Joobie's Random Writings

Fic: Visting Hours, light R, (Aaron)

Sat, 15 Apr 2006 17:47:44 GMT

Title: Visiting Hours
Author: Joobie
Characters/Pairings: Aaron
Rating: light R
Length: 1086
Spoilers: All of season 1.
Summary: Aaron gets haunted.
Notes: Written for keepaofthecheez's cheesy_love challenge. My song was Amazed, by Lonestar. Definitely got something different out of this song that I used to when listening to it in high school with my boyfriend. Yeeeessiree.

It started a few weeks after he arrived at Red Oak State Penitentiary. A flash of blonde hair down a corridor, blonde hair that was too impossibly long and silky to belong to anyone at Red Oak. He'd scanned the crowd nonetheless, but didn't catch another glimpse of that golden cascade of hair. He'd shaken his head and pushed the image from his mind. There was no use thinking how that hair would feel falling all around his face, surrounding him. No use at all.

***********

A few days later, he was out in the yard lifting weights, flat on his back staring at the sky, a sky so blue it seemed to extend up to the gates of heaven. Idly, he wondered, was she maybe – but he stopped himself, exhaling sharply, ashamed. He was straightening his arms to press the bar out from his chest when he heard her laugh.

It was a long, low, teasing laugh, the kind that made hot spirals of desire course through the pit of his stomach. He felt the blood rushing down – god, not here, not in the yard, he thought – and his arms wobbled and the weight trembled over his head. He jerked and it fell back, over his head and behind him, landing on the ground with a loud clang.

Vaguely he heard the truculent grumblings of the inmate next in line for the bench. "Hey man, what the fuck, can't lift a weight unless they're paying you seven figures?" He could feel the eyes on him from every direction, anticipating some action, some distraction from the tedium.

He was unable to oblige. Shaken, he stood up, walking away from the bench without a look back, her laughter still ringing in his ears.

***********

A few weeks passed, with nothing. He'd thought it was over. A temporary glitch in the mental machinery, nothing to worry about. But then he sat down one day in the mess. He dropped his fork as he set down his tray, so leaned down under the table, reaching to the floor to pick it up. Shit, he thought, so much grime down there, caked from who knows what, wonder if I could ask for another? When he rose, there she was. Sitting across from him, her eyes big and wide and blue, the hint of a smile on her wet pink lips.

He blinked his eyes and held them shut tightly, willing her to go away. But when he opened his eyes, she was still there, looking unbelievably real and made of the same flesh he was. He ran his gaze over her body appreciatively before it landed on her face again. When their eyes met, she locked hers on his with a hint of a challenge in them. Blue and dewy and clear, staring at them was almost more than he could take.

Before he realized what he was doing, her name fell out of his lips. Just softly, hushed, disbelieving. When she said his name back, it was equally soft but certain, the way she used to whisper it in the dark when he had his hands all over her. Her voice released something in him, and he sighed, suddenly immeasurably relieved, as if a weight had been lifted from his chest. Staring at her was like looking at the ocean on a sunny day for the very first time – she was light, air, life in that dark, stale, dead place.

Then she was gone. A fellow inmate grinned across from him, his smile never wavering as he stole the cornbread off Aaron's tray, his eyes red and watery and unfocused. The inmate began nodding and muttering to himself as he crumbled the cornbread over his tray. Crazy, thought Aaron. That makes two of us.

***********

That night as he lay in bed, thoughts of her ran through his head. There was no stopping them, even if he'd tried, though that night he didn't want to try. He closed his eyes and pictured her body, imagined the smell of her cool pale skin as he ran his tongue over the expanse of her belly. His hands drifted down to find his flesh and her name made a rhythm on his lips over and over and over, a different meaning every time – bitch, angel, siren, savior – until he came.

Before he even opened his eyes, he could sense her. Yes, he was right, she was sitting at the foot of his bed, cross-legged like the girl she was, the girl she would be always. But for a girl, there was such wisdom in her eyes, as if she heard his thoughts, saw his dreams, knew every fucked-up thing he had ever done in his life, and she forgave him. He wanted to spend the whole night in those eyes. He tried, but eventually he succumbed to sleep, and in the morning she was gone.

