Mr. Fix It

Veronica unlocked her front door and ducked inside to the sound of muttering coming from the bathroom. Not quite swearing, but not quite not swearing. The light was shining out into the hall from the open door, though, so she dropped her messenger bag and keys and headed that way, leaning a leather-clad shoulder against the doorframe.

Logan was on his hands and knees in ripped jeans and an old tee shirt with a slash of paint across the shoulder that matched their living room walls. The back of the toilet tank was open and he had a wrench in hand. She took a second to enjoy the sight of her very fit boyfriend doing manual labor, and another second to be disappointed at the lack of a sexy tool belt.

Then she said, "So my ex, who clearly still has a thing for me, told me I should marry you."

"Huh. And I didn't even tip him for the pizza."

"He called you 'chill.'"

"Did you tell him I can't even fix a toilet?" Logan planted hands on his knees and shoved back to standing, replacing the toilet tank cover. "That might cool him off."

She ignored that. Logan hated that he didn't know how to do boring, normal things around the house, remnants of growing up with movie star parents. Hell, she'd had to show him how to pull start a lawn mower that first time when he was helping around her dad's house after the car accident. But she didn't mind that.

What she minded was that he still hadn't looked at her.

"Also, I pulled a gun at some PCHers and nearly got killed."

He flipped the wrench, caught it. "That tracks."

He brushed by her on the way out of the bathroom.

She turned to follow him, her eyebrows getting a workout. "You're not going to say I should have brought someone as backup?"

"You know that." He flipped on the kitchen faucet and smiled brightly. "Look, you just said it and everything."

"Are you serious right now?"

He tilted his head, pulling a towel off the rack to dry his hands. "Yes. No. All of the above. None of the above. You answer it." He tossed the towel down without rehanging it. "You answer it. Lately, nothing I say is what you want to hear. And frankly, vice versa."

Veronica caught her breath, feeling like he'd just slammed a door in her face even though all he was doing was packing up the toolbox and carrying it back to the bedroom closet. She tugged at her necklace until it bit into the back of her neck. Jesus, she couldn't take a breath these days without ending up owing him an apology. She'd been trying to be honest, tell him about her day. Maybe it was too much to ask that being jokingly honest about Leo's comment would somehow help heal the uneasiness between them that that 'long lunch' text message had only made worse. But shouldn't she at least get points for trying?

"I'm gonna go for a run," he called.

She swallowed a frustrated sigh. Running was a page out of the Therapy Logan playbook. He needed space, but she got defensive when he asked for it right out, and they fought when he just walked out. A run was his version of a compromise: the truth with its balls cut off.

Healthy. Valid. Annoying.

She planted herself in the bedroom door, too upset to even enjoy it when he pulled his shirt off and swapped it for a breathable athletic shirt whose lack of sleeves would leave the beach bunnies sweating harder than he was. Her fingernails curled into her palms with a bite and she opened her mouth, closed it.

She'd done that a thousand times lately, it seemed like, reaching for the right words and not finding them. Leaving to go chase a case every time that niggle of fear tugged at her, warning that maybe it was too late and there were no right words between them anymore.

Her relationship with Logan was the only thing in her life where uncovering the truth didn't fix anything.

"How about this?" she finally said, a little catch to her voice that she hated. "I don't care if you can fix a toilet." She tried for a smile, her necklace wound so tight around her fingers that they were starting to go cold from lack of circulation. "I thought I'd been clear that all I wanted from you was sexual favors, witty repartee, and the occasional pickle jar opened."

That dragged half a smile out of him. He kicked off his boxers and pulled on athletic shorts, commando style. "Remember the time I came home from deployment and your jar of pickles had expired, unopened? I nearly quit the Navy right there."

He turned sideways to edge past her in the doorway, but dropped a kiss on the forehead as he went.

"Maybe just three miles. I'll be back before too long."

It was a peace offering. Saying they were okay, but not all right. It's how they'd been limping everything along the whole time he'd been back.

She caught his thick wrist. He stopped but then she gripped even harder as fear bolted through her. If she didn't accept the Band Aid, would they bleed out?

"Are you mad at me?" It felt pitiful to say it out loud, like a child pleading with their mother to stay. She tried to swallow away the lump in her throat because she and Logan both knew all too well. People like them…their mothers never stayed, so they learned not to beg.

"Hey…" He pulled her into his arms, his skin warm through the thin fabric, and rested his chin on top of her head. "No." He sighed. "It's just…"

She swallowed again but that lump wasn't going away. "What's it gonna take to get rid of that ellipses, huh?"

"I don't know. I—" He kissed her forehead, pausing for a long moment. "I don't know."

"I hate this."

"Me too."

The lump was getting bigger and now he was the one clutching too tight. Holding on to her instead of holding her and dammit if his voice cracked right now, hers would shatter.

"Do you need me to marry you?" she squeaked out. "Because if that's the only thing that will fix this, goddammit, I'll do it. I don't care if—"

"No." He was rocking them both a little now and she wished she could see his face but she didn't dare let him go. Like this hug was the only détente they'd found in weeks and it had to work. It just had to. "No, hey. It's not even that. I get not trusting the institution of marriage, or not caring about the piece of paper. If it doesn't mean something good to you then I don't want it for you. I just felt like I had you, and now I feel like I don't, somehow."

"You have me." Veronica gripped him hard enough that her arms were leaving a dent in the muscles of his back. Her cheekbone probably digging into his pec until it hurt. She had to convince both of them because she couldn't stand the alternative. "Tell me how to prove it. Tell me what I can do, Logan."

It was what he said, usually. What he'd said so many times before, and the answer had always been trust. Trust that she had never been ready to give to him. Was that what he couldn't give her now?

"Don't go to work tomorrow," he said. "Stay home, okay? Just you and me."

It wasn't an answer, but it was a start.

She was right in the middle of the bomber case, and he might strike again at any minute. The police were more competent nowdays, but they weren't getting anywhere, and the town needed her. But that feeling tasted of deja vu—there was always a case, always an emergency, and Logan had been getting pushed aside for those for years. She bit the inside of her lip. He deserved better.

"All right." She nodded against his chest, rubbing the dampness at the corner of her eye away on his shirt. "Don't go for that run?"

"Okay. I won't."

She took an experimental step back, just a small one, holding her breath. But it didn't shatter the moment. He was still there with her, his hands falling to her waist and lingering there and his sad eyes so so familiar. They'd known each other so many years, through so much worse than this. Maybe they could still muddle through.

And when she took a step toward the bedroom, he followed.

THE END

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