"Delta Airlines Flight 421 is now boarding. All ticketed passengers for Flight 421 bound for San Diego, California should…"

Logan Echolls turns the volume on his iPod back up. He has certainly been on enough flights to know the drill. He shoves the magazine he's been flipping through into his carry-on and readies himself to board the plane.

As it takes off, Logan looks regretfully back at the picturesque scenery visible beyond the airport. He has just spent a particularly blissful week at his family's lake house in Vermont - sans phone, sans Internet, sans television - and the thought of going back to Neptune is not at all appealing. It had been wonderful to be shut off from everyone and everything. No one making demands of him, no reporters hounding him, just a week of total and complete calm.

In Logan's own esteemed opinion, he had definitely earned the respite. Having just graduated two weeks ago with his BFA in Screenwriting from U.C. San Diego, he is in a highly celebratory mood. His academic journey had not been an easy one.

Logan had transferred from Hearst College to UCSD the summer after freshman year. Between having made a mess of his relationship with Parker and being the target of a crazed Russian mafia-lord's nephew, he had thought it best to lay low. So he had departed the Neptune Grand and leased an apartment close to campus, where he proceeded (having nothing better to do) to attend class regularly for the first time in his academic career. To his immense surprise, he found his screenwriting classes challenging, enjoyable, and he was – to quote his favorite Professor – "not quite as untalented as the usual riff-raff."

His perky, blonde stewardess interrupts his daydreaming by fawning over him – asking him if he'd like anything to drink, asking him where he's been and where he's off to – he's not sure if she recognizes him from the tabloids or if she's just trying to snag a sugar-daddy. Her enthusiasm makes him second-guess his decision to fly First Class; sometimes the desire for anonymity can outweigh the desire for leg room.

Just as he's debating how best to get rid of her, his phone vibrates in his pocket. He groans. He has only just turned on the phone twenty minutes ago after a full week of having it off and already someone's bugging him.

He takes out the phone and the stewardess – Carly, maybe? Or Caylee? – clears her throat. "Um… actually, sir, you're not technically supposed to use that. It's, like, the rules. Sorry." She nods earnestly, blushing.

Logan gives her his most winning smile. "Well, maybe this can just be our little secret." He winks at her.

The stewardess smiles sweetly, then bends down to whisper in Logan's ear:

"Here's a little secret for ya, buddy. My name is Julie Roman and I work for the Transportation Security Administration. We're conducting an internal investigation on airline compliance and passenger safety, and one of our main concerns involves terrorists who may be concealing explosives in electronics devices such as cellular phones and cameras. If I'm not doing a good enough job of convincing you to switch off the phone, my colleague in Row 25-A – the one who's posing as a Sumo Wrestler - may have better luck. I'm told he's very persuasive."

And with that she stands up, gives him a disingenuous grin, and plucks a cellophane bag from the cart next to her. "So can I interest you in some peanuts?"

As she walks back up the aisle, Logan shakes his head in amusement. All those years spent hanging out with Veronica Mars and he has forgotten the most obvious lesson:

Never underestimate a perky blonde. In fact, the dumber they seem?

The more you should worry.

0000

0000

Veronica Mars.

His encounter with the stewardess/TSA Agent has dredged up unwelcome memories. Logan has been trying – albeit with limited success – to think of her as little as possible for the past two years.

The summer after his first year at UCSD, Logan had called Veronica. His head had been on pretty straight by that point; he wasn't drinking or partying quite as much, he was studying hard, and he was making fairly good grades to boot. After a month or so of dithering, he'd finally worked up the nerve to contact her - to ask her how she was doing, let her know that he was doing well, and to get a sense of whether or not there was any way that they would be able to fit into one another's lives.

It had been a disaster of - pardon the expression - epic proportions.

The phone call had culminated in a screaming match over Veronica's unwillingness to forgive and forget 'the Madison incident.' Veronica had insisted that she was justified in her anger, Logan had blown up at her, and the rest (as they say) is history. Very ancient history.

