Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Many thanks to Marshmellow Bobcat for this beautiful art (and to Fic Club readers for loving this story like you do)


A.  Paper Walls Break

She tugs the thin black cardigan tighter around her frame, shivering despite the garish sun overhead. The sleeveless black dress falls just below her knees, the neckline square and doing her tiny breasts no favours. Lilly would hate this dress on her, but she hadn't wanted to leave the house this weekend. Hadn't felt like this was a shopping occasion.

Lilly was always the one who took her shopping. And now, she's dead, carefully displayed in a satin-lined casket trimmed in gold. Her mother's spare black dress is fine. Not like she cares how she looks today.

It is so cold. The chill had first set in as she'd stood over her best friend's bloodied body, her eyes wide and unseeing. Veronica wonders if it's Lilly, clinging to her arm as she had done so many times in the courtyard at Neptune High, tossing her head back and laughing. Maybe Lilly is clinging to her now, desperately holding onto life.

"Veronica? Honey, come on."

She spins around, meeting the concerned gaze of her father. His black suit is neatly pressed—her mother has a perfect touch with these things—and his hand is outstretched. Her arm reaches out, heavy and slow.

Lilly, stop that, she admonishes in her head. Don't make him worry.

A small flag is tucked in the hood of their car now: Funeral. They will be joining the procession to the cemetery, where Lilly's body will be lowered into the ground beside her grandparents. Three cars ahead, she spots Duncan entering a black limousine alongside Celeste Kane and her heart aches.

She's called him once each day since… since Lilly died. Since she'd found him, rocking and mute. Shock, her father had explained. Her calls have met with voicemail, and eventually, The mailbox belonging to "Duncan Kane" is full.

Logan had answered her. Had called her first, actually. Called the night it happened, at midnight. Apologizing to her parents, pleading to talk to her. Insisting on it. Rules were broken. Rules didn't exist that night. They'd talked for an hour—cried, really, more than talked.

Every night, he's called her. Never for long, never much to say—but it's enough.

She finds Logan in the crowd, his mother's arm looped through his. As if he can sense her stare, he turns towards her. For a moment, she swears she sees a rage in his eyes, a flicker burning away to the dry ash of a consuming grief.

Time skips and starts. The burial passes in a blur, speeches and sorrow. Veronica's hearing is muffled, an underwater prison where only snatches of phrase penetrate. She falls in line, places a calla lily on the casket as she should, kissing the bloom farewell. Step away, step back. Don't hog the space. Lilly was beloved by so many, after all.

The lowering of the casket shatters the reverie. Shatters her. And with it, the tears fall earnestly anew. Heavy, wracking sobs, ribs aching, knees quivering. Her father hooks his arm around her, pulling her closer, and Veronica's fist clings to his blazer.

Lilly's gone. She's gone forever, and nothing can bring her back.

Her vision begins to spin, white pulses growing larger until there is nothing. No death. No graves. No Lilly, just a chorus of voices that call out her name.

Her mother. Her father. And Logan.

Veronica rolls over in bed, confused at the time on her bedside clock. How is it past eight? The service was at two. Her legs stretch out and she realizes she is now in her pajama pants and a tank top, her hair still in the French twist her mother had helped her with for the service.

Memory floods in: I passed out at Lilly's grave.

Rubbing her eyes, she swings her legs out of bed, gingerly testing their sturdiness before standing up. So far, so good. With one palm on the wall as a failsafe, she makes her way down the hall, finding her worried parents watching TV—with Logan Echolls.

"Logan?"

"Veronica! Sweetie, how are you feeling?" her mother asks, rising to her feet. "Are you hungry?"

"Nuh uh."

Her gaze fixes on Logan, seated on the couch beside her father. His white dress shirt is rumpled, the sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows, the jacket discarded. His hair is messy, his eyes sunken. She wonders if he's slept at all since Lilly was found.

"Hey, Ronnie. You feeling any better?"

"A little. I, um, didn't expect you here."

Her living room is a bit crowded with Logan's presence, and she hesitates to sit, leaning against the wall instead. Her mother, having disappeared into the kitchen, returns with a glass of water for her.

"Drink up. You need to stay hydrated."

"And you need to try and eat something, kiddo," her father gently insists. "We ordered a pizza, or if you feel like something else, I can run out and get it for you. Mama Leone's is open until ten, or if you want to eat ice cream for dinner…"

Wow, ice cream for dinner was usually reserved for fevers over 102 and failed tests (which hadn't happened since grade three). Although Veronica supposed the death of a best friend should qualify for a whole pie to go with it.

Veronica takes a sip of water, then begins gulping it as instincts kick in. It occurs to her that she hasn't had much to eat or drink all day. No wonder she'd keeled over at the cemetery.

"Maybe I should eat something," she agrees quietly. "Manicotti?"

It's one of her comfort foods, always soothing. If her dad is offering…

"You got it," her dad assures her, rising to his feet.

"No, Mr. Mars, I'll go get it," Logan insists.

Her father frowns. "That's not necessary, Logan. I'm sure your parents are wondering where you are—"

"I can assure you, they're not. They're… in Los Angeles," Logan mumbles.

Oh. Oh, no. Logan is alone? Today? Veronica's hands begin to tremble, imagining herself in his position. He can't be alone! Duncan's not answering anybody. Where's he supposed to go?

"I'll come for the drive," Veronica suggests. "Give me five minutes to change."

The problem with her father being the sheriff of Neptune is that he never stops being the sheriff of Neptune. Keith Mars' brow furrows deeply as he exchanges a concerned look with his wife, then Veronica. Knowing she will never win with a direct appeal. Veronica turns to her mother, struggling to suppress the panic within.

Come on, Mom. Didn't you hear what he said? He's alone!

"I don't see why not. Just to Mama Leone's and back, right?" Lianne confirms with Logan.

Logan nods dutifully. "Yes, Mrs. Mars."

"I'll go get changed!" Veronica announces firmly, ignoring her father's muted protests.

Pulling on a pair of jeans, a clean pink tank top and a fluffy black cardigan, Veronica gives herself a once-over in her bedroom mirror. Her hair is a little messy, but not too bad. Ducking into the bathroom, she gargles mouthwash and slicks a few errant strands of hair with a spritz of hairspray in her palms, reapplies antiperspirant and grabs her purse.

Logan waits at the door, hands fidgeting with his car keys. Her father has clearly said something to him; he has the chastised look Duncan has worn many times. Rolling her eyes, she kisses her parents on the cheek in turn and slides on her sandals.

"Straight there and back," her father instructs. "After what happened today, I don't want you to push yourself too hard."

"I won't, Dad."

Passing her a twenty, he leans in and whispers conspiratorially. "Tiramisu for your Pop, alright?"

"You got it."

Her father watches them as they silently walk down the driveway, Logan opening the passenger door of the X-Terra for her and gently closing it before rounding the front of the vehicle. Tucking her purse at her feet, Veronica waves at her father with a pointed look. Undaunted, her father remains on the porch as the engine turns over and Logan pulls out onto the road.

Music drifts from the speakers at low volume, soft acoustic guitar and a female voice Veronica can't place. It isn't Logan's usual choice of music, and as she listens to the lyrics, she finds herself blinking away tears.

"I don't blame you for quitting
I know you really try
If only you could hang on through the night

I don't want to be lonely
I don't want to be scared
And all our friends are waiting there

Until you're safe and sound…"

"Logan…" It's a question and an answer.

"I should have been there, Ron. I should have been there."

Logan's grip is white-knuckle tight on the wheel as they make their way down the main drag. The pale amber glow of the streetlights shimmers in the periphery of her eyes, a slow rolling wave that reminds her of low tide at the beach.

"There's no way you could have known. No way anyone could have. You could have ended up dead, too, Logan!"

"Maybe I deserve to be," Logan spits out, signalling for a left turn.

Her fists curl, one striking the passenger door in fury. "Don't you say that! Don't you ever say that!"

Logan startles in the seat beside her, glancing in her direction. "Veronica—"

"No, you listen to me!" Her palms swipe angrily at her tears, furious at their betrayal. "There's this gaping hole in my chest where Lilly should be, this… cold, empty place where I used to feel joy and love. I can't get warm, Logan. I'm always cold. It's so fucking cold. She's gone… And I don't… If I lost both of you… I… That's too much cold…"

She pulls her sweater closer, burrowing her face in the collar to dry her tears. The feel of a hand on her knee stuns her sobbing frame into silent stillness.

For the first time in days, she feels warmth.

"I feel it too. The cold."

His hand squeezes her knee and moves away, and Veronica whimpers at the loss of contact. At the loss of warmth.

On the radio, the woman sings, achingly beautiful:

"Feel like I really loved you
Feel like I could've saved you…"

Veronica peers over her sweater at Logan and knows this song is for Lilly. A song of regret, it hangs in the air for the ten minutes it takes to reach Mama Leone's.

With twenty minutes to kill, Logan suggests they walk to the beach just beyond the restaurant's patio. Veronica nods assent, hugging her sweater tightly around her frame as they trudge through the soft, golden sand to the shore. The beach is mercifully deserted, the water lapping gently as Logan slumps to the ground, knees drawn up.

"Your suit's going to get dirty."

"Like I give a shit," he replies.

Sinking down on the sand beside him, Veronica stares out at the water. It seems endless, an inky abyss. If she steps out into the water, steps off the shelf into the depths, will anyone see her? Will she disappear? A shiver runs up her spine and she wraps her arms around herself.

"C'mere."

"Huh?"

"You're cold," Logan whispers. "Come here."

Eyeing him warily, she shuffles closer. Logan's arm loops around her waist, pulling her between his legs and against his chest. His arms wrap around her from behind and she closes her eyes, her body alight. Warmth. She is safe and warm. They are friends, and they've hugged of course, but this… this is different. Intimate. There is a current running through her, an electricity crackling in the air.

Logan sighs, resting his chin on her shoulder, and she leans her cheek into his. The faint stubble tickles her skin, but it is so much better than the numb emptiness of grief.

"My cold is dark." His words are soft and measured, but the slight shudder of his torso as he speaks betrays the intense emotion brimming beneath the surface. "Like the absence of light. No sun. No heat."

"Yeah…"

"Lilly was my light," he whispers. "And now there's just… darkness."

Veronica studies the night sky, unnerved by the absence of moon and stars. It is as if nature has swallowed up light itself, in the absence of Lilly Kane. Her hand reaches up, covering Logan's with a gentle squeeze.

"You aren't alone. You're my friend. Duncan's your friend."

Logan huffs. "Yeah. It's… Never mind."

"No, tell me."

"Some things don't have words, Veronica. I just… I just need to sit here, with you. Is that okay?"

Her grip on his hand tightens as she presses back against his chest. "I need that, too."

How she needs this. The warmth is more than physical contact—her parents have held her plenty in the last few days as she's cried. This is a heat that fills her veins, the marrow of her bones. It nourishes her. Every cell of her body craves the contact. Emotions whirl within, a hurricane of love and pain and something undefined lodged in her throat. Words tumble, letters lost until a formless murmur slips free.

The waves lap softly, watery fingers stretching for her toes.

Duncan has cast her aside, and the Kanes are cold and dismissive. Logan is the last person in her life who loved Lilly as much as she did.

The Fab Four are now a Tearful Two.

"What do we do now?" she whispers.

"We stick together." Logan's arms squeeze gently, hugging her closer. "Whatever happened with you and DK, we have to stick together."

Duncan. She has no idea what had happened there, besides Lilly telling her to let it go, that it wasn't worth fighting for. Logan is right: it doesn't matter now. Duncan was her friend before they dated, and if anyone needs a friend right now, it's him.

Logan's lips press to the side of her head, feather-light, as they have on birthdays and holidays past. "Food should be ready."

"My dad will send a deputy if we're not prompt," Veronica jokes weakly. "Not like he has to worry. I'm with you."

Logan releases his hold on her, sliding away and pushing up to his feet. He reaches down and pulls her up, shrugging his shoulders sadly.

"I dunno. I lost Lilly on my watch. Can't blame him for being cautious."

"Logan, stop that."

"I don't know if I can," he confesses. "But I'll try. For you. Alright?"

"Try," she echoes, hitching her purse over her shoulder and taking his hand.

Their order is waiting: manicotti, a lasagna for Logan, and four portions of tiramisu. Logan's black AMEX is plunked down, Veronica's arguments waved off and they head back to the Mars home with the food nestled between Veronica's feet. The scent of cheese and tomato sauce has coaxed Veronica's appetite awake, and she's actually a little excited to dig in.

Logan, on the other hand, seems increasingly anxious as they approach her street.

"Where are your parents?"

"My father starts shooting tomorrow for some shitty action movie, and my mother has tagged along to spend the day in a spa with a bottle of champagne to unwind." Logan rolls his eyes, tapping the wheel in an angry staccato. "I'll be alone all week. Maybe I'll throw a party."

Veronica glares at him, her jaw falling open. "You can't be serious!"

"Of course I'm not serious. Although someone is sure to throw one and use my address, because why would anyone consider my feelings on the subject?"

Dick Casablancas, if she were to take a guess. You'd think the guy could take a hint that now of all times, he should be a friend and support Logan. Maybe he'll surprise them all, but Veronica doubts it.

The bigger problem, she reminds herself as they pull into her driveway, is that Logan will be alone all week. Alone with the cold they both feel, the cold that is creeping over her once more. How can his parents be so cruel?

"Here you go. Home sweet home."

Veronica frowns as Logan remains in his seat, engine idling. "What, you're not coming in?"

"I think I've overstayed my welcome. If you can just split out my food from the bag, I'll get going—"

"No, no way!" Her hand darts out, turning off the X-Terra and snatching the keys from the ignition. "You're coming in for dinner."

"Veronica, give me my keys."

Logan's hand reaches for hers, but she's faster and smaller, yanking open the door and tumbling to the driveway before he can catch her. The food is still on the floorboards—a challenge—but she has a solution Lilly taught her years ago.

"Veronica, seriously, give them back."

"I will put these keys down my boobs if I have to," she threatens. "Just… come in. No one should eat alone. And we're supposed to stick together, right?"

His irises are dark, dark as the starless sky. "I… But—"

"Your words," she rebukes him gently. "Your lasagna's getting cold and cold cheese is gross."

Her front door swings open, revealing her father. "Everything alright?"

"Yep. Logan and I were settling a bet. He lost." Grabbing the bag of food, Veronica jerks her head towards the house. "Dinner. Come on."

His lips crook into a half-smile. "Okay. Okay, fine."

Jangling his keys like a Pied Piper, Veronica leads him up the driveway, ignoring her father's confused expression. She'll deal with him later. He's a good dad. He'll understand her concerns for her friend.

If only for a while, Logan has chased away the cold from her heart. Has somehow found a way through the darkness that consumes her, and brought her light.

She cannot—will not—turn her back on him now.

It's all over the news. All over the school. Whispering through the halls, tangling around her ankles, tripping her up.

Her father has accused Jake Kane of murdering Lilly. Jake Kane, beloved billionaire, is the number one suspect in the brutal battering of her best friend. Veronica is the last to know, it seems. Her father's professionalism is her undoing as classmates corner and cajole her. Apparently, he's been interrogating them since the night of her death, but the accusations reached a fever pitch within a week. The Kanes lawyered up, whispering to their wealthy and sympathetic neighbours, and now, the entire 90909 zip is abuzz.

Duncan isn't in school yet. Small mercies, she tells herself. But Logan is. Oh God, Logan is. He came back to school yesterday, after she encouraged him to. After yet another late night conversation, where they'd shared private memories of Lilly while speaking softly into the night.

Logan spent most of the week with Duncan, trying to support him. Veronica sensed that the absence of his own family was a factor, but she let Logan spin the story the way he needed to. Selfishly, she'd asked him to try and come back to school, and for one day, things had been good. Things had been warmer.

His icy stare as she collides with him in the front corridor while trying to sneak off campus early, overwhelmed with the inquisitions, drives a dagger into her chest. The cold steals her breath, paralyzing her as he hisses from the contact.

"Where are you going?"

"Home," she manages to blurt out. "Excuse me."

Logan's arm shoots out, blocking her path. "No, you don't get to do that. Not to me."

Gripping her bag tighter, Veronica winces and recoils. "Logan, please."

"Does, uh, does your dad still think Lilly's father did this?"

And there it is: the question she's dreading. His eyes glisten with tears threatening to spill as he folds his arms across his chest. He can barely look at her and her stomach rolls. He hates me.

"That's my girlfriend. Your friend. Duncan's sister."

Her sandpaper tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth, helpless as he hoarsely declares her family's betrayal for passing students to see.

"Your dad is destroying the Kane family. What's the matter with you people, huh?"

Logan sniffles and her hand raises slightly, seeking to comfort him, but thinking better of it. Knowing she is no longer welcome.

"What's the matter with you?" he repeats, shaking his head slightly.

"M-my dad is… He doesn't tell me about work—"

"Save it. I don't want to hear it."

He pushes past her, his shoulder checking against hers as he heads further into the school. Veronica gasps, choking on a sob as her palm presses against her arm. Covering heat, cupping it as if collecting rain.

It's the last warmth she will feel for a long time.

Chapter Text

B. If It Wasn't For Your Kindness, I Think I Might Be Dead

His fingers fumble with the keys as he jams them in the ignition, turning the engine over with a nails-on-chalkboard grind. He inhales sharply, yelping in pain as he wills himself to try again, to slow down. The X-Terra purrs to life as the stranger outside pulls his cell phone from his pocket and stares at him, then the body on the ground.

He reaches for the wheel and adjusts the rearview mirror, blood streaking the glass. His blood? The PCHer's? He has no fucking idea. What he does know, as he reverses wildly, is that someone is dead and he's as good as, if he sticks around.

Gotta go gotta go gotta go.

His mom would be so ashamed of him.

Where to go? He doesn't know. Every breath is a razor-wire gasp, tearing up his lungs. He's broken a rib, maybe two. He's been here before, in LA. Back when Aaron decided the hospitals were starting to catch on, and relocating to Neptune was a great idea. Easier to bribe a small town into silence.

Logan doesn't think about it. He turns on the radio and drives, far from home. But he can't escape the sins of his father for long. Blink-182's Adam's Song wraps up as he makes a sharp turn at the Camelot and the DJ begins to speak in a harried voice.

"We continue to update our breaking news story this evening. Aaron Echolls, star of The Long Haul, has been arrested tonight in Neptune, California and charged with the murder of Lilly Kane, as well as three counts of aggravated assault. Silicon Valley billionaire Jake Kane has also been arrested and charged with obstruction of justice in the murder of his daughter. Our listeners will recall that Abel Koontz, a former employee of Kane Software, was previously convicted for…"

"No, no, no…"

Logan's finger jams the button, switching the station. This has to be a hallucination. A concussion from the beating he's taken on the bridge. His father is many things, all of them monstrous, but a murderer? Lilly's murderer?

"…Echolls' lawyer advises his client will be issuing a statement in the morning—"

"No!"

