DON'T WAKE ME WITH SO MUCH

Word Count: 3179

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Literally. So don't sue.

A/N: Post season 1 angst-fest. And the title is from the R.E.M song, Daysleeper.

I.

Logan Echolls sat on the east lawn of the Kane estate. It was Day 62, and he was in his usual 2 AM spot. He sipped from his flask; it was peaceful on this grassy knoll.

He'd spent every night here since Day 7. He had stopped thinking in terms of Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, weeks, or months. He preferred the simplicity of numbers, like a progressive number line. Positive, negative numbers in a straight line.

The number line starts on the night of Aaron's arrest. The night of truth. Day 1. Since then he has tried not to think about anything. Which was easy since he spent daylight hours sleeping and the night here, moderately drunk. Not too drunk. Too drunk could tip you into oblivion. Too drunk and you end up on the Coronado Bridge. You wake up from a too drunk night and suddenly your father is arrested for killing your girlfriend and for trying to kill your would-be girlfriend.

By Day 7, though, Logan has resigned himself to the fact that he was not going to chuck it all—no matter how tempting his mother's bottle of Valium was. No matter how much he wanted to lie down in the middle of the road and wait for a car to run him over, he was going to keep on breathing. He was going to live. At least for a little while. It was a depressing thought. Apparently he was not his mother's son, after all.

But was he his father's son? This is the question that ultimately drives him out of the house. There are certain questions that do not warrant an answer. No matter what She thought—or did.

When he finally ventured out of his house, he realized much too late how conspicuous his X-terra was. Why on earth had he chosen that color?

He parked the car at the mall, lost the adventurous photogs at Nieman Marcus and then hailed a cab to Weevil's garage.

When Weevil saw Logan, he stops, narrowed his eyes, and swaggered over to Logan.

"Hey," Logan said.

Weevil looked as though he was ready for anything—payback for the bridge, at the very least some shoving or shouting.

"Hey," Weevil said. "To what do I owe this unexpected visit?"

"Part of my community service. Reach out and touch a Paco day."

"It'll be the last thing you touch," Weevil said.

"Right. Thanks for the reminder to delouse afterwards."

Weevil scoffed, and Logan almost smiled. Almost. Maybe there were some things that hadn't changed.

Logan explained what he was looking for—a getaway car, and Weevil hooked him up with an '81 rusted Dodge Magnum. A two-door monster with an engine that roared. His very own rust bucket. It drove like a tank.

"Look, man," Logan said, his arm leaning on the window of the open door. "If you wouldn't mind keeping this little transaction to yourself."

"I got better things to talk about than rich white boys like you," Weevil said.

"Not even," Logan stopped. "Not even—"

"Like I said, you're not high on my list of conversation topics."

Logan felt so grateful to Weevil for saving him from saying her name that he nearly weeps. Which was just another indication of how severely fucked up his life was

Logan drove his new monster for hours until he found himself parked outside the Kane perimeter. It had not escaped him that he often thought of the Kane house as something like a prison. Or a fortress. Something impenetrable. Fences and Dobermans intended to keep the world out. A lot of good it had done them in the end. The danger, like that old urban legend, had already been inside.

And, truth be told—but let's be honest here, there had been a little too much truth in his life lately.

Mystery solved. Case closed. The end.

It had taken him three nights to figure out the exact speed to crawl—yes, crawl—so as not to trigger the motion detector lights. It only took him two nights, though, to think to bring dog biscuits for Zeus and Athena—Celeste's pure bred Dobermans assigned to guarding the grounds. By the Day 12 (his fifth visit to the Kane estate), he had it worked out—the right crawl speed, the right spot to scratch behind Zeus' ear. A biscuit tossed upon arrival—one for the road.

He feels something close to pride—although he would never choose that word himself—that he has figured out the system. He figured out a way into the Kane world—or at least the lawn.

He wonders if this is how She feels when the last piece of the puzzle falls into place. He wonders if She—

He's not thinking about her.

