Title: Forty Miles from the Sun

Author: Wynn

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Veronica Mars. They are owned by Rob Thomas, UPN, Warner Brothers, Joel Silver, etc. and are used for non-profit, entertainment purposes only.

AN: Graduate school sucks, at least when it comes to fic writing. But now that I am on winter break, I have time to write and have returned to finish 40 Miles. If you can call this a finish. Because it really isn't.

Chapter Five: The Wind Cries Veronica

By: Wynn

Home. The concept sounded strange to Veronica, and she'd only been gone two days. Two days and everything changed. Or nothing had changed except herself. Her room looked the same; the same cotton sheets covered her bed; the same pictures lined her walls. But the room felt different. She felt different. She sat on the edge of her bed, hands clasped between her knees, and let her eyes wander around the room, trying to find something familiar, something solid she could hold on to and not drift away in memories of the day before.

Her gaze fell to the picture on her nightstand. A simple black frame enclosed a snapshot of her father she'd taken one day last summer. Up to his elbows in soap suds, a wet, wriggling Backup in his arms, a wide smile creasing his tanned face. Veronica picked the picture up, laid it down in her lap, and stared at that smile until it seared its way into her brain, until it drove the day before to the back of her mind and kept it there.

The bed dipped beside her. Veronica felt her father wrap one arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him, closed her eyes, and breathed him in, breathed in the scent of soap and blue skies, of coffee and the hot sauce he liked to eat with his eggs.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Veronica shook her head.

"Because I think we should talk about it."

"I know you do."

"I'm worried about you, Veronica."

"I know you are."

"Because yesterday…" Her dad drifted off and tightened his hold on her shoulders. He kissed the top of her head, and she felt his sigh ruffle the loose strands of her hair. She knew thoughts of yesterday flashed through his mind, her frantic phone call, his tense drive down through Mexico, because he had already been on his way since their last call the night before, him finding her shaken and soft and letting the tears flow unbidden, unceasing until they matched the Pacific with their depth. She knew he remembered and wanted to talk. Wanted to deal.

"My little girl…"

Veronica leaned back and looked up. "Is lucky to have a dad like you."

Her dad smiled and kissed the top of her head again. Then he looked down at her, his eyes troubled and serious. She wanted the wide, face-creasing smile back, wanted to see him as happy as he was that one summer morning a long time ago, but she didn't know how to ease his mind when her own still rocked and rolled like the turbulent sea.

"I still think we should talk about what happened yesterday. Every dad instinct I have tells me we should talk about it."

"I know. And we will. Sometime."

"But not now."

Veronica shook her head. Her dad stared at her a moment longer, the debate over whether or not to push clear on his face. The moment passed, and he stood and said, "Wallace called twice this morning."

"What did you tell him?"

"That you caught a nasty case of Montezuma's Revenge down in Mexico and had locked yourself in the bathroom indefinitely."

One corner of her mouth curved up into a smile. "What did he say to that?"

"That the next time he called I better think of a better excuse for you not coming to the phone than a bad case of the runs."

And the corner curve bloomed into a full-fledged grin. "If he calls again, tell him I'll talk to him tomorrow at school."

"You're going to school tomorrow?"

"Well, it is Monday. I thought I could put in an appearance."

Her dad shot her a look, but she could tell he was pleased with her spark of sarcastic life. "Dinner's in thirty minutes. Pork chops and mac 'n' cheese. The real stuff, too. No powder this time."

"And people say we aren't high class."

"Hey, nothing's too good for my little girl."

Another tilt of a smile and then her dad slipped back out of her room as quietly as he had entered. Veronica set the picture back on her nightstand. She still felt different, like an out of focus copy of the sharp girl who'd sneaked and schemed and plotted her way after Duncan and the truth three days ago. But she had both feet on the ground now and a beacon to guide her back to the girl she had been before.

Backup trotted into her room then, his tail whipping back and forth a million miles per second. He had his leash in his mouth and a hopeful look in his eyes. He placed his head on her knees and looked up at her with big, beautiful, brown eyes that every conman in the country wished he had. One look from those eyes and Veronica wanted to give him all the dog biscuits money could buy.

She took the leash from his mouth and scratched the top of his head. His butt wriggled in pleasure and another smile made its way onto Veronica's face. Okay, so she had two beacons. A dad beacon and a dog beacon. One to leave her alone when she needed space to deal and one to drag her out into the real world and make her deal whether she wanted to or not.

She stood and let Backup drag her out into the real world.

She decided that she could start dealing tomorrow.

…………

The message was there on her cell phone when she woke Monday morning, ready to return to school and start dealing.

"Hey, Veronica. It's, uh, it's me. I know we should talk, but it's, it's better this way. I just… I wanted to say that I'm sorry. For hurting you. Because I know I did. I didn't… I don't… I wish things could be different. Between us. But they're not, and I, I know they never will be. So I just wanted to tell you again that I'm sorry. Because I am. I hope you know that.

