Summary: In a world where Lorelai caved and married Christopher, a twenty-six year old Rory Gilmore is a young divorcee to her high school 'sweetheart', pretending to be an elusive middle class bartender at a casino that she owns a 50 % stake in. Twenty-eight year old Logan Huntzberger has lost everything except his massive bank account and frequents the same casino every weekend searching for alcohol and sex induced bliss. He very well might find something very different. One-shot, AU. Rogan. Dual POVs. Based on a Saint Motel song, all rights reserved.
Notes: I write the strangest Rogan stories. I hope it's a nice deviation from the normal stuff we've been getting tons of lately. :)
Quick thing: There's heavy, heavy experimentation with types of POV in this story, so I apologize if it's at all jarring. Please let me know if it is. Just trying to feel out what I can and can't do.
More Rogan coming down the pike soon, I've got lots of ideas for these two. Some of them are also song-based, I'm having a lot of fun with this new genre. I always thought it was silly and obnoxious when people did song-fics when I was much younger, but if you do them tastefully, there's something incredibly fun about them. Considering doing an entire Rogan series to all 5 songs on the 888 EP.
Also: If you're wondering if this is set in the place it is set because of Rory and Logan's convo in 7x05 about:
'Food from Ibiza.' ... 'The island?!' ... 'The tapas place downtown.'
The answer is yes. Of course. I always thought that brief joke was amusing, don't know why.
Disclaimer: 'Gilmore Girls', its characters, plot lines and premise belong to Amy Sherman-Palladino, Warner Brothers and their affiliates. The song featured in this story, 'Ace in the Hole', belongs to the band 'Saint Motel', the writers of the song itself, and 2015 Elektra Records. I do not own anything detailed in this story, and I make no monetary profit by these writings. All rights reserved to respective parties.
She's got style, she's got grace,
an appetite for expensive taste;
they made the angels in her mold,
feels at home in a centerfold.
I once asked my father which swing I should choose, because one was red and fun and shiny — passion, whim, love and excitement — and the other was standard black. I was only six years old, and his opinion meant the world to me. He briefly looked up from analyzing his pager messages and pointed to the black one — "It's practical, Logan. You shouldn't foster stupid, fanciful ideas about idealistic nonsense, even at your age." He sniffed at a group of dark-skinned children playing a couple swings away and dismissed, "I'll wait at the car."
I didn't know what 'fanciful' or 'idealistic' meant, but apparently my Dad thought they were bad things to be. So I also sniffed at the kids playing a little ways away — I figured my Dad didn't like them because they were 'fanciful, idealistic idiots' because, well... they had chosen the red swings, hadn't they — and didn't even entertain the idea of being like them.
(Find me a six year old that understands the concept and implications of racism and classism and I'll show you a six year old who is simply repeating things they've heard their parents say are important.)
They exact day I realized I wasn't nor ever wanted to be my father was the same day my mother collapsed at the Avon Country Club. The way he ordered people around with the calm, detached voice of an emotionless surgeon while my mother's heartbeat was quickly fading made my teeth clench. His image was more important than anything else — my mother, myself, even common fucking decency and respect.
We got to the hospital late because my father threw a fit and demanded that she be taken to the 'cleaner, more respectable hospital' and that New Britain was no place for my mother.
Her stroke was deadlier because of the time that was wasted. My father never acknowledged that.
I was fourteen when the myth broke. My father wasn't a God, he was an asshole. A bigot.
I was fifteen the first time I stole his yacht. I don't even like sailing, or being out on the water. But his putrid, beet red face was the first time I had smiled in a year and a half.
I had sex for the first time two weeks later on my father's desk in his ridiculously ostentatious library. He kicked me out, and I managed to get hammered at the school gym.
Got sent to boarding school not two days later.
More sex, even more alcohol, and a continuous stream of desperate girls.
Switzerland was a blur. Yale was a blur, too. Cocktail parties, sub-parties, limos, trips to Fiji and Montenegro and all places where I'd do nothing but stumble around and yell profanity laced tirades at locals.
I succeeded in not being my father. I also succeeded in not being myself. Or even a person of any amount of worth.
Nothing was new. Nothing was interesting.
Until her.
Until the first time I stepped foot in the Ibiza Gran Hotel Casino for the first time in December, 2010.
Christmas was a dreadful time of year, all that cheer and music and happiness and weak eggnog bullshit.
Until her.
