Roswell Fanatics

Title: A Place Where We Only Say Goodbye
Author: Catalyst
Rating: Light Mature. Ish.
Summary: They’re always mourning for someone.
Author’s Note: What Sarah Said has been haunting me. And this is what it made me do.
Author’s Note 2: This should be in either 3 or 4 parts, depending on how long I decide to spend on it. Oh, and each part (or at least the first three) will involve a character death. I know; I’m a horrible person.
Author’s Note 3: For my purposes, Meg was more pregnant than the show said when the bus crashed.
Disclaimer: I don’t own it.


A Place Where We Only Say Goodbye
Part, the First: Love is Watching Someone Die...

Everyone watches the footage on television. It plays on every channel, broken only by the fragmented responses of crying teenagers and the reproachful recaps from newscasters. For the first hour, all that anyone sees is the wreckage, the yellow and black diluted by ice blue and froth white. They plaster themselves to the screen, positive they can see something of their friends awash in the disaster. A flash of ivory skin beneath a window, a mess of brown hair beneath the door.

Then the second tape is released. Not surprisingly, it hits the internet before anyone shows a news crew. Someone in the limousine had a camcorder. While most of the footage is inappropriate for network television, just before the crash someone sticks their head out of the sunroof. The wobbly picture refocuses, sound blurred by raucous laughter. The snide comments towards the students forced to ride the bus are edited out.

The bus goes over the cliff, and the camera falls to the backseat. Muffled curses, then static.

***

Of the eleven people on the school bus, one survives. Almost. Kind-of.

In the week that follows the crash, nearly every teenager in Neptune wanders through the doors of Neptune Memorial Hospital. Meg Manning may not have been everyone’s friend, but it feels like it as they pass by her room in hordes. The entire floor smells like roses, and the nurses are constantly closing the drawstring curtain because no one seems to understand that the red-induced blood pressure spike is not good for a barely-conscious patient.

Her parents guard the door like watchdogs, ten minutes too late to protect her virtue.

Five minutes after Meg was admitted into the ICU, all of Neptune knew her dirty little secret. Their so-called Snow White was seven months pregnant.

And, not surprisingly, though no one was sure if she was going to survive yet, Meg was in labor when they pulled her out of that bus.

The baby breathes with a ventilator for now, trapped in a box so she can’t be spared from the prying eyes that her grandparents protect her mother from. The doctors expect that, in time, she’ll be perfectly healthy.

For Meg, they say to pray.

If only anyone still believed in God.

***

Duncan comes every day. First he sat outside of Meg’s room, lowered his head as her parents bore holes in him with their eyes. One look at them and he knew that many more people would have to die before he could get in to see Meg.

He doesn’t know what he’d say to her anyway. Sorry seems weak for a deathbed confession. Even if it isn’t his deathbed.

So he spends his days outside the nursery, eyes glued to the tiny little ball that he supposedly made.

Not that he doubts that the baby is his. He knows it is. He just can’t quite believe it. She’s tiny and fragile and completely dependant on everything around her, but she’s perfect, and he’s not quite sure how he did that.

He’s never touched her, but he knows that he loves her. He knows that he can’t lose her.

She’s not even a week old, and he thinks that every hope he has in humanity rests on the life of this little girl. His little girl.

He needs her. He needs her to be everything he’s not sure he believes in anymore.

They named her Faith. It took three days of squinting for a nurse to finally relent and tell him what her tiny plastic wristband said.

He calls her Lilly. He tells himself that she’s been too isolated to learn her name yet anyway. By the time he takes her home, she’ll be Lilly.

He tells himself that Meg won’t be mad. She wouldn’t want her parents to have their baby.

He doesn’t let himself wonder if maybe she hates him more than she hates her parents at this point. Really, he doesn’t let himself think of Meg much at all.

He’s got enough ghosts in his life.

