Force of Gravity, Ch. 4
Title: The Force of Gravity
Rating: R (language and sexual content)
Summary: It's a darker Neptune, a darker Eli Navarro, and Veronica's pretty sure that she's gotten darker too.
Spoilers: Up to Not Pictured.
Disclaimer: All characters, plots, etc. belong to Rob Thomas and the lovely people who make Veronica Mars possible.
The lifeguard looks surprised when Veronica climbs out of the pool earlier than usual. She smiles and waves on the way out, mentally counting down the small window of time that her father won’t question. But she has questions that need answers, even if asking them is a bad idea. Eli has an alibi, Eli’s alibi is unbreakable. Lamb nearly had an aneurysm; Logan Echolls is still broken and no one is going to be held responsible. Nearly a week later, she’s still trying to figure out which one of them to believe.
She sees the motorcycle stopped at an intersection and knows it’s Weevil when the black helmet turns toward her and nods once. The visor’s opaque, revealing none of the face inside, but she still knows. He turns right, tires squealing and bike roaring as he starts down the road. She follows.
By the time she parks and switches off her headlights, she’s pretty sure this was a very bad idea. The abandoned dock warehouse isn’t exactly a popular make out spot; it’s a good place for bloody secrets to creep around, staying forever in the shadows. She reaches for her taser and nearly jumps out of her skin when someone knocks on her window. Breathing hard, she rolls it down and glares up at Weevil. “Thanks. I didn’t really need that extra five years of my life.”
There’s no small talk; he’s all business. “Pull into that grove of trees up ahead. Out of sight.”
“Is there something wrong with this dark and scary parking space?”
“Just do it, V.” He’s already turning away and climbing back onto his bike, leading the way into the darkness.
“I’ve lost my mind,” she mutters as she closes her window and puts the car back in drive. The little voice in her head is whispering that this is not the Weevil she knew, not the Weevil who took his niece Ophelia to the Winter Carnival. This is the Weevil who breaks bones and sends people to the hospital. She makes sure the taser is in her bag after parking the car.
He’s barely an outline and without the subtle gleam of chrome under moonlight, she wouldn’t have guessed there was another soul around. The car door closes but stays unlocked behind her just in case; she shivers a little against the wind and takes a few cautious steps toward him. He’s still just Weevil.
“I hear you picked up some new moves,” she says casually. There’s movement in the shadows but she’s relying on senses other than sight now, unable to make out anything more than the rustle of leather. She’s startled when she feels him brush against her arm.
“You weren’t skittish the other night,” he murmurs in her ear, standing behind her. There’s no mistaking his intentions. His voice is velvet seduction sliding over her skin and she wonders how she missed that before. Correction, how she managed to ignore it before.
“That was…different.” She stiffens at his touch because her ex-boyfriend is lying in a hospital bed and those hands put him there.
He’s pulling her with him, fingers hooked over the waist of her jeans. Leaning back against her car, he twists her around and tugs her into the vee between his legs. She reaches out to keep distance between them, her hands gripping his arms tightly. Fingers tangle in her hair and he’s rough when he jerks her head back, hot breath against her cheek as he forces her close enough to whisper. “Don’t make me work for it.”
“Weevil.” Her throat feels like sandpaper. She can’t see anything but darkness around her and in him. If she says no, she can’t be sure he won’t ignore her and visions of the bruises on Logan’s face rise up in her mind. He’s stronger than she is, she can feel the hardened muscles in his arms. Also part of the new Weevil.
She lets go slowly. He doesn’t relax his grip on her hair and her neck is aching from the unnatural angle. Even more slowly, she eases down onto her knees. She can almost see his face, looking down at her, and now both of his hands are in her hair. Cautiously, she reaches up to brush her fingers over the fly of his jeans, stopping at the button. She can pull the zipper down with one hand while the other slides down his leg toward her bag.
His voice is even and almost amused. “You even try to use that thing on me and I’ll break more than your jaw.” It’s equal parts admission of guilt and terrifying threat, with an extra helping of knowing exactly what she was reaching for.
A cry of pain escapes her lips when he drags her back to her feet using his grip on her hair and spins her around to pin her against the car; her clenched fists tight and useless against her chest. Her bag is stripped away and tossed into the shadows. Tears well up in her eyes; she frantically tries to figure out what time it is and whether or not her father will start looking for her soon.
