Fic: Afternoon Delight (Veronica, Logan) PG-13
Title: 19½: Afternoon Delight
Author: boyfriendincoma
Pairing/Character: Veronica, Logan
Word Count: 5,665
Rating: PG-13
Summary: If you've got a today, don't wear it tomorrow. Tomorrow never happens. It's all the same day.
Spoilers/Warnings: Takes place between 1.19 and 1.20. Spoilers up to Hot Dogs, obviously.
Notes: Are at the end of the fic.
Most grateful thanks to eolivet for the beta and just being so incredibly supportive.
19½: Afternoon Delight
The Company 1. a family business that sells small mansions with reasonably large profit
2. but not to dictators in the Middle East.
3. runs also a frozen banana stand.
The Company Inside p. 4
It was a good day.
The April sun shone through the windows of the office building when a young woman entered it. One of her hands was curled around the strap of her bag, the other hung purposelessly by her side. Her spine was rigid as she walked to the elevator - determinedly as if she owned the building - not sparing anyone in the lobby a second look. The facade shattered just when she reached the elevator and for her ringing cellphone, revealing the reality of a seventeen-year-old precocious high school junior. Luckily, no one was paying her attention anymore.
Even more luckily, no one could hear her boyfriend's greeting from the phone, because even in Orange County pick up lines on the level of "Hey, how do you feel about, like, hanging out?" tended to go out of fashion upon graduation.
"Sounds good to me," she said as the elevator doors closed behind her. "But the clients who wants to sue the company that built them a house that literally fell apart before they could move in would be...." She hesitated, then gave her voice an airy high-pitched sound: "...like, unhappy with that."
Only silence answered her and she continued: "But considering that the company's CEO was arrested for treason recently this should be easy. I sneak into the office, log into one of their computers, find some dirt, copy some files...." She paused, considering her clients' reaction to any incriminating evidence. "And soon my clients' thirst for vengeance will have driven everyone involved into bankruptcy."
The voice on the other end of the line sounded amused: "I am impressed. And kinda turned on."
The girl laughed a high laugh, a distant cousin of her airhead impression, only a thousand times more sincere.
"So, rain check?" he asked.
"Yeah, definitely rain check. Bye," she said smiling, and hung up.
The elevator doors opened on the top level of the building and revealed an emptied office. The only things left were a few trash bags in the middle of the room.
Office shredder 1. a machine you can feed chains of paper clips, pencils and slices of white bread.
The Company Inside p. 23
An hour later, the girl's phone rang again. She was sitting amidst ripped open trash bags and a mountain of paper - and so finding her phone turned out to be quite a challenge. Looking at the display, she smiled and answered.
"Hey, Veronica," greeted her the same voice that had called earlier. "Have you already found the illegitimate children hiding up in the attic?"
Veronica considered the question, studying the company credit card bills in her hand.
"Actually," she said. "The company moved out and left only their trash and old bills here. So far I only found out that the new CEO is a pool billiard-playing, alcoholic magician who likes to dress in drag on occasion."
She smiled grimly, then balled up the bill in frustration and threw it onto a heap of similarly balled-up bills.
"Maybe I should just wait this out until he bankrupts the company all on his own," Veronica joked, while she picked up the next bill. As she read it, her eyes grew wider....
"He bought a seal?" she asked in disbelief, more to herself than to her boyfriend.
"Maybe he has aristocratic ambitions?" he replied.
"Seal. As in 'sea animal'," she said. No one could say that she was easily surprised by something as mundane as aristocratic ambitions. She had spent more than enough time with Celeste Kane after all. "He bought one. In a bow tie."
There was a long silence, while the boy appeared to digest that piece of information.
"This is useless," she exclaimed suddenly and dug anew into the pile. "Porn, porn bills, legal bills, junk mail, telephone bills, electricity bills, porn, medical bills, porn... Office e-mail! 'Guess what his suit costs? Not as much as I would pay to get rid of him.'"
She tossed the e-mail aside and picked up another piece of paper.
"Hey, this is good," she said, half despaired, half amused. "'The American Revolution: Treason or Patriotism? Reason your choice with at least 1,000 words.'"
She scanned the rest of the page. "Obviously a certain Ann Veal thought it was important that a famous gay singer knew all about her homework, since he missed school on February 10."
"Elton John still goes to school?"
"I doubt it," Veronica replied. "But February 10 was the day the house fell apart. Kind of a strange coincidence, isn't it?"
She stood up, leaving her ivory tower of old company mail and went to the last working phone line in the entire office - where her laptop stood. A few keystrokes later she found... nothing.
"There is no Ann Veal," she said. "However, there is a Terry Veal, who...." Her face fell. "Is a pastor."
"A pastor?" he asked. "Is nothing sacred?"
She didn't answer immediately, too busy feeding the unsuspecting man of God to the search engines. Thirty seconds later, she was smiling again, with a mean little glint in her eyes. "Logan?" she asked. "Still wanna hang out?"
Big Yellow Joint 1. Not what the frozen banana stand looks like. Regardless what that Jimmy Jane song says.
The Company Inside p. 4
When Logan arrived at the frozen banana stand, he spent five minutes trying to figure out where he had seen the teenaged sales girl before. Defying the 'Come any closer and your body will never be found' looks from the boy accompanying her, he approached the stand. "Weren't you one of the producers of Vector Force Ten?" he asked.
The girl gave him a wide, fake smile and brightly said: "Marry me."
Before he couldn't even begin to figure a response to that, a hand grabbed his sleeve and pulled him away from the stand.
"What the hell were you doing with that girl?" Veronica asked, before shaking her head. "Never mind. I don't want to know. Just follow me."
She walked away (not once looking back to confirm whether he actually followed her), only to stop in front of a church turning back around to him. (He had followed her.) She tilted her head and smiled coyly at him.
"I want you to do me a favor."
He looked both at her and the church in slight trepidation, before cracking an anxious smile. " I really like you," he said. "But I don't think my ego could handle two pro...."
She interrupted him before he could even finish the thought: "I want you to go in there and become a re-born virgin."
His jaw dropped.
"It's Pastor Veal's specialty." She smiled expectantly at him. "And you're going to become his next success story."
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Her smile got a bit wider and possibly meaner: "While I spy out the good pastor's office."
Girls With Low Self-Esteem 1. series of videos featuring attractive, young women removing their clothing.
2. recommended by Amazon.com to the buyers of The Man Inside*.
* not the same author as The Company Inside. Not even a blood relative.
The Company Inside p. 35
An hour later, the two teenagers met again in front of the church, both several shades paler.
"So did you find something?" Logan asked casually, only his hasty removal of a chastity ring betraying the ordeal he had gone through.
"A nearly complete collection of Girls with Low Self-Esteem." Veronica shuddered. "It's been a total wash." She brightened: "So you're a virgin now?"
Self-esteem 1. can be improved with a good hair conditioner.
The Company Inside p. 36
"So what do you do now?"