Another button pressed. "A source closed to Balboa County police has told us there are tapes of Echolls having sex with Lilly Kane, but there is no official statement at this time—"

"FUCK YOU!"

Logan screams, cursing as his ribs rend apart. He can't do this. He can't drive anymore. He can't think about his father bashing in Lilly's skull, let alone…

Veering towards the curb, Logan slams on the brakes, throwing open his door to vomit onto the street. Whiskey and bile spew forward as tears streak down his blood-stained cheeks. As he wipes the corner of his mouth with a napkin from the glove box, he notices the street sign and shakes his head.

It wasn't planned, but of course he came here. Where else would he go?

It's three in the morning when he knocks: three impatient raps, and three more. He knows Keith will be furious, but he figures he'll hire him to investigate what really happened on the bridge and well, bygones, right? He'll pay overtime.

He needs to see her. He needs Veronica.

His vision spins and he leans on the rail, steadying himself as he glares at the sky. No stars, only the accusing spotlight of the full moon above, like an all-seeing eye. Behind him, he hears the lock click and the door swinging open.

Her voice, soft and kind, greets him: "I was hoping it would be you."

His jaw falls open, eyes pressed shut as he remembers the taste of her lips on his. He must have heard her wrong. She couldn't have possibly known he would be here tonight, couldn't possibly want him here. Not after what he'd done at Shelly's party. Not after how she'd run from him. Not after what his father had done.

"Logan?"

She knows him. She's confused or concerned, maybe both. She wasn't hoping for him, or maybe hoping for a warmer greeting. He turns around, blinking away the spins.

"Hey, Veronica."

Her hair is pulled back, her sleepwear rumpled. Notably, there's no sign of her dad anywhere. Her soft gasp, stunned irises scanning for damage, buoy his heart. She still cares. He can still come to her. But wait—is that a bruise on her face?

He's seen bruises that size before: on his mother's face as she sipped her vodka, staring out the western windows. On his own, as he silently wept before bathroom mirrors, refusing to let the monster see him weakened.

Three charges of aggravated assault. Keith's not here. Who was the third?

He stumble-staggers, collapsing into her arms beneath the weight of the sins of his father.

"Logan, what happened?"

He draws a deep breath to tell her, forgetting himself. Forgetting his broken ribs. As he yelps in pain, she, too, whimpers. Veronica hangs on tightly, whispering in his ear.

"I've got you, Logan. Come on, come inside. I've got you."

He pulls away, but she refuses to relent, her arm firmly tucked around his waist. He's careful not to lean on her. She's stronger than she looks, but still so small, and as they step inside and she hits the lights, Logan grimaces at the bruises blossoming along the back of her arms. Blueberry stains, pressed into flesh by furious fingers he knows all too well. Fingers he's covered up with sweaters in July.

He shouldn't be here. It's wrong for him to take when she so clearly needs comfort of her own.

"Sit down," she urges, nudging him towards the couch. "I'll get the first aid kit."

"Veronica, I—"

"I'll be right back."

She hurries down the narrow hallway and his knees buckle in defeat. He sinks into the sofa and buries his face in his hands. His jaw aches, a deep and dull throbbing from where one of Weevil's goons clocked him good. His left ear is ringing, a soft vibrato like the tuning forks from Mr. Wu's science class. But it's the emptiness in his chest, the gnawing pit of cold rage and fear, that terrifies him.

"Logan?"

Her hand is on his shoulder and he hisses—not in pain, but relief. The release of a breath within, pinned within two butterfly lungs, has been freed.

"Let's get you cleaned up," she murmurs. "Can you turn sideways?"

He tries, but the position, it pushes that broken rib further out of place and he curses angrily. The other end of the couch might work—he says as much—but Veronica shakes her head and sets her supplies on the end table.

"Lie down," she tells him, sitting down and patting her lap. "It'll give me more light anyway."

Which is how he comes to be on her lap, one leg dangling off the couch, as Veronica gently cleans and dabs at the wounds on his face and scalp. Her brow furrows as she studies the angry gashes beneath the bloody mess, fingers caressing his jawline lovingly.

"Oh, Logan… You really need a hospital. This one needs stitches."

"I'm fine," he insists.

"Your ribs, Logan," she pleads.

"I'll deal. I know how."

Her mouth opens and closes soundlessly and he loses himself in the stormy irises watching over him. She's adding it up, remembering Trina's shitty ex. Remembering what his father had done to Dylan Goran.

"What happened?"

She's not going to let it go, nor should she. He's shown up at her door at three in the morning, covered in blood—not all of it his. His left hand shifts, reaching for hers. Tentatively, she meets him halfway, threading her fingers through his.

"They got me alone on the bridge."

"Who's they?"

"Ahh, it was Weevil and all the PCHers."

He squeezes his eyes shut, remembering Weevil's expression of disgust. Jump off the bridge, or die by biker: did it matter? At least with the latter, he'd go down swinging. He could see if God had a plan, meant for him to stick around.

"What were you doing there?"

"Having a drink?" he retorts darkly. "Well, what do you think, Veronica? I mean, you'd broken up with me; you accused me of killing Lilly."

She winces, unable to look him in the eye. He reaches up, straining his ribs until the air is thin, cradles her cheek and wills her back to him.

"I'm sorry, Logan."

"I know."

"So… what happened then?"

He tells her about the beating: about how they'd pulled him down and swarmed him. About how they'd kicked and stomped, punched and jabbed until his body was a wall of pain. That one of them had said he better not die too fast, pretty boy. That he'd blacked out when he'd heard a crack, probably his ribs, maybe the sound of his skull bouncing off the pavement.

Logan tells her about coming to and seeing the body, and the knife in his hand. How he hadn't felt the blade at first, until he heard a voice tell him to drop it. That he'd thrown it in the water, driven away. That he was innocent, just as he'd told her he hadn't killed Lilly—could never have harmed her.

She believes him. She believes him and the icy emptiness within thaws, just a little.

"Logan, there's something that you need to know about your dad—"

"Aaron Echolls? Charged with murder? It's all over the radio."

Saying the words, forming the syllables with his lips—it makes it real. His father killed Lilly. If Veronica is telling him, her cheek bearing the brand of his father's brutality, it's because the collection of folders on her laptop led her to him. Veronica had it half-right when she pointed Lamb in his direction: right family, wrong man.

Tainted name. Tainted blood.

He begins to weep: for himself, his mother, Lilly. The shuddering sobs reverberate through his weary frame as he stares at the angry bruise marring Veronica's worried face. She hooks her arm around his waist, tugging him closer and inadvertently pressing on his broken rib, eliciting a groan of agony. Her lips part as if to apologize, but a soft rapping at the door startles her.

"Are you expecting anyone?" she asks.

"Are you?" he whispers.

"No… I mean, my mom is… gone. And my dad will be in the hospital for at least three days."

A second rapping, more insistent, beckons their attention. Veronica leans down, pressing a kiss to the top of his forehead.

"Let me go see who that it is."

Reluctantly, he lifts himself up, enough so she can slip out from beneath him. "Be careful. It could be Weevil's guys."

"I'm not scared of them. Not after tonight," she murmurs ominously.

Collapsing back onto the couch, he watches as she approaches the door and peers through the side window. Her chest heaves as she releases the curtain and glances back at him.

"It's for you."

Cops, he correctly guesses, as she opens the door to a young deputy with dark hair and an apologetic expression.

"Hey, Veronica. I'm looking for Logan Echolls. Saw his SUV parked out front. I know he's here, uh...This would be better for everyone…."

Veronica pushes open the door. They're defeated. His SUV is a bright yellow beacon of attention. Logan grits his teeth as the deputy reaches out his hand, tilting Veronica's cheek into the light. Acting far too familiar for his liking. How old is this guy? Veronica's underage and he's a cop.

This entire town is devoid of morality. All of it, except for her.

Deputy Touchy-Feely makes his way over and reads him his rights. Veronica keeps her back turned, unable or perhaps unwilling to watch the proceedings. It is only when the deputy indicates they'll be going to the sheriff's station that Veronica spins around, narrowing her stormy gaze at the lawman.

"He needs to go to a hospital first."

"Veronica, he's wanted for a homicide and—"

"He's clearly been beaten, has a broken rib and by law, once he's in your custody, you are responsible for his health care. That means taking him to the hospital first," she snaps.

"Where is my father?" Logan asks.

"The hospital, in police custody," the deputy replies.

It's a simple equation, one he's lived by since he was young: where Aaron is, he cannot be if he wants to feel safe. "Then I'm not going there. Take me to the station."

Veronica doesn't understand, can't understand. Her math is the math of textbooks. The algebra of fathers who care for their daughters, who stay up all night when they take off after homecoming dances in a limo, but do not degrade or yell at them. The calculus of fathers who rush to their side when a presumed killer confronts them on a beach, who do whatever surely heroic thing Keith Mars has done that is keeping him in the hospital for days.

"Leo, can you give me a minute with him?"

The deputy frowns, leaning towards her, and Logan's fists curl. "I really don't think that's a good idea."

Veronica huffs angrily. "Why not?"

"The witness says he was holding a knife, Veronica. He's dangerous."

"Logan would never hurt me. But I might tase you if you don't stop treating me like a child."

The blows to his head have clearly taken a toll, driving him deep into delirium. Only hours ago, she'd accused him of murder, had run from him in fear. Now, she was defiantly standing her ground, insisting he would never harm her.

But I have. I did, at Shelly's party. I will live with that for the rest of my life.

"Two minutes," the deputy insists, stepping outside reluctantly. "But only because you're right: he's too injured to do much more than lie there."

As the door shuts behind the cop, Veronica crouches beside him, caressing his cheek. "You need a hospital, Logan. X-rays, stitches. They won't let Aaron near you."

"Oh, I'm not worried about that," he replies coldly. "I'm innocent of murder right now, Veronica. I can't say that'll be true if they take me near him. Not after what he's done to Lilly. To you."

His fingers trace the outline of the bruise upon her left cheek, tracing the shadow of his father's fist. Her palm presses to his chest, over his heart, and his breath hitches.

"What if I come with you?" she asks softly. "Every single minute. You won't make me watch you kill someone. Not even him."

His mind drifts back to the night Trina's shitty boyfriend Dylan had stopped by for dinner. While Veronica was hardly looking to defend the guy, the brutality with which her father had taken him apart was a line she couldn't stomach.

"Veronica, here's how tonight will go: if they arrested Jake Kane, a judge has already been woken up to handle bail. Which means I can wake my lawyer up and demand my hearing tonight. I plunk down bail and see my family doctor in the morning." As she opens her mouth to protest, he presses a single shaking finger to her lips. "Please don't make me see him. Not now. Not tonight."

She agrees, pressing her forehead to his, with one condition: that she come down to the station with him. He wants her to rest—her eyes are rimmed in deep violet—but his body aches to be cared for, and he greedily devours her proffered affection.

The next three hours are a blur of car ride, lawyers, the seizure of his clothes and an extremely brief bail hearing, where a furious Judge Hastings decides a cool million is enough. With the bail guaranteed against the deed of the Echolls house, Logan takes Veronica by the hand as a deliberate middle finger to Deputy Leo Touchy-Feely and follows her out to his waiting X-Terra, dressed in a faded black tee and jeans delivered by a deputy from his house.

"I'm driving," she tells him, hopping up into the driver's seat before he can protest.

The midnight-blue sky is kissed orange: sunrise is approaching. He should be exhausted, but adrenaline jolts his restless limbs, that familiar twitch-twitch-twitch as it pulses through every cell and poisons his peace of mind. It is only when Veronica's hand grips his knee and she whispers his name that he realizes he is jerking it so violently, it is jackhammering against the floorboards.

She takes him home. Her home, not his. His house is a crime scene, currently being bagged and tagged by Neptune's finest. It hasn't been a home since his mother left, anyway.

Veronica calls someone, speaking in hushed tones. His attention drifts, but it seems she's arranging for someone to check on her father that morning.

"… yeah, they told me the burns should all heal in time…"

Logan slumps in shame. I haven't even asked her what happened. I'm so fucking selfish.

"No, and it's going to stay that way until I tell him, Cliff, or I'll have to tell him about all the favours I do for you," Veronica replies pointedly. "…I will. Thank you."

Veronica disappears down the hall, returning with a large towel in her hand. "A shower before we go to the doctor and get your ribs checked," she suggests. "You promised me."

"Veronica, your dad—"

The words lodge in his throat, tangled up in the thorny vines of Lilly Kane and murder and father.

With a heavy sigh, she averts her gaze. "If you see a doctor, I'll tell you what happened. I just… Right now, I need to help you. Helping you is helping me, Logan. Let me do that?"

What else can he do? He is wandering in a pitch-black room, with Veronica the solitary flicker of light.

He staggers down the hall and takes a lukewarm shower, rinsing away the blood of two men down the drain. The cherry-hued water circling the drain nauseates him and he presses his aching forehead to the cool tile wall. A quick scrub and he dries off, tugging back on his clothes.

Time shifts and fades, stutters and starts. He hands Veronica his phone and she calls his doctor, demanding an appointment. He is prodded and poked, scarcely aware of the indignity. Two cracked ribs, but no full fractures. A lucky man, the technician says, after what happened to you. Contusions, a concussion, cuts closed with seven stitches. Veronica says nothing, a silent sentinel who drives him home as he shudders and shakes, staring out at the sunny sidewalk and wondering how the world seems so unchanged while his life is crumbling around him.

"Logan?"

They're at her apartment. She nudges him gently and he gets out of the SUV, following her upstairs and inside. She tosses her purse aside and excuses herself to her bedroom, emerging a minute later in the sleepwear she greeted him in hours prior.

"I'm going to grab a nap before visiting my dad. You should nap too." He moves towards the couch and she rolls her eyes. "No, come on. We'll sleep in my bed."

His mangled heart, already in tatters from her rejection and the horrific truths of the last twenty-four hours, is slippery in his outstretched hands. And still, he offers it up to her, knowing she might open her jaw and tear it asunder.

"Veronica, I don't know—"

"Or take my bed and I'll take my dad's," she counters. "You need the rest."

He needs her close. He needs her light. The darkness, it suffocates. Its fingers close hungrily around his throat when he's alone, squeezing incrementally, because the slow kill is more satisfying. It's been closing in for years and it almost has him now.

She is all that remains between him and his demise.

"No, no, we'll sleep," he mumbles quickly, following her into her bedroom.

Her bed is small—hardly the spacious king of his room at home—but the mismatched and well-loved pillows and the way her hand gently runs in a circle upon his back as she asks whether he wants the inside or outside makes it far more inviting.

He takes outside, of course. Cannot be trapped. Cannot be confined. Easier to slip away, once she's safely in dreamland.

Veronica lies on her side, curling her body around his hip, her leg flung over his casually. As if they are still together, still an us. The knife twists deeper in his heart. Now that she knows he didn't kill Lilly… can they ever make that work? Or is the past simply too much weight, too much of an anchor dragging them beneath the surface until they choke and drown?

The sun struggles futilely against the restraints of her curtains, casting a dim yellow glow upon her cheeks. The emptiness, the rage, it's easier here. But the bruise on her cheek, now settling from crimson to a plum purple, steals his breath.

"The bruise," he whispers.

Veronica grimaces, burying her face in her pillow. "He hit me. It doesn't hurt, Logan."

A lie. "That's what I'd always say, when Lilly saw my bruises. You don't have to protect me from him, Veronica."

"Someone should have." Her words are small, her voice cracking as a tear slides down her cheek. "Logan… He's a monster. And you fought him alone."

"It doesn't matter now." And it doesn't, as he slips an arm beneath her neck, pulling her closer. "Tell me everything. Please, Veronica. Or what I'll imagine… I have a wealth of material to work with."

Resting her head against his chest, Veronica quietly recounts the night before: how she'd remembered Lilly's habit of hiding things in her air vents and wondered if his missing letter to her was still in her room. That as sure as she was at the time that he was the likeliest suspect, a part of her believed him on the beach when he said the letter would exonerate him. How Duncan had caught her snooping, and together, they'd found not a letter, but three video tapes, revealing a shocking truth no one would have guessed.

"Duncan said he'd watch Aaron at the party, while I drove the tapes home to my dad," she explains. "Only when he went back to the party, Duncan couldn't find them. My guess is your dad was snooping around for the tapes and overheard us. I was halfway home, on that isolated curve of highway between the Kane house and the '02, when your dad sat up in my backseat."

"Oh my God…"

"He-he told me to keep driving, and grabbed for the tapes, so I did the only thing I could think to do: I crashed my car."

He blinks hard, certain he's misheard her. "You did what?"

"He wasn't wearing a seatbelt. I was. I jerked the belt to lock it and drove off the road. I bumped my head but he flew forward and hit the front dash hard." Her hand fists in his t-shirt, twisting the fabric tightly. "I grabbed the tapes. My phone was too close to him, so I bolted for a house nearby… and then it got worse…"

The first assault: his father knocking out the homeowner after breaking in. The second assault: striking Veronica twice, rendering her unconscious. And then… oh God, and then, the deep freezer. The images flicker in his mind like the flames her father had fought through: Veronica banging on the roof in desperation, the smell of gasoline filling her nostrils; the sound of her father being beaten outside; the nightmare scene of Keith alight, staggering away as she scrambles for a tarp. The third and most grievous assault.

"I thought he was going to die. I thought… "

He hugs her closer, swallowing down the pain shooting through his ribcage as she sucks in a deep, steadying breath. His father had taken her best friend and had nearly taken her father from her as well. If the courts didn't see fit to show him no mercy, Logan would happily avenge her.

His lips find the top of her head, an unworthy prayer to a honeyed saint. He came so close to losing her. Too close, and at the hands of his monster, a man whom she never would have had to face, had she not been in search of his letter. The darkness swells, feeding on his shame, its chest puffed out as it whispers of his unworthiness in his still ringing ears.

"Why are you being nice to me?" His tongue is cotton-dry, the words cracking beneath the weight of his guilt.

"Why am I—"

His stomach roils as he loosens his hold on her, sets her free. He doesn't deserve her, doesn't deserve her kindness. Oh, he knows what he deserves, and he had a healthy taste of it last night on the Coronado Bridge, beneath several pairs of boots.

"If you hadn't gone looking for my letter… Fuck, Veronica, you could be dead! Or your dad could be dead. But you've been taking care of me all night. Why?"

"Oh, Logan…" She presses up onto her elbow, fixing her gaze upon him as her fingers comb through his hair. "You're not your father, Logan. You know that, right? You're not him."

He hasn't known it, not for certain. But hearing it from her, from a woman who has never hesitated to call him on his shit, maybe he can trust it.

"You're not your father," she repeats firmly. "You deserve to be taken care of."

He breaks down, gulping sobs, the kind children make. The kind he made when the beatings began, before he learned they'd end quicker if he was quiet. His body shudders and shakes, his bones grinding inside his chest as Veronica opens her arms and beckons him closer, and he groans in pain. If it were anyone but her witnessing this loss of control, this snotty-nosed, gasping, blubbering mess, shame would consume him.

In her arms, he feels only relief.

