Fic: Guinevere
Title: Guinevere
Author: addictedtojoy
Pairing/Character: Logan/Veronica
Word Count: 1,712
Rating: PG-13? (some language)
Summary: After the Camelot motel, more complications.
Notes: Many thanks to lmf007, who helped a lot with this fic. Criticism welcome, as always.
Guinevere
She’d spent the better part of a year hating him, which made the Camelot motel scene so much weirder. True, lately they’d settled down into a tentative truce (hardly more than a reluctant ceasefire, really) and maybe the gradual softening in his eyes when he looked at her had indicated a slow releasing of all that abject hatred he’d harboured for so long… but really. Come on. Kissing?
She laughed, admittedly a little hysterically. Kissing Logan Echolls.
Really, really good kissing. Hot, actually.
She waited for it, but the little voice in her head didn’t come. Hell, now even her internal monologue was silent. The one she’d always wondered secretly if it wasn’t even her own voice at all, but his. The mocking voice, the sarcastic commentary on everything she did was more than a little reminiscent of the way he spoke-when he spoke to her at all. It was a little lonely in her head without it. Maybe in touching her, he’d drawn it back into himself. Or maybe it had just been stunned into submission with all the hot kissing.
God.
She’d pulled over to the side of the road less than three blocks from the Camelot, breathing so quickly the road had started to swim in front of her eyes. Was this what a panic attack felt like? Because it certainly felt like panic, and she was a little worried that her heart might beat so fast that it would just up and quit on her. Not good.
Hey, said the inner monologue, you know what was good? The kissing.
She cringed. So, the internal silence hadn’t lasted long. Great.
* * *
She’d sat there in the car for a good forty-five minutes before calming down enough to drive home. After spending as solid a chunk of time as that hyperventilating about a boy you’d just kissed, you didn’t generally then show up at their house barely 7 hours later, which was why she couldn’t really figure out why she was now standing in the Echolls’ driveway at 11 p.m. You’d think the panic attack earlier would have served as a great big warning beacon that told her to stay away from the house of the one person in Neptune who still had the power to reach past her defenses and jump-start her heart. Give her a heart attack in the process, yes, but start it again nonetheless.
If she were honest with herself-and with that constant nattering of her inner dialogue, what choice did she have?-she’d have to admit that recently, she’d started to actually like Logan. She’d seen past the arrogant, asshole exterior and knew him now to be just as scared and hurt as she was. And he’d actually come to her rescue earlier, even if she hadn’t really needed it. Well, even she hadn’t known she didn’t need to be rescued until he’d taken out Mullethead. So yeah, that had been pretty great of him.
You know what else was great? the voice began.
Don’t even start, she told it. Not in the mood.
Not in the mood? Then why are you here?
Was it possible for an inner voice to leer? Shut up.
Somehow, her feet took her around to the pool house. She stopped when she could see his silhouette illuminated through the glass doors. He was playing some video game, occasionally pushing one hand back through his hair in that distracted way she secretly found kind of endearing. She just watched him for a moment before finding the courage to knock on the glass.
He opened the door, not looking all that surprised to see her there. He gestured silently for her to come in, and she went to the nearest chair and sat, pulling her knees up to her chest and hugging her arms around them. He sat across from her and leaned forward, waiting.
“So…” she began, not really knowing what to say now that she was there. “I, um… wanted to say thanks. For coming to help me.”
He smirked, then seemed to think better of it and softened the corners of his mouth a little until he wore something (sort of) resembling a genuine smile. “Your hero.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Yeah.”
He rolled his chair a little closer to her, hands hovering for a moment before covering her knees. He was close, dangerously close, and God, he smelled good. This was not going the way she had envisioned. Or maybe it was. She watched his lips as he said the next words, and just seeing them move in the ordinary formation of words gave her goose bumps, remembering how they had felt and moved on hers.
“And afterwards?” he was asking, still partly the arrogant guy she’d known before, still partly the shell-shocked and unsure boy she’d left on the balcony.