"I love you.

"Bye."

Veronica turned off her phone and crawled back into bed.

She decided that she could start dealing tomorrow.

…………

"So do you want to talk about it?"

Veronica looked up from the turkey surprise she was picking to death with her fork and found Wallace staring at her over the lunch table. Staring at her like he was waiting for her to say something. She felt a momentary pang of guilt for not paying attention to him, for allowing the thoughts inside her head take her over again, and she said, "I'm sorry, what?"

"I asked if you wanted to talk about it."

Veronica looked back down at her food. "There's nothing to talk about, Wallace."

"You don't actually expect me to believe that do you?"

Her hand tightened on her fork. "Why not? It's the truth."

"Bullshit."

"Wallace…"

"No. Don't Wallace me. Something's wrong, Veronica. You know it. I know it. You know that I know it. So don't play this game you're trying to play."

"It's not a game."

"No. It isn't." Wallace looked down, drew in a deep breath. Then he said, "Look, Veronica, you don't have to act like everything's all right when it obviously isn't. If you don't want to talk about what happened in Mexico, just say so. Just, just don't lie to me, all right?"

Her momentary pang of guilt quickened into a fixed focus, hanging heavy in her gut. After all of her harping about wanting to know the truth this weekend, she came back and lied to Wallace, Wallace who lied for her and helped her and called her four times since she came back just to check up on her. She laid her fork down and said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean… No. I did mean to lie, but I didn't mean to hurt you."

"It's all right."

"No, it isn't. It's just…" Veronica looked away. Her eyes drifted over to the 09er table, to where Duncan and Logan should have been but weren't. For all Veronica knew, they were both still in Mexico, wallowing in their respective guilt as they drowned their sorrows in tequila and the hot desert sun. She closed her eyes and tried to push it all away, push Duncan and Logan to the dark corners of her mind where the truth about Shelly's party and the death of Lilly lurked, seeping poison into her slow, steady, until all she was were lies. "It's just. I don't know…"

"Don't know what?"

"Anything. Everything."

"Do you want to know?"

Did she want to know? She had. In the past. Before. Before she knew. From the night Lilly died to the day her mom left to the morning she woke up alone and different in a strange bed in a strange house, all Veronica had wanted was to know. Know what. Know why. It drove her and consumed her. It sent her down to Mexico, tough and determined; it sent her back to Neptune, broken and soft. She breathed truth like oxygen and choked on the lies, and she was choking now, fading fast, drowning in memories both misty and fraudulent.

Did she want to know?

Did she?

Was the truth worth the price, worth the pain? Could she live the lie, push it all away and exist as though the past week, past month, past year had never happened?

Veronica looked up at Wallace, at beacon number three, and nodded. Hard. Tough. Determined. "I want to know."

Wallace smiled and nodded in return. "Okay. Okay, good. So, now, the question is, how would you go about knowing what you don't know?"

Veronica sighed. Her eyes slid back over to the 09er table again, to the two empty spaces and the people they signified. "Probably by doing what I don't do best."

"Which is what?"

Which was honesty. Which was communication. Which was facing the pain instead of pushing it away, pushing it back to the far dark corners of her mind.

"I'll deal."

She'd deal with Duncan, but to do that, she knew, meant dealing with Logan, and dealing with Logan meant dealing with Logan, something she knew neither one of them wanted to do at the moment, but something she suspected both of them needed to do.

The lunch bell rang, and Veronica got up. She dumped her tray into the nearest trash can and waited for Wallace to do the same. Then she said, "Thank you."

Wallace shrugged. "It's no big thing."

"No. Uh-huh. Don't 'It's no big thing' me. It isa big thing, Wallace. You know it. I know it. You know that I know it. So don't play this game you're trying to play."

A small smile appeared on Wallace's face. "It's not a game."

"No. It's not."

And it wasn't. It wasn't a game; it was her life. And she needed to get back in it, living it instead of letting it live, instead of sitting on the sidelines, timid and afraid. It was what they wanted, all of them. They wanted her quiet. They wanted her soft. They wanted her afraid to push and push and push until all they could do was push back and reveal the truths they so desperately tried to hide.

The truths she was born to find.

The truths she was going to find.

Tomorrow.

…………

The second message appeared while she traced a trail on her computer.

"I love you, and I'm sorry."

That was all he wrote, but it was enough. For now, at least. More would be said later. Tomorrow, maybe.

I hope you know that. I love you.

No.

I love you, and I'm sorry.

No.

More would be said now. Now, not later. Today, not tomorrow.

Veronica hung up and got up and left her room.

It was time to deal.

…………

She stormed into the room, not pausing to knock, not stopping, even for a second, to allow the doubts and fears and hesitations take control. His bedroom was dark, the lights off, the blinds closed. Light from the hall spilled in behind her, illuminating the alcohol soaked interior, and she was taken back to the motel in Mexico, to before, not even a week ago but longer than a lifetime.