Logan's question was met with Veronica's mouth becoming a determined line while her right hand pulled a large amount of paper out of her bag. "We get the dirt from the people they hired in the past."
She showered his lap with the bills. "Just pick one," she said. "So we can start somewhere."
He slowly contemplated the many bills in his lap and considered a snide remark. But then - like a true drama queen - he just held his hand in front of his eyes to blindly pick one random piece of paper.
"Barry Zuckerkorn," he finally read aloud. "He's very good."
"Oh, you met him before?" Veronica asked in surprise.
"No," he answered dryly. "That's what it says here."
Caged Wisdom: Musings from Prison 1. series of inspirational videos. Available for only four payments of $19.95. More details on purchasing Caged Wisdom can be found in the appendix.
The Company Inside p. 19
A short telephone interview between the San Diego Dispatch's Vera Mansfield and Zuckerkorn's secretary had yielded nothing but a higher cellphone bill for Veronica at the end of the month. In her desperation, Veronica had decided it was time for the big guns. Time for the inside contact into the lawyer business.
"Hey, Cliff. I need a favor."
A warm and soothing voice on the other end said: "I am listening."
"Barry Zuckerkorn. What do you know about him?"
"He's very good," said the warm and soothing voice.
"Yeah," Veronica said curtly. "I got that already covered."
"Oh, really?" the voice now said not quite as warm and soothingly. "How?"
"He printed it on his stationary."
There was a pause at the end of the line. Then the voice was back to its usual honey drip: "Sorry, I really don't know much about him." Another pause. "Except that he's working for a big local family."
"The treason one?"
"I think you're doing fine without my help," the voice spoke so soothingly that despite the large amount of paper in his lap and the chastity ring in his pocket even Logan felt suddenly calm. Of course, they would get the bad guy. Then they would achieve world peace and everything would be wonderful.
Just when he'd saved the whales and baby seals, a disturbance on the other end could be heard: "Excuse me; gotta run, and post my client's bail before it skyrockets."
And the line went dead.
Veronica took the bill out of Logan's hand while he still dazedly contemplated the fate of the whales, balled it up and threw it in the backseat: "Pick another one."
Love Indubitably 1. movie which was described by one critic as "faux-mannered drivel [that] deserves to be singled-out as the worst movie that I have ever seen."
2. is generally held responsible for killing the sub-genre of the British romantic comedy.
The Company Inside p. 93
Some time later (the car was now littered with balled-up bills) Veronica talked to what felt like the millionth shop owner: "So you really don't remember to who you sold the tea and the sword to even though he nearly set you on fire? Hello? Hello?"
She turned to Logan. "He hung up."
"I gathered as much," he deadpanned.
"How many are left?" she asked him, exhaustion in her voice.
"You're investigating the Sopranos."
"The Sopranos are fictional." She thought for a second. "And live in New Jersey." She interrupted her own line of thought irritatedly. "Forget it. Who's next?"
He picked up another piece of paper and read it aloud tiredly: "Rising against emperialistic oppressors can never be treason, because...."
Veronica took the paper away from him. "Tell me again: Why do I think that this is not a real essay on the American Revolution?"
He raised his eyebrows. "Because it is addressed to Elton John and misspells 'imperialistic'?"
"Actually," Veronica said slowly, thinking already about other things. "It's George Michael."
She took the laptop out of her bag, connected it to an unprotected Wi-Fi signal nearby and started to search for a George Michael living in Orange County, who wasn't a gay singer. A few busy seconds later, she had found the answer she had been looking for.
"Who do you think this George Michael is?" she asked, her voice promising already the 'not who you think' punchline.
"So who is he?" he asked back, obviously not willing to give her the cue she had been asking for.
Veronica delivered the punchline nonetheless: "He's actually the son of the current CEO and a student at a local high school," she said, her eyes shining with glee.
"George Michael?" Logan joked. "I thought he was British."
She gave him an exasperated look.
He held his hands up defensively, acknowledging the lameness of his joke. "Or someone named their poor kid really George Michael." He appeared to consider the ramifications of the name. "Do you think that patricide is always a crime?"
Veronica snorted: "Perhaps not if a George Michael commits it."
"Celebrities always get away with murder," Logan said in mock outrage, before he became serious again. "So what's the plan, sensei?"
"The plan, grasshopper, is that we follow the only lead we have," she said. "George Michael's mysterious absence on February 10."
He frowned. "That's one weak lead. And you mixed up Kung-Fu with Karate Kid."
"If a man dwells on the past then he robs the present."
Logan nodded patronizingly: "Ah, Eastern wisdom fused with Western ignorance."
Veronica hid a smile. "Just because some of us can't read, write or count doesn't mean we don't deserve to conquer the universe."
"Mars Family motto?" he asked. She grew immediately cold and distant, and he apologetically added: "If it isn't, my family can use it to embroider our handkerchiefs."
She was placated. "Vonnegut. Kind of."
He smiled at her, his eyes shining, before his smile died and he looked away. "Impressive," he mumbled not looking up from the leftover bills in his lap.
She was puzzled and unable to read the emotion behind the compliment - until she saw him squirming, trying to get more comfortable in the car seat. She smiled. "And kind of a turn on?"
The tips of his ears went red and she could see him sucking in his bottom lip. "Actually...." he looked up and seeing her smile, he smiled back mischievously. "Yes."
Her smile widened, revealing a long row of white teeth. "You know, it's not real work unless you would rather be doing something else." She leaned into his direction and whispered as if she was telling him a secret: "J.M. Barrie."
He took one of her hands and played with her fingers, then pulled it to his lips and whispered into the palm of her hand: "Work and play are words used to describe the same thing under different conditions." He kissed the inside of her wrist. "Ernest Hemingway."
She stroked his left cheek with the tips of her fingers, a butterfly's touch. "I won't take advice from any man who never works except...." Her thumb stroked his bottom lip for a split second. "With his mouth." Her hand cupped his chin, then fell back into her lap. "Charles Bukowski."
He leaned closer to her and whispered in her right ear: "The best prize that life offers is the chance to work...." He kissed her neck shortly; his lips hardly touched her skin, but she could feel him smiling. "...hard at work worth...." Another small kiss closer to her shoulder. "...doing." He pulled back, the smile she had only felt before, still on his face. "Theodore Roosevelt."
She leaned forward and began to whisper in his left ear, interrupting every word with a small kiss, each increasing in intensity. "I'm a great believer in luck and I find...." Her mouth lingered on the next words: "...the harder...." Her tongue re-drew the shape of the shell of his ear. "...I work, the more I have of it." She softly kissed his neck below his ear. "Thomas Jefferson"
He breathed harder, but not to be outdone, he began to scatter little kisses along her shoulder. "Thunder is good," he remarked, turning her around to scatter little kisses on her right cheek and the tip of her nose. "Thunder is impressive. But...." He began to kiss her neck once more, but this time his kisses lingered. "Lightning does the work. Mark Twain."
