LoVe and Marriage (Logan/Veronica)
Title: LoVe and Marriage
Author: Kristen
Pairing/Character: Logan/Veronica
Word Count: 3423
Rating: PG-13
Summary: She looks up at him and smiles. "How does it end?" "Happily ever after, maybe?"
Spoilers: Futurefic, mentions of the pilot
Warnings: Some sensuality, nothing explicit
Disclaimer: I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of Veronica Mars. No copyright infringement is intended.
This fic has been sitting around collecting dust. So I figured I would exorcise it from my system by posting it. Don't really have a beta, so all mistakes are mine.
"Hi," he says.
His voice is quiet, but the words break through the stillness of the room. She closes the front door behind her and sets her keys down on a nearby table. The brim of her hat feels soggy against her fingers as she tosses it to the floor. It’s barely her favorite but it has its functions, like tonight, shielding her from the blustery air that chills her to the bone, and forces her to seek refuge towards an even colder home.
Her hands fumble as she unbuckles the belt of her trench coat. She rolls her shoulders to remove the garment and hangs it neatly on the hook. The rain, gathered in the creases of her coat, drips off the sleeves, and forms a small puddle on the tile. She ignores it, favoring instead the walk towards him.
"What time is it?" she asks.
This is probably a foolish question. It only brings to light bigger questions. But she can’t help but ask. He looks so tired sitting on the couch, waiting for her to return. All of the boyish features she has admired so much in him are gone. The adolescence seeps away with each new year. A wrinkle that wasn’t there before furrows at the corner of his eyes. A sprinkle of gray hides under locks of light brown.
"I’m not sure," he says. "Late."
She nods. What else is there to say? How long has he been waiting up? Is he angry that she’s started making a habit of coming home so late she thinks he’s asleep? Why doesn’t he ever ask where she is? Does he even care anymore?
"What are you reading?" she asks instead.
The couch creaks under her weight as she sits beside him. Her hands graze across the cool leather. She’s determined that staring at the coffee table in front of them is better than facing him.
From the corner of her eye, she sees him looking down at the book in his lap as if he hadn’t remembered it was there, "Forgetting Things Past."
She scrunches her nose in pretend disdain, "Ugh, sounds French."
He smiles at her for the first time since she walked through the door, "I think you’re thinking of something else."
"How do you like it so far?" she asks.
His arm comes around her shoulder and she rests her head against the side of his chest. There’s a comfort carrying on the charade that nothing is wrong. They could continue to talk like this for hours, never letting the other know what the either was feeling. Pretend warmth and affection is sometimes better than none at all.
"I haven’t decided, yet," he says. "The man in the story is desperately in love with a woman that desperately loves him back."
"Sounds terrible," she says. Her eyes are beginning to droop. The effort to keep conversation going is stalled by the warmth of his body and the strength of his cologne.
"They’re not without their problems," he says. "He misses her when she’s gone, and misses her still when she’s there."
"Why does he stay with her, then?" she asks.
"I think I have to keep reading to figure that out," he says, pushing aside a lock of hair from her face.
She looks up at him and smiles, "How does it end?"
"Happily ever after, maybe?" he replies. She pretends not to see the sorrowful look about his face. He moves her to the side and stands.
She seeks him out with urgency in her eyes. Don’t go. Not yet, she thinks.
For a moment, he stands rooted to the ground, eyeing their bedroom but making no motion to abandon her. She raises her arms up to him childishly.
"You want me to carry you?" he asks. The wish to swat her hands away is heavy in his voice, but his arms remain at his sides.
"Would you take me seriously if I said ‘yes’?" she says.
Indulging her would shift the balance of power, but her desire is clear. Her eyes blaze with determination. Resistance is futile. When has he ever refused her?
Making a show of the erroneousness of her request, he sighs a moment before sweeping her into his arms, eliciting a gasp from her lips. She’s as light now as she was when they were first married. They had laughed so easily then. They had loved so freely. The shared memory of those first few years is written on his stricken face and she wonders what she can do to make it better.
