Title: This is How I Disappear
Rating: R, mostly for language
Date Started: 8-4-08
Date Finished: 8-10-08
Disclaimer: I don't own any of this. Gilmore Girls belongs to Amy Sherman-Paladino and the folks at the WB (or the CW, whatever they call it these days). Title comes from the song of the same name by MCR.
Summary: Logan goes through a near death experience while Rory commits to a serious relationship with Jess. Post-season finale.
A/N: This is the last official chapter. They'll be an epilogue, but apart from that, this is the end. I hope you have all enjoyed reading my story.
Chapter Ten: Tell Me If It's So
Logan held his coat tighter around his slender frame to shield himself from the blustery Massachusetts cold, dodging other students while he clutched an armful of books. He was on his way to the library to return a few volumes and to do a bit of work on the research paper for his history class on Mesopotamia and their early Sumerian writing systems. Logan breezed through to the first floor of the library, depositing some of his books in the return slot at the counter.
Many of the other Harvard students were bent over papers or scribbling notes, some chatting quietly. Logan settled his things into a discrete section of the library and sorted through the rough outline he'd made for his paper.
He heard a quiet rustle of clothes and looked up from his academic paraphernalia. "Von?"
She loosened her scarf and joined him at the table, "Hello, Mr. Huntzburger."
"How are you?" Logan asked, sorting his papers into a neat pile.
Von brushed some of her short hair behind her ear and removed her gloves. "I'm fine, thank you. I've just come from seeing your favorite person."
He arched one of his blonde eyebrows, "Who?"
"Jess Mariano," she answered casually, her silver eyes glinting in the winter light. "I've been writing a book on sociopaths. He's agreed to publish it."
"I didn't know that he worked in publishing," Logan said, "I thought he just wrote."
"Oh yes," Von explained, "He owns his own company."
Logan capped his pen and rubbed at a spot on the back of his neck. "What are you doing for dinner?" He asked, stuffing the folded pages of his outline into one of his books.
"I hadn't made any plans."
"Come over to my place. You haven't seen it yet. I'll made dinner, we'll talk, it'll be nice, I promise."
After the end of their therapy sessions Von and Logan had remained in contact. They would meet usually once a week, sometimes less. Logan planed each meeting meticulously. He always tried to appear pleasant, casual, normal. He didn't want Von to think that he was some kind of freak patient with a mental disorder.
"Alright," she submitted, "show the way."
Von stood, gloves in hand, and followed Logan out of the library and to his recently acquired silver Aston Martin. "You like spaghetti?" He asked, opening the door for her and letting her settle into the passenger seat.
"Yes," Von answered, fastening her seatbelt while Logan stuck the key in the ignition and started the engine.
"Good," he replied, "Because it's the only meal I know how to make."
--
Logan unlocked the door to his apartment and politely saw Von in, taking her coat and hanging it on the rack along with her pristine white scarf. "Take a look around," he offered, "write some notes. 'Patient adjusts to life. Shows signs of complacency.' "
She accepted his little joke with a faint smile, "I'm not your doctor anymore."
"You don't have to remind me," Logan mumbled. He made his way into the kitchen and began to assemble dinner.
Von took a moment to survey Logan's apartment, browsing his book collection unashamedly and inspecting the paintings that adorned his walls. She had never been one for art and the modern, abstract pieces that Logan had displayed were almost like an unconscious padding, a few touches that made his living space appear stylish instead of sterile.
She wandered into the kitchen, accepting the glass of white wine he offered her. Dry and faintly sweet. French markings on the bottle.
"Well you seem very apt in the kitchen," Von commented, sipping, taking a longer swallow than she had anticipated.
"It's just a ruse," he joked, "I'm really very unorthodox when it comes to cooking."
She drank quietly while Logan boiled noodles and chopped tomatoes for the sauce. He refilled her wineglass periodically, causing the number of drinks she'd consumed to blur into an indistinguishable menagerie of chilled, burning alcohol. After fifteen minutes of steady consumption she abandoned her glass and rummaged around for another, filling it with icy tap water.
They sat at Logan's kitchen table, the clean glass top immaculate, completely bare of scratches or fingerprints. Von blinked, pushed her hair away from her face, her pink lips rose-bitten from the cold.
"How do you really know Jess Mariano?" Logan asked, his voice low. The question teetered on inappropriate, straddling the invisible borderline between their bodies.
"I haven't slept with him," she answered honestly. Von knew that he wouldn't settle for a half-truth on this front. "I considered it once but I eventually gave up. He's never really shown an acute interest in me, just my ideas. Apparently I don't posses the same flare as your Rory," she replied coolly.
"Stop making this about me," he defended, "I just wanted to know."
The wine had skewn her composure. "You're self-conscious. You don't like that Jess is my editor because you feel like I'm your possession. You dread loosing me to the same person who won Rory. It's a matter of dignity. Of pride," she spoke the last word with venom.
Logan, who had never seen Von impassioned, even in speaking, watched her tensely. "Stay with me."
"What?" She looked up at him, her thin neck a darting line. "You want me to sleep with you?"
"Yes," he said seriously, "I want that more than anything."
He took her hand, her wrist, from the tabletop, standing and pulling her towards him. She expected him to kiss her but he abstained, touching her face with his hands, her hair. Logan grazed her lip with his thumb; he drew lines on her jaw and neck. Von didn't attempt to shy away when he reached for the hem of her sweater, pulling it over her flat stomach and releasing her supple arms.
"You are so unbelievably cold," he said, "even while I'm touching you."
She physically rebuked him, bracing her wry hands against his shoulders and forcefully pushing him away. "Make up your mind," she commanded silkily, a subliminal tributary of contempt seeping into her words.
"I'm sorry," he apologized, his face in shadow, "Sometimes my desires conflict. I want you, physically, but at the same time I want to see you shattered," he admitted.
"Logan," Von started, taking a few steps toward him, "take me to bed."
He grasped her hand, laced their fingers together. His breathing, for once, was deep and easy. "C'mon."
A/N: Epilogue will be up soon. Reviews are always appreciated.