Veronica Mars, Season Two (AU)
Rated R, because Logan works blue.
SPOILERS for Season One and Season Two, through 2x12, "Rashard and Wallace Go to White Castle."
Author's Note: Sticks and Stones is the third story in the series that begins with Chopped Liver, and continues in Thursday Next.

---

Only tourists notice Southern California is beautiful. It's always beautiful. Beauty falls into the background, in the well-trained, graceful manner of gravity and inertia and hired help. Sunday is sunny, and Monday is sunny and Tuesday is sunny. Wednesday, the light turns dim and grayish. The residents of Neptune squint at the sky and remember there's something called "weather," and that it changes now and again. By afternoon, it's raining. The rain can only steal a few moments in the spotlight and, shrewd understudy that it is, the rain belts out a scenery-chewing, Oscar-caliber, tour-de-force performance calculated to stagger critics and audiences alike. It rains buckets, cats and dogs, torrents and Biblical floods. It rains until sunny days are a vague memory, a rumor, an urban legend, something that once happened to a friend of a friend; it rains until it seems it has always rained forever and no one has ever known anything different; it rains until the clouds must be wrung dry like dishtowels. And then it rains some more.

The rain keeps Logan awake. Somebody up there is having a raging party, all right. He ought to go bang on the door and tell them to turn it the fuck down, but his bed is warm. He stays where he is and doesn't even bother to shut the window. What the hell, it's only school. It's less unbearable with only one eye open anyway, and he figures maybe if he lies there long enough pretending to be asleep, the rain might flood the entire Neptune Grand and he can ride his mattress right out of town, like Bugs Bunny.

Thursday morning, teachers and students look damp and sleepy and half-hypnotized by the perpetual twilight, the pattering and drumming, and the roaring gurgling storm drains. Nobody gets much done. After school, Logan opens the door to the SRC and catches Caitlin gazing dreamily out the window at the underwater parking lot with her hands curled like kittens in the sleeves of her dark blue hoodie.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks.

Startled, she turns. "Oh! Hey, Logan."

He smiles. "Sorry."

"I'm not really thinking about anything," she tells him, and then she yawns. "I like the rain, that's all."

"Me too." He parks himself on the other side of the table from her. "Caitlin, if I ask you to do something for me, will you do it?"

"Depends. I'm not doing anything involving naked parts. And I'm not helping you cheat."

"Aw, there goes my evil scheme to take over the world with naked cheating."

Caitlin laughs. "If you ever get motivated enough to plot world domination, please call me. I'll be so proud."

Logan leans forward, propping his elbows on the table. "Pinky," he says, "I need you to talk to Weevil."

She sits up straight, looking surprised, but not exactly horrified the way she did that first time she saw Logan in Miss James' office.

"It's important," Logan adds. "I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't. And you already know where all those guys hang out, so..."

"No problem. In my spare time, I usually work that corner right in front of Auto Shop."

"That's not what I meant." He's so tired of fighting. All the time, with everybody. If it wasn't completely pointless; if he had something worth fighting about, that might be different. "I just thought maybe you used to hook up with Chardo by Mr. Dalton's class. That's all I meant."

"It's fine," Caitlin replies stiffly. "Whatever you want. I tutor Weevil, actually, so it's not a problem."

"Really," Logan says, stung by sudden, irrational jealousy.

"Yes. English Lit."

"Our little Eli? Having trouble with English? I am shocked."

She taps her fingers on her chin. "Hmmm... what's your excuse for flunking English, again? Oh, that's right. You're a rich bigot, and I'm wasting my time."

"And I can't get you to put out anymore, so we're both wasting our time," Logan mutters. Half-asshole with a sloppy landing. The judges award ones and twos. Ouch, that's gonna cost Echolls. Don't know if he'll qualify for the Prick-lympics, after that lackluster performance.

Caitlin's frown unfrowns, and now there's something puzzled, and more gentle, in her eyes. He's only seeing it because he wants to see it. She stands up. "Excuse me a sec."

"Sure," Logan says.

She walks out of the SRC and shuts the door behind her. There's no reason she would have told him about Weevil. As far as she knows, Logan and Weevil never exchange anything save insults. It's none of Logan's business if Caitlin is tutoring Weevil, or fucking him, or fucking Mr. Dalton's entire Auto Shop class.