***

Veronica doesn’t visit often. When she comes, it’s early in the morning, while her classmates are either in school or sleeping. She’s sick of people at this point. Sick of the threats and glares, the off-kilter glances and over-the-shoulder whispers.

But she’s used to all of that. It’s their pity that really gets to her.

She doesn’t go to the nursery, won’t see that baby that’s already made everything so much more complicated. They have strict rules here, though she’s never spoken to Duncan about Meg. Not since the accident.

He doesn’t go home anymore; how could she?

But he’ll stay in his part of the hospital with the baby that he can’t get close to, and she’ll stay in hers, a doorway away from something almost like friendship.

Meg’s parents don’t speak to her. She doesn’t try to get inside, and whichever one of them is guarding the door doesn’t take their eyes off of her. Veronica sits in the hallway, eyes on the speckled tile, nose nearly crinkled from the overwhelming lemon scent, waiting for something, anything.

Waiting for the bang. It’s supposed to end with a bang.

Then students start to show up, and the first few get through the door easily enough. Her parents just want a reason to be away.

They blame her.

And if she could be surprised... well, then she’d have to have found a time machine, and none of them would be here.

Meg’s parents disappear through the door, and Veronica moves a step closer. She lays a bouquet of tulips beside the door. Amid the roses, they pale.

A scent to be forgotten.

***

Logan only comes to the hospital once. After all, Meg was one of them, part of the inner circle that formed once Lilly and Veronica were gone. He knows her better than most of the people who wander through here. But he knows that doesn’t really mean anything. He didn’t know Meg either.

He comes in the morning – he’s sick of crowds and people in general – knowing that everyone else will want to be in bed just like he does.

Except, of course, Veronica Mars. Because when has she ever been anything like anyone else?

Not since anyone else got her head bashed in by his father.

He sneers at her as he passes, all the time knowing that hospitals aren’t the place for stupid rivalries like this.

But obviously he’s not the only one playing this game. Otherwise, why would she be sitting alone in the hallway instead of beside Meg?

Neptune is bitter and angry, even in death.

As if to prove his point, Meg’s father glares at Veronica as the door closes. Logan doesn’t see her move.

But in the tiny hospital room, sickeningly ripe with the scent of roses, Logan wishes he could trade places with her. Just for a moment. Because what do you say to dead girl? Of all people, Veronica must know.

Meg’s father leads him through the sheet that separates Meg from the rest of the world, and Logan doesn’t gasp like most people when they see her. He knows what bruises look like. It's clear and unblemished skin that scares him. Purity is only asking to be tainted.

He thinks Meg might be a good metaphor for that.

Her mother holds her hand, though Logan doubts that Meg feels any of it. If she felt anything at all, he knew she’d be screaming from the pain.

From what he’d heard, there weren’t many bones in her body that hadn’t broken. No one’s quite sure how that baby survived. The miracle of life, indeed, it seems.

Meg doesn’t open her eyes while he’s in with her, and Logan’s thankful for it. He knows how to give condolences. He’s been on the receiving end of enough of them.

And then he leaves, and Veronica’s still alone in the hallway, eyes burrowing down the corridor in front of her.

He drops beside her, screwing his eyebrows together as if he doesn’t know exactly what she’s looking at.

“He comes here every day, you know,” he tells her. Her eyes immediately fall back to the floor, and if he cared anymore, he might feel bad about this. Might realize that some people are actually losing something here. Instead, he leans closer, his voice quiet. “Just sits down there and cries, from what I’ve heard. Well, they do say that real love is watching someone die...”


TBC... So who do you think's going to go next?

AN: So, my laptop has died. And, as I'm sure most of you understand, life is confusing right now. Because... that's my child. I'm hoping someone can salvage what I haven't had the time or means to back up recently, but there is a good chance it's dead to me. What this means is that updates will be a bit less frequent than I've gotten accustomed to, because I'll be writing by hand and re-typing. Fun. And no one really wanted all that information, but I needed to mourn over the loss of my laptop. And on we go...


