How exactly did Weevil end up helping Veronica with her criminology project? Veronica and Weevil navigate their post-high school friendship, and the tricky forces that led to their current situations. Tag to 3x05.
Updated 10/02/19 on ao3
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"What'cha working on, V?"
Veronica startles as Weevil sits down beside her in the cafeteria of Hearst College.
"My criminology presentation, although 'working on' is a pretty loose term."
She closes her textbook and places her papers on top to make room for Weevil. Glad for an excuse to stop trying to write her presentation, Veronica continues the conversation.
"You on your lunch break?"
Veronica is not exactly sure how to approach her and Weevil's post-high school relationship. At some point the need for mutual favours is going to run out and they'll have to decide whether they are friends or not. Weevil is, Veronica thinks, a friend, yet making small talk with him seems odd and off-kilter. Instead of answering Veronica's question, Weevil grunts affirmatively and picks up the piece of paper detailing the instructions for the presentation.
Weevil, after prison, is both harder and softer at the same time. Gone is the game of posturing—swaggering down the hallways and announcing his status with a bored and menacing glare. He looks softer too, he has gained some weight, and traded his leather jacket for the standard Hearst maintenance uniform. But soft is definitely not how Veronica would describe Weevil. If anything the look in his dark eyes is harder, unbreakable and inscrutable. He carries himself less with PCH king swagger and more with grim determination.
Their new form of conversation, one with questions meant to catch up, not to insinuate or implicate, somehow feels darker than their high school banter of sexual double-entendres. Instead of teenage fire and rage, they converse in a regular sort of manner, which on Weevil comes across as wary and tired.
"The socioeconomic conditions that lead preteens into a life of crime. Use at least three academic sources," Weevil reads in the same slightly tired conversational tone. Before she has a chance to comment Weevil continues, "Anyone from my neighbourhood would be ten times better a source than a book penned by some white old criminology professor." He looks at her inquisitively, but keeps his tone level and conversational.
Veronica opens her mouth to mention not all of her professors are old and white, before realizing his point still stands. "Yeah that's…This course is so lifeless," she starts, "It's the TAs project—it's kind of a dumb… I mean it's such a broad topic for only 10 minutes." Veronica suddenly feels hot with shame. Here she was, paying to take a course to study the very same circumstances that kept her the student and Weevil in the Hearst Maintenance uniform.
Weevil simply nods like he understands Veronica's babble about TAs and time constraints. Veronica blurts out, "It's not important," at the same time Weevil protests, "It's not dumb." Veronica fidgets with her pen between her thumb and forefinger.
"You don't have to be sorry, V," Weevil tells her, mild confusion written on his face. "It's true," he continues as he picks up his sandwich from his lunch, "It's not a fluke that you're here studying this stuff and I'm on parole."
The pen in Veronica's hand goes quiet as she turns her full attention to Weevil. Gone is the bored, disassociated tone, replaced with something akin to the attention he commanded as king of the PCHers. Except, instead of fake bravado and sneered innuendos, it's just Weevil speaking the truth. Eli, Veronica decides, speaking the truth. Not Weevil the gang-leader, not Weevil the ex-con, just Eli.
Eli stops speaking for a moment, but Veronica maintains eye contact.
"I mean, once you start it—stealing and stuff—it's hard to stop. You've got power you know. And if you're skilled at it, man," he shakes his head a little, "it's addictive."
Weevil abruptly breaks eye contact, as if he has just woken up to find himself having a heart to heart with Veronica in the glare of the harsh fluorescent lights in the Hearst cafeteria. Veronica watches as the mask falls back over his face.
In an attempt to lighten the conversation, and steer it back into a familiar realm, Veronica jokes, "You want to help with my project?" She gives him an overacted pleading face followed by a smirk. "You could be my audio-visual aide."
Something about Veronica's bearing or her phrasing jolts them back into junior year. Veronica has her chopped hair once again, and Weevil is roaring around on his bike with his boys behind him. Weevil cocks an eyebrow suggestively.
"Girl, I could be so much more than your audio-visual aide."
Veronica fixes Weevil with her trademark look of repulsion mixed with interest. And then as if on cue, they both break into a smile.
"How much time do you have?" Veronica asks. The air between them has suddenly cleared. For a moment, they are nothing but two friends having lunch together.
Weevil moves to check his watch. "Twenty minutes."
"You don't have to help me," Veronica reassures him.
"We're just always owing each other favours, aren't we?" Weevil smiles.
"I was going to work in the library tonight. Maybe order a pizza—perks of being an employee is that I'm allowed illicit food in the library."
"And who's the person you figure has to pick up after your illicit midnight snacks?" Weevil's question should sound barbed and bitter, but instead it comes off good natured.
Their conversation wanders into other topics: The enemies Veronica has already managed to make; Keith, or as Weevil refers to him, the Sheriff. By the time Weevil has left to resume work, Veronica isn't even sure he agreed to meet her in the library.
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Veronica heads to the library just after her late afternoon psychology class. The Hearst library is a tall, stately square building. All white stucco and tall sweeping windows—it's the closest thing Hearst has to a landmark.
Veronica orders from Cho's pizza, before climbing the small set of the stairs into the library. She nods hello to Stephen, who's working at the help desk tonight. Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she sees Weevil materialize out of the shadows of the bookshelves.
"There you are." He takes a few hurried steps to catch up to Veronica.
"You were waiting for me in the library?" Veronica looks at him incredulously.
"Told my boss there was a complaint about the library lights flickering off." He shrugs. "Beats unplugging freshmen's toilets."
