Fic: A Few Days Before Christmas (L/V) PG
Author: spyhop
Title: A Conversation A Few Days Before Christmas
Pairing/Character: Logan/Veronica
Word Count: 1235
Rating: PG
Summary: They're talking but not together, the holidays doth approach Spoilers/Warnings: Nothing except Logan and Veronica's on-again/ off-again relationship but takes place in season "4"
Disclaimer: Veronica, Logan, et al, are not mine and I make no claims
Notes: For this conversation they are not together
Logan is walking through campus, having just finished his last exam before winter break. He’s debating letting his legs accidentally walk by (into) the library when he hears the bells. Not clock tower tolling or even Salvation Army basket ringing, but just a hint of jingle, a promise of reindeer.
He follows the sound and heads down the path to Hearst’s central quad. Veronica adjusts her earpiece and still hears interference. She doesn’t think it’s the location. She’s on a bench in the central quad and is following all of the parameters given her by Mac. It must be the hardwire. She stands and kneels to look under her seat, pulling and pushing connections. While there she sees a pair of small silver bells on the ground. They must have fallen off a shoe, yeah, Blitzen’s shoe, she thinks as she cups them in her hands, shaking them and enjoying the sound.
She crawls out from under the bench and sits. Without really thinking about it, she crosses her legs so she can reach the top of her right boot. The boots are warm, brown and shearling lined. They hit right below her knee and lace up to the top. She grasps the lace ends and threads the bells, attaching them with a knot and tug.
She moves her leg experimentally to make sure the bells stay. They tremor their silver song and she finds herself smiling. She sits back and looks up to find she has been caught by the boy most likely to. The boy who ever does.
“You’re such a marshmallow”, says the boy in question. Grinning down at her, he stops just shy of her personal space and stands fast.
“Hel-lo,” she says with disbelief sketched softly, comically, on her face. She holds the earpiece aloft. “You behold me in possession of sexy high-tech gadgetry, plotting with nefarious mind, currently plotting the thorough and judicious annihilation of mine enemies here,” she finishes, maybe a bit too fast, since she’s suddenly short of breath.
“An activity no doubt expedited by the jingle bells on your boots,” he appraises, “Very ninja elf.” He stoops to her knee level, leans in and slowly grasps his jaw. “Both timely and timeless,” he concludes.
“Always with fashion critiques, ya know if I didn’t know better . . .” she says while tilting her head to the side and adding the extreme eyebrows of appraisal and innuendo.
He smirks and stands. He trails for her a sweeping hand gesture and mock bow. It would seem self-deprecatory except that it is performed so naturally, grace outfitted with sinew and muscle. Watching his limbs fold and unfold finds her mesmerized and warmed.
Of course Logan notices.
“C’mon, you’re secretly glad we’re talking, he says “It’ll make it much less awkward for you to find an excuse to drop off my Christmas present.”
“Why would you think I have a present for you?” she stalls. She looks at him as if trying to decide if he has, Heroes-like, developed mind reading abilities. She also is thinking that she doesn’t have to give it to him but at the same time that the gift can be for no one else.
“Well, as I have pointed out -- you are elfin size,” he says while giving her a very quick head to toe look. He then holds out his hands with dual pointed fingers about one and one half feet apart.Then, almost lost in her indignant gasp, he continues, “Because I have no family.”
She looks straight up and sees him studying her all eyes, no attitude.
“And you want me to have at least one present from someone who really knows me,” he finishes.
It’s true. She couldn’t help it.
She’d found the jacket on ebay; a pretty good replica of the motorcycle jacket that had been torched in the fire. The stripes might be a bit more narrow but she thought the fit would be spot on. She’d had to resew the lining; but that was easy, she’d even added a few secret pockets.
The hard part was taking a file and rough stones and dyes and inks and marking the leather. The true work was recreating the intimate web of past scars on the shoulder and wrists and along the inside seam. Not because it wasn’t easy to damage the skin but because she knew she was trying to replace memories. His memories and her remembrance of them - proof that she did know him.
