![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gyzymFor summary, author's note, etc, please see Part One.
Veronica actually beats him to Dick's wedding, which would be embarrassing if he wasn't hungover as all fuck from the stupid bachelor party.
"God," she laughs, looking him over outside the church, "could those sunglasses be any bigger?"
"If there were bigger ones, I would have bought them," he says, reaching up to rub at his temple. "Are you always this loud?"
"Don't even try for pity," she says, "you brought this on yourself."
"Rub it in, why don't you," he mutters. She gives him a half-hearted version of the evil eye, but then she reaches into her bag and hands over an industrial sized bottle of Advil.
"Standard issue," she says, as he raises his eyebrows and uncaps it. "This might come as a shock to you, but being an FBI agent isn't short on headaches."
"I am, in fact, deeply shocked," he says, dry-swallowing four of the pills. "Almost as shocked as I am grateful, really."
"Logan Lester expresses gratitude--I think that's definitely got some traction as a front-page headline."
"You're so funny," he says, not without bitterness. "Really, the humor, I'm overwhelmed."
"Too hungover to give as good as you get, now I know the apocalypse is nigh."
"Can we just go inside, please," he says despairingly. "Where there's less sunshine and fewer flashbulbs, I hear it's a glorious place."
"There's going to be organ music," she reminds him, and then she laughs as he groans and follows her to a pew, because she's deeply, impossibly cruel.
"I still can't believe I actually got you to come to this thing," he says, when they're settled. "I was sure you were going to come up with a last minute excuse."
"I still can't believe you're not the best man," she returns. "I mean, you planned the bachelor party and everything, it's hardly fair."
"Apparently having the guy who stole your bride-to-be's dog in your wedding party is awkward," says Logan, shrugging. "Can't imagine why. But I'm sure I'll have another chance to be Dick's best man."
"Can't even wait till he's out of the church to malign the happy couple," Veronica sighs, her voice thick with mock-disappointment. "You should be--oh my god, is Dick balding?"
"Try not to mention it," Logan advises her. "It's a little bit of a touchy subject. And by 'a little bit of a touchy subject' I mean 'I had to pull him off a dude who called him q-ball last night.'"
"Oh my god, this is the best day of my life," Veronica whispers, as the church doors shut and the music swells. Logan's hangover makes a strangled cry of anguish at the increased volume, but Veronica is snickering next to him, her back heaving with silent mirth in her ridiculously sleek blue dress.
If you'd told him sixth months ago that today he'd be sitting next to Veronica Mars, watching Dick Casablancas exchange wedding vows, he'd have laughed in your face. But life's funny like that.
--
In a stroke of luck, Logan doesn't actually have to deal with Dick's new wife until an hour into the reception. Dick himself comes over to their table five minutes into dinner to deliver an excited soliloquy about his wedded bliss that largely involves the word "Dude" and several crude hand gestures; he doesn't even notice Veronica until he's done, and then he stares, agog.
"Ronnie," he says finally, "you grew up hot," and Veronica nearly spits out her water.
"Nice to see you too, Dick," she manages finally, and gives Logan a look that says, very clearly, "You see why I never went to 09er parties?"
Logan smirks at her, unable to help himself, and delights more than he probably should in the eyeroll she gives him in return.
Still, some things are inevitable, and there was no way he was going to be able to get out of this wedding without interacting with Miranda. She glides across the dance floor on Dick's arm, looking fantastically trashy in her deceptively white dress, and gives him a once-over.
"Dognapper," she says.
"Cruella," he returns, without missing a beat. Next to him, Veronica chokes on a peal of laughter that she hastily turns into a cough, and he excuses himself to get drinks before the temptation of amusing her further goads him into being a complete jackass. When he comes back Miranda is fawning over Veronica's dress, high-pitched vapidity written in every crevice of her face, and Veronica looks like she's seriously considering breaking out a side-arm.
"Let's dance," Logan says, passing her a glass of champagne and resting his palm against the small of her back. Lowering his voice, he adds, "Preferably before you kill someone, yes?"
"So nice to meet you," Veronica says, managing to sound at least halfway sincere about it, and lets Logan lead her onto the dance floor.
"Delightful, isn't she?"
"I can't believe you call her Cruella," Veronica says, grinning, draping her arms over his neck. He feels the bottom of her champagne flute settle against his back and smiles, pulling her in a little closer.
"Cruella Deville," he sings against her ear, "Cruella Deville, if she doesn't scare you, no evil thing will…"
"I don't know if it's worse that you know the words to the song or that you're actually singing right now," Veronica says, following his steps across the dance floor. She's still smiling, though, honest and stunning, and he keeps going with the song because expressing any of his thoughts right now would be terminally stupid. He remembers the last time he danced with her, at homecoming their senior year, remembers how she'd felt agonizing and incredible and dangerous in his arms. He'd been terrified of her.
He's not scared of her now, not scared of her or scared for her. He's scared of himself, of the things he wants, of everything he'd take from her if he could only figure out how.
--
He's having lunch with a source when his phone buzzes; he hits a button to silence it in his pocket and forgets it, moves on. But three minutes later it buzzes again, and when he yanks it out it's her name across the screen, and he can't help himself.
"It'll just be a minute," he promises, and then flips the phone open and says, "Special Agent Mars, to what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Logan?" she says, sounding frantic. He frowns. "Oh, Logan, thank god, I'm sorry to bother you, but I really need a favor."
"Those words never lead to anything good," he teases, but she doesn't bite, and he feels his frown deepen. The source looks at him curiously, and he makes a 'one second' gesture, stands, and walks towards the door of the restaurant. "Veronica? What is it?"
"You remember that case? The one I've been--"
"Yeah, of course, are you--"
"We got a break," she says, "we got a break, a big break, it's huge, it's great, but Eliza, the girl who walks Eddie, she's out of town, and I still--I don't have all that many friends here yet who aren't with the Bureau and I don't know when I'm going to be home and I don't want to just send in someone he's never met--"
"You need me to walk the dog," Logan infers.
"Could you?" she asks, and her voice is clipped now, like she's running. "I don't want to impose, but, I mean, Eddie likes you--god knows why--and I've been working crazy hours so he hasn't been getting much attention anyway--"
"It's fine," Logan says quickly. "It's fine, I'm happy to do it. Tell you what, I'll even bring Butch over, it'll be like a little doggy play-date. Ooh, should I make them matching collars? I bet they'd love that."
"You're such an ass," she pants, and yeah, she's definitely running. He tries, and fails, not to think of what exactly a trained federal agent might be running from.
"We really need to work on this flattery thing," he says. "Look, you sound kind of busy, I'll just--is there a Hide-A-Key or something I can use to let myself in?"
"There would be if I was an idiot," Veronica snaps. "But as I don't really enjoy having my apartment broken into, no."
"You feds," Logan laughs, "so touchy about personal safety. Well, if that's out--actually, I'm having lunch down the street from your building--"
"I know," Veronica says, and then he looks up to see her tearing around the corner, and hangs up the phone.
"Traced your cell," she pants, bending over to catch her breath. "Sorry, but time is short."
"You put the creep in creepy," Logan says lightly. He tries to muster some irritation at what is unquestionably an invasion of his privacy, and comes up short. "Do you do this kind of thing to all your friends?"
"Just the ones getting me out of a tight spot," she says, straightening and pulling a keyring out of her bag. "This is my spare, if you could just--take him out, and actually if you could feed him too that would be great, two scoops of the dry food under the sink, I really am sorry--"
"Veronica," he says, reaching out before he can stop himself. He means to cup her cheek, actually, but redirects just in time, putting a hand on her shoulder instead. "It's fine, really. Are you okay?"
"Fine," she says, "fine, fine, just--this case is just--I'm fine. Seriously, thank you--"
"Seriously, it's nothing. Butch will love the chance to push Eddie around."
She smiles, and it doesn't quite reach her eyes, and he makes a mental note to push a little harder into what, exactly, she's tracking down. But then he forgets, because she's pressing the keyring into his hand and leaning in to give him a quick kiss on the cheek, and it's suddenly all he can do to keep from falling down.
"Thank you," she says fervently, "I have to go but just, god, thank you so much," and then she's running across the street and disappearing into a cab before he can say anything else.
He stands there like an idiot for a minute, and then goes back into the diner, whistling under his breath. His source--a sleazy lawyer who's gotten in far deeper than he meant to--takes a large bite of pie and looks him over.
"Your girlfriend or something?" he asks, mouth full.
"Or something," Logan agrees, and twirls the key on his finger, resisting the urge to touch the spot on his cheek where he can still feel the press of her lips.
--
He cheats, and gives the dogs steak.
Oh, what--he buys the steak, it's not like he takes food out of Veronica's fridge, he's not a complete bastard. He just doesn't see any reason not to further cement his position of esteem in Eddie's eyes, and Butch has been getting the rock star treatment since he was forced to interact with her former owner anyway. They both look up at Logan like he's the light at the end of the tunnel when they're done eating, and he smiles at a bribery job well done.
He walks them, taking them for a long, winding romp through the neighborhood, and then sinks onto Veronica's couch when they get back inside. He figures he'll let them play for a few minutes, tire Eddie out so he won't be impossible when Veronica gets home, whenever that might be. He doesn't factor in the weight of the steak in his own stomach, the sheer enveloping softness of the couch, or the three hours of sleep he got the night before, and he wakes up at one AM to a still-empty apartment, both dogs curled happily against him.
"Fuck," he says, stumbling bleary-eye towards the bathroom, "and I thought I couldn't beat Veronica for creepy today."
He uses the toilet as quickly as he can, splashing some water on his face to try and wake up, and hopes against hope he can get out of her apartment before she returns and discovers he's--what has he done here, exactly? Taken a simple favor and turned it into a stalker-caliber mistake? Gone beyond familiarity and into something else entirely? Royally fucked up?
He doesn't have time to further consider the proper name for his actions, because he hears the door opening and slamming shut, hears Veronica clattering around inside.
"Fuck," he mutters again, reaching over to flush the toilet and wondering how the hell he's going to explain this.
"FREEZE," he hears her yell, and he does, his hand wrapped around the doorknob. "I am a federal agent and I have a gun trained on this door. Whoever you are, come out with your hands up where I can see them. If you try anything, I will not hesitate to shoot."
"Oh, god," Logan says, opening the door slowly. He raises both hands and steps out of the bathroom, hoping his expression conveys sheepish remorse and not his desire for the ground to swallow him whole. "I'm so sorry, I fell asleep on the…"
He trails off once he actually catches sight of her, all thoughts of embarrassment slipping from his mind. She does, indeed, have a gun trained on him, but it's wavering in the air, because her hands are shaking so badly he can see the tremors from here. There are bloodstains on her shirt, on her face, and a bruise is blooming on her left cheek, dark and terrible.
"Veronica," he says, reminded forcibly of a night he's spent over a decade trying to forget, "Veronica, it's me. It's Logan. Put the gun down."
She stares at him for a long second; then she blinks and comes back to herself, lowering her weapon. "Logan? What are you--"
"I fell asleep," he explains quickly, "watching the dogs, I'm really--Veronica, what happened to you?"
She shakes her head and swallows, and he fights the urge to cross the room and pull her into his arms. "It was just--I just. I had a really bad night, I'm sorry that I--I just, god, that was stupid, Butch is right there, isn't she."
"Not stupid," Logan says, taking a step toward her. "Stupid of me, for falling asleep. Stupid and creepy on my part only."
She almost laughs, the faint ghost of a chuckle slipping out from between her lips. "It's fine. I. Um. Thank you. For taking Eddie, that was--thanks. You can…you can go now."
"I think maybe I should stay," Logan says, as gently as he can. She glares up at him, eyes fierce, and he puts his hands up again. "Look, no, I'm not trying to--no one's questioning that you're the boss here, if someone breaks in we both know who's going to be cuffing him and who's going to be screaming like a little girl, okay? I just…you look like maybe you could use a friend."
