of someone else’s blood on your shirt.
You don’t know how she’ll respond to your presence on her porch again. She’s been surprisingly helpful, she’s been unsurprisingly angry. She’s been your saving grace more than a few times. Sometimes she invites you in and sometimes she closes the door in your face. Sometimes you push your way inside, and sometimes she breezes past you on her way out. Once you even carried her through this same door, to a dark and empty home, to a fate she didn’t deserve.
You’ve been up all night and you look like hell, and this isn’t as effortless as you want it to be. You force sarcasm, because it’s your default coping mechanism, your way of making this easy. Of making yourself believe you aren’t bare and needy in front of her, naked in the midday California sun.
So I guess you weren’t hoping it would be me?
It comes off sounding bitter and self-indulgent, like you care more about yourself than you do about her. Exactly the opposite of why you’re here. But you’re the most truthful when you’re lying through your teeth, the most exposed when you’re trying to cover up.
You don’t know if she knows what you’ve done. The answer is most likely yes. She is Veronica Mars, after all, and you’ve never been a mystery to her.
She steps out into the light towards you, and your breath hitches when you look at her. There’s exhaustion and anger woven into her features; she looks weathered, worn, and broken. Not thrilled that she’s put more bad guys behind bars or elated that she single-handedly made the Hearst campus a safer place. She looks like you - jaded, disillusioned, and lost.
There are scrapes and bruises on her face and arms, and you have to clench your fist to keep from reaching for her.
This might be the most physically painful experience you’ve ever undergone. Your fingertips ghost over your forearms, your toes seize up in your shoes, your lip disappears under your gnawing teeth. Anything to keep you from touching her, even though you’re aching to.
You manage to breathily ask if she’s okay, trying to disguise how scared and sad you are at the sight of her.
She still doesn’t answer you, just latches her hand onto your wrist, feather light. It’s a movement that stills you, but it isn’t as intimate as it should be. Just enough to pull you through the door, not enough to pull you to her. You get it, though. Her body language is a book you’ve learned to read. She may be opening the door, she may be letting you find shelter here, but she’s still closing you off.
At least the distance is familiar and the pain is chosen this time around. It’s not the welcome you prefer, but it’s better than being left standing alone on her porch. It’s a temporary refuge in the war of your lives, and her hand on your wrist is a wound you’ll gladly bear.
our words flow from mouth to mouth to mouth, like fish seeking dark places
You tell her the whole story, because you’ve learned the hard way that lying to Veronica Mars never works out for the best. She interrupts you almost immediately, right around the headlights portion of the tale. It’s the first time she’s spoken all evening.
Old habits die hard, huh?
There’s a ghost of a smile on her face and a memory hovering between the two of you. You see sand and sunset, choppy blonde hair and a black convertible. You remember the hate and defiance in her eyes that day. All sarcasm and anger, tossing your words back at you with more bite than you’d known she could manage. None of it mattered, none of it hurt, except one thing - knowing she didn’t need you anymore.
She didn’t want an apology from a boy she once called a friend, didn’t need to hear an I’m sorry from you anymore than she needed to say her own. She and you were both realizing she didn’t want her old life back, a way into Duncan’s lap and your good graces. And if she wasn’t that girl, then you didn’t know this new Veronica at all. And the epiphany of your own futility was more painful than it should have been.
She brings you back to the present by speaking again, throwing you in a tailspin, reminding you that she is neither of those girls anymore.
Lamb didn’t keep you there, after you trashed a cruiser and beat up two of your cellmates?
Like you, she’s confused about the seemingly nice (and yet entirely illogical) action of the sheriff.
I think I’m growing on him, you say with a smile. It’s not like she’d believe you if you told her you saw guilt etched in his features. His face practically lit up with joy when they pushed me through the door in cuffs. He’s promised to decorate a special cell for me, stencil my name on the wall and everything, for next time. I expect he’s developing a fondness for me.
Ah, well, false murder accusations will do that to a relationship, she says and she’s trying to be flippant but you see past it. See the history embedded in her words, the lines of the past blurred in her present dialogue.
It’s just words, but it’s all you have left to share with her. The scene floods with seemingly insignificant speech, but there’s a deluge of meaning hidden in each phrase.
You have to hope she sees in your eyes and in your words all the things you’re incapable of actually saying. (I’m sorry he hurt you. I’m sorry I let him. I’m sorry I wasn’t there.)
It’s always the hardest thing to say to her, those two words - I’m sorry. For her, it’s those three words - I love you. In your head, they run together and end up sounding like I’m sorry I love you. But you’re not. It’s the one thing you can’t be sorry for, the one thing you’ll never say.
will i forget your face and your fluid gait? or will i, will i stare into the stillness?
You’re surprisingly motionless as you sit with her in the living room. Your feet aren’t tapping, your hands aren’t shaking. She’s taken a washcloth to your face and fists, washing away the blood you shed for her. You watch her, the way the sunlight streaks through the blinds and across her face. The hesitant delicacy of her fingertips against your skin, the smooth sway of her hips as she walks to the sink.