And despite all that had passed between them, there was something about this particular fight that had felt – even as he was flipping his cell phone shut – so very final to Logan. As if their relationship really had run its course and that it was healthier for both of them to stop dwelling and to move on.

But with this new realization came a dawning sense of dismay: He had fucked up again and lost someone close to him. First Lilly. Then his mom. Then Duncan. Hell, he had even lost his father and Beaver if it came to that. True, they were both psychopaths. But even so, there was still something. Maybe if he had been a better son… a better friend… a better person….

And as he had stood there, cell phone in hand, mourning his relationship with Veronica and trying to convince himself that his self-loathing was counterproductive – the phone had rung. Logan had glanced at the caller display: Dick C.

Dick Casablancas, his one remaining friend.

Dick, who stumbled about in a constant, drunken stupor rather than live with the pain and the guilt. Although Logan understands only too well the appeal of drugs, alcohol, and random hook-ups as an anesthetic, he could feel his friend slipping away from him like everyone else.

Picking up the phone and listening to Dick's heavily slurred and incoherent speech decided it for him then and there. This is not happening anymore. I'm not losing anyone else.

He had picked Dick up at the bar, driven him back to his apartment (Dick had been staying at the Grand by himself since Logan had moved out), and thrown him into the shower fully clothed. He had thrown out all the liquor in the apartment and had informed Dick in no uncertain terms that things were going to change.

Neither of them having had a parent who would do these types of things for them, Logan was definitely improvising. First thing in the morning, he had Googled "local AA meetings." A morning spent researching convinced Logan that what Dick actually needed was not Alcoholics Anonymous, but rather a program called SMART (Self Management and Recovery Training). It was secular and science-based, and rooted in behavioral psychology (which Veronica would have appreciated). Rather than focusing on helplessness and powerlessness, it focused on the idea that humans are capable of getting themselves into big messes – and just as capable of getting themselves out of them. Self-empowerment.

He dragged Dick to the meetings twice a week like clockwork. Without realizing it, he too was absorbing the information from the SMART Recovery programs and coming to terms with some of his own problems. Logan began seeing a counselor at the UCSD student clinic, which proved to be so helpful that he convinced Dick to go to counseling at Hearst. After a few months, Logan asked Dick to stay with him in his San Diego apartment and become his roommate once more.

Two years later and their lives – while not perfect by any stretch – are not half-bad, all things considered. Dick's still in college, of course. Logan thinks it might take him an extra year or two to finish his Business Management degree, which is fine since neither rent nor tuition is a problem for either of them. Logan helps Dick with his economics homework. Dick mocks Logan's screenplays. They go chick-watching at the beach. They surf. Logan does the laundry. Dick, who turns out to be a decent cook, makes them dinner. It is, (in the very, very, very non-gay sense of the term) well... somewhat of a domestic partnership.

As for Veronica... well, he's run into her on occasion. Time has not been kind to her. Oh, she's still as beautiful as she ever was, if not more so. But she's – well, there's really no nice way to say it – a bitch. She's hard-edged, cynical, and sarcastic. As she has been ever since Lilly, really, but she's totally lacking in any of the warm qualities he used to love about her.

The sparkle of her eyes when she had laughed, the delight she had taken in Nancy Drew-ing. The Veronica who could be (although few people saw it) fun, funny – even silly, on occasion. She was still a detective – however, nowadays she did it not with a confident smirk, but with a grim, wrathful determination.

The sex tape had lowered her social standing – such as it was. Keith Mars had been vilified for his actions in protecting her, and Logan can tell that their relationship has suffered for it. Wallace had decided to take a year off to stay in Africa, which put a distance between him and his 'BFF' that had stayed intact even after he had come back. And he hasn't seen her with Mac or anyone else for a good long while. It is just her now - one angry Veronica.

And as far as Logan is concerned? He's well shut of her.

