Important Note:
If you have not read Spinster Table, I strongly suggest you read it first. You'll find it under my stories.
This is essentially a re-telling of Spinster Table from Logan's POV, so a lot of the backstory weaves through both fics.
If you want to get crazy and read the POVs side by side, the corresponding chapters of each fic have the same name. (Except Chapter 1 in Nook of Love - Bonus Chapter).
This fic is for Aurora2020 who planted the seed for this. She also deserves all the kudos for being an awesome beta!
AU divergence after the movie. Veronica came to exonerate Logan, but they never kissed. Veronica moved back to Neptune and they became best friends.
Chapter 1 - Pre-wedding jitters
Veronica made us dinner and now moans as she cleans up the towering pile of dishes. I don't understand the need to use every single pot in the kitchen, but alas, we now get to scale our way up dish mountain.
Veronica washes, I dry.
I've created this routine because I like things to be in their correct place. Too many times I've found items randomly just placed wherever Veronica saw fit at the time.
A bowl stacked on a dinner plate, really?
Also, this option gives me an excellent opportunity to just watch her without her eyes finding mine. Sleeves pushed up around her arms, hands elbow-deep in soapy water, feet on tiptoes to reach her high counters. A delightful view of her tiny waist and backside. Occasionally her wet hands raise to wipe an errant hair from her eyes.
I momentarily consider assisting, but hold back at a safe distance.
She complains as she finally makes it to the last pot, scrubbing at it fiercely. "This is bullshit, tomorrow it's take out."
"I shall pencil it in my diary."
"This is officially the worst job in the world, I want a dishwasher, well, not an actual dishwasher because then I still need to stack and unstack. I want a human to appear at my whim and clean whenever a dish is dirty." Veronica speaks into the pot.
I cock my head to the side, "I think that kind of job description only exists in fairy tales. Cinderella would have had a fairy-dishwasher." I offer.
"Cinderella WAS the dishwasher, seriously, brush up on your childhood fiction Echolls," she looks at me with mock indignation.
"If we're listing completely imaginary things we want, I want a fairy-clothes washer. I hate that shit." I reply.
"A fairy-lawyer, to do my work for me."
"A fairy-bedmaker."
"A fairy-coffee maker."
"You mean fairy-barista?"
She keeps staring at the pot she's scrubbing but I know she rolled her eyes at my comment.
"A fairy-sexual satisfier?" I offer purely for reaction purposes.
She spins her head around, hands still submerged and stares as me, deadpan, the corners of a smile tickling her lips, "and, like usual, you've taken it a step too far."
"I thought this was a safe space to express ourselves?"
"What the hell gave you that idea?"
"Like you didn't think it," I offer back.
She stays quiet, which only confirms my suspicions.
She wipes the counters as I stack away the last pots before she collects the laptop from her bedroom and opens it on the wet kitchen counter.
"I completely forgot to book the hotel, hopefully, there are rooms left. I don't want to have to come home," Veronica types, booking us a hotel for the wedding next weekend.
Wallace and Shae are getting married. My friend Veronica and I both got separate invitations with no plus one specified. Because, of course, it is known that we will go together.
Separate, but together.
Single, but together.
It had been this way since Carrie died and since Veronica returned from New York to exonerate me … again.
When she returned we morphed into a new phase, something we hadn't really explored before, friends. Yes, we were technically friends in high school but that was more of a friendship group, we certainly didn't hang out with just each other. This friendship was a curious and sometimes troubling development, but one I relied on more than I'd care to admit. We spent most evenings I was home from deployment together, weekends together, all available moments together.
After the whirlwind of my life that was Carrie, Veronica brought me some semblance of stability. It seemed that, for at least the past year, neither of us dated other people, well, we hadn't yet, not that I knew of anyway. In our grueling schedule of bingeing television and delivery guys who know us on a first-name basis, I doubted it would be physically possible.
Somehow I'd ended up in the friendzone and I was okay with it, mostly.
Did I want more?
Yes.
Did Veronica?
Apparently, no.
Was I willing to risk this, the friendship, the comfort, the banter, for a re-match of our tumultuous relationship?
Also, apparently no.
"We could always get a cab home. It would probably cost the same as a hotel," I suggest.
"Do you want to share a room?" she asks, apparently finding availability.
You, me, a wedding, alcohol, a hotel bed. YES!
Sharing a room with Veronica Mars is, of course, a very bad idea. Staying in the hotel with Veronica at all sounds like a bad idea. Alcohol weakened my carefully curated walls that kept my feelings for Veronica at bay. Weddings were troublesome, weddings made people do things they wouldn't normally do. Surrounded by all that happiness and love, it was like a full moon, it filled people with a madness. A lusty madness, and I was certain that I would be no exception.
