She hated him. She hated him more than she ever thought possible. He was a kook- her natural born enemy.
He didn't hate her at all. Not one bit. It couldn't have been farther from the truth. Did she know that? No- and she never would.
-
"You and I...
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Ward paced inside the dimly lit office, his breathing strained. He kept moving, never staying still long enough to feel the pain in his arm— the pain he'd brought upon himself. Not John B. After another moment, he stopped, turning to his son.
Logan hadn't left his spot on the couch, his dark eyes glazed over. He'd been staring at the rug beneath him, elbows resting on his knees for some time now. And he'd been quiet while Ward had explained what'd happened, only making him angrier.
"Logan, I need you to look at me." His father requested.
The brunette's gaze didn't falter, remaining on the tan rug.
"Dammit, Logan. Are we still doing this? I said I was sorry." Ward expressed, bringing his hand to the bridge of his nose with a sigh. "I'm sorry I scared you, buddy."
Logan finally lifted his head, disbelief etched behind his eyes. "Is that really what you think this is about?"
His dad's jaw locked. But it's as he said— Ward would never accept the fact that his kids just might not be perfect. "John B stabbed me with a spear. A spear. I need to hear that you believe me, because right now, I haven't heard that."
Logan scoffed. "Yeah, well, there's a lot I haven't heard either."
Anger crept its way into the back of Ward's throat as he stared at his son. He forced it down, attempting to keep his voice calm. He only partially succeeded. "Do you or do you not believe me? Because I can show you the marks in my arm. You wanna see 'em again?!"
"No," Logan grimaced. "I've got a pretty good image in my mind already." He paused, not a single emotion crossing his face. "But I believe you. Don't worry, dad. I'm fine. I pulled it together."
Ward's expression instinctively softened, his eyes flickering with regret. "I'm sorry, buddy. I–I shouldn't have yelled." He admitted, taking the remaining steps to the couch. "Believe me when I say—"
"I'm going to bed." Logan interjected, dropping his gaze and pushing past his dad to leave the room.
Ward didn't try to fight it, a sigh subsequently escaping his lips. Logan felt nothing as he shut his bedroom door and climbed into his bed. He didn't bother shutting off the light either, but it's not like he was tired. Well, if he was being completely honest, he was exhausted. But sleep wasn't on the table for tonight.
Logan laid down, resting his head on his pillow as the reality of what happened hit him. He zoned out, his eyes lifelessly stuck on the ceiling. John B had apparently accused his dad of murdering his father and then shot Ward with a harpoon gun all in the span of Logan going downstairs and watching five minutes of Netflix.
None of it made sense. John B hadn't said anything about his dad or even alluded to the idea of Ward killing him. And it's not that Logan didn't believe his dad. He just didn't know what to believe. John B was fully capable of attempting to kill his dad, but Logan just couldn't imagine him doing it. He'd gotten to know him since he'd moved in with them and murder wasn't something Logan wanted to believe John B'd do.
