Musey (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} mutinousmuse) wrote in ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} veronicamarsfic,@ 2005-09-08 21:51:00 |
|
| Entry tags: | mutinousmuse |
Fic: The New Black (Veronica, Logan) PG
Title: The New Black
Author: mutinousmuse
Pairing/Character: Veronica, Logan
Word Count: 946
Rating: PG
Summary: Veronica 1.5. Set pre-season one, shortly after Lilly’s death but before Veronica becomes Keith’s “action-figure daughter.”
Spoilers: Season One
Author's Notes: Veronica POV. Characters’ thoughts in italics. Thanks bazillions to queen_haq for the beta. Immense thanks also to the folks over at vm_betas who helped me with this piece: sexycereal, eternlscribbler, mastermia, and lizzelda. Anything in here that sucks does so because I'm not smart enough to fix the broken stuff they found.
Disclaimer: Ownage? No.
Pavlov was right. Ring a bell, and you get an automatic response. For his dogs, the response was salivation. For most high school students, the response is to jump up, rush out of the classroom, and seize the day. Right. Seize the day.
For you, the lunch bell rings and your automatic response is to wish you were dead.
Between your best friend getting her head cracked open and the rest of your friends deserting you, life has been a literal living hell this past week; you figure shuffling off this whole “mortal coil” thing can only be an improvement. The funny thing is, you’re not the one who died – Lilly is. And yet you’ve ended up in some sort of seven-levels-of-agony afterlife. Gotta love the irony.
After the last straggling student has filed out of the classroom, you stand.
Today is the day, you tell yourself as you near the lunch court. Today is the day it will not hurt.
You throw your shoulders back and smooth your hair. An old pep squad cheer echoes through your brain.
Ready? Okay!
Eyes fixed on an empty table at the far side of the quad, you begin to walk. You are prepared this time. You have a plan.
If I can’t see them, then they can’t see me.
You almost make it past the ‘09er table, eyes rigidly averted to avoid catching their attention, when a voice reaches out and grabs you, stops you, spins you.
“Veronica.”
You have a plan. You have a plan. You have a –
Logan.
You had a plan.
Shit.
Logan looks up from a crossword puzzle. He’s doing a crossword puzzle?
He smiles, the old smile, and for a second, you think you are seeing a mirage. You’ve read about them, about people lost in the desert thinking they see water right before they die. But his smile doesn’t waver, and he is looking right at you.
“Veronica, I’m so glad you’re here.” The gigantic knot that has been living in your gut begins to relax for the first time in days.
He’s not mad at me anymore. You almost start to cry.
Lilly dead, Duncan dead to you, Logan is the only one left of your group who can anchor you to, well, to yourself, really. And if he wants to do crossword puzzles with you? Bring it on. Hell, you’re up for drunken blindfolded Jenga at this point if it means that you and Logan are still friends.
You flash him a tentative smile and inch towards the lunch table. He nods, his grin widening. “Have a seat, Veronica. You’re always welcome here. Right, guys?”
He looks at the other ‘09ers, a glint in his eye. “Right, guys?” You feel protected. The fortified wall of you-can’t-touch-me that you have spent the past week erecting slips a bit, but it’s okay. He’s not mad at me anymore.
“What are you working on?” you ask.
“That’s actually why I was glad to see you,” he says. “You see, I’m stuck on this one word, and since you’re a smart girl, I figured you could help me out.”
You nod eagerly, smiling. “Okay, shoot.”
“Here goes. Four letters. First letter is ‘s.’ Synonyms are, let’s see… here we go, 34-down… Synonyms are whore, strumpet, harlot – ooh here’s a good one – trollop.” Logan looks up, smirking. “Hey Dick, can you write that down? That one’s new.”
For a moment, you can’t stand. It’s not that you don’t want to – you do. Your brain is screaming the commands to your legs. Knees, straighten. Feet, step back. Hips, rotate. But your legs are too busy laughing at you along with everyone else to notice.
“Well, Veronica? Can you think what the word might be? I can’t for the life of me put my finger on it. You know, it’s right on the tip of my tongue…” The tongue in questions pokes out of the corner of his mouth; his face is schooled into a mask of contemplation.
Your mouth opens, and nothing comes out. You are that painting, the one with the guy on the bridge – Munch? Yes, Munch. You are his screaming man.
It’s amazing the things you think about while someone rips your heart out of your chest.
He looks at you expectantly. “Can’t think of it? Hmm.”
He scratches his head, squeezes his eyes shut, looks up the left, taps his forehead. He is the son of actors, and he loves an audience.
“I’ve got it!”
He leans close to you. “It’s slut!” A tear falls down your cheek, but you are too mortified to move your hands. “I knew it would come back to me. My mother always said if it’s important, you’ll remember it, and this? This is important.”
More tears are falling unchecked. You really hate your legs.
“I knew you could help, Veronica. I mean, I looked at you, and the word was just right there.”
Dick interrupts, pen in hand. “Hey man, what was that word you wanted me to write down? I found something to write with.” He waves the pen in the air, proof.
Logan eyes cut away from you, and his face darkens. He wasn’t done yet, but the moment is lost. Every good actor has a sense of rhythm, and his has just been disrupted. He is angry, but for a second, it’s not directed at you. “Shut up, Dick.”
And finally your legs obey your commands.
Orange is the new pink. Red is the new orange. Black is the new red. Logan is the new black. This is the new Logan.
This is the new Logan.
~fin
