And if I haven't already given it away

leesh_17 @ 2009-09-11T13:19:00

2009-09-11T03:50:22Z

I have a new journal at laissier

leesh_17 @ 2009-02-05T11:55:00

2009-02-05T02:05:49Z

So, I haven’t been around. I’m sorry! I’m a terrible person.
Mostly I have been keeping up to date with everyone’s posts, but I haven’t had a whole lot of time to comment, so forgive me if I haven’t said much lately.

I sprained my wrist pretty badly while being too cocky an ice-skater. Like seriously badly, as in my entire hand - from the second knuckle in all my fingers to past my wrist - was black and blue and swollen to twice its size. Ugh, it looked so horrible, for so long. But that’s pretty much all I’ve done for the last month - as well as becoming too obsessed with tennis in general and rewatching all seven seasons of Buffy.

Anywho, I have un-betaed supernatural fic. They’re not that long (like 1k each) so I’m just going to post them as they are. If you happen to find any mistakes - which is in all honesty, fairly likely - please tell me. I’m not going to cross-post them or anything, but I’d still like them to be mostly free of any glaring errors. *cringe

One is like an AU of the entire series based around the prologue of a book, and the other is an AU of the pilot wherein Sam dreams. HEH. Why do my summaries always sound so laaame.
Below is the linkage so as not to spam everyone with like three posts in ten minutes. (The links are the titles in case the orange is misleading)

Put Out the Fire On Us || gen ||

Supernatural. PG-13.
Dean, Mary, et al. Implied John/Mary. 1010.
AU. What if the supernatural didn’t exist, and Sam was taken at aged three instead. What their lives could have been like, ala The Deep End of the Ocean. For anyone who hasn’t read TDEofO, it’s insanely subjective, which is why the novel is narrated by two different characters depending on the situation.
CLEARLY NOT MINE.

&

Take My Love and Bury It (in a hole six feet deep) || implied slash ||

Supernatural. PG-13.
Sam, Dean, Jess, et al. Implied Dean/Sam. 935.
AU. What if Dean hadn’t come and gotten Sam before heading to Jericho.
Warnings: Dark themes? Most of the spoken dialogue is modified from the pilot script, and one line is a lyric. *cough. Silverchair. (You know Sam totally listened to them). *cough.
CLEARLY NOT MINE.

I am not your friend, my friend.

2008-07-31T10:49:37Z

So I haven't been around much lately. I'M SORRY GUYS. But seeing as how things are settling down at school, it shouldn't be a problem for much longer.

My classes have been sorted, and now I'm taking; Biology, Chemistry, Physics and Professional English for Medical Scientists. Both Chem and Physics have a small Maths component, but it's only one extra class a week, so I'm okay with it.

I have a lot of unfinished fic. A LOT. I'll try REALLY hard to get some finished soon. I'm just feeling a general malaise towards LIFE at this point. UGH.

p.s. Jan, there's a Edward/James snippet just for you. Lol. It's kind of OOC and ROUGH. *hides* IT'S THE VAMPIRE WAY, PEOPLE. *cough*

Also: Dead Like Me is awesome, why did I ever forget that?

We forget that the future was not yet there

2008-07-16T06:34:22Z

So, I’m finally finished with the whole HIATUS shebang. Thank GOD.

I have so much shit to tell you guys. And post. I have lots of shiny photographs of things such as; the beach near my house, my holiday snaps, my TRUCKER!cap and my Almond Tour of Renmark, SA.

Fun. IDK. ANND there is fic too. But it’s all like semi-finished, eh I’m easily distracted. You guys know this. It’s a mixed bag of Gossip Girl/Supernatural/Firefly/Gilmore Girls/Veronica Mars and WTF other shows I happened to watch anytime these holidays.

And how I long to be

2008-06-17T12:51:41Z

Dear F’list,

So, I’ve been watching a lot of Gilmore Girls lately. It makes me study because I feel so guilty about stupid Rory Gilmore and her stupid perfect 4.0 GPA and 1500 pSAT’s score and A’s in physics that I just HAVE to study or DIE of GUILT OR GUILT RELATED INJURIES. So, yes, I understand that she is a fictional character, but nothing makes me feel guiltier than watching the show and not studying.

Anyway, as much as envy Rory Gilmore, I also kind of hate her. Because of the way she acts, and how everyone still thinks she’s perfect. It’s weird and slightly petty I know, but it makes me feel better. Paris definitely deserves better scores than Rory because Paris actually LIVES for good scores, and yeah, Dean may be a little JEALOUS- but hey, Rory gives him a very big TRISTAN AND JESS shaped reasons to wig out. But everyone still thinks she’s so GOD-DAMNED PERFECT and can do NO WRONG. Eh. I like Lorelai heaps more.

Anyway, I want someone to write me a story where Dean (Jared Padelecki’s character) is actually Sam Winchester who left ‘home’ when he was 17 and went and lived in Stars Hollow for a year before he went to Stanford. Like, he got accepted early and Dean found the letter and the fight was earlier than cannon states it was. And he goes for Rory ‘cause she totally gives off ‘nice, normal, small time gal’ vibes and SAM CRAVES NORMALITY and he calls himself Dean, BECAUSE HE CAN’T NOT and then he acts like a normal guy in front of Rory until her Grandpa gets into that fight with him (circa season one) and then Dean/SAM brings out his freaky-smart utterly GEEKY side and Rory’s all, WTF!? And then her and Dean/SAM fight and Rory’s all, Ha! Look at me flirting with Jess, and then this mysterious stranger *cough DEAN WINCHESTER *cough ends up in town and Dean/SAM gets all twitchy and Rory’s like, OH NO, DEAN, I LOOOVE YOU. And Dean/SAM is all ‘sure, honey’ BUT THEN RORY CATCHES HIM MAKING OUT WITH THE GUY AGAINST A SHINY BLACK CAR AND BEING ALL POSSIVE AND HOT AND BITEY. And then he and the HOT GUY (aka. DEAN WINCHERSTER *cough) spend all their time together and laugh, and Dean/SAM is all open and fun and NOT POSSESIVE around RORY (but maybe he is around MYSTERIOUS HOT GUY) and MYSTERIOUS HOT GUY is totally all about Dean/SAM and doesn’t want a bar of Rory and they have lots of INSIDE JOKES and MYSTERIOUS STRANGER is all MOONEY EYED and IN LOOVE and Dean/SAM is all SMILEY and TOUCHEY and AT TOTAL EASE. And then Rory and Dean/SAM break-up, and Dean/SAM leaves with the MYSTERIOUS STRANGER to go to Stanford. AND THAT IS TOTALLY WHAT RORY DESERVES BECAUSE SHE NEVER APPRECIATED DEAN/SAM IN THE FIRST PLACE.

PLEASE, MAKE THIS HAPPEN. KTHNXBYE. (And bonus points if Rory goes to some inter-school thing and see’s SAM and Jessica making out. And Dean/SAM is all oh Rory, I’M HEADED FOR LAW SCHOOL AND I HAVE A SCARY GOOD GPA AND I NEVER DROPPED OUT, HOW ARE YOU? )
KTHNXBYE.

I have to go back on hiatus for a while, like another TWO WEEKS, but I really want this written, yeah? I LOVE YOU GUYS, ANND I MISS YOU ALL LIKE CRAZY.

- Leesh x

leesh_17 @ 2008-05-21T15:55:00

2008-05-21T07:06:01Z

Here is some Hamish and Andy goodness, so you can all experience why an icon is so DESPERATELY needed.

Hamish & Andy on jumping the queues at All You Can Eat buffets.

H: “It’s similar to when a mother pig lies on her side and has lots of teats for the suckling; it’s okay just to dart in to the one that you want as a clever little piglet.”

A: “Pigs don’t queue up, pigs aren’t in a queue and-”

H: “Depends on how many piglets you’ve got.”

A: *laughs* “No, that’s the worst analogy ever.”

H: “It did make me hungry for bacon.” *laughs* “Talking about pigs, talking about buffets.”

A: *laughs harder*

Hamish & Andy take calls on overly prepared elderly people.

Caller: “[My Grandmother] cooks me and my brother an extra plate of food every night, just in case we’re going to come around for dinner. But we never end up going anyway.”

A: *laughs*

H: “So, every single night there is just two extra dinners?”

Caller: “Every single night. Good Italian grandmother. She wants to make sure we eat every night. We never end up going- but she still cooks it anyway.”

H: “Hey Johnny- Is she getting on in years? Would she- Could she tell if Andy and I turned up for dinner, perhaps?”

Caller: “Uh- Well, she would be more than happy to have you around for dinner, if you want.”

A: “Well thank you, Johnny-”

H: “Stay on the line. It sounds delicious.” *laughs* “If there’s two beautiful dinners going to waste- Andy and I will be around in a flash.”

*All laugh*

Hamish & Andy give Sabra (Winner of the 3rd season of the American version of So You Think You Can Dance) a foot massage.

A: “… Hamish is offering her a foot massage- because, lets face it, everyone tries to make her dance and no one is considerate enough to say, ‘hey, let’s rest the feet’.”

Sabra: *laughs*

H: “We’ve got here some scented candles. Uh, this one is green scented and this is purple scented.”

*All laugh*

Sabra: “Purple is my favourite. I’m excited to see what it smells like.” *laughs*

A: *laughs*

H: “How good does purple smell? "

They also have awesome segments like,

'Thing's that make you go GRR'- which is where H&A pay people $1000 to do something REALLY annoying, like listen to the song #I wish I was a punk rocker# for two straight hours.

'Tell them they're dreaming'- One of the boys picks an items from the classifieds and the other has to ring the seller and try to guess what it is in 5 questions or less. The sellers don't know it's a game.

'Blast from the past'- One boy rings a random number, and tries to convince whoever answers that they have a past together, using a fake name and asking a random favour (like incubating crocodile eggs) or apologizing for something they did in the past (like cheating in a high school test).

How can you not love them? Look a their beautiful faces.

Finally,

Boys are getting their vaccinations for an over-seas trip

Nurse: "Since you last came in any new allergies, illnesses, blood transfusions- didn't fall pregnant?"

A: "I haven't. We-"

H: "No. There was a scare but..."

*both laugh*

Nurse: "Yeah?" *laughs* "But, I didn't eventuate? Oh that's good."