She let out a little giddy laugh. "If a man has any greatness in him," she sighed while he kissed the skin behind her ear. "It comes to light." She hesitated, then withdrew. "Not in one flamboyant hour," she said, moving back in and kissing the corner of his mouth. "But in the benchmark of his daily work." Her lips lingered on the edge of his bottom lip. "Dorothy Parker."
He pulled back a hair's breadth and said nearly inaudibly: "For one human being to...," then hesitated and seemed to reconsider what he had wanted to say. "...desire another is perhaps the most difficult of our tasks." His lips lingered on hers as chastely as if they were seven and playing a game of Truth or Dare. He pulled back again and continued: "The ultimate, the last test, the work for which all other work is preparation." He kissed her tenderly and full of emotions she didn't want to examine. "Rilke."
She buried her hands in his short hair and deepened the kiss. "I hate quotations," she said loudly and let out a little tense laugh, before the space inside the car became hungrily, passionately and nearly desperately silent. "Emerson."
Steve Holt 1. thespian, football player, perpetual high school senior.
2. exclamation of joy, surprise, astonishment or general acknowledgement of the own existence. If you are Steve Holt.
The Company Inside p. 67
The school's parking lot had been deserted for hours when the Le Baron entered it. But after searching the building itself, the football field and a bunch of other rooms, she had no business searching, Veronica finally found a classmate of George Michael and began to question him amicably in the parking lot for the next ten minutes.
In the car, Logan was getting impatient watching Veronica tilting her head and flipping her hair every two minutes. But before he could think up a semi-reasonable excuse to interrupt the two, she was back in the car.
He raised his eyebrows as he watched the other boy walk away. "Maybe if you wanted to question George Michael's high school friends, you shouldn't have waited until the only person left on the campus was the local drug dealer in the letter jacket."
She rolled her eyes. "That wasn't a drug dealer. That was...." She pumped both of her fists in the air and deepened her voice: "Steve Holt!"
He gave her a look that appeared to question her common sense. "He looks old enough to be cast in The O.C."
She sighed. "He repeated a few years. And he doesn't know any Ann, Annie or Nan Veal." She paused tiredly, thinking about the elusiveness of Ann Veal. "He knows George Michael though. Apparently he was a candidate for student body president and lost with twelve votes."
"Losing by twelve votes? That must've been bitter."
"No, he got twelve votes," she said, pronouncing every word carefully. "The other guy won the rest."
"Popular fellow that George Michael," he deadpanned. "And it took you fifteen minutes to find that out?"
"Steve Holt!" Veronica pumped half-heartedly both fists in the air again. "...wanted to hire me. He just found out who his biological dad is."
"And now he wants you to find him?"
"No, he wanted to find out if hair loss is genetic." Meeting Logan's surprised gaze, she sighed once again. "Well, that's...." Again she pumped her fists in the air. "Steve Holt! for you."
His gaze lingered on her to finally meet her eyes. His pupils darkened. "Do that again," he said.
"What?"
He waved with his hands in a way that only a lot of imagination and creative drug use would have allowed to associate it with someone pumping their fists in the air. "That Steve Holt thing."
"Why?" she asked suspiciously.
He gave her a little, embarrassed smile. "It's kinda hot."
Veronica laughed at him: "Oh, come on...."
He didn't laugh, even his embarrassed smile was gone. His eyes had gone completely dark.
Her laughter diminished, and as if she was hypnotized by his intense stare, she slowly raised her arms above her head and said quietly, as if against her better judgement: "Steve Holt."
He didn't move, not even blink, and breathing suddenly was a conscious effort for her, yet she felt her heart racing in her chest. She licked her lips nervously, then broke eye contact and lowered her arms much more quickly than she had raised them, then laughed: "I can't believe I fell for...."
He moved in quickly, kissing her, silencing her laugh, silencing her suspicions.
She pulled back, out of his range. "You really find it hot when I say another guy's name?" she asked as lightly as she could.
He looked away for a second, took a deep breath and turned back to her; an easy smile on his lips that didn't reach his eyes. "Only if it's Steve Holt."
She laughed, gave him a small peck on the lips and whispered: "Steve Holt."
He kissed her gently, light-heartedly, then planted little kisses on the side of her neck.
"Steve Mmmm... Holt, " she sighed as he moved down from her neck to her collarbone. "Steve." Another sigh. "Holt...."
Bring Your Daughter To Work Day 1. 'Bring Your Daughter To Work' Day. Takes place in April. Not 'Child Labor' Day. That's in June.
The Company Inside p. 75
There wasn't screaming on the other end of the phone line. Shouting, possibly. Perhaps yelling. But not screaming. That would imply anger, but despite Logan being able to hear every word spoken without even being close to Veronica's cellphone, the voice was worried, not violent. A bit loud though.
"...and when their youngest son was supposed to be send to Iraq, they hacked off his hand! Stay away from these people, Veronica. If you mess with their business they'll set you on fire and pour concrete...."
Veronica, who had held the phone at arm's length, decided that it was enough. "Daddy? Daddy?" she asked in the same tone that her three-year-old self had always used to convince her father to buy her ice-cream. "I can't hear you." She used one of the balled up bills to imitate poorly some static. "The reception is really bad." She began to yell: "But if you can hear me: I'll call you back later, okay?"
"Veronica, you...," yelled her father before she hung up on him.
"You know, when I said that maybe you should call your father to tell him that you were already on the way back home...." Logan grimaced as if in pain. "I didn't expect him to list all the methods these people use to deal with their enemies." He let out an insincere laugh. "Maybe one or three, but not all three-hundred of them."
"He was exaggerating," Veronica stated calmly.
"He was exaggerating the treason charge?" He raised his voice and an edge of hysteria crept in: "The one-armed son? The seal with the taste for human flesh?"
Veronica shook her head. "He got that out of When Killer Seals Attack. We should try to find a rental place with better movies one of these days."
He threw up his hands in frustration. "So, what's the plan? Do we grab a few small machine guns and attack them at home?"
She looked up in surprise. "You know," she said while a smile appeared on her face, promising another plan as wonderfully humiliating as the visit to the pastor. "That's actually not a bad idea."
Never nude 1. an affliction affecting dozens. Not acknowledged by the DSM IV.
The Company Inside p. 22
It was a nice house they were standing in front of. Perhaps it looked a bit unfinished and possibly tacky, but a small family might have liked to live there. If it hadn't stood in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but... well, nothing.
"They'll never find our bodies."
"Don't worry," said Veronica reassuringly as she knocked on the door. "This is routine, Dougal."
"Don't you think these fake names are kind of suspicious," Logan said, then paused meaningfully. "Bess."
She raised her eyebrows. "They named their kid George Michael."
"Good point."
The door opened and they were greeted by what could only be described as a cheap bootleg copy of Mrs. Doubtfire; a small, middle-aged man in a dress, wig and false breasts, cheerfully using an equally fake British accent: "Oh, hello, children. No, we're not buying any cookies today."
