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[personal profile] buffyx
Title: This Is What Happens (1/1)
Author: BuffyX
Pairing/Character: Veronica/Logan
Summary: You’re willing to take what you can get these days.
Rating: R, to be safe
Spoilers/Warnings: Through the season two finale.

This is what happens:

You go home and turn on the television and take a shower with the water turned on scorching hot. You think about the sound of Beaver’s body slamming onto the hood of the car. Of the moment before. And the moment after.

You think about the way Veronica crushed herself to your chest. You think about the way she wept into your neck, eyes shining like cut glass, sobbed herself into sleep. How when you kissed her eyelids, you tasted salt and thought of the ocean.

You jerk yourself off in two minutes flat and it’s nothing like satisfying.

When you come out, you learn your father’s dead with the rest of the world, flipping through the channels, and then you check your phone and realize you’ve missed eleven calls.

Five are from your dad’s lawyers, two are from his publicist. Three are from reporters. None are from any of the family you have left.

One is from Veronica.


This is what happens:

You go with her as far as security allows, and she smiles like she’s actually glad you’re there, one hand clutching her boarding pass and the other holding onto your own. You crack a line about how you hope she doesn’t fall for any Long Island guitar boys who sing about how sad they are about losing friends, and she says she’s pretty sure she can top their emo sob stories, and maybe that’s a little too true but you both grin anyway.

You kiss her goodbye for longer than necessary. It all feels more than a little surreal. And you know it should be harder than this—you should be talking and probably fighting and hashing it all out, everything—but you’re tired of things being difficult. For now you’ll let it be easy.

You’re willing to take what you can get these days.


This is what happens:

You drive around for an hour, completely aimless. You sit in the parking lot of the Neptune Grand for another thirty-five minutes, staring at your steering wheel and contemplating getting fucking smashed out of your mind, but even that feels like it’ll take too much energy.

You walk through the lobby, counting each step on the plush carpet and pretending you’re not actually trying to figure out how many minutes have to go by before she comes back. Step thirty-two and you’re in the elevator. She’s probably watching the in-flight movie right now, or listening to her latest mix. Step fifty-eight and you’re at your door. She’s probably somewhere over Colorado by now.

Or not, because you slide your card key through the slit and push through and she’s curled up on your couch underneath a blanket, asleep.

You look at her and then over your shoulder and look back but she’s still there. You close the door and the sound makes her stir; she glances up at you sleepily.

“Someone alert the media,” you quip, trying to mask your surprise and maybe sort of completely overwhelming glee. “Apparently time travel is possible.”

She wraps the quilt around her shoulders and pads over to you, fits herself against your chest and mumbles something about her father cancelling, some kind of important case-- you don’t really catch it because you’re distracted by the smell of her hair and the warm press of her body against yours.


This is what happens:

Your father is buried three days after he’s found dead, and there’s a media circus, of course. You think about going and spitting on his grave, or dancing on it, or something else that is both symbolic and literal, but instead you go to the beach with Veronica and Backup and wander down the shore, throwing sticks and shells into the ocean. You wade out and get your board shorts soaked, and you yank Veronica in with you, and at first she’s pissed but then a wave breaks and drenches her tank top and you can see she’s not wearing a bra.

She gasps and sputters and you laugh. And then she’s laughing, and you pull her close and kiss it out of her, feel it reverbrating in your mouth, and it is fucking joyous.

You drive back to her apartment with sand in your shoes, between your toes, and your skin is a little itchy and warm and tight from the sun. The dog slobbers all over the upholstery and licks Veronica’s hand and she rubs it on your cheek.

You park outside her building and unstrap your belt and make out with her for another twenty minutes across the front seat. It only stops when Backup nudges his nose against your neck and you both laugh until you can’t breathe. There’s a lot of laughing, actually, which should be weird but for whatever reason isn’t.

You know that if you wanted to, you could spill your guts and she’d listen, now, but the truth is that you don’t. You don’t want to talk and she doesn’t push and her silence is more telling than any words could ever be.


This is what happens:

Beaver is put in the ground the day after your father.

Same cemetery, but this time there are no reporters prowling the scene.

You wonder for awhile if you should go, because he was your friend at one point, if only by proxy—maybe you should be feeling guilty, but you aren’t. There’s a kind of pervasive sadness, but it’s hollow. When you think about Beaver all you remember is that split second of white-hot rage, after you heard what he did. Wanting to put your hands around his scrawny pathetic neck and punch him in the face and feel his bones crack under your fists, watch him bleed out onto the pavement. It was only for a split second but it was there, and you figure it's something like the worst kind of irony that you were the one who tried to talk him down.

You feel a lot of things for Beaver but pity isn’t high on the list.

One day you’re driving with Veronica and she stops outside the black ivory gates, cuts the engine and doesn’t say anything. You follow her out and you think you know where she’s going but when you see the name CASSIDY EDWIN CASABLANCAS spelled out on the headstone, it still feels like a blow to the stomach.

You step back and let her do what she needs to do. You’re not sure what you were expecting, but she just stands there for a long time, staring, and then finally she nods like she’s figured something out. Turns to leave and takes your hand, clasping it tight.

You don’t ask any questions.


This is what happens:

You waste the summer away and don’t think about the next day until it’s there. Dick hasn’t spoken to you since and you can’t even bring yourself to really care, because you sort of start to have Wallace, who doesn’t suck at holding up the other end of a conversation, and Keith doesn’t give you the death glare when you cross the Mars family threshold anymore, and. Well. Maybe it’s not everything you ever dreamed of but it’s something.

Sometimes you and Veronica have difficult conversations, and sometimes you dissolve into full-fledged tiffs over all kinds of things, ranging from the serious (subjects such as your future—or apparent lack thereof) to the inane (just because she doesn’t like Easy Rider doesn’t mean she should forever have overuling domain on all movie renting related decisions).

And sometimes you just dissolve into hour-long makeout sessions, in the bedroom or in either of your cars or somewhere in public, depending on the mood.

It’s really never perfect but you’ve learned that it doesn’t have to be; you’ve always both seen each other with open eyes, and there’s no use in pretending otherwise. The lack of sugarcoating is part of the package.

You wait two and a half months before you finally have sex. She’s the one to initiate and you worry it’s just about her needing to prove something to herself, but when she playfully pushes you back onto your bed and kisses you there isn’t anything desperate behind it.

It’s not earth-shattering, but it’s good enough that the cuddling definitely is not the best part. (Though it’s not such a shabby bonus, either.)


What happens is that for the most part, it gets better as you go. And while you can’t erase the past, you start to think you can find some footing, stop kicking and clawing at empty air. You’ve kind of grown tired of fighting so hard against everything in your life. You're beginning to think you may have something to fight for now. Which is new.

This starts to feel more real than anything you’ve known, and it’s maybe the first thing in your life that you actually are trying not to fuck up on purpose. Of course, sometimes you still do, and sometimes it’s her who fucks it up, and sometimes (a lot of times) you’re both too stubborn to admit it.

But a lot of times you figure out how to make it work and click, and maybe you pick fights on occasion if only for the makeup sex that follows reconciliation, and it’s always worth it, no matter what. You think you belong to her as much as any person can belong to another. And sometimes you’re still in awe of the fact that you can reach over and touch the inside of her wrist, just because you want to. And she’ll let you.

Just knowing that makes it a little easier to breathe.


A/N: I wrote the first section like right after the finale, and then tonight I was like, "Oh hey maybe I should finish that?" So I did. It's indulgent and I usually don't do second person POV, so call me pretentious, whatever, it worked best for me.

Feedback is lovely, as always.
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