Wishing that his voice could come out more convincing than how it sounded in his imagination didn’t make the truth any less real: that Logan had trudged the distance from the Fox Tower to the Vixen Den with only those three words in his head for an introduction to his sudden presence, nothing more, nothing less. What had prompted such a late night excursion was beyond him, even more so the reason/s why Vivian Brooks, of all the damn people in this damn university, was the first person to pop in his head as a potential commiserator for this unexpected surge of cynicism… and yet he wasn’t really surprised, didn’t really make an effort to turn on his heel and go back, change his mind. Maybe she was just that good of a companion… or maybe he could do with someone who would give him shit - willingly, gladly, and nonstop - as a distraction.
Switching his phone back and forth between his hands, weighing it for a second or two until it teetered at the edge of his fingertips, just at the point of drop and ruin, the striker took a moment to process the facts that showed it was way too late for his actions to be speedily and rationally justified: he knew he had class in the morning, practice through the afternoon and into the night, he could’ve gone to Cameron who would be much more sympathetic, and oh, not to mention that the Vixen captain hated his guts, why the hell in a million years would she want to see him at this hour?
He paused his tinkering to pull up her number, briefly considering texting her instead as a compromise until, like a summons, he was watching her walk out of the building without even spotting him (he couldn’t blame her, he did decide to hide behind a tree… you know, as if he didn’t look sketchy enough). For a beat he thought she was going to meet someone, but it’s her body language, more than anything, that settled into recognition first. How could he not be familiar with it when every stance he’d ever held, every expression he ever carried since he moved to Palmetto was the very same? An odd mixture of pride and indignation, determination but blind…
And before long he was watching her graffiti, stifling a laugh at some of the more delicate ones, wondering how safe his own cojones were in angry Vivian Brooks’ presence (one knee from her to him and he could vividly see how he’d crumple to the ground faster than he could annoyingly call her Viv). It never once crossed his mind to try and stop her because, well, why ruin someone’s fun? And he wasn’t a narc, he wasn’t a good guy either. Only until she was done (though far from looking satisfied, he noted, not remorseful either) did he step out from the shadows, having to pick up his pace to catch up to her with her quick and long strides, close enough that he could reach a hand over, finger extended, and push the spray paint can deeper down into her bag. “Couldn’t sleep?” he said innocently, a little too much, making it clear he was being coy. “What, you couldn’t call or text a guy? Invite him on a little trip? And I thought we were friends, Brooks… we could’ve covered more ground together. You know, red really does become you.”
Not from shock or anything, but from his sudden appearance, from the unexpected downward force on her bag that has her eyes widening and body turning to face its source; and she’s whipping her head around, face a bit too close for comfort to his own---and for a second, she relaxes, embraces herself in the relief of knowing that it’s just Logan Trask before her expression sours (as it so automatically does in his presence) and her figure takes heap full of steps back. She ignores the burning sensation creeping across her cheeks, the redness that thankfully dulls in the moonlight, disregards the speeding up of heartbeat (discredits it is as merely a byproduct of surprise) as she glares at him---for he knows.
And of all the fucking people at this university, he’s the last person that she wants to know.
So she tenses, hands balling into fists and nails digging into soft flesh of palms as she stares at him, pays no mind (at least, not anymore) to the bright red cap of spray can that distinguishes itself from the rest of the belongings in her bag. “Trask---” she starts yet stops herself, hesitates for a second upon realizing that, in some sort of way, he has her wrapped around his finger, capable of making her do whatever he could imagine with this over her head---with her reputation and respect as captain on the line. “Logan---” softer, gentler now; for she’s desperate, and though Vivian’s never been one to beg, she does know how to play nice ... when needed. “Don’t. Just don’t ... please. Or I’ll actually kill you.”
And then there’s a sudden turn of heel, a restart in her steps back home because she knows, full and well, that he’ll just follow behind her stride; and as much as she hates it, as much as she despises it, a tiny part of her is thankful---that it’s him, that is. That he’s the one who found her, caught her in the act and has her bound with invisible handcuffs of teasing and sarcasm, and not of guilt, not of shame; for she wouldn’t have it any other way.
Though, he’s still his annoying self; he’s still Logan Trask, and she’s still Vivian Brooks---and so, she rolls her eyes, scoffs under her breath at his remarks and laments because god, has he always been this insufferable? “You really think that I’d choose you to be my partner-in-crime, Trask?” she muses, a chuckle following the curl of her tongue before she’s shooting him a gaze and shrugging her shoulders. “Don’t flatter yourself---besides, since when were we friends?” she counters.
“And what about you? Couldn’t sleep?” she lightheartedly mocks, eyebrows raising at the question. “Or are you just stalking me now?”