That gorgeous, strange middle-class American with the infectious laugh and weirdly sharp blue eyes serving as a bartender in Ibiza who flirted more sensuously and effectively than any woman coming off the society-set. The one who grazed the hands of every man she served until they shuddered, but rebuffed every single advance. The one without a ring, who openly admitted to being single, the one with no interest in anyone.
The ultimate independent woman. The ultimate tease. The ultimate challenge.
No one knew her name because every single person there just called her angel. What a cheap, tawdry nickname for a woman of actual substance.
I really thought I'd given up on women of substance.
But how can a person give up on something they've never had?
"Another, Mr. Huntzberger?"
Goddamn those fucking eyes, that shiver-inducing touch and that innocent smile. What a contradiction. Her eyes were mischievous, her touch full of sinful intent, but her smile was as innocuous as a child.
"Sc—"
Her eyes gleamed with mirth. "Scotch, on the rocks. Just a few though, don't overload it. With a little infusion of a lemon twist, I think I remember?"
The scrawny, weedy bastard next to me gave a scoff. "That's basically a Rusty Nail, I thought you were a bartender."
Hang on... what?! I tried to speak but our ever elusive bartender spoke first. "Mr. Huntzberger thinks the name of that particular cocktail is inane, and I happen to agree with him."
Wha—huh? She...
"So..." Her raised eyebrow and those sinful eyes had my cock raised to full attention immediately. "Another?"
God, even her voice was suggestive.
"Please," is the only thing I can say without ruining the effect of my suave exterior.
Before she's even fully out of earshot, weedy bastard coughs out, "Fucking tease."
Looking over at him, the glower on my face says it all. "I think the term you're looking for is 'Bloody effing brilliant.'
Weed-man snorts. "That too."
Your phone buzzes and you glance at it quickly, trying not to get distracted from the hand.
12/23/10
Subject: Your Ace Isn't Going To See You Through
'Fold.'
I know perfectly well from my business on the island that the area code is local, but it's still an eerie message. A quick glance behind me, and my mysterious horribly-nicknamed bartender is giving me a salacious smirk for all she's worth.
Hmm... so she's either ridiculously smart or a vicious cheater.
I don't care which; they're both hot as fuck.
I kind of hope it's both.
Looking down at my Queen/Ace combo, my face stoic as possible, I throw the cards in the muck and hey, turns out she was right. What gets the wheels in my head turning is that the guy with the winning hand — straight flush versus my four Aces — was on the other side of the table. I was watching her every move, she didn't get close enough to smell bald-headed eagle man's cards, let alone see them.
A gorgeous, intriguing brunette with eyes sharper than spikes playing bartender in Ibiza who's actually a closet fucking genius? A closet fucking genius, might I add, that just saved me by some supernatural persuasions to make a fold that Phil fucking Ivey wouldn't have been able to part with because there's no man on earth who'd fold four of a kind Aces. Aces, for god sakes!
Aces.
Ace.
His genius, his Ace.
Saying the word aloud, his tongue almost sighs as it rolls out.
Perfect.
The next round is being dealt, bald-headed eagle man is shooting glaciers out of his eyes, and she comes back with his drink.
Weed-man speaks up first. "Thank you, angel."
I don't miss her nose scrunch in disgust.
She turns to me, her bright smile seeming slightly more authentic, but I'm a desperate, drunk fuck and it's definitely my imagination.
"Keep 'em coming?" She asks rhetorically.
My smirk is absolutely lethal, but my eyes are kind — "Don't be a stranger, Ace."
Don't try lines and don't try jokes,
eats up men like Hall & Oates;
there's no tricks that you can try,
there's no gifts money could buy.
Brandon Carnegie — yeah, those Carnegie's — first approached her in the Chilton library when she was fifteen, head firmly buried in a copy of Ginsberg poems and asked if she'd like to go out and get something to eat after working on the Legal Studies project they were assigned to. She thought he'd meant that in a far more literal way — she never denied that she loved good food — and next thing she knows she's Brandon Carnegie's girlfriend and his over-exaggerated tongue kisses are the worst, and he mocks her — all in jest, of course — for her bookworm sensibilities, and she's going shopping with cheerleaders.
She wasn't even sure she had time to blink first.
Paris hit him once, and not a girly slap, but legitimately pounded him in the face.
Tristan DuGrey sold her a copy of the photo he'd impulsively snapped on his shitty camera phone for $75 and the promise of a kiss. She bent down, all dapper and debonair Southern charm, and kissed his knuckles, took the money, the picture, and threw a Southern accent-tinted "Lovely to see you, darling" over her shoulder and couldn't stop laughing all the way through Physics.