***********

The next night she was back. And the night after that, and after that, on and on, till he grew to expect her and the days were just time to pass until the nights they spent together. When he thought back on the circumstances that had brought her to him, brought both of them to where they were right then, he felt both guilty and elated at the same time. He was a bad, bad man, but somehow, the universe had saw fit to deliver this nightly miracle to him. Maybe her appearance was penance, maybe it was justice, maybe it was madness, or maybe it was absolution. He didn't know how she did what she did or why she was there. Every time she appeared, it felt like the first time and he was thankful.

He could feel a change in himself when she was there. He grew calmer and clearer, felt less blurred around the edges. She did for him what no numerous readings of Siddhartha could: brought him enlightenment and serenity. He could repent his sins to her, imagine making her clutch the bed sheets and scream in ecstasy, or remember the weight of the ashtray as it slammed into her skull. It made no difference to her, she knew all of him, saw all of him, and loved him either way.

The thought came to him one day, and he was amazed by it: he no longer cared that he was in prison. He just wanted to spend the rest of his life sentence with her by his side, forever and ever.

END

Fic: Back At It 1/? (Veronica, ensemble) PG-13

Thu, 22 Dec 2005 02:12:02 GMT

Title: Back At It 1/?
Author: Joobie_Vienna
Pairing/Character: Veronica, Wallace, ensemble eventually
Word Count: 1,270
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Veronica is back at school after winter break.
Spoilers/Warnings: Through 2.10
Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Continuing fics are new territory for me, so I'd love to get feedback of ANY kind. Positive, negative, confused, lay it on me. I'd really appreciate it.

Walking down the hall with Wallace, I give him a sidelong look and a sheepish grin. Damn, am I glad he's back. When he's around, it's easier to pretend things are normal. It's easier just to be normal. Of course, Wallace is oblivious to my beaming at him—he's too busy going on about how badly the basketball team was doing in his absence. I'm so glad to have him back, I'll humor his ego for a bit longer.

"…you know, they tried to find somebody to fill my shoes, but nobody else has hops like I do. Coach had no choice but to excuse my weeks of absences to let me back on as a starter." Wallace glows more than usual describing his b-ball skills, but I'm glad there's at least a shadow of guilt on his face when he mentions the long time he was away.

"We don't all need a wake-up call to remind us how valuable you are, you big baller. The Neptune sports faculty may be a bunch of frustrated middle-aged men trying to live vicariously through their athletes, but they know talent when they see it."

"You know Mars, I'm getting the distinct feeling somebody other than Coach missed me while I was gone. A blonde somebody whose hobbies include snooping, baking, and long walks on the beach." He grins at me. "Would you know anything about that?"

His smile is so open and disarming, I find myself beginning to crack, wanting to explain everything that's gone on these past few weeks with more than just a few pithy sentences in an email. Did someone order one soul-baring with an extra side of humble pie? Coming right up.

"Wallace, I know I'm not the best BFF, unless the B stands for boneheaded or blind or bribery-lovin', but I get what you've been for me this past year, and it means…well, it means…" You know, I get paid to serve pie four days a week. You'd think I'd be better at it.

Eyes on the floor, I take a deep breath and prepare to start again, but Wallace isn't even paying attention. My BFF has been distracted by none other than his moi-moi-moi ex-lunch-buddy-with-privileges, currently walking in our direction. From the look on his face, the siren call of repentant rich girl proves difficult to resist.

Ah, Jackie. So charitable of you to let Backup use your sweater as a chew toy and then wear it to school anyway…okay, retract claws, Veronica.

I pat Wallace on the shoulder. "That's my cue," I say, nodding at Jackie's approach. "I'll catch you at lunch."

"What?" His expression is dazed. "Oh, naw, you don't have to clear out," he protests.

"It's okay – I did my nails last night, so I'm trying to avoid getting in a slap-fight today. At least until after lunch." I give him reassuring smile #6, the "good luck with your awkward conversation" smile, and head towards class even as the tractor-beam pull of Jackie's trashy-chic outfit lures Wallace in.

I wish Wallace had been around to give me reassuring smile #6 before my little tête-à-tête with Duncan two weeks ago. Maybe then I wouldn't have choked so badly. Maybe Duncan and I could've had a serious conversation about what it means that Meg is – was – having his child. God, Duncan has a child. I can't even think about it without feeling like I've entered some alternate reality. Honestly, I'd probably feel more comfortable if I had. Some crazy reality that's all shrimp or ruled by sadistic bunnies or something. At least then I wouldn't feel like I had to be okay with all of this or my whole world would come crashing down.