He is content to sit on the lawn and watch the house.

He focuses on his ritual: scale the south edge at about 2 AM. Sit on the grassy knoll, flask in hand, dog against each hip. Later, he will drive home, after a stop at Dog Beach for a pre-dawn swim, and then back home. He will sleep during daylight hours, like a vampire. He'll speak to no one save Mrs. Navarro—and that is only to say, "No, gracias. Estoy bien. Bien. No Tengo hambre. Si, gracias." He hasn't turned on his phone since Day 1. There's nothing to say anyway. He doesn't even know where to begin.

He stares at the house, at each window, naming each room: living room, dining room, Duncan's bedroom. At the corner, Jake's study: leather couch, ornate oak desk, laptop computer half-way closed. School pictures of Duncan and Lily on the desk—wide, big teeth smiles. The room is neat and ordered and obviously never used for work. He and Lily had fooled around in just about every room of the house—it had been a challenge f r her—except never the study. She said it smelled like her father.

Next to the study is the pink guest room. Or blush, or coral, or some other bullshit color masquerading as pink. Logan has never known the Kane family to ever have a guest in the house, even though they have two other guest rooms. Even he stayed the night when he was a kid, he'd sleep in Duncan's room, sleeping bag, feather pillow.

Bathroom—marble tile and counter top. Sparkling and cold. He'd had Lily up on the counter during her sixteenth birthday party. Red dress pushed up to her waist, her heels digging into the small of his back.

His gaze goes from room to room, pausing at Lily's, until he has mapped the side of this house, as though naming each room, like a game of clue—conservatory, billiards room, library--will help him to understand this family.

Duncan. Lily. Celeste. Jake. They lived here. And so had Logan, for a time. Slouched on the sofa, playing Halo and Grand Theft Auto with Duncan, skinny dipping in the pool with Lily. Sliced apples on a plate for an after school snack. This house, he knew, had held the secret. Family. Love. Loyalty.

What a lie it had all been. And it had come as a complete surprise to Logan how much he had relied on that particular truth. How he had envied this house, yearned to be a part of it. Even after Lily was gone.

But it had all been a facade—the house was filled with lies, betrayal, and death.

There are, of course, no answers here. But Logan knows, as he climbs back over the fence, that he will be back the next night.

Someone is leaning on the hood of Logan's car. He stops. For a moment he panics—he's been found out, they know where he is. He shakes his head--he is becoming a bit of paranoid recluse.

It's not a mysterious stranger at all. It's that kid, Wallace. Logan has been expecting this—he is surprised it has taken so long.

"Out for a moonlit stroll?" Logan says as he walks around to the driver's side. His keys jangle in his hand.

Wallace hops down off the hood, and opens his mouth to speak but Logan interrupts.

"No, wait." Logan holds up his hand. "Don't tell me. You're just following orders of the tiny blonde one who will never learn to mind her own fucking business."

Wallace clearly does not want to be here anymore than Logan wants him here. He looks down, paws the ground with the toe of his shoe. "She was worried," Wallace finally says. "No one's seen or heard from you for two months."

"She doesn't have the right. She's not entitled to be worried about me."

"Look, Veron—"

Logan's arm shoots out and grabs Wallace's collar and shoves him up against the car. Logan whispers, "Don't. Don't say her name."

Wallace does not move, as though gauging how far Logan is going to take this. Logan let him go, and straightened out his shirt with a pat.

"You've seen me. Now you can go file your report. I'm sure she has a file on me. She's predictable, that one. You can always count on her to believe the worst, stab you in the back—"

Logan's head whips to the side. Pain. Blood in his mouth. Logan stares incredulously at Wallace. Wallace punched him. Wallace stares back, surprised, flexing his fingers. Damn, that hurt.

"Sorry, man," Wallace says, shaking his hand. "You okay? That's not why I came out here."

Logan smirks. How did she do it? How did she convince Wallace to come out here? And why didn't she come herself? Was it possible that she was afraid? Of him?

