Sometimes it feels as though he's spent his lifetime trying to replace her. He kisses the neck of the nameless, faceless girl beneath him, forgetting her name as he thrusts within her and his fingers tangle in her mane of corn silk hair. It doesn't feel right, and he pushes himself off of her for a moment, glancing at her convulsing body and tries not to let the revulsion show in his face. He dips his head, surprising her as he nips her lips. Another moan is ripped from her as he does so, and he captures it in his mouth, drowning out the sound. In the 6 months that they've been fucking this is only the second time he's kissed her. She tries to pretend that he's thinking of her as his lips mold against hers, but she can't. The intensity of his eyes when he thinks she isn't looking is something they've never shared, and not for the first time, she wishes it were her that kept him from sleep most nights. Breaking the contact of their lips, he pushes deep once more, before rolling smoothly out of her and settling naked at the edge of the bed. Without thinking, she reaches her fingers out to trace the heavy black scar spanning the lower half of his back. He's told her virtually nothing about himself, and she wonders sometimes how he got it, but whenever she asks he doesn't answer, and it's reaffirmed again that while he doesn't mind her body, he has no place for her in his heart. As her fingers flutter softly across his back, he stiffens, and instinctively she knows she's crossed one of his unspoken lines.
"I've got to go." He mutters, his voice tight. He's dressed in a matter of seconds, his gray t-shirt tight against his chest, his eyes impenetrable as they meet hers. She tries for a smile, but it only comes out a weak grimace, tears already threatening at the back of her eyes. He's so heartbreakingly handsome, a layer of smoldering heat lying just beneath his surface; but even when they make love he never taps into it, merely going through the motions of being with her. She wishes she could tell him that this is the last time-that she wants a real relationship from him, conversations, romance…but she knows she won't. She craves him too much.
"Call me tomorrow?" Her strangled reply comes as he's halfway out the door, and she hates herself as her voice raises an octave on the last syllable. He stiffens again, sighing and grateful that she can't see the annoyance contorting his features. She's a good woman, but she's too invested in him-in them; on the quest to free his immortal soul from whatever fiery hell she's envisioned it in. He doesn't have the heart to tell her just that. He'd lost his heart long ago, and as appreciative as he is of her, nothing she can do will change that, or get it back. He nods once, almost imperceptibly, but as he does so, he feels the tension drain from her, can practically feel her sigh of relief as if he'd breathed it himself. The screen door slams behind him, the motion censored lamplight flickering off as he slips past, and he slides his mobile from his back pocket, twisting it about his fingers. On impulse he dials the number he knows by heart, biting his lip as he hits the talk button, unable to help himself. It rings once, twice, three times before the answering machine picks up, and his stomach settles a little. It isn't as if he was expecting her to pick up anyway.
"You've reached Paul and Veronica, we can't come to the phone right now, but if you'd like to leave a message, we'll be sure to call you back soon." It kills him that she sounds so happy. "Hello?" She asks as she fumbles for the phone. Her voice is sleepy and tired, and he practically drops the cell from shock. "Hello?" She asks again, and he can practically hear her ears perking. He shouldn't have called, and now he has to say something, because although his number is blocked, he has no doubt she can and will trace it in the morning-once a detective, always a detective.
"Hi, Veronica." His hands are shaking, and he can't believe that he's actually talking to her.
"Logan?" His ears strain to hear the tone behind the word, but she hides her emotions well, she's always had that particular talent, and he hates that he cares-hates that he's gotten himself into this, just to hear her voice again. Now that he has though, he wishes he hadn't. It makes it harder and harder to stay away from her, from spilling out his soul to her. If he keeps his distance, he's safe. And so he generally does, until nights like this, when her voice-even on her tinny, prerecorded answering machine, is the only thing that can save him from his demons.
"Yeah, hi. I'm sorry to be calling so late," He responds, his voice automatically slipping into what he'd coined over the years as Bland Politician Mode. He'd lie, and do it well, but he'd be trusted-trustable, while doing it. His years as a bounty hunter had taught him everything he needed to know about dealing with people. "I had this number stored for some reason, and was just doing a routine clean-through-" Routine clean-through? Where did that come from? "And figured I'd check who it was. I'm sorry to have-"
"It's Okay," She responds, and he thinks he's fallen in love all over again. Which is ridiculous, but true. He's never really stopped loving her, really, and has to fight to keep from telling her so.
"Well, have a good night," He tries to keep his voice as light as possible. He's disturbed her enough already. His head pounds, and for the millionth time since he'd woken up this morning, he wishes he just hadn't. Unlocking the door to the truck, he slumps against the wheel, his fingers rubbing against his temples. "What a fuck-up you are." He tells his reflection as he glances into the rearview, cursing himself as he peels out of his parking space.
X
Her eyes are wide as she cradles the receiver in her hands, her lips parted.
"Babe? Who was on the phone this late?" She glances at the over clock, and grimaces as she takes in the time. It's not late, she wants to scream, but she doesn't. She doesn't even know if her voice would work at this point. Logan Echolls. She pretends to laugh as she turns to head back upstairs, ready to get back into bed with a man who is the complete antithesis of him, and to never think of him again, when she notices the flashing red light on the machine. Her pulse has never raced faster as she pushes the play button, listening to his voice again, even swathed as it is, in lies. She wonders why he really called, wonders why she cares, then sighing, wonders if she'll ever really get to hear him again.
Fin.