She blinked and brought her gaze back up to his eyes. “I wanted to thank you.”
“Just a thank-you kiss, huh?” His voice, which she was steadily learning to read better, betrayed just a hint of nervousness, telling her he was hoping for a repeat performance and dreading her rejection all at once. But his face was moving steadily closer to hers, his breath now whispering across her face, and she was drawn back to his lips, which seemed even more mesmerizing this close.
“Yeah,” she whispered, not really remembering what she was agreeing to. Because then he was kissing her again, and he was using his hands to draw her legs down from her chest and apart, letting him get closer so he could grab her sides, running his hands up and down her ribcage, across her spine, and into her hair. All she could do was grab onto the front of his shirt. Then he was pulling her forward, and somehow she ended up on his lap, straddling him, her hands tangling in his hair and his palms warm against the bare skin of her lower back.
He broke the kiss to allow them to suck in deep breaths, filling their lungs again with oxygen after stealing it from each other’s mouths so hungrily just a second before. She could feel his chest heaving underneath the hands she had flattened against his t-shirt, and knew her own was doing the same. She was almost dizzy, but maybe that was the kissing more than the oxygen deprivation. For the second time that day, her heart felt like it was beating wildly out of control, but this time it felt a lot more pleasant.
Damn, kissing Duncan had never been like this. She’d been missing out.
He panted, “That didn’t feel like just a thank-you kiss, now did it?”
All she could do was shake her head, not trusting her voice to come out evenly. Every point of contact between them was tingling, and when he tightened his grip on her hipbones, her breath caught at the look in his eyes. It was hungry and wondering all at the same time, and that, more than anything, was the reassurance she needed that this wouldn’t be yet another thing she got mocked for at school on Monday morning. He felt this, wanted this, just as much as she did.
He used his grip on her hips to lift her up effortlessly, standing her on her feet and kissing her again. This time she let her hands wander just as freely as he did, soaking him in through her fingertips, running them over hard shoulder blades and softer skin. He backed them up towards the wall, half-carrying her over to where he could rest her against the solid, cool surface. His hands cupped her cheek, fingers stroking over her jaw and throat, then down again to her sides, where just the tiniest brush of his thumb against the side of her breast made her shiver. Finally, eventually, they had to breathe again, and she reluctantly released his lips once more.
He wrapped his arms tightly around her waist and leaned his forehead onto her shoulder. “God, Veronica,” he whispered hoarsely. “This shouldn’t feel so fucking good. We can’t… we shouldn’t…”
She turned her head and kissed his hair. “I know,” she whispered back. “But it does.” His arms tightened and she sucked in a breath. “Oh God, it does.”
“But Duncan…” his already-quiet voice trailed off, and she knew that he was struggling with the knowledge of what this could do-would do-to Duncan. The Camelot motel had been a more than apt place for this all to begin, she thought wryly. And their little triangle was going to be every bit as complicated as the one in the myths. But just like the woman in that story, she didn’t think she could give Lancelot up, now that she knew what it was like to be touched by him.
She stroked her fingers comfortingly over the back of his neck. “Duncan and I have been broken up a long time,” she said, which was literally true, but the emotions involved were not quite as clean-cut as that and they all knew it. Things might never be settled, though, so she couldn’t let their unresolved, possibly-incestuous past get in the way of what she could have now.
Logan straightened and looked into her eyes. She knew he saw reflected in them everything she had just been thinking, and knew, looking into his, that the same thoughts had gone through his mind too. He combed his fingers into her hair and kissed her again, slowly this time but just as hungrily, then said, “I know.”
In the pool house, with the warm night surrounding them, it seemed simple. But she knew that come morning, daylight would reveal everything to be so much more complicated. She smiled up at him and thought, But hey, when haven’t things been complicated?
He smiled back, and she drew comfort from that small quirking of his lips and the way his fingers still moved restlessly through her hair and on the skin of her neck. Duncan, a year of hating each other, epic love triangles, all of those could wait until morning. For now they had this, and once again the mocking voice in her head was blissfully, wonderfully silent.