The two children in question looked at each other for a second, then turned back around, trying to mask the only thought on both of their minds: What the fuck is that?
Veronica caught herself first. "Actually, we're friends of George Michael. I'm Bess and this is...."
Before Veronica could use Logan's designated fake name, his vanity interrupted her: "We're from his school. You know where he wanted to become student body president."
Sensing a slight contradiction to the story they agreed on beforehand, Veronica interrupted the boy too vain to be called Dougal and improvised: "We are from the school paper. We want to know more about the candidate who drew as many votes as Bart Simpson."
The fake Mrs. Doubtfire obviously hadn't heard of George Michael's candidacy and vote tally: "Oh, really? I didn't know that."
Veronica nodded seriously. "Really."
"Unfortunately," said Mrs. Doubtfire. "George Michael is not at home. His school called and asked him to appear at a late-night pep rally."
Veronica smiled, remembering that particular phone call all too well. "Oh, we can wait." She elbowed her companion. "Right, Dougal?"
Logan smiled grimly: "Of course, Bess."
They walked into the house as if they owned it and sat down on the couch in the living room.
Awkward silence ensued.
"Well," said the man in the dress and false breasts in an American accent just before he caught himself and switched back to his poor impression of a sixty-year-old Englishwoman. "I would love to stay and chat, but a nanny's work is never done."
He quickly ran out of the house to a car. Through the window the two teenagers saw him taking off his wig mid-run.
"I'll bet he is off to fetch Hannibal, the seal," said Logan.
"I guess we better search this house quick then," Veronica remarked dryly. "You take the kitchen, I'll look upstairs."
Logan wandered into the kitchen, casually checking out the plastic fruit on the counter. He slowly opened the fridge and looked inside.
"Oh, cheese."
Lighter fluid 1. naphtha; a volatile flammable liquid hydrocarbon mixture; an intermediate between the lighter gasoline and the heavier benzine.
2. Not as dangerous as Web MD wants you to think. Honest.
The Company Inside p. 45
Upstairs Veronica had less luck finding something useful. A search of what was probably a child's bedroom had yielded nothing but a dvd of Les Cousins Dangereux hidden in a sock drawer. Standing in the hallway, she contemplated which of the many rooms she should search next when she noticed a trapdoor in the ceiling, presumably leading to the attic.
Just when she went to take a closer look, a man exited one of the rooms.
First, he smiled when he spotted Veronica and said: "Whoah...." But then he frowned as if he was trying to puzzle out her presence in his home. "Wait, what are you doing here?"
She batted her eyelashes and her voice became high and airy: "I wanted to surprise George Michael." She batted her eyelashes some more. "But he isn't home." She smiled coyly. "And you are?"
He seemed to be surprised, but not unpleasantly so. "Uhm... Gob." He corrected himself: "Joe." And made a small pause as if he was trying to think of a matching last name. "Shmo." Apparently realizing that this might not have been the greatest of all choices, he distracted her from his blunder by dramatically waving his arms and announcing: "Master of illusions."
Unfortunately, that led to Joe Shmo's sleeves emptying their contents on Veronica.
Despite all of her father's horror stories and her interviews with frightened shop owners, Veronica was unprepared for a shower of lighter fluid. Her eyes went wide at the smell of gasoline; she turned on her heels and ran down the stairs:
"Logan," she shouted. "Get to the car."
She caught up with Logan on the way out of the door. They ran to her car and she drove away with squealing tires before he even closed his door.
Afternoon Delight 1. a way to spend your coffee break.
2. a song by the Starland Vocal Band.
An excerpt from its lyrics:
Gonna find my baby, gonna hold her tight
Gonna grab some afternoon delight
My motto’s always been ‘when it’s right, it’s right’
Why wait until the middle of a cold dark night?
When everything’s a little clearer in the light of day
And we know the night is always gonna be there anyway
The Company Inside p. 112
When they were long out of sight of the House of Terror, Logan couldn't stop himself from making a smart-ass remark: "Judging from the smell of your new perfume, your father really wasn't kidding after all."
She didn't look at him, just clenched her teeth tightly: "One... just one 'you made a huge mistake' and the person sitting on the cheap seat can walk home."
"Technically," he said, the smart-ass grin still in place. "All of the seats in this car are cheap, since they came with the car."
She gave him a short look that equally communicated hurt and 'don't fuck with me, I am angry.'
But Logan was well-prepared. "Look," he said, showing her the can in his hand. "I stole some spray cheese. You want some?"
She said (using enough sarcasm to provide a small, semi-democratic country with political satire for two months): "You really know the way to a girl's heart," and took the can. She squirted some cheese directly into her mouth, chewed and gave him the can back, not taking the eyes off the road once.
The ensuing silence made Logan tense and jittery. He fiddled with the can and read the ingredients list.
"Contains monosodium glutamate," he read aloud. "You aren't allergic to that, are you?"
Veronica shook her head silently.
"Good," he said. And then repeated it nervously: "Good."
Still no reaction from the driver's seat.
"Do you know that I am allergic to shellfish?" he asked eagerly.
She nodded again.
"Have I told you about that one time where I ate a crab and nearly died?"
Another nod. More silence.
"Really, I love your car. It's a wonderful vehicle. I never had time to think about this before, but the more miles it puts between the O.C. mob and us, the fonder I grow of it."
Veronica said nothing, but on her lips he saw a ghost of a smile.
"Speaking of the devil," he said, finally sensing a good opening for less silence. "What are you going to tell your clients?"
She sighed in defeat. "That Vinnie Van Lowe is one great P.I."
"You think he's going to take the case?"
A mean but honest smile appeared on her lips. "There will be less competition if he does."
He shook his head in disbelief. "Remind me to never piss you off." He laughed uneasily. "You're scary."
Veronica's smile turned back into a thin, determined line. She stopped the car on the side of the deserted road and turned to him.
He half expected her to throw him out of the car. "You don't look scared," she stated. "You look...," she pretended to think, while the corners of her mouth turned upwards. "...what's the word again?"
He hesitated before answering: "Impressed?"
The little smirk became a naughty smile. "Yeah, that was the word."
"Maybe," he said, pretending to think as well. "...because I'm impressed."
"You are?" she asked. "Hmmm." She raised her arms as if she needed to stretch her cramped and tired muscles.
However, the yawn that accompanied the gesture sounded like "Steve Holt."
Fin
Notes:
1. It's Arrested Development. The story of a wealthy family who lost everything and the one son who had no choice but to keep them all together.
2. This fic is set between Sword of Destiny and Righteous Brothers: The family business moved to a cheaper floor, the fugitive father is hiding in the attic, a son got his hand bitten off by a seal, the son-in-law pretends to be 'Mrs. Featherbottom'... and that isn't even half of it.
3. Veronica and Logan mis-attributed some of the quotations. The Hemingway is actually a Twain and the Dorothy Parker is a Beryl Markham.
