TITLE: The Feeling of Breaking (1/1)
AUTHOR: vanessagalore
CHARACTERS: Logan, Veronica, Keith.
PAIRING: Logan/Veronica
WORD COUNT: 4,344.
RATING: R.
SUMMARY: Starts Christmas Eve after season 3. Two Christmases in Logan Echolls' life.
SPOILERS: All of Veronica Mars is spoiled.
WARNINGS: Cursing, implied sex. Some angst. Some fluff.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. No celebrity endorsement is implied by product placements.
A/N: Beta'ed by Kazy, Poniesforall, and Dragynflies. Any remaining mistakes are my responsibility. This fic is my holiday gift to my readers and friends.
Christmas Eve, 2007: Sophomore Year of College
When he walks in the door of his house, he is instinctively certain that something is wrong. His first panicked thought is Gory, and he quickly picks up a baseball bat he has stored by the front door for just that reason. Silently, he moves into the main room without turning on a light; listening for breathing. Nothing. But he is positive. Something is different in the house.
Logan cautiously tiptoes down the hallway to the bedroom, with all his senses on high alert and the compulsive thought 'this is it, it's going to end tonight' echoing in his brain. The bedroom door is ajar, with a soft light that he knows he didn't leave burning when he left. Suddenly, he regrets those last few drinks and wishes that he was completely sober. Goddammit. He pauses at the door and thinks he hears quiet breathing. Get it over with. Do it.
He takes a deep breath and pushes open the door. The thumping of his heart is painful against his chest. Logan flips the light switch and breathes out when he sees the naked girl on the bed.
"Is that you, lover?" she whispers.
"What the fuck, Danielle? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?" He puts down the baseball bat and goes to the bed.
Danielle has trussed herself up with ribbon. The red satin strands are tied tightly, securing her spread-eagled to the bed; she obviously made sure she could not get free without his help. There is a festive red and gold bow on her very nude stomach, and she has blindfolded herself with a red silk scarf. It couldn't have been easy to tie herself up like this.... He looks up and sees that she somehow even managed to attach a spray of mistletoe to the overhead light fixture. It would be funny...sexy...memorable even, if it wasn't so.... Logan fusses at the ribbon on her left wrist and only succeeds in making the knot even tighter. He can feel his anxiety rising to dangerous levels.
"What are you doing? Don't untie me yet, baby. Don't you like your Christmas present, Logan darling? I've been waiting for you for such a long time, lover," she protests. She writhes enticingly against her bonds, but he just feels sick watching her.
"I told you not to call me that," he snaps. He goes to the kitchen and finds a pair of shears. Logan stomps back to the bedroom and slips the scissors underneath the ribbon bonds. He frees her arms and then her legs. As she sits up and removes the blindfold, he realizes that he is still breathing hard, upset and scared.
She stares at him. "Logan, what did I do?"
"Get out, Danielle," he says, turning his back to her.
"What? What did I do? Come on, let's celebrate Christmas Eve together. I didn't know you weren't into.... I'm sorry about—"
"I said, get the fuck out!"
"I'm sorry, Logan, please..." Her voice is confused and uncertain.
He realizes he's being completely unreasonable—there's no way she could know what she did. He mumbles, "Danielle...this isn't working out. It's not you. Christmas is really hard for me. I'm...I'm fucked up, okay?"
Danielle walks up behind him and tentatively caresses his shoulder, and he visibly jumps, whirling around and scaring her. "Logan, I'm so sorry. Tell me what's wrong," she pleads, cowering away from his blazing anger.
Get your shit together, Logan. He sighs and tries to calm himself before smoothing the hair from her forehead and planting a gentle kiss. "I'm sorry. I can't do this. Please forgive me." He sees her clothes draped on the chair; he picks them up and hands them to her. "Please, Danielle. You need to go. I'm sorry." Logan walks out of the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.
By the time she has dressed and made her way to the door, he has poured another large Scotch and drunk half of it. She is obviously crying, and he knows he is a complete shit for doing this to her on Christmas Eve. She puts on a brave front. "You're an asshole, you know."
"I know," he agrees, walking to her.
"Just because you're Aaron Echolls' kid doesn't mean you can treat people like shit," she says, with venom.
