Veronica Mars fanfic: Pharmacopeia, 1/1
Oct. 25th, 2005 01:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dangermousieTitle: Pharmacopeia
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Word Count: 1111
Characters: Logan, shades of V/L
Spoilers: Through 2.01
Summary: The drugs are making him space out, float away almost, to a place of smeared colors and cotton wool. He thinks he now knows why his mother liked them so much: everyday made bearable, in a tiny plastic bottle. Only he is getting high-class treatment, IV straight to the veins.
Author's Note: I really wanted to try to write a woozy stream of consiousness. This is Logan's, after Leo takes him away in the beginning of NITW, as I am sure the boy would end up in a hospital to get treated for PCH-inflicted injuries. Do feedback, because I am a feedback whore...
After all this, and he ends up in a hospital. It figures. There is a policeman, dozing, by the foot of his bed. He woozily thinks he should be flattered. Where do they think he can go? His making it to Veronica's was a combination of sheer obstinacy and a blind desire to burrow and he thinks any repeat feats will have to wait about a hundred years or so.
They came and asked him questions and all he replied was that he wanted a lawyer. For once, it’s not bravado, or perversity, but just a desire to sleep. When your head hurts, and your ribs hurt, and breathing itself is a complicated and painful pattern, you realize just how many breaths it takes to form each syllable of your speech. When you count and hoard exhalations and inhales, words don’t seem to appear readily any more. He thinks counting one to ten backwards would be a major achievement in his state, never mind describing what happened. He has already told what happened to the one person that mattered, mattered still, anyway. If he concentrates, he can still feel the phantom of Veronica’s blond hair on his fingers.
He isn't out yet, of course, and no fancy lawyers have appeared with sleepy eyes and sharp suits, but they are probably busy now, as there is more of a priority event in the family. His thought process skids to a halt.
The drugs are making him space out, float away almost, to a place of smeared colors and cotton wool. He thinks he now knows why his mother liked them so much: everyday made bearable, in a tiny plastic bottle. Only he is getting high-class treatment, IV straight to the veins.
Will they come and take his fingerprints again? Or are the ones still in their possession from his bong bust sufficient? They probably are, even though the skin that made those ink shadows has long sloughed off. New skin, set in old patterns, immutable. He thinks it’s probably the story of his life. Or anyone’s life, really.
The events have been trickling in on the radio. It’s as if you are following a play-by-play of someone else’s life, only the pain is yours. He is in the Deputy’s car, and they are on their way to the hospital (his not walking without folding was probably a giveaway) when he hears about just why he came after Lilly.
The man probably did not want him listening to police radio and its Echolls-related chatter, but this is Neptune and no good deed goes unpunished. There is glee in the commentator’s voice as he trips over his words in the hurry to get to the salacious details, and as someone’s fingers fumble with the buttons to turn off the radio, he is heartily sick on the floor of the police car. His mind stutters to a stop and for the first time in his life, he is glad to blame something on a beating, and gladder that the Deputy buys it. Or is nice enough to pretend to, anyway.
He wonders about those who are allergic to opiates, and how unlucky they are. How do they get through unbearable days? He thinks of the pills in his mother’s immaculate hands. He thinks of his mother, manicured, coiffed, dressed, plasticized. Pills dulled the edge for her. Dulled the edge of sad, or lonely, or bored. Dulled the edge of fear so she jumped. Red convertible, open doors, bridge where he spent the night. Maybe those with adverse reactions are not so unlucky after all.
He thinks of him, and somehow it feels as if he managed to deliver another punishment session, even if in absentia, and this one’s a doozy and it hurts worse than usual, and it just won’t stop. His father (and the drugs, they are good. He doesn't even stumble over the word in his head too much). He thinks of his father's hands. Actor’s hands, eloquent hands, elegant, groomed. The ones that held belts, cigarettes, lamp cords, or just closed into fists, the ones that painted a map of his displeasure onto his son's skin. He thinks of them on Lilly's skin, touching and marking him there too. He feels nausea rise in his throat again but there is nothing left in his stomach, and so he just dry-heaves. He realizes the drugs don't work so well, after all.
The doctors and the nurses are in and out, asking questions, adjusting dosages, looking through the flurry of his X-rays. They are professional, hurried, and don’t display much interest other than in the colorful collection of bruises he’s accumulated and small cramped writing on his chart. He is so grateful for that he could weep. But he thinks he’s cried out for the day, too.
He falls through the net of his dreams. There is no one to catch him and nowhere to hide. He is five, and his father’s open palm lands across his face, and the safety of his world is shattered. He is fifteen, and Lilly is dead, and he wishes he was dead too, but it doesn’t work that way and all that’s left are computer images of blond hair matted with blood and a startled pout on lips turned blue. He is seventeen and the life he’s been trying to rebuild has collapsed like a house of cards, and his girlfriend is gone in the ground, and his mother is gone in the sea, and his best friend is gone into drug land. Only his father is still there, and always will be, and the girl he wanted to save him thinks he is a murderer, and he is doing a balancing act on a bridge and he thinks his life can’t get worse. And he’s wrong. He always is about things like that. Does it make him an optimist?
There is a hand on his shoulder and he swims back to muddy reality and all he feels is relief. His life is falling apart and there is nowhere further down to go unless he starts digging. But if he is awake, at least all the bad things are not all happening at once, in a peculiar, perverse time-warp. His eyes open and focus, even though it takes some doing. The figure is still there, hand on his shoulder, a light touch. It’s Veronica and she is looking at him. Her hair is sticking out a bit, her eyes are hollowed and a bit blood-shot. She looks tired, and tense, and on the verge of tears, or a tirade. She is the best thing he’ll ever see.