She holds his gaze for a second, the fire still behind her eyes, and then breathes out hard through her nose. "Yeah," she mutters, "yeah, that's. Okay."
"Okay," Logan echos. Then: "You want to tell me what happened?"
"Can I," Veronica starts, and then she shakes her head, looks disgusting with herself, and continues, "I'm going to take a shower, and put on different clothes. Do you mind--"
"I'll wait," Logan says at once. "I'll be right here."
Veronica nods at him and vanishes into the bathroom, leaving him to try to not to panic while she's gone. Eddie, whose emotional instincts are apparently keen, whines and butts his head against Logan's shoulder; Butch just looks him over with mild interest and settles down on the couch again.
"Fat lot of help you are," he mutters, and then realizes he's talking to a dog, and shuts up. He occupies himself with taking deep, even breaths, with running his hands through Eddie's close-cropped fur, with refraining from breaking down the bathroom door and shaking her until she tells him who left that bruise.
He's not seventeen and desperate anymore; he's not nineteen and balanced on the edge of sanity, waiting for the fall. He's older, but maybe not quite old enough.
She comes out in workout shorts and an oversized t-shirt half an hour later, her hair damp and coiled behind her head. "I need a glass of water," she says, when he moves to stand, "just--can you just--just wait a second, okay?"
"Yeah," Logan agrees, "sure, whatever you want."
She throws him a sliver of a smile, there-and-gone again, before slipping into the kitchen. He waits five minutes, and then ten; when it's been fifteen he swears under his breath and goes after her. She's sitting on the counter staring at nothing, kicking her bare legs against the cabinets, and she jumps when he says, "Veronica?"
"God," she says, "you scared the shit out of me. I guess I--I forgot you were here, I think. Sorry."
She looks so much younger, suddenly, that his heart breaks for her--because he knows that look, remembers it despite himself. He's seen her make this face before, the one that means she's scrabbling desperately for control, the one that means she's half an inch from breaking down.
"Veronica," he says, and his voice is gentler than he ever knew it could be, "tell me what happened."
"It's…kind of a long story."
"I've got nothing but time," he reminds her. She sighs and kicks her feet again, looking twelve and twenty and ninety-five all at once.
"My first case," she starts, "or maybe my second, I don't know, as a probie in LA--you remember reading about the Bookrate Bomber?"
"Shit, yeah," Logan says, blinking. "He was news out here too--he blew up, what, like thirty people in that one--"
"Yeah," Veronica sighs. "Yeah, he--anyway, everyone thought it was this professor but my partner at the time, the guy I'd been assigned to, said that bombers were meticulous, obsessive…we went to interview one of his students and there were all these ships in bottles and there was a secret room and I just, I just knew. But the agent I was there with, he--he grabbed her and held a knife to her throat, and we'd just thought it was a routine interview, so we didn't have any backup, and I…tackled him, because I didn't know what else to do, knocked the knife out of his hand. I got him cuffed and we arrested him."
"Okay," Logan says, not really sure how this relates but not wanting to push her. She takes a deep breath and looks up at the ceiling, keeping her eyes trained on it as she continues.
"We couldn't charge him," she spits. "We didn't--his whole house was clean, we swept it completely, and I knew it was him, but he wouldn't confess and there wasn't--there was no evidence, there was nothing he could do. We got him for assaulting an officer but his attorneys managed to get him off on insanity, god knows how. He spent a two years in a minimum security psych ward as part of the plea bargain, and then he escaped, and I knew he'd--I knew he wasn't done killing, and there was a manhunt but it was half-assed, and then I saw the stuff about the Davy Jones Strangler out here--"
Logan sucks in a harsh breath without meaning to; he knows about the Davy Jones Strangler, so named because of the impeccably done ship-in-a-bottle he leaves as a calling card at every crime scene. He strangles his victims, six of them so far, with a length of sailing rope, leaves it twined in a perfect water knot across their chests. He's seen the guys coming back from those scenes, late night in the newsroom--hardened criminal reporters shook up beyond belief.
Veronica nods at him, still not meeting his eyes. "I asked for a transfer, because I knew it was him, and it was--personal, I mean, I knew he'd remember me, he's not the kind of guy to forget something like that, and I knew I wasn't going to be able to sleep at night until he was locked up. And tonight we finally got him, had him cornered, all the evidence lined up, and when we got to his place he was waiting for us, and I can't figure out how he managed it, but he got the drop on me. He grabbed me and he, he held a knife to my throat just like--"
"Jesus, Veronica," Logan rasps, before he can help himself. She meets his eyes then, wraps her arms around her chest and glares at him. And it's an old feeling, the desire to pull her close and hide her from everything that could hurt her--an old feeling mixed with a new one, with a deep, sharp pride in her that settles like a weight on his shoulders.
"I kicked him," she continues, almost dispassionate as she glances away again. "And when I got loose he hit me and Sean--one of the other agents--Sean jumped for him, but he still had the knife and I was the only one with a clear shot and I--I had to, Logan, I had to, you have to understand, I didn't have a choice--"
"I understand," he says quickly, because god, he wishes he hadn't asked now, wishes he hadn't made her tell him, doesn't need to hear her say the rest, "hey, look at me, I understand, it's okay, I know that you--"
"I killed him," she whispers, and then she puts her hand to her mouth and her face twists in on itself and she says it again. "I killed him, I didn't mean to but I--I took the shot and he moved and it was supposed to be his shoulder but it went through his heart and I know, I know he's a murderer but I--I shot him and he died, Logan, I killed him, I killed him."
And then she's crying, wracked with it, shaking with sobs that sound more like screams muffled against her hand. He closes the distance between them in three steps and draws her forward, and her hair against his cheek is still wet from her shower--it's a stupid thing to focus on, the way it's sticking to his skin, but he can't help himself. Everything else is too big, big the way she isn't, and he's forgotten over the years how much smaller she seems when she's wrapped up in his arms. She's so much person, Veronica is, that it's still a shock to remember she's tiny underneath all that charisma.
"It's not your fault," he says, and she presses herself closer, so close that he can feel every gasping breath she takes against his neck. "Oh, Veronica, it's not your fault, this isn't your fault. You saved a life--fuck, you probably saved ten lives. You're a hero, sweetheart, you're a hero, fuck, it's okay."
He feels her shaking her head, feels the doubt and regret and anguish in the gesture, but her breathing goes a little softer, and she sounds less like she's dying. He runs his hand down her back and holds on, saying whatever comes to mind, trying frantically to decide if he's making it worse or better, if he even could make it worse, if there's any way to make her stop.
Eventually she quiets enough that he can think again, and he realizes that she's still on the counter. "C'mon," he says, lifting her in his arms, "let's at least get you to the couch, huh? You're gonna get snot all over your kitchen, and no one wants that."
She doesn't pull her head out from where it's burrowed in his neck, but she does laugh, a weak, watery chuckle that he almost misses. He holds onto that as he nudges Eddie off the couch with his foot and sinks down against the cushions, keeping her balanced on his lap. When they were teenagers this would have been dangerous--inappropriate, badly timed erections being par for the course--but he's old enough now to keep himself under control.
He doesn't know how long they sit like that, smashed together inelegantly, her fingers tightly clenched in his shirt. When, eventually, her breathing evens out completely, he tilts her face back and discovers she's asleep. Even tearstained and puffy she's beautiful, heartbreaking and hopeless and stupidly gorgeous.
"You're going to kill me, Veronica Mars," he whispers, and then he kisses her on the forehead and deposits her in her bed, hoping the Bureau will send her to therapy in the morning.
--
The Bureau does, in fact, send Veronica to therapy. They also put her on a mandatory three month suspension, restricting her duties to paper pushing and occasional cold case perusal. He makes the effort not to look relieved as she tells him this, but fails.
"Try not to actually wet yourself in excitement," she says, rolling her eyes. "I'm eating here."
"The way you throw things like that around, you'd think it was my dog that pissed on your $2,000 rug."
"I can't be blamed for that," she says, spearing a piece of asparagus and brandishing it at him. "You're the one who kept teasing him with that bone, it was bound to happen eventually. He's only a puppy."
"My dog's better trained than your dog," he says, just to be contrary. Veronica snorts.
"Mature, Logan."
"Maturity is my middle name," he agrees, and steals a potato from her plate.
He'd expected her to pull away from him in the wake of what happened--that would have been the Veronica thing to do, once upon a time. Instead she's been even closer, even warmer than before, like there's some barrier that's finally come down between them. Logan doesn't know what to make of it--the near-constant texting, the way she sits a little too close while they watch old movies on his couch--but he's not questioning it, except to fear, desperately, that it will end.
He doesn't dare say that aloud, though. She'd run, or laugh at him, or laugh at him and run.
Her twenty-ninth birthday falls five weeks into her suspension, and Logan discovers in discussing it with her that she has a number of traditions surrounding the date. The most significant of these is that Mac and Wallace always show up, come to town for the weekend so they all can get drunk and sing shitty karaoke. Logan's not nervous about seeing them, not at all, because it would be ridiculous to be nervous--he and Veronica are just friends, and it's not like he doesn't know Wallace and Mac.
"You're sweating," Veronica observes gleefully, as he runs through this thought process for the fifth time. "Like a pig, really, it's horrible, you should be--"
"You know, the fact that it's your birthday doesn't give you a pass to be impossible," he snaps, favoring her with a glare he doesn't mean at all. She grins at him, her hair falling in her eyes, looking happy and carefree and less crazed then she has in weeks, and he can't breathe for loving her.
"I always have a pass to be impossible," she laughs, and then Mac and Wallace are coming into the bar, and she stops paying him any attention at all.
He's not jealous. Of course he's not. Because that would, again, be ridiculous.
It's not even awkward, not like he expected it to be. Mac's grown up to be almost frightening self-possessed, all snappy confidence and witty rejoinders, and the wedding ring on Wallace's left hand only underscores his air of steady reliability. Logan likes them, and he likes the Bureau friends Veronica invited along, and he likes failing spectacularly at karaoke. He's having fun, which makes the whole thing that much worse. This is the kind of tradition he could happily subscribe to for the rest of his life, and he's pretty fucking sure that's not something Veronica's offering.
It takes several drinks to get Veronica onstage, even though the whole thing had been her idea. Mac goes with her, laughing and egging her on, and they have a whispered conversation with the sound guy before Veronica smiles out at the audience and lifts her mic.
"Right," she says, "so, it's my birthday--" The bar cheers, and she does a self-depreciating little curtsey that leaves Mac in stitches. "And it's also kind of a reunion--lots of old friends here tonight--"
"Yeah we are!" Wallace calls on Logan's right. Veronica salutes in the direction of the sound, and Logan bites down on a laugh.
"So we thought," Mac picks up, "that we'd indulge in a little blast from our past."
She nods towards the sound booth, and a heavy, familiar baseline thrums through the speakers. It takes Logan a second to place it, and then he remembers--the Faders, they'd played at homecoming senior year, this song had been on right before Veronica had yanked him away from that girl--Janie, Jackie?--he doesn't even remember her name, Jesus Christ.
And they're dancing, Veronica is dancing across the stage, her jeans clinging to her ass in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination as she belts "You want me, you want me all the time," into the microphone. She's dancing and he does, he does want her all the time, he's tried not to be he always has, these past few months have been a testament to his self control if nothing else--
"Need some air," he grunts, and he's out of the bar before he can think about it twice. He leans against the brick wall and tries to get hold of himself, because he's hard as fuck and that won't do at all. Because he's Veronica's friend and that's it, and she needs a friend, and he owes it to her--to himself--not to fuck this up. Because for all she makes him feel seventeen he is not, in actual fact, seventeen, and he's not going to throw away this fragile perfect thing he's rebuilt for the sake of getting in her pants.
