Veronica Mars fic for femslash06 (for paranoidkitten)
Everyone knows I don't tend to do the proper header things, but I'm trying to be professional.
--
Title: Northern Stars and Air Pressure
Author: Beth / sexonastick / perpetuallyfive
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Disclaimer: At least I didn't do anything to Logan? Um. I mean: it's not mine, or whatever.
Ship: Veronica/Mac
Rating: PG-13, I'm pretty sure.
Summary: Blame Canada.
Notes: for femslash06 for paranoidkitten.
2,624 words.
Much more thanks than they probably know to fox1013, j_stewart, and kaitoujeanne for letting me harass you at various times, and to varying degrees. (And to bluefragment, of course, for yelling at me multiple times to get it done.) And mimesere for her incredibly awesome suggestion.
Northern Stars and Air Pressure
If you lose something, there's only so much you can do. That's why there's always money in insurance. Because anything can happen; and most of the time, it's cheapest and easiest to just count your loses and move on.
It's not the same when the thing that gets lost is a person, though.
That's usually when they call in Veronica. Or, more likely, they call her dad, and she just happens to pick up instead. It's just another week, another schedule too busy to squeeze one more in, but Veronica's always had a soft spot for a good sob story. Have you heard the one about the deadbeat dad skipping out on child support?
Yeah, it gets her every time.
She's been tracking this sleazoid for almost the full week (paid by the day, but at half price, because she's not heartless or anything) and it's looking like, now that she's narrowing in, he's skipping out -- to Canada. He's way too old to be a draft dodger, so maybe he just likes the hockey.
"Ontario? You're sure?"
Veronica leans over Mac and squints at the screen -- which shows ticket number, date, and time of departure against a bright and festive background. The travel agency's some small time group she's never heard of, and that gives her pause. For a moment, her hand misses the back of the chair and settles instead on Mac's shoulder, before jerking away again. "I mean, Canada's pretty big, right?"
It's not that she can't appreciate a challenge, but a dead end is something else entirely. Any further off the trail and it'll end up as stone cold as Steve Austin.
Funny, because just judging from his picture, that's actually who the missing mystery man bears a resemblance to.
Mac's sidelong glance moves to where Veronica's hand had just been, and then slides up to her face, "Yeah, and it's pretty boring, too." She shrugs. "But everything checks out okay. Looks like his travel agent booked the flight for tomorrow."
Nothing like such short notice to get your weekend schedule really hopping. It's a good thing, really, that Veronica hasn't got much of a life. "Maybe I'll go ice fishing while I'm there." Mac glances back at her. "I could do with some good ice fishing."
* * *
It's the little things that make or break a case. The subtle hints left behind, or sometimes dangling right in front of you. It's amazing how many people might as well be walking around with their eyes shut, hands over their ears, and humming loudly.
Calls from Veronica's friends have a special cell phone ring. It plays "The Lady is a Tramp" in the key of midi. (As compared to the calls from dad, ringing in with Dime Bag's "Shot My Boo," just for that extra something something.) Except that almost no one other than the one obvious best friend person actually ever calls, and so Veronica doesn't bother with checking the number before she answers, saying, "Hey, what's up Wallace, you clear to come?"
"Hey." The voice on the other end cracks through the static, hesitating and drawing in a slow breath. "... Veronica?"
Sometimes the less subtle hints -- like caller I.D. and Mac's voice on the other end of the line -- take a little bit longer to fully settle in. "Oh. Hey."
"Hey, sorry." Another pause. "Are you waiting for a call?"
Veronica leans back onto her bed and blinks up at the ceiling, still processing. She's had this comforter since she was eleven; she could map out the faint chocolate milk stain at the edge with her eyes closed -- and she did once, actually, when she was really bored -- but it feels all new and scratchy now with the phone there with her. Chatting over the phone isn't exactly one of those teen dream high school experiences Veronica's had a lot of time with.
Not that Mac is doing a whole lot of chatting through the silence. "Because. I can go. Or call back later. Something."
"Nah." Veronica waves her hand, even though no one's there to see it. "It's just Wallace. I asked him to go to Canada with me, but now he thinks he can't because of basketball."
"Oh."
Veronica snorts. "I know, right? Like way to prioritize there, buddy. As if exercise and popularity are more important than being ready at a moment's notice to serve my every whim."
"Um--"
"I'm kidding."
"Yeah, I know. Veronica--" The static returns when Mac's voice drops off. It stays that way for a moment or more, and then the voice returns back, quickly and nearly in a whisper; "I wanted to talk to you about that thing. I mean. If you want, or you need someone, then I can go."
