secrets_and_lie

08:13 am: Fic: Past Imperfect 1/4 (V/L) PG-13 for now
Title: Past Imperfect 1/4
Pairing/Character: Veronica/Logan, Duncan
Word Count: 4150
Rating: This chapter PG-13 for language, suggested sexual situations
Summary: It's been nine years since Logan and Veronica last saw each other. Now someone's making a movie about Lilly's death and they have to confront the past and each other.
Category: future fic
Spoilers: Primarily S1, but generally through 3.15. Anything after that is speculation and imagination.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Believe me. I'd do a lot of things differently.

A/N: Written for hiddeneloise because I promised. Also written for vm_library's Alternate Ending challenge (and yes, I plan to post the entire fic before the end of the month).

Also written for myself, because I needed my own sort of closure to their story.

A/N2: A great big thank you to embellished_me and hesper_m, friends, betas and sounding boards, and to taken_with_you, the sharp-eyed beta and hostess with the mostest.

Crossposted to veronicamarsfic, vm_library




CHAPTER ONE:

Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it. George Santayana said that. But what about those who choose to forget? Or who remember it too damned well but wish they didn't? Or who move to a different fucking CITY to avoid the memories but end up getting sucked back in by fate and an ever-prurient public? What about those poor suckers? Does George Santayana have words of wisdom for them?

Logan turns the steering wheel sharply and signals a left turn into the studio lot, then drives through the famous white arches and pulls up at the guard shack. He can see palm trees beyond the gate, and perfect rows of brightly-colored flowers.

The last time he was here, he was probably ten years old, visiting his father on the set of Hair Trigger. Lame movie, but he was too young to know that; he just loved the way everyone fawned over his father, Hollywood royalty, the man with the wide, perfect smile grinning at the peons from the top of the food chain. At ten years old, Logan couldn't yet see beyond the façade, the bonhomie, the false pride. Back then, he'd thought each beating was his fault. He hadn't yet learned how to see the truth.

He rolls down his car window. "Logan Echolls. I have a drive-on."

The guard types the name into his computer, prints out a pass. "Know where you're going?"

Nowhere good. "I need a map."

The guard circles a tiny square at the top of the map and slaps a piece of paper on the windshield. "Visitor parking's to the left." He leans into the car, tracing the route on the map. "What you gotta do is you walk back here, make a right past the stages, keep going. It's a light brown shack up on stilts behind the Old Writer's Building."

The guard's matter-of-fact tone steadies Logan. Makes this seem like an ordinary event, a normal routine. And really, what did he think, that if he moved to LA, he'd be able to avoid the movie industry forever, run away from his parents' ghosts, pretend they never existed? He should have moved further away. Iceland, maybe. That might be far enough to avoid phone calls like the one he got last week.

But no. Duncan hopped on a plane to come to this meeting even though he lives in Brisbane now.

The Amazon. That might work. Hard to get good cell reception in a rainforest.

Logan parks his car and walks across the lot, passing a New York brownstone streetscape, every detail meticulously recreated, cobblestones and manhole covers, railings and store awnings. Then he turns right, per the guard's instructions, and heads past huge grey windowless buildings with numbers painted on the sides. The sound stages.

It all feels horribly familiar. He knows it was a mistake to let Duncan go ahead early. This would have been easier with a friend beside him, cracking stupid jokes together, dispelling the tension building inside him. The studio feels too eerie without that. It's like stepping into the past, brushing shoulders with ghosts.

Finally he gets to the small bungalow behind the Old Writer's Building, number 216. He climbs the rickety steps and opens the door, blinking at the change of light. Three people are sitting in comfortable chairs, one on a couch. They all turn at the flare of daylight behind him.

Two are strangers. One is older, in his fifties, with a shock of black hair and a lined face, familiar from countless interviews and magazine covers: the Oscar-winning director Gary Segal. The other is thirty or so, just a little older than Logan, with frizzy blond hair and an overly earnest expression. The screenwriter, Leonard something or other. They're both in chairs facing the door.

Then there's Duncan, his legs crossed at the ankle. He leans back in his armchair as if he were comfortably at home in front of the TV. The past decade's been good to him. He looks permanently unruffled, a Zen koan come to life.