Except, Logan had been thinking he and Caitlin had something. A start of a start, even though she stopped him from kissing her. Maybe they aren't anything, never were anything, never will be. He knows he's not merely jumping to conclusions but climbing onboard a gigantic trebuchet and firing himself at conclusions so far away they're misty with the distance. He can't help it. Everyone he's ever cared for wanted more than everything he has to give. That's bound to make a guy kinda irritable.

Caitlin comes back and before Logan can even open his mouth, she says, "I'm not sleeping with Weevil. It is possible for me to be in the same room as a Hispanic male and keep my clothes on, which I'm sure must come as a stunning revelation to you."

"Caitlin--"

"Allison Nussbaum tutors the Js through the Qs, but she's out with mono. Which I heard she got from Dick Casablancas. I can't get my brain past the part where she was kissing Dick Casablancas. Please tell me, Logan. Is it mercury in the ground water? Are there maybe one or two halfway decent guys at Pan High? Here." She hands him a business-size envelope. "Write down what you need to ask Weevil, and seal up the envelope, and I'll give it to him. I'll give him another one to give back to you."

"I trust you," he says, surprised at the cloak and dagger.

She still got that sand-in-her-panties look. "Whatever you're doing with Weevil, I know it involves Felix Toombs. That's already more information than I want."

Logan takes the envelope. "I'd do that thing with you. The falling-back thing. I know you'd catch me."

With a soft hiss, Caitlin starts pulling her textbooks out of her bag.

"Okay, maybe not today," Logan adds. "Look, I'm sorry."

"I want something from you in return."

"C minus? No problem. You got it."

"You and me. This Saturday night. Studying."

Logan chews on this for a moment. Spending Saturday night hitting the books is not his idea of fun-fun-fun. He's planned to spend the evening getting profoundly and comprehensively drunk, until there isn't a single neuron left firing in his head. But, fair is fair; and following this thought comes another, faint and traitorous: he might enjoy himself.

"All right," he says. "I don't know why you're bothering with a lost cause, though."

"You're not a lost cause, Logan."

"You said I was."

"I said I was wasting my time," Caitlin replies, "But, you just tried to negotiate with a C minus, so I'm obviously wrong."

Logan smiles. "Nah, you're not. Maybe you'll pull up my average enough so I can graduate; like I said, I know you'll stick your hands out. But, I'm gonna keep falling backwards until you get fed up with catching me. I know that's why you gave up on me the first time around."

"I didn't give up."

"No? What happened? You only bailed out because the lifeboat was more comfortable than the Titanic?"

"How about I took an Incomplete in Logan 101?" Caitlin offers. "You're not lost. I misplaced you."

***
"This time, I remembered I was lying in the oak closet, and I heard distinctly the gusty wind, and the driving of the snow; I heard, also, the fir-bough repeat its teasing sound, and ascribed it to the right cause: but it annoyed me so much, that I resolved to silence it, if possible; and I thought, I rose and endeavored to unhasp the casement. The hook was soldered into the staple: a circumstance observed by me when awake, but forgotten. 'I must stop it, nevertheless!' I muttered, knocking my knuckles through the glass, and stretching an arm out to seize the importunate branch; instead of which, my fingers closed on the fingers of a little, ice-cold hand! The intense horror of nightmare came over me: I tried to draw back my arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed, 'Let me in -- let me in!' 'Who are you?' I asked, struggling, meanwhile, to disengage myself. 'Catherine Linton,' it replied, shiveringly. 'I'm come home: I'd lost my way on the moor!' As it spoke, I discerned, obscurely, a child's face looking through the window. Terror made me cruel; and finding it useless--"

Tap-tap on the door and Caitlin breaks off reading with a small shriek; Wuthering Heights tumbles to the coffee table, almost tipping over the candles, as Logan springs up from her lap with his heart pounding.

"Jesus Christ!" he gasps.

They laugh like scared campers, but as the knocking comes again, they turn and stare at the door of the suite.

"You live here," Caitlin points out.

Logan swings his legs to the floor and stands up. "Fine. Be that way. Just so you know: I'm coming back to haunt you."

"I'd be mad if you didn't."

He crosses the room and unbolts the door. It's not Catherine Linton or Casper or even Lilly standing in the hallway. It's Veronica. She looks surprised to see Logan home and sober on a Saturday night. Almost as surprised as he is to see her.

"What do you want?" he asks.

"Why so grumpy? Room service stop delivering scotch by the carton?"