0000

0000

Logan tips the cab driver and rides the elevator up to his sixth floor apartment. He shuts the door behind him, groans at the amount of dishes Dick has let pile up in his absence, and decides to order pizza rather than wash them all. Twenty minutes later, he is nearly finished unpacking when he hears the faint buzz of his phone once more.

He glances at the caller display and rolls his eyes: Dick. Of course. Probably trying to get him to come surfing.

Logan answers it.

"Hey, man, what's up?"

"Hey, dude – Logan? Is that you, man? Where the fuck have you been? I've called you, like, ten times today. Did you get my messages?"

"Dude, don't get your panties in a bunch. I just got home. Oh – hold up a sec. Pizza's here."

"No, wait – Logan!"

But it's too late. Logan answers the door and finds... not the pizza delivery guy. A reporter. A young girl reporter, maybe in her early twenties, looking nervous but determined. His best guess is that Star Magazine has sent her because they assume he won't send her home with a black eye like he'd done with the last one. Unfortunately for Logan, they assumed right.

"Oh, goodness!" Logan affects a southern drawl and puts his hand up to his forehead. "Why, I do declare, my popularity is just through the roof these days! Whatever can I do for you, madam? Doing a follow-up on Daddie Dearest? Mommie Dearest?" He affects a faux-surprised look. "Or do you come bearing news? Did Trina break off her engagement again?"

The reporter actually blushes. Wow, this one really was green. "I was actually wondering… if you wanted to offer some words of support to the Mars family during this difficult time?"

Logan frowns. Her words make no sense. "What…?"

She continues, oblivious to his confusion. "Or have you been in touch with Mr. Mars already? Did he call you and tell you the news personally?"

His mind a blur, Logan does the only thing he can think of. He picks up the phone.

"What's going on, Dick?" His mouth is dry. "Tell me."

"Dude!" Dick's voice is panicked. "Don't flip a shit, okay? Something happened yesterday…" Dick's voice is swimming in Logan's consciousness. Random words come filtering through every so often: 'Veronica' and 'Fitzpatricks' and 'attack' and 'hospital' and 'life support.'

Life support. His heart seizes. His father had been on life support, briefly, as per his "Please, Please Resuscitate!" order. They had done it, even though there had been no hope. No hope. His knees go weak. The phone drops to the floor.

"You… did you just find out?" That was the reporter, whom Logan had forgotten was still standing in his doorway. "They told me you knew!"

Logan wants to say something to her, mostly to tell her to get the fuck out, but he can't seem to speak right now.

"Shit! Are you okay?" asks the girl. "Do you need me to call someone?"

Logan shakes his head. "No," he manages to get out. "I'm fine."

The girl makes an angry, exasperated noise. "Fuck. I wasn't cut out for this. I signed up to do fashion spreads. I'm sorry. Shit, I'm sorry."

Her phone rings. "Shit," she says again.

She answers it. "Ariel Schuck, Star Magazine Intern. Oh – hi, Mr. Mulroney." Her eyes flick in Logan's direction. "Yes, he was home. He – he slammed the door in my face. Between you and me, I don't think it's a story. Whatever was between them... I think it's long over." There is a pause. "Sure. Yeah, I'll swing by Costner's. No problem."

She hangs her phone up. "I think I bought you some time. But lay low the next couple days, okay? And there might be some undercover reporters from other magazines, so don't trust anyone who…" the girl sighs. "Just don't trust anyone."

Logan attempts a weak smile. "Yeah, I already got that one covered, thanks."

The reporter smiles sympathetically and leaves.

Logan spends the next forty-eight hours obsessively watching the media coverage on Veronica. He doesn't learn much that is new. "Critical Condition." "Doctors are uncertain." "Yet to regain consciousness." "Potential brain damage." Each word stabs him through the chest. Star Magazine online has coverage on the case. He is mentioned only in passing – as in "Veronica Mars, ex-girlfriend of Aaron Echolls' son."

And there is nothing about his reaction beyond that he 'could not be reached for comment.'

If he weren't feeling so rotten right now, he'd take out a fucking subscription.