A: "No it was a false..."

H: "Just a little bloated."

*both laugh harder*

leesh_17 @ 2008-04-11T12:14:00

2008-04-11T02:54:25Z

I’m going home today! So FREAKEN’ excited.

Also: Porn? I SUCK HARD.

Oh, what a tangled web we weave
[Jared/Jensen NC-17]
[Warnings: Um, angst? Sorry]

It starts the way so many other, more significant things, between them start.

A stupid dare, one strategically arched eyebrow and a knowing smirk.
-

Jared’s sitting on the couch, one hand loosely encircled around a beer, the other flailing around in a story Jensen really isn’t following. He nods every now and then, knowing, after all this time, to inhale a breath whenever Jared arches his eyebrows.

He continues on only half-listening until Jared goes off on a completely irrelevant tangent, causing Jensen to finally huff out an impatient, “Jared, please.”

Jared stops suddenly, his expression slightly stunned- a little hurt. Jensen snaps his gaze up to meet Jared’s guiltily. He’s already beginning to formulate an apology for his unwarranted behaviour when he catches the slight curl to Jared’s lips. “You’re an ass.” He says instead, leaning over to slug him in the shoulder, good and hard.

Jared just slants him a grin, his empty hand reaching out to cup Jensen’s jaw. He peers into Jensen’s face intently. “S’going on with you lately? I was telling you a story about Chad, fucking Mayhem Murray, and you were just smiling and nodding like you actually cared.”

Jensen shrugs. “Maybe I never really listen to any of your stories.” He’s smirking as he says it though, one eyebrow arched in a deliberate bait.

“Oh fuck you Ackles, who’s the ass now?” Jared banters back; his smile bright, deep dimples flashing across tanned cheeks.

Jensen claps a hand down on Jared’s shoulder, rubbing it slightly when he feels the tensed muscles underneath warm cotton. “You love it.”

“Your ass? Man, despite popular opinion, it isn’t really that spectacular.”

Jensen is practically kneeling over Jared on the couch now anyway, so instead of rebutting that ridiculous statement he slides his leg across Jared’s lap, making sure he accidently brushes Jared’s crotch.

He locks his knees against Jared’s hips, dipping until he’s practically sitting on Jared’s thighs. Using his nose to tilt Jared’s face up, he mouths wetly along Jared’s jaw, hand inching up Jared’s thigh. After a long moment Jensen pulls back slightly, mouth to Jared’s ear, wriggles his hips obscenely.

“Well, Padalecki, it may not be spectacular, but it’s pretty fan-fucking-tastic.” Jensen ribs, pushing off Jared and throwing himself at the other end of couch.

Jared’s looking pretty stunned again, eyes glazed and lips spit-shinned. He sucks in a deep breath, laughs, and says, “So that’s how its gunna be now, huh?”

Jensen smirks again, pouts his lips out in faked annoyance. “Hey, you started this.”

“Yeah?” Jared questions, crawling up the couch “Then I’mma finish it too.”

Jensen reaches up, curls a hand in Jared’s shirt, “Is that right?”

Jared doesn’t answer, choosing instead to seal his lips against Jensen’s, thread a hand through his hair.

Really, Jensen thinks, that’s probably answer enough. There’s a lot that can be said about Jared Tristan Padalecki- but it can't be said that he ever backs down from a challenge.
-

It’s uncomplicated. Their thing. It’s simple. They hang out, watch football/ basketball/ baseball- whatever the hell is in season, drink beer and sometimes, when Jensen’s bored and Jared’s restless; they fuck.
It isn’t some epic fucking Lifetime movie where they dream of a commitment ceremony and a house in the Hamptons. They’re friends who sometimes exchange bodily fluids and that’s it. End of story.

Jensen’s pulling on his pants, late one Saturday night when Jared stops him with a soft, “Hey.”

He’s inching denim up sweaty thighs as Jared speaks, so he throws him a smile in wake of an actual reply, and goes back to concentrating on balancing on one leg. He never stays long at Jared’s after sex, and Jared never stay’s at his. It’s an added safety precaution so they don’t get caught out, but it suits them both fine.

Jared huffs out, “Jen.” And Jensen stops struggling with his pants, leans over and kisses Jared instead, hard and messy. He smooths a hand over Jared’s ribcage, bites the lean line of his collarbone before pulling away.

“Hate to go Jay, but…” Jensen deadpans, “You love to watch me leave.”

“Dude, seriously your ass isn’t that great.” Jared plays along; smile not quite reaching his eyes.

“You say that now, but as memory serves you were begging for it an hour ago.” Jensen retorts, finally sliding his jeans over his hips.

“Jen, I’ve -“ Jared starts, sitting up. “I uh, Sandy and I- Well we’re engaged.”

Jensen’s fingers fumble slightly on his fly, and he sucks in a surprised breath. “Oh.”

“Yeah. She just- We just- Well, it’s been four years.” Jared stumbles, mouth drawn tightly around uncomfortable words.

“No, man. Engaged? That’s awesome; it’s really…Uh, great. It’s fantastic, actually. Good, you know?” Jensen babbles, fingers still clumsily tugging at his zipper.

“Jensen-“ Jared begins, and it’s pity and concern and everything else Jensen has never wanted to hear fall from Jared’s mouth. Worst of all, Jared swings his legs over the side of his bed and starts to rise.

“Jared, it’s fine. It’s great. Congratulations man, seriously.” Jensen says quickly, backing towards the door slightly. He glances over at Jared as he picks up his shirt, sees his friend’s look of disappointment.

He approaches Jared, planning on giving him a quick celebratory hug or whatever, but his gaze catches on Jared’s bare chest, and suddenly, hugging his half-naked best friend who he had just slept with before learning of their recent engagement, proves a little too weird, even for Jensen- and he lives in fucking LA. He awkwardly shakes Jared’s hand instead, avoiding eye contact at all costs.

“Jare, man, I hav’ta go, but congratulations, yeah? I’ll see you Monday.”

Jensen shrugs on his button down, and throws Jared one last glance. His best friend is sitting on a mess of unmade sheets, head between his hands; legs splayed open across the floor.

Jensen sighs, walks over, and reaches out to circle Jared’s shoulders with his hands. “This is a good thing. You and Sandy, I mean. You’re practically the perfect couple already. And we’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

Jared looks up, surprised. He trains eyes to closely to Jensen’s face, but Jensen just bites his lip, smiles big.
Jared nods, looking tired and drawn, and Jensen leaves.

That’s the way it ends. Their thing. It’s simple and uncomplicated like that.
-

A week later, and they’re back in the exact same position, although this time both of them should know better.

Jared’s got Jensen laid out under him, one of Jared’s huge hands wrapped around his hip, the other rubbing circles against his thigh.

Jensen’s mostly silent, head tipped back against the headboard, back arched off the bed. Jared’s mouthing along the line of Jensen’s groin, and Jensen just. Can’t. Do. This. Anymore.

His lips part in an empty sigh, and he curls his fingers tighter through Jared’s hair, thumb brushing over the curve of Jared’s cheekbone. “Jesus, fuck” And, Hell, if his mother could only hear him now.

Jared rests his chin against heated skin, grinning up at Jensen. He inches his hand higher and higher up Jensen’s inner thigh, fingers still tracing soft circles. He slips his hand away though, when it brushes Jensen’s cock, kneading the outside of his thigh instead. Jensen groans loudly in frustration, and Jared uses the hand gripping his hip to pull him closer.

Jensen’s strung-out, done for, and Jared just presses his head against Jensen’s, breathes, “Jensen, God, Jense.” Like some kind of fucked up prayer. And Jensen get’s that this is goodbye, he does, but he didn’t expect it to feel so final.

He slides a hand around Jared’s neck, arches up harder against him, and Jared drops his head to the crook of Jensen’s neck, sucks a bruise to the side of Jensen’s throat.

Jared’s holding himself up on his arms, so Jensen takes the hand he has in Jared’s hair, and curls it under Jared’s forearm and around his shoulder, his legs wrapped around Jared’s waist and crossed at the ankles. The friction is almost too much, Jared’s and his skin is slick with sweat and Jensen twists his hips, his cock sliding against Jared’s almost painfully.

Jared moans at that, moving his face until his cheek is pressed against Jensen’s, and balancing his weight on one am, he presses one hand under the small of Jensen’s back, lifting Jensen until Jensen is tight against him, no space between their bodies. Jensen sighs, turns his head slightly, pressing his nose into the damp curls that frame Jared’s face.

It’s hard. It’s so fucking hard, and none of it is in the least bit simple. None of it is uncomplicated. It’s hard, and messy, and Jensen can’t fucking breathe when Jared is this close. He tightens his grip on Jared’s shoulder, careful not to leave a mark, and isn’t that just the fucking definition of irony.

Jared tenses as he comes, mumbles indecipherable words against Jensen’s skin, and Jensen follows him almost instantly, like always. His own words lie trapped behind pursed lips, bitter and heavy on his tongue.

[Says the spider to the fly, ‘Come into my tangled web. Come. Come.’ And replies the fly, ‘But alas, spider, I am already caught.’]
-

It ends the way so many other, less significant things, between them end.
-

Horribly schmoopy, almost desperate, death-fic. Yay?

2008-04-01T01:22:51Z

I haven’t made a post in a really, really long time.Yes.

I guess it’s a weird personality thing; I just have to work on things a lot before I’m ready to put them out there. It sounds good in theory, but then I just distracted and never finish them anyway. Which is why I totally blanked on the assignment time and therefore handed mine in late.
ME? EPIC LOSE.

ALSO: ADELAIDE’S PUBLIC TRANSPORT SYSTEM BLOWS HARD.

Anywho, I also wrote some fic yesterday for rose_janice- wow this is really becoming a trend, huh? You probably shouldn’t encourage my STALKING tendencies anymore. Yis.

It isn’t beta’d or anything- And Jess, honey, I don’t know if I want you to read it because it is maybe, possibly, Wincest and I’d like you to keep an untarnished image of me in your head, but it’s okay if you do.

Title: And never comes, but shakes the boards and rattles all the doors.
Author: Aleesha
Character / Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC 17
Word Count: ~1800
Spoilers: '3x04- I think! Lol.'
Summary: Pretty much just angsting over Dean's deal
Warnings: Uh, major and minor character death.