The picture still resides behind the mirror in her apartment, ten years later.
For god knows what reason, she kept dating Brandon. Actually, that's bullshit — she knows the reason, her parents know the reason, everyone knew the reason. You don't say no to Francine Hayden, and you certainly don't lodge complaints with Emily Gilmore. But both of them, in the same room, pushing flower designs and color schemes in your face?
God, she shudders sometimes just at the memory of that lunch.
And to think, she was only acquiescing to further a casual courtship because her mom and her grandmother got into a screaming match about something as inane as a missed society function and a suspicion that Lorelai and Christopher had spent the night in the coat closet.
A lifetime commitment made simply to diffuse tension that would never fully be diffused.
Well, turned out not quite a lifetime after all.
They were married for three years, and at several points Rory lied about miscarriages. Unethical, awful, downright evil to women who actually suffered through things like that? Yes, of course.
Necessary? Unfortunately.
Her marriage made her a different person. Shrewd, cynical and bitter. A bit of a bitch, honestly.
As soon as the ink on her divorce papers were dry she was on a plane to Ibiza, because it was the first flight that caught her eye at JFK and why the hell not. She got a job at one of the most premier casinos in the world — not, at least initially, because of her name or the fact that she owned half of the casino. When she told the man who interviewed her that technically this was her casino because she was allotted half in her divorce, his eyes bugged out so comically it made his intern howl with laughter.
Rory would've laughed too, five or so years ago.
She didn't.
Her mom eventually stopped calling. It took almost three years, but the unreturned voicemails eventually worked. She'd still call occasionally, but the tone in her voice made it obvious she knew there was no hope of a response.
Sometimes, in the darkest hours of night, Rory called her Mom's hotel to hear the automated message displaying Lorelai Gilmore's energetic yet calming tones explaining in some exuberance which button to press if you wanted a specific person. Just to hear her voice. Just to feel the warmth that neither a blanket nor the fireplace could provide.
The guys she brought back to fuck were all ones she picked up on the beach. No chance of intellectual stimulation, no chance of pop culture references, not a single risk at all. Just a warm, hot body, and she never dared to chance anything more.
No real warmth, though. No love, no life. No interest.
Until him.
The first time he'd walked in and sat down at their most exclusive poker table, she felt the slight stirring of desire low in her belly that she was so unaccustomed to she almost wrote it off as some bad shrimp.
But then she remembered what desire felt like.
Jess.
That had been a fun couple of months.
It took her a moment to recognize him. Logan Huntzberger. There's a name she never expected to hear again, unless it was in the gossip circle of her grandmothers and she'd long left that life behind. They started flirting, as per usual — she flirted with all of them. She was exceptionally good at her job, and between natural charm she hadn't known she possessed before Ibiza, a winning smile, strategic clothing and an unparalleled perceptive ability for body language, she was pretty sure she might be the richest bartender in the world.
A healthy amount of money, insanely gorgeous beaches, incredible food, and irreparable loneliness. It wasn't an awful life.
Until him.
Logan Huntzberger. He didn't recognize her, and she had no idea why that stung. Yeah, at the time she'd been seen as little more than Carnegie arm-candy, but still... Brandon was in the Life and Death Brigade with Logan, and Rory had been to far more events of that idiotic club than was necessary.
Hell, it had been Logan who called to inform her that Brandon almost died in a stupid cliff diving stunt.
They'd been flirting for about a month now, and although she was initially pissed that he didn't know who she was, she eventually let go of that. Logan Huntzberger was actually witty, intelligent, well-read, strangely interesting, and...
(Oh, god — who decided that devilish little quirk of his lips was legal — "Don't be a stranger, Ace.")
Sweet?
Put your hands up,
before she turns and walks away;
this is your one shot,
time for your Ace in the Hole.
"If I win this hand, angel, you're gonna be warming the bed tonight, sound good?"
Ugh god, she wished Paris was here. Rory was a force to be reckoned with, she knew it about herself by now, but she was a little weak when it came to actual violence. That was the blonde's shtick.
"Of course, Mr. Ainsley. I would love to warm a bed tonight."
Even the rest of the hyena chorus of drunks noticed the very obvious inflection on that declaration.
Logan chortled, because obviously that comprehension didn't extend to Weed-man. So sorry, pardon his simpleton ways — 'Sir Weed-Man Ainsley.'