Fuck, Veronica, don't cry. Normal girls don't burst into tears in the hall at school.

Wiping the corner of my eye with a knuckle, I dart into the bathroom. If I've ruined my eyeliner, I'm going to be pissed - makeup application has never been my forte. Stupid oppressive cultural standard of female beauty. A quick glance in the mirror reveals all quiet is on the eyeliner front, for now.

As I stare at my reflection, I hear my own voice in my head. "I'm fine with it." It sounds hollow and flinty. Of course I wasn't fine with it, Duncan. But what do you want me to say? You're not who I thought you were? Ass slaps and high fives for deflowering another virgin? Lie to me again and I'll fucking kill you? Maybe I should've gone all Jerry Springer on his ass. I chuckle, picturing myself throwing a chair across the set, then pregnant Meg joining in to—God. Meg.

Normal girls can cry in the bathroom, right?

I stumble into a stall, close the door and shut the lid with one boot. I collapse on the seat, elbows on knees, face buried in my hands. Eyeliner be damned. Meg is dead. No reassuring smiles, no quips and no sleuthing can make up for the fact that I've lost another friend.

I'm jolted from my regret-filled thoughts by the sound of the door swinging open. Immediately my ears are assaulted by the typical morning bitchery from the Neptune High rumor mill.

"I, like, cannot believe they're not letting students attend the funeral! I have this new black dress picked out and everything – it's cute, and it has this totally hot neckline, but it's, like, really somber and everything, too."

"Well, I heard the principal, like, wanted to have a service? And her family was all 'no you can't, our daughter is not, like, a spectacle' or whatever."

"Seriously? They're probably just embarrassed that everyone knows Meg's score on the purity test really was a 48. I guess she was just waiting for someone with a bigger bank account than Cole's so she could finally slut it up."

I can't take another second of this. I wipe hot tears from my face and throw open the door.

"Shut your mouths, both of you! Meg is dead—dead! Do you understand that? Do you get what it means to be dead? It means being separated from your precious Louis Vuitton clutches and your Vogue fashion spreads and your friends and from everything, forever." My voice is rising and I'm about to start screaming at two sophomores who I haven't ever said two words to before. Get a grip, Veronica.

"Sounds pretty grim, doesn't it? So show some fucking respect for a girl who was never anything but decent or kind to anyone in this Neptune hellhole." One last glare, and I'm out of there. Judging by their expressions as I push my way out the door, I'm guessing my icy diatribe had the desired result.

I make another half-hearted effort to wipe away my now-hopeless eye makeup before giving up and trudging to journalism. The light in there's dim enough anyway, maybe no one will notice. Maybe they'll think I've taken up the goth look. Maybe class will take my mind off of everything I've failed at these past few months.

"Why, Miss Mars, thank you for gracing us with your presence."

"A pleasure to be here." I slide into a seat toward the back gratefully as the teacher continues taking roll. I space out for a moment, until—

"Mister Kane? Is Duncan Kane here today?" She looks around the room, her eyes settling expectantly on me. That's what you get when you're practically glued at the hip to your boyfriend. Your honest, adorable boyfriend. I shake my head at her. No on both counts.

Want to know where my boyfriend is?

So do I.
----------------
TBC?

Fic: The Book (Veronica, mentions of Duncan and Logan)

Thu, 15 Dec 2005 22:58:14 GMT

Title: The Book
Author: Joobie_Vienna
Pairing/Character: Veronica POV, mentions of Duncan and Logan
Word Count: 1,196
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The bed is a book.
Spoilers/Warnings: Up to 2.2, but through 2.10 if you want to be really safe.

The hotel bed is a blank page waiting for a pen, a book waiting to be written. Veronica isn't sure how she knows the sheets will be cool to the touch and softer than any sheets she's ever slept on. She just knows, the way she knew that when Duncan called her to ask if she'd be coming over that night, it would be the night she'd let him inside her. Or at least the night she'd remember doing it.

Veronica doesn't have regrets. There's no point, they don't change anything. She sits in a plush armchair in an empty hotel room, staring at the bed, thinking of all the regrets she doesn't have.

