Chapter Text
Hey, will you stay awhile
My smile will not mislead you
Cause I've been alone
My faith turned to stone
Still, there's something in you I believe in
--“Good For You, ” Third Eye Blind
September, 2013
Veronica Mars hates hospitals.
Weird smells, institutional paint, bad food, and the memories... She shakes her head a little at the thought. Too many memories, none of them good.
For someone who hates hospitals, I sure have spent a disproportionate amount of time in them. She breezes through the reception area on the third floor, nodding at familiar faces.
Weeks she’s spent in this particular hospital now; first in the ICU, then more recently on a recovery floor. Her entire life on hold—internship abandoned, school deferred—for one reason.
Logan.
She doesn’t begrudge it, really she doesn’t, but it has been a bit disorienting going in the blink of an eye from being Veronica Mars: single law student on her way up the ladder, to Veronica Mars: devoted naval girlfriend and expert on medically induced comas. Right now, she’s just focused on doing everything she can to get Logan better and their lives back to normal (or their version of normal, anyway) as quickly as possible.
She’s not the only one.
As soon as Logan’s left leg comes out of the cast, he is up and running—or at least trying to—clumping up and down the hospital hallway in a weird, halting rhythm. First the walker smacks the hospital linoleum (ka-chunk) then his still casted right leg (thump) then the rest of his body, dragging along after a pause. On his first day out of bed, Veronica shows up at the hospital just in time to walk slowly beside Logan as he heads down the hallway for his inaugural voyage. Ka-chunk, thump, pause; ka-chunk, thump, pause; ka-chunk, thump, pause.
They make their painstaking way down the hall, Logan’s soft grunts of exertion the only sound between them. Veronica, walking slightly behind and to the right of Logan, studies the lines of his shoulders as he maneuvers himself, his muscles bunching and shifting under the baggy t-shirt he is wearing over his sweatpants. It is still so…surreal to see Logan every day. Hear him. Touch him. They had found their way back to each other after nearly seven years of separation. After the talk where they figured out their relationship—well, sort of—Logan has been almost unfailingly cheerful when not asleep. Veronica knows he is in a great deal of pain, but he has been pleasant and joking with the nurses and full of adoring looks and quips for her. Today, though, he has been uncharacteristically quiet and grim, greeting her with a brief nod instead of the wide grin she’s become accustomed to, and heading out into the hall without any conversation.
Ka-chunk, thump, pause.
As they walk, Veronica notes, worriedly, the straining of Logan’s left arm as it bears the majority of his body weight on the walker frame. Ka-chunk, thump, pause. The right side of Logan’s body had been much more seriously damaged when he’d been forced to eject from his fighter jet over the California desert. A partially opened parachute had saved his life, but left him with multiple serious injuries that were still far from fully healed. His right arm is finally out of the cast, but still weak and, she knows, painful from several newly healed fractures and some serious scrapes and bruises.
Ka-chunk, thump, pause.
Once they’ve gone about halfway down the hall, Logan’s leg and arms trembling, Veronica can’t stand it any longer. She asks as evenly as she can manage, “ready to turn around?”
Ka-chunk, thump, pause. Logan is breathing heavily, but in a controlled manner. “I’m good. Let’s go further.” She raises her eyebrows, but they continue their progress down the hallway.
Ka-chunk, thump, pause. Ka-chunk, thump, pause. Within a few steps, Logan’s face begins to redden, his mouth taut with pain. Ka-chunk, thump, pause.
“Logan, I think we should head back to your room.”
He exhales sharply, “I said, I’m good.” Ka-chunk, thump, pause.
Frustrations seeps into her voice. “Oh yeah, clearly. You’re ready to sprint right out of here. Watch out Usain Bolt.”
He turns to glare at her. “Look, you go back. I’m fine.” Ka-chunk, thump, pause. Ka-chunk, thump, pause. Pause. Pause. He wavers a little on his feet and Veronica looks at him and then back toward his hospital room meaningfully. Ka-chunk, thump—
“Stop, Logan.” Her voice is a whip crack; several other patients turn their way at the sound, only to turn back at the sight of the couple glaring at each other, clearly spoiling for a fight. “If you go any further, you’re going to fall over. Let me get someone with a wheelchair to take you back.” She steps in front of him to halt any forward progress.
