Title: "Whisper of You"

Rating: PG-13

Characters: Logan/Veronica

Word Count: 991

Disclaimer: I do not own Veronica Mars nor any of its characters. I don't make any money from writing fanfic. *tear*

Warnings: It's angsty and depending on how you look at it, without a happy ending. Just warning you.

Summary: They are all still caught in the ruined lives and bloodshed and no one had the chance to write the song about one that didn't come easy.

A/N: Written for the Table Challenge at the LJ community, vmfic_gameon. I tried something different. I sat down and wrote this fic start to finish using all the words in order. Crazy, I know. So it's probably a bit weird. I'm trying to climb out of my box people. Just go with it : )

A big fat kiss goes to LJ user, afrocurl, who completely bailed me out by betaing this thing last minute. She's the greatest (and not for just that either)! And you can blame LJ user, acinogan, if you don't like it. She's the one who said I should post it to begin with.


She feels like nothing more than vapor in the darkened room; his memories act as lubrication between her joints, enabling her very existence here. She watches him, studies his every feature like she's done so many other nights before. His scent wafts through the air, paralyzing her with every emotion she isn't supposed to experience and driving her to become feverish with uncontrollable desire.

His body is stretched languidly across the bed, honeyed skin creating an appealing visual harmony against the ecru-colored sheets. Much to her chagrin, a pillow sham, deep in color, partially hides the enticingly angular brawn of his chest from her view. She wants nothing more to run her hands along his torso, feel his breath hot against her neck, but her self-imposed enforcement of rules she shouldn't break leaves her to admire his beautifully sculpted body from afar.

The acknowledgement that her predilection for being nosy, having been rampant and unrestrained rather than reticent, kept her from his bed now, scorches her heart from the inside out. It's asking for too much, she knows, but the retention of her own memories, the ones of things she can not change, leaves her crying out for a second chance, for more than just fleeting visits into the happiness she's never deserved.

She watches with equal sadness and admiration as he raises to sit up and the top sheet falls away, revealing his naked form. The very same darkness that hides her presence reveals itself in his slumped shoulders, weighted by more burdens than either of them should have ever had to bear.

He pads into the bathroom, no doubt to perform his morning shaving routine, flipping the morning news on the television as he goes. Consistency never found its way into his vocabulary but something deep down had always drove him to be surprisingly predictable and methodic in his everyday habits.

She always suspected he didn't long for the old days like she did. Her pompoms and virginal softness had been replaced with a camera and hard edges, innocence driven away one large chunk at a time. He metamorphosed opposite; his once hard edges had softened, the belts replaced with freedom. The prison he'd languished in was shattered with a bullet to the skull, a tormentor's bloodshed welcomed, only to have hers grow on that very same night. They had always seemed to be moving in two different directions, one healing backwards, the other deteriorating forwards.

The silence of his bedroom is broken by the ring of his phone, the bars of Saving Abel's, "Addicted," bouncing off the surfaces, moving through her, filling the air. The jealousy within surges with the implications of that particular assigned ringtone. Despite everything, Logan belongs to her and he always will. She's given him a part of herself that she can never give another. It's too little to late, but he's it for her.

He snakes his hand around the doorframe and onto the dresser where the phone lies. His expression is neutral as he answers it, leaving no clues as to the early morning caller. She idly thinks that the desire to know everything must be genetic - after all, she'd gotten it honest. She tries to keep herself from wondering if the gene would live on; she is already strung out too far on deep regrets. It would do her no good to go there now.

In the end - always in the end because it's too hard to remember the beginnings – none of it matters. They are all still caught in the ruined lives and bloodshed and no one had the chance to write the song about one that didn't come easy. But she stops herself from going down that road, smiling at the thought of the one glowing grain of sand left amongst the rubble.

She slips unnoticed into miniature pink palace adjourning his bedroom, her heart fluttering wildly as she goes. There is a precious angel before her with soft, wispy blonde hair that has gotten longer since the last time she was here. Her chest constricts and unexplainable tears flow at the sight of the sweet little pout on the young child's face. She watches her breathe, taking in each rise and fall of her pink princess pajamas, attempting the motions right along with her.

Remorse comes full on now, as it always does. If she'd only loved enough, hadn't buried her emotions in the cellar of her heart, maybe things would have been different. If she'd only listened, only honored, only trusted, only hadn't followed that man into the dark alley. If only.

The door to the little girl's bedroom opens slowly and her father enters, newly shaven, handsomely dressed. She slides back amongst the shadows, not that it matters. He only has eyes for the sleeping beauty. He slowly approaches her, but suddenly stops in his tracks instead, looking up and around him. The air changes in an instant. She can actually feel the energy around them and by the familiar intensity in his eyes, she knows he can feel it, too. She stays completely still, leaving nary a whisper of movement in the room, waiting for him to react.

Just for a moment she thinks it has ended, he has seen her; her guise is to be over. She will be forced, gratefully, to come home - to him, to them. But as he looks over to where she stands, held up by dreams of what might have been, she unwillingly disappears, leaving nothing but a small whoosh of the curtains, hoping that all is not lost.

She promises herself next time will be different. She always does. As she watches from an impossible distance, she sees him walk to the window and pick up something sparkly and silver from the seal. Her hands immediately reach for her neck, finding it bare. Things are different already – she's no longer just a whisper.



If you feel like giving me some love in the form of a comment, I'd be very appreciative. I'm doing a lot of writing these days and believe me when I say – EVERY review helps! Thank you! Also, I'm toying around with the idea of a sequel to this one – I guess it depends on the interest ; )