Summary: Future fic. She always feels stuck on the ground while he feels like he'll never catch up with her. Logan/Veronica Oneshot.

Disclaimer: I own nothing; go away. Geez.

A/N: Written for Lindsay's Cheesy Love Song Challenge on Livejournal. My challenge was Lay, Lady, Lay by Bob Dylan.


She doesn't stay.

If he could repeat one truth for the rest of his life, it would be that. Every night they mold together like clay under sweaty cotton sheets, burning each other with fingertips and tongues that ache to release secrets but never get their opportunity. He thinks that maybe this is what it will always come down to: him, alone, a bottle of vodka in his hand and the blurred city lights keeping him afloat.

Because she doesn't stay; she never has. It's not in her nature.

She runs, flies, leaps and bounds through her life without ever looking back to see the people she leaves behind. Some of them (Wallace, Keith, Mac) manage to keep up with her breakneck pace, while others (like him) are forced to watch her walk away again and pretend it doesn't sting.

Even the pedestrians on New York City sidewalks make slower paths than hers.


She taps her fingers on the balcony railing and stares at the cars on the street below. She always feels like she's stuck on the ground, destined to remain left behind every else while they travel the world and write best sellers and give birth to adorable twin baby girls.

She doesn't know that he thinks she's too far ahead for him to catch up.

If she did, maybe she would hold on a little tighter. Maybe she wouldn't leave whisper-soft kisses against his forehead before slipping out of his apartment in the mornings. She leaves because she has to; she won't hold him back. And she doesn't like maybes (they're too uncertain) and she thinks she should (maybe) just stop guessing and go (after him, them, stay in the circle of his arms and see where this ends up).

Fifteen floors up on the balcony of his apartment: this is where she flies.

City lights stop her from following her impulse, though. Red means stop, and when the sun filters through his curtains in the morning it casts eerie red shadows across his skin.


He fumbles with the lamp next to his bed for too long and eventually tosses his dirty (black) shirt over the shade to dim the light. She giggles underneath him and he sighs against her neck, damp fingers fluttering across the (green) seams of her t-shirt while she teases his nipple with her teeth.

Her hands tangle in his hair and he lets out a groan that sounds like her name as he tugs coarse denim down over her thighs, tickling her feet as he tosses her jeans to the floor. She kicks at him ineffectually, earning a grin as he crawls back up her body.

Blue eyes stare up at him in awe, a soft smile spread across kiss-swollen strawberry lips and he feels like maybe, just this once, he's moving at the same pace as her. She's no longer that automatic sidewalk he can't seem to hold down; she's his and only his, if only for a moment.

Later, when he's inside her, their pace is so in synch he feels like he could cry.


She stares at the ceiling while he sleeps beside her, an arm draped carelessly across her stomach. His head is nestled against the crook of her neck, breath tickling her skin with every exhale. She traces the muscles of his forearm and closes her eyes for a moment, focusing on his pulse and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

Moments like these are the ones that make her feel like she's moving forward.

These seconds are the ones that force her to reconsider her opinion of maybes, realize that (maybe) she can be with him and keep flying. Fifteen feet above the New York City streets, crashing against him as opposed to staying stuck on the ground, hand clasped in his in a blatant display of their relationship.

Because the pavement is dirty and is cracked and old, breaking up that feeling of a comfort zone. Here, now, with the familiar muscles of his body tucked against the soft curves of hers: this is the comfort zone she has now.

She turns her head and kisses his nose delicately, smiling slightly when he pulls her closer. She thinks she might love him; she only wishes she could hold on long enough to find out for sure.

The question of his affection for her has never even come up. It's never had to.

And that might be the reason that she turns off the alarm on her cell phone before pressing herself against him to sleep.

Outside, the street light turns green.


The lights are blurred in his vision and he groans, rolling over to bury his face further into his pillow. It's morning again (she's gone, she's gone, she's gone), much too early to wake up, and he doesn't want to face the day ahead of him. If he sleeps long enough then the reality of her leaving him again won't hurt so badly (or so he tells himself, at least).

When he comes into contact with another body he freezes, eyes opening, burning against the sunlight to prove that he's not crazy.

Veronica curls up against him further, sighing against his chest and laying tiny kisses against any skin she can reach. "Morning," she whispers against his shoulder, smiling as she wraps an arm around his waist. He swallows hard as he wraps his arms around her, pulling her against him tightly.

"Morning," Logan whispers, pressing a kiss against her temple. It's quiet for what seems like hours before he gets up the courage to ask her why she stayed this time. She traces her nails up his spine and shrugs a little, kissing the angle of his jaw. Her first instinct is to respond with a snarky comment, but she's tired of the dishonesty hidden behind those.

"Felt like holding on," she replies softly. Her eyes meet his and he smiles at her, leaning down to kiss her while the sun continues to filter into his bedroom.

She grins against his mouth when the light hits the opposite wall and turns the plaster a vibrant green color. (Go.)