Aug 7, 2020
Black Mamba
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seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Türkiye
seen from China
seen from Germany
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Türkiye
seen from China
seen from Germany
seen from Australia
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Estonia
seen from Germany
Black Mamba
- b
Miller’s Boys are back!!
LVAW Day 7- favorite AU
There are so many good AU options out there for this couple and so many of them awesome! I think I have to give my favorite to one I read recently!
theawkwardterrier wrote What You Know, And What You Don't. Amazing fic where Logan is a teacher and Veronica has gone on the FBI path. If you haven't read it you should go check it out here- [X]
Great story and thus my inspiration for my favorite AU!
Logan and Veronica Appreciation Week Ficlets
Hi everyone!
Logan and Veronica Appreciation Week is DONE. All of my ficlets are on AO3 under the story name After So Long (including a continuation of The Pliant Web story). Please stop by, comment, and leave kudos if you like what you read.
For those of you who prefer to stay on Tumblr, here are the post links:
Day One | Favorite Episode » excerpt from Bring It on Like A Storm Before This War, a unpublished story in the All Things Go series | Weapons of Class Destruction (1.18)
Day Two | Favorite Parallel » Ah, Young Love! - Normal is the Watchword (2.1)/Not Pictured (2.22)
Day Three | Favorite Season » The Heart Is (or, the origin of Epic) | Season Two
Day Four | Favorite Quote From The Thousand Dollar Tan Line » A Stillness | “It was a strange thing, watching him without his knowing. His long, vulpine face had a stillness she didn’t usually see in it, pensive and expectant.”
Day Five | Favorite Friendly Moment » The Matador Performs a Series of Verónica | Does this mean you’re gonna play nice now?/Walk in front of the car, we’ll see | You Think You Know Somebody (1.05)
Day Six | Favorite Romantic Moment » In The Gale | Assured my love would come along aka And Then They Banged | The Veronica Mars Movie
Day Seven | Favorite AU » The Pliant Web | 1946 Tripoli-set Espionage Romance Thriller EPIC
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That's it! Thank you so much for reading.
And an extra special thank you to the ladies that helped me with these via beta reading or graphics and translation: blithers, disdainfullady, machaswicket, lilamadison11, nightlocktime and fponthedl.
LVAW fic roundup
I just bombarded all 17 people subscribed to my AO3 account by posting all the ficlets I wrote for Logan and Veronica Appreciation Week, and in order to make myself totally annoying and unwelcome here as well, I thought I'd stick some links up.
Favorite episode- Cushion My Fall with Cotton Wool (Sweetheart) Favorite parallel- Miles Away (from the places that we used to be) Favorite season- It's Hard Not to See the Heart In It Favorite book quote- The Uniform Code Favorite friendship moment- One Is Silver and An Intro to Logan's Life in Five Screwy Steps Favorite romantic moment- Pillars to Support a Crumbling Sky Favorite AU- The Holy Dark ghostcat3000/bryrosea/anyone else who wrote ficlets for the week should feel free to add links to their stories as well.
Logan & Veronica Appreciation Week:
Day 7: Alternate Universe Nine years later, Logan and Veronica use social media. And iPhones. (Inspired by 1 & 2.)
Things have been crazy and I cannot believe all the amazing I am missing around here! I cannot wait to get a chance an hunker down with all the brilliance I’m catching a glimpse of… You guys are so awesome…
Logan/Veronica Appreciation Week | Day Seven | Favorite AU » 1946 Tripoli-set Espionage Romance Thriller EPIC
The Pliant Web
The Medina is just starting to pick up, the vendors bustling with new vigor, taking the time to reorganize their wares. They know that now is the time of the day when the expat crowd most like to make their appearances. Prices go up, and the stalls burst with silkily spoken English, along with French and Italian. Everyone with a smile in place. The colors are warm, the usual honeyed hues of a Mediterranean city, and the air has that famous, distinctive smell of orange blossoms. He’s gonna miss this place.
