Work Text:
Veronica wonders how long she can get away with ignoring Marcel. He's been flitting nervously in front over her desk, obviously trying to draw her attention by just being there. It's annoying, but harmless.
Just as Veronica's wondering if she should do the humane thing, and put him out of his misery, Marcel clears his throat. Gamely, Veronica hits back on her Firefox browser and continues to scroll down the Blind Gossip homepage. Harvey and Jonny are both out, it's her goddamn lunch hour and honestly, this is basically professional development. The Executives should be thanking Veronica for her dedication to the business.
"Pssst. Pst. Veronica!"
Veronica looks up reluctantly, over the rims of her glasses, to see Marcel's upper body draped across the top of her reception desk. She manages to feign a certain level of surprise, her mouth opening slightly. "Oh, Marcel," she says. "Is everything okay?"
"Veronica," says Marcel. His voice is pitched unusually low, foregoing the bull-horn and show choir approach that seems to be his second nature. "I have news. Some really juicy news."
Veronica resists the urge to roll her eyes. Marcel's love of the dramatic is well documented amongst her colleagues. Her mouth quirks into a half smile, though. "Did you hear," says Veronica, leaning forward discreetly, "That Jim in Accounting has been drinking Leeroy's protein shakes."
Marcel makes a sharp intake of air, scandalized. Then he rewards Veronica with a toothy, conspiratorial grin. "So that's who's been taking them from the refrigerator, then. Does Leeroy know?"
Veronica gives a quick shake of her head, and there's a brief moment of contemplative silence.
"You know," says Marcel. "Now that you mention it, Jim has bulked up significantly."
Veronica inclines her well-manicured eyebrows in agreement, giving her best look that is all innit, though.
There's an awkward lag in the conversation and Veronica says, "I have some reports to finish for Harvey," even though she's already printed and collated them, and they're sitting on her boss' desk. "So I should-"
Marcel interrupts, all in a rush, before Veronica can finish making up an excuse to disengage from awkward coworker interaction. "There has been a heist."
"Excuse me, what?"
"A heist. There has been a heist." Marcel over-enunciates the words, his fingers following along like an animated ball over karaoke lyrics.
Veronica tilts her head to the side, studying Marcel's face. Out of her peripheral version, she tracks the movement as Jessica from Locations & Facilities ushers a client down the hallway, and wonders idly if they are within earshot. "Well," Veronica says brightly. "You have most definitely been listening to too much Macklemore and Ryan Lewis. I am cutting you off."
Marcel lets out a huff of exasperation. "Ben and Ryan are Great Artists who can not be Held Back."
Veronica wonders why she can always hear the extraneous capitalization in her head, when Marcel speaks. She makes a sympathetic sound of agreement that is maybe a bit patronizing.
"But no," continues Marcel, refusing to be distracted for long. "I am serious."
Judging by Marcel's tone, Veronica would have to agree. "Deadly serious."
Marcel lets out a bark of nervous laughter. "Great Scott! Let's hope it doesn't come to that."
In her head, Veronica begins negotiating a pay raise from Harvey. She wonders distractedly, if she could play Jonny and Harvey against one another for some days off next week. "A heist," indulges Veronica. "What was stolen?"
Marcel leans over Veronica's desk (which was put there as a physical barrier for a reason, she would like to point out) so that his mouth is beside her ear. When he speaks, Veronica can feel Marcel's warm breath on her skin. "The Georgia Rose Diamond."
Veronica makes a small noise in the back of her throat. "Where did that happen?"
When Marcel pulls back, he's eying her curiously, with something akin to disappointment written across his face. "Here, LA. As Jonny would say, the-"
"-City of Angels," nods Veronica.
Marcel smiles a bit sadly, even as he mimes the jazz hands, and pushes his glasses up the slope of his nose. "It really doesn't ring a bell?"
"Should it?" Veronica twists her fingers into her long hair, distracted, and purses her lips.
"Georgia Rose," says Marcel. "Her daddy was a dentist."
A slow look of enlightenment settles over Veronica's face, and she snaps her fingers at Marcel. "The One Direction boys." The delight on Marcel's features quickly fades into exasperation as she continues, "The boy banders have a diamond that got stolen?"
Veronica doesn't miss the split second in which Marcel closes his eyes, and probably asks the Good Lord for patience in dealing with people who don't have a Google Alert set up for news about local gem thefts. "The Georgia Rose," Marcel lectures, "Is a pink diamond valued at seventy-five million dollars. It is the possession of one Diana Stefanidis."
Ah, Google Alerts for Diana Stefanidis, corrects Veronica. "Was the possession," she comments aloud.
Marcel smiles slyly. "Touché. Please tell me that you know where I'm going with this."
Veronica bites her lower lip, folds her arms across her green silk blouse and leans back in her swivel chair. "Diana Stefanidis is a young pop singer-"
"A young pop sensation that Harvey and Jonny failed to sign last month," prompts Marcel.
"A young pop singer-" continues Veronica, ignoring the interruption. "With considerable assets."
Marcel coughs into his hand, a smile peeking out around the corners.
Veronica chooses to ignore this, too. "You don't think that One Direction stole the..?" Veronica lets the unfinished thought settle into a heavy silence.
"Well," offers Marcel. "Don't you think it's a peculiar coincidence that they took this place apart while singing about a Georgia Rose?"
A frown forms on Veronica's face. "As far as thefts go, it lacks subtlety."
"But gets points for style," grins Marcel. "For Styles."
Veronica groans, favouring Marcel with a look of distaste. "Do you think they were under the impression that the diamond was here? Or were they just running high on post-theft adrenaline?"
Marcel shrugs, his sweater vest rising and falling alluringly (alluringly? Veronica shakes her head sharply) with the movement. The patterns twist and combine into new shapes, like a kaleidoscope. "I honestly can't say. But we're going to find out." He waggles his fingers excitedly.
"What? No. Why would we do that?"
Marcel grins, and the result is not unlike a manic cheshire cat. "Ah," he begins. "Jonny and Harvey couldn't land the great Diana Stefanidis, but if we do..." Veronica rolls her eyes.
"This conversation is over," she says. "Life is not a buddy cop movie, Marcel. We are not buddy cops."
"But we're buddies," suggests Marcel. His enthusiasm is relentless.
She fixes him with a stern look, that makes his smile falter. "No."
*
It's barely even half past one when Veronica receives an email from Marcel with two attachments. The first is a high-resolution photo of the Georgia Rose diamond at auction in May of 2007. The second photo is of Scully and Mulder sneaking into a warehouse. The text of the email says only: 7pm.
Veronica is still staring vacantly at the email when her phone buzzes, startling her with the arrival of a text message. The text, unsurprisingly, is from Marcel. He's sent her an address, accompanied by a winking smiley face. Aggravated, Veronica taps two letters into a response, and then hits send.
Almost immediately, her phone buzzes. We're sorry, the number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.
*
A phone with a data plan is a reliable source of information. When Veronica's tells her that the mystery address belongs to a small pizza shop, she believes it. She is not, therefore, prepared for the amount of grief that Marcel gives her over her chosen attire. "What," sniffs Veronica who is comfortable in her grey sweatpants, LA Kings baseball cap and red converse. "I thought there would be sneaking. Was I wrong?"
Marcel, who is still wearing his work clothes, complete with sweater vest, sniffs right back. "What if the sneaking were to take place at a cocktail party?"