She fidgets under your gaze, like you shouldn’t be looking at her like this anymore. She’s uncomfortable with a you that is stoic and stable, with a you that she isn’t supposed to care about or for.
You’re soaking it all in as you stare. Every tiny motion, every inch of her body, every piece of her puzzle - you immerse yourself in it like this is the last time you’ll ever see her. It isn’t, but you need the memories to keep you alive. You saturate your body with the look and feel of hers, reveling in this temporary grace until you have to walk away again.
This isn’t sex, this isn’t even touching, but there is fleeting intimacy here. There is tenderness in her blue eyes, and compassion in your brown ones. Lust and love and happiness, everything you’ve come to realize is transient.
You observe her like you’re scared you’ll forget if you close your eyes. Like she’ll disappear if you don’t hold onto this moment, and you’ll be left gazing at darkness, at a blank slate you never wanted to erase.
this is where i miss you
As you sit across from her on the couch, you think this room has seen a lot. You remember her, small and child-like, clutching your palms and telling you about Shelly Pomroy’s party, about a night she’ll never remember and never forget. Months later, she sat across from you the same way, her hands cold in yours, telling you she couldn’t stay, ripping apart another piece of your slowly diminishing faith.
You remember lying in her arms, the same washcloth dabbing against your face like a crude awakening to the fact that you’d lost everything, and yet a warm reminder that somehow you still had her. And you remember her in your arms on graduation night, almost lifeless and definitely haunted, frail and thin on your lap like the things that had been taken from her were also physical.
You’ve missed her in a different way every time you’ve sat here, and nothing’s changed. Once, you missed the innocent sparkle in her smile and were afraid to touch her for fear of breaking what was left. Then you missed her carefree laugh and the summer you shared together, as she ended it with words that came almost too easy. On the worst night of your life, you missed a girl you both loved and the father you should have had. On the worst night of hers, you missed the father she should have been able to keep and the life she should have lived.
Each time, you’ve felt a different part of her slip away from you, another piece you were fighting to grasp and she was fighting to salvage from the wreckage that is your life and hers. Her innocence forgotten, drowned in a Solo cup and tangled in the sheets of someone else’s bed. Her smile hollowed, tainted by Lilly’s mistakes and burned at the hand of your murderous father. Her safety lost, shattered in the wreckage of your back window and scattered with the ashes of the community pool. And last, her faith destroyed, vanished like the fireball in the sky that she thought took her father.
This room is full of memories, alive with the fragments of your past. Your ghosts are here, creeping around the edges of the walls to remind you of who you are and why.
And this is where you miss her the most, even as she sits in front of you. So close but so far, the inches between you like an impassable chasm. She’s inaccessible, and your love won’t bridge the gap her lack of trust has created.
This is where you know she’ll never belong to you like you belong to her.
so much time’s been wasted, so many thoughts been lost on you
The seconds on the clock tick by, the afternoon fades as the two of you grapple with all that you’ve lost. She tells you she was scared. You tell her you were mad. The mystery unfolds itself to you, stretching through her words and leaving nothing but semantics once the tale is told.
You’re swept up in this sanctuary, even though you know you’ve already overstayed your welcome.
You wonder how much of your life you’ll spend wanting women who can’t save you from yourself, standing in the shadows behind girls who glitter and sparkle on the evening news. Counting Lilly and Veronica, that’s a third of your life so far. Throw in your mom and it’s every moment since birth.
It’s a curse you can live with, but it isn’t one you like.
Veronica’s eyes meet yours, and you know it’s time to leave. The story is finished, the credits are rolling, and her dad will be home soon.
Two days ago, you said goodbye to her in a quad packed with students. Kissed her forehead and promised her you’d never really leave, even as you walked away. In that moment, you hadn’t looked back.
Less than 72 hours later, you were back on her porch. Here you are now, and you can’t tear your eyes from hers, much less actually leave. Your heart’s breaking all over again, and hers has already begun to heal.
The keys are cool in your hands, metal against flesh, as you finally turn away from her and towards the door. The Range Rover waits for you, itching for another highway, more classic rock and melancholy, contemplation on the road.
Logan.
She whispers your name in that breathy way of hers, and it shouldn’t be enough.
But it is. It always is.
the door is open, come on inside
You’re back on the Coronado Bridge before dusk, heading in the opposite direction. White lines blur under the wheels, your foot on the gas pedal feels like freedom. The sun sets over the skyline, bleeding orange and pink across the sky. You think it’s more beautiful than the sunrise. Tomorrow promises more than today.
The radio’s off, her favorite melodies are wafting through the stereo as you stare at the sea, still half-expecting to see your mother’s reflection in the waves. With the daylight fading and the ocean whispering, it’s almost peaceful. Almost perfect - a boy, a road, a good song. Serenity and harmony and everything you’ve never known.
And then you look at the passenger seat, seeing her smiling face. And it is perfect.
