Work Text:
nine years coda
A/N: I accidentally found this story from 2015 mostly complete on my laptop…
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Following a painful year at Hearst and about a month into summer, Veronica quietly accepted her transfer to Stanford. In the next few days, she planned to drive up to the Palo Alto area a mere two months early to acclimate to the Northern California culture.
Some might guess she was running from her problems. Anyone who knew the breadth of her problems would know for a fact that she was.
Only, she still needed to tell Keith.
Post-election scandal, post-criminal scandal, and post-personal scandal, Veronica kept herself scarce even around her father, finding some peace in her solitude during the day when she had the house to herself. When she broke the news to him, it was the first time in a while she allowed herself to call him ‘Dad.’
Before the tears could fall, Keith hugged her tight against him, breathing deeply into her hair. His reaction belied the relief she felt bleed from his skin to hers, and she knew she made the right decision. He would never push her away, but he knew what was best, too.
When evidence of the taboo had been wiped from both their cheeks, they let go.
She used the word ‘Dad’ a lot more after that.
The day she was supposed to leave, Keith suggested they make a road trip out of it. Veronica conceded with little resistance. There was more than enough room in her car; she had most things sent to her apartment directly rather than bring them with her. As for her personal effects, there wasn’t much to speak of.
The drive was pleasant, if a little dull. She’d get used to it all the same; she couldn’t deny her grip on the steering wheel relaxed the further she drove away.
Including pit stops, snack breaks, and the occasional sightseeing, the trip was twelve hours in total. Twelve hours between a fresh start and nineteen tumultuous years.
She dropped Keith off at the airport the day after they arrived with the acceptance their relationship could finally heal with time apart. No stepping on toes or dancing to doubts.
Later, on her second first day of college but still first day at Stanford, Veronica told herself it was a good thing no one knew her. It was what she wanted.
Then, the calls came.
It was two weeks into her first quarter at Stanford, and she really ought to have given him credit for waiting that long, but she was still paying off the last time.
She didn’t pick up.
It wasn’t until a full three days later that she got the nerve to check the message he left her. She let out a sharp, crazed laugh that would have drawn the attention of everyone around her if she had had the inclination to check the message at some time other than three in the morning.
He left her a message telling her he was changing his number. His tone of voice and frequent pauses told her more than his brief message. Her resolve to Stay Away strengthened, and she deleted the message immediately.
She hadn’t finished patting herself on the back when an unrecognized number flashed on her screen and kept flashing again and again even as she rejected the calls or let them ring through completely to her voicemail.
There had been no more messages after the initial, and the calls thinned to sporadic frequency when it was time for her fall quarter finals. Yet still, they had distracted her enough to force her to turn off her phone even in its silence.
That lasted for the rest of her years at Stanford.
The next time she heard from him was the day she walked across a raised stage to accept her diploma. It was a weak moment for her, and she considered picking up her phone.
When they were young and precocious and dreadfully in middle school, she told him her dream was to go to Stanford. He might have recalled the memory, too, and she thought she might give in to hear his voice but it was that same desire that made her decide on the fifth ring that she wasn’t ready to reminisce with him yet. Keeping up her habits, she turned off her phone and walked back into her going-away-party.
It was only when she was safe in New York, she allowed herself to read the text message he’d sent her that night after failing to reach her. Not his style, she knew, but it was one of many others congratulating her.
He must have found her new number from either Wallace or Mac. She knew her father couldn’t have been the one to.
She finished unpacking into her new apartment early—years of moving around taught her how to work efficiently and that memories would only delay progress—and found herself itching under her skin. She had stolen glances at her phone before finally adding him to her phonebook before setting it aside again.
It had been four years and another few thousand miles; she could do this.
In her meticulously organized phonebook, he was simply ‘Logan’ amongst the ‘last name, first name’ contacts that preceded him.
After saving his information, she decided to rearrange her bare apartment another three times before reluctantly deciding she had it right the first time.
And, that was how ‘Logan’ made his way back into her phonebook. Occasionally, she updated it with whatever new number he had kept her up to date with. Perfunctory and unthinking.
In a somewhat reciprocating fashion, the few times she changed her own number, she typed out the most generic mass text message she could muster, closed her eyes, and pressed send.
The addition of a picture in relation to his number was another story.
She blamed it on Mac.
Mac successfully pestered her into letting her visit so they could do touristy things, and she had finally agreed after a respectable week of solid begging and fatherly guilt tripping.
Weighted down with work, Keith hinted it would put him at ease to at least have someone check to see if she was doing alright. As it stood, Keith last saw Veronica during Christmas break, though they often kept each other updated through various calls and messages.
Mac arrived on her doorstep with more than a weekend bag, the pirate-themed book clutched to her front.
“What is that?”
“What’s it look like?”
“It looks like death, but I’ll ask again. What is that?”
“Relax. It won’t hurt you.”
“Debatable. Why do you have that?”
“I knew you wouldn’t have yours.”
“I don’t have to invite misery,” she countered as she let Mac in.
“Point,” she remarked, quickly making herself comfortable on Veronica’s secondhand couch and flipping to an earmarked page. She eagerly pat the cushion next to her.
