Arabian (arabian) wrote,

FICTION: Out of Order (Logan/Veronica) R/NC-17

Character/Pairing: Veronica, Logan/Veronica
Word Count: 2839
Rating: NC-17 (to be on the safe side)
Summary: Veronica is confused about her feelings for Logan.
Spoilers/Warnings: All of Season 1 and 2 so far (specifically M.A.D. and Cheatty Cheatty Bang Bang)
Timeline: Takes place immediately after Christmas break, assume that Veronica and Duncan are over.
Disclaimer: UPN, Warner Bros. Rob Thomas, et al. You know, the usual suspects. They own these characters, not I.
Thanks to: Holly and Kammi for their comments. :)
Notes: This story has been percolating in my mind for awhile and I finally decided to write it.

The green of the tiles is permanently etched into her mind as shade of Logan. The ceramic coolness, part of his touch. The fluorescent lights a hard radiance that is wholly him. It isn't pretty; it isn't warmth or softness -- everything that he is ... and yet is not. Out of order. That is Logan. And all that she has now that is just Logan. {Out} Green {of} Ceramic {order} fluorescent.

The mansion, memories of psychosis {Aaron -- surprise!, The Long Haul} and licentiousness {Kendall -- reek of bimbo, slam the door!}. The apartment after hours is death {mothers free at last, bikers bloody and staged} and joy {not-pizza-Wallace, Auld Lang Syne}. The hotel -- no, brain skitters, flees, doesn't, won't go there. The bright yellow machine is moons and stars, guns not loaded. All that remains is the green, the ceramic, the fluorescent. Cases accepted, discussed, solved are faint, fleeting, no permanence. Just Logan, the green of his shirt, soft, warm beneath her fingers clutching, grasping. His eyes finding a touch of green in the light, the tiles, the fluorescent in their hazel. The gaze warm, hot sending cool shivers, slivers of heat through her body. Softness, adoration, love, God, was it love? -- no, no, mind stops, shuts down, won't, doesn't go there.

Out of order. Black on white. She wants to walk by, ignore the one Logan that remains pretty, soft, warm to her memory. She tries -- in the moment her hands rest against the flat surface of the door, her fingers brush the white and black -- to recall the last time. No breath warm on her neck, lips, tongue, hands, green collar tugged between her grasp, legs around his waist, the soft, the heat, the hard, Logan between her thighs. No, stop, her mind screams, feel the coldness of 'Out of Order.' Remember the coldness of your voice, your words, your eyes, rejecting him, showing no concern. The door pushes open, too late, the recollection returns, the ending. His eyes warm, soft, her capitulation (for old time's sake).


A shudder runs through her. She tries to capture the anger, the coldness, but all she sees are the green tiles, the cool ceramic, the fluorescent lighting. She grabs for a picture of the bimbo, the boyfriend. Gone, both gone, nothing is there, nothing to stop the pretty {his eyes, his face, his lean against the sink}, the warmth {his eyes, the anger, the coldness replaced by maybe? the same memory, orange with pink, legs around his waist, fingers clutching}, the softness {his eyes, his voice as he again says ...} "Veronica?"”

She steps forward; she doesn't mean to, this is wrong, not right. {So wrong it's right, a coy voice asks. Shut up! She screams.} Out of control, she's out of control. A bubble of laughter erupts that she can't control as she thinks without thinking, out of order. “Out of order,” she murmurs, the mirth in her voice. And another step. Boyfriend gone, bimbo gone, blocks are gone and she's here in the bathroom, the girl's bathroom -- green, cool, hard – and it's all Logan.

"Yeah, our bat signal," he says, sharing secrets in his voice. She is confused, lost in the not pretty {green}/pretty, cool {ceramic}/warm, hard {fluorescent}/soft of Logan. Logan. "Out of order," he says. Oh, she thinks and the giggle emerges once more as she understands. And she wonders as her brain goes in circles around him, his presence, why she can't find the cold. Was it the break, the distance -- makes the heart grow fonder, the joy of Wallace back, the freedom from the perfection that was Duncan in her mind? Why? Why? Why?

"Why?" and her voice is a notch above a whisper.

He doesn't answer her question, the why of why she can only remember the pretty, the warm, the soft of Logan. Here. Just Logan.

"I didn't see you over break," he explains without quite explaining. Why? Maybe distance made my heart grow fonder? "I -- here, I got you a present." A pause, his eyes so soft, so warm. Why can't she remember them cold? "Christmas." If he senses her whirling mind, he doesn't show it. But she can't stop thinking, can't stop wondering, questioning, remembering.

