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"Well, what do you think?"
"Honestly, it doesn't matter to me."
There is a thoughtful pause here.
"This is going to be on every piece of mail we ever receive. Ever."
"Are you even listening? I don't--"
"Oh, what about alphabetically? That's neutral."
"I don't care."
"But I'm still with Mars Investigations, so maybe the other way would be better…"
"I don’t care."
"We are not actually arguing about this," Veronica says, more to herself than anything. Still, Logan counters back because he can. Though, if he's honest with himself, it's mostly to annoy her.
"Well, we're not really arguing," he clarifies somewhat unnecessarily, making a sweeping gesture between them. "It's more like me antagonizing you, because you make it so easy."
She doesn't say anything; just lets out a little hissing noise from between her teeth that sounds like something an angry cat might do. He runs his fingers through his hair, which he hopes shows his exasperation with this entire conversation and where it's heading. "Don't get pissy," he says, and the daggers she glares at him come as no surprise. It's true, she really does make it easy. "Look, call it what you want--"
"Intentionally unhelpful and jackassy?" she cuts in, raising her eyebrows and shoulders in unison. You know, just to be a pain in the ass about it. He narrows his eyes at her, but ignores her and continues.
"Look, I honestly don't care which you go with." He really doesn't. "It's not like we're two actors bitching over marquee order or something."
"What, you don't care at all?" she bites back.
"About the name thing in general? Yes," he says slowly, like he's talking to a five-year-old. Sometimes, it's like she pretends to not know him at all, just to be difficult. "About the order? I could give a shit."
She doesn't respond to that, and he feels compelled to elaborate. Because she's right about one thing; this is way too stupid to be arguing or antagonizing or whatevering over.
"It's not like I'm proud of it, or anything," he says quietly, and though he isn't looking at the moment, he can practically feel her posture soften. "The fact that you're willing to go with it at all is… well, it's nice. I can't imagine why you even suggested this, but I… appreciate it."
She crosses the space between them, puts a small hand on his shoulder. He leans into her touch, like he always does. She may be little, but she always could sway him whichever way she wanted.
"As long as my name's somehow attached to yours, I'm good," he says finally. As long as you actually marry me, I'm good. Not that he's going to put that one out there.
It's true, of course. And though he won't admit it aloud, the stupid little twelve-year-old boy in him is kind of loving the idea that "Veronica" and "Echolls" are going to be in the same breath, somehow. With hyphens, or something. He doesn't particularly care. Fuck hyphens, anyway.
She sighs wistfully to herself, kisses him because she knows he'll always let her. It's a pretty half-assed way to end an entire afternoon of bickering, but neither of them care much. He kisses her back; leans his forehead against hers, and smiles at her a little.
She smiles too, but it comes across with a bit of that Veronica brand of wickedness that he relishes provoking in her. "You are so the girl in this relationship," she says, but somehow she makes it sound like she's saying she loves him instead.
"To be fair, I'm not the one with the butch boots," he parries back, and she thwacks him soundly on the arm by way of reply.
"My boots are not butch," she fake-pouts, moving forwards to straddle his lap where he's stretched out, leaning back against the couch.
"Mmm," he says, pulling her closer, his fingers hooked in the belt loops of her jeans. "Whatever you say, 'El Duderino'." She snorts derisively, and he raises his eyebrows in mock innocence. "What, am I wrong?"
She almost keeps the frown in place long enough to let him think she's really angry, but then she simply quips, "You're not wrong, Walter. You're just an asshole."
"All right, then," he laughs; lifts his knees against her thighs to rock her towards him so he can kiss her more soundly, before she can attempt to launch them headfirst into another war of snark.
"I think Mars-Echolls kind of," and she takes a slight pause here to press her lips against that spot just below his right ear, "rolls right off the tongue, don't you?"
He groans. "You're evil." She makes a low, satisfied little humming noise against his neck. She is very evil. "Or wrong in the head. Or… something."
She laughs against his skin, so warm and light and like herself he can hardly stand how much he loves her. "You're losing all of your oh-so-charming articulacy," she teases, pressing herself more closely to his chest.
"Well," he starts, but has to stop; closing his eyes for a moment when she drags her lips lazily across the line of his jaw. "That's what happens when perky blondes drop themselves into my lap."
She lets a little half-laugh out her nose, her hair tickling his chin in a familiarly pleasant way. He runs his fingers up and down her bare arms, reveling in the fact that, theoretically, he'll be able to do this whenever she'll let him, for the rest of his days. You know, as long as they don't piss each other off too much.
"So," she whispers, her breath warm on his neck.
"Alphabetical or professional?"
"Do you even listen when I talk? Or am I just here to sit around and look pretty?" He bats his eyelashes sarcastically at her, for emphasis.
Her laugh carries out the open window with the breeze, and he lets himself soak in the sound.
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