Work Text:
Logan idles his BMW momentarily outside the Mars house, staring at it pensively—once more into the Valley of Death rode the six hundred—before pulling half a block down the street to park across from a condominium complex. I’m twenty minutes early and I have some serious angst-ing to do; better to not lurk creepily in the driveway. He sits in his car, mentally pacing, and glances at the empty passenger seat.
I should have brought something. He’d thought about bringing a bottle of wine, but figured he’d just as soon avoid any cracks Keith might make about his former drinking habits. Better stay sober tonight. But I should have brought something. He snorts. What, Logan? Chinese take-out?
The real problem, Logan knows, is that Keith Mars makes him nervous. Keith and his corny jokes, his bad impressions, his shuffling dances. Keith and his easy banter with Veronica. Keith and his … hatred of Logan. (“He doesn’t hate you Logan; he doesn’t know you”)
Logan stares, unseeingly, at the condo complex’s small open air parking garage. In his line of sight, a pudgy brunette woman yanks a small boy of about four roughly out of the back seat of a Toyota and pulls him by the wrist down the sidewalk.
Logan doesn’t know anything about fathers. He, himself, was “parented” by two pretend versions—Movie Dad and Aaron. In public, on set, or on a good day, he got Movie Dad. Movie Dad was easy to deal with; smile toothily, present hair for tousling, and make a quick grab for whatever expensive electronic bribe was being offered. Aaron on the other hand, Aaron was…chancier. Aaron had Rules; Logan could follow or break those rules at his own peril. It probably says something about me, how often I chose “break them.” Even Jake Kane, who Logan had spent more time around than his own father, was more Movie Dad than he was a real dad. Sure he was involved, especially with Duncan, but only in the most distant and easy of ways. So Keith Mars is basically the only father Logan has any actual experience with. Keith makes him nervous.
Veronica, on the other hand, Veronica makes him…confused. Crazy. Especially after the day they had today. He had been so ticked off because of Piz; then there was watching the videos of Carrie; then the realization that Gia—Gia!—is involved in Carrie’s murder; then Lamb and the trucker hat camera. The phone call. And, through it all, Veronica. Low lows, exhilarating highs, and Veronica. Crazy.
Their phone conversation from this afternoon has played on repeat in his mind for the last several hours. Veronica, frustrated with herself, fighting for words, trying to convince him to come to dinner. (“He doesn’t hate you Logan; he doesn’t know you. You’re … not the same person any more. He’ll see that once he gets past—well, I want him to see that. You deserve that.”) A tingle of…apprehension? Lust? Desperate need? Terror? Well, a tingle of something, anyway, spreads through him at the thought of her words.
Maybe she… You thought that before, and then there was Piz. But now there isn’t Piz. Logan exhales, exasperated, rolling his eyes at his own internal vacillating.
This week has broken down all of the carefully nurtured truths—lies—he had told himself about how past all of this he was. How Veronica was just an ex-girlfriend, nothing else. Ok, so she was an ex-girlfriend whose number he kept for nine years after their last break up and whose name he didn’t even like to speak in the privacy of his own thoughts, but that was just because he was romanticizing a relationship that was intertwined with the most difficult period in his life. Veronica, he had told himself repeatedly—when he made major life decisions, when he started dating Carrie—was part of his past, not part of his present or his future.
All of his careful repetitions, his lessons self-taught and hard-won, his painfully built emotional walls; they took only one week to crumble into dust. First; the phone call. I still need her. Then; seeing her at the airport. I still want her. Finally; days of Veronica being her badass detective self culminating in her voice on the phone this afternoon (“You deserve that.”) The last brick had fallen. I still love her. Logan breathes in carefully, mentally testing the new/old knowledge. His fingers clench the steering wheel.
Every time I think the pattern is broken, there it is again. “Veronica, I need your help.” “Veronica, can you help me?” Help me, help me, hold me, save me, love me. Enough.
It’s just dinner.
Man up, Echolls. With a deep breath, Logan pushes himself out of the BMW’s interior. He walks down the sidewalk, crossing in front of the parking garage that is attached to the condo complex. As he passes the entrance to the garage, he spots two men, one of whom looks suspiciously like Keith Mars, sitting in an old, dusty blue hatchback. Maybe Mr. Mars is making a quick get away to avoid dinner. I wouldn’t mind.
He heads toward the front door, his mind flipping nervously through potential greeting lines. Hey Sir, how have you been doing since the last time you kicked me out of your home? The night is slightly cool; he is glad he wore the long sleeved button up. As he walks, he nervously fidgets with the hem of the shirt, before stilling the motion.