That kind of fast paced talking only comes with even quicker thinking, or an excess of rehearsal. This should be Veronica's first big clue; Mac has been practicing this.
But instead, she only smiles -- though now she's sitting up, waiting with something like trepidation. "Oh, yeah?"
"Just in case, you know. You might need computer help tracking him down." Another pause, but with less static this time, although it shifts in and out slightly, as though Mac has started pacing. "Plus it would just be nice, you know."
Maybe call it preparation instead. Veronica always wanted to be a Boy Scout when she was younger. "... Yeah." She smiles. "Nice."
* * *
You wouldn't necessarily peg Mac as someone scared of flying. Or at least, Veronica wouldn't or hadn't, even when she thinks about Mac, which just happens sometimes.
Not that she spends any weird amount of time thinking about her, either. Just a normal, friendly amount of time. Between friends.
But as the plane begins its slow ascent, Mac's hand keeps moving for the bag that holds her laptop. She unzips it once and then closes it, before starting to unzip it back again. Eventually Veronica has to put her hand over Mac's, just to stop the fidgeting.
"Don't fly much, huh?" It's a fine line between reassuring teasing and just generally talking down to someone, and Veronica likes to stay on top of it with a carefully balanced smirk. "Do you want me to explain how the plane stays up?"
"No." Mac snorts, pushing the bag back under the seat in front of her. "Actually, I know that already."
"... Really? Then could you explain it? Because I never really got the air currents thing."
Just then, fate decides to shake the plane through an air pocket. Mac holds tight to her armrest, and Veronica automatically holds her hand. "Hey, you know, I hear the further north we go, there's less air."
Mac's twitching smile -- that's there, then quickly gone -- can't really be called comforted, but it's enough to make Veronica's hand eventually release.
* * *
The little things, they learn how to creep up on you. They learn you. It might sound far-fetched, but it happens all the time. You find a pattern, set off down a path, and then life finds its way of catching up with you.
It's just that sometimes life needs the help of someone like Veronica. And having informants doesn't hurt exactly, either. This guy her dad used to work with gives her the details on the perp of unknown purpose and so the stake out begins outside his hotel.
After nearly three hours spent inside a car (with Mac playing solitaire, and winning 8 out of 10), when he drives off to a bar, there's really no ground for saying "no" anymore.
"Come on, we'll just stretch our legs."
Mac's already out of the car, standing at the driver's side with her arms crossed nearly level with Veronica's slowly drooping camera.
"But... this is a bar." Veronica blinks.
Mac just shrugs. "So?"
"So, you're Mac." She pauses, lowering the camera the rest of the way. "Do you drink? Or party? Or... I don't know, suddenly like people?"
Mac scoffs. "Veronica, please. I used to go to raves."
"That doesn't mean you like people. And-- really?"
"I'm very hip. I'm edgy." Mac opens the car door for Veronica, stealing her camera before stepping aside. "I like this lens..." She points the telephoto toward the bar, adjusting the aperture and distance. "But why is it so big?" She hands it back, making a face. "You're not a guy, I mean. What's there to compensate for?"
"My personality?"
* * *
Every place is different, just like people. This bar is crowded, but it's more from the noise than the number of people. The music's loud and the kind of happy that's trying so hard it could bring back disco, or at least get it to visit for a day or two to teach it how to be less tacky. It's pretty tacky.
And so is the shirt that guy's wearing.
"I guess no one told him that we're done partying like it's 1999." Mac laughs into her drink.
The nice thing about the bars with more noise than people is that they can't always afford to be picky about I.D., and Veronica has plenty of those anyway. More than enough to buy a couple beers "You mean 1979." Mac starts to protest, squinting, but she only shakes her head. "It's purple velour. It's disgusting."
Mac giggles, shrugging. "Maybe he thought it'd be alluring."
"Ohh." Veronica waves her hand, once, twice, and then continues to signal the bartender for another drink. "So is that joke. That joke's disgusting too."
"So're you." Mac nudges Veronica with her elbow. "You're disgusting."
"And now you're cut off." Veronica pries the beer from Mac's hand, and places it on the other side of her own. "I'll tell you what's disgusting."
"People who give you things -- like, say, a beer -- and then take them back?"
Veronica pauses for a moment. "No." She squints down along the length of the bar, to where Mr. Clean is chatting with Mr. Clean Cut Suit Guy. And has been for the past half hour. "Our guy here. He's got a former wife, worried out of her mind. He's got a kid. And he just up and splits. Selfish."
