Chapter Text
In general, Mac has great feelings of affection for Veronica Mars. On any normal day she’d prefer a few hours of Veronica’s quips over…well, pretty much anyone else in Neptune. Which is why she should be taken very, very seriously when she says that, at the moment, she wants to kill the girl in question.
"Veronica, I’m going to kill you for this."
"Mac. If you survived Butters at Alterna-Prom, dealing with Clive will be a piece of cake."
"You’re not the one he’ll be making tongue-gestures at."
"That’s disturbing."
"You have no idea."
"Hear me out: Clive’s dad works for university housing. Think of the connections! You and I could be reaping the benefits of this job for years to come, and he’s paying a fee. C’mon, take one for the team, tiger! Besides, maybe last Saturday was just an off night for him. Give the guy a chance – he may surprise you."
"He had a thirty minute conversation with my breasts, and then he tried to grope me in the parking lot. He can keep the rest of his surprises to himself, thanks."
"Grabby hands aside, his roommate stole the disk with his midterm essay on it, and the assignment is due tomorrow. He asked me to find proof the roommate did it so he doesn’t fail out of the class."
"If he’s too stupid to save a backup copy, then I’d say his failing is a foregone conclusion."
"Apparently his backup copy was erased as well. He thinks his roommate Mark is trying to pass off the paper as his own. They've both been competing for the top spot in English Lit. I just need you to break into the roommate’s computer and look around, see what you can find. One hour of your time. I swear."
Silence.
"One hour of your time and…five percent of the fee?"
"Fifteen."
"Ten, and I’ll throw in a free tune-up from Weevil’s uncle’s shop."
"Promise to never call me tiger again, and we have a deal."
"I think I can make that promise. The roommate will only be gone until eight tonight. Give me a call from the lobby when you’re here and I’ll have them buzz you in."
Money, and her car: her two weak spots. Which is how she ended up here, loitering outside Hearst dorm security and cursing Veronica Mars on her first free afternoon in a month. She punches Veronica’s number into her phone.
"I’m here," she grits. "That computer better be ready and waiting the second I step off the elevator, and Clive Cressley better be nowhere near it."
Veronica just laughs and hangs up. Mac silently stews her way into the elevator, still debating whether another nauseously awkward encounter with Clive is really worth a free tune-up. She’s watching the doors slide shut with a glum sense of fatality when someone sticks a dusty black, booted foot inside. The doors slide open creakily, and Weevil Navarro saunters in. He pushes the button for Veronica’s floor and leans back against the metallic wall, arms crossed. The elevator shrinks to about the size of a sardine can.
He doesn’t recognize her – that’s immediately clear. His eyes pass over her jeans-and-t-shirt clad persona in a manner that’s somehow both bored and menacing at the same time. It’s a neat trick, Mac has to admit. Then he sighs in displeasure, re-settles himself against the wall, and stares at the doors as they begin to move upward.
It doesn’t surprise her; she’s never been particularly memorable, barring her brief, hellish fifteen minutes of fame after Beaver died. She doesn’t really want to rehash her study sessions with Weevil, if only because they summon up the memory of a grinning Cassidy Casablancas. But still…she spent endless hours of her own free time trying to force-feed knowledge into his stubbornly unresponsive brain. That deserves a little recognition. On the other hand, it’s not like he technically benefited from it. Which reminds her…
"I thought you were in jail." Weevil’s eyes snap to her. Whoops. Don’t poke the bear.
"I was. Now I’m not. What’s it to you, girl?"
"Nothing…except I spent half of finals week trying to save your algebra grade. I was a little pissed when Lamb dragged you out before my time paid off." Her voice sounds calm to her own ears, but she’s wishing with all her might that she hadn’t opened her mouth. The truth is, Weevil Navarro is a little scary, and she was a hell of a lot more comfortable before that dark gaze was focused on her.
Weevil’s eyes narrow. "Veronica’s friend, right? The math girl. Can I assume you’re here because little miss blonde pain-in-the-ass summoned you?"
Mac grimaces. "Of course. You?"
Weevil blows out an aggravated breath. "Yup."
"Fun."
"Yup."
Stifling silence. Mac watches the numbers light up as the elevator crawls to the top floor. Floor 3. Floor 4. God, how slow can an elevator possibly move? Floor 5, 6….
The elevator lurches, lights flickering, and Mac goes stumbling into Weevil’s leather-clad shoulder. Their transport slowly shudders to a stop, mid-floor, and the lights dim and blink off, bathing them in the orangey-yellow emergency bulbs. No.Freaking. Way. Weevil glares at her like she and the elevator are in cahoots to piss him off.
Yup. Veronica Mars – dead.