She kisses him, provoking a look of surprise. The softness of her lips contrast against the stubble of his chin. He studies her face for explanation that she can’t supply. Her eyes are shining with amusement. There are no promises in her expression, but she hopes he feels her care for him, her love. If only the sincerity of her look could translate to him.
He plops her down on the bed and walks over to the dresser to change. His maturity level is passed the petulance of opening and closing dresser drawers in haste, but she can still see his irritation. For one, his hands clench and unclench absently as he tries to reign in his temper. The gait of his frame is restless and strained as well. The best thing to do is give him time to cool off, but retreating into the rain is not an option.
"You look tired," she says. Her intent is more of an observation than appraisal.
"That’s because I am tired," he responds.
The venom of his words is hollow, replaced more with fatigue. She drums her fingers against her knees, waiting for accusations that could be disguised in his voice. But nothing comes.
"Tough day?" she asks.
Tougher night, he thinks. His shoulders sigh heavily.
"No more than usual, I guess," he says. The effort to keep his voice even does not go unnoticed.
"You work too hard," she says, circling her arms around to unzip the back of her dress.
She closes her eyes for a moment wishing to have said something less stupid than, "You work too hard."
He doesn’t respond, simply pulling back blankets before getting into bed. It takes a few moments of fidgeting to warm the cool sheets to comfortable. An adjoining body will easily do the trick, but he remains silent.
She can feel the tension in the room even though his back is turned to her. It chills her to feel the space that has formed between them. She feels exposed and vulnerable sitting on the bed in her slip and bra. Her heels still remain on her feet, preparing to carry her away from here if asked.
It’s been such a long period of dreary conversations and thinly veiled threats. They’re both too tired to leave the other. It would be useless, and they both know it. She knows his unhappiness is her fault. It has to be. All the resentment she feels from him surely can’t be unfounded. Her work hours are long, her emotions are closed off. Her, her, her.
She blinks back tears of regret.
Logan, she wants to call out, but instead remains infuriatingly quiet.
He reaches his arm over the covers to switch off the light. She doesn’t move. The lamp from her side of the bed stays on. A stream of light shines on the discarded dress at her side. It’s a white, spring dress, strapless and billowy. The style is outdated, but she doesn’t wear it often. Her hands travel across the fabric carefully, hesitant to feel the touch under her fingers. For a long time, it simply hung in her closet, a present with the tags still on.
The first day she actually wore it feels like a long time ago. She sighs at the memory of her triumph, almost wishing she had shared with him the emotional back story. It wasn’t an exact replica of the dress she had worn when she lost her innocence, but something in the way it had hung on the mannequin and then on a hanger in her bedroom reminded her of that dress, reminded her of that night. He couldn’t have known what the dress meant to her. She had just looked at it in a boutique long enough for him to take notice.
The box was gold plated with matching ribbon and cream tissue paper. She lifted the lid and pushed back the paper, glancing at him in curiosity. What had he done? It wasn’t her birthday. It wasn’t an anniversary or a holiday. When her eyes rested on the dress, a pain sliced through her gut and brought a hand unconsciously to her stomach. She recovered quickly and looked into his face with feigned gratitude.
"Do you like it?" he asked.
"I do," she lied. "Thank you."
After she stepped inside the folds of fabric and zipped up the back for the first time, she had to fight the nausea that threatened behind her throat. The full length mirror seemed to mock her appearance. She was a different person now.
And then, as she smoothed the non-existent wrinkles at her side, all of the pain and distress associated seemed to disappear. Before she could understand why, she looked at her reflection for a second time and realized that it was just a dress.
She walked into their bedroom with a wide smile like she had accomplished something grand. He waited for her to elaborate, but she never did. Holding her tightly in a congratulatory embrace seemed like the only thing to do.
"Thank you," she whispered into his ear, actually meaning it this time. He hadn’t said anything, choosing to kiss her lips instead of responding to actions he couldn’t quite understand. Her happiness radiated through their shared bodies and he smiled at her in spite of his confusion.
A frown of longing escapes her mouth as she looks over at his still frame, knowing he hasn’t yet succumbed to sleep. How she wishes for things to be different, how she wishes for his lips on hers.
