She's got, like, a yo-yo of trauma. At least, that's what he thinks Logan kept trying to say, and Dick was actually listening to him through his haze of alcohol. He was. Dude, like he'd come up with 'yo-yo of trauma' all by himself. Yeah, right. He's listened to Logan lecturing him, like it's all his fault - what to say, what not to say, and do not bring up Cassidy or That Night unless Veronica does so first. Her supreme blondeness still has her yo-yo to get through.
It's maybe wrong that Dick can figure out what that means. Logan has held off on punching his lights out for putting Beav- yeah, for That Other Night, the one that meant absolutely nothing to Dick and apparently meant a great deal to everyone else. Who fucking knew?
Logan hasn't asked him whether he's sorry, but then he hasn't kicked Dick out of his hotel room either, which is good news. Dick isn't really in the mood to head home right now and deal with the fucking empty house and his shit lying all over the place. All right; lying in his room like some neatness anal freak. What kinda man folds his pyjamas? Dude, that's just not right.
Also, thinking of his pyjamas when he should be going through the lot for Goodwill or whatever? So not a smart idea. He's supposed to be sobering up here - Logan's come up with some coffee and everything. There's also something that might or might not be pizza on the table, except that it's got Dick's sweatshirt sat in the middle of it. Still might be good to eat, though. Dick has never been particularly fussy about his food. He left all that OCD crap to - yeah.
He let his head hit the back of the couch again. Get it together. Get it fucking together, dude, 'cause any minute now Ronnie's gonna be walking through that door and he really doesn't have a fucking clue what to say. 'Sorry' seems to be hovering somewhere near the top, but that's somehow so fucking wrong he can't even wrap his tongue around it. What's he apologising for? I'm sorry I did what I did, even though I didn't know what the fuck I was doing? Yeah, that'd go over well. I'm sorry for what he did? Even better.
Also, there's this bit of him that just wants to pound her face into the pavement. No real reason. He just thinks that it might make him feel better, and he's not here to pound into the pavement so, dude, what the fuck? What the hell's he supposed to do instead?
The truth is, Dick is so mad he can barely breathe for it, and there's absolutely nothing he can do except get steaming drunk. I mean, Beav- shit! Cassidy did what he did, and he seriously fucked up and then fucked off, and Dick's left behind, mopping things up and trying to not let the muck reach him. Except that maybe it has already because it's been, like, a week, and who's been to see him?
He wants to call the Beav. Fuck it. He presses the palms of his hands against his face, pushing against the throbbing growing in his forehead. Fuck, dude, he so does not want to see Ronnie right now, 'cause he's got a fucking yo-yo all of his fucking own.
(There's a secret, horrible part of him that maybe sorta wishes that Cass had gotten away with it all; that Ronnie had gone face-first off the 'Grand, and then he'd come back down, and joined the party. He knows that he shouldn't think this. He knows its wrong.)
When he opens his eyes, Veronica Mars is standing in front of him, wrapped up in a thick black sweater and her hair scraped back. She's got horrible ugly shoes on, Dick notes, his gaze skimming down over her exposed calves before she flinches and he catches himself.
Yeah. That was one of the things he wasn't supposed to do.
Slowly, he rights himself on the sofa. He figures that he must look pretty unsavoury - covered in beer dregs and maybe a little bit of vomit, and bits of pizza, and basically not having moved or changed his clothes for the week. Veronica Mars, of course, looks fucking perfect, standing in front of him and looking at him like she doesn't expect anything at all but might burst into tears at any moment if he fails to deliver miracles.
(Beav had that same look every Christmas, Dick thinks, and wonders if he's got enough time to be sick again.)
"I don't have anything to wear," he says finally.
"That's okay. We'll figure something out," she says, and offers him a hand up from the sofa. It's small, and pale, and Dick only thinks about breaking it for half a second before the urge passes all by itself.
Logan's hovering over them both anxiously, practically wringing his hands, the big fucking mother hen, and Dick almost smiles before he takes Veronica's hand.