And perched on the edge of the couch: Veronica. Nine years older but just as fucking gorgeous. No, more so, damn her. Back then, she was promise, potential, a girl/woman still defining herself. Now she's dropped the ridiculous eye shadow and returned to the butch boots, shorter haircut, slightly punk look she affected when he first fell in love with her. She looks like a stranger and like herself both at once, and the mixture is far too sexy.

When she lifts her chin, seemingly steeling herself, and meets his gaze, he realizes he can't read her at all anymore. Because that looks like masked pain mingled with a wary wonder. Which… makes no sense.

But the director is getting up out of his chair now, coming forward to clap Logan on the back in that fake Hollywood good-to-see-you-guy way as if they're old friends, and Logan has to yank his attention away from Veronica and focus on the matter at hand.

Just as well.

He made a decision nine years ago to walk away from the tattered remains of the corpse that had been their relationship, to stop hoping that her enmity hid love, her accusations meant she cared, and her overly cuddly warmth with her new boyfriend was a thin façade over the same kind of painful ache he carried inside him like a festering wound. After their messy fallout at the end of freshman year, Logan realized he could never be friends with Veronica. Not with so much history between them. So he transferred to UCLA, to the welcome anonymity of a sprawling university in the second largest city in the country.

It had taken a while, but he gradually made friends, found new hangouts, even enjoyed some of his classes. It had taken a while, but he learned to ignore the ache in his gut every time he thought of Veronica. People learn to live without arms, legs, fingers and toes. He could learn to live without too.

It had taken a while. But he learned to live.

And now here he is, nine years later, in this dank two-room bungalow with the girl who broke his heart. Not to mention his old pal, the here-and-gone-again Duncan-motherfucking-Kane. And two men who plan to make a movie of the single most painful event of their lives, God help them all.

This morning, Logan had thrown down his LA Times in disgust when he saw an article on the illustrious Gary Segal and his new noir-style film. He told Duncan he'd changed his mind, he wasn't coming. Some memories should stay dormant.

But Duncan had just looked at him with those clear blue eyes: so earnest, so sincere. "Come on, Logan. They're letting us into the process, how lucky is that? We have to take advantage of this. Otherwise, how will they know to get it right? Do you want a warped pod person version of Lilly to be the way the whole world sees her from now on?"

So Logan shaved, got dressed, and stopped by work for a few hours to clear his head. It didn't help. By the time he got back in his car to drive here, he felt like a violin string, a length of catgut endlessly vibrating, plucked by unseen fingers in some cosmic joke of a performance.

Now Gary Segal smiles at him, all false friendliness. "Logan. Can I call you that? We're glad you could make it." His dark voice curls around the syllables.

"If I didn't show up, would you cancel the movie?" Logan pauses, pretending to be struck by an idea. "On second thought, see you around." He does an exaggerated bolt for the door but stops short and turns back around, eyebrow raised.

The director laughs. "No, you're right. Movie's on with or without your input. Still, we want to make it authentic. Gritty and honest."

Logan quirks his mouth. "Yeah, it's your signature, I know." He looks for a place to sit. In for a penny and all that. But all the chairs are taken. He sits down on the opposite end of the couch from Veronica. He's scared of what might happen if he sits too close. Of what he might feel.

She reaches her hand out for a moment as if she's going to touch him, but then seems to rethink it. Her gesture turns into a tiny, hesitant wave. He blinks at her, not sure what to make of this.

The director offers him coffee. Logan demurs. The last thing he needs is caffeine. He feels jittery enough just being here. But he does accept a bottle of water, and takes a deep, long gulp while the others make small talk about the shooting schedule and who they're casting. Big names, all. Hey, if they get it all wrong, at least the movie will provide good eye candy.

The screenwriter, Leonard somebody, leans forward in his chair. "I'm especially glad you came, Logan." Logan hates all these strangers calling him by his first name. It would be smarmy, except that this guy looks like he forgot to shave this morning and desperately needs someone to iron his clothes. "Duncan tells us that Lilly was a free spirit. He's given us a few anecdotes. She sounds like a lot of fun."

Logan glances over at Duncan, who's sitting there smiling placidly. Duncan raises his eyebrows at him. "What? She was."