She speaks softly as he weeps upon her shoulder, the darkness receding within. You've survived so much, Logan, he hears. I'm amazed you're still standing, after one night of facing him. He shakes his head sadly, dismisses it. His father had taken things to new, sadistic heights with Veronica. He'd bear fifty lashes on his back to spare her that hell.

"I'm glad you're safe. You and your dad," he tells her.

"I'm glad you're safe, too. Not just from Weevil, but the bridge. Logan, if you'd done something because I was wrong?" She hugs him a little tighter, burying her face in his hair. "It would be so cold..."

A memory echoes in his mind: the two of them, driving the night of Lilly's funeral. The cold clung to Veronica then, clung to her like a creeping vine. The fury in her face when he passively suggested the world would be better served if he shuffled off it…

I still matter to her. I mean something to her.

The darkness within him screams, wounded by the realization. It slinks away, stepping aside for the hopeful promise that maybe he still has a chance with Veronica someday. That they are still friends, if nothing else. He can still trust her with his fragile heart, and she will gently glue the fragments together again.

"I won't leave until you make me," he promises, nuzzling closer.

"Good," she murmurs. "You're so warm…"

A strange feeling washes over him: a sense that whatever personal or legal hell awaits, it doesn't matter. What matters is the feel of her bare arms against his, the way her slight frame curves into his, and the steady, slowing breaths as her eyes flutter shut. Safe. He feels safe. It's so surreal, he shakes himself slightly, as if in a dream.

Which of course, he is. She is the dream, and he lies within her grasp.

Closing his eyes, he surrenders to her. Don't let me go, he thinks as exhaustion sinks in. Please don't ever let me go…

Chapter Text

C. The Past, It Isn't Far Away

"Here." Logan's voice is quiet and kind as he wraps the blanket around her and Mac. "I'll turn the fireplace on high."

Mac nods wordlessly, tugging the blanket around her neck. Her hair is still damp, skirting the soft beige surface. Veronica tucks her feet beneath the edges and draws it around her shoulders, burrowing her chin inside Logan's hoodie. It's her favourite one—a well-worn black cotton zip-up with a Bondi Beach design that's faded on the back.

Beneath the blanket, Veronica finds Mac's hand and squeezes it once in reassurance. Welcome to the Cassidy Casablancas Fucked Up My Life Club. On Fridays, we meet for cake and cursing.

Deputy Sacks has asked them to give statements, despite Logan's irate insistence that it wait until morning. Any other officer, Veronica would be inclined to flip them off and leave to be alone with her grief, but Deputy Sacks is visibly upset about her dad and that earns him fifteen minutes of waiting in Logan's suite.

Not a minute more, though. The ocean of grief within her is battering the fragile dam of composure she's mustered. The cracks are already forming: her trembling hands, the shrill pitch of her words when Logan asks her a question. The way her body tenses at the shrieking wail of emergency sirens on the streets of Neptune.

Is that ambulance for Cassidy? For Woody? For her father? Will they even be able to find her father? Or find all of him… Oh God.

Throwing off the blanket, she bolts for the bathroom, slamming the door behind her as her stomach upends itself for the second time today. A frantic grip on the seat keeps her dizzy frame from slipping to the marble tile and cracking her skull. Between retches of bile, she sobs weakly.

A plane crash gone supernova haunts the inky sky in her mind's eye.

"Veronica, I'm coming in."

Her stomach spasms and stills as she slumps to the floor. Logan runs the tap beside her for a minute, then kneels at her side with a damp cloth in hand. Scooping her hair aside with his left hand, he gently dabs her face, cooling her feverish skin.

"Sorry," she murmurs.

"For what? Being human? Your secret's safe with me."

Veronica leans into his shoulder as a wave of vertigo hits. A groan slips from her lips and Logan hums quietly—a familiar tune, it evokes a peace within her she can't explain. His arm lifts and she tucks herself beneath it, burrowing into his Henley and inhaling the scent of his cologne. He smells of the ocean and sun, a beach at daybreak.

"I can't do this," she confesses. "I can't talk about it tonight. I can't, Logan."

"Then you won't," he promises her. "Do you want to stay here or do you want to go home?"

Not here. Aaron is staying somewhere in this hotel and after what happened on the roof… No.

"Home."

Logan rises to his feet, offering his hands to pull her carefully to hers. He leaves her to gargle and rinse her mouth while in the sitting area, she can hear him checking on Mac. He asks her if she wants to go home and skip the statement, but she chooses to stay. Insists she'd rather get it over with so she can forget tonight faster.

"I'll leave you a keycard," she hears him say. "I'm taking Veronica home. You can stay here tonight, or go home. I'll leave you some cash for a cab. You have my number?"

Veronica rinses her mouth, swiping away tears. He's being the strong friend Mac needs—the friend Veronica should be right now. Instead she's cowering in a bathroom, spitting out bile and splashing her blotchy face.

Weak. Pathetic. Get it together, Mars. Dad would hold it together.

"But I'm not him," she whispers to her reflection. "I can't take his place. No one can."

Her father is gone. Who will take care of her now? Who will be there for her when the world turns its back on her, when it betrays her, when she is not enough or worse, too much?

Opening the door to the bathroom, she finds Mac on the couch, wrapped tightly in the blanket, as Logan and Deputy Sacks speak in hushed tones at the door of the suite. She's known Logan for years, knows every shift in posture, every gesture, every flicker of emotion that dances in his deep brown eyes. He is an open book—one that endlessly fascinates her—and he's open to the chapter on stubborn defiance.

"She's in no state to talk tonight, and I'm taking her to rest. End of story."

"And your statement?"

"Can also wait." As Sacks begins to protest, Logan slaps his hand on the doorframe beside his head. "I am the one who needs to take care of her now. It will wait until morning."

Spinning on his heel, Logan pulls open a drawer on a side table and tosses a business card at Sacks. "If you don't like it, you can take it up with my attorney."

A bewildered and berated Sacks watches as Logan picks up her jacket and bag, then reaches for her hand. Without another word, he leads her out of the suite and to the private elevator for penthouse guests, where he jams the button for the parking lot far harder than necessary.

"Thank you."

"Whatever you need, Veronica, I'm here for you."

He is. He's here for her now as they get in her LeBaron. Logan offers to drive and she quickly agrees, too shaky to take the wheel. They take the back exit out of the Grand thanks to a hundred dollar bill and a nod from a worker at the loading dock. He was there for her on the roof as she lay crumpled on the cold concrete, electricity coursing through her body while Cassidy cruelly sneered about pirates and walking the plank.

He was there to stop her from becoming what she hated in Cassidy, in Aaron too.

"Why didn't I tell you?" she mumbles aloud. "Maybe he'd be alive if I'd just told you…"

Logan's hand reaches for hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. "I don't understand."

"At the party. When I came to look for Mac, I asked you if you'd seen them. I could have told you right there what I knew. That Cassidy was molested by Woody. That he was the one who blew up the bus." Her anguish swells as she stares at the tiny horse keychain dangling from her rear view mirror: a gift from her dad. "If we'd gone up to the roof together, maybe he wouldn't have had a chance to dial. Maybe… maybe my dad wouldn't be…"

"Or maybe he would have blown it up before confronting you. Maybe he shoots us both in the back of the head, then heads downstairs and does the same to Mac," Logan argues gently. "Cassidy was sick, Veronica. He was messed up, and there's no way to know what would have happened with someone like that." His jaw twitches as he stares off into the distance, lost in thought—or a memory. "You can't predict people like Cassidy."

She tugs the zipper of his hoodie up, silver teeth clenched as they meet her chin. She nudges her face inside, pulls the hood over her head and yanks the drawstrings, disappearing within its cotton confines. Her body curves towards the window, staring at the darkened streets of Neptune as they pass in a blur of storefront neons and dim bulbs nestled beyond closed curtains.

The world sleeps. It lays at peace, while a war wages within her.

Grief pools in her stomach, cold and bottomless like the lake where her family had camped when she was ten years old. It steals her breath, its kelp fingers snaring it to its depths. She remembers the cold from when Lilly died, remembers its unholy caress. It seeps into her bones, feeding on the marrow and leaving her a hollow bird with no will to fly.

But guilt flickers within, too. A slow, but sure poison that pulses through her veins with every beat of her broken heart. Logan's words may be in her mind, ricocheting off the walls between bursts of Cassidy raped me and oh my God, Mac was dating him, but they hold no sway over the sinking feeling in her gut that her father would be alive, if not for her mistakes.

Her dad. Her mother had abandoned her for the bottom of a bottle, but not him. Keith Mars had never wavered, even though he'd spent most of her life unsure of her true paternity. The man who'd turned his back on love more than once, choosing her happiness over his own. Hugging herself tightly, she bit her lip to stifle a sob as flashes of the exploding plane melded into her father ablaze, throwing open a deep freezer as she begged for help—for her dad. He'd been willing to die for her that night, and now, he had done just that.

Pieces of her heart scatter in the wind, like confetti at a party to which no one cares to show. No one except Logan.

The sight of her apartment complex rends a wail from her chest and Logan slams on the brakes in surprise. He pulls her close as she weeps against his chest, her fist softly thumping against his shoulder in angry protest to the heavens.

"I'm so sorry. God, I'm so damn sorry."

"He's gone. He's gone…"

"I know. It's not fair."

Drawing a shuddering breath, she shoves herself away from him. "Backup has been home all night. He needs to pee."

"I'll walk him," Logan tells her, parking her car. "Let's get you inside."

It doesn't hit her immediately, how changed her world is. How empty the apartment feels. Logan wraps his arm around her shoulders and for a minute, she pretends they're sneaking in late, taking advantage of her dad chasing a bail jumper over a state line. Logan snaps Backup's leash on his collar, kisses her cheek and promises to return quickly. Deny, deny, deny. Oh, the lies she tells herself for five minutes.

The moment the door closes behind Logan, the silence crashes over and she drowns in the truth.

Her hand clutches her stomach, her breaths shallow gasps as she stares at a photo of her father and herself at Christmas years ago. He had more hair then; so did she. It was before the rape, before Lilly died, before her mother left them behind. Shaking her head violently, she staggers down the hallway to his bedroom and shoves the door open, calling his name in desperation.

"Daddy?"

Her palm slaps the light switch and she glances around, as if he is playing a childhood game. Hide and Seek. Olly olly oxen free.

"Daddy," she whimpers.

On the corner of his bed, she finds his Padres sweatshirt, rumpled and half-folded. Shaking hands reach out, lifting it to her face as she inhales. The faint scent of Old Spice makes her sob in relief. A part of him remains here. She hugs the sweatshirt to her chest as she slumps down on the mattress, closing her eyes.

How long until he fades completely?

The door opens and she hears the jangle of Backup's leash. For one hopeful moment, she listens for her father to admonish their dog, but the dream is quickly dashed as Logan's calm voice praises Backup for being good. Pulling the sweatshirt over her face, she inhales deeply once more.

Oh, Dad. Tell me what to do now.

"Hey, Veronica."

Blue eyes peer over faded cotton blend into deep pools of brown as Logan stands sentinel at the bedroom door. Setting the sweatshirt aside on her father's pillow, she props herself up on her elbows and forces a weak smile.

"Backup behave?"

"Always does. You forget we became buddies last summer."

Veronica rolls her eyes in exasperation. "Only because you bribed him with bites of hamburgers!"

Logan smirks. "I never said I played fair." He crosses the room slowly, taking a seat beside her. "You hungry?"

"Nuh-uh."

She loosens the hood of Logan's sweatshirt and shoves it off of her head, tugging her hair free to cascade over her shoulders. He reaches out tentatively, tucking an errant strand behind her ear.

"What do you need from me tonight?" he asks.

Veronica shrugs. "I don't really know, Logan. Everything is so… I'm so lost."

"It's okay to be lost. I'll find you. I'll always find you."

It's more solemn than a promise, she recognizes. It's a vow.

"Do you want to stay in here?"

"No. No, it doesn't feel right to be here," she decides sadly. "Not without him. Not yet."

Logan holds out his hand and she accepts it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. She shuffles to the hallway, where she hesitates, then veers to the living room. Beds don't feel safe right now. Not while the memory of Shelly's party lingers so close to the surface. Logan follows wordlessly and matches her pace. His thumb runs in circles over the top of her hand, slow and steady. It's soothing and her breathing slows.

He settles onto the couch, on her usual side, and her chest aches at the deliberate kindness. Nothing with Logan is accidental; she knows him too well. He doesn't want to occupy a space that belongs to her father. He's trying not to hurt her, and it means everything in a moment where all she knows is pain and violation. Unzipping his gifted hoodie, she peels it off and drapes it over the back of a dining room chair.

Logan will keep her warm. He knows how.

Gingerly, she settles onto the couch, then glances up at Logan. "Can I… ?"

"Whatever you need," he whispers hoarsely.

Scooching closer, she shifts herself to sit sideways on his lap. Her face burrows into his neck as her arms wrap tightly around him. Logan's right arm curves around her chest, hugging her close, his left arm loosely beneath her knees.

"Will you stay?" she murmurs.

"Tonight?" As she nods into his shoulder, his lips ghost her forehead. "I'm not going anywhere, Veronica."

She pulls back, enough to be able to look him in the eye. To see the concern and compassion that lie there. Her palm presses to his chest, feeling the steady thump-thump of his heart. It's a little too fast. Logan's worried about her.

"It's true what they say, Logan," she muses sadly. "You can't outrun the past, can you?"

"No," he agrees sadly. "I don't think any of us can."

"I spent a year thinking it was over. That I wasn't… That it wasn't rape, that it wasn't really ideal or nice what Duncan did at Shelly's party, but… It wasn't what I thought. And then I saw that baseball team photo. Not Pictured: Cassidy Casablancas. And I knew that what he'd told me a year ago was a lie, Logan. He lied. And if that was a lie…"

"A house of cards," Logan spat. "You pull the one and all of them fall down."

"I saw your father tonight," she continues shakily. "On my way to your party. He admitted killing Lilly. Bragged about it."

"Son of a bitch… I can't believe that jury let him walk for Lilly. Veronica, can't we charge him with assaulting you?"

She scoffs, shaking her head sadly. "After what his lawyers did to me on the stand? Logan, there is no justice in Neptune. The best I can hope for is he moves back to LA, or I can transfer to Stanford after first year, take out a fortune in student loans."

"I'll think of something," he utters menacingly.

Veronica rests her head on his shoulder, pressing her cheek tightly against him. Craving the warmth of his touch. This emptiness, this icy ache consuming her being, it runs deeper than even the loss of Lilly—something she never dreamed possible. How will she survive a day of this? A month? A year?

"How do I do this, Logan?"

"Do what?"

"The cold… when Lilly died, I had my dad to take care of me. I'm strong. I can be strong, but… Not always." She brushes away a traitor tear slipping free of her eyes. "Who will take care of me now?"

"I will. You know that." His hand cradles her chin, gently nudging her to face him. "Like when we were younger. After Lilly. Like last summer, when I came here because I didn't know where to go, didn't even think about it, but I just drove to you because it's always been you, Veronica. It's what we do. And I'll never stop looking after you."

She leans into him, forehead to forehead, and closes her eyes as his fingers slide up into her hair and massage her scalp in gentle circles.

"You're going to get through this, Veronica. You're not alone. You're the very best of your father, and you will get through this."

Exhaustion sets in. Grief is tiring. It drains, turning minutes into hours and sapping her strength until she stretches supine in Logan's lap. She watches him; he watches her watching him. Words are unnecessary between them. He knows her better than most, better than she prefers, except on nights like this.

Somewhere between midnight and morning, she succumbs to sleep.

A puppet show, from her childhood. God, her dad is goofy, but she loves it so much. He always makes her laugh. Dad pauses suddenly, breaking from his sock characters.

"Honey, do you smell that? Do you know what that is?"

"I smell bacon!" Child Veronica enthuses.

Adult Veronica snaps awake, bewildered to find herself in her own bed, still dressed in yesterday's clothing. In the haze between dream and waking, she knows two truths: she smells bacon cooking, and her father's voice is still in her ears.

Running down the hall, she calls for him, certain that being in her room, like any normal day, is a good sign. The best sign. A sign that everything awful is surely a bad dream. Her father was just talking to her. She can smell the bacon, just like he said. He's here. He has to be.

As Logan turns from the stove, her hopes shatter like delicate crystal cast carelessly to the floor. The empathy on his face twists the knife of truth deep in her heart. His arms open and she buries her face into his chest, tears streaming down anew.

"Here. I'm sorry. Oh, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

She's sorry, too. Sorry she let herself be fooled by a dream. She hasn't been that naïve in a long time.

"Is that breakfast I smell?"

Her heart skips at the sound, but the sudden rigidity of Logan's arms tells her that he hears it too. Spinning around, she sees her father standing outside of his bedroom door and bolts to his side. Throwing her arms around his neck, she almost laughs in hysterics at the very real feeling of him. He is real and here and how?

"You're alive? Oh, I thought you were dead!"

She pulls back slightly, enough to look at her father. He seems confused. That makes two of us, Pops.

"I love you so much," she blurts out, blinking away tears.

She doesn't tell him enough. She never tells him enough. She has to be a better daughter.

Her father strokes her hair back, his voice steady and gentle, as it always is when she's upset. "Oh, honey, what's wrong? I don't understand."

"Woody's plane. Cassidy Casablancas blew it up."

Her dad's eyes widen in recognition, his expression shifting from confusion to a knowing empathy. An imagining of what she's been thinking for hours. Hugging her tightly, he tucks her head beneath his chin.

"Holy… I wasn't on the plane. Lamb didn't want me arriving with Woody getting met by the press so he had them take me off the plane at the last minute. I rented a car, I drove home."

She's never been so grateful of Lamb's extreme resentment of her father. She almost wants to send the man a thank you card. Almost.

Stepping back slightly, her father crooks a half smile. "I was a little surprised to find, you know, Logan on the couch, but it was better than finding him elsewhere, right?"

Veronica glances at the kitchen, her lips parting to explain that it wasn't like that—was nothing like that, really. It was a deeper bond. More than friendship, even. But Logan is leaving—the door is swinging shut, and as it does, a piece of Veronica leaves with him.

"Now what were you saying about the Casablancas boy?" her father asks.

"He was the other kid on the recording. The one who blew up the bus." Pulling away, she reaches for her shoes. "I'm sorry, Dad. I have to go after him."

"Where did he go?" her father asks.

"I don't know, but he doesn't have his car," she replies, lacing her sneakers. "And he took care of me last night. Cassidy… Logan saved my life, Dad."

Moving to turn off the stove, her dad nodded. "Don't be too long. I want the whole story, Veronica."

"I won't!"

She spots him near the pool, headed for the entrance to the complex and bolts down the stairs, calling out his name. He startles at the sound, spinning around and rocking back on his heels. His hands are thrust deep in his jean pockets, his hair puffy from sleeping on her couch.

"What are you doing?" she demands.

"Heading home. Figure I'll grab a drink at the gas station on the corner before I call a cab."

"No, I mean, why are you going? You cooked breakfast. You should be eating it with us."