"Shove over, Chewbacca," says Veronica, making Marcel squawk a little. She pushes him over in the bench seat, making him squish up against the windowpane. This way they both have a view of the door, just across the way, on the other side of the alley.
"Chew-what," says Marcel, one eyebrow rising suspiciously.
Veronica's mouth turns into a thin smile. "If we're going to be a duo, I'm calling dibs on Han Solo and Chewy. You're Chewy, of course. My co-pilot."
She reaches for a slice of what appears to be extra-cheesy pepperoni pizza.
"Rude," says Marcel, slapping at her hands. "Han s'off the pizza, I'll Chewy it myself."
Veronica groans inwardly. She reaches up to touch a strand of Marcel's hair, styled artfully in a swooping motion across the top of his head. "Chewy coloured."
Marcel eyes Veronica speculatively, before pushing the box of pizza back towards her. She accepts a piece graciously, and mumbles her thanks around stuffing the corners of the pizza in her mouth.
"You know," says Marcel tentatively. "I've never seen you without your glasses before. You have beautiful eyes."
Veronica feels a nagging sense of dread. "Thanks," she says, looking up from her food. "I thought this was a stake-out, not a date." She kicks Marcel in the shin with her heel for good measure. She doesn't totally hate it when Marcel elbows her back, in the side.
*
As far as harebrained schemes go, this one takes the cake.
"We're not going to get away with this," hisses Veronica. They're loitering outside the kitchen door of the hotel. Ten minutes earlier, the boys of One Direction and a sizable entourage had exited via the very same door, and climbed into several black SUVs. "I can't walk like a dude, Marcel, it's not going to happen. It's pretty obvious I'm a girl." Veronica gestures impatiently at her chest.
Marcel strikes a pose of casual indifference, speaking in a ridiculous accent that sounds halfway Austrian. "It's all about attitude."
Veronica shrinks into the oversized leather jacket that Marcel had produced. It's eerily similar to the one that they'd seen Zayn Malik wearing minutes earlier. After a split second of nagging worry, Veronica had decided it best not to ask how Marcel knew what the singers would be wearing. She pulls her baseball cap lower over her face, made difficult by the hair piled up underneath, and slouches inward. For his part, Marcel is wearing a ridiculously tight pair of tattered jeans, accompanied by a stack of three flannel shirts and a great swatch of cloth, wrapped around his head in a poor impression of a headband. He makes a passable Harry Styles, if you don't look too closely. He'd also make a decent fledgling stripper.
"If we get caught," grimaces Veronica. "You're on your own."
Marcel smiles at her, and raps on the door three times. "I brought you along so that we wouldn't get caught. I have this feeling that you can handle yourself in a pinch."
In the silence that follows, Veronica can feel her heart lurching in her chest. She clenches her hands into fists.
Several deep breaths later, the door springs open to show a line cook in his forties, staring at them expectantly in the dark. "Erm, hello," mumbles Marcel with a beguiling smile. "Zayn here left his mobile upstairs, and we thought we'd best come back and get it. Like, you know, in case his Mum calls 'n stuff."
" 'Lo," says Veronica gruffly, nodding apologetically. "Sometimes I just, like, forget my mobile."
The line cook hesitates for an awful second, and blinks. But then he shrugs agreeably, moves aside to let them in.
"He'd probably forget like, his head, if it weren't attached. Thing is though," continues Marcel, while they're still in the safety of the poorly lit alley. "Zayn's room key. Like, Liam has it, and he's out with the other lads."
Veronica nods, kicks at the ground. "Didn't bring mine. Probably with my phone or something like that."
Marcel tugs at his wildly unstyled hair, bringing his head to the side in a quiet, sheepish manner. He looks quite young, almost vulnerable. "There's just, like, so many people in the hotel lobby. Do you think - would it be too much to ask -"
The man smiles at Marcel sympathetically, "Of course, I'll send Ryan to get you another from the front desk. My daughter can never remember her car keys, she's probably about your age."
Marcel smiles winningly. "What's her name?"
"Sylvie," beams the cook. "And I'm Jeff."
Marcel holds out his hand, "Hi Jeff, I'm Harry. I'm so pleased to make your acquaintance."
Jeff smiles. "My wife is a huge fan of your music." Veronica watches the exchange with detached bemusement. By the time that the dishwasher, Ryan, has returned with a new room key for them, Jeff is telling them anecdotes about family trips to the zoo, when Sylvie was a young girl, and made friends with an escaped bear cub.
*
"Give my love to the girls?" scoffs Veronica once they're in the safety of the elevator.
"What!" squawks Marcel, sounding like himself again.
Veronica gapes, her mouth hanging open. "Are you sure that this is only your first venture into a life of crime? That was one heck of an impressive act."
Marcel pokes Veronica in the side with a sharp finger, after swiping the key card and hitting the button for floor 17.
"We are solving a crime, Missy."
"That man was two minutes away from taking you home to meet his daughter." Veronica considers for a moment. "Or having his wicked way with you in the walk-in refrigerator."
Marcel smirks a little. "Jealous?"
"No!" Veronica scrunches up her nose, and retreats into the corner of the elevator. There are mirrors everywhere; it's disconcerting to not quite recognize herself from so many different angles.
Out of the corner of her eye, Veronica sees an expression flicker across Marcel's face, and it looks out of place on this too open version of his normal self.
Ding, goes the elevator, prompting Veronica to jam her finger on the close-door-button. Marcel eyes her inquisitively. "Veronica?"
"I think," says Veronica. "That it's time to ditch the disguises."
It looks as though Marcel is going to protest; in a unsettling way, the more time spends playing Harry Styles, the more reckless and, well, alive he looks. "Hotel staff is one thing," points out Veronica. "But this whole floor is possibly covered with Boy Band Entourage. We're not going to fool anyone who actually knows them."
She doesn't mention that she thinks that they could, probably fool at least some of them. But Marcel deflates a little and she knows he won't fight this. When he says "It's not worth the risk," it sounds more like a question than a statement.
Veronica nods, as she takes off the jacket and shakes out her hair, before replacing the baseball cap. "Better to play stupid."
Marcel nods sadly, untying the headband around his own unkept hair and removing the top two layers of flannel. "You're right, Veronica."
"Hey," says Veronica. "My friends call me Ronnie."
A playful smile tugs around the corners of Marcel's mouth. "You have friends?"
Veronica elbows him in the stomach, maybe with a little more force than is strictly necessary. "Just one, but his name is Marcel and he's kind of a tool. So if you see him, don't tell him I mentioned it."
When she turns away, she can see at least eight different reflections of Marcel grinning like a lunatic.
*
The long corridor is eerily quiet, and doesn't show any signs of life. Maybe the band's entire entourage went out for a night on the town, or maybe they're taking the blessed opportunity to sleep. Anyways, Veronica isn't about to complain. With unrestricted access, it's almost too easy to sneak down the hall towards room 1732.The feeling of complacency is so complete that Veronica is nearly startled clear off the ground when the door in front of her springs open, just as she's about to swipe the key card.
"Excuse me," says the young man, all manners and politeness, as if he's the one at fault when he walks into her. His attention is - was - on the phone in his hand, now trapped against Veronica's shirt. The young man's hands have landed on her waist, though which one of them it's to steady, Veronica is unclear. He's not wearing a shirt, and his sweatpants are riding unspeakably low, revealing cheery red boxers.