But he wants to. God, god, he wants to.
"You've got it bad, huh?" someone says; Logan jerks his head around and sees Wallace grinning at him. "Don't bother trying to deny it, I know all the signs. I love the girl, but she's not exactly short on lovesick bastards, is she?"
"I can't be lurking outside a bar whining about my feelings for Veronica Mars," Logan says. "I can't be doing that, because then I'll be the definitive proof that high school never ends, and that's just not the contribution to society I set out to make."
"You set out to make a contribution to society?" Wallace asks, leaning against the brick next to him. "That's news to me."
"Well, delivering the news is my specialty," Logan says. "Maybe that'll be tomorrow's headline: Former Bastard Attempts to Make Good, Shocks Those Who Knew Him."
Wallace laughs. "Veronica said you were still obnoxious, but I guess I thought she was exaggerating. Teach me to doubt her."
"She talks about me?" Logan asks, and promptly feels like an idiot. He opens his mouth to execute some hasty backpedalling, but Wallace beats him to it.
"She talks about you," he confirms, giving Logan a fairly obvious once-over. "Sometimes you're all she talks about, man. I don't want to get your hopes up or anything, but I don't think you're the only one lugging that torch around."
"It's a real bummer at the airport," Logan says, because he has to say something that isn't Tell me everything you know. "The torch, I mean. Huge hassle at customs, and you'd be surprised how hard it is to fit into a one-quart plastic bag."
Wallace laughs again, and Logan doesn't even know why he does it, but he can't help but say, "Hey, um. Thanks, and everything, but--I don't remember you liking me all that much, when we were in school."
"I didn't," Wallace agrees. "Sorry."
"No, don't be, I was kind of--" Logan waves a hand to indicate a gigantic fuckwad, and Wallace nods, understanding. "I'm just wondering what's changed, I guess. That's valuable information you just gave me."
"You want me to answer that honestly?"
"Yeah," Logan says, "Yeah, I really do."
Wallace looks him over again and then sighs, mind apparently made up. "You were a train wreck. And I don't blame you--you went through some seriously crazy shit, anyone would have been--but Veronica didn't need that drama. She had plenty of her own, you know? Without all your issues cropping up everywhere."
"And now?" Logan asks, disheartened despite himself. "I mean, my--issues or whatever--they haven't gone away."
"Naw, but you don't have the crazy eyes anymore," Wallace tells him, grinning. "You grew up, man, you know you have, and Veronica knows it too. Even I can tell, and I've spent like three hours with you. To be honest, I don't know what's holding you back."
Logan sighs. "We've got a lot of history, and I wouldn't want to, I don't know. There's always the chance that it's the idea of her, and not actually her, and that wouldn't be--and there's always the chance that it's the idea of me, right, and either way it could end up being a mess."
"Hey, you want to make excuses, it's your call," Wallace says, shrugging. "I'm just telling you how I see it."
"And if you're wrong?" Logan asks. "If you're wrong, and I try something, and she never wants to talk to me again? Because I don't think I could do that, man, I really don't."
Wallace gives him a sharp look, so reminiscent of Veronica that Logan wonders if she gives lessons. "She's grown up too, you know," he says finally. "If you think she'd pull something like that now, maybe you don't know her as well as I thought."
Logan goes back into the bar a minute later with that thought ringing in his head; he watches Veronica sing her way through the rest of the night, hugs her goodbye with it playing through his mind. When he gets home, he slides into bed still thinking of it, and then he's thinking of her, slipping a hand into his boxers almost unconsciously.
It's not like it's the first time in the last decade he's jerked off to the mental image of Veronica Mars. She's cropped up again and again over the years, when he was feeling particularly nostalgic or he saw a look-a-like on the street. He's even done it a few times since falling in with her again, feeling shameful and dirty all over when he was done. But this is the first time he's thought of her as she is now, not of the two of them as fumbling fucked up teenagers rolling around. He thinks of her in that dress at Dick's wedding, in her FBI-standard pantsuit, in sweats and oversized t-shirts, in jeans that night on the pier. He thinks of her hair, longer, darker than it used to be, thinks of pressing kisses to a mouth just starting to show laugh lines, and comes harder than he has in years.
"Jesus," he gasps, and realizes that it's not the idea of Veronica he loves at all.
--
If Logan's childhood taught him anything, it's this: real life is not like the movies. There's nothing clean-cut about reality, no perfect transitions, no swells of music to accompany earth-shattering revelations. No one has a hair and makeup team good enough to keep them flawless 24/7, love is never simple enough to be summed up in ninety minutes, and no one ever, ever catches the train they're running for.
Still, there's something kind of undignified about making your first overture of passion in an all-night grocery store.
He's watching two kids argue about the price of condoms, that's how it starts. They look like they're maybe 13, too young to be fucking by a long shot, and he can't think of anyone who will appreciate the true ridiculousness of this more than Veronica. He pulls out his phone, sends her a text ("Watching a prepubescent couple throw down over condom prices…definitely need to find a classier time to shop. What are you up to?") and pushes his cart into the next aisle, where he is confronted, yet again, with the olive oil.
I should really just pick a brand and stick with it, he muses, trying to decide between the Phillip Berio and some fancy local variety. It would be easier. Then his phone buzzes in his pocket, and he puts both bottles down to check it.
From: Veronica Mars, 11:45 PM EST
Me? I'm watching some jackass fondle the olive oil. No one buying that stuff after dark can be up to anything good. You think I should bring him in for questioning?
Logan turns, and there she is, smirking at him over her mostly-full cart. "Hey, creepy," she says, "not that it's not good to see you, but I'm starting to think you're stalking me."
And really, really, that shouldn't be what does it. It should have been at Dick's wedding or at her birthday party, should have been that night on the pier--he should have rented out a restaurant, set up fireworks, bought her a fucking pony. There is absolutely no reason for Logan to succumb to his ridiculous, inescapable love for Veronica Mars over a stalking joke in the Food Emporium, but real life isn't like the movies, and that's what he does.
He doesn't even say anything, can't figure out where to begin--he just shoves her cart to the side and hauls her in, kissing her like his life depends on it. But she's frozen against him, not responding at all, and he thinks fuckfuckfuck and pulls back, opens his mouth to apologize.
Then: "Thank god," she breathes, sliding a hand into his hair, "oh, fuck, Logan, thank god," and she's kissing back, her tongue hot and slick in his mouth. He reaches up, palming her cheek even as he settles his other hand into the small of her back and guides her into the nearest shelf; she goes, colliding with rows of vinaigrette bottles.
"Public place," she gasps, as he pulls back just enough to enjoy the heady sensation of kissing her again. "We should--"
"Leave, yeah, we should definitely leave," he agrees, and draws her bottom lip between his teeth. She moans, and her hands are on his face, on his neck, and Logan's just going to go ahead and die happy now, thank you very much.
"Seriously, this is--inappropriate--"
"Bad, very bad," he murmurs between kisses, "I know, completely--"
"Immoral, people could--Logan, really--"
"Yeah, yeah, we should…absolutely…stop… ."
"Ahem," says someone who is decidedly not the person he's kissing. Logan pulls back from Veronica at speed, running a sheepish hand through his hair when he sees the person behind the cough.
It's a little old lady. Of course it is.
"Does this look like a hotel room to you?" she demands, less traumatized than pissed off, and Logan spares a fleeting second to love New York. "Get yourselves some rubbers and get out of my way, I'm trying to shop here."
"Oh my god," Veronica says faintly, staring after her as she stalks away. After a second she's cracking up, her cheeks bright red as she leans against his chest, and he's dragging her out of the grocery store as fast as she'll go.
"You don't want to finish shopping?" she teases, breathless, when they get outside. "Because I can wait, you know, if you feel the pressing need to go back in and get--"
"It's a good thing you're so much fun to shut up," Logan growls, and he's got her by the hips, got her tongue in his mouth before she can say anything more. She shudders under his palms and he tightens his grip, pulling back just enough to mangle the inflection of "My place or yours?" against her mouth.
"Mine," she gasps, "closer," and he nods and resumes ignoring the rest of the world, stumbling towards the street to hail a cab without breaking the kiss.
"You're going to get us run over," she manages, drawing away.
"But what a way to go," he murmurs, and her laugh turns into a breathy gasp when he leans down and nips at her neck.
The cab ride is more of less tortuous. She slides in first and pushes him away when he tries to crawl over to her, directing her eyes significantly towards the driver. They have a quick, non-verbal argument about the impropriety of fucking in a moving cab, which Logan thinks he's lost until Veronica smirks at him, wicked, and slides a hand into his pants.
"I want you to know that you're evil," he says, keeping his voice even through Herculean effort as she tightens slim fingers around his cock. "Don't they do psychology tests for evil at the--oh, Veronica, fuck."
"You should try to keep yourself under control," she comments, sounding for all the world like she's watching a fucking polo match, cool as a goddamn cucumber. It just makes Logan harder, how completely unfazed she seems, and he leans back against the headrest and tries not to whine as she brushes her fingertips against his balls.
And then, because she's a terrible person, she pulls her hand out again and smiles at him like it never happened.
"I hate you," he grumbles, "I hate you so much, I could write odes of hate--"
"Well, we're here," she says. "So you can either pay the man and come inside, or you can stay out here writing angry poetry. Your call."
Logan is not particularly proud of the way he scrambles out of the cab like it's on fire, but Veronica doesn't seem to mind. It certainly doesn't stop her from climbing him like a fucking tree in the elevator, wrapping her legs around his waist as she lays siege to his mouth. He cups her ass in his hands, holding her up, and thinks desperately about anything but coming in his pants like a teenager until the doors slide open.
"Put me down," she gasps, "I have to--keys--"
"I like you where I've got you," Logan says, and balances her against the wall as he pulls her spare out of his pocket. She just uses the extra leverage to grind into him, slipping down a little to frot desperately against his cock, and he stumbles into the apartment only to kick the door shut behind him and press her against it, her legs still around his waist.
"You've gotten better at this," she says, her smile gone dangerous. "I'd almost believe you were in my league."
"I am," he growls, "way out of your league, Veronica Mars," and he rips her shirt open to underscore this point. She just smirks at him and leans in, bites down hard on his collarbone, and he throws back his head and makes a choking, guttural noise.
"You don't want to fuck with me, Logan," she purrs. "I'm much more bite than bark."
"You're right," he gasps, "I'm not interesting in fucking with you at all," and then she's unwrapping her legs from around his waist and sliding down to stand on her own. He'd argue, but her hands are fumbling at his belt, betraying all the sharp, frantic energy she's not letting into her voice, and he doesn't really want to make that stop.
It's easier to pull at the remains of her shirt instead, rip them clean of her to reveal the black lace bra underneath.
"You're paying for that," she snaps, "I liked that shirt."
"I've got something you'll like more," he says, and she actually laughs at him, throwing her head back.
"You always did think you were smooth."
"Maybe you could stop interrupting," he suggests, "and let me get on with proving it, hmm?"
"I guess I could be persuaded to--" she starts, but she's cut off when he flicks her bra clasp open and slides a hand up to cup her breast. She draws in a ragged breath as he balances her nipple between two fingers, rolling it between the callouses there before leaning down to pull it into his mouth. She moans then, some mangled combination of scraped-raw syllables that might be his name--he's not really bothered to know what she's saying, so long as he can make her say it again.
"Condoms," she gasps, "tell me you have condoms."
"Look who's eager all of a sudden," he says, and her nipple is still in his mouth, easy enough to flick with his tongue. She arches up off the door and he catches her in the pose, one hand on her thigh, the other resting on the swell of her ass. He moves lower, trailing sticky, sharp kisses down her stomach, and feels a spike of pleasure at the thought that there could be hickeys in the morning to mark his path.