She wobbles slightly as she rises. He moves at the shift from the bed, and she pretends not to notice. Their shared armoire is on his side. The cherry paneling matches the headboard of their bed. She smiles softly. It reminds her of a set that her parents had when they were still together. The memories feel like a different set of parents, a different version of herself.
She walks over to his side of the bed in now stockinged feet. The lace at the top of her knee highs match the lace of her bra and panties. Her slip rests beside her dress on the bed. She concentrates on removing each stocking, rolling the material down each leg, and pretending she doesn’t feel his eyes on her. She’s no longer the nubile little thing of her youth, but if there was one thing that can be considered almost perfect in their relationship, it would be their mutual ardor for each other.
Her face heats up and she wills herself from smiling. The effort doesn’t go unnoticed.
"I know what you’re doing and it’s not going to work," he mumbles, closing his eyes as she looks up.
When he opens them again she meets his gaze with an innocent questioning.
What’s not going to work? she seems to say as she drops the stockings to the floor.
A rush of excitement begins to color her cheeks as she loosens her hair from its elastic. She shakes out her blonde tresses, taking a moment to comb her fingers through her hair.
"If you want me to put out, you’re going to have to work a little harder than that," he says, lifting himself up on his elbows.
His face is more familiar to her than her own. Every line, every expression is filed away into her memory. And right now, as she looks into his face, he is daring her to save them.
"You’re still mad," she says.
"I’m still mad," he says.
She nods her head, taking a few steps towards his direction. He stiffens in a mixture of guarded reticence and tempered lust. It’s the latter that causes her to unfasten the front clasp of the lace. The material falls to the floor in a muted heap.
"Work ran over and the weather was terrible," she says. Her feeble explanation sounds hollow even to her, but she hopes for understanding. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, suddenly aware of her nakedness. "I’m sorry, Logan."
He doesn’t seem to know how to react. Her apologies are infrequent, but always sincere. She hopes he hears the difficulty it takes her to concede. The silence feels like forever, but after a moment, he pulls back the covers and motions her closer.
"Are we okay?" she asks, dreading his possible responses.
He hesitates to answer. She can almost see his brain working out an appropriate reply. The wait gives her opportunity to climb into his lap, reveling in the feel of his arms around her, warming her from the chill.
He doesn’t immediately kiss her, and she tries not to act rebuffed as she loosens his grasp to pull his shirt over his head. He tenses a bit, but inevitably lets her.
"Are we okay?" she repeats, her voice small and insecure. His eyes are vacant and inscrutable. He is responding to her advances, but his silence is making her fearful. "Logan?"
"Yeah," he says. "We’re okay."
She smiles in relief and kisses him urgently. It almost doesn’t matter the lie she sees behind his eyes when his tongue touches hers.
She wakes up the next morning alone in their bed. The sheets from his side are still warm. She buries her head into his pillow and breathes deeply. Last night, or at least parts of last night, was perfect. It’s been such a long time since she’s felt this way, an intoxicating need for his presence, for his touch.
"Logan?" she says.
There’s no response.
He’s at the sink in their bathroom. She comes up behind him and puts her arms across his chest. They look at each other in the mirror and smile, her on her tiptoes and off to the side.
I love you, she thinks.
"I’m going to be late for work," he says.
He drops her arms and starts getting ready. She frowns, knowing the moment has passed. He’s concentrating a little too hard on what he’s doing and she can feel that he’s avoiding her gaze.
"Logan?" she says. How she manages to keep the vulnerability out of her voice she can only credit to years of practice.
"Yeah?" he says. His tone carries an element of irritation.
"I don’t have to go into the office until later this afternoon. Wanna have lunch with me?" she asks.
He takes a moment before responding. "Can’t. We’re meeting with Carter’s team today, remember? We’ll probably just order in."
She nods her head in disappointment. "That’s right. I forgot."
She walks beside him and pulls herself up on the counter, watching him as he shaves. He glances at her with slight appraisal. "What?"
She shrugs. In their first year of matrimony, sometimes she would just sit like this watching him as he got ready. He would comment on how very uncharacteristically girly it was, but admitted to loving it. "This is your first morning off in how long and instead of sleeping in you’re watching me get ready for work?"