Logan shrugs. "You just spent the night thinking you'd lost your dad and he's okay. I didn't want to intrude."

"You're not intruding," she insists, reaching for his hand. "Let's eat. I'll grab a shower and then I'll drive you back to the Grand."

"Veronica, it's fine. Besides, we have a date at the Sheriff's office later. You, me, lengthy statements to law enforcement. Better known as a typical Saturday for me," he quips.

"Tuesday for me. I'm changing it up," she counters playfully. "You sure you won't stay?"

Logan nods, reaching out to trace her jawline with his finger. "Go be with your dad. I'm sure he has a hundred questions, including at least a dozen about my whereabouts in your apartment last night."

"Last night… Thank you. For everything."

"Anytime."

She turns away, takes a step towards home, but there's something she's forgotten. Something she's been longing to do since Alterna-Prom. She spins around, finding Logan watching her retreat. He tilts his head askance, eyes widening as she presses up onto her toes and kisses him hard.

Life is too short to hesitate, she figures.

Her mouth opens and his tongue slips inside, hungry and eager as his hands grip her hips, pulling her taut against him. She moans softly as her tongue teases his, her hands gripping his ass and pulling him closer.

Breaking off the kiss reluctantly, she whispers in his ear, "My dad is watching and I'd like him to like you. Saving my life will only get you so far."

"You started it, you bobcat," he grumbles, releasing his grip. "But noted."

Laughing, she backs away towards the steps. "I'll see you later?"

"Hmm, I suppose I can carve out some time in my schedule," Logan demurs. "I'll pencil you in for a few hours. Maybe a day. We have lost time to make up for."

Her cheeks flush as she waves goodbye and walks upstairs, glancing over her shoulder every few steps. Each time she checks, Logan is still there, hands in pockets, smiling warmly at her. Looking to her as if she is the sun in his sky. It's a feeling she's missed over the last eight months.

She makes it inside her home and to the kitchen table before her father asks: "So, you and Logan? When did that happen again?"

"You literally watched it, snoop. Now pass the bacon, and I'll fill you in on last night."

She omits the rape. Story of their life, she thinks sadly. He can't know. It's easier if he doesn't know. You can't prosecute a corpse. Butting heads with Lamb over his cruel Go see the Wizard shtick will only bring her family more misery.

She's moved on—moving on. Her healing, her terms.

Instead, she tells him that his name reminds her that Cassidy was sitting near the rats on the bus. It reminds her of how he was in the limo, riding just behind the bus as it exploded. She reveals how she was hired to track Big Dick's cheating spouse and instead learned he was paying off the county clerk to mask his real estate schemes. Logan's role in her rescue is given fine details as she spears a forkful of the scrambled eggs he'd cooked for them.

"If Logan hadn't seen my text, Dad…"

"Logan can be reckless, always has been. I'm just glad that recklessness comes with a protective streak for my daughter," Keith Mars remarks quietly, reaching across the table to stroke her hair.

"Me too," she agrees.

She's no damsel in distress, but there's a song she loves that reminds her of a truth she's slowly accepting: "No one should brave the underworld alone."

Her father turns on the TV news as she gathers up the dishes, dumping them unceremoniously in the sink with a quick rinse as a problem for later. "I have to go give a statement," she calls out while rinsing their plates.

"So do I. Mars family carpool?"

"Sure. Logan might drive me home, though." I hope he does.

"Um, sweetie? You need to come see this."

Drying her hands on the towel near the stove, Veronica heads for the living room. "Let me guess: Lamb is taking all the glory again?"

"No, kiddo," her father replies solemnly. "It's Aaron Echolls."

The news anchors are beside themselves, scrambling to choose between the scandals du jour. Pedophile fugitive mayor blown up on his private plane while being returned to justice; seven lives lost. Aaron Echolls, recently acquitted of murder, found executed in his hotel suite. No suspects, no leads. Veronica's jaw falls slack as Aaron's highlight reel of films silently runs in the background of a dutifully sad reporter standing outside the Neptune Grand, noting he is survived by his daughter Trina, and son, Logan.

Logan. Oh no, Logan!

"I have to go—"

"I know, sweetheart. Be careful. Say nothing to the police or press without Cliff." Her dad rises to his feet, pulling her into a warm hug. "Take my car. Yours sticks out around town."

"Thanks, Dad."

Seventeen phone calls, ten voicemails and three hours of driving later, she can't find him. His beacon of an SUV remains parked in the garage of the Grand, a tracker slapped on it in frustration. His usual beach haunts are vacant. Calls to the border and airport are fruitless. Defeated, she returns home, showers and heads down to the station with her dad to give her statement. It is there she learns from Sacks that Logan had been hauled in for questioning about his dad's murder, had lawyered up and promptly left. She immediately provides a truthful alibi, partially corroborated by Mac and confirmed by the Grand's own cameras. They'd left for her home half an hour prior to the estimated time of death.

Frustrated and frantic, she drops her father at home and resumes her search anew, dressed in Logan's Bondi hoodie, a long-sleeved black tee and pale blue jeans. There's one thread she hasn't pulled yet from the fabric of Logan's troubled mind and she follows it now to Neptune High, where a water fountain trickles, bearing the name of Lilly Kane.

The sight of him sitting in the courtyard, staring at that fountain, elicits a relief so palpable, it knocks the air from her lungs.

"There you are," she murmurs.

"Here I am."

His words ring hollow, false. The shell of Logan is here, but his mind is miles away. Cautiously, she approaches him, laying a hand upon his shoulder. He tenses, then relaxes beneath her touch, leaning against her hip.

"Why are you here?"

"This lost thing works both ways," she replies. "You were lost. I came to find you."

Logan tilts his head up, staring at her in wonder. It occurs to her that no one in his life has ever cared enough to find him when it mattered most. Her fingers toy with his hair, teasing and curling the ends as his arm wraps around her thigh and hugs it tightly.

"I came to tell Lilly he was dead," he explains. "I don't like cemeteries. It reminds me of us, you know. Because of the video."

Veronica smiles wistfully. "I loved that video you made. I know she loved it too. You pissed off Celeste, which we know was Lilly's favourite pastime."

"Yeah. Did you hear they accused me of murder again? I really should get a punch card," Logan quipped darkly. "The fifth accusation comes with a free orange jumpsuit."

"I took care of that, along with several cameras at the Grand." Kneeling down to face him, Veronica reaches for his hand. "I won't ask if you're okay, because you're not. How are you feeling?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm fine, Veronica." A lie, she knows, as his gaze averts. "The universe righted itself. The right father is dead now. The purse strings, as Daddy Dearest called them yesterday, are mine. Just call me Little Orphan Annie."

"Logan—"

"Veronica, I'll be fine." There is the truth, spoken in a shaky soft tone as shimmering brown eyes meet hers. "I just need to drive"

"Okay. We don't have to talk about it. But when you do, I'm here for you."

His hands cradle her cheeks, pulling her in for a gentle kiss. "I know. And that's why I'll be fine."

They take a drive up the PCH to a deserted beach where Logan likes to surf, one where few people go because the waves are choppy and rough and the sand isn't the silkiest for sunbathing. He enjoys the challenge—explains why he keeps chasing after her, Veronica figures—and mercifully, it means it's empty on a late June evening as the sun begins to set. They kick off their shoes and trudge barefoot to the water in comfortable silence, mindful of the uneven earth and the odd discarded beer can.

Logan settles at the edge of the tide-kissed sand, allowing the water to crash over his toes. Veronica joins him, placing her feet just beyond the water's reach, daring it to snare her. His arm lifts and she tucks herself beneath, wrapping her arm around his waist as they watch the sky turn grapefruit pink.

Despite the salty breeze, she is warm, as if haloed in midday sun.

"So… are we…"

Her brow furrows. "Are we what?"

"I just… I know what I want. It's your wants that have been a mystery."

"A mystery, huh? Interesting choice of words," she gently teases.

Logan groans softly, and she knows she's pushed him too far. "Veronica—"

"Good thing I'm a private eye. I'll solve this one for you, pro bono." Tilting her head up, she reaches for his cheek, stroking it lovingly. "I want you. Us. No secret relationship bullshit. No bathroom hookups."

Logan pulls back, eyes twinkling. "None? Because I distinctly remember how much you love the way I press you up against a door, your legs wrapped around my waist—"

Blushing, she rolls her eyes. "Okay, fine, but they will no longer be the entirety of our relationship. You, me, PDA. MySpace Top Friends. Obnoxious couple activities that make our friends go, 'Oh God, there they are, Logan and Veronica.' If we don't get told to get a room at least once, I'll be highly disappointed."

"Especially since I have a room." Logan winks playfully, kissing her nose. "I accept the terms and conditions of our relationship. Enthusiastically."

"And I still want a stuffed animal won through some demonstration of carnival game prowess."

"Oh, I haven't forgotten. Find me a carnival, and I will win you any prize your heart desires."

Wrapping an arm around her waist, he tugs her between his legs, drawing her back against his chest. Light kisses trail from behind her ear, along her neck and to her shoulder, where his nose nudges aside her shirt to gently nip the skin beneath. Veronica groans softly, leaning against him.

"Much better," Logan murmurs.

The sky darkens, a deep cherry-plum as they watch the waves ebb and flow. He's avoiding his grief and anger, but Veronica lets him. The steady, strong beat of his heart tells her that right now, he is peaceful. So rarely, Logan has known calm in his life. Let him have this moment, she tells herself. He needs this to heal.

"Your mind is busy. I can hear it from here."

Her elbow gently jabs at his ribs. "Sure you can."

"I'm not sad he's dead," he blurts out suddenly. "I'm angry. I'm angry I'll never get to confront him for all he did to me. To my mother. I'm sad… that my father was such a horrific piece of shit that I'm not going to grieve him."

Her hand covers his interlocked hands, secured around her ribs. "That's a very sad thing."

"It's why I really left earlier," he continues softly. "I didn't know he was gone yet, but I was thinking, 'If this was him, I wouldn't be happy to find him alive. I'd be disappointed.' I needed to think about that. Think about whether that made me a good or bad person."

"I think it makes you a survivor of abuse, with very understandable feelings about your abuser. And everything I know about you, Logan? I know you're a good man in there. I know."

"I hope so, 'Ronica." He buries his face in her hair, inhaling deeply.

I know so, she thinks as they watch day surrender to night. I know so.

Chapter Text

D. No Lights On The Horizon

The record is still spinning on the turntable, the needle caught in the eternal loop of the end groove. The soft hum is a white noise and he zeroes in, willing himself to focus upon it as his vision blurs to a grey and blue haze.

Somewhere deep in his skull, he hears a record scratch. The cocky laughter of his teenage self echoes in his ears.

Yup, that's me, dying on my bedroom floor. You may be asking yourself how I got here. It's a long story, and it all begins with two words: Veronica Mars.

He's faced down death before. He's danced with its devils—blown them kisses in daring defiance—but this time, it feels different. There's a numbness in his limbs that he can't shake out. His legs won't move, no matter how hard he struggles to kick them. Which is a shame, because hearing that Over The Rhine record one more time would be nice.

Only good thing that came of that trip from Aspen, years ago…

He's knocking back whiskey shots in the lounge, drowning out the memory of the biggest mistake of his entire fucking life. Madison Sinclair? How the hell had it come to this?

She used him for revenge. He knows it. A sick, stupid, juvenile revenge on Veronica and maybe Dick, too. He doesn't even remember the sex, he was so wasted. He only remembers waking up to her naked beside him and retching into the trash can beside the bed in disgust.

Near the fireplace, a buxom brunette plays the piano and sings—mostly old standards and torch songs, although sometimes, she throws in a tune he doesn't recognize at all. She's talented, her soulful voice a study in heartache. He wonders if she has a Veronica at home: someone she will never get over, but who will never be hers to keep.

He orders another double and takes a gulp as she plucks the keys and begins to sing, driving a dagger into his heart.

"What a beautiful piece of heartache this has all turned out to be
Lord knows we've learned the hard way all about healthy apathy…"

On the periphery, he spots Madison entering the lounge and rolls his eyes. Snatching up his drink, he moves closer to the piano, knowing her disdain for anything with substance and meaning will keep her on the other side of the room. Few are giving the singer her proper due, which is a shame.

"There is a me you would not recognize, dear
Call it the shadow of myself…"

He stands and listens to the entire song, rocking gently on his heels. His whiskey is drained, the glass passed to a server as the singer notices at his scruffy face and disheveled clothes, meets his gaze and sings to his soul.

"They've taken a toll, these latter days."

She takes her break after the song and is kind enough to tell him the name of the band. He has to special order it: it was a demo from 1996, but he tracks it down. The entire album speaks to him—hell, one of the tracks is named "Poughkeepsie"—but "Latter Days" is his favourite. It becomes The Veronica Song.

It's the first album he puts on when Mac tells him the news—mentions it in passing, figuring he knows. Assuming she's told him, because surely she wouldn't just…go. But Veronica is gone. Has transferred to Stanford, running from him without so much as an email to explain herself. She isn't even coming home between her FBI internship and the beginning of her second year, according to Mac. Her father is driving her belongings out to the dorm.

Logan knows she needs time. She'd said so, hadn't she?

Weekend parties become nightly drinks become flasks in his SUV. Hangovers become fatigue and soon he's calling up Sean Friedrich, because everyone knows if you need drugs, he's your supplier. The guy is a scumbag, but his prices are fair and his product isn't cut with household chemicals or baby powder.

Speed for days and, come September, classes. Special K to unwind. Ex marks the spot for the weekends. By the time second year begins, Dick notices his every waking moment is fueled by at least two or more substances, and he tries to intervene. Dick Casablancas, Pi Sig party boy and professional Bro, sits him down and says he's worried.

Logan's eyes roll back as he wheezes for air, a half-smirk tugging at his lips. To be exact, Dick had said, "Dude, you're reaching peak Lindsay Lohan. Isn't that Trina's deal?"

He'd cleaned up for a week. Flushed the drugs, dropped the drink. Gone to every class. And then October 3rd had shown up. The day they always talked. The day they always took care of each other.

Silence.

"This is the moment, Logan, right now, where it's just done. You're out of my life forever."

He'd written her an email. Nothing lengthy, or complicated. No professions of love or accusations of abandonment, although her flight to Stanford and continued silence were a deeper wound than his mother's swan dive off the Coronado Bridge. No, he'd kept it simple and restrained:

Grief is the price we pay for love – Queen Elizabeth II.
Thinking of her, and you, today. If you need to talk, I'm always here, Veronica.

There was a time when she knew his tells, could read his every gesture and hear what lay beneath the bravado and bluster. A time when she would have heard what was screamed between the lines: I need you. Call me. Please.

She never called.

The next morning, he'd found himself in the ocean, paddling out into the waves at daybreak. An ordinary morning by anyone's standards, his own included. The waves were strong but not too choppy, perfect for surfing. And yet, he couldn't compel himself to hop up and ride one out. Swell after swell, he found himself hugging the board, contemplating the blue-green water beneath him.

He's reminded of blue depths he once happily drowned in as he hovered above them, whispering his love in a petite blonde's ear. If he closes his eyes, the soft slosh of the water fades to quiet gasps and his name whispered with reverence.

What is she doing right now? Did she cry yesterday, as she did last year? Did some other guy hold her close, smoothing her hair from her face? Did she suffer alone, because it was better than reaching out to him?

When did the consuming cold of grief became more welcome in her life than him?

He paddles out further, seeking a more perfect wave, certain the challenge will entice him from his despondent defeat, but it only beckons the dark desires from the recesses of his mind to the forefront.

What do you have to live for?

His grades are mediocre. He hates class. Aside from a sister consumed by chasing fame across every low-rent reality show that will have her, and a half-brother who wants nothing to do with him, he is without family and Dick aside, without friends.

Even Veronica is sick of you , the voice taunts.  Even she's done with you .

His grip loosens and for five minutes, he waits for a wave to crash over, to take him to the depths. Waits to drown, one last time—if not in her love, in the absence of it.

The water mysteriously stills.

Furious, he paddles to shore and heads back to the Grand, soaking the seat of the X-Terra as he drives in his wetsuit.

Logan's leg spasms violently on the plush beige carpet and he groans weakly. His fingers strain and stretch for the mirror just beyond reach, where three more carefully cut lines and a rolled fifty, smeared in blood and snot-crusted, taunts him. If he can just get one more sniff… maybe the coke will be enough to power him past whatever the hell the heroin's doing to him. Push him past the heavy weight crushing down on his chest and get him to his feet. Get him to Dick's room upstairs, or his phone to call for help.

Ha. That's a good one. Like he wants the help. He's been waiting to fall off a proverbial board and drown in the ocean for the last few years. He'd almost made it to the murky depths a year ago at Pi Sig's end of summer bash. The frat's panicked refusal not to lose their charter had saved his life: they'd rolled his frothing-mouthed ass into the grass and called campus security, claiming someone had "stumbled onto their property and fallen down" or some bullshit.

Bad batch of ketamine—it'll fuck a man up even if it hasn't been washed down with a forty of tequila.

His head lolls to the side, staring at the weapon of what looks to be his ultimate destruction. Sean had told him a speedball was his solution. That it would mellow out his highs and lows, round out the anxiety. It would bring him down after being awake for three days straight, do it smoothly. You won't miss a fucking beat, Echolls.

For the first two days, it had. Dick had stopped asking questions, in that weirdly concerned way that made him wonder if the guy was taking his mandatory therapy sessions seriously. They were supposed to be a cover for his medical marijuana card for depression, but maybe he was actually talking to someone about Cassidy?

Logan snorts, grimacing as blood runs down the back of his throat, salty and bitter. You know you might as well fucking die when Dick Casablancas is more adjusted than you.

Tonight's batch… something must have been wrong with it. The coke was wearing off faster than usual, the high dropping off to a low so low, it felt as if he'd been hit by a truck. So he'd snorted another line, then another… and another… and now, here he was, lungs whistling but still thinking, One more line might fix it.

A shiver runs down his spine as his heart pounds loudly within his chest. Angry little fists batter his ribcage, demanding to be free. Let me out. Let me go. Life is a prison. Cut the ties, drop out of school, but there's no escaping what lies within a stained soul.

You were wrong, Veronica. I'm not worth saving. Even you gave up on me, didn't you?

He wonders what awaits him, once his stubborn body stops forcing these damn breaths into his aching lungs. Is there a world beyond this one? A heaven and a hell? Will his mother greet him, or his father? Hamlet had it right, after all: the dread of something after death is all that's kept him from a swift ending so far. But three years, three October 3rds with not a single fucking call or email from Veronica… what is he fighting for?

It isn't himself. No one will fight for a man like him. A boy, playing at being a man, if he's honest. And he might as well be honest, what with the whole limbs growing numb and cold thing. His body is turtling, drawing its precious blood to its vital organs. Shutting down unnecessary systems, taking them offline.

His legs, worthless except for running away from the greatest love he's ever know. Because as desperately as he needs her to find his way out of the labyrinthine darkness within, he's never been deserving of her guiding light.