Rory watched Logan attentively — he was a whirlwind of charm, blonde silk and natural grace — and sometimes that was more important in poker than even the cards. Distract, deflect. Get 'em looking at you, at your dazzling smile, your cocked eyebrow and even cockier arrogance, while you're looking at them. Looking at twitches. Tremors. Shaky hands, tiny grimaces. He was good.
Better than her?
But he was good.
"Time for my Ace in the Hole, boys." Logan threw down his Full House — Three Queens, Two Jacks — and bald-headed eagle man smashed his fist on the table, his cards ripping in half.
"I'm out," Logan grinned at the dealer, and threw his cards back at the man. "Mr. Hulk over there is busted and 'Mr. Ainsley' has about — oh, I'd say $20 left — and I wouldn't want to deplete my dear friend here. Buy yourself a nice pink, feathery cocktail glass from souvenirs, mate."
Rory could only laugh, low and genuine, rising from her stomach into her throat like an unpredictable cobra.
Laugh.
Logan made her laugh.
God fucking dammit.
"Had a great night, fellas. Gonna cash in my winnings, and come back soon, mhm?" Logan quickly gestured his arm around Rory's back before he made any motion to follow through, waiting for her approval, and she gave it in spades, grinning broadly.
"Ace and I are going to chat over a drink, if she's inclined. Pleasure meeting you."
As he steered her back to the bar, she couldn't hold it in. She doubled over, chuckling every chuckle she had been forced to swallow in the last five years.
He leant against the bar, his expressive chestnut eyes nearly hypnotizing, and reached out to catch Dave's attention for a drink, but she gripped the hand, a little harder than necessary, her eyes dark and wanting.
"Kitchen."
Oh. Oh fuck, was she serious?
All he could do was get led by his nose like a fucking puppy.
He pressed her against the broiler immediately, and went for her lips. She held up a hand instantly, and he stopped, out of breath and out of words.
She pointed at a table off the side — a poker table, a small, private one — and her eyes were sharp as a blade.
"Play me, Huntzberger."
Goddamn this woman, seriously.
"C'mon, don't doubt your serious skills against the bartender." The mock was good-natured, and they both knew it, and it was this that led Logan into the rickety, metal chair.
"Alright, MC — let's see what you got. Deal me in."
Put your quarters in the slot,
hope and pray for a jackpot;
better chances with the dice,
then take her home with you tonight.
Logan's fingers were numb, his mind a blind haze, and yet, still — something penetrated.
"Did you just call me MC?"
The 'Oh shit' expression on her face looked like it came post-marked out of an overly dramatic 50s sitcom, but Logan's eyes were hard, unforgiving, the color of burnt steel.
"I—"
"Rory Gilmore."
"You — " Her expression visibly stunned, eyes wide, she proceeded to point a finger straight into his face, accusatory as he'd ever seen. "If you knew who I was, that's incredibly hypocritical to demean me for withholding the same thing!"
"I didn't," he whispered softly, the uncharacteristic timidness surprising both of them; "Know, that is. Until right now, when you called me MC."
"Well that's flattering," she scoffed.
"If you knew who I was, you should've said something! How the hell was I supposed to know? Rory, it's been five years for me since college, and in that time, you've gotten married to the Supreme of the El Douche Club, sensibly divorced him and vanished off to nowhere. Your grandmother claims you're in Paris, by the way, just in case you ever needed to know."
"Fascinating," she deadpanned, voice dry as sandpaper.
"Jesus, Gilmore — can you see why I didn't immediately remember? Any version of Rory Gilmore I knew certainly didn't dress like this, act like this, or ever entertain the idea of being a fucking bartender."
Sneer in full effect, she jumped up suddenly, grabbed him by the shirt collar, and threw him against a large, unused oven, sending a few skillets flying to their feet. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Gilmore-Hayden heiress can't seal the deal. Isn't tough enough to deal with the duties of a family like the Carnegie's, gave up a journalism career, became a bartender, and a slut apparently, given your opinion on my clothes."
"Oh, stop it with the bitch routine. You know I didn't mean a damn thing you just said."
"Do I?" She asked, teeth bared and eyes singed with ice. "I don't know you from Adam, Logan."
"I think — I thought — I've always thought, and I still do that you were way too fucking good for Carnegie. For fucking any of us. I ignored you because I was jealous, you perfectly naïve idiot! How did you manage to grow up in society and be so fucking perfect? Disgustingly perfect, goody two-shoes motherfucking saint Rory Gilmore, who ended up with Brandon Carnegie." He laughed, but it was disparaging — cruel. It twisted his mouth into something awful.