A fall off his dirt bike because Lilly surprise flashed him. Scrapes along the wrists as he ran them, dramatically and roughly against the wall during a particularly inspired rant against his father on a day from which she can still taste the crushed mint leaves from her fingers because Lilly insisted on mint juleps for the Kentucky Derby. A long gash of red eventually turned black from a couple of broken bottles of wine; fractured by a scheme deemed foolproof at the time, teenage masterminds, the four of them. An almost burn, more of a discoloration, along the right sleeve from when he took it off to try shield her from a spontaneous summer bonfire gone wild.
All these thoughts pass in an instant but Logan catches the scent of nostalgia and it smells like victory.
“So confess Mars, you are my Santa Baby”, he says. The last word improbably easy to say even now to this girl, yet his heart stops a bit when it hits the air. It hangs there, a holiday benediction, freezing time and letting her see that heart.
And yet, she can’t let go.
“I confess . . . you are so very full of yourself,” she replies. It wants to be humor, but they both know it is deflection.
“Ah, if only that were the worst thing you’d ever accused me of,” answers Logan, putting a little bite into his words but not his face.
It startles honest eyes from her followed by an incredulous smile. And for a moment she just enjoys the amusement in his face and the softness in his expression. He shrugs and starts to walk away.
“Are there elfin hours at the Grand these days?” she calls after him. Whether born of holiday compassion or her own desires, it comes out unexamined, and to her surprise it brings peace, releasing a bind around her heart.
Then, over his shoulder, somewhat to her and somewhat to the winds of fate he says, “Swing by anytime, I’ll provide the hot cocoa and crumpets.”
“I was just going to leave it at the front desk,” she confesses, both that he was right and she can be a coward.
He turns steps back into the light so she can see him smile.
He says, “Well after all this that just seems cold.”
“That’s me,” she says as she raises her finger to circle her face, “This? Right here. Ice cube.”
“And yet the subtle sugary scent remains,” he says.
“Huh?” she counters.
“Marshmallow,” he emphasizes, “I’ll see you Christmas night.”
He looks at her and tilts his head.
It’s spot on and she laughs, “What?”
“Give an angel her wings already, would ya?” he says.
She shakes her knee three times. The silvery sound carries quickly through the empty campus space.
A sonic air kiss floating through the trees leaving ticking and teasing in its wake.
Title: A Conversation A Few Days Before Christmas
Pairing/Character: Logan/Veronica
Word Count: 1235
Rating: PG
Summary: They're talking but not together, the holidays doth approach Spoilers/Warnings: Nothing except Logan and Veronica's on-again/ off-again relationship but takes place in season "4"
Disclaimer: Veronica, Logan, et al, are not mine and I make no claims
Notes: For this conversation they are not together
Logan is walking through campus, having just finished his last exam before winter break. He’s debating letting his legs accidentally walk by (into) the library when he hears the bells. Not clock tower tolling or even Salvation Army basket ringing, but just a hint of jingle, a promise of reindeer.
He follows the sound and heads down the path to Hearst’s central quad. Veronica adjusts her earpiece and still hears interference. She doesn’t think it’s the location. She’s on a bench in the central quad and is following all of the parameters given her by Mac. It must be the hardwire. She stands and kneels to look under her seat, pulling and pushing connections. While there she sees a pair of small silver bells on the ground. They must have fallen off a shoe, yeah, Blitzen’s shoe, she thinks as she cups them in her hands, shaking them and enjoying the sound.
She crawls out from under the bench and sits. Without really thinking about it, she crosses her legs so she can reach the top of her right boot. The boots are warm, brown and shearling lined. They hit right below her knee and lace up to the top. She grasps the lace ends and threads the bells, attaching them with a knot and tug.
She moves her leg experimentally to make sure the bells stay. They tremor their silver song and she finds herself smiling. She sits back and looks up to find she has been caught by the boy most likely to. The boy who ever does.
“You’re such a marshmallow”, says the boy in question. Grinning down at her, he stops just shy of her personal space and stands fast.
“Hel-lo,” she says with disbelief sketched softly, comically, on her face. She holds the earpiece aloft. “You behold me in possession of sexy high-tech gadgetry, plotting with nefarious mind, currently plotting the thorough and judicious annihilation of mine enemies here,” she finishes, maybe a bit too fast, since she’s suddenly short of breath.