He doesn’t pause in his incredulity to see her response. She swings her legs back and forth like a child. Before he realizes what’s happening she has her arms wrapped around her neck and is kissing his cheek. "It’s a shame I can’t possibly persuade you into being a few minutes late."
"It is a shame," he says.
He tries to remove her arms from his neck and only manages to give her room to wrap her legs around his waist. "It’s an even bigger shame that you don’t have an inventive enough wife to come up with plausible excuses for why you’ve missed your morning brief with Patricia."
"Plausible excuses or no, I can’t be late," he says.
The tone of seriousness gives her pause. She looks into his eyes, and for a moment she’s sure that he can read what she’s thinking. His mouth turns upwards in a sly smile.
"You can’t be late," she repeats.
"No, I can’t," he says.
She pulls his shirt over his head. "So you really shouldn’t be wearing this, right?"
"What did I do to deserve such a helpful wife?" he says.
She ignores the bristle of his tone and gives him a challenging smile. "And I really don’t think these are work appropriate."
Her voice is low and sultry as she grabs for the waistband of his pants. He grabs her arms firmly at the wrists.
"Honey," he says. "I think I got this."
"Just trying to be helpful, sweetheart," she says. "Like you said."
He kisses the tip of her nose and turns away from her. She frowns as she looks after him.
Guess I’m still in the doghouse, she thinks.
"Have a good day, Logan," she says, retreating back to their bedroom.
She can’t help the sadness of her voice, supposing that last night’s makeup sex hadn’t really made a difference in the light of the day.
She lies on his side of the bed and pulls the covers to her chest. Her eyelids feel so heavy. The month’s workload isn’t all a ruse to avoid her husband, a lot of it has legitimately kept her from her spousal duties. Some even haunt her dreams.
She hears the faucet turn off and adjusts her body away from the door. There are too many times to count his requests to share some of the burden, be a sounding board she most definitely needs.
How she wishes for him to ask her one more time. She shuts her eyes tightly, letting the sorrow and regret wash over her. Tears escape from the corners of her eyes. The thought that she’s being silly, that she’s just overworked and missing her husband does nothing to waylay her emotions. The loss constricts against her chest, leaving her with haggard breath. She puts a hand to her lips to keep from gasping.
Just breathe, Mars. Just breathe.
She hears him come up behind her, but doesn’t open her eyes until his arms come around her own. Her fingers latch on to his sleeves as if by doing so she’ll somehow keep him longer.
"You’re wrinkling your suit," she says. Her eyelashes are still laced with moisture, but her back is to him. Maybe he hasn’t seen.
"What, this old thing?" he says.
She chuckles softly and tries to keep the emotion out of her voice. "Don’t pretend that it’s not your favorite."
"You’re my favorite," he says, whispering the words softly into her hair as she closes her eyes.
"Still?" she asks.
She doesn’t realize that she’s been holding her breath until he holds her closer and she exhales. The action feels like confirmation.
"Be there when I get home?" he asks.
She smiles wanly, knowing he can’t see her face. "I’ll try."
"Try hard," he says, releasing from her grasp and straightening his clothes.
She turns over to her side to face him fully. His expression is blank, but it feels like an ultimatum. "I’ll try."
He nods. His eyes betray a level of disbelief that she’s unable to quell.
"Honey?" she calls. He’s already in the doorframe but stops. The look of appraisal elicits a nervous smile from her lips. "Good luck with the acquisition."
He smiles, though the warmth is absent in his response.
"Honey?" she says.
He looks at her, emanating fatigue and reluctance. "Yes, darling?"
"You’re my favorite, too," she says.
She can almost see the sigh of release that hides underneath his features.
"Still?" he asks.
She nods, blush coloring her cheeks. For once the quips are slow to come.
"I love you, Logan Echolls," she says.
He smiles at her like she’s revealed a secret. "I know."
She watches his retreating frame and smiles to herself. The covers she pulls over her shoulders feel warmer somehow against her skin. As her eyes close, she nestles back into bed, hoping for a dreamless sleep.