4. Not to mention that except for Emerson's "I hate quotations", every single quote is actually misquoted.
5. Stay away from lighter fluid.
Author: boyfriendincoma
Pairing/Character: Veronica, Logan
Word Count: 5,665
Rating: PG-13
Summary: If you've got a today, don't wear it tomorrow. Tomorrow never happens. It's all the same day.
Spoilers/Warnings: Takes place between 1.19 and 1.20. Spoilers up to Hot Dogs, obviously.
Notes: Are at the end of the fic.
Most grateful thanks to eolivet for the beta and just being so incredibly supportive.
19½: Afternoon Delight
The Company 1. a family business that sells small mansions with reasonably large profit
2. but not to dictators in the Middle East.
3. runs also a frozen banana stand.
The Company Inside p. 4
It was a good day.
The April sun shone through the windows of the office building when a young woman entered it. One of her hands was curled around the strap of her bag, the other hung purposelessly by her side. Her spine was rigid as she walked to the elevator - determinedly as if she owned the building - not sparing anyone in the lobby a second look. The facade shattered just when she reached the elevator and for her ringing cellphone, revealing the reality of a seventeen-year-old precocious high school junior. Luckily, no one was paying her attention anymore.
Even more luckily, no one could hear her boyfriend's greeting from the phone, because even in Orange County pick up lines on the level of "Hey, how do you feel about, like, hanging out?" tended to go out of fashion upon graduation.
"Sounds good to me," she said as the elevator doors closed behind her. "But the clients who wants to sue the company that built them a house that literally fell apart before they could move in would be...." She hesitated, then gave her voice an airy high-pitched sound: "...like, unhappy with that."
Only silence answered her and she continued: "But considering that the company's CEO was arrested for treason recently this should be easy. I sneak into the office, log into one of their computers, find some dirt, copy some files...." She paused, considering her clients' reaction to any incriminating evidence. "And soon my clients' thirst for vengeance will have driven everyone involved into bankruptcy."
The voice on the other end of the line sounded amused: "I am impressed. And kinda turned on."
The girl laughed a high laugh, a distant cousin of her airhead impression, only a thousand times more sincere.
"So, rain check?" he asked.
"Yeah, definitely rain check. Bye," she said smiling, and hung up.
The elevator doors opened on the top level of the building and revealed an emptied office. The only things left were a few trash bags in the middle of the room.
Office shredder 1. a machine you can feed chains of paper clips, pencils and slices of white bread.
The Company Inside p. 23
An hour later, the girl's phone rang again. She was sitting amidst ripped open trash bags and a mountain of paper - and so finding her phone turned out to be quite a challenge. Looking at the display, she smiled and answered.
"Hey, Veronica," greeted her the same voice that had called earlier. "Have you already found the illegitimate children hiding up in the attic?"
Veronica considered the question, studying the company credit card bills in her hand.
"Actually," she said. "The company moved out and left only their trash and old bills here. So far I only found out that the new CEO is a pool billiard-playing, alcoholic magician who likes to dress in drag on occasion."
She smiled grimly, then balled up the bill in frustration and threw it onto a heap of similarly balled-up bills.
"Maybe I should just wait this out until he bankrupts the company all on his own," Veronica joked, while she picked up the next bill. As she read it, her eyes grew wider....
"He bought a seal?" she asked in disbelief, more to herself than to her boyfriend.
"Maybe he has aristocratic ambitions?" he replied.
"Seal. As in 'sea animal'," she said. No one could say that she was easily surprised by something as mundane as aristocratic ambitions. She had spent more than enough time with Celeste Kane after all. "He bought one. In a bow tie."
There was a long silence, while the boy appeared to digest that piece of information.
"This is useless," she exclaimed suddenly and dug anew into the pile. "Porn, porn bills, legal bills, junk mail, telephone bills, electricity bills, porn, medical bills, porn... Office e-mail! 'Guess what his suit costs? Not as much as I would pay to get rid of him.'"
She tossed the e-mail aside and picked up another piece of paper.
"Hey, this is good," she said, half despaired, half amused. "'The American Revolution: Treason or Patriotism? Reason your choice with at least 1,000 words.'"
She scanned the rest of the page. "Obviously a certain Ann Veal thought it was important that a famous gay singer knew all about her homework, since he missed school on February 10."
"Elton John still goes to school?"
"I doubt it," Veronica replied. "But February 10 was the day the house fell apart. Kind of a strange coincidence, isn't it?"
She stood up, leaving her ivory tower of old company mail and went to the last working phone line in the entire office - where her laptop stood. A few keystrokes later she found... nothing.
"There is no Ann Veal," she said. "However, there is a Terry Veal, who...." Her face fell. "Is a pastor."
"A pastor?" he asked. "Is nothing sacred?"
She didn't answer immediately, too busy feeding the unsuspecting man of God to the search engines. Thirty seconds later, she was smiling again, with a mean little glint in her eyes. "Logan?" she asked. "Still wanna hang out?"
Big Yellow Joint 1. Not what the frozen banana stand looks like. Regardless what that Jimmy Jane song says.
The Company Inside p. 4
When Logan arrived at the frozen banana stand, he spent five minutes trying to figure out where he had seen the teenaged sales girl before. Defying the 'Come any closer and your body will never be found' looks from the boy accompanying her, he approached the stand. "Weren't you one of the producers of Vector Force Ten?" he asked.
The girl gave him a wide, fake smile and brightly said: "Marry me."
Before he couldn't even begin to figure a response to that, a hand grabbed his sleeve and pulled him away from the stand.
"What the hell were you doing with that girl?" Veronica asked, before shaking her head. "Never mind. I don't want to know. Just follow me."
She walked away (not once looking back to confirm whether he actually followed her), only to stop in front of a church turning back around to him. (He had followed her.) She tilted her head and smiled coyly at him.
"I want you to do me a favor."
He looked both at her and the church in slight trepidation, before cracking an anxious smile. " I really like you," he said. "But I don't think my ego could handle two pro...."
She interrupted him before he could even finish the thought: "I want you to go in there and become a re-born virgin."
His jaw dropped.
"It's Pastor Veal's specialty." She smiled expectantly at him. "And you're going to become his next success story."
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Her smile got a bit wider and possibly meaner: "While I spy out the good pastor's office."
Girls With Low Self-Esteem 1. series of videos featuring attractive, young women removing their clothing.
2. recommended by Amazon.com to the buyers of The Man Inside*.
* not the same author as The Company Inside. Not even a blood relative.
The Company Inside p. 35
An hour later, the two teenagers met again in front of the church, both several shades paler.
"So did you find something?" Logan asked casually, only his hasty removal of a chastity ring betraying the ordeal he had gone through.
"A nearly complete collection of Girls with Low Self-Esteem." Veronica shuddered. "It's been a total wash." She brightened: "So you're a virgin now?"
Self-esteem 1. can be improved with a good hair conditioner.
The Company Inside p. 36
"So what do you do now?"