Author: addictedtojoy
Pairing/Character: Logan/Veronica
Word Count: 1,712
Rating: PG-13? (some language)
Summary: After the Camelot motel, more complications.
Notes: Many thanks to lmf007, who helped a lot with this fic. Criticism welcome, as always.
Guinevere
She’d spent the better part of a year hating him, which made the Camelot motel scene so much weirder. True, lately they’d settled down into a tentative truce (hardly more than a reluctant ceasefire, really) and maybe the gradual softening in his eyes when he looked at her had indicated a slow releasing of all that abject hatred he’d harboured for so long… but really. Come on. Kissing?
She laughed, admittedly a little hysterically. Kissing Logan Echolls.
Really, really good kissing. Hot, actually.
She waited for it, but the little voice in her head didn’t come. Hell, now even her internal monologue was silent. The one she’d always wondered secretly if it wasn’t even her own voice at all, but his. The mocking voice, the sarcastic commentary on everything she did was more than a little reminiscent of the way he spoke-when he spoke to her at all. It was a little lonely in her head without it. Maybe in touching her, he’d drawn it back into himself. Or maybe it had just been stunned into submission with all the hot kissing.
God.
She’d pulled over to the side of the road less than three blocks from the Camelot, breathing so quickly the road had started to swim in front of her eyes. Was this what a panic attack felt like? Because it certainly felt like panic, and she was a little worried that her heart might beat so fast that it would just up and quit on her. Not good.
Hey, said the inner monologue, you know what was good? The kissing.
She cringed. So, the internal silence hadn’t lasted long. Great.
* * *
She’d sat there in the car for a good forty-five minutes before calming down enough to drive home. After spending as solid a chunk of time as that hyperventilating about a boy you’d just kissed, you didn’t generally then show up at their house barely 7 hours later, which was why she couldn’t really figure out why she was now standing in the Echolls’ driveway at 11 p.m. You’d think the panic attack earlier would have served as a great big warning beacon that told her to stay away from the house of the one person in Neptune who still had the power to reach past her defenses and jump-start her heart. Give her a heart attack in the process, yes, but start it again nonetheless.
If she were honest with herself-and with that constant nattering of her inner dialogue, what choice did she have?-she’d have to admit that recently, she’d started to actually like Logan. She’d seen past the arrogant, asshole exterior and knew him now to be just as scared and hurt as she was. And he’d actually come to her rescue earlier, even if she hadn’t really needed it. Well, even she hadn’t known she didn’t need to be rescued until he’d taken out Mullethead. So yeah, that had been pretty great of him.
You know what else was great? the voice began.
Don’t even start, she told it. Not in the mood.
Not in the mood? Then why are you here?
Was it possible for an inner voice to leer? Shut up.
Somehow, her feet took her around to the pool house. She stopped when she could see his silhouette illuminated through the glass doors. He was playing some video game, occasionally pushing one hand back through his hair in that distracted way she secretly found kind of endearing. She just watched him for a moment before finding the courage to knock on the glass.
He opened the door, not looking all that surprised to see her there. He gestured silently for her to come in, and she went to the nearest chair and sat, pulling her knees up to her chest and hugging her arms around them. He sat across from her and leaned forward, waiting.
“So…” she began, not really knowing what to say now that she was there. “I, um… wanted to say thanks. For coming to help me.”
He smirked, then seemed to think better of it and softened the corners of his mouth a little until he wore something (sort of) resembling a genuine smile. “Your hero.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Yeah.”
He rolled his chair a little closer to her, hands hovering for a moment before covering her knees. He was close, dangerously close, and God, he smelled good. This was not going the way she had envisioned. Or maybe it was. She watched his lips as he said the next words, and just seeing them move in the ordinary formation of words gave her goose bumps, remembering how they had felt and moved on hers.
“And afterwards?” he was asking, still partly the arrogant guy she’d known before, still partly the shell-shocked and unsure boy she’d left on the balcony.
She blinked and brought her gaze back up to his eyes. “I wanted to thank you.”
