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She’s still a private dick. And he’s a police detective.
They meet at a convention for high-tech surveillance equipment; in keeping with the general atmosphere of professional paranoia, they’re immediately suspicious of each other. He lounges and poses an excessive amount, and his haircut is too expensive--is he a dirty cop on the take? Not that she’s any better. She’s trying WAY too hard to act like there’s nothing suspicious about her at all. Which, to a finely trained eye, screams P.I.
After five minutes of watching her pretending not to stare, he says, “I’d be happy to share the name of my stylist. All you need to do is ask.”
Of course he’s gay, she thinks. The hot, suspicious ones ALWAYS are.
But wait, hold the phone. His gaze is traveling a leisurely path downwards, towards the point of her v-neck top. Maybe he’s into women after all. Or he just really enjoys apparel from Marshall’s. So straight, either way.
Or...maybe, based on his calculating appraisal, he’s somehow noticed she’s wearing a wire. And feels his initial suspicions are confirmed.
“You could ask, you know,” she tells him. “It might be more effective than diving nose first into my cleavage.”
“Ok I’ll bite.” He leans some more, confiding. “Why ARE you wearing a wire under your probably-too-tight-to-be-professional top at a law enforcement gadgetry convention?”
She sighs, faux-regretful. “And here I thought you were about to ask me out. I’m working, of course.”
“Take the wire off, and I’d be delighted,” he says, with a somehow salacious eyebrow-wag. “But I’ve got a weird aversion to putting my moves on both you and the guys in the surveillance van.”
“Poor Jimbo will be sad to hear that,” she tells him. “We would have been the highlight of his night.”
“Jimbo will have to troll for kicks elsewhere at this convention, Miz….I didn’t catch your name.”
She laughs instead of answering; Jimbo’s suggestion probably wouldn’t go over well.
“Tell you what. You let me be your date.” She hooks her arm through his. “We find a way to get some birdies to sing.” She points with her chin to a weaselly man with a high, sweaty forehead, who’s laughing too loudly at a surveillance chip disguised as a Lego. “Then I’ll tell you my name. Deal?”
“Oooh, she wears clingy black Emma Peel clothes AND she’s mercenary? How can I resist? I’m yours to drag around by the...nose for,” he checks his watch, “the next forty-seven minutes.”
“And what happens then?”
“I’m off the clock.”
The promise of his answer hangs there between them. Then they move, smoothly, as if they’ve done it a thousand times, towards the evening’s target.
XXXXX
The next time they meet, he’s trying to make an arrest, and she’s trying to run off with her confidential informant before he can.
“I need this guy to ID someone,” she tells her extremely hot adversary, blocking his access to the perp. “This is not a good time!”
“Veronica,” Logan chides, trying to get around her. “And here I thought you were FOND of sharing.”
“Well, if I knew it was going to be THAT kind of party, I would’ve made sure my bra matched my panties, Detective Echolls.”
“Live and learn.” Logan tsks and shakes his head. He tries to go around her again, finds himself still blocked. “Now, where are you off to with the criminal I’m about to cuff?”
Weevil looks from Logan to Veronica, confused. “V, you KNOW this asshole?”
“Vaguely,” she says, vaguely, with a wave of her hand. “And don’t worry, I won’t let him have you.”
Logan mock-pouts; reaches past her to grab Weevil’s arm and slaps on cuffs. “Um, I hate to quibble,” he says, “but actually, the LAW’s on my side. There’s the little matter of an attempted homicide to contend with, and he’s the main suspect.”
“Attempted, you say?” she asks. “So no one’s actually dead? Pshaw. Clearly he’s not THAT dangerous. It’s perfectly safe to let him help me, before you lock him up and throw away the key.”
“Do I get a say here?” Weevil asks.
“NO,” they both answer.
“OK, let’s deal,” Logan says. “I accompany you and my prisoner to whatever delightful activity you have planned. Then HE accompanies ME to a forty-eight hours stay at this special resort I’ve got ready, while I prepare to bring charges.”
“OR, you could come with me, as suggested...act tall and broody, for extra atmospherics. Then after, you can take my client--”
“Client?!” Logan only half-shouts, Weevil yelps.
“I passed the bar,” Veronica says. “My client,” she reiterates after Weevil’s weak nod of assent. “And I will then bring him back to the station, where we will do our very best to provide the information you need to apprehend Mr. Fitzpatrick.”
“How did…” Logan looks skyward, exhales and puts his hands on his hips. “Of COURSE you know all the answers. I realized it the first time I set eyes on you...you’re SNEAKY.”
“Shh, time’s a’wasting,” she says, winking. “Come on, boys. We’ve got a snitch to snatch.”
XXXXX
The third time they meet on a case, it’s at comic-con.
Logan’s pursuing a so-far elusive suspect while dressed as Han Solo. Veronica’s decked out as Hoth Leia, all quilted white snowsuit and braided hair-do, and his grin is giddily involuntary.
“Now see,” he says, moving in close. “This just proves you and I are meant to be. And if there’s a gold bikini under that white jumpsuit, double prizes!”
“You a bounty hunter boy?” she asks, looking up from her lashes, voice throaty.
“ACTUALLY,” he says, employing his lean in a seductive capacity, “and I don’t want you spreading this around, but I’m kind of dangerous and unethical. In FACT, some people refer to me as a scoundrel.”
“Really?” she toys with his blaster, and his mouth goes dry. “That’s disappointing. I’m looking for a NICE man. Preferably one in law enforcement.”
“That’s just because you don’t have enough scoundrels in your life,” he assures her. “Maybe I can change your mind.”
She squints. “Doubtful. See I’ve accidentally on purpose tied up a wanted man, and put him in a broom closet outside of Hall C. I think the nice man I’m looking for probably wants to arrest him?”
“Will he keep in there for half an hour?” Logan asks. “I like role play and rope play. And I’m VERY curious about the potential gold bikini.”
“Half an hour,” she says flatly. “I knew Han Solo was fast, but sometimes that’s not a GOOD thing, Logan.”
“Half an hour can seem like an eternity under the right circumstances, Veronica Mars.”
That last part, her name, is whispered in her ear, and if he backs away from her as soon as he says it, it’s only because his raging boner might kill the delicate seduction vibe.
Too late. She’s staring pointedly at his...gun belt, with an expression that would be best described as “hawkish”.
Veronica tilts her head to the side and then slightly back, puts her lips together, and whistles the Star Wars theme softly. “Tell you what, scoundrel. I’ll give you a half hour to convince me. Come on, let’s see how fast we can make the Kessel Run.”
A wookie detaches himself from the crowd nearby, and approaches with a sad growl.
“Sorry, you had to hear that, Jimbo. Is the van clear?”
Jimbo groans a response, and she gives him a key. He holds out his paw expectantly, and she detaches the wire hidden under her collar. “It’s the closet next to the stairs, by the Fanta machine. I owe you one.”
“Come on, Echolls,” she tells Logan as Jimbo skulks away, hooking her arm through his. “Time for a quickie in the surveillance van, just like they do in all the movies.”
“And they say romance is dead,” he quips, smiling down at her. Does a little skip as she drags him along.