"Yeah..." He shakes his head. "Tragic, really. Almost as upsetting as the mysterious non-disappearance of Duncan Kane's girlfriend."

"I left a couple things in Duncan's room. I came to get them," Veronica says, and wedges her shoulder against Logan's chest, hard.

"Hey!" he protests, stepping back. "You can't come in unless I invite you." She pushes past him and steps into the room, flips the light switch by the door and turns on the overhead light. Logan slaps his forehead and adds, "Oh, no. Wait. That's vampires, not witches. My mistake."

Veronica doesn't reply. She's gone very still. Caitlin rises to her feet. The two girls eye each other, and Logan's not sure where to lay his money: cobra or mongoose. But, Caitlin scoops her coat off the arm of the couch and slips her bag over her shoulder.

"Where are you going?" Logan demands. His voice comes out harsher than he expects.

"There's a Starbucks a few blocks down on Del Oro. I'll go get us some coffee."

"It's pouring outside."

"Don't worry," she says. "I won't melt."

And she's gone. That's the second time this week she's up and fucking walked out on him, and its not like he doesn't completely deserve it, but damn her anyhow. Logan crosses his arms over his chest. He's pissed at Caitlin for leaving him to not defend her or himself; to fold like a shitty poker hand, the way he always does with Veronica. So, he's not going to start. If Veronica wants to start with him -- well, she's going to start with him. That's a given.

"Caitlin Ford?" she asks scathingly. "Come on, Logan. First Kendall Casablancas, now you're sniffing around Caitlin again? What do you think you're doing? What happened to your self-respect?"

"I can't believe you never noticed, Veronica. I don't have any. That's why I showed up on your doorstep the night you dumped me. The first time you dumped me, I mean. I guess I'm just like that ant with the rubber-tree plant."

Veronica flicks her chin at the coffee table with the candles still flickering and the pizza box with the remains of a Peking duck thin crust. "Well, I'm sorry to spoil your romantic evening. At least I got here while you still had your clothes on. Because there's a mental image I don't need."

"Why don't you pack up your gimp mask and your cat-o-nine-tails, and shove off?"

"I'm worried about you, Logan."

"No, you're not. So, skip it. I'm not taking Donut's leftovers. Again."

"Even though you've got no problem taking Chardo Navarro's?"

Logan shrugs. "Who am I to point fingers? Caitlin's gotta take your leftovers, sugarpuss. Not to mention Lilly's. You two didn't leave much."

Veronica sneers, "I'm sure Caitlin will make do somehow."

"I think she might," Logan replies quietly.

Veronica turns abruptly and almost runs into Duncan's bedroom. Logan watches her go, surprised. It's not her trademark frosty stomp-off -- she's surrendered the field and left him the victor. That never happens. The Black Knight never wins the tourney. Logan's not even sure how he managed that one.

About fifteen minutes after Veronica leaves the suite, there's another knock at the door, and it's Caitlin.

"Double mocha, extra foam?" She smiles, pulling one of the cups out of the cardboard tray. Her coat is dotted with raindrops, and her damp hair is starting to curl.

"I didn't expect you to come back." He takes the coffee, holding the warm cup between his hands.

"I almost didn't."

He raises his eyebrows.

"She scares me," Caitlin admits with an awkward shrug. "She didn't used to, but now she's so..."

"Yeah," Logan says.

Caitlin, do you always run when things get scary? he wonders. When the little blond scapegoat turns demon; when the trophy boyfriend turns werewolf? Maybe Caitlin didn't give up on him at all. Maybe he scared her away. As a battle plan, running away certainly beats his method of stubbornly staying put until he gets his ass handed to him. And Caitlin came back. To the hotel, to him. He's gotta give her points for that, anyway.

"Did you--" Logan begins.

"You really--" she says at the same time, then laughs. "Go ahead."

"Ladies first."

"You really miss Duncan, don't you?"

"Like I'd miss my left arm. I've even got that phantom itch thing."

Caitlin's forehead crinkles. "Is there a phantom rash?"

"No!" Logan snaps, annoyed and trying not to laugh. "I mean, sometimes I think he's still here. I think I hear him, or see him out of the corner of my eye. He's not dead, but he took off and left his ghost here anyway."

"Have you thought about moving?"

Logan sighs. "Sure, sure. But, I'd still wind up..." He spreads his hands to indicate the empty suite. "Lost or misplaced."

