Disclaimer: I do not own BTR
"...Too long I've been afraid of, loosing love I guess I lost; well if that's love, it comes at much too high a cost..."
-Elphaba Thropp, Wicked: A New Musical
A sweet voice sings somewhere distant.
Another meeting runs over.
A child sits alone at home.
Another night with no one.
A police siren cries out.
Another crime has been committed.
A call is made.
Another life has been taken.
This is my nightmare.
Forever
On repeat
Yawning, I stretch my arms, taking a brief moment to enjoy that strange tingling sensation you get when you wake up. It takes a bit for my vision to focus. I don't want to be awake but it's that feeling that tells you, you have to that allows me to. I remind myself that there's someone else here besides me and go to see if he's awake. I enter the main room and feel oddly lonely even though I'm not alone. I lean against the armrest of the couch, neither sitting nor standing. Maybe...I reach my hand down, trailing it over his neck-oddly loving the strange bumpy feeling of a forming scar-until reaching his pulse point. It's stronger now than it was last night.
"Great..." I say out loud. Why though. Why was this 'great'? Then I remember my oh so malevolent scheme.
"Hmm..."
I blink and in that brief second he's shifted his position so that he is propped up on an elbow, looking up at me. His green eyes are resilient in a shattered, unadulterated way. His stained cheeks have trails of tears running down them. "You're awake," I aver. "Gonna talk now?" I half frown when he doesn't speak. "Okay. Alright. Have it your way, I know you can talk. You'll do it again eventually." I notice, more or less are reminded that he's still covered in blood. It's dried now but still... "Uh, if you want to take a shower or something its back there-" I jerk my head back behind the couch- "And I'll find you something else to wear if you want. Blood stains pretty bad so I'm not sure about your old clothes." I realize it after I spoke.
Slapping my forehead I say, "I don't know if you can walk because Jo and I have carried you all this time. Sheesh, I didn't even check for broken bones."
He scuffles under the blanket until it slides off his body when he sits up completely. He pushes the rest of it to the corner of the couch and swings his legs over and rises. And wow. Why.
Why does he have to be taller me?
It's like only one inch but still.
"No broken bones..." the blonde whispers. I'm not really sure what exactly his voice sounds like, it's too soft spoken.
"Oh..." Something on impulse makes me joke, "And you let me carry you around?" I guess it still sounds sarcastic. At least. It assures me I'm still me. "Are you...are you in any pain?" I ask awkwardly.
He's quiet. Almost more so than he was when I first found him.
I take it as a yes.
I instantly conjure an idea. I don't think it's very appropriate though. "Do you need help?"
I think he's blushing but I can't tell because of that pesky dried blood.
And that same cell phone that may or may not be mine rings from where it still remains nestled in my hoodie pocket. I reach over to the coffee table where it was lazily draped over. When I retrieve it I find that it is Jo again.
"Hold on," I say to the blonde before pacing away towards my bedroom. "What, Jo?" I inquire, answering her call.
"Just wondering, uh how he's doing," she says.
"Well. He's awake, and I think he can talk. Hasn't said much though, I still don't know his name," I update her.
"So I guess that means you haven't gotten the information yet."
"What." I slapped my own forehead. Stupid... "I mean-no. Not yet." Jo's line goes eerily quiet. "Jo?" I say.
"Oh! Um, someone's trying to cut in"-another pause-"Can I call you back?" There's something in her voice that's light. Excited.
I try to keep out the suspicion that naturally takes over when I'm unsure as I answer, "Sure." And before I can ask, 'who is it'; Jo hangs up.
I throw the phone onto my bed before stalking back into the (hardly) living room. The blonde hasn't moved from where he stood. He's glancing around my war-hideout like home. I try to tell what he's thinking by observing his movements but it's almost as if he's an unreachable creature on another planet.
"C'mon," I exclaim, rolling my eyes. "Obviously you aren't going to do it yourself so..."- I nod towards the bathroom door-"...It 'ta, shouldn't be too embarrassing, we're both guys."
His gaze moves so it locks with mine. Two opposite forces of nature acknowledging each other for the first time in such a way that it could cause a deadly explosion.
"Okay."
I search my closet until uncovering a maroon sweatshirt, pair of pale gray sweatpants, and boxers. "Here, borrow my clothes for now; yours won't be clean again, blood stains terribly," I say, turning around to face him. He's sitting on the end of the bed with a towel wrapped around his waist. I still can't officially dub him blonde because when hair is wet it's darker.
There's a knock. Someone's here.
"I'll be right back," I say, placing the clothes next to him. "Don't leave this room." I instruct over my shoulder, not completely finishing my sentence when I close the door. I reach the entrance quickly and curse myself for not having a peep hole. My hand hovers over the door knob.
"It's Lucy!" A muffled voice snaps from the other side.
"Stone?" I confirm.
"No, Lucy Ricardo; yes, Lucy Stone!"
I hesitantly cast a glance to wear the blonde is hidden away. Then I let Lucy in. She hasn't changed a bit. Her dark-almost black hair is still streaked with bright red; a sign of rebellion when she was a young child. Her eyes still gleam in a way that judges you before she gets to know you. And her lips are still pulled into their permanent frown.
"I'm here to make a deal with you," Lucy states. Her voice sounds like it is behind me. I turn around and see her plopped down on my couch, one leg folded over the other. When did she go inside? I don't remember her going past me.
"What deal?" I ask, shutting the door hard so it slams.
Lucy leans back against the cushions. "There are two new police on the force. They're both in their mid-twenties. One girl. One guy. The girl, she's been on my case ever since she found my DNA at a car high-jacking crime scene."
"You want me to do something about this new cop."
"I would myself but I've got something to deal with else where," She says.
I narrow my eyes and pace around to the back of the couch. "And what do you expect me to do? You know I can't do anything to them these days."