Veronica humored her, sitting down obediently.
“So, your dad and I—”
She snorted, “Okay, Mom.”
“No. Gross. You know it didn’t work out the last time we tried.”
“Gross to the max.”
“Learn your lesson, Veronica. So, we know you’ve been feeling all weird and unsure about applying to law school, and I thought this would help you decide. It’s our junior yearbook.”
“Okay,” she sighed. “How’s it supposed to help?”
“Do you remember her?”
Dark eyes and a side ponytail looked back at her from the corner of the page. “Kind of. Something about her dog. She was one of my clients…”
“Clients,” Mac snorted. “You busted up a dog ring. Helped her stand up for herself.” She flipped to another page. “What do you remember about him?”
“Casey and the collective…”
“And that one?”
“Jane?”
“You helped her sister ditch her sleazebag fiancé.”
“Right. For the band guy.”
“Yep. Her?”
“Carmen.”
“You helped her ditch her sleazebag boyfriend.”
“That was so not satisfying though.”
“She seemed pretty happy about herself after. Him?”
“I think I would’ve remembered him having a sleazebag boyfriend.”
“Right. No, you helped Norris and the school against that creepy DEA agent.”
Veronica blinked twice. She remembered the ATF agent taking her to the Camelot and then… being saved from an imagined threat.
“What’s your point?”
“I’m not done. Do you remember him?”
“Wallace? Yeah. I vaguely recall. Come on, Mac.”
“Last one, I promise. This,” she points for emphasis at the middle of the page, “fine example of why you shouldn’t let teenagers into Hot Topic without supervision.”
“Aww. It’s mini-Mac.”
At that, Mac promptly closed the book.
“You looked cute. You should get that whole red streak thing going again.”
“Ha. I don’t know about you, Veronica, but high school was pretty much crap. The only good memories I have? Involve you.”
“Mac…”
“I’m just saying. You didn’t just solve cases. You helped a lot of people, Veronica, including me. Especially me and Wallace. Don’t let that get overshadowed, okay?”
Veronica hadn’t affirmed either way.
They spent the rest of the night talking about high school through rose colored glasses, ignoring the overarching bitterness from four years of being outsiders.
The laughing stopped when they got to the club section of the yearbook.
Under a picture, Logan Echolls (left) and Dick Casablancas (right) works on editing an exciting edition of the Neptune Navigator in the school computer lab.
She was pulled into another memory.
She took that picture of him. It might have been during the brief time they were together; it might not have. He was still wearing that stupid necklace, though. She wondered when he stopped and if she would have noticed were she with him still.
It was also pathetically the last picture she took of him. Neither of them were ever really one for pictures.
Unlike his parents, he avoided cameras ardently, more inclined to punch than pose.
For her part, she was more comfortable behind the camera than in front. Late night stakeouts left her feeling vulnerable in front of cameras, hidden or not, as did past experiences. Even now, she kept a small sticker in front of her laptop camera. Just in case.
Calling upon her past covert ops skills, she snapped a picture of the photo as Mac got ready for bed, setting him as the contact photo because she honestly didn’t know what else to do with it.
She couldn’t help but wonder how he looked now.
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Close to a decade after seeing him last, there was another call. The visage of teenage Logan popped up on her phone, present again for another pivotal moment in her life as she sat in the reception area waiting to be interviewed for her dream job. It wasn’t the most opportune of times, but Logan’s involvement in her life always came at some sacrifices.
Confronted by the teenage Logan, she had let out a gasp. And, that was not who she wanted to be.
She fought so hard against her past. Too hard.
Lost in her thoughts, her phone continued to vibrate, disrupting the nervous quiet of the room and agitating the people within.
She hit ignore, and the fragile calm was restored.
Until… her phone rang again.
Her peers were quicker this time to show their disapproval, shooting glares. They huffed and puffed, and Veronica stood to meet all their eyes and left.
Out in the hallway, there was only her. She could turn off her phone just as easily as she could answer it.
She had spent nine years turning off her phone, but this felt oddly different. Like, this was the last call. Like, this would be the one to change things. If only she didn’t pick up and stayed on the trajectory away from whatever it was that picking up the call had meant.
She was on the cusp of something big, she knew.
But, still, she faltered, catching sight of her reflection against the window of the high rise building she worked to belong in and took a shuddering breath.
Veronica told herself not picking up would change things, but picking up didn’t necessarily mean she’d have to give it all up. She could pick up, maybe see what he wanted, probably a favor, she’d help him how she could, and then she’d go into her interview completely unchanged.
She could do it.
Looking down at teenage Logan, she swiped her finger across her phone.
There is silence, and she knew he didn’t think she would pick up either. After a beat, she managed to ask, “So… what’s new?” As if there hadn’t been the nine years of radio silence and enough unresolved issues between them to pave a highway from New York to Los Angeles taking the long way around.
She didn’t mean to fall back into it, but then again—have you ever heard the one about the junkie who was satisfied with just one more taste of the good stuff…?
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A/N: I think I didn’t post this because I was like, why bother when there was so many other stories being posted that were so amazing?? And, now I’m just like, why not? Add to the fire. Let it consume us all.