"God, why am I surprised? I shouldn't be surprised. Innocent, 18 year old Rory Gilmore with her head stuck in obscure classics no one took time to read somehow managed to captivate the Life and Death Brigade society set; bunch of drunken assholes falling off ten story platforms and out of trees just cause they could. Why is it a stretch to think that an adult Rory Gilmore would have a whole fucking casino wrapped around her fingers?"
"I'm not perfect," she whispered, this time sharing in the uncharacteristic timidness Logan had clearly shed by now; "Never have been."
"Well the first part of that is obvious now, isn't it?" She expected an awful sneer on his face at this, but instead, it was a grin. A full blown, goofy grin.
"Is that a dig?" She asked, genuinely confused.
"No, Ace; it is a compliment, of the highest order." *
Her eyebrows scrunched together, and the blatant display of goody-good innocence incensed him further.
"Your perfect innocence pissed me off."
She took a step forward. "What does it do now?"
He shrugged. "Seems like it doesn't exist anymore."
She smiled, rueful and slightly bitter; "No, not the way it used to."
"So..."
She took another step forward.
Suddenly, she wasn't Rory Gilmore anymore. She was the irresistible siren serving him drinks. She was nirvana, she was everything he'd ever coveted about the Rory Gilmore he used to know and everything he wished but never imagined she could be.
Her voice was a low, seductive growl, her teeth darting out to nibble on his earlobe. "What does it do now?"
God, those lips were fucking incredible. Her teeth relented their slow, soft torture of blissful gentleness, paused for only a moment, and bit down, hard, and he hissed, the magnificent curve of her hips bucking against him, involuntary and utterly fucking perfect.
"Fast," Rory choked out in a half-moan, half-demand; "Don't want to wait, been achingly wet since you sat down at that table six hours ago."
He ripped her shirt off her shoulders and above her head so quickly that a little slice of v-neck ripped, but neither of them heard it. Her nipples were fucking delectable — nicely rounded, plump as hell, a dusty brown to offset her gorgeous, ivy white skin and oh yeah, supple and responsive. He traveled the length of her torso, leaving bites and sucks everywhere, while her pussy was straining against her tight skirt, bucking like all hell to get at his still clothed erection.
"Pants. Off."
He was lucky he had good hearing, because that was borderline incoherent babble.
"As my Ace commands," he quipped, but with her eyes half-lidded, head thrown back, and the grip of her hands in his hair, he was sure if she heard him it was just as incoherent.
He made quick work of his clothes — ripped the buttons in haste — and slid off her skirt with such practiced ease that the squirm it gave her was a balloon of confidence to his ego. He dipped one finger in her and growled, deep and animalistic at how wet she was — if anything, she'd underplayed it — and crooked his fingers just right until her deep, gorgeous moans turned into an intensely visceral scream.
"Say it; god, please. Say it," he whispered, a fervent, breathless prayer at the alter of a goddess he never knew existed.
"Why — why is —"
"It's you — because it's you," his head was spinning, his voice rough, its usually silky smooth allure drowned in lust, affection and endless glasses of scotch. "Always been you, holy shit. Ace, please. This isn't —"
He lost the ability to continue, but she clearly understood. "Fuck me, Logan. Please, fuck me like you've never gone into anyone nearly as hard, as deep, as anything."
His gasp was swallowed by her passionate, demanding kiss that nearly knocked his head straight into a sauce pan — "Couldn't do it differently if I wanted to, Ace. Way too fucking far gone."
With that, he wasted no more time. His cock refused to listen to words at this point, anyway. His plunge into her was hot, slick, hard and merciless — he was never gentle with any of the meaningless society bimbos either, but this onslaught was wrought from passion and actual affection, not some sadistic manifestation of his pent up anger. Her back arched so high he had to hold her upright for fear she'd break her back if she fell out of his grasp, and my god, could her body always bend like that? So much for 'Athletic ability is a disease' Rory Gilmore, huh?
She met his punishing rhythm with equal fervor, and his eyes shut for fear she might see the tears in them otherwise. Not tears of love, or even tears of affection — there was affection, at this point — but it was little watery tears in the sides of his vision because he'd never wanted to please someone as much as he did in this moment.
Certainly not the hordes of women that meant nothing, but not even in a platonic sense. Not his parents, not his best friends, not even Honor.