She doesn't regret being with Duncan. If she weren't with Duncan, she'd never have an answer to the question in her mind about what it felt like to be with him. She knows now how it feels to have her head on his chest after they've made love, his fingers delicately running through her hair as they lay together in a warm cocoon of sheets. She knows how the rhythm of his breath and his heartbeat will slow into sleep even as his arms hold her to him firmly.

But knowing how it feels to be with Duncan means more than knowing how Duncan will touch her. It means knowing how she'll react to that touch. Knowing herself. Having been with Duncan, Veronica knows herself as she never did before. She knows that at the same moment Duncan tightens his hold on her and gives himself over to unconsciousness, the muscles at the base of her spine will tense and she'll be overcome by the impulse to run. Wide awake, she will search her thoughts for some unseen danger, some wrong she hasn't righted. Hours will pass before she sinks into the fitful sleep that is her habit now.

When Lilly died, when her mother left, when she lost the memory of the night she lost something else, Veronica became a different girl. Everyone knew that girl, wearing heavy boots and a hard expression, but what they didn't know was that she believed it was temporary. She believed her life could change back to weightless Keds and an easy smile as quickly as it had been torn away from her. She believed she would be normal.

If normal is a night of blissful rest in the arms of your sweet, solid boyfriend, Veronica knows she can't have that. Slouched in a chair in the silence of the hotel room, she resigns herself to the permanence of the change in her. She accepts it. Lilly's killer is behind bars. Her mother is out of her life for good. She has learned the truth about the night she lost. All of them are things of the past. No regrets.

A knock at the door triggers a rush of adrenaline. Her heart is pounding and she has a moment of pause before she rises from the chair and makes her way to the door. Her fingers are shaking as she grips the cold metal handle of the door, turns and pulls it toward her.

"Hi." He says.

"Hi." Her heart is still pumping, her body tensed and primed to run. Accepting not being normal means accepting the things that she wants, however strange or wrong they may seem, and letting herself have them. 'Let yourself have this,' she tells herself.

"Come in," she says, and opens wide the door, stepping out of his way. He brushes past her and suddenly he is so tall to her, she is so small, she is shaken by the memory of another night, a night in the past, when she felt dwarfed by the height of his body and the weight of his feelings for her. The memory is cold water in her face, jolting her into the moment. She panicked that other night. She will not panic now.

He has walked into the room and is staring at the bed with his back to her. Veronica wonders if the same thoughts are running through his mind, if the bed is a book to him too. She wonders what kind of novel he'd write on it. What kind of novel they could write on it.

Full of eagerness she walks to him and presses her body against the expanse of his back. The wool of his sweater scratches her face but she pushes closer, wanting to absorb him into her skin. Her hands circle his waist and wander underneath the edge of his sweater, under his shirt, to trace the hair on his stomach before lifting, traveling upward to where his heart is beating. It's surprisingly steady.

He turns around and his eyes are level on hers, his gaze unwavering. It calms her, draws her mouth to his lips as sure and gentle as a hand on the back of her neck guiding her towards him. The kiss is exactly what she expected, a slow burn that blooms through her face, heating her through and making her hands ache to feel every part of him. When it breaks her breathing is labored, a match for his.

Veronica knows herself well now. She knows she wants this, needs it even. She grabs fistfuls of his sweater in her hands and pulls him toward the bed where she falls back against it. As she stretches across the sheets, and he kisses a path up her body, she's grateful the sheets are so cool. It still might not be enough to keep them from burning up.

---------

When Veronica opens her eyes, it's still dark. She turns her head on the pillow and scans the bed for him, but it's empty. She awoke too early, or he left too soon. Her breath is shaky as she inhales deeply, thinking: 'No regrets. No tears.' She exhales stronger, deliberately.

"This bed is an O. Henry story," she decides, feeling that her love for him made her give away a part of herself, and she is left incomplete.

His reply startles her. "Maybe," he says, "but with one difference." He is sitting in the armchair, barely illuminated, she now sees, by the morning light that streams in from the edges of the thick hotel curtains.

"What's that?" Her heart is in her throat and her voice catches on it when she speaks.

"We get to write the ending," he says, "and we know better than to give up who we are just to make someone else happy."

'It's so simple,' she thinks, 'he's right,' and she is struck full-on by the rightness of being with him. All her stubbornness to be normal was for nothing. The change in her was permanent, and she wouldn't want to change back for anything, not if it meant being without him.

"So we can have a happy ending?" she says, laughter in her voice.