“Veronica, I can do this.”
“Maybe you can, but you shouldn’t. You’re pushing yourself too hard! You just woke up from a coma!” (You fell out of a plane) “You’re still healing.”
Logan grits his teeth, eyes flashing, “I. Can. Do. This. Now, are you going to get out of my way?”
“Oh sure, sure.” She waves her hand down the hallway in angry invitation. Logan sets his jaw and moves forward, achingly slowly. Ka-chunk, thump, pause. Ka-chunk, thump, pause.
Veronica crosses her arms and stands as if rooted to the linoleum, blinking her eyes against angry tears, “And he’s off aaaaand stumbling!”
Ka-chunk, thump, pause. Ka-chunk, thump, pause.
About ten feet down the hall, Logan stops and leans heavily on the walker, breathing in through his nose in staccato gulps.
He should be in bed.
Veronica’s anger deflates suddenly and she walks slowly up to him, her voice low, ready to be gracious in victory. She lays a hand lightly on the small of his back. “Ready to go back?”
Logan jerks a nod at her.
He manages to make it about half-way back down the hall before the nurses swoop in and rescue him. One hundred and eighty pounds of petulant male in a wheelchair.
Back in the room, Logan settles heavily into the bed, sweat beading his skin, face tight with pain. Veronica maintains her silence, the air heavy with her unsaid words, but she grabs the large plastic cup of ice water from the bedside table and hands it to him.
“Thank you,” he says curtly.
Veronica exhales through her nose. “You look tired. Do you want me to put the head of your bed down?”
“No.”
“I can turn the TV on for you, if you want.”
“No.”
“More water?”
“No, Veronica! Dammit!” The words echo into the shocked silence that abruptly fills the room. Logan closes his eyes almost immediately in remorse, “I’m sorry. Shit, Veronica. I’m sorry.”
Veronica makes an abortive move toward the door, her first instinct to flee before she says something she knows she'll regret. Once glance at Logan’s face, however, and she throws herself back into the visitor chair in frustration instead. As she does so, Veronica notes its position—dragged to the other side of the bed from where she’d left it the night before—and a few other things click into place. Breathe through it, Veronica. “Logan, who was here this morning?”
Logan shoots her an unhappy look, but answers. “Commander Branch. He’s a commanding officer.”
“But he’s not your commander, right?” Logan’s XO and CO had deployed several weeks previously with the rest of his squad.
“No, he’s standing in.” Logan pauses for a long time before quietly continuing, “he wanted to talk about what other Navy positions I might be interested in after I heal if I can’t be a pilot any more.”
Veronica is taken aback. “But, you said…” Logan had been adamant immediately after his injuries about returning to flying.
“I know,” Logan says grimly, “but I didn’t really understand the extent of it. I didn’t think…” He sighs, “Veronica, Naval Aviators have to be in peak physical condition. They test and monitor us constantly; our stamina, our breathing, our heart rate, our body fat percentage for Christ sake. My kinds of injuries…they could easily keep me from flying ever again if I let them. I can’t let them. Branch just assumed…”
“Logan—“
At that moment, Dr. McTavish, the head of Logan’s neurosurgery team, comes into the room, interrupting the tension. She nods briskly at both of them, “Lt. Echolls, Mrs. Echolls.” Logan’s jaw drops and his head snaps to Veronica.
Veronica’s eyes widen; the doctor had called her that several times while Logan was unconscious, but she’d always corrected her—except that one time. She rushes in, stammering and beet red, “Oh no, I’m not… that is, we’re not…I’m not Mrs. Echolls.”
The doctor looks briefly between them both before returning her gaze to the screen of her electronic reader. “Oh?” She says in an unconcerned tone, “then I’m afraid you’ll have to leave, miss. This is confidential.”
“No!” Logan practically shouts, locking his hand around Veronica’s wrist. He flushes, and then moderates his tone. “No. My wife here is just kidding. She’s upset with me and joking. Right, lovebug?” He favors Veronica with a cheesy, insincere grin, but she can see the mute plea in his eyes.
Veronica settles back into her chair, “Of course, sugar,” she says, giving him a small smile. “I’m sorry doctor, please go on.” She works her hand up to where Logan’s still grips around her wrist and laces their fingers together.