I’m not really sure if like it, ‘cause it took me like an hour to write, and some parts I got bored with. It’s also horribly schmoopy in a desperate, death-fic’y kind of way.

Hmm.

The idea for this was basically stolen from some meme that was circulating a while ago, one where you put your Itunes on shuffle and write the first line of the first ten songs.

I cheated a little, and just picked a line from anywhere inside the songs instead.

Oh, how they have fallen.

Just read it before I put you completely off. Lol.

The lyrics are the lines throughout the story that are italicized.

PEE ESS- I pretty much ignored most of the story lines and arcs from season three. Ruby and Bela ARE still included. This makes people HAPPY n/n?

People like it when the boys just jump each other without any witty and well thought out dialogue, yes? On second thoughts, that should probably serve as a warning.

And this is the way we go

After it has all gone down. After the Demon is dead, and the deal is done. Afterwards, Dean and Sam lay across the hood of the Impala, backs pressed against the windshield, glass cool even through their jackets.

They sit in silence, awkwardly comfortable, alcohol drowning the questions in Sam’s throat.

Dean’s breath is audible. Sam thinks he may have cracked a rib when the Demon threw him against the gravestone, but Dean won’t let him look. He watches anyway. Sees the way Dean’s chest rises and falls. And falls. And falls.

366 days he thinks. 366 sunsets and 366. Three hundred and sixty-six.

Dean coughs, cold air rattling in his chest. ‘Sam,’ he says ‘Hey.’

Sam turns his head, fixes his gaze on the field in front of them instead.

‘Sammy,’ Dean tries again, because he can’t ever just stop. ‘You’ll be okay; you can go back to school. You’ll be alright, you’ll see.” He nods; Sam can see it in his peripheral vision. Dean is just out of sight but he’s still there. ‘You’ll see.’

‘I really won’t’ Sam laughs, a little hysterically. ‘I won’t.’

‘Sam, please. Come on. You were fine when you went to college, and you’ll be okay now.’ And Dean really isn’t above begging, not over this.

‘I didn’t cope all that well at the start of college, Dean, and oh, how about the fact that you weren’t fucking dead. Maybe that made things just a little easier.’ Sam says snidely, not pulling any punches now that Dean is being so unreasonable.

‘Drop it.’ Dean says, clenching pale fingers around the neck of his beer. They look like bone, Sam thinks stupidly, and soon they will be. And soon. And soon.

‘How the fuck are you so blasé about this Dean? This is on me.’

‘Don’t you think I get that?’ Dean questions sharply, voice loud in the emptiness that shrouds them. ‘I think out of everyone I fucking understand that best, but I couldn’t just let you die.’

‘Then how,’ Sam asks evenly, ‘can you just expect me to let you.’

And I can’t listen to all your reasons why

Months later, and Dean is still trying to convince Sam why he did what he did.

‘Sam I don’t regret this. I won’t. I want to do this. Want to save you.’ Dean murmurs, as they drive down a straight stretch of road.

Sam has an arm thrown across his face, and it muffles his voice when he huffs out a strained, ‘Dean. Please.’

Dean sucks in a breath, says ‘Sammy’ like it hurts. ‘It was my choice.’

Sam pulls his arm away, and turns to face Dean.

‘Then you really don’t need my approval,’ Sam says, slanting him a hard look, ‘now, do you.’

A walking corpse, like me, like you

In the end, it plays out exactly how Dean had always said it would. Ruby has a hidden agenda and sells them out for the chance to be human again.

Sam would be angry, but she played them expertly, knowing their biggest weaknesses were each other. She got to Sam by lying and saying she could save Dean, and she got to Dean by saying she would take care of Sam.

Sam feels sickly satisfied when she gets her way and becomes human only to bleed out from the gunshot Bobby had given her, all that time ago.

Bela comes through for them, also just like Dean had predicted, because she truly was a whore. And all whores have a price, however high, and never say no.

She sells them the Colt back, and they sweeten the pot with some of Bobby’s spell books, hiding a tracker in the dusty spines. She smiles when they double-cross her; saying at least she taught them something- hopes they find a way to save Dean.

Dean hugs her when they leave; Sam’s still a little bitter over the whole shooting thing, and offers her a casual wave instead.

Sam reads. And reads. And reads. But he doesn’t find an answer anywhere.

Twenty-four failures from twenty-four tries

Dean sits Sam down one day, when Sam has stopped counting time because it hurts too much to breathe the words.

‘Sammy, I saw you after. After Jess.’ He begins, and Sam has already shut his eyes. ‘I was there. And I. Well you can be sad, okay? You can be sad for a little while, but then.’ Dean pauses, breathes, flexes his fingers against the motel bed sheets. ‘Could you be happy? Can you be okay for me, please? I need.’ Dean’s voice cracks over the quiet words, splinters and shatters over painful syllables.

Sam sits Indian style on the bed, knee’s barely touching Deans, as Dean kneels over him, hands circled around Sam’s shoulders. Dean’s forehead is pressed against Sam’s, but he keeps his eyes closed. Sam doesn’t speak. Barely moves. Inhales. Exhales. Turns his hands over, palms facing the ceiling in a silent question.

He imagines he can catch Dean’s pleas on his flesh. That he can wrap them like a blanket around his tired bones. Wear them like a second skin.

‘You got over Jess.’ Dean presses, and Sam has had enough of this bullshit, so he pulls away from Dean roughly, and scrambles off the bed.

He grabs his coat from the bench, and paces the length of the room before spinning on heels to face Dean, rough carpet scrapping his bare feet. Dean is a step behind him, and Sam grabs him and shoves him against the opposite wall, Dean’s head smacking painfully against the stained wallpaper.

‘Fuck you. Fuck you. I loved her- God, I loved her- she was. Was.’

Dean’s eyes slide shut at that, a grimace flittering across his sad smile until he composes his features into a mask of indifference. ‘I know, Sammy, I know.’

Sam presses his arm across Dean’s shoulders, holding him against the wall, feels his heart beat flutter across his skin.

‘No, you really don’t. You don’t. Fuck.’

Sam wedges his elbow harder into Dean’s chest, digging it into his shoulder painfully.

‘She was. But Dean, man, you. You. You save me every time; you forgive me for anything- even when I don’t want it. You’re everything. Every single thing I have left. You.’

Sam’s breath is hitching in his throat, messy, like the sobs are being torn from his chest. He pulls away slightly, holding Dean up against the wall with just one large hand splayed across his ribcage.

‘You promised. Jesus, fuck. You said you would have to bury us. You said. You said. ButI’m twenty fucking four. I shouldn’t have to bury my entire family at twenty-four.’

Sam’s crying openly now, hand slipping from Dean’s chest as he scrubs the tears from his face.

Dean slides to the floor without the constant pressure of Sam to hold him up, looking stunned.
Sam sinks to his knees in front of him, an echo of their earlier positions.

‘Dean could you just live. For me? Could you just try to live for me, ‘cause I don’t think I could live without you. Please, for me? Please.’

I only want sympathy in the form of you crawling into bed with me

Sam crawls up Dean’s body. And fuck, they’re brothers. Brothers. But the truth of that got buried with their parents. And Dean is his everything. So Sam kisses him, grips the sides of Dean’s face with shaking fingertips and breathes. Breathes, ‘Please, please.’ wetly into Dean’s open mouth. He isn’t really surprised when Dean kisses him back hard, because Dean has never refused him anything he truly wanted. And Sam needs this. What the fuck does it matter anyway? Dean’s already going to Hell, and Sam just wants to sink into Dean’s skin. Climb into Dean’s chest.

They’re both already going to Hell. And soon. And soon.

And If I fail, and if I fail

Sam wraps himself around Dean at night, memorizes every freckle, catalogues every scar. Maps out their lives in the silvery-white flesh.

‘I stole some of your tapes.’ Sam says, knows Dean is smirking even if Sam’s face pressed against his back. ‘When I went to college. And oh, I used to play them every night, imagine they were you. You used to sing me to sleep, remember? I thought Enter Sandman was a nursery rhyme until I was thirteen.’

‘And I think. I think.’ Sam’s breath catches in his throat. ‘That I miss you already.’

‘I’m right here. M’right here Sammy.’ Dean says, and Sam listens to his heartbeat and thinks, but soon. And soon. And soon.

I love the way you live so intensely

Dean has a whole list of things he wants to do before he dies. The list is so Dean- scribbled down on a random square coaster. Some of the things are outrageous. Some things are for Sam, and some things are so poignant that they take Sam’s breath away.

He gets drunk with Dean in a random dive. He laughs until it hurts with Dean at Disneyland. He says goodbye to Jo. And Ellen. And Bobby. And isn’t surprised that every single one of them cries. He sees the Northern lights. And he prays. He prays. He prays.

He has sex with Dean in every single state, including Hawaii. He surfs in Tijuana, and skis in Canada. He stands on the edge of the Grand Canyon and yells. He tries a bed with magic fingers.

‘And I want’ Dean gasps, face pressed into the mattress, because he and Sam can’t watch each other fall apart anymore. ‘I want. I want.’

Sam doesn’t say a word. Not a single word. But he knows Dean feels it, in the fingers on his skin, in the breath in his hair, the teeth on his neck. Sam wants. Sam wants.
Sam wants.

They both want too much.

But we will never fall

So Sam lies.

He lies in the bed Dean has made for them both. And he lies, and lies, and lies.

He whispers secrets and mutters groans into the crook of Dean’s neck, slick with sweat and tears.

He waits.

And it never comes.

And never comes, but shakes the boards and rattles all the doors.

‘I won’t let them take me’ Dean says, voice strong, gaze trained on the wisps of Gofer dust dancing across the floor. ‘I won’t become one of them. Give me the Colt, Sam.’

‘Let me.’ Sam begs. Oh, Lord, let me.Let me. ‘I want to do this Dean. You owe me this much.’

He backs Dean up against a wall, kissing him as the Colt lies between. And the Colt lies between. Presses the nuzzle against Dean’s chest and kisses him, whispers, ‘And this is the way we go.’

He rests his head against Dean’s forehead, and stares. And stares. And stares.
‘I love you, you know.’

