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Fairytale Ending, PG, 550 words for
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ticketsonmyselfVeronica Mars, Veronica/Weevil, prompt the following lyrics:
Oh, my heart is a thoroughbred
I can't sleep in my bed
Everything is burning up inside me
I need something I can feel
Cigarettes and a driving wheel
And oh my God, when you cross your legs beside me
—Mason Jennings, Sorry Signs on Cash Machines
The problem was with fairytales, and maybe that, despite all her fights and leather jackets and late nights tailing deadbeat trysts at shady motels, Veronica really did want to be a fairytale princess. There were thorns, of course, and families torn asunder, but in the end everything turned out okay. Wounds were healed, the day was saved, and true love blossomed like spring’s first rose.
Only those really were fairytales, as in tales, as in not true. In real life, moms stayed gone and girls stayed dead or raped. Some thorns just stuck in you forever, no matter how much blood you lost trying to yank them out.
Duncan was a fluke, maybe, but Logan was a flat out mistake. Wait, wait, wait. You’re dating Logan again? After the way he treated Lilly? That was the crux, maybe. Even if you cannot learn from your own missteps, you should sure as hell learn from sins against your family, even if Lilly hadn’t been family by blood, even if she was dead and gone. One was naivety and the other was disloyalty, and disloyalty was the worst sin.
The hero is the one who stays. That didn’t just mean stay as in to stay: (verb) to not pick up and leave when the going gets tough but also as in to stay: (true), like Backup or her dad or pre-washed jeans. Logan looked the part of Prince Charming, but he was mercurial. Maybe fairytales just never got around to showing the part where the handsome prince turned on a dime and had sex with girls who slipped the princess a roofie, but Veronica knew that most of the time she did not feel very magical. All she wanted was to let down her hair so she could get the hell out of this mess her life seemed to be pretty much all the time.
Ugh. Stakeouts were the bread and butter of the PI biz, but they gave you too much time to yourself if you had an active mind and a life crumbling down around you. Veronica tended to keep these things in spades.
A tap at the window. Veronica jumped, and then swore at herself. Very detective-y. Weevil, with the credit card receipts from some dive biker bar that he had promised her. His areas of influence were growing; he had branched into paper trails.
“Lookin’ real sharp, there, V.”
“Shut up. Do you have my information, or not?”
Weevil smiled, his lips curling in the way that made Veronica think, deals with the devil every time.
“You got my money?”
Veronica shoved the cash into Weevil’s rough palm. “Is there no honor among thieves?”
“Very little, I’m afraid.” Weevil’s eyes, running over the mess of textbooks and empty Red Bulls littering the front seat. “How much longer you got, you think?”
Veronica frowned up at Room 212. “Forever; the deputy mayor is, apparently, Mr. Stamina.”
Weevil leaned back on his heels, hands stuffed in his pockets, face raised to catch the silvery moonlight.
“Bad neighborhood for a cute girl like you,” he said. “All alone and all.”
And then, before Veronica could stop him, Weevil walked around the car and slid into the passenger’s seat. He leaned back, making himself comfortable enough to stay with her all night.
