Disclaimer:I don't own anything except my own imagination. The characters belong to Rob Thomas.
Logan PoV, LoVe
Rating: PG-13, I suppose
Spoilers: Set after 1x20 and the opening scene of 1x21.
Dedication: To Lizzy.
Anything dead coming back to life hurts.
Toni Morrison, Beloved
For her, on the boat, for their first official date, he waited. With each second that she didn't show up, he waited for the sound he had been expecting ever since they embarked on this crazy, catastrophic…whatever it was they had started: the sound of the other shoe dropping.
After all, it was just a matter of time; it was Veronica Mars and Logan Echolls – it was pretty much inevitable. And with the pop of the cork of the champagne bottle, over the sound of the fizzing liquid pouring all over his hands (echoing the sound of blood rushing in his ears), he heard the shoe thud to the ground.
He waited for the surprise to come. It took awhile; things had ceased to surprise Logan Echolls since he was a young boy. But it had eventually seeped through, through the buzz of champagne and the sting of rejection and the stupidity of him standing on docked boat, alone, surprise had come.
Surprise, that she'd had stood him up. Surprise that it had taken so long (too fast, so soon, too much) for them to implode.
Disappointment was next, the swift kick of it, knocking him over with the knowledge that he'd pinned his hope on her. For her. Because of her.
Panic, suddenly; he sat up straighter. Something must've happened; he thought of everything from the mundane (could she be stuck in traffic? detention?) to something more her style (a case maybe? a lead on Duncan?) to the unthinkable (no, no, not her, it wasn't an option). But then she'd have called, she wouldn't have left him hanging.
He had waited, and she wasn't there.
Then, anger. Heavy, vivid and flowing in the blood pumping through him, was that legendary Echolls temper. He was, his father's son after all. It was his cross to bear, he supposed, looking at it philosophically. The anger left him drained, too tired to think, teetering on that precarious edge of reason and madness and it had cost too much (it had taken the look on her face when he kissed her) to step back.
It was an anxiety attack in reverse, panic and then fear. That she had deliberately not shown up, that something had happened. Fear, with its wide jaw, the monster that pursued him, the one he could never keep it at bay. It was that fire that he could never bank. He was that lost boy, always, afraid of something.
He had loved Lynn because she had understood that fear; it was the part of her that she'd passed on to him (because he was half hers, too). He had loved Lilly Kane because she was fearless.
Veronica faced the fear head on.
It was the fear, he knew, that numbed him from everything else.
Ever since Lilly's murder, followed by the awful year after, deadened to the world by fear (a feat neither alcohol nor drugs could accomplish), so much that he couldn't even feel the whip of his father's belt against his back, he'd been living on the cusp of conciousness, viciously unfeeling, terribly cold.
And then his mother threw herself off a bridge.
Everything he had learned to ignore, all things he thought dead, awoke with a vengeance.
And it hurt. Gut wrenching hurt. The torment was bone deep, pain slithered into his soul, his body throbbed with age-old wounds; denial and disbelief, then grief that he hadn't let himself feel since he had heard the news of his dead girlfriend, clutched at him in a vicious vice-like grip around his heart and he broke, sobbing in the lobby of a hotel.
And she was there.
Finally, with all other options exhausted, desperation over took him; it was him. Something he did, however unconsciously, that had her running. He knew the other shoe would drop and it would be his responsibility. The destruction of their relationship would be his fault, it had to be, it was the only way.
And damn it, he'd fix it.
So he had tracked her down, a lost puppy (the sad, lost little boy), asking for a minute, afraid that she couldn't even look him in the eyes.
The helplessness turned to anger, he told her he wasn't leaving, he'd stand outside her door until she confronted him, fearless Veronica Mars, show me thy wrath.
It had worked: she had dropped her shield, brought out her sword.
Shock, guilt, incredulity, anger. She had been violated, and as the pieces of the things he had heard, of the past (it all made so much sense now, the change in her, the defense, the wall, the sarcasm, the shock of the new Veronica Mars), fell into place, he heard the deafening accusation, loud and clear.
It had spiraled, spinning, dizzying, out of control before he could grab it. He'd make it better, his heart a runaway train, thundering in his chest, he demanded to make it better.
The hurt and anger, rolling off of her, the betrayal in her eyes, overwhelmed everything he was feeling.
"…even if it was you."
He tried, to numb himself again, dead to the world, with fear, with alcohol.
And she was still right there.