Logan has just reached the front steps of the Mars house when he hears shattering glass and a metal rending screech. He whirls around; a white truck that looks like the type used by landscaping or gardening crews is speeding past him with a squeal of tires, clearly fleeing. Logan, never one to be a helpless bystander even before his naval training, jogs a few steps back toward the road.
The hatchback that was in the garage moments ago is now in the middle of the street, surrounded by a corona of broken glass; its driver’s side is crumpled in beyond repair. Oh my god. This is bad. Logan runs up to the car and peers in through the passenger side window. Please, let it not be. A balding head, dripping blood, is slumped over against the door. It is. “Mr. Mars!”
Logan feels that particular sharpness and clarity that comes over him in times of extreme stress—when flying a combat mission; the time an engine blew during training. His body is reacting on autopilot, mind processing events almost before they happen. The man on the driver’s side is out too; he looks bad. Call 911. Assess the damage. Don’t move the victims unless… Just as he gets the car door open and reaches toward Keith, he hears a chillingly familiar squeal of tires and looks behind him. The world seems to slow down around Logan as he sees headlights coming straight at him. Oh my God. His focus narrows to one point; get the victim—Mr. Mars. Veronica.—out of the car. He slides his phone back in his pocket. Get him out. Get him out. Get him out. “Mr. Mars, come on.” Keith is limp and unresponsive. Blood is dripping from his nose and from a laceration on his head, spattering on his shirt. Logan grabs him under his arms. The truck is coming. Get him out. Get him out. He heaves Keith out of the car and gives one last pull, lunging them both off to the side of the road, just as the truck smashes into the passenger side of the car. Logan can feel the concussion of air as the truck rushes past him; his elbows scrape roughly against the asphalt as he and Keith land in a bloody heap. As the glass shatters a second time, Logan hears a feminine scream. Veronica. She runs up and kneels down by Keith. Logan’s heart is pounding in his ears. He can only faintly hear Veronica (“Dad! Dad! No. Open your eyes! Open your eyes, Dad!”) People are starting to rush up, Logan barks, “Call for an ambulance! Now!” before crawling over to check for Keith’s pulse. It is chillingly faint.
Logan’s ears are ringing. Time seems to speed up and slow down in fits and starts.
…
The ambulance is taking forever.
…
Veronica’s hands are tightly gripping her hair; moans issue from behind her clenched teeth.
…
Logan’s fingers, still pressed against Keith’s neck, are covered in blood.
…
The ambulance is here. Keith’s skin looks sickening in the eerie shades of red and blue its lights cast.
…
Suddenly, the ambulance is gone, and Veronica and Keith with it.
…
Silence fills the street, as the bystanders drift away. All Logan can hear is the echo of Veronica’s sobs.
________________
When he reaches the emergency floor waiting room, Veronica is huddled into a hard plastic chair in the corner, arms locked around herself and gaze vacant. She gives no response as Logan enters, crosses the room and crouches down in front of her.
“Veronica?” No reaction. “Veronica. I’m here if you…need anything.”
Her eyes snap to his. The echo of long ago words hangs in the air between them (“…but you never need anything.”) She swallows, her throat working. “Logan… stay,” she croaks. “Please.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He reaches for her hand, but she flinches away from his touch. He desperately wants to follow through on the gesture, but pauses, hand hovering over hers.
She drops her red and swollen eyes. “Don’t. I can’t… I’ll… Just stay, please.”
“Of course I will. I’ll stay.” He sighs and rises from his crouch, suppressing a wince at the ache of his bruised muscles. He takes the seat right next to Veronica, carefully not touching her, but letting her feel his warmth, his presence.
“Have you heard anything?” He asks softly. Veronica shakes her head “no” jerkily. Her hands are clenched, nails digging into her palms. If her dad dies, she is done. I may as well arrange for her funeral. She’ll get herself killed trying to figure this out.
They sink into silence. The only sound in the room is the faint murmur of voices issuing from the TV mounted to the ceiling. Logan glances at it; some sort of infomercial.
“Can I call someone for you?” He asks at one point, mostly to break up the quiet stillness of the room. She shakes her head “no” again, then closes her eyes and wilts slightly in his direction. She still won’t touch him, but she is canted toward him like a plant toward sunlight. She should have someone else here for her. Someone she’d let hold her.
Some time later—a minute, an hour—he glances over at Veronica. She has hardly moved since he last spoke, but tears are now coursing silently now her cheeks.