Mac takes the chance to reach for her beer; but then Veronica swats her hand away again and she has to divert to the peanuts. "He's also wearing way too much leather."
"Way too much. He looks like The Village People's village plumber." Veronica blinks slowly. And then she stops.
It's not every day she drinks on the job, but once you've made one too many (and one is too many) serious mistakes with alcohol, you really learn your limit fast, and you don't push it.
So it wouldn't really make sense of any kind for her to be seeing things.
Except it really does look like their man there is putting his tongue in that other guy's mouth. "Hey... Mac?"
Veronica turns her head in time to see the woman who's suddenly there at Mac's other side, leaning in close enough that she's hard to hear above the noise -- although probably not for Mac, who's all but got this chick's tongue in her ear. "Um."
"I don't... know you." Mac shoots a look at Veronica
"Well, yeah, honey." The woman chuckles, shaking her head. "That's why you get to know me." She puts a hand on Mac's knee, squeezing to produce a yelp as Mac jumps up from her seat.
"Hey! Now. ... Hey."
Clearly this is something. Something's going on, and it's not that Veronica isn't keeping up. It's just that it's kind of -- well, weird. Or strange.
Strangely unexpected, maybe, except the woman's looking at her now, at Veronica, with a look that says she's seen it all before.
"Oh, what? She your girlfriend or something?"
Now there's a loaded statement if Veronica ever heard one -- and she has, actually. Heard quite a few, even. Not to mention the number of loaded guns and other weaponry she's come too close in contact with.
This, however, is a new scary, all of its own kind.
"Girlfriend? No." Veronica laughs, a little tittering sound that teeters just on this side of manic.
She starts to say something more, when Mac pipes up with, "We like to think of ourselves as lovers, actually."
Right then, Veronica's world -- and, okay, mostly her stomach -- bottoms out. "We--" She swallows, a squeeze to her elbow from Mac silencing her again. Or at least her jaw's clamped down tight, and it's not moving, no matter if she wants it to or not.
It's maybe better this way, because at least then the woman leaves.
But unfortunately, so does their target, bumping into Veronica -- very literally, because the night wasn't weird enough already -- on his way for the door, with his pretty boy toy trailing behind.
For some reason, Veronica doesn't start to follow. Mac doesn't move either, except to mumble, "Want another beer?"
"Yeah, definitely. On you."
* * *
If you're going to be in this business, you have to play the game. And part of that is strategy, and knowing when to rework. Sometimes you have to step back and regroup -- find your center and your target again, even if the path might wobble or weave.
Which is what Veronica's doing now, at least slightly, shifting her weight awkwardly from one foot to the next as she stomps out to her car, ignoring the comments and whistles from a group of girls they pass. She's not sulking. It's just slight pouting with a purpose.
She finds the car, at least, and once it's unlocked, she slumps against it, sighs, and kicks the gravel. "I can't drive like this."
Mac puts her hands inside her pockets, keeping them and her a few feet away. "Yeah." She pauses. "Me either."
Veronica nods. "Yeah. This wasn't so much of a planned and well thought out thing." She taps the car door with her fingertips, tracing its rough edges down.
"Well, we've got the car." Mac pauses. "We can stay here. And... I'll stay up front, you in the back."
"Don't be stupid." Veronica sighs and hits the door slightly, almost as part of a rhythmic pounding, but Mac doesn't respond. "The back's bigger."
Mac hesitates. "Well."
Once you've made a mistake (or too many mistakes) with trust, you learn your lesson fast, and you don't push it. But Veronica didn't listen to her head when she kept on drinking, and now she's not even thinking clearly enough to have a head thing to hear. Other things are talking now -- metaphorically, obviously, but it still feels like arguing, inside, but all that comes out is a mumbled, "Don't be stupid."
She sighs, shakes her head, and rectifies, "This is stupid."
The gravel crunches when Mac starts to nod, breathing out a, "Yeah," and takes a slow step forward, shifting her weight and hands along with her, carrying it through into momentum.
Veronica's eyes are open, but she doesn't see it coming. Not until Mac's mouth is against hers, and even then. Some detective. When they break apart, she almost gasps, but then there's too much pride.
So just in case, she doesn't speak, saving oxygen for when the kisses start again and, both of them shifting, Mac sighs into Veronica's mouth and pins her back against the car with hands recently freed from her pockets. The metal fastens on the back of Veronica's belt loops clack against the car door.
