She rubbed her eyes, still forcing them awake, as she dropped down the stairs at a syncopated rhythm.
Right foot, left foot. Stand. Right foot, left foot, left foot. Stand.
She scoffed at herself upon reaching the landing. Who knew it could be this hard to work with gravity?
She broke into a stretch and a yawn. She'd slunk upstairs right after dinner last night, taking the master bedroom and immediately locking the door. But for all the early retreating, she hadn't been able to sleep a wink until 2 a.m.
Then I passed out like drug addict.
She sighed, stifling another yawn. Apparently, a belly full of lasagna equals deep sleep. The sleep was so deep, in fact, that she'd managed to sleep in.
She giggled a little. The last time she'd slept past 6 a.m. was in faraway college - before the bureau, before Lieutenant Stanley, before Marshal Clark, before -
Bacon?
Her eyes popped open at the scent. She inhaled a generous amount of bacon-flavored air. Her mouth watered.
I'm no better than Pavlov's dog.
But who's cooking -
Oh.
Somewhere along her night of comatose-level slumber, she'd convinced herself yesterday hadn't happened.
She gripped the sides of her pink nightshirt. Glancing over the railing, her eyes darted over the living area in all its worn-out suburban splendor. Even the dull wallpaper agreed with the fact.
It totally happened.
She sighed again, this time including her shoulders in a heavy heave. She had to hand it to Clark. There's no better place to hide a former 09er than a outlying suburb lost in time. When people looked for Logan Echolls, they wanted spark and glitter - not normalcy. She had to admit, that had been a good move.
But dropping him off with his toxic ex-girlfriend?
She smirked. It had taken a while to admit that to herself. She didn't like taking any sort of blame, after all. But after destroying Piz and the three clones that followed him - none of which lasted more than a month - she had to acknowledge that statistics pointed to her as the unhealthy one.
And that's when she chose to wear it with pride.
Veronica Mars - not your average girlfriend.
Her self-satisfaction lasted only a handful of seconds before her current predicament sunk in.
She groaned. Why did Vanessa Mason have to be all wholesome and stuff? Contrary to popular belief, long-term adaptation of a different identity was more tedious than fun.
"Hey," a male voice interrupted her thoughts.
She looked up, then down, to see Logan at the foot of the stairs. His fresh face indicated better sleep than she had last night.
"Want some breakfast?"
And the utterly normal way he said that made her break into a smile.
"Guess what, pumpkin? We've got mail." He opened his fingers until the letter dropped on the wooden table. "Any ideas what it could be?"
Her eyes jumped from her plate to the envelope instantly; her hands snatched it over as quickly as an amphibian with its prey.
"It's from the government."
"Ah, and here I though Pamela Anderson had finally come around to chasing me back."
She looked at him pointedly. He shrugged.
"In America, any normal household would receive mail. This is just a step to making things appear realistic," she explained, voice level and utterly practical.
That makes sense, actually.
Her fingers ran over each part of the letter, seemingly to check its authenticity. He watched as she pried it open.
Her eyes ran over the text, rolled up towards the ceiling, and dropped back to the table along with the letter. He raised an inquisitive brow.
"Guess who's been deemed qualified to work at a convenience store?" Her voice dripped pure irritation.
He grabbed the seat opposite her. "Huh, so they pick up out our jobs for us too?"
"Yeap," Veronica snapped. She crossed her arms. "It's not like they control all the other aspects of our life already."
Well, someone sounds bitter.
"I thought we were expected to earn our own keep?"
"We are. And finding that first job for us is their way of making sure we do."
"And I thought I was the spoiled one." He leaned back against chair's tall support. "Is Sack 'n Pack really that bad?"
"It's very visible," she replied right back.
Visible? Oh right - the whole secret identity thing.
He almost laughed at himself.
Who forgets about WITSEC one day into the assignment?
He looked up at her, blue eyes afire and pink lips glistening. Her short blonde hair bristled against her neck in a ridiculously captivating sweep as she stretched her neck from side to side.
Who forgets? Well, someone who's just run into his favorite ex-girlfriend, that's who.
He sighed audibly. "Well, there's always that WITSEC subsistence thing. You could try the job for a day and say you don't like it."
"Subsistence - " she half-laughed and half-scoffed. "Logan Echolls - living on sixty grand a year. I'll see it when I believe it."
Well, ouch.
"Maybe he can't." He shrugged, a tad offended. "But what do I know of about the lives of the rich and famous? I'm just little ol' Luke, living off my daily allowance."
"You were burning through three thousand a week as a teenager. And you're telling me you could live off even less as an adult?"
"Ah, finally, she calls me grown up."
"Oh, you've been grown up for a while - on the outside."
"In some places more than others."
She opened her mouth as if to reply - and surprised him instead with a wordless blush.
Well, what do you know, I still got it.
That thought made him grin.
"So, Miss Mason," he spoke theatrically as he swung up to his feet, "ready for our job hunting excursion?"
"It's not called hunting if the job's guaranteed, Logan."
"And that's where you're mistaken." He walked to the arch separating the dining area from the living room and leaned against its side. "The name's Luke, sugar."
He couldn't help feeling excited when she finally stood up with an exasperated smile.
"Look, pretty boy, you ain't gonna survive 'ere without gainin' some muscle, alright?" The manager-owner flexed his burly arm demonstratively. "This ain't no job for a fairy."
"I can hold my own plenty - sir," Logan responded - groaned, almost. "Got some stuff to lift around here?"