“Veronica.” He makes his voice firm and commanding. “Veronica we’re going to get up now. Let’s go take a walk and get some coffee.” She looks up at him dazedly and nods. She unfolds stiffly from the chair and trails after him out of the room.
Her posture loosens slightly away from the waiting room. They reach a coffee machine set into an alcove in the hallway. Logan fixes Veronica a cup, automatically adding cream the way she liked it in college, and hands it to her. She clears her throat and looks up at him. “Thank you, Logan.” Her cheeks are still wet and she swipes at them.
He nods, then jerks his head down the hallway. “Let’s walk. We need to stretch.” Veronica hesitates and Logan adds, gently, “We won’t go far, I promise. We’ll just circle the hall.”
They pace down the hallway, which is painted in stripes of institutional greens and browns. It is quiet for the hospital's emergency floor; there are only a few others sharing their vigil. They pass a woman huddled into the corner of the hallway, her face turned toward the wall, talking rapidly into her cell phone. “…but he didn’t listen, I told him and then he just…” Veronica is walking robotically, staring down at the coffee cup clenched in her hands.
“Logan,” she says suddenly, as they turn the corner to start the lap back to the waiting room, “tell me something good.”
Logan raises a quizzical eyebrow.
“Anything. Anything good. I keep seeing… just tell me anything.”
“Okay.” Logan thinks momentarily. “When I was five, I had an imaginary friend. His name was… do you remember that cartoon Duck Tales?” Veronica nods. “Well, I was obsessed with that show and especially with Scrooge McDuck, so his name was McMoneyBoomBoom and he had a Scottish brogue. A rather high pitched and inaccurate one, I’m afraid to say, considering that I was five.” The story’s silliness calls for big gestures and funny voices, but he is telling it simply, calmly. “God, I thought he was the best thing ever. I got so mad when people refused to acknowledge him. I threw the world’s biggest tantrum when the chef refused to cook haggis for McMoney.” He pauses as they maneuver around an elderly man using a walker to make his way down the hall. “Most kids use their imaginary friends to act out their fears or their desires.” Logan smiles lightly. “McMoneyBoomBoom loved heights. Me, not so much. There was a giant eucalyptus tree in the backyard of our house in LA. The bottom branches were way too tall to reach, but McMoneyBoomBoom convinced me to try to throw a rope over one and climb up. Yoshi, our gardener, had to rescue me. A week later it was the roof. There was a little balcony outside of my Mom’s bedroom window and McMoney wanted us to try to climb up from there to the roof. I got up onto the decorative overhang above the balcony, and then sat there, wailing for hours, and refused to climb down. The housekeeper had to call the firemen. After several more incidents, one involving the neighbor’s cabana, my Mom decided to enroll me in a private kindergarten. I met Duncan there. He didn’t like heights so much either and McMoneyBoomBoom just sort of … left.” Logan glances over at Veronica, she is listening, her head cocked toward him, a faint smile hovering on her lips. Her eyes have lost some of that dead look.
“The first time I flew solo at IFS—pre-screening for flight school—it was…god, Veronica, it is so amazing. Everything is so blue. It’s hard to describe,” he shakes his head, “the sky is just right there. It’s like you’re wrapped in it. I was at Pensacola, so I’m flying out over the ocean, the coastline right in front of me. I can see these little feathery lines of white—the surf was up that day—and I know that below me are these little tiny surfers; little tiny mes just living their lives. It was this amazing moment and all I could think—all I could think—was, ‘McMoneyBoomBoom would have loved this.’ It was just running through my head over and over, ‘McMoneyBoomBoom would have loved this.’” He gives a small, rueful sigh. “Anyway, a few weeks later I was at API and I got pretty drunk and apparently I told this story—complete with high, squeaking Scottish brogue—to a couple of the guys from my training class. They, of course, found it hilarious, and that,” he pauses dramatically, “is the story of how my call sign became McMoney.”
Veronica lets out a shaky half-giggle, half-snort—“Jesus, Logan.”—and then immediately looks guilty.
“Hey, I prefer to be called ‘Lord.’” It is a weak quip, but she smiles slightly anyway before leaning forward to ever so briefly rest her forehead against his bicep. She straightens, turns, and walks back toward the waiting room, before he can fully register the gesture. As he follows her, Logan’s hands open and close futilely.
Try again, now that she’s more…alert. “Are you sure there isn’t anyone you want me to call? Wallace? Mac?” Piz? “Anyone?” She looks at him, uncomprehending, and he adds quietly, “I don’t want you to be alone with this.”