Logan rubs his fingers on the surface of the rug, the texture is rough against his skin, but he can see the quality. The weave is tight and the colors are perfectly differentiated. Nevertheless, one must bargain or the natives will lose all respect. He sighs. ”Il est orange, je n’aime pas l’orange.”
”Il est rouge, rouge, le soleil vous joue des tours.” The merchant is a something of a friend, young, with eyes that appear startled most of the time giving him a humorous aspect of incredulity.
”Mais je n’ai pas besoin d’un tapis.” Logan squints and looks to the side, as if he is considering moving to another stall.
The merchant’s voice hitches up, suddenly, his arms expansive, the billowing sleeves of his white gown making him appear larger than he really is.”Mais bien sûr que vous en avez besoin, les tapis ajoutent de la magie aux endroits. Comme de l’art sur le plancher. Ils apportent de l’harmonie aux pièces.”
Logan smirks. ”Mais ou avez-vous entendu ça, Cornélius?”. He waves his hand at him dismissively. ”N’utiliser pas votre discours de suceur d’expatrier sur moi.”
“Quoi? I do not comprehend your meaning. I'm sorry, Mr. Logan but your French is criminal.”
Logan’s voice drops to a whisper. “So is your operation but you don't hear me complaining.”
Cornelius laughs. “I'm starting to understand why the US Navy didn't want you.”
“Yeah, well, Uncle Sam don't have much use for cripples.” He smiles ruefully, tapping his cane on the ground for emphasis. “Besides where else can I practice my French, if not with you?”
The merchant smoothly hands Logan an envelope of cash hidden in a scarf the color of currants. Logan unwraps the scarf as if to examine it and deftly slips the envelope into his sleeve. Winnings from a gambling operation in an illegal casino across town. Not his, he’s just the pick-up man. He hands the scarf back with a shrug and Cornelius hangs it back with the others. The subterfuge, while ridiculous, is necessary. The war may be over but times are tough, and finding trustworthy types like Cornelius is rare. Logan transfers the envelope into a cleverly sewn pickpocket-proof interior pouch and as he turns he spots two acquaintances entering the market, unknowingly heading in his direction— Reuters Libyan correspondent, Stosh Piznarski and his chipper little camera-toting wife Veronica “Call me Ronnie” Piznarski.
“Do me a favor, Corny old sport. Lay it on real thick with these two when they come this way, I don’t want them to see me and trap me in a conversation about issues with the British Military Administration or,” he gives a delicate shiver. “Homer.”
“You are a strange man, Mr. Logan.”
Logan smiles and grabs a handful of almonds before Cornelius can slap his hand. “And yet you love me.”
He grins at him widely and slinks out of sight seconds before Piznarski and mate come strolling along. Logan doesn’t dislike the man exactly. If you overlook his longish hair and propensity for puns, he’s an alright guy. When cornered, Logan finds it best to guide him into a conversation about jazz, a topic they both seem to enjoy, and steer him clear of the editorial-style ranting that never fails to make Logan want to hop on the nearest camel and head straight to the deserts of Fezzan.
Now his wife… She is interesting. Beautiful? Absolutely, if a little sharper than what he usually goes for. Tiny and animated, with slender legs that went on far longer than they had a right to considering her stature. She is in many ways your typical expat wife, chatty, fair, with a sparkly peal of a laugh that announced her position in a room, always cooing over the local customs. But there is something else to her, something he can’t quite place. Last week at the a dinner party for the British Consulate, he could’ve sworn he saw her roll her eyes at one of Lady Sinclair’s more asinine pronouncements, but when he leaned in to have a closer look, she was all nods and eager smiles, not a trace of discord in sight.
He watches them from the shadow of a doorway and laughs to himself as Corny enthusiastically shows them a variety of change purses. Piznarski buys one and hands it over to Ronnie with some fanfare, she rewards him with a chaste peck on the cheek. They walk hand in hand through the market, and Logan follows them impulsively, at a respectful distance.
