SUMMARY: someday these will be our old days, let's make them worth remembering -- an alternative ending to "Look Who's Stalking." SPOILERS through Look Who's Stalking.

Thanks: To Em, for the crackdealing, to austin for the conference calling, and to sosmitten for her kindness and encouragement.

I'm not entirely sure how I got here.

Not the Neptune Grand, obviously because -- duh, alternaprom.  I spent quite a bit of time and energy getting dressed, getting pretty, getting over to Wallace's so Butters and Mac could pick us up in that ridiculous Rolls Royce.  I know how I got here in the literal sense.

Which is only tangentially related to how I ended up standing in the lobby, pointless little evening bag half-strangled in my hand, unable to bring myself to take that last step and leave the hotel.  Because Logan said all of those things, and he looked at me like that, and what kind of moron am I to run away from him?  Again.

"G'night, V'ronica!" slurs the female half of a tipsy, dressed up couple as they head for the door.  I don't recognize the voice, but I'm pretty sure Emily Cameron was wearing that particular shade of puce.  Unfortunate.

"Good night," I answer, shivering a bit when a draft teases across my back.  Love this dress (loved the stunned look on Logan's face when he saw it), but it certainly doesn't protect against chills.  Which is kind of besides the point.  Why am I not following Emily and her date, exactly?  Why am I not heading home, leaving tipsy temptation in his hotel suite with many, many willing bimbos?

And what in God’s name am I doing going back?  Opening the clutch, I manage to extricate my Sidekick with far more effort than should be necessary.  Wouldn't be using the purse at all if Mac let me accessorize my little black dress with my messenger bag.  You'd think someone with revolving Manic Panic streaks in her hair wouldn't be quite so rigid about eveningwear dos and don'ts.

Staring blankly at the elevator bank, I tell myself to leave, to put the phone away, to let sleeping, drunken dogs lie.  Somebody should've mentioned this to my traitorous fingers, because I already pressed "Send."

"Oh, God," I mutter, wrinkling my nose in dreadas the phone rings. Can't hang up now, and damn if I can't come up with one single, solitary lie to cover my tracks.  Me, Veronica Mars, master actor, able to charm the most unsentimental peole with the tilt of my head and a well-delivered sob story, and I'm completely stumped.

On the fourth ring, my hand shifts on the phone, because the last thing I need right now is to hear which trite inspirational quote Logan chose for alternaprom day.  Something like, dance as if no one's watching, no doubt.  I shouldn't find his ironic messages funny.  I shouldn't find him funny, and I really need to hang up--

"'Lo?  Veronica?"

I'm speechless, because how does he know–-?  Caller ID, and I am really off my game.  Probably I should say something, because running out on someone and then prank calling him -- not exactly straight out of the girl handbook.

Or so I've heard.  Obviously, no one ever bothered to give me a copy.

The music from his suite sounds tinny and overwhelming, and it kind of hurts my ears, but I can hear him breathing for a moment before he repeats my name.  "Veronica."

"I'm downstairs."  Okay, seriously.  What the hell am I doing?  Wincing, I brace myself for the inevitable cutting remark about better luck finding a john in the bar next to the Camelot.

Logan simply exhales.  "I'll be right down."

"Logan--"  But he already hung up, and he's on his way down here, and every single muscle in my body tenses for flight.  "Crap."  Turning in a tight circle, I barely notice the alarmed look from some pinched-mouth businessman his expensive hooker as they approach the elevators via a large, Veronica-avoiding arc.

I can't stop staring at the Sidekick in my hands, and it shocks me a little to realize that my hands are shaking.  I am seriously torn.  The safe course would be to run -- again, because I am really very good at it.  But I seem to be waiting here for Logan to stumble off the elevator and--

And what?  What comes next?  My stomach does a little flip-flop at the possibilities.  What can I possibly say to him after his little confession?  Sure, it was fueled by champagne and desperation, but for better or worse, I know Logan well enough to recognize when he's letting me in.  He's done it a few times now, which was a hell of a lot more than I've ever done for him.  Every single time I decide to trust him, I've found another reason to doubt him.

Shelley's party.  Lilly's murder.  Aaron's secret sex cameras.

Each time, I trusted the evidence instead of my gut, and to make things infinitely worse, I lied to him about it.

Probably the most honest I've ever been with him was the night I ended things, the night I told Logan that I couldn't stay with him and watch him self-destruct.  My throat tightens just remembering the broken look on his face that night.  I've run away from him time after time, accused him of raping me, of killing Lilly, of being hell bent on suicide-by-PCHers, but somehow in his mind that makes us an epic love story.

Epic.

I shiver just remembering the way he said the word.  Are we epic?  For months I've told myself that we were over, that we'd never been anything but a chemical reaction, an impulse born from shared trauma.

Tonight, staring at a bank of elevators with my heart in my throat, I am absolutely certain that I was wrong.  We might flame out spectacularly, but whatever this thing is between us, it's more than a reaction to Lilly's death and Aaron Echoll's betrayal.

Ding.