He flinches. He knows she knew that he was...but he thought...stupid fucking Logan...he had thought she didn't care.
"Do you how hard it was to plan this? I had to steal a key and wait for you to go out and... you're such a fucking asshole," she repeats.
"You're absolutely right." He looks down, avoiding her accusatory gaze, and pulls a small wrapped gift from his pocket. He extends his hand to her. "If it means anything...I got you this. I guess...Merry Christmas, Danielle. I'm sorry."
She looks at it for a moment as if he is handing her a dog turd. Danielle finally grabs the box from his hand and flings it across the room. "Keep your fucking present. I can't believe...I thought I was falling in love with you."
"Then you're lucky you got out in time," he replies under his breath as she leaves, slamming the door violently behind her. He picks up the drink again and sips distractedly as he stares out the picture window at the ocean. He realizes that it's begun raining, and he thinks that's just perfect for the way he feels.
He tells himself that he's going to Neptune to hang out with Dick, but it's a lie. He gets in the Range Rover; when he pulls out of the driveway, he misjudges a little and a car horn blares, startling him. A smart man would stay home and sleep it off, he thinks. But I'm not smart. Still, he tries to sober up. He opens the car window and the chilly air mixed with rain stings him into a semblance of sobriety. The garish downtown Los Angeles lights in the distance have a ghostly aura from the moisture in the air.
What the fuck are you doing?
The wipers snick across the glass as he navigates down the highway. He catches himself following their movement instead of watching the road, and he shakes his head and refocuses his eyes on the pavement in front of him. The dotted white lines on the road have each split into two, an infinite trail of misperception that makes his head ache with the effort of combining them. He carefully shuts one eye, and the lines behave themselves and merge again. When he gets tired of holding that eye closed, he switches eyes. He laughs bitterly. I'm good at being a drunk.
He lets himself think about it for a minute. Just touch the memory—see how much it hurts—you can always stop. He had come home and found Lilly in the pool house; she had tied herself naked to the bed. He was supposed to be at a party, but...he tries to remember, why did I leave the party? He can't remember now; it's been lost in what happened after. He walked in the pool house; he was looking for booze, he recalls, and she was there. She saw him and said loudly, "Logan!" Later, he tried to analyze that one word, assessing tone and implication.
Of course he was immediately excited; all sensible thought left him at the time, and he threw himself upon her. Of course he had assumed.... There really wasn't anything sexual she could do that would surprise him at that point. He had offhandedly asked her how she had known he left the party, and she had whispered slyly that someone had called her, and she had decided to surprise him.
When he watched the videotapes—let's see, that was two Christmases ago, that was fun times, yessir—his first thought was to wonder whether his dad had been jerking off as he spied on them that night. He had ejected the tape and noticed the five stars inked on the label next to the date. Logan thinks about the performance that Lilly gave that night: Oscar caliber, for sure. Two thumbs up.
He can't decide if the sick fuck enjoyed it more or less because his son took his place.
It has started to rain harder, and he adjusts the wipers again. There's a lot of cars on the road; apparently most people have somewhere to go, and it's important that they get there tonight, no matter what the weather is. He passes several cars loaded with gaily wrapped presents and one that even has a bundled Christmas tree lashed to the roof.
When he gets to the Coronado Bridge, he speeds up—the way he always does—and refuses to look to either side at the expanse of nothingness beyond the bridge rails. He keeps the pedal to the floor and speeds over the bridge and around a curve past the sign that says 'Hearst College, next right'. The back wheels skid a little, and he lets off the accelerator momentarily. He continues straight down the road, heading for Neptune.
The houses are small here. There are Hondas and Fords in the driveways, and most of the houses have Christmas lights. He remembers how he and the other asshole '09ers used to mock the poor saps with their bourgeois traditions...as if the aluminum Christmas trees from Hammacher Schlemmer that his mother favored were somehow superior.
A block away, he stops the car, suddenly wishing he was much more drunk than he actually was.
Last Christmas, he had spent the holidays with his attorneys, dealing with those pesky criminal mischief charges. Lamb had been a prick and a half about the windshield, but after a substantial donation to the Patrolmen's Benevolent Association, he had finally agreed to reducing the charges to misdemeanor vandalism with no jail time. Logan flexes his fingers, remembering how his hands had hurt for weeks after he had smashed Mercer's face to a bloody pulp.