"Oh, you bet, baby." And he's striding toward her, and she can see his eyebrows are waggling as he gets closer, and as he climbs on the bed she opens to him like a book to a favorite page, silently asking to be read again.

END

Ficlet: Falling (Logan) PG

Wed, 08 Jun 2005 01:05:52 GMT

Title: Falling
Author: Joobie_Vienna
Pairing/Character: Logan POV, thoughts of Lilly and Veronica
Word Count: 632
Rating: PG
Summary: Logan dreams.
Spoilers/Warnings: All of season 1, to be safe.

This was written based on some favorable response to my Veronica ficlet, I Wake Up. Thanks to everyone who liked that story and gave me feedback. Any feedback on this is welcome as well! Not sure I like this as much, since it came about by request rather than inspiration, but let me know what you think.

Every night I dream of falling.

Most nights I dream I am tumbling from the edge of a bridge, flipping and turning like a leaf from a tree. I am heavy and sluggish as I fall, filled with vodka and self-hatred. As I plummet, my father's laughing face leans over the edge of the bridge, fading further and further from me. When I hit the water the pain is brutal, worse than any belt, crushing and obscuring everything outside of the memories that swirl like shadows through my mind. I go limp, let my past and my mistakes be the burden that pulls me down faster, a twisted leaden bundle I can never break free of. Icy water threads through my loose fingers and my chest aches as I plunge deeper into darkness. The black is consuming and endless, it overcomes me and presses the breath from me until I am empty. When I hit the bottom, Lilly is always there to meet me.

One night, though, I dream of Veronica. Veronica the way she was when she was just with me. Her eyes are sparkling and her hair is glowing in the moonlight and the line of her jaw is so delicate I am certain I will break it if I touch her. I think she might break me first though; she smiles at me and I blink away tears because she is brighter than the sun, brilliant and beautiful. Not perfect, though, neither of us is perfect, but I feel something better than perfect here with her. I feel whole. Her hand is warm on my back as she pulls me to her, and I can feel her heartbeat, soft but quick, against my chest. She looks up at me like I mean more to her than all the insults and the taunts and the backstabbing of the past year. There is a question in her eyes, and I can only answer it with a kiss. I close my eyes and lean in to graze her lips with mine, falling for Veronica Mars completely.

But then I wake up, and there is only darkness and silence, nothing else. "You did it," I think. "You died. Way to go, Echolls. You can be with Lilly now, instead of being haunted by her ghost."

I let this thought settle with me. I'm surprised to find that it doesn't make me feel good. It doesn't make me feel restful or comforted or pleased. It doesn't feel like solace or success, it feels like failure. I failed Veronica. I couldn't be the man she thought I could, no matter how hard I tried, so she gave up on me. Worse than that, I gave up on myself. "You never deserved her," I think. "You deserve to be in hell."

However, from what I recall of my three hours of Sunday school, hell sounds like raging fire and screaming sinners, not like the strange noise that is slowly beginning to creep into my consciousness: a rhythmic, almost imperceptible beep. Beep. Beep.

The beeping becomes louder, more insistent, and a soft pressure on my hand brings me back to my body. My eyes have been closed, I realize, and it is a heavy, rough task to open them. When I force my eyelids to lift at last, a dim light breaks in and I see that I'm lying in bed. There is a hand attached to my hand, and a body attached to that.

Veronica Mars is attached to me. As I raise my eyes to hers I see they are spilling with tears. Her voice breaks as she says my name and it is the sweetest sound I've ever heard. I grip her hand tighter. I'm attached to her too, and I'm not letting go this time.

END

Ficlet: I Wake Up (Veronica POV) R

Mon, 06 Jun 2005 18:19:56 GMT

Title: I Wake Up
Author: Joobie_Vienna
Pairing/Character: Veronica POV, some Logan
Word Count: 510
Rating: R for slightly steamy description
Summary: Why Veronica can't sleep.

This is a short one, but could get longer if people would like me to continue. Feedback encouraged to a perverse degree.

Every night I wake up screaming.

Most nights I scream because I'm back in that refrigerator, and it is dark and silent except for the echo of my sobs and the beating of my fists against the unrelenting interior. It starts off cool inside, warmed only by my breath, but the minutes tick by and the heat builds until I'm trapped inside an inferno. My clothes begin to stick to me and I feel a panic rise in my chest. Soon the sweat drips off of me, stinging my eyes, pooling in the hollow below my throat. My voice climbs higher, more desperate, strained and aching from shouting that does no good. The air is running out and I'm gasping, choking, clawing and kicking at the door, knowing without a doubt I'm going to die.