The elevator.  God.  I can't breathe.  I can't do anything but stare at the doors.

Logan turns sideways to get through the elevator doors before they open all the way, his eyes finding me instantly.  I only have time for one shuddering breath and then he's here, looming over me with those hands of his dancing along my bare shoulders, skimming down my arms.  "Logan--"  He cuts off whatever idiotic thing I was about to say, wrapping me tight in his arms and kissing me.

And it's not an introductory kiss or a welcome home kiss or even an apologetic kiss -- it's hot and desperate, and my fingers curl tight into his rumpled dress shirt, pulling his dangling bow tie free by accident.  His tongue tastes like champagne and his fingers trail across the exposed skin of my lower back until I shiver.  Logan makes a sound halfway between a moan and a whimper, and urges me backwards until my shoulder blades hit the wall and I gasp into his mouth.

"Veronica," he mutters, backing off just far enough to press kisses along my jaw.  "God, Veronica."

"I know," I answer, but I don't even know what I mean, can't process anything but the feel of him after months of bitterness and worry.  I wrap my arms around his neck, letting his bowtie dangle from my fingers as I bury my face in his neck and inhale.  It's amazing how much I missed this, and much I didn't know I missed it until now.  He smells the same -- expensive cologne and alcohol.

"Don't leave," he murmurs, pressing feverish kisses along my shoulder, his voice shaking just a little bit.  "Please, Veronica, don't leave me."

The plaintive note in his voice breaks something inside of me.  He might be drunk, but he means every word he said.  I lean back as much as I can with his body pinning me to the wall, reaching up to frame his face in my hands.  He's evasive, his gaze avoiding mine until I say his name.  "I won't," I tell him, and I mean it.  People suck, and they hurt you, and they leave you when you need them the most.  There are always a couple people you can trust, and I've learned to be careful who I choose to let in.  Somehow when I wasn't paying attention, Logan made his way onto my short list of trusted people, and I'm no good at declarations but I need him to understand that.  "I won't leave."

His eyes are suspiciously wet as he jerks a nod, his hands tightening on my waist.  So I kiss him again.  His knee slides between my thighs, and I'm on my tiptoes, unable to bear any space between us.

"God," Madison Sinclair's unmistakable voice cuts right into our blissful oblivion.  "Get a room.  Oh, I forgot -- you probably can't afford to entertain your boyfriends in an expensive hotel like this."

I can feel Logan's entire body tense as he begins to pull away.  My fingers dig into his back, willing him to hold still.  I kiss him sweetly.  "Don't."

Logan shakes his head, frustrated and breathing hard with a mixture of lust and anger.  "But she's--"

"A heinous bitch," I suggest, pitching my voice loud enough for the bitch in question to hear.

"Or are you making Logan pay for the hotel room, too?" Madison snarks, and I don't even have to look at her to picture the expression on her face.

Logan arms are corded steel under my hands, and I just hold on tighter, leaning my head to the side to nail Madison with a knowing look.  "Why don't you call the Sheriff, Madison? Share your insight with the law.  I'm sure he'd run right over to give you a good--"

"Whatever," Madison interrupts loudly, her face flushed pink.  "Why don't you take him to some skanky motel on your side of town?"

It takes Logan a second, and then his eyes go wide and his head whips around to watch Madison storm off.  "Wait," he says, turning back to me.  "Madison and--"

"Yes," I confirm, trying not to make a face.  Because, seriously –- eeewwww.

From Logan's grimace, he agrees.  "How did you possibly–-?"

"I know people," I remind him, brushing my fingertips down his arms.  He's still clearly pissed off, and we can't have that.  "And I don't care what she thinks."  He frowns, searching my face for... well, I'm not sure what he's looking for, but I know when he kisses my forehead that he's found it.

"Okay."  Leaning closer, Logan wraps his arms around my waist and picks me up without warning.  I can't help the surprised yelp, but he just shrugs and gives me that shit-eating smirk of his.  "You're so short."

"Did you ever think that maybe you're just freakishly tall?" I shoot back.

He leans against me, effectively pinning me to the wall with my feet dangling a couple of inches off the ground.  It feels really, really good, his body pressed tight against mine.

"So," Logan asks, his gaze dropping repeatedly to the neckline of my dress.  Curious, I chance a peak and, wow, our position is doing some impressive things for my near non-existent cleavage.  "What do you think?" Logan asks.

Since I have no earthly idea what he's talking about, I can't possibly answer.  "Think about what?"

He ducks his head, pressing kisses along my cheek.  "Me," he mumbles shyly.  "Us.  This."

I consider his question for a moment.  There are a lot of perfectly good reasons for me to leave him, to end this and never look back.  He was right when he said that we could easily drift apart this summer -– we don't, after all, run in the same circles.  Well, unless David Boreanaz suddenly starts inviting me to his Hollywood parties.  Not that I remember Logan going surfing with David Boreanaz or anything, but whatever.

Logan tenses against me and he eases back, guiding me back to the floor.  He stares down at me, his eyes begging.  "Veronica?"