"Yeah, that and a whole bunch of other things."

Leonard somebody practically salivates. "Like what?"

Logan twists his mouth. "What, you haven't read Lilly Kane: Live Fast, Die Young? Or Teen Morality, a Case Study – deadly boring, by the way – or even that idiotic novel version, The Mark of Kane? You haven't done your homework, gentlemen." He makes tsking sounds. This is almost fun, baiting the pompous.

"Do you think books tell the truth?" Gary Segal now, stepping in smoothly.

"Do movies?"

"I try my best. So what was Lilly really like?"

Logan spreads his hands. "What Duncan said. Fun. Giddy. Good times. Fabulous, you could even say. She'd tell you that herself." Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Veronica give a little unwilling smile at this.

"Yes, but what about her sexuality?" Leonard something, with his eyes alight, greedy.

Fuck. Of course. What did he expect? And why the hell did he let Duncan convince him it would be fine, that they're better off being involved than not?

"Yes, she had sex. Couldn't you guess? She did die of it, after all. There's a lesson for all of us there."

Beside him, Veronica muffles a snort. He will not look at her. Absolutely refuses to look.

He looks.

She's gazing at him with a mixture of amusement and pity. Ugh.

He quickly looks away again, addressing Leonard something. "If you want to know what really went through Lilly's head about all her men, you should ask Veronica. Lilly didn't confide in me. I was only her boyfriend." He tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Dammit, he was over this. This is history, dead and buried along with most of his family. This should not hurt. Not anymore. Last time he looked at a picture of Lilly, her arms wrapped around his torso, her lips pouting at the camera, he smiled and stuck the photo on his fridge for a week. Nostalgia, pure and clean. No pain, not anymore.

So why is it coming back now all in a flood?

Veronica speaks, her voice strangely soft. "I knew about the flirtations, the guy she met in Italy, a few others while you were broken up." She glances over at Logan and he realizes that this is the first time he's heard her speak since he walked in. Her voice is the same, girlishly light but with that slicing edge. The sound lodges somewhere in his chest.

She clears her throat and continues, her voice more hesitant now. "But she never told me about Weevil. Or… or Aaron. So I don't know if I knew her any better than you. I was her prudish, naïve friend. She used to love to make me blush, but she never told me how she felt about anything. Not really."

Gary the Unctuous turns to Logan. "This is why we need you. Did she ever talk to you about sexuality? About how she felt about herself?"

Logan laughs. These guys just don't get it. They'll never get it. Lilly didn't have to talk about sex, though of course she did, in that throaty come here lover way of hers that never failed to make him hard with anticipated pleasure. Lilly's sexuality was such a deep, integral part of her it went without saying. It just WAS.

"Why, are you going to have gauzy love scenes in your movie? Kiss me, lovah, touch me lovah, I want to fuck you forever, lovah." His voice caresses the syllables. He knows he sounds a little insane right now, but hey, he feels a little insane right now. "Tell the actors to make it hard and fast; Lilly liked it rough. And make sure you get the words right, write them down for your gritty realism, okay?"

Leonard is scribbling as fast as he can. The geek actually thinks he's serious. The screenwriter looks delighted, like he just hit the fucking jackpot. When he stops writing, he turns to Veronica. "How about you, Veronica?"

"How about me in what way?"

The writer's eyes gleam in the dim light with avaricious pleasure. "How did Lilly make you feel? Were you jealous? After all, she had Logan. Didn't you ever want him too?"

Veronica stares, clearly dumbfounded.

Logan can feel the blood pound in his temple. His vision narrows to the two men sitting so smugly in their chairs. If he stays here much longer, he's going to do something he'll regret.

He stands up quickly, swallowing the bile rising in his throat. "This is bullshit. Your version of Lilly, of us back then, it's not going to be real no matter how many questions you ask. It just isn't. So just make some shit up. I'm sure you'll get an Oscar nomination. Maybe two. Teen sex and death are hot, right? Just leave us out of it." He heads for the door.

The director's voice stops him. "Logan, did you ever suspect Lilly was having sex with your father? Do you have any idea how it started?"

Logan turns back. "I never suspected a fucking thing." He throws it out like a punch. "Write that down, Leonard. Logan Echolls was a naïve idiot when he was fifteen. I look forward to seeing you at the premiere. Veronica, nice to see you. Duncan, catch you at home."

