Fic: Non finito. (VMars, Logan/Veronica, PGish)
Non finito. Short fic taking place in season two of Veronica Mars, featuring a lot of rambling Logan brain. Apologies for his cussing. It's been years and continents, but I missed them.
She's standing behind him. Logan doesn't turn around. He can feel her eyes on his back, crawling up his spine, taking stock. Greedy for the details, even details she's already dumped for other details. Encyclopedia Mars.
"Do you think she writes Mrs. Hannah Echolls over and over in her notebook?" She's standing behind him. Logan doesn't turn around. He can feel her eyes on his back, crawling up his spine, taking stock. Greedy for the details, even details she's already dumped for other details. Encyclopedia Mars. "Maybe not. Maybe she's a hyphen kind of girl."
"Clearly, you don't have enough on your plate." He shuts his locker. "What we need is a good old-fashioned crime spree."
"But really." She leans next to him, thoughtlessly close. She's wearing a green sweater, thin and light as cobwebs, the sleeves hanging down past her hands. He thinks about undoing the buttons, one at a time, pulling the threads of the yarn apart. Veronica's frowning at him for drifting; too bad, he's not obligated to stay in the same reality as her anymore. He's a free man in Paris. "This doesn't end well. For her."
"You think so highly of me." He puts a hand over his chest, indicates the epicenter of his shock. "I'm wounded."
"You're a lot of things. Most of them unpronouncable."
"Only in English, Veronica."
He walks her to class.
Hannah asks about her, only once, in the brief intermission between Easy Rider and Love Actually. They're sitting there snuggled up on the couch, all teen sweethearts in sock feet, Coke in big plastic glasses, mom in the next room sending bad vibrations through the plaster. He's almost kind of expecting it to drop: the other shoe. The cinematic switcheroo had already set the wheels turning, and not in a good way. The last time he sat still for a Hugh Grant movie, Lilly was on her knees in front of the sofa.
"Did you and Veronica Mars-" Hannah begins, strawberry-scented chapstick and sunshine and innocent wondering, and then she stops. He understands the hesitation. Did they? Were they? Who fucking knows. Maybe the machine from Big. "You used to go out."
"Ancient history."
"I saw you talking to her. In the parking lot." Hannah curls closer against him, warm and slight in the crook under his arm. "Keeping in touch with your ex is supposed to be healthy. Like, it shows maturity. When people can stay friends." It's such a sweet thought. But there are just so many things wrong with that. He just nods and tries to remember the appropriate head-tilt for the new Cosmo man.
"Right," he says, and kisses her forehead. "Friends."
Logan goes to the In-and-Out Burger and then he parks in Veronica's lot. He rings the bell and she actually answers, maybe because she's expecting a pizza.
Surprise, he thinks.
"Come with me right now," he says, instead. There are still onions stuck in his back teeth. Veronica stares at him like he's grown a second, less functional head. "Walk out here and get into my car and let me drive you somewhere, and it's all over. Finito. I'll delete her number. You'll say Hannah and I'll say who?"
"Gross," she says.
She doesn't close the door.
They go inside and watch American Idol and find things to hate about everyone the camera lingers on. There is a long close-up on a blonde woman in a silver dress, somebody that looks familiar. One of Trina's skanky girlfriends, somebody who's shown up at the gate to beg autographs from daddy dearest. Logan can't keep their plastic faces straight. "Nobody has pores that large," says Veronica, "unless they're hiding something inside." Logan laughs and leans closer into her space, rests his head on the back of the couch and stares at her until she's uncomfortable, and then she leans back too. "I get the feeling sometimes," she says, "that you like me best when I'm being the worst."
"Bingo." He gives her a two finger-gun salute. She deserves it.
"Logan."
"L-O-G-A-N," he says. "And Logan was his name-o." There is a moment of silence for the horribleness of that. "Not your worst," he says. "Not your worst. Just the candy center." Is he really going to jump out of this metaphorical plane, landing be damned? How melodramatic. He can feel the wind on his face, the vertigo. He can smell her shampoo. It's Suave. "You're real with me."
"And Hannah isn't?" she asks, sharply, because she is a terrible person who needs to pry the lids off of other terrible people and examine the contents.
"Hannah," he says, "is not who I'm talking about." Veronica blinks at him. "My cover's too deep. I'm starting to forget whether or not Utah's my real last name. Or if I even know how to surf." He swallows against the golf ball rising in his throat. He's not saying this right. But she doesn't look angry with him. She doesn't really look upset at all. She looks sad, actually sad. He loves the lines in her face, the crazy angles of her mouth when she screams at him, the jut of her eyebrows when she scowls. But she used to look sad for Lilly, sometimes, when nobody was looking; she used to look sad for Duncan. Not for him. This is some kind of horrible new benchmark. It makes him braver. "I don't give two fucks about Pirate Points," he says. "I don't want to pass my Spanish exam. Do you get tired of nodding in the right places, Veronica?" He can see her doing the addition in her head, working it out, making sense of his crap. "You must."
"Maybe," she says. Her voice is a little hoarse. He can picture her as a smoker, with a Virginia Slim between her lips. Cowgirl boots on. Riding a pony. She frowns, like there's a video of that thought playing on his forehead. "Maybe you're projecting."