‘I know. I know. I –’

Sam pulls the trigger, and a rose blooms across Dean’s tee shirt, blood red. And Sam lives. He lives.
He lives.

Where’d you learn to shoot your gun so straight?

Hope you feel better Janice- and I hope you’re still talking to me Jess (two more weeks of Uni and then I’ll be able to catch up on my eLJay friends, I swear). Lol

I went to Missouri, and I learnt the truth.

2007-04-09T14:49:27Z

Title: I went to Missouri, and I learnt the truth.
Author: Aleesha
Disclaimer: I own the box set, does that count for anything?...No?...Well sue me and that's about all you get.
Rating: T
Word count: 1098
Summary: Dean is alone, and so, he dreams
Authors Notes: Title is taken from the episode 'Home'
Beta Credits: Kudos for my fantastic beta, tilly_rose_starall mistakes, however, are mine.

I went to Missouri, and I learnt the truth.

Sometimes Dean dreams.

Because he is all alone, because his Mum is gone ~~dead and buried~~ and his Dad is gone ~~barely hanging on~~, and Sam's gone too ~~he’s ‘normal’ now~~.

They’re all gone, and Dean is glad.

Glad because now he doesn’t have to pretend anymore, to keep up the façade, the cockiness, the attitude that ‘Everything is fine.’

Because no one is there to see it slip; to hear him cry out in his sleep.
To feel the wetness of a cheek, the grittiness of the dirt and salt that cakes his face.

No one’s there and that’s alright ~~it isn’t~~ and Dean is happier ~~not really~~ because if he is a mess ~~he is~~ he’ll clean it up himself ~~if he can~~.
It’s easier to be alone ~~it’s not,~~ to not have anyone to let down again and
again.

x

He is all alone, and so, he dreams.

Of old trees and plastic guns and sunshine.
Of blue walls and paper planes and warm arms.
Of laughter, and home-cooked meals and orange juice.

He dreams of his mother.

x

He’s sitting on a countertop, legs swinging over the edge, in a kitchen, a house he hasn’t been in since he was four.

He plays with his lighter, watches as it burns up and dies down.

But he isn’t burning anything, not really, so his cheast shouldn’t hurt ~~but it does~~ and the acrid smoke shouldn’t burn his throat ~~but it is~~.

He can smell other things too, like baby powder ~~take your brother outside~~ and cedar wood ~~as fast as you can, now!~~ and the rain ~~don’t look back~~.

His eyes sting and his feet are numb from the dew covering the wet grass. But he’s sitting on a countertop and he isn’t four anymore, he’s twenty-three.

And it shouldn’t still hurt this much, but it does.

Because his memories of that night are so vivid that they burn.

x

And then he isn’t alone anymore.

Because she’s there.

She’s pretty and young.
And achingly alive.

And Dean doesn’t care if he burns up, just as long as she’s still there, burning with life.

x

He recognizes the song she’s humming as she walks over to the counter ~~but the ache in his chest isn’t nostalgia~~ and plucks an orange from the fruit bowl.

It’s a blood orange, Dean can see it, can almost taste it. Bitter-sweet- ~~just like his dreams~~.

She smiles as she slices it, laughs as the juice spills across her hand, sticky and almost red, but it isn’t blood ~~not this time~~.

“Deano,” she says “honey, try some of this orange.”

Leaning forward, she passes him a segment, and he catches her scent.
She smells of sandalwood, honey and life.

And Dean would give almost anything to keep her that way.

x

He swings his legs while watching as the juice slides down her wrist, where it catches the light, and it sparkles for a second, like her teeth do, like her smile as she breathes “I love you baby.”

And the droplet is orange and red at the same time, and it seems to burn, until it does, until it catches alight and the flames lick at pale skin ~~like bone~~ and blonde hair.

“I’ll always be here for you” she says “Even when I’m not.”

He wants to ask her what that means, but she’s leaning over and kissing his cheek and her lips are warm, burning up.

And she is on fire.

~~Don’t leave me,~~ ~~Mum please~~.

But she is already gone.

And he is alone, again.

x

He is alone, so he walks to the mirror, to look for something, anything, to tell him that it’ll be different.

But it isn’t, nothing’s changed.

Dad’s gone and Sam’s gone.

And there’s nothing left, not really.

So he lets his gaze linger on a cheek, ghosts his rough fingers over cold skin.
But there’s nothing there, no ashes on his face, no trace of a kiss from a woman who burnt away to nothing.

Because she left him too.

Because everyone always leaves him.

x

It didn’t matter that Dean loved his Mother so much it hurt. She left.
It didn’t matter that Dean begged his Father to take him with him. He left.
It didn’t even matter that Sam promised he’d stay. Because he left too.

x

Sometimes the shadows that circle Deans eyes threaten to swallow him whole, and the bruises that steal the colours, that shade everything grey, threaten to steal away the light.
Sometimes, the ties that bind his flesh threaten to tear out.

Like his heart did when he was four and she turned to ash, or when he was nine and his Dad went missing for the first time, or when he was twenty-two and Stanford stole what was left of his family.

Sometimes, Dean thinks, the burn on his hand, the cut on his chest, the smudge on his face, is proof.

That he is all that’s left of a family who burnt away to nothing.

x

Sam asked him once

“Dean, why can’t we just try to be normal?”

Because, he’d thought, sometimes the idea of normal burns.

“Why does Dad keep doing these things, keep hunting?”

Because, he’d thought, sometimes it’s better to be the flame than the one getting burnt.

“Dean, come with me, please, why don’t we just escape all this?”

Because, he’d thought, sometimes it’s easier to burn than to fade away.

x

Dean sits in his car, his Impala.

The one thing, the only constant in his life these days ~~other than dirty motels, cheap beer and nameless faces~~.

Never leaving, never changing.

And he flicks his lighter, just like in his dreams.

He watches as the flame dances while it consumes the air.

Because sure the lighter burns, and if there’s one thing Dean has never liked; it’s fire.

But with the slightest pressure of his thumb, a flick of his wrist.
The flame extinguishes.

And Dean is left alone, all alone.

But the darkness calms him, the black consumes him, and that’s okay.
Because darkness always comes before the light.

And Dean knows it’s stupid to wish, to hope.
Because, didn’t you know? Hope died when he was four.

But maybe if he keeps going, keeps being everything ~~or nothing at all~~ for the people he loves, someday someone will come back.

x

But until they do, Dean’s alright.
Because he has his lighter.
Because when that runs out, he’ll have the dark.
And maybe, one day, that’ll run out too.

And then, he’ll have the light.

End

Four in the morning (Ryan) Rated T

2007-04-08T09:31:04Z

Title: Four in the morning
Author: Aleesha
Character / Pairing: Ryan, Trey, Mentions of Dawn and Aj.
Rating: T (Trey swears a little)
Chapter: 1/1
Word Count: 945
Disclaimer: I don't own the O.C.
Spoilers: '1x01 The Pilot.'
Summary: The events that occur prior to the pilot, which culminate in the stealing of that car.
Author's Notes: Written for http://community.livejournal.com/ocficchallenge.
The prompt was

Stay up till four in the morning & the tears are pouring
& I want to make it worth the fight
What have we been doing for all this time?

The community is looking for more entrants, so make sure to stop by and have a look.

Stay up till four in the morning

Trey still isn’t home.

You know she’s worried too.

You can hear it in how the floorboards creak, as if the weight of the world is crushing down on her shoulders while she paces the hall outside your bedroom door.

It’s been an hour since the police left.
Two hours since the gunshot.

Two hours since the broken glass, slammed doors, running feet and garbled phone calls.
And two hours since you’ve seen your brother.

You wonder if you’ll ever see him again.

The rain pounds against your window, as you rest a cheek against the cool glass.

Your tears are warm and salty, unlike the rain.

But, like the rain, they’re heavy.

They hold the very real possibility

‘Your brother’s gone, Your brother’s gone.

And he isn’t coming back.’

And the tears are pouring

She’s still crying.

You know it, and Trey damn well knows it.

And, no, you can’t hear her sobs, but it doesn’t make it any less real.

Because, if you know anything, you know facades.

Hell, you’ve been living one your entire life.

And frankly? You’re more than a little over it.

You glance quickly over at your brother.

His face is purple where Aj’s fist connected with flesh and bone.

The cheek is cut, the wound barely healing, even now, in the absence of rain.

He’s propped up against the wall, knee’s drawn towards his chest, the heel of one hand smacking one knee, as his other clenches and unclenches by his side.

‘We’re leaving Ry, you and me, just like we always said we would.’

You know it will break her.

You know ‘You’re the good one, Ryan-honey.’

But your brother’s face is a palette of colours and feelings.

And you just can’t seem to focus on anything other than that.

‘Okay Trey, we’ll leave, but not tonight.’ You say, voice thick from hours of choking back silent sobs lack of use.

‘Tomorrow?’

It’s not a question, it’s not even a statement.

It’s a plea.

And you nod your head in agreement.

‘Tomorrow.’

And I want to make it worth the fight

You hate Aj.

You hate tears and fights and blood.

You hate water stains and moth eaten blankets and empty cupboards.

You hate the hidden alcohol, brought with much-needed money.

And, if you look closely enough, you hate yourself.

But most of all, you hate Aj, you hate how he is breaking up your family.

And it wasn’t even that whole to begin with.

You hate Aj, but you really don’t.

You hate guys like him.

You hate how he isn’t just a person; he’s a state of mind.

And your Mum seems to be in a never ending cycle of guys, just like him.

Pick-up, Break-up, Make-up.

Rinse, and repeat.

~~It never ends.~~

What have we been doing for all this time?

‘What are you doing Trey?’

‘Getting out, Ry, that’s what we’re doin.’

‘I know that; I mean, why aren’t we taking any stuff?’

‘We’ll go back and get it later, come on.’

‘Where are we even going to go?

‘I dunno, get out, go somewhere, the coast maybe.’

‘How are we goin to get there, huh?’

‘Steal a car, hitch-hike, walk, I dunno Ryan, we’ll get there somehow.’

You scuff your feet against the broken concrete of the street you’re walking on, And pretend to brood.

You think that, if something as strong as concrete still breaks, then there’s no hope for the rest of you.

You read somewhere once; Concrete cracks because of tensional forces that develop within the slab as it sets.