When he looks up, his eyes narrow slightly in confusion. "Who are you?"
Veronica smiles in what she hopes is an innocent manner. "I'm, um, Mae," she says, taking the name of Madonna's character name from her favourite movie.
He smiles, his voice teasing. "Hi, um, Mae. I'm Liam. How did you get up here?"
"Oh," says Veronica gamely. "We work here - we were just about to leave for the night, but your friend left this downstairs. Front desk asked me to bring it up." She moves to hold up the leather jacket that's draped across her forearm.
"We?" asks Liam, finally stepping out of Veronica's personal space, apparently perplexed. He shakes his slightly, then continues without even looking directly at the jacket, "That's not Zayn's, his has a scuff across the left sleeve."
"Oh," repeats Veronica. Is it normal for a young man to be that intimately acquainted with the wear pattern of his friendly dude-pal's outerwear? She shrugs inwardly and casts a quick glance around the hallway. Sure enough, Marcel is nowhere to be seen. "Sorry, it's been a long day. I'm sure there's just a mix up with the jacket. Mistaken identity."
Liam shrugs absently. "No worries, babe."
Veronica mentally curses Marcel, and then herself, too. How is it possible that they had only seen four boys leave the hotel, and not even noticed? "I'll just go, then," says Veronica, turning casually and walking away.
She stops at the sound of Liam's voice. "Mae," he calls. When she turns around, he's staring back down at his phone again. Veronica is filled with uneasiness, expecting him to tell her how familiar she looks, or ask if they've met. Or maybe to let her know that security will be waiting for her at the end of the hallway. Liam half opens his mouth, and then closes it again, before eventually speaking. "How do you spell 'irrevocable'?"
"What," says Veronica.
Liam smiles sheepishly. "I'm trying to compose a tweet," he says. "I'm absolute rubbish at spelling."
"I-r-r-e-v-o-c-a-b-l-e," instructs Veronica after a beat. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, she doesn't bother to point out that spell check is an actual, useful thing that exists. "Two Rs, an E and an A where you think any other I's should go."
"You're really good at that. Spelling, I mean." Liam looks at her with something akin to appreciation.
"Oh, um," says Veronica, at a bit of a loss. She's never been complimented by a man before on her spelling. At least not since third grade. "Thanks." Not clever enough to steal the Georgia Rose, is Veronica's uncharitable thought, as she looks down. And hopes that Marcel can hear her inner monologue, wherever he's gone.
"Hey," says Liam, carelessly taking in the curves of Veronica's figure for the first time She isn't sure whether to be charmed or offended that her spelling skills got noticed first. "I was, uh, having trouble locating Argentina on the globe in my room. I know you've had a long day and all, but maybe you could help me find it? If, uh, you want to."
Veronica bites down on her lower lip to keep herself from giggling like a maniac. "Does that line ever work for you?"
"Never tried it out before, to be honest," says Liam. He stares at her expectantly.
"I'd be happy to," smirks Veronica, folding her arms across her chest and drumming her right fingers against her opposite bicep with intent. "I'll even find Buenos Aires if you'd like."
Liam frowns thoughtfully. "I don't know what that is. Is it near China?"
*
The hotel suite is sizable, but looks tidy and uninhabited save for a few suitcases left carelessly across the floor. Around the corners of the geography lesson (it wasn't an euphemism, apparently) Veronica contemplates possible hiding spots for a large diamond pendant. It quickly become apparent that Liam's knowledge of Russia is limited to exercises named after the aforementioned country. He even gets down on the floor to demonstrate some Russian twists - Veronica doesn't stop him - and uses the globe as an makeshift medicine ball, twisting from side to side. Veronica considers this a fair invitation to offer made-up Geographical names for other strength and conditioning exercises. The Australian Squat. The Nashville Jump. The Roman Chop.
Once Liam realizes that she's having a laugh at his expense, the gauntlet is thrown down. It escalates into a full-scale pushup competition; both Veronica and Liam end up on the floor, doubled over and panting heavily. "You're well fit," says Liam at length. "And I mean that in the American way, not just the British way - though that too."
Veronica tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "You're not bad, either. For a pop star, I mean. I play baseball, what's your excuse?"
Liam lets out a startled bark of laughter. "I suppose I just don't like losing pushup competitions to women half my size, really."
Veronica smiles. "Age and beauty always win, darling." She doesn't point out that he's barely taller than her, and has maybe ten pounds on her in muscle, if that.
"Mae," says Liam hesitantly. "Do you think-" Which is when Veronica's phone vibrates, shaking the entire coffee table. It's a text from Marcel. Find anything?
With an apologetic smile at Liam, who excuses himself to get a glass of water, Veronica types back. No, where r u????
Rats!! Ask him about Georgia Rose.
Veronica shakes her head. That would be too obvious. Where did you go??
No response, of course.
Liam returns with two glasses of water, and offers one of them to Veronica. She turns the glass thoughtfully in her hands.
"What do you think of names that are also States?" asks Veronica, at length.
Liam frowns a little. "States of being?"
"Like Dakota, or Carolina," offers Veronica gently. "Louisiana."
A look of enlightenment settles of Liam's face. "Oh, I see, like New Mexico or-"
Not one Veronica would have picked, but alright. "More like girls names. Say, Georgia?"
Liam stares at Veronica, obviously uncomfortable. "Mae," he says with some obvious hesitation. "I have to ask you something."
Veronica nods.
"Are you... are you pregnant? Are you having a baby?"
Veronica bites down on her tongue in surprise, her eyes going wide. It takes a moment to regain her composure. "Wha- I mean yes, that's of course why I'm asking about names. Baby names. Yes."
Liam looks delighted, much to Veronica's growing consternation. She figures it's about time to extract herself from this mess, and moves to stand. Liam does, too, and over the top of his head, Veronica sees a person-shaped object appear on the hotel balcony. It's Marcel, naturally. Veronica resists the urge to roll her eyes. He's gesturing wildly at what looks like the next balcony over.
Liam turns to see what she's looking at, and Veronica panics. She launches herself at Liam's face, kissing him dramatically. He does push her away, but not until after attempting to slip his tongue between her lips, and smoothing her hair comfortingly. Veronica is not quite sure whether to laugh or cry, and some of that must be written on her face because Liam is surprisingly gentle in the face of lunacy.
"Hey," he says, patting her tummy. "Baby Massachusetts is the priority here."
Veronica nods, though she feels that her alter ego does have some dignity to preserve. Well that, and Marcel appears to be flailing over the side of the balcony railing, his long legs getting caught awkwardly. So she says, "You're sweet, but her daddy is a deadbeat. Out of the picture. Walk me out?" Liam nods, and she guides him carefully to the door, sparing a fleeting glance over her shoulder for Marcel.
*
"What the heck," is all Veronica manages to say, when she and Marcel rendezvous in the lobby, ten minutes later.
"I found something," says Marcel breezily, waving a garishly coloured paper napkin in the air.
Veronica glares. "Oh, is that the warrant for me to kill you?"
"Oh, well. Someone's got a case of the grumps. Once we've made a hasty exit, I will buy you a latte for your efforts." Marcel pats her on the shoulder amicably.