Caitlin smiles. "Speaking of which, I forgot this in the car." She digs in her bag, and pulls out a sealed envelope. "Weevil even put your name on it, so I wouldn't forget. Such a sweet guy, that Weevil."

She hands Logan the envelope, and indeed Weevil has printed in large letters on the front, TO: FUCKO. Logan laughs and tosses the envelope on the coffee table, on top of Wuthering Heights. He'll look at it later; he knows the contents won't be as entertaining as the outside.

"What were you going to ask me before?" Caitlin says.

The question catches Logan off-guard. "Nothing," he says with a shrug. "It doesn't matter."

Too late; she's seen something in his face. "What was it?"

"I just... I wanted to know, did you fight? When Chardo hit you?"

Caitlin sighs and leans back into the plushy couch. The cushions half-swallow her, making her look smaller. "I didn't really have a chance. Chardo caught up with me in the parking lot behind school and he just hit me -- pow. He looked surprised. As if he hadn't meant to hit me at all. Even though he got in two punches before Weevil and Felix pulled him off me."

Logan's eyes widen.

Caitlin smiles wryly. "I had a PCH bodyguard, and I didn't even know it. Go figure."

"And they did a fantastic job," Logan says sarcastically.

"If they hadn't shown up, Chardo would've have kept going," Caitlin points out. "He almost knocked me out with the first punch; he could have..."

She stops. Takes a deep breath. She's off-balance, Logan realizes. It freaks him a bit. Caitlin's the sensible one. Already, he takes it for granted that she'll point out the obvious, talk him off the ledge. She'll be the one to tell him: hey, cool the jets, Robby Rocketpants. Oil on troubled water. He can't do that, the way she does. He's oil and matches. Him comforting somebody: there's a laugh. He lays a hand on her back.

"It would've turned out worse," Caitlin finishes, awkward and brittle.

She sounds like she's trying hard not to cry and Logan lifts his hand away, wishing he'd never broached this subject. Wishing he'd just made another sloppy pass at her, wishing she'd laugh it off and they'd go right back to studying. He's pretty sure Hell just froze over, right this exact second. He wants to laugh, but the weight of what he needs to say is squeezing all the air out of his lungs.

He tells her, "I thought about what you told me last week. How you think you deserved what happened. I know how you feel. Because --" Logan's throat closes up; he makes himself say it, fast, before he can take it back, "My f-father beat me."

"I know," Caitlin replies.

Logan inhales quickly. Not a gasp. He is not surprised, precisely.

She adds, "I was sleeping with you, Logan. I saw the bruises on your arms. The scars all over your back."

He is... what is he? Is he relieved? He thinks he might be. Jets, cooling.

"Ever since I was little, he hit me," Logan goes on, discovering terrain a little less rocky, on the other side of saying this aloud. "I never fought back. I gave him reasons to hit me. I did it on purpose, so he'd remember I existed. He told me I deserved it, and I believed him every single time. Maybe I still do. I dunno. But, I figure... either you and I both deserved to get the shit beaten out of us, or neither one of us did."

"This is different."

"How? You're the smart one, Caitlin. You tell me."

She does that thing again: half shrug and half shudder, the way she did when he asked her about Chardo.

Logan rolls his fists into the sleeves of his black sweater. "You decided you got what was coming to you and you didn't fight back. My dad always had a perfectly good excuse for hitting me, too, you know; but it..." Logan trails off, slightly startled as he mentally rewinds and listens to the words coming out of his own mouth. "That doesn't make it right."

Caitlin presses the back of her hand to her nose, breathing in slowly and shakily, and Logan feels the rope uncoil inside of him. Its own weight bears it downward and one after another, the knots pull free. Presto allakazam, like a magic trick.

"It's not only you, and it's not only me. Not anymore." Logan takes her free hand in both of his. It's cold. He twines her fingers with his own. "Tell me you're with me, Pinky."

Caitlin laughs. Not much of a laugh, but he'll take it.

"Tell me."

"It's two of us," she says softly, like she's reassuring herself.

"Two?" Logan replies teasingly. "Uh-uh, I'm counting you and me and Emotional Baggage. How 'bout you move in here, Caitlin? It'll be just like Three's Company."

Caitlin shakes her head, and Logan can't tell what she means by that. Disagreement, exasperation, amusement... It doesn't matter. Her hand stays clasped in his.


THE END
***

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Part Not-Three, Stay the Night
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