"Didn't answer my question," she groans, and then, "fuck, Logan, I swear to god--"
"In my wallet," he mumbles against her hip, letting her slip down again to fumble at the catch of her pants. "Have a little--"
"If you tell me to be patient," she snaps, "after all these months--"
"Oh, and you think it was easy for me?" he demands, pulling away to give her an incredulous look. "Like you didn't look fucking fantastic everywhere we went, like I wasn't hard just looking at you--"
"Jesus Christ," she bites out, hungry, "god, I want--I want you to--"
"Why, Veronica," Logan says, affecting shock, "are you asking me to take you to bed?"
He doesn't give her a chance to answer, just scoops her up and tosses her over his shoulder, the sounds of her shrieking laughter filling the apartment. She's always been small, easy enough to manhandle if he felt like it, but it had been one of those things he'd never tried, before. Veronica had been shy sexually back then, shy the way she wasn't in every other aspect of her life, careful and modest and, as much as he hadn't liked to think about it, traumatized. But she's had ten years, therapy she's told him bits and pieces about, time and space and other partners. There are things he'll have to be careful about still, things that never go away, but she's also…well, there's also no question that she could throw him to the ground and cuff him right now, if she wanted to.
She's still laughing as he hauls her through the threshold of her bedroom, dropping her down onto the mattress with little ceremony. In the living room, Eddie whines, and they tell him to shut up in one voice, startling him.
"Sorry, buddy," Logan says, yanking off one of his shoes and throwing it at the bedroom door. It shuts, and he smiles down at her, satisfied. "Ah, privacy."
"I'll show you privacy," Veronica gasps, which doesn't even make sense, but Logan's not complaining as she yanks him down onto the bed. She pulls off his shirt and then lifts his wallet from his back pocket, rifling through it with interest.
"If you're carrying any kind of false documentation, now's the time to tell me," she jokes, still flushed and breathless. Then she adds, "Ahhh, paydirt," and pulls a condom out of the back fold.
"Look at you go," he murmurs, reaching down to help her slide out of her pants. "All those investigative--fuck, is that a thong?"
Rather than replying, she raises her eyebrows, pulling back to kick her jeans off and display it fully. He groans from low in his throat and tackles her back against the pillows, sliding his palms down her bare thighs.
"Have I ever told you," he hisses, "that you're fucking gorgeous?"
"Been awhile," she pants, hooking her leg around his and pulling it his pants. "Have I ever told you that you're not naked enough?"
"Think I'd remember that," he manages. "Yeah, no, I would definitely recall--"
She leans in, breath hot against his ear. "Logan," she whispers, "you're not naked enough."
He's out of his pants in three seconds flat, flinging them across the room. She pulls down his boxers and shoves hard at his shoulder, gets him on his back and straddles him, ripping the condom open with her teeth.
"Veronica," he chokes out, "fuck, Veronica--"
"And you said I was eager," she grins, reaching down to fist his cock. There's a dribble of precome there and she smears it across the head with her thumb, looking far too pleased with herself when he arches up against her. "Oh, god, Logan--"
"You planning on using that condom any time soon?" he gasps.
"You're an ass," she says, rolling it onto his dick anyway. "You're such an asshole, I shouldn't like that as much as I do, your stupid mouth always did get you into trouble--"
"Wanna see what else my mouth can do?" he asks, and she's rolling her eyes even as she's lowering herself onto his cock, and then he can't breathe anymore.
She's so tight, so much stronger than he remembers, and he reaches up to cup both of her breasts as she rides him, her head tipped back in pleasure. He has a few fleeting thoughts about how different it is, Veronica now compared to Veronica then, but they fizzle out quickly--this is really so much better that any comparison is moot. He lets one hand drift down and just manages to get his thumb on her clit, swiping at it as he gasps her name, and she can't seem to decide if she wants to smirk at him or swear at him more; what results is an odd combination of both, which shouldn't be as hot as it is.
"Jesus," he growls, unable to stand it anymore, "Jesus, Veronica, come here." He puts a hand behind her head, drags her down a little and meets her halfway, licking into her mouth. She moans and runs her nails down his back, and he tangles a hand in her hair and jerks up into her, sharp and fast.
"Shit," she gasps, "Logan, fuck, that's--oh, god, that's so good, but--but I want you to--I don't want to come like this, I want you to--"
"Wish, command," he says, and flips her, kissing her again once she's under him. She shudders as he fucks into her, and then, god, god, she's wrapping her legs around him again, pulling herself up against his cock, and he's going to come if he's not careful, he's barely holding on.
"There," she cries, "there, right there, oh fuck yes, don't you dare stop--"
"Fuck," he says, "Veronica, oh, god, you're so--come for me, baby, come on, please, please--"
She doesn't answer him, just tilts her head back and chokes on her own breath, and he knows well enough what a woman on the edge looks like. He picks up his speed with what little control he has left, drives into her hard and fast until he can feel her clenching around around him, until she's sobbing his name and going boneless in his arms. Then he's putting his head down on her shoulder and his hips are jerking out of rhythm of their own accord and he's coming blindingly hard, coming like he's never come in his life, coming like a fucking teenager.
They're silent for a minute, getting their breath back, tangled together over the sheets. Logan can't help but press a lazy kiss into the curve of Veronica's shoulder as he pulls out, and she makes a soft, pleased sound beneath him. He tosses the spent condom in the trash and settles back down against her, content, and he's thinking seriously about passing out when he feels her start to shake.
"What?" he says, pushing himself up onto one arm. Her face is turned away from him against the pillow, and panic flares in his chest--he's done something wrong, he's pissed her off, she thought this was a one night stand, she hates him--before she turns and he realizes she's laughing.
"Well," he says, relief white-hot as he puts his head back down, "that's not usually the response I go for, but I guess it could be worse."
"I just," she says, laughing so hard she can barely get it out, "I just--I mean, I think that's the best sex we've ever had."
He grins at her, and she's laughing so hard now that she's almost hysterical, but he gets where she's coming from, at least. It is…more than a little bizarre, on every level, to be stretched along the bed next to her; aside from the deja vu of it, he'd been more than certain that this was something he'd never get to do again.
He cups her cheek, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and lets her laugh it out. When she's calmed down, nothing but a few last stifled chuckles left of her mirth, he affects a serious expression and meets her eyes.
"You know," he says, "in some ways, I think fucking it up with you in college was the best thing I ever did."
"You'd better have a pretty good follow up to that," she warns teasingly, propping herself up on an elbow. "The couch is more than available, you know."
He smiles at her and casts his eyes down, running his thumb along the curve of her hipbone, wondering. He knows, if only by dint of being told over and over, that he's a surprising but incurable romantic--he knows by dint of experience that she's not, most of the time. He says it anyway, though, because he means it, because he doesn't know how not to.
"I just think it would have a damn shame, if you'd grown up to be anyone else."
She doesn't say anything, but when he chances a glance up, her eyes are warm, and she's smiling like she doesn't know how to stop.
"That's a pretty fucking good follow up," she admits, soft. If it comes out a little strangled, he knows her well enough not to call her on it.
--
To: llester@nytimes.com
From: v.mars@fbi.gov
Subject: I caught you drooling on your pillow this morning, FYI
Hey you,
Sorry I didn't say goodbye before I left, but you had the whole post-deadline consumptive look going on, and I kind of couldn't bear to wake you up. People shouldn't be able to have circles under their eyes while sleeping, Logan. I don't think that's normal.
Saw the article, though. Fantastic as ever, but if I catch you using Caffrey as an "inside source" again I'll no-show when you win your Pulitzer.
Logistics shit that I know you know already: the people from the kennel will be by to pick up the dogs at 3:30, I already threw out anything in the fridge that could go bad (except that pizza in case you wanted breakfast, don't forget to toss that if you don't eat it), and I've got my suitcase with me, so all you need to do is pack and show up at the airport by 7. Doing dinner would be great, but I don't think there's any chance I'll be out of the office in time. I'm just gonna print our boarding passes here, I'll meet you by the Continental gate?
By the way, when I said pack, I meant more than just sex toys and your swim trunks. No one wants a repeat of Hawaii; I don't know if you know this, but your attractiveness plummets when you wear nothing but novelty t-shirts and Tommy Bahama. Don't make that face--you needed an ego check after that article, you know you did. I'm doing you a favor here. You wouldn't want to have to buy an extra seat on the plane for your swelled head, would you?
Also, I already packed the sex toys.
Love you,
V
Veronica actually beats him to Dick's wedding, which would be embarrassing if he wasn't hungover as all fuck from the stupid bachelor party.
"God," she laughs, looking him over outside the church, "could those sunglasses be any bigger?"
"If there were bigger ones, I would have bought them," he says, reaching up to rub at his temple. "Are you always this loud?"
"Don't even try for pity," she says, "you brought this on yourself."
"Rub it in, why don't you," he mutters. She gives him a half-hearted version of the evil eye, but then she reaches into her bag and hands over an industrial sized bottle of Advil.
"Standard issue," she says, as he raises his eyebrows and uncaps it. "This might come as a shock to you, but being an FBI agent isn't short on headaches."
"I am, in fact, deeply shocked," he says, dry-swallowing four of the pills. "Almost as shocked as I am grateful, really."
"Logan Lester expresses gratitude--I think that's definitely got some traction as a front-page headline."
"You're so funny," he says, not without bitterness. "Really, the humor, I'm overwhelmed."
"Too hungover to give as good as you get, now I know the apocalypse is nigh."
"Can we just go inside, please," he says despairingly. "Where there's less sunshine and fewer flashbulbs, I hear it's a glorious place."
"There's going to be organ music," she reminds him, and then she laughs as he groans and follows her to a pew, because she's deeply, impossibly cruel.
"I still can't believe I actually got you to come to this thing," he says, when they're settled. "I was sure you were going to come up with a last minute excuse."
"I still can't believe you're not the best man," she returns. "I mean, you planned the bachelor party and everything, it's hardly fair."
"Apparently having the guy who stole your bride-to-be's dog in your wedding party is awkward," says Logan, shrugging. "Can't imagine why. But I'm sure I'll have another chance to be Dick's best man."
"Can't even wait till he's out of the church to malign the happy couple," Veronica sighs, her voice thick with mock-disappointment. "You should be--oh my god, is Dick balding?"
"Try not to mention it," Logan advises her. "It's a little bit of a touchy subject. And by 'a little bit of a touchy subject' I mean 'I had to pull him off a dude who called him q-ball last night.'"
"Oh my god, this is the best day of my life," Veronica whispers, as the church doors shut and the music swells. Logan's hangover makes a strangled cry of anguish at the increased volume, but Veronica is snickering next to him, her back heaving with silent mirth in her ridiculously sleek blue dress.
If you'd told him sixth months ago that today he'd be sitting next to Veronica Mars, watching Dick Casablancas exchange wedding vows, he'd have laughed in your face. But life's funny like that.
In a stroke of luck, Logan doesn't actually have to deal with Dick's new wife until an hour into the reception. Dick himself comes over to their table five minutes into dinner to deliver an excited soliloquy about his wedded bliss that largely involves the word "Dude" and several crude hand gestures; he doesn't even notice Veronica until he's done, and then he stares, agog.
"Ronnie," he says finally, "you grew up hot," and Veronica nearly spits out her water.
"Nice to see you too, Dick," she manages finally, and gives Logan a look that says, very clearly, "You see why I never went to 09er parties?"
Logan smirks at her, unable to help himself, and delights more than he probably should in the eyeroll she gives him in return.
Still, some things are inevitable, and there was no way he was going to be able to get out of this wedding without interacting with Miranda. She glides across the dance floor on Dick's arm, looking fantastically trashy in her deceptively white dress, and gives him a once-over.