“No. I’ll call everyone tomorrow. It’s just… they’ll have so many questions. And I don’t have any answers. Yet.” A look of grim determination flits across her face. “I’m fine as long as…” She looks up at him suddenly. “Logan, I’m so sorry. You must be exhausted. You don’t have to stay. You should go home. Go now. I’ll… I’ll call you tomorrow. We can figure out what to do about Gia and Luke.”
Logan glares at her. “Veronica…” God damn it, Veronica! What the fuck Veronica? No. No. He exhales heavily. No. Calm down. “Don’t you dare worry about my case right now.” He closes his eyes, mentally walking through his pre-flight routine, his favorite technique for diffusing his anger. Don’t be angry at her. Do not. Fuel gauges. Lights. He flops down into a hard plastic chair. “I’m not going anywhere.” Master switch.
Veronica sits down next to him and silently passes over her coffee cup, still half full of lukewarm liquid. He automatically takes it and sips, grimacing at the taste of the hospital coffee. His anger is gone as quickly as it had arisen. I still can’t handle her pushing me away. Good to know, I guess. File that one under ‘triggers.’ God, I’m so sorry, Veronica.
She is still quiet, but seems less stiff and dazed than earlier. She looks over at him, consideringly, and raises an eyebrow. “McMoneyBoomBoom?”
Gratitude floods him and his lips twitch, “I’m just lucky they left off the ‘BoomBoom.’”
________________
Hours later, Logan pulls his car up outside of the Mars house. They had stayed at the hospital until word had come that Keith was out of surgery. Thank God it sounds like he’ll be all right eventually. I don’t know what would have happened if … He looks over at the passenger seat where Veronica is slumped over, asleep, the ghosts of dried tear tracks tracing down her cheeks. The last few hours at the hospital she had been quiet, not encouraging him to talk any more, but broken out of the disturbing fugue-like state he had first found her in. Logan waits for a second to see if the cessation of motion will wake her up. It doesn’t. Dilemma: wake her up when she clearly needs the rest, or touch her when she has made it clear that she doesn’t want to be held. There is really no contest, he has been longing to touch her, hold her, comfort her all night. By this point, it is an almost physically painful urge. Just get her inside, put her to bed. Leave. Do not enjoy this, you jackass.
He goes around to the passenger side and carefully opens her door, reaching across Veronica to unbuckle her seat-belt. As the door opens, she slumps out into his body, her warmth pressing against him. Logan tightens his mouth and reaches down to scoop her up against his chest. His arms are under her legs and, as he settles her, her hands go instinctively up around his neck. Still mostly asleep, she snuggles into him a bit and murmurs something mashed up and garbled. He thinks he catches his name and the words “sleep” and “stay.” His chest unbearably tight, Logan carries Veronica into the house. In the street, skid marks and a glitter of broken glass mark the site of the accident.
After a brief fumble at the door—he has to fish Veronica’s keys out of her pocket without putting her down—they are in the house. The makings of lasagna are spread out on the kitchen island, abandoned in the midst of crisis. Logan heads down the hallway, shifting Veronica slightly in his arms. The first room he tries has a Queen sized bed and looks very masculine and lived in. Pictures of Veronica at various ages adorn the dresser. He grins at one of a diapered toddler Veronica—stomach puffed out and a fierce scowl fixed on her face—cocking her arm back to hurl a rubber ducky at the photographer. I’ve never seen that one before. This is clearly Keith’s room. He briefly considers putting her down on the bed, but worries that it might upset her to wake up in her father’s room. He tries the next room down the hall. This one contains a couch opened into a pull-out bed and has the neutrally decorated air of a guest room. He spots Veronica’s black studded bag hanging off of a chair back. Here we go. He eases them into the room and lays her down on the bed, feeling a physical ache at their separation. He absentmindedly rubs his sternum.
Logan looks down at Veronica, who is still fast asleep. He has never wanted anything more in his life than he wants to lie down next to her and just hold her. That’s it. That spot right there on the bed. That is all I have ever wanted from my life. How did I let it drift so far away? Echoes of every time her father has been hurt play through his mind. Cradling her on his lap while she sobbed after the plane explosion. Coming to her bloody and broken while her father lay burned in the hospital. Why does my life seem to move in tragic circles? With an internal sigh, he reaches down and unzips her ankle boots, taking them off, before pulling the covers up over her.
