Author's Reply:

Thanks for all the feedback thus far. It's greatly appreciated.

By the by, meimei42, I'm glad you liked my drunkVeronica, but we actually have seen Veronica drunk in canon. She was drunk (accidentally, she says, but she ordered subsequent ones) off of Irish Coffees --- Baileys got the girl drunk, and that is sad, so that's why I felt justified in getting her pretty well plastered and feeling it for hours later off of 3-4 shots of vodka --- in WW, the first episode of the season where Parker woke up screaming after the rape. That's why she was still at Mac's dorm. Too drunk to drive home. But anyway…

Author's Notes:

Here's Part 3, the last chapter. I'm not sure if it's what I wanted it to be, but it is what it is. (And that's kind of the theme, ironically, so I decided to just go with it, since it hasn't altered in my head throughout the 24 hours I've pondered re-writing it.) The underlines still represent new sections since doesn't let me section the stories off with my usual methods, but the POVs are more straightforward here anyway.

So, this is where it ends. I actually wrote it before the episode on Tuesday, but it took me a few days to post it. I needed to mull a bit. Let me know what ya think.

Disclaimer:

I don't own any of this stuff. Not the characters. Not the names. No lawsuits, please!

The songs from the last two chapters were "The Frug" by Rilo Kiley, and "Turn Into" by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, if you didn't know already. Sorry for not listing titles earlier.

Part Three:
At the Hotel

Logan typed thousands of messages in his mind – everything he'd ever left unsaid, every contradicting thought, every gaping wound tumbling into syllables he couldn't punch in quickly enough. He put the phone down. He was breathing too fast, his heart beating hard enough to evaporate his thoughts, gin and tonic fizzing into the air, leaving him buried underneath the alcohol and sweat, too useless now to mean the right letters.

He picked it back up. The words didn't sound like anything, but they were all he had left in him. It certainly wasn't what he wanted. He wanted to mean something. He wanted to tell her it was okay. Truly. Not just for tonight.

He wanted to ask her if she really minded him watching. If she missed him. If she could just give in a little. Just one step. To tell her that he'd walk ten miles to see her take one step for him. And to shake her because she hadn't. He wanted to ask her if she meant it. If she would have done it differently. If she even could. And to say she didn't have to, to say he understood.

He knew the words. He could feel them. He just couldn't bear to touch them, think them, let them out. He knew he couldn't possibly deserve them. He'd made her right about him, and he was sorry. He always knew he would be, but that's why he'd done it. Control. The pain and the shame were his again, the self-loathing replacing her anger, smothering him. She couldn't touch him now. He could keep her out.

He sent the message. And threw his phone against the wall.

He headed towards the shower.

Veronica didn't pick up her phone to read the message until she got to the Neptune Grand. She just knew he'd written back. She just knew there was hope in the way he'd watched her. It was a strange feeling. She wasn't a girl who hoped very often, who could feel that kind of scary faith in some potential joy, lurking behind the corner. Good things didn't lurk behind too many corners. Not in Neptune.

She didn't read it in the parking lot. She didn't read it in the lobby. She didn't even pull out her phone when she was on the elevator. She made it all the way to his floor, and she had to know. She had to know before she knocked, if it was what she thought.

It wasn't.

She almost cried when she read it. Whatever was open a few hours ago, whatever encouragement she could have found in his stare, whatever her apologies and gestures could have done – and she would never really know, but she thought they could have done something – she didn't think they could matter right now. It was just a feeling she had.

She knew how to read between the lines. It was what she did. Not that she didn't get it wrong a thousand times, miss too many clues, fall a step behind, but generally, she knew how to fill in the gaps. And his were screaming, Don't try. I can't do this.

Six tiny words. He could have just said them. He must have known she'd get it. Maybe he wanted her to have to sift through them herself, so it would hurt more. No, he didn't mean to hurt her. She didn't think he meant to hurt her. He didn't mean anything – didn't want to give her anything.

Five, hollow words:

"Happy New Year. It's fine."

Fine. Sure. A fine night. A fine life. Everything's fine.

She was drowning in fine, and she didn't know where to go. At least he couldn't see her.

She didn't expect to see her there, of all people, hunched over and crying in front of his door, but it started to make perfect sense. Madison felt a smile creeping against her teeth. She knew she was a piece of shit for thinking what she thought, wanting what she wanted. What she always wanted. The jugular. The blood. The guts. It wasn't rational to hate this much. Not when high school was supposed to be gone.

