Summary: He teaches her how to breathe in the sun when she thinks there's only black canvas stretched across the sky. AU. Postfinale.
A/N: Set after 2.22; goes AU from the roof scene. Keith was on the plane. This was written a few months ago for a challenge, my prompt being "have a day painting the town red." Enjoy!
---
The Brilliance of Breathing Sunshine
---
She's there, but she's gone. He can't feel her, and it must be numbing him, because it's come to the point where she can't feel him, either.
It's just beginning.
She goes through the motions, tells what must be told, does what must be done. The others' eyes are on her, fixated on her, and she wants them to look away, to look at him instead of her. They don't. She gets up and leaves before it's supposed to be over, and they don't tell her to return. They have enough decency.
When they reach the car, she doesn't go in. She only stands at its side, as he stands at hers.
"I'm not in any hurry," she mutters to him.
Her eyes are so red, her hair so disheveled, her frame so miserable that he has to comply. They begin the long walk home.
She only makes it a quarter of the way before she has to fall to her knees and vomit.
The tears that haven't stopped falling are making her vision blurry, and she can't see where she is. It's only when she stops vomiting and is able to wipe her eyes that she sees the contents of her stomach have scattered onto his shoes. She looks at him. She isn't able to apologize, as he lets her hair down from his hands and uses his hand to cover her mouth.
"Don't apologize," he mutters to her, and she wants to take his hand from her mouth because the vomit on her face is getting on his hand, but he doesn't let her. "Don't ever think you have to apologize."
He looks into her eyes for a few precious moments before letting his hand down. She says she's sorry anyway. And then says she's sorry again. He ignores it and takes his shoes off, then throws them at the side of the road with a small smile. She can't smile back.
They continue to walk home.
When they reach the apartment, she wishes they could have just stayed at the hotel, then takes back the wish; she's had enough of it.
She ignores the throbbing pain that she's experiencing while looking at everything that was once theirs, father and daughter, and drops herself onto the couch. He follows, sits next to her, and she doesn't hesitate before crawling onto his lap. He squeezes her tightly, and her tears seem to come down harder.
"Life is so much better than God is showing you," he whispers into her hair.
She looks up at him, her eyes shattered, her face overwhelmed with tears. Her voice is the same when she whispers back, "How can you know?"
He breathes in, his face still buried in her hair. "I can't tell you yet."
"Why not?" She's so little now, so broken, her voice so small.
"I'm your guardian angel now," he murmurs. "There are rules."
She almost smiles, because she's realizing that he slowly is becoming her guardian angel. The smile doesn't reach her lips.
"If you truly are my angel," she says softly, her eyes now closed as she rests her head against his chest, "then can you do just one thing for me?"
"Anything," he says instantly.
"Tell my father that I love him." Her voice breaks, and she doesn't bother to try to piece it back together. "I'm not sure he knew."
She falls asleep in his arms before he gets a chance to tell her that there's no need.
---
The days wear on, and her father isn't coming back.
She begins to hate the feeling of hope, hates the way it inevitably falls at her feet in shambles each day. She's living only in the obvious way, and he's with her, making sure she moves and breathes. She can't do much more, because lately everything is beginning to hurt.
She slowly begins to realize that she's lived most of her life with pain resided within her. Death, abandonment, rape; for her, just a part of life.
So one night she whispers to him, "Help me forget." And she really wishes he could, and hopes this hope won't become shambles at her feet.
He's
holding her in his arms again, so he has to bend his neck and look
down to see her face, still shattered and
broken and everything
it's been since that night her life began to end.
"Forget what?" he asks her gently, as if his voice alone could break her.
"Pain." She buries her head into his chest. "Help me forget pain."
He almost cries, because her voice is so hopeful, and what she wants is so impossible.
"I can try."
He stands up, and she's forced to stand with him.
"What are you doing?" she asks, because as much as she'd hoped, she never truly believed.
He takes her hand and runs out the door.
