Title: I'd Like To Say That You're My Only Fear
Pairing: Veronica Mars/ Cindy "Mac" Mackenzie, Parker Lee/Logan Echolls
Summary: But then little Cindy Mac showed up in the computer lab with her blue hair and her secret agendas and you were hooked like a druggie; the need to crane your neck in her direction every chance you could get overwhelm your every morning.
Disclaimer: i own nothing
Word Count: 2,000 flat
AUTHOR'S NOTE: here's to trying new things
I'D LIKE TO SAY THAT YOU'RE MY ONLY FEAR
You’re snarky and sneaky and cheeky and people leave you alone because of it.
And that’s the way you like it.
Call it a defense mechanism.
Call it your first grade teacher’s failure to integrate you into a classroom environment.
Regardless of what it’s called, it leaves you your privacy and one very good friend – because after all this time, it’s only fair to call Wallace your bestie or to exchange friendship rings; whatever it is kids do these days – and a lucrative business where you get to practice your one-liners and rake in the money.
It’s not a bad life.
Or, it wasn’t.
But then little Cindy Mac showed up in the computer lab with her blue hair and her secret agendas and you were hooked like a druggie; the need to crane your neck in her direction every chance you could get overwhelm your every morning.
It would be a bad day if you couldn’t see the green Volkswagen bug in the student parking lot.
(So bad, eventually, that Wallace would start to ask if it was that time of the month or if you just started PMSing more than usual.)
“Hey there Mars,” says the devil, dropping to your lunch table, her eyes twinkling, because she clearly has some new task or story for you.
And you find yourself prepared to hang onto Every. Single. Word.
Get it together Veronica, your inner voice says sharply. No fawning over the little tech wizard.
“Parker is hooking up with Logan,” she says nonchalantly, looking up at you through her lashes, clearly waiting for your freak out. You shrug.
“So I’ve heard.” You shove another fry into your mouth and she takes a long hard look at you, then nods slowly and smirks.
That should have been the first sign that she was already onto you.
“Bond?” She rasps, half-sitting in bed with her Mac book (and you never cease to find the irony in that situation) glowing brightly, illuminating her ridiculous rocket ship sheets and her tired eyes. “What are you doing here?”
You shake your head and remember that she can’t actually see it. “Feel like doing a little breaking and entering?” you ask, already knowing the answer. “Got a tip and wanted some company.” You grab a pair of her jeans littering the floor and toss them at her.
She grins and scrambles out of bed, tugging on her jeans and – in the lack of lighting – you’re bold enough to stare at the curve of her calf muscle and the dip of the back of her knee and you almost forget that you don’t get to cross the room and pin her against the wall with that ridiculous “save the animals” poster and kiss her till your knees go weak.
“Let’s go Veronica,” she sings softly, glancing at Parker with a frown.
You frown too: Parker won’t look at you since she did…whatever it is she did with Logan, like she’s afraid you’re going to be angry with her.
Like she’s afraid you’re still hung up on Logan.
Mac brushes past you, hooking one finger into your belt loop and pulling with a grin.
You’re so not hung up on Logan Echolls anymore.
“Are you really paying for this,” she asks in between long drags on her straw, sucking up her vanilla milkshake.
You’ve never wanted to be an inanimate object so badly in your entire life.
“Veronica?” she sings, waving a hand in your face.
God, you want to be that straw, even for a second. Even if you’re inner voice is starting to sound like a bad porn video voice-over.
“What?” you ask, caught in a dream where she’s not waving that hand in your face, rather, using it for more productive means. “I mean,” you cough. “What’s up buttercup?”
“Buttercup.” She rolls the word around in her mouth and then smiles. “Sure, alright. Anyway, I asked if you were really paying for the food and the movie.”
You nod like a bobble-head. Until your neck cracks.
“Yeah, I am.”
She frowns and you find your body just kind of lurches forward like you’ve stumbled, just trying to get closer. She wraps her lips back around her straw and tugs thoughtfully.
“It’s just,” she pauses again and frowns. “Well, if you weren’t Veronica Mars, this would seem suspiciously like a date.”
Then she laughs. “Yeah, that sounded stupid out loud too,” she snorts.
You’ve never wanted to not be Veronica Mars so badly in your entire life.
“Alright Veronica,” Parker announces, stopping you as you’re coming out of the library. “Tell me how I can help you, because you, helped me and all, and you’re starting to look pathetic.”
She looks you up and down and then again. “And you’re too pretty to look pathetic. To smart, too,” she adds as an afterthought. “So how do I fix this?”
“I don’t need fixing,” you spit defiantly.
“Mac says you’re broken,” she continues, like she never really heard you.
“I’m perfect,” which is a lie.
“Listen, listen,” she cuts you off, throwing her hands up like windmills. “I think I know what the problem is, but you’re going to have to take this with a grain of salt. And you’re going to have to keep your Taser in your purse, alright?”
“Seriously, promise me you’ll keep your Taser in your purse.”
“Good,” she smiles brightly and it makes you think of daffodils.
It makes you gag, because you’re allergic to daffodils and because you’re being such a girl.
“I think Mac is jealous that you’re always being the guy,” she says, even brighter than her smile.