They might even just be scratching the surface. But right now, Veronica doesn't mind.
--
Title: Northern Stars and Air Pressure
Author: Beth / sexonastick / perpetuallyfive
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Disclaimer: At least I didn't do anything to Logan? Um. I mean: it's not mine, or whatever.
Ship: Veronica/Mac
Rating: PG-13, I'm pretty sure.
Summary: Blame Canada.
Notes: for femslash06 for paranoidkitten.
2,624 words.
Much more thanks than they probably know to fox1013, j_stewart, and kaitoujeanne for letting me harass you at various times, and to varying degrees. (And to bluefragment, of course, for yelling at me multiple times to get it done.) And mimesere for her incredibly awesome suggestion.
Northern Stars and Air Pressure
If you lose something, there's only so much you can do. That's why there's always money in insurance. Because anything can happen; and most of the time, it's cheapest and easiest to just count your loses and move on.
It's not the same when the thing that gets lost is a person, though.
That's usually when they call in Veronica. Or, more likely, they call her dad, and she just happens to pick up instead. It's just another week, another schedule too busy to squeeze one more in, but Veronica's always had a soft spot for a good sob story. Have you heard the one about the deadbeat dad skipping out on child support?
Yeah, it gets her every time.
She's been tracking this sleazoid for almost the full week (paid by the day, but at half price, because she's not heartless or anything) and it's looking like, now that she's narrowing in, he's skipping out -- to Canada. He's way too old to be a draft dodger, so maybe he just likes the hockey.
"Ontario? You're sure?"
Veronica leans over Mac and squints at the screen -- which shows ticket number, date, and time of departure against a bright and festive background. The travel agency's some small time group she's never heard of, and that gives her pause. For a moment, her hand misses the back of the chair and settles instead on Mac's shoulder, before jerking away again. "I mean, Canada's pretty big, right?"
It's not that she can't appreciate a challenge, but a dead end is something else entirely. Any further off the trail and it'll end up as stone cold as Steve Austin.
Funny, because just judging from his picture, that's actually who the missing mystery man bears a resemblance to.
Mac's sidelong glance moves to where Veronica's hand had just been, and then slides up to her face, "Yeah, and it's pretty boring, too." She shrugs. "But everything checks out okay. Looks like his travel agent booked the flight for tomorrow."
Nothing like such short notice to get your weekend schedule really hopping. It's a good thing, really, that Veronica hasn't got much of a life. "Maybe I'll go ice fishing while I'm there." Mac glances back at her. "I could do with some good ice fishing."
* * *
It's the little things that make or break a case. The subtle hints left behind, or sometimes dangling right in front of you. It's amazing how many people might as well be walking around with their eyes shut, hands over their ears, and humming loudly.
Calls from Veronica's friends have a special cell phone ring. It plays "The Lady is a Tramp" in the key of midi. (As compared to the calls from dad, ringing in with Dime Bag's "Shot My Boo," just for that extra something something.) Except that almost no one other than the one obvious best friend person actually ever calls, and so Veronica doesn't bother with checking the number before she answers, saying, "Hey, what's up Wallace, you clear to come?"
"Hey." The voice on the other end cracks through the static, hesitating and drawing in a slow breath. "... Veronica?"
Sometimes the less subtle hints -- like caller I.D. and Mac's voice on the other end of the line -- take a little bit longer to fully settle in. "Oh. Hey."
"Hey, sorry." Another pause. "Are you waiting for a call?"
Veronica leans back onto her bed and blinks up at the ceiling, still processing. She's had this comforter since she was eleven; she could map out the faint chocolate milk stain at the edge with her eyes closed -- and she did once, actually, when she was really bored -- but it feels all new and scratchy now with the phone there with her. Chatting over the phone isn't exactly one of those teen dream high school experiences Veronica's had a lot of time with.
Not that Mac is doing a whole lot of chatting through the silence. "Because. I can go. Or call back later. Something."
"Nah." Veronica waves her hand, even though no one's there to see it. "It's just Wallace. I asked him to go to Canada with me, but now he thinks he can't because of basketball."
"Oh."
Veronica snorts. "I know, right? Like way to prioritize there, buddy. As if exercise and popularity are more important than being ready at a moment's notice to serve my every whim."
"Um--"
"I'm kidding."
"Yeah, I know. Veronica--" The static returns when Mac's voice drops off. It stays that way for a moment or more, and then the voice returns back, quickly and nearly in a whisper; "I wanted to talk to you about that thing. I mean. If you want, or you need someone, then I can go."