When I wake up, I'm always surprised that my hands aren't covered in blood and bruises like they were that first night.

Some nights, though, I dream of Logan. Logan the way he was when he was just with me. His eyes are kind and his lips are soft on my face and his smile is a gift that he gives to me over and over again, even if I don't deserve it. The heat of his breath on my neck runs a shiver through me that I feel to the edges of my bare skin. When his fingers are on me, I feel like an instrument that he's playing, like my body is vibrating and humming a tune of his creation. I'm not myself anymore, I'm his, and I don't care. I want it this way. The feel of his mouth draws sounds from me I didn't know I could make, hungry sounds that elicit a low chuckle from him. As I'm gasping and tugging at the sheets in the full heat of desire, he runs his tongue on the edge of my ear, whispering 'Veronica…' and I call out his name as I break apart in his hands.

When I wake up, I'm always surprised at the amount of pleasure and pain I can feel at the same time.

As excruciating as they are, I think I prefer the nights I'm on fire. At least when I wake up, I know I've survived. I'm alive. I might be afraid but I am stronger than that terrible night, strong enough to live through anything. I can look around my room, see all my things, and be comforted by the reality of my waking life. My heartbeat slows down and I can breathe again.

But the nights when Logan disappears from my arms, the reality I wake up to doesn't feel like survival. It feels like betrayal. It feels like I betrayed not only him but myself and every tender feeling I had for him. Those nights, I turn to my pillow wondering why I had to choose between being true to Lilly and being true to him. I cry myself to sleep, wishing I could just smell his skin or see him smile again.

END

Fic: Unfinished Personal (Logan/Veronica) R

Fri, 03 Jun 2005 01:43:56 GMT

Title: Unfinished Personal
Author: Joobie_Vienna
Pairing/Character: Logan/Veronica, with a dash of Trina
Word Count: 1,369
Rating: R for language
Summary: Veronica's first day back at school after the finale.
Spoilers/Warnings: Everything through the finale.

Note: This is my first fic. Please be gentle! I wrote it a couple days after the finale, but took a while to build up the cojones to post it. Feedback is absoluuuuutely welcome to help me improve; the flow isn't what I'd like it to be, but I wanted to get it out there before I chicken out.

At school on Monday morning the halls are full of murmurs and speculation. It sounds like a hive of bees buzzing, each word ready to sting. Veronica knows how it feels, but this time, their whispers aren't directed at her.

The bell rings, and the whispers and their sources dissipate. Veronica's eyes scan the students as they pass, but she doesn't see the one person she's looking for. As the day wears on, she walks into each classroom prepared to see him, an apology ready in her eyes, but he is never there.

Weevil told her they'd left him on his doorstep, bruised, with the makings of a hangover brewing, but alive. That is all she knows.

"Come on, Logan," she thinks, "we have unfinished business."

"No," she corrects herself, even though she is 'all business', she has to admit to herself that this isn't business. This is personal. Too often in the past Veronica let her pursuit of the truth, her dedication to business, get in the way of her relationships with the people she cared about. But she was wrong, and she needs to fix it--now.

--

When Veronica Mars focuses on something, she follows through with flinty determination. Easy to do when tracking down the local scam artist, but harder to do when she's made a mistake and she's standing in front of the Echolls mansion with her heart beating like it's the refrigerator she was trapped in, and a tiny version of herself is struggling to get out. Her fists banging on the inside.

She pushes the buzzer.

"How many times do I have to say this? FUCK. OFF. Do you not speak English, you fucking vultures? You scavenging sacks of shit?"

It's a female voice.

"Trina? Is Logan there?"

A pause. "Veronica fucking Mars. What do you want?"

"I want to see Logan."

"Well, I don't know if Daddy would want you coming on his property, seeing as you're the one who put him in jail…"

"Cut the crap, Trina. He put himself in jail. Now let me in, I have to talk to Logan."

"Well, I'm pretty sure he'd stab himself in the eye with a rusty nail before he'd talk to you, Veronica. Though, on second thought, that might be kind of fun to watch. Better than him sitting on his ass, stewing in vodka and his own filth."