His hands, apple fists fallen not so far from the violent tree of his father. Hands that long to hold her, too stained with guilty blood to dare reach for the salvation of her skin.

Shut them down. Shut me down.

The world is better off.

Logan's eyes close, his mind conjuring up an image of the one he loves more than himself. Veronica is sitting on the beach, leaning against his chest as they watch the sunrise. She is wearing a black off the shoulder top and cut-off shorts, her sandals discarded beside them. Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, lightly ruffled by the morning breeze.

It's the morning she first told him she loved him—actually said the words. She seldom said them, mostly agreeing or echoing him. But that morning, she'd leaned into him and whispered her truth, almost terrified of its power.

"I love you, Logan."

"Love you," he mumbles to the ghost who haunts his every waking hour.

The irony isn't lost on him that he's spent three years trying to destroy the memory of her, but she will be the last thing on his mind as he dies.

"Someone call Tinseltown Diaries. They'll finally have new freaking material for the next ten thousand showings of their trashiest episode."

Logan cracks open his eyes, blinking hard to dispel the chemicals trails of swirling maroons and blues. Standing over him, her blonde hair cascading in large curls, he finds the apparent answer to who shall serve as his afterlife greeter.

"Lilly?"

She nudges him in the rib with a blood-red shoe, the kitten heel digging into his side. "In the flesh, lover! Or, a spectral version of it. Although, with enough effort, a ghostly girl can be real enough, as you see."

She steps away, twirling around in her form-fitting jeans and white halter top. Logan is baffled, bewildered and breathless—although whether that's the heroin's doing or the sight of his first love dancing around his helpless body, it's hard to decide. Spying the mirror on the ground, Lilly frowns and sighs.

"Logan Echolls, did you learn nothing from your time with me? We lead the herd, we don't follow it. What is this, anyway? Cocaine?"

"Speedball," he mutters.

"Oh, so you chose the express train to Hollywood cliché? How original." She kicks the edge of the mirror, scattering the powder as she shakes her head in disgust. "I'm surprised you didn't choose the bathroom of that new 09'er Club for your swan song. You know, pull a River Phoenix, really seal that doomed, brooding hottie vibe. Die in a gutter, stepped over by pathetic wannabes, poor Dick sobbing over your corpse."

"Look Lilz, if you came here to relive your days of tallying my failings before leaving to fuck some other guy, mission accomplished. I hear Weevil opened a body shop near the Camelot." A low blow, but since he is clearly destined for hell, why try and aim high? "Make like an exorcist and get the hell out of here."

He looks away, staring at the bedside clock. 11:53pm. Maybe that means Lilly can only torment him for seven more minutes. His mind wanders to their first kiss: a game of Seven Minutes In Heaven. She'd rigged the bottle spin, of course. What she didn't know—couldn't have known—was that he'd kinda been hoping to spin the bottle and land on Veronica.

"Hey, Logan?" A cool whisper of a touch caresses his cheek and he turns, startled to find Lilly kneeling beside him. "You had to know I was never a one guy sorta person. Or a one girl sorta person, if we're really confessing our deepest and darkest. You had to know. You know what Celeste's mind games did to me. Kinda like I know what Aaron's games did to you."

"And yet, you fucked him anyway," Logan spat angrily. "You'd seen the bruises, Lilly."

"Did you ever consider it was leverage? Blackmail material to make him leave you alone?"

No, he hadn't. He'd considered his father's manipulative ways, and the woman who'd stabbed him at their Christmas party. He'd reminded himself many times that Lilly was only sixteen, making his father a statutory rapist. But something that calculated… not for a moment.

"You'd have to be completely reckless to do something so stupid, Lilly."

"Why do you think we dated for so long, Logan? Come on, think about it!" Her ghostly finger taps his forehead, piercing his brain with an electrical current. "You throw fists, I flirt with literal danger. Stop acting like you're the only one who has a death wish."

"I'm arguing with the hallucinated ghost of my ex," Logan mumbles. "Just let me die, already. Or drag me to hell, whatever."

"It's not your time, Logan." Her voice softens as she brushes a translucent hand through his damp hair. "What are you doing, babe? Seriously, I don't get it. You are scary smart—like, 'you could run this town if you wanted to' smart. You love with your whole damn heart, and you're not afraid to take on evil. You're a freaking rich orphan! Why aren't you Batman? Why are you here, destroying yourself like you're the villain, not the hero?"

"Because none of it matters anymore, Lilly." His throat is raw, sandpaper grit as he swallows hard. "I drove the last person who thought I could be a good man right out of town. So why bother fighting the noise in my fucking head? All their voices? I… I'd rather drown…"

"Oh boo fucking hoo!" Rising to her feet, Lilly begins to pace his bedroom in an angry huff. "So Veronica Mars, the woman with severe trust issues because you turned on her after I died, freaks out because you broke up with her and slept with the one person who would hurt her most. And when you moved on, dating one of her friends, she desperately grabbed for the safest, blandest, most Donut-like guy nearby, because it would totally spite you and make her feel safe. You stick your nose in her business, scare her off to Stanford because she knows she's always going to love you, and what do you do? You commit to a slow suicide on your way to the 27 Club. Have I got it all right, Lo?"

She… No, Veronica doesn't love him anymore. This is clearly a hallucination. Ghosts aren't real. But it's pure wishful thinking now.

"Lilz, she's moved on." He coughs weakly, only somewhat alarmed as a mist of blood sprays from his mouth. "She wants a life without me. That's pretty damn clear."

"Or she knows the moment she hears your voice, she'll make like that old song your mom loved and drive all night to get to you," Lilly muses, tapping her toe on the carpet beside his face. "I thought you two were epic! That's what you said, right? That night at prom? God, that was a fabulous speech! Couldn't have thought up a better one myself."

Alterna-Prom. He was wasted, drowning his anxiety in a flask, replaying her words in his head: "We're here for four years and then we move on. And all these people you see every day vanish from your life and you never have to think about them again." He'd made a move, a bold one—and she'd fled.

"She didn't care."

Lilly laughs, tossing her hair back. "Oh, she cared. Too much. And when our Veronica cares too much, she runs from it. You taught her that. But what happened the next morning?"

She came back.

"She came back," Lilly echoes. "Don't you want to be here when she comes back again?"

Logan grimaces as a pulsing sound fills his ears, a rush of fluid. It reminds him of wiping out on his board, tipping into the depths. His body shivers uncontrollably, his eyes rolling back and Lilly is at his side, slapping him hard across the face.

"No freaking way, Logan. As much fun as I am, you're not invited to my party. Not yet."

Her lips press to his, as soft as he remembers, but icy cold. With a wistful smile, she strokes his cheek.

"Your story's not done. You two have unfinished business, damn it. I want a happy ending, and I always get my way."

He gasps for air as she crosses the room, eyeing a large crystal vase on a pedestal. It's one of the few art pieces from his mother's collection that he'd managed to save from the house fire. With an apologetic look, Lilly shoves it to the ground, clapping playfully as it shatters across the hardwood floor. The jade green shards glisten as she cocks her ear, then nods approvingly.

"Hang on, Logan. The cold of losing you is something she'll never come back from…"

The image of Lilly fades into the wall, the skipping of the record player now deafening as the door to his bedroom swings open, revealing Dick, clad only in a flimsy black robe.

"Hey dude, what the hell was that bang—Logan? LOGAN! Hey, what's wrong?"

Logan wheezes, struggling to speak, but managing only a muted, "Huh."

His vision blurs, rendering Dick a blur of black silk and blonde hair scrambling around his room, then to his side, but his voice, it is loud. It is loud, and hoarse as he screams for whoever else is apparently in the house to call 911.

"Stay awake, Logan. Keep breathing, alright bro? Inhale, like this." And he hears Dick breathe, so easily. "Jesus, you're bluer than a Smurf's balls. Come on man, don't do this to me. You can't fucking LEAVE ME!"

One shallow, shaking gasp at a time, Logan breathes. For Dick. For Lilly. For Veronica. He breathes until the paramedics arrive, injecting him with a drug that shocks his system back to life and slapping on an oxygen mask.

"Breathe," the chorus commands.

The darkness, it closes around him, but he clings to a tiny spark. A fool's hopeful prayer for a someday that may never come. In his head, he hears her voice, whispering to him:

"It's so cold, Logan. I wish you were here."

11:53pm – Stanford, California

She awakes with a start, teeth chattering loudly as she tugs the covers up to her chin. Her messy hair, loosely tied back in a ponytail, is damp with sweat, the tell-tale sign of a nightmare. She can't recall the specifics, but she knows Lilly was in it, frantically telling her something.

Of course Lilly was there, Veronica. It's October 3rd.

She'd gone to bed early, deciding that after crying away the evening, the easiest way to cope with grief was a dose of Gravol and an alarm set for five-thirty to cram in some studying for her Social Psych quiz. Despite the groggy haze of the sedative coursing through her bloodstream, adrenaline is swiftly winning the war.

That, and the cold. Her body feels like it's been dunked in an ice bath. Her hands run over her arms beneath the covers, willing them to warm with friction. Every fine hair is standing straight up, the flesh goose pimpled.

From across the room, Rachel rolls over in her bed and groans. "I can hear you thinking from here, Mars."

"Sp-spoken like a true psychologist to b-be," Veronica stammers.

Rachel's bedside lamp alights, washing the room in a soft glow. Her short, spiky hair is particularly porcupine-esque after hours of frantic studying and fitful sleep. Her brow furrows as she watches Veronica shudder beneath the thick comforter her father bought her last year for Christmas.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

"Is it c-cold in here?"

Rachel shakes her head. "Not at all. It's actually a bit stuffy."

Veronica groans, sinking her head deeper into her pillows. "Oh G-God, I can't get sick. I have an essay due for B-Blankenship's class and I've barely started that beast."

"Remember the sacred rules of our room: sharing is not caring," Rachel teases gently, crossing the room to their closet and extracting a spare blanket. "Here, V. Sweat it out."

"Thanks."

Catching the tossed blanket, she drapes it over her body and cocoons deeper under the covers, pulling them over her head as Rachel hits the light and goes back to sleep. And yet, as logical as an incoming flu sounds, a niggling thought in the back of her brain won't let her rest.

She's had the flu before—usually once a year, she gets slammed by it. The price of burning the proverbial candle at both ends. She knows what a fever feels like: the way it shivers through limbs, the way the muscles ache and tighten. The heat-kissed chill.

This is a different cold that cradles her now. The kind that pins you down, squeezing your wrists and laughing while you struggle futilely in its grasp. The kind that seeps deep into your cells. It freezes not just your mind, but your heart.

It's the icy void of death calling at the door, and it lets itself in even if you refuse to answer its knock.

It moved into her heart seven years ago, standing over Lilly's lifeless body. Carved out a crevice and burrowed inside, planted a garden of ice and watered it with her tears of sorrow and eventually, seething anger. It plunged its dagger deeper as she watched fragments of flaming steel scatter over a city, believing her father among the wreckage.

She's learned, over the years, to thaw herself out, to pull the warmth of her trusted few close to keep it from hardening her against the world forever. A sweater for her insides. Her body fares little better. Much to the amusement of her Stanford friends, she's always the girl lugging a jacket in July.

It's a fleeting thought, as she hugs her pillow to her chest: Logan was the only one who could ever chase this cold away. Time after time, she found refuge in his arms. His matchstick touch met her fuse and she ignited without fail. Heat and merciful relief. Their summers together were light dresses, bikini days at the beach, shorts skimming above her knees. Sometimes, she'd leave her jacket in his X-Terra, forget she even brought it. His warmth was enough for her, had been since Lilly—

Her heart races as she remembers the fragments of her nightmare. Lilly. Was she warning me about Logan?

No sooner has she thought of it, she's dismissing the notion. Logan's fine. Besides, ghosts warning people about the living? Maybe that time Lilly had deterred her from the bus had spared her from the crash, but prophetic dreams were something else entirely. No, this is just Veronica missing Logan on the anniversary, as usual. It's a terrible day, and the one person she used to count on to get through it is no longer someone she feels she can bother with her grief.

You walked away from him. You don't have the right anymore, Veronica.

Unworthy as she knows herself to be, she wishes for the warmth of his arms, the security of his embrace as she shivers in the darkness. She stares out the window at a starless sky. No moon, no light. The same sky they'd consoled each other beneath the night of Lilly's funeral.

It's so cold, Logan. I wish you were here.

Chapter Text

E. Just Not For Everyone, Maybe Just For You

Veronica

She watches the cherries spin on top of the cruiser, lost in the slow, steady whir-whir-whirl of the red lights. A thermal emergency blanket is draped over her shoulders as she shivers on the curb outside of Gia's building, waiting for…

Well, she's not quite sure what she's waiting for.

She's given her initial statement to the responding officers, censoring some of her less than legal activities. The surveillance, she admits; the listening device, not so much. She admits to the call meant to spook Gia into calling her accomplice and watching Cobb's visit, making full disclosure from there. Her words are calculated, calm and factual, just as she has learned after years in law school. Her father would be glad to know her mountain of debt has proven useful, after all. The paramedics have assessed her minor injuries, mumbling something about shock and ordering her to sit here, to wait. And so she does. She waits.

She's not in shock, though. She's not. She's just not sure where to go next. And so she watches the cherries spin, the lights casting their bloody glow upon the pale hands clenched in her lap.

A shudder runs down her spine and she shrugs off the blanket, gritting her teeth at the rustling sound. The name is a lie. It's not thermal. It keeps nothing warm.

Logan.

Her palm slides in her pocket and retrieves her cell phone. Unlocking it with a swipe, she stares at the screen in bewilderment. Ten missed calls and eight texts from Logan, and one outgoing text from half an hour ago.

Veronica, what's happening?

Luke's still getting rubbed and tugged. I checked.

Veronica?

Look, I know you can handle Gia, but it's Cobb I'm worried about. Check in, please.

Veronica, PLEASE ANSWER ME.

If anything happens to you, I'll never forgive myself.

I'm coming over there. I'm sorry, but I'm not taking chances with you.

Something's wrong, I know it. Hang on, Veronica.

Her hand shakes as she scrolls to the outgoing text. She doesn't remember sending it, but the moment she reads it, she remembers why she's waiting on the curb.

i'm cold, Logan. come get me.

She hugs the phone to her chest and sighs. Logan is coming. He'll know what to do now.

A deputy pauses at her side, noticing the discarded blanket and her shuddering frame. "Ms. Mars, you really need to keep this on, or we'll have to take you to the hospital as a precaution."

"No, no hospitals," she mumbles, waving her hand dismissively. "I don't need them. I just need—"

A squealing of tires startles her, her jaw dropping open as she nervously glances in the direction of the abrasive sound. The welcome sight of Logan's car relaxes her shoulders, the tension draining from her limbs. Her phone tumbles into her lap as she bites her lip, fighting off tears.

"Him. I need him."

Logan is throwing open the car door, pushing past officers, shouting her name. The deputy mercifully waves him through and he is at her side, pulling her into the warmth of his embrace. She buries her face in his shirt and inhales deeply, memorizing the scent of him. Safe. Warm. Home.

"She's in shock," she hears the deputy tell him. "She's refusing medical treatment, but—"

"Can I take her home?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"I'm a Naval officer, and I'm fully capable of monitoring her. She needs to get away from the scene. She'll be fine," Logan insists, kissing the top of her head. "You want to go home, Veronica?"

"Yeah."

"Alright, let me grab your bag and we'll leave."

Her bag is on the curb beside her, the strap looped around her boot. A part of her had enough sense at some point to keep track of her things, to be aware of them. She nudges it towards Logan, who shifts it over his left shoulder. He doesn't pick her up, doesn't treat her as weak, even though she can see her hands are quivering wildly as they stretch out to meet his. Her feet work in tandem with his arms to raise her from the ground. Behind her, the doors of Gia's building slam open, revealing the stark sight of a stretcher bearing a black zippered bag.

"Oh God," Logan whispers. "Is that…"

"Gia," she murmurs sadly, wrapping her arms around his waist.

He folds protectively around her: one arm around her head, cradling it; the other around her back. She closes her eyes, haunted by the final moments of Gia's life. Her plea for help, the blood seeping from her torso. The helplessness Veronica had felt, knowing that even as she called for an ambulance, they would never make it in time. The sinking feeling that Cobb was tidying loose ends because of her.

A door slams and Logan's arm slides to her waist, ushering her away from the scene and towards his waiting car. He opens the passenger door and she slides into the seat, fumbling for her belt. There's nothing left for her here. It's time to go home.

Home. Only it's not your home, is it? It's Dad's home. If he makes it.

The images flood her mind, fast and furious: the truck bearing down on the car, determined to finish what it started; Logan frantically dragging her father from the wreckage; her heart in her throat, watching the two most important people in her life disappear from view as the truck careening into the car, crushing Sacks anew. The scream in her heart as she stares down at her father's unconscious body, while Logan pleads for someone, anyone, to call for help. The doctors listing her father's injuries, detailing the surgeries he'll need.

"You can see him briefly now, but he'll be in and out of scans and surgery for the next twenty-four hours, Ms. Mars. Get some rest tonight, let us do surgery in the morning. We'll update you, and you can visit properly tomorrow between tests. He won't be settled into a room for a few days."

Veronica had spent ten minutes at his side, weeping at the frailty of her father. She'd come home spent, had passed out on the drive and woken up with a despair so deep, she knew only one person who could possibly hold her together—the man she heard in her living room, preparing to leave.

She's clad in an oversized t-shirt that barely covers her ass—hardly appropriate—but there's no time to worry about that. It's not like she's never been naked in front of him. Her heart is in her throat as her steps carry her down the hallway, carry her to the living room, where she finds him opening the door like she fears. He's leaving her. He's not staying.

She can't be alone in here. Doesn't he remember how her world inverted when she believed her father to be scattered in the ruins of twisted metal along the streets of Balboa County? Only this time, they have a body. They know he's been battered, broken and bruised. There is no rental car, no last-minute evasion from all harm.

Logan is supposed to stay.

"Wait."

His hand falls from the doorknob, and she almost wants to cry in relief.

"Don't go," she pleads.

"Okay."

He studies her from across the room, a look she knows well. It's the look of a younger Logan, the one who suffered lashes from a belt at the hands of a monster. It's the Logan who showed up at her door and listened to her recount the tale of what she had thought to be the truth of Shelly's party. The Logan who is longing to help, but is afraid to hurt her.

If she wants him to heal her, she will need to demand it. And so she rushes forward, grabbing his face and pulling him to her for a hungry, demanding kiss.  Make it stop. Make the cold go away.  Because this is a cold that no mere embrace can shake. She needs everything. She needs to give herself completely to his care, to burn herself to ash in his flame.

Logan hesitates after that first kiss, staring her down. The piercing gaze, the one he always gives her since learning of her violation.  Is this what you want? Are you sure?  She repeats herself, pressing against him and he ignites, hoisting her up to straddle his waist. The frenzy begins: kissing, spinning, greedy need. His hand slipping between them, undoing his fly as he pins her against the wall. His satisfied sigh as he realizes she isn't wearing underwear. Their reunion, as he drives away the icy pain in her soul, leaving her breathless.  Make it go , she silently pleads as he buries himself deep.  Make the pain stop .  Make me warm . She surrenders to his touch and he wills her to forget her grief and remember that life can be beautiful, that she can still feel love, that she isn't alone.

