TITLE: Precipitation
AUTHOR: vanessagalore
CHARACTER: Veronica
WORD COUNT: 2174
RATING: R
SUMMARY: Even the weather seems to be against Veronica.
SPOILERS: Vague spoilers for the whole series.
WARNINGS: Cursing.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by zaftig_darling. All remaining errors are my responsibility. Inspired by Mini-Challenge #2 at the Dreamwidth community 'vmfictitious' and the "torrent" prompt at the 'inkstains' Dreamwidth community. (See my profile for more info on vmfictitious.)

The peculiar whoosh of tires meeting wet pavement—a murmuring unheard for months. Slicked cobblestones and umbrellas half-bent, awkwardly wielded. A sunlit expanse taunts from beyond, with a rainbow threatening.

I will not cry. This little drop on my cheek? It's not a tear. It's rain. It's definitely rain.

A lady brushes against me, her umbrella spewing water on me. I deserve this. I deserve to be soaked; I'm nothing. She hurries on, oblivious.

What the hell...it never rains in Neptune.

Why didn't I bring an umbrella?

What does it matter? It's just a little rain. A trickle works its way down my neck, insidious, uncomfortable. My hair adheres to my scalp, the ponytail a sodden weight on my collar.

A man, clearly annoyed at the inconvenient weather, barrels toward me. His glance slides over me and then returns, fixed and knowing.

Is he picturing me naked and cheering? Or maybe he recognizes me as the daughter of the twice-disgraced sheriff? I avoid his eyes and turn, pretending to look at the display in the window. My eyes unfocus; the tchotchkes blur and disappear.

It's burned into my retinas: "Prosecutor files charges against Mars."

My shoes are ruined, these cute little Jimmy Choos I saved weeks for.

And I don't care.

•••••

Finally I reach the sanctity of my car. I can have a meltdown in private, but now that I'm here, the tears refuse to come. I pull out my cell, and my finger hovers over "3".

How do I protect him? What do I do? What have I done?

I imagine Logan, beaten and bleeding, or maybe even dead. If I'm lucky, just a few new scars on his face to match the ones he keeps hidden with long sleeves. I think about the faint white lines etched on Logan's back, a graph of daddy dearest's excoriations. Aaron's cruel voice, forever whispering in Logan's ear, twisting the truth, "See what you made me do?"

Yesterday is still a blur of adrenaline and regret. Again...again, I try to think what I could have done differently.

A moment of pure exultation when Logan glanced at me, bloody and triumphant, and a lifetime of dread to follow.

Yes, see what I made him do?

Of course he pummeled Gory. Did I really expect anything else?

Stupid, stupid, STUPID Veronica.

I tap the "3" key lightly, trying to find the courage to dial. Yeah, "3". I never changed it on my phone; I pretended that I forgot to delete it. But I didn't forget. I couldn't take him off speed dial. I know that makes me pathetic. Or hopeful. Or deluded. Or something.

You never quite get over the first boy who saves you from a gun-wielding, psychotic rapist-slash-mass murderer.

A firm press, because I am NOT a coward. Five rings, and it goes to voice mail. "You've reached Logan Echolls. 'It is not because the truth is too difficult to see that we make mistakes...we make mistakes because the easiest and most comfortable course for us is to seek insight where it accords with our emotions—especially selfish ones.' Alexander Solzhenitsyn. Leave a message after the—"

Panic—because it's so fucking true. I thumb the "send" key to disconnect.

The bile hits the back of my throat, and I pant a little, trying not to throw up.

When the hell did he get so wise?

•••••

At Neptune Memorial Hospital, there's no one admitted under the name of Echolls. I drive to Good Samaritan in a blur. Wipers thud, thud, thud, the water swirling at the base of the windshield. I just barely avoid an accident with another Southern Californian who sucks at driving in the rain. At Good Samaritan, the triage nurse looks at me with pity as she shakes her head 'no'.

Back in the car, I try his cell again. Straight to voice mail now...what the hell does that mean? He's safe, just avoiding me? He's dead, lying in a ditch? Or floating under the Coronado?

I will the phone to ring. Call me...tell me you're okay. And then I pray it won't. Don't tell me, I don't want to know he's—

I realize: My whole life, it's going to be panic and fear every time the phone rings.

Rivulets of water pool on my car windows; a thousand fingers tap on the roof. How do people in Seattle do it? I feel drenched, waterlogged. All those negative ions are doing something to me.

I let myself fantasize about ways to murder Gory. A hit and run. Swap his Tylenol for something more deadly. A pipe bomb, with a timer, Wallace would help me to—

There you go again, Veronica. Brilliant idea, get your best friend involved in a murder scheme.

I imagine Wallace, naked from the waist up, being shocked by a device around his neck while they interrogated him. He didn't even hesitate when I asked—my friends always jump to help me.

Wait...is Gory going to go after Wallace too? He's going to realize...he's going to put it together...

What do I do? Do we all go into witness protection? All my friends—

Oh fuck.

Mac.

Mac helped me with the hard drive. Would Mr. Kane figure out that I would have had help...? Is Gory going to...? Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Try to breathe, try to breathe, try to bre—

A motherfucking thunderclap! All those times I took God's name in vain...maybe I should head to St. Mary's and—

You are so full of it, Veronica. You aren't important enough for God to worry about. Like you confessing to God would convince him of anything!

"No. Just Veronica Mars. What a disappointment."

Another rumble of far-off thunder, and a deluge of water pours from the skies.

•••••

Somehow I drive to the beach. I slot the gearshift into park and turn off the key.

It's still fucking raining. Without the wipers battling the rainfall, the water flows unimpeded down the windshield. I watch as the drips follow some map that only they understand.