At least she knew what she wanted and what she was. That's how she got so good at it. Causing pain. She laughed out loud. Even she couldn't tell whether it was fake or real.

"No. This is just too pathetic. Even for you."

This is just too good.

Veronica looked up, but she didn't say anything. She looked humiliated, and Madison suddenly felt giddy, something beyond drunk, beyond orgasm. This was easily the best part of her night.

"Want to knock? See if he's taking in strays? I can do it for you," She offered, hand held up to the door in mocking pantomime. "I have to get my jacket anyway. He was certainly interested in having company earlier."

Veronica didn't have time to move. Or even answer.

Logan opened the door.

"What's going on?"

He knew she was there long before Madison got off the elevator. He could hear her crying. He could feel her leaning against the door. Yesterday, he would have let her in. He wouldn't even have waited for her to knock.

It was hard, hearing her cry and not holding her. It made him angry. He wanted to shout at her to go away. It was bullshit. She could at least admit it. She could at least knock on the fucking door. Who did she think she was fooling? Did she want him to hear her? What the hell was she doing? What gave her the fucking right?

He heard Madison's first question. At least it stopped the crying. Maybe she'd go away. Run into the elevator. Finally decide something.

She didn't leave. He didn't even hear her get up. He almost wanted to hear her quip back, but she didn't. By the time Madison spoke again, he'd already crossed the room.

He heard her words and cringed. He wanted to hit her. Or himself. He didn't have any idea what he was going to do when he opened the door.

She didn't know what to feel when he opened the door. Relieved, scared, happy, angry, sad – Everything came out as a jumbled mess these days. This mess was her fault. She'd caused this. She didn't deserve any better.

What was I thinking? His hallway? Crying?

Of course, she hadn't been thinking. Thinking would have been never getting her hopes up. Thinking would have been encouraging someone like Piz, someone who wouldn't hurt her, who couldn't make her feel so much. Thinking would have been staying in the car. Checking her phone. Driving home to her bed and Back-Up at her feet and bacon on New Year's Day, burnt by her father at exactly eight AM. Or sleeping in on Mac's couch and pancakes in the morning with her and Parker. Thinking did not get her to the penthouse at the Neptune Grand.

He had every right to yell at her. Call her crazy. Tell her to go away. Instead, he tried to help her up.

She stood up, but pulled away from his hands.

"Don't." It was all she could manage.

She knew she should leave, but she couldn't move. Her heart was beating in her eardrums even though it was clearly laying in pieces all over the hallway carpet, disintegrating into nothing underneath Madison's black high heels.

"Aw. A lover's spat. How precious," Madison said. "No wonder he wasn't much use tonight." She turned to Logan. "I just need my jacket."

"Sure. You'll find it on the sidewalk out front in about five minutes."

"Wow," Madison said, nodding her head with a wide smile that practically screamed Mission: Accomplished. "That is really immature."

She couldn't believe she was still standing there, watching them. Was she breathing? She wanted to stop breathing. She wanted her feet to move. To be her own again. But she couldn't push away his hand on her arm no matter how disgusted she felt. She couldn't stop her traitorous feet for following his lead, into the suite.

He didn't know what he could say. He just knew he had to get out of that hallway. He pulled her in, and she stood there, still not speaking. She pulled away from him, violently, but she didn't leave. She walked towards the couch, but she stopped, seeing the jacket and the two glasses. And the Trojan wrapper on the coffee table.

Shit.

What was he thinking? The hallway was better than this.

She ran away, towards the bathroom. He kept his promise with Madison's jacket, throwing it off the balcony, watching it sail downward, leather hitting the pavement with a distinct thwap as he heard Veronica gasping and retching.

He understood. He wanted to throw up, too. What could he tell her? That it was kind of the point. That he'd wanted to be disgusting. To feel like shit. To get as low as he could manage. So low he'd never be able to touch her again. And that, yes, he'd wanted to something that would hurt her. As much as she could stand.

Not that he had ever meant for her to find out. No, there were no words for the kind of asshole he was here, but he hadn't wanted that.

He heard the toilet flush, and he heard her turn the water on. And then she shut the door. He heard the lock turn, and he got mad all over again. She was hiding in his bathroom? His goddamn bathroom ? Who the hell did she think she was, barging into his suite at 5 AM and judging him, and making him feel like the piece of shit he was? What kind of person does that? Only Veronica Mars would have the fucking nerve.