Dr McTavish meets Logan’s eyes for the first time, her gaze piercing and assessing. “Neurologically, you’re very lucky, Lt. Echolls.” Veronica squeezes Logan’s hand. “When you were brought in, I had some serious concerns about bleeding in your brain and overall cranial pressure. Additionally, a barbiturate coma can have some serious neurological side-effects in and of itself.”
She turns her attention abruptly to Veronica, rapid-firing questions at her, “Any more signs of memory loss?”
“No.”
“Unexplained verbal outbursts?”
“No.”
“Confusion? Difficulty recalling words?”
“No.”
“Well, our scans are all showing completely normal brain function.” She narrows her eyes at Logan. “There is still a long road ahead, the brain is tricky and we’ll want to monitor you closely for quite a while, but I am cautiously optimistic that you will come out of this with little to no neurological impairment.”
Veronica still has the reflexive instincts that come from being the girlfriend of nineteen year old bad boy Logan, because she is more than half expecting some sort of 'But Doc, will I ever play the piano again?' joke. Apparently, the twenty-six year old navy version of Logan has found some things that aren’t a joking matter, because he merely squeezes Veronica’s hand.
The good word delivered, the doctor starts to whisk herself out of the hospital room, when Veronica’s voice stops her. “Doctor!” Doctor McTavish pauses in the doorway, Logan’s fingers in Veronica’s have tightened to a death grip. “My—Lt. Echolls is a navy pilot. Is there—will he—is there anything you know about that?” Veronica finishes lamely, not really sure what she wants to ask. Not even sure she knows what she wants the answer to be.
The doctor’s face softens a bit. “Yes, well. Pilots are tricky—eye sight, reflexes—all things that are difficult to predict at this point.” Logan nods faintly. “We’ll do our best to get you flying again, Lieutenant.” With that, she zips out of the room, white lab coat fluttering in her wake.
In the silence that fills the room, Logan releases Veronica’s fingers carefully. Veronica turns her head toward him. “Logan…”
“Can we not?” He asks, softly. “Not right now?”
“Okay.” Veronica runs her hands through her hair. “I’m just going to go…get some coffee. Want some?”
Logan nods at her curtly and she leaves the room.
______
She’s gone again.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT! Screwing it up already, Echolls.
Logan smacks the rail of his hospital bed in frustration and then winces at the sharp needles of pain that shoot out from his raw palm.
Fuck.
You fucking told her to go, you asshole.
Logan struggles to turn himself in the bed, intending to swing his legs over the side, get up, and go after Veronica. He successfully levers his torso up, ignoring the aching burn in his mid-section, and gets his good leg over to the side of the bed. The casted leg, dragging behind, tangles in the bed sheets, torquing his pelvis to an angle that shoots right past uncomfortable and into unbearable.
He falls back on the bed, face bright red with frustration, tears of exhaustion welling in his eyes.
Fucking weak motherfucker. Too weak to even go after your own girlfriend.
Too weak to fly.
Every instinct in his body is screaming at him to throw a fit. Punch something. Flip the bed. Yell. Scream. Get drunk as fuck.
Logan closes his eyes forcefully—fuck, even that hurts—and makes himself focus on his heart rate, his breathing. His own personal calming ritual. None of the therapists or counseling he’s sporadically tried have ever stuck, but he never would have made it in the Navy without some way of calming himself down. Pushing back against those Aaron-bred instincts of dark, reflexive anger. This one is all him. Mind on his dwindling pulse rate, picturing the thrum of blood through every inch of his body, Logan compels himself to drill down into his emotions. Break them down, lay them out clinically and label them. I’m not really angry, I’m frustrated. Frustrated because I can’t. Do. Anything. He takes a deep breath in through his nose. Out through his mouth. I’m not really frustrated, I’m…scared.
Logan opens his eyes, startled by the realization. He used to think he’d never be scared of anything again if he could just get Veronica to come back to him. Turns out he was wrong.
The idea of never flying again…it squirms in his belly, a giant scary mass he can only look at out of the corner of his eye. He feels stupid for not considering the possibility before Branch came this morning. Of course he might not fly again. Just the ejection alone could have been serious enough to ground him, and then...he looks down at his body, lying askew in the twisted up sheets. These could be career-ending injuries. His fingers reach up to his throat, tracing the reddened, barely healing wound of his tracheotomy scar. Better pilots than he, with less severe injuries than his, have been grounded.