"There was!" Veronica exclaims. "I submitted a work order like a month ago, but no one seemed to be able to fix it."
"Only took a couple of minutes," Weevil says nonchalantly. "Then I spent the rest of the time trying to see if there was anything remotely interesting and non-academic to read."
"Any luck?" Veronica smirks.
"I found a couple of car magazines being used to prop up a table."
"There's a bunch of tables up on the third floor," Veronica says by way of explanation as they climb the stairs. Weevil nods in agreement and Veronica realizes he probably knows the library just as well as she does.
The way the stacks are laid out, each table is only visible from a few others. Veronica and Weevil choose a table in the corner, looking out over the faculty parking lot.
"So we can see when the pizza is here," Veronica gestures to the window.
"You weren't joking about the pizza," Weevil observes, settling himself into a chair.
"I never joke about pizza," she deadpans, taking the chair opposite him. All of a sudden, it occurs to Veronica that she has no idea how this is going to work. Veronica busies her hands by unpacking her preliminary notes and books. She takes a breath, when Weevil speaks, "So what's the plan, V?"
His willingness to help still puzzles Veronica a little bit. Weevil talking about his life, and especially his past, was evasive at best. For all Veronica's tendencies to pry and ask for favours, she had never asked that he share any more of his life than he offered. Veronica understood because she herself didn't like to dwell on her past—Lilly, her mother—the events wouldn't change no matter how many times they materialized from her words.
Her hesitance is evident in her response, "Well, I have a sort of outline for my presentation—a couple of identified risk factors for teenage crime—I think I'll base the presentation around that." She stops to make sure she is making sense, to give Weevil time to leave if he decides he doesn't want to help her anymore. Weevil has her fixed with his dark brown eyes, nods once with understanding. His body language is casual, but his eyes hold a mixture of determination and fondness. As if he wants to help Veronica not just as a favour, but as a friend—and wants to do a good job at that.
Veronica continues her explanation, more confidently. "The problem is all the books I read don't seem real, you know? They categorize away all of the feeling. I know it's an academic report, but I want it to feel like I'm writing a report on real people, not just the subject of some academic debate." Veronica finishes, waving her hands in frustration.
Weevil lets out a quiet chuckle at Veronica's frustration. "And that's where I come in? A real person with teenage crime experience?" His tone holds no malice, only amusement.
"You got it."
"What would you have done without me, Mars?" Bet none of your new college friends fit the bill quite like me." This time Weevil lets a little bitterness slip into his tone, though none is directed at Veronica.
"I knew you'd be good for something." She reaches across to bump his shoulder.
He gives her an unreadable look—a product of Weevil's leering suggestive glances, their new brand of tentative, honest friendship, and a small note of sadness.
"What are the risk factors?" he asks, determined.
Veronica grabs her notes off the table to read out her careful writing, "um poverty, family history of incarceration, family instability, mental illness, community factors—that's like a neighbourhood with a high crime rate, polarization, stuff like that."
Basically Neptune, she doesn't add. Veronica keeps her gaze cast on her page, for although she was no stranger to a lack of money, splintering families and addiction, she is still aware that her crimes had gone relatively unpunished. What is a college project for her, is Weevil's life. More than that, she knew that he didn't regret all of his decisions, and that Weevil the criminal made up a critical part of Eli's identity. She didn't know quite what to make of those facts.
"And you need examples?" Weevil clarifies, forcing Veronica to look at him. "Look, V, I won't be able to do this if you feel bad every time you mention the fact that I grew up a poor Mexican and that's probably why I spent time in jail when everyone else was on summer vacation preparing for college." His voice is strong, but neutral, simply stating his life as it had played out. "Yeah, I did some things I wish I didn't and some I don't regret, but I did agree to help you. You're not going to offend me every time you talk about teenage crime, V, you know I'm tougher than that. And you're tougher than that."
Veronica looks at him, mouth slightly opened, reminded of Weevil's keen ability to read her thoughts and body language, and his blunt ability to call her out.
"Sorry," she says, meaning it, "I know you agreed, I guess it's—I don't like talking about myself." She starts again, "I don't want to force you to talk."
"Veronica," he says intently, "you're not forcing me. You ever think I actually want to talk about me, myself?" he raises his eyebrows. "Most people see me and only see Weevil, ex-gang leader, ex-con. I am more than that. It's a part of me, sure, even a big part of me, but it's not everything." He pauses, "how's that for talking about real people?"
"Much better than Dr. Martin Bell here," she recovers and gestures to the first book on her pile.
"Pizza's here," Weevil notes, turning his attention to look out the window.
Once Veronica returns from picking up the pizza, she is well aware she has to get started on her presentation. They each take a piece of pizza, using paper towel stolen from the bathroom.
"I guess we start from the beginning," Veronica eventually muses. "So when did you… start?"
Weevil chuckles at her awkward phrasing but replies, "Well I stole my first bike when I was six."
Veronica tries to keep her face neutral, but is unsuccessful in keeping her reaction off of her face.
"I don't think we really thought of what we did as stealing," he clarifies. "More like we wanted a new bike and so we took it—we knew it was wrong enough to not tell our…parents." He pauses over the last word.
"Did you get found out?" Veronica asks, drawn into the story.
"Of course—I think Felix's mom found out first." Weevil looks reminiscent. "We tried to disguise it with kid's tempera paint, wasn't the most effective."
Veronica can't help but laugh aloud at the thought of six year old Weevil trying to paint a bicycle with finger paints.