She hadn't fully believed it, even though it was obviously true. Not until she saw the proof in the sick, twisted tableau that was his living room. Suddenly, pizza and half-digested vodka were in her throat again, burning her teeth. She almost threw up there. She should have thrown up on the fucking couch where he'd –

Fuck.

Not that she had the right to be this mad. She felt her insides falling out of her, tears she didn't know she had left mixing with the mushrooms and cheese. She felt drunk again, but in a bad way this time. She should have known better than to show up at his doorstep at this time of night. She should have known he wouldn't wait around for her, pining. She should have known he meant it when he said it was over.

Not that she could have ever imagined this. Why did it have to be Madison? She flushed the toilet. Did she really care who it was? Did it make the scene playing in her head that much worse? Wouldn't it be bad enough anyway? And who was she to judge?

She tried to catch her breath.

She washed her face and looked at herself in the mirror. She felt more trapped than ever, caged by the gleaming tile. It looked so damn clean. She could hear him outside the bathroom, cleaning up, pacing, his feet as heavy as her skin felt. She locked the door. She couldn't go out there. She knew she needed to leave. She knew she should run. Out of the room, the suite, the hotel. But that meant facing him.

She spread out on the cold tile, too raw for crying.

He finished cleaning up the glasses, and he brought her stuff inside. He wanted to do something besides pacing, but there was nothing else to do. He was shaking as he sat down on the floor, leaning against the bathroom door. He thought about knocking or yelling at her and throwing her out. He thought about breaking the thing down. What the hell was she doing in there? He couldn't even hear her moving anymore. Was she planning on sleeping in there?

Why couldn't she have said something earlier? Why couldn't she have knocked on the fucking door? Why couldn't she have sent that message a few hours earlier?

They were all stupid questions that didn't really amount to anything worth answering. It was the same old story. What could they change? This was his fault. He'd made this. He didn't deserve any better.

He wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

This was ridiculous. If someone had told him three hours ago that Veronica would be locked in his bathroom, he would have laughed. It felt like a dream. A fucking nightmare.

She could feel him leaning against the door somehow, and she crawled towards it, disgusted with herself. Disgusted with him. Disgusted with the tile. With this whole night. How the hell was she going to get out of the suite if he stayed right there, right at the door?

She wanted to tell him to move. She wanted to teleport out of the room. Or maybe just evaporate somehow.

He knew he should hide in his room, but he also knew it meant she'd leave. He knew that's what she was waiting for, and he didn't know why he didn't just go. Just let her go. She should leave. What was there left to say here? Was he going to think of something, sitting there, that would make it better?

He didn't know if he had the right to make her face him. He knew she shouldn't have found out, and certainly not like this. He knew there was nothing he could say.

"Veronica?" He said, standing, still touching the door.

He thought he heard her hold her breath. He imagined he felt her hands against the door, too, looking for something than just the way out. He pretended there was something he could say.

"Veronica?" He tried again.

He wished he hadn't. She opened the door.

She heard him stand. She felt his hands against the door, somehow, and tried to find the same spot. She couldn't breathe when she heard her name, couldn't speak, couldn't yell or ask him why. He didn't let it go.

"Veronica?"

She opened the door and put on her brave face. "I'm sorry. I'm going. I was just sick. I just had a little too much to drink, that's all."

"Then you shouldn't drive."

"I'm fine." She tried to push past him, but she felt his hand on her shoulder again. Willing her to stay. Giving her exactly what she'd come for, if only she could forget. And forgive.

Part of her wanted to melt into him, to let him pull her in and try to make it better, and part of her wanted to slug him, throw something at him, spit on him for touching her with the same hands he must have –

No. This is something you don't think, Veronica.

She pulled away.

"I'm sorry."

"What's the point?" She asked, turning around to face him, the words ripping through her, finally making her angry enough – finally piercing the sadness and the disgust. "We weren't together."

"Veronica – "

"No. This was perfect. Thank you. Except," Her eyes betrayed her even as she spoke, and she knew it, "you could have just sent this in your text message. No need for 'fine' at all. You could have just laid it out there, the big 'Fuck You.' You could have done that. It would have been vintage Logan Echolls. Classic."

If there were words to answer her question, he couldn't find them. He could only find her name.