They make love again in the bed: slower, softer, sensual touches lingering as they rediscover each other in the pale glow of the moon peeking through the blinds. She desperately tries to hide it when she begins to cry; he tells her she's more beautiful than the memories he's clung to for nine years. She falls asleep naked, wrapped in his embrace.

She's never felt warm—or safe—enough to sleep naked with anyone else...

"Veronica?"

"Hmm?"

She glances over at Logan, surprised to find they're well away from Gia's apartment. He reaches over, laying a hand on her knee.

"Did you want to stop at the hospital and see your dad, or go straight home?"

I'm not ready. "Home. My clothes… Gia's blood is on them."

Logan shakes his head sadly, signalling for a left turn that will take them to her dad's house. "Do you think you can tell me what happened in there?"

Veronica leans against the window, fidgeting with the strap of her bag. "Gia fessed up. Cobb was their drug dealer. He convinced them to take him partying, let him be one of the cool kids. Susan had a fatal overdose, a preventable one, but Cobb talked Carrie out of heading back to shore. When they found Susan dead, he convinced them to dump the body and snapped a picture to blackmail them with. Everyone but Dick—he passed out early, slept through it all. Money, sex, friendship… whatever Cobb wanted, they gave him. Carrie was getting tired of staying quiet, so he killed her."

"And Gia?"

"Must have figured out she was telling me everything. Shot her through the window. He kept an apartment across the street. Came for me next… I knocked him out."

His hand squeezes her leg reassuringly. "I sense I am getting the watered down version of how much danger you were in, but lucky for you, I have an excellent imagination and years of experience to draw upon, so I'll let you get away with it."

"Smart man," she jokes weakly.

The rest of the drive is silent. Logan's hand remains on her leg, a comforting contact, and she focuses on it instead of the dread in the pit of her stomach. It's when she sees the house—no, when she turns the key in the lock and steps inside—that her chest tightens and her vision begins to blur.

There is no mission of justice to distract her now. There is nothing but the cruel reality that her father is lying in a bed, fighting for his life, and for what?

"What's the point?" she sobs.

"The point of what?"

"Any of this! What's the point of my dad dying for the same bullshit dirty cops have always done in Neptune? We'll never prove anything now that Sacks is dead!" Her fist swings out, smacking against the wall, as Logan pulls her back against his chest. "Or me going to the hospital! What can I do for him, Logan? What can I do? Look at me!"

Gentle kisses ghost each of her cheeks in turn. "You can do plenty, Veronica. I've seen it."

"Nothing that will help my dad…"

Logan nudges her gently, turning her to face him. Reluctantly, she swipes at her messy face and meets his concerned gaze. Long fingers trace her jawline lovingly as he speaks.

"You're going to shower, change and then go be there for your dad. I know right now, you feel useless. Like there's nothing you can do for this person you love more than anyone in the world. But you being there for someone, it can bring anyone back from the brink, Veronica. I would know."

There's a gravity in his words that begs further discussion, but they've walked plenty of proverbial ledges together, and Veronica knows how close he's come to stepping off. He believes in her, and maybe that's enough for the both of them.

Pressing onto her toes, she kisses him softly. "Thank you."

"Whatever you need, Veronica."

She makes her way down the hall, hesitating outside the bathroom. Glancing back at him, she manages a half-smile.

"You. I need you. Okay?"

Logan returns the smile, hands in pockets. "Yeah. That's definitely okay."

The hallway smells of bleach and oranges as they walk beneath the jaundiced glow of the fluorescents towards the ICU. She's wearing an old green hoodie from her Hearst days, the edges of the sleeves stretched and frayed, and the comfiest jeans she'd packed in New York. Her supply of clothes is running thin—the trip was supposed to be a weekend, after all—but she's dug out a small pile of college leftovers from a closet to stretch things for a few days more.

It'll have to do. She can't handle a call to Piz right now. Or anyone really, besides Logan.

They pause at the nurse's station, where they are directed to bed 19. She absently notes that her dad would like that, because it's Tony Gwynn's jersey number, and that's his favourite Padres player of all-time. The nurse stares blankly, but Logan kisses her cheek and says it's a lucky sign, and if she isn't already certain she loves him as much as she did when they were young, she knows it now.

Outside of her father's room, Logan hesitates. "You should go in alone," he insists.

The panic clasps her throat, squeezing it shut as she grips his hand tighter. "What? No, I need you to come with me!"

"Veronica, listen to me." His free hand cradles her cheek as he speaks, soft and loving. "You can do this. You need to tell him anything you want him to know. Anything you think he needs to hear to get better, alright? If I'm there, you might hold something back." Her mouth falls open to object, but he shakes his head. "Unconsciously, even. Just… take a few minutes with your dad."

"Where will you go?"

He points a few feet away, to the end of the corridor. "I'll wait for you to come get me."

Swallowing hard, she leans in to kiss his cheek. "Don't go any farther."

"Right there, Veronica. I promise you."

She watches him retreat, counting the steps he takes. Ten long strides of his muscular legs, a pivot. He leans against the wall, nodding slightly. Rubbing her arms, she reaches for the long handle of the door and pulls down, opening the door.

The soft beeps and clicks greet her first in the dim lighting. She is too afraid to look up, too afraid to see what has become of her father, and so she counts her steps. Black boots cross large white tiles flecked in blue: one, two, three, four, five. She toes the edge of the hospital bed, inhales and glances up, choking on bile.

"Oh, Daddy…"

His head is bandaged, his face swollen and bruised. A line of stitches peeks out along his right temple. His skin is grey, his eyes sunken. Monitors keep measure, numbers flooding screens, all tracking the life of a man lying so very still, she leans her ear over his mouth, needing to hear his breaths.

Glancing to her right, she spies a chair and drags it to his bedside. Her body slumps into the unyielding plastic as her shaking hand reaches for his. Mindful of the IV, she holds it tightly, alarmed to find he's colder than she is.

I have to be his Logan, she understands. I have to help him shake off the cold.

"Dad? It's Veronica… I'm here." Her voice cracks as the tears spring forth, unwanted and unhelpful. "I'm here, and I know this is the part where I'm supposed to be strong, and I'm supposed to tell you how to fight through this. But I'm not good at… knowing what to do at times like this. Give me a brawl to break up, and I've got it, you know? But this? This is the stuff you're great at. These are the moments where I look for you. Where I want my Dad…"

Brushing aside tears, she rests her head on the bed beside their joined hands.

"I'm not happy in New York, Dad. I never was. And I've spent nine years trying to be the normal girl you wanted me to be, but I'm not her. I'm you. I've got your genetics, right Pops? Who's your Daddy?" she mimics, laughing softly. "You are. And… I'm not sure what comes next, but I know that I need you to get it right. I can't keep getting it wrong. I'm too old for this shit, Dad. I'm almost thirty."

The beeps remain steady and slow as she speaks, her face nuzzling against his hand.

"And Logan… he's as much a part of me as you are. I don't know what comes next, but I know that if I'm going to get it right this time, then I need to be more like you when it comes to relationships. I need you, Dad. Don't you want to stick around and drive him crazy with all your questions? Imagine the fun you can have grilling a Naval officer. You can make JAG look like a box of kittens in cute little sailor hats… which may have been something Mac and I Googled while drinking on the porch the other night."

Veronica sits up slowly, reaching out tentatively to touch her father's bruised face. "I know you're hurting, maybe more than you ever have. But you've got to fight, Dad. We have vacations we've never taken, and you never asked out that cute woman at the café you keep telling me about. We haven't been to a World Series game yet, and maybe we can't wait for the Padres to get there, but we can just go see whoever plays. If the Giants are playing, we can boo 'em loud, right?"

She adjusts his blankets, grimacing at the oil-slick bruising along his upper thigh. "There's so much we have left to do. You never let me quit when things felt impossible, so I'm not letting you quit on me. This isn't your time, Daddy. I love you so much, and I need you to stay. Just… wake up and stay… Please, Dad… Don't leave me..."

She stands up, bracing herself on the bedframe as she leans in to kiss his cheek. "I love you. Now be a Mars, and fight."

Stepping out into the corridor, she looks to the left and finds Logan precisely as she left him. He approaches quickly, arms pulling her to his chest. The sturdy comfort of him leaves her awash in relief.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. It's just… hard seeing him so small…"

Smoothing her hair from her face, Logan nods sadly. "Do you want to sit with him for a while?"

"Would you mind?"

His brow furrows. "It's your dad. Why would I mind?"

Veronica shrugs, quietly looping her arm through his and returning to her father's side. In the back of her skull, a voice whispers:

"Piz would mind."

It's nearly ten when they reach her dad's house, a bag of leftovers from Mama Leone's in tow. She'd barely managed to pick over her manicotti, but she'd tried, which Logan had assured her counted for something.

It was her idea to go there for a late dinner, of course. Seeking comfort from a favourite place associated with her father. Seeking a piece of him, anywhere she can.

It didn't help.

Logan puts the food away while she brushes her teeth and changes, tugging on a loose tank top and pajama shorts. He joins her, having packed an overnight bag on his way to staking out Luke, anticipating another possible stay. Glancing across the hall at the closed door to her father's room, Veronica finds herself rubbing her arms, willing the heat to creep into her flesh. The icy fear is winning again, the impending sense of doom. Death caresses her cheek longingly, kissing her bare shoulder.

Soon. He'll be mine soon.

With a shudder, she spins towards Logan, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him insistently. His toothbrush clatters into the sink, his lips minty as he moans in surprise. Veronica presses herself tight against him, making her demand clear: be in me, and drive it all away.

Strong hands hook beneath her knees, lifting her up as tongues tangle and teeth click in her frenzied need. Her ankles lock around his waist and his palm presses firmly into her back, his other arm cradling her ass as he walks her backwards into the bedroom. Breathless, dizzy, she tugs at his lower lip with her teeth in silent question, her fingernails scraping the back of his shoulders.

Trailing open mouthed kisses along her bare shoulders, Logan lowers her onto the bed, hovering over her. Her breath hitches in anticipation, eager for the relief of oblivion.

"We're not doing this tonight, Veronica," he whispers.

"Huh? What do you mean?" No, no, no, the darkness, it's here…

"I know what you're doing," Logan continues. "And I want you. God, I want you. But after all this time, I can't… I want this to be about us. Not about trying to escape what we can't cope with, but because we want to be together. Because if that's not what this is, Veronica, I can't let myself get caught up in you again."

Veronica frowns, propping herself up on her elbows. "Logan, it's not just—"

"It will destroy me, Veronica." His eyes are blackened pools, and she is terrified of their darkness. "I can be here for you as a friend, if you're worried about your father. I will take care of you. I will always be here for you. But this… It has to be more than that."

I am so selfish. And even though she feels it blossoming within—knows that the connection between them has never fully severed and never will—she understands his fear. She's the one who left him, after all.

"It's not… It's us. But it's also… It just hurts so bad, Logan."

His expression softens as she bites her lip, his thumb swiping at her teeth. "Shh. Hey, it's okay. I know it does. I know. Come here."

He falls to her left side, pulling her to spoon against his chest. Gentle kisses pepper her cheek as she nuzzles closer, her fingers dancing along the arm wrapped protectively around her waist. Her shaky breaths swiftly slow into a steady rhythm, her eyes lolling shut as Logan whispers reassuringly in her ear.

"He's going to be okay. He's tough, like you. Besides, right now, he knows we're in his house, sharing a bed, and he's furious he can't order me to go home."

Veronica giggles softly. "Oh, I'll be grounded until I'm forty. I have no doubt. If he ever asks, I slept in his bed and you slept in mine."

"Like he'll believe that," Logan huffs.

"Oh, he won't, but we will recite the lie for our mutual comfort."

"Ah, Folie a trois. The foundation of a happy relationship, according to Men's Health magazine."

Veronica yawns, leaning back to kiss his cheek. "See? We're off to a great start."

Somewhere in the ether between sleep and waking, she swears she hears him say: "Maybe we are."

Morning brings light streaking between the slats of the blinds they neglected to shut the night before, rousing them early from slumber. Veronica groans, burying her head beneath a pillow, but Logan shrugs it off, acquainted with an early start from his military service. With a quick spin of the handle, the sun is vanquished, but soon, the house phone is trilling loudly and Veronica's scrambling on the bedside table for the cordless phone.

Her father is awake. Awake and asking for her.

They shower together for efficiency, Logan brewing coffee for the road while she quickly dries her hair. Her fumbling hands drop the dryer twice as she stares blankly at her reflection.

He's awake.

What that means—what that will look like—terrifies her. Will he be himself? Will he be Dad? There were skull fractures, head trauma… there was a surgery to relieve brain pressure. What if the pressure has impaired his memory? She's studied neuropsychology, and she knows enough about trauma to the brain to know how delicate the mind could be.

What if he's never my Dad again? Just a walking shell of him?

"Veronica?"

She startles, noticing Logan's reflection in the mirror. Spinning around, she throws herself into his arms.

"What if he's forgotten me?" she whimpers.

"What if he hasn't?" he counters softly, tucking her beneath his chin.

Then he must be scared… and I should be there.

Pulling back to kiss her lips, soft and sweet, Logan wraps his arm around her shoulder and steers her towards the kitchen. "Whatever happens, I'm with you. Let's get there and see him, instead of guessing what we'll find."

"I'm not going to tell you that you're right, because it'll go to your head. But fine."

Logan hands her a travel mug of coffee and reaches for a second one he's prepared for himself. "'You need two things to get by in this world: a sense of humor and the ability to laugh when your ego gets destroyed.' Arlo Guthrie."

She laughs, despite herself. "How do you memorize all of them?"

"Genetics. Actor parents, remember?" Logan shrugs, sipping his coffee. "I don't know. It's a knack. Some people know the words to hundreds of songs. I remember quotes. Conversations, too."

Conversations, huh? And yet, he'd forgotten their most memorable one so easily…

"Remind me to never, ever get drunk around you," she jokes weakly before grabbing her bag and hurrying out the door.

Sunset, crossing the Coronado Bridge. Her heart is singing out as she watches Logan from the corner of her eye.

Her father is hurting, but he's still the man who raised her, still very much remembers her and everything that happened, right up until the headlights of the truck blinded him and Sacks. They spend the day at the hospital, chatting softly between naps and tests, but the doctors are reassured by how quickly he's regained consciousness.

Logan insists she should take credit for this, but it's all Keith Mars. The man is too stubborn to stay down—and too protective to sleep while his daughter lives in sin with her on-off-maybe-on again boyfriend.

A riddle to solve tonight, she decides, as Logan veers towards the coast, heading for the beach.

Nestled between her feet are two milkshakes in a tray—hers chocolate, his strawberry—from a small diner one of his Navy buddies tipped him off to. He swears she'll love it, but won't let her sip it until they reach the beach. Little wonder, she muses, that he's doing 15 over.

Swinging the BMW into the lot adjacent the shoreline, Logan kills the engine and grins. "C'mon, let's go. And do not forget my shake."

"Well, if you love it so much, why don't you date it?" she teases pointedly, swinging her legs out of the car and passing the tray into his waiting hand.

Logan smirks, tugging the cup free from the tray. Taking a long gulp, he tilts his head and hums with a thoughtful expression. Before Veronica can manage to raise her straw to her lips, Logan's mouth is on hers, surprising her with an intense, unhurried kiss. A hint of strawberry lingers on his lips and tongue, sweet and inviting.

"Nope," he murmurs, leaning close to her ear. "You taste better."

Her cheeks flush scarlet as his fingers thread through hers, his arm gently swinging as they walk towards the water.

They pass an older couple relaxing on a blanket, a border collie sleepily raising his head to observe them. Distantly, Veronica spots two teenage girls—both blondes—walking the shore, shoes in hand as they skip through the water, and her heart aches. It reminds her of summers with Lilly, gossiping and sharing secret crushes, dreaming of lives far beyond Neptune.

Funny how she's spent nine years away and now, all she wants is to stay here, in this moment, with Logan.

Kicking off her shoes, she drops to the sand first, stretching her toes to the surf. Logan's surprised and she can't blame him: normally, she complains about the water being too cold at night, draws her feet away from the ocean's foamy fingers. Tonight, though… she feels different. Unmoored. She needs to be returned to the ocean that made her.

She needs to be rid of the East Coast that's made her so miserable for years.

As she sips her chocolate shake (admittedly one of the best she's ever had), Logan joins her on the sand, settling behind her as if nothing has changed. He pulls her back to his chest and she exhales a breath she swears she's been holding since the day she left for her internship at Quantico.

This is where I belong.

"I missed this," she confesses, resting her head against his heart.

"Missed what?"

There's an edge in his voice, a hint of fear. If she closes her eyes, Logan is seventeen, heart in his hands as he wonders if he's allowed to move on from the ghost that haunts them both.

"This. Us, on the beach. Just like this."

He leans down and she meets him halfway, their foreheads touching in opposing directions. His smile is so beautiful, she scarcely notices the brilliant shades of pink as the sun sinks beyond the horizon before them. She studies his features intently, memorizing the changes: the firmer angles of his jawline; the laugh lines. There's a tiny scar behind his left ear, faint but new.

She wants to know the story. She wants him to know her stories, too, starting with the important ones.

Face to face is too difficult when feelings are involved. She's learned that from her Psychology studies. Logan has always met emotions head-on, fearless and fully invested. Trauma has taught her to conceal or deflect through sarcasm.

It's why they've always fallen into this embrace on the sand: Logan needs to protect and surround her in love, while she needs the distraction of the waves to open herself up and be vulnerable. They both find what they need here, in the water and warmth of each other.

It is here where she can finally begin to unravel all she has felt since hearing his voice on the phone, after nine years of radio silence, as he so eloquently put it.

She studies their feet as she speaks: hers so small and pale, enveloped in waves as the tide sloshes in; his flanking hers on the outside, deeply tanned from years of surfing, large and broad. She watches his toes, notes how they flex and twitch at certain things she says. How they curl happily when she describes how seeing him again warmed her heart. How they begin to slowly tap the moment she speaks Piz's name. How they still when she tells him how things ended.

"I wasn't upset it was over. I wasn't sad that he was leaving me. I was pissed with myself because I had known, from the moment I arrived in Neptune, that getting back with him had been a mistake. That it was all a yellow cotton dress. Just like the Truman-Mann job. It was all me trying to be the Veronica that existed before Lilly was killed."

"A yellow cotton dress?" Logan asks softly.

"Lilly… she came to me once," she admits. "She told me I wasn't yellow cotton. I was strapless red satin."

"I remember the strapless red satin. I firmly co-sign," Logan murmurs, kissing her neck.

"Hey, I'm being serious!"

"So am I. Seeing you with that skeezy asshole Troy was hell. I know his type. You deserved better, and I couldn't say anything, and Duncan wouldn't do anything, even though I goaded him to." His arms tighten around her and he sighs. "So New York was Yellow Cotton Veronica?"