No one has ever said my name with quite the same mixture of affection, lust, and uncertainty.  Logan was horrible to me for a year, he's said terrible, awful things (and slept with terrible, awful people), and he has an infuriating tendency to use his status to get his way.  But under all of that is the sweet, surprisingly sensitive guy I fell for a long time ago, the guy who would bleed himself dry if I asked him.  The depth of his devotion to me still scares me, but I'm finally starting to understand that my devotion to him?  A little scary-deep, too.

My life would probably be so much simpler if I could just walk away from him.  Unfortunately, it would also be a lot less enjoyable. Logan is irrepressible, and he makes the lows incredibly, soul-crushingly low.  But he also makes the highs exhileratingly high, and, well, no one's ever called Logan Echolls boring.  Taking a deep, unsteady breath, I step forward and twine my arms around his neck.  "I think," I answer, using my best teasing tone, "that we should get a room."

Logan's eyes widen comically, and in pretty much any other circumstance, I would be mocking him.  "What?" he splutters, even as his hands land low on my hips.

"We," I repeat, enunciating each word with precision, "should get a room."  I punctuate my suggestion by leaning in and nibbling on his neck.  I can feel his reaction and it makes me grin against his skin.

"But I have the suite," he points out, a little unsteadily.

"There are many, many drunken high school graduates in your suite right now," I counter, always the logical one.  His dazed expression just makes this more fun.  It's not as easy as you might think to leave Logan Echolls speechless.

"Veronica–-"

I cut off his feeble protest with a kiss.  "I don't think you're going to want an audience."

His eyes go dark and he sucks in a breath.  "God."

"No," I answer, shaking my head with affected disappointment.  "Veronica.  Geez."

He cracks a smile, one hand slipping along my lower back, dipping beneath the edge of my dress.  "You sure?"

God, if I wasn't before, I would be now.  The goosebumps along my skin should really be answer enough, but I know he's trying to be a gentleman.  Well, as much as it's possible to be a gentleman while discussing whether or not to get a hotel room with someone, I suppose.  Baby steps.  "It's alternaprom night.  The least we can do is live the stereotype."

He rolls his eyes.  "Dear Diary, Tonight after prom I plan to let my sweetiemuffin peel my perfectly cut designer dress from my trembling body and do all manner of sinful things–-"

Laughing, I lean up and silence him with a kiss.  "Smartass."

Logan tilts his head in smug agreement, his fingers tracing designs on my back.

"But you got one small detail wrong."  I lower my voice and push up onto my tiptoes, whispering directly into his ear.  "I plan to let my sweetiemuffin peel my dress off with his teeth and then I plan to do all manner of sinful things to his trembling body."  I lean back, extricating myself from him with some difficulty, considering the way his entire body just went rigid.  Seriously, I shouldn't be enjoying his open-mouthed shock this much, especially since I am a nervous, trembling mess on the inside.  From a safe distance, I carefully smooth my dress, then use his elbow to turn him toward the front desk.  "Now go."

He makes an inarticulate choking noise, so I smack his ass for good measure.  Seriously.  Great ass.  Plus, the look he shoots me over his shoulder is priceless.  If I'm reading him right, he's torn between laughing and tearing my dress off.  Point, me.

I move toward the elevator doors, standing demurely as I watch Logan's pathetic attempts to appear respectable as he reaches the front desk.  He apparently doesn't notice that his shirt is still partially untucked and his suspenders are dangling down his thighs.  The transaction doesn't take long, and I really do try not to grin stupidly at the back of his head the whole time he's away from me.  I'm not deluded enough to think I succeeded.

The way he struts his way back to me sets me to laughing.  I really, really missed this –- the lighthearted Logan with his sexual innuendo and his kindness. He flashes the keycard at me and waggles his eyebrows.  "We," he announces, offering his arm with an exaggerated bow, "have an incredible second-floor view of the office park next door."

"Oooh."  I lace my arm through his and step onto the waiting elevator.  "You sure do know how to treat a girl right."  Logan's playful expression falls a little at that, and I turn into his arms.  "You do," I tell him seriously.  We've done a lot of damage to each other over the past couple years, but he has to know I wouldn't be here if he wasn't a good man.  "You do treat me right."

He doesn't seem to believe me at first, but then he gives me that lopsided grin.  "I do my best," he answers breezily, leaning in for a lingering kiss.

The elevator doors slide open and I peel myself away from him, holding out my hand.  "Coming?"  As soon as the word leaves my mouth, I groan and cover my face with one hand.  My father would call that a hanging slider right over the plate.  I don't expect Logan to let it pass him by.

"Almost too easy," Logan tells me, putting a faux thoughtful finger to his chin and smirking all the while, "but I believe the proper response would be Repeatedly, I hope."

"Okay," I answer with a mock sigh, feigning resignation to my inevitable fate.  "Guess we better get started, then."  

"Guess so," Logan answers, his smile genuine and a little bit shy.  I can't quite keep up the world-weary act when Logan takes my hand and follows me off the elevator.

THE END

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