Author: Kristen
Pairing/Character: Logan/Veronica
Word Count: 3423
Rating: PG-13
Summary: She looks up at him and smiles. "How does it end?" "Happily ever after, maybe?"
Spoilers: Futurefic, mentions of the pilot
Warnings: Some sensuality, nothing explicit
Disclaimer: I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of Veronica Mars. No copyright infringement is intended.
This fic has been sitting around collecting dust. So I figured I would exorcise it from my system by posting it. Don't really have a beta, so all mistakes are mine.
"Hi," he says.
His voice is quiet, but the words break through the stillness of the room. She closes the front door behind her and sets her keys down on a nearby table. The brim of her hat feels soggy against her fingers as she tosses it to the floor. It’s barely her favorite but it has its functions, like tonight, shielding her from the blustery air that chills her to the bone, and forces her to seek refuge towards an even colder home.
Her hands fumble as she unbuckles the belt of her trench coat. She rolls her shoulders to remove the garment and hangs it neatly on the hook. The rain, gathered in the creases of her coat, drips off the sleeves, and forms a small puddle on the tile. She ignores it, favoring instead the walk towards him.
"What time is it?" she asks.
This is probably a foolish question. It only brings to light bigger questions. But she can’t help but ask. He looks so tired sitting on the couch, waiting for her to return. All of the boyish features she has admired so much in him are gone. The adolescence seeps away with each new year. A wrinkle that wasn’t there before furrows at the corner of his eyes. A sprinkle of gray hides under locks of light brown.
"I’m not sure," he says. "Late."
She nods. What else is there to say? How long has he been waiting up? Is he angry that she’s started making a habit of coming home so late she thinks he’s asleep? Why doesn’t he ever ask where she is? Does he even care anymore?
"What are you reading?" she asks instead.
The couch creaks under her weight as she sits beside him. Her hands graze across the cool leather. She’s determined that staring at the coffee table in front of them is better than facing him.
From the corner of her eye, she sees him looking down at the book in his lap as if he hadn’t remembered it was there, "Forgetting Things Past."
She scrunches her nose in pretend disdain, "Ugh, sounds French."
He smiles at her for the first time since she walked through the door, "I think you’re thinking of something else."
"How do you like it so far?" she asks.
His arm comes around her shoulder and she rests her head against the side of his chest. There’s a comfort carrying on the charade that nothing is wrong. They could continue to talk like this for hours, never letting the other know what the either was feeling. Pretend warmth and affection is sometimes better than none at all.
"I haven’t decided, yet," he says. "The man in the story is desperately in love with a woman that desperately loves him back."
"Sounds terrible," she says. Her eyes are beginning to droop. The effort to keep conversation going is stalled by the warmth of his body and the strength of his cologne.
"They’re not without their problems," he says. "He misses her when she’s gone, and misses her still when she’s there."
"Why does he stay with her, then?" she asks.
"I think I have to keep reading to figure that out," he says, pushing aside a lock of hair from her face.
She looks up at him and smiles, "How does it end?"
"Happily ever after, maybe?" he replies. She pretends not to see the sorrowful look about his face. He moves her to the side and stands.
She seeks him out with urgency in her eyes. Don’t go. Not yet, she thinks.
For a moment, he stands rooted to the ground, eyeing their bedroom but making no motion to abandon her. She raises her arms up to him childishly.
"You want me to carry you?" he asks. The wish to swat her hands away is heavy in his voice, but his arms remain at his sides.
"Would you take me seriously if I said ‘yes’?" she says.
Indulging her would shift the balance of power, but her desire is clear. Her eyes blaze with determination. Resistance is futile. When has he ever refused her?
Making a show of the erroneousness of her request, he sighs a moment before sweeping her into his arms, eliciting a gasp from her lips. She’s as light now as she was when they were first married. They had laughed so easily then. They had loved so freely. The shared memory of those first few years is written on his stricken face and she wonders what she can do to make it better.