Veronica shouldn't find a latte suitable compensation for the horror that she has just witnessed, but she does feel the tension drain from her shoulders just a little. Marcel is a bit of a coffee snob in the same way that Nelly is a bit of a talent; he delivers quality goods.
*
"Step inside my office," invites Marcel, after squinting up at Veronica. His glasses are on top of his head, holding his hair back like a headband, and he's engrossed in a book. Technically his office is a cubicle, but this has proven in the past to be a sore point, so Veronica doesn't mention it. She pulls up a chair and crosses her legs daintily.
"Congrats, you're hashtag!famous," says Marcel, still reading.
"Hashtag!WTF?" retorts Veronica, blinking.
"Go Twitter stalk your boyfriend. Hashtag!Liaronica."
"Hashtag!Liaronica?" repeats Veronica doubtfully.
Marcel huffs impatiently. "I don't do well creating ship names on the spot."
With one wary eye on Marcel, Veronica reaches across the desk to grab his smart phone (what, like her outfit has pockets?) and types in his pass code. If he grumbles something about criminal tendencies, she chooses to ignore it. "Well," offers Veronica at length, after scrolling through the twitter feed of one Liam Payne. "Technically it should be Mae-iam. Or Liae."
Marcel closes his book with a thud: Plant Life of the South West, apparently. #Help, thinks Veronica. #SerialKillerColleagues.
"You're awfully flippant about this, Veronica Mae. Are you related to the McFlippersons? Do you have any dolphins in the family?" Marcel is verging on hysterical.
Veronica flicks her hair over her shoulder with porpoise. Purpose. "They're some harmless tweets. Why are you so upset about it?"
"We were supposed to be discreet," snaps Marcel.
As if any of this is Veronica's fault. She raises her eyebrows at him.
"Fine," sniffs Marcel. "I haven't slept in four days, because of this stupid proposal I'm working on right now, and I hate working here! And also I have trust issues. Great instincts, but horrible trust issues."
Veronica nudges the box of Kleenex towards Marcel, and he looks at her imploringly.
"Please don't tell anyone I said that. I mean, I know the market is bad and I'm lucky to have a job at all. But it's been three awful years."
Leeroy sheepishly sticks his head over the divider to Marcel's workspace.
"Sorry, mis amigos," says Leeroy with a bit of an exaggerated eyebrow waggle. "I know I'm supposed to be pretending I can't hear anything you're saying right now. But sometimes when I'm down in the dumps, I find it helps to have a bit of a song and dance routine."
When Marcel turns to stare at Leeroy, his eyes are filled improbably with both sorrow and hope. The emotion has more depth than an Olympic sized swimming pool, and something inside Veronica snaps. She's overcome with the want to wrap her arms around Marcel in a giant hug, and shield him from the world.
Veronica gives her head a quick shake. This is no time for sentimental drivel; Leeroy is obviously shimmying already on the other side of the divider.
"I prefer something more direct than the Julie Andrews method," drawls Veronica, wrapping her manicured fingers around Marcel's wrist, inviting him to turn his misty Bambi eyes towards her instead. "A stiff drink."
"But it's nine-thirty in the morning," protests Marcel weakly.
Veronica picks the neon green paper napkin up off of his desk, and waves it in front of Marcel's face. "We have a nightclub to visit, don't we?"
"Ah," says Marcel, brightening. "I do have some questions for the proprietor of the Lime Crush, fine establishment that it is."
"Oooh," says Leeroy. "Can I come too?"
They're all crammed in the back of the cab, three across, when Leeroy starts air drumming to the latest Selena Gomez hit on the radio. The rough fabric of Marcel's trousers is trapped rubbing against the length of Veronica's bare leg and she's hyper aware of his knee knocking her own as the car weaves wildly through traffic.
Veronica turns her head away to stare out the window, away from the smell of cinnamon that lingers around Marcel. Away from the contented expression on Marcel's face as he shifts his hips in time to Leeroy's drumming. Pressed up against another person, Veronica's feels incredibly alone.
As the song ends and the cab lurches to stop at an intersection, Marcel turns towards Veronica, cheeks been jumping enthusiastically on a dancefloor, not bobbing around in the back of a car. "Veronica. Ronnie," Marcel says. He's practically humming with happiness. "We make a good team."
Veronica's fingers find their way to Marcel's knee, and sneak in a quick reassuring squeeze, before she can stop them. It will be alright.
*
"I'm Officer Saint Laurent," Marcel is saying when Veronica nearly drags him backwards by the scruff of his neck. She inserts into the conversation with a polite smile, noting with some distress Marcel's policeman stance, complete with thumbs hooked into his belt.
"Officer of Marketing," agrees Veronica at her most charming. "And I'm Veronica. We're from Sunshine Studios, doing some location scouting for a music video."
The woman behind the bar looks, well, tired. "Who's that, then?" She nods towards Leeroy, who is eyeing up the pole on one side of the bar. There is obviously some creative genius unfolding in his mind's eye. He's framed dramatically by a large banner that reads We've Got Your Midnight Memories!
"That's Leeroy," says Veronica. "He's our choreographer. Anyways, our clients were apparently here the other night, and quite taken with your establishment."
The woman snorts. "Oh really."
Marcel leans forward onto the bar, dropping his authoritative pose in favour of conspiratorial smirk. "A certain boyband that rhymes with Fun Confection..."
The woman's mouth tightens into a thin line. "Oh, yes. I remember them."
"Oh really," parrots Marcel, not totally free from the cop shtick yet. "Did you notice anything of particular interest?"
The woman considers for a moment. "Other than the fact that the small one has hips that put Shakira's to shame... nah. Nice kids."
Veronica shrugs helplessly at Marcel. "Nothing remarkable."
Marcel pouts a little. "No fancy jewelry?"
The woman gives them a once over. "What, are you cops or something?"
Marcel preens, gives the bar owner an elaborate wink. "Absolutely not."
Veronica winces. "We should be on our way."
"Thanks, Meredith," says Marcel. "You have been most helpful."
The woman, Meredith, blinks. "I never told you my name-"
Marcel nods, adds some clip-on sunnies to his glasses, even though they're inside a dimly lit black box of a nightclub. "I have my ways. About your liquor license, by the way-"
There's hardly a beat of hesitation before Meredith offers up unsolicited information. "The Irish One. He was wearing a large, gaudy bauble. It was pink."
*
Veronica is trying to convince Marcel that this is a very bad idea, but he has all the self-preservation of a Lemming. She can't help but feel that they've had this conversation before, though Veronica's sure that she would remember being perched near the sink in the one-room bathroom of a Starbucks while Marcel strips down to his white boxers. With Leeroy outside the door no less, on the phone canceling weekly poker night with his friends.
"You're really into the costumes, aren't you?" asks Veronica, changing tactics.
Marcel looks up, surprised. "I guess so. I mean, I like being someone else. Even just for a little bit."
Veronica tilts her head. "I like you best when you're Marcel."
"Oh," Marcel laughs a little sadly. "I guess that's part of the fun of it too, isn't it? Going back to being yourself at the end. You're just you again, but with a secret tucked away."
"But don't you feel braver," protests Veronica, "If you experience it all as yourself? Don't you know yourself better at the end?"
"Maybe," Marcel shrugs into a long-sleeved shirt, doing up the buttons before stepping into Veronica's space. His mouth is obscene. Veronica can't stop staring until she feels a light touch on the back of her hand.