"Oh, what? Is the great Logan Mitchell scared?" Lucy hisses.
I smile and reach down. I grab her shoulders and turn her so she's looking at me. "Don't try that. You know it won't do anything to me." She remains unfazed, but I know she's shivering inside. I say, "Okay. You find out more about where this cop lives and I'll do something then. But now." I shove upward on her back, making her stagger to her feet. "Go."
"What will you do while I'm risking my own freedom sneaking around?" Lucy demands. "Stay here under your rock while everyone else in Disturbia frisks around for you?" She challenges.
Disturbia was a rather strong way to describe it. But very accurate none the less. "Yes," I say.
Lucy opens her mouth to think but must've thought better of it. She storms to the door and slips away like a python in its natural habitat. Moving silently from one location to the other. I eye the door for moments longer, for the first time noticing every splinter-threatening slit in it. It looks as if there must have been a battle between the door and a starving cat.
And the cat must've won.
I think about my own battles. The only one I am truly at war at is myself. Not the police; nor any other in 'Disturbia.' It is
Me
Myself
And
I
I am the only one who can tear me down, and I am the only one who can build me up.
I am a force to be reckoned with.
No one; and I repeat no one, is ever gonna bring me down. Never.
I am as clever as a fox and calculating as Hitler.
Perhaps that is why I cannot love anyone.
I am the Wicked Witch of the West without her intended good deeds.
I had once thought I loved Jo, but that was far back when I was not me.
I am the Huntsman and everyone around is my Snow White.
That was back when I didn't know the darker side of the moon.
Like my father told me after that faithful night with his fist clenched and tears streaming: Love does not exist. Not here. Not anywhere.
I kept waiting for him to say, 'kidding, your mother would want me to be kidding,' but that doesn't happen in real life. He went cold, and so...I did as well. I never felt warm again.
. "L-Logan..."
I jolt with a start at the voice and turn on my heels. The blonde stands few feet from the door, now fully clothed. He rubs a hand up and down his opposite upper arm. A sign of constant discomfort through his life.
I know he probably caught on to my name so I don't ask how he knows it. Instead I think of ribs visible through scar swathed skin. "Are you hungry?" I ask. "You can go get something from the fridge." I jerk my thumb to the box-kitchen. I don't wait for him to answer. "Hold on a sec." I walk slowly to the fridge and as I approach notice how lonely it looks. No magnets, no forms, no nothing. It matches the theme of my home and me. I carelessly draw three empires and cradle them in my arms so I won't drop them. He'll need more, but these apples will have to do. I set them onto the coffee table, making a barrier for a half a second to stabilize the apples. "Okay, I'll venture through the cabinets later but for now...hope you like empire apples."
"Why are you doing this?" He whispers, unbreakably staring at the fruit. His voice is steady.
Maybe now, maybe now I'll ask him. I'll ask him who nearly killed him. An aching feeling inside drags something out of me that makes me instruct, "Tell me your name. You know mine, how about returning the favor?"
His gaze flickers up to me. There is a new kind of pain in them. "I can't," he chokes out.
I blink and after a while, back up onto the couch. "Eat those," I order, nodding to the apples. "And sit down." I pat the spot next to me. He does and reaches for one of the empires. They are mechanical motions, done by someone who's brain is locked in limbo. We sit in silence; the only sound is the crunching of apples. When he is halfway through the second apple, I say, "I guess I'll have to call you No Name. Or Nameless. Maybe Unless." He glances briefly over to me at the last one. "You know? From The Lorax."
The Lorax isn't something someone would expect me to like. Dr. Seuss specifically. It's just so bubbly and innocent and life lesson-y. Not me. At all. But it's something from that same box of lullabies.
"I like Unless. I'm calling you that until you can tell me your name," I dismiss. Maybe I liked that term because it sounded like a threat. Something inside argues against that theory though.
Unless makes no comment and starts on the third apple. I pick up the first two cores by their stems and take them to the miniature garbage bin and let them fall. When I return to the couch, Unless is staring down at the last apple in his palm like it's a bird that could take off at any second. The empire has half of it missing with jutted edges from teeth gnawing into it.
"I can't remember," Unless says in a trance.
I lower myself down next to him again, steady and wary. The hairs on the back of neck prickle with a strange new form of hostility. "What?"
"My name. I can't remember it"-He still burns a hole into the apple as he continues-"I can't remember..."
My fingers unconsciously pull at the loose string on the cushion I sit on. Jo's dad had this as a kid. Jo told me about it. Jo's father knew because his parents and friends often recapped everything to him. He once forgot his grandmother had died. He got straight 'F's for not being able to remember what he learned. He never got presents for friends' and family's birthdays. There was so much more but Jo said what he found most ironic in the worst way was...
He couldn't remember his name.
"Short-term memory loss," I snort. It could be long-term, how would I know how long Unless has been this way. Why should I care? Unless nods, 'yes.'
And then
It
Hits
Me
How is he going to tell me who jumped him if he has short-term memory lose?
I remember the knives in my kitchen drawers.
I visualize him bleeding, coughing, dying...
Broken over and over again.
An endless cycle of a heart ripped in two with a spirit practically murdered like he almost had been.
I'm sure he'd just want it all to end.
I would be doing him a favor.
I can just picture Jo's face once the deed is done
Scars over scars over scars.
So much implies a violent past as cruel as what I live in now.
I'd want out if I were him...But since I'm me I would force myself to suck it up and get through it...who am I to have the audacity to make a decision for him...
And just like I saved Jo those distant years ago
I want to fix him.
Am I the only one who's getting just the tiniest bit tired of hearing Logan be called a whore?
I know I am.
Originally I was going to include the part where Logan helps Kendall but I couldn't really think of what to put there.