Title:
Bloom
Author: StarCrossdSparrow
Characters: Logan, Lynn, and
Aaron
Rating: T
Chapter: 1/1
Word Count: 573
Disclaimer:
RT is the master of all things "Veronica Mars." I'll put
everyone back when I'm done, so please don't sue.
Spoilers: 1x22
"Leave it to Beaver"
Summary: Logan prepares for Aaron's
funeral. Angsty.
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He watched the white lather cover the purple bruise on his shoulder. Just as quickly, the shower's spray uncovered it again. The mark was just in his sight if he turned his head far enough. It was roughly the size of a fist. Or a baseball.
Dark purple at the center, striated with darker hues bordering on black. Toward the edges, it had already gone a little green-yellow. It amazed Logan that all those colors could bloom on his skin, which otherwise, was a barren wasteland of desert colored flesh. Like a cactus flower in the sand. That's what the bruise looked like.
Why were bruises purple, though? Logan had always wondered why. His mother had called them "black and blue."
Black, he knew, was the absence of color. There was no black on him. He was a fucking acid trip color wheel.
And the blue? That was the color his blood ran through his veins. Needing oxygen and filthy rich. A family tree with roots that dug deep into the graves of knights and lords as well as fences and murderers.
But, purple? Purple was the color of royalty. He was certainly that. The Echolls Palace had burned at the will of the people, but the Neptune Grand was a mightier throne. But was he William or Harry? Aaron had Charles beat for philandering, that was sure. At least he had better taste. And, Lynn had been offered the role of Diana in a Movie of the Week once. Or maybe it was for that Lifeline channel or what-the-fuck-ever.
He watched it as the hot spray beat his skin into submission, taking it from a wet tan to a violent, virulent red. Red convened on purple. Blood on a crown. Logan snorted laughter.
He twisted the knob of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. He dripped everywhere, puddling on the floor. Who could stop him?
He leaned on the vanity, looking into the fogged mirror. He made no move to reveal his reflection. He knew what waited beyond the condensation. He'd still be there when it dried.
Drying as he went and eventually discarding his towel on the floor of his bedroom, he pulled into some shorts and a plain white tee shirt. When he looked, he could no longer see the bruise. But, he knew it was there.
Purple and angry. Green-yellow and sick.
He pulled on the crisp white shirt. Next came the suit pants and their woolly abuse. He tucked and buttoned and zipped. Socks. Shoes. Tie.
Finally, a black jacket. Now there was black on him. Yellow and green on the tie. Blue in his veins. And a purple that trumped all the other colors.
Logan smirked at his reflection in the vanity mirror. He could see the crisp lines of the somber suit. The noose of a tie. His still damp hair. And that ugly purple bruise.
Size of a fist. Or a baseball.
Logan could make up all the necessary lies even when the man who'd put it there was about to be buried.
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