"Is that why you have this?" asks Marcel, tracing the outline of Veronica's bird tattoo. "So that you never forget who you are, no matter what part you're playing?"
"Something like that," agrees Veronica. She feels ridiculously self-conscious. "It reminds me what free feels like."
"What does free feel like?" Marcel asks quietly. His hands settle themselves on her waist, where her blue cotton blouse meets skirt, and Veronica's brain can't quite keep up.
"Like playing catch in a field, on a sunny day. Time is something that happens around you."
Marcel places a very careful kiss on Veronica's cheek, as if he's trying not to startle her. "What else?"
"Mm," says Veronica, as her fingers find the soft skin above the waistband of Marcel's boxers. "Like losing yourself in a compelling movie, or building a really great, hyperlinked spreadsheet."
She feels Marcel's small huff of laughter on her skin. Before he can make any teasing comments, Veronica slides a thigh between Marcel's legs, and tugs him closer. The groan that he makes is positively filthy.
Marcel is halfway to stealing a kiss when Veronica's better judgement kicks in. Her thoughts are flooded with a few dozen, preliminary reasons why she shouldn't be doing this. Veronica pushes Marcel away. "Hey," she says, trying not to flinch under Marcel's hurt gaze. "Crime doesn't wait for makeouts in the bathroom at Starbucks."
Marcel turns a corner of his mouth up into a smile, with some obvious effort. "It would in the movies."
Veronica grins, and gives Marcel a playful shove. "Go put some pants on."
This makes Marcel practically jump to attention. "Oh my goodness!" says Marcel, as if Veronica had just delivered brand new information. "I got no pants on!"
Veronica watches, smirking, and wondering with some marked alarm just when she became so fond of Marcel the Marketing Guy.
*
It turns out that Leeroy is like the King of YouTube or something. Hipster royalty.
"Leeeeeroy, my man!" a twenty-something year old media assistant in skinny jeans holds his hand up for a high-five which Leeroy indulges. "Hey. Buddy," continues the young man. "Do you mind if I get a picture. This is totally the best thing to happen to me all week. Oh my god. I can't believe that I'm standing beside the Leeroy!"
Leeroy smiles toothily. "Of course not. One of my friendly colleagues here can take it for you, if you'd like."
"Err," says Marcel.
"Don't worry about it man," says the media assistant. "It's, like, totally more awesome if it's a selfie."
"Natch," says Leeroy. "What's your name?"
"Jax," says the hipster. He pulls a smartphone from the back pocket of his jeans. The fact that it even fits in there is against all laws of nature.
"Err, Ronnie," says Marcel. "What's happening right now?"
Veronica's flight instincts are on full alarm as she watches as Leeroy pulls a funny face at the camera. "I have no idea," she says. Click goes the camera, and then again. "It's creepy." And because Marcel is hopeless - and has no concept of personal space, or apparent concern for his own personal safety - he leans in and knocks his elbow against Veronica's.
"Do you think he killed someone?" asks Marcel. This actually makes Veronica laugh. Leeroy is many things, but violent is not one of them. "I think he's... famous," she says after a moment.
"More like infamous," says Jax the hipster. "This dude is a legend. He started the Dance While You Do It craze. I'm not even kidding when I say that his videos changed my life. My resting heart rate lowered like twenty beats. I can't grocery shop without doing a little samba now." Jax proceeds to demonstrate some fancy footwork. "I can't tell you how many guys I've pulled in the vegetable aisle. For the record, dancing works so much better than words."
Leeroy smiles kindly, flustered, and obviously a little uncomfortable. "You should totally Google him," says Jax. "His videos are epic."
"No time to Google me," Leeroy flaps his hands at Veronica and Marcel. He mutters at them, "No, seriously, please don't Google me."
Jax smiles, "Dude is so humble, too, I love it. That's how you know he's legit."
"So, Jax," says Leeroy. "My colleagues are here for the press junket. They're not strictly on the list-"
Jax winks at them. "-oh, independent media? Are you guys YouTubers too? I dig it."
"No," says Veronica.
"Yes," says Marcel at the same time.
"More of a radio co-operative," says Leeroy.
"Fresh," says Jax. "I won't tell anyone if you sneak in the back. Go on. Actually hang on a sec- can I give you my EP?"
Even as Jax walks a few paces away and digs through his backpack, where he evidently keeps spare copies of his EP, Marcel and Veronica's eyes turn to Leeroy who is looking a little green. "It's a long story," says Leeroy, his voice raising in a question at the end.
"Nice to see you James!" A respectable looking journalist sort waves directly at Leeroy, who turns an even darker shade of green, before continuing on into the press junket lounge.
"You've get three sentences," says Veronica.
Marcel has been eyeing Leeroy with consternation. "Gee, I've shared a cubicle wall with you for three years. It seems like there's a lot about you I don't know, Leeroy. If that's even your name."
On a chlorophyl colour scale, Leeroy has reached broccoli.
"Three sentences," repeats Veronica, holding up three fingers for emphasis.
Leeroy holds up his left thumb obligingly, albeit a little sadly, and tracks his bullet points with his fingers. "One: I couldn't get hired after my Masters degree in Journalism. Two: Dance While You Do It was my Ph.D. Thesis that accidentally went viral when YouTube was barely a thing. Three: Following this chain of events, Leeroy Andersen became the employable alter-ego of James Leidenschaft."
There is a stunned silence, and then mewling noises as Marcel attempts to form words.
"I'm not a natural blonde either," adds Leeroy. And giving Veronica a look, adds, "I know that's four. But since I'm sharing."
"Honey," says Veronica as gently as she can manage. "We know that one already."
"My heart," sniffs Marcel. "James, how could you."
Leeroy/James, he shrugs a little, jazzing it up and giving it a beat. "You never asked?"
Marcel's eyes seem to glaze over. "You know I have trust issues!"
Jax the hipster returns. "It seems like you guys are having a moment, and I don't really want to interrupt that. But, like, my EP is sort of folk electro-pop, and I really think it's something great that you'll, like, dig."
*
"Not to bring back two of our earlier conversations, and combine them together, into a portmanteau so to speak," says Marcel. "But if you want to explore that idea of costumes, I would not say no to being your Princess Leia." They're waiting in the holding area for press. Marcel is disguised as a radio DJ, and Veronica is present as his technical and emotional support crew of one. Leeroy has retired to the office, claiming that his presence (and identity) would be a liability for this portion of the mission. Veronica reluctantly agrees that Leeroy's apparent fame is a hindrance to their stealth infiltration. It is a truly remarkable day.
"Marcel," ventures Veronica, after rejecting his previous topic of conversation ("What! It need to be distracted, I have suffered a serious blow to my relationship with a trusted confident and colleague I will have you know"). "Not to find fault in your plan. But, I'm sure that their handlers aren't going to let you ask the questions that you're about to ask.'
Marcel smiles serenely. "A benefit to not actually being on the official press list is that I did not have to submit questions for prescreening."
Veronica frowns. "I don't think it's as easy as-"
Which is conveniently when another assistant arrives to usher Marcel into a secondary room for his interview with One Direction.
"Do I get a kiss for luck?" asks Marcel, wide-eyed and the picture of sincerity.
"No," grumbles Veronica. But can't help it if her traitorous hand reaches for Marcel's, and gives it a quick pinch. For luck.