A Place Where We Only Say Goodbye
Part, the Second: A Faulty Camera in Our Minds

There are no news crews at this scene, no flashbulbs, no lenses, no hype. Only a handful of bumbling neighbors gather, their whispers less than soft and lacking all surprise. Anyone could see this coming. Somehow, it fits.

His tragedy lacks the sparkle and flame, the imagination that’s always run rampant around his life like a flurry of colors around a black and white photo. Now the color is gone, replaced by a dull whisper and a hazy line of smoke.

The “witnesses” give fragmented replies to the sheriff’s half-hearted questions. Tires squealed. Crash. Pause. Then crying. They all know the crying.

The call her Faith, the miracle baby.

No one cares that she should’ve been Lilly anymore.

***

The hospital isn’t crowded, but people come. They gawk. They linger. They leave.

Duncan’s become more of a sideshow to them. At best, he was always just a connection to the inside, the one who maybe could’ve gotten them in. Now there’s no inside left to get to. Lilly’s dead, Duncan’s dying, Logan’s trying and Veronica’s not sure how any of this is happening.

Duncan’s room is locked and constantly guarded by a member of Kane Security. When Celeste is inside, no one gets in, but when she leaves her husband alone, everyone gets in. He understands how it feels to not be able to say goodbye.

Too bad Veronica’s not everyone anymore.

***

She knows it’s not possible, but the chair still feels warm when she comes back to it, clad only in the thin pajamas she was wearing when she saw the blurb interrupt late-night television.

Less than a month, and she’s back here. She’s not even finished grieving for Meg, for shoulda, coulda, woulda beens, and it’s already happening all over again.

If he weren’t dying, she thinks she might’ve killed him for a stunt like this.

The thought makes her tears well again, because this isn’t funny. None of this is funny.

She won’t admit it, but she’s constantly waiting for him to walk through the door, smirking and smiling. She’s waiting for the moment when she proves that this isn’t real – none of this can be real. Things like this don’t happen.

Veronica’s given up on any notion of God at this point. Because twisted accidents, twisted minds – that she can believe in, but she refuses to worship anything that could do this to her – to them. No one deserves this.

She spends her nights staring at Clarence Weidman, his face blank. He doesn’t stare back, doesn’t glare, doesn’t snark. He doesn’t even ask her to leave, like she’s sure Celeste has told him to. There’s an almost-peacefulness between them: the people who aren’t supposed to grieve, but will anyway.

***

Logan comes to the hospital twice a week – Sunday and Tuesday – just after he knows Celeste will leave for whatever is more important than her son. She hates him like Duncan should have. Jake, on the other hand, has never really known about his son’s personal life. To him, Duncan was a body that would outlive his own, and begin with so many more opportunities. Now that body is dying too soon, and, not for the first time, Jake feels like it’s his own.

So Logan spends an hour in a plastic chair, watching his ex-best friend’s father mourn. They don’t speak, they don’t smile, and they rarely look at each other. Sorrow enjoys loneliness here.

When Jake Kane cries for his son, his sobs are quiet, low, controlled. Unlike with Lilly, this mourning is withdrawn and sullen – required more than felt.

He spent a year believing Duncan had killed his little girl. It’s not surprising that he hasn’t quite come to terms with that.

Duncan may have been his mother’s saint, but Lilly was her father’s angel. Duncan was his protégé, but Lilly was always his favorite. Despite her enthusiasm in making his blood pressure spike.

Even after almost two years, Lilly’s still making herself known, because everything is still fucked up.

When he starts to think about Lilly, Logan lets himself out. Jake doesn’t even blink.

Goodbye is hard in a place like this. Unfortunately, there’s rarely anything else left to be said.

Logan doesn’t speak to Veronica, though he walks down the hallway around the corner where he knows she hides from him. He doesn’t glance at her, doesn’t glare, and when she speaks, it catches him off-guard.