"Sure," I answer, suddenly unsure why that was my automatic response despite my reservations on the matter. I notice a lopsided smile at my reaction.
"But two beds," I add.
Veronica looks at me like I've suddenly grown a second head.
"Relax, stud. I'll book a twin room," she also tends to the friendzone, thinking. "Unless, you want to get your own room, you know, hot bridesmaids and all? I don't want to be ousted while you're doing things with some random," she shudders. I'm amused at the thought that she can't directly refer to me having sex with someone.
I shake my head vehemently, "Sharing a room is fine."
She shrugs, whips out her credit card and starts punching in the numbers.
I have been growing increasingly aware that my extended leave was surely running out. The call would come any day now for redeployment and I had to be prepared.
But, I wasn't.
I generally didn't mind going back, but this time, things seemed different. I was almost dreading it, a pit forming in my stomach at the mere thought. I couldn't quite pinpoint its cause, but I had my suspicions.
All I could do was hope that I wouldn't be called back before the wedding. Veronica would be mad, and I wouldn't blame her. Weddings were certainly far from her favorite outing. My role on the day had been assigned as 'designated wing-man and general security against lecherous morons,' or so I'd been told.
It seemed like a critical job, at least according to Veronica.
"Done!" she clips the laptop closed with a smile.
It's official, hotel room-sharing awaits me.
"I'm going to party like it's 1999," it's Saturday night and she sips at her pre-drink vodka soda and dances a little around the room. She's wearing high heels and a black and gold sparkly dress that settles mid-thigh. She runs her hands up and down her dress as she moves in some criminally alluring manner, I make a pointed effort to look away.
Oh, look at that very interesting houseplant!
Veronica is a pants girl these days, which I totally get for practicality and functionality purposes alone, far be it for me to decide what a woman should wear. Daily she dons her power suits and perfectly pressed tailored pants, hiding those incredible legs beneath them. I certainly do not think about her short skirts and boots of highschool days gone by. No, no, no.
So naturally, when she wears a dress now, it's troubling. Troubling, mainly because it interferes with my ability to form complete sentences and tampers with my steely resolve to remain on this side of the friend line.
I dare to take another look, my mouth goes dry at the sight and I take another long gulp of my beer.
Fuckidy fuck fuck, steely resolve crumbling.
I know she's pumping herself up to go because she's not the biggest fan of socializing, or events, or anything really that involves more than a handful of pre-approved friends. She's prepping herself to be a supportive friend for Shae at her Bachelorette party, to have fun and let her hair down. I encouraged her to go, because, while I know she would much prefer to laze on the couch, she needs this.
Of course, I too, would also prefer to laze on her couch, but this night isn't about me.
"Are you ready?" I ask, she nods and checks the contents of her handbag, rustling around in the labyrinth inside. I briefly ponder the curious wonders that lurk within.
Apparently, all wonders are in their correct place, "Locked and loaded," she salutes, clearly already a tad buzzed.
I grab my keys and I lead the way down the stairs, her heels click, clicking behind me. Then, I pause and turn to her, stopping her mid-step. She's a few steps above me, so it puts us on an even height. I note that this would, indeed, be a perfect height for kissing.
I hold out my hand.
"What?" She asks.
"Hand it over."
"Hand what over?"
She knows exactly what I'm talking about but plays dumb.
I stare at her, "You're more likely to injure yourself with that thing when you're drunk than someone else. You're going to a bachelorette party, you'll be drinking from pink cock-straws, not fighting the Fitzpatricks."
"But…" she starts.
"You're safe with Shae," I try to reassure her, "She isn't as incessantly compelled to life-threatening situations as you are."
She rolls her eyes and rummages in the handbag, placing the taser in my hand.
"Purple cock-straws are my favorite," she says deviously.
Ignore it, Logan.
It takes a surprising amount of effort to turn and continue down the stairs.
I start the engine and glance over at her in the darkness, her eyes meet mine for a brief moment. Recently I've developed a new appreciation of car rides with Veronica, something about proximity and enclosed spaces.
We drive in silence to the bar, I focus on the road and enjoy the scent of her perfume beside me.
Pulling up to the bar, I turn to her, "If you need anything, just call me. I'll pick you up, anytime, just call."
"Yes Dad," she quips and I give her my best stern Dad look.
"Have fun."
"You too."