She kisses him, provoking a look of surprise. The softness of her lips contrast against the stubble of his chin. He studies her face for explanation that she can’t supply. Her eyes are shining with amusement. There are no promises in her expression, but she hopes he feels her care for him, her love. If only the sincerity of her look could translate to him.
He plops her down on the bed and walks over to the dresser to change. His maturity level is passed the petulance of opening and closing dresser drawers in haste, but she can still see his irritation. For one, his hands clench and unclench absently as he tries to reign in his temper. The gait of his frame is restless and strained as well. The best thing to do is give him time to cool off, but retreating into the rain is not an option.
"You look tired," she says. Her intent is more of an observation than appraisal.
"That’s because I am tired," he responds.
The venom of his words is hollow, replaced more with fatigue. She drums her fingers against her knees, waiting for accusations that could be disguised in his voice. But nothing comes.
"Tough day?" she asks.
Tougher night, he thinks. His shoulders sigh heavily.
"No more than usual, I guess," he says. The effort to keep his voice even does not go unnoticed.
"You work too hard," she says, circling her arms around to unzip the back of her dress.
She closes her eyes for a moment wishing to have said something less stupid than, "You work too hard."
He doesn’t respond, simply pulling back blankets before getting into bed. It takes a few moments of fidgeting to warm the cool sheets to comfortable. An adjoining body will easily do the trick, but he remains silent.
She can feel the tension in the room even though his back is turned to her. It chills her to feel the space that has formed between them. She feels exposed and vulnerable sitting on the bed in her slip and bra. Her heels still remain on her feet, preparing to carry her away from here if asked.
It’s been such a long period of dreary conversations and thinly veiled threats. They’re both too tired to leave the other. It would be useless, and they both know it. She knows his unhappiness is her fault. It has to be. All the resentment she feels from him surely can’t be unfounded. Her work hours are long, her emotions are closed off. Her, her, her.
She blinks back tears of regret.
Logan, she wants to call out, but instead remains infuriatingly quiet.
He reaches his arm over the covers to switch off the light. She doesn’t move. The lamp from her side of the bed stays on. A stream of light shines on the discarded dress at her side. It’s a white, spring dress, strapless and billowy. The style is outdated, but she doesn’t wear it often. Her hands travel across the fabric carefully, hesitant to feel the touch under her fingers. For a long time, it simply hung in her closet, a present with the tags still on.
The first day she actually wore it feels like a long time ago. She sighs at the memory of her triumph, almost wishing she had shared with him the emotional back story. It wasn’t an exact replica of the dress she had worn when she lost her innocence, but something in the way it had hung on the mannequin and then on a hanger in her bedroom reminded her of that dress, reminded her of that night. He couldn’t have known what the dress meant to her. She had just looked at it in a boutique long enough for him to take notice.
The box was gold plated with matching ribbon and cream tissue paper. She lifted the lid and pushed back the paper, glancing at him in curiosity. What had he done? It wasn’t her birthday. It wasn’t an anniversary or a holiday. When her eyes rested on the dress, a pain sliced through her gut and brought a hand unconsciously to her stomach. She recovered quickly and looked into his face with feigned gratitude.
"Do you like it?" he asked.
"I do," she lied. "Thank you."
After she stepped inside the folds of fabric and zipped up the back for the first time, she had to fight the nausea that threatened behind her throat. The full length mirror seemed to mock her appearance. She was a different person now.
And then, as she smoothed the non-existent wrinkles at her side, all of the pain and distress associated seemed to disappear. Before she could understand why, she looked at her reflection for a second time and realized that it was just a dress.
She walked into their bedroom with a wide smile like she had accomplished something grand. He waited for her to elaborate, but she never did. Holding her tightly in a congratulatory embrace seemed like the only thing to do.
"Thank you," she whispered into his ear, actually meaning it this time. He hadn’t said anything, choosing to kiss her lips instead of responding to actions he couldn’t quite understand. Her happiness radiated through their shared bodies and he smiled at her in spite of his confusion.
A frown of longing escapes her mouth as she looks over at his still frame, knowing he hasn’t yet succumbed to sleep. How she wishes for things to be different, how she wishes for his lips on hers.
