Author's Note: We interrupt my regularly scheduled re-writing of S4 to bring you this fluffstorm of a hurt/comfort sick day story instead. The world seems a scary and terrible place and I think we all need a little snuggling and coddling from a grouchy, soft-hearted Veronica, don't you think? This will have more than one chapter, depending on how much unabashed fluff and Logan henleys I need to feel better.

This takes place in Season 3 Hearst College, sometime when Logan and Veronica were happily dating.

Sick Days 101: Remedial Lessons for Rich Boys

"Rich people have the worst couches." Veronica rolled over and flopped onto her back with a wince, her ponytail going crooked where she laid on it. "Like, you can afford a helipad, but can't shell out for cushions that don't feel like they're stuffed with chrome?"

"We rich people are into looks over comfort, in case women's fashion didn't clue you in," Logan said. "And my bed's open, if you don't like the couch."

She laughed stuffily, then blew her nose and tossed the tissue at the growing mound on the coffee table. "Gotta give you points for persistence. Not even the Leaning Tower of Kleenex puts you off your endgame of getting me into bed."

"Can I help it if you're still pretty when you're sick?" He sat on the edge of the couch and kissed her cheekbone, which was a good choice since it was maybe the only place on her body that wasn't Kleenex-chapped, puffy, or otherwise made disgusting by the cold she'd caught working the case of the missing artisanal beeswax crayons in a preschool last week.

She gave him a coy smile, feeling a little less disgusting under the glow of her boyfriend's attentions. Until he stood up and grabbed his backpack.

"Anyway, I'm off to be stimulated. Intellectually, that is." He waggled his eyebrows at her. "Need me to grab you anything from the store while I'm gone?"

"Seriously? Today you decide to break the great truancy streak of 2006?" She grabbed the remote and clicked on the TV. "Guess I'm not that pretty when I'm sick after all," she muttered.

Logan frowned. "Uh, did you want me to cut class?"

"No," she snapped. She didn't need to beg anyone to hang out with her. She was fun, dammit. People wanted to hang out with her for…well, for fun. Dammit.

Logan shifted his weight. "Because you made some pretty pointed comments last week about attendance grades and GPAs. Statements were made about the innate unsexiness of the playboy lifestyle and how the title needed to be changed to something more accurate to its true nature. Like flaccid weight on society."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm sure I didn't say it like that."

"Trust me, a man never forgets the word 'flaccid' coming out of his girlfriend's mouth." He tossed his keys and caught them again, tilting his head. "If you want me to stay, just say so. I'm happy to be as flaccid of a weight as society ever shouldered. Especially if it comes with a hot blonde on my uncomfortable couch."

"I'm not going to tell you what to do." She stared at the TV, which was deeply interesting because it was playing…pictures. Also colors. Probably.

He shifted his weight and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Uh, I'm getting some seriously mixed messages here. Because it sort of seemed like you wanted your space. When you rejected the first three blankets I brought you, then kicked me off the couch because I was 'ten million degrees' and also criticized my furniture choice. And my Kleenex brand. And my shoes."

"Would I have come over here in the first place if I wanted space?" She sat up and threw the blanket aside. "You know what? Never mind. I'll just go home and get out of your way. You're going to class anyway."

"What? Don't go home. Your dad's out of town. At least here you can order food if you get hungry." He looked distressed. "Who will clean up after you if you don't have maids?"

"Oh, don't strain your housekeeping department on my account," she snapped, reaching for her messenger bag.

He caught her by the arms when she tried to stomp past. "Veronica. Hey, don't be like that. I'm happy to stay. I wanted to stay. I just thought I was kind of pissing you off, and that if I cut class you'd be even more pissed off." He rubbed her arms.

She scowled at the ground. "You're not pissing me off."

"Uh-huh."

She scowled harder, because she was being a bitch and she didn't mean to be a bitch but he didn't need to make it sound like she was always mad at him because she wasn't hardly ever mad at him, not really, and she just wanted him to cuddle her and why did every boyfriend NEED to be told when a girl wanted to be cuddled, anyway?

She let her head fall into his chest with a huff. "I'm sorry," she grumbled. "I'm sick, I feel like ass, and I don't mean to be grouchy."

His arms closed around her and he kissed her mussed hair, next to her crooked ponytail. "Seriously, it's fine. I know you think you're being high maintenance if you tell me what you want, but I want to know what you want."

"Somebody must think I'm high maintenance," she sniffled. "Dick called me a P.I.-zilla."