---
The streets are deserted, so they walk in the middle of the road, her hand in his because it's the only way she can remind herself that she isn't alone. There's a bag slumped over his shoulder, and she isn't sure of its contents but knows she doesn't have to ask. A minute later he proves her right by halting both of their unsteady footsteps, kneeling one leg on the road, and bringing the bag to the pavement before him.
She kneels with him to be closer to him, because their hands are no longer knotted together and she's beginning to feel alone.
"There's a certain art to what we're about to do," he tells her, bending his neck so they can search each other's eyes. "You can't just do it and expect it to be done right."
"And what is it we're about to do?" she asks softly, bringing her eyes to look at the bag instead of his eyes.
"It's something I like to call 'taking a sip from the sun.'" He puts one hand in the bag and searches it for a moment, then quickly takes it back out, this time with his fingers wrapped around a bottle of vodka.
Normally she would have groaned or rolled or eyes, or perhaps snapped at him with something witty. But she's so desperate to feel something other than pain that she simply murmurs, "Tell me how."
He nods once, opens the bottle, and hands the vodka to her. She takes it without question, and, because the concept of vodka seems so wonderfully numbing, she doesn't say a word as she brings the bottle to her lips and takes a sweet mouthful and feels it burn down her throat. The taste is awful, and she almost wants to empty her stomach onto his shoes again, but the liquid warms her. And, because she misses being warm, she takes another sweet mouthful and lets it rinse out the ice that's been forming in her veins.
"Okay," she hears him say beside her, as she takes another sip. "Okay, you're getting the hang of it. But, like I told you, there's an art to this."
She doesn't want to stop the warmth that's flooding into her, but she has to so she can reply slowly, "Tell me what it is." And she takes another sip quickly, so that warmth doesn't leave.
"You're not supposed to down the vodka," he says first, as he takes his hand and places it onto hers the moment she's bringing the bottle to her lips. She sets it down, and he's able to continue. "You only take a sip when you begin to feel something you don't want to feel. Or when you hear something you don't want to hear."
She brings the vodka to her lips and takes a sip, then explains to him, "For the pain."
He nods as he puts his hands back in the bag and comes out with a Jack Daniel's in his hand. "I get to sip some, too." And he smiles deeply, unscrewing his bottle's top and taking a small sip himself.
"What was that for?"
"Your pain."
She realizes at that moment what a burden she's been the past few weeks, how all she did was wash her blood onto his skin, for him to clean up. And so she takes a long swallow of her vodka, which makes her feel nauseous and warm.
"For your burden," she mutters, not allowing her eyes to lock with his.
"Hey," he says softly, placing his index finger gently underneath her chin to lift her head, trying to force their eyes to meet. "Hey." His voice is louder this time, and it almost seems frantic. So she looks at him. "You're not my burden."
They're sitting now, side by side in the middle of the road, and she feels safe for a reason she can't accept. And she doesn't want to say what's forming in her mouth, but she knows it's coming anyway. She whispers, "Am I your anything?"
And she knows it's because of the vodka swimming in her that she says it. And she won't admit that it's because of the way her heart trembles near him that she's been wondering for months.
He breathes in deeply and sets his glass bottle down beside him. For a few long moments he stares at the road ahead, completely silent, and then he swiftly moves his head to meet her gaze. And he says, in a voice that matches hers, "I was hoping you already knew."
"Knew what?" she asks, taking a sip not because of a feeling she doesn't want to feel, or words she doesn't want to hear, but because she needs something to ease the quivering of her body. It doesn't help, not like a sip usually does, so she takes another mouthful.
He chuckles softly to himself, and it's obvious he doesn't want to say what he's about to say. But he does. He murmurs, "You're my everything."
And she swallows some more, because she isn't sure she wants to admit she's falling in love, has been falling in love gradually over the past few years. And that maybe she already is in love.
"I'm not enough," she mutters to him. "There's only pieces of me now."
He's looking at her intently, still taking small sips from the bottle in his hands. He doesn't wait before telling her, "I was kind of hoping you'd let me put you back together."
And she takes another sip, because she's sure she's in love and isn't sure she wants to be.
---
They move from the street when a Celica comes from behind them and almost tramples their bodies.
