damalur: (Default)
no, use my SPACE name! ([personal profile] damalur) wrote2017-03-13 12:47 am

any heavy thing (vmars, veronica/logan)

Title: Any Heavy Thing
Charactes: Veronica/Logan
Wordcount: 700
Notes: Domestic fluff with no redeeming qualities. With thanks to andthenisay, who decided that Logan likes Golden Girls.
Summary: Two people, their dog, their baggage, and a couch.

-

Veronica may have been shacked up in domestic bliss with her life partner and a puppy, but that didn't mean she'd gone soft. She wasn't a fan of the personal autopsy. She preferred autopsying other people, thank you very much, particularly when she was paid to do it.

"Aw, bobcat, don't sell yourself short," said Logan. "'Autopsy' is too gentle a word for what you do. I prefer 'vivisection.'" He was stretched out on the couch and wearing a SUCK MY CASABLANCAS sweatshirt. His face hadn't met up with a razor for more than a week — leave was now apparently an opportunity to ignore personal grooming, binge-watch TV, and follow Veronica around on stake-outs. Today's binging experience was Golden Girls despite Veronica's best efforts to regain control of the remote; she wasn't above fighting dirty, but he had the advantages of a foot of height and sixty pounds of genuine Navy muscle. On the other hand, if she sincerely asked him to switch over to Stranger Things, he probably would, but getting her way because he loved her felt a lot like losing.

"Ice cream?" Veronica said.

"This feels like a trick." He didn't look away from the screen. "Be honest — am I a Sophia or a Dorothy?"

"Please, child, you're a Blanche," Veronica said. She leaned over the back of the couch and held the bowl of ice cream over his head. He grabbed it with both hands, and Veronica snatched the remote off his chest.

"Hey! Come on, I've been waiting — "

"Golden Girls, Logan? Really? Did we rush right through middle age and emerge in our twilight years? What happened to HBO shows with topless girls?" She sat down on his legs and shook her head, miming disappointment. "It's like I don't even know you any more."

He mumbled something through a mouthful of ice cream.

"What was that? Speak up, Blanche."

"I said that it couldn't hurt to talk to someone." He gave her one of those sideways looks that made her feel uncomfortably transparent. "You haven't been sleeping well since the Romero case."

"Ramirez."

"Whatever. You know what I mean." See, that was the problem with Logan; on every occasion when he didn't have a hang-up of his own to blind him, he knew her. Sometimes she thought that was why she'd avoided him for nine years — because she could never be anything but exactly, perfectly herself around Logan, which made it hard to be the sanitized Veronica Lite she'd been trying to make herself into. But this was what they did now: They were adults. They Talked About Their Problems. In the context of their relationship, that usually meant they took turns browbeating the other into communicating.

"I'll think about it," Veronica conceded.

"Sure. You'll think about it. And six months from now, when you pass out at work from lack of sleep, you'll still be" — he actually put down his bowl to make air quotes at her — "'thinking' about it."

Today it was clearly Logan's turn to browbeat.

"What, because you're the poster boy for mental health?" she shot back.

"You know, I thought the law degree was useless. Did you sleep through all your psych classes at Stanford? Wait, that can't be right, since apparently you don't need to sleep."

"You're a jackass."

"I'm sorry, that must be hard for you to be around when you have such a sunny disposition."

They spent the next five minutes in resentful silence. Logan scowled at the ceiling and scraped his spoon against the bottom of his bowl. Veronica scowled at the TV and breathed like her anger was steam-driven. Change the fight venue from their house to the Neptune Grand and it might as well have been 2006 again, except for this: they both stayed in the ring.

"Sorry," Logan said. "You know I don't thinkā€¦"

"Yeah. I know." She sighed and then patted him on the ankle. Pony took that as an invitation; she jumped up on the couch and draped herself over Logan's feet. "I'll set up an appointment," Veronica added.

"You don't have to."

"No, you're right. Don't let it get out, though, you'll ruin my street cred. Hey, move your ice cream."

Logan obligingly transferred his bowl to the coffee table, and Veronica stretched herself out on top of him.

"I'm not a piece of furniture," he said, and then: "Veronica? Hey. ...If you fall asleep, I'm switching back to Golden Girls."