It's nearly the end of the workday, and Marcel is a bit closed off as they get into the cab to head back to to Sunshine Studios. He insists that the interview was very informative, though, and distractedly shares some of the highlights.
Harry Styles: I dunno, Georgia Rose is just a name I made up, like. Or thought I did.
Louis Tomlinson: We were as surprised as anyone when we saw that headline. It's one of those things.
Zayn Malik: Yeah, Harry picks up a lot of random bits, we never know where they come from.
Liam Payne: Harry's subconscious is like an aquarium full of random knowledge.
Harry Styles: Yeah, sometimes I go fishing.
Niall Horan: This thing I'm wearing around me neck? It's plastic I think. Louis' little sister gave it to me earlier this week.
Harry Styles: Here's something you probably didn't know. The shamrock actually has a pink flower. Hence-
Niall Horan: Yeah, I think... it's because I'm Irish.
Liam Payne: Dunno Louis, I think your sister has a bit of a thing for Niall, really.
Louis Tomlinson: Neal I love you mate, but stay away from my sister.
Zayn Malik: I think it's lovely.
Harry Styles: Bite it. Isn't that how you find out if...?
Zayn Malik: No, don't bite it.
Liam Payne: Isn't that gold that you bite?
Zayn Malik: Don't bite that Niall.
Louis Tomlinson: And then Niall choked to death in an interview. Great moment, that.
Marcel is a bit gifted with impersonations, and Veronica's eyes are tearing with laughter by the time that he's dutifully relayed the best bits of the interview. For his part, Marcel is much more subdued. "I don't know," says Marcel, with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Or rather, the weight of his next ten years, laid out before him in the same dead-end job that he doesn't want to do. "Veronica, I don't think that One Direction stole the Georgia Rose Diamond."
*
The thing is. The thing is that Veronica stole the Georgia Rose Diamond.
Well, that's not entirely fair. She was handed the Georgia Rose Diamond by Diana Stefanidis' Manager and told to Hang on to that for now.
So for the record, Veronica would like it known how very much she does not want to be hanging on to a diamond worth seventy-five million (million!) dollars. People like Veronica, sleep-deprived twentysomethings who spend their disposable income as an amateur sporting stipend, they don't just walk around hanging on to seventy-five million dollar diamonds.
The second thing is, had the scary, knuckle cracking Manager asked nicely, Veronica probably would have done what they wanted. She wouldn't be lurking in the shadows of a dark warehouse at three minutes to midnight, dressed in black like some ridiculous cat burglar. And furthermore, Veronica would not be rehearsing future interviews in her head, justifying her own innocence in this whole stupid mess. Okay, that's a lie. Veronica's not stupid, she wouldn't have taken the diamond had they just asked nicely. She would have told Knuckle Cracker to shove it where the sun don't- deep breaths, Veronica.
The crux of the matter is that Veronica has a serious shot at making the USA women's baseball team. She's worked hard for it. She's taken one bad job after another; spent so many thankless mornings before sunrise in the gym, executing one workout on top of another. Ten Thousand Hours, like Marcel's beloved Macklemore preaches.
And Marcel is not Veronica's friend. He's not her anything. Because Veronica has systematically isolated herself from friends. Her teammates are her family. A dysfunctional family with one big shared dream, a family that Veronica has to claw her way through, for a chance at the big times. So when Knuckle Cracker presents her with some fake blood work tests, suggests that her shot at a career could vanish before it's ever happened, Veronica is pissed. If she's a good girl, and plays along, she'll get a pay out. She won't have to work for the next ten years. Diana needs some PR help, said Knuckle Cracker, like it's just another day at the office. Her sales are suffering, and she thinks the thing is cursed anyways. We'll have you plant it somewhere, don't worry.
The trouble is that they don't know Veronica. Sure they did their research. But Veronica would rather go crashing down, taking everyone with her, than be the victim.
And sure, Veronica has shady contacts, like any girl who worked her way through college. But she's hardly a criminal mastermind. She's not in the league of seventy-five million dollar diamonds, and the questionable employees of a billion dollar industry disguised as a teenage pop idol. Which is why Veronica finds herself alone, in a warehouse at one minute to midnight, running bases in her head to calm her nerves.
But then she's not quite alone, because there are footsteps. Veronica stays tucked into the shadows.
"Hello," calls a male voice, echoing off the inner walls of the building. "I came as we agreed. Alone."
Veronica takes a deep gulp of air, willing her heart to stop yammering in her ribcage. There's a deafening silence that stretches through the dark. Surely the person on the other end of this transaction can hear her heart thudding away, as if she's a small, frightened animal.
"Do you have the money?" calls Veronica in response, from her hiding spot. She can't stand the way her voice shakes.
And then the voice (Veronica can't think of it as anything other than a horrible, disembodied voice at this point) actually laughs. "Do I have the money? Jesus Christ, who carries around sixty million dollars with them, on their person?"
Veronica freezes in abject horror, willing this to go away. She'll open her eyes, and it will be July. Veronica will be lying on a beach. The thudding she feels in her chest is the bass from the speakers down by the beach volleyball courts. It's sunny, loud.
There are some footsteps that bring Veronica back to the jarring darkness, and then as they stop, a question. "Do you have the diamond?" Silence. And at length, receiving no response. "Mae, come out here."
Which is not the way that Veronica expects this to go. She does not expect to be in a deserted warehouse, fencing a diamond to one Liam Payne.
Even as Veronica steps out of the shadows, and is made visible by the light trickling through the windows above, she can't help but think that this is a horrible idea. She's pretty sure that Liam Payne isn't about hurt her, but who knows. Is One Direction a cover-up for criminal activity? And there's a terrifying thought, was Marcel actually right?
"Hi, Veronica," says Liam, about ten steps away from her. In a sleek suit and tie, he's dressed to fit the part: a GQ Man of International Mystery. The stark contrast to the previous, sweatpant wearing, Liam that Veronica had encountered makes her a little dry mouthed. He gives Veronica this look that reminds her of mother. It's a heavy look, burdened with disappointment.
But it's also a look that Veronica has years of practice against, and she stares back, not giving an inch. "I'm not sure I understand why you're here, Liam."
Liam's mouth tucks downward with distaste. "I'm here to stop you from doing something exceptionally stupid."
Veronica lets her eyes widen, the picture of innocence. "Not sure what you're talking about."
"Oh come on," scoffs Liam. "We both know that you just tried to sell me the Georgia Rose Diamond. That's not a pretty picture, any way you paint it."
"So who do you work for then. Are you here to blackmail me, too?" Veronica's done plenty of talking in her head over the past few days, but until now she's never had reason to say any of these things aloud. Blackmail is an especially ugly word. It twists her future into something bleak.
Liam lifts his palms up, as if in a gesture of goodwill. "I'm a, uh, free agent if you will. If someone's blackmailing you, you can tell me."
This makes Veronica laugh. Full on belly laugh. "You, one of the most famous people on the planet, show up for a criminal transaction that you have no good reason to know about, and you want me to trust you?"
He frowns for a moment, and his features school themselves into an impression of thoughtfulness. "I spend a lot of time on Twitter," says Liam, as if that explains everything. Sensing Veronica's exasperation, he sighs. "No, listen. I spend a lot of time on Twitter and from the sounds of it, you're lucky that I do. That I figured this out before someone else did."