“An activity no doubt expedited by the jingle bells on your boots,” he appraises, “Very ninja elf.” He stoops to her knee level, leans in and slowly grasps his jaw. “Both timely and timeless,” he concludes.
“Always with fashion critiques, ya know if I didn’t know better . . .” she says while tilting her head to the side and adding the extreme eyebrows of appraisal and innuendo.
He smirks and stands. He trails for her a sweeping hand gesture and mock bow. It would seem self-deprecatory except that it is performed so naturally, grace outfitted with sinew and muscle. Watching his limbs fold and unfold finds her mesmerized and warmed.
Of course Logan notices.
“C’mon, you’re secretly glad we’re talking, he says “It’ll make it much less awkward for you to find an excuse to drop off my Christmas present.”
“Why would you think I have a present for you?” she stalls. She looks at him as if trying to decide if he has, Heroes-like, developed mind reading abilities. She also is thinking that she doesn’t have to give it to him but at the same time that the gift can be for no one else.
“Well, as I have pointed out -- you are elfin size,” he says while giving her a very quick head to toe look. He then holds out his hands with dual pointed fingers about one and one half feet apart.Then, almost lost in her indignant gasp, he continues, “Because I have no family.”
She looks straight up and sees him studying her all eyes, no attitude.
“And you want me to have at least one present from someone who really knows me,” he finishes.
It’s true. She couldn’t help it.
She’d found the jacket on ebay; a pretty good replica of the motorcycle jacket that had been torched in the fire. The stripes might be a bit more narrow but she thought the fit would be spot on. She’d had to resew the lining; but that was easy, she’d even added a few secret pockets.
The hard part was taking a file and rough stones and dyes and inks and marking the leather. The true work was recreating the intimate web of past scars on the shoulder and wrists and along the inside seam. Not because it wasn’t easy to damage the skin but because she knew she was trying to replace memories. His memories and her remembrance of them - proof that she did know him.
A fall off his dirt bike because Lilly surprise flashed him. Scrapes along the wrists as he ran them, dramatically and roughly against the wall during a particularly inspired rant against his father on a day from which she can still taste the crushed mint leaves from her fingers because Lilly insisted on mint juleps for the Kentucky Derby. A long gash of red eventually turned black from a couple of broken bottles of wine; fractured by a scheme deemed foolproof at the time, teenage masterminds, the four of them. An almost burn, more of a discoloration, along the right sleeve from when he took it off to try shield her from a spontaneous summer bonfire gone wild.
All these thoughts pass in an instant but Logan catches the scent of nostalgia and it smells like victory.
“So confess Mars, you are my Santa Baby”, he says. The last word improbably easy to say even now to this girl, yet his heart stops a bit when it hits the air. It hangs there, a holiday benediction, freezing time and letting her see that heart.
And yet, she can’t let go.
“I confess . . . you are so very full of yourself,” she replies. It wants to be humor, but they both know it is deflection.
“Ah, if only that were the worst thing you’d ever accused me of,” answers Logan, putting a little bite into his words but not his face.
It startles honest eyes from her followed by an incredulous smile. And for a moment she just enjoys the amusement in his face and the softness in his expression. He shrugs and starts to walk away.
“Are there elfin hours at the Grand these days?” she calls after him. Whether born of holiday compassion or her own desires, it comes out unexamined, and to her surprise it brings peace, releasing a bind around her heart.
Then, over his shoulder, somewhat to her and somewhat to the winds of fate he says, “Swing by anytime, I’ll provide the hot cocoa and crumpets.”
“I was just going to leave it at the front desk,” she confesses, both that he was right and she can be a coward.
He turns steps back into the light so she can see him smile.
He says, “Well after all this that just seems cold.”
“That’s me,” she says as she raises her finger to circle her face, “This? Right here. Ice cube.”
“And yet the subtle sugary scent remains,” he says.
“Huh?” she counters.
“Marshmallow,” he emphasizes, “I’ll see you Christmas night.”
He looks at her and tilts his head.
It’s spot on and she laughs, “What?”
“Give an angel her wings already, would ya?” he says.
She shakes her knee three times. The silvery sound carries quickly through the empty campus space.
A sonic air kiss floating through the trees leaving ticking and teasing in its wake.