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Logan glanced quickly at his bloodied knuckles; the other day’s scars torn once again at the seams. Crusty and fresh blood muddied together. He rubbed them against his shirt, proudly displaying his handiwork.
He always was a brazen little bitch.
Below him lay his second victim of the week, one who, maybe she was right, wasn’t worth fighting—someone who might really be able to go toe-to-toe with the pathologically stupid Logan Echolls in a terminal cage match.
She had, however, miscalculated in thinking in he cared. He didn’t care one itsy bit. After all, she was the one who’d pronounced his time of death. Her declaration at the Grand had sent him on a mad mission of booze, pills, and one desperate, fleeting moment where he stood on the balcony with both in hand. In the end though, he couldn’t do it, the video of his mom looping behind his eyes, and he slunk back inside. At least if someone else did the deed he could keep his dignity, die the hero of his young Hollywood dreams.
No, Logan felt a sick satisfaction about the idea that even if this mob character could kill him, he’d go out fighting. Apples, trees, psychos as the old saying goes.
“Whoever you are you’re going to die,” spat his victim, the most recent one anyways.
Truer words had probably never been spoken about Logan Echolls. He seemed perpetually one blink away from death. Always one moment from awaiting a fate he wasn’t sure existed, and was even less clear on what it had in store for him when the eventual happened. Logan was constantly running from death, and even he knew that the smallest pebble could fell him.
But yet.
“Yeah. Someday,” he smirked.
Which was the second truest statement spoken about Logan Echolls. Because even though he seemed poised to meet the sharp end of a sword any moment, he never did. Maybe he was lucky. Or maybe this was his purgatory. Whatever the reason, Logan always seemed to escape. He couldn’t help but smile. If this was the time that did him in, well fuck, maybe there really was some justice in the world.
And besides, she fucking smiled too. Grinned at the statement, all knowing and slightly sanctimonious, because she knew better than anyone he was right. Someday he’d die. Not in a ‘we’re all mortal, examine our place in the universe’ way, but she knew. Veronica knew both sides of the coin, the Logan who was constantly on the verge of death, and also the insider knowledge that no matter how much he tried, he never quite fully succeeded. So this threat of death, there was a joke behind it that only they knew. Yeah someday he’d die, but what was the likelihood it was today?
As he turned to leave he spotted Piz. Riding the high of vanquishing a true Mars foe, he couldn't help point out his handy work. Piz wasn't the enemy. Piz was a distraction, the obstacle in the second act meant to foil a grand plan. It never worked.
"Ahh Piz, just who I was looking for. Listen man, I am truly sorry. For everything."
And he was. Sort of. Mostly though he was proclaiming loud and clear: I can protect her, you can’t. He didn’t turn back.
--
A pale ghost zipped by on his way to class, so quickly he sometimes thought she might be a flash memory caught behind his eyes for eternity. He knew better though, because he walked each way for a reason and he was pretty sure she knew that. Every once in a while she’d glance his way, letting her eyes linger in his direction before whipping her head around and moving on.
For a few weeks after the punch, until classes ended and she moved away, Veronica Mars let him protect her, or at least let him think he was anyways.
“Best fucking punch ever,” he thought.
He might not have died a hero’s death in the weeks that followed, but fuck if he didn’t get his wish anyways. Veronica let him keep her safe, protect her, and if he couldn’t have her, protecting her was the next best thing.