“Just a thank-you kiss, huh?” His voice, which she was steadily learning to read better, betrayed just a hint of nervousness, telling her he was hoping for a repeat performance and dreading her rejection all at once. But his face was moving steadily closer to hers, his breath now whispering across her face, and she was drawn back to his lips, which seemed even more mesmerizing this close.
“Yeah,” she whispered, not really remembering what she was agreeing to. Because then he was kissing her again, and he was using his hands to draw her legs down from her chest and apart, letting him get closer so he could grab her sides, running his hands up and down her ribcage, across her spine, and into her hair. All she could do was grab onto the front of his shirt. Then he was pulling her forward, and somehow she ended up on his lap, straddling him, her hands tangling in his hair and his palms warm against the bare skin of her lower back.
He broke the kiss to allow them to suck in deep breaths, filling their lungs again with oxygen after stealing it from each other’s mouths so hungrily just a second before. She could feel his chest heaving underneath the hands she had flattened against his t-shirt, and knew her own was doing the same. She was almost dizzy, but maybe that was the kissing more than the oxygen deprivation. For the second time that day, her heart felt like it was beating wildly out of control, but this time it felt a lot more pleasant.
Damn, kissing Duncan had never been like this. She’d been missing out.
He panted, “That didn’t feel like just a thank-you kiss, now did it?”
All she could do was shake her head, not trusting her voice to come out evenly. Every point of contact between them was tingling, and when he tightened his grip on her hipbones, her breath caught at the look in his eyes. It was hungry and wondering all at the same time, and that, more than anything, was the reassurance she needed that this wouldn’t be yet another thing she got mocked for at school on Monday morning. He felt this, wanted this, just as much as she did.
He used his grip on her hips to lift her up effortlessly, standing her on her feet and kissing her again. This time she let her hands wander just as freely as he did, soaking him in through her fingertips, running them over hard shoulder blades and softer skin. He backed them up towards the wall, half-carrying her over to where he could rest her against the solid, cool surface. His hands cupped her cheek, fingers stroking over her jaw and throat, then down again to her sides, where just the tiniest brush of his thumb against the side of her breast made her shiver. Finally, eventually, they had to breathe again, and she reluctantly released his lips once more.
He wrapped his arms tightly around her waist and leaned his forehead onto her shoulder. “God, Veronica,” he whispered hoarsely. “This shouldn’t feel so fucking good. We can’t… we shouldn’t…”
She turned her head and kissed his hair. “I know,” she whispered back. “But it does.” His arms tightened and she sucked in a breath. “Oh God, it does.”
“But Duncan…” his already-quiet voice trailed off, and she knew that he was struggling with the knowledge of what this could do-would do-to Duncan. The Camelot motel had been a more than apt place for this all to begin, she thought wryly. And their little triangle was going to be every bit as complicated as the one in the myths. But just like the woman in that story, she didn’t think she could give Lancelot up, now that she knew what it was like to be touched by him.
She stroked her fingers comfortingly over the back of his neck. “Duncan and I have been broken up a long time,” she said, which was literally true, but the emotions involved were not quite as clean-cut as that and they all knew it. Things might never be settled, though, so she couldn’t let their unresolved, possibly-incestuous past get in the way of what she could have now.
Logan straightened and looked into her eyes. She knew he saw reflected in them everything she had just been thinking, and knew, looking into his, that the same thoughts had gone through his mind too. He combed his fingers into her hair and kissed her again, slowly this time but just as hungrily, then said, “I know.”
In the pool house, with the warm night surrounding them, it seemed simple. But she knew that come morning, daylight would reveal everything to be so much more complicated. She smiled up at him and thought, But hey, when haven’t things been complicated?
He smiled back, and she drew comfort from that small quirking of his lips and the way his fingers still moved restlessly through her hair and on the skin of her neck. Duncan, a year of hating each other, epic love triangles, all of those could wait until morning. For now they had this, and once again the mocking voice in her head was blissfully, wonderfully silent.