"Mmhmm. The softer, make Dad happy Veronica." She slides her feet towards his, pressing her toes to his heels for warmth.

"So, what will make you Red Satin, true to herself Veronica?"

A full moon hangs heavy with promise over the calm waters of the Pacific Ocean, the deep sapphire blue of the sky sparkling with the diamond dust of starlight. Veronica watches the lights twinkle and fade, her heart racing as a gentle breeze stirs from the west.

Something is different in this moment, in this night. Something feels lighter in her very being.

"I don't know all of the answers yet. I know that investigating Carrie's murder was the first time I've felt like myself in a really long time. That being with you…"

She pauses, dizzy from the undeniable truth: I'm in love with Logan… because I never stopped loving Logan, and I never will.

"Veronica?"

"Being with you never feels like an act," she whispers. "I'm just me. And that's been a really long time, too. Since I've felt like that."

Enough talking, she decides. Twisting around, she finds Logan's expression to be one of heartbreak as he weighs the gravity of her words. They've traded stories over the last few days. He knows she's dated more than a few guys over the years, and now he knows she's never once felt able to be herself. She's never dropped her guard, lest someone find a chink in the armor to exploit after the inevitable messy end. Or she's played the chameleon, blending into their expectations of what a girlfriend should be, desperate to prove she isn't defective, or somehow incapable of happiness.

Her reunion with Piz had been easy. A practiced mask, slid into place as she completed her law degree. He believed she hung the moon, and she needed to only act sweet and polished and orgasm on cue, even if she wasn't quite there (and half the time, she wasn't). But they enjoyed similar music and TV, laughed at the same jokes, and Wallace was their mutual friend, so she'd given up. Given in.

Until she'd come home and realized that Logan hadn't given up on her. That she could live, not just exist. And as she straddles his hips on the now deserted beach and kisses him hard, she knows what she wants: to live. To love. To be loved with all of the passion and abandon of their youth, but with the wisdom of now.

"Do you love me?" she asks breathlessly.

His hands grip her hips as he nods slowly. "I never stopped. Veronica—"

"I still love you." She wraps her arms around his neck, clinging to him. "I don't know everything yet, but I know that. I love you, Logan."

His voice is hoarse with emotion as he strokes her hair. "That's all I need to know for now."

The relief is so palpable, she buries her face in his shoulder and weeps. He sees her. He knows her. He loves her.

Nothing else will matter, not ever again.

Logan

Lying in bed, his arm wrapped around the naked body of a sleeping blonde, Logan stares out the window at the beach backing his home, listening to the hushed caress of the waves as they meet the shore—the familiar slosh on soft gritty earth. As he does on mornings where the anxiety swells within, he draws a steadying breath and reminds himself of what he knows to be true.

He loves Veronica. Has loved her since they were teenagers, will love her until his dying breath—which, these days, he hopes lies in the very distant future. Even if another woman enters his life, and his heart, Veronica is a permanent resident.

Carrie understood this—was the only woman he'd dated who had. They'd reconnected at one of Casey Gant's parties years ago, commiserating over the pains of celebrity and their disastrous love lives—hers, the torment of unrequited love; his, a love that seemed doomed to fail. The ghosts of Susan and Veronica had shared their bed by mutual understanding, each of them making a little room, neither minding if the other whispered a name in the throes of fitful sleep. The chains of loves lost and never to be dragged behind them, clanging against the steps of Carrie's upscale home, but they kissed like second-best was good enough. That first year together, it almost was, but within Carrie, a woman wracked with a deep guilt he now fully appreciated, there was a darkness no light would ever touch. Not until she was free of her secret shame—and Cobb had robbed her of that.

A soft murmur and rustling of silk sheets pulls him from somber thoughts, and he watches as Veronica's chest rises and falls in slow, steady breaths. Proof of life. His fingers curve around her wrist, pressing gently against her pulse point, counting each beat. The sensation of her blood pumping beneath the pads of his fingers is a sweet relief, knowing how close she came to being Cobb's victim. She brushes it off, tells the story with a flippant detachment reserved for a skinned knee, but he recognizes that coping mechanism. It reminds him of the first time she noticed the scars on the back of his upper thigh.

The summer before senior year is a whirlwind of stolen moments in his empty mansion, where they do their best to wear as few clothes as possible. They haven't had sex yet, but they've definitely explored with touch and taste, the latter being his favourite way to watch Veronica lose control. After an enthusiastic afternoon ending in a screaming, " OH GOD, LOGAN, YES, YES! " that makes him particularly proud, they decide to grill dinner on the barbeque and eat by the pool.

Disinterested in dressing, he stumbles into the kitchen in his underwear, raiding the fridge for supplies. Veronica, clad in nothing but her bra and panties, settles on a stool at the island, watching him intently. It is here where she spots them: two raised, angry scars on the back of his left thigh.

Being Veronica, she wants an explanation.

"Oh, those? Father Knows Best put out his cigar there when I was eight." He opens the fridge, frowning at the spoiled asparagus. "I was hoping for something less cliché than steak and baked potatoes for dinner, but what can you do?"

He turns around, startled by the shimmering sheen in Veronica's eyes. Her fingers drift along his bare thigh, just beyond the border of the angry half-moons.

"Hey… C'mere." He pulls her from the stool and presses her to his chest. "They don't hurt. I mean… he did a lot worse."

"Like that makes it okay?" she protests, wrapping her arms around his waist. "You didn't deserve any of it. He had no right to hurt you, Logan. Not ever."

It's not the first time someone's told him that his father's idea of discipline is abuse, but it's the most absolution he's ever been granted. And even though a part of him has long recognized his father's "discipline" for what it really is, an eight year-old boy inside him begins to weep.

He needed to hear it, more than she knew

As her blood pulses beneath his fingers, still very much alive and here with him, he muses that perhaps she needs to be absolved. Maybe a girl inside of her needs to know that every horrific thing she's endured in this life is not her fault and should never have happened. Maybe it's time to reciprocate that gesture of love from so long ago.

Love… Yes, Veronica loves him. This is a truth he's found harder to accept, after decades of self-loathing born in a childhood of violent abuse, but as Jane reminded him three days ago, he must separate facts from fear. The evidence of her love lies in their history, but also in the last two weeks: the way she dropped everything and came to his aid; the way she prioritized him over all others, including herself; the way she looks at him when she thinks he's not paying attention. It's in the way she remembers how he takes his coffee after nine years apart, or how she still knows to touch him gently on his middle back when they make love, due to the scar tissue.

It's in the way she's said the words more in these two weeks than their year of off-on dating after high school.

The calls of several gulls circling the water draw his gaze, his hand falling from Veronica's wrist to the mattress beside her. They are fascinated by something in the churning water, jostling and jabbering as birds do, until one breaks away, plunging to the surface and soaring off alone with a flopping fish in his beak.

Like the fishing gull, Veronica is fiercely independent, and he is at turns insecure because of and impressed by it. Impressed, because so few of the people he knows are as capable of turning it on and managing so much on their own, without any conscious thought. With her father awake and stable, she's organized his caseload, contacted his clients, and assumed power of attorney control over his financial accounts. She's also swiftly kicked Piz off their joint bank account and removed herself from the lease of her apartment in New York in eleven days. All this, while spending her days caring for her father and her evenings with him… and under him… or on top of him…

Veronica's athleticism and stamina have improved over the years, to his amazement, and he's taking full advantage.

And yet, despite years of intensive therapy, a part of him remains the same terrified kid who once stood in the cafeteria at Hearst, watching Veronica silence his call, and thought, This is how is starts. This is how she stops wanting me. And then, it's Lilly all over again: I'm a boyfriend when it's convenient, and soon we're breaking up and hating each other, only to fall back into bed because the sex is good and it's easy to be together. The line between independence and she doesn't need me at all is a tightrope when your world is one where love is bartered and trotted out in front of adoring fans.

In hindsight, Logan knows had he simply told Veronica that a lifetime of neglect had left him raw and needing reassurance, she never would have ignored his calls so casually, but instead, he'd broken it off. He'd decided that he'd rather end it and remember her with nothing but affection, than reach the bittersweet betrayals of his love with Lilly. That mistake—and his self-medication in Aspen—had cost him the one thing he desired most and, in his despair, it nearly cost him his life.

A cruel irony, since he also knows that for all her independence, Veronica's trauma breeds its own insecurities and fears of abandonment. If given the option, Veronica will settle into any passable relationship, rather than be alone, if she's struggling. Troy, Leo, Duncan, Piz… It's an unsettling habit, in light of the last fact he knows: in 72 hours, he ships out for 180 days, and he has no fucking idea where they stand.

She loves him, but she'd loved him when she fled for Stanford. She loves him, but the life of a military partner is trying at best—something she never signed up for, nor had a chance to anticipate. This is his final extended tour prior to re-upping, which he fully intends to do, but his career is a topic they've skimmed over in the last eleven days.

Oh, they've talked. Incredible discussions, far deeper than most they'd ever managed in their youth. Veronica's unfurled her nine years away: school, friendships, dating disasters, and a quickly abandoned plan to pursue a career with the FBI. He, too, has brought her up to date, albeit a glossier version of events: school, OCS, life in the Navy. His brief relationships, aside from Carrie. A photo album rendition of the last nine years.

Guilt gnaws at him, its rat teeth tugging and twisting his organs. He wants to be honest. He will be, someday. But he wants her to choose him as he is now. He wants to be her partner, not her pet project. He wants her to love him, not save him. It's what he fears she's done in the past—why they've imploded before and why, in the back of his mind, he believes they're doomed never to work out.

She doesn't love you. She loves the idea of rescuing you.

He wants it to be a lie. He challenges it with evidence, but the fear, it refuses to be silent. It whispers as she holds his hand on the beach, swinging her arm and smiling. It laughs as she curls up beside him on the couch and tells him that she's so happy here. It screams when he stares at the calendar in his phone, and tells himself to ask her to wait for him.

I'm running out of time.

He has to tell her today. She knows he's deploying soon—he's managed that much—but the length of the deployment… She cannot possibly fathom it. Nor has she given any assurance of being here upon his return.

Communication is the foundation of a healthy relationship, he mentally parrots his therapist. And it's better to know now, and walk away, than to let myself fall any further, he tells himself as Veronica murmurs and nuzzles into his chest.

Glancing down at her sleeping face—the half-smile, the messy curls, the soft glow of the morning sun kissing her cheek—he caves. One more morning of oblivion. He bows his head, kissing hers. One more morning of memories. Just in case…

"Mmm, it's early," she mumbles.

"It's ten," Logan gently chides, tracing her curves—breast to waist, to delicate jut of hipbone—before drifting down her thigh. "You're supposed to bring your dad lunch."

Cracking open one eye, Veronica sighs, her soft palm slipping between them and plunging downward. "But you promised me breakfast," she purrs.

"I could eat," he demurs, hooking his hand behind her knee and smirking.

One more morning, just like this. Then I'll tell her.

Keith senses a shift in the energy between them.

They're playing gin rummy, at the elder Mars' request, when Veronica excuses herself to raid the vending machine. Logan sets his hand down and offers to straighten out Keith's pillows, knowing from his stint in the hospital after his overdose how uncomfortable a bad stack can be. Keith obliges, allowing him to gently cradle his neck as Logan adjusts the thin hospital issue pillows in an overlap that better supports his neck and shoulder muscles. Keith settles back in and Logan nudges the buttons on the bed, raising the legs slightly and lowering the head an inch.

"Better?"

"Huh. Yeah, that is. Thanks, Logan."

"No trouble, Mr. Mars. Did you need more water, ice chips, juice?"

"No… No." Keith waves him off and Logan settles back into his chair, wincing as the metal leg scrapes across the linoleum tile. "I do need to know why you're looking squirrelly around my daughter today. You're not about to break her heart again, are you?"

Blood is pounding now, a rushing roar inside his skull. "I'm sorry, sir?"

"Because she's given up so much for you this time, more than I think she should have—"

"With all due respect, have you asked her why she gave up that job in New York?" Logan interrupts, focusing on keeping his breaths measured. "Because it wasn't me. I fully support Veronica pursuing a career in law. I encouraged her to take it… until she explained why she was turning it down."

Keith mulls this over, his brow furrowing deeply. "No. No, I guess we haven't. Not in detail."

Glancing at the door to be certain of Veronica's absence, Logan continues. "Any hesitation you sense is because I want Veronica's happiness. I want what's best for her, always. And I'm not sure where I fit in that yet, and loving her as much as I do… it's a more nerve-wracking prospect than anything I may face on my next tour of duty." A beat. "Also, she broke my heart last time. To be fair."

Keith chuckles low, grimacing at the pain in his ribs. "You and I, we haven't always gotten along. But you look after Veronica, and you looked out for me. I won't forget that, Logan."

The door opens, revealing a frustrated Veronica juggling several bags of chips, two cans of soda and a paper cup of coffee. Logan rushes to help her, taking the coffee and sodas, earning a relieved thank you.

"The machine ate my money!" Veronica gripes. "So I may have worked a little magic and taken extras in revenge."

Five bags of chips, three chocolate bars rammed in her back pockets, two drinks… Hell hath no fury like a Veronica with a lockpick kit scorned. As he scarfs down his bag of chips, he wonders at the gravity of Keith's tone as he chided Logan over Veronica having given up so much to be with him.

Is there something she isn't telling me?

He studies Veronica for the rest of their visit, turning each word over in his mind like a stone, seeking hidden meaning beneath. She is as turns doting upon and quipping with her father, interrogating his doctor on her rounds as she does each evening before they leave. Her hand grazes his as she passes by to bring her father juice, a casual familiarity—as if they have been lovers always. She hasn't hidden their renewed affection from her father, although she's yet to name it.

No, there's no evidence here. Nothing to quell the fear. He shoves his shaking hands deep in his pockets as they leave for the night, Veronica looping her arm through his as they nod to the nurses desk and head downstairs.

"What do you feel like for dinner tonight?" she asks. "Thai?"

"Sure. But can we eat in, at your dad's place? I think Dick's back tonight from that TV shoot."

Veronica shrugs. "We can do that. You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm just feeling like a quiet night in," he lies.

It's a white lie, one he'll soon rectify. It's nothing like the horrors he hides from the years at Hearst.

They stop at his place to pack for the night, then swing by the Thai restaurant near Mars Investigations. Veronica asks if he can order her dinner while she drops by the office and he agrees, anxiety swirling within. She settled everything with her dad's cases. What is there to do? But he trusts her, so he complies, grabbing their usual red curry and mango salad, and throwing in an order of satay chicken skewers for himself.

As he pulls up in front of the office and beeps the horn, she strolls outside, smiling triumphantly.

"You know, my father's nagging sometimes leaves me twitching to stick a pair of his novelty Padres socks in his mouth, but this is one of the times where I have to admit, the man was right!"

"Hold on, let me get my phone. He should see this. I bet he'll be discharged next week when he does."

"Ha!" Sliding into her seat, she tucks her purse on the floor beside the food and kisses his cheek. "That smells amazing. Hurry up and drive, before I dig into it in your car and spill curry on the leather seats."

Signalling out into traffic, Logan laughs. "Alright, I'll do ten over, but you're talking me out of the ticket. So what was Mars Senior right about?"

"Despite wanting me out of the biz, Dad made me renew my PI license every two years like clockwork while I was still in California. Once I left for New York, it was useless so I let it slide. But, because I maintained it through my Stanford years, I can still renew it now without retaking my exam and doing my mandatory hours. I'll be relicensed and ready to go in two weeks."

His grip on the steering wheel tightens as Keith's words ring in his ears. "You're renewing your PI license?"

"Yeah. I'm going to need it to work, Logan."

He steals a glance at her and realizes she is quite serious about this statement. This is the thing she hasn't been telling him.

"So, you're going to help cover your dad's business while he recovers, or…?"

"I… I thought we were on the same page," Veronica replies quietly, a twinge of hurt in her words. "I'm home now."

"That's the problem, Veronica," Logan confesses. "I don't think we're reading the same book."

"Well, fuck!" Veronica whimpers, her fist striking the car door.

They're five minutes from Keith's house, tops. Five minutes from a far better venue for this discussion. Five minutes from where he can hold her close, reassure her that he loves her with every fibre of his being, but if she is really coming home… if she is staying… then she needs to understand what that means for him before he can hope for an us.

If the last nine years have taught him anything, it is how to wait. And so he bites back his questions, stretching out his hand across the divide to squeeze her knee. She flinches, but grants him contact, sighing sadly. Exhaling as if defeated in a game she was never truly out to win.

He parks out front and they head inside, the food abandoned on the kitchen counter. He hungers, but it is for clarity. Standing in the living room, he is alarmed that she won't meet his gaze. His hands cup her cheeks, lifting her chin and startling at the tears in her eyes.

"Veronica, what's wrong?"

"You said you loved me!"

"I do. I love you, Veronica. More than you'll ever understand." He brushes aside her tears, bewildered by her reaction. "Why are you so upset?"

"You said we're not in the same book, so I took that to mean—"

"No, NO, I'm so sorry." He pulls her to his chest, shaking his head in disgust with himself. "I love you. I want to be with you. I don't know what you're doing, and you and I haven't fully discussed… anything. And there are things we need to talk about that impact us building a life together."

Veronica pulls back in his grasp, staring up at him. "Things like what? Are you sterile from some Navy accident?"

"What? No, the seaman's semen are still swimming." Logan grins as Veronica giggles. "All I meant was… you're making decisions without informing me and I'm lost."

"I thought it was pretty clear from the part where I had Piz ship all my worldly possessions here last week," Veronica replies. "I'm moving back to Neptune."

"Your dad needs help for a while. I wasn't going to assume…"

"That it was to be with you?"

Logan pulls away as an unwelcome panic pulses in his skull. She doesn't want you. She could never want you. She'll say it to be nice but what if she gets tired of you the moment she figures out you're still full of demons, still angry, still a pathetic little boy desperate for love?

"I wasted nine years," Veronica laments. "I'm doing what makes me happy. Investigating makes me happy. You make me happy, Logan."

You make me so happy, Veronica. But losing you is a hell I barely crawled out of last time.

"Veronica, I'm deploying in three days."

The words tumble from his lips like marbles, plunking loudly in the uncomfortable silence of the house. He stares out through the sheer curtains of the Mars living room, replaying scenes of a truck barrelling down on him, on a battered Civic. His arms looped beneath the limp shoulders of Keith, dragging him away as the headlights bear down; Logan remembering her weeping into a sweatshirt on her father's bed, ten years ago, and praying: "Don't take her dad from her."

Logan jumps as her arms slide around his waist from behind, fingers lacing together. "I know. You told me."

"Do you know anything about Navy tours? How long they last?"

"A couple months?"

It's better than most civilians guess, but Veronica's always been ahead of the curve. He jerks his head towards the kitchen, pushing away the echoes of ambulance sirens and Veronica screaming for help.

"Our dinner's getting cold, and congealed curry is like wallpaper paste. Let's eat."