"You around tomorrow?" she asks, a little rushed. This was all part of the dance, we ask each other what we're doing, knowing full well that our days and nights are reserved for each other. Almost like we're constantly seeking permission to be in each other's lives.
"I am."
"Cool."
She unclips her seatbelt and hesitates for a moment, the glow from the neon bar lights illuminating her face. It seems like she is going to say something, so I stay silent, letting her find the words.
But she shakes her head a little, wisps of hair floating back and forth.
"Thanks for the ride." She opens the door, steps outside and closes it without looking back.
"Bye."
After Veronica was safely deposited at the bar, I went to play with Dick.
Dick was excited to have me 'after dark,' or so he claimed and I was slightly concerned about the terrors that awaited me, would I be dragged out to nightclubs to watch him attempt to seduce young coeds? Would I be refereeing wet t-shirt contests? Would I be doing lines of coke off an escort's backside?
Every rendezvous with Dick was a gamble.
I needn't have worried. I forgot, Dick is now in his thirties too, he was finally settling down (as much as someone like Dick could). There was only so long you could sustain that kind of activity night after night. I arrived to find that he had dragged a cooler next to the couch, stocked with beers and the pizza had already been ordered. So very organized. He patted my spot and handed me a controller.
"Did you drop off Feisty-McPain-In-The-Ass?"
"Veronica is safely deposited at the bachelorette party," we press play and resume our game from last week.
"I'd pay actual cash money to be a fly on the wall watching those girls go wild."
I chuckle, "Yeah, me too." It seems like some kind of secret society, who knows what the women get up to at these things?
"You know, like, everything at a bachelorette is dedicated to men and cocks. Just proves what I've been saying all these years."
Don't ask, Logan. Don't ask. I summon the will to ignore it and move on.
"And what is that?" Damn it, curiosity got the better of me.
"Chicks are obsessed with Dick! Which is handy for me. They always, like, pretend not to love it, but secretly they do."
"If you say so."
"Oh, I know so."
I make a casual glance down at my phone, unfortunately it doesn't go unnoticed.
"Hey," Dick puts down his controller and makes eye contact with me. "Your girlfriend is out for the night. It's boys time now. You, me, Call of Duty. We're going to shoot some shit."
I nod and load up my gun.
We play and chat and the pizza is delivered and devoured during a small rest break. Dick lives in a downtown apartment which is a textbook trust-fund bachelor pad. He continues to live off the Casablancas family money and does very little to no actual work. He did moonlight as a surf model for a few months back in 2011 and have two lines in an indie movie, but that was the last time I recall him directly referring to paid employment.
After a brief bathroom break, Dick reappears beside me and reloads.
"So, this chick I told you about the other day, Breanna, is Dad's girlfriend's, friend. She's an actual underwear model. Stunning! They asked her to do the Victoria's Secret show but she was like, in New Zealand or something. Anyway, she asked me for your number. We were talking and I mentioned you, and how you fly jets and shit and she was all, woah uniform, and I was like, yeah. And she was like, hot!" Have I inadvertently been transported directly into Wayne's World?
"Did you give her my number?"
"Umm, yeah."
I groan and turn back to the screen. Dick's setups were nothing but horrific. I'd agreed to a few over the years and likened it to being skinned alive.
"Jesus Christ Logan, you don't have to marry her, just put on that white uniform chick's dig and take her to pound town a few times. You clearly need it."
"I don't need it, I'm fine!"
"Riiiiiiight." Dick nods, "Yeah, let's keep on that freaky-ass relationship where you pine over Veronica until your balls turn blue and your dick falls off. You don't date, she doesn't date. Its fucking weird man. You get the relationship experience without the sex? What's the point? Sounds like a bum deal" he cackles, like he's just thought of something ….. "You're in the friendzone dude!"
No shit, Dick.
I was headfirst in friend-zone and I wasn't really sure how I got there in the first place. I mean, she knew what it was like to be with me, but chose not to go down that path again. That, in itself, spoke volumes.
"You're like friends with benefits, but … without the benefits."
"Yeah, so just … friends?"
He doesn't understand, no one will ever understand.
"Whatever, what you guys have going on, makes no sense to me."
He's got a point there. Not a lot about it made sense.
"I get it, man. Veronica's a cool chick and you two have like some weird cosmic connection and can't-stay-away-from-each-other shit going on. But either make a move, or move on, man. It's not fair to either of you."
I nod, trying to focus on the game and not the fact that Dick has just made a very enlightened and valid point.
"Do you think she's got some side piece playing hide the cannoli?" he muses, not looking away from the screen. Dicks enlightenment is short-lived.