As fucked up as it was, he had felt intimately connected with her when he took his vengeance with his fists. It didn't matter that they were broken up; he knew that Veronica would know exactly what he did and why he did it. Now he realizes there is almost no connection left, and he wishes there was somebody to pummel for her. He would welcome the feeling of his skin breaking over his knuckles, the abrasions and bruises aching and throbbing, and, immediately after, the overwhelming desire to drink away the pain in the company of strangers. All in all, spending Christmas Eve arguing about jail time with Lamb was probably one of his least traumatic Christmases, considering that in return he had gotten to exact revenge for her...for once.
She's the only one who never threw it into his face that he was the son of Aaron Echolls. Veronica had never cared how much money he had, or what his father had done. For better or worse, she always thought of him as just Logan. The problem was, she also wanted him to be better than he actually was.
He puts the car in drive and pulls into the parking lot of the Sunset Cliffs Apartments. Logan waits, idling the engine. What are you waiting for? Finally, he shuts off the car and walks to her door. The soft rain has left puddles in the parking lot; he hunches against the water that threatens to run inside his collar. His hair is soaked by the time he reaches the building; the bottoms of his jeans that drag on the ground are sopping wet. He passes her window and stops dead: through a narrow slit between the curtains, he can see her. Fuck.
Veronica is lying on the couch, touching herself, with her pants bunched around her ankles and her eyes closed in concentration...well, he thinks it's concentration. She never masturbated in front of him when they were together, or rather, he was never able to keep his hands off her if she tried. He's never seen what she chooses to do. Her left hand is under her shirt, flicking at her breast, and her right hand is...he reflexively touches his own crotch as he watches her middle finger rhythmically working at her core.
Suddenly, he is so ashamed of himself; he no longer has the right, he is violating her by watching. He pulls his hand away from his straining bulge, sickened by himself. But he's unable to tear his eyes away as she tenses and strains suddenly, her hand speeding and strengthening and then falling away as she collapses, her face now slack and relaxed.
She straightens her clothes and sits up, rubbing her face and pulling her fingers through her hair. And he realizes that she is crying. She messily rubs the back of her hand under her nose, not aware that anyone sees her; Veronica allows her grief to take her over, and she bawls in a way that he knows she would never do if anyone was there to observe it. Her shoulders shake with sobs, and he is furious with himself for not knowing what to do.
He watches, frozen in place, as she picks up a framed photo from the table in front of her. I know that frame, that's...it's a photo of the two of them from a trip to Catalina. Even when it seemed like she hated him, the photo was always displayed in her room, a single moment of utter happiness that they had somehow managed to achieve during all that misery. She turns the frame over, releasing the tabs that hold the back in place.
Don't. Please don't. He stops breathing, watching her, hoping she won't....
She takes the photo out of the frame and rips it to shreds, her sobs starting again, and he finally is able to move. He stumbles back to his car and begins to weep, his head bent over the steering wheel in anguish.
Somehow he gets the car started, and he drives away. Almost by instinct, he pilots the car to Dog Beach and parks in the lot. He eases the seat back and curls up protectively in a fetal position, his knee bumping up against the parking brake.
· · · · · ∞ · · · · ·
December 2008: Junior Year of College
When they get back together almost a year later, Logan never tells her what he saw. As the calendar turns to December and the shopping days left until Christmas dwindle, he begins to feel the pressure. It's one of the few certainties in his life—that Christmas is awful and painful. And he's terrified that he might tell her that he saw her last Christmas Eve.
He's tempted to run away to some Mexican beach, but he knows Veronica will just come after him, and the shame of that completely dissuades him.
He asks, no, he begs her; he tells her he's feeling the pressure of his first completely sober Christmas in ten—make that eleven—years. And he thinks quiet time at home alone would be best. She protests vigorously, telling him he needs to be with family for the holidays. He stays silent while she argues her point, until she finally gives up and agrees. She extracts a promise that they'll at least spend New Year's Eve together, and he concedes.