"And, as a bonus, we can redecorate with the leftovers," Veronica quips. "Think my dad will like a unicorn feature wall?"

"I'm denying all involvement… but I'll drive you to Home Depot for supplies. Maybe paint the high corners for you."

They dish out their meal and settle at the table, Veronica enthusing over her father's progress and setting a reminder in her phone to meet with Mac next week for lunch. The click and scrape of the chopsticks on their plates is deafening. He barely tastes the food, despite the burning sensation on his tongue.

She's moving home to be with me. Because she loves me. But which me does she love: the stable Naval lieutenant? The wounded bad boy of her memories? And what happens after deployment, or when we fall into the patterns of balancing our separate lives around each other? If she meets the female pilot in my squadron, will she become jealous? Will she obsess over us sleeping together while we're stationed overseas?

He rams a piece of chicken satay in his mouth and chews slowly. I've learned to love myself enough to survive without her. Isn't this the definition of insanity? Veronica called us star-crossed, years ago. What if it all goes to shit again?

In his mind, he hears Jane's voice: "Then you cope. Then you finally know that it wasn't just your trauma holding you back, or the mistake in Aspen. And you deal with it."

"But I don't want to," he whispers. "I want her."

"Logan? Hey, what's wrong?"

Setting his chopsticks aside, he meets her worried gaze across the table. "I'm terrified. I've spent years trying to process what growing up Echolls has done to my brain… leave it behind in some mental box, but when it comes to you, Veronica, it all falls apart. I love you. I do. But us, together? I don't know if I have it in me to walk back through that door, if you're going to bail in six months after a fight, or get jealous over a night out with Dick…"

Veronica's hand drops her chopsticks, the wooden utensils bouncing off the edge of her plate and rolling to the floor. "You're afraid I'm going to abandon you like your mother. Like you feel I have, over and over."

"Anxiety isn't rational—"

"Psychology degree, Logan. I'm well aware." Veronica sniffs loudly, fiddling with her water glass. "I get where it comes from, and I'm sorry for the past. But I've accepted that the man who met me at the airport is a very different Logan than the one who beat Gory up in the Hearst cafeteria. And thanks to a drunken conversation you had with Mac years ago that she relayed to me, I'm aware that things with Madison were less than consensual in my books, so…. I've let that go."

Mac? He has no memory of this. Of course, he has few memories of his years at Hearst, so this is hardly surprising. His heart flutters at the thought that maybe, as he longed for her, she was keeping tabs on him through Mac and Wallace.

She shoves her meal away, half finished. "I've accepted you've changed. Do you really think I haven't changed at all? Because if you don't, then you're right, Logan. This will never work."

"Have you changed, Veronica? Because, in my defense, you showed up in Neptune dating Piz, and now you're looking to jump back into the life you had before moving away."

It's harsher than he intends, but the panic and pain are driving him now, the lashed teen lashing out with his sharp tongue. Hypocrite, he chides himself. You haven't changed as much as you think, have you?

"Alright, that's fair," Veronica quietly concedes. "My change doesn't read in my resume like yours. I don't have a neatly pressed uniform and a banging physique."

"Yeah, you do," he protests, thinking of her naked curves, and how alluring he finds them.

A warning glance silences him, although her posture relaxes in the chair. "That Psychology Student Syndrome joke? It's a real thing. You spend four years studying neuroses and you can't help but see yourself in the textbook. For most people, it's an exaggeration of normal traits. For someone like me, it's glaring evidence of why so many people have kindly—and at times, not so kindly—suggested I seek professional help. I might call up Dad's guy and write a book about my dysfunction if my student loans get unwieldy."

"So you laid on a couch and shrunk yourself?"

"Ugh, Freud? To hell with him and his weird cocaine boners. More like I found some workbooks on Amazon and half-assed them around papers and exams. Was it perfect? Probably not. But I have an idea of what makes me a shitty girlfriend at times, and I try really hard to keep it in check." Veronica shrugs shyly. "I also had this ex at Stanford who tried to install spy software on my laptop, followed me around and hacked my calendar on my iPhone to keep tabs on me, so that whole invading privacy thing that you didn't like? Karma's a bitch."

Logan snorts, shaking his head. Yeah, dating a PI had grown pretty tiresome, although her father also being a PI with equally invasive habits had softened his anger over years of therapy. Still, it was a little gratifying to know she'd encountered a taste of her own bitter medicine.

Veronica rises from the table, gathering up their dishes and scraping the plates into the trash. As she works, she bites her lip—a worrying sign. Maybe there's something else she's not telling you, the anxiety shrieks in his skull. And you haven't told her how long you're deploying for!

Fuck, he hasn't.

Everything she's saying, it sounds so… promising. Different. Changed. But she's still under false impressions of what military partner life entails, and that's not fair to either of them, is it?

He reaches for his water glass and is alarmed at how badly his hand shakes. He can't get a grip on the glass, it's shuddering so bad. Hiding it in his lap, he closes his eyes and take a ragged breath—

Lying on the floor of his bedroom, the ghost of Lilly crouches beside him. Her hand striking him hard.

"No freaking way, Logan. As much fun as I am, you're not invited to my party. Not yet."

He shakes his head violently, shoving away from the table. "I need the bathroom."

"Logan?"

He hurries down the hall, running his hand along the wall to steady himself. He slams the door, locking it as the voices roar in his skull. His father's voice growls low in his ear, urging him to choose a belt.

"No, I won't," he whispers, running the tap.

A knock on the door: "Logan? Please, let me in. Let me help you."

Another time, another apartment. His ribs aching, his body battered, but the same sweet voice in his ear:

"I've got you, Logan. Come on, come inside. I've got you."

He unlocks the door and slides to the ground, burying his face in his hands. This is humiliating. He's supposed to be past this shit. Has been past it for years.

What's happening to me?

Veronica opens the door cautiously, slipping into the small room and turning off the faucet. Dropping to her knees, she pulls him to her chest, hugging him tightly.

"Hey, I've got you. I'm here."

"I need the ocean," he mumbles.

"I know," she replies, kissing his cheek. "I'll drive."

The moment he sees the water, his body relaxes. Home. It centres him, his gravity, allows him clarity. His fists uncurl and he relaxes against the door of the car, watching the waves ebb and flow.

Veronica's steadying hand squeezes his knee and she hums soothingly, noticing the shift. "Almost there."

She parks at the end of the lot, beneath a streetlight—sheriff's daughter through and through—and hurries around the car to open his door. It's odd, but he likes it. He likes it more when she embraces him warmly, pressing onto her toes to kiss him.

"Better?"

"Yeah."

She takes his hand, leading him to their favourite spot. They say nothing on the way, although Logan notices how bright the sky is tonight: a deep blue dazzles with an endless scattering of starlight so perfectly arranged, it seems unreal. A quarter moon hangs low over the water, gleaming white.

He settles onto the sand first, sprawling his knees and making room for Veronica to sit between his legs. She tucks her hair over her left shoulder, fastening it in a loose, low ponytail in a fight against the breeze. He doesn't know why she bothers; he'll just pull it out when—if—he kisses her. And God, he hopes she still wants to kiss him.

Tucking his chin on her right shoulder, he hugs her tightly and closes his eyes. No voices, just the quiet rolling of the waves.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"This," he murmurs. "It's been a long time."

"Did I do something wrong?"

"What? No, Ronnie…"

She sighs heavily, turning towards him. "But it's been a long time. And I've been gone a long time."

Logan frowns. "It's not you. It's… the fear of losing you again."

"Ah." She contemplates this for a long moment, her fingers stroking the back of his hand. "I'm scared too, Logan. But I still want to try. I have to try."

He loses himself in those beautiful blue eyes, so steely in their resolve. He longs for her conviction.

"I know what life is like without you. To so eloquently crib from Kelly Clarkson, it sucks," she jokes weakly.

"Veronica, my deployment… it's 180 days."

Her poker face is impressive, but the corners of her mouth flinch, ever so slightly. "Oh?"

Logan stares out at the water, seeking strength. "I want this. I want you. But I don't blame you if making a decision after just two weeks together again seems like a bad idea."

"It's definitely an adjustment," she agrees.

"And we've been apart for nine years, so… I get it. We can hit pause until I'm back. 180 days is a long time. I understand that."

I don't want to, but I can live with it. I love you enough to let you go.

"We haven't been apart, Logan," she muses aloud. "We've been lost."

His heart begins to race, strangely buoyed by her words. His head slowly turns, finding her lips crooked in a nervous smile. He leans into her, their heads touching, and he swears an electrical current flows between them.

"And I found you."

"Just like you promised." Veronica shakes her head slightly. "Two weeks, Logan? I've known you since I was twelve. I know who you are. I know exactly what I'm doing and who I'm committing to."

180 days hasn't pushed her away. Your first panic attack in years hasn't pushed her away. Jane's voice is warm and soothing in his mind. Facts, Logan. Look at the evidence. Veronica sees him—the real him, not just the photo album sheen he's paraded around for the last two weeks. And she still wants to be with him. She still chooses him.

"You… We…"

"Logan Echolls, at a loss for words. Now this is a first!" she teases gently.

Overwhelmed with love, elation and a hint of hesitation, Logan does what any self-respecting man does with the woman of his dreams on a beach: he falls backwards, pulling her on top of him with a quick rolling motion. Veronica giggles in surprise, muffled by his mouth as he kisses her hard. His hands cradle her soft cheeks as his ankles hook over hers, keeping her close. Her hand fists in his shirt, tugging it from his jeans.

"Easy, Bobcat," he murmurs, breaking away. "This beach is not deserted."

"Don't start what you can't finish," she purrs.

"Are you serious, Veronica? Are we doing this?"

Propping herself up on one elbow, she smirks. "I can see it's dangerous for you. But if the government can trust me, once upon an FBI internship, maybe you could."

"You've been waiting eleven days to use that Top Gun reference, haven't you?"

"Yep. Did it pay off?"

"I will definitely reward you later," Logan promises, burrowing his face into her neck and kissing it.

"See? They all told me, 'Veronica, you watch too many guy movies' but I knew what I was doing. It's all about the sexual favours."

She rests her head on his heart and he holds her close, staring up at the stars. Evidence. Fight the fear with facts. Logan reviews what he knows to be true, here on the beach they have visited since their youth.

Veronica loves him. The evidence is overwhelming, in words and actions.

Veronica is loyal. Of all the people in his life, only two immediately believed in his innocence when he was accused of Carrie's murder: Dick and Veronica. He will never forget this.

He loves Veronica, and always will. There is no truer feeling in his heart.

Veronica is committed to staying in Neptune, with him. She has completely severed ties with New York and moved her life home. She hasn't flinched at anything he's said about Navy life.

Like him, Veronica's changed. And if they're different people, then they can create a better ending this time. It's worth the risk. She is worth the risk.

A conversation from years ago pushes into his mind and Logan smirks. "Hey, you have your phone?"

"Of course."

"Any music on it?"

Veronica's head raises from his chest as she eyes him suspiciously. "Why?"

Tugging her hair free of its tie, Logan kisses her forehead. "2007. I owe you a dance."

"How do you remember that?"

That, he chuckles to himself as he pulls her to her feet, is a conversation from her birthday. It was a rare occasion where Veronica allowed herself a few drinks, and spilled a secret dream she'd had when she was twelve about dancing with Logan on a beach at night. He'd promised to make her fantasy a reality someday, but between the Hearst rapist case, their stormy relationship and the Dean's murder… it just hadn't happened.

Now, he decides, is the perfect time. A perfect way to clear the slate and begin again.

Veronica scrolls through her phone, shaking her head in disbelief. "Do I get to pick the song?"

"Anything you want," he promises. "As long as you dance with me here. This is about you."

Her cheeks flush as she pauses, staring at the screen. "Okay, I've got one."

He scans the beach, noting a man walking his dog distantly down the shore, but thankfully, the group of teenagers loitering on the sand nearby are packing it in. They're effectively alone, not that he cares—but he knows she does, and as she follows his gaze and draws the same conclusions, he smirks.

"No excuses," he teases. "Hit play."

"Alright!" Laughing, Veronica complies, tucking the phone in the back pocket of his jeans and wrapping her arms around his neck. "Why now?"

"Because we should have made the time in college," he murmurs. "We're going to get it right, this time."

The music begins softly, acoustic guitar and bass, but builds in layers: drums, jangling percussion that reminds him of the wind chimes on Dick's porch, and harmonies. But it's the lyrics that dig into his heart, as they sway in a circle on the shoreline:

"You give me reasons left to fight, to wake up, breathe and live my life.
For you, I breathe tonight…"

In his ear, Lilly's voice whispers lovingly: "She came back. Don't you want to be here when she comes back again?"

The stars overhead twinkle knowingly. The world itself seems so much brighter tonight, brighter than the other times they've sought refuge here at their respective crossroads. The last of his fear fades away as he remembers his darkest hour, the moment he'd chosen between death and life—and clung to the maybe of her, and breathed.

Here they are, six years later, and of all of the songs in the world, Veronica has chosen one that speaks so deeply to that moment, it cannot be anything but proof that their hearts have been communicating across distance and time, their wounded pride and fears be damned.

"You bring me hope and light to a war I've been losing.
I can stand up and fight and my limbs, I can feel them.
I'm awake tonight and the numbing is leaving
For the first time, I can feel my lungs breathing…"

"What made you pick this song?" he asks.

"The first time I heard it, I thought of you, and this beach… and I missed you so much," she confesses.

We're ready, he affirms, caressing her cheek. This time, it's different.

It's a sure and steady truth, the kind that burrows into bone marrow. He trusts it, as much as the day he stood in the parking lot of the Camelot, lips bee-stung swollen by an unexpected kiss, and understood the fine line between love and hate with razor-sharp focus. His anger, his vendetta against Veronica, it had boiled over in him because he loved her and she had betrayed him. As sure as he knew he was in love with her then, he knows that this time, it's going to work out. This time, he gets to stay with her.

His mouth closes over hers as they continue to sway, tongues teasing and tasting in the moonlight. The ocean gently caresses their bare feet, washing away their past missteps and baptizing their love anew.

He stares out the window as morning's first light appears on the horizon, his heart paradoxically heavy and light. For a love like theirs, he would expect nothing less.

Two days of bliss. Two days of loving with wild abandon and tender kisses stolen over meals cooked in shirts and underwear. Two days guided by instincts born in a flask a decade ago, but no less sharp for the scotch soaking them as he spoke of love—their love, and why it should endure.

The prescience of his youth brings a smile to his face. Today, he begins his journey for another continent's shores, leaving behind his North Star to shine her constant light and guide him home.

He sets his cap firmly in place and rounds the bed, one last mission on his mind. There's a stunning beauty sleeping in it, messy curls splayed on his pillow, and he's grown accustomed to waking to this sight. If he can't have the real thing for the next 180 days…

As he raises his phone and snaps the photo, Veronica stirs, her radar clearly pinging at being one-upped in a camera war (she'd taken a photo of him sleeping the day before). Rubbing her eyes, she groans sleepily.

"No, it's too early," she protests.

He chuckles softly, pocketing his phone before she dares to snatch it away and delete his treasured still frame. "Well, you'd be surprised about how strongly the armed services feels about punctuality. Want me to get busted for going AWOL?"

For the briefest of moments—as she sits up, the barest hint of sun lending a glow to her soft skin, the neckline of her shirt plunging in a V—he thinks, I'll consider it if you ask me to. A sad longing lingers in her eyes, although she manages a brave smile as she kneels before him.

"What I want," Veronica demands, inching closer, "is for you to stand there, in that effity white uniform, with your Harvard mouth, and show me some effing courtesy."

She grips his hips, yanking him closer, and it is all he can do to resist the urge to push her back onto the bed and do exactly that: explore every inch of her body with his mouth in courteous form, until she cries out his name and several obscenities. There's just no time. She knows this. It's why they were up until eleven, when his alarm was set for three-thirty in the morning. He'll pay for it all damn day, but he doesn't regret a single minute.

Wrapping his arms around her waist, Logan smiles at her nod to last week's horrible edited-for-TV version of A Few Good Men they'd watched with Keith in the hospital. "Well, I appreciate you keeping it PG-13 for me. I'm delicate." He kisses her nose, knowing how much she secretly loves it.

"I got you off murder charges," Veronica reminds him, half-playful, half-longing. "I can beat an AWOL rap."

She's drifting into that headspace, the one where she'll be sad. And if she breaks down before he walks out the door… It will gut him. He will still leave, because he believes in their love and the career that's given him purpose. But it will make for a rocky start, and Logan knows they're capable of a stronger foundation.

He also knows exactly how to remind her of it.

"Listen, it's 180 days, Veronica." Her eyes are his favourite ocean, and he submerges in their crystalline depths. "What's 180 days to us? Our story is epic." The immediate recognition—that you remember flicker in her irises— soothes the sting of his lie years ago. "Spanning years, continents…"

Without missing a beat, her heart echoes his: "Lives ruined, bloodshed."

"Yeah."

The silence between them is deafening, the intensity of her stare evoking a lifetime of memories in a blur: soccer games and skinned knees; champagne spills and limo dares; the way his heart had leapt into his throat when she collapsed at Lilly's funeral. The first tentative kiss, and the second, where she stole his heart forever. The first time they'd made love, a frenetic affair after her trip to New York; and the last, before the devastating break-up at Hearst.

Every single moment they've shared at a beach like the one just beyond the window, building a secret world together, crashes over him as his lips claim hers. Her breath in his lungs, his in hers, sustaining each other—as it has always been.

"Come back to me," Veronica softly pleads.

It's the easiest vow he'll ever make. "Always," he affirms, caressing her cheek one last time before heading for the door.

He tells himself not to look back, that it will only make it harder to walk away, but it's impossible to resist the magnetic pull between them. The air crackles, a current prickling the back of the neck: Veronica is near. On a cellular level, his body yearns for her, leans in her direction, unable to resist the orbit of her energy. Two opposing forces, that for the first time, Logan senses are balanced.

Hoisting his bag higher on his shoulder, he steals one final look at the woman he loves as he opens the front door. Veronica is sitting on the corner of the bed, legs folded beneath her. She is tracking his movements, as she has for so long. Watching over him, guarding his life more fiercely than her own.

She laughs, almost in disbelief and he nods in reassurance. We can do this.

Her smile is confident, if heartbroken. I believe you.

As he steps out into the warm California sunshine and waves to his waiting colleague, Logan inhales slowly and reminds himself of what he knows to be true.

He loves Veronica Mars, perhaps more than ever, and to his joy, Veronica Mars loves him back: unconditionally, irrevocably, and without reservation.

Veronica isn't going anywhere in the next 180 days, except perhaps moving into her own apartment when her father has recuperated enough to manage on his own. She will be waiting for him when his deployment is over, with several days—and nights—open on her calendar. Her suggestion.

Sliding into the waiting van with a quick greeting, he swipes his phone and stares at an image of a sleepy blonde, affirming one final truth: that nothing on earth will make him break his promise.

She is his, as he is hers—and they will always come back to each other.


Oh Stay With Me Instead:  The Soundtrack