You think that, maybe, that means it snaps under too much tension, just like Aj does, or your Mum does, or Trey does.

Well, hell, if anyone knows anything about internal tension, it’s you.

You think that, maybe, this is a sign, that the broken sidewalk is a message.

That if something as strong as concrete breaks under tension, there’s no way your family will last.

You know You don’t know why.

Trey twirls the crowbar around in his hands.

‘What’s that for?’ You ask.

He shrugs, and continues to walk, his skin yellowing under the street lights.

It makes his bruise seem to almost fade, and for a second you imagine a life without Abusive lovers, and Distant mothers and Messed-up brothers.

You imagine a life where you and Trey are happy.

And you like it.

You see the brown car before he does.

He’s still staring at the word, ‘Chino’, graffitited on the side of the abandoned building, when it comes into view.

His whisper is so quiet that you almost don’t hear it.

But you do.

‘I’ll get you out of here Ry.’

But then he notices the car too, and everything goes to hell.

He’s saying ‘I’m your big brother, if I don’t teach you this, who will?’

And the crowbar is swinging, and the glass is shattering, and your family’s breaking.

And you’re thinking, I can’t do this, I can’t just leave.

‘I don’t know, Trey.’

And Trey’s shouting, ‘Quit being a little bitch, and get in.’

And glass is breaking right under your feet, and your family’s breaking right under your nose, but you’re running to the passenger door anyway.

You need Trey Trey needs you.

You pause at the door.

‘…Get in.’

Police cars and broken promises are swirling through your mind in a symphony of blue lights and blonde hair.

‘…Come on, let’s go Ryan.’

The squad car is coming, but your brother is going, and your mind is screaming, ‘pick one, Ryan, pick one.’

He’s your brother
And you really, really, hope he's also the right choice.

Paint The Silence Black

2007-04-06T11:03:53Z

Title: Paint the silence black.
Author: Aleesha
Character / Pairing: Ryan
Rating: M (Ryan likes the 'F' word)
Chapter: 1/1
Word Count: 1299
Disclaimer: I don't own the O.C.
Spoilers: '3.25 The Graduates'
Summary: Ryan's thoughts after Marissa's death.
Author's Notes: This was written for a friend of mine, Jess, who is an avid O.C. fan. But me? Not so much.
Jess was complaining to me about not seeing enough reaction to the news of Marissa's death, because of the 6 month time-gap between seasons, and so I wrote her this.
It was supposed to be a fic about the funeral, but it got warped into a fic about colours and their significance to Ryan's post-Marissa life.
The title is taken from the "South" song, "Paint the silence" which was featured on the show twice, and is an amazing song.
Beta credits:
tilly_rose_star , because as we know, Me and proper grammer? don't mix.
All mistakes, however, are mine.

Thanks to isolde_or_lena for making this absolutely fabulous banner for me!

The first thing you realise, as you open your eyes, is that your world is in shades of grey.
That the lines of black and white, of Life and Death, have blurred.
Faded, Changed, Disappeared.
Fuck, you don’t know.
But the colours are gone.

(Or, at least, they should be.)

But the angry bruise across your face is purple.
And it’s screaming, “survivor…survivor…”
But you’ve never felt like anything less your entire life.
“You could’ve…You should’ve…
…but you didn’t…and now…”
Fuck.
Well at least now you bruise isn’t screaming “survivor” like you’ve won something tonight.
No.
Now it’s screaming “it’s your fault” like you’ve lost everything.
And, in a way, you have.

Your tee-shirt is red with her blood.
Like a stain against you.
Like a beacon, signaling ‘I loved Marissa, I hated her, I loved her, I hate her.’
(I love you.)
Red is the colour of the bricks that you smash your fists into, outside of the Hospital, the colour of your blood as you smear it across your tee-shirt.
It mixes with hers, and you wish it somehow made you feel closer to her.
(But she is dead.)
And all it does is remind you that you’ll never be a part of her again.

The colour of bitterness is yellow, you decide, after ringing home to let them know what’s happened.
Yellow, like the bile that spilt from your throat after you hung up the phone.
“But you’re alright? Right, Ryan? You’re okay?” They ask.
You aren’t.
(But that isn’t the point.)
You’re alive.
(And that is.)

Envy is coloured green.
(And you know it’s stupid to be jealous of a dead girl.)
But she got to die, and now, you have to live.
Without her,
Now you have to rebuild a life you’re not even sure you want to live.
Because construction has never really been your thing.
(Destruction was)
But Marissa has already taken care of that.

The tears that spill from everyone’s eyes, when they arrive, are blue.
Like sadness.
No one ever really thought she’d die
(You shouldn’t be surprised,)
She was Marisa-Fucking-Cooper
(But you are.)
She was the resident princess of Newport.
(Was, you think, being the operative word in that sentence.)
And then you face is streaked with blue-pain and salt too.
Maybe, you think, if enough of it slides down you face, eventually it’ll wash away the imprints her lips left against yours.
(You’re not really to sure whether or not that’d be a good thing.)
You don’t really think it matters.
(She’s gone all the same.)

Your Hospital room is white, and it reminds you of a science project you and Theresa did in Elementary School.
You coloured in a paper circle with slices of different colours and then pierced the middle with a pin.
And when you’d spun it around, all the colours had blurred, blended, bleed into white.
(You know it’s stupid of you to be thinking about that, at a time like this)
But the Hospital is spinning too, and bleeding (just like she was) into separate colours.
You think that, maybe, it’s like your world is spinning in reverse.
White is giving way to messy colours (and messier emotions) and rapidly becoming a kaleidoscope.
A place of pretty colours, blurry shapes and sparkling glitter.
But nothing is real, (nothing has substance) and just when you think you see something,
Someone,
(Her)
Your world shifts, and you’re back to staring at the glittery mess of tainted clothing, broken headlights and dead (ex)girlfriends, wondering,
When the hell did this become my life?
(And you’re glad)
Because, maybe, none of this is real.
Maybe everything will just keep spinning and reversing until she’s back in your arms.
You’d like to believe that
(You would)
But you can smell the sickly sweet scent of copper that clings to your skin.
And you think that, maybe, her blood is on your hands (in more ways than one).

Summer leans over, after she has finished crying, and whispers in your ear,
“I can’t go back there Ryan, not tonight.”
And you nod.
You’re not sure, exactly, whether she was referring to the house she and Marissa had shared, or the life.
But the world has finally stopped its incessant spinning.
And you really don’t think it matters much which one she meant.
(Because the outcome is the same either way.)

You slide off your bed, and feel the ground underneath your feet (the gravel that had sunk into your knees earlier, as you’d sunk to the ground) and, oddly enough, it’s comforting.
You quickly cross the silent room, and pull Seth from his reverie.
You need to leave now, you tell him, and you can’t drive, not yet.
(You’re lying, and you know it, but Summer is about to break and you’ve already seen enough ~~people,~~ things, broken tonight)
Seth gives you a strange look, but follows as you lead Summer out of the room.

(You wonder, idly, what colour would pity be.)
Purple is anger. Red is passion, Blue is sadness, Green is envy, Yellow is bitterness.
Maybe pink, you muse, because pity has always felt a little fake, just like the colour pink.
Because pink, after all, is just whitewashed red, and pity, you think, may be just whitewashed lies.
And sure, you might be going crazy.
(But you just can’t bring yourself to care.)

You invite the two of them, Seth and Summer, into the Pool-house when you arrive home.
You thank God, as you unlock the door, that the four of you didn’t spend more time in here hanging out.
(Because now you’re the only one who senses ghosts lurking in every corner.)
They don’t need the constant reminder that she’s gone.
(But, then again, neither do you.)

Two hours later, and Seth is asleep.
Sandy’s asleep, Kirsten’s asleep.
(Marissa’s dead)
But Summer is still awake, you know this.
You can hear it in how her breathing is uneven, in how, every now and then, you hear her choking back a sob.
(And Marissa isn’t breathing at all)
Summer will never be the same, you know this too.
She’ll never be the ‘I-love-you-and-your-Prada-shoes’ girl again.
That girl is gone.
(And so is Marissa.)

But Summer is still here, still breathing,
Her chest is still rising and falling with each inhale/exhale.
(And Marissa’s will never move again)
Summer will be fine, you think.
(She has to be)

You’re drifting off to sleep when you move your hand over to hers and intertwine your fingers.
(You’re numb and you just want to feel someone else’s pain for awhile)
You’re not, exactly, sure which of you is drowning, or which of you is the life-raft.
(But you’re both clinging to something.)
And you think that, maybe, it feels a little like hope.

“Ryan,” she whispers after awhile.
“Hmm,” you murmur as a reply.
“Your touch is like the colour brown; it’s like love and sadness, peppered with regret and anger, all mixed together with a little guilt.”
Your throat clenches painfully and your fingers grip hers tighter, because that’s exactly how you feel.
(And she understands.)
“You have nothing to feel guilty over Ryan.” She whispers, and breaks your heart.
And you shut your eyes tightly so you won’t cry blue-pain again.

She ghosts a small thumb over your hand, stroking it softly, comforting you silently.
“Your voice is like silver,” You tell her as you both slip towards sleep.
“It’s lined with the truth.” You finish, your mouth curving into a small smile.
(Because you know)

You both miss a dead girl.
(But you’ll be fine)
You have to be.