The gate buzzes, and swings open easily with Veronica's push. She begins the slow march to the door. She has no idea what she'll say.

---

Logan is flopped on the couch. The shades are all drawn and the TV is on, some cheesy action movie. Anything but the news. The volume is low, just a hum really, a little white noise to keep him nice and numb.

He makes a crude rhythm with the bottle. Up from the table. Three turns of the cap to open. Two gulps. Two beats for his eyes to burn. Three turns of the cap to close. Back down to the table.

Repeat. Up, turn, drink, beat, turn, down. Repeat.

His mind wanders. He knows he could leave. Not just the house, but everything: his sister, Neptune, the country. He has a little money, and no reason to stay. He pictures himself in a beat-up old car, driving on an empty road, far from everyone who knows him. He can imagine the wind blowing on his face from the open window, the sun baking his left arm, and nothing in view but flat road and blue, blue sky.

But the picture changes, and it's not some anonymous rust bucket, it's HER rust bucket, and she's next to him, and a feeling of warmth and relief and home comes over him and he knows that it is impossible for him to leave.

He hears the door open, and like magic she's there in front of him. He looks away from her as he takes a moment to build up the walls inside him. He reminds himself that he has to build this wall because she is a heartless bitch who broke his heart and his family, who'll hurt him again, if she has the chance.

But he steels himself for nothing. Veronica doesn't say anything, she just stands there. Veronica Mars, speechless for the first time in her life. Well, the second time really, but who wants to remember the first time now, how she stared up at him with her lips slightly parted, her eyes soft and searching, her breath quiet and uneven, not unlike now. Logan doesn't want to remember the first time, especially not now.

Fine. If she didn't speak, he would. He didn't build up his defenses for nothing. He would go on the attack.

--

"You said you trusted me, Veronica." Logan spits out the words like they are poison in this mouth, poison she tried to feed him. "Is this what you meant by trust? Turning me in to the police for murder? I didn't realize that trust was a synonym for baseless accusations. This is becoming quite a theme with you – first I rape you, WRONG, then I kill your best friend, WRONG, can't you get anything right?"

Logan picks up the bottle, opens it, and swallows deliberately. He doesn't look at her. When he puts the bottle back on the table, Veronica notices his hand is shaking, and something inside her breaks. He's hurt. She made him hurt.

She rushes toward him, intending to do something, anything, a grand gesture that will solve everything, but loses her confidence when she reaches him. She stands directly in front of him, but he still won't look at her. She drops to her knees and peers up at him.

"What can I do to make it better?"

He's still not looking at her, but she sees a flicker of something pass through him at her question. Something in him is starting to thaw, and Veronica can sense it.

She leans down and rests her forehead on his leg, whispering, "I'm sorry, Logan. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." She repeats the words over and over, wishing each apology was a band-aid she could place on every injury he ever had.

Suddenly, the words aren't enough, they don't mean enough, they were never good at the talking part. Veronica rises up and is kissing him all over, a kiss for every hurt.

Here is one on your temple for the day I learned he beat you, she thinks.

This one on your collarbone is for leaving you to wait on that boat, believing you raped me.

One more on the inside of your wrist for the things I said that day at the beach.

Veronica is ready to go on, a thousand kisses at least, for beatings and betrayals and wounds she can't begin to imagine, when she feels the faintest pressure of his hand curving around the back of her neck. Her eyes find his, and she sees that tears are spilling from them. Logan Echolls is crying. For her.

--

The second she kisses him, Logan feels the walls he worked so hard to construct crashing down, crumbing to dust. He tries to remind himself, she thought you raped her. She thought you killed Lilly. She thought you were a monster.

None of it works. His defenses fall anyway. He knows he was a monster to her in the past, and he is the son of the monster who killed her best friend, but she is there. She is there and kissing him like he is on the verge of death and her lips are the only cure.

He has no defense against Veronica Mars. Not anymore. If he stopped to think about it, he'd realize he doesn't even want one.

But he doesn't stop to think about it, he just kisses her back when she kisses him on the mouth, finally. They're kissing for moments, when Veronica pulls back, clutching his shirt, and says, "You taste salty." Logan licks his own lips and nods. Then Veronica smiles at him, and despite everything that's happened, despite everything she's done to him and everything he's done to her, he can't help but smile back.

END