He sees the worry in her eyes when she leaves, and he knows they're admitting the relationship is far more fragile than it appears.
· · · · · ∞ · · · · ·
Veronica throws herself into Christmas with her dad that year and tries to forget about Logan by himself one hundred and twenty miles away. The tree has never had more ornaments; she fusses, moving a reflective ball to fill a hole, hanging a gilded angel just so, twisting the strands of lights so that the bulbs highlight the best ornaments. She wraps her dad's gifts lavishly, with strands of thin ribbons curled into elaborate ringlets securing perfectly folded and carefully taped wrapping paper. She makes several mix CDs with their favorite holiday songs and a few sentimental ones that remind them of the good old days with her mother (back when there actually were good old days).
She haunts the mall for days, searching for a gift for Logan. What do you get the boy who has more money than he knows what to do with? She passes by the attractive displays of sweaters and scarves. In a fine men's shop, she fingers the luxurious silken material of a beautiful jade-green dress shirt that would set off his eyes. She buys it as a backup in case she can't find anything better.
Her dad asks her to check out some of the local pawn shops for an item of sentimental value stolen in a burglary. The client is eager to recover his grandmother's antique brooch that has been in the family for years. In the third shop she visits, she sees the perfect gift for Logan. The owner warns her that it's broken, but she replies that it's perfect as is and buys it immediately. It's not prohibitively expensive, so she can give him the dress shirt as well. She's looking forward to seeing him model the shirt for her, for the five minutes he has it on before she rips it off him. Veronica has a happy smile as she trolls the remaining pawn shops for the elusive heirloom brooch.
· · · · · ∞ · · · · ·
On the 22nd of December, he orders enough Chinese food and pizza to get him through the next four days. He doesn't even want to hear a delivery person wishing him a Merry Christmas.
It's quite strange to be sober this time of year. All the blurry, sucktastic Christmas memories are fuzzy around the edges, and he really, really wants a drink. He makes it all the way to the end of Grand Theft Auto IV, but the accomplishment gives him no satisfaction. Still, the videogame occupied his thoughts for a few hours and that's something.
There's no way he's turning on the television. "A Wonderful Life" would be bad enough, but there's also the chance that he might happen upon a rerun of a very special Christmas episode, featuring guest star Aaron Echolls as the stranger who teaches the family the meaning of Christmas.
The year that episode was filmed was the height of his father's career. Aaron went from one movie to the next; he guest-starred in eight different drama series that year, and the phone seemed to ring non-stop with offers of the sure-to-be-the-next big blockbuster, if only Aaron Echolls would agree to headline the picture.
That year's family Christmas party was even more lavish and over-the-top than usual. Ten-year-old Logan wandered among the familiar faces of the current ingenues, action stars, and high-powered studio executives who made up the bulk of his parents' social circle. When no one was watching, he snuck a glass of egg nog. The sweet, creamy, and very alcoholic beverage went down easily, and he had another...and another...until he was staggering around the room. He knew enough to find a place to sit and wait for the room to stop spinning, and he thought he was going to get away with it until his mother came looking for him. She took his hand and pulled him along with her to meet some of her Hollywood friends. Just then, his stomach heaved, and he threw up the egg nog all over her delicately beaded designer gown.
The punishment for embarrassing the family was a black eye, two broken ribs, and welts upon welts on his back. He was never able to stomach the taste of egg nog again after that night. The next year, he knew better. He sucked on chocolates as he sipped cokes laced with whiskey, the slowly melting chocolate merging gloriously with the bitterly potent tang of the alcohol, and his father never even realized that his eleven-year-old son was ever-so-slightly drunk from several days before Christmas all the way to New Year's.
· · · · · ∞ · · · · ·
On Christmas Eve, Veronica picks up the phone, debating whether to try to call Logan again. She suspects his phone will be turned off, but she dials the number anyways. She doesn't leave another message, completely uncertain if she should even say 'Merry Christmas' to him.
Over hot chocolate, she and her dad open one present each. It almost doesn't matter what the gift is (Shark tickets behind the dugout for him, a new watch for her); they each enjoy watching the other be surprised. It truly is better to give than receive, she thinks. Everything would be perfect if only....