"When you showed up in our hotel," continues Liam. "I knew you looked familiar, but I couldn't place you. We meet a lot of people, you see. I thought that maybe if we talked for a bit, I would figure it out. You clearly didn't want me to."
Veronica nods impatiently.
"But the next day I saw a picture that someone tweeted at me, of Diana Stefanidis in front of her hotel, time stamped a week earlier. Something like '@Real_Liam_Payne, it's youre girlfriend! LOL'. So here, imagine my surprise when I saw sweet Mae in the background, entering the hotel - not the one she works at, mind you. Which, okay, I thought I was being a bit paranoid like Zayn sometimes tells me I am. Maybe Mae was looking to change employers, fair deal."
Veronica blinks, gears in her brain whirring wildly to keep alive, swimming upstream again this flood of information.
"And it clicked," says Liam. "When I noticed that you were wearing a black leather jacket in the picture. It wasn't Zayn's jacket. I mean, it was the jacket that wasn't Zayn's jacket. If you're intentions were completely honourable, why would you have lied, and said it was, in the hotel?"
She shifts guiltily.
Liam shifts too, striking a bit of a pose, clearly warming up to the conjecture. "Which is when I realized where I'd seen you before. You were the secretary at Sunshine Studios."
"I borrowed a jacket from our costume department, and lied that it belonged to your friend. Is that a felony?" asks Veronica defensively.
"Probably not," says Liam agreeably, though a bit put off by the continued interruptions. "It turns out you're not listed by name anywhere on the Sunshine Studios webpage, but fortunately I had another Twitter breakthrough. In the middle of all these peculiar events, I was followed by one Marcel Saint Laurent, Marketing Officer at Sunshine Studios. Marcel doesn't follow anyone by the name of Mae, but he does follow someone with the Twitter Handle @RockfordPeaches89. Sound familiar?"
Veronica flinches.
"Yes," Liam inclines his head. "That's what I thought. You see, we travel a lot, and there's a lot of down time. We end up watching quite a few movies together, and there's not a massive amount that the everyone can always agree on, between genres. I like a good sports movie, myself, and A League of Their Own is one of those rare movies that all of the lads enjoy for a rewatch. It strikes a nice chord with us - sorry about the pun - about not forgetting where you belong, and all that. Being a bit of both an athlete and a musician, you can be sure that I noticed Madonna plays the center fielder on the Rockford Peaches."
" 'All the Way' Mae," says Veronica instinctively.
"Quite," replies Liam. "I Googled women's baseball in LA, and found you rather easily. Veronica 'Ronnie' Benedetti, center fielder for the Grizzlies. From there, I pulled some strings, had you followed to one heck of a sleazy pawnshop, and so here we are. I can't imagine why you needed to break into our hotel, but I find that I don't really care, either."
All Veronica can do is stare at the floor, though a small part of her considers making a run for it. It appears that Liam isn't planning on hurting her, unless he plans on boring her to death with long speeches.
"I wouldn't," says Liam, and when Veronica looks up, her mouth opening in question, he winks. Veronica is pretty sure this is the fantasy of half a million screaming women and men, but all she can do is raise her eyebrows expectantly. He obliges, "There are some large men outside. Don't be fooled by their size, they're quick on their feet."
There's a silence. Liam takes a few careful steps towards Veronica. "I don't think you're a criminal, Veronica. But you need to try a little harder to prove me right."
This brings back the fight in Veronica, makes her unspeakably angry. What right does he have to bully her into good behaviour, some millionaire kid who won the lifetime lottery. He has no claim on her. It makes her prickle even more to think that he might actually care how this turns out.
"Go away, Liam," says Veronica. "I'm not scared of you."
"I don't think that's- I could figure out a way to-"
All of a sudden the fight leaves Veronica. She's just very, very tired, and a little bored by the entire mess. She doesn't want to be standing in this stupid warehouse listening to Liam Payne try to save her. "I'm going to take care of it. If I promise that I won't doing anything illegal, will you go away? Please?"
"I left a red carpet event to come here," points out Liam.
"Would you like a gold star?"
Liam pouts a little, Veronica reaches out and pats him on the cheek.
"You're sweet," admits Veronica. "And if the singing thing doesn't work out for you, you can always start a new career as a Private Investigator."
Liam smirks. "Payne Investigations."
"Yeah," says Veronica.
"Okay," says Liam, not entirely convinced. About leaving her here, or his future as a PI, Veronica is unsure. "Tell me something?'
Veronica shrugs. "Ask away."
"Was baby Texas another one of your little white lies?"
Veronica nods, apologetically. And inexplicably, this is the thing that makes Liam look sadder than all the rest.
"I'm sorry," says Liam. "I mean it's probably a good thing, all things considered. But I can't help that think that it would have been good for you. To have someone else to care about."
And then he's gone.
Liam fucking Payne. Veronica could kill that guy. Like, if she hadn't promised not to commit any felonies, he would be so dead. Of all the unsolicited opinions about her personal life, that was the one that sent her over the edge. It's the one that made her pick up her cell and dial Marcel Saint Laurent.
It's a bleary, but warm, voice that answers after a dozen rings. "Ronnie?" says Marcel, too far away. "It's like two in the morning."
"I'm sorry," says Veronica, though she's not. She's so happy, relieved, to hear his voice. "Can I come over?"
Veronica can practically visualize the exclamation points appearing over Marcel's head. He's such a dork. It's so endearing.
"Yeah, of course," says Marcel. "I'll put on a pot of tea."
*
The tea never features in the night's itinerary. At Marcel's front door Veronica folds into him, and he makes it clear that he's content to wrap his arms around her. Marcel lets Veronica tuck her head into his worn UCLA teeshirt, no questions asked. "Let's get a blanket," he suggests softly, closing the door and switching off the porch light.
But when Veronica leans up with intent, Marcel meets her lips with a sweet kiss in return. He presses her back towards the wall, and they stumble a little in the dark, breath hitching happily. When one of Marcel's hands slides down over her hip, and into the back pocket of her black jeans, Veronica actually giggles into Marcel's answering smile. Veronica finds that she doesn't mind the giggling, in this context.
"Hiii," says Veronica.
"Hi," says Marcel. And Veronica can feel his heartbeat, pressed right up against her own.
"I like you," says Veronica.
"Oh good," says Marcel, tugging her ponytail. "Because you are actually the light of my life."
Veronica thinks she probably shouldn't find this as hot as she does. The small playful tug shouldn't make her wonder what it feels like to have both of Marcel's hands in her hair, pulling, as she licks a stripe up the underside of his dick. But judging by the way that Marcel's hips arch up at Veronica's touch, or the way that he's attempting with one hand to unbutton her jeans in the front hallway of his apartment, Marcel is probably onboard with Veronica's new plan to find out.
It's really good. Not just the sex, but the entire thing. Marcel plus Veronica. It's so good that Veronica doesn't even see this disaster coming. In the figurative sense.
In the literal sense, the scene unfolds at a comically, painfully slow pace. Veronica sees the freight train hurtling down the tracks, has time to envision the wreck in all of its magnificence, and knows that there's nothing she can do to stop it from crashing into her at full speed. It happens when she leaves the lunchroom at Sunshine Studios, and walks across the upstairs hallway. She moving on a path towards the stairs, the ones that lead back down to reception, and her desk. From above, Veronica can see Marcel hovering around her space, waiting for her. Shrugging a little, Marcel sits down in Veronica's chair and leans back.