Her voice shakes, the words barely a whimper against him. “Please, don’t.”
“I didn’t bring you here to rape you.” The intensity of the anger in his voice hits her like the blow she’s expecting.
She tries to go completely still, tries not to make any movement that he might consider an attack. His answer, while it’s a relief that he doesn’t intend to rape her, implies that there’s method behind his madness. That his insistence on where she parked her car wasn’t a matter of preference; that he’d known she’d come looking for him. She sees that he’s watching her carefully. Just watching. She can’t read the expression on his face and suddenly, she has to know. “What happened to you, Eli?”
The question must surprise him because it surprises her. All of her skills of observation can only give her the after, the symptoms and the consequences. She can’t even begin to guess at what was eating away at his soul from the inside.
“Don’t, V. Just don’t…it doesn’t mean a goddamn thing.” He sounds tired, he sounds wounded. He sounds broken into battered pieces that will rip her apart if she tries to put him back together. Suddenly the death grip on her hair feels more like a desperate attempt to keep from drowning.
She opens her hands, palms down on his chest and tilts her head enough to press her lips against his. The kiss is gentle, almost chaste, and he doesn’t respond. Every muscle in his body must be tense and coiled; she can feel it in the solidity of him. He shivers almost imperceptibly when she kisses him again. He leans in this time, ever so slightly, and the pressure pushing her against the car relaxes enough for her to move her arms. They’re kissing slow and gentle, more like two teenagers trying to figure out how than two people who’ve already passed Go.
But she can’t shake the fact that the hands that are messing her hair up beyond repair are the same hands that broke Logan’s jaw. She wonders if he’s leaving blood streaked and dripping across her skin. It’s poetic in its imagery. They’re both responsible for what happened; the guilt between them as hot and slick as sweat. He’s MacBeth and she’s his Lady. She doesn’t know if the taste of blood on his lips is real or imaginary, but it turns her stomach and she pulls away.
Strong fingers leave her hair to pull her back. He’s kissing her hard now and his hand is clamped down as much on her neck as her jaw. Momentary gentleness is gone and he’s all razorblade edges again, slicing into her as she tries to hold on to him. The kiss breaks; his hand stays curved around her neck. His breath is warm and his lips are soft against her cheek, but his voice is jagged as a saw blade.
“You wanna say no…now’s the time.”
It’s a warning that she’s grateful for because she’s so far over her head that she can’t even see the surface. They’ve always jostled for control, always playing a game that seemed to change on a daily basis. He’d outsmart, out innuendo, and out maneuver her one week; she’d make she sure that come the next, he knew where he stood. But that was the old Weevil. She has a feeling this version doesn’t follow the same rules.
“I can’t,” she whispers, part of her wishing perversely that she hadn’t gone to the hospital. “What you did to Logan--”
He laughs bitterly but doesn’t let go, his thumb making arcing strokes along the length of her neck. “You think that was about you? Don’t flatter yourself, chica.”
What exactly he means is beyond her and she’s afraid to ask. She’s afraid to know. Her palm is against his jaw and she can feel the muscles work, a symptom of a raging internal war. Other than that and the lazy half circles he’s tracing down her neck, he’s completely still. Just staying still, locked together in what is more struggle than embrace, is overwhelming and she can’t force her mind to explain how she got here.
Everything about them is wrong. Dark alleys, abandoned warehouses; two people who just happened to collide on their way to elsewhere and, desperate to escape whatever was snapping at their heels, tumbled into the darkness together. She wonders if prison is still too fresh in his memory, if that’s the why behind the restless violence she can see and feel inside him. Some animals were never meant to be caged; she’s pretty sure he’s one of them.
If she doesn’t let go of him now, if she doesn’t get back into her car and drive home to light and safety, the darkness will seep into her as well and turn her black. She has to choose between letting go and watching him drown or holding on and drowning with him. The decision is easier than she expects it to be.
His skin is warm. She knows there are lines of ink beneath her fingers and wishes she knew where each of them began and ended, makes a silent promise to learn each and every one of them so she can trace them even in complete darkness. Her lips find his again, more insistent this time, and she’s soaking up his darkness with each caress of her tongue.
He doesn’t ask questions. She doesn’t know what she’d tell him if he did. The truth is, she’s tired of swimming.
