Horizons
A/N: This is a sort of bridge between 3.07 and 3.08, Of Vice and Men and Lord of the Pies. Because there is no way Veronica wouldn't have nightmares after being in the River Stix and I just needed to give this a good (if angsty) spin.
Readers; hope you enjoy.
Dependant on the response, I may turn this into an AU that runs from the aforementioned episodes onward through the season.
Also, I heard somewhere that slugs have four noses...
It's the middle of the night when her breathing starts to hitch and that vice of pain around her ribs starts to tighten. Her eyes go wide, unseeing, still trapped in her twisted dreams where she is pinned to the green of the pool table, broken pool cues slashing at her back as Liam Fitzpatrick slowly forces the air from her lungs with a smile on his face and beer on his breath.
Unconsciously, her body arches off the bed, desperately seeking air through a throat too panicked to inhale. Her hands clench and unclench on the bedspread, nails tearing through the fabric as her body revolts against what the neurons deep in her skull are showing her.
The picture is horrifyingly clear and it brings bile burning to the surface. At the edges, the scene starts to shimmer, starlights blooming into existence from nowhere, brilliant colours dancing about her head and the twisted expression on Liam's face.
He's smiling.
Toothily.
She can't breathe.
It's going dark.
Her brain is screaming for oxygen at the same time it's telling her that her chest is being crushed.
Utter terror floods her veins, more potent than the fear she felt upon awakening the morning after Shelly Palmroy's party.
She is absolutely convinced she is going to die.
Suddenly, more faces appear, starting with her mother, than Cassidy, than Duncan, than Lilly, than Madison and finally, Meg. They circle her, standing silently as she flails, motionless as tears stream from her eyes and nonchalant as her hands try pointlessly to force the man on her, off.
From the haze of mist surrounding the pool table and the circle of watchers, Logan finally appears. He is yelling something unintelligible. His face is the embodiment of anguish as wild eyes rake over her form and struggles. What's worse is that the circle of faces are now a solid wall between them.
Back in reality, Backup wines and thumps his tail on the bed. Rising to his paws, he noses at his mother's face, hot breath blowing the hair away from her pale and sweaty face. He wines again when she stays trapped in her nightmares, and prods at her again.
To no use.
Inside the nightmare, just as her vision goes dark, the picture flickers and then she's sprawled on the cold tar of the parking garage, then sensation of lethargy and wrongness thrumming through her limbs. Logan's above her, normally warm eyes icy, staring down at her with disgust.
"I told you to stay away from this," he hisses at her. "I told you and you didn't listen. All I wanted to do was protect you but you don't give a damn what I think. You don't care."
There's a pause when Veronica reaches out desperately for him, the pain of his words hurting more than the crush of drunken arms.
"So I won't," he spits and turns his back.
A dark shadow emerges from the corner of her eyes and moves closer. The faceless form cackles.
And reaches for her head.
Bolting into wakefulness, Veronica bites back the scream that is desperate to climb free and curls herself around a pillow as her body shakes with sobs. Backup wines again, but there is relief because mother is awake and no longer smells of death. He sinks to his belly and licks away the tear trails on her cheeks.
After several long moments, when her heart rate has calm and she managed to convince herself that she was able to breathe, she draws up into a sitting position and winces at the pain in her ribs.
But she knows what has to be done.
Leaving a still watchful Backup seated on her bed, she silently slips from the apartment and drives.
Later, as down breaks free from the horizon, she sits herself on the bed as lightly as possible and watches him.
Something inside her breaks
(be it walls or resolve or anger, she will never know)
and the tears start anew.
Maybe it's the shaking of her shoulders that brings him to the surface or maybe he just knows, but suddenly sleep filled but startled eyes are peering at her.
"Veronica?" he rasps. "What are you doing here?"
(The, I thought we were fighting, goes unspoken)
All she can do is cry and she feels as though she can't breathe again.
He is instantly on alert, sitting bolt upright and cupping her face in his hands, thumbing away her tears.
"What is it? What's wrong? Tell me," he pleads, seeking answers she doesn't know if she is strong enough to give.
A sob bursts through her lips and she falls foreword, burying herself into him, letting the scent of him fill her and wipe away the lingering smell of beer and smoke and pain from her mind.
Unsure what to do, he pulls her to him, arms going around her body and surrounding tightly.
When the hot flash of pain spikes, she is instantly thrust back into her nightmare, even as she jerks away. Logan is left, hands dangling uselessly, as she presses a fist to her mouth and bites down. The anguish she saw about an hour ago in her mind now becomes reality before her.
"I'm sorry," she finally breathes, sniffling.
"For what? What's wrong Veronica?" Urgency has become paramount now.
No words can help her now.
Time to show.
Moving carefully, she tugs the bottom of her shirt and his eyes follow avidly, absent of any not so honest intentions. When the fabric passes the rainbow she carries on her ribs, his gaze goes black and body goes ramrod with rage. She drops the tails of her shirt and looks away
(because that look of cold, calculated anger, is the same she saw in her dream, only then it was directed at her. In her still fragile state, her mind can't tell the difference of directionality).
"Who did this?" he breathes, words vibrating between them.
"Doesn't matter," she tells him and rushes onward when he moves to protest. "I dreamed that I died."
The rage sputters and dies and is replaced with horror.
"And then I dreamed that you hated me because of who I was. And I don't know which is worse. Because I love you.
(It's the first time she's said it, but now, it won't be the last.)
"I really love you."
She stops, still looking at the floor.
"I'm so sorry," she whispers.
He is at a loss and simply pulls her back to him, this time gently and avoids the bruises. The tears are still hot on her face as they soak into his shirt, but her insides are finally calm.
They may have cracks, but this time she's determined to heal them.
Both of them.