Chapter 1: Vodka vs. Whiskey
Summary:
Season 1, Episode 1: Pilot
Set right at the end of the episode, Veronica has problems with doors.
Rob Thomas owns these characters and their backgrounds, I just like to imagine what if.
Notes:
I'm a complete LoVe shipper. Logan is one of my favorite male leads and the yardstick with which to measure potential suitors.
That being said, this fic is actually a bit out of character for Logan, mostly based on Jason Dohring's dark performance in the Pilot.
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Saturday, Camelot Motel
Veronica lifts her knuckles twice, and drops them twice. She stares at the brass 6 inidicating the room number, and knocks on the door.
If her father knew where she was right now, Veronica would be under house arrest for the rest of her foreseeable future. The Camelot Motel is Neptune's hotspot for seedy dealings and unsavory citizens.
Behind the window's drawn curtains, Veronica can tell the lights are off. "Ronnie sweetie, it can't be that hard to flip a light switch. Work out those finger muscles and help us save some money on the electricity bill, will you?" In her memories, her mother always smiles.
She presses one side of her face against the door's peeling green paint, and listens. Sound bytes of their last day together play in her head, and Veronica tries to push away her mom's slurred words and desperate cries. She doesn't want to hear something that isn't there. Or worse, miss something that is.
The chill of the hard, glossy wood seeps into her cheek. With each passing second, Veronica waits for Lianne's muffled voice, the sound of running water, squeaking bed springs, anything. A random car horn blares, and she plugs a finger into her exposed ear, muting the outside world.
She knows no one is in that room. At least, no one who wants to see her. Veronica turns her back on the green door of Room 6, and walks down the cement stairs.
The parking lot's only lamp post casts a yellow tint over her Chrystler LeBaron. Walking through the vacant parking spaces, Veronica shifts her gaze from the lot's dark corners to check her wrist watch. She quickens her pace, and reaches the car just as a sharp laugh cuts through the air.
Veronica checks breifly over each shoulder, while fumbling in her purse for her keys. She turns the small piece of metal in the lock, and hears a click. Pulling the handle once and then twice, Veronica blinks in surprise when the door doesn't open.
It isn't the first time the old car has let her down. Throwing her weight behind her, Veronica yanks at the door again and again. Nothing.
Panic soon turns to desperation. Bracing one hand against the LeBaron's frame, she tightens her grip on the handle. Though the night air is cool, her sweaty palms are slick against the smooth metal. She takes a few deep breaths to gather her strength.
A split second before she pulls, Veronica unconsciously glances to the right. The hair on the back of her neck bristles.
Where her palm is pressed against the car's frame, a hand twice the size of hers is positioned just an inch away. His large thumbnail almost grazes her pinkie.
A few seconds ago, Veronica could hear the steady commotion of car tires on pavement and buzzing electricity. Now, the hum of blood and adrenaline surging through her body drowns out everything besides her own heartbeat.
Focusing on steadying her pulse, Veronica flexes her fingers on the handle. She's planning the quickest way to reach for her taser when he speaks.
"Don't stop now, not when you're so close." The familiar low voice is only a few inches from her ear.
Veronica turns to face Logan staring down at her through dark eyes. His entire body slants towards hers as he holds himself up with one arm against her car. Veronica notes his blonde-tipped hair looks different tonight. The usually gelled spikes are disheveled, choppy, and erratic.
"Here I was thinking the working class knew all about elbow grease. You can't even open a car door."
The whiskey on his breath mingles with his cologne.
She forces a thin smile. "Here I was thinking gentlemen opened doors for ladies. Wait a minute..." She pauses, then snaps her fingers and says, "You're not a gentleman."
He laughs mirthlessly. "Why would I help you when it's so much fun watching you try to shimmy your way into this rust bucket." Logan taps on her car, then frames his hands as if reading a headline, "The Ultimate Showdown of Trash vs. Trash: Who Will Win?" He chucks her under the chin and she flinches away. "Don't worry, Ronnie," his voice purrs, "You'll be awarded extra points for extra shimmying."
Veronica crosses her arms and leans her lower back against the car, putting a few more inches of space between them.
Keeping her voice steady, she asks, "What do you want, Logan?"
He sweeps his dark eyes down her body, then back up. Stroking his chin, he murmurs, "What do I want...," Logan looks up, feigning deep thought. Veronica begins to carefully edge away.
"What do I...," He slams both his fists on either side of her, "...want." Her shoulders are trapped between his huge arms.
As she stares up defiantly at his face, Logan's tongue darts to the corner of his mouth. For the first time, Veronica sees a small red cut there and registers his swollen bottom lip. She carefully scans the rest of the bruising.
His left cheek bone is dotted with broken blood vessels, black and blue underneath his skin. An angry red mark puffs out his temple. Veronica saw Weevil give him a bloody nose, but the fight stopped there. She wonders why and how the PCHers would catch up with him for another beating.
Logan's smile turns from smitten to smug as he becomes aware of her scrutinizing gaze. "Like a man with battle wounds, do you?"
She shakes her head gently. "I don't like that he hurt you."
He searches her eyes and his features soften for a moment. Before she can process, Logan has already recovered, smirk set firmly in place.
He tilts his head and places a hand over his heart. "My hero."
Veronica's stomach turns at the whiff of alcohol. She shoves his chest away and Logan lets out a pained grunt, then roughly seizes her wrists.
"What's the matter, Veronica? Fear of intimacy?" She gives up on trying to wrench her hands from his firm grip. He shifts his pelvis forward, pinning her lower body to the car. "You don't like getting close?"
She glares up at him. "Not to people who reek of booze. But you knew that already."
Cruelty flickers behind Logan's eyes.
"That's riight," he nods, as if it's all coming back to him. "When we used to be friends, you told me all about your mommy issues. She preferred vodka though, hm? See, I'm more of a whiskey man myself." His smile fades and his jaw muscle flexes. "I think you should dissociate the two from now on."
Veronica shrugs, affecting a casual tone, "An alcoholic is an alcoholic."
"Nah, we're different, Lianne and I. And you know what the difference is?" His voice is sickly sweet, as if he's speaking to a toddler. "She left you, Ronnie."
Tears sting behind Veronica's eyes and she glances to the second floor of the motel. The green door of Room 6 remains closed.
Logan squeezes her wrists tighter and she returns her attention to him.
"I'm not like mommy dearest..." he pauses and leans in, "I will never leave."
Logan breaks eye contact when she bites the inside of her lip.
Exhaling through flared nostrils, he presses himself flush against her. His natural musk makes her head spin, so Veronica closes her eyes and feels her cheek brush against the soft cotton covering his solid chest.
Shivers ripple through her body as his lips graze her ear. "Wherever you go, whatever trouble you get into, I'll be right there. Waiting."
For a few moments, Logan rests his head against the top of hers and breathes in her hair. Then, he releases her wrists.
She hears the rough whisper, "'Til next time" before he pushes away, leaving her slumped against her car. Logan's gone by the time she looks up.
When she turns around, Veronica gently clutches the metal handle. The door springs open.
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A/N: In response to some reviews, this isn't a one-shot. Definitely TBC so check back for more soon!