That kind of fast paced talking only comes with even quicker thinking, or an excess of rehearsal. This should be Veronica's first big clue; Mac has been practicing this.
But instead, she only smiles -- though now she's sitting up, waiting with something like trepidation. "Oh, yeah?"
"Just in case, you know. You might need computer help tracking him down." Another pause, but with less static this time, although it shifts in and out slightly, as though Mac has started pacing. "Plus it would just be nice, you know."
Maybe call it preparation instead. Veronica always wanted to be a Boy Scout when she was younger. "... Yeah." She smiles. "Nice."
* * *
You wouldn't necessarily peg Mac as someone scared of flying. Or at least, Veronica wouldn't or hadn't, even when she thinks about Mac, which just happens sometimes.
Not that she spends any weird amount of time thinking about her, either. Just a normal, friendly amount of time. Between friends.
But as the plane begins its slow ascent, Mac's hand keeps moving for the bag that holds her laptop. She unzips it once and then closes it, before starting to unzip it back again. Eventually Veronica has to put her hand over Mac's, just to stop the fidgeting.
"Don't fly much, huh?" It's a fine line between reassuring teasing and just generally talking down to someone, and Veronica likes to stay on top of it with a carefully balanced smirk. "Do you want me to explain how the plane stays up?"
"No." Mac snorts, pushing the bag back under the seat in front of her. "Actually, I know that already."
"... Really? Then could you explain it? Because I never really got the air currents thing."
Just then, fate decides to shake the plane through an air pocket. Mac holds tight to her armrest, and Veronica automatically holds her hand. "Hey, you know, I hear the further north we go, there's less air."
Mac's twitching smile -- that's there, then quickly gone -- can't really be called comforted, but it's enough to make Veronica's hand eventually release.
* * *
The little things, they learn how to creep up on you. They learn you. It might sound far-fetched, but it happens all the time. You find a pattern, set off down a path, and then life finds its way of catching up with you.
It's just that sometimes life needs the help of someone like Veronica. And having informants doesn't hurt exactly, either. This guy her dad used to work with gives her the details on the perp of unknown purpose and so the stake out begins outside his hotel.
After nearly three hours spent inside a car (with Mac playing solitaire, and winning 8 out of 10), when he drives off to a bar, there's really no ground for saying "no" anymore.
"Come on, we'll just stretch our legs."
Mac's already out of the car, standing at the driver's side with her arms crossed nearly level with Veronica's slowly drooping camera.
"But... this is a bar." Veronica blinks.
Mac just shrugs. "So?"
"So, you're Mac." She pauses, lowering the camera the rest of the way. "Do you drink? Or party? Or... I don't know, suddenly like people?"
Mac scoffs. "Veronica, please. I used to go to raves."
"That doesn't mean you like people. And-- really?"
"I'm very hip. I'm edgy." Mac opens the car door for Veronica, stealing her camera before stepping aside. "I like this lens..." She points the telephoto toward the bar, adjusting the aperture and distance. "But why is it so big?" She hands it back, making a face. "You're not a guy, I mean. What's there to compensate for?"
"My personality?"
* * *
Every place is different, just like people. This bar is crowded, but it's more from the noise than the number of people. The music's loud and the kind of happy that's trying so hard it could bring back disco, or at least get it to visit for a day or two to teach it how to be less tacky. It's pretty tacky.
And so is the shirt that guy's wearing.
"I guess no one told him that we're done partying like it's 1999." Mac laughs into her drink.
The nice thing about the bars with more noise than people is that they can't always afford to be picky about I.D., and Veronica has plenty of those anyway. More than enough to buy a couple beers "You mean 1979." Mac starts to protest, squinting, but she only shakes her head. "It's purple velour. It's disgusting."
Mac giggles, shrugging. "Maybe he thought it'd be alluring."
"Ohh." Veronica waves her hand, once, twice, and then continues to signal the bartender for another drink. "So is that joke. That joke's disgusting too."
"So're you." Mac nudges Veronica with her elbow. "You're disgusting."
"And now you're cut off." Veronica pries the beer from Mac's hand, and places it on the other side of her own. "I'll tell you what's disgusting."
"People who give you things -- like, say, a beer -- and then take them back?"
Veronica pauses for a moment. "No." She squints down along the length of the bar, to where Mr. Clean is chatting with Mr. Clean Cut Suit Guy. And has been for the past half hour. "Our guy here. He's got a former wife, worried out of her mind. He's got a kid. And he just up and splits. Selfish."