He opens the door and walks outside into the blindingly white day. He manages to stumble down the rickety steps, but then he collapses on the grass, gasping for air, and the memories smash into him like fists. Lilly laughing, her eyes glinting in the darkness by the Kane pool, her hair and voluptuous body dripping wet from an impromptu skinny dip. Lilly tilting her head back, exposing her long, white neck as she stretched like a cat in the sun. The image of Lilly on his TV screen fucking his father and enjoying it.

He's shaking, taking deep, shuddering breaths, shivering with chills in the relentless Southern California sun.

So much for being over it.


~*~*~


The room is strangely quiet after Logan's abrupt departure. Veronica feels as if she's been turned to stone, heavy and immobile, staring at the afterimage of Logan like a ghost lingering in the room: his expressive face pale and strained, belying his sarcastic words.

The director clears his throat. "Is he always like that?"

Duncan shrugs. "Logan? Yeah, he can get dramatic."

Veronica stares at him in disbelief. "I think he was right to leave." She turns to face the director. "Why did you call us here, really? So you could poke at old wounds, see if they'll bleed all over again? Great, you did it. Congratulations."

She stands up.

Duncan gives her a quizzical look. "Where are you going?"

"To find Logan."

"I don't think he'll appreciate that."

"Well, I don't see you getting up to see if he's okay."

"We'll get drunk tonight after Lilly goes to bed, make fun of these guys," Duncan sketches a lazy hand in the air toward the writer and director. "Play a game of pool, maybe pull out the X-Box and knock some heads together, he'll be fine."

He sounds so placid she wants to scream. This is the guy she once thought she'd marry? Her one true love? What was she thinking?

No, she knows very well what she once saw in him. Comfort, ease, avoidance. But that was a long time ago.

She slams the door on her way out.

Logan is sitting on the grass a few yards from the bungalow, his knees huddled close to his chest, his chin resting on his hands. He didn't get very far, apparently. Just as well; she got lost coming in, she'd probably never find him in the warren of sound stages.

He looks up as she approaches. His eyes are red-rimmed. His expression changes from vulnerable to wary so quickly she thinks she might have imagined the pain.

"Veronica Marrrrrs." He caresses the rolling R in his mouth. "Or is it Veronica someone else now?"

She sits down beside him, pulling her short skirt under her, but the grass tickles her thighs. "If you're asking if I ever got married, the answer is no."

"I'm asking why you're here. Shouldn't you be inside, making sure the famous Gary Segal gets all his facts right about our precious Lilly?"

She can't read him, and it's driving her crazy. His tone is clipped, edged with sarcasm, but that's Logan when he's feeling hurt. But is he telling her he wishes she hadn't come seeking him? Because that's not Logan. Or wasn't.

"Are you okay, Logan? You got pretty angry in there."

"I won't beat anyone up, don't worry." He plucks at the grass beside him like he's picking at a scab.

"No, I –" She exhales. "I wanted to make sure. I mean, it was pretty rough. They had no right to ask you those questions about Lilly and sex. To do that to you."

Logan blinks at her, his mouth slightly parted. "Thank you," he finally manages, in a voice so quiet she can barely hear it.

They sit on the grass side by side for what feels like eternity but is probably less than a minute. Logan chews on a strand of grass, staring ahead into space.

Veronica sneaks a sideways glance at him. His face is achingly familiar: the strong chin, the long nose, the intensity that whirls around him like a mini tornado. Hard to believe after all these years, they can be sitting here side by side, so quiet.

On her long drive from Neptune to LA this morning, she had listened to angry girl music, the base thrumming below bittersweet lyrics while she thought about this strange meeting and how it would go. She tried to picture talking about Lilly to total strangers, tried to decide how much to say about the long, horrible months after her death. How much to reveal about the way it had changed her, irrevocably and not entirely for the better.

But instead she kept picturing Logan's face, the tilt of his head, the way his hands spoke, his sharp wit. Wondering what he'd be like after nine years. What she'd feel like after nine years.