"I thought you were trying to piece me back together, not dislodge every part of my body," she says, because it's the only thing she can think to say as they begin to walk.
He smiles, but doesn't reply. She doesn't mind, because the smile is enough to satisfy her.
They come to an alley after walking along the side of the road for awhile, and both agree wordlessly to walk through it, just to waste more time. Their steps are gradual and heavy, and it's the only time she can remember that they've been so comfortable without saying a word.
She takes a sip of her vodka for no reason in particular, and almost feels afraid that she'll consume too much. She puts more into her mouth anyway, because the warm feeling seems more important at the moment.
They walk in silence for a while longer, and when she sees three open cans of red paint ahead of them, each neatly lined up against a wall, she looks away and down at the ground. To her, they seem like buckets of blood, and she's had enough of death consuming her entirety. She tells him this, and instantly wishes she hadn't. It makes sense to her, and yet it seems completely senseless.
He stops when they reach the paint cans and kneels down in front of them.
"What are you doing?" she asks quickly, because she wants to get away from the blood and continue on forgetting.
He shakes his head as he dips his hand into one of the paint cans. "Red doesn't always have to mean death." He stands up with his hand dripping with paint, and it looks like blood more than ever. "I'll show you."
So he brings his hands to the wall and begins to trace the paint onto the building. His movements are slow and clumsy, and he's gradually forming small, sloppy letters onto the brick. When he's finished, he steps back from the wall and tilts his head as if admiring his artwork. She looks at his finished work, only five words long.
I wuv you beary much.
"See?" he says when she doesn't utter a word. "No violence, no blood. And it's completely adorable."
And she has to smile.
"Adorable it is," she says, still reading the words over again, trying to engrave into her mind their form, their size, the way the letters are shaped. She almost wants to reply with something else, to say, "I wuv you beary much, too." But she's already said too much that night, and doesn't dare say more.
"This kind of paint also has a great other use, too," he says when she doesn't say anything else.
He bends down and picks up a can of paint, then, without giving her any time to react, thrusts the can forward, spilling paint onto her skin and clothes. She shrieks when she feels the paint splash against her body, and she feels it completely smother her. She doesn't laugh, or smile, and he doesn't throw any more paint onto her. She glares at him, and so he sets the can down.
"I'm sorry," he says instantly, walking closer towards her. "I'm sorry."
She doesn't reply, doesn't tell him it's okay. Instead, she takes her hand, still covered in red paint, and gently slaps him across the face. It's him this time who isn't given a chance to react as she runs to a separate can of paint, picks it up, and spills its contents onto him, drenching his clothes.
And by the time he's able to think to move, she already has the second can in her hands. When she moves to throw it onto him, he pushes the can her way, and it ends up on her.
And then he falls to the floor and laughs, and she falls with him, wrapping her arms around him as she laughs until she begins to cry. And she doesn't even have the time to realize how wonderful it is to cry without hurting, because she's only thinking about how nice it is to have him in her arms.
---
It begins to rain down on them before she can even realize it's begun to drizzle, and they start to run even though they're soaked seconds after the rain begins to fall. They run blindly through the piercing rain, not noticing which direction they're going, and he takes the lid off of a garbage can and puts it over their heads. She laughs, because she thinks she can hear someone shouting at them from behind, but can't be sure because of the sharp sound of rain beating onto the lid above them.
They come to the Camelot Motel without meaning to, and the moment is just too perfect for them to walk away from it. So they climb up the stairs and drop onto the porch, where they're shielded from the storm.
She's still holding his hand, because as much as the vodka is helping, she still doesn't want to feel alone and still does when he's not near enough. And because she's shivering, he tells her to come to him, so she crawls into his arms and rests the back of her head against his chest.
Before they're able to say anything, she looks up at him. Her handprint is still on his face, despite the fact that the rain washed off most of their paint, and she laughs lightly.
"What?" he asks when she continues to look at him. "What is it?"
She smiles widely and settles back into his arms, resting her head on his chest once again. "Nothing."
And they're silent again, but it's just as comfortable as it was before. They listen to the rain clattering onto the rooftop, and he tightens his arms around her when there's a soft rumble of thunder. And with his arms around her and the bottle of vodka set down beside her, she feels oddly secure.