Mac takes the chance to reach for her beer; but then Veronica swats her hand away again and she has to divert to the peanuts. "He's also wearing way too much leather."
"Way too much. He looks like The Village People's village plumber." Veronica blinks slowly. And then she stops.
It's not every day she drinks on the job, but once you've made one too many (and one is too many) serious mistakes with alcohol, you really learn your limit fast, and you don't push it.
So it wouldn't really make sense of any kind for her to be seeing things.
Except it really does look like their man there is putting his tongue in that other guy's mouth. "Hey... Mac?"
Veronica turns her head in time to see the woman who's suddenly there at Mac's other side, leaning in close enough that she's hard to hear above the noise -- although probably not for Mac, who's all but got this chick's tongue in her ear. "Um."
"I don't... know you." Mac shoots a look at Veronica
"Well, yeah, honey." The woman chuckles, shaking her head. "That's why you get to know me." She puts a hand on Mac's knee, squeezing to produce a yelp as Mac jumps up from her seat.
"Hey! Now. ... Hey."
Clearly this is something. Something's going on, and it's not that Veronica isn't keeping up. It's just that it's kind of -- well, weird. Or strange.
Strangely unexpected, maybe, except the woman's looking at her now, at Veronica, with a look that says she's seen it all before.
"Oh, what? She your girlfriend or something?"
Now there's a loaded statement if Veronica ever heard one -- and she has, actually. Heard quite a few, even. Not to mention the number of loaded guns and other weaponry she's come too close in contact with.
This, however, is a new scary, all of its own kind.
"Girlfriend? No." Veronica laughs, a little tittering sound that teeters just on this side of manic.
She starts to say something more, when Mac pipes up with, "We like to think of ourselves as lovers, actually."
Right then, Veronica's world -- and, okay, mostly her stomach -- bottoms out. "We--" She swallows, a squeeze to her elbow from Mac silencing her again. Or at least her jaw's clamped down tight, and it's not moving, no matter if she wants it to or not.
It's maybe better this way, because at least then the woman leaves.
But unfortunately, so does their target, bumping into Veronica -- very literally, because the night wasn't weird enough already -- on his way for the door, with his pretty boy toy trailing behind.
For some reason, Veronica doesn't start to follow. Mac doesn't move either, except to mumble, "Want another beer?"
"Yeah, definitely. On you."
* * *
If you're going to be in this business, you have to play the game. And part of that is strategy, and knowing when to rework. Sometimes you have to step back and regroup -- find your center and your target again, even if the path might wobble or weave.
Which is what Veronica's doing now, at least slightly, shifting her weight awkwardly from one foot to the next as she stomps out to her car, ignoring the comments and whistles from a group of girls they pass. She's not sulking. It's just slight pouting with a purpose.
She finds the car, at least, and once it's unlocked, she slumps against it, sighs, and kicks the gravel. "I can't drive like this."
Mac puts her hands inside her pockets, keeping them and her a few feet away. "Yeah." She pauses. "Me either."
Veronica nods. "Yeah. This wasn't so much of a planned and well thought out thing." She taps the car door with her fingertips, tracing its rough edges down.
"Well, we've got the car." Mac pauses. "We can stay here. And... I'll stay up front, you in the back."
"Don't be stupid." Veronica sighs and hits the door slightly, almost as part of a rhythmic pounding, but Mac doesn't respond. "The back's bigger."
Mac hesitates. "Well."
Once you've made a mistake (or too many mistakes) with trust, you learn your lesson fast, and you don't push it. But Veronica didn't listen to her head when she kept on drinking, and now she's not even thinking clearly enough to have a head thing to hear. Other things are talking now -- metaphorically, obviously, but it still feels like arguing, inside, but all that comes out is a mumbled, "Don't be stupid."
She sighs, shakes her head, and rectifies, "This is stupid."
The gravel crunches when Mac starts to nod, breathing out a, "Yeah," and takes a slow step forward, shifting her weight and hands along with her, carrying it through into momentum.
Veronica's eyes are open, but she doesn't see it coming. Not until Mac's mouth is against hers, and even then. Some detective. When they break apart, she almost gasps, but then there's too much pride.
So just in case, she doesn't speak, saving oxygen for when the kisses start again and, both of them shifting, Mac sighs into Veronica's mouth and pins her back against the car with hands recently freed from her pockets. The metal fastens on the back of Veronica's belt loops clack against the car door.
They might even just be scratching the surface. But right now, Veronica doesn't mind.