Logan's question was met with Veronica's mouth becoming a determined line while her right hand pulled a large amount of paper out of her bag. "We get the dirt from the people they hired in the past."
She showered his lap with the bills. "Just pick one," she said. "So we can start somewhere."
He slowly contemplated the many bills in his lap and considered a snide remark. But then - like a true drama queen - he just held his hand in front of his eyes to blindly pick one random piece of paper.
"Barry Zuckerkorn," he finally read aloud. "He's very good."
"Oh, you met him before?" Veronica asked in surprise.
"No," he answered dryly. "That's what it says here."
Caged Wisdom: Musings from Prison 1. series of inspirational videos. Available for only four payments of $19.95. More details on purchasing Caged Wisdom can be found in the appendix.
The Company Inside p. 19
A short telephone interview between the San Diego Dispatch's Vera Mansfield and Zuckerkorn's secretary had yielded nothing but a higher cellphone bill for Veronica at the end of the month. In her desperation, Veronica had decided it was time for the big guns. Time for the inside contact into the lawyer business.
"Hey, Cliff. I need a favor."
A warm and soothing voice on the other end said: "I am listening."
"Barry Zuckerkorn. What do you know about him?"
"He's very good," said the warm and soothing voice.
"Yeah," Veronica said curtly. "I got that already covered."
"Oh, really?" the voice now said not quite as warm and soothingly. "How?"
"He printed it on his stationary."
There was a pause at the end of the line. Then the voice was back to its usual honey drip: "Sorry, I really don't know much about him." Another pause. "Except that he's working for a big local family."
"The treason one?"
"I think you're doing fine without my help," the voice spoke so soothingly that despite the large amount of paper in his lap and the chastity ring in his pocket even Logan felt suddenly calm. Of course, they would get the bad guy. Then they would achieve world peace and everything would be wonderful.
Just when he'd saved the whales and baby seals, a disturbance on the other end could be heard: "Excuse me; gotta run, and post my client's bail before it skyrockets."
And the line went dead.
Veronica took the bill out of Logan's hand while he still dazedly contemplated the fate of the whales, balled it up and threw it in the backseat: "Pick another one."
Love Indubitably 1. movie which was described by one critic as "faux-mannered drivel [that] deserves to be singled-out as the worst movie that I have ever seen."
2. is generally held responsible for killing the sub-genre of the British romantic comedy.
The Company Inside p. 93
Some time later (the car was now littered with balled-up bills) Veronica talked to what felt like the millionth shop owner: "So you really don't remember to who you sold the tea and the sword to even though he nearly set you on fire? Hello? Hello?"
She turned to Logan. "He hung up."
"I gathered as much," he deadpanned.
"How many are left?" she asked him, exhaustion in her voice.
"You're investigating the Sopranos."
"The Sopranos are fictional." She thought for a second. "And live in New Jersey." She interrupted her own line of thought irritatedly. "Forget it. Who's next?"
He picked up another piece of paper and read it aloud tiredly: "Rising against emperialistic oppressors can never be treason, because...."
Veronica took the paper away from him. "Tell me again: Why do I think that this is not a real essay on the American Revolution?"
He raised his eyebrows. "Because it is addressed to Elton John and misspells 'imperialistic'?"
"Actually," Veronica said slowly, thinking already about other things. "It's George Michael."
She took the laptop out of her bag, connected it to an unprotected Wi-Fi signal nearby and started to search for a George Michael living in Orange County, who wasn't a gay singer. A few busy seconds later, she had found the answer she had been looking for.
"Who do you think this George Michael is?" she asked, her voice promising already the 'not who you think' punchline.
"So who is he?" he asked back, obviously not willing to give her the cue she had been asking for.
Veronica delivered the punchline nonetheless: "He's actually the son of the current CEO and a student at a local high school," she said, her eyes shining with glee.
"George Michael?" Logan joked. "I thought he was British."
She gave him an exasperated look.
He held his hands up defensively, acknowledging the lameness of his joke. "Or someone named their poor kid really George Michael." He appeared to consider the ramifications of the name. "Do you think that patricide is always a crime?"
Veronica snorted: "Perhaps not if a George Michael commits it."
"Celebrities always get away with murder," Logan said in mock outrage, before he became serious again. "So what's the plan, sensei?"
"The plan, grasshopper, is that we follow the only lead we have," she said. "George Michael's mysterious absence on February 10."
He frowned. "That's one weak lead. And you mixed up Kung-Fu with Karate Kid."
"If a man dwells on the past then he robs the present."
Logan nodded patronizingly: "Ah, Eastern wisdom fused with Western ignorance."
Veronica hid a smile. "Just because some of us can't read, write or count doesn't mean we don't deserve to conquer the universe."
"Mars Family motto?" he asked. She grew immediately cold and distant, and he apologetically added: "If it isn't, my family can use it to embroider our handkerchiefs."
She was placated. "Vonnegut. Kind of."
He smiled at her, his eyes shining, before his smile died and he looked away. "Impressive," he mumbled not looking up from the leftover bills in his lap.
She was puzzled and unable to read the emotion behind the compliment - until she saw him squirming, trying to get more comfortable in the car seat. She smiled. "And kind of a turn on?"
The tips of his ears went red and she could see him sucking in his bottom lip. "Actually...." he looked up and seeing her smile, he smiled back mischievously. "Yes."
Her smile widened, revealing a long row of white teeth. "You know, it's not real work unless you would rather be doing something else." She leaned into his direction and whispered as if she was telling him a secret: "J.M. Barrie."
He took one of her hands and played with her fingers, then pulled it to his lips and whispered into the palm of her hand: "Work and play are words used to describe the same thing under different conditions." He kissed the inside of her wrist. "Ernest Hemingway."
She stroked his left cheek with the tips of her fingers, a butterfly's touch. "I won't take advice from any man who never works except...." Her thumb stroked his bottom lip for a split second. "With his mouth." Her hand cupped his chin, then fell back into her lap. "Charles Bukowski."
He leaned closer to her and whispered in her right ear: "The best prize that life offers is the chance to work...." He kissed her neck shortly; his lips hardly touched her skin, but she could feel him smiling. "...hard at work worth...." Another small kiss closer to her shoulder. "...doing." He pulled back, the smile she had only felt before, still on his face. "Theodore Roosevelt."
She leaned forward and began to whisper in his left ear, interrupting every word with a small kiss, each increasing in intensity. "I'm a great believer in luck and I find...." Her mouth lingered on the next words: "...the harder...." Her tongue re-drew the shape of the shell of his ear. "...I work, the more I have of it." She softly kissed his neck below his ear. "Thomas Jefferson"
He breathed harder, but not to be outdone, he began to scatter little kisses along her shoulder. "Thunder is good," he remarked, turning her around to scatter little kisses on her right cheek and the tip of her nose. "Thunder is impressive. But...." He began to kiss her neck once more, but this time his kisses lingered. "Lightning does the work. Mark Twain."