End

To Be Broken (And I even got the tags right this time)

2007-04-05T14:33:26Z

Title: To Be Broken
Author: Aleesha
Character / Pairing: Lilly, Duncan, Veronica, Logan
Rating: PG-13
Chapter: 1/1
Word Count: 6150
Disclaimer: I do not own Veronica Mars. Veronica Mars owns me.
Spoilers: ‘1.06 Return of the Kane’
Summary: Duncan, Veronica, and Logan ruminate on Lilly's death.
Author's Notes: This is a song fic, the song is “Adelaide” by “Old 97’s” and no, I don’t own it either.
I highly recommend listening to it whilst reading this fic, for those of you that recognize the song it was played during the second season, in ‘2x11 Donut run.’
This is my first Veronica Mars fic, and the first fic I ever wrote, so Feedback is love.
Beta credits: My amazing, beta Jess, starxd_sparrow , for her awesome job with this fic.
All mistakes, however, are mine

Heaven, I need a drug

Sometimes Duncan Kane awoke to find he was nauseas.
It wasn’t anything too serious, just a little withdrawal,
From his anti-depressants.
Duncan knew how to fix it though,
place the small white tablet on his tongue, and let it fizzle for a second, let his mouth wrap around something sickly sweet for a moment, before chasing the pill down with a glass of cool water.
Then he’d simply wait.
Wait for the numbness to settle in, that was his relief.
Wait for the clouds to form in his head and settle into his bones.
So he would feel nothing

Duncan knew most people had issues with his drug use.
Concerns that were never spoken in a voice louder than a whisper,
Because people didn’t speak badly of Jake Kane or his family.
Even the 09ers had rules, after all.
“Isn’t 16 a bit young for anti-depressants?” He’d overheard once.
And if he’d cared enough, he would’ve said
“Isn’t 16 a bit young to lose your sister?”
But Duncan was numb, and he liked it that way.
Logan, Duncan’s best friend, was the most vocal in his disapproval of Duncan’s ‘problem’.
And if Duncan had had the courage, he would’ve said,
“My problem? What about your drinking? Or your fighting? Or the way you treat Veronica?”
But Logan was his best friend, and Duncan liked it that way.
Duncan was still in love with Veronica Mars though,
Even though she was his ex-girlfriend, and her dad thought that his dad killed his sister,
Even though her dad was his dad, and he thought she was his sister.
And if Duncan had stopped to think about it, he would’ve felt like that was wrong.
But Duncan’s head was cloudy, and he liked it that way.

When the 09ers slandered her previously good name, and soiled her previously spotless reputation, he could have said, “Stop it, you’re all wrong about her.”
But sometimes the clouds that swirled around Duncan’s head slipped into his mouth, where they sat like cotton wool, making his mouth too full and dry to say anything at all.
So instead he’d let the words lie on his tongue,
sickly sweet.

Sometimes the only time Duncan felt alive anymore was when his mouth was wrapped around something sweet.
Like small white pills, or unspoken truths or nameless girls with cherry lip-gloss.
Sometimes Duncan Kane awoke to find his heart was aching.
It wasn’t anything too serious, just a little withdrawal.
From Lilly, from Veronica, from the four of them in a different time.
But he knew how to fix it.
A small white pill and a glass of water,
To rid his mouth of its taste.

Her eyes are all but fixed upon her coffee cup,
And looking down, she tells you things are looking up.

Duncan Kane doesn’t know when he stopped believing everything his mother told him.
He thinks it might have been when he was told, at 15, that Lilly was not to be looked up to, that Logan was trouble, and that ‘the Mars girl’ wasn’t someone he should be ‘hanging out with.’
Duncan thinks that, but he isn’t sure, because he believed his mother when she told him that Veronica was his half-sister.
After all, even his mother wouldn’t lie about something that big,
Would she?
He does know, however, that when she tells him “Someday the pain will fade, Duncan, honey.” he doesn’t believe her.
But she is still his mother, and that demands a certain level of respect.
So he nods his acceptance at her words, and follows her from the Church to the grave.
Without looking at Veronica Mars.
Without touching, or speaking to, or even acknowledging Veronica Mars.
And definitely without kissing Veronica Mars.
Funny how he still manages to taste cherry lip-gloss all the way.

So, when one morning she tells him “Things are looking up.” he smiles and says “I think you may be right Mum.”
And then he swallows the pill like she swallows the lie.
He wants to say, “When? When will the pain fade?”
But instead he says “Goodbye.”
He thinks, maybe, he wants to call her out for lying.
But instead he simply calls her Mother.

Take another slug

Duncan Kane plays video games.
He plays video games because it’s what they used to do,
The four of them, when they were whole.
When they were the ‘Fabulous Four’ and nothing could hurt them.
When they weren’t broken and bloody and left lying alone by a pool.
When they were naïve and innocent,
And alive.

He and Logan would battle for hours sometimes.
And sometimes, Veronica would tire of gossip and cotton-candy pink nail polish, and take a seat next to him on the beanbag.
She’d reach out for the controller, tiny ineffectual fingers wrapping around his, as he passed it to her.
Then he’d watch as those same fingers flew across the controller, in practiced patterns, all contributing to the eventual death of Logan’s on-screen persona.
He’d watch as her eyes would burn and her smile would sparkle.
He’d watch as she wiped the smirk of Logan’s face, controlled combination after combination.
He’d watch as the blood would drain from Logan’s face to colour Veronica’s cheeks as she delivered her final blow.
“Oh come on, Logan!” she’d tease “Can’t you take another slug?”
And just when she’d get too cocky, too sure of herself, he’d watch as Logan would leap from his seat and effectively pin her to the ground, motioning for Lilly to help him tickle her.
He’d watch the three of them tussle on the floor for only seconds before he’d join in to save his girlfriend.
Duncan Kane had not been afraid of action back then.

I remember when, I had you and you had so much promise then.

Duncan Kane remembered sometimes, when he and Lilly had been young.
When Lilly would strut around his bedroom, in their mothers dresses and heels, adorned by layer upon layer of jewelry, perfume and makeup.
And they would make promises that when they grew up, they’d be best friends and travel the world together.
Later on, Veronica was convinced to be a famous author, and Logan agreed to be a famous director, whose movies always starred ‘Miss Lilly Kane’ as the female lead.
And they’d all escape Neptune together
Duncan had always wondered what was so wrong with Neptune.
He didn’t wonder that anymore.

You promised me, that you would never leave again.

Duncan Kane was nine years old the first (and subsequently only) time Lilly ran away.
He’d been mildly worried when she didn’t come home after school, scared after three hours, distraught after six, and inconsolable the morning after.
That afternoon, after Lilly was brought home, slightly sheepish, but mainly proud, she was made to sit through a long lecture about ‘Not going to/or staying somewhere without asking permission, or at least telling your parents first.’
But after the lecture, Lilly still couldn’t figure out what she’d done wrong.
As she so accurately pointed out, ‘Not telling your parents where you’d be’ was a staple of running away.
And after all, she’d only been at Carrie Bishop’s,
Which was like, what? A block away from the Kane’s mansion?
And anyway, she was going to come home later that afternoon,
she’d only wanted to give “Celeste” enough time to calm down.
She hadn’t really done anything wrong.

When his parents had given up trying to teach Lilly a lesson, Duncan had done something he hadn’t ever done before.
After years of Lilly’s tormenting, her unwillingness to share, her attitude of “Well if I can’t have it no one can”.
And he’d never ever hit her, not even once.
But he did the day after she ran away.
He reached out and slapped her, not hard, but firmly enough to hurt.
It was the first (and subsequently only) time he ever hit her.
“Don’t you ever, EVER, do that again!” he said quietly.
She just nodded, face pale beneath the angry pink mark of his slap across one cheek.
He’d opened up his mouth to apologize then, but she’d stopped him.
Tears sliding down her solemn face.
“Dunc. I’m sorry
I’m so sorry, I promise I’ll never do it again, I cross my heart and hope to die promise I’ll never leave again.
Do you forgive me?”
Hearing her apology only made Duncan more stubborn.
“No.” He paused, thinking, “I’ll forgive you if next time you promise to take me with you.”
“I promise, Doughnut.”
“Then consider yourself forgiven, Looney.” He answered, throwing his arm around her shoulders.

To be broken you were made.

Sometimes Duncan remembers that she lied.
Sometimes he wishes that she had kept her promise, and taken him with her.
Place, swallow, rinse.
Sometimes, Duncan Kane thinks, the numbness burns.

XxX

Heaven I need a rest.

Veronica Mars is tired.
Constantly.
Tired of stakeouts and stale coffee,
Tired of lonely nights at home with only her pit bull and homework.
Tired of Logan’s taunts ands Duncan’s deafening silence.
Tired of pretending she doesn’t miss the way things used to be.
Just plain tired.

When Veronica had turned 16, she’d had it all.
Great parents who loved each other and worshiped her, the sweetest boyfriend, the wildest best friend and Logan, her co-conspirator every time the Kane’s had teamed up against either one of them.
She’d just never realized that a bare two months later, that would all change.
She’d been naive and innocent,
And she was no longer that girl.
That girl had died.
That girl had thought she’d marry Duncan Kane, that Logan and Lilly would eventually tire of fighting and end up together.
That girl had thought that her parents had the perfect marriage, and that they’d always love each other.
That girl had been stupid, and now she was gone.
That girl was gone the moment she saw the reddish haze that surrounded Lilly Kane’s head like an anti-halo, as she lay broken beside the Kane pool.
She didn’t die quickly and suddenly like Lilly had; she died slowly and predictably, like that sight had pierced her heart, and she was gradually being drained from her own body.
Her naivety had been the first to go, washed from where it fell to join Lilly’s blood, on the cool concrete.
Next were her faith in her parent’s marriage, Logan, the rest of her ‘friends’, her Father’s job, her house, and even her own Mother.

Her innocence was the last to go.
But it went, a mixture of rum, Coke and roofies saw to that.
It didn’t really matter now; she was no longer that girl.

For weeks after the ‘incident’ though, Veronica couldn’t even handle the smell of alcohol, let alone the smell of Rum.
But her Mother had become a drunk before she left, and Veronica quickly quelled her aversion to the smell of alcohol.
The sickly sweet scent of it hung from all her Mothers forgotten possessions, and if Veronica wanted to keep anything real of her Mother’s, she was going to have to deal with it.

One day, after a particularly hard day at school, Veronica had stumbled across one of her Mother’s many hidden bottles.
They were every where; tequila, vodka, Johnnie Walker, Jack Daniels, half-empty, half-full, it didn’t really matter; they were there all the same.
Usually Veronica just tipped the alcohol down the sink, and hid the empty bottles in the neighbour’s recycling, to protect her Dad.
But the day Veronica found the nearly full bottle of rum, she kept it.
She hid it in an old stuffed animal,
Veronica 2.0 didn’t care for stuffed animals.