Logan sat on the floor like then; one hand perched on a mostly empty liquor bottle like then. She strode over and wrenched it from his hands, ignoring him and his startled cries of protest. Heading for the bathroom, she dumped the liquor, vodka by the sweat soaked looks of the label, down the sink, watching it swirl into the drain, slow and steady. Then she spun around and returned to the room.

"We need to talk."

Logan sat on the floor still, his feet bare, clad in a pair of wrinkled jeans and an old t-shirt. His hair stuck up at odd angles on his head and the beginnings of a beard shaded his face. He squinted up at her, blinked twice, and said, "That was my last bottle."

"Good."

"Good? Good? Are you fucking high? I need-"

"You need to shut up, that's what you need to do."

"If-"

"No. Stop. I don't want to hear it."

"You don't even know what I was going to say."

"Something wry maybe. Something snappy. Something about me wanting you to talk and shut up at the same time. Something distracting so you don't have to talk because you don't want to talk. You want to sit in the dark and drink until you forget. Or at least until you can pass out and wake up remembering how much you don't care. How am I doing? Am I close?"

"You're off the green. In a sand trap somewhere."

She gritted her teeth and tried her best not to rise to his snippy bait. "I got your message."

Logan stood and turned away from her. He walked over to his chest of drawers, started randomly sifting through the stuff strewn across the top. "And you wanted to drop your Dear, John letter off in person? Always were one for the personal touches, Mars."

And she had lift-off. "What the hell is your problem?"

"My problem? Shit, Veronica, are you serious?" He turned back towards her, and she could see the tears in his eyes, even in the dim light, could hear them in his voice, over and across the space between them. "My problem… Why are you here? You should be filing a fucking restraining order against me right now, not barging into my room wanting to have a little chat."

"Yeah, well, we all make mistakes, don't we, Logan? Don't make me regret this one."

He sat down on his bed, flipped the Zippo he now held in his hands open then shut, open then shut. He snapped a final time, stared down at it, then said, "What do you want to talk about?"

Hesitation slipped past her anger and bravado, and she paused. She drew in a deep breath, then another. In for a penny, in for a pound, Mars. "I want to talk about Duncan."

Logan didn't say anything. He didn't move. His knuckles were white, curved around the lighter. "What about Duncan?"

"He's in Reno. And I don't think he's coming back unless someone goes and gets him."

"And what? You want me to go and bring him back?"

"No. I want us to go and bring him back."

He looked at her then, his gaze sharp through the alcohol haze. She forced herself not to look away, not to squirm or flinch or shift her position under his stare. "You can't be serious," he said.

"I am."

"You can't think this is a good idea."

"I really don't."

"Then why?"

Because she wasn't afraid.

"I have my reasons," she said. Logan raised an eyebrow at that, and she said, "Avenging angel, remember?"

He stared at her a moment then gave a slow nod. "And you're using me in your quest for liberty and justice for all."

"Something like that. Look, Logan, nothing's changed. It's still Duncan. And he's still gone because of us-"

"Because of me."

"He's not running from you."

"He wouldn't be running if-"

"Can we not, just now? Please."

Logan closed his mouth and swallowed. He set the lighter on his nightstand; spread his hands flat on the bedspread. Veronica looked away then forced herself to look back. Forced herself to say, "You said you'd changed. Here's your chance to prove it."

He ran a hand over his neck, up through his messy hair. She saw his eyes flicker over to her then down to the floor. He worked his jaw around then said, "You have a plan?"

"Yeah. I'll pick you up tomorrow at 8, and we'll use the weekend to go to Reno and convince Duncan to come back."

"What about school? Tomorrow's Friday."

"You haven't been there all week, Logan. I doubt you really care about missing one more day."

"That's not what I meant."

"Oh." Veronica looked down, looked away. She shrugged one shoulder and said, "I've got it covered." Really, Wallace had it covered; helping her forge a fake doctor's note he would turn in to the office to explain away her absence tomorrow. That still left her dad, who, Veronica knew, would be just as opposed to this little excursion as he was to the last. Most likely more opposed, and more angry when he discovered the truth this time, but Veronica would cross that particular bridge when it came.

"So, um, try to be ready when I get here. And by be ready, I mean be sober."

"Yeah, I kind of figured that with the bottle dumping."

Veronica nodded then stopped. Logan wasn't looking at her. It didn't matter anyway. She turned to go and heard him say, "I meant what I said." He spoke soft, so soft, and she wondered for a moment whether it was just a whisper from the back of her mind. He didn't say anything else, and Veronica didn't ask what. She didn't ask why. She didn't slow; she didn't stop. Her fingernails bit into her arms, and she blinked away the tears that formed in her eyes as she left the room and didn't look back.

She decided that she could start dealing tomorrow.

…………

end

To be continued in "On the Bound," a Logan POV fic.