"You just can't say things like that. Especially not after—you just can't say those things."

"I get it," Logan says, wiping his mouth with the collar of his T-shirt. He tongues the inside of his cheek. The kid has quite a hook. This Logan understood. A cut across the chin. A snap, like electroshock--it focused the brain.

Wallace shifts his weight. "I could tell you were gearing up for a rant and in my experience a crow bar makes an appearance at the end. Besides she doesn't deserve it, and--."

"Wallace," Logan says, stopping him. "I get it. It's okay."

Logan sighs. "Are we done here because I've got somewhere else I need to be? TV Land is showing a Little House on the Prairie marathon and I just can't miss a moment between Pa and Half Pint."

"Yeah, no problem. Mission accomplished." Wallace holds up his hands in surrender and backs away.

Logan leans his head back. It is a beautiful night—or it had been. He takes a deep breath. He won't make it Dog Beach tonight. He is on the brink of something like the crest of the wave—and he has no intention of riding it to the other side. It would be too much and he knew that he would break apart.

"Hey. Hey, Wallace," Logan said. "You hungry? You want to get some breakfast?"

Under the glaring fluorescent lights of Pancake House (open 24 hours, and a favorite after hours hang out for underage drinkers), Logan couldn't help but think that he had gone about this all wrong. Why had he stayed in Neptune? Why didn't get away like Duncan who was doing some sort of internship for the Orange County Register. He was spending his summer making coffee and sniffing white out.

Why hadn't Logan packed up his car and headed to San Diego? Got his own place and started a new life. Maybe get a job at a video store with a name tag that said Michael, Pat, or Jim. Michael-Pat-or Jim could be normal. Michael-Pat-or Jim would not have a dead girlfriend, suicidal mother, murderous father, or ex-girlfriend who thought you guilty of every crime that crossed her sleuthing path.

Sally, their waittress with bleached blonde, frizzy hair, takes their order of pancakes and french toast. Logan is starving, he realizes. He can't remember the last time he's eaten anything besides strawberry pop tarts.

Logan cups his hands under his chin, cocks his head to the side. "So, young Fennell, are you looking forward to starting school in the fall?" he says, channeling Ms. James' soothing voice.

Wallace tenses as though waiting for a blow, but doesn't reply. He looks at the door, probably wondering why he agreed to come here with Logan.

"Yes, Logan," Logan says. "I sure am. This year's going to be super-terif!" Logan fingers the handles of the various syrup bottles on the table. "Relax, Wallace. I'm just trying to make polite conversation."

"Yeah, well, maybe you should try a little harder."

Logan smirks. "Maybe. Maybe." Logan looks around the nearly deserted restaurant. There are only two other diners. A woman in a few tables over is holding her cup of coffee like it is her best friend, her dying best friend.

Logan shifts in his seat. He can do this. He cam have a conversation. Just one word after another. Subject, verb. "I've seen you down at Dog Beach. You into surfing?"

Sally drops off their plates and promised to warm-up Logan's coffee. Wallace looks at him, warily, braced for a trap.

"I don't surf," Wallace says. "I, uh, build radio controlled airplanes." He cuts a triangle of French Toast and forked it into his mouth. A teardrop of syrup in the corner of his mouth. "Dog Beach is a good spot to fly them. Open space, no power lines."

"Can you make them loopty-loop?" Logan asks. The pancakes were heavy, sweet, reassuring. Once in a blue moon, Logan would wake up on a Sunday and his mother would be in the kitchen making pancakes (highball next to the stove). She never cooked—and she didn't usually get the pancakes right. Sometimes he would slice strawberries.They were either underdone or overcooked. But he had loved to sit in the kitchen with her, listen to the hiss of the griddle. He would watch her pour the batter into the griddle, the batter expanding like lava.

"Loops, dives, figure 9, rolling circle. Pretty much anything within the laws of Physics."

"Light is a particle that exhibits properties of a wave," Logan mumbles.

