Title: "Alternate"
Author: monimala
Fandom: VM
Rating/Classification: SAC for mild language and mentions of sex, Veronica, Weevil, het and slash with my usual suspects, angst.
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine and I'm not profiting.
Summary: Post "Rashard and Wallace…" With their eyes closed, it all makes sense.
She led another life in her head.
One where he grilled steaks on Fridays, picked her up from class every alternate Thursday for long drives up the coast, and kissed her on Wednesdays for no reason at all. It was a good life. A quiet life. A safe one. They jockeyed for the remote control and took Backup for walks and laughed and fought and made love. And sometimes it wasn't love. Sometimes, he took her against the steamed-over door of the shower when she wasn't quite ready. But it was still good. Better. And he never left her. He never died. He never walked away. He never ran.
'He' was Logan and Duncan and Weevil and sometimes Orlando Bloom. Once he was Vinnie Vanlowe and she woke up shuddering. She had to get up and brush her teeth before she could even try to fall back to sleep. More often than not, 'he' was Sheriff Don Lamb.
And with her eyes closed, it actually made sense. With the volume on her iPod amped all the way up as she drowned in Damien Rice and Snow Patrol and the Dandy Warhols, it seemed totally logical.
In her head, they slept in till noon on Sundays, legs twisted like pretzels as he hogged the covers and she drowsed along to the soothing rhythm of his heartbeat against her ear. It was the only time they had to themselves…the brief, idyllic, two days where they didn't have to answer to anybody, to question themselves, or to look any further than his bedroom door.
But then she woke up. She turned off the music. She climbed out of the folds of her brain.
And she remembered that 'he' was someone she couldn't forgive.
'He' was someone she couldn't reach.
'He' was someone she wouldn't risk.
'He' was someone she didn't know.
'He' was someone she refused to love.
And she was alone.
And better off that way.
***
He led another life in his head.
One where he never had to eat mac and cheese out of the box because the last of the bread had to go to the kids. One where he never had to work extra hours at Angel's just to buy abuela a birthday present. One where he could walk through the 09-er zip without people rolling up their windows. One where he still had brothers and still had pride and he and Felix and Chardo watched telenovelas and laughed until their sides hurt. And sometimes, the screen door would bang and he'd hear a burst of music before an iPod turned off and he would scoot over on the couch and make room for her…because she just had to drop by. Because didn't want to be his secret anymore. Because she just had to see him. Because she didn't want to be his shame. Because she wanted to crawl into his lap and grind up and down until his brain fell into his pants and all he knew was how fucking rich he felt when she kissed him.
'She' was Lilly and Veronica and sometimes Angelina Jolie. Most of the time, in the middle of the night, when he didn't know any better and dreamed of broken xBox buttons and overpriced booze, she was Logan Echolls.
And it made sense. It wasn't some gay thing. It was just a thing that he didn't question, didn't second-guess, and didn't regret. And they did shit like sitting on the beach and smoking up or playing Final Fantasy on a fancy plasma screen TV. They beat each other up in the men's room for fun and sometimes…sometimes…Logan's hands weren't quite so rough. Not like his pretty mouth…which hurt like a needle leaving dye under his skin.
But then he woke up. He counted the purple-blue-green shades of his bruises, not knowing where they ended and his ink started. He poured powdered cheese into a pan with water and set it to boil.
And he remembered that 'she' was dead.
'She' was someone he couldn't have.
'She' was someone he'd never met.
'She' wasn't even a 'she' at all.
And that he couldn't trust anyone.
He couldn't afford it.
***
Veronica finds Weevil on the very top tier of the bleachers, cutting metal shop. She takes his chin between her thumb and forefinger, gently turning his head to inspect the worst of the cuts.
He knows the buzz about him taking the bus like the unwashed masses spread across school before first bell. Like gossip Ebola. But she doesn't say anything. She just sits down next to him, opening up her brown paper bag lunch bag and revealing a Tupperware dish with some of his grandmother's empanadas.
His favorite.
"Jesus, V. You really are something," he laughs…and then stops, because it makes his ribs twinge.
She shakes her head, staring at him and wondering why…why he would help Logan, why he would take the hits from the PCH-ers. And how he still manages to smile over the blood and the scars. He doesn't know the meaning of the word 'enemy.' He doesn't translate the word 'grudge.' "No…no, I'm really not."
They eat in silence, watching kids straggle across the field for smokes and make-out sessions.
He slings an arm around her shoulders.
She leans in.
And for just a few minutes, they close their eyes.
Not long enough to dream.
Just long enough to catch their breath.
--end--
February 2, 2006.