"Dognapper," she says.
"Cruella," he returns, without missing a beat. Next to him, Veronica chokes on a peal of laughter that she hastily turns into a cough, and he excuses himself to get drinks before the temptation of amusing her further goads him into being a complete jackass. When he comes back Miranda is fawning over Veronica's dress, high-pitched vapidity written in every crevice of her face, and Veronica looks like she's seriously considering breaking out a side-arm.
"Let's dance," Logan says, passing her a glass of champagne and resting his palm against the small of her back. Lowering his voice, he adds, "Preferably before you kill someone, yes?"
"So nice to meet you," Veronica says, managing to sound at least halfway sincere about it, and lets Logan lead her onto the dance floor.
"Delightful, isn't she?"
"I can't believe you call her Cruella," Veronica says, grinning, draping her arms over his neck. He feels the bottom of her champagne flute settle against his back and smiles, pulling her in a little closer.
"Cruella Deville," he sings against her ear, "Cruella Deville, if she doesn't scare you, no evil thing will…"
"I don't know if it's worse that you know the words to the song or that you're actually singing right now," Veronica says, following his steps across the dance floor. She's still smiling, though, honest and stunning, and he keeps going with the song because expressing any of his thoughts right now would be terminally stupid. He remembers the last time he danced with her, at homecoming their senior year, remembers how she'd felt agonizing and incredible and dangerous in his arms. He'd been terrified of her.
He's not scared of her now, not scared of her or scared for her. He's scared of himself, of the things he wants, of everything he'd take from her if he could only figure out how.
He's having lunch with a source when his phone buzzes; he hits a button to silence it in his pocket and forgets it, moves on. But three minutes later it buzzes again, and when he yanks it out it's her name across the screen, and he can't help himself.
"It'll just be a minute," he promises, and then flips the phone open and says, "Special Agent Mars, to what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Logan?" she says, sounding frantic. He frowns. "Oh, Logan, thank god, I'm sorry to bother you, but I really need a favor."
"Those words never lead to anything good," he teases, but she doesn't bite, and he feels his frown deepen. The source looks at him curiously, and he makes a 'one second' gesture, stands, and walks towards the door of the restaurant. "Veronica? What is it?"
"You remember that case? The one I've been--"
"Yeah, of course, are you--"
"We got a break," she says, "we got a break, a big break, it's huge, it's great, but Eliza, the girl who walks Eddie, she's out of town, and I still--I don't have all that many friends here yet who aren't with the Bureau and I don't know when I'm going to be home and I don't want to just send in someone he's never met--"
"You need me to walk the dog," Logan infers.
"Could you?" she asks, and her voice is clipped now, like she's running. "I don't want to impose, but, I mean, Eddie likes you--god knows why--and I've been working crazy hours so he hasn't been getting much attention anyway--"
"It's fine," Logan says quickly. "It's fine, I'm happy to do it. Tell you what, I'll even bring Butch over, it'll be like a little doggy play-date. Ooh, should I make them matching collars? I bet they'd love that."
"You're such an ass," she pants, and yeah, she's definitely running. He tries, and fails, not to think of what exactly a trained federal agent might be running from.
"We really need to work on this flattery thing," he says. "Look, you sound kind of busy, I'll just--is there a Hide-A-Key or something I can use to let myself in?"
"There would be if I was an idiot," Veronica snaps. "But as I don't really enjoy having my apartment broken into, no."
"You feds," Logan laughs, "so touchy about personal safety. Well, if that's out--actually, I'm having lunch down the street from your building--"
"I know," Veronica says, and then he looks up to see her tearing around the corner, and hangs up the phone.
"Traced your cell," she pants, bending over to catch her breath. "Sorry, but time is short."
"You put the creep in creepy," Logan says lightly. He tries to muster some irritation at what is unquestionably an invasion of his privacy, and comes up short. "Do you do this kind of thing to all your friends?"
"Just the ones getting me out of a tight spot," she says, straightening and pulling a keyring out of her bag. "This is my spare, if you could just--take him out, and actually if you could feed him too that would be great, two scoops of the dry food under the sink, I really am sorry--"
"Veronica," he says, reaching out before he can stop himself. He means to cup her cheek, actually, but redirects just in time, putting a hand on her shoulder instead. "It's fine, really. Are you okay?"
"Fine," she says, "fine, fine, just--this case is just--I'm fine. Seriously, thank you--"
"Seriously, it's nothing. Butch will love the chance to push Eddie around."
She smiles, and it doesn't quite reach her eyes, and he makes a mental note to push a little harder into what, exactly, she's tracking down. But then he forgets, because she's pressing the keyring into his hand and leaning in to give him a quick kiss on the cheek, and it's suddenly all he can do to keep from falling down.
"Thank you," she says fervently, "I have to go but just, god, thank you so much," and then she's running across the street and disappearing into a cab before he can say anything else.
He stands there like an idiot for a minute, and then goes back into the diner, whistling under his breath. His source--a sleazy lawyer who's gotten in far deeper than he meant to--takes a large bite of pie and looks him over.
"Your girlfriend or something?" he asks, mouth full.
"Or something," Logan agrees, and twirls the key on his finger, resisting the urge to touch the spot on his cheek where he can still feel the press of her lips.
He cheats, and gives the dogs steak.
Oh, what--he buys the steak, it's not like he takes food out of Veronica's fridge, he's not a complete bastard. He just doesn't see any reason not to further cement his position of esteem in Eddie's eyes, and Butch has been getting the rock star treatment since he was forced to interact with her former owner anyway. They both look up at Logan like he's the light at the end of the tunnel when they're done eating, and he smiles at a bribery job well done.
He walks them, taking them for a long, winding romp through the neighborhood, and then sinks onto Veronica's couch when they get back inside. He figures he'll let them play for a few minutes, tire Eddie out so he won't be impossible when Veronica gets home, whenever that might be. He doesn't factor in the weight of the steak in his own stomach, the sheer enveloping softness of the couch, or the three hours of sleep he got the night before, and he wakes up at one AM to a still-empty apartment, both dogs curled happily against him.
"Fuck," he says, stumbling bleary-eye towards the bathroom, "and I thought I couldn't beat Veronica for creepy today."
He uses the toilet as quickly as he can, splashing some water on his face to try and wake up, and hopes against hope he can get out of her apartment before she returns and discovers he's--what has he done here, exactly? Taken a simple favor and turned it into a stalker-caliber mistake? Gone beyond familiarity and into something else entirely? Royally fucked up?
He doesn't have time to further consider the proper name for his actions, because he hears the door opening and slamming shut, hears Veronica clattering around inside.
"Fuck," he mutters again, reaching over to flush the toilet and wondering how the hell he's going to explain this.
"FREEZE," he hears her yell, and he does, his hand wrapped around the doorknob. "I am a federal agent and I have a gun trained on this door. Whoever you are, come out with your hands up where I can see them. If you try anything, I will not hesitate to shoot."
"Oh, god," Logan says, opening the door slowly. He raises both hands and steps out of the bathroom, hoping his expression conveys sheepish remorse and not his desire for the ground to swallow him whole. "I'm so sorry, I fell asleep on the…"
He trails off once he actually catches sight of her, all thoughts of embarrassment slipping from his mind. She does, indeed, have a gun trained on him, but it's wavering in the air, because her hands are shaking so badly he can see the tremors from here. There are bloodstains on her shirt, on her face, and a bruise is blooming on her left cheek, dark and terrible.
"Veronica," he says, reminded forcibly of a night he's spent over a decade trying to forget, "Veronica, it's me. It's Logan. Put the gun down."
She stares at him for a long second; then she blinks and comes back to herself, lowering her weapon. "Logan? What are you--"
"I fell asleep," he explains quickly, "watching the dogs, I'm really--Veronica, what happened to you?"
She shakes her head and swallows, and he fights the urge to cross the room and pull her into his arms. "It was just--I just. I had a really bad night, I'm sorry that I--I just, god, that was stupid, Butch is right there, isn't she."
"Not stupid," Logan says, taking a step toward her. "Stupid of me, for falling asleep. Stupid and creepy on my part only."
She almost laughs, the faint ghost of a chuckle slipping out from between her lips. "It's fine. I. Um. Thank you. For taking Eddie, that was--thanks. You can…you can go now."
"I think maybe I should stay," Logan says, as gently as he can. She glares up at him, eyes fierce, and he puts his hands up again. "Look, no, I'm not trying to--no one's questioning that you're the boss here, if someone breaks in we both know who's going to be cuffing him and who's going to be screaming like a little girl, okay? I just…you look like maybe you could use a friend."
She holds his gaze for a second, the fire still behind her eyes, and then breathes out hard through her nose. "Yeah," she mutters, "yeah, that's. Okay."
"Okay," Logan echos. Then: "You want to tell me what happened?"
"Can I," Veronica starts, and then she shakes her head, looks disgusting with herself, and continues, "I'm going to take a shower, and put on different clothes. Do you mind--"
"I'll wait," Logan says at once. "I'll be right here."
Veronica nods at him and vanishes into the bathroom, leaving him to try to not to panic while she's gone. Eddie, whose emotional instincts are apparently keen, whines and butts his head against Logan's shoulder; Butch just looks him over with mild interest and settles down on the couch again.
"Fat lot of help you are," he mutters, and then realizes he's talking to a dog, and shuts up. He occupies himself with taking deep, even breaths, with running his hands through Eddie's close-cropped fur, with refraining from breaking down the bathroom door and shaking her until she tells him who left that bruise.
He's not seventeen and desperate anymore; he's not nineteen and balanced on the edge of sanity, waiting for the fall. He's older, but maybe not quite old enough.
She comes out in workout shorts and an oversized t-shirt half an hour later, her hair damp and coiled behind her head. "I need a glass of water," she says, when he moves to stand, "just--can you just--just wait a second, okay?"
"Yeah," Logan agrees, "sure, whatever you want."
She throws him a sliver of a smile, there-and-gone again, before slipping into the kitchen. He waits five minutes, and then ten; when it's been fifteen he swears under his breath and goes after her. She's sitting on the counter staring at nothing, kicking her bare legs against the cabinets, and she jumps when he says, "Veronica?"
"God," she says, "you scared the shit out of me. I guess I--I forgot you were here, I think. Sorry."
She looks so much younger, suddenly, that his heart breaks for her--because he knows that look, remembers it despite himself. He's seen her make this face before, the one that means she's scrabbling desperately for control, the one that means she's half an inch from breaking down.
"Veronica," he says, and his voice is gentler than he ever knew it could be, "tell me what happened."
"It's…kind of a long story."
"I've got nothing but time," he reminds her. She sighs and kicks her feet again, looking twelve and twenty and ninety-five all at once.
"My first case," she starts, "or maybe my second, I don't know, as a probie in LA--you remember reading about the Bookrate Bomber?"
"Shit, yeah," Logan says, blinking. "He was news out here too--he blew up, what, like thirty people in that one--"
"Yeah," Veronica sighs. "Yeah, he--anyway, everyone thought it was this professor but my partner at the time, the guy I'd been assigned to, said that bombers were meticulous, obsessive…we went to interview one of his students and there were all these ships in bottles and there was a secret room and I just, I just knew. But the agent I was there with, he--he grabbed her and held a knife to her throat, and we'd just thought it was a routine interview, so we didn't have any backup, and I…tackled him, because I didn't know what else to do, knocked the knife out of his hand. I got him cuffed and we arrested him."
"Okay," Logan says, not really sure how this relates but not wanting to push her. She takes a deep breath and looks up at the ceiling, keeping her eyes trained on it as she continues.