She wobbles slightly as she rises. He moves at the shift from the bed, and she pretends not to notice. Their shared armoire is on his side. The cherry paneling matches the headboard of their bed. She smiles softly. It reminds her of a set that her parents had when they were still together. The memories feel like a different set of parents, a different version of herself.
She walks over to his side of the bed in now stockinged feet. The lace at the top of her knee highs match the lace of her bra and panties. Her slip rests beside her dress on the bed. She concentrates on removing each stocking, rolling the material down each leg, and pretending she doesn’t feel his eyes on her. She’s no longer the nubile little thing of her youth, but if there was one thing that can be considered almost perfect in their relationship, it would be their mutual ardor for each other.
Her face heats up and she wills herself from smiling. The effort doesn’t go unnoticed.
"I know what you’re doing and it’s not going to work," he mumbles, closing his eyes as she looks up.
When he opens them again she meets his gaze with an innocent questioning.
What’s not going to work? she seems to say as she drops the stockings to the floor.
A rush of excitement begins to color her cheeks as she loosens her hair from its elastic. She shakes out her blonde tresses, taking a moment to comb her fingers through her hair.
"If you want me to put out, you’re going to have to work a little harder than that," he says, lifting himself up on his elbows.
His face is more familiar to her than her own. Every line, every expression is filed away into her memory. And right now, as she looks into his face, he is daring her to save them.
"You’re still mad," she says.
"I’m still mad," he says.
She nods her head, taking a few steps towards his direction. He stiffens in a mixture of guarded reticence and tempered lust. It’s the latter that causes her to unfasten the front clasp of the lace. The material falls to the floor in a muted heap.
"Work ran over and the weather was terrible," she says. Her feeble explanation sounds hollow even to her, but she hopes for understanding. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, suddenly aware of her nakedness. "I’m sorry, Logan."
He doesn’t seem to know how to react. Her apologies are infrequent, but always sincere. She hopes he hears the difficulty it takes her to concede. The silence feels like forever, but after a moment, he pulls back the covers and motions her closer.
"Are we okay?" she asks, dreading his possible responses.
He hesitates to answer. She can almost see his brain working out an appropriate reply. The wait gives her opportunity to climb into his lap, reveling in the feel of his arms around her, warming her from the chill.
He doesn’t immediately kiss her, and she tries not to act rebuffed as she loosens his grasp to pull his shirt over his head. He tenses a bit, but inevitably lets her.
"Are we okay?" she repeats, her voice small and insecure. His eyes are vacant and inscrutable. He is responding to her advances, but his silence is making her fearful. "Logan?"
"Yeah," he says. "We’re okay."
She smiles in relief and kisses him urgently. It almost doesn’t matter the lie she sees behind his eyes when his tongue touches hers.
She wakes up the next morning alone in their bed. The sheets from his side are still warm. She buries her head into his pillow and breathes deeply. Last night, or at least parts of last night, was perfect. It’s been such a long time since she’s felt this way, an intoxicating need for his presence, for his touch.
"Logan?" she says.
There’s no response.
He’s at the sink in their bathroom. She comes up behind him and puts her arms across his chest. They look at each other in the mirror and smile, her on her tiptoes and off to the side.
I love you, she thinks.
"I’m going to be late for work," he says.
He drops her arms and starts getting ready. She frowns, knowing the moment has passed. He’s concentrating a little too hard on what he’s doing and she can feel that he’s avoiding her gaze.
"Logan?" she says. How she manages to keep the vulnerability out of her voice she can only credit to years of practice.
"Yeah?" he says. His tone carries an element of irritation.
"I don’t have to go into the office until later this afternoon. Wanna have lunch with me?" she asks.
He takes a moment before responding. "Can’t. We’re meeting with Carter’s team today, remember? We’ll probably just order in."
She nods her head in disappointment. "That’s right. I forgot."
She walks beside him and pulls herself up on the counter, watching him as he shaves. He glances at her with slight appraisal. "What?"
She shrugs. In their first year of matrimony, sometimes she would just sit like this watching him as he got ready. He would comment on how very uncharacteristically girly it was, but admitted to loving it. "This is your first morning off in how long and instead of sleeping in you’re watching me get ready for work?"