He wanders around the room, not wanting to leave her presence. The glare of streetlights through the window catches his eye and he closes the blinds. He straightens a model ship that has been knocked slightly askew. He adjusts Veronica’s ankle boots to sit perfectly parallel under a chair.
Out of ways to stall, Logan sighs and turns to leave. On his way out of the room, he catches sight of Veronica’s unzipped suitcase lying open on the floor, a loose mound of clothing spilling over the top. Those jeans she has on are going to be dead uncomfortable for her to sleep in. He glances back at the bed, then at the suitcase. Maybe I could lay something out? Logan spots a fold of soft, blue fabric peeking out of the pile of clothes. He leans down and teases it out; it is a large men’s t-shirt, clearly used as sleepwear. Rubbing the fabric between two fingers, he resists the urge to sniff the shirt for her scent. Crossing the line into creepy stalker territory, here, Echolls. The fabric is worn; the blue color clearly faded over many washes from a once brighter hue. This is probably Piz’s. He nearly drops the shirt at the thought. As he moves to place it back in the laundry pile, Logan notices the ghost of an old oil stain near the hem. Duck sauce, he thinks, dazedly. His mind flashes back to Veronica in his penthouse at the Neptune Grand a week before their last break up. She is scornful, teasing. “Did you just toss that shirt in the trash? It’s only a little stain. And the shirt is new! In the real world, people don’t just throw clothing away.” She had walked over and retrieved the shirt from the trash can. “At least try to soak the stain.” He’d made some sort of typically dismissive classist remark. She’d rolled her eyes and tossed the shirt towards her bag. “Fine then, Admiral Moneybags. I’ll take your castoffs.” A week later the Madison bomb had hit and he’d never thought of the shirt again. This shirt is mine. Nine years and a world later she still has it. Travels with it. With a shaky exhale, he carefully tucks the shirt back into its original place in her laundry pile and backs out of the room.
Out in the kitchen, Logan quietly begins putting away the lasagna fixings that are spread out all over the counter-tops. With quick, efficient motions, he saran-wraps the vegetables and the bowls of shredded cheese (“Don’t let him fool you, the ‘secret’ part of his secret recipe is that he doubles the cheese.”) and puts them back into the refrigerator.Moving carefully, he loads the dishwasher, but decides not to run it, so as not to disturb Veronica. After wiping down the counters for the third time, Logan comes to the reluctant conclusion that there is nothing else that needs to be done.
He stares in contemplation at the couch in the living room for a long moment. I could stay out here. What if she needs someone? I don’t want her to wake up alone. With a wry smile he acknowledges to himself, No, you don’t want to be alone. Veronica has always processed things by herself. Give her what she needs.
He can’t make himself go, however, without leaving some sign of his presence; of his concern (of your love) for her. He settles on a simple note asking her to call him in the morning, hesitating over the signature, before concluding with an “L.”
He glances at the clock over the microwave. He’s been in the house for almost an hour. Time to leave.
As Logan reaches for the doorknob, he hears rustling and footsteps behind him. It is Veronica; her voice stops him. “Wait.”
She is barefoot, sleep tousled and wearing his—her—old blue shirt. They stare at each other for an aching beat before his gaze rakes her. Her eyes are slightly swollen from her difficult night. She looks … god, what is that expression?
In a whisper, she asks,“don’t go.”
Don’t go. Quietly, carefully, Logan responds. “Okay.” Whatever you need, whatever you want, I’m here.
He doesn’t even see her start to move, but suddenly she is there, in front of him, and she is…
The world stops.
She is kissing him.
Veronica.
His body catches on before his brain does, jolting into action at the electric feel of her. Pressed against him. Clutching him. Don’t go.
Her arms are locked around his neck and she is not letting go. Don’t go. He scoops her up and her legs wrap around his waist. There. Yes. Ah. Move now. Bedroom. He careens wildly with her, whirling around—bedroom—before crashing up against a pillar. Bedroom. She sucks on his lower lip, tilting her pelvis into his. No, here. They are kissing desperately, barely connecting before gasping for another kiss, another. Don’t go. He pulls back slightly, nose brushing hers, to look into her eyes. Do you want this? Want me? She reaches down and tears open his shirt; buttons ping off in a dozen directions. Their eyes are still locked. Don’t go. He kisses her fiercely.
She is everywhere and he is sinking into her. Veronica, Veronica. Nine years. Her hands. Don’t go. Her mouth. Don’t go. Her body wrapped tight around him. Don’t go.
Don’t go.
Don’t go.