She entwines her fingers in yours, truly skin to skin for the first time today.
You aren’t back together. You’re both tired of moving backwards. Instead you’re moving forwards, though you don’t know where. Grasping at a path to amnesty and momentary calm, an impermanent asylum in the twilight of another case closed.
It isn’t an anywhere but here, because she hasn’t caught every bad guy in Neptune yet. It isn’t a far, far away because Wallace and Mac would worry and her dad has already phoned twice since you left the apartment. But your life is not an escape novel or a fairy tale anyway. It’s headlights and highways, a road to nowhere unfolding amidst collisions of cracked glass and fractured light.
But if it’s her you’re crashing into, you’ll live with the damage. She’s your favorite accident.
headlights, highways, your life collides with mine
Author: cartwheel_dizzy
Pairing/Characters: Logan/Veronica (plus Keith, Lamb, & Parker)
Word Count: 6,113
Rating: R
Summary: Logan hears the news about the Hearst College rapes, and sets his plan in motion.
Spoilers: Through 3x09 Spit and Eggs
Author's Note: Happy New Year, everyone! This is a fairly long Logan fic, beginning right before the end of 3x09. I didn't mean to write it in second person, but it just came out that way. The title, cut text, and breaks are all from the song "Headlights" by Dispatch. Feedback is glorious :)
leaving our shoes behind, we cross the water
It’s past three a.m. when you hit the Coronado Bridge, heading back to a lonely hotel room, your façade of a home. You dropped Wallace off and took a detour, pressed your sneaker to the gas pedal and drove off searching for something in the night. Needless to say, you haven’t found it yet. A yawn slips from your lips as you fiddle with the radio knob and tap the steering wheel at the same time. Even exhausted, you’re anything but still.
Your headlights beaming out across the pavement show you the road, and sometimes you wish life could be like that. A beacon illuminating the way home, a neon sign promising safety. The good and true path chosen for you, and laid out before your weary feet. You hate being lost, being uncertain, being burned. Lucky for you, tonight you’re d) all of the above.
You light on a station and look out over the water. With the stars above and the ocean below, it’s almost peaceful. Almost perfect - a boy, a road, a good song. Simplicity, tranquility, and everything you never had.
And then you hear the news report.
It’s a jumble of static and words, a trail of deception crackling through your speakers. Mercer. Moe. The rapes at Hearst College. Some of the pieces fit and some of them don’t, and all that matters is that somehow you let her down again.
It’s déjà vu, too. Finding out someone betrayed you, here, in this spot again. Missing a her and hating a him and nowhere to go but down.
In your head, you’re flying back through time, a year and a half has disappeared and you’re bloodied and broken, hearing the news about Lilly and your dad for the first time on this same highway. Tequila on your breath, suicide and murder on your mind, Felix’s blood on your shaking hands. The Xterra skidded clumsily in and out of lanes as you clawed at a vision of anywhere but here. Then the radio buzzed, spoiling the lies you’d been fed and the ones you chose to believe. And the night got so much worse.
Your hands don’t slip as much on the wheel this time around. Your eyes aren’t blurry from tears, your stomach isn’t curdling from alcohol, your ribs aren’t aching from bad decisions. It still hurts, though. That wicked cocktail of pain and guilt is tearing up your insides, infesting in your bones and eating away at every good feeling you’ve had since that night.
You should be immune to this disease by now, but you aren’t.
Trying to recapture your calm, you look down again at the dark waters churning below, the waves crashing one after another. The Neptune city lights are glassy on the surface of the ocean, patterns of light and dark over cycles of ebb and flow. Usually you expect to see your mother’s corpse staring back at you from the depths, but that’s not the kind of answer you’re looking for tonight.
Mercer was supposed to be your friend. Just like Beaver was supposed to be your pal and Aaron was supposed to be your dad and Lilly was supposed to be your girlfriend and your mom was supposed to live. It’s like nobody understands their roles anymore, nobody plays their parts right in the movie of your life and everyone’s as bad an actor as your parents were.
You’ve been acting, too, for Veronica’s sake. Playing a character you thought she wanted in a role you thought you needed. Two days ago, you tore up the script, walked away from her walls and her masks and her shells and every way she hides from you.
You won’t pretend tonight, and you won’t give up like you did with her. There’s no one left to impress with decency, and you’ve missed the sweet taste of revenge.
The anger builds up inside of you slowly, which is a nice change from the normal. You’re usually a powder keg ready to be sparked, a firecracker waiting to be lit off. You jump at the chance to hurt others almost as much as you jump at the chance to get hurt. And like a dive off the Coronado Bridge, it’s suicide any way you look at it. It’s masochism any way you call it.
Outside your windows, the water doesn’t seem so peaceful anymore. It looks how you feel - chaotic, turbulent, violent but cyclic. It feels like you remember - restless, angry, intense, and here we go again.
cold wind rushes down my face, smoke heats the black throat of the chimney
The autumn breeze wafting through your rolled-down windows does nothing to cool you or quell your anger. You’re filled with questions about alibis and girls with shaved heads, but only one thought is repeating in your head: is she okay?