She let out a little giddy laugh. "If a man has any greatness in him," she sighed while he kissed the skin behind her ear. "It comes to light." She hesitated, then withdrew. "Not in one flamboyant hour," she said, moving back in and kissing the corner of his mouth. "But in the benchmark of his daily work." Her lips lingered on the edge of his bottom lip. "Dorothy Parker."
He pulled back a hair's breadth and said nearly inaudibly: "For one human being to...," then hesitated and seemed to reconsider what he had wanted to say. "...desire another is perhaps the most difficult of our tasks." His lips lingered on hers as chastely as if they were seven and playing a game of Truth or Dare. He pulled back again and continued: "The ultimate, the last test, the work for which all other work is preparation." He kissed her tenderly and full of emotions she didn't want to examine. "Rilke."
She buried her hands in his short hair and deepened the kiss. "I hate quotations," she said loudly and let out a little tense laugh, before the space inside the car became hungrily, passionately and nearly desperately silent. "Emerson."
Steve Holt 1. thespian, football player, perpetual high school senior.
2. exclamation of joy, surprise, astonishment or general acknowledgement of the own existence. If you are Steve Holt.
The Company Inside p. 67
The school's parking lot had been deserted for hours when the Le Baron entered it. But after searching the building itself, the football field and a bunch of other rooms, she had no business searching, Veronica finally found a classmate of George Michael and began to question him amicably in the parking lot for the next ten minutes.
In the car, Logan was getting impatient watching Veronica tilting her head and flipping her hair every two minutes. But before he could think up a semi-reasonable excuse to interrupt the two, she was back in the car.
He raised his eyebrows as he watched the other boy walk away. "Maybe if you wanted to question George Michael's high school friends, you shouldn't have waited until the only person left on the campus was the local drug dealer in the letter jacket."
She rolled her eyes. "That wasn't a drug dealer. That was...." She pumped both of her fists in the air and deepened her voice: "Steve Holt!"
He gave her a look that appeared to question her common sense. "He looks old enough to be cast in The O.C."
She sighed. "He repeated a few years. And he doesn't know any Ann, Annie or Nan Veal." She paused tiredly, thinking about the elusiveness of Ann Veal. "He knows George Michael though. Apparently he was a candidate for student body president and lost with twelve votes."
"Losing by twelve votes? That must've been bitter."
"No, he got twelve votes," she said, pronouncing every word carefully. "The other guy won the rest."
"Popular fellow that George Michael," he deadpanned. "And it took you fifteen minutes to find that out?"
"Steve Holt!" Veronica pumped half-heartedly both fists in the air again. "...wanted to hire me. He just found out who his biological dad is."
"And now he wants you to find him?"
"No, he wanted to find out if hair loss is genetic." Meeting Logan's surprised gaze, she sighed once again. "Well, that's...." Again she pumped her fists in the air. "Steve Holt! for you."
His gaze lingered on her to finally meet her eyes. His pupils darkened. "Do that again," he said.
"What?"
He waved with his hands in a way that only a lot of imagination and creative drug use would have allowed to associate it with someone pumping their fists in the air. "That Steve Holt thing."
"Why?" she asked suspiciously.
He gave her a little, embarrassed smile. "It's kinda hot."
Veronica laughed at him: "Oh, come on...."
He didn't laugh, even his embarrassed smile was gone. His eyes had gone completely dark.
Her laughter diminished, and as if she was hypnotized by his intense stare, she slowly raised her arms above her head and said quietly, as if against her better judgement: "Steve Holt."
He didn't move, not even blink, and breathing suddenly was a conscious effort for her, yet she felt her heart racing in her chest. She licked her lips nervously, then broke eye contact and lowered her arms much more quickly than she had raised them, then laughed: "I can't believe I fell for...."
He moved in quickly, kissing her, silencing her laugh, silencing her suspicions.
She pulled back, out of his range. "You really find it hot when I say another guy's name?" she asked as lightly as she could.
He looked away for a second, took a deep breath and turned back to her; an easy smile on his lips that didn't reach his eyes. "Only if it's Steve Holt."
She laughed, gave him a small peck on the lips and whispered: "Steve Holt."
He kissed her gently, light-heartedly, then planted little kisses on the side of her neck.
"Steve Mmmm... Holt, " she sighed as he moved down from her neck to her collarbone. "Steve." Another sigh. "Holt...."
Bring Your Daughter To Work Day 1. 'Bring Your Daughter To Work' Day. Takes place in April. Not 'Child Labor' Day. That's in June.
The Company Inside p. 75
There wasn't screaming on the other end of the phone line. Shouting, possibly. Perhaps yelling. But not screaming. That would imply anger, but despite Logan being able to hear every word spoken without even being close to Veronica's cellphone, the voice was worried, not violent. A bit loud though.
"...and when their youngest son was supposed to be send to Iraq, they hacked off his hand! Stay away from these people, Veronica. If you mess with their business they'll set you on fire and pour concrete...."
Veronica, who had held the phone at arm's length, decided that it was enough. "Daddy? Daddy?" she asked in the same tone that her three-year-old self had always used to convince her father to buy her ice-cream. "I can't hear you." She used one of the balled up bills to imitate poorly some static. "The reception is really bad." She began to yell: "But if you can hear me: I'll call you back later, okay?"
"Veronica, you...," yelled her father before she hung up on him.
"You know, when I said that maybe you should call your father to tell him that you were already on the way back home...." Logan grimaced as if in pain. "I didn't expect him to list all the methods these people use to deal with their enemies." He let out an insincere laugh. "Maybe one or three, but not all three-hundred of them."
"He was exaggerating," Veronica stated calmly.
"He was exaggerating the treason charge?" He raised his voice and an edge of hysteria crept in: "The one-armed son? The seal with the taste for human flesh?"
Veronica shook her head. "He got that out of When Killer Seals Attack. We should try to find a rental place with better movies one of these days."
He threw up his hands in frustration. "So, what's the plan? Do we grab a few small machine guns and attack them at home?"
She looked up in surprise. "You know," she said while a smile appeared on her face, promising another plan as wonderfully humiliating as the visit to the pastor. "That's actually not a bad idea."
Never nude 1. an affliction affecting dozens. Not acknowledged by the DSM IV.
The Company Inside p. 22
It was a nice house they were standing in front of. Perhaps it looked a bit unfinished and possibly tacky, but a small family might have liked to live there. If it hadn't stood in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but... well, nothing.
"They'll never find our bodies."
"Don't worry," said Veronica reassuringly as she knocked on the door. "This is routine, Dougal."
"Don't you think these fake names are kind of suspicious," Logan said, then paused meaningfully. "Bess."
She raised her eyebrows. "They named their kid George Michael."
"Good point."
The door opened and they were greeted by what could only be described as a cheap bootleg copy of Mrs. Doubtfire; a small, middle-aged man in a dress, wig and false breasts, cheerfully using an equally fake British accent: "Oh, hello, children. No, we're not buying any cookies today."
The two children in question looked at each other for a second, then turned back around, trying to mask the only thought on both of their minds: What the fuck is that?