I won’t let it happen.
He had joined the Navy for so many reasons. For a way to grow up and out of his personal pit; a way to make things better; a way to be the kind of man she would come back to. And—miracle of miracles—it had mostly worked. He’d grown up, found something he is good at. She came back.
The Navy wasn’t some sort of magical experience that automatically molded him into a better man. It was hard work, hours and hours of training, hard-won, teeth-gritting self-control.
Self-respect.
A purpose in his life.
Flying.
What happens if it all goes away? If you have to start all over again? And then, quietly creeping out of the depths of his mind, comes the thought. Would she stay?
She came back for focused, pulled together Logan. Navy Pilot Logan. Logan with a purpose and goals and a career she can be proud of. Veronica Mars is going places. She doesn’t attach herself to aimless wash-outs; he remembers that very well.
No. He’ll get it all back. His body, his career. Veronica. He’ll hold on to all of it, somehow. I have to.
I won’t let her leave.
______
Rather than getting coffee, Veronica randomly pushes buttons in the elevator and finds herself getting off on a floor she’s never been to before. She makes determined laps, striding along as though she knows exactly where she is going, head down and shoes squeaking against the linoleum.
Her mind is a-whirl with Logan; the look in Logan's eyes while the doctor spoke, Logan flying, Logan’s face clenched in pain, Logan lying in a hospital bed broken almost beyond recognition—her first sight of him in almost seven years.
Logan flying.
A low growling sound escapes Veronica momentarily. Her mind skitters around, desperately searching for something else to think about. I wish I had a case right now. The thought flits through her consciousness, taking her by surprise. She hasn’t thought about detecting (much) recently. Being back in Neptune, though, worrying about Logan…Veronica snorts a little. Old reflexes die hard.
The weird little self-contained universe of hospital living has begun to get to her in the past few days and abruptly it all just feels too overwhelming. There is nothing she can really do except be there for Logan. And she has nowhere else to put all of her energy; her focus. The corner of Veronica’s mouth lifts wryly at the thought.
Neither of us does.
It’s an oddly tentative thing this, the first version of their relationship where they haven’t really been able to jump quickly into anything physical. There have been kisses, of course, and a few pleasant heavy groping sessions initiated by Logan, but the state of his health and the nurses popping in and out of rooms with little warning hadn’t really made for a romantic environment.
At the same time, they haven’t really hashed much out on a personal level. Logan tires so quickly, and there has been so much else to talk about—catch up on—Veronica has heard all about OCS but neither have brought up exactly what will happen when Veronica goes back to New York.
It has been so wonderful, the blazing joy of his recovery and their reunion, was it any wonder she’d wanted to stretch out that emotional high a bit longer?
With a weary sigh, Veronica turns back in the direction of the elevators. She spends the rest of the trip back to Logan’s room mentally composing her opening arguments,
I don’t think you should be pushing yourself this hard.
Not being able to fly again wouldn’t be the end of the world, would it? You’d be safer.
I’m going to be gone in a few months; who will make you put the brakes on then?
She strides down the hall, growing steadily angrier with Logan-in-her-head’s refusal to listen to reason. Finally at her destination, Veronica steels herself and turns the corner into Logan’s room. And another thing!
He’s asleep.
Well, damn.
She stands there for a moment, stymied, looking at the still figure in the bed, sheets twisted around his body. Her gaze falls on the pink, newly grown skin on Logan’s forearms; the red, scabbing gashes on his temple; the sheer exhaustion apparent in every line of his sleeping face.
Veronica sighs internally and turns the lights in the room off—I’ll let the nurses yell at me later—and crosses to the bed. She takes hold of the sheet and gently untangles it, smoothing her hands against the slightly scratchy white linen where it is tucked around Logan’s hip. Some of the tension of the day drains out of her.
She quietly flips the newly straightened sheet back—Logan looks like he wouldn’t wake up if a marching band trumpeted through the room—and crawls into the bed.
Veronica curls up into Logan’s side, feeling him warm against her. Alive and mine, if nothing else. The narrow hospital bed with its rails and creaky plastic-covered mattress should be uncomfortable, but it’s not.
It’s not at all.