"Veronica." He felt it like a prayer. Or like he imagined a prayer felt, humming through his skin, his teeth, his fingertips. No matter what he'd done to get her off of him, he could feel her again.

Fuck.

It had all been for nothing anyway.

Her words hit him like glass, breaking, broken, tearing through his skin, but her eyes were wide and scared. It was the first time he really believed it, even though he'd heard her say it before. It just hit him, with the words that were wrong and true at the same time: She loved him.

She loved him, and he had to fix this, even if it was impossible.

She didn't understand when his face changed. She'd wanted to hurt him, like he'd hurt her. Not that words could do that kind of damage, but she'd wanted to hurt him as much as she could. But it wasn't hurt. Or fear. Or anger. Or love or hate. It was something else in his eyes, something she couldn't read at all, and that made her crazy.

She felt spent. Done. Not enough fight in her to sustain this fight alone, if he wasn't jumping in. "Did it have to be her?" She asked finally.

"I don't know," He answered. "It's complicated."

The cop out answer pissed her off again. "Not really. Just what you do, right? Just fucking. I remember it being fairly simple."

He really didn't know. It was the truest statement he could find that didn't make him want to rip his own skin off and hand it to her.

"Not really. Just what you do, right?" She tilted her head, and he could see she was out for blood. "Just fucking. I remember it being fairly simple."

He knew she was just trying to be cruel, just trying to get a rise out of him, and she did it so badly. So transparently. Veronica had never "just fucked" in her life, with him or anyone else. But it didn't matter that he knew that. It didn't matter that he knew the game, it still played him. It still made him want to throw something.

He didn't. He just sat down and looked up at her. He wasn't getting her back. He didn't deserve it. It didn't matter if she loved him or needed him, and it didn't matter if he wanted to make it right. He couldn't fix this. So, he did the one thing he could do. He gave in, entirely.

"It wasn't even about that. It was just about feeling less. Not feeling you," He answered honestly. As honest as he'd ever been with anyone. More. More honest than he could bear, but that was all he could give her. "Not feeling you against my skin. Not loving you so much. Not needing you. Not wanting what I can't want anymore. I couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't stalk you at parties. I had to do something." It poured out of him slowly, but she didn't interrupt. "I had to make it real. And she was there. And there was no better way. No dirtier way. I know it's fucked up."

"I don't understand," She said, and he believed her.

"It was about you."

He watched as she flinched, disgust spreading across her face again.

The image alone had made her throw up, and now this? She felt like there was something thick and dirty underneath her skin, some disgusting film that only she could see. She flinched. She stepped backwards, as if she'd been slapped.

But then she sat down next to him. It had been about her. It was disturbing, but he'd said it kindly, and that was how it worked its way through her head, cleansing something in a way the retching and the tears hadn't. Suddenly, she saw him. Really, finally understood.

"Okay," she said softly.

It was just one word, but it made him brave. "Okay, what?"

"Okay, I believe you. I understand." The way she said them was sad, and it shouldn't have given him so much hope.

He knew better than to hope for anything – than to believe anything so simple would ever be enough. She had him gutted and laid out in front of her, on display, and she was satisfied. That's all it was. There was nothing to hope for.

"I came here because I realized something," she said softly. "Or I thought I did."

"What?" He asked, and yes, he was hoping. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't help it.

"It was my fault. All of it," she said, even softer now. "That's what I was going to say."

He could barely breathe. Barely stand to exist.

"It's not true," She said. "It wasn't. Not entirely."

"No."

Veronica knew things weren't that simple. She wanted it to be simple. She wanted everything to be clear, to know – in this crime – who the culprit was, and if she couldn't know the truth, she wanted to make it up, to create a fictional culprit, a patsy of her own that she could sacrifice, kill, destroy, even though it wouldn't fix anything.

But then she looked at him. She heard that simple, "No" that was so filled with everything, flooding towards them. And she knew he was blaming himself.

She could leave him. She could walk out. She wouldn't even have to tell him it was his fault. She wouldn't have to yell or whisper or even look disappointed in him. The fire was already going, the pitchforks already in his own hands, and he didn't need her to do anything. He could be the bad guy. She could win.

But this time, she wanted something more than winning. She looked at him, and there was that feeling in her stomach again – pointless, unexplainable, unreliable. Hope. Somehow, it broke through, coursing through her veins like poison, and for once, she didn't want the antidote.

finis