What the actual fuck?
"Hide. The. Cannoli?" I say it slowly, trying to comprehend the food slash sex reference and how in the hell it relates to Veronica. In one sentence he'd ruined Italian desserts for me forever.
"Yeah," Dick looks at me like I'm the crazy one. Casablancas logic, questionable at best, downright terrifying at worst.
"Whatever, just bone her and get over it, I'm sick of hearing you mope about it," he rolls his eyes and turns back to the game.
Exasperated I start to speak, "I do not wanna…" and then I stop, because both Dick and I know that I do, in fact, want to bone her. Of course, Dick is the sensei of knowing if and when someone wants to bone someone, because his entire life is dedicated to the fine art of boning.
I glance at my phone for any messages. Nothing.
"Dude, stop looking at your phone! She's out having fun, partying with men who actually make a move."
I reach over and wrap my hand around his controller, pull it from his hands and throw it across the room.
Yep, those anger management classes were worth every penny.
Dick's avatar is promptly shot, by me, and I cackle in my best diabolical evil laugh.
He shrugs, picks up a piece of cold pizza, and shoves it in his mouth.
The next morning, I ride my bike the six blocks to Veronica's apartment. The morning summer sun beats hot against my back. I pedal leisurely, each round movement of my legs bringing me closer to her. I developed the habit a while back, it was not only good exercise but meant that I could enjoy as many alcoholic beverages as I wanted at her apartment without the fear of DUIs. There was only one minor incident where we'd enjoyed a few too many whiskey sours and on my return home, I plowed into a row of trash cans. Thankfully, the paramedics said I'd only suffered from a mild concussion.
Now, I wear a helmet. Safety first!
Veronica is curled up on the couch when I enter the room she groans loudly and dramatically, shielding her eyes from the light peeking through the door. Her hair is wild, her face pale as she cowers into the cushions. She is wearing only one shoe, the sole bare foot peeks out from her jacket that doubles as a blanket.
I walk over to the kitchen and take out a large saucepan, a towel from the bathroom and place them next to her, the towel carefully covering part of the couch from potential splashback.
"Urggghh," she gargles when she sees me next to her, "Don't bother, already hurled," she moans back into the pillow.
I'd made several attempts at contact this morning and after a barrage of increasingly drunken texts at 3 am and multiple calls, I figured she'd need some general life assistance and someone to ensure she didn't drown in her own vomit.
I made a very concerted effort to not deep-dive into the meaning of her drunken ramblings and just take them at face value. Alcohol makes you do things that you wouldn't normally.
It means nothing.
Pulling some electrolyte tablets from my pocket, I crush them in my hands and push them into her drink bottle. Then I sit down on the floor next to her head, my arm resting on the coffee table.
"Big night? It sounds like you did, in fact, party like it was 1999?"
"I partied like I was never going to party again," Veronica takes the drink bottle from my hands and takes a tentative sip. "How did you know I'd be dying?" she pauses, face pale. "Oh God, I called you didn't I?"
I smirk at her then shake my head, "Only seven phone calls and 23 messages. No biggie."
"Fuck!" her face suddenly starts to color, the blush rising to her cheeks.
Logan get your ARMS here and meet me at the club. Pleeeease. I NEED you here.
"Wallace called to tell me he'd picked you all up and dropped you home safely, and that you were still breathing."
"Jesus Christ, I have no memory of getting home at all," she lays back and looks up at the ceiling. I know that face well, it's the face of remembering. The good old days of recollecting all the drunken antics from the night before and praying your memories had deceived you. I smile thinking about her checking her phone and reading the messages she'd sent me, that would be payback for keeping me up all night in itself.
"What did you drink?" I ask.
"What didn't I drink?"
LOGAN, you, me, dancefloor. NOW!
She covers her face, mortified, peeking through her eyes. "Oh God, I remember, I got kicked out of the club!"
I chuckle, imagining her at her drunken, psychotic best. "What the hell did you do to get kicked out?"
Logan, fine, whatever. Don't come and dance with me, I'll just have to dance with this guy over here.
I'm not going to lie. I was tempted, very tempted. It would be so easy to get in the car and dance with her. But, I wanted sober Veronica, real Veronica.
"There was yelling... " she continues to think, it's still not all coming to her yet, "I think I yelled at a stripper, or some guy at the bar … I can't remember why."
"There were strippers?"
"Yeah, of course, it's a Bachelorette," she shakes it away like it's nothing.
"Wow, right, I didn't think that was Shae's style."