You left Veronica at the party with Mac and the kid with the puppy-dog crush.
Is she okay?
They didn’t name her in the news report, but it doesn’t mean she wasn’t there.
Is she okay?
You can’t call her. You’re not sure which you’re more afraid of - if she did answer or if she didn’t.
Is she okay?
You call Keith instead. She’s giving her statement to Lamb, but she’s fine.
She’s okay.
Victorious once again over the criminal masterminds of Neptune, champion of girls who are broken by sex and secrets.
She’s okay.
You try and steady your voice on the phone with Keith, attempt to hide the rage that’s building inside you. He’s a good detective though, and he’s always seen through your bullshit. But it doesn’t matter.
She’s okay.
You ask him not to tell her you called. He likes you enough to respect your wishes, and even better, he dislikes you more than enough to justify keeping you away.
She’s okay. But that isn’t good enough for you. You’re mad at them first. At Mercer, mostly, because you don’t know the other kid and he never asked you to trust him, cover for him, get him out of jail.
Then you’re mad at yourself. For defending him, for clearing him, for letting him get close to her. For leaving her tonight, for running the only time she ever needed you to stay.
Next you’re mad at her. For putting herself in danger again, for refusing to let anyone help her. For being right about you and Mercer and everything, as usual.
Which brings you back to hating yourself. And then hating them. An endless cycle of passing the blame and trying to find someone to damage. You drive around aimlessly, too restless to sleep, too guilty to go to her. You reach the Grand only to turn around again, you drive by her house but you won’t go in empty-handed. You can’t just say you’re sorry again for not being there when she got hurt by someone you trusted.
(I can’t take that I hurt you when all I want to do is protect you.)
You keep driving, but thoughts aren’t being collected and redemption isn’t being sought. You park at the beach to watch the sun rise over the ocean. There’s supposed to be beauty in this, a fresh start, a new beginning. But all you see is blood-red (Lilly’s skull), orange (the fires you’ve lit), yellow (Veronica, Veronica, Veronica). All you see in the sky is traces of the mistakes you’ve made, and you’re tired of nature being a metaphor for how much your life sucks.
The wind whips around you, brisk and cold in the early morning. Your lips feel chapped and your skin feels dry and you left your jacket in the car but you won’t move to get it. It’s a vigil for nothing since the damage has already been done, but that doesn’t stop you from standing there.
You’re slouched over, hands shoved in your pockets and mind racing with ways to make it better. You don’t come up with any. You can’t solve this. But you won’t sit back and do nothing either.
As you formulate your plan, a kind of heat bubbles in your veins. Something familiar is warming your blood, something that tastes like violence and ash, bright and dark, fiery and hazy at the same time. Adrenaline speeds up your heart and passion clouds your vision, and the world dissolves into flames and smoke rings. It’s a sight you remember, it’s a task you’ve taken on before.
The horizon doesn’t hold the promise of a new beginning for you this morning. It’s a step backwards, an old pattern, a well-worn path of (self) destruction. A way to throw salt on wounds you can’t heal, a chance to break and be broken again. You’re tired of pretending to be whole and you’ve never been one to stand idly by. You know what they say - if you can’t leave it be…
Might as well make them bleed.
Someone deserves to pay for her pain, and this is a fire you’re willing to start.
the misty mist, it covers our traces, covers our faces
The rest of the morning is almost a haze of cold fury. You drive around Neptune, ready to pounce on the first cruiser you spot and trying not to think about how foolish she’d tell you this is. Nobility through stupidity, but isn’t that Logan Echolls’ M.O.? You only just escaped a murder rap, and now you’re counting on an arrest before breakfast. Spent a whole year avoiding jail and now you’re searching for a way in.
But you’re not looking for the path of righteousness anymore, white light and promises, innocence and deliverance. You need the shadows. And what better way than repetition of the past? Your history is about as dark as it gets.
The irony of smashing someone’s headlights in an attempt to avenge her does not escape you. Acts of vandalism have pinpointed your relationship, and not in a good way. A crowbar to the LeBaron in the parking lot of Dog Beach cemented your status as enemies. Setting fire to the community pool ended your romance two summers ago. Shards of a broken lamp in her living room spoke the tale of your mistakes. And the look in her eyes when you told her about the fire in Mexico was a promise you’d never be good enough.
It’s a clear morning but you can’t quite see straight when you park outside the diner. Everything’s a little foggy, shrouded in the passion of your mission. Maybe there’s something literal to that whole blind hatred thing.
The first time the crowbar collides with stiff metal, a shock reverberates through your body. A chill creeps down your spine. You start to lose yourself a little in how good this feels. The glass shatters at your feet and the hood dents with the pressure of your hate. Power, revenge, all of it is spelled out in this small act of property damage. It’s only a step, but it will get you where you need to be.