"Would you believe me if I told you that I've been in love with you for years?" he asks suddenly, resting his chin on her head. "That I've loved you before everything went to hell?"
"No." She doesn't have to think, because, with him, she doesn't have to lie.
"I didn't think you would."
And then they're silent again, as they watch the storm in each other's embrace, listen to the echo the rain leaves after hitting the roof.
And then she asks quietly, "Would you believe me if I told you that I've never loved Duncan, even before it all went to hell?"
"No."
They're silent again just for a moment, before she tries again.
"Would you believe me if I told you that I never hated you?"
There's a soft smile twisted on his lips when he replies, "Yes."
"I didn't think you would." She doesn't have to look up at him to know the smile is there. She smiles back.
"Would you believe me if I told you that I love you now?" he asks.
She takes a sip of her drink, and listens to the rain for only a moment. And then she murmurs, "I don't know."
She wants to explain to him that she isn't sure she could believe anything he says, but only because she isn't sure she wants to believe what he's saying. She wants to tell him that there's a chance they can be happy, and there's a chance she could love him someday. What she won't say is that she already does.
She shakes her head and lifts her body out of his arms, then moves herself so that she's facing him. She'll tell him now. But when she faces him, he's already sleeping, his head leaning against the wall, his mouth hanging open. And she doesn't want to smile, because she hasn't told him everything she wants to. But she's beginning to realize they can spend forever together, and so she'll have forever to tell him.
"Goodnight," she tells him. She leans towards him and gives him a soft kiss on the lips, and prays he doesn't wake up.
By now all that's left of her vodka are the small remains which won't reach her mouth. And her insides are numb now, but there's a terrible ache in the pit of her stomach, and the skin on her head feels as if it may tear apart. She falls back into his arms and wraps his sleeping arms around her.
The feeling is worse when her eyes close, but she tries to ignore it, because things can possibly be better tomorrow.
---
She's in her room when she wakes up, her legs tangled uncomfortably in her blanket, sweat pooled around her pillow. She lifts her head, but when she feels the thrashing at her skull, she quickly sets it back down.
"Logan," she weakly calls, bringing her hand to her forehead, her breathing suddenly heavy. "Logan."
It doesn't take long for her bedroom door to open, but the person who walks in isn't Logan, but instead her best friend. She tries to sit up in her bed, and when he realizes she's trying to move, her best friend is instantly at her side, helping her up and keeping her steady until she can hold herself in a sitting position.
"Hey," he says softly, his voice sympathetic, as he sits down next to her. "How are you feeling?"
She brings her hand to her forehead again. "Like hell. Did I drink a river of vodka last night?"
He smiles sadly, shakes his head, and bends down to her floor, where she sees an Absolut Vodka bottle laying on its side. He picks it up and shows it to her. "It seems like it was just this bottle. But, my God, that's a lot of vodka for one night."
She shrugs. "Logan was helping me forget."
She notices worry instantly flash into his eyes, but he doesn't say anything about it. Instead, he mutters, "Forget what?"
She doesn't worry about having to lie to him. So she instantly replies, "Pain."
He nods and stands to his feet, and it's easy for her to realize he's uncomfortable with what he's about to say. He paces the room for a few moments, and her eyes follow him. When still he doesn't utter a word, she says to him, "Just tell me."
He stops and looks at her. "Tell you what?"
"Whatever it is that has you pacing my room."
Again he nods, and he moves to her bed once again to sit down next to her. There's an awkward pause as he stares at her, and she's growing uncharacteristically impatient.
"Please just tell me."
He shifts his body, runs his fingers through his hair. And when he looks into her eyes and notices the look she's giving him, he asks her quickly, "What do you remember about last night?"
She tells him exactly what happened last night, tells him of the vodka, the road, the alley, the porch. And when she's finished, he's looking at her with tears in his eyes, and she's instantly afraid of why the tears are there.
"Veronica, that's impossible," he tells her softly, bringing his hand and putting it on her shoulder. "None of that's possible."