After ten minutes or so, Ronnie points to her watch and pouts prettily. Piznarski embraces her and she walks off, under the arches, in the direction of the Italian Quarter where most of the expats reside. Piznarski watches her go fondly, then stares at the wares on the table in front of him before settling on a Tuareg cross, which he purchases without haggling, thanking the man in Berber and bounding off like a puppy in the park.
Logan stands there for a moment, taking stock of the sweet, domestic scene he’s just witnessed. It’s adorable how innocent they are, those two. He can’t quite believe they’re real. It’s a like a war never happened, not in the world, not in their hearts, like no one ever died. He laughs. If that was a gift for her, she won’t like it, she favors smaller things. Even he knows that and he barely knows her.
A flash of blonde catches his eye and he sees Ronnie Piznarski entering back from where she came from. He slouches and hides himself behind a stall, hurriedly passing the merchant a few coins and putting his fingers up to his mouth in a shushing motion. She looks around cautiously, then her expression changes, shifts into something fascinatingly, intriguingly, hard-edged. She takes out a dark scarf from her purse and covers her hair with it, quickly and efficiently as if she’s done this dozens of times, then walks the other way, deeper into the market, in a determined, fleet-footed rush.
Logan doesn’t even think about it. He throws his cane in the air gaily, catches it, and takes off after her. Far enough away as to remain undetected and close enough to keep her in his sights, moving seamlessly in the crowd, one lock of yellow hair escaping her headscarf, curled at the nape of her neck, a little damp and a lot bright.
A week passes, then two. Logan has work to do after all. The work of being an expat playboy with a war wound, a rumored drinking problem, and co-ownership of the only nightclub in Tripoli. As well as other things, things that require less overt moves. He’s a busy man.
When the invitation comes for some thrown together celebration in honor of the restructuring of the city, good riddance Italians, blah blah blah God Save The Queen, he accepts for one reason only. Pretty and petite Mrs. Piznarski will be there and while the klaxons in his noggin are telling him that way lies madness, he finds that he needs to know. Who is she, why was she paying notorious stoolie Willie Murphy a visit in his hovel near the Medina, and what did she do to leave that lowlife a quivering, teeth-chattering mess?
The Winter Ball winds up being no different than any other sleep-inducing self-congratulatory events he’s had to attend. It is, however, conveniently held at a former girls’ school turned manse of business associate, drinking buddy, and fool, Richard Casablancas. Which means he knows all the nooks and crannies of the locale intimately.
Logan pretends to be enjoying himself for about twenty torturous minutes and then seeks out his quarry. He spies the Mr. and the Mrs. sitting at a table on the outdoor balcony. At first, he keeps it casual, a little local politics to get Piznarski braying, thus attracting more blowhards to the conversation and opening up some space to casually address the twinkly-eyed woman across from him, resplendent in a draped, yellow evening gown.
He tents his fingers and smiles pleasantly. “That’s a lovely necklace. Is that a cross?”
“Yes. Stosh says it’s Bedouin. I’m not exactly sure how one wears it but my girl secured me this piece of leather and here we are.”
“A choker,” he offers helpfully.
“Yes, a choker.” She’s got a lovely smile, which isn’t real.
He brings up his hand to his face, and stills it by biting on his index finger. “Weren’t chokers worn by women in mourning? Or was it prostitutes… I can’t quite remember. I’m a little hazy on my facts.”
She scowls slightly but soon the smile is back on her face, smaller, tighter, held together with a restrained sort of politeness. She shifts in her chair.
“I’ve seen those before you know.”
“Oh?” She is looking past him, past the doors, into the great room.
“The crosses. At the Medina. It’s a wonderful place.” He crosses his legs, gingerly. “You should be careful though, one wrong turn there and you might find yourself in a less savory part of the city. Why just a couple of weeks ago I got lost. I didn’t know what to do. It scared the willies out of me.”
Logan waggles his brows and waits, hoping to see her flinch. Nothing. A far away, almost bored look sits on her face. Next to him Piznarski and that engineer, Fennel, are deep in conversation. For all intents and purposes, they are alone.