Rating: R (language and sexual content)
Summary: It's a darker Neptune, a darker Eli Navarro, and Veronica's pretty sure that she's gotten darker too.
Spoilers: Up to Not Pictured.
Disclaimer: All characters, plots, etc. belong to Rob Thomas and the lovely people who make Veronica Mars possible.
The lifeguard looks surprised when Veronica climbs out of the pool earlier than usual. She smiles and waves on the way out, mentally counting down the small window of time that her father won’t question. But she has questions that need answers, even if asking them is a bad idea. Eli has an alibi, Eli’s alibi is unbreakable. Lamb nearly had an aneurysm; Logan Echolls is still broken and no one is going to be held responsible. Nearly a week later, she’s still trying to figure out which one of them to believe.
She sees the motorcycle stopped at an intersection and knows it’s Weevil when the black helmet turns toward her and nods once. The visor’s opaque, revealing none of the face inside, but she still knows. He turns right, tires squealing and bike roaring as he starts down the road. She follows.
By the time she parks and switches off her headlights, she’s pretty sure this was a very bad idea. The abandoned dock warehouse isn’t exactly a popular make out spot; it’s a good place for bloody secrets to creep around, staying forever in the shadows. She reaches for her taser and nearly jumps out of her skin when someone knocks on her window. Breathing hard, she rolls it down and glares up at Weevil. “Thanks. I didn’t really need that extra five years of my life.”
There’s no small talk; he’s all business. “Pull into that grove of trees up ahead. Out of sight.”
“Is there something wrong with this dark and scary parking space?”
“Just do it, V.” He’s already turning away and climbing back onto his bike, leading the way into the darkness.
“I’ve lost my mind,” she mutters as she closes her window and puts the car back in drive. The little voice in her head is whispering that this is not the Weevil she knew, not the Weevil who took his niece Ophelia to the Winter Carnival. This is the Weevil who breaks bones and sends people to the hospital. She makes sure the taser is in her bag after parking the car.
He’s barely an outline and without the subtle gleam of chrome under moonlight, she wouldn’t have guessed there was another soul around. The car door closes but stays unlocked behind her just in case; she shivers a little against the wind and takes a few cautious steps toward him. He’s still just Weevil.
“I hear you picked up some new moves,” she says casually. There’s movement in the shadows but she’s relying on senses other than sight now, unable to make out anything more than the rustle of leather. She’s startled when she feels him brush against her arm.
“You weren’t skittish the other night,” he murmurs in her ear, standing behind her. There’s no mistaking his intentions. His voice is velvet seduction sliding over her skin and she wonders how she missed that before. Correction, how she managed to ignore it before.
“That was…different.” She stiffens at his touch because her ex-boyfriend is lying in a hospital bed and those hands put him there.
He’s pulling her with him, fingers hooked over the waist of her jeans. Leaning back against her car, he twists her around and tugs her into the vee between his legs. She reaches out to keep distance between them, her hands gripping his arms tightly. Fingers tangle in her hair and he’s rough when he jerks her head back, hot breath against her cheek as he forces her close enough to whisper. “Don’t make me work for it.”
“Weevil.” Her throat feels like sandpaper. She can’t see anything but darkness around her and in him. If she says no, she can’t be sure he won’t ignore her and visions of the bruises on Logan’s face rise up in her mind. He’s stronger than she is, she can feel the hardened muscles in his arms. Also part of the new Weevil.
She lets go slowly. He doesn’t relax his grip on her hair and her neck is aching from the unnatural angle. Even more slowly, she eases down onto her knees. She can almost see his face, looking down at her, and now both of his hands are in her hair. Cautiously, she reaches up to brush her fingers over the fly of his jeans, stopping at the button. She can pull the zipper down with one hand while the other slides down his leg toward her bag.
His voice is even and almost amused. “You even try to use that thing on me and I’ll break more than your jaw.” It’s equal parts admission of guilt and terrifying threat, with an extra helping of knowing exactly what she was reaching for.
A cry of pain escapes her lips when he drags her back to her feet using his grip on her hair and spins her around to pin her against the car; her clenched fists tight and useless against her chest. Her bag is stripped away and tossed into the shadows. Tears well up in her eyes; she frantically tries to figure out what time it is and whether or not her father will start looking for her soon.