At this moment, he would do anything — absolutely anything — to show Ace that he noticed her. That he appreciated her. That he wanted her even back when she was annoyingly perfect, but he wanted her even more now that she was imperfectly made for him.
Oh fuck, with that vice grip she was riding his cock with, she was all made for him.
Every single bit of her.
He knew he wasn't in love, but he didn't know what love was in the first place, so he didn't ruminate on the differences.
Couldn't afford to.
She collapsed on top of him, shuddering, shaking and nearly high off the intensity of her orgasm, and he took her weight on top of him as though it were a delicate wonder.
This girl — this woman — that he'd coveted when she was 18 and sweet and innocent and annoyingly and depressingly good. This woman he'd met at a casino, flirted with, an enticingly sweet siren with the charm, elegance, beauty and seduction of the society set without any of the emptiness and falsity. This bitter, broken, bitchy, genius, sort of endearingly pretentious woman with flaws, faults and bruises.
All Rory Gilmore.
It seemed so impossible.
Not all Rory Gilmore, then.
Ace.
Put your hands up,
before she turns and walks away;
this is your one shot,
time for your Ace in the Hole.
"Did he kill all of you?"
They were in a hotel room upstairs now, wrapped in expensive bed sheets smelling of lavender, spice and the natural sheen of sweat and sex, and she stared at him, confounded.
"What?"
A slight twinge to his cheeks reminded Logan that even no-soul Huntzbergers were capable of the smallest hint of a blush — "I mean, did he ruin everything you used to be?"
Rory didn't answer immediately, because she wasn't sure. Did he? "No," she said, "I don't think so. He broke my spirit, but... my, uh..." she broke off, sniffing away some tears, "My mom always told me that as long as it's not gone, it can be fixed. It's not gone; not all of it, at least. Just broken. I... I'd given up hope in fixing it, I didn't think it was worth it."
"What changed to make it worth it now?"
She shrugged, wrapping the sheets tighter around her. "Not sure."
"There's some parts of me I know I can reclaim, if I wanted to — not all of them, a lot of them are gone." She smirked, playful but still bitter — "That irritating innocence is long gone now, half way across the world, and I don't think I'll ever be anywhere near as happy-go-lucky obnoxious as you claim I was, but... happiness, passion, pop culture, coffee, interest in things, books..."
She broke off, deadly silent. "I can't remember the last time I read something that wasn't a drink menu."
"Will you stay the night?"
The question startled her, and it was obvious.
"I — "
"Be here when I wake up."
"I don't do relationships anymore."
His lips quirked. "Neither do I."
She couldn't help but return the smile. "Then what is this? One night stands aren't still around in the morning."
"This is a guy who likes a woman — who has always liked a woman, in all of her incarnations, and for classifications sake, none of them slutty. Just a guy who hasn't genuinely woken up laughing since he was eighteen. This woman makes him laugh, and he wants to experience that at least once more in his life."
"And after that?"
"No idea."
She purses her lips, thinking.
"Tomorrow's Christmas Eve."
"I'm aware," he grins, trying to be jovial, but there's a little bitterness from him too. "Any prior plans?"
She shakes her head, not trusting her voice.
"Any better prospects?" He teases, all cute charm and blonde playfulness, nudging her hips.
"None I can think of," she responds honestly.
"Then go to sleep, Ace. Tomorrow's a better day for plans than today, don't you think?"
She smiles, kisses him — slow, deep, nicely teetering between chaste and something deeper — and rolls over, turning the light off —
— with a huge, goofy grin on her face that Logan can't see.
Then again, she can't see the same goofy grin reflected on Logan's face either.
(She wakes up three hours later at 6 am, a slight bit of foggy sunshine penetrating through the windows, scrambles into the bathroom while fumbling for her phone, takes a deep, calming breath, and dials a number she hasn't yet forgotten — a personal number, not an automated recording for a hotel where she can keep herself anonymous — and the line clicks immediately.
Eyes watery, throat hoarse, but silly, goofy grin still etched on her face, she knows she can't afford hesitation — "Mom?")
Notes: This was ridiculously fun. AUs are the best. Take what you know and spin it sideways. ;)
* 'No, Ace; it's a compliment, of the highest order.' If you recognize that, you likely watched Episode 1x22, Founders Day of 'The Vampire Diaries'. Not a Delena fan by any stretch of the imagination *cough* 'Katherine' *cough* , just thought the actual quote fit well. Not mine. All rights reserved to TVD.
If you haven't listened to Saint Motel yet, do it. Right now.
...
(Have you done it yet?)
;)
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