Wallace looks at him questioningly, but Logan shakes his head and waves him on.

"Back in LA, I was forth in the T-6 races and my friend, Ironn won first place at the Carmarillo Flying Circus." Wallace pauses. "This probably sounds stupid to you."

Logan shrugs. Who was he to say what was stupid.

"Anyway, my dad and I used to fly together."

"Not anymore?" Logan says, stuffing the last forkful in his mouth. He feels much better, as though the pancakes had been the exact thing to fill a hole.

"No, not so much anymore. My dad's dead."

"Oh," Logan says with his mouth full. He forgot. If he ever knew—his focus certainly never included this kid. "My mom's dead," Logan offers.

Wallace nods. "Yeah, I know. Sucks, doesn't it?"

Logan almost smiles, before realizing that dead parents might not be the best thing to be smiling over at this moment. Ms. James would probably call that an inappropriate emotional response, which was no doubt indicative of deeper problems. "Yeah, it sucks."

Logan grabs the check that Sally had surreptitiously dropped at their table. He digs into his pockets for a couple of bucks for tip. "Thanks, um, for coming out with me. Now you can give a full report. Subject, Echolls, Logan enjoyed a full meal of buttermilk pancakes, two strips of crispy bacon, and a cup of coffee. Subject reported said meal to be filling and delicious."

"Maybe I'll leave out the part about hitting you," Wallace says.

Logan feels his lip with his thumb. He knows that it will be bruised and swollen by the time he gets home. "I'm sure she would understand. Just tell her you were provoked."

"I was provoked," Wallace says.

"Oh, right. And she'll have no trouble believing it. She's good at jumping to the wrong conclusions when it comes to me—"

"You're doing it again," Wallace says, putting his hand up to Logan's chest. It is surprisingly threatening.

"Right. Sorry. It's sort of a habit, like a default mode."

"Well, maybe you should work on that, too," Wallace says.

"A man can only do so much," Logan says.

Back outside the Kane house, Wallace finally aska him. "What do you do here every night?"

"She doesn't know? Isn't it in my file?" Logan says, mocking his surprise. "Maybe she's losing her touch."

"She doesn't talk about you." Wallace says. "She doesn't really let on about what she's thinking. Not really."

Logan scoffs. "Yeah, I've noticed."

"It's deceptive, you know. At first you think she doesn't hide anything, because she's so honest and tough and if you mess with her, she's in your face. But the important stuff? She keeps that inside." Wallace pats his chest.

"If she doesn't talk about me, then what are you doing here?"

"You'll be with her and suddenly she's not in the room with you. And there's this look on her face." Wallace looks away.

Logan waits. He's pretty sure Wallace hadn't meant to say so much. But there aren't many people that Wallace can to talk to about her. It occurs to Logan that Wallace is worried about her.

"I came here because she asked me to. She wanted to make sure you were okay. And I knew that doing this would make it easier for her. I would be able to tell her that you are okay, and maybe give her some relief."

Logan has nothing to say to this. He was hoping to talk about her, but it is too big to think about. He doesn't know what to think: 1) she has no right to intrude on his ritual, how dare she pretend to worry about him; 2) once again, he is the cause of her pain; and 3) Why does he get to be her protector?

"Maybe I'll see you around," Wallace says. "Maybe in the daylight."

Logan nods, and watches Wallace drive away. It wasn't fair. She was not supposed to be worried. She was a heartless bitch, and he was done chasing after her.

He sits in his car. Lilly was so reckless. Fearless.

God, Logan thinks, as he rests his head on his steering wheel. Lilly's love was so big. It swallowed everyone, like a supernova. Her gravity had pulled in everyone around her. It had been good once. He had been good. They use to walk along the beach together. Their feet shifted in the sand with each step, like they were drunk. She had walked beside him, with her arm through his. As long as she held on to him tightly he wouldn't drift away. But it hadn't been enough.

TO BE CONTINUED…