Holiday cheer? Is that why? But it's January, holidays are done, gone, over. But she hasn't seen him. Residual cheer? Absence, distance? Another step towards him that she isn't aware of taking, but there it is and there she is, one step closer. And he bridges the gap, in his hand a box, wrapped not in festive holiday cheer, but pale and pink with bows and flowers. In the pause where she should take the gift, he pushes it into her hand. "Merry Christmas, Veronica," he whispers and there is another pause and then his lips soft upon her cheek, a brush, a sensation of warmth. And her eyes slip shut and then fly open to meet his own, pretty. Beautiful. Logan.

And then he is gone. And her blood rushes, her senses whirl; her mind, her body are out of control, out of order.

Her hands shake as she tears the wrapping; it falls to the floor. She pays no heed as she lifts the lid from the wide square box of white. On a cushion of downy cotton lay earrings, diamond, perfect, much too much. Why? Why? Why? She reaches in and pulls one out -- pretty, cool, hard ---and the cotton sticks to the pad of her fingers. The box drops from her hands as the other earring pops out onto the floor.

She is on her knees, searching, frantic. Finding the expensive bauble quickly, she picks it up, cradling both in her hand now. Why? She wonders. Why? The crinkle of paper underneath her knees interrupts the litany of whys. Rising, she picks it up, a neatly (not so neat now) folded piece of paper. On her feet, she slips the earrings into her pocket, waiting to unfold until she secures their presence. And then another moment, heavy. She doesn't know why {why, why, why} as she stares at the letter. Her breath is unsteady, her heart races and with trembling fingers, she unfolds the sheet of paper.


I could say this. Maybe I will. Tonight, tomorrow, never. It's not knowing that makes me put this in a letter. I want it real, permanent, more than the fleeting impermanence of the spoken word. I want you to have this forever or for a day, your choice to cherish or throw away.

I love you. You must already know. I know it is there in my eyes when I look at you. In my voice when I say your name. I want to tell you. I love you. I love you. I love you a thousand times. I love you. You are my light, you are what keeps me from following in my mother's footsteps.

I'm sorry, that was wrong, but it's true. But don't think, Veronica, that I'm trying to ask too much, expect too much. Yes, you're my light, but I know that you're not my salvation. I know that. What you are is a reason -- the reason -- to find my own salvation in myself. Do the right thing. Be the right person. I want to be, I will be ... for you, for me, for us. Just give me a little bit more time, patience and let me give you my love. Always. Particularly on this day, oh so special of days, because, baby, I got plans!

Happy 18th birthday, Veronica Mars.

Love, Logan
She stares at the paper, her brain barely making the connect between the sudden circles of wet and the tears falling, sliding down her cheeks. She stares at the paper, no longer seeing the words clearly. A blink and reads, 'I love you.' Another tear and another. A blink and he's wishing her happy birthday, love Logan, five months too late. Another tear and another and the door suddenly bursts open. Startled, she stiffens even as he speaks, her eyes rushing up to his face.

"Don't open it! I didn't --" and Logan stops, the door {Out of Order' she sees, going, going, gone as the hallway disappears}. "Fuck," he breathes out, seeing her tears {how can he not?}, seeing the letter, his letter, her love letter. "I didn't mean," pushing out a puff of air between clenched teeth, he stops again, hands shoved in his pockets. "Fuck," he repeats and then states the obvious. "You read the letter. I'm sorry, I forgot." His hands dig deeper in his pockets. 'I --" another deep exhalation. "It was in my glove compartment, the present. I was looking for something and I found it and it was, shit, it's Christmas."

Staring at him, she hears his words dimly, seeing his words, their permanence, more clearly.

"I bought them this summer for you, but I never ..." The why of never goes unspoken. "They're yours and when I found them, I thought, it's Christmas, they're yours." He looks away, a flush creeping up his neck and he swallows thickly. "I thought maybe this, I need this. You know, closure." Spinning around, he leans against the door, his head resting there. "Damnit, Veronica," and his voice is muffled. "Why are you crying? Why?"

Maybe it is absence, maybe leftover holiday spirit, maybe because the perfect boyfriend is gone. Maybe it is the permanence of the written 'I love you' or the secret sharing of the 'Out of Order.' Maybe it is the green tiles, the ceramic coolness, the fluorescent lights. Just Logan. Maybe it is her first love letter, his pretty, his warm, his soft. Maybe it is the why.

Maybe it is because she had not given him time or patience despite her words that night when she broke his heart again, thisclose to already counting the seconds to when she would be in another boy's arms. Or maybe it is Logan. Just Logan. Fucked up, messed up, out of order Logan who fit much better in her world that, try as she might, is fucked up, messed up and out of order too.

"Why?" she whispers to herself and then as he turns his head to look at her, hearing her, "Why not?" The letter is still clutched in her hand as her feet move toward him. He straightens up, turns completely to face her. Anywhere else, she supposes, as the space between them rushes close, this wouldn't happen. Couldn't happen. Too many memories, too many others. Her brain screams 'Why?' once more as her body presses against his, the remembered heat, soft hard flooding through her and the scream dies. A moan takes its place as he crushes her to him, his hands in her hair, his mouth on hers, meeting hungry lips as her fingers once more clutch at his green collar.

