Just a piece of fluff with Logan and Veronica in their summer post season two. Veronica gets the measles, a shout-out to myself, because that's how I spent my last summer and it was a week of hell. It's smutty and sweet at the same time.
Best read with That's the way by Led Zeppelin on the side.
To itch
She had come to a realisation…
Itching was too satisfying.
It wasn't the way she planned to spend her summer. Days of poolside entertainment, Logan's tanned back, dreams of fields of lilies and swinging hands, filtered across her mind gently, when she allowed it.
It begun that way, slowly. Logan's hand too comfortable with the geography of her body, gasps from her mouth, in some very unusual form of poolside entertainment with midnight above their heads. Days under the sun, the words olive coloured being thrown around in some manner, Logan hissing in her ear, while his hands appreciated the deepening colour of her skin.
Then it started.
She actually didn't notice herself. Astute, observant Veronica with eyes to watch everyone, apparently didn't watch herself. It was Logan with the eyes on prize this time, smirking as she strolled passed him while he lazed in the pool.
"Perhaps you should keep outta the pool Ronnie. The chlorine's not agreeing with ya."
He jerked his thumb towards the back of her legs.
She assumed at first, he was right. The rash was nothing more than spending too much time in the pool, although chlorine had never bothered her before. She moved on from the pool then, and was taken with spending her days on the outskirts of Neptune where Lily and she used to escape to, sunbaking in the long grass filled with wildflowers and weeds. The change of location was fine with him, lying down and hiding in the jungle of the land, with her clutching his raw skin, her eyes frantic as he made her lose her breath, was just as entertaining as the poolside entertainment, if not more.
But the stupid rash would just not go away.
It started to get more courageous, that rash. It began to faintly appear on her stomach, on the backs of her arms. She flirted with the idea that maybe it was heat rash but while not vain, she was not stupid, and it occurred to her that that particular rash usually more often occurred with things like if your thighs touched and her didn't.
After four days of it spreading, she finally headed off to the doctors, her fingers clasping her knees, her eyes bloodshot and sore.
Logan laughed when she told him.
"Measles? Fucking measles? What are you, an eight year-old child from the slums of India?"
Fucking measles.
It wasn't as bad it could be, a weak form of measles, hospitalisation not required, with the doctor giving her shots of Vitamin A and promising the rash would disappear in a couple of days.
But a couple of days where your skin itched, god it itched, where the summer heat is causing you sweat and feel even more uncomfortable, was death.
She spent the first half of the first day soaking in a bath for hours, occasionally getting up and rubbing lotion all over her body, then settling back in her bath.
Logan called, constantly. Keith had been in New Mexico with Kendall for the past two weeks, and she had been left to battle the measles by herself.
"You can't come see me Logan. I'm sick. Very, very sick. In fact, I'm pretty sure I'm dying. Can you call Cliff and organise my last will and testament?"
Logan just grunted.
She watched hours of day-time television, her mind thick from the rash, the view cloudy, her mouth clammy.
It was the end of the first day that she started to itch.
She shouldn't have, she knew. Itching was bad, the relief you got from it only temporary, the rash usually spreading because of it.
But god, it felt so good.
She would rub it slowly at first, as to not get too attached to the itching, but after awhile she would break and itch and itch and itch. It was after awhile she realised something.
Itching was too satisfying.
It was the same sort of pleasure she got from Logan after awhile, that sort of pleasure. It was a faint, almost PG rating version of it, but it was still there, that undeniable, déjà vu sort of thing.
Logan was going to be the death of her, she knew it.
Her fingers clawing his back, her biting her lips to try and hold in the words for as long she could, Logan panting desperately in her ears, Veronica, Veronica. She liked the faint freckling of his skin, tugging at his hair, he playing with her belly button where he occasionally looked up and laughed.
Rendezvous' in pools, fields, Logan's hotel room, her bedroom while Keith was at least 50 miles away, Veronica getting bolder with even a turn in an empty department store change room. He, grabbing her skin, her thighs, she biting his shoulders to keep her noise in, propped up against the wall, Logan kissing all parts of her body.
He made her lose control. Veronica Mars, with her precious control, controlling everyone including herself, making sure she always knew what was going on. But she never knew what Logan would do, in his daily life routine and all times otherwise. And he loved it, loved making her shudder, her hips to buck, to make her want him.
He wasn't like Duncan. Sweet, gentle Duncan, perfect she supposed if she didn't want to make a sudden change.
Words of love hadn't been said. It was there, waiting, and she could feel it. She spent that whole time of being trapped in the house thinking of nothing else.
He would want to say it first, she knew it. He will look at her, say Veronica, and she will know what is coming next.
Talking was overrated. Lily always said it, and she finally started to get it. Sometimes, just knowing…was knowing and that said it all, she thought.
The rash stuck around for three days, not two. Three days of being trapped in a house, loneliness ensured, faint dreams of Logan on-top of her, her summer of him.
He appeared at her door, holding towels and sunscreen, with promises of spending the next three days always outside, to make up for her three days of indoor isolation.
Sand between her toes, sun warming her face, Logan asleep on his towel beside her, as the ocean crashed and made her think of times of Lily and her mother.
He looks at her, she can feel it. He occasionally wakes up and looks at her, when she seems to be otherwise occupied. But she knows he's looking.
With the sun setting behind her head, they arise, their skin faintly pink, sand up their legs.
"Veronica," he says.
"Logan…don't," she whispers back.
And he doesn't.
He doesn't scratch that particular itch. But he wants to, and she knows it.
And sometimes, that's enough.