I pick a little at my ruined, disintegrating shoes—collateral damage from my recklessness.

Six pm...I turn on the radio. "Early results are in for the Balboa County Special Election, and it's a landslide. With 88% of the votes counted, Van Lowe is projected to win the sheriff's office with 71% to 18% for Mars. The Balboa County Prosecutor's Office released a statement that they've suspended Sheriff Mars's private investigator's license while investigating claims of ethics violations. In other news—" I twisted the knob, practically snapping it off.

Did you really think your dad had any chance, Veronica? Good job, kid. You found out who made the video, after it already went viral and the whole fucking world saw it (thank you, Dick), but you can't do a goddamn thing to them, and you broke about fourteen federal statutes in the process. So your dad had to save your ass again and give up the job he loved.

I abandon my shoes and step out of the car. Wet sand sifts between my toes. Good memories then: mom and dad and me playing in the waves, me and Logan in Catalina, me and Backup playing Frisbee, me and Wallace flying remote control planes.

I'm saturated in a few seconds, hair plastered to my scalp, every bit of clothing drenched—I feel like the rain is soaking into my pores. I'd slosh if you could hear it over the dull roar of precipitation.

At the edge of the ocean, I stand with the waves lapping at the hems of my jeans. I'd thought that I was already waterlogged, but the fabric becomes heavier, wraps itself insidiously, somehow sticky on my legs...how can wetness be sticky?

The ocean is slate-blue—a color I didn't know existed—all dark and turbulent, throbbing with lacy edges of froth and unease. A solitary insane windsurfer soars far offshore, tumbling and spinning. He catches a gust and sails impossibly fast. The board skims a mogul of steep-sloped wave, almost a flip!, before flailing onto the waves in defeat. A moment of terror (do I call for help?), and then a head appears above the surge, followed by a body hoisting itself onto the board to try again. An expert twist of the sail and the board flies off downwind, disappearing from sight.

I wade in a little. It's warm and cold at once, with pinpricks of rain on my exposed skin. Almost clinically, I note the goose flesh as my body reacts automatically. The sand shifts beneath my feet, and I stumble and shuffle, regaining my balance.

A steel-colored sky looms, with no evidence of the sunset that should be imminent. I search my memory—'nimbostratus', I think. The dense and ominous billows press against the sea, with tinges of whiteness betraying the sun's futile attempts to break through the clouds.

I step forward into the turbulence. A rush of water surrounds my legs, sucking me down, pulling me in. I lurch back, onto the uncertain sands and the unsteadiness of the verge, with the eddies taunting me and the waves lapping at me hungrily.

A voice...no, voices.

"There she is!"

I turn and see them. Dad, Logan, and Wallace. Dad hurries to me, ignoring the water lapping at his feet (we're a fine couple of gumshoes, I think, ridiculously). He bundles me into his arms and whispers hoarsely, "I've been so worried about you. Where have you been?" He pulls me onto the shore and urges me toward the parking lot. The four of us, bedraggled, make slow progress through the harsh wind.

I'm embarrassed by how wet I am. It's nonsensical. Of course I'm wet. I've been standing outside in the rain. I've been wading in the ocean. Of course I'm soaked. Now Logan's talking and I struggle to listen.

"When you didn't show up for dinner, your dad called me. I told him you called me twice but didn't leave a message."

"I've been calling you. Why didn't you answer?" Dad asks.

I realize how scared he was. How scared he is. Fumbling for my phone, I look at the screen. The battery's dead...I've been meaning to get a replacement. "My phone died." I show him; it's somehow important that he believe me.

"Oh honey."

I look at his face, and then at Logan's. And then I look at Wallace, who's been uncharacteristically quiet. He mutters, "We've been worried about you, Vee."

And then I get it. They've talked. They know everything. I search their faces. I wonder if Dad's seen the video, and I cringe. Between the three of them, they have the whole sordid story.

Dad says, "We'll figure it out. We're going to be safe."

"Mac..." I whisper. "She helped—"

"That's what I thought," he replies with a nod. "She's at the house, working the phones."

I look at Logan. "I went to the hospitals...I thought..."

"No, I'm okay. I haven't been back to the Grand. Your dad said he'd find me a place to crash." Logan's familiar face regards me with concern, just a little swollen from the altercation in the food court, but basically unscarred. "I'll drive her back in the Saturn," he suggests, and my dad nods.

Dad puts me in the passenger seat of my car, pulling the seat belt over and buckling it, and I flash back to being five years old, still only 34 pounds and 39 inches tall, so California law said I still had to be in a child safety seat. I begged and pleaded, and Dad said, "It's the law, Veronica—maybe you should eat more," as he strapped me in against my will.

And then I picture this man who loved the law, who lived for upholding the law, breaking it to save me. I don't quite know what he did—it's clear to me that he thinks it's better if I don't know—but last night he said, "There's nothing to worry about, Veronica. We don't ever need to talk about it again."

I tremble a little, and Dad sweeps a hand across my brow. "It's going to be okay, Veronica."

Logan picks up my sodden shoes and puts them behind the seat. He starts up the car as my dad shuts the passenger door. We drive back to Sunset Cliffs, and Logan holds out his hand for me. I take it, and he squeezes hard.

I look in the side view mirror, and I see Dad and Wallace following in Dad's sedan. "I— I'm...—" I'm stuttering, blathering. "I, uh, wonder...do you think it's ever going to stop raining?"

"Yeah, this rain is ridiculous." A quick glance at me, and I wonder what he's really thinking. His thumb slides across the back of my hand, and I think how much I've missed that casual gesture. Flippant, as always, he says, "Don't you know it never rains in Southern California?"