"Hey there." The smile in her voice rang clear as day between them as she felt the kiss to her temple. "Early shift?"
"Yeah, dinner's been booked by a guy who's proposing. Management figured they don't need a full staff around to serve two people." Three feet away from where she stood rolling out cookies, Logan dropped down on one of the dining chairs, smiling. The flat was small - cozy - but it was as close to home as they were gonna get.
"Sounds like you missed out on a healthy does of squealing then." She smiled, choosing amongst her limited cookie cutters.
"Don'tcha know it." He grinned, head resting on the arm he'd placed on their little square dining table. "It's not like we need the money."
We? You, Logan, you.
"Do you even have access to your funds, still?" She moved the first few pieces over to the tray.
"Technically - yes." He shrugged. "It's a lot of paperwork, but we can still get to the money."
"I'm surprised you're still working then. Most people would just travel the world."
"Do you want to?"
She turned to face him, surprised. "Travel the world?"
"Yeah." He jumped up to his feet and leaned over the counter, facing her. "Take a trip, go on a honeymoon?"
"That's for married people, Logan."
"Ah, then maybe we should be."
"Married?"
"Maybe?"
There was something oddly displaced about his gaze - like he was trying too hard to project a certain nonchalance. She cocked her head. "With our aliases?"
"WITSEC subjects can't get married?"
Well, they can.
"You want to?"
"I'm not saying that," he backpedalled.
"Then don't ask silly questions," she admonished, finally completing her tray. "Now, how about pasta for dinner?"
"Can't get enough of my cooking skills, huh?" He shifted around the counter to join her in the kitchen.
"You need practice!" She exclaimed, laughing. "If we're contributing to the Thanksgiving food bank at all - then yes, we need more than enough of your cooking skills."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good boy." She winked.
He snuggled back against the headboard, laptop balanced on top of the pillow on his lap, as he kept an ear open for her shower spray turning off. Lips pressed firmly together, he clicked the link and its promise of easy-to-make recipes, only to find himself revisiting a recipe he'd already learned, tried, and failed.
He sighed.
Who knew it'd be this hard?
He navigated back to the main search results. His eyes ran over the options. Ice cube - too messy, baked potato - too unromantic, lobster claw - too risky, and Cracker Jacks - what?
He huffed another frustrated sigh before the telltale click ended the sound of steady, streaming water.
He tossed his head backwards, wanting very much to groan.
At this rate, I'll end up with the ring in a champagne class - the cliché of clichés.
And something inside him told him she wouldn't appreciate that.
"Hey, something up?" She appeared at the bathroom doorway, the scent of her shampoo dispersing throughout the cozy room. She ran a towelled hand up her still-damp hair. "You look - consternated."
"Big words day, huh?" He smiled, fingers fumbling to close his windows as discreetly as possible. He shoved his laptop aside. "Well, you look - tantalizing."
"Ha, then you look unperturbed."
"Takes every bit of willpower, trust me." He grinned.
Like she always did these days, she smiled back and drifted over.
"Nice to have a Saturday off, huh?" She sat down on the bed beside him, shuffling a little to make room against his long legs.
"Yeah." He squeezed her hand. "Won't have another day free until Christmas."
"Alas, the life of a world-famous chef."
"Or a fugitive."
She seemed to catch the half-truth in his joke as she squeezed his hand back.
"You - unhappy?" Came her unexpected question.
"What? No!" He instantly pushed closer to her and lifted a hand to her jaw. "How could you say that? Are you?"
"Am I saying that? Yes. Am I unhappy?" She smiled softly at him. "Of course not. These have been the most serene months in my life - like, ever. And I - I guess I'm getting used to it?"
He only had time to offer a sad smile before he crushed her into his arms. He pressed his nose against her hair. "We'll be fine, you know?"
Her hands snaked around his back in answer.
His imagination immediately told him how much more assuring that gesture would feel with a solid ring on her left ring finger. He inhaled. "Can't wait to show you your Christmas present."
"Do we really need all of this?" Her voice was endearingly whiny as she balanced her two paper bags.
"The recipe says it's good for two - so I tripled it." He grinned, face hovering over his share of the load. After another two seconds of watching her awkward shuffling, he eased both bags on his left arm and grabbed one of hers.
"Hey! I could carry that!"
"I'm just helping." He smiled, trading his new bag with an old one to distribute the weight evenly. "Wouldn't want to be accused of child labor."
"I am a strong 21st century woman who can do everything herself." She switched to her activist voice and instant frowny-face. "I do not need a man's help."
"But passersby won't know that, would they?" He strode on down the gravel path, bare trees around them, as her shorter legs exerted an impressive effort of keeping up.