His face is different and yet the same. His hairline may be slightly higher, his cheekbones slightly more defined, though it's hard to tell without side by side pictures. But he carries a kind of quiet now, along with the tension so clearly held in check. As he unfolds, stretching his legs out on the grass, she sees the body awareness that was always latent, now fully realized. He seems more complete, and somehow unreachable. Sufficient unto himself.

He glances over at her, catches her staring. She blushes and looks away quickly.

"Trying to figure out if it's still me?" He sounds amused.

"I was just…" Fuck it, he's right. "Yeah, kinda."

Veronica knows certain things about Logan. She is, after all, a private detective; this is what she does. She's kept tabs on him through the years, she has a program set to flag every time he changes addresses, every time he buys a new car, every traffic ticket – and, much to her surprise, there haven't been any other kinds of misdemeanors along the way.

So she knows that he transferred to UCLA after freshman year. That he got mostly As and Bs in his classes. That he lived in a Westwood high rise with someone named Juliette Clarke for three years (her photo in the Bruin yearbook showed a toothy brunette with penetrating eyes) before he moved out and bought a house in Malibu Canyon on his own. Expensive real estate, but the MLS photo showed a small, modernist bungalow, not a mansion. She knows, too, that he founded a halfway house for runaway teenagers on Washington Boulevard and invested a chunk of money in running it.

Yes, she knows the basic facts of Logan's recent history, not that she's about to tell him that. But the outlines only suggest the shape of a life. And as she meets his gaze now, she realizes she wants to know more. A lot more.

"My skirt is getting damp."

He shrugs off his light jacket, offers it to her. "This should help."

"No, I meant – maybe we could go somewhere more comfortable. With chairs. And coffee, and maybe pastries. And we could, I don't know, talk."

Logan bites his lip but doesn’t say anything.

And now she feels horribly foolish. Exposed. "I mean, if you want."

"No, Veronica." His voice is husky. "I'm sorry, but I can't."

She stands up, trying for cool and failing miserably. "No, I understand. Places to go and people to be. The past's in the rear view mirror. Forget I offered."

He stands too. "I just…" He closes his eyes and she finds herself holding her breath, waiting for his words. "I swore I wouldn't ever let you close again."

"It's coffee. I'm not asking you to marry me. We haven't seen each other in nine years, I just thought…"

"It doesn't matter if it's been ninety years. I can't just have coffee with you. Can't just be friends. I'll want more. And someday, even if I swear I won't, I'll let you know that. You'll retreat at first, but then you'll decide it's okay to try after all. And we'll become lovers again."

The thought sends heat zinging through her: his hands on her, his body moving in sync with hers. And she can tell Logan is thinking about it too. His face flushes, his breath hitches.

But he takes a steadying breath and continues. "Before you know it, things will get ugly. You'll judge every choice I make, even if you do it silently. And I'll start to question everything I do, wondering if it's good enough for you, if it's what you expect. And then I'll fuck up, because I'm human and because that's what I do when I try too hard. And you'll get mad. You'll throw every past mistake in my face. Even if I haven't done anything wrong, you'll invent something. Because that's what you do."

He shakes his head, and the pained look in his eyes pierces her to the core. "I can't go there again. I’m sorry. I'll fall in love with you and then you'll stab me in the heart, whether you mean to or not."

Veronica feels like she can't breathe. His tone is so matter-of-fact, his words so damning. "But people change. Why do you assume I haven't?"

"Have you?" His hands are wrapped around his jacket, twisting the soft material into a Gordian knot.

Regret thickens her voice. "Yes. But you can't believe me, can you?"

He's silent, caught off guard.

Or… can you?

She takes a step toward him. He doesn't move away. She can see the pulse beating in his throat, and for a moment she thinks this will be okay after all.

Logan kisses her, but it's a quick, light kiss. By the time she leans into it, he's stepped back already and she can only taste air and the tingle of his breath.

"Goodbye, Veronica. Have a good life."

He walks away. She stands there on the wet grass like an idiot, unable to move.


CHAPTER TWO



Final A/N: In case you were wondering, the studio lot I describe here is a mix of the Paramount lot (the white gates) and the Fox lot before they revamped it and tore down New York street. In other words, it's fictional.



Tags: fan fic, logan, logan/veronica, past imperfect, veronica, vm, vm fic