“I’m sorry.” Her eyes are on her hand when he turns, pauses.

“For what?” He doesn’t know why he stops, why he sits beside her. He doesn’t know what he hopes this will change. “You didn’t tell him to drive into a tree.”

“I’m sorry that... it’s like this.” She pauses, calculating her words. “For him.” Her eyes flicker up to his. “And for you.” Her eyes drop back to her hands. “You were always his best friend. Even after I...” She stops, and, though he waits for her to continue, she doesn’t.

“He’s my best friend, too,” Logan tells her, letting a long moment pass. “And he’ll die thinking I hate him.”

“No!” Her voice is emphatic, but her argument lacks reason. “No, he won’t.”

“Won’t what?” Logan prods. “Think I hate him? Or die?” He knows the words hurt her when she flinches, but he knows she expected them too.

When she finally answers, her eyes remain downcast. “He won’t be hating you.” She exhales deeply. “He broke up with me before he...” He knows what she means so she doesn’t bother finishing the sentence.

“Why?” He knows it’s none of his business. He knows he’s probably better off not knowing. He knows she’s no good for him. But he needs to know. He’s never been good at doing what was right for him anyway.

“I wouldn’t help him kidnap... the baby.” She doesn’t know what to call it, anymore. Little Faith-should’ve-been-Lilly. But nothing about this is going correctly.

She wonders if Duncan’s little girl will ever know how much she meant to him. How much he gave up just to save her – to keep her.

“He found the adoption papers, with all this stuff about religious indoctrination and how the families would have to raise his baby. He just... he must’ve gone into a fit.” Logan’s not surprise, but Veronica is the first he’s heard say it. But he – and all the rest of town – have already heard the Mannings’ account of how Duncan burst into their house in the middle of the night and demanded his baby. Meg’s father still has the bandage across his nose from where Duncan broke it as he pushed the man out of his way. But no one has spoken to Veronica, though she’s obviously another witness. No television crews or nosey neighbors loiter in her yard for stories and cheap gossip. He wonders if she even told Lamb.

“He threw me into the couch when I told him I wouldn’t help him kidnap her.” Logan hears the tears in her voice, but she won’t look at him. He doesn’t think he can touch her. Not here, and definitely not now. “He said that if I didn’t see how important this was, then I wasn’t the person he thought I was. Then he threw a vase at the floor by my feet and stormed out. If Backup hadn’t been locked in the bedroom...” She shakes her head. “But I guess it really wouldn’t have mattered anyway. We’re still here.”

She blinking rapidly now, and the only words Logan can think of are trivial and useless. He’d give anything to fill this silence, though, so he settles for “but you’re okay?”

The sound she makes is somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Where was your dad?” Logan bites back a quippy response, remembering his last encounter with Mr. Mars.

“Book tour. He’ll be back tomorrow.” She sighs, shaking her head. “God, look at me.” She wipes at her eyes, though she hasn’t had the energy to put on her makeup in weeks, so she’s not sure what she’s wiping at. “Here I am, crying to the one person who probably hates me more than Meg did.” She starts to slide out of the chair.

He catches her wrist, drawing her hand away from her face, and pulling her back to her seat. And, no, touching her was a not a good idea. “I don’t hate you, Veronica.” She thinks he almost sounds honest when he says it, and she doesn’t know what to say back. Apparently she hasn’t been practicing her witty barbs enough. “I miss you.”

When he leans toward her, a voice clears, and then she’s sliding away from him again, and he’s staring up at Celeste Kane.

“I think you should leave now.” Her voice is cold and hard, and she doesn’t distinguish between Logan and Veronica. She stares until she sees Logan shifting, moving out of his seat. Then she leaves without another word.

Logan’s ten steps away when he hears Veronica again. “I miss you, too.”

But she hasn’t left her chair, and his own words ring back to him.

Love is watching someone die.

***

So, FehrBehr, you were right. Got another guess?