"Well, you're such a perfectly flat surface."
She punches harder than he remembers.
It's nice.
.
She's standing behind him. Logan doesn't turn around. He can feel her eyes on his back, crawling up his spine, taking stock. Greedy for the details, even details she's already dumped for other details. Encyclopedia Mars.
"Do you think she writes Mrs. Hannah Echolls over and over in her notebook?" She's standing behind him. Logan doesn't turn around. He can feel her eyes on his back, crawling up his spine, taking stock. Greedy for the details, even details she's already dumped for other details. Encyclopedia Mars. "Maybe not. Maybe she's a hyphen kind of girl."
"Clearly, you don't have enough on your plate." He shuts his locker. "What we need is a good old-fashioned crime spree."
"But really." She leans next to him, thoughtlessly close. She's wearing a green sweater, thin and light as cobwebs, the sleeves hanging down past her hands. He thinks about undoing the buttons, one at a time, pulling the threads of the yarn apart. Veronica's frowning at him for drifting; too bad, he's not obligated to stay in the same reality as her anymore. He's a free man in Paris. "This doesn't end well. For her."
"You think so highly of me." He puts a hand over his chest, indicates the epicenter of his shock. "I'm wounded."
"You're a lot of things. Most of them unpronouncable."
"Only in English, Veronica."
He walks her to class.
Hannah asks about her, only once, in the brief intermission between Easy Rider and Love Actually. They're sitting there snuggled up on the couch, all teen sweethearts in sock feet, Coke in big plastic glasses, mom in the next room sending bad vibrations through the plaster. He's almost kind of expecting it to drop: the other shoe. The cinematic switcheroo had already set the wheels turning, and not in a good way. The last time he sat still for a Hugh Grant movie, Lilly was on her knees in front of the sofa.
"Did you and Veronica Mars-" Hannah begins, strawberry-scented chapstick and sunshine and innocent wondering, and then she stops. He understands the hesitation. Did they? Were they? Who fucking knows. Maybe the machine from Big. "You used to go out."
"Ancient history."
"I saw you talking to her. In the parking lot." Hannah curls closer against him, warm and slight in the crook under his arm. "Keeping in touch with your ex is supposed to be healthy. Like, it shows maturity. When people can stay friends." It's such a sweet thought. But there are just so many things wrong with that. He just nods and tries to remember the appropriate head-tilt for the new Cosmo man.
"Right," he says, and kisses her forehead. "Friends."
Logan goes to the In-and-Out Burger and then he parks in Veronica's lot. He rings the bell and she actually answers, maybe because she's expecting a pizza.
Surprise, he thinks.
"Come with me right now," he says, instead. There are still onions stuck in his back teeth. Veronica stares at him like he's grown a second, less functional head. "Walk out here and get into my car and let me drive you somewhere, and it's all over. Finito. I'll delete her number. You'll say Hannah and I'll say who?"
"Gross," she says.
She doesn't close the door.
They go inside and watch American Idol and find things to hate about everyone the camera lingers on. There is a long close-up on a blonde woman in a silver dress, somebody that looks familiar. One of Trina's skanky girlfriends, somebody who's shown up at the gate to beg autographs from daddy dearest. Logan can't keep their plastic faces straight. "Nobody has pores that large," says Veronica, "unless they're hiding something inside." Logan laughs and leans closer into her space, rests his head on the back of the couch and stares at her until she's uncomfortable, and then she leans back too. "I get the feeling sometimes," she says, "that you like me best when I'm being the worst."
"Bingo." He gives her a two finger-gun salute. She deserves it.
"Logan."
"L-O-G-A-N," he says. "And Logan was his name-o." There is a moment of silence for the horribleness of that. "Not your worst," he says. "Not your worst. Just the candy center." Is he really going to jump out of this metaphorical plane, landing be damned? How melodramatic. He can feel the wind on his face, the vertigo. He can smell her shampoo. It's Suave. "You're real with me."
"And Hannah isn't?" she asks, sharply, because she is a terrible person who needs to pry the lids off of other terrible people and examine the contents.
"Hannah," he says, "is not who I'm talking about." Veronica blinks at him. "My cover's too deep. I'm starting to forget whether or not Utah's my real last name. Or if I even know how to surf." He swallows against the golf ball rising in his throat. He's not saying this right. But she doesn't look angry with him. She doesn't really look upset at all. She looks sad, actually sad. He loves the lines in her face, the crazy angles of her mouth when she screams at him, the jut of her eyebrows when she scowls. But she used to look sad for Lilly, sometimes, when nobody was looking; she used to look sad for Duncan. Not for him. This is some kind of horrible new benchmark. It makes him braver. "I don't give two fucks about Pirate Points," he says. "I don't want to pass my Spanish exam. Do you get tired of nodding in the right places, Veronica?" He can see her doing the addition in her head, working it out, making sense of his crap. "You must."
"Maybe," she says. Her voice is a little hoarse. He can picture her as a smoker, with a Virginia Slim between her lips. Cowgirl boots on. Riding a pony. She frowns, like there's a video of that thought playing on his forehead. "Maybe you're projecting."
"Well, you're such a perfectly flat surface."
She punches harder than he remembers.
It's nice.
.