Or he goes to lean back, but something stops this from being comfortable. Marcel reaches for the black, zipped hoodie that is draped over the back of Veronica's chair. Veronica put it there this morning, having come to work from the gym. Before that, she was at Marcel's place, and before that, the warehouse... oh shit.
Oh, shit.
Sneaking a quick look around to see if anyone is looking, Marcel holds the sweater up and breathes in the smell. It probably smells like sweat and dust. The whole thing is adorably endearing and hurts, because this is when Marcel puts his hand in the front pocket and finds the thing that was digging into his left shoulder blade. Veronica sees the moment his face falls apart into thousand pieces, as he realizes what he's holding.
Marcel falls off of Veronica's chair in surprise. He even hits his head on Veronica's desk for good measure.
"Marcel," says Veronica, reaching out to him. She wishes desperately that she could hit the back button, take away the last three minutes. Marcel stares at Veronica, his eyes too big and opens his mouth before snapping it shut, without speaking a single word. Veronica looks at him, on the floor, making an an epically sad emoticon face.
"It's not," tries Veronica, grasping at all the things that she'd like to say. "It's not what it looks like."
"Ronnie," says Marcel. "How long have you been in possession of the Georgia Rose Diamond?"
It's Veronica's turn to open and close her mouth, wordlessly.
"I see," snaps Marcel, and Veronica can feel him backing away from her in every possible way. "This whole time, right?"
Veronica reaches out and hauls Marcel to his feet, snatches the diamond from his hands before standing back. She crosses her arms over her chest. "Yes."
Marcel turns and walks away, leaving Veronica with the impression that half of her heart has been ripped out through her throat. Maybe the diamond is cursed, after all.
*
Ice cream helps. So does running bleacher steps for forty-five minutes while listening to The Distillers. By the time that every muscle in Veronica's thighs are screaming with lactic acid and her inner monologue sounds like Brode Dalle, she has a plan. A very simple one. Even better, a plan that requires no disguises, and no sneaking into hotels or press junkets.
See, Veronica has spent most of her life dealing with a different kind of diamond - a baseball diamond. You might say the she's of the opinion that diamonds are very lucky. And furthermore, Veronica is the kind of woman that solves her own damn problems. She's ready to play ball. Pardon the expression.
It takes a bit of research, maybe thirty minutes on Google. And then another five minutes to cajole Leeroy into helping.
"You broke Marcel," frowns Leeroy.
Veronica glares back. "Yes, well, poor him."
"Fix it," says Leeroy. "He has been listening to Piano Man on loop since yesterday afternoon. I don't think he went home last night."
"Maybe he broke me," sniffs Veronica.
Leeroy raises one eyebrow. "You know what makes me want to never dance again, Veronica? Billy Joel. Even once we convinced Marcel to use headphones, I could still feel the Piano Man haunting me. He says it's the Best Song Ever and newsflash, it's not. Fix it."
"Help me first," says Veronica.
Which is why Leeroy calls his college roommate at E! News, and has a jovial conversation about all the horrible things that happened to people who tried to get rid of the Georgia Rose Diamond before it was done with them, or tried to use its cursed sorcery for their own nefarious purposes. Basically anyone who wasn't Disney Princess Pure of Heart, trilled Leeroy. Well, they met a sticky end. The story goes online almost immediately. And Veronica counts down the hours.
She's at home, Facebook stalking Marcel, when she gets call from Knuckle Cracker. Apparently Diana is in hysterics about the so called curse, and as a result, there has been a change of plans. They need the diamond back ASAP. Oh, the poor girl, hints Veronica while maintaining an appropriate amount of fear in her voice.
And like that, the weight of the Georgia Rose Diamond is lifted from Veronica's pocket. Her heart is another matter entirely.
*
Operation Fix It (#specialops #fixit2013 #doesheknow) is a more complicated process. Veronica has never gone out of her way to win someone's affections, and she's pretty sure that there are going to have to be costumes involved.
First she sends flowers. Gerbera daisies mixed with yellow and red roses. Marcel makes no comment to Veronica, though he does Instagram a shot of the bouquet on his desk in mid-afternoon sunlight, before throwing them in the trash.
Next, Veronica bargains with Harvey to get the air vent by Marcel's desk fixed. By way of thanks, Marcel spends the entire morning flirting with a very handsome repairman. Gee, you are just so strong. Doesn't all that physical labour make you hungry? What do you say we go get some bagels, you and I?
It's possible that Veronica overreacts. She spends three hours drawing a black and white comic in which she and Marcel fight crime together. In their first adventure, they take down some rogue clowns. When Jonny lectures Veronica about using office hours to work on side projects, she slips the comic in Marcel's mailbox and waits for a response. There is none.
"Hi," says Veronica when Marcel arrives at work on Monday morning. She's standing in front of her desk, phone cord stretched over the top of her desk, juggling a number of file folders. Marcel doesn't respond, but he does hesitate for a split second, his eyes raking over the smooth lines of Veronica's little black dress. Capitalizing on the a small victory, Veronica makes sure to change into her baseball uniform and stop by Leeroy's desk for a chat before leaving the office that evening.
Marcel apparently goes on a date with Norma from the legal department. This is a dark day for Veronica.
A week later, Marcel drops a large envelope on Veronica's desk. "Strange how Diana Stefanidis just happened to find her lost diamond."
Veronica shrugs. "Yeah, weird."
"Harvey needs that mailed," says Marcel. "Can I trust you to put it in the mailbox?"
It's a jerk move, but they're the only words Marcel's spoken to Veronica's presence in three weeks. It's something. Okay, thinks Veronica, why don't they go there.
"If I don't put it in the mailbox," says Veronica. "Would you wonder if I have a good reason? Maybe there are explosives in the mailbox."
Marcel gives her a look, rubs the back of his hand against his forehead. "It's a letter, Ronnie. The box is right there, and it takes fifteen seconds."
Veronica spends a very satisfying minute making faces at Marcel's back as he retreats down the hallway.
Her baseball team, the LA Grizzlies has a fundraiser. It's a costume party and a pub crawl all rolled into one messy night. Veronica would be lying if she didn't have an ulterior motive when she dresses up as Han Solo and posts a little too many photos of her team having fun and getting sloppy to Facebook, Twitter.
Marcel shows up ten minutes early for work the next morning, and drops a coffee on Veronica's desk. "I don't think Han Solo wore aviators," is all he says.
Veronica checks the office schedules, and when Marcel gets out of his last meeting of the day, he finds Veronica perched on his desk. She's staring into space, a quiet smile settled on her face. "Err, this is my desk," says Marcel, stating the obvious. "Or are you practicing your new job skills as a professional paperweight?"
"I am much cheaper than a giant diamond," shrugs Veronica.
After a quick exchange of glances ("Too soon for Georgia Rose jokes?" "Probably, yeah..."), Marcel smirks, "Heavier too."
"Shut up, Marcel." Veronica hooks her thumbs in Marcel's belt loops and drags him closer, his long legs bracketing her own shorter, muscular ones.
"Hiii," says Marcel. He brushes Veronica's hair back, away from her face, with one large hand. His other hand settles on one of Veronica's thighs, thumb sneaking under the hem of her skirt. Veronica's pulse picks up and she licks her lips involuntarily.
In the end it's Marcel that says, "Can I take you home with me?"
She says, "Please."