You see your face reflected in the broken glass, a splintered mask of calculating rage snapped into place over your normally boyish good looks. Ice cold veneer, secrets in your eyes, lies on the tip of your tongue, and packing a punch they’ll underestimate. You learned from the best.
That thought scares you a little, but not enough to make you stop.
You look at the debris scattered on the pavement, trying not to see ashtrays and cracked skulls, trying not to wonder if this is what he felt like. Anger mixed with betrayal, and a side of violence and sex.
This is different, though. It isn’t for you.
This is for her, for the rape victims. It’s not an act of self-preservation. The neck you risk is your own, but the motive is noble, defensive, protective. At least that’s what you tell yourself as aluminum and glass rain down on the ground and two cops rush out of the diner.
This is for her, for all of them. This is a fight against men like your father, a battle versus those who take and take, feeding off the weak and wrapping their power and desire in the quiet bodies of defenseless girls.
You don’t see your father’s face etched onto your own, the visage of a man caught up in the sick pleasure of causing pain, an expression that lacks empathy and regret. You see yourself. A misguided boy trying to take back something for victims he couldn’t save, a lost boy trying to defend the girl he can’t help but love.
we made some wrong moves along the way, oh we might have strayed
If this move is about as far from right as you can get, you can’t help but wonder why everything slides into place so perfectly. It reminds you of your old life, of a time when pieces fit together and everything worked in your favor.
You let a string of expletives fly from your mouth when they finally wrench the crowbar out of your hand and throw you in the back of the cruiser. But then you are silent, deadly quiet as you watch the seedy side of Neptune flash by the windows and wait for the moment when you can fix everything by breaking something else.
They can’t see you in the rearview mirror or they’d wonder why you’re smiling. They can’t tell they’re part of the plan. As far as they know, you’re just another angry kid, dope-smoking, cop-hating teenager with a penchant for violence. And while most of that’s true, it isn’t why you’re here.
You’re glad Lamb isn’t around when they march you in. The sheriff’s as dim as they come, but he might suspect something. He knows your history. Granted, if he did show up, you could probably distract him with something shiny, like his badge or his reflection.
They’re taking you to the holding cell, and you know the route pretty well by now. The smile slips from your face, your hands clench at your sides. They slam the gates behind you, glaring at you like they’ve won.
They don’t know the real battle is just beginning.
The bars rattle and the concrete floor beneath you seems to shake. But you are steady, you are solid. You are ready for a fight, and you see in Mercer’s face a million others who have abused and hurt her. You see your dad, you see Lamb, you see Duncan, you see Dick, you see Beaver. You see yourself. Every time you made her cry, every time that cradling her in your arms wasn’t enough to stop the pain - you take it all back with the first punch.
Your fist collides with Mercer’s jaw, and blood spurts out of his mouth, slow motion and gory like you stumbled into a Tarantino film. It takes him by surprise, and you use the extra minute to land a punch in the gut of Wallace’s curly-headed RA. He’s unconscious before you even have to try, sprawled out on the concrete and bleeding from the head, all pale skin and nervous twitches. And you get it - he’s the weak one, the one that rides in the sidecar on the evil adventures.
Mercer’s attention is focused on you again, so you shove him up against the bedpost and feel the cold metal slice into your knuckles. He staggers, and it’s then that you notice the wound in his thigh. You look up at his frightened face and see deep red gashes on his cheek.
Fingernail marks. You know who they belong to. You’ve had similar ones skating down your back from the same girl.
But like all scars, they tell a different story even if they look the same.
The smile inches its way back across your face, and he looks even more scared at its return. She did part of your job for you, fought back against him before you even showed up. And it doesn’t make you mad that you weren’t there to protect her. Instead, it makes you proud in a weird, twisted sort of way.
It doesn’t stop you from continuing to kick his ass, though.
You can tell a lot about a person from the way they fight. Weevil’s style is savage but surprisingly graceful, ruthless only to a certain point. Dick is sloppy and careless, poor form and footwork. Beaver always fought like a caged animal, getting in a few well-placed punches before ceding quietly. Your dad’s fights, even the ones outside his movies, were performances, showy and staged so he’d always come out on top.
Mercer is used to weaker victims, those who won’t or can’t or don’t fight back. He doesn’t know how to defend himself, how to hurt someone as strong or stronger than he is. He’s all about control and he’s afraid to let you have too much of it. He tries to get away from you, escape your grasp and save his pretty face instead. He’s screaming for the guards minutes after you lay into him, hoping someone will save him from a fight he can’t handle.
It occurs to you that he’s weaker than his partner, he’s just better at hiding it.