Logan chuckled. "Dick thinks a girl is high maintenance if she asks to use the shower after they have sex. He doesn't get to make the rules around here."

She frowned harder, squirming against his chest. Her skin all felt wrong, and not enough of it could be touching him at once. Skin was stupid.

"What?"

"Nothing?"

"Veronica."

She scowled, nuzzling her face deeper into his shirt. Which smelled delicious, dammit. "Maybe I wanted somebody to take care of me like they did when I was little, okay?" she growled. Her dad was out of town chasing a bail jumper and their house was silent and depressing and didn't smell all nice and Logan-y. "Who doesn't want that when they're sick?"

"I already did that! When I was little, the nanny would go out and get me a multi-pack of Day-quil and Nyquil." He gestured to the packets on the counter.

Veronica looked to the packets, looked to him. "Seriously? That's it?"

Now she wasn't sure if she wanted to be annoyed at his very stunted nurturing skills, or heartbroken at the idea of little Logan, sick in bed with nothing more than a box of Nyquil to comfort him. Her chest gave a painful little twang.

"Uh, yeah?" He stepped back, scratched his head. "I mean, Nyquil is good for you, right?"

She groaned. "That's it. You have no idea how to be sick, Echolls." She grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the bedroom.

"I feel like that wasn't as much of a kinky challenge as it sounded like."

Veronica towed faster, and he trailed along obediently.

"But if it makes you feel better, I'm pretty sure I've kissed your germs all over me by now and I'm going to get a lot more practice at being sick in a couple of days here."

"I mean, everybody's been sick before." She dropped his hand and looked at him seriously. "But like, taking a proper sick day. You are crap at it. First, we need to get you out of those clothes."

"Now, we're talking." He reached for his belt, and his pants hit the floor.

Veronica turned away to rummage through the dresser. "You need to wear your oldest, grungiest sweats."

"So not what I had in mind."

She snorted, but ignored him. "They need to be soft, and nice, but also super old and gross because when you're sick you feel terrible so you can't stand to wear anything nice. And also because vomit." She stepped away from the dresser. "I can't find anything in there. Where do you keep your sweats?"

He shrugged out of his shirt and stood in his boxers, being annoyingly hot as he opened a new drawer and pulled out a shirt.

"Not the sexy Henley, Logan, God!" She groaned and snatched it out of his hands, then went back to digging through the drawers. "Don't you own anything with holes in it?"

"Why would I keep anything with holes in it?"

"You're hopeless." She tossed him the shirt. "Okay, wear the Henley, but don't say I didn't warn you."

"That you find it sexy?" He pulled it on and winked at her. "I feel fully warned."

"And if you don't own anything but jeans, I guess you'll just have to stay in boxers."

He glanced down at his bare legs, the hint of unease passing through his face.

Veronica wagged her finger. "Uh-uh-uh. This is not about looking cool, Logan, that's where you've got this all wrong. The second rule of sick days is—" She broke off, a spasm crossing her face, then bolted for the bathroom.

"Holding your hair back?" Logan asked, crouching by the toilet and rescuing a few stray strands from her sweaty cheeks as she retched. "Because I'm pretty sure I had that one down after you got food poisoning at Dick's beach barbecue this summer."

When she was finished, she flushed the toilet and fell back on the tile floor, gasping. "Shit. Well, this is as good of a place as any for the second lesson."

He raised an eyebrow and she grabbed at his sleeve, tugging weakly until he laid gingerly on the floor next to her. "You're lucky I know how often the maids clean this floor, or I might ditch class on that second lesson of yours."

"Germophobe," she rasped.

"You know what you were saying about rich people couches?" He shifted with a grimace. "I'm not really sure we've got the whole comfortable tile thing figured out, either."

"See, that's where you're wrong." She turned on her side, huffing with the effort as she let her head list down against the floor. God, had her head always been this heavy? "Feel that?"

He turned on his side, brown eyes inquisitive. He looked surprisingly adorable in his excruciatingly expensive Henley and clashing plaid boxer shorts. "Feel what?" he whispered back, like they were at a sleepover.

"How nice and cool the tile is on your face." Her skin was clinging to the surface a little, because she was all clammy and hot. She groaned. God, she felt like death. She was never taking a case in a preschool ever again, no matter how expensive the stolen crayons. "Nothing like cool tile when you're sick."