"We couldn't charge him," she spits. "We didn't--his whole house was clean, we swept it completely, and I knew it was him, but he wouldn't confess and there wasn't--there was no evidence, there was nothing he could do. We got him for assaulting an officer but his attorneys managed to get him off on insanity, god knows how. He spent a two years in a minimum security psych ward as part of the plea bargain, and then he escaped, and I knew he'd--I knew he wasn't done killing, and there was a manhunt but it was half-assed, and then I saw the stuff about the Davy Jones Strangler out here--"
Logan sucks in a harsh breath without meaning to; he knows about the Davy Jones Strangler, so named because of the impeccably done ship-in-a-bottle he leaves as a calling card at every crime scene. He strangles his victims, six of them so far, with a length of sailing rope, leaves it twined in a perfect water knot across their chests. He's seen the guys coming back from those scenes, late night in the newsroom--hardened criminal reporters shook up beyond belief.
Veronica nods at him, still not meeting his eyes. "I asked for a transfer, because I knew it was him, and it was--personal, I mean, I knew he'd remember me, he's not the kind of guy to forget something like that, and I knew I wasn't going to be able to sleep at night until he was locked up. And tonight we finally got him, had him cornered, all the evidence lined up, and when we got to his place he was waiting for us, and I can't figure out how he managed it, but he got the drop on me. He grabbed me and he, he held a knife to my throat just like--"
"Jesus, Veronica," Logan rasps, before he can help himself. She meets his eyes then, wraps her arms around her chest and glares at him. And it's an old feeling, the desire to pull her close and hide her from everything that could hurt her--an old feeling mixed with a new one, with a deep, sharp pride in her that settles like a weight on his shoulders.
"I kicked him," she continues, almost dispassionate as she glances away again. "And when I got loose he hit me and Sean--one of the other agents--Sean jumped for him, but he still had the knife and I was the only one with a clear shot and I--I had to, Logan, I had to, you have to understand, I didn't have a choice--"
"I understand," he says quickly, because god, he wishes he hadn't asked now, wishes he hadn't made her tell him, doesn't need to hear her say the rest, "hey, look at me, I understand, it's okay, I know that you--"
"I killed him," she whispers, and then she puts her hand to her mouth and her face twists in on itself and she says it again. "I killed him, I didn't mean to but I--I took the shot and he moved and it was supposed to be his shoulder but it went through his heart and I know, I know he's a murderer but I--I shot him and he died, Logan, I killed him, I killed him."
And then she's crying, wracked with it, shaking with sobs that sound more like screams muffled against her hand. He closes the distance between them in three steps and draws her forward, and her hair against his cheek is still wet from her shower--it's a stupid thing to focus on, the way it's sticking to his skin, but he can't help himself. Everything else is too big, big the way she isn't, and he's forgotten over the years how much smaller she seems when she's wrapped up in his arms. She's so much person, Veronica is, that it's still a shock to remember she's tiny underneath all that charisma.
"It's not your fault," he says, and she presses herself closer, so close that he can feel every gasping breath she takes against his neck. "Oh, Veronica, it's not your fault, this isn't your fault. You saved a life--fuck, you probably saved ten lives. You're a hero, sweetheart, you're a hero, fuck, it's okay."
He feels her shaking her head, feels the doubt and regret and anguish in the gesture, but her breathing goes a little softer, and she sounds less like she's dying. He runs his hand down her back and holds on, saying whatever comes to mind, trying frantically to decide if he's making it worse or better, if he even could make it worse, if there's any way to make her stop.
Eventually she quiets enough that he can think again, and he realizes that she's still on the counter. "C'mon," he says, lifting her in his arms, "let's at least get you to the couch, huh? You're gonna get snot all over your kitchen, and no one wants that."
She doesn't pull her head out from where it's burrowed in his neck, but she does laugh, a weak, watery chuckle that he almost misses. He holds onto that as he nudges Eddie off the couch with his foot and sinks down against the cushions, keeping her balanced on his lap. When they were teenagers this would have been dangerous--inappropriate, badly timed erections being par for the course--but he's old enough now to keep himself under control.
He doesn't know how long they sit like that, smashed together inelegantly, her fingers tightly clenched in his shirt. When, eventually, her breathing evens out completely, he tilts her face back and discovers she's asleep. Even tearstained and puffy she's beautiful, heartbreaking and hopeless and stupidly gorgeous.
"You're going to kill me, Veronica Mars," he whispers, and then he kisses her on the forehead and deposits her in her bed, hoping the Bureau will send her to therapy in the morning.
The Bureau does, in fact, send Veronica to therapy. They also put her on a mandatory three month suspension, restricting her duties to paper pushing and occasional cold case perusal. He makes the effort not to look relieved as she tells him this, but fails.
"Try not to actually wet yourself in excitement," she says, rolling her eyes. "I'm eating here."
"The way you throw things like that around, you'd think it was my dog that pissed on your $2,000 rug."
"I can't be blamed for that," she says, spearing a piece of asparagus and brandishing it at him. "You're the one who kept teasing him with that bone, it was bound to happen eventually. He's only a puppy."
"My dog's better trained than your dog," he says, just to be contrary. Veronica snorts.
"Mature, Logan."
"Maturity is my middle name," he agrees, and steals a potato from her plate.
He'd expected her to pull away from him in the wake of what happened--that would have been the Veronica thing to do, once upon a time. Instead she's been even closer, even warmer than before, like there's some barrier that's finally come down between them. Logan doesn't know what to make of it--the near-constant texting, the way she sits a little too close while they watch old movies on his couch--but he's not questioning it, except to fear, desperately, that it will end.
He doesn't dare say that aloud, though. She'd run, or laugh at him, or laugh at him and run.
Her twenty-ninth birthday falls five weeks into her suspension, and Logan discovers in discussing it with her that she has a number of traditions surrounding the date. The most significant of these is that Mac and Wallace always show up, come to town for the weekend so they all can get drunk and sing shitty karaoke. Logan's not nervous about seeing them, not at all, because it would be ridiculous to be nervous--he and Veronica are just friends, and it's not like he doesn't know Wallace and Mac.
"You're sweating," Veronica observes gleefully, as he runs through this thought process for the fifth time. "Like a pig, really, it's horrible, you should be--"
"You know, the fact that it's your birthday doesn't give you a pass to be impossible," he snaps, favoring her with a glare he doesn't mean at all. She grins at him, her hair falling in her eyes, looking happy and carefree and less crazed then she has in weeks, and he can't breathe for loving her.
"I always have a pass to be impossible," she laughs, and then Mac and Wallace are coming into the bar, and she stops paying him any attention at all.
He's not jealous. Of course he's not. Because that would, again, be ridiculous.
It's not even awkward, not like he expected it to be. Mac's grown up to be almost frightening self-possessed, all snappy confidence and witty rejoinders, and the wedding ring on Wallace's left hand only underscores his air of steady reliability. Logan likes them, and he likes the Bureau friends Veronica invited along, and he likes failing spectacularly at karaoke. He's having fun, which makes the whole thing that much worse. This is the kind of tradition he could happily subscribe to for the rest of his life, and he's pretty fucking sure that's not something Veronica's offering.
It takes several drinks to get Veronica onstage, even though the whole thing had been her idea. Mac goes with her, laughing and egging her on, and they have a whispered conversation with the sound guy before Veronica smiles out at the audience and lifts her mic.
"Right," she says, "so, it's my birthday--" The bar cheers, and she does a self-depreciating little curtsey that leaves Mac in stitches. "And it's also kind of a reunion--lots of old friends here tonight--"
"Yeah we are!" Wallace calls on Logan's right. Veronica salutes in the direction of the sound, and Logan bites down on a laugh.
"So we thought," Mac picks up, "that we'd indulge in a little blast from our past."
She nods towards the sound booth, and a heavy, familiar baseline thrums through the speakers. It takes Logan a second to place it, and then he remembers--the Faders, they'd played at homecoming senior year, this song had been on right before Veronica had yanked him away from that girl--Janie, Jackie?--he doesn't even remember her name, Jesus Christ.
And they're dancing, Veronica is dancing across the stage, her jeans clinging to her ass in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination as she belts "You want me, you want me all the time," into the microphone. She's dancing and he does, he does want her all the time, he's tried not to be he always has, these past few months have been a testament to his self control if nothing else--
"Need some air," he grunts, and he's out of the bar before he can think about it twice. He leans against the brick wall and tries to get hold of himself, because he's hard as fuck and that won't do at all. Because he's Veronica's friend and that's it, and she needs a friend, and he owes it to her--to himself--not to fuck this up. Because for all she makes him feel seventeen he is not, in actual fact, seventeen, and he's not going to throw away this fragile perfect thing he's rebuilt for the sake of getting in her pants.
But he wants to. God, god, he wants to.
"You've got it bad, huh?" someone says; Logan jerks his head around and sees Wallace grinning at him. "Don't bother trying to deny it, I know all the signs. I love the girl, but she's not exactly short on lovesick bastards, is she?"
"I can't be lurking outside a bar whining about my feelings for Veronica Mars," Logan says. "I can't be doing that, because then I'll be the definitive proof that high school never ends, and that's just not the contribution to society I set out to make."
"You set out to make a contribution to society?" Wallace asks, leaning against the brick next to him. "That's news to me."
"Well, delivering the news is my specialty," Logan says. "Maybe that'll be tomorrow's headline: Former Bastard Attempts to Make Good, Shocks Those Who Knew Him."
Wallace laughs. "Veronica said you were still obnoxious, but I guess I thought she was exaggerating. Teach me to doubt her."
"She talks about me?" Logan asks, and promptly feels like an idiot. He opens his mouth to execute some hasty backpedalling, but Wallace beats him to it.
"She talks about you," he confirms, giving Logan a fairly obvious once-over. "Sometimes you're all she talks about, man. I don't want to get your hopes up or anything, but I don't think you're the only one lugging that torch around."
"It's a real bummer at the airport," Logan says, because he has to say something that isn't Tell me everything you know. "The torch, I mean. Huge hassle at customs, and you'd be surprised how hard it is to fit into a one-quart plastic bag."
Wallace laughs again, and Logan doesn't even know why he does it, but he can't help but say, "Hey, um. Thanks, and everything, but--I don't remember you liking me all that much, when we were in school."
"I didn't," Wallace agrees. "Sorry."
"No, don't be, I was kind of--" Logan waves a hand to indicate a gigantic fuckwad, and Wallace nods, understanding. "I'm just wondering what's changed, I guess. That's valuable information you just gave me."
"You want me to answer that honestly?"
"Yeah," Logan says, "Yeah, I really do."
Wallace looks him over again and then sighs, mind apparently made up. "You were a train wreck. And I don't blame you--you went through some seriously crazy shit, anyone would have been--but Veronica didn't need that drama. She had plenty of her own, you know? Without all your issues cropping up everywhere."
"And now?" Logan asks, disheartened despite himself. "I mean, my--issues or whatever--they haven't gone away."
"Naw, but you don't have the crazy eyes anymore," Wallace tells him, grinning. "You grew up, man, you know you have, and Veronica knows it too. Even I can tell, and I've spent like three hours with you. To be honest, I don't know what's holding you back."
Logan sighs. "We've got a lot of history, and I wouldn't want to, I don't know. There's always the chance that it's the idea of her, and not actually her, and that wouldn't be--and there's always the chance that it's the idea of me, right, and either way it could end up being a mess."
"Hey, you want to make excuses, it's your call," Wallace says, shrugging. "I'm just telling you how I see it."
"And if you're wrong?" Logan asks. "If you're wrong, and I try something, and she never wants to talk to me again? Because I don't think I could do that, man, I really don't."
Wallace gives him a sharp look, so reminiscent of Veronica that Logan wonders if she gives lessons. "She's grown up too, you know," he says finally. "If you think she'd pull something like that now, maybe you don't know her as well as I thought."