Veronica caught herself first. "Actually, we're friends of George Michael. I'm Bess and this is...."
Before Veronica could use Logan's designated fake name, his vanity interrupted her: "We're from his school. You know where he wanted to become student body president."
Sensing a slight contradiction to the story they agreed on beforehand, Veronica interrupted the boy too vain to be called Dougal and improvised: "We are from the school paper. We want to know more about the candidate who drew as many votes as Bart Simpson."
The fake Mrs. Doubtfire obviously hadn't heard of George Michael's candidacy and vote tally: "Oh, really? I didn't know that."
Veronica nodded seriously. "Really."
"Unfortunately," said Mrs. Doubtfire. "George Michael is not at home. His school called and asked him to appear at a late-night pep rally."
Veronica smiled, remembering that particular phone call all too well. "Oh, we can wait." She elbowed her companion. "Right, Dougal?"
Logan smiled grimly: "Of course, Bess."
They walked into the house as if they owned it and sat down on the couch in the living room.
Awkward silence ensued.
"Well," said the man in the dress and false breasts in an American accent just before he caught himself and switched back to his poor impression of a sixty-year-old Englishwoman. "I would love to stay and chat, but a nanny's work is never done."
He quickly ran out of the house to a car. Through the window the two teenagers saw him taking off his wig mid-run.
"I'll bet he is off to fetch Hannibal, the seal," said Logan.
"I guess we better search this house quick then," Veronica remarked dryly. "You take the kitchen, I'll look upstairs."
Logan wandered into the kitchen, casually checking out the plastic fruit on the counter. He slowly opened the fridge and looked inside.
"Oh, cheese."
Lighter fluid 1. naphtha; a volatile flammable liquid hydrocarbon mixture; an intermediate between the lighter gasoline and the heavier benzine.
2. Not as dangerous as Web MD wants you to think. Honest.
The Company Inside p. 45
Upstairs Veronica had less luck finding something useful. A search of what was probably a child's bedroom had yielded nothing but a dvd of Les Cousins Dangereux hidden in a sock drawer. Standing in the hallway, she contemplated which of the many rooms she should search next when she noticed a trapdoor in the ceiling, presumably leading to the attic.
Just when she went to take a closer look, a man exited one of the rooms.
First, he smiled when he spotted Veronica and said: "Whoah...." But then he frowned as if he was trying to puzzle out her presence in his home. "Wait, what are you doing here?"
She batted her eyelashes and her voice became high and airy: "I wanted to surprise George Michael." She batted her eyelashes some more. "But he isn't home." She smiled coyly. "And you are?"
He seemed to be surprised, but not unpleasantly so. "Uhm... Gob." He corrected himself: "Joe." And made a small pause as if he was trying to think of a matching last name. "Shmo." Apparently realizing that this might not have been the greatest of all choices, he distracted her from his blunder by dramatically waving his arms and announcing: "Master of illusions."
Unfortunately, that led to Joe Shmo's sleeves emptying their contents on Veronica.
Despite all of her father's horror stories and her interviews with frightened shop owners, Veronica was unprepared for a shower of lighter fluid. Her eyes went wide at the smell of gasoline; she turned on her heels and ran down the stairs:
"Logan," she shouted. "Get to the car."
She caught up with Logan on the way out of the door. They ran to her car and she drove away with squealing tires before he even closed his door.
Afternoon Delight 1. a way to spend your coffee break.
2. a song by the Starland Vocal Band.
An excerpt from its lyrics:
Gonna find my baby, gonna hold her tight
Gonna grab some afternoon delight
My motto’s always been ‘when it’s right, it’s right’
Why wait until the middle of a cold dark night?
When everything’s a little clearer in the light of day
And we know the night is always gonna be there anyway
The Company Inside p. 112
When they were long out of sight of the House of Terror, Logan couldn't stop himself from making a smart-ass remark: "Judging from the smell of your new perfume, your father really wasn't kidding after all."
She didn't look at him, just clenched her teeth tightly: "One... just one 'you made a huge mistake' and the person sitting on the cheap seat can walk home."
"Technically," he said, the smart-ass grin still in place. "All of the seats in this car are cheap, since they came with the car."
She gave him a short look that equally communicated hurt and 'don't fuck with me, I am angry.'
But Logan was well-prepared. "Look," he said, showing her the can in his hand. "I stole some spray cheese. You want some?"
She said (using enough sarcasm to provide a small, semi-democratic country with political satire for two months): "You really know the way to a girl's heart," and took the can. She squirted some cheese directly into her mouth, chewed and gave him the can back, not taking the eyes off the road once.
The ensuing silence made Logan tense and jittery. He fiddled with the can and read the ingredients list.
"Contains monosodium glutamate," he read aloud. "You aren't allergic to that, are you?"
Veronica shook her head silently.
"Good," he said. And then repeated it nervously: "Good."
Still no reaction from the driver's seat.
"Do you know that I am allergic to shellfish?" he asked eagerly.
She nodded again.
"Have I told you about that one time where I ate a crab and nearly died?"
Another nod. More silence.
"Really, I love your car. It's a wonderful vehicle. I never had time to think about this before, but the more miles it puts between the O.C. mob and us, the fonder I grow of it."
Veronica said nothing, but on her lips he saw a ghost of a smile.
"Speaking of the devil," he said, finally sensing a good opening for less silence. "What are you going to tell your clients?"
She sighed in defeat. "That Vinnie Van Lowe is one great P.I."
"You think he's going to take the case?"
A mean but honest smile appeared on her lips. "There will be less competition if he does."
He shook his head in disbelief. "Remind me to never piss you off." He laughed uneasily. "You're scary."
Veronica's smile turned back into a thin, determined line. She stopped the car on the side of the deserted road and turned to him.
He half expected her to throw him out of the car. "You don't look scared," she stated. "You look...," she pretended to think, while the corners of her mouth turned upwards. "...what's the word again?"
He hesitated before answering: "Impressed?"
The little smirk became a naughty smile. "Yeah, that was the word."
"Maybe," he said, pretending to think as well. "...because I'm impressed."
"You are?" she asked. "Hmmm." She raised her arms as if she needed to stretch her cramped and tired muscles.
However, the yawn that accompanied the gesture sounded like "Steve Holt."
Fin
Notes:
1. It's Arrested Development. The story of a wealthy family who lost everything and the one son who had no choice but to keep them all together.
2. This fic is set between Sword of Destiny and Righteous Brothers: The family business moved to a cheaper floor, the fugitive father is hiding in the attic, a son got his hand bitten off by a seal, the son-in-law pretends to be 'Mrs. Featherbottom'... and that isn't even half of it.
3. Veronica and Logan mis-attributed some of the quotations. The Hemingway is actually a Twain and the Dorothy Parker is a Beryl Markham.
4. Not to mention that except for Emerson's "I hate quotations", every single quote is actually misquoted.
5. Stay away from lighter fluid.