He downs the rest of his champagne and presses on. “You know… For a second, I thought I saw you there. But it couldn’t have been. What would a lady such as yourself be doing in that part of town?”
She inhales deeply and turns to look at him, her long hair an undulating wave on the side of her face. “Excuse me. I just have to powder my nose. I’ll be right back.”
Logan watches her go, one hand lifting her dress daintily, her heels reflected on the checkered porcelain flooring. He follows in her direction, past the fountained courtyard and into a long side hallway. She steps into a washroom and he skips up behind, grabbing an out of order sign he keeps stashed nearby and hanging it on a hook in the door, pushing her in, and locking the door behind them.
There it is, that hard look. He finds it thrilling to behold. He smiles.
“I’ll scream,” she intones flatly.
“No, you won’t.” He walks over to the sink and rests there, crossing his legs in front of him. “So do you prefer Ronnie or Veronica?”
She crosses her arms and tilts her head. “Veronica.”
The way her wide, red lips stay open on the last vowel is a heavenly thing. He hums.
“Suits you.”
“Oh?”
He throws his head back and raises his hand up as if he’s looking to grasp something out of the air. “It’s a woman’s name.”
“You don’t say,” she says, dryly, and he giggles, actually giggles in response.
“Are you even married to that chump?” He directs his thumb in the direction of the party. “Or is that a front? I hope so for your sake.”
Veronica glides over to the mirror and opens her purse, taking out a compact to powder her nose. He plays with the golden taps of the sink, on and off, on and off, and when he looks up, she’s cooly staring at his reflection. Slowly, she blots her lips. He licks his.
“Fine. How about this, what’s your real name. Is it actually Veronica?”
She smiles at that and it’s one he’s never seen, wicked and one-sided. Her eyes flash at him, as if she’s trying to talk to him that way. Her mouth says nothing.
“Okay. Let’s start again. My name is Logan Echolls. I was born in Toledo, Ohio. A long time ago, I joined the Navy, got shot full of holes, and somehow wound up in this god forsaken place. I co-own a nightclub with my buddy Richard Casablancas, Junior, whom you know as he is our host this evening. I like Poker and also, Bridge, but don’t tell anyone that.”
She laughs, like she hadn't wanted to, and something in his chest warms. He pushes on.
“I’m not much of a reader. I do like to swim. Poorly. I’m harmless. Really. A kitty cat.” He gives her the biggest, softest eyes he can muster.
Veronica regards him, her stare weighty, and then languorously moves towards him, her gown whispering along the floor. When she speaks, her voice is rougher than he’s ever heard it. It gives him goosebumps.
“My name is Veronica Mars. Yes, like the planet and the god.” She is in front of him now. “I was born in Oneonta, NY. I like shopping and small talk.” She leans closer, whispering into the air between them. “Only one of those things is true. Can you guess which?”
Veronica backs away from him until her back hits the wall at the other side of the room. She mirrors his posture exactly. Right down to his clenched fist.
“Now you. Your name is Logan Echolls. That is true. You are a war hero, a naval aviator. An excellent swimmer and dangerous at cards. You speak several languages passably well. You looooove to read or so says the bookseller in the Italian Quarter. You really like the ladies, including several that are out there making small talk right now. You inherited a fortune from your grandfather and live off of it. Not ostentatiously, you keep up appearances though. We’ll come back to that. Your associate Richard Casablancas runs an illegal gambling operation and you’re his pick-up man. You don’t need to do it, you have money, so... what?” She shrugs in feigned confusion. “Loyalty? Boredom? Stupidity? The thrill?”
“Definitely the thrill.” Logan smiles. “Neat parlor trick, blondie. So are you a spy?”
“No, but you are.”
He freezes.
“Don’t worry, buddy. I’m as patriotic as they come. I won’t get in your way if you don’t get in mine. I doubt we have the same objective. You’re here to keep an eye on the Limeys and there’s not much going on on that front. Am I right?”