"You didn't think that Shae would be interested in hot, scantily clad, muscled men lavishing her with attention?" I don't know why but I feel a little green-eyed at the thought of Veronica enjoying the delights of male strippers.
But, then again, if there were smoking hot strippers there, why was she repeatedly calling me?
"Clearly, I'm remiss."
"Clearly." She struggles a little and sits up, pulling the jacket over her head to protect her eyes. Of course, this leaves her bare legs exposed, just the bottom of that tiny black and gold dress resting on her thigh. And again, the legs.
Do not look at the legs, Logan.
Friends don't look at friends legs, at least not like that.
I turn my head and refocus on trusty houseplant instead.
"Don't fool yourself Logan Echolls, objectifying the opposite sex is not only for men to do." She must be feeling better if she's berating me.
"Consider me schooled," I acquiesce, "So, this male stripper… was he hot?"
"That question makes no sense, Logan." Veronica looks at me confused, and I agree, I'm confusing the situation but can't seem to stop.
"I guess what I'm wondering is, like, was he classically handsome or only good for his abnormally large appendage?"
She laughs, "Okay, school continues. Most of the time as much as they're called male strippers, they spend like 98 percent of the time in their underwear gyrating towards the bride. You might see some nude butt, very rarely do you see an exposed appendage."
"Right, okay, interesting." You learn something new every day, male strippers don't actually strip. Seems rather pointless.
She rolls her eyes and laughs at me, I feel better instantly because she's feeling good enough to make fun of me. "Back to your handsome question - He was a solid 7."
"A seven?!" Wow, okay that was higher than I imagined.
I feel another stupid question coming on.
"What am I? You know, purely to assess your baseline for ranking," I ask.
Veronica thinks about it for a while. She plays with her drink bottle, mulling it over, apparently precisely three more sips helps her to decide.
She shrugs, "I'd say a 9.2," she speaks but won't look me in the eyes.
That's promising. I'll take it.
I can't stop the smirk on my face, "Really, 9.2? That's very specific, very mathematical Veronica. Pray tell, for what do I earn the extra point two?"
"It's more losing points for your smart mouth."
"Interesting, so without the attitude, I'd be a solid ten?"
She shrugs, still not meeting my eyes but smirking back all the same.
"What about me?" she asks.
You're a ten, no question.
"Well, if I'm to use your logic, deducting points for a 'smart mouth' as it were, then I'm afraid you might be in trouble… Can we go into negatives?" I tease her.
"What are you saying?" Veronica feigns shock.
I raise my eyebrows. "I think you know what I'm saying."
She rolls her eyes at me from under her jacket. If I had a dollar for every time she rolled her eyes I'd sleep in a bed of money, I'd use it as napkins, I would drape the bills all over her naked body…
No Logan. Stop.
I change the subject. "Well, this is a good reminder for us to pace ourselves at the wedding. We don't want to get kicked out for abusing the bride or groom."
"That's if I'm still invited to the wedding after last night."
I chuckle and flick on the television, leaning my back against the couch beside her and settle in for a lazy hangover recovery Sunday with the most beautiful girl in Neptune.
Because nothing cements the friendzone like holding her sick bucket, sitting on the couch watching TV all day long without a single touch contact, then at midnight riding your bike in the dark to your cold apartment.
It's okay. I'm happy there, mostly.
Early in our new friendship I was exiled to the friendzone and kept there, at a careful distance. The boyfriend-experience, without the inherent mess that came with it. I get it, I'm messy, I created more destruction in Veronica's life than I ever created joy. Keeping me at arms length was a smart move on her part.
So the friendzone is my little box and I snuggle into it because, for the most part, I adore being friends with Veronica. She's funny, sassy, bold, bossy and insanely smart. She calms me, and centers me in a world that I don't always feel has a center point. Her friendship is my safety, my family and I need it like I need oxygen.
The key to the box is it's four strong walls. I envision them both keeping me inside and keeping her out. Because the box embodies everything that is safe. As soon as one of the walls starts to fall, I find a way to crawl out, and she finds a way to crawl in. Like, it's inevitable somehow.
Sometimes I feel myself dragging her into the box with me because, of course, I love Veronica Mars. I wasn't sure I knew how to live in the world without loving her. It was something organic, something in my DNA. At the same time, it was something that I'd come to accept as my normal, which made it a little easier to ignore. Until of course, she did something, something adorable and everything in my being just wants to go back there, to pull her into my arms.
But no, I fight it.
I'm a fighter by nature, well-practiced.
But it is getting old. I'm tired of fighting.