Guess I'm more excited than I thought.
"Seriously, give it back!" She hollered, half-reaching and half-jumping for the bag he'd confiscated.
He turned his body the other way, thwarting her efforts, grateful she wasn't wearing her high-heeled boots. "Gentlemen are a dying breed. You should be thankful."
"A true gentleman would respect his woman's wishes," she protested, still reaching, as they neared the edge of the block.
He felt a familiar warmth spread in his chest despite the bleak weather. Turning back towards her, he smiled. "My woman?"
She blushed and seemingly struggled against a smile.
"Not very feminist now, are we?" He grinned wider as their feet left soft soil and hit the sidewalk. He raised a brow.
She tucked her neck into her scarf. "Whatever."
But I know I've won.
She looked intentionally unaffected as she checked out the traffic, left and right. He smiled at the thought of reaching home - even if it's just the lobby - only a couple of blocks further.
Can't wait to start baking.
Cuz if he can't enclose a real ring, he'd at least try to make the impression of one.
"Hey."
He looked up to see her already a few feet ahead, staring back at him from her spot in the middle of the road. Her quizzical expression had him looking up to see the green light.
I'm so out of it.
With an apologetic grin, he paced forward, ready to join her - when the screeching sounds had him turning.
Less than ten yards away, the van sped straight towards them. He heard Veronica's gasp, saw the glaring headlights, and shoved them immediately towards the other side.
Two seconds later, one bag of groceries spilled artlessly over the sidewalk, as the van finally pulled to a stop - over the place where she'd been standing.
"Hey! You guys okay?" The driver, cap and all, shouted over the arm he'd draped over the open window.
Logan frowned, disturbed, as he pulled Veronica to her feet beside him.
"Yeah," he yelled back.
But he sure didn't think they were.
"You okay?"
If her wrist wasn't hurting this much, she would've snarked about how he asked that almost every other hour ever since they'd changed safe houses.
"I'm fine." She smiled a little, hand pressed to her wrist. Her mind scrambled to convince herself that there was nothing out of the ordinary about that almost-accident.
After all, they'd had so many weeks - months, even - of peace by now.
No reason for Liam to act now.
Her brows knitted into a frown as she recalled her conversation with Clark last night. Sure, he'd assured her everything was fine. When didn't he?
But he still sounded agitated.
Because regular, weekly calls provided enough of the mundane to highlight any variance.
She scrunched her face tighter, her legs carrying her as fast as they could next to Logan's generous strides. If someone wanted to hurt them, it probably had to do with Liam. And if Liam was on the loose, Clark was obligated to tell her. The fact that he hadn't brought her more doubt than assurance.
"Hey."
She felt Logan's fingers prying her fingers off from the throbbing pain. She looked up, suddenly noticing that they were at the last pedestrian crossing before the security of their lobby. Flirty Sierra or not - she'd take it.
"Don't press it too hard, it'll hurt more." His voice, and eyes, brimmed of gentleness. Despite the desolate wintry weather, she felt unusually warm.
What's a California girl to do when facing a Northeast winter?
Logan gripped her hand between his own, massaging it gently. Less groceries meant freer hands.
She smiled up at him.
Solution: Bring a California boy.
The cars screeched to a stop. Breathing sharply, they made sure that the lights turned green for them before dodging across the street. Then holding hands tightly, they sprinted forward with the best balance of speed and inconspicuousness that they could manage.
One step, two steps - half a dozen steps.
For a split second, she pictured the opposite sidewalk as a finish line - complete with cheap ribbon and cheering spectators. If they could only get across, they'd be safe. They would be home and together and -
The sharp cry Logan emitted had her dropping the remaining bag from her hurting arm. She spun around. He lay face down on the ground, hands in front of him - barely having broken his fall. The front half of his scarf, jacket, and jeans all dipped into the snow. She sprung to his side.
"Logan!"
To hell with the whole 'Luke' charade.
Their limited neighborly interactions had offered very little practice, after all.
She helped him get back up on his feet. He'd bruise, she was sure, but at least nothing was broken.
"You okay?" It was her turn to ask.
Beyond his frowning face, the reckless skateboarders skidded onwards - without a single apology.
Who even skates in this weather?
His words felt hollow in the cold and shock. "I hope so."
We both do.
The sensation of warm, comforting fingers rubbing circles on her shoulders started her out from her thoughts. It took her two seconds to rediscover her presence of mind.
When she did - eyes trained on the window, feet burning into the carpet - she could practically sense the question on his mind.
She pre-empted him with a reply. "Clark said he's still in prison."
A 90-degree look behind her showed her a nodding Logan. His solemn face felt mismatched with his gentle, massaging motions.