Logan goes back into the bar a minute later with that thought ringing in his head; he watches Veronica sing her way through the rest of the night, hugs her goodbye with it playing through his mind. When he gets home, he slides into bed still thinking of it, and then he's thinking of her, slipping a hand into his boxers almost unconsciously.
It's not like it's the first time in the last decade he's jerked off to the mental image of Veronica Mars. She's cropped up again and again over the years, when he was feeling particularly nostalgic or he saw a look-a-like on the street. He's even done it a few times since falling in with her again, feeling shameful and dirty all over when he was done. But this is the first time he's thought of her as she is now, not of the two of them as fumbling fucked up teenagers rolling around. He thinks of her in that dress at Dick's wedding, in her FBI-standard pantsuit, in sweats and oversized t-shirts, in jeans that night on the pier. He thinks of her hair, longer, darker than it used to be, thinks of pressing kisses to a mouth just starting to show laugh lines, and comes harder than he has in years.
"Jesus," he gasps, and realizes that it's not the idea of Veronica he loves at all.
If Logan's childhood taught him anything, it's this: real life is not like the movies. There's nothing clean-cut about reality, no perfect transitions, no swells of music to accompany earth-shattering revelations. No one has a hair and makeup team good enough to keep them flawless 24/7, love is never simple enough to be summed up in ninety minutes, and no one ever, ever catches the train they're running for.
Still, there's something kind of undignified about making your first overture of passion in an all-night grocery store.
He's watching two kids argue about the price of condoms, that's how it starts. They look like they're maybe 13, too young to be fucking by a long shot, and he can't think of anyone who will appreciate the true ridiculousness of this more than Veronica. He pulls out his phone, sends her a text ("Watching a prepubescent couple throw down over condom prices…definitely need to find a classier time to shop. What are you up to?") and pushes his cart into the next aisle, where he is confronted, yet again, with the olive oil.
I should really just pick a brand and stick with it, he muses, trying to decide between the Phillip Berio and some fancy local variety. It would be easier. Then his phone buzzes in his pocket, and he puts both bottles down to check it.
From: Veronica Mars, 11:45 PM EST
Me? I'm watching some jackass fondle the olive oil. No one buying that stuff after dark can be up to anything good. You think I should bring him in for questioning?
Logan turns, and there she is, smirking at him over her mostly-full cart. "Hey, creepy," she says, "not that it's not good to see you, but I'm starting to think you're stalking me."
And really, really, that shouldn't be what does it. It should have been at Dick's wedding or at her birthday party, should have been that night on the pier--he should have rented out a restaurant, set up fireworks, bought her a fucking pony. There is absolutely no reason for Logan to succumb to his ridiculous, inescapable love for Veronica Mars over a stalking joke in the Food Emporium, but real life isn't like the movies, and that's what he does.
He doesn't even say anything, can't figure out where to begin--he just shoves her cart to the side and hauls her in, kissing her like his life depends on it. But she's frozen against him, not responding at all, and he thinks fuckfuckfuck and pulls back, opens his mouth to apologize.
Then: "Thank god," she breathes, sliding a hand into his hair, "oh, fuck, Logan, thank god," and she's kissing back, her tongue hot and slick in his mouth. He reaches up, palming her cheek even as he settles his other hand into the small of her back and guides her into the nearest shelf; she goes, colliding with rows of vinaigrette bottles.
"Public place," she gasps, as he pulls back just enough to enjoy the heady sensation of kissing her again. "We should--"
"Leave, yeah, we should definitely leave," he agrees, and draws her bottom lip between his teeth. She moans, and her hands are on his face, on his neck, and Logan's just going to go ahead and die happy now, thank you very much.
"Seriously, this is--inappropriate--"
"Bad, very bad," he murmurs between kisses, "I know, completely--"
"Immoral, people could--Logan, really--"
"Yeah, yeah, we should…absolutely…stop… ."
"Ahem," says someone who is decidedly not the person he's kissing. Logan pulls back from Veronica at speed, running a sheepish hand through his hair when he sees the person behind the cough.
It's a little old lady. Of course it is.
"Does this look like a hotel room to you?" she demands, less traumatized than pissed off, and Logan spares a fleeting second to love New York. "Get yourselves some rubbers and get out of my way, I'm trying to shop here."
"Oh my god," Veronica says faintly, staring after her as she stalks away. After a second she's cracking up, her cheeks bright red as she leans against his chest, and he's dragging her out of the grocery store as fast as she'll go.
"You don't want to finish shopping?" she teases, breathless, when they get outside. "Because I can wait, you know, if you feel the pressing need to go back in and get--"
"It's a good thing you're so much fun to shut up," Logan growls, and he's got her by the hips, got her tongue in his mouth before she can say anything more. She shudders under his palms and he tightens his grip, pulling back just enough to mangle the inflection of "My place or yours?" against her mouth.
"Mine," she gasps, "closer," and he nods and resumes ignoring the rest of the world, stumbling towards the street to hail a cab without breaking the kiss.
"You're going to get us run over," she manages, drawing away.
"But what a way to go," he murmurs, and her laugh turns into a breathy gasp when he leans down and nips at her neck.
The cab ride is more of less tortuous. She slides in first and pushes him away when he tries to crawl over to her, directing her eyes significantly towards the driver. They have a quick, non-verbal argument about the impropriety of fucking in a moving cab, which Logan thinks he's lost until Veronica smirks at him, wicked, and slides a hand into his pants.
"I want you to know that you're evil," he says, keeping his voice even through Herculean effort as she tightens slim fingers around his cock. "Don't they do psychology tests for evil at the--oh, Veronica, fuck."
"You should try to keep yourself under control," she comments, sounding for all the world like she's watching a fucking polo match, cool as a goddamn cucumber. It just makes Logan harder, how completely unfazed she seems, and he leans back against the headrest and tries not to whine as she brushes her fingertips against his balls.
And then, because she's a terrible person, she pulls her hand out again and smiles at him like it never happened.
"I hate you," he grumbles, "I hate you so much, I could write odes of hate--"
"Well, we're here," she says. "So you can either pay the man and come inside, or you can stay out here writing angry poetry. Your call."
Logan is not particularly proud of the way he scrambles out of the cab like it's on fire, but Veronica doesn't seem to mind. It certainly doesn't stop her from climbing him like a fucking tree in the elevator, wrapping her legs around his waist as she lays siege to his mouth. He cups her ass in his hands, holding her up, and thinks desperately about anything but coming in his pants like a teenager until the doors slide open.
"Put me down," she gasps, "I have to--keys--"
"I like you where I've got you," Logan says, and balances her against the wall as he pulls her spare out of his pocket. She just uses the extra leverage to grind into him, slipping down a little to frot desperately against his cock, and he stumbles into the apartment only to kick the door shut behind him and press her against it, her legs still around his waist.
"You've gotten better at this," she says, her smile gone dangerous. "I'd almost believe you were in my league."
"I am," he growls, "way out of your league, Veronica Mars," and he rips her shirt open to underscore this point. She just smirks at him and leans in, bites down hard on his collarbone, and he throws back his head and makes a choking, guttural noise.
"You don't want to fuck with me, Logan," she purrs. "I'm much more bite than bark."
"You're right," he gasps, "I'm not interesting in fucking with you at all," and then she's unwrapping her legs from around his waist and sliding down to stand on her own. He'd argue, but her hands are fumbling at his belt, betraying all the sharp, frantic energy she's not letting into her voice, and he doesn't really want to make that stop.
It's easier to pull at the remains of her shirt instead, rip them clean of her to reveal the black lace bra underneath.
"You're paying for that," she snaps, "I liked that shirt."
"I've got something you'll like more," he says, and she actually laughs at him, throwing her head back.
"You always did think you were smooth."
"Maybe you could stop interrupting," he suggests, "and let me get on with proving it, hmm?"
"I guess I could be persuaded to--" she starts, but she's cut off when he flicks her bra clasp open and slides a hand up to cup her breast. She draws in a ragged breath as he balances her nipple between two fingers, rolling it between the callouses there before leaning down to pull it into his mouth. She moans then, some mangled combination of scraped-raw syllables that might be his name--he's not really bothered to know what she's saying, so long as he can make her say it again.
"Condoms," she gasps, "tell me you have condoms."
"Look who's eager all of a sudden," he says, and her nipple is still in his mouth, easy enough to flick with his tongue. She arches up off the door and he catches her in the pose, one hand on her thigh, the other resting on the swell of her ass. He moves lower, trailing sticky, sharp kisses down her stomach, and feels a spike of pleasure at the thought that there could be hickeys in the morning to mark his path.
"Didn't answer my question," she groans, and then, "fuck, Logan, I swear to god--"
"In my wallet," he mumbles against her hip, letting her slip down again to fumble at the catch of her pants. "Have a little--"
"If you tell me to be patient," she snaps, "after all these months--"
"Oh, and you think it was easy for me?" he demands, pulling away to give her an incredulous look. "Like you didn't look fucking fantastic everywhere we went, like I wasn't hard just looking at you--"
"Jesus Christ," she bites out, hungry, "god, I want--I want you to--"
"Why, Veronica," Logan says, affecting shock, "are you asking me to take you to bed?"
He doesn't give her a chance to answer, just scoops her up and tosses her over his shoulder, the sounds of her shrieking laughter filling the apartment. She's always been small, easy enough to manhandle if he felt like it, but it had been one of those things he'd never tried, before. Veronica had been shy sexually back then, shy the way she wasn't in every other aspect of her life, careful and modest and, as much as he hadn't liked to think about it, traumatized. But she's had ten years, therapy she's told him bits and pieces about, time and space and other partners. There are things he'll have to be careful about still, things that never go away, but she's also…well, there's also no question that she could throw him to the ground and cuff him right now, if she wanted to.
She's still laughing as he hauls her through the threshold of her bedroom, dropping her down onto the mattress with little ceremony. In the living room, Eddie whines, and they tell him to shut up in one voice, startling him.
"Sorry, buddy," Logan says, yanking off one of his shoes and throwing it at the bedroom door. It shuts, and he smiles down at her, satisfied. "Ah, privacy."
"I'll show you privacy," Veronica gasps, which doesn't even make sense, but Logan's not complaining as she yanks him down onto the bed. She pulls off his shirt and then lifts his wallet from his back pocket, rifling through it with interest.
"If you're carrying any kind of false documentation, now's the time to tell me," she jokes, still flushed and breathless. Then she adds, "Ahhh, paydirt," and pulls a condom out of the back fold.
"Look at you go," he murmurs, reaching down to help her slide out of her pants. "All those investigative--fuck, is that a thong?"
Rather than replying, she raises her eyebrows, pulling back to kick her jeans off and display it fully. He groans from low in his throat and tackles her back against the pillows, sliding his palms down her bare thighs.
"Have I ever told you," he hisses, "that you're fucking gorgeous?"
"Been awhile," she pants, hooking her leg around his and pulling it his pants. "Have I ever told you that you're not naked enough?"
"Think I'd remember that," he manages. "Yeah, no, I would definitely recall--"
She leans in, breath hot against his ear. "Logan," she whispers, "you're not naked enough."
He's out of his pants in three seconds flat, flinging them across the room. She pulls down his boxers and shoves hard at his shoulder, gets him on his back and straddles him, ripping the condom open with her teeth.
"Veronica," he chokes out, "fuck, Veronica--"
"And you said I was eager," she grins, reaching down to fist his cock. There's a dribble of precome there and she smears it across the head with her thumb, looking far too pleased with herself when he arches up against her. "Oh, god, Logan--"
"You planning on using that condom any time soon?" he gasps.
"You're an ass," she says, rolling it onto his dick anyway. "You're such an asshole, I shouldn't like that as much as I do, your stupid mouth always did get you into trouble--"
"Wanna see what else my mouth can do?" he asks, and she's rolling her eyes even as she's lowering herself onto his cock, and then he can't breathe anymore.