Sometimes when school was too tough, or Logan was too harsh, or Duncan was too silent, or Lilly was too dead, she’d open the bottle of rum and pour the brown liquid into her glass of Coke.
Brown on brown, and Veronica would bring the sickly sweet liquid to her lips.
She’d take a long sip and let it sit in her mouth for awhile.
She liked to think that it tasted of her lost innocence.
She’d let the drink wrap itself around her mouth until it almost made her sick.
Then she’d calmly walk to her bathroom and pour the contents of her glass down the sink.
Brown would spin against the white of ceramic, making her dizzy and she’d fall to her knees, warm skin against cool tiles and throw up.

And then she’d sit on the floor, the burn of her throat matching the burn of her eyes, as silent tears fell down her face.
She’d return the bottle to its place, and promise herself that this was the last time.

Veronica doesn’t know when she started lying; to Logan, to her Dad, to herself.
But she does know that the only time she feels alive anymore is when her mouth is full of something sickly sweet.
Like Cherry Garcia Ice cream, or white lies, or liquid innocence in the form of Coke&rum.

I recognized the voices talking in my head,
I couldn’t make out everything the voices said.

Veronica Mars knows that it wasn’t Lilly’s death that killed her.
It wasn’t Duncan, Logan or Lianne.
It wasn’t being ostracized or moving houses.
It was the bruises shadowing slim hips, and the sheen of dried saliva across pale flesh.
It was the muted voices of “...suit up, you don’t know where she’s been..” and “…when she’s quiet…”
Or Veronica’s personal ‘favourite’ “…ready and willing…”
And she knows these voices; they belong to onetime ‘friends’ of hers.
But she can’t match voices to faces.
The thing that killed her was nightmares of clammy hands and too tight fingers circling her wrists.
It was waking to find a heavy weight pressed unto her body, but she was tired, so tired, and instead of pushing it off she’d sunk back into unconsciousness.
What killed her was the scent that clung to her bare skin, even after she’d removed her clothes, the scent of distinct, yet familiar cologne.
Uncommon, but worn by one of the 09er boys she had used to refer to as a friend.
Her first thought was Duncan, but that was normal, right?
Every rape victim wanted it to not have been rape.

Maybe Duncan had come in and said “Hey baby” in that soft voice of his, and she’d said “I miss you.” And Duncan had sighed and wrapped his arms around her.
Veronica hoped that maybe she remembered that, but she knew it was just wishful thinking. That it was just her imagination playing tricks on her.
Because Duncan wouldn’t have said those other things, and Duncan wouldn’t have gripped so tightly that it bruised, and Duncan wouldn’t have left her alone afterwards.

But the cologne was familiar, and Duncan had so many she couldn’t help but wish it was him.
It wasn’t Casey’s, Dick’s, or even Sean’s.
And it definitely wasn’t Logan’s.
She knew that for a fact, because Logan had worn the same cologne for years, Hermes d’Orange Verte.
She knew this because she had been the one to pick it.

After awhile she’d grown tired of guessing, and stepped into the shower.
What was the point of keeping the evidence? Lamb wasn’t going to lift a finger to help the investigation anyway.
She let the water, turned to hard, pound away at her flesh until it felt like the water was piercing holes into her skin.
And that’s when she finally got it, that’s when old Veronica had died.
She’d finally realized she was going to have to grow a shell.
Harden herself up.
Because really, if plain water could pierce her skin, the 09ers were going to break her.
And she really, really couldn’t let them do that.

Loving you is a test.

Veronica Mars was good at tests.
She was great at pop quizzes and excellent at exams,
Because Veronica Mars was never wrong.
But out of all the different types of tests she’d had thrown at her over all the years: Veronica was best at multiple choice.
She understood multiple choice.
They had a constancy, a structure to them.
Every question had a stem, a set of distracters, and a key.
The key was the answer.
The set of distracters had a pattern, too.
It was always the same, two obviously wrong answers, and then two that sounded right.
Therein lay the trick to most multiple choices, they could be easily be narrowed down to a fifty-fifty.
Like, who to stand by after your best friend’s death?
1.) Your Father
2.) Your Friends and Ex-boyfriend.

Veronica had picked 1.), and although she’d lost everything she once thought of as important, like her reputation, her popularity and her friends,
she didn’t regret it.

Veronica was good at tests,
She was great at pop-quizzes and excellent at exams,
But she was best at multiple choice.
Because she understood them,
Because Veronica Mars was never wrong,
…right?

I remember when, I had you and you had so much promise then.

Veronica remembered sometimes, of what things were like before.
Before Lilly died, before she ceased to exist in Duncan’s eyes, before she became the source of Logan’s retribution.
Before.
But Lilly had been life, and when she died their lives ended. And they were forced to rebuild, to create a new life that none of them truly wanted to live.
Lilly was colour, and without her, life turned into shades of grey, a world of black and white, a place of extremes where choices were made, and lines were drawn.
Lilly was sunshine, and Veronica had been like a paper flower, all bright colours and cheeky-grinned soccer playing mischief until she’d faded under the bright sunlight, turned into the pale pastel princess she had become.
But Veronica hadn’t really minded, because standing in the sunlight was warm and bright, and so much better than standing in the shadows.
And Veronica didn’t care if she faded away, as long as she could bathe in the warm sunshine.
But Lilly was never supposed to live forever; she was just supposed to go out in a blaze of glory.

“I’m never going to get old, I’ve decided.”
“Botox huh, Lill? You’ve seen Caitlin’s Mum right? You really want to look like that?”
“Ughh no, I meant I’m not going to get old as in I’m going to die young.”
“Don’t say that, Lilly!”
“It’s true, Veronica Mars, I’m too much for this world to handle, I burn to bright, shine too much.”
“Lilly, remember what we always said, huh? We’re going to grow old together, move to Miami, wear patterned tracksuits and live it up like the Golden Girls. I’ll be your Dorothy and you’ll be my Blanche. You promised me.”
“Veronica…”
“Fine, I’ll be Sophia, but I still don’t see why I have to, just because I’m small…”
“Veronica, listen to me, really listen, I was never meant for greatness, like you, or for success like Duncan, or even for fame, like Logan.
I’m meant to burn up, not to burn out.”

Lilly wasn’t supposed to die like she did, she wasn’t supposed to die cold and alone.
She wasn’t supposed to have her light snuffed out; it was supposed to consume her.
There wasn’t supposed to be blood, or ashtrays, or concrete.
There was only supposed to be ashes; small reminders of a girl who burned too brightly to be contained.

You promised me you would never leave again

“Lilly!” Veronica Mars shouted.
She was in the middle of a square in San Francisco, surrounded by sailors all there to enjoy Fleet Week.
But there was one person notably missing, especially to Veronica.
“Lilly, this isn’t funny; you know I don’t deal well with crowds.” And the all the shapes and colours and sounds were blurring into grey.
Dark grey, until everything was almost black.
“Veronica Mars!”
She took in a deep breathe, that was almost knocked out of her when Lilly hugged her hard.
“Where have you been?”
Veronica glanced around, her vision clearing until she could see Lilly, Shelly and Kristen. The other junior girls Lilly had brought along to Fleet Week.
“Ready to go?” Lilly asked, her other unanswered question already forgotten.
“Yeah.” Veronica breathed out.
“Well, come on then, or we’ll miss your curfew, girl.”

When they were walking back to the car, Lilly grabbed Veronica’s wrist and stopped her.
“Hey, what was wrong before? You know, when we found you.”
“Nothing, just you know, my thing with large crowds.”
“Shit Veronica, I am so sorry, I completely forgot about it.”
“Lilly it’s fine, I’m fine, don’t worry about it. It’s just a stupid fear anyway.”
“Well… I promise I won’t leave you alone again, okay?”
“Okay,” Veronica paused “pinky swear?”
Lilly linked her finger with Veronica’s before laughing.
“Jeez, we haven’t done that in years.”
“I promise I won’t leave you alone EVER again, Veronica Mars.” Lilly swore, tugging their fingers like a hand shake.

To be broken, you were made

Sometimes Veronica remembers that she lied.
Sometimes Veronica remembers that Lilly had left her entirely on her own.
Pour, sip, sit.
Sometimes, Veronica Mars thinks, it’s better to burn, than to fade away

XxX

Heaven, I need a drink

Logan Echolls needed alcohol.
He needed it like most people needed air.
Because when he had alcohol in his mouth, in his blood, inside him, he could breathe.

Logan had always liked alcohol, even when he was just a kid.
His mother had used it to clean his cuts and welts, injuries from his father.
But he hadn’t been dependent on it until Lilly died.
Until Duncan wrapped himself in the protective bubble of drugs and not feeling, until Veronica picked her father and betrayed them all.

He’d always liked the slow burn of it, softer than a cigarette (and he knew this) but still sharp enough to take your breath away, to stop your world for a split second.
Logan liked how after that moment of nothing, everything would come back into focus, clearer and sharper.
Even his pain, but it didn’t matter, not really, because in that moment of pause, of absolute silence, Logan could breathe.
And that was all that mattered these days.

So Logan drinks,
He drinks to numb himself from the pain, to forget for a second, a single fucking second, that his life ended on October third, and now he’s just bidding time, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
He drinks till nothing is in focus, not even his pain and everything is like a kaleidoscope. All blurry shapes and pretty colours and glitter.
But nothing is real, nothing has substance, and every time Logan feels like he may just be able to see a coherent pattern, something that vaguely resembles someone or something, his world shifts.
And he’s back to starring at the colourful sparkling mess, and wondering, when did this become his life?
He drinks because if alcohol can fix his wounds on the outside, then maybe if he drinks enough it will fix him inside too.

Maybe if he pours enough alcohol down his throat, then he won’t feel as if he’s swallowed a mouthful of glass every time he directs a vicious barb in Veronica’s direction or his chest won’t ache every time he catches Duncan’s vacant stare or maybe, if he’s really lucky, his heart wont break every time he forgets Lilly for even a second.
He drinks because Tylenol won’t take away the pain, and Vicodin won’t numb his feelings.
He drinks because he refuses the anti-depressants his mother is offering, because he really does want to feel, he just wants to be able to breathe at the same time.
He drinks because he wants to live, he just not sure he remembers how to.

I’m here because they’re paying me to do my thing

Logan Echolls hates Hollywood.
He hates the paparazzi, the on-location shoots and the floozies
He hates smiling for the pretty people with the cameras because “Remember, Son, these people pay for all of this.”
But most of all, he fucking hates that his dad is an actor.
Because he doesn’t hate his father, not even a tiny bit, not even at all.
Not when the belt cracks down on his back, not when his dad uses him as an ashtray, not even when his arm is twisted until it fractures.