Her voice shakes, the words barely a whimper against him. “Please, don’t.”
“I didn’t bring you here to rape you.” The intensity of the anger in his voice hits her like the blow she’s expecting.
She tries to go completely still, tries not to make any movement that he might consider an attack. His answer, while it’s a relief that he doesn’t intend to rape her, implies that there’s method behind his madness. That his insistence on where she parked her car wasn’t a matter of preference; that he’d known she’d come looking for him. She sees that he’s watching her carefully. Just watching. She can’t read the expression on his face and suddenly, she has to know. “What happened to you, Eli?”
The question must surprise him because it surprises her. All of her skills of observation can only give her the after, the symptoms and the consequences. She can’t even begin to guess at what was eating away at his soul from the inside.
“Don’t, V. Just don’t…it doesn’t mean a goddamn thing.” He sounds tired, he sounds wounded. He sounds broken into battered pieces that will rip her apart if she tries to put him back together. Suddenly the death grip on her hair feels more like a desperate attempt to keep from drowning.
She opens her hands, palms down on his chest and tilts her head enough to press her lips against his. The kiss is gentle, almost chaste, and he doesn’t respond. Every muscle in his body must be tense and coiled; she can feel it in the solidity of him. He shivers almost imperceptibly when she kisses him again. He leans in this time, ever so slightly, and the pressure pushing her against the car relaxes enough for her to move her arms. They’re kissing slow and gentle, more like two teenagers trying to figure out how than two people who’ve already passed Go.
But she can’t shake the fact that the hands that are messing her hair up beyond repair are the same hands that broke Logan’s jaw. She wonders if he’s leaving blood streaked and dripping across her skin. It’s poetic in its imagery. They’re both responsible for what happened; the guilt between them as hot and slick as sweat. He’s MacBeth and she’s his Lady. She doesn’t know if the taste of blood on his lips is real or imaginary, but it turns her stomach and she pulls away.
Strong fingers leave her hair to pull her back. He’s kissing her hard now and his hand is clamped down as much on her neck as her jaw. Momentary gentleness is gone and he’s all razorblade edges again, slicing into her as she tries to hold on to him. The kiss breaks; his hand stays curved around her neck. His breath is warm and his lips are soft against her cheek, but his voice is jagged as a saw blade.
“You wanna say no…now’s the time.”
It’s a warning that she’s grateful for because she’s so far over her head that she can’t even see the surface. They’ve always jostled for control, always playing a game that seemed to change on a daily basis. He’d outsmart, out innuendo, and out maneuver her one week; she’d make she sure that come the next, he knew where he stood. But that was the old Weevil. She has a feeling this version doesn’t follow the same rules.
“I can’t,” she whispers, part of her wishing perversely that she hadn’t gone to the hospital. “What you did to Logan--”
He laughs bitterly but doesn’t let go, his thumb making arcing strokes along the length of her neck. “You think that was about you? Don’t flatter yourself, chica.”
What exactly he means is beyond her and she’s afraid to ask. She’s afraid to know. Her palm is against his jaw and she can feel the muscles work, a symptom of a raging internal war. Other than that and the lazy half circles he’s tracing down her neck, he’s completely still. Just staying still, locked together in what is more struggle than embrace, is overwhelming and she can’t force her mind to explain how she got here.
Everything about them is wrong. Dark alleys, abandoned warehouses; two people who just happened to collide on their way to elsewhere and, desperate to escape whatever was snapping at their heels, tumbled into the darkness together. She wonders if prison is still too fresh in his memory, if that’s the why behind the restless violence she can see and feel inside him. Some animals were never meant to be caged; she’s pretty sure he’s one of them.
If she doesn’t let go of him now, if she doesn’t get back into her car and drive home to light and safety, the darkness will seep into her as well and turn her black. She has to choose between letting go and watching him drown or holding on and drowning with him. The decision is easier than she expects it to be.
His skin is warm. She knows there are lines of ink beneath her fingers and wishes she knew where each of them began and ended, makes a silent promise to learn each and every one of them so she can trace them even in complete darkness. Her lips find his again, more insistent this time, and she’s soaking up his darkness with each caress of her tongue.
He doesn’t ask questions. She doesn’t know what she’d tell him if he did. The truth is, she’s tired of swimming.