Blood rushes through her, she hears thunder in her ears as her heart begins contracting and she can feel the blood pumping in and out as the taste of him fills her again. She feels dizzy, light-headed. She whimpers, soft sounds emanate from in between their kisses. Her breath comes fast and heavy as she pulls away, her gaze meeting his and sees the love revealed there ... still there. She doesn't think, back in his arms, back to a time when she could never think when she was in his arms. She sees vulnerability, hesitancy flare in his gaze, and finds herself shaking her head, denying him the time to think. "Logan," she says his name and reaches up to meet his lips once more.

Another soft moan escapes her and suddenly his arms are tight around her waist, she is flying as he spins her, the cool surface of the door at her back now. His hand winds around her neck, the other moving to her bare leg as he pushes the black skirt, short, she is wearing. Once more, she meets his gaze and feels alive for the first time in so long. His body presses into her and now his breath is warm upon her earlobe as his tongue wets her flesh. She's lost reason, all thought disappears into a fog that knows only this need and want. Want and desire. She presses herself against him, desperate, desperate to have him inside of her, loving her, one with her. "God, Veronica," he whispers into her ear, his voice a honey-dripping, lust-drenched erection of feeling. Pulling away slightly, he gazes down at her, his whispered exhalation reflected in his eyes ... those beautiful eyes.

"Yes, Logan. Yes," she whispers between moist lips, begging for his touch. He smiles, a smile of such sweet softness, she feels her heart beat faster and faster, bounding into a rhythm it hasn’t known since he last touched her, kissed her. His lips once more find hers, no more words, no more words, no more thoughts, ravishing her mouth, his tongue collides, clashes, sucks, dances, clings to hers. Driving her hard against the bathroom door, he grasps her underwear, pulling the soft material down as she clings to him, her hands beneath his outer shirt, her nails clawing into his back through the fabric of his tee-shirt. He slips a finger inside of her and she is wet and wanting.

Reaching in between them, her fingers pull at the button, grabbing at his zipper. Now, now, she thinks, an urgency filling her; she needs him inside of her now. And then all thought flees, her brain stops, shuts down as he offers her pleasure she's never known, his fingers feathering at the core of her, touching, tightening, pulling and her body screams out as she feels a rippling sensation flood through her. Her breath comes heavy now, but she wants more, needs more. Needs him. He is pressing against her, the hard heat of him pushing against the silk of his boxers. Her lips find his again. They are soft and insistent, her tongue flicking out as they exchange a chaste kiss -- the calm after/before the storm. And then she reaches in, encircling the hard heat of him, her fingers tightening around him, "now, now, now, now," she whispers, her breathing ragged.

His touch is gone and she can't control, no control, out of control, out of order and the whimper that slips out morphs into a giggle that just as quickly turns into a gasp as he plunges into her. His eyes lock onto hers, his one hand cups her face, the other down below as his finger once more slips between her thighs, feathering her clit. Holding herself still for a moment, her muscles tighten about him as she adjusts to his presence. Pressing a light kiss on her lips, he begins to move, slowly at first and then faster, harder. She gazes at him, amazed and shocked and awed by the look of joy, of ecstasy and wonder on his face. And then her eyes fly shut as the pressure builds within her. Her entire body is aflame as he thrusts inside of her, filling every emptiness within her. She grips his arms, his shoulders, his head, her fingers digging into the green collar, moving upwards to tangle in his dark, tousled locks. She is close, so close, her eyes close and everything goes black around her, then white and then a rainbow of colors explode inside her head as she cries out his name.

Silence is all around them. Even in her mind. He slides to the floor; she slides with him, their breathing heavy. There is no other sound, the bell has long since run and the hallways are empty. As the seconds pass, the silence is now on the verge of awkward, even as she presses intimately against him still. And she knows in that moment that if she doesn't look at him or doesn't speak ... if she doesn't deal, this could be it. Over, done, because even he can only take so much running. And if she can't deal, she is running from him once more even as they sit entwined, mere inches between them.

She can't meet his gaze, not yet. But she doesn't want to run anymore. She doesn't know why. She can't answer that, but then she doesn't know why they ever started in the first place, so maybe this is how it should be. Logan and Veronica. Out of order. So wrong it's right. No answer to why, she thinks.

"There is no answer to why," she says, staring intently at her fingers clutching the green of his collar once more. She releases a breath and looks up, her eyes meeting his. No more running, no more whys. Just Logan out of order. So wrong it's right. Logan. And in his eyes, Veronica sees the permanence of his love and there is no why. There just is.

The End
Tags: fic

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