The whole thing lasts less than five minutes, but it feels like an eternity. For those moments, it doesn’t matter whether it’s bad or wrong or stupid or immature. It just matters that for once, for once, somebody in this town gets what’s coming to them. Not a quiet bullet to the head, not a speedy fall from a rooftop, not a few seconds of pain and comeuppance. Mercer and Moe get fear and powerlessness and broken bones to boot. And there is nothing wrong with that.
so long to what’s done, how come we’ve gone
The cop with the mustache and the big one who looks like a bouncer are the two that pull you off Mercer and out of the cell. Well, Bouncer Dude more so than Geraldo Wannabe, but probably because he isn’t as scared you’ll wipe the facial hair off his mug with a single punch. You’re jittery from the fight and the adrenaline, bouncing up and down on the heels of your feet as they try to restrain you. They handcuff you but it’s soon clear they have no idea what to do with you.
It doesn’t matter what happens now. It’s done, your tiny act of vengeance is complete and they can do whatever they want to you now. You’re protected by the knowledge of your small victory, shielded by your triumph, however miniscule it is.
Lamb steps out of his office, sharing parting words with a familiar-looking blonde. You recognize Parker as she turns towards you, halting as she takes in your appearance. Your knuckles are cut, and you feel a bruise swelling under your eye from one of the few punches Mercer did land. Your shirt is stretched out and inched up, exposing your abs. But mostly, she’s staring at the fact that you’re handcuffed in the middle of the sheriff’s station, wild-eyed and itching for another fight.
She doesn’t say anything, just moves towards the door silently. She spares you a glance as she leaves, and in it is a thousand words you never asked to hear. It’s fresh pain and satisfaction, it’s the shadow of tears and anguish. It’s a tacit thank you for what you’ve done, and that is what hurts the most.
You want to tell her you’re not saving anybody, you’re not fixing anything. You can’t take back what they did to her or any of those other girls. You tried. But you can’t.
You don’t deserve her appreciation, this sad but understanding look she’s giving you. It’s nice, though. You certainly won’t get even an implicit version of those words from the one girl you were trying to avenge.
Lamb’s in front of you now, listening as the deputies tell him why they can’t put you back in the holding cell. You snap back to the routine, back to the game. You break eye contact with Parker and let her walk away from you and this mess. At least someone should be able to.
You interject with a few dry comments on how the fight went down. Wouldn’t want Lamb to leave without getting the whole picture. Listen, boys, I promise I’ll go easier on them in round two…, you say and try to turn back towards the dark hallway, the cell, and the crumpled forms of your adversaries.
Shut up, Lamb grumbles, stepping towards you with a look in his eye that fails to be as menacing as he intends. He calls off the other two, sending them back to their respective desks and leaving you facing him. You meet his eye line, and it occurs to you how tired he looks. Like he’s too worn down by this night, or maybe by this town, to even make a snarky comeback.
He reaches for the keys on his buckle, sighs, and grabs your wrists. Twisting the key in the lock, he releases you from the cuffs and shoves you in the direction of the door. This isn’t for you, is all he says to your shocked expression. For once, Lamb’s incompetence and inability to uphold the law are working in your favor.
You turn back at the door, not realizing there’s a question in your eyes until he answers it.
And it sure as hell isn’t for her, he says. In a way that lets you know it is. Lamb owes the Mars family a lot of things, and you can’t help but wonder which one this repentance is for.
we’re stepping into shelter, moving out of shadow
After you leave the police station, you do what you always do when things are shit and you think you have no one to turn to. You show up on Veronica Mars’ front porch.
You’re a little battered and a little bruised, but mostly in places she can’t see. You hang back against the balcony, fingers drumming impatiently, fighting the urge to pull your jacket sleeves down and sink into the nonexistent midday shadows.
She opens the door, steady and slow, and it’s both the same and different as every other time.
You are still desperate like the first time. (I need you to find my mother.) Stubborn. (I’m not leaving.) Bruised. (Hey Veronica…) Sardonic. (You were expecting Sidney Poitier?) Wanting. (We need to talk.) You are all of those nights, all of those evenings of confession and struggle and the temperate hope that’s always tied up in the vision of her form in the door frame.
But it’s the middle of the afternoon, and there aren’t any shadows to hide in today. There’s no way to conceal your desperation, and yet no way to express it. The daylight reveals what you try to disguise. But it won’t matter if she isn’t looking at you anyways.
There’s a pause, a beat, long and silent and it might be the most the two of you have gone without touching or talking in a very long time. She doesn’t speak, just watches you, taking in the shiner under your left eye, the marks from the handcuffs, the traces of someone else’s blood on your shirt.
You don’t know how she’ll respond to your presence on her porch again. She’s been surprisingly helpful, she’s been unsurprisingly angry. She’s been your saving grace more than a few times. Sometimes she invites you in and sometimes she closes the door in your face. Sometimes you push your way inside, and sometimes she breezes past you on her way out. Once you even carried her through this same door, to a dark and empty home, to a fate she didn’t deserve.
You’ve been up all night and you look like hell, and this isn’t as effortless as you want it to be. You force sarcasm, because it’s your default coping mechanism, your way of making this easy. Of making yourself believe you aren’t bare and needy in front of her, naked in the midday California sun.
So I guess you weren’t hoping it would be me?