0000

0000

He resists Dick's attempts to get him to go surfing. He has a few drinks; not so many that Dick says anything, but more than he's had in the last few months.

"Logan, bro, you have two choices. You can sit here and be frickin' miserable. Or you can go and try to, like, chill. You know? And I know you missed your session with the shrink this week – and, like, dude – this kinda shit is totally what shrinks are there for. They live for this stuff. Misery and death-"

Logan flinches.

"You know I'm right, dude."

Veronica's voice is inside his head. She is standing on the beach with Backup, wearing a pink hoodie, and she is seventeen years old. "You're saying you want me dead?" she'd asked him.

"Yes," he'd said. Yes.

And then three months later he'd heard on his car radio that a bus with Veronica on it had gone plunging off a cliff and into the ocean.

That had been a special kind of hell. And he's back in it now, after all these years.

Feels like he'd never left.

0000

0000

Three days after he'd heard the news, his phone rings again. There is no name on the caller display, but he thinks he could really go for screaming at a paparazzi right now. He answers.

"Yeah?"

"Logan?" The male voice is familiar. "Hey, man, it's Wallace."

Logan sits bolt upright. "Wallace – is Veronica - ? Did Veronica - ?"

"Yeah," says Wallace. Every molecule of air seems to rush out of Logan's lungs at the same moment. His vision starts blurring and either the room is tilting dangerously or his body is slipping sideways -

"She woke up last night," he continues.

Logan nearly chokes on the relief that floods his throat and slows down the heavy thudding of his heart. He gasps out an involuntary, "oh," and then bites his breath back sharply, not trusting himself to say anything.

"Yeah. The thing is, man… we need you to come to the hospital. And see her."

Logan is still fighting to control his breathing, and it takes a few seconds for Wallace's request to even process in his mind. He is not a man who is easily taken by surprise, but this conversation has just about finished him off.

"You're kidding," he says, half-laughing.

"Wish I was."

It's impossible, but… "Did she - ask for me?"

A few seconds of silence. "More like she's… expecting you."

"Why the hell would she be expecting me? She can't stand me. Last time I saw her, sh-"

"Man, you think I like having to ask you for this?" Wallace interrupts, his voice uncharacteristically savage. "Speaking as the one who had to pick up the pieces last time, believe me, I don't."

"Pick up the pieces?" growls Logan. "Yeah, you're a real pal. What'd you do – have her fax the pieces to Africa and collect them one by one?"

Logan had been hoping to strike a nerve; he is spoiling for a good fight. Fighting is one of the few things he is good at, aside from sitting around uselessly while people he loves get hurt, disappear, and die. Usually they die.

Wallace doesn't rise to his bait. Logan spends the next fifteen seconds with the phone pressed tightly to his ear, a hollow and unsatisfying silence on the other line. It's finally broken by Wallace, who (goddammit) sounds like he might be on the verge of crying.

"Look... yell at me all you want if it'll make you feel better, Echolls. It's nothing I haven't already been telling myself. But Veronica needs you."

Determined to provoke him into anger, Logan sighs dramatically. "Look, pal, the only thing that would make me 'feel better' would be ending this conversation. Is the connection on your end okay? It is? Well, then, listen well, young man: I don't care about Veronica."

In the heat of the moment, it feels almost true.

Wallace takes a deep breath before saying calmly, "I know you don't care about her now. But if you ever did – at all - then I'm asking you to come."

Wallace's tone of voice is so serious that his heart speeds up painfully. "You're not telling me something," Logan accuses him flatly. "Is she okay?"

A weary sigh reaches Logan's ears. "Yes, of course there are things I'm not telling you. I'm in a fucking – sorry, Ma'am – I'm in a public building. And no, she's not okay. Look, are you coming or not, man? I can only make up excuses for you for so long."

What the hell did that mean?

Logan's curiosity (and concern, although he won't let himself admit it) get the better of him.

"When do you need me there, Fennel?"

"As soon as humanly possible, Echolls. Thanks, man. We owe you one.