“You think I’m a spy?” He laughs but his laughter sounds sticky even to himself.
“I know you’re a spy.”
Logan sighs and uses his cane to stand away from the sink, wincing as he does so. Veronica smiles suddenly, meanly, walking over and kicking the cane to the floor with a deliberate swipe of her foot. The sound of it clattering echoes off the walls.
“And you don’t need that cane.”
Logan considers his choices, realizing that that this is it, the biggest mistake he’s ever made in his life, right here. He straightens up and shakes out his legs, ducks his head and looks up at her balefully.
Veronica bites her lip and he can almost hear her deliberating. She's wondering if she went too far, revealed too much. For the first time in their brief and exciting acquaintance, she looks... nervous. “You didn’t limp when you followed me just now. Sloppy for you. I’ve been impressed with your work otherwise. The last few month-- “
He grabs her arm and tugs her to him, gives her a second to be afraid or try to run, but she doesn’t. Her eyes widen and her diamonds earrings cast prisms of light on her face.
Logan leans down to whisper in her ear. “Do you hear that music out there? I haven’t danced in ages. Dance with me.”
He spins her around, two whirls in succession and pulls her in close, his cheek to hers. She is feather-light, easy to move. She follows him like a perfect shadow. Logan is surprised to find that he remembers some of the lyrics and murmurs along to the melody, “I get no kick in a plane/I shouldn't care for those nights in the air/Flying too high with some guy in the sky/Is my idea of nothing to do/But I get a kick out of you.”
“You’re a terrible singer,” she whispers.
When he kisses her, which he does, roughly, he makes it clear he means to wreck her. What she doesn’t know is that he’s wrecked as well. Being discovered should not make his head spin, giddy and full of smothered laughter, this is not an appropriate response, but fuck it. She molds to him and kisses back, bending in his arms. When her hands move up around his neck, he pushes her off, firmly, but doesn’t step away. He looms over her, staring her down.
“So are you a spy, Veronica Mars?”
“I’m a private investigator.”
Logan blinks, this he doesn’t expect. He lets go of her, reluctantly, walks over to the sink, and turns on the cold water. It’s wonderfully chilly. He brings it up to his forehead.
“What are you here to find?”
She doesn’t answer and comes to stand next to him, fixing her hair in the mirror, reapplying her lipstick while he wipes hers off of his lips. She closes the clasp of her clutch with a dull click and walks over to the door, unlocking and opening it with two brisk snaps of her wrist. Veronica stills, doesn’t walk through. Her hand slides up, as if supporting herself, nails red against the doorframe.
“This is not how I dreamed my life would be. Making time with flyboys in a washcloset.”
She turns to look at him, that flaxen hair spilling over her shoulders. He wants to pull it, pull her back, have her right there, turn on all the taps to drown out the noise. Her mouth is open, her lips pull up at the corners.
“See you around, Lieutenant. Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot. Captain.” Veronica salutes him, two fingers at her brow and exits.
He doesn’t follow or fret. He meticulously puts himself back together, piece by incremental piece. There are protocols in place for this type of situation but he knows, just like he knew she wasn’t who she appeared to be, that he has nothing to fear. Not from her, not that way. His heart, fast and loud, like a rabbit’s. Not fear. Something else, something out of the ordinary. He laugh-smiles at himself. Fuck.
Logan straightens his jacket and bowtie, and checks for red against the white one more time. “Veronica Mars,” he whispers reverently in an empty room, grabs his cane, and walks out carefully, back to the party, back to her orbit.
__________________________
Special thanks to lilamadison11 for the gorgeous poster, machaswicket and disdainfullady for beta reading on the fly like champions, and fponthedl for translating some French for me and making Logan sound ridiculous.
One big hug to everyone at loganandveronica for dreaming up this week, everyone who participated - you are all inspiring.
(Psst. bryrosea, there’s a joke in the French dialogue that’s just for you.)