“I, uh, what?” because that doesn’t even make sense. “Parker, I think…”
“No, no, she explained it all to me. I know you’re taller and, generally speaking, you’re a little more, uh, manly than Mac – even if she has the butch name – and so I bet you think you should be the guy.” She shrugs. “No harm, no foul. But, Mac is kind of sick of it, so you should, you know, let her pay or hold a door every once and a while, okay?”
“Got that Mars?” she asks with a half-smile, her focus already gone because Logan just waltzed in.
“How come you didn’t tell me?” Wallace asks with mock indignation.
He sounds like an affronted five-year-old girl.
“Wallace,” you groan, because Parker took you out drinking last night – it’s the closest you can get to Mac recently, without the overwhelming need to either kiss her, hit her or just scream what at her until she explains to you what the hell has been going on lately – and she filled you with those fruity drinks.
The kind with umbrellas; the neon colored drinks with fruity little umbrellas.
“I mean, I thought we were friends, and I know I’ve been all buddy-buddy with Logan and focusing on basketball,” he rants in time with the drums beating in your head.
Like a soldier, marching in time, each of his words make the pounding in your head just a little louder.
Fucking fruity drinks and their stupid, fucking fruity umbrellas.
“Veron-ica,” he grounds out. “You didn’t tell me!”
“Tell you what? And would you lower your voice? I’m just a little hungover here, alright?”
“You’re dating Mac,” he hisses, and now he doesn’t only sound like an angry five-year-old girl, he looks like one too with his hands on his hips and his face all scrunched up.
“Aren’t you?” he asks, scrunching his cute button nose – and he hates it when you call it that – up into wrinkles.
“So people keep telling me,” you sigh. “You and Parker and Piz and Logan and last Tuesday my dad asked me when I was bringing my girlfriend home.”
“But you’re not dating Mac?” he asks slowly.
You snap up in bed and reach behind you, grabbing a pillow and letting it fly, hitting him in the face with a dull thud, because you have nothing snappy to say.
At least, nothing snappy that doesn’t include the name Mac.
You toss the broken dandelion on her desk unceremoniously, itching subtly at your nose.
Because you’re – apparently – allergic to all flowers.
But whatever, you decided. Whatfuckingever. “Happy One Month Anniversary, dear,” you spit, hoping that your actual spit stays inside your mouth.
“Oh,” you scoff. “Smooth Mac. That’s smooth. You don’t even have the nerve to tell me we’re dating and then you ask like you’re all confused about it and…” you trail off, because she’s staring between you and the flower with her mouth hanging open and it reminds you of watching Andre and the way you were just so goddamn awed.
She’s a parrot all of the sudden.
A very intelligent, stubborn, (please, I want to kiss you, your inner voice calls) cute parrot.
“I said: thanks for letting me know we’ve been dating for a month.”
“But you didn’t tell me!”
You frown and grab back the broken dandelion. “What are you talking about?”
“You didn’t tell me that we were dating,” she accuses, pointing her finger in your face.
“But Parker and Wallace and Logan and…Oh.”
She tries her best not to smirk, but there it is, right at the corner of her mouth and then she’s laughing, clutching her stomach and her hair is glistening in the awful dorm lighting. “Oh, yeah. What a couple of…”
“Those bastards,” you growl and she shouts.
“What?” you ask in annoyance.
“Dating me isn’t that bad,” she growls.
“Well, maybe it isn’t, but I’m not really dating you.”
And now you’ve finally seen an Angry-Mac; her little scowl and her little eyebrows furrowed and her excessively white teeth biting her bottom lip.
It’s kind of really hot in a way that’s totally inappropriate.
“Well good, cause who really wants to date you anyway?” She looks you up and down a couple of times and scoffs. “You can leave now,” she says pointedly.
So you do.
And you take your flower with you.
“I need your help, so if you could be done pouting for just a day, you can go back to throwing darts at my face later, okay?”
It’s the first thing you say walking in the door, ducking as a metal-tipped dart sails past you, hitting the target – your face plastered on the board on her wall – dead center.
Mac would make a very good barfly.
The last part of your entrance was a little impromptu, but she looks up regardless and scowls and throws another dart.
“It’ll be f-u-n,” you sing, smiling ridiculously. “Come on.”
And then your brilliance kicks in; the way it does when you need it too and you have to duck another dart, dropping in front of her on her bed, your knees and hips straddling her thighs and you press forward, catching her bottom lip in between your own and she doesn’t push you away.
Which you totally knew would work.
“Hey, hey,” she says, finally pushing you back. “You can’t just kiss me and poof!”
“Really?” you push back in. “Cause I can try again if that didn’t work the first time.”
“Get off me you hormone-riddled goon.” You don’t move. “No, really, get off me. You can’t just kiss me and everything is fine.”
You don’t move. “So let me try again,” you insist.
“Bring me back my flower and we’ll see.” And she’s not joking.
“Can I bring you a flower later and kiss you now?”
Apparently, according to the facial expression she’s sending your way, no, you cannot.
So you roll off of her and stare at the ceiling and pout and she doesn’t even do anything about it, just throws another dart – half-heartedly, really – and pats you on the leg like you’re some damn Border Collie.
God, dating Mac is worse than dating a guy.
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