· · · · · ∞ · · · · ·
On Christmas morning, she opens the door to find him standing there nervously.
"Aren't you going to invite me in?" Logan asks. He takes in the spectacle of Veronica in her pajamas, with a reindeer antler headband in her messy hair and giant red fuzzy slippers, and has to laugh softly.
"You changed your mind," she breathes. "The best present ever." Veronica grasps him in a tight hug; she holds onto him as if she's never going to let go again.
Her dad invites him in with a hearty handshake; he too seems to know instinctively not to wish Logan a 'Merry Christmas'. After determining that Logan isn't hungry, she pulls him to the couch and gives him a brightly wrapped gift. He opens the package and holds the beautiful dress shirt to his chest for her to see. Her smile melts his heart, and he's suddenly really glad he changed his mind for her. He hands her an expensive velvet box, not wrapped. "You weren't supposed to spend a lot of money on me," she chides.
"I didn't," he replies.
She opens the box curiously to find a strand of delicate pearls, perfectly matched in size and color. She looks at him questioningly.
"They were my mother's. I want to think of you wearing them."
"Oh, Logan."
"It's...it's almost as if she's here with us if...if you're wearing them," he says quietly. "She always liked you, Veronica. I think...she'd want you to have them too."
Keith coughs. "They're beautiful, Logan, and I think you're right. Lynn would have been happy about you and Veronica. You know, I think Backup and I are going to take a little walk so you kids can be alone."
After her dad and the dog have gone outside, she retrieves a small unlabeled present from behind the Christmas tree. "This is your real present. But...before you open it...why did you change your mind?"
He touches her face gently with his forefinger. "Veronica, I really hate Christmas. You can't know how much I hate it. But you love it. I wanted to be here for you, to see this look on your face. It's worth it."
And it is. The pain and misery are still there, but she is right in front of him, happy to be with him, ecstatic to have him in her life again. And if she loves Christmas, he'll celebrate it every year for her.
"Open it," she urges.
He unwraps the box slowly and opens it. On a bed of cotton is a large piece of amber. He takes the gemstone out and examines it. Within the translucent stone, a delicate bipartite twig is embedded. The amber was broken at some point and repaired, but not expertly. The crack is visible, and the separation had split the enclosed flimsy branch in two; the repair has reunited the two parts. He looks at her questioningly.
"Made over millennia by heat and pressure; broken and repaired. Still fragile but holding on together, trying to be one beautiful thing," she explains.
"Broken and repaired," he repeats. "Still fragile."
She takes his hand. "Yes. Trying to be one again."
"It's perfect."
"No, it's not. But it's trying to be. Just like you're trying for me. You're right, I do love Christmas, and I love that you're here for me even though you hate it." She looks at him. "You're going to stay for a few days, right?"
"If you want."
"Of course I want."
· · · · · ∞ · · · · ·
Later, they go into her bedroom, and he stops dead. Somehow, she found a copy of the photo she tore up the year before and reinserted it into its frame.
"What's the matter?" she asks. Veronica notices where he is looking, and she blushes. "Oh, I was upset one night last year and ripped that photo up. I finally found a copy on a backup CD and printed a new one. I don't know what I was thinking. That's one of my favorite pictures of us."
· · · · · ∞ · · · · ·
In the middle of the night, he gets up for a drink of water. Logan sits down beside the tree and picks up his gift. He stares at the lovely amber gemstone, its polished facets reflecting the blinking lights on the Christmas tree. He runs his thumb over the patched crack that mars the exquisite beauty of the stone.
Broken and repaired, he thinks. The two of us...still fragile, trying to be one again. He closes his hand and clutches the amber tightly in his palm.
A/N: So this fic does fit into my YLD canon if you are reading that epic fic. It begins the Christmas before YLD1 starts and concludes during the period between YLD1 and YLD2. I put Logan and Veronica through a lot in YLD1, which is why Veronica is so sentimental in this fic. The picture from Catalina refers to their trip that I wrote about in 'Friction', which has a special meaning for their relationship. Also, Veronica wore the pearls (Logan's gift) in a scene from YLD2. Now that I've written this, that scene has an extra poignancy since we know the backstory of the pearls. (I love doing that kind of thing!) Happy Holidays!