"It was probably an accident." She knew she sounded unconvincing.
Heck - I'm not convinced.
"Two accidents," he corrected.
"Right."
She faced the front again, indulging herself for a few quiet seconds under Logan's soothing motions. Then, eyes closed, her mind wandered.
Because everything sounds right and wrong at the same time.
Clark might be a horrible contact - but he was her only one. Without valid complaints, she had no way of requesting another. And without answering to him, they would be instantly labelled as fugitives.
Fugitives - from the law.
Hello, Edward Snowden.
She couldn't help momentarily wondering if asylum in Russia was all that bad. The quick realization that they were not international, political, whistleblower celebrities, however, quickly shut off that train of thought.
"Hey, relax." Logan's voice whispered by her ear.
She opened her eyes.
What?
He intuited her question. "Your hands."
She looked down at the clue. Dropped on the sofa beside her knees, her hands lay open and relaxed - but the fingernail marks on her palm implied how long her fingers had been clenched. Between them, her wrist was the fourth injury they've sustained between them since the summer - and her gut feeling told her there was more coming.
"Vee?"
She looked up at him. His gaze was deep, gentle.
If this is how he looks at me when I'm injured...
She felt him pick up her wrist before cradling it between his hands. "Does it hurt?"
Her eyes traced his worried features as he fussed over the painful joint. His soft touch left little trails of a tingling sensation across her skin. She couldn't help lamenting that if their lives hadn't been in danger, this would be one of the most erotic experiences she's had with him yet.
She watched his lips kiss her wrist softly before he met her eyes again.
I could fall forever in -
A lump caught in her throat - because, seriously - when would they ever not be in danger? If that's a condition for her ever being happy - then she might as well resign herself to a life of depression. Amidst the absurd encounters and brushes with possible hospitalization, there was little room for peace.
Unless embracing this absurdity is the only way to make it?
The thought had her abruptly retrieving her wrist. Logan gazed down at her, bewildered.
For a handful of seconds, she contemplated how peaceful and happy her past months had been - how unexpectedly welcome the stillness happened to be. Then the sight of his questioning eyes reminded her of his concern. And his concern, in turn, reminded her of his love - and her love.
Our love.
She launched herself into his arms, her lips against his mouth.
In every single universe - regardless of time, space, age, or name - when Veronica Mars kissed Logan Echolls, it was his sworn duty to kiss her back.
His hands found her lower back, pressing her close, as her hands snapped into place around his neck as fast as a pair of opposing magnets. Her every curve pressed against him, her tongue parted his lips. His left arm lowered her against the cushions; his right hand glided from her hip to her thigh. Her knees climbed around him in instinctive response, her ankles hooking behind him.
He's instantly as hard as a rock - but going by the way she thrusted against him, she heartily approved.
Adrenaline sex - I can do that.
He attacked her mouth with renewed enthusiasm when her head hit the sofa, her entire body stretched beneath his. Her hands were running up and down his back as she pressed her own chest into his. Her thigh rubbed back and forth on his bulge, and he suddenly realized his pants were three sizes too small.
He shifted his hands beneath her arms to shove her up against the cushions.
Cuz I want to see her when we do it.
She knew he was a romantic. Doggy-style had its purposes, but he much preferred a visual connection most of the time. Who was on top didn't matter.
A few familiar maneuvers, with extra care to avoid her wrist, had them both tossing their shirts. His face found her cleavage.
She's filled out well.
They had come a long way from stolen peeks at her junior high bumps. Hands braced on both sides of her, he ground against her fast-warming center. She whimpered readily before responding with a grind of her own.
The tension almost undid him, and his right foot dropped to the carpet in support. His hands wandered down her torso, his lips -
"Lo?"
He stopped when she stopped, his body still hovering above hers. He met her eyes. She used her eyes to point at something on the carpet.
What?
He overcame his impatience and spared the spot a glance.
He gulped.
In retrospect, he really should have noticed something that significant falling out of his pocket. But he didn't - so she scrambled out from under him to go pick it up. He pulled back obligingly, feeling far too lost to stop her.
Her hands found the ring, lifting it gingerly. He could feel his ribs tightening around his lungs.
I can explain.
He gulped again.
It's not what it looks like.
He tentatively met her eyes. He knew he couldn't hide the fact that things were exactly what they looked like.
He held his breath as her hand found his wrist - and he almost blacked out before he heard the single word she blurted.
"Yes."
A/N: Thank you to everyone who is patiently waiting for updates to this story. Life's been very demanding. I'm glad you're still here! Big thanks to irma66 for being a faithful reader and beta. I hope you guys liked this chapter! Leave a review!