The older man, big and brown, grinned and extended a hand. "Bradley Jones, owner and all-around man-in-charge. Sorry to hear about y'all's turn of events. Bin doin' this for a couple o' years an' still not gettin' used to seeing new folks all the tam."
Logan shrugged, shaking the older man's hand. "It's alright. It's a fresh name, fresh start kind of thing - you know."
"That's ma boy." Bradley punched his new employee in the shoulder, teeth sparkling. "Saw y'all walkin' over together this mornin'. That pretty gal ya wife?"
I wish.
"Fiancée," Logan replied. "We figured it'll be nice to work close to each other."
"I hear ya, loverboy. Ma woman worked here till cancer took 'er a couple of years back."
Suddenly, witness protection doesn't sound so bad.
"I'm sorry to hear that, sir."
"Ya git used to it." Bradley shrugged. "Now, how 'bout them muscles of yours?"
Whatever Bradley said about muscles had apparently been a total fib. Working at a deserted strip mall involved more dusting than real heavy lifting.
At least women could paint their nails.
The time crawled by the entire afternoon until his eight hours filled up. Bradley was cool - the big man, soft heart type - but he wasn't exactly a good conversationalist past the first hour. The afternoon wrung his extrovert's version of solitude very, very dry.
By the time Logan had said his goodbyes and headed out the door, the sun dipped deep into the horizon, its rays refracted in a thousand directions.
Well, look at the time.
He pulled the edge of his cardigan - part of his new assigned ensemble - an inch lower. Logan Echolls did not do 'nerd.'
Enjoying the crisp afternoon air after a stuffy day amidst stuffy sofas, he treaded more briskly towards the other end of the strip mall. He turned the corner, bracing himself for the waiting and entreating that would be picking up Veronica.
Just how was he supposed to convince people they were engaged if she preferred a mutual ignoring of the other?
We need to draft up an agreement of some sor-
His thoughts experienced the abrupt interruption of two strong arms around his torso and two tense eyes fixed on his face.
"Ve - Vanessa?"
"I've missed you," she whispered so loudly they might as well had been on stage.
"And I - miss you," he concluded carefully. His hands instinctively drew around her back. She pulled herself closer, burying her face into his shoulder.
"Kiss me," a hint of a whisper barked against his ear.
What?
He used his hands to pull her face back into his line of vision. He raised an eyebrow in question.
She nodded.
And here goes nothing.
He lowered his lips to hers, only to find her instantly kissing him back. While his kiss was gentle, hers was fiery - fierce. Her hands wandered about him possessively, her body squirming unnaturally. Her kisses grew flamboyant, like an excited understudy on her first real performance. Every second felt stranger than the last.
What could she be pretendi -
The telltale wind chime of the corner convenience store crinkled in a proximity that felt both near and distant. A middle-aged man in cashier wear threaded through Logan's peripheral vision, his own eyes being half-shut and all.
Then as readily as she had kissed him, she pulled back. Her every limb retracted to her side like a robot shut down. Her slim form pulled into a single, solid silhouette.
It took a few seconds for the pieces to click. But when they did, they snapped as tight as a water dam.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, unwarranted disappointment pumping in his blood.
Because it was a performance, after all.
"Hey, sorry about that." Her voice called for his attention. "I - I couldn't let him recognize me."
The nervous frenzy of her kiss suddenly made a lot more sense.
"And here I thought you wanted to re-draft that roommate agreement," he snapped, still slightly annoyed.
"Look, Lo - Luke, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you misunderstand, okay?"
He shrugged, a tad bitter, until he re-thought the hesitance in her voice. He looked up. "Who was that?"
For a split second, her eyes glistened with a sliver of genuine fear. "That was Andrew Warbler - I arrested him before."
All the puzzle pieces flew into havoc.
"He's a criminal?"
"Worse," she whispered, voice low. "He's in witness protection."
"You of all people should know you never put acquainted candidates within ten miles of each other," she yelled into the phone, "much less at the same job!"
She could hear Logan pacing nervously in the kitchen - but who cares?
"Miss Mason, we assure you it's a mistake. We couldn't possibly - "
"You know better than this, Clark!"
Her ferocity temporarily silenced him.
"We promise his relocation in the morning." The officer's reply came much later.
She huffed in resignation. "And how can I hold you accountable for that?"
"You won't see him again - I promise."
Ah, the promise. What could I do?
"Fine! If I see him again, this goes to the Bureau."
"Yes, ma'am."
She didn't even wait for him to hang up. Agitated in every way, she flung the phone on the wooden coffee table and collapsed on to the sofa.
She heaved a heavy sigh.
Helpless isn't my thing.
"You okay?"
She looked up at Logan's concerned expression. She shrugged and nodded simultaneously. "Something doesn't feel right. They're not supposed to put multiple people, much less acquainted ones, within ten miles of each other. It doesn't add up."
"Yeah," he spoke low and slow. "I heard."
She just sighed in reply.
"You know, I noticed something," he said a moment later. She looked up. "They put the two of us in the same house."
The clockwork sped in her mind. "When any background check would've confirmed our acquaintance."
He nodded firmly.
She looked down.
So what exactly is going on?
A/N: Mrs. Browning's cameo from the last chapter seemed unexpectedly popular. I might try to re-insert her into the narrative. Thank you so much to everyone who reads this story, and particularly to irma66 for her beta skills. I hope you like this chapter! And off I go to continue my round-the-clock obsession with Hamilton :)