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Word Count: 1111
Characters: Logan, shades of V/L
Spoilers: Through 2.01
Summary: The drugs are making him space out, float away almost, to a place of smeared colors and cotton wool. He thinks he now knows why his mother liked them so much: everyday made bearable, in a tiny plastic bottle. Only he is getting high-class treatment, IV straight to the veins.
Author's Note: I really wanted to try to write a woozy stream of consiousness. This is Logan's, after Leo takes him away in the beginning of NITW, as I am sure the boy would end up in a hospital to get treated for PCH-inflicted injuries. Do feedback, because I am a feedback whore...
After all this, and he ends up in a hospital. It figures. There is a policeman, dozing, by the foot of his bed. He woozily thinks he should be flattered. Where do they think he can go? His making it to Veronica's was a combination of sheer obstinacy and a blind desire to burrow and he thinks any repeat feats will have to wait about a hundred years or so.
They came and asked him questions and all he replied was that he wanted a lawyer. For once, it’s not bravado, or perversity, but just a desire to sleep. When your head hurts, and your ribs hurt, and breathing itself is a complicated and painful pattern, you realize just how many breaths it takes to form each syllable of your speech. When you count and hoard exhalations and inhales, words don’t seem to appear readily any more. He thinks counting one to ten backwards would be a major achievement in his state, never mind describing what happened. He has already told what happened to the one person that mattered, mattered still, anyway. If he concentrates, he can still feel the phantom of Veronica’s blond hair on his fingers.
He isn't out yet, of course, and no fancy lawyers have appeared with sleepy eyes and sharp suits, but they are probably busy now, as there is more of a priority event in the family. His thought process skids to a halt.
The drugs are making him space out, float away almost, to a place of smeared colors and cotton wool. He thinks he now knows why his mother liked them so much: everyday made bearable, in a tiny plastic bottle. Only he is getting high-class treatment, IV straight to the veins.
Will they come and take his fingerprints again? Or are the ones still in their possession from his bong bust sufficient? They probably are, even though the skin that made those ink shadows has long sloughed off. New skin, set in old patterns, immutable. He thinks it’s probably the story of his life. Or anyone’s life, really.
The events have been trickling in on the radio. It’s as if you are following a play-by-play of someone else’s life, only the pain is yours. He is in the Deputy’s car, and they are on their way to the hospital (his not walking without folding was probably a giveaway) when he hears about just why he came after Lilly.
The man probably did not want him listening to police radio and its Echolls-related chatter, but this is Neptune and no good deed goes unpunished. There is glee in the commentator’s voice as he trips over his words in the hurry to get to the salacious details, and as someone’s fingers fumble with the buttons to turn off the radio, he is heartily sick on the floor of the police car. His mind stutters to a stop and for the first time in his life, he is glad to blame something on a beating, and gladder that the Deputy buys it. Or is nice enough to pretend to, anyway.
He wonders about those who are allergic to opiates, and how unlucky they are. How do they get through unbearable days? He thinks of the pills in his mother’s immaculate hands. He thinks of his mother, manicured, coiffed, dressed, plasticized. Pills dulled the edge for her. Dulled the edge of sad, or lonely, or bored. Dulled the edge of fear so she jumped. Red convertible, open doors, bridge where he spent the night. Maybe those with adverse reactions are not so unlucky after all.
He thinks of him, and somehow it feels as if he managed to deliver another punishment session, even if in absentia, and this one’s a doozy and it hurts worse than usual, and it just won’t stop. His father (and the drugs, they are good. He doesn't even stumble over the word in his head too much). He thinks of his father's hands. Actor’s hands, eloquent hands, elegant, groomed. The ones that held belts, cigarettes, lamp cords, or just closed into fists, the ones that painted a map of his displeasure onto his son's skin. He thinks of them on Lilly's skin, touching and marking him there too. He feels nausea rise in his throat again but there is nothing left in his stomach, and so he just dry-heaves. He realizes the drugs don't work so well, after all.
The doctors and the nurses are in and out, asking questions, adjusting dosages, looking through the flurry of his X-rays. They are professional, hurried, and don’t display much interest other than in the colorful collection of bruises he’s accumulated and small cramped writing on his chart. He is so grateful for that he could weep. But he thinks he’s cried out for the day, too.
He falls through the net of his dreams. There is no one to catch him and nowhere to hide. He is five, and his father’s open palm lands across his face, and the safety of his world is shattered. He is fifteen, and Lilly is dead, and he wishes he was dead too, but it doesn’t work that way and all that’s left are computer images of blond hair matted with blood and a startled pout on lips turned blue. He is seventeen and the life he’s been trying to rebuild has collapsed like a house of cards, and his girlfriend is gone in the ground, and his mother is gone in the sea, and his best friend is gone into drug land. Only his father is still there, and always will be, and the girl he wanted to save him thinks he is a murderer, and he is doing a balancing act on a bridge and he thinks his life can’t get worse. And he’s wrong. He always is about things like that. Does it make him an optimist?
There is a hand on his shoulder and he swims back to muddy reality and all he feels is relief. His life is falling apart and there is nowhere further down to go unless he starts digging. But if he is awake, at least all the bad things are not all happening at once, in a peculiar, perverse time-warp. His eyes open and focus, even though it takes some doing. The figure is still there, hand on his shoulder, a light touch. It’s Veronica and she is looking at him. Her hair is sticking out a bit, her eyes are hollowed and a bit blood-shot. She looks tired, and tense, and on the verge of tears, or a tirade. She is the best thing he’ll ever see.