"Hmm, that is nice," Logan murmured, brushing sweaty strands of hair away from her face so they couldn't do that terrible tickle-itch thing they had been doing. Logan was nice. He understood about stupid hair when you were stupidly sick on a stupid fancy hotel room floor.

Veronica closed her eyes. "I'm going to think just for a second, about what the third lesson is."

"Mm-hmm," he said, and his voice was like a velvet carpet. How could a voice sound like that? It was almost like she was floating along, chasing the last midnight blue swoop of its sound but she couldn't quite catch it…

#

Veronica shifted, and her shoulder ground into something hard. "Ugh." Her mouth tasted sour, and dry. Had she been kidnapped? She licked her lips. No gag, and this didn't have that astringent aftertaste of chloroform. But then, why was she lying on a floor if she hadn't been kidnapped?

"Welcome back, teach."

She dragged open one eye to find Logan lounging suavely against the bathroom wall, or as suavely as anyone could lounge with hairy legs and plaid boxer shorts. He made it look annoyingly graceful, though, one knee cocked up and his wrist draped across it, the phone he'd been playing with dangling from his hand.

"Ugh, where did I go wrong?" she groaned, hauling herself up to sitting. A fluffy towel fell from where it had been draped over her like a blanket and she stared down at another towel, folded into a soft pad with the dent of her head in it.

"I tried to carry you back to the living room," Logan explained. "But you made a sound like a bull moose and I got frightened."

She scoffed, shoving her misguided ponytail out of her face. "Like you know the difference in vocalizations between a bull moose and a cow moose."

"Shouldn't the female be called a heifer?"

"I'll alert the management to the discrepancy." She sagged against the bathroom sink and thought things over for a minute. "I'm dying," she concluded.

"Okay," he said. "Can we still put the thing about Victoria's Secret on your tombstone?"

She gave him finger pistols. "You betcha, champ."

He grinned, his eyes getting that happy glint that she only saw when they were alone. "That's what I like to hear." He hopped to his feet and extended a hand.

She lifted hers—had her hands always been this heavy?—and he pulled her so easily to her feet that she went airborne in a little unanticipated hop. She attempted to look as if this was not sexy.

Logan grinned. "Yes, I have been working out. Thanks for asking."

She snorted, then glanced around the bathroom, wishing she would have left a toothbrush over here.

"Hold out your hands and close your eyes."

"Ugh, I hate that game." But she also really wanted to know what he was going to give her. She slowly extended her hands.

"I know." His grin widened. "That's why it's my favorite."

She squeeeeeezed her eyes closed, the edges trembling with the need to peek.

"No peeking."

"I wasn't peeking!" More than a little bit, anyway. Through the eyelashes didn't count. She was certain the Geneva Conventions were clear on that count.

"Mouthwash," he said, dropping it into her left. "And hairbrush" to her right.

"Ooh, really?" Her eyes sprang open. "I didn't think I had a hairbrush over here!"

"I had the concierge bring one up after the last time you went tearing through the bathroom, muttering, 'Why the fuck don't I have a hairbrush over here?'"

"You sure it wasn't after the last time Dick came crying to you because I used his?"

"If you knew how much he paid for that hairbrush, you'd know why he cried about it."

"If I knew how much he paid for that hairbrush, I'd probably cry about it." She made use of both his presents, then kissed him on the cheek. "Okay, just give me two or three weeks to crawl back to the living room, and we can resume your instruction."

"Unnecessary," he said, sweeping her off her feet and into his arms. "I am an eager and energetic pupil, simply bursting with the need to learn. Also, I've been working out."

"Yeah, yeah, keep it to yourself, Casanova." She hid her smile in the front of his shirt, which smelled way too good for sick day clothes. She decided to give him a pass on that rule. Just this once.

He sat down on the couch, keeping her in his lap. "Next lesson, please!" He dropped a pert kiss to the tip of her nose. "Unless you've decided I'm all caught up on how to be sick."

"Nope, still remedial. You're remanded to study hall until further notice."

He snuggled her a little closer on his lap. "Damn. Well, may the punishment be long and the crimes be damning."

"The only question is…" She held out her hands, weighing the two empty palms against each other. "Should the next lesson be sick day movies, or snuggling?"

He tugged her redone ponytail. "Let's live dangerously, doll. Let's double major."

She kissed the top button on his Henley, which was all she could reach without having to move any part of her annoyingly heavy body. "I like the way you think, pretty boy."

"Just wait until you see the way I snuggle."

Author's Note: The floggings will continue until morale improves. And by floggings I mean updates.