"Veronica Mars," he says, recovering himself by adopting a terrible southern accent, "as I live and breathe."

Her mouth works soundlessly for a second, and Logan flashes wildly on the thought that she's going to punch him in the face. Which--it's not like she's ever actually done that, not like he's ever been particularly frightened of her physically…but. But there's a difference, he recognizes hazily, between Veronica Mars and The Legend of Veronica Mars, and he's spent rather less time with the former than the latter in recent years.

The first time Logan had joked that Veronica couldn't take him down, they were sixteen and a little drunk and in a room full of people who were entirely self-involved unless something really juicy was going down.

"Are you perhaps nearing a point yet?"

Lorelai started to frown. "My point got smooshed to pieces by your unenthusiasm. It's a sad, smooshy point now."

"How terribly disconcerting."

Some cookies had it easy, an uncomplicated "I love you" packed into every artery-hardening calorie.

They’re evolving. They’re finally friends. That’s a good thing, because their love is like oxygen, but less corrosive.

On the first month anniversary of his death she broke up with him. "Why," he asked.

"Because of your death wish," she answered.

And he laughed and laughed and laughed. Laughed because she had been listening after all. Laughed because she hadn't.

“Um…Mrs. Navarro?” He whispers, and hesitates like you would with a dog you think might bite. Her name sounds foreign coming from his mouth. She doesn’t think he’s ever said it before.