She's so tight, so much stronger than he remembers, and he reaches up to cup both of her breasts as she rides him, her head tipped back in pleasure. He has a few fleeting thoughts about how different it is, Veronica now compared to Veronica then, but they fizzle out quickly--this is really so much better that any comparison is moot. He lets one hand drift down and just manages to get his thumb on her clit, swiping at it as he gasps her name, and she can't seem to decide if she wants to smirk at him or swear at him more; what results is an odd combination of both, which shouldn't be as hot as it is.
"Jesus," he growls, unable to stand it anymore, "Jesus, Veronica, come here." He puts a hand behind her head, drags her down a little and meets her halfway, licking into her mouth. She moans and runs her nails down his back, and he tangles a hand in her hair and jerks up into her, sharp and fast.
"Shit," she gasps, "Logan, fuck, that's--oh, god, that's so good, but--but I want you to--I don't want to come like this, I want you to--"
"Wish, command," he says, and flips her, kissing her again once she's under him. She shudders as he fucks into her, and then, god, god, she's wrapping her legs around him again, pulling herself up against his cock, and he's going to come if he's not careful, he's barely holding on.
"There," she cries, "there, right there, oh fuck yes, don't you dare stop--"
"Fuck," he says, "Veronica, oh, god, you're so--come for me, baby, come on, please, please--"
She doesn't answer him, just tilts her head back and chokes on her own breath, and he knows well enough what a woman on the edge looks like. He picks up his speed with what little control he has left, drives into her hard and fast until he can feel her clenching around around him, until she's sobbing his name and going boneless in his arms. Then he's putting his head down on her shoulder and his hips are jerking out of rhythm of their own accord and he's coming blindingly hard, coming like he's never come in his life, coming like a fucking teenager.
They're silent for a minute, getting their breath back, tangled together over the sheets. Logan can't help but press a lazy kiss into the curve of Veronica's shoulder as he pulls out, and she makes a soft, pleased sound beneath him. He tosses the spent condom in the trash and settles back down against her, content, and he's thinking seriously about passing out when he feels her start to shake.
"What?" he says, pushing himself up onto one arm. Her face is turned away from him against the pillow, and panic flares in his chest--he's done something wrong, he's pissed her off, she thought this was a one night stand, she hates him--before she turns and he realizes she's laughing.
"Well," he says, relief white-hot as he puts his head back down, "that's not usually the response I go for, but I guess it could be worse."
"I just," she says, laughing so hard she can barely get it out, "I just--I mean, I think that's the best sex we've ever had."
He grins at her, and she's laughing so hard now that she's almost hysterical, but he gets where she's coming from, at least. It is…more than a little bizarre, on every level, to be stretched along the bed next to her; aside from the deja vu of it, he'd been more than certain that this was something he'd never get to do again.
He cups her cheek, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and lets her laugh it out. When she's calmed down, nothing but a few last stifled chuckles left of her mirth, he affects a serious expression and meets her eyes.
"You know," he says, "in some ways, I think fucking it up with you in college was the best thing I ever did."
"You'd better have a pretty good follow up to that," she warns teasingly, propping herself up on an elbow. "The couch is more than available, you know."
He smiles at her and casts his eyes down, running his thumb along the curve of her hipbone, wondering. He knows, if only by dint of being told over and over, that he's a surprising but incurable romantic--he knows by dint of experience that she's not, most of the time. He says it anyway, though, because he means it, because he doesn't know how not to.
"I just think it would have a damn shame, if you'd grown up to be anyone else."
She doesn't say anything, but when he chances a glance up, her eyes are warm, and she's smiling like she doesn't know how to stop.
"That's a pretty fucking good follow up," she admits, soft. If it comes out a little strangled, he knows her well enough not to call her on it.
To: llester@nytimes.com
From: v.mars@fbi.gov
Subject: I caught you drooling on your pillow this morning, FYI
Hey you,
Sorry I didn't say goodbye before I left, but you had the whole post-deadline consumptive look going on, and I kind of couldn't bear to wake you up. People shouldn't be able to have circles under their eyes while sleeping, Logan. I don't think that's normal.
Saw the article, though. Fantastic as ever, but if I catch you using Caffrey as an "inside source" again I'll no-show when you win your Pulitzer.
Logistics shit that I know you know already: the people from the kennel will be by to pick up the dogs at 3:30, I already threw out anything in the fridge that could go bad (except that pizza in case you wanted breakfast, don't forget to toss that if you don't eat it), and I've got my suitcase with me, so all you need to do is pack and show up at the airport by 7. Doing dinner would be great, but I don't think there's any chance I'll be out of the office in time. I'm just gonna print our boarding passes here, I'll meet you by the Continental gate?
By the way, when I said pack, I meant more than just sex toys and your swim trunks. No one wants a repeat of Hawaii; I don't know if you know this, but your attractiveness plummets when you wear nothing but novelty t-shirts and Tommy Bahama. Don't make that face--you needed an ego check after that article, you know you did. I'm doing you a favor here. You wouldn't want to have to buy an extra seat on the plane for your swelled head, would you?
Also, I already packed the sex toys.
Love you,
V
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 08:50 am (UTC)Also, A++++ White Collar reference.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 09:47 pm (UTC)And thank you so much! I'm so glad you liked this.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 09:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 09:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 09:09 am (UTC)It's been a long, long time since that show but I still miss the banter. Oh, the banter. You captured it perfectly.
This little shot of Logan/Veronica makes me want MOAR.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 09:53 pm (UTC)In short: thanks so much, I'm glad you enjoyed it :D
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 09:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 09:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 09:18 am (UTC)Here I am reading this when I should be sleeping...it is so worth it. I adore your long stories and Veronica mars!!!! together it's too hot to handle. There are so many characterizations I loved and the ending was so spot on. If it wasn't discontinued it should end just as well as this! <3
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 09:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 10:10 am (UTC)And now i feel like writing to the creators of white collar and pleading to have Logan and Neal somehow meet.
Love love
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 09:58 pm (UTC)Not going to lie, I pretty much wrote this story so that I could do that. And I don't mean that in a gross tooting-my-own-horn sort of way, I mean that like...the way that season ended, the way it left them, I was so frustrated with both of them as characters and with their relationship and jsdnsfsd. I just, I've never shipped so hard two characters who get left in such a incompatible, screwed up place, and for my own piece of mind I had to write them an ending where I felt like they fit? If that even makes sense, I don't know, I've been having a hard time articulating why I felt so compelled to write this story.
In any case, I am so glad you enjoyed it, and thank you so much ♥
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 11:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 09:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 12:14 pm (UTC)and awesome white collar cameo!
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 10:00 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 01:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 10:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 02:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 10:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 02:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 10:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 02:36 pm (UTC)Thank you for the Neal cameo (it was downright PERFECTION)...and the dogs and the text messages and everything.
But what I really, truly love is that is told from Logan's POV - he's nervous and unsure and he's willing to let Veronica own the relationship. I don't know if it's canon, but it's smart and refreshing and unique.
YOU ROCK!
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 10:07 pm (UTC)I AM STILL SO GLAD YOU LIKE THIS/INSANELY GRATEFUL TO YOU FOR PUTTING UP WITH ME WHILE WRITING IT. All the ♥, bb.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 02:47 pm (UTC)I love love love the characterisation. It feels so believable for both of them. I like that they acknowledge their damage but don't dwell upon it and I think you paced their relationship beautifully.
I'm so close to drawing sparkly hearts all over my screen right now. I hadn't realised just how much I missed Veronica and Logan.
Thanks so much for sharing!
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 10:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 03:04 pm (UTC)And I know others have said it, but fuck-yeah White Collar reference! 8DDD
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 10:11 pm (UTC)I wrote a bunch of White Collar fic last spring, and especially with the new episode, I just couldn't resist :D
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 04:47 pm (UTC)And the banter, MAN - you totally nailed the dialogue, without question. Their quips and thrusts and volleys were so much of what made their relationship sing on the show, and you captured it beautifully.
You also totally got that sort of insane crazy chemistry thing that they had as well, and New York feels like New York to me, and of course they would flee California for New York, I just. And the sex was awesome, and just when we needed it, and WALLACE and MAC and fucking Dick and Logan the dog rescuer and oh my god, I need to reread this RIGHT NOW because it is that fucking good.
I just," she says, laughing so hard she can barely get it out, "I just--I mean, I think that's the best sex we've ever had."
So fucking perfect.
Also, the crossover with White Collar was DELIGHTFUL and oh my god, Caffrey and Logan working together, THE WORLD WOULD NEVER RECOVER.
♥ ♥ ♥
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 10:30 pm (UTC)I think one of the dangers of writing futurefic is that it's really easy to go AND THEN EVERYTHING MAGICALLY WORKED OUT, because you have that advantage of not having the canon to adhere to anymore. And it was really important to me not to do that, to try and make them read like real people with real lives and real issues, you know? And still have them work out, but because they've grown to a point where they fit, not just arbitrarily.
SO, IN CONCLUSION, THANK YOU SO MUCH :D I'm so glad you liked this.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 05:26 pm (UTC)Oh, and you were, of course, absolutely right about "Pairing: Pendragon/Merlin." Loved it. I see Sam has denied writing it. Huh.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 10:33 pm (UTC)THAT STORY. MY HEART!!! I saw Sam's denial too, lol, and I actually hadn't even considered the possibility that it might be him until I read the post. Now I can't believe it wasn't :/
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 06:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 10:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 08:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 10:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 08:38 pm (UTC)Also, White Collar crossover FTW!
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 10:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 08:54 pm (UTC)AMAZING!!
This is how the show should have ended. Completely fabulous and amazing writing. You killed this.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 10:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 09:26 pm (UTC)I'm just going to be camping out here for a while, don't mind me. I might even refrain from my primary vocation of Being Evil for a bit. :D :D :D
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 10:36 pm (UTC)I THINK THAT OFFICIALLY MAKES WRITING MY PUBLIC DUTY, ZAN.
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 09:34 pm (UTC)Fantastic writing, too.
I hope you write more Veronica Mars fic in the future!
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 10:38 pm (UTC)I'm not sure if I'll be writing more VMars fic any time soon--I think the Inception fandom may actually hunt me down and kill me if I don't turn out the next installment of this series I'm working on, and this story was kind of my way of saying goodbye to the show. BUT, there is always the possibility of a sequel :D
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 09:37 pm (UTC)I loved the bits about them being able to run out on each other when work calls. Its such a small thing to bond over but it's a big deal to them and adds a huge amount of realism to the story.
Thanks for this, I really enjoyed it! And when you're writing amazing stuff like this, you're welcome in our fandom anytime!
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 10:40 pm (UTC)I'm glad you liked that detail--I tried to work in some things that made the point that they're actually compatible together now, for reasons beyond the fact that they were in love when they were younger. So it's always good to hear that those details resonated :D
Hee, and thanks for the warm welcome ♥
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 09:58 pm (UTC)A++ FOR YOU. GOLD STARS.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 10:41 pm (UTC)So glad you enjoyed this, and not just because it makes me feel less guilty about whining about it all week :D
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 09:59 pm (UTC)NEAL CAFFREY. (is a totally valid response.)
pst, hon, there's a few itty bitty typos in this part.
like "You're right," he gasps, "I'm not interesting in fucking with you at all,"
and then there was another one: "...And by 'a little bit of a touchy subject' I mean 'I had to pull him of a dude who called him q-ball last night." I'm pretty sure you meant "off". not to be a picky person. like, eveyone got what you meant and all, but I just hate when I go back through my stories and spot typos and think 'why didn't anyody tell me that I did that?'
So much love for this ♥
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 10:42 pm (UTC)(LOL, OH MY GOD, FAIL. THANK YOU SO MUCH *EDITS*)