He doesn’t pause in his incredulity to see her response. She swings her legs back and forth like a child. Before he realizes what’s happening she has her arms wrapped around her neck and is kissing his cheek. "It’s a shame I can’t possibly persuade you into being a few minutes late."
"It is a shame," he says.
He tries to remove her arms from his neck and only manages to give her room to wrap her legs around his waist. "It’s an even bigger shame that you don’t have an inventive enough wife to come up with plausible excuses for why you’ve missed your morning brief with Patricia."
"Plausible excuses or no, I can’t be late," he says.
The tone of seriousness gives her pause. She looks into his eyes, and for a moment she’s sure that he can read what she’s thinking. His mouth turns upwards in a sly smile.
"You can’t be late," she repeats.
"No, I can’t," he says.
She pulls his shirt over his head. "So you really shouldn’t be wearing this, right?"
"What did I do to deserve such a helpful wife?" he says.
She ignores the bristle of his tone and gives him a challenging smile. "And I really don’t think these are work appropriate."
Her voice is low and sultry as she grabs for the waistband of his pants. He grabs her arms firmly at the wrists.
"Honey," he says. "I think I got this."
"Just trying to be helpful, sweetheart," she says. "Like you said."
He kisses the tip of her nose and turns away from her. She frowns as she looks after him.
Guess I’m still in the doghouse, she thinks.
"Have a good day, Logan," she says, retreating back to their bedroom.
She can’t help the sadness of her voice, supposing that last night’s makeup sex hadn’t really made a difference in the light of the day.
She lies on his side of the bed and pulls the covers to her chest. Her eyelids feel so heavy. The month’s workload isn’t all a ruse to avoid her husband, a lot of it has legitimately kept her from her spousal duties. Some even haunt her dreams.
She hears the faucet turn off and adjusts her body away from the door. There are too many times to count his requests to share some of the burden, be a sounding board she most definitely needs.
How she wishes for him to ask her one more time. She shuts her eyes tightly, letting the sorrow and regret wash over her. Tears escape from the corners of her eyes. The thought that she’s being silly, that she’s just overworked and missing her husband does nothing to waylay her emotions. The loss constricts against her chest, leaving her with haggard breath. She puts a hand to her lips to keep from gasping.
Just breathe, Mars. Just breathe.
She hears him come up behind her, but doesn’t open her eyes until his arms come around her own. Her fingers latch on to his sleeves as if by doing so she’ll somehow keep him longer.
"You’re wrinkling your suit," she says. Her eyelashes are still laced with moisture, but her back is to him. Maybe he hasn’t seen.
"What, this old thing?" he says.
She chuckles softly and tries to keep the emotion out of her voice. "Don’t pretend that it’s not your favorite."
"You’re my favorite," he says, whispering the words softly into her hair as she closes her eyes.
"Still?" she asks.
She doesn’t realize that she’s been holding her breath until he holds her closer and she exhales. The action feels like confirmation.
"Be there when I get home?" he asks.
She smiles wanly, knowing he can’t see her face. "I’ll try."
"Try hard," he says, releasing from her grasp and straightening his clothes.
She turns over to her side to face him fully. His expression is blank, but it feels like an ultimatum. "I’ll try."
He nods. His eyes betray a level of disbelief that she’s unable to quell.
"Honey?" she calls. He’s already in the doorframe but stops. The look of appraisal elicits a nervous smile from her lips. "Good luck with the acquisition."
He smiles, though the warmth is absent in his response.
"Honey?" she says.
He looks at her, emanating fatigue and reluctance. "Yes, darling?"
"You’re my favorite, too," she says.
She can almost see the sigh of release that hides underneath his features.
"Still?" he asks.
She nods, blush coloring her cheeks. For once the quips are slow to come.
"I love you, Logan Echolls," she says.
He smiles at her like she’s revealed a secret. "I know."
She watches his retreating frame and smiles to herself. The covers she pulls over her shoulders feel warmer somehow against her skin. As her eyes close, she nestles back into bed, hoping for a dreamless sleep.