Fic: (ab)normal [Veronica, hints of V/L and V/D]

Yeah, I know I said I probably wasn't going to write much more Veronica Mars. I also know I said I'd never write Logan/Veronica again. To be fair, this isn't explicitly Logan/Veronica, but yeah, that's the way I was writing it. Total stylistic departure from what I usually do aside, I actually do like the way it turned out.

Title: (ab)normal
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Pairings: Veronica POV; hints of Logan/Veronica and Duncan/Veronica
Word Count: 1375
Rating: R
Summary: Here's the thing about normal.
Warnings: Spoilers through 02x10



--here's the thing about normal. It doesn't exist, not really. It's all just an illusion, a fantasy that no one ever actually gets to live. You look at Bob down the street with his new boat and two-week vacations every three months, and you think, 'God, Bob's got the life. Normal.'

What you don't know is Bob's cheating on his fifth wife, has three kids he won't pay child support for, and the boat and vacations? All come from his embezzling funds from his work.

You know this all in your head.

But you've always wanted the unattainable.

The thing about normal is, it's all a big fucking lie--


*


It starts like this. Always.

You park your car two streets and four blocks over in the Target parking lot, never close to the entrance, but never too far away from the rest of the parked cars. You cut behind the business complexes, but use the crosswalks and make eye contact occasionally.

These are the little things that make seeing you forgettable.

(You've watched enough adulterers to know what looks suspicious.)

The hotel isn't the Neptune Grand. It's not the Camelot, either.

It starts like this. With hot little breaths on the back of your neck as you break your fingernails on cheap plaster walls, scrambling for some kind of purchase against the slick and the hot and the god, that's good. You never quite find any. Purchase, that is. There's always plenty of slick and hot and good, otherwise you wouldn't keep going back for more.

You may be stupid, but you're no masochist.

It starts like this because you let it.

(You're no masochist, but you still like the sting.)

You're smart enough to know it's going to end the same way. Always.

The predictability? Well, that's sort of normal, right?


*


--and there's really nothing else you can do, now is there?

The world's sliding around you, always moving two steps too fast for you to actually keep up with, but none of that matters now. You're just another piece of the background. (Now.) You don't stand out. (Anymore.) You don't draw attention to yourself. (You used to.) You're just... there.

You just pretend.

It's the difference between living and being alive.

To be honest, you're not so sure you're either--


*


The reason you get along with Wallace, you think, is because he rarely ever calls you on your bullshit.

Dead best friend murder conspiracy? Hey, stranger things have happened. Drugged up non-rape by your ex-slash-current boyfriend who could've been your brother? Bring it on, 'cause Wallace has read Flowers in the Attic for sophomore Lit.

For some reason, he draws the line at the whole current boyfriend's comatose and knocked-up ex waking up and asking for your help thing. That's not so out of left field, is it? It's happened before!

(Get real, Veronica, maybe on As the World Turns.)

Then Meg has to go and die.

(Maybe God's been watching too many Melrose Place reruns.)

Duncan wants to raise the baby himself. Of course.

(Your life is turning into a Lifetime movie of the fucking week.)

And you just smile and nod and say, "Anything you need, sweetie. I can help."

Really? You're surprised your face didn't crack on that smile.


*


--and this isn't just some form of purgatory.

Maybe none of this is real and Lilly's still alive. Maybe you're the one who died and all this is just an elaborate ruse to keep you chasing something you're never going to get. Tantalus had his receding pool of water and fruit, you've got normal shimmering in the distance, always just out of reach.

Tantalus probably had it easier than you do. He didn't have to deal with high school.

You play oblivious to the comments behind your back. Not like you haven't dealt with those before, after all. So what if now the comments are all backhanded sympathy about how your boyfriend's all broken up over his dead ex and their illegitimate love child? So what if Madison Sinclair is giving you pity looks in the hallway?

This is nothing new. You're Veronica Mars. They're always going to be talking about you behind your back and giving you those know-it-all smirks to your face, even when you're normal as Marcia fucking Brady.

(Sometimes, you want to scream so badly it burns your throat.)

You smile (plastic) and pretend everything's (rotten) peaches.

Problem is, you're just not good enough--


*


A kid at school asks for your help. You call him Joey for four days straight until Wallace points out to you the kid's name is actually Dan. You keep calling him Joey, anyway, because if he really wanted to be called Dan, he'd have corrected you by now, right?

Or he's just afraid of you. (You almost hope he is.)

Turns out Joey's girlfriend is cheating on him with the star tailback.

Joey tells you, "She kept calling me Johnny in bed."

Which you think is close enough, until he reminds you his name is actually Dan.

"At least she's not pregnant," you tell him.

He looks like a deer in the headlights and nods like a bobble-head doll, and yeah, you definitely scare him. You should feel worse about that, but Joey's the least of your worries.


*


--to actually fool yourself into believing it. (Even if everybody else does.) You're becoming the role. Vapid. Bitchy. You're not standing idly by, you're actively becoming the problem and you know it. A year ago, you cut Wallace, naked, off a flagpole, disgusted that that the rest of the sheep were too scared to make a move and think for themselves.

This year, you laugh along with them.

You've got your pretty, longer blonde hair and your pink-hued makeup and your stylish clothing that you let your rich boyfriend buy you over the summer. You're not that outcast chick with clunky army boots and angry black eyeliner. You're normal. You're perfect.

You're Madison Sinclair with real breasts.

Except Madison's not quite as vicious and bitchy as you are now, and that should be making you sick.

You just can't bring yourself to care--


*


It ends like this. The same every time.

You file down your broken nails while answering your father's phone like some stereotypical television receptionist. When he's in the office, you make sure there's something being delivered for dinner on the nights you don't cook it for him yourself, because that's what the you that you are now and the you that you used to be have always done and will always do.

He asks, "How was your day, sweetheart?" like a fifties sitcom, and he means it to sound that way, you know. Just another piece of normal when you can act like the Waltons, even though your Mom (a liar and an alcoholic and a thief) is gone and hopefully not stupid enough to ever show her face around here again.

You offer stories of third period French and the World Civ assignment you think is, "Like, completely and totally unnecessary." You mention the upcoming dance that Duncan's taking you to, and you both ignore that you're dating an eighteen-year-old who's fighting for custody of his child.

(Logan's probably not looking so bad to your dad now.)

He doesn't ask you what you do in the two hours between the end of school and your arrival at the office. You've got explanations (lies) ready, in case he ever does, stories of meeting your friends for a quick coffee and cram session for the trig test tomorrow, or taking Backup to the beach so you can relax for a little bit.

You should feel guilty. (You don't.)

You should feel a lot of things, actually. (Maybe you're not capable of that anymore.)

It ends like this. Night after night. Your head on the pillow, and you don't feel anything.

You're normal.


*


--you're not who you used to be.

That's not the end of the world, though, is it? You used to be a lot of things, and most of them weren't all that great, anyway. Jaded. Angry. Bitter. (Real.) You weren't normal. Now you are.

Normal.

Okay? But--