He hates himself though,
And he hates his Mother for standing idly by, and he hates Duncan’s denial and Lilly’s indifference and Veronica’s innocence.
He despises his Father, and curses him and mocks him.
But never hate.
Because deep down he loves his Father, and really, how fucked up is that.

That all Logan ever really wanted was his Father’s attention.
But Logan wasn’t female or offering Aaron millions of dollars,
so he was pushed aside, ignored, forgotten about.
Until Logan found a way to catch his Dad’s attention.
Screw up enough, and Aaron would come home to deal out the punishment.
And sure, it wasn’t perfect, but Logan would take what he could get.
Aaron would come home, and Logan would open the cupboard and pick a belt. (He was surprised so many could actually fit in there, considering the amount of skeletons that also occupied the closet.)
And the next day Aaron would act like nothing had happened, and Lynn would be too hung-over to get out of bed, and Trina would be too happy that her dad was home to notice the blood stains on the back of Logan’s shirt.
Or the Band-Aids covering burn marks, or the bruises shadowing his face, or the cuts across Aaron’s knuckles.

But Aaron would leave again soon enough, in a day, a week, maybe a fortnight later.
And Logan would think up another way to get in trouble.
Because he wanted to hate his dad, he did.
He just wanted his love more.

They never specify what it is I should bring

Logan Echolls used to laugh when people said things like, ‘Bring it on.’
“Bring what on, exactly?” he’d snark and slap the person across the back of the head, like they were Italian.
These days, he barely smiles, and when a person says “Bring it on.”
He answers by punching them in the face.
He still thinks it is a stupid expression, though.

But when the other guy snaps him one back, when the coppery taste of blood, that should taste cold and metallic, that should taste bitter, but instead tastes sickly sweet, wraps itself around his mouth, and it’s warm, it comforts Logan.
When he should feel pain, but instead feels alive, Logan knows that’s fucked up.
He just doesn’t care.

And when he can’t have blood, he’ll have tequila.
Not because it’s alcohol, not because he needs the numbness it offers,
Because tequila is the body shot Logan had from Veronica Mars.
Because the Tequila should have been bitter, too.
And the salt should have stung, but it was soft, and the lime should have been sharp, but it was like a caress.
Because for the first time in a long time, Logan had tasted someone else’s pain.
And that should have hurt, but all he’d felt was relief.
Relief that Veronica was still broken, that she hadn’t healed like everyone else had, in the absence of Lilly.
Her wounds were still open, fresh, and Logan liked that.
He liked that someone still hurt as much as him,
so he kept her wounds open, with razor wit and biting comments.
He didn’t let her start to heal.
Because if she didn’t have to, then neither did he.

I’m right up on the brink

Lynn Echolls had always loved heights.
When Logan was young, and his Mum was tired of the L.A. scene, sometimes she would take him out to her favourite place in the whole world.
And Lynn had been to enough countries and cities to make a fair comparison.
She’d been to the Notre Dame in France, and the Peterhof Palace in Russia,
but her favourite place in the whole wide world was in her hometown of Barrington, California.
It was on top of a bridge, over the guard rail, leaning against the branch of a massive tree that grew along the bank of a river.
It was like flying, Lynn used to say, it was like standing on top of the world.
And Logan would stand with his fingers intertwined with his mother’s, and she would laugh, laugh, as the breeze blew their hair across their faces.
Logan had always hated heights.
But the day Lynn twisted her fingers with his; it was like she was reaching out to catch him, like for once she was strong enough to save him.
And Logan thought that might just be the best feeling in the world

Lynn said the best feeling in the world was leaping off the bridge, flying for a brief second before you hit the water.
But Logan was too scared to test this, to jump,
because what if Lynn’s hand slipped from his, and there was no one to catch him?
What happened then?

Lynn loved bridges, and aside from the Barrington Bridge, the Coronado was her favourite.
It was one of the many reasons they had moved to Neptune.
Logan had told his friends this once, and when Lilly had gotten her license, she’d driven Logan, Duncan and Veronica to Barrington, just to see the bridge.
He’d tried to explain to Lilly, when they got there, why he hated heights but loved diving.
It was because there was always something there to catch you, even if it was just the water.
But Lilly had just laughed and said, “You know that’s crazy right?” and Duncan had chuckled his agreement with his sister and said, “You know, Lilly’s actually right for once.”
But Veronica had understood.
She’d pulled on his wrist and dragged him so he stood on the tree branch with her.
Then she intertwined her fingers with his and said quietly, “I’ll catch you, if you catch me.”
And pulled him over the edge with her, and it was like they were flying, like the world had stopped and nothing could hurt them.
Veronica’s hand gripped Logan’s tightly, and he had never doubted that she’d catch him.
And when they had hit the water, enveloped in its inky darkness, submerged in the cold blue of it, Logan had momentarily been scared, but Veronica had tugged on his hand, and pulled him up towards the surface, and he had simply felt alive.

He wondered sometimes if Lilly had finally understood that in the moment before she died,
If, in the split second between living and dying, Lilly had flown.
If in between the ashtray hitting her head and her body hitting the ground, Lilly had understood that there is always something there to catch you, even if it is only concrete.

So he sits on the brink.
Of the Coronado Bridge, of the San Diego Bay, of the world.
(Of living.)
But he’s too scared to take the plunge.
Because it isn’t the fall that kills you.
It’s the landing.
And Logan is scared that maybe he was wrong after all, maybe his world has fallen from beneath him, and now there is nothing at all to catch him.
Scared that maybe he has already fallen, and now this parody of a life he’s been living for the past 10 months has just been a lie.
Just a free fall of dizzying images and sick-to-the-stomach feelings.
And any second now, he’ll open his eyes and see the cold concrete of death rushing up to meet him.
But he doesn’t want to back down either, to feel the solid ground beneath his feet.
He doesn’t want to go back to a life of abusive fathers and distant mothers, of friends that don’t feel (or feel too much).
A world of tiny-blonde-bitches that make their choices and betray them all.
Because this time there is no one to save him.
No one to reach out and slip their hands into his.
Because he is alone. Because everyone always leaves him.
On the brink of living, of life, and he laughs.

He laughs because it used to make him feel so alive, but now,
somewhere between the salty sea air and his salty tears, he feels like he’s drowning.

I remember when, I had you, and you had so much promise then,

Logan remembers sometimes, of when he was 14, and Lilly was 15 and bored.
Bored of Biology, bored of school, “bored of fucking life, Logan.”
So they cut class, took a taxi to the Marina, and stole his Dad’s luxury sailboat for an impromptu trip to Catalina.
Duncan wouldn’t come, and Veronica couldn’t, and it should have been awkward, but it wasn’t.
Because Lilly was in her skimpiest bikini, and Logan could barely breathe, let alone think coherently.
And then Lilly had kissed him, and Logan didn’t have to worry about breathing anymore, because Lilly was breathing for him.
And Logan was quite happy with that arrangement.

Lilly had smiled when they reached their destination, and announced to him that he was her new luv-ah.
She smiled at him when she bought him a puka shell necklace at a market stall.
And she smiled when he let her order Lobster for lunch, even though because of his shellfish allergy that meant they wouldn’t be able to kiss again that night.
She smiled when they had strawberry mousse (her favourite) for dessert and when he let her drag him to the new Connor Larkin film, even though he hated the guy.
And she smiled when he dropped her off at her doorstop and kissed her on the cheek.

And he smiled when she raised her hand in goodbye as Celeste and Jake hauled her in for questioning. He smiled not because of the tongue she stuck out or the rude gestures she made at Celeste’s back.
He smiled because of the bracelet around her wrist.
Made of puka shells and promises and identical to the one he wore around his neck.

Even when Aaron whipped him with his $200 leather Gucci belt (buttery leather hurt less) Logan smiled.
Even when, a month later, Lilly broke up with him for the first time, he kept smiling.
Because she kept her bracelet on, and Logan kept his hope that everything would turn out okay.

You promised me, that you would never leave again.

The last time they’d gotten back together, Logan should have felt happy, but all he’d felt was defeat.
How long were they going to last this time? How long before Lilly would kiss him, with tongues and lips wrapped around his, and the scent of another guy’s cologne wrapped around her. How long before Logan would start screwing up to give Lilly an out. How long before she broke it off again?
How long?
But he couldn’t resist Lilly Kane, and she knew it.

It lasted all of three days before Lilly suddenly had ‘places to go’ when the four of them hung out.
All of seventy-two hours before Lilly was pulling away, walking out of their relationship yet again.
And Logan was over it.
“Come on, Lilly, Veronica and I just got here, do you really have to go?” and his voice was pleading, and he was weak.
“Logan,” Lilly said, “I don’t just make this stuff up, I gotta go.”
She leant down to give him a chaste cheek kiss, but Logan grabbed her wrist and pulled her down onto his lap again.
“Lilly.” he whispered. “Promise you won’t leave again this time?”
“I promise Logan, I’ll never leave again.” But her voice was bored,
And Lilly was a lying liar, who lied, and Logan knew it.
So he kept his fingers wrapped around her wrist, “Lilly stay, please.”
“Logan, what are you? Four? I have to go.” Lilly yanked her hand from his grip, and Logan grasped for something, anything to tell him this time they’ll last.
But all he found was a bracelet, and that broke, like his heart and he felt like Lilly was slipping through his fingers, like the beads that had spilt across his hand, and scattered across the pool deck.
“Your bracelet!” Veronica gasped as she slid off Duncan’s knee to start gathering the fallen puka shells.
“Don’t worry, I was getting tired of it anyway; time to upgrade I think.”
But everyone knew she wasn’t talking about the bracelet any longer.

It didn’t really matter though, because two weeks later the world as they knew it ended.

To be broken you were made,

Sometimes Logan remembers that she lied.
Sometimes he remembers that everything isn’t Veronica’s fault either.
Bait, hit, taste.
Sometimes, Logan Echolls thinks, it is better to be the flame than the one getting burned.

XxX

I remember when,
I had you, and you had so much promise then,
You promised me, that you would never leave again.
To be broken you were made,
Lilly Kane.