She doesn't ask why; she isn't sure she wants to know. And she knows he'll tell her either way, by the way his hand is gripping her shoulder, by the way he dips his head to look directly into her eyes. She tries to look away, but her eyes come back to his, because she's beginning to realize pain can't be avoided.
"Veronica," he says, his voice the gentlest she's heard, "last night your father was killed."
There's no way she can comprehend what he's told her, so she simply shakes her head, closes her eyes. And she replies softly, "My father was killed weeks ago."
There's a long pause, as both of them try to make sense of what he other is saying. Neither can.
"The plane he was coming home in was blown up," he says, his voice still gentle and sympathetic and, God, she wants to tell him that there's no point in the charade. He pauses, but knows he has to continue. He says, "Logan was with you on the roof last night. He was shot."
"No." It's all she can say now, with her head pounding, her mind reeling, her insides shredding. She closes her eyes, and she sees his face so clearly, so vividly, that there isn't a way he wasn't with her for the past month. "What are you talking about? He's been with me for weeks. He fed me. He held my hair when I was too sick to think. He told me everything was going to be okay. He was with me this morning, watching the storm."
She can tell he so obviously doesn't want to tell her more, but there's so much more at the tip of his tongue.
"After Cassidy Casablancas killed your father, Logan came up to the roof," he tells her, still gently. "Cassidy fired at him five times and hit him once."
She's not listening. Won't listen. Because there's bad things that have happened to her, but nothing as bad as what he's saying.
"Cassidy threw himself off the building. You called 911. You held Logan in your arms."
"I did not!" she yells, standing from her bed and trying to ignore the pain still lashing against her skull. "I did not!"
She quickly finds her clothes from last night and holds them out for him to see. She says, "I wore this last night, while he threw paint at me. This is the paint he threw at me!" Her voice is frantic now, and she's not sure he can even understand her. But she has to make him realize it's a mistake, because it is a mistake, he's not gone, they've already agreed to spend forever together.
Again he doesn't want to speak. Still, he murmurs, "Veronica, it's Logan's blood. That's Logan's blood on your clothes."
She doesn't believe him, but looks down anyway. And she notices it's darker than she remembers, so she throws the clothes to the floor.
But it doesn't mean a thing. There isn't a way he's not with her now, somewhere in her apartment.
"Logan!" she calls out, walking out of her room and searching the small apartment, going from room to room. "Logan, wake up!"
It doesn't take long for her to search every room, and so it doesn't take long for her to realize he isn't there. Her best friend comes out of her room, and he walks towards her.
"Listen to me," he says when they're finally in the same room again. "Veronica, Logan's gone. Please don't make this harder for yourself."
She doesn't hear him, or isn't listening to him. She's grabbing her keys and she's walking out the door.
"I'm proving to you that he's not gone. I'm proving to you he's alive," she mutters when she gets into the car. He isn't with her, but he's coming out of the apartment and he's running towards the car, shouting her name. She ignores him.
It takes her only a few minutes to reach the alley that she remembers from last night, and she comes to a sudden halt when she's directly in front of its entry. She doesn't bother to turn off the engine, only briskly gets out of her car and goes down the alley.
She's alone this time, and the walk down the path seems longer than she remembers. But eventually she comes to the spot, and the paint cans are there like she remembers. Only the cans are filled to the top with red paint.
But someone must've lined new cans when noticing the others were empty.
She looks at the wall, sees only a smudge of red paint on the brick.
It was the rain that washed the words away. It must've been. Because the words are still engraved in her mind, she still sees the red paint splattered across the wall in small letters.
And he's still alive.
She falls to her knees anyway, and for some reason her hands are folded and she's looking at the sky. And she's praying for her guardian angel to come back. And she's pretending it's not too late, and she whispers, "I love you, too."
But it's okay.
He's still alive.
They're going to spend forever together.
They'll take sips from the sun until life is good.
Blood is everywhere, it's everywhere, she can't get it off, it's coming from her eyes, and she's on fire and she's about to die, wishes she could just die.
It's all okay. She's his everything and she's ready to tell him that there's a chance they can be happy.
---
fin.