It comes off sounding bitter and self-indulgent, like you care more about yourself than you do about her. Exactly the opposite of why you’re here. But you’re the most truthful when you’re lying through your teeth, the most exposed when you’re trying to cover up.
You don’t know if she knows what you’ve done. The answer is most likely yes. She is Veronica Mars, after all, and you’ve never been a mystery to her.
She steps out into the light towards you, and your breath hitches when you look at her. There’s exhaustion and anger woven into her features; she looks weathered, worn, and broken. Not thrilled that she’s put more bad guys behind bars or elated that she single-handedly made the Hearst campus a safer place. She looks like you - jaded, disillusioned, and lost.
There are scrapes and bruises on her face and arms, and you have to clench your fist to keep from reaching for her.
This might be the most physically painful experience you’ve ever undergone. Your fingertips ghost over your forearms, your toes seize up in your shoes, your lip disappears under your gnawing teeth. Anything to keep you from touching her, even though you’re aching to.
You manage to breathily ask if she’s okay, trying to disguise how scared and sad you are at the sight of her.
She still doesn’t answer you, just latches her hand onto your wrist, feather light. It’s a movement that stills you, but it isn’t as intimate as it should be. Just enough to pull you through the door, not enough to pull you to her. You get it, though. Her body language is a book you’ve learned to read. She may be opening the door, she may be letting you find shelter here, but she’s still closing you off.
At least the distance is familiar and the pain is chosen this time around. It’s not the welcome you prefer, but it’s better than being left standing alone on her porch. It’s a temporary refuge in the war of your lives, and her hand on your wrist is a wound you’ll gladly bear.
our words flow from mouth to mouth to mouth, like fish seeking dark places
You tell her the whole story, because you’ve learned the hard way that lying to Veronica Mars never works out for the best. She interrupts you almost immediately, right around the headlights portion of the tale. It’s the first time she’s spoken all evening.
Old habits die hard, huh?
There’s a ghost of a smile on her face and a memory hovering between the two of you. You see sand and sunset, choppy blonde hair and a black convertible. You remember the hate and defiance in her eyes that day. All sarcasm and anger, tossing your words back at you with more bite than you’d known she could manage. None of it mattered, none of it hurt, except one thing - knowing she didn’t need you anymore.
She didn’t want an apology from a boy she once called a friend, didn’t need to hear an I’m sorry from you anymore than she needed to say her own. She and you were both realizing she didn’t want her old life back, a way into Duncan’s lap and your good graces. And if she wasn’t that girl, then you didn’t know this new Veronica at all. And the epiphany of your own futility was more painful than it should have been.
She brings you back to the present by speaking again, throwing you in a tailspin, reminding you that she is neither of those girls anymore.
Lamb didn’t keep you there, after you trashed a cruiser and beat up two of your cellmates?
Like you, she’s confused about the seemingly nice (and yet entirely illogical) action of the sheriff.
I think I’m growing on him, you say with a smile. It’s not like she’d believe you if you told her you saw guilt etched in his features. His face practically lit up with joy when they pushed me through the door in cuffs. He’s promised to decorate a special cell for me, stencil my name on the wall and everything, for next time. I expect he’s developing a fondness for me.
Ah, well, false murder accusations will do that to a relationship, she says and she’s trying to be flippant but you see past it. See the history embedded in her words, the lines of the past blurred in her present dialogue.
It’s just words, but it’s all you have left to share with her. The scene floods with seemingly insignificant speech, but there’s a deluge of meaning hidden in each phrase.
You have to hope she sees in your eyes and in your words all the things you’re incapable of actually saying. (I’m sorry he hurt you. I’m sorry I let him. I’m sorry I wasn’t there.)
It’s always the hardest thing to say to her, those two words - I’m sorry. For her, it’s those three words - I love you. In your head, they run together and end up sounding like I’m sorry I love you. But you’re not. It’s the one thing you can’t be sorry for, the one thing you’ll never say.
will i forget your face and your fluid gait? or will i, will i stare into the stillness?
You’re surprisingly motionless as you sit with her in the living room. Your feet aren’t tapping, your hands aren’t shaking. She’s taken a washcloth to your face and fists, washing away the blood you shed for her. You watch her, the way the sunlight streaks through the blinds and across her face. The hesitant delicacy of her fingertips against your skin, the smooth sway of her hips as she walks to the sink.
She fidgets under your gaze, like you shouldn’t be looking at her like this anymore. She’s uncomfortable with a you that is stoic and stable, with a you that she isn’t supposed to care about or for.
You’re soaking it all in as you stare. Every tiny motion, every inch of her body, every piece of her puzzle - you immerse yourself in it like this is the last time you’ll ever see her. It isn’t, but you need the memories to keep you alive. You saturate your body with the look and feel of hers, reveling in this temporary grace until you have to walk away again.
This isn’t sex, this isn’t even touching, but there is fleeting intimacy here. There is tenderness in her blue eyes, and compassion in your brown ones. Lust and love and happiness, everything you’ve come to realize is transient.
You observe her like you’re scared you’ll forget if you close your eyes. Like she’ll disappear if you don’t hold onto this moment, and you’ll be left gazing at darkness, at a blank slate you never wanted to erase.
this is where i miss you
As you sit across from her on the couch, you think this room has seen a lot. You remember her, small and child-like, clutching your palms and telling you about Shelly Pomroy’s party, about a night she’ll never remember and never forget. Months later, she sat across from you the same way, her hands cold in yours, telling you she couldn’t stay, ripping apart another piece of your slowly diminishing faith.
You remember lying in her arms, the same washcloth dabbing against your face like a crude awakening to the fact that you’d lost everything, and yet a warm reminder that somehow you still had her. And you remember her in your arms on graduation night, almost lifeless and definitely haunted, frail and thin on your lap like the things that had been taken from her were also physical.
You’ve missed her in a different way every time you’ve sat here, and nothing’s changed. Once, you missed the innocent sparkle in her smile and were afraid to touch her for fear of breaking what was left. Then you missed her carefree laugh and the summer you shared together, as she ended it with words that came almost too easy. On the worst night of your life, you missed a girl you both loved and the father you should have had. On the worst night of hers, you missed the father she should have been able to keep and the life she should have lived.
Each time, you’ve felt a different part of her slip away from you, another piece you were fighting to grasp and she was fighting to salvage from the wreckage that is your life and hers. Her innocence forgotten, drowned in a Solo cup and tangled in the sheets of someone else’s bed. Her smile hollowed, tainted by Lilly’s mistakes and burned at the hand of your murderous father. Her safety lost, shattered in the wreckage of your back window and scattered with the ashes of the community pool. And last, her faith destroyed, vanished like the fireball in the sky that she thought took her father.
This room is full of memories, alive with the fragments of your past. Your ghosts are here, creeping around the edges of the walls to remind you of who you are and why.
And this is where you miss her the most, even as she sits in front of you. So close but so far, the inches between you like an impassable chasm. She’s inaccessible, and your love won’t bridge the gap her lack of trust has created.
This is where you know she’ll never belong to you like you belong to her.
so much time’s been wasted, so many thoughts been lost on you
The seconds on the clock tick by, the afternoon fades as the two of you grapple with all that you’ve lost. She tells you she was scared. You tell her you were mad. The mystery unfolds itself to you, stretching through her words and leaving nothing but semantics once the tale is told.
You’re swept up in this sanctuary, even though you know you’ve already overstayed your welcome.
You wonder how much of your life you’ll spend wanting women who can’t save you from yourself, standing in the shadows behind girls who glitter and sparkle on the evening news. Counting Lilly and Veronica, that’s a third of your life so far. Throw in your mom and it’s every moment since birth.
It’s a curse you can live with, but it isn’t one you like.
Veronica’s eyes meet yours, and you know it’s time to leave. The story is finished, the credits are rolling, and her dad will be home soon.
Two days ago, you said goodbye to her in a quad packed with students. Kissed her forehead and promised her you’d never really leave, even as you walked away. In that moment, you hadn’t looked back.
Less than 72 hours later, you were back on her porch. Here you are now, and you can’t tear your eyes from hers, much less actually leave. Your heart’s breaking all over again, and hers has already begun to heal.
The keys are cool in your hands, metal against flesh, as you finally turn away from her and towards the door. The Range Rover waits for you, itching for another highway, more classic rock and melancholy, contemplation on the road.
Logan.
She whispers your name in that breathy way of hers, and it shouldn’t be enough.
But it is. It always is.
the door is open, come on inside
You’re back on the Coronado Bridge before dusk, heading in the opposite direction. White lines blur under the wheels, your foot on the gas pedal feels like freedom. The sun sets over the skyline, bleeding orange and pink across the sky. You think it’s more beautiful than the sunrise. Tomorrow promises more than today.
The radio’s off, her favorite melodies are wafting through the stereo as you stare at the sea, still half-expecting to see your mother’s reflection in the waves. With the daylight fading and the ocean whispering, it’s almost peaceful. Almost perfect - a boy, a road, a good song. Serenity and harmony and everything you’ve never known.
And then you look at the passenger seat, seeing her smiling face. And it is perfect.
She entwines her fingers in yours, truly skin to skin for the first time today.
You aren’t back together. You’re both tired of moving backwards. Instead you’re moving forwards, though you don’t know where. Grasping at a path to amnesty and momentary calm, an impermanent asylum in the twilight of another case closed.
It isn’t an anywhere but here, because she hasn’t caught every bad guy in Neptune yet. It isn’t a far, far away because Wallace and Mac would worry and her dad has already phoned twice since you left the apartment. But your life is not an escape novel or a fairy tale anyway. It’s headlights and highways, a road to nowhere unfolding amidst collisions of cracked glass and fractured light.
But if it’